Tales from the Hood: That Time of the Month

There's something so intriguing and interesting about dating a hood dude. There's this authority they have. This way about them (I refuse to use the word. The one that starts with an S and rhymes with Jagger). Whatever it is, they do whatever they want and everyone else just sort of falls in line and if you don't, they really don't care. No really. Well, unless you're like me and you've gotten under his skin.

A few nights ago, Trey and I were coming home from our usual bar/lounge type of night. He played pool. I perched on a bar stool nearby, grooving and "cheering" him on. We were in a good mood, home early for us, around midnight and decided to do a movie night. After deciding we were hungry too, and created a small feast, he popped in Robin Hood (with Russel Crowe, not Kevin Costner), and we snuggled into bed to nosh and watch the Prince of Thieves do his thing. Unsurprisingly, Trey loved the prequel describing the hood's life, I'd never seen it and loved the movie too, but I was more intrigued by Cate Blanchett's devouted hood princess. Ha! Anyway, I hopped up to use the restroom, opting for the guest bathroom instead of his for whatever reason I don't know, but it turned out to be both good and bad a choice.

I walked in the bathroom, did a little perusal of my teeth (we had just devoured a spinach dip so I had to check), and turned around to lift the toilet seat so I could do my business and get back to a waiting Trey (and a paused movie, "Babe, come on!"). But when I turned around, the seat was already up and floating in the toilet, goodness how I wished it could have been an unflushed bowl movement or something, but it wasn't.

It was a bloody tampon.

Funny, considering the fact that my period wasn't on. I hadn't been there the night before, we didn't usually do back to backs, but I had spoken to him several times before falling asleep around midnight. From the contents in the toilet, it looked like Trey had himself a good time after midnight...with someone on their period no less. Gross.

It's good to stop here and make everyone aware of my temper. My father has is, his father had it, my siblings have it. It's a cure. It just flares and unless you take proper care to curtail it, it spins a crazy web, killing every bit of sensical awareness in it's wake. I felt the warm anger immediately and without even taking a breath to calm my ass down, I swung the door open and all but stomped the hallway back to his bedroom. He looked up and noticed my demeanor had changed drastically.

Trey: What's up?

B: There's something gross in the toilet. I'd play a little game of "guess what's in the toilet," but I don't have the patience. So why don't we skip to the part where you explain to me why there's a bloody tampon floating in the toilet and don't say it's mine because my period isn't on, which you are well aware of, but maybe it wouldn't matter anyway, since you like running red lights obviously.

Trey: *looks at me like I'm crazy because he's never seen this side of sweet B. He barely flinches before saying* I don't owe you any explanations.

B: *steam flies out ears* No, you are absolutely right, you don't owe me any explanations cause I'm not your girlfriend (and I'm dumping your ass on the 20th). But what you could do is remove any and all evidence of all the chicks running through your house, how about that? Do you hear my phone ringing all night? Do I let you know of every other guy I deal with? No! I do everything to make it seem like it's just you and me, because in all honesty, there's no one else involved in you and me besides YOU and ME!

Trey: Are you gonna get back in bed and watch this movie or you gonna do this all night?

I huffed and puffed. Went back in the bathroom, slammed the door, put down the toilet seat and sat there for a good few minutes before going back into the bedroom and sitting on the floor to watch the rest of Robin Hood. What a dirtbag! I was furious and it showed as I snatched food, sighed audibly and made it completely known how pissed I was. It is one thing to inadvertently assume there are others, but to have them confirmed and slapped in your face? And on a movie night? Ugh, not cool.

Somewhere in the middle of the movie, Trey, leaned over the side of the bed and said, "I'm always honest with you. My friend was over here today. Just my friend. You know I'd tell you if it were something more."

He was right. He was and is overly honest. To the extent that sometimes I have to let him know I'm in a sensitive mood and to tread carefully. He's told me about chicks, not in depth, but has mentioned them. I never really cared one way or the other because we weren't serious and in all honesty, we aren't supposed to be now.

I sort of shrugged in response. Then remembering I'm supposed to be using my words and communicating better, I said, "I know we both see other people, but I also know you like me and I like you and I don't want to hear or see a reminder of others, ok?" I felt very mature about my statement and judging by Trey's nod of agreement, he did too.

The reality is that while we do enjoy each other's company and care about the other's feelings, it's imperative that I get a grip and stop liking this dude. It isn't going anywhere, the 20th is looming, and it'll only be worse if we keep on the path we're on.

To quote John Mayer, we're slow dancing in a burning room.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Tales from the Hood: The Phone Rules

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 20^th 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 20^th.

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo

Blackie Collins

Thug Lovin

I have always shouted from the rooftops my love of thugs. I have no idea how it came about, my mom thinks it has something to do with the fact that they are the complete antithesis of where/how I was raised, but I love em. All day, every day, baby, cause I’m a thug-lover. They are just so…thuggish. And yet, it might be time for me to hang up my thug life.

About a month ago, I met Trey, a chocolate, tatted, ebonic speaking, pit-bull raising, take no prisoners boy from the hood. I have no clue how, but he wound up with my phone number and I wound up shooting pool with him a few nights after. Okay, that isn’t true. He got my number from my cousin, who lives in the same condominiums as he does. Apparently, he saw me and during one of those routine-by-the-mailboxes conversations, asked about me. Now, my cousin assumed what I did: to not judge the book by it’s cover, after all, he lived in a pretty expensive condo. Maybe he played football…maybe he was a rapper…maybe he was Diddy! Stereotype central. Anyway, she gave him my number, sent me a quick text to let me know, and went off to shoot someone else with her cupid’s arrow.

Trey called pretty quickly. He was charming and complimentary and immediately asked me out. On this “date,” I was initially apprehensive. First, the location of our “date” was in a neighborhood I wasn’t too keen on, but it was a hood he knew well, and everyone knew him, no one “tried” him in those parts. Second, I was curious about the wad of large bills in his pocket, the rimmed out Benz he was driving, the hood ass accent that forced me to say: “huh” way more than altogether necessary. But there was something so incredibly sexy about him, so intriguing. See, that’s the thing with thugs. Their pure crazy masculinity murders any hope for a straight-laced, regular joe and before you know it, they are your crack. Addictive.

During our date I found out quite a few important facts, all of which contribute to my ultimate making of a true thug list. This is the diary of a REAL thug. I thought I knew, but I had no idea.

Baby’s mom(s). Trey has two kids, both with different moms. He also has an ex wife. She is in addition to the baby’s moms, not included.

Gunshot wound(s). Trey has been shot twice. One was an attempted robbery, the other was a botched “hit.”* He obviously lived through both.

Bitch/Nigga. Every dude, no matter what, is aptly called nigga. Every girl, no matter who, is called bitch. In fact, when we’re in bed, I’m always his pretty bitch. I haven’t decided how I feel about it. Is that a compliment?

Wads of cash with no appearance of a 9 to 5. Trey throws parties for NBA players-this is not to be mixed up with a party promoter. He isn’t that low on the totem pole. He throws like three major parties a year, kicks it with all these ballers, and doesn’t do a darn thing otherwise. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t sell drugs. Which leads me to…

Jailbird. Trey did a year in prison for selling drugs at the age of twenty.

Trigger Happy. He’s totally TI with it as he isn’t technically allowed to bare arms, being an ex felon and all, but he certainly doesn’t let that stop him. I’ve never seen it, and while I know it very much exists, this one isn’t totally based on firearms. Trey has punched two people in the face in the last week and a half. I have seen him threaten one. It’s very funny actually. It probably isn’t supposed to be, but I always laugh when he tells me how dude was disrespectful and he had to put him back in his place.

Actually, I’m going to stop with this list. It’s getting depressing, so instead I’ll switch to why I’m into him. Otherwise, my credibility might be on the line…

Jokes galore. He’s incredibly funny and I spend most of my time in stitches. Besides, when he laughs, he has these two dimples that pop out his cheeks and they are adorable.

Chef Boy-R-T. He’s a southern boy and puts many a gal to shame in the kitchen.

Moneybags McGee. I never pay for a thing. Ever. He might even pay my rent for me if I asked.

Healthy Arrogance. He’s totally into himself, but in a good way. He takes pride in what he looks like. His clothes are always together. He’s well groomed. Ugh, he’s totally hot.

He’s Just So Into Me. I think it’s funny that he’s Mr. Tough Guy, but with me, he’s like pure slushy mush. He does whatever I want and has asked me on numerous occasions to be his girlfriend, that he’s falling for me hard. (For the record, I’ve said no on every occasion. There’s just no point in being his girl.)

Member’s Only. And perhaps the LARGEST reason I’m with him…good golly. His member is like perfect. The most perfectest thing on earth. I can’t even describe it. I think about it at night, during the day, at the gym, in the market, in the park, by the lake-and I don’t even know where the lake is. It’s just awesome.

Protected. I feel completely safe with him. Maybe it’s because he’s so scary, no one will make any attempts. Maybe it’s because he can clearly take a bullet or two. Either way, my back is completely guarded when I’m with him…and when it isn’t, I’m laying on it, helllooo!

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo

Blackie Collins

*I think he was exaggerating on the whole “hit” thing. Here’s hoping.

Three Things You Don't Have to Do to Get Her in Bed

I'm going to share something with you today, kids. Something that contrary to popular belief isn't rocket science and is relatively simple once realized.

You don't really have to do much to get a girl in bed.

Yep, it's true. I'm not saying you don't have to do anything, but in all honesty, the level of effort just doesn't have to be that high. I'm sure the guys are saying, "Naw, you gotta do everything short of hang the moon for these heauxs," while the ladies are crossing their arms and huffing "no way Black-ay! He gotta work for this poonanie," but just you wait. I'm about to drop some knowledge on y'all in hopes I'll get my own book deal. Steve Harvey.

1. Befriend her friends: Nope, no you don't. Every girl has gone home with a guy and not because he wowed her friends. Why would they matter. He isn't bonin them. So, why would she care? Dude could spit in her friends face and she's still gonna tell her girls "not to wait up!" OK, not that far, but trust me. Girls will forget their homies the instant that hottie across the club makes his move.

2. Buy Her a Drank: I say this based on the number of men that are no longer into the act of purchasing an alcoholic beverage for a female in the club. Apparently, they stopped paying, but kept smashing, so you do the math. I'd save a dollar or two as well. Especially in this economy. Now, sure you'll get more bees with honey and drunk girls are way wilder in the sack, but it isn't a requirement, so bottoms up! But separate checks.

3. Say I Love You: Goodness, the number of men that still think love gets sex is sort of astounding. Yea, you had to do that back in high school or something when girls were hanging onto their virginities, but at this stage? In the club? Nah. In fact, you might say it and she might get all the way freaked out. Stalker alert.

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo
Blackie Colins
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

GUEST BLOGGER: Meet the Blabbermouths

*Editor's Note* So, I am thinking of trying out guest bloggers on the site from time to time. This is the first one, Ivana. Follow her on Twitter @ivacontent. Enjoy!)

Last night, I made the catastrophic mistake of introducing the guy I’ve been dating to a group of my friends. Now normally I enjoy this – I get to see my man squirm and have a long, detailed gossip about him afterwards. What better way to measure compatibility than present him to the most sceptical people he will ever encounter in the relationship? This then somehow makes me feel closer to my date (for handling the ordeal) and to my friends (for being complimentary, no matter what).

So it’s all been casually arranged – we’re going out to a few bars because a few drinks are bound to ease awkward introductions. There are even suggestions for clubbing afterwards. We meet, drink, laugh, dance and sing along to whatever R&B atrocities are gracing the charts nowadays. And rather than being a gooseberry between the two parties – as I feared I would be – everything seems to gel together and the night is (astonishingly) a success. My guy mates are even making inappropriate jokes with my date over their pints.

But this morning, my rather rosy impression of the evening was slowly undermined. Firstly, a phone call splits through my sleep (and slight hangover) like a klaxon. On the display I see it’s one of my closest friends, smile at the prospect of their review of my new catch and answer with a cheery hallo. But after the initial perfunctorily compliments, she starts laughing and says how she hoped she hadn’t freaked him out with stories of my previous misdemeanours and quirky habits… After questioning, I found out that last night whenever I went to order a round or was otherwise out of earshot the only topic they could think to settle on was me. Apparently, some of them volunteered stories that were slightly inappropriate to tell someone I’d only been dating for a couple of weeks.

He now knows that some of my more embarrassing hobbies at school were playing chess in the library and running the recycling club. He was quizzed about the sensitive subject of my brother’s long-term illness (which I hadn’t got round to telling him about yet). He was even told the delightful anecdote about me turning up to work in a see-through dress (which wasn’t my fault by the way – always try things on in sunlight before you wear them to work).

I usually have a strict etiquette with these types of things – don’t reveal too many personal or quirky facts about yourself until you’ve been dating for a month. And when you do, they need to be dropped in gradually and carefully, small ones first – then it’s much easier to test the water and see if he scares easily. If it’s a complete stranger or someone you’ve met on a dating site, there will be a lot to reveal. I guess in the end we all find out each other’s quirks, baggage and a whole hoard of details – both pleasant and unpleasant. If someone can’t deal with a certain part of my character, they’re obviously not meant to be with me. But they might get the wrong impression if it’s all piled on at once. Like it was last night…

I guess I’ll find out when he texts me back…

Tis the Season to Get U Some

In the wee hours of yesterday morning, around 10am, I tweeted: “S/o to all the people hanging out in going-nowhere relationships for the holidays. #getusomegifts. And the replies and ReTweets flowed in. Some claimed they would never, had no clue what I was talking about-whatever, #lies&deception; some laughed and tagged a few LOLs and LMBO’s on, but I wasn’t kidding. Actually quite serious. It must be on many a holiday goer’s mind, too, because later that day, a popular DJ brought it up as a topic for discussion: do people go back to their ex’s or stay in no good relationships just to be booed up for the holidays. Callers called in and most said they would rather that than the alternative: be alone for the holidays. I considered this the obvious, but in defense, there were a few morons who called in and swore they’d be just fine with their children and whoever else they could pretend fulfilled the same hole as a significant other and the one lady who said her man was on lockdown and she would not seek a replacement for the holidays. Work it out.

Honestly, though, what exactly do you think people who start gleaming old or new relationships around September are doing? Like setting up a chess board, they’re getting ready for winter, storing their nuts and getting ready to be all warmly nestled in someone’s vagina come December. Dead ass. So, if you’re vagina is gonna get nestled or at least have dates to the numerous holiday parties, than you better get booed or yank out that lil black book (blackberry) and find an old flame to light up.

Perhaps the best reason, as I stated in my original tweet, is the fact that boo’s obviously give the best gifts. When you’re giving and getting lovin, you’re in a better mood (it releases all these endorphins or something), so you splurge and buy that cashmere sweater she’s been eyeing or the watch Twista had on in The Source (if you missed that, you should go start a new life somewhere). Sure, mom and dad give great gifts, but you’re sure to get at least one ugly sweater adorned with reindeer and actual bells on their little reigns or the “I actually forgot about your gift until this very second and happened to have a Bath and Body Works bath gel and hand lotion set in the car” type of present. My suggestion is you’re gonna need that holiday head at the end of it all…and a nicely wrapped happy ending: a car or something. Well, not a car, but hey, you play your cards right and it could happen. Those holiday “Surprise! There’s a ribboned Lexus in the driveway” commercials have to come from reality. I mean, everything you see on tv is real, right? Besides, I’ve seen people do far more for far less, so go go gadget holiday boo and let’s see who gets a car first!

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo

Blackie Collins

...And We're Back! (You Got Me Feeling Emotions)

**Editors Note: Wow! A full month has passed us by and soooo many changes have happened. New jobs, lots of travel. So much! But we'll get into that when all can be revealed! Promise. I have to say the month off was really needed. I just felt like the blog was philandering like a little guppy flip flopping on dry land, in search of water to swim and thrive. Not that dramatic, but close. It just felt off for some time. I found myself having to stretch out blogs, scour the internets for topics, write about things I could care less about. Everything started getting too introspective, which I don't mind, but this blog isn't just for me to dissect all my dating issues. It's to tell fun (true) stories of my own and my friends, to discuss topics as they pertain to dating/sex/relationships, and to, of course, do it with the kind of sassy craziness only B can dredge up. I felt like I was missing the flare, missing the fun, missing the frame of reference for which this blog was started. To be honest, I felt like I was missing the point and when the distraction became a giant road block, I took a step back and said, "Ok, B, take a breather. You've gone hard for over a year. Just press pause, not stop." Sooooo, we're back! I hope you missed me as much as I missed you, cause I totally did...and if you didn't, well just stop lying to yourself, cause you did. Admitting it is half the battle. And boy oh boy does B have fun things to share these days. So as usual, buckle up. *drags road block out the way* Let's get it!

You Got Me Feeling Emotions

There is a phrase that's constantly used when describing men and their emotions, especially as they pertain to relationships. Therapist use it. Women whine to their husbands and boyfriends with it and go on to complain to their girlfriends about it. Men mock it.

"You're emotionally unavailable."

I think it's an interesting phrase. To say someone isn't emotionally available just means their emotions aren't on the surface, must be dug at, ripped up like tree roots, embedded in the ground for centuries, but it doesn't mean they don't exist. They're just hidden. Locked away for a rainy day or a special occasion. Sort of like a shooting star. They're a rare treat once they’re let loose.

But to say a man is emotionally unavailable is a bit of a cliche. I mean, they're taught to suck it up, take it like a man, show no mercy, and never, ever cry. That's what it is to be a man: strong, masculine. So they're sort of taught to be unavailable with said emotions. And most women don't clamor for the sappy, emotional guy. Trust me, they're exhausting.

The issue is that most (all) women are complete emotional basket cases, which isn't always a bad thing. I think women are awesome communicators because we are in tune with our emotions. I also think we live longer because we put 'em on out there, no bottled up, held back issues for the most part. However, because we're so emotional, it's like holding up a magnifying glass to men's inability to visibly care.

Of course, this always makes me examine myself and when this came up in conversation, I realized I'm not necessarily unavailable with my emotions, I certainly have them, but I'm perhaps dishonest with them. It's my shield, my way of protecting my heart and feelings. What started as just that has morphed with my enormous affinity for sarcasm and my love of wit into a fortress full of frothy comebacks and brow beating banter. All intended as jokes to lighten the mood, push the focus off of heavier topics like me and/or my feelings. It’s great to get me out of conversations I don’t want to have, but it also sucks because sometimes I should be having those conversations. Now, sometimes, I really don’t care, but a lot of the time, I downplay EVERYTHING I'm feeling. I've had so many guys tell me it's okay to show a little bit, that I reverse the roles on them, making them wonder if I'm really into them, have them pandering, questioning if I have any feelings at all. And sometimes I really do, but I’ve just learned to keep it all in my back pocket until it’s time to start showing cards. I think it’s smart, but I was recently told this yet again by a new guy I’m seeing. He literally said, “I can’t stand how I shower you with compliments, tell you all the time how much I like you, that I think you’re beautiful and wonderful and all you do is make some funny comment or brush it off. I mean, not like I’m giving compliments to get ‘em, but can I feel good too?” Sure, he could feel good, on his own time. Sigh. I guess I’m not doing too well with being more emotionally available. Anyone know a good therapist?

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins