Under da Covers With a Brotha
No, I'm not. And it doesn't appear that I will be anytime soon. This is why we have best friends; they give us unfiltered, much needed truth.
Let's suppose I meet a man, a black man and go out on a few dates with him. Okay, stop laughing.
No really. Stop laughing.
It could happen. I could meet an IBM - educated, handsome, single black man (IBM = ideal black man). He could be attracted to me and I him. We could talk, find that we have many things in common and exchange numbers. Oh, and maybe we'd even go out; have a grand ole time. Things could go great; just the way we women like it -- he calls everyday, the conversations are lively and engaging, he gives all kinds of really great compliments. I could be excited. I could be thinking, "wow, after all of these years, I am actually getting involved with a very eligible black man!"
And then, reality would fall, like an anvil, right on top of my hopeful head. Slowly, in conversations, I would gleam that I am not the only lovely being romanced by Mr. IBM. Nope, there are, I mean there could be at least three others! Now, I am, I mean could be, a progressive, an open minded woman. I don't expect anyone to immediately stop the life they had before they met me. I mean, I'd give at least three weeks before a man would have to chase the others off the homestead and fully worship at the alter that is me. Now, you know, I wouldn't be mad that Mr. IBM had some lesser friends with benefits (as long as I was woman-san #1). I would only be mad if he told me about said friends (and hinted that I shouldn't have my own stable of such friendship types), cause, let's face it, if he lets his other activities slip to me, he's telling me, in so many words, to step up my game, lose at least 20 lbs, give him head on demand and say nothing about his lame ass excuses as to why he didn't call, couldn't quite make it to dinner on time and really, really needs his sleep, so going home to my own bed is probably a good idea (even though he would love for me to stay).
Say, are those key scratches on the side of my car?
I am soooo not going to answer calls from unknown numbers.
This is why I have avoided the IBMs of the world these last twenty years of my dating life. Too damn few of them. Too damn many of us -- ideal black women (IBWs). If there are five of them, there are fifteen IBWs. And what is the IBM gonna do? I'll tell you what he's going to do, he's going to fuck like a rabbit, that's what he's going to do. I guess I would too, if the shoe were on the other foot. I would sleep with as many really hot guys (with skillz, of course) as I could. But, and here's the big but -- I would select the quality, the creme de la creme. Oh, if I were a man - it would be on! Because, men, you already have the superior position, although I know you'll try to convince us otherwise -- "oh, the women control the pussy; oh, we aren't smart enough to juggle more than two women at a time; oh, baby, don't you know I want to be with you?" Why not just admit it and stop choosing inferior product? If you have all the cards, at least make the class call, dudes.
DR, imagine that I had this relationship. Imagine that I walked away gracefully, because I'm not used to this shit. Imagine that I'm still confused about men -- white, black, asian & latino. Imagine that I am actively practicing one of the Four Agreements - "Take nothing personally". Imagine that I spent days wondering if I should voice such embarrassments, such slights, such hurts in the very public forum that is blogging. Imagine that I'm struggling to practice another Agreement - "make no assumptions". Imagine that next time I'll know better. Imagine that I miss his daily calls.
Anyone know a good auto paint & body shop?