FCF: Is the Black woman too intense for the Black man? The viral video Black Marriage Negotiations reiterated media’s obsession over Black Women’s relationship status. The conversation across the board seems to be around Black women desperately searching for Black love but complaining how there are no good Black men. I know I reconsidered dating outside the race especially after watching Tyler Perry’s film For Colored Girls. Frightened by that kind of Black love, I immediately ran to sign up for the online Jewish matching making site Jdate. I met this man who was clearly not afraid of a good time and although the relationship ended after him not wanting to bring me home to his mama, I realized that dating outside the race also has its issues. However, the key take away here is not only did me and Habad have a damn good time at the West Indian Labor Day Parade but that I took the first step towards love and not race. Should the question that we be asking ourselves, is my search for Black love or any specific love keeping me from love ...or from getting laid. I know one thing’s for sure…it’s complicated. I’m Funnel Cake Flowers your Urban Chameleon news reporter from Tickles.TV
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Funnel Cake Flowers comments on our obsession with "BLACK LOVE"
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Jill Scott's 2 cents on Interracial Couples from Essence
You know the moment when you realize that fine, accomplished brother is with a White woman? Let's call it "the wince." Three-time Grammy Award-winning artist, writer, actress, philanthropist, mother and all-around Renaissance woman, Jill Scott gets to the root of our feelings on the matter in the April issue of ESSENCE...
My new friend is handsome, African-American, intelligent and seemingly wealthy. He is an athlete, loves his momma, and is happily married to a White woman. I admit when I saw his wedding ring, I privately hoped. But something in me just knew he didn't marry a sister. Although my guess hit the mark, when my friend told me his wife was indeed Caucasian, I felt my spirit...wince. I didn't immediately understand it. My face read happy for you. My body showed no reaction to my inner pinch, but the sting was there, quiet like a mosquito under a summer dress.
Was I jealous? Did the reality of his relationship somehow diminish his soul's credibility? The answer is not simple. One could easily dispel the wince as racist or separatist, but that's not how I was brought up. I was reared in a Jehovah's Witness household. I was taught that every man should be judged by his deeds and not his color, and I firmly stand where my grandmother left me. African people worldwide are known to be welcoming and open-minded. We share our culture sometimes to our own peril and most of us love the very notion of love. My position is that for women of color, this very common "wince" has solely to do with the African story in America.
When our people were enslaved, "Massa" placed his Caucasian woman on a pedestal. She was spoiled, revered and angelic, while the Black slave woman was overworked, beaten, raped and farmed out like cattle to be mated. She was nothing and neither was our Black man. As slavery died for the greater good of America, and the movement for equality sputtered to life, the White woman was on the cover of every American magazine. She was the dazzling jewel on every movie screen, the glory of every commercial and television show. She was unequivocally the standard of beauty for this country, firmly unattainable to anyone not of her race. We daughters of the dust were seen as ugly, nappy mammies, good for day work and unwanted children, while our men were thought to be thieving, sex-hungry animals with limited brain capacity.
We reflect on this awful past and recall that if a Black man even looked at a White woman, he would have been lynched, beaten, jailed or shot to death. In the midst of this, Black women and Black men struggled together, mourned together, starved together, braved the hoses and vicious police dogs and died untimely on southern back roads together. These harsh truths lead to what we really feel when we see a seemingly together brother with a Caucasian woman and their children. That feeling is betrayed. While we exert efforts to raise our sons and daughters to appreciate themselves and respect others, most of us end up doing this important work alone, with no fathers or like representatives, limited financial support (often court-enforced) and, on top of everything else, an empty bed. It's frustrating and it hurts!
Our minds do understand that people of all races find genuine love in many places. We dig that the world is full of amazing options. But underneath, there is a bite, no matter the ointment, that has yet to stop burning. Some may find these thoughts to be hurtful. That is not my intent. I'm just sayin'. /source from essence.com
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Is Black Love Still Something to Care About?
Anytime someone gives praise to “Black love” I can’t help but chuckle because the term sounds dated plus we don’t acknowledge any other culture’s love like, “Oooh look at that couple walking down the street holding hands that is some real Asian love right there” and we damn sure aint neva heard of someone celebrating white love (have you checked out : I Don’t Care About White love?).Therefore why does Black love get it’s own hand clap?
Looking back, Black love like Black Power was born during a time when Black people needed to define their own existence in a society that excluded them. Given the challenges that a Black man and woman were faced with the idea of the two coming together as a couple let alone staying together was a symbol of strength in the community and surely something to be celebrated. As times have changed and Black people can now sit in the front of the bus and even run a country does the term Back love still have relevancy? Another way to think about this is do the mechanics of making a Black relationship work any more difficult than any other romantic relationship?
Some would say hell to the MUTHAFREAKIN YEA!
Although “Blackness” has been more integrated into society the residue of initial oppression still resides in the DNA, causing one hell of a dynamic of how the men and women can relate to each other. This evolution is speculated to have began during slavery when Black men were completely emasculated in front of their community and more importantly women. This would effect how the two would go on to love, love each other and their children and so was born a perpetuated cycle of dysfunction. It’s no secret that a lot of members of Black families have had to make conscious decisions to break patterns of abuse, which stem from miss placed anger and learn to love healthily.
A lot of Black women today talk about being exhausted by their relationships with Black men as a result of taking on the role of being the “fixer” the fixer of both his and her problems. On the flip side a lot of Black men talk about being exhausted by Black women’s over bearing and aggressive nature, which hurts more than heals. There is still a level of emasculation that many Black men feel today with in society not to mention if they’re with a woman who is financially doing better than them this may cause even more imbalance. In a nutshell, Black women may mean well by trying to make everything right but in the process may ended up stepping on the man’s role and so the dysfunctional love continues.
What becomes even more complex is as Black people, in specific, continue to evolve the ideas of “community” change. Although we’ve come as far as having a Black president many Black communities still need developing, conversations on racism are not over as it is still a fight to be understood and accepted. How this affects “Black love” is that many Black people still look to this union as representing strength and advancement. Some would argue that these people are stuck in a time warp for love is love and should be unattached to color. It’s the irony that comes along with race progress. Some have progressed so much that they don’t need Black love to represent cultural strength and some still need the image to achieve it.
Nia Long was on Wendy Williams the other day talking about her son who attends a predominantly white private school. Wendy asked her, does he know what kind of woman he likes? Nia said that he likes what’s at school because that’s what he’s surrounded by but that she is working on exposing him to Black women and Black beauty however she’s fine with who ever he ends up falling in love with. The reality is images do create culture and it’s something to be conscious of when helping young people to shape ideas.
Regardless of what color of love you find always remember to celebrate real love first and hey if it happens to be Black Love, power to the people.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tiger Woods a Fraud or Flawed?
Queen of the Last Word
Boy does the media take it to anothe
r level when a “scandal” breaks. It’s as if they’re always trying to match the level of coverage of O.J Simpson in the white Bronco. Think about it?
But on another note Tiger Woods is off the hooks and not because he cheated (for I don’t judge) but because of how’s he handled the situation. The fact that this man thinks that he’s really entitled to privacy is hilarious as released in his statement. Uhhm no, you don’t get to be a billionaire without consequences, you’re a billionaire because “we” made you one and there for your life is our entertainment. Furthermore if you really want people to stay out of your bidness, here’s an idea DON’T CHEAT! Especially with a cocktail waitress. I mean how do you really expect that situation to end?
Here’s the thing, in life we are constantly faced with the choice of either taking the red pill or the blue pill. We can either enter the matrix and go down, down, down the rabbit hole or take a cold shower wake up and shake sh*t off. Tiger chose to go down a rabbit hole of stanky danky sh*t.
All that being said, I could care less about this man’s situation for I never held him up to a pedestal. He is human and humans are flawed but anyone who thinks he should lose his endorsements just because he’s cheated is DELUSIONAL. Sorry to tell you but it’s NOT happening. Nike has not displayed a history of dropping a famous athlete for infidelity and chances are won’t be starting now. Come on people this is America, C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me) Now had he hit that woman OH LAWD that would have been another level! His ass might have at least been spanked and sent to bed with no TV.
So now the latest-not only is he not losing his endorsements but apparently there will be a renegotiation of him and his wife’s prenuptial agreement. Before the wife was to get 20 million if she stayed married to Tiger for at least 10 years (5 more years to go!) just because she is seen as the ideal wife (i.e. not pimping a skin care product on the Home Shopping Network) they (Tiger’s people’s) want her to stay! And for this she would be paid what would total to be an estimated amount of 75 million dollars for 7years! (source form sports.yahoo.com) Man oh man when I tell you that these are some rich people’s problems, holla if ya heard. Can’t relate. Can’t relate.
Watching ESP earlier they interviewed the friend, the guy who apparently introduced the wife to Tiger Woods, who said that he owes her an apology for they thought Tiger was a better man. Are you kidding me? They don’t owe that woman nada; she’s getting 75 million out of the deal. Excuse me but do you know how many heartbreaks I’ve experienced and have not gotten sh*t? In fact, some how I ended up owing the dude five dollars.
Sh*********************************t.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Are the “Mistress” and the “Jump-off” the New “Wifey”?
Not too long ago, the “wifey” was a coveted title by many women in relationships. Why? I’m still not quite sure. See, the “wifey” was the woman a man cared deeply about. She was his “ride or die,” the woman he introduced to his boys and the fam. “Wifey” had all the potential to be this man’s wife; but she wasn’t. This is perfectly fine if you have no desires of being married; but, so many women with hopes of being married found themselves stuck in “wifey” territory. At least this was uniquely their domain. Nowadays, women are fine being some man’s side piece. You know that phrase “a piece of a man is better than no man at all”? Well, far too many women believe this and are willing to share a man than to have one of their own.
Recently, I had a conversation with my mom about women in “desperate situations.” Well, actually it was about desperate women. This conversation was sparked after I read an article that attempted to sum up why numbers of black women are single, (like black women are some kind of static being with a one stop fix for them all). The male writer argued that black women are single because their standards are too high. (Like setting standards is a bad thing.) This notion is hilarious to me, because I know several black women that settle for being the “jump-off” or the “mistress” just so they can say they have a man.
Some people may believe the “jump-off” and “mistress” are one in the same. I distinguish them in two ways. First, both married and single men can have “jump-offs” but only married men can have “mistresses”. Second, the “jump-off” is a woman that a man messes around with on the side. There is no emotional connection on his part. She may be emotionally invested, but for him it’s purely physical. On the other hand, the “mistress” is the woman a married man has a full-on affair with; he is physically and somewhat emotionally involved with her. Whether the man is emotionally involved with the woman or not isn’t the point. I’ve heard women say they don’t want to be in a relationship, so they have no problem being the “mistress” or the “jump-off.” For them, it’s more a thing of convenience. If you say so. But I know women that are stuck in these situations and won’t come out for fear of being alone. So I ask, is it the new standard to settle as the “jump-off” or the “mistress” just to have a piece of a man? For countless women, the answer is yes.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing ticklestv@gmail.com
Click here for : How the Urban Chameleon Came to be
Friday, August 28, 2009
I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? Part III
You may have read about an incident that I had a few months ago with a white girl whose boyfriend lives downstairs in my building (click here for: Part I) (click here for: Part II). This was the last time I “Oprah Winfreyed” a white girl and I didn’t think much else of it, but apparently my powers have disturbingly lasting effects whose application could liberate black women all over this country.
It was almost 2:00 in the morning on a Thursday. I’ve noticed that on Thursday nights Mike or Mark or whoever (honestly I refuse to commit his name to memory) has little parties. I mean he’s down there blasting all types of Daughtry and Black Eyed Peas and shit, probably drinking and definitely running his fat mouth. I don’t know what goes on in his life and I don’t want to know, I just lock my door and move through the hallway as quickly as possible on my way in and out. On that particular night I’d met up with friends and came home to find Mark’s girlfriend sitting in the stairwell in her pajamas.
“Hi Regine,” she said flatly, staring me dead in my face with her crossed-ass eyes. Is this bitch on drugs? Why does she remember my name and why is she speaking to me like we’re friends?
“Are you ok?” I was pretty much shimmying past her up the stairwell already but I figured I’d ask. Anything could be happening – maybe she was locked out. Or what if there was a fire? Hell, she might need a tampon – it’s the least I could do after getting a groove on with her man.
“No, not really,” she said with a huff. This is when I realized that her not-okayness was just some corny girlfriend shit. – anyone with a real problem tells you right away instead of getting all Judy Blume about it. I took a second to examine the scene: this chick didn’t have any shoes on and was clutching her cell phone at her side, apparently having asked whoever was on the phone, probably her BFF, to hold on for a minute while she said hello to the Negro Temptress
“Do you need anything?” I asked. Why do I always have to dig the hole deeper and deeper just to make myself feel like a good person? Frankly, if I could work through that tendency in therapy all of the drinking, random sex, and cussing people out probably would never come about in the first place and I’d be considered cured. In reality, I was hoping she needed a glass of water, a call to 911, or $2.00 to catch a bus home. But get what she says:
“Um…no, not right now, I’ll knock on your door a little later.”
What, heifer? It’s 1:45 AM, ain’t no later. Even if there were, this is not a bed and breakfast or some type of open therapy workshop where you can come in here, lay your head on my brown bosom, and talk abut all of the problems you’re having with your blatantly wackass boyfriend. For what? So that I can reveal that I hooked up with him? Or so that he can come knocking on my door looking for you? Why must I be involved and how does any of this benefit me? It was a weird mix between entitled and just retarded. This is where Oprah Winfreying a bitch goes too far – I meant to pacify her not hypnotize her.
“Please don’t.” And that’s all I said as I opened my door and put on an old episode of Living Single to calm my nerves.
I was awake for about an hour after that and could hear her barefoot ass in the hallway on the phone. Just before I fell asleep I heard a door open and close, most likely homegirl giving up and going inside, realizing that her man knows damn well she’s not going anywhere barefoot so he doesn’t have to come chasing after her. I’m sure he’d already fallen asleep with his hand in his pants á la Al Bundy and she came in and hopped into bed with a sourpuss face. Young chick rookie stuff on her part.
But back to me and us sisters. Is a young, white, (possibly chemically imbalanced and cross-eyed) female the most easily-manipulated being on Earth? If so, how can we use that to our advantage? Could the key to black female liberation be found in the process of “Oprah Winfreying” these hoes? It’s certainly worth investigating.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Tryouts for My Negro League: A Little More than Botanical Brunch
As part of my ongoing effort to date Black men in spite of my endless queue of fair-skinned suitors, last week I attended an all-Black black tie event. It seemed like the perfect investment of time and money for a busy Wall Street banker, sistah girl like myself: an evening of dinner and dancing with a self-selected group of young urban professionals all in an effort to raise money for the kids. I was game. And wouldn’t you know it yall, I meant a really chill brother in the process. He was funny as hell, entrepreneurial but not pompous and didn't look at his Blackberry every 2min … I was pleasantly surprised. So, long story short, we exchange digits and met up last Saturday. The problem is that you can't always tell what kind of brotha you're really getting when he's in a uniform suit. Regardless, we still made plans to hang out. The goal was to do something other than the typical dinner and/or drinks so we decided to check out Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and grab a late Brunch. Little did I know just how “out of the ordinary” our rendezvous would be.
And so there I was patiently waiting for him amid a sea of hydrangeas, when the following pink object moved into my line of sight:
“Oh lord.” I thought. “You have got to be kidding me.” But it was no joke yall! My ass had trekked it all the way to Brooklyn (I live in Manhattan … no, not Harlem, just Manhattan … don’t judge), and here I was about to spend the day with the damn Easter Bunny? Lord-a-mercy. Now it's not like I was expecting the brotha to show up in black tie but this is not what I call casual Saturday attire.
Yall shouda seen the looks on the faces of the kids! They weren't sure if he was pimped out Easter Bunny or a Power Ranger pimp … maybe a Tell-a-Tubby pimp? It was Hilarious! I mean, talk about putting a sista out there yall. Suffice it to say, we were NOT incognito at the Botanical Gardens among the swarm of Park Slope children, strollers, nannies and biscotti's.
But, the eccentric fashion sense aside, TJ was actually fun! There was not a dull moment. He's good people and a breath of fresh air from the stuffy wall street types. Plus, he's a consummate hustler. If any of yall are looking for a flatscreen TV, this homeboy "has" some phenomenal ones that he's selling at half the price. So just holla black.
However, after learning he was fifteen years older than me with six children (not to mention that suit) sadly he has not qualified for the starting line up of the Negro League. I can't be having this brotha laughing my ass into popping out a another baby for him. But what's a sistah to do the dating pool is ROUGH out there. Maybe I'll just guarantee him a secure seat on the BENCH. I mean it's not every day you walk around Grand Army Plaza with a modern-day urban pimp from the Bronx with a great sense of humor!
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be
Friday, August 7, 2009
I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? : Part II
Regine Hunter
Editors Note: In Part I I’d just heard a knock on my door. Now what?
I figured it was some Jehovah’s Witness and ignored it, but the noise woke me up enough that I figured I might as well get out of bed and start my morning. It just so happened that on that particular day my gay best friend AND a platonic male friend were sleeping over (yes men on all sides and still no booty for me - I said dry as the Sahara.), so while I was standing around waiting to get into the bathroom I hear a timid, yet strident, knock on the door.
A shaken, limp-haired white girl with tears streaming from her crossed-eyes was standing there and asked if she could talk to me for a minute. Now, everyone knows I’m kind of a bitch and once again I DO NOT care about white love, but when people start crying and shit I just feel badly. Not only that, I knew who she was and I knew I was damn guilty.
“So um…I know you were hanging out with Mike a while ago (YES! That’s it! Mike) and I found your shirt, and he says nothing happened, but I really need to hear it from you…”
See, this is that decision moment. Its kind of like in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas when Cindy Loo Who asks the Grinch why he’s taking all of the presents and the Christmas tree up the chimney, and he’s forced to lie to the big-eyed little cherub and say he’s fixing a broken light on one side. ‘Cept this broad was no cherub, just a pitiful white girl with a shitty boyfriend who got busted cheating and his dumb ass inexplicably gave me license to do his dirty work. I could either watch her heart break in front of me or get to lyin’. Guess which one I did?Just like the Grinch, I thought up a lie, and I thought it up quick.
“Oh no honey, please don’t cry, nothing happened at all. I had on a tank top underneath and forgot all about that shirt.”
Knowing exactly what she wanted to hear, which is all she came to my door for anyway, I had no choice but to lie, especially since she could turn into the psycho white lady from a Lifetime special at any moment. This interaction required some sophisticated performance art and my motivation was a quartet of falsehoods about the black woman’s experience that will pretty much get you through this type of situation every time.
a) I have concern for white love. I am not Jennifer Hudson in the Sex and The City movie, OK? The white race and white love will somehow persevere without my help,
b)I have concern for the feelings of little white girls. The news media may go crazy when little white girls go missing or fall down wells but I do not,
c) I would never hook up with anyone’s man. This chick imagines me going to ‘da club’ and maybe smoking weed, not getting wasted and hooking up just like a white girl would do, and
d) your white boyfriend would never hook up with my overweight, dark, nappy-headed ass. This is the falsehood that seals the deal, because no little white girl who thinks she’s fat and depends on Pantene Full & Thick Shampoo to keep her head from looking like a cue ball considers what I’ve got going on remotely attractive, and therefore neither should her man. White girls if you’re reading this, watch your back – its very possible (in fact probable) that your man is intrigued by what I’ve got going on just by virtue of him being a man and I being a woman.
To top it all off I used a deep, soothing voice and rubbed her hand as I delivered my bundle of lies. I maintained eye contact and threw in a colloquialism here and there, just to add to the imaginary divide between my wise, all-knowing blackness and her lost, inauthentic whiteness. In sum, I Oprah Winfried this bitch. And she ate it right up. I was so pleased with myself until I realized, hold up - whatever happened to my shirt?
“Oh,” she sniffed. “Me and Mike had an argument and I threw it out.”
What!? No this bitch didn’t! Still the guilty party, I told her it was fine, suggested she pull herself together, and closed my door. Inside my gay best friend had already heard every detail thanks to the classic “listening through a glass to the door, “ move and Mr. Platonic was just getting up with a “wha- happened” look on his face.
After a few hours of reflection and chats with my boys I got pissed! How dare that chick have the gall to knock on my door first thing in the morning lookin’ for answers like a KGB agent? What on God’s green Earth possessed me to hook up with someone who lives in my building anyway? And more than anything else, how dare that fool-ass dude pass the buck and even put my name in it, so I can do his job for him when it comes to preserving his wack little relationship? Oh HELL no. I was kind of wishing I’d told the truth instead, but now what?
The first solution was no more red wine for me, and second was to take pity for the girlfriend – she’s obviously got low self-esteem, a boyfriend who cheats on her, and - I wasn’t just being mean earlier – significantly crossed eyes. Naturally, the final flourish was petty spiteful revenge against the man. The next time I saw mail for Mike or Mark or whatever generic shit his name is, it happened to be from the state probation board. O RLY? I opened it and it turned out to be a letter requesting his attendance at a probation hearing. Words like “mandatory,” “legal action,” and “correctional facility,” popped up as I scanned the letter, and I hoped that this would be the hearing that got his ass off of probation that he’d never even know about. The day that could change his life for the better and undo whatever jam he’d gotten himself into previously. This is why mail tampering is illegal - what a crucial document.
I promptly tore the letter into a million pieces and put it in a dumpster down the street. I certainly don’t care about keeping white men out of jail. Months have passed and I still haven’t seen the dude around, and I hope I never do.
Oh the hell well. Shoulda given me back my shirt.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
Thursday, August 6, 2009
I Don’t Care About White Love…Should I? : Part I
Regine Hunter
Editor’s Note: This story appears in two parts because there’s simply no way to shorten it. You’ll thank me later for including every detail.
Let me get one thing out of the way: I drink, and sometimes heavily. I’m 100% sure that had I not been five glasses of red wine into my evening by the time I ran into my downstairs neighbor at two in the morning, none of this would have happened. But I was wasted, and by the looks of his zigzag gait up the street so was Mike (or is it Mark?).
There are only four apartments in my building and this typical Guido type of dude lives directly downstairs. If I leave my window open I sometimes hear his big mouth running or notice his freshly delivered men’s muscle magazines sitting in the building’s communal mail pile. Other than that we’ve had almost no interaction, which we both seemed cool with until liquid courage took over.
“Hey! Why don’t I ever see you in the building?” he asked as he opened our shared front door for me.
“I dunno,” I slurred, knowing full well that I don’t really see anyone in the building except for my overly friendly gay next-door neighbor who has a cavalcade of black dudes in and out of his apartment day and night. But that’s a whole ‘nother story. I even considered filling the empty silence with stories about Harvey the Homo and his suitors when the Guido spoke again.
“Wanna come to my place for a drink?” Oh that’s a great idea, I thought. I’ve always wanted to be asked in for a ‘nightcap.’ It’s so 1974, so “Three’s Company.” A quick drink sounded like a real gas. Plus, I’m still in my own building, what’s the worst that can happen?
The next few hours flew by, and I have red wine to thank for that, as well. Of course Mark (or is it Mike?) did what a lot of white men do when they can’t come up with a single inch of common ground: talk about race. He started going on about how the word “Guido” is as harmful to him as the n-word, how if he were black he’d be OK with the stereotype that black people are better athletes, and a bunch of other misguided bullshit that I’m sure he’d been waiting to bounce off of a black person since the 2008 election. I just told him he was wrong on all counts, and that he should shut up and pour me another glass of wine. Now, instead of our smart mouths sparking off the Race Wars, it created serious sexual tension. Maybe it was some weird “I’ll show you!” type of thing, but with all of his Napolean-esque, willfully ignorant but brolic hubris, the guy’s spunky attitude reminded me enough of that barnyard chicken hawk from Looney Tunes to turn me on.
Yeah, that thing.
So we hooked up a bit. No big deal, mostly safe for work. But part of the way through I remembered running into some chicklet who introduced herself as his girlfriend one morning on my way to work. We chatted for half a block down the street before I bid her stringy-haired ass adieu, doubting our paths would ever cross again. Now I’m up here in a drunken tryst with her man. That’s a violation of “sisterhood,” somehow, right?
“Wait, don’t you have a girlfriend?” I had to ask, a glutton for punishment, am I.
“Yeah sort of but, you know, don’t worry about it.”
Don’t worry about it? Don’t worry about white love? Really? Well you know what buddy, I won’t. That shit is NOT endangered and when it comes down to it I don’t care about no white girl’s feelings. Yeah, I said it, and in the black vernacular, too. Hmph. Carrying on.
The hookup itself was as uneventful as it was low-risk, and the next thing I know I’m waking up with this doughy mufucka cuddled up on me like a stuffed animal. Nope, boo, bye. The thing was, I could not find my shirt, so I just threw on the rest of my clothes, zipped up my jacket, wrote a note with something like “Hey Mark, had fun, left something here though, when you find it please leave it upstairs by my door. Peace Out - Regine” and scurried upstairs to my own apartment. I fell asleep wondering whether I’d get my little Ross Dress For Less frock back soon, but otherwise without a care in the world.
As days, then weeks, then months passed, I started to really worry. Mark (who really STILL could be named Mike) hadn’t returned my shirt, and knowing that it must be mixed in with the rest of his random white boy clothes on the floor meant that his girlfriend could find it any minute – its easy to spot a hot pink and fuchsia tunic in the midst of khakis, camouflage print shorts, and Hollister tees. She’d see that its not hers, smell my perfume on it, and get all tough white girl with me on some Shannon Doherty shit and come a’ cuttin’. I even ran into them in the hallway once while I was with a gentleman caller of my own (don’t get the wrong impression, friends - my love life is actually as dry as the Sahara) but we both played all innocent. I certainly couldn’t ask for my shirt in front of her, now could I? As much as cute party shirts in a size 2X aren’t easy to come by, it only cost $12 so I chalked it up to the cost of drunkenness and let the whole incident go. In fact, aside from hoping I didn’t run into this dude ever again, I forgot all about it.
That is, until 9:30 on a Saturday morning a good three months later, when I heard a buzz at my door.click here for Part II
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Why White Men Love Me: "The Saliva Incident" (episode 2)
Please note that the white man in this photo is not the one involved in this incident
A couple of months ago, my colleagues and I went down to Atlanta to have dinner with one of our major clients: a loaded older white man who always likes to keep the party going. He’s one of those clients that has your boss freeing up the next morning’s schedule because you know that it’s gonna be a long night of kissing ass. Well, we all flew into Atlanta and met the client at one of the many fine dining establishments “the dirty dirty” has to offer. It was a typical business dinner. The client was already at the bar when we got there, sippin’ on his Jack, No Coke. Of course, after dinner he was ready to hit up the next stop—a sleazy, locals jazz club. So there we were, all lined up along yet another bar, damn near midnight still kissing ass hoping to get the nod for our next deal, when the client leaned over to whisper something in my ear but nothing came out. That’s when I felt it. I froze in a state of shock.Was that what I thought it was?
Ew ew ew ew ew ew
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god
But the client was already up, shaking my boss’s hand, then my colleague’s, and out the door.
“Are you okay?” my colleague asked noticing the horrified look on my face.
“No I need a bottle of gin.” I replied.
As the bartender was pouring I was trying to recover.
“What’s wrong?”
“The client just LICKED MY EAR!”
“What?”
I took the Gin to the head using it more as an antiseptic. “How is it that we all come to ATL, the southern Bastian of Black Professionals, and I’m the one who ends up with an ear full of a White Man’s saliva?”
click here for: episode 1
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
Click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Obama Condoms...When is this a Good Idea?
Obama condoms at obamacondoms.com
I reluctantly encourage you to click on the link just to hear how they have used our president's voice to promote their product as you scroll over the tabs, "FIRED UP READY TO GO! (at least I think that's what he's saying)
These are uncertain times. The economy's a ball-buster and the surge went flaccid... but now there's Obama Condoms, for a change you can believe in!
* FOR THE ELITIST PENIS
* THEY WON'T LEAVE A BITTER TASTE IN YOUR MOUTH
* WHEN YOU JUST WANT TO CLOSE THE DEAL
* REMEMBER THE ELECTION WITH YOUR NEXT ERECTION
* FOR HARD TIMES
* GUARANTEED TO ADD THREE INCHES TO YOUR LOVE LIFE
But seriously what would you do the first night you was gettin' some from somebody you was FEELIN' and they pardoned themselves only to return with an Obama condom?
Oh don't worry McCain and Palin have condoms too but oooh dat's just really nasty...or rather really needed.
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
Click here for: How The Urban Chameleon Came To Be
PLEASE NOMINATE US FOR ALL FOUR CATEGORIES BY JULY 25TH!!!
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Sexually Respectable Black Girl World
“You Black girls really need to bring your vagina’s up to date. Do I have to teach you everything?”
I kinda felt like she did. For whatever reason I’ve always noticed that Black girls seem to sexually blossom much later than white girls. I can remember being a teenager in high school and beginning to mess around with boys but always having it in the back of my head… that I don’t give head. It was like an unspoken moral code amongst the respectable Black girl alliance. We all use to sit around and talk about how gross it was. Meanwhile, white girls considered this to be first base.
The latter part of high school I became steady with this guy and finally decided to commit to my first experience after months of hesitation. I remember not telling my best friend at the time for damn near a year horrified that she would think of me as a ho! Turns out she was keeping the same secret from me! So then why the level of deepness around the topic?
Even today, I find it interesting that across the board white girls get away with being more sexually free and promiscuous than Black girls without being divided into “respectable” and “unrespectable” groups.
In fact another difference I noticed between white girls and Black girls are that white girls get their dating ON. They are seeing Jimmy on Thursday, Johnny on Friday and Joseph on Saturday and all three might even get a piece and even be related. Most Black women I know not only see one guy at a time but that one guy needs to be attending church and be subjected to an AIDS test before getting to even sniff the coochie. I mean rightfully so AIDS is no joke and an issue in our community but I'm saying though?
The few Black women I do know who are living a little more la vida loca have either been influenced by a white girlfriend or influenced by another Black girlfriend who’s been influenced by a white girlfriend…and I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.
What do yall think?
Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com
click here for: How The Urban Chameleon Came To Be
PLEASE NOMINATE US FOR ALL FOUR CATEGORIES!!!