Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating

by mitchell, alan

  “So, what are you trying to decide? Whether or not to kill yourself today or tomorrow?”

  “Huh?”

  “Pork? You still dine on swine?”

  “My momma's from South Carolina. I didn't have much choice.” I stopped what I was doing to fully engage in conversation with the hottie. “So, how come you don't eat pig?” I turned toward her to let her know she had my full attention.

  “In the poetic words of Samuel Jackson; ‘I don’t eat no animal that doesn’t have enough sense to get up out of its own shit!’”

  That made sense. The pig was a filthy animal and I had always had a problem with the fact that it chilled out in mud and feces all day long. But I also must admit, I had a weakness for pork chops smothered in gravy.

  “Did you know they don't have sweat glands either? They’re full of toxins, not to mention the bacteria and parasites they're born with.”

  My stomach turned at the thought of the tiny macrobiotic organisms infesting in my already fragile stomach. I put the chops down and picked up a T-bone steak, being careful to select the choicest cut with the least amount of marblization to cut down on the fat. Rain shook her head in disbelief.

  “What?”

  “Steroids. Plus, the stress those animals are under.”

  “What stress? They graze in a field all day living the life of Reilly.”

  “You call that living the life? Waiting to go to slaughter? How stressed would you be knowing that you were being fattened up for the kill? And we put all of that stress in our bodies and wonder why our dispositions are so shitty.”

  By this point I was fully engaged in what the debutant had to say. I quickly put down the steak and picked up a package of chicken breast. She gave me more of the same.

  “Now what? Chickens are supposed to be so lean and good for you.”

  “I beg to differ. They sit around in coops all day defecating on each other. That's not something I want to eat.”

  She showed me the salmon she was holding. “Even fish can be bad for you if its farm raised. That means they're in a confined space, pissing and crapping on each other too. You gotta get the wild ones.”

  I was fully turned off and quickly losing my appetite. “Well, what can I eat?”

  “Fruit and vegetables. Human teeth are flat and made for grinding food, not tearing it. Adaptation caused us to develop our canines to rip animal flesh.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. So, how would you feel about grinding some plants together one night?”

  “So what are you asking me?” A sly smile pursed her raspberry-painted lips. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. I had many girls who looked liked her. Matter of fact, Khalil and Caesar like to call them the clones because they are all light skinned, light eyes, with long hair. It was cliché, but there was something different about her, and she was sexy. If you could look good in sweats, no makeup, a ponytail and a baseball cap, the sky was the limit when you dressed her up. You could put lipstick on a pig and it would still be a pig.

  “I'm asking you if maybe you wouldn't mind having dinner with me.”

  “I don't even know your name.”

  “Dapper Carter. Mrs. Carter’s favorite son. What's yours?”

  “Rain Van Ness. How’d you get a name like Dapper?”

  “I will tell you after we get married.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, really,” I said confidently.

  I sized up her 34-24-38 frame. She was a little healthier in the bottom, just like I like it. I could tell she probably ran track because I could see the silhouette of her muscular thighs beneath her Adidas sweatpants.

  “So now that we've officially been introduced, will you have dinner with me?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. Give me a call.”

  We cordially shook hands and parted. I was careful not to be too presumptuous and try to European air kiss her on the cheek, which had become very popular.

  I snatched up several cuts of salmon, tilapia, and mackerel, deciding for the first time in my life to actually take someone else’s advice in regards to my health. Because I had played competitive sports and had always been in good shape, I thought I knew it all. However, time, gravity, laziness, and a comfort food diet based of Entenmann’s donuts and Popeye’s chicken had proven otherwise.

  I ended up calling (harassing) Rain fifteen times over the next two weeks, give or take. I was the king of blowing a chick up after I got the digits. I knew it was a complete turnoff, but I couldn’t get out the way of my compulsion. Whether I was racing off the subway to get above ground to call her on my mobile phone or curled up in my new queen-sized bed, which is the only thing I splurged on, with the phone dangling from my ear, I was never able to reach her.

  I guess caller ID killed the dating business because women could harmlessly give out their number and decide later if they wanted to talk to you or not. Then again, it made it tough on the stalking business as well. I made lemons into lemonade, though, since all the collection agencies for the credit cards I owe money to couldn’t reach me either. I don’t answer any numbers that I don’t recognize.

  Those assholes even try to get slick by leaving messages like, “Hey, DC. What’s up, dude? Got tickets to the Knicks game. Gimme a call back at 888-345-9654 ext 12. Are you fucking serious? I had no intention of paying the banks back. They had gotten their $400 million dollar bail out. Now it was time for me to get my bail out. Harassing me over $1500 is pure greed and just icing on their capitalistic cake.

  You Can’t Blame a Brother for Trying

  Brooklyn was beginning to gain a favorable reputation for its restaurants. It was restaurant week and it was a good idea for me to take advantage of the five entrée and dessert deals for under $10. It afforded me the opportunity to eat at restaurants I wouldn’t normally frequent because of the steep pricing.

  There were a ton of places on DeKalb to choose from including Coop’s (BBQ), Sweet Potato Pie’s (southern), Fela’s (South African), or Cherchez la Femme’, which is where I settled. My homegirl, Eva Fontaine (stage name), met up with me to have drinks. I had eaten here before and the garlic-buttered escargot was to die for.

  Eva was fucking gorgeous. She had the most shapely, athletic legs and picture perfect lemon drop breasts I had ever seen. Not to mention the face of a movie starlet to match. Her fair skin and freckles tipped off the Irish side of her African American heritage. Her jet black hair cut into bangs masked her forehead and made her almond-shaped eyes seem even more alluring.

  She was a model from L.A. Actually, she was from Chatsworth, the porn capital of the world. After growing weary of Vivid Video propositioning her to make adult movies all the time, she moved to New York to be a serious actress. She had my utmost respect for seeking to perfect her craft.

  However, she almost ate her way right out of the business in an attempt to gain weight so producers in the industry would take her seriously as an actress and not see her as just another pretty face. She hated how in L.A. a “producer” would invite her to a party at his house and when she showed up, there would be no one but her in attendance.

  So she embarked on that donut and fried chicken diet I was on. What she didn’t understand was that it didn’t matter. If two actresses were up for the same part with equal ability and one was cute and the other was mediocre, whom do you think was going to get the role? Lucky for her, she had great genetics and was able to get back down to her fighting weight and look amazing as she always had.

  We met during the short stint I had living in Los Angeles after moving out west for no particular reason other than I saw all the fine honeys in the Nothing But a G Thang video and decided that L.A. was the place for me. People told me all the time I should try modeling or acting, but no one told me that there were two million other motherfuckers who looked just like me and were in just as good of shape as I was out there.

  Our paths crossed for the first time at a music video shoot for one of the countless artists we never hear about that h
ave been signed to major record labels, shot a music video for a new single, and never gets released. I was a production assistant (gopher) and she was “featured” (extra). It was actually sad to see how many aspiring actresses believed that her big break would come from running around with her tits and ass out letting rappers and video directors pass them around. As far as I knew, only one girl ever made the jump from music video eye candy to the big screen and that was the pouty-lipped white chick from the movie Clueless. Although Karin Steffans has done well for herself, I guess.

  Eva could eat like no other, so I referred to her as “Eva the Eata” because she only called me when she needed a meal. She spent more time at the craft services table than actually in front of the camera. I don’t know where she stored the food on her ridiculous five-foot-eight inch, 130 pounds of 100-meter-sprinter-at-UCLA muscled body.

  Unfortunately, she would never sleep with me. I always considered her a vendetta. Her biggest problem was that she thought she knew it all. Yes, she was one of the finest women to walk the earth, but then she opened her big mouth and chased away every man who was interested in her. Plus, she was color struck. She came up with some bullshit excuse about how she only liked dark-skinned men and that I was too light for her. In my opinion, the real reason she only was attracted to dark men was that she really hated herself. As in hated her own “Imitation of Life,” tragic mulatto skin. She needed to be with someone darker than her in order to validate her own blackness. Nevertheless, she was gorgeous…and I always wanted her.

  She arrived late, of course, but was stunning in a lime green, sleeveless Oscar de la Renta. She ordered a glass of Malbec and I ordered two martinis. I was going to need them.

  “Dapper, I'm sorry things didn't work out between you and Kennedy.”

  “Thanks.” I half-heartedly answered, not even trying to give my former wife any thought.

  “But I guess it was to be expected. Between the money you lost gambling and throwing up on her mother at the wedding reception, I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did!”

  Fuck you! I mean, who did she think she was? I felt like reaching across the table and snatching her up by her fragile throat. But I also felt like reaching across the table and ramming my tongue down her throat and licking her tonsils. It was really hard being in love with a bitch that you hate!

  “You'll be just fine. There's a big world out there. Meet women. Have friends.”

  “I don't have female friends. What can a woman offer me that I can't get from my boys, except sex?”

  “Nurturing? Affection? Another perspective?”

  “Not for me. I fuck all my female friends.”

  “You didn't fuck me.”

  “Yet! And that's the only reason we're friends. By default. And I'm willing to put our ten years of friendship on the line right now for a shot at the title!”

  “Dap?!” she gasped as if she was shocked. But she couldn’t be that surprised. She had known me for ten years, so she should know I don’t pull any punches. I say the things that other people wish they had the balls to say. “Well, that's not going to happen.”

  “I figured as much, but you can't blame a brotha for trying.”

  “You've been trying for a long time. You really should quit.”

  I hated quitters. When my coach was riding my ass during freshman year and pushing me to quit and just give up my scholarship, I rode it out. I never quit and I became one of Coach’s favorite players. I worked my way up the bench from twelfth man to tenth man!3

  I reached across the table to clasp her hand, hoping that she would remove the monkey from my back of why we weren’t together. But not before I ordered her another glass of Malbec in an attempt to loosen her up. I tried to play it cool, but I really wanted to dick her down and make a donation to her Garden of Eva. I had two years of little Dapper Carters that were stored up in my testicles dying to be released naturally, not manually as I had become accustomed to doing during my hiatus from sex.

  “So, why have we been having so much trouble hooking up for all these years? What's wrong with me?”

  “Nothing is wrong with you. I enjoy our friendship.”

  “So, all I am is a friend to you?” One place you didn’t want to be put as a man was in the Friend Zone. It’s way worse than the Twilight Zone and much harder to get out of.

  “You’re more like a brother to me!”

  “A brother? That’s even worse than being just a friend. You women kill me with that. If I treated you like shit, you would be riding my nuts. But since I try to show you some respect, you treat me like a brother. Or should I say a sucker?”

  “I don't mean to be mean or burst your bubble, but you're just not the type of man I see myself in a relationship with.”

  I began to grow frustrated. My teeth started to grind and my jaw tightened. I mean, what the fuck was that supposed to mean? The large vein on the left side of my temple began to throb.

  “You're selfish, insecure, and irrational at times, clingy, self-centered, and you have fidelity issues. Not to mention you can’t afford me.” Wow! Then she stood up and removed her napkin from her lap.

  “I have to go. Thanks for the drinks. Ta-ta.”

  “Ta-ta? Where you going?” I asked.

  “Knicks/Lakers game. Floor seats.”

  “Ain’t that a bitch. Well that explains the de la Renta knock-off that you’re rocking.” That’s right. She thought I wouldn’t know.

  “Fuck you, nigga.” She promptly flipped me the bird then sauntered off with her Nine West shoe wearing ass. Eva had a date with a affluent real estate developer so she had to run out and asked me to pick up the check as usual. That was the straw that broke the playa hater’s camel’s back. When women disrespectfully and comfortably starts talking about other guys that she is seeing it should culminate into the realization that you won’t be seeing no parts of the pussy.

  I was more than delighted to see her leave. Somewhat because I like to look at her bulbous derriere, but mostly because she annoyed the shit out of me. But as God as my witness, I was going to hit that shit one day. She blew me a kiss as she sauntered off, leaving me dumbfounded and feeling stupid as usual. She did that to me all the time, which brought me to Dapper Carter’s second rule:

  If we're just friends, we can split the check. If we're fucking, I'll take care of it!

  Sweet Turtle

  I returned home to lick my wounds, take a shower, and throw on some new digs. I had my first real date in three years and I wanted to make sure I was fresh dressed like a million bucks. I decided to wear a new black, fitted Kenneth Cole shirt that I picked up in Marshall’s. Brand names for less. I couldn’t afford to shop at the Kenneth Cole on Lexington Ave. but I could afford to see what I liked then go find it in one of the outlet malls like Jersey Gardens. And I preferred the term “fitted” or “athletic” instead of tight or s-medium. I hooked it up with some plain old washed out Levi’s from Target and my Kenneth Cole boots. Next was my black hoodie, green Polo windbreaker, and I topped it off with a blue Von Dutch trucker cap.

  I was still not where I wanted to be physically but I had made great strides and was starting to see a two pack in my abs. I had slowly gone from filling up a double XL to swimming in a large. It was about fucking time. I was making good money at the Fitness Depot, pulling in about $6,000 per month till the grim reaper, Uncle Sam, minimized my take home pay to about $4,800 per month.

  Nevertheless, I decided to splurge a little bit and take Miss Topeka James to dine at Sweet Turtle, an upscale Southern cuisine. That’s Brooklyn restaurant talk, but back in Newark it’s simply called a soul food joint.

  Topeka was a blind date that my manager from work set up believe it or not. As I entered Sweet Turtle a cacophony of saxophone, bass, and drums filled the air from the live jazz band that was jammin’. It tickled me how as you got closer to forty years old your taste in music suddenly took interest in jazz. I always liked jazz, but I was more into Miles and Coltrane. I wasn’t feeli
ng Najee, Kenny G, or any g’s for that matter.

  As Topeka got closer she got bigger. Sort of like an oncoming train. Topeka James was what was known as a BBW, Big Beautiful Woman. She had a beautiful face with a dazzling smile, could sing her ass off, and never met a part of the pig she didn’t like.

  She also was a seductive two hundred and thirty pounds standing over five feet nine inches tall with brushed cut, wavy, blonde hair, and of course a tattoo of a black panther with a red rose in its mouth displayed on her hearty left breast. I wasn’t prejudiced against big girls since all the women in my family were over 200 pounds and significantly bigger than I. She threw her gear together nicely and wore it well. Make no mistake about it I would knock her down right now. My drought had gone from the ridiculous to the sublime.

  “So how long have you been selling exercise equipment?”

  “One week. But I’m a natural salesman.”

  “Then sell me something,” she flirted.

  “I can sell you a hope and a dream or I can sell you some swampland in Florida. What will it be?”

  “I’ll tell you at the end of the night.” She winked and blew me a kiss. “So what are we having?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “You mean I can look at the “fucking” side of the menu?”

  “You can look at whichever side of the menu you want,” I said.

  “But if I order from this side (right side) am I going to feel obligated to fuck you?” she didn’t mince words either.

  “How could you feel obligated? You set the rules.” Women shouldn’t have to do anything that they didn’t want to do. Females had become accustomed to men expecting sex just because he fed her. In retrospect, maybe I should have been a little more like them and let these women who have their shit together start paying for a brotha’s time. Unfortunately, after living off of Kennedy for several years, I wasn’t interested in that lifestyle any longer. I wanted my own shit to ensure that no one had any control over me. Nor would I feel any sense of obligation to her.