Something I found...

There was a blind girl who hated herself just because she was blind. She hated everyone, except her loving boyfriend. He was always there for her. She said that if she could only see the world, she would marry her boyfriend.

One day, someone donated a pair of eyes to her and then she could see everything, including her boyfriend. Her boyfriend asked her, "now that you can see the world, will you marry me?" The girl was shocked when she saw that her boyfriend was blind too, and refused to marry him.

Her boyfriend walked away in tears, and later wrote a letter to her saying: "JUST TAKE CARE OF MY EYES PLEASE."

This is how humans change when their status changes. Only a few remember what life was before, and who has always been there in the most painful situations.

---Anonymous

Why I Write...part II

"No one wants to hear another story about a ghetto
child who escaped the hood. You've become that
Stringer Bell character from HBO's The Wire. Black
folks into personalities like Barksdale or Marlo
Stanfield, man; you've outgrown your audience. No one
cares about the stuff you write about now. You used to
be relevant when you wrote about hip hop, prisons and
the street life. But now you write about Darfur and
Katrina. Niggahz don't care about that shit anymore,
man, and white folks never will. Tupac's dead. Malcolm
X is dead. Nat Turner is dead. And so are
you."---Annonymous

I used to write so that someone would be touched by my
words, possibly even motivated by them. There was
something romantic about the idea that my words would
live on after me. There was something both naïve and
profound about believing my work mattered in this
universe. As a young adult, I always wanted to one day
inspire someone the way the words of Malcolm X once
inspired me. I wanted people to feel the passion in my
words the way I felt the passion in Tupac's words. I
no longer have this urge.

I write now because I have to. I have become a man
screaming in the woods at three o'clock in the
morning. Not because he expects to be heard. Not
because there's a chance the paramedics will happen by
and notice him. But because he has broken his ankle
and screaming helps him deal with the pain. I write
now because the pain I feel when I see injustice choke
away the future of my people is too unbearable. It
feels like a rabid wolf is gnawing away at every bone
inside my chest with malicious deliberation. Screaming
isn't enough anymore. So I write--because I can't
sing. I write, because I can't rap. I write because I
can't act.

It doesn't matter if people hear me anymore.

I must write until the pain subsides.

--M. leTerrance

THE EYES OF JABARI

.

When you first experience Jabari, you have to be prepared for the power of his eyes.

Some people in this world have hazel colored eyes, or ocean blue eyes, or even light brown eyes with burnt maple edges. These people have eyes that are so unique we often stare at them with an amusing fascination.

There is nothing extraordinary about the texture of Jabari's eyes. His eyes are black with a subtle Asian slant, but that's all a person could really say about them. Countless pictures will reveal to you how unremarkable his eyes actually are---until he looks at you. It is then that you will feel an ice cube beginning to melt its way down your spine.

Jabari eyes have the ability to physically and mentally arrest you. He will look at you with so much passion and intensity and depth that some part of you feels vulnerable and naked in his presence. You might attempt to look away from him initially, to not accept the reality that your every secret, your every thought, your every emotion and sentiment is on public display. This doesn't work.


When Jabari's eyes steal over the fullness of your body, as if soaking in every detail of your presence, you will experience an intoxicating sense of weightlessness. It's at this moment that the true power of Jabari's eyes becomes abruptly apparent. He has the eyes of a man who can dig deep into the core of you in a matter of seconds, exploring intimate details about your character that you were not initially prepared to share.

He will smile at you next, a gentle smile, soft and full and so expressively charming that you feel clothed again. You will feel welcomed and appreciated. He has the smile of a man who loves life dearly, the smile of a helpless romantic incarcerated by a Peter Pan spirit. Jabari smiles the way a ghetto child does on Christmas Eve, full of hope and promise and naive expectation.

A part of your brain will exhale a deep sigh of relief. You will defiantly tell yourself that there is no way a smile this relaxed and this soothing can belong to the same face that produced such penetrating eyes. Doubt enters the moment you experience his smile. Is it possible you merely imagined the intensity of his eyes before?

But beware of Jabari's smile. It's deceptively innocent, a mere transition phase--the calm before the storm. Don't let your guards down, for he is about to part his lips and whisper something gently into your ear. Be prepared. If you can, mentally press a button that mutes out majority of his words, only then will you have a fighting chance at resisting temptation.

Like a clever magician, his smile will attempt to distract you from the secrets of the illusion to come. This is your chance to escape the auditorium. This is your opportunity to walk away and maintain control over the direction of your imagination.

If you remain in his presence a moment longer, the contents your thoughts will no longer belong to you. The desire that floats through your system will sail away into a place you have never explored before. The back of your neck will begin to crave caresses it had never dared to demand before. You will find yourself longing for something new and adventurous. The density of your nipples will fluctuate beyond your control. The bare essence of your feminine being will throb for an artistic release that can only come from the creative use of verbal foreplay--a form of seduction that doesn't require your body to be stroked, caressed, kissed, penetrated, or even touched to experience a form of nature's bliss.

The idea that the peak of your desires can be safely explored without removing a shredding of clothing will seem utterly impossible. To imagine that you can reach climatic plateaus without succumbing to another's touch will mystify you. Some logical part of your mind will rebel against this idea. Now curiosity will make you stay longer than you should.

Neither man nor angel can slip so deeply inside a woman's mind. No one can successfully introduce a female to the tremors of an orgasm without laying at least a finger across the surface of her body. You were convinced of this. But like the audience who doubted the illusionist when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear, your mistake comes the moment you refuse to believe. By objecting so strongly, you stay long enough to be proven wrong.

It is now that Jabari begins to whisper into your ear. Along with his words comes a hurricane. There is now no escaping the verbal spider web being sensuously woven around the edges of your imagination. You might as well close your eyes, stretch out your arms, and allow your spirit to be carried away like Dorothy in the Wizard of OZ. The moment your ears let in Jabari's words, reality as you once knew it begins to crumble away. In the place of your former reality sprouts an intriguing tale where you are the main character. Each sentence undresses another layer of your soul.

A moment ago you merely felt naked, but now you realize you actually are naked--it doesn't matter that your clothes are still on and he hasn't touched you. Reality has become distorted. You can distinctly feel the night air caressing the small of your back. You can feel your bare feet soaking into the dewy dampness of the grass. You can see the glimmer of the moonlight reflecting off the roundness of your breasts. You can smell the scent of Nature's flowers as they release their seeds into the wind. You can feel your heart yearning for more, your body craving for even an accidental touch. You wonder, at the last moment, which reality represents the truth.

What good are clothes, you wonder, if someone can break into your imagination and strip them off so easily? You allowed yourself to underestimate the power of words. You read books, but you never journeyed to the place the author was attempting to send you. You watched movies, but your eyes tricked you into paying more attention to the action and the visual images. You had been called beautiful by countless men, yet you were more focused on their appearance, approach, actions, height, and their social status than the words that bungee jumped from their lips.

Your imagination becomes the captive of profound words. You feel your legs spreading apart. The wet essence of your being kisses the lips of the night's air. You pause to wonder where your panties went. You feel something growing deep inside of you, slowly filling the walls of your pleasure, curiously exploring every inch of you with deliberate patience. Your whole body screams out in satisfaction. An explosive desire begins to ignite inside of you. Your brain tries to claw away at the last remnants of ecstasy. Flustered, you defiantly declare that such intensely persuasive words should never be spoken again.

You open your eyes, hesitantly, and realize you are still dressed and untouched. You begin to wonder what happened. You plead with your imagination to explain how one man's words could penetrate it so easily. Then you remember how it all started...

It all started with the eyes.

It continued with the deep, passionate smile of a master illusionist who was not afraid to delve into the essence of who you are as a woman.

It ended with the words that were so powerful they could bend reality to cater to your dreams.


THE END

(Dedicated to Clarissa Reed, a priceless jewel who encourages me and challenges me to write about things I would normally think are boring and dry. Thank you. I have become a better writer and a better person as a result. Now you have to write a poem about, ah, bullfrogs---my challenge to YOU!!)

Confessions of a Hip-Hop Fan

I never really felt a need to explain to anyone why I listen to gangsta rap until about two days ago. My cousin and I were at our aunt's house, waxing his truck and listening to a locally remixed version of Tupac's "Hit 'Em Up," when a black Cadillac pulled into the driveway. We recognized the car. It belonged to Reverend Taylor, a wiry old man with a booming Barry White voice.

Reverend Taylor got out of his car and spoke to us as he headed towards the house to visit our aunt. We nodded a polite response and continued waxing. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned around and made a beeline over to where we were working. I glanced at my cousin and shook my head. Trouble was about to close in on us.

"What you fellows listening to?" Reverend Taylor shifted his weight onto his left foot and cocked his head to the side. My cousin offered a quick answer but we both realized it was useless. The reverend had an axe to grind. A sermon was brewing.

"Why so much cursing? You call that music? Listen to him. All that MF this and MF that. Sounds like he talking about shooting people too. You boys are too smart to be filling your head with all that trash."

For the next twenty minutes we listened respectfully as the reverend explained to us the flaws of rap music. He illustrated, sometimes from a biblical point of view, how rap music was destroying Black people. He found a host of issues to criticize: Every video you see portrays black women as sluts. The music has kids walking around with their pants sagging because they think it's cool. They glorify drug dealers and murderers and have no respect for authority or God.

"These kids today are lost. They walk around looking like thugs and hoodlums and then wonder why no one will hire them. It's devil music. You boys should be listening to Jazz music. Clean your minds. I was listening to a little Al Green on my way over here. I'm going to get you both a CD of real music." Reverend Taylor shook his at us and frowned. "Tell you what. I'm going to let you guys borrow my music for a while. Just promise me you'll listen to it?"

"Yes sir." My cousin responded, hoping to end the sermon.

The reverend turned to me, waiting for a response. I could see my cousin staring at me, his eyes pleading with me to just agree with the man so we could move on with our lives.

I believe everyone has a right to an opinion but that doesn't mean I have to agree with it. I listen to gangster music because it oftentimes represents a lifestyle that I suffered through for many years. When the rapper Beanie Sigel screams out State Property, it resonates with my homeboys and me. We know, from bitter experience, how it feels to be incarcerated in a system that strangles away your youth. Gangsta music isn't a blueprint for us; it's a testimony. It's an art form that articulates the harsh realities of what used to be our everyday lives.

I'm beginning to understand why so many in the older generation point accusatory fingers at Hip-Hop-it allows them to ignore the social conditions that breed the music. As long as they can blame Jay-Z and Snoop Dogg, they don't have to do volunteer work in the projects where these rappers come from. The advantage of being a modern day Hip-Hop critic is that you get to sit on the sidelines and offer up hypothetical solutions on how to make life in the slums a better place. There was a time, not so long ago, when you had to be a part of the struggle before you could criticize it. Those times are gone. Nowadays, any uppity Negro with a pocketful of the American Dream can toss around two cent theories about what poor Black folks are doing wrong. Marching has been replaced with talking.

Bill Cosby, a man I have the utmost respect and admiration for, has spent the past year hammering home issues that drive deep into the heart of many Black communities. And while I agree with most of the controversial statements he has made thus far, I believe he is a bit misguided with his critique of the Hip-Hop dress code. He seems to think, along with a host of other Hip-Hop critics, that rap music has produced a nation filled with slouchy youth who walk around with their pants sagging. From my vantage point, things are a bit more complicated than that. But if clothing is his issue, Mr. Cosby is more lost than all of us.

In an exclusive interview with "Nightline's" Michel Martin, Bill Cosby wore a conservative blue and white seersucker suit. Wealthy white plantation owners originally made the American seersucker suit-a cotton version of the silk seersucker worn in the nineteenth century by the British in India-popular in the South during the late 1920's and early 1930's. On national television, the beloved Bill Cosby offered a critique of poor Black folks in America while wearing the same attire as former slave owners. Given a choice, I'd much rather see young Black males wearing sagging Hip-Hop clothes designed by Black owned companies than seersucker suits once donned by slave masters and colonizers.

I'm not sure if Bill Cosby even realized the impression that had on a lot of us. Our leaders exhaust so much energy attempting to remove confederate flags from courthouses that they forget to remove the confederate thinking from our minds. This is a problem much bigger than Hip-Hop.

A lot of Black folks are suffering in America. In my old neighborhood, I know people who still live without lights or electricity. School becomes a luxury kids sometimes can't afford when their stomachs are empty. I understand how it feels when a kid opens his front door and the only path he can see in front of him that offers the promise of escape is the life of crime. I used to be that kid. I remember telling my uncle when I was eleven-years-old that I wanted to be a writer one day. His response: "You better learn how to sing or play ball boy. You can't make no money writing." His words still haunt my subconscious today. These were the male role models my homeboys and I grew up around. The Huxtables didn't live on our block; nor did Reverend Taylor-he was too busy preaching to the converted to cruise through our old neighborhood and show the kids a better way out. I suspect we were too young to add to his collection plate.

The music my homeboys and I listen to explains these things in graphic details. When Tupac talks about being shot or homeboys who have died or females who set dealers up, I can relate to him. His music articulates a past reality for me that I'm unable to forget. Hip-Hop is merely the symptom of a more serious problem in the Black community.

When Reverend Taylor went into his car and handed us a few of his jazz CDs to listen to, a dozen things surfaced to the top of my mind to spew out at him. I wanted to point out how ironic it was that he was offering us jazz music to listen to-especially since the history of jazz music is very similar to Hip-Hop music in respect to its intellectual critics. The most brilliant Black minds of the times crucified jazz music during its inception. W. E. B DuBois, the famed author of Souls of Black Folk, wrote countless essays describing jazz music as the ultimate corruptor of Black folk's morality. Even Booker T. Washington, never one to willingly agree with W. E. B. DuBois on anything social, led a popular assault against jazz music. The older generation rallied against jazz music unmercifully. Still, jazz music forged ahead into respectability despite the complaints of pseudo intellectuals out of touch with their culture. Hip-Hop will do the same.

"You boys need God in your lives. That Hip-Hop music got you out of touch with Jesus." Reverend Taylor began shifting his weight from side to side. He wanted to preach some more.

A part of me wanted to grab Reverend Taylor by the collar and snatch him through time so that he could remember the outcry many Black religious leaders made when Kirk Franklin was reaching out to the youth with a Hip-Hop sound. No cursing, no violence-just spiritual music with a Hip-Hop inspired rhythm. Still, many within the religious Black community were outraged.

I wanted to take him back in time so he could see that a lot of the musical geniuses he loves today were once the focus of Black critics. From Al Greene to Ray Charles, leagues of religious and intellectual Black critics abhorred the music. It would seem, after a close examination of our musical history, that too many Black folks in America turn into miserable and unhappy human beings once they reach a certain age. They seem determined to find an excuse to criticize the young, no matter what we do.

Hip-Hop is not perfect. A lot Black people have died, both directly and indirectly, as a result of this art form. Changes certainly need to be made. But, the problem with criticizing Hip-Hop is that, once your colleagues are finished patting you on the back and giving you kudos for being so insightful, the conditions in the ghetto still remain. Poverty won't disappear once 50 Cent retires. I wanted to say these things and more to Reverend Taylor. Instead, I just smiled across at him and sorted through the CDs.

"I'll listen to them." I promised. "But you have to promise me something also. The next time you see an eleven-year-old standing on the street corner on a school day, I want you to stop and spend a few minutes explaining to him another way out the hood."

It didn't matter to me if the kid listened to him or not. At least the kid would know that that there's another, more positive way out the ghetto. When I was eleven, I didn't know any.

My Today

From three different perspectives.

Inmate20173

Does every day have to be a struggle? This is not a complaint; I am not some flighty male afraid of responsibility, begging for the angels to make life easier. Anyone who knows me knows that I am fearless. Remember that time, when I was fourteen, and there was the barrel of a gun pressed deep inside my mouth? Remember how calm I remained; remember how patient and relaxed my heartbeat stayed? Remember how the guy was so confused by my response that he couldn’t pull the trigger? He had expected fear, he had expected to see a boy fall to his knees begging for another chance at life; instead, he was introduced to the calculated, measured composure of a teenage man who was too foolish to understand the concept of fear, too stubborn to beg for even his own life. Remember how everyone in the room held their breath with terror, only to witness a smile beginning to form across my lips? The dude’s hands were shaking; his eyes roaming about from side to side, influenced by some drug addiction to attempt to rob me. Remember how he looked into my eyes and shuddered when he saw that I wasn’t afraid? I didn’t get robbed that night. Instead, it became another story that added to my young street legacy. But did it have to happen; this is the question that haunts me now in my sleep? Why am I so often caught in bed with the mistress of struggle? I am a warrior, a soldier, so I am certain that I can handle whatever trials or tribulations that happen my way. But is it necessary? Am I being groomed for some future purpose, or am I instead being punished or cursed for some past crime from some past lifetime? I just want clarity. I want to know that there is a reason, a purpose behind the misfortune that taps me on the shoulder and asks to dance virtually every day. If I am being molded for the purpose of eventually becoming a better, more compassionate human being, I can accept this and embrace my destiny. If I am being cursed for the sins of my father, if I am being punished for the crimes I may have committed in another lifetime, I can accept my fate and make the best of it. But I have to know why my life has always been a struggle.


Marlon leTerrance

Today I am still a soldier, but I am a wounded soldier in search of a safe haven. I will never give up the fight for survival, I will never wave the white flag in the air and surrender my integrity, but at the same time I’m hurting on the inside, lonely at the core, and without love I am fighting a war with an unloaded gun. I need the arms of someone who cares about me around me. I need to look into eyes that will never betray me. I need to kiss the lips of a woman who melts from my presence. I need the motivation of knowing that I am fighting for something, that the lights of love and commitment lies somewhere near the end of this tunnel. I’ve become a rebel without a cause, a soldier fighting in a war that has long been lost. I don’t mind the struggle, I swear I don’t. I known struggle all of my life; I’ve never really had peace. All I am asking for now is a small revelation, a clear understanding of why I am fighting. Is it all in vain? Is there a purpose behind today’s struggle?

Can a woman ever really love a wounded, tormented soul that battles on, scarred and bruised, a shell of it’s former self? I am like the glamorous model that has lost his beauty, a has-been star searching for that last ray of the limelight. I will see the top of the mountain again one day, but my fear is that no one will be there waiting on me once I get there. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’ve been the Lone Ranger for most of my life. Now, I just need a hug, even if it’s only a temporary one, to soothe the emptiness that’s boiling over inside of me.


NightShade

Today is only the beginning. Do you think I’m going to quit? Toss over a million trials and tribulations, fill my path with every imaginable obstacle, and even then I will battle through it. I am a man, damn you. I don’t run. I don’t beg. I don’t hide. I’m incapable of surrendering. Look into my eyes. I will never quit. Turn off the lights and I can still see my dreams. Blast the stereo and I can still hear the passion inside of me that motivates me forward. Bind me with the strongest chains and I will still escape into tomorrow. Make me homeless, and I will find a home inside myself. I will never hold my head down or bow submissively to adversity. I will fight until every last fiber inside of me dies from exhaustion. If life wasn’t hard I couldn’t live it. I welcome your next struggle with a smile. I am a man, damn you. See if I cry. See if I complain. I am going to make it, or die trying.

Sadness

The sun doesn’t shine that bright for me anymore. If birds still chirp in the mornings, I don’t hear them. My favorite desserts no longer taste the same. The world has become dull and bland for me. I can’t feel. I can’t think. Even a half hearted smile takes a monstrous effort to finally accomplish. When I write, the words that finally fall from my thoughts seem to lack passion or purpose. I’ve become a soldier consumed by a civil war, a gifted doctor trapped in a morgue. At some point I’m sure I will escape this depression. At some point my wounded heart will heal. Until then, until that moment sneaks up behind me and remodels my reality, I remain a slave to numbness--unable to truly feel anything. I am sad and I need a hug.

Please Stop Frontin'

The art of sexual seduction is a bit overrated. It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology and urban game to seduce a broad. Dicks have been stumbling into pussy since the beginning of time. Nothing spectacular. But most dudes have their strategy twisted the wrong way. They tell all sorts of elaborate lies, invest countless dollars, and waste priceless strands of time on some clueless dame, all in the hopes of someday getting her into bed. Egotistical and selfish guys pretend to be thoughtful and considerate. Poor guys make believe they’re rich. Ignorant dudes take a few jabs at seeming smart and worldly. It’s almost as though guys feel they have to be liked by women in order to get laid. They try to be charming and nice and understanding, fooling themselves into believing that by becoming more likeable they somehow become more attractive. It’s an utter waste. Over half the dicks introduced to a broad’s vagina belonged to the guys she didn’t particularly like.

When you desire to win over a woman’s heart, when you want her to eventually dedicate the rest of her life to loving you, it’s a great policy to make certain that she likes you. Possessing qualities like loyalty, honesty, and selflessness are essential traits when emotional attachment is the goal. Sex abides by different rules than love. Sex is far more basic, far more primitive. The goal isn’t to become likable; instead, the goal is merely to become fuckable.

Any man can seduce any female given the right situation and circumstance. It has nothing at all to do with how likable he is. A dude can be the sexiest, most charming, intelligent and considerate male on the planet and still go home, night after night, with blue balls if the situation and circumstance isn’t quite right. The men who are most successful sexually know how to manipulate a situation and circumstance in order to make themselves more fuckable in a particular female’s eyes. It didn’t matter if she hated their guts, so long as they made certain they are fuckable, intimate success usually follows.

There’s the true story of a guy who spent three nights and countless hours trying to seduce a woman he had been dating for several months. He wanted to consummate their evolving relationship with a few hours of romantic passion. He treated her every day, took her out to fancy restaurants and bought her lavish gifts. Each night when they ended up at her apartment he would make a concentrated effort to seduce her. The first night he cuddled with her and listened intently while she told him horrid tales about a co-worker who made her job a nightmare. The guy listened patiently to her experience and held her in his arms and said all the right things to make her feel better. Still, he went home with a hard-on.

The second night, after a lovely dinner, he wasted several hours kissing her and stealing protested feels of her breast. He could tell she wanted him; he could feel the desire boiling over through her body, but for some reason she just would not give in to him. He was puzzled and confused. On his way home, again unfulfilled, he began mapping out strategies to be more assertive next time. His dick was close to mutiny.

The third night seemed to produce promising results. After he listened to her complain some more about the irritating co-worker, they ended up on her couch kissing and making out. She was hungry for him; he could feel it in the way her body plunged down against him. She obviously wanted him just as much as he wanted her. A box of heavenly delights was opened up to him once he managed to get her sweater and bra off. The taste of her breast was delicious. He desired her more than he had ever desired a woman before. Then, just as he began fumbling around with the front of her jeans, she put a sudden halt to the proceedings. She wanted him to stop, and no matter how many pleas escaped from his lips, she wasn’t prepared to change her mind. He would not be sticking his dick anywhere near her vagina this night.

Frustrated and possibly even a little light-headed from all the blood pulsating inside his penis, the dude probed around for answers.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want me? Is there someone else?” He asked, dumping a tortured expression onto her conscience.

The woman stood her ground. She told him that there was no one else; that nothing was wrong, that she desired him immensely but she just didn’t feel the time was right for them to become sexual. He was everything she wanted in a guy, she explained. He always listened to her, he showed her unwavering support, and he wasn’t afraid to share his feelings with her. But, for some reason, the timing just wasn’t right.

That night, on the way home, the guy pulled into a vacant parking lot and unloaded his frustrations into the mouth of a prostitute. He hated the games women played. He was pissed off, a bit confused. The next day he made up a few transparent excuses as to why he couldn’t see her. He could tell she was pissed, and this fact seemed to please him far more than he was willing to admit. He spent the rest of the evening moping around his apartment and watching his favorite Rocky movies.

Despite a wobbly beginning, they ended up having a wonderful relationship together. They were married two years later and eventually became the proud parents of three magnificent children. It was the perfect union, except for one slight detail he would never discover. The night Mr. Rocky-Lover spent in his apartment succumbing to his tempter tantrums, his girl was having sex with the co-worker she hated. She felt horrible afterwards, but it had all happened so fast, so innocently.

After Mr. Rocky-Lover cancelled their dinner date at her favorite restaurant, she’d decided to go there anyway, without him. She loved the food, and she wasn’t in the mood to be alone. She was on her second glass of wine when the infamous co-worker happened over. He noticed she was alone and stole a seat beside her.

They immediately announced their dislike for the other, causing them both to laugh out loud. A conversation began. They began swapping work related stories detailing why they disliked each other. Laughter sprinkled in with passionate expressions of denial—“I did not say that” “yes you did” “you must have heard me wrong”—as their conversation floated through dinner and into their fourth and fifth glass of wine. The co-worker offered to pay for dinner, but only if she allowed him to drive her home.

“You are as tipsy as I am. Who’s gonna drive you home?” She challenged.

“I drive a Volvo, baby. I can smash into a tree and live.”

“Even away from the office you are an arrogant bastard.” She observed. Every time he opened his mouth, it reminded her of the reason why she couldn’t stand him.

“Only way to keep that money coming in.”

Time passed in hazy spurts. One moment he was driving her home. The next moment they were at a stoplight laughing out loud as a homeless man wrestled with a stray dog over a cardboard Pizza Hut box. Seemingly seconds later, they were standing outside her building and she was explaining to him that she was involved with someone she cared deeply for. She politely told him that he couldn’t sleep with her. She didn’t remember how he ended up in her apartment. Four heartbeats hammered past her. She was now pressing her lips against his bare chest and marveling over how smooth his skin was. She wanted to stop, she even attempted to mumble a feeble protest, but she wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Their naked bodies experimented with several awkward positions on her couch. She felt him deep inside of her, his tongue twirling around her nipples. It was forbidden bliss, delicious in its sadness. She knew, even as her body arched up in climax, that this night would never happen again. It was a mistake, and she erupted into tears the instant pleasure ebbed away.

The coworker never again got a chance to join his naked body with hers again. He reluctantly accepted this reality and allowed her the room to grapple with her demons in her own way. She decided to never share the details of this night with another human being as long as she lived. Mr. Rocky-Lover would never know the truth. She had been on her period during the intimate three nights he had been trying to seduce her. Some part of her mind made her believe that having sex during the bloodiest days of her menstrual cycle was disgusting and nasty. Her great grandmother had once told her, when she was no more than eleven years old, that retarded children came from women having sex during their period. She was intelligent enough now to know how utterly ridiculous her great grandmother’s claims had been. Still, she couldn’t get the image of deformed children out of her head whenever a man tried to become intimate with her during her menstrual cycle. As much as she desired Mr. Rocky-Lover, as much as her body craved for him to be deep inside of her those last three nights, she still couldn’t purge the voice of her great grandmother from her psyche.

Mr. Rocky-Lover had slouched his way back home those three nights not knowing the full story. Her body had been hungry for him. She wanted to make love with him desperately. But she was afraid she would sound stupid to him if she tried to articulate her discomfort. When her period was over, when her whole body ached for a release, Mr. Rocky-Lover canceled their date, leaving her all alone—with her irritating co-worker.

The true moral of this story is somewhat complicated and three-dimensional. It's part of an essay that I wrote several years ago. But for the sake of the all the dudes subscribed to this newsletter, let me break down one aspect of it in laymen’s terms: STOP FRONTING. If you are a self-centered bastard with utterly no regard to anyone else’s feelings, stop pretending to be otherwise. You hurt the game when you participate in anything fake or fraudulent. It’s utterly unnecessary. Regardless of what your ultimate goal is when approaching a female, no one wins when you practice the art of deception. Eventually your lies will be revealed, leaving you swamped in a sea of Jerry Springer type drama. Be real about yourself—doesn’t matter who your true self is. Don’t let these grocery store women magazines fool you. Arrogant and conceited and low down and no good and trifling brothaz get pussy too. That Mr. Nice Guy you always hear broads talking about is not as glamorous as you might readily think. Good Black Men are virtually ALWAYS last in line to tap ass. Females start looking for “good” black men only AFTER that ass has been worn out by the “bad” ones. Don’t get it twisted. By the time the “good” black man gets her, she is usually used and abused, a by-product of a variety of trifling black men’s disrespect. (Many sisters are going to be pissed off at this statement and have their boxing gloves out at me, but the NightShade side of me don’t give a fuck about stepping on a few sensitive toes so long as I know I am speaking the truth.)

And the truth is, lying serves no real purpose. Be real with yourself; be real with her as well. Have you ever stopped to wonder what happens to all these dudes women claim to hate? I’ll tell you, these guys are fucking—most times with no strings attached—while you over here pretending. Step your game up. Conceited men fuck too. Arrogant guys fuck as well. Even self-centered and no good and silly and childish men tap ass all the time. Mostly because they place energy on making themselves fuckable while you over here pretending to be someone else so you can be more likeable. You got your jacket inside out player. When you hear women complaining about tired ass, lazy men, these women are talking about men they used to fuck with. This isn’t an imaginary list of qualities she just happened to pull out of the air. It’s usually from her personal experience. Point is—you don’t have to lie and play all these pretend games to get pussy. It’s a waste of time and causes way too many problems in the long run.

Allow me to end this rant with a secret no woman is willing to admit. I don’t care how cool she may seem to you or how “down” she may be, this is a secret that she will not willingly confess up to—usually not even to herself. If you introduce a woman to two very attractive men at virtually the same time, one of them she really likes, the other one she doesn’t particularly care for, the dude she doesn’t really like has a better chance of fucking her in a day or two than the dude she can see herself being romantically involved with. Let me be clear: The dude she romantically likes is less likely to fuck her immediately than the dude she doesnt like. Typically, the more a woman likes who you are as a person, the qualities that you possess, the more she sees you as a potential life partner. This will make all her personal insecurities, past experiences, internal demons, distrust, and caution flare up because she understands how emotional she can get and she doesn’t want to get hurt. This also makes her naturally slow things down a bit so she can attempt to regain control over her attraction and emotional vulnerability to you. The guy she dislikes doesn’t have to worry about these emotional safeguards because she already knows (or at least assumes) that he is not someone that she would ever really take seriously romantically. An honest playboy will fuck your girl quicker than your honest choirboy any day. Only difference is, she will eventually want to settle down and marry the choirboy, whereas the playboy doesn’t stand a chance if he doesn’t change his ways.

This is why pretending to be something you are not doesn’t really make sense. I’ve had homeboys who would read the bible before a date just so they could memorize a few lines of scripture to a female before a hot date. That’s some low down shit. If your goal is to be with the female on a serious level, the problem is this: eventually she will discover the real you. You can only pretend so long before your true colors shine through. And if your goal is to hit it right quick, you set yourself up in twisted catch-22. Either you end up hurting a woman who does not deserve it, thereby opening a can of drama that’s totally unnecessary (a woman scorned is hell, believe that) or you end up pretending to be a “good” guy so well, that she develops feelings for you and puts you on the backburner for sex to insure that's not all you are after—-so you end up not fucking by default. You can’t win with lies and deception. No one can.

Many of you guys will have natural reservations about being real with the females you approach. But these reservations stem from the bullshit you allow women to fool you with. Don’t believe the hype when it comes to women and sex. Women appreciate and enjoy and PARTICIPATE in sex just as often as men. You have no business in the game period if you believe, for one second, all the lies that FEMALES toss out regarding sex and intimacy. Damn near every female you meet is going to swear that they haven’t had sex with anyone in three to six months, sometimes even longer. Nine times out of ten, that’s utter bullshit. If you let women tell it, no one is fucking. Truth is, women lie and pretend as often as men do. Just like men pretend to be tougher than they really are “I wish a niggah would disrespect me like that,” women play the same make believe shit as well, “It’s been awhile since I’ve been with anyone; like three months now.” Leroy was tapping that ass last night, so don’t be a sucker and fall for that bullshit. Just as society has men playing the overly “tough” role, many woman are tricked by the double standards of society to play the “innocent” role. A woman can’t be honest with you about her sexual escapades without modern day society using demeaning terms like “slut” or “whore.” And other times, a broad has to lie because you niggahs can’t handle the truth. Either way, don’t feed into it. I don’t care how much of a Christian good girl role she plays with you. You are a sucker if you believe that garbage. She’s fucking…probably the preacher.

In the next issue we will deal with the countless lies that women tell. But for now, please understand that men must take the lead and clean up the game. This tendency to try and win Oscars to get pussy is misguided and wrong. Be yourself. Be honest. Be real. You’ll be surprised by how much pussy you will be rewarded with. Everyone respects realness; even if they dislike the person being real.