Pickup Lines

The best fuck lines come at the weirdest moments.

At a basketball game last week I noticed this fine, dark skinned brother chewing, no chomping, on a piece of gum.  I pinched Lisa and nodded in his direction.  She challenged me to approach him.  “Whatcha gonna say?”

“How about I sit on your face so you don’t have to chew that gum all night.”

Then today, while getting on the elevator this guy asked me was I going down.  Instead of saying yes, the 1^st floor, please.  I told him, “No, but you can.”

Then at the club on Friday, my homegirl dared me to flirt with this guy from our school, so I grabbed his ass to get his attention.  It worked.  He was in utter shock considering in class I never speak to him.

Then I pulled him towards me and grabbed his dick while kissing his neck.

My friend laughed and dude was like, “That was some gangsta shit.”  I told him gangsta would be fucking his ass in the corner of the club.

I can never refuse a dare.

I Like 'Em All, Well Most...

Someone emailed me and asked what type of dick, I mean men I prefer.  They also requested I post a picture of on my profile.

The content of this delightful blog prevents me from using my real name, let alone a picture of lovely face.  Maybe my reader needs a visual to use while beating his meat tonight, who knows.  (Just fucking with ya, lol!)

So what kind of men do I prefer?  For starters, I prefer Afro-American men.  As far as looks, I like tall men.  I’m 5’7 so anything above that will suffice.

I’m a thick girl so skinny guys don’t really do it for me, but it just depends on what they’re working with.  And not down there, just overall.  If you can put me on a wall and fuck me, I'm down.

I love men with ‘locs.  Notice I didn’t say dreds because to me they are two different things.

Umm, what else?  Nice dress, unique style, no white tees, no balling shorts unless lounging at home or preparing for a game, no sport slides with white socks, no doo-rags or wave caps outside the bedroom. 

No golds!  

No pinky rings. No long pinky nails  No long nails period.

Nice full lips.  Not full black lips that indicate you smoke trees entirely too much.  Nice smile.  Nice brows.

Smooth, dark skin complexion.

Aside from a nice sized dick (that knows how to fuck) there’s not much else I prefer physically.  I have my preferences, but at the end of the day a man with charisma, charm, and self-confidence will win me over.

Oh yea, clean shoes is a must!  

And no Coogi!  I fucking hate Coogi!

Road Rage

I was just on the highway and this Spanish broad was coasting in front of me.  The bitch was driving entirely too slow for the fast lane, and to make matters worse she had a “Baby On Board” sticker in the back of her window.

I fucking loathe those shits.

Like, what the fuck does that shit even mean?

You have a child in your car; therefore, your life is worth more than other drivers? Attetntion drivers, please abstain from rear ending me, my child is safely asleep in the back seat?

Well, bitch I have a viable uterus on board, does that mean anything?

So to show my first sign of emotion today, I began to berate her elitist sticker with my horn.  Then I drove up beside her and flicked her non-highway-its rush hour bitch-I’m trying to get home-driving ass off.

Her response made me want to throw up, swallow and spit it on her windshield.  The bitch pointed to her grandson sitting in the front seat who was bobbing his head to a Reggaeton beat.  He was chewing on a loaf of French-bread (don't ask me why) and was not even wearing a seat belt.

Safety my ass!  That shit should say: Irresponsible Grandmother on Board!

I screamed at her to get a fucking life and take that sticker down.  Of course she couldn’t understand my suggestions and just extended her five teeth in a smile.

Oh, and don’t get me started on those “Expecting Mothers Only” parking spaces at the mall.

WHAT THE FUCK!!

What legislative body is enforcing this crap?  And how pregnant is pregnant to be deemed eligible?  What if I just let dude hit it raw, skeet inside of me, and am at my most fertile point in the month.

Can I park there too, sir?

Isn't It Ironic, Don't Ya Think?

Last week I told Faye about awesome II; how I sat on his face.  She looked at me in utter disgust.

Turns out Faye has lost her libido.  She’s taking natural supplements to ward off menstral cramps.  While doing further research she found out that monks take this same pill to lower their sex drive.  So now chick has no desire to get fucked (so much for an ex-team mate!).

This is the same girl who warns me about the harms associated with BC and how I need to do my research.

LMAO!

Was It Really Love?

My ex is in a relationship according to the Facebook.

Faye laughed and assured me it’s a joke.  I don’t know what to think, but seeing his updated status forced me to deal with the fact that he may have moved on. 

I guess my reaction was too nonchalant, because Faye proceeded to tell me that I have no soul, show no emotion, and when I do it’s usually in a fit of rage directed at a driver who forgot to turn on their indicators.

I have a soul and emotions, I just choose not to display them for the entire world to see.  Instead I write and display them via internet.  Go figure.

She constantly asks me do I miss my ex. 

I don’t. 

Being without him feels the same as being with him.  I feel nothing.  There is probably a huge problem that I don’t miss him.  Even more of a problem that I withheld sex for 6 months and within a month of the breakup fucked another dude.  Not to mention, I’m emotionally attached to Deondre and have been for more than a year.

But the thing is, I don’t even feel bad.  Maybe that’s why Faye believes I have no soul, but what should I feel?

She text’d him a few days ago and he didn’t respond.  She was pissed and asked, “How can he ignore me?"

I don’t get it myself.  How can he erase us from his life as though we don’t live in the same apartment complex?  He still talks to my mom but has cut me out of his life completely.  On the other hand, I don’t expect nor want him to call.

The problem I have with breakups is how weird things become.  After the arguments, after the final conversation, after the boxes filled with belongings are dropped at your door, where do the memories and promises go?

Where does the love go?  It makes me wonder was there really ever love.  Did I create the fallacy of love as I did my multiple orgasms?  And if I didn’t love him, did he know? 

Shit, did he even love me? 

To think about it, all my exs have disappeared after the breakup, and our love (well actually their love) is nowhere to be found.  I guess the love couples have for each other doesn’t disappear it just transforms.  Its found in the damage to your car when she keys “Fuck Ass Nigga” in your front door and covers it with white out.  Its found in the 30 messages a day he leaves on your voicemail begging for forgiveness.

My love, our “love” is buried under a mound of personal denials.  It’s trapped between new Facebook statuses and purposely-unanswered texts.  

But if love can morph that easily into a restraining order or black eye, why the hell are people vying so hard to feel the emotion? 

If love cannot remain constant, if its shape is forever changing, if it can be transferred from one person to another within a few months after a breakup, is it really love?