Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (9 page)

Eva could eat like no other, so I referred to her as
“Eva the Eata” because she only called me when she needed a meal. She spent
more time at the craft services table than actually in front of the camera. I
don’t know where she stored the food on her ridiculous five-foot-eight inch, 130
pounds of 100-meter-sprinter-at-UCLA muscled body.

Unfortunately, she would never sleep with me. I
always considered her a vendetta. Her biggest problem was that she thought she
knew it all. Yes, she was one of the finest women to walk the earth, but then
she opened her big mouth and chased away every man who was interested in her. Plus,
she was color struck. She came up with some bullshit excuse about how she only
liked dark-skinned men and that I was too light for her. In my opinion, the
real reason she only was attracted to dark men was that she really hated
herself. As in hated her own “Imitation of Life,” tragic mulatto skin. She
needed to be with someone darker than her in order to validate her own blackness.
Nevertheless, she was gorgeous…and I always wanted her.

She arrived late, of course, but was stunning in a lime
green, sleeveless Oscar de la Renta.  She ordered a glass of Malbec and I ordered
two
martinis.  I was going to need them. 

 “Dapper, I'm sorry things didn't work out
between you and Kennedy.”

“Thanks.” I half-heartedly answered, not even trying
to give my former wife any thought.

“But I guess it was to be expected. Between the
money you lost gambling and throwing up on her mother at the wedding reception,
I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did!”

Fuck you
! I mean, who did she think she was? I
felt like reaching across the table and snatching her up by her fragile throat.
But I also felt like reaching across the table and ramming my tongue down her
throat and licking her tonsils. It was really hard being in love with a bitch
that you hate!

“You'll be just fine. There's a big world out there.
Meet women. Have friends.”

“I don't have female friends. What can a woman offer
me that I can't get from my boys, except sex?”

“Nurturing? Affection? Another perspective?”

“Not for me. I fuck all my female friends.”

“You didn't fuck me.”

“Yet! And that's the only reason we're friends. By
default. And I'm willing to put our ten years of friendship on the line right
now for a shot at the title!”

“Dap?!” she gasped as if she was shocked. But she
couldn’t be that surprised. She had known me for ten years, so she should know
I don’t pull any punches. I say the things that other people wish they had the
balls to say. “Well, that's not going to happen.”

“I figured as much, but you can't blame a brotha for
trying.”

“You've been trying for a long time. You really
should quit.”

I hated quitters. When my coach was riding my ass
during freshman year and pushing me to quit and just give up my scholarship, I
rode it out.  I never quit and I became one of Coach’s favorite players. I
worked my way up the bench from twelfth man to tenth man!3

I reached across the table to clasp her hand, hoping
that she would remove the monkey from my back of why we weren’t together. But
not before I ordered her another glass of Malbec in an attempt to loosen her
up. I tried to play it cool, but I really wanted to dick her down and make a donation
to her Garden of Eva. I had two years of little Dapper Carters that were stored
up in my testicles dying to be released naturally, not manually as I had become
accustomed to doing during my hiatus from sex.

“So, why have we been having so much trouble hooking
up for all these years? What's wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you. I enjoy our friendship.”

“So, all I am is a friend to you?” One place you
didn’t want to be put as a man was in the
Friend Zone.
It’s way worse
than the Twilight Zone and much harder to get out of.

“You’re more like a brother to me!”

“A brother? That’s even worse than being just a
friend.  You women kill me with that. If I treated you like shit, you
would be riding my nuts.  But since I try to show you some respect, you
treat me like a brother. Or should I say a sucker?”

“I don't mean to be mean or burst your bubble, but you're
just not the type of man I see myself in a relationship with.”

I began to grow frustrated. My teeth started to
grind and my jaw tightened. I mean, what the fuck was that supposed to mean? The
large vein on the left side of my temple began to throb.

“You're selfish, insecure, and irrational at times, clingy,
self-centered, and you have fidelity issues.  Not to mention you can’t
afford me.” 
Wow!
   Then she stood up and removed her
napkin from her lap.

“I have to go.  Thanks for the drinks. 
Ta-ta.”

“Ta-ta?  Where you going?” I asked.

“Knicks/Lakers game.  Floor seats.” 

“Ain’t that a bitch.  Well that explains the de
la Renta
knock-off
that you’re rocking.”  That’s right.  She
thought I wouldn’t know.

“Fuck you, nigga.”  She promptly flipped me the
bird then sauntered off with her Nine West shoe wearing ass.  Eva had a
date with a affluent real estate developer so she had to run out and asked me
to pick up the check as usual. That was the straw that broke the playa hater’s camel’s
back.  When women disrespectfully and comfortably starts talking about
other guys that she is seeing it should culminate into the realization that you
won’t be seeing no parts of the pussy.

I was more than delighted to see her leave. Somewhat
because I like to look at her bulbous derriere, but mostly because she annoyed
the shit out of me.  But as God as my witness, I was going to hit that shit
one day. She blew me a kiss as she sauntered off, leaving me dumbfounded and
feeling stupid as usual. She did that to me all the time, which brought me to Dapper
Carter’s second rule: 

If we're just friends, we can split the check.  If
we're fucking, I'll take care of it!

Sweet Turtle

I returned home to lick my wounds, take a shower,
and throw on some new digs.  I had my first real date in three years and I
wanted to make sure I was fresh dressed like a million bucks.  I decided
to wear a new black, fitted Kenneth Cole shirt that I picked up in Marshall’s. 
Brand names for less.
  I couldn’t afford to shop at the
Kenneth Cole on Lexington Ave. but I could afford to see what I liked then go
find it in one of the outlet malls like Jersey Gardens.  And I preferred
the term “fitted” or “athletic” instead of tight or s-medium. I hooked it up
with some plain old washed out Levi’s from Target and my Kenneth Cole boots. 
Next was my black hoodie, green Polo windbreaker, and I topped it off with a blue
Von Dutch trucker cap. 

I was still not where I wanted to be physically but
I had made great strides and was starting to see a two pack in my abs.  I
had slowly gone from filling up a double XL to swimming in a large.  It
was about fucking time.  I was making good money at the Fitness Depot, pulling
in about $6,000 per month till the grim reaper, Uncle Sam, minimized my take
home pay to about $4,800 per month.

Nevertheless, I decided to splurge a little bit and
take Miss Topeka James to dine at
Sweet Turtle
, an upscale Southern
cuisine. That’s Brooklyn restaurant talk, but back in Newark it’s simply called
a soul food joint.

Topeka
was a blind date that my manager from
work set up believe it or not. As I entered Sweet Turtle a cacophony of
saxophone, bass, and drums filled the air from the live jazz band that was jammin’.
 It tickled me how as you got closer to forty years old your taste in
music suddenly took interest in jazz. I always liked jazz, but I was more into
Miles and Coltrane. I wasn’t feeling Najee, Kenny G, or any g’s for that
matter. 

As Topeka got closer she got bigger. Sort of like an
oncoming train.  Topeka James was what was known as a BBW, Big Beautiful
Woman.  She had a beautiful face with a dazzling smile, could sing her ass
off, and never met a part of the pig she didn’t like. 

 She also was a seductive two hundred and
thirty pounds standing over five feet nine inches tall with brushed cut, wavy,
blonde hair, and of course a tattoo of a black panther with a red rose in its
mouth displayed on her hearty left breast. I wasn’t prejudiced against big girls
since all the women in my family were over 200 pounds and significantly bigger
than I. She threw her gear together nicely and wore it well.  Make no
mistake about it I would knock her down right now.  My drought had gone
from the ridiculous to the sublime. 

“So how long have you been selling exercise
equipment?”

“One week.  But I’m a natural salesman.”

“Then sell me something,” she flirted.

“I can sell you a hope and a dream or I can sell you
some swampland in Florida.  What will it be?”

“I’ll tell you at the end of the night.”  She
winked and blew me a kiss.  “So what are we having?”

“Anything you want.”

“You mean I can look at the “
fucking
” side of
the menu?” 

“You can look at whichever side of the menu you want,”
I said.

“But if I order from
this
side (right side)
am I going to feel obligated to fuck you?” she didn’t mince words either. 

“How could you feel obligated?  You set the
rules.”  Women shouldn’t have to do anything that they didn’t want to do. 
Females had become accustomed to men expecting sex just because he fed her. In
retrospect, maybe I should have been a little more like them and let these
women who have their shit together start paying for a brotha’s time. Unfortunately,
after living off of Kennedy for several years, I wasn’t interested in that
lifestyle any longer. I wanted my own shit to ensure that no one had any
control over me. Nor would I feel any sense of obligation to her.

Topeka
had a voracious appetite, so she
ordered a rack of lamb, complete with collard greens, candied yams, and mac and
cheese. I had a Cobb salad, trying to conserve money to make sure I could afford
the meal. I know I planned on treating but goddamn!  I mean, who orders a
full rack of lamb? It must have looked really funny me eating a salad while she
picked over a sheep’s carcass. What Rain said to me a few days earlier resonated.
I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to sit across from her pearly
whites and inviting eyes instead of Topeka’s.

She was actually pretty cool, and I wouldn’t mind
kicking it with her
if
she would just shut the fuck up.
If
the
queen had balls, she would be the king. It was easy to see why she didn’t have
a man.

“So how come you’re not married any more?”

“Long story.”

“No kids?”

“Even longer story.”  And was it ever.  Kennedy
and I tried, but she was having trouble.  We were going to try in vitro
fertilization right before she left me so I guess it worked out for the best
that we didn’t.  Feeling uncomfortable, I flipped the table and
reciprocated her third degree badgering.  “How come you don’t have a man?”

“I did.  He left me and the kids. Sorry
mothafucka!”

“Kidsssss?”  I emphasized the pluralness of the
statement.

“Two beautiful boys and a girl.” 

“I’m sure they are beautiful.”

“He left us for another man.”

“Excuse me?”   

“My dick likes dick. The man I loved, laid down and
had children with, decided the dispatcher at the trucking company he works for
has more to offer than me. I give good head. I would have tossed his salad.”

That was too much information. I felt bad for Topeka. It was becoming an epidemic in our community. I watched these flaming young boys
riding the subway with their pants hanging off of their asses. Unknowingly,
when they get to prison, they will be easily identified as a target for the
hardened prison predators. I am a live and let live type of person, but I find
it hard to understand how at such a young age you’ve already written off the
opposite sex when you haven’t had enough experience yet to know what you like.

Topeka
buttered her bread casually before firing
her own shot with no warning. “So, you ever been with another man?”

I almost choked, not believing she would ask me a
question like that. “Definitely, unequivocally NO!”

“You played big time ball. You never looked at
another guy’s joint in the shower?”

“Of course. All guys look at other guys in the
shower. It's an ego thing.”

“Never wanted to go home and cook up some sausage?”

“Never.” I wasn’t attracted to men and I knew that for
a fact. Scores of gay men had offered to set me up for life—the house, the
cars, the clothes, the expense account.