Happy Halloween

My friend told me the most amazing Halloween costume and I thought it fitting to share with you:

Break up with your mate and be single for the night...

I stole that dude's line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Re-Gifting Love

I am constantly trying to tackle this topic of love. It's spoken about and written about. Mulled over and dug up. I'm just taking another stab at the heart. I still have crazy mixed emotions about all this. I don't believe it yet. It needs more people....B

There was a time in life where we loved blindly. Without bias. Without boundaries. We were children and we loved with the same energy used when we ran for our lives, not thinking of calories or getting tired. We just went for it. Kind of like skipping. You look like a moron when you do it as an adult, but as a kid, man, did you skip to your loo like crazy. Then someone told you that grown ups looked stupid when they skipped and you stopped. The same thing happens with love. You go through your early years loving without concern for feelings until someone makes you feel stupid, hurts those feelings and you put up the first brick. The brick turned to a wall, which eventually built a moat, and maybe now you've even got a dragon living in there. All to protect yourself. Well, yes, it keeps you in there, safe, blocking you from the evils of love, but it also keeps others from getting to you. Others who might, if given the chance, remind you of what it feels like to love without boundaries.

I have been through a lot, I have my own demons as we all do, but one thing I've always done is love hard. It may take a minute, it may take years, but once that love is there, I don't take it lightly. I don't say it unless I mean it a thousand percent. A friend once got mad at me because I wouldn't tell him I loved him. We'd only been friends for a short amount of time-six months or so. I liked him yes, but in the grand scheme of life, I didn't know him enough to love him. But he knew that when I said it, years later, just how much it meant. I may even thoughtlessly say I love you to my best friends and family when ending phone conversations, but they know me enough to know that when those three words exit my mouth, it's with the confidence and assurance of the most trusted emotion humans feel.

See, loving someone and having them love you in return is an amazing gift we're given. That alone would have you throwing the L-word around like a baseball, but because of those who take that gift and abuse it, we create this boundaried love. And that isn't love at all. Instead it's this weird jumble of feelings that are constantly confusing, constantly judging, constantly sensitive and unsure. We fight for something so far from love that it eventually becomes that same imitation of it, the same disguise that confirms our notion that love hurts or adds more gold to our treasure chest of mistrust.

I know some people take their time, think relationships through. I also know some people think too much while good people pass them by. And then I know me: I know that I have my own issues and fears. But I know that without a doubt, I love without boundaries and having that in me still, after every and anything, is definitely a gift worth rewrapping and giving to someone else.

That bitch stole my heart,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

I Am Not My Hair (But you are that scarf)

I recently took in Good Hair, Chris Rock's new documentary on the good, the bad, and the unbeweaveable of hair in the African American community.  On a side note, the movie was great. I'm starting to think Rock has found his genre as that was the best thing I've seen him in since CB-4.  But that's not the issue.  Of course, B took issue with the section dealing with sex.  Pretty much every man in the movie stated that touching a black woman's hair during sex is the equivilant of sticking things in the exit door-unallowed, unless you want it ripped off.  I've never had a weave and I also had no idea you couldn't give it a good yank. Ok, well maybe I did as that's the first thing flying, aside from punches, in a chick fight, but I didn't realize how far it went.  No hair pulling or touching AT ALL?  That's insane and about as silly as betting on a two legged dog in a race.

One of my favorite things a man does is play in my hair.  I love it, like a bitch in heat.  It feels amazing in the bed or out.  Being that it's one of the most sensual feelings, I can only imagine what it's like with railroad tracks all through it. I don't have to think too hard.  It's gross. 

During a particular barber shop scene, one guy joked about women having to wrap it up or get a scarf before doing the do.  Again, huh? Who wants to have sex with a chick in a scarf except maybe another chick in a scarf.  I know certain things go unattended to when you're comfortable with your man, and I understand that many women sleep with scarves on their heads, but during sex, that's a no-no.  No one's asking you to wear $500 lingerie every time, but damn, can you at least take that scarf off?  If you're rocking a weave, it's already hands off, so can he at least look at it? Feel like he's with a beautiful woman and not some dude or Britney Spears?  

Black men have gotten so used to the rules of black hair they've simply accepted this crazy behavior. It's time for you guys to stand up too!  Let your woman know that you ain't putting anything down until she takes her hair down.  If you're doing your job right, she'll comply rather than go without.   

Perhaps I'm being harsh and judgmental of the weave-wearing, scarf-donning women of the world.  

No, I'm not. It's just ridiculous. Take that scarf off.  Get a better sew in. Let your soul glo and all that, because just like good hair, good sex is hard to find. 

Pat your weave ladies! 

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo,

Blackie Collins

The Making of a Man

The list. Every woman has one. Men, too. The check list that's either mentally or literally created which collectively sums up your dream boat. I believe in the list, but only to an extent. I'd even get pass my height issue if a dude made it through my security checkpoints with ease and finesse. Well, not really, but I'd think about it for a minute or two.

My problem with the list is that it gets out of control. There are women with lists longer than the Holy Grail! Women who have everything from eye color to the color of their boxer briefs on this list. Settle down, cut back, think about what really matters, not what's really ridiculous. Yes, you should care about his spiritual beliefs. No, you shouldn't care about the outfit he wore to church. Yes, his finances matter. No, you aren't rolling in dough, so chill out. Build your empire together, don't expect to inherit something you didn't work for, Princess.

The list should be your skeleton. Your starting point. Not the finish line. People grow and change and morph into something more than a few points on a list anyway. Why fret about the small things, when the bigger ones weigh more.

B's List is quite simple.

1. Make me laugh

2. Make me love

3. Make me believe spiritually

4. Make me think

5. Make me scream ;)

And most of all:

6. Make me happy. 'Cause if we're happy, "everything's gonna be all right."

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo

Blackie Collins

Shorty is a Ten!

I don't date short guys. Never have, probably never will. Most of my friends know that about my dating preference. Everyone has their thing.  Just not my thing.  On behalf of the vertically challenged men that leave a few inches to be desired, I feel the need to share a story one of my readers sent to me recently. Who knows, maybe some shorty will get some play from this.  

Not from B, though.

There's a Sex and the City episode where Samantha meets a guy sitting at a bar. Said guy woos Samantha and, after giving him her digits, she finds out he's barely able to see over the bar when he hops off his stool. Samantha's interests falls as fast as a ho's panties, but the guy, being used to this, convinces her to spend the night with him. He promises that it'll be the best she's ever had. A tall order if you ask me.

My reader, who we'll call Steph, met Dave at a birthday party for a friend's toddler.  Steph hated these types of parties as she was usually the only single in attendance.  Being unattached at thirty-three was a one way ticket to "Hook Steph Up-Ville." Dave was the intended match. This was both why Steph decided to come and why Steph almost refrained.

Kids were running around everywhere as if every mother in town drank from a well of fertility and peed their offspring into the party. Amidst the little ones, was Dave, rough-housing on the floor with the birthday boy.  Steph took stock. He seemed to love kids, check. He had a good head of hair, check. Chiseled features and a wardrobe that seemed the right amount of put together and thrown together, doube check.  Steph was mentally hoping for a hit, when the rough-housing ended and Dave hopped up from the floor.

His height barely changed.

Dave stood at about 5'5.  Steph was 5'8.

Not interested in a Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise type of connection, she was immediately turned off.  Exit strategy in th

e making. Stomach ache would do fine.  "Too much birthday cake," she'd whine when asked to stay longer. But Steph's friend was en route, bringing Dave over for the formal introduction. Unable to run-that'd be too obvious-Steph braced herself.

But after the hostess left them in a space between casual and slightly awkward, Dave piped up with...a height joke. And it was funny. Very funny. Dave knew he was short, of course, and he didn't care. In fact, he was first in line to joke about it.  And there was no height requirement for that. It was simple: there was something Steph liked. They talked a while longer and met for drinks a few days later. Drinks turned into dinner and dinner into dessert, which according to Steph was exactly as they say.  Guys who are shorter in one region, usually make up for it in the nether regions.  Steph was more satisfied than she'd ever been with anyone, taller or anything else for that matter. She couldn't help herself, so she gave in.  They were engaged last March.

And he didn't even have to kneel.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Merry Maids

I'll try anything once.  At least.  Yes, sometimes you need a second taste, but for the most part, I know after the first bite. If that first go-round sucks?  I'm done.  No need for recount or retry.  I'm good.

That said, I don't go home with unknown guys from parties or clubs.  Here's why:

Some random year during college at some random club in some random part of the city, I met a guy who we will call anything but random.  We will call him: D'Angelo. *

Need I say more as to why I went home with him?

We eyed each other up, started dancing, talking while dancing, drinking while dancing, drinking while kissing, kissing while leaving, and eventually, kissing while driving. We somehow made it back to his living situation. This was my first warning. D'Angelo lived in nothing short of a frat house, except you couldn't use that as an excuse because it wasn't, well, a frat house. The residence looked as if seventeen wild parties had taken place in one weekend.  Despite the trashed lawn, broken screen door, and wall to wall stained carpet, I still headed up the stairs with D'Angelo behind me, finding new places to grab. When we reached the landing, I started praying his bedroom looked nothing like the bathroom we scooted by, and I mentally calculated how long I could hold it.  With no intention of sleeping over, I figured I could Tim Gunn it and make it work.

He kicked his door open and pushed me onto what I prayed as I fell back was a bed. I felt a lump of clothes, a rogue sneaker, and other bits and pieces of his life. Shoving it aside, I thought we could just get it in with the lights off. That way his fine as wine image would stay intact and I'd remember him fondly without seeing what else shared the bed with us.

"Wait, I wanna see your gorgeous ass," he said as he stopped undressing me and moved to what I assumed was going to be some sort of light source.  I couldn't grab him fast enough.  It was like slow motion.  My brain moaned, "Nooooo!" But my mouth didn't get the memo in time. The room flooded with light and ooohh emmmm geeee.  Stained sheets, a floor covered in the remnants of fast food from yesteryear, a sheet as a curtain, and the worst part.  A yellow python in the corner.  A cage? Yes. A lid on that cage? No.

I screamed at the top of my lungs and immediately starting doing a combination of grabbing my clothes and hyperventilating.  There are no words to describe my fear of snakes.  I cannot see them on television or in movies. I still have nightmares about them. I once saw one in my backyard and called the police. I don't even mess with the stuffed ones you win at amusement parks.  I. Don't. Like. Snakes.

D'Angelo was perhaps the most beautiful man to get lucky with me, but there was no hemming and hawing. While there are few things that keep me from getting what I want, a snake is definitely at the top of that list.  I ran like the wind, dressing along the way, not even thinking of what diseases I was catching on the rug as I was holding my heels.  D' Angelo was at a loss.  He called after me, chased me, inquired what was wrong.  I stood on the front lawn and demanded a ride home.  I told him I didn't fuck with snakes. At all. I explained this the whole way to my apartment and before I shut the door, I told him his poor excuse for a house needed Merry Maids (or stronger) at the very least.

I know the likelihood of a repeat situation is slim to none, but the window of going home with randoms has closed. I'm too old for that and as I said: it only takes one bite to know the taste...

Which is exactly why I let D'Angelo come inside.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

*you don't have to watch that video now, but I recommend you do at some point in your day. It's delightful.

Sensitive Thugs Need Hugs

"I know what boys like, I know what they want-" and I don't care. Through my history with the opposite sex, I've discovered that it isn't the female who longs for affection in the most silly ways. We can absolutely leave the huggies to men. And I don't mean pampers. I mean this: men are the biggest suckers for love.

Sure women love to be hugged and kissed. Sure, we love a little interlaced hand-holding. But make no mistake, men love it more. And they go further! They want to spoon and hold you all night (um, I need to sleep at some point and it'll be far easier without your legs wrapped around me in a death grip). They want to wrap their arm around you when walking down the street (unless we walk on same footing, it's bumper car season). And perhaps the worst, they want to kiss you through the phone. Not just one dude either. I have dated several guys that have asked for a tele-kiss at the end of a conversation.

"Okay, I'm gonna head to bed."

"Okay, baby, talk tomorrow?"

"Yup."

"Gimme kiss."

What? Why? Then I make some sort of quick kissing sound, which makes me feel like an idiot. And if I feel like an idiot, it's like Gramps on Viagra, bro-it ain't going down.

Kissing a dude over the phone is too reminiscent of the days when I used to sneak a few extra phone hours in on a school night. The last time I did that was when my ninth grade boyfriend and I used to "sleep together" on the phone. Yeah. Incredibly corny. Just like kissing over the phone. That kind of mess is totally reserved for people with Beyonce as their ring tone: teenagers.

Now, I'm cool with a loving guy. Love it when I'm involved with a man who loves to, love to, love me. I will even compromise and cuddle your ass for a solid twenty minutes. BUT I am not doing any kind of kissing through the phone. Leave that to Trey Songz and Soulja Boy, LOL, sad face.

Losing It: An Afterschool Special on Virginity

Girls dream of losing their virginity to a handsome beau (boyfriend or husband)who loves and respects them.  He takes gentle care in the endeavor and cuddles them after the deed is done. Some girls get that.

My first time sucked.  

I was a senior in high school and infatuated w/ boys (of course). One, in particular, was my favorite. His name was Rick and he was a junior transfer from the city. I lived in the racially segregated suburbs so the sports teams bussed in (ahem) kids of color from nearby cities so their football and basketball teams wouldn't suck. Instead they'd have a shot at state championships. Rick moved to his "aunt's" house in my school district and showed up at my locker one day asking if I knew where algebra was. I told him I was a senior, but juniors had math in the hall with the MATH mural painted along the wall. He laughed, realizing his jig was up and from then on, Rick and I were fast friends. While we're on topic, it should be known that HS B wasn't fast at all. I was definitely into the opposite sex, but I was also into not being labeled a slut as many female high schoolers are prone to after spending one to many minutes over seven in heaven.  So as our friendship matured, Rick and I began sharing lockers (his was on the west side while mine lived in the east wing), hanging out during lunch, and I cheered him on with some sort of ridiculous fervor at football games. I was a cheerleader, he was the star runningback. It all made sense. 

Like many platonic relationships, we eventually started making out after school and holding hands in the hallway. People started thinking of us as together, but the discussion never really happened. Did it ever in those days? One weekend, a friend's parents were out of town. The type of party thrown was the classic high school drunken brothel. At some point, Rick and I wound up in said friend's parents' room. (Gross now. Seemed like a good idea then. Hey, it wasn't my parents bedroom.)  Our usual making out ensued and eventually Rick wanted more than the average bear. I don't know why I was suddenly okay with the idea-Rick wasn't exactly my boyfriend and I'd been relatively schooled on sex by my sisters and parents-but I decided, what the hey! Many of my friends had traveled the sex highway and I figured I'd just go ahead, pay the toll, and hit cruise control.

I knew there was a problem immediately following when he announced regrettably that he hated being drunk. He followed that by grabbing his pants and exiting stage left. Seriously, he was gone before I could even review what had gone down.  Well, um, okay.  The following Monday, I got the coldest shoulder ever. I didn't get it.  In my seventeen year old mind, I'd assumed sex meant love or at the very least relationship. I was very uneducated on the ways of 16 year old boys. Apparently sex meant ignore the girl, tell the football team and yell about the fellatio received in the cafeteria.  Good to know.  My good girl reputation was down the tubes for some dude that could barely fill out his football uniform and subsequently couldn't pass 11th grade algebra.  I also received a phone call from Rick's girlfriend, who lived in the city.  The conversation was filled with lots of four letter words on her part.  I played the dumbfounded suburban girl role to a T.  To top it off, my mother happened to hear about the all inclusive party when she picked up my phone line by accident.  I lived in the kind of place where everyone's parents were friends, so phone calls went out, groundings were rampant.  It was an absolute disaster and I had to hear from my mom on several occasions that I should be careful or I'd be a slut.  "Did I want to be that?" Thanks for the support mom, don't you see my heart is broken?  Well, not really.  I got over it relatively easy.  Still made homecoming court (which is all that matters in high school). Cheerleading squad won Nationals. Got into a top college.  Even better, started dating the star runningback from our rival football team. 

Rick dropped out when he got some girl pregnant...I love karma.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins 

Starbitch

Chicks are funny. And bold. And ridiculous. Here's why: 

I'm standing in line at my favorite Starbucks. With him.  We're clearly a couple in some capacity.  For starters, we're together in the first place.  For finishers, we have the kind of familiarity that only comes from, well, finishing each other off.  He's gotten his coffee from Dunkin Donuts as we all know DD has tastier coffee and cheaper prices.  I lean on the counter and tell the female barista my order and turn to him.  He's paying.  That should've been another clue, but she isn't quick on the uptake.  Instead she asks him how he could come into Starbucks with a Dunkin Donuts container. Before he can formulate an answer, I laugh and explain that DD has better coffee, but Starbucks has soy milk, so she can do the math.  

(Shout out to DD. Please get soy milk, thanks!)I'm thinking this is a friendly conversation.  

I am misinformed apparently.  

She blatantly looks at him and says something unimportant. What is important is the manner in which she says it.  I am no idiot and I'm an amazing flirt, so I can tell from a mile away no matter the subtly. She isn't subtle.  The flirtation is seeping over her lips.  Dripping.  Thank goodness she's wearing an apron. 

I stop laughing and step back to double check the exchange.  He pays, says something in response- a joke about how he works at DD (he does not) which is why he drinks the coffee.  She laughs and says her life is Starbucks, she's in it for the long haul.  Too bad, so sad.  Then she hands him a packet of sample blend.  It's promotional. 

Is she promoting coffee or coochie?  

I cross my arms and move over to the pick up area, keeping my eyes on them.  Men are so oblivious, but not this one.  One of the things I like about him is that he's intelligent, perceptive, open, aware, creative, honest.  When he comes over, he asks why I walked away.  I tell him I wanted to give them their moment.  They seemed to be enjoying each so much.  Let's be clear. I am NOT the jealous type but I am a scorpio and I do sting. You will know when I'm not pleased.  He laughs and says, "ooh, no. That was all her." Whatever.  She is not worth it (and he isn't either, yet), but I do say some choice words within ear shot on the way out.  He points to a sign that says the promotion doesn't start until next week. She slipped it too him early, did him some sort of favor to bring him to the Starbucks side. Her side. I accidentally knock it from his hands and then step on it.  Its covered in nyc street grit. 

Whoops.

That bitch stole my line (and tried to steal my man)

xoxo

Blackie Collins