"A lot of men can't tell you what it means to be a man because they were never allowed to learn. They were only taught patriarchy."

 --@Anti_Intellect

(via Tudo Bom(b))

I wanna play in his hair...

Reblogged from Fuck Yeah Curls Curls Curls

A Curious Case of Flirting Failure

I had an interesting encounter with an unknown gentleman last night.

I went to see Chrisette Michele at the Howard Theatre. I didn't go with RG. I didn't go with my Live Soul Meetup group. I didn't reconnect with a friend I hadn't seen in a while at a show. Nope--I went all by myself. If EY read this blog, she'd be proud of me. I'll admit I was kind of nervous about it, though, especially because it was a seated show, and I wasn't looking forward to being awkwardly placed at a table with people who knew each other well (or were tryna get to know each other a little better)...

Luckily, I got there early enough to snag a seat at the bar. I was sitting by myself, not looking at the drink menu because I knew what I was going to order, and rather reading Asses to Asses, Bust to Bust on the Kindle app on my fancy new Android MP3 player (on which I'm currently writing this post). So there I am, reflecting on my experiences with casual sex as I read the first chapter, when a guy comes and sits to my right. I'd been angled a little to the left, so I turned to face the bar so as to size him up in my peripheral. He was cute enough and had some style--I decided I would definitely talk to him.

He initiated the conversation. He'd been poring over the drink menu for a few minutes when I ordered mine. He said he'd been thinking about getting that and asked if I'd had it before, which led to who we'd each seen at this theatre before, which led to how long we've been in DC, what we do, where we went to school... He was 25 and had just finished getting his Master's in Education. My alma mater wowed him, as it tends to do, and he applauded my decision to take some time between undergrad and grad school, because he didn't and it wore him out.

These normal getting-to-know-someone-new questions quickly grew into a legitimate and interesting conversation. He asked me how I was liking the diversity in the District, and was "fascinated" by the fact that I'd found my first Black community at Princeton. We talked about how DC seems slightly Southern to me (I am living in a land of Krispy Kreme stores and wherein strangers will say "Good morning" on their way to work) but radically Northern culturally to a North Carolina-born, Georgia-educated brother like him. We talked about how it hurts him that he could never invite his gay friend to his hometown.

Our conversation drifted back to music a lot, which is natural given the circumstances and the fact that musical tastes were where we had the most in common. He had seen Chrisette's show the night before with friends, and enjoyed it so much that he had to come back. (#impressed) His favorite concert of all time is an artist whom I *crave* the chance to see live. My best concert experience is near the top of his list, and we were blown away by her for the same reasons. We realized that we're both planning to come to the same concert in a few weeks.

He asked me if I was eating and I admitted to having had dinner at home before. He had too. We both paused for a few seconds before both saying we could go for some fries. I hipped him to the bar menu rather than the dinner menu, and he declared that he would buy an order of fries for us to share. He got up to use the restroom and told me to go ahead and put the order in for him. We shared our fries and had a conversation about opening acts (hers wasn't that great). 

He'd mentioned earlier that he was an Alpha, so I brought up how I don't know anything about Greek life because of eating clubs and he showed me a picture of his line brothers while telling me about how much his involvement with the Alphas meant to him. We talked about how moving he found the MLK Memorial and how "DC" I felt on the 4th of July when I watched the fireworks from the Lincoln Memorial. I told him about the great brunch place I've discovered in Dupont Circle and we discovered a shared love of breakfast foods at all times of the day/night. 

He complimented me on my hair and we talked a bit about the "natural revolution" that's going on. He loves it and has been trying to convince his mom to go natural for years. This led to him showing me an old family photo from when he was 8 on his iphone (which had a case that looked like an original GameBoy! +2). I told him about my mom's recent battle with cancer and subsequent head-shaving. We talked about our siblings, how he didn't get close until his older sister until he went to college, and how my little sister was moving in tomorrow (today) to start her freshman year. He later complimented my necklace and we discussed where he might be able to get more bracelets from. 

Our conversation wasn't constant--we were distracted by phones and the music itself, but still, the conversation was good. I realized while he was in the bathroom that I don't think I've ever just opened up to a complete stranger like this in places that aren't the internet. I was surprised by how well our conversation was going, and kind of reassured that maybe I could do first date small-talk less horrifically than I imagined. And then Chrisette started and we stopped talking, but let our knees lightly rest against one another when we turned to face the stage.

About halfway through her set, he called our bartender over to ask for his check. The bartender brought mine as well, and when I dug in my wallet for my debit card, I also got out one of my special business cards with my cell number written on the back. He'd told me earlier that he would probably have to leave early because he was running orientation for parents and students tomorrow at work. I transferred the card to the inside pocket of my purse for easy access when he asked for my number. He kept his phone and wallet out on the bar next to him for another song or two, sometimes picking his phone up trying to sneak some video before he left. I thought about covertly placing my card on top of his wallet, but sneak tactics didn't seem necessary. We'd been getting along great! So I watched Chrisette and waited for him to make the move...

...but he didn't. When she got into her gospel music, which meant she was almost done for the night, he slid his wallet into his pocket, hopped down from his stool, said it was nice to meet me, and was gone, leaving me to wonder if after two initiations on his part, it had been my turn to push things further, or if I'd said/done things to make him reconsider between our fries and our goodbyes, or 498734984 other things. I'm not like, super sad that I'll likely never see him again or anything--I wasn't *that* caught up in him. I'd just thought that things were going well, so was fairly disappointed when things stopped as suddenly as they'd started. #wompwomp

“While I would not choose them as partners, I like some men I know who are sexist in their thinking, men who are liberal, benevolent, patriarchs, because I see other qualities in them that I value. This does not mean I accept or condone their sexism. Knowing that both women and men are socialized to accept patriarchal thinking should make it clear to everyone that men are not the problem. The problem is patriarchy.”

--bell hooks 

"Why'd you let me have the number if you weren't gonna pick up when I call?"

I guess I should give the brotha some credit. It's a legitimate question. 


Let me backtrack. So on the Friday of my first week of work, two days after the man who got down on his knees to ask for my number, a man who had been riding his bike alongside a woman walking on the other side of the street heading in the opposite direction made a dramatic u-turn to come ride alongside me as I was walking home. We were approximately a block and a half from my house. What'syourname? Whereyoustayat? Howlongyoulivedthere--Iain'tneverseenyoubefore. SocanIcallyousometime? 


I answer his questions begrudgingly. I walk slowly. I am aware of the fact that he will probably interpret my slow pace as a sign that I want to be spending time with him in this moment. I most certainly do not. The correct interpretation is, I don't want this man to see where I live. I need to get him to stop walking with (read: following) me before we get to my corner. 


So when he asks if he can call me sometime, I stifle the parts of me that want to say, "Uh...no." and "For what?". All I'm thinking is, 'Please, don't,' but all I say is I guess so...


He jams his knee into a metal fence as he tries to get his phone out of his pocket while on his bike, and I feel bad for the guy. So bad that, in a fit of compassion, I give him my actual number, rather than what I always tell myself should be my usual trick of changing one digit of my real phone number so that it comes out with the rhythm of my actual number.


And he rides off before I've turned my corner, and I feel as if I've safeguarded the location of my secret headquarters. But then, he calls me. That night. Twice. And the next night. And Sunday night at 2:30 in the morning (which, thankfully, does not wake me up). And Tuesday in the middle of the day while I'm at work. I begin to feel bad for the guy. And then I rationalize to myself, well, if he had anything to say to me, he'd leave a message.


Then he leaves a message. And my first thought is fuck, now I have to pick up the next time.


And then I realize, lol wut wait a minute, the fuck am I thinking? No, I most certainly do not. I am no more obligated to pick up because this man keeps calling me than I was obligated to give him my number because he was walking along beside me. I should have just been forthright from the beginning and told him I wasn't interested. Instead, I let myself play mouse to his cat because it was easier. And that disturbs me, when I think about it, but I can't rule out the possibility that he would have followed me all the way to my front door if I'd "played hard to get" told him to get lost.


Unfortunately, I came home later that week to find him hanging out with the guy who lives across the street, so my secret headquarters weren't safeguarded for long. He asked why I let him have my number if I wasn't going to pick up when he called. I wanted to say, BECAUSE YOU WERE FOLLOWING ME. Because I was in a good mood and didn't mind being flirted with at that exact moment. Because I felt bad for you. And outside of that moment, the only thing that was true was that you had been following me and I wanted you to go away. 


I didn't answer. He asked if I'd pick up if he called again. I said maybe. Another blatant lie. But one that shut him up so I could go in the house. (AS IF I NEED HIS PERMISSION TO GO IN THE HOUSE. I DON'T. GRAH.) I shut the door to the sound of him reminding me that he likes "them thick girls."


And when I came out of my house Monday evening and he was leaning against a car parked in front of my door for no apparent reason (which worries me, although he seems to know people who live on my block so it's probably nbd), he said I looked beautiful (which was the point--I was on my way to a concert) and I just said thank you. And thankfully, he didn't call again. 


But when the next one comes along, someone pretty please remind me to give out a fake number. Or, better yet, to just be able to say no, I'm not interested in you. No, I don't want to be speaking to you. No, I don't want you to call me. No.    

True life: I had a man get down on his knees yesterday to beg me for my number.

Yes, I caved and gave it to him. He was on his knees. No, I haven't decided whether I'll pick up if/when he calls. Entertainment potential seems high, but he also seems excessively clingy...

As much as I admire this man's style...

...I feel like it would be too much work to undress him. XD

Reblogged from As far as i'm concerned...

 

Why do I talk to uninteresting/creepy guys that are talking to me?

Just read this on a blog about rape culture:

Women who are taught that refusing to flirt back results in an immediately hostile environment will continue to unwillingly and unhappily flirt with somebody who is invading their space and giving them creep alerts. (source)

And though I try to be good about recognizing stupid things I have been socialized to do and not doing them just because it's more convenient in the moment, I do this all. the. fucking. time.

Okay, well, at least a lot. I can think of a few examples off the top of my head.

Most recently: So I have a new guy's number in my phone. His name is Matthew. He is a grown man. Thankfully, he's pretend-to-be-classy-enough to have given me his number instead of asking for mine, so our interactions will not continue, but let me explain how I came to have Matthew's number.

It was a little before midnight last Monday night. I was standing on the platform at Trenton Transit Station, waiting for my train to take me to Princeton Junction, on my long trip back to campus from my interview in DC. There was a tall pretty cute guy standing to my left, and he caught my eye and I smiled a small smile at him. (This habit of smiling at strangers is something I picked up from my years of working in customer service, and I'm conflicted about whether it's a habit I need to try to break.) I sat down on the train and he sat one row behind me, to my left. As he's sitting, he asks me if this is the local train, and I know it's starting. But then he gets a phone call! He picks up and it's muthafucka this, nigga that, and I have decided that I have no interest in talking to this man. But then he tells whomever he's talking to that his phone is dying and he needs that last bit of juice to last him to NY, so he'll call him back later. Damn. I was almost free from talking to this man. We sit in silence for a minute or so, and then he starts again. I must commend him for his opening line: "Why you got all that hair tied up like that?" (We naturals are known for pride in our hair, I suppose.) I explained that I was coming home from an interview, and he asked me about the position and whether I wanted to move to DC and why and why not Philly or NY? He explained that he splits his time between Philly and NYC, has apartments in both places (the rent for the Manhattan apartment, which is only a few blocks from Penn Station, is $2k a month), and he owns a recording studio and sells cars. He didn't go to college, but his sister went to UPenn. He thought there were 5 Ivies (Cornell, Brown, and Dartmouth weren't on his list. Go figure.) He was talking about how great it is to be able to call himself a success without being in the drug game, and how much satisfaction that gives him, that he makes money cleanly and legally, and I respected that. He was kind of re-vamping my opinion of him until he mentioned that he has a son and he's really cute too. Yes, sir, it's great that you have a kid and evidently like/take care of him, but you are a grown-ass man who runs businesses and has a child and why are you interested in a 21-year-old college student? My answers had gone from being succinct and designed to express non-interest to semi-conversational, but at this point I was just like, wait, why am I talking to his man? Okay, he said I was pretty and he complimented me on my smile and my grey nails and the way I said "they match my suit...which is also grey." So what? (Side note: he also busted right out with "What are you mixed with?" And then seemed dubious of my "nothing recently..." This bothers me on multiple levels and will probably get its own post, so I'm going to move on.) We got to Hamilton and he asked when my stop was and I said next, and he said something that expressed dissatisfaction at this. Later he said, "So how are we gonna do this? You gonna take my number or what?" (Sir, you are not entitled to me. There is no guarantee that we're going to do anything.) I paused and may have "Hmmm"ed, which threw him off guard; he said, "What, you considering it or something?" "Am I not allowed to consider it?" "Well you, like, actually stopped and thought about it. You had me a little worried." I took his number, knowing I would never call it. 

Why did I do this? I have done this before! As long as the guy wasn't rude or legit calling me out on the street like this is an appropriate means of communication, I will generally entertain their advances, regardless of my own disinterest. I suppose I've always just interpreted it as, hey, I'm a nice person, and he doesn't seem to be an asshole, so I'll let him spit game as long as it doesn't seem like it's going to definitively lead anywhere I don't want it to go. Or as you know, I should work on my communication skills, or on talking to "regular" people (yes I know this term is all kinds of problematic; I just don't know a better way to phrase what I mean. Please volunteer one if you have one.) I don't give such guys my number when they ask--"I just don't give it out. It's just a rule I have."--and I won't volunteer to take theirs. But what's making me feel obligated to talk to them? Why do I feel the need to justify why I won't invite these men into my life by giving them my number? Operating under the rule that any men who do not seem like total and complete disrespectful creeps are allowed to occupy my time is...basically wrong on every level. When a guy calls out to me on the street, I will either ignore or flat out reject him (click here and here for interesting stories from my summer in New Brunswick), but on a train I feel like I'd be being rude by not allowing conversation to happen. But this is RIDICULOUS and I need to stop, like, immediately.  

Men Ain't Shit.

I seem to be on the road to self-identifying as a feminist. Some of you might be looking at me like, well DUH, but let me explain: I've always had feminist tendencies. It's funny, but since birth I've had this nagging conceptualization of myself as a person that deserves recognition as such...but I digress. I've always had feminist tendencies. I just used to be wary of downright against calling myself "a feminist." And before you start thinking I'm some little punk, it wasn't because of all of the shit that gets talked about feminists. Who gon' check me, boo?!

My problems with feminism come from its longstanding history of ignoring the particular struggles affecting women who are anything other that White, middle-class, and heterosexual. And yeah, okay, I know the movement is officially for all women now, but honestly, I believe that like I believe Santorum was talking about "blah" people...like hell.

Get at me when you stop producing foolishness like this, feminism. It's like, damn, and I liked SlutWalk too...

I still see the experiences of women of color, queer women, and poor women being addressed primarily by in-group members. I still see personhood being portrayed as Whites-only when feminists report statistics about "Women," "Men," "Blacks," and "Hispanics." (Should I clap that you're trying when you're doing it so very wrong?) And it's just like, while I'm so glad the right to breastfeed at work has become protected by law, I'm just much more concerned with the fact that unemployment is rising for Blacks as it falls for everyone else. 

And yeah, okay, I know that Black feminism is a thing. It's a really fucking awesome thing. And then there's the whole womanist movement, too. And when I discovered these, I got more open to the idea of maybe calling myself a feminist. And when I realized the error of my previously pro-life ways, I got even more open to the idea of maybe calling myself a feminist. And the above photograph says more than I ever can about how the movement as a whole isn't doing nearly enough to address race and racism, but at least part of that needs to be interpreted in a Gandhi "It's not your Christ I have a problem with; it's your Christians" kind of manner. 

And there's another It's-not-your-Feminism-it's-your-feminists problem that I have: man-bashing. I really don't know what it's going to take for people to realize that the celebration of one thing does not necessitate the belittling of its opposite (not that I believe men and women are inherently opposites). It is possible to love one thing without hating its counterpart. I love being Black, but that doesn't mean I hate Whiteness. I'm pro-choice but not anti-children (for other people). I'm pretty sex-positive, but that doesn't mean I'm abstinence-negative. And I can't stand it when so-called "feminists" attack manhood and masculinity, rather than attacking patriarchy. I can't stand it when "feminism" doesn't realize that portraying women as "good" and men as "evil" not only belittles both genders by erases heterogeneity, but is creating the exact same issues that patriarchy creates by portraying men as significant and women as not. By talking about all the things that are "wrong" with "men," these people are just playing into the narrow stereotypes and archetypes patriarchy has carved out for men to exist in. 

Men have emotions. They hurt. They think. They dwell. They worry. They love. They fear. They have stories to tell, too.

And with that, I give you this awesome short documentary I discovered thanks to Tunde (@BrazenlyVirile) today. It's called Men Ain't Shit, and it goes out to everyone who has ever said any version of that statement. (I'm guilty of "Boys are stupid.")


Men Ain't Sh?t from Le Femme Flaneur on Vimeo.
 

This must be "Be a Gentleman Weekend" or something

This guy I met last night takes the cake. He was here from NYC with one of the dance groups on campus, which was having an afterparty of sorts at my eating club's party. He was chilling at the bar for a while while I was on tap duty, and he was laughing/chatting with me and some other hanging-out-by-the-bar-ers. A bit later, when the other people who were at the bar had wandered off, he asked me

Him: Do you know that song about the bartender?
Me: Which one?
Him: The one by T-Pain.
Me: Oh yeah! That's a good song.
Him: Well, I'm in love with the bartender. 
(He is actually combining two songs here, but they're both by T-Pain so I'ma cut him some slack.)
Me: *blushes* (y'all know I can't actually blush, so read this as: smiles demurely and lowers eyes) *rushes off to pour a few beers for the people who have appeared*
(After I've finished) Him: So are you working all night?
Me: No, I get off at one and then other people will be behind the bar.
Him: So maybe later you can come out here and dance with me?
Me: *blushes again* Yeah, I could do that. 


He wanders off elsewhere into the party. When I get off a little after one, I don't see him and am kind of sad. But whatever, I go and dance with some other people, and then I want another drink so I make my way back into the tap room, and run into a friend of mine. She's talking to two guys, one of whom happens to be my suitor from before! He's being a wingman for a friend of his who is trying to get my friend to dance with him, and then he says, "Well I'm going to dance with her," gesturing to me, "so you should dance with him," and we walk off. I was trying to go out to the dance floor, but he says no, we're going to dance right here, so I turn around and start to back up on him. He is impressed by my moves, especially when I bend over for a minute after he suggests we move backwards to the wall so that I can push up on him better, and he puts his hands on my waist tenderly. I put my hands over his, to say that I like their placement, and he interlocks our fingers. Everything about this man cries sweet and gentle, yet strong and forceful enough to be pleasing, and I just want to keep dancing with him. 

So when mere moments later, another man I don't recognize walks over to us to tell him that they're leaving, and he backs away from me without letting go of my hand, I am legitimately saddened. I'm not ready for this to be over. He explains that he doesn't want to, but he has to go--that guy is his ride back to New York. He thanks me for the dance, saying he had been waiting for it all night, and with that he begins to turn away. I let go of his hand slowly as he turns, every fiber of my being screaming reluctance. 

Nothing beats a man who can make me feel simultaneously sexy and respected. And I hate the fact that I don't even remember his name. Ah, what might have been.

[I feel obligated to mention that he was White, but couldn't think of an appropriate place within the story to insert this detail. And since he was here with that group, he most likely breakdances.]   

Shoutout to those guys

who know how to talk to a woman.

Princeton had a Ball tonight--please do your best to refrain from snickering at how pretentious we are--that seemed more like a high school dance than anything else at times. I had a cute dress, matching shoes, fly ass jewelry, and a baller hairstyle as inspired by this video:

Successfully tried it at home:

Anyway, I'm not tryna sound cocky or anything, but quite a few people told me they liked my hair or my makeup or my dress (or any combination/permutation of the above). A few even told me how great/pretty I looked. And all of these things made me blush (kind of) and smile and express much thanks, but none of them compared to when E told me I looked "beautiful." 

Maybe it was a line. Maybe he said that to every girl he saw tonight. I don't care. It didn't matter. In that moment, I felt like he actually saw me as a whole package and liked what he saw. I felt special. I felt...noticed and appreciated. It just makes you feel so good about yourself, as shallow as that may be.


And then later I ran into another friend of mine walking in the door to Charter, the eating club that is the farthest away from campus. I was leaving as he was coming in, and though I'd already run into him a few times tonight, I decided to stop and give him a goodnight hug. I tapped him on the shoulder and he stopped, looked at me, and said that I was "just about the only person he'd stop for in this cold."

Again, I felt like I'd just been honored.


So this is a shoutout to all the guys who know how to talk to a woman. How to make her legitimately feel good about herself (and your relationship, of whatever sort) with just a few words. I want you (and guys like you and guys unlike you and guys who just want to be like you) to know that I appreciate your appreciation. That it will stay with me for the next day or two. That you will be behind the little smile on my face as I finish this post and go to sleep. 

I felt so...visible. These aren't just things people say in social situations because they're deemed acceptable. These things felt meant, and that more than anything else makes tonight memorable and more than worth it.

Problem:

Reblogged from Street Etiquette

I have a tendency to find images like this incredibly attractive. There's something about men who love kids. The problem, though, is that I don't want kids. They can be cute and fun sometimes, but are generally way more work and responsibility and commitment and time and money and dependence than I ever want to insert into my life. Le sigh.

Surprises from men I know:

So it seems as though the decision I came to late Tuesday night has been negated, and this time it's NOT the result of my chronic inability to make up my mind about anything. He gchatted me this evening and asked if I had a minute, which usually means he wants to have a real conversation (as opposed to a hey-how-are-you-blah-small-talk conversation), and I had a feeling he wanted to talk about this even though he told me to not let him talk about it til the weekend (Thursday is basically the weekend, I guess). But the first thing out of his mouth once I confirmed that I did, indeed, have a minute, was that he wanted to veto the idea. And I was surprised because what man turns down the chance to get laid with no strings attached he seemed down when we were talking the other day, but seemingly before I could even process it, my fingers typed "that's fine". And while in my head I was thinking, 'Man it's gonna be hella awkward when he reads the post where I decided I wanted to,' I was actually the most disappointed by losing this opportunity to start the crazy college days I was supposed to be having for the past three years. I think what I realized as soon as he said that was that I'd come up with a lot of "there's not really any reason not to," and that didn't translate exactly into an I wanted to. I want this threesome that's not going to happen; I wasn't opposed to a consolation prize. And I'm ready for a lot of things, but settling for a delicate situation shouldn't ever be one of them. And I don't know why he vetoed it, and maybe I won't ever know, but while I certainly wouldn't call this a pleasant surprise...I certainly don't feel like I've lost anything either. 

And while I was gchatting with him, my best friend from home whom I've felt very distant from recently called me to ask if he could come over. Having basically accepted the fact that I wasn't going to see him again before I left for campus on Saturday morning, I was so surprised to be hearing from him that I stopped to ask if he was okay. He came over and warned me that he might be smelly from work, but I buried myself into him at the front door like I always do and he came in and sat at my kitchen table and teased my little brother while I made him Grape Kool-Aid (it's his favorite), and everything felt normal again. We talked about how school is scaring me a little this year, his new job, how he's scared he doesn't actually want to do anything with his degree, his family's ongoing move, how he wants to get his own place by December, things we'd done together in the past, things we wish we could do together in the near future, weird/interesting things we've watched recently...there were a few lulls, but he and I have had those since we were 13. My mom used to tease us because we'd sit on the phone "listening to one another breathe." Maybe I was expecting the worst when really he's just been busy and my visit home this time was really bad timing. Maybe we just say these things and that the time between now and the next time we'll see each other is too long to keep up the appearance that we still need each other. Maybe it doesn't matter, as long as we keep saying them.  

Sometimes men I will never meet make me happy:

"How do you feel about women rockin natural hair?
L: There’s nothing like a woman who can look good being exactly who she is." --Reblogged from UrbanBushBabes

I'm sure I'm supposed to find something wrong with this

or at least I would be supposed to if I was a hardcore enough feminist, but mannnn...I think this shit is hilarious. Mad props to B for sharing it with me.

Kudos to you, good sir,

for knowing how to compliment a woman. Someone taught you well. Kudos to him or her as well.

The situation: 

Me, wearing my favorite Sesame Street shirt, waiting for the train door to open. There are two cuteish boys standing on the platform in front of the door, waiting to get on. Door opens. Boy A smiles at me. Boy B says, "I love your hair too, miss!" as he's stepping onto the train. I turn around to say, "Thank you!" enthusiastically and genuinely, and walk home with a big old smile on my face. 

He totally could have gotten my number or at least a legitimate interaction if he'd had the time/asked. Because THAT is how you talk to a woman. 

Reblogged from Vibe Vixen

This article made me laugh as I remembered the man who thought calling me Brown Chocolate was an appropriate way to garner my affections:

By Jessica C. Andrews at Vibe Vixen,

"Like most women, men have approached me since I was a child, 10 years old to be exact. Over the years, the attempts to get my number, whether through “Excuse Me Miss” speeches or full-on catcalls, have run the gamut from flattering to downright offensive.
And it seems the older I get, the more lewd and unbearable the approaches are. No matter how fine you are, here are 6 ways to NOT get my number:

1. Call me any name my parents did not give me.

No matter how many times you yell it, I will not respond to “Psst,” “Shortay,” “Yo” “Ma,” and the like. I have a name and approaching me that way will ensure you never know what it is.

2. Refer to me by using a body part, complexion or hair texture.

Men, if you call out a part of my body to identify me (i.e. “shorty with the fat butt,” “the short one” or “girl with the ‘fro”), it will just make me walk away faster. Sure I can put two and two together and figure out you’re talking to me. But guess what? I’m still not interested.

3. Approach a girl two seconds before you speak to me.

Let’s be clear: I don’t expect monogamy from men who holla at me on the street. But if you’re competing with your friends to see how many numbers you can get, or just can’t help but spit game to every girl you see, I am beyond turned off. Please find a whole stadium of seats.

4. Physically touch me.

I’ll never forget the time when I was walking through Atlantic Station and a guy grabbed me to spit game at me. Or the time a stranger on 42nd street cut in front of me and gave me a hug. Touching my body in any way is a guaranteed way to get me to turn down your advances—and run away from you as fast as I can.

5. Send your friend.

Now that we’ve graduated from elementary school, sending a friend to spit game on your behalf is pretty much unacceptable. You’re a big boy and can come up with lines all by yourself.

6. Too Many Lines.

Speaking of lines, I can tell when you’re reciting lyrics from Trey Songz’ latest album and when you’re being genuine. Spitting too much game is a good way to go home empty-handed"

I can haz hipster? Puh-leeeeeaaassseee?

The Black Ivy, reblogged from Street Etiquette

I want some of everything that's happening in this photograph. 

Ain't-Shit Brothas

Someone please explain to me why Negroes men of various races but usually Negroes who ain't shit are always tryna talk to me. What about me gives any suggestion that you are worthy of my time and attention, ain't-shit men? You would think my don't-talk-to-me headphones, neat afro, pink lacy dress, pink hair flower, bead-and-seashell jewelry, and Black Snob bag would do the trick, but noooooooo. You sir [though a sir you certainly are not], will still stare at me while we're on the platform waiting for the train, then follow me up to the same area of the double-decker train, then halfway through our ride move back so you're sitting across the aisle from me, then tap on the seat next to me [where the bag is riding] and ask if you can sit there. Actually, you'll basically whisper it so that I have to take my headphones out. And then when I say I'm good, and try to put my headphones back in and continue my life before I was so rudely interrupted, you will continue talking to me. And because I am incapable of being so directly rude, I cannot bring myself to put my second earbud back in. And suddenly we are having a conversation, though I am trying to be as monosyllabic in my responses as possible. 
Let me explain that you, sir, are wearing jeans, sneakers, a plain white tee, a chain, a cap, and sunglasses. SUNGLASSES. INSIDE. AT NIGHT. ON THE TRAIN. 
Why do you think it's okay to just start asking me all these questions? Like where I'm going and where I'm coming from and where I go to school and what my major is etc. etc. Hmm, our conversation surrounding where I go to school needs quoting:

Juve [this is evidently what his friends call him]: Where you go to school?
Me: Princeton.
Juve: Oh, what school you go to?
Me: Princeton.
Juve: Oh that's a school? Princeton College?
Me: -___________________________- Princeton University
Juve: Oh, but you said you live in New Brunswick? Why you ain't go to Rutgers? Your GPA wasn't high enough?
Me: Princeton is a better school than Rutgers.
Juve: Oreally? 
Me: It's the number two school in the country. It was the number one when I got accepted...
Juve: WOOOOOOORRRRRRRDDDDDDD.

...I can't. This man. After thus establishing that I was way out of his league, he proceeded to tell me his life story about how in high school his GPA was a 2.5 and he wanted to go to Rutgers but they said his GPA wasn't high enough so he went to Bloomfield College but only for a couple years and now he's trying to go to Kean.

Another excerpt, though I can't remember this part verbatim:

Juve: When's your birthday?
Me: January.
Juve: January what?
Me: The 29th.
Juve: Oh so what sign are you?
Me: Aquarius.
Juve: [some of this part is a paraphrase] *pronounces Aquarius incorrectly* *repeats it* Y'all are some good people. Strong and confident. I got this cousin who's an Aquarius. She lives in South Jersey too. She's real good people. She always tellin me what I need to do and helpin me make plans and shit. Yeah Aqauriuses, y'all good people. You seem like real good people too. *pauses for two seconds* Why you ain't ask me when my birthday is?
Me: ...You were still talking.
Juve: *looks skeptical*
Me: When's your birthday?
Juve: Oh, now you ask!
Me: YOU WERE STILL TALKING!
Juve: March.
Me: So you're a...Pisces?
Juve: Yeah!
Me: I had this friend in high school who was a Pisces.
Juve: Oh, was she--she or he?
Me: He.
Juve: Oh. Was he good people? Did you like his personality and stuff?
Me: Yeah, he was my friend. 
Juve: Oh. Well look, I ain't even tryna really talk to you or nothin, but I think you good people, and I could learn from you, cuz you focused, and you could learn from me, so I'm tryna ask if I could be your friend.
Me: -_______________________________- 

Then I get off the train and try to powerwalk away from him but he catches up to me and asks, "Damn why you walk so fast?" and tries to see if I'm catching a cab so we can split it and asks if we're going to exchange numbers and I just look at him. SIR. HAVE YOU BEEN PAYING ATTENTION TO ANY OF MY BODY LANGUAGE OR MY SINGLE-WORD-RESPONSES? WE ARE NOT GOING TO BE FRIENDS. I WANT TO GET AS FAR AWAY FROM YOU AS POSSIBLE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. 

Me: I don't give my number to strangers, sorry.
Juve: But how bout if I call you tonight and we can talk and then we won't be strangers?
Me: I don't give my number to strangers. It's a rule.
Juve: Okay then I'll give you my number...
Me: *rolls eyes*
Juve: You ain't gon call me. How we gon be friends if I can't have your number? 
Me: *crickets*
Juve: We ain't gon be friends are we? 
Me: I'm sorry. I have to get home now. *walks away very quickly, laughing to herself about what a great blog post this will make*

MEN WHO AIN'T SHIT, CONSIDER THIS YOUR WARNING. YOU WILL NOT GET MY NUMBER. YOU WILL GET ON MY LAST DAMN NERVES. YOU WILL BE PUT ON BLAST. So the next time you see a fine-ass woman who obviously has her shit together reading on the train with her headphones in, LEAVE HER THE FUCK ALONE.

This has been a public service announcement.

I don't do casual well.

Let's talk about short-term/casual dating. What exactly is it? How does it work? Is there a difference between say, dating exclusively and being in a relationship? What level of emotional investment should be placed in it? It inherently contains a lack of commitment, right, so does that mean it's okay to be sort of ambivalent about it from the start? Is it, objectively, a good idea or a bad idea? Is it anything other than pointless to date someone who you know you don't want around for very long, who is cute and sweet and fun but not your "type"? [Is cute and sweet and fun and interested in me not enough of a type? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?] Is any relationship social interaction ever really entirely pointless?

The sitch: So there's this guy I've been talking to. We exchanged a few messages, then numbers, which led to these awesome really long text convos we've been having for the past few days. We've been talking about doing things like going on actual dates and cooking for each other. He's decently attractive, taller than me, sweet, cutesy in the way I'm trying to never get caught up in again, into learning even if he didn't go to a great school, and he is easy to talk to. I enjoy having conversations with him and he makes me smile. Oh, and he is arguably very very interested in me--texts everyday and has expressed his desire to "pursue this further" multiple times. 

Doesn't sound like a bad situation to be in, right? So why am I so hesitant? 

When I was telling K about this guy on Monday, I was halfway through my description when he interrupted me and said, "Maya, he is not the one for you." I gave him this look like, Well duh and said, "Yeah I know, but...". He thought that was hilarious, that I was fully aware of that fact but still trying to meet this man for a date on Saturday. And ever since then, either inspired by or unsilenced by this exchange with K, a part of me has been wondering what the fuck I'm doing with this. Am I wasting my time? Or am I arguably just having fun? 

I wasn't looking for any kind of "further-going" when I started this. It's flattering but... how much of this is me liking him and how much is me liking the attention? I am deathly afraid of liking being liked more than liking the person doing the liking. He is not by any standards my "type", though some would argue have argued that the standards one must meet to be my type are too elitist-ly high. I feel like it would be really easy to get into a dating-->dating exclusively-->somewhat like a relationship type thing with him...I just don't actually feel like this is something I necessarily WANT. I don't necessarily strongly NOT want it either. I'm kind of ambivalent. But this is not the place for ambivalence. (Is there ever a place for ambivalence?) As I know all too well, people's emotions and interests and affections and desires are NOT TO BE TRIFLED WITH. I don't wanna be triflin'.

I like this. It's fun. I'm enjoying everything that is happening right here and now. Maybe I should for once in my life make an active attempt to stop worrying so much about silly projections I'm making that may or may not have any relation to my life's actual events. Maybe I should "go with the flow". But going with the flow is what recently got me and someone who was once near and dear to my heart into so much trouble. As a result, going with the flow kind of frightens me right now; going with the flow can get people hurt. But only if you go with it past your comfort zone, right? Only if you go with it to places you know you shouldn't/don't want to be? So as long as I don't MIND what's happening, as long as it's putting a smile on my face, can I just chug along? What about the fact that he seems to WANT this so much more than I do? Am I being fair?

Maybe in light of recent events or maybe just in light of being who I am, I am not sure that enjoying something is a justifiable justification for doing it. But why not? Why can't the fact that i think i would enjoy something be reason enough to do it? Girls just wanna have fun. WHAT ARE THESE STUPID MORALS AND WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM?!  What separates doing something like this from doing something like my I-suppose-you-must-call-it-a-relationship with J? (A few thoughts: I was using J mostly for physical attention, whereas this guy is entirely emotional crack [for now, at least]; I established an end-date for J before we started, whereas I just have the feeling that this won't last; this guy is 1000 times closer to my "type".)

I have an overwhelming desire to want to do things the right way. I don't believe that all is fair in love and war. I do believe that I could enjoy spending time with this man as much as I enjoy conversing with him, which is a good amount. I do believe in the value of reciprocity and in living my life with integrity, which includes being unselfish in my interpersonal relationships. I don't believe I'm giving as much as I'm getting right now. 

...Then again, we haven't met. Case in point: when I told F I was thinking about ending things with this guy, he replied that things haven't even started. So I guess I'll text him when I get off work. And I guess maybe we'll have ourselves an actual date at some point. And I guess I can make up my mind then? It can't be fair to shut the door in his face when he's only halfway inside, I suppose. I suppose I'll just have to make it very clear that, as excited as he may be, I'm just seeing what this feels like. I suppose I am learning to take chances.