Von

It’s hard to fathom that anyone could mistake Maxwell for anything other than a heterosexual male.

 

And yeah, I’m referring to that Maxwell.

The multiplatinum recording artist who’s released some of the most soulful music of our generation.
The heartthrob/sex symbol who once sang about making sweet, passionate love to a woman until law enforcement came to intervene.

 

But now, because of a little misunderstanding with an autographed poster—my lady friend now thinks Maxwell, the man she’s admired for years, is gay.

Worst of all—she thinks I’m the object of his affections.

So, what shocking turn of events could lead her to such an outlandish conclusion?

 

This disturbing tale began about a week ago.
Maxwell, after an 8-year hiatus, was in town to promote his new album BLACKsummers’night.

The event was billed as The Maxwell Experience—an affair that completely sold out in less than a day. Luckily ol’ girl was able to secure two tickets and invited me along.

We were given Maxwell posters upon entering the venue, which he’d sign at the event’s conclusion.

I gave her mine; I enjoy dude’s music and all—but what the hell am I gon’ do with signed Maxwell memorabilia?

Make no mistake: this was an event for the ladies. Yeah, a few gentlemen were in attendance—but most of ’em accompanied women (is there anything more demoralizing than witnessing yo’ woman act a damn fool at the sight of another man?).

 

Soon Maxwell took the stage to a raucous ovation. For the next hour he talked about his life and music.

However, it was a miracle that dude could complete a sentence, ’cause he was constantly being interrupted by rabid fans.

“We LOVE you, Maxwell!”

“WOOOOO! MaxWELLLLLLLLL!”

 

At one point, the host asked about his favorite meal. When Maxwell hinted that his favorite thing to eat wasn’t food…the women went absolutely apeshit! COMPLETE AND UTTER PANDEMONIUM!

At the height of the madness, a young lady threw her panties onto the stage.

It got me to thinking: I wonder how it feels to wield such power—to have a woman so worked up that she feels the need to throw her panties at you (hopefully not Target panties though).

Must be nice, Maxwell.

 

Soon the Q&A session ended. And Maxwell’s security team rushed him to the area where he’d be signing the aforementioned posters.

The autograph line was long, moving at a snail’s pace. Thirty minutes later we were finally close to reaching Maxwell. As I exited the line, Maxwell’s label people objected to her getting both posters signed. Apparently, I’d have to get mine signed for her.

No big deal.

 

Seconds later, I was face-to-face with Maxwell himself.

He shook my hand. I gave him my poster.

Earlier I noticed that he was wearing the hottest wingtips I’d ever seen. While I had the opportunity, I told him: “Your shoes are killer!”

 

He seemed genuinely moved by the compliment. I know I would be. Stylish men like to know that someone’s paying attention. He scribbled something on my poster and gave it back to me—which I promptly gave to her. And we were on our way.

After inspecting the poster, she asked why Maxwell signed mine with a heart.

 

What? I looked at it; she was right.

It had to be a misunderstanding.
Maybe he couldn’t think of anything else to write. Maybe he knew I was giving it to her.

 

I tried to explain—but she was having none of it: “He didn’t sign a heart on mine?!”

In this era of the rampant DL brotha phenomenon, she could only come to an unspeakable conclusion: Maxwell is gay.

And that the heart he signed on my poster was a sign of his interest—in me!

 

I tried to convince her that such a suggestion was crazy talk.
It’s Maxwell.
MAXWELL!

The guy can have ANY woman he wants. At any time.
I’ve encountered DL men before, and trust me, this wasn’t the same.

 

However, despite my protestations to the contrary, I couldn’t change her mind. And her girlfriends, who were told about what happened, now refer to me as “Maxwell’s honey.”

 

Who knew the Maxwell experience would turn out like this?

I thought the email I sent her was HILARIOUS.

 

However, ol’ girl didn’t seem to share my sentiments:
“Obviously some one let you out of your play pen…I am not going to view your link and honestly not interested in conversing with you…So you know the rest…Peace”

 

Damn.

And just like that, my days of dating the young lady who inspired the Rodman Dating Theory were officially over.

 

This monumental fiasco began a few days ago.

I called the aforementioned young lady to confirm that she was coming over the next day (Sunday afternoon) for some home-cooked spaghetti.

During the course of our conversation, she began to tell me about her day.

About riding around all afternoon looking for a digital camera.
Picking up some awesome seafood.
The bad drivers on the road.
Buying some undergarments at Target.

About how—wait a minute…

*record scratches*

 

Did she just say she bought underwear—at Target?!

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that it really don’t matter where a young lady chooses to purchase her unmentionables. I have a hard time imagining that Target’s undergarment selection is any different than other major outlets.

Lace is lace. Cotton’s cotton.

Victoria’s Secret ain’t got a monopoly on bras and panties.

And I am by no means an underwear snob.

 

However, I saw this as a rare opportunity for me to clown.

You see, we’ve been programmed to believe that women only get their undies from lingerie stores.

When we think bras and panties—Vickie’s and Fredrick’s of Hollywood immediately come to mind.

And, uh, I ain’t thinkin’ about no women’s undergarments when I visit my local Target.

Plus, when dealing with a very attractive young lady (like the aforementioned one)—one who’s likely bombarded with compliments by every lame she passes on the street—it’s critical to occasionally give her a nice ribbing. Just to keep her ass grounded.

I saw my opportunity and pounced immediately.

Nothing obnoxious, just some subtle clowning: “Oh, you get your underwear from Target? Interesting…”

I chuckled. She laughed and told me that she gets them from Vickie’s and Frederick’s also. And the Target ones look just as good on her as the others.

And that if I got a chance to see them on her I’d never know the difference.

At that point, I could’ve transitioned to some light flirting (“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to tell if I saw the Target underwear on you? Prove it.”).

 

Instead I kept clowning.

We both laughed; I didn’t really get the sense that she was irritated. She did call me an asshole before we ended the convo— but I thought she was kidding.

 

The next day she texted me that the snowstorm would prevent her from coming across town for dinner.

I replied: “It’s cool. We can do it some other time. Have fun in your Target underwear.”

She replied with an “LOL.”

Everything was still cool. Or at least I thought so.

 

The next morning I took the joke even further. I searched Target’s website for the most hideous panties I could find. I sent her the link in an email with the subject line: I found your Target underwear online.

 

I checked my mail a few hours later, thinking she’d get a good laugh out of it. Because I thought it was hilarious.

Apparently I was mistaken.

 

Her phone rang a few times—then went to voicemail.

 

I called again. Same result.

WHAT THEE HELL!?

 

I’d just spoken to her a few hours earlier to confirm that I’d be at her place at 10:30. Granted, I was running a few minutes late—but I sent her a text earlier notifying her.

Now I was in front of her building—waiting to pick her up to accompany me to a friend’s get-together.

But she wasn’t answering the phone.

I called one final time. Voicemail.

 

At that point, I could only face the cold, undeniable truth: she was flaking out on me.

I’ll be damned.

But, in all honesty, I blame myself for allowing it—because she’s done stuff like this before.

 

Like the night we were supposed to have some drinks at a nice South Loop lounge.

Just as I was leaving my place, she texted saying her car got a flat en route. I immediately called her. No answer. I texted—to no avail. She finally answered, saying that a friend was coming to fix it. I asked if she wanted company until her friend arrived. No answer.

I went to bed angry.

The next day she called and apologized. Apparently, she was freaked out and “wasn’t thinking straight.”

Mmmm hmmm. I doubted there was ever a flat—but I didn’t have any evidence.

A week later we planned to celebrate her work promotion. When I called Thursday night to confirm, she changed the subject and ended the conversation. So imagine my surprise when she texted the next morning saying that we talked all night but never made plans. I replied, asking when she was free. No answer. Needless to say, we ain’t go out that weekend.

At that point, I vowed not entertain her flakiness EVER again. I wouldn’t call. Nor would I take hers.

To quote our 43rd president: “…fool me once, shame on—shame on you. Fool me—you can’t get fooled again.”

 

But sadly, I couldn’t keep my promise. She contacted me via email a few weeks later. I replied. We corresponded sporadically for a month before I finally caved and invited her to my friend’s get-together.

 

Now, the obvious question is: why would I put up with her flakiness when I’ve dismissed girls in the past who’ve exhibited similar behavior?

It’s simple. Because she’s bad (the verbiage we brothas use for an eye-catching young lady).
She’s really attractive. Great, curvy body. Well dressed. Stylish. Good personality. And the two dates we did have were fun.

We had such good chemistry.

In summation, the reason I keep coming back can be explained by my Rodman Dating Theory.

It’s a sports/dating parallel involving Mr Dennis Rodman (aka, The Worm) himself.

Dude missed practice whenever he wanted—if he bothered to show up at all.
Clashed with teammates. Got in fights. Disobeyed his coaches.
Generally, he was a headache for his team(s) to deal with.

However, he could get away with mostly anything because he was just that talented. A lesser player would’ve been cut for the stuff he did. Whereas Rodman, because he was such a great player, his teams tolerated his ill behavior.

Those exact principles apply to my dating life. I’ll tolerate flakiness from the aforementioned young lady because of her hotness. Whereas a less endearing woman shouldn’t expect the same courtesy.

It’s the sad but unfortunate truth.

 

Back to the night of the get-together.

I felt like a complete and utter doofus waiting in front of her apartment complex while she was, most likely, ducking my calls.

I headed to the party without her. But much to my surprise, I got a text from her before I arrived. It said “K,” as in, “You’re gonna be five minutes late? OK?”

 

I called her after I parked and told her that I’d already called her three times.

To which she claimed that her phone never rang.

And that she just got my text and was ready to go.

I told her I’d already arrived at the party, but I’d come back to pick her up.

With a disappointed tone in her voice, she told me not to bother. And that she hoped I’d have fun.

Damn. I was left wondering if this was another one of her flaky ploys. Or if her phone really didn’t work. It was impossible to know for certain. Still, I contemplated if this was the sign that I should just let this dream go and finally move on.

 

The next day I got a text from her: Hey thanks again hopefully I can have a rain check : )

Awesome. Can’t wait to call her and make plans for this weekend.