One would think that as a militant blacktress, the drunk white male would be my sworn enemy.
But as you know from my profile, there is nothing I love more than a tall white boy. Wait, make that a drunken foolish white boy. Not the grabby, belligerent ones, but the ones who are naturally awkward and drink in hopes of alleviating their innate lack of social skills. Unfortunately, the alcohol usually leads to rambling and accidentally spilling their beverage-- oh yeah, and objectifying me.
There is nothing I love more than being objectified. Quite frankly, my evening is not a success unless someone has referred to me as "shorty" or "ma" (paging Dr. Freud!), or told me my "ass is like damn in those jeans!"
Last night, shortly after 2 am on Avenue A, I was walking with friends and stopped outside of a bar. Out of nowhere lumbers a short man who can best be described as a misplaced cowboy. With tight black jeans, cowboy boots, hat, and a wonderful shirt with roses on the pocket flaps, I thought he might be an oppressor. I was wary as he approached me.
He then smiled at me and said hello, revealing the longest southern drawl this side of the Mason-Dixon line. This both softened me and shuttled me back to slavery days.
It was late, I was eating my post-midnight pizza to stave off drunken nausea, and this fellow from Baton Rouge wanted to chat.
After asking him if he was having fun and complimenting his ensemble (and telling him to be careful with these city girls), I walked off with my group. As I exited, he called out,
"GOODBYE, BEAUTIFUL PIZZA-EATING BLACK GIRL!!!"
Do you now see why I can't pass up a tall glass of milk? I'm not lactose intolerant if you're not blacktose intolerant-- and this man clearly wasn't. He had taken his Black-taid tablets that morning.
And he saw into my soul. He looked into my eyes and saw that at the core, underneath the banter and the hot dress, was a beautiful, pizza-eating black girl.
I miss you, Baton Rouge cowboy. I want to ride off into the sunset.
4 comments:
Incredible.
I am so, so happy about this blog.
I was there. I swear it to be true. That urban cowboy LOVED him some Mad Blacktress.
I'm realizing, N.E., that I fall precisely under your rubric of tall skinny socially awkward white boy who (it could be said) utilizes alcohol to cover up his lack of social skills. And it also be noted that I love me some Mad Blacktress.
What I want to ask is: how many of us do you know, anyway? We tall white artists are sensitive creatures, you know. Not so sure I want to be tossed in the same bag as your run-of-the-mill cowboy of the street, I am.
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