ooh he so sweet

make me wanna lick the wrapper.

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operation: benetton ad.

you see, lovely blog readers, your protagonist has a bit of an issue.

i haven’t had sex in a while, and really good sex (also known as having my back blown out) is such a distant memory that i’ve got a better chance of recalling my life in utero than recounting any details of sexual exploits. so, in what i’ll call my months of solitude, i’ve had the opportunity to think really hard about what i want when i get back out there. i’ve pined away over my usual celebrity eye candy (mos def, chiwetel ejiofor, christian bale, don cheadle, q-tip, et al) and had a few moments to reminisce on past crushes/ eye candy (one time for marvin from trader joe’s and that fine-as-all-fucking-getout dude who used to ride the same train i did a few yrs back). but what i haven’t actively had was some kind of glimmer of hope. anyone who’s really legitimately a potential boo for me. crushes and eye candy won’t do. going back to former paramours won’t work — if they were what i wanted, they would not be formers! instead, i need something new, something fresh . . .

enter operation: benetton ad.
it all started w/ the idea i’ve been kicking around for quite some time: the concept that i should possess a stable of he-bitches of all colors, shapes, and sizes. i mean, why not? i can’t seem to get precisely what i want in one place, so why not split it up? go on foreign film dates w/ my art nerd, hit happy hour with the lush, cuddle up next to the around-the corner boo, have the sponsor get me that dress i want, and quite possibly have one strong backed strapping individual to have me grinning consistently whilst walking crookedly.

well, lo and behold, the warm winds of late spring and summer have blown a lot of newness my way. first, there was that lovely piece of curly haired extra gorgeous southerner, in town for a conference. swarthy, as white folk tend to say. mmm, mmm, mmm. he has a girlfriend and lives far away from philly, so i’ll leave him where he is. until/ unless there’s a reason not to.
second, there was the lite brite (translation: he looks like christopher williams might could be his daddy) from the starbucks near my job. i think he might be slow. but he’s nice to look at. eye candy is important. there’s a young asian man whose family owns the nail salon i go to. he is SO PRETTY. and a youngin. he’s legal, though. seems to be unreasonably interested in the things i use to adorn myself (earrings, bangles, sneakers, nail polish colors). i like him, though, and wouldn’t mind sitting on my sofa w/ him while he paints my toenails. there’s a chicano in the mix, too. he seems to be focused on marrying me and figuring out how on earth my spanish is as good as it is. he makes me laugh. sometimes. the language barrier is interesting.

and then.
lawdy JEEZUS.

today, i met a fine ass barber who gave me his card and said he’d cut my hair tomorrow . . . LORDY BE, I CAN’T TAKE IT.
he’s covered in tattoos. amateurish ones that scream “i’ve been into some bad shit in my life,” and he has the unmitigated gall to smell good. lord help me!
he is, in the words of my beloved uncle, “niggafied.” that’s what he calls any non-black person w/ the most black american swagger ever.
i mean, i prefer to just say he’s very much an around the way asian dude
but the swagger
he got that big dick swagger i tend to only see in black men and others who’ve been victimized by the prison industrial complex.

WOOT

*fannin myself*

but yeah.
i’m building myself a stable so i can get what i want until i’ve had my fill. currently, i’m not even close to being done!

U-N-I-T-Y, that’s a unity . . .

addendum: in my infinite wisdom and continual quest for creative ways to express myself, i have decided to regard to the stable of he-bitches as he-bees. that is, i am a he-bee keeper, and i’m going to be maintaining an apiary of dick. buckwild apiary’s mission statement soon come.

okay. i think i found the right ones.

the right shoes.
i need the right dress/ skirt & top combo.

behold the greatness:

they aren’t cheap. they aren’t crazy expensive, either. they’re definitely my idea of a conversation piece . . . cuz heaven knows my ass doesn’t plan to go very far in them. heh.

i suppose that if you’re gonna do fuckme pumps, you’d best be doing it all the way. i am. i will. in black and in red patent.

dear andre 3000:

i know you said you were tired of rapping.
but, you have lain to waste every single song you’ve appeared on between the release of idlewild in 2006 & all your guest spots & class of 3000, vol. 1 album. do you think that maybe, just maybe i could get to see you on tour sometime up close & personal before i die? you don’t have to do any big outkast tour. it could be you just showing up at a big boi / purple ribbon show. somethin. maybe the next time i catch an esthero show, you’ll pop up. or something like that. i’m not asking for a whole lot, man. i swear. i just need to witness your gloriousness in person. i won’t try to snatch you off the stage. i won’t try to get backstage and get pregnant by you. i really won’t. i just need you on stage while i’m screaming/ singing my head off. really. it won’t hurt. i promise it won’t. please.

please?

thanks.

feeling like my fulfillment is on hold

like i have to shake my ass a lil harder for those tips
smile bigger when they ask how i’m doing, so massa & them don’t know i’m planning to leave
i’m growing impatient &
full of myself, certain that i’ll strike when the iron is hot
my hands itch to pull at that other shoe, instead of letting it drop on its own
trying to slow this mess down just enough to savor the last days

i’m more aware now than ever of how this is gonna go down,
where my support comes from
what i need to leave alone
& ultimately, i’m fully able to see where i ought to be
what steps to take, where to plant my feet.

i just have to breathe & take care of this stuff first.
the babies will come
the money will come
the new home will come.

i just have to make it so.

jonathan haagensen: the remix.

would you LOOK at that gloriousness? good god almighty. so what if i’m 3 years his senior? that doesn’t matter. so what if i only know how to say “bom dia” to portuguese speakers without second guessing myself or thinking i sound crazy? he can teach me the same way nettie taught celie to read in the color purple — w/ wax paper, crayons, & everyday household items. we can skip the whole oliver twist thing. i don’t like that book. i’ll read the alchemist or veronika decides to die instead. yup.

(if you’ve never seen city of god, you lose. go see it. dig him as cabeleira (‘shaggy’) & understand the gorgeousness.)