I’m still dating my thug. Yep, I am. But I gave myself another two weeks. I’m not kidding. It’s a done deal after the 20th of January. Let the record show, my New Year’s resolution is to the tune of TLC’s No Scrubs: I don’t want no thugs, a thug is a guy that can’t get no (more) love from me. I’m serious. Just you wait. I don’t make idle threats or promises.
But...in the meantime, let’s share the fun tales!!!
The other night, I was out with Trey, we hit a bar on his side of town again, to which I’m getting used to-no bueno. The usual colorful folks were out and about and while he played pool, I sat on a bar stool nearby, sipping my Guinness and talking to friends of his while cheering him on as he whooped ass. Somewhere around one in the morning, I got bored. He let me know he’d play one more game and then we could go to a spot more for me. I nodded my assent and picked up my ringing phone. It was my friend Maria, who had called three time previously. I figured it was an emergency, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Maria was having a mild crisis, but nonetheless, she was upset, so I tended to her and wound up being on the phone with her for almost twenty-five minutes. During those twenty-five minutes, Trey came out looking for me twice. The second time, he looked annoyed. Thirty seconds after I hung up with Maria, my phone rang again, this time from a younger sibling, asking advice. Always being the consummate big sister, I walked outside and gave him some quick advice.
Then I went back inside. Or at least, I tried to. The door woman (if we can call her that) squawked, “Figh dollas to get back in.” Huh? Why did I have to pay “figh dollas” when I had been in there all night? I said just that. “Cuh dat duh rule. Figh dollas.” She responded, punctuating it with that suck your tongue, popping noise that every gay black man on the planet can do and every ghetto girl, but not me.
I pulled out my phone and called Trey, he didn’t answer. Great. Trey is one of those guys who does not use his Blackberry for anything other than phone calls. He doesn’t text, unless it’s one word and most times he simply calls me back and answers whatever question I asked in the received text. I know he see’s them, but he barely pays them any mind.
They’re making me pay to come back in. Come get me. I hit send and shuffled my feet in the cold air, observing the motley crew of people outside the bar/club, willing him to check his pocket phone and come to save me from my “figh dolla” fate. Moments later, he appeared and mild hell broke loose. He chastised the door “woman” for not knowing I was with him as she apologized profusely and a nearby security guard reprimanded her as we walked back into the back room. Trey eyed me the whole time. Uh-oh, I’d never really seem him mad, at least not at me, so to see it was not to love it. But me being me, I sat back on my perch and took a gulp of my beer. Trey stood next to me sort of grilling me. I looked over and said, “What?” but the subtext was, “Why are you looking at me like that? Go somewhere.” Apparently not the way to make him less angry. He leaned into my ear and hissed, “Stay the f*ck off the phone when you’re with me.”
This time my what was laced with, “Who the hell are you talking to?” And it was much more audible over the blaring music. No one seemed to be paying us any mind though. It seemed that type of establishment was one where people minded their own business no matter what level. Trey leaned in again. “You can’t be running around here by yourself. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the hood. This shit is real, someone will snatch your little Louis Vuitton bag off your arm and you won’t even know it cause you stay posted up in that black berry. “ Hmm, he had a point, but then why would you bring me here? Because you’re the man? Cause you can do what you want and every says how high when you demand they jump? I rolled my eyes vehemently and with extreme purpose in his direction. I topped it off by being a smart ass and snatching my beer off the table. You could feel the tension at our little bar table. His friends weren’t paying attention directly, but you could tell everyone was anticipated what would happen next in our little novella.
Next thing I knew, Trey leaned in and took my beer out of my hand. “Go home,” he said in a way where it was not up for discussion. I made a face and he responded by lifting me off the bar stool and repeating, “Go. Home.”
Would you believe all this time, I was incredibly turned on? Shameful, I know.
So I get up and say, “Fine!” in a very pouty six year old way and I push him, just for good measure and because I love dramatics and exited the club. Moments later, as I was trying to find a cab in the ridiculous neighborhood, swearing off Trey for good, my phone rang. I hit ignore already knowing it was him. It rang again and I hit ignore once more. I heard him calling my name several feet behind me, but I pretended not to hear. This was my own Broadway show and I was in the starring role. You couldn’t tell me this wasn’t funny or exciting or wildly stupid.
He caught up to me, put his big manly hand on my waist to stop me from walking. “I’m sorry for losing my cool. Come back inside. Can you please limit your phone use when you’re with me? It feels disrespectful for some reason.” I turned around, already knowing I would go back inside with him, limit my phone use, have a drink, got to the next spot, sleepover his house, wake up to him making me runny scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. After all, I’m a sucker for thugs.
But only til the 20th.
That bitch stole my line,