I Know It Isn't Friday, but...

So, I've decided to do a Friday question of the day. Just to kind of tie the week together, gear up for the weekend and sort of give me a day off from blogging......I've had way too many, yes, I know, but life has been very crazy these last weeks, but as things come together, I will be blogging daily again. Friday will be Question of the Day. So answer away and submit questions to blckcollins@gmail.com if you'd like too:)

Also, I'm up at Zora and Alice today. Great blog and Blackie is happy to be included!

TODAY/TOMORROW'S: QUESTION:

How many partner is too many for a woman?

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Over It, Over You

It's a pretty great feeling to realize you are truly over someone. Gone are the days of sitting by the phone, hopping they'll change their minds and beg you to give them another chance. No more do you lay in bed at night, remembering how it felt to have the warmth of their body next to yours, as constant as they were there when the sun came up. It surprises you how sad you can be, how you can literally feel your heart aching in your chest, wondering if you will ever go back out into the world again, trust again, let down walls again.

And then you hit a point where the ache dulls and it's just a little numb feeling you learn to live with and it really isn't so bad. You start to think to yourself, "I'm over it. Great." But there are fleeting moments, oh are there ever. Moments where it hits you hard and you feel as if the wind has been knocked clear out of you. Maybe you see him or her out in public, pass them on the street, have the awkward run in, hear that he or she is dating someone new. Those little moments are the ones where you think, "Shit, maybe I'm not over it," and it drives you up a wall like Lionel Richie. You can't stand how they still have an affect on you. How you can not hear from them for months, but seeing their name pop up on your blackberry reduces you down to the slobbering, crying idiot you were when they walked out the door. It's silly really, but at the time it feels like mountains crumbling. An avalanche of emotions.

You date other people and try not to compare the apples to the oranges. Try to enjoy yourself and move on. It's fun sometimes, but other times it just all around sucks. You want them to laugh like s/he did, hell, just be funny as s/he was and probably still is. They aren't the same and it's a glaring reminder whenever they open their mouths. You. Are. Not. Him(her). Annoying. But you press on, cause you have to. You can't be that idiot who still has pics in frames around the house, hopes unhealthily for reconciliation, hangs around his/her hangouts, hoping for a "run in," doesn't move on all around. Friends look at you like you're crazy and get sick of talking you down off your ridiculous ledges. You sorta get sick of yourself, but you can't seem to shake it. Nope, you cannot...will not be that person.

The only cure for the common break up is time, sad but true. The hardest thing to face and yet the only thing proven to heal broken hearts. Time comes and goes and before you know it, you realize you haven't thought of them in days, weeks, months. You forgot to answer his/her random text the other week because you were genuinely busy. You're life no longer comes to a crashing halt whenever they come a knocking. Then some sort of event happens, maybe you sleep together randomly (I don't recommend that for the severely broken hearted) or you see them at a party. Something that makes you remember how you used to feel and more importantly, how you don't feel anymore. It feels awesome. Like warm chocolate chip cooks fresh out the oven. You actually look at them as just a regular person and maybe you say, "What on earth was I thinking?" Maybe you don't. None of it really matters and that's the best part. It doesn't matter. You don't care. At all. Eureka's castle.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

On B: Leaf Me Alone (?)

So, my new leaf I was all kinds of turning over... Yea, about that...

Wait, let's back up a bit. I decided a few months ago to start connecting with the men who came in my life, to stop being so distant and guarded. Oh yeah, and to stop sleeping with boys.

This is hard for me. I'm not running around hopping on every pop that pops up, no, no there aren't any slut baggers in my camp, but for those who do get lucky, I'm a complete wall. For example, my current man friend or lover or whatever actually called me out post-coitus the other day, asking why I was so far away, both literally and metaphorically. I was genuinely sleepy and we all know how I hate cuddling anyway. The truth is, I learned a while ago to just shut that valve off. One too many heartaches and you just sort of say, "how can I keep this from happening? Oh, I could just not care." And it was hard, I think, I almost don't remember, but I recall realizing that I didn't give a crap. At least surfacely I didn't. I was hanging out with this one guy for much of the earlier part of this year. I knew him from college, but didn't know him. One night we were blowing each other's backs out when I decided to ask him if he had pledged while we were in school. Like while I was bouncing around on him. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the most appropriate time to ask, but I had cum a few times and was starting to get over it. He laughed and told me he had pledged, that I knew this. Maybe I did, but I don't think so. It was in that moment I realized how bogus the situation was. What am I doing, what am I doing. Oh yeah, that's right- I'm doing me and not giving a cat's cradle about anyone else. This could be a problem. This can't be normal.

There's something freeing and refreshing about being the one not to call, the one to roll over and not spoon into the night, the one asking if your're staying or going home while secretly hoping you'll roll out like Luda. But at the same time, it's not admirable to be so apathetic or to have suppressed feelings for so long, you're not sure if they ever existed; almost can't remember the last time you cried yourself to sleep because he dumped you. Told you he didn't want you, pulled the rug from underneath you. This can be a lonely place, not caring. I guess this is when you realize one of two things: you're jaded and love has knocked you out too many times or you've grown up and know what deserves tears and what's just spilled milk. You learn what's worth your time and what is not, what deserves attention and what is better left ignored. The issue, in my opinion, is at some point all that catches up and you say, "Hey, what does it feel like to love someone, to care about someone, to want to be with someone longer than a few nights, to fall again?" I just have so many non-feelings on the issue that I don't even know. It all feels like vulnerability which equals weakness in my brain these days. Obviously not true. I think it takes true courage to put yourself out there, to fall and soar or crash and burn. It's the coward who does otherwise.

So, I guess I'm the cowardly lion in this tale, but at least I'm aware and even though my leaf has blown away down 5th avenue, it's still in view. I can still grab it and start anew, learn to care again, be honest with myself and others. And now I have to stop because this is getting too mushy and emotional. I haven't grabbed the damn leaf yet, back off.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Beautiful Isn't Enough

There are a lot of beautiful single girls in the world. There are a lot of beautiful girls, period. Yes, there are a lot of the opposite, but it doesn't take a whole lot to be considered pretty or even beautiful. Tack on a few genes from the fam and you're good even without make up.

I'm always a bit surprised at just how different men view beautiful versus how women see beautiful. I'm not talking about the chicks we all KNOW are pretty because the world says so (Halle Berry, any Victoria's Secret model, Zoe Saldena, Lauren London, etc), but the regular girls on the street, in the bank, at a club, riding through the car wash. Those are the women we all seem to be divided on.

A couple months ago, the wise guys at Very Smart Brothas did a little online experiment where they posted 5 photos of women and 5 photos of men. The instructions were to rank by looks and then rank how we thought the opposite sex would choose. It was interesting who came out on top from both perspectives. It can't just be that beauty is in the eye of the beholder; it has to be more. Maybe it's because women are much more emotional creatures and we don't just see asymmetrical features and nice hair, but her attitude, his "swag," the whole package, the person. Men, when told to judge a female's looks, do JUST that. Judge her looks, which is also directly tied into whether or not he'd beat.

So I wasn't all that shocked, just took note of a situation I came across yesterday. I was over my boy's house when I remembered I wanted to hook him up with a friend of mine. He swore he'd met or boned most of my friends at some point in his 28 years, but I informed him this was a relatively new friend and he didn't know her from Eve. I grabbed his laptop and signed into Facebook, all the while chomping off at the bit about how cute she was, how she was funny, how she was just his type. I went right to her profile pictures and tilted the screen so he could concur.

"Yeah, she's pretty, but I told you I wasn't really trying to date anyone right now," he said as he clicked through a few other pictures. "She's beautiful, for real, though."

Huh? If she was so beautiful, why wasn't he interested in buying her a slice and popping a squat in the park? This must've meant he didn't really find her attractive and didn't want to hurt my matchmaker feelings. I said this to him.

"No, she's really pretty. I don't know what else to say, though. That's it." He kept clicking and then stopped on a picture of me, said friend, and another friend he'd met once. "Now SHE'S bad! She could bring me outta hiding." Suddenly he was amped as he shoved his finger at my other friend's picture asking what she was up to these days. It should be said that the other friend is just as pretty, maybe more so, but in a different, island-exotic way. Nothing major separates the two honestly, but again, these are my eyes talking. Not his.

"She has a boyfriend," I replied and snapped the computer shut. We moved onto other topics, played a couple rounds of that weird Def Jam game where the label rappers fight each other, but I kept thinking about how being pretty wasn't enough anymore, which perhaps solves the whole "single pretty girl" debacle. So the next time you're feeling all fancy and everyone's telling you how pretty you are, don't even get excited, cause apparently it ain't enough.

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo
Blackie Collins
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

A Trip to the Dentist

I was on the phone with my mother today and she was prattling on about the neighborhood gossip, things she knows I don't care about, but I listen to anyway, because that's what funny mothers and loving daughters do. She was going on about our dentist getting re-married and how he hadn't married the woman he'd been dating for a zillion years-since his divorce from one of my mom's good friends-and had married a more recent girlfriend instead.

I didn't care much, but I played along and asked why?

My mom went on to explain that the previous girlfriend wanted kids badly and despite him informing her throughout their relationship that he had many a grown child, eight grandchildren, and no, he didn't want anymore of either, she stuck around, trying to pry him away from his steadfast decision, maybe popped a few holes in a couple condoms, whatever. In the end, she got dumped and he married a fifty-something who had no desire to harvest some eggs she'd frozen back in the Ice Age.

It always amazes me the lengths women will go to keep a man. I don't mean the obvious, more insane tactics like trapping a man with a baby (which clearly works so well), I mean sacrificing in such a way where you'd have to be delusional at worst, demented at best to believe you will come out victorious or happy. Women make all these lists with their mate requirements (like be nice to me), then go on the biggest detour, clinging onto men who couldn't be further from that list. Yes, he's fine and make your legs melt, but he doesn't call you back, treats you like a mere option, and is oddly secretive among other issues. 2 out of 20 is not winning, babe. I mean this woman was willing to waste more time trying to release water from a rock rather than head on over to the lake and get herself an endless supply. She clearly wanted a child more than she wanted a husband (even though she might've convinced herself otherwise), so why didn't she just go get one? Like with someone who wanted one?

My guess is she didn't want to be alone and starting over at square one with a new man probably seemed less enjoyable than swallowing razor blades hidden under J-Woww's tongue. It's no secret women feel they have the cards stacked against them when it comes to relationships. Men have the numbers so they get their pick and many never pick anyway, so women must take what comes their way. Exciting prospects, seriously.

The truth is women fear being alone like the plague itself, so their ability to put up with bullsh*t, sacrifice their wants and needs, and compromise themselves is uncanny. Why do we do this?! When you compromise yourself, you don't have much left and the man you're bending over backwards for is probably going to be the first to lose respect for you and bounce anyway. He said no kids. Not ask again tomorrow, outlook cloudy, or any other 8-ball ambiguous response. He said none. That's pretty finite, and while people change their minds often, it's usually like, "I decided to have the chicken tarragon instead of the salmon for lunch," rather than, "I decided I wouldn't mind stopping my life, rewinding the clock, and having another child that was will creepily be younger than my grandchildren."

Unlike women, men are pretty simple, so no means no, my brother (are you deaf sucka?). So, when a man says, "I'm not doing this, I'm unhappy," they usually do just that. Women say, "I'm unhappy, but I'm sure this is just a rough patch," and go on to fight like Layla Ali, assuming they'll win the wifey title when it's all said and done. Meanwhile, it was over long before you ever stepped in the ring.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

From B to U 2

I was so proud of myself the other night. Really I was! I went out for a friend's birthday and had no thoughts of men on the mind. I was all i-n-d-e-p-e-n-d-e-n-t and feeling myself, fancy and whatnot. After several cocktails with the girls, a guy acquaintance showed up with some of his boys. I didn't know any of them. They started buying the rounds and as the drinks flowed, everyone settled in for one of those nights that was sure to be a win.

Throughout the evening, one of the guys, Darryl from LA, took a liking to me. We discussed books and movies in depth. We discovered our love of the written word; he worked in publishing, me, the writer/editor. We got so immersed that when we came up for air, everyone had moved to the dance floor and we were left huddled on the bankette.

The night wore on, the deep conversation turned to flirting, and when everyone started heading home around 4am, he "realized" he'd miss the trains back to his friend's crib in Jersey. One of my girls, who knew him from back home, said he could crash with her-in her tiny studio. Me, reverting back to my naïve self, told him he could sleep on my pull out-in my giant one bedroom. It made more sense, in my opinion.

We arrived back at my apartment and let him know I was serious about him SLEEPING over. I grabbed a blanket and pillow and pulled out the sofabed. It was like that scene in Love Jones where a horny Nina makes an even hornier Darius sleep on the couch. I was heading back to my bedroom when he said, "you going to sleep now?" Haha. Of course. I went back and sat down on the couch with him. We listened to music, talked for a while, and just chilled. We were doing said chilling when Beyonce's "Speechless" blarred through my Mac's speakers. "Love this song," he said. "Let's dance." Get outta here, that's so corny to me. I said so to him. He stood up and yanked me to my feet. Apparently it wasn't up for discussion, but that forcefulness right there???!!!! Yes, you don't have to save mine for later, I want it right now!

We're slow dancing just the way we weren't supposed to at middle school dances. Hands roving, bodies pressed together, his breath steaming up my neck, lips kissing it gently. I was melting. No, no, no, I told myself as he pulled away, cupped my face and neck. He kissed my right cheeck, my left, my forehead, the side of my mouth, my temple. I was just sort of dying, but I kept telling myself I was not going to sleep with him. I am turning over a new leaf gatdamnit!

And then he kissed me. And I actually blacked out. If this were a movie and he were Idris Elba, you all would be dying up in the movie theater too. Slapping hands and "mmhmm girl-ing." Jeeeez-us.

The kiss got intense, he wrapped my legs around him, picked me up, and sat back down on the couch. Argh! I will not sleep with him, I will not sleep with him! I won't even diet coke him, my thoughts cried out as my body screamed for a bit more. Okay, a lot more.

After some intense making out, several attempts on his part to go down on me, I let him know, verbally, that there would be no sex. It was through clenched teeth and I probably would've lost my will power had he contested, but instead he said, "I don't even have condoms. This wasn't the goal." Eh, I don't believe dudes much, but I took it as a possibility. We kissed a bit more and eventually fell asleep listening to music.

Sometime after the sun rose, we woke up and he headed to catch the train back to Jersey. He went on and on about how great it was to meet me, texted me to inform me that he had in fact found the PATH station, and hit me a day or two later.

Then. Nothing.

In the two weeks that followed, I've been a distant thought apparently. So the million dollar question: Huh?! I was such a good girl and yet no reward. Lame, someone point me in the right direction, please. My brain seems to have had liposuction.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo,

Blackie Collins

No Big Deal

It is not a compliment if a guy wants to sleep with you. I know the attention seems flattering and for those 20 minutes (if you're lucky apparently), you may feel less lonely or whatever, or maybe you just do it cause it feels good, but trust me, it isn't anything to jump and scream about. Don't go thinking you're Helen of Troy, setting off thousands of ships, wars, and whatnot. It really isn't a big deal.

The reason is actually very simple: Most men will sleep with just about anybody given the proper circumstance. I know all the guys will immediately start sprouting how they wouldn't sleep with this one and that one, how they have standards, but let some alcohol be involved. Let him have not had any in a bit. Let Snooki climb into Vinny's bed drunk and kissing all over him and see what happens. He's gonna take it cause it's there. He's gonna go for the good old W.

Most guys' standard involves their conquest standardly having tits and a vagina. Easy breezy. So, it's safe to say if you have those two, I'm pretty sure a) he's gonna try you and b)you've got a chance.

Doesn't equate to much, though, this possibility, this "desire" of his, but it's definitely there. I tell you all this because perhaps it'll help some ladies out here. Maybe if you understand their psyche a bit more, you won't be so shocked by their shenanigans. It's rare that B is shocked anymore. It's possible I've heard it all before, but probably not. I just pay attention. To what? Well, I consider myself to be a pretty observant person, so I pay attention to the actions of others, what men do-their, uh, activities. For example, what do you learn when you watch one of those shark week specials? You learn that sharks, 9 times out of 10, are out there murking people left and right, so you know to either keep your butt out the ocean or enter at your own risk. It's possible to come out unscathed, but it's also possible to come out missing an arm or left pinky toe. Knowing this is half your battle.

Then there's what my guy friends tell me. That's really the only reason to keep them around. They are your little translator, so listen. Besides, unlike dude you rocked with last night, your homeboy loves you and will look out for you. (And he might try you some time too, he is a man and you are a woman, so do the math.)

Lastly, I pay attention to the crap that's happened in my own experience. Sure, I've fallen flat on my face a few times, but cut up enough and eventually you stop making the same mistakes over and over. I don't take a guy wanting me physically as anything more than just that-a fleeting feeling that disappears as soon as the nut is cracked.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins

Little Bits: Bag It Up

I hear some funny things, some astounding things, and then I hear some extremely stupid things. Mostly the last one right there. I have a friend who's quite attractive actually. He has a great job, dope body, lots of friends, the proverbial whole package.

But...

He doesn't wear condoms. Not because he's allergic, not because they don't fit (o_O), but because he just doesn't like them. Doesn't want to wear them.

I hate this phrase, but I know you need time, so Pause.

There are tons of things wrong with this guy. One being he's engaged and cheats, so he's out there raw dogging and then coming home and sleeping with his fiance sans condom. The second reason this idiot is of note is the fact that he still gets a ridiculous number of willing participants to hit the sack with him. I know a good number of chicks he's boned and while many say he's great in bed, I think that point is completely moot. Anyone's sex is turned up a notch bare back. In fact, I told my teenage brother to never ever have sex without a condom, not just because it's unsafe, but because it feels too damn good and if you never know what it feels like, you'll never want it.

Whenever I hear about his crap, I'm always stuck on how successful he is at bagging girls without a bag. Like how does he get away with that? Who says yes to this kind of proposition? Who willingly knocks on that door, pushes it open and just moves on in nestling in somewhere between itchy and burny? I imagine the conversation goes something like this:

Him: oooh, you feel so sexy, I can't wait to give you the business.

Her: yea, daddy, me too. I can't wait, so let's get to that business.

Him: you want this business right here?

Her: uhhuh, let's take care of this condom business first though

Him: nah, shorty, I don't like that kinda business. but i can assure you my business is so fresh and so clean. i got an MBA-that's how great my business is.

Her: oh wow, you're so smart. gimme that business, big daddy!

Yep, I bet the conversation goes just like that. Too bad the only business she's getting comes from a stork in about nine months. Or worse. I just don't understand how this is okay in 2010. How can you go around talking about "you don't want to wear a condom?" People in hell want ice water, but that doesn't mean they get it. It's silly and stupid and what's worse are the girls who still lay down with him, still decide to take a chance. Sure, sometimes you should take the risk, take a chance, but you only do that on small matters like, "hmm, I'm gonna chance these scrambled eggs my three year old niece made with her toes," or "I think I'll risk missing this meeting because of the DVF sample sale across town." Not your life! Dude, sit all the way down, and when you get there, put a condom on just in case some girl trips and falls on your dumb ass.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Why Are All The Pretty Girls Alone in the Club

My girl Trish, spent her weekend club hopping. She had a burst of energy and spent the entire holiday weekend out. Thursday and Sunday included. When she called me to give me the morning-after stories, I was sort of surprised as to what she had to say.

"I know it's been a while, but did being pretty go out of style? Are ugly girls trending now?"

I laughed thinking Trish was just being Trish, but instead she replied, "No, seriously. I think men are into average or lower now. Based on the weekends events, that's what I'm goin with 'cause it's the only explanation." Realizing she was serious and then remembering a previous conversation with another friend about a similar topic, I asked Trish to elaborate. She went on to explain how she noticed, during a more sober moment, many of her girlfriends, who are a gaggle of hotties to say the least, were alone most of the night. Once she noticed the trend, she couldn't shake it. A couple guys ventured into their table's vicinity, slugging their own drinks, maybe offering to buy one for the lady of interest, but that would be it if that. Long were the days of the "who can get the most numbers" game. The girls were striking out. A few sideled up, attempting to grind a bit, but again, that was it.

Trish, despite having a boyfriend and not really caring about love in the club, was pissed off. She sounded insane as she popped off left and right on how it was absolutely ridiculous to be a beautiful woman and not have a line around the door for your attention. I listened and immediately pulled out the mac to jot my thoughts down for later. I came up with a few points; some of which have some validity and some of which might be pure sh*t.

The average girl is easier to try. If you think about the number of times men have complained about the failed attempts at gorgeous girls, it would make sense to go ahead and try the average girls instead. It's shrinks your odds and the girl who's just average will be so excited that you chose her. My dad's third wife wasn't nearly as attractive as my mom and I really believe he needed a woman who was of no competition to him. He had to be the cutie in the couple. Maybe it comes from insecurity on his part.

The scales are so tipped. One of the flagged items from Trish's weekend was the fact that the clubs were completely beaver fests. There were way more chicks than d*cks, so in a numbers game, the men have the pick of the litter. They can essentially do whatever (it seems to the naked eye, not necessarily the truth), while the female masses teeter around hoping a dude will toss 'em a bone. If you know this, as many men do, your options are far greater, so why settle on any one.

Who looks for their wife in the club? With the exception of Bethany from Real Housewives of New York, few meet their husbands/wives in the club. Knowing this, you're not necessarily looking for Mrs. Right. You're looking for Ms. Right Now. It's not like it matters that much what she looks like. Doesn't mean he's running around, chasing ugg muff, just means he's chasing muff. That's the real focus and she probably doesn't have to be the most gorgeous woman ever in life.

Pretty girls have issues. There are so many theories on the issues that plague girls of the attractive persuasion. They either rely too much on their looks, have zero self esteem from dealing with dingbat dudes dogging them, or they have spent so much time being treated like pretty princesses, they are spoiled rotten and no one wants to be around them anyway. So sure, if I were a guy and I saw a great looking woman in the club all long hair flowing, banging body displaying, beauty shining, I might back off. A guy friend of mine once said, "Look, I love Ferraris, but I know I can't afford a Ferrari right now. Will I test drive one if given opportunity? Absolutely. Will I eventually be able to snag it? One can hope. But can I actually afford one right now? Nope, so why even bother? I can, however, afford this nice reliable Camry and it'll do the job without breaking the bank." I mean, if that isn't a sermon of sorts, I don't know what it is.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

If I Were a Boy...

I really, really wish I were a guy. Then my behavior would be acceptable. I'm serious, this is getting on my nerves, all these double damn standards. Some dude can have 4 kids by 4 different girls, one of which is his third cousin, have no job, but somehow have a wad of cash in his mattress, and live with his mama, but let him have a cute face, a dimple (just one, he doesn't even need two), a couple tats, and a relatively nice body and all hail the king! Girls still chase him. He can still call some unassuming girl at 2am and she'll pick up, all giggly girly, ready for his command.

This is so lame. I mean it. They get away with highway robbery and nobody seems to care. They always come out on top. They can stay bachelors forever and never have children (that they know of) and no one bats an eye. "Oh, that Robert. He's just so handsome. The girls love him. He's just picky. Oh well." What?! Let a woman be 45 with no husband or kids and she MUST be reading to hang herself from the baby mobile that's been hanging in the hidden nursery since her child bearing years. Obviously.

I know you're with me, but you're wondering why. Where is this rant coming from. Glad you asked, kids. In the last twenty four hours, I've been ready to get a sex change yet again. Here's just a few reasons why:

The douchebag on the corner. There are many bags of Massengill sitting on the corner. They're young and old, ugly and not so ugly and all seem to think it's cool calling out obscene comments when you walk by. This morning, I walked by two guys having a deep discussion about the arse on a girl several feet in front of me. It was pretty regular as far as asses go. One claimed it looked like it was once something great back in the day. The other agreed and added that she probably "don't do much for it and it just went away. You gotta take care of it ya know?" Both of these fools looked like they'd gotten stuck in a trash compactor, yet they had the arrogance and audacity to sit there and pass their important judgement on this chicks ass. Well I'll be; who knew all I had to do was have a beer belly, a dirty t-shirt, and a penis to be the end all be all. And I'm about thirty-two seconds away from punching my super in the throat. His "hello, young lady, how are you's" turned into "hey beautiful, you can't call me cause you don't have my phone number." Yeah, that must be the reason. The other day, I was on my phone and he actually jumped in front of me on the sidewalk, flailing his arms, trying to get my attention. I told my sister to hold on and snatched my earpiece out my ear and through clenched teeth gave him the business like my mom used to when I interrupted her on the phone. "Don't you see I'm on the phone? What is your problem?"

They get around. Only girls have to worry about their "numbers," which seems pointless since men either don't ask or ask, but assume the number that comes out our mouths will be a big, fat, round lie. I have a guy friend who's had sex with 106 girls. ONE HUNDRED AND SIX and no body cares. Last night I told him I'd be good and happy if both Idris Elba and Chris Brown were in my bed when I got home and his response was: "Whoa, you're a freak." WHAT? No, I'd be a freak if I actually thought for two seconds this could feasibly happen and then decided to take them both on at the same time. And how many threesomes have you had? How many one night stands have you encountered? How am I chastised for merely mentioning something, yet you are the virgin mary incarnate. Get outta here. I'm sick of liking sex and getting f*cked in the ass (not really, sheesh) for it. Not. Fair.

Sleezy by association. Finally, around 3am, I got a text from this guy I've known forever. He's cute, he's exactly my type, except for one small issue: he's engaged. Not cool and inviting ala engaging, but walking down the aisle and getting married engaged. In fact, he's getting married in t-minus a few months. I don't care what kind of world he has created where this is acceptable, but I find it wildly hilarious. Like for real? This isn't the first time either. It's safe to say he's been barking up my tree for quite some time. Here's the kicker. I made mention of it to a friend who knows us both, told her in a "what a sleezebucket he is" type of way and do you know who she got upset with? ME! I got reamed out for not telling him where to put his 3am phone calls and texts. We went from laughing at him to blaming me! Somehow I was treading on shaky ground, I was the problem, I was wrong. WTH? I didn't answer, I didn't invite him over and hop on his d*ck sixteen times, slap his chick in the face next time I saw her and said, "how does it taste when you kiss him?" No. None of that has or will happen, yet somehow I'm wrong. He cheats on his fiance! Doesn't that trump any and all? Stupid.

I'm in a pissy mood. I shouldn't be writing today. But you feel me? I know you feel me. We're always in sync. Justin Timberlake.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Dude Sit Down: The Worst I Ever Had

It was the third of September...that day I'll always remember. Well, not exactly. But I will hopefully forget two Friday's ago because I, finally, had the worst sex ever in life.

No, really. In life. Like everyone's life, not just mine.

Of course you're first question is how did I get away with twenty-something odd years of amazing sex? Well, for one thing, I haven't been having sex for twenty-something odd years, that'd be gross. The other is I never said I always had amazing sex, but it's always been anywhere between pretty good and amazing. Pretty good to me on a bad day is still okay. It's like getting a B on a report card. It isn't an A, no, but it ain't a C either, so you're still satisfied. To me, average sex was what I considered bad sex, but to those who've had bad sex, I'm sure average would've been like winning the lotto. Twice.

So, nope, I've never had bad sex. And now that I know exactly what bad sex is, I'm positive I've never had it before. So, let's get on with the story, shall we? It's a bit long, but worth it.

It was really late. I had opted out of traipsing the streets and instead was on my couch (where I'd been for hours) cleaning out my DVR. I was in the middle of an episode of The Bad Girls Club when the familiar text message ding of my phone sounded. I'm a night owl and so are most of my friends, so it didn't strike me as odd to see the number on the screen. It was Jay, a guy who wasn't quite a friend, but wasn't quite an acquaintance either. Somewhere in between, we chatted on the internet or hung out when common friends were together. I could count on one hand the number of times we'd actually hung out alone.

J: What are you doing?

B: Nada, killin brain cells watching tv.

J: Me too. Wanna watch together?

B: Not really. Wanna go for a walk instead? It's nice out.

J: Sure. I'll call you when I'm near you, so you can come out.

B: Ok.

Simple enough. It was nice out and my ass was seriously losing that loving feeling, so I hauled myself up, threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and waited for his call, which I didn't get. Instead, several minutes later, I got a text that read:

I'm outside, but I gotta go to the bathroom. Buzz me up. I did.

But after he did his business, he plopped down on my couch. I told him I thought we were walking, not sitting. He responded about some weird homeless guy perched outside my building and maybe we should chill for a minute until he cleared out. Homeless man? In NYC? Noooo, we must run for our lives. I rolled my eyes and sat down next to him. Jay and I always have pretty okay conversations, and this evening was no different. We're bussin it up, having a few laughs, catching up as it'd been a while, when I shifted my position and my leg wound up sort of leaning on his. All bets were off as he reached out and started rubbing my leg. Oh, for real? Suddenly I totally got it. Call B, naive, because the signs were all there: later than 11pm phone call/text, finding an excuse to come up...Jay was trying to get it in!

I immediately gave Jay the once over. He was going on about something I didn't care about, but as he talked, I noticed he had really nice teeth. And a nice smile to match. Shoot, Jay was actually pretty handsome.** However, the question wasn't whether Jay was attractive or not. It was whether or not Jay was gonna get it or not. Hmmm...decisions, decisions.

I finally decided to go forward with a little making out when the opportunity presented itself. Worst case scenario, diet coke. And when the opportunity did in fact present itself-he had left my thigh behind and was now rubbing my hand-and he pulled me over to kiss him, I was relatively excited. I love kissing. It's the best thing since purple Skittles, seriously. Taste that rainbow, homeboy. Or not. It's the worst kiss I've ever had. In fact, if you go back to my kissing blog last week, he was "Solid As a Rock." Yuck! I should've just stopped there, but I kept thinking how it had been a month and I really wanted some! Damn hormones, I should've been thinking, "If the kissing is this bad, imagine what the rest is like!" Sigh, some lessons you learn the hard way. No pun intended.

So somewhere during the bad kissing, he starts rubbing around on me, which of course makes me a tad bit distracted, and I sort of forgot how bad the kissing was. So instead I sort of shoved a boob in his mouth and let him rub around elsewhere. (Gosh, this is a bit much, but in order for you to get the story's entirety, we must do it this way. If I have to suffer, you do to. We're all in this together. HSM.) So, he's doing whatever he's doing and then he says, "Are you on the pill?"

What? Who stills asks that past the twelfth grade? I don't think I've been asked about the pill in ages, do they still make that thing? Maybe that's just me. More importantly, who cares about babies; I care more about the HIV, my friend, so pill or no pill, you're wearing a condom. I said exactly that. He didn't have one. o_O. We pulled from my stash, which took us off the couch and into the bedroom.

All this time, I felt that little voice saying, "This won't end well," but I shoved it out my head in the name of an orgasm, but little did I know, that little friend wouldn't be coming to visit that night. But, we'll get to that.

So, I'm lying on my bed as he's pulling the rest of his clothes off and man, oh man, clothing is such a damn liar. It fools you into thinking all kinds of good things are hiding underneath them when the truth of the matter is they mask reality. No, my body isn't the best, but damnit, he looked like he hadn't eaten since 1972! I have a serious problem with thinking one of my breasts will take out one of his ribs, but like many black men, he was well endowed, so I surged forward. The sex. About a minute in, he's moaning and says, "I want you to give me some head, too," to which I respond, "No." We all know I've said how much I like head, so for me to not want to give...When I decline, he says, "Well then I'm just gonna have to tear this pu**y up aren't I? I'ma tear. it. up!" The funny thing is that while he was "tearing it up" I was thinking about roller skates. Like what are you doing up there? He was talking shit, pumping away, and I think I made ONE sound, which is highly unlike me. I'm a screamer, but Jay doesn't know that, how could he, so he's thinking he's doing it big willy style. Speaking of which, a note to black men everywhere: it is not just enough for you to be well endowed as many of your brothers are, so do not think for one second that you can rest on your big laurel; you must work the big laurel as well, thanks. Back to Jay, who is not working his big laurel at all. About four minutes have passed when he lets me know he's about to cum. I gave him a Sam Jackson eye roll and told him to go ahead.

He does and then collapses on top of me. The only movement are the small shivers that come every few seconds. That good, Jay? Enough to have the shakes?

"Did you cum?" He asks. In the thirty-two seconds of sex? No, I didn't, my man. I say that, but nicer. No, I didn't.

"Why are you breathing so hard then?" He says as if I am trying to pull a fast one on him so I can sneak another in or something.

"Because you're laying on top of me." He rolls off and apologizes then wraps himself around me like a damn curly straw and apologizes again. This time I assume it's for my lack of climax. Two huge problems here: one, sorry? I mean, are you going to fix it? Two, get off of me! I hate cuddling.

"Are you staying?" I ask. His response:

"Zzzzzzzzz." He was out cold. DEAD. I'm not going to lie, I almost cried. Sexual frustration does not look good on B and I was locked in bed with someone I wanted to punch repeatedly. So lame.

Eventually, I fell asleep and was roused in the AM by him kissing on me. I'm sorry, did you miraculously find a toothbrush hiding on the bedside table? Get. Off. It didn't take long for him to recall the night before as he came in for more. Hell to the naw, I wasn't about to be a double sucker. In my opinion, you have to be a real dingbat to mess up a good fingering, so I pushed his hand down there and helped him help me. When I finally finished, he asked if I had another condom. I told him no and I had an early appointment just in case he thought he was gonna have a shot still.

He left and I washed my body with a brillo pad, hoping to erase the memory while I was at it. Some say it could've just been first time jitters; that people sometimes need to get comfortable with a new partner. To that I say: I wouldn't piss on that dude if he were on fire let alone sleep with him again.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

**Later, when I showed Maria a picture of him, she concurred that he was handsome, so no I didn't make that up for my vagina's benefit. It was true.

Go Shorty, It's Your Belated Birthday!

In my haste, ie complete absentmindedness, I missed the year anniversary of my blog a week or eight ago. So happy (extremely belated) birthday Blackie Collins! The last year of this blog has been a blast and as I read back, it truly is a little bit of my history. Whether it be the stories of B or friends, I'm proud of each post. Even the shitty ones;) As promised, it's been a wild ride and there's sure to be twists and turn in the future. I thank you guys for reading and commenting whether it be public or private. I'd also like to thank the dudes who provided my fodder, your idiocy or greatness-probably more the first than the second-has helped me learn so much about myself. I know what I want and what I don't. Mostly I know what I deserve and I guess that's worth thanking y'all for. Blogging is one of those crazy things that you never expect to do anything more than help you with your writing. You never really think you'll touch someone or really make me people think. I think humility in your writing is one of the most important characteristics and every time I get an email from someone praising my writing, I'm a bit sheepish. I still get elated when I get those, so thank you. When I started this blog, I knew it had to be anonymous for the sake of others mostly and also for the sake of me and my family. I by no means hide behind the anonymity, but I know enough about the blackmail to not put my business on the internet like that. Those who know who I am, know the stories and have either already blackmailed me or will keep my secrets just that. It's been hard in other ways though. Hard to market a blog when you can't tell people it's you. But the fun part is seeing a new follower and realizing it's someone I know. They have no clue it's me, but that's the fun part! Maybe one day, I'll tell you who I am. The good part is that every single thing on here is the truth. I may change the names or the situation to help shield the story form familiar eyes, but it's all me. Even though Blackie Collins is a pseudo-name, the personality behind it absolutely lives in me. I'm crazy and outspoken. I love boys and I love love. I say how I feel and I love giving sex advice. So rest assured, you aren't getting some made up fictitious character. I'm not some dorkbomb hidden in a closet with a computer and a dream. Well...actually... Anyway, it's been the most! Can't wait for the next year. Love you guys!

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo,

Blackie Collins