I guess its safe to tell this story:
Some little while ago, Star and I happened to be invited to a weekly session of Karaoke at a local redneck bar.
Star of course was in her cups. She did not mind a bit if everyone else there were so self-absorbed they hardly even noticed her. She so enjoys being on stage, singing her heart out, and well, being the Star that she is.
We happened to be sitting at a table with one other guy, the young man who invited us, and about seven women. I guess that there just aren't that many guys who sing. I liked the odds.
One of the women started to introduce herself to me and familiarize me with her story. She was likeable enough. She was reasonably educated and traveled, even had a few insights. Her experiences with Africa had been somewhat different than mine. This woman was modestly attractive although she might be criticized for having one too many french fries upon occasion. What the ladies like to call "curvaceous" but the medical profession has other terms for. But padding can be fun to play with. And I'm always happy to get attention.
The conversation continued, and Star kept on singing in the background. Careful examination revealed to me that this woman was approaching that age of femininity where a whole lot start to show signs of that "deer in the headlights" look, particularly those who are single, and most particularly those who have used their sexuality as a trading tool.
Then, she had the audacity to suggest to me that Star was "not my type". I suppose we don't fit the mold. An old, troll-like white man from an NPR background and a very young, lithe woman from more of a club background. But that's precisely why both of us like it so much.
I just rankled at the suggestion that this strange woman who was focusing on me, knew about what my "type" was. What did she know of what I had seen and done in the last 62 years? What I had enjoyed, what I had accomplished, or the people who had hurt me and how they had done it?
As the evening progressed and the waitress became more familiar with our empty glasses, the temperature in the room began to rise by several degrees. This pudgy lump of Crisco in front of me was definitely starting to soften, even to liquify a little bit. I can't say that I was not affected. However, I began to surmise that her ulterior motive was to induce me to go home with her, thereby leaving Star to fend with herself. Typical of a white woman to be thinking something so crude and unmannerly, I thought to myself.
So I gave her my phone number and explained to her that I am not so crass to abandon any date to her own devices after bringing her out myself, and I turned back to have a word with the center of my attention.
When I next reversed my gaze, the bitch was already working on another man. I of course never heard from her again.
They still don't get it, do they? Once you go black, you never go back. And its not just because chocolate tastes so good.