Casual Sex Is Still Dead

Nowadays when I have sex, I do a lot of thinking afterwards. I’ve come to realize it’s a sign of growth. Early on in my sexual life, I had an on-to-the-next-one mentality. I rarely looked back. The sex itself was the beginning and the end of the experience with that person. If I had hooked up with a friend, we remained friends but that didn’t mean we remained sexual partners.

Last year, I wrote The Death of Casual Sex and yes, it’s still dead. The older something gets the deader it gets; makes sense, no? Let me explain.

Strange Strokes

Another symbol of my generation passed last week - Gary Coleman. It was sad and I went on a Diff’rent Strokes binge for about two days after and I’m still laughing at what Marlon Wayans posted on Twitter (@MarlonLWayans). He said you know you’re cute when other kids think you’re cute. So true!! Gary Coleman (Arnold Jackson) was ADORABLE.

Last week, Coleman, 42, died of a brain hemorrhage after a fall in his home. When he slipped into a coma, he was taken off life support. I’m still angry and suspicious of the 911 call his wife made after the accident. You can’t predict how you’ll react in a crisis, it’s very common to go into shock, but that is why I need to be with, cohabitate etc. with someone who can save my life like I can save theirs; know CPR, basic First Aid, or have the presence of mind to go get help. What angered me most about the call was Shannon Price (disregarding the possible shock she was in) was useless and not helpful at all.

The Romantic, The Writer and The Sociologist

I just watched Before Sunset (2004). I heard about it on the special Unseen: France during a segment on the bookstore Shakespeare and Company I watched earlier that afternoon. I’m so glad I watched the movie. It totally put me in the mood for romance, friendship, writing, Paris and Tom all at once. It touched on all the “what ifs” in life and getting second chances. The writer in me loved the dialogue, the screenplay. I’m inspired to go back to the screenplays I wrote around the same time (2002-2004). I remember I’d come up with my elevator speech about how I write character-based screenplays. It was the characters, what they said and how they said it that moved a story from FADE IN to FADE OUT.

And I saw myself, past, present and future in the film. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been on those “walk and talk” dates like the one in Before Sunset. The conversation flows to family, beliefs, food, sex. I know men relate better side-by-side than they do face-to-face and maybe that’s why I’ve had such memorable moments talking to men. Kudos to Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy for their chemistry (and the script); natural, fluid. The way Jesse’d gaze at her adoringly and make self-deprecating jokes about sex in an attempt to flirt, let his intentions be known but also protect himself at the same time. That whole scenario is the perfect date for me. Spend time with me without the frills. Like Céline said in the film, everyone is different; every person has their own unique details. And no one can be replaced. I love being given the opportunity to find out what it is that makes you unique.

I could go on forever about all the things I loved about the movie, how I related to it. It resonated so vividly, how it made my desire to visit Paris even stronger, my desire to write, just… my desire.

Inherent Danger

Aiyana Jones, 7-years old. Shot dead at home, in her sleep by police. This story saddens me. And of course enrages me. And was definitely a trigger for my musings, both emotional & rational and objective.

I don’t have children yet but I envision myself charging the police to protect my child and ending up dead myself or imprisoned for assault on a police officer in a situation like that. I understand the training police undergo; if they feel threatened they defend themselves. After identifying themselves as police, and if the suspect is armed or poses a threat, and if the decision is made to discharge their weapons, they aim for center mass. This was clearly not the case in this situation. They were searching for a murder suspect. They obtained a no-knock warrant. Detroit police wanted to surprise and ambush the suspect so he wouldn’t be able to flee. That much is understandable. Only that.

My first thought after learning they were filming The First 48 while this atrocity took place was, “Let’s pray the unaltered footage ends up in the right hands.” The public doesn’t need to view what in essence is a snuff film, but the truth needs to come out. Reality TV was bound to kill someone sooner or later.

Blackout

This past Sunday night I took a shower in the dark. I left the bathroom door open (I know, totally messed with the Feng Shui of my apartment) so it wasn’t complete darkness. I had already started soaping up when I thought it would be cool if I lit some candles. A shower by candlelight... My mind quickly went from romance, to necessity then back to romance. Let me explain how my mind works. I see things like scenes from a movie or television show. An entire scene will flash across my mind’s eye, with different camera angles, lighting and music.

“Ooh, a shower by candlelight.” then

“This is how I’d have to shower during a blackout.”

Remember blackouts, NY? (not trying to jinx it) Who would I want to be stranded with during a blackout? Not that we have to take shower together but if you enjoy someone’s company, no need to apologize for it (Ha!)...

To Kill Or Not To Kill

You have 25 seconds to decide whether to shoot the person you love in the head or heart or to die. What do you do?

I watched the episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent (Abel & Willing) with my heart in my throat thinking about what I would do. It even had me questioning my previous stance of killing someone in self-defense. I started my self-exploration while watching the episode at the “easier” end of the spectrum. I figured, well, if it were a complete stranger sitting across from me, or someone “evil” it would be easier to pull the trigger. A loved one? A family member? The thought still makes my stomach hurt. I can only imagine the pain the people were in who “choose to shoot” (CTS) and the fear and helplessness of the person who looked at their husband or wife pleading for their life.

The villain in the episode conducted the socio-psychological experiment because his family went through a similar ordeal at the hands of the Nazis. The point was to prove that all human behavior is self-serving and freedom of choice is contrary to human nature. In his experiments, he removed all outside factors and came to the conclusion that if the choice is simplified—their life or someone else’s, humans will always choose survival.

It's Not You, It's My Fear Of You

I had such a great belly laugh this afternoon. It’s amazing what people do when they feel threatened and are given a little power. What made me laugh this morning was news of my friend being fired from her job. I’m not cold and heartless…let me explain. She was fired by someone, who although they’re the COO of the company she works for, he has no right, power, authority to fire anyone. Within 5 minutes of arriving at work, he asked to speak to her in the hallway with the HR rep present (who was also confused and dumbfounded) and was told she was no longer an employee at the company and just as quickly he ran back inside the office. Apparently said COO failed to remember what his duties were and the relationship the newly “unemployed” had with the owner of the company. There has been tension brewing between the two parties for months. Her rise and increase in responsibilities and duties, and his increasing feelings of ineptness and uselessness. Right now, a paid day off is the reward until the situation is figured out. My guess, someone’s gotta go.

This is not going to work out between the two of you

Racist Vagina

I have a Rosa Parks coochie; it aint getting up off black dick for nothing. I figured I’d choose a well-known historical Black figure to illustrate my point. John Mayer caught major heat for saying he doesn’t like to partake in sexual congress with Black women. I don’t see a problem with that. I think folks took it real personal because he chose such a polarizing figure like David Duke to illustrate his racial preference in sexual partners. If he had said he didn’t like to have sex with fat girls or skinny bitches, there would’ve been a lot of nodding along while folks read that interview too. 




We all have our preferences. Some racial, some not. Some of us would never be as vocal about them but we have them. I’m sure before John Mayer, you’ve heard your friends or friends of friends say they “only date white girls” or they “only date black guys”. Having racial preferences is nothing new (neither is having preferences of any kind); It’s called “having a type”. And I believe some of the Black women who were snaking their necks and rolling their eyes don’t like white men anyway. What I had a problem with was Mr. Mayer talking about having a “nigger pass”...and that might be the only problem I had with his interview—keep that word out your mouth, Mr. Mayer…

2009: A Year In My Life

I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions, but I used to make a list of goals I wanted to accomplish during the upcoming year. The list usually included bullet points like make new friends/rekindle old friendships, learn to drive (I have a 4-year old learner’s permit) and something to do with my work or creativity. I haven’t made that list for the past two years, but that didn’t mean I was any less aware or focused on accomplishing certain goals.

Random Musings on Global Warming and Hood Life

I started this blog in February by randomly musing about life and chimps. It's already December. Wow! A lot has happened this year. Good and bad, but nothing we can't grow and learn from.

Overheard on the streets today... One Black woman to her friend: He wanna get married but I'm like we don't gotta be married to have kids together...

And that is one of the major problems in the Black community.

Touch Me At Your Own Risk

I heard this morning on the radio about incidents of subway groping going way up, especially in Manhattan and how they expect with the Holiday rush, it's only going to get worse. I did notice the campaign about sexual harassment on the subways and had to shake my head at the fact that not only is the problem getting that bad, but that they have to tell the victims that it's not OK. This is ridiculous. What is wrong with these men? I have made reference to the jostling of bodies and lingering touches on the train in a consensual matter or in fiction. But this happens more often than women are willing to admit and that is the problem. I'm well-aware that during rush hour, there is very little personal space and having grown up in NY, I'm very tolerant of it, but that's no excuse for your hand being in my ass crack.

I caught a lot of heat on the NY Times City Room Blog last year when I said something to the effect that these crazy, sick men prey on women they think or know will be too scared to say anything or too lost in their own worlds to notice. You know how many times I've just stared at someone just to see what will happen and they never see me because they never look up? They have no clue what's going on around them. They make themselves targets. There's no eye contact. So even if someone did "attack" them (rob, grope etc.) they wouldn't be able to identify them! I remember a few years ago sitting across from a woman and man who didn't know one another. The man would slowly inch his hand under his newspaper and rest his fingers on the woman's thigh. I was shocked that she didn't even feel it.

Finger Licking Good

I love to eat with my hands. It’s second nature to me. I am fully capable of using a knife and fork. I don’t eat rice or spaghetti and meatballs with my hands. But my fingers make great utensils as well. It’s not an uncivilized or barbaric way to eat. I don’t have food running down the front of my shirt or sauce staining my cheek. I love the feel of my food. And before it hits my lips, rolls around on my tongue and slides down my throat, I touch it with my hands. Not to mention sometimes it’s just easier to eat certain foods with your hands.

Eating with your hands is the norm in many cultures. I grew up eating with my hands. I can still see myself sitting at the dining table, chest pressed against it, my father sitting at the head of the table and me at the first seat next to him, eating ogbona soup with codfish, amala, or gari and egusi with a smoked turkey drumstick bigger than my forearm. While watching Anthony Bourdain No Reservations while he was visiting Saudi Arabia, everyone sat around a large platter of rice and a roasted lamb or camel and ate with their hands. Eating is communal. It’s a bonding experience. It encompasses the senses, touch included.

What comes before eating? Cooking. Most times, when I’m hungry, I cook to eat. Other times, I eat leftovers. The whole process is enjoyable, soothing, meditative, exhilarating, experimental. Even when it’s stressful, I shrug it off to chance and pull some more ingredients out of the cupboard. There’s something visceral and spiritual about cooking. Watching all the various ingredients come together. Ingredients mix, blend, dissolve, boil, thicken, liquefy, harden, coagulate, evaporate. There are so many different processes that occur to reach the end product. Cooking is a very hands-on process for me. And to enjoy the end result with my hands makes perfect sense.

Finger Licking Good was also published on The Cud in July 2010

Aint No Fun If Your Girls Can't Have None

When will I learn that no matter how hard I don’t look for attention or try to just blend in, it never happens? That someone is bound to say something to me to make me think?

I was at a fish fry last night. The first people I saw were two women and a man, the women sitting on either side of him. He had the boisterous energy I’ve come to know from Nigerians. I didn’t take a seat near them until I had been there for about 15 minutes. I was in people-watching mode while I sipped my drink, and not even trying to hide the fact that I was listening in on conversations.

I had sat quietly near the 3-person couple. Maybe I was too quiet. The woman closest to me said “hello”. Then the man cut right to the chase, “Are you from Africa?” he asked. I said my father was. I knew where he was from based on his accent. I could’ve gone through the speech I’ve given my entire life about where I’m “from”, where I was born, where my parents are from, what culture/country I identify with, but this time I waited to see where this was going.

He asked if my father was from Ghana. I said Nigeria. The woman on his far left teased him for now knowing his own people. He was very pleased to hear I was from Nigeria and said he assumed I was African or Jamaican.

“Both,” I said.

Now he was really impressed. I may have actually seen his dick get hard. The left-side woman called it a potent mix. He said I was the baddest of Africa and the baddest of the Caribbean. That meant I must be a bad girl. Yeah, he meant that sexually. I was promptly schooled that in Africa men can have more than one wife and then he referred to himself in the third person when he said he wanted to marry a Jamaican woman, that he was looking for a third wife. Someone fiery to stir things up since the other two wives (apparently the ones sitting with him, even though the one next to me denied it) got along well. He wanted a wife who would fight for him because she didn’t want to share him. I had all sorts of smart remarks to make but I think my raised eyebrow and lips pushed to the side said enough.

I have nothing against polygyny. On the surface, the three of them seemed happy and it’s a practice that’s been going on for centuries. But let me explain--if you’re a married man or in a relationship and your partner doesn’t know that you have other women that’s not polygyny. What I do have an issue with is the whole “man-sharing” or “man-stealing”, both of which involve blatant deceit.

The People That Were

I was at the Michael Jackson birthday party in Prospect Park. I did think it was a bit morbid and sad that they had a birthday cake. It made it real. Who was going to blow out the candles?

We're only a little more than halfway through the year and I'm thinking about the last week in December when all the network news and entertainment magazine shows do the "Year in Review" and remember all the celebs that have passed that year. 2009 has had major loss and upheaval. The People that Were; all very influential, loved. I've noticed that many were pioneers in their field, visionaries, real people with real problems and somehow hold a part in the public's heart. I've also noticed that the people who have been most affected by these deaths are themselves on the brink of transformation. They're being primed to take those spots left open by those that have passed. It's like a sick, dying parent who holds on until they know their children are gonna be all right before they go.

I truly believe it is the changing of the guards. My contemporaries and I are on the verge of greatness.

Write Stuff

I haven't been writing much on this blog, but I have been writing. It's been a little slow on the freelance non-fiction front, but my erotic short story collection is moving right along. I'm at the point where I can decide which stories not to include. So that's a good thing. I've been asked a few times what's the theme of the collection. I made a list of the commonalities--food, music, minor Pop culture references, Black/African characters (at least 1 in each story) and of course, sex. I'd like to have a little more "love" in my stories, but I've realized that when someone else reads it, they pick up on the "love" or emotion, even if I don't think I included any. That's my energy coming through on the page. I'm an emotional person. I feel everything and I have the ability to feel what you feel and make you feel what I feel (I know that's empathy, but I felt like being long-winded).

In mid-July, I went to the Harlem Book Fair (HBF), primarily because there were certain talks and workshops I wanted to attend. It was my first time at the event and I did enjoy myself. But I was turned off by all the booths and the folks manning the booths shoving "Urban Fiction" at me. When I see people reading those books on the train, my initial thought is, "Oh, they reading one of those ghetto books." Then I quickly rationalize, "Well, at least they're reading." I can only recall TWO (book) booths that weren't selling that genre of fiction (There were tons of other vendors). Two? In the panel discussion on making a living off your art the topic came up and what it boiled down to is that's what sells. And at some point your art/show becomes a business. By no means were the attendees of the workshop encouraged to write Urban Fiction but it was just an example of the obvious--what sells is what makes money and there will always be someone who will relate to (and buy) your art, so continue to create what works for you (special thanks to Mo Beasley, Mahogany Browne, Brad "Blue" Bathgate and Ebony Washington).

The Verdict On Courting

“Seeing you feels like flowers growing in my heart.”

Those were the first words this old(er) gentleman; we’ll call Mr. Ray, said to me as I walked down Spring Street in SoHo. The comment did make me slow down and smile. He asked my name and we shook hands. Then he said that seeing me made him feel like…this is where he started singing “Shining Star” to me. I really like that song. Have I ever had a stranger serenade me on the street before? No. Did I want the attention? Eh…it’s New York. The folks at the table in the restaurant right behind us looked for a few seconds then went back to their conversation. Mr. Ray wants to be my friend. He said he’d court me if I let him. He loves to go out. He invited me back to the restaurant where he’ll be performing Doo Wop (he totally dated himself) and also said he’d buy me dinner.

June 25, 2009

There's so much I could say about that day. I was working out, the 5 o'clock news was on and I was crunching away. They were talking about Farrah Fawcett. I said to myself, imagine what will happen when Michael Jackson dies. I've always thought about that. Even as a kid, when I would watch his concert footage and see fans fainting. It all seemed so big and otherworldly. So after the Farrah Fawcett story, I flip to another channel for a different spin of the news or maybe for better news and there's the announcement that Michael Jackson was rushed to the hospital in cardiac arrest.

What? I was just "talking" about that! And then it was time to prepare myself for the bad news. Cardiac Arrest. They were reporting they had to do CPR in the ambulance. I knew nothing good could come of it. I ate after my workout, sent a text to my friend about plans that evening at 5:23pm and when I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes, I wished "good luck" to the doctor who would have to call it--time of death.

5:26pm

Scalping Scalpers

NOTE: I no longer work for a ticket broker. However, I wrote this back in April 2008 when I did work for one, so that will explain the references to idiots willing to spend ridiculous prices for concert tickets and the last seasons at Yankee and Shea Stadiums. Ticket brokers have been in the news a lot recently over Bruce Springsteen concert tickets. They just can't seem to get it right. I say don't bother going to the concert if its going to cost you triple your rent, but what do I know. Fans are still going to want to be a part of history because Springsteen is the last act that will take place in Giants Stadium as we know it. Yes, they are building a new stadium in a recession. First, they were directing people to the secondary market where prices were hiked up and now three brokers who I am very familiar with are being sued by the NJ Attorney General for selling tickets a week before they actually went on sale. For those of you unfamiliar with how the secondary market works, ticket brokers will take your money for tickets they don't actually have. Just a heads up.

Angry Big Sister

I received a call from my brother this evening. He started by telling me something funny then said he was angry. He explained this situation he’s been having at work – feels like they’re pushing him out. Big corporation got no respect or regard for the little guy. My brother is vocal. He will voice complaints without yelling or cursing or flailing his arm or threatening violence but I’ve seen my brother angry. I let him vent then gave my big sister advice while we cut the tension with jokes. He did mention that he remembered I told him that last time he had an issue at work not to carry on like the “Angry Black Man” – he’s likely to intimidate everyone and surely not get his point across or better working conditions or work relationships. I tried to reinforce that today and told him he needs an outlet for his anger. He said worked out. While we spoke on the phone he was on his inversion machine because his back had tightened up. He used to write tons of screenplays. That’s an idea we tossed around. I told him when he visits NY again I’d take him to one of the poetry events I frequent. “There’s tons of angry black men there. Write something so you could read, or just come and listen, get that sense of camaraderie. You may even find solutions in the words.”

A few hours later I was at Bowery Poetry Club witnessing creative genius or genius creatives. Taalam Acey (Mr. Manual Gesticulation that spits a mile a minute. I swear I can actually see the words waft out his mouth), Kasim Allah (whom I like to refer to as “King” accompanied with a curtsy every now and then in honor of his greatness), Ainsley Burrows (Jamaican Brethren who can prepare you for the verbal SATs just by listening to his poems) and Lamar Anthony Hill and Faraji Salim – two poets I just had the honor of being blessed by. The poems were sermons. There was one poem that made my eyes sting. Lamar Anthony Hill recited one about growing up without his father and finally forgiving him. At one point in the poem he said a woman cannot raise a boy into a man. I’ve been well aware of that fact and I’ve heard other poets say it before, but it just struck me tonight. What can a Big Sister do?

Personal Belongings

I took my usual people-watching stance at the Laundromat this morning, partly because it was way more crowded than I had expected so getting worked up and harried wasn’t worth it, it was pretty early (for me, anyway) and I only had one load of laundry to do.

For those of us who don’t have the luxury of a washing machine at home or a laundry room in the basement of our apartment building, there is the world of the Laundromat. Laundry is a personal thing that we do in a public place. My clothes were in the midst of being churned in soap and water when a Jewish woman dragged a huge black garbage bag into the Laundromat, hoisted it up and plopped it right into one of the wheeled baskets. I’ll admit, I just watched but nothing about what happened jumped out at me until the Jamaican guy dressed in a white T-shirt and paint-splattered “work pants” told her the carts dem fa clean clothes and why she a come up in dey and dutty dem up. She asked why it would be dirty and he told her because she had just dragged the bag along the ground. She nodded in realization, then smirked and shrugged it off. She had no intention of taking her bag out of the cart until other folks started giving her dirty looks over her dirty clothes. The older Hispanic woman who I encountered earlier that was “using” a machine (with nothing in it) that I had asked about was loading two other machines that the Jewish woman inquired about, and didn’t get.