aqumada

By Choma

            I must make a confesion . . .  I hate dating.  I have had sex with double digit women, hooked up with close to triple digits, and pursued hundreds (Given I am in my early 30s, that only one comes out to 20 chased per year on average—On a good weekend I did that in one club in DC).   But you know what?  It’s time to bronze baby choma.

            Gentlemen, is it just me or as you get older is dating a hobby to pass the time till something better comes along—kinda like interpersonal solitaire.  I wish it weren’t so.  When we were younger I could get “motivated” by any challenge—hottie with attitude, prude, ugly but tight body, a bitch.  Seriously, I even sought out lesbians because I wanted credit for bringing them back (3/4—lost one but hey I have a net positive balance!). 

            Well, I met someone a few months ago.  She is nice, has breasts that could feed an entire maternity ward’s newborns . . . with leftovers.  She is fairly intelligent based on her academic credentialing.  And she is sincere.  That is why I cannot stand her.  She’s an African-American princess.  She is entitled, self-absorbed, and boring.  I’ve known her for 3 months and I have yet to speak of anything substantive with her.  Our conversation is devoid of substance.  What can I do?  Women contemplating a post criticizing me for not trying, I have 3 things to say to you.  The first one is kiss my assets if you are projecting your own inability to communicate with the loves of your life.  Second, why can’t she initiate or sustain conversations that start with substance instead of sucking them dry like it’s got the antidote in it or robitussin (Chris Rock reference).  Third, she is boring and if there was a true spark, the fire would sustain itself instead of being reliant on the pilot light that is my spirit.

            So then to my delight I met someone at a party.  She was smart without rubbing it in your face.  Nice but edgy and not soft.  And she was comfortable talking with anyone—nonexclusionary conversation.  Man, I was strung.  I spent the rest of the night either talking with her or scheming to get her number.  I hadn’t been like that in years.  When we kicked it a few weeks later, I was even more interested.  She showed me around her hood, introduced me to some new culture, and I lost track of time.  I coulda talked to her all night.  I don’t normally jump the boat, but there were a couple of moments when I thought I found someone special. . . .

Because of my health background, she asked me a question about a medical procedure.  She then disclosed to me that she had a sexually transmitted disease.  One that may take her life or at the very least make it uncomfortable.  And all those feeling I had went numb.  I talk a big game about understanding, and I only found out because it was in a medical context.  What if she had HIV or genital herpes or Hepatitis B?  Instantly, I felt like a hypocrite, but for the first time, I didn’t feel conflicted. I felt sure but sad.  All the wack girls that Wogesha, Yekolotemari, and I have encountered.  All the wasted moments trying to make someone seem more interesting or more attractive.  Yet here was this great person, and I couldn’t even make the effort to see beyond her condition.  I could say part of the reason is that I am a freak—and I would feel awkward being inhibited.  Or I could claim hygienic issues.  But realistically, I am a prude.  I am not a risk taker.  But how can I ever find relationship happiness if I don’t take chances?