Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (6 page)

“I always liked you. I thought you were cute when we
were in college.”

“But you weren't checking for me. You slept with
half of the girls on campus, Mr. Hotshot Basketball Player.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Really? What about Chavon Lassiter and her sister? The
Carrera twins?!” Daggers flew from her eyes, finding their mark in my exposed
feelings.

I really didn’t even want to do the twins, but I
rationalized that I was taking one for the team because how many guys can claim
or even know a guy that had a threesome with identical twins.

“Not to mention half of my sorority, too,” she
continued.

I forgot about that. I was known as the AKA slayer
back in the day. I had never met a light skinned, light-eyed girl I didn’t
like.

“I'm not like that anymore. Actually, I haven't had
sex in two years.” As soon as the words leaped from my mouth, I knew they were
too big to fit back into my great big mouth.

“Really? Why? What's wrong with you?” Monique glared
at me unsympathetically, almost as if she were enjoying watching me squirm while
trying to justify my dry spell.

“Nothing,” I replied as I downed the rest of my
martini.

She extended her arms towards the ceiling and let
out a bear-like yawn.  “I'm sorry; I forgot that I really have to get up
early tomorrow. I don't know how it slipped my mind.”

When someone says they have to get up early, that's
bullshit! They never have to get up early. That's his or her way of telling you
that they no longer require your company. You ain't got to go home, but you got
to get the hell out of here!

“Maybe we can get together for dinner on Wednesday. 
And how about a movie on Friday?”

“I’ll call you.” She hurried me out the front door. I
figured at that point I might as well throw caution to the wind and go for
broke.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?”

“I don’t know.  Can you?”

I didn’t quite know how to take that but looking
back on it her response was more of an indictment my corniness in asking for a
kiss.  It’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

After deliberating briefly she reluctantly allowed
me. A pity kiss.  Those are the worst.  I placed one hand on her hip
and the other on her shoulder as I dove in. I felt like such a novice. I
thought it would be like riding a bike again. It wasn’t. It was a slow, awkward
kiss.  Nevertheless, it was my first kiss in two years and I considered myself
back in the game!

Newton’s First Law of Motion

I caught the train back to Manhattan and returned to
Caesar’s brownstone to resume my normal position, curled up on what was now
“my” chocolate sectional. I called Monique three or four times the previous day,
but surprisingly she didn't return my call. I didn’t know what was wrong but
Caesar had an idea.

“You don’t tell a girl that you’re not getting any
action. Women only want guys that other women want.  It’s simple physics. Newton’s First Law of Motion stated that an object at rest will stay at rest and an object
in motion will stay in motion unless affected by an outside force.” Caesar correlated
this to dating in that if you’re getting action, you will continue to get
action unless something stops your momentum.

“I really thought she'd think it was commendable
that I was not sexually active.”

“It’s admirable when someone made a choice of
celibacy because they have enough self-worth that they want to experience their
next sexual encounter with a person they love, not because they're still
holding the torch for someone else.”

“So, you think I came on too strong?”

“Like a bulldozer.”

I knew he was right. I hated that he was always
right.  I bet he never imagined that his $1500 sofa would end up being
used for psychotherapy.

“And stop telling these women all your business. Let
them talk about themselves. A good rule to follow is whomever talks the most on
a date generally has the most fun. Women like to talk. When they get
comfortable with you, then they'll give you some.”

Fully dressed in her disheveled cerullium blue
uniform, an Amazonian Dutch flight attendant came out of the bedroom and groggily
bee-lined to the bathroom. That's a real friend for you because there was no
way in hell I would be out in the living room talking to my pathetic ass. As if
things weren't good enough for Cez already, another flight attendant, half wearing
her ruby red Air Asia uniform popped her head out of the bedroom and inquired
as to when Caesar would return to bed? She fractured his name with the cutest
little accent that made me chuckle to myself.  It gets even better because
a third flight attendant, Air Korea (light blue), stuck her head out just to be
nosey. 
No bullshit
.

I was beginning to think that maybe Cez was a sex
addict. A lot of trifling brothas used that as an excuse to gallivant around
town, going on panty raids like frat boys. But sex addiction was a serious
problem just like any other addiction. Too much of anything usually turns out
to be detrimental and makes life unmanageable. This includes alcohol, drugs,
food, and even exercise. I never thought you could experience too much fun,
though, and I was willing to O.D. on that.

He confirmed that he was indeed coming back to bed
and he'd return shortly as the three beauties disappeared back into his room. Caesar
benefited most from the Facebook phenomenon because he was able to set up his
little jump-offs with freaks from all over the world. I shook my head in
amazement, but nevertheless I admired his game. And that conversation spawned Dapper
Carter’s first rule of dating
:
 

Shut your big mouth up!

Finally, I started to feel a tad better and sat
upright on the couch instead of channeling my inner child as I had been. I gave
a stretch and a yawn and thus began my awakening. While I kept my friend from
his orgy, I figured that it was time to let him in on my plan.

“I’m about to make a move into the City.”  I
needed a change of venue and it was either back to L.A. or give New York a try. I had found a spot in Brooklyn and was going to get into selling high-end exercise
equipment. I had always been into the human body. I started out as a physical
education major before I switched to business, figuring I'd play pro basketball
and would need to know how to manage and market the
Dapper Carter
brand
that I would acquire from my multimillion-dollar contract. None of that came to
fruition, but that was the plan.

I was at my wit’s end when it came to bullshit jobs.
I went door-to-door selling cable service for the local cable company, or was
it knives? It could have been fancy pots and pans maybe. I can’t remember because
I’ve done them all.

Getting a door slammed in my face over and over was not
my thing. I knew acting had rejection too, but not getting a call back is a
helluva lot different than getting a fucking door slammed in your mug! Besides
that, I didn’t have a car, or even a driver’s license any more, thanks to the
DUI I had earned shortly before Kennedy kicked me to the curb. So I couldn’t
even pick a girl up to take her on a date out in Jersey. 

New York
was a different story though. 
There I could buy an unlimited ride Metro card and see any girl I wanted to and
front like it was my choice not to drive and not divulge my economic or legal
issues.  I couldn’t even afford Geico given that New Jersey had the highest
insurance premiums.

”That’s a good move for you,” Caesar agreed.

I always hated fair weather friends and Caesar was a
good friend. He would take me on long rides out of the city after the divorce
and listen to me pour my heart out and cry like a little bitch.  He never
said a negative word, offering only encouragement and support. I loved my niggas.
For that reason, I never really kept female friends. When the shit hit the fan,
I was going to take it to the people who had known me and loved me for my whole
life, not some girl I had only known for a couple of months. My friends loved
me in spite of me, and I was grateful for that because I’m not that easy to
love.

“I’m going to start getting into myself. Start
working out, meditate, writing poetry butt naked in the woods.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.  With two
chicks.”

 Caesar liked that idea, but of course he had
to add two females into the mix. I was having a hard enough time handling one
chick.

“Why does it always have to be about women with you?

“Because that’s what I’m about. And that's what you
need to be about. After all, it’s been two years!” He was right. “Let’s go to Chicag-hoes
and celebrate. First lap dance is on me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. With my luck I’ll
fall in love with one of those hos and the last thing I need is to be
pussy-whipped over some unattainable pussy.”  It had been two years since
I had been to Chicag-hoes and the last thing I needed to see was Baton Rouge, Miss Peanut Butta, or Heroin.

Or Should I Say Stuyvesant Heights?

Khalil, Caesar, and I carefully made our way in the U-Haul,
through the Holland Tunnel and into Lower Manhattan, which still looks like the
Gotham City of the past.  We snaked through Tribeca locked in on our
destination, the Brooklyn Bridge. 

The three of us had been on many road trips together,
including the Greek Picnic, Freaknic, Essence Fest, Howard homecoming, Hampton
homecoming, and the Virginia Beach Labor Day Weekend, to name a few.

 College was the best time of my life.  The
three of us became a trio when one day while riding the shuttle from College Ave. to the Douglass campus (all girls).  

I noticed this shy, meek kid sleeping.  He
slept hard and I wished to myself that I were able to fall into that deep of a
sleep instead of tossing and turning all night like I do, even back then. 
We were the last two on the shuttle and I had a feeling we were creeping to the
same place, so I woke him up and he followed me to Dorm 19 and I haven’t been
able to shake him since. 

Khalil is a great friend, despite the fact that he
and Caesar, on the other hand, were like oil and water.  In the beginning
they tolerated each other because of their mutual friendship with me.  But
as time went on Cez grew to like and respect Khalil.

When I moved out to L.A. not long afterwards Khalil
followed.  We had a lot of fun together until I burned out.  You
can
have too much fun.   I moved back to Jersey to try to reconnect with
Kennedy and get some order in my life and not long afterwards Khalil sold a
script and followed suit moving home.

After driving for ten minutes or so we crossed over
the bridge into Brooklyn.  In the recognizable orange and white truck we
cruised through the historic tree-lined streets, past the mind-blowing  brownstones,
which had inflated to the mind-boggling $3 million mark. I knew a guy who
bought his brownstone on Oxford St. in Fort Greene back in the late ’80s for
$30,000 and flipped it fifteen years later for almost $2.7 million. That had
become the formula for Brooklyn real estate during the ’90s. We continued onward,
travelling through Fort Greene and into Clinton Hill.

“So where are we going?” Caesar asked.

“Bed-Stuy. Or should I say Stuyvesant Heights?”

“That’s real estate talk. You still live in Bedford
Stuyvesant,” Khalil said rolling his eyes. “The home of Biggie, Jay Z, crack
heads, and stick-up kids.”

Khalil was right. But there was also Spike Lee, Mos
Def, and Chris Rock.  And Talib Kweli lived around the corner.  Arguably
the best brownstones in Brooklyn were located in Bed-Stuy; however, “the Stuy”
still hadn’t gentrified as quickly as Ft. Greene, Clinton Hill, or Park Slope. These
neighborhoods were only a stone’s throw from lower Manhattan and Wall Street
for the financial district commuters.

Lots of young families were relocating from the City
to the diversity of Brooklyn, seeking the valuable appeal of a having a
backyard and street parking.  Gentrification had changed the landscape of
Brooklyn, making it almost impossible to afford anything within ten subway
stops of lower Manhattan. The lower class was being pushed out of Brooklyn and into the Rockaways, making it a stressful forty-five minute subway ride into
the City.

Somewhere around Bedford Avenue the landscape
changed from coffee shops and wine boutiques to Crown Fried Chicken, Golden
Krust Caribbean Bakery, Chinese takeout, liquor stores, African hair braiding salons,
barbershops, check cashing spots and hundreds of bodegas.

We eventually arrived at our destination, a small
brick building off of Fulton Street, after drooling over the real estate. It
seemed a little out of place compared to the monstrous brownstones lining Macdonough Street, but my building was declared a historic landmark since it was built back
in 1944.