Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (5 page)

Regardless of what Khalil said, I started going to
therapy. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which meant that I cycled back
and forth between extreme lows and extreme highs. My issue never had really been
with the depression part of it. My issue had been the mania. I loved it and
hated it at the same time. On one hand, it would cause me to stay up all night,
go on exorbitant shopping sprees, and frequent strip clubs, spending all my
money.

It wasn’t uncommon for me to end up in a hotel room
in Atlantic City with a stripper three days later during one of my episodes. But,
on the other hand, it would make me energetic and creative; people would be naturally
drawn to me. I had always been the type of person who was going to howl at the
moon. The only problem was that I was going to do it on
your
front porch.
I fought this notion for a long time, but the more I think about it the more I
realized that maybe I was bipolar.

The one good thing that came out of therapy, if you
can call it good, was that we got to the root of a lot of my behavior issues. My
shrink inquired as to if I had ever been molested or sexually abused as a child. 
Of course not
. I mean, my eighteen-year-old babysitter used to give me
oral sex when I was ten years old and coerce me to have sex with her, but I was
never abused. Her jaw hit the floor. Evidently the recurring abuse was the
reason why I was having so much trouble sustaining relationships with women.

It was a tough situation for a young boy. Who could
you tell that you were having sex with your eighteen- year-old babysitter? The
other boys would wear that as a badge of honor, but that wasn’t the case for
me. I was ashamed of myself and I thought I did something wrong. It was why I
was so hell-bent on pleasing women and when my infatuation with older women
began.

So there began my relationship with Zoloft and
Depakote for the depression, Paxil for my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (not
OCD), Ativan for sleep (sleep too much already), Synthroid for my thyroid
(thyroid whacked out due to meds) and Jack Daniels. Numbing myself seemed like
a good idea at the time so I started drinking excessively, not wanting to deal
with my guilty conscience regarding my marriage.   None of that shit
worked.  I was a zombie because of all that shit I was taking and it made
me slow and lethargic. The twelve hour naps and the gallon of Ben & Jerry’s
ice cream I consumed every day caused a significant gain in weight.  Everybody
likes ice cream I thought. I just happened to like it a little too much.

I ballooned from a fit one hundred eighty five
pounds to an unhealthy two hundred and twenty pounds just like that.  My
mother thought I looked robust with the extra weight but I wasn’t feeling
it.  My body financed my education and I needed to take better care of
it. 

Sixteen months and thirty pounds later, I had had enough.
I needed to make some changes and the first thing I had to do was get a job. I
majored in business, but I had always been interested in the fitness industry,
but that was when I was in shape. I use to be able to bench press over three
hundred pounds, deadlift three hundred and fifty pounds, and squat four plates
on each side (405 lbs).  But not any more.  Not even close.  If
I were going to work in fitness, I had to look the part.

I remember the first day of my struggle to get back
into shape. I ran exactly one block before it felt like my lungs caught fire. My
head was pounding and I was dizzy and nauseous. I laid my ass down right there
on the sidewalk, unconcerned about who was watching, trying to regain my
equilibrium, my oxygen, and my dignity. I was once a star athlete now I was a
staggering two hundred and fifty pounds and couldn’t even run a city block. I
had to get my shit together.
  

After lounging on the pavement for five more minutes,
I finally scooped myself up and began my walk home.

It was time for me to get back in the game. I hadn’t
been on a date since Kennedy left, which meant I hadn’t had sex in two years
either. I didn’t even miss it. Food and alcohol became my surrogate for sex. I
would be celebrating my 35
^th
birthday soon, and I didn’t want to go
out like this. My new order of business would be to get a job, get my own
place, get back in shape, and then find a new Mrs. Carter.

Why Did She Kill Her Sister?

Summer nights “Down the Shore” as New Jerseyans like
to call it were the best. The cool thing about going down the shore was that
everyone in Jersey went to the beach. Even thug-ass niggas from Newark in Timberlands and jeans get caught all “boo-ed up” down in Seaside Heights. They will stalk the boardwalk all day, winning oversized stuffed animals and buying
cotton candy but won’t go anywhere near the water.

Blacks have gotten a bad reputation for our
hydrophobia and who could blame us? If your ancestors witness 400 million
people die during the Slave Passage, mostly by drowning, wouldn’t you pass that
fear on from generation to generation? Jews don’t vacation in Germany!

There were droves of people out, mostly teens and
young adults running to Point Pleasant from the sweltering 90 degrees the
thermometer was still reading.  The boardwalk was my favorite.  I
grew up playing skee ball, shooting baskets to win stuffed animals, as well as
gorging on cotton candy, salt water taffy, and Kohl’s vanilla custard ice
cream.

I had acquired a spare tire around my waist for the
first time in my life thanks to the Kennedy Fried Chicken, which used to be
chicken Kennedy fried, and Dunkin’ donut diet I was on, so it was good for me
to get outdoors and do some walking. I hooked up with an old friend of mine
from college on Facebook. 

Monique Devereaux had hazel eyes, light brown hair that
was cut in a short bob, juicy-ass lips, and could stand to lose 15 pounds. But who
couldn’t once you reach your thirties. At least she had the extra ten pounds in
the right place, as I couldn’t help but admire her maximus gluteus in the Apple
Bottom jeans she was wearing. I figured she'd be just as good as any to test
the waters with, seeing as though we had a little bit of history from when I
attended Rutgers on a basketball scholarship. She was in my economics class,
which I was failing miserably. But we know that there are certain perks to
being a scholarship athlete in college. Monique was paid off by an anonymous
booster to take my economics final for me. I (she) got an A. 

We casually strolled along the boardwalk eating
funnel cake, one of the few delicacies that I couldn’t say no to. The signature
trail of powdered sugar dusted the front of my black t-shirt. The ocean was
swollen with the threat of an impending storm and the shoreline was feeling
tropical as a warm breeze blew in. It was the calm before the storm that always
excited me..  I didn’t think it was any coincidence that 70% of the planet
was covered by water and 70% of the human body is composed of water as well.  The
gravitational pull of the moon not only affected the tides of the oceans, but
it affected the tides within me as well. We stopped to look over the railing at
the waves breaking and admire the orange and purple sky.

“So what made you call me after all of these years?”
she finally asked.  I had been expecting that question all evening.

“I was married for eight years, but I just got
divorced recently.”

“You married that girl you was with in college,
right?  Kennedy?” she grumbled with major attitude.

“Yea.  It was a mistake.”

I was careful not to reveal all the details of how
big of a jerk I had been to my ex-wife. After a brief deliberation over what to
do next we decided to take it back to her place to watch movies and make vodka martinis,
which happens to be my favorite drink.

Monique was like most single 30-something year old
women that lived in New Jersey.  She lived in a small house in Sayreville,
which she owned, drove a Honda Accord, was a single mother of an eleven-year-old
boy, had been working at Johnson & Johnson as an executive secretary since
the day she dropped out of Rutgers with only twenty credits to go because she
got pregnant.  She hates her baby’s daddy and goes out with the girls
every other Friday after work (
his
weekend) to watch live comedy and get
drunk.  I couldn’t blame her for how she felt about her ex.  He was a
bigger jerk than me. 

I chilled on her sofa sipping a dirty Grey Goose martini
with three olives as she cued the DVD player. I liked dirty Grey Goose martinis,
but when I ordered it at a bar, they always made it filthy (too much olive
juice). So I had gotten in the habit of making it with three olives instead.

Afterwards she sat on the forest green leather ottoman
across the room from me while I was hanging out on the matching sofa.

“Why are you sitting all the way over there?” I
jokingly took a whiff of my armpits, thinking maybe it had something to do with
body odor. “I don't stink, do I?”

Begrudgingly she moved across the room and sat next
to me. The closeness of our bodies gave me the opening I needed to put my arm
around her. Comfortably she lay against me. It had been a long time.  I
could smell the kiwi-scented conditioner she used in her hair and the apple
body spray she spritzed all over her body hours earlier. The fruity mixture was
just as intoxicating to me as fermented grapes were.

I felt nervous and excited like I did on my first
date with Kennedy. She sipped her apple martini quietly while her head nestled
against my pounding chest. The wheels started to turn in my cluttered head with
a little test that I liked to administer to a woman when on a first date with
her. It was kind of like a barometer for her psychological make-up.

“Hey, I have a question for you.”

“Go for it.”

I took my arm from around her as I cleared my
throat. “It’s more like a scenario. A woman while at her mother’s funeral meets
a guy she does not know but who she thinks to be the man of her dreams and
falls in love instantly. However, she leaves the funeral and fails to get his
phone number and fears she will never see him again. She goes home and kills
her sister. Why did she kill her sister?”

She pondered momentarily, although I could tell that
she could care less.  “I have no idea.” She raised her eyebrows
incredulously. I could tell she was also starting to speculate about my mental
health.

“Good answer.” I massaged the muscles in her back zealously
as if she may be "the one." This was a new sensation for me since I
had been so selfish for most of my life and was used to being the massagee, not
the massager.

“So, what have you been doing for the last two
years?” she inquired while using the stirrer to taunt the distressed apple
sliver floating in her glass.

“Getting my head together. The divorce was pretty
hard for me.”

And that was the truth. Eight years of marriage was
wiped out in a matter of months. If Kennedy had only cited irreconcilable differences,
New Jersey law stated that we separate for no less than a year as to make
sure that it was what both parties wanted to do. But since I also had fidelity
issues and New Jersey being a “fault” state, the process was expedited and she
got her papers in six months. No fuss, no muss. And the most hurtful part of it
was Kennedy regained use of her maiden name and discarded the Carter surname,
no longer wanting to have proof that our consummation ever existed.

“Have you been getting out? Dating?” She seemed to
become more concerned, borderline alarmed.

“Not really. You're the first.”

Her eyes dilated. I couldn’t tell if she had seen a
ghost or had a sudden rush of adrenaline, signaling to her whether or not to
fight or flee. “You haven't been on a date in two years?”

“Nope. I thought it was important for me to take
some time out for myself. Really find out what it is that I want.”

“And do you know what you want?”

“I want you,” I fired back confidently. Her cool,
casual demeanor shifted, causing her to sit up abruptly. She was flabbergasted.
I think she could sense the desperation in me and the one thing that turns women
off is desperation.

 
“Excuse me?” Daring me to repeat what I
said to be sure she heard me right.

“I want you. Always have.” I inched closer, trying
to entangle myself in her sensual web. I could feel an aching in my nether
regions, which I hadn’t felt in some time. I wanted to be near her, inside of
her. I tried to kiss her on her neck, attempting to break down her defense
mechanisms and put her in a precarious position to make it impossible for her
to resist me.

But she did resist and fought gallantly for her personal
space, careful not to linger in my mine too long. She used this opportunity to
get off of her chest once and for all the depreciation she felt along with scores
of other women. She would cross-examine me for all the faceless, nameless
victims of my egocentric pursuits.

“We haven't spoken in how many years and you think
you want me? Why?” she challenged, standing now with her hands on her hips and
shifting her weight impatiently back and forth from one leg to the next.