August 22, 2010

SAM SHARPE

The past few weeks have been crazy interesting. At work, people have been getting laid off left, right and centre. A bit disconcerting to have job security issues when you have a big trip planned. I’ve had several random run ins and encounters with ex girlfriends and ex lovers. Plus, I ran into a dude with whom I used to play summer league basketball. Thing is, he was on the arm of a girl who used to ride me like my name was Flicka. He introduced us. Both the young lady and I played along as if we’d never met. Or tasted each other. But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, all these random encounters, and all this bad date/good date reminiscing we’ve been doing here got me thinking about my strangest “date” ever.

I was young(er), stupide(er) and miles away from home in a sleepy town not too unfamiliar with explicit demonstrations of racism, studying and living in a university residence/dormitory whose non-white population consisted of me, two Chinese guys, one black guy who wasn’t too right and a custodian of indeterminate background. Anyway, as any brotha who’s been in this kind of situation can tell you, white girls eat this shit up. Especially white girls who’ve only seen black guys on TV.

Now, I had never “dated” anyone of the Caucasian persuasion before, but I wasn’t about to let other people’s racial hang ups and biases stop me from getting my f*** on. So when Trista, this blonde haired, blue eyed representative of the Aryan nation called me up just before our final exam and asked if she could borrow my notes I wasn’t about to get all Nation of Islam on her. No, I was fairly certain that “borrow my notes” was her euphemism for “put it in my mouth”.

We met at a local bar. She didn’t inquire about any notes, which was good because I didn’t bring any. We had a few drinks, engaged in some idle banter and then made our way back to her room. I sat on her bed, took off my shoes and then there was a knock at her door. Trista said “come in” and some leggy brunette came through the door. They chatted and giggled quietly. Then the brunette left.

Then another girl came by and the scene was repeated. And then another and then another. At least seven or eight girls came by. Most ignored me. But a couple of them sheepishly introduced themselves to me. I thought it was strange, but I wasn’t about to let it prevent me from getting my swerve on. With all this traffic, Trista suggested we switch the action to my room and said that I should go first and that she’d meet me there. Cool by me.

Ten minutes later Trista is lying on my bed, wearing only her bra and panties. Just as I’m about to do the el removo she says “wait, I’ve got to tell you something”. So, I ease up and let her say her piece.

“All my friends want to know what it’s like, y’know and if it’s true”

“What, what is like?”

“You know, can all of you guys really fuck…do all black guys have big dicks?”

“So was that what that procession of girls in and out of your room was about”

“Yes” she replied nervously.

“Well, I don’t know about all black guys, but you’re about to find out about me” I said.

Anyway, I proceeded to complete the el removo and tried to get in where I fit in. Problem was, Trista was a starfish. She was lifeless. Actually that’s not true. She did make a lot of noise, and punctuated every third thrust with a “That’s it daddy!!!” (I’m not your daddy) and “Oh, yes big boy” (okay, I’ll leave that one alone) which I’d be able to ignore under normal circumstances but considering the relative stillness of her body and the lingering racial stereotyping of the evening, I was left a little cold.

When it was all said and done, Trista got dressed, grabbed her ‘coutrements and left. I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole evening and thought about calling her to talk about it but I just let it pass. I saw Trista briefly on the day of our final exam, but we didn’t talk. And since it was the end of term and I was going home for the summer, I didn’t really anticipate seeing her any time soon, if at all.

Fast forward six months or so. I had totally forgotten about all of it. Me and Charles, one of the few melanin enhanced dudes around and to this day one of my closest friends, are doing a little grocery shopping. We enter the cereal aisle or something when I see her. Trista. But she looks different. Her once flowing blonde locks are gone, replaced by a buzz cut. She was wearing torn jeans, a red flannel shirt and some heavy duty military style looking boots. Skinhead style. She carried a basket in one hand and held her partner’s hand with the other.

Trista’s eyes met mine as we approached. I saw the glint of recognition in them. She turned away and continued her conversation. I looked at her partner, an attractive, similarly coiffed and styled brunette as they passed. I couldn’t stop looking. I couldn’t stop wondering. Part of me hasn’t ever stopped looking, questioning and wondering.

To this day, Charles likes to jokingly remind me of the girl that I f***ed so horribly that I turned her into a racist lesbian. Oh well. You can’t win ‘em all.

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