Von

Here are the top five things women can get away with—but we (men) can’t (click here for the things men can’t get away with that hit the cutting room floor).

 

1) Not pulling out your wallet on the first couple dates: No matter what these “independent” women claiming they “don’t need a man to do nothin’ for ‘em” assert, when that shiny black leather envelope comes at the end of dinner—they expect yo’ ass to pick it up. And handle it. No matter how beautifully the date goes beforehand—the real moment of truth happens when the check arrives.

‘Cause if you don’t pay, you ain’t gettin’ a second date (a second date where you’ll again be expected to foot the bill). Plus, as soon as they get in their car, they’re gon’ call their girls (no matter how late it is) and dog you the hell out.

2) Asking their partner to investigate the loud, mysterious noise they heard outside the bedroom in the middle of the night: Words you’ll NEVER hear a man say to his significant other: “What the hell was that?! Honey, can YOU go check it out? I’ll stay here and dial 9-1-1 .”

3) Touching the dancers at the strip club: Not only is it cool for the young ladies to touch (aka, grope, molest, stroke, etc) a male stripper—it’s encouraged. If one of the fellas touched a stripper at the titty bar? We get a critical beatdown courtesy of several 300-pound bouncers and subsequently thrown out on the cold pavement like Uncle Phil used to do Jazzy Jeff back in the day.

4) Staying at home to raise the kids while the spouse supports the family: It’s normal for women to sacrifice their hopes and dreams to embrace the role of stay-at-home mom. But you wanna know who really respects the “men” who forego a successful career to stay home, take care of the kids, clean the house, wash the dishes, scrub the toilet, walk the dog, and make sure dinner is ready when wifey walks through the door?

No one (not even ol’ girl).

5) Cockblocking friends at the club because they’re deeply wounded that no one is tryin’ to holla at her: While having a jealous woman sabotage her friends’ night on the town by imposing her will and single-handedly stopping anyone in the group from getting any male attention may be OK for women—shyt’s completely unacceptable for men.

Us gentlemen live by a code of honor—a set of rules. One of which explicitly prohibits cockblocking our boys for ANY reason. Failure to obey this essential guideline results in one being ostracized, labeled a “hater,” and permanently banned from any future group outings (“Hell naw I ain’t call Phil. That hatin’-ass dude blocked Mustafa from holla-ing at ol’ girl last weekend.”)

Women who cockblock? They’re invited out the very next weekend.

 

 

Got it timed out and everything.
If I leave my apartment at the right time (10:42), I’ll make it to the train station in time to catch the one that usually leaves at 10:48.

However, if I happen to miss the 10:48 train—I’m usually late for work. So it’s of critical importance that I catch this particular one every day.

 

I got there tired and out of breath (it’s tough to run in a leather jacket and boots), walked to the top of the stairs, and got to the platform—only to see that everyone had already boarded.

Shit! That usually means it’s about to depart!
It was all the way at the other side of the platform—about 90 feet away (the length of a basketball court).

With the last bit of energy I could rally, I went on a dead sprint to catch it. I was about halfway there when I saw the CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) dude get off the train. It can’t leave the station until he finishes his inspection, gets off, and signals for the conductor to leave. Thankfully dude got off and saw me sprinting towards him; he’d hold it for a few more seconds (like they usually do for people running for the train).

But in a shocking, unprecedented turn of events, that muhfukka looked me dead in the eye—then turned and gave the conductor the signal to leave.

 

 

WHAT THE FUKK, dog!!!!!

At this point I’m about 30 feet away from the train. Another 5 seconds and I’m there. They can’t leave without me, right?

WRONG!

The train pulled off right before I got there. Shattering my hopes and dreams of making it to work on time (while the Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background).

 

 

Instead, I started walking. Walking toward the dikkhead who just told the train to leave without me.
I would’ve liked nothing more than to whoop on his bitch ass all over that gotdamn train station!
If he’s man enough to tell the train to leave, he’s man enough to take this foot up his ass!

As I approached dude, I expected him to look me right in the eye with a look that said, “Yeah, muhfukka. I did it! Whatchu gon’ do about it?” And at that point I would have “stole on” his bitch ass—then sat down and read my morning newspaper.

But in the ultimate bitch move, dude turned his back and leaned against the wall.
He ain’t even have the guts to look me in my rage-filled eyes.

Pussy mutherfukker.

I guess the moral of the story is: If you’re gon’ do some cold-blooded, callous shit like that, at least be man enough to face the person you just screwed. Don’t be a coward and do no passive-aggressive shit—like turning your back before I get there.

‘Cause now we got beef. For life.
Dude better watch his back tomorrow morning.

The same night I met the flaky club chick and learned about my evil twin—I also ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

We’ll call her Anita (not her real name).
Anita and I go way back.
Back to our days at the same grammar school.

Seeing her out that infamous night brought back a very distinct memory.

The memory of my greatest fumble.

*****

Back in the 8th grade I was a lame, comic-book readin’ goofball who wore taped-up bifocals.

I got clowned constantly.

For my big nose.
For not rockin’ up-to-date clothes (thanks, mom).
For wearin’ Pro-Wing gym shoes (kids are so materialistic).
For being smart and makin’ the honor roll (only dumb muhfukkas make fun of smart kids).
Oftentimes I was the joke of the entire classroom—with Anita joining the others in laughing hysterically at my expense.

Anita was one of the most popular girls in the 8^th grade. She was cute—and built like a fukkin’ stallion. All of the fellas used to try to holla. As you can imagine, it really bruised my ego and self-esteem to see that Anita—one of the most desired girls in my school—was one of the people cackling.

*****

The only good thing about my grammar school years? I had nowhere to go but up.

I gradually came out of my shell.
I dressed better. Started workin’ out.
My confidence and self-esteem grew.
I started gettin’ attention from the young ladies.

The best was when I ran into the jackasses who used to clown me back then—folks whom the years had not treated kindly.

Losers.

*****

The years had been kind to Anita, though. She was still attractive—and built like a stallion. We ran into each other a few times throughout the years (through a mutual friend). At the gym. At clubs. At the mall (back when I used to go out every weekend). We even became friends.

Fast forward a few more years. Anita just happened to be driving by my apartment one day as I was goin’ in.
She pulled over and we talked for a bit. She was coming from work and on her way to run some errands, but had a little time to kill. I invited her in to check out my place (the one that my rowdy, crunk neighbors chased me away from). She came in and sat on the couch. I put in my new Kill Bill Vol. I DVD that came out a few days earlier. I sat on my futon, directly across from her on the couch.

I noticed that she had on a short-ass skirt. All of her legs were exposed as her skirt rode up when she sat down. I got a nice lil’ glance at her panties. J

As the movie played, she seemed restless. Fidgety.
She kept emphasizing that she had to leave soon.
But it seemed like she was waiting for something to happen first.
Finally she asked what I was doing for the rest of the night.
I told her I was just gon’ chill, as I laid horizontal and propped my feet up.

“Do you normally chill with your pants on?”

That seemingly innocent question should have made it perfectly obvious what she was waiting on. She was saying everything—almost by saying nothing at all. In retrospect, it was all so clear. This was the moment of truth. The moment where I had a chance to complete my transformation. To officially bury my grammar school persona.

*****

I don’t remember the answer I gave her, but I don’t think it was what she wanted to hear. She left soon thereafter.

It wasn’t until she was long gone that I figured out what had just happened.
What could’ve happened—but didn’t because I was too naïve to read the signs.  

I blew it.

I guess in the back of my mind I always thought she saw me as the goofball she used to laugh at in 8th grade. Not a desirable man.

****

Back to 2008. She’s married. We’re still cool.

But I’ll never forget the night that could have been.