Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
They have completely out of control work ethic. He and his 4 siblings all had dual degrees, the other three being doctors. Upon arriving in America, his mother worked at McDonald's to pay her way through nursing school and his father drove a cab. All the family members (or village) that came with them shared their house on Long Island. Boys in one room, girls in the other, parents in master suite. Crazy. I barely wanted to share a bathroom with my sister. And all of them completed college, hustled like crazy, valedictorians and such. Even better considering their parents were like Coming to America-princes and sh*t.
They have completely out of control names so you usually wind up with a fun nickname that makes you feel hip to some sort of game somewhere (probably in Queens). I can't even begin to pronounce his name for you, but his nickname was fun. Can't tell you, sorry. He plays ball still.
They have completely out of control bodies. He is literally, THE ONE, THE ONLY who made me swoon on a regular basis. Whenever he took his gotdamn shirt off, I nearly lost my life. Twice. He had something like 4% body fat and enough abs to build a nice baker's dozen. Jeessssuuss walks.
They have completely out of control cute accents. It's slight, but adorable. Like a mix of French and English (London, not here, idiots).
They have completely out of control manners. The most gentlemanly guys out, I'm telling you. He used to be so chivalrous, I would blush- a feat for a girl of color. Once we were in a cab, just the two of us and my skirt had ridden up just a bit. He reached over and tugged it down which was only a little patronizing, but mostly sweet. I think.
They have completely out of control stamina. Africans run a lot, or at least it seems they do when they whoop everyone's ass at the summer Olympics and NYC Marathon. They seem to be born with an extra shot of stamina, reserves that DEFINITELY tap into when necessary.
I'm also basing all this on one dude, so it could be crap, but trust me! Based on the one, you definitely need to get a mandingo warrior (who can widely receive with the best of 'em) in your life.
What other race/cultures of peeps are you feeling?
That bitch stole my line,
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
It's easy to invite someone over and it's comfortable. It's like Burger King delivery-you can have it your way. Does BK deliver in NYC? I'm sure they do. McDonald's does, so they better. Anyway, given the size and cost of the average NYC postage stamp apartment, you want to get as much bang for your buck as possible. But when it come to loving, I suggest you go to his house. Here's why we won't be playing red rover anytime soon:
Don't take it personal. Or go ahead. I just don't want you all up in my stuff. My personal space. My apartment is all mine for a reason and if you come up in it, looking around and asking "who's that?" in pictures and "what's this trophy from" on the bookcase, it's just gonna annoy me. And no, I don't have any trophies on my bookshelf for real, but it'd be nice if I did, don't you think? I think I'll run the marathon next year, just so I can hang my medal on the wall. Great conversation piece.
In the sanctuary. Similar to the first point, people's homes are their comfort zone, their inner sanctum or sanctumness. It's where they feel safest, where they shake it all off and let the day fall away. If you come around, tarnishing that, leaving behind your bad memories and bullsh*t, well instead of looking happily at that fluffy comforter that cost me an arm and a leg, I have to angrily haul it down the street to the dry cleaners so it no longer smells like your White Diamonds for Men. F*ck.
Nosey. Yep, like Pearl from 227, I'm nosey as hell and for all the reasons I said I didn't want you at my house, I want to be at yours. So I can check your bathroom cabinet for a prescription drug habit or see if your Axe deodorant will make girls eat my hair too.
Maid in Manhattan. In order for me to keep you from thinking I'm the crap of the earth because my apartment looks like the crap of the earth, I have to do what I hate most. Clean. Straighten up, I can do if I motivate a lot. But I chronically promise myself I'll clean on a Tuesday, only to have it not happen until two Sundays later. If you come over, I have to break that lovely procrastinating habit. I like habits. They're character building. I will, however, allow you to pay for a cleaning service. You can stay all week for that. Merry Maids anyone?
I don't know you like that. I once went on a first day with a guy who asked if he could come up and cook for me instead of going out to dinner. He was a great cook and offered to go to the market, grab us some goods, and come back to my pad to cook up a roaring feast and (this is where it's most important) watch the fight that was coming on HBO. One, I didn't have HBO. Two, you are not coming in my house when I don't know you from Charles Manson. Kick rocks on the sidewalk, buddy, cause you ain't coming up.
Just one of them days. Lastly, sometimes, I just don't feel like it. Tired, time of the month, irritated, haven't showered in a year, whatever. You just can't come over, the answer is no. Try again tomorrow.
So, kids, why can't s/he come over? Got a nasty habit you're trying to hide? Have a vicious toy poodle? Toe nail clippings all over the rug? Let 'em rip.
That bitch stole my line,
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Ever since I can remember, I've had a penchant for dumb scmucks. Only thing was that I had no idea I was into dumb schmucks until someone brought it to my attention only recently. One of my good friends insisted that I like dumb schmucks because it allows me to blame someone besides myself when it all goes to hell. I don't know what she's talking about, seeing as I never am to blame, but I tried to be a good adult and actually listen and learn. I thought about the last few guys I've involved myself with and it wasn't pretty. In fact, I am a bit worried at my selection. I gotta do better.
The Friends W/ Bennies. Many of you probably remember the whole FWB story I told over the summer, but a lot had happened before we got to the sexytime point. In the earlier chapters of our relationship, I had a major crush on him, as did he for me, except it was never quite enough to get together properly. Instead we'd pretend to be friends, while having these long discussions about how to make it work beyond friendship. It was really altogether tiresome and meanwhile I'd get an ear full about how tormented he was in life. That should've been a sign in itself. But somehow we hung in there and after many mushy, crying, "I think I'm in love with you" arguments, I gave up and told him to let me know when he was done playing angst-ridden, problem-laddened card. Then we complicated things by sleeping together and the rest is in blog history.
The Unexpected. I met this next guy through friends and while I ended up dating him for a few months, I knew early on that he was probably going to be trouble. Not because he was a bad guy, actually he was the exact opposite. In contrast to the drive me crazy and make cry bad boys, The Unexpected caught me off guard with his knack for making me laugh and being a genuinely nice guy. We had a good time together, but when he- out of nowhere- decided he needed a break, I was surprised, but not overtly so. Having had a large amount of talks about his past, it was his pattern to get into pseudo-relationships that only lasted a few months and then jump out of them citing that he wasn't ready to let go of the single life. Funny as from the day we met, I told him I was in the same place. I guess the difference was that he all but convinced me to jump ship...only to leave me out to sea. But I knew all this about him ahead of time and yet I still jumped in the water without so much as a pair of floaties.
The Nice Guy. Oh The Nice Guy. Damn, did I like him. He was perfect on paper-great job, great education, great family, great house-and perfect in real life. He is still one of my top 3 best first dates of all time and I knew after that first date that there would be more to come. And there was. Eventually I started getting introduced to friends who'd say, "Oh, I've heard so much about you" with big smiles on their faces. I was welcomed into his life and I was super excited to let him into mine. But unbeknownst to me, apparently there was an ex-girlfriend lurking, some business that was unfinished and when he started to disappear, I was left wondering what happened. A little while later, I got a phone call from him. He told me about the ex who had made a comeback, they had history, he had to give it a shot, did I understand that it was just a matter of timing, he really liked me, blah blah. Of course I understood. I understood, he was a complete moron. And while I'd love to say I learned a lot from that situation-ie getting closer to what I want in a man, I did use a couple boxes of Kleenex on Nice Guy. But let me rewind to when I first started seeing signs of a non-glittery paradise. I was pretending to stifle my innate sexual nature by making all the guys I was dating wait. The Nice Guy was at the top of the list, so he stood the highest chance of getting some when I decided I'd had enough waiting. He swore he understood, but I secretly think he had issue with it. I found out later that he was quite the ladies man in college. A little factoid that would've been nice to know considering we had so many friends in common.
The Disaster. This one was completely my own fault. I blame boredom. When B gets bored, bad people happen. I knew this guy from college, but we'd never really been friends. I ran into him at a party, I was sort of heart broken from The Unexpected, so I decided the best way to get over him was to get under The Disaster. And my god, was it a disaster. It started off harmless until he didn't answer a text or something one night. Now, considering I was all kinds of not trusting dudes, it red flagged me. So the next time he hit me, I ignored him. I was already thinking it had run it's course anyway. I was honestly only in it for the great sex, but then one night he called and I acquiesced. Sorry, I have needs too. He ended up drunkenly telling me he loved me and jacking up all our jump off-esque rules. Damnit. I can do no feelings or lots of feelings. Not so good at the gray in between. While I was deciding if I could actually date him in real life, he decided to go out of town and not tell me or answer my phone calls (well let's be real, I only called once). When he got back we called it off, whatever there was to call off. The thing about The Disaster was that he was so not worth it and yet I engaged because it was entertaining and fun. And it did serve it's purpose: I got over The Unexpected with flying colors. But the point was that I knew stuff about Disaster going in. Stuff that made me know it was going to be, well, a disaster and the whole time I was thinking of calling it off, I never did, until it was off.
The Down Low. Not the gay-on-the-side kind, the nobody-knows kind. I started talking to DL during The Disaster, but since Disaster meant very little, I had no problem engaging DL. He was the smart, nerdy kind, which was an absolute jump outside the box for me. But not to be fooled by the book's cover, DL had done some dirt in his past. He'd cheated on his girlfriend quite a bit in college, a fact I knew from the grapevine and eventually from his admittance. That should've been my warning, but ever the second-chance giver, I listened to him lament the mistakes he made, blah blah blah. When I tell you everything was fine-despite the residual drama with Disaster (which I really don't want to go into because he and it are stupid)-until one day we just stopped talking. I'm pretty sure he stopped talking to me though. Still have no clue what he's up to. Maybe he got back with his girlfriend. Dunno. But the whole time, the one friend who knew about our situation(and knew him) adamantly told me to leave him alone. Warned me that he hid behind the nice, dorky guy bit, only to end up being a nice, dorky dick in the end.
The Youngin. Against all my previous swearing off of dealing with guys under twenty-five, I somehow ended up with one. I've known him for a while, had always thought he was cute, but never really took him seriously. Fast forward a bunch of years, enough time for him to age a bit and for me to not feel like a pedophile, and flash, bam, alakazam, I was kicking it to a 24 year old. Sooo not cool. No, he's a really sweet guy, but he's just all over the place, wildly inconsistent, and incredibly frustrating. But there's something so cute about him. I'm still deciding how much I like him or if he'll just be another story to tell. But I knew he was young when I met him, knew he was young when I engaged him beyond simple friendship, so once again, I'm walking right into whatever young dude mess he plans to work up.
So there's the last five or six guys I've dealt with, give or take a few who I don't want to include because they'll mess up the bad track record I'm trying to show here. Actually, it's funny, the ones not included were nice guys, good guys, probably with no bullsh*t, but instead I left them twiddling their thumbs for fear of being bored. As I said, I gotta do better. Any ideas?
That bitch stole my line,
Monday, July 26, 2010
There are few things that shock me, but I literally sat with my jaw lying on the 2 train below the f*ckin asphalt under my 4 storied building when I saw this video. STUPIFIED! Smokahontas Jones? Rapping Hookers? I have to go throw up. Go ahead and watch for yourself while I barf the McFlurry I just consumed-which by the way, I had to trek to TWO different McDonald's before I struck cookies and cream gold at the third. Unacceptable, Micky Dee's. If I want to blow my lose-fifteen-pounds-or-literally-bust diet by indulging in an insane craving for a mixed up container of pure sugar and a few oreo cookie pieces, every. single. McDonald's. should. be. stocked. The second one didn't even have apple pies! What the hell else do people eat at McDonald's at eleven o'clock at night?! Sorry, tangent. Where was I? Oh, right, go ahead and watch. I have some chunks to blow.
There is something seriously wrong with the world we live in. What did we do as a people to deserve the curse that is Smokahontas Jones? I think I speak for the entire female population when I say, Thank you for setting us back about 3,927,431 years or better yet, thanks for making us wish Eve never gave the apple to Adam, hell, that they never even met and life never existed, so you couldn't either. I think I'm in shock. This is worse than Dick-Slanging. At least that made me laugh. This is just. I don't know.
I'm not sure what the worst part was. I had to keep pausing it to regroup before letting it play again. First of all, I have no clue what she's saying. Can I get a couple subtitles? She's got something-no clue what she's saying, but she's probably got a lot of things including sores and genital itching- and she gone "push it like a dope fiend?" Secondly, this particular part of Miami Beach looks like thee absolute worst place on earth. My goodness, toss a Disney theme park in there, cause this place looks like the perfect place to hang yourself from a ceiling fan! I'm also not sure which is Smokahontas and which is Memphis Blac. I could probably do a little research and find out, but I do not want that on my Google browser history. I might catch something. I'm just so embarrassed right now. To be a woman. To be black. To kick it in Miami. To own a pair of feathered earrings.
I blame Pretty Woman. Hooking is not cool! Like when on earth did it pass the bar and jump over par to become okay. It's still illegal and the only time I'm mildly entertained by it is when it's one of those HBO Specials about prostitutes in Hawaii and only airs after two in the morning. And even then, I'm entertained in the same way I am when I watch Locked Up: sort of scared and sort of ashamed for even watching and sort of sad because people actually live like that. I like the strip club as much as anyone else, but there is something so incredibly depressing about watching girls fist those dollar bills at their feet. There can't be much worse, other than having people pay you for sex. Well actually, there is something even worse: being Smokahontas Jones. I swore in last week's post that I wouldn't judge unless I'd experienced said situation myself. I recant my statement. I'm judging the hell out of this video and I don't even care. Sigh. This is some crap. It's messing up my writing too. This post is so out of order, no train of thought except that the video has sucked the life out of me tonight. It isn't even about dating or relationships, or really even sex except for the fact that these girls have more tricks than kids. I'm sure you're having equal adverse reactions. Let's talk about it or something. Maybe it'll be like a bad trip, we'll help each other come down safely.
Something's gotta give soon or we're all going to hell in hooker cootch.
That bitch stole my line,
Friday, July 23, 2010
I kind of feel bad for guys today. I mean you have to put in an incredible amount of work during sex. Yes, I know, girls can't just lay there, either. I think my blog proves that I'm not exactly the lay there and file my nails kinda gal, but when you think about the actual mechanics of sex, it has more to do with the in and out, and that falls squarely on a man's shoulders 82% of the time. Add that to the fact that a man's ego relies on being a control freak and how utterly excited they get when in the act, and you see that a good or bad experience is more up to them than us. You hear way more girls saying, "Ugh, it lasted 32 seconds and he couldn't even keep his rhythm" far more than you hear a guy say, "Man, she just couldn't ride it right." Most times if they don't ride right, chicks just get tossed on their backs and rabbit pumped until dude has finished. While women will take the L and say oh well, men, for the most part, will not get climb off until they bust some sort of nut...unless it's really really horrible. If he ever just roles over and calls it a night, Lucy, you got some 'splainin (and learning) to do.
It really isn't fair, I know, I know, but considering the number of times women get f*cked in the game of life or have our battleships sank, I'm going to go ahead and say you can work that ass out for a couple hours twenty minutes and sweat profusely and look like it really is a bit hard to get that leg over there and still keep your rhythm while asking how it feels. And still have to be the one to get up and get us some water. Yep, you can have that. I don't feel so badly anymore.
But when you think about the likes that men will go to just to get some ass in the first place, it sort of makes it all worth while right? The lies they tell, the false compliments they give, the "I'll call you tomorrow's" that usually turn into you saying "Hmm, I haven't heard from D'Quan in a year," and the all around crap we get served on a gold magnum wrapped platter. I thought of this the last time I had sex, it was a split second, a random thought-and if you're(he's) reading this post it was literally .0839 of a second, the sex was good, I wasn't distracted, boo, calm down. He was putting in work, in some position that he recalled I liked (me on the bed, him off, legs on his shoulders) when we both realized that he was at an angle where one of two things had to happen: either he had to get on the bed because all his movement was pushing me away from him* or he was going to have to yank me off the bed completely and do one of those standing up positions that look/feel amazing, but are just too much work on a random Tuesday. In that .0839 of a second, where I watched him yank me closer, then hoist himself up on the bed to get a better, um, grip, I thought, he's really working hard for the money. Odd thought, yes, but in the next few seconds we swapped positions altogether, me on top-figured I'd give him a break. But somewhere in the midst of that one (my legs locked around him, both sitting upward), he grabbed me and propelled us halfway off the bed, in mid air, and took the brunt of the work again. I told him he was funny, that he didn't have to go through all these tricks (it wasn't our first time and we've talked off and on for years-all to say we were comfortable with each other), but he kept insisting he wanted to please me.**
So, I've concluded that men feel an insanely large amount of pressure to perform and I don't begrudge them gunning for Best Sex in a Bedroom, after all, I get the real prize in the end.
That bitch stole my line,
*Isn't it funny how sex always winds up being a perpendicular act-well at least the good kind. You never end up doing the do in the natural direction of the bed, you always end up across it or upside down. Mostly across, which is why girls are forever hanging off the bed. And since most beds haven't been up against a wall since they were covered in twin Star Wars sheets, they are usually out into the room, meaning there's nothing to grab on to if you're side saddling the mattress with your back. We should all invest in either a daybed so there are handle bars on at least three of the four sides of the bed or a hospital bed that has those retractable bars that come up and down on the side. Or cribs. We could all buy huge adult cribs and get it in like proverbial spazoid bunnies.
**I won't let you think I just let him do all the work the whole time. He had a very lovely time himself once he took care of me a couple times.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
*****Author's Note: Sometimes I need you kids to knock my brain around and help me out. What Should Blackie Do?*****
As usual, I was glued to a gossip blog while I was supposed to be doing some sort of work related task, when yet another story popped up about the Alicia Keys/Swizz Beats/Mashonda love triangle that had more saga than Twilight. Seriously, this thing just won't go to bed. There's gotta be something else going on somewhere in the world. Surely, Mariah Carey has finally had a baby or Lindsay Lohan has killed her bunk mate, making her the queen bitch of her cellblock. At any rate, as usual, it got me thinking and as if kindred spirits, an IM popped up on my G-chat. It was Maria.
Maria: Have you seen the pictures of Baby Kenzo? I think I wanna eat him up.
B: No, but I'm worried about the oldest. I think she's going to have weight problems. Have you seen Kimora's neck lately? She's funny tho, so I still love her.
Maria: Do they do neck lifts? I'm sure they do.
B: Speaking of necks, where are you in the gossip blogsphere?
Maria: That has nothing to do with necks and I've got three windows going: E!, TMZ, The YBF. More crap about Alicia Hoes and Swizzy Stick.
B: Stop. Over it. Let's talk about Kimora's neck again.
Maria: I think I'm going to throw out my Alicia albums and I'm never watching Secret Life of Bees again.
B: Who still buys albums? I don't want to talk about them, you know it pisses me off. Stop acting like we know them. We don't and we've both had married men moments before.
Maria: I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.
B: Uh-huh, that's what I thought. I'm totally on this new thing: I can't say what I would do in any situation until I'm in it. No judgement unless I've been there. Does that mean I'm growing up?
Maria: I guess, but you're kicking it to a 24 year old, so doesn't that have a canceling effect?
B: I plead the fifth.
Maria: Yea, fifth GRADER...
Aside from the fact that it's amazing Maria and I still have jobs, I really felt like I was onto something with my new no judgement thing. Maria knows me well though and dug into me like a pair of Lee Press-On Nails until I came out with where this train of thought was really coming from. I've been quite vocal in my defense of Alicia Keys in the whole situation, so I won't go into it again, but I do know one thing: I don't know their situation. I know rumors, which is usually somewhere between true and false, but I don't know exactly what happened. I do, however, know my own situation. I met Tim a few weeks ago. He works in finance, is quite easy on the eyes with the exception of him being light skin and oddly resembling my dad in his young days, and is completely smitten by yours truly. I'm not pressed to talk to him, which seemingly fuels his fire to get in touch with me, but when we talk it's always for no less than an hour. Apparently two people who like to talk can run up a phone bill. Thank goodness for unlimited minutes. During our last conversation, I asked Tim why he lived out in the 'burbs. I know fishy when I smell it and I had to ask before I expelled another T-Mobile minute. Tim hemmed and hawed, but assured me he was going to tell me the truth, which was that Tim got his girlfriend pregnant during his senior year in college and "did the right thing" by marrying her. Fast forward another year and Tim welcomed another son into his suburban, white-picket fenced world. Shortly thereafter, he realized that making others happy while neglecting your own jubilee, does not a happy life make and they separated. Enter me. Here's the issue on the table: this guy has told me the entire ugly truth. The worst part being that he still hasn't technically moved out of the house they own. She lives in the master bedroom and he in another bedroom until he finds other accommodations. Now, I'm no idiot, so I told him this sounded like a horrible case of married man syndrome and that if we fast forwarded five years, I'd still be waiting for him to "find the right time" to move out all while he's still sneaking into the master bedroom to knock some boots. No, thank you. I could tell he felt badly and when he tentatively asked if we'd talk again after the big reveal, I was honest and told him I really didn't know. That's an awful lot of baggage to load on the dock, my dude. I'm not interested in being anyone's stepmom anytime soon nor am I interested in being the other woman. But what if I'm not? What if what he says is the honest to goodness truth and they are separated. I've never been in a situation like this and I do genuinely like the guy. With all the bull galloping around, it's refreshing to have honesty served straight up, no chaser. So here I am, wondering if I made the right decision. And I'm 89% sure I'm not going back on that decision, but we all know how 11% can turn into you are 99.9% not the father! You get my drift though. Anyone out there been in this neck of the woods before? Oh, and I'm not taking any comments on the 24 year old unless you've been there. What, whaaaaat?
That bitch stole my line,
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Chad "Ocho Cinco" Johnson has been making the rounds to do press for his new show The Ultimate Catch on VH1. VH1 has recently decided to take a page from the MTV book of failing to have less music and more loser reality television shows like his and Celebrity Rehab. At any rate, Chad has found his place on the network and before the show even aired, women started complaining about the fact that there were no Black women on the show. Rumors started flying that Ochocinco cut all the black chicks immediately (he started with 85) and was forced to add two black girls once he'd picked fifteen finalist-the show wound up with seventeen vying for his, um, heart. In response to all the conflicting arguments and insults, Chad said, “Yeah, but I can’t appease you. I have a preference.” And honestly, he's allowed to. The question is: do we really have to care anymore? I mean, I prefer black men and if I did a reality show, I'm pretty sure it'd consist of at least 75 % men of color. But please be advised, there would be quite a few cutie white boys in there for sure. I like boys. Period point blank. At some point, we just have to stop caring what comes out of people's mouths. If anything, it's giving Ochocinco a point of platform for publicity. So if you aren't into him, stop giving him fodder. Besides, do you really care what someone named Ochocinco thinks?
I think what pisses people off more is that he doesn't prefer black women now, but he sure as hell preferred them when he made six zillion children with three different ones. Perhaps they were "crazy" so he's over that kind of woman. Before you go insane about my use of the word crazy, there's a reason I put it in quotes. I don't think people get to crazy on their own, all by their lonesome. They get there with the help of someone else driving them there, hence driving them crazy. Lord knows what an Ochocinco can do to a person to drive them batty.
But at the end of the day, I really don't care much. The show probably won't even get watched unless it's re-running in the background while I'm cleaning or giving myself open heart surgery. People, on a whole, care about things that really don't concern them, but since it's in the celebrity spotlight, they feel the need to have an opinion-I'm guilty of it at times as well. I am actually more worried about Chad's clear identity crisis. He actually said on his show (I gave myself that open heart surgery over the weekend) that he was "half Mexican" in response to one of his suitors saying she was Puerto Rican. First, Chad, you are about as Mexican as an English Bulldog. Second, remember that scene in Clueless where Cher mistakes her maid for Mexicano when she's from El Salvador and the maid screams: I NOT a Mexican? Well, while Puerto Rico and Mexico share some water, but that's about it, bruh. I wouldn't have much issue if he were a proud card carrying black man who happened to like white girls, but instead he's just lost trying to find his way in the vast Hollywood scene. I don't know if any of you are hip to the game out there, but the ultimate catch is in fact a model-esque, weave wearing, liquid legging clad exotic chick. And when I say exotic, I mean Mexican Puerto Rican, not Black.
Besides, reality dating shows are less about finding fifteen years of marriage and more about finding fifteen minutes of fame. It worked out for Ray-J, which is clearly the barometer for everything in life.
That bitch stole my line,
Monday, July 19, 2010
Author's Note: I'm having serious writer's block. Bear with me as I try and pull something out of my ass...
Years ago, I slept with a friend whom I'd known for years. We'd met at the age of fifteen, and proceeded to be friends for life. We're still friends today. Somewhere along the line in college, we hooked up. It was one of those random-can-I-do-laundy-at-your-house-cause-the-campus-laundry-room-sucks and after a bottle of Arbor Mist (hey, it was college), we took horizontal mambo lessons from each other. It really wasn't a big deal, but the time immediately following was the only time we didn't speak. I wouldn't say the sex complicated our friendship, but he pissed me off mere days after and I didn't feel like talking to him anymore. I did let him know I wasn't checking for him though, I didn't just stop calling, for the record. Anyway, fast forward a year and he and I started talking again. There's alway an underlying sexual tension, but I always chalk it up to the fact that we slept together in college, not anything current or presently pressing. Here and there a comment is made, a reminder, but for the most part, I haven't really thought about it. After all, there really isn't any point.
A week or so ago, I saw him at a party and in the middle of our conversation, he said: We've been lovin each other a long time haven't we? To which, I assumed he meant we'd been friends forever, which I think he sort of did, sort of didn't. I responded with a simple: Yep, we've known each other for decades. But then he replied: I love how you just toss off our history like it's nothing. I didn't say anything for a minute because I didn't get what he meant. How was I tossing it off? Was I missing the point completely? Does he want me to mention that we spent much of our adolescent years sneaking make outs and culminated with sleeping together in college every single time I saw him? That would just be really tiresome. It's absolutely possible to add sex to a friendship just once and then go back to normal. I'm not saying it should be a regular occurrence nor am I stamping it with approval, I'm just saying it's possible. I mean, I'm walking proof of both sides of the coin-when it works out and when the friendship ends. I've since stopped sleeping with friends. It isn't worth the risk.
But why is it that men claim they get over things, don't care, etc., but then always have to remind your ass later that they haven't, in fact, forgotten anything? To risk sounding like a cliche, "sh*t happens" and sometimes it does just that: happens. No need for further explanation or discussion. It happened, it's on the timeline, and it's over. And since they say you'll repeat your past if you don't learn from it, there will be no repeats or do-overs for this situation. One shot, one kill, that's the deal, so stop bringing it up. Friends forever though! Kisses (on the cheek)!
That bitch stole my line,
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I lived in the city for almost ten years. With college and the traditional NYC life under my belt, I finally decided to give an old flame a second chance. We'd gone to Columbia together and then he'd moved to DC to start a political career. After it seemed to be working out, we decided to close the gap. I moved to DC to be with him as my career field wasn't so locked into where I lived. Just after our year anniversary, we broke up and I am stuck in DC without my boyfriend and without a ring. I'll admit I came down here to get engaged. We'd had a good relationship in college and the only reason we broke up was because we both agreed long distance wasn't worth it at the time. I hate to say it, but I want nothing more than to be a wife and mother. I thought he was the one, and I am having a hard time with this breakup. I think mostly because I'm in a city that seems to do nothing but remind me of him. I guess the real question isn't how to get him back, I know that's not really an option. He seems to have moved on already. But, why the hell can't I move on? It's like I've just latched on and can't let go. How long does this dating thing go on? It's painful! Either I'm hearing about crazy, depressing stories of horrible men from my friends or yet another friend is getting dumped by the guy she thought was the one. When will the right one come my way and how do you know it really is the one anyway? I feel like I'm asking for the meaning of life or something... le sigh.
Depressed in DC.
Dear Depressed in DC,
First, let me say that I, too, would be depressed if I had to live in DC. I'm kidding, but hopefully that got a chuckle out of you. Step away from the Prozac, it's going to be okay. Look, I'm going to be honest: I have no clue when he's coming your way. And with my track record, I sometimes wonder if they even exist, but I do know that there's this little thing called hope and that while reality threatens to take it away, you should hold onto it like nothing else matters. The dating pool is more of a swamp it seems, but I've learned that just when you want to throw in the towel and chuck the deuces (Breezy), is when some guy jumps out the woodwork and forces you back in the ring.
Secondly, there's nothing wrong with admitting that you moved to DC for a ring. I just hope that by ring you mean the actual union/relationship and not a sparkly diamond followed by a bank breaking wedding. Assuming you meant the first choice, you should feel fine knowing that that's what you wanted, that was your goal. And being a wife and mother, while not some people's idea of an amazing aspiration is an incredible job to take on and knowing that you want nothing more is okay too. I think women are so quick to think about all the things they need to change about themselves; their needs and desires, just to get some guy to accept the watered down version of themselves. Instead you should hold onto those traits and wait for the man who is deserving enough to call you wife, to create life with you. Yes, the dating game can be lengthy, but if you think about it in terms of the rest of your life-it's a teardrop in a bucket.
Thirdly, if you think about what a relationship is-the union between two people-you have to think about those two people as individuals. They're make and model has to join with someone else's and co-exist. That's really hard to do successfully. Relationships fail everyday, some after two months, some after twenty-two years. It's a constant crapshoot and it takes major work. If someone isn't willing to work for it now, after just a year (and a long distance move), you can pretty much guarantee that he won't work for it in years to come. I know you aren't interested in getting him back, but as far as moving on and getting over him, well that's just going to take time. Especially given the circumstances. You've known him for most of your adult life, you uprooted your life for him, moved to a foreign city, and set your sights on spending a lifetime with him. That's not easy to get over and the feelings you had for him aren't going to disappear overnight, but they will eventually. It's just one of those things. Eat some ice cream, cry it out and when you're ready, venture back into the world.
I don't know everything, but I do know that while most men suck donkey balls, they (most times) grow up eventually and want someone to share their life with just like sappy girls. And there's nothing wrong with being a sappy girl, passionate and full of emotion-women have hearts and that's beautiful and there's someone out there that is going to love all that sap, so just wait it out, girly. Keep the faith and make sure you invite me to the wedding! I love a good open bar!
That bitch stole my line,
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
One of my favorite sayings is: I'd marry him on national television. It's a ranking of sorts for me. Something I say when someone is so fine, I'd publicly lose my mind and follow him into the wedded abyss. Therefore it's anything but a surprise that I have always been a fan of The Bachelor/Bachelorette. I think it's amazingly ridiculous, watching those desperate-model-girls/oversexed-fame whore-men chase after an unassuming Girl Next Door/All American Boy for a full two hours each episode! It's no secret that the odds of finding love on a reality show are slim to negative 8 million, but the show continues to get renewed because the ever hopeless romantics watch, hoping the way they hope in their own lives that another Trista and Ryan will happen (the only couple to have successfully gotten engaged, stayed that way, tied the knot and have two kids). Love will always prevail. All it does is win, win, win no matter what.
But that seldom happens and the latest addition to the ABC Break Up Wasteland is Jake, the gay pilot turned actor, and Vienna, the slut bag who every viewer and contestant hated equally. The accusations started flying, stories were sold to the highest tabloid and ABC realized they had to cash in. Another Bachelor couple, Jillian and Ed, called it quits almost simultaneously, but they literally parted ways so amicably, there was no fun in that. So the same way ABC had follow up weddings or we're-so-happy-we-could-die sit ins, Vienna and Jake parked their butts on a rose filled soundstage and set the record straight. Well about as straight as Lindsay Lohan. They pointed fingers, swapped insults, and interrupted each other for just under an hour. I don't think the host spoke more than eleven words. At the end, Vienna burst into tears after Jake shouted for her to stop interrupting him (he'd asked her nicely about 4 million times during the show), claimed she was done with the interview and told Jake he was the biggest "fake liar" she'd ever met. That's gotta be an oxymoron, but that's besides the point. I don't think Vienna is known for her smarts.
So after basically letting me into their intimate relationship woes-well as intimate as it could be having played out on television- I decided that having all of the free world watching me and my soon-to-be-ex break up would be only slightly worse than being inside a meth lab when it blew up. And yet, I was riveted! It was great television. And I wasn't the only one who thought so as we've seen Jake and Vienna splashed across the gossip rags. It seems humans loves nothing more than a good come up, except a great fall. The media is known for building 'em up- Jessica Simpson- and watching them tumble in a downward spiral-Jessica Simpson in her mom jeans killing the Cowboys chances of a Super Bowl. We spent the nineties watching couples fight on Jerry Springer. We all know how much media coverage Chris and Rihanna received and need I mention "Bennifer" or "Brangelina?" Hell, I sometimes find myself frozen on the street watching a couple scream into the night! Why do we enjoy the misery of others so much? I guess how is the better question? Assuming at the end of the day all we want is love and to not croak miserably alone, why do we thrive on love lost?
That bitch stole my line,
Monday, July 12, 2010
I truly believe there are a series of classes every guy must take during their matriculation through life that helps them navigate their way. Life Lessons 101, 102, and so on. Somewhere in the mid-curriculum area is Life Lesson 115 (or if you're fast, 110), which is how to please a girl. Now, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that either y'all figured you knew everything, so you just pulled out your Gameboy and tuned out or you just suck. Meanwhile over at the girl's conference we were getting step by step schooling on what to do for you guys and what's more, we remembered the whole to assume makes an ass out of you and me thing and paid attention, assuming we knew nothing. There seems to be a bag full of tricks that every man pulls out in the bedroom that they think all women love, and somehow they are all just so damn aggressive and rough. What the hell makes you think that feels good right there? Sigh, well, B's here to tell you just how wrong you are. For once, pay attention.
The Bra Fiasco. Guys, when you want access to the boobs, there is a way to get that bra off. It is not by yanking it up so that it becomes noose-like, pushing our breasts out the bottom while simultaneously choking us. While it's hot to rip off lingerie in the movies, it actually doesn't feel that good when you yank or rip off a bra. Boobs are sensitive. Speaking of which...
Tune in Tokyo. I'm not sure who taught every man to do that weird forefinger/thumb nipple squeeze, but It. Hurts. You know what I'm talking about. The nipple dial. Whatever channel you're searching for, isn't coming through, so stop. I don't think I need to elaborate. Either you know exactly what I'm talking about and now know to cease and desist, or you have no clue and I don't want to further explain so you learn how to do it by accident.
Balancing Act. As I just said, breast are sensitive. And no they don't get less sensitive the bigger they are, so no you don't have to do more for the D-life girls. Kneading them like a blob of dough is not the business. Sucking too hard is no good either. Life is about balance, PLEASE find the happy medium.
Show Me Your Teeth. Does it feel good to have your dick chewed on? No? Really? Oh, okay, then what makes you think it feels good to have our clit gnawed on. Gentle nibbling is nice, but got damn, it ain't a piece of Bazooka. Chill out!
Gimme a minute. If you've done your job right, there's a grrrrreat finish line. But please don't go and ruin it by eating her through the orgasm, beyond it where she stops singing Tony, Toni, Tone's "It Feels Good" and starts crying out Jay's "Stop." I'm going to need about thirty-eight seconds of recovery time. To say the kitty kat is sensitive right after is about as big an understatement as saying Mel Gibson is a douchebag.
Miami Vice Grip. You're eating a girl out, you're really going in, in your opinion, and you feel her inching away, cause you're doing such a good job, she just can't take it. You're actually right. She can't take it-literally. If I am all but doing a backward somersault to get away that doesn't mean grab me back towards you, hold me in a vice and say something cute like, "Where you going?" Um, to give my vagina CPR, bastard.
That bitch stole my line,