If You Don't Know...Now Ya Know

I remember an episode of Oprah a few years back about the "down low."  I was watching, riveted, frightened while Maria screamed into my ear via the telephone.  We were both shocked by this unearthed urban legend that was no longer a legend, but a real life nightmare.  Men pretending to be straight, but secretly leading homosexual lives. Of course the AIDS issue came up.

We both walked (ran) to our nearest clinic to get tested. I sat on the doctors table frightened, riveted, as the blood left my veins and traveled into a little glass tube.  I looked at the blood and for a split second, I saw doubt swimming around like platelettes.  My mind raced back to certain partners. Those that could be on the down low. Both obvious and not so obvious.  I did a mental list of those with whom I was smart and safe.  I also did the walk of shame rundown.  Both were equally unsettling.   

She said two weeks.  Ok.  Two weeks.  Fourteen days.  I can do that.  Easy. 

The next two weeks are hard.  In the most opportune and inopportune moments I think about the (im)possibilities.  I sit in my car at the drive thru, I lay in bed at night, I take my finals, frightened, riveted.  We talk as if everyday life will never change. As if a phonecall couldn't change it all.   

Eventually, I sort of forget or at least I pretend I have.  It sits in the back of my brain, perhaps in that place where the languages I don't know I can speak reside.  I go back to regular life.  I forget my results.  I forget that episode of Oprah.  I forget my brain. 

Three weeks and I suddenly remember.  I call the clinic.  She informs me that you can't get your results over the phone.  It reminds me of the time I called to follow up on my graduate school application.

"Hi! I'm just calling to make sure all my materials have been received."

"Yes, Ms. Collins, you're under review already."

"Oh."

"Your response is in the mail actually."

"Oh. Um..." I listen for some sort of intonation in her voice, for a hint or clue to my fate.  She does neither.

"You should get their decision soon.  Good luck."

Bitch, I hang up. 

I do the same with the clinic. I make the treck and am instantly led to a room where a pair of chairs sit coupled with a stark, white table. They stare at me, daring me to sit, to try and find comfort.  I sit and the nurse flips through some papers on a clipboard.  I wonder how many people she's told today.  Whose life is forever altered.  Will mine be?   I chastise myself for forgetting.  Maybe I forgot on purpose. To avoid this moment. 

My hands shake.  I am perhaps the most frightened and riveted. What will I do if...

She sort of smiles the smile she's supposed to.  "Negative." 

Of course.  I knew. Well, no I didn't.  I assumed.  No, I hoped, but now I'm sure.  Sure for myself and sure for whoever comes into my bed.  It's my responsibility.  If I'm gonna do the adult, there's adult consequences.  It isn't easy.  It isn't hard.  It just is.  And now I know.  

Do you?

That bitch stole my line

xoxo,

Blackie Collins

Here's a Factie xoxo, Blackie

Did you know that prior to mating, turtles stand facing each other, nodding their heads up and down and side to side (slowly of course) for hours on end. After some time passes, the male places the female’s head in his mouth-for no real reason. Later, he suck son her feet-one at a time. Finally the male mounts the female by biting on her back.

Apparently, turtles really get this whole foreplay thing…

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Ex Zone

When love fades to black or boredom sets in, break ups happen.  There's a reason their called break ups: because our hearts literally break and when hearts break, you cannot be held accountable for the dumb shit you do.  You are now entering into The Ex Zone. (cue Twilight Zone music)

Steve:

Steve was in love with Tara.  He couldn't get enough of her during their two year union, but when the heavens heaved and Tara saw the light, thus breaking up with Steve, hell broke loose. Steve, in an attempt to demand Tara's attention, decided it was a good idea to ram his car into hers as she decided to leave his apartment. He wasn't thinking because Steve had caught a major case and was reeling with fury. Some time later, Steve, now in a 'serious' relationship elsewhere, decided that he needed to give Tara one last chance to have him back. He came up with yet another brilliant plan: breaking into her email account and writing letters to Tara's new boyfriend, stating that she had herpes.  This was not true.  Steve was now a liar on top of everything else.

To this day, Steve is not sure what he was thinking.  Perhaps he hoped she'd see his positive traits as she sat on the plastic covered, circa 1972 sofa in the mechanic's office, perusing a sky-high estimate to have her car fixed.

Steve was crazy in love.  Or maybe just crazy.

Derrick:

Derrick had always been friends with Maria and therefore smitten. He waited for his chance to woo her and when she was recovering from a break up, he swooped in. Confused, Maria entered into a relationship with Derrick, unaware of his insanity. Months passed and one day, Maria, too, saw the light and dumped Derrick.  Derrick bombarded Maria with nasty letters, mean text messages, and email about puppies being suffocated in her honor (not really on the last one, but it seemed to fit). When Derrick realized he wasn't getting anywhere, he backed off...well, actually he had no choice, for Maria found out that he'd been cheating all along.  She found out by way of the STD Derrick gave her as a parting gift.

Derrick was crazy in love.  No maybe needed.  He was just crazy.

Russell:

Russell met Tiffany at a mixer senior year in college.  She was a junior and therefore looking for Mr. Marry After College.  They hit it off and Russell fell for Tiffany.  After Tiffany graduated, they moved to New York City together with the intent of taking on the world from their corner of the map.  Instead, Russell went bonkers.  

After their very messy break up, Russell came up with a Steve-worthy brilliant plan.  He broke into their once shared apartment and bleached all her clothing in the bathtub where they'd once made passionate love. He then hid under the pillow topped mattressed bed and awaited her arrival.  When she showed up, she was with a young suitor.  Russell lost his mind and attacked.

Russell was clinically crazy.

Shawna:

Crazy is not reserved for men only. In fact, women might've invented the word crazy. Shawna was not in love with David. Shawna was obsessed with David.  Their tumultuous affair ended and Shawna deduced that sawing off the legs to his dining room table would yank him run back into her arms.  It did not. He fell in love with a woman who didn't own a chain saw instead.

Shawna was the craziest of them all.  Especially when it came to household furniture.

Moral of the story:

Don't date guys named Steve, Derrick, or Russell.  And if you happen to meet a girl named Shawna, I hope you didn't spend much on your dining room set.  

That bitch stole my line

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Intersexed

I'm a traditional girl.  I believe in male and female roles for the most part, but I also realize that in today's social climate, a lot of those roles have gone stale, they're played out.  However, my best friend asked me today if it was okay for a woman to propose to a man.  My immediate answer was no, absolutely not.  There are some traditions that should be kept intact.  While I have very realistic non-traditional feelings about getting married, I do believe that if it's going to go down, it needs to go down with the guy down on his knee.  Of course there are exceptions.  Maybe it's a couple that's been together for a while. You're happy, he's happy, all is well.  One day, you're talking and collectively decide to get hitched.  I'm totally okay with that.  But if he comes home one day, and you're on your knee in a circle of candles with a ring in your hand...um, no, not particularly a fan of that.

Men are known to be protectors, providers, professors (thanks, Mr. Harvey), while women hold down the nurturing, caring, and emotional aspects.  But is it okay to have a man that's more nurturing and sensitive?  Or perhaps a woman that makes more financially?  I think the answer to both is yes, but there's a fine line that cannot be crossed for if it is, the very essence of what makes a man, a man and a woman, a woman, is blurred and that's where trouble takes up residence.  Men need to feel like they wear the proverbial pants.  No argument from me there.  I won't argue that. I want him in them as well.  I want him to move me to the inside of the street or reach out and grab my hand when there are tons of men around (looking at me of course).  I want him to be my protector, but I want him to understand that I can also fend for myself.  In the same case, I know he needs me to cater to him in certain ways, while also wanting the chance to do the same for me.  It's about balance, obviously.  It's like you're on a seesaw together and while you give and take and go up and down, sometimes it's okay to just balance in the middle. 

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

A Lot Like Love

I don’t think I believe in love anymore. Not true love. The kind Carrie Bradshaw described as, “Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love.” Why? Because yet another girl has gotten engaged and during the same weekend that her Prince Charming (barf) proposed, he slept with a friend of mine after a party. Honestly. Why bother, man? That girl is prancing around showing off her ring to everyone under the sun. She’s running to the nearest kiosk to buy every single wedding magazine off the shelves and telling all her friends with tears of happiness in her eyes. And he is dick deep in another girl…who is quite obviously not his fiancé. Disgusting.

I know you’re thinking this isn’t the norm, but that’s the problem: it actually is these days. This isn’t the first story I’ve heard about this piece of crap out there masquerading as love. And I’m not naïve as to think that love is perfect because I’m well aware that it is not. I’m just wondering what happened to the artist formerly known as the L-word.

My parents divorced when I was in middle school. They were married for twenty years before my mom finally decided that my dad should go ahead and be the bachelor he was already pretending to be. I grew up in a perfectly divorced household, though, with love all around. I set my sights on one day finding the love of my life and knew without a doubt that it would come my way. Movies depicted that love was romantic and perfect, while television told me any relationship could be mended by the third commercial break.

I met Jordan when I was 9 years old and I swear I was in love with him from that first day I walked into the fourth grade. He soon became my best friend, a fixture in our house as he gobbled up snacks while he regaled my mom with stories from school and teased my sister. He was one of us. High school came and suddenly Jordan was looking at me the way I’d always wished he would. But Jordan had a girlfriend. Elyse. Elyse was my friend. Elyse was still my friend as Jordan and I started making out in the same house where we played scrabble and ate pizza with my family before we even knew what hormones were. Before I could even blink, everyone somehow found out and everything was ruined. Jordan didn’t defend me, as everyone always blames the female in these situations, and just like that, my heart was broken for the first time. Ugh, that kinda pain should be bottled up and sold to your worst enemies.

After Jordan, I dated a slew of guys- all proving to be somewhere between average and dicks. I would love to say that it was smooth sailing after Jordan, but it wasn’t. One after another either got on my nerves or just fizzled. Then I met Robert, who was my boyfriend off and on for almost seven years. The man to whom I was betrothed I suppose. There was a time where I knew he was the one, but then I was constantly reminded of what forever would be like with him and he was gone. There were others that seemed like love, but must’ve been something else because they are not here nor are they getting mentioned specifically. I just don’t feel like rehashing the guys that came and went.

So maybe you’re reading this thinking, “Oh, well of course she doesn’t believe in love. She’s jaded.” Nope, that’s not it either. I still believed in love through every failed relationship-both mine and those around me. This “love is bullshit” feeling didn’t come until several months ago when a guy named Aaron managed to show me exactly what it felt like to be swept off my feet and then placed back down on the ground as if nothing had ever happened. And honestly, nothing really happened. It just sort of began and ended. So I thought to myself: “Self, love is one of those weird things that happens sometimes and while you look forward to it, you don’t necessarily need it and you can easily forget what it even feels or looks like.” It just sort of is. Take it or leave it. I didn’t feel like bothering, so I left it. And here I am, not even remotely phased by the people around me falling in and out of love. Yay for them, but I suspect it won’t last. My best friend from high school was married and divorced before I even received the “thank you for the flatware” card.

It just seems like such an illusion. People change all the time. They fall in and out of love. They’re impatient and don’t want to deal with who’s in front of them, so they move on to greener pastures, which eventually turn brown just the same. I guess I’m a pessimist or maybe I’m a realist. But when Carrie pleaded those words, she ended up with Big, who left her at the altar…I mean he eventually came back, but how many people wouldn’t just throw themselves over the Brooklyn Bridge after such a debacle. People have done it for less. All in the name of love. Besides there supposedly a sequel coming. Something tells me we’re in for yet another imposter running around posing as love. Here’s hoping, Carrie.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The State of Our Unions

This may be a bit of a rant, but I don’t care…At. All. I am so incredibly sick of the state of black relationships conversation. One, I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with them that doesn’t cross color lines-at least not in such a generalized way that we should be singled out for being unable to form unions together. Two, it’s ridiculous to believe that the next dating book that comes out for us is going to somehow have all the answers. Look, Hill Harper, I appreciate you taking a stab at the topic, but quite honestly, I don’t believe you…you need more people. How on earth does Hill Harper have the answers to the holy grail of black relationships?

Furthermore, why does Steve Harvey think we should act like ladies, but think like men- as if he has the meaning to our personal lives hidden under his bushy mustache and bright orange suits.

I understand we’re all trying to make a buck- it’s the same in diet industry- every Tom, Dick, and Harry can come up with a plan that’ll ensure you to reach your birth weight in 30 days or less. We slap a shiny cover on it and put on the shelves at Barnes and Noble where it sells like fat-free hot cakes. But, me? I am not drinking the kool-aid. I think we are perfectly capable at having good relationships regardless of our race. It doesn’t mean I don’t think they have room for discussion-there is extreme relevance, but harp on anything too excessively and you wind up with a bunch of people who don’t care and we all know that when black people don’t care…we really don’t care. If you push to a place of indifference, you get no results, which is exactly what all these “why single people need help” authors are hoping to give you. Just let it be. It’s always been a bit harder for us, but if you give us time, we always get our proverbial shit together. And if not, we can always watch re-runs of The Cosby Show to figure it all out.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Cardinal Rule: The Phone

I don't call boys.

No seriously, I don't. Call me old fashion, call me whatever (I've been called better and worse-I clearly, don't care), but I believe men should call women. I think it has something to do with the chase. I don't chase men, so I don't call them either. This is one of my cardinal rules.

So, there is no need for discussion, I'm not waivering.

I. Don't. Call. You...You. Call. Me

Oh wait...there is one exception to this rule: I call my dad.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Oh Where Oh Where Has My Lil O Gone...

It’s hump day and I sincerely hope you celebrated in a BIG fashion! I am constantly amazed by some of the conversations I have with women these days involving the men in their lives and what they do or more importantly, don’t do for them. The latest? My girl claims she can’t find her ‘O.’

Um, where did she go?

Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on out there, but if you can’t find it yourself, you can’t expect anyone to find it for you. But as usual, I will come through and make it incredibly easy for you. Just thank me later…after you’ve, um, found her.

Cue the Fresh Prince: “DRUMS PLEASE:”

5. Ride ‘em cowgirl (reverse)- this position is way better than the regular cowgirl for a few reasons, but mainly because of the clitoral activity. Hop on him and turn around. Instead of going up and down, lean forward a bit and roll your hips back and forth. It’ll still be an in and out situation, but because of the angle, all kinds of things get stimulated down there. Besides men get a kick out of watching you from behind (if possible, please pull hair also)

4. Grab a stool-the higher the better-and sit on it. Have your boy in front of you. You can put your legs around him or if you’re flexi, up on his shoulders. This one goes deep. Welcome to the party, G!

3. Good old sitting style. Both parties sitting, your legs straddled around him. Slid and go! Again, clitoral stimulation is easy.

2. There are plenty of women who only climax from oral, so I threw this in for good measure. Equal opportunity and all that. Guys, it’s not just about flicking your tongue around down there-slow, massaging strokes on all areas are best. Having him eat you from behind is pretty glorious too and right when you’re about to find your your long lost friend, he can jump in and finish it off himself.

1. The Pancake Series- any position where both partners are flat against each other is pretty amazing. For example, Pancake Missionary: assume the usual missionary position. Now let her close her legs and lay straight while he opens his and presses his pelvis to her. Pump away and your tank will be full.


Happy Wednesday, from B!


That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins