Will I Ever Go On a Good Date?!

A few weeks ago, I met a guy in between classes on campus. Let’s call him The One I Met in the Elevator. He politely greeted me and wanted to know if I was a professor. (He’s actually the third person who has mistaken me for a professor. Hmm. Maybe I need a makeover.) He was handsome, dressed professionally and spoke with a smooth and sexy accent. I’m a sucker for indigenous accents! He told me that I was beautiful. Yeah, it was a little cheesy but it made me blush. We exchanged numbers when the elevator arrived to my floor. I squealed like a schoolgirl in my head. I was on cloud 9 for the rest of the day!

A week later, we went on our first date. The universe gave me signs to cancel the date beforehand. Everything was going wrong. Every outfit I tried on made me look like a fat cow. Granted, I am full figured but I looked extra fluffy y’all! My car wouldn’t start. My neighbor tried to boost my car with no luck. I was an hour and a half late! I should have called the date off but I didn’t. He seemed like a nice guy from our conversations on the phone. I also felt bad for making him wait so long. He offered to pick me up and I obliged.

In the restaurant parking lot, he got way too friendly with his hands. The nice sweet guy I met in the elevator was turning into a major pervert! He wouldn’t stop complimenting my breasts. “African men love big women. You got it. You got it all.” I felt uncomfortable but I didn’t want to cause a ruckus. What if he left me on the side of the road? What if he became violent? What if he put me in a dried out well and told me, “It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again.”

He kept grabbing at my breasts. I pushed him away as politely as I could. After several minutes of this, we headed inside the restaurant.

After we ordered our entrees, the awkwardness ensued. To break the ice, he asked about my last relationship and why it failed. It seemed like a strange question for a first date but I played along to break the silence. When I posed the question to him, he went on a tangent about his ex-girlfriend. His demeanor changed. I saw the anger in his eyes. He said that he gave her everything and she cheated on him. He also said that he wasn’t looking for anything serious—just fun. I’ve heard this song and dance before. Fun=sex. Lucky me! These types always flock to me. Strike 1.

I decided (in my head) that this would be the last time we would meet. He did another strange thing. He tried to go through in my purse! Who does that?! Strike 2! Religion became the next topic of conversation. He told me that he was heavily involved in the church and wanted to know about my religious beliefs. After my response, the date went downhill.

As I braced myself for the backlash I said, “I don’t believe in religion.”

“So you hate Jesus?” he said in a judgmental tone.

“No…I don’t hate Jesus. I’m spiritual…just not religious.”

He gave a 30-40 minute sermon mocking and insulting my lack of beliefs. He also told me that by the end of the date, I would convert to Christianity! By this time, I had enough! I started to feel sick to my stomach. Strike 3! I excused myself to the restroom to calm down and to figure out an exit strategy. Damn! There wasn’t a window like the movies. But then again, none of this voluptuousness would fit anyway. Ha! And I did not bring enough money for cab fare!

I decided to put on my big girl panties! Ok…they were more like medium girl panties. I told him that I wanted to leave because I wasn’t feeling well. He took care of the check and tried to fondle me again inside his vehicle. This time around, I was very stern with him. He found my behavior comical.

“So you’re mad at me now,” he said as he tried to contain his laughter.

“It’s been a long day. I just want to go home.”

“But I can’t drive home like this. You got me so horny. You’re not horny?”

“No. I’m tired. Just want to go home.”

“I’m tired too. Maybe we can get a hotel room?”

“No thanks. Take me home please.”

When we arrived to my apartment, he wanted to know if he could stay for an hour. I declined. Then he suggested 30 minutes. Again, I declined. Then he said the dumbest shit ever.

“I have to hug and kiss you inside your living room. Please. Just 10 minutes. It would make my night.”

I slammed his truck door and went upstairs.

I haven’t heard nor seen him since.

By the way, my car started up the next morning. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something.

So There’s This Guy…Well…Guys (Part II)


(FYI. Part II won’t make sense unless you read Part I.)

What was this life altering news? Are you sitting down? Please tell me that you are sitting down.

I found out that The One Who Sets Me On Fire and The One Who Is Special are in a blossoming bromance.

Yes. You read that correctly. They initially became friends on Facebook but I did not think much of it. I’m FB friends with people that I’ll never talk to on the phone nor see in person. But somehow, someway they have been hanging out in the flesh! From what I could gather (as inconspicuously as possible), the bromance began in October. How did I find out? Special mentioned his name in passing. I tried not to seem too interested because I did not want to raise any suspicion.

“Yeah, we talked about you the other day,” he said casually. He rapidly changed the subject (damn ADD) but I redirected him.

“Oh…really? Y’all talked about me? All good things I hope,” I nervously said.

“Yeah. We were just talking about how cool you are. He was just saying how you [like to] attend art shows…”


Was that it? No discussion about how both their penises attended my vagina?

I let out a big sigh of relief in my head. That big sigh turned even smaller after he showed me what Fire gave him. Sidenote: Fire has never bought me a gift. Never! Unless I counted the 15 pack of Heineken that I’ve slowly been giving away for months because I don’t drink beer!

My heart nearly stopped. What the hell was going on?! Am I being Punk’d? Is this the f*cking Twilight Zone? Did I pop a Molly?

I cracked a smile and jokingly asked, “So are you guys like besties now?”

“Yeah. Something like that,” he nonchalantly replied.

How in the entire f*ck did this happen? I can see why they would make great friends. They’re comic book nerds, free spirits and work in the same profession. But why me? Why is this my life? Ugh!

I doubt Fire will say anything because of his need for discretion but I cannot say the same for Special. He tends to go on tangents. What if he mentions my vagina during one of those tangents? It shouldn’t concern me because I’m not with either one of them. In addition, my vajayjay belongs to me. But we all know that I will look like a Sluts McGee in their eyes.

I cannot go through another embarrassing situation like this. Yes. Another one. Let’s take a skanky trip down memory lane. Shall we?

The year was 2003. I met The One Who Was a Rude Boy while employed at Old Navy. He was a Caribbean teenager who flirted with me constantly. I did not take him seriously because he was barely legal. After our shift, I met The One With Dreadlocks—his older brother. There was an instant attraction. I pestered Rude Boy about his brother but he was being such a cock blocker. I devised another plan—get close to Rude Boy to get to Dreadlocks.

I could barely catch up with the object of my desire when I visited Rude Boy. I gave up on my mission. Rude Boy and I slept together once but I still couldn’t get Dreadlocks off my mind. When I finally encountered Dreadlocks, I made my move. I kicked Rude Boy to the curb and took Dreadlocks as my new lover.

We perfected the art of discretion until Rude Boy walked in on us bumping and grinding a few months later. He told us to have fun and left. Once the dust settled, we continued our trysts. We later drifted apart after I told him that I wanted to be with him. He reconsidered the relationship idea months later but the thrill was gone. I also saw the err of my ways.

Last summer, I saw a pic of Dreadlocks and his new wife on Facebook. And here I am. Still single. Maybe I am a Sluts McGee…

Present day I find myself in another pickle. Maybe pickle is the wrong word. What is a girl to do? I’m honestly at a loss for words even though I just typed over 700 of them.