Category Archives: Relationships

August 19, 2016 · 10:00 AM

OK, You Hate Public Marriage Proposals: Now Please Have a Seat

He Zi Proposal

Diver He Zi (R) accepts Qin Kai’s offer to continue ruining her life in public. CBC

On August 14, 2016, Olympic diver He Zi won the silver medal in the women’s 3M springboard. Right after the medal ceremony, fellow diver and boyfriend of six years, Qin Kai, proposed to her. She said yes.

One would think that all of the above facts would be cause for universal celebration, but in these early days of the 21st century it has become quite apparent that WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.

In some quarters, the fact that Qin chose the moment representing the ultimate recognition of He’s struggle and culmination of her athletic efforts over the last four years to ask for her hand in marriage was disrespectful, egocentric, and controlling. It was yet another example of a man trampling the efforts of woman so as to fix the public gaze firmly on him and announce her ultimate subjugation. “Check out the look on her face,” they say. “She clearly wasn’t into it!”  “She only said yes out of embarrassment!”

Get the fuck out of here. Now.

OK. That response was a bit subtle, so here are a few more thoughts on this particular topic.

A. It’s disturbing that folks are so willing to jump to conclusions about He Zi’s feelings or the nature of their relationship dynamics based on a second or two of facial expressions (or a manipulatively chosen still). If you listen to her talk about it here, she explains that what you’re witnessing is the face of a genuinely surprised woman, nervous about making the right decision. Holy shit, she’s human!

In a subsequent interview, when asked whether she’d like to talk about her medal win or engagement first, she immediately replied, “I feel that my happiness now will make up for the loss of the gold medal.” In the same conversation, questioned about their future in diving, she stated, “We have been through a lot in the past few years…we must have a good rest first.” Qin, as sickeningly overbearing as ever, only replied, “My answer must be the same as hers.” Later, he goes on to say, “I will follow whatever her choice is,” while she, clearly intimidated by her fiancé’s dominating presence, remarked demurely, “He must abide by my decisions.”

Somebody please rescue her from this abusive relationship ASAP.

B. There’s a sizable group of women who enjoy public proposals. Take a look at the reaction of He’s fellow medal winners when this egregious act of sexism went down:

Cagnotto_Tingmao_Proposal Reaction

Tania Cagnotto (L) and Shi Tingmao show unrestrained delight at their competitor’s humiliation. AFP/Getty

Damned traitors.

People like ostentatious displays of commitment. Although one leading proposal service company (yes, these fuckers exist) has seen a flattening of demand for public proposals, they still represent half of their business…meaning it’s a HUGE chunk of their revenue and that it used to be MOST of it. And by the way, a public proposal is any invitation to marriage that occurs in a public venue. It need not be on the Jumbotron at Yankee Stadium; the middle of a Red Lobster in Des Moines, Iowa counts, too.

I’d also point to the preponderance of Facebook posts with multii-angled pics of diamond rings on freshly manicured hands as another proxy for evidence of many women’s comfort with public displays of the intention to marry. Seriously, they give shots of drooling babies a hellified run for their money.

C. While there are certainly people who make public proposals because they’re egomaniacs, there are plenty of folks engaging in such shenanigans in order to please would-be wives and boldly declare their love. Perhaps that’s what Marjorie Enya was doing on August 8th when she headed onto a field post-match with balloons and—GASP!—a microphone to ask Isadora Cerullo, her rugby playing girlfriend, for her hand in marriage. But hey, why guess when she told us herself?

enya_cerullo_proposal

Cerullo (R) and Enya share an entirely inappropriate kiss in an Olympic setting. Reuters

Interviewed afterward, Enya said, “As soon as I knew she was in the squad I thought, ‘I have to make this special’…She is the love of my life…I wanted to show people that love wins.” Yeah, it was a woman who set off the marriage proposals at the 2016 Olympic games.

Selfish bastard.

I’ll leave you with a closing thought. After articulating this POV on Facebook, one of my female friends earnestly asked, “Who hurt you?” Another queried me privately regarding the “noise about the proposal” and whether someone had rejected mine. Neither was trying to be insensitive, but just stop for a second and imagine the fallout if a man responded to a woman during a discussion about relationships in such a patronizing and dismissive manner.

Having said that, I’ve never proposed to anyone. No personally experienced rejection motivated me to write this. Instead, this essay is an effort to expose the doublethink that allows questions such as those posed above even to exist. The Wedding Industrial Complex is built on stoking women’s desires for the fairytale ending, and that ending begins with the way in which a man asks the Princess to become his Queen. For those on the quest for that movie-worthy proposal, I say may the odds be forever in your muphuckin’ favor. Personally, I accept my feminist comrades’ invitation to join the Minimalist Proposal Movement.

Are there local chapters and shit?

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November 22, 2013 · 3:10 PM

Who’s Thirsty?

No matter what you heard, this is the REAL Killa Cam. Love ya, cuz.

No matter what you heard, this is the REAL Killa Cam. Love ya, cuz.

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“In the abundance of water, the fool is thirsty.” — Bob Marley, Rat Race

That pretty young thing you see above is my cousin Cam. While visiting her dad here in New York a while back, Cam met a man. To say that he piqued her interest would be an understatement, but revealingly, her attraction to him was more about what he didn’t do than what he did.

They met while she was out at one of Harlem’s liveliest nightspots, the kind of place where a dude might even try it with Michelle Obama if her eyes linger long enough. Unlike his would-be competitors who came off as clumsy brigands out to steal whatever hidden treasures she might carelessly let fall into their grubby little hands, Robbie’s swashbuckling approach was direct and efficient. He cut through Cam’s defenses before she could act on the knee-jerk rejection response with which she’d been programmed by years of overabundant male attention, and after just a few minutes of easy conversation he nonchalantly informed her that he was leaving, asked for her number, and walked out.

Within eight months, she’d moved to NYC. Sadly enough though, almost as soon as she got to her new home things started to change. His time was in increasingly short supply, and whenever they did meet up, it was always on his terms and his turf. This meant that Cam was stuck making the lonely trek from Harlem to Brooklyn, and anybody who’s lived in New York City knows that trip is so onerous that she might as well have been dating someone in Philly. In fact, she might have been better off doing that, ‘cause at least you can get a bangin’ ass cheeseteak there. Instead, all she got for her trouble was…what exactly?

That’s the question that I posed to her when she came to me for advice. From where I sat, this guy was clearly uninterested in fulfilling Cam’s emotional needs, and I didn’t have to channel Dr. Phil to get to that conclusion: dude literally said that he didn’t have time for her. I mean, sweet Mother of Dragons, that’s like a woman telling a guy that she’s celibate. Before she gets to the third syllable, we’re already thinking about how to say something nice and wrap that shit right the hell on up. But Cam wasn’t looking for a big red bow just yet, because she was making a classic woman’s error: she was mistaking a man’s disinterest for a manifestation of his value.

Cam and Keith

With only a modicum of refection, one can see the blueprint for Cam and Robbie’s entire relationship within their first interaction. He may have been handsome and whatnot, but what really got her heart pumping was how unconcerned Robbie was when he stepped to her, despite overwhelming evidence that he should’ve been dumbstruck by her grace, charm and beauty. This doesn’t surprise me. In the early stages of a relationship, confidence is one’s lifeblood, and all too often a man’s confidence can drain a woman of hers faster than you can say “Eric Northman.”

Once a woman senses that her confidence has ebbed, it follows that she’ll seek to recharge it. However, instead of taking stock and realizing that there is in fact no reason to feel any less sure of herself today than she did before she met Bon Temps’ finest, too often she will perceive that the easiest way to replenish her confidence is by somehow possessing the very instrument of her insecurity: Mr. Nonchalant.

So, it’s this bass-ackward emotional process that links male disinterest with male value. Her (subconscious) belief is that if she can hold on to a man who’s so self-assured that he barely shows interest in a great woman like her, then she’ll have a reason to believe in herself. Of course, she can never really “possess” him or any other man. That path is just a vicious cycle leading to continued suboptimal treatment from Robbie and his vampire coven, along with further self-doubt.

Look, I understand that being neither overly aggressive nor super wimpy is attractive. There’s something to be said for a man that can communicate his interest in a woman without making her feel that she either needs to take out an order of protection on him or hold his hand and walk him through the process. With that said, I hear women throwing the term “thirsty” around entirely too much.

Understand that just because a guy has enough gumption to ask you to dance twice, call you a third time after you don’t return his first message, or offer to take your kids to Chuck E. Cheese’s while you go shopping, it doesn’t mean that he’s thirsty…OK, maybe the last one is. Dude is kinda trippin’ right there. Still, I’d advise y’all to start showing more appreciation to those who appreciate you and devote less time to those with no time for you. And come to think of it, considering the fact that so many of y’all are complaining that you can’t find a man, I’d say you’re the thirsty ones. Meanwhile, there’s plenty of water out there, so I’ll tell you what I told Cam: Drink up.

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July 26, 2013 · 3:50 PM

In the Mix: The Top 5 Ways Deejaying Is Like Pushing Up

She's smiling now, but watch what happens when you stop playing Beyoncé.

She’s smiling now, but watch
what happens when Beyoncé stops playing.

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So, your boy has been spending a lot of time talking about and listening to DJs lately, not to mention spinning myself, and it’s got me thinking. Something about the whole process of manipulating the wheels of steel just seemed so familiar. All of the attention to detail, the tiny adjustments, the electric thrill of the perfect mix…I couldn’t help feeling that I’d been there before.

Then one day, staring down at my Technics’ hypnotic twin platters, it hit me. In what other situation does one commonly find themselves putting on a show for an audience that’s often tentative, skeptical, or completely disinterested? If you answered “teaching at a public school in the United States” you get partial credit, but that’s not the response that I wanted. On the other hand, if you said, “kicking it to a woman,” you are correct!

And yes, I’m a straight dude, so this is written from that perspective. You can either substitute your preference where applicable, or fucking relax and appreciate my genius in all of its temporarily gender insensitive, heteronormative glory. Your choice.

Now, without further ado, I proudly present the top five ways that deejaying is like pushing up.

5. Preparation Is Key – A former DMC champ told me that there’s always something that he could be doing to prep his next set. This means finding new songs, checking out the next venue, basically anything to make sure that his next gig is as smooth as an alpaca’s ass. The same is true if you’re trying to get that P.Y.T. on your team. If you’ve got friends in common, find out about her background and interests. If you’re out at a bar, notice who she’s with and how she acts. Any of this intel could mean the difference between keeping her dancing or sending her running for the exit.

4. Stay in the Groove – The groove is an abstract concept that roughly means a coherent, consistent, rhythmic flow. Like the stream of a conversation, once it’s moving along a good DJ does everything in their power to keep it rolling. It’s the same way with you and your next lady love. If you’re talking about where she’s from and she’s opening up, stay on that track until you can blend in a topic on the next deck that’s complementary. Don’t be a dummy and throw out some crap about how you hate her hometown because the girls are such airheads. It sounds obvious, but left on your own some of you dudes couldn’t feel the groove if you were a needle on a record.

3. Hone Your Recovery Tactics – Even the best DJs face glitches. The record skips, you drop the next song off beat, or that new version of Seraktor freezes right in the middle of your set. Still, it’s not the glitch, but your response to it that can make or break you. You made a joke about the phrase “Christian Scientist” being a worse oxymoron than “compassionate conservative”…only to find out that she picks up the Monitor on the way back from her Young Republicans meeting every week. Don’t go cowering beneath your decks. Cue the next track and get that bad boy pumping. Put a wrinkle in your brow, lean in, and intensely whisper, “REALLY? Well, I’m always looking for smart people to challenge my assumptions. Let’s talk about it.” Oh. Shit. Hear that? That’s the sound of you taking the party to the next level.

This is either a party or the Zombie Apocalypse. I'm a glass half-full type, thus I included it here.

This is either a pic of a bangin’ party or the Zombie Apocalypse.
I’m a glass half-full type, thus its inclusion here.

2. Read the Audience – You’re throwing pure audio gold out the speakers. You’re a vessel of divine musical artistry, touched by Apollo himself. The problem is that the crowd thinks that you’re just plain touched. While there’s something to be said for challenging people with unique sounds, if you go too far off the deep end you just might drown. Things are no different with that young tender. Sure, discussing the finer points of critical race theory might cement you as an intellectual in her mind, but did you ever stop to think that she’s not interested in your brain at 1:15 AM…after her third vodka gimlet? With all due respect to Lupe, you gotta dumb it down, homey. There will be plenty of time for brain later. (See what I did there?)

1. Remember the Fundamentals – Sometimes showing off is entirely appropriate. If you’ve got a killer turntablism routine, by all means unleash the Kraken on them bitches. Case in point:

But what good is it to play records using only your eyebrows and right pinky toe when the songs aren’t beatmatched and the selection has no logical flow? Similarly, it’s great that you wowed babygirl on the dancefloor when you broke out that Matrix backbend move and held it for three minutes while simultaneously doing the Kid ‘N Play Kickstep with her…including the entwined leg hop thing at the end. Kudos. But see, you dropped the ball at dinner when all you could talk about for 30 minutes was you, you, and YOU. A DJ can play an entire three hour set without using a single effect or beaming videos directly into the crowd’s brains, but if the music is tight and the transitions are smooth, everyone will love it. And guess what? She’ll be closer to loving you if you just display some common courtesy, make her smile as much as possible, and let her know that you’re feeling her. In other words, keep the basics front and center.

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February 8, 2013 · 3:43 PM

One For Me, None For You: Relationships and Compromise

Compromise

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If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that relationships are all about compromise, I’d be writing this on the third floor of my winter villa in Rio.  By the way, I couldn’t use the first floor since it would be in use as a working recreation of a Starfleet holodeck, and the second floor would be flooded for reenactments of ancient Roman navy battles.  My point is, muphuckas are always preaching about the virtues of meeting in the middle.

It’s not that I’m arguing with the precept.  My problem is that, more often than not, men are the only ones actually expected to head down shitty old Compromise Road.  On the other hand, our girlfriends and wives just stand there, barely stepping foot on the path themselves.  It’s like we’re characters in a Looney Tunes feature and our ladies are the wascally wabbits.  “She switched the signs, dummy!  That’s not Compromise Road, that’s Her Way Highway!  It leads to a…cliff.”  Womp, womp, wooooooomp.

Here’s a real example to clarify my meaning, based on a conversation with a past girlfriend:

Me: “By the way, I’ve got plans on Saturday night.”
Her: “What plans?”
Me: “Well, I’m supposed to meet up with some friends for drinks.”
Her: “Uh…but I wanted to go dancing on Saturday.”
Me: “OK, but you didn’t tell me that, and I already made plans.”
Her: “Yeah, but I should come first.”
Me: “You do come first, but we’ve spent every day together except one since Sunday, and it’s Thursday.  I have other friends, too.”
Her: “But I’ve been studying all week!  That’s not quality time!”
Me: “Any time that I spend with you is quality for me, moon of my life.”
Her: “OK, OK.  Let’s just compromise.  Why don’t you go out with me this Saturday, then hang out with your friends some time next year.  That’s cool, right?”
Me: “Dear, sweet, lovely woman…that’s not a compromise.  That’s you getting your way completely.  Isn’t there some other way that we can both be relatively happy?”
Her: “FUCK YOU!  Your mother sucks cocks in hell!“

Or something like that.  The bottom line is that we both wanted something, but she totally got what she wanted and I got jack.  And it sucked.

Even so, it’s not like I think that women are inherently manipulative, self-centered creatures who will stop at nothing to see men trapped beneath the weight of their thigh-high boots.  On the contrary, I believe that this inclination to promote their own needs at the expense of their partner’s evolved as a defense mechanism, a means of combating their relegation to second-class citizenship in a male-dominated society, and it’s realized through artful appeals to chivalric principles.

As I’ve said elsewhere, chivalry is an insidious institution, and I propose that this is yet one more way that it damages our relations with one another.  Having been instructed that a gentleman caters to the every want of his lady, women have come to use this teaching as a blunt, but immensely effective weapon to help even the odds in the battle of the sexes.  Turn weakness to strength: relentlessly question a loving man’s commitment to your emotional well-being and you’ll win the day more often than not.  The Tzu brothers, Lao and Sun, would be proud.  (Note: if you believe that these ancient Chinese men were actually related to each other then you are ignorant, racist, or both.)

So, most men succumb to the browbeating, acquiring the conflicted, cartoonish demeanor that TV husbands have displayed on every sitcom from “The Honeymooners” to “Modern Family.”  Sure, we talk a good game, stomp around the house, and on occasion even dare to challenge our better halves face to face.  As a result, 15% of the time we may get our way.  Still, 75% of the time poker night gets canceled, there’s no boys’ trip to Prague, and you can forget about buying the full-scale replica Iron Man suit with a functional wee-wee hole.  All the while, us menfolk sit stewing, wondering when in the name of Al Bundy we surrendered our gonads.

Yep.  Guilt and an overactive desire to please eventually give way to resentment, and that brings us to the 10% of the time for which we have yet to account.  Care to hazard a guess as to what happens then?  That’s right: rebellion.  Appearing to acquiesce, sheepishly nodding our heads and avoiding eye contact, we slink into the shadows…biding our time.  Our moment may come later that day, it may come next year, but rest assured it will come, and when it does, not an iota of guilt will accompany our transgressions.  No, we’ll rest easy on a resplendent throne, our smug visage pressed firmly against the flowery bosoms of an exotic dancer named Passion as the DJ replays “Bandz A Make Her Dance” for the third time.  After all, revenge is a dish best served from a strip club buffet, and years of compromise have made us very, very hungry.

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October 25, 2012 · 1:00 PM

Boomerang Booty: Is Ex-Sex The Right Move?

I woulda done it too, Marcus.  I woulda done it, too.

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It’s been said that nothing beats vagina except new vagina, although the language used is generally rawer than that.  I don’t know whether it’s the mystery of the unknown, appreciation for subtle variances in individual lovemaking styles, or the ego rush from the idea that one more woman let us play genital peek-a-boo, but all things being equal men adore that new-new.  But there is an exception.  Sometimes, we get a yearning for something more familiar.  Sometimes, we want some ex-sex.

Fellas, we’ve all been there.  You’re between relationships, or maybe you’re dating but there’s nothing serious going on, or maybe you’re pretty deep into something new, but you haven’t had “The Talk” yet.  Whatever the case, you’re out and about having a few drinks and up pops one of your ex-girlfriends.  She’s rocking a black leather bustier with lace around the top, some skintight, lavender leggings with white polka-dots, and those studded black stilettos with the gold heels that you made her leave on that time y’all got creative.  Juicy.  When you roll over to greet her, she lets her right arm hang around your waist for at least 10 seconds after you hug hello. Shit is real, son.  Operation Booty Reclamation is in full muthaphuckin’ effizect.

“Lately I thought back,
When we made good love.
Listening to some Marvin Gaye,
All night long.
Now I want that old thing back…”

– H-Town, “Knockin’ Da Boots”

Like I said, we’ve all gone there, so I can’t blame you.  What I can do however, is equip you with a framework for analyzing whether your next trip down memory lane will lead to blissful nostalgia or to searing regret.  To that end, here are five factors to consider before next engaging in ex-sex:

  1. The Common Sense Factor: Was it good in the first place? If not, why expect a miracle now?  You still can’t polish a sexy-looking turd, gentlemen.  Spandex ain’t gonna help her throw it back in the sack…although if she keeps on the studded heels it might do a little something.  Seriously though, sexual chemistry can’t be manufactured, so don’t waste time barking up the same boring ass tree.
  2. The Rihanna Factor: Has the good girl finally gone bad?  If the answer is yes, then this calls for an exception to the conclusion reached via factor one.  One’s sexual expressiveness and appetites can improve, after all.  For women, this might happen during those experimental days in college, after their first surge of real independence in their mid-20s, or in their 30s when they finally get comfortable with their own sexual engine and learn to really let that baby open up.  If you happen to re-encounter your ex at one of these crucial times, then congrats!  You just hit the Pum-Pum Jackpot!
  3. The Suicide Factor: Are you over her?  Be honest.  We may not like to admit it, but men can have just as much trouble moving on as women.  If you’ve still got internal bleeding from the breakup, tread carefully the path to the boudoir.  You’ll likely find yourself hunched over in the shower, babbling incoherently, and crying your accursed eyes out faster than you can say, “pussy-whipped.”
  4.  The Douchebag Factor: Is she over you?  Don’t be an asshole.  If you know that she’s still got major love for you, please reconsider using her as practice for the Jackhammer position.  Look, for every two women who can handle sex with no strings attached there are like 327 who can’t.  Chances are that every one of your bourbon-empowered pelvic thrusts will serve as a battering ram, demolishing her already crumbling psyche. I don’t care if she begs like an unholy clone of James Brown and Mars Blackmon, DO NOT dance the mattress jig with this woman or you might push her over the edge.  And that brings us to…
  5. The Homicide Factor: Is she crazy?   Sure, unbalanced types are some of the sexiest creatures walking the planet.  Why?  Perhaps they arouse the same thrill-seeking drive that makes little boys jump off one story roofs onto pissy mattresses. But just like pissy mattresses, these women are dangerous, which is probably why you broke it off with her in the first place.  Now you’ve got the itch to get scratched again, but I implore you to back away from her Mouth That Cannot Bite…unless of course you’re not terribly fond of your nipples and testicles.  ‘Cause she’ll cut them off…and FEED THEM TO YOU IN A PÂTÉ.

Hey, when done responsibly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a visit to the booty archives.  Pick that shit up off the shelf, knock the dust off, and enjoy.  Before you do it though, take a second to think about the risks that go along with those 15.4 minutes of pleasure.  You may be better off hooking up with somebody new.  Or here’s an idea: how about some action with your current girlfriend?

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September 21, 2012 · 4:01 PM

The Thirst for Closure

“Why don’t U want me? Is it cuz I’m always following U? U look good in green, BTW.”

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I need closure like Republicans need scapegoats.  In all likelihood, it’s a manifestation of my overall obsessive-compulsive tendencies (I need to finish things). Or maybe it’s a control thing.  Whatever the case, my response to failed relationships is a prime example of this phenomenon.

Here’s a case in point.

I’d been dating this woman for a couple of months.  We’ll call her Shortstuff.  Our Date Quality Score averaged at least a 7.5 out of 10, and although we hadn’t done the do yet, by the fifth date the sexual tension was as thick as a Georgia stripper’s…accent.  I had high hopes that this one might go the distance.  I’m talking at least four months here, maybe even five.

One week, we saw each other two days in a row, then didn’t speak for about four days.  Then, as luck would have it, I was standing on the subway platform with one of my best female friends when I saw Shortstuff emerge from an arriving train.  In a matter of nanoseconds, I went from excited to shocked because I noticed that babygirl wasn’t alone.  To my chagrin there was a big, black, 7′ 15″, oak tree muscle bearing dude behind her.  Mind you, Shortstuff is like a 5′ 4″ Asian woman, so the juxtaposition of those two bodies was not at all ego-affirming.

With that said, after emitting an audible gasp (some of my manhood may have left my body with it), I managed to smile and say, “Hi.”  She hesitated on the stairs, awkwardly greeted me in return, and then got swept up in the steady forward march of Terry Crews‘ understudy.  I ain’t like that shit at all.

I let a day pass before reaching out.  Not that I was playing games, but I thought that it would be in poor taste to hit her up so soon after seeing her with another guy.  I might as well scream, “You’re not banging him, ARE YOU?!”  Nah, son.  The kid can’t be going out like that.  Word to Rob Pattinson.

I hit her on email first.  Nothing.  Waited another day, then called.  Voicemail.  I was down to my third and final card: text messaging.  See, it’s only after the third time that you’ve been ignored that you know for sure that the party’s done.  That’s the Rule of Three.  If somebody reaches out to you three times, you’ll get back to them if you really want to do it. I don’t give a fuck if you’re in a coma, you’ll telepathically contact a muphuckin’ psychic or some shit.  Feel me?

Finally, she responded.  Supposedly, she’d been so busy at work that she’d just been exhausted over the last few days.  After washing down the bullshit with pig urine, I told her that it was fine and that she could just hit me when things got less stressful.

If Shortstuff got in touch with me, Rihanna did.  And since I haven’t been spotted on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean eating euphemistic Barbadian birthday cake, you know that didn’t happen.  This is when my need for closure kicked in hard.

I knew that she was done with me, but I didn’t know why, and that info was just as crucial to my sanity.  Was it because there was a four day, contactless gap between our last awesome date and our meeting on the platform? Was it because when she saw me, she saw me with a girl?  Or, horror of horrors, perhaps it was because she’d decided that she’d have a better chance of creating her long-desired branch of the Blasian master race with a black man who looked like he was bred for…breeding?  I.  HAD.  TO.  KNOW.

I exercised the nuclear option.  (Don’t worry, I can write that ’cause she’s not Japanese.)  I sent her one more text message, informing her that I’d really liked getting to know her and hoped that we could keep in touch.  Yes, I used the past tense to infer that I knew it was over, hoping to spur a counter-reaction if I’d assumed incorrectly.  And yes, I included a smiley emoticon to let her know that the note was written in a wistful mood, tinged with optimism.  In short, I pulled out all stops in the final thrust for answers.

She didn’t respond.

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August 3, 2012 · 2:59 PM

Nut Check: Why Nagging Doesn’t Work

The double team dance from Precious and Innocence was TOTALLY worth it though.

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Men need help keeping it all together.  We can be disorganized, forgetful, and self-centered, and the women in our lives often serve as a welcome counter to those tendencies.  There’s no question that we appreciate our girlfriends and wives for providing a helpful hand, but what we hate is when that hand’s graceful nudge transforms into a fist that beats us swollen until we throw up our arms, spit out the blood pooling in our toothless mouths, and quietly mumble, “No más.”  Telling us something twice should be enough.  Three times is pushing it.  If you tell us more than three times, then you better have early onset Alzheimer’s.  If not, you deserve to be ignored more than Mitt Romney ignores the working class ‘cause you’re violating a basic principle: THOU SHALL NOT NAG.  Now, before your neck starts working overtime, gimme a chance to explain.

Your home is not in imminent danger of a category seven biohazard just because there’s been a full bag of trash waiting at the door for two hours.  As surprising as it may be to you, the theory of spontaneous generation was disproved in the 19th century: no mutant roaches or rats will suddenly emerge from that Hefty bag to recreate the biome of the New York City subway system in your kitchen.  The shit can wait 30 minutes until AFTER I finish watching “Wild Things”…for the 33rd time. (I never get tired of Denise Richards in that movie.  Never.)

Still, at least there’s an identifiable reason for the nagging in that context.  There’s a task that needs to be accomplished, the gender gods have assigned said task to men (I’m not even going there now), and you, dear lady, are ensuring that the necessary occurs.  Got it.  But there’s a whole class of nagging that consists solely of behaviors firmly rooted in tomfuckery.

For example, what exactly do you think will be accomplished by calling me four times in rapid succession when I don’t pick up the first time?  Will I suddenly have a change of heart somewhere between calls three and four, throw Saccharin off my lap at Shakealot’s, leave my boys sitting in the VIP, and run outside to pick up your call?  Sorry to break it to you, babygirl, but the answer is no.  In fact, the more you keep callin’, the more I’m likely to ignore you.

See, unless a dude is seriously whipped, he has an innate aversion to feeling like a little punk ass bitch and will instinctively react to threats of this nature.  This reaction is known as Sudden Scrotal Enlargement Response.  And when you nag the holy hell out of us by calling incessantly, scrotal enlargement seriously kicks the fuck in.  Now, instead of coming right home at 1:30 AM, we’re staying out until 3 AM, drinking way more than we planned, and we MAY even sneak a little tongue onto a wayward nipple as it passes our face.  Yep.  The worst part of this is that it’s all your fault.

If you hadn’t been hammering away at his testicles all night, he probably wouldn’t have been getting them messaged in the Rozay Room, diverting good money away from your red bottom fund.  So, ladies, my question for you is a simple one.  Now that you know the true impact of your actions, will you become the dependable right hand that your man needs by his side, or will you continue allowing your nurturing instincts to overrun their boundaries, turning you into a cackling harpy in t?  Consider your answer carefully: your relationship and the fate of millions of balls hang in the balance.

Hit me up on Facebook and Twitter to continue the convo: facebook.com/scissorspeaks and @scissorspeaks.

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July 3, 2012 · 12:31 PM

A Dream Come True: Robyn’s Song

We’re never all good…or all bad.

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Rihanna’s been on my mind a lot lately.  I mean, it’s been kinda hard to escape her during these last couple of months and…OK, it’s been hard to escape her during these last couple of YEARS, but lately it seems as if Robyn Fenty is one of only five celebrities that any media outlet wants to talk about.  And matter of fact, her name is still all up in the muphuckin’ mix when they’re talking about two of the other godsdamned four.  So yeah, currently 60% of all pop culture news (read: garbage) is about Rihanna.  Shit, a lot of regular news is about Rihanna right now.  On the real, I heard on NPR that if the Supreme Court had struck down the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act that the president was gonna talk that talk, repackage the shit as RihannaCare, and push it right on through Congress.  Yep.

Now properly contextualized, it certainly should not come as a shock that the woman who dominates any media vehicle capable of showcasing an image would also be occupying a lot of real estate in my brain, even without me knowing it.  I mean, that’s the only explanation that I can think of for why she would show up in my dreams, engaged in a loving, committed, and playfully affectionate romance with yours truly.  Well, there’s the fact that she’s a terrifyingly fine ass woman with more sex appeal in her left nostril than most women have in the midst of their most powerful, self-induced orgasms (yep, I’m on to THAT shit), but that’s beside the point.  I am absolutely not a Rihanna stan.  I appreciate her as an artist, as a personality, and as a beauty, but I in no way suffer from the illusion that I possess some kind of personal relationship with Ms. Fenty.

Still, the mental experience of having said relationship felt AMAZESAUCE.  It seemed so real in fact that I decided to write a song about it…kinda.  Actually, “Robyn’s Song” is really a dedication to Rihanna from a dude who has the same experience that I did, but ends up affected in a fundamentally different way.  Instead of saying, “Wow, that was fantastic.  How sad that my real dating life is somewhat less interesting, but I should really get out of bed now,” he wakes up with a heavy heart and a profound longing for a lost love that never was.  He feels deeply for her, wishes nothing but the best for her, and in his heart and mind, he’s truly linked to this unattainable star.  Meanwhile, she’ll remain the object of his unrequited affection from now until Rihanna turns good again, AKA forever.  Ahhh, love: you gorgeous, horrible, heartbreaking thing.

Here’s hoping that you listen to this with the object of your stalking in mind.  Enjoy, and devil fingers salute!

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June 15, 2012 · 1:44 PM

Thug Love: Your Girl’s Favorite Oxymoron

Money over bitches. How romantic!

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The other day, I was having a conversation with a few female friends over drinks.  This was our second stop on the libation train, so we were all sufficiently lubricated enough to engage in free-flowing discourse.  (Being only an armchair psychologist and therefore not subject to APA guidelines, that’s just how I like my subjects.)  Anyway, maybe the barkeep dropped a glass, maybe a few fellow patrons suddenly caused a ruckus, but whatever it was lead me to jokingly blurt out something like, “Sheeeit!  I thought I was ‘bout to have to throw them thangs!”  One of the ladies then replied, “Oh, please.  When’s the last time you got into a fight?”  Smelling the kind of controversy that births great posts such as this, I egged them on.  “Oh, so you think if something popped off I would just scream like a little girl and run?” Another took up the opportunity to wave the Bitchass Banner all up in my face: “Nah, maybe not quite like that, but I just don’t think you’ve got much thug in you, and I like my men to have that.  See, I’ve got this friend.  He’s a blood…”

Unfortunately, the rest of the conversation is a bit spotty for me, seeing as though I started throwing up in my brain at that point.  Still, I knew what kind of fuckery she was talking because I’d heard it before.  Babygirl likes to sip on that Thug Passion, and she’s not alone.  It turns out that a not insignificant proportion of women actually have a soft spot for hard men…in psycho-emotional terms, I mean.

See, there’s a special species of bourgeois women that fetishize the icon of the Bad Boy or Thug.  In their minds, and in a romantic context, this character is something akin to what the Noble Savage was to pre-20th century white people in a cultural context.  In the eyes of the settlers, Native Americans led fundamentally alien lives, were strikingly unrefined, and also unquestionably dangerous.  In a classic demonstration of the human mind’s capacity to bend and twist on itself more adroitly than a Magic City dancer, those aforementioned scary traits are simultaneously perceived as their mirror images: alien becomes exotic, unrefined becomes pure, and dangerous becomes potent.  Asked the pioneer woman to the young brave who found her trembling in the corner of her home after his tribe’s raid of her town, “Are you gonna ravage me and kill me, Mr. Injun?  If so, do I get to pick the order?”

Look, it’s cool to have fantasies.  Everybody’s got ‘em, and they’re healthy.  But the thing about fantasies is that a lot of them would leave you transcontinentally fucked if you ever actually tried to realize them.  “My Girlfriend’s Hot Sister Wants to Get It” is one of mine, but I know that even I ain’t smooth enough to get out of THAT stunt without some serious scars…probably from hot grits.

Check it though.  It may not be as obvious, but those enchanted by the “Thug Love” fantasy are cruising for a big bruising, too.  I mean, res ipsa loquitur, kids: the thing speaks for itself.  Thugs love neither ho nor bitch, and contrary to what they may say, if they’re a thug, any woman can morph into a ho or a bitch at the drop of a muphuckin’ pimp hat.  Yes, that means you, Ms. Spelman.  Just like the former Indian cult (red dot, not feather) from whence cometh their name, thugs are killers.  And if they’re not yet killers, then they have the potential to be.  And if they don’t have the potential to be, then they’re not thugs: they’re pretenders.  Any woman that would prefer a thug or worse, a pretender, over a level-headed, fight-avoiding, job-protecting, (mostly) responsible cat like me and my homeys is playing with fire and just itching to get that ass lit up.

So ladies, the next time you feel that urge to go out and get yourself a bad boy, do yourself a favor and call that nice dude you met while volunteering for Obama instead.  Tell him to throw on a bandana (pick whichever gangsterific color gets you goin’) and make him do all kinds of naughty/disrespectful shit to you, depending on how mental you in fact are.  You’ll feel better about yourself in the long run, and you’ll probably end up avoiding annoying stuff like FBI surveillance and wet towel beatings.

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January 20, 2012 · 1:34 PM

White Girls Have More Fun

Yeah, I know Maya Rudolph ain't white, but she passes better than Tim Tebow. So, whatever.

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Let me begin this missive by admitting that what follows is probably going to offend you.  I say that off top for two reasons.  First, I want you to know that I’m self aware enough to understand the delicate nature of the topic that I’m addressing.  Second, calling out the offensive nature of a piece semi-shields the writer from any subsequent fecal downpour.  It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, I told you that this one might make your ass itch.  Don’t blame me if you read it and got upset.  Matter of fact, I’m mad at YOU for reading it…inconsiderate bastard.”

Look, I can only expound on the truth as I see it.  And well, to be honest, lately I’ve been thinking that white women have a helluva lot of truth on offer.

Eh-hem.  Now that half of you have thrown your computers out of the window in fits of rage not seen since the CW cancelled “The Game,” I’ll continue.

When I say I’m seeing truth, I’m really talking about truth of being.  That is, living life in a way that is consistent with one’s authentic self, which leads to greater enjoyment, AKA fun.  I gotta say that in general, white women seem to be having more of it than their black counterparts.

OK, let me not overstate this.  I’m really talking about a specific part of living life, the part that has to do with love, sex, partying, and general good times.  Whether or not white girls are better at achieving positive work life balance or expressing their own political preferences vs. those of the patriarchy are for another writer to consider.  This is “Recognize & Realize,”  not “Feminism, Poetry, Pop-Culture, Sex.”  (Not that anything is wrong with that, in case the owner of that blog, Stephanie, actually reads this.  I mean, some of my best friends are feminists…)

I should also clarify things by saying that my comments are probably only applicable to educated women, too.  (Incidentally, educated in this context means having secured or on track to securing a college degree.)  Why?  Because those are the women with whom I’ve spent most of my time.  I’d be lying if I said that I could speak to the ins-and-outs (no pun intended) of blue-collar Beths and Bernices, ’cause well, I haven’t really gone there…that much.  All I know is that pound for pound, educated black women have way more stick up their butt, and like the late Bernie Mac said, “I don’t mean that in no nice way.”

A woman's body language can be so hard to read.

Beginning in high school, through grad school, and beyond, I’ve been amazed at the ease with which white women seem to live in their own sexual skins.  Hanky-panky doesn’t necessarily have a freakin’ timetable associated with it in Becky’s books.  It’s like you just say the right thing (or shut the eff up), pull the right levers, be there at there at the right time, and you’re off like a prom dress.  Ridiculously refreshing.  But dude, you could be trapped with a bougie black woman on an island after a zombie apocalypse has decimated 99.9% of the human population, and she’ll still make you wait ’til like the 4th date before she tosses off that grass skirt.  (Do y’all even realize how hard it is to make a coconut martini with REAL coconuts?)

I actually had a black woman tell me, after following up a very steamy initial encounter with a night full of nada in my bed, “You’re a great cuddler.  I wanted to do more, but I can’t go out like that.”  What the shit?!  Did the Great God of Blue Balls threaten to strike her down unless she sacrificed my testes on his nocturnal altar?  What kind of (un)fuckery is this?

Well, noted sociologist E. Franklin Frazier identified the roots of this problem back in the late 1950s.  In his seminal work, “Black Bourgeoisie,” Frazier let it be known that the black middle class was playing the assimilation game – hard.  Because they wanted so badly to be accepted by white folk, they actually tried to culturally OUT-white them.  This cut across multiple aspects of life, including the realm of morality.  As such, we developed the idea that a lady must never give in to desires of the flesh until – I’m guessing here – she can be reasonably certain that The People’s Slut Court would find her not guilty.  I’d argue that assimilation’s conservative grip on their panties is still quite robust and shit, 50 years later.

Meanwhile, white women found the pill in the 60s and never looked the fuck back.  I have to stop here and say that black men bear at least half of the fault for this, with all the “slut” this and “ho” that.  Dudes, if you continue with the double standards, you’re only gonna continue fucking yourself.  Literally.  But sistas, you gotta meet us half way.

Understand that no one is looking for the “Girls Gone Wild” experience.  OK, some people are, but those people are all named Colin and under the age of 25, or they’re over 35, named Eugene, and are registered sex offenders.  What is cool is the idea that folks can get together and feel free to let their hair down, do what they wanna do on their own terms, get it crackin’, or not.  ‘Cause by the way, the “not” can be cool too, sometimes.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somewhere out there somebody just let out The White Girl Yell.  Whooohooo!

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