Finger in Her Booty
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
I met him in a nightclub. Yes HIM. Unlike the hyper-masculine I’m Sunday afternoon in a recliner chair comfortable with my heterosexuality. If a dude seems cool and better yet has good wingman potential we’ll hang out. Perhaps he has specialty with the seemingly unattainable women who have been pretty since birth, no ugly duckling there—women that were the shit in junior high, high school and would’ve been all that in college had they not flunked out and became internet models/party promoters. Women who are the cream of the genetic crop and know it. The type of women I rarely have the courage to approach.
And Jaron was that man. I saw him in action that night, stopping the beautiful ones with his cliché “What up gurl. Let me holla at you for a sec.” He hit, he missed, but he continued shooting. I observed with slight admiration. Until I realized he was the kind of guy who would stare a little too long while you’re out with your girl. Muscled and courageous, he might even say some stupid shit like, “Hey man is that yo sista?”
As the night came to a close we ran into two girls, including one who was a mutual friend. A single generation removed from Africa her curves lent truth to the Hottentot stereotype. I remembered playfully dry humping that ass on the corner of 5th and E Street downtown a few months earlier, which led to 2-3 budget dates and a quick flameout.
The four of us pretended to be the best of friends and I invited everyone back to my apartment. Hottentot ended up in my room where we had a quick talk, rejection and platonic nap. Jaron fucked the other girl on my couch. And then he grabbed a pot pie from my freezer and ate it without asking. The pie was probably undercooked because just 15 minutes later he took a mean shit. That was Jaron.
Jaron and I had a lot in common, but different schedules so we rarely hung out. Maybe once a month he’d call with his sex updates. They ranged from “I just fucked this Asian girl, you can come over and hit it now.” to “You got some bitches tonight?” No and no.
But his most memorable call was yet to come. I was on my way to a late night loiter at the 24 hour Walmart when he rang. He cut to the chase. In his country twang he said, “Man, I just had this freak over. She was ridin’ me and I put my finger in her booty. She like that shit man.”
“I put my finger in her booty.” I’ve always found my asshole, aka the third eye, taboo and scary. In fact my ass cheeks are clenched as I write this. But the asshole of a young lady is disgustingly intriguing.
My girl and I have been together, off and on, for a minute. And we’ve done what people who have been together for a minute generally do: In the car outside the club-check, on her parent’s couch while they’re upstairs watching TV-check, in a pitch black cave near the seals at LaJolla beach-skeet, skeet skeet! Yet, her asshole has remained unadulterated.
Mind you, we’ve “credit carded” each other frequently. For those unfamiliar it simply means using one’s hand to make a sliding motion all up in the crack of the other’s ass when she least expects it. For example, say she’s at Urban Outfitters taking too damn long to pick something from out-of-season sales rack. I’ll simply approach quietly from behind, ready my hand in a karate chop position and slide from the perineum on up. Transaction complete bitches!
We also tend to “cheek spread” each other frequently. Again for those unfamiliar, it simply means spreading one another’s ass cheeks when its least expected. I might be napping facedown in the nude and she’ll catch with me with the cheek spread. While not as thorough as the “credit card” it does produce a quick burst of cold air that awakens an otherwise sleepy asshole. Better yet, it gives the spreader an opportunity to spot (and remove) any foreign objects lurking near the spreadees asshole, such as mulatto colored tissue residue.
But I recently decided to take our ass activity a bit further. I don’t remember how I brought it up, but I probably said something romantic like “Hey, can I do you in the ass?” And despite being a virgin in the bootyhole she jokingly obliged.
We both lay on the couch naked from the waist down. Perhaps we should have been completely naked, but I kind of like playing the horny newsman role. You know, dressed from the waist up, dick just-a-swinging below.
Anyway, I spoke in a Barry White voice and said “You want this dick in yo’ ass don’t you?” Then I did a white man surfer voice “You want this freakin’ cock don’t ya? Hell yeah ya do.” In reply, she did an assortment of her best porno style moans. “Uhhhhh! Yeah Daddy!” We almost fell off the couch laughing.
I said “Ok, ok let’s be serious.” She replied “Get a condom.” I answered “What’s that?” and then went to grab a few from the bag that my sub-lessee forgot to take when he moved out in August. Then she said “I know you’re not serious Dewan, you’re not going up my ass!”
I returned to the couch and said “Ok, just let me rub it first.” I gave her a slow motion cheek spread, but she quickly locked up as my Arsenio Hall length index finger came near. I caught her off guard for a second, snuck a quick rub and brought my finger to my nose.
Wow. No smell at all. Her ass was as clean as an old school player at an all white party that ever black organization seems to host during the summer. In fact, I’d feel completely comfortable rubbing her asshole and flossing my teeth shortly thereafter. Put it like this, I’d be more than happy to pour ranch sauce around that muthafucka and dip my celery sticks in it as I watch Dr. Oz. Man, if I could ever get my balls to smell as fresh as her ass…they’d be hella-lickable, like two stickless Tootsie pops.
I overcame my clean-ass amazement and took a quick peek at her bootyhole. It looked so gentle and innocent, like a pink, premature baby not yet ready for the world’s harsh realities. I gave her a compliment, “Nice asshole!” And we couldn’t stop laughing. That was that, and her asshole remained, gentle and innocent. Guess Jaron and I really don’t have much in common.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Tijuana Nights
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
On Friday I had a grand ol’ time at a nightclub near the San Diego/Tijuana border. Though I was still on US soil the night brought back memories of the good ol’ days in TJ: Purchasing chiclets from children to support the local economy, seeing thick ass Ricky Martin in concert at an outdoor soccer stadium (exit only) and going to the real Gringo-free nightclubs and brothels. Check out the story below from 2007 to get a better idea of what I mean. Obviously it’s old, but probably new to you. Listen man, I’m not lazy…just working on a new off-the-chain literary mixtape that I hope to finish next week. Anyway, I hope u enjoy.
Tijuana Nights
Rewind to August 2001. I’m new to San Diego and decide to take an afternoon trip across the world’s busiest border. I’m driving a golden-tan Nissan Altima with cracked pleather interior while listening to East Coast hip hop. Seated next to me in the passenger seat is my roommate and friend from college. An a-alike of Rob Lowe, with an admiration for African American culture and books, he also happens to have the blackest name in white history…Joe Clarke (with an “e” added to reflect his European heritage). We’re driving south on Interstate 5 and see a sign that we should probably heed as a warning, “Last USA Exit.” We drive across the border into Tijuana and see pharmacies on every corner, little children selling candy and grimy apartments that rival the shanty towns of South Africa.
Within 10 minutes of entering Tijuana we’re pulled over by the police. I look over at Joe and he’s beet red, shaking his head saying “shit, shit, shit.” Two officers approach and I try to remain calm. I offer the standard “how you doing officer, everything alright?” He answers quickly in Spanish. To this day I don’t know what he said, but it seemed to be some sort of lecture. I hesitate to interrupt, but finally say “sorry sir I don’t speak Spanish.” The other officer begins speaking in perfect English, claiming that I did not have my seat belt fastened. I think I did, but refuse to argue. He then asks to see my registration. I open the glove department and a plastic baggie with pills falls out. Relax it’s only advil and benadryl. Mom and Dad made me a ghetto care package for my cross country trip…pills, tissues, canned turnip greens, and rolls of quarters for my first months rent. The officer ignores the drugs and tells me that if I want to go home I need to give him money. I only have a 20 dollar bill. Joe, at this time unfamiliar with how to use his white privilege to obtain a decent paying job, only has a single dollar bill. He instructs me to fold the bills under my license and hand it over quickly. I relent and hand the bills over, looking into the officer’s eyes as if it’s a business transaction.
Fast forward six years and my impression of Tijuana has changed somewhat. I dated a woman from there who showed me the city outside of the prostitution, illegal prescription drugs and poverty. Still it’s not like I look forward to visiting Tijuana…hookers are generally good people and prescription drugs aren’t that bad, but I’m not down with the poverty. I also went to a club there months after the police altercation and had a memorable time. Well, actually it was a strip club on a Sunday afternoon. I felt kind of bad because I couldn’t take my eye off the stripper’s cross pendant attached to her thin golden necklace. As she danced for me the cross bounced recklessly near her breasts…talk about blasphemy. Now that I think back…maybe it was more of a brothel than a strip club and maybe she wasn’t dancing. I plead the fifth. Ay Cochino! Anyway, September 15 is here and it’s time to make another trip to Tijuana in celebration of Mexico’s Independence Day (the real independence day, not Cinco de Mayo).
I make the 15 minute drive to the border and meet my co-worker “Fernando.” He’s a smallish man with spiky gelled hair and a knack for making sound effects while talking (a click of the mouth and a wink, an occasional growl when unsure). We haven’t hung out before, but we’re close in age and have similar interests in drinking and partying. He’s also a Tijuana native and knows the ins and outs of the city. We’re joined by “Tony”; a hefty Chicano who I quickly find has a propensity for one-liners. Within five minutes of meeting he says “have you heard of the new Hummer truck made only for Mexicans, Panamanians, and Costa Ricans…it’s called Border Patrol” and then “Do you know why lowriders have such small steering wheels…so they can be driven with handcuffs.” More Jay Leno than Chris Rock, but I’m always open to hearing a good joke.
We arrive in Tijuana and I quickly notice we are in the urban wilds. Nearly every street has stop signs, but no one bothers to use them. They do however wait at red lights, at which time you’re approached by streets salesmen of all ages, including the aforementioned children selling chiclets. Tony, as many Mexican-Americans often do, apologizes for the grime of the city. I brush it off… it’s obviously an impoverished area, but the city has a great energy and the unique appeal of contrast with most American cities.
We arrive at Fernando’s friend’s house to pick up two more party goers. These two guys speak very little English so unfortunately our conversation is over after a quick introduction. One guy has his hair all gelled up and likes to squint his eyes while talking, to give an extra air of coolness. I used to do the same in pictures when Tyson Beckford was the shit. The other guy just smiles and is nearly silent. I am too so I just raise my beer and say “salut” to alleviate the awkwardness. The house we’re in has at least ten cars in the backyard and dozens of license plates hanging from a chain link fence that’s guarded by an old German Shepherd. I become curious when I see an Ohio license plate, but of course I don’t ask. I know black people don’t like nosy ass people and I think we have that in common with many Latinos. You generally won’t hear of either group starting community watch groups or bringing pies to new neighbors.
We arrive at the club and I can’t believe its size. The building is designed as a large castle…in my mind. When I say “oh man, it looks like a castle” I’m quickly corrected by Mr. One-Liner, “no it’s not a castle, it’s a Mayan pyramid.” Oops, I forgot the nationalism is deep tonight. We exit the truck and for some reason the guys pop the hood. I ask “everything cool” and Fernando tells me that they don’t have an alarm on the truck. So they’re removing the battery connection and playing around with some other wires. I thought Cleveland was hood, but I haven’t seen anyone remove cables IN A GUARDED PARKING LOT.
We’re in the club and it’s similar to what I imagined. I figured it would be setup like the nightclubs in Scarface or at least Carlito’s Way. It’s exactly that, stadium style seating with tables everywhere and a dance floor in the center. I can almost see Carlito telling Billy Blanco from the Bronx “You think you like me, you ain’t like me muthafucka, you a punk.” Anyway, we grab our table and commence to drinking. Call me an arrogant American, but I don’t drink anything with ice in Mexico. My stomach isn’t built for Mexican water so I’m having whiskey and warm ass coke. I want ice really bad, but continuing my track record of never taking a dump in the club is more important. Just in case you’re wondering I try to avoid public defecation at all costs, although I really look forward to the bathrooms at Nordstrom. Nordstrom bathrooms are nicer than my living room. Sometimes I hold it in at home until I can make it to the mall. Call me crazy, but treating yourself to a rich man’s dump is something we should all try.
We’re standing around our table drinking when a young women with braces approaches. I spotted her earlier with what appeared to be her boyfriend, so I figure she just wants to give an intoxicated hello. We speak briefly and she then wants to introduce me to her friend. From the end of the table comes a tall, brown woman with a curly fro and big ol’ smile. In short, we could be brother and sister. Her left arm catches my eye, as it’s filled with silver bracelets that look more elegant than cheap. We talk for a bit and then head to the dance floor. But there’s one problem, my jeans are too damn tight. They’re so tight I no longer consider them jeans…I have on blue leggings.
Look, it’s not my fault. I have one pair of club jeans and washed them in warm water that morning. I saw something on TV about the number of germs in public washers so I decided I should heat some shit up. I figured once I wore them they would stretch back to normal size. I was wrong and should have known from the time I was getting dressed. At first I had on boxer shorts underneath, but the tightness of the jeans kept moving my equipment over to my left leg. My Johnson was damn near wrapped around my thigh. My balls were much smarter though, they decided hide like they do during sex. So I decided to change into boxer briefs and do a few yoga stretches. It improved somewhat, but by the time I sat down in the car the leggings were back on me like some ’85 Wranglers.
So we’re on the dance floor and I’m trying my best. I figure if my leggings split I can wrap my shirt around my waist and wear my tank top 50 Cent style. Then I notice I can’t get my feet to move and she can’t either. The dance floor feels like someone spilled syrup everywhere. The soles of my shoes are actually getting stuck on the floor. I adjust and start doing a mixture of the cabbage patch and lean back. She starts shaking her shoulders like Cecilia Cruz. So there we are, I’m dancing like I just scored a touchdown and she’s doing the Spanish-Harlem Shake.
We eventually give up and go back to the tables. We speak some more and I find out she’s from Venezuela, but is now living in San Diego. Her English is only slightly better than my Spanish, which is made worse by the deafening music. I start typing questions in my phone and showing her, she does the same. It’s kind of fun because I can drink and communicate at the same time. She then asks if I’m 21 yet and is shocked to find I’m nine years her senior. I’m also a bit surprised, but don’t give a damn. She also can’t say my name right, so I tell her to call me “Juan” or “Baby D.” It’s not that I don’t like my name, but when around non-native speakers I like to make things easier. Sort of like when an Asian guy with a name like “Can Wu-Chen” immigrates to the States, watches a few Clint Eastwood movies and then goes by “Harry Wu.” I understand his reasoning. Anyway, we talk some more and she grabs my phone and types in her number. I like the aggression. So much that I text my Dad to let him know model chicks are out tonight.
I hang out with the guys some more when I’m accosted by a 4 foot 10 inch village woman. Ok, maybe she’s not from a village, but she’s tiny and I think of her carrying a pot of rice on her head while a suckling baby hangs near her bosom. She takes me out to the dance floor and does the Tijuana style “face down ass up” move. Of course I don’t have to move my feet so I’m cool with this. Even though I look like a Great Dane humping a Chihuahua. My ligaments, tendons, muscles and bones are sore so we say our goodbyes and I head back to the table.
The night continues and the club has a fire-dance show with women in cages attached to the ceiling. Without sounding too much like a serial killer the women in cages do something for me. Once again, it’s probably the Skinemax movies. You know the one where the dude works in the female prison. Presumably all the women there are confined for stealing breast implants and have to bang the guards for their freedom; that’s some creative shit.
I then try to find the guys, but one has already gone back to the truck to sleep and the others are on the dance floor. So it’s just me and Silent Bob. I look around for an out, away from the uncomfort zone and see a tall woman with stylish eye glasses. She’s sporting a low cut dress that she somehow manages to wear with modesty. I give her the Billy Dee Williams look from the old Colt 45 commercials. The half smile, head slightly titled, testosterone gleaming out the eyes. I approach and she’s somewhat receptive. Until she says “how old are you?” and asks to see my driver’s license. Again, she’s shocked to see we’re around the same age. Damn, I can only imagine what Andy Milonakis deals with. We dance and what I notice most is her smell. She smells of jasmine and the finest spices from the coast of Argentina. Ok, I’ve never smelled spices from the Argentinean Coast, but I bet they smell as she did. I want to tell her, but the night prior I told a friend she smelled like mango juice and papaya. For some reason it took her awhile to see it was a compliment. It’s not my fault my olfactory sense is on bloodhound level. The conversation goes on for a bit longer with the tall, chic woman. It’s nearing 3am and she leaves, giving me her email address to stay in touch.
I’m now nearly dead tired and ready to head home or at least somewhere else. I find most of the guys, but we can’t find my co-worker Fernando. We leave the club to wait outside and the gelled up Spanish speaking friend asks…no…he TELLS me to go find Fernando. I would have went if he asked respectfully or wanted to go in together, but he wants to be El Presidente and issue commands. He must have thought I was the flunky because I’m new to the group. Or maybe it’s because three girls are outside talking with us and he wants to look hard. I look at him like he’s crazy and say “you’re the one driving you go find him and tell him you’re leaving, I’m not running around passing messages.” He tries to look tough and says something smart in Spanish. So there we are arguing in Spanish and English, not understanding most of what we’re saying. I end the conversation with “alright man, I’ll just wait out here I don’t have anywhere to go, you go find him.” He finally relents and I realize I might be catching a cab back to the border. When keeping it real goes wrong. My co-worker eventually comes out and the tension is relieved, mainly because the three girls are still waiting.
We head to “La Cantina” with the three girls trailing. I think we’re going to a fast food spot, but instead it’s a bar with old school Mexican music. One of the girls asks me if I’m black, in Spanish. I grab her hand and hold her dark tan forearm next to mine and say “we’re black.” They all start cracking up; I guess we all have our two minutes of fame. Her friend holds her hand out and we start to do some sort of Mexican folk dance. This isn’t fair; I didn’t get any practice time. I wouldn’t ask her to come to San Diego and do the “Soulja Boy.” I don’t know what I’m doing and whatever rhythm and soul I had is leaving with each near step on her foot. We bounce around in circles while holding each other tightly. It sounds like fun for a couple songs, but imagine doing that at 4am for 15 minutes, to what seems to be the same song.
We hang out a bit longer and a round, heavily made up woman of about 45 years asks if I want to see her girls. Apparently, she’s a pimp, excuse me a madam, and she has a few hookers near. I laugh and tell her my cable bill is past due. She lurks around for about 15 more minutes hoping I change my mind. I’m glad I’m sober, so I don’t wind up participating in the international sex trade. As a matter of fact thank God I’m sober because a lot of prostitutes in Tijuana are actually men. You might be in a strip club with some ass shaking in your face and see some nads come untucked. Or he-she might try to touch your hardware and you notice “her” hands are big enough to palm a basketball. How do I know? Well, the same way you know Michael Jackson gave those kids Jesus Juice and took their innocence. Some things you just know.
We head back to the gelled guy’s house for a nap and a return trip across the border. We get to his home, but can’t park the car because the gate is padlocked. Another friend hops the fence and goes inside to grab a key. The German Shepard does not even wake…old ass dog. I have another look at the license plates and I recognize the Ohio plate as my own from my car that was stolen years back. Psych! That would be some crazy shit though. I only wrote that because I felt like saying “psych!” It used to be one of my favorite words and I don’t think people use it enough like the old days. Anyhow, I sit on the couch and drift off to sleep. I awake and its almost 9am. I head back home with my impression of Tijuana changed once again. I Love TJ!
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Sexting: I’ll Show You How to Do This Man!
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
My dating life—The Imperfect Enjoyment—has been somewhat tragic and painful, but always eventful. Yet, despite all my buckwild behavior I have never taken (for lack of a better term) a COCK PIC.
Perhaps I have been subconsciously afraid that my self-proclaimed “third leg” looks more like a third nipple. After all, I have few cocks to compare it with. As a child I once saw my dad’s member when he, ass naked and fresh out the shower, jumped on my mom as she lay reading a magazine and yelled “Boy this how you do it!” (Hey, my parents had us at a very young age…and you wonder why I have the audacity to write some of this crazy shit).
Other than that I’ve only seen the cock of an intoxicated friend while he was passed out in the bathtub (a terrifying experience, see the “Rico Purple” chapter of my book). Well of course I’ve seen a number of porno films and free clips on bangbros.com, but those guys don’t count.
Those porno muthafuckas are Centaurs, i.e. half man/half horse for those not into Roman mythology. The erect cock of a porno star looks like it’s intended for industrial use, as if he could actually push it downward, make quick up-and-down gyrations and have it function as a jackhammer. Thick, veiny, and ugly, it’s a mismatched companion for a woman’s soft and gentle vagina. No way in hell would I trade my sleek and shapely cock for a Mandingo dick.
But back to the goddamn point. Today I decided to take a cock picture. I just felt some things you should do by the time you turn 30. Plus I’ve been reading The Sun Always Rises by Hemingway, which features a horny character who got his cock and balls blown off in the war and is therefore stuck in a lustful quagmire. Shit. If that ever happens to me at least I’ll have a pic of my past pride.
I thought to setup a photo shoot—complete with young, adventurous photographers skilled in lighting and image enhancement—but decided my Blackberry would be more than suitable. But the first few shots were terrible. My johnson looked alien-like and the three megapixel camera could not catch the full glory of my shy but potent member. I was disheartened with my lame attempt.
So, as I usually do when faced with a dilemma, I contacted my inner circle of friends for advice. I sent my brother and best friends a text message reading “I wanna send a cock pic to my girl. Wats the best angle to take the pic? I wanna maximize length and girth.”
And who could ask for a better group of friends? The detailed responses came pouring in. The first one read, “Nigga! Lol. Hold it in your hand. Take the pic from the top. Good luck lol. But don’t make ur boy too hard. It gives it away. That’s my trick.”
I likes that! Very detailed instructions, yet to the point and easy to follow. Maybe I should steal his trick. You know, show it at half-mass and then pull out the big, fully erect jawn in person.
Then the next response vibrated in “I don’t know! Experiment!”
Buzzkill. What the fuck? Ah man. That sucked. Help a brotha out. But ok, ok. Pause, no homo. I can understand that a lot of men don’t like giving out cock advice.
But the final respondent was the best. He wrote “Take it laying down, sitting with it in the air, or angle it from the northeast, on your side.”
What? This muthafucka actually gave out GPS navigation instructions. But wait he wasn’t finished. Our conversation continued.
He said “It’s ur lucky day. I got my laptop. Let me scan my pics.”
Hold the fuck on. Nah man, I don’t need to see your personal example. Exit only, man. Give a negro a inch, he’ll take a mile. Too-too-too much detail. So I replied, “Oh no lol. I’m cool. I’ll take your word for it.”
He then explained further “I’m not sending a pic dummy, just checking mine. Ok. Laying down with dick in air, or flat on stomach. Or sit on sofa with it hanging between legs. The latter is better. Just sit up and let it fall to ur knee or in ur case high thigh lol.”
Damn! I was now more than ready. All I had to do was think wet thoughts, stand to attention and snap the pic.
So I tried. I thought of Basic Instinct when Sharon Stone rode the hell out of Michael Douglas. Didn’t work, that pussy is too old. Next I pictured Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball, giving up that Oscar award winning ass to that Billy Bob character. Ok, I’m halfway up. Probably enough to penetrate some cooch assuming I had on a condom (hell naw!) or at least lubrication. Then I pictured a clip from Redtube.com that I have bookmarked on my internet browser titled “Buela rides him wild.” Man, that girl can do inhuman thangs that start at her waist and lead to an extraordinary amount of ass jiggle as she drops it like its hot.
Yes!!! I was now camera ready. I positioned the Blackberry at a northeast angle as instructed. I thrusted my hips just a little. Why? Cause I’m used to doing shit like that when I’m naked. I took the pic.
Wow. Glorious and shapely. Though a bit ashy, the head looked proud and elegant, as if he was a prince walking into a king’s ball. The slight curve near the tip did nothing but enhances what was already grand. It’s as if my cock leaped into the shot and took space from the unfortunate background images of my room. He was a commanding presence.
Feeling haughty as Jude Law I sent out the picture. She responded “OMG. Yum! I love chocolate! Did you put soap on it first?”
I reply, “Lol. Yeah. That’s why it’s ashy. Freak!”
Damn, Dad would be proud.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Imperfect Enjoyment Excerpt: “Maury Did It”
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Shameless self-promotion part 69. Here’s a snippet from The Imperfect Enjoyment. I planned to post something new today, but I figured I should probably start my Christmas shopping. Peace.
BUT WE’RE IN LOVE. Not a love like Mexican Americans feel for Tapatio or “conscious”African Americans feel for
poetry jams, but a love in which we hope and think of a future, our future. So the shooting threat bounces weakly off my naïve armor. What does some pampered Middle Eastern boy know about gunplay? I assume he does not know much more than me, a sheltered suburbanite who has always stayed at least three streets away from the hood. Amir is a fake. He is as dangerous as your favorite ex-correctional officer turned gangster rapper, or R&B singer who plays up misdemeanorcharges for the false honor of being an ex-convict. Amir is only words. Words that become much stronger when spoken to Haniyah’s mother.
Soon after the threats Haniyah returns to Bahrain for winter vacation. Her mother is disgusted by news of our illicit relationship. “You don’t even know what ghetto he’s from. What kind of family do you think he was raised in?” she says, her mind obviously corrupted by satellite episodes of Cops and The Maury Povich Show. Yes, maybe a few of my extended family members did graduate from the Ohio School of Alcohol and Drug Abuse and maybe some male relatives did a few short bids (really,they just went in to hang with cousins and old neighborhood friends), but we are a hardworking family. More importantly we are a family that is open to others regardless of pigmentation.
It wasn’t a big issue when my divorced grandmother married a younger white man—besides, he loved to eat collard greens. It was never an issue when most of my uncles dated white women, even rural white women who wore 1980s big bangs and resembled Guns N’ Roses groupies. Perhaps they had wild interracial sex, with their taboo prizes yelling “Fuck me like an NBA all-star!” and my uncles grunting “Free Mumia now bitch,” unknowingly healing centuries of racial strife through the powers invested in their loins. No one cared! Bottom line: we are a fair and open family. But this is of no concern to Haniyah’s mother. Her orders are clear: Lose all contact with the infidel or be disowned. If she does not do so immediately, her father will be told. Even in her livid state, Haniyah’s mother is rational enough to keep this secret from him.
During the six weeks of vacation I rarely hear from Haniyah. With her mom, who is retired and able to be constantly
near, supervising her every move, we’re unable to talk over the phone. Every now and then we communicate via instant messenger, but even that is unsteady as she is forced to log off without notice. What I do gather from our erratic conversations is that Haniyah might not be allowed to return to San Diego. There is even talk of her being sent off to study in Scotland.
I am confused, but undeterred. I want this relationship, and I want it even more after being told it cannot be. I couldn’t care less about cultural understanding or the notion of “that’s how we do things.” They are wrong. How can her mother expect her to study in the United States and not develop significant relationships? Does she see Haniyah as some sort of academic machine whose sole purpose is to obtain a degree from an American university? Are the Americans who provide Haniyah this education not good enough to hold her hand and kiss her neck? Who is her mother to decide when we should end? I am realistic enough not to predict a lifetime together based on a few months, but if the relationship shall end, let it run its own course.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Breaking News: Santa Flies Over San Diego (Got rejected, but my anus is still like a third eye)
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
I tried to write an intellectual, giggle under your breath, Seinfield, white-yuppie type of humorous story that’s typically found in publications like McSweeney’s and The New Yorker, but I failed miserably and was quickly rejected by the aforementioned publications. Though on a much smaller scale, it’s kind of like when Madonna tried to rap on whatever CD that was that didn’t go over so well with critics. Of course ass-associated topics will always be my strong point, but the hell with it, why not try something different every now and then. If it sucks, it sucks…and this kind of sucks. Well, it’s not that bad. But maybe next I’ll finally start on that hip-hop CD I want to put out, tentatively titled “My Anus is Like a Third Eye—Bitch.”
I no longer trust my local news and I’m fed up. You see, at around 7am a charming young anchorwoman promised to show breaking news, but there was a catch; I had to wait until the 6pm telecast. So after the morning news ended I passed the time by watching four episodes of Judge Judy—during which I learned that they don’t keep Judy there because she’s beautiful, they keep her there because she’s smart—and I fully agree.
Later I watched Judge Pirro, Judge Joe Brown and Judge Mathis. Then at around 4pm I realized that even though I’m a stay at home father without any children, I should probably find a better way to spend my day.
And that’s when it hit me: If the local news needed to tell something important, why not just tell me at 7am? More so, how could they have possibly known they’d have breaking news at 6pm? After all, shouldn’t breaking news shown at 6pm discuss something that happens at around…say 5:55pm? I understand they can predict the weather with their fancy Doppler equipment, but I’m less confident in their ability to predict water outages and muggings by randomly described assailants (A tall, black male—sorry I meant to say advanced in height, African American and possibly of male gender…but you never know these days).
I didn’t end up leaving the house, but I did dose off and miss the 6pm news. Luckily I woke a few hours later and saw another commercial promising more breaking news at 10pm. But the newscaster in this commercial looked a little different than the cheerful young lady I watched this morning. The evening newscaster had salt and pepper hair and a serious look on his face that gave way to a slight glimpse of a smile as the commercial ended. He appeared to possess the rare ability to convey a message of, I know something you don’t know and it’s really important. Turn the channel at your own peril.
So I lay back on the couch and waited around for a few more hours. Surprisingly there more shows on about law. But these shows were about detectives who wear extremely nice clothes and use fancy techniques to investigate some of the most intelligent lawbreakers around.
They obviously had a lot of investigating to do because they seemed to go all across the country. On one show they were in Miami. I turned the channel and saw similar good looking detectives in New York. Then I turned back again and found that the original detectives had been replaced by even fancier detectives in Los Angeles. It all seemed like a waste of time. Perhaps if they focused on a single city it wouldn’t take so long to solve those crimes. But I guess they like to leave you waiting and wondering like the morning news.
The 10pm news finally started and it turned out the handsome evening newsman with the slight smile was not as serious as he first appeared. In fact, he stood in front of an electronic map (probably that damn Doppler again) and pointed to Santa Claus’ current location somewhere between the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia. The newsman then said, Santa’s making a quick stop right over here. But based on his flying speed of about 200 miles per hour he and Rudolph will arrive in San Diego just in time for Christmas Eve!
I couldn’t believe my local news had the audacity to broadcast such blatant lies. I figured that I had probably heard the news wrong; we all know Santa wouldn’t dare drop off gifts in Saudi Arabia and risk religious persecution. Then, at 11pm another newscast aired and they repeated the same exact story. Perhaps the law should be involved in this matter.
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Community Coeds
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
I wrote this a year ago as I was reflecting on my summer in community college. I was actually a bored and lonely graduate student at the time, so I decided to attempt to learn conversational French in 10 weeks at the local junior college. But of course I ended up checking out some associate degree ass. BTW this story is not really a story and nothing really happens, but it is somewhat funny. How’s that for getting you interested in reading? Blah-blah-blah. Well, here you are:
Community college is the best bargain around, especially during the summer semester. For less than fifty bucks per course you have the opportunity to gawk at lotion-glazed coeds and learn from an instructor who has a life outside of academia. Well, let me go into a bit more detail about the coeds. They are tanned, sweaty and you can actually see their ass cheeks smile—do you know that semi-circle crease located where a woman’s thigh morphs into her ass? This work of God is revealed at least once every class period, usually by a shameless student wearing single striped short-shorts popularized years ago by Chrissy on Three’s Company…fucking unbelievable.
But to be honest I am not necessarily taking classes for the girls or the lectures. I’m here taking French II because I don’t have shit else to do. I’m broke and unemployed.
I have a college education and I’m a few months away from an advanced degree, yet I cannot find work. I send resumes daily and even follow-up with a phone call in my white voice, but still no luck. Things have gotten so bad that I even did three hours of hard labor just to have money for a full meal and a DVD rental. Yep, I had my black ass in the hot sun helping the friend of a former professor load her moving truck…all for forty damn dollars.
Thankfully, a small monthly stipend from my work earlier in the year as a teaching assistant covers rent and utilities. But as far as luxuries like supersized McDonald’s value meals or two-ply tissue, I go without. Never mind extravagances of the rich such as a full tank of gas or a monthly haircut. Good to know afros are coming back in style.
Back to French class. This morning I have my first oral presentation with my study partner Clarissa. I “happened” to sit by her the first day of class and in the weeks since we’ve flirted through elementary French phrases and also talked of skipping class to hang out at the beach. I find her attractive, sexy even, though I cannot say she’s beautiful. But neither am I. We are just fives or sixes in the eyes of most. Both of us scrawny and flat, both of us capable of attracting others—just not the beautiful people we desire, both of us fairly smart—but not particularly gifted in anything, both of us waiting for the other to make a move.
I suppose I’d jump Clarissa’s bones if I did not have a girlfriend whom I believe to be The Girlfriend. I want to remain faithful, even though she and her unadulterated pussy went back home to Bahrain for summer vacation. So my fantasies about Clarissa, including the reoccurring mental porn where she rides me as only the thin girls can, cums first and then finishes me with her smallish mouth—will remain dreams unrealized.
The oral exam starts off well. We proceed through our rehearsed dialogue as the instructor, an elderly Lebanese woman, looks on in approval. Then Clarissa throws me off. She pulls some advanced level French sentence out her ass, leaving me unable to respond coherently. I say only “merci.” Then I say again, “merci.” After thanking her twice I realize she’s not giving me a compliment, but is asking a question. I panic under pressure and say the first sentence that comes to mind, “Clarissa est très chaude,” which in English translates to “Clarissa is very hot.” Actually, it’s not a direct translation from English to French and would probably mean Clarissa is literally hot, as if she is wearing a down jacket in the French Riviera. Besides, I bet the romantic Frenchmen tell women “your beauty is like of that of a sparkling puddle outside the Louvre museum” or some corny shit like that, anything to get that hairy European muff, anything besides the overused “you’re hot” line.
Clarissa loses her calm. She attempts to say something, but the students’ laughter overwhelms her voice. Defeated and afraid of what else I might say, I catch the instructor’s eye to let her know “no more” or for that matter “non plus.” Clarissa and I go to our desks. I say, “That wasn’t so bad, huh?” Red with laughter she says “You spoke well.”
Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Four Facebook Personas
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Obviously I have a lot of time on my hands. I lack a real job (i.e. one that pays every two weeks) and have trouble sleeping more than five hours a night. Thus I spend a lot of time hanging out at Target and a 24-hour nightclub called Wal-Mart. The remainder of my time is spent social networking. In fact I’ve spent countless hours on Facebook, during which time something interesting has become apparent—no matter how many online “friends” one has, their Facebook personas fit under just a few categories. Here they are bro:
THE JESUS FREAK This person posts a number of Bible verses, all of which pretty much say the same thing. “Jesus is cool, hell is hot—you choose where you want to go…bitch!” Well maybe not like that, but you get my drift. But what makes the Jesus Freaks cool is that the minute a storm comes, or better yet a natural disaster the “end of days” posts come one after another. And they get pumped up about it too! “Told y’all muthafuckas to pray, Jesus is coming back! SMH *speaking in tongues*” The next day when they find Jesus has delayed his return (He had some carpentry work to finish), they post a Gucci Mane video and commence plans for sin on Saturday and service on Sunday.
THE REGULAR FREAK A person with this Facebook persona has likely been banned from the site and had to register again under an assumed name. In fact they were also banned from Myspace. Yet they still post risqué pictures and status updates that read “You ever suck a man balls off?” Then horny people like me check the page out and see pics of her with her young children of various races, including big Tyrone Niggasaki, Darius DeWayne Horowitz and little Abdul-Abdul. Then, I admit, I try to hook up with her anyway.
THE BUSINESS MAN NIGGA I AIN’T BUYING NO GOD DAMN PREPAID LEGAL SERVICES! SHIT! I realize I have no room to talk regarding this category, considering I often try to sell my book on Facebook but damn…Listen, I haven’t been in trouble, but if I were to I don’t feel completely comfortable having a lawyer from Prepaid Legal Services show up. Something makes me think that he might come to court with a Chopper Suit on and start bragging about his online law degree. And that’s some shit Johnnie Cochran wouldn’t approve of.
THE 90’s CHILD Everyone has the friend that consistently post videos of 90’s music, alongside a status update of “Remember back in 1995…” When I first caught wind of this phenomenon I just thought “Oh yeah that’s cool. You can never hear enough Jodeci.” Then it started happening all the time and began to think “Shit I’m concerned. Maybe this man ain’t had a good day since 1992.” Then I finally got upset! Turns out I spent an hour watching all this person’s 1990s videos and ended up trying to dance like Bell, Biv, Devoe at the club…alone. Yep, I was out there drunk, trying to do a three person dance routine by myself—like a damn fool.
Well I’m sure there are at least a few more Facebook personas out there. But in the interest of time (party about to start in the Wal-Mart electronics section), I should go. Feel free to comment and add something else. Most importantly, don’t get mad and try to beat my ass. I am just an internet gangster who would not dare say this to anyone’s face. Much Wal-Mart love to you. Holla.
-Dewan W. Gibson aka The Wild Gremlin: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
TEA Par-tay: Kickin It With the Conservatives
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories, Social Comm
Told that cat not to drink Henny!
I tend to adopt a “try anything once” attitude when bored. Past exploits have included sticking my hand in a ceiling fan and adding voiceover play-by-play to my favorite porn clips. But recently I decided to grab life by the elephant tusks and attend a Tax Enough Already (TEA) protest in Oceanside, California.
I arrived at the event and nearly chickened out minutes after parking my car. Something about integrating a sea of angry white people felt dangerous. Not to say I’d be completely comfortable around a couple thousand angry black people, but I could at least be sure the police would be there—ready and willing to use excessive force at the slightest provocation.
After a long 15 minutes I decided to step out the car, albeit with precautions. I gathered my digital camera to identify potential attackers, a mobile phone to call 911 and tied my trainers extra tight. I figured if all else failed I’d Usain Bolt away from the ruckus. After all, you never know when chants of “NO MORE TAXES!” can morph into “NO MORE NEGROS!”
I finally made it down to the amphitheater and felt relieved. Yes the crowd was all white, but they were all middle to Larry King age white people. Basically the Walker, Texas Ranger demographic.
I approached the various booths staffed by political candidates and t-shirt salespeople hoping to strike a friendly conversation with someone. The future leaders and political hacks occasionally smiled my way, but after a quick scan of my black and gasp—young Barack Obama like appearance—they quickly turned away.
In fact Christine Rubin and her staff, who is a candidate for California’s 77th Assembly District, flat-out ignored me whenever I came within five feet of them. What a shame considering that as my potential district state representative I wanted to hear her ideas. Now I will forever know her as the candidate with Social African-American Anxiety Disorder (Full Disclosure/Update: Mrs. Rubin did send an excuse and gracious apology after my rambling email criticizing the snub).
Conservative radio host Rick Roberts kicked off the event with an enthusiastic welcome. While I do not share his views, I must admit that Roberts has a great voice for radio and television voiceovers. Somebody get this man a gig on Family Guy! Now I wish I could remember more of what he actually said, but the surrounding anti-Obama posters stole my attention. Right-wing artistic creativity was on full display with effigies of President Obama that included the term “thug” or the more descriptive term of “Chicago thug.”
Outside of being offended it also struck me how “thug” has become a 21st century euphemism for “nigger” among closet racists. Have a look at any online message board that features a controversial black athlete or entertainer and you are bound to see the new “it word.” In fact, ESPN no longer allows the term on its website. Interestingly enough it is also the term that TEA Party founder Mark Williams used to describe President Obama in the video below. Sorry I forgot, he actually said “an Indonesian Muslim turned welfare thug and a racist-in-chief.”
Even the First Lady was posterized. I can handle the lampooning of Barack, but Michelle should be off limits. Her main job is to hug foreign dignitaries and make sure Barack doesn’t wear those high-waist Jessica Simpson jeans again. Leave her out of the political shenanigans.
The event continued with an appearance by Congressman Darrell Issa. Representative Issa, a pudgy shiny-haired man of Lebanese descent and just a couple shades lighter than our “socialist leader,” seemed hurried in his statements. Actually, he seemed a bit like the occasional weed smoker who accidentally stumbles into a meth party. Getting high is a thing many of us know and maybe even enjoy, but smoking your teeth out is a bit too far over the line of innocent youthful discretion.
Issa simply couldn’t match the amount of hate in the crowd. He tried to raise his voice to drive home a few points—he even threw in a joke that’s not a joke about Obama—but when it came time to put his mouth on pipe and suck, the man bitched out. And I think he knew it. Minutes after Issa left the stage I spotted him making a near sprint for the exits.
The event dragged on with a very detailed health care speech from Dr. Gary Gonsalves, founder of Stop Taxing Us. Outside of audience banter by host Rick Roberts and a rotund lady next to me who kept yelling “Stay away from my children!” in response to Obama’s plan to address the nation’s schools, the crowd’s energy seemed to drift.
California gubernatorial candidate Chelene Nightingale tried to add energy with screams about “losing our freedom,” but she was outshined by an even angrier audience member. Apparently he did not agree with Nightingale’s claim that she was the American Independent Party’s pick to run for governor and he let her know. Sounding like Apostle E.F., the heavy man with the sweaty beard shouted “That’s a lie! You were not picked by AIP!” Eventually the police took his big ass away without force.
The event was soon over without a major ruckus. While a significant portion of the attendees seemed outright racist, most of the attendees’ views seemed typical of a party out of power—conspiracy theories and unsubstantiated rants about losing their country. They never said what specific freedoms have been taken away under President Obama or put a dollar amount on their alleged higher taxes, simply because the data does not exist.
As the evening ended I even began to understand the frustration that arises when your party is not in power. I thought back to my anger with George W. Bush and remembered wishing that he had choked on a slightly larger pretzel. I even fantasized about Condeleeza Rice wearing those thigh-high boots in front of Vice President Cheney, hoping she’d disrupt his unreliable ticker and take out evil doer number two.
Yet, I never ever actually wanted them dead and I believe the overwhelming majority of conservatives feel the same way about President Obama. Well, at least until he proposes immigration reform.
-Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment
Internationally Known Underwear Model Featured in the JcPenney Catalog.
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Short Stories
This is the stringy taco meat I mentioned, yeah chest needs a little work.
Last week I began my quest to become an internationally known underwear model featured in the JcPenney catalog. Though it has only been seven days since I committed to this goal I have already completed four intensive workout sessions and eaten obscene amounts of colorful foods. I understand I have a long road to travel, and at times I might get distracted by hookers at rest stops, but I can see that my destiny is near. Not “see” as in literally “see,” but I can kind of visualize like that blind guy that was on American Idol.
Obviously a goal of this magnitude will take more than working out and eating healthy. In fact this process may include laser tattoo removal and a scrotum lift, in addition to networking with industry snobs. Yet, just as Jesus turned water into a gallon of Carlo Rossi I know that with faith all things are possible.
I am fully aware that I am not the best looking man. I give myself a 6.5/10. Let’s start with my positives: a bushel of soft taco meat on my chest and an ass like Prince (exit only). As for my negatives: a crooked hairline that can’t seem to recover, a skinny face that messes up an otherwise strong jawline and eyes that are extra tiny and only open if I have some ass in my face. Still I have written a book without being a particularly talented writer and managed to teach at the university level without any actual teaching experience. In short, I have a history of overachieving and doing things that are way out of my league.
I know a person or two (only 5-10 people read my blog) might say “Why the JcPenney catalog?” My reasoning is simple, yet profound. JcPenney represents classic Americana, and like the nation as a whole JcPenney’s is a bit down right now. So in my own creative way I am making a contribution to my country, albeit while wearing tight fitting (BUT VERY MASCULINE) underwear.
I assume the three people that bought my book are wondering if I’ll continue to write, despite being an internationally known underwear model featured in the JcPenney catalog. Of course I will. Writing is like an ex-girlfriend who you had a rocky relationship with, perhaps you even gave her gonorrhea and stood her up at prom because at 28 you felt too old to attend. Still, she is always there for you.
Lastly, I would appreciate your well-wishes (save your prayers for those nut-jobs protesting healthcare reform). I will be sure to post continual updates on my blog, including pictures of me bench pressing Asian women. Take care and always remember “The world would be a much better place if ignorant people learned to pull out in time.” Best wishes.
-Dewan W. Gibson
Negro Kryptonite (Sample from The Imperfect Enjoyment)
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
MOVING ON IS MUCH EASIER said than done. I think back to some bullshit advice I once got that claims it takes a third of the time you spent in a relationship to get over it. So for at least the next sixteen months I’ll be stuck with this guilt and regret, constantly thinking of how I didn’t even have enough sense to take off that silly nightclub outfit and have a proper last moment with Haniyah. No, I refuse to go through more than a year of this shit.
Trying at least to start the move-on process, I relocate from the drab sliding-door-entrance apartment to a proper bachelor pad equipped with air conditioning and a balcony. Then after receiving a promotion at the community health center, I, like many young black men who focus on image instead of building wealth, decide to purchase an expensive depreciating asset as soon as possible. After having my eye on a Chrysler Crossfire for almost a year, a two-door, futuristic poor man’s Porsche, I take the plunge.
Calling around to a few car dealerships in search of my dream ride, I find a year-old Crossfire at a large suburban dealership. Within thirty minutes I’m there in my beaten-down Nissan sedan with the Tijuana paint job and the stereo that shuts itself off and on when the road gets too rough. Armed with a blank check from a reckless financier, I test drive the two-seater and feel my potential for new women grow exponentially.
While not a Ferrari, which offers a cash-back warranty to drivers who don’t see a marked increase in the number of available sex partners, it is a fitting car for a now single and somewhat successful young man.
After an hour of refusing special paint protection and unlimited warranties, I hand the check over to the dealership and progress begins. The college degrees I earned in the easy
majors and the moderately hard work I’ve done over the past few years have come to fruition in the form of a V6 engine and angular styling. Never mind that it does not have back seats and is designed in a such way that the driver can’t see out the rear-view mirror, or that it once flipped over as the dealer was exiting the highway, leaving a slight nick on the roof. This car is change.
Finally, I drive my new ride off the lot. I recklessly coast down Interstate 15, disregarding the danger inherent in speeding over one hundred miles per hour. I pull off and onto the
highway, strolling through mini-malls and shopping plazas, hoping someone sees me cruising in my self-importance.
Considering that in my family, the purchase of a new car has the importance of the birth of a first-born son, I pull over and call my dad to tell him the good news. His enthusiasm
approaches that of an overpaid twelfth man whose team just made a comeback in game seven of the NBA finals. “What! They let you drive it off the lot already! You gotz to be kidding me. Damn!”
After a month of enjoying my new ride, I take a quick getaway trip to Phoenix. The driving portion of the trip lives upto my expectations. The early morning desert highway is empty, giving me the chance to speed past tumbleweeds and peculiar roadrunners. I pass through parched and impoverished towns surrounded by decaying nothingness and I wonder how people live in such conditions, until I see a Super Wal-Mart that could probably feed much of sub-Saharan Africa.
Five hours later I’m in Phoenix. While trying to find my hotel, I stop at a fundraising car wash held by evangelical teens. The female disciples flirtatiously admire my worldly asset as they wash and shine. One girl says, “Are you from Los Angeles
or something?” “Nah, just down from San Diego. L.A. can be a little too much sometimes.”
I want to continue the conversation, not out of law-breaking lust, but out of curiosity of how she supposedly found God at such an early age. But my questions and criticisms could keep me there for hours, so I move on. The hotel is actually more of a resort. Typical of hotels in the Phoenix and Scottsdale areas, it includes golf, tennis and
enough old white people to fill a Wayne Newton concert.
Browsing the grounds, I find a bike trail and other amenities I couldn’t care less about. But the room has a Jacuzzi bathtub and a bed much softer than my IKEA mattress. Compared to the hostels and living-rooms I’ve slept in, this is a five-star resort. I call up a female friend who lives in the area, in the hopes that she’s able to hang out. I met Andrea a few weeks earlier when she was in San Diego for her sorority’s conference. Since then we’ve had at least two long phone conversations per week. She’s recently out of long-term relationship that left her with a young daughter, so we’re able to discuss our ex-partners without the usual apprehension.
She is not a typical sorority girl: a blonde who refers to oral sex as a “BJ” and sees a lesbian experience as a college rite of passage. Andrea is actually a thick Latina who works full-time as a correctional officer to put herself through school and raise her young daughter. She sounds startled that I actually drove down as I said I might. I ask her to dinner, but she’s scheduled to work most of the night and probably can’t find a babysitter on such short notice.I don’t force the issue, considering my spontaneity could be her inconvenience. I tell her, “Don’t worry about it. I’m only a few hours away; we can catch up some other time.” But she gives her word that she’ll try to trade shifts. If she can’t, she’ll try to see me the following morning before I hit the highway back to San Diego.
In the meantime, with nothing planned, I drive around the city and go to the mall, where I sit around and have lunch while watching a diverse mixture of Mexican cowboys and
hip yuppies browse the stores. I try to brave the scorching heat to visit the outdoor shops, but even with the sidewalk mist fans, it’s unbearable. Somehow the native Arizonians carry on as if their breath isn’t being sucked away by the triple- digit temperatures.
I go back to the resort and while I’m taking a short nap, Andrea calls. She’s at work, but is getting off early. Not knowing my way around the area, I ask her to meet me at one of the restaurants I found at the mall. I dig through my book bag for an outfit that’s hip and weather appropriate. I find nothing. Foolishly expecting cool nights similar to those in San Diego, I packed The Blazer, an army of button-down shirts and an old dressy t-shirt I was planning to sleep in. In desperation, I iron the shirt and discover that it looks less worn than I thought, so I throw it on with a pair of dark blue jeans. I’m back at the mall with an hour to spare to find a nice restaurant that won’t break my brittle bank.
Thankfully, when Andrea arrives, there’s no she-beast surprise. Just as I remember, she’s of average height with a round playful face. Her child-bearing hips easily allow one to guess at what’s behind. A tribal tattoo stretches from the small of her back to her waist.
I try to appear as confident as I did the night we met and greet her with a strong hug. We walk to our table and I nudge her chair a bit even though it’s already pulled out. She says,
“Ah, thanks. You’re so nice,” as an older sister would to her little brother.
We order drinks before selecting a fancy Mexican dish. During dinner, we talk just like we have on the telephone. With the stress of school, a busy workday and raising a child, it seems she never has a chance to vent. Seemingly impressed with my listening skills, she goes on about her daughter and her job. I put on my interested look, nod my head and say “Whaaaatttt” every thirty to forty-five seconds.
Enjoying the ease of drinking beer and listening, I try to deflect questions back to her whenever the conversation turns to me. But she continues to probe. “So do you always just travel around alone and just show up places?”
Sounding much more interesting than I really am, I answer, “Yeah, you know, sometimes you just feel like getting up and seeing something different. If you wait for friends you’ll be waiting forever.”
She then asks, “Are you only staying here for the night?”
Instantly reevaluating my travel plans I say, “Well, it depends. The resort is nice and it seems cool here. I wouldn’t mind staying an extra night.”
After nearly two hours at the restaurant we reach that awkward moment when someone, usually the woman, decides to extend or end the date. I make the offer.
“The resort place I’m staying at has a bar. There’s mostly old people staying there, but it looks nice.” Obviously, after seven years of studying communication, my persuasive skills still are not refined.
“There might be a bar near here, but I’m not sure.”
“Okay. You want to try to find it?”
“No, let’s just go back to your place.”
My place? I don’t own a thing here and got the room on a priceline.com discount, but tonight it is, in fact, my place. Andrea leaves her car at the mall and rides with me to the resort. I get the door for her and watch her sink with surprise into the almost-floor-level passenger seat. As I get in the cockpit, she says, “Wow, this is really … it’s a really cute car.”
I want to tell her that “cute” does not accurately describe a car with a powerful V6 engine and an automatic retracting spoiler. How about calling it “dangerous,” “sexually aggressive” or just plain old “off the chain?” Instead I answer, “Yeah, I like it. It’s cool because it’s strong and it rides pretty good.”
She just nods her head in agreement.
Sitting close in the compact car, we are quiet on the ride to the resort. Well versed in easing tension through alcohol, I tell Andrea, “I think I brought a bottle of wine in my bag. It’s not the best stuff. Well, it was on sale at the grocery store, but I’m sure its okay.”
Laughing, she says, “Let’s just drink that instead of trying to kick it with the old people.” The room has few seating options so we both end up sitting on the king-size bed. Over-enthused with the way things are turning out, I break the cork in half while trying to open
the bottle. She laughs at my lack of dexterity and soon we’re drinking sediment-filled wine out of plastic hotel cups. Between sips she moves closer to me and I return the favor to take up the last six inches that separate us. I sit there for at least five minutes, frozen and unsure if her hints are really hints. Thinking “The hell with it,” I make my move.
The hints were real. Andrea’s kisses move from my lips to my neck. She bites near my shoulder and I jump at the pain that doesn’t feel as good as the movies make it appear. I toughen up and come even closer for more.
She whispers in my ear, “I wanted to fuck you as soon as I met you.”
What the hell? Occasionally women have told me I’m “cute.” But as far as wanting to have sex with someone as soon as they’ve met, that’s reserved for the too-cool muscular guys who speak in hushed tones. Women are more likely to date me for a while, laugh at me when we finally get undressed and look for that previously mentioned muscular guy when they get tired of bumping against a sack of bones. But I don’t argue with Andrea.
We continue kissing and move across the bed so her legs hang off, spread and folded at the knee. I struggle to remove her jeans and she starts pushing and kicking playfully as I pull.
After a few strong tugs her underwear comes off with the jeans. Bush…lots of bush. She could cornrow that shit if she wanted.
I do a three second condom on penis maneuver and I’m soon inside. Less than a minute passes and I already know I can’t last. To regain my composure I withdraw and let her
ride on top. I still can’t hang. I grip her waist tightly to stop her movement and try for another change of position. I say “I wanna get behind you.” She replies, “You might hurt me with that.”
She’s lying her ass off, but at least she knows how to boost my ego. She stays on top and I release in a fit a spasms. Sorry, but that’s how I get down, short and intense. I’ll leave
the marathon sex to the porn stars. Afterwards we lie and watch television in uncomfortable embraces. She tells me that she has to pick up her daughter from the babysitter and should be on her way. I let her know that I’m staying an extra day and hope to see her before or after work tomorrow.
After driving her back to her car, I contemplate finding a bar to hang out at, but decide to take full advantage of a long sleep on the comfortable bed. On the way back from the mall I notice that the dashboard lights are dim. I turn off the radio and air conditioning and speed back to the resort, thinking that my battery is being drained by the extreme temperatures. I sleep for a few hours, but keep waking up with the hunch that something is wrong.
Thinking the car might have overheated, I go out to check on it in the slightly cooler late night. It powers on without a struggle, but the dashboard lights are still dim. Knowing little about cars besides how to drive them to the mechanic for service, I panic. Afraid to drive in the daytime temperatures and of the possible risks of overheating, I decide to make a run for it. It’s around 5:00 a.m. I pack my stuff, check out of the hotel and get straight onto the highway, hoping to make it back to California’s cooler weather before I end up stuck in Arizona. After about three hours on the road, the car is still running smoothly. I get a call from Andrea to meet for breakfast. I casually break the news to her that I’ve left. “I’m on the highway not too far from San Diego. I ended up leaving early…”
She doesn’t even give me time to explain. Click.
Thinking I lost the signal, I try to call her back, but there’s no answer. Well, I fucked that up big time. So much for weekend trips to Phoenix once a month. In my anxiety over the whole situation, I start to fool around with the numerous knobs and buttons in my car. I come across a rotating lever near the headlight switch. I turn it one way, but it seems to have no effect. I play around with it some more and see the stereo faceplate brightening and then dimming. Oops, I’m a dumbass.
I guess it’s cool that my car has an inside-light dimmer. But it’s not so cool that it ruined things with Andrea. I try to call her back once again, but I don’t even get a ring this time. The call goes straight to voicemail. I start to leave a message. “This probably looks bad, but my car …” Sounding dumber by the second, I hang up before going through the details. Shit.
My Turn for an Intern: Lost Chapter from The Imperfect Enjoyment
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Joke All U Want, She's Ain't That Bad
I was pulling files from my old jump drive and notice I had a section of deleted chapters from my book The Imperfect Enjoyment. I figured they would slowly drift off into no man’s land so I’ve decided to periodically post a few. Here’s the first, which is about an intern and motorcycle tracks in underwear.
MY TURN FOR AN INTERN
As a college educator and health care professional I’ve always felt a strong obligation to help 18 and 19 year olds reach their potential. While the freshman level courses I teach may not be of the utmost importance to a student’s career, my guidance for life outside of the classroom is vital to their success. By offering “profound” advice such as “failure to plan is planning to fail” and “it’s not really sex if you’re wearing a condom,” I have been able to steer many young adults in the direction towards self-actualization. However, what I enjoy most are the lessons I learn from them. From the importance of skipping work “just cause I freakin’ feel like it,” to partying through a hangover, I recognize that the 18 to 19 year old crowd has valuable advice for adults of any age. With this being said nothing could prepare me to be schooled by a young and extremely gifted summer intern.
I didn’t notice her arrival in the office. You would think that with my extreme visual perverseness I would notice every new employee, particularly young big-breasted interns, but somehow she was missed. We actually only worked together about once a week, as I spent most of my time out the office on official slack off assignment (which mainly consisted of browsing at Border’s books, eating lunch at home, and on Mondays…I’m ashamed to admit…enjoying an afternoon beat-off to the newly posted assparade.com updates).
As for Tiffany she was your usual bright eyed and eager to please intern, seemingly unaffected by the banality of a typical 8 to 5 workday. I often watched her stroll into my office to make copies, with an enthusiasm that made it seem as if she talked about work after work, thought about work before work, and actually focused on work during work. In contrast to my own sloth-like work ethic she was an all-star employee. While I sat daydreaming of ways to get the corporate foot off my throat or at the very least make everyday somewhat as interesting as my Monday slack sessions spent online, Tiffany actually earned her meager pay.
A couple of weeks passed and I would continue to watch Tiffany as she made copies. In return she would ignore me, save for a cold hello, which of course women are innately skilled at. In paying you no attention at all, women give the impression that they either cannot stand to be around you or are so turned on by you that they can’t bare to look. With Tiffany I like to believe it was the latter. Although I’m not sure how much attraction there is in a guy who has bones for abs and a forehead that has outgrown his hairline. Yet, I guess there was something because Tiffany would send me a surprising email one night after work.
I arrive home from work, log on to my computer and see a Myspace message from Tiffany. Evidently she had looked me up online. In short, the message read “Hi, I’m not sure if you know me, but I work with you and wanted to say hello.” I reply and we begin a series of short, careful messages to one another. I look at her page and it’s plain to see, she’s only 18. Actually she just turned 18. I also see she enjoys going to her school’s football games and doing assorted other things I missed out on as a gremlin looking teenager.
I browse her page further and look at her Myspace friends list, as expected they are also 17 and 18 years old. I see one guy who could probably pass for the high school stud-jerk, has left message after message on her page. I check his profile and think “shit, he aint all that.” He reminds me of many of the guys I knew, envied, and disliked in high school. He looks like the type of guy that hit puberty in 6th grade and stretched his physical dominance out for an additional six years. While he was out fingering girls, I was checking my pubic region for any signs of growth, be it in hair or schlong. And once late bloomers like I finally hit our growth spurt in 10th grade it was too late, as his four previous years of physical dominance had left me unable to grasp the fact that I too was now physically capable. However, my revenge would come years down the road as I reached my social peak after college. I now had everything that he had in middle school, with a couple dollars in my pocket and access to women with mature tits and ass. He however, was a legend of the past. Unable to parlay his preteen mojo into a buckwild or at least stable adulthood, he now pushes carts at Target. Damn, I’m being a hater. This 18 year old on Tiffany’s page is probably a perfectly nice guy, an actual friend to subjugated and assorted high school guys weighing less than 100 pounds. Besides, it’s lame that I’m bashing 18 year guy whose profile I found while checking out an 18 year old girl on Myspace, and I’m how old…Oh yeah, 28.
Tiffany and I message back and forth and decide to meet after work at a bookstore café. We start to talk and I realize she’s more mature than I anticipated. Her hair is neatly parted. She’s wearing a cut top that accentuates her size D breasts, and best of all she’s not chewing gum. Somehow I’d imagined we’d talk and she’d be constantly smacking on bubbalicious, bazooka, or whatever gum is the “in gum” for young people. This would then lead me to think she probably wears panties that come in a three pack. That’s right panties, not underwear or thongs, plain cotton panties that are sold in a large bin at Walmart. The type of panties that you’d find as a boy while curiously sifting through your little sister’s dirty clothes, but quickly throw back down after realizing girls also leave motorcycle tracks in their draws. Yet, their tracks are not quite as brown and located in a different spot than that of yours as a boy…or as a man depending if you’ve been lucky enough to mature into a shit before shower guy (or meticulous ass-wiper) with a regular scheduled toilet time.
I continue my conversation with Tiffany and realize the jerk-stud guy that I should be ashamed of myself for criticizing is her boyfriend. She talks incessantly about him and his habits and I see she’s really into him. I’m fine with that and figure she must be seeking a mentor to guide her through the workplace and university. I offer her advice for college and that runs the course of our conversation. She does not pry into my private life and I return the favor. It is strictly professional. Two young people (well one is older than he believes himself to be) discussing careers and opportunities for success.
Well that was before the text messages started. In a sudden flurry of interest Tiffany began a series of text messages that became naughtier as time passed. The messages started as typical complaints about the workday and then somehow progressed to “I hope you enjoy” texts with semi-nude camera phone pictures attached. Actually “semi-nude camera phone pics” is not an adequate description, they were in fact glamour shots. It looked as if she constructed a set, hired a costume and lingerie designer, and struck poses so fierce that even the platinum hair guy from America’s Top Model might be satisfied. She modeled with her breasts squeezed together and nipples erect. In other pictures she bent over on all fours filling the camera with her black man’s weakness. I was nearly satisfied and hadn’t even come close to touching her.
Tiffany and I then made plans to meet on a Friday night. As the day approached I was unsure of what to expect. She arrives in the biggest god damn pickup truck I’ve ever seen a woman drive. Of course this has nothing to do with the story, but I simply found that interesting. Once inside we exchange an awkward “I don’t know if we’re there yet hug.” I offer her a drink and she quickly obliges. Ok, good. Misdemeanor number one, furnishing a minor with alcohol, wasn’t so difficult. After a couple of drinks she pulls out her I-pod and asks if I like Dane Cook. I think “uhmm, well…hell naw. You have any Dave Chapelle?” Instead I say, “yeah he’s cool.” And that was the only encouragement she needed. She whips out the portable speakers and the two of us get down with Dane.
After an hour of listening to Dane describe his first blow job, the mood is set. Tiffany’s exuberant laughing has landed her prone on the couch. As her face comes to a rest near my lap I feel as I did during after school naps as a teen, in which I would slyly give the bottom half of Mom’s bed at least two powerful pumps during the course of my siesta. Even though my parents were also in the bed watching Oprah and I was “sleeping,” I felt it was my duty to oblige what nature had caused. And so it was with Tiffany.
I glance at Tiffany’s purse and notice she’s carrying a toothbrush. She might as well been carrying condoms marked with my initials, as it’s obvious she has plans to stay the night. I awkwardly stretch downward to give her a kiss her and feel the want in her breath. I then pull her on top of me for an early view of those breasts that will one day hang low. I roughly stroke and uncover what my eyes had stalked. Although I’m not typically a breast man, I tend to become one when two big titties are in suckling range. After feeding for a couple minutes Tiffany asks “Do you want a drink?” I’m in freak mode at this time so I figure her titties must do something special, like stretch over her shoulder to feed a crying African child in a twig sling-ring or lactate despite not giving birth I quickly realize she means more alcohol, so I hurriedly get up and pour two tequila shots. We drink up and I follow with a chaser of teenage nipple …deee-licious.
After this initial night together Tiffany and I would maintain a simple and comfortable relationship for the next six weeks, until she unexpectedly showed at my apartment. I was in the company of another young woman (with hips and thighs so round I felt like thanking the guy that had twice impregnated her and foolishly left) and failed to answer my cell phone that kept vibrating every 10 minutes. I briefly leave the apartment to grab my clothes from the washer and return to see Tiffany knocking at the door.
My heart jumps like it did in kindergarten when I accidentally let out a noxious fart whose sound was exacerbated by the friction of ass sitting Indian style on thin, cheap carpet. The fart was supposed to be silent and only somewhat deadly, but instead the entire class heard, smelled and laughed at my gastric issues. I’m 20 feet away from the door when Tiffany turns and spots me. Shit, too late to turn back around and hide out for five minutes. In her youthful naiveté she says “Hey I was calling you, why didn’t you answer?” In a hushed and serious tone, with a hint of territorial annoyance, I say “Sorry I’m busy and you can’t just show up here.” Her expression drops as if she heard Hannah Montana will cancel the final leg of her North American tour. Despite Tiffany being in a relationship of her own, she replies with a sarcastic and disgusted “sorry.” She turns and walks away, perhaps a bit less green and more mistrusting of men, but still only 18. I go back in my apartment, ashamed at the predicament and maybe a bit more mature, but still only 28 years old going on 19.
Dirk! I understand. A Shady Woman Almost Got Me Fired! (excerpt from The Imperfect Enjoyment: 40K PLAY)
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Short Stories
BUT SHE DOESN’T STOP THERE. Not even a week later I get an email from Human Resources asking if I’m free for a meeting that afternoon. Shit. I write back, “Sure. Can I ask what this concerns?” The HR director replies, “I just need to discuss a few issues with you.” Goddamnit. What have I done? I know I slack off every now and then, but everyone does. But what about those silly forwarded emails I’ve opened, like the one with the PowerPoint attachment entitled “Ass Galore”? Well, I didn’t really mean to open them; I just had to investigate to make sure they weren’t viruses that could destroy the company’s entire network. Shit, I was saving the tech department time and trouble.
Alright, I’ll stop lying. Maybe I did look at a few emails I shouldn’t have while at work. But what working man doesn’t have at least a few titties and a couple of asses on his hard drive? It’s not like I’m running wild and banging my co-workers. Well, I’m not anymore.
I go upstairs to meet the HR director. I try to walk in calmly, as if I don’t have a care in the world, but nervousness causesme to scratch the top of my head. I take a seat and the woman in charge greets me with a smile. This could be trouble. I’ve seen her enough times to know that she turns red when she smiles for real, and right now she’s Nordic white. She leans forward in her executive chair, preparing to throw a verbal dart. I blank out, as I often do at work, and stare at her short hairdo. It’s extremely well kept, without the use of product. She has great Afro potential. If she were black, she could be on a level reached only by Julius Erving and Angela Davis.
“So, how are things? Are things with your staff going alright?” she asks. Shit. I need to snap out of it and say something semi-intelligent. “Oh, yeah. Things are going fine. Recently I’ve been trying to develop a more focused outreach strategy for staff, so we’re targeting areas that are most likely to come to us for services.” “Well, that’s good you’re able to provide them with direction.…Well, Dewan, the reason I wanted to meet is to discuss Karina, the medical assistant at the East County clinic. Are you familiar with her?”
I think, “Hell, yeah, I’m familiar with Karina. I hit that a few times.” Instead, trying not to smile, I say, “Yeah, I know Karina.”
“Well, are you aware that she’s expecting a baby really soon?”
“Yeah, well she was definitely pregnant the last time I saw her … the last time I saw her in the office.”
“Well she has said that … apparently, you are the father of her child and are refusing to acknowledge this. She’s talked to quite a few of her co-workers and the word has gotten around. I was just wondering if everything is okay with you.”
That bitch. Not that it’s right to hit a woman, but Karina deserves at least a chop to the throat.
I try to keep my response short, sweet and not to the point. I reply, “I’m doing fine.”
“But as far as the situation with Karina …”
“I’ll be honest. Karina and I had a relationship. We just kind of knew each other from the office and it went from there.”
“Well, it’s not against our policy for employees to date, but when the relationship starts to affect the workplace, it becomes a problem—for everyone involved. So what’s this matter about a baby?”
“Well, I’m not the father of her child.” Talk about sounding like a stereotypical Negro.
“So is she just making all this up?”
“Yeah. She even told me herself that I’m not the father. Look, I don’t want to talk bad about her, but she lives with some other guy in Tijuana. She even said that he’s the father.”
“Well, then, why would she go around saying all this?”
“I guess she just feels bad because we were kind of dating. Or maybe she really did think that before. I don’t know. She’s says a whole lot of things. We don’t really talk anymore, so I can’t really say what she’s thinking.”
I’m not sure that HR is buying this. Any second I expect to get that speech where they tell you that even though you do great work, you’ll need to pack your office and be escorted out the building.
I continue, “I’m just trying to move on now. I’m seeing someone and I want that to work out. I’m not mad at Karina about anything, but I just wish she’d stop saying things that aren’t true.”
“Okay. I’ve heard about this sort of thing happening before. You have to realize that as a successful young man you’ll attract a lot of attention, sometimes from people who don’t have the best intentions. I mean, look at this place; for the most part it’s only women who work here. ”
I think, “Yep, I’m well aware of that.”
Feeling overly sorry for myself I say, “Yeah, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Obviously I was thinking about that ass and those titties and the chance to lose my born-again virginity. But I don’t need to say all that.
“Well, okay. I just wanted to see what exactly was going on.
I’ll still need to let Brenda [the CEO] know. We’ll need to keep a record of this in your file.”
“Okay, well, I guess there’s not much I can do about that.”
Hallelujah—and I’m not even saved. Never mind retaliating against Karina, I just need to forget this mess before I end up broke again. I’m sure to some extremely horny or tragically lonely people sex is worth forty thousand dollars a year, but losing my job over Karina—hell to the no!
Gay Urkel: My Big Break on “The Young Turks”
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
I hear a tearing sound as I kneel to grab my bag. I then pat myself down and find that two inches of cheap H&M cotton have split. An equal amount of Will Smith colored flesh is now revealed. If this had happened any other day at least my boxer briefs would have shown through. But like a dumb ass I’m wearing my almost-bikini briefs. (Note: I was inspired by the boisterous female reaction to the David Beckham Armani underwear ads so I picked up an imitation pair from Marshall’s). So here I am headed to my first big television interview on “The Young Turks” to discuss my book The Imperfect Enjoyment, while looking like a reject male stripper.
I hit the highway from San Diego and arrive in Los Angeles about two hours early for my interview. With time to spare I hang out in Little Ethiopia and have lunch; lamb chunks and brown curry to be eaten East African style, without the aid of utensils.
The dish is well worth the $12. It tastes rich, even a bit sweet. However, five minutes into the meal my guts begin to get upset. I don’t feel as if I’ll immediately need to go to the bathroom, but I know if I continue to eat I’ll set myself up for a boo-boo burn. In case you’re unaware, it’s when you eat the wrong foods, do a number two and afterwards your asshole feels like its on fire. I mean it’s a real burning sensation, as if you just wiped with a cayenne pepper. Anyway, back to the story. I pack up the meal and leave.
Since “The Young Turks” is taped within walking distance of Little Ethiopia I end up roaming the streets in search of a beer to settle my stomach. Unable to find a bar open at 2pm I stop in the Sizzler. I stay for about 90 seconds, too many old people here. While seniors are cool and I like how they always appear to be chewing despite not having food in their mouths, I’m ashamed to get an afternoon buzz in front of them.
I finally end up at a Mexican restaurant surrounded by worker bees and a few tourists. With an hour to spare before the interview I grab a table and throw back three Newcastles. Despite the discouraging statement from the waitress who after the second beer says “You no get food?” I enjoy the time to get mentally prepared for my internet television debut.
I make my way to the studio slightly buzzed where I am greeted by Associate Producer Ana K, and her tits. Believe me man, her cleavage is impeccable. Between her breasts is an open space of only 6.5 centimeters. If the space was any wider it would set off my silicone alert, any narrower and it would seem she’s trying too hard. Who knows…perhaps she does fiddle with her bosom before work, placing her gifts in the perfect position, sort of like the great Aaliyah would do when she wanted her bangs to cover her left eye.
Wake up man! Ana opens the studio fridge and asks if I’d like some water. I happen to spot a few MGDs looking cold and lonely, so I say “Oh is it okay if I have a beer?” Yep I know…give a Negro an inch and he’ll take a mile. Why? Because we’re still waiting on those god damn 40 acres.
Kind as can be, Ana obliges and leads me into the waiting room. I sit here sending texts to friends and asking them to log on and watch the show. I’m then called to set (for my people in Cleveland that’s Hollywood talk) and quickly make myself comfortable in the chair. I think “make sure you speak up.’ During an earlier radio interview my voice was too quiet and soft; I ended up sounding like a white-washed Snoop Dogg.
I take a seat behind the news desk with the host Cenk Uygur. Apparently he is in the running for a hosting job at MSNBC. Confident, possessing a booming voice and skilled in rhetoric I’m sure he has a more than good chance. Besides he has what all television personalities must have to achieve stardom…a large head. I thought my cranium was huge, but god damn! His shit made mine look like Bettlejuice from the Howard Stern Show. For a second he was rocking side-to-side in his chair while trying to organize papers and I thought “Come on man watch the dome, that boulder is dangerous!”
We start the interview and it flows much like a normal conversation. But keep in mind a normal conversation with me is full of giggles, stutters and space outs.
Nearly 15 minutes later my interview IS over (you can check out the video below). I walk off the set, met a good brotha named Jayar who’s also a producer on the show and make the two mile walk back to my car.
Outside of not plugging the book enough I feel good. Definitely had fun, host was easy going and everyone laid-back and polite. A post-show happy hour would cap the afternoon off right, but of course they have to work to do.
But evidently some the viewers don’t feel the same about my interview. Weeks later, after it was posted on The Young Turks Youtube channel it received a couple thousand views…and about 40 not so kind, but still hilarious comments. One guy called me Urkel, another questioned my heterosexuality, while someone else said I had no life experiences and lacked substance.
I guess my childish features led them to believe I’m not capable of partaking in stereotypical Negro acts, namely seeking revenge for the slightest disrespect. So what did I do? I sent a select few of the haters a personal email via Youtube. Not to talk shit, but just to let them know I actually read book reviews, interview comments and miscellaneous internet bullshit. My messages varied from “I’m the sexiest Urkel ever” to “If you call getting a lot pf pussy gay, then I’m guilty” and of course I plugged my book.
The following morning I get a Youtube message back from one of the culprits. He wrote something like “No disrespect brotha. You gotta have a lot of brain power to start teaching at 22. But you still got that Urkel look.” I got to give it to him that was a pretty good joke. Now if I find a picture of him…
And get this, another one of the haters replied with a fairly long email listing six reasons why he KNOWS I’m secretly gay, including: The title of my book, because I left a smiley emoticon in the earlier email, because I have a nervous giggle and some other stuff I’d expect to hear from Ms. California. Then he proceeded to talk about how in communities of color there are a lot of down low men in churches and so on. (He must be a big Oprah fan). Finally he ended his message by saying it’s “probably not really you writing me anyway.”
My responses remain calm as we go back and forth for a couple emails. Eventually he quasi-apologizes and wishes he would have “pressed delete instead of send.” I plug my book to him and explain that if I were gay I’d be out the closet and extra fabulous. I close the message by writing “purple is my favorite color, Coldplay is my favorite band, I happen to like fashion and I even leave J in my emails…this doesn’t mean I like men.”
Educate, educate, educate. Everyone reading this please do me a favor and take the time to NOT ignore the ignorant. Well, with that said…a girl has to run. Oh my God! I need to get my toes did after yoga class and make sure I get home in time to watch “Dancing with the Stars!” And the Lady Gaga concert is this weekend!!! Chow!!!
