Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Back in the day, I was a brave girl when it came to approaching men. All through my 20s (when I frequented the NY and DC club scenes) I had a surefire way of getting the attention of a man that I had eyes for. I'd buy him a drink. No one ever turned me down. And nine times out of 10 if I wanted to keep him around after our one-drink conversation, I'd have him all primed and ready to buy the next round or two or three (I said this was my 20s, remember?).
My confidence with men was really a spill over from how well I was doing in my professional career through the nineties and the fact that I had to beat the men off with a stick during all 4 years I attended Howard University.
But by age 30, people were coupling up, getting married, and I'd cooled off on the clubs. Being an entertainment journalist, I still had to check them out every now and then. When I moved back to Atlanta right after 9-11, I had to reacquaint myself with my hometown, which was a bit more sophisticated than I'd left it when I went to college in 1989. So big head (from cool new gig at a national mag) in tow, I frequented every listening party, backstage event, and invite-only thing in town.
And at every other event, I'd run into a man that left me speechless—a pretty hard feat. Now like many Atlantans, I went through a 10-year period when Outkast was the end-all, be-all of hip hop. And probably like lots of women, I had some pretty explicit fantasies about Andre Benjamin. This was Georgia-bred boy (yes ma'am, no sir), a writer, who was just nasty nice—on the mic, on the screen, and fa sho' in person.
They brought some sweet tea-peach cobbler home to my New York life when they blew up the charts in the late 90s and took the hip hop scene south. I'd see kids singing all the words to Ms. Jackson, but they knew nothing about Southernplayalistic. By the time I made it back to Atlanta in 2001, they were huge. Doing my job, I'd be at some event all mellowed out and in Andre would walk, or should I say glide, dip, stroll—all that. My whole demeanor would change. This was a brother I really had a hard time being in the same room with.
Several times I was introduced to him and all I could get out was something stupid like, "Hi." Well, and y'all know what’s coming, there was this one night at Visions, the most poppin club in ATL (besides Club 112) at the time. And a co-worker and I had had a couple of martinis, the DJ had spun about 4 or 5 Outkast songs in row, and I was "feelin it." You know, I had my eyes closed, dancing with no one in particular—in my own world.
I opened my eyes to find Andre standing right in front of me. And no, I was not dreaming. He was actually there, talking to one of his boys. I don't know what came over me, but before I knew it, I'd grabbed him by his arm and pulled him to me, whispering in his ear, "Now you know you should go on and let me have your baby."
What is so wild is that this joker did not miss a beat. He leaned over to me and, smooth as silk, said "Let me go and get a drink first." I'm sure I didn't move an inch, watching him walk to the bar. In my mind, he could have done with me whatevah evah evah evah he wanted right then—in the club.
I wish I could tell you that he came back and we danced the night away, got married, and had a slew of creative babies. But of course you know that's not the way it turned out. Maybe hitting the bar was his getaway line, but regardless, his people took him somewhere and I didn't see him anymore that night. When I came to (so to speak) I was so distraught and embarrassed that the impression I'd left with Andre was of a straight groupie, something that no self-respecting entertainment journalist can ever allow themselves to be.
Okay, so I was not raised to act like this. My momma always told me that sex should happen between two people who have a deep and abiding love for each other. And I really believe that. How could I just propose procreation to a man I didn't even know? But sometimes we all take leave of our senses, right? Well I'll speak for myself. At that moment in time, when I asked Andre to be my baby daddy, not a soul on this earth could make me believe that I wasn't as serious as collard greens and cornbread.
Thank GOD I don't feel that way about Andre anymore, mostly because I'm finally a grown up (I guess). And thank GOD even more that he didn't come back to me from the bar. This story might have been x-rated.
Practicing "Da Art of Storytellin," jd
Oh and check out a couple of interesting and kind of opposite viewpoints about Obama.
Places, Please! Arrogant is the new uppity.—The Black Snob
"And Massa said, "Who let you in here? Yes, you. With that inconveniently independent mind armed with facts. With your standing up straight and talking white, looking The Man directly in the eye. Just who do you think you are? Because you're not me. You're nothing like me who is better than you. So you are an insult to me. You refute my long-held beliefs about you so you must be proven wrong."
What Camp Obama Has in Common With the Bushes—TheRoot.com
The Cool One's campaign thinks anything off-message is aiding the enemy. Sound familiar?