Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (10 page)

“Why didn’t you take it?”

“Well, there happened to be this funny little thing:
I DON'T LIKE MEN!”

“No man ever offered me all that stuff.”

“That's because you're not what's
in
any
longer to successful men. You went out with the nineties the way pretty boys
went out with the eighties. But we're making a comeback.”

“Honestly, I find it hard to believe that you're not
a little bit interested in men.”

“Why?”

“Look at you! Perfectly manicured hands, your
eyelashes are longer than mine, and it even looks like your eyebrows are waxed.
I bet you even watch Wendy Williams’ show?  How you doin’?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. So just because I take
pride in my appearance and can recognize a diva when I see one, it makes me
gay?”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

I spent most of my life trying to convince people
that I wasn’t gay. There wasn’t anything wrong with being gay, but no one wants
to be accused of being something they aren’t. No one.

After two more glasses of Merlot each and a healthy
slice of peach cobbler that she ate all by herself and forty minutes more of
bullshit conversation, the waiter brought the check and handed it to me. It
always amazed me how waiters assume that the man is the one paying. I accepted
it and the bill totaled $148.00.

I noticed Topeka reaching for her purse and wondered
if she could actually be doing what I thought she is doing?
Please let it be
cash
. Trying to split the bill on two credit cards was so complicated. After
all the anticipation and self talk, she pulled a tube of lip liner out of her
purse.
Fuck
! $148.00 plus tip makes it $171.00 and her selfish ass didn’t
even fake a reach for it. She didn’t even bother to ask what the total of the
check was, for that matter. The least she could have done was offer to leave
the tip. I guess the silver lining to that cloud is that it only took me $171.00
to find out that this wasn’t the girl for me. It could have been worse. It was
a numbers game as far as I was concerned and my goal was to go on as many dates
as possible. If you throw enough spaghetti on the wall, sooner or later
something had to stick.

As I begrudgingly but still gentlemanly walked Topeka to her car, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorrow. I was starting to wonder if
this was ever going to get any easier and if I could return to my old form and
be the stud I once was. I had just gotten back into the dating game and this
shit was getting old already.

When we arrived at her car, she abruptly stopped
short and extended her hand to me as a courtesy. “Thank you for dinner.”

Thank you for dinner? That’s it?
  “My
pleasure. How about going out with me again next weekend?”

What can I say, I was a glutton for punishment and
she looked like she had a little freak in her, judging by the low-cut camisole
she wore shopping her big ass titties. Evidently, she wanted me to notice them
or else she wouldn’t have worn something that tempting.  My mind drifted
for a moment, fantasizing about her in a pair of red thigh high hooker boots,
fishnet stockings, and a crimson and black lace corset that would make her eyes
bulge.  I wasn’t into S&M, but the look enticed me.  I didn’t
mind a woman attempting to exercise her assertiveness, but as far as being
dominated by a woman that wasn’t going to happen with me for sure.

“Let me see.  I don’t know when I’m going to
have a sitter again. Give me a call.”

I had never dated a woman with children before and I
wasn’t accustomed to being on a schedule. I was used to receiving all of a chick’s
attention. But more importantly, I couldn’t believe this carnivore was going to
send me home with just a handshake. Not even a hug? Maybe she should be a man
because she's got balls. She squeezed her big ass into her compact Toyota
Corolla while avoiding me trying to plant a kiss on her. She had the evasive
moves of an NFL running back.

As she pulled off, I thought to myself how she
looked like ten pounds of sausage stuffed in a five pound bag in that clown
car. She should think about investing in an SUV.

One thing I learned from living in L.A. is that “let’s
do lunch” doesn't really mean let’s do lunch. Or, in this case, “give me a call”
doesn't really mean give me a call. Which leads us to Dapper Carter’s third
rule of dating:
Go
somewhere cheap on the first date
because you may never see this girl again!

If I Was Your Girlfriend

My momma didn’t raise no fool, so I instantly made
the adjustment on my next date, which was a noticeable step down to
TGI
Fridays.
From that point forward, women were going to have to earn their
meals.  I had forgotten how much I needed to have structure in my life and
by developing rules of dating for myself I was hoping they would keep me on
track and, more importantly, out of the poor house.  It was sad but
necessary.

I sat at the bar nursing a Guinness and picking through
a bowl of peanuts when I peeped my date’s long, slender brown legs strutting
toward me with purpose.  This chick had a bad-ass walk on her like a Parisian street whore.  It was what got my attention in the first place.  She had
been hauling her gorgeous ass after a cab on 57
^th
St.. because she
was late for a Saks Fifth Avenue photo shoot.  I let her have the cab and
figured what the hell and asked her to go to dinner with me.  She’s a
supermodel so I was certain she didn’t eat very much; hence, we agreed to meet
at Fridays after her shoot. 

It was a great effort to look up from her tasty-looking
twigs and into her smoldering hazel eyes. After several extended seconds of
drooling I finally did.  Presenting herself before me in a body-hugging,
strapless, fuchsia cocktail dress was Ms. September Pierre.  She was a
runway model as well and you could tell by the way she walked in the
room.  The likelihood that she was not wearing panties was high because
women who can pull off a dress like that generally don’t wear any drawers.

She had a remarkable resemblance to Lela Rochon in
all her best roles. The fine-ass chick with the jacked up feet in “Boomerang,” the
promiscuous friend from “Waiting to Exhale,” and who could forget her in the
classic “Harlem Nights” as Sunshine? But not the “Any Given Sunday” Lela.

I stood up and pulled out her chair for her, careful
to make sure I did all the gentlemanly little things my mother had emphasized
that women liked. I also gave her a friendly hug and a peck on the cheek.

She was electric and I could tell every guy in the
room had his eyes on her. Even their wives couldn’t blame them for staring because
they were staring too. She was a tad bit overdressed for Fridays, but I ain’t
mad at her! She was bubbly and effervescent, which was a breath of fresh air
compared to Topeka James’s complaining ass.

As she sat down I peeked at her perfect posterior
and my suspicions were confirmed.  No panty lines.  Not even the
triangle from the top of a thong.  I ordered her a Cosmopolitan and
another Guinness for myself.  I was hoping she would throw back two or
three more.  She was sexy and exotic like a Bengal tiger.   That’s
one cat I would like to skin.

“You’re such a gentleman.” That wasn’t the greatest
compliment in my mind because to me it’s just a stone’s throw from the Friend
Zone. “Not many guys would have given up their cab to a woman he doesn’t know
and make himself late for work.  I was actually off today but she didn’t
need to know that.

“No problem. It’s what I do,” I fibbed.  “And I
do know you, sort of.  You were in Vanity Fair last month. Page thirty
four.”

“Wow! I’m impressed. You even knew the page number.”

“Yeah, I’m an idiot savant like that.”  What an
airhead.  I Google-ed her and bought the magazine while I was waiting for
her to finish her shoot.  I was becoming a salesman through and
through.  My manager suggested I start reading the Wall Street Journal and
New York Times instead of the Post or Daily News.  For the clientele I was
dealing with you had to know the same things they knew and information was
power in our new society.  I also perused the fashion magazines so I was
able to spot high-end merchandise more accurately.  And Ms. September Pierre
was high-end merchandise.

“I love Friday’s, although I haven’t been here in
years.” I bet she hadn’t, especially not in that Givenchy.

“I’m glad. I could really use a friend right now. My
boyfriend doesn’t believe that men and women can be platonic, but I think he is
wrong.” She was young and dumb. Could she really be that naïve?

“So, you’ve got a boyfriend, huh?”

“Yes. Sort of. We are having trouble right now
because he doesn’t trust the friendships I have with my male friends,” she said
in her annoying Jackee` Harry voice.  “Some crap about trusting me, but he
doesn’t trust them.”

“How many male friends do you have exactly?”

“Lots. Most of them are gay, though.”

Of course they were! But you’d be surprised how many
weren’t gay. That had been my hook for years. I couldn’t help it that I’m into
a lot of the same shit gay men are into, such as theatre and dressing nicely. Women
would assume that “
if I was your girlfriend
” shit until they were
picking up their panties off the floor after we just had sex! Joke’s on them. They
never heard me say I was gay. You know what they say about when you assume? I
would have liked to pin her gorgeous ass up against the wall and ram my tongue
down her esophagus while running my hand up her velvety leg and feverishly
massaging her swollen beaver.

I stood up and promptly dropped two twenty-dollar
bills on the table.

“I think your boyfriend is right. Men and women
can’t be friends. Goodnight.”  I turned my back on her and stepped,
leaving her shocked. She should be because I’m sure no guy had ever left her
hanging before. But to me, having a female friend was like having $19 in your
bank account and having an ATM card. You know your money is there, but you
can’t get to it!

Shaggy and Scooby

The dating scene was rough, but one thing was for
sure in that I was finally starting to make some money, which always made me
feel good about myself.

I was killing at work.  Also, I was beginning
to get more comfortable with my body, so I started to wear slightly more fitted
golf shirts to show off the new physique. Just three months ago I tipped the
scales at 237 pounds. And through Rain’s suggestions of eating more water-based
fruits and green, leafy vegetables, combined with running five miles every
morning before having to be in the city at ten o’clock, I dropped down to a muscular
205 pounds. I was getting strong too, repping out with 225 pounds on the bench
press.

I was getting my body back, and then I noticed that the
strangest thing was happening. White women loved me! I was what is called a non-threatening
Negro. The bald headed, dark skinned brotha from the ’90s was nice to look at
and all, but white girls couldn’t bring any of them niggas home to meet their
parents. They could with me, though, settling for my soft, wavy hair and house
nigga complexion.

I was working with two female customers who were just
eating me up. Neither one of them really needed a treadmill, but that wasn’t
for me to decide since my main objective was to sell treadmills and make money.
They were kind of young and looked like former athletes to begin with. The well-toned
calves and tear drop of their quadriceps muscles teased from beneath their
miniskirts.  

Becky was the blonde with volleyball player
hamstrings, thighs, and glutes.  She had cherry blow pop colored lips like
Angelina Jolie.  She was from South Orange but went to Columbia Law School. It was there that she met Daphne. Daphne had the bubbly personality of a
bottle of Cristal with short black hair and frost blue eyes. She looked like the
type that will get a brotha like me twenty to life.

After deliberating (bullshitting) for twenty minutes,
I sold each of them an entry-level $1,800 treadmill. I went to shake Becky’s hand
to consummate the deal, but instead she reached up and kissed me on the cheek. And
so did Daphne.  It caught me off guard, but I appreciated the attention. We
made plans to meet in Brooklyn for drinks later that night.

After getting off of work I met up with my two new
friends at a small dive bar in DUMBO and after several shots of Patron for me, chased
by several Coronas, and four margaritas a piece for each of them, we decided to
bounce and headed to another bar around the corner. The three of us staggered
down the street to our next destination. The two young ladies needed a
cigarette break, so we loitered in front of
Scottie’s Bar.
 

The air was a crisp 48 degrees. November had just
begun and the hawk had grown restless. Gone were the days of summer and wearing
tank tops and flip flops. They had been replaced by light jackets, hoodies, and
Timberlands for the men, and riding boots and long sweaters for women. We were
in our winter urban assault uniform now.