Its 7am and I was thinking about my last post about Lauren and her friends...they're all older and in their 30's. See how they talk?
See that right there illustrates that there are 2 types of women, generally speaking: women that are younger than you, and women who are older. The two women live by two different codes and treat men completely different.
Younger women are dreamers. They want a man who, looks like Morris Chestnut, has money like P. Diddy, is as intellectual as Colin Powell, could be as good a father as Bill Cosby, and walks like Denzel. Oh yeah, lets not forget he has to have a dick that could seat two, but only fucks one and they’d prefer if he knew karma sutra by heart. These 21 and 22-year olds shake their asses from clubs to parties in search of the black woman’s holy grail, all the while rejecting the slightest advances made by their male agemates. Why? They expect to be wined and dined by an older, “mature” man who knows how to take care of a woman. Nine out of ten of these women end up being deceived by a few expensive dates and a little sweet-talking that they’ve never experienced before, into thinking they’ve found “the one”, when in reality this older man with his $60,000 a year salary is just willing to spend a little cash to get “new pussy”. Eventually these younger women start to get older and figure out that maybe they should just settle with the guy who can fuck and pay the bills.
Meanwhile, older women are realists. They know what they want and how to get it. An older woman loves to come across a younger man who thinks she’s sexy. After he’s complimented her a couple of times with lines like “You look 25” or “You’re too beautiful to be 35”, an older woman has no problem jumping in the sack. Why would she? Her stock isn’t going to fall anymore – once you’ve had sex with one or two guys, its as good as ten. More importantly older women take younger men and mold them sexually, commanding them to lick, suck, pull, grab, squeeze, poke, kiss, and nibble on any and everything. With no regard for blue collar or white collar status, the older woman is sexually liberated, financially stable, but emotionally deprived. Now at 27, I realized I had finally reached my “Bachelor Prime”. I wasn’t too old for an attractive 21 year old that I might encounter at a club, and I was just old enough for a 33 year old at my job who might be looking for a fuck-buddy. Both groups were ready to get down; one for money and commitment, the other out of a longing for sex. Like a superhero finally understanding his powers, I realized I had a responsibility to please all attractive women, young and old. It was only a matter of time before Lauren would want to be pleased.
What happened later that night was even better...I'll tell you about it tomorrow.
-R.D.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
30, Single, and an empty Cooler...?
So Lauren (the fine as hell chick I work with) is having a little condo-warming type shindig...I decided to drop by for a lil bit...
As I passed a table of four, thirty-something year old black women, they sized me up carefully; their eyes slowly removing each garment and determining if what was underneath was fit to be touched. The fairest-skinned of the bunch must have administered her test the fastest as she allowed a smile to curl on her lips and she squeezed out a shy, “Hi”. As I smiled back, the corner of my eye caught the oldest at the table biting her lip as she whispered “I’m guessin 28, 29”. The dark-skinned woman to her right chimed in, “Girl, you see his cute lil ass? He ain’t no older than 26”. I strolled on as their voices began to merge with the low hum of conversation in the spacious condo.
Being 30 and single is like going to a party and being the last one to the cooler. All the fancy wine coolers are gone: there’s no more Pepsi, Coke, Sprite, or Dr. Pepper…even the orange soda is gone. What you’re left with is some off-brand cola, a Corona bottle, and a couple of cans of ginger ale to choose from.
At 30 you reach in the cooler and you don’t expect anything flashy – you just pray for something that won’t make you gag. Black women at 30 have it roughest as they select from a group of men that is 40% incarcerated, disproportionately lacking a college education, and increasingly gay. More and ore black women find themselves finishing law school, MBA programs, and doctorates and wondering where the hell their “I’m established!” prize is. The result? Social gatherings, labeled as “get-togethers”, where too old-to-be-single women and too-old-to-be-in-the-club men mingle in the sorrows and pressures of a society that promotes mid-twenty marriages. The DJ always plays “oldies” which are really songs a couple of years old, the women play spades, the men play dominoes, and everyone drowns themselves in liquor while discussing how horrible and confusing the opposite sex is. The hope is that in a drunken stupor, two people fuck, fall in love, and provide inspiration for their 30-something counterparts to follow.
With this in mind, I had still somehow fallen victim to Lauren’s charm as she invited me to one of her monthly get-togethers. As I piled stale chips onto a plate, I glanced around the room, now sure that I was indeed the youngest visitor by at least 3 years. As if she sensed my growing unease, Lauren rose from the couch where she and 2 other women had been arguing over the smallest “equipment” they had ever had to work with.
“T.J. did not look small” one woman laughed incredulously, “I always thought he was workin’ with something”.
As Lauren approached me she shouted back, “Girl he was no more than this big” and laughed as she made her thumb and index finger almost touch, “and that’s when he was real excited!”.
The two women doubled over with laughter as Lauren turned toward me and smiled, her sexiness dripping with each word as she said, “I’m so glad you could make it Rashaan!” The way she dragged out my name when she said it made it sound more like “Rashahhhhn” and created this sexual aura that I never had a clue could exist within those seven letters.
“No problem Lauren. You know I’d never really gotten a chance to see your crib, but its tight”. Did I just say “tight”? Damn I’m corny. As I responded I glanced at the ivory walls covered by African masks, Caribbean art, and hand-carved statuettes of African women. Not one to abandon her Caribbean ancestry, Lauren’s condo exemplified “Afro-centric” as the scent of Gonesh incense circled the room, forcing you to relax your nerves upon entrance.
“I see you’ve found the chips” she chuckled, “but the dips over there in the corner. I have hamburgers, barbecued chicken, potato salad, and beans in the pan over by the stove.”
“Wow!” I laughed, “Sounds good to me.”
“Mi casa, es su casa” she said winking.
“How do you know if I know Espanol?” I shot back smiling.
She smiled and scooted to within an inch of my face before looking up and whispering, “Translation: My house, is your house Rashaan”. Her soft breath warmed my cheek as she leaned in, gently brushing her lips against my ear, “Help yourself” she murmured, before sauntering back to the couch where her friends remained conversing.
Touched by Lauren’s intense sexuality, I fumbled with my plate before lounging in a seat near the oversized flat screen television that hogged up over 56 inches of wall space. Ever since Lauren gloated at work about her 56-inch plasma television, men cringed at the waste of such beautiful technology on a chick-flick like “Waiting to Exhale” or “Thin Line Between Love and Hate”. Images of grown women with over-buttered popcorn and a couple of boxes of Kleenex float through the minds of men as they imagine the vibrant color of high-definition television radiating something other than sports. Now as I took note of the hand-carved coffee table, I realized that Lauren was well established. Well established, but 33.
I've got a theory on women and their ages...but I'll get into that shit tomorrow. I need to shorten up my posts or somethin, but I gotta get this stuff off my chest! I'll holla - got an article due...
-R.D.
As I passed a table of four, thirty-something year old black women, they sized me up carefully; their eyes slowly removing each garment and determining if what was underneath was fit to be touched. The fairest-skinned of the bunch must have administered her test the fastest as she allowed a smile to curl on her lips and she squeezed out a shy, “Hi”. As I smiled back, the corner of my eye caught the oldest at the table biting her lip as she whispered “I’m guessin 28, 29”. The dark-skinned woman to her right chimed in, “Girl, you see his cute lil ass? He ain’t no older than 26”. I strolled on as their voices began to merge with the low hum of conversation in the spacious condo.
Being 30 and single is like going to a party and being the last one to the cooler. All the fancy wine coolers are gone: there’s no more Pepsi, Coke, Sprite, or Dr. Pepper…even the orange soda is gone. What you’re left with is some off-brand cola, a Corona bottle, and a couple of cans of ginger ale to choose from.
At 30 you reach in the cooler and you don’t expect anything flashy – you just pray for something that won’t make you gag. Black women at 30 have it roughest as they select from a group of men that is 40% incarcerated, disproportionately lacking a college education, and increasingly gay. More and ore black women find themselves finishing law school, MBA programs, and doctorates and wondering where the hell their “I’m established!” prize is. The result? Social gatherings, labeled as “get-togethers”, where too old-to-be-single women and too-old-to-be-in-the-club men mingle in the sorrows and pressures of a society that promotes mid-twenty marriages. The DJ always plays “oldies” which are really songs a couple of years old, the women play spades, the men play dominoes, and everyone drowns themselves in liquor while discussing how horrible and confusing the opposite sex is. The hope is that in a drunken stupor, two people fuck, fall in love, and provide inspiration for their 30-something counterparts to follow.
With this in mind, I had still somehow fallen victim to Lauren’s charm as she invited me to one of her monthly get-togethers. As I piled stale chips onto a plate, I glanced around the room, now sure that I was indeed the youngest visitor by at least 3 years. As if she sensed my growing unease, Lauren rose from the couch where she and 2 other women had been arguing over the smallest “equipment” they had ever had to work with.
“T.J. did not look small” one woman laughed incredulously, “I always thought he was workin’ with something”.
As Lauren approached me she shouted back, “Girl he was no more than this big” and laughed as she made her thumb and index finger almost touch, “and that’s when he was real excited!”.
The two women doubled over with laughter as Lauren turned toward me and smiled, her sexiness dripping with each word as she said, “I’m so glad you could make it Rashaan!” The way she dragged out my name when she said it made it sound more like “Rashahhhhn” and created this sexual aura that I never had a clue could exist within those seven letters.
“No problem Lauren. You know I’d never really gotten a chance to see your crib, but its tight”. Did I just say “tight”? Damn I’m corny. As I responded I glanced at the ivory walls covered by African masks, Caribbean art, and hand-carved statuettes of African women. Not one to abandon her Caribbean ancestry, Lauren’s condo exemplified “Afro-centric” as the scent of Gonesh incense circled the room, forcing you to relax your nerves upon entrance.
“I see you’ve found the chips” she chuckled, “but the dips over there in the corner. I have hamburgers, barbecued chicken, potato salad, and beans in the pan over by the stove.”
“Wow!” I laughed, “Sounds good to me.”
“Mi casa, es su casa” she said winking.
“How do you know if I know Espanol?” I shot back smiling.
She smiled and scooted to within an inch of my face before looking up and whispering, “Translation: My house, is your house Rashaan”. Her soft breath warmed my cheek as she leaned in, gently brushing her lips against my ear, “Help yourself” she murmured, before sauntering back to the couch where her friends remained conversing.
Touched by Lauren’s intense sexuality, I fumbled with my plate before lounging in a seat near the oversized flat screen television that hogged up over 56 inches of wall space. Ever since Lauren gloated at work about her 56-inch plasma television, men cringed at the waste of such beautiful technology on a chick-flick like “Waiting to Exhale” or “Thin Line Between Love and Hate”. Images of grown women with over-buttered popcorn and a couple of boxes of Kleenex float through the minds of men as they imagine the vibrant color of high-definition television radiating something other than sports. Now as I took note of the hand-carved coffee table, I realized that Lauren was well established. Well established, but 33.
I've got a theory on women and their ages...but I'll get into that shit tomorrow. I need to shorten up my posts or somethin, but I gotta get this stuff off my chest! I'll holla - got an article due...
-R.D.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
I hate Tuesdays...and by the way, Hi, I'm Rashaan
I hate Tuesdays. Everyone likes to place the blame on Mondays – like Monday chose to be the start of the week, but its Tuesday that’s evil. Paperwork starts on Monday, but its stacked on Tuesday. Monday starts pulling you down, but its Tuesday that kicks you on your backside.
There were no clocks in the 6th floor meeting room of Groove magazine. The room, hardly used by the corporate big wigs, had turned into the magazine’s reception room and was the running joke of columnists as joyous occasions choked under the sterile fluorescent lights and dreary, gray walls.
Tuesday’s reception was no different as workers streamed into the spacious room and lined the steely walls where horsdouvres lay stacked on trays alongside mini-plates of cake and plastic cups full of badly mixed punch. Dull conversations thinned to whispers as Ronnie brown, Groove’s 3rd year editor strolled to the center of the room and cleared his throat.
“I appreciate y’all joining me here today to congratulate the first N.A.J. Article of the Year winner ever on our staff and more impressively, the first article on hip-hop to ever receive such recognition in the award’s 65 year history. Since we hired this kid on our staff two years ago our magazine has risen to damn near the tops in the game. This kid is like my son so it does me great honor to toast to our 2008 N.A.J. Article of the Year winner, Rashaan Daniels!”
Yep, that would be me...I guess this is my "Hi"
I was never the one for public speeches, but what 27 year old would pass up the chance to say “I’m better than you” to all the 30 to 40-somethings that scoffed at the size of their office compared to mine, all day. Alright…be humble, be funny – be you. Ok, ok; just a little bit funnier than you.
“Thank you Ronnie” I spoke, flashing an appreciative smile. “And yes Ronnie you are old enough to be my father.” Laughter circled the room as Ronnie chuckled and shook his head.
For a 48 year old man, Ronnie looked a lot more like he was going on 35. Not one grey hair, no wrinkles, and he was fucking half of the chics on the 4th floor. As editor, I’m guessing half of it was a power thing that most women love, and the other half was the Black Range Rover he owned and regularly parked at the front of the complex.
As everyone’s attention shifted to the free food and refreshments, Ronnie walked over to me and pulled me aside.
“You’re doing big things Rashaan”
“Thanks Ronnie”
“I’m serious Rashaan. You’re getting Groove some great shine right now with your article. What kind of stuff do you have cooked up for next issue?”
I paused, reluctant to give up my ideas for scrutiny at my own celebration reception. The moment I throw out my topic to the editing wolf himself, it’ll be ripped to shreds and dumbed down to some mainstream garbage that all the other magazines put out already. This is a no brainer.
“I’m not quite sure yet man, still kinda brainstorming” I replied. Ronnie frowned, “You’ve only got one more week Rashaan before your piece has to be on my desk signed, sealed, delivered. Don’t let no little award go to your head now. Everyone’s checking for Groove now, so you’ve got to be on top of your game.”
This was the same kind of speech Ronnie gave me in March of 2005 when he hired me on a whim to do a “little ramble” as he called it, for the April issue of Groove. At that time he told me to keep it short, sweet and most importantly “make that shit tight”. That April’s issue was a success, pushing more sales of Groove than ever before and a lot of mail came back praising a little column on “the whitening of hip-hop” by yours truly. Now armed with the Article of the Year award from the National Association of Journalists, I was thinking Ronnie would give me a little bit more creative control. No such luck. Now I’m getting the new-hire coddling speech all over again. A part of me wants to cut this little convo short and say “Fuck you. Where’s my bonus?”
As Ronnie rambled on with redundant advice, a hand grazed my back and slid over my shoulders. Turning, I came face-to-face with what every man at Groove deemed “the baddest broad”, as she leaned towards my ear and whispered, “Congratulations”.
Lauren Greene could very well have walked off the set of a hip-hop video and into the corporate world. Armed with mahogany skin, shoulder length black hair, and a body that fulfilled most men’s fantasies, she possessed a style full of sex appeal that made her a shoe-in for fashion editor. At age 33, she was the darling of every man, single or married at Groove, falling within range of young bucks such as myself and old skeezers like Ronnie. Oh yeah…and her face is cute as hell.
“Thank you” I replied as she strutted away, watching her legs tighten as each heel clicked on polished granite. I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask Lauren to dinner, plus I was always a little reluctant to mix business and pleasure, especially work and romance. More than the stories of emotional outbursts, office gossip, and lack of privacy, my biggest fear with Lauren is us not having space. Space is being able to bury myself in work without looking out my office window to see the girls in marketing pointing and laughing. Space is not having to cuddle up during receptions like these. Space is not having to fear whether “Line 2” on my office phone will become “Lauren’s Line”. I’m chill. Royce’s voice sliced through my thoughts as he knowingly chimed in, “Damn she has a fat ass. I’ma have to handle that one of these days.”
“You too?” I questioned kiddingly, but half-serious....
Shit...I love tuesdays.
There were no clocks in the 6th floor meeting room of Groove magazine. The room, hardly used by the corporate big wigs, had turned into the magazine’s reception room and was the running joke of columnists as joyous occasions choked under the sterile fluorescent lights and dreary, gray walls.
Tuesday’s reception was no different as workers streamed into the spacious room and lined the steely walls where horsdouvres lay stacked on trays alongside mini-plates of cake and plastic cups full of badly mixed punch. Dull conversations thinned to whispers as Ronnie brown, Groove’s 3rd year editor strolled to the center of the room and cleared his throat.
“I appreciate y’all joining me here today to congratulate the first N.A.J. Article of the Year winner ever on our staff and more impressively, the first article on hip-hop to ever receive such recognition in the award’s 65 year history. Since we hired this kid on our staff two years ago our magazine has risen to damn near the tops in the game. This kid is like my son so it does me great honor to toast to our 2008 N.A.J. Article of the Year winner, Rashaan Daniels!”
Yep, that would be me...I guess this is my "Hi"
I was never the one for public speeches, but what 27 year old would pass up the chance to say “I’m better than you” to all the 30 to 40-somethings that scoffed at the size of their office compared to mine, all day. Alright…be humble, be funny – be you. Ok, ok; just a little bit funnier than you.
“Thank you Ronnie” I spoke, flashing an appreciative smile. “And yes Ronnie you are old enough to be my father.” Laughter circled the room as Ronnie chuckled and shook his head.
For a 48 year old man, Ronnie looked a lot more like he was going on 35. Not one grey hair, no wrinkles, and he was fucking half of the chics on the 4th floor. As editor, I’m guessing half of it was a power thing that most women love, and the other half was the Black Range Rover he owned and regularly parked at the front of the complex.
As everyone’s attention shifted to the free food and refreshments, Ronnie walked over to me and pulled me aside.
“You’re doing big things Rashaan”
“Thanks Ronnie”
“I’m serious Rashaan. You’re getting Groove some great shine right now with your article. What kind of stuff do you have cooked up for next issue?”
I paused, reluctant to give up my ideas for scrutiny at my own celebration reception. The moment I throw out my topic to the editing wolf himself, it’ll be ripped to shreds and dumbed down to some mainstream garbage that all the other magazines put out already. This is a no brainer.
“I’m not quite sure yet man, still kinda brainstorming” I replied. Ronnie frowned, “You’ve only got one more week Rashaan before your piece has to be on my desk signed, sealed, delivered. Don’t let no little award go to your head now. Everyone’s checking for Groove now, so you’ve got to be on top of your game.”
This was the same kind of speech Ronnie gave me in March of 2005 when he hired me on a whim to do a “little ramble” as he called it, for the April issue of Groove. At that time he told me to keep it short, sweet and most importantly “make that shit tight”. That April’s issue was a success, pushing more sales of Groove than ever before and a lot of mail came back praising a little column on “the whitening of hip-hop” by yours truly. Now armed with the Article of the Year award from the National Association of Journalists, I was thinking Ronnie would give me a little bit more creative control. No such luck. Now I’m getting the new-hire coddling speech all over again. A part of me wants to cut this little convo short and say “Fuck you. Where’s my bonus?”
As Ronnie rambled on with redundant advice, a hand grazed my back and slid over my shoulders. Turning, I came face-to-face with what every man at Groove deemed “the baddest broad”, as she leaned towards my ear and whispered, “Congratulations”.
Lauren Greene could very well have walked off the set of a hip-hop video and into the corporate world. Armed with mahogany skin, shoulder length black hair, and a body that fulfilled most men’s fantasies, she possessed a style full of sex appeal that made her a shoe-in for fashion editor. At age 33, she was the darling of every man, single or married at Groove, falling within range of young bucks such as myself and old skeezers like Ronnie. Oh yeah…and her face is cute as hell.
“Thank you” I replied as she strutted away, watching her legs tighten as each heel clicked on polished granite. I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask Lauren to dinner, plus I was always a little reluctant to mix business and pleasure, especially work and romance. More than the stories of emotional outbursts, office gossip, and lack of privacy, my biggest fear with Lauren is us not having space. Space is being able to bury myself in work without looking out my office window to see the girls in marketing pointing and laughing. Space is not having to cuddle up during receptions like these. Space is not having to fear whether “Line 2” on my office phone will become “Lauren’s Line”. I’m chill. Royce’s voice sliced through my thoughts as he knowingly chimed in, “Damn she has a fat ass. I’ma have to handle that one of these days.”
“You too?” I questioned kiddingly, but half-serious....
Shit...I love tuesdays.
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