Topeka had a voracious appetite, so she ordered a rack of lamb, complete with collard greens, candied yams, and mac and cheese. I had a Cobb salad, trying to conserve money to make sure I could afford the meal. I know I planned on treating but goddamn! I mean, who orders a full rack of lamb? It must have looked really funny me eating a salad while she picked over a sheep’s carcass. What Rain said to me a few days earlier resonated. I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to sit across from her pearly whites and inviting eyes instead of Topeka’s.
She was actually pretty cool, and I wouldn’t mind kicking it with her if she would just shut the fuck up. If the queen had balls, she would be the king. It was easy to see why she didn’t have a man.
“So how come you’re not married any more?”
“Long story.”
“No kids?”
“Even longer story.” And was it ever. Kennedy and I tried, but she was having trouble. We were going to try in vitro fertilization right before she left me so I guess it worked out for the best that we didn’t. Feeling uncomfortable, I flipped the table and reciprocated her third degree badgering. “How come you don’t have a man?”
“I did. He left me and the kids. Sorry mothafucka!”
“Kidsssss?” I emphasized the pluralness of the statement.
“Two beautiful boys and a girl.”
“I’m sure they are beautiful.”
“He left us for another man.”
“Excuse me?”
“My dick likes dick. The man I loved, laid down and had children with, decided the dispatcher at the trucking company he works for has more to offer than me. I give good head. I would have tossed his salad.”
That was too much information. I felt bad for Topeka. It was becoming an epidemic in our community. I watched these flaming young boys riding the subway with their pants hanging off of their asses. Unknowingly, when they get to prison, they will be easily identified as a target for the hardened prison predators. I am a live and let live type of person, but I find it hard to understand how at such a young age you’ve already written off the opposite sex when you haven’t had enough experience yet to know what you like.
Topeka buttered her bread casually before firing her own shot with no warning. “So, you ever been with another man?”
I almost choked, not believing she would ask me a question like that. “Definitely, unequivocally NO!”
“You played big time ball. You never looked at another guy’s joint in the shower?”
“Of course. All guys look at other guys in the shower. It's an ego thing.”
“Never wanted to go home and cook up some sausage?”
“Never.” I wasn’t attracted to men and I knew that for a fact. Scores of gay men had offered to set me up for life—the house, the cars, the clothes, the expense account.
“Why didn’t you take it?”
“Well, there happened to be this funny little thing: I DON'T LIKE MEN!”
“No man ever offered me all that stuff.”
“That's because you're not what's in any longer to successful men. You went out with the nineties the way pretty boys went out with the eighties. But we're making a comeback.”
“Honestly, I find it hard to believe that you're not a little bit interested in men.”
“Why?”
“Look at you! Perfectly manicured hands, your eyelashes are longer than mine, and it even looks like your eyebrows are waxed. I bet you even watch Wendy Williams’ show? How you doin’?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. So just because I take pride in my appearance and can recognize a diva when I see one, it makes me gay?”
“I don't know. You tell me.”
I spent most of my life trying to convince people that I wasn’t gay. There wasn’t anything wrong with being gay, but no one wants to be accused of being something they aren’t. No one.
After two more glasses of Merlot each and a healthy slice of peach cobbler that she ate all by herself and forty minutes more of bullshit conversation, the waiter brought the check and handed it to me. It always amazed me how waiters assume that the man is the one paying. I accepted it and the bill totaled $148.00.
I noticed Topeka reaching for her purse and wondered if she could actually be doing what I thought she is doing? Please let it be cash. Trying to split the bill on two credit cards was so complicated. After all the anticipation and self talk, she pulled a tube of lip liner out of her purse. Fuck! $148.00 plus tip makes it $171.00 and her selfish ass didn’t even fake a reach for it. She didn’t even bother to ask what the total of the check was, for that matter. The least she could have done was offer to leave the tip. I guess the silver lining to that cloud is that it only took me $171.00 to find out that this wasn’t the girl for me. It could have been worse. It was a numbers game as far as I was concerned and my goal was to go on as many dates as possible. If you throw enough spaghetti on the wall, sooner or later something had to stick.
As I begrudgingly but still gentlemanly walked Topeka to her car, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorrow. I was starting to wonder if this was ever going to get any easier and if I could return to my old form and be the stud I once was. I had just gotten back into the dating game and this shit was getting old already.
When we arrived at her car, she abruptly stopped short and extended her hand to me as a courtesy. “Thank you for dinner.”
Thank you for dinner? That’s it? “My pleasure. How about going out with me again next weekend?”
What can I say, I was a glutton for punishment and she looked like she had a little freak in her, judging by the low-cut camisole she wore shopping her big ass titties. Evidently, she wanted me to notice them or else she wouldn’t have worn something that tempting. My mind drifted for a moment, fantasizing about her in a pair of red thigh high hooker boots, fishnet stockings, and a crimson and black lace corset that would make her eyes bulge. I wasn’t into S&M, but the look enticed me. I didn’t mind a woman attempting to exercise her assertiveness, but as far as being dominated by a woman that wasn’t going to happen with me for sure.
“Let me see. I don’t know when I’m going to have a sitter again. Give me a call.”
I had never dated a woman with children before and I wasn’t accustomed to being on a schedule. I was used to receiving all of a chick’s attention. But more importantly, I couldn’t believe this carnivore was going to send me home with just a handshake. Not even a hug? Maybe she should be a man because she's got balls. She squeezed her big ass into her compact Toyota Corolla while avoiding me trying to plant a kiss on her. She had the evasive moves of an NFL running back.
As she pulled off, I thought to myself how she looked like ten pounds of sausage stuffed in a five pound bag in that clown car. She should think about investing in an SUV.
One thing I learned from living in L.A. is that “let’s do lunch” doesn't really mean let’s do lunch. Or, in this case, “give me a call” doesn't really mean give me a call. Which leads us to Dapper Carter’s third rule of dating: Go somewhere cheap on the first date because you may never see this girl again!
If I Was Your Girlfriend
My momma didn’t raise no fool, so I instantly made the adjustment on my next date, which was a noticeable step down to TGI Fridays. From that point forward, women were going to have to earn their meals. I had forgotten how much I needed to have structure in my life and by developing rules of dating for myself I was hoping they would keep me on track and, more importantly, out of the poor house. It was sad but necessary.
I sat at the bar nursing a Guinness and picking through a bowl of peanuts when I peeped my date’s long, slender brown legs strutting toward me with purpose. This chick had a bad-ass walk on her like a Parisian street whore. It was what got my attention in the first place. She had been hauling her gorgeous ass after a cab on 57th St.. because she was late for a Saks Fifth Avenue photo shoot. I let her have the cab and figured what the hell and asked her to go to dinner with me. She’s a supermod
el so I was certain she didn’t eat very much; hence, we agreed to meet at Fridays after her shoot.
It was a great effort to look up from her tasty-looking twigs and into her smoldering hazel eyes. After several extended seconds of drooling I finally did. Presenting herself before me in a body-hugging, strapless, fuchsia cocktail dress was Ms. September Pierre. She was a runway model as well and you could tell by the way she walked in the room. The likelihood that she was not wearing panties was high because women who can pull off a dress like that generally don’t wear any drawers.
She had a remarkable resemblance to Lela Rochon in all her best roles. The fine-ass chick with the jacked up feet in “Boomerang,” the promiscuous friend from “Waiting to Exhale,” and who could forget her in the classic “Harlem Nights” as Sunshine? But not the “Any Given Sunday” Lela.
I stood up and pulled out her chair for her, careful to make sure I did all the gentlemanly little things my mother had emphasized that women liked. I also gave her a friendly hug and a peck on the cheek.
She was electric and I could tell every guy in the room had his eyes on her. Even their wives couldn’t blame them for staring because they were staring too. She was a tad bit overdressed for Fridays, but I ain’t mad at her! She was bubbly and effervescent, which was a breath of fresh air compared to Topeka James’s complaining ass.
As she sat down I peeked at her perfect posterior and my suspicions were confirmed. No panty lines. Not even the triangle from the top of a thong. I ordered her a Cosmopolitan and another Guinness for myself. I was hoping she would throw back two or three more. She was sexy and exotic like a Bengal tiger. That’s one cat I would like to skin.
“You’re such a gentleman.” That wasn’t the greatest compliment in my mind because to me it’s just a stone’s throw from the Friend Zone. “Not many guys would have given up their cab to a woman he doesn’t know and make himself late for work. I was actually off today but she didn’t need to know that.
“No problem. It’s what I do,” I fibbed. “And I do know you, sort of. You were in Vanity Fair last month. Page thirty four.”
“Wow! I’m impressed. You even knew the page number.”
“Yeah, I’m an idiot savant like that.” What an airhead. I Google-ed her and bought the magazine while I was waiting for her to finish her shoot. I was becoming a salesman through and through. My manager suggested I start reading the Wall Street Journal and New York Times instead of the Post or Daily News. For the clientele I was dealing with you had to know the same things they knew and information was power in our new society. I also perused the fashion magazines so I was able to spot high-end merchandise more accurately. And Ms. September Pierre was high-end merchandise.
“I love Friday’s, although I haven’t been here in years.” I bet she hadn’t, especially not in that Givenchy.
“I’m glad. I could really use a friend right now. My boyfriend doesn’t believe that men and women can be platonic, but I think he is wrong.” She was young and dumb. Could she really be that naïve?
“So, you’ve got a boyfriend, huh?”
“Yes. Sort of. We are having trouble right now because he doesn’t trust the friendships I have with my male friends,” she said in her annoying Jackee` Harry voice. “Some crap about trusting me, but he doesn’t trust them.”
“How many male friends do you have exactly?”
“Lots. Most of them are gay, though.”
Of course they were! But you’d be surprised how many weren’t gay. That had been my hook for years. I couldn’t help it that I’m into a lot of the same shit gay men are into, such as theatre and dressing nicely. Women would assume that “if I was your girlfriend” shit until they were picking up their panties off the floor after we just had sex! Joke’s on them. They never heard me say I was gay. You know what they say about when you assume? I would have liked to pin her gorgeous ass up against the wall and ram my tongue down her esophagus while running my hand up her velvety leg and feverishly massaging her swollen beaver.
I stood up and promptly dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table.
“I think your boyfriend is right. Men and women can’t be friends. Goodnight.” I turned my back on her and stepped, leaving her shocked. She should be because I’m sure no guy had ever left her hanging before. But to me, having a female friend was like having $19 in your bank account and having an ATM card. You know your money is there, but you can’t get to it!
Shaggy and Scooby
The dating scene was rough, but one thing was for sure in that I was finally starting to make some money, which always made me feel good about myself.
I was killing at work. Also, I was beginning to get more comfortable with my body, so I started to wear slightly more fitted golf shirts to show off the new physique. Just three months ago I tipped the scales at 237 pounds. And through Rain’s suggestions of eating more water-based fruits and green, leafy vegetables, combined with running five miles every morning before having to be in the city at ten o’clock, I dropped down to a muscular 205 pounds. I was getting strong too, repping out with 225 pounds on the bench press.
I was getting my body back, and then I noticed that the strangest thing was happening. White women loved me! I was what is called a non-threatening Negro. The bald headed, dark skinned brotha from the ’90s was nice to look at and all, but white girls couldn’t bring any of them niggas home to meet their parents. They could with me, though, settling for my soft, wavy hair and house nigga complexion.
I was working with two female customers who were just eating me up. Neither one of them really needed a treadmill, but that wasn’t for me to decide since my main objective was to sell treadmills and make money. They were kind of young and looked like former athletes to begin with. The well-toned calves and tear drop of their quadriceps muscles teased from beneath their miniskirts.
Becky was the blonde with volleyball player hamstrings, thighs, and glutes. She had cherry blow pop colored lips like Angelina Jolie. She was from South Orange but went to Columbia Law School. It was there that she met Daphne. Daphne had the bubbly personality of a bottle of Cristal with short black hair and frost blue eyes. She looked like the type that will get a brotha like me twenty to life.
After deliberating (bullshitting) for twenty minutes, I sold each of them an entry-level $1,800 treadmill. I went to shake Becky’s hand to consummate the deal, but instead she reached up and kissed me on the cheek. And so did Daphne. It caught me off guard, but I appreciated the attention. We made plans to meet in Brooklyn for drinks later that night.
After getting off of work I met up with my two new friends at a small dive bar in DUMBO and after several shots of Patron for me, chased by several Coronas, and four margaritas a piece for each of them, we decided to bounce and headed to another bar around the corner. The three of us staggered down the street to our next destination. The two young ladies needed a cigarette break, so we loitered in front of Scottie’s Bar.
The air was a crisp 48 degrees. November had just begun and the hawk had grown restless. Gone were the days of summer and wearing tank tops and flip flops. They had been replaced by light jackets, hoodies, and Timberlands for the men, and riding boots and long sweaters for women. We were in our winter urban assault uniform now.
Halloween had just passed and people were already starting to gear up for Christmas. I hadn’t bought gifts for my family and friends in quite some time, so I was already starting to prepare my mental list of what to get for whom.
Since I was working now, I could afford to take care of the people who have supported me through my trying time. Caesar was easy. You could never go wrong buying him Cuban cigars.
Khalil, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy. He would require more thought because it’s hard to shop for someone who already has everything. I decided to buy him a plane ticket to visit his momma in Phoenix. You couldn’t go wrong getting either of my dudes a plane ticket because those cats got it in on the frequent flyer and buddy pass programs.
/> Cez had been to London a few times, as well as Tokyo, Malaysia, Rio, Prague, and Dubai. Khalil travelled in a more intellectual circuit of Paris, Moscow, Istanbul, and Cape Town. Unfortunately I couldn’t afford to send him where he really wanted to go: Bangkok.
As I patiently waited for them to finish getting their nicotine fix, it would be just my luck to run smack into Rain and one of her girlfriends as they were leaving the bar. I was taken aback; embarrassed actually, because of the company I was keeping that night.
“What’s good Rain?”
“Well, if it isn’t Dapper Carter.”
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Good.”
I was looking for something to break the ice with and alleviate the uncomfortability of the situation. So I said the only thing I could think of.
“So…you still not eating meat?” As soon as the words left my mouth I knew I sounded like an idiot.
“No. I still don’t eat meat.” She was amused, in fact, and gave a feeble chuckle. I tried to play it cool, but already I could sense what was coming next, so I braced for it. I could see it in her eyes.
“So, who are your friends?”
I felt like she hit me with a sledgehammer in the chest. Hesitantly, I answered, “This is Becky and Daphne.”
“You're friends with Dap? Isn't he just the coolest?”
A slight smile pursed Rain’s succulent lips as she spoke. “Yeah, he's pretty cool.”
The girls giggled nauseatingly like drunken schoolgirls.
“Becky? I think I know you from somewhere. Didn't we take an ethics in business class at Columbia?”
“No, you must have her confused. We're still in high school,” Daphne chimed in.
My eyes widened as big as flying saucers. “High school? I thought you girls told me you went to Columbia?”
Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating Page 7