Category Archives: Sexuality

Vilifying Nate Parker Benefits Rape Culture

nate_parker_image_awards

Nate Parker at the 2016 NAACP Image Awards (Alberto E. Rodriguez/Getty Images)

 

It took an uncomfortably long time for me to write about the 1999 Nate Parker and Jean Celestin rape case. I knew what I wanted to say, but was afraid of being labeled a rape apologist. This was despite the fact that Parker was never convicted of sexual assault, and my reluctance is a stark illustration of how unhealthy our conversations about this topic have become. If we don’t turn things around soon, we risk stymieing the hard-won progress made in fostering dialogue about sexual violence just as we’re starting to see the issue get the attention that it merits.

The broad details of the case are now familiar, so I won’t recount them here. In the end, Parker and his then roommate, Celestin, were found not guilty. As many have rightly pointed out though, that outcome doesn’t mean that they are innocent. The picture that their accuser painted, of a woman in a college dorm room, contorted on a futon so as to allow two men to have their way with her unconscious body, is the stuff of nightmares. She had voluntarily performed oral sex on Parker the day before, but that doesn’t matter. She and Parker had sex the morning after the incident, but that doesn’t matter either. If he and Celestin engaged in sexual activity with her while she was senseless, then it was rape.

The problem is, we don’t know if that’s what happened.

Still, that doesn’t keep a lot of people from proceeding as if they do. They point to the mere existence of the accuser’s rape allegations as a reason for outrage, even though doing so represents textbook circular reasoning. They refer to the civil suit that Penn State settled out of court, centered on alleged harassment at the hands of Parker, Celestin, and their friends, as further evidence of the pair’s guilt, even though there is no proof that such harassment ever happened. They shake their heads and scowl while presenting the accuser’s 2012 suicide as the ultimate proof of her alleged sexual victimization, implying that her death rests on Parker and Celestin’s hands, even though she was already taking antidepressant medication on the day of her encounter with them.

For their part, Parker and Celestin have steadfastly denied that any nonconsensual sexual activity ever took place. They denied it when they were initially interviewed by law enforcement, they denied it during trial, and they’ve denied it in the years since. Importantly, they even denied it when their accuser was secretly recording phone conversations between them.

It’s with the latter, more than with any other documents related to this case, that I gained the most vivid sense of Nate Parker’s headspace those long years ago.

With furrowed brow, I found myself intermittently clenching my fists and pulling at my beard while reading an excerpt of one of the telephone transcripts. It was terrifying, despite my being removed from the situation by time, space, and experience. During the call, Parker comes off as a young man out of his depth; nervous, at times defensive, and eventually frustrated. Throughout the conversation though, he displays total, unwavering dedication to the idea that the accuser was awake and active. At one point he pleads, “Would you admit that…things could have happened that you may have been involved with but you just don’t remember?” Continuing, he unequivocally states, “But for you to say that you were just passing out…that’s just wrong. I’m saying that you were completely conscious.”

jean_celestin

Jean Celestin, Parker’s college roommate and creative partner (Facebook)

In the days since this firestorm erupted, Nate Parker has not only had to face public ire over the accusation itself, but also for a perceived lack of sensitivity when addressing it. In fact, this purported lack of empathy has even been used as further evidence of his guilt. As a result, Parker recently sat down with Ebony magazine to issue another, more detailed apology, acknowledging the effect of “toxic masculinity” on his ideas about sexuality as a young man. While the move has received muted praise from some, others are still telling him to “shut up…and take your fake apologies elsewhere.” They’re upset because they feel that he’s still not taking enough responsibility for his actions. Read: He’s still not admitting that he’s guilty of rape.

Guess what? That’s what people maintaining their innocence do. Yes, he may be lying, but unlike the police brutality cases that now seem to flood our social media feeds, there is no video evidence from August 21, 1999. Neither you nor I can know with 100% certainty what happened.

But here’s what I do know. There can be a distinction between immoral and illegal behavior. You may find drunken group sex immoral, and that’s fine. Based on what Parker has said regarding his current attitude toward the events of that night, he might agree with you. Still, that doesn’t mean that he or his friend Jean Celestin did anything illegal. Labeling them rapists then isn’t just vicious; it’s dangerous. It creates a chilling effect around the entire subject since even questioning this protective impulse gone haywire often leads to one’s condemnation as a kind of accessory to sexual violence. For the sake of true progress in eliminating rape culture, that has to stop.

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Beyoncé, Booty, and Feminism

Close-up of Beyoncé

1990 Madonna called. She wants her whole steez back.

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Beyoncé is a superb entertainer. One minute, her voice is the piercing blare of a trumpet and the next, it’s the gentle lilt of a cello. Of course, her body is equally as flexible, just as exquisitely crafted, and almost as thrilling to witness. Unassailable talent allows her to occupy an enviable position at the peak of pop culture, and she’s used that lofty site as a promontory from which to speak directly to the hearts—and importantly the egos—of millions of females who have come to see her as the embodiment of the ideal woman: talented, strong, and sexy. Queen Bey is a feminist icon, and she deserves to be one. However, there are those who would have us believe that BEYONCÉ, her latest album, marks her biggest step thus far in a retreat from the forefront of the feminist movement.

I say that those people are either overwrought feminist pedants or overly inhibited conservatives. Or they’re idiots. ‘Cause you know, there’s always that element.

I mean, look, the woman made some songs about being a strong woman. OK, she made quite a few of them. Hooray! Also, she’s managed to have a ridiculously successful solo career for more than a decade, when most acts appear and then disappear so quickly that you wonder if that’s why they call it pop music. Hooray again! Oh, and she’s seemingly happily married to a really rich and famous guy and has a cute little daughter, too. So now all of this somehow makes her a standard bearer for modern feminism? Or at least modern black feminism?

I’m sorry, but no. All it means is that she is a woman who has lived the kind of self-determined life that the foremothers of women’s equality envisioned for their sisters and daughters…and that she’s aware of that fact. I don’t doubt that Beyoncé honestly wants to encourage girls and women to think of themselves as self-sustaining, dynamic beings who are fundamentally equal to any man, but Elizabeth Cady Stanton she ain’t.

Perhaps a parallel example will assist in illustrating my point.

After he helped invent gangster rap, but before he started making feel-good movies, Ice Cube made a lot of passionate, pro-black music. Was I disappointed as I gradually watched Cube melt deeper and deeper into Hollywood, to the point where he’s actually game to do comedy bits with Conan O’Brien, possibly the whitest looking dude ever birthed? Not no, but hell no, ‘cause I never once got his vaguely menacing, yet somehow cherubic visage confused with that of Stokely Carmichael’s.

In the same way, members of the Yoncé Ate Sasha school of thought need to relax and understand that by releasing this album and the accompanying videos she didn’t forsake some kind of feminist mission, because dude, she never had one. Beyoncé doesn’t owe little girls, working mothers, the queens at the MAC store, or anybody else anything except good music and a good show. To the extent that she chooses to inspire a sense of inherent beauty within young women or to write lyrics that help generate female self-confidence of any kind, it is a good thing. Her decision to tilt the content of her art a little more towards sex in the bedroom…or the kitchen…or the limo floor…does nothing to negate her expressions of feminist positivity.

I fail to see why anyone’s in a tizzy over Yoncé’s sexy lyrics and skintastic videos at all in the first place. Curse words. Who cares? Bathtub intercourse while inebriated. Zzzzzz. Fleeting shot of supermodel’s tongue grazing the upper half of Beyoncé’s right mammary. Yawn. Allusion to oral sex and errant ejaculate (see Lewinsky, verb). Getting there, but let’s not phone the Thought Police just yet. Multiple potential references to anilingus…OK, sure that’s freaky. But hell, it wasn’t even explicitly stated. That’s just my interpretation. Other artists get far nastier on a regular basis, with no playful metaphors or euphemisms acting as prophylactics during their aural sex romps, so the only thing I’m left with is the idea that this new album is shocking folks only because Beyoncé’s behind it.

That begs a question for all of you grooooown women out there: What’s worse, a sexist man who won’t let you fully realize your multi-faceted identity or a feminist woman who doesn’t want you to display more than one side of it? Recall Yoncé’s sample of author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie reminding us of exactly what a feminist is:

“Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes.”

So, even if Beyoncé isn’t leading the vanguard of 21st century feminist freedom fighters, forsaking her because she’s being just as loud about her sexuality as she’s been about female empowerment is unnecessary and unfair. In the end, it’s perfectly fine for her to sing of self-determination while shaking her fine ass in peek-a-boo shorts. After all, she woke up like this.

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A Game of Inches

Behold: The fruit most men secretly hate. (You did know it was a fruit, right?)

The Cucumber: A fruit most men secretly despise. (You did know it was a fruit, right?)

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I have no illusions about my penis. No woman has ever refused relations with me from fear of becoming a human kebob, but no one has ever complained either, and I’ve even gotten a few compliments. Fine, I’ll toss out the ones from strippers. Still, the average erect American penis is supposedly 5.6″ long and 4.8″ around, with standard deviations of 1.0″ and 0.88″, respectively. I say “supposedly” because the study’s data was self-reported, which means that the real sizes could actually be smaller. So, without delving into details, let’s say that if male members were Sunday brunches then mine might not be the all-you-can-eat variety, but most women would walk away…pretty full.

Regardless, that doesn’t stop an annoying little voice from occasionally surfacing in the back of my head all like, “Yeah, man, you cool…but that dude on “Star Sistas II” had a Klingon disruptor rifle, brotha. Yo’ Starfleet regulation issue phaser ain’t got shit on THAT!” I’m willing to bet most men have heard his taunting, even if in their minds he doesn’t sound like a Cooley High character with a penchant for sci-fi.

Look, I’m not flipping out here. I don’t want to get my joint surgically extended or padded, and I don’t feel the least bit ashamed when it’s time to pull out the iBone for some sex messaging. It’s more like there’s this nagging sense that a perfectly fine thing could be even better.

These sentiments aren’t helped by the fact that every woman I know says that the majority of the men that she’s “dated” have had lengths around 7″+, with a large minority having had Ding Dongs roughly the size of her forearm…no matter the length of her particular forearm. Considering the results from the study mentioned above, these admittedly unscientific personal survey results have always seemed statistically un-fucking-likely.

So, what’s behind these reports of monster manhood? Either my female friends are simply mistaken, extremely lucky, flat-out lying, or they’re in possession of some pretty powerful, preternatural penis PSP. Since nobody’s that damned lucky, most of my friends are honest folk, and I don’t believe in psychic powers (genitally oriented or otherwise), I’m gonna go with option #1.

Maybe it comes down to the fact that when they’re estimating penis size, it’s usually not done in laboratory conditions. After all, not many women keep a tape measure in their purse or on top of the nightstand. (Side note: Guys, if you meet a woman who does keep a tape measure by the bed, just back your ass away slowly, like the Kool-Aid Man on Family Guy.) Regardless, it’s hard to get a solid visual estimate when the room is as dark as the dirty deeds going down.

My hunch is that there’s something more powerful going on here though.

A big factor influencing women’s overestimations of their partners’ sizes might be the simple human need to feel good about one’s choices. Considering the persistent double-standard associated with female sexual activity, women expend a lot of emotional capital when they lay it down. In exchange for racking up another notch on the headboard, an action for which they risk unwanted pregnancy, STIs, and social stigma, they need to feel as if they’ve gotten a big ole bang for their buck. As a result, their internal rulers get stretched out, making them feel even luckier when they get lucky.

If you’re thinking that this hypothesis, um, falls short because “size doesn’t matter” to women, then you’re wrong. While it’s not the end-all-be-all, a recent study shows that women absolutely do care about penis size, rating men with larger ones as more attractive. So, it could be entirely possible that imagining their past partners’ thing-things on a grander scale is a kind of coping mechanism.

Totally not cool.

Totally not cool.

Fret not. I’m not laying the fault for men’s penis worries solely at the doorstep of women’s sexual insecurities. There are certainly other factors at play, and a major one is the effect of porn’s distorted depiction of penises on an entire generation. No, this essay is just an exploration of one corner of a larger conversation about men, women, attraction, and the ways that we make ourselves and each other crazy for hilarious, ridiculous, and tragic reasons. No doubt, men engender the majority of the crazy in the sexual ecosystem, but they’re occasionally victims, too.

So, lady reader, the next time you gaze into the mirror and start feeling insecure about your bee sting breasts or concave keister, I encourage you to think about your last asshole boyfriend’s almost certain penis issues. Sure, it’s slightly mean, but it might help you realize that you’re not alone with your body image concerns. Plus, a little schadenfreude in the morning goes a long way.

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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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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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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part II

Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?

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Last time around, I wrote about the stresses of navigating the choppy seas and treacherous winds of the infamous Girls’ Night Out.  If you’ll recall, I made mention of the darkness that is the dreaded Circle of Death, a terrifying feminine fortress that has dashed more men’s hopes than Obama’s first term.  Oh, that circle may look harmless enough, but be ye not fooled.  These sirens‘ greatest joy is to toy with a man, leading him ever closer to their shores until, before he knows it, his ship is splintered on their estrogen encrusted rocks.

Even if you’ve got Travolta’s moves, look like that kid Eggs from Trueblood, and are a certified mack daddy, you might still get totally crossed out.  This leaves a lot of us handsome, skilled dancer types scratching our heads.  “I was polite.  I smiled.  I didn’t stare at her breasts (that much).  Why did she diss me?”

To fully grasp what’s going on here, you’ve got to understand the basic structure of female social group dynamics.  Surprise, surprise, they’re strikingly different from those of males.

Male social groups are organized pretty much like fighter squadrons.  They can execute coordinated attacks, but are completely willing and able to break apart as necessary to accomplish the current mission.  On the other hand, female social groups operate using a totally different configuration.  More often than not, they’re arranged like teams of escort fighters aligned with a single bomber.  Those escorts will fight tooth and nail to protect that bomber, and would rather crash and burn than lose it to the testicularly endowed enemy.

Each group member has a role to play in the sociosexual war, and though the lyrics change from crew to crew, the song remains the same.  Here’s a quick rundown of the usual cast of characters:

  1. Prom Queen –She’s fine and errrbody knows it (including her).  She’s been showered with male attention since junior high and getting hit on is as common for her as misspelled signs are at a Tea Party rally.
  2. Big Mama – Who run it?  Yep, you guessed it.  Big Mama is the matriarch of the group, and while she may not have absolute authority, her opinion is so influential that it’s de facto law.  Basically, she’s the U.S. and her crew is like the U.N.  They can do whatever they wanna do…but there will be consequences.
  3. Runner-Up – She’s kinda cute.  She’s got spunk.  Still, line her up next to Prom Queen and Big Mama, and she’s just not quite there.  Maybe it’s something really small, like her left eye is kinda sleepy.  Or perhaps it’s a glaring deficiency, like a chest so flat its freakin’ concave.  At the same time, she always manages to come up short in battles for leadership: Big Mama’s beak just keeps on pecking the bird shit out of her.
  4. Gotta Man – Who cares.  Kidding.  Her relationship status makes her a wildcard.  She could be your best friend, encouraging her girls to enjoy life to the fullest, living vicariously through them.  Or she could be a spiteful ass hater whose unhappy relationship causes her to view all men through shit colored spectacles.  Dicey.
  5. Ugly Betty – Yeah, so…the name pretty much says it all.  She may be a straight sweetheart, or an acid spewing bitch, but regardless of the multifaceted and richly textured personality within her, we know one thing for certain: babygirl is as ugly as the black unemployment rate.

Wherever she goes, Prom Queen is the center of attention.  When she’s around, heads turn, eyes widen, tongues wag.  The spotlight shines steadily on this scion of Venus and more than a little on anyone around her…which is why her friends are so fiercely protective.  She’s one bangin’ ass bomber and they’re her zealously protective escorts.

If some dude comes along and snatches her up, they’re afraid that they’ll have to kiss the attention leftovers goodbye and prepare for a long, cold winter.  That ain’t about to go down, at least not without a fight.

When a dude enters Prom Queen’s airspace, the escorts immediately fly into defensive formation.  Instead of clearing out to give you room, they remain half an arm’s length away, shooting mind bullets indiscriminately and hoping that the initial barrage alone is enough to dissuade you.  Assuming you bravely continue, they’ll move on to such battle-tested tactics as Intermittent Interruption, in which they make excuses to fuck up the flow of your conversation with crap that not even their nosy ass mother would care to hear.  “I think I found a new spin instructor.  Cortez is fabulous!”  What?!  The fuck outta here with that buuuhlshit!

Anyway, if all else fails, they bring out the big guns.  That’s when someone nonchalantly says, “It’s corny in here.  Let’s go.”  That person is usually Big Mama, and Runner-Up and Ugly Betty are almost always down to follow her nut-crunching lead.  At that point, you can only hope that you’ve fired enough well-placed shots to disrupt communications between Prom Queen and her escorts, enabling you to separate her from her crew and finish the job.  If not, you may as well say your prayers.  ‘Cause you’re gonna die.  When your plane crashes.  Metaphorically.

And that’s too bad.  I really wish women would understand that their pretty friend need not be their only path to attention from the opposite sex.

  • Big Mama, channel all that aggression toward the man at the bar who you’ve been eyeing all night.  Use those huge balls of yours for good, not evil!
  • Runner-Up, realize that to somebody in the room, you’re actually a Prom Queen.  Stop doubting and own your strength and beauty.
  • Gotta Man, let somebody else grab a little piece of happiness, even if you fucked yours all the way up the wrong end.  Be a cockbooster, not a cockblocker!
  • Ugly Betty, I’ll level with you.  Yours is not an angel’s face, but maybe you do have an angel’s heart.  Let it show.  Oh, and usually the ugly girls get like at least one freakishly dope body part, so accentuate the hell outta them breastesses and/or that derriere.  It won’t hurt.

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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part I

Guess which witch was my one wish?

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Ah, the delightful delectability of a night out on the town. Maybe you’ve been cooped up in the crib and need to stretch out a bit. Maybe your boss has had her six inch heel up your ass all week like disturbingly graphic foot fetish porn. Maybe Questlove is spinning and you’ve got the ridiculous urge to watch ridiculously dressed black teenagers do ridiculous dances from a bygone era on ridiculously large screens in a ridiculously inconvenient part of town. Whatever the reason, you want to go out and get your groove on.

Unless you’re suffering some severe mental dysfunction, you realize that this means that you’re going to be in a social setting, i.e. around other people. Presumably, you also comprehend that a significant portion of those individuals will be of the opposite sex. For straight men, that last tidbit is not just an assumption, it’s actually a desired outcome. If we get to a bar or club and the place has more wieners than a Berlin beer garden in October, we will be none too happy. The artist on deck could be the reincarnation of J Dilla, Beethoven and Marvin Gaye all rolled into one, but sheeeit…ain’t no music that fuckin’ good. For men, women are to social events what ketchup is to hood cuisine: they just make everything better. Without them, shit is just shit.

From my experience as a storied amateur sociologist, females seem to have a similar need for the presence of males when they’re out and about. Heck, I’ve certainly been out with my homegirls and heard them complain about girl-heavy parties I’ll affectionately call “coochellas”. If this is true, it would appear that harmonic equilibrium is maintained. But see, that’s where everything actually goes completely batshit CRAY.

Although women certainly want us around when they go out, far too often it seems that they really only needs us to function as a sort of final aesthetic touch. Whereas women are a must-have for any self-respecting man when he’s out to party, no matter if he’s booed up or lustfully single, this is far from the case for the fairer sex. For them, going out with their girlfriends is the process by which they strengthen the bonds of sisterhood through the creation of common memories. Men are only useful in as much as they further the feminine bonding agenda.

If women are our ketchup, we’re just garnish to them. That’s why, nine times out of 10, when a dude walks up to a coven on the dance floor, he’s approaching a Circle of Death.

What this cat sees when he walks up is one fine woman surrounded by two to four less attractive women. (Although there’s a chance that one of the others might also be cute, I’d feel more secure betting on Dr. Dre’s “Detox” to drop before Christ’s return. I’ll get into why this is true in Part II.) What this means is that he’s not only got to overcome any natural obstacles a woman might have to him personally, he’s got to deal with the fact that he just broke up their little Wiccan Beyoncé ritual. And that shit don’t fly. Unless you’ve got the goldenest of tongues, you’re pretty much toast. And not the buttery-and-flaky-but-still-soft-on-the-inside kind. I’m talkin’ about the scrape-the-black-off-it-but-you-gone-eat-it-’cause-we-broke kind. No bueno.

This shit is a travesty and a tragedy, and it’s gotta stop. Not only are you ladies doing us gentlemen a disservice, you’re doing your country a disservice. That’s right. I said you’re being un-American little bastiches.

Cats ain’t got no money to be rollin’ out to spots, buying drinks and whatnot, only to leave with nothing to show for it! Don’t y’all muthaphuckas know times is rough out here in this piece? Every dollar that a man spends paying to get into Black Lion, or Club Cheetara, or Castle Greyskull, is a dollar that could have gone to buying the new PSbox3 console. Every bar charge on his pre-paid debit card is one less dollar to give to Kandi and Kookie, the stripper duo he’s altruistically supporting as they make their way toward University of Phoenix Extended Junior Associates Degrees. Shame on you. Again, I say shame!

Now, before you start bringing up old shit about how this is a free country and all, save your breath. I know that you have the right to live your life as you see fit (until the next time the Republicans control all three branches of American government). If you want to roll out to the spot and get your drink on and party and dance with your girls while you give me and my brothers some analogical, girly version of the Heisman, go right ahead. I’m just saying that if you’d like to gather all your girls together and dance in a circle, sans hommes, you COULD just save us dudes some frustration, stay your frigid asses at home, and have a goofy-ass, manless slumber party.

Or you can join some kind of indigenous tribe. Either one.

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