Sometimes it's okay if they don't call

So not too long ago I posed a question to you all:
What do you do if you get a DIRTY punkoff from a dude but he specifically asks you not to blog about it?

Most of the comments were in favour of blogging about it. But I held my tongue; not out of consideration for him, but because the story really just wasn't that interesting. And maybe slightly because I didn't want to damage any shot in hell I might have of actually getting with this one piece of chocolate deliciousness. So I left it alone. But of course even the ones with your faceprint on the bottom of their shoe always rear their devastatingly handsome ugly heads at some point.

But let’s take it back to the beginning.  One day while perusing my favourite website I stumbled upon this slice of loveliness and asked myself, who the HELL is this? And immediately added him as a friend. All was quiet on the home front – I was in my internet stalking recon phase.  After a while I felt I had gathered enough information to make my move so I sent him a cute little note that really only took about four days for me to draft. No biggie at all. He wrote back, and there ensued a frenzy of e-conversation.  He was witty. He could spell (I fell in love). He said whom (I came). This continued for a few days and then
and then
and then he never replied.

A few weeks went by. I tried to move on. People tried to convince me that a black man who reads books is not rarer than diamonds. But I couldn’t let it go.   So I trumped up an excuse to write him again. A shorter, less exciting e-conversation ensued. I was funny. I invoked my mum’s trini accent. Man I pulled out alllll the stops.
and then
and then
and then he never replied.

I gave up. I dropped the pebble. Until a certain long weekend came around and there was a certain party that a certain vision of loveliness was sure to attend. Coaxed my girl Lori to come up from London for the weekend. Woke up on d-day with a migraine but I dressed my little ass up in my American Apparel Lamé Leggings anyway and off I went. We pushed and shoved our way through piles and piles of scantily clad scandalbags until I bumped into my target (literally) and froze.  He gave me a big smile, a warm hello, and a tight squeeze while I stood there with a  frozen smile plastered to my face shaking and sweating to beat the band.  After he walked away I asked Lor “was that really him?” “yes” she breathed. And we left.
My head was freakin’ killing me! 

Determined not to be the one to break, I moved on with my life; checking my facebook inbox once every fifteen seconds in breathless anticipation of a message from him. Until it came. It was brief. But it was charming. It gave me hope. Until I stupidly answered it.
and then
and then
and then he never replied.

You know the definition of insanity right? Repeating the same action and expecting a different result?

I gave up again then. And continued on with my life. Summer came and I started bumping into him. Things began to get flirty…a lot of biting and ass-grabbing went on. I grew some balls and called him up and asked him on a date. He accepted immediately and promised to call me on Sunday to confirm.

You know where this is going right? 

Sunday came and went with nary a peep out of him. But I don’t leave it alone. Oh no. I couldn’t just leave it alone. I sent him a message: don’t’ you owe me some drinks Negro? He apologized and asked me to please not write about him in my blog. A thought came to me: this guy is kind of an asshole. So finally I let it go.

Time moved on and other men who were unacceptable in other ways came on the scene. I pushed the chocolate decliciosity to the back of my mind. I began pursuing other avenues until fate – in the form of the eTalk party – intervened. Bedecked in my gold Marciano harem pants and a partially see-through tank top with no bra (I'm a whore), I strutted my gold-wristbanded self on over there in hot pursuit of my latest conquest (see future blog posts). After bumping into my first husband Idris Elba, who should I run into but Mr Unacceptable himself. Imagine my surprise and delight. And he, being polluted with drunkenness was delighted to see my pierced nipple me as well. 

Ladies, if you could have seen the debauchery that ensued.

Let’s just say it involved more ass-grabbing. More biting. Some scandalous pictures taken on someone else’s camera. And a trip to the men’s washroom that will never be admitted to should I see you in real life. And then there was rain. A long walk. A ride home and a rapidly travelling hand.

We parked in my driveway and continued to chat. And let’s just say, Mr One Piece of Chocolate Delicious Loveliness has a new nickname: Parking Lot Pimping.

I don’t need to spell it out for you do I? Oh I do? Okay then. Let’s just say there was a back seat. Two naked people – one still in a fabulous pair of stilettos. And a car that was a rockin’…steamy windows at all. And unlike previous entries in this blog, the 1,000 watts of energy were lighting a very powerful bulb.

Then it was over. I was aglow. He was agog. I went inside.
and then
and then
and THEN
and then he never called me. 

And you know what? That’s okay. Because like I said, he’s kind of an asshole.