Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Body Shapers Are The Devil

I used to be a bouncer at a night club on U Street, and during my time of employment at this club, I made it a point not to date and/or fuck any of the patrons. Even though working at the club was just a part time job, it was full time job just avoiding fucking one of these young ladies. The general rule of thumb is this... if she finds you attractive on the way into the club, you'll be the best looking man on the planet 3 to 6 drinks later on her way out of the club. Every single night, without fail, a woman was pitching that 1 nightstand, so much so that I started to wear a wedding band just to avoid the bullshit. I still wear the ring to this day (it comes in handy still).

There was a chick who was relentless on trying to give the boy some pussy. (Well, there were actually a few chicks, but this chick just got farther than the rest.) She was a club regular so I saw her at least twice a month. We'll call her Cindy because she had a white girl name in real life, and "Becky" is too obvious. After our first few encounters, Cindy used to take 10 to 20 minutes out of her club going experience to kick it outside with me if I was working the door. During this 2 month span, the only thing I ever told her is I wasn't really married, but I refused to deal with girls that came to the club. That backfired on me because it only seemed to fuel her thirst.

As it goes in the club business, good parties come and go because nothing stays hot forever. I went from working 5 nights a week to working 1 or 2 nights in the middle of the week at parties that barely needed security, instead of working the premium nights. In turn, I got my life back, and I never saw Cindy because she was a weekend clubber. It wasn't like we were FB friends or she had my phone number. My discipline for leaving the club at the club was impeccable, if I have to say so myself.

Off top: if you didn't know one of the biggest perks of working at the club was going up to club on your day off and drinking for free. Even if the party wasn't great, you didn't pay to get in, you didn't wait in line, and you didn't have to wait 20 minutes to get the attention of the bartender... and oh yeah, the drinks are free... and strong. Now that I had weekends off, once in a blue moon, I'd slide up to the club on one of these premium nights to enjoy these perks, kick it with the homies, and people-watch all of the drunk bammas that came through. On this particular night, I didn't even drive because I fully planned on getting blasted. I figured I could have one of the other bouncers take me home; that was my go-to move on nights I didn't have shit else better to do... Show up to the club solo, drink, drink some more, then wait until closing and have one of them niggas drop me off at the crib.

On one of these nights that I popped up as I hit the bar, Cindy is standing on the other side ordering a drink. I looked away with quickness and went to the bar upstairs. I guess she felt my presence in the building because I got my drink and sat down in a chair in the cut, with my fitted cap down low. She walked up me like she had night vision goggles. Fuck it, she'd found me. It wasn't like I was about to run out of the club. I just kept on drinking and let her hang around. I can't even begin to tell you what we were talking about because every word is barely audible in the club, but we were having fun. Two hours and countless drinks later, I was at my level and there was no way I was waiting until 330a to catch a ride home. I told Cindy I was about to be out while she was talking to one of her friends, and before she could acknowledge me, I was out the door. 20 minutes later, she found me standing on the corner of 11th and U Street playing "how to catch a cab while being black", and I was losing. I was also getting drunker by the minute. She rolled up on me and offered a ride; I put up about 10 seconds of objection before I hopped in the car.

It wasn't until she pulled up in front of my apartment building that it hit me: "I just led my club stalker to my fucking front door", but that thought was pushed out of my head immediately by "damn shorty is jive phat as shit in the black dress though". I spent the next 15 minutes sitting in the car making non-sexual small talk hoping: (A) she would invite herself up, and (B) when I try to stand up I don't fall on my fucking face because I was bent. I got (A) and (B) because 3 slow jams in she asked to come to use the bathroom. We walked thru the door. I cut on the light; then I sat on the couch, and she sat right down with me. She slid off her shoes like she was planning to stay a while. In my mind, I was doing the Birdman hand rub. I tossed all the rules out of the window and was about to get rapey to get the show on the road before I passed the fuck out. Right before I could make my move...

***Now I'm going to pause this story and give you this ever so important description: Cindy was light skin, about 5'4, and shapely. She had decent sized titties for a woman with a big ass and little to no gut so she fit into her black dress well. She also had long black hair that may or may not have belonged to her; I didn't get a chance to grab her scalp. Her face was ok; let's just say if she had on a big coat she would surely go unnoticed.***

...she stood up turned to me and asked where the bathroom was. "Around the corner, first door on the left." She grabbed her purse and stepped off. Keep in mind, the lights are on, and these aren't those BS 60 watt soft light bulbs. Nah, I had the 100 watt daylight joints that you can see from the street driving by. About two minutes later, Cindy stepped around that corner with her hair in a ponytail, dress in one hand, and purse in the other. She had smoothly moved up 2 to 3 dress sizes. Her gut was on smash, her waistline had vanished, and her titties looked so sad peeking out of that push up bra. I went from horny and drunk to confused and mildly-buzzed in 2 seconds. The rules that I had just tossed out of the window came flying back in, landed on my lap, and were highlighted in bold print.

I threw my hands up as if that FUPA (Fat Upper Pussy Area) was holding a gun.
JD - Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!!!
Cindy - What's wrong?
JD - Why your clothes off? You know the rules.
Cindy - Fuck the rules. I'm standing here right now, and you going to tell me no?

***At this moment all my G is gone. I have a partially nude fat woman standing in my apartment demanding sex. I've drank enough liquor tonight that she could probably fuck my apartment up and I wouldn't be able to stop her without punching her in the face. I had to tread lightly.***

JD - It's not like that. You think I can just sleep with you and act like I don't know you the next day? I don't even roll like that. I'm not one of these players in the club trying to take women home every night. That's that little boy shit. (But, if she had been fine, you better believe she would have been fucked and forgotten.)
Cindy - If you don't find me attractive, you can just say so.
JD - Girl, you know you look good. I don't even give other girls at the club this much time, let alone let them see where I live. (She didn't look good to me, and I was secretly hoping that she would keep standing and not put that dimply butt on my couch.) It's not even about that.
Cindy - I promise I'll never come to the club again.
JD - What? Why would you stop coming to the club? I enjoy it when you come keep me company outside. I even enjoyed running into you tonight. I couldn't allow you to just stop coming to the club. I'm going to turn on this TV, and we're going to pretend like this didn't happen. I won't be working at the club forever.

Cindy just nodded back at me looking like she wanted to cry. She went back into bathroom, put her clothes back on, then sat back on the couch. The moment she sat down, I got up, and ran into the bathroom to call Earl. I didn't even hear her leave. I never saw Cindy again. Maybe she died from embarrassment or caught a mean case of decompression sickness from coming out of those Spanx so fast... either way, I never saw her at Liv or even on U St ever again.

When you see that FUPA in HD you start making life decisions.
Jean DeGrate hates body shapers.

Friday, October 11, 2013

5 Signs You'll Never Get A Ring

You cook, you clean, you never smell like onion rings, and you suck dick like you invented sex. Yet somehow your ring finger remains bare. Your "hims" enjoy all you have to offer, then go back into the world to flourish with other females. I could blame it on your unrealistic standards, but I've already told that story. In all honesty, you're probably just not the marrying kind, and the jump from fiancé (because almost any bitch can get an engagement ring, especially around tax time) to wife is just far too wide for a man to consider making for you, at least in your current state. I wrote this list to put you ladies up on game. Hell if you change a few things, you might even be able to snatch you a hubby (and not the made-for-twitter kind, but the kind you can file taxes with).
1. You make a spectacle of yourself
Some of you hoes are just plain ratchet. I'm talking you purple braid wearing power ranger dressing ass hoes. Yep, you ratchet bitches who love posing in front of the Moet backdrop at GoGo's holding a beer. Some of you ladies are a bit too outspoken. I'm talking you stand behind every cause, fighting the power, raging against the machines ass women. Yep, you outspoken bitches who bought stock in Skittles just to #StandwithTrayvon and you still harbor deep hate for the Tea Party. Some of you bitches are attention whores. I'm talking about you joints who make it a point to drop thirst traps and make lusty conversation via social media. Yep, you're an attention-seeking whore who just posted, "lonely and naked on this rainy night", that tweet is precisely why you will be lonely for many a rainy night to come.  All that might be dope enough that you have 47 unanswered DMs and 50 unread text messages, but it ain't necessarily worth the trip to Jared. You have no chill and it would suit you to acquire some.

2. You're boring
You're a homebody. You take more naps than a newborn baby. Your hobbies include: sitting on the phone in silence, taking your bra off after work, wrapping your hair before the sun sets, reading "Fifty Shade of Gray" for the 3rd time, and replying to fun ideas by saying some variation of "you're doing too much". The ability to be perfectly happy doing nothing at all is dope if you're snowed in, broke, or can't find a babysitter for the night, but outside of that, the boring bitch role gets real old real fast. Plus, it's really hard to imagine growing old with somebody who's already acting like she belongs in a retirement home. Every night can't be a suck-his-dick-midway-thru-the-Redbox type of night.

3. Your sex is not as dope as you think it is
I don't think there's a woman on the face of the earth who doesn't think her pussy isn't everything (or at least lead every male suitor to think she believes that even if history has proven otherwise). Sex is a big thing to men. You know how they say, "women think about sex just as often as men do"? Just know "they" are fucking idiots; men are actively trying to make sex happen. Niggas invest more into getting sex, mentally, physically, and financially. With that said, you need to have that keep a nigga coming back pussy. And I'm not talking about coming back the next night. I'm talking about pussy that a nigga feels he can come back to at least 3 times a week for a lifetime. Wait, before you think you have the golden box, 3 times a week for years ain't shit if he hasn't bought the ring yet. It's hard to tell if you have dope pussy because we as men with our kind hearts will tell you it's awesome, even if that's furthest from the truth. We will come back to the pussy, time and time again. cause for real. sometimes there just ain't shit else to do. Here's the general rule of thumb: if you can't end a heated argument by getting naked, your pussy ain't all you might think it is.

4. Your kids
Meeting an attractive, single, non-lesbian, childless black woman over 27 is a small feat on to itself. I know about 5, but I know endless baby mothers. ENDLESS. I know more women with kids than I know women with cars. Being a single mom is already tough enough, but if your kids aren't likable. sweetheart the road ahead is going to be filled with loneliness. When a man marries you, he's also marrying those kids, and whatever that comes along with them. If your fuck trophies are unruly, ugly, and ill-mannered you'll never cross from girlfriend to wife.

Women as a gender are crazy, but it's levels to this shit. Most of you are just "this bitch be tripping" crazy which is fairly easy to work around because of the commonality of the affliction. "This bitch be tripping" crazy is equivalent of the common cold when it comes to mental instability. Now for the rest of you that suffer from clinical grade insanity issues this paragraph is for you. You're an emotional roller coaster without experiencing anything of note. The man in your life can't even begin to comprehend how you of from zero to sixty and back again over the smallest shit and probably won't stick around long enough to figure it out. Maybe you saw your dad punch your mom in the face, perhaps you didn't get hug enough as a child or whatever it is that makes you go bouncing off the wall is unbearable for short periods of time let alone a lifetime. Seek help. Real help; don't call your girlfriends up to talk about your issues while you sip merlot. Consult with a psychiatrist, spend that 80 bucks a week then let him help sort thru your issues and subscribe some drugs that will keep you on the level.

Get your shit together and you might find a man to grow old with you
Jean DeGrate has spoken