Quick explanation for me being ghost...
The last semester of law school was not as breezy as planned.
Then the family drama reared its ugly head, and I just nearly lost my mind. Not really, but a sista was stressed.
I went back and forth with what state bar to apply for and finally reached a decision less than 30 days from the deadline.
I'm not a last minute person, but I just didn't know what to do.
So I made up my mind, decided to do me and moved to New York.
Obviously, I wasn't posting during the summer because bar prep was kicking my ass.
But I'm back and will attempt to treat this blog and my wonderful subbies better than my last relationship. LMAO.
Sorry, that shit was funny to me.
Love you!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Deleting a Sexual Experience
My girlfriend just told me that her last sexual dud, and yes, people it was more like a dud and not an experience because dude was WACK, does not count.
I told her, umm…yes it does.
She politely BBM’d me with a talk to the hand smiley and said no it does not.
Ok.
If discounting her dud will assist in erasing the memory then cool, but you can’t discount the fact that dude’s dick penetrated your vagina.
I mean really.
So when your man has sex with another woman but doesn’t cum, or the orgasm wasn’t the toe clencher he hoped for, can he discount cheating on you and just erase the sexual experience?
Cuz shit, if he can then we are all fucked.
Now how you gone erase that?
What is sex?
But the definition of when a man inserts his penis into a woman’s vagina, may need to be changed to benefit the individual.
Take for example my close friend, who wants to discount her last sexual dud as sex because her expectations weren’t fulfilled.
With her mindset we can say it's not sex if you don’t cum, or don’t get paid, or don’t get to spend the night and cuddle…whatever expectations…or disillusions you may have.
We’ll allow individuals to create their own definition.
To me its complete bullshit. I mean sex is sex. Fucking is fucking even if the shit sucks. The act cannot be erased. It just can’t. (Not to mention, this opens the door for further male/female interaction bullshit).
When you have sex with someone, it involves risks.
STDs
AIDS….ouch.
Pregnancy.
Emotions.
An orgasm. Multiple orgasms.
Or nothing.
Not a damn thing but his ass busting a nut, dressing, and leaving your place without an explanation or apology for his failed attempt at pleasing a woman.
So with knowing that risks are involved, you can’t say well I did get syphilis from dude, so lets not count that time because it wasn’t what I expected.
No one having sex expects to catch A I Die Slow, or to get pregnant from a one night stand.
We hope dude can fuck.
We hope we cum once.
We pray we cum twice.
But when it doesn’t happen (or something else happens that we didn’t necessarily bargain for) its still SEX.
Bad sex is sex.
Sorry.
But to help the world out I’ll create a logical excuse….wait, I mean definition of what sex should be.
Sex is when a man inserts his penis into a woman and she has an orgasm.
NO?
It makes complete sense. Lets take the basic 1L concept of Contracts.
For a contract to exist there must be 1) an offer 2) acceptance and 3) consideration.
Anything else (minus the million of exceptions) is NOT a contract.
You might have negotiations, but you don’t have a contract.
Therefore, you might have penile insertion but without chick's orgasm there is NO sex.
Just sexual negotiations that clearly failed because dude can’t fuck.
Perfect!
Problem solved. Now I must recount my sexual partners because my new definition takes a few duds off the list.
Cha-ching!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Pause
Delightful darlings, I will not be posting this week. I have a trial Monday and a competition this weekend.
Take care.
~Cesca
Take care.
~Cesca
Thursday, February 4, 2010
M-I-A..305..Dade County Stand Up!
I guess online dating is the new thing. Why hone your social skills when you can stalk people while masturbating at your computer desk.
I recently reactivated my online stalking account, and again have become victim to a vast SEA of online losers.
Maybe loser isn’t the best way to describe miaflman1 who writes (and so eloquently I must add):
There’s a lot going on in this message. Grammatically, I’m offended but what struck me as inappropriate was him stating that I LOOK like I have a nice ass but he’s not sure.
Exactly what does that mean? Like, is that a challenge? Am I supposed to meet him at Starbucks, go to his crib, and show him how nice my ass actually is?
And let us not forget, “i hope you dont wear bads lol”. As I said, grammatical errors aside, it’s just plain lazy to not capitalize “I”…and “dont”…like you have to work real hard to escape the apostrophe. Literally, I have to correctly spell the word then press delete then retype it in order to fuck it up. Maybe Apple strives to ensure its users don’t offend other online prey, but its quite obvious dude needs to upgrade his computer/phone/internet browser ASAmuthfuckin’P
So after getting over that, I’m like bads *blank stare*.
WTF?
Does he mean bad or B.A.D.? I’m not so sure, and based on his disregard for spell check I’m questioning whether he’s asking me if I wear pads which is beyond inappropriate. Thank God I passed the fifth grade and can guess based on the context of his previous grammatical errors that he’s hoping I don’t wear big ass drawers. Again, *blank stare*.
Then the negro has the nerve to tell me I can’t handle anymore of his fucked up typing skills…oh wait, I mean handle his dick. No motherfucka I “may not can handle” what you have to offer because obviously you ain’t offering shit that I can understand. If you’re too lazy to read over your seductive message then I’m sure you fuck like a lazy piece of shit or probably can’t get your lazy dick hard!
WTF?
Is that how we do in Dade County? We challenge a woman’s skills, looks, and sexual experience in order to convince her that capitalization and commas are never important even though the only thing I can base your level of intellect on thus far (since hey buddy this is online) are your messages that I’m forced to copy and paste into Word, click spell check, and proceed from there.
My home girl told me to calm down. Dude was probably in a rush. He just types like he talks. I’m sure he’s better in person.
Is she blind? Dude obviously needs to revert back to person on person contact because typing his thoughts isn’t exactly his forte.
All I heard between her excuses was *womp womp womp* the dude fucks as fast and sloppy as he types. He eats pussy like he types, which means he’ll probably gnaw my clit off or worse be unable to find it.
So no more miaflman1, and as I always tell people to do when their existence is a complete census waste, “Kill Yourself”.
I recently reactivated my online stalking account, and again have become victim to a vast SEA of online losers.
Maybe loser isn’t the best way to describe miaflman1 who writes (and so eloquently I must add):
hmm so r u sexy and i hope u dont wear bads lol…yeah i put in work and im good at it when i do. i could go on and on but u may not can handle what i have to offer…so what time is ur curfew and when could u get away? u look like u may have a nice ass lol but hmmm dont know lmao
There’s a lot going on in this message. Grammatically, I’m offended but what struck me as inappropriate was him stating that I LOOK like I have a nice ass but he’s not sure.
Exactly what does that mean? Like, is that a challenge? Am I supposed to meet him at Starbucks, go to his crib, and show him how nice my ass actually is?
And let us not forget, “i hope you dont wear bads lol”. As I said, grammatical errors aside, it’s just plain lazy to not capitalize “I”…and “dont”…like you have to work real hard to escape the apostrophe. Literally, I have to correctly spell the word then press delete then retype it in order to fuck it up. Maybe Apple strives to ensure its users don’t offend other online prey, but its quite obvious dude needs to upgrade his computer/phone/internet browser ASAmuthfuckin’P
So after getting over that, I’m like bads *blank stare*.
WTF?
Does he mean bad or B.A.D.? I’m not so sure, and based on his disregard for spell check I’m questioning whether he’s asking me if I wear pads which is beyond inappropriate. Thank God I passed the fifth grade and can guess based on the context of his previous grammatical errors that he’s hoping I don’t wear big ass drawers. Again, *blank stare*.
Then the negro has the nerve to tell me I can’t handle anymore of his fucked up typing skills…oh wait, I mean handle his dick. No motherfucka I “may not can handle” what you have to offer because obviously you ain’t offering shit that I can understand. If you’re too lazy to read over your seductive message then I’m sure you fuck like a lazy piece of shit or probably can’t get your lazy dick hard!
WTF?
Is that how we do in Dade County? We challenge a woman’s skills, looks, and sexual experience in order to convince her that capitalization and commas are never important even though the only thing I can base your level of intellect on thus far (since hey buddy this is online) are your messages that I’m forced to copy and paste into Word, click spell check, and proceed from there.
My home girl told me to calm down. Dude was probably in a rush. He just types like he talks. I’m sure he’s better in person.
Is she blind? Dude obviously needs to revert back to person on person contact because typing his thoughts isn’t exactly his forte.
All I heard between her excuses was *womp womp womp* the dude fucks as fast and sloppy as he types. He eats pussy like he types, which means he’ll probably gnaw my clit off or worse be unable to find it.
So no more miaflman1, and as I always tell people to do when their existence is a complete census waste, “Kill Yourself”.
I'm In Miami Trick!
I’m not going to start posting pictures of Reggie Bush or anything, but for all y’all who don’t know…the Super Bowl is in MIAMI this weekend. Yay! Time to partay!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Past Can Set You Free
From here on out, Wednesdays are all about What The Fuck...
It can be What The Fuck…is she wearing?
What The Fuck…is that smell?
What The Fuck…am I going to do with my life?
Or my favorite, What The Fuck…was I thinking?
So to start off, here is an excerpt from my diary (unedited) that really screams WHAT THE FUCK.
Yes, I know. You’re screaming at the monitor “What The Fuck!” But hey…sometimes it be like that. Don’t act like you ain’t never let someone hit it raw, hit it raw, or thought twice about not using a condom.
And the birth control stunt is so 90’s, so I’m sure my trick didn’t throw you off. The only thing thrown off by that shit was my damn cycle. After popping them pills, Flow came to visit for TWO damn weeks.
To me therapy is the attempted remediation of a problem, and writing in my diary is just that. It allows me the chance to remember my insane thoughts/desires, so I can later access the situation with a clear mind, heart, and non-throbbing clitoris.
This entry is in no way recent, but SOME of the feelings are still there. It’s so easy to forget what you wore last week, or why you and a friend got into a heated argument, or how head or heels, lost, and blinded you were over a guy.
You remember the crazy shit he did. The shit that pissed you off. Turned you on. Made you cry.
But it’s all to easy to forget the crazy shit you wanted to do with him. Vacations. Marriage. Babies. Unprotected Sex.
It’s like that cliché: How can you know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you came from?
So what I’m saying is, try to remember what you came from so you can either maintain or change and then eventually move on; otherwise your version of therapy doesn’t involve fixing the problem since you can’t remember what the fuck really happened. Its just you forgetting your mistakes and reliving them with another person.
It can be What The Fuck…is she wearing?
What The Fuck…is that smell?
What The Fuck…am I going to do with my life?
Or my favorite, What The Fuck…was I thinking?
So to start off, here is an excerpt from my diary (unedited) that really screams WHAT THE FUCK.
It started with a sex message last week. Something along the lines of I want your dick in my mouth. He responded. What man wouldn’t? I should’ve known that very instant that something was up. A man that can respond to sex messages within 10 minutes but ignores “I miss you” is NOT the man for me. But I continued to seduce him with my messages because I’m horny and need to get some dick! And since his DICK has been on the menu for 5 years, I feel its imperative to order and be served an infinite amount of *** DICK (no matter what the cost…).
So we made a sex date for this week.
Dude still wants to fuck me raw, and because I’m completely stupid and utterly in love and have no idea what I’m doing, I oblige his dick and desires by popping my last supply of birth control the moment my flow begins.
I vowed while with the ex to NEVER take that shit again, but with *** I’m open and willing to do anything. The problem is, why am I willing to put my life and health into his hands but I still don’t trust or believe everything he says. What kind of shit is that? I’m educated…book sense, common sense, and know well enough that having unprotected sex with a man who is consistently inconsistent is the worse thing I could ever do in my life, but I still want to.
So we made a sex date for this week.
Dude still wants to fuck me raw, and because I’m completely stupid and utterly in love and have no idea what I’m doing, I oblige his dick and desires by popping my last supply of birth control the moment my flow begins.
I vowed while with the ex to NEVER take that shit again, but with *** I’m open and willing to do anything. The problem is, why am I willing to put my life and health into his hands but I still don’t trust or believe everything he says. What kind of shit is that? I’m educated…book sense, common sense, and know well enough that having unprotected sex with a man who is consistently inconsistent is the worse thing I could ever do in my life, but I still want to.
*end scene*
Yes, I know. You’re screaming at the monitor “What The Fuck!” But hey…sometimes it be like that. Don’t act like you ain’t never let someone hit it raw, hit it raw, or thought twice about not using a condom.
And the birth control stunt is so 90’s, so I’m sure my trick didn’t throw you off. The only thing thrown off by that shit was my damn cycle. After popping them pills, Flow came to visit for TWO damn weeks.
To me therapy is the attempted remediation of a problem, and writing in my diary is just that. It allows me the chance to remember my insane thoughts/desires, so I can later access the situation with a clear mind, heart, and non-throbbing clitoris.
This entry is in no way recent, but SOME of the feelings are still there. It’s so easy to forget what you wore last week, or why you and a friend got into a heated argument, or how head or heels, lost, and blinded you were over a guy.
You remember the crazy shit he did. The shit that pissed you off. Turned you on. Made you cry.
But it’s all to easy to forget the crazy shit you wanted to do with him. Vacations. Marriage. Babies. Unprotected Sex.
It’s like that cliché: How can you know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you came from?
So what I’m saying is, try to remember what you came from so you can either maintain or change and then eventually move on; otherwise your version of therapy doesn’t involve fixing the problem since you can’t remember what the fuck really happened. Its just you forgetting your mistakes and reliving them with another person.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Yo Dramtical Ass
Debate.
Argue.
Bitch.
Moan.
Complain.
Women do it all the damn time.
My favorite line is: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit.
Love it! Nothing like beating a black man down when he’s already low from a hard day working for the man, riiight?
I think women argue about nothing because the usual relationship conversation is too monotonous. Discussing our day at work/school and planning our usual movie/dinner weekend date is BORING. Necessary but *snooze*.
So to add some spice to the relationship we take the discussion about being busy with work/school to mean he’s cheating and next thing you know chick is shouting: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit!
When asked why women argue about stupid shit or shit that doesn’t even exist, a friend admitted that she does it because she likes a little DRAMA in her relationship.
Personally, I do it because I like to be in control, and the moment I feel like I’m not wearing the pants I freak and start screaming: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit! Plus, what better way to establish the dominant/subservient roles in a relationship than by making your partner feel insecure with his manhood, duh!
Problem is, grown ass men with careers know they are the shit, and will never be anything less…so telling them otherwise doesn’t really add “good” drama to the relationship. It just proves that you’re not as “grown” as you claim to be.
It seems the only time “nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit!” is appropriate is when the dude is truly a complete loser and worth being cut from your team (even if he didn’t cheat).
I’m trying to get my friend to understand that her dude isn’t a punk. That all this good drama is going to run him into the arms of a woman who will silently deal with her insecurities and let a man be a man (even if he ain't shit half the time).
So for 2010, no more drama.
Argue.
Bitch.
Moan.
Complain.
Women do it all the damn time.
My favorite line is: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit.
Love it! Nothing like beating a black man down when he’s already low from a hard day working for the man, riiight?
I think women argue about nothing because the usual relationship conversation is too monotonous. Discussing our day at work/school and planning our usual movie/dinner weekend date is BORING. Necessary but *snooze*.
So to add some spice to the relationship we take the discussion about being busy with work/school to mean he’s cheating and next thing you know chick is shouting: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit!
When asked why women argue about stupid shit or shit that doesn’t even exist, a friend admitted that she does it because she likes a little DRAMA in her relationship.
Personally, I do it because I like to be in control, and the moment I feel like I’m not wearing the pants I freak and start screaming: nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit! Plus, what better way to establish the dominant/subservient roles in a relationship than by making your partner feel insecure with his manhood, duh!
Problem is, grown ass men with careers know they are the shit, and will never be anything less…so telling them otherwise doesn’t really add “good” drama to the relationship. It just proves that you’re not as “grown” as you claim to be.
It seems the only time “nigga you ain’t shit, and you ain’t neva gone be shit!” is appropriate is when the dude is truly a complete loser and worth being cut from your team (even if he didn’t cheat).
I’m trying to get my friend to understand that her dude isn’t a punk. That all this good drama is going to run him into the arms of a woman who will silently deal with her insecurities and let a man be a man (even if he ain't shit half the time).
So for 2010, no more drama.
I'm Horny
I’m on a sexual roller coaster. Like, one week I want to fuck almost every dark skin man in sight. Next week, I’m like “Naw, I’m straight”.
But today…tonight…at this very moment…
I WANNA FUCK!
Night!
But today…tonight…at this very moment…
I WANNA FUCK!
Night!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Time To Celebrate Me!
Even though February is the shortest month of the year, to me it’s the BEST month of the year…why you ask?
Well HELLO!! My birthday is on the 22nd! This year truly marks a turning point. I’ll be 25 with a J.D., in April I’ll be moving relocating somewhere and taking someone's bar exam, starting my career, paying (more life deferring) my student loans, and becoming even more fabulous than I already am.
Here’s a peek into my schedule:
Sade returns: 9th
Valentine’s Day: 14th
Trial Time: 15th
25th birthday: 22nd
DC Conference: 23-25th
ATL Freakum Dress Weekend: 26-27th (its more like the Flying Biscuit Weekend… my roommate and I are more excited about eating there than clubbing on Spring Street…damn, I love that city and them cheese grits!)
Well HELLO!! My birthday is on the 22nd! This year truly marks a turning point. I’ll be 25 with a J.D., in April I’ll be moving relocating somewhere and taking someone's bar exam, starting my career, paying (more life deferring) my student loans, and becoming even more fabulous than I already am.
Here’s a peek into my schedule:
Sade returns: 9th
Valentine’s Day: 14th
Trial Time: 15th
25th birthday: 22nd
DC Conference: 23-25th
ATL Freakum Dress Weekend: 26-27th (its more like the Flying Biscuit Weekend… my roommate and I are more excited about eating there than clubbing on Spring Street…damn, I love that city and them cheese grits!)
Cheaters Never Prosper?
Type in cheat and the synonyms provided are: deceive, trick, con, swindle, defraud, bamboozle, take advantage of, etc…
So if you’re fucking someone, but have escaped the “What Are We” conversation and no titles, boundaries, or rules have been established, when you fuck someone else is it considered cheating?
Did you deceive anyone?
Have you taken advantage of the “in limbo” status?
Has your partner been bamboozled?
Readers, how can you hold someone responsible for conning you out of a relationship that never really existed?
So if you’re fucking someone, but have escaped the “What Are We” conversation and no titles, boundaries, or rules have been established, when you fuck someone else is it considered cheating?
Did you deceive anyone?
Have you taken advantage of the “in limbo” status?
Has your partner been bamboozled?
Readers, how can you hold someone responsible for conning you out of a relationship that never really existed?
What Exactly Are the Elements of Cheating?
Jody: You got my son and you'll probably be my wife. You want me to be honest?
Yvette: Yeah, I do.
Jody: You're my woman. Them other hos is tricks. I make love to you, I want to be with you, but I fuck other females occasionally. I don't know why, I just do. That's the situation. You feel better now? That's some honesty for you. Deal with it.
Yvette: Yeah, I do.
Jody: You're my woman. Them other hos is tricks. I make love to you, I want to be with you, but I fuck other females occasionally. I don't know why, I just do. That's the situation. You feel better now? That's some honesty for you. Deal with it.
(Baby Boy 2001...got to appreciate ghetto love at it’s finest)
Dayum Jody, why you gots to be so trill! Truth is, women cheat too. I’ve cheated twice actually. Once physically, the other emotionally. I’m guessing the latter is worse, considering now I’m in love with the other man and my ex is well…my ex.
I’m not sure who cheats best, but I can definitely say the term “cheating” should only be afforded to two people who have verbally agreed to be in a monogamous relationship (and don’t get me started on the term monogamy and is infinite implausibilty). So if broken down, cheating would be:
Two people
In a relationship
Who verbally agree
To NOT fuck anyone else
So if one element is missing, it can’t be considered cheating.
In a relationship
Who verbally agree
To NOT fuck anyone else
So if one element is missing, it can’t be considered cheating.
For instance, my home girl found out her friend slept with another woman. She was livid. Vowed never to speak to him again. Deleted his number. Resaved it but changed his ringtone to Regrets by LeToya Luckett.
Her friend obviously dodged the “What Are We” conversation and no titles, boundaries, or rules were established.
So my thing is, did dude really cheat?
Like, there needs to be another word for people who are only fucking, but believe they are only fucking each other (even though that rule hasn’t been established either), and step out to fuck someone else.
The real problem is, folk need to stop entering into these quasi-relationships with no definition, and try to define everything only after someone fucks up. If dude isn’t your boyfriend, then why can’t he fuck someone else?
No it’s not nice or fair or safe, but umm…you can’t curse him out, accuse him of cheating, and claim he can’t be trusted because he fucked another chick when you were NEVER his girlfriend.
And I know, some people abhor the titles boyfriend/girlfriend, because what do they really mean? The only thing some consider a viable status is engaged and married. And I totally understand, but perception is a beast and if I perceive being your girlfriend and you being my boyfriend as something special, sacred, monogamous…then shit, that’s what it is!
Lovely always warns me: don’t ever let a man get away with never establishing what y’all are. No man wants to have the dreaded conversation where he’s faced with cutting off his other bust its to knight you as his only and number one, but hey…shit be like that sometimes.
Thing is women know this, so to keep the man around we avoid the conversation or let him shirk away from the responsibility of claiming you outside of the bedroom. Next thing you know, the nigga fucks up and you want to cry, curse, and blame him.
But my dear, you can only blame yourself for subjecting your heart to a quasi-relationship where the crime of cheating does NOT exist.
Maybe he can be charged with lying after he’s asked about said mentioned girl and denies her existence and/or their sexual relationship…but people lie every day, and lying doesn’t get you a stunning 8-carat purple diamond ring worth about $4 million (oh wait, neither does cheating…you need to be charged with rape for that mess to happen).
So stop fucking dude, become his girlfriend and then come holla at me about how the nigga ain’t shit, otherwise I don’t want to hear it.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Platonic My Ass!
Some people say women and men can never JUST be friends. That eventually someone will want to fuck while the other develops feelings.
My best friend is amazing.
I really love this man. He’s intelligent, ambitious, handsome, everything another woman would dream about.
He’s got these thick lips that sometime distract me during conversation. Its not like I need to change my draws when around him, but dude does have some pussy eating lips.
But I have no desire to be with sexually…well sometimes I do.
But I’d NEVER take it there even though I’m sure, more than sure, he wouldn’t do anything to stop me from sitting on his face.
He’s the most consistent man in my life, which is kind of sad. Even when I had a boyfriend, he was always my true confidant.
So you can see why mixing my adoration and respect for him with passionate sex is NOT the best idea.
I know sex would confuse the fuck out of me, even though I know he has no interest in being with me. He says I whine too much. I only whine about him being overbearing.
My friends claim Lovely is “the husband I’ll never have” (not as comforting as they may think). Even random classmates think we’re perfect for each other. I always play it off and remind them dude is JUST my friend, but there are those days when I fantasize about being with him. Sometimes I think he does like me and would actually be with me. Then I’m reminded that his dresser is crowded with pictures of his ex-girlfriend who lives in Florida but just passed the NY bar. So I’m sure chick has got that shit on lock.
And the truth is I’m sure if I were his woman, he’d start slipping and things would be so different. Because men are always better men to their friends than they are to their woman!
I don’t want to be with him, but he makes me feel so damn good. I just want to meet a man who can replicate that consistency and dick me down so good I want to revert back to my pass/puff days, cook him dinner, and relax while spooning to Sade.
Ten Years Later...
I’ve been jamming to Sade’s song Skin for like three days (its off her upcoming album Soldier of Love, go to http://www.bet.com/music/newreleases/818427/Sade to check it out). I freaking LOVE this woman’s voice and the band is AMAZING. When Maxwell resurfaced last year, I thought my life was almost complete but this woman right here! I hope she’s touring in NY this summer because it is a MUST! I will sacrifice a day (or two) of bar prep to see her...yes, it IS that serious.
The Color Wheel
My father has a lot of ties.
He’s monochromatic, just like his ties.
He breaks up the routine with a splash of crimson, worn on special occasions to represent his pledge of brotherhood. And I can’t forget his dash of garnet and gold, worn to represent his pledge to love Bowden forever (even though the last few seasons have been short of the dynasty status created).
I came home this weekend. I’m at my father’s house, sleeping in a room I have no connection to. They call it “my room” but it’s more like a guest room, and is perfect as such because that’s exactly what I feel like when I’m in his presence. A guest. A stranger passing through the night, welcomed to stay but only for a limited time.
The closet is filled with clothes. Not mine of course. My dad hides his suits and ties in here.
The only thing that represents me in this room is a porcelain doll that sits on the dresser. Her cheeks are red. I remember adoring my Addy doll as a child, so I’m sure this curly haired Becky is not mine, but who knows…maybe he won this piece of nostalgia in the divorce settlement.
I don’t know anything about my father. I mean, I know his occupation and that he loves football. That he’s a Republican and loves slender women who wear 20 pearls. But I don’t know him. And he doesn’t know me.
His tie collection is the complete opposite of how I live my life. It’s boring. Stale. Safe.
He always said I was special child. Different. Artsy. Filled with too much spunk to be his.
Maybe that’s why we never clicked; because he lacks color in his life. And like that red tie, I don't work with his everyday attire. I'm only appropriate for special occasions.
And like being my father, that title is only revealed to the world during holidays or graduations. But once the tree is put away or the cap and gown removed he goes back to being the monochromatic Major.
While the crimson tie and I are stored away until the next event.
I Was Once Lost But Now Am Found
Four years ago I wanted to learn Creole.
I wanted to visit Haiti.
I wanted to master cooking griot and sos pwa.
I wanted to grow my Nia Long hair cut, cover my tattoos, and wear skirts to church.
I wanted to immerse myself in my boyfriend's culture to the point where his old school Pentecostal mother would forget that I was American.
An American girl with relaxed hair. Who rocked makeup (flawless makeup I might add lol). Had piercings. Wore pants. And wanted to be a lawyer rather than a nurse.
I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, and in the process completely lost myself.
We secretly lived together and three months into the residential lie, while plating his dinner I realized the domesticated ME was a complete façade.
I realized that I hated cooking his meals.
Hated wearing weave because his mother thought short hair was demonic.
Hated the sound of his language (only because he spoke mad Creole in my presence even though he knew damn well I ain't understand it).
Hated fucking him.
And most of all, I hated that rather than walk away from their lifestyle and the lies I created, I served him dinner and convinced myself that being content was as good as it gets.
I wasted nearly $2,000 on hair that wasn't even mine. I wasted countless nights moaning his name, when all I wanted to do was lie on my back and fall asleep. I wasted two years of my life being content when I deserved to be ME.
I wanted to visit Haiti.
I wanted to master cooking griot and sos pwa.
I wanted to grow my Nia Long hair cut, cover my tattoos, and wear skirts to church.
I wanted to immerse myself in my boyfriend's culture to the point where his old school Pentecostal mother would forget that I was American.
An American girl with relaxed hair. Who rocked makeup (flawless makeup I might add lol). Had piercings. Wore pants. And wanted to be a lawyer rather than a nurse.
I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, and in the process completely lost myself.
We secretly lived together and three months into the residential lie, while plating his dinner I realized the domesticated ME was a complete façade.
I realized that I hated cooking his meals.
Hated wearing weave because his mother thought short hair was demonic.
Hated the sound of his language (only because he spoke mad Creole in my presence even though he knew damn well I ain't understand it).
Hated fucking him.
And most of all, I hated that rather than walk away from their lifestyle and the lies I created, I served him dinner and convinced myself that being content was as good as it gets.
I wasted nearly $2,000 on hair that wasn't even mine. I wasted countless nights moaning his name, when all I wanted to do was lie on my back and fall asleep. I wasted two years of my life being content when I deserved to be ME.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Oops, There Goes My Shirt Up Over My Head…
I have two B.O.B.
Battery Operated Boyfriend.
An orange g-spot boyfriend, and a pink clitoral stimulator boyfriend.
I keep them in separate drawers, so they don’t find out about each other. As of right now, I’m actually seeing Mr. Grafenberg exclusively. The clit B.O.B. is wonderful and all. Sensual. Patient. Reliable.
But Mr. Grafenberg is…well he’s able to hit that spot that my other B.O.B. will never be able to reach. And sometimes a girl needs a vaginal orgasm. I don’t like messy sheets, but as my girls love to chant, “Lay the towel down!”
So my home girl Darling, has been pleasuring herself MANUALLY for like a decade. When I found out she was letting her fingers do all the talking, I took her to the local sex store and introduced her to the best boyfriend money can buy.
A boyfriend who consistently provides stimulating conversation as he vibrates sweet-nothings upon your clit.
A boyfriend who doesn’t make false promises of multiple orgasms.
A boyfriend you can easily get rid of after you cum.
She purchased a pink g-spot B.O.B. (why do women love pink vibrators lol).
So Darling and B.O.B. have been dating for almost two weeks. Last night I decided to be nosy and check on the status of their relationship.
“So, how’s B.O.B. treating ya?”
"I don’t like him," she responds.
Uhh…how do you not like a boyfriend who can easily be turned off and dismissed when you’re done using him.
“He’s distracting, I can’t deal with it.”
Poor baby…lol…apparently her boyfriend’s sweet-nothings are too loud. She can’t focus on what the hell he’s trying to say. I suggested adding music to their triple A battery sessions but I think she’s too fed up with him to even care.
I blame myself for this failed relationship (and the 6’3, 260 lb. brother who sold her the damn thing). I bragged about my boyfriend so much that she figured hers would be just as good, if not even better.
But he let her down.
So my thing is, if you can’t purchase non-refundable pleasure…if you can’t even get off from a battery operated piece of plastic…if you can’t meet a REAL man who will stick around long enough to be your boyfriend so you can give B.O.B. a few months to charge…what the fuck are you suppose to do?
Battery Operated Boyfriend.
An orange g-spot boyfriend, and a pink clitoral stimulator boyfriend.
I keep them in separate drawers, so they don’t find out about each other. As of right now, I’m actually seeing Mr. Grafenberg exclusively. The clit B.O.B. is wonderful and all. Sensual. Patient. Reliable.
But Mr. Grafenberg is…well he’s able to hit that spot that my other B.O.B. will never be able to reach. And sometimes a girl needs a vaginal orgasm. I don’t like messy sheets, but as my girls love to chant, “Lay the towel down!”
So my home girl Darling, has been pleasuring herself MANUALLY for like a decade. When I found out she was letting her fingers do all the talking, I took her to the local sex store and introduced her to the best boyfriend money can buy.
A boyfriend who consistently provides stimulating conversation as he vibrates sweet-nothings upon your clit.
A boyfriend who doesn’t make false promises of multiple orgasms.
A boyfriend you can easily get rid of after you cum.
She purchased a pink g-spot B.O.B. (why do women love pink vibrators lol).
So Darling and B.O.B. have been dating for almost two weeks. Last night I decided to be nosy and check on the status of their relationship.
“So, how’s B.O.B. treating ya?”
"I don’t like him," she responds.
Uhh…how do you not like a boyfriend who can easily be turned off and dismissed when you’re done using him.
“He’s distracting, I can’t deal with it.”
Poor baby…lol…apparently her boyfriend’s sweet-nothings are too loud. She can’t focus on what the hell he’s trying to say. I suggested adding music to their triple A battery sessions but I think she’s too fed up with him to even care.
I blame myself for this failed relationship (and the 6’3, 260 lb. brother who sold her the damn thing). I bragged about my boyfriend so much that she figured hers would be just as good, if not even better.
But he let her down.
So my thing is, if you can’t purchase non-refundable pleasure…if you can’t even get off from a battery operated piece of plastic…if you can’t meet a REAL man who will stick around long enough to be your boyfriend so you can give B.O.B. a few months to charge…what the fuck are you suppose to do?
How 'Bout Them Balls In Your Mouth!
I feel in control when a man’s dick is in my mouth. I’ve asked friends, both female and male, why they think women suck dick…
for Submission…or Control?
Most of the men polled stated that women do it to please their man. That being in the position of balls in one hand, shaft in the other is a position of weakness…ultimately the woman is submitting to her male counterpart.
But to me, balls in one hand, shaft in the other is far from a position of weakness.
If anything, a man should be thankful that his “weak, submissive” counterpart doesn’t dig her nails into his balls, or worse graze her molars against the head of his penis.
“She’s weak…because the man is looking DOWN on her while she sucks his dick…”
But I’m looking UP at you. Watching your face contort in pleasure. Watching you squirm. Watching you lose CONTROL as my tongue gingerly spells the alphabet upon your balls.
And then the other thing is, “Women don’t suck dick because they like to, they do it because they have to.”
Errruhh…I HAVE to suck dick? To what, keep a man? Get serviced afterwards? Ensure my rent is paid on the first of the month?
When did giving brain become a requirement? And if it is a requirement, at what point in the “relationship” does it become such?
I suck dick because I love sucking dick. Some women only give head, to get head. But I don’t. Sucking dick turns me on. While I’m between a man’s legs slurping and sucking and swallowing (and trying not to gag), not only do I feel in control…my pussy is wet, my clit is throbbing…add some friction to the combination and I’m a happy camper.
And as a wise woman once said, “Oral sex is God’s gift to women…you can get off without being worried about getting pregnant.”
Amen to that.
for Submission…or Control?
Most of the men polled stated that women do it to please their man. That being in the position of balls in one hand, shaft in the other is a position of weakness…ultimately the woman is submitting to her male counterpart.
But to me, balls in one hand, shaft in the other is far from a position of weakness.
If anything, a man should be thankful that his “weak, submissive” counterpart doesn’t dig her nails into his balls, or worse graze her molars against the head of his penis.
“She’s weak…because the man is looking DOWN on her while she sucks his dick…”
But I’m looking UP at you. Watching your face contort in pleasure. Watching you squirm. Watching you lose CONTROL as my tongue gingerly spells the alphabet upon your balls.
And then the other thing is, “Women don’t suck dick because they like to, they do it because they have to.”
Errruhh…I HAVE to suck dick? To what, keep a man? Get serviced afterwards? Ensure my rent is paid on the first of the month?
When did giving brain become a requirement? And if it is a requirement, at what point in the “relationship” does it become such?
I suck dick because I love sucking dick. Some women only give head, to get head. But I don’t. Sucking dick turns me on. While I’m between a man’s legs slurping and sucking and swallowing (and trying not to gag), not only do I feel in control…my pussy is wet, my clit is throbbing…add some friction to the combination and I’m a happy camper.
And as a wise woman once said, “Oral sex is God’s gift to women…you can get off without being worried about getting pregnant.”
Amen to that.
What’s In Your Diet?
I sucked my first dick at 16. It was my high-school boyfriend. He was a basketball player. Tall. Red bone. Green eyes. Sexy.
And he had an even sexier dick. But dude had the worst tasting spunk I’ve ever encountered in my life. Like, back then I didn’t know semen wasn’t supposed to have a concentration of 100% foul.
His spunk made my body shiver. It had a salty, bitter, sting to it. And since we weren’t fucking, dude always let off a massive amount of semen in my mouth. So every time he came, it was like Old Funky Faithful spraying the back of my throat.
I never gagged or regurgitated, but I always followed his rancid release with a gulp of his mom’s red diabetic-coma kool-aid.
She would always laugh and say I drank her kool-aid like it was water. That she made an extra pitcher whenever she knew I was coming over.
If she only knew…
And he had an even sexier dick. But dude had the worst tasting spunk I’ve ever encountered in my life. Like, back then I didn’t know semen wasn’t supposed to have a concentration of 100% foul.
His spunk made my body shiver. It had a salty, bitter, sting to it. And since we weren’t fucking, dude always let off a massive amount of semen in my mouth. So every time he came, it was like Old Funky Faithful spraying the back of my throat.
I never gagged or regurgitated, but I always followed his rancid release with a gulp of his mom’s red diabetic-coma kool-aid.
She would always laugh and say I drank her kool-aid like it was water. That she made an extra pitcher whenever she knew I was coming over.
If she only knew…
Do Black Folk Blush?
I went to client intakes last night. The supervising attorney and another male student started a love, relationship, when you gone get married? conversation. And for some odd reason my love life, or lack thereof, became the hot topic.
“So when are you getting married?”
*blank stare*
(First of all, I think asking a single woman when she’s getting married should be on the Never Ask A Woman This Question, Unless You Want to Get Cursed the Fuck Out list...and it belongs right under “How old are you?” “When are you expecting?” and “How much do you weigh?”)
But I played it off, or so I thought…
The problem is, the supervising attorney knows Deondre (and if you don’t know Deondre, than be thankful you don’t…no, really…dude is like my Big and I’m his Carrie and literally it’ll be 10 years before we have a fairy tale wedding, or wait…didn’t Big leave her at the alter the first go around?)
I don’t know who characterized my “special un-named boo” as THE ONE but omg…how easily Pandora’s box is opened.
Both men started trying to decode THE ONE into a name. So I completely denied there even being a “special un-named boo” that one day will become THE ONE…huge mistake.
The supervising attorney took this denial as an admission and stated, “So there isn’t anyone in particular”.
(Notice I wrote stated…because that’s what dude did. He didn’t ask a question, because why ask a question you already know the answer to…asshole!)
I wanted to shout NO but I didn’t want to portray Deondre as unimportant, because the truth is I’m head over heels for this man. Like in love with. Like I’d marry and have children with. Like, I’d even put a baby on board sticker in the car just for him…
this is SERIOUS shit people!
Next thing I know, I’m allegedly blushing and fidgeting in my seat. Now, I swear I didn’t blush. The only hint of color upon my cheeks was Nars Taj Mahal, but Darling said she saw this glow appear upon my face that gave the “special un-named boo” away.
“It’s so obvious you like him. Like, love him. I never knew until tonight how much you care about him.”
So intakes ended, 9pm morphed into 2am and I found myself blushing and fidgeting underneath my sheets. I couldn’t stop thinking about Deondre and what we don’t have, what we have, and what I want us to have by 2011.
I have all these hopes and borderline expectations (which I know he can’t achieve short of a miracle). I want to be with this man, but I know its not our time because he's MARRIED.
Married to his job. Apparently the marriage is going well because he was recently promoted to felonies, not to mention dude leaves for JAG in October. His career timeline extends each year, and I don’t see a relationship in the near future.
I don’t think he can make time, more importantly, I don’t think he WANTS to make time for us until he’s settled in his career. Which means what?
After he’s stationed?
Or before he’s deployed in two years?
Or after he returns and renews his contract with the military?
Like really, when will it ever end. When will he ever stop and realize that what we don’t have, what we have, and what I want us to have by 2011 is the BEST thing he’ll ever stumble upon.
So I’ve made the declaration to stop talking to him. To let him do his thing, and I’ll do mine. That maybe after I study for the bar, take it, pass both NY and NJ…after he leaves for basic training, is stationed God knows where, is deployed to Iraq…we’ll meet up again and he’ll tell me that I’m THE ONE and I’ll finally have a reason to blush and fidget.
“So when are you getting married?”
*blank stare*
(First of all, I think asking a single woman when she’s getting married should be on the Never Ask A Woman This Question, Unless You Want to Get Cursed the Fuck Out list...and it belongs right under “How old are you?” “When are you expecting?” and “How much do you weigh?”)
But I played it off, or so I thought…
The problem is, the supervising attorney knows Deondre (and if you don’t know Deondre, than be thankful you don’t…no, really…dude is like my Big and I’m his Carrie and literally it’ll be 10 years before we have a fairy tale wedding, or wait…didn’t Big leave her at the alter the first go around?)
I don’t know who characterized my “special un-named boo” as THE ONE but omg…how easily Pandora’s box is opened.
Both men started trying to decode THE ONE into a name. So I completely denied there even being a “special un-named boo” that one day will become THE ONE…huge mistake.
The supervising attorney took this denial as an admission and stated, “So there isn’t anyone in particular”.
(Notice I wrote stated…because that’s what dude did. He didn’t ask a question, because why ask a question you already know the answer to…asshole!)
I wanted to shout NO but I didn’t want to portray Deondre as unimportant, because the truth is I’m head over heels for this man. Like in love with. Like I’d marry and have children with. Like, I’d even put a baby on board sticker in the car just for him…
this is SERIOUS shit people!
Next thing I know, I’m allegedly blushing and fidgeting in my seat. Now, I swear I didn’t blush. The only hint of color upon my cheeks was Nars Taj Mahal, but Darling said she saw this glow appear upon my face that gave the “special un-named boo” away.
“It’s so obvious you like him. Like, love him. I never knew until tonight how much you care about him.”
So intakes ended, 9pm morphed into 2am and I found myself blushing and fidgeting underneath my sheets. I couldn’t stop thinking about Deondre and what we don’t have, what we have, and what I want us to have by 2011.
I have all these hopes and borderline expectations (which I know he can’t achieve short of a miracle). I want to be with this man, but I know its not our time because he's MARRIED.
Married to his job. Apparently the marriage is going well because he was recently promoted to felonies, not to mention dude leaves for JAG in October. His career timeline extends each year, and I don’t see a relationship in the near future.
I don’t think he can make time, more importantly, I don’t think he WANTS to make time for us until he’s settled in his career. Which means what?
After he’s stationed?
Or before he’s deployed in two years?
Or after he returns and renews his contract with the military?
Like really, when will it ever end. When will he ever stop and realize that what we don’t have, what we have, and what I want us to have by 2011 is the BEST thing he’ll ever stumble upon.
So I’ve made the declaration to stop talking to him. To let him do his thing, and I’ll do mine. That maybe after I study for the bar, take it, pass both NY and NJ…after he leaves for basic training, is stationed God knows where, is deployed to Iraq…we’ll meet up again and he’ll tell me that I’m THE ONE and I’ll finally have a reason to blush and fidget.
This Shit Is For the Birds
The word LOVE is abstract.
I don’t have faith in love.
I need to SEE
TOUCH
FEEL
HEAR
love.
And since you never visit, text, or return my phone calls
I don’t believe in love…
and I don’t believe in you.
I don’t have faith in love.
I need to SEE
TOUCH
FEEL
HEAR
love.
And since you never visit, text, or return my phone calls
I don’t believe in love…
and I don’t believe in you.
Monday, January 25, 2010
My First Photoshoot
My camera phone is amazing. Like the pixels are better than my Sony digital camera.
I have a picture of the tree at Rockfeller Center. It’s so clear, you feel like you’re in the freezing cold with me on Christmas Eve thinking this whole “tree shit mess” is for the birds.
And now thanks to Poetic, I have a picture of me spreading my pussy lips open. It’s so clear you’d think you were between my legs taking a deep breath thinking this chick better not suffocate me.
I’m comfortable with my sexuality.
I masturbate.
Have phone sex.
I’ve even sent my fair share of sexually suggestive pictures to a few lucky viewers (suggestive being me in a pair of lace boy short underwear…very PG-13, I know).
But I have NEVER taken nude pictures with the purpose of revealing them to another person.
So after the Vikings lost, I had a nude photo shoot featuring my clit and breasts.
I don’t hate my body, but I don’t love it. I’m what people call “thick”. I have 38 DD, a small waist (which isn’t looking its normal small self), wide hips, a big ass, and a bare pum pum.
Yes, I have a bare vagina. My roommate says it looks like a baby’s pum pum, but I like it…and I’m hoping ole boy does.
My home girl coaxed me into taking a pum pum picture. “Use your fingers to spread the lips wide open”. “You gotta get a picture of your pussy open, but make sure he can see your clit.” “Oh yea, and make sure its not a wrinkly pum pum picture”.
Uhh…aren’t pum pums kinda wrinkly in their normal state?
But I listened, and now I have like 9 pum pum pictures on my phone that must be deleted before I go home and my nosey siblings mistake my photo album for BrickBreaker.
I swear I thought this was America’s Next Top Model and Mr. Jay had awarded me with 100 extra frames because I just went crazy with this whole nude picture mess.
I ran into the living room to reveal my last few frames to my home girl. I was a little apprehensive because she has the cutest shape and well to be honest…my breasts don’t defy gravity quite like hers do.
Scrolling through the pictures, I began to feel vulnerable.
Exposed.
NAKED.
Before I knew it, I was becoming nervous and critical of my body.
Are my hips too wide?
Are my areolae too big?
Does my pum pum look fat?
So before I could punk out, I sent dude three pictures. I’m hoping he doesn’t wake up and call me because even though I’m on an adrenaline high from snapping shots of my pussy lips spread wide open, I need to be reasonable and realize that its mad late and I have voir dire tomorrow.
Night!
I have a picture of the tree at Rockfeller Center. It’s so clear, you feel like you’re in the freezing cold with me on Christmas Eve thinking this whole “tree shit mess” is for the birds.
And now thanks to Poetic, I have a picture of me spreading my pussy lips open. It’s so clear you’d think you were between my legs taking a deep breath thinking this chick better not suffocate me.
I’m comfortable with my sexuality.
I masturbate.
Have phone sex.
I’ve even sent my fair share of sexually suggestive pictures to a few lucky viewers (suggestive being me in a pair of lace boy short underwear…very PG-13, I know).
But I have NEVER taken nude pictures with the purpose of revealing them to another person.
So after the Vikings lost, I had a nude photo shoot featuring my clit and breasts.
I don’t hate my body, but I don’t love it. I’m what people call “thick”. I have 38 DD, a small waist (which isn’t looking its normal small self), wide hips, a big ass, and a bare pum pum.
Yes, I have a bare vagina. My roommate says it looks like a baby’s pum pum, but I like it…and I’m hoping ole boy does.
My home girl coaxed me into taking a pum pum picture. “Use your fingers to spread the lips wide open”. “You gotta get a picture of your pussy open, but make sure he can see your clit.” “Oh yea, and make sure its not a wrinkly pum pum picture”.
Uhh…aren’t pum pums kinda wrinkly in their normal state?
But I listened, and now I have like 9 pum pum pictures on my phone that must be deleted before I go home and my nosey siblings mistake my photo album for BrickBreaker.
I swear I thought this was America’s Next Top Model and Mr. Jay had awarded me with 100 extra frames because I just went crazy with this whole nude picture mess.
I ran into the living room to reveal my last few frames to my home girl. I was a little apprehensive because she has the cutest shape and well to be honest…my breasts don’t defy gravity quite like hers do.
Scrolling through the pictures, I began to feel vulnerable.
Exposed.
NAKED.
Before I knew it, I was becoming nervous and critical of my body.
Are my hips too wide?
Are my areolae too big?
Does my pum pum look fat?
So before I could punk out, I sent dude three pictures. I’m hoping he doesn’t wake up and call me because even though I’m on an adrenaline high from snapping shots of my pussy lips spread wide open, I need to be reasonable and realize that its mad late and I have voir dire tomorrow.
Night!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Who Needs Couples Counseling When There’s the Internet
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What’s For Dinner, Rice or Mac-n-Cheese?
An old friend of mine recently got back together with her favorite bust it baby. This man has managed to avoid commitment for two years but I guess he lost stamina because before the holidays hit he was bit by the “love bug”.
Now, I’m all excited for chick because she really loves dude. I don’t support the relationship, but hey, if you’re disillusioned into believing you’re happy than I’m happy for you.
I tell my girlfriends and they start laughing. One chick is like “hell no, I don’t believe it!” and the other simply states “sweat rice”.
Errruhhh…what rice? So she informs me that sweat rice is a recipe used by a woman who desperately wants to keep her man (more like a man that was never hers to keep in the first place). It’s a simple recipe that only requires rice and menstruation.
Yes, ladies and gentleman rice is needed! Oh wait, so is period blood…so pretty much the woman needs to cook her boo some rice and while it’s boiling, put the pot on the ground, stand over it with no panties on, and wait for her menstruation to drip drop into the pot.
Yummy much?
Once there’s enough menstruation in the pot, the desperate psycho woman can continue cooking the rice as usual and once cooled serve her man. Of course, chick can’t eat her own menstruation so she has to cook a separate pot of rice for herself or just claim to be on the Atkins Diet.
So my thing is, really? Rice and blood. What the fuck? Both women mentioned are from the West Indies, so I’m thinking this rice voodoo recipe is culturally influenced, but as a Southern Belle will the same affect occur with macaroni? Or cornbread? Or cheese grits? Or any other starchy southern delight?
I’m thinking sweat sweet potato pie may have sweat rice beat.
Aside from the disturbing recipe, I can’t fathom that chick would really menstruate into a pot of bubbling rice and peas just to get a nigga to stay.
That by far is the craziest and most desperate shit I’ve ever heard. Fuck poking holes into the condom! Is a dude really worth compromising your Christian beliefs for? So much for a blessed union…
And why the hell does the recipe call for blood from your cycle? So if a dude hits it raw while you’re on your period, will your flow upon his dick cause him to rethink leaving you for the other woman he’s scheduled to fuck later that day?
And why the fuck does the recipe call for rice? Like, what are they really trying to hint at? Now I love me some rice and peas, but I’m more of a macaroni and cheese girl. So are you saying my choice of starch won’t work. Will the noodles and blood make him LEAVE instead? Oh, the tragedy.
I’m just amazed that there’s such a thing as sweat rice. I don’t think chick would stoop as low to bleed into a pot of rice and then feed it to ole boy, but who knows, they are STILL together…*blank stare*
Now, I’m all excited for chick because she really loves dude. I don’t support the relationship, but hey, if you’re disillusioned into believing you’re happy than I’m happy for you.
I tell my girlfriends and they start laughing. One chick is like “hell no, I don’t believe it!” and the other simply states “sweat rice”.
Errruhhh…what rice? So she informs me that sweat rice is a recipe used by a woman who desperately wants to keep her man (more like a man that was never hers to keep in the first place). It’s a simple recipe that only requires rice and menstruation.
Yes, ladies and gentleman rice is needed! Oh wait, so is period blood…so pretty much the woman needs to cook her boo some rice and while it’s boiling, put the pot on the ground, stand over it with no panties on, and wait for her menstruation to drip drop into the pot.
Yummy much?
Once there’s enough menstruation in the pot, the desperate psycho woman can continue cooking the rice as usual and once cooled serve her man. Of course, chick can’t eat her own menstruation so she has to cook a separate pot of rice for herself or just claim to be on the Atkins Diet.
So my thing is, really? Rice and blood. What the fuck? Both women mentioned are from the West Indies, so I’m thinking this rice voodoo recipe is culturally influenced, but as a Southern Belle will the same affect occur with macaroni? Or cornbread? Or cheese grits? Or any other starchy southern delight?
I’m thinking sweat sweet potato pie may have sweat rice beat.
Aside from the disturbing recipe, I can’t fathom that chick would really menstruate into a pot of bubbling rice and peas just to get a nigga to stay.
That by far is the craziest and most desperate shit I’ve ever heard. Fuck poking holes into the condom! Is a dude really worth compromising your Christian beliefs for? So much for a blessed union…
And why the hell does the recipe call for blood from your cycle? So if a dude hits it raw while you’re on your period, will your flow upon his dick cause him to rethink leaving you for the other woman he’s scheduled to fuck later that day?
And why the fuck does the recipe call for rice? Like, what are they really trying to hint at? Now I love me some rice and peas, but I’m more of a macaroni and cheese girl. So are you saying my choice of starch won’t work. Will the noodles and blood make him LEAVE instead? Oh, the tragedy.
I’m just amazed that there’s such a thing as sweat rice. I don’t think chick would stoop as low to bleed into a pot of rice and then feed it to ole boy, but who knows, they are STILL together…*blank stare*
Swallowing Is So 2009
So I’m thinking my sexual practices may need to be revamped a little.
I met this guy. We saw a movie. We had a few meals. We had oral sex and I swallowed.
So he’s like yelling at me because I refuse to fuck him. The thought crossed by mind, but once I felt pressured I threw on my chastity belt and caught a major ‘tude. Dude was like, what the fuck are you scared I have something? Because whatever I have is already inside of you by now (FYI: hinting that you have a virus is not the way to convince a girl to fuck you).
So I start thinking and I’m like you’re right. He takes this RIGHT to mean sure we can fuck. I meant it as, omg I need to get tested ASAP and then get re-tested in 6 months and then pray and vow to never swallow semen again.
So here’s my problem, everyone’s all concerned about condoms during intercourse but what about during oral sex. I don’t now anyone who practices safe oral sex. I can’t imagine being lured into getting my pussy ate and then dude whipping out some dental dam. Talking about false pretenses!
Like, what the fuck. I wouldn’t dare suck a penis and not swallow, nor would I put a condom on a penis and suck it. But obviously swallowing isn’t safe. But neither is sucking the penis.
So what is a girl supposed to do when a beautiful, long, smooth, chocolate penis is an inch away from her mouth?
I guess grab a Trojan and sit on it instead.
I met this guy. We saw a movie. We had a few meals. We had oral sex and I swallowed.
So he’s like yelling at me because I refuse to fuck him. The thought crossed by mind, but once I felt pressured I threw on my chastity belt and caught a major ‘tude. Dude was like, what the fuck are you scared I have something? Because whatever I have is already inside of you by now (FYI: hinting that you have a virus is not the way to convince a girl to fuck you).
So I start thinking and I’m like you’re right. He takes this RIGHT to mean sure we can fuck. I meant it as, omg I need to get tested ASAP and then get re-tested in 6 months and then pray and vow to never swallow semen again.
So here’s my problem, everyone’s all concerned about condoms during intercourse but what about during oral sex. I don’t now anyone who practices safe oral sex. I can’t imagine being lured into getting my pussy ate and then dude whipping out some dental dam. Talking about false pretenses!
Like, what the fuck. I wouldn’t dare suck a penis and not swallow, nor would I put a condom on a penis and suck it. But obviously swallowing isn’t safe. But neither is sucking the penis.
So what is a girl supposed to do when a beautiful, long, smooth, chocolate penis is an inch away from her mouth?
I guess grab a Trojan and sit on it instead.
14K Baby-girl Hoop Earrings
So the Facebook has really gotten out of hand, like the shit is ridic. It reveals way too much, and is at this very moment telling me I need reconnect with Genise Coleman. Uhh…maybe I don’t want to reconnect with her, ever thought about that Mr. Zuckerberg.
Ultimately, FB allows you to passively keep in touch with people you have no business keeping in touch with. Cue the worst date I’ve ever been on…
So dude was a complete engineer dork in undergrad. He was skinny and had alopecia (like REALLY bad). I met him through a mutual friend, Genise Coleman (go figure) and we hit it off. Not in a sexual way, it was platonic…or so I thought. Years past, we fall out of touch but of course the FB kept us connected enough to inform dude that I’m single and have posted 12 new photos.
He took this “news feed” as the perfect opportunity to send me a message, but it turns out dude isn’t skinny anymore and his hair has grown back. He has an amazing body and hello! the electrical engineering degree doesn’t hurt either. We start poking and messaging one another. Numbers are exchanged. A date is set…and cue Scene 1.
Dude came to pick me up and I met him outside. The plan was dinner and a movie, so I had on a sexy red dress, black pumps, make up on point…your girl was scrumptious if I must say…and obviously dude thought the same thing because when he saw me his jaw dropped.
And so did mine.
Lets just say the FB is deceitfully reconnecting folk! Dude was still skinny. He was rocking black and white Chucks (guess I should have wore my Dickie dress and 5411's). Skinny jeans. A blue collared shirt that for some reason was unbuttoned to the middle of his bird chest. A dog tag necklace (minus the military necessity). Glasses. And earrings.
But not just any earrings. No they weren’t over-sized cubic zirconia studs. They were hoops. This negro had on TWO, baby-girl hoop earrings. For y’all that aren’t getting the visual, please imagine your little sister’s/nieces’/daughter’s first pair of earrings. I’m talking about a hoop so small they can never be worn past the age of two without looking utterly ridiculous.
But no…this negro thought stealing his baby sister’s hoop earrings as she slept in the crib was acceptable.
So we walk to the car and dude doesn’t even open the door for me.
We get to Brio. Conversation is good. Lighting is low, but not low enough to hide the fact that not only does he rock baby-girl hoop earrings, dude also wears colored contacts.
Brown, colored contacts.
And wait, his tongue is pierced.
So the romantic vibe in the room obviously skipped our table, because before I could fill up on bread dude admits to being a weed head.
He LOVES marijuana. Smoked some maryjane that morning. Claims that his herbal friend saved his life (and hair, hence the cured alopecia).
Turns out during his senior year of undergrad, dude was diagnosed with anxiety disorder. He took the prescribed medication for awhile but stumbled upon medicinal weed and hasn’t turned back since. Unfortunately, the campus police weren’t too fond of his new habit. They pulled him over one night but before the officer reached the car, dude swallowed the blunt. So even though no drugs were found on his persons or in the car, the campus legal department made him write a paper on what motivates him.
And of course, Ricky Williams is his role model.
I know this shit sounds made-up, but it gets so much weirder…
So dude tells me that he has a dealer in California and that the medicinal shit is like “…the best thing since Mary giving birth to Jesus”. I don’t know if characterizing an illegal substance as being almost as amazing as Jesus being born is correct, but hey…I’ve never smoked weed that keeps you high for three days so who am I to judge.
After learning all this shit in less than an hour, I wanted to skip the movie but all my friends were too punkish to see Paranormal Activity, so I figured a free movie wouldn’t hurt. Plus, who talks during a scary movie, riiight?
So we’re walking into the movie theater and dude stops me. He needs to go back to the car. Okay, cool right? It’s a tad bit chilly, I’m sure he needs to grab a jacket for the theater. He wants to make sure I’m warm, be a gentleman and make up for the car door mess-up.
Oh no…this nigga wants to go to his car to SMOKE some MEDICINAL WEED.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Like, are you serious? Like, do you really have weed in your car and are you really pressing pause on our date to get high? Oh wait, lets not forget I’ve been riding around in a car with a high black male who has at least ten ounces of prime marijuana in his possession. So now we’ve added a charge possession with intent to distribute to my date, yay…
There goes that bar card.
I try convincing him that he doesn’t…can’t…will get cursed the fuck out if he smokes. But he needs it; “it’ll make the paranormal even more paranormal”.
The date ends but dude has that I wanna come up look upon his face. He tells me that I have a nice ass and would love to see me again.
FUCK MY LIFE.
I rushed inside to tell my home girl about the date. She was ubberly excited, thinking this was it; I had reconnected with the man of my dreams. I told her that I was never going to talk to dude again, but she rationalized that people don’t always know how fucked up they are, and that I need to keep it real and let him know that baby-girl hoop earrings mixed with medicinal weed is unacceptable.
So this is what happens when keeping it real goes right…
Ultimately, FB allows you to passively keep in touch with people you have no business keeping in touch with. Cue the worst date I’ve ever been on…
So dude was a complete engineer dork in undergrad. He was skinny and had alopecia (like REALLY bad). I met him through a mutual friend, Genise Coleman (go figure) and we hit it off. Not in a sexual way, it was platonic…or so I thought. Years past, we fall out of touch but of course the FB kept us connected enough to inform dude that I’m single and have posted 12 new photos.
He took this “news feed” as the perfect opportunity to send me a message, but it turns out dude isn’t skinny anymore and his hair has grown back. He has an amazing body and hello! the electrical engineering degree doesn’t hurt either. We start poking and messaging one another. Numbers are exchanged. A date is set…and cue Scene 1.
Dude came to pick me up and I met him outside. The plan was dinner and a movie, so I had on a sexy red dress, black pumps, make up on point…your girl was scrumptious if I must say…and obviously dude thought the same thing because when he saw me his jaw dropped.
And so did mine.
Lets just say the FB is deceitfully reconnecting folk! Dude was still skinny. He was rocking black and white Chucks (guess I should have wore my Dickie dress and 5411's). Skinny jeans. A blue collared shirt that for some reason was unbuttoned to the middle of his bird chest. A dog tag necklace (minus the military necessity). Glasses. And earrings.
But not just any earrings. No they weren’t over-sized cubic zirconia studs. They were hoops. This negro had on TWO, baby-girl hoop earrings. For y’all that aren’t getting the visual, please imagine your little sister’s/nieces’/daughter’s first pair of earrings. I’m talking about a hoop so small they can never be worn past the age of two without looking utterly ridiculous.
But no…this negro thought stealing his baby sister’s hoop earrings as she slept in the crib was acceptable.
So we walk to the car and dude doesn’t even open the door for me.
We get to Brio. Conversation is good. Lighting is low, but not low enough to hide the fact that not only does he rock baby-girl hoop earrings, dude also wears colored contacts.
Brown, colored contacts.
And wait, his tongue is pierced.
So the romantic vibe in the room obviously skipped our table, because before I could fill up on bread dude admits to being a weed head.
He LOVES marijuana. Smoked some maryjane that morning. Claims that his herbal friend saved his life (and hair, hence the cured alopecia).
Turns out during his senior year of undergrad, dude was diagnosed with anxiety disorder. He took the prescribed medication for awhile but stumbled upon medicinal weed and hasn’t turned back since. Unfortunately, the campus police weren’t too fond of his new habit. They pulled him over one night but before the officer reached the car, dude swallowed the blunt. So even though no drugs were found on his persons or in the car, the campus legal department made him write a paper on what motivates him.
And of course, Ricky Williams is his role model.
I know this shit sounds made-up, but it gets so much weirder…
So dude tells me that he has a dealer in California and that the medicinal shit is like “…the best thing since Mary giving birth to Jesus”. I don’t know if characterizing an illegal substance as being almost as amazing as Jesus being born is correct, but hey…I’ve never smoked weed that keeps you high for three days so who am I to judge.
After learning all this shit in less than an hour, I wanted to skip the movie but all my friends were too punkish to see Paranormal Activity, so I figured a free movie wouldn’t hurt. Plus, who talks during a scary movie, riiight?
So we’re walking into the movie theater and dude stops me. He needs to go back to the car. Okay, cool right? It’s a tad bit chilly, I’m sure he needs to grab a jacket for the theater. He wants to make sure I’m warm, be a gentleman and make up for the car door mess-up.
Oh no…this nigga wants to go to his car to SMOKE some MEDICINAL WEED.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Like, are you serious? Like, do you really have weed in your car and are you really pressing pause on our date to get high? Oh wait, lets not forget I’ve been riding around in a car with a high black male who has at least ten ounces of prime marijuana in his possession. So now we’ve added a charge possession with intent to distribute to my date, yay…
There goes that bar card.
I try convincing him that he doesn’t…can’t…will get cursed the fuck out if he smokes. But he needs it; “it’ll make the paranormal even more paranormal”.
The date ends but dude has that I wanna come up look upon his face. He tells me that I have a nice ass and would love to see me again.
FUCK MY LIFE.
I rushed inside to tell my home girl about the date. She was ubberly excited, thinking this was it; I had reconnected with the man of my dreams. I told her that I was never going to talk to dude again, but she rationalized that people don’t always know how fucked up they are, and that I need to keep it real and let him know that baby-girl hoop earrings mixed with medicinal weed is unacceptable.
So this is what happens when keeping it real goes right…
When Keeping it Real Goes Right...
Me: So after last nite, I had a lot on my mind. I think ure a really cool person and I appreciate that u felt so comfortable that u were willing to open up to me. However, the weed seems to overly consume u. I sincerely thought hard about the way things went down & how u couldn't leave it alone; even for a few hours. We all have anxiety but it seems u cannot function w/o it. But to each his own. Yet, what really bothered me was that u put me in danger when I got n the car not knowing u had product w/u. U can do what u want bc ure grown, but my career aspirations r something I do not take lightly. U jeopardized my career by not telling me u were driving w/it n the car. Pls let ppl know b4 u offer them a ride so that they can make an informed decision whether or not to take a risk & ride w/u. Bc when u get stopped, the law says they can search me too. If they were 2 find something, I'd b taken down to the station until everything was sorted out.
Me: Next, & I may not b privy to this information but once I thought hard about it I had to ask, r u bisexual? It's nothing wrong w/it all. It's just there were a few things that went unmentioned but not unnoticed. I'm cool either way. Just thought I'd ask.
20 minutes later...
Ryan: Ugh, accidently erased what I was saying! Gimmie a min...
Me: Ok. Cool
Ryan: I didn't mean for you to feel uncomfortable in any way, my bad. I can completely understand where you're coming from and I wouldn't wanna be in the passenger seat if I was in your position.. It was VERY little :-/
Ryan: And I didn't mean to bring it up so often. U should'a just pointed me out on it + told me to STFU, j/k. Guess I'm use to hangin' around people who are smokers I guess.
Ryan: And the GAY thing really threw me off, but for some reason I got a good laugh out of it...
Me: Ok thx 4 understanding. I appreciate it. I guess next time I will tell u stfu lol but I just want u 2 b able 2 function...that's it
Ryan: If I seemed uncomfortable to u in any way it was b/c I was... Don't mean that in a bad way @ all. U're really a great person, just didn't know what 2 expect i guess.
Me: What do u mean by uncomfortable??
Ryan: Once I find a job I'll be strait. Really frustrated about not finding anything out there.. So wait, there's a next time? Hmmm....
At this point, I'm slamming the phone on the couch and yelling "FUCK!"
Ryan: U gotta explain the gay thing to me first. I'm finding this interesting. And I'm glad you're being honest w/ me.
Me: The reason I questioned ur sexuality was bc I have a very close gay friend & he looks like u... the baby girl hoop earrings, colored contacts, tongue piercing, & belly ring are all apart of his style. Those were the reasons
Ryan: There's a funny story behind the contacts too! (Ask me later)
Me: Ok r u high right now??? LoL
Ryan: No, making soup
Probably soup with weed in it...
Me: Well I'm just telling u what I perceived but I'm glad u cleared it up 4 me. My friend has all of those piercings!!! And contacts n every color LoL just b aware when a dude tries 2 brush up on ya lol
Ryan: It's actually happened B4 (dudes hittin on me that is)...
No shit Sherlock!
Me: I'm glad u c what I mean; men hitting on u lol
Ryan: ................ It all makes sense now...
10 minutes and half a bowl of weed soup later...
Ryan: WAIT - hoop earrings are gay???
Ryan: Damn, somebody forgot to send me the memo!
Ryan: So would u be willing to chill some other time? I PROMISE I won't bring up any of my smoking habits! Although I'm not really sure what 2 expect, I'd like 2 see u more often than once every 2 years, lol.
Me: Maybe...I have finals coming up so my time is limited. U still didn't answer my ? About u saying u were uncomfortable. U didn't explain??
Ryan: Well, I remember meeting u through that traitor Genise and I remember you being a really cool person. Guess I wasn't sure if it was a DATE or just 2 old friends going out, that's all. You were lookin' GOOD last night btw! My mind was all over the place.
The End.
If you don't have a blackberry get one! and if you have one but don't utilize your blackberry messenger, please do so! Saving a chat and emailing it to yourself is golden.
Me: Next, & I may not b privy to this information but once I thought hard about it I had to ask, r u bisexual? It's nothing wrong w/it all. It's just there were a few things that went unmentioned but not unnoticed. I'm cool either way. Just thought I'd ask.
20 minutes later...
Ryan: Ugh, accidently erased what I was saying! Gimmie a min...
Me: Ok. Cool
Ryan: I didn't mean for you to feel uncomfortable in any way, my bad. I can completely understand where you're coming from and I wouldn't wanna be in the passenger seat if I was in your position.. It was VERY little :-/
Ryan: And I didn't mean to bring it up so often. U should'a just pointed me out on it + told me to STFU, j/k. Guess I'm use to hangin' around people who are smokers I guess.
Ryan: And the GAY thing really threw me off, but for some reason I got a good laugh out of it...
Me: Ok thx 4 understanding. I appreciate it. I guess next time I will tell u stfu lol but I just want u 2 b able 2 function...that's it
Ryan: If I seemed uncomfortable to u in any way it was b/c I was... Don't mean that in a bad way @ all. U're really a great person, just didn't know what 2 expect i guess.
Me: What do u mean by uncomfortable??
Ryan: Once I find a job I'll be strait. Really frustrated about not finding anything out there.. So wait, there's a next time? Hmmm....
At this point, I'm slamming the phone on the couch and yelling "FUCK!"
Ryan: U gotta explain the gay thing to me first. I'm finding this interesting. And I'm glad you're being honest w/ me.
Me: The reason I questioned ur sexuality was bc I have a very close gay friend & he looks like u... the baby girl hoop earrings, colored contacts, tongue piercing, & belly ring are all apart of his style. Those were the reasons
Ryan: There's a funny story behind the contacts too! (Ask me later)
Me: Ok r u high right now??? LoL
Ryan: No, making soup
Probably soup with weed in it...
Me: Well I'm just telling u what I perceived but I'm glad u cleared it up 4 me. My friend has all of those piercings!!! And contacts n every color LoL just b aware when a dude tries 2 brush up on ya lol
Ryan: It's actually happened B4 (dudes hittin on me that is)...
No shit Sherlock!
Me: I'm glad u c what I mean; men hitting on u lol
Ryan: ................ It all makes sense now...
10 minutes and half a bowl of weed soup later...
Ryan: WAIT - hoop earrings are gay???
Ryan: Damn, somebody forgot to send me the memo!
Ryan: So would u be willing to chill some other time? I PROMISE I won't bring up any of my smoking habits! Although I'm not really sure what 2 expect, I'd like 2 see u more often than once every 2 years, lol.
Me: Maybe...I have finals coming up so my time is limited. U still didn't answer my ? About u saying u were uncomfortable. U didn't explain??
Ryan: Well, I remember meeting u through that traitor Genise and I remember you being a really cool person. Guess I wasn't sure if it was a DATE or just 2 old friends going out, that's all. You were lookin' GOOD last night btw! My mind was all over the place.
The End.
If you don't have a blackberry get one! and if you have one but don't utilize your blackberry messenger, please do so! Saving a chat and emailing it to yourself is golden.
No, I'm Not Dead
It’s been a year since I’ve written anything and had enough guts to publish it. I made the mistake of letting my blog become privy to certain classmates, and lets just say...some folk are too sensitive for the subject matter.
So all of a sudden I became this passive-aggressive person who was too scared to write shit about people’s relationships and sex lives and just gave up on the blog. Not to mention school got a little too hectic to write about sex or lack thereof.
But I’m back…like for real for real.
Not much has changed. I’m in my last semester of law school, yay! I’m still single. And yes, I still loathe baby on board stickers.
I’ve been writing in my diary like overload, but some of those thoughts are too dark and Adele on repeat-ish to reveal.
2008 came and went. I spent New Years in Atlanta and the resolution was to “stop enabling folk”. How’d that shit go? Pretty darn well I'd have to say. Lost a few friends and family members, but all in all I feel good about my actions.
So for 2010, the resolution is to work on becoming MORE “self-aware” (as though self-awareness has infinite levels to achieve). I’m almost 25 and about to step into the real world. No more school. No more “Mommy can I borrow some money because financial aid hasn’t hit yet”.
No more childhood (@ a low volume, this is when MJ’S Childhood would come in…“Have you seen my childhood?”).
Guess it’s time to grow the fuck up. Pay back these student loans. Take come state’s bar exam. Get a salary job (with benefits, oh my!). Who knows…maybe I’ll even get fucked on the wall this year, eh?
So all of a sudden I became this passive-aggressive person who was too scared to write shit about people’s relationships and sex lives and just gave up on the blog. Not to mention school got a little too hectic to write about sex or lack thereof.
But I’m back…like for real for real.
Not much has changed. I’m in my last semester of law school, yay! I’m still single. And yes, I still loathe baby on board stickers.
I’ve been writing in my diary like overload, but some of those thoughts are too dark and Adele on repeat-ish to reveal.
2008 came and went. I spent New Years in Atlanta and the resolution was to “stop enabling folk”. How’d that shit go? Pretty darn well I'd have to say. Lost a few friends and family members, but all in all I feel good about my actions.
So for 2010, the resolution is to work on becoming MORE “self-aware” (as though self-awareness has infinite levels to achieve). I’m almost 25 and about to step into the real world. No more school. No more “Mommy can I borrow some money because financial aid hasn’t hit yet”.
No more childhood (@ a low volume, this is when MJ’S Childhood would come in…“Have you seen my childhood?”).
Guess it’s time to grow the fuck up. Pay back these student loans. Take come state’s bar exam. Get a salary job (with benefits, oh my!). Who knows…maybe I’ll even get fucked on the wall this year, eh?
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