I have a Black girlfriend now. I burnt my right hand on the stove yesterday.
Speaking of Black women, I tend to be a magnet for them. On several occasions, I have been stopped by Black women who have made some kind of comment on how cute I am, or how they love my hair. One of the more common questions I have been asked is "Are you mixed?" all while the bedroom eyes began to glaze over their expression; an invitation to partake in acts of lust. In any other circumstance, I would probably bite. There is one glaring problem: These ebony ladies tend to not only not be my cup of tea, but they are also so far from what I would ever crawl into bed with, it's become a joke with no punchline.
Do I get the Beyonce's, Lupita Nyong'o's, or a Black Penthouse Pet? A resounding NO to any of those is the answer. Instead, I am stuck with the outhouse pets, the dusty Detroit dames, and the Rasputia's of the world. I understand that these women need love too, but goodness gracious! Why does mother nature need to throw them my way all of the time! Can I please, for the love of all that is good and pure, have a sexy African queen thrown my way? Once, just once.
There is a method to this madness. So to illustrate, I will use an anecdote. A few years ago one of my good friends, who happens to be a DJ and who also happens to be pigmentally gifted; invited me to visit him during one of his gigs. He had a job one night at a seedy bar or, as stated in the common parlance of the streets, a 'ratchet' establishment. (I sip on my metaphorical tea as I am telling this story.)
This is not his usual venue, he tends to prefer playing at raves since house and hardstyle techno music is more his forte. However, bills must be paid, so he agrees to this gig. He calls me up one night and says he has not seen me in a while and asked me to visit him at his job that night. He warns me though, that this place is, in his words, "Ghetto as hell." Not one to feel intimidated by such terms (since I grew up around that environment) I decide to go along with his request.
When I arrive, it is as bad as he described over the phone. Within there was a barrage of fighting, cussing, and all around tomfoolery that has become stereotypes of the Black community. Here I am with my skinny jeans above my waist, a tasteful pale pink button-up, and shoes that were not named after a basketball player or designed by a rapper. At first I thought I would be met with some derision, but all in all the patrons were quite friendly to me. I guess my demeanor is the least dangerous thing to them.
I come to my DJ friend's booth, and he greets me heartily with open arms. He gives me a big bear hug or as big of a hug as a 6'2" lanky man can provide. He asks me how I am doing, and offers me a drink. Not one to turn down alcohol, I take him up on his offer. A few minutes later, we shoot the shit inside his booth; in his hand, he's drinking a screwdriver and in mine, a gin and juice. A simple classic.
Having to go to the bathroom, with a half-way full drink still in hand, I leave the DJ booth. Within seconds, the entryway is blocked by a rather gargantuan gal.
"Excuse me, miss," I say, as polite as I possibly can. Dear reader, the woman that I was about to come into contact with might as well have starred in a horror movie.
She was wearing more makeup than Pennywise, with fake braids attached to her scalp like The Predator. She had enough rolls on her neck to open an Anderson's Bakery. She was looking like a hood version of Butterball from Hellraiser. In fact, she looked like she was summoned by some kind of ghetto sorcerer, right from the very pages of his own magic book, The Negronomicon; Pried out from the depths of another dimension that is found beneath East Oakland. In my mind, I was hoping she would make way for my departure. But she had other plans for me.
"Excuse me, miss," I ask, trying to keep my composure while maintaining as little eye contact as possible.
"I need to get through."
She turns around, her eyes light up.
"Oooooh, look at you! You so pretty and light-skinned!"
I'm taken aback, but then I am reminded of my track record in who hits on me.
"T-thanks." I respond, still trying to search for some kind of exit. She then draws closer.
"Wanna dance?" She asks, coyly fiddling with her braids as she sizes me up.
"N-no, no thank you. I really need to-"
Before I could even muster up the rest of my sentence, she grabs me and twirls me around. My drink is now splashing around, but thankfully it is now mostly ice water. She has me pinned against a wall, no escape! With her massive hips, wrapped up in ill-fitting yoga-pants she starts twerking on me. Keep in mind, one of her ass-cheeks alone was the size of my waist. She had both wrapped around my waist, like a restraint making it impossible for me to evade the situation.
My hands are up in a defensive position, "Goddamn!" I yell out in abject shock. She was moving her hips, trying desperately to advertise her goods, hoping to find a penile vehicle to enter her love garage. Sadly, for her, what she was selling I was not buying. I am not exaggerating when I say that her sheer size alone was enough to have me not only pushed against the wall but sufficient enough to actually have me be lifted an inch off of the ground.
I was being crucified by the booty, a fly caught in the web of her aggressive love! And all I could think was "There is no level of inebriation that would make this woman appealing!"
My DJ friend caught wind of the situation and could not contain himself. He immediately was caught up in a gale of laughter, dropping to his knees, holding his abdomen that hotly convulsed with hilarity. I reached my hand out to him, silently asking for assistance with this onslaught. But instead of "no man left behind" it was now "every man for himself." I was thrown to the wolves.
What seemed like an eternity, was done within a minute or so. She finally wore herself out. The vigorous "exercise" caught up with her. Heaving and breathing, trying to fix me up, she handed me a napkin with her name and number on it. "There's more where that came from, baby!" She says, her voice filled with confidence that the taste she gave would make me come back for more. As she walked off, I made my way to the bathroom and took the much-needed leak. Tossing the napkin in the toilet, I said out loud, with resounding resolution, "Absolutely not!"