Father Abraham

This weekend was CIAA weekend in Charlotte, a.k.a. a huge party weekend that brings together a bunch of black people and celebrities from all over the East Coast for the big CIAA basketball tournament. No one actually goes to/cares about the games but rather uses this tournament as an excuse to party.

Friday night I went to this party called "Grits & Biscuits" and was disappointed to find out that they served neither grits nor biscuits there. Someone described the Grits & Biscuits party as "a party where black people with jobs dance like black people without them" which was hilarious and fitting. I came with a group of guys but we got separated a few minutes after arriving to the club. I spent a good ten minutes looking for them but to no avail. Finally, I stopped looking and just stood in a corner, sipping my Red Bull and vodka and trying to look cool even though I was alone. And then I found HIM.

HIM was a white guy--the only white guy in the club. Since he was white I knew he felt out of place and would welcome a hot black girl talking to him. Jackpot. He looked a lot like Macklemore, was 36, and had two Masters degrees (win!) We chatted for awhile but no real sparks flew so I ditched him* and went to find my friends. The rest of the night was fun but uneventful. Unfortunately, we had the HARDEST time finding a cab to take us home so I ended up waiting outside on a curb in 25 degree weather until 3:45 a.m. Not gonna lie, I had a long internal debate about weather I should flash an areola or two to get a ride home. While sitting on the curb a guy yelled out at me "Hey I know you! You work at Chili's!" Long, deep sigh.

Saturday night we went to a club called Phoenix which I've been dying to go to for months. This club was unlike any club I'd ever been to: three stories, multiple DJs, bathrooms and bars popping up everywhere you looked... it was crazy. I felt like I was partying at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, when I got there they were playing reggae music and I HATE reggae. Hate it. They played a reggae version of "Father Abraham" which was honestly the most interesting compilation I've ever heard. I literally stopped and was like, "what the hell... they're really playing Father Abraham in the club". About 30 minutes later, a guy approached me, told me I was beautiful, blah blah, and asked me my name. I gave him my real name (I love my name too much to make up a fake club alias) and asked him for his.

HIS NAME WAS ABRAHAM. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

I died laughing the irony (note: I am not actually sure this constitutes as ironic. Where is Alanis when you need her?) and we ended up exchanging numbers. I've been screening his calls ever since though (can you blame me? His name was ABRAHAM). I met another guy named Tron but didn't even bother with the number exchange because his name was Tron. So that's that.

Solid weekend overall. I got whiplash from a guy swinging his dreads in my face Saturday night and almost died of hypothermia Friday night but what can you do. It felt good to go out and meet people and I can't wait to do it again soon!



*Actually he ditched me. Whatever.

Sandy Kirby

Secretly, I've always wanted to be a stripper. Not long term, of course, but for a little while while my body is still bangin' and my morals are still low. It's been a hidden desire of mine, right up there with wanting my name to be used as a victim's name on CSI and wanting to gently get hit by a car (not badly enough to be seriously injured... I just need some excitement in my life and think it would make a really interesting story). Judge accordingly.

Last weekend, my on-again/off-again manfriend came to Charlotte and after a fun night out, we discussed stopping by a strip club on the way home. My girl Siri pointed us to one called Leather & Lace so we decided to try it out. I'd never been to a strip club before but the world's about to end soon so I figured why not?

The first thing I noticed was just how NAKED these girls were. I've never seen so many boobs and butt cheeks in my life. The second thing I noticed was how skinny they were. Not sexy skinny either; they were literally skeletons in g-strings. Size zeros, A-cups. Now I'm "strictly dickly" but I will say that I love the shape of a woman--women are gorgeous and curvy women especially are incredibly sexy. These girls weren't sexy. Had they not been naked, they would have fit right in on one of those feed-a-child-for-15-cents-a-day commercials. Yuck.

Manfriend wanted to buy me a lapdance but I told him I got to pick the girl, and frankly all of the girls were too tiny for my taste. And then Candi (I don't remember her actual name, but Candi seems appropriate) came out. And boy, was she huge.

While manfriend was adjusting to the literal elephant in the room, I was checking her out, seeing if she was good enough for his $5 and my lapdance. She was a tad cellulite-y, but aren't we all? (Note: I'm only saying that to make y'all feel better. Again, my body is perfect). I turned to tell manfriend that she was The One,  but he was chatting up a skeleton in a Santa hat and two seconds later, the skeleton's 5-inch heels were on my shoulders and that was that.

Later in the night, I called Candi over for a dance. I'm not sure if she thought I wasn't worth the $5, but she didn't dance and instead, pulled up a chair and started to chat. She was sweet but an over-sharer, assuring me she didn't wear plus size clothes and confiding in me that she thinks the other girls smoke crack to maintain their figures. Very awkward--I'm not sure how I responded but it was the verbal equivalent of responding "K" to a text message. I later told her that she had the best body out of all of the women there; she responded with a "thank you" and then started gushing about how amazing my body was (see! I told y'all), how I had a great body for stripping, and how I should apply for a job at Leather & Lace. I am a sucker for flattery--ten minutes later I was putting the last of manfriend's money in her g-string and getting smacked in the face by her DD cups.

Eight days later and I'm still considering filling out an application (or whatever it is you do to become a stripper). I hate being touched and I hate being told what to do, but besides that it'd be great. Easy money plus you're surrounded by people who think you're beautiful, which I'm already accustomed to.

My stripper name is supposed to be Sandy Kirby (first pet + street you grew up on) but my body is more of a Chocolate Fantasy or a Cinnamon Glitter, don't you agree?