Tar Baby

Grandma used to scrub my skin ferociously. She did so to keep me from getting darker. For the first three years of my life, I had a caramel complexion and very soft hair. My grandma delighted in that. Much to her chagrin, my skin tone became darker as I aged. In order to combat this problem, Grandma bought a little white brush with tough black bristles to keep the "dirt off my skin."

As a darker skinned woman with short, coarse hair, my Haitian grandma wasn't regarded as a symbol of beauty in her native land. That's why even as a 75 year old homebody, she would literally spend hours at the stove running a hot comb through her hair to keep it soft and straight. She even had her own little tool to manage her skin--a finely chiseled rock.

Even though I was just five years old, I vividly recall the day of my rebellion. I had no desire to feel the sting of her brush that day. Knowing that she was about to light my skin on fire with her brush, I locked the bathroom door from the inside, walked out, and shut the door. I won the battle. Nobody in the house could get into the bathroom. I didn't win the war, however. When my Godmother got home from work later, she whipped my behind...

I reflected on that experience years later after an exchange with a player. Hershey was dark skinned and Haitian. After practice I approached him because he seemed off, mentally and physically. Not only was Hershey quieter than usual, he even looked pale--which is very difficult for a very dark skinned person to pull off.

Me: Hey man. You don't look good. You sick?
Hershey: Not at all. I'm good.
Me: You sure? You even look pale. Your skin doesn't look right.
Hershey: Nah. Ain't nothing wrong with my skin.
Me: It doesn't look that way to me.
Hershey: I've been using some soap my mom bought me to make my skin lighter.

Internet Pimp

Diggler liked to meet women online. He claimed that the internet was teeming with sexually deviant coeds. In college, I met a half dozen females through Blackplanet (BP). With the exception of a few lames who posted misleading photos of themselves, I had very conventional encounters with the women I met on BP. Diggler, on the other hand, was on the prowl for any woman who had weird fantasies.

I didn't consider myself to be a square until I met Diggler in college. We were both freshmen living in the same residence hall. He played on my flag football team, and took part in the video game craze on our floor. Like 98 percent of the people in my dorm, Diggler was white and came from money. He also played for the Lacrosse team.

Diggler was really off the wall. I had no clue as to why Diggler was in college since he drank and fucked more often than he went to class. He was ALWAYS around women, and they'd do whatever he asked of them. One girl, for example, did his laundry on a weekly basis. All she wanted in return was some weekend lovin'. Another one came by a couple of times per week just to rub his shoulders. Dude was doing it up like a rock star in college.

Diggler's sanctuary was the weight room. He'd always tell these wild, sexual stories while we lifted. In hindsight, I think it made him feel like a real man to bench press and talk about banging different women. On our way back from the gym one night, Diggler asked me to stop by his room so he could show me an exchange with his soon-to-be internet conquest.

Diggler: Hey man. Check this out. (It was a message in his inbox)
Me: Yo. Is this for real? Naw. I ain't ever heard of anything like that!
Diggler: Dude, she's a fuckin freak, man. I can't wait!
Me: You're gonna do that? That's some weird shit.
Diggler: Fuck yeh. You know how I do it!

I was disgusted. This random girl wanted Diggler to pee directly into her throat while she gave him head. A week later, he fulfilled her fantasy.

Touched

I stopped praying in college. A series of events lead me to that point. Growing up, religion was a big part of my life. For five years (3rd-8th grade), I attended Catholic school. Initially, I was enrolled in the public school system but my parents didn't like that I was fighting every other day. Instead of curbing my diet of professional wrestling (WWF and NWA), they figured the good ole nuns and priests would straighten me out.

Other than wearing a uniform, I didn't have to adjust at all to being in a Catholic school. Jesus Christ and his twelve disciples weren't a new concept to me because I grew up going to mass regularly. Additionally, as a toddler, my Grandma wouldn't let me go to sleep without praying. She made me believe that terrible things would eventually happen if I didn't speak to God prior to sleeping. Looking back, I don't remember a night where my Grandma went to bed without putting in at least an hour of prayer with her rosary beads. When I got older, it through me for a loop when I discovered that she believed in Voodoo.

I have fond memories about my Catholic School years because of the friends I made, but it would be a stretch to say that I got a great education during those five years. When I transitioned to a public school for high school, it was weird to participate in group discussions. The nuns didn't engage students in exchanges, nor did the students debate each other. Everything was fed to us. There was no encouragement to ever question anything--not even the fact that our Pastor was usually drunk at mass...

I was asleep one evening when my mother's frantic call to wake up startled me. She told me to hurry out of bed. I ran into the living room where she was watching tv. There, on the screen, was my former Pastor--the man who administered my First Communion. He was being charged with several counts of child molestation. My Priest fondled little boys, and a couple of them happened to be my schoolmates.

Asian Honey

Alcohol is my truth serum. On a drunken night I once pissed my ex-girlfriend off when I told her about my desire to be with at least one Southeast Asian woman before getting married. We weren't engaged or anything. It just wasn't the right thing to say. I tried to quell the fire by telling her that finding one locally who's into black guys would be nearly impossible, but that didn't help matters much.

My thing for Southeast Asian women started when I was 9 years old. I was at my friend's place playing video games with him when his much older brother busted in and took over the tv set. He popped in a tape. At the time, I didn't really grasp what was on the screen. All I recall was a really pretty Asian woman caressing some black dude's genitals. I watched what must have been at least an hour of hot Asian women doing stuff that I couldn't understand, but I comprehended that they were all gorgeous and flexible...

Shortly after my relationship ended with the ex, I had my mind set on finding Ms. Asia. At the time, I was a MySpace junkie. I tried to find my Asian honey through that site, but nothing worthwhile came out of it. In the meantime, I kept having these random encounters with older women--but none of them were from Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, or Laos. It was very frustrating.

One night at my favorite bar, I was pleasantly surprised when an Asian beauty took a seat next to me. She seemed to be intoxicated. After a couple of anxious minutes plotting my entry, I went for the gusto.

Me: Can I buy you a drink?
Asia: Sure.
Me: What are you drinking?
Asia: I do shots.
Me: Damn. Really? I'm already kind of tipsy. I can't do a shot.
Asia: We can do weak one if you want.
Me: I don't do weak shots! I'm a man's man. You do Patron?
Asia: Hell yeh!

(Pound the shots)

Me: So, where you from?
Asia: Guess.
Me: Thailand?
Asia: Wow. How you know? That pretty good. I'm half Cambodian too.
Me: You're very pretty.
Asia: Thank you. You cute too.
Me: (smiling...) Thanks. So, you're into black guys?
Asia: I only date black guy.
Me: You're just saying that so you can get another shot.
Asia: No. Really. You cute.
Me: We should take a trip together. Haha.
Asia: Oh yeh. Where?
Me: Thailand! You ever been? I wanna go there.
Asia: Yeh, but it nothing special. Trust me.
Me: Why do you say that?
Asia: Last time I was there a 7 year old girl ask my boyfriend if he want "sucky sucky." Just like that. She don't even know him. You see that stuff all the time.

Kiddy Porn

I love my nephew as if he were my son. Although I didn't produce him, his personality is eerily similar to mine at his age. He just turned 13 this past summer. Like me (at that age), he's goofy, laid back, and loves sports. As a result, we really connect. I get him. Unlike my nephew, however, I was heavily involved in extracurricular activities which enabled me to broaden my network of friends at a young age.

A couple of weeks ago, he came to spend the weekend with me. One of the things I appreciate about our relationship is that he's very honest with me. He tells me a lot more than I was willing to share with my elders at his age. Realizing that we have an open line of communication, I use that as an opportunity to probe about his friendships. The stories he has shared with me the past couple of years have been really disturbing.

One of the things I'm trying to help him understand is that his circle of friends will ultimately define his path in life. Knowing him, I can tell that my message hasn't completely resonated. I think he feels like he could keep being the neutral, or different, one in the crew. I've considered nicknaming him "Teflon" for this reason, just to make a point.

A good friend of his at school is sexually active, and he has been getting busy for awhile. This same friend got away with doing drugs in the cafeteria under a table. I'm not a big fan of this boy, but my nephew claims to not have many other options for friends. As I was trying to drop some knowledge on him about this friend, my nephew taught me an unexpected lesson.

Me: Why don't you get involved in a club or something? You need to do that stuff. I was involved in a lot at your age.
Nephew: There's nothing for me to join.
Me: Nothing at all? Come on.
Nephew: No. Seriously. There's nothing to do in my town. The closest Boys and Girls club is one town over and there aren't any buses that run out there.
Me: So what do y'all do out there for fun?
Nephew: Me? My mom doesn't let me go out, so I really just sit at home all day and play video games or talk on the phone. My friends do all sorts of crazy stuff. Actually, I have a story for your blog.
Me: Tell me!
Nephew: So, do you know what credit carding is?
Me: I think so. I mean, Nelly had a video about that. That's where you swipe a card down a woman's backside, right? Why?
Nephew: (laughing) No. So, you remember my friend, right.. The one I told you about who was doing drugs in the caf. He told me that he took his "stuff" and slid it up and down his girlfriend's butt. That's credit-carding...
Me: How old is the girl?
Nephew: Same age as him. 13.

Sperm Bank

My dating past includes a handful of very random older women. I was never into older women per se. For some odd reason, I kept finding them on the club scene. The first of my very few Cougar episodes occurred at a nightclub when I met a 42 year old married woman whose husband wanted me to have a romp with her. Shortly thereafter, I met another woman (Redbone) during alumni weekend at my alma mater.

Redbone and I met during a networking session on campus. She was a short (about 5'2), light skinned, African American woman who had a pretty face and a really nice body. I had my eye on her the entire session not realizing that she was fourteen years older than me. To be honest, I was thrown off by her attire. The faded light blue jeans she wore fit just right, and the tight white tee-shirt she had on made her breasts look real plump. She didn't look to be a day over 25.

Later on in the evening, we connected at the alumni dance. I stepped to her immediately to introduce myself. Our conversation quickly became a one-two step. I knew things would get interesting once we started dancing because her friend left the area immediately. It was just the two of us.

After a couple of songs, I could tell by the look in her eyes what she was thinking. When the party was over, Redbone gave me her number. She urged me to call her soon, and I did.

(Phone call)

Redbone: I really had a good time the other night. We should get together. You can come to my place.
Me: That's cool with me. Hold up. Are you married or anything?
Redbone: I got divorced recently. I'm a single mother. Is that a problem?
Me: No. Why would it be?
Redbone: Just asking. Some guys are scared off by my kid.
Me: (Thinking, what does your kid have to do with any of this?) Nope. Not an issue for me.


(About an hour into phone call)


Redbone: Can I just say that you're really an amazing person.
Me: Thanks.
Redbone: I mean that. You're funny. Intelligent. Handsome. Why aren't you in a relationship?
Me: I like being single. No need to rush.
Redbone: I see. Do you have kids?
Me: Nope.
Redbone: Do you want any???
Me: Of course.
Redbone: I want to have another one. My clock is ticking.
Me: (awkward pause) Oh... Uh. I see...
Redbone: I'm a really straightforward person. Please don't be offended by this question, but I have to ask you something.
Me: Go ahead.
Redbone: Would you sell me your semen for $7000? 

Monkey Business

I've had some pretty wack experiences with white people. As a toddler, I was jumped by some white classmates at school. That experience lead me to steer clear of white folks for a long time. In the sixth grade, a group of my friends and I were egged by some white kids as we waited to get into a gym on the "wrong side of town." A year later, my black team went into a white town for a basketball game. We had to be escorted out of the gym because a couple of players and their parents didn't like losing to a "bunch of niggers."

My high school years were relatively quiet on the racial front. I define that period of my life as "Whitey's Redemption." The healing actually started in fifth grade when I joined an afterschool program that was founded and directed by a couple of white men. From that point through high school, they unknowingly did a lot to restore my faith in white people. They were genuinely good people who never asked me for anything in return for their generosity. I also developed friendships with a few white classmates who helped me broaden my view of the world immensely. The same can be said for my white U.S. History teacher who taught me the true meaning of critical thinking.

By the time I got to college, I learned to deal with people as individuals. Unfortunately, one really bad experience brought up all of the aforementioned memories. It didn't take long for me to see that colleges were teeming with extremely ignorant people. What saddened me about this is that these students, many of whom came from very sheltered backgrounds, were preparing to become the "leaders of tomorrow." One morning as I was having breakfast alone in the college's cafeteria, some white dude (Scruffy) who lived on my floor randomly sat next to me.

Scruffy was from Vermont. Earlier in the year, he had an embarrassing situation occur where he accidentally urinated on a pile of his white rommate's clothes after a long night of partying. Unlike his fellow freshmen, Scruffy didn't roll with a crew. He was either with this Ghanian cat (who wasn't a man of many words), or his girlfriend (she was the hottest girl on our floor). Even though we were cordial, I was kind of surprised that Scruffy took a seat next to me in the caf.

Scruffy: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Scruffy: Why do black people like bananas?
Me: What? I don't understand. Do you see a banana in front of me?
Scruffy: No, but I'm just curious.
Me: Bananas? I don't follow why you're asking me this.
Scruffy: Yeh. I mean, do you think it has something to do with your African roots?
Me: I'm lost right now.
Scruffy: I just noticed that black people like bananas, so I thought I'd ask.
Me: What the fuck do bananas have to do with Africa?
Scruffy: You're clearly upset right now. It's just a question.
Me: Yeh. I am upset. You're asking me about bananas and my fuckin African roots! Really?!? 
Scruffy: Dude. Sorry. I'm not a racist. My best friend here is black. You know that. I just wanna know why black people like bananas. That's all.

Shower Scene

There is an intense shower-rape scene in the flim, "American History X." The protagonist, Edward Norton, is the charismatic leader of a white supremist group. After killing a pair of black men who were attempting to steal from his property, Norton is sent to prison. While incarcerated, Norton comes of age as he realizes that his fellow Nazis aren't truly devout in their commitment to the uplift of white people. Ironically, as Norton attempts to cleanse himself in the shower, he is raped by his cohort of hypocrites...

I was once the victim of bullying. At the time I was a pre-schooler in Montreal. Twenty-five years later, I still remember getting stomped on by a group of my five year-old classmates in the schoolyard as they called me "blackie" in French. That experience has lead me to always sympathize with the kid everybody sees as being different. It has also caused me to deal with white people cautiously.

I have a healthy resume of outcasts on my resume of past acquaintances. The most interesting of these individuals was Red. He was a short and stout, red-headed white dude who lived on my floor when I was a freshman in college. He didn't have any friends. We never hung out, but I often tried to engage him in conversation. Unlike the other guys on my floor, however, I never made fun of Red despite the fact that he'd watch all sorts of porn on his computer with his door open. Supposedly, his roommate caught him masturbating more than a couple of times.

Midway through freshman year, Red started responding to my greetings. Once in awhile, he'd even come into my room when the door was open to watch my crew play video games. The guys started joking that Red would develop a crush on me because I was so nice to him. I thought that was ridiculous. He didn't strike me as being into guys. I joked back that if he ever decided to pull a Columbine in the dorm that I would get away unscathed...

As that school year drew to a close, a few classmates I got to know fell by the wayside. A couple of them were raped and another one left due to some serious emotional issues. Going into my freshman year I never considered that a college campus could be a place where people regress--like prison. Aside from dealing with life after my father's stroke, things were going pretty well for me until I stepped into the shower one evening. As I was washing my face in the shower, I was stunned by somebody drawing the shower curtain open.

Me: (hurrying to rinse my face) What the fuck?!?!
Red: (staring at me) Have you seen my keys?
Me: Are you fuckin serious? Your keys?! Why the fuck would I have your keys? Close the fuckin curtain!!!
Red: Oh. Sorry.

Killer Instinct

Bounce had a killer instinct. He was recommended to me by his older brother the summer before I became the Head Coach here. All summer long, I kept hearing about the young man's immense talent. Bounce was a 6'2 guard/forward who possessed a strong body, superior hops, and good ball handling skills. Through some research, I learned that he was being pursued by a couple of Division II colleges at the 4-year level around the country. According to Bounce's older brother, who was my junior Assistant, the scouts backed off because of his grades. Given Bounce's talent, it was strange to me that he didn't get picked up by any Prep schools. 

I ended up passing on Bounce since there was no on-campus housing. He ended up signing with a Division II junior college in our league. Much to my dismay, he dominated my team every time we played. Five years later, I still remember him flying through the air for a thunderous dunk during our state tournament game against his team. I often wonder what would have happened had he enrolled here.

After that season, I heard that he transferred to a small Division II college in Texas. A few years later, however, Bounce resurfaced in our league with the same team he played for initially. Since players only have two years of eligibility in our league, that means he never even suited up at his new school. The second time around, which was roughly three years later, Bounce wasn't the same player. As a matter of fact, I didn't even notice him on the floor when our teams played. There was an air of disinterest about him. I don't even think he cracked 20 points combined in the two games we played against his team that season...

A couple of weeks ago, I went out for drinks and wings with a couple of coaches. While we were talking about some of the more talented players in our league over the past several years, Bounce came up in conversation.

Hawk: Hey, you remember that kid Bounce, right?
Me: Of course. That dude was a killer! He fell off last year. Just wasn't the same.
Hawk: Well, he got into some trouble over the summer.
Me: What he do?

Stunned by the news, I googled his name to see what would come up. Low and behold, it was true. He shot a 19 year-old man nine times in the parking lot of a liquor store. Bounce is currently in prison for murder.

Star 69

Some guy was getting a mean lap dance. I thought most women straddled their client frontwards, or bent over doggystyle to do their thing. This dancer, on the other hand, had her face in this guy's crotch while he held the bottom half of her body in his face. I couldn't believe how well she could twerk her body in that position.

At that point, I was on my way out of the joint. Cheeks had just left, and Candy didn't come in to work. The stripper (Raven) who had kept me company earlier in the evening left me for some other dude. Sitting with me wasn't paying the bills so Raven had to make a business decision. I didn't blame her. The most I offered her was a beer. That's cool at a bar, but that doesn't buy a man company at a strip club.

I was curious to rap with Star 69, so I stuck around for a little bit. Much to my delight, it didn't take long for her to purge her client's wallet. I intentionally sat by the lap dancing area so that she'd walk right by me, and she did.

Me: Nice job up there.
Star 69: Thanks. You tryin to dance?
Me: Let's talk for a bit. I wanna get to know you.
Star 69: Get to know me? This is a strip club. Haha.
Me: I just like to know a little bit about who I'm dancing with. That's all.
Star 69: Oh I got you. That's your thing? Getting to know your stripper? You men crack me up. Haha.
Me: Why's that? It has to be real to me. Just getting a dance doesn't do it for me.
Star 69: Okay. I'll play along.
Me: So, for $20 you'll flip upside down for me?
Star: Maybe. It depends on how much you're spending.
Me: What do you mean?
Star: I'm flipped upside down around the 8th song. I figure at that point I have to make it more interesting, you know?
Me: So that guy spent $180 for lap dances?
Star 69: Way more than that. He should've just gone to VIP with me for $300. I get real freaky back there. He didn't really get to touch me here. This is out in the open.
Me: Oh okay. What's the freakiest thing you do back there?
Star 69: Well, I do a lot depending on the guy, but I had a really weird experience back there once.
Me: What happened?
Star 69: This guy paid me $100 just to rub my bare feet for three songs. I didn't touch him or nothing!! Hahahahaha

Bang My Wife

Some guy wanted me to do his wife. I had never been propositioned in that way before, nor had I ever heard of such a thing. It all started with a night of dancing that heated up quickly (re: Hollywood Swingin'). Within a half hour, this stranger was communicating to me through his wife's cell phone that he "wanted to watch me pound her."

My father never pimped my mom, so I kind of figured all married couples rolled like they did. Actually, my parents weren't very affectionate towards each other. They were very old school. Growing up, I saw them kiss once. They were never hugged up either. Sometimes I considered myself lucky to even be alive given the lack of passion between them. By American standards, their relationship would have been considered unhealthy. Then again, I watched my mom wipe my dad's backside and clean his vomit on a regular basis during the last three years of his life...

JM was a proud Cougar, and I was an eager Cub. Usually when I start dancing with a woman, there's a little one-two step that goes on with some distance. Gradually, I close the gap. On that night, JM and I were like magnets from the jump. Her intensity was evident. I tried not to get too caught up in it because there were over 200 people in the joint who would've had a front row seat to our hump session. With the way people snap photos of strangers (then post them on facebook) doing crazy things, I was very cautious about my actions.

JM showed me her phone. I could see the message from her husband. It was unbelievable. This guy was giving me carte blanche to get busy with his wife, and he didn't even know me. She started whispering softly in my ear. Our bodies were still close at this point. The contours of her body felt so good. I found myself in a quandary.

JM: Come on. It'll be fun.
Me: That's kind of weird to me. How would this work?
JM: Like it would with any situation?
Me: Are we talking camera? Would this be filmed?
JM: No. I'm not crazy.
Me: So, then how would he watch us?
JM: He'd sit there.
Me: What?!? In the room?!? Why am I even talking about this?! No. I don't roll like that. Sorry.
JM: Come on. I'll make it worth your while. You can already tell it would be great! I can feel what you're all about. I bet I can get it all in my mouth.
Me: Wow! haha. Good one. I appreciate the compliment, but really.. I'm all set. Am I a first or something?
JM: My hubby and I are adventurous!
Me: Which means?
JM: We like to explore. That's all. We keep the marriage interesting this way.

While we were talking I noticed a couple of people watching us. They looked perturbed, so I asked if she knew the pair.

Me: Who are those people over there watching us? That guy has been staring this way for a lil bit.
JM: Oh. Those are my friends. We came together. They think I'm just drunk. They don't know why I'm really here tonight.

Material Girl

Cheeks is a stripper on the side. I was surprised to find out that she had a full-time gig. Despite the seemingly excruciating pain Cheeks was feeling in her lower back as a result of wearing those uncomfortable stripper heels for several hours, she had to be at her full-time job early in the morning. In a matter of a few hours, Cheeks had to go from being a seductive, money-driven stripper to caring for patients at a nursing home as a Certified Nurses' Aide (CNA).

At the time Cheeks told me that her long term goal was to become a Licensed Practical Nurse (LPN). She was actually on the waiting list for the LPN program at my school. Cheeks became a CNA with the intention of getting some needed experience in the field, and she loved her work. She even told me a story about a patient whose funeral she had attended a few days before our conversation. In the small amount of time we got to talk, it was very evident that she was born to be in a helping profession.

I was curious to hear about her experiences as a CNA because my mother had been one for the previous twenty five years. Like Cheeks, there was a time when my mom needed to work another job because a forty hour work week just didn't yield enough money. I remember there were days when she would leave her eight hour shift only to take on an additional four to six hours at another nursing home.

At the time, my dad was struggling to find work. Rent was steep. Bills needed to get paid, and there were two growing boys in the apartment (my older brother and I) who ate a lot. Instead of letting my father drive a cab, which he was very willing to do, my mom insisted on working two jobs. I clearly recall her telling my father very frankly that she refused to let him drive a cab because it was a menial job. She didn't want him to lose his dignity just to make ends meet.

Unlike my mother, Cheeks didn't have children or a husband. However, with the exception of an aunt who helped her pay rent, she was an 18 year old living on her own. Since rent is usually the most expensive monthly "bill", I didn't get the need for her to strip since she had a full-time job.

Me: Let me ask you a question, and please don't take this the wrong way.
Cheeks: Sure. Go ahead.
Me: Do you think most of the women in here like to strip.
Cheeks: Nope. I don't know anybody who likes doing this. The money's good. That's all. This is demeaning.
Me: So then why do you do this?
Cheeks: I need the money. I gotta save up for school. I have expenses.
Me: Moving back in with your mom isn't an option?
Cheeks: She chose her boyfriend over me. That's why I had to live in the shelter. Do you know what I found out last year?
Me: What?
Cheeks: She was doing coke when she was pregnant with me. I have a memory problem because of it. My short term memory sucks!
Me: Damn. Sorry to hear that.
Cheeks: It's whatever. Now that I'm a big girl, I just gotta do things for myself. No problem... Listen, it was nice talking to you but I gotta go now. I'm off the clock in ten minutes.
Me: You headed to your other gig now? Why don't you take the night off? You look like you're exhausted.
Cheeks: I wish I could, but somebody has to pay the car note on that all-black, pimped out BMW I'm driving. You should see it! It has everything!
Me: Check you out. How much do you pay a month for that?
Cheeks: $400 and change a month and I pay about $600 a month for insurance.

Amateur Night

Cheeks started stripping when she was 16 years old. The legal age to strip is 18, but she got an early start on dancing provocatively by using her older sister's ID. I didn't prod much, but apparently that was enough for her to get on stage. When we met, she had just turned 18. Although Cheeks started dancing at such a young age, she claimed to dislike stripping--referring to it simply as a means to an end. Other than an aunt who helped her pay rent, Cheeks was literally on her own.

After Gucci told me about the stupid bitch who derailed his plans to play college ball because she failed a class he paid her to pass for him, Cheeks came and sat next to me. It was her first night at this particular joint. The night was very slow for her. After five hours of work, Cheeks had only pocketed $20. The other girls I had spoken to that night, like Raven, were doing a lot better.

Cheeks wasn't unattractive by any means. She had blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. Her face was unblemished and she had very thin lips. In her heels, Cheeks looked like she was about 5'10. She also had the requisite assetts to be dancing provocatively. In other words, she didn't need special jeans to prop up her derriere. Baby had back!

Cheeks was annoyed about making so little on her shift, but that didn't keep her from having an open conversation with me. Like Candy, she was very candid about her past and present.

Me: So this is your first night stripping?
Cheeks: Here? Yeh. I've been doing this for a couple of years. Started when I was 16. I'm 18 now.
Me: 16? Were you stripping after school or something?!?!
Cheeks: I dropped out at 16 and got my GED.
Me: School wasn't your thing?
Cheeks: No. It was. I used to live in Florida. Down there, I was in a talented and gifted program so they jumped me ahead two years down there. When I moved up here, I got put back two years. I was bored with school so I dropped out.
Me: Were your parents cool with that?
Cheeks: My mom wasn't at all. She kicked me out because of it. Well, she says it was because of that but it was really because she chose her boyfriend over me.
Me: Where's your dad?
Cheeks: He died when I was 2. Heroin overdose.
Me: So then where did you live when your mom kicked you out?
Cheeks: I lived in a shelter. That's actually where I found out about stripping. This other girl in there was bringing home $1000 regularly, so I was like I need to give this a shot!
Me: That's a lot of money!
Cheeks: I know, right. Well, she was making a lot of money because she was giving blow jobs in the champagne room.
Me: Ohh.. got you.
Cheeks: Ugh.. My back hurts so much. Wearing these friggin heels is the worst!
Me: So why don't you throw on some flip flops and dance barefoot on stage?
Cheeks: The owner won't let us. It's actually considered prostitution to dance barefoot on stage, so I gotta keep these damn heels on.

To be continued...

Imaginary Playa

I once lied about getting some arse. I fronted so hard about getting in Nana's pants that it actually feels weird writing this confession. That passionate, imaginary night with Nana became so real to me that I had to remind myself it never happened.  I told my boys that I made her see "flowers growing in snow." I bragged about the different positions we explored, and how we got busy in the shower and her bedroom. If you asked my crew, they'd say that I blew Nana's back out that night. What they didn't know was that I pieced together a bunch of my older brother's true stories about getting some buns and made up my own night of ecstasy. I was a freshman in high school at the time.

I'm pretty sure a lot of my friends lied about their conquests in high school, especially during our freshman year. Boys do that. I only had one friend who admitted he was a virgin, and we never let him forget about his inexperience. Whenever a Friday night outing became boring, we just started cracking on his inability to get any. I think he finally got some his senior year. He never gave in to our jokes, though. Unlike the rest of us, he was really comfortable in his virgin skin. In many ways, actually, he was far more mature than the rest of us. For example, he was the first friend to give me a book as a birthday present. I thought it was corny at the time, but it turned out to be one of the best books I've ever read (Native Son).

Looking back, I wish I had been more like him in that he was comfortable as a 15 year old virgin. It took years for me to grow up in that regard. By my junior year of high school, I wasn't lying about my sextracurricular activities anymore. I didn't really care what people thought of me, or what I was doing. As a matter of fact, this attitude lead people to accuse me of being arrogant more often than not. That didn't bother me either. I wasn't that insecure boy from freshman year anymore...

A major frustration of mine here has been the level of immaturity I've encountered from players on a regular basis. The sad part is that I get a new crop of guys every year who exhibit the same childish behavior even though they're in their late teens and early twenties. On my way into the gym one afternoon to do the team's laundry, I was confronted with one of these stupid situations. Femme (who plays for the Women's basketball team) stopped me to talk. She was furious.

Femme: Coach, can we talk?
Me: Sure. What's up?
Femme: You need to tell your boy, Speedy, something!
Me: What he do?
Femme: You know we real cool, right? I can't believe he'd do this to me. He's going around telling everybody that he's having sex with me, and it isn't true! We've never even kissed!
Me: I really can't get involved with that. You need to take that up with him but make sure you don't let your emotions get the best of you.
Femme: What do you mean?
Me: Just don't allow the situation to escalate. I know you're upset, but if you pop him, things could get messy. Don't get suspended or expelled over this.
Femme: Well, he should've thought about that before he started telling people he hit it! He doesn't know me. I'll punch him in his fuckin mouth. I don't play that dumb shit!

(A week later...)

Me: So, did you talk to Speedy about it?
Femme: I sure did. I found him in the gym the other day and we handled it.
Me: What do you mean by that?
Femme: I made him admit, in front of his boys, that he was lyin about everything he said we did!

Hollywood Swingin'

I tend to attract older women. One night I went to the nightclub (not to be confused with strip club) with my boy and his girlfriend. As I was posted up on the side boppin' my head to whatever old skool jam was thumping on the speakers, my boy noticed a woman staring our way. He was convinced that her eyes were fixed on me. I thought she was checking him out since I usually didn't get that kind of attention. It turned out that she was eye ballin' me. Much to my delight, she was very attractive.

I stepped to her and introduced myself. Her name was Jean-Marie (JM). Shortly thereafter, we started dancing. From the outset, it was clear that she wanted to grind with me. I didn't back down. While we danced, she looked deeply into my eyes. I thought it was a little weird, but I went along with it. She clearly had a ton of pent up aggression raging through her body.

A couple of songs in, JM asked for my age. At the time, I was 26. After a little prodding, JM confessed that she was 42. I was the Cub, and she was the very willing Cougar. It was evident that she was a little bit older by her somewhat aged visage, but her body was tight. JM was the right kind of thick, which meant she had full thighs, a slim waist, a nice backside, plump breasts, and no visible flab.

We continued to dance. After the fourth song, JM put her hand under my shirt and began to rub my back. At that point, she began to whisper in my ear. From the corner of my eye, I could see my boy and his girl watching me. They were as shocked as I was that this dance was getting so hot on the dance floor.

After about five or six songs, I backed off. It was getting to be too much for me to handle. The combination of her hand stroking my back and the unmentionables she was whispering in my ear lead me to call a timeout. Given the very public setting we were in, I didn't want to become a spectacle for everybody else in the club. It was clear JM was ready to get it in on the dance floor. She wouldn't let me walk away.

We continued to do our thing on the floor until her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket. I backed off.

JM: What are you doing?
Me: Take your call.
JM: You aren't going anywhere.
Me: (laughing) No. Really? Take the call. I'm gonna hit the rest room.
JM: Don't worry about it. That's just my husband.
Me: Excuse me? Your husband?
JM: Yeh. Let me just text him back. Don't go anywhere. I like how you feel.
Me: You just said your husband, though..
JM: Yeh. I did. So what? He doesn't mind.
Me: What?!?
JM: I'm texting him about you as a matter of fact.
Me: That's funny. You're joking, right?
JM: Not at all. What are you doing tonight?
Me: After I leave here? Nothing. Why?
JM: He wants to watch us.

Caught on Tape

Somebody recognized me at the strip club. It shouldn't have come as a surprise since I frequently ran into people all over town who knew me somehow. Awhile ago while I was at the local supermarket, the cashier (whom I had never seen in my life) referred to me as "Coach" just as I whipped out my box of Trojans to pay for them. It turned out that she had been to some of my team's basketball games. She was a student at the college. I joked that the condoms weren't mine. On this occasion, unfortunately, I couldn't front about the obvious.

While Raven and I were talking, I noticed somebody from across the room pointing at me. My heart sank. I couldn't make out the face since I wasn't wearing glasses. I wanted to run. After Raven left to smoke outside, the apparition came closer. I was anxious. The dark figure was one of my former recruits, Gucci, who happened to be with a former student of mine (Scarface). I wasn't even aware that they knew each other. Scarface was hysterical. He didn't expect to see me at the strip club, nor was he going to buy that I just came by to "talk" to an intelligent stripper.

Scarface: (laughing) What are you doing here, man?
Me: I'm just having a drink.
Scarface: (laughing harder now) Ssssure. You here to see some ass and titties!

I hadn't seen Scarface in awhile. He was a troubled student whom I had met years before at a therapeutic school during my two year stint with an agency. I didn't get a chance to catch up with him, though. "Gucci", my former recruit, seemed eager to talk. The last time I saw Gucci, he was sitting on the bench at the 4-year college he had transferred to in street clothes. Since he was a few credits short, Gucci had to take a couple of classes in order to become eligible.

I never got to coach Gucci even though he was enrolled at the college for a few years. This man could literally fly. He was 22 years old when I made my pitch to him. At 6'5, he was a very poor man's Kevin Garnett. In our league, he would have easily dropped 20 a night given his athleticism.

I tried my hardest to get him on the team, but he was always caught up with something. Gucci was a drug dealer. Apparently, he was doing some major hustlin'. Once upon a time he was riding around town in a car with Gucci seats. A month after I talked to Gucci the first time about playing for me, I ran into him at a nightclub. I asked him why he disappeared after our conversation. It turned out that he had been stabbed (almost fatally) during an altercation a couple of weeks after we spoke. He even showed me his battle wounds to prove it. On this night (years later) at the strip club, I was happy to hear that things were going better for him.

Me: How you been? Long time!
Gucci: I'm good, Coach. What you doin' up in here? Hahaha. Never thought I'd see you in here!
Me: (cough) I'm just chillin, man. Just havin a drink.
Gucci: Yeh okay. Around all these naked women. (punches my shoulder) Hahaha. If you want some real ass you need to hit up Providence. Them strippers are for real.
Me: What you mean?
Gucci: These girls ain't about it. That's why I don't spend my money on em. In Providence, them chicks be fuckin. $150 and you're gettin' some ass. 
Me: Enh. That ain't my thing, but how you been? You still in school?
Gucci: Yeh, as a matter of fact. I'm about to finish up my Bachelor's degree.
Me: Good! I'm happy to hear that. Why didn't you play there, though? Weren't you like three credits short.
Gucci: Man, some stupid shit happened. 
Me: What?
Gucci: I paid this chick money to pass a course for me and she fuckin failed it. Stupid bitch! 

Sex Sells

Raven makes $600 per week as a stripper. The money is untaxed and she only works the nightshift four days per week, Thursday through Sunday. Raven's time off is spent with her infant daughter and boyfriend. She also takes online college courses with a goal of earning a degree in Business Management. At the time of our conversation, Raven didn't quite know what kind of business she eventually wanted to own. However, she was clear about having no desire to own a strip joint.

Raven struck me as a tough cookie even though she stood a shade under five feet and clearly weighed less than 100 lbs. I thought Napoleana would have been a more fitting stage name given her seemingly feisty disposition. Then again, the dictionary's definition of Raven spoke to her subtle, yet strong, demeanor.

rav·en 
v. rav·ened, rav·en·ing, rav·ens

v.tr.

1. To consume greedily; devour.

2. To seek or seize as prey or plunder.

Women believe men like the petite look because it's visually more appealing. Even though that's true to some degree, I feel that men like petite women because they have the appearance of being easier to subdue sexually, emotionally, and mentally. I'm sure conquerors in the Middle Ages viewed islands as being a far easier conquest than an entire continent. Since most men like to be in control of their relationships, thinner women make more sense as pursuits...

On the night that I met Raven, I was actually in the joint looking for Candy. She was a no-show for work, unfortunately. I contemplated leaving immediately since I figured the other dancers wouldn't be as talkative as Candy. Instead, I grabbed a drink and sat on a stool near the bar. Raven was doing her thing on stage, so I stayed to watch her act. I was impressed with how she commanded the stage given her small physique. Although petite, Raven was very shapely. Her full backside was proportionate with her body. It curved nicely into her thighs, then her calves. A better way to put it is that she had a carefully sculpted frame. Her body didn't look tough, or wobbly. She was just right.

Eventually, she made her way off stage. As Raven passed me, we made eye contact and she immediately stopped to talk.

Me: You're wearing glasses.

Raven: Yeh. I know.

Me: You weren't wearing them on stage, though.

Raven: Oh. haha. Yeh. I don't wear these on stage.

Me: Why not? Guys dig the glasses look! It would probably make you look even sexier.

Raven: Haha.. Thanks. No. I keep the glasses off. That way, I can barely see the people off the stage.

Me: Isn't that the point, though?

Raven: I guess it helps me focus on what I'm doing. It makes me less self conscious about being up there.

Me: Oh okay. So does that mean you don't like to dance up there?

Raven: It's not that. I mean, I make good money doing this. I like it.

Me: Do you see yourself doing this for awhile?

Raven: Yeh. I'd say a few more years.

Me: How old are you?

Raven: 21.

Me: So when would you stop?

Raven: I'm thinking 24 or so. We'll see. I didn't get into this to dance for a long time.

Me: Why'd you start dancing?

Raven: My boyfriend called the cops on me for assaulting him so I had to get a Custody Lawyer.

Me: Damn. Sorry to hear that. Is this a little guy we're talking about?

Raven: Not at all. He's about 6'6. He was in the military at one point. We ended up working it out. I live with him and his family in a two family now.

Me: Do they know you dance?

Raven: He does, but they don't.

Me: What about your daughter?

Raven: Absolutely not!

Me: You make good money doing this, though.

Raven: I know but I don't want her stripping.

Spit on Me!

Candy has never dated a black man. They aren't her type either. She admittedly prefers white men. Since we spent most of the night talking, I didn't take her exclusive taste the wrong way. Candy grew up in a very homogeneous town, and has lived there for her entire life. Since she's a white woman from a very white town, it only makes sense that she would be into white guys.

We often fear what we don't understand. This fear then leads to all sorts of behaviors. Candy has never dated a black guy because she doesn't like the whole "ghetto thing", as she put it. Unfortunately, the black men who frequent Candy's shop are all very similar in that they seem to be really "hood." On the surface, they don't reflect men of great substance. Since Candy values intellectualism and great conversation, a black man has yet to tickle her fancy.

Despite this admission, Candy didn't strike me as being a racist. As a matter of fact, for a long time I didn't like white people. It all started in pre-school when a group of white five year-olds stomped on me while the white teachers watched. The episode lasted for a few minutes. I vividly remember struggling to regain my footing while they kicked me and called me "blackie" in French.

On a daily basis, I was harrassed by these little rugrats and the teachers never did anything about it. At the time, I was attending a predominantly white school in a white suburb of Montreal. Eventually, my Godmother (who I was living with) took me out of the school. It took years for me to get past that experience. I didn't really understand why those kids beat me up even though I had never done anything to them...

In addition to being very attractive, Candy is incredibly bright. The most striking feature on her body is a tattoo of a giraffe.  It adorns the right side of her torso.

Me: What's the significance of the giraffe?
Candy: Have you ever heard of this book titled Ishmael? It's by Daniel Quinn.
Me: Nah. Never heard of it.
Candy: Well, it's about a guy who interacts with a talking gorilla. The gorilla ends up being a teacher for this guy. Basically, the whole premise of this interaction is to make a point about man's supposed destiny to rule the world. The book gets into corporate greed and its effects on our environment. I was so inspired by the book that I got this tattoo.
Me: That's really deep. Do you date men who are as sharp as you are intellectually?
Candy: I'd say so.
Me: Then why did you say you tend to date the wrong kinds of men?
Candy: Because they're crazy!
Me: Explain crazy.
Candy: My ex-boyfriend spit in my face because I wouldn't leave his house...

Strip Tease

Candy's father was an abusive alcoholic. He died when she was five years old in a drunken driving accident. Because she was so young when he died, Candy doesn't really remember him. She has had to rely solely on the accounts of her older sisters and mother to get an understanding of him as a man. Since then, Candy has been in a number of bad relationships because of her attraction to "broken men", as she refers to them.

Candy wasn't really in the mood to do her job--or at least it seemed that way to me. She explained that the reason for her half-hearted routine was because it was a slow night. My thinking coming in to the joint was that the strippers would swarm towards any new faces. For all Candy knew, I could've been walking in with the intention of dropping $500 on the stage. Instead, we ended up talking mostly about her past and present.

Surprisingly, she wasn't dropping any "game" on me. Her hand wasn't on my lap while we spoke. She wasn't asking me about my favorite positions, or anything sexual. She just wanted to talk. At some point, I asked if that approach worked for her customers. Very simply, Candy explained that she didn't care if customers thought she was boring. She considered herself to be a classy stripper who kept it real with the patrons. Meanwhile, I noticed that her colleagues were draped all over the other men.

I asked if she had ever left with anybody from the joint. True to her brand, Candy kept it real about a situation that almost turned deadly.

Me: In your time here, have you ever left with any guys?
Candy: Yeh. That was a crazy night! Haha
Me: Why?
Candy: It was just a bad night all the way around. Did I tell you that I have staples in my head?
Me: Why do you have staples in your head?
Candy: I got into a car accident last week. I ran a stop sign.
Me: Were you tired? How do you just run a stop sign?
Candy: I wasn't paying attention.
Me: You're working with staples in your head?
Candy: Yup. Didn't take much time off. Can't afford to.
Me: What does this have to do with the guy you left here with?
Candy: Oh yeh. Nothing. Sorry. Haha. So this guy takes me to his house and when we get there his wife was home.
Me: Damn!
Candy: On the way there, he was telling me that he wanted to make his wife jealous by bringing me by.
Me: So what happened?
Candy: She stabbed him. Thank God she didn't do anything to me.

Candy Shop

Candy and I met at a strip club. Blondes aren't my type by any means, but Candy still managed to catch my eye. Along with a pretty face, Candy possessed a thin frame, long--shapely legs, full breasts, and a nice ass. Candy's dirty blonde mop almost covered her face so it was difficult to make out the color of her eyes in the dark. She was also odorless. Although Candy sat right next to me for what seemed to be hours during the night, I couldn't pick up her scent. It was as if she had been sterilized during her shift. Nevertheless, during this unforgettable night, Candy allowed me to peer into her world of mystery.

Our long night began at the door before I even set foot in Candy's place of work for the first time. Truthfully, I've never been a fan of strip clubs. On this night, I was prodded into joining my older brother's crew for his birthday party. I had concerns about being in the strip club since I tended to be recognized everywhere around the city. My brother made me feel guilty when I told him I couldn't attend his party. He accused me of being selfish and paranoid. After awhile, I relented. I didn't want to let him down. I decided to go out disguised as a mature cat--hoping if anybody in the joint recognized me that my attire would throw them off.

Candy commented on my baby face at the door while I was paying the $5 cover to get in. We played the "guess my age" game while I intentionally rummaged through my wallet for money. I had $300 in my wallet, most of which I was going to use to pay a bill the next day. I just wanted Candy to think I was big ballin'. She admitted that my choice of clothing was throwing her off as she tried to figure out my age. According to Candy, although I looked younger, my cardigan and plaid shirt gave me the appearance of somebody who was a bit older. It didn't take much prodding for her to tell me her age. She was a week away from turning 19.

I immediately grabbed an Absolut Vodka with cranberry juice upon walking in. It was $7.75. Shortly after sitting down with my drink, Candy ascended to the stage. I wasn't impressed initially. She looked real average at the door. Again, blondes don't do it for me. As Candy methodically removed her thin black dress during her first act, I made my way towards her sanctuary for a closer look. She suddenly became stunning. There was one other patron sitting in front of the stage. It was obvious that Candy wasn't interested in him. She crouched directly in front of me and oddly, she stopped dancing and started talking to me. I sat in my front row seat looking up at Candy, admiring the blonde beauty hovering over me.

Me: Uhh.. Aren't you supposed to be dancing? You know? Jogging my imagination??
Candy: I'm way too hot up here and that guy over there is weird.
Me: lol. Well, I'm not weird.
Candy: I know. That's why I'm talking to you? (she starts to move a little bit to the music)
Me: My imagination is waiting.
Candy: Jeez. You're gonna make me work for a $1, huh? Tonight's so slow. I've walked out of here with $8 before.
Me: This is my first time here. I don't do strip clubs, so you gotta leave me with a favorable impression.
Candy: Well, I don't get down like the other girls here. I'm classy. Do you smoke?
Me: Nope.
Candy: I bet that's a turn off for you. I wanted you to come outside so we could talk.
Me: What?!? I'm tryin' to see you dance! lol

After Candy finished her routine, she went outside for a cigarette. I sat there and continued to watch the women on stage. A few minutes after she disappeared to smoke, Candy came back and sat next to me in the audience.

Me: Do you like what you do?
Candy: I don't mind it.
Me: Doesn't seem like it.
Candy: It's just a slow night. That's all... Look at that girl up there. That's my competition in here. I'm a white girl. I can't compete with a Puerto Rican.
Me: What? You look way better than her! I'm not even into blondes and you got me to pay attention.
Candy: Really? I guess it's that I haven't gotten used to being attractive. I used to be fat. I was never popular.
Me: Oh. I wouldn't have ever guessed that. You seem smart. Are you in college?
Candy: Nah. I applied and got in to college but couldn't go. My sister has a brain disease and my mom is sick too. I have a lot going on, and I'm kind of fending for myself.
Me: Where's dad?
Candy: He died when I was 5. I'm glad he's dead, though.
Me: Why?
Candy: He was an abusive alcoholic. He used to beat my mom, even beat the dogs. He died in a drunken driving accident.

(To be continued)

Bubble Butt

Girls like my butt. Unfortunately, even though I look just like my late father, I inherited my mother's rump. I thought nothing of my booty until I enrolled at a predominantly white Catholic school in the sixth grade. Within weeks, one of the girls started calling me "Bubble Butt." The moniker stuck with me through the three years that I was enrolled there. In some ways, that experience of being harrassed prepared me for what was ahead in high school and college.

The summer before high school I intentionally bought baggy jeans and shirts that were long enough to cover what my momma gave me. It seemed as though my tactic worked. Nobody was calling me Bubble Butt or commenting on my backside. I was happy to lose that nickname. Sadly, the comments resurfaced when I joined the track team as a junior. There was no way I could hide my butt in those shorts. This time around, the girls were also talking about how I had nice legs. Once again, I was being emasculated. Graduation couldn't have come soon enough...

A lot started happening in my life once I enrolled in college, so hiding the assetts wasn't as much of a priority. By that point, covering up the evidence was second nature. A month into school, my father had a stroke. The following summer, my high school sweetheart and I broke up. Along with a couple of friends on campus, she held me together during the initial stages of my father's decline. That break-up was devastating. The following year, I drank heavily and found comfort with the various coeds who were down for whatever on the weekends.

One of the coeds (Kinky) I called upon on some weekends took a liking to my butt. She was quite the character. Looking back, I think Kinky and I gravitated towards each other because we were both in pain. The year before, Kinky was raped by a couple of guys on campus. She seriously considered dropping out of college during the year. For a time, she was even suicidal. It took a lot of counseling during the summer for Kinky to return in the fall. During the first weekend of school, we established a booty call situation. We'd do our thing and keep it moving.

That's the year I learned that booty calls only last for so long. At some point, women catch feelings and it's a wrap. I wouldn't let the situation evolve into anything more, however. Kinky didn't like that. She hated not being in control. On a Friday night, I recall, she sent me a message on AOL instant messenger. Kinky wanted to have some fun and bring her toy along. I was drunk and had nothing else to do, so I told her to come through.

Me: I see you're steppin' it up. Toys now?? I've never done this.
Kinky: Oh yeh? I'm glad to be your first.
Me: So where is it?
Kinky: (pulls out a purple colored, metallic penis-looking object out of her purse)
Me: Am I supposed to watch?
Kinky: Of course not. I wanna use it with you. (flips a switch to make it vibrate)
Me: Why would I do that when I got this? (pointing downward)
Kinky: I don't want to use it on myself.
Me: (confused) I'm lost right now.
Kinky: Turn around and I'll show you.
Me: What?! You're joking, right? I'm not that drunk!
Kinky: Not at all. C'mon. I won't tell anybody...
Me: You're out of your fuckin mind! What do I look like to you?!?!
Kinky: You mean to tell me you've never thought about putting anything in there? You got a nice ass. Cmon.
Me: Yeh. You're really buggin. Time to leave!
Kinky: (rubs it on my arm)
Me: Ayo, straight up if you touch me with that shit again I'm calling the cops. This ain't even cool right now!!!

Baby Momma Drama

Trojans likes to ejaculate in the vagina. Condoms aren't his thing, especially when the girl looks good. I warned him about that, but he kept doing his thing. Unfortunately, many of us have to learn lessons the hard way in life. Trojans got a dose of reality that I hope he'll never forget.

On a night out, Trojans met a "married" woman. Based on what Trojans told me about her, she's among the breed of folks who get married because it seems cool. These days, people can't distinguish between liking somebody a lot and loving a person. The warm and fuzzy feeling is enough for some folks to declare their undying love for another person. Sure, people fall out of love but I don't think that happens within a few months. I don't believe true love can dissolve so quickly. That's the society we live in now, however. When people like me err on the side of caution with using the L word, they're accused of being too guarded.

Trojans and the married woman hit it off quickly. After they met on a night out, they shacked up. He asked some questions and concluded that she was unhappily married. I don't think a conversation was needed to realize that, but that's just me. She told him that her husband was impotent and she wanted children. Being in her mid 30s, she wanted to pop one out asap because of her biological clock. Knowing that Trojans doesn't like condoms, I thought it would be good to talk about this particular situation before it got out of hand.

Me: You say she's unhappily married.
Trojans: Yeh yo. Like, she's really not feelin' this dude. She says leaving him is complicated.
Me: Of course she's gonna say that. So you're tryin to wife this chick now? Does she talk about her husband? You realize dude could be crazy, right?
Trojans: Nah. I ain't tryin to wife it. I didn't even think about the husband bit, honestly. He's some Italian dude--a fireman. Honestly, he sounds like a bitch!
Me: He's an Italian fireman and you think he's a bitch? You bring her to your place?
Trojans: Yeh.
Me: How do you know she's not being followed.
Trojans: Good point. You're makin me paranoid, man!
Me: I mean, that is somebody's wife. Most spouses know when they're gettin'  played. Just sayin.
Trojans: Yeh. You're right. So you think I should end it?
Me: Dog, she's married! This isn't good! Are you serious??
Trojans: There's a problem, though.
Me: What's that?
Trojans: She called me the other day talkin about being late. I'm buying her a test asap to see what's good!
Me: You weren't wearing a condom!! Wow! Are you for real?
Trojans: Yeh. Wreckless, man.

It turned out that she was pregnant. A few days after finding out, Trojans accompanied her to a clinic so that she could have an abortion.

Used Goods

Spider is a victim of the system. As a society, we have failed Spider and countless other student-athletes because winning has taken precedence over principle. Then again, it's easy to blame coaches and teachers, but they're often caught in a "Catch 22" situation. A guy like Spider may not have graduated from high school had it not been for the carrot that basketball offered to do the bare minimum in school. He probably got away with skipping school and turning countless assignments in late. As a result of the enabling and coddling, reality didn't set in for Spider until he was a 20 year old college student.

The home is often ignored in the context of these issues. Spider lives with his father, unlike the Bubblees I've become familiar with. His mother isn't around, however. He lives with a stepmother. Spider was allowed to play basketball even though his grades sucked. It could be that his father punished him in other ways. Four years into this, I've learned that most of my players don't respond to a soft approach. There are guys who only respond to screaming and threats. My belief is that they became accustomed to the harsher tactics at home. Instead of pulling Spider from basketball, maybe his parents beat him or tried threats to correct the problem.

Conjecture aside, what I do know is that he was diagnosed with ADHD (not ADD) three years after graduating from high school. Every year I work with a handful of guys who have undiagnosed learning disabilities. I'm not an expert by any means, but when I talk to a guy and his eyes start darting all over the place within minutes, it's obvious to me that something more is going on. I've worked with guys who could not learn simple plays months into the season. One guy told me he had a cognitive learning issue, but that's one out of countless players who were puzzled by what I'd consider to be relatively simple concepts.

The doctor who evaluated Spider called me to offer his assessment. I learned a lot about ADHD during that conversation. For instance, he told me that people with ADHD are typically less mature than people who don't have it. The reason I cut Spider loose three years ago was because I was so annoyed with his childishness. I had no clue that he was just exhibiting symptoms of somebody with an undiagnosed learning disability.

Doctor: He's a classic case of ADHD. It didn't take long for me to make that assessment. Were you the one who suggested that he get tested?
Me: I did. By no means am I an expert, Doc. It just seemed to me that more was going on with him. Unlike some of the guys I work with, I get the sense that he's sharp. He can think critically. I just felt like there was a barrier.
Doctor: Actually, your assessment was spot on. I administered an aptitude test and his results were strong. Given the results of that test and his academic performance through high school and college, I think it's fair to say that he was fairly hampered by the ADHD.
Me: Did he mention something about his difficulties with math? That's actually what triggered my conversation with him. He got a D in our lowest level math course this past summer, after failing it the previous semester. He says math is a serious area of weakness.
Doctor: I didn't test for that. A lot of times people with ADHD struggle in math and it has nothing to do with some other disability. The problem is math requires time. He probably couldn't focus when he attempted to do homework. As a result, he probably didn't do the homework which is needed for reinforcement. If you don't do your math homework for a few years it becomes foreign.
Me: I never thought of that. That makes a lot of sense.
Doctor: That's the tricky thing with ADHD. It's the attention time that's low. The kid is easily distracted. The kid then acts out in class and from there it leads to a host of other issues. Are his parents involved much?
Me: To some degree. His father paid for his classes out of pocket this summer. The two classes cost over $1000, but he's been getting Fs here for awhile so I don't know how far the support goes.
Doctor: I see. It just amazes me that this kid went this long with a very obvious case of ADHD and nobody ever caught it. How'd he graduate with those grades???

Special Education

Spider is an "F" student. Out of the 8 classes he has taken here in two years, 5 of his grades have been Fs. Underachieving is nothing new to Spider, unfortunately. Coming out of high school, most of his grades were "Ds." When I met Spider as a high school senior three years ago, he said the courses weren't all that hard. He claimed that his grades were a product of general apathy. The little bit that Spider did in school, he noted, was done for the sole purpose of maintaining his eligibility for basketball season.

I recruited Spider heavily. He's the only student I ever presented a jersey with during a recruitment visit. Athletically, he's the type of player that scouts drool over. Although Spider was rail thin, he was a 6'2 forward with incredibly long arms. He ran the floor very well and jumped out of the gym. I figured with the right amount of work I could turn him into my first Division I product.

It wasn't too long after he committed to enrolling here that I realized Spider was in the Bubble. His immaturity was tough to ignore. He was also highly delusional (which is the single most defining trait of Bubblees). By the time September rolled around that year, I'd had enough of dealing with him. I basically told him to take a hike before the season started. Without basketball, Spider fizzled. He almost failed out of school.

At the end of last season, I decided to try again with Spider--figuring that a couple of years to grow up could have been what he needed. In order to get off of Academic Probation, however, Spider needed to earn two "As" in his summer courses. He posted a "B" in Intermediate Writing and a "D" in Basic Math. Even though Spider posted his best marks here during the summer session, those grades were only good enough to allow him to continue on Academic Probation. As a result of being on Academic Probation, there was only one way he could be deemed eligible for the Fall.

Me: I have a question for you.
Spider: What's that?
Me: Please don't be offended. Do you have a learning disability?
Spider: Damn, Coach. Really? I seem like I'm a short bus type?
Me: I'm asking because the only way you could play this Fall is if you have a documented learning disability. That's the only way you could play as a part-time student.
Spider: Oh. Oh. I never was told that I had one, but I felt like I did.
Me: Really??? Were you ever tested?
Spider: No. Never.
Me: Well, if you get tested and your doctor determines that you have a learning disability that's the only way I can have you play this Fall.
Spider: Man, That ain't a problem. I'll get tested asap!
Me: It's not that simple to be diagnosed. And I don't want you going into some appointment acting like something's wrong just to play ball.
Spider: I'm on it, Coach. I'll get tested. Don't worry about it.

A month and a half later, at the age of 20, Spider was tested and diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder.

Sticky Fingers

Stealing is common among my players. Every year, it seems like I have a player (or players) with sticky fingers; basically, anything they touch happens to disappear. Five years into this, I still don't know how to deal with those situations because a false accusation can lead to many problems. Four years ago, a pair of brand new sneakers were taken from the team room. A year later, money was taken from a player during practice. The following year, an IPOD disappeared. Each time I had an inkling of who the culprit was, but couldn't act on my instincts. I learned a lesson a few years ago about implicating without strong evidence.

There was a guy on the team who was uncharacteristically fidgety before games. During pregame meetings, he'd rock back and forth as though somebody overcharged his batteries. All of the coaches noticed it. After we talked about it as a staff, I decided to ask the young man if he was doping up before games. That was a bad move. It would be an understatement to say that he was offended. He strongly denied my accusation and I had a hard time putting out that fire. Since then, with any sensitive issue, I haven't done any outward finger pointing.

Last year, a couple of guys "lost" IPODs. I never got a handle on who it could have been. The first guy to lose his IPOD told me privately that he suspected Lanky of being the thief. I quickly put that accusation to rest. Lanky didn't seem like the type to steal from anybody. My spidey senses never went off around him. The issues I typically encountered with Lanky were customary. I never felt like I'd pick up the paper and read about something crazy involving him.

Today, I received a phone call from Lanky's new basketball coach. Lanky just moved to college three weeks ago. I consider him to be one of our true success stories, having raised his GPA to a 2.47 from a 1.8 in a year. Unfortunately, his coach wasn't calling with good news.

Me: Coach, how's it going?
Coach: Not good.
Me: Oh. What's going on? What he do?
Coach: Well, last night after study hall he came to me and said that the cops went to his room.
Me: For what?
Coach: They questioned him about a laptop that was in his possession.
Me: He stole it?
Coach: Well, he says he didn't. I'm calling to get your take on this.
Me: In all honesty, I value my professional relationship with you. I'd never send you a thief. We never had any issues around stealing with him. He's not the type, in my opinion.
Coach: Okay. Yeh. It just seems weird to me. He told me that some dude gave him the laptop.
Me: Hold up. Somebody just gave him a laptop out of the goodness of their heart? That doesn't make sense.
Coach: That's what he told me. I told him if he tells the truth, he won't be dismissed from school. Once the cops get involved, I can't do anything to help him.

Given this situation, I'm now wondering if Lanky was actually the IPOD thief...

Bad Boys

I didn't want to coach bitches anymore. After my second year on the job, I made a conscious decision to recruit a bunch of bad asses on to the team. I couldn't take another year of watching my players fondle the opposing team's superstar after being torched by said player.  After one game, I angrily observed a couple of my guys stroke the ego of a guy who had just scored 36 points on us! It was sickening. The entire offseason I combed through the area for assholes, and got exactly what I was looking for.

The first and biggest asshole of the bunch I found was Loco. Athletically, he was a serious specimen but it was his crazy story that sold me. In high school, Loco once followed the visiting team's bus in his own car for an hour to exact revenge on a player who had fouled him unnecessarily hard during a game. He even told me about a "special bat" he carried around in his bag to protect himself. I signed Loco up. There was no way, I felt, that Loco would ever fraternize with an opposing player!

A month into the following season, I was ready to lose my mind. I had definitely bitten off more than I could chew with the new crew. It seemed like everyday I was putting out a fire. The first blaze came about when detectives came to the gym looking for my starting shooting guard. He was being accused of armed robbery in broad daylight. After that, a series of head scratching events took place that lead me to my current recruitment philosophy. The straw that did it for me was when my starting center, who had confessed to me that he was a part-time home invader, hauled off and smacked an opposing player during a game.

It took two months for me to realize that I had made a colossal mistake putting those recruits together. All of them wanted to be in college, but they needed to be stripped completely of familiar company. Those guys didn't all come from the same high schools or neighborhoods. They were just very similar in character. All of them were hard core Bubblees. That year, I realized that I have to simmer in many Boy Scouts if I want a few Bubblees to succeed--hence, my current recruitment philosophy.

Of the seven Bubblees who came in that year, two of them made it into their second year. Both of them had to take summer classes in order to regain their eligibility. Unfortunately, only one of them made it to a 4 year college. He went from a GPA of 1.8 in his first year to a 2.46 overall the following year. Coming out of high school, he had a 1.57. When I did my own analysis of my Bad Boys on the back end I found that the sole survivor had one glaring advantage on his peers...

He had a relationship with his father.

Touchy Threesome

Hops doesn't have a positive male role model in his life. His father is around, but both times I met Hops it was his mother who accompanied him to campus. Hops is one of several children birthed by his father. From the little bit that Hops has shared about this man, it seems that he played football once upon a time and has a voracious sex drive.

When I started coaching here five years ago, a young man (Duncan) from Ohio sent me an email about playing here. I found it odd that he would want to move here from Ohio even though we didn't have dorms. After a campus visit with his mother, Duncan decided to come here. He moved into an apartment twenty minutes away from campus with a teammate, and played two years from me. Since then, I've found housing for twelve guys from out of the area. Duncan's decision to enroll here five years ago essentially gave way to Hops who'll be playing for me this Fall. Ironically, both of them don't consider their fathers to be positive male role models...

When Hops moved here for school, he was accompanied by a trio--his mother, his sister, and a friend of his sister. As Hops was moving into his apartment, his sister asked if it would be too late to enroll and play for the Women's team. I told her that she could probably still get in for the Fall if she moved quickly to complete an admissions and financial aid application.

Hours after I processed Hops' sister's application, I asked him some questions about her just to make sure she was serious about everything.

Me: Why is she applying now? Didn't you say anything to her earlier this summer about coming out here?
Hops: She wasn't interested before. This is more like a spur of the moment thing. She really wants to come, though.
Me: You and her really look alike. How many years apart are you guys?
Hops: Two years.
Me: So then you're the middle child? Your mom mentioned a 14 year old.
Hops: Oh. Nah. There's a bunch of us, but not all of my siblings are from my mom.
Me: Oh okay. Your father had other kids then..
Hops: Yeh. Like, it's a long story. My sister is actually my cousin and my sister.
Me: (pause) What? I don't understand. How's she your sister and your cousin? She's either one or the other.
Hops: Nah. My father got with my mom's sister.
Me: Oh... Okay.
Hops: Actually, he got with her other sister too.. So, he has kids with the three sisters.

Cock Blockers

I'm somewhat of a control freak. This personality trait is reflected in various aspects of my life, including basketball coaching. During the first week of school, for example, I require all of my players to show me four notebooks, four folders, and an assignment notebook just to make sure they have the essentials for class. In addition to implementing a formal dress code for road games, I also forbid any player from writing papers about topics related to basketball (or other sports) with the goal of getting them to broaden their horizons.

Blue Heffner played for me when I was a first year coach here. Five years later, he still stands out as my most eccentric player ever. Blue had a very colorful personality. He was so out there that I didn't even have to give him an alias for this entry; he gave the name Blue Heffner to himself. The irony of it all is that Blue Heffner was very dark skinned and had dark brown eyes. At some point, he decided to start wearing ice blue contacts because he thought it would look cool. Once he started wearing the contacts, his character came alive.

Blue was tall, skinny, and very athletic, but never played high school basketball. He admitted as much when we met for the first time. After watching him for a couple of days during tryouts, I decided to take a chance on Blue. It was clear that Blue wouldn't play much during his freshman season, but I felt that he could be a monster player in his sophomore year if he allowed me to coach him. Surprisingly, he was cool with not playing at all and learning the game. He was a great teammate. Unfortunately, however, he was a headache and a half in the classroom.

Blue scored a 1200 on his SATs (math and verbal) without taking a prep class. One would never know that because he goofed off so much in class and his grades sucked. He just never knew when to turn off the "Showtime" light. None of his professors liked him. I received emails regularly about his antics in class. After a few episodes I decided to cut him for a month. I explained to Blue that if he really wanted to be on the team, he would have to take a very different approach to class.

The suspension served its purpose. Blue's grades improved enough for me to let him back on the team. He was still having a hard time with his English class, however. Knowing this, I asked him to let me see his papers before submitting them just to make sure he was utilizing our tutoring services. There was one paper in particular he wouldn't let me read.

Me: Why can't I read your essay? You know I'm not going to judge you. The goal of this is to help you become a better writer.
Blue: I just don't know how you're gonna take the topic.
Me: You didn't write about sports, did you?
Blue: No. Not at all. I wrote about the next best thing I knew about.
Me: What's that?
Blue: Girls! haha
(Hands me the paper..)
Me: Is this a joke?? Are you fuckin serious?!?
Blue: See. That's why I didn't wanna show it to you.
Me: First off, you already turned this in. Secondly, how the fuck do you write an essay about "Cock Blocking" and give this to a professor! Are you kidding me?!

His thesis statement read something like this: A cock blocker is a friend who impedes your ultimate goal of getting it on with a female pursuit. Blue got a "C" on the paper...

Safe Sex

Trojans is a self professed pimp. He gets it in all over the country. Just recently, actually, Trojans spent a weekend in Miami and had a ball down there. He was on the beach everyday til 5 a.m. gettin' his play on. Most of his damage is done at home, however. Locally, Trojans prowls through the bars and clubs to find his prey. According to him, it's very rare that he doesn't get some action.

Trojan was a beast on the basketball court when he played for me once upon a time. Aggressive is the best adjective I could use to describe his game. In every aspect of the game, he was relentless. I love coaching those types of players. He didn't need me to hype him up before a game. It was all or nothing every time Trojan set foot on the court...

One night we got together for drinks to catch up. It had been awhile since we got to shoot the breeze. As we spoke, I couldn't help but drift back to when I met Trojans as an 18 year old. The first time we met, he was kickin' it in the middle of campus to some co-ed as students zipped by him on the way to and from class. Just as I was approaching, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. When I asked if she was his girlfriend, he told me she was just a groupie. Five years later, Trojans was on the same tip. All he talked about other than basketball were women and money.

Trojans and I always had a very open line of communication. He told me everything--and I mean EVERYTHING. Sometimes his thoughts crossed the line. I did my best not to shut Trojan down because his willingness to share gave me opportunities to advise him. One night, Trojans texted me because he wanted to talk. I knew my outing with him would be interesting. As adults, I felt far more comfortable listening to his wild stories.

Trojans: You remember that married chick I told you I was messing with way back?
Me: Yeh. What happened with that?
Trojans: Man, she got pregnant.
Me: So you're gonna be a dad now?!?!
Trojans: Hell nah! I brought her to the clinic. She got rid of that real quick!
Me: How do you feel about it? How did she feel?
Trojans: We both good. I know she didn't wanna have to break that news to her husband. I lucked out. Haha!
Me: You weren't wearing a condom?
Trojans: Haha. Nah. Haha. I nutted in her!
Me: Dog, are you serious? You weren't wearing a condom?
Trojans: Why would I?
Me: Are you serious? Because you don't wanna be getting women pregnant and you don't want an STD!
Trojans: It's whatever, man. Haha. I just ask em if they clean, then I nut in em--especially if they look good! 

Gimme the Loot

Bosh can't enroll in school this Fall. I had high expectations of Bosh after watching him compete against some local guys during open gym. He was tall (6'3). His arms were long. And even though his frame was thin, he was willing to bang inside with anybody. That was a big deal because finding a young player who's willing to get dirty in the paint is like winning $500 on a $1 scratch ticket. After watching him play for an hour and change, I felt comfortable enough to invite him back for the Fall.

Bosh is a 22 year old who lives almost three hours away from here in a rural town. He's unemployed and lives with a family friend. A couple of years after he graduated from high school, his mother decided to leave the area and move in with her boyfriend who lives down south. For reasons that were not explained to me, she left him here. Aside from the fact that Bosh didn't have a job, I was a little concerned about this rift with his mom.

My intuition was raging after our first teleconference. Since he was referred to me by a coach at a 4-year college who had tried unsuccessfully to recruit him a few years before, I decided to let my guard down. After we met in person and spoke a few more times, I felt better about having Bosh move here for school. My sense was that he just needed some guidance and reassurance along the way to keep him on board.
When Bosh left campus, I gave him three weeks to get his financial aid application done. The deadline passed and he hadn't completed it. I gave him another week to get it done. I got nada. At that point, I decided to stop chasing him. During his initial visit to campus, I had made it clear to Bosh that my patience for nonsense was short. He promised that I'd have no problems with him. Unfortunately, he was unaware of his own limitations.

A month before school started he sent me a message on facebook. I asked him to call me.

Bosh: I hadn't heard from you in awhile so I'm just seeing what's up.
Me: Is your financial aid done?
Bosh: No.
Me: So then there's nothing to talk about.
Bosh: I been goin' through a lot. Me and my moms ain't talkin. She won't do my financial aid app. I don't know what to do.
Me: Why didn't you tell me that a month ago? I could've called her.
Bosh: I don't know. I just don't say nothin when stuff is goin' on. Figure just deal wit it but I really wanna go to school.
Me: You can't do much without financial aid. And plus, you need at least $900 to pay first and last. Did you work this summer?
Bosh: Yeh. I did construction. I was makin' like $130 a week.
Me: Did you save money?
Bosh: Yeh. A little.
Me: How much?
Bosh:  Like $300
Me: Where are you gonna get the other $600?
Bosh: My girl's father would hook me up.
Me: That's cool. Y'all been together a long time?
Bosh: Like a month.
Me: And her dad's gonna hook you up with $600 to move here?
Bosh: Yeh. Definitely. He likes me a lot.

I haven't heard from Bosh since...