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)