Podcast: Wailing On These Hoes

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

The Ride | The Game

Unfortunately for this world and for my own emotional success, I was born with a miserable need to be direct. This condition of mine makes for an certain ease of engagement when it comes to the general public but thus far has not been very helpful in my relations with the "men folk." Sure it gets the intended result when I just wanna bone, but when more profound sentiments are involved, I am always derailed by my pursuit of the more expedient tracks to courtship. To the merit of my would-be suitors, I will say that I do move with haste when it comes to matters of the heart, and I'm sure that can prove a bit unnerving when caught unawares. But I only act so decisively because I know what I like and what I don't. If I want ya, then nigga I want ya. If I don't then move out my way so I can holla at ya homeboy and DON'T hate. How long am I supposed to wait before I tell the rare 5% of all men I encounter that "I would love to do way more with you than just beat headboards on walls?" My timing or lack of it is often wrong (as the methods of my disclosure have little use for patience) and I wind up sending yet another indecisive, pensive, long-tarrying Negro running and screaming like he's on fire.

There once was a time in my life when I proceeded without pause in such matters despite the threat of such an unfavorable outcome but with age comes an inclination toward calculation. Unfortunately, my mouth hasn't quite jumped on board with that whole "think before you speak" jive. So instead of the easy bluntness I used to express, I am now relegated to stifled expressions of marked nervousness and hesitation. In effect, I look like a neurotic fool, at least that's how I perceive myself as I hover transcendentally over the situation shaking my head in shame and covering my eyes as though I were watching "Saw" and not my own regrettable life. "What the fuck is up with you lately?" is the question I ask myself, who is unaware that I am looming and reproaching overhead. "That's not me. That can't be me. That bitch right there, nigga? That bitch is a mess." And as I continue to loathe the uneasy, forced display transpiring beneath me, I know that, truthfully, I have nothing beneficial to impart. Basically, I'm coaching from my couch--judging every play but can't come up with a better one. With the realization that I cannot save myself further embarrassment from any vantage point, I am absorbed back into my body, racked with jitters of anticipation, rejection and disappointment. "Ugh. Bitch..."

Now, with no admirers or affinities to tempt my tongue, I wonder how the next scenario will play out. By then, I hope that I will have gained the knowledge necessary to play the game with the same competitive vigor as those others who seem to have mastered the sport of modern day courtship. I might be long past the days of Parlor Rooms and Chaperons but I haven't quite caught up with the era of Club Hook-Ups and BlackPeopleMeet. Maybe I've evolved too far beyond those venues as well for there is no honesty there--only lies wrapped tight in mini bandage skirts and sweater vests and bow ties (clips-ons I assume); masks hidden behind another mask and another mask and still another it seems. Each and every one of the players searching for something that they can never find simply because they hold no true confessions of themselves. How can one possibly seek to find someone whom they can hold at face value when no one could ever expect the same of them? How much time should one waste digging through beautiful lies just to find one wholly undesirable truth? By the time we find the truth, many of us are stuck--stuck with children, joint accounts and collateral damage. True you can't win if you don't play but what are you really playing for? Why must it be a "game"? Maybe honestly isn't what's missing. Maybe the apparitions among the single-and-looking are earnest and sober intent.

Eh... maybe I'll just keep fuckin these hoes and leave it at that. TO THE DANCEHALL!!!

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