How My Vagina Ended up on Facebook

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?

1. 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.
2. 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 judgmental embarrassed 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.  

And that, my fair-weather frienemies, is how my perfectly polite, meticulously manicured, fantastically photogenic juicebox ended up in the devil’s playground.

Euro Pt. I: Quo Vadis

Broadway: “He would have never got on that train if he knew you would’ve blown him. And I hurt for him for not knowing.”

Wise: “I would have. Unequivocally. But he would have left still, albeit fully aroused. Undoubtedly. And that’s why I am absolutely smitten.”

It reminded me immediately of this spot on Greene Street that I used to go to all the time when I first moved to the City. Except on this night in 2011 the city was London, not New York circa ‘99, though I was quickly drawing a convincing comparative analysis between the metropoli. Located in the Trans-Atlantic analogous neighborhood of Soho, my company usurped my rapt attention.

If I was a younger me, still beholden to the imagined shackles of what-ifery, I would have taken solid and copious mental notes. I’d remember not only the name of the drink that made us both pause in pure delight, but the pleasing ingredients. Instead, I blocked access to the left lane of my brain, the one leading to mindless infatuation, and instead focused on the components that helped us settle into a comfortably relaxed and disciplined conversation: equal parts liquor, laughs, and lust.

Back in the Greene St. days, conversations with a handsome young man would veer ultimately toward career: How long you been in NY? Where did you go to school? Where do you work? Tell me about the company you just started. But fast forward a decade and these convos almost always take the scenic route through a discussion about relationships: Do you date? Is marriage on your radar? I thought everyone wanted kids. Though the talk has shifted, the Vaseline effect of whatever liquor is flowing hasn’t changed. Thank GOD.

Have you ever met a famous person and been dumb confused about what the fuck just happened? Like, when you discover that dude from TV who is mad fine is also mad midgety.

Better yet, what about how making real-life introductions with old internet buddies is NEVER, ever what you imagined. They’re not as funny or sexy, the conversation not as fluid when spoken words replace LOLs and #weirdcatchphrasesyallthinkyallmadeup, and they have a nervous tick that was impossible to detect even via Skype. This was not that. The evening began in the hotel lobby when he stood up and was not, as I had expected feared, eye-level to Gary Coleman (RIP).

On the short ride on the subway that makes NY’s look like an underground shithole, we sat close enough to nudge flirtatious elbows, but didn't; a simple statement established boundaries like a pull-down arm rest.

“I started seeing this woman recently, and it was interesting trying to explain how I ‘know’ you.”

[Begin Chapter I of "The Story of My Life: A Tragedy" by So Wise]

The following progression was appropriate: first, a noisy British pub, pretending I couldn’t handle a whole pint of Stella and accepting a half, taking sips of his gin. Struggling to protect the sinking secret that I’m not as awesome when there’s no typing involved.

The crawl then progressed to the Soho spot. It was down this slightly dodgy alley (with cobblestones that didn't quite agree with my heels) and beyond the unassuming façade, in the center of a foyer that felt warmed by an open fire, that we took off our jackets for the first time that evening.

There’s really nothing better than a good drink with someone good-looking.

Even if you can’t have them.

The truth is, I didn’t even allow myself to imagine my face rubbing against the inside of his strong thighs. That would have tainted the pleasure of the improbability. Instead, I relished in the fulfillment of my long-suffering wanderlust and a great drink matched with even greater convo.

There was another bar and another drink afterward, but I choose to end my recollection here, in Soho--UK not NY. Seated, loose, unencumbered finally by the anxiety of whatever conclusions he’d drawn of the me sitting across the table and not across a computer screen. I traveled across an ocean and spent an evening drinking with a man I had had a crush on for five years or so. And he exceeded every expectation, whether real or digital.

Isn’t that what travel is? What it does? Lets you stare into the eyes, study the surface of the lips, examine the intellect and humor, ogle the crotch landmarks—without guilt of covetousness—of a space that is not your own, but is yours to explore.

A decade ago, in the Greene St. days, I would have lost my way in his confident eye contact, stopped his lips mid-sip and pressed them to mine, completely defenseless against his acute observations and effortless sense of humor and sturdy frame and manly ass and familiar Caribbean accent and alarmingly rugged handsomeness. Today, my boundaries and respect wouldn’t even allow me to take a picture with, literally, the man of my damn dreams. A lesser bitch would have been happy to swallow.

London is a lot like NYC, and I immediately felt like I had been there before…yet had no idea where I was going. Still, I was utterly smitten.

WHAT IT LOOK LIKE

"Babe, do I look like I can fcuk?"

"YO. You look like eating pu**y is a bullet point on your resume."

And there it is.

Coincidentally, I've been having this conversation a lot lately. Particularly with male friends, and then followed up and confirmed with females. Do you know anyone who isn’t all that attractive, but gets a whole LOT of ass? Or maybe someone who is super sweet and nice and charming, but gets NONE. Or the complete bitch whose phone STAYS lit up. Or asshole Jack who NEVER sleeps alone?

It’s puzzling at first, cuz maybe you ask yourself if you’d do them and the answer is a resounding no. Or perhaps, you just know them really well, seen the havoc they wreak in their lives and just can’t understand how people keep getting caught up in it.

It’s really not as simple as just, ‘Pu**y’s a hellavu drug’ (tho it is), or ‘Dick can blind you’ (tho it the hell can).

I’m pretty sure it’s simply because owner of said genitalia in question just LOOKS like they can dish it.

I had this real whore of a roommate when I first moved to Brooklyn. She’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother day, but the point is she used to get it IN! Every few nights chick would have a new dude in the sack. When my peeps came to visit for the first time, I basically pimped her out to one of my boys, who later said, “Damn, Wise. All I had to do was show up!” She didn’t have much in the way of face or personality, though she was a fitness fanatic so she at least kept it together physically.

My friends and I decided she had Pheromones. That was our thing. Anytime someone would pull somebody who was out of their league, or pull someone at ALL despite facial bustation, we’d say, ‘I think so and so got pheromones.’

Pheromones of course are: chemicals that trigger a natural behavioral response in another member of the same species. It’s like an undetectable fragrance that attracts the opposite sex. But even that’s only half the story.

Take a second please, and think about the people you wanna give it to right now. What is it about them? I’m not talking on a spiritual or mental level. I’m talking purely primal. Urgent.

Now think of the perfectly attractive, nice, cool people in your life who want desperately to hit you up. Why won’t you give it up? Why do you keep that person in the friend lane?

Real talk? Because they don’t look like they can fcuk.

It’s what ego-protectors like myself have been neglecting to say for years now, to the perfectly nice young men who try, to no avail, to get wit it. It’s the answer to the debate about why women (allegedly) prefer thugs to nerds. Why nice guys finish last.

Plenty of nice guys get it. It’s the nice ones who don’t look like they can work it that lose out.

Same with women. Bitches? Men love them because they carry their bitch asses like they can suck a mean one. Fast tail Lil.Wayne looking girls? Yessir. Dudes can see right through the Vase.line face and can tell they’ll do whatever. It’s all in the eyes. Meanwhile, there are scores of genuinely good women sitting at home watching Top.Chef instead of um...getting served up.

So fellas, if you’re not getting none, it’s not that light skinned dudes are back in, or that color contact nggas are back. It’s not that you have no game. It’s not even that you’re ugly or corny. It’s that you look like your bed game is limp.

Mamacitas, you go to happy hour every week with your girls, make up flawless, dress and heels tight…but it be the same one of your girls getting the numbers? It’s not that your ass isn’t big enough. Or that you’re not showing enough cleveland. Or that your weave’s crooked (tho I’ma need you to straighten that up, por favor). It’s just that THAT chick looks like Betty Back Shot. I mean, a dead ringer.

I could be wrong…but let’s find out.

What things make you look twice?

How would you describe Look Like You Can Fcuk Lookin Boy/Girl?

NINE'S NOT A TEN

I'm not saying it's right. In fact, it's abhorrent and skanky.

But LOOK at him...and many other husbands like him who are powerful and largely unattractive.

All I'm saying is, chick prolly ain't wit him for the nooky.

So what's a trollish, insecure and underblown elected official to do?

That is all.

Are Dudes Really That Dumb...or Is The Chick Wrote This Shit?

My Neil only admitted to one of these, and while I won't blow up his spot, I will say that I was relieved to learn it was a pretty good mistake. ;)

So I wonder what you think of this list. I'll insert my commentary later...
PS...no, I didnt write these)


1.No matter how skinny we are, NEVER feel our back-fat whilst making love

2.Do NOT lean on our hair

3.Be careful with the nipples

4.Don’t ever feel our legs because there is a chance we haven’t shaved them and we will be VERY aware of that fact

5.Fanny farts are your fault, not ours

6.But it helps if you laugh afterwards because then we don’t feel so embarrassed

7.In the morning, do us a favour and leave the room for a couple of minutes because no matter how sexy we look naked or how much we need the toilet we will be very conscious about getting out of the bed in front of you

8.Don’t sweat so much!

9.Phrases such as ‘you drive me nuts’ and ‘fuck fuck fuck’ are banned

10.Do not rip our underwear off – chances are we spent about 3 hours trying to decide which underwear to wear and we would really appreciate it if you noticed. Perhaps a ‘that underwear looks really sexy’ would be good

11.Our private areas are to be treated with respect, you are in no means allowed to treat it like it is your last meal

12.Some girls just dont like morning sex (but some do)....so if you are getting the signs that she is up for it then fair play, but it should be quite blatantly obvious when morning sex is not on the cards - so pack it in and go and put the kettle on

13.….and please don’t attempt to try and do stupid positions like wrapping our legs around our head first thing in the morning cause we are still pretty stiff

14.The key is to kiss our neck, not eat our ears….

15.….and don’t kiss the same place for ages cause it get pretty boring

16.Feet are a no go area

17.What gives you the right to think you can go anywhere near our arse for the first 10 times we have sex……

18.….but don’t be surprised if we go near yours (cause you know you love it)

19.Don’t push our heads down when you want head, cause the chances are we will get pissed off and probably spit your load in your mouth

20.When we are on top, just lie there and enjoy…..don’t start thrusting because then we lose the rhythm and feel like we are about as crap as a virgin (and any chances of us enjoying it have just gone out of the window)

21.Candles and music are good, lights on is a big no no

22. A girl should shudder a bit after she has come (if she doesn’t, you have failed and she will be annoyed)

23.Cupping the face makes us feel special

24.Find out if she has any injuries, then you can reduce the risk of hurting her…..

25.……but pain is sometimes good, just in a certain way

26.If the covers start to fall off the bed, pull them back over as we will be very conscious of the fact that we are in full view

27.Don’t try and take our bra off unless you know for sure you can do it….this leads to a highly embarrassing pause

28.Don’t try and pick us up, no matter how small we are we are at least 8 stone….and if it is less then check ID immediately

29.Know your own strengths, if you are crap at certain things then don’t even go there

30.Don’t say thank you afterwards because then we feel like prostitutes

31.No turning your back on us after sex

32.No morning kisses (we will probably be fully aware of bad breath particularly if we have been smoking/drinking/giving head)

33.Turn round temporarily so that we can wipe the mascara shit out of our eyes

34.Foreplay is essential – if you go straight in for the kill you a re likely to lose major points (and be gentle)

35.Always make sure there are tissues on hand

36.If you try and make us come too early we will not be interested in what’s to follow, but if you do it too late we will think you are crap….timing is important

37.Taking memento’s is not big, not clever, we will notice and you will not be asked back again

38.For fucks sake tidy your room beforehand

39.The fact we are shagging you on the first night does not make us a whore, it just means we feel like we have to have sex with you in order to keep you

40.Be vocal! How are we supposed to know if we are doing it right......

41.If a girl says she is about to come, you are doing it TOTALLY wrong and she wants it to all be over. We say this because we know you will come in about 10 seconds.... (the same goes for when we suggest doing it doggy style)

LAUGH NOW

Wrapped neatly in a shiny red bow, my laugh is the gift that keeps on giving. It is by far among God’s greatest creations. Is there a more versatile weapon than The Laugh?

It is a social lubricant of sorts. A well-timed laugh can ease an awkward silence, and even endear a stranger. It’s widely documented that I generally dislike People, so can you imagine NOT having the option of laughing behind one’s back?? *shudder*

It is a natural punctuation. Small giggles hook long explanations like commas. Drawn out cackles connect compound sentences…like an ellipsis. Inappropriate laughs clank like dangling participles or grammatically incorrectibles. Involuntarily, often.

Ever diffuse a situation with the simple stroke of a snicker? Tension high and thick like butter. Then a loud, languid laugh slices through it like a warm knife. Now that’s power. Speaking of which…

Laughter garners control. While on the one hand it aims to charm and perhaps even disarm, a laugh is lethal when flexed like a strong arm. I’ll admit, I’m not exactly always conscious and calculated about it, but I recognize it when it happens. The effect is fantastic, as power tends to be.

But what happens when you find that the big stick you wield is no longer the biggest on the block? When your laugh is merely the baseline for another? When you’re the one disarmed and charmed? When that other laugh resonates, echoes even, at decibels beyond your capacity?

My legs parted slightly, trembling already, involuntarily of course. A tongue tracing in ALL CAPS along my skin, exclamation points abound. My mind a mess of meandering moments, maybe more or less than a full second. Not sure. Lost, kind of.

Generously self-lubricated and aware that I generally dislike People, but let this one in. Deep, in fact.

To the point of no return. Beyond the door at which control is checked and relinquished.

A shiny red ribbon tying neat figure 8s around My Spot. It’s no joke now. Ask my legs. They refuse to stop shivering. Ask my mind, and you’ll get no answer. Blank stares as I’m climbing blank stairs, no labels or signs to direct me.

My legs parted wide, the trembling now concentrated under my skin where I can’t reach it. And though my hands are useless anyways, occupied by scalp, I don’t want anything altered. Not the rhythm, not the angle, not anything about this particular pubic probe.

Except that would require relinquishing control. And I can’t even do that, just this once.

Cue the well-timed Laugh. Long and lean like an interfering defensive back. Blindsiding the moment...mid-munch.

The abrupt awkward silence. My legs wide shut. Tight. The recall of personal space...and control. Such a versatile weapon.

The greatest gift…and curse.

Damn.

DELIRIUM AT DAWN

I don’t even really fuck wit mornings like that…but we been coexisting of late.

So I woke up early this morning without provocation. Shuffled to the back door to water the plants. Sun shining but not hot. Opened the fridge. Scanned the eggs, cheese, turkey. French Vanilla creamer.

Decided to go out for breakfast.

I been slacking on my running. Nursing a sore groin and avoiding a necessary trip to Lady Foot.L0cker. Plus school.

So I pulled on some shorts and a whitebeater (as my nephew says. Yeah, his daddy’s a racist). Loosened the laces on my snug kicks. Clipped on some music and hit the door.

Hitting the pavement felt good. As did the light perspiration that ensued shortly thereafter. Ran up on a crumpled dollar on the curb, stooped to scoop it. Must be my lucky day. I rounded the edge of the park, crossed Charles St. and dipped into the bank. My head spun the minute I stopped moving. Stomach empty. Lightheaded. Had a hard time trying to line up the damn columns on the ATM machine, which is a difficult enough task even when I’m not dizzy.

Ducked back out. Deep breath. Unpaused Wycl.ef. Let my feet move me the next few blocks to the new A’rab take out. Crossing another main street, bouncing in place, I glance back, out of habit. This Bawtuhmore, son. That’s what you do.

And I almost lost my balance.

Almost dropped my keys and cash.

I spun completely. Scanned the side street and alley. Nothing. I sighed and dragged myself inside the spot.

“Lemme get a egg, cheese and turkey on whole wheat, pls. And a small French vanilla coffee.”

I wandered over to the door as I waited. Watched the morning pass by. Got my food and walked home, hot coffee and paper bag in hand. I walked a different route. Toward what I know I had seen a few minutes prior. Lightheaded...

A flash of solid oak. And sweat drizzled thereof.

I’d recognize that back anywhere. And that bouquet of locs.

Right??

Sigh.

MORNING... AFTER

[YESSSS...I'm still SEXIN STRONG, via blog that is. The events detailed in this post provided the real life initial inspiration for my marathon multiple blogasms...Enjoy. ~Management]
===


Last Monday...


It's always best in the morning...after a full night's insomnia. Tossing and turning, anxious for dawn to usher in the energy and hope of another day. The morning…after I’ve been satisfied.

On this morning, I caught my breath and stepped one foot onto the hardwood floor…the contrasting sensation of cold zipping like mercury through my heat.

The blast of water in the shower has a similar effect in the morning…after a full night’s sweat.

In the 30 or so steps it takes to get from the porcelain foot of the tub to the window in my bedroom, my skin has already absorbed the excess mist. Summer is on hiatus at the moment, as the storm clouds bum rush my horizon. Humidity plays sidekick. The muscle.

There’s something about the rain in the morning…after a hot midnight. The earth’s shower. There’s something about its cadence upon impact on my windowsill. On the concrete. Atop the hood of my car parked just across the street.

I stand in front of the window, the vertical blinds allowing only strips of a vertictal view. I see my car and the rain’s onslaught. And I wanna get back into bed. I want the sheets to umbrella me.

I turn toward my shelter, when out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse through the blinds.

A thigh.

Then a forearm.

A cross-trained foot pulled up to a taught...

My eyes are bad, but I can see that ass clearly.

I’m moving my head slowly, left to right…boring a hole through the blinds.

He’s all charcoal skin. Sinewy, shirtless stretches. Dreads tied back. Arms dented with strength.

At the moment, I need to be reached. I need his arms not on the tree parked beside my ride, but rooted on my sides.

Instead, I’m now rubbing lotion there on me, as I do most mornings. After all, ashy ain’t a good look when you’re expecting company.

Every morning I stand in this exact spot, at this exact time, flirting with the commuters down below who have no idea that nakedness dances just beyond the blinds. If only they’d look up.

I’d wave.

Or perhaps there is someone just beyond the blinds just across the street, also 3 floors up, looking directly across at me looking down. If only they’d let me know.

I’d hide.

If only the charcoal man would look up from his morning jog out in the rain. If only he’d turn his attention away from the tree on which he is leaning for balance. Stretching, bending, reaching for the rain clouds.

I’d throw down my house key.

If only I knew he was coming. We’d both be, right about now.

But I never listen to my dreams. When I saw him, around midnight, in a sleepless dream, I rolled over and counted the hours ‘til morning.

He's gone now. A blur in the rain.

I almost run after him.

TONITE'S THE NIGHT LIKE BET.TY WRIGHT...

And now the second installment in the SEX WEEK series...(part 1)


“My sister said you’re home.”
“Hello to you, too, B. Long time. I thought you were gonna email me.”
“Come over,” Bryan answered. Weazy took a deep breath, knowing that her summer wouldn’t be the same if she complied.
“What, you big sophomore in college now so you can’t come see an old friend who knew you before you were grown?”
“Where are you living now, Bryan? Kinney told me what went down with (grand)Ma.” Within an hour the pair were sitting side by side on Kinney’s boyfriend’s couch in the basement of his apartment. A six-pack of wine coolers separated their thighs. This was their routine. Long talks after long disappearances. There was always so much catching up to do, between Weazy’s college exploits, and Bryan’s drama with his grandmother and uncles.
“So who you let have my cherry?” He finally asked, tossing the last bottle onto the floor.
“Excuse me, your what?” He winked his way through her mild aggravation, leaned over and planted a moist peck on her forehead, then lips. It was perhaps their thousandth kiss. Up to that point it was the staple of their horizontal history. There was always an attraction, always cohesion to their conversations, always quality in their quiet times. There just wasn’t much of a bond. They were friends who happened to make the other wet or hard.

Back in high school they spent days in Bryan’s grandmother’s basement that should have been spent in classrooms. She would brave the winters at the bus stop, counting the minutes until she’d be warmly wrapped in his lanky arms. They logged hours on the telephone. Double dated with Kinney and her barrage of boyfriends. But they were never considered an item. Weren’t prom dates, nor at the top of the other’s Christmas list.

Yet, as Weazy approached 21, and the halfway point of her college years, the yearning was becoming more pronounced. There were college boys with off-campus apartments. Boys with advanced degrees in sexuality that far exceeded Weazy’s desires. She wanted to go some of the way, but was unwilling to go all the way. Not without a map.

At the moment, Bryan’s hands were headed in the right direction. They slid from the side of her face to the side of her chest. Soon her breasts were swept up into his hands, and soon his face found respite there. He unleashed her flesh from the simple brassiere, and before the dank basement air could hit, his mouth covered her tepid nipples. Another of his signature moves, performed on countless occasions. One that elicited the slightest of moans each and every time. This time there was a sigh. And a smile. And a silent recognition and appreciation for the comfort. The familiarity. The fervor.

She pursed her lips to purr and was met with a wet set. With her eyes closed she could practically draw in each line and crease that etched the small pillows he called lips. They had a feather’s touch, and each time her lips met his, she felt the urge to pull away and inspect his for an imprint. Weazy was no slouch. She parted the siege with the precision of the anointed, allowing her tongue to announce its graceful arrival.

If all else failed, kissing was her thing. It was her area of mastery. A kissing bandit of sorts, she found sport in planting juicy ones, wielding wet lips like a sword. Kissing got her out of many a jam. In middle school she learned that when a boy’s fast hands were jogging well beyond her intended destination, a few deep kisses to the neck could buy enough time to distract and redirect her panties up north. It did little but agitate in high school, but college brought on a new life lesson. The penis was not the only powerful pressure point in the pelvic region. And hitting the others with the lips causes a frenzy that can easily divert immediate oral expectations.

Guys had gone down on her and seemed happy to do it. So she never even lifted her chin to reciprocate. Not out of spite. Out of fear and foresight. Fear of getting it wrong, but with the foresight to know that her name would be sullied from one end of the campus to the next. So kissing remained her staple, because even pretending goes a long way.

But with Bryan there was a respect built. A trust that allowed her to give without regret. So when she had given every inch of her tongue to his mouth, she portioned it out across the rest of his body. She straddled his chest and took in the shimmering green tint of his gaze. His mouth was tilted toward her, begging, but she focused her attention instead on the cleft in his chin. She liked the scratchy stubble against her skin. He liked the trail of kisses from there to his chest.
She lingered at the thin wisps of hair there. He squirmed his way to the left until his nipple was eye to eye with her tongue.
She loved to pay homage to the protruding scar on the left side of his torso. He would have preferred she skip that route, but held her hunches in place there anyway.
She tried inching down but felt a long barricade against her backside. Though he was poised to position her center in the direction of the erection, he allowed her to choose her own adventure.

She chose to U-turn.

He lifted up onto his hands, his chest plastered against her back, which now faced him. Her face pointed toward the socks still on his feet. He leaned back onto the pullout couch in the dark basement of his sister’s boyfriend’s crib, and lightly yet with an entitled authority placed two hands on her back. Pressed her forward.

Horizontal. Naked. Knees against ears. Their clothes now a casualty. They waged war simultaneously.

She surrendered just moments before him.

*

The next night…

“Yo, we 69’ed!”
“Yeah right.”
“Stated. That’s my word.”
“Aight, nigga.”
“Lemme get back down there.”

Bryan had left out the part about how the only reason they did that again, for the second night in a row, was because he couldn’t get the condom on. Weazy was pissed and hurt, because she didn’t know his sister’s boyfriend all that well, and had more respect for her friend than to let her brother’s business get back to her. She told him so when he came back down to the basement with a glass of water for her.

“You couldn’t wait to run your mouth, huh?”
“What?”
“I could hear through the damn walls, Bryan. At least have enough respect for me to wait until I’m gone.”
“Boo.”
“I’m out.”

Out, but not gone. She was back there every night that week. And every night marked yet another failed attempt at shaking loose her virginity.

But on the eighth night…

“I can cut diamonds, boo. Gimme the rubber.” Weazy felt the furnace of hell at her back as she said a silent prayer for this to be it. She held her breath, having abandon the fantasy of putting it on for him, back on Night Three.

In fact, she didn’t even bother sitting up. She counted stripes in the wood paneled walls instead. Then an entire set of teeth appeared grinning in her view. The green of Bryan’s eyes were more sparkling than ever before. They held a promise.

Without speaking, her kissed her with deep undulations, an almost feverish rhythm to his cadence. His hands held her face gently, then tightly. Hands that smelled of fresh latex. Then came a deliberate succession of actions.

Fingers through her fresh perm.
Kisses to her eyelids and nose and ear.
Her head cradled in his arms, in an almost supplicant swoop.
His skin pressed solidly on top of hers.
Her right leg pulled up around his waist.
Then a silent, unspoken knock at her door.
An inquiring look in the eye. Then permission granted.
Then an ambitious thrust.
And a wide-eyed stare. And a gasp.
And the answered assumptions of apprehension and anticipation.

*

“Where did you find that candle?”
“It was sitting right on the top of the toilet tank,” Weazy answered.
“Why can’t I join you?”
“Because I just wanna be alone for a sec, B.” From his spot on the floor, Bryan reached into the bathtub and playfully splashed water onto Weazy’s skin.
“You didn’t even bleed, boo. The couch is totally clean.”*
“Yeah, well good thing I can’t stain his bathtub, because I’m sitting in a pool of blood right now.”
“The water’s cold.”
“It’s perfect.”
“So are you.” Bryan kissed Weazy on the lips and stood to his feet. Standing in his boxers and bare chest, he looked down at her, shoulders hunched, shivering in the shallow water in the bathtub of his sister’s boyfriend’s apartment.

“Come out soon, boo.”

Weazy’s gaze remained on the faucet before her.

She heard his feet on the hardwood floors descending the stairs and exhaled. She picked up the votive candle with wet hands and examined herself in the flickering light.

If the candle had been a mirror, Weazy would have seen the enormous grin spread across her face like the sunrise. She blew it out and cupped water into her hands and over her face. She began kicking her legs and squealing with the thrill of a newborn. She conjured up the best I’m-sitting-in-a-tub-and-I-just-had-sex dance she could within the confines of the tub. She stood up and stretched her limbs. Swiveled her hips recklessly to gauge the status of her internals.

Stable.

She stepped out of the tub and onto the towel Bryan left for her.

Weazy had no clue exactly what she was stepping into.

But she couldn’t wait. Because at that very moment, she was elated, knowing that her first time happened not a moment sooner than she could have handled.

#

*In real life I can’t remember if this is true or not. I’m kind of remembering being mortified at him telling me the exact opposite. It’s quite possible that I blocked this shit out, and if that’s the case I’d like to keep it that way.

Care to share your first time? (use your own yard pls, don’t be doing it on my property!)

DIRTY TALK

[I know I wasn't the only person horrified that bl0gger was on crack this morning. :)]

So since I'm not getting any, I'm gonna talk about sex every day until I crack.

Remember undergrad? There were basically 3 topics that led to bonding with new people...old school
TV, high school exploits, and SEX.

So here goes...


1. HAVE YOU GOTTEN LAID IN 2007?

Oh.My.God. (I'm assuming this means "intercourse")


2. EVER HAD SEX IN A PUBLIC PLACE?

Yes


3. EVER LAUGH DURING SEX?

That shit WAS funny.


4. EVER CRY DURING SEX?

That damn 112 CD still makes me tear up.


5. DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE AFTER SEX?

Yes...but then I like to sprawl out and pass out.


6. EVER REGRET SEX WITH SOMEONE?

Yes...but reconciled it by refusing sex from others later.


7. EVER FAKED AN ORGASM?

*blank stare*


8. DIRTY TALK, OR SHUT THE FUCK UP?

The ONE time I dont mind someone running their mouth.
Speak up!


9. EVER HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX?

Never.


10. EVER MASTURBATE TO YOUR FRIEND'S SIGNIFICANT
OTHER?

My friends like ugly guys...so notsomuch.


11. EVER HAVE A ONE NIGHT STAND?

Nope.


12. EVER WATCH PORN DURING SEX?

Says a lot about the sex that I can actually recall the porn.


14. EVER THOUGHT OF SOMEONE ELSE DURING SEX?

Duh.


15. HAS THE CONDOM EVER BROKEN?

Yup.


16. WHAT IS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING SEXUAL EXPERIENCE?

"I know it's up there somewhere."


17. HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN YOU LOST YOUR VIRGINITY?

21


18. WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE SEX WITH RIGHT NOW?

Who DON'T I wanna have sex with right now.


19. DO YOU THINK THAT #18 IS POSSIBLE?

Very much...if ever I, um, open up.


20. ARE YOU HORNY NOW?

SON!


21. HOW MANY SEXUAL PARTNERS?

Not enough, yet too many.
But for the record, I'm one of those chicks who is mad political about her "numbers."


22. DO YOU LIKE SEX IN THE CAR?

If it's good sex!


23. DO YOU STILL TALK TO THE PERSON YOU LOST VIRGINITY
TO?

Spoke to his sister recently...and I doubt his baby moms would appreciate me calling.


24. EVER HAVE SEX WITH A RELATIVE/FRIEND'S SIGNIFICANT
OTHER?

My friends/relatives like losers, so no.


25. EVER BEEN WITH A CHEATER?

Not that I know of.


26. TOYS, GOOD OR BAD?

Great.


27. LINGERIE?

Waste of time, but ok.


28. EVER SLEEP WITH A CO-WORKER?

Yup, but not at work.

29. WHERE HAVE YOU HAD SEX?
(x)park
()church (wait, you mean intercourse?)
()cemetery
()beach
()boat
()school
()parent's bed
(X)your bed
(X)car
()picnic table
(x)kitchen counter
(X)couch/chair
(x)dining room/kitchen table
()woods (open and/or in a tent)
()hood of a car
(X)bathroom
(x)shower
(x)bathtub
(X)the other person's bed
(X)porch/deck/balcony
(x)in a house with parents home
(x)at a party
(x)on top of the washer/dryer
()with other people in the room
(X)hotel
()concert
(X)grandparent's house
()field
()bleachers
()bookstore stock room
() linen closet

30. How many virgins have you "deflowered?"

None...I hope. 

Got Sex?

Fairly tame.
Maybe we should all make up new questions and answer those. :)


Copy this entire list to your blog/journal. BOLD everything that is true about you. Leave plain anything that is not true about you. Put an asterisk next to anything you would like to be true.*


1. I have had sex while wearing a blindfold.

2. I have blindfolded someone else during sex.

3. I have had sex while watching porn.

4. I have had sex while surfing porn on the Internet.

5. I sleep better after sex.

6. There are some nights I cannot sleep without sex or masturbating.

7. The bed is NOT my most favorite place to have sex.

8. I am turned on knowing someone is watching me masturbate.

9. I have had sex knowing someone else was watching.

10. I have watched a couple have sex.

11. I have masturbated for someone over a web cam. *

12. I have had sex over a web cam. *

13. I have had a one night stand.

14. I have been tied up during sex.

15. I have had sex with someone who was tied up.

16. I have dripped wax onto a lover's body.

17. I have had a lover drip wax onto my body.

18. I have a foot fetish.

19. I have a leather fetish.

20. I have a tickle fetish.

21. I like being choked during sex.*

22. I have had phone sex.

23. I have erotic art on display somewhere in my residence.

24. I enjoy nudie magazines.*

25. Erotic toys are a regular part of my budget.

26. I think PLAYBOY is tame, maybe even boring.

27. I have clicked on porn links in my email.

28. I have watched more than one gay/lesbian porn video.

29. Much of what I know about sex comes from porn.

30. I have given/received a facial.

31. I think we should do more to understand the cultures of sex.

32. I would participate in sex research given the opportunity.

33. My current lover does not sufficiently meet my sexual needs.

34. I currently have a "crush" on someone of the same sex.

35. I want to have sex with someone on my blogroll.

36. I have had sex at my place of employment. *

37. I am often disappointed in my sexual relationships.

38. Some people might describe me as a nymphomaniac.

39. I am difficult to live with if I'm not having sex on a regular basis.

40. I sleep better with someone snuggled up next to me.*

41. I have had sex under water.

42. I have had sex in the snow.

43. I am in a polyamorous relationship.

44. I have to have music playing while having sex.

45. I have had more than ten orgasms in one night. *

46. I have flashed strangers.

47. I have given sex as a gift.

48. I have set-up a three-way for my lover. *

49. I have made a video having sex.*

50. I have taken nude pictures

51. I have had more than one partner in a 24 hour period

52. I am a member of the Mile-High Club.

53. I have taken a trip longer than an hour just for a booty call

54. I stopped during this list to have sex.***

Fantasy Blogging: IF I WAS FCUKING WISE

*Click here for NEW UPDATES!!*


==============

You want to fcuk me.

I get it.

I’m passionate.

Generous.

And well, I can fcuk.

Really well.

Lemme digress for a moment while you gather your bearings…

Wow, I’ve been wanting to say that for a while. Damn, due to my lil hiatus I feel so out of the loop. I missed the whole Truth or Dare phenom…there’s like, these new IT bloggers out of nowhere…and it may appear that I’m at a loss for words.

On the contrary. I have more to say than ever, just haven’t figured out how to manage the time.

Well, this post is inspired by my cyber desires for a certain trans-Atlantic scholar. He finds sport in emailing me when he’s bored (and that only slightly offends me)... and on one such occasion he asked, “Wise, what do you think about two people getting intimate too early on?”

I refrained from explaining that it’s never too early (or late) for him and I to blast a home run, but instead I told him to stay tuned…

If Trans-Atlantic were fcuking Wise, perhaps it would go a lil something like a situation that really happened to me not long ago. Check it…

So there’s this guy who we’ll call Lui.gi. I met him at a party, and gave him my card because he’s also Jamaic.an and he promised to put me on to some reggae spots down here. There was no, ‘I’m feeling you, call me.’ Nothing except a pleasant convo and a few inside jokes in patois.

Fast fwd a few weeks. We’ve spoken on the phone, and it’s…fine. I begin to wonder if he’s just not feeling me…but wait a minute, I’m not on the menu. This is not a ‘feeling you’ situation.

But dammit, I’m WAY hotter than him, and he truly oughta be feeling me. But he speaks to me more like he’s either nervous, socially awkward, or bored. He’s real regular, no outward pretenses about him. An Ivy Leaguer sans the Harvard ego-swag. A nerd sans the idiocy. He’s basically Rog.

So I’m confused, but not pressed. I just want reggae.

Fast fwd again and I meet up with Lui.gi at a show. He lives about 30 minutes outside of Bawtuhmore, so after the show we go to my house to drink and hang out.

We’re sitting on my couch, and he says, “Damn, your legs are the same length as mine.” Looking back, this was the corniest shit I have ever encountered, but at the time, as silly as it seemed, he was right. Dude is like 6’1”…I’m 5’8”… and when we both stood up to measure, sure enough our hips line up.

Wow, our hips line up… I’m standing in front of dude and for the first time I size him up…LIKE THAT. I had already accepted that he’s not particularly attractive. But he’s mature, very nice, and of sound intellect.

And by the looks of things, shorty is packin. I’m sayin. I’m standing hip to hip with him and I see this bulge emerge from his jeans. And all of a sudden, I’m on fire.

The next thing I know, dude and I are rolling around on my couch, skin to skin, like rabbits.

Weird thing is, I’m not even really dick obsessed like that. As magnificent a sight to behold… ya seen one big one, ya seen ‘em all, really (you don’t count Trans-Atl). But there was just something about the presentation of this particular pipe that…shall we say, caught my eye.

Nevertheless, who was to know that subtly unattractive Lui.gi had the body of a god. I played all up and through the curvature of his muscles like opening day at Fenway. I marveled at the reckless hair that lined his pecs, his thighs, his groin. And let’s face it, I’m a girl…I like positive feedback. Brownie points if it’s directed to my body. Shit, I got caught up…but not caught out.

“I’m not going to fcuk you, Luig'.”
“Okay,” he said, a bit defeated. With that bit of business out of the way I went about the task of being thoroughly satisfied…sixth grade style (I let Big Papi hit a triple with a few runs batted in, if you feel me).

I have since gotten together with Luig’ on several occasions, and I always preface the frolic by letting him know that there will be no rounding of my bases. I’m grateful that he’s cool with basically not talking to me on the phone ever, and then paying me courtesy visits and bringing the hot massage oil and a good strong pair of hands.

Thing of it is…I like the guy. He’s decent. He’s even starting to look attractive to me. We have a lot in common, like the same kind of hanging out, similar music, and he’s rather intelligent, which I love. Problem is he’s nothing but a big dick on a sculpted frame with a funny 80s sitcom likeness (he really looks NOTHING like Rog, but for some reason I just find the analogy hilarious)…who happens to be a very cool guy. In a perfect world, it would be the other way around…he’d be a great guy who happens to have a dope body.

But because of an imperfect sequential arrangement, he doesn’t stand a chance. Not because he’s ugly… (truthfully it’s more so because I literally had to teach the muhfucka how to kiss me…to the point where I was literally just pushing his head down to point his lips at my nibbles)…but because I began at the conclusion. Had I taken the time to get to know this guy before I got to know his bare azz, perhaps I’d have a bit more patience, and enough respect not to immortalize him via blogger.

Why read the book when you already know how the hell it ends?

He went out of town last week, and upon his return he sent me a text…”I’m back. Call me if you want some.”

If he was fcuking Wise, he’d not need to text me a cock coupon. He would have been summoned to come over straight from the airport.

Particularly if he was flying in from Heathrow.

*double sigh*

You see where this is going...

You want to fcuk me.

And I don’t blame you.

I’m logical.

I keep it "real".

I have all the (sometimes incorrect) answers.

So I invite you,my psecial reader firends to present me with your drama, your issues, your situations…and I’ll give you one possible outcome from the IF YOU WERE FCUKING WISE perspective (feel my double entendre). You may even do so anonymously if you prefer.

Ladies, I know I don’t have a penis…but I do have balls enough to try to mount you, too. So don’t feel left out. I can go both ways.

Ok, I really didn’t mean it THAT way...whatev.

I’m all ears.

IF I WAS FCUKING WISE: The Results Show

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Yo Homo

So I'm at this CBC party in DC the other night. I make it there at the tailend of the open bar ("Excuse me, sweetie, can you order me a vodka/cran while you're up there, pls. Thanks!"). PERFECT, cuz they played me at the door, pretending that the email invite made any mention of the fact that the party was $10 without the printout. Nice hustle.

So they owed me the drink anyway, and they gave me a decent gratuity in the form of dope music. I'm impressed. I've not been out in DC much, so I wasn't sure if I should expect Chuck Brown to appear from behind the DJ booth...if you'd need to remove your shoes, relinquish any liquid and gel from your purse, and walk thru security...or if it would appear as if I was at an E Lynn Harris book release party.

If anything, it was more like the latter.

I wish I had brought my boy Flavius...one of my oldest friends, who also happens to live right outside DC. Oh and he's gay...but not like Marce.llus from Big Brother Allstars gay...more like, Grant H!ll gay.

So I was feeling the crowd...it's been a while since I've been to a good buppie set. I'm just now growing out of my 'I-prefer-dudes-in-suits-' phase, but I still get all tingly when surrounded by Brooks Brothers brothas. Nice looking guys with nicely tapered goatees and edge ups. Shiny azz shoes. And the women were not to be outdone in their impossible heels, fly azz wraps and twists and locs, and well-moisturized knees.

Present company included.

So I'm standing surveying the crowd, which at this point is mostly congregated along the walls, at the bar and along the couches on the fringes (chicks always have a monopoly on those seats for some reason). That's when I notice the generous gay/straight ratio. Obviously the rainbow numbers are particularly high in DC and in GayTL, so it makes sense that there can't POSSIBLY be enough exclusively gay spots in all of DC to accommodate all the gays. This overlap makes sense. But I'll tell you what doesnt...

[Hold up...quick digression...as I'm noticing the gays, these two guys walk up near me both double-fisting Coronas. Apparently they each bought one for the other without knowing that the other had bought one for the other. Get it? I should mention these men appear straight. So I say to the one closest to me... "I'll take that off your hands," and he hands it to me. I laugh and decline. He insists. I decline. He turns back to his boy, who is eying me, then turns back to me maybe 5 minutes later to chat. I say, 'Were you really going to give me that?' He says, yes. I say, 'Well, what's your name? I couldn't possibly take a drink from a guy without first being properly introduced.' His generosity completes my self-imposed 2-drink maximum.]

OK...so what doesn't make sense about integrated social gatherings is the well-dressed man who steps to me later that evening.

"I was on my way out but had to come and talk to you. I don't want to be presumptuous, tho."

Wise... "How could saying hello be presumptuous?"

Suit... "That's not the presumptuous part. I wanted to ask you how you manage to look so damn fine tonight?"

Now y'all...I'm a girl, so even if it was corny, I was still flattered. I indulge him, despite wanting to immediately refer him to my boy Flavius.

Wise... "I would love to tell you that I worked hard at it, but I didn't."

He laughs. Thing of it is...I look aight, but I ain't in full head-turning mode in the LEAST. Ok, yeah, my plaid capris are adorable, my heels make my legs look really long, and if I had any cleveland it would be on full display in my collarless button down with the low, open neck. But my hair is all pulled back, I'm wearing glasses, and I'm carrying a small computer bag (sans the laptop, but I am coming straight from a biz meeting). OK, it's fly and leather and Kenny Cole, but the point is, there are plenty of women here who actually do look like Miss Negro Universe.

Suit... "I been noticing you all night and I am LOVING your style..."

Wise: "Is that a Congressional pin?" ...trying change the subject, and giving him a subtle hint that I'm not comfortable/impressed/in the mood for his attempt at hollering.

Suit... "Does it matter? Or is it what I'm about that's not on my lapel that matters?"

Wise..."To be completely honest and frank, I could care less, except that my attention is currently occupied by my vague curiosity. It's dark in here, but I think it's cute."

Suit laughs..."See I could tell by your style that you were down to earth like that. I would love to get to know more."

Wise: "Do you happen to have a biz card?" ...I was hoping to avoid giving him one of my last cards.

Suit..."You know, due to the nature of my biz I don't usually give out my card, but I can give you my number. Here, give me your phone."

Shit! I was trying to get better at this. As you all know, it's well-documented that I'm a chronic drunk dialer. But since I'm nowhere near sloshed, I put in his number but never press TALK. But he's a spry lil son of a bitch, and he quickly reaches over and puts his thumb on the button, then holds my hand on the phone to allow it to ring a few times. Shit.

This would have been fine, not a problem had I just been holding my biz phone and not the personal Bat Phone. I always let that shit go to voice. And even then it may have been cool to keep in touch if for no other reason than to be put on to other free booze opportunities. [I know they be gettin getttin fcuked up on The Hil!]

But this dude was so blatantly gay... but like, not Brian Mc.Knight of Hill Har.per gay...more like, Little Rich.ard gay. Complete with the lisp!

What in the hell? Is this the gay man's rugby... to try to pull unsuspecting straight women in integrated social situations? Will he go back to the down low den and put another notch in the playbook? [And how did he even make it into the sect? I thought you had to look straight to be considered DL] Or did he detect a dick-sucking gleam in my eye?

Whatever the case, I'm not unsuspecting. And I don't find Little Rich.ard attractive...nor particularly entertaining [only when it's the real LR and he's on tv and making no intelligible sense].

That's the last time I go out in DC without gay backup. Cuz I'm a confirmed chick magnet.

* [ps..is anyone else obsessed with the show Celeb Duets ??]

You're All I NEED: Wise Hits The Tittie Bar

A convo with this dude I know...

Dude I Know: ".....yadda, yadda, yadda...some bullshit about wo/men...followed by some obvious/valid points, then some ole bullshit...women are the needy gender anyway."

Wise: "That's a fact?"

Dude I Know: "Come on, don't gimme a hard time. That's understood. That's common knowledge. Conventional wisdom."

Wise: "Guess it's time to re-analyze the convention."

I wasn't yet drunk enough to not wonder how my azz looked in my jeans. It was mild for July, humid for after midnight. Oddly loose at the waist. Snug in the thighs.

Shoulders out. Signature newsboy cap. Slightly incognegro, mostly quarantined.

Usually when there are this many dudes standing outside a spot it's either a night out for free drinks at Gay Bartender's job, some exclusive 'you-need-to-be-accompanied-by-pussy' party, or worse. Tonight was shapinig up to be the latter. The worst.

My blackhand side is cattle stamped and I proceed inside, the only chick in my crew. Stepping across the threshold, under the scope of tacky purple strobes, into the rhythm of nursery rhyme "skip hop," I quickly assess that I am one of a few chicks in the whole joint.

I grab my fictional dick, nod at the topless hostess who welcomes us to the establishment, and walk straight to the bar as if I got the fattest azz there. That's how you gotta be when you're in the House of Azz, when that's the money shot, if you will. I felt hella out of place, yet never one to be outshined, I'm determined to fit the hell in somehow.

This is not my first time at a titty bar. It's just never as good a time as advertised.

See, I had this convo recently with some dudes I know, dudes my age and older, and I was intrigued/appalled/amused by the fact that it seems the older guys get, the more obsessed with strippers they become. For some obviously uninformed reason, I thought this was something dudes grew out of, you know, like skid marks.

Not so, I'm told. In fact, as I'm walking thru I see with my own two Guccified eyes that this may indeed be a fact.

"I'm hooked, Wise. The nastier the better. I went with my boy from work and he's like a VIP and he put me on. So we come and they show us mad love at the door..."

"I'm in love with like, the laziest stripper there. She dances maybe once a week. Some of those bitches be on it full time. Not mine. She a temp or some shit. But I love her."

"No, they're pretty broke down. The cutest one is bout two cupcakes away from dragging down the damn pole."

So I'm alert, in as analytical a mode as can be expected after a few Goose and pineapples (at home, of course. Only vodka I seen behind the stripper bar is Popov [read: cheeeeeap].) I first scan the crowd for ex-bosses, ex-classmates, suspected lesbos, celebs, white people, and dudes I would normally bone...in that order. I see a few ComicView regulars and some DJs, but that's about it. Coast is clear for me to explore openly.

There's an empty stool near the stage and I plop down, looking around, tapping my rings on my glass. In my mind this is a clear show of interest in the music and disinterest in the performer. She was largely unremarkable, as is her audience. I'm saying, she was swinging and swaying and twirling accordingly, but dudes acted like she was the opening act or something. Like she was Little Brother at a SummerJam show. Crickets. But as the night wears on I notice that this is how it always is. A few bucks thrown here and there...but mostly the stage dudes are broke.

I ease up so as not to be typecast. My boys are huddled near the rear of the place, and when I approach it's as if I'm the only kid on the block with a kick ball and I finally came outside to play.

"Showtime, Weezy." I'm whisked to the back, and I say out loud, "Oh okay, this is where the real nggas be at."

And the real hoes. Big, small, light, dark, Asian-inspired, bilingual, bilateral, everything. Just a rainbow of blue collar cooch. Hard workers, too. Straight up Mexican work ethic in this muhfucka. These back room chicks ain't playing. They keep it moving, they pay attention, show love, make eye contact, remember first names, dispense pet names like Pez, and they carry an air of control. A false air, but convincing nonetheless.

These are the earners no doubt. And before I knew it they were about to earn my respect.

I'm led to a stiff couchy chair, slightly reclined. Relaxed.

My drink is replenished. My boys are watching, fists full of cash. Calling the shots.

I smelled her hair first. Pears. And it wasn't the stringy kinda hair that I compulsively pick off me after a packed train ride. Or the kind that clogs public restroom sinks. It was the black/mixed kind... thick and healthy. Real, I think.

"You're really beautiful. Your jeans fit you so well." Her raspy whisper is a loud bellow to my ego. Before I could thank her, her head slides down the side of my neck, down the front of my shirt, along the length of my waist band and back up to my neck.

I pull my head back, in genuine 'you go girl' deference. My boys egg her on, and watch intently, begging me to finish my drink and play along. Little did they know I had no intentions of cutting the show short. I was about to get schooled. Plus she looked a lot like my girl crush Al!cia Ke.ys. Sue me.

What followed was an impeccable and impressive display of a master of human nature. She said all the right things, wisely catering to my feminine desires for attention and approval. She was aggressive and showy, conquering women's natural competitive spirit. And she hit all the erogenous zones like a metal detector in a piggy bank...

Winding her smooth azz on my lap with varying speeds and pressure.

Rubbing her face in my chest in slow, methodical circles.

Suggestive girl talk that made me giggle like we were pointing out the dudes we'd let hit.

Placing her hands over mine then on her hips as she put on a show for my boys.

Left not a drop of sweat or stuff anywhere near me.

She had me at "beautiful."

I lifted my glass and let her sip the last bit of my drink. She needed it more than me.

When it was all said and done I was thoroughly aroused, impressed and entertained. My boys on the other hand, like most of the men in the boom boom room appeared thoroughly hustled. There was a hint of 'they don't get it' in their eyes. A sense of fantastical unreality in the way they reached out to touch the oasis. Their fingers lingered, longing, looking for a sign that this might be real.

It's the same glazed out look they get around hour 3 in front of a video game.

They strike up conversations. They ask about the chicks' school, sons, shit that have nothing to do with them. Shit that says they're inappropriately invested.

They are rendered absolute azzes around these women. They feel no reservation at the fact that they are not only ruled by an illusion, but that said illusion is community property. They overlook the stench of other nggas' giz and nut sweat. Turn a blind eye to the fingerprints around the brawd's bikini top and bottom. Where other muhfuckas already paid their respect.

This is a transaction...conducted in a trance.

"I'm saying, sometimes you just want a chick to show you some love, no strings attached."

"I love my wife, but the attention is mad necessary. And after that I go home to her."

"I know she do this for a living, and I don't mind funding her shoe fetish cuz she fulfills my azz fetish."

Dudes talk all day about how they just want to have sex with different women, without any commitments, they want it all the time, they go to drastic measures for a mere dick suck.

Men want intimate contact, want to be fulfilled, want to feel sexually accomplished, constantly.

And we're the needy ones??