19
Mar
11

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…

 

 

 

 

 

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10 Responses to “yea, though i walk….”


  1. March 19, 2011 at 11:45 pm

    Ha! LOVE this! Amen. That is all.

  2. 2 NubianEmpress
    March 20, 2011 at 9:30 pm

    succor tho? *stunned by the beauty of your vocabulary*

  3. March 21, 2011 at 2:27 am

    “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.”

    truer words have never been spoken. i knew it was something in the air. also, i think you should post more often. just a thought.

  4. 7 sourpatchkid
    March 21, 2011 at 4:14 am

    “i can no longer work for my meat.”

    lmao. whelp. that about sums it up. it’s exhausting, isn’t it?

    as much as i value the idea of spending a lifetime with someone — just the thought of all of the work and time and energy (and the having-to-give-a-shit-about-the-other-person) that is required to make something work…often makes me want to crawl back in bed, fluff my pillow, and watch jersey shore marathons until i pass out.

    maybe this is just the temporary feeling people have after one relationship/situation/whatever comes to an end. maybe you’ll feel differently after time has passed? or…maybe not! who knows.

    dang. got myself all drained just thinking about this. *turns to MTV*

  5. 8 gannsberg
    March 21, 2011 at 4:25 pm

    You are becoming a veritable “textbook” curmudgeon; however your irascibility makes for some poignant insight into the dating game. I firmly believe there is a person out there for you that gives 2 shits about all the things that unnerve you–essentially your male clone–(or female clone depending on how the wind is blowing for you these days), but you should take comfort in knowing that the upside of relations is always there for you. (You know, kinda like a porn star who only does anal? What red blooded male is gonna say no to that?) I mean picture it: You want to just have sex with none of the dating pageantry? Really? (as man pinches himself)! L.O.L.

    So as the proverbial song goes: “It’s Spring again, Everybody know it’s spring again
    To the girls and boys and people above This is the time to fall in love”

    Peace fooler and thanks for the following on the tweet tip!

  6. March 21, 2011 at 6:55 pm

    Uh, yeah… Co-sign Ganns: if you don’t want to date but you still want plenty of upside [read: dick] then there shouldn’t be a problem at all as long as you are a woman with properly functioning lady parts.

    You are most men’s dream woman, right this very second! Hell, I’m going to have to say that even a self-respecting man could learn to shut the fuck up in the shower and gather his belongings in the dark before leaving. You don’t want to meet the friends? Bonus because them bourgeoisie niggas try to live vicariously through pimps and ho’s… (See Black music.) Most men could even ignore you on the street and pretend like you never knew each other when you all weren’t in the process of bumping uglies.

    Or, I could pretend like I didn’t know you WHILE we were bumping uglies, whatever floats your boat. (Maybe you aren’t trying to hear how awesome your vocabulary is all the dame time?) Spring is about to be sprung and brothers want to hit. Ho advocacy isn’t necessary because they already have it made. Ho’s don’t really hunt, anyway: they choose. There is a veritable sea of dicks out there, all lined up, ready to be put in the rotation at just about any woman’s beck and call.

    Its sad, AND true.


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