So, I just realized that these random, overnight love affairs I find myself in are pacifiers. And now, I’m feeling less like Amina Buddafly and more like Cardi B. Remember when that national treasure said, “Ever since I started using guys, I feel so bleeping powerful?” I certainly remember, and the logic behind that is golden. Not that I am going around using men, but something clicked when Cardi said that and now I am no longer allowing myself to be used.
Many of you who read this column have been slaying me in the comments. One of the things that’s stuck out the most to me has been a claim that I have low self-esteem, which quite frankly isn’t true. Like anyone, there’s things about myself that I am not pleased with, but my esteem is in tact. If I had low self-esteem, would I be able to vulnerably share the horror stories from my love life every week? Would I be creating Internet fodder for you to rip apart that’s here to stay foreva? (in my Cardi B. voice) Likely not.
I love myself. I love myself enough to share myself with you. I love myself enough to know that I will find the love I deserve. I love myself enough to continue to share these stories with you. I love myself enough to stop using pacifiers for temporary relief.
I don’t know if it’s New York City, me, or a combination of both, but it’s very easy to get wrapped inside of a whirlwind romance overnight. You know the story: Boy meets girl. Girl giggles the night away with her friends. Boy approaches girl. Boy is so handsome and smooth. Girl gets wrapped up in boy. A random, romantic night ensues, and then boy never calls girl again. This story kind of went down this way, only a little different.
My best friend Charles hates to celebrate his birthday with pomp and circumstance, but after a couple of our friends suggested that we do something to celebrate, he decided to pull a chill night out together. First, we stopped for dinner near the place where we’d be dancing all night. We talked, ate, drank, drank some more and realized that because dinner was on senior citizen status at 7pm, we had plenty of time to spare once we wrapped it up.
“Let’s go to this dive bar up the block,” Charles suggested.
We kindly obliged and caravanned it to the dive bar. All of my friends waltzed inside after showing their ID’s. I was at the tail end of the group and trying my best to pull my ID out of my wallet. Then I heard a deep voice, “Need some help?”
I looked up. A very tall, brown and handsome bouncer looked down at my struggle. I smiled, “No, I’ve got it.” I pulled out my ID, he took it, studied it, marked an X on my hand and kept looking at my ID.
“You’re not from here,” he held my ID in his giant hands.
“You’re smart,” I smiled as I reached for my ID. “How’d you know?” I had my ID changed to a New York state ID a couple of years back, so I was very curious that he knew I was an implant. I mean, most of us are, right?
“I am smart, but you also have an accent that’s still thicker than you.” He smiled at me, pleased with his clever play on words.
I rolled my eyes, “Good one,” I snatched my ID and walked in. “Enjoy your night,” I said walking past him. I hate when men make my thick thighs the topic of conversation before they even ask my name. That, to me, screams fetish.
I rejoined my friends at the bar as they were ordering drinks. “Dark & Stormy please!” I ordered along with them.
As I waited on my drink, I leaned on the bar and I felt eyes on me. Oh, they were. The bouncer could have been burning holes into me with his glare. When he saw that I noticed him, he put two fingers to his eyes and then pointed them at me. He mouthed, “Watching you.”
I rolled my eyes again and turned around to retrieve my Dark & Stormy. One Dark & Stormy turned into four Dark & Stormys and, before I knew it, I was in the middle of the dance floor, twerking to T-Pain.
The bouncer left his post and walked over to me, “Your next one is on me.”
“No thanks!” I kept dancing.
He put his hand on the small of my back, barely grazing my butt and leaned into me and whispered, “Of everything I have seen, it’s you I want to go on seeing,” and he dropped his hand and walked away.
I was frozen on the dance floor. My friends all danced and sipped their drinks around me, but it was in slow motion. I walked over to the bouncer who was sitting on a stool by the door, “I love Pablo Neruda.”
“Me too.” He smiled at me.
“I hate when guys talk about my body like that, before they know me. But I bleeping love Pablo Neruda. Are you kidding me?” I asked in a cloud of tipsy.
He laughed, “Of everything I’ve touched, it’s your flesh I want to go on touching.”