Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
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,
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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,
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T
Monday, September 20, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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.
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,
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
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,
Friday, September 10, 2010
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.
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,
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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!