Interracial Dating, Part 2

…continued…

Super Soul Sister sat, beaming with Expression # 52D—I Gots Me A White Man, while Skinny White Guy scurried around the table and found his chair.

My goodness. Front-row seating at a Swirl Event, although, technically speaking, (for you purists out there), a Reverse Swirl Event. Because normally, it’s Brudder Man With a White Woman.

Sidebar:

Reverse Swirl Events are rare, thankfully. Sisters aint quite there yet. Too many jealous girlfriends out there for a curious Black woman to feel enough courage to try them a little White meat.  But when they get tired of Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to flip them over to do some freaky jailhouse sex and giving them some alphabets they don’t need, like Hep B, or AIDS, or Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to reclaim his manhood, by beating a Black woman’s azz, well then maybe, juuuuust maybe, they’ll give Jared Whitemeat some play.

But I aint holding my breath.

Back to blog:

You know how that is. Cuz walks in, looking around to see who’s paying attention, with Blondie walking behind him, Coach purse clutched tightly under her arm. She has to have that purse, because she’s the one paying for it. He holds her chair for her, while she smiles and thanks him. You know she’s smiling because she got Homeboy trained. Make you wanna holla, don’t it?

I sipped tea, and studied the two grim faces at my table, rather happy that I wasn’t the source of the grimness. But, I had to be careful here. Super Soul Sister had them big guns pointed dead at me, and I had to make sure I responded appropriately. In other words, no ogling, admiration, or any reference to their size, shape, or symmetry, the harmonious balance between……

(cough)

Where was I?

Huh?

Whaddya mean, “heading toward the abyss”?

Chile, please. I am a Smoove Operator, First Class; I’ve been in battlefield situations before. One Black chick with big ‘uns wasn’t no big deal, trust me. Besides, Skinny White Guy and His Black Date had me covered.

“Now you know she know better than that,” my daughter said, sotto voce.

“She knew better before she left her house,” my wife answered, voce equally sotto. “Look at her, sitting up there like Elsie the Frickin’ Cow.”

“Got milk?” I said with a straight face.

“Why, you thirsty?” my wife asked.

Hey, I like to live dangerously. I’m too old to skydive, and bungee-jumping aint my style, so a couple of well-placed wisecracks does it for me. I just had to be careful not to exceed my quota for the night.

The secret is, Rookie Husbands, is to change the subject, and let them bring it back up again. That way, you don’t get accused of obsessing, ‘cause they’re the ones that’s talking about it.

See? That’s the kind of helpful info you get in my books…

“Look at him,” my daughter said, “He don’t know which way to look! Left, right, up, down, everywhere but what he want to look at! Haa!” My wife giggled along with her; two schoolgirls sharing an adolescent secret. Then, my daughter looked at me. “Daddy?” she asked.

“What, my dear?” I asked, slurping down a fat oyster, dripping with hot sauce.

“If that were you, what would you do?” She asked it innocently enough, but there were enough land mines scattered there to blow up a platoon, trust me.

“Yes, Dad, what would you do?” my wife purred, but she didn’t fool me, not a bit. They both looked at me; my daughter with Expression # 18B—Advice-Seeking Seriousness, my wife with Expression # 33—Go For It With Yo’ Bad Self.

Cue “High Plains Drifter” flute music…

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