Givers – “Ripe”
Just hit a dry spell? Need sex? Here’s a thought: dress like a tool.
Think I’m joking? Look at this.
I’ve always been of the understanding that girls of my own race/ethnicity/creed are easier to get than outsiders. It’s not uncommon to think that most people want someone that’s within their own race. Their own religion. Share their families view points. Things are easier this way.
As a result, girls of similar backgrounds tend to like me more than others. I’ve passed for quite a few races, but the main ones tend to be black, indian/native american or hispanic.
I’ve seen these type of girls show more interest — the prettiest of the pretty, the prudest of the prude. As a result, I tend to have pretty high standards for all three. Average black girl wants me? Yeah, right.
Black is my most common asset and black is what I often associate with. For blacks I offer that alternative negro. Educated, two-parent home, “Black on the outside, white on the inside,” I suppose. Not that I necessarily agree with that (what characterizes as acting a “color,” anyways? is that even possible?) but I embrace it if it gets me ahead.
Before I go further, let me say that this doesn’t just exist in the black-white mix. Speaking in generalities, there’s the white-asian mix in which we often find Asian women and white men together. The thing about this mix is that there isn’t that emphasis on stereotypes. Blacks and Asians have been stereotyped for years, but Asian and White are generally closer than Black and White.
This is a conclusion of a lot of things, but for the efforts of this post let’s keep at it this: expectations are that a black person will act in ignorance due to urban upbringings while an Asian person is likely to act in book smarts due to a suburban upbringing. Asians have even developed the persona of the “model minority.”
There’s a sheer exoticism to the idea of interracial relationships. A different color against your skin could be one of them. Maybe a big fuck you to the parents that said they’d never allow this. Maybe love overbears all of this (and it should!)
For me, I often enjoy white women more than others. This isn’t a knock on black women or any kind of woman. It’s simply a matter of numbers. Whites are the majority, they constitute 2/3rds of our population. If I walk outside, I see white. When I get married, I’ll probably marry white. There’s a 2/3rds chance that it happens just based on numbers alone.
My issue has always been crossing over. Looking black doesn’t possess some of the stereotypes that many white counterparts expect when they meet a black person (hence, black on the outside, white on the inside.) What I’m getting at it is that being black isn’t enough for a white woman that only dates black men. You have to look the part. Act the part. Be one with the stereotypes.
It doesn’t hurt that college is the ideal time for experimentation. You’ve all heard about black men. That “once you go black, you never go back.” Your mother warned you about us. Your father condemned you ever bringing one of us home. Here’s your best shot to stick it to ’em in college. You’ll only live once, so take a black dick or two while you’re here. God knows you can’t do it in five years when your college experience is over and you bring some nice white man home. And college is the place for experimentation.
Oh and he better be a real black man. One that fits the stereotypes. If you’re going to go black, you mise well get the authentic experience. None of this educated bullshit!
For the purposes of this post, I’ve embraced the stereotypes in my own social experiment via clothes. I dressed as a “thug,” on three separate occasions.
So what happens when I appear as a thug? Black enough for the black population; exotic enough for the White population?
This past weekend I experimented with just this. I took my nerdy hipster glasses off. I put a flat brimmed hat on. Place it backwards. Simple, but effective.
The results were envious. Girls throwing themselves at me. Pointing me out of crowds. This never happens to me. Ever. Once in a blue moon. MAYBE.
Let’s start with Thursday night. I hit the bar. My friends and I always joke about how difficult it is to meet a woman at the bar. How we have to lower our standards at the bar. Older women are tough. You can’t just thrust your genitilia near their ass, grab their hand and dance. These girls are “classy.” These girls are “lesbians.” These girls are “uninterested.”
Their 18 and 19 year old house party counterparts? Oh, they’re “sluts.” Only because they like to have fun though. You throw your pelvis near their bum, and they dance. Unlike the bar women, they actually go to house parties to dance with men. And get dry humped in the process.
So I go to the bar on Thursday. Walk into Thirsty’s, a local bar that’s a minute off campus. Some girl with a crown comes up to me. It’s her birthday. She grabs my hat, puts it over her crown and asks me to dance. Then my hat falls off her head. Suddenly I freak. She lost my hat. Bitch. She keeps pulling me closer to dance, but I tell her to fuck off. She just lost my hat. Social experiment over before it even started.
Or not. My friend Mike finds my hat. Social experiment continues. I go around the bar, clearly on the creep. Mud is on my hat, but it doesn’t diminish whatever swagger I displayed (ironic emphasis on “swagger.”)
Thirsty’s girls tend to be a bit classier than girls at other nearby bars. Classier in the sense that they’re more likely to turn you down, tell you they’re lesbians, or tell you they’re uninterested in dancing with you. Uninterested? So why did you come to the bar in the first place? Drink your ass off and dance with your three friends in mini skirts? Couldn’t you do this at home without creeps like me trying to dance with you?
Tonight was a different night though. Every girl danced with me. When I say every, I mean every. I was turned down once, in a near impossible situation.
My friend Elvis has the insatiable need to desire dancing with girls on the stage. If you know anything about anything you know the chances of getting a girl to come off stage to dance with your lame ass is less than Rosie O’Donnell taking a dick next Tuesday. You’ve got a better chance of being the 1% on Wall Street. I’m not kidding.
We look at each other before we make our move.
“Which one do you want?” he asks.
“The one on the left,” I reply.
“Good. ‘Cause I wanted the other one.”
He goes up to his girl on stage. She denies him. He does the smooth Elvis thing but she continues to deny him. In the process I’ve barely said anything to my girl besides putting my hand out and a simple “do you want to dance.”
She denies me of course, but also asks me to forgive her. Um, what? Are you sorry because you don’t want to dance with me or are you sorry because your friend denied my friend and you would have danced with me if not for your shitty friend because I’m your ideal black thug? Hmph. Fuck the 99%. I am the 1%.
I go to Huskies. The less “classy,” version of Thirsty’s. Some girl immediately points me out, touches my chest & tells her friend to dance with me. What? Does this happen to anyone else?
Night can’t get any more weird, right? I can’t possibly receive any more attention than I’ve been receiving all night. I leave Huskies for food. My friend Chris’ is there & offers to sober drive me…& three of his other friends. I sit in the passenger seat & mind my business. The girl behind my seat grabs my shoulders from behind the seat. Gentle massage. Grasps parts of my back….for the entire ride. I don’t even know her name. Weird. Really weird.
Not only am I not used to this type of attention, I’m actually a bit overwhelmed. Is this what the basketball team feels like? Is this what those macho frat guys feel like? Those 6’3, jacked, pieces of shit that I loathe? Partially because their douchebags, partially because they use Greek life as a means to get laid (and women fall for it like morons.)
It doesn’t end here though. Thursday night was a success, so why not try my luck Friday? I hear about a house party at my friend Devin’s house. I attend with about ten friends or so.
Admittedly, this night wasn’t nearly as flattering as the night before. Surprising too, considering it was a house party. You know, where the “slutty,” girls reside.
My success rate at thrusting my genitilia into the bum of a female (dancing) wasn’t nearly as great. I was turned down about half the time, which is still better than a typical bar night. Where the night really shined was on one simple occasion.
I go up to my friend Joyce, whom is dating my friend Ethan. I whisper in her ear something that I don’t recall. The girl next to Joyce asks Joyce what I whispered in her ear. Joyce like the lovely wing woman she is replies”He said he wants to dance with you!” to this random girl. Random girl doesn’t think this could be possible. I, of course play along and say I’d love to dance with this girl. The details are fuzzy, but somehow we dance for half a song. Then she turns around & says I’m probably a douchebag.
Harsh words for a girl I’ve known for less than five minutes. We continue chatting, with the only parts of the conversation I truly recall are basics about her life, where I work and how tall I am. She consistently denies throughout the conversation that I ever wanted to dance with her. She’s difficult. Really, really difficult. She says that all men are cliche’. All men are shitty. She tells me I’m probably like all of them. She tells me I’m cliche’. She tells me I’m shitty.
I, of course deny. Denial is the key to success in these type of situations even if she may in fact be right. I even bring up small instances to sound “less cliche’.” I remind her that cliche’ guy probably wouldn’t spend 20 minutes on a broad as difficult as her (the fact that I’m calling her a broad tells you all you need to know about me.) I tell her that she’s actually my type physically (which she is…I think.) I tell her before I’m going to throw a cliche’ line on her, to diminish how cliche’ it may sound.
It comes down to this. Her friend is trying to get away from my friend Tom & they have to “find their friend.” She tells me she’ll give me her number on one occasion–that I remember her name. I draw a complete blank. I don’t remember her fucking name. I’ve been talking to her for 30 minutes, fighting with her on how I’m not “like those other guys.” How I’m a “nice guy.” The last thing I remember is her fucking name! Hell, I remember her state of residence, age, height with & without heels and other unnecessary information over her name.
She looks pissed. Deservedly so.
Her: “You don’t remember my name…do you?”
Me: “…you never told me your name”
And yet, for most girls this is a complete deal breaker. The nerve of this shitty guy to talk my ear off for 30 minutes about how he’s “different,” and a “nice guy,” only to not remember the one piece of information about me that’s been inherent since birth. My fucking name. What a tool.
This is the response I deserve. This is probably what she’s thinking. And yet, she gives me her number anyways. What? I just don’t get it. This would never work for me in any other situation. Ever. Fuck, I didn’t even think a girl like this would spend 5 minutes on me, let alone 30 with a phone number to boot. A phone number that works too, might I add. We’re eating with one another on Friday. Funny how a slight wardrobe change makes all the difference.
My only dilemma now is this–do you dress like the “stereotypical black guy,” to get girls or not? Sure, women will possibly overwhelm me with attention, but is it the attention I want. She’ll see me soberly and probably be upset. This guy wears glasses? Chucks? Skinny jeans? I thought I was getting a thug.
I guess I can’t complain. It takes a shallow female to only dance with me because I came off as a thug based on clothing style. But I guess I do the same thing when I decide to dance with the skinny girl over her fat friend. Or the brunette over the blonde. Or the tall one over the short one. Preference is preference, I suppose.