Wearing Crocs: surprisingly missing from this list

Nicole might stand on the bus stop and suck on a lollipop in homage to the beloved Around the Way Girl (all the homeboys sweat her ’cause she’s crazy cool–duh).  She is not looking for a date in Dr. Dre’s six-fo’ ala “Let Me Ride.” 

For the latest installment of Lady Killer, Nicole breaks down some simple rules for your man’s and them.  Fellas, take notice.  Ladies, breakfast is ready downstairs (oh!).

 

 

Things Dudes Should Stop Doing, Saying, or Trying to Put Inside Me: Part One in a Series

 

As a grown-ass woman of uncertain age (28), I subscribe to the notion that Figuring Out Men is not as arduous a task as the lead editorial staff at Cosmopolitan Magazine would like for other grown-ass woman of uncertain age to believe. It has nothing to do with my dating like a man* or my dating at all.  It has everything to do with the fact that I am chubby and have had years of quality sidelining to observe and deduce.  Years of watching men lip lick and spit game, years of men lining ‘em up and knocking ‘em down.

 

And now that I am the wiser and that I officially gets mine, I feel it only right to pay it forward and share with women that which men have shared with me. And, more importantly, for me to share with men that which should never be shared with women. Ever. For real, bro, keep that shit to yourself.  Onward!

 

No woman, especially not this woman, is stunning enough to cause you to spontaneously lose all of your faculties.  This includes your voice. So stop hissing at me like I am a jungle cat or a housecat. Or low-level drug dealer.  Or a low-level drug dealer’s cat.  “Pssst” is not a substitute for a smile. Or an ass-grab. Seriously, I’d rather you grab my ass.  Please, just grab my ass.  I’m really cool with this.

 

No woman, especially not this woman, is cool with you calling her “Yo, Miss” as a means to getting her attention. Unless I have been hired by the School District of Philadelphia (or its suburbs cause let’s be real here, suburbs be puttin’ on for their city…limits), it is completely out of your best interest to “Yo, Miss” me into romantic surrender. I’m not your teacher or your supervisor…yet. Let’s save the freak shit for the backseat of your jeep, not the Market/Frankford Line during rush hour on a Monday. When you’re with your children. And their mother.

 

Tempting as it may seem, please stop saying she is stalking you. She isn’t. Unless she has shown up at your job, killed something you loved, or barged into your bedroom wielding a knife with the intent to maim or murder, girlfriend just wants to get to knowww you. You’re not that important and it’s not that serious.

 

I think that it’s especially adorable that you’ve decided to opt for more slim-fitting denim as of late. Seeing the who’s and what’s of your chassis has touched me in ways you never could.  No complaints here. Keep up the good work.

 

If the back of your neck ain’t right, you have no reason to be grabbing on my blowout like Frederick fucking Fekkai. Tighten that shit up, player, and my strands are in your hands.

 

You are not Juelz Santana, so fall back on the Juelz Bandanas. Neck scarves are not an option for you at the present juncture. Unless you’re giving it up to the Nation. In which case, no disrespect.

 

 

Other persons of interest you resemble neither physically nor financially:  Lil Wayne. I do hope those teardrop tattoos on your mug are purely decorative and purely part not real. You are in high school. In New Jersey. The last thing you killed was my libido.

 

The come hither slither? Really? An index twiddling in my Windex is bad for bedroom business. Please believe that the day this shit actually works is the day that women will no longer have a need for you or for the advice you cribbed from the former fat frat bro to whom you owe such tasteless misguidance.

 

What makes you think I want to be seen in public with you either? Say the word and I get ghost. Respect me enough to do the same among mixed company or really attractive drunk boys.

 

Your cell phone is not broken, you did not leave it in your car while you were at the club, and your friend is not holding it for you. You didn’t want to talk to me and who could blame you? I wouldn’t want to talk to me either had I zero interest in what you were saying. Voice-on-voice communication is overrated. Why else would unlimited text messaging and the Internet exist if not for passive aggressively communicating with someone you are banging in whom you have little interest beyond their tenderloin?

 Designer dog tags?  At ease, Army Wife.

 There are only so many variations that I, as a woman above the age of 15, can accept as an appropriate relationship status. Choose one of them and let it ride. Do you: A)  want to have sex with me after which neither of us will be in contact?  B)  want to have sex with me with some frequency but not actually have to go through the whole tired chorus line of courting and money spending?  C) want to go out on dates with me after which one of us might decide that the other one of us is boring and that’s fine, really, it is?  D) want to text each other during work hours because we are both hilarious but have no real romantic connection which is cool too cause my friends can get with your friends and we can be friends?  E) want to be my boyfriend, spend my money, have sex with me, hide our love from my family, and possibly marry in secret for no other reason than because we are both youth in revolt?

 Anything else is not worth my time. Or yours. Or any other person who isn’t a fat teen. We are grown over here.

 Stop telling women that you love seeing them choosing steaks over salad. What you meant to say was, “I love seeing women choosing steaks over salad…as long as they are thin and gorgeous. All them fat bitches? Keep that shit in the closet. No, literally. Please eat only in closets from now on. The sight of you gnashing your teeth makes my dick ascend into my stomach. Ew, stomachs. Sorry, it’s not you…it’s you. It’s totally you.”

 

It’s cool that you don’t drive. I don’t drive either. As long as your walking sticks can get you to a bus stop, a train station, or onto the back of a bicycle or a skateboard, we’re cool. Pregnancy scares rarely go down over the phone. On second thought…

It’s also cool if you don’t have a job. But it’d sting far less if, in the interim, you had a decent hobby.   Like blogging. Blogging is mad sexy.

 But honestly, I do love you.

 When you’re drunk.

 

And by “you’re,” I mean “I’m.” Burn.

 

 

*This is a line bitchy dick-stealing women use to feign apathy in romance that boils down to their being nothing near resembling apathetic, or cool, or laid back in love.  And usually has everything to do with near-hourly texts, weekends away with her fat-ass friends, and no activity  akin to that of vaginal intercourse…but that’s neither hither nor thither.