Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Wait Debate

I've always stated my feelings on whether or not a woman and man should wait to have sex or not, but incase you're new to the blog, it goes something like this: Do it when you feel like it. I'm not trying to make something that is intimate and important, small and simple, but I find that people love to overcomplicate things. This isn't complicated. The factors and possibilities can get as such, but for the most part, it's very very simple: do it when you want to.

Yet, despite my bottom line there are still all these addendums (not made up by me) that come into the picture. A friend of mine, Jess, is mildly dating a guy-they've gone out several times, talk on the phone, know each other's middle names, and have had some steamy make out sessions. We'll call him 7th grader, I'll tell you why. He. can't. seem. to. wait. Jess is not an "easy lay" (a term I hate but will use for now) and 7th grader is as anxious a Ginuwine circa 2000. He asks her when she'll be ready at least once or twice a week, he feeds her lines about how much he wants her, longs for her, he tries her in every time things get steamy. Maybe this time she'll go all the way! Jess has told him, explained to him her position-she wants to make sure he's deserving of her chocha. She is worried he'll bust a move as soon as he busts a nut, which sounds probable based on his antics. He's stated that he doesn't know if he can truly get to know her without this last piece. Right. As I type this blog, I've already told Jess not to sleep with him. He sounds like a head case. Besides, it's illegal, being that he's in 7th grade and all.

I want my motto to take hold, but it can't, now can it? For several reasons actually:

There are all these double standards. When a guy gets it in on the first night, it's all hail the king. When the girl does the same, she's a whorebag tossed into oblivion with the label branded like a scarlett 'A.' I know double standards have been around since forever, but it's getting old. A woman should be able to do what she wants when she wants and yet she's held to a different standard. Trust me, this makes women "hold out" even longer. Fear of being labeled a slut.

Then we worry about he'll think. And not just him, but his friends that he will inevitably gossip to. Think about it. It's one of the first few dates, she's invited him in, all is going well, necking on the couch. I guarantee, if she stops him it's because she doesn't want to do it too soon. Doesn't want him to think she gives it up easily to every other guy. Then he'll go and tell his friends that they too can hit (trust me, they do this-I call it the hand off).

She Won't Do It: This point is actually more in the man's corner. This can all get confusing. Say she doesn't give it up easily. Makes you take her out, gasp-spend money on her, etc. and you still haven't gotten in there. I know men who will just move on, say it isn't worth the hassell. But I got some great advice from CJ once. He said, "If a girl isn't giving it up, I take it as a challenge. Put in my A game, hit it, and keep it moving. Her holding out isn't gonna make me think she's anything other than what I already thought of her based on other traits." So I guess it doesn't matter? I don't know, men are so ridiculous.

But all the thought that goes into it? Well, we do this for you guys. Most women have raging libidos, so squashing a possible awesome romp or playing any kind of game with it is strictly for the dickly.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Words To Live By

I am having an insomnia kind of night, which sucks because I'll be a tired bitch tomorrow, but wonderful because this seems to be when I forget what writer's block is and take to the page like a bat out of hell. I keep thinking of a conversation I had with a friend earlier this week. She was lamenting an ex from years ago, one who has caused her great distress since his exit or lack thereof (part of the problem, well most of it). She needed to vent, I let her and during her catharsis, she screeched, "I wish I'd never met him. Seriously. I wish he'd never existed!"

It's definitely not the first time I've heard these words, and if men keep up with their track record, it probably won't be the last, but for some reason, I thought about them long and hard, and that conversation was days ago. It's interesting to say you wish you'd never met someone. It's literally the eternal sunshine, a spotless mind, a chance to not just forget but to have the relationship never happen in the first place. Like cleaning a hard drive, no trace left behind. But when you throw out the baby with bath water, you are losing everything. Not just the cheating, the tears, the fights, the betrayal, the pain, but also the kisses, gentle touches, shared inside jokes, nights of incredible passion, moments when you felt like the luckiest person in the world. You lose all of it. And if that's perfectly fine with you, wouldn't that mean the good parts were not so great in the first place? That you'd trade in all your good times just for some peace from the bad? Talk about an unbalancing act.

The truth of the matter is that we all have someone we'd love to forget, someone we wish never stepped into our lives. We'd give anything to have never made the string of choices that led us to them; deciding to stay a few minutes longer in the book store, thus meeting him in the cookbook section, walking instead of subwaying home and meeting a handsome stranger while waiting for the light to change on 75th and Columbus, or deciding to go ahead and go out with your best friend's boyfriend's cousin (whom you were barely interested in and definitely not looking to date, but decided to anyway). You could cancel all those choices, wipe the slate clean, start over without the baggage they added to your wagon of woes, but isn't that apart of what life is? A string of experiences that shape and mold us into the product others see each day as an outsider? If you start erasing experiences, people, pain, happiness, good, and bad, you end up with a clean slate, yes, but also a blank canvas full of nothing. And nothing sucks. It's very boring and uneventful. It isn't a lived life. The reality is that we can't control what others do to us and unfortunately there's always someone waiting just around the corner to disrupt our lives, ruin everything, make us wish we'd never met them. But the possibility of someone around the bend who will add bright, broad strokes to a messy canvas, turning it into a Picasso is something I'd never want to lose out on. I think of the moments I've shared with people who are gone from my life, relationships that ended. The good moments, no the great ones. And not just the obvious moments, the quiet, hidden ones too. I wouldn't trade them for anything. They're part of who I am. They're part of my memories, that little pocket of my brain where my life lives in pictures, snibbits and snapshots.

Trust that the old adage is true, everything happens for a reason and while hindsight is 20/20 and rose colored glasses are the foggiest spectacles out there, you will never be able to see anything as clear as you'd like. All you can hope is that you learn from mistakes, treasure the good and bad times and move on in a positive direction.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, April 23, 2010

She Who Laughs Last

I know this is childish and bad, but I find some sort of solice in knowing that I actually got the last laugh with a guy who assumed he did. Whether it be cheating on a dirt bag or slaughtering his name to my friends so everyone laughs at him behind his back (or to his face as we're known to do, too), I just walk a little lighter knowing that a jerk got his due-especially when it's signed sealed and delivered from me.

Perhaps, the lightest example has to do with the guy I lost my virginity to. I've told the story of my first, but the short end is that it wasn't good-on either end. And once he told the football team, it was only a matter of time before the usual high school rumor mill worked it's magic. It was like whisper down the lane at 120mph. It was like everyone I didn't want to know knew. There was a giant glass hallway in my high school and on the way through one day, my group of friends passed the guy and some of the boys from the football team. The under the breath comments began and I couldn't help my spitfire mouth. I shouted, "I may not know much, but I know when someone is tiiiinnnnyyyy." The laughter ensued and Rick, attempting some feeble comeback, was clapped on the back by his friend and told to just keep it moving, he couldn't win this battle. I remember feeling so triumphant-what an asshole!

Fast forward to real life and I still can't help enjoying the last laugh, even if he doesn't realize I got it. Now don't think of me as a bitter bitch, there are plenty of good guys who walked away unscathed. You'll never hear me say anything negative about my ex of a billion years. Out of respect I won't do that. But if you disrespected me, I think we can already assume that line no longer exists and while I'm not an all the way turnt up mean girl, you definitely aren't getting away scott free. Where they do that at? I would go into detail, but its highly possible that one of them will read this and while I am many things, stupid is not one of them. I'm not ratting myself out, but just know that I'm definitely enjoying my little chuckle over here.


That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Little Bits: Bands that Bind (?)

Why don't they want have to wear them? Women get engagement rings, big (if they're lucky), shiny (again if they're lucky) ones that all but jump off their fingers. The damn thing screams to the world: "I'm taken! I'm betrothed. I'm off limits!" More importantly, women wear them with great pride. They giggle and cheer and call mom when they get one for heaven's sake.

But men? Well, for starters they have no such engagement ring and when the ceremony rolls around, they get a nice little band, while she gets another shiny object to add to the sparkle and off limitness on her left hand. And she continues to wear hers, unless she gets prego and has to take it off until she loses the baby weight. There are so few men who rock their wedding bands! Its not like the band keeps your pants zipped, incase you didn't know, it doesn't. I think my dad wore his, despite having mistresses on the side. At least he was stabbing my mom in the front instead of the back. I mean that's balls for you. "I'm wearing my ring proudly, even have pictures of my kids in my wallet, while I screw you." It's stupid actually, taking your ring off doesn't make you any less married nor does it suddenly make what you're doing on the side any more okay. It just makes you an even bigger liar...not to mention a cheater, which I assume you knew already...


Blackie Collins

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

"We Could Invite Oprah"

I was sitting in the Borders in the Time Warner building. I'm a Barnes & Noble gal, but I was meeting a friend in the area within the hour. Anyone who lives in NYC knows that time travel is always apart of the package. Just like Cher's dad shouts in Clueless, nothing is more than twenty minutes away. That said, it wasn't worth it to go home, just to have to turn around and come back to midtown. So I parked my butt in the cafe and pulled out the novel I was knee deep in. Manhattan is a funny place, one with a limited amount of personal space. Think about it, we walk packed streets, sit in cubicles pressed together, ride subways where we try to pretend we aren't within kissing distance to the old lady next to us, and head home to shoebox apartments, stacked on top of each other. It's only fitting that we sit right next to each other at "different tables" in restaurants or we go ahead and ask to share a table with someone who appears to be alone. I was alone, engrossed, really, in my book when a voice broke me from my reverie.

"Is this seat taken?"

I looked up to see a tall, dark, and handsome stranger, holding a steaming mug in one hand and a bunch of books under his other arm. I saw one with a "Dummies" title, but couldn't quite make out what he was trying to become a quick study of. I shook my head and smiled. Then I went back to my book. He sat down and opened one of his own.

"Good book?"

I looked up again to see Mr. TallDark&Handsome sipping his drink, waiting for my answer. If I said yes, it would seem like I wasn't interested in talking to him (which I was still deciding on whether or not I was-my book was that good). If I said no, it might appear like I was desperate for conversation. He might also wonder why I was reading the book in the first place.

"You should read it and find out," I replied grinning. He smiled back. Was he flirting or just being nice? I was recently out of a relationship. I was rusty on the ways of men those days.

"I should. We could have a book club," he responded. He was definitely flirting.

"We could invite Oprah." I am many things. One of them is witty, Queen of Oneliners. Hello, I'm a writer. I could volley verbally all day long.

"Eh, she's overrated. I don't think she even reads half those books. That's why she got snubbed on that A Thousand Little Pieces author." He sipped his beverage slowly. He was interested in conversation. I laid my book down, deciding I was too, and said something fiercely loyal about Oprah. We spent the next forty-five minutes covering as many details as our conversation would allow. Now, before you think this is how I met the great love of my life, know that this is a common practice in Manhattan. You end up sharing a table and or sitting next to someone and you wind up having a great conversation. Then you say, "Nice to meet you," gather your belongings, and go your separate ways, never to cross

paths again perhaps. It's just a thing here. The island is only three miles across, we're packed like sardines. It's bound to happen, repeatedly in fact.

At this point, I started wondering if this was going to end that way or if he was going to ask for my information. We had a book club to plan after all. Then he said something so normal and yet so weird at the same time. I had a clear view of his "For Dummies" book and was unsurprised to see that it was "GMAT For Dummies." He looked about the right age and due to the life and times of our economy, I had many a friend who was backing out the workfroce to head back to business school or the like. I asked him about it. That is when he said:

"Actually, I just joined the Airforce. I'm one of those guys using Uncle Sam to go to school." I was taken aback. Our country was still being ran by Bush. As a matter of fact, we were starting to realize there were no weapons of mass destruction and we were actually losing this war on terroism. It wasn't the best time to run off to Iraq, yet he was on his way. He informed me that he was leaving in a month.

We talked a while longer about the troops, about what he wanted to do when he got out, whether or not he was scared. He answered politically, stating he was doing what he had to do. He said his parents weren't happy about it, but he was an adult. He made his own decisions. He was in the middle of explaining something about fighter pilots when my phone vibrated from the table. I had already told him I was meeting a friend, so he glanced at it saying, "Ooops, looks like our time's probably up." I grabbed my phone, confirmed it was said friend, she was waiting in Columbus Circle, and sent her a quick text saying I'd be a few minutes. I started gathering my things, no longer thinking about him asking for my number. Well, I was, but only in the fact that it was pointless. I didn't want to start seeing someone who was as cool as Mr. TallDark&Handsome seemed to be only to have him constantly deployed to Iraq, Afghanistan or wherever the next war was. I'd seen the

movies, the ones where the women wait at home for their boyfriends or husbands to either come home in a box or mentally ruined. I have never been interested in members of the Armed Forces for anything other than protection from Osama Bin Laden and the like.

"It was so great meeting you," I said. "Good luck over there and with school."

"This is annoying. I want your number. I want to see you again. What about our book club?" he said before I stood up. I laughed at his book club joke, but said nothing about my number. "I know, I'm leaving. It's weird. But I'll be back eventually."

"That doesn't sound very enticing. Eventually," I said shrugging. "I'm just being honest."

"I appreciate that. And you're right. Look, here's my information," he scribbled his number and email on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I tucked it into my book. "If you feel like eventually is less than forever, hit me up."

Apparently he was good with oneliners too. I walked out of Borders, into Columbus Circle and plopped down on the fountain's ledge with my friend where I told her the whole story. Her response: "Only in New York."

I never called him. We headed off to dinner and several hours later, I found myself thinking about him, but in a really sad way. He was going off to war. It was all so dramatic. Actually, it was a definite possibility that he'd never actually see combat, but still. There was a definite connection, a chemistry. Eh, maybe eventually wasn't that far away. I rooted in my bag for my book. I came up empty-handed, already seeing exactly where it was in my head. Sitting on the ledge of the fountain. Too bad. The book was really good. I guess there'd be no book club after all.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, April 16, 2010

On Sleeping Over

I see a lot of blogs about sleepovers-why you should do them, why you shouldn't. The trouble they cause, the fun times they bring. It's simple for me: I don't like sleepovers for the most part. Unless they involve mani/pedi's and Ouija boards. Light as a feather, stiff as a board! Ok, back to my point. No sleepovers. I won't kick you out, per se, that's kinda awkward and rude, but here's why I'd rather you just head home or at least sleep on the couch ;)

Cuddling. Men, contrary to stereotype, j'adore cuddling. I hate it. I'm the only weirdly wired girl who doesn't like when I guy wraps his arms around you and goes to sleep. For me, it's more like, they grab you in this vice grip and you're stuck there until they do one of two things: roll over or wake up and leave. Neither seems to happen with my luck. I sleep either on my stomach or in some twisted contorted position I've come up with in my search for comfort. Because of that most men have failed. I usually just go insane and lay there until I can figure out how to break out of jail. Two guys have figured out how to cuddle me. TWO! My ex slept on his stomach too, so for the most part we'd cuddle up, talk or whatever and then roll over to sleep. Perfection. Another surprised the heck out of me. We messed around and when I maneuvered myself into a crazy position to sleep, he slipped one arm under me and the other drapped over me. I was in a bear hug, without being uncomfortable. I fell asleep quickly. I could marry him.

Sharing. I grew up in a household where I had to claim what was mine. I don't share well. That includes my bed. My body literally senses someone who isn't supposed to be in the bed and freaks out. I never get a good nights sleep. I spend the whole time keeping my body in a line, on my side of the bed. Men seem to know no boundaries in life let alone someone else's bed. They sprawl out and takeover. I'm sorry, you didn't pay for this bed, so can you please move over? Thanks, Chick With The Receipt

Emotions. Now, here's the last issue for me. There are many things that illicit emotions from people: puppies, sad movies, proposals, sex. To me, however, it feels like sleepovers make more of a connection then the acts done in the bed themselves. I remember my sophomore year, I slept over a good friends house (female-and no this isn't that kind of story). We laid on our sides of her bed, chatting and laughing into the night. I remember thinking, "We're gonna be best friends for life." Corny, hello, I was 19, but true. Fast forward a several years and was Maria, my best friend. Something happens in the dark, at night, talking, in a bed regardless of the gender. Adding male and female counterparts-all their parts really-and suddenly the bed is a feeding ground for connections and chemistry. I personally hate science, so if I like you, I can't sleep. I lay there all excited, electronic currents shooting through my body-'no sleep til Brooklyn' and all that. You staying over is either gonna perpetuate that or create some sort of false feelings. The good news for you is learning my sleeping habits can let you know the 411: if I'm knocked out, chances are I'm not that into you.

Yup, those are my major reasons, so either get your own accommodations or follow my rules. Otherwise, there's a nice pull out in my living room. Blankets in the hall closet. Night!

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Making Our Beds: Oldie, But Goodie

She'd be in town for two days. He knew he had to see her-knew it about as much as he knew he was getting married on Sunday. Knew how incredibly wrong it would be, they could never quite keep their hands off each other...damn, he didn't need to see her. But he was going to, in some way shape or form, he was going to.

She knew she'd probably see him. It was rare that she didn't when stopping through the city, but this time she was barely interested, at least that's what she told herself. She'd heard he was seeing somone, so was she, which had never stopped them in the past. She would stop it this time around. She remembered previous vows.

He was heading to a small jazz show at one of his favorite venues. A boy of his played the trumpet and he was supporting, but also, a lover of the genre, excited at a night up his alley; sans wedding plans, sans fiance, sans anything. Just chill time, the ultimate down time. Not even his boys to answer to really.

A friend had hooked her up with tickets to an intimate jazz show that night. She'd most likely review them when they headed to her city next, so seeing two sets made sense. She also loved jazz for other reasons and decided she'd stop through before heading out into the night with friends. It was warm, she opted for the cute black mini.

The concert hall was packed, the band was getting a great following. He was proud of his boy. Roomates back in college, he had suffered through hours of trumpet rehearsals, but the dude had followed his dream, go head. He thought about his days slaving away in finance. The dream killer. She'd always told him to go for it. Write a book, write a poem, write something! You have such a way with words. He pseudo did-a book of essays-all on how female jazz musicians brought him up, reared him even, when his mother had died of cancer when he was eleven. It sat in his desk, wound in a leather bounded journal, unpublished, hell untouched by eyes other than his own. Dreamkiller indeed. He found a seat and settled in.

Her friend was running uber late, she said she'd find seats, didn't want to miss the opening set. She wiggled through the crowd, happy for the great turn out, she sort of knew the trumpet player from college. She found her seat and sat down. A quick survey of the crowd, she pulled out her trusty iPhone and opened a new document for notes.

He saw her, she had no idea, but he'd seen her from the moment she walked in, maybe even felt it before his eyes found her. Was it possible she looked better every time he saw her? It had to be. She did. Her skin looked radiant, her legs looked toned and tanned, her curls hung loosely down her pack. He wanted a handful of her locks, wanted to yank them, caress them, get lost in them and never resurface-the set was starting. The set was starting and he was getting married on Sunday.

The music was solid, great actually. She'd gotten lost in the melody, loved the drummer and the vocalist who'd stepped in for a few songs. Her friend was still caught up, was sorry, would meet after for drinks. It was fine, she preferred seeing shows alone, no distractions. The soloist introduced the next song, said it was an old favorite of hers, an unknown arrangement, but still a goodie. The opening chords started and the air got caught in her throat. She felt her eyes water slightly. She remembered the first time she heard the song. He'd explained how everyone loved the more popular version, but how his mother gave this one a heavy rotation, how he remembered his mother asking him to play it when she could no longer handle the delicate record herself. It played through the concert hall identical to when it played in his apartment. She remembered how he'd hugged her tightly, didn't bother pretending he wasn't crying into her hair. She closed her eyes and listened. Moments later, her phone vibrated from her lap. She went to silence it, but saw who the message was from. DEFINITELY BETTER THAN THE OTHER VERSION. She looked around, could feel eyes bearing into her and there he was, a few rows behind and to the left of her, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Her phone vibrated again. SEAT TAKEN? She shook her head, he came down, hugged her, lingered in her hair, and told her she was radiant. He still had a way with words, blessing, curse. Why couldn't he just say, "You look nice." She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to abort this mission, knowing they were on a one way flight to a place they'd been but shouldn't revisit. It hadn't worked before, why would it this time?

He leaned in, nuzzled her neck, didn't care who saw. Didn't care at all, in fact. She was here, he was content, he was safe. "Let's get out of here," he whispered. She rose without being asked twice and they headed for the exit. "Wait, one second," she said as he watched her head off to the restroom. He thought once, thought twice, almost thought three times and headed in after her, locking the door behind him.

That bitch stole my line,

Blackie Collins

Friday, April 9, 2010

Making Our Beds: "I can see how you'd get us mixed up"

Author's Note***Making Our Beds is a series dedicated to the garbage moves men make, from their own treasure chests of mistakes, told to me by them. These are their words, handled with care by yours truly. Enjoy your step inside their minds. It's a teenage wasteland in there. -B

It was homecoming, so I jetted down to my alma mater's city on Thursday, just to be ready for the full weekend. My return travel wouldn't happen until late Monday night. Red eye. I was guaranteed to get. it. in before that midnight flight came around. I gave myself ample time. Met up with my boys the night I landed ready for whatever was coming. First stop was drinks at a local lounge we all used to frequent. We weren't there long before I ran into Patrice. Patrice was always fine in college, and it seemed time was on her side, she was definitely better with age. I was pretty sure I wanted to get in touch, positive, but there was a snag in the whole game. I had brought my current girlfriend with me to homecoming...a big no-no unless you are thoroughly attached. We'd been together over a year, I'd say that was attached, but it was more about timing than destiny if that makes sense. Patrice was fine and that was more pressing than the timing of my current girlfriend being in my life. I'm an ass for that, I know. Anyway, Patrice looked like something I could dig into, so I asked my boy, who was close with her, for a hook up. He played his part and at the next spot, where she happened to turn up as well, I spit to her all night. She was gonna get me in trouble and I was all down for it. Who doesn't like the good kind of trouble? We exchanged numbers, I promised to call. The night wore on, everyone got pretty wasted and before I knew it, I saw her heading to the restroom. I followed close behind, my girl was off talking to some friends. I was being bold and stupid, the Walker Black was walking for me, talking for me, making the decisions as I followed her into the single bathroom. Double occupancy. She let me in without issue and we went in on each other. Slobbery kisses, hands roaming each others bodies, my hand finding her wet warmth. I didn't want to even think about stopping, but I knew I couldn't hit in a bathroom stall. Patrice was better than cold tile and the smell of disinfectant. I told her I was coming with her after the party, she nodded her ascent and we went back out into the club.

As the night came to a close, I started looking around for Patrice. I'd lost sight of her earlier in the night, wasn't sure where she'd gotten to. My girl had taken much of my attention. She was drunk and being annoyingly obnoxious. Suddenly I saw Patrice leaving , but I couldn't let her get gone before I knew where she was going to. I asked a friend to watch my girl and ran out behind her. When I reached her, she whirled around and hissed, "Have you lost your mind? You're trying to get at me and your girlfriend is here?" I looked at her blankly, unsure if I'd heard her right or if I was as drunk as I felt. "She is your girlfriend, right?" I nodded. "Exactly," she retorted and hopped into her homegirl's car. I watched the car pull down the street and get stuck behind a line of cars at the light. It didn't take long for me to make what would surely be considered a mistake and dig in my pocket for my keys, run off to my own car and hop in. Yes, I left my girl at the club. I already said I was an ass, need I repeat it? OK, fine, I'm an ass. But, man, I can't tell you what went through my head when Patrice was around. She had this pull on me. I rode off behind them, following all the way back to her friend's apartment. I jumped out and made a beeline for her. She told her friends to go inside, she'd be there in a minute. I didn't bother speaking much. Just told her how much I wanted her, how I'd dump my girl if Patrice would give me a chance. I kissed her like my life depended on it, she responded, we headed inside, into her friend's bedroom. We rolled around on the bed for a while and just as I was kissing her sweet spot, she jerked up. It was like she was suddenly sober. "No, you gotta go," she said pushing me back. I made the prerequisite feeble last attempt that all guys make, cause sometimes y'all say you gotta go and then let a dude get in, but she wasn't having it. I left.

The next night, is Saturday night, and it's crucial. I know she's leaving Sunday afternoon. I have to get her tonight. The night goes on as usual, everyone's linking up, partying hard, drinking as if they don't have a care or a job on Monday. I spot her early in the night, she's been ignoring me, but I caught her looking a few times and I know she feels similar, I'm positive. I didn't imagine last night. I hit her with a text saying I was serious, I'd leave my girl for her. Then I watch her read the message and I see a grin that lasts not even half a second before she puts on a stone face and puts her phone back in her bag. But I'm in, I know it. Later, she's going to the coat check, I think she's leaving, so I make my move. I walk up to the cubby where the coat closet is and I slide my hand into hers. She looks down and sees what I'm slipping into her hand: the key to my hotel room. "The W, room 1911," I say quickly. I hustle away and head back over to my friends and my girl as if nothing has transpired.

But then, I turn around at the sound of my name and there's Patrice, standing not two feet away, holding my key in her hand for all to see. "I think you meant to give this to your girl," she says. "Looks like you gave it to me by accident. I can see how you'd get us mixed up." Patrice is the color of black coffee with just a splash of cream.

My girl is solidly the color of the cream.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


Pick up the phone and call me. Is your phone broken? Is mine? Let me check. Damn it, it's working. I like when you call. It makes me smile all over. It makes me feel a little bit safer. Pick up the phone and call me because I can't call you, then you'd know I like you, you'd know I was thinking about you. God, if you knew how much I was thinking about you, you might not pick up the phone ever. You'd think I was crazy. I might be. But not in a bad way, in a way that you'd be like, "damn, I'm lucky this girl is crazy for me." Which I'm not, not yet. But I could be. Pick up the phone and call me because my phone misses your number being in it's call log. Oh wait, it's in there from a couple days ago. Was it a couple days ago? It feels like longer. That means you should pick up the phone and call me because it's about that time. Pick up the phone and call me, tell me you were thinking of me, tell me you might maybe miss me, tell me something else about you. Something I don't know. Something no one knows. I like when you do that. I like when you share. So pick up the phone and call me so I can see your name pop up on the screen, can let my senses do all they will do just at the sight of your name. They will remember in any way they can, trust me. Pick up the phone and call me. I know you called yesterday, but I want you to pick up the phone and call me now...and maybe tomorrow too.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Monday, April 5, 2010

I Bet The Bridesmaids Know My Name

Getting married is a big event for many couples, especially the bride. They spend months, maybe even years planning the big day-it is said to be the best moment of her life; the day she becomes a wife. The dress is altered to a T, the table settings have been slaved over with detail, flowers are in place, the string quartet is paid and ready, it's go time. All the months of planning, all the preparation, all the stress goes out the window as you link up with daddy and head down the aisle. You peruse the guests, smiling at friends, tearing up at family. Then you see her. His close friend, Sandra. She has been around since their freshman year at college, you know her well. At least as well as possible being connected through your soon to be husband. All his friends call her the homie, but when your eyes fall upon Sandra, Sandra has a look of longing on her face...and she's looking at your groom, the "homie." You always joked that their relationship would be more than friends if he'd just give her the chance, you gave her the puppy dog title long ago, but now as you look at her and remember how he INSISTED she be invited at the least (after he proffered her name as a bridesmaid-"she's like a sister to me"), and suddenly you feel a bit queasy. See back in college, there was a night. A night where your then unknown husband to be and said friend took it a step too far. And ever since then he knew she wasn't meant to be anything more but by the look on Sandra's face, she feels the opposite. And all the while you're walking down the aisle, images of them, locked in arms, humping to Jodeci fly through your mind.

And your $50,000 moment is ruined.

This is why the invite list should be void of anyone you or he have sexed. They are off limits. From the moment the line was crossed, their names were crossed off the guest list.

A male friend of mine is getting married and two of his female friends are in the wedding. IN the wedding and not mutual friends between bride and groom but HIS friends. Now, I obviously know this guy well, so I'll tell you it's safe for you to assume two things: one, he probably slept with one or both of them (either simultaneously or on separate occasions) and two, this marriage won't last most likely so who cares? But the fact that she okayed this, said, "Sure babe, I'll reserve a special place in my bridesmaid line up and let them share that day with me. No problem" is mere insanity. It's bad news. I used to joke with THAT guy that we'd come to each others weddings, should we not wind up together. He used to always refuse the idea and while I knew why, I always asked, swore it wasn't a big deal, "we're friends!" He'd tell me something slick like, "yeah, but I wouldn't trust myself to not object when the minister asked if there were any takers." I laughed, happy that he'd be miserable if I ended up with someone else, but the reality is I wouldn't want to be at his wedding either (and ironically, I wasn't invited). It's awkward and an all around bad idea! I barely want to be around friends who are dating guys I used to sneak on the low with, a topic on which we won't even remotely elaborate, so don't even ask.

The guest list should not be a who's who of people who's boots you've knocked. It should be supporters and well-wishers. So, make it as painless as possible, I mean, my goodness, we're talking about marriage here. It's already complicated enough. Do yourself a favor now while you still can.

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins

Friday, April 2, 2010

"Are You Strappin"

I have a question: what do lesbians do?

Let me explain: When men meet women, perhaps on a date or perhaps in the club or a party, there's a certain protocol of events. If the vibe is great and the chemistry is apparent, there will be a happy ending on this eve. You head home together and do the do. Easy. But what do chicks who are into other chicks do? Men have their "equipment" on them at all times, but what do women do?

I have a really close female friend who is gay and the other day she was telling me a story that almost made me drop my phone-and we all know my firewall is pretty much non-existent. She told me about a girl she was dating who loved to use "devices" on her women. It seems the "male" of the two usually likes to strap up and do the do, so my question is, do you, as that female in the coupling, carry your equipment with you? Are you carrying at all times or do you just make sure you take your femme back to your own house, where it's in the bedside drawer? I'm seriously asking. I should just ask my friend, but I forgot and when I hung up, I thought, "This is a blog," verses, "let me call her back and ask." There are few things that really throw me for a loop, but for some reason this is intriguing to me. I suspect I should hit some gay bars and clubs and see if I over hear any women asking their object of desire if they're "strappin." I'll let you know how it goes....

That bitch stole my line,


Blackie Collins