Snow Sisters

She said she was in the Army reserves. Smoky bar. Low expectations, but it was definitely on. My friend confirmed that the petite one with the long brown hair had been giving me the eye for the better part of an hour. She nabbed me on my way to the bathroom and ended up buy me a drink. As I pulled on my comp Heineken, the getting to-know-you conversation drifted to into her reasons for joining the Army reserves.
"It's all about that loot, kid. Dollah-dollah bill y'all," she spilled out ebonically.
Foiled again, I thought as I began the longest round of bobbing and weaving in the history of pub pugilism. Though I wasn't looking for a soul mate, I had been caught-off guard by snow sister, a white girl trying to connect with me by dropping street slang into her otherwise suburban speech patterns. After finishing my drink, I excused myself to relieve an imaginary bladder condition. The crowd mercifully covered my dash for the door.
People are always talking about brothers going buck wild to score the white girl, but, in my recent experience, "Where the white women at?" has gotten a facelift. Caucasian concubines are turning the tables, a bunch of daddy's girls looking for a roll in the hay with a black guy to find out first hand if the myths are true, while fulfilling their parents' worst nightmare. The snow sister doesn't just have a case of jungle fever; she works hard to emulate the ghetto lifestyles depicted in hip-hop videos. What makes these projections even more tragi-comic is their charades-type quality where these women only adopt this behavior when talking to me.
Shari loved dancing with black guys. "You people have soooo much rhythm," she told me while her Star of David reflected the strobe light. Oyster Bay, born Cynthia received my compliment on her shoes by pointing out that not only were they Prada, but that they were, "straight buttah." Tatiana, who's family name has been in the social register for a century asked me for the 411 until I went Audi 5000, but not until the morning after. With the right combination of Maker's Mark and planetary alignment, I'll let the chips and G-strings fall where they may. I'm only human, and a man at that. Disposable relationships flourish regardless of race or their mixture, but when someone goes over the top in an effort to speak what they view as, "my language," it's hard to handle, much less take seriously. It's possible I expect too much, or maybe I'm just sensitive.
Juliet and I met in the small hours on a NYC holiday weekend, and the city had that empty feeling. Her Tommy Hilfiger jeans riding electrician style carefully displayed the waistband of her men’s boxer shorts. Her Fila sneakers suggested fat laces. Great mouth. The kind of pale skin that only French women have, she was 178th st via Paris. She ended her sentences in the ghetto suffix, "kid," as in "Yo, what up, kid?" or "pass the brie, kid." This would have been annoying if it weren't for the way she wrapped her Parisian accent around these words. We bonded in no particular way and ended up in the midst of the mandatory taxi grope on the way out to her Brooklyn Brownstone.
When you're in the shower anticipating the night ahead, this is the way you see it, and the way it so rarely plays out. This is the way it should be, I was thinking as I crossed the threshold to her apartment. It was all-great until she opened her bedroom door to reveal a shrine to the black male, with black, bald heads punctuating the room like periods. At least five magazine cut outs of Tyson Beckford. Seven more of Tupac Shakur. A whole wall dedicated to Taye Diggs, with a half a dozen of Tyrese Gibson thrown in for good measure. The repetition gave me vertigo. I felt like I had stepped into a cloning experiment.
I went through with the deed - I did pay for a cab, way out, in Brooklyn, after all - but I never felt like a bigger tool, I never felt so deeply that I didn't matter, especially when she wouldn't tell me her last name or give me her number. Not like I was even planning on calling, I was just being polite. I learned the hard way the difference between being a fantasy and a fetish object. Leaving her apt the next morning I imagined I saw a sign that read, " All Exits Are Final."
Don't misunderstand my meaning, ladies, if you are a product of that so-called environment, do yourself and me a huge favor and don't ever change. Everyone appreciates a person who is genuine. I'm not denigrating a style of speech, or saying something as facile as, "It's a black thing, and no one from Westchester has my permission to talk that way." People don't want to be thought of as simply an ethnic curiosity to round out a sexual check off list. All I'm asking is that you find out who I am before you start talking to your idea of me. Who knows, if you stick around long enough, you'll find out what a crass, sarcastic bastard I really am. Ya heard?