Archive for June, 2009

So the response was pretty much evenly divided. A few women actually admitted that some of their sisters (not them, of course) were so interested in the flashing lights that it would be to my benefit to be a bit ostentatious. It’s not that they necessarily think badly of these women. they’re not bad people, it’s just they’ve grown accustomed to certain things and like the trappings of success. They’re still educated, kind, do-right women. They’re just more attracted to 43mm Cartier Roadsters than they are to Swatches.

And who am I to really fault them for that. I’m a kind, educated do-right guy. And I’m more attracted to big butts and small waists than I am the converse. Doesn’t make me a bad guy. You could argue a little shallow, but hey, I like what I like.

A couple people blew me up for even making the claim that “some” women are into a little flash. They argued that those that would be swayed by cars, suits, botle service, etc, were just the kind of young and dumb status-chasers that I should be avoiding at all cost, no matter how cute and stout-butted they are.

So I decided to look back on my own general past and see what I could surmise from my own experience. So here it goes:

When I came out of college, I was making pretty much nothing. I started as a temp at a banking outfit and they liked me enough to hire me full time. it was a great entry=level position with a wonderful boss. And it paid terribly. I moved into my mom’s basement. Hot as hell in the summertime and cold as a witch’s titty in winter. But from a dating standpoint, I did just fine.

When I first moved to the city, I started dating an ex investment banker who worked for a major finance company. She was smart as the day is long, beautiful, and sarcastic. Just my type. She probably made double or triple what I made, had a luxury car, and a beautiful apartment. We fell apart because I think she was worried that I wasn’t as into her as she was into me. She was wrong, but nonetheless, it kiled the relationship.

After her, I dated a gorgeous slim chocolate older woman who had a child, and boobs the size of my head. It was exasperating taking her out because people (especially older white men, go figure) stared at her to no end. I came very close to fighting a couple guys over them leering at her. She was sweet and kind, picked up the bill at about the same rate I did, and was overall a great person. She could have done much better than me. She wanted to be exclusive, but I didn’t really see a future with someone in her mid 30’s with a child at that point.

I got a new job and briefly dated one of those wannabe urban model chicks who I met at a friend’s barbecue. The friend has postgrad degrees from MIT and Harvard, so I was a little surprised by the intellectual level of this one. Cute as all get-out but dumb as a brick. Not even the regular bricks, like the slow, chipped bricks that have to take the short bus to the construction site. But agan, she had tons of options much flashier than me. The modelish chick had a little Benz coupe her ex had bought her. I was driving a company Ford Taurus at this point. We went to the opening of some club once, and they were tripping on letting me in cause I had jeans on. She made a call to her “friend” to have him get us at the door. Her friend was a well known NFL wide receiver with a diamond chain that weighed about what I did. She came home with me that night. I found out later that he was the ex that bought her the car.

About the same time, I started dating another brighter woman, and pretty quickly stopped dealing with the urban model. She had her own place, was extremely pretty and had tons of options. She went to a great school and had a good job, was sweet, and while she never really reached for the bill, I got the sense that this was more her being a traditional woman than a hardcore leech. We dated exclusively although we didn’t have a title for 8 months or so. We’re still friends.

After we broke up, I started dating a woman who was a college dropout. But she had a great job managing her family’s contracting business, was drop dead gorgeous and unbelievably nice. I met her while she was bartending at cute little boutique hotel (for fun, apparently). It was close to Valentine’s day and a lot of her single friends were there getting hammered. I automatically assumed she was out of my league because of her looks, but she was so friendly and kind, I felt immediately at ease with her (I’ll be talking more about this in a future post for some of you women who complain that you “intimidate” men. You don’t. You just drive them off.) She insisted on paying for our first date because the restaurant was her choice. I almost had to fight her to pay the bill but she would have none of it. I later found out she was a Miss *insert African Country here* and was going to be participating in the Miss world pageant. She had also been in some national ad campaigns. She told me about this in the offhand manner someone would mention that they got third place in a gardening competition. She never acted like these things in any wat made her a better or more interesting person. About the time I met her, I bought a property and the night before my first showing, she and my mom worked in tandem buffing floors, scrubbing tiles, and nailing in drywall. We eventually broke up for one reason or another, but we both thought the other was such a great person that we would try to hook each other up with our friends. She now lives in an unbelievably huge condo with views of the water and is on TV. I saw her interviewing Hayden Panettiere (however you spell it) and definitely looked the better of the two.

Soon after, I was recruited to work for my company’s major competitor. And that’s when the big bucks started rolling in (Relatively speaking). I literally had more money than I knew what to do with (It’s not that it was that much money, it’s just that I’m pretty dimwitted). So I bought me a Swiss watch. Bought so much Armani I could go a week in Girogio without repeating outfits. And of course, I bought me a car. Not a flashy car per se. But a car I wanted. The fastest thing with four doors I could afford. And we went to the club. And I had it valeted so it was out front.


Did all this change my dating life?

NO, not really. Although when I pulled up anywhere, I definitely got more women checking me out than in the old Taurus. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had gone and bought the luxury car I was thinking about buying back then. I test drove a benz, a couple beemers, and a Range, but they just didn’t meet all my needs.But I would have loved to do a regression analysis of how much more attention I would have gotten, and from who, if I had bought one of those.

So I dated a girl in med school who was very pretty but didn’t really have much of a butt. Sh was a friend of a friend and she wanted to be exclusive too and the Nassatall really didn’t do it for me. I chased around after some local celeb type chicks to no real avail. And I started dating another urban model type, a miss *insert state here* contestant. She was really sweet and always down for the cause. She was a little rough around the edges, which was one of the things I think that hampered the relationship. And maybe that was just me wanting too much. My female friends can be harsh and while they recognizd and respected her looks, I think they kinda looked down on her a little. We stopped seeing each other, and I started dating a girl working on her second post-grad degree. We clicked really well but I didn’t want to commit to her. As it happens, toward the tail end, I started dating the girl who would become my girlfriend for the next year, and pretty much the entire time I ws in school. She was conservative lawyer and seemingly upstanding. My friend said that lesbians didn’t approach her because she looked like a Republican. And she was a great girlfriend. Eventually, the distance drove us apart and we decided to part as friends, but I have nothing but great memories of her, and we still try to remain friends.

The moral of this very long and drawn out story is this;

Real women don’t really give a shit if you stunt or not. So there’s my answer.

So there’s a certain Facebook datin group with which I’m associated and has a chapter devoted to it in a new book that’s coming out this year (I will advise when it’s out) and I was looking back on the early days of the group and dug out this old gem. I think it’s time to reinstate Bougie Black Macking Week. So many people are off complaining that they can’t find a man/woman/midget to marry/date/sodomize that I think now’s the perfect time to go out and get it in. Here are some tips I posted for the ladies back in ’07 when the economy was good, but I think they’re just as relevant as they are today (Unfortunately, I still think my boot cut True Religions are too, but that’s just cause I can’t get with this skinny jean shit.) Enjoy and report back your successes:

Since clearly I hit a nerve with the last note, and it seems like there’s a genuine thirst among the bouges to seek out and find a suitable bougie partner, I am declaring the week beginning Friday August 21 and ending Labor Day Monday to be the 1st annual Black Bougie Macking Week. Come on, fellow paper-baggers! This is your chance to throw down that Principles of Tort Law, sign off your company’s VPN, and turn your Blackberry off! It’s macking time! With that said, I’m going to open up the floor for game tips to the opposite sex, since I’ve been told by a number of my female friends who are eligible, smart, and very attractive, that they don’t know how to attract a dude in a social setting, even though I know good dudes that would happily date them. I also know a couple chicks who will turn every dude down in the club and wind up crying on the way back to the car about how lonely they are. So here are a couple tips and tactics for YOU, ladies. And feel free to share what you got for our male audience. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it and so will the fembouge who ends up meeting ol’ boy

1. Smile.

Simplest game in the book. If you look fun and happy, dudes will holla. Most men, whether they admit it or not, fear rejection when they open up a conversation with a woman. Unless they got that good liquor courage in them, in which case, who gives a damn. But if you want sober dudes to talk to you, look like you want to get talked to. If a guy who might be worth your while is checking you out, acknowledge, and give him the green light. This doesn’t make you easy, or less of a challenge, it just means fewer people will pass you by. Crossed arms and an “I’d rather be somewhere with richer dudes than you” look is going to make dudes think “She’d rather be somehwere with richer dudes than me.”

2. Leave the hating ass friend at home.
Listen, I know y’all came together, y’all gonna leave together, ok. But does it help anyone to have her yanking you away from old boy in mid-conversation or beginning of conversation? I know, sometimes, she has to come because she’s your best frind, cousin, ride, etc., but at least give the hateful trollop a good talking to beforehand. I know, “let’s go, these niggas are wack” is a real convincing statement, but if you disagree, show some backbone and tell that monkey to relax.

3. Stop herding.

I mean really, how many dudes are going to fight through all eight of y’all clustered in the middle of the dance floor to talk to you? Statistically, at least 25% of your crew falls into the aformentioned category, so that means a dude has to take down at least two gatekeepers before he gets to you. Think Special Forces, not 81st Infantry type numbers. Two to four in one area is a cool little number to roll with. And stop being so scared to split up. The club aint that big and y’all have unlimited text messaging, you’ll be able to find her. You can find a quiet spot to chop it up with a new friend, and no one’s going to kidnap and sodomize your friend for the five minutes you’re gone.

4. Realize we don’t shotgun mack
Unlike those lucky dudes with do-rags and XXXXXL t-shirts in Adams Morgan, we don’t have the luxury of grabbing every single one of y’all’s arms with a well-timed “A bay bay.” Because of the clusterfuck, we have to be real selective or we end up crossing lines with some chick we had no idea was your (insert bougie association here). Thus, you have to be a little more cooperative if this is going to go anywhere. (See rule 1) Otherwise, it’ll just end up being polite conversation.

5. Leave work at work
Tyler Durden is not his khakis. You are not your job title. Hopefully, you have interests, activities, wants, and dreams that stretch further than getting a corner office with an Eames couch. Talk about that, not about how you went to xxxx and now do xxx and are planning to go to xxx so you can get an xxx degree which will allow you to move into xxx. And let’s all cut out the education/career one upmanship.

6. Flirt
It’s fun, try it!

Ladies, what do you want us guys to do better?

Here’s a link to one of my favorite blogs, Dating a Banker Anonymous. It’s a really entertaining read because it focuses on New York finance groupies who are in a crisis because so many of the guys that they used to lust for because of their money and status have been laid off or had their bonuses cut. For anyone who’s fallen into the trap of going on about how “black women are too shallow and materialistic and white women like you for who you are,” this is a must read. The scandal and golddiggery here are epic. Enjoy!

Faithfully yours, B St. R

So what’s hot in the streets these last few days has been the Root Article about “What Single Black Women can learn from Michelle Obama”. If you were living under a rock and haven’t read or at least heard of it, I’ll give you the cliff notes:

Black women are too picky and shallow and when they meet an otherwise good man they rule him out for the following reasons:

His toes were ashy.

He seems like he’d be a really cool friend, but I don’t know, those lips. . .

He was wearing a bubble coat, and seriously, it was not that cold.

We had a good conversation, but I like a man to be more aggressive.

That was our second and last date. He used the word “authentic” like 14 times.

How many times do I have to tell you I’m looking for someone TALL and HOT? Keywords being tall and hot.

He drank a hot chocolate instead of coffee. What is he? A 6’4’’12-year-old? (I’m putting myself out there—this was my own reaction to an otherwise pleasant date just a few years ago.)

Yeah, he was tall, but his head seemed a little small for his body.

It was loud in there, so I’m not sure. Did I detect a stutter?

Boy, was he sweating!

He seems like someone who would like Star Trek.

I don’t care if he can’t see. He should have left those glasses at the office.

He was dancing (or worse, trying) way too hard.

These are actual quotes from the article. My interpretation of the author’s point:

You dumb bitches need to smarten up and realize that you’re no prize pig yourself. It ain’t enough dudes to go around in the first place so quit handicapping yourself with your unrealistic expectations. We know your shallow ass woulda seen the hole in that dude’s floorboard and ran the other way, we know it! Now stop being so blinded by them flashing lights and give a brotha a chance!

At least that’s how I interpreted it. But as we all know, what makes internet reading so enjoyable is not the writing itself which tends to be the domain of frustrated wannabe authors who will never get a book deal and short-fingered vulgarians to0 untalented and ugly to get their own reality show (witness yours truly). It’s the commentary after that makes the read worth it. As of today, we’re up to probably about 30 pages of comments (real number: 17 or so because the Root refuses to fix the issue which makes comments appear in triplicate). The comments were all over the place, but had two enduring themes:

1. Black women be materialistic and shallow as hell and that’s why we run off with white women. Sincerely, Black Man.

2. I ain’t dating no dude from the mailroom! You ni**as need to get yo’ shit togther. Holla. Sincerely, Black Woman

Meanwhile, over on belle’s blog, there was a post about “Settling,” with about the same general results. So, just for argument’s sake, let’s assume that black women are magically more materialistic or status-obsessed than gen pop. Let’s further assume we’re talking specifically about professional black women between say 22 and 35 with college degrees. This is just for the sake of argument, of course. Try not to flood my comment box with accusations that I’m one of the people always puttig down black women.

So let’s say I’m who I am. I’m (newly) single and on the prowl for a woman. Wife, GF, fuckbuddy, whatever, let’s just assume I’m seeking female companionship and thus seek to make myself as attractive as possible to the opposite sex.

Should I stunt?

I mean, according to the commentary, what women want are tall guys with money and unashy feet. Since I don’t wear mandals, let’s just assume that by the time they find out my general level of foot ashiness, it’s too late and they’re already naked. And while Kareem Abdul Jabbar I’m not, I’m tall enough that it’s not a strike against me. Now, the money issue. I’m not really liquid because I’m in grad school, but if we assume I’ll either have the same earning power or more than I did before I went to school, then that puts me in the top 15% or so of households, and for single black males, probably in the top low single digits. So do I stunt? Mind you, stunting for this particular crowd is a little different than stunting for oh, say, Plies’ crowd:

On another note, Plies disgusts me. Because he went to college. I’ve heard him speak regularly and he sounds very intelligent. But he’s fallen into this ridiculous trap of hiding one’s education and accomplishments to live out some white suburban teen’s hood fantasy of what it means to be black. Fucking disgusting.

But I digress. The accoutrements of bougie stunting are a little different, but it’s stuntin nonetheless. No, you can’t do a diamond-studded Jacob the Jeweler but a nice clasic Rolex Oyster or Omega Seamaster will definitely get you noticed. The girls in the know can tell that Z Zegna super 150’s or Canali from that Men’s Wearhouse shit. And let’s face it, everyone likes a nice car. Will it be that ethnic stereotype candy Hummer on 28’s as seen above? No. But the RR Sport or full sized Range, any BMW with an M in front of a single digit, or an AMG something or other will still let em know what’s up. How bout, say, something like this:

For all you fellow Mercedes haters out there (so very bland), maybe even something along these lines:

Will I get a better class of woman if I say, save a little less, and splurge a little more? When I go out to nightclubs, which is rare these days, should I just go ahead and get bottle service? Is this the way toward a more fulfilling dating life? I mean, to hear the commentary, the answer does seem to be yes. And we’re not talking about raping the 401k here, just maybe not maxing out the contribution. I don’t know the answer. Seriously, I’m asking. Little help. I’m interested in hearing folks’ thoughts on this issue.

I have a theory on why black people are so obsessed with showing off their earning power. It’s lack of trust. We’ve seen so much flim-flam from each other that unless we see something with our own eyes, we don’t believe it. If a guy says to you that he does this, that, or the other, you’ve heard the same lie so many times that it takes the acoutrements of that profession for you to believe it. I think this is why dudes wear suits to the club on Saturday. Like seriously, dude, it’s Saturday. No one believes you just left the office at 11:30 on SATURDAY wearing a three piece suit and a perfectly knotted half-windsor tie. But the suit is kind of a way to prove who you say you are. It adds credibility to your story. The car adds credibility to your narrative that you’re a successful person. It goes with the image. I’m not going to get into the whole building wealth vs. consumerism macro argument, that’s a whole different blog. I’m just trying to really figure out if, given what a million people are saying is true in relation to how picky black women are and how much they focus on external indicators of success, I should show it a little more. Will that make my dating life better?

In part 2, I’ll tell you a little about what my theory is and gice you some history to back it up. Have a great weekend.

Faithfully Yours,

B St. R

PS: here’s one more piece of car porn. I would kill seven orphans for this car (I mean, not really, but you get the point). I heart Techart

So another group I used to frequent used to post Sex Diaries, and they were really fun to read, not just for the content, but to figure out whether they were real or not, or what parts had been embellished or fudged. The idea originally came from NY Mag’s Sex Diaries. Since these were so popular, I’m going to start posting up some of them. These are not necessarily written by me, mind you. As a matter of fact, I’d love to hear yours. If you want to contribute, just send me an email, and I’ll post yours up (anonymously, of course). If there are any details which would give away that it was you, I’d suggest you change them, but that’s up to you. Anyway, here’s a good one from a while back. Enjoy!

Day 1:
8:30 PM

Enjoying post sex feeling. She gets on the computer and checks her email. I get some water. We have a nice little groove. She’s super busy, I’m super busy. We make sex dates usually about a week in advance, if not more. It’s good sex; I know what she likes, she knows what I like, there’s none of that staying over business or pretense that this is what it ain’t. Plus, she always asks me to come in her mouth, which is quite the bonus. She’s finished banging away at her email. I check my Myspage page. She wants to see my friends. We peruse my friends. She picks out the ones she thinks are cute. A couple are not so cute upon clicking on their actual pages. I’m embarrassed to have banged a couple of the not so cute ones but don’t mention it. She probably knows anyway. We discuss which ones might be into girls. I ex out a couple of potentials immediately. She zeroes in on Artsy Girl and asks if she’d be down. Pretty sure she would. I’d never actually had sex with her, but some heavy petting before. I took her on an actual date once, but didn’t see any reason to continue down that path. Regular Sex Girl gets phone call. Makes shush motion to me. Some “un-huh’s” and “OK’s” and a “see you soon.” She has a date tonight. I was wondering why the early call time. Apparently, he’s booked a limo and all kinds of fancy action to impress her. Nice. Hope she used my mouthwash if he goes in for the first date kiss. She gets dressed and heads out. We agree next Saturday works.

11:24 PM

Squeeze one off to some ‘Mike in Brazil’ porn. Lucky ass Mike. If it wasn’t for the third world AIDS rate, I’d consider heading down there for a sex tour one of these days. Those chicks are ridiculous.

12:47 AM

Sex girl calls. Date sucked- no limo, jazz place was wack, but guy was really nice. She’s not really into really nice. No first date kiss so I guess whether or not she used Listerine was irrelevant. Wants to come over for round 2. I make an excuse about having to go running with my co-workers in the morning. It’s a lie. I don’t run with them on the weekends. Shoulda called me before I got that second nut out. Feel bad for first date guy.

Day 2:

11:20 AM

In meeting. Boss lying to his boss about all the good work we’re doing. We’re not doing good work. We’re doing just enough to not get fired. Send dirty text to ex. She broke it off because I didn’t want to get more serious. She still gets drunk and nasty-texts me every once in a while. She’s game today. Very descriptive about what she wants me to stick and where. Great thing about smartphones in meetings- people think you’re emailing someone about something work-related, so dedicated. She SMS’s a picture of what appears to be her va-jay-jay. Angle screen away from any potential nosy coworkers. Picture of va-jay-jay lips not huge turn on without context. Tell her to send boob shots- they’re huge. Says she can’t because in office. Damn. Conference table hiding boner. Could be embarrassing when meeting ends. Think about boss’s boss naked. Lose wood quickly.

7:06 PM

At happy hour. Flirt with attractive light-skinned girl with short bob. Buy a round for her and her friends. Female bartender looks on and winks suggestively. Wink back. It’s pimpin’, pimpin’! Light Skinned Bob and her friend are heading to another spot. Ask her if she wants to get a drink sometime. Sorry, but she has a boyfriend. Mutter under my breath that she should give me my $18 back then. Should have gone for the less attractive, more desperate-looking friend. Bartender asks how it went. Lie, and tell her they we’re just friends. Close out, and leave bartender conspicuously large tip. Ask for her number. Says she lives with her boyfriend. It’s not pimpin’, pimpin. Consider asking for change for tip. Decide against.

Finish editing powerpoint. Enjoy Hennessy and Coke in plastic cup. Realize
I’m a stereotype. No one around to see, so doesn’t matter. Whack off to Exploited Black Teens compilation.

Day 3:
No news to report

Day 4:
Send text to Nasty Text Girl about getting together this weekend. Says she’s on her period. Make tentative but unlikely plans for next weekend.

Day 5:
Dinner with chick I met a few weeks ago. Surprised she remembers who I am. Is cuter than I remember. Very white teeth. Doesn’t take herself too seriously, which is attractive. She goes to the restroom. I check things out as she walks away. Potential donkey, but not sure if it’s just the skirt. Text Nasty Text Girl that I’ve been thinking about doing her. Date comes back. We finish eating. She offers to pay. Act like I wouldn’t dream of it, but slightly consider it. Still have to see about donkey before I get cheap and lazy. Drop date off at her car. Not sure whether to go in for kiss, so just squeeze extra tight. She still has hands around my ribs so go in for quick mouth kiss, no tongue. Tell her to text me when she gets home safe.

10:13 Text: Got home safe. Receive boobs picture from Nasty Text Girl. Spectacular. Grab the Jergens and get to work.

Day 6:
Go to club with the homey. For some reason, he’s bought a table. We entertain countless youngish, wanna-be fly types. Glad music is loud so can’t hear stupid conversation. They spend much time trying to make their jobs sound like they do something worthwhile. They don’t. Get bunch of numbers. Buy second bottle, forget which girl is which. Wonder why there’s a Tiffany in my phone but no number for her.

2:34 AM
Swerve home, drunk dialing the whole way. No luck. Text Date Girl. No response. Probably getting banged by some other dude. Consider jerking it but decide against.

Day 7:

11:15 AM

Headache. Check sent texts to see how bad I was. Pretty bad. Fortunately, didn’t say too much stupid to Date Girl. But a 2:49 AM text probably not the right impression to give after one date.

9:15 PM

Regular Sex Girl comes over. Asks if I have something to drink. We drink Vodka OJ’s. She says she invited Artsy Girl from Myspace over. This is unexpected. They text back and forth. We discuss what we’ll do if Artsy Girl just wants to do her and have me watch or some bullshit. We both decide that would be unacceptable.

My rationale: It’s my fucking house. Don’t know why she’s so crunk about it, but I appreciate the standupness. Artsy Girl gets here. We make her a drink. All three of us sit on the bed kind of awkwardly making idle small talk. Decide something needs to be done. Kiss Artsy Girl. Regular Sex Girl’s face lights up with glee. They start kissing. This. Is. Awesome.

Clothes start to come off. Artsy Girl massages Regular Sex Girl’s back while I suck her titties. She’s really turned on. Never looks this turned on when I do her. Not overly concerned. Go down on Regular Sex Girl. Artsy Girl straddles her face. We look at each other and she licks her lips. Dick hard as a rocket right now. She extends her hand. I give her low-five.

Switch positions. Regular Sex Girl lies on her back while Artsy Girl eats her. I push Artsy Girl’s ass up in the air and eat her out from the back. Pussy is saltier than regular sex girl’s, but quite pleasant. Super wet. I spit some of the saliva/pussy juice between her asscheeks and slide thumb in her ass. She likey. Start hitting it from the back. She’s eating out Regular Sex girl like a pig at a trough. Regular Sex Girl tries badly executed maneuver to switch into a 69. We almost fall over. All burst out laughing. Switch. Fuck Regular Sex girl missionary while Artsy girl plays with herself. She gets behind me and starts licking my ear. Really trying to hold off coming.

Think abut taxes, sheep, and boss’s boss. Not working, so get up, and lay on back . They take turns sucking my dick and alternately kissing each other. Kiss for too long and I point to my junk and let them know it requires their attention. Regular Sex Girl sucks while Artsy Girl tongues balls. I put hands behind my head and bask in glory of the moment. Doesn’t last long. I tell them to stick their tongues out. They make lewd faces and I come a gallon all over Artsy Chick’s extended tongue. Try to get some of the second squirt on Regular Girl’s tongue, but get it in her hair by mistake. She puts it in her mouth and keeps sucking until I’m done. I tell them to kiss. They oblige. I get up to grab another drink and a towel to wipe them off. They wipe off. Both are impressed with the volume and velocity of skeet. Good thing decided no to jerk it last night.

They start making out again. Getting wood again, so go back in. Artsy Girl straddles me cowgirl while Regular Sex Girl works her titties. Artsy Girl comes with dramatic jerking. Not sure how much performance, but hope the neighbors don’t hear. Or do hear. Claims pussy super sensitive so I awkwardly froggy style Regular Sex Girl so Artsy girl can lick her clit. Also tongues my balls every once in a while, which is pleasant. Lay Regular Sex Girl on her stomach and do her from the back. Artsy Girl bites her butt and sticks her tongue out. Take condom off and jerk off. She tries to catch it with her tongue but most just dribbles on Regular Sex Girl’s ass. She licks some off. Wonder if I can get third wood. No such luck.

I go in the kitchen and make eggs. Hear them still going at it. Loudly. Get camera. Take some shots, but they come out blurry. Probably for the best. I watch for a while eating my eggs. Semi third wood, but feel like I’ve done enough for the night. I give them omelet and we take some candids. They make me promise never to show anyone. I lie and tell them I won’t. Everyone starts getting dressed. Kiss Regular Sex Girl goodbye. Artsy Girl claims she’s jealous. I tell her to mouthwash it first. Long Three way kiss. Walk them out. Try to give knowing nod to my man at the front desk. He could give a shit.

Delusions of Grandeur

Posted: June 10, 2009 in Uncategorized

As some of you may know, I’ve been on an anti-swagger campaign pretty much since it got popular. Now that old spice ha a deodorant named Swagger, I think we can safely agree that swagger is the current version of “Whoomp, There It Is.”



Yes, the term is overplayed, but more importantly, so’s the concept. I’ll explain: Here are the typical markers of swagger based on my unscientific observation of people that seem real pressed to use the term: Swagger is an expression of confidence that frequently strays into arrogance territory and is typically extremely inflated. Thus, in addition to the delusions of grandeur it embodies, it’s also very fragile. A lot of the “swagger” I’ve seen is the result of external forces: Got a new car, get some swagger; got some fresh skinny jeans, now you may have swagger. I associate swagger these days with big sunglasses worn at night and an insufferable sense of self importance that relies on the perceived inadequacies of others.

This is all somewhat ironic, of course, because I’ve been told since I was in late high school that I had swagger. I think people back then were specifically referring to my walk, which had a bit much pimp roll to it back then. When women are asked what they find attractive about me, they’ll often use “swagger” as a default word. I disagree. But that’s beside the point.

My issue with the swagger movement is the value it places on absolutely nothing. Look at Jim Jones, the poster child for swagger because of his generally nonchalant arrogance and contempt for others. I posted the video to show you what our version of swagger at its core looks like. Not pretty, eh? What about that dirty muthafucka should we actually be celebrating? Professionally, he’s not that good at what he does. At best, he’s a middle of the road rapper. He’s not particularly rich as far as I can tell. At least the sales figures wouldn’t point to him making an inordinate amount of money via music. So why all the puffed up self-confidence? I’ll wait.

Simple. Delusions of Grandeur. Jones and his ilk are basically harvesting glory from glory. They’re not basing their “swag” on accomplishments, they’re basing their swag on, well, swag. It’s almost like being famous for being famous.

So how does this relate to relationships? Well, simple: it destroys them. Think about it. The whole premise of swag is basically that “I’m so fly, I don’t need you.” If anything, the premise says that you (the general you) are below me anyway. And women loooooove it. The number one reason black women between the ages of 19 and 34 declined a guy’s advances according to a 2009 St. Randy and Associates poll was “lack of swagger.” I’ve heard this so many times, I just tune out when I hear it expressed that way or differently. A female friend of mine (who is completely swaggerless hersel)f recently dumped a guy because he “wasn’t exciting enough” for her (Read not swagtastic enough). Fortunately, some other woman figured it out quick and now he’s engaged. Meanwhile, she’s reconsidering all her motives for letting him go. The thing is, people, the very things that constitute swagger typically make someone a fairly poor choice for a mate. Someone with an inflated ego probably doesn’t see you as an equal, they assume they’re your superior and thus that you are replacable.

“I don’t love em, I fuck em

I don’t chase, I duck em

I replace em with another one”


And with this ego also comes the idea that they deserve better than you. By better, I mean better looking. And they can have better than you because swagger is so in demand that there’s a line forming around the block to get into Swagnificent’s skinny jeans and rip off his Christian Audiger t-shirt.

Don’t think for a moment I’m just speaking about black males. Trust me, this infectious pox has taken over the world of womenfolk just as quickly. It just manifests itself in different ways. It’s the girl that’s a six who demands that she be taken on vacations and shown the “finer things in life.” It’s the snorting dismissal of male suitors. It’s the idea that anyone who’s taken a picture with a bikini on and had it airbrushed is now a “model.” It’s the idea that you have so much swagger that you can’t date anyone with less swagger.

So what happens when you have two people who have grandiose visins of who they are coupled with an inability to do all the things that swagger forbids: apologize, suck it up, put others first, let someone else have their way, risk embarassment by going out on a limb, etc..?

You tell me.

Click picture to take the quiz

Click picture to take the quiz

So I’m in NY with two of my female besties walking around after a long day of day drinking. I highly recommend the lobby at the Parker Meridien. That place is like the Royal Tenembaums movie come to life. Weird, weird people with lots of money and deep fried olives. Also, the W on Lexington Avenue has a Sunday party in one of their suites. It was kind of blah when we went, but it was the first one, so I expect it’s just growing pains. Get on the list. In any case, so we walk by the NBC shop, and see that they’re selling t-shirts with “That’s a dealbreaker, ladies!” printed on them. If you watch 30 Rock, you get it, if you don’t , I won’t bother to explain. But this of course led to a discussion of what our personal dealbreakers were. One of the girls is in the midst of a divorce process right now so she’s uniquely qualified to comment. Here’s their rundown as I remember it.

Women’s Dealbeakers:

-Neck Tattoos

-Overly Thirsty

-No ambition

-Over 30 and work in retail

-More than one kid from a baby mama (wife ok)


There are more, but the cocktails had started to kick in by then so I don’t remember them all. Which led me to think about my dealbreakers. So here’s a brief list

Physical dealbreakers:

-Neck tattoos

-Really bad skin

-National Geographic Titties

So I could give those titties 4 thumbs down!

So I could give those titties 4 thumbs down!


Personality Dealbreakers


-No sense of humor

-Takes themselves too seriously

-Takes what other people think too seriously

Concurrently, I just noticed Belle is doing a blog on settling. Which does beg the question, how reasonable are most people’s dealbreakers?  How reasonable are some of mine? I mean, what if I meat an artist who has a neck tat? And she’s really successful and good at what she does, so it’s not like her neck tat is hlding back her career. Do I throw her back into the bin because she’ll look out of place at cocktail parties? Or what if I fall in love with an Indian girl? While I think there are some really attractive Indian and Asian women, and they tend to be very well educated and wordly, that n’assatall is a pandemic in that part of the world. Like Swine Flu or something. I really don’t know that I can bend on the personality dealbreakers but that’s what it is.

And what about people who have unreasoanabel dealbreakers. Girls 4’11” who won’t date a guy who’s not 6’2″? Or guys who only date women who pass the Yung Berg Pool test? Fat people who would only date skinny people? At what point do we let people have their preferences and when do we just slap them about the fat meat on their neck and tell them to get reasonable? What are your dealbreakers, folks? And would you bend on them for someone who met all your other criteria? I heard once that the great things in your life aren’t a product of the rules, but rather, the exceptions. I think I might agree.

Faithfully yours

Brandon St. Randy

So I already pretty much introduced the idea behind the topic in my last post. We’re discussing so-called “socialites,” and specifically black female middle to upper class women who use that term to define themselves. I think they should stop.

Wikipedia Definition: A socialite is a person who is known to be a part of fashionable high society because of his or her regular participation in social activities and fondness for spending a significant amount of time entertaining and being entertained. Some socialites may choose to use their social skills and connections to promote and raise funds for various charitable or philanthropic activities. Socialites are usually in possession of considerable wealth, whether gained by inheritance or otherwise, that can sustain their steady attendance at social functions. Their social movements have been published in the UK’s Tatler magazine and they might be listed in features such as the Social Register of the United States.

Nothing wrong with that, right? Charity? Entertainment? Woo-hoo! Here’s the thing. Almost every time I’ve heard someone use the phrase, it comes off as social-climbing self-aggrandizement. Definition-wise, are most of these people possessed of considerable wealth? NO. Their parents might have a little dough, but the vast majority of women I know below the age of 27 really don’t have shit. There are certainly exceptions, but for the most part, unless you’ve really gone left with your career choice and hit a lick, you’re living slightly better than check to check after paying off your school loans, rent/mortgage, car, utilities, and Louis V shopping sprees. Throw in a robust social life of meals at the best restaurants, VIP access, and bottle service, and  you may very well be running a deficit.

And number 2: Charity. Since most of these people don’t have any money anyway, it’s usually pretty silly to be going on about how that $50 you spent to go to a party is realy going to help some Zamundan child find clean water.

So, you’re not rich, you’re not that much of a philanthropist, what’s the deal?

The deal is you need social affirmation to feel good about yourselves. Which is the saddest thing in the world.Frankly, I blame Twitter. Here’s why. Myspace allowed everyone to create their own online persona which was much grander than real life. And it allowed people to share in each other’s bullshit fantasies and build them up to immense proportions. Facebook kinda dialed it back to reality again. But Twitter provides the best kind of false intimacy. You get real time status updates as to what celebrities are doing. Make no mistake: Twitter is the biggest thing to happen to groupiedom since, well, groupies. Take a look at some of your friends’ tweets, Notice they’re always replying back to @iamdiddy or @questlove or @whoeverthefuck? And the celebrities feed into it. If they’re at Santos on Friday, youll get a tweet from @Qtiptheabstract. Then notice how you’ll get like three tweets from socialites:

At Santos: chillin’ with @iamdiddy and @qtiptheabstract

So by association, you’ve now supposedly upgraded your own social status. Which to me, just doesn’t seem that important.

But off my twitter tangent. I love twitter. It’s great. And I’m proud to say I unfollowed Diddy long before the whole unfollow Diddy movement became popular. That fool was just annoying.

What kills me is the women who do all this, and then complain about not being able to find a good dude. Ladies,  you’re single because you’re not looking for a good dude. You’re looking for a good time. And while the two of those don’t have to be mutually exclusive, the truth is most of the dudes who are also looking for a good time are not looking to have you ruin their good time by locking them down. And most good dudes don’t have the time or the energy to put up with women that know everyone and want everyone to know them. That’s built in Broadway-grade drama. By investing yourself in a strictly social scene, you’re also investing yourself in meaningless beefs over perceived slights with other women, a bunch of dudes who you’ve either kicked it with or want to kick it with following you around, and a back and forth bartering of social favors (you getting them on a list, them introducing you to so and so, etc.)


It’s childish. The time for you all to be social climbing is over. You are who you are. Let your accomplishments speak for themselves, not what circles you run in. Thank you, this has been a PSA from B.St. R

“I got this model chick that don’t cook or clean
But she dress her ass off and her walk is mean
Only thing wrong with ma she’s always on the scene
God damn she’s fine but she parties all the time”

-Hov, “Girls, Girls, Girls”

So I’ve heard more and more black women of our generation refer to themselves in some capacity or other as “socialites.” What I take that to mean is ladies who have a full social calendar of events, fundraisers, and parties to go to, in an attempt to be socially meaningful. Kind of Gossip Girl meets My Sweet Sixteen meets The Hills, I guess. Are these women aspiring to a long-standing woman’s dream? Or are they sinking themselves into a game of worthless trifles? We’ll discuss when I get back. In the meanwhile:

Cracking the Black Socialite Code

and to illustrate what I’m talking about:

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