HELLO..good sweet lady,i am (name excluded),love your updates & profile,.well my hobbies are ,travelling,reading,swimming,dancing.i travelled a lot due to my occupation.love to be more than a ffriend to you............am just single& looking for my true love,& it might just shock you ,that have found love in you...............thaks for reading my mail,i care to know you more ,i adore you...........FROM XXX
Search for Mr. Good-Bougie
I was at the Wholesale Club getting my shop on Saturday. Some days you leave the house knowing you look good. This was not one of those days. My cute game was not on point. My ponytail was of the raggedy variety, my makeup non-existent bar the shiny Carmex on my lips. My jeans had seen better days but at least my tunic tee shirt was cute and a flattering color. Oh the hell with it, I was not looking good and I gave less than a damn. Whatever, I was about business. A thirty-six pack of shrink-wrapped bottled water for $4.88 was serious business. And the fresh salmon was on sale for $3.99/lb – that's crucial.
So I was feeling up the fresh avocados when I felt a disturbance in the force. Literally, a sort of electric hush fell over the veggie section. I looked up and noticed all the women in the immediate area standing with their mouths open. Down the aisle came a fella I immediately nicknamed Chocolate Thunder. Thunder was motion-fiction fine ya'll. Not that I memorized details or anything but old boy was about 6'3", skin the color of sweet tea, he was rocking a black t-shirt and black jeans that clung to a really, really well-maintained physique. He was handsome, fine and had that "sexy thang" going on. [There's always a good reason to play some Chante Moore]
He paused to study the strawberries, seemingly unaware that every female in a four aisle radius imagined themselves feeding him those strawberries one at a time. Yes BougieLand, he was that level of beautiful. Suddenly he looked up and looked around, noticing for the first time that all eyes were on him. He smiled slowly and for some odd reason looked in my direction. "What's up?" He gave the universal black man head bob. I head bobbed back saying, "Uh you know, it's all good." [I know ya'll, #playerFAIL on my part. I told you I wasn't on my "A" game]. Anyway, after adding strawberries and blueberries to his cart he rolled off. The older woman next to me leaned over and said, "Woo, sexy!" I nodded and went about my way.
After I checked out, I loaded my trunk and hopped in my car. Looking over to the right, I saw Mr. Chocolate sitting in his car. I sat just enjoying the view right up until he started digging in his nose. [Eww and ick] And I do not mean a discreet dig. I mean mining for gold in there. And that's not the worst part… after extracting whatever he extracted, he wiped it down first on his shirt and then on his steering wheel. Ugh! The sizzle was gone. I contemplated tossing him some anti-bacterial hand gel and then decided to just go. I was a little nauseous. I've decided to call that a #SizzleKill.
It reminds me of one of my friends relating how he took this super-fine woman that he had been chasing for weeks out to dinner. Apparently she was the shit. Fine, smart, money of her own, in his words: flawless dime. He was so excited to be sitting across from a woman so exquisite and articulate. Right up until the food came and she dug her fingers into the food like the five-star restaurant was a camp site. She ate seafood linguine with her fingers, ignored the presence of silverware and napkins and had the tendency to spit particles of food out of her very full mouth when she spoke. He described the date as sitting in a sauna and having someone repeatedly toss ice cold water on you. See? #SizzleKill
I also find smart-assness (as opposed to caustic wit), bitchassness and trying too damn hard to be #SizzleKills as well. Can we agree that the fascination with fine fizzles, but smart and sophisticated sizzles? Okay, now that I'm rhyming, let me wrap it up here.
I defer to my audience… what is your number one #SizzleKill? Got any #SizzleKill stories to share? Once the sizzle is killed, can you ever get it back?
So I was preparing a lovely witty post on When Good Friendships Go Bad when I received notification of 17 new emails in one of my emailboxes. 17, all at once? Hmm. I had to go check that out. I went over to my Outlook and noticed in my folder titled "Personal" there were 17 unread items. Now I'm super-duper anal about my folders, I catalog my emails because I have (at last count) eight different accounts – long story, moving on. The "Personal" folder is reserved for past, current and future (potential) SOs. So I wondered who had that much to say.
Clicking on the folder, I noticed they were all from the same person. We'll call him Aaron. Aaron is a gentleman I met at a bookstore a few years back right after the super-bad break up with Gene. We had drinks once. He is good-looking, employed, intelligent. However, I was not in a mind to have a serious relationship at the time and he made it clear he was only interested in a relationship that was going somewhere well beyond frivolous. Since then he has touched base a few times but our timing was always just a little bit off. I don't know - for whatever reason I didn't make him a priority and he didn't really pursue it.
Fast forward to tonight and imagine my surprise when I see emails all with the same title, "Michele – let's do this." Nice hook. I clicked on open. It read, "We've been dancing around each other for close to three years. Can we at least get some coffee? Call me at 214-555-5555. I believe I've got next."
And he sent the same thing 16 more times. (Maybe a server glitch?) I'm a bit nonplussed. I'm somewhat intrigued and sincerely wary. And of course, now I have to go digging through my archives to see what he has sent before. Why now, what's the urgency and why not just call? So far, I haven't responded. I'm going to marinate on that for the evening. On the one hand, I usually grant everyone interesting the time it takes to sip a white caramel mocha. On the other hand, if I did not find him attention worthy in the past – what's changed?
Anyway, since the other post was taking forever to write (and my pillow is calling me), I decided this is a good day to hit ya'll with a short, open discussion. So I'm turning this one over to you. Thoughts? What do you think of the email? What would you do next? And though he's not really begging, has anybody found that begging works for a man? Or a woman? Conversely does the hang around theory work for either sex? [In case you're unaware, the hang around theory involves staying involved in a person's life until one day they look around and say – okay, you're it] Step on up and share.
Again, this post is long. I would split it again but ya'll raised such a ruckus over having to wait for part two that I just rolled on. Here we go...
When last we visited the BougieTale of PsychoMike, Mike's "performance issues" coupled with the reappearance of Gene have raised concerns that my fairy tale path to Becoming Mrs. Bougenificent was in danger. Let's continue…
Gene (ever the slickster) invited me and Mike over the Pro Bowl in Hawaii. Mike was not stupid; he knew something was in the air even if he wasn't sure what. The month prior to our Hawaii trip was tense and went ballistic one Sunday afternoon as I stood in the hallway of the house I shared with my two roommates. We had three separate phone lines and roomie 2's answering machine had just picked up. To my surprise it was Mike. My Mike asking her why she hadn't returned his calls and if she wanted him to cancel his trip to Hawaii with me. I confronted roomie 1 and 2 (as my inner Shaquonda came out), "How long has THIS been going on?!" Roomie 2 broke down crying and said she never encouraged him, he just started calling and wouldn't leave her alone. I believed her because I've known her since age 12 and let's face it; Mike had a history of changing lanes with roommates.
I headed over to Mike's place livid. When he let me in, he knew from my expression that I knew what he had been up to. In true player fashion, he flipped the script and made it about me. Ever since I ran into Gene I was different, he told me. He felt that I was pulling away and not as committed to the relationship so he retaliated in a way he knew would get my attention. You know, just typing this I'm so angry with my younger self for falling for that bullshiggity. But fall I did… even apologized to him for getting distracted and not giving him enough time and "personal attention". We decided that this trip to Hawaii would be our re-commitment to each other and the relationship.
We drove over to my parents' house the morning of our departure and I couldn't shake the feeling that I should just call the whole thing off. We left his car out front and climbed into my dad's Caddy for the short ride to the airport. BougieDad peppered Mike with questions, "You do how to treat a lady, don't you? You do know this is my youngest daughter, right? You do understand what will happen to you if she does not come back exactly as she is today, right?" Again, in hindsight – big ups to BougieDad. What father wants to drive their daughter and boyfriend to the airport for them to do God knows what thousands of miles away? At the airport, Mike was tart. Whether it was all of the warnings ringing in his ears or what, I didn't know.
As we slid into our first class seats, we both motioned for the attendant to leave the champagne bottle with us. FYI: It's an 8-hour flight to Hawaii from DFW, ya'll. Do you know how much champagne you can consume in eight hours? Getting to Hawaii completely blitzed was probably for the best. The man with a seven-figure income had booked us into one of the cheapest, most rinky-dink hotels in Waikiki. I didn't even know it was possible to have a hotel across from the beach and not see hint of ocean. He also booked us into a room with twin beds. Ooo-kay. That set the tone for the trip. I completely understood when he walked me to McDonald's for dinner and said, "Did you bring some money with you?" that this trip was not our re-commitment but my punishment for Gene.
I was pissed. And not without a devious mind of my own. [If this was a movie, you could cue the dramatic music] The next morning, Mike arose and asked me if I would like to go with him to the zoo. No offense to those of you who are, but I'm not a zoo person. And I definitely did not fly to Paradise to go to the zoo. I declined. He departed and I went to the beach with suntan oil and books. That afternoon he came back with stories of the great restaurant he had eaten at and asked did I want to go hike Diamondhead. Since I was dressed in cute sundress with sexy sandals, I snapped the obvious, "Do I look like I want to hike?" He shrugged and left.
Enough was enough. I paged Gene. (yes, this was pre-texting days, folks) He scooped me up and took me on a driving tour of the island in a convertible with the top down and music playing. He took me to Pearl Harbor (every American should go at least once) and then out to eat. When he dropped me off at the hotel, it was early evening. Mike was in the room pacing. "Where have you been?" "Sight-seeing," I responded with a smile, "I took a guided tour." "Well, get dressed, we're going out to dinner." I showered, changed and got dressed up thinking we were back on track. He walked me down the street to the Denny's. Come on, ya'll. I'm not a snob but Denny's? In Hawaii? "For real tho?" I asked him. He just looked at me.
I was done. I turned around and walked by myself back to the hotel. I ate in the hotel dining room and went to bed early. The next morning when I woke up he was in swim gear. "Going scuba diving, are you certified?" I just looked at him. He shrugged and left... again. I didn't even have to page Gene this time; he was down in the lobby when I went in search of breakfast. We headed over to the North Shore for more sightseeing and a little shopping. This time, I didn't even bother to check back in. I got back to the room after dark. I showered and changed. He came in shortly after and headed straight to the shower. While he was in there I wrote a note saying I was going out and wouldn't be back until late. Yup, I bailed.
Here's where the story goes surreal. After drinks and dinner, I headed out with Gene and his posse to a nightspot in Waikiki. Boyz II Men were headlining a party for the players. I distinctly remember being directly in front of the stage getting my jam on when Shawn stopped singing mid-verse. His eyes were huge as he looked behind me. The place went silent and the sounds of a ruckus started up. "I know she's in there shaking her two-timing ass – let me in!" Mike was at the door and they were not letting him in. He wasn't on the guest list and no one knew who he was. I inched backwards out of his line of sight looking all parts of guilty. Boyz II Men were looking right at me cracking the hell up. Not one of my brighter moments. Mike was sent packing, Shawn went back to singing and I danced for another hour and a half. [Is this the part of the story where I should apologize for my behavior?]
Slinking back into my hotel room, I showered and crawled into my little twin size bed. Thirty minutes later I awoke with the feeling that someone was standing over me. Probably because someone was. It was Mike. He had a strange expression on his face as he stood staring down at me. You've heard the expression "dead eyes" – yep, it was that kind of vibe. After what seemed like a very long time, he leaned down and whispered, "I could just choke you in your sleep, you know that don't you?" He smiled, turned and walked back to his bed. WTF?! The minute his head hit the pillow he was back to sleep. I was not. I lay there for another ten minutes and then quietly started tossing necessities into an overnight bag. I didn't even dress. I grabbed some stuff and broke out. No way would I sleep in the same room with PsychoMike. I dressed in the elevator and paged Gene when I got to the lobby. He arranged a room for me at the Pro Bowl hotel and had a limo outside in 10 minutes to take me away (no idea how he did that).
The next morning, he arranged for one of the Pro Bowl Linebackers to escort me back to the hotel to get the rest of my stuff including my airplane ticket home (back in the days of the paper ticket, ya'll). PsychoMike was in the lobby with a picnic basket and a blanket. "So can we have breakfast on the beach and talk for a minute?" He asked. When someone threatens to choke you to death in the middle of the night, what is there to talk about? But in order to facilitate the removal of my plane ticket from his possession, I played along… and brought the linebacker with me.
Long story short, PsychoMike said he didn't remember threatening to kill me in my sleep and I must have dreamed it. He was hoping we could spend the rest of our vacation time re-connecting. Ri-ght. I offered to swap him his Pro Bowl game ticket (which I had) for my plane ticket home (which he had). We agreed. Linebacker helped me pack up my stuff and I didn't see PsychoMike again until we were forced to sit next to each other on the plane ride home. [awkward] BougieDad picked us up from the airport, took one look at our faces and said nary a word. He dropped PsychoMike off at his car and then drove me home. As we pulled up he said, "So that's the last of him, huh?" "Pretty much." I said and went inside.
I wish I could tell you that that was the end of PsychoMike but he and I danced around each other for a while longer in a dysfunctional and strange 'what's in this for me' dance. We were engaged for about 72 hours (I still have the ring… before ya'll jump in - he told me to keep it, and since it's a flawless 3 carats and I truly believe I earned it, it is sitting in my jewelry box to this very day). Then he moved to D.C. and I moved to San Francisco. He came out to San Francisco uninvited and brought his priest so that we could attempt reconciliation. [People you CANNOT make this stuff up]
Somewhere in here, me and former roomie #1 had a massive disagreement and mixed in with all the drama was the story that I had stolen PsychoMike from her the minute her back was turned. I disagreed and said that I had probably done her a huge favor. The last time I saw PsychoMike was 4 years ago at the Tyson's II Galleria in the DC area. I was coming down the escalator from Macy*s and saw him coming into the mall by P.F. Changs. I ducked and dived like a CIA operative and then hid in Ralph Lauren until he went by. I was so paranoid that I ordered my food to go and hotfooted back to my room at the Ritz and did not emerge until morning. To exorcise a demon or two, I did Google him tonight. As I expected, he's super-wealthy and successful. I saw no mention of wife or kids. But I was surprised that he hasn't aged as well as I expected. (Is that catty of me to say?)
Okay, everybody exhale. Now we have the whole tale… Thoughts? Comments? Sympathy? Censure? Lessons learned?
Warning, this post is long. I had to split it into two parts so you can digest it in all its glory. Let's call this a cautionary tale to the young with the moral: all that glitters isn't gold (or platinum). Without further ado, the beginning of the BougieTale of PsychoMike…
Once upon a time, over ten years ago OneChele was a bright-eyed marriage-minded young lass. I wanted to be married by the age of 27, so help me God. [giggling at this now] In my fervent quest for marriage prior to my self-imposed deadline, I hit an obstacle not-so-fondly nicknamed "PsychoMike". Before he was known as PsychoMike, Michael was the man I was going to marry. No questions asked. He was The One right up until he really, really wasn't.
Mike rolled up on me at a bullshiggity "networking" party I attended with two girlfriends. And by rolled up, I mean he was walking across the room, saw me in his peripheral vision, stopped dead in his tracks, turned towards me, eyed me up and down, smiled with all his teeth and made a beeline to my side. His opening line was a little corny but effective, "I don't want to bother you but I had to come over and introduce myself to the most beautiful woman in the room. My name is Michael. Can I give you my phone number in hopes that you'll use it?" He flashed a 1000-watt smile and looked into my eyes. It was such a vast improvement over all the, "Psst, psst, hey girl" game I had been hearing all night that I smiled right back. Michael was good-looking in an über-Bougie kinda way. He actually favored the picture above quite a bit down to the tortoise-shell glasses. Had the buppie 'I'm all that and ya better recognize' vibe working for him. Conservative dresser but it was all quality, well-cut, well-tailored clothing that fit his frame... and it was a nice frame. We were in instant visual like. My roommate came over and I introduced her, we stood making small talk before he escorted us to our car.
I took Mike's number and gave him mine. He called the next day. (points) He was intelligent, funny, and quick-witted. (more points) He was a high-powered attorney for a Fortune 500 company. (many more points) He was a Midwestern boy, spoke to his mama once a week, had spent some time as a pilot in the Air Force and generally had his program tight (and knew it). (mega-points) We set up a tentative time for him to come by for a visit. Now here's where the train goes off the tracks a little bit. He had also chatted on the phone with my roommate and wanted to take us both to dinner. Now at this juncture, I was confused (and a little tart) but bear in mind that I was SUPER YOUNG at this point and far more naïve. I was only slightly bruised relationship-wise, not jaded at all and took people at face value. I did not call bullshiggity at the drop of a hat. J So I assumed that I had misread some signals and this was going to be a friendship thing all the way around. So after my roommate asked me what was up, I said, "I think Mike and I are becoming friends." A few days later, Mike came by the house. I had worked late, was tired and was picking up a very "date-y" vibe from my roommate so I fell back. Told them to go to dinner and enjoy. The next day she told me she didn't think there were sparks. She left town for a weekend trip.
Mike called me that same day to ask me out. He said he and my roommate were in the friend zone and didn't I recognize that it was all about me? Well damn… that's what I thought but as a good friend, I double-checked with the roomie to make sure she was truly not feeling him and she gave me the green light. Okay. Everybody remember this point in the story. The first point where I should have recognized that all was not right in the state of Mikedom and that even when your good friend says, "Sure go ahead and date him," she really doesn't mean it. Alright. We've laid the foundation, let me hit some high points.
On our first date, Mike took me the Lexus dealership to help him pick out a new car. He let me pick it out, model, color, upgrades. He drove it and then told the salesman he wanted me to drive it too. And I did, with a huge smile on my face. When we got back to the showroom, he turned to me and said, "Do you like it?" I said I did. He turned to the salesman and said, "I'll take it, the lady likes it." When the salesman called over the finance guy, Mike said, "I'm paying cash." In hindsight, I recognize this for the calculated show that it was. In retrospect, I know that Mike who was seven years older and quite a bit wiser (then) had figured out who I was and how to play me in no time flat. But at that moment, watching him hand over a check for $45,000, I was dazzled and awash with the possibilities of what could be.
Three important things to know at this point: 1) Mike and I saw each other every other day, talked on the phone two or three times a day. 2) In three months time, Mike never did more than hold my hand. 3) The roomie was tart.
Right around the middle of our third month, I was planning the wedding in my head. Mike and I fit. Sure there was no sex (not even a kiss goodnight) but when I mentioned it, he said he wanted to be respectful and know me on every other level first. [hindsight side-eye to myself] But even without the physical stuff, we had major chemistry. There was something about our personalities and values and goals that clicked. Mike met my family. BougieDad wasn't convinced (rest his soul, he NEVER thought ANY one was good enough for me), but the rest of the family liked Mike well enough. My girlfriends (with the exception of roomie who remained silent) gave him a thumbs up. He was a personable guy. He was the first man I had dated where I could sit reading a book while he read the paper for three hours without speaking and it was comfortable. In months four and five, he at least started introducing sexual topics. We hugged. He kissed me beside my mouth and then backed away quickly. This confused me. Were we just going to talk about it? [cuz that's irritating] But my worries about that arena faded when he took me to look at houses and said, "How would you feel about living here someday?" What's not to like about a 5000 square foot home on the golf course of a country club community? Month six he handed me his platinum AMEX and asked me to buy him some casual clothes that I'd like to see him in. When asked about budget, he said, "Don't worry about it. And pick up a few things for yourself while you're at it." Yes… I was already Mrs. Mike in my head. He took me to the theatre and gala balls and his work parties. We watched sports, I cooked for him and we played countless hours of cutthroat Scrabble. We were a couple.
One sunny Saturday in the middle of month six he called and told me to toss a toothbrush and change of clothes into an overnight bag, we were road tripping. At last, I thought. We can get these fireworks kicked off and then it's onto wedding central. He wouldn't tell me where we were going but I recognized the way to South Texas. A weekend in Galveston by the Gulf is always romantic (or should be). As we pulled up outside of a brick office building Mike cut the engine and turned to me. "What if I told you that when I was in the military, I had terrible allergies and sinus problems and they gave me huge amounts of steroids?" I was speechless, not understanding what this had to do with my weekend of romance. He continued, "And what if I told you that it caused a condition known as testicular atrophy and that I'm impotent?" I thought he was joking and so I laughed. [Note to readers: when a man says the word impotent… laughing is not the reaction that they are looking for] When I realized he was deadly serious, I apologized almost tearfully (wouldn't you well up a little?) and asked what we were doing at this place. It was a men's health clinic that specialized in this condition. (This was early Viagra days people). I will not entertain you (though I really, really could) with the details of how our meeting went with the doctor. Let me just say that a sheltered, bougie twenty-something female who had only dated athletes and law enforcement guys was way out of her depth. And the classroom demonstration portion of the afternoon is a nightmare forever burned into my memory.
The weekend was… stressful. When things that should be effortless suddenly take a lot of effort, and I mean effort on the part of someone who was again rather sheltered and clueless… Okay let me put it this way: When brochures, diagrams and medications have to be considered prior to getting a swerve on… the swerve is not as much fun as it ought it be. The tenor of our relationship changed but I so desperately wanted to be mature, accepting and understanding that I talked myself into believing this wasn't a big deal. If this was the ONLY area where we weren't perfect, I was okay with it. And then three things happened: 1) I ran into my ex and future S.O. Gene [don't even ask how many times we've broken up and re-united, it's pitiful] 2) my roomie and I moved into a house with a THIRD roommate (our bougiefied version of Living Single) and 3) word got to me that Mike had been out with his ex-girlfriend. This Bermuda Triangle of events had me eyeing up Mike differently. After all, it wasn't as if Mike was Gene… did I really want to put up with the hassle and the headache if he wasn't who I truly wanted to be with? My roomies were both eerily silent on the issue.
Here's a great place to pause to the story. Tomorrow, the worst trip (EVER) to Hawaii and how Mike became PsychoMike. Any comments/thoughts/observations so far?
And now for your reading pleasure, an open letter to a dude I am no longer dating as of Friday night… yes, another one.
It's me. The girl you texted "Happy Thanksgiving, boo" to on Thursday even knowing how much I hate to be called boo. Very minor. Not an eject-from-the-game infraction though fringing on side-eye worthy behavior.
Yet and still, we were all well and good until Friday evening's dreadful text. Yessir, right up to the moment I received that unfortunate communiqué, you were still in the top three on the PSO (Potential Significant Other) candidate list. I wrote this post right after our interaction so as not to misquote or misrepresent you in any way. It was 8:52 p.m. when I received your first test:
You: What are you up to?
Me: Hanging at home with family. What's up?
You: Do you want to come over and Lewinsky me?
Me, reading twice to make sure that's really what I read. Among other (many) issues with this text, it's just not everyday you see the word Lewinsky used as a verb.: Um, no. Has ANYTHING about me indicated that I'm THAT chick?
You: No, but no harm in asking, right?
Me: Plenty of harm, actually.
You: Lighten up. Take it as a joke then.
Me: **crickets** (meaning I sent no reply to that)
You: Problem??? I know you're working out, I wanted to help with your protein intake. J
Eww and ick. Too much to say for text, I hit the dial button: You've lost your mind, huh?
You: Get a sense of humor.
Me: And you're quickly losing whatever shot you had with me.
You: Take it as a compliment.
Me: Getting an offer to be your chickenhead du jour is a compliment?
You: Hey girl, I called you first!
Me (short-tempered): You #@$% called me first?!
You: Ya mad?
Me: There are women you date and women you text on Friday night to get Lewinskied. You put me in the wrong #@$* category!
You: Just for tonight, we can date tomorrow.
Me (incredulous): I. Am. Speechless.
You: Jeez, it's just a [tacky synonym for Lewinsky]. That's not even real sex, just an appetizer! I can speed dial one of those any day of the week, sweetheart. Don't even sweat it.
Me (after strategic pause): Good to know. Listen, [insert Shaniqua-style invective-laden rant with really shameful abuse of the English language here]. And you may lose my number. CLICK.
So, after reviewing the nonsense you said/typed this evening can you think of any reason why I should continue any flavor of relationship with you? Take your time, I'll wait. Hmm, what's that? No, you really can't. Me either. You sir, may kick rocks.
Peace Out, homie. ~OneChizzle [yeah, I had to go old school]
As any good blogger would, I typed up this post immediately and sent out a tweet: "Dear Lord, please forgive me for the cussing I broke off on this man this evening. I will attend church on Sunday and blog it on Monday. AMEN." There followed a lively Twitter exchange about timely blogposts, spoiler alerts and nunneries. (You had to be there) Thanks to LeonX, TiffanyinHouston and ASmith86 for talking me down.
POSTSCRIPT: At 5:14 a.m. (the HELL?!), my cell phone started ringing. I reached over and pressed ignore. Then it started buzzing. I ignored it. And then it beeped three times signaling an urgent text (yes, from now on I will be turning off my cell at night. If you don't have my home number, we're not that close). I picked up the phone and squinted at the screen, it was old boy: "Couldn't sleep at all tonight. Don't know why I said what I said. My bad. Did I blow it with you?" I flung the phone to the side and turned back over. Five hours later after his SIXTH text, I wrote back: Why don't we just say we are not what the other is looking for and leave it at that? Haven't heard back from him.
So here's what's up. OneChele is officially on dating hiatus (again). I actually do have two other gentlemen (I'm assuming they're gentlemen) auditioning for the role of PSO right now but I'z tired and weary. Need a little recharge-Chele-time cuz my bouge is sagging to the left and the right. Maxwell's clone could show up at the door singing about taking me away to Aruba and I'd have to respectfully decline right now. [Yes, I'm side-eyeing my damn self on that one].
But never fear, BougieLand… I still have years and years of drama-filled BougieTales yet to share. And on that note, come on now – any man over the age of 35 sending random-ridiculous texts like that deserves the swift kick. Am I right or am I right?