Vaginas are shifty...you never know where they might wind up.
So last night, like millions of hoodwinked Americans, I went out in search of a comfortable place to smell some new boys watch Pacquiao/Mosley pick up their checks. Like may Americans, I found the pre-fight concert the most entertaining, though I couldn’t hear any of it.
Brief rewind: It was my friend D-Nice’s bday, so we went out and had a few early in the evening. I had had a few before having a few, but it was all pretty spread out so my last drink was at around 9 pm.
Brief side story: She has a really cool Nigerian friend who bears a striking resemblance to Jamie Foxx (which was made exponentially more hilarious once the actual Jamie Foxx shows up on screen at the fight). He and I leave the bar together in search of a nearby place to watch the “fight.” Needless to say, everyone I run into thinks we’re together, this Jamie Bumaye and I, which posed a few interesting ethical dilemmas throughout the night. But I think I need to write a Dear Abby letter about how you introduce someone without saying, “Wow, this ngga and me?? Naw!!!!”
Anywho, we settle on this place, a very low-key chill spot where the owner’s dog is known to mingle with the visitors. A place unscathed yet by random riffraff, where there’s literally a framed photo of Angela Lansbury in the unisex bathroom. I shit you not…though a public bathroom would be an appropriate place had I in fact, been shitting you.
A place where you run into mad dudes you know who insist you drink too.
I know my reputation precedes me, but I allege that I was not drunk. If you had seen my bday friend you would have a suitable visual for bent, as the young people say; and I, as I say, was slightly curved, at best. Nowhere near drunk. Scouts' Honor.
I know this because when I stand up to go to visit Mrs. Lansbury (such a shame her sleuth talents were wasted in that violent little town. A city like Newark could really use her), there was no wooz in my step, no stumble or upheaval in my heels. It was after midnight, in between rounds (of the fight, not bar tab), and I made it to through the crowded space to the bathroom without incident.
And it was when I returned to my seat that I checked all four pockets, out of habit, and realized I didn’t have my phone. I immediately doubled back to the bathroom and Jessica Fletcher didn’t have it either. And I could have REALLY used her to help solve the mystery that was about to unfold.
Whatever, I really didn’t think much of it. I was off in a lounge slightly off the beaten path with an entry parlour with a decidedly Elizabethan homage. In other words, it’s not the kind of place where shit ends up on Craigslist…or does it?
After the place clears out, we’ve dispatched the bartenders and owner to aid in the search. We’ve called the number, we’ve turned over ottomans, we’ve damn near done hand-to-hand checks. Nothing.
I’m upset, but upbeat. I’m the designated driver, the undrunk among us and therefore the voice of reason and authority. I’m the grown up, and grown ups tend to assume similar grown upmanship from others. So I steered us in the direction of home fairly confident that my phone would be back with momma by Mother’s Day. But I called her just for moral support, knowing she’d cuss and comfort in a consoling balance. Aaaaaaand of course she playing hard to get. Sigh.
Make a pit stop at the clubhouse and run into this guy, who has a penchant for speaking in jokes. It’s cute. He starts going in on bday friend about her abundant and outgoing cleavage, and yet at that moment I have no idea of the direct irony of the banter.
Two drunk drop-offs and an hour later, I’m home. Thinking ahead, I have plans for Sunday afternoon, so I get on Facebook to send my friend a heads up about my situation, and there’s a message from Random High School Guy: “Wise, is that you in your profile pic?” Odd inquiry, because Random High School Guy is in fact Neighborhood Elementary School Guy who knew me back in ’85 when that pic of me was taken…Except, it’s not that cute lil kid pic staring back at me.
It’s my torso, nekkid as the handyman’s penis day is long, holding an ice-cold bear bottle.
Suddenly I realize that riffraff are everywhere; a lesson I should have learned from Mrs. Lansbury.
I scroll down and see some felonious status updates: “I just went home with a white guy with the biggest dick every.”
Now first of all, like three statuses ago I was railing on people whose kids don’t know the King’s English and typee likee thisss, so I’m mad nobody thought this was out of character for me, even drunk. The pure comedy tho: one of my boys, actually ‘liked’ the shit. *morgue*
“Who wants it” was another one.
By this time, approximately 4 am, a couple of people have commented but not many. I delete the photo and go into crisis aversion mode, changing passwords, confirming privacy modes, deactivating the phone and the like. I send my crew an email letting them know the deal and making sure nobody got any foolish emails or texts, and realize that my BBM is out of my reach and I have no clue what photos/msgs might be on there. Sigh.
I’m not terribly mortified by the unsolicited unveiling. It would be different if it was me, say, blowing a bone (felatio, keep up), or perhaps if I was splayed out all crazy, flower reaching for the heavens. But it was just my body, neck to thigh, and a Bud Light Lime to cool me off. The hint of a rounded boob, a sucked-in middle, some leg and well, full-on cooch couture. Tasteful and simple-sexy. (Listen, I'm a cell phone self-portrait LEGEND. I am the cellular Annie Leibovitz, for real). Though I’m a woman with considerable insecurities, I’m not particularly shy about my body (WHATEVER! The only reason I'm not fazed is because I look DOPE in it *shruggery*), but the idea that someone else, a piece of shit stranger, is holding power over what OTHERS might consider shameful, makes me furious.
Fuck you, phone bandit and your insignificant dick. I sleep well after the clean up.
Then I wake up to this email: “It’s still up, Weezy.”
Sonofa.
He can see it but I can’t. Shadybook.
“Most folks probably didn’t see it and at least it wasn’t a face shot (and ur face won’t be on ebonylust.com (not a real site…or is it???) However, I THOROUGHLY enjoyed it. lol :)”
“A couple people commented on it. No biggie,” I respond. “And thank you. It kind of IS an enjoyable photo, so no worries…but wow, my vagina was on Facebook!”
So what have we learned today?
- Don’t take and KEEP nudie pics of yourself that you don’t want nameless High School Guy to see. Consider it an online 10-year class reunion…you wanna look your best when you run into these Honor Society ass muhfuckas.
- Now’s a good time to reevaluate the arbitrary ass people you’ve friended. I am a huge proponent of the FB purgatory, you know, that place where you let those questionable requests go to die. Mostly, I just don’t check it enough to even know that I’ve been requested, or I have no clue who the person is, or it’s someone like an ex whose whereabouts and general shenanigans I don’t necessarily want to be privy to, or it’s a young relative who can’t even spell and I don’t want to be
judgmentalembarrassed every time I speak to their parents, or it’s someone in apposition of authority who don’t need to know that I was traipsing around in South Beach and not in the office.
2b. I say all that to say, who else would have been up at 4 am to see the debut of Showtime Vagina?...Bammas I don’t know who consequently are paid members over at youjizz.com (real site, NSFW or a computer you share with your kids or spouse if said spouse thinks you have a porn problem), a lonely ex, your 12-year-old nephew, your lonely-horny boss/professor, and of course, grandma.
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