Everybody has an opinion about the kind of woman that would be right for me. Mother says I need a pretty chick who I can exchange witty banter with. Pops says she should attractive, but not self possessed. My buddy Frank thinks that I'd do well with someone who is sensitive and gentle; the kind I can talk to about my feelings.
I like the silent kind. Someone who I can verbally eviscerate and ignore and not feel bad. Someone I can fuck and forget until the next time, who values the fact that this is her postion in life. The type of person who'll bring me coffee to me while I work on programming synths. She should organize and clean my apartment, cook me dinner, wash my clothes, and give me a blow job, on command. The sort who makes me feel like I'm a MANLY man.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a good guy. I'm a song writer and producer for a small outfit of a Sony Music subsidiary based in Westchester that was responsible for finding and developing the pop star Rixi, and I recently was featured in a short article in Billboard magazine called "Young-Guns in pop." I give to the salvation army, go to mass every so often, and once DJ'd a benefit concert for Cancer or AIDS research. I'm against global warming and war, for higher taxes on the rich, and I voted for Obama in 2008 when I was a junior in college.
My frat hosted a formal shortly after that election. I remember approaching this girl who I had a crush on since we'd met once in a music theory class the year before. She was the arm candy of one of the brothers, but he'd been making out with some other chick upstairs for awhile, and she looked bored.
She was a little taller than me, but my liquid courage fired me up. I'd never asked a black girl out before, and I knew that they were extra sassy and shit, so I made my move.
"Yo, girl," I said "I think you're a fuckin' knockout and I wanna bang the shit outta you."
I wanted to make sure that she could understand me, so I added just a touch of black to my voice.
She chortled on her drink, and began coughing wildly. I was terrified that she was choking and was set to perform some half ass version of the Heimlich Maneuver I had learned while I had worked at Camp Hadley, the place I had spent the last 2 summers.
Then I realized that she was laughing. She was doubled over in a fit of hysteria, and tears of mirth streamed down her face. To this day I have never seen anybody convulse so viscerally. She laughed so hard that she had to take out her asthma inhaler and even still, had trouble regulating her breathing.
I probably should have just left or gotten a drink or done anything else but stand there awkwardly watching her cackle, but I was mesmerized by the sheer force of her laugher. Twenty minutes later, when she had finally regained herself enough to complete a sentence she placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Listen love, you try WAY too hard. Maybe you should stick to white chicks."
Chuckling, she walked away, and wrapped her arm around another one of the brothers who was nearly comatose.
That was three years ago, and I've since matured immensely in terms of what I want in a woman.
I wouldn't mind a black girl though, I can't lie. Maybe we could role play. I'd be slave master. She'd be the mistress naughty slave. That'd be fun, and it would even be somewhat historically accurate. There MUST have been quadroons passing as slave owners back in the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment