(White) brothers in arms…damnit, Barack.

It was with carefree abandon that I greeted my two law school friends, Matt and Patrick, for a night of debauchery when Matt arrived in town for business last weekend.

Let me begin by telling you how overjoyed I was to hang out with them. I had not seen Matt for years and years and years, and watching him so easily interact with Patrick took me back to our first year of law school.

It had all the makings of a perfect night. We were in the company of Matt’s best friend/brother-in-law, Derek, Derek’s girlfriend, Jill, and were ultimately joined by Jill’s friends, Mike and Marie.

And a perfect night it was.

We happily threaded in and out of various Old Town bars, drinking, eating, laughing—each of us attempting to best the others in jibes and candor.

Now, as is the custom with most blacks my age, educated in predominately white settings, there have been many occasions throughout my life when I’ve been the lone person of color in a particular environs.

Naturally, the passage of time, and a change of geography has tempered both the frequency of this occurrence, and my perspective when it arises.

At 29, confident in who I am, and frankly, accustomed to the practice, I barely give any such situation a second thought. Generally, when I’m around people I don’t know well, or people who I suspect have had limited intimate interaction with minorities, I brace myself for the eventual, “Can I touch your hair?” or “My father marched with MLK on Washington,” I’m-not-a-racist awkward conversational subtext.

However, I felt no need to armor myself against such racial weirdness on this special night. These were my boys. We were well aware of the non-existence of any singular issue of socio/political/economic importance on which we could all agree. I celebrated them because they were so radically different from me. Our friendship was a clean space. A safe space. Entirely free from the bullshit that complicated my everyday life.

So I let my guard down.

Yes.

I let my guard down.

And by night’s end, I would pay for it with a piece of my soul.

Everyone’s bloodstreams were ripe with spirits by the time we entered 219, a cigar bar closer to the water.

Already euphoric from the company, the smell of cigar smoke tickling at my nose and the rich timbre of Delta Blues coming from the live band nearly sent me over the edge.

We all assembled closest to the musicians, the guys pushing together a table and a booth that we might gather more comfortably. Marie and Patrick sat across from each other, with Matt next to Marie, Mike next to Matt, Me next to Mike, and Jill wedged between me and Patrick.

I hope you paid attention to the seating chart.

It’s important.

Mike and I were taking turns attempting to talk over the music, we were all drinking various bourbon concoctions, and I was trying desperately to appreciate the merits of a cigar I was not supposed to inhale.

After thirty minutes or so had passed, I went upstairs to find the bathroom, locking myself inside a stall to check my messages.

Okay.

That’s a lie.

I went upstairs to fuck around with Twitter, okay.

I left my party, briefly, to go upstairs and tweet, okay?

Endeavor not to judge me, there’s a story to be had.

So, right—

I was leaning against the wall of the stall, tweeting my little tipsy heart out when a fearsome knock interrupted my thoughts.

Realizing that I was hogging the space, and unable to properly assess how long I’d been inside, on account of my near drunkenness, I opened the door, and quickly prepared to offer the offended knocker a stream of apologies.

Before me stood a middle aged white woman, slight of frame, with long, brunette hair. Her brow was furrowed, and a concerned look adorned her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you need to use the stall? I’m just using my phone. I’m so sorry.”

She rushed to answer. “No, I don’t have to use it. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I followed you up here.”

I paused, momentarily, not entirely certain of what she meant, or why she would have had cause to follow me anywhere, but, I disregarded. “Oh, no. I’m fine. I just wanted to check my messages.”

She began again, appearing to struggle with her words. “I mean….it’s just…I mean….are you sure? Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve been watching you all night, and I’ve been so worried. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Her choice of words struck me as odd. Had I stumbled? Was my speech coherent? I wasn’t certain, but I wanted to assure her of my okayness, and be the hell about my business. “Really, I’m fine. Truly.”

I attempted to move past her but she was unwavering, resolute in her stance, not moving at all. “My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I’ve just been so worried. I see you with those guys and it just takes me back to college and I’m just so worried about you. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Okay bitch. What.The.Fuck.

I looked at her quizzically. “Um, I promise that everything is okay. Really. I was just—“

“Because I see you with them, and I see them giving you drinks, and I just need to know that you’re okay. I keep having these flashbacks to college,” she interrupted.

This woman is crazy.

I tried to begin again, “I don’t really know what that means, but those are my friends, down there, and everything is okay. I promise. Really, I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

She waved away my assurances. “I see you with them, and I just worry, you know? I worry because I see you, and I see them, and you know…you’re…you know…and they’re…..and you’re…..and I get these flashbacks to college….and you’re….you know…”

And that’s when it hit me.

I couldn’t believe it.

I relaxed my stance (I had been considering the chest-bump-shoulder-push-hood-maneuver).

“Because I’m…….black?” I asked, gently as I could.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes. Oh my God. This is so awkward. My boyfriend told me not to come up here, but I was so worried. And those guys were giving you drinks and I didn’t know if you were safe, and I kept thinking that they were going to hurt you…and I didn’t know…” she rambled.

I tried to remove as much condescension from my voice as possible. “I’m fine. I went to law school with those men. They’re old friends. They’re not going to hurt me. Everything is fine. I promise you.”

Her face scrunched up. “Law school?” she asked.

“Law school,” I repeated.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty,” I answered.

She began to sniffle. “Oh, God! I’m so embarrassed. You all look so young.”

“Those guys are older than me, actually,” I said. “They’re both married, and are actually amazing people. So, everything is okay. I promise.”

I could see her face flush as she came to realize  how much of her ass she’d shown. “I just….oh! I just saw you, and I saw them, and I thought….oh! My boyfriend said not to! Ohmygodpleasedon’ttellthemwhatIsaid! Please, please!!!”

I just looked at her, not knowing whether to pity her or to laugh. “I won’t tell them. But I should go. They’re probably wondering where I am.”

“Okay,” she said, finally moving aside, and relenting. “You’re sure you’re okay, though?”

Un-fucking-believable.

Nevermind the fact that there were two other women in our party.

Nevermind the fact that I was jovially laughing, having a grand ole time.

Nevermind the fact that I was a grown ass woman who assured her, repeatedly, that I was okay.

I was just a black girl in the company of white men.

And everyone knows that can only be a formula for one thing—

AWWWWW cheea….

Raping and pillaging like a mu-fuckkka!!!!

Listen up, Caucasians.

I’m from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Home of the Stonewall Jackson Shrine.

Home of the why-don’t-we-have-Confederate-History-Month?-stream of logic.

I don’t need your help on the I’m-not-sure-if-we-can-entirely-trust-Whitey bandwagon.

I’ve got this.

“Post-racial America” has y’all turning on each other, and I’m not ready for it.

Please have a meeting, and address this as soon as possible.

And to my mystery would-be-good-Samaritan:

I don’t know what in the holy fuck Klan-sponsored college you went to, but DEMAND financial reimbursement.

IMMEDIATELY.

there comes a time in every woman’s life when you have to take stock of yourself and your friends, and determine: “we ain’t shit.”

My weekend in four parts—my adventures with the new housekeeper, the part where I almost unceremoniously murdered six children at the movie theater, my hairdresser’s engagement, and my wildly controversial and bad language-infused dinner with an old law school friend notwithstanding.

(sat) “Clara’s” and “Jenny’s” crib: Me and Michael arrive at Clara’s house.  Clara and Jenny have never been to Lux, and Michael (who hates Lux) is reluctantly accompanying us.  Clara pours herself another glass of wine and asks if we mind her playing Lenny Kravitz to set the mood before we leave. Michael and I laugh at her for two and a half minutes. This bitch wants to set the pre-Lux mood with Lenny Kravitz. She hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve ever said.

(sat) New York Avenue: Me, Michael, Clara, and Jenny are walking to the club. Me, Clara, and Jenny are in various states of undress. A man in a “big body Benz” rolls his window down and attempts to holler at one or all of us. He inquires as to our destination. Clara (for reasons which will continue to elude me) tells him “Lux.” Our suitor then desires to know why we’re “going to that raggely[sic] ass ghetto ass hot ass ignant[sic] ass club.” He was clearly a cut above the traditional Lux-goer; as evidenced by his common ass hood-holla that called to mind Sir Lancelot, and the many romantic variants of the Chivalric Code.

(sat) Lux: My beer choices are Heineken and Miller. I opt for the Heineken. I consider that the beverage’s secret ingredient might be warm Nazi piss compote.

(sat) Lux: A man who looks like Rick Ross tries to effectuate the waist-grab-pull-close maneuver. I spurn his advances. The only man who looks like Rick Ross that is allowed to touch me is Rick Ross.

(sat) Lux:  My linesister and I venture to the 3^rd floor. My linesister motions to the VIP section which, in an unexpected twist, has a disproportionate amount of white women within. I consider first, that the women are birds; second, that there must be an NFL player hosting a party inside. I determine to refer to the women as pelicans. You know. On account of them being white birds.

(sat) Lux: My linesister and I are both dancing, one goon, a piece, when suddenly, she cries out, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I keep dancing with my goon. It’s not like I don’t hear her. I’m just, you know, dancing. She cries out, again, the same refrain, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I continue dancing with aforementioned goonificence. She then effectuates the super-secret Delta distress signal. Soror down! Soror down!!!! I immediately shove off the hobgoblin trying to impregnate me through my dress, rescue my linesister, forcefully separate her from wildanegrobeast, and push her through the crush of people to freedom. All of my love, peace, and happiness, girl. All of my love, peace and happiness.

(sat) Lux: Michael and I try to determine the thought process that inclined a fellow patron to don a large, wide, floppy brimmed white hat to the club. I suggest that the headpiece once belonged to Shug Avery. Michael disagrees, as the “suicide doors” of the hat’s brim are clearly an indicator of a more modern era.

(sat) somewhere on 6^th St:  Me, Jenny, and a very drunk Clara are looking for my car. Clara, who has a beautiful voice, keeps singing, “I’m more than just a numberrrrrr, hey hey heyyyyy.” That’s it. Like, no more of the song at all. Just, “I’m more than just a numberrrrr, hey hey heyyyy.” Jenny and I don’t ask where the remainder of Drake’s song went. Four blocks later, Clara mercifully switches up—to some Marvin Sapp song. Which she sings—in its entirety. Clara then looks at me and says, happily, “God is good!” I wordlessly continue to walk arm in arm with her. She looks at me, meaningfully. “Fooler, I said, ‘God is good!’”  “I’m not going to do this with you,” I say. She stops walking. “Come onnnn, you know the rest. God is good!” I try to inch her forward. “I refuse to do this with you,” I say. Clara is unrelenting. “Fooler—come onnnnnn. God is good!” I sigh, dejectedly. My voice drops two whole disgusted octaves. “All the time.” My participation gives her life. “And all the time?!?!” I sigh, once more, and look out into the street. “God is good.” Clara walk/jigs/church steps the next half of a block. “Hallelujah!” she exclaims. I’d be wrong if I kick this broad in her knees right now.

(sun) Northeast: I tell Michael that I think that I want to have a baby. Michael looks out of his passenger window. We continue ten of the twelve minute ride in complete silence. This silence is interrupted when I inadvertently drive my car into oncoming traffic.

(sun) church, Northeast: The church is really hot. Michael doesn’t want to take off his jacket because he is wearing a short sleeved button down that he’d accidentally purchased thinking it was a long sleeved button down. When it gets too hot for Michael to bear, he whispers to me “If I take my jacket off do you think I’ll look crazy?” I look around at our fellow congregants. The woman directly in front of me has a courtesy-of-my-auntie’s-basement tattoo covering the whole of her chubby forearm. She has brought with her a “purse” that can best be described as a white, pleather piece of carry-on luggage. Three rows in front of us, I watch as the bald head of another parishioner catches a stream of light from a stained glass window. Her entire head is bald. Save her natural, Ed Grimley-style bang… that is blonde. Directly beside Michael is the most beautiful transsexual I have ever seen. She also has the biggest, loud-clapping man hands I’ve ever seen. I wonder why Michael deems it appropriate to disrupt my salvation with his ridiculous questions.

(sun) church, Northeast: The pastor talks to us about taking Christianity into worldly places. He tries to identify with the “young people” and inform us that it is all right to go into Busboys and Poems[sic] if it is for the purposes of evangelism. He tells us that it doesn’t matter if people are in Busboys and Poems[sic] drinking alcohol and looking cute and picking up people, because we shouldn’t be afraid to go into the streets to spread The Word. I spend much of this portion of his sermon considering that I’ve apparently been away from Busboys and Poets too long. My friends go there to eat mac ‘n cheese, attend Alice Walker book signings, and hear spoken word poetry. I woulda been in there way more if I’da known it was the Devil’s hideout for drankin and ho-in’. This absence is easily remedied. Good lookin’ out, Rev.

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: On more than one occasion, I’ve forbidden our friend, “Monty,” to tell stories, as they are always ludicrous, and, as far as I’m concerned, complete fiction. As Monty’s stories tend to fold into other outrageous fables, I admonish fellow listeners not to make direct eye contact with him, so as not to encourage him, or enable his tomfuckery. Despite my warnings, my linesister disregards my instructions. Monty proceeds: “Did I tell y’all about the lady who went to go get a mammogram and then went missing? She did. My daddy called and asked me, ‘Did you hear about Ms. Mable? She went to go get a mammogram and then up and went missing.’ I think doctors should do better than that. If they can find you when they want you to pay your bills, they can find you when you got cancer. She been missing 6 weeks.” He then folds this story into: “Did I tell you about the woman who never loved her daughter? She never loved her. My mama told me once to take her a plate but to be careful of the chain when walking up the front porch cause she had a whole chain that wrapped around her house. But she never loved her daughter. She stayed in bed all day, never wearing anything but a robe and some baby powder. Yes she did. She never loved her daughter. Never loved her.  And she had cancer, too.  She died.  But not because of the cancer. Because she never left the bed. She sat there  all day eating Tostitos. That’s what killed her.”

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: My linesister and our friend “Anna” get into a heated debate about Anna’s boss, who is up for re-election. I watch as Anna and my linesister give meaningful arguments, but note that Anna obviously isn’t aware that my linesister is just baiting her. I shake my head, as at the height of their dispute, my linesister, having exhausted all of her educated responses, concludes: “I don’t care. I hate him. I hope he doesn’t win,” like the child that she is. Anna is temporarily stunned. I want to laugh, but I can’t, cause what she said is fucked up. Man, it’s funny, though.

(sun) 14^th and K: Me and Michael go to meet up with my friend, “Maya” and her visiting best friend, “Kara.” Maya and Kara are wearing the same dress. On purpose. Maya is fairer skinned and has curly baby hair. Kara is darker than Maya, but has similarly curly baby hair. Having made fast friends with the patrons, they are the toast of the all-white bar where they are seated. Maya tells me that people have asked them if they are twins all night. You know, cause they’re black with curly hair, and are dressed alike. Not that they’re two grown assed women acting like asses. Maya informs me that they’ve told all of the patrons at the bar that they are “fraternal cousins.” All of the patrons at the bar have accepted this explanation. I immediately cast-aside any previously-held reservations about home-schooling one’s children.

(sun) 14^th and K: Maya introduces me to Jamie, whose wife has left him for a woman, and Cristina, a haggard looking drunk woman who looks exactly how Sheryl Crow will look when she’s 80…and strung out on heroin. Cristina says to me, “Tell Jamie about how it’s better that his wife left him for a woman, cause it’s not like he’s competing with a man.” I look at a visibly intoxicated Jamie, and begin, “Well, actually, I read last week that it’s actually worse when your spouse leaves you for a woman. Because it’s like she’s completely emasculating you. Like, there’s nothing you can do .” Cristina signals violently to me, and starts mouthing that I’m going in the opposite direction of what she’d hoped. I hurry to fix the situation. “Actually, Jamie, what it means is, that your dick was probably too big for her. She took one look at your huge dick and just couldn’t do it anymore. You ruined her for all men. “ Jamie, happier with my newer answer, lazily smiles, and appears placated.  I briefly consider giving him a little piece on account of his troubles. I quickly reconsider, given his scruffy demeanor and overall drunkyness. I still congratulate myself for contemplating letting him bury his sorrows in my little mocha mons. I’m constantly thinking about how I can be of service to others. I’m a giver like that.

Letting color go….for alh, and damn……..that leona lewis bitch, too…

“I call this one, ‘Miss Celie’s Blues’….cuz she scratched my head when I’s was ailin’…”

Dark skinned broads of the universe; failers of paper bag tests worldwide—

We owe our redboned counterparts an apology.

For hating.

You heard me.

Fine, fine.

I can sense your reticence.

I’ll kick it off.

Good Afternoon. My name is Fooler. And I owe a gang of lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair an apology.

Alla y’all.

Now, take heart. This apology comes years upon years after the discovery of my hater-antics. But, I never issued a formal apology, and—well, now seems as good a time as any.

Lightskinned bitches, and bitches with baby hair, thick, long, luxurious hair, and crazy, funky, wild spirally hair—you all are not the enemy. You never have been. Some of you all are dimes, some of you all are treasure trolls. The exact genetic predeterminates of your beauty or fugliness is frankly, none of my business.

I bore you all so much animus for so many years, adjusting my ire and contempt only  when the inclusion of a new lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch in my friendship circle necessitated an exception.

And, for the longest time, it entirely escaped my attention that your numbers in my friendship ranks were beginning to swell; that I had surrounded myself in a veritable sea of amazing women who defied every loosely-constructed stereotype my own ignorance wouldn’t allow me to view as false.

Similarly escaping my attention was the fact that I am, in fact, cute as a motherfucker. Seriously. I’m on some cute shit. I have some true cuteness going on all up in my face space.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back.

My mother—my amazing, can do everything in this world mother–grew up dirt poor in  a town with an unrecognizable name in Nowheresville, North Carolina. Her particular melanin composite never garnered her any popularity contests in those days, and when she married my father, a man whose hue was identical to hers, she suspected any children of theirs’ wouldn’t fare much different.

According to my mother, the people of her town, her peers, and virtually everyone with whom she had any significant contact, was “color struck.” Most Blacks, grappling with our own identities, replete with the psycho-socio far-reaching implications of second class citizenry, had turned our attentions inward, and set about creating hierarchies within our own ranks; where education and affluence wouldn’t suffice to separate us, fairness of skin would suit just fine.

The lighter (and by proxy, more White-looking) the better.

When I came around, my mother took proactive steps in making certain that I never felt the dejection that she’d experienced as a child.

Lightskinned girls were no better than me. Girls with hair that brushed their hips had to come home at night and wash their little stankin asses just like I did. If a boy preferred another girl to me, he only liked her because she was lightskinned. If the boy I liked didn’t like me back, who was he, oh, that lightskinned boy? *insert eye roll*.

My mother was trying to prepare me for the “color struck” world at large.

But, all the while, she was making me “color struck.” Stuck hating on lightskinned bitches who had a gang of hair, and absolutely nothing the fuck to do with me.

I love my mother, and all that she tried to do for me. She inspired confidence where there otherwise would have been none. And maybe sometimes a boy I liked had a preference for lightskinned girls. But you know what? Maybe sometimes a boy I liked didn’t have a particular fondness for chunky bitches with a lotta mouth and a sad, sad proclivity for Karl Kani jeans.

The truth of the matter is, whether the world at large thinks that fairer skinned women are more attractive has little bearing on my own reception.

The truth of the matter is, I should only be focusing on me. On whether my toenails are painted; whether my elbows are ashy; whether my upper lip is a replica of Tom Selleck’s.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to heartache; they’ve all known it in equal measure.

My crew of girls, dark and light, alike, aren’t divided among color lines with respect to their loyalty to me and nourishment of our friendship; they’ve all born my monkey idiosyncrasies with casually amused dismissal.

And men—the truth about them is, if they’re with you, they’re with you. If a man likes you, he likes you for you. The end.

Sure, maybe he wishes he could skim a few pounds off of your carb-indulgent, though steadfastly determined to rock a two piece ass, but– if he likes you, he likes you.

Granted, maybe he wishes you’d given a bit more forethought to that upper arm or upper titty tat you were so insistent on getting at 18, and now your ridiculous ass is 30 and relegated to a life of long sleeves and turtlenecks, but—if he likes you, he likes you.

He doesn’t wish he had a lightskinned, long-haired bitch in your stead. He likes you.

(Now, don’t be a dumb bitch. Please bear in mind that he will fuck her, too. If he isn’t shit, he probably won’t shy too far away from fucking her in addition to you. But that’s not the point. The point is, that for whatever fraction of attention space he has designated to you, your black, monkey ass is what he wants.)

And me—my own personal truth—is that I can’t think of one instance when a lightskinned, baby haired/thick,long,luxurious haired, crazy,funky,wild spirally-haired bitch maligned me. Not one. Remonica Jenkins—black as coal. Any collegiate issues I had with women—all my complexion or darker (except that one time, and really, she wasn’t at fault at all. Oh no, wait. There was one. Damn. I STILL hate that bitch. Okay, so that’s one. Really though. One).

But I can think of a hundred times when my 5 re-assured me;  a thousand when my girl, “Law School Logan” held my crazy ass down; a million when a particularly new trio of beauties amped up my blog and encouraged me to keep writing; and an infinite number still when the woman who inspired this post (not Leona Lewis, geniuses) listened to my troubled meanderings, withholding judgment in favor of support.

The point is that I, for one, am done. I am long done.

My matriculation to adulthood has seen Halle Berry get beat by two men and made a black fool of by one, Vanessa Williams get married twice and left with a hundred children to raise all by her lonesome, Stacey Dash take an asswhooping her damned self, Rhianna get stomped unconscious in a Lamborghini (a feat I didn’t even know possible), and Leona Lewis get slapped the shit out of in public by a complete stranger.

My mocha-colored juvenile angst put so many bad vibes into the Universe, I’m starting to feel halfway responsible for some of that shit.

So, for all of the unnecessary hating—

For the animus rooted in my own insecurities, and reinforced by societal standards of beauty that I so enthusiastically took to heart–

And damn, for Leona Lewis, who I gotta believe didn’t deserve that open fist to the mouth—

I apologize.

Come on, brown broads—

I know someone else has some “I’m sorrys” to go around, too.

p.s.

(not to mention every lightskinned broad that is dominating my universe now, but….lol…lessssssssst y’all get at me….i’ve reserved mad love for a freckled nigerian, a fashion savvy cropped coiffed beauty who Baltimore has stolen from me, and, as always…….the timeless……”natalie.” [note which name i put in quotes...cause your real name is sometimes your fake name])

The entry I swore I’d never write. It is complete bullshit that i even have to say this. Regretfully yours….

I would like to begin, with an apology.

I apologize, in advance, for this post.

Given the fact that this blog is young yet, I am not foolish enough to state, plaintively, things that it will never address; things that it will never cover. I am fully aware of the potential, and indeed, likelihood, of writing dry spells.

For instance, I would love to say that I will never comment on celebrity comings and goings—those people are already famous. Fuck them. I’m a hater.

But I might.

I would love to say that I will never discuss my own personal politics. In my view, if opinions are like assholes (as the saying goes), political opinions are the dingleberryest of them all.

But I might.

But I will say this.

And mean it.

And own it.

I am going to address something, briefly, today, and it will NEVER be seen or read about on this space, again.

And I am coming from a place motivated by my disappointment in the recent postings of one of my favorite bloggers—my premiere internet crush.

So here goes—like it or lump it—

(I hardly give a damn as it will never be seen or heard from me on this space again either way.)

STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THIS BLACK WOMAN DATING CRISIS.

PLEASE.

SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP about it.

SERIOUSLY.

QUIT.

Stop it.

There is NOT a dating crisis. There is NOT a marriage crisis.

The reality of the situation is far, far worse than either of those two concepts can ever comprehend.

The true situation is way more fucked up.

There is, in fact, a PERSPECTIVE crisis. Got it?

Of like, EPIC proportions.

There is a nationwide, motherfucking pandemic surrounding the malnourishment, starvation, and disease infestation of our collective perspective.

Black women—you can get a man, okay?

You can get a man. You can get a black one. You can get a black one that is educated, and employed and good to you. You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what else you can get? A white man. You can get one that is educated, and employed, and good to you.  You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.

Know what you can also get? And I must profess, this one is nearest and dearest to my heart—

You can get passionately, thoroughly, deliberately, and wantonly fucked to Kingdom Come (literally) while you are trying to make up your mind between the two.

Anybody who tells you that you can’t—and I will definitively say this irrespective of how it comes off—ANYONE who tells you that you cannot—any statistical data, any blogger, any pastor, any radio personality, even your own mother—

ANYONE who tells you otherwise—

Is a mother-fucking-lie.

NOT a “liar.”

I took it there.

Good, southern, and black fo’ dat ass.

Anyone who tells you that you can’t have these things is a mother.fucking.lie.

Don’t believe me?

Let me tell you how I know.

On my BEST day—

Are you listening, bitches?

On my BEST day—

Like, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, all the lights on the roadways are green—

I am a strong

SEVEN.

On my BEST day.

I am short, black. No real hair to speak of. Sassy in the mouth, wide in the ass. And I have two little raggedy ass dogs that I take wherever I go.

Yet, I have miraculously convinced some of the best men I’ve ever known to fall in love with me; to want to be with me. I’ve even taken a few of them up on their offers and loved them back.

Me.

Janky ass ole me.

(I mean, I could get it. Don’t get me wrong. I’d definitely get it. But ain’t nobody gonna break through traffic trying to give it to me.)

And believe me—believe me when I tell you, as I come from a place of truth and reflection, and not modesty (as I have no talent for it), the ONLY thing special about me at all; the only thing that sets me apart from the ravenous, wedding hungry, WE-Channel watching devotees in this city is my constant state of being un-pressed.

I could give a damn about matrimony or andbabymakes3.

Listen.

There is no shame in having an ideal; of having an expectation of a life, or a dream.

But the reality is, that if you simply chill for a moment, and breathe—if you stop searching for something in nothing—

If you ignore your friends in their seemingly blissfully happy marriages and relationships and simply focus on this isolated moment in time that you have to be free; to be unencumbered by children, a man, or obligations greater than yourself—you will realize how truly lucky you are.

Love is a many splendored thing, yes. But is also a laborious thing.

That man and that relationship that you will work so hard to get, will necessitate double the effort to maintain and keep.

I worry that there is this movement afoot to convince us that we need to be married and that we need to rush and that the chances of us getting married are slim so we better buckle down and hustle. I don’t know who sparked it off, but I tell you who is not perpetuating it: married people.

Because they know the shit that everyone else isn’t saying. Marriage, and indeed, serious relationships, are a marathon, not a sprint.

They are absolutely and unequivocally a marathon.

And know what?

I.don’t.like.to.run.

Don’t you want to walk for a bit?

There’s no shame in a brisk walk.

I, personally, enjoy walking with two or three people.

Sometimes even at the same time.

(Okay that last part was probably a joke).

The point is, there are plenty of men out there.

And there’s not just one good man out there for you. There are ten or twelve within a two mile radius of where you’re standing this very second. Maybe you can’t see them (two miles is actually quite a bit of fucking space), but they’re there.

And they will be there, whether you’re 25, or 35, or 45.

You have an infinite amount of time to boo up and settle down. Trust me.

Put Steve Harvey on mute, tell the statisticians to go fuck themselves, give your mother an endearing frontal lobe kiss and then walk away.

And then come out and meet me for some DRANKS, bitches!!

We’re fittin’ to get fuuuuuuuuuuucked up and make some HORRIBLE decisions like only a bunch of hard-living 7s can.

*sigh*

Okay, okay…..

8s and up can come too.

The beginning………..perhaps………of the end. Fooler Fridays…

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for submitting questions for this first installment of Fooler Fridays. Seriously, I appreciate the feedback.

I didn’t know where everyone stood on anonymity so, I’ve erred on the side of caution.

Also, I haven’t posted all of the questions because a lot of you asked about my personal life, which I found a bit surprising. I’m happy to answer them in due time, but it seemed a little bit of a dick move to spend the whole forum talking about how awesome I think I am.

Oh, also, one more thing. Just so we’re all clear, I’m not a relationship expert. Like, at all. I’m actually the worst person in the entire world from whom you should expect any Oracle at Delphi relationship wisdom. I just thought, you know…y’all outta know that. If you’re relying on my representations, you will totally F yourselves in the A every.single.time.

So, without further ado………

Dear Fooler,

I am a male reader, and I love your blog. I am always a little surprised when you talk about the male/female dynamic. I guess I always thought that women didn’t go for sex outside of relationships like men do. Have I been wrong? If I have been, how can I get more of this in my life?

–Hmm. I have it on good authority that all women aren’t the same. My own group of friends is split firmly down the middle with respect to the clandestine encounter/jumpoff vs. relationship sex debate. Some go for it, some don’t.

So I guess you haven’t been wrong, per se.

LOL. You want me to tell you how to score a jump, huh? I don’t know that I can answer this to your satisfaction. I will say this, though. I truly believe that a man’s ability to get a woman into bed depends more on the man than the woman. If a man is confident, and not a complete jerkoff; if he doesn’t talk too much (seriously, this is the death knell of passion—I don’t know when y’all will learn to just not speak); if he’s not horrifically ugly (emphasis here on the modifier…we WILL fux with a little bit of monsterface if his game is right); and if he can (sparingly)say one or two of the right things—a cocktail or 3 later should find you, at the very least, in the back of her car with your hand down her blouse.

Okay, maybe it’s not that easy, but, you get the gist of it. I think that’s the best I can do without knowing you.

Hey Fooler! Great blog! Cupcakes: good or bad?

–Omg, are you kidding me?!!? GOOD! THE BEST!! Okay, as it happens, I have been on a mission I’ve entitled the Great North American Cupcake Hunt since 2007. Seriously. I’ve been trolling this country in search of its finest cupcakes for 3 years, and have only been met with moderate success. Mine is a merit-based system predicated on 3 main categories: aesthetics, actual cake-in-a-cup-ability, and handle-ease.

Aesthetics: The cupcake has to look awesome, but not at the expense of taste. I once caved and bought these beautiful poinsettia cupcakes from Whole Foods around Christmas, and those fuckers tasted like recycled toilet paper.

Cake-in-a-cup-ability: Now, there are two schools of thought on this. Some people prefer cupcakes to have a little less substance than an actual cake; to be a little lighter; to be a less heavy alternative to an actual slice of cake. Personally, I’m a strict constructionalist with respect to my cupcakes. I’m looking for the actual cakeness of cake——-in a cup.

Handle ease: This is where people in the District fuck up. Y’all are doing too much. I have to be able to hold the cupcake and transport it. It’s supposed to be easier than a piece of cake that requires a plate and utensils. Stop putting gummi worms and loads of frosting and shit on these cupcakes, people. Bitches with sticky fingers are not welcome in my vehicle or home.

Good morning, Fooler—
Me and my co-worker have an ongoing bet based on the fact that you talk about your linesister all of the time. I’m a Delta. She’s an AKA. I say you’re my soror, she thinks you’re an AKA. Who’s right?

—You are, Soror. _______________ Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated. Spring 2002, #2. The LS to which I consistently refer is my #10 out of our line of eleven. As you can imagine, we look quite ridiculous while in public, together. Doubly so as she refuses to acquiesce to my persistent request to not wear 4 inch heels.

Dear Fooler,

I love your blog. You are hilarious. I forward it to everyone I know. Me and a couple of my girls want to know why you never talk about love. Have you ever been in love? Do you think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC?

—WOW. Okay.

Simply put, love is hard, ass is simple. As I—above and beyond all things, perhaps—appreciate simplicity, I focus on ass. There’s not enough room in the blogosphere to support the one hundred million thoughts I have on love, or my own ability to mishandle it.

Have I ever been in love? Yep.

Do I think it’s harder to find as a black woman in DC? Nope.

I do question, however, women who are on the active hunt for “love.” Like, why is “love” something that anyone is “looking for?” I can guarandamntee any love that’s hiding under a rock waiting to be found is not what you want.

In my experience, people who are looking for “love” really mean that they’re looking for “romance.” The two are not one in the same. Not at all. Romance is flowers, and handholding, and hushed whispers in the dark, and knowing glances across the dinner table.

You ever travel forty-five minutes through Metro traffic with a bag full of medicine and a bottle of OJ to reach your phlegm-spewing, puffy-eyed girlfriend whose face has doubled in size overnight? Cause that’s love.

Fooler, please fill in the blanks—

My friend _________ has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend _________ has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my friend _______’s child is going to be the President of the United states one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Hint: All three blanks should be filled in with the same friend’s name.

—-FYI, I never had any doubt in my mind where this question came from. You’re an asshole.

*sigh*

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the cutest child in the whole wide world.

My friend, Kelly, a jackass, has the smartest child in the whole wide world.

I am fairly certain that my (jackass) friend, Kelly’s child is going to be the President of the United States one day, or maybe a Supreme Court Justice if he/she decides to go to law school.

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

A rather mediocre, albeit vulgar, musing…..

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.

You read that right.

Someone

beat

my

back

out

this past weekend.

I haven’t been right since.

I even wrote a blog entry about it.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to post it as it revealed a bit much for this quasi-anonymous space.

But just know that it happened.

Now—
As I have a relatively engaging social life, you can certainly appreciate how this unexpected fuckmedown might disorient a worldly woman like myself.

Suddenly I was looking at life through a new fuckmedowned lens. I couldn’t allow extended periods of time to pass without getting distracted by flashbacks of the weekend.

I turned down a dinner invitation with one man and passed up an evening with another.

I was trippin’.

That’s what happens when you let unexpectedly phenomenal genitals all up in your lumbar space.

Shit just ain’t the same.

I asked myself, “Am I ill? Am I unwell? Will I ever get back to good? Am I destined to walk the earth concerning myself with nothing but the memory of my rapturous encounter with this man’s pulsating, bionic, pleasuredome?”

Then it hit me.

I was sick.

But it wasn’t cancer, or hepatitis, or shingles.
I was tormented by something far worse; infected by a virus with no known cure—

I was sprung.

Like a motherfucker.

This had never happened to me, before. I didn’t know how to counteract it. It didn’t itch, or sting. It wasn’t tender to the touch anywhere that I could discern. But something was off.

And while I didn’t know how to cure it, I knew, instantly, what had brought it about.

The unexpected fuckmedown had compelled me to break all of my clandestine encounter rules.

What rules?

*Fooler’s Guide to Clandestine Encounters*

1. He can’t sleep here. Ever.
2. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he can’t sleep with me. Ever.
3. If some catastrophic act of nature should make Rule #1 obsolete, he must leave the space he has occupied throughout the night (someplace not with me, in accordance to Rule #2) at daybreak. He cannot linger. I REPEAT. He.CanNOT.Linger.
4. The only thing he can eat up in my house is water. I don’t have a problem getting this for him. I am not an asshole.
5. At no point, at any time, should there be any unsanctioned, inappropriate touching. That is: handholding (ESPECIALLY including, but not limited to: that intertwined, interlocked finger shit), cuddling, spooning, casually intertwined limbs, cheek caresses, delicate finger tickles across the contours of exposed flesh, and most certainly not any gentle, absent-minded, soft kisses to the shoulder, forehead, or nape of neck areas.
6. If you have somehow bypassed Rule #s 1 and 3, under no circumstances are there any next day outings planned. Y’all don’t go anywhere. Y’all don’t do anything together. This rule is damn near as important as #1.

I created these rules for the sake of efficiency and economy. They are here for my protection, as well as the protection of any guest. The rules hone everyone’s focus. They leave no room for confusion. They quickly separate any gray areas into definitive palates of black and white. They are bedrock; the Magna Carta of any worthwhile NSA sexual endeavor. (Feel free to print them out and attach them to your bedpost.)

And you know what? They work, damnit.
They bloody well work.

But when you’re hit with the unexpected fuckmedown (and please note the “unexpected” modifier, as it indicates an element of surprise that chinks the armor of any otherwise-in-place shield of emotional preparedness) you lose your ability to act rationally. Your eyes mist over with the wonderment of how such a creature could come into your life. ‘Member that song in “The Sound of Music” where Maria and the Captain are all happy that they’ve found this great thing so they’re all, “somewhere in my youth or childhood I must have done something good?” Yeah. The unexpected fuckmedown is like that.

I wasn’t able to properly implement my rules, so blinded was I by the power of the UF.

*How Fooler Completely Screwed the Pooch on the Implementation of her Clandestine Encounter Rules*

1. He slept here.
2. He slept with me.
3. It might have been close to noon before either of us got up at all.
4. I made this motherfucker breakfast. The whole sha-bang. And I don’t eat meat, but I swear on everything had that man had a taste for bacon I would have shot and dressed the hog myself.
5. I don’t even want to go into this.
6. Yep. This too. Eastern Market like a bitch.

Which brings us to my current predicament. As it happens, my guest’s company was beyond tolerable.

In fact—

It was

downright

enjoyable.

YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!

SPRUNG.

I had to consult my friends.

Now, as a general rule—on account of their individual and collective monkeyness—I rarely consult my friends for anything. But I had showed my ass, and was in dire straits.

Frankie, aged 29. College professor and generally well-informed gay.

Me: “Frankie, you ever been sprung?”

Frankie: “Ummm. I think, maybe once. Maybe for like, a summer. But, after a while you come to the realization, ‘Oh. This Negro is basic as hell.’ That’s how it usually goes away. One day you see how basic they are.”

Mark, aged 30. PhD candidate; oscillates between being tender and sweet and trifling as a motherfucker.

Me: “Is it possible that I’m sprung?”

Mark: “Nah. Not after a weekend. Sometimes, if I start to feel like I might be a little sprung, I’ll call another girl over and get with her, just to prove, you know, hey—“

Karen, aged 34. Lawyer, wife, and mother. The latter two do nothing to diminish her overarching characteristic of huge asshole.

Karen: “Bitch, I hope you ain’t sprung. You know the two types of bitches I don’t get down with. Unemployed bitches and sprung bitches. Get yourself together and call me back.”

Erin, aged 29. Big time DC political hotshot with whom I should have never discussed aforementioned.

“Girl, what if this man is the one? I’m so excited!!!”

———-

I don’t know if there is a moral to this story (outside of the affirmation of my long-held belief about discussing NOTHING with my primate friends).

In all likelihood, like everything else, I’ve overthought this to the furthest recesses of my mind.

Maybe, this once, I’ll concede defeat and keep it simple.

And the simple truth of it all is—

Someone beat my back out this past weekend.

protecting our white women, or “don’t let the well-spoken black man in the big, white house fool you…”

Listen up, white women. This one’s for you.

White women of America, I’m worried about you.

Truly.

I’ve taken some time, and given this matter some real thought, and what I am left with, is a feeling of absolute terror about your collective future and overall well being.

As it happens, having observed several of your lifestyle choices these last few years, I’m beginning to have legitimate concerns about your safety, and the long-term sustainability of your particular race-gender strata.

And I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you at all.

I blame Barack Obama.

That’s right.

The President of the United States.

But he’s not alone.

He has a co-conspirator.

The Conservative, Evangelical Right.

Yep. You read that right.

Barack Obama and the Conservative, Evangelical Right are acting in concert with each other for the singular purpose of bringing your particular race-gender subset to absolute, irreparable ruination.

It seems as though President Obama’s mere presence in the White House has fueled radical talk, spurned on, and perpetuated by, the Right.

The substance of this radical talk?

That we are living in a post-racial America.

Time and time again, our friends on the Right have assured us that we need only look to Pennsylvania Avenue’s newest resident to evidence the fact that the topic of race is no longer a viable issue of debate in this country.

Listen to me, white women. Listen good.

It’s a new day.

It is.

But it’s not the newest motherfucking day ever. K?

Like, we’ve put on a fresh coat of paint, installed hardwood floors, and upgraded to stainless steel appliances, but the plumbing is still old as a bitch. Like, 400 years old.

Here’s where you all come in.

Now, it seems as though—and, forgive me, maybe this has been building for a long time and I simply haven’t noticed—you all are getting more and more, howshallisaythis?hmmm—BUCK in your interactions with black women like myself.

And let me be the FIRST to say that this is FINE. FINE.

Irrespective of our don’tfuckwithmepersona, black women do NOT have the franchise on being the baddest bitches around. You do not have to take shit off of anyone. Ever.

No matter what more left-leaning, politically sensitive pundits will tell you, you are under no obligation to lay down rose petals in the paths of all blacks that you encounter (though, i must admit, this would be lovely). It is high time we all acknowledge that white people are not their collective past, and are not accountable for the ills perpetrated on the black race for the preceding generations (Editor’s note: I reserve the right to be legitimately angry as to the derivative, sub-surface, Establishment, systematic shit that goes on today).

So, let’s be clear. You don’t owe anybody anything, white women. You don’t have to cower in fear of the Laqueeshas, and the Rafiheenas, or the L’ShellaMichalas. Those black bitches don’t run you. You don’t have to be afraid of shit.

But……….. and i’m just saying this as a practical mattter—
Maybe you should be.

Laqueesha, will still straight STOMP your ass, in this “postracial America.” And I guarandamntee, that if, and when she does, this “new day” is suddenly gonna seem old as a motherfucker.

Now, be it resolved, that no race of people is more capable of rendering a sound asswhooping than another.

I do not think that white women are soft, or punks, or unable to deliver as many thrashings as a black woman. I watch “Bad Girls Club.” I know what’s up.

My concern, rather, is that, some of you all, perhaps caught up in the euphoria of President Obama—and idunnoforcertainwhoamitosay?—have lost sight of, or, are maybe not really even aware of all of the anger that black women continue to have—not towards you personally, mind you, but in general—about our place in society. And, even if this anger is not about you, when you rise up and get, you know, BUCK, it brings it allllllllllll back to us.

And, suddenly, we want to fight you.

Sad, I know.

But true.

And, let me tell you. The heart of my concern for your well being doesn’t stem from the potential interactions you will have with the Laqueeshas, or the Rafiheenas. Oh no. I’m worried about your interactions with the Debras, the Rachels, the Foolers.

Because, even I, an educated, well-bred, woman, has, from time to time, wanted to step out into the street and fight a white woman like a man.

And therein lies the problem.

You all are under the impression that I’m post-racial, too.

No, no, Boo.

No.

I’m racial as a bitch.

Racial-racial.

All caught up in it.

Racialracialracialracialracial.

Racial.

And, now that you are aware of this, white women, let me reiterate that I do not expect you to cower in fear of me. That is ridiculous. I don’t hold any ill will towards any person that I do not know. White people have given me beautiful things. String cheese, Vampire Weekend, Gerard Butler. Both of my dogs are white!

And when I am wrong, say I’m wrong. When you take issue with me, say that you do. Call me out on all of my shit. Confront me.

But I beseech you.

Watch your motherfucking tone.

That’s allllllllllllllll I’m saying.

Watch

your

motherfucking

tone.

I won’t talk wild to you. And i’m gonna need your solemn oath that you won’t talk wild to me.

Because, while our exchange may get heated, and while both of us are aware of our ability to say whatever the hell we want to say, I’d bet my hands that a whole one of us isn’t expecting to get punched in her motherfucking mouth should the convo take a turn in the wrong direction.

And that’s yet another problem, white women.

Yet another problem.

You’re getting black girl buck, and expecting white girl results.

If two black women, no matter how professional or old they are, get into a verbal sparring—irrespective of the venue—both of those women know full well that a potential outcome of the conflict is some ultimate physical confrontation. We are all well aware that, at any point, some shit could pop off, and an unusually mouthy bitch might have to take an elbow to the face.

I don’t know if you all are all cognizant of the fact that black women—and I’m not saying that we encourage violence, or want it; most of us abhor it and all of the stereotypes that exist with respect to our relationship with it—go into an argument knowing that, at some point, they might have to “put [their] hands on this bitch” should she happen to get out of pocket.

So you, too, should comport yourselves with a working awareness of this potential outcome.

And that’s all I wanted to share.

I just want you all to be safe.

And loved.

I want us to have an open dialogue with each other on things both trivial and substantive. Our respective peoples need that dialogue so desperately, and I welcome the opportunity to have it with you at every pass.

But, might you get your ass whooped should that dialogue get unexpectedly contentious, and you happen to talk down to me or invade my personal space?

Yes.

“Yes, you can.”

“And then [s]he stepped off the stage and took a piece of my heart,” or “do they still call it ‘tha swirl’?”

 

I don’t know if I date white men anymore.

I never made a conscious decision to or not to. I merely began, one day.

I never dated white men exclusively.

I never even dated them frequently.

Just the same, it is with some measure of resignation, and a growing degree of conviction that I surmise, I don’t know if I date white men anymore.

It was against the backdrop of an ice-encapsulated city, beset by tumultuous wind, besieged by murderous snow pellets, that I turned this thought over and over in my head. I’d attempted to focus on anything and everything to distract from the frostbite I was certain ate away at my weather-beaten face.

I looked at the empty streets and reflected on my decision to forego a two-hour cab wait in the cozy warmth of my office. Fuck this job. Fuck this job. Fuck this job. Fuck this job. Fuck—this—job.

Walking towards the metro station where cabs generally teemed the curbsides like so many willing dandelion-colored whores, I noted a group of strangers huddled together under a battered awning.

“Are y’all waiting for cabs?” I asked.

The intense cold precluded formal responses, but they all nodded furiously, attempting to communicate in something other than the unintelligible, guttural moans limited spacing between mouth and woolen scarf would have otherwise gurgled out. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. After that, fuck this job ten more times.

Defeated, I turned, once more in the direction of my office. Willing myself not to fall (again)–for my cherished Uggs offered sublime warmth, but granted little by way of traction when confronted with the polar bear shitfest that was the current weather predicament–I resumed my thoughts.

I don’t know if I date white men anymore.

Unless said white men owned a Hummer with a set of shovels in the trunk. Shovels, and sherpa-laden galoshes. Shovels, sherpa-laden galoshes, and all the maraschino and bourbon fixings for a really strong Manhattan. Cause then I’d date them. I’d date them all. Then I’d do ungodly things to them with my brazen, wanton, black body.

I was doing my best desperate hobo imitation when out of the darkness, looming before me like a celestial gift, there it was—a lone, yellow cab. I extended my bag burdened arms with all the grace of a woman in burning building, crying out into the night, “Taxi!!!” And when it stopped and took notice of me, my overwrought heart stopped as well.

The cabbie asked where I was going, and I told him. He seemed to deliberate in the darkness, momentarily, before shouting, “Come, come! Get in!”

I almost wept as I clumsily made my way to the golden chariot. Climbing in, frazzled as fuck, but overcome with gratitude, I prepared to offer my warmest, dimpled smile to the driver.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you dying of hypothermia out there,” my seatmate said.

“Oh!” I said, startled. I hadn’t seen him there at all.

The cabbie piped in, “You ought to thank him. He made me stop.”

I again turned my attentions to the man beside me. Clad in a Steelers skull cap and leather bomber, his voice hardly matched the man who was apparently my savior. His words had hit me with blunt force impact, as they were encased in the most beautiful brogue I’d ever heard. Sonofabitch. This man is from Scotland! I immediately removed my hat and tended to my mussed hair.

“Oh, wow. Thank you so much! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I was dying out there,” I rushed, all at once.

“No, problem at all. How are you liking the weather?” Although I understood his words, clear as day, I couldn’t help but translate them to the language of the romance novels that lined the bookshelves of my home. They were, after all, my only legitimate experience with Scotsmen (bearing in mind, of course, that I was using “legitimate” in the most generous of contexts). The fact remained that this man was attempting to have adult conversation with me, and I persisted in changing his speech to lines of Robert Burns poetry.

“I’m afraid I hate it,” I casually replied. I was getting him so naked in my mind. I was objectifying the shit out of this complete stranger, picturing his translucent, alabaster skin strewn provocatively across bear skinned rugs near fireside hearths. I don’t date white men anymore, my ass.

“I’ve lived here for 12 years and I’ve never seen anything like it.”  Translation: “I’ve tendered these moors for nigh on 12 years. Inna’ me fortnights, I swear to it, lass, I’ve never seen the likes of it. Nor ye’. My God, but ye’ are a comely wench.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, immediately, so I merely nodded mutedly, grinning broadly like some shiny-toothed idiot.

Seemingly enjoying the company, he continued. “I’d been locked up in the house for days. I just needed to get out, you know? A fat lot of good it did. Everything’s closed, it seems.” Translation: “I’d been a captive for over a fortnight, lass. I tore through the streets like a wee, mad banshee. Ye’ve ignited a fire in my blood, lass. It canna’ be helped. I’m wild for ye’, lass. My God, but ye’ are a comely wench.”

“Are you always this quiet?” he asked. Translation: “Speak, lass. Let us care not for the treachery that abounds. I yearn to hear the sweet words that fall from ye’s honeyed lips.”

“Oh, no. I’m just so tired. It’s been a long day. I was thinking about the fact that this weather wasn’t exactly what I bargained for when I moved here,” I answered. Why can’t this monkey ass cabbie climb up out of this car and give us some damned privacy?

“It’s not so bad. In Scotland we have weather like this all of the time.” Read as: “Come away with me. I’ll (somehow) intertwine heather in your (coarse, Negro) hair, and lay your body against the lush green of the moors. And we’ll make love. Aye, lass. Love we’ll make.”

“Please don’t say that. Don’t mar my fantasies of Scotland with weather like this. I can’t bear the thought of me busting my ass in Scotland,” I said.

My companion laughed heartily, and I just knew that my insides would surely melt. The smile that he offered belied the quiet intensity (I’m taking a little literary license here. Fuck you. You weren’t there.) in his eyes, when he asked, “So you’ve fantasized about Scotland, then?”

———–

Sadly, this story doesn’t end with me showing a sexy Scotsman my own little America in the back of a cab on a windswept, snowy night. He didn’t kiss the cold from my cheeks, or show me his pulsating, throbbing haggis. In fact, he ultimately mentioned something about a wife waiting for him at his apartment, or some such nonsense. That’s probably the part where I stopped listening.

The point is, I learned a little bit about myself, last night. Who one chooses to date or not date shouldn’t hinge on such an arbitrary consideration as race. It’s small-minded, it’s petty, and it’s limiting. And in 2010, we as a society, as a unified, progressive collective, should be bigger than that.

Rather, we ought turn our attentions to the greater question of what regional accent a person has. And how, upon discernment of one such accent, a fellow sojourner can turn a stranger encounter into a wild night of unexpected, but unbridled passion.

That’s the America I want to live in.