Monthly Archives: March 2011

March 25, 2011 · 2:43 PM

Soft, Wet and Confused: Your Girlfriend Is Bisexual

This is SUCH a better way to practice for our lip-reading class, Becky!

So, I like women.

I like the fact that they tend to have longer hair than do I, which they often style in interesting and attractive ways.  I enjoy the fact that they often smell nice – kind of like a human fruit smoothie.  I think it’s awesome that they can giggle innocently one minute and then in the next, moan hard like a field hand singing Negro spirituals.  And of course, I also celebrate that they have mounds of sumptuous, inviting fat in places that would be…unsightly…on me.

Now, I know that there are plenty of ladies who openly like women just as much as I do.  These women are called lesbians and bisexuals, and yes, they’re pretty cool.  The thing is, I’m beginning to wonder whether those labels actually mean any damn thing when it comes to the fairer sex.  More and more,  it seems to me that a not-so-silent majority of women are just waiting for an excuse to whip out the organic vacuum cleaner for those um…hard to reach places.

You know I’m not making this crap up.  Time after time, I’ve had conversations about sexual histories with female friends and friends-plus, and I gotta say that at least like 30% of them have either savored the decadent taste of cuchifritos or served that shit up on a platter themselves, at least once.  That percentage climbs to like 60% if we talk about heavy petting (what the hell is light petting by the way, and why would you ever want to do that?) and 75% if we lower the threshold to good old lip-lockin’.  I bet it could reach as high as 90% if we asked whether or not they’ve had recurring lesbian fantasies/desires.

So what gives?  When asked, lots of my friends have provided a stock response.  “The female form is just inherently more beautiful than the male form.  It’s no wonder I find girls attractive.”  Right.  I hear you loud and clear and I’m down to start the “Breasts: Not Just for Babies” campaign whenever you are.

Check this though.  George Clooney is a really handsome dude.  And so damn suave.  But I ain’t never, neva-eva, neva-eva thought about cuppin’ his Irish-American buttocks or handlin’ his twig and berries.  I don’t care if he IS a friend of the blacks.

This flirtation with lesbianism has got to be about more than a mere appreciation of women’s curves.  In fact, I’d argue that two complementary forces are at work, one positive and one negative.

On the positive side, women simply don’t have to contend with the pressure to conform to the same rigid sexual mores that men do.  From an early age, doing anything that looks like it might be considered gay is beat out of you, verbally if not physically.  This is despite the fact that scientists like Alfred Kinsey have tried to teach us that homosexual experimentation is a vital part of growing up.  Meanwhile, girls are allowed to sleep in the same bed, hold hands in public and just generally be all up in each other’s space in a way that guys would be laughed out of recess for.  The line of intimacy between them is just never as clearly defined, and that’s gotta be beneficial to emotional development.  It no doubt has some dope implications beyond sexual interactions, too.

Unfortunately, men have found a way to subvert and exploit what could be a completely wonderful thing.  For many of us, lesbians and bisexual women are less like individual human beings and more like sex toys that talk.  (As far as I know, even those life-size latex joints can’t speak yet…and yes, I’ve looked.)  Why dominate one female when you can dominate two and then watch them dominate each other?  And it appears this is an inclination that plenty of women are more than happy to indulge.  Thus, we end up with the boringly choreographed, juvenile scenes in “Girls Gone Wild,” our fascination with Nikki Minaj’s sexual inclinations and her obfuscations thereof, and bone straight women engaging in random public lestrianics.  (Yes, my children, go forth and use “lestrianics” with my blessing.)

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m definitely not saying that I somehow object to those ladies who decide to take a stroll down the Punani Path, even if it’s just for fun.  I’m just wondering what’s really motivating all of this steamy, girl-on-girl action.  If it’s a natural response to inherent or learned comfort with same-sex attraction, then great.  It should be encouraged, and I should be invited.  On the other hand, if you’re at a bar and you’re just doing it ’cause you think I think it’s hot, then that’s just sad.  Plus, it probably means that your performance isn’t all that convincing.  Get back in there and do it again, this time with FEEEELING!

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March 11, 2011 · 3:35 PM

Too Soon: My Pain Is Your Pleasure

You do NOT want to be mayor of this place.

One of humanity’s most fascinating and cherished features is our ability to fashion beauty from tragedy.  Such was the case in 1997, when two of my college classmates and best friends died on an Independence Day weekend road trip.

A few of us were in a rap crew at the time (long live The Myth) and decided to pen a song called “On Your Journey (Too Soon)” as a soundtrack to our sadness.  Recently, I decided to completely remake the track so that we could lay down new vocals – the idea was that rallying around this project would give us an excuse to reunite.  After I dived into it though, it became apparent that my emotions had other plans in store.

Let me just say that the last several months have been a dark time for your hero, O my brothers and only friends.  I’ve been in a protracted war with the forces of evil across multiple fronts for a while now, and the nature of the eventual outcome isn’t at all clear.  When the anniversary of my father’s death came around, I could almost taste the darkness that was threatening to envelope me on all sides.  I had to do something.

For me, that something consisted of embracing the pain.  After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that I’d romanced a serious bitch.  It was about time I got something out of this particular abusive relationship.

So, I slightly reworked my verse from the original song and dropped it on the new instrumental.  Thankfully, the lyrics were just as poignant to me in 2011 as they were in 1997.  Now what?  How could I follow that?  Over the course of the next couple of days, I realized that while those lyrics had a specific contextual meaning regarding the death of dear friends, the overarching significance was profound loss and its aftermath.

When I realized this, two new verses poured out, each addressing a different aspect of that unavoidable component of the human condition.  The second verse is about a woman who didn’t know herself and therefore, never fully knew me.  The final one deals with my first and greatest loss – that of my father.  To be honest, I wondered if the whole “black boys need their dad” thing was a little trite, but then I remembered that no one else can tell my story but me…so anybody that mistakes it for a cliché can kiss my muscular ass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the fight.  Please enjoy the pain.

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March 3, 2011 · 8:21 PM

White Wednesdays

What if the shoe were on the other foot?

About a week ago, a friend of mine was telling me about somebody that was annoying the crap out of her at work. “Are you gonna say something to them?” I inquired.  She gave me that glare that African-American senior citizen ladies are prone to shoot you right before they’re about they’re about to say, “Chiiiild” and curtly responded, “Aw hell naw.  It might be a problem – I’m too black today. ”

I chuckled. “Wait.  Ain’t you black every day?” Again, she hit me with the Sojourner Truth look. “Oh, you didn’t know? Sheeeeit…I’m white on Wednesdays.”

The ensuing laughfest must have added several more lines of definition to my already well-sculpted abs.  Seriously, ladies.  My stomach looks like a close-up of Albert Einstein’s brain: I make The Situation look more like The Speculation.

But, I digress.

My friend left and I recovered, but I started to think.  What if, for just one day out of the week, non-whites got to see what it was like to be white? What if White Wednesdays were real?  The implications are tantalizing.

Eddie Murphy touched on a similar idea in one of his SNL sketches.  We’d see a surge of loan applications from erstwhile African-Americans and Latinos looking to finally start that business or buy that house.  No credit?  Bad credit?  You wanna open a shop selling furniture made of toenail clippings?  No problem, Mr. and Mrs. White!

Arrests would fall precipitously on Hump Day.  Government officials at all levels would celebrate as they declare it the safest day of the week.  European tourists could now enjoy their doe-eyed wanderings through the streets of Harlem during the middle of the week too!   No more waiting ’til Saturday in order to blend in with dredded Japanese hip-hoppers or Sundays when Jesus walks with them.

But AHEM…please note that I said not one word about crime dropping.  I said arrests.  With everybody looking the same, how would cops use their trusted “gut instincts”?  How could they exercise a decent stop-and-frisk?  Like Paul Mooney says, for one day, everybody would have the Complexion for the Protection.  Matter of fact…

Convictions would fall too.  Judges would be stricken with the same degree of paralyzing impartiality as police: “So what this is your third DUI arrest and you tried to trade a rub-and-tug for five bucks from the bailiff!  I can tell you’re a good kid, so I’m just gonna give you 60 days in rehab.  Want a little nose candy to celebrate?”

But White Wednesdays wouldn’t be a happy time for everybody.

The world over, white women in superficial interracial relationships would exhale a collective sigh of sadness as they were forced to see their prized black and Latino stallions as…well…human beings.  Meanwhile, non-white men who use ignorant sexual stereotypes (true though they may be…holla!) to generate interest from lusty white girls will notice their magic sticks emitting less pixie dust on those days.

Oh, and thank Sammy Davis, Jr. that most people don’t hit the club on Wednesdays.  In major cities all across the U.S.A., good colored folk would face unbearable frustration as they watched themselves lose control of their limbs on the dancefloor.  The concept of rhythm would suddenly hold no meaning as the steady beat of the drum somehow became confused with the steady stream of song lyrics.  Many would simply give up and start doing what white people do in the majority of social situations: stand around small-talking and get shitfaced.

But for most non-white people, Wednesdays would be the shit.  Yeah, you don’t have to go to that soul-crushing job on the weekend, but on Wednesdays you don’t have to DO any work anyway.  You can just talk a good game!  Or schmooze the holy cowboy stuffing out of your boss.  Or if you do work, you can work half as hard, i.e. at a normal level – you wouldn’t have to prove that you deserve to be there.  And when that dude in Operations calls you “bro,” you’ll know he means it and isn’t tryin’ to create some BS sense of connection based on his “love” for hip-hop.  (Which to him basically starts and ends with N.W.A.)

In other words, you’d have one day when you felt completely free to be you.  The assholiest part is that it would be the one day when that is so goddamn untrue.  Sigh…I guess even white people can’t have everything.

P.S.  I know that I never explicitly mentioned Asians in this post.  That wasn’t an oversight.  Y’all are basically honorary white people.  C’mon, son.  There’s no use in arguing.  As a group, y’all own more violins and pianos than all North American orchestras combined.  You make white people feel inferior at school and work.  Plus, your food is muthafuckin’ delicious, even when white people make it.  That shit is shady.

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