200 seconds

If you read my 100 Seconds blog then you know about my lunch time story. If you haven't, please get familiar with it because the part two was something else.

The next day, I had it in my head that I was going to be more prepared for the next go 'round.

My first plan was one of evasive action. Don't judge me. I figured if I didn't see her, I didn't have to put my best foot backwards to keep her impromptu advances at bay. And what better way than to show up to lunch an entire half an hour earlier than the day before.

At the stroke of 1 pm, I grabbed my lunch and paper and headed two floors down to the lunchroom. Emtpy. Completely. Yesssss. So I find a seat, lay my paper on the table, open up my container and get ready to enjoy my lunch. But before the aroma can hit my nose, the door opens and...

"In she came with the same type game..."
Mos Def, Ms. Phat Booty

"You've got to be kidding me," I say to myself while keeping the poker face.

She made an apparent b-line for my table and before I could get out my generic salutation, she places her book and lunch on my table and then proceeds to ask me if she would be intruding upon my lunch if she sat here.

"No, not at all," I tell her. Lying.

My lunch time break is my time. My cherished time. I don't eat at my desk because I need the disconnect. I don't skip lunch because I need to eat. I don't spend my lunch talking because I'm eating. Is she infringing? Hell yes. So why don't I just tell her so? Because I'm not rude. [Thanks, Mom.]

She removes her pocketbook and bag from her shoulder and places them on the third chair at the table. She removes her coat and has a seat. I'm folding my paper and setting it aside while this is all going on so I don't notice her absurdly tight blouse until she sits down.

She's come prepared this time. See, the day before's ensemble was nondescript. I know this because she crossed my line of vision several times and we had a conversation and all I remember was that it was dark. Her blouse was black and so snug that had it not been for the protection my glasses provided, I would have been concerned for the safety of my eyes. The top two fastened buttons looked like they were holding on for dear life. As a matter of fact, at some point the second one merely gave in and released its grasp on the fabric, revealing a white camisole underneath. I successfully keep my eyes averted as she runs through another battery of questions.

In order to not have this spur of the moment (that being my moment, not hers) lunch seem one-sided, I ask her questions as well but the majority are ones that she's already asked of me. I say majority because I didn't inquire about her lunch the way she did mine. The whole "trading recipes" thing isn't something I do. And judging by what little she had brought in that day, it was for the best.

Somehow or other, she volunteered me to cook her something and bring it in. Yeah, I hope she was kidding because that not something I do either.

Truth be told, there are a lot of things I don't do for most people and a few things I do for a few.

Already knowing that she brought her B-game*, I wasn't too surprised when she just so happened to find it necessary to run out of the room momentarily, giving me a full show of her hip-hugging skirt and knee-high boots. I smirked a little.

Fast-forward through some more small talk and we have her standing at the table while holding a conversation with female co-workers at the next table as she takes the longest time possible to get her coat on for her 2 o'clock meeting she had to get to in the main building.

She leaves after stating she'll see me the following day - a statement I found peculiar, to say the least. I tell her okay, not knowing any other response to give.

The next day came, and I never saw her. Didn't see her for the rest of the week, actually. It was just my lunch and I. Just like I like it.


Everything I jot on the left, reads right.

*A-game isn't really possible when in a corporate environment unless both parties have consented. Otherwise, there's that whole sexual harassment suit ordeal. Ugly.

Ramblings On

We are all genius.

Did you get that? If not, let me break it down so that it may forever be broken...you, me, him, her, them over there by the window...all of us. Genius. Trust me. You may not see it in you. But someone else does. You may not see it in him. But he does. Really. It's that simple. The concept is a basic one, that holds truth.

But there's a catch.

This isn't one of those motivational blogs. I mean, if it motivates you then so be it. I've said things in the past that have gotten reactions I didn't make plans for so I'm not complaining.

Where's the catch, you ask?

For those of you that just know that so and so (or hell, maybe yourself) has never ever ever once displayed any type of genius – you may be absolutely correct. But get this, just because you never witnessed it, doesn't mean it didn't happen. And just because it hasn't happened, doesn't mean it won't. So on and so forth.

I have my own ideas of what I believe my genius to be. There are those around me who have their ideas of what they believe my genius to be too. And then there are the people who are close to me who know what my genius is whether I choose to believe it or not – because you know they always tell you. Without fail. And if you place these lists side by side, you may very well find some similarities. I've never asked so I don't really know. What I do know is, I've been in relationships* where she (the woman formerly known as the significant other) was unaware of my genius. We're talking about my genius list. Not hers.

On the one hand, I can take the full on blame for not purposely "exposing" that side of me. Or I can point an accusing finger and say it was all her fault for not noticing. And even though, that's normally not something I would do, I have to straighten the index on this one. Because what it boils down to, brass tax and all, is that I've had women that I was close to for years – emotionally, physically and spiritually – who knew less about the true essence of me than women I've just recently made acquaintances with in the past few. That has to mean something.

Why didn't she see me? That's the question for the ages. The one that will most likely never be answered. The one that resurfaces whenever someone recites from their list for me.

So, in my usual long winded way of getting to what should have been a brief statement (take this very sentence, for example), I would say to stop for a moment and listen to who is pointing out your genius to you. Not the genius on your list, but the genius on theirs. They just might be on to something. (But don't ask them, though. They're just gonna say yes anyway.)

And as far as the vice versa thing goes, I can't say for you to find someone else's genius. I don't really think it can work like that. As far as I can tell, you just....see it.

Everything I jot on the left, reads right.

*Note: I may have made it plural to protect the not-so-innocent party of whom I speak. May have. I'm clever like that.

100 Seconds

100 seconds is what I asked her to spare over chat via the keys of my smart phone. I felt the urge to share some thoughts I had on the mind earlier and I was in a sharing mood. With the dramatic pauses included, I estimated it would take about that long.

I was keeping myself entertained during my lunch break because for one, the exchange had my interest and two, my food was lackluster at best. But that's what happens when I cook a meal that I had no intentions of eating that night, for the sole purpose of having it for next day's lunch. I mean, visually, it would have made your mouth water – and it must have because this is kind of the segue.

So, I was just sharing a feeling of mine over IM when a co-worker came into the lunch room. I rarely see her – anywhere in the building. Not in this room, not by the elevators, not in the lobby and not on this floor either – so naturally, I flashed her a smile as we exchanged the usual cordials.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing much. How are you?"

"I'm good. You?"

"I'm not bad. Welcome back."

[The laughter went here]

After the chuckles trail off, I return my attention to my phone and chat partner - but not before noticing how she took in the whole scene that was me, in one fluid eye movement. She took in the black slacks, the black shirt with gray pinstripes and the gray v-neck sweater as well. She concluded the scan at the black spectacles. Like I said, fluid.

When precisely, she took inventory of my meal, however, is beyond me. In between conversation with her girlfriend, she made a trip to the microwave, a trip to the ice machine and somewhere else in addition to that. I only knew the extent of her observance when I got up to throw out the under-seasoned food that she asked if I cooked myself.

"Yeah, I did. If I don't cook, I don't eat."

She laughs in a nature that I've witnessed before so I didn't notice that I was either auditioning, interviewing or filling out an application. For what job? I wasn't sure. The next question was in regards to breakfast and whether or not I ate it once I got to work. I answered that as well – oblivious. Meanwhile, my phone is on the table, next to my newspaper, fork and napkin. Every line my IM buddy sends me after reading my thoughtful words, causes my phone to vibrate. I can hear it. I want to get back to it but I apparently wasn't through with my verbal paperwork.

Then it happened.

The most blatant sign snapped me out of my trance. It happened so fast but played in slo-mo. She was flying through a barrage of questions and somehow worked it over to working out and what gym I went to – when she threw me a look that I may not always get but I'd most certainly never forget.

I was standing there adjusting my sweater when, as if she was waiting for any hand movement in the vicinity of my waistband to take place, she puts my nether region right in her sites. It lasted an instant but it was too long to add the word brief before it.

I didn't see it coming but I definitely saw me going. I realized that maybe it was that season and I needed a refresher course on survival skills. Either way, a retreat was in order. So I back step while concluding the conversation, get back to the table, grab my phone, pack my container up, fold my paper and exit stage right, never passing go. I reply to the lines awaiting me on the screen, before I get on the elevator to return to my floor and back to my desk. My lunchtime chat friend doesn't make mention of my absence because ironically, I was only gone for 100 seconds.

What's with the questions?

“Really?”

“What?”

“I’m saying. You’re just gonna sit there and act like – Oh okay. Fine.”

“What?” she reiterates, trying her best to keep a straight face.

“Nothing. Do you know what you’re gonna order? I’m hungry.”

“Girl, don’t be like that! I was just messing with you! Sheesh.”

“Hmm, what? I really am hungry. What are you talkin’ about?” she states matter-of-factly never looking up from the lunch menu.

Laughing, “See. Can’t nobody joke with you when you wanna know something!”

She sucks her teeth. “Whatever.”

“Brat.”

“Heffa.”

She gasps, “You name calling now??”

“You started it.”

“Yeah, but I was telling the truth,” she retorts.

She gives out a boisterous laugh, covering her mouth to muffle it. She looks around the restaurant at the other diners and whispers, “How ‘bout you tell me something else?”

“Something like what? Oh what – you wanna know about last night or somethin'? Girl, you know I am not the one to kiss and tell.”

“Bullshit. Do NOT make me create a scene up in here. This is your favorite spot, not mine. I’ll do it. I will get you banned. They’ll have your picture taped in the reservation book and everything,” she playfully threatens.

“Ew, you so evil! Fine. We had fun last night. Happy?” she says rolling her eyes.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. But you always have fun with him. Something’s different this time. We’re at your favorite eatery. You’ve had this goofy look on your face since you sat down.” She raises an eyebrow, pauses for a moment before raising the other and exclaiming, “You GAVE HIM SOME, didn’t you??”

“Girl, keep your voice down or you will get me banned!”

“Oops. Sorry,” she says, not at all appearing apologetic.

“Whatever. Since you must know, yes…we took it to the next level.”

“And?” she asks impatiently.

“And what?”

“How was it?”

She closes her eyes as if revisiting the most intimate moment of that encounter. Her head barely turns left and slightly down as she briefly bites the inside of her bottom lip. But just as fast as she closed them, she opens them. She stopped herself short of a full shudder so the entire gesture lasts a short second.








“It was nice,” she says with her best poker face to date.

“Oh shit. He made you…,” her whisper trails off.

“Yes,” she emphatically replies. “More than once,” she adds, gleaming, beaming and glowing all at once.

Insert comfortable silence.

The waiter walks up, pen and pad in hand. “Are you ladies ready to order?”



end.




Is it fair to say that over the span of several years, that spine-tingling, sweat-producing, heart-pounding incredible sex between the same two consenting adults will eventually diminish to good sex or worse, the equivalent of going through the motions with occasional glimmers of what once was? And if so, is it an irrational notion to just walk away (i.e. cold turkey) before the “legacy is tarnished” (a.k.a. not like it used to be)?

Homonyms

I type. Sometimes I miss the keys.
I write. Sometimes I miss the Keys.
My life. Sometimes I'm Mister Keys.

-- Sent from my Palm Pre

Drain

I'm like the Jay-Z of blogs when I'm in the shower. I come up with some good material. Poignant. Deep. Touching stuff. I'm stopping the list here but it really continues. Half a page. Easy. 

Back. So I'll have my next work all laid out in my big organ - but I shower late. Crazy late. Like right now, it's 1:54AM. I work like regular folk so I'm not about to turn on a computer and type out a damn thing. Bed.

-- Sent from my Palm Pre

An Eye Out

Little do she know...all her words put on display, come to me. Finding refuge on my hip. There for me to read, wherever and whenever. Little do she know...I'm never not watching. I wouldn't liken it to stalking. Judging by where I stand with her, it's like an absentee father who was never seen, presumed a deserter, but come to find out has kept up to date...up to speed...newspaper clippings and all...a personal collection of all accomplishments recorded. But I ain't her daddy. Analogy aside, nowhere near any scenario like that. Little do she know, what's she's been doing lately warms my heart.

I watched her move.

-- Sent from my Palm Pre

It's like...

..I'd been in my own lane...moving with no destination in sight...in a tunnel with no end in view...and the only thing I'm certain of is me missing you.

-- Sent from my Palm Pre

fUGGedaboudit!

It’s Spring time, everyone. And it’s about damn time, I say.

Now…because there are so many blogs out there that have taken on the tasks and responsibilities of commenting on criticizing on other people (mainly folks they don’t know)…I try and stay in my lane and only blog about all situations regarding myself (a man, dammit) and women.

With that being said, I’ve really, really held off on getting on this topic because I realized (circa Myspace) that I tend to really go in on some things that really get my goat (still don’t know what that means, but it fits) like flip-flops. For those that didn’t know me years ago, the reaction and subsequent tirade was sparked by a female wearing flip-flops in the club. And no, it wasn’t the end of night so the suggestion that her feet must have really been hurting something terrible does not apply. It wasn’t even midnight. On top of that, she had the audacity to match them to her outfit. I looked down at her feet and then I looked at her and I...

*Breathe Darryl. You’re going back to a place that you don’t want to return to. You promised, man! Now focus...*

Okay, okay, okay. So…this time I’m going at it with a different approach. I want to start off by thanking the female masses for losing their individuality and following the lemmings. From the bottom and top of my heart, thanks a million. Thanks for not questioning the internal fashion sense that I assumed you possessed and jumping on the bandwagon. With all sincerity, thank you very much for that. While you and your BFFs are hanging out just knowing you’re too cute, I don’t even see you.

Instead, I see the woman (yes, singular) that’s doing her own thing.

And there’s not many who catch my eye.
We both wear Gucci, she match my fly
She Got Her Own by Ne-Yo

And now it's oh so much easier for me to spot her. Before, thin-slicing* was difficult. Now, not even. Now, I can find my compliment.

So keep justifying the ugliness by telling me how the inside feels. And I’ll keep not hearing what you’re really telling me. Instead, when you finally decide you want to actually look like an effort was made and wear the sharpest shoes (if that will ever happen again) and wince in pain an hour in to wearing them [picture me shaking my head at the sight of you trying to hide the discomfort]…I’ll wait for your justification this time and let you realize that you’re the picture in dictionary next to

con·tra·dic·tion
Function: noun
Date: 14th century
1: act or an instance of contradicting 2 a: a proposition, statement, or phrase that asserts or implies both the truth and falsity of something b: a statement or phrase whose parts contradict each other 3 a: logical incongruity b: a situation in which inherent factors, actions, or propositions are inconsistent or contrary to one another

Because if your first validation was truth, your logic will have you rocking the sasquatches all-of-dee-time.

My question is: What happened to you? Back in the day, you used to know how to _______ but now, all you do is __________________.

Fill in the blanks.

*Thin-slicing refers to the ability of our unconscious to find patterns in situations and behaviour based on very narrow slices of experience. blink - The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, page 23.

Twitterpated

Nah, really...it's a word. Not allegedly made up like some of my other words. My accuser knows who she is. For real, look it up.

So I'm going to try something new. Well, it's new to me at least. I've been noticing that there's been a bunch of things that I want to comment on or mention right on the spot. I haven't been able to do that. And by the time I'm able to do any such thing, the moment has passed and it's taken the inspiration right along with it. ENTER TWITTER. I got myself a Twitter account and I'm going to call it like I see it. If I see something that gets my goat, I'm going to twit it (Is that right?). If I see my crush on the train, I'm going to twit it (I think if I say it enough times, it will sound right). If I see anyone I've blogged about...you get the picture.

Now as much as I'd like to start like right now...I'm going to wait because, well...I don't have enough followers yet. I'm hoping that all of you that have Twitter accounts will follow me and my daily musings. I put a link in the upper left side of the screen to follow me. Hopefully, it works. If not...allow me to reintroduce myself... My name is Darryl, Mr Keys if you're nasty.

Dirt McGirt

(aka Porn flicks, Undercarriages and Overhead Part II)

Fourth grade. Back in class after recess. We’re all a little rowdy and rambunctious. We’re 9 and full of food. Not to mention we’ve just been running around the school’s yard for a minute. So yeah, we’re a little sweaty too. The girls from jumping the double dutch ropes and the boys from playing tag, catch, Frisbee, football and anything we could make up rules for.

Miss McGillicutty (that name has always been funny to me) asks Louis to hand out the ditto sheets for what we’re about to learn. Meanwhile, my mind is elsewhere. I’m not thinking about anything and noticing nothing…simultaneously. That is, until Louis reaches the top of my row to hand us the new sheets. Appearing to look at something but not really looking at anything, he stops mid-step like he had a notion of some sorts. He lifts his right heel and swings his knee out to the side. His finishing move was a slight dip and shake…affectionately known as the shimmy. I hadn’t mastered the poker face yet. He saw me looking him in bewilderment.

Louis being Louis said, “Don’t you hate it when your nuts stick to your leg?” Me, being the hell confused, said nothing.

“I don’t even rock with you like that, kid!” is what I would have said had I not only been nine years old. I did smirk some, but that was about all I managed to do. It didn’t matter much to Louis because he handed me the paper and kept it moving.

Fast forward to an unseasonably warm winter’s day last month and you would have found me in my own predicament. Since I’ve been an active member of Manscapers Unite, things are different. There’s a learning curve and additional measures must be taken when rocking the “turtle shell” (see Part 1 for clarification) down there. For one, Johnsons® Baby Powder and Shower to Shower®…they’re your friends. And like a good friend, they should not be neglected. Now when I say neglected, I mean unutilized…or else the Louis moment will rear it’s ugly head (no pun).

So there I was, enjoying myself a beautiful spring day in February. Jacket folded and tucked into my gym bag, making some stops in stores and such. I found myself in an aisle of a clothing store and even though I didn’t stop mid-step like Louis did, I was still in that very same boat some decades later. Now, I’m gonna tell you like this…for the ladies reading this…it’s not a comfortable feeling. I guess…and I could be way off base, but…it’s something like having your panties bunch up and take refuge in your butt. Like, if you have to continue about your business then you do, but as soon as you get the chance to handle it, you will. ASAP. Yeah, it’s like that. Now luckily for me, I don’t have to go to the same lengths to rectify my situation. Meaning, I don’t have to drop my trousers and separate the two parties. Normally, I could just shimmy and keep it moving, but because I’m so out of practice [read: a proud grower of pubic hairs since puberty], I need to shimmy shimmy, ya…which entails a deeper dip and a quicker shake…one with more snap to it. And although, the situation is remedied, it’s very temporary.

There are only three* options at this point. One being to sit still long enough that the two parties have been separated with a timeout, thereby reducing the...uh…clamminessicity. The other is powder yourself. But let’s be real…that’s just not happening anytime soon because if you were somewhere with powder handy, you wouldn’t have to do the move to begin with.

The third option...well that's the easiest and the most popular choice. Just suck it up.

*Note: ALL of this can be prevented completely by wearing briefs. But really...briefs?

Standard Standard

Girl meets boy on Thursday night

Boy was high, girl fly like kite

They hold hands until next day

Boy then lets go, hit his way

Boy rules butt, brags to his boys

Erection brings bad boy joys

Boy thinks of that big fat back

Big black fat love, big black fat

Girl calls boy to stand him up on Saturday

-Q-Tip on Saturday- By De La Soul


Boy is at a club with his comrades. Girl is at a club with her clique. Maybe it’s the same club. Maybe girl sees boy and vice versa. Maybe they dance and make loud talk simultaneously. Or maybe they link up at the bar. Maybe he likes her. And maybe she likes him back. Maybe there’s some serious connectivity happening. Maybe they text their respective entourages that they’ll be leaving the club tout suite. Maybe they arrive somewhere and talk naked.

So now, you might be thinking that this is going to be a blog about the “one night stand”. Like maybe, since I tend to always write about a real life situation, I’m going to tell you a funny story about one that I had in my life. Au contraire, my readers…this is about…

The Morning After…

“I know she think that I just think she some kinda ho. I don't give a shit bout givin’ it up on the first night...that just lettin’ me know. She know what she want outta life...what a hell of a way to goddamn wake up... ooh that shit was good! Ooh maybe she'd get me some breakfast. She so goddamn sweet, sweet as she wanna be... Ooh I just - ooh I wanna lay in her hair. You can't fall for it. Don't fall for it, Ice Cold.
(ICE COLD!!!)

Maybe I’ll just roll over and lay on her booty. Yeah naw naw naw naw, just lay and be cool. Be cool, Ice Cold.

(ICE COLD!!!)

But what if she - what if she - what if she – what…if she's… the one...”

-Andree 3000 on The Morning After, from The Love Below

Now wait. Before you can really finish that thought, in comes the twist. See, the other night, my satellite television was tuned into Damages. I couldn’t really tell you how it was because I wasn’t really watching and really only half listening. I did see, however, the part where boy and girl had got their busy on and the next morning, she was up and at ‘em…while he sat there in the bed thinking to himself, “Yeah, that was nice” when she yanked him out his daydream and said, “Don’t be here when I get back”. I was like, “Damn”, smiled and finished with a “That’s so sexy.” I’m not even gonna hold you…I wouldn’t mind being told that. Not in the least. I, for one, think it’s badass. My feelings would not be hurt in the least. Yeah, sure I can do some inward reflecting to pinpoint why I find this to be so but instead, I’m going to give you generic guy reasons.

1) It eliminates that “morning after awkwardness”. No need to lie and say, “I’ll call you” when maybe…just maybe you’re not. Come come now. We’ve all watched enough movies and shows to know that maybe there’s going to be some regret involved. If not that, then maybe some embarrassment will rear its ugly head. And more times than not…a great deal of all this rests solely on the shoulders of the first sentence or two uttered from dude’s mouth.

2) It’s power…taking control when it’s not expected. I.E. a turn-on. Remember Robin Givens in Boomerang? Yeah, like that sexy. Just her part, though. Not Eddie Murphy’s. That scene was the perfect example of a role reversal if there ever was one.

3) It’s what he would have done…but couldn’t…because if he did, he’d be called all types of names. Names that would be preceded by all types of profanity.

So now, we have a situation that’s okay for women but not okay for men. And I’m fine with it. You’ll never hear me or hear about me uttering those seven words to a woman on my way out the door. But the next time you all bring up a tables-turned-type-scenario (Ironically, there’s not one that I can think of. Go figure), best be-lieve I am going to milk the hell out of this one right here….because honestly, it’s the only one I got.

But I’m thinking…