Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (18 page)

"That's what you think. And the best part is, when
it’s over you go your way and I go mine. No strings attached."

"There are some homosexual men who are in
committed relationships too, you know?"

"Of course. Those just aren't the ones I fuck
with."

On that note, Caesar showed up at the diner. I
called him because he and Khalil needed to squash that shit from the other day.
We hadn't heard from him in a while, so that meant he was off somewhere angry
and pouting.

When Caesar and Khalil saw each other it was awkward
for a moment, but it quickly passed as over twenty years of friendship will do.

“We cool?”

“Yeah, we’re cool.” 

 They gave each other a real hug and not the
one where you shake hands first, then put the other arm around the person
bullshit.  Khalil must have been feeling good about himself and decided to
keep the ball rolling with his purging.

"Caesar, I'm just going to come right out and say
this. I’m bisexual."

”Of course you are.” Caesar didn't even blink an eye
as he stole a French fry off Khalil's plate.  “And bisexual is the same
thing as gay.”

"What do you mean ‘of course you are?’ You
knew?"

"Of course.  That’s why you wanted to go
to Bangkok.”  He’s right.  I hadn’t even thought of it like that. 

“You're a little toooo sensitive; too much estrogen
in your system," he continued.

"There is not."

"You cried watching
Philadelphia
."

"When Tom Hanks died it was really sad."

"You cried watching
Ghost
..."

"So."

"
Edward Scissorhands
?"

"I hate when people are ostracized for being
different."

"When Dorothy sings ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’..."

"She has a beautiful voice."

"When Ricky got shot in
Boyz in the Hood
..."

That was where I finally had to interject. "Now
I cried during that and so did you!"

"I know. That was pretty sad,” Caesar said. “But
I don't care if you got a little sugar in your tank. The only pressing question
is, are you a pitcher or a catcher?"

Khalil started to answer, but neither of us really
wanted to know, so we cut him off and changed gears. As usual, the topic of
conversation switched to me and my dating dilemma.

"I can't do this shit anymore."

"Do what? Eat chicks out in the bathroom? Have
threesomes? Crush Pam Grier looking bitches?” Caesar inquired. "My heart
bleeds for you.”

"It's not what I want anymore."

"You don't want no booty?  You turning
into this guy right here?"  For once Khalil didn't have to feel
offended or pretend.

"Of course not. No offense, Khalil.  The
way I figured we work about eight to twelve hours a day, spending another three
hours commuting. So that brings us to about fifteen hours. Gotta get some
sleep. Let’s say six hours, if you’re lucky. That leaves three hours a day to
do whatever it is you want to do. During those three hours that I have I
decided that I want to spend them with someone I love. Or at least care about a
lot.”

Caesar cracked up laughing. “Get the fuck outta
here!”

Luckily, Khalil empathetically felt different. He
understood. I couldn't help but think about the one girl that might be the one.
Unfortunately, she wasn't checking for me.

Doc Holiday

The final remnants of winter were almost gone except
for an occasional forty-five degree blip here and there. It was sixty-five
degrees in late May so New Yorkers were starting to shed their layers of
clothing to get out in the sun while it lasted for the next ninety days or so.

I was taking a mental health day on the Coney Island boardwalk absorbing all it had to offer. The screaming seagulls. The aroma of
Nathan's hot dogs.  The feel of the dry, rotted wooden slats that make up
the famous boardwalk. A young milf jogged past me and did an obvious double
take.  I ignored her, of course, careful not to give any indication that I
was interested in her. A funny thing began to happen. The more I got into
myself, the more women started to respond. The less interested I was, the more
interested they were. Women are crazy. 

The night before at the movie theatre a frisky Boricua
climbed past me, spilling her popcorn all over me.   She brushed the
kernels off my lap, which I truly appreciated, and decided to sit down next to
me and stay for the entire movie. We exchanged numbers, but I immediately
deleted hers as soon as I got outside. If she called me, that would be fine; otherwise,
I could care less. I was practicing indifference.

I pulled an Indian yogi, Reva, in my Bikram yoga class
and a sexy Somalian socialite, Xaali, at the bookstore.  I was turning
into Caesar.  New York had a cornucopia of different ethnicities to choose
from.    Needless to say I did the same to them as I had done to
the hottie from the movie theatre, deleted each of their numbers. All three of
them had been blowing my phone up since.

The strangest thing happened at the doctor's office
while getting an overall physical.   I hadn't had one in years seeing
as though I was on Kennedy’s insurance but being in my late ’30s, it was time
for me to become more aware of the health of my prostate.  I was in a
hospital robe with my ass hanging out while the doctor poked, prodded, and drew
blood. I was a wild boy for a long time so I decided to get an HIV test, too. 

I suspect Dr. Holiday is one of the ex-stripper who
made it through med school.  The woman was stellar from head to toe. 
She had a perfectly clear olive-colored complexion, tresses as red as Georgia clay,
a waist tiny enough to hoola hoop in a Cheerio, and rock hard calves that she
accentuated by consistently wearing four- inch Jimmy Choo’s around the
office. 

It used to trip me out because I could never tell if
she was flirting with me or if I was imagining things.

One time I was in her office when she came into the
exam room in a clingy, leopard print Cavalli with a plunging neckline showing
off her spectacular puppies. She seemed to be a little bit overdressed on this
particular day but I didn’t object.  She had the lab coat open so I could
see the slit in her dress that inched up her thigh in quest of her amorous hips.

Her hair was pinned up and she donned a pair of
black-rimmed glasses to top the fantasy off. Or at least that’s how I
remembered it.  I wasn’t the best at deciphering if this was a come on or
not and I had been wrong before. 

Doc Holiday turned out to be pretty slick I must admit.
I can’t remember how many times I would distract a woman talking about
frivolous shit as I was sliding her panties off her ankles. She did the same to
me when she snapped the rubber glove on her tiny hand and chatted it up as she
slid her two fingers up my ass to feel my prostate.

“I’m impressed, Dapper Carter, you have the prostate
of a sixteen-year-old boy.”

“Thanks…I guess.” It’s better than hearing you have the penis of a
sixteen-year-old boy.  And it’s unquestionably better than having a male
doctor stick his big-ass fingers up your ass! I was trying to make lemons into
lemonade as best as I could.

As I walked along the boardwalk, I took off my shirt
to feel the warm sun on my back. The sun on my face always made me feel better. 
I was doing much better than I had been and finally started to feel like I was
living up to my potential.   I was unconcerned about anything in the
world until a familiar face caught my eye.

"Kennedy?" What she was doing
rollerblading in Coney Island I will never know. It had been almost three years
since the divorce became official and we had not spoken a word. I don’t think we
were angry at one another, at least I wasn’t. We just didn’t have anything to
talk about. We didn’t share any kids and she got all the property. Why torture
myself by keeping in contact with her?
Find a new best friend.

"Dap? Wow! You look really good. You look great,
actually."

I thanked her. She looked great too. She cut off all
of her hair, but that didn't surprise me because anytime a woman moved on in a
relationship, her hair was the first to go. If you come home and your wife is
rocking a bob cut, it sucks to be you. She's already made up her mind and she's
leaving you.

"Thank you. How are you doing?"

"Good. I remarried."

Remarried? Damn, she didn't even let my body get
cold.
But I deserved that and she deserved happiness, so I took it in stride
like water off a duck’s back.

"Good for you. I wasn't the right guy for you
and you deserved better. Is he good to you?"

"Very, and he's rich." She showed me the
five-carat, pear-shaped diamond on her finger that dwarfed the one-carat
diamond I bought for her with
her
money. She cracked a slight smile as an
uncomfortable second passed. But it wasn’t uncomfortable for long. I was finally
at peace.

"Well, I'll see you around, KC."  Shit! 
I still called her KC out of force of habit.  It’s the only way I’ve ever
known her to be.  Kennedy Craig, then Kennedy Carter.

“Sorry about that.”

“No worries.  I’m still KC.  Kennedy
Cohen.” 

“You married a white boy?”

“Dapper…” I could tell she was a little bit
embarrassed.  She knows how I feel about that.  But I was different
and didn’t want to take the easy shot at her.  “That’s cool.  As long
as you’re happy.”  When cats get older we don’t have time to make sure the
colors match.  As I started to walk away she called out to me. "I did
love you, you know?"

I spun on my heels so I was facing her again. It was
a bit of redemption. It felt good. "I know."

"I loved you enough to let you go, so you could
grow, be free, reach your full potential and all that good shit."

"I know and I appreciate it. Take care." I
started to walk away again, but I had something I wanted to say now. I pivoted
again. "I'm sorry…for everything."

"You should be," she joked. There. I had
finally gotten that off my chest and I felt much better for doing so.
Tell
her, not me.

My Ex-Wife Went to Temple

After the forty-five minute subway ride home from Coney Island it was time for me to get in my workout. It baffled me why others didn’t take
advantage of our proximity to the beach.  Niggas from New York, however,
weren’t like niggas in Newark.  They didn’t go to the beach.  Brooklyn heads are wayyyy too cool for that shit.  But really, New Yorkers like to
raid other people’s beach and tear their shit up.  Jones Beach, Virginia Beach, Myrtle Beach, South Beach…

I quickly changed into my spandex running pants
which I wore with basketball shorts over them, my scarlet Rutgers hoodie, and
my $150 Nike Air Max running shoes. The one place I wasn’t cheap was with my
feet. Be good to your feet and they will be good to you.

I was out the door like a shot, as always. I loved
to run. It made me feel like a boxer in training. Most of the people in the
neighborhood knew I was like clockwork, jogging at 6:00 a.m. before work and
twice on my days off. I later found out that the reason no one fucked with me
in the neighborhood was because they thought I was a cop.  All that
running plus the way I wore my cap, low and tight, on my haircut, which was
high and tight.  My clean-shaven face made it official. 

I ran my usual route down Eastern Parkway past the Brooklyn Museum to Prospect Park. It’s funny how I never really liked to run as a college
athlete, but once I got into my '30s I found that it was truly the only way to
keep my weight down.

Gone were the days when I could just run up and down
the basketball court to stay fit. I had to put some distance and time in now. I
had gotten use to it by now and looked forward to my runs so I could clear my
head. I would analyze the different periods of my life during my run, thinking
about all I had been through to reach this point. Just three months ago I was
on dates raving about my ex-wife still.

I would say stupid things like, “So, where’d you go
to school?”

 “Temple.”

 “Get out of here! My ex went to Temple. Kennedy Craig. Did you know her?”  

Or I might say something silly like, “Did you pledge
any sororities?”

“I’m an AKA,” they’d reply.

 “Get out of here! My ex-wife is an AKA. Kennedy
Craig. Did you know her?”  What an idiot I was.

After finishing my run, I was stretching by the park
entrance when my BlackBerry began to vibrate. I upgraded from my flip phone to the
Crack-Berry when I noticed that’s what most people in the business world were
on.  Unconsciously, I answered it. 
Fuck!
It was Eva the Eata.