The blaring music gives my hips no choice but to sway, moving in wide sweeps to and fro as a signal flag waving in the last runners of a long race. The tempo invades my private thoughts and forms an unrealized predatorial hunter, surveying prospects amongst the jungle of scavengers, leeches and beasts of burdens. Colors of camouflage conceal each species’ true form and merge them into backgrounds or beam so brilliantly that they are too pretty to chase.
I’m not picky or overly selection about mates. I don’t need one to look good, I don’t need one to smell good or one that is a good provider. All I need is for one to BE good. The rest is just support, and I can do without the dress-ups. I used to pray every day for a man that looked a certain way or projected a certain image. I used to beg for a certain height, a definitive, respectable career and a certain level of stability. However, I learned that these were no more than camouflage, obscuring the actual person and clouding character for the sake of projection.
Now I only wish to be happy.
Brothers just don’t show love the way they used to. There was a time when a man would take time to learn the woman before even mustering the nerve to ask for a date. It used to be Janet Jackson asking, “What have you done for me lately?” Now, it’s “Where my dogs at?” Men used to shriek in horror if they were affiliated with anything canine; now canine songs get go platinum. Hungry dogs licking their chops and sniffing the air.
This club is more like a kennel housing cats and dogs, animals locked in mortal conflict for an eternity plus. Gathered and corralled in one place for the sole purpose of feeding that bout of loneliness for the sole purpose of appeasement: to be fed.
My eyes tell the tale of my thoughts, pronouncing my purpose and direction. The problem is that men sometimes cannot decrypt their meaning. As a woman, I choose my man; he has no choice in the matter. I decide his longevity. With all the boasts of how long and how strong, I ask myself, “Three hours, huh? Does that include dinner?” It’s not the quantity but the quality. It’s like having a closet full of shoes that all hurt or having 5 pairs that are comfortable. And they wonder why women hardly smile at men. Let them try walking all day with shoes that make it seem as if you’re walking on your tippy toes. And they talk about our fake hair, fake nails and mini skirts, but chase and eyeball anyone within sniffing distance. I spend 3 hours in a salon only to have a man mess it up within five minutes of intimacy. Maybe I should try pulling their hair. Men just don’t have the discipline women do. They don’t grasp the concept of look but don’t touch. And, from what I’ve seen at this club, more than a few have still to learn that lesson. Like all species, we also have our mating dance. The problem is that most men have two left feet. Some men mistake “entertainment club” with “caveman club.” In fact, now I remember why I am still single. And dogs don’t have nine live. Once you’re dead, you’re dead. But a cat can come back eight more times.