A Hard Man is Good to Find!

(working title)

Girl, I need to holla at you for a minute ’cause a sista got serious issues. Well, actually, one major issue. You’re probably gonna look at me like I’m crazy after I tell you all of this. You don’t mind sittin’ back for a minute while I spill it, do you? I’ll tell you straight up, I’ve been known to yack folk’s ears off. Mouth be running at times, so you might wanna grab a caffé latte and somethin’ to munch on, all right?

Well, my issue comes in a thirty-six-year-old, six foot four, two hundred and five-pound, dark chocolate-delight package of one hundred percent testosterone. Four-percent body fat, body built like an NFL wide receiver, firm rock-hard Terrell Owens-ish ass ... lawd!

And, oh, yeah, he makes a damn near six-figure income as a computer analyst.

So far, so good, right?

But hold up--I ain’t done with the vitals, yet. Let me break ‘em down further.

I’m talkin’ bleach-white teeth, a damn near Barry White voice, and the smoothest baldhead I’ve had the pleasure of rubbing my hands on. Quite simply, the man can trigger a dozen micro-orgasms with a smile and "hello."

But even with all that, I’m debating on seeing him again. I just don’t know if I can stand him anymore, let alone make our relationship work…. That, girlfriend, is the issue.

Crazy as it sounds now, you’ll see what I’m talkin’ ’bout later on. But before I tell you more about him, let me drop the crazy scenarios that I found myself in before I met him.

***

I hadn’t been to a nightclub in months. Just got tired of the scene, ya know, same ol’ faces, same ol’ routine, same ol’ bullshit. Every time I stepped foot into a weekend hot spot, I’d feel like worm bait among a sea of piranhas. Screw that. I’m nobody’s bait, so I kept my ass home.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the attention brothas showered on me. What woman wouldn’t?

But the shit just got old after a while, ya know. Well, at least for me it did--especially since I knew most men in the "meat market" disguised as a nightclub just wanted a piece of my sirloin steak for the night. Horny toad freaks.

For Friday and Saturday nights, it got to a point where Blockbusters and pizza became the norm for my oh-so solo life. Just got used to that pattern.

One Friday afternoon after work, my girlfriend Charlotte stood against the door of my Subaru, blocking my entry. The way she had her arms spread against the window glass, I thought she was hiding something.

This heifer done lost her mind, I thought. I set my hands on my hips and said, "Ho, what the hell are you doing?"

She stared at me with beady, dark-brown eyes. She wrinkled her forehead and crunched her eyebrows together, trying to look mean and shit. Had this crazy look like a woman determined to make a point.

She took in a deep breath. "Look, Michelle. I’ve been trying to get you to go out with me for I don’t know how long now. I’m tired of my girl--that would be you--tellin’ me she don’t wanna go out. Shoot, you know I don’t have long before my next pregnancy test has that plus sign in it."

I shook my head. How this girl gonna play the pregnancy card? Charlotte and her husband, Greg, had been putting in work for the past two months to pop out a kid or two, so she’d been trying to get the clubbin’ out of her system before the nine-month wobble.

She rambled on. "You need to get your ass out and have some fun. Why you all stuck in your apartment all the damn time? You know I don’t like hangin’ with--"

"Aw’ight, aw’ight!" I threw my hands up in surrender. "Damn! I’ll go out tonight!"

As you can see, I didn’t give up much of a fight. I had actually gotten the itch to wiggle it on the floor again, but I made it seem like she convinced me.

Homechick adjusted her stance and exhaled with an exaggerated "you rescued me" look. "Woo!" she said. "Thank you! ’Bout time!"

She wiped her forehead, even though it didn’t show a lick of sweat. So damn silly. Always acting the fool, crackin’ me up. That’s my girl, though. Best friend for five years.

After we ironed out the clubbin’ details, I took a trip to El Cajon, got my hair braided, and headed home around 8:30. I was the shiznit with my shoulder-length braids, but after four hours of my hairdresser twisting my hair and yanking my scalp, mini-headaches pounded my cranium with the throb knob on high. I thought about lazing in front of the TV and calling it a night, but I didn’t want Charlotte having a fit. I took a couple of aspirin and sucked it up. Couldn’t punk out on my girl.

At my Mission Valley apartment, hip-hop jams on 100.3 The Beat restored the boogie in my hips and the snap in my fingers. I ordered homegirl standing in the mirror to have a good time tonight.

I showered, ransacked the closet, and grabbed the tan minidress that cuddles all my goodies. I had to make sure the brothas checked me out until their eyes hurt, ya feel me? And, shoot, why not put my powerhouse hourglass on blast? My mama gave it to me!

I wiped the dust off my brown pumps, slapped on a touch of blush, and coated my thick lips with Red Seduction. A dab of Chanel perfume around my neck, arms, and the slit between my two babies blessed my body with a classy fragrance.

Once I put in my diamond earrings, I checked the mirror. Shoot, I shot through the Richter scale, I’m not gon’ lie. I felt like a woman about to break a few hearts and crush an army of egos. Been a while since I dressed up like this.

Charlotte came by my apartment around 10:45. We drove in her black Navigator. My girl rocked a black halter and a purple skirt with a slit on the side. Never one to wear a lot of makeup, she only needed a hint of diamond-shine lip-gloss to complement her baby-smooth honey-coated complexion. Her bump-n-curl showed every bit the fifty dollars she paid for it.

That’s one lucky girl. She can go to a meat market with her single friend looking so fresh and so clean and her husband won’t flinch. Greg’s a mature, laid-back brotha who’s got it together. He works as a sales supervisor during the day, aspiring novelist at night. Charlotte’s clubbing doesn’t sweat him ’cause he knows where his wife will be by two in the morning--if she knows what’s good for her. Of course, with her three-to-four hour absence, it gives him quiet time to bang out the novel he’d been working on for half a year.

Anyway, we got to the club fifteen minutes later. Soon as I heard Ciara’s jam "One, Two, Step" vibrating the room, it was on!

Brothas eyed Charlotte and me as if we were two plates of Roscoe’s chicken and waffles. A few brave ones stepped to us, trying to get their Mack-Daddy-Pimp game on. The bling from Charlotte’s two-carat rock clearly publicized her marital status, but some dudes still tried to slip weak lines like "Where yo’ man at?" or "Why he let a fine woman like you come by yo’ self?" Same ol’ bullshit. Fools that pushed up on me too hard saw the back of my head or the palm of my hand.

Charlotte and I found a table by the dance floor and sat amongst a pack of horny two-legged hounds. Among the canines, I met my first mistake.

Sellout (novel-length excerpt): An exploration of why certain people boycott the other sex within their own race; i.e. white women dissin' white men for black men.