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“The problem,” I said, pausing to sip my Very Berry Hibiscus tea sitting in the window of Wilshire and La Brea’s Starbucks, “is the good women don’t know how to follow trends, and shit.” And she laughs, blowing and slurping her tall hot Vanilla Latte with caramel swirled around the cup. Her first instinct, this being our first date, and her ability to recognize daytime dating isn’t romantic and shows no promise of the future, is to tell me about her latest fashion week escapades, and somehow relate that to her ability to follow trends, but I, not giving three shits or a fuck about fashion, couldn’t care less. I’m right and I know it.
Somewhere around the close of 2009, not long before Jamail married the girl who stole his heart in that small apartment we all shared in Daytona, stripping became a reputable profession. With that, the winds shifted, blowing the scent of not-so-fresh poontang in and out of our olfactory systems, leaving us with dicks with new desires. For lack of a better term, and an unwillingness to look one up, we’ll call this new desire “the hoe.”
The Very Berry Hibiscus spills on my new relaxed fit John Varvatos pants that accentuate the moose knuckle I credit for every job I’ve had as an adult. She dabs the wet spot near my crotch with her used napkin, and begs me to continue speaking. “We men stopped waiting the nine weeks it takes your newly reprogrammed brain to convince your pussy you are worth the wait. Why wait when we can hop down the road and find another woman with the same qualities in that briar patch?” If it weren’t for the makeup spackled across her forehead, I’m sure I would have witnessed a look of concern and judgment. Thank god for Mac concealer.
She sat staring at me with eyes that reminded me of a girl I once made an honest woman, wanting to ask if I felt she was marriage material. She wore the clothes of a woman I’d marry. It’s Sunday and since junior year in college I find sweats, sneakers and a tight fitting t-shirt with an expensive bra beneath to be appropriate and sexy as hell on women. But she’s wholesome, and me entering my adulthood in a place that’s given in to commercialism and consumerism allows me to see she’s not marketable. There is no demand for her. I need a woman for the short haul. A quick ticket purchase at the kiosk, a satisfying rollercoaster ride at the fair, and an exit similar to those at haunted houses, grateful for the experience and glad to have made it out alive.
My cup’s empty, my pants are dry, and she’s got enough on her mind. I blow my tea infused breath her way, informing her the winds will one day shift again, and perhaps in her favor, but if she’s seeking a potential husband soon, I would love to be the one pulling back her thoughts in the moments her new brain and Iyanla Vanzant convinced her to reserve for that man that may never show.