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?

Ever listen to Lil’ Kim’s verse on Get Money (the mid-90s classic)?

No, I mean really paid attention?
Before she was America’s Dancing With The Stars sweetheart—she was hardcore! The “black Marilyn Monroe”—who spit lyrics that’d make the filthiest of sailors blush.

As proven on this song:

 

 

Pretty vulgar, right?

 

 

So, while people eagerly dance to this song at crowded nightclubs—common sense would dictate that it’d be completely inappropriate to play at full volume on a crowded train.

 

However, everybody ain’t got “home training,” as the old folks say.

How else to explain the young idiot who blasted Get Money through his iPod at FULL volume—on a train full of horrified passengers?

 

Suffice to say, one hasn’t really experienced awkwardness until baring witness to an elderly Caucasian lady’s reaction to hearing Lil’ Kim rap about ejaculating down another gentleman’s esophagus during oral sex.

The shame of it all…

 

Now, I’ve been riding the Green Line train from lovely Forest Park to downtown Chicago (and back) for years now. And I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my day (like the night some random crackhead called me a bitch).

But this recent epidemic of folks using iPods as boomboxes has gotta be the most ignorant shit EVER seen on Chicago public transportation.

I guess headphones ain’t good enough no more. Nah, man—now they just blast it at obscene levels in enclosed public places.

 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why not just ask dude to turn it down?

Definitely a valid question.

However, if ol’ boy’s ignorant enough to blast ignorant rap music on a crowded train—he probably won’t heed your suggestion.

 

Case in point: a few months earlier, another young dumbass got on the train and proceeded to blast his krunk music on my crowded train.

After a few minutes of hearing the most ignorant rap lyrics ever known to man, a white professional gentleman had finally had enough.

He decided to do what all of us had wanted to do.

 

In a pleasant, respectable tone, he asked: “Could you turn that down, please?”

A sensible request, right?

Clearly the dude blasting his krunk music was out of line by disturbing the rest of the passengers?
And the way he asked wasn’t disrespectful or harshly worded.
Surely the youngster would see the error of his ways and respect his elder’s wishes.

 

Sadly, though, this turned out not to be the case—as he didn’t take too kindly to the request.

“Fukk you mean turn my music down?”
“Hell naw!”
“I can’t believe this nigga asked me to turn my shit down!”
“Can you believe this nigga asked me to turn my shit down?!”

 

Needless to say, he didn’t lower the volume. And, uh, yeah—it was awkward for everyone involved.

 

I briefly caught eyes with an older African American lady. If I had to guess, I’d say that she was in her 50s or 60s. She’s from an era where our people fought for the most basic of human rights. Back in her day, courageous folks shed blood, sweat, and tears so youngsters like him wouldn’t be forced to move to the back of the bus on public transportation against his will.

And this is how this generation repays her? By getting on the train and acting a damn fool?

She had a look that all but said: I busted my ass back in the day for THIS?!

 

It forced me to embrace the unfortunate conclusion: these fools done lost their damn minds.

Either they didn’t think I could see them making out in the backseat—or they just didn’t care.

 

Regardless of their motivations, they went at it pretty hard.

And I wasn’t gon’ stop ’em.

 

It was 2 AM. I’d just picked up my 18-year-old cousin and his date from the last of their prom night activities. My aunt enlisted me to be their chauffeur for the evening—and my final assignment was to take them both home.

I witnessed their debauchery through my rearview mirror.

As the lone adult present, it was my duty to supervise the kiddies and make sure stuff like this didn’t transpire.

However, I couldn’t bring myself to intervene.

Why shouldn’t they have a little fun? Heaven forbid a guy make out with his date on prom night (hell, I had my first kiss at 13).

 

But it got me to thinking—what if they’ve done more than just kiss?
I couldn’t wrap my brain around such a horrifying thought.
Then again, it ain’t like we were angels back then either.

I lost my virginity at the tender age of 17—long after most of my peers.

Throughout my high school years I had to listen to my buddies and football teammates brag about how much “action” they were getting.

It sucked.

Being a virgin, I didn’t have anything to add to sex-related discussions with the fellas. When asked about my experiences—I could only lie.

 

Before judging me for such an unspeakable act of lameness, understand that manhood was defined by how many women one had. So-called pimps and playas were applauded—while virgins were clowned relentlessly.

Therefore, it was of critical importance not to divulge my virgin status.

So I fibbed—making up fake stories of imaginary sexual conquests with make-believe girls.

But in the summer of ’94 I finally got an opportunity to end my years of frustration.

 

I got a call from a classmate one morning.

The same one who’d attempted to get at me for the longest—and for some unknown reason, I’d always declined her advances (maybe I wasn’t over my high-school sweetheart who’d broken my heart). But not this time.

I invited her over between the 2-hour window that my mom left for work and when I had to leave for football practice.

She caught the bus over. I greeted her at the door. Soon we were spooning, fully clothed, on my bed (with the superhero-themed mattress) watching cheesy morning talk shows.

Despite my nervousness, I knew I had to seize this opportunity.

We made out and engaged in what some call “heavy petting.” Soon I relieved her of her clothes—a major accomplishment for a virgin.

 

Holy shit!

I actually had a naked girl in my room! And I was naked too.

I just had one minor problem: I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I WAS DOING!

 

Which was unfortunate—seeing as how I’d lied to ol’ girl about my sexual prowess. In a state of panic, I figured that if I emulated what I saw in the pornos, I’d be cool.

Unfortunately, I failed.

 

After realizing I wasn’t gonna be able to get the job done, she turned me on my back and said she’d handle the rest.

 

Ten minutes later it was over.

 

In a post-orgasmic state, I embraced the fantastic truth: I was no longer a virgin.

 

“Mission accomplished.”
—Our 43rd president

 

Coach yelled at me for being a step slower than usual at football practice that afternoon. But I could only revel in the fact that I finally had a real story to tell the guys.

 

So one can imagine that seeing my cousin and his girlfriend making out in the backseat of the car brought a ton of memories flooding back for me.

Whenever his moment of truth arises, hopefully it won’t be as awkward as mine was.