“Ad Vitam Aeternam,” or…”Advice to a Valentine.”

vilubj

Do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

The cruelest thing about Time is that it selfishly persists ever on. Time has no means to understand that what was yesterday, is today, no longer. It brutishly powers forward, ignorant of your attempts to quell the tide.

Time has no idea not too, too long ago, someone made you feel light and hopeful; shiny as a new dime. And while everything has returned to the way it was before him, nothing is quite the same.

And though he didn’t stay long enough to move furniture, or leave little this and thats behind; while there’s no abandoned and re-appropriated, over-sized tee shirt to cloak about your shrunken shoulders; no smell of him clinging to air or sheets–a vacuous, empty space, molded in the likeness of his frame, moves about your house like a specter; touching every table, chair, wall, surface like a stain.

Time is both benefactor and robber baron.

It lays expansive swaths of moment before you like an afghan, inviting you to lose yourself in the eternity of it all. And only when you are secure in the warmth of covering does it rescind itself, begging your pardon while taking its leave.

Do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

Because no matter how desperate the entreaty, how earnest the plea, Time advances. Moving you so far away from that briefest of windows where hope ran wild and uninhibited.

Let not your head be overly-concerned with love. Love is too extraordinary a measure for the ordinariness of us.

And though it is beset on all sides by enemies–dejected, bitter apostates of every kind—Love bears it out, a stronghold unto itself.

So do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

But should Time grant you Love, mind its temporality. Do not restrain it, track its movements, cluck disapproval or furrow brow when it dares dip south of your estimation–for it surely will.

Rather, say, simply:

Our moment may be brief.

 It is wasted with talk of fate. Neither do I care to consider that which is destined or pre-ordained. I do not know that I believe in all of that; that there is enough hope left in the world to even dream a scenario whereby our paths are inextricably bound.

 But in the hush of night, when all is still, you are the answer to every question my heart asks.

 Your name is the benediction at the close of each breath.

 I do not want to do anything, anything, except talk to you about nothing, and everything, until however long, whenever is, forever.

 

the unfunny post to women. and i’ll talk and you won’t listen. but for what it’s worth: keep your heart, 3 stacks.

When I was 18 years old, I fell in love for the very first time.

His name was ________   __________ and he was amazing. Tall, dark-skinned, slight of frame, beard. The most beautiful teeth I’d ever seen.

I can still tell you where I was the first time I saw him.  I was new to campus, and desperately in need of black friends. I was sitting cross legged on the floor in the Student Union building during the course of a Black Student Alliance meeting. He entered 20 minutes late with his fraternity brothers, and I was floored.

He was darker than all of them, and taller, by a head. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a wifebeater. But over the wifebeater was an open, blue workman’s shirt; the kind a mechanic would wear. A wide-brimmed straw hat rested atop his head.

He was the first man I ever wanted that I was able to make my own.

Only, he wasn’t my own.

At all.

He’d made it very clear from the beginning that he didn’t want a girlfriend.

“No titles,” he’d said. And I’d agreed.

And we hung out, messed around, went out on dates, exchanged gifts, he met my parents. But he’d been clear. No titles.

Clear as mud.

When it became evident he had a whole other non-relationship, and a smattering of women around campus, AND off of it, I was heartbroken. And confused. When I’d confronted him about his indiscretions, he’d been as tolerant as he could before the shame of it all and realization of his position had his back to a wall. Unable to withstand the hurt in my voice and accusation in my eyes, he’d shouted, in anger, “DAMNIT! YOU ARE NOOOOOOOT MY GIRL!”

I will never forget that moment. As long as I live.

We grew and changed and our lives took us into different directions. We both matured into the adults we were meant to be, and he remains one of my best friends. And we laugh about it all, today. Well, I laugh. He’s still rather ashamed, and gets defensive.

But the fact of the matter is, no matter how much I love him, today, or how my life has changed, or how I barely recognize the girl I was at eighteen, those words, and the vehemence with which they were shouted, continue to haunt me.

I knew then, that was a lesson I’d learn one time, and one time only.

I’ve never had my heart broken again.

So my question, dear readers, becomes: Why are women still learning this lesson, today? Why are grown women paying taxes, getting bikini waxes, possessing expensive gym memberships making this mistake, today?

I’m going to stand on this working hypothesis:

When a man says he does not want to be in a relationship with you, he never will.

The end.

When a man says he does not want to be in a relationship with you, he never will.

I know no one wants to hear it. I know life changes. Circumstances change. People change their minds.

He won’t.

I’m trying to save you some time, here.

He won’t.

Oh. He might change his mind about being in a relationship. Being with you and experiencing the creature comforts of boo-hood might certainly whet his palate in terms of being properly loved and cared for by a woman.

That woman just won’t be you.

Let’s examine it further.

When a man tells you he doesn’t want to be in a relationship, he is stating straight out, point blank, that he doesn’t want you.

This is so powerful because it is entirely antithetical to how we’ve been led to believe they operate. This man doesn’t even want you enough to lie to you to convince you otherwise; he doesn’t even have the time to blow smoke up your ass. He is going to tell you something he knows you don’t want to hear, and risk the chance that you will walk away. He won’t even try to sell you a dream.

Because it’s NEVER going to happen.

That’s how committed to that shit he is. He is willing to risk you WALKING AWAY rather than tell you something different. Because, he could take or leave you.

I suspect, at this juncture, many of you are in disagreement with me. You think that I’m making a broad, sweeping indictment of all non-title situations. I haven’t taken care to look in on each specific instance, and the motivators and driving factors that have led your particular breed of noncommittal man to his anti-relationship platform.

Maybe he just got out of a horrible relationship.

Maybe he just got divorced.

Maybe he’s been hurt before.

Maybe his parents never loved him so now he can’t properly process genuine affection.

That’s a bunch of bunk.

He likes sleeping with you, doesn’t he? He likes hanging around you, doesn’t he? He likes it when you cook for him, fold his drawes, and pick up brews for he and his trifling friends, doesn’t he?

That’s RELATIONSHIP SHIT.

AND HE LOOOOOOOOOOOOVES it.

What he DOESN’T love is being accountable to you. He doesn’t love being a conservator of your feelings and emotions; taking them into account and letting them influence his course of action. He doesn’t love having to come home only to you without the freedom of flirting with or sleeping with other broads.

But, that’s really neither here nor there.

The POINT is, whatever reasons he’s offered you are crap, but even if they weren’t (which, they are), they’re inconsequential. The POINT is, he has already TOLD you that he doesn’t want you for anything serious. If you want something serious, you need to get a move on.

And this isn’t a reason to be unhappy. It may be disappointing, yes, but be of good cheer.

This situation is one of the only times in life that a person will look you in the eye and tell you, outright, that if you stick around, he’s going to screw you over. This is one of the only times in the course of your entire adulthood when someone is going to tell you he has no good intentions where your heart is concerned; that this is going exactly nowhere. This man is doing you a favor. You should be grateful.

But no. You don’t see that. You see a challenge. You think you’re gonna change this man’s mind.

Now, my friend, D, a PhD candidate, and chronic over-thinker, has rather wisely pointed out the fact that women are conditioned to think this way.

D says that society has taught us, since our birth, tales of our persistence being rewarded with success. Women, specifically, have been given tricks of the trade to keep a man happy –keep quiet, don’t be too argumentative, “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”—that he might somehow suddenly realize how good he’s got it and find his way back to us, back to love.

D makes a good point. And I agree.

But I suspect there is something else at play.

Arrogance.

I know.

It’s a big word. And it stings. But it’s appropriate.

Arrogance.

Something is so great about you, and your love, and your sex, and your macaroni and cheese that you can overcome his relationship trepidation.

He hasn’t known love like yours. He hasn’t met a girl like you. What y’all have is different.

Bullshit.

This man has seen you. He has known you. He has kicked it with you and laughed with you, and knows enough about you to realize that he DOES want to spend time with you.

He knows your love and what it’s capable of juuuuuuuuust fine.

Trust that, in the weeks and months that y’all have been not-titled booed up, he has inventoried your character and your you.

And made a determination that he doesn’t want a relationship with either.

You know what men do when they are thinking about having a relationship with you? When they’re open to the option?  NOTHING.

They do NOTHING.

They keep their mouths shut, they scope out the situation, and they let the chips fall where they may. They watch as things are progressing, and if something blooms within their hearts, they come to you with an offer.

THAT’S what men do.

They don’t start out from the GATE with, “I don’t want to be in a relationship.”

Men who say this have a very distinct reason for doing so. And this is what women need to realize.

At some point, very long ago, before all of us were alive, men and women entered into a tacit agreement, whereby men were only responsible for their words. We were to take a man “at his word,” and punish him only when his actions belied those words; when he acted in opposition of them; when he failed to make them true.

This is controversial.

This is controversial because we all know that men in a no-title relationship BEHAVE the same way as men in titled relationships.

And these behaviors are what lead us to believe that change is possible; that they are warming to the idea of being with us.

They’re not, though.

They’re enjoying the moment. They’re enjoying the benefits of the boyfriend experience while remaining indemnified against poor-boyfriend liability.

All because of their initial disclaimer.

And it’s messed up and unfair.

But there’s a grace to it. There’s a comfort in words that people are bound to. There’s a safety there.

Because actions are subjective.

You see the intimacy of a spoon; its suggestion of long-term affection.

But that man just likes to hug.

You see the sweetness and tenderness of a frontal lobe kiss.

That man was just saying, “Hey.”

If you have found yourself on the wrong side of a failed non-titled relationship, before you rally like hell against this man for what he has led you to believe; before you call his job and key his car, and tell his friends he isn’t worth a damn, look at yourself.

Look at who you are.

Why are you okay with someone telling you he doesn’t want you?

Even if you both start out on noncommittal footing, if your feelings change, and his remain the same, why are you staying?

Why is it okay to be with someone whose mind you have to bring round to the idea of you?

That man who leads you on, he’s an asshole. Make no mistake about it. He knows what he’s doing.

And he’s dogged you out for sure.

But you’re the bigger asshole.

Because you dogged you out first.

A stranger, no matter how close you fancy him, doesn’t have any obligation to you. At all.

The only person charged with a duty to protect you and your well-being is you.

You are the only person accountable for you. You are the only person who can keep you from being hurt.

When a man tells me he doesn’t want to be with me, I take him at his word.

It very well might be the last good thing he says to me.

for better or for worth…..revisiting meredith grey through the eyes of the most annoying undergrad ever…..

Two years ago, a fictitious Meredith Grey stood in front of a fictitious Derek Shepherd and said:

“Okay, here it is…your choice. It’s simple. Her or me. And I’m sure she is really great. But, Derek, I love you. In a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way…that makes me hate you…love you. So pick me. Choose me. Love me.”

After a good deal of self-analysis regarding the matter(s) of my own interpersonal estrangements, I’ve come to the slow realization that Meredith Grey wasn’t some iconic figure of modern-day romance. She wasn’t emblematic of all that is true and hopeful, and ever-resilient in our own collective quest for love against all undefeatable odds.

That bitch was a hater.

A tried and true, dyed in the infidelity-strewn wool hater.

The i-know-you’re-with-someone-else-but-seriously-let’s-walk-out-this-motherfucker-together-and-never-look-back choose me is the signed, sealed, stamped and delivered verified move of every grand-scale hater throughout the annals of real and fabled history, alike.

Lancelot said that shit to Guinevere. Tristan said that shit to Isolde. Alicia Keys said that shit to Swizz Beatz.

It is the Hail Mary of Hail Marys.

And frankly, it’s highkey selfish.

Because there’s a reason that person isn’t with you in the first place. I’m not going to say that reason is some fault or lacking in you. Only you know your life. I’ll draw my own conclusions.

But you are literally asking the object of your affection to accept one of two troubling options:

1. Leave your situation and walk away with me. Fucked up me. Non-committal me. Flaky, unpredictable, wayward me.

Or, in the bold, almost-as-fucked-up alternative:

       2.    I’m doing better now. This is a new, improved me, standing before you. I promise this situation with me will be better  than  where you’re at, but, at the very minimum, will at least be comparable to that great shit I’m inducing you to leave behind.

Is that love? Do we lead the people we love from the warmth and security of their new lives, back into the darkness and unknown of our own potentially-despicable company? Is that be-with-me-at-all-costs-come-what-may shit love? Are we really so self-absorbed to believe that any life that person creates with us is better than the life he/she leaves behind?

“So pick me. Choose me. Love me.”

At what cost?

Can this set-fire-to-the-rain love be quantified?

Where do we get off?

Where do I get off?

How dare I presume to make an assessment of your relationship, and where you should stand (preferably the fuck outside of it and with me) with respect to it? Who am I? Who do I think I am?

I had a thought, today.

Who you are with is not—as is commonly held—a reflection of who you are.

Who you are with is a reflection of what you believe you are worth.

Granted, this theory gets tricky when you move towards an entirety-of-the-person analysis, and further from the inclination to compartmentalize a human being into bits, but I’m certain it holds water.

I’m currently sitting at Soho Tea & Coffee, and the most obnoxious of upperclassmen girls is sitting behind me, scrolling through her phone, fastidiously determined to tell each and every friend not preoccupied with the drudgery of exams (all zero of them, it seems) her struggles with her live-in boyfriend. Struggles that drove her from the quiet of the Georgetown University Library, to this very place—she apparently can no longer concentrate (In the interest of full disclosure, I have sincere doubts as to this child’s ability to concentrate and/or function in the aggregate, under the best of circumstances, but, whatever).

Two days ago, she made dinner for Horrible Boyfriend (who I’m assuming wasn’t quite so horrible then), and left the dishes in the sink to “soak” (Haven’t I told you people about this shit? This shit ruins relationships. I swear by it. Wash your fucking dishes or put them in the GD washing machine. You people are fucking animals). Horrible Boyfriend (who, I’ll note, in his own fuckshit thoughtlessness didn’t consider doing the dishes himself despite the fact Simpleton Girlfriend made dinner) in a feat of first rate bitchassTed passive aggression, watched the dishes sit in the sink, “soaking” for two days. On this, the third day, Horrible Boyfriend walked over to the campus of Georgetown University, where Simpleton Girlfriend was studying, and, before a cast of characters including but not limited to, her peers, library staffers, and an assortment of similarly studious strangers, laid her out like the trifling, making-dinner-but-not-washing-the-dishes-and-then-letting-them-“soak”-in-water-for-two-days bitch that she was. Simpleton Girlfriend says that Horrible Boyfriend was all fury and righteous indignation, blew the entire situation out of proportion, humiliated her, and what’s more, does this “all the time.”

I don’t judge her mate.

I judge her.

Clearly, something in this girl thinks that she doesn’t deserve more than a man who is given to temper tantrums and embarrassing her in public.

And who am I to say she does?

I don’t know the secrets of that bitch’s heart.

Maybe Shout-y McDish-Nazi is precisely what her lot in this life should be.

We all need to look deep within ourselves for these elemental truths. We’re so quick to reassure ourselves, and our troubled friends, that we and they “deserve better.” But is that true? Is that really true?

Your boyfriend’s dick doesn’t work. He hasn’t fucked you right ever. He is at best, quick, and at worst, impotent.

But he’s your boyfriend.

Bitch, CLEARLY you don’t think you deserve better.

So, neither shall I.

That non-fucking sonofabitch is your soulmate.  Something inside of you, like his dissatisfactory dick, is broken, impotent. Y’all belong together.

Fooler, you’re a shit. We all make sacrifices to be in relationships.

 Sure.

Agreed.

I submit to you that each sacrifice you make is a concession of “don’t deserve.”

Stanley doesn’t pick up his dirty drawes, but I love him anyway. That’s a sacrifice I made when I said “yes” to this relationship.

Word.

You don’t believe you deserve a man who picks up his dirty drawes. You have looked inside you and found yourself lacking. Maybe you’re the type of bitch who uses the same towel for a month. Whatever the case, you’ve cast your lot in with dirty-drawes Stanley. I assume that man is the full measure of your worth.

 “So pick me. Choose me. Love me.”

Maybe instead of trying to lure people out of their relationships, or making an outside assessment of how successful they are, we should look to ourselves; to our respective worths—to the question of whether said worths were equally-yoked.

Maybe the object of your affection looks at his/her current partner and sees the fullest, most natural extension of himself/herself. Maybe he/she has run the numbers, weighed the cons, and come to the conclusion that this person is what he/she deserves. For better(than us) or worse(than us).

And maybe he/she is wrong. Maybe he/she has mischaracterized his/her worth, or your worth.

Derek Shepherd certainly had.

But if this is love-

If this is the shit bards poeticize, and singers lyricize, and school-girls fanaticize—

If this is the real thing-

Such that it is-

I can’t see myself forcefully pitching it to you…..

Romantic a notion though it may be…

twitter sextiquette and the hermeneutics of my clitoris……or: “ain’t nothin’ to it, but to do it”–accurate?

I care little for rules or the ties that bind.

Particularly those that are the byproducts of social mores and puritanical constraints that seek to micromanage my preferred brand of sexuality and individualism, with little comment as to the efficacy of their method, or long-term sustainability of their practices.

I care little for rules.

I have oft laughed in the face of womankind’s attempt to impose a dogmatic schema to the loosely structured world of sexual politics; to the notion of sexual politics in and of themselves.

This “no kiss on the first date,” “no sex til the third” ideology that acts to strip from us our fluid sensuality, rob us of our spontaneity, and further solidify within us this frightening concept of good girl versus bad girl.

I care little for rules.

Be that as it may, I am forced to concede the existence of certain boundaries. Not rigid, stringent, asphyxiating boundaries that would have us chained and hog-tied to our seats, nickel clutched tight betwixt our throbbing knees.

But rather that ominous, invisible fence that keeps us suspended in the gray, protected from the nebulous, forgotten, distant world, shadowed in black. Mine is a world of small compromises; a tiny system of checks and balances that exists not for the sake for having limits, but rather acknowledging them because there ARE limits; the difference, perhaps, between dabbling in sexual deviance, and BEING a sexual deviant.

For while we make allowances for straying from the path, even forging your own path, the concept of there being no path is altogether too much for society to bear.

Conventional wisdom seems to indicate there needs be a finite method of distinguishing wheat from chaff; discreetly freaky librarian from open-assed slut.

And it has been a manageable feat to a degree.

At least in my own instance. I know of no examples where my own name has been bandied about the streets, tales of my mouth-sorcery heavy on the lips of young DC urbanites.

But the game has changed.

The advent of technology has increasingly blurred the lines between the Dos and the Don’ts.

And day after day, it becomes more difficult for even the most free-thinking among our female ranks to answer that all-important question: “Wait….wait…can I fuck him yet?”

Certainly, as educated women of a certain age, in a certain age, we’ve come round to the idea of a man’s awareness of our capacity to behave like whores (under the appropriate circumstances, of course)–liked it, encouraged it, even.

But to actually be perceived as a whore; to have a man legitimately THINK us whores—irrespective of how insignificant a man he may be—that is a fate to which the majority of us simply cannot yield.

Which brings me to my point:

Twitter won’t let my faux-chastity be great.

Not even a little bit.

Twitter is a setup from the getup.

Twitter introduces to our varied states of consciousness, and, by proxy, our pulsating, tumescent genitals, a chat room whose geographic locale is THE WORLD.

And here’s what happens.

You invariably come across that stranger, whose likes are your likes, whose humor is your humor, and whose avi is sexy as a motherfucker, and you’re hooked.

What begins as witty public banter moves to the discretion of your direct messages. But, texting is a far simpler platform, so you, of course, exchange numbers. And when your fingers are just too tired to type, why, calling seems like the natural conduit. And let us not forget that all-consuming desire to see his facial expressions and where, exactly he lives, so skype, necessarily, is the logical next step.

At first blush, one wants to make something like twitter comparable to online dating, but it is far, far different.

In online dating, people’s romantic interests are present from the start. It is the very reason they are in an online dating forum.  The urgency to find commonality with another person leaves little room for real build up. The goal is to see the person and get this potentially monogamous show on the road. So there’s no long-term intellectual stimulation. In online dating, because the object is to meet the person and establish a meaningful relationship, the ordinary “rules” are already in place. The traditional, time-honored chase the pussy, date the pussy, capture the pussy system of governance rules the day.

(I’ve never online-dated, btw. Not that I’m judging. I mean, I’m not. But.  Just to be clear…not my particular flagon of whiskey.)

But, on twitter, it’s all lighthearted.

Til it isn’t.

And the object of your cyber interest is, in all likelihood, some great distance away. And all you have is conversation. And build up.  Until the day you two determine to meet…….

And the annoying question springs to mind once more…..”Wait…..can I fuck him?”

I mean, do I even know this man?

Can I know a man if I’ve never seen his legs?

Does he travel from place to place slow-boning his top tweeters?

Does he have a list of brown-skinned, sassy girls whose orifices he’s connived his way into with his glibly well-timed wit?

Am I twitter easy? Like, how many tweets does it take to get to center of my mons?

And what are the mechanics of the twitter hookup? Will it be awkward? Do I wear drawes? Do I pretend I had something else in mind? Should I buy board games?

All of these (very legitimate) questions are dauntingly overwhelming in the macro.

But even when I make effort to fix my mind upon the very thing, the Universe responds with more questions.

Twitterboo shows up at the crib, at long last.

Twitterboo has a fresh haircut, clothes are decent, pants are the appropriate length beneath his ankles, no purposeful display of chest hair spilling forth from his button down.

My chemistry with Twitterboo is great. I like Twitterboo. He’s mad chill. I can easily see letting Twitterboo nestle that perfectly edged up head in my thighs’ mocha hollows.

I mean, from there, the problems can only be typical ones. The ones you encounter with men you’d meet anywhere. His dick doesn’t work. He doesn’t wash his ass. His uncircumcised member is hidden between the folds of his flesh-snuggie.

The ususal.

In which case the solution is easy: I systemically remove any hint of him from my life and behave as though he never existed.  

But, what if Twitterboo is good? What if Twitterboo, who has—from lands afar—followed the North Star across leagues of mountainous, arid desert terrain, all the way straight to my warm, quivering girlbox– is a beat master?

What if Twitterboo comes through to the crib and has the unmitigated gall to unleash Chernobyl-style devastation inside my vaginal walls? What if my shit starts to whistle a medley of Julie Andrews songs when Twitterboo withdraws his Harlequin-esque, glistening man-shaft?

Like, do we twitter-go-together now?

Is Twitterboo my real life boyfriend?

Is Twitterboo my cuff?

Is Twitterboo my interactive jumpoff?

The truth is, I don’t have answers to these questions.

Nary a one.

As is oft the case, the answer may, indeed be, that there are no answers.

At day’s end, my greatest act of folly may be posing the question of my twitter seduction to the Universe.

She can hardly regard me as a whore when she so diligently fucks us all…..

So I put it to you, Cyberspace….

Sweet-stroking the internet crush–

Twitter do or twitter dont?

 

because those that can’t do, teach….or, conversations with my baby cousin and her hoodbooger friend that make me want to die.

Keegan:  Remember when you said I can call you for anything? Like if I needed anything or wanted to talk.

Me: It was a month ago, Keeg. Of course I remember.

Keegan:  Are you busy now?

Me:  Just doing some work I should have taken care of earlier. What’s up?

Keegan:  You’re working on the weekend?

Me:  Wow. You really are 18. What do you want, Kid?

Keegan:  Have you ever been in love?

Me:  Beg your pardon?

Keegan:  Love. Have you ever been in it?

Me:  Uhh. Sure. A time or two, I suppose. What’s this about? Where’s this going?

Keegan:  I need to ask someone about love.

Me:  Keegan, I have a lot of work to do.  I thought you had some sort of 8:30 lab.

Keegan:  You SAID I could call for anything. That if I needed ANYTHING–

Me:  Yeah. But I MEANT “money.” I CLEARLY meant “money.” You know. For books, or going out, or those little ugly ass cheap ass clothes you like to wear. Not intrusive, silly questions.

Keegan:  Please? Look at our family. You know I can’t ask anyone else.

Me:  If you knew anything about me, you’d know I’m hardly the go-to person.

Keegan:  So tell me about you so I know not to ask again. I need an old person’s opinion.

Me:  I’m not OLD, Keegan.

Keegan:  Old-er.

Me: Keegan, I’m nuts about you, but your timing is so unbelievably off on this shit, right now.

Keegan:  Please. Fifteen minutes, tops.

Me:  *sigh* Ten minutes.

Keegan:  Yay! I love you! Okay. Have you ever been in love?

Me:  Sure.

Keegan:  How many times?

Me:  Idunno. More times than I’ve wanted. Less times than I should have, I suppose.

Keegan:  I don’t know what that means.  I need a number.

Me:  Somewhere between two and four, Keeg.

Keegan:  How can you not know?

Me:  Because shit looks different in retrospect.  Things that looked like love might have just been an unwillingness to let go out of habit. On the other hand, situations that I’ve let go thinking they were nothing, could have been more than they appeared while I was in them. Feelings look different when you deconstruct them.

Keegan:  So you’ve thought you’ve been in love, but really haven’t?

Me:  Yeah, that’s the jist of it. Although, I don’t know how fair it is to assess these things in the abstract. Could be that how you’re feeling in the moment is the only thing that matters. Idunno.  Like I said, I’m not the best person to ask.

Keegan:  You’re doing fine. How old were you the first time you think you were in love?

Me:  Mmm. Your age. 18.

Keegan:  Did he love you back?

Me:  He loved everybody back.

Keegan:  Oh. So that didn’t really work out?

Me:  I went a little crazy, cut off all my hair, stopped eating meat, and wrote some epically shitty poetry.  On the plus side, I still keep my hair short, am still a vegetarian, and realized I should never attempt poetry. So it wasn’t all bad.

Keegan:  Mmm. What about the next one.

Me:  Keegan, I ain’t fixin’ to sit up here with you and go through the roster of my love life. This is bullshit.

Keegan:  Okay, okay. How do you know when you’re in love?

Me:  You know, I’ve maybe answered my phone three times in the last 4 days. And I picked up for you. Will NEVER make that mistake again.

Keegan:  Hey, I COULD have been asking you for money.

Me:  Somehow, I think it would have been less expensive than this call.

Keegan:  Answer.

Me:  *sigh* It’s different for everyone, Keegan. And honestly, I don’t always buy into it, myself, so, I don’t know.

Keegan:  What do you mean “don’t always buy into it?”

Me:  I’m not going into that with you. I’m not prolonging this discussion any more than necessary.

Keegan:  Fine. Then just tell me what it feels like when YOU’RE in love.

Me:  Ummm. Well—

Keegan:  Hold up, hold up. That’s Jakeema. Lemme conference her in.

Me:  Ja-what?

Keegan:  Jakeema. You met her. We went to high school together, member?

Me:  That fastass girl with the big ole swole up donkey booty? THAT’S a friend you took with you to fuckin’ college?

Keegan:  Shut up! Be nice. Hold up. Lemme get her.

Keegan:  ‘Keema, you there? She’s getting to the good part.

Jakeema:  Hey, Fooler!

Me:  Hi, Jakeema.  I guess you don’t have any homework either?

Jakeema:  I finished it.

Me:  Mmm hmm.

Keegan:  Go ‘head, Fooler. How do you know when you’re in love? You, personally.

Jakeema:  I think you just know.  Like that moment you look into his eyes and you just know.  Like y’all was meant to be together.  Like y’all are gonna be together forever.  That’s how it was with me and Eric.

Me:  Wow.

Keegan:  “Wow” what? “Wow,” it’s true?

Me:  Wow, it’s incredibly stupid.

Jakeema:  What?

Me:  Just dumb.

Jakeema:  I’m saying. That’s just how it was for us. Might not be the same for you. Errebody different. Me and Eric been together for nine months.

Me:  Is he at school with y’all?

Jakeema:  Nah. He at Norfolk State.

Me:  Wow.

Keegan: “Wow,” what?

Me:  Just dumb.

Keegan:  Anyway, come onnnnnnnnn. Answer.

Me:  You don’t wanna wait and see if Jakeema’s gonna fell us with some more of her 18 year old, long distance, we both go to large HBCUs, nine month old first relationship ever wisdom?

Jakeema:  Do you even have a boyfriend?

Me:  Nope.

Jakeema:  Mmm hmm. Keegan, she don’t even have a man.

Me:  You won’t either by the time this semester’s through.

Jakeema:  KEEGAN.

Keegan:  Fooler.

Me:  Hey, y’all called me.

Keegan:  Are you gonna answer?

Me: I don’t remember the question.

Keegan and Jakeema:  How do you know when YOU’RE in love?!

Me:  *sigh* It happens slowly, for me. A series of revelations. Wow, this person isn’t stupid. Wow, this person is kind. Wow, this person puts up with my moods.  Wow, this person makes me laugh. I want to spend more time with you. I want to tell you more about myself. I feel different when I’m around you. Less guarded. Idunno. I let you touch me more. I wanna write you shitty poems.

Keegan:  What then? Do you tell him?

Me:  Level with me. Did you call to find out what *I* do, or what you *should* do?

Jakeema:  Her.  She don’t know what to tell Shawn.

Me:  Mmmm… “Shawn,” Cousin? I thought you told me there wasn’t anybody.

Keegan:  I don’t know how I feel. I just don’t want to look stupid, you know. That’s what you always say, right? Don’t let anybody make me look stupid.

Me:  Jesus. Is that what I told you?

Keegan:  Yes! A hundred times.

Me:  Kiddo. There is a fail-safe way to not get pregnant.  There is a fail-safe way to not catch VD.  There is, however, no fail-safe way to keep your heart from being broken.  Not any way I’d recommend, anyhow. To the extent that you are able, avoid whores, and smooth-talkers, and men who are careless with other people’s feelings. But don’t adopt tough at 18.

Keegan:  So now you’re telling me it’s okay to look stupid.

Me:  I’m telling you there’s no way to avoid it. Jakeema seems happy enough.

Jakeema:  Least I got a man.

Me:  Hold on to that, Princess.

Keegan:  So I’m gonna look stupid, no matter what? Is that what you’re saying?

Me:  I’m saying you don’t look any less stupid sitting home alone because you choose to regard every person that crosses your path as a liability. Be smart. But be reasonable.

Jakeema:  How come you’re by yourself, then?

Me:  I’m unreasonable.

Keegan:  I bet you don’t look stupid, though.

Me:  It’s a good thing you’re in college, then, with no real money to wager.

Keegan:  *sigh* So I should tell Shawn I love him?

Me:  How the hell should I know? I don’t know your life.

Keegan:  FOOLER!

Me:  Look. I can think of a million reasons not to tell him. Namely that you’re 18, just got to school, and wouldn’t know a proper emotion if it tea-bagged you in the face. All I’m saying is, don’t NOT tell him because you’re afraid to look dumb.

Keegan: Okay.

Me:  Now I have to go. Y’all have taxed my nerves.

Keegan: K. I love you.

Me:  Yeah, yeah.  You apparently love everybody. But, I love you, too. Congratulations on that strong black love, Jakeema.

Jakeema:  Whatever.

because occasionally, there’s a win inside your loss…or, “Happiness Weekend 2011…”

Editor’s Note: So, I had to leave out 2-3 big details in telling this story, lest I distract y’all. I just thought I should mention that for the sake of almost-full disclosure….so…you know…

**A PROLOGUE**

A casual observer would have described my reaction to his leaving as “indifferent.”

In truth, he had been leaving for some time, slowly taking himself out of the picture, his own defense mechanism to my unyielding emotional resistance.

I’d felt it. I’d had ample time and sufficient opportunity to right it, to say just one encouraging word to indicate that I, too, had felt the shift in what was to be our casual time passing.

But I hadn’t.

I’d let the silence between us take over because it was comfortable for me; familiar. I played it cool better than any other, and this was my go-to zone.

This time was different, however. I was literally “playing” it cool. I was acting the unaffected. But I was affected. And I hated it.

His last attempt to reason with my stubbornness came in the form of an email.

My glacial reply was the stuff of legend. Fingers knew no compassion as my relationship antipathy took hold, pouring over my keyboard in a rush of abrupt, clipped tones.

And that was that.

I had known he wouldn’t reply, and he didn’t.

And I hadn’t wanted him to.

Only part of me had.

Tucked away in the furthest recesses of my heart, that part of me had wanted some forceful showing. For him to make a mad dash to my door in the rain. For him to shove his way inside my home. For him to shout at me words of frustration until I relented; relented and just once, in my small life, surrendered the steely guard that had kept so many others out, and me too long in.

But I wasn’t relationship ready. Or relationship stable. And I’d thought the same of him.

Until I signed on to Facebook.

“_____________ is in a relationship.”

I’d known he’d been nursing a situation with someone else, biding his time, attempting to make odds and ends of my own volatile behavior.

But the cold reality of his new union on bold display for all the internet to see was jarring. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Repeatedly. By Wendy Williams’ Louboutins. With Wendy Williams’ big assed feet still in them.
My eyes returned again and again to the one sentence that would be my dignity’s undoing.

I downed the scotch that had long sat idle by my laptop.

I exed out the Facebook window, and opened my gmail account.

“THIS motherfucker right here, though……” I said to myself aloud through clenched teeth.

***********************************************************************************

**DOROTHY PARKER AND THE VICIOUS CIRCLE……………..OF ADOLESCENT AGED GIRLS MASQUERADING AS ADULTS……**

“Dear friends,
I will not waste your time re-hashing what I think we will all agree are my somewhat complicated, and indeed, well-documented relationship struggles.
The sad fact remains that I’ve continued on in my pattern of destructive interpersonal behavior, and have, once again, due to my emotional retardation and sensitivity failings, managed to make yet another romantic interest hate my guts forever.
Bygones.
As we all know, the person who appears the least affected by a break up wins.
I don’t need anyone to point out the juvenile tenor of my argument.
I know it’s childish.
We ALL know it’s true.
As such, my continued dignity requires that I have Facebook pictures documenting me having a great time without this motherfucker.
I would like to call this project “Happiness Weekend 2011.”
This weekend, I would like us all to commit to making sure lots of pictures are taken of me having the best time of my life. Even if they’re entirely manufactured. Actually, the more perfect
the production, the better.
Naturally, I will serve as Creative Director on this project, and as such, humbly request that my approval be sought for any and all depictions of me intended for public consumption.
I also need there to be looooooots of pictures of me smiling and laughing, preferably with my head cocked back in raucous delight, but most especially of me in the intimate company of men. Think me having shared whispers with men, me sitting on men’s laps, me with my hand affectionately placed on a man’s cheek, me receiving a delicate butterfly frontal lobe kiss from a man, and lastly, Linesister’s suggestion of me tucking my hand in a man’s back pocket.
They need not even be men with whom I’m acquainted. I welcome stranger motherfuckers into the fold.
Now, I realize that this is something of an unusual request, made even more so by the fact that it’s coming from me.
I’m generally above all of this shit, and can seldom muster up enough energy to care.
I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve actually been sad at a path-parting….
Whatever.
We need to make this happen, ladies.
As always, I appreciate your help in the resolution of these matters……

Xoxo,
F”

We hit Tabaq with fastidious determination.

If any of my friends thought my plan ridiculously stupid, they had the grace not to say so.

Except Linesister. Her oath of loyalty and pledge to hold my literal and metaphorical brick obligated her to do my bidding. But she wasn’t happy about it. Linesister is a first rate hater.

I’d known that the girls were surprised by my behavior. My airtight code of privacy allowed for little investigation into my personal life. I also was not prone to emotional attachments or displays of regret. But one by one, they appeared lock-step at my side, prepared to support me in all of my fuckery. I was grateful.

I was also grateful for the fact that the Howard-Morehouse Classic made the U Street Corridor the perfect backdrop for my photo shoot. Tabaq was wall to wall with available men, and I’d arrived in Kelly Green silk and complicated eye makeup with a crew of beautiful, smiling girls.

Emboldened by the spirits raging through all of our systems we got to work. It was almost sad how easy it was.

Asia: “Excuse me. Hi, are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Can you take a picture with my friend?”

Bewildered man: “Uh? What?”

Me: “Hi. I’m so sorry. I know it’s weird. But I’ve just had an awful breakup, and I know it seems pathetic and crazy and psycho, but I assure you that I’m not. I just need a couple of pictures with men who look like they adore me so my get-back is sufficient. Do you mind? I’m really sad.” (I had to embellish a bit. Men love to feel like they’re rescuing a bitch.)

Bewildered man: “Uh. Sure. What do you need me to do?”

Me: “I just need you to look really interested in what I’m saying.”

*Asia starts snapping pictures*

Me: “I’m also going to need to touch you a little bit. You can touch me too.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Don’t be alarmed. I’m just going to rest my hand on your cheek real quick.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “That’s right. Just inch a little bit closer. A littttle bit closer. Niiiiiice.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Bewildered man: “What should I say to you?”

*I grip his face, cock my head back, kick up my heel, and roar with fake raucous laughter*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. What’s your name?”

Bewildered man: “Paul.”

Me: “You’re really cute Paul. So you don’t have a girlfriend, huh?”

Time and time again, me and my faux paparazzi accosted lingering men, my tale of woe becoming larger and more grandiose with each new male subject.

The more I complimented them on how good looking, or tall, or sexy they were, the more willing and active of a participant each man became.

I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing.

Me: “Michael, you have the most beautiful mouth. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Karen, with her camera phone ever at the ready, began a quick succession of snaps.

Michael: “Um, well…I mean…I don’t—“

Me: “Honestly. Your lips are seriously sexy. I can’t even focus right now. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”

*Rests hand comfortably on Michael’s chest.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “Um, no. Not really. No.”

Me: “Where do you live, Michael?” (Note how often I’m saying his name. Dudes love bitches who say their names.)

Michael: “Manassas.”

Me: “Word? That’s quite a drive to DC.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Michael: “You know it?”

*Leans in to whisper to Michael.*

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Sure. I’m in Prince William County all of the time for court. I’m a lawyer.” (Men love bitches who are lawyers.)

Michael: “Really?”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Me: “Really. I wish I had a card with me to give you.”

Michael: “I could just take your number.”

*Snap* *Snap* *Snap*

Swag.

By night’s end my ego was on one hundred thousand trillion, and I had a portfolio to rival anything Wilhemina could put out.

I soberly looked to my friends, who were all smiles and laughter at our embarrassment of photographic riches.

And my heart was decidedly less heavy. They’d backed me up without question or (visible)scorn, and made all of the night’s achievements possible.

Especially considering the fact that I didn’t own a working camera.

I promised myself, then and there that, irrespective of my communicative failings in the romantic department, I’d never stop letting these women know how much I appreciate them, or how entirely awesome they are (starting with this entry. I really love you guys. Thank you so much).

Gathering our things, and preparing for our next venue, a goofy smile plastered across my face, I looked at Asia. “Yo….why the FUCK haven’t we ever done this shit before?”

girl talk and baby penises, or, “get [me] to a nunnery, but quick pit stop to soap-wash my mouth, first….”

My linesister, Clara, is an ob-gyn.

She once told me that the act of child conception was the greatest miracle there is; that the female reproductive system is little more than a matrix-style labyrinth of an obstacle course, designed to ensure that only the strongest and most persistent of sperm reach their target.

Respectfully—

That’s a bunch of bullshit.

You want to know the greatest miracle there is?

Good sex.

I happen to know this for a fact, because I haven’t had any in a while.

Now, to be fair, I haven’t had any bad sex in a while, either. We don’t need to belabor the point, as it pains me to discuss it, and detracts from my underlying premise—

Which is—

Finding your way to good sex, is a miracle.

And as any good, flesh-rotting leper knows, the days preceding the arrival of the much-anticipated miracle can get pretty fuckin’ desperate.

In my own estimation, the devolution into forced celibacy has been very much like a breakup.

You think about the good times you had (when you were fucking).

You think about how you didn’t appreciate the good thing you had while you had it (ring-side seats at the Pleasuredome).

You wonder if you’ll ever have what you’ve lost, again (pillow-biting, back-scratching, knee-quivering scream fests).

And you rehash it, again and again, with your girlfriends, dissecting every facet of your trauma ad naseaum, hoping to make sense of some seemingly senseless thing, often, to no avail.

Which is where I was, Saturday night, posted up with Micah and Carrie, on a plush loveseat in a darkened corner of Eighteenth Street Lounge.

I patiently recounted for them the lonely planet saga of my vagina, my potential new crush, and my hopes of turning water into wine; conversation into fuck.

“Well, what’s the hold up,” asked Micah.

“Idunno,” I answered. “It’s been a while. I don’t want my first venture out to be horrible.”

Micah looked at me for a moment before responding. “Are you sure that’s it?”

I frowned. “ Yeah, why? What do you mean?”

“I just think that, underneath it all, you’re afraid you’ll really like him,” she offered. My friend Micah was the most beautifully, spectacular true-believer of a fucking optimist that ever lived.

“You’re sweet. No, no. I really am just worried about the sex being horrible.”

Micah rolled her eyes in defeat. “Fine. What could be so horrible?”

What I knew, for certain, was that the possibilities of penile ineptitude were limitless. “He could be quick. He could have minimal to failing stroke capacity. He could have a teeny tiny infant baby dick,” I ticked off in blunt, quick-fire succession.

I took a moment to consider whether men ever had similar concerns about women.

Carrie interrupted my reverie.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “I had a baby dick once. Swear to God, it was *this* big,” she said, using her fingers to indicate a length just short of a glue stick.

“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed. “You did not!”

Carrie nodded her head in earnest. “Did too! Swear to God.”

“OhmyGodwhat’dyoudo?” rushed Micah.

“Howthehelldidhegetinyourbed?” I shot off, right behind her.

Carrie gave a resigned shrug. “I don’t know. He wasn’t really my type in the first place, but somehow we started making out. Then he was going down on me and it was cool. Next thing I know, we’re in the bed. But then I saw it. Swear to God, y’all. *This* big.” Carrie again, indicated the less than glue stick size with her index finger and thumb. I visibly shuddered.

“So……” pressed Micah. “What’d you do?”

“Girl, I picked a fight with him and he got mad, got up, and put his clothes on,” she said, casually.

I let out a riotous guffaw. “Wait, wait…wait. You didn’t sleep with him?”

Carrie looked at me as though some growth had affixed itself to my head. “*This* big. Seriously. What the fuck was I going to do with that? Girl, no.”

Micah was barely containing her giggles. “You couldn’t have at least finished him off? Not even out of pity?”

Carrie looked dumbfounded. “And how was I supposed to do that? What was there to do???” Carrie again set her fingers to show us the miniscule amount of space her guest’s baby penis could muster, then vertically jerked them back and forth as if shaking a mini-pez dispenser.

“You see!” I shouted. “THIS is what the hell I’m talking about. I can’t go out like that. THIS is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Girl, please,” Micah weighed in. “That dude I showed you, the other night. That’s over, and we didn’t even get that far.”

“He didn’t have a baby dick, too, did he?” I asked, genuine panic about to set in.

“No, he was straight. But he’s a liar. He lied about some old bullshit, and I’m done. I don’t have time for that mess. I didn’t do anything but dry-hump him anyway,” she answered calmly.

I looked at Micah for a moment, trying to assess whether she was shitting me.

She wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, you did what?” I asked.

“I don’t know him like that. I can’t just be out here fucking just anybody. So we dry humped,” Micah said.

“And he let you do that?” I asked, trying desperately to hide the incredulity in my voice.”

“Girl, yeah. It feels good,” she asserted, confidently.

“Swear to God, Micah, I don’t even have any words for that, right now. I’m going to need a minute on that shit,” I said, attempting to stifle a giggle, and failing.

“This is a mess, “ I declared.

“Yeah, girl,” added Micah.

We’d all let out a collective sigh, lost in a myriad of our own thoughts, reclining into the darkness, when Carrie revealed, “I just want to be swept up, you know? Overwhelmed.”

“Me too,” offered Micah.

By some dick, I thought.

I wanted to call this “The Pompatus of Love,” but John Cusack’s not in that movie…and it doesn’t have any Peter Gabriel songs, so…

In 1986, in a moment of cinemagraphic greatness, Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack) stood outside the window of Diane Court (Ione Skye), surrounded by darkness, a boom box held high above his head, entirely oblivious to the catastrophic ramifications of clutching an electrical object in the middle of a thunderstorm.

The only thing more moving than the raw emotion generated by the visual imagery of the scene, itself, was the music coming from the stereo in Dobler’s out-stretched, rain-drenched hands.

“In your eyes…the light, the heat…I am complete…I see the doorway, of a thousand churches…the resolution, of all my fruitless searches…”

I don’t believe in love the way most people do.

And despite what are sure to be my mother’s many protestations to the contrary, this is a direct result of the southern, black pragmatism, she, herself, instilled in me from birth.

I believe that what we come to know as love is absolutely the one hundred percent construct of our mind’s willingness to do so at the time. That is to say, we fall in love when we are of the mind to fall in love.

It hardly matters.

If I indicated two doors, one appropriately labeled “reality,” and the other, “resolution of all my fruitless searches,” I’d wager all that I own, the threshold of the former wouldn’t be so much as breached.

Love is the only instance in which we shamelessly grant ourselves permission to vest all of our hopes into another person. And we do so with the express proviso that we will, indeed, find in that other, all that is lacking within our own selves.

The weight that removes from our stress-addled minds; the notion that another will be there to shoulder, if only the tiniest of our burdens, is so great to create a euphoria that transcends all else—common sense, reason, hard, concrete facts.

In defense against this, I’ve allowed my rational mind to carefully de-construct love, as there is no fail-safe in a Lloyd Doblerian approach. Romantic comedies peppered with attractively quirky white people are hardly an accurate portrayal of what lovers of love are up against.

Know what is?

The “Maury” show.

Maury fucking Povich is what we should look to when considering the weight of love—its ebbs and flows; its successes and failures.

I dvr “Maury” every, single day. Every day, hordes of women bring their mates to the show to debunk their allegations of infidelity.

What’s crazy, is that the women don’t come simply with intuitions. They come with “sex-soiled” bed linens, condom wrappers, other women’s panties, other women’s earrings.

And they all say the same thing: “Maury (pronounced “Mahw-ree”), if he fails this lie detector test, today, it’s OVER! I’m done with him! He can get out!!”

And every day, the men fail the lie detector tests. And every day, like clockwork, the women drop their evidence-filled ziplock bags, falling to the floor, or running off the stage in a fit of wailing frenzy, cry-screaming the same thing, “I can’t believe it ‘Mahw-ree’! I can’t believe he’d do this to me!!”

Those moments precisely before and directly after the lie detector test—that’s where the love is. Those brief minutes showcasing the triumph of foreign drawes-and-rubbers-in-a-plastic-bag optimism and the crushing blow of if-it-walks-like-a-duck-it’s-because-he-fucked-a-duck realism—that’s when you begin to understand this power love holds over us.

I challenge you to find a greater optimist than a woman who finds another’s earring in her bed, and takes her man on the “Maury” show.

You won’t.

The whole ride there, the whole interview process, the entirety of the wait before the revelation, all she is doing is hoping against hope that there IS some zany explanation for why she’s clutching a gold-plated Chanel doorknocker.

And irrespective of all she’s seen, and all she’s heard, there’s no way to prepare her for the crippling agony of defeat; she hasn’t just been let down by this man. She’s been let down by love.

I (cautiously) submit to you, that every relationship is like a “Maury” lie-detector vignette.

We all optimistically enter into these relationships with willful disregard of our own ziplock bags, each of which are filled to the brim with the same hard pieces of evidentiary fact:

1. That monogamy is hard. And it fucking sucks. Like it sucks so bad, sometimes. I know no one wants to talk about it, but for real. It truly sucks. Oh, you don’t think it sucks? Be super duper mad at that motherfucker and have an overly-sympathetic, sexy as hell co-worker invite you out to drinks. Monogamy is hard. And arguably, unnatural. So…right.

2. That living together or spending an inordinate amount of time with each other is akin to an active state of captivity. And while animals in captivity *do* spend a great deal of time fucking (and believe me, I respect that. I respect that more than I can ever say, animals in captivity), they spend a healthy amount of time fighting as well…sometimes to the death.

3. That putting all your hopes into another human being will, in all likelihood, screw you in some capacity. Not because of any deliberate malice on the part of the other person; not even because of some insensitive negligence. But, simply because we are all human, and fallible. As such, our lot is to forever be a disappointment to those who perhaps thought more of us, or who, with no encouragement at all, canonized us.

4. That you will probably break up. There are seven billion people in the world. If any of us have been in long term relationships, it’s fair to say that at some point, we thought that other person, the one who preceded your current person, was the one. And he/she wasn’t. This is going to happen over and over again until we say “enough,” “amen,” or “I do.” And then some more.

So there we stand, our plastic bags full of these things that we know good and damned well should restrain us. And what do we do? Close our eyes, wade in, clutching the ziplocks, and wait for the great revelation, all the while hoping, praying, that in some zany scheme of events, this one will be different.

Here’s my truth.

I get it.

I envy those women who can look through all of the rain, and all of the darkness, straining their eyes, squinting against the glare in the window pane—

I get it.

Despite all of my logic, despite all of my rationale—there is something inarguably beautiful in the prospect of holding something like love, more ephemeral than a moonbeam, in my heart, if only for a second.

I get it.

And every fair to fair, when the night is thick and the rain is heavy, even I look out into the black. Because the smallest, minutest chance of a man standing there with a stereo, the resolution to all my fruitless searches, is too enticing…

Even for a “cynic” like me.

Hello.

My name is Fooler.

I’m a closet romantic.

And fucking optimist.

A Preface…..

“Your father says you wrote a blog entry, yesterday,” my mother offered.

My mother seldom inquired about my blog as my father had long-ago forbidden her to read it. Still, the narcissism propelling my ongoing attempt at internet validation piqued her interest, every fair to fair.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Block over?” she followed.

“Only time will tell. Seems so for the moment, however,” I casually replied.

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Nope. Not particularly,” I answered. “ More humdrum meanderings about my romantic life and personal convictions.”

“What romantic life?” she snapped.

“Precisely, my dear Watson.”

My mother contributed one of her long, resigned sighs. The kind she reserved exclusively for her only child who would never give her grandchildren. “For the life of me, I don’t know how you came to be so cynical.”

“Oh?” I responded, my voice full of mock surprise. “Not exactly a sunny rainbow of starbursts and ju ju bees, over there, Sweetness.”

My mother’s reply was swift. “There was love in our home! There IS love in our home. I bet your readers would like to hear about that, for once. Instead of all this ‘I’m not getting married’ foolishness.”

I was certain my mother could feel the strength of my eye-roll from the backwoods North Carolina farm from whence she’d called. “I never said I wasn’t getting married, Smitty.”

“Well, are you?” she asked saucily.

“I’d sooner chew off my foot.” I replied.

“You are so unbelievably negative. I can hardly stand it.” I could sense the irritation in her voice. We had, after all, had this very conversation one thousand times.

“Negative? I’m PRO- love. I’m PRO-marriage. It’s because I respect them so much that I bitch. These are serious things that people enter into blindly; with little more consideration than one selects a window treatment.” I hoped my impassioned rationale would calm her before she suggested I sire a bastard.

Battle worn and wary, my mother relented. “It takes me a long time to pick out window treatments.”

“Well you, Madame, are a member of a very distinct minority. Besides. You’re a snob,” I teased.

“Do something for me?” my mother asked abruptly.

I sighed, then. Nothing good could come from this. “Yes, Mommy?”

“Just this once, write something nice about love. Do it for your Mother.”

because sometimes, you gotta sit shit out….

“Where’s Ex Boyfriend?” my cousin, Velvet, asked.

All at once the living room’s occupants turned their attentions toward me.

The topic of my waxing/waning, mysterious, but most assuredly nascent dating life was always a hot one in my family.

And everyone had loved Ex Boyfriend. Velvet and her siblings in particular.

I pretended not to notice the cessation of other side conversations, and fixed my focus on the rather deliberate bit of stitching at my dress’ hem.

“I can only presume that he is off somewhere with his newer, better girlfriend, V,” I said, now frustratingly attempting to align a particularly defiant stitch with my thumbnail.

Velvet was not to be deterred. She had had high hopes about the entry of Ex Boyfriend into the debacle that was our family. “So, you haven’t talked to him, at all? Ya’ll were together for so long. I knew you’d broken up, but—“

“At some point you’re going to have to let this go,” I said, furrowing my brow, and wanting, more than anything, to tuck the fabric into my mouth and free the seam with my teeth.

“Are you dating at all?” Velvet’s sister, Winter, chimed in.

“Trying my damnedest not to,” I replied, casually, still very aware of the stares drilling holes into my bowed head.

“How are you gonna get a boyfriend if you don’t date?” came her ready query.

“Fairly certain we’ve seen the last of my girlfriend days, guys. Me and relationships don’t quite seem to suit,” I offered. I’d finally righted the wayward stitch, and was rewarded with one tiny, frayed thread I had nowhere to put.

“You don’t get to be a good girlfriend by not being a girlfriend. You have to keep trying. You’ll get the swing of it,” contributed Velvet’s friend, Anna.

“I’m 30, Anna. I think I’ve got a solid grasp of my strengths and weaknesses. I can’t force it.” I tried to subtlely tuck the thread between the cushions of the ottoman.

Velvet began, again. “Look. We’re all about you being out there, doing your little DC thing. We love your little DC thing—“

“Thank you,” I interrupted. “There’s much to love about my ‘little DC thing.’”

“But you have to keep trying. You can’t just say you don’t want to be a girlfriend, anymore, because where does that leave you?”

I looked up, just then. Even well into her forties, my cousin was one of the prettiest women I’d ever seen. There was no way I could look at that face and put forth my well-thought out plan to let every clever, charming, and otherwise eligible super-sexy man in DC get a passing glance at my areolas until I was good and ugly.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t force it. Bad stuff happens when I force it. People get hurt when I force it. By myself, I suppose.”
__________
I don’t fuck with piñatas.

Don’t bring a piñata around me. Don’t suggest we get a piñata. Don’t offer me candy that fell to the ground as a result of some other piñata enthusiast’s backswing.

I don’t fuck with piñatas.

I’m thinking you’ll want the backstory.

I was five when I learned to respect the piñata. Its dangers. Its powers. The treachery obscured in its brightly-colored hollows.

As a kindergartener at Tabernacle Baptist Church School (you read that right), I found myself one of five blacks in a student body comprised of children whose parents viewed the school as the only viable alternative to homeschooling.

Corporal punishment ruled the day, polygamist clothing covered our bodies, and the sweet Lamb of God heard our constant entreaties.

Mrs. Parsons, my teacher, had hated me. I had done any number of things that possibly offended her, but I remained her brightest pupil. Even at five, I’d reasoned this certainly had to count for something. It had not.

The only person who held me in lower regard was her daughter, Matilda. Her translucent skin was covered in an unfortunate smattering of freckles, and the top of her head blazed fire, just like her mother’s. My parents weren’t religious. They weren’t members of the affiliate church. I was an only child with a never-ending sea of new toys and clothes. Matilda made little effort to hide her resentment.

It was early spring when Mrs. Parsons had called us in from recess for our afternoon surprise. With the help of the custodian she’d managed to affix a piñata from a coarse rope and suspend it from the ceiling.

Though I can’t recall the exact reason for such a surprise, I can only assume it was a last ditch effort of our administration to insensitively include the slightest bit of culture into our otherwise homogenous routine.

Mrs. Parsons, of course, utilized Matilda as the example, blindfolding the girl and spinning her around five times with an old wooden pole in her tiny hands, before excitedly yelling, “Hit it!”

I knew, at once, I wanted no part of this. None.

I cared little if candy was inside. Frankly, I’d doubted it, given Mrs. Parson’s staunch anti-junk food stance.

This could only end badly.

Besides, I hated being spun around; hated being dizzy. I’d just wait until everyone else was finished, and take a piece of candy. Surely they wouldn’t begrudge me one piece of candy even though I hadn’t participated.

When Mrs. Parsons looked to me and said that it was my turn, I quietly conveyed to her my desire to sit this one out.

She’d exhaled in frustration, seeing this as yet another in a long series of nonconformities. She’d tried to forcefully put the pole in my grasp, but I’d been adamant, keeping my spine rigid, and my fists clenched.

Exasperated, Mrs. Parsons pulled me aside and said that I was ruining everyone’s afternoon. She indicated that she had taken the time out with Mr. Williams to hang the piñata as a special surprise, and I wasn’t being very appreciative. At five, I had not the precise words to convey my decided failings in the area of hand-eye coordination (not that it would have mattered given the blindfold, and purposeful vertigo), but somehow managed to utter the terminology my father had assigned to the subject—“clumsy.“

She’d laughed then, and called me a “silly little girl.” She even gave me what she fancied a pep talk in the vein of “standing up to our fears,” and “confronting things head on, even when we’re apprehensive;” that the “only way to do it was to do it.”

Her pudgy hand firmly rooted to the small of my back, she pushed me forward, once more. Loosening my still tightly wound fists, she placed the wooden pole in my hand. It was taller than me. I could feel my insides melding as she blindfolded me and began to spin me around.

“One……”

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

“Two……..”

It’s okay. It’ll be over in a second. Everyone else did it.

“Three……..”

It’s okay, we’re almost done. It’s not so bad.

“Four……..”

Get ready. It’s coming. It’s okay.
“Five……”

I propelled that heavy stick forward with all of my might, never-minding that I’d skipped one integral step—the part where Mrs. Parsons stopped me and placed me rightly before the suspended piñata.

But I’d survived the spins so I struck. And I hit something!

I heard Mrs. Parsons cry out in excitement, and I considered myself successful. I was good at this! She was right! I had done it! I was gonna be the one—ME—to break open the piñata when everyone else couldn’t! Mrs. Parsons had been right! I could do it! I struck again—another scream of excitement! And really hard, one final time before I heard Matilda’s frantic, “Stoopppppppppppppppppppp!!!!!”

I stopped.

Making an attempt at standing still, but still wobbling, I gently removed my blindfold.

I was grinning my toothy smile of success at all of my classmates, but their attentions were fixed in one direction, looks of horror covering their faces.

Matilda was crying and screaming incoherently.

I pivoted around to see Mrs. Parsons, who was making gurgling sounds and whimpers. Her entire face was a bloody, broken mass of lumpy flesh and open crevices.

Those hadn’t been screams of excitement at all.

She’d been crying out in agony with every blow, apparently unable to control my determined, fevered strikes.

As the fountains of blood were streaming from her face, I could tell that she was crying. And Matilda was crying. And soon everyone else started crying.

I didn’t know what to do, or what to say, so I just stood there. Even as help came and the ambulance took Mrs. Parsons away, I never said anything.

My mother later informed me that Mrs. Parsons had to have thirty-seven stitches in her face, but that I was not to worry. It wasn’t my fault. If I wanted to talk or cry it would be okay.

But I never cried.

I hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.

because you’re never too old to be permanently scarred…..

so….this week, twitter was all awash with this accent challenge….i didn’t do one…butttttttttttt, it *did* give me the idea to record me reading an entry….why? because i’m a narcissist. if my voice annoys you too much, the published entry is below……..but…i *do* do voices…

ps..y’all know i’m not web-wise….there’s this annoying whistle in the background….but, i couldn’t record it over again….apparently, my entries are long as FUCK. who knew?

agnes final sound ii

I am fairly well-versed in the language of me.

That is to say—I get me. I get how I work; how I “do.”

I spend a great deal of time keeping to my own counsel.

You aren’t going to enlighten me on too much shit concerning the body of work that is me.

That said, a rather large part of being an adult—a well-socialized adult—is one’s ability to be receptive of criticism; particularly criticism coming from those that wish you well.

Right.

So my mama thinks I’m stuck up.

I’m not going to elaborate on this, as it’s ridiculous, but, that’s what my mother says—I’m stuck up.

Now, as the only child of a Southern Black woman, I, of course, trained myself, at an early age, to distinguish between sage wisdom and unfounded-potentially-hurtful shit.

But I lend considerable weight to anything my mother tells me.

Some of her advice gets thrown out with the wash, but never ever before I’ve turned it over in my mind and examined all the angles.

*****
I had been at my parents’ house an entire thirty-six hours before my mother accosted me with her most recent allegation of sadditty-ness.

I was certain the arguments my mother used in support of her assertion were fundamentally flawed, but, her accusations loomed dark and foreboding; eagerly awaiting any concession, or breakdown of my resolve—prepared to play vulture to my carrion.

Sunday morning came, however, with little to no incident.

And the day had started out pleasant, enough. My father, recuperating from surgery, had suggested that we skip church in favor of a restful morning at home. My mother, eager to tend to her flowerbed, had whole-heartedly co-signed.

And it was quite nice, actually. My father had ultimately found sleep in our den. My mother, sun-weary, napped in the chaise longue beside her bed. And finally convinced that our three dogs were no longer trying to murder each other, I, myself, was nearing slumber.

*****
The dogs heard her first.

All three had been tucked away with me on the third floor, but they’d heard her. One after another they went barreling down each set of staircases, barking in righteous indignation at the audacity of someone entering our home, uninvited.

But that was how Cousin Agnes always entered our home.

Just walked the fuck in.

What you should know about Cousin Agnes is that she is my father’s cousin. Like, fifth or sixth. I don’t really know as I prefer not to dwell on any genetic predeterminates that legitimately bind us. Cousin Agnes isn’t so much a relative, as she is a threat you wield over the heads of misbehaving children (e.g. “Keep it up…I’ma sit you over at that table with Cousin Agnes and ‘em.”)

While Cousin Agnes isn’t necessarily an unattractive woman (as I’m sure her five previous husbands will attest to), a cursory overview of her will let you know, straightaway, her elemental truth; a truth that will be confirmed the second she opens her mouth—

Cousin Agnes is hood.

Real hood.

Malt-liquor drankin’, misquoted-Bible-verse-interspersed-with-her-profanity spoutin’, hootie-hoo my dude we-fittin-to-go-to-the-grocery-store-and-cash-this-good-check-so-we-can-buy-us-some-stretchy-clothes-

Hood.

And she’s like, sixty.

Matter of fact, in my sheltered childhood, Cousin Agnes was my first indication that old people could actually be hood. I think I thought that hoodness was some shit that you eventually grew out of. Cousin Agnes destroyed that illusion for me.

Now, the most important thing you need to know about my Cousin Agnes is that she’s a whole lot of woman.

She’s tall—about 5’10, and stocky. Not obese or any other descriptor of gratuitously fat—just stocky.

But check this—

She seems bigger….on account of her voice.

Like, think Jim Carey’s “Vera” on In Living Color.

Cousin Agnes likes to call it “husky.”

But, on everything, I swear that shit sounds like she waits til low tide to emerge from the Deep, and feed upon the small children of aboriginal island-dwellers; like, twenty years ago, unbeknownst to the world, Cousin Agnes managed to get her hands on some deceased Andre The Giant DNA, and through the miracle of modern medicine cultivated some Andre The Giant stem cell in a petri dish until her clone Andre The Giant baby reached the age of maturation, when she promptly murdered him and used his dissected testosterone sacs to line the walls of her larynx—

Like….no bullshit.

‘Shit’s that deep.

Anyway-

Cousin Agnes was standing in our kitchen, nearly beside herself with fright at the onslaught of our raging dogs. I greeted her, warmly, and calmed the animals, offering her a drink and a seat. She refused.

“Uh uh. Where yo’ favvvva at? I wanna see yo’ daddy? Where yo mama? Where yo mama?”

I tried to explain to her that they were both asleep, but she was having none of that, and insisted I take her to my dad.

Begrudgingly, I led her up the back stairs, and nudged him awake.

As my father begin to engage her, I started to walk away when Cousin Agnes called after me: “Go get yo’ mama too! Wake huh up! I wanna see yo’ mama too!”

I bit my tongue, and walked in the direction of my parents’ bedroom. I reluctantly woke my mother, and let her know that we had company…and that that company was Cousin Agnes. I then beckoned the dogs to me, informing my mother that I would be upstairs.

That’s when I caught it.

My mother’s look.

She hadn’t uttered a syllable, but the narrowing of her brow said it all. Stuck up.

I met her gaze in silence, the unspoken language of her challenge clear. Turning stiffly back to the direction from whence I’d come, I returned to the den, three dogs in tow, my mother not far behind me.

Everything was going fine—well, typical of any Cousin Agnes visit—

I offered up commentary when I managed to manipulate my way through the veritable sea of her verbal ratchetry—

Through a series of well-applied pinches to my forearm, I trained myself not to laugh-outright, or visibly cringe at the cascade of horrors flowing from her mouth.

And things were going smoothly—and I was proving my mother wrong….when it happened.

Somehow my mother and Cousin Agnes had stumbled upon some salacious piece of gossip concerning a man they both knew who had left his wife for another woman.

My mother received the information with no real problem, but Cousin Agnes could not seem to get over the injustice of the man’s lover not being up to her apparently exacting physical standards.

Over and over she slapped the tops of her thighs with her heavy, open palms, protesting, “She ain’t even cute, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!! Look, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!!”

My mother, in her gentle voice, and I thought, rather patiently, tried to explain to Cousin Agnes—who now sat comfortably amongst our couch cushions like some retard giantess—that sometimes, appearances counted little in matters of the heart.

And even as my father and I nodded in tacit agreement, Cousin Agnes remained undaunted. “She ain’t even cute, doe!!!”

My mother was shaking her head in casual resignation, when Cousin Agnes perked up. I could nearly see the light-bulb go on in her thicket of unkempt, ratty braids, and my gut warned that I should fear it.

“But you know what doe,” she began, “Dat guhl is younga dan him doe…She is younga dan him.”

No one commented, and she continued. “And you know how dem young guhls like to do…they know what men like and they be givin’ it to ‘um…Dey be givin’ it to ‘um.”

In the next moment, my whole world would come crumbling down at my feet.

Cousin Agnes looked first to me, saying: “You know how dey do…” then looked to my father, saying, “Excuse me Jay-rome,” then half-cupped her left hand, covering the left side of her mouth, but absconding nothing from view. Her gaze returned to me as she made her open mouth into an oval, and proceeded to bob her head backward and forward.

I whipped my head away, pretending that I had not seen, what my racing mind was telling me I had. “Cousin Agnes!” I cried out, in pleading—

She didn’t give the FIRST FUCK…

Cause she did it again….

Simulated oral sex in the den of my parents’ home—the home my parents had lovingly built from carefully-spun dreams——on the Sabbath…A day the Lord God Himself had admonished us to honor; to keep holy. She simulated oral sex in front of BOTH of my parents…my mother AND my father…..

And she had done so, whilst looking directly at ME…looking directly into my thirty year old eyes for confirmation, for acknowledgment.

My father sat so quiet, and so still, but my mother wore a look of confusion on her face. I like to pretend that she was in a sort of fugue state—like her body had gone into shock to protect it from the trauma her whole being had just experienced.
But Cousin Agnes wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, cause she took their quiet as indication for her need to clarify.

AGAIN, looking to me, she called out my name, and said, “Fooler knows….BLOWJOBS…”

I’d liked————————to have knocked———————alla the shit in that room——books on shelves, trophies in cabinets, crystal in curios, chess pieces on chessboards———-I’ddddddddddd liked to have knocked allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllla that shit down………………..

BITCH….WHAT in THE FUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK are you looking at me for?

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY in the MOOOOOOOOOOOOOTHERFUCK are you looking into MMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY eyes, saying words like “blowjob” to my parents??????

Why?

Why?

And I was concerned, like, on a multitude of levels.

I didn’t know if she looked at me and saw like, some kind of neon halo of dick residue all up and around my person; I didn’t know if I’d been traversing this land, all these years, with the faint echoes of blowjobs-past nipping at my dick-sucking heels—-Why had she chosen me?

And what had she wanted from me?

Was there some expectation of high fives; of chest bumps? Were my parents gonna stand on either side of us as we formed a soul train line and did the give-head dance around my mother’s art collection?

I didn’t linger long in my mental landscape of uncertainty.

At THAT moment, I realized I didn’t give a damn what my mother thought of my temperament if it meant enduring one millisecond more of the indignity that aged broad had brought to my home.

I picked up as many of my dogs as I could carry, and ZackGalifianakisWalked my sweet ass the FUCK out.

Cousin Agnes bellowed after me in her hobo-baritone, but I did not look back.

I did not look back.

my very near surrender to love, and how one lone, bitchass apple spoiled the bunch…

I was awash with love, today.

I’m fresh off a weekend with my linesisters and their extraordinary husbands and boyfriends; fresh from the nuptials of our 9 to yet another extraordinary husband.

I was awash with love.

And it is, perhaps, for this reason, that, in an about-face from my traditional measured dose of snark, I afforded my mother some contemplative sincerity when she inquired about my love life.

Still, despite my best intentions, I had nothing new to offer when she asked for the one millionth time, this life, “What are you looking for in a partner?”

I had no clue.

And why should I?

I’ve been unwavering in my praise of previous romantic interests.

They’ve all been great people.

Sure, Matt wasn’t nearly as cautious as I thought he should be when it came to open, public display of his baby-Negro chest hairs from generously unbuttoned shirts.

And Eric’s excessive use of faucet water during these eco-conservative times certainly earned him a questionable frown or two from my general direction.

But, for the most part, I was a woman of few complaints.

I could ask nothing more from a future partner than I’d already been lucky to find in ones past.

Not until I’d finished speaking with my mother did it dawn on me that she’d asked the wrong question. All of this time, she had been asking the wrong question.

This was not about what I was looking for in someone else.

This was about what was—what is—lacking in me.

Frankly stated—

A desire to put another person’s needs before my own.

That variable, that lone compulsion, so entirely absent in my own selfish heart, rang out so true and so sound in the shared whispers, shared laughter, shared glances, shared touches between my linesisters and their mates.

But not within me.

Rather, mine is an only child’s well-constructed cynicism.

I’ve dedicated years to this doctrine of self-reliance, unapologetically putting my own self first. I’ve expended countless hours proselytizing the responsibilities one has to herself, and only herself; how we enter this world alone and die alone; how we must comport ourselves accordingly in light of this stark truism.

But, when you embark upon a relationship, you are vulnerable to the elements. You are expected to forfeit this mentality. You must conceptualize an appropriate model of trust, and incorporate it into your sensory framework.

Enter my reticence.

This act of forfeiture—this veritable surrender of guard—is far too high a price for my risk-averse pocket.

But, in a perfect world, where all conditions are met, and a suitable, trustworthy partner chosen—you relax.

You disable your selfish.

You put your partner’s needs first, and he/she yours.

And there are no worries, for each of our respective fronts is covered. Each of our respective sets of needs met.

In the face of my epiphany, I was forced to consider all of it. And I did. I tossed it all around; I moved the mountains of my mind and forged every briar-laden pass my overly-analytical psyche could conjure, until I reached a conclusion:

Yeah.

I don’t wanna do that shit.

Like, not at all.

And let me tell you why….with a story…because, you know….that’s my way.

******

Jack Jacobsen had hired me to be his attorney.

He was neither a defendant in an action nor a plaintiff. Rather, he was summoned by the Commonwealth to be a witness in a criminal action against his wife (don’t bother to question the basis of this or worry your precious minds with concepts like “spousal privilege.” Just trust your narrator when she informs you that there was no such protection in this case).

You’ll also have to trust me when I tell you that his wife, Molly Jacobsen, had done nothing wrong. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a naïve faith in the police and municipal government had landed her on the wrong side of the law. Be that as it may, no crime was afoot.

So, Jack Jacobsen had hired me to be his attorney—to apprise him of his options and represent his interests to the Commonwealth’s Attorney, and if need be, the Court.

Essentially, Jack needed to know the ramifications of not testifying, and wanted the prosecution to be aware of his position that his wife had committed no crime, and that he would never say she had.

Upon meeting Molly and Jack, my sympathies immediately went to Molly. She was clearly fragile and overwhelmed by the situation she’d created for herself and her family. The both of them were in their early fifties, and only married for a few years. The thought occurred to me more than once that the two were castoffs, hopelessly destined for a life of solitude ‘til finding their other misfit counterpart (which I’d suspected had happened through the miracle of match.com).

Jack was all fire and bluster, and given to lengthy speeches about his commitment to family, and dedication to his wife. I watched, time and time again as his eyes brimmed over with hot, fast tears, as he became swept away by the conviction of his own oratory. He used powerful words like “Gestapo” and “attack” to describe the prosecution’s relationship with his home. He was adamant about his decision not to testify; to not be his wife’s condemner. He repeatedly drove his stubby index finger into the rich mahogany of the conference room table to emphasize his willingness to defy the Commonwealth, the world, even God if it meant preventing undue harm to his wife.

From our first handshake, and my inhale of his stale, tart breath, I’d sized Jack up. I’d known that he was all false bravado, and feigned masculinity. I would help him, certainly. I would attempt to shield this family he claimed to be the sworn protector of. But I would unveil his inner bitch, too. And I’d take pleasure in so doing.

So I’d sat quietly in that conference room amidst the boom and thunder of his voice. I’d sat, slightly slouched, legs crossed, chin resting on my thumb, index and middle fingers pressed comfortably to my temple. I’d let the sonorous timbre of his voice ricochet between the walls that housed us, my face impassive, unaffected by his demonstrative changes in inflection.

And only when he’d cried his last tear; only after he callously (though guised as reassuringly) rubbed the back of his lady-love and declared himself the last good man; only after he’d dulled the finish of the table with his tiny, closed fists while volunteering himself up as a lamb to the slaughter—only then did I speak.

“I understand and respect your position, “ said I. “I appreciate your willingness to convey how sincere your affections are with regard to your family. My job is to protect you. Not your wife. I am here to advise you.”

He interrupted, then, as I’d known he would. “MY job is to protect my wife. I will protect my wife at all costs. YOUR job is to help me understand how I can protect my wife.”

My face remained unchanged, but I was all smiles inside. I began, again.

“Very well,” said I. “I will communicate what you’ve shared to the Commonwealth’s Attorney. It is possible that she will consider your unwillingness to testify, and re-evaluate her desire to pursue an action against your wife.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Jack demanded. He was playing right into my hands.

“You are under subpoena. If she doesn’t, she will insist you take the stand anyway. If your aim is to protect your wife, you will do so and respectfully decline to answer any questions,” I calmly replied.

“Then that’s what I’ll do!” he asserted. He looked dramatically into the eyes of his wife, just then, and softly repeated for effect, “That’s what I’ll do.”

“At which point you’ll be cited for Contempt of Court, and face a maximum $250.00 fine, and up to ten days in jail,” I stated plainly. Gotcha bitch!

Jack’s face jerked back to mine. “What?!”

I watched as all the blood drained from his face, and the fire fled from his tear-filled eyes.

My eyes never straying from his, I said, in even tones, “Molly, why don’t you leave us, now. Have a seat in the waiting room, and we will be with you, momentarily.”

Molly’s shoulders slumped under the weight of her guilt, as she shuffled from the room. There had been a palpable shift in power. I pulled my chair close to the table, and sat upright for the first time since our meeting began. I gently latticed my fingers, and placed them before me, waiting for Jack to speak. I knew he would not long keep me. Weak men grew quickly uncomfortable with silence.

He didn’t disappoint.

“Ms. Fooler,” he began, “I want you to know that I love my wife.”

I said nothing.

“You have to know that I do not want to testify against my wife.”

I held up my right hand to indicate that I would hear nothing further. “The time for talk of what you want is done. That is over. Your wife is no longer here. The time has come to speak of what you will do.”

Breaking my gaze, and looking down at the table he had pummeled in fury only moments earlier, he whispered demurely, “I cannot go to jail.”

I picked up my pen, and opened the file folder that had lain, untouched, before me throughout the entirety of our meeting. “Then let’s discuss your testimony.”

*****

Molly Jacobsen has no idea what was discussed in that room.

She left, confident in her husband’s commitment to her; certain of his willingness to put her needs before his own.

And he fucked her.

My mother will have to forgive me if I hold fast to my own self-reliant, survival ideology for a little while longer.

*Quite naturally, the names have been changed to protect the…..well….to protect myself.

because i think neo-feminism should mean, “stop doing little girl shit.”

“Jacked her then I asked her, ‘Who’s the man?’ she said, ‘B-I-G,’ then I bust in her E-Y-E (Yo, Big, you dead wrong)…” Notorious BIG, “Dead Wrong”*

When someone determines that she does not believe in something, hers is one of two separate realities.
On the one hand, she actively doubts the existence of said thing. I don’t believe that all black men have big ole dicks.

On the other hand, she is disavowing the proven existence of said thing due to its incompatibility with her own personal credo. I don’t believe in fucking black men with little itty bitty baby dicks.

See the distinction?

It is with this mindset that I make the following bold assertion:

I don’t believe in friendzones.

In any scheme of reality.

At the most basic level, I don’t believe in their existence; they are entirely fictitious in any Fooler-esque conception of the time/space continuum.

However, with a mind’s eye towards the alternative, should friendzones actually exist, I don’t believe in them as a matter of principle.

In the Courtroom of Life, I, the Complainant, move the Universe to enjoin all practitioners of aforementioned abusive exercise from continuing on in such a fashion from this day forward.

Now, before we begin, that we might progress in the spirit of solidarity, I’ll address some ancillary themes/issues/concerns.

As I see it, any and all logic behind a friendzone-favorable argument is rooted in failure.

That’s right.

Failure.

At the most elementary level, the failure is one of linguistics.

So, for the sake of this entry, please allow for the following definitions:

Friend—n. from the Old Eng, freond. A person you care about deeply, with whom you share intimacies. A person you spend time with or talk to on a consistent basis (my friends will turn their noses up at this as I am a reclusive asshole, but, notwithstanding the occasional reclusive asshole, the definition holds).

Friendzone—n. from the Latin, bullshiterus maximus. An alleged place where one puts a “friend” she wouldn’t sleep with. Like, ever.

Great start.

Now, I like to think of my mind, and indeed, its fruit (this webspace), as a place open to exception.

Therefore, I would be remiss, were I not to present several acceptable exceptions to my “No Friendzones” assertion. Here they are:

1. The man is a known or suspected gay.
2. The man is married.
3. The man’s penis is infected with, or suspected to be infected with loathsome disease.

That’s it.

Don’t try to think of any more cause there aren’t any.

On with the show.

There are but two types of women who’d take respite in the notion of a friendzone. We will refer to these women as “Little Picture Bitch” and “Frigid, Selfish Bitch,” or “LPB” and “FSB,” respectively.

Statement, The First: I don’t believe that friendzones are real. But you know who does? Little Picture Bitches.

Friendships start with an attraction.

All friendships.

Person A is attracted to something in Person B.

That something can be as innocuous and unsubstantial as how the other person appears.

Perhaps Person A has heard Person B speak, and likes Person B’s sense of humor.

Either way, all friendships begin with an attraction.

Now, with time, commonality of circumstance, shared secrets, the bond between A and B has an opportunity to grow in value. It is at this critical juncture that we begin to see the divide that separates friendship from fuckship.

It could come about from something as simple and run of the mill as basic sexual preference:

Person A likes Person B. The more time Person A spends with Person B, the more she likes Person B. Person B is a woman. Person A doesn’t like women. The two become girlfriends.

It could come about from a critical misstep of the other party:

Person A likes Person B. Person A finds out that Person B voted for a Tea Party candidate during the last general election. Person A still adores Person B, but now thinks he’s a fuckwad. Person A wants to have babies and can’t make them with a fuckwad. They remain close friends.

Here’s my point.

Notwithstanding prevailing matters of sexual orientation or the three exceptions noted above, where there was once attraction, there is ALWAYS potential for repeated attraction, UNLESS……………………………………..you’re a little picture bitch.

LPB says shit like, “Marcus is fat. We’re real cool, though, for real. But honestly, Chubbs is like my brother, man. I don’t even think of him like that.”

CLASSIC LPB assessment.

Why is she a LPB?

Because she has failed to account for ALL of the angles and potential scenarios.

Let’s return to my definition of a friend: A person you care about deeply, with whom you share intimacies. A person you spend time with or talk to on a consistent basis…

Let’s assume LPB and Marcus really are friends, in accordance to my definition, and not just hang partners, or party homies. Let’s assume they spend real time together, talk consistently, and tell each other the secret desires of their hearts—hopes, dreams, unicorns, Neruda, alla that shit (try not to become overwhelmingly distracted by the obvious fact that Marcus is a hardcore sucker MC if he allows any of this).

You mean to tell me that, on her worst day of all days– LPB has caught her boyfriend cheating, her boss thinks she’s retarded, her mother called for the express purpose of telling her what a big ass she has—on this dark, rainy, cold night she calls Marcus, the one person she can count on for anything, tell anything—and he brings over a bottle of Crown (FACT: ALL dudes named “Marcus” drink Crown), and they drink from the bottle in front of her fake fireplace, laughing her cares away…..

And she cheers up……

And then………………………………………………………..

SENDS THAT GOOD, CHUBBY BASTARD HOME??!?!?!

HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL NAWWWWWWWWWWW.

You are a LITTLE.PICTURE.BITCH.

And you’re lying to yourself.

Know what really happens?

Marcus makes one move to tuck that stray tendril of tear-soaked hair behind LPB’s ear, and overwhelmed by this sweet, understanding, always-there man’s affectionate gesture, in an extreme moment of weakness—LPB gives it up.

And know what Marcus does?

This dude, who has been diligently sitting in the background while you dated chumps, and fed him scraps from your table; this man who has been plotting patiently on this moment for what must now seem like a whole lifetime; this dude, Marcus—-

WEARS YO’ ASS OUT.

Stomps a MUDHOLE in that box. ( © N.S.)

Know what you call a man who listens to your crappy ass dreams by day, and puts a dent in your lower lumbar by night?

“Boyfriend.”

Statement, The Second: Should friendzones actually exist, I don’t believe in them as a matter of principle. But you know who does? Frigid, Selfish Bitches.

While one is inclined to overlook the shortsightedness that is LPB’s mindset, FSB is a horse of a different color.

I have known MANY FSBs in my day.

These women have thought nothing of taking up hours upon hours of poor Marcus’ life, only to send him home at 2 am in the rain.

Now, please note that I am in no way advocating a set of circumstances that gives rise to compulsory sex acts as some quid pro quo tradeoff rewarding good friendship.

I’m just trying to establish a line of demarcation between “homegirl” and “cocktease.”

Lookit.

I very seldom hand out gender-determinate behavioral assignations.

That is to say, “Men do this,” while “Women do that.”

But trust and believe me when I tell you that no man on this EARTH, puts excessive time in with a woman (she could look like a Chow in the face and this still holds true) he’d NEVER sleep with.

Doesn’t happen.

Scientific impossibility.

Marcus might be there for you. He might care about you. He might really want to see you
through your time of sorrow.

But best believe—-he would fuck.

He would fuck and have ZERO qualms about it.

I’m not saying that you have to oblige him, either.

I’m saying that it takes a frigid, selfish bitch to consume that level of his time and commitment, only to shut out even the most remote possibility of romantic involvement.

I’m saying that it is patently disrespectful to Marcus, and his manhood, for you to utter the words, “I would never…he’s like my brother.”

No, bitch.

That 6’2, 250 lb dude sitting on your dirty ass IKEA rug, in the middle of the fuckin’ night, holding your crying, snotting ass, is NOT your brother.

Your BROTHER is at home, asleep, because he knows whatever the fuck is wrong can wait until daylight.

The dude in your living room is a man.

A man who would tear that ass up, if given only half the chance.

Even beyond a lack of consideration, the FSB’s lifestyle is a greedy one; a gluttonous one; one that spits in the face of the most basic economic principles.

That a person would spend that amount of time with someone she couldn’t sleep with when times got hard—in times of Recession—is just wasteful.

We should be achieving the maximum level of use out of good men, either in the present, or on standby. It just makes better sense. Why waste all that time building intimate ties to Marcus, who you wouldn’t sleep with, when you could be investing in Jamie, who’s ten times sexier?

I’ll tell you why—That option’s not available to you. Jamie’s a dick.

Jamie won’t abide your non-stop chatter, only to be ushered out the front door at 9 with nothing more than your well wishes and a frontal lobe kiss.

Women build these one dimensional relationships with the Marcuses of this world, because they can count on them to be too “good” to request anything more; they’ve taken Marcus’ good naturedness for granted.

And THAT, makes you frigid, selfish bitches.

The takeaway—

You don’t have to sleep with ‘em, ladies.

You just don’t have to play them.

*I chose a fucked up lyric, cause this is some fucked up shit.

women of america—i’m trying to save your lives…and your dignity…

Ladies.

Pay attention.

I have a public service announcement that you need to afford the utmost consideration.

Now, I don’t want to frighten you, but this is serious. You need to educate yourselves and guard your personal effects accordingly.

I have every reason to believe that something once relegated to the realm of mythologized, idiosyncratic phenomenon is growing in force and number.

This body of persons, once a small, concentrated group, is now finding its way into the mainstream, and posing a very real, viable threat to life as we know it.

That’s right, ladies.

I’m talking about boy-soldiers.

Little.teensy.tiny.baby-sized.men.

Now, we’ve all seen smaller men.

I’m a mere 5’2 myself, and I’ve never had any qualms about dating or being attracted to short men. As a matter of fact, I’ve advanced several theories on what I believe to be the more-awesomeness-factor of short men versus their tall counterparts (I’ll save that for another day).

But I’m not talking about short men.

I’m talking about little, itty bitty baby sized men.

Not dwarves.

Not little people.

Fit-in-your-pocket, I-thought-you-were-sitting-down-but-awww-shit-you-were-really-standing-up, man-infants.

Boy-soldiers.

Let’s get to the core issues.

What is a “boy-soldier?”

A little baby-sized man.

Now, don’t be mistaken. Determination of his fetal-sizedness is not limited to height specifications. In fact, the strongest factor of his babymanism deals more directly with his tiny-ness in stature, as opposed to any definitive distance-from-the-ground measurement.

Simply put, boy-soldiers are generally more slight of frame than regular men (though some will work their tinkertoy-sized hearts out to add a little gristle to their Estelle Getty-ish bodies). But, don’t feel sorry for them. I’ll later explain that, as a rule, boy-soldiers are markedly accomplished in their professional lives. Notwithstanding this elemental truth, they’d still find success in a variety of vocations should white collar life not suit (think derby jockeys, hand weavers of fine silks, tiny print calligraphy artisans, and moon gymnasts).

What are the non-physical characteristics of boy-soldiers?

1. Suits
Boy-soldiers looooooooooooooove suits. On everything I cherish in this world, I swear to you that NOTHING—not even the love of our Savior, Jesus the Christ—can come between a boy-soldier and his established fancy suit collection. A boy-soldier dons a suit to go to Waffle House. A boy-soldier wears a fancy suit to the gym, where he changes into a matching jogging suit. Boy-soldiers don’t own jeans. Boy-soldiers own denim……………………………………………….suits. They own shiny, high gloss, well-tailored denim suits. If you’re out at the spot, talking to a boy-soldier (God save you if you ever willingly do this), and you compliment him on his suit, and inquire whether he’s just arriving from work, 99.999 percent of the time, he’ll look you plainly in the eye, and reply, “No.”

Which begs, what I deem to be the greater question: Where in the FUCK are these pint-sized, mini-men buying these suits?

Seriously.

Is there some hidden boy-man store that specializes in tiny-neck cravats, fancy shortpants, and 3T cummerbunds that has its headquarters in the DC Metro? I’ve got to find out, as there is no logical explanation how these grown-up dollbabies can be turned out so well day after day after damned day.

2. Huge Personalities
I am not certain whether the next characteristic is a function of circumstance, or is simply endemic to their race, but, boy-soldiers all have huge personalities. Boy-soldiers allllllllways gotta shine.
A boy-soldier doesn’t just wanna buy you a drink. He wants to buy your whole crew drinks. A boy-soldier doesn’t just want to dance with the illest honey in the room. He wants to create a free space in the middle of a crowded dance floor so the whole club knows he spent 2 years of his life zipped up inside Alvin Ailey’s fannypack. A boy-soldier doesn’t just want to be in a conversation. He wants to be in every conversation. And when he’s done talking, he wants the conversation to end so the participants can watch him do something else spectacular. Wherever he is, wherever he’s at, a boy-soldier can be spotted out and about doing THE absolute fucking most ever.

3. Good Jobs
Get caught sleeping and think a boy-soldier’s gonna fold shirts at Baby Gap for the discount if you want to. No, ma’am. Boy-soldiers have the best jobs around. A boy-soldier has been hitting the books his entire life, staying inside every weekend for 35 years, and starching the lapel of his tiny suit jacket EXTRA crisp for this one moment that he has your attention, ALL for the express purpose of withdrawing that Goldman Sachs embossed business card from his gossamer waistcoat.

The ONLY thing a boy-soldier loves more than his Carnivale-worthy attire is his fancy job. It has provided every creature comfort, from posh abode to over-stated import. But while his corner office has indeed afforded him a happy “Fuck you,” to the world that has shuttered him in darkness, the only place a boy-soldier seeks ultimate gratification…………….is pussy.

Are you out at the club?

Probably yours, then.

4. Not Afraid to Holler at Women
Nope.

Not even a little bit.

And guess what, ladies? The taller you are, the more likely Man-bit is to approach you.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s gonna dance with the shorter and intermediate-height honeys, too. As Lord High Imperial Grand Puba of All Things Ridiculous Fuckery, boy-soldier owes it to himself, and indeed, his court, to grind his tiny, underdeveloped hips on the backside of every woman that moves.

But best believe, he’s gonna open and close with the giantesses.

And when you politely decline his advances, boy-soldier’s gonna laugh it off, as you clearly don’t know who he is. Bitch, don’t you see this mutha–fuckin’ suit? Have you seen the keys to my whip? Bitch, my car is parked at valet. We on U Street. U Street don’t even have valet, Bitch. I just gave a hun’ned to a dude in a hoodie outside and told him to keep the seat warm til I get back. C’mon girl, quit trippin’ and let’s dance.

Getting a boy-soldier to leave you alone has about the same limited probability and intense pain threshold as full body tattoo removal.

So, why is a boy-soldier a threat to women?

With his lightning-fast maneuvers, determinedness of purpose, and willingness to make a complete and total ass of himself, the boy-soldier has secured his spot as the world’s tiniest, two-legged, upright predator.

That’s right.

The boy-soldier—in his elaborate peacock dress, unabashed bafoonery, and dogged, feral pursuit—is the honey badger of the human race.

He has, within his tiny frame, the wherewithal to make a total jackass of you. One moment you’re talking happily with your girls. The next moment, this diminutive bastard “got the folded fingers on [your] waist,”* his tiny head nestled in the hollow of your breastplate, and you’re slow-dancin’ with your eyes closed while the entire spot watches on in awesome wonder.

Don’t laugh.

This shit has happened to me.

Many a time.

And also, last night.

The boy-soldier is no joke.

He is to be respected as a worthy opponent—

Feared as a masterful hunter—

And lest you get irretrievably caught in the vice-grip of his tiny little baby-man hands—

Avoided at all costs.

 

 

* my second favorite line of Mos Def’s ”Miss Fat Booty”

yea, though i walk….

You know what I want to know?

Who in the hell is looking out for the interests of loose women?

Can you tell me that?

Who is watching out for the hoes?

Sure, we all keep warm the hearth for our virgins; for our sanctimonious pillars of propriety.

We make certain our virgins and well-meaning nice girls are fed and spoken kindly to, but—

Who’s lookin’ out for the hoes?

Who’s giving the hoes comfort and succor?

Nobody.

That’s who.

Nobody.

Hoes are walking around malnourished, and unloved, cast out from all good society, and it isn’t right.

It just isn’t right.

Well, I want everyone to know that I, myself, have had something of a conversion.

And my newfound interests and desires have aligned me firmly on the side of the hoes.

I’m championing the plight of the hoes worldwide (I’m not saying, I’m a ho, mind you…keep up).

But, my newfound position has given me considerable insight, and brought forth, from my otherwise cold and constricted heart—empathy.

More on this in a second.
******

There is, perhaps, no more patient a man; no more meticulous or methodical a man, than he that hunts.

To have any chance of success, this man must lay the foundation for his hunt, weeks in advance.  He scouts choice locations. He returns to his designated spot time and time again, spreading feed on the ground , encouraging game to congregate.  Then, and only then, after the animals have become comfortable in their environs, slack in their defenses, does the hunter nestle himself high in the trees, and wait.

And wait he does.

Until he is certain of his target¸ certain of his accuracy. Palm to hilt finger to trigger, he releases.

And it is done.

Granted, there is meat to be enjoyed for a long time after.

But it is done.

And though no one will dispute the feeling of accomplishment that overcomes him when looking at the buck’s antlers stoically mounted above his mantle–it is inarguably done.

The thrill is gone.

The thrill is in the hunt.
*****

Two days shy of the Equinox, I am confronted with the same troubling compulsion I imagine we all have this time of year—the intense desire to have sex with something.

In particular—something new.

For the select few of us—a great many somethings new.

For some time now, I have regarded myself a proficient sportsman; knowledgeable in the ways of big game; a master of the hunt.

But in this, my 30th Spring, my 30th Equinox, discontent has settled in.

Some button, some switch, normally on, is off.

Now, don’t mistake me.

I’m scuttlebutt slut-happy as ever.

The “ fuck me “ battlecry of my wanton girlbox hollers out, loud and clear.

But I’m tired of the hunt.

The patient stillness that was my greatest asset in the wild has abated, and the spirit of restlessness has taken hold.

I fear—

I can no longer work for my meat.

But why?

Because I’ve out-assholed dating.

I am concerned that I may have out-assholed dating.

You see, there comes a point in the life of every educated black person when she begins to question things that, during earlier, less bourgie phases of her life, were perfectly acceptable. In the last five years, alone, I’ve out-assholed: drinking water from a faucet, listening to music from artists anyone besides me and 7 other people have ever heard of, cell phones that flip open, “business” suits that have any type of stretchy material in them, carpet, and domestic “vacation” travel.

Essentially, the art of out-assholing occurs when a hyper-educated, pseudo-intellectual over-analyzes some innocuous, basic, accepted thing or practice to the extent that it loses its utility.

Dating has lost its utility.

Oh, I want the sex.

Just not any of that cumbersome courtship business.

I don’t have it in me anymore.

I don’t want to hear another word about your dreams.  I don’t wanna know about who your friends are. I don’t wanna work through your abandonment issues or your mama issues or the father you never knew. I don’t want to accompany you to work functions, or social functions. I don’t even want to talk to you anymore. I don’t want to hear one more solitary, ill-formed word out of your mouth. I don’t want to hear you butcher known euphemisms and epithets as though English weren’t your first language.

I don’t wanna hear you chew ice. I don’t wanna hear you sing in the shower. I don’t wanna see that elastic-indented skin around the tops of your ankles when you take your socks off.

Mean right?

I know.

I’ve out-assholed dating.

So here I sat…in the valley of the shadow of hoes…

 

 

 

 

 

let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.

Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”

So, here’s the thing.

I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.

“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”

(These techniques take time.)

Another “LOL” from Kate.

She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”

Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”

“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.

“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked

“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”

“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”

“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”

“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”

“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.

“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”

I didn’t even have to deliberate.

“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”

My mind was reeling.

I could feel sweat beading at my temples.

My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.

“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.

I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.

This can’t be…This.just.can’t.be

…. I thought to myself.

I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.

I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.

I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.

My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.

Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”

Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”

*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*

Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”

Me: “Oh. My.God.”

Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”

(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)

Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”

Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”

Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”

Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”

Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”

Me: “I’ve heard enough.”

Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”

The fuck?

Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”

I had. I had, indeed.

I returned my attentions to Kate.

“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a

thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.

There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.

“I’m not a man, hon.”

No. No, she was not.

And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.

****************

Women of America—

What

In the

ENTIRE,

SPHERICAL

WORLD

Of FUCK

Is the matter with you?

Seriously.

I wanna know.

WHAT

In

THEEEEE

FUCK

Is the matter with you?

I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.

I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.

Really?

Look.

Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.

And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.

But, notwithstanding these two…

And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…

Ladies….

Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?

That’s a serious question.

I mean it.

Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?

I’m gonna say something controversial.

Wait for it.

I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.

Sooooooooooooo tired.

I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.

Somebody, somewhere

has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.

Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.

Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.

Whoooooooooo are y’all?

AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..

To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..

And cuddle.

I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.

So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.

(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)

*Ahem*

STAY

THEEEE HELLLLLLL

HOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME.

Do NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT

Come in THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS house

With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……

STAY HOME.

If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….

That you’re ready to rock.

Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.

This shit right here…

NO

CUDDLE

ZONE.

DON’TYOUDARECUDDLEMEINTHISMOTHERFUCKER.

Does everyone understand that.

I pay real bills.

I want real sex.

This shit right here….

This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…

This is why we can’t have nothin’.

because my linesister used “longsuffering” in a sentence, today…

“…because I’m a wild animal…I’m trying to tell you the truth about myself…” –Mr. Fox

In my mind, a relationship is a contract.
Any type of relationship, really—-be it casual, serious, platonic, or romantic.

You and I agree to embark upon this relationship journey, and we make promises to hang in there when the road gets bumpy in exchange for the assurances we give each other when first we determine to be with one another.

Now, at common law, in order for a contract to be viable, there must first be a “meeting of the minds,” and “mutual assent.”

All of that is really just fancy talk for, “everyone’s laid their terms on the table” and “everyone agrees to all of those terms.”

Now, when something gets fucked up, the maligned party typically makes some allegation of breach—that is to say, that someone has done something in violation of the contract.

And while people breach contracts all the time—the ability to be casually dismissive about the oaths we make to one another is as attractive to mankind as shit is to pigs—upon closer inspection, one often finds that the failure was not in the contract execution at all. Our failures are generally at the outset. We can’t get the “meeting of the minds” part right.

This is especially true of relationships.

So I’m gonna start putting my dealbreakers out on the table at the beginning. Apparently I haven’t been clear enough these last 30 years, but I’m all about self-improvement (not really. Take that down and count it as Number 1: “hates self-improvement.” Feel free to make “lies about liking self-improvement” Number 2).

I’ve taken the liberty of compiling an exact list of my neuroses for your viewing pleasure. If you hate me after having read it, take heart. Now you know we’re not compatible and voila! Meeting of the minds.

*****

I don’t wanna be too accountable for anyone’s feelings and emotions. I am shockingly insensitive when it comes to other people’s feelings and emotions. Note my adverb choice, there. As in, the shit surprises me, even.

I need to be able to come and go as I please. Without question or comment. But, more importantly, without your insistence on tagging along. I’m well aware that you’re available to accompany me. Unless I indicate otherwise, you are not invited.

I don’t want you to talk too much in my house. I live by myself. My dogs and I typically move in silence. While this is generally true of any time you pass, here, it is most especially true when my shows are on. If you are confused about something that you’ve seen or feel as though you are not current with the plot, kindly hold your questions until commercial break when I will happily answer roughly three of them. When queries exceed the three question maximum, you are welcome to my ON Demand cable services, or wireless internet, provided I am using neither at the time. Good luck with that, by the way.

While we’re on the topic, don’t ask me too many questions. Period. I talk a lot. In all likelihood, you know all you need to know. My belief that you’ve asked one question too many or asked something inappropriate for our particular intimacy level will be evident by the silence with which I greet said question. At this point, don’t bother repeating yourself. I heard you just fine.

If you don’t know where something is, ask me. Don’t go opening drawers and leafing through my shit.

I’m a southern black woman. Stay out of my kitchen. You may use the microwave, take food from the cupboards, and go in and out of the refrigerator. If you need something prepared on top of my stove or in my oven, ask me to use stove/oven, and I will get up and prepare whatever you need for you. If there are dirty dishes in my sink, simply place your dirty dish with the other dishes. If there are no dirty dishes in the sink, wipe your dish out and put it in the dishwasher. DO NOT—DO NOT take your bowl to the sink, run a little bit of water in it, and leave it there. What.THEFUCK.is.that? If you recognize that your dish needs washing before putting it in the dishwasher, wash that shit then and there. If you don’t wanna wash it, just leave the shit in the sink and let that food cake up dry. I can’t rightly call it, but there is something so patently disrespectful about running that little bit of water in that bowl. It’s like you’re insulting my intelligence. Like you want me to think that you’re courteous enough to recognize that the dish needs extra washing, so you’ve run the water, but in reality, you don’t wanna wash the dish and really don’t give a damn. On everything, don’t you dare run a little bit of water in the bowl and leave that shit in the sink.

When I say that I cannot do something, that I do not want to do something, that I do not like something, that I do not have time for something, do not contradict me. Assume that, at 30, I know what I mean when I say it. For example: Johnny2Thumbs: “Let’s go out, tonight.” Me: “I can’t. I have to relax my hair.” Johnny2Thumbs: “Didn’t you just relax your hair a couple days ago?”  Inquiries like this fall under the aforementioned “inappropriate” category. Don’t worry about when last I relaxed my hair. What is going on in my scalp ain’t none of your damned business. Again, such queries will be met with silence. Again, don’t bother repeating yourself. I heard you. I assume my silence is preferable to the “What the fuck did I just say?” the South Hampton Roads in me inclines me to respond with.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Know what?

Scratch that.

No, really. Go ahead. Tell me what to do. I’m curious to know whether it will turn out the way you expect it to.

If you expect to have sex when you come over, you damned well better get here when you say that you will get here. If you show up at 1 when you were supposed to be here at 8, just forget it. By 1, I’ve already given away that sex you were supposed to have at 8. Even if I’ve only given it away to myself.

Unless I love you…and I mean, have articulated that I love you while good and sober, do not yell at my dogs. They’re a bit rowdy, so I will turn a blind eye to the occasional stern chastising. But don’t yell at my dogs. If you don’t like dogs, that’s fine. DC is a big city, and I bear no delusions about being indispensable. I appreciate your time, but me, Topher, and Cooper would be much obliged if you’d roll out. We don’t want your kind here.

If you have a problem with me, I better not find out via your status message on facebook, twitter, or gtalk. Cause me and my friends are gonna label you a bitch. Then we’re all gonna EL.OH.EL.

Generally speaking, rejoining a comment I’ve made with “So what you’re saying is,” is more often than not, a critical misstep. I know, from experience, that this is the part where you take something that I’ve said, and bastardize it completely, so that it doesn’t even remotely resemble what I actually said. More to the point, I know that you know I didn’t say whatever you’re about to say. You’re about to get cute. And by “cute” I mean “ridiculous.” I manipulate words for a living. This is probably going to get embarrassing for you pretty quickly.

There is really no point in yelling at me, or getting an attitude with me. There is nothing weaker in my eyes than a hysterical display of emotion. You don’t want to be weak in my eyes. That’s when I get uncontrollably disrespectful with my behavior. I mean it. Uncontrollably. I couldn’t help it if I tried. This, in turn, will make you even more upset, prompting another outlandish display of emotion, furthering my downspiral into a bottomless pit of disrespect. This shit is impressively cyclical. More to the point, I have an awful temper. I have lost it approximately 5 times since 2002 (up until that point I lost my shit with a frightening degree of regularity. Pledging puts a lot of stuff into perspective). So, whatever you’re going on about will, in all likelihood, fail to bring my temper out. If you do manage to bring it out, you will bear witness to the most radical display of hatefulblackbitch you have ever imagined, which will, 8 times out of 10, be immediately followed by the dissolution of our friendship. I don’t pass time with people who bring out the worst in me. Finally, if you are prone to sulking, I will grant you one “What’s wrong?” If you say “Nothing,” I expect you to perk up. If you don’t, and we are at your house, I will leave. If you don’t and we are at my house, you will leave. I’m not going to sit idly by as you work out all of your emotional complexities. I am not the Glee Club. I’ve never been in Glee Club. I didn’t even know what the fuck Glee Club was until Fox educated me with a show. I love that show.

If there is something special/different/crazy you need to do during sex, we need to discuss it, first. I don’t like surprises when I’m naked. I’d wager most women don’t. Don’t try to put anything in my butt. This is non-negotiable. Anything. Like, in the world. Nothing. Don’t go in my butt. I’m not kidding. Call me sentimental, but, *whisper* I’m saving it for my husband. I want my first butt time to be with someone special, who I choose to cleave to for all eternity. Or, worst case scenario, someone from whom I can expect to derive half of all disposable income should this shit go terribly awry. If I’m not married in 15 years, we can revisit this one. I’ll likely be giving away butt sex to anyone who will take it at that juncture.

If you have some expectation of monogamy, you better call that shit like “Shotgun!” Don’t assume anything with me. I’m shady as they come.

When I tell you that I am shady as they come, I’m not trying to be cool, I’m trying to be honest. This will seldom happen due to previously disclosed shadiness.

I do not advise writing me poetry. I’m tragically immature. My linesister kicked it with this boy, once, while she was living in New York, and he used to write her poetry while he was on the train, on the way to her house. That was six or seven years ago, and the shit has not ceased to be funny to.this.day.

So that’s it.

The heart of me.

And if you can’t remember anything else I’ve said in this whole list, please, please don’t put a bowl in my sink and then run water in it.

on a day that i am surely “between a hawk and a buzzard….”

T: “Pussies abound. And they are out here not giving a fuck of shame about their pussiness. It’s devastating. But it’s the world we live in. There are girly girls all over this planet. Some of them are disguised as men, even.”

Me: “I can’t do this, anymore. I can’t babysit everyone’s emotions.”

T: “She’s having a moment. She’ll get over it.”

Me: “No. She’s ridiculous. I am at my ridiculous person limit. I am at my bitchmade limit.”

T: “I hit it like……..last year. They’ll try and take your soul out in these streets, these ridiculous people. Blood sucking, soul snatching…all out here looking for their next victim. I had to inoculate myself.”

Me and my linesister over Blackberry Messenger.  January 13, 2011.

****
The Universe has but one steadfast truism: There are no certainties.

All of us—each and every one of us—has developed an intricate series of coping mechanisms within ourselves, that we might reconcile, in our own minds, the weight of this reality.

There are no certainties.

Some of us take refuge in religion; some of us, science.

Some combine the two, while others cynically cleave to apathy, purporting to not give a damn either way.

But at the end of the day, in the quiet of our own spaces, we are left with this lone, elemental truth: There are no certainties.

This is, perhaps, my greatest heartbreak, as I really.really.like.certainty. To be so aware of its elusiveness at such a relatively young and inconsequential age is just sooooo…..so much.

I love certainty. The black and whiteness of it all; the exactitude of its definition as distinct and pronounced as the staccato in its syllables.

But it doesn’t exist.

So I seldom struggle with it.

Instead, I elect the road less travelled, making full use of a spectrum of colors, scribbling unintelligently beyond the margins, ever diligent in my quest to fit one square peg precisely into one round hole.

And I’ve made marked strides in this department, taking life as it comes, being (as L. Wilson once eloquently put it whilst describing the temperament of honey badgers) “stingy with fucks.”

But even I, despite my manifold efforts, must confess my own ever-present setback in this department—

Gender.

I struggle with gender.

I want, so desperately, for there to be a uniform code of behaviors ascribed to men, and another set, entirely, ascribed to women.
And I know…believe me I know that such an assertion cuts brutally into the progress so many different movements have fashioned precisely for overly-analytical, free-thinking black girls like me.

But I need for the Universe to whisper something, anything in my ear that offers some definitive, concrete standard of conduct, rules of engagement type this or that, enabling me to sleep through the night, and face my own reflection in the morning without Sojourner Truth-alizing* myself.

If I had such a guidepost, such a boy v. girl totem, maybe then I’d see the shame in lifting the hem of my Leifsdottir skirt for premarital, and, fuck it, sometimes entirely noncommittal sex. Maybe then I’d trade Woodford Reserve for Moscato, or something frothy and pink with an umbrella. Maybe then I could finally address what has become the cause celebre of my life, and justifiably silence the plain manner of speaking that – from my lipsticked mouth—seems “mean,” or unduly harsh.

If girls behaved like girls, and boys behaved like boys, then I’d know who to look to for example. Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a standout. Maybe then I wouldn’t seem so hard in all the places where girls are supposed to be so soft.

Alas, I am fighting a battle with gender. And I am losing.

And do you know who’s winning?

The bitches.

What my friend, “Tre,” would call “bitch.made.motherfuckers.”

And while they possess an arsenal of tools at the ready for their free and immediate disposal, their favorite, their weapon of mass destruction– is passive aggression.

It is this, and this alone, that has emerged as the catalyst for my conflict with gender, and set into motion my own social androgyny that shows little sign of ceasefire.

It is painfully clear to me that no one really has any interest in saying at all what the fuck they actually mean.

We’re still communicating, mind you.

Just, in bitchisms.

Well——

There are no certainties.

Not even in gender.

Especially in the instance of gender.

Boys are not boys and girls are not girls. The pox that is bitchery is present on the houses of both sexes. So here’s something for all of you out there, eternally suspended in your bitchly robes, in your bitchly kingdoms, thinking your bitchly thoughts—

Ladies-

I no longer forgive you your silent desperation. I resent any implication that I assemble context clues to deal with you. I hold forever against you any “I shouldn’t have to tell you/I shouldn’t have to ask you—You should just know/You should just do it” that escapes your lips.

That shit is dumb.

And presumptuous.

And arrogant.

And a self-fulfilling failure.

And you know what? Maybe you shouldn’t have to.

But.you.fuckin’.do.

Men—

I can no longer accommodate your unwillingness to speak, truthfully, about that which bothers you. I can no longer falsely label “stoic” a silence motivated by fear of sounding-like-a-bitch.

I have called many men “bitches” in my day.

Most, in fact.

But I have never, once, called a man “bitch” for telling me his feelings.

Having feelings, and saying them aloud doesn’t make you a bitch.

That’s just ridiculous.

Having bitch feelings is what makes you a bitch.

In which case, the solution is not to hold them inside.

The solution to having bitch feelings is to not have bitch feelings; to grow up; to quit bein’ a lil’ bitch.

Lookit.

There are an awful lot of people out there putting an awful lot of stock in my ability to register all of the emotions, anger, insecurities they’re not saying.

And I get it.

I’m a hard woman. If boys were boys and girls were girls I’d perhaps be silk in the places I am woolen.

And it seems so easy to take refuge in the unspoken; I can’t counter an argument not said, can’t debate a point not made.

But you know what—

I can’t concede one either.

And of that, you can be certain.

I’d bet the Universe.

 

*see Ain’t I a Woman?

for old times sake……

Should
auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and days of auld lang syne* ?

For auld lang syne, my jo,

for auld lang syne,

we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

Robert Burns

******

One of life’s greatest untold ironies, and indeed, most significant
disappointments, is the truism that we all end up in the same place.

Most of us, anyhow.

Certainly, we’re taught, from a very early age that, should
we put forth our best efforts, and keep our noses clean, a wealth of
opportunities and riches await us in our futures.

Some years later, myself now fully grown, I’ve began to take
stock of this much-fabled do-better-in-the-long-run theorem of childhood
development.

And it’s crap.

Absolute crap.

The real truth is that with a few minor exceptions, the kids
who stole from Spencer’s will end up in lives nearly identical to the kids who
placed first at science fairs.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There I was, three weeks ago, at the corner of Wilson and
Courthouse. The day was bitter cold, and the wind was whipping at my
extremities with a brute force that made my knuckles weep.

Though overburdened with a laptop satchel, purse, and
bookbag, the heels of my pumps etching life from the Arlington pavement with my
every slew-footed step, I could tolerate the frost at my fingertips no further,
and stopped, suddenly. I wasn’t going to move another inch until I’d donned a
pair of gloves.

I furtively rustled through my purse, shifting receipts here
and there, fumbling over pens, glasses, business cards, but nothing, nothing with
the familiarity of kid leather.

I scrunched my nose as it started to run, sniffing
fervently, willing myself not to focus on the cold, or my growing frustration, when
my hand snagged at something smooth. I recognized, immediately, that whatever I
was grasping wasn’t a glove, but curiosity demanded I withdraw it from my bag’s
hollows.

One lone pair of hot pink boycut boxer briefs.

I had stuck my hand in my purse, and pulled out a pair of
drawes on the corner of Courthouse and Wilson.

I rushed to put my findings back where they’d been
discovered, only to have my hand caught, again, by a smooth fabric-y something
or other. Removing my hand, once more, I looked to my palm.

“Son-of-a-BITCH!” I exclaimed. Black, satin panties.

Jamming the underwear back in my bag, I assembled my things about
my person, and proceeded to the parking deck, hands freezing, nose running, and
several curses ever-present on my lips.

It is not often that I reflect upon the manner of woman I’ve
become, but, on this day in particular, the expensive lining of my bag being
kept warm by my unmentionables, I paused.

Like……..how was I living? Was my life so crazy? Were my nights so wild
that I couldn’t deign to sleep at my own house, everything in its proper place,
panties on poon, not in purse?

At that moment, all became clear to me.

My great revelation.

The unexpected synchronicity of life’s experiences between
myself and a teenaged slut I once knew.

And an auld acquaintance I’d
long forgotten sprang to mind once more….

*******

Okay, so, truth be told, I never personally smelled Meka.

Like, I’d never, you know, experienced her rumored wet-assy odor, first hand.

But, she looked like she stank, or was, at the very least,
musty-as-a-motherfucker-seeming to my 13 year old eyes, so I didn’t really fool
with her too much.

Besides, she was new to school (in so much as she hadn’t
attended any of the 3 elementary schools whose graduates now teemed the halls
of Brandon Middle) and had every appearance of trouble about her.

That she’d consented to being the doormat in Remonica
Jenkins’ motley assortment of derelict girls didn’t bode well for her either.

I kept my distance, and merely watched from afar, seldom
offering up opinion on her presence at our school, even when asked directly.
But her every move captured my attention. Something about this girl fascinated
me.

Meka was of above average height and dark brown in color. I
suspect her hair was originally fashioned in the style of a bob, but had
somehow lost its way when she’d elected to deprioritize consistent relaxers.

She had a rather nice set of teeth, I always thought. I was
keenly aware of this fact, as Meka had the misfortune of being something of a
mouth-breather.

While she was nothing to really look at, all in all, she
fared no better or worse than any of us, but for one distinguishing set-apart:
Meka’s face was covered in a veritable sea of blackheads; blackheads that she,
by all appearances, was rather fond of
picking at.

When I say that Meka was a doormat in Remonica’s crew, I do
so without the slightest touch of hyperbole.

On Monday, they’d be nice to her, inviting her to lunch, and
joking with her. By Wednesday she’d be “stinky, ugly” Meka, on whose desk they’d
deposit a wash cloth and soap before class. True story.

It didn’t help that she was a little on the fast side. Boys
lined up to get at her, as her virtue was said to be free for the taking.

And that was how things were at Brandon Middle, on and on ad infinitum until the unthinkable
happened…Meka got a steady boyfriend.

None other than Justin Dart, brother to Monique Dart, best
friend of Remonica Jenkins.

A brief word on Monique Dart.

They say she went crazy.

I don’t know if that’s true or not.

What I do know is, that back then, Monique was a bully of
the first water. She was tall and slight of frame, but scary as all hell,
repeatedly in trouble, and awash with enthusiasm at the prospect of fucking up
anyone who dared step in her path.

She had less hair than you could snap your fingers at, but miraculously
defied known science day after day, and managed to put it in a ponytail (think
of one of those ittybitty dwarf ponies that only come to your knees, and make
you kinda sad to look at).

But what was most fascinating, and indeed, spectacular,
about Monique, was the ever-present layer of dry, crusty, chappy, rashy ash
that circled her full lips in a perfect oval.

Why spectacular?

Because she insisted upon concealing said oval of dry,
crusty, chappy, rashy ash at all costs.

And she didn’t employ a traditional method of concealment,
like, say, oh….idunno…CONCEALER….

Oh no.

Monique covered her mouth………

With her fucking hand.

Like…..

All the time.

She talked THROUGH her hand.

Like a horrible puppeteer, or that black beat-boxing dude
from Police Academy.

Let’s say we were in class and Monique had to use the
restroom. She’d raise her left hand, whilst covering her mouth with her right.
When called upon, she’d mumble her request THROUGH her fingers.

And her hand was ALWAYS there. I bet it was balmy as FUCK
under there, and I’m certain that mushrooms thrived in the webbed cartilage between
her fingers.

Whatever the case, I’m sure her being mean as the devil was
directly related to the chronic slow burn plaguing her forearm that never
deviated from its 45° angle.

But I digress.

Meka, a sucker for a bad decision, had taken up with Justin
Dart, and by all accounts, was giving up the bads to him on a fairly regular
basis.

She continued to abide the constant demoralization of
Remonica and her crew, trying desperately to win their affections—some days she
was the bird, but most days she was the statue.

Then, one day, it all changed.

I’d left my classroom a little late, staying behind to speak
with a teacher, and by the time I hit the halls for a quick run to my locker
the corridor was thick with a crush of seventh graders.

Everyone seemed really excited, and loud for some reason.

Moreso than usual. The crowd of kids was jeering and a thicket of boys were at
the very center, hands outstretched above their heads, fingertips avidly reaching
for something. I saw something being passed from person to person, and I couldn’t
make it out, but the mystery object was driving my schoolmates into a frenzy.

“What’s up?” I asked Melanie, a friend of mine, who had
appeared by my side, giggling and grinning.

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirlllllllllllllllllllll…”
she drawled before firing out the next sentence with a rush of information, “MekaputherdrawesinanenvelopeandtriedtogivethemtoJustinbutRemonicaandthemgotemandnowtheypassinthemaroundeverywhere!!!”

I looked up, again, and now, fully apprised of the
happenings, noted that the object did
appear to be a pair of women’s underwear—black, satin panties.

Meka, in a last ditch attempt at sexy, had put her rank,
rancid drawes (I’m taking some license,
here) in an envelope, brought them to
school, and tried to give them to
Justin.

Setting aside the fact that drawes in an envelope don’t so
much give off “sexy” as they do “evidence collected from a crime scene,” they
were now being passed around from person to person, her humiliation more
profound now, than ever before.

I saw her then, in the midst of the chaos, standing there
looking dumbfounded. She wasn’t even trying to get them back as much as steel
herself from the noise all about her. She looked a bit bewildered; as though
she couldn’t comprehend how things had gotten to this point.  And I remember, for the first time, feeling
truly sorry for her.

*********

My unexpected encounter with my own unmentionables made me
think of Meka, that cold day in December.

I mean…our dissimilarities are many.

She was a child of 13, and I am a woman of 30.

She was a social pariah, and I’ve always enjoyed the warmth
of good friends.

She was hot and loose with the ass, and I am……..less hot and
loose with the ass.

But somehow, someway…

Despite passage of time and difference of circumstance……

We both own the
same pair of black, satin drawes.

And neither she, nor I, had the good sense, presence of
mind, or common damned decency to leave those sonsofbitches at home.

On a cold, windy day in December, I was Meka. And by Jove,
Meka was me.

So, to Burns’ query, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot and
never brought to mind?” I say, “Shit, no!”

And tonight—

Tonight,  I’ll raise
my cup o’ kindness to the tarnished memory of Meka, the slut that Time may have
forgot, but not I…..

Not I.

My super-duper, unapologetically long manifesto, or, “yes, i’m 30. whooptee fuckin doo.”

I began this blog a little over a year ago.

I was finally dealing with a breakup from a man I’d dated on and off for the better part of six years, and coming to grips with what I’d considered an indeterminate future.

I was 28, roughly a year into my second law firm job, and a little uncertain with respect to what a rational, responsible adult my age was supposed to look like.

A year prior, at 27, I’d come to the conclusion revelation that nothing in this world truly mattered. Not in the way we all seemed to think it did, rather. I wasn’t becoming cynical, or apathetic; it just occurred to me that I’d spent the majority of my life placing great emphasis on so many bullshit things, never stopping to consider the temporal nature of it all.

New me was on some “We pass this way but once” type shit.

New me was in the midst of a full on conversion to Epicureanism.

New me codified her sentiments in an idiom she proclaimed to whoever would listen. “Life is long, but youth is short,” New me would say.

The expression gave me life, and indeed, some limited sense of purpose. Every time I breathed it, aloud, into open air, it was a license to tomfuckery.

While I was taking babysteps to my freedom from institutionalized patterns of thought and behavior back then, it would be another two years before I crossed into full-fledged i-don’t-give-a-damn-ery.

Which brings us to present day.

In less than one month I will be 30.

As I couldn’t give a hearty damn about some arbitrary number the world at large has capriciously designated a milestone in my own personal life—a life, about which “the world” knows nothing—I’ve given the occasion little thought.

But all about me, everyone seems to care.

I mean care, care.

Like, 30 is big shit to a lot of people.

Everywhere I turn, there are these lists—Things to Do Before You’re 30, What You Should Know By 30, 30 Things to Do Before You’re 30­—and it all just seems like hogwash to me; a complete waste of time. If a naturally occurring, chronological determinate date, over which you have absolutely no control, is the marker by which you assess your current life state, you need to get another fucking life. Like, ASAP.

But………..from all I’ve observed, some cursory bout of self-reflection, demonstrated in list-format is appropriate.

I’ll comport with custom—kinda—one final time, for the cheap seats….

10 Things You Should Do When You Finally Wake Up and Realize It Doesn’t Fucking Matter 

 

1. Give in to your anger and tell someone who deserves it an emphatic “Fuck you,” “Fuck Off,” or “Go Fuck Yourself.”

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Seriously, there might not be a more depressing quote in existence.

It’s true, though. We expend immeasurable portions of our lives trying to perfectly fit into clearly-defined lines, telling ourselves to “grin and bear it.” In order for civilization to remain “civilized;” to prevent reversion to Rosseau’s proverbial “state of nature” where we fight it out like savage beasts at every pass, each of us must be occasionally willing to concede some ground in the face of conflict.

Fair enough.

The problem is, we’re conceding more and more, every day. This is particularly true for those of us set up in our dignified, hyper-educated, professional spaces. Our lives become this predictable pattern of acquiescence.

Here’s what you need to know. People can smell it on you. They can tell that you’ve been trained, systematized. And they will feed off of it; talk wild to you, firm in their reasoning that “You.aint.gon.do.sheeit.”

This is what I believe. You can stay in your lane every day of your life, if you so choose. It’s not going to make you successful; or a titan of industry. The real winners are the rogues, the cowboys, the desperadoes who are willing to occasionally push propriety aside and live on the margins.

Alas! Get thee to an f-bomb. If there is one message I’d like to leave this world with, upon my departure, it is, that nobody but NOBODY is above a well-timed f-bomb. NOBODY.

To date, I have told one client, and one doctor proclaiming himself to be terminally ill that they could go fuck themselves.

I have told one lawyer that he could represent to his client, on my behalf, my desire for him to go fuck himself.

I have told two men, with whom I’ve been romantically acquainted, to fuck off.

I have told the friend of one of one of those men,  that said romantic attachment could “Go fuck his mother.”

I’m still here.

And know what?

ALL of those people came back.

2.  Accept that honesty is NOT the best policy. You’re living in a fucking fantasy.

Anyone who tells you that honesty is the best policy lives one of two diametrically opposed realities: 1. He/She is *the* biggest asshole on the planet, or 2. He/She has the most bullshit ass monotonously boring life ever.

Look, I’m gonna give you some advice that is going to free you, okay?

Ready?

Lie.

Just.lie.okay?

You know the most popular thing people say when they’ve just revealed some great truth to another party? “I felt so relieved. It was as if this huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to where all of that “lifted weight” goes?

Thhhhhhaaaaat’s right. Square on the shoulders of that motherfucker you just saw fit to bulldoze with alla that truth.

You think you’re this bastion of ethical righteousness because you chose to tell the truth? No, no. Try again. You’re a selfish asshole.

Look. If you love me, you need to go ahead and lie to me. Tell me I look thin. Tell me you like my blog. Tell me you didn’t fuck that girl. Just lie. Don’t think that our love is strong enough to overcome these monumental acts of betrayal. It’s not. Stop thinking that I’m a big enough woman to see to the heart of your affection for me and give you another chance. I’m not. Lie to me, baby. I’d do it for you.

The flip side is that you’re this mouse of a person, always dutifully seeing to the needs of others, putting your wants and desires behind everyone else’s. You’re this chaste virgin of the Hearth, ever-campaigning for wholesome happiness and sprinkles and rainbows to be spread throughout the Earth. You want for nothing but quiet simplicity, and to be a living, breathing personification of Christ’s love.

You don’t lie because you have nothing to lie about. You literally spend your days doing good deeds, or no deeds at all.

Really, good for you.

Personally, I’d rather die.

3.  Get up and wordlessly walk out of a room. Hang up on someone.

Look. I don’t know about you, but, my time is precious. I don’t have a whole lot of excess seconds and minutes to be passing time with a bunch of dicks. So, when I feel like a conversation has gotten to a place where I am no longer interested, or a place that is particularly aggravating or patently offensive, I simply take my leave.

I will walk out of a client meeting. I will walk out of an argument or a would-be argument with a friend or romantic interest. And you can bet that sweet ass I will hang up on a motherfucker. With a quickness.

But here’s how you have to do it in grown up stance—wordlessly.

Don’t knock any desks over. Don’t make any violently loud protestations. Only a bitchass makes a demonstration of strength only to dip and not deal with the repercussions. No, no. Yours is a quiet exit. It’s not about the physical act of your departure or the physical reality of the now-dead phone line. It’s your mental state of no-longer-give-a-fuck-ness that is important, here. It’s not about the other person at all. You are saying to yourself, “Wait.a.minute. I just stopped giving a damn. I’m gonna go.”

And here’s why.

Because.you.fucking.can.

It’s high time we all start to acknowledge the fact that we are grown ups. And you know what—save some jarringly illegal exceptions—I can do whatever the hell I want.

So I will.

4.  Be unapologetic about the amount of television you watch.

Okay. So right. There’s this “movement” among academics and intellectuals that’s been underfoot for a while. And it’s rooted in this hoity-toity, “I’m too smart to waste my time watching television; there’s nothing but trash on it anyway” stream of thought.

FUCK.

YOU.

Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?

Really?

Really?

There’s nothing of merit, nothing worthy of your attention, in a thousand channels?

How about the news, Numbnuts? You don’t think live broadcast programming of an interview conducted with Hamid Karzai is worth your time? Oh. Okay.

My love of television doesn’t make me an idiot, or some mindless nothing. And when I get home from my relentlessly demanding job, I watch “Bad Girls Club,” the entirety of the “Real Housewives” franchise, “Maury”—the trash of the trash, people. And, you know what, “I feels jes fine” about it ( © Shug Avery).

5.  Stop worrying about how fat/ugly you are.

Seriously. Just stop. It’s tired.

Do something about it, or shut the fuck up about it.

Just stop worrying about it. Stop letting that shit run you. 

If I could go back in time and tell my 15 year old self just one thing, it would be that personality is what matters the most in the get-ass game. Personality.

It’s what matters in the friendship game. It’s what matters in the professional game. Personality is everything.

You know the reason why everyone hates your ugly girlfriend, ladies? It’s not because she’s so ugly.

Oh, no. It’s because her ugliness has metastasized into this black nebulous of hateration. She’s discontent in her ugly status, and is prepared to use the full throttle of her ugly resources to bitch, whine, ruin your good time, cockblock you, and ultimately, attempt to slowly suffocate any happiness you are able to actualize.

NOT because she’s so damned ugly.

But because she can’t get over that shit.

Look. They can’t all be bangers. Some of us are destined to be trolls; “swamp donkeys” ( © S. Bernard Shaw, front-free.com).

Write some shitty spoken word about it and get the hell over it. You are a grown ass woman. What in the fuck do you look like crying about how you look? I need to go grab a drink and figure out how to make income in the midst of a recession, and your monkey ass don’t wanna go out because you got a pimple. Grow the fuck up.

6.  Put something ridiculous on display in your office and refuse to comment on it.

In my last office, in the midst of diplomas and law stuff, I had: a plastic, bloody, severed arm, a book on my desk called Apes and Monkeys, and a stapler completely bejeweled in pink rhinestones.

The point?

Even if your job is serious, it’s not that serious.

I don’t give a damn what you do.

“You are not your job.”–Tyler Durden.

That’s right.

Fight Club.

I just went there.

You’re welcome.

The truth of the matter is, no matter what you do; no matter how good you are at it; no matter how many awards and accolades you receive—no one will ever be able to truly appreciate how much you give, or how much you contribute. Even if you devote all of your time to making other people’s lives better. When it’s all said and done, we’re all too caught up in our own shit to ever truly understand the extent of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. It’s fucked up, but true.

And, oh yeah, by the way—

You’re expendable.

Like FUCK.

So go ahead and cover the back of your laptop with SpongeBob stickers. I guarandamntee it won’t matter worth a damn.

7.  Say something inappropriate to your parents.

This shit should actually be Number One on this list.

At the most elementary level, your parents are unable to see you as an adult until you force them to see you as an adult.

Now, this is largely because the majority of us engage in childish shit.

The fact remains, however, that we are adults.

And I am a firm believer that parents have as much to learn from children as children their parents.

Now, my parents were UNCOMMONLY strict when I was growing up.

And through some very expensive, carefully orchestrated psychotherapy sessions, I am learning to come to terms with some of the perhaps irreparable damage done during the course of my childhood.

All of that aside, when I finally started to show my parents the real adult me (through a series of awkward sexual references and well-placed “Damnits”), they began to see me as the real adult me. Not some well-assembled genetic replica meant to be doted on and showcased. And I actually think they like me more, because I like me more when I’m not playacting for their benefit. They trust my adult judgment, even if they don’t understand it.

And you know what? While plenty of y’all are faking the funk, pretending to lead these virginal lives, and getting drawes and socks for Christmas—

My parents just returned from vacation bearing gifts of shotglasses and booze.

Really.

Who’s winning, here?

8.  Take an afternoon and just dedicate it to pornography.

I’m looking at you, ladies.

For the life of me, I will never understand how we all became so vehemently anti-porn.

I don’t wanna hear shit about porn objectifying women, and the hazards of porn. Don’t say it to me, ladies. I don’t wanna hear it. And let me tell you why.

I know that 89% of y’all making these protestations haven’t seen any porn.

And even if you have seen some, you haven’t seen a broad cross section of it.

I’m not telling you that you have to derive some sexual gratification from it. I’m not saying that you have to like it. I’m not even suggesting that you engage in some anti-Christine O’Donnell to it.

I’m just telling you that you need to see what’s out there.

Odds are, if you haven’t peeped any, you are the absolute worst where it counts. And you might not even know that you’re the worst. But you are.

More to the point, men watch porn.

Some less than others, sure.

But, men watch porn.

Are you telling me  you feel comfortable with a group of people who constitute half of this nation’s demographic watching some shit you’ve never seen before?

It’s like those people who brag, “I’ve never seen one episode of Seinfeld,” or “I’m happy to say I’ve never seen one episode of Friends.”

Well now. You’ve just shut yourself out of a solid 15-20 years of cultural references that everyone else around you can—at the very least—recognize.

You’ve successfully managed to stay in the dark. Congratu-fuckin-lations.

Trust me, ladies.

Take a day.

I personally like to call it, “Self-Abuse Saturday,” but, whatever your pleasure—

Open a bottle of wine.

Draw the blinds.

And watch a few flicks.

You may not know it now, but this is the exact reason you moved out of your parents’ home.

It might not change your life, but, you can probably stand a temporary disruption from our normally scheduled programming.

BTW—

Don’t download that shit.

9.  Stop being a pussy about being alone.

I’m an only child, so perhaps I have the advantage here, but, I can never get my mind behind these need-to-be-all-up-under-you types. You have to be on your phone. You have to be with your friends. You have to be with your girlfriend/boyfriend.

If you can’t stand to be around just you, why in the holy fuck do you think anyone else will want to?

That doesn’t even make sense.

It will not kill you to have a drink by yourself.

It will not kill you to just sit in your home and stare up at the ceiling for a bit.

If we, indeed, grow from our experiences, a great many of us are missing out on vital parts of our personal progression when we shuck aside the value in experiencing ourselves. Like, in our truest form. Stripped of makeup and fancy clothes. Devoid of business cards, and explanations of comings and goings. Completely protected from our friends’ prying eyes or judgment.

You know the number one complaint of my married/parent friends? They don’t have any time to just be by themselves.

And here we all are, imprisoned by this seemingly-flip expression that has been drilled into our heads for the better part of two decades: “single and ready to mingle.”

No, Boo boo.

Try, “single and ready to roll dolo because I ain’t got no muthafuckin kids, what what!!! Hootie hoo, my dude!!”

My periodic absences from civilization are LEGENDARY in my friendship circles.

I’m finding more and more inner peace by the day.

10.  Stop looking to everyone else for the answers to shit.

I know, I know.

Really?

After I’ve just dedicated 2,000 words of “to do?”

Hear me out.

It has been said that only a fool relies on his own counsel.

I totally agree.

As a matter of fact, in my estimation, the only thing better than a sound piece of advice is a sound piece of tail.

And if anyone has any sound advice as to how to effectively pursue a sound piece of tail…whoaaaa buddy.

My apologies.

We’re nearing the end, it’s been a long road, and I’ve digressed into ass-talk. Forgive me. Habit.

The point is, there is no harm in seeking advice. Or giving it when solicited (*cough* I’m pretending y’all solicited this shit *cough*).

We just need to take care about that which we’re seeking—advice. Counsel.

NOT “answers.”

I watched this episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta the other day (Fuck off, tv haters), and saw that countless Black women had piled themselves into a seminar on how to find love taught by some asshole named “Dr.” Tiy-E (see, tv haters—you’d KNOW why I put the “Dr.” in “ “s and called him an asshole if you’d WATCHED. Now you have to google it, while everyone else can just flow, knowingly with the remainder of the entry).

These bitches PAID a SINGLE man to tell them HOW to find love.

Are.you.fucking.serious?

Like, they paid good money, with the understanding that this follicle-ly challenged court jester would give them the answer to why they’re single.

People have been finding love for centuries, FOR FREE AS A MOTHERFUCKER, and they paid this monkey for an *answer.*

Well, merrymakers, here’s some advice for the “bargain price of –on the house—“ :

Stop.looking.for.the.answers.

There aren’t any.

Got it?

The answer is literally, whatever the hell you say it is.

Start making your own answers.

Better yet, find the maverick in you and have the courage to do as Rilke suggested—

“Live the questions now. Perhaps, someday, far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers.”

(Kudos to my angel, “Michael,” for putting me on to this particular quote.)

This is the only life we’ve got, people.

With odds like that, who the fuck can afford to waste time worrying about 30?

Fooler Fridays: Because y’all looove advice from people unqualified to give it……..

Fooler—

How do you do the opposite of getting beyond the friend label? As in, let’s say you fuck the guy on the first date and you don’t really know each other and you sense that he wants to be friends. How do you slow things down when you’ve crossed the proverbial finish line? And like, what happens if you do slow things down and see each other in the daylight but you decide that you don’t really like him that much?

Nipple.Etiquette.

 Nipple.

 Etiquette.

 Some men have it.

 Some men don’t.

 Now—

 What exactly is nipple etiquette?

 Idunno.

 Varies from girl to girl.

 But, in the illustrious words of Justice Potter Stewart: “[It’s] hard to define…but I know it when I see it.”

 Or–feel it, as it were.

 In the prevailing, dominant relationship model—the one that advises friendship before courtship, and courtship before fucking—it will take months to determine whether a man has nipple etiquette.

 Now, maybe this isn’t a big deal for a lot of women.

 Particularly, married-minded ones who adhere to the strict dictates of The Rules, and believe there are sure-fire tricks to catch a man, keep a man, and bind him to your side from here to eternity.

 For me and mine, I’d just as soon take a pass on being your rib if it means a pair of bruised up, raisin-y nipples for the remainder of my days.

 Look—

 In the spirit of not having my intrauterine wall lined with a topcoat of scabies, I’m all about the wait.

 It’s good to know that the man you’re sleeping with isn’t some disgusting cesspool of malignant dick cooties.

 If you have trust issues or are prone to fall for those you allow in your hotbox, or just aren’t ready to make what is an entirely momentous decision in terms of genital to genital nekkidry—

 I’m all about the wait.

 What I’m not about, is some arbitrary timeline, we adhere ourselves to, with the ultimate goal of achieving some fictitious relationship ideal.

 And, if we’re being entirely honest– in a world where presiding elders of megachurches are being accused of kid-touching; where politicians are compelled to speak out publicly against something as innocuous (and arguably, beautiful) as masturbation—I couldn’t give two damns rubbed together about some organized concept of morality; some archaic paradigm of respectability.

 I mean, think about it.

 Really think about it the friendship/courtship/fucking model.

 What the kids today call “caking”— the initial getting to know him phase; this idea of talking to someone day and night, night and day; of expending time and money; of telling your girls all the funny things he’s said, sighing wistfully into the distance, wondering, absently, what he’s doing and if he’s out there somewhere, being adorable, and absently wondering about you—

 Shit’s exhausting.

 But we do it because crushes are a natural conduit of the getting to know you phase.

 And they’re fun.

 Crushes are fun.

 And unlike so many other things in our adult world that have the harsh smear of reality—of bills, and work, and uncooperative pockets of assfat– not to mention the staid monotony of familiarity—

 A crush is the standard bearer of all things hopeful; some unpioneered emotional landscape that has all the newness of birth, fresh as the coming dawn.

 It’s a lovely thought, no?

 Hold that close for a moment.

 Close your eyes and hold the downy, warm, softness of a new, exciting, and enthralling man close to you for a moment.

 Now think about him applying the suction of a Dyson and the mangy, rabid teeth of a wolverine to your nipple.

 Think about him leaving pools of spittle behind your ears, attempting artificial resuscitation on your navel, incessantly whimpering like a woman, and finally, ejaculating into his jeans, as he’s done all of this before removing his pants.

 Think about this not being a first time mishap, but the norm. The routine.

 This beautiful man, with whom you share so much in common—

 This wonderfully artful, articulate, and pathetically flaccid man is the one in whom you’ve vested so much time, so much wardrobe coordination, so much crush.

 Now, look at you.

 Now you gotta wonder if your unwillingness to battle out his propensity for failed cockery–despite his manifold stellar accomplishments—makes you a shallow bitch.

 Now you gotta think about shit like all the other broads out there in the world hunting, thirsty for a man as good as this– and how they’d be grateful just to bask in the glow of his premature ejaculation; offering up their own pair of mahogany coconuts or russet peaches (as this is a problem that affects black women as well as white) for his soggy-mouthed, aggressively dental obliteration, nipple etiquette be damned.

 Suddenly he’s not so funny.

 He’s not that cute at all.

 Now your friends, who wanted nothing more than for you to shut the fuck up these past few months, are questioning your newfound reluctance to mention his name.

 Now, when that divine man wishes you could be with him to see some soul-stirring piece of artwork, all you can think is, “I wish that you would fuck me right. How about that? Since we’re talking about wishes and shit.”

 And even though you will have played precisely by the rules of the friendship/courtship/fucking model–ultimately, y’all will argue; you will drift apart; and some inane this or that will be to blame for the dissolution of what, once, appeared to be a great thing in the making.

 When really, it was because you hated sleeping with him.

 Bad sex is the carbon monoxide of any relationship. Everything may look like it’s on the up and up, but in due time, that shit will MURDER all that ever once lived.

 I say all of this to say—

 Think outside the box (I’ll keep the pun) this one time.

 This one time, maybe sex isn’t the “finishing” line.

 Maybe it’s the firing shot.

 If y’all are compatible in bed, and he likes you enough to want to kick it with you outside of it, and you like him enough to consider it, maybe y’all have a head start on the race.

 Maybe you need not slow anything down.

 Maybe y’all exhaust yourselves sucking and fucking and burn out like two shooting stars—

 Maybe that would have happened anyway, even if you’d waited.

 And hey—

 If he ends up being horrible at life, but is still solid otherwise (again, I’ll keep the pun)—

 Hell, Idunno—

 Insist that he always pick you up for dates, drag him in and screw him, then feign fatigue and send him on his way.

 That ought to keep you for at least a month before he gets wise.

 The point is this—

 You’ve already gone against the grain. It’s too late to backtrack.

 Maybe stop examining the speed of your pace, and start examining the state of your nipples.

and while i’m on the topic, “shit i never got over, volume iii: sometimes i still hate my friends, or the 2nd time i didn’t lose my virginity…”

I wanna talk about the second time I didn’t lose my virginity.

When historians are charged with the task of assessing the most poignant developments of the new millennium’s initial years, a significant contingent of my generation will find it owes a rather large sexual debt to the creators of AIM.

Not me.

I will belong to that other segment of the “Thank you, AIM,” populous: The 70 typed words per minute group.

Be that as it may, the fact remains, AIM was responsible for a solid 83% percent of the sex happening on my college campus.

It was technology’s most marvelous gift.

I’ll never forget the moment I realized that this thing—this mythical mechanized contraption of social wonderment—would hold the key to my sexual revolution.

There I was, but a young girl of 18, sitting in my bedroom in my all girls dormitory, when I heard its glorious ring from my Thinkpad in the middle of the night:

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “What are you doing?”

Me: *squeal into pillow* “Nothing. Watching TV.”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Come dance with me.”

Me: *squeal into pillow, uncontrollably, roll off bed, squeal into pillow some more and scissor kick the air with my sock-clad feet*: “Now?”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Now.”

So, as you can see, it was entirely reasonable that I should vest my rather high hopes for sexual advancement, and by that same token, hymen-al demolition, in the tech-savvy grasp of AIM.

But……….a year rolled by.

And then another.

NOTHING.

I was saddled on either side by men who were way into my virginity—perverts—or men who wanted no parts of it—whores.

My junior year in college brought several new romantic developments in my life. An off campus interest that had great potential, and an on campus interest, “Tate,” who didn’t give a damn whether I lived or died.

Tate was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a crush. He was smart, funny, all muscle-y brawn and sinew, and completely and totally disinterested in me. He’d made it clear that his type of woman was more quiet than brassy, more athletic than soft, and little concerned with the superficial trappings of this world. The anti-me.

Yet, somehow, I’d managed to hold some measure of his attention. AIM was slowly redeeming itself in my eyes as it took me higher and higher in Tate’s estimation. I was still little more than an afterthought—of this I was certain—but I was a thought, nonetheless. I wasn’t at all practiced in the art of girl-boy wooing, but I was artful enough to know that a bitch needed to at least get her foot in the door. My quippy, snarky chat-titude was a doorstop on my journey to the Kingdom of Fuck.

Now, around this point in time I was living in a house on the north side of campus, and I had 9 roommates. I had a rather large single in the westernmost corner of the house, and the other inhabitants were all my closest friends.

We were a rowdy group of women to say the least. The majority of us made good on every tangible college experience, both legal and illegal, alike, and frankly, thought ourselves the better for it.

There I was, on a random Thursday night, all ready to partake in our normal seasoned fuckery when the familiar singsong of AIM beckoned from my Thinkpad. Looking at my watch I noted that it was 9:45 pm. Awfully close to the witching(read as dicking) hour.

And it was him.

Tate.

At long last, asking the question that I’d so desperately been waiting for after dishing out weeks of my best late-nite chat schtick:

Tate: “Wassup?” (He was a man of few words.)

Me: “Nothing. ‘Sup?”

Tate: “Not shit. What’s poppin’ off at the (house where I lived)House, tonight?”

Me: *I looked around my room at the gaggle of girls under the influence of one or more illicit substances laughing heartily at some thing or other* “Nothing. I think everyone’s about gone to bed.”

Tate: “Kinda early, isn’t it? I’m gonna come through.”

Me: “All right. See you in a bit.”

I looked at my friends merrily chatting away. “Y’all bitches gotta get out.”

Their alcohol-addled minds seemed to not process my words quick enough for my rapid fire movements. I began to usher them out. “Y’all bitches gotta go. Go! I’m going to bed.”

The lot of them seemed confused, but they obliged me, running off into the furthest recesses of the house.

And I started getting ready.

I would only have about 20 minutes before Tate arrived so I’d have to work fast. At long last, tonight was going to be the night. And what a fucking catch! I was gonna lose my v-card to the sexiest dude I could think of. I straightened up my room, shoving dirty clothes in closets. I ran to the bathroom and showered, affecting the most thorough cleansing of my nether regions ever. And I slipped on a silk nightie and matching robe.

I like to think that, despite my most attentive of ministrations, I still managed to look nonchalant. In retrospect, I looked like a jackass.

When 10:15 rolled around and Tate cruised into my room, it was all I could do not to straddle him. He sat down in a chair near my bed, and virtually overflowed from it on account of his body mass. I sat on my bed, still unsure of what to do.

He looked at me intensely, half smirk playing at his lips. “You going to bed, huh?”

Be cool, bitch. Be cool. You can do this. “It is late. Sleep is what one does when it gets late.”

He wasn’t budging. “Right. And that’s what you usually sleep in? A……..robe?”

FUCK. He’s on to me. I knew this silk didn’t look casual. “What do you sleep in, Tate?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes shorts. Sometimes nothing.” Though the phrasing wasn’t available to me at the time, had this same scenario happened to me, today, and these same words been said to me, today, I’m fairly certain the expression I’d mentally reach for would be “FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING WIN!!!!!”

Fuck it. I’m goin’ in. I exhaled then, arching my back, casually, so that my shoulders were touching the wall behind me, the beginnings of my robe parted slightly. “So, what’s—“

*the door of my room burst open*

My two friends, one of whom would, shortly thereafter, become my linesister, “Tee,” and one of whom would, a year later still, become my neophyte, “Emm,” came barging into my room, drunk as the proverbial skunks.

“What chu doin’ what chu doin’?!?!!?” shouted Tee.

“FOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEERRRRR!!!!!” shouted Emm.

As I live and breathe these bitches came rushing in and proceeded to laugh and giggle, indiscriminately, at NOTHING, uninterrupted for a solid two minutes before even noticing I had company.

“OH!” cried Emm.

“TATE!!!” cried Tee.

Tee arched an eyebrow at me. “What cha’ll doin in here?” she slurred.

“Girl, they got the door closed,” chimed Emm.”

“Door closed!!! Ayooooooo!!!” shouted Tee.

And the two of them went tumbling to the floor.

Where they languished.

And giggled.

I sat there, horrified, not knowing what to do.

Emm and Tee were too preoccupied in their own drunkenness to notice. They talked to each other in intermittent loud spells, broken up only by more remote, hushed whispers of seeming baby talk.

After another two minutes had passed, with neither one of them seeming to realize the gravity of their cockblockage, I said, firmly, “Y’all?!”

Both of them, almost in perfect harmony, sat upright, just then. But neither made an attempt to move. Rather, Tee folded her legs Indian-style, and Emm followed suit. Looking  up at me in earnest, with her almond-shaped eyes, Emm tried her damnedest to affect sobriety. “So, what do ya’ll wanna do?”

Tate had had enough.

He stood up and inched past the girls parked in the middle of my floor. “I’m gonna go ahead and go. I’ll get at you guys later.”

Tee, was the first to sound. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww….”

Followed by Emm. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww. Bye, Tate.”

“Bye, Tate,” echoed Tee in a singsong voice.

As I watched his 6’1 frame depart my doorway I swore I could feel my hymen cementing itself permanently between my thighs.

After I was certain Tate had cleared the front door, I looked at the drunken haters sprawled on my floor.

“Foolerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!” cried Tee. “ So what do you wanna do now?”

*****

AIM ended up not being the gateway to my ultimate chastity ceasefire.

But, like I said.

I sure can type fast.

shit i never got over volume ii: an essay on my most unforgettable kiss, and the first time i didn’t lose my virginity.

I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

I’d tell you about the first, but, in retrospect—there may or may not have been a slight inference of Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor involved with that one, in that I was a mere 16, and he was, you know—27. Bygones.

Now, perhaps you’re thinking, “Wow, 16. That’s awfully old to have a first mouth kiss.” You’re right. It is. The reason for this is two-fold:

1. I was freakishly scared to kiss a boy. I know, I know. Strange. But, I was terrified that I’d try it and be horrible at it. In my ridiculously paranoid juvenile mind,  a kissing disaster would prompt a rapid spread of news  that I was, in fact, the world’s worst kisser, and no one would ever, EVER want to kiss me again. Please bear in mind, I was an only child whose parents placed absolutely zero parameters on my television-watching privileges. You try watching Mickey Rourke slather bitches down with his tongue and then peep a couple of soft core Emmanuelle-style delicate, baby kisses at age 13, and see if you aren’t intimidated to inaction until assured of your own ability to perfect the deed.

So, right.  I was scared. But also, and perhaps, more importantly:

             2. Nobody wanted to kiss me on the mouth.

Now, perhaps you’re wondering why I’m placing such emphasis on “on the mouth.” There is the small matter of that one time in the mall when “Rob” was trying to give me an awkward goodbye kiss, and I inclined my head too much, and my lips brushed his Adam’s apple. It was too mortifying an event to regroup and make a second attempt for the actual targeted lips, so I just let the embarrassing sleeping dog lie on his neck where it was. (I was so easily humiliated back then. Years later I’d go to the wedding of my friends “Art” and “Carly,” effectuate too brisk a pivot in my spaghetti strapped Max Azria dress, and bare one full, dusky-nippled b-cup breast to an entire row of Art’s Trinidadian cousins, hardly breaking a sweat.)

But I digress.  I want to tell you about the second boy I ever kissed on the mouth.

He was, coincidentally, the finest man with whom I have ever shared even the slightest intimacy. As I live and breathe let me assure you that should I roam this earth another eighty years, he will continue to be the finest man with whom I’ve ever shared any intimacy.

Let’s call him “Lee.”

So right, there I was, 16 years of age, confident that the world was my oyster, and quite assured that I knew all there was to know about anything that was even remotely important. I was Junior Class President. I was in the top ten percent of my class. I had a brand new car. I had never terminated a pregnancy. By all accounts, things were comin’ up roses.

Now, being a brainiac goody-goody had its downsides. I’d never had a boyfriend. None of the boys I’d had crushes on were particularly feeling me. And, truth be told, I’d made peace with this. I was content to like the boys that I liked from afar.

And granted, I’d noticed the new boy like everyone else. Tall, fairskinned, head full of the most beautiful locks I’d ever seen. He had an accent that betrayed a background so entirely different than any of ours. He was rough around the edges, and had rasp in his voice to prove it. Better still, he’d perfected that i-don’t-give-a-fuck-one-leg-propped-behind-him-lean-back-against-the-wall-stance that left your mouth dry, your thoughts hazy, and your panties square around your ankles if you weren’t paying attention.

But I was paying attention. I’d barely spared the interloper a second glance, save to admire those resplendent locks he’d absently whisked from his face with a flicker of his neck.

I’d known his name was “Lee.” We’d all known that. But boys like that—quiet, sexy as hell boys—they weren’t checking for me, and I was all crushed out.

Until the day that changed everything.

My girl, “Amber,” had mentioned that Lee had asked about me. When I’d inquired as to what, she’d smiled coyly, and said that he’d thought I was cute; that he’d wanted to know if I had a boyfriend.

I was so confused by this. What would this dude want with me? Boys with creamy smooth skin like that, with hair like that, didn’t want me. I’d thought that Amber was surely mistaken.

But, as it happened, she wasn’t.

Lee was actually feeling me.

We began this phone interlude that largely consisted of him calling, and me talking. I’d go on and on about some this or that, and he’d laugh, occasionally, but mainly just listen. I wasn’t certain whether this was a function of my talkativeness, or his retardation and inability to understand what I was saying. But I didn’t care. I was on Cloud Nine. My ascent into oblivion was complete. At long last, Fooler had made good. Fooler was gonna get the guy. And damnit, Fooler was gonna kiss this motherfucker SQUARE on the mouth!

And a few weeks later, when Lee asked me to come over to his house after school, I was ready.

Granted, it was on a side of town that my mother had preferred I not frequent, but, my mother had never known fineness like this. Seriously, this man’s hair was so thick, and so lustrous, and so beautifully maintained. These were not the locks of a 17 year old boy. Oh no. These were grown man, well tended locks. These were locks that had seen love, and affection, and nurturing. These were spiritual locks.

And Lee was so spiritual.

He was a man of few words, but, he was Muslim—and by “Muslim” I mean, he called himself a Muslim and said “Allah” as opposed to “God”—that had been the extent of our religious discourse.

But he wanted to be on a higher level with me (I should note, at this point, that he was the first in a long line of men who wanted to be on a “higher level” with me. As an adult, I now know this to mean “fuck you without calling you my girlfriend”).

We’d gone to the mall, once, and he’d bought some sneakers, and as we were walking around a department store he’d asked, “Do you want anything? I’ll get you anything you want.” I’d never been the kind of girl to take anything from a man (this was hypothetical, of course, because no one had ever offered…but I’d assumed that should the occasion ever arise where a man would make such an offer, I’d be exactly the kind of girl to politely decline.  I’ll note here, that this was an awfully progressive line of thought for an adolescent black girl at the time, coming up in an era when a boy was expected to show his affection for you via purchase of herringbone necklace). I’d shook my head, “no,” and smiled. He’d returned the smile and kissed me on my forehead, saying softly, “I really like you. You’re different.” It was all I could do not to strip naked then and there in Greenbrier Mall, demanding that he make nonexistent the irksome virginity that so intrudingly stood between my legs, and by proxy—us.

So, you see, it was a non-issue when my beloved had requested my presence at his familial homestead, on the not so pleasant side of town in complete defiance of my parents, when his guardians were conspicuously absent.

No one could understand our bond.

His fineness.

His spirituality.

His seemingly non-committal, but fuck it, what did I care Muslimness.

His locks.

When I got to his house, he showed me around. I noticed the furnishings, some pictures here and there.  We talked, briefly, about his family, about school. There was little to say as we had absolutely nothing in common, but I was so drawn to him. He excused himself to the adjoining room and told me to make myself comfortable.

I was trippin.

Girl, what are you gonna do? This dude is fine as hell.  You’re sittin up in this motherfucker’s house like you fittin’ to do somethin’. Okay, okay, relax. You can kiss him. You can kiss him and go home, but that’s it. That.is.it.

Unless it’s good.  If it’s good, he can feel your titties, but that’s it. Titties is all. Don’t take your shirt off. If you take your shirt off, he’s gonna take his shirt off, and then y’all are gonna be almost naked, and then you gotta do it. You can’t do it with this dude. You’re not ready to do it.

Damn, he’s sexy. Fuck it. I’ma do it.

No. No. No. I can’t do it. I can’t. I don’t even know him. Titties. JUST. TITTIES. 

(Sadly, this would not be the last time I ever had to have this conversation with myself while waiting on the return of a suitor.)

“Lee, you all right in there?” I called out, when he didn’t return, immediately.

“Yeah, just a sec,” he’d replied.

I heard it before he re-entered the room.

Lee had turned on “mood” music.

Only it was K-Ci and Jo Jo’s “All My Life.”

I fucking hated this song.

Lee stood there in all of his spectacular, winsome glory, smiling broadly. “I love this song.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

Standing before me, extending his hands to mine to help me from my seat  and draw me nearer, he asked, “Do you like this song?”

We were standing so close that our noses were touching. My heart was pounding so firmly in my chest I thought my passion for him was going to burst forth, all blood and guts, straight from my rib cage.

“I love this song,” I answered, in barely a whisper.

And then it happened.

My second on the mouth kiss.

We were all wild and wet tangled tongues, his mouth swallowing mine in a fit of ill-tempered, frenzied youth.  His fingers interlocked at the small of my back, and I stood on my tippy toes, eyes closed, nails gripping at his shoulders trying to show him how good at this I was; how completely and totally not amateur I was.

Only…

It was bad.

Like, awkwardly, suffocatingly, excessively liquid-y bad.

I couldn’t focus.

Gremlin K-Ci and fatassed Jo Jo were winding their monster-faced grooves into my mojo, their shrill cries metastasizing on my lust like some dark, sickly, two-most-fucked-up-members-of-Jodeci-sized cancer.

Lee broke away from our kiss.

Could this be? Could he feel it too? Did our connection run so deep that he knew when the beat was off? Was his super spiritual Muslimmy nature attune to the fact that this would be so much better and less manufactured if he’d simply slip in the Tony Rich Project “Like a Woman” like he’d done so many times in my fantasies?

He whispered then—

And  my world came crumbling to an embarrassing halt.

“Pull my hair,” he said.

* insert mental scratched record sound *

“What?” I’d asked.

“Pull my hair,” he repeated.

I knew this was God’s way of punishing me for my wanton streak of harlotry. I didn’t want to disappoint Lee. I mean, maybe this was what people did when they made out.

I reached my hands upwards to the mane that I’d coveted so desperately in my heart, and when I was but a breath away from it, I hesitated.

“Go ‘head. Pull it. Pull my hair.”

He kissed me hard, then, and I gripped the coarse tendrils firmly in my hands as he moaned in my mouth.

This wasn’t sweet at all.

Or sexy.

This was porn-y.

And fucking weird.

It went on for another full cycle of the song (the bastard had put that horrible shit on repeat) before I pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just getting late. I have to go.”

I rushed out of there like there was fire to my ankles. 

I would later give a more civil explanation to my friends when they inquired about the cool down between me and Lee.

In reality, the depth of his ardor was too much for me at the time.

I was class president for fuck’s sake. What the hell did I look like acquiescing to dudes’ fetishes at 3:00 on a Thursday afternoon to R&B power ballads?

In hindsight, Lee was fine as shit, and leaving was a weak bitch prude move.

I didn’t know I’d one day be 30, with the most mild of sexual requests being the shoving of inanimate objects up a companion’s backpipe.

Lee, to this day, I can’t listen to K-Ci and Jo Jo without thoughts of your nappy ass hair making ashy the skin between my fingers, running through my head.

If you’re out there, if you’re reading—I’m sorry.

Call me.

I’ll yank the scalp out that shit.

the return of Fooler Fridays part ii: my take+rob’s take+tre’s take+an experiment…

 

Fooler—

Your opinion on women approaching men?  Had a discussion about this with one of your sorors, and the idea was deemed ridiculous. A man should approach a woman and blah, blah, blah. That traditional bullshit makes no sense to me. It seems to me that a woman approaching a man would cut through a lot of bullshit on both ends…Anyway, hope you discuss.

This is such a fantastic question, I don’t even know where to begin.

Full disclosure.

I was totally going to answer this question with some quippy, snarky, retort, heavy on the progressive, modern woman sentiment, light on the substance.

But my point was going to be simple: It’s 2010. Of course women should hit on men. I was going to regale you with all of my thoughts on the matter, and then laughingly conclude with, “But I seldom hit on men.”

Fate intervened, however, and I will now commence presenting you with both my researched findings on the matter at hand, as well as—do try and contain your excitement—an experiment on the same.

First of all, let me give you my prevailing theory on why more women don’t hit on men.

Wait.

Lemme see if I can draw you a diagram. This blog has never utilized a diagram. You will see why, shortly.

                        TYPES OF WOMEN WHO DON’T HIT ON MEN

                                                                      /\

                                                                   /      \

                                                              /                \

       Women who don’t hit on men b/c                     Scared Broads

      they think it goes against the  natural                                /\           

      order of things & men should be the                               /         \

       aggressors.                                                                           /                \

                                                                                                  /                         \

                                         Women who are embarrassed                      Women who believe

                                       about the nature of the potential                  that a man would

                                       rejection.                                                                  hit on you if he were

                                                                                                                             truly interested.

 First things first.

Forget about those broads in category 1. Lost cause.

Category 2, however, and its subsequent subsections—there’s hope, there.

I happen to generally fall into category 2, both subsections.

Now, when I got your question, I was with my friend, Rob, who gave me tremendous insight with his own male perspective.

However, to understand his perspective and appropriately qualify his rationale, you must first hear mine.

And it goes like this:

Granted, while many of us can agree that women should hit on men, there are external forces to consider; namely, rejection.

And, realistically, that’s all category 2 boils down to: rejection.

Here are our dominant thoughts on the matter:

The Object of My Affection (OMA) Might not Like me Physically-

-This is absolutely more significant in the realm of women hitting on men than the inverse. Why? Because women are infinitesimally more forgiving of what we perceive to be physical flaws/defects than men.  And I stand by this shit so firmly. (I know many of you will have examples of this not being true, but keep them. You cannot dissuade me of this notion. ) A broad will date a gremlin and talk up his dickmedown abilities so strong to her friends, and dare anyone to challenge the mythicalbeastiness of his grill. A man could love the shit out of a homely broad; I guarandamntee his friends won’t see hide nor tail of that ass until he’s engaged to be married to her, his betrothal ring solidifying her entrenchment in the youbetternotmakefunofthisbitchcauseshe’sabouttobethemotherofmychildren camp. Thus, the probability of not liking how the other looks and it affecting one’s willingness to engage  is greater for you than me.

Despite Allen Iverson’s Vehement Protestations to the Contrary, Practice DOES Affect the Outcome of (the)Game, and We Ain’t Practiced.  Like, Not Neva.

-No matter where you stand on the issue, you cannot refute (as you will be bested by history) that women have not been raised in the tradition of hitting on men. Throughout the ages, the exact opposite has been the case.  So, we have no definitive mating cry; no well-honed skill-set designed to suavely come-hither the menfolk with our words. And we have thrived within the confines of the existing schematic—men,  aggressively driving it down the middle in the hopes of a layup; women, off in the wings of the foreground, prepared like fuck to rebound that shit, and pass it back. And we’re GREAT at passing the ball back. I can assist like you wouldn’t believe. Take my panties off and wrap them around the ball and eva-ree-thang. Only now, the tables have turned. Life has fouled me. And suddenly I’m at the line with Shaq hands, and the ball I’m trying to get in might as well be a screaming baby. And everything that occurs to me to say to you sounds so lame when I play it back in my mind. Lame and creepy. Lame and creepy and desperate. Like, not smooth at all. Bumpy and acne’d as a bitch. And even if I pass your physical standards, you might be disinclined to forgive my lame ass wack ass delivery. Cause no matter how open-minded you are, you don’t particularly fancy broads with muscular dystrophy of the mouth.

Women are Sometimes Immobilized by Rejection.

-Everybody simmer down. Not all women. Certainly not the types who eagerly hit on men.  And I don’t mean throughout life. I just mean in terms of male/female romantic interaction. And there’s a reason for this: we’re not used to it. And there’s a reason for that: we aren’t traditionally charged with the responsibility of hunting dudes. So when a woman puts herself out there, takes a risk, and babysteps into foreign territory, only to be told “No,” she is devastated. Know the last time I was rejected by a man when I put myself out there? 1992. Know when I recovered from it and tried again? 2009. Men, on the other hand, are rejected by women all of the time. This isn’t a matter of right or wrong, just simple statistics. Men hit on more women than women hit on men, therefore, more women will reject men than vice versa. And the likely result—men are more accustomed to rejection. Y’all have developed—through an evolution of rejection—a tougher skin when it comes to things like this; you know, romantic webbed feet, if you will. Y’all can just bounce back and move on to the next one. My friend, Justin, used to say, “If you hit on 100 of them in one night, 98 will probably say ‘No,’ but, who cares? 2 will say ‘Yes’!!!” You see that? You see the optimism that man exhibited? If 98 dudes told me “No” in one night, I’d kill myself. Tout de suite.

But, I digress.

On to Rob.

His answer to all of this? In a nutshell—Bullshit. Who cares. Get over it. Be me, ho! (He didn’t say the “ho” part, there, but I took some license as it’s my blog)

To my “What if he doesn’t like me physically?”—

-Relax. Nine times out of ten, any man that you hit on is going to be nice to you, and engage you. No matter what. This necessarily excludes jerkoffs, who will be rude and vile irrespective of how you look, and really, who gives a damn about them? The guy is going to be so impressed by the fact that you came over in the first place, and so flattered, he’s going to talk to you, and make you feel at ease. Women shouldn’t even give this any consideration. He’ll probably find your boldness, itself, attractive.

To my “I’m going to sound like a complete jackass when I approach him.”—

-The answer to this one is similar in kind to the first. The fact that you even bother to approach sets you apart from all of the women in the room. You are immediately in a better position than the legions of women occupying bar space, whose sense of entitlement inclines them to do little more than look pretty while awaiting the generous outpouring of drinks his wallet is expected to produce. He doesn’t expect you to be a comedian or a pimp (although both are appreciated); your sincerity and brazen attempt at forwardness are enough.

To my “But y’all are used to rejection. We’re not.”— Though I will paraphrase, note the quotes

-“Seriously? In your lifetime, how many men have hit on you? How many? I bet HUNDREDS. I bet HUNDREDS of men have probably hit on you. Do you know how many women have hit on me? NOT.ONE. NOT.ONE. For every man that rejects you, there are another ten, in your direct line of vision who won’t. So, let’s say you get up the nerve and hit on a guy and he’s not interested. So what? As soon as you climb down from your seat and turn around, you got ten other dicks there in the room pointed straight at you. Yeah, the first guy rejected you. So.the.fuck.what. Know what happens when a girl rejects me? I gotta start alllllll over again, from scratch, and build up the confidence again to hit on another girl, who will probably, also reject me. Why? Cause that’s just what girls do. And then they want to get mad when we build up these super arrogant alter egos to counter all of this rejection we get. Then we’re douchebags. I tell you what. Women create the traits they loathe in men.”

I was floored. Floored.  I’d never considered half of the knowledge Rob was dropping on me. I should state, for the record, that Rob is really good looking.  It was unfathomable to me that no one had ever blindly hit on him in a bar.

And while all of his wisdom was something of a roundhouse kick to the throat, I needed to be sure. He was vehement in his assertions, yes. But was he right?

I needed an experiment.

Yes.

An experiment.

I hit Tabaq with a determined sense of purpose. I was clad in my special iridescent JudyJetson-style dress that I’d had delivered from the UK, and my gorgeous, exceedingly high, dominatrix-strappy, giveittomehardandfast pumps.

Your girl was going all out.

The trick would be to find a man who wouldn’t normally be attracted to me (in my estimation—I won’t fall into the trap that would entail telling you who this type of man is; damned if I’m gonna let y’all flay me over that shit) initiating a conversation with him, and making a pass at him.

The night, overall, was a resounding failure. When I’d start to give a man that knowing look, he’d give me that knowing look, back.  Or hit on me outright. No bueno. I needed the stakes to be high in order for my venture to be legit.

I had almost given up all hope (I had no idea so many men would be responsive to my completely ridiculous dress), when—

There he was.

Christopher Williams lookin’ dude, clad in a seer-sucker jacket, posted up by the bar, cold chillin’, not saying shit to anybody, encircled by a group of his friends, looking disinterested in the array of people before him.

The moment I spotted him, I knew he was perfect.

He wasn’t my type at all, either (and that’s saying something, believe me).

And I knew this was an experiment. Not real in the slightest. In real life, I didn’t give a fuck if this man found me to be a belching, putrescent troll, and yet—

I was scared as a motherfucker.

I could hear my heart banging in my ears. My palms got a little sweaty.  Ohmygod! What if he hates me?! What if he thinks I’m lame?! What if his friends laugh at me!?

I took a deep breath, and, quite literally, manned up. Relax, Fooler. You’re clever as a bitch. And you’re naked. And you just got your hair cut. You’ve got the smoothest taper in three states right now. Don’t let this baby-haired man bitch you up.

So I sauntered over—this is the part where I like to fantasize that my mere presence parted the body-bumpin’ dancers like Moses and the Red Sea, however blasphemous that may appear on paper—and took a spot next to him at the bar. I observed him in my periphery as I requested a Chardonnay from the bartender.

This was my moment.

I took that bitch.

Me: “So, I came over here and ordered this drink just as a diversion.”

New Millennium Christopher Williams (NMCW): “Oh yeah? What’s the diversion for?”

Me: “I needed it as an excuse to come and talk to you.”

*imaginary fist pump to the sky* You-a pimp, bitch!!!

NMCW: *chuckle, smile, chuckle, laugh*

Me: “So, as a precautionary measure, as I care a great deal for my general safety, are you with any of the women here?”

NMCW: “Nope. I came with my boys, here.”

Me: “And you left your girlfriend/wife at home? (I should note, I HATE it when dudes don’t just come out and ask me if I have a boyfriend rather than dance around it like this—that shit is NOT cute at all—but, alas, I was new at this shit, and nervous.)”

NMCW: “No wife. No girlfriend.”

*imaginary double fist pump to the sky*

And on and on we went, in that fashion, for a solid 10 minutes. And after a while, he was asking me the questions. He was engaging me like hell, and I easily fell into the rhythm, that, honestly, was similar in kind to that which I’m generally accustomed.

 It ended with his boys getting ready to leave, and him saying his goodbyes.

And all I could think about was how right Rob had been. This man hadn’t been interested in me, no. But he’d engaged me—been a willing and active participant, as a matter of fact—in conversation. He wasn’t rude at all. Quite the contrary. And, true to form, when he and his friends left, 4 other men ended up hitting on me, and making sure that the man with whom I’d been talking hadn’t, in fact, been my man.

By the way, I hasten to note that I’d thought my experiment (conducted over a month ago) had yielded perfect results ——————–until 3 nights ago…

My friend, Tre, brought up—quite casually, really—that I hadn’t taken the experiment to its full finish. As a matter of fact, I’d taken it all the way to the edge, only to turn around at the last moment.

You see, I’d expected to do all of the work: the initiation, the flirting, whathaveyou; but in the back of my mind, I was still thinking that, at the end of the day, my boy counterpart would take the reins, and bring it home, with a request for my number.

Tre’s revelation almost made me crash my car.

I should have asked NMCW for his number!!!

Then, and only then, would my makeshift foray into the woes of man-kind have been complete.

I’ll have to try that next time…

And by “next time,” I mean, “in a couple months.”

Really fellas, that shit right there is HORRIFYING.

Well done, you.

I’m giving ALLA Y’ALL my number on GP, next time I’m out (now, it might be an office number, but y’all brave bastards will NOT walk away empty handed).

But, the takeaway is the same—

Outside of the initial buildup of anxiety, ladies—nothing to fear, here.  Holler at those sexy ass men.

The return of fooler fridays, part I.: the post men will hate me for…

Fooler,

I have a request. This is not about single women, this is about women in relationships. Can you address two things: 1. the imaginary man and 2. the apparent need for some women to be taken care of and in charge at the same time?

The imaginary man is the ‘idea’ a particular woman has in her head that she compares to the man she is with instead of taking stock of the reality of the men in existence and seeing where he falls into that realistic scale. There are standards, and then there are fantasies. There is a difference.

The second one, wanting to be spoiled and pampered but be in charge of everything too, is fascinating to me because while it may work out for some women by and large this appears to be an unreasonable if not damn near impossibility of personality deconfliction. Progressive cooperation; sure. Responsible leader; that sounds reasonable. Traditional roles (by choice) while exercising influence within that structure; seems to me that has worked for a lot of people. But pampered and babied princess that calls _all_ the shots, sets the tone and has to approve of everything (at the extreme end even taking issue with a man’s thoughts and feelings); not so much. Like not at all.

I am fully aware that you may agree, disagree or even laugh out loud at the thought that these things even exist, and that I may be ‘wrongheaded’ in my thinking about what the real issues are. Either way, I would really love to hear your views on these two things as I am in dire need of some insight about such things, and I appreciate your keen insight and frankness.

My views on these two things….

Hmm.

Well, frankly, I think I disagree with both of your premises.

I’ll start with “the imaginary man.”

I take issue with your suggestion that a woman “tak[e] stock of the reality of the men in existence…”

I take issue because it is an impossible thing for any woman to do. Or any person to do, for that matter.  No woman knows all of the men in existence.  You wouldn’t wife her if she did. She’d be a complete ho-bucket.

She is only capable of establishing a basis of comparison (if one takes the position that she should be acknowledging any such comparison in the first place) between you and the men she knows or has known; the men who constitute her reality.

I read the most brave and honest thing in a blog a few weeks back that said (and I’m paraphrasing, here): my reality is the only reality that is important to me (www.deathofagenius.com ).  

For instance, I happen to have three or four friendship circles that consist of unbelievably awesome men. I am enamored of my father, impressed by my employer, on good terms with all of my exes; even my preferred brand of ignorant reality television specializes in largely female villains.

So my reality is consists of “upwardly mobile” men who all have multiple degrees, are white collar in occupation,  who are quick of wit and easy of temperament, and generally speaking, of above-average height.

So, were I to “take stock of” my “reality,” which I’ve already determined is the only logical one for which I am responsible, I shouldn’t date men who are short, or who didn’t go to college, or who work on cars for a living. That would be my “reality.” Don’t expect me to congratulate a man I’m dating for not taking his socialization cues from “The Wire.” That shit’s not my reality. (Now is a good time to note that I don’t co-sign on the assignation of “realities” or any such rigid comporting to them.)

Now, if you are okay with her taking stock of her reality, and therefore, by default, going along with this idea that it is okay to compare the one you’re with to the ones you’re not, you necessarily set yourself up for the example I present. Maybe in her reality, men do all the shit you don’t.

For me, the problem isn’t some perceived incongruence between her reality and fiction.  Rather, it is what I’m picking up in your tone (correct me if I’m wrong, here), which suggests an air of, “She should be grateful for this good shit she has.”

This is bothersome because you obviously feel like you are going above and beyond, and she obviously thinks you’re a) doing what you’re supposed to be doing, or b) not doing enough. The problem isn’t with her reality’s incongruence with the world at large. The problem is her reality’s incongruence with your reality.

If this discordance manifests itself in relatively smalltime issues, this is easily rectifiable.

e.g. Where Ole Girl comes from, Dudes pay for 100% of all shared meals. Where you come from, women occasionally pick up the tab, or pick up the tab 50% of the time (As my friend “Ron,” once artfully put it: “So, I’m supposed to pay for every single meal that goes into your mouth for the rest of your life?”) This is a situation that has a solution. This is a situation that can have a reasonable middle ground.

However, if the issues are more substantial…

e.g. Ole Girl thinks it’s okay to fuck your friends as a showing of welcome, and you’d rather she didn’t—

It might be time to move on.

Okay, now to, issue #2: Being spoiled and pampered, yet desiring to run the show.

Again, I disagree with your basic premise, which, I believe, is that these two concepts are diametrically opposed.

I don’t think they are.

I think the woman who makes as large a demand as having her fully functioning adult person taken care of is entirely the type of woman who would demand that she have the final authoritative say in all matters.

I don’t find it surprising at all that a woman who expects a man to foot all of her bills and pay for all of her extravagances is unreachable when it comes to compromise; unwilling to demurrer irrespective of her faulty posture in an argument.

Here’s what I will say about the gold-digging ego-maniacal woman.  That bitch is honest.

And more of us should be like her.

Not gold-digging or ego-maniacal, but, honest about what our realities are; about what our dealbreakers and end-games are.

Because when we’re honest about these things from the gate, our separate “realities” don’t have to become a competing duality. We can both agree that I’m an ain’t-shit-bitch with a tragically over-inflated estimation of self and am deluded in my thinking that I am different from everyone else in the world who has to actually work for a living. We don’t have to fight over me being a harpy shrew intent on emasculating the very heart of you til your friends and the people who knew you when once you were great are entirely incapable of regarding you as anything more than a giant puss.

And then we can move together in cohesive unity.

As an aside—

(And please note, that I don’t subscribe to the “men ain’t shit” school of thought. I have zero complaints in the boy department. At least, no complaints that I can’t work with. Most of the men I deal with meet my standards with relative ease. This may or may not be due to the fact that I have low standards.)

Something I do concede to thinking, while addressing these remarks:

Everywhere women turn, some man is telling us to be more “realistic” in our thinking. Men are telling us to adjust our standards so that they might more easily mirror the manner of man that is truly out there.

Women are expected to modify their standards to accommodate this not-clearly-defined gray area of “what’s truly out there.”

I’ve already addressed our inability to properly assess “what’s truly out there.”

Here’s what I’m thinking, though.

Women constantly make amendments to accommodate what we believe men want. Constantly.

Women nip and tuck their bodies. Get bigger breasts, get bigger asses. We put hair in our heads, we wax it off our vags. We shut the fuck up during the game, we don’t call you a crybabyassbitch when you KNOW you deserve it. We show a willingness to step it up in some attempt to meet man-kind’s exacting  physical standards, and most of us work so we can go half on whatever we intend to build together.

If my law firm expects me to bill 2100 hrs a year, I don’t think to myself, “That’s some ole bullshit. Booboo’s firm only requires 1800 hrs a year. Shit, most firms only require 1800 hrs a year. I’ma talk to the Partners about how this shit they want isn’t realistic. Fuck this.”

I deal. This is where I choose to work. Its high hash-marks are my new reality.

If men live in a world where women have ridiculously high standards, then maybe ridiculouslyhighstandardville is your new reality.

Maybe it’s time for men to start stepping it up, no matter how unattainable the goal. Maybe men should stop focusing on how crazy our standards are, and just start focusing.

Unless she’s a total assbag. Then, treat her as you will.

*********

This is either my most boring entry ever, my most revealing entry ever, or some bastardized amalgamation of both: On self-preservation.

“I think you’re scared [of being hurt],” said my friend, “Monica,” over her plate of healthy food and my plate of fatgirlfood during our impromptu 3am breakfast at The Diner.

*Insert beleaguered sigh here*

I have had some variant of this conversation—a conversation that necessarily implies a cognitive dissonance betwixt myself and my emotions—at least 4 times within the last two weeks.

Now, this is partly my fault.

It is well-established within my framework of female friends that I am, at best, vague, and, at worst, shady as a motherfucker, with respect to the men that I “kick it” with.

The reasons for this are as many as they are varied, and perhaps we’ll discuss this further, and in greater depth, should the appropriate occasion arise. As they are irrelevant to my present line of thought, let us table the matter.

Instead, permit me to settle the dispute, once and for all, with respect to the seeming miasma that is my much-touted emotional complexity.

Prepare yourself for the unveiling of my greatest secret.

Ready?

My emotions aren’t complex at all.

Nope.

Not at all.

Simple as a motherfucker.

I like, dislike, love, and hate in fairly equal measure.

I’m not ambiguous about a damned thing when it comes to how I feel about you.

Let’s start with the fundamentals of boy-girl (or boy-boy, or girl-girl, whatever your pleasure) romantic entanglements, as I see them.

Fooler’s FuckWithYou Fundamentals:

-The Jump Off:

A timeless classic. A proper jumpoff is a man who visits during those pesky times, often after 10 pm, but, occasionally at the noon-day hour over an extended lunch break, when you’ve got that irksome itch, but require two calloused, masculine hands to scratch it. Though you need not know anything particularly significant about your j/o (that he does not have AIDS will suffice in most instances), individual tastes on this will vary with respect to what it actually takes to (and allow me to be frank, here) get you off. For instance, I personally prefer that my jumps can read and properly conjugate verbs. That is not to say that he need appear at my doorstep, voluminous, leather-bound tome of Ovid in hand. It is enough for me to know that, should my doorman inquire about his day whilst signing my building’s visitor log, his response not call to mind Pootie Tang or South Carolina’s newly-elected senator.

-The Steady Date:

There are many different takes on what actually constitutes proper “steady-dating.” Here is the version that works best for me. When I steady-date you, I probably know what your mother’s name is, and whether you have siblings. I have an idea of your ambitions, and what’s more—I probably give a damn.  Now, as the “steady” nature of “steady-date” connotes consistency and regularity, I necessarily think that some fucking should be taking place. Now, that’s just me. Personally, I don’t see the value in looking meaningfully into your eyes, and contemplating at length the extent of your hotness factor, if there isn’t ultimately some potential for you to be rubbing all over my breasts. I’m sorry. I can’t see it. We can hold hands and recite poetry to each other when you’re 80 and impotent. For now, be nice, make me laugh, engage me, and fuck me. I’ll be much obliged.

Now, here is where it gets tricky. When I steady-date you, I am not committed to you. I night date other people. I might sleep with some of those people. I might not. Unless you ask me outright, I probably won’t mention this. And I don’t have to. Here is where people get confused. In the “steady-dating” phase, there are to be no “non-compete” agreements. We do not agree not to date other people, or not to sleep with other people. Those types of understandings are the EXCLUSIVE property of the Boo-Up phase, and we haven’t gotten there yet.

The most important part of the steady-date rubric is the crisis-call center located at the heart of our understanding. Odds are, if we are steady-dating, we are friends, and I care about you (call to mind paragraph I. of this section). I am down to listen to your problems, to help you sort through them, and to be your shoulder to cry on if need be. Be that as it may, when shit gets too heavy, we either need to re-negotiate our terms (that is, upgrade to Boo-Up phase), or I need to cut and run. During our time in this space, our arguments—IF ANY—should be few and far between. Do not ask me to loan you money. Do not ask me to co-sign anything for you. And please, above all, remember the part about fucking me.

-The Boo-Up Phase, often referred to by its street name, “Some Ole Bullshit:”

* sigh * We don’t sleep with or date other people. When it’s bad, we don’t sleep with or date each other. I know everything about you, and I love and or care deeply for you—which is why I’m still here not fucking other people despite the fact that I know everything about you (and probably hate a solid 8-17% of it now that I am fully aware). I am obligated to stick by you through feast and famine. We do a whole lot of shit together. Both of us are entitled to be angry when the “doing a whole lot of shit together” portion of this phase isn’t appropriately fulfilled (here’s a hint—if you’re in a relationship with me, the angry person will probably be you, as I’m tyrannical about my personal space). I not only care about your dreams and ambitions, I help you make them a reality.

The truth of the matter is, I can’t really comment too much on this phase, as I don’t fully understand it, even at 29. It is difficult for me to wrap my mind around fully integrating another whole person into your life, and being accountable for his emotional well being. Here’s what I will say: though the idea of monogamy defies logic, to me (This is not to say that it can’t be done. It can.); while the notion of let’sbetogetherandallineachother’sshit is hard for me to embrace, the men that have inspired me to try have been incredible. So despite my rather incomplete comprehension– emotionally, I get it. But, be advised, dear readers: “Fools rush in.”

Still with me?

Well done, you. Way to give a fuck about what I have to say.

We’re halfway there.

Now, here’s how I get down.

I prefer to stick with options 1&2. My capacity to properly succeed at #3 is something we might not ever get to on this space.

Either way, romantic entanglement or not, I have a general two-hand approach to all interpersonal relations.

Ready?

Fooler’s Two-hand Approach for all Interpersonal Relations:

Let’s view the heart poetically; as the pulse of all things emotional and endearing.

I envision my heart with two out-stretched hands stemming from it. These hands are its guardians; its conservators. They enable me to pass time with you, share jokes with you, have fun with you, whatever.

As time goes on, and I become relaxed around you, and I see you as someone who won’t screw me, I’ll take a hand down. I’ll let you in, a bit. This is where most of my friends are. It’s a good place to be, I think.

If there comes a point when I can’t picture my life without you; if I want to be your friend forever; if I trust you and confide in you, and actually love you, I take both hands down. My parents are here, my linesisters are here,  a few of my prophytes, 1-2  childhood friends, my crew of “boys” are here,  my mentor is here, and a smattering of law school friends have cemented their presence in this spot. It is here, that you get all of me, for better or worse. I think most will find that, once here, they have a decided preference for one-hand up status.

If ever, while at one-hand up status, you reveal something really fucked about yourself; some previously unseen evil or malevolent characteristic—something that goes beyond the pale of a garden variety misstep; some untoward abuse of trust, I’ll put the other hand up, again. And we have to start afresh.

If ever, while at two-hands down status, you reveal something really fucked about yourself; some previously unseen evil or malevolent characteristic—something that goes beyond the pale of a garden variety misstep; some untoward abuse of trust, we’re done for good.

Still there?

Wow, excellent. Here’s the last leg.

Let’s re-visit Monica’s initial suggestion, and apply everything that we’ve seen here, today.

“I think you’re scared [of being hurt].”

The truth is, I’m not. Not at all.

Hurt is an integral part of the human experience.

I accept it.

I know that its emergence is ever near.

I don’t fear it.

I just don’t have time for it.

In my mind, the older we get, and the more we subject ourselves to life’s disappointments, the longer our recovery from these individual heartbreaks takes.

The older I get, the more my emotional state of well being is like an old man who breaks his hip. A few years ago, he could have done some physical therapy, and speedily rehabilitated his injuries. But now—time worn, with brittle bones—the break fucks him all up; puts him out of commission for the foreseeable future.

Maybe if I were 21, without a care in the world, I could handle a stint of depression that comes with the crushing hurt of a two-hands down catastrophe; a time dedicated to wallowing and excruciating self-valuation.

But I’m not.

I’m 29. I have a mortgage, and a job where the neediest motherfuckers in Creation clamor for my unwavering attention. I have bills to pay, appointments to keep, and a rather slippery clutch on the passage of Time and the wiles of my youth.

I have to eat this world, and everything within it, now, while it is spread before me at the ready; when I’ve had my full—that’s it. There are no seconds.

And the truth of the matter is, that when it comes down to the come down, most people, no matter how dear they are to you, aren’t worth your unending downspiral. Most people aren’t worth your own undoing.

It’s not emotional avoidance/denial.

It’s emotional intelligence.

Fooler Fridays–delayed, condensed, and….on Saturday…but, for what it’s worth….

My apologies for the delay, guys…my real life got in the way. Here you are, fresh for your consumption, two weeks worth of Fooler Friday questions…..

Fooler, great blog. Here’s my question. Hope you answer it. Should I be worried that my boyfriend won’t let me go through his phone?

No.

Know why?

It’s his phone.

I know a lot of women will disagree with me on this one, but, I am, and have always been, vehemently anti-snooping.

It makes you look crazy and irrational.

More importantly, it is a complete invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend has a right to his privacy. That’s the bottom line.

I know that’s not what you want to hear, right? In your mind, you’re probably all, “If he didn’t have anything to hide, I could look through his phone.”

You’re probably right. But here’s the thing: Most people have something to hide.

I’m sure your boyfriend has a gang of exposed titties on his iPhone. I’m sure some skank with an itty bitty waistline and a big ole booty has sent him every manner of suggestive “sext.”

And while that shit is the “proof” of wrongdoing, your preferred method of “procurement” is unnecessary, and equally violative.

Here’s how I see it.

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution grants all persons in this country an inalienable protection against unreasonable search and seizure. Bear with me for a moment.

In criminal law, if a suspect is stopped and detained unlawfully, and subsequently searched, no matter how gruesome or incriminating the find, said contraband is subject to a determination of inadmissibility. This is generally referred to as the doctrine of “The Poisonous Tree.” All of the shit illegally recovered—the “fruit” of the “Poisonous Tree.”

Invading someone’s privacy to substantiate your suspicions is a toxic practice. Scrolling through someone’s call log is the figurative epitome of Poisonous Tree branches. It undermines the trust, security, affection and respect people agree to share when first they embark on a relationship.

In essence, it’s fucked up.

Further, it’s unnecessary. In my mind, the mere fact that you want to search his phone is telling. It suggests either a problem with you, or a problem with him and how he’s behaving. If your suspicions compel you to need proof of his fidelity; if he has to literally prove that to you—that is to say, it’s not otherwise evident—you might want to give some thought to whether this is the type of space you want to be in.

Besides-

If he’s not a complete jackass, his phone is clean, anyway. All that means is that he’s A) erased her texts and photos, or B) has her number saved under “Brian” or “Mark” in his contacts.

Fooler, I love the writing on this blog. I do some freelance writing, myself, and love and admire your use of language. Do you have a favorite word? I’m obsessed with words.

I love this question!!! I ask people this question ALL of the time! I do have a favorite word, actually. Ready for it?

“decadent”

Permit me a non sequitur.

One of my favorite indie movies is this film called “Flirting” with Thandie Newton and Nicole Kidman. There’s this scene where the high society Nicole Kidman is describing this off beat relationship she has with some random blue collar man. She describes this practice they have which involves her sitting in a chair, perfectly still, and him simply walking around her, periodically touching her. Then she exhales deeply, and says, “Just the thought of it makes me feel shivery delicious all over.”

This is one of my all-time favorite movie lines, and it goes straight to the heart of how I feel about the word “decadent.” I’m fairly certain that anything categorically characterized as such has the capacity to make me feel “shivery delicious all over.”

Whew. It’s hot in here.

Hey, Girl. I’ve always loved DC, but I never get to spend any real time there. I’m planning a trip for a week or two towards the end of the summer. What’s your favorite thing to do in DC and why?

Wow, this is a huge question.

With lots of answers.

Generally, I like to kick it with my friends. And I make it a point to always, always set an extra place setting for my favorite “roll dawg” of choice, bourbon.

As it happens, DC is chock full of places to just chill and imbibe seven days a week. I’ll be damned if drinks on a moonlit rooftop terrace, with good company, amidst a backdrop of centuries old triumphs in architecture don’t beat all.

Now, when I want to go somewhere no one will recognize me; when I’m feeling frisky, and in the mood to dangle my participles and substitute “ph” consonant blends for “th” consonant blends (“wiph” for “with,” “earph” for “earth” and so on); when I want to don my palm-sized doorknockers that my linesister has forbidden me to wear beyond the four walls of my home–I go to Lux.

But, I’m an only child, so I’m pretty big on basic things as well. I’d equally consider, among my favorite DC to dos:

-walking my dogs downtown.

This is best affected in a quasi-revealing sundress and large sunglasses. The combination of dogs, flesh, and “stunnas” is lethal for the average DC male, and you are bound to return home with approximately a 46-68% boost in confidence.

-visiting the monuments…at night.

Guarandamnteed BEST makeout spots in the Greater DC Metropolitan Area. Careful not to get arrested.

-the zoo.

It’s hot as FUCK to do, and it goes on for years, but I love the National Zoo. And I’m a non-meat eating zoo-hater, generally, so it’s saying something that I love it so. I make everyone who visits go at least once.

Finally, I have this elaborate fantasy about getting on the train and riding it to no where in particular, but simply watching people along the way. People in this area are out of their minds crazy, which makes for good blogging. When I finally get the time to do it, I know it will quickly overpower any previously enumerated thing on this list.

Fooler, I have a crazy situation. Me and my best friend have been cool since we were kids. We’re both 31 now. She has been dating her boyfriend for 4 years and he is a great guy. They’ve been through some stuff along the way, but he’s great. We’ve been cool for a bit and have always gotten along, but I recently moved to a new apartment and we live closer to each other so we’ve been spending more time together. I know I’m attracted to him and I know he’s attracted to me and we’ve talked about it but haven’t acted out of loyalty to my girl. But she’s cheating on him! And he suspects but doesn’t know. People can’t help who they fall in love with. Should I tell him she’s cheating?

This is a great time for me to restate my general Fooler Fridays caveat: I am NOT a relationship expert. I am not a people expert. I am not qualified to advise any person on any thing outside of the shit I hold degrees in (and even that is occasionally suspect).

That said—

Girl, HELL NO.

What.in.the.fuck.are.you.playing.at?

That dude is NOT your man.

He is your friend’s man. Period. The end.

This isn’t some ridiculous surrender to the arbitrary dictates of Girl Law shit, either. What you are contemplating is pretty broad strokes fucked up.

I literally, two days ago, came across this great E.M. Forster quote: “…[I]f I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I should hope I have the guts to betray my country.”

Maybe your girl is a shady character. Maybe she’s not worth a damn. But, you’ve thrown your lot in with hers and, by your own admission, have cleaved to her since you were children. Why would you betray her trust?

I obviously don’t know you.

I don’t know this man.

Maybe he is the answer to your soul’s siren song.

Maybe you are two tragic, star-crossed lovers, thrown into the chaos of this crazy, unpredictable world, and as the foundations of everything else you knew, and were indeed, certain of, crumble about you, all you’ve left is a desperate, love-wrought, adhesion to one another.

But my money’s on your being two horny, selfish, sonsofbitches.

Look. Who among us hasn’t been attracted to a friend’s boyfriend or girlfriend at one time or another? It makes perfect sense. Friends are drawn to each other often out of some commonality of purpose or perspective, so it’s in keeping with shared ideologies and tastes that they’d occasionally overlap in their affections for the companions of the other. No harm, no foul. It’s logical even.

But, girl, when you start creeping around that man’s house under cover of night, not telling your girl—or worse, telling her, because she has every reason to trust that the two of you will comport yourselves appropriately, you’re treading dangerous waters.

I hate it when people say “You can’t help who you fall in love with.” That’s bullshit. The heart may indeed want what it wants, but the heart is trapped inside of your body; your body has an ass attached to it; you and that ass ought to be at home, in your own house, with your own man.

But you didn’t ask me all of that.

You asked me if you should dime out your best friend.

No.

Here’s why:

1. You’re not acting out of his best interest. You’re acting out of your own. Telling him is only going to unleash hurt and anger. Maybe it will make you feel better because you’re not guarding a secret, but it will make him feel worse. Further, your loyalties to her outweigh any loyalty you feel you have toward him. Not to mention the fact that this is kind of a hater thing to do, no? Snitching out your friend so that he can fall for you.

1. He’s gonna be mad. Know why? Cause his girl is cheating on him. How’s that going to make you feel watching him freak out over her indiscretion? And let’s say he gives himself permission to fuck you silly after finding out. How will you know that his actions aren’t in whole or in part motivated by some vendetta he has against his whoremongering girl (who I’ll remind you is your best friend)?

1. What if he tells her you told him? Men are notorious for getting angry and telling shit they don’t have any business telling. NOTORIOUS. How are you going to explain your telling to your friend? She’s done him dirty for sure, but, damn, she thought she could confide in you.

Look, I’m all about freedom, and doing your own thing, and moral relativity, and situational flexibility and all that and all that. And in defense of my EXCEEDINGLY judgmental depiction of your situation (and I apologize for it), I am simply a stranger responding to a stranger’s anonymous question. I don’t know you. I don’t know your love, and therefore I lack the capability to see any “special” in your particular set of circumstances. In fact, all I see is typical. I see, in typical, girl fashion, one broad going for another broad’s man.

I’ve done my fair share of dirt, but I punish myself severely when I’ve fucked over a friend.

Just once, for the sake of the historical analysis; for the analogs of Womankind; for the edification of our gender, whose time-worn chronology has seen more than its just portion of boys destroying the unions of girls—

Be atypical.

Choose her.

to my friend, “jessie,” who thought she’d never make an appearance in my blog, or, “there should be an app for discerning stupid ass phonecalls late at night.”

I don’t sleep a great deal.

I haven’t really slept much at all, actually, for the past 11 years.

Part of this pseudo-insomnia is a result of my rigorous work schedule.

Another part, still–a function of my active social calendar.

I am forced to concede, however, the lion’s share of my sleepless nights are directly attributable to my overall sketchy character.

A peaceful night’s slumber is a luxury shady girls can little afford.

So, as you might imagine, I was more than a bit frustrated when my phone rang at 4:33 am, Friday night/Saturday morning.

What follows is the exchange I had with my girl, “Jessie,” as best I can remember it.

Me: “I just know that this is an emergency.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to be celibate.”

Me: “But, I’m confused, ‘cos, when there’s an emergency there’s usually some indicator of imminent danger.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious. I’m thinking I’m gonna be celibate.”

Me: “And I can’t hear any indicators of imminent danger. No sirens. No screams. No muffled murmurs of a would-be rapist at your anal cavity.”

“Jessie”: “Can you please be serious? I’m thinking of becoming celibate.”

Me: “You’re gonna sell-a-what?”

“Jessie”: “You heard me.”

Me: “But I’m pretending that I didn’t.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to make Eric wait six months until I sleep with him. Listen, when you think about it, so much of our lives are consumed by sex. But, when you think about it, truly think about it, what is really the most important thing in a relationship?”

Me: *silence*

“Jessie”: “Well?”

Me: “I was gonna say ‘sex,’ but something tells me that’s not the answer you were looking for. Can this shit wait, say…idunno, SIX MORE HOURS?”

“Jessie”: “I wanna talk about it now. I’m not giving it up until a man can show that he’s committed to me. That he wants something substantial and long term.”

Me: “Did you even look at your contacts when you made this phone call? Like, did you mean to call me? I think you need to hang up and try someone else.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious! I wanna know what you think.”

Me: “I think you’re dumb.”

“Jessie”: “What?”

Me: “I think you’re dumb. You can’t determine how committed to you a dude is by not fucking him. Being celibate is a personal choice. You can only make that shit for you.”

“Jessie”: “So?”

Me: “ ‘So,’ while you’re out there being celibate, working on your faux-devoted-litmus test, your seemingly ‘committed’ man is going to be creeping over to the homes of broads like me by nightfall—“

“Jessie”: “WHAT?”

Me: “Broads like me who don’t set up arbitrary determinants and dress them up as legitimate indicators of future relationship success.”

“Jessie”: “Why are you being so harsh about it?”

Me: “This is only the third conversation I’ve had like this in the last month. Apparently this celibacy shit is catching. Did a bunch of sad bitches get together and read a book about it without me?”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “I don’t ever get invited to the sad bitches conventions anymore. You ain’t never seen rejection til a group of unhappy bitches don’t want you around no more.”

“Jessie”: “So how am I supposed to tell if a guy is for real or not if the first thing I do when I meet him is jump into bed with him?”

Me: “I like to wait til he’s asleep and try to steal a little black, nappy tendril of his hair.”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “If I set fire to it, and it burns up into a little stinky afro-crisp, he’s a good man.”

“Jessie”: “I fucking hate you.”

Me: “But if it just sits there and stays nappy, in defiance of the flame—“

“Jessie”: “I hope you die.”

Me: “Then he dances with the devil under the pale moonlight.”

“Jessie”: “I want to be wined and dined. Don’t you want to be wined and dined? Don’t even pretend like you don’t. I miss just spending time with a guy. Just cuddled up next to him, under him. I just want someone to hold me, and rub my feet—“

Me: “I don’t like it when people fuck with my feet—“

“Jessie”: “and tell me how much he likes me. I just want us to be with each other; to spend all day with each other on a rainy afternoon, just—idunno. Experiencing each other. Don’t you want to do that?”

Me: “ *sigh*”

“Jessie”: “See!!! Even you think that sounds nice.”

Me: “Do you know what bloody time it is?”

“Jessie”: “Admit it. Everything I said sounds nice.”

Me: “It’s so wrong of you to subject me to this when my defenses are down. I really just want to go to sleep.”

“Jessie”: “Not before you admit that everything I said sounds good.”

Me: “IT SOUNDS GOOD, BITCH. CAN I SLEEP?”

“Jessie”: “I knew it!”

Me: “Whatever.”

“Jessie”: “You want the same thing as me. I knew it.”

Me: “Mmmhmm. Only I think that the afternoon would be rounded off quite nicely with some sex at the end.”

“Jessie”: “Sex ruins things. Sex makes things complicated.”

Me, sitting upright: “Look. I’m going to say this, and then I’m going to hang up. And we will have to either agree to disagree, or whatever. You know what my biggest problem with criminal practice is? Motherfuckers don’t have any sense of accountability. My ability to create a defense for you; my ability to create a smokescreen out of an illegal stop or an illegal search doesn’t negate the fact that you have a quarter of an ounce in your console. Sex isn’t a person. Sex isn’t a real, sentient being. You can’t blame sex for anything. If you have a problem with the way you handle shit with men after having sex with them, the issue isn’t the sex. It’s your faulty handling. If you think dudes dog you out after you’ve had sex with them, the problem isn’t the sex you had. It’s the dude you had sex with. A good man isn’t a better man because he was willing to jump through five million fiery hoops just to bone your raggedy ass. In fact, in my mind, he’s a chump—“

“Jessie”: “You think he’s a chump because he’s patient and will wait?”

Me: “I think he’s a chump because he’s agreed to let you set some ridiculous terms, based on no established rationale in particular. Y’all are two grown people. You want to have sex with each other. You’ve had sex with men before—countless men, I might add—“

“Jessie”: “Easy, there—“

Me: “and now, for no reason whatsoever, Eric, having committed no harm or foul against you, has to wait while you lock it up for God knows how long, until your designated start date. That’s dumb. And by the way, that’s NOT celibacy.”

“Jessie”: “How is it—“

Me: “Look. If you know when you’re not gonna be celibate anymore; like if you have a ‘get some’ start date that isn’t marriage, you’re not celibate. You’re just being grown and not banging anything that moves. There is no problem in waiting until you’re comfortable to have sex with someone. But that’s not celibacy. That’s what anyone who’s not a slamwhore does. But having a six month rule; holding out as leverage to assess someone’s goodness—that’s wack.”

“Jessie”: “I just want things to stay nice. I want him to take me out, and treat me like a lady. I want him to open doors for me, and call when he says he will. Send me ‘Just Because’ flowers.”

Me: “Then tell him you’re a high maintenance broad, and be done with it. This shit isn’t rocket science. I don’t know why you insist on all of this game-playing. I don’t have that kind of time. And speaking of which, yours is about up. I’m going to bed. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Jessie”: “You know what your problem is?”

Me: “Sleep deprivation and worrisome-ass friends who refuse to marry ‘shut’ and ‘the fuck up’?”

“Jessie”: “You’re not a romantic. At least you refuse to show it if you are. There’s no shame in it you, know.”

Me: “Hanging up—“

“Jessie”: “I bet you are one. You play so tough, but I bet you’ve done your share of swooning—“

**dial tone**

I noticed, with disgust, traces of pale blue creeping through my curtains, and saw that the time on my phone read 5:17. Turning it off completely, I returned my head to my pillow.

Unable to get comfortable, I shuffled the pillow a solid three times before casting it aside, entirely, and resting my head on my arms.

I sat up, suddenly, upon hearing a nearly-inaudible “thud” hit my hardwood floor with the pillow.

Reaching down, I felt around until I found the sound’s origins.

In the palm of my hand I clutched one, pale pink copy of Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.

I put the book down, and closed my eyes, to usher in sleep, but not before saying to no one in particular, “I fucking hate ‘Jessie.’”