“check, please.”

throughout life, i haven’t been much of a dater.

in high school, i was boy crazy enough, but dates weren’t really where my head was at (besides, it would take another 5 or 6 years for me to come into my full-blown-sexy). and from college until recently, i was fortunate enough to be involved in relationships with some of the greatest men i’ll ever know.

with those days behind me, this summer, i found myself by myself, for the first time in a long time. i slowly began to come to grips with the fact that i was closer to thirty than twenty. and i began to panic, a bit. i asked myself every manner of question: “who will i tell my deepest, darkest secrets to?” “who will listen to me prattle on about nothing?” “who’s going to have sex with me?” “will i ever get married?” “do i even want to be married?” “who’s going to have sex with me?”

and then it hit me with backhand-to-my-wife’s-mouth type strength–DATING.  i would begin an active campaign of dating.

here’s why that was the most fucked up plan ever…

1.  “oo oo oo. look at me. i’m older and rich” guy.

latin name: magnus douchebagitus

dating habitat: swanky bar in an upscale restaurant in northern virginia. this particular species fans his money all about him, much like his aviary cousin, the male peacock, in the hopes that his female counterpart will take notice, and lay him.

appearance: mid fifties, but don’t play him. he’s still cool as cream in his stonewashed jeans that taper at the heel, houndstooth jacket with the t-shirt underneath, george michael slim crocodile belt, and church socks. and you know those penny loafers he’s sportin’ shine like the top of the chrysler building. don’t laugh. you can bet your bottom dollar that those ankles are wrapped up tight in the costliest stonewashed denim money can buy.

observations of species: makes repeated references to his money, the many women he has dated, and occasionally slips in a sad, wistful anecdote about getting older and wanting someone to share his megabucks with. periodically tries to effect self deprecating humor, but always finds a way to rebound with money talk: et gratia- “i mean, look at me, sure, i’m not so great to look at. women only date me because i have tons of money.”

conclusions: though this anthropolgist has no personal knowledge of the matter at hand, subject exerts strong indications of impotence. in short, this scientist is fairly certain that magnus douchebagitus is the victim of “mydickdon’twork” disease.  even if it did, i’d rather die than hear those church socks sliding around my house.


2. “unbelievably sexy, but tragically shiftless as all damn” guy.

latin name: blipsterus ihavenorealjobitus

dating habitat: a lazy sunday afternoon stroll in the park, or a quiet stroll along U Street under the romantic cover of a watchful, luminescent moon. i.e.—anywhere that’s free.

 appearance: now, blipsterus ihavenorealjobitus has shucked the trappings of our otherwise frivolous, corporate america, superficial existence. indeed, you won’t find a sports jacket within a mile of this allen ginsberg meets jack kerouac meets mos def meets digable planets with a little bit of dean martin swag’s closet. he’s proud to inform you—and he will, repeatedly—that he paid no more than three bucks for his whole ensemble, including throw back chuck taylors that he’s of course graffitied himself. blipsterus ihavenorealjobitus will probably have locks. be mindful of their pull, ladies, as his luscious tresses are but step one in his two-part plan to ensnare you. he’ll moisten them with coconut or jojuba oil to lure your itching fingers ever closer, but be wary of his samson-esque hair tricks. this man ain’t shit. he never was shit. he ain’t never gonna be shit. but he’s happy to beat your back out into ignorant oblivion until you become aware of this fact. remember, no matter how sexy those locks are, do NOT give this MF any money.

observations of species: blipsterus ihavenorealjobitus’s name is a lesser derivation from the greek language, whose etymological origins translate roughly to english as: “sexy unemployed man who asserts ‘artist’ or ‘poet’ as his profession.” over time, this translation has been loosely broken down to the more colloquial “loser” or  “trifling ass motherfucker.” however, while the prepared eye recognizes blipsterus on sight, even the most trained of senses will be assailed by the onslaught of step two of his ensnarement plan. put simply thus, blipsterus ihavenorealjobitus, due to his active nonworking state, has had plenty of time to rev up on all kitschy random facts, well received quotes from nobel laureates, and pundit soundbites that the standard non trifling man is unaware of (he’s too busy working, you see). So, count on blipsterus to have a ready supply of poetry and radical political thought to whisper to you about how y’all can change the world and start a revolution, and become one with the movement. you won’t know how ridiculous it all is until you’re repeating these same snippets of bullshit to your responsible working friends who can’t understand why you’d think it’s okay to bone some nonworking dude who brown bag lunched you at rock creek park, and who you had to go and pick up from his mama’s house for the privilege.  

conclusions: I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: do NOT give this MF any money.

if you see him on the street, it’s probably better to just let him pass you by. if you’re not strong enough to resist the pull of the coconut scented locks, however, and the sound of a black man quoting amiri baraka, ONLY sleep with him once. fine, fine. TWICE, if you’ve had a rough work week. definitely, no more than 5-6 times though. definitely.


 3. “wait-a-damned-minute, are you MARRIED?” guy.

 latin name: lyingratbastarditus

dating habitat: this species, due to his “situation” prefers cooler, dark places. or public places in remote, far out locations. the venues he takes you will be nice, however. lyingratbastarditus is willing to pay top dollar to make you his ho. i’d caution the reader to receive such antics with a generally guarded stance. while the romantic dinner you share may cost him an impressive two hundred bucks, you will pay your insurance carrier that same amount in deductible to have the “WHORE” that his wife keyed into your driver’s side door removed.

 Appearance: sexy. sexy, sexy, sexy. lyingratbastarditus is in his very early 40s, but works out every single day to maintain that forget-about-my-wife-and-kids-physique. he favors button down shirts, khaki pants, and well manicured albeit-masculine hands (sans golden band, of course), just strong and firm enough to cup both your ample buttocks with equal sexy measure…but…tsk, tsk, tsk…not so fast, ladies. he was JUST coloring with and tucking his children into bed with those very same hands.  also, this anthropologist has it on good authority (“Captured,” “Snapped,” “Dateline NBC”) that lyingratbastarditus will thoughtlessly murder the shit out of you with those very same hands should aforementioned wife ever get notice of your existence.

observations of species: you will not know that lyingratbastarditus is married straight away. he never references his children. he’s vague as to why he’s “single” at 40. he goes away for “long trips” (otherwise known as “home”) and “travels for work.” when you ask him, outright, he employs cleverly seductive euphemisms: “baby, baby…put that on pause for a minute.” and he is smooth. Lyingratbastarditus will make you feel like one thousand molten champagne bubbles fizzling gloriously about town, until one dinner in particular, when he answers the phone and gives a series of one word answers: “Mhmm. Not too long. A little later. Work. Okay, I can’t talk now. Me too.” and the veil falls from your eyes as you realize you are smack dab in the middle of a date with a man who should not be anywhere remotely NEAR the dating pool.

conclusions: This anthropologist strongly admonishes the reader, upon this realization, against making a scene. it is, after all, in all likelihood, a meal, the likes of which, you will never see again. just don’t take any more of his calls. if he doesn’t kill you, his wife will. if she doesn’t kill you, he’ll probably give you herpes anyways. and then you’ll just want to kill yourself.


mind you, i’ve left out “ambiguously homosexual hetero,” and “you knew me when i was wack and now i’m gonna prove to you how wrong you were” guys, and several others, but you get the picture.

dating…not for the faint of heart.


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a history of my meanderings….


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