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Drinking With Feelings

October 9th, 2009 12 comments

Tonight the liquor gave my aggressive side the cold shoulder, and instead decided to dance with my sensitive side. I’m up against the wall, already drunk and reflective, which means I’m going to do something no man should do: I’m going to vomit my feelings all over someone.

Tonight, I miss everything about my ex. I miss her smell, her touch, her kiss, and her hand in mine. Everything. Her laugh, her smile, her voice, and her company. Everything. Her good morning, her good night, her coming, and her going. Everything.

But I can’t call her, no checking in to see how she is doing. Those are the rules of our breakup and I have followed them for like the past six months. I’m not making any phone calls, not checking in to see how she is doing.

Repeat to myself over and over again for emphasis because being drunk will not be an excuse.

If I do see her, cool. No problem. I’m just going to say, “What’s up.” Then keep moving so quickly I don’t even hear her answer.

Wait until I see her again.

But it won’t happen tonight, that much I know. Tonight, it’s Halloween and I’m in Chicago. Good thing too, because this  random girl grinding on me right now without permission is just what I need.  She is helping me more than she knows, giving my mind a 15-minute recess from my ex-girlfriend.

I keep thinking: Well done, random girl. Well done. Keep going, random girl. Keep going. If you stop, my mind starts. So don’t stop, random girl. Don’t stop. Any other night, random girl, I’d know what to do next. But no aggressive drunk tonight, random girl. No aggressive drunk tonight.

Music shuts off. Club empties out. Liquor’s consumed. Recess is done.

I’m walking back to my boy’s car, it’s 2:15 a.m. here. That means it’s 3:15 a.m. in New York City. But it doesn’t matter which time zone I’m in. It’s late everywhere.

Check my phone. No phone calls from my ex tonight. Damn, for some people,  Halloween is a special occasion to call loved ones. Isn’t it?

Why did my boy have to park so far away from the club? Doesn’t he know I need to pass out in the seat and get rid of my ex’s cobwebs stuck in my head? The more we walk, the more I talk about her cause I am someone-get-that-man-some-water drunk.

Turning to my boy I say, “Man, I don’t even miss the sex with my ex. I mean, I do, but you know, what we had was more than just sex. We lived together. I miss after the sex just as much as I miss the sex itself. I miss the way….”

My phone is ringing at 2:15 a.m. Chicago time, 3:15 a.m. New York time and it’s my ex. And it’s late everywhere.

Count to three then say sober, Jozen:

1, 2, 3 SOBER!

Answer the phone now.

“Hello?”

“Hi, are you home?”

“No, I’m in Chicago.”

Long pause. Fill it up.

“I’m drunk. I miss you. What are you calling for? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Long pause. Her turn to fill it up.

“I wanted to come over. I’ve been having dreams of you.”

“Oh man, I’m so happy to hear that. Tell me about them.”

Long pause. Her turn to fill it up again.

“I wanted to come over tonight. I’ve been having dreams of the sex we used to have.”

Long pause. My turn to fill it up.

“Oh, you do? I miss that too.”

We talked for a few minutes then, about the sex we used to have. When we got off the phone, I was still drunk but pissed. She called because she was having dreams about me; missed sex with me. She called because I am a man, and she thought a man would love to hear her say such things.

I am a man, I acted like it was exactly what I wanted to hear, when the fact is, I missed everything about her. Everything.

Instead, I kept it all in. I am a man, and men don’t vomit their feelings.

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Stories: "She's A Virgin"

September 17th, 2009 45 comments

Tonight, I’m driving to the bar because my brother plans on getting shit-faced. Me? I don’t need to do any drinking. My internship is the next day and  I have the alcohol tolerance of a baby so with me behind the wheel, it’s best if I stick to my one can of Red Bull. Let the caffeine work its magic on me.

We get to the bar, see my brother’s friends, and he  immediately goes into everyone’s-best-friend mode at the bar, buying shots for anyone who so much as smiles at him. I’m playing my position, quietly scoping out the scene, sitting on a stool with a glass of Red Bull in my hand when out of nowhere, a girl walks up to me. I don’t know anyone in Queens, besides my brother, but I can tell by the way this girl is looking at me, I’m about to know her.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say back.

She then introduces herself, and I can’t remember her name, but I think Ms. Leading is proper. So Ms. Leading and I strike up the type of conversation two people have for the sake of feeling better about what they’re going to do later.

Meanwhile, my brother is doing a great job of getting drunk. Actually, he’s doing a superb job, mixing his clear liquors with the dark ones, accepting drinks from other people and not caring in the least bit what’s in them. He has, on his hands, the perfect storm brewing.

As I float back and forth between Ms. Leading and other random people at the bar, I hear a loud thud outside on the back patio. I run outside. My brother is passed out on the cold concrete of the patio, done for the night. Time to get out of dodge and get him home. Ms. Leading follows me outside. I turn to her and say, “Looks like it’s time for me to go. Want to come with me to get my car?”

“Sure,” she says.

I tell my brother’s friends to get him to the front door while I go get the car. Ms. Leading walks lock-step with me to the car, which is about two blocks away from the bar. On our way, Ms. Leading and I say little, because we know what’s about to happen when we get to the car, and sure enough, before I can even turn the keys into the ignition, Ms. Leading leaps onto me, and starts tonguing me down. Ten minutes go by, windows fogged, but because my brother is inebriated to the point where he actually might get arrested, I pump the brakes.

“We have to stop,” I tell her as she’s biting my bottom lip. “But look, just come back to my place.”

“I can’t ” she says. “I’m here with my best friend and the rest of our girls celebrating a birthday.”

“So,” I say. “You’re not here with your mom, I’m sure they’ll let you go.”

“Yeah, but they talk, and I don’t want to hear it from them.”

Frustrated and annoyed, I stop Ms. Leading from unbuckling my belt. “I need to go get my brother,” I say. I pull out of my parking space and drive over to the front of the bar where my brother is standing on a wall outside, near the entrance, with his head down. Is he taking a piss in public? No. Okay, he’s letting the wall hold him up. Ms. Leading gives me her number, which I toss in the ashtray soon as she walks back inside, and I get out of the car to help my brother, who I throw in the back of my car.

About to pull off, when I hear Ms. Leading yell, “Wait!” I roll down my passenger side window and she leans in with a smile. “Hey,” she says. “I can’t find my friends, so is your offer still good?”

“Get in,” I say.

Ms. Leading gets into the seat and we’re off to my brother’s apartment. My brother passed out in the back, and Ms. Leading in the front, this time, free to unbuckle my belt for the short drive back to our destination.

When we pull up to the apartment, I need Ms. Leading’s help carrying my brother up to the apartment, which is on the third floor of a walk-up. Once inside, I throw my brother on his bed and go into the living room to set up the fold-out bed. With the bed set, I toss Ms. Leading one of the big rap t-shirts I got for free at my internship.

“This is for you,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “You wanna help me change?”

At this point, I know exactly what’s about to happen, so I turn out the light, close the door behind me, and climb right on top of Ms. Leading. Everything is going exactly as planned. The kissing is intense, the grinding is even more intense, and my goodness, her moans. I remember those like the last song I listened to on my iPod. They were loud, real loud, to the point where I was actually concerned my brother, passed out from numerous shots of 151, would actually wake up. Nowhere else we can go but all the way, so I pull out the condom I slid in the pocket of my basketball shorts.

“Wait,” she says. “I can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We can’t go there,” she says.

I go back to kissing her. On her neck. On her shoulders. On her breasts. The kisses  being planted on her body like if I applied just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot, I’d unlock her legs. I’m kissing. I’m hoping and now…I’m stopping.

“I’m a virgin,” she says.

Now, I’ve heard some reasons from women. Some good. Some not so good and this one was neither of those. This was either a bold-faced lie or the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Hey,” I say. “You know, nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen. We can stop right now, but don’t lie. Why would you say that?”

“No, really, I am,” she says. “I’ve never even done this much. But I really am.”

Now I’m disgusted.

“Okay, first, I don’t believe you.” I tell her. “Second, even if what you are saying is the truth why the hell would you come to the apartment with two guys you don’t even know if you weren’t planning on losing your virginity tonight?”

Ms. Leading looks at me like I just asked her what’s the meaning to life. “I don’t know,” she says shrugging shoulders.

“Well, I’m sorry, I still don’t believe you,” I say to her. “But like I said, that’s just dumb and I’m just going to go to sleep, you should too. It’s late.”

The next morning, I hear my brother in the kitchen and with Ms. Leading still asleep, I get out of bed and see him cooking up a storm. There’s sliced apples, cinnamon sticks, and a bowl of pancake batter. My brother, who has an uncanny ability to recover from drinking binges like Wolverine recovers from injuries, is making apple-cinnamon pancakes from scratch and wearing a toothy grin.

“Well, look who it is?” my brother says as he reached out his fist to give me some dap. I knock it away.

My brother stops mixing his batter and says, “No, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“Bro, get out of here. Nothing?”

“Nothing. She’s a virgin!” I whisper.

Just as I say this, the door is opening. My brother, with the reflexes of a cat throws the apples and cinammon sticks in the refrigerator and the bowl of pancake batter in the oven then runs back into his room. Ms. Leading comes out, changed into the same clothes she was wearing last night.

“You ready to go?” I ask.

Ms. Leading smiling, kisses me and says, “Yeah, let’s go.” On our way out the door, she asks me, “Is somebody cooking breakfast?”

“Not here,” I say. “Must be the neighbors.”

On the way to her place, she’s at it again, this time, grabbing at the elastic of my basketball shorts. “Stop,” I say.When we pull up to her complex, she kisses me again, on my cheek, and says, “Call me.”

Ms. Leading’s number never left the ashtray and I drove back home to eat my brother’s apple-cinnamon pancakes.

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A Slight Depature From the Norm: 9/11

September 11th, 2009 6 comments

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Today, I’ve decided to touch on a different topic, but if you would like to read yet another one of my takes on relationships, click on the piece I wrote for TheRoot.com. “Why Jay-Z Should Rap About Marriage”

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I didn’t need to be any closer than I already was to understand the magnitude of what took place on September 11, 2001.

I was actually on my way to my part time job at Pentagon City, the shopping mall neighboring the Pentagon, when I heard about the World Trade Center attacks and then, the plane flying into the Pentagon. Admittedly, the first thought I had was how my commute into work that morning would be affected, because I was in a rush to get to Sam Goody (where I worked) and buy a copy of Jay-Z’s The Blueprint on my employee discount.Then I turned the TV and that’s when I knew, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Being so close to one of the three places that were attacked on 9/11, I knew the tragedy of the day’s events would forever change me. I knew I would never forget seeing the smoke rising across the Potomac, never forget the calls of worry from friends and family all day, never forget the sound of my brother’s voice who lives in New York and was one of the citizen volunteers helping people to safety at the World Trade Center that day. For me, what happened on 9/11 was life changing. It was enough.

But three years later, the date of September 11 would take on new meaning.

I just moved to New York, two months prior, adjusting to life after college when on September 11, 2004, my Uncle Jeff was murdered in his hometown of Hayward, California. The end result of a fist fight my uncle won and his killer couldn’t stand to lose.

Five years after my uncle’s murder and eight years after America’s most horrible tragedy, I find myself overwhelmed with the magnitude of both events, and what it means to be an American, in these days and times.

We talk a lot  about the War on Terror and Homeland Security, about terrorists from overseas who want to do us harm. Ever since 2001, these things have understandably been a concern for many of us who live in this country.

But what gets lost in the sauce is the terrorism we reek on one another, the kind of terrorism my Uncle Jeff fell victim to five years ago when he was killed at point blank range by a man my age. In our pursuit of enemies abroad, we can’t lose sight of the enemies at home, which is not to say my uncle’s killer was against country. I trust that’s hardly the case. But when you’re so angry at another man that you can take his life with no remorse, your enemies are from within. You’re angry at not just someone but something. And like so many others who wander our streets, angry with the cards they’ve been dealt, my uncle’s killer reacted to that anger by taking a life that did not live an ocean apart, but probably blocks away.

Trust me, I want talk about homeland security, but can we talk about the whole thing, and how we need to not only be aware of the enemies who come from outside of our borders, but also those who want to do harm within them? Can we talk about the war on terror, but also include the terror we inflict on each other? Invade countries like Afghanistan, so we can feel safer over here, but understand that over here, things aren’t entirely safe.

This may be selfish of me to wax poetic on. After all, it’s been said that on 9/11, we’re all New Yorkers, Washingtonians, and passengers of United Flight 93, which crashed in Shanksville, PA. But on September 11, I am both a proud American and one who is ashamed by what I see going on in our streets everyday.

For me, the lessons I learned on September 11, 2001 and September 11, 2004 both boil down to one thing, which is this: We have to care about it all.

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Reservations for 3, Please

September 8th, 2009 16 comments

Here’s a little fact about me that may surprise some: I’ve never had a threesome.

I say this not to be funny. I’m serious. I have been having sex with one woman at a time for years now, yet, never with two at a time.

So what gives?

Well, for starters, people who have had two partners at the same time are a rare, rare breed. Don’t believe me? According to a sex survey ABC’s Primetime Live did five years ago, only 14 percent of the adults surveyed actually experienced a threesome*. That number has probably changed since its inception, but I highly doubt by much.

The way I see it, these numbers prove true a theory I have always had. The privilege of being with two women at the same time comes down to one of two things:

1) A lot of luck

2) A lot of money

Since I have too much pride to buy my way into being a member of Three Phi Some (the name of the fraternity  I have given to all who have had a threesome) I’m going to need luck to join, and thus far no such luck has flown my way, which is sort of not really okay with me.

Obviously the main reason I want to be with two women at the same time is because I get double the fun of what is already one of the most fun things to do in the world. But the other reason I want to be piloting a two-woman rush is because of the bragging rights that come with being a member of Three Phi Some.

For a man, there are two things he remembers. The first time he’s had sex with a woman and the first time he’s had sex with two women. Most men get to experience the first, but the second? They named a movie after those guys entitled, A Few Good Men.**

Whether a man becomes a member by accident or on purpose, pulling off a threesome is the bedroom Lotto – to win it is rare. Especially for a man like me who has too much pride to chase down two women who look like they might be the type to tag me in. I don’t even know what women who do such things look like. I just know from the guys who have been lucky enough to get into the frat, most of them have admitted it was a matter of dumb luck. So while am I patient for my turn to be pledged into Three Phi Some, I do sometimes feel like the last person picked in a game of street ball, especially when I meet women who are members.

“Have you ever had a threesome?” is one of those questions I never ask a woman, largely because if she hasn’t, she might not want one. After all, what kind of woman wants a threesome and actually hasn’t had one? The kind who either lacks effort or the kind who can’t seem to find a man and a woman who find her sexy enough to lay down with. That’s who.

Now,  if the woman says, Yes to the question, my next question usually is, “Well, do you want to do it again? With me?” Unfortunately, the answer is usually, No, followed by some excuse as to how it was a one-time-only type of deal. Then, my next question is, “Well, do you want to make it a two-time deal?” And they usually say no to this too.

What gives? That’s my third question, but I usually keep it in my head. After all, I don’t want to make the woman feel like all I care about is having a threesome, because it’s not (one day I will do a post about lying).

The truth is, I’m patient. Having a Threesome before I get hitched isn’t exactly on the top of my priority list. It’s just written in bold.

With asteriks around it.

And three lines underneath.

Like this:

***HAVE A THREESOME***
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*Click here to read the American Sex Survey by ABC News

**It should be noted, the actual movie, “A Few Good Men” isn’t really about men who have been in threesomes, just the title.

Categories: s#x, Uncategorized, women Tags:

Sentence Chris Brown to Celibacy for 1 Year

September 3rd, 2009 12 comments

Like millions of others, I watched Larry King’s  incredible interview with Chris Brown, his mother Joyce Brown, and his attorney, Mark Geragos on CNN last night, and I have come to the following conclusion: Brown is only sorry he beat Rihanna as badly as he did and the punishment he has been given is some lightweight wrist-slapping.

Watch the video, and check out the early part of the interview where Brown actually has the nerve to think about his answer when asked if he feels his punishment is fair. If I were Chris Brown, not only would there be zero hesitation in my answer, I would also praise Jesus at the end of my response. Like this:

Larry King: Do you think your punishment was…

Me: Yes! Yes, Larry, I do think my punishment was fair. Praise Jesus!

But instead, Brown hesitated. He actually had the nerve to ponder whether or not his punishment of six-months “hard labor” and a five-year stay-away order from Rihanna was fair. He, Chris Brown, who according to his lawyer last night on CNN, still gets to tour around the world if granted permission by his probation officer, actually said, “Uhhh” when asked if his punishment was just.

Initially, I thought Brown’s punishment was fair, especially because he copped to his crime, but watching him on Larry King last night changed my mind. Aside from picking up trash, the occasional meetings with his probation officer, and one-year of counseling he is ordered to attend, Chris Brown with permission, will still be able to be Chris Brown — performing at shows with thousands of screaming female fans, hundreds of which will probably be waiting for him backstage after the show.

As Chris Brown made clear last night, he’s only 20-years-old. To say the punishment he must endure for his crime is going to teach him never to lay hands on a woman the way he did on Rihanna is not only silly, it’s highly unlikely. So what’s something else he can do, if not hard time, to aid him in his rehabilitation process? How about take away the one thing he, and all men love, celebrity or not? Take away the privilege of having a girlfriend and mandate a court-ordered vow of celibacy for one year, the length of his counseling

I know this may sound crazy, but follow me.

Part of Michael Vick’s condition for being reinstated in the NFL is he can’t own dogs. Makes sense, right? I mean, the man was convicted of dog-fighting, so why should he able to own any canines? When men are convicted of sexually-abusing children, they must register as sex-offenders and stay away from them at all times. See how this works?

Brown is neither a dog-killer and definitely not a child-molester, but he beat that woman like she was a man and he needs to learn why, for the most part, this is entirely unacceptable. Maybe 180 days in jail (the stiffest punishment he could have faced), would’ve been too harsh because jail is a horrible place for any man, but I’ve talked to men who have been to jail and you know what they miss the most behind bars? Women.

Chris Brown has a ton of women at his disposal, fine ones at that, but he shouldn’t be allowed to sleep with or get into a relationship with any of them for one year. Don’t cut off his access to women, just give him the order. Let him have women-only concerts if he’d like, but don’t let him bring one of them onstage for a serenade.

As Method Man says on Mary J. Blige’s song, “You’re All I Need”, Nothin’ makes a man feel better than a woman. Brown knows this, which is why, under his current sentence, the minute he steps off stage after a performance, and sees a woman who’s willing to act like she’s never heard of Rihanna, all he’s learning in counseling will become undone. Seeing his own mother suffer abuse wasn’t enough to keep Brown from doing it, and now, with the entitlement of celebrity clouding his vision, the task of teaching Brown a lesson is even more difficult. No man can learn his lesson when a person is saying in one ear, “It’s wrong to beat a woman up,” and a woman is saying to him in the other ear, “Beat it up, Chris.”

Of course, the issue is how does one even begin to monitor a person’s sexual activity, especially one of a celebrity? The answer is you don’t, you just give Brown consequences for violating the conditions of his probation. Put him in jail if it is revealed he did have sex with a woman.

If I was told the consequences of having sex with a woman was a year in jail, I’d immediately go to Costo and buy a huge tub of Vaseline. No sex or relationships with a woman for one year versus living behind bars with a building full of hardened criminals is an easy choice for those of us who aren’t idiots.

Oh, wait, I forgot. Chris Brown is an idiot.

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Click here to watch Larry King’s interview with Chris Brown and company.

Click here to read Jayson Rodriguez’s article on the details of Chris Brown’s sentence.

Click here to read about the details of Michael Vick’s reinstatement into the NFL

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Things I Shouldn't Have Said to Women

September 1st, 2009 15 comments

I’ve always known what to say to a woman to make her smile, laugh, turn her on, or make her feel good. Call it, the gift of gab.

But there have been times where I wish my best ability was to shut the hell up and not say anything at all. These are some of those times.

Girl, congratulations!

Context: Said to a girl who I thought was pregnant. Turns out, she wasn’t.

I always go for girls most guys aren’t into.

Context: Said to a girl I was out on a date with.

I was walking by a Weight Watchers and I thought about you.

Context: Said to a girl I was dating who dieted unnecessarily and insisted she needed to be on Weight Watchers.

That’s it! Oprah!

Context: Said to a woman after I finally figured out what celebrity she looked like.

I didn’t think you were going to be able to finish that!

Context: Said on a dinner date.

You look good, today

Context: Said to women all the time, and yeah, there’s always a hissing sound when they say, “Thanks”.

Oh, look at that! It still fits!

Context: Said to a woman who wasn’t sure if she could go one dress size down.

Huh?

Context: Said to any woman who is talking to me longer than five minutes.

I saw your friend today. Yeah, it was crazy. I was  walking down the street and I see this girl and I’m like, “Dang, who is that?” Then when I tapped her on the shoulder, I realized it was your girl.

Context: Said to a girl I was dating.

Oh girl, I always love when you wear those panties

Context: Said to a girl I was dating, who apparently bought them that day. She showed me the receipt as proof.

I apologize.

Context: Said after I said everyone of these things.


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Your Friends Aren't Fine, You Liar

August 13th, 2009 12 comments

Just once, I would like a girl to tell me the truth about her friends. Seems like every time I ask a woman I’m dating what her friends look like, her default answer is “Oh, my friends are all beautiful.” Then we go to Facebook so I can judge for myself and my woman’s talking about, “Oh these just aren’t good pictures. You have to meet them in person.”

Girl, no I don’t. I’ve seen enough.

Why do women lie about their friends? Never have I had a girl look me in the eye and tell me, “My girls aren’t that cute. One of them is okay, but the others? Nah.” My guess is girls are just trying to be nice and don’t want to say anything bad about them, but for the sake of being nice, they’re lying to me, which is unacceptable and immediately sets back all the progress we’ve made in our trust exercises.

Guys, on the other hand, don’t speak about their friends in the form of opinions. Instead we tell women the facts about our boys. For instance: I use a height scale because the thing women look at on a man before anything else is his height. So usually all I have to say is, “tall”, “short”, or “about my height” (6′ in the morning, 5’11 by 8 p.m.), then from there my woman will decide whether or not he’s worth introducing him to one of her friends.

Women should start doing the same thing, but since we don’t care about height as much, they should modify it to their own experiences with their girl.  The next time a man asks a woman about her friend, the woman should tell a man what really happens whenever she goes out with her friend. If I ask my woman about her best friend and she says, “Whenever we go out, my best friend gets all the attention at the bar. She hasn’t bought her own drink since ’04,” I gather her best friend comes as advertised. If my woman says something like, “I think she’s pretty, but whenever we go out, guys don’t really talk to her. She’s mostly into online dating,” I know the weather is, at best, partly cloudy.

Hopefully, ladies start utilizing this technique instead of the traditional bowl of hyperbole they’ve served about their girls since the days when SWV – an early 90’s R&B trio of three average looking women – made it acceptable to roll in a group of acquired tastes. Until then, everything a woman says about her friends will be verified on Facebook. Thank God for Facebook.

SIDEBAR:

Your boy is featured on ESSENCE.com today in a Battle of the Sexes with his homegirl, Demetria Lucas, ESSENCE relationships editor and  host of the great blog A Belle in Brooklyn. Go there now and read our back and forth on when a woman should pay for a date and when a guy should pay for a date. Then, applaud that.

BATTLE OF THE SEXES: WHO SHOULD PAY FOR A DATE?

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Another Dating Blog?

August 3rd, 2009 16 comments

Hell yeah it’s another dating blog. At least, it kind of is and it kind of isn’t.

What this really is, is a bachelor blog about me, a college educated man from Seaside, California, but now residing in Harlem, New York, who just turned 28-years-old and is having the time of his life not being married, but would one day like to be.

I’m not trying to speak for all men on my blog, though I’m sure a lot of men will agree with some of the things I have to say. I’m also not trying to use this as a place to bitch and moan over all the things women do that piss me off, though there will be plenty of those moments as well.

All I really want to do is tell my stories about my life dealing with the opposite sex. If I’m doing it wrong, then you probably won’t go any further and resume  your regular web surfing routine, right about now. If I’m doing this right, you all will enjoy it, relate to it, tinyurl it, print out your favorite posts and send links to all your friends.

Still, the question remains: Why should you read my blog over all the others? And my answer is this: I didn’t tell you to read my blog over the others. Just read this one too and see where the others are later.

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