Okay:
A few years back I was working at this charter school. It was run by this nice, older brother. At the orientation he spoke to the hundred or so employees, new and returning, about his educational philosophy. It was really motivational, helped to revitalize my waning passion for teaching. But I couldn't help but notice something very disturbing.
Here he was, this educated, well-to-do philanthropist of sorts, pouring his heart out, and I couldn't take my eyes off his tits.
He was at least a B-cup.
Like Mona Lisa's eyes, his titties followed me around the room.
He wasn't grossly overweight or anything. He just had these titties that he couldn't hide no matter what kind of shirt he wore.
I went home and told my father. He said, "I've got some pretty big ones myself, son. It happens when you get older. Unless, of course, you're naturally thin or work out regularly. You're gonna get tits."
I vowed that I would never allow it to happen to me.
Then I was out having drinks with some friends a few days ago and this sister said to me, "Oh, look. You've got man-breasts."
I said something rude to her and tried to forget about it. But, of course, I couldn't.
That night I went home and took a look in the mirror. Yes, I already knew that things were a lot softer than they used to be but I hadn't quite noticed that I was growing tits.
But there they were.
I promised myself that I would go on a diet and start working out. It took a few days but last night I went for an evening run. I synced up my iPod with a high energy playlist, put on my running shoes and headed out the door. About half way up the block I noticed something.
Shit was flopping against other shit.
It wasn't painful, but certainly uncomfortable and, most of all, dismaying.
When did this happen? I used to be in such great shape. Hard as a rock. I shit you not. In fact, when I took off my clothes my lady friends would often comment on how nice my body was. It wasn't even really anything I thought about too much.
The logical part of my brain began thinking about ways to control the flopping. A sports bra maybe? Then my ego kicked in and said, "Claude, this is unacceptable."
My ego is a character in and of itself. It has my sister's voice, always tells the truth and speaks in dramatic monologues. Not to be confused with my conscience, which speaks in Malcolm X's voice but hasn't had a lot to say since 1998.
"Claude," it said, "You have got to get rid of these tits. Put that on your list of things to do, right up there with fixing your credit and throwing away your porn."
"What woman," it continued, "would be turned on when she rubs her hands across your chest and gets a handful of fat man-titty?"
So, ladies and gentleman. I will be keeping you posted on my new commitment to fitness. Although it is motivated solely by vanity and lust, I believe I will be successful in regaining the body of my youth. When there is significant change, I will post pictures.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Innocent Question: Ladies, does your man have tits? And does it bother/threaten you?
Showing posts with label Cool Cee Brown Black Broadway Dirty Water DC Hip Hop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cool Cee Brown Black Broadway Dirty Water DC Hip Hop. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
Mushrooms And Skydiving
Okay:
For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to jump out of a plane.
I’m not an adrenaline freak or anything like that. In fact, I try to stay as far away from danger as possible. I would never do rafting or run with the bulls. I’m one of those old school scared Negroes. I stay in the house for the most part, where it’s warm and safe.
I don’t even like planes. I have a mild case of acrophobia.
But I have always imagined that if I were to muster up enough courage to jump out of a plane, then everything else would get the volume turned down.
“Ask that pretty girl for her phone number? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
“Quit my job and write full time? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
You see?
I’m coming to the point now.
Like I said last week, I’ve experimented with a few different kinds of drugs. Today I want to tell you about the time I ate mushrooms.
When I was college my closest friend and I used to work at this Italian chain restaurant. Of course we had oodles and oodles of white co-workers, which was both a blessing and a curse. Nothing wrong with the whites, it’s just that cultural differences can get magnified in high-intensity environments. And this little dive was the company’s most profitable location in the region. We busted our asses every night, but made great tips.
One night my friend and I inquired amongst the whites about some mushrooms.
“What’s it all about?”
“How does it make you feel?”
So, one of the whites said, “Why don’t I just bring an ounce past your crib later and we can chew up and watch The Sopranos or something?”
My friend and I eagerly agreed and set about getting mentally prepared for this new adventure. Since we didn’t know whether or not we were going to get the munchies, we went out and bought a shitload of food. Chips, cheeseburgers, soda and a bunch of other more shit. We also bought lots of Newports in case the stuff made you nervous-like, in which case cigarettes would come in handy.
We were stockpiling like we were preparing for a hurricane. The logic was that we didn’t know whether or not we’d be able to drive once the mushrooms took hold, so we wanted to have everything we could possibly need at our disposal.
When we got to my apartment, I hid my car keys from myself in case the shit made me freak out and want to go do something stupid in my car.
See? I was a responsible stoner.
So, the white boy arrived with an ounce of mushrooms. A really nice guy. Fire-engine red hair with freckles. Like something out of a 1960s sit com.
He warned us, “These things taste like shit. In fact, that’s where they get ‘em. Off of cow shit.”
“They grow on cow shit?”
“They grow on cow shit.”
“Oh…continue.”
“It’s like acid but cleaner. You may get nauseous though.”
We start digging in. We sit and watch an entire episode of The Sopranos and nothing happens. We’re just sitting there chatting it up, waiting for the damn things to take hold.
“It may take a while,” he said. “Plus, you generally wouldn’t split and ounce between three people.”
Then all of a sudden, I felt the need to lie down. It was more than a need. I had to fucking straighten out my body onto a flat surface or I was going to die. So I lied down on the floor. Then my stomach started to turn and I thought I may have to shit, but I couldn’t get up. I was stuck on the floor there, moaning quietly to myself and holding my stomach for twenty minutes. No one seemed to notice me.
Then I snapped out of it.
Literally.
All of a sudden I felt great. Greater than I ever felt in my life.
I jumped up like Roger Rabbit and sat down next to the white boy.
“White boy,” I said, “These things are fucking great. I love you, man.”
“I love you, man.”
“Listen,” I said, “Have you ever jumped out of a fucking plane?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you’re not a real man. How you can be a real man if you’ve never jumped out of a fucking plane?"
“You can’t.”
“You’re goddamn right. That’s what a real man does. A real man jumps out of a fucking plane.”
“Fucking A.”
“White boy,” I said, “Will you jump out of a plane with me?”
“Shit yeah.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, white boy.”
I went on like that for hours. No one slept that night. We couldn’t. Those things wire you up.
I haven’t touched them since. And no, me and the white boy did not jump out of a plane together. But every now and then, I still feel the urge.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One of my secret sex fantasies is to have sex while free-falling naked from a plane. I hear you can’t get pregnant at certain altitudes.
For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to jump out of a plane.
I’m not an adrenaline freak or anything like that. In fact, I try to stay as far away from danger as possible. I would never do rafting or run with the bulls. I’m one of those old school scared Negroes. I stay in the house for the most part, where it’s warm and safe.
I don’t even like planes. I have a mild case of acrophobia.
But I have always imagined that if I were to muster up enough courage to jump out of a plane, then everything else would get the volume turned down.
“Ask that pretty girl for her phone number? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
“Quit my job and write full time? Sheeeeit! I once jumped out of a plane. This is nothing.”
You see?
I’m coming to the point now.
Like I said last week, I’ve experimented with a few different kinds of drugs. Today I want to tell you about the time I ate mushrooms.
When I was college my closest friend and I used to work at this Italian chain restaurant. Of course we had oodles and oodles of white co-workers, which was both a blessing and a curse. Nothing wrong with the whites, it’s just that cultural differences can get magnified in high-intensity environments. And this little dive was the company’s most profitable location in the region. We busted our asses every night, but made great tips.
One night my friend and I inquired amongst the whites about some mushrooms.
“What’s it all about?”
“How does it make you feel?”
So, one of the whites said, “Why don’t I just bring an ounce past your crib later and we can chew up and watch The Sopranos or something?”
My friend and I eagerly agreed and set about getting mentally prepared for this new adventure. Since we didn’t know whether or not we were going to get the munchies, we went out and bought a shitload of food. Chips, cheeseburgers, soda and a bunch of other more shit. We also bought lots of Newports in case the stuff made you nervous-like, in which case cigarettes would come in handy.
We were stockpiling like we were preparing for a hurricane. The logic was that we didn’t know whether or not we’d be able to drive once the mushrooms took hold, so we wanted to have everything we could possibly need at our disposal.
When we got to my apartment, I hid my car keys from myself in case the shit made me freak out and want to go do something stupid in my car.
See? I was a responsible stoner.
So, the white boy arrived with an ounce of mushrooms. A really nice guy. Fire-engine red hair with freckles. Like something out of a 1960s sit com.
He warned us, “These things taste like shit. In fact, that’s where they get ‘em. Off of cow shit.”
“They grow on cow shit?”
“They grow on cow shit.”
“Oh…continue.”
“It’s like acid but cleaner. You may get nauseous though.”
We start digging in. We sit and watch an entire episode of The Sopranos and nothing happens. We’re just sitting there chatting it up, waiting for the damn things to take hold.
“It may take a while,” he said. “Plus, you generally wouldn’t split and ounce between three people.”
Then all of a sudden, I felt the need to lie down. It was more than a need. I had to fucking straighten out my body onto a flat surface or I was going to die. So I lied down on the floor. Then my stomach started to turn and I thought I may have to shit, but I couldn’t get up. I was stuck on the floor there, moaning quietly to myself and holding my stomach for twenty minutes. No one seemed to notice me.
Then I snapped out of it.
Literally.
All of a sudden I felt great. Greater than I ever felt in my life.
I jumped up like Roger Rabbit and sat down next to the white boy.
“White boy,” I said, “These things are fucking great. I love you, man.”
“I love you, man.”
“Listen,” I said, “Have you ever jumped out of a fucking plane?”
“No,” he said.
“Then you’re not a real man. How you can be a real man if you’ve never jumped out of a fucking plane?"
“You can’t.”
“You’re goddamn right. That’s what a real man does. A real man jumps out of a fucking plane.”
“Fucking A.”
“White boy,” I said, “Will you jump out of a plane with me?”
“Shit yeah.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, white boy.”
I went on like that for hours. No one slept that night. We couldn’t. Those things wire you up.
I haven’t touched them since. And no, me and the white boy did not jump out of a plane together. But every now and then, I still feel the urge.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: One of my secret sex fantasies is to have sex while free-falling naked from a plane. I hear you can’t get pregnant at certain altitudes.
Friday, February 29, 2008
The Muppet In The Mirror
Okay:
So, let’s talk about drugs.
We all know about Slick Willie’s “I didn’t inhale” fiasco.
Old Dubya apparently had or has an affinity for beer and the white stuff.
And even my man Barack has admitted to experimenting with weed and coke as a young man.
It’s more than an epidemic now. It’s a permanent fixture in America’s youth culture. Remember how all those eighties comedians used to joke about experimenting with homosexuality in summer camp? The joke that wasn’t a joke.
Well, today we can replace the image of Jimmy and Tommy playing with each other’s junk behind a log cabin, sugar-high on green lime juice, with the image of them bumping a line of Bolivian white with the counselor. This is now a rite of passage, not something that you can declare war against.
I’ve had my history with them. Two of my sisters were drug addicts. I myself used to do a lot of drugs. I had a rule against cocaine and heroin, but I was game for pretty much everything else.
My drug of choice, for the most part, was reefer. And like most weed smokers, I had convinced myself that I was not “on drugs”.
“Weed’s not a drug. It’s a medicinal plant,” I’d say. “It cures the cataracts and a bunch of other more shit.”
You couldn’t tell me anything.
For years, I smoked every day. I spent my life in a foggy daze. In the beginning it was like an adventure. My buddies and I would pile up in someone’s car, pool our money together and go hunting for the best smoke we could find. Sometimes we would go clear across town for “The Chronic” or whatever they were calling good shit at the time.
See, I grew up in DC. We didn’t have designer weed back when I started smoking. You had “Regular” and “Chronic”. Now they’ve got all kinds of fancy names like Haze, AK-47, and Sour Diesel.
At the 7-Eleven they’ve got all different types of cigars, wraps and rolling papers.
An assortment of flavors: Peach, Grape, and goddamn Vanilla Bean.
When I was getting high you had your choice between Phillies, White Owls, Backwoods, and Dutch Masters. It you went to a nice CVS somewhere they might have Garcia Vegas, which were cool because each cigar came in its own plastic case. You could put your roach and all other kinds of shit in that case. Once or twice those Vega cases stopped me from getting arrested.
See? It was an adventure.
It was years before I could actually enjoy being high though. Once I started enjoying it, really appreciating the high, I wouldn’t be caught dead without at least a quarter ounce in my possession. I started smoking joints because I had grown out of the group thing and I didn’t want any stinky cigars funking up my apartment. And I would smoke anywhere between three and four joints a day.
Then one day, I discovered that my high was becoming a little less pleasant. It was something they had always told us in Health class, but I had never experienced until then.
Extreme Paranoia.
At first I thought I had a bad batch of smoke. But no matter who I bought from, it was always the same thing.
I would hear strange noises. I became extremely leery of the police and anyone who looked like the police. I would clean my apartment incessantly hoping to mask the smell of weed in case someone came a knocking at the door. I vacuumed at least once a day.
Remember that movie Reefer Madness? It was something like that, except in color.
And sometimes…just sometimes, I thought I looked like a Muppet.
That’s right. I would go stare in the mirror for hours and nobody could have told me that I didn’t bear a strong resemblance to one of Jim Henson’s creations. My nose was cartoonishly big. So were my lips. My head was way bigger than the rest of my body. My skin was a funky orange or orange derivative. This made me really sad and self-conscious, which wasn’t fun.
Then I would feel really bad about myself, like a loser, like all of my dreams and aspirations were dumb and not worth the time. I wasn’t anywhere near as talented as I thought I was. People were just humoring me.
They had also mentioned this in Health class. I was being robbed of my ambition. I was losing my motivation.
The final straw was the erectile dysfunction. Something else they told me in Health class was true. It is impossible to put a condom on a limp penis.
So, I quit.
Cold turkey.
That was seven years ago and I haven’t looked back sense. Best decision I ever made.
I will tell you about the acid, the mushrooms and the pills later. That’s a whole ‘nother blog.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: There are 3 different species of cannabis: 1) cannabis sativa 2) cannabis indica and 3) cannabis ruderalis. Sativa is the most common; it can grow in any moderate climate. Indica is the most potent; it only grows in the tropics. Ruderalis is the least potent; it can grow in harsh, cold climates.
So, let’s talk about drugs.
We all know about Slick Willie’s “I didn’t inhale” fiasco.
Old Dubya apparently had or has an affinity for beer and the white stuff.
And even my man Barack has admitted to experimenting with weed and coke as a young man.
It’s more than an epidemic now. It’s a permanent fixture in America’s youth culture. Remember how all those eighties comedians used to joke about experimenting with homosexuality in summer camp? The joke that wasn’t a joke.
Well, today we can replace the image of Jimmy and Tommy playing with each other’s junk behind a log cabin, sugar-high on green lime juice, with the image of them bumping a line of Bolivian white with the counselor. This is now a rite of passage, not something that you can declare war against.
I’ve had my history with them. Two of my sisters were drug addicts. I myself used to do a lot of drugs. I had a rule against cocaine and heroin, but I was game for pretty much everything else.
My drug of choice, for the most part, was reefer. And like most weed smokers, I had convinced myself that I was not “on drugs”.
“Weed’s not a drug. It’s a medicinal plant,” I’d say. “It cures the cataracts and a bunch of other more shit.”
You couldn’t tell me anything.
For years, I smoked every day. I spent my life in a foggy daze. In the beginning it was like an adventure. My buddies and I would pile up in someone’s car, pool our money together and go hunting for the best smoke we could find. Sometimes we would go clear across town for “The Chronic” or whatever they were calling good shit at the time.
See, I grew up in DC. We didn’t have designer weed back when I started smoking. You had “Regular” and “Chronic”. Now they’ve got all kinds of fancy names like Haze, AK-47, and Sour Diesel.
At the 7-Eleven they’ve got all different types of cigars, wraps and rolling papers.
An assortment of flavors: Peach, Grape, and goddamn Vanilla Bean.
When I was getting high you had your choice between Phillies, White Owls, Backwoods, and Dutch Masters. It you went to a nice CVS somewhere they might have Garcia Vegas, which were cool because each cigar came in its own plastic case. You could put your roach and all other kinds of shit in that case. Once or twice those Vega cases stopped me from getting arrested.
See? It was an adventure.
It was years before I could actually enjoy being high though. Once I started enjoying it, really appreciating the high, I wouldn’t be caught dead without at least a quarter ounce in my possession. I started smoking joints because I had grown out of the group thing and I didn’t want any stinky cigars funking up my apartment. And I would smoke anywhere between three and four joints a day.
Then one day, I discovered that my high was becoming a little less pleasant. It was something they had always told us in Health class, but I had never experienced until then.
Extreme Paranoia.
At first I thought I had a bad batch of smoke. But no matter who I bought from, it was always the same thing.
I would hear strange noises. I became extremely leery of the police and anyone who looked like the police. I would clean my apartment incessantly hoping to mask the smell of weed in case someone came a knocking at the door. I vacuumed at least once a day.
Remember that movie Reefer Madness? It was something like that, except in color.
And sometimes…just sometimes, I thought I looked like a Muppet.
That’s right. I would go stare in the mirror for hours and nobody could have told me that I didn’t bear a strong resemblance to one of Jim Henson’s creations. My nose was cartoonishly big. So were my lips. My head was way bigger than the rest of my body. My skin was a funky orange or orange derivative. This made me really sad and self-conscious, which wasn’t fun.
Then I would feel really bad about myself, like a loser, like all of my dreams and aspirations were dumb and not worth the time. I wasn’t anywhere near as talented as I thought I was. People were just humoring me.
They had also mentioned this in Health class. I was being robbed of my ambition. I was losing my motivation.
The final straw was the erectile dysfunction. Something else they told me in Health class was true. It is impossible to put a condom on a limp penis.
So, I quit.
Cold turkey.
That was seven years ago and I haven’t looked back sense. Best decision I ever made.
I will tell you about the acid, the mushrooms and the pills later. That’s a whole ‘nother blog.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: There are 3 different species of cannabis: 1) cannabis sativa 2) cannabis indica and 3) cannabis ruderalis. Sativa is the most common; it can grow in any moderate climate. Indica is the most potent; it only grows in the tropics. Ruderalis is the least potent; it can grow in harsh, cold climates.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
High School High
Okay:
My alcholic Uncle Brownie used to have this joke. "I didn't go to high school, but I went to school high."
I was 12 or something when I first heard it. I didn't get it. Of course, I do now though.
See, one of strangest things about teaching for me is what little shocks or offends me. Part of it is that I somehow have always chosen the most dysfunctional, potentially dangerous places to work. It has never been a conscious decision. It’s just always worked out that way. And I’ve taught at a lot of different schools in a relatively short period of time.
I’ve been desensitized.
But even before I began teaching, I’d had my own personal experience. You see, I was once a delinquent.
Let me qualify that statement.
I was not a “criminal” per se. At least not the bad kind. I didn’t steal. I didn’t hurt people. I didn’t sell crack. My undesirable behaviors were much more benign.
I smoked an inordinate amount of weed and experimented with peddling a few bags here and there on occasion. I did so much in high school that by the time I graduated from college I was bored with it.
And I became sexually active at 13. I never, as you know, got bored with that, however.
So when my students come to school high out of their minds, I can recognize the inappropriateness but not the urgency. Seems pretty normal to me. You’re always going to have your stoners.
“Damn, Johnny,” I might say. “You smell like you still have some on you.”
When they come to school drunk I might say, “You know, gentleman typically wait for the sun to go down.”
But the truth is I went to school drunk and/or high all the time. Once I got into some of my mother’s Puerto Rican rum. I was two sheets to the wind by the time I got on the school bus. By the time the homeroom bell rang, I was in the early stages of alcohol poisoning. I passed out on the bleachers in the gymnasium, only to be awoken by my cousin playfully jabbing me in the stomach. I jumped up and ran to the closest bathroom, which happened to be the ladies’ room. I couldn’t even make it to the stall. I went straight to the sink and threw up what looked like 2 pints of blood.
Because I was a sixteen year old genius, I had drank all that rum before 8 o’clock on an empty stomach so as to avoid getting sick.
I threw up once more before 1st period and eventually snuck out of the building and rode the train home. To this day, the smell of rum brings back those painful memories for me.
So, when they come in all smoked out, I don’t want to reprimand them and send them to the drug counselor. I want to put them on to shit I know. Keep some Visine on you. A nice, scented oil. An extra shirt in your locker. Tricks of the trade for the high school stoner.
When the girls come waddling in, five and six months pregnant, I don’t want to chastise them. I think to myself, “There but for the grace of God go I.” There’s no real reason why I didn’t end up getting someone pregnant in high school. It was pure dumb luck. I don’t shake my head. I cross myself and do a Hail Mary.
So, as long as they’re not about to tip over, I really don’t see any reason to get super upset about it. But maybe that’s further proof that I’m in the wrong profession.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to high was on the dimly lit steps of the neighborhood church.
My alcholic Uncle Brownie used to have this joke. "I didn't go to high school, but I went to school high."
I was 12 or something when I first heard it. I didn't get it. Of course, I do now though.
See, one of strangest things about teaching for me is what little shocks or offends me. Part of it is that I somehow have always chosen the most dysfunctional, potentially dangerous places to work. It has never been a conscious decision. It’s just always worked out that way. And I’ve taught at a lot of different schools in a relatively short period of time.
I’ve been desensitized.
But even before I began teaching, I’d had my own personal experience. You see, I was once a delinquent.
Let me qualify that statement.
I was not a “criminal” per se. At least not the bad kind. I didn’t steal. I didn’t hurt people. I didn’t sell crack. My undesirable behaviors were much more benign.
I smoked an inordinate amount of weed and experimented with peddling a few bags here and there on occasion. I did so much in high school that by the time I graduated from college I was bored with it.
And I became sexually active at 13. I never, as you know, got bored with that, however.
So when my students come to school high out of their minds, I can recognize the inappropriateness but not the urgency. Seems pretty normal to me. You’re always going to have your stoners.
“Damn, Johnny,” I might say. “You smell like you still have some on you.”
When they come to school drunk I might say, “You know, gentleman typically wait for the sun to go down.”
But the truth is I went to school drunk and/or high all the time. Once I got into some of my mother’s Puerto Rican rum. I was two sheets to the wind by the time I got on the school bus. By the time the homeroom bell rang, I was in the early stages of alcohol poisoning. I passed out on the bleachers in the gymnasium, only to be awoken by my cousin playfully jabbing me in the stomach. I jumped up and ran to the closest bathroom, which happened to be the ladies’ room. I couldn’t even make it to the stall. I went straight to the sink and threw up what looked like 2 pints of blood.
Because I was a sixteen year old genius, I had drank all that rum before 8 o’clock on an empty stomach so as to avoid getting sick.
I threw up once more before 1st period and eventually snuck out of the building and rode the train home. To this day, the smell of rum brings back those painful memories for me.
So, when they come in all smoked out, I don’t want to reprimand them and send them to the drug counselor. I want to put them on to shit I know. Keep some Visine on you. A nice, scented oil. An extra shirt in your locker. Tricks of the trade for the high school stoner.
When the girls come waddling in, five and six months pregnant, I don’t want to chastise them. I think to myself, “There but for the grace of God go I.” There’s no real reason why I didn’t end up getting someone pregnant in high school. It was pure dumb luck. I don’t shake my head. I cross myself and do a Hail Mary.
So, as long as they’re not about to tip over, I really don’t see any reason to get super upset about it. But maybe that’s further proof that I’m in the wrong profession.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA!
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY
http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to high was on the dimly lit steps of the neighborhood church.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
There She Blows
Okay:
Today I want to talk about sex.
I try to keep blogs such as these at a minimum. I don't everyone thinking that I'm some kind of poon hound.I do think about other things. Politics. World Hunger. Iraq. Global Warming.
But today I want to talk about sex.
Oral sex specially.
More specifically, fellatio.
Blowjobs are like God's gift to man. A sly wink to make amends for the whole sweat-of-your-brow thing. It doesn't matter what you're going through. Stress at work. Money problems. For ten blissful minutes, all is right with the world. You could give two shits who wins the Super Bowl or the goddamn Democratic Nomination.
Most women, I've found, are very liberated and have no reservations about the thing. However, there is a small minority of women who are still quite reserved when going down comes up. They think it's some sort of Blessed Sacrament.
The question is: how do you let a reluctant lover know that you need that extra little something to get you over the hump?
You could be crass and say it flat out. "Give me some head!" but that probably won't work. In fact, it could end in a complete cessation of all sexual activity.
You could drop some hints. Kind of gently push her head down while you thrust your crotch toward her face.
Or you could just wait.
But waiting is for suckers, no?
So, fellas, I offer you this. A sure fire way to get some head from your timid tart.
Now this will only work on someone with whom you are already intimate. Definitely not a first date thing.
You spark up a random conversation. While you're on line at the movies, perhaps. "What about that crazy bitch Brittney Spears?"
And when she bites the line and starts babbling on and on about whatever, inject: "Hey, can I get some head when we get home?"
Not shit. 85% chance she'll say yes.
No logic to it. Women are weird.
I did it one time while I was pumping gas. I walked over to the passenger side and knocked on the window. When she rolled the window down I said, "How bout some head later?"
I shit you not. It works.
Try it out, fellas, and let me know.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Most women have a blowjob coach. That is, a friend or family member that taught them how to give head on a banana or zucchini.
Today I want to talk about sex.
I try to keep blogs such as these at a minimum. I don't everyone thinking that I'm some kind of poon hound.I do think about other things. Politics. World Hunger. Iraq. Global Warming.
But today I want to talk about sex.
Oral sex specially.
More specifically, fellatio.
Blowjobs are like God's gift to man. A sly wink to make amends for the whole sweat-of-your-brow thing. It doesn't matter what you're going through. Stress at work. Money problems. For ten blissful minutes, all is right with the world. You could give two shits who wins the Super Bowl or the goddamn Democratic Nomination.
Most women, I've found, are very liberated and have no reservations about the thing. However, there is a small minority of women who are still quite reserved when going down comes up. They think it's some sort of Blessed Sacrament.
The question is: how do you let a reluctant lover know that you need that extra little something to get you over the hump?
You could be crass and say it flat out. "Give me some head!" but that probably won't work. In fact, it could end in a complete cessation of all sexual activity.
You could drop some hints. Kind of gently push her head down while you thrust your crotch toward her face.
Or you could just wait.
But waiting is for suckers, no?
So, fellas, I offer you this. A sure fire way to get some head from your timid tart.
Now this will only work on someone with whom you are already intimate. Definitely not a first date thing.
You spark up a random conversation. While you're on line at the movies, perhaps. "What about that crazy bitch Brittney Spears?"
And when she bites the line and starts babbling on and on about whatever, inject: "Hey, can I get some head when we get home?"
Not shit. 85% chance she'll say yes.
No logic to it. Women are weird.
I did it one time while I was pumping gas. I walked over to the passenger side and knocked on the window. When she rolled the window down I said, "How bout some head later?"
I shit you not. It works.
Try it out, fellas, and let me know.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Factoid: Most women have a blowjob coach. That is, a friend or family member that taught them how to give head on a banana or zucchini.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Not My Kind Of Party
Okay:
A little while back I did something that I never imagined I would do. I went to one of those sex parties.
As you well know, dear reader, I have been promiscuous. But even in my wildest of days, an occasional visit to the strip club was about was freaky as it got for me. Dildos, wax, ass beads—who needs it? I’ll take my vagina regular, thank you.
But a friend of mine was hosting one of these little shindigs, so I said fuck it and agreed to go. First, I had to find me a friend that was freaky enough to be my date. Which was not difficult.
See, it’s been my experience that women on the whole are far freakier than men think they are. The kind of stuff your lady would go for if you presented it in the right way might blow your mind. The first woman I asked jumped at the chance. We did have to set some things straight first.
“I’m not doing no orgy,” I said.
“Me neither,” she said.
“And if anyone tries to stick something up my ass, I’m leaving.”
“Ditto,” she said.
“And you’re not allowed to do freaky shit with anyone else. If you decide to get freaky, I’m the one who reaps the benefits.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I’m serious. I don’t wanna go to the chip bowl and come back to find you making out with some asshole on the couch. That’s the kind of nasty shit they do at these things. I’m just going for shit-and-giggles.”
She agreed to the terms and we set out on our date having no idea what to expect. A kind of Eyes Wide Shut deal? Wall-to-wall, hot, half-naked women just waiting and willing to do whatever? Freaky Middle- Eastern music playing in the background? Cages, chains, whips? A smoke machine? Mosquito nets?
Fruit?
Sadly, there were no such accoutrements.
We arrived at the hotel suite a little after midnight. We could smell the weed from the elevator, which pleased my date but did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, I thought to myself—Great! Everyone’s going to be high and I’ll have no one to talk to. Proof-positive that I am getting old and boring.
I knock the special knock and notice immediately the sound of porn. We are let in and low-and-behold the porn is being projected on the wall. I’ve never seen a two-foot penis before and I hope I never see one again.
I typically try to avoid clichés like “the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife” but, goddamn it, I don’t know what else to tell you. It was smoky as hell in there. Smoky like, something-in-here-is-on-fire smoky. In the sitting area there were at least a dozen guys and one chubby girl sitting on the couch. Everyone was higher than giraffe pussy. It was like “Night of the Living Baseheads” in there. Or that scene in Jungle Fever when Flip tried to find Gator so he could get their mother’s television back and he found Gator in that crack-house with Halle Berry and he was like “I’m smoking the damn TV!”
It was like that. Except instead of crack, these motherfuckers were blowing serious reefer.
Serious reefer.
The shit I smoked in college didn’t make you look like this.
My date stuck close to me and said nothing but I sensed she wanted to ask someone where they had the shit stashed. I asked someone about my friend, the host.
“In the back,” said the random stranger.
Oh my God, I thought. What the hell is going on ‘in the back’?
Though nervous, I ventured to the back with my date close behind. Three guys and a different chubby girl. This one was wearing a teddy. My friend was nowhere to be found though. I looked to my right and saw a closed door. There was a light on in the adjoining room. Then it hit me.
Oh my God, I thought. They must be...’in the back of the back.’
What in the fuck is going on in the back of the back?
I decided I did not want to find out. Like my Uncle Beau always told me. Curiosity killed the cat and it fucked up the dog too.
My date and I left as quickly and quietly as we came. Not our bag, really.
It was an interesting experience. I don’t know if it’s anything I would try a second time. But kudos go to my friend, who reads this blog regularly, for inviting me and having the balls to do such a thing.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I wore my lucky underwear (black boxer-briefs) just in case.
A little while back I did something that I never imagined I would do. I went to one of those sex parties.
As you well know, dear reader, I have been promiscuous. But even in my wildest of days, an occasional visit to the strip club was about was freaky as it got for me. Dildos, wax, ass beads—who needs it? I’ll take my vagina regular, thank you.
But a friend of mine was hosting one of these little shindigs, so I said fuck it and agreed to go. First, I had to find me a friend that was freaky enough to be my date. Which was not difficult.
See, it’s been my experience that women on the whole are far freakier than men think they are. The kind of stuff your lady would go for if you presented it in the right way might blow your mind. The first woman I asked jumped at the chance. We did have to set some things straight first.
“I’m not doing no orgy,” I said.
“Me neither,” she said.
“And if anyone tries to stick something up my ass, I’m leaving.”
“Ditto,” she said.
“And you’re not allowed to do freaky shit with anyone else. If you decide to get freaky, I’m the one who reaps the benefits.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“I’m serious. I don’t wanna go to the chip bowl and come back to find you making out with some asshole on the couch. That’s the kind of nasty shit they do at these things. I’m just going for shit-and-giggles.”
She agreed to the terms and we set out on our date having no idea what to expect. A kind of Eyes Wide Shut deal? Wall-to-wall, hot, half-naked women just waiting and willing to do whatever? Freaky Middle- Eastern music playing in the background? Cages, chains, whips? A smoke machine? Mosquito nets?
Fruit?
Sadly, there were no such accoutrements.
We arrived at the hotel suite a little after midnight. We could smell the weed from the elevator, which pleased my date but did absolutely nothing for me. In fact, I thought to myself—Great! Everyone’s going to be high and I’ll have no one to talk to. Proof-positive that I am getting old and boring.
I knock the special knock and notice immediately the sound of porn. We are let in and low-and-behold the porn is being projected on the wall. I’ve never seen a two-foot penis before and I hope I never see one again.
I typically try to avoid clichés like “the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife” but, goddamn it, I don’t know what else to tell you. It was smoky as hell in there. Smoky like, something-in-here-is-on-fire smoky. In the sitting area there were at least a dozen guys and one chubby girl sitting on the couch. Everyone was higher than giraffe pussy. It was like “Night of the Living Baseheads” in there. Or that scene in Jungle Fever when Flip tried to find Gator so he could get their mother’s television back and he found Gator in that crack-house with Halle Berry and he was like “I’m smoking the damn TV!”
It was like that. Except instead of crack, these motherfuckers were blowing serious reefer.
Serious reefer.
The shit I smoked in college didn’t make you look like this.
My date stuck close to me and said nothing but I sensed she wanted to ask someone where they had the shit stashed. I asked someone about my friend, the host.
“In the back,” said the random stranger.
Oh my God, I thought. What the hell is going on ‘in the back’?
Though nervous, I ventured to the back with my date close behind. Three guys and a different chubby girl. This one was wearing a teddy. My friend was nowhere to be found though. I looked to my right and saw a closed door. There was a light on in the adjoining room. Then it hit me.
Oh my God, I thought. They must be...’in the back of the back.’
What in the fuck is going on in the back of the back?
I decided I did not want to find out. Like my Uncle Beau always told me. Curiosity killed the cat and it fucked up the dog too.
My date and I left as quickly and quietly as we came. Not our bag, really.
It was an interesting experience. I don’t know if it’s anything I would try a second time. But kudos go to my friend, who reads this blog regularly, for inviting me and having the balls to do such a thing.
Thanks for reading.
GOBAMA! http://www.barackobama.com
JOIN THE BLACK BROADWAY ONLINE COMMUNITY http://www.blackbroadway.ning.com
Confession: I wore my lucky underwear (black boxer-briefs) just in case.
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