Swirling! (Women Are All Alike)

I looked at White Guy, to see how he handled S.S.S.’s request for wine, oh, wait, I’m sorry, cold wine. Would he order it by the glass, or would he order a bottle, with a side of ice? More importantly, did he understand the ramifications of S.S.S. being served alcohol? I slurrrped another oyster, while Wife/Daughter munched their shrimp and pretended not to notice the swirling going on around them.

“Waiter,” W.G. said, holding up a finger and ordering while S.S.S. beamed. She did a lot of that. Beaming, I mean. I hoped she wasn’t one of those who enjoyed swirling just for the idea of having a Trophy From Another Race.

I was considering becoming annoyed with her, just on General Principle, but then she threw a move on W.G. that let me know she considered herself to be The Trophy. She shivered slightly, and said, “It’s a bit cool in here, don’t you think?” and hugged her…um…er…self (yeah, that’s it, her self!), effectively hiding all of God’s blessings from W.G….


Subtly suggesting that the Glory of God could possibly be revealed, if…


He would sacrifice his jacket and hand it to her, no, drape it around her shoulders, making sure that Super Soul Sister was warm and comfortable for the duration of the SwirlDate. Would White Guy concede Super Soul Sister’s inherent Trophiness?

Would he???

Be not silly; White Guy almost broke his ankles sprinting over to Super Soul Sister; a moment later, his Ralph Lauren jacket nestled snugly against the puppies. Most of the men in the room envied ol’ Ralph.

Not me.

I said, not me. (Prove otherwise, or shush!!!)

“Humph!” Both of them, nearly simultaneously, but there was a sliiightly different tone to each of their individual grunts. My daughter’s had a slightly wistful note; I’d have to deal with that later. My wife…..hmmmmm…..I’m not sure. Regret? I looked at her; she sat pat with Expression #5—Neutral Boredom.

Like I said, hmmmmm…..

But, no time for all of that right now; White Guy was sprinting again…..

What now?

He really, really needed to spend more time in Smoove Operator class; all that sprinting leaves women, especially Black women, with the wrong idea about getting their needs fulfilled by men. Like, it’s actually possible for a man, especially a White man, to do.

Chile, please!

“That fool done went to the restroom,” my wife said.

That explained it. Cramping, while expected/accepted in women, is never, I repeat, never, tolerated by men; we must relieve it ASAP, especially in the presence of a female we have designs on. Add to the fact that this was his first journey into The Jungle…


What now?!?

I meant The Jungle of Interracial Romance in general, not….

You people have issues!

And I’m not a therapist. Well, I am, but I’m not charging you therapist prices.

Hmmmm…..I should write a new book! Therapy For Wounded Black Women…now there’s a market just ripe for the picking!

Hey, I’m merely relating a story. Just keep reading, and stop it with all the sensitivity!

Does everything have to hurt your feelings???

That’s part of your problem, you know. You desire conversation, but you shun honesty; you seek intimacy, but you want it on your own terms. Men are afraid to show their true feelings with women who penalize them for the effort….but that’s another blog at another time.


You’re saying that the use of the term “Jungle” is not an appropriate word to describe swirling?


(So, I suppose that the world of interracial dating is not fraught with seen and unseen dangers, emotional turmoil, filled with misunderstandings, ignorant stereotyping, old societal taboos, etc, etc??? Sounds like a jungle to me.)

Let me finish my story, and leave you to your tea and crumpets. Where was I?

Oh, yes, White Guy was sprinting to the restroom, using a gait I instantly recognized as Official Guy Reaction #2, I Got A Good Look At ‘Em, Now I Need To Adjust My Slacks. He’d be MIA for about 15 minutes, give or take a few. Depends on how long it was since the last time he’d seen some.

(Guys reading this are nodding their heads. We’ve all been there.)

“Why is he walking like that?” my daughter asked.

“He has to relieve himself, baby,” I gently answered.

“Phhhtttt,” my wife muttered. She wiped her lips with her napkin, and went back to Expression #5. Yes, we definitely needed to talk later.

“Excruse me,” a voice said, “is that ersters you eatin’?” I turned, and found myself face-to-face with Estrogen Valley. While I was watching the rapidly vanishing figure of White Guy, Super Soul Sister had gotten out of her chair and came over to where I was sitting, strategically (I suppose) parking them big ‘uns riiiight where I could see ‘em……

(Guys: Never mind how they looked. Go read your Bible, you heathens!)

(Black Women: No, I did not have to go to the restroom!)

(White Women: “Ersters” are referring to one of several Ebonic pronunciations of “oysters,” including “icesters,” “oisters,” and, of course, the more common, “What the hell is that nasty-lookin’ stuff? You been datin’ White wimmens ag’in?”)


…to be continued…


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