Mr Racist

Mr Racist

Ahhh, there is something special in the smell of a southern summer. The magnolias that line our shaded streets. The honeysuckle that embraces your every step. The home made Iced Tea that quenches your thirst and your soul. And that final smell. It’s all too familiar aroma is in the air even to this day, racism. Now, like boiled peanuts, you can’t find it everywhere, but it’s there. And like boiled peanuts, you probably know someone who is all about it.

If there were ever a post where I would love to reveal the true identity of the person whom the post was about, it would be this one. Not to be mean, or vindictive, but in the hopes that he could learn from his actions. Oh screw it. I want my cousins Pookie and Ray Ray to beat his ass. But that is not the woman my Nana raised, and so, I will simply call him, Mr Racist.

Mr Racist and I met through mutual friends. I have to admit, he was so my type. Funny, attractive, a cross between Paul Rudd and David Schwimmer, walked into a room and good times were always had, successful, focused and a great kisser. (This is where the compliments stop). Like many before him, things started as a random hook up. And I was kinda fine with that. But then it turns out, he was actually pretty good. (Ok, no more compliments after this.) So we hooked up a few more times. And he totally had me, when the second time we got together he offered to make me dinner, and actually did.

Now for me, I was fine with our arrangement. It was nothing serious, very casual, no weirdness out in public, to be honest, it was kinda fun. It was also great to know that people would have been completely shocked if they knew we slept together, and I enjoyed that fact. This went on for about a month, and again I say, I was fine with this. But then the turn happened. How men can ruin a perfectly good arrangement like this, I will never know. But he ruined it.

Now fellas, we have heard many lines to get us out of your bed and to stop the “relationship”.

  • “Let’s be friends”
  • “I’m not looking for something serious right now”
  • “I have a lot on my plate”
  • “The timing just is not right”
  • And the classic “It’s not you, it’s me”
All of these work in almost any situation, and if that was what Mr Racist was going for to end our little bedroom antics, any of these lines would have worked just fine. However, he did something so unexpected, so off the wall, so totally low, that there really is no words…well, now there’s this blog. 
One night, after a quite enjoyable session, while still wrapped up in my sheet, laying on his bed and the sweat not yet dry, he looks over at me with some hesitation. They say timing is everything, and I was about to witness that his sucks. He proceeds, “Desiree, you’re such a cool girl”, this start is never good and NEVER ends well. So I prepared myself for the “but” and mentally got my clothes ready for the drive back to my apartment. He continues, “We’ve been having fun and all, but I just don’t think my friends would think to highly of me dating a black girl.”
Ok, if you know me well enough, you know that I was conflicted on what to do next. On one side, the ghetto in me, be it small, was thinking “I know this cracker didn’t and I am about to whoop his ass!”. But then there is the sweet, more rational side, and that is what he got. All I could say as a I barely looked at him was “Really?”. He tried to explain and to be honest, I don’t remember much of what he said. I was hurt, insulted, upset, humiliated and just plain ole pissed. I picked up my clothes and got dressed, he was still talking and I was still walking. 
We saw each other a few times around town after that. I was always cordial and polite, just like my Nana would have wanted. But secretly I wished I had done more. I wished I could have made him wear a sign that says “I love fried chicken, but not screwin it”, or maybe something more clever. I wanted people to know what a jerk he was. I am not really sure if he said what he said to get me to leave, or if he truly felt that way, in any event, he was wrong. It’s my wish that he has learned something from this. Maybe he might have even fell in love and married a black woman. That, or I hope he got his car stolen on MLK Blvd. in Atlanta. 
Either way, Kharma is truly a bitch, and her name is Sho’Nequa.
Mr Best

Mr Best

There is nothing more dangerous than the male ego. So I shall put a warning to this post. If you think Mr Best is about you, you are probably wrong, because what made him Mr Best was the fact that he was so humble. Oh, and he was amazing, among other things.

So let’s be honest, there are times that we do things against our better judgement, as well as the better judgement of our friends. I did Mr Best against my better judgement. Not that he was such a bad guy. And not that several of my friends knew him. Simply that, I went into my “relationship” with Mr Best knowing it was only going to be the basic of all great sex, The-On-Again-Off-Again-In-Between-Relationships-Partner. Ok, Ok, I didn’t know that at the time, but that is what it turned out to be. It also turned out strangely, to be one of the most healthy male friendships I have ever had. Because Mr Best gave me what ever woman does NOT want: a completely honest, unabashed, brutally truthful look into the male mind.

If the book “He’s Just Not That Into You”, were a person, it were Mr Best. And what was so wonderful, was that he did not act like some macho pig out to educate me. Instead, he became like my sexual Mr Miagi and I ended up doing some crazy crane practice on a dock.( or mattress ) . Either way, what made him Mr Best was that I constantly learned from him. Not just about the things that men enjoyed, but the things that I enjoyed. It’s funny. We think we know what we like, what we enjoy, what really turns us on. But do we?

It’s not until you come across someone who challenges all of your theories and notions about love, sex and relationships that you realize, this is all a continual process. Kinda like when your kids are grown, you still learn something about parenthood. So other than being my Yoda, what made him so wonderful?  Well, he was your average guy. Not some guy you would see and say “Whoa, I bet he is amazing in bed.” He was a guy I knew through friends, that I got to know better through school and work. Simply put, he was just That-Guy-I-Saw-Around-Town. And one night after some drinks, it happened.

Alright kids, this is where you want me to tell you that it was mind blowing and that I could not feel my toes. Well, I would be lying. It was good. I mean, it was just that, good. And it was maybe a few weeks before it happened again. Then the strangest thing occurred . The thing that we women sometimes secretly yearn for, but are too embarrassed to admit. One night after sex, we started to…talk. We talked about all the things that we didn’t understand about the opposite sex, all of our turn-ons and turn-offs, and then an even more amazing thing happened…he listened to me. But then there was a problem. I started dating someone. And because I believe in being fully invested in one person at a time, I had to sadly, let Mr Best go. But guess what? He understood! And he didn’t act weird about it!

In fact, he was the person I went to when I needed advice. He was my sounding board and I in turn, was his. When that relationship ended, we picked up where we left off. Now in the Harry met Sally world, this is where a tricky, complicated relationship would start, but it didn’t. He forced me to break out of my shell, to think outside of the box. To learn more about the whole process and not just the act. I mean, I thought I was ok before, but now I learned that it was more than just thinking how you perform, but it was equally about knowing and understanding your partner. In otherwords, I learned to grow up.

I owe a lot to Mr Best. I am sure I might even owe a Pulitzer to him. But I am grateful that the greatest lesson I learned about being a woman, I ended up learning from a man.

Mr O

Mr O

They say that somewhere, far away in a magical land; a land of fairies, princess, dragons and unicorns, lies the greatest mythological creature of them all….the female orgasm. It has rarely been seen, often occurred falsely and sonnets have been created to praise it.
When it came to me, this mythological creature was just that, a myth. I had been having sex for years…YEARS! And never had an orgasm. Ok, now this is where it gets tricky. You would assume, gentlemen, that each time we engage in a sexual act, we have that big “O” moment. Well, like there is no Santa, there is no truth in that statement, either. And being a professional singer/actress, some of my best work has been done horizontally.
But then I stumbled upon it. On a sunny afternoon, while sleeping with my current flame, there it was, my first orgasm. We shall call it, Mr O. Mr O and I had been friends for years. We had a lot in common: military, friends, classmates, colleges. He was and still is a really great guy. (And he will tell you that too.)
 But though we had great sex, I still never experienced the allusive orgasm. At this point I seriously thought, there was something wrong with me. And the funny thing is, I found that most of my girlfriends felt the same. If we aren’t having that big moment, it must be our fault. But if a horse doesn’t win the Kentucky Derby, is it his fault, or the person riding it? Well, if you look at it that way, it can be said, that it is the fault of both. But I would like to think it’s the jockey who holds most of the responsibility.
Now, I would like to go on record by saying, that Mr O, has always been amazing. Pre orgasm as well as post. And I am happy that my first “O” was with him. He was older than me, more experienced and very talented. But the quest for the “Big O” was something like a great romance, it happens to sneak up on you, when you aren’t looking for it. On this sunny day, we decided to engage in a little “Afternoon Delight”. The song now holds a special place in my heart.
Nothing was being done out of the ordinary on both of our parts. Yes, it was a bit complicated in my small day bed that I had had since my freshmen year of college, but no new moves, no new technique, but still, quite amazing. And then, it happened. Just as an unexpected surprise, it arrived, my first orgasm.  Ok, I will admit, I became a bit emotional, but I didn’t want Mr O to know that. I also didn’t want to deal with the inevitable conversation of “You don’t have an orgasm every time we have sex?” Ugh, you men are so judgemental sometimes. So I lay there, deep in my bliss and a single tear welling up in my eye. I looked at him and remember grinning the dumbest, biggest grin in the world. And he rolled over.
That’s ok. This was my moment. My joyous occasion. My newest, biggest toy on Christmas morning that I get to bask in the complete and utter joy of it. Until I decide that I want another, only bigger and better. It was years later that I told Mr O that he was my first. “I was your FIRST?” he asked. No, not like that “You were my first orgasm.” And then, much like I did that day, he gave me the dumbest, biggest grin in the world.