Everything I know about navigating social media, I learned from Okayplayer, including when to log off. Users would disappear, and their friends would provide quick updates: “They’re okay. Just taking a break.” Some people would make “final” posts about how toxic the boards had become and how they were leaving. People would reply with empathy: “Take care of yourself!” Or with cynicism: “You’ll be back.” And people did return, so much so that members adopted a slogan: NERL, “No one ever really leaves.” You may stop posting, but you’re probably still lurking.
The boards were addictive. They moved at a quick pace. It was a good place to get news or learn about new social media, like MySpace, Friendster, or Facebook. I learned about Twitter from Okayplayer. I learned about blogging with consistency from the boards. Writing has always been an important part of communication for me, and even though I did not yet have a career as a writer, no matter what I did, I kept coming back to it. On the boards, I learned about LiveJournal, Blogger, and WordPress, and kept a steady number of random blogs for a decade. I’d write messy exposés about my dating life, with characters barely disguised. Every April, for National Poetry Month, I’d write a poem a day. I learned how to write on the internet—the attention span of average readers, the titillating topics that drew clicks. And Okayplayer was the epicenter of the internet for me.
* * *
Don Imus was some kind of shock-jock radio personality. By April 2007, Imus’s career was over thirty years old, rife with drugs and alcohol issues, and he was not the kind of personality I would have ever listened to. I don’t care for people whose only talent is offending others, which is what happened when Imus and his producer decided to call the Black women of Rutgers University’s basketball team “rough girls,” “hardcore hos,” and “nappy-headed hos.” This team of women had made it to the NCAA championship, a significant feat, and here were two white men, complaining about how “masculine” they looked. After the incident, it was inevitable that many turned to the General Discussion board.
GD had a mix of people who wanted to discuss the situation seriously, the trolls who wanted to play devil’s advocate, and those who didn’t want to say anything first but merely cosign. Their keyboard courage went only so far. The incident really bothered me, especially as I watched the trolls take up more and more real estate in the post dedicated to discussing what Imus had said: “Those chicks do look like dudes!” “Black people call each other hos all the time!” It got to the point that I did the unthinkable—I fed the trolls. I posted a 630-word response, a sin in the world of “I ain’t reading all that” memes, but I had to get the thoughts off my chest.
the larger issue is that no matter what we, as black women do, it will always come down to us being nothing but nappy-headed hoes.
we can save the world, but did we look feminine (and white) while we did it?
did we have a man while we did it?
did we make that man feel like a man while we conquered all the troubles of the world?
women, of all races and cultures, have to deal with this attitude.
but for black women, the notion of femininity is already a sensitive burden.
we are frequently told how emasculating we are for stepping up and doing the work that white women wouldn’t/don’t do, that our men wouldn’t/don’t do, and maybe if we didn’t do what men wouldn’t do, they wouldn’t leave, but who else is gonna do it?
so we do it and are made to feel like we’re the reason black men leave us.
and because black men leave us, we have all these divided homes, unwed mothers, violent sons, promiscuous daughters, “video vixens,” and are a dying race.
it’s getting to a point where young black women believe all they have left is their bodies.
the way to secure your future is to strip; be in porn; be in videos; ensnare a man with your sexual prowess; trap a man with a baby, and when/if he still doesn’t stay, continue to give birth to prove your womanhood in other ways.
here we have a group of women—young women—who used their bodies not to entice, but to reach unprecedented athletic goals, and it still was not enough.
our black girls are struggling to find something to hold on to.
struggling to find something that’s “okay” for them to achieve.
and we’re telling them that there is nothing.
little girl, there is nothing you can do that makes you worthy of the skin you’re in.
so at some point, they’re going to give up.
like too many of our black boys.
you’re intelligent? but can you cook?
you’re athletic? but are you pretty?
lesbian? but don’t you want children?
focused? but where is your man?
I must admit, I was proud of what I’d said, even though when I look back at the full response, there is a whiff of respectability politics I had yet to shake off. The fact remains that because I was able to have these kinds of discussions that blended pop culture, race, and gender on Okayplayer, I knew my own mind. People mostly came to the boards for jokes and trolling, but it felt good to be vulnerable and honest in the midst of so much noise and disrespect. I was prepared for the upcoming world of Twitter and for my eventual writing career.
I posted regularly on the boards for about seven years before I took the advice of another OKP catchphrase: “Log off, fam.” My mental health was deteriorating. The boards didn’t bring me pleasure anymore. I wanted to focus on getting better, and I felt like I was using the boards as a distraction. I could’ve been figuring out my next steps in life, but instead, I was refreshing and scrolling, waiting for a reason to stay online and away from my real life. When I joined other social media sites, I felt pressure to connect with Okayplayers on those platforms in order to show I had no beef with anyone. Maybe I didn’t have beef, but I also didn’t want to repeat the experience of OKP. I had a tight core of friends I’d met from the boards, and by then I communicated with them offline. Moving away from that intense space of Okayplayer helped me learn to build online boundaries and how to respond (or not) to trolls. I’ve done a lot of courtesy follows of former OKPs, but I’ve also implemented another significant catchphrase so that their online presence in my life “goes hard on mute.”
Don’t Take Roses Away from Me
During late summer of 2017, I met Hal on FetLife, the site dedicated to fetishes and the people who have them or are learning about them. I wanted someone to eat me out on command. His handle was something basic like GoodLikker. My profile was pretty clear: “Curvy black woman looking for a tongue slave. Don’t talk unless spoken to.” I get so tired of men talking to me and expecting me to think they’re interesting beyond what they can do for me.
Here’s the part where I assure you I am not a “man-hating feminazi.” I am too direct sometimes, yes, and maybe a little too up-front about my desires. Sometimes I take the fun out of the chase. Sorry, not sorry. My romantic life began with serial monogamy and changing who I was to be a “good girl,” to prove I was worthy of someone marrying me. I’m over that shit. I don’t have to love someone to fuck him. I don’t want to open my heart to someone simply because he satisfies me sexually. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to fall in love with every man I fuck. Everyone has a purpose, and sometimes that purpose is to show up, eat me out, and leave. I don’t want to know about your day. I don’t care about your job. Maybe I want to know that you don’t cause harm for a living, but other than that, you can keep your life story. Most men are not as interesting as they believe they are, and I refuse to give cow eyes to a guy for deigning to speak to me.
Yes, yes, this is probably why I’m over forty and single, but if a man is worthy of my time, worthy to occupy the precious real estate of my thoughts, I won’t have to pretend to be interested.
The rest aren’t notable beyond the orgasms they can (hopefully) provide. At one point, I chose to be celibate for over two years, and the shit made me a nervous wreck. Lik
e a traumatized cat, I jumped every time someone touched me. I masturbated constantly, and my crotch-watching became far too obvious for polite company. I thought if I grew to know and love myself away from sex and men, I’d find the love of my life, but it didn’t work out that way. The Man of My Dreams was supposed to fall into my lap, according to all my married friends and the relationship experts they swore by, but I’m still looking for his ass.
My dick detox left me lonely and hard-hearted. Then I leaned into that hard-heartedness. I decided to take advantage of all the men who approached me with the clear intention of breaking down my walls and walking away. They weren’t really interested in me anyway. I was simply a challenge.
It was after I ended that round of celibacy that I began to date unavailable men more often. In fact, the man I decided to end my celibacy with was married and lived in another state. I met Hector through my friend Renee. He was a close buddy of the guy she was seeing at the time. He was short, kind of stocky, with a thick mustache and pretty teddy-bear eyes. I could not stop watching him at the bar where we first met. I told Renee I wanted Hector to knock the dust off. She, in turn, told her guy, and by the end of the night, we were all headed back to Renee’s condo.
In the guest room, I had a sudden attack of nerves. My whiskey courage had evaporated. Was I throwing two years of sexual control away for nothing? Then Hector kissed my neck, and I felt my whole body throb to life. He was sitting with his back against the wall, while I straddled him. He sucked my nipples, and I came in such a quick, startling rush that he hit his head against the wall. He gave a surprised, hushed “Oh shit.” I wanted to tell him it wasn’t really him. My body was short-circuiting from too much sensation after being starved for so long. For the rest of the night, I was a greedy, awkward, gasping mess. In the morning, I felt relief. Not only from the physical release of the night before, but because I didn’t have the pressure of pretending I wanted to see him again.
I returned home, and a week or so later, Renee texted me that Hector wanted my number, my email address, something, anything so he could contact me. Renee said he’d asked about me, through his friend, almost daily. She asked me what I did to him. I’d done nothing! I was out of practice, with no special tricks. I didn’t know why I was stuck in his mind. (Actually, yes, I do. My cooch is pretty damn good, even when she’s been out of commission for over two years.)
Renee gave my info to Hector, and we began emailing each other. He used his work email or would reach out during the day, to avoid detection at home.
HIM: Is it bad that I am in class not paying attention becuase [sic] I am busy having lustful thoughts of you Ms. Perkins? Tuesday, February 19, 2013, 1:03 p.m.
He sent me a stuffed bear for my birthday. He was full of constant praise. But he was married and lived far away. Surely, he could creep with someone else closer. Why me? He said I was unlike anyone he’d ever come across, but I also think he enjoyed the challenge of trying to convince me to come back. I think he wanted me to feel whatever attachment he was feeling, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t.
Men want the game of turning a no into a yes, even when it makes no sense in their lives, and then they expect me to chase and cry when they’re done with me. I’ve done that before, and it still left me lonely. When I didn’t, when I had no problem with them being out of my life, they kept reaching out. It felt like they had a script and kept sending me prompts for the lines they’d written. Coming out of my celibacy gave me the ability to run hot and cold as needed, and too often, I had to be cold to deal with men. The only heat I had was my passion in the bedroom, and for some, that was enough to misunderstand my intentions.
I think I’m pretty clear about what I expect from casual relationships, and when I first met Hal, I reiterated what I wanted: a man to show up and eat me out as long as I wanted, then leave. He wasn’t quite a sub, but he had a specific purpose in my life, and I did not want him to step outside of those boundaries. I don’t let men spend the night. I wasn’t interested in dating him. What I wanted was to bust in his mouth as many times as I could over a few hours. He seemed fine with that. I should have known better.
When we met in person, I didn’t do my usual screening. Normally, I ask for a chemistry meeting, where we have a drink and chat to make sure we vibe. The chemistry check has been a lifesaver, maybe even literally. One guy had such an abnormally high voice I could barely tolerate my whiskey, neat. Another guy constantly explained things to me, even reading cocktails off the menu, like I didn’t have the same menu or couldn’t read. It made me think he couldn’t follow directions.
I’d been in New York a few months, and I guess I decided to throw caution to the wind because I invited Hal over to my apartment sight unseen. He’d shared a couple of pictures, but I had no idea if he actually looked like the photos he sent. They were typical man selfies: him in the driver’s seat of a car with a baseball cap, some with the camera angled up so I saw his thoughts through his nostrils, but whatever. He wasn’t hideous. When he arrived, the first thing I noticed was that he was a big guy—tall, at least six two, and wide, solid like a football player, with quiet, vivid blue eyes. He lived in New Jersey and drove a fierce all-black SUV. He worked in construction and went fishing almost every weekend the weather allowed. Too late, I realized that if we had met first before he came over, I probably would not have let the dalliance move forward. He was a blue-collar man Looking for a Good Woman.
I opened the door, and I could see his face relax into the pleasant shock men get when they realize I don’t look like an old chewed-up shoe. I’m no Lupita Nyong’o, but I’m also not the worst thing to see on the other side of a door. He came in, and we sat on the couch. Even though I had no desire to learn much about him beyond the basics, I’m still southern, so I offered him a drink. We smoked (I was already pretty toasted in an attempt to be relaxed), and then he got on his knees. He took off his baseball cap and revealed a wispy comb-over. In his pictures, he had enough hair sticking out the back of the cap to make me think I’d have something to pull. In fact, it made me avoid grabbing his head in any way, because he was sweaty. I don’t mind a sweaty man. I actually love the way a man picks up a sweat while we’re fucking. It shows how hard he’s working to please me, but something about grabbing a wet head is a serious turnoff.
So! Hal got on his knees, and yo. He was amazing. Perfect pressure, speed variation, use of full tongue, greedy moans, slurping, spreading, everything. He knew when to move away from the clit and dip his tongue inside. Recognizing the clit as important is great, but the honey hole needs love too! He gave the right amount of attention to the lips and surrounding area. He was too enthusiastic when eating ass but I got him together quickly. For a while, that’s how our relationship went. He’d come over and roll up. I’d smoke while he ate me out, and it felt absolutely decadent. And he would go to town on me for hours. Literal hours.
Not every woman is into head like I am. I know this. One of my friends asked if I ever get bored with getting head for so long. (If it’s good? Never!) And one guy asked me how I could only want head, without wanting p-in-the-v sex. I often do want more, but it’s been my experience that once men put their dicks inside me, they become more difficult to get rid of. Maybe that’s a humblebrag.
So, no. I have no problem with a man eating me out for hours at a time. I enjoy looking down and watching their eyes search mine for approval and instruction. I love the flash of disappointment when I say thanks and usher them out. I should’ve stuck to my rules with Hal, but I didn’t and it brought me nothing but a headache.
When I think about the way he ruined everything with his emotions, I get angry—not only because of what he did, but because of the loss of some of the greatest head I’ve ever received in my life. He would arrange me so that I was flat on my back with my ass on the edge of the bed; then he’d pull up a chair like I was an actual meal on a dining table. He’d get me to come, then keep licking me softly until I’d calmed down so he could start back up again.
He once timed himself so he could see how long I could hang before tapping out. If I remember correctly, it was three hours and forty-six minutes. Almost four hours is a long-ass time for any kind of continuous sex, I know, but dammit, that boy was good. And then he ruined it.
* * *
After a month or so of Hal coming over once or twice a week, he started asking if I wanted him to bring me anything, if I wanted to go grab a bite to eat, and not in a subservient way. He wasn’t offering to bring me tokens of his worship. He was starting to like me. Oh no. Not again. This pussy is too powerful. It changes the course of men’s minds, even when I limit contact.
I didn’t want this kind of attention from Hal, but I was also on a limited budget and, yeah, I wanted to see how far I could take his affection for me. That’s not right, I know, and looking back, it’s clear I gave mixed signals. I let him bring me col’ dranks and let him know that I still eat McDonald’s Big Mac meals when under a lot of stress. He took me to dinner and arrived “dressed up” in a polo shirt and khakis. I could tell he’d made an effort. I, too, had tried to look nice. Typically when hookups come over, I’m fresh-faced in a tank top and booty shorts or an old bodycon dress that’s too indecent to wear out anymore, so I’ve turned it into booty-call attire. This time, I wore a cute top with jeans and heels and makeup: nothing extravagant, just eyeliner, mascara, and an extra-juicy lip gloss. Over pizza, he started asking me about myself—what I do for a living, what I did for fun, et cetera, but the big red flag was when he asked me if I wanted a boyfriend. I gave my usual line of “It’s not something I’m actively looking for, but if it happens, I wouldn’t be mad.” I should’ve said no. He gave me a small smile and nodded his head in understanding.
Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be Page 12