Find me a date. No, seriously.

Perhaps its time for me to start dating again.  I don’t mind being single and I don’t care about eating alone or being alone or doing anything else alone. Except for vacations.  I do prefer to travel alone, but once I get where I’m going its usually twice as expensive to be by myself than it is to stay a deux.  Particularly at my age, when single friends are dwindling in numbers, it gets ever harder to convince someone to go someplace with me on the rare occasion that I’m sick of myself and want some company.  Then there’s scoring a date for all those weddings people insist on having so I won’t get all weepy and wistful during the new marrieds’ first dance or the other slow songs the DJ is obligated to play.

But how does one find a suitable date, let alone a suitable mate?  Honestly, I don’t know how people get together.  Sometimes it seems like lightening striking or an act of God, which is how people who’ve found each other generally describe it.  Now how is that supposed to help me?  I’ve met men at parties, bars, clubs.  Nope, nope, nope.  I’ve turned friendships into relationships, which nobody recommends and me least of all.  Internet dating is the worst of the worst.  Everyone knows couples who met online and fell in love and got married and are living happily ever after.  I do as well and I’m sincerely happy for them. But for me, let’s just say that I’ve dated a good many men I met on Match or eHarmony or whatever, and there’s a reason we never crossed paths before, and a reason we never will again without the information superhighway.  29 dimensions of compatibility my eye!  Lots of you will tell me I’m wrong so right on ahead.  Like the MBA that I am, I’ve done the research and run the numbers, and internet dating isn’t a good investment at this juncture.

I could always go out with some of the random men that hit on me daily, pass out my phone number a few times, except for the fact that I don’t want a bunch of random men walking around with my number.  Or I could act like a man and ask every somewhat attractive male that I see to go out with me.  First, I just don’t have that kind of game because, though well socialized, I’m still a dork.  Second, I don’t really see anyone who looks so good that, hot damn, I gotta get him and fast.  If you want to know the truth, and I know you do, I have flipped the script before.  No, not that one.  There was a time not so long ago when all I wanted was to get laid.  Not exactly dating, but bear with me here.  Now you have to understand that at that time, I looked a lot more like the stereotypical male fantasy of beauty than the rotund, natural-haired woman I am today.   Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the shit no matter how much I weigh, just that some people don’t see it that way.  Anyhow, I trolled the bars, had the obligatory public drunken make-out sessions and put myself out there like a tramp.  Know what happened?  Nothing.  Apparently I fell into the alternate NY universe where men want relationships and not casual sex.   So much for men wanting only one thing: turned out that my mother was actually wrong about something. Only once, though.  I mean, who did I have to sleep with to get laid in this town?  That would make a catchy title for a book if I could stomach enough sexual free-for-all to do the research.  It turns out that I can’t.

Some time later, after another annoying relationship that started out okay (yeah, I met him on the internet), I decided to give the men-for-sex-only thing another try, but in a classified ad kinda way.  That’s right, kids, I went to craigslist, purveyors of the one night stand.  They probably own stock in condom companies.  Here, one can have all the sex they want, but it turns out that I didn’t want it at all.  I was just bored and oddly intrigued by the kind of people who photograph their genitals and post them on message boards.  It seems that penises, like casual sex, are better when they’re attached to a man you like.  Or at least one whose last name you know.  I got nothing from that period of my life but funny stories and a pin from a Naval Officer during Fleet Week.  Come to think of it, I did complete my “Men of the Armed Forces” collection with that Marine from St. Patricks Day.  Happily I have no other souvenirs, hence my comment about owning stock in prophylaxis.

But back to my original topic and my potential journey from singledom.  I’ve looked everywhere for men, with the exception of church and prison.  Jail is a no-go, and quite frankly so is church.  To me, the sanctuary is a sterile environment, hence the name, and I’m really not thinking about men when I go in there.  Besides, extending the Right Hand of Fellowship doesn’t include copping a feel or slipping someone your number.  I have been hit on in church, mind you, and with all manner of Christian kindness I say to men looking to score at the 9:30 service, keep your hands to yourself and God bless you.  Now if you want to strike up a relevant conversation in the vestibule and dovetail that into “would you like to continue this fascinating discussion about Pastor’s interpretation of Luke?”,  I can dig it.  Just don’t let the rest of the single women in the church see us ’cause I don’t like gossipy whispering while I’m on the tithing line.  Amen.

So, friends, here I am.  Single and looking to mingle.  And by “mingle” I mean dating where sex is not expected at the end of it, or in lieu of it, but could probably be worked in at an appropriate time in the future if both parties are amenable.  I’ll probably regret this but I’m offering a challenge:  Date Me or Find me a Date.  If you’re a single straight man reading this, and you’re as intrigued and amused by my ramblings as you should be, let’s go out for a drink or coffee.  If I’ve tagged you in this note on Facebook, a witty and/or hilarious explanation will be the only accepted form of rejection.  Or that you’re kinda seeing someone.  I may put it all out there, but not that far out there.

If you’re not single, or are a woman, you are obligated to find me a date that you think I might like.  There’s plenty of written fodder you can use to figure that out.  No fair being married and setting me up with your only single male friend who still lives with his mother and collects Princess Diana dolls.  And no fair introducing me to the only Black man you know, even though he has no sense of humor, didn’t finish high school, and his last 3 girlfriends have looked like Gwyneth Paltrow.  Use some discretion, okay?

As an added bonus, I have many single female friends/cousins/coworkers/classmates of all sizes and colors and I’m willing to introduce them to some new fellas.  You know, pay it forward.

If I were to write a 1980′s-style personals ad for myself, it would go something like this:  “Sarcastic, sexy smartypants seeks similar for scintillating conversation over coffee or drinks.  D/D free.  Age, race unimportant, but opinions and height are.  Democrats preferred, but willing to argue with M.O.R. Republicans.  No prudes.”

What do you have to lose?  Worst case, you’ll have stories to tell your friends.  Best case, I’ll have stories to write for my friends.  Don’t worry:  I won’t use real names.

Black Sexuality in the Academy

Ok, this was on page 2 of my search for "black female professor" ....NOW I'm thinking conspiracy!

When considering a photo accompaniment to my last post, Beam Me Up, Professor, I briefly considered stealing a friend’s Facebook profile picture, which features him at a lectern.  He looks young, Black, and professorial, which is what I was going for.  Actually, his status update yesterday about Black feminism, sexuality, and Spike Lee’s She’s Got to Have It, along with the ensuing discussion, were my inspiration today.  But I didn’t necessarily want to associate someone else’s academic career with my Effexor-filled musings, so I left that alone.  However, he will be tagged when this note makes it to FB.

When I performed a Google image search on “Black professor”, I was thinking along the lines of some stock image of an intellectual-looking older woman, like Toni Morrison, posing in front of a bookshelf.  Or a stodgy-looking, stereotypical image of  a career academic wearing glasses and smoking a pipe.  Like Cornell West, after whom I’d model myself if ever I became a tenured professor.  He’s a little crazy, as am I, and people still listen.  Plus it would have made a nice counterpoint to my post.  But I’d forgotten about Skip Gates’ arrest, the “Beer Summit”, and “I’ll meet yo’ mama outside”…we have short memories, my dear friends, so I got a lot of Gates’ mug shot and related pics.

On page 3 of my search I came upon the picture I will post below – figuratively, not literally.  Viewer discretion is advised, so send the kids to the next room.  I know that the results are not some kind of conspiracy, and happened only because the words “black” and “professor” appeared together in a search.   Still I’m suspicious, and not surprised that Black academics don’t write about sex anymore because of this kind of association.  Cursed Boolean operators, I probably should have specified  “professor” not “ASS”.

Apparently one of the stars of this gem is called “Ass Professor”.  Now there’s a career that I’ve yet to consider, but if they have a good health insurance plan, I may have to reconsider….COBRA is a mutha!

For those of you who understand blogs and tags and how to increase your hits, I’m going to tag this post with “ass professor” and “black bisexuality”  and “black porn”, along with “black professor” and “black academic”.  Gee, I wonder what will happen?

If you’re into this kind of thing (Not you, Tanya), you can buy or download this title from Bobbi Bliss Entertainment.  I can neither cond0ne nor condemn that kind of behavior, but I felt it my public duty to put it out there and save y’all some time at the computer terminal.  The link is too long, otherwise I’d post it.

For the sake of “parity” in the “media”, check out today’s earlier post:  it’s PG.  http://mypolaropposite.wordpress.com/2009/09/01/beam-me-up-professor/

Apple Store: Cigarette not included

The other day, I decided to go to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan because I was looking for a few things (headphones, a laptop bag, anti-glare film and an armband for my iPhone.  You know, the usual).  This particular outlet is familiar to me, since I’d visited their Genius Bar for my iBook, and got my new MacBook there.  Yup, I’m that girl.  During those visits I had a mission – getting something fixed, making a specific purchase – so I didn’t really look around.  But this time I had some browsing to do and I came to a fascinating conclusion.  The Apple Store is the modern-day pick up joint for geeks, a nerdy amalgam of the nightclub and the strip club.  Allow me to explain.

Like many people who descend the translucent staircase at the Fifth Avenue Apple Store, I’m a huge geek on the inside but I hide it with the beautifully cool facade you’ve come to love.  My first date with my last long-term boyfriend included a trip to the SoHo Apple location, which is probably why I slept with him on the second date.  But I digress…

Anyway, all the stores have those near-invisible stairs which, now that I think of it, are like Lucite stripper heels.  And here begins the comparison.  The stores are always so crowded, the queues are cordoned off to separate the Genius Bar people (“VIP”) from the hoi polloi copping free WiFi.  And the music is always BUMPIN’ like you’re in a club.  The marketer in me says, “They’ve recreated the music-based experience synonymous with wearing your iPod everywhere, thus giving your life a soundtrack.”  The single scenester in me thinks, “Where the party at??” and sidles up next to the guy with Elvis Costello glasses fingering MacBook Air.

That’s the other part:  you can touch everything.  With loud music and technologically-inclined young people jammed together in front of demonstration tables, it’s like rushing the stage and sliding a crisp, new bill into Kandi’s g-string.  Looking is great, but you really want to touch.  You want to caress.  And, unlike the champagne room, this domicile lets you get your computer rocks off as you feel the soft, gentle give of the Mac keyboard.  Oh…wow, that feels nice. Then you can see yourself reflected in MacBook’s shiny white surface, along with the cutie reaching past you for the information card.  Oooh.  It’s so smooth. New iPod Shuffle?  It looks like a bullet, a top-secret device designed to hold your personal, private playlist.  You can put it anywhere you want.  And the walls are lined with multicolored accessories, lovingly arranged by model, letting you personalize each Apple product you own.  Hot pink hard case for iPhone.  Oh!! Reflective armband for iPod Nano.  Oh, yeah!! And it has…A…Built-in…Headphone…Keeper.   Oh God, that’s it, that’s the one!  Right there!  That’s it!  Oh God!  Oh God!  OH MY GOD!

Face flushed and giggling softly to yourself, you skulk to one of the dudes in matching t-shirts for the credit-card check-out.  They can e-mail you the receipt, so you can relive the moment in the privacy of your own home.