Unscented Shit

Hershey wanted to quit the team. His frustration with me had reached a boiling point, so he requested a player-coach meeting. Hearing him vent caught me off guard to some extent. In so many words, Hershey told me that my approach to coaching didn't make any sense to him. He talked about feeling lost in my sea of analogies. As a coach, I prided myself on being able to help my players think broadly about life and basketball. In that moment, I realized that my best efforts to expand the minds of my players were fruitless.

During practice, I implore my guys to communicate constantly. When they fail to follow that very basic tenet of basketball, I question their fcommitment to the team ideology--especially if I blow the whistle to remind them of what's expected only to be ignored once play resumes. Along those lines, Hershey was the target of my ire during a shooting drill where I asked everybody to yell "shot" while battling for rebounds. He refused to follow the command which lead me to question his commitment to the team. I told them great teams talk to each other on the court, and that we couldn't maximize our potential because Hershey was doing his own thing.

Hershey didn't like that. It was one of the reasons he decided to meet with me. He was upset that I'd question his commitment even though he had shown up to practice that day--albeit late. During that practice, I also called him out for running away from the ball in an end of game situation. His feelings were hurt. Despite his long term desire to play Division I basketball where point guards are expected to execute late game situations with precision, Hershey felt like I was unfairly targeting him and placing way too much burden on his shoulders.

One of his other gripes was that I decided to punish him for arriving seven minutes late to practice. For the infraction, I told Hershey that he was to volunteer for a half hour in my office folding letters and doing other unGodly acts to help him develop some professional skills. At 20, Hershey could only list one job on his resume. According to him, he never needed to work because his father always paid for everything.

Hershey: I came late to practice and you have me foldin letters. I don't get that. Have me run laps or somethin. This is just .. It don't make sense! I don't feel like this is workin' out. I don't wanna quit or nothing. It just don't feel like this is workin out.
Me: How? You play 30 minutes a game and take the most shots on this team.
Hershey: Yeh but you be takin me outta games and I don't even know why.
Me: I take you out for a breather. That happens at every level.
Hershey: You don't tell me that, though.
Me: I'm supposed to do that during a game when a hundred things are going on--that you're coming out just for a four minute break?
Hershey: I need communication. Sometimes I don't know what to expect from you.
Me: Do you realize you complain every time it's time to pay the piper? The only reason we're talking right now is because you have to stuff envelopes. You're the only one on the team who complains about running when they lose during a drill. Now, you're pulling the same thing.
Hershey: That was one time.
Me: No. You do it every time. You have a problem with being held accountable. That's your issue. I'm also on you a lot because your focus isn't always where it should be in practice--especially since you're our leader on the court.
Hershey: I don't feel that way. I be there doin the same thing everybody is doin. Where's the problem? You tell me I check out in games. I know I'm a hot head but I feel like you placin all the blame on me!
Me: The problem is that you aren't self aware and you have an issue with accountability. Let me ask you a question. Why didn't you play ball after graduating from high school? You're talented. You can shoot it well and handle. What held you back?
Hershey: I got kicked off my high school team. The assistant coach had it out for me. Dumb stuff. He just ain't like me, and from there it was downhill since coaches are all connected where I'm form. Then when this other dude was gonna hook me up with a prep school opportunity, my parents fronted. They wanted me to go to college instead.
Me: You done?
Hershey: Yeh. Why?
Me: In everything you just said, you didn't fuckin mention that you had a 1.9 GPA in high school!!!

Happy Pills

Cherry stumbled into the strip club scene. Necessity and a bad relationship brought her to the industry. There was a time when she worked a "regular job" but a very unfortunate occurrence with her ex-boyfriend left Cherry in dire straits. After considering various options, she decided to actualize what was merely a childhood dream.

Cherry started thinking about stripping, or dancing exotically, when she was just 8 years old. At that age, most children are watching cartoons and exhausting themselves outdoors when the weather is tolerable. Cherry, on the other hand, was fantasizing about her stage routine and making out with other girls. I felt like there was a story behind that, but I couldn't bring myself to ask if she had been molested at a young age.

Our conversation seemed to be therapeutic, as are most of the interactions I've had with strippers. Cherry and friends are accustomed to men complaining about being married, or getting charged up about some wild fantasy. They generally don't get guys like me who probe about their background. Just as I was about to pry for daddy issues, Cherry opened those flood gates herself.

Cherry never met her father. She was born in California, and lived there for the first 11 years of her life. That's when her stepdad moved the family to Central Massachusetts for some great, undisclosed job opportunity. A few months after the eastward trek, he bailed on them. This left her unemployed mother in a bind. I didn't get to find out what Cherry's mom did to make ends meet, but from the little bit that she told me, they had (and continue to have) a solid relationship.

Me: Does your mother know that you work here?
Cherry: Yes. She was actually going to do it with me, but the owner wasn't going for the mother/daughter routine.
Me: I'm sure you could've sold a lot of people on that. How old is your mom?
Cherry: She's 51, but doesn't look her age.
Me: Did she know you dreamed about stripping when you were little?
Cherry: No. That was my own little thing.
Me: If you always thought about doing this, why do you wish you had a regular job?
Cherry: I don't know. Something about taking your clothes off for money seems low, you know? I'm not like these other girls on stage or nothin'. I have more class than that. I pick who I give dances to in VIP. On good nights, the money is great. Those nights are what get a girl hooked. I'm really in a tough spot right now, though.
Me: Why?
Cherry: I take a cab to get around everywhere now.
Me: You said now. Did you have a car before?
Cherry: Yup, and my ex sold it for pills. He was a drug addict. This is the quickest way to get some wheels that's legal.

Wounded Bird

Caramel rejected me. She was the first girl in my adulthood to outright shun me. I thought that I was losing my mojo. Even though I never fashioned myself as the heart throb who turned heads upon entering a room, I was always confident that I could get with any woman of interest who got to know me fully. That wasn't the case with Caramel, though. She didn't find me remotely attractive.

Physically, I've always rated myself at about a 7 (on a scale of 1-10). I never believed myself to be the cutest boy in any of my grade school classes. During my high school years, and even in college, I wasn't that guy who girls fought over either. Despite not having abs of steel, a nice set of teeth, or even the ideal height, I never had trouble getting with good looking women.

For a long time I've understood that girls/women dig personality and various other intangibles (like motivation, sense of humor, and confidence). Even as a "7", I knew that my total package put me on par with the cuter boys who had less to offer because girls (unlike men) don't love with their eyes. They fall for what they hear and feel.

Caramel was unlike most women I'd encountered. At the time, I was in my mid 20s and very single. We met at a laundromat in my neighborhood. She got my attention immediately upon entering the establishment. Caramel literally fit the profile for my ideal woman--caramel complexion, thick lips, full breasts, and a very nice backside. I was gassed when I got her phone number, but that's where all the excitement ended.

Caramel could care less for the fact that I actually wanted to know about her past, and what dreams she had. Deep conversations weren't her thing either. It didn't matter that I had a job, my own place (and car), and no kids. Despite all of that, I was drawing blanks with my advances. She just wasn't feelin' me.

It frustrated me to no end that I wasn't breaking any ground with her. Finally, after we had a few drinks together one night I asked her to tell me why she wasn't reciprocating my interest.

Me: I don't get it. You call me to have drinks. We talk on the phone regularly, and almost a month later, I don't feel like we're beyond where we were at the laundromat. What's up?
Caramel: Are you mad at me? I'm sorry.
Me: No. I'm not mad. I just don't get it. I don't usually have to chase like this. It's new to me.
Caramel: Honestly, you're not really my type.
Me: At least you're honest.
Caramel: We talk all the time because I like you... as a friend. You're cool.
Me: (thinking, oh no she didn't!) Thanks. I guess... What's your type?
Caramel: I've always been into guys that need to be fixed, like wounded birds.
Me: Isn't that stressful?
Caramel: Not at all. I like to know that the guy I'm with isn't my equal.

Foot Worship

Cherry indulges men in their fetishes. She has made a lot of money by virtue of having nice feet. While her co-workers have to shake their assets and strip to make money, Cherry simply has to make sure she keeps her french pedicure fresh. Cherry was happy to have the joint's most preferred feet until one customer rejected her.

Cherry wears a size six. That was a problem for this particular customer, as he preferred his women to wear a 7.5. A couple of other dancers fit the requirement, so they swooped in to make the money. The foot guy, as Cherry referred to him, was a regular customer who spent a ton of money to satisfy his foot fetish.

The foot guy never requested Cherry, but he confided in her. He admitted to having a strong addiction to strip clubs. After months of going to the joint regularly, he suddenly stopped going altogether. Cherry did some investigating to find out what happened to him.

Me: (laughing) What did you find out? He probably just got tired of the same feet.
Cherry: The last time I saw him, he was talking about being in serious financial trouble. He had maxed out his credit cards here.
Me: Ohh. That's tough!
Cherry: There's more. He was married. His wife found out what he was doing from the credit card statements.
Me: Yikes! I bet she left him.
Cherry: No. He killed himself.

Fetish

Men like Cherry's feet. On one occasion, a guy paid her $100 just to wear plain white socks for twenty four hours so he could sniff them the next day. Those requests are par for the course, and they don't phase her at all. After years of waitressing at an exotic nightclub, Cherry developed the capacity not to judge her customers.

As a waitress, Cherry doesn't get on stage to strip. According to her, it's not something she's willing to do. Instead, she roams the dance floor in sexy lingerie taking orders for drinks and bringing them to her customers. On average, Cherry makes $300 for a five hour shift. When the night is slow, however, she has the option of taking patrons into the VIP area for a dance. That's where the weird stuff goes down.

Her rates depend on the amount of time that's requested. She can either do three songs for $150 (and pay $50 to the house), or do a full half hour for $300. Usually, she isn't asked to dance in VIP. Since it's a private area, guys use that as an opportunity to explore their "innocent fetishes."

Cherry: Usually men take me back there to mess with my feet.
Me: What do you mean by mess with your feet?
Cherry: They massage my feet for a couple of songs then suck my toes for the last one.
Me: Don't you think that's weird? Aren't you phased by that?
Cherry: No. Why would I be? We all have fetishes.
Me: What's the weirdest request you've ever gotten?
Cherry: (laughs) Some guy took me back there and asked me to beat him up.
Me: For how long?
Cherry: I beat him up for a few hours. He just wanted me to kick him really hard with my heels on and keep punching him in the face. When I got tired, my friend got in on it. He paid her too. I think we were back there for five hours.
Me: Were your hands bruised?
Cherry: Hell yeh! I had my rings on too. I was wailing on the guy!
Me: (laughing hysterically) Didn't you feel bad?
Cherry: No. He liked it and I made $5000. Easy money. Any woman would do it!

...To be continued

Whipped Cream

Slim's husband ejaculated on her face while she was asleep. That insult lead to the couple's divorce. Slim was sick of being married to a rich asshole who felt like he could treat people disrespectfully without repercussion. As she talked about this guy's horrible personality, I wondered why (or how) they even got hitched. After all, an asshole isn't born overnight. During the evening, Slim offered some information that shed some light on how she rolls in a relationship...

My parents' relationship shaped my perspective on marriages. Although mom cooked on a daily basis (and did most of the cleaning), she wore the pants in our home. This was so despite her serving my dad his meals at the table regularly. By no means was dad some chump. He was assertive and tough in his own rite. It just so happened that mom came from a long line of really strong women who didn't take shit from men.

There's a story my mom shares frequently that has helped me understand the dynamics of their relationship. Late one morning she decided to go shopping with her girlfriend. Upon returning several hours later (in the early evening), dad attempted to check her angrily on being out so "late." After mom told him a thing or two about his concerns while clutching a pot of boiling water, he never questioned her in that way again...

Much like my mother, Slim had a strong personality. What I derived from Slim is that she tended towards hard bodied, alpha males. She also admitted to being very sexual. Those two things offered a little bit of insight into the spunk incident with her husband, but another one of her brazen admissions (stemming from a plug I put in for my blog) helped me put things into greater perspective.

Slim: Your blog sounds so cool.
Me: Thanks. I've been doing it for over a year. Now I'm just trying to mix it up with these stories about strippers and people who are sexually deviant. It's all part of this big theory I have.
Slim: What's that?
Me: People often express their emotional baggage sexually. Nothing new there, but a lot of that baggage stems from childhood drama.
Slim: Oh. Well, I'm just a freak. I like sex. My boyfriend and I actually hit strip clubs together regularly.
Me: You don't get jealous?
Slim: Not one bit. One time we licked whipped cream off of a stripper's nipples together.
Me: That's nuts!
Slim: What's nuttier is that I was four months pregnant at the time, baby bump and all...

Midnight Facial

I tend to have odd encounters with strangers. Given the frequency of these occurrences, I really believe something in my overall being is responsible for this. It could just be that I like to listen; whereas, most people would rather speak than give another person the time of day. However, that still doesn't fully explain why I'm a regular target for troubled people.

One night at the bar, I was watching a game on the big screen when this middle aged white woman interrupted my concentration on the tube. Initially, I thought she was trying to hit on me, but it turned out that she just wanted to vent about life. All it took for her pipes to burst was a simple acknowledgement of her greeting. In one sitting, this lady told me everything from her daughter's passion for dance to her husband doing time behind bars for knocking off convenience stores.

The latest example of this went down at a friend's birthday dinner, which was being held at a restaurant. I was the last to arrive at the joint, so my friend asked me to sit in the last remaining spot with her "BFFs" in a booth. Next to me was a thin brunette, Slim, who seemed very friendly. Through conversation, I discovered that Slim was a new mom who happened to be going through a divorce.

Me: That must suck to go through a divorce after giving birth.
Slim: No. Not at all. My husband isn't the father. We're in the process of getting a divorce. I have a boyfriend.
Me: Oh okay. How'd you guys meet?
Slim: He was actually my husband's roommate in college.
Me: Wow. Haha. Were you always attracted to him?
Slim: Yeh, but I never acted on it until after my husband and I split.
Me: If you don't mind my asking, why are you divorcing him?
Slim: He's a fuckin douche.
Me: What makes him a douche?
Slim: He was a real asshole, in general. The final straw was when he ejaculated on my face while I was asleep.
Me: What?!
Slim: Yeh. He was watching porn and just decided to cum on my face while I was sleeping.

Pimped Out

My childhood best friend became a pimp. I'm still not clear on how, or why, that came about. Gums went from being an innocent joker who prided himself on being a hustler on the basketball court to leading a life as a hustler on street corners. His new lifestyle dawned on me at a cookout when I got to meet one of his hoes.

Gums and I lived on the same street for three years. After my family left the neighborhood, Gums and his folks moved to an entirely different section of the city. In the process, we lost regular contact. When Gums and I reconnected at the aforementioned cookout, I was both happy and sad to see him. We had really grown apart. I was 19 and he was 24. Gums' silly side was still intact, but I couldn't get over the fact that my childhood best friend suddenly fit all of the negative stereotypes of young black men.

Gums had multiple gold rings on his fingers and a thick herringbone chain around his neck. His language was different too, as he seemed to make a conscious effort to throw "nigga" into every sentence. I was baffled. Things really got interesting when he introduced me to Blondie.

She was a short, vuluptuous, fair-skinned, Brazilian girl who barely spoke English. Naturally, she wasn't a blonde. I could see shades of brown under her bleached hair. Despite the excessive powder Blondie used to make herself seem even whiter, I thought she was very pretty. Whatever Gums ordered her to do got done without hesitation or questioning. She followed him around like a puppy, but quietly.

After I got settled in at the cookout, Gums asked if I wanted to take his brown-eyed beauty off to one of the empty rooms for free. I declined. The other guys, including Gums, started giving me a hard time about it. Eventually, I gave in and took Blondie for a spin.

Blondie: What do you want me to do, baby?
Me: Nothing.
Blondie: But he telling me to make you feel good.
Me: I don't want you to do that, though. Let's just talk.
Blondie: I no really speak English. Why you wanna talk? I no beautiful?
Me: Yes, you're very very pretty, but I don't get down like this.
Blondie: Down like this? What's that?
Me: Why are you doing this???
Blondie: I come from Brazil. I no speak English. No family. I have to make the money. He give me the place to live.
Me: I'll tell him we messed around. Is that okay?
Blondie: (confused) O..kay.
Me: So you have no family here?
Blondie: I did, but no more.
Me: They moved back to Brazil?
Blondie: No. My sister, she was here with me but her boyfriend kill her.