The Carmel Chronicles - It's not you, It's not me, It's NYC

Part 2 of 4

We had a half day at the office so I was home by 3pm.  I'd begged off dinner with my co-worker and her family in favor of being alone with my TiVo.   Feeling relieved, I threw on some sweats, turned on the TV and plopped down on my bed.    I'd just started flipping channels when a knock at the door interrupted me.  It was my friend and super of the building Lourdes.  She came to remind me that I'm invited to have breakfast Christmas morning with her family and to ask if I could loan her a few dollars because she was unable to get presents for her young daughters.  I handed her $70, all the money I had in my wallet and told her to get what she needed.  I've been blessed tremendously. Adrian looks after me when I am sick, watches my cats while I am out of town and held me together thanksgiving weekend when I was emotionally raw.  Giving her what I had was the least I could do. 

 Christmas day I woke up to Lourdes yelling for me to come down for breakfast.  I rolled out of bed and turned the TV to the Yule Log on channel 11.  I rubbed my hands in front of the screen and chuckled as I remembered doing the same thing with my siblings years ago.   My super prepared a huge, scrumptious meal and fed me very well.  I brought down a pot of freshly ground toasted almond coffee and enjoyed the company.  I missed my family terribly but at least I wasn't alone.  With the support of friends and lots of prayer, I was able to get through my first NYC based Christmas.  

Next morning it was back to the grind.  Everyone on the train platform was bleary-eyed and late.  Mr. Smiley Face was there drinking his McDonalds coffee.    I smiled and nodded.  The train came and Mr. Smiley Face sat right next to me.  "Drat," I thought.  Mildly annoyed, I chatted with him anyway.  "Would you like to get a drink with me tonight?" he asked before he got off the train at 125^th st.  I was going to turn him down but I could hear Zena telling me not to block my blessings so I gave him my card and agreed to meet him after work.  "What's your name?" I asked.  "Michael" he replied as he got off the train.   It was the day after Christmas and the office was slow and quiet.  I told Susan and Melissa, the two assistants in the office about my date.  They were excited but I shrugged it off saying, "It's just drinks, he seems interesting, what the heck?"  Michael called to confirm our date and to ask where I wanted to meet.  "Moca on 119^th and Fredrick Douglas Blvd." I said.  You're working in Spanish Harlem right?  It's just on the other side of the park.  Michael sounded unsure but I was sure he'd figure it out.   That evening I took the D train over to Moca and met Michael at the bar.  He was drinking a Guinness and I ordered an Amaretto sour.  The conversation was engaging, light and fun.  Michael is 41, divorced with 3 kids.  He's from Jamaica and been in the US for 8 years.  He says that he is not a nice person and has done some things he is not proud of. He left Jamaica because people were looking to kill him.   He shared that he is at a point in his life where he is changing.  "Mmm hmmm, "I thought.  When somebody tells you who they are, believe them.  So I took him at his word and vowed to enjoy him for what he is.  I must admit that I had visions of him being some kind of gun-runner or drug smuggler.  But hey, I don't know and I don't WANT to know.    Michael asked me about myself and I debated whether to gloss over everything or just be real.  I had no energy to gloss over anything so I clearly stated that I was going through a really tough time in my life and am learning some important things about myself.   "You must remember that YOU are number one", Michael said emphatically.  "You must be selfish with yourself."  That struck a cord with me and I tucked that statement away for further examination.  The conversation flowed effortlessly although I was mindful of the time.  After all, I was leaving for Chicago in two days and I needed to finish getting ready.   We left Moca around 9 and it was pouring rain outside.  I paused for two seconds because I had no umbrella and I'd JUST washed and set my hair the night before.  "Heck, I've got a scarf, "I thought, so I rummaged in my bag, pulled out my pink $5 off the street Pashmina scarf and wrapped it around my head.  "Come on Michael," I said standing fearlessly in the rain.  Let's catch a cab to 125^th street.    Michael stood back under the small awning to the bar.  "Come out of the rain," he coaxed.  "Let's go back in the bar."   "Uh, no," I thought to myself.  What am I gonna do?  Have another drink?  Then I'll be drunk and have an upset stomach and get home late and won't have enough energy to do what I need to do tomorrow.   "Come on Michael," I said stepping into the street. "We can catch a cab right here".  "Der'es no yellow cab down here", he said.  "You don't need a yellow cab," I replied flagging down a black Lincoln town car.  "This is Harlem".   We got in and I asked the driver how much to 125^th and Lenox.  "6 dollars," he replied as we pulled away.   Michael paid the driver and we jumped on the 2 train.  When we got to 233^rd street, it was still raining but I had my scarf and could walk underneath the awnings of stores along the way.  As we walked briskly to my apartment building, I glanced over at Michael, who'd covered his head with the hood of his jacket.  I giggled delightfully to myself.  Only I would take pleasure in a rainy night with my freshly washed hair now ruined.  It's one of those situations I've daydreamed about while reading a book about some glamorous woman living in New York.  We got to my apartment and I invited him in so I could give him an umbrella.  Michael took off his shoes and walked into the living room while I took off my coat and put away my keys.  The Isley Brothers "Footsteps in the Dark played on the radio and before I knew it, Michael pulled me into his arms and began swaying to the music.  His lips were nano inches to my neck and I could feel his warm breath on my skin.  I froze a little and pulled back a bit. "I'm not even going there," I thought.  He got the message and gave me some space.  We had a little more small talk and he asked if he could see me again tomorrow.  Honestly, I didn't see how I was going to make that work.  It was already after 11 and I had to be up by 6.  I hadn't been sleeping well for weeks and was hoping I could finally get some rest.  Plus, I had to finish packing.  I told him to call me and if I had some time he could stop by.  He gently kissed me goodbye, thanked me for a nice time and left.        

Thursday morning, my thoughts were consumed with Chicago.  Thank god I

didn't see Michael on the train this morning.  My brain was consumed with

making sure everything in the office was taken care of, finish packing and clean

my apartment.  I was anxious to get 2007 over with and felt like some closure

was in order.  At the office, I chatted with Melissa and Susan, sharing my plans

to "git some" from my ex Chris.  Hell, I deserved it.   Chris is the brotha who

will not rest until you are a pleasurably quivering mass of flesh.  After the paint-

by-the numbers missionary fucks that Jerk Face was doling out, this was the

least I could do for myself.    I refused to be pissed off about how I wanted to

bring in the New Year with Jerk Face and how I'm wasting 4 of my precious

vacation days.  I went about my daily duties at the office, making sure I told

everyone how long I'd be away.  I felt good and looked it too.  Good energy

was all around me. 

THE CARMEL CHRONICLES-

"It's not you, it's not me, It's NYC"

Pt 1 of 4

I'm having a passionate love affair with New York City.   Sometimes I think I'll have to move back to my hometown of Chicago, because the cost of living is cheaper and I want grass in my backyard.  It almost happened too.  But my soul-mate whom we will refer to here as "Jerk Face" cruelly kicked me to the curb a few months ago.  Well, at least I thought he was my soul-mate.   He was perfect for me…skinny, dark chocolate brown with long loc's down his back.  He is a studio musician with a penchant for tequila, weed, and satirical cartoons.  We'd known each other 13 years and although we hadn't spoken to each other in 6 of those years, I just knew we would be together forever.  From the moment we got back together, I saw myself chillin in our backyard, roses in bloom, bees, buzzing around and the sun shining brightly.  "I could do this", I thought to myself.   But when I thought about what I would be doing when I wasn't chillin in the backyard…well, what would I be doing?  Can I run out to the bodega on the corner at midnite for a quick soda?  Um, no.   Can I get the same job I have now with the same money?  Well, I doubt it.  Can I hop on the subway and go anywhere in the city?  Not without catching a bus too.  And the men… that NY accent, the swagger, the mmph, mmph, mmph.  "Never mind that!" I scolded myself.  This is THE ONE!  You're over 40, single, and childless.  This is the best you can get!  Wait a minute!  REALLY?  The best is somebody who wants to be a successful music producer but instead of having enough swagger to cultivate his NYC contacts, he gives ME his demo CD's to pass along to random party promoters?  Hell, those non-singers on American Idol have more swagger than that. Is the best somebody who doesn't bathe for 3 or 4 days and still thinks you're gonna fuck him with his funk in full effect?   "It doesn't matter," my inner dialog said.  At least he has a strong work ethic.   Is the best somebody who after receiving a full 30 minutes of head, still has the presence of mind to calmly take my hand and lead me to the bed so he can have sex in the missionary position?  WHAT?  Sheeeet, if that had been one of these NYC brotha's I would have been bent ova on the damn wall!  Hell, any brotha from the South Side of Chicago would have had me twisted along the side of the tub.   Still, I remained adamant that Jerk Face is the one.  This was re-enforced when several sad events happened in my life back to back.  The worst of which was losing my 97 year old grandmother who was central in making me the woman I am today.  Jerk Face was on point, picking me up at the airport, and taking me to every appointment around the city.   Each morning he would take a shot or two of Tequila, puff a bit of weed and off we would go. Now, anyone who has suffered any kind of loss knows that grief sneaks up on you no matter how much you try to suppress it.  I was no different.  I had no interest in my weekly "Black Sex and the City" cocktail hour with my girls.  The sights of the city didn't captivate me.   People were everywhere and it was getting on my nerves.  I wanted to crawl into a cave and not come out for a long time.   Since Jerk Face and I lived in different cities, we agreed to maintain a long distance relationship where we would either talk, e-mail, text message or voicemail each other at least once a day.  I'd get home from work and every night by 6:30 I'd be wrestling with myself deciding whether or not I should call Jerk Face.  Because you see, Jerk Face works in his studio every day and is very selfish with his time.   I was very respectful and was careful not to intrude on his creativity.  Everything was fine until Jerk Face went into one of his "black" moods where he doesn't talk to anyone and when he does talk he acts like a complete evil ass.  I was fully aware of these moods.  We'd discussed and agreed that when he feels this way, he'd be considerate and let me know. Well, that didn't happen.   I brought this to his attention, and Jerk Face decided he no longer wanted the responsibility of a relationship.  This, after proclaiming to everyone that I am the one he's going to marry.  This, after agreeing to put feelers out about doing work in NYC.  This, after telling me he "couldn't wait to get me pregnant".  All this and on top of all that, my sister and I were working with Gran's lawyers to begin settling her estate.  Something neither one of us had done before.    Thanksgiving was around the corner.  I felt as though someone stabbed me in the gut.  What did I do to deserve this fresh hell?  I stumbled through the week dazed and hurt.   I felt sad, angry and wanted to scream until I couldn't anymore.    The holidays were an emotional kaleidoscope. Memories of Gran were gripping my soul and I couldn't sleep.  When I got to Dad's house in Ohio, I basked in the warmth and familiarity of my family and was thankful when they held me as I cried my heart out.   My dad isn't the "there, there everything's gonna be alright" kind of dad.  When I told my stepmother that I wanted to change my bedroom so there would be no reminders of Jerk Face, Dad pulled a brand new comforter set out of the garage and asked me if I liked it.  I hugged and kissed him, knowing he cares.  Dad has a thing about comforters. 

Back in NYC, I felt cloudy and weighted down.  I couldn't concentrate.  Christmas was coming and I wasn't going to Chicago for the first time in 9 years.  I dreaded being alone.  I was pissed that I would be in Chicago for 9 days after Christmas.  I'd happily booked the ticket 10 days before Jerk Face dumped me.  To hide my feelings, I told folks that there are many things I can do Christmas day in NYC.  This actually, is true but when you live and work in NYC the last place you want to be is in the middle of Manhattan during holiday season.   I agreed to have dinner with my co-worker and her family Christmas Eve but the thought of having to make idle conversation with a bunch of strangers was not appealing.  One cold morning, I boarded the 5 train at my usual stop and sat in the corner with my eyes closed.  The company Christmas party was that afternoon and I was looking extra nice.  As office manager for the Fifth Avenue office, I'm known for good cheer, a positive outlook and crazy wit.  I wondered where I was going to find that part of myself.  "Please God," I prayed.  "Help me get through this day."  I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.  After few moments, I opened my eyes and the man sitting across from me smiled and mouthed "Hello."  Startled, I smiled back, closed my eyes and ignored him.  "Last thing I need is some guy hitting on me," I thought disgustedly.  "Besides, he looks just like Jerk Face complete with dark skin and dreadlocks and I do not need that reminder.   Later that week, I relayed the encounter to my homegirl Zena over dinner at Outback Steakhouse on 54^th and 3rd.  "Kendra," she said dipping her calamari into cocktail sauce.  "Don't be so hard on these brotha's.  Give 'em a chance. Everybody is not Jerk Face.  Don't block your blessings."  "I'm not blockin shit," I said taking a sip of mango mojito.  "I just don't want to be bothered."  

This attitude persisted over several days and I did little to hide it.  Christmas Eve morning I saw Mr. Smiley Face on the train and his attempts at small talk simply annoyed me.  "Are you excited about the holidays?" he asked.  "I just want them to be over" I replied. He calmly sipped his McDonald's coffee and I hoped he wouldn't ask me anything else.

The Carmel Chronicles – The Introduction..

The spring of 2007, I finally got my secret wish.  Well one of them.  I wanted to have a few girlfriends who are as adventurous as me, yet are brainy, ballsy, and a little soft and pink.  I finally realized this dream in March after attending a hip-hop poetry showcase at ClubAlibi in the Village. I was there to support my friend Zena who was trying to support her boyfriend, the half latin, half phillipino macho man, Luis.  We'd just rushed over there after spending 3 hours at my job preparing the annual report for the company awards dinner.  My boss handed me $40 while I manipulated our brand new copier, and told Zena and I to get ourselves some Chinese food for dinner.  "Bitch", Zena drawled watching me as I slid the cash in my bra. "That's our drink money".  "And you know this girlfriend" I replied as I went back into the copy room.  We copied as much as we could before the machine got overheated and we had to stop. Let's get outta here, I said as I started gathering my things.  Zena pulled out her make-up bag and started to touch up her face.  Zena's a gorgeous Sepia colored woman with a coke-bottle body and a nice juicy booty. She's a stylist and dresses herself sexily with her creativity on display.  Today she'd paired tight Seven Jeans with a tank top, cropped plaid jacket and brown pumps.  She was looking quite trendy and fashionable.  She also designs the windows for a major department store on Lexington Ave.   We left the office and jumped into a cab on 5^th Ave over to MacDougal street.  The club was pretty full when we got there, and we were able to grab two seats at the bar. The DJ was spinning hip-hop and folks were bobbing their heads to the beat.   Zena went off to find Luis so I sat down and checked out the scene.  The crowd was kinda young and multi-racial but the vibe was friendly. After 20 minutes, our other friend Lauren breezed in.  "Hey girl, she said air kissing my cheek.  "I can't stay because I have an 8 O'clock dance class."  Lauren works in fashion like Zena does but takes several dance classes for fun and relaxation.  She ordered a dirty martini and settled in at the bar.  "So Kendra, who's performing?" Lauren asked taking a sip of her drink. "Girl, I don't know," I replied.  "Let's ask Zena" who was walking up to the bar.  Zena told us that Luis was managing this rapper named J-Shawn who's been working his grind on the hip-hop circuit for a few years.  Lauren and I moved from the bar and took a seat on one of the couches.  I spotted some around the way girls lounging in the front looking like they definitely don't hang out in places like this.  They were either here to perform or support someone who was performing.  We sat around waiting for the organizers to get things started.  Luis stopped by to greet and thank us for coming. He had this weird aggressive vibe, like something was about to jump off.  I shrugged it off and grooved to the music. We had a great time listening to the performers and chatting with the other people around us.  "Girl, I gotta go," Lauren said after 20 minutes glancing at her watch.  "I'll try to stop back by here after class."  We hugged and Lauren dashed out the door with her dance bag slung over her shoulder.  I got comfortable, leaning back on the soft cushions of the couch.  After a few minutes, I saw a somewhat familiar face.  It was Dan, a writer-poet I'd met at a fundraiser Zena and I did for Dress for Success last month.  He's a 28 year old short, huskily built dark chocolate brotha from New Jersey.  He was wearing black dress pants paired with a black button down shirt and fuzzy black dreadlocks spiraling out of his head to the middle of his back.  He's studying for his PHD on-line so talking to him is always filled with a lot of pontificating by him about women and what he perceives are their problems.  "See," he said taking a seat next to me, "you women need to get over the "bad boy".  Women always want the bad boy but we good, decent guys never get a shot.  We always get the "oh, I only like you as a friend" line.  Maybe it's because you look like you need a good hair washing and need to get rid of the "know it all attitude".  I thought to myself.  "I'm independent, I don't need no man is what all you women are saying and that's not good." Dan continued earnestly.  "Men are the protectors and providers and you women are not allowing us to do our job.  Your generation messed it up for us coming behind you."  I looked at him like he was one of those cavemen from the Geico commercial.  "You need to consider that the women of my generation are the first to fully take advantage of the strides made during the feminist movement of the 1970's." I began.  "Women who'd married young and helped take care of their families were being ditched for younger women.  These women had nothing to fall back on. What do you think they were going to teach their daughters?   Be able to take care of yourself, that's what.  It's you men who dropped the ball.  In the 80's it was common for men to get a girl pregnant and then skip out on the responsibility.  Maybe men were confused with the new roles women were assuming in the workplace and in the home and didn't know how they fit in.   Add the crack epidemic and you have a breakdown of the male/female relationship." Dan tried to argue me down but eventually he had to admit I had a valid point.   Dan goes to church regularly and thinks we're supposed to be following the teachings of the bible.  I don't have a problem with that.  I just think his interpretation of women being subservient to the almighty Man is skewed.  Perhaps he's using that as a shield to cover the fact that he is insecure and no match for the type of woman he wants to attract.   But he's a good conversationalist and I had a great time debating the merits of being an independent woman.   Zena re-appeared while a Hispanic rapper spit his rhymes pacing the floor trying to rustle up some enthusiasm.   "Where's Lauren?" she asked waving off-handedly at Dan.  I explained that she went to class.  "I'm about to get out of here," I said.  Its 9:45 and I still have a long subway ride home. You know I have the awards dinner tomorrow."  "Yeah, me and Luis are leaving as soon as J-Shawn does his thing," Zena said scanning the crowd.    "Ain't no industry people here and the performers are griping that they are here performing for each other."  "Can I take you home?" Dan interjected.  "I don't really know my way around Manhattan but I could figure it out if you gave me directions".  And how are you going to get back to Jersey if you don't know your way around Manhattan?  I wanted to ask.  Instead I replied, "No, that's ok," I said while visions of him lost and confused on the Deegan Expressway danced in my head.  "Just drop me at 14^th street and 7^th Ave."   We gathered up our things and I hugged Zena goodbye.  "I'll hit you on e-mail in the morning," I told her as we left.  Dan and I walked up McDougal over to the parking garage on West 4^th .   Just as we got in the car, we saw police cars speeding in the direction of the club.  I didn't give it a second thought until my cell rang and Zena shouted in my ear, "Somebody just got shot and the whole block is on lockdown!"  "What???"  I shouted back incredulously.  "Girl, me and Luis were out here beefin with Miguel who was pissed off that no industry people came to the party and this guy ran past us going top speed with the cops not far behind.  Next thing I know the whole block is on lockdown" Zena finished breathlessly.  "Oh my God," I said, thankful that Dan and I got out of the area just in time.  Zena told me she and Luis were going to get the car and head home as soon as they could.  "Just call me when you get back to Queens," I told her.  Dan seemed confused just getting to 14^th street so I was grateful to get out of the car and rush down the subway steps.  "It was great seeing you Dan," I said upon my exit.    The 2 train was approaching just as I hit the last step I jumped into the first car.   Luckily, there was an empty seat right near the emergency doors so I plopped down, put my headphones on and settled back for the hour ride back to the Bronx. 

Recently, Oprah did a show about the state of 30 somethings in the world.  How it's hard for them to find the right man, to have a baby, to have it all.  My first thought was, what the hell?  What about the state of 40 somethings?  What about those of us who grew up in the late 60's who are a cross between the feminist movement and the homespun familyness of the 60's?  I ask this because about a year ago, I decided that I am ready to make a commitment to someone.  I'm sure a lot of women are just like me.  The question though, is how?  I am so independent and fearful that any man I commit to will eventually leave.  Where did this come from?  I grew up watching women burn their bras on TV but I also saw Mrs. Brady who stayed home with Alice and took care of all those kids while Mr. Brady held it down at the office.  They went on vacations and there was always enough food in the house.  I remember one sunny April day, playing in the dining room with my granny and mommy while the soap opera "The Secret Storm" played in the background.  I remember a flash of Martin Luther King's funeral.  I remember Dad coming home late at night to a big bowl of great northern beans with hamhock and cornbread.  I also remember the frightful feelings while watching my dad tell my grandmother that he wanted out and the day I came home and all of the stereo equipment was gone from the basement.  Days I remember my mother sleeping the entire day away.  Weekends when Dad would pick us up and we would visit him at Marlene's the white woman he was now seeing.  I remember my mother struggling to feed me my sister and brother.  I remember when the lights would get turned off and we had no heat.  I remember a few times coming home and finding our house had been broken into and the little bit we did have was gone.  I remember my brother getting into trouble all the time and the fights he used to have with Mommy.  "Don't you EVER depend on a man Pam, my mother would stress.  You get your education and don't be havin' no babies.  I'll bet Ann Romano from the sitcom "One Day at a Time" told her girls the same thing when the TV cameras were off.  A cousin got pregnant at 16….."She has FUCKED UP her life" my mother would say loudly and sternly enough for me and EVERYBODY ELSE in the vicinity to hear.  If you get pregnant, you go, the nigger goes and the goddamn baby goes" was her mantra.  Relatives would tell me to my face that I would be pregnant at 16 and have to go on welfare.  Or, that I didn't need any hugs or kisses or extra candy because I'm lightskinned and I'm going to get everything I want anyway.  You can imagine then, how frightened I was when I actually did get pregnant at 17.  How scared I was to tell my mother.  How after the abortion (which I still remember vividly to this day) I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had to get my education.  So I forged ahead, terrified of getting pregnant again, determined to make something of myself no matter what anybody said.  I looked around me and saw girls my age getting knocked up and the men responsible running in the other direction.  I visited my cousins and saw them with 2-3 babies, living on welfare and strung out on drugs.  I had my mother constantly in my ear telling me not to fuck up my life like that.  I had no illusions.  Even when I saw a couple fall in love and thought they would last….they wouldn't.  So true love means nothing I felt.  Where was the togetherness I remember?  When black was beautiful and we were letting the sunshine in.  When the future of our people was brighter because we were positive and working together?  It was the age of divorce, of doing your own thang, free love and all that.  I decided I would be in control.  I'd get my degree, get that dream job working in radio, become general manager, have my condo and then I could tell the man "No, you get out of my condo" that way I don't have to fight you for money or nothing.  It was all mine to start with.  But where does this leave me?  As I am continually evolving enough into myself to know there is more to life than being able to kick a man out of my condo, how do I relax enough to trust one?  How come Oprah doesn't talk about that?  About what the backlash might be from mothers telling their daughters what mine told me.  And about the fathers, being such poor examples of what men are supposed to be.  And how do we recover?

 ..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Does being in love mean you have to give up control?  Let the man be the man and what happens to me?  Do I count?  Do I matter?  And if a woman feels she does count and she does matter then is that intimidating to the man?

Last time I bitched and complained about the state of 40 something's.  Well mostly myself.  So this time I'll discuss what I decided to do about it.  2 years ago I decided to try on-line dating.  I was nervous of course, just like anybody else I suppose.  But my friend Michelle agreed to take some pictures of me that I could use on the website I chose.  So I went to Michelle's office at HPD on 132^nd and Broadway and took a picture under one of those overly large plants that look like trees.  I had my favorite hairpiece in my head, a red bandanna blouse and a black skirt.  Regular everyday makeup was in place.  I figured my natural beauty would shine right through.  The resulting picture made me look jaundiced.  Damn those dirty yellow office walls!  But it was all I had and it was better than nothing.  First I tried Black Singles Connection.  It was promising, and $30 a month.  I gave them one month and it seemed that was all I needed because I met a lovely half black half Latino man named Ernesto, Eduardo, oh hell, I can't remember his name so you know how things turned out.  But he was a pilot for the Coast Guard and Homeland Security.  I met him one cold February night in Times Square in front of The Olive Garden.  He looked kinda nerdy wearing blue pants with a button down shirt with a sweater pullover and what looked like a short windbreaker jacket.  He apologized for not having a car, saying that he let a friend use his BMW because he's never around to drive it and his friend had an important date.  I thought that was odd since it was cold as hell outside and he was coming from Queens.  Whatever, I thought, it is faster to travel by subway.  We had a lovely dinner at a nearby restaurant where the conversation flowed.  After dinner I bet him that he couldn't flag a cab in the heart of Times Square because he's a black man.  The bet was on and he won by flagging one in less than 5 minutes.  Clutch the pearls!  I was impressed and smitten.  We went over to Roosevelt Island where we took a romantic walk and talked for hours.  He bought me roses from an all night deli, rode in the cab with me all the way home and walked me to my door.  I was ecstatic.  I didn't see him again until May.  Yep, that's right I said May.  See, because he worked for the Coast Guard and Homeland Security this meant his time really belongs to the military.  So I could e-mail him and maybe he would get back to me in a week.  And then it would be a sentence or two.  You'd think I had a clue by now but no.  Naïve me taking people at their word.  So when E wrote and said that he had some time off and wanted to see me, I jumped at the chance.  I met him at the Lenox Lounge in Harlem where we ate and touched each other suggestively.  I knew where this was leading.  So we jumped into a cab and sped off to my Bronx apartment.  The sex was passable.  It was kind of like eating a bread sandwich.  It's food and it satisfies hunger but there's substance lacking.  He was more concerned with how much cat hair would end up on his uniform.  That was the last time I ever heard from him.  I wish I could say I was devastated but seriously, how can you become emotionally attached to someone you only communicate with once via e-mail every few months?  My needs are a little more pressing than that.  Besides, my friend lived a few doors down and I knew I could fuck him when I needed to.  Not to say I was giving up on the whole internet dating scene but I placed a bit more stock in the chemistry exchanged by meeting people face to face.  After a few months I tried the black people meet website.  They're cheaper at $10 a month which means you get a wide cross section of people who are looking for love at a bargain just like me.  The cool thing about this website is that if somebody is interested in you and you're on-line, they can instant message you right away.  So of course the minute I became a member some guy with the screen name bigtool4u or something really inappropriate like that IM'd me.  The conversation was nice but I couldn't see myself taking someone named bigtool4u seriously.  Next up was someone named Akende from London, UK or so he claimed.  I thought, oh cool!  I wouldn't mind having a friend who lives in London.  Ha!  If he lives in London then I live in France. I quickly learned he was a scam artist.  I should have known something was wrong because he was just a little too forward for my taste.   Dude wanted me to deposit some money into my account using a check from North Carolina and blah, blah, blah, I can't tell you the rest because my brain went into "are you fuckin crazy" mode.  A few weeks later I went to breakfast with a guy who asked if I would wear stockings and high heels for him.  This after telling me how much he loved older women and about his last relationship where the lady treated him as though he were "dick on delivery".  (sigh) Forget it! I screamed to myself.  I'm taking a break from this madness.