I'm Just A Girl: A New Kind of Crazy

Saturday TLA called me this morning, then called right back to add some additional thoughts. You can go on and guess as to what he said ‘cause I promised him I wouldn't tell nobody.

After I ended the call.... I squealed so louuuudddddd and long, then burst into a fit of giggles. I mean doubled over, jumping around the house, clutching my body type. I know William is concerned about this too-high phase of mine (as are others) but this just feels so good. I'm not thinking about nobody's tomorrows and down the lines. I just want to enjoy this, keep this happy feeling for as long as I can. Just be in the moment and deal with the clean up and real-worldness of it all sometime later. It'll get heavy. No doubt. But I just want to look at a cup and see it half full for awhile.

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Justify My Love (Cue Madonna)

Because I live on Main Street, it so happens that there’s not much I can do without someone I never expected to know, knowing about it—even when I don’t write about it here. Such is the case with my new Teenage Love Affair. He’s no secret , of course, but due his newness and the accompanying we’re just getting to know each other status, I’ve neglected to broadcast our mutual interest to everyone listening (in the real world). I talk about him incessantly to my besties who are obligated to listen. And as it turns this out, he has been speaking about me too. And yes, it was favorable.

I got a call his weekend from an “old friend.” A professionally successful gentleman who I dated for awhile a long while back. He’d heard the rundown of my new beau through “the grapevine.” The Grapevine (a woman) inquired of my Ex, one of my favorites, about who I once was to him so long ago. The Ex described me in glowing terms (the parting was amicable and many years prior) and he ran down a list of my educational and professional successes. She was impressed, it seemed.

The Grapevine took it all in and then commented, “[TLA] doesn’t seem like her type.” This was mostly based on a comparison of his resume and mine, and then added some other unflattering remarks about him.

To which The Ex commented back to her, “I know D. He’s probably just a fling.”

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A Black Man

A Black Man. I feel like the words just got some new meaning after last night. Like I just can’t whisper or just say ‘a black man’ today. I got to shout it! I got to say it hard and powerful-like, like Denzel said it inMalcolm X. Like Malcolm X said it on 125th. I got to capitalize each word. A Black Man. It’s an article, an adjective and a noun, but this morning it’s a definitive statement. There’s no verb, but it’s a hell of a sentence. Eff that, it’s a whole damn story with a optimistic ending.

Barack got the Democrat’s nod?! A Black Man... for President?

Whoa…

If I were Barack Obama, I would have woke up this morning, woke up Michelle and the kids, and put on Kanye's "Through the Wire." I would have blasted it until the floors rattled and I thought Kanye was in my living room. And then I would have danced harder than I ever danced before in life. When 'Ye sings, "this is history in the making, man!!!" I woulda hollered and thrown up both my hands, then shouted along while running through the house with my family just running and shouting along behind me. We woulda kept dancing--hard--with our arms in the air to the song on repeat until we were exhausted, gasping for breath and dripping in sweat and funky(!) and all fell out on each other in a giggling heap.

I hope Obama and the fam had a moment last night, a behind the scenes nobody's watching, act a fool, got damn it feels good not to just see people up on it, but to be that Black Man up on it moment. I hope he danced and laughed. I hope a grown man got giddy and had to cover his mouth to hold all that laughter and joy in. Sometimes you don't want to let it out, just want to let it bubble up and rumble around inside you because it feels so good. I hope he found some other Black men (like his very sexy personal assistant. Read here) and gave dap (not handshakes) all around. I hope he took off his Nic patch and smoked a Jack with his feet up. I hope he smiled so hard and so long his cheeks hurt. I hope he put on some aviators and had a Black Superhero moment. I hope someone played "Don't Sweat the Technique" in the background and the beauty of the selection wasn't lost on anyone present. I hope he went home and put it on his wife.

I looked across the aisle on the train today and someone was reading the Daily News. I caught the cover line, "History!" with Obama’s pic underneath it. I teared up. Man, this is amazing. Black folk weren't guaranteed the vote until 65 and 50 and change years later we got a Black Man with a real chance to be president?

Wow.

My Dad grew up in Mississippi in the 40s and 50s under Jim Crow, segregation and all that separate but equal bullshit. I know he never thought Black people would make it this far, especially in his lifetime. I didn't even think it in mine.

A Black Man... for President? I feel like an old-timer.

Well, you don't say?

It's Not You.../My NYC Manifesto

I heard an update recently about a woman I'd gone to college with who I hadn't heard from or about in a long time. We were in the same profession and I recalled that at one point when I was struggling as a writer, she'd earned a huge promotion, boosting her from the bottom of the haystack to the top of the pile. She gave me hope that me ascension in the field could be as quick. Then she fell off the face of the earth.

I assumed she'd gone brand new or ''Hollywood" with her newfound prestige and didn't have time for The Little People like me. This happens to near everyone at some point (myself included. My mother had to humble me a bit last time I was home when I pulled a diva antic), so I figured I'd catch her when she levelled out or I caught up to her. She didn't strike me as the type that would go to the deep end and never return.

A couple years passed until I heard from her again. She sent me an email out the blue. She'd left New York, had returned to Atlanta where she was from, was living with her mother and debating a master's in something totally unrelated to writing. When I inevitably asked what happened, she said, "I just got tired is all." I assumed she'd been laid off and couldn't find a job fast enough. It's not uncommon in any sort of entertainment field.

Recently, I got the full version. She was good, rose fast, got to the top and couldn't handle the pressure. After another bad day at work in a long series of them, she ended up crying hysterically on a SoHo corner in a Noreaster type storm while the few passerbys she encountered ignored her. She called Back Home to her mother and told her she was done with New York and all its bullshit. That week, she quit her job, broke her lease, packed her shit and left. She's been back once on a vacation of sorts and I'm told she called but didn't see any of her friends.

Not a particularly shocking story as if you've been here long enough, you've seen plenty of people come, rise, fall, and leave or perhaps equal, come, struggle and say "fuck it" within a year or two's time. And usually when they go, it’s like they've fallen off the face of the earth. They feel like they've failed at something everyone else seems to be succeeding at or become totally disillusioned because they realize their life's dream was really a nightmare and now they don't know what's next.

And well, those of us still here must think "failure" or "fuck it" is contagious because we tend to write them off and erase names from Blackberrys like the person never existed. (There's two exceptions to this in my world. One is Mr. Ex. The other might be upset if I mentioned their name. But they both bounced to come back stronger. The latter will return in a hail of glory in a matter of months.) I'm not proud of it, but I've been very guilty of doing this and please allow me to explain.

Living here is a bit of a bitch. And if you're not from here, you sort have to brainwash yourself into the New York state of mind that says you can be happy being relatively broke, relatively single, and definitely overworked (and overlooked) living in a crowded, dirty city. Of course there are tremendous virtues to this place (summer. Need I really say more?) and if you focus on them as those of us who have been indoctrinated into the cult do, you can not only live but thrive. But to stay in the fold, you can't have people pointing out flaws like what you pay for an apartment in an inconvenient part of town is a mortgage in a prime area with a garage and a plot of grass anywhere else. Or because you’re unaccustomed to trees and grass now, your allergies are a bitch whenever you leave the city (all the more reason to stay here or only travel to other major cities.) I hung up on my own mother when she pointed out it was ludicrous to work 10 hour days, then go home and write some more. Perhaps all the bullshit New York throws, isn't worth it all the time. But you can't think like that on any sort of regular basis-- as the people who left tend to do-- and expect to survive or thrive.

It’s like all of us here are perpetually pledging New York City and to leave means you just dropped the line, you think the put out isn't worth the payout. I know the effort I put into being here and maintaining a continuous cycle of work, suffer, celebrate (I know someone from here who tattoed that on their back.) And it's frustrating to talk to non-believers. Frankly, it’s hard to pledge allegiance to the dream when someone's reminding you that you could be a break down away from it becoming impossible.

Really, that's the fear. There are so many of us who grind at 100 mph and manage to just make it (there's a reason no one leaves their borough on weekends. It’s called recouping.) There's no big gap between you and the next person gunning for your job. And when you're operating at full capacity, there's always the chance that your engine will give out and fuck coming in third, you might not make it to the finish line. This might be my biggest worry.

So for all the people who were on this island, then got off this island, and all the people who were never here because they hated the idea of NYC, and the people who live here and talk incessantly about how they want to leave, this is why we don't speak on any sort of regular basis.

It's not you. It's me.

Big Girls Don't Cry

So I made a decision awhile back to stop writing about my personal, recent experiences with dating, relationships and sex. And here's why: when The Justin Fiasco happened.. Eh, I fell apart for a second. And well, there are people reading who I didn't want to know my inner most thoughts on the matter, Justin included. Two days after it all fell down (long story. I'll tell it someday) Tariq was in town listening to me rant all around my apartment about much I didn't care about Justin. He paused me midsentence when he asked "so why then are you so angry?" I rattled off some generic reasons and he stopped me again. He knows me too well. "No. Tell me why you're mad."

You ever look at someone and see the possibilities? Like I saw something in Jay that I could get behind, a cause I could rally for, maybe play the Michelle to his Barack someday, the Lady to his MacBeth. I dunno exactly why. I just saw the could-be. Didn't want to change him, wanted to enhance him. Looked at his flaws and saw easy ways to positively channel his negative shit. His ish was familiar. I could deal with it. That doesn't happen often. Last time was Mr. Ex.

So it didn't work out. And because Jay is Jay and I am me, we had to have a long conversation about it. In fact, we had many long conversations about it. And the truth of the matter? He likes options. I've heard that before. And from other great guys. No matter how many times you hear it, it stings no less. And I get tired of hearing it too. When does someone great ever say "yah, it's me and you against the world."

After he explained his thoughts, I thought maybe I've got this whole dating thing wrong. Maybe the purpose isn't to meet great people and have great times and eventually pair off. Maybe its just great people and great times until it fizzles out and you just move on. There's no commitment, no promised tomorrows or even hours later. Just the time you spend together and when you're apart, you are just that.

I'm not okay with the latter, but I thought I could be. There was a second, just one, where I thought, well, maybe that's better than nothing? And then I snapped out of it. I don't know where that came from or what I deserve in life, but I know what I want is more than to share a man.

So I bowed out, gracefully, I think. And yes, it hurt. And in the moment, I thought about Mr. Ex. And I remembered how bad walking away from that hurt. And I remembered that I can get over anything if I can get over that. (Cue Kanye's "Stronger" or Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" now.) This might hurt, but nothing will ever hurt like that.

After I got off the phone with Jay, I decided to go out on the town. All day, I'd planned on staying in after the horrid day I was having (flurries of emails seems to be the standard M.O. in his world), but suddenly I didn't want to be alone. Tariq was going to his other best friend's birthday party (then another club) with my friends even if I didn't go.

I dressed in my best and we hit her party, then a club. At the second spot, I run into an old friend, the guy from Queens who said the equivalent of "D, I adore you. I only want to be your friend." We're cool now though. We dance, we laugh. At some point later in the evening and in the middle of the club at 2AM, I ask him to tell me why we didn't work.

"You want to talk about that now?" He looks confused.

"Yes," I declare. "Now."

He takes a moment to formulate his thoughts. "D, I think you're great," he begins. "But.."

I burst into tears. You know how you can usually feel them coming? Can take a moment to steady yourself or at least prepare for the onslaught? No time.

I cover my mouth, fully aware of the recklessness I am displaying in public, but I can't stop. While sobbing, I try to tell Tariq that I am going home, that he should stay and enjoy the party, but he'll hear none of it, of course. He tells the crew that we are leaving and Patent tells him, frankly, he's surprised that I lasted this long. They all knew how bad off I was over this blow up and saw the downward spiral I was destined to take when I ran into Queens. Evidently, I was the only one who expected me to make it through the night with an emotional outburst.

Tariq's a Black man so I stand on the corner to hail our cab. I've got one hand over my mouth trying to hold back sobs and hide my tears, the other stuck in the air trying to get a cab. I'm a real pathetic sight.

Patent exits the club to check on us and immediately commandeers the situation, hailing us a ride back to the borough (he was in a suit). Through tears, I apologize to Tariq the whole way back to Brooklyn for ruining his night, which he shrugs off.

"You're a girl, you get emotional."

My inner feminist is too upset to correct his sterotype. "But I don't cry," I remind him as I wipe away more tears with the sleeve of my dress.

He pulls me onto his shoulder. "Yes, I 'know."

Big Girls Don't Cry

So I made a decision awhile back to stop writing about my personal, recent experiences with dating, relationships and sex. And here's why: when The Justin Fiasco happened.. Eh, I fell apart for a second. And well, there are people reading who I didn't want to know my inner most thoughts on the matter, Justin included.

Two days after it all fell down (long story. I'll tell it someday) Tariq was in town listening to me rant all around my apartment about much I didn't care about Justin. He paused me midsentence when he asked "so why then are you so angry?" I rattled off some generic reasons and he stopped me again. He knows me too well. "No. Tell me why you're mad."

You ever look at someone and see the possibilities? Like I saw something in Jay that I could get behind, a cause I could rally for, maybe play the Michelle to his Barack someday, the Lady to his MacBeth. I dunno exactly why. I just saw the could-be. Didn't want to change him, wanted to enhance him. Looked at his flaws and saw easy ways to positively channel his negative shit. His ish was familiar. I could deal with it. That doesn't happen often. Last time was Mr. Ex.

So it didn't work out. And because Jay is Jay and I am me, we had to have a long conversation about it. In fact, we had many long conversations about it. And the truth of the matter? He likes options. I've heard that before. And from other great guys. No matter how many times you hear it, it stings no less. And I get tired of hearing it too. When does someone great ever say "yah, it's me and you against the world."

After he explained his thoughts, I thought maybe I've got this whole dating thing wrong. Maybe the purpose isn't to meet great people and have great times and eventually pair off. Maybe its just great people and great times until it fizzles out and you just move on. There's no commitment, no promised tomorrows or even hours later. Just the time you spend together and when you're apart, you are just that.

I'm not okay with the latter, but I thought I could be. There was a second, just one, where I thought, well, maybe that's better than nothing? And then I snapped out of it. I don't know where that came from or what I deserve in life, but I know what I want is more than to share a man.

So I bowed out, gracefully, I think. And yes, it hurt. And in the moment, I thought about Mr. Ex. And I remembered how bad walking away from that hurt. And I remembered that I can get over anything if I can get over that. (Cue Kanye's "Stronger" or Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" now.) This might hurt, but nothing will ever hurt like that.

After I got off the phone with Jay, I decided to go out on the town. All day, I'd planned on staying in after the horrid day I was having (flurries of emails seems to be the standard M.O. in his world), but suddenly I didn't want to be alone. Tariq was going to his other best friend's birthday party (then another club) with my friends even if I didn't go.

I dressed in my best and we hit her party, then a club. At the second spot, I run into an old friend, the guy from Queens who said the equivalent of "D, I adore you. I only want to be your friend." We're cool now though. We dance, we laugh. At some point later in the evening and in the middle of the club at 2AM, I ask him to tell me why we didn't work.

"You want to talk about that now?" He looks confused.

"Yes," I declare. "Now."

He takes a moment to formulate his thoughts. "D, I think you're great," he begins. "But.."

I burst into tears. You know how you can usually feel them coming? Can take a moment to steady yourself or at least prepare for the onslaught? No time.

I cover my mouth, fully aware of the recklessness I am displaying in public, but I can't stop. While sobbing, I try to tell Tariq that I am going home, that he should stay and enjoy the party, but he'll hear none of it, of course. He tells the crew that we are leaving and Patent tells him, frankly, he's surprised that I lasted this long. They all knew how bad off I was over this blow up and saw the downward spiral I was destined to take when I ran into Queens. Evidently, I was the only one who expected me to make it through the night with an emotional outburst.

Tariq's a Black man so I stand on the corner to hail our cab. I've got one hand over my mouth trying to hold back sobs and hide my tears, the other stuck in the air trying to get a cab. I'm a real pathetic sight.

Patent exits the club to check on us and immediately commandeers the situation, hailing us a ride back to the borough (he was in a suit). Through tears, I apologize to Tariq the whole way back to Brooklyn for ruining his night, which he shrugs off.

"You're a girl, you get emotional."

My inner feminist is too upset to correct his sterotype. "But I don't cry," I remind him as I wipe away more tears with the sleeve of my dress.

He pulls me onto his shoulder. "Yes, I 'know."

Random Thoughts...

Baby Talk

I attended sixth grade and college with a woman who recently had a baby. By my calculations, she's 29, pushing 30. Her father and mine are friends and though I haven't spoken to her in years, they regularly keep in touch. I was glad to hear her good news from my Dad the first time and second time he said it. Around the third time he said, "Shelly had a baby!! Her father (Shelly's) is soooo happy!" I thought his repeated mentionings might be less about Shelly and more about me.

"Daddy knows he's not getting any grandkids from me... At least not anytime soon, right?" I ask/tell my Mom a couple Saturdays back on our afternoon trek to Annapolis Mall.

She pauses to calculate his age. "Hmmm. He's not getting any younger. I guess it's about that time for him."

I look at her crazy-like out the side of my eye. She sounds like she's co-signing his quest. I expected her to share my outrage. "You might want to talk your husband out of that dream, you know?"

She acts like she doesn't hear me.

Isn't He lovely?

I loved him immediately just for being him. He didn't say anything profound. In fact, he couldn't. But he tried. And when he did, a bunch of slobber that those 2 incoming teeth didn't hold back got all over my new beige shirt. I was making smushy faces all up in his grill when he yelled hot baby breath right in my eyes. I yelled back at him. We were two yelling fools until his grandmother called down the steps for me to stop yelling at the baby.

"Yes, ma'am."

It was his first birthday and others wanted to play with him too so I reluctantly passed him on, but I couldn't stop staring. Those cheeks! Those tiny fingers! That plump belly!! It was the first time I thought I might want a kid someday.

Many months and many teeth later, I was visiting him and his mother (best friend, not Ace) again. She'd given him a bowl of popcorn to munch on while he played with his toys in the sitting room. We talked grown-enough folks talk, spelling and mouthing adult words the baby should never repeat.

Hours later, she took him upstairs to put him down for the night, leaving me alone. The room was a mess. At some point My Love had toppled his toy basket, spilling stuff everywhere. At another, he was trying to share his almost empty bowl of popcorn with his Mom, lost his balance and spilled that too. Bless his sweet heart. There were toys and kernels everywhere.

I looked at the clock. It was ten past ten. She had to clean all this up tonight?! I felt so bad for her that I got down on my hands and knees and started throwing toys in the storage bin.

"Oh my God, Belle, what are you doing?!"

I didn't hear her come down. I was halfway through and still crawling around her floor. I look up. "Hey, I’m cleaning up,” I said as if me on hands and knees was the most natural thing in the world.

"For what? You don't have to do that."

I insist until she insists I get up from her floor and that she has to clean every night so it’s not that big a deal. I left shortly thereafter. The room was still a mess. It seemed not to bother her.

On the less than ten minute drive it took me to get back to my parents’ house, I think about leaving her there alone with all that mess. Every night?!  What?! Mommyhood is supposed to be the greatest, most rewarding job ever, but I’d rather be unemployed than do that (and the pay's the same).

My Big Brother

I've avoided calling my brother back for a month. He's not really my brother, but he is. We've been friends since I was 12 and he refers to my parents and Mommy and Dad. See? My brother.

He's married with 2 beautiful, very smart kids. He is consumed with gas prices, investments, owning more property, stretching a dollar, outdoor grilling and making repairs to the house. I suppose these are the things that should primarily occupy the mind of a married father of two. I'd be a little concerned if he was talking about clubbing and women and liquor.

Here's the problem. It's not that these conversations bore me. He's a really funny guy, so even a story about BBQing (in the winter) is highly entertaining. I could listen to him talk all day. The problem is he wants my life to be like his. I respect what he does and how he lives, but his life is my version of hell.

Our conversations start with him recapping the kids and married life, then immediately go to me. "You ain't got no man yet?"

Fuck. "Nah, dude. I'm trying to avoid being locked down. Having too much fun out here."

"You don't want kids?"

Fuck. "We've had this conversation. I'm not nearly responsible enough and have no desire to become that responsible."

Every now and again, I get the pangs of wanting a relationship. That's usually when it's cold. The day it hits 70, I sit on a park bench watching the men go by and thanking God I avoided the winter cinch. It's not that I have anything against relationships, they just take a whole lot of work. I suppose when I find someone worth the effort and who is consistently not a fuck up, I'll settle down and take on the responsibility of a boyfriend (this is where my personal-life responsibility maxes out.) Until then, I'll keep my options open.

This is the problem: My brother knows all this. And every conversation still begins the same way. He's intent on making me feel like I am making the wrong choices in life although I am living the life I always dreamed. In high school, we used to sit on my parents back porch and smoke and talk about what we'd be when we grew up. I wanted to be an author who lived in New York and wrote for magazines. I wanted to live in Brooklyn brownstone like the women on Living Single. (The brownstone dream's the only thing that changed.)

I won't say what he wanted, but it's not what he ended up. And that's fine. Dreams change. Priorities do too. And sometimes they don't. I just wish he understood that. Maybe I'd pick up the phone when he calls.

Belle Salutes Strong Women

Michelle Obama

I had to change the title of the "Belle Salutes" series. There was no way in hell I was calling Michelle Obama a... I won't even use the word in a post about her even though the term was used in the most highly favorable, you-are-a -force-to-be-reckoned with way. It just doesn't seem right for her.I *heart* Mrs. Obama for many reasons-- most important because she stands BESIDE her man, not behind him (despite the above picture). There will be no glazed over blank looks at her husband the way Nancy Regan did for her hubby or the way Bey gushes for ex-President Carter. No, she shows her man the respect he's earned, but she's no bimbo.I love her for being able to support without sacrificing her strength. She was the breadwinner of the household, but quit her well-into-six figure salary to support her man's bid for the top spot. I also read in Time, I think it was, how hubby was working on a speech and he was frustrated and in deep thought. She interrupted him to say something like, "Hey... I love you and I think you're brilliant." In the same story (I think), the writer details a time when Barack was booed at a rally and Michelle called into the post-rally conference call to flip on whoever left her man out there vulnerable like that. She don't play when it comes to her man. LOL!

I love her for whatever she does to make Barak Obama bite his lip when he looks at her. They were on Oprah one time and he was in the stage and she was in the audience. Oprah asked her some question about him that Michelle wasn't expecting. She answered flawlessly and when the camera flashed back to the stage, Obama was grinning so hard at the woman he had to bite his lip to compose himself. I love it!

I love her for being half of an amazing team. It occurs to me as I see countless pictures of the Obamas splashed all over the papers and the Web that it's been awhile since we've seen a strong Black woman who has a man. We've got plenty of strong single women, so many that it's become an unshakable stereotype that strong woman is equated with a lifetime of lonliness as if success and companionship are only made for men. Michelle Obama is like a real-life Claire Huxtable sent from Middle Earth (you had to be at the LTBD late to get that one) to America-at-large to remind a bunch of almost-grown Black girls who grew up on The Cosby Show that Claire wasn't just a figament of some producer's imagination or relic of our mama's generation. We needed Michelle Obama like scraped knees need Band-Aids.

The general election hasn't begun just yet and already shots are being taken at Michelle. (OMG! I fell a little bit in love with Barak watching him defend his wife on Good Morning America. I think all of the women in America did too. Note to the GOP: that backfired bigtime.) Undoubtedly, she'll be under plenty of attacks in the upcoming months. And she'll never read this blog, but I will send out my words of encouragement, strength, and love for her and her husband in the upcoming months anyway.

I salute Michelle Obama for living the impossible dream and being a phenomenal woman. Thanks for the reminder that having it all isn't easy, but it's possible if I want it.

Main Street: Rude.com- Bringing Brooklynites Together

So I’m on the train with Patent and Nel one day headed to a friend’s birthday party in Brooklyn. On the A, we bump into one of Patent’s friends, who I immediately loved. There was something about him—good energy, positive dude, great personality. Just before he walks up to speak to Patent we were all mid-conversation about Italia Blue’s body of work and how all of us need a new actor or actress to follow. It’ll be tough. Italia’s good; she really brings out the best in her co-stars.

We resume the conversation and New Guy interjects that we should take a look at RedTube for new films.

“Red Tube?”

He nods. “It’s like the You Tube of porn. You gotta take a look.”

Carm agrees. “Red Tube. Good shit.”

Red Tube, huh?

I check it out. Eh. It’s underwhelming. Not enough variety and not enough Black people. I mean I know it’s all sex just the same, but I need to see folks of my color getting it on. Unless it’s a white guy built and hung like Mr. Marcus, I’m generally not interested.

A couple days later, I’m in Jamba Juice with Joshua, another male friend, and I complain again about the lack of material in my life. He has just the solution.

“Rude.com. They have everything.” He slurps his Mango-A-Go-Go thoughtfully, before adding,

“If you can’t find something you like there, you’re a pervert.”

I check it out that night. There is something for everyone. I don’t have a new favorite star yet but I’m actively looking. If ever I see New Guy again, which I’m sure I will (I live on Main Street, so does he) I’ll mention it to him.

A month later…

Stoli vodka is determined to ruin the liver of every industry insider in this city. Someone had the brilliantly bright idea to rent out a warehouse, call it the Stoli Hotel and have a different magazine co-sponsor the venue every night, including weekends, for 2-weeks. Stoli has officially hijacked New York City. I hold out on going for the first week as I’m going through a detox phase. Partying every night is losing my interest and I’m convinced my liver will shiver up if I don’t take care of it better. Plus, I’m worried that I’m becoming one of those people that has to be around people in order feel whole.

Coming home every night after work gets boring after around Day 4. The morning of Day 5, I convince myself that I don’t have to drink when I go out and I’m still very okay being alone. I just don’t like sitting in my house. When I don’t go out, I feel like I’m missing something—some opportunity, some new source, some potential news or blog worthy story. No newsworthy story has occurred in my living room.

So I go to the Stoli hotel after work one night. I guess I went on the wrong one because it was wack. And the music wasn’t Black people friendly. That said, I appear to be the only person not having a good time. Maybe it is because I’m sober. Hmmm. I stay for about an hour until I can’t take it anymore. The guys I’m with are somewhere around Drink Eight and have started on a singleminded quest to meet al of the Black women present.

Eh. It’s time to go home.

I’m headed for the exit when I spot New Guy in the crowd. He seems taller than I remember, but still wonderfully cute. I run up on him, startling him accidentally. He seems to quickly recognize me and we exchange a cheerful embrace.

“I knew I’d see you again,” I tell him. “This city is soooo small.”

“It is isn’t it?” He’s beaming like he’s got a big secret I’m not in on.

I assume it’s the alcohol. He’s probably only a couple from his limit too. “Hey, I checked out that site you told me about,” I tell him.

“What site?”

Yup. It’s the liquor. We had a whole long conversation. He would definitely remember. “Red Tube.”

He lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah, I didn’t like it though. But I found this other one, Rude.com. That one’s way better, lots more content. You should try that one.”

“Word? I like real foul shit. Like I want to watch people do stuff a girl’s never gonna let me do.”

I laugh. “Um… they got some real crazy stuff on there, but I’m more of a nice- regular-sex girl. Nothing too far outside the box, but there’s a bunch of stuff. You should really check it out.”

He agrees to do so and after a bit more small talk, he heads to the bar as I head for the Exit.

Three days later..  Seventy degrees on a Saturday after a Friday night with horrid weather means there’s only one place to go. I meet Patent at the outdoor Cuban spot around seven with plans to eat, bounce to the opening of Pieces’ boutique new men’s store, then hit up Omar Hamilton’s bday party, which everyone and their mother is threatening to attend. Thirty minutes after our arrival, we bump into New Guy again. This always happens; I meet someone and then I see them everywhere from then on.

I greet him with a hug and he seems genuinely happy to see me this time. See? It must have been the liquor. We exchange small talk and he informs me that he took a look at Rude.com and liked what he saw.

I leave him on the sidewalk chatting with Patent as I run into the restaurant to get food. When I return, we’re chatting it up with some new folk when New Guy walks up wearing a different outfit. He seems shorter for some reason. The shoes? His face lights up and he gives me a gigantic hug like he hasn’t seen me in forever. Before I can ask where he’s changed to run off to this evening and why he’s re-greeting me (is he drunk again?), a guy who looks exactly like him in the same outfit New Guy had on just thirty minutes ago walks up behind him. He’s taller too.

It takes a beat for me to figure out what’s going on. “Oh my God!!!” I yell. I had no idea New Guy had a twin.

They start laughing. Apparently they get this reaction all the time.

I look at New Guy. No, the guy I thought was New Guy. I point. “I saw you at the Stoli party, didn’t I?”

He laughs. “Yeah, it was me.”

His brother looks puzzled.

I feel like an idiot, but I explain anyway to his sibling that I saw who I thought was him and got into a long involved conversation about porn with a total stranger and recommended this new site that I wanted to tell him about but told his brother instead. “Why didn’t you say something,” I ask New Guy’s Brother. “You must have thought I was complete nutcase.”

He shrugs. “Uh-uh. I just thought you were drunk and friendly. I was like ‘who is this cool ass chick?’”

We all laugh about my cluelessness and the randomness of these encounters. Just when I’m about to walk off to pick up the food from the counter, New Guy stops me. “Uh, D, what was the new site you recommended to my brother again?”

I laugh. “Rude.com.”

His brother taps him on the arm, nodding fiercely in concession. “Oh, man. Good shit.”

Rude.com: Uniting Brooklynites one twin at a time.

Random Weekend Occurrence

I’m sitting at this outdoor restaurant on Saturday, listening to a good friend and potential suitor tell me we have a connection. He’s amazing, a great guy, (cute too!) but not a guy for me. I tell him as much as nicely as possible because I love his friendship, which has spanned many years. He takes it well with a sigh.

Quickly, he’s over it when he spots a beautiful woman with fluffy hair and a well-supported shelf rising from her table. He immediately perks up as she comes our way. I do too.

Him: If it’s not you, it can defintely be her. [Big smile. Just that quick, I'm forgotten. LOL!]

Me: [Laughing] Dude, that’s my cousin!

Him: [Screwface] What?!! XXX is your cousin?!!!

Me: [Nodding] Blood related.

Him: [Bigger sigh] I guess it runs in the family.

Legends To Be Dinner

Earlier...

I don’t have one picture from last night’s event but there were 2 wonderful photographers who captured everything and then some. I was running around the room with my co-hostess, Nicole, and didn't snap one shot.

I’ll write more after I send out my thank yous to all the amazing people who made the event possible... and when I can get past describing everything and everyone as “the greatest ever.” LOL!

But while I’m here…

Special thanks to:

Nicole Senior – my partner in crime & partying, who among a million other logistical things, made the room look fabulous. I’m the dreamer of our pair. I’ll have these big fabulous ideas and Niki reels me from orbit with an “um, D…” to tell me what’s actually possible and plausible, but still gives me enough room to go slightly over the top. Last night’s dinner was supposed to be a simple gathering for around 20 people. We ended up with around 50 women, 30 guys, and 2 photographers, a liquor sponsor and gift bags. Thanks for letting me O.D., Nik.

Arlene Pitterson – the invites said Demi & Niki, but Arlene was the third hostess of the night. Not only did she know everyone in the room, she was in the trenches of planning with me & Nik. It started out with me just asking Arlene questions about lining up sponsors and morphed into her handling everything on that end for an event she wasn’t even sure she would attend. (She lives in the Midwest.) We were on the phone multiple times, daily for a month, planning, and her talking me down off the ledge and back into the room. (I have perfectionist tendencies. The smallest thing can send me out the window.) She managed to make it out. I was so, so happy to have her there. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for everything, babe!

Shannon Washington (honoree)—We’ve been friends for a long, long time. I still have the picture from ’97 when we met and I went with her and some friends to my first rave. She introduced me to Dave Matthews’Crash album (still one of my faves) in her college dorm room (HU!!! Ever notice how you can’t give a shout out to a list of Black people without that school coming up? LOL!) She was one of last night’s honorees, which meant she should have been sitting pretty and just shown up fabulous and accepted her accolades. But no, sitting still just isn’t Shannon. She lined up the night’s liquor sponsor, prettified and tweaked the one-sheet that pulled in the others in, and did the invitations. Thank you for always being in motion and never sitting back to chill (unless it’s in Brazil or one of the many countless, fabulous places you're always running off to.)

Nicole Marzan (honoree)-- Nicole works in PR and just started her own firm with her bestie, Lindi. I called Nicole to ask her to be an honoree at the event, she said yes, and before she even got off the phone to let it all soak in, she started planning her own celebration. “Who’s doing press? Who’s the photographer? What’s in the gift bags? Who’s sponsoring?” She thinks as big as I do. Actually, maybe bigger. She answered her own questions, lining up all that and then some. Thank you, Niki Marz!

Baileys (Please Get Together Responsibly)/ Chantal DeSoto – Baileys was my Dream Sponsor from the gate when Niki and I put together our Wish List for the event. Chantal jumped at the opportunity and came through at every turn with gift, bags, tees, CDs... Stuff we didn't even think to ask for. She wanted the evnt to be as fabulous as we did. The drinks were WONDERFUL!!!!! Thank you, Chantal.

TROJAN condoms-- My theory for the night was we’re inviting all these women to a great night to celebrate their success. Baileys is providing spirits to keep everyone joyful during the event. And what better way for a girl to end her evening than with some good Vitamin D?! In case that was the plan for any of the grown ladies’ in attendance, I wanted to maximize the experience… with Trojan’s vibrating rings and condoms (guaranteed good time.) I announced that Trojan donated condoms to the gift bags and people broke out in applause like I’d just yelled Barack Obama won the general election. I hope many, many people had a safe and pleasurable evening!!!

Lola & Tom (Lola owners)- I love these people just for being who they are. They are gracious and humble and generous. I don’t know how long they’ve been married because I’ve never asked, but they still look at each other like the other half has set the sun in the sky. It’s something to aspire to. Last night and leading up to this event, they accommodated us in a multitude of ways. I won’t give all the background because the behind the scenes should stay just there, but they opened their beautifully amazing restaurant to us and bent in every direction possible to make sure everything ran smoothly and our event was a success. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I think Lola's wil become my new home restaurant. (Everyone should have a restaurant that feels like home away from home, where the bartenders and owners know your name.)

Gardy V. Guerrier— Bless this man for he rearranged travel plans to “work the door.” He ended up doing so much more, directing the photographers to capture our sponsors, producing photos (and an impromptu photoshoot), talking me down off the ledge in the weeks leading up to the event and so much more than I’ll list here. Thanks, G. I got you on the limo (inside joke). I was all prepared to thank him by buying dinner or taking him to brunch this weekend, but when I offered last night, he was like, “um, no. I need to thank you.” (Allowing a single Black man to get in a room full of gorgeous women seems to be priceless!)

Mack Peion & Stephen Knight (photographers)-- I haven’t even seen all the pictures but I know they are dope. These guys were everywhere and all over and in everyone’s face just like good photographers are supposed to be. Thank you, guys!!

Khalilah Raheem—she was supposed to just show up and have a good time. She ended up stuffing gift bags and countless other much-needed things to keep the event running smoothly. Thank you for letting me put you to work.

Brandi Greene- ie, the third leg of The Tripod. I don’t know if she thought she wouldn’t have to work, but um… no. LOL! Thanks, BB!

The Servers – They went above and beyond. They stuffed gift bags, did table settings and ran around all night like chickens with missing heads (how country am I?) and got it all done in a timely fashion. I love these people. If you need a reason to go to Lola’s beyond the food, the drinks, the décor, the convenient location, or anything else, go for the service. Good service can be hard to find in this city. Great service, like what we had last night, is next to impossible. Go make a reservation already!!!

Igor the Bartender- I have no clue what was in the caramel apple martini other than Baileys, but GOOD LORD that was good. GOOD LORD!

The Men—I tried to ban them from the event insisting it was a ladies only night. I didn’t want them distracting the women and trying to holla’ while we were supposed to be honoring our accomplishments and doing our Sisterhood thing. The men basically told me that was nonsense and that they were coming. Period. (Gotta love alpha males.) Realizing that there was no way I could stop men from getting to a room full of fabulous women in heels (shout out to Niki Marz's shoes. You'll see why when I post all the pictures) I extended an invite for them to arrive at 9:30.

These guys… LOL haven’t been to anything on time in their lives, but they showed up at exactly 9:30!!! A bunch of 'em came in suits and ties and hard bottom shoes, no less. (Um, and yes, ya’ll did look good. I ended up making eyes at an unlikely gentleman at the bar and had to remind myself men were not my focus for the evening. More on that another day.)

I think I may officially invite them next year. I know I couldn’t exist properly or sanely in this city without my guys (shout out to GVG, Rich, Moore, Jarrell, [my favorite letter of the alphabet :-)], and the most recent addition, Mack.) They, and many, many guys like them, support the ladies in countless ways and are a large part of the reason for their success (no woman is an island). Knowing all that, I tried to move a few who had snuck into the main room before it was time for them. One looked at me dead in my face and was like, “I’m family. I’m not moving.” And he is. So I gave up and just accepted him being there. (cue the Serenity Prayer now] LOL!

I’m not promising anything, but I’m thinking about letting ya’ll come on time next year.

Thanks to everyone who came out. I hope you had as much fun as I did.

Yes, More Random Quotes

My Daddy gave me a stern talking to about the amount of profanity in the blog when I was home over the weekend, so I guess I'm going to have to talk more like "a lady" since he's reading (Hi, Daddy! XOXO). I hated to tell him that the way I type is actually the way I think and talk. (I promise, I'm a lady, Daddy, I just talk like a sailor somtimes.) So for Daddy, I'll try to clean it up... some. But only the words, not the content. I mean this is a blog primarily about men, sex, and relationships, it can only be but so "clean" and stay realistic.

So with that said, I give you today's blog. More quotes from the crazies I encounter and those I call my friends. (You can't get mad at me for the cursing, Daddy. I'm quoting people!)

BTW: my Legends To Be Dinner is tonight and I have an amazing evening planned for the women. I'll post pictures tomorrow. I've been so focused on preparing for them and the honorees that I don't even have a dress!!!!

"I woke up butt naked on the couch with the taste of Hennessey and street meat in my mouth."-- A woman recapping a story about the previous night's activities.

"Then he turns to me and says, 'I have to be forced to commit so we should make a baby tonight. Are you ovulating?'"-- Same woman, another detail from the same story.

"Be well. Grow in the direction of the light."- My closing remarks in response to a long e-mail from a misguided soul. (A more dignified way of saying 'f*ck you!' See, Daddy, I'm trying.)

"Barak Obama is Joseph Stalin." -- a drunk white guy yelling in Penn Station at 10:O0PM (my train was delayed. I didn't get to DC until 1AM).

"Woo Woo Woo. (Pause) Hey boo. (Pause) How you?" (Pause) Let me tie your shoe!" --An allegedly straight man hollering at a woman across a crowded restaurant bar.

"This is my mentee, XXX"- a barely grown ass man (my boy)introducing me to another barely grown ass man (maybe 3 years younger) who was okay with being introduced as an apprentice (Another one of my boy's tells me this a common DC practice for young men (27-30) to mentor other younger men (22-25) about the ways of life, women, and work. Is this my ego that's making me think this is insane? (Not the mentoring idea, but the introduction as such.)

"Just the seat I was looking for!" -- A woman moving to sit beside me in the aisle seat when the Amtrak car we were in had another 30 or so empty pairs of seats. (I wasn't sure if she was hitting on me or had no social decorum so I moved to another seat.)

"We won't bother ya'll. We'll just wait... Like lions watching water buffalo in the Serengetti." -- a male friend plotting on how he will invade, but not disturb The Legends To Be Dinner. (My male friends have been threatening to crash it since the Save the Date went out a month ago.)

"I ration the cock." -- an unnamed man trying to explain that he doesn't just have sex with every woman who shows interest in him.

"It's like being in the Serengetti. A man will always go for the weak one to f*ck."-- the same male friend explaining what woman a man is looking for at the club.

"Smile with your eyes, b*tches!"-- a beautifully gay man taking a picture of two straight men. After the shot, he explained that in this day of MySpace, Facebook, etc. that no one can afford to take less than model perfect pictures and he was only tying to help people who clearly needed it.

"Don't reach to be regular, D."-- my neighbor explaining why I should just ignore "bum b*tches" that tough type.

"My dick called me a dick"-- a man lamenting his morals invading upon his desire to get some and foiling the deal.

Henny. Mixed.

Thursday

A few months back, my favorite hip-hop magazine got a new editor in chief. His name and one other were the only two thrown around as potentials and he being the more likable of the two, got the job. (The other dude spent the wee hours of the new year yelling at me that I was not really Black because I am not dark enough, but I digress.) So Hennessey, in a celebration/marketing move, decides to honor the new ENC’s ascent to the top of the masthead with a lovely party at the penthouse of the very sexy Rivington Hotel. Of course, I went.

Now you know what happens when I drink Henny. Straight. (see previous blog if you don’t.) But this time the Henny was mixed.

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I *Heart* DC

I’m in a loving mood. Can you tell? The last three of four blogs have been about me *heart*ing something. I could write a million blogs based on my experiences and observations this weekend. On that list would be:1) A man (finally) committing what appears to be a Grand Gesture. Remember how I was wondering why I’m not inspiring any random acts of interest? Only to realize that a gesture is only that and if it’s not followed up by anything more, then it’s theoretically a nice thing to blog about but it’s another all-description writing excercise with no plot and no point, so why write about it? *Sigh* I'm flattered. Beyond flattered really. But I gotta be more careful with what I ask for.2) Realizing I’m officially an “Industry Chick.” The idea of partying on a weekend baffles me. The idea of paying to get into a party (I refuse) and then paying for drinks and me getting dolled up in a good dress to walk around a packed room where drinks will be spilled on said dress and its accompanying shoes and my feet will kill me by the end of the night and it’s too dark and too crowded in a room for anyone to really check for the details of my outfit, leaves me overwhelmingly confused. (I realize how arrogant that last sentence sounds. Forgive me, I think I was Kanye-ified at the concert. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow)

3) Discovering that I still love Mr. Ex. Driving home from the club Saturday night (It was a great party, but I was so miserable I left early), it occured to me that whether he loves me or not, he can’t be what I need him to. It’s just not in him to be... at least not for me. And that’s okay. I think there was a part of me that thought when we started speaking again after such a long time that maybe things might be much different this time around. They won’t be. I’m still me and he’s still him. And as much as I might want it to, it just won't work. I'm not even sad about it.(I’ll actually blog this one when I have more clarity of the situation.)

One of the highlights of my weekend (beyond Kanye-- shout out to D @ Absolut 100):

4) Understanding why it pays to be patient.

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I *Heart* Kanye West

Through a series of ways and means, I scored a last minute invite to Kanye's Glow In The Dark Tour last night. I drove an hour into East Bumf*ck, VA to the Nissan Pavillion at the last minute and arrived 10 minutes before Kanye took the stage (missed Pharrell, Rihanna, Chris Brown, and Ne-Yo. I only regret the latter.IT'S F*CKING BRILLIANT!!! Despite the name, there's no actual glowing in the dark, but the set design is pure genius (see captures from my BB below). The whole concept of the concert (when was the last time you heard that phrase?) is Yeezie's stuck on a strange planet with a broken spaceship and desperately trying to get home so he can bring creativity back to the earthlings. Each song/setting has a backdrop that evokes the otherwordly-ness of his this-isn't-Chicago-anymore surroundings. It's very Kanye in an another galaxy's Wonderland, which sounds horrible in theory, but is amazingly executed.Kanye's on stage solo for 2 hours giving pure rock star glory and energy. The band, the deejay, the back-up singers, all that are back stage (or under the stage). It's all Kanye, all the time (and Lupe on "Touch The Sky.") He kills it. Stabs it up Psycho-style and leaves it for dead.

If you can still get tickets for the show, GO!!!!!**

When Vs Attack

So I figure the best way to get over my dating slump is to go on a date. At one of the parties I attended on Saturday, I met a man. Good convo, cute in the face, very grown man swag. We exchanged small talk and I liked what he had to say. At some point in the evening we parted ways without exchanging contact info. and he came to find me on the dancefloor to tell me, “I want your number before you leave.” It doesn’t sound so impressive on screen, but he said it with some authority and some bass. Interesting. And yes, I made sure he got my number.

So he texts. I don’t get around to texting him back because… well, I was in a mood about dating. So he calls, leaves a message telling me how great it was to meet and we should hang out sometime. Two days later, I bother myself to return his call. I remind myself that just because I have a bad outlook at the moment, this is no reason to pass up attractive, interested men with good conversation. . So I call on the way to meet up with my girls at this Mexican spot in Tribeca. No answer. Voicemail. I never leave messages, but this time I do. I take Asha's advice about change starting with me.

“Hey you, this is [Belle] returning your call. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I’m dumb busy. Hope we can link up soon.” End Call.

An hour later, he calls back. I answer in the middle of dinner with the girls, which I never do. This is sacred time. And today’s story is very juicy too (“So then he said, ‘I have to be forced to commit so we should make a baby tonight. Are you ovulating?”) But I pick up to hurriedly tell him that I am busy and out with friends. My thumb is all ready to push the Red button to end the call when he says, “sure, okay, yeah, but let me ask you this before you go: you want to have a drink with me later tonight?” He’s doing that authority with bass thing again. Just commandeering his way around the Earth.

“I think I can find time for that,” I say. I hear my Southern accent creeping up. My girls look at me and roll their eyes. They know what that voice means.

“Text me. Let me know what time to meet you,” he says. He’s doing the a little take, a little give dance, I see.

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

I’m late. I told him I’d meet him at 10:30ish and its damn near 11 by the time I get off the train. I text him to tell him I am running in heels to meet him and apologize profusely for being late. When I get to the restaurant, I don’t even recognize him. I’m talking to the bartender asking what time they close and wondering where ol’ boy is when my eyes land on all kinds of fine in a suit.

Damn! I almost say it outloud.

“Hey you,” I say. I smile so big my eyes damn near squeeze shut.

He gives me a “hey” back and quick hug, then he gives me a pocket square to wipe my brow. (I was really running in heels.) Turns out, he is in need of food, and Madiba’s kitchen shut down at 11 (told you I convince everyone to meet me there.) We walk around Brooklyn in search of food, which I don’t mind as it’s an amazing night. After ten blocks, we end up a corner up from where we started. By this time I’ve discovered that he’s in finance (of course), he’s got an MBA (of course), and he eventually wants to get into politics (surprise, surprise.) Oh, and he’s six feet (of course.) He’s the exact on-paper run down (always finance or law. Artists do not love me) of damn near every guy in the past 7 years who’s met me and taking an immediate liking. I’m guessing by swag factor that he’s around 32 and if he was all diesel and muscular, he’d be damn-near” my type” to a T. How predictable. I’m bored already.

We sit outside Chez Oscar and catch the Brooklyn breeze—something I’ve never done before. I make a point to talk about nothing I talk about usually. Conversation doesn’t flow with great ease; it’s a little bit of work, but that’s okay. We talk about Maryland winning the championship and my brainiac cousin who’s in college in Michigan and how much I miss undergrad. As we’re talking about college ish, he says something that catches my attention. Busta’s “Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See” came out my freshman year... He remembers it from junior high.

“Huh? You had to be at least a junior in college,” I tell him. “No way you were in high school.”

He sort of cocks his head. “Uh-uh. I was in eighth grade.”

“When you’d come out of college?” I blurt, my mind turning trying to compute dates.

“2005.”

I just stare at him. “What?” I finally say. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

I make him give me his license. No way he is 26. Impossible. He has all that authority and bass. I stare at the numbers. 1982? He is not only 26, he just turned 26.

“You’re older than me, I’m guessing?” he asks. I look up. His expression is so smug. His swag is out of this world. He’s just so damn confident and self assured. Twenty–six and getting mistaken for grown-ass man swag? How is this possible?

“I nod. I’m---“

“I don’t want to know.” He shrugs. “If it doesn’t bother you, I don’t care.”

We move to other subjects, but while he’s talking, I’m paying attention for some sign of immaturity. Like something that denotes 26 that I somehow missed. Some goofiness. Some awkward gesture. Some stupid comment. I mean he’s a 26-year-old male and everyone agrees that men mature much slower than women. So that would make him like the emotional maturity of what? Like a 23 year old woman? Good Lord. But as I keep looking for something, I realize there’s nothing. He’s totally normal and likable and nice. And then I realize that I am upset about someone being all good things and nothing being wrong with them and for not boring me by being the same thing that everyone before them has been. And why am I looking for something to be wrong with him instead of thinking about what’s right. What is wrong with me? When did this pessimism take hold?

And so just like that, I stop. I zone back in and he’s saying something about the gym and being tatted on both arms so he has to stay cut up. It’s like some sample sale light starts blinking above my head and I realize he’s taken his jacket off. He’s down to his dress shirt, which any halfway competent luster for the male species knows is the most form flattering attire for a well-built man. You can see the “V” without seeing it really. It’s like female equivalent of a man seeing a woman in a long skirt with high splits. Just enough to get the imagination going when turned the right way. But he’s sitting and I can’t check for a “V.” I can, however, see broad, square shoulders.

How in the hell did I miss those? Was I so busy trying to think of what’s wrong with him that I missed them?

After he pays the check, he gets up to leave and there it is.. the “V. “ He’s very broad at the top, and very narrow in the waist. And he’s got a cute ass. (Cue Bilal’s “Something to Hold On To… “youuuuu make me feel stingy and what not…”)

I assume he’s walking me to the train when he mentions that he drove over and offers me a ride. I tell him I’ll accept if he promises not to Ted Bundy me.

“You‘re probably too young to get that reference,” I quip.

“I’ll do a Dahmer and put you in the freezer instead. That better?” he shoots back.

We’re talking about serial killers and somehow I think, “Cute, witty f*cker.”

I swat his arm and connect with… well, you know what it was: a wall of man. He instinctively flexes. All guys do that when girls swat them. And why am I swatting him? I’m behaving like a teenager. I laugh at myself…..

What happened to all than ‘damn dating! I’m so bored I could die?” …

I’m stopping now. I could go on for another 1000 words about the minutia of my night. But you’d read all that only to discover nothing of great significance happened on the ride home. He drove me there, I said good night, thanked him for a nice time, and got out his ride. It was a completely anti-climactic end to a non-eventful evening over non-exciting subject matter that managed to be profound because it was just different. There was no immediate connection, no zsa-zsa zoo, no butterflies. He’s 26 with grown man swag. And if he asks me out again, I’m saying yes just because he’s just not the same as everyone before him and he doesn’t bore me. And well, I ain’t mad at that “V” or that arm either.  The End

Sch-wing!

Isn’t that from Wayne’s World? “Sch-wing, batter, batter. Sch-wing!” Hmm. Actually it’s from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Anyway, today’s blog has nothing to do with random comedies that inspired my sense of humor and influence how I spend my leisure days (btw-Day 2 of my vacation was great. I streaked my hair blond and listened to Stevie all daggone day, even on the treadmill.) We’re here today to discuss swinging. A frequent reader and friend hit me from his beachside vacation to ask me to broach the subject. I’m not sure if he’s swinging or not, but frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. Ha!

A few fun facts:

*20% of married American couples swing

*Most swingers are in their late 20s to late 30s

So a couple week’s back I talked to a woman who runs a swing set in the Windy City. This is her story (in summary.)

She, 30ish now, was married to man who thought she was a wifey-type, a typical Madonna, who enjoyed nice, regular sex in the three standard positions. That wasn’t quite the case. But she’d married young and she didn’t know how to tell her husband that she was more into kink than cuddle. She had missionary, sighing, I-love-you-so-much sex until she couldn’t take it anymore and then they got divorced (this is the short version of the story that she gave . I imagine there are many reasons she didn’t go into.)

Post-divorce, she took a trip to Jamaica with her girlfriends to the notorious Hedonism resort. She was interested in the nude side, but decided to book a room on the side with clothes. She wasn’t ready for ‘alla dat.’ After a couple days and a couple drinks, she and the girls ventured over to the ”other side.” Everyone was fucking—just out in the open. Oral by the pool. Sixty-nine in the sand. Doggystyle in the ocean. They weren’t worried about what they looked like, they were only concerned about how much pleasure they could give and receive. And they didn’t care who was watching. She looked around and decided these folk were her type of people.

That was her turning point. When she got back to the states, she decided to let her freak flag fly. She got a side hustle as a phone sex operator and then she started selling lube and dildos and edible undies to all her girlfriends at passion parties. And then she, a single woman, decided to get into sch-winging.

She heard about a party in the ‘burbs of Chi-Town and headed there. It was wack. A whole bunch of white people and the music was bad. You see the thing about these swing parties isn’t just the sex. I mean the sex is what makes it different from the club, but it’s an actual party too. You pay your money ($10 or free admission for single ladies, $60 for couples and single gentlemen) and most of them are BYOB and there’s a deejay, and a buffet. And so you may meet a strange couple or a pair of old friends, and you might talk, and if you’re feeling one of them and he (or she) is feeling you, then you go in a separate room and do what ya’ll both came to do. (This is the version of events for a single woman who attends swing parties, which are populated by committed couples looking for new adventures with other folk.) Well, the atmosphere was wrong and there was no one she wanted to do and so she left.

She kept searching for a set that was more her speed and in time, she found what she was looking for-- upwardly mobile, Black bourgeoisie types with double-degrees and “good jobs” who knew how to two-step and liked to fuck outside-the-box just as much as she did. She was the single chick with whom a bunch of couples sch-wung until she happened upon an unattached man, a legend of the Chi swinger's set named Long Legeged Lou. (He wasn't called that just because he was tall.)

The first time she met L- Cubed, he asked if she wanted to party, code for "wanna fuck?" She did, but she turned him down. He was fine (choclate, bald, and built), but she didn't know what to make of him. She did know she wanted more than just d-i-c-k from L-o-u.

When she ran into him again at another party; she took him up on his offer. The sex was great, but she couldn't figure out why he was kissing her in the mouth while they were doing it. That's reserved for like real couples. And they weren't a couple, or even friends; they were just two strangers fucking. So why the intimacy?

(A quick word: at each swinging venue there are rooms for people who want to have sex. They're all in there together. There's also a ladies' only room for the women who want to get down with each other without men watching.)

L-Cubed asked her out when they were done and a week later they went on a date. They hit it off well and soon they were a couple who sch-wang approximately 5x a week. They liked to fuck. A lot. But there were rules to this shit. She couldn’t have sex with anyone else unless L-Cubed was watching. And L-Ccubed couldn’t put his mouth on nobody's kitty but hers.

Give or take a year later, and they're engaged now and thinking about cutting back to sch-wanging twice a month after the wedding. She thinks this will be a challenge, especially since last May they went into business together running their own couples-swing set on the third Saturday of every month. (They also do singles'‘ nights. But that’s not really swinging. That’s just going to the club to have sex, which is another story.)

I couldn't get a number out of her, but she said managing a swing set was very lucrative. So much so that her whole lifestyle got a major upgrade and she had to explain to her parents what she did lest they think she was into illegal activity. Oddly enough, they weren't as shocked as she thought they'd be. (For people with secrets, most folks whose opinions you care about already have an inkling of who you are and what you do when you think no one's watching. I've had three people come out to me. My response was something like "pass the salt." I'd known for at least 5+ years with each one. I was waiting on them to come to terms with it.)

She can't think of anything bad about swinging. Really, it's the best of both worlds-- the security and comfort of a relationship and the variety of different partners with her partner's approval. It’s like being single, but not being alone. However, there was this one time at her party where two couples swapped, the condom broke, and the woman got pregnant. The four of them had to decide whether or not to keep the baby. But stuff like that is rare. (When I talked to her, she didn't know if a decision had been reached on whether to keep the child.) There was another incident when a swinging couple divorced and the guy brought his new chick to the spot and his ex-wife was there, but that could happen at the Cheesecake on Michigan Avenue or anywhere so you can't blame swinging for that. And there have been no STD or HIV scares that she knew of. Everyone uses condoms. They’re mandatory and in plentiful supply everywhere at every place she’s ever been to and especially the place she operates.

Sometimes she and Lou-Cubed get jealous of eachother. For instance, he might sex a white chick with long flowing locks and she’ll notice how he played in her hair so much. She’ll tease him about her getting a long, silky weave since he liked all that pretty hair so much. And sometimes he takes note of how she moans for another man and wonders outloud why she doesn’t do that for him. But that’s the only drawback—and it’s minor in comparison to the joy they receive sch-wanging. It's just sex when they fuck others. Wht's the big deal? It has no meaning and no emotion. It's just a physical act that people assign to much meaning to. When she and Lou-Cubed have sex, they're making love. There’s a difference, you know?

She knows it's not for everyone and she doesn't expect everyone to understand and she's not trying to convince anybody to do what she does. But she does want folks to know that she is grown and very happy with her life, her lifestyle and her man.

The End

Discuss.

**For all the people who hit me with ideas at abelleinbrooklyn@gmail.com, I got em and if I haven't covered the topic previously on this site, I'm on it. Some take more research than others.

9 to 5

I left the house at 9PM looking for simple fun. I figured I’d got to Habana Outpost (Earth Day celebration). Have one drink, chill with friends (when I heard the line-up of people before I left, I should have known it wouldn’t be a simple night) and return to my couch by 11PM at the latest. (Yes, I am sleeping on the couch again. Long story.)

I stumbled into my house at 5AM

4 BK spots.

A million great people. (everybody was happy last night. Everybody!)

4 old friends.

6 new friends.

1 dance on a fire escape. (Relatively sober, I decided this was a good idea)

1 Yankee girl attempting to dance (and convincing a Nigerian I was worth 5 cows)

1 new line (“so um, don’t wait the standard 3 days to call me. I have no short term memory and I don’t want to forget you.”)

Priceless (and with pictures!)

Happy Sunday!

"She was safe. I had airbags."

I think I’m going through a bit of a self-absorbed moment. Or maybe I’m lonely? I dunno. I read a great blog post recently about an amazing woman that my friend had encountered. It was a long story of like, love, and loss-- how they met, what he felt, what wasn’t in return. I know the woman who inspired the post and yes, she’s as wondrous as he said in 2000 words. She’s a pretty woman, but who isn’t in this city? Her “selling point” is she’s got an inner glow like she’s beaming gold happiness (my theory on what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction) every time she opens her mouth. That’s a rare find past the age of 10, especially in NYC.

His post is just another in a long list of male declarations and acts of feeling that I’ve witnessed lately. And I wonder what these women are doing to bring out the inner-romantic and gentlemen in my male friends? And like how the f*ck do I inspire it? Can I? Is this like one of those rare traits like dimples that are only given to a privileged few?

Having all this insight into the male mind is a gift and curse. Like I know what men do when they’re interested, so I can’t entertain anyone who comes through half-assed. My tolerance for anyone less than fully smitten is nil.

Next topic.

I’ve cancelled two dates in the past week because… well, frankly I just didn’t feel like going. I’m tired of meeting new people. Like we’ll sit at some restaurant I’ve likely been to before and we’ll talk about all the same things I’ve talked to a hundred other people about. At best, maybe they’ll get “me” and I’ll get “him” and we’ll have a second date that’s just like a hundred second dates that I’ve been on before.

I had this idea for a short film once. It started with a suitor sitting on the left side of my couch. (They all sit on the left.) It’s his first visit to my home so I’m unfailingly polite. I ask if he wants something to drink; he asks “what do you have?” I run off a list of juices (I don’t drink soda). He picks one. I go to the kitchen, select his choice from the fridge (Everyone always asks for orange juice!) I return with his drink, hand it to him in a bar glass. Cut to the next scene. A new suitor, the exact same scenario and the guy looks exactly the same as the last one. I’m wearing the same outfit. After I ask what he wants to drink and answer his query with a list of options and he picks orange juice, the film fades to black. The End.

I will marry the first man who sits on the right and asks for apple or cranberry or grapefruit.

Next topic.

My favorite episode of Sex and the City is Splat! It’s the one where the chick says “I’m so bored I could die” and then accidently falls out of the window. The whole episode is about explaining the appeal of The Russian for Carrie. He’s not The One (what the hell is The One? A penis-possessing Messiah sent to relieve single women of their boredom?) but he’s an option in a world where choices seem to have ceased existence. Carrie could stay on her single path and risk becoming The Vogue Editrix—50 and desperate. Or maybe she could be the pathetic, partied too-hard, too long chick that falls out the window. With options like that, who wouldn’t choose a possibility with Mr. Just Okay?

Are these the choices women are left with if they don’t settle down early or worse, just settle?

Next topic.

I’m not one who make believes I know that leaves are green They only turn to brown when autumn comes around I know just what I say Today’s not yesterday And all things have an ending But what I’d like to know Is could a place like this exist so beautiful Or do we have to find our wings and fly away To the vision in our mind?

-Stevie Wonder “Visions”

Next topic.

I think I’m becoming a pessimist.

Wonder-full/ "Another Star"

So the date for this year's Wonder-ful party in New York is June 14.* I realize I am informing the masses of this amazing event SIX weeks in advance, but this is ths greatetst party I have ever been too! I mean EVER!!!! (and people ususally look for it to take place in early May.)

I went to the second one at 95 Leonard years ago. Took the train up from D.C. to attend and went with Ace, who was also in town. I was covering it for MIXER magazine (RIP) and it changed up my whole style of dancing. I went from a club/house, hit-the-floor and back-it-up chick to a bonafied two-stepper overnight. I danced in an un-conditioned room till about 3am (HOT!!!), was exhausted by 4 but just couldn't leave. The music was too good and I felt like I would miss something if I left even a moment before the end. By the end, Ace and I were leaning on each other on some stage on an upper floor trying to stay awake and sleepily singing along. (Damn, me and that chick have had some good times!)

Last year, I went with Penelope. I can't give all the details of that night (totally out of character) but it was the greatest. After that, I decided I'd give up being a straight-laced, goodie two platform shoes once a year and get a little reckless. I danced till 3 or so, long past the ache in my legs and woke up sore the next morning from getting my two-step on. It was in a Williamsburg warehouse, at least 2,000 people and I ran into every person I'd ever met in NYC with an ounce of musical taste. Great, great party. If you've never been, go! If you live out of state, it's worth the trip (I think Keistar Productions does them in San Francisco and L.A. too.)

The plan for this year is to round up a mass of 20 people and party our asses off in wife- B's, flip-flops and jeans. We usually wouldn't be caught dead in public in something so understated, but the ocassion calls for it. Wonder-full is no time to be cute. It's about energy and sweat!!!!

I was searching for the date of the event-- usually held around Wonder's birthday, May 13-- when I stumbled across a blog attempting to select his best song. As a testament to the greatness of Wonder's music, the writer noted that no one can name just one. (And, if you can, it changes depending on your mood.)

Today my favorite song is "Nigculela- Es Un Historia." At Tai's party on Wednesday, I broke out my iPod to play "Isn't She Lovely" in honor of the birthday girl. One song drifted to the next and the former came on. I was in a great mood already, but that song (along with "Another Star" - don't lose the irony in that) lifted it, leading me to two-step around the back of the room in circles by myself. This morning, I was craving it again and as I embarked on the day's first adventure-- a walk down Eastern Parkway-- I played it on my iPod. People must have thought me quite a fool, walking down the middle of the sidewalk, singing loud and off-key at 10 o'clock in the morning, but I honestly didn't care. I don't even know what he's staying in the first part of the song (I can read Spanish, speak it, but barely understand what is said or sung to me. I've always assumed Stevie repeats the English version in the second half). I can't remember the last time I was that happy.

In the first draft of this blog, I tried to list my favorite Stevie songs. There were more than 20, most made before I was born, or at best before I turned 10, ie. they are certified classics. The list is too long so I won't bombard you with it.

What are your fav Stevie songs? Or lyrics? (I assume everyone is a Stevie fan. How could you not be?) and WHY?