Then… a change. Left my man, dropped a few pounds, started living the nightlife, and bought a bunch of high heel shoes. Now, this did not make me the belle of the ball. There are still plenty of nights when I'm stepped passed to get to someone else. I've got eye-catching cleavage, enviable hair (at least on a good day), and those heels really make a big difference in creating a more sexy vibe. Still, I've got a girl-next-door energy and my inner-nerd shines through in most of what I do, so the type of man who wants a girl gone wild walks by without noticing me. But what little attention I get is more than I've ever gotten before.

And, frankly, it's mostly pissing me off.

Now, I'm that nice girl who doesn't want to be rude, even to the ugly bugaboo dude who can't take a hint. But my niceness does not mean I want to tolerate the ridiculous bullshit that is coming my way.

Scene 1

My friend W and I have abandoned one almost-empty club and returned to the Downtown Oakland spot where we danced until we sweated the night before. The music is not as good, so we are mostly sitting and drinking. First, a man old enough to be my dad asks me to dance. He is polite, which I have learned is rare, but I've just ordered a drink. I tell him I'll dance with him later. I'm sincere. He doesn't believe it and gets and attitude.

W and I find a place to sit. Brutha from the Muthaland slides himself onto the bench next to me, puts an arm around me, and insists that I let him get to know me. Over and over he asks me to tell him something about myself. (My friend R will later say that he sounds like someone who read the back of a book that said women like to be asked questions. But just the back!) When I say, "I don't know what you want me to tell you," he asks if he can take me to the movies. I say no. His responds by leaning in closer, supposedly-seductively whispering in my ear: "Girl. You are like a twinkee. And I'm like the milk." I am too puzzled to even laugh at this point. He continues, pointing at W. "And your friend over there? She's like the straw."

I order a shot of vodka.

 
Scene 2

My friends and I have danced all night at the Pajama Jamie Jam at the local fat girl party. Last call has come and gone, and the last song is playing. We're moving toward the exit, still dancing, when I'm cornered by Cornrow Cassonova. I suggest that perhaps I am old enough to be his mother, but he assures me that he is 29 and I "can't be more than 35." My friend tugs my arm, time to go. He turns on her. "Why you blockin? Why you blockin?"

"Sweetheart,"  I say to him, "I've been here alllllll night. I don't know where you were."

His reply?

"Nigga, I'm wearing orange! You coulda seen me!"

This is stupid enough. But he is wearing a blue jacket.

 
Scene 3

The other fat girl party is hosting costumes the week before Halloween. I am debuting costume number one for the holiday season-- the Sexy Witch. My roommate tells me this is not really a costume. "You just look like you got dressed for the club and put a witches hat on." He is not entirely wrong. But I tell him to shut up anyway.

At the club, Sexy Witch is among the most boob-erific outfits. This is not easy to be on Halloween at the big girl club, where ample breasts (and ample everything else) are even more on display than any other time of year. I am noticed. This is fine. Expected. Anticipated. Appreciated. Until…walking from the bathroom, a creepy dude in a long black cloak and glasses that might have been worn by Edward James Olmos in "Stand and Deliver" leans right into my cleavage and practically slobbers on me as I walk by.

"Nice tits," he leers.

 
Oh, there's more…

 
I cannot even imagine how many tales I would have to tell if I'd been dating through my 20's. As it is, in the past year, I've been pursued by a guy who kept forgetting which of his fake names he gave me the last time. Another guy told me he was flirting really hard because he was "craving dark meat". On the flipside, I got a random email from a 23-year old that said nothing but "wassup liteskin?" I'll spare you the full version of the story of the online date who sent me a pic of someone four shades lighter and six inches taller than he was and then tried to convince me when we met in person that it really had been him in the picture and he'd just "had a really tough year."  He also asked if he could borrow $300. Yes, he did.

 
Are all the men I've met jackasses? No. I've met a few really great guys who prove that this retardation is not testosterone poisoning at its most severe. But damn. There are some trends, and this is getting ridiculous. So, guys, please take the following into account. Every lady has her own specific list, but here's mine.

First, stop trying to play "guess the ethnicity" in the first five seconds of talking to me.  No, I'm not from Palau, Samoa, Hawaii or Figi. Every big brown girl with curls didn't just sail in from the Pacific. Let that island fantasy go. 

Second, don't tell me you are here for the first time and then let me see your mug grinning all over the club's photo archives when I get home. I know that's you! You don't have a twin (and if you do, both of y'all need to help).

Third, don't tell me you "looooooooove full-figured women" until I won't give them my phone number, at which I become "a fatass bitch who nobody wants to fuck anyway."  You weren't too good for my fat ass a minute ago, so don't act like a fool now.

Finally, do not buy me a drink and then tell me that you bought it because you lied to some other wildebeest you were trying to escape by claiming to be on a date with me. Yes, you've seen similar tactics work in the movies. But you are not Hitch, ok? Leave it alone.

Guys. I'm sorry. I have sympathy for you, ok?  I know a lot of women do not respond to the old school courtesy of, "Good evening, my name is such and such, would you care to dance?" So I understand why you've adjusted your approach. But damn. Adjust that shit back a bit! Twinkee, nigga, and tits are not your best options for impressing a woman. Trust me on this. There is a happy medium between corny-ass come-on lines and calling me a hostess snack. (What the F does that even mean? I'm sweet? I'm yellow? I can look like I can survive nuclear winter?)

 
For real. Grown men, men with REAL conversation skills, are sexy. (Note: real conversation skills go beyond saying "tell me something about yourself" and then repeating that five times. Also, you are neither Snoop Dogg nor E-40, my nizzle. A little grammar goes a long way!) Learn the ebb and flow of really talking to someone.  Stop trying to holler at a bitch or get at a bitch or spit at a bitch and try talking to a lady. Yeah, we know when you say "you are a really beautiful woman" that you might just be thinking "nice tits" in your head. Keep it in your head, though! No one wants to hear that from you.

Most of all, remember that finesse isn't just a shampoo from the 80's. It's the way to not be a "don't act like this" cautionary tale on someone's blog! Get some get-right or just get back.