Don't bother me, I'm trying to get chose
Tonight, I went to First Fridays. For those of you who don't know, various cities have F.F., and the location of the event moves each time. Basically, on the first friday of every month a bunch of professional, semi-professional or wannabe professional black people get together and drink and dance and try to get laid, all under the guise of 'networking'.
The strange thing about first fridays is that it always delivers the most attractive black people in the area. Don't get me wrong, there are ugly people. But there is always a ridiculous amount of good looking guys and dolls. A pretty girl has some serious competition there. And so many beautiful men, so many tall, broad men...and you guys know how much I like big boys, I like them so, with their tallness and the way their weight settles over you...
But no matter the amount of attractive men, no matter how much I run into people I know, no matter how much I enjoy making commentary about the general scene--I always leave melancholy, with a deep and pervading sadness. I will admit that part of the reason is that there are so many young attractive professional (or seemingly so) men and they almost never hit on me--unattractive guys, or attractive thugged out guys, or older men, sure--but not guys I would actually be interested in dating.* So F.F. is always a disappointment in that sense. It's the third grade problem--no one I like, likes me.
On top of which, even on the rare occasion that a man whom I find appealing makes a pass, by that time I'm usually so irritated that I don't want to be bothered. I know the guy just wants to get in my pants, or come as close to it as he can on the dance floor. He's not interested in me as a person, he's not interested in my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs; that is only the material he has to sift through to get inside me. And I keep wanting to tell these guys, look, one man has already been in there--he wasn't that impressed with it. He had open access and he still turned it down. Look, he's over there, you can ask him all about it. My pussy--not that remarkable. I assure you my thoughts on Kundera or Palestine-Israel or hell, even dirty rap music, are much more entertaining, much more captivating than my vagina. And despite my oral fixation and my enthusiasm, I don't give good head; I'm serious, you can ask him, he's over there, near the bar.
Because of course, LeJuan showed up. I think I'd been there maybe twenty minutes before I saw him. My friend, N., actually went over there and said hi and told him that his friend was very attractive. I love N.* I managed not to say anything to him the first couple of times we saw each other, but after the second time of literally sliding past each other in the crush of the crowd, physically having to squeeze by one another, we started talking. And not only was I not mean to him, not only did I take back saying that I hate him, I semi-flirted with him. I semi-hugged him. I semi-lost my mind.
It's the damn winter. It's cold and that makes you want to be with someone, to snuggle, to cuddle. My apartment is freezing and to get to it I have to walk down a dark street and its cold and lonely and scary (and somewhere there is a tiny violin playing...) And the apartment is empty because my roommate is out of town indefinitely and I haven't had sex in three months and I'm tired of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, I'm a bastard child who never bonded with a male figure--Mr. Right will never come along. And he was my first, dammit! I firmly believe in the power of The First. How many people have I heard say, 'you know I can't say that if my first were around, that I wouldn't still have feelings or hell, still might try to have a relationship with the person'.
My neurotic ass needs to quit. I've been calling various people, government structures, the restaurant I work at, a hot mess. But it's me that's the hot mess. It's me that needs the lobotomy.
It's me that's pining over a man whom I have nothing in come with, have very little respect for, and actually hold in a profound amount of contempt. That contempt is based on the fact that he used me, practically flaunted other girls in my face, and behaved, generally, as the father of all assholes. So that even my guy-friends, guys who have had some bad dealings with girls themselves, are shocked and appalled by his behavior.
I need to have my head examined.*
*My definition of 'professional', includes everything from having a well-paying job, to being a student at a reputable school, to being an intellectual doing what you love but not making much money.
*She also went up to this fine, 6'4 brother, and told him that he had a nice body. She's one of the classiest people I know--but bold. Pretty damn bold.
*I'm tired and it's late, but my counselor and I did piece together why my attraction to LeJuan persists, I'll explain it some other time. It's not simply a case of Stockholm Syndrome.
The strange thing about first fridays is that it always delivers the most attractive black people in the area. Don't get me wrong, there are ugly people. But there is always a ridiculous amount of good looking guys and dolls. A pretty girl has some serious competition there. And so many beautiful men, so many tall, broad men...and you guys know how much I like big boys, I like them so, with their tallness and the way their weight settles over you...
But no matter the amount of attractive men, no matter how much I run into people I know, no matter how much I enjoy making commentary about the general scene--I always leave melancholy, with a deep and pervading sadness. I will admit that part of the reason is that there are so many young attractive professional (or seemingly so) men and they almost never hit on me--unattractive guys, or attractive thugged out guys, or older men, sure--but not guys I would actually be interested in dating.* So F.F. is always a disappointment in that sense. It's the third grade problem--no one I like, likes me.
On top of which, even on the rare occasion that a man whom I find appealing makes a pass, by that time I'm usually so irritated that I don't want to be bothered. I know the guy just wants to get in my pants, or come as close to it as he can on the dance floor. He's not interested in me as a person, he's not interested in my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs; that is only the material he has to sift through to get inside me. And I keep wanting to tell these guys, look, one man has already been in there--he wasn't that impressed with it. He had open access and he still turned it down. Look, he's over there, you can ask him all about it. My pussy--not that remarkable. I assure you my thoughts on Kundera or Palestine-Israel or hell, even dirty rap music, are much more entertaining, much more captivating than my vagina. And despite my oral fixation and my enthusiasm, I don't give good head; I'm serious, you can ask him, he's over there, near the bar.
Because of course, LeJuan showed up. I think I'd been there maybe twenty minutes before I saw him. My friend, N., actually went over there and said hi and told him that his friend was very attractive. I love N.* I managed not to say anything to him the first couple of times we saw each other, but after the second time of literally sliding past each other in the crush of the crowd, physically having to squeeze by one another, we started talking. And not only was I not mean to him, not only did I take back saying that I hate him, I semi-flirted with him. I semi-hugged him. I semi-lost my mind.
It's the damn winter. It's cold and that makes you want to be with someone, to snuggle, to cuddle. My apartment is freezing and to get to it I have to walk down a dark street and its cold and lonely and scary (and somewhere there is a tiny violin playing...) And the apartment is empty because my roommate is out of town indefinitely and I haven't had sex in three months and I'm tired of waiting for Mr. Right to come along, I'm a bastard child who never bonded with a male figure--Mr. Right will never come along. And he was my first, dammit! I firmly believe in the power of The First. How many people have I heard say, 'you know I can't say that if my first were around, that I wouldn't still have feelings or hell, still might try to have a relationship with the person'.
My neurotic ass needs to quit. I've been calling various people, government structures, the restaurant I work at, a hot mess. But it's me that's the hot mess. It's me that needs the lobotomy.
It's me that's pining over a man whom I have nothing in come with, have very little respect for, and actually hold in a profound amount of contempt. That contempt is based on the fact that he used me, practically flaunted other girls in my face, and behaved, generally, as the father of all assholes. So that even my guy-friends, guys who have had some bad dealings with girls themselves, are shocked and appalled by his behavior.
I need to have my head examined.*
*My definition of 'professional', includes everything from having a well-paying job, to being a student at a reputable school, to being an intellectual doing what you love but not making much money.
*She also went up to this fine, 6'4 brother, and told him that he had a nice body. She's one of the classiest people I know--but bold. Pretty damn bold.
*I'm tired and it's late, but my counselor and I did piece together why my attraction to LeJuan persists, I'll explain it some other time. It's not simply a case of Stockholm Syndrome.