Still Here

(This is a rant of sorts. I will be back with topics finished by the weekend hopefully.--Bond)

Happy New Year Bond Readers. Non-Believers. Overacheivers. Thieves or...sanctimonious deemers. I never can tell. Either way I wish you well.

I did not get to finish the blog on the note I intended---I have a professional obligation that will occupy my time for about 2 months, so any posts that I write will be late at night--and probably less polished*. I will likely write more about personal experiences that particular topics because my mind will be elsewhere. Nevertheless, the quality of content will not decline, to quote Einstein, "When you always speak the truth, there is no need to remember".

I have been hesitant to write because: people have been biting my shit (laughs). I mean, if you're gonna take topics, quotes, phrases, etc. give me a shout out or at least link me to your shit. I know, it's a blog, but muthafuckas are getting PAID off this shit and I'll be damn if I'm increasing someone's profile with all of my fine wit, humor, sarcasm, satire, and eloquent writing only to see them stroll away with undeserved accolades that pay. Fuck that (laughs).

So, me being me, I was actually looking into copywriting/legally protecting my writing. Granted, I can't stop people from stealing my topics, but still...

I've also been living. Got alot I want to write about, so, usually I start the posts, but I never get to finish, because I am a stickler for my own writing. It is true: we are our worst critics.

Alot of times I type and delete because I feel like things are missing so I seek out inspiration (women, travel, vices , books...life) to help me finish. Sometimes it works, sometimes..eh, not so much. Yet the experience is always great...

Another reason I have been ambivalent about posting is: The topic of Black Dating. Awhile back I was reading a post by a blogger named 'The Management' (what up. See....that's how you give props) and she laid out her angst and disgust with the topic. Initially, I was dismissive, but since reading her post (it's old too), I decided to keep my third eye open and I decided that she is right, it's exhausted. It's exhausting because no one ever offers any solutions.

People usually write/blog/comment about it to hear their own beliefs reinforced; and in the meantime, no progress is made. I started to think that I was contributing to that, so I decided to fall back. Aside from personal experiences (which I feel-can't really be critiqued or analyzed because they are unique to each individual), I really didn't want to write about what is right and who is wrong.

I decided to re-engage only under the condition that I can contribute solutions (actual or theoretical) before I step on a soap box. Truthfully, I hesitate to do this because, as the old pimp/player adage goes, "the game is to be sold, not told".

This life and these things that I have lived has taught me so much, but at a cost. It has cost me some trust, love, pieces of myself, and most of all: innocence. When you lose some of those things through serendipity, you feel grateful and regretful. It becomes an exclusive feeling that at times allows you to be arrogant and condescending, and yet, melancholy, misunderstood, and misinterpreted.

After I recovered from the hospital, part of my self-evaluation was to change my interactions with people. The same way that steel sharpens steel, man sharpens man. I would no longer be that steel that carves from people what I want from them or see them as, but rather that steel that can strengthen them, if they so desire. However, reading the comments on several blogs, some of the emails I used to get, etc. has given me pause.

It's like my first year in law school, I came back after this life altering experience, I died on an operating table for 26 seconds, and I meet Christine* and she only reinforces the exact lifestyle I was changing from---and I felt foolish.

I felt like the Carlito Brigante...like Santana on American Me...and we see how that ended. So of course, I brought the fangs back out. Truth is, I kinda missed being the hunter; then, part of me didn't miss it.

These films are thematic here, because they involve people who are not only engaged in a lifestyle, but the individuals who epitomize it. At some point though, these people change and only after this change, that lifestyle ends them. Some would call this comeuppance, which may be true. It may be irony.

Or it could be a a hustler's tale whose moral is: 'same thang or food chain* (southern drawl)

And that is the conundrum that I have been pondering the past few months. For the record, I will continue to blog. I am only pondering the topic and tone of my blog, that's all. I thank you for your support (Ms.T--I will write you back shortly), just bare with me shortly...

Either way: I'm still here.

New posts on the way...

Bond. BlkBond.

*I realize all of my spelling is not correct, but I want the post to be as I see them (if that makes sense). Like, when I recall a memory or articulate a metaphor, I want it to grasp you--for you to see it like you're sitting in the room with me and I'm telling you everything you read. It's a little tougher with the blog, because I have to wait for comments before we engage, but I like to cover all perceptions and any presumptions so that my posts don't seem skewed. I don't write the posts from an 'emotional' stance, so I want you to approach it with a clear an open conscious.

*Christine is a woman I met my first year in law school; ours is a sordid & torrid tale. I will write about what happened. Long story short: I lost...or tied (word to Diddy)... "either way (you) didn't win"--Diddy

*'same thang or the food chain' this is phrase ni**az from around my way say. I can't recall who I actually heard say it first so I can't give proper credit; we'll just chuck it up as a southern colloquialism.

It simply states that you will continue to do the same thing that you have always done or you will perish. This logic stems from the fact that you have survived this long doing (fill in the blank), thus, if you stop, this will likely be when you will meet your demise because your survival (like it or not) is contingent on doing _____. For example, if you been player, you better stay a player, because if you stop, you will likely be played so severely that you will not recover. This logic may seem flawed, but such is life...

The Label(s)

Inspirational Movie: Chasing Amy

Inspirational Song: Little Red Corvette by Prince

Louis Vuitton was the first brand with a logo. Ralph Lauren Polo is the quintessential American Label. Prada began as a leather goods company that only produced small leather goods. There are rumors that Hugo Boss provided the uniforms for the Third Reich.

Labels.

Louis Vuitton is the most counterfeited brand in the world. There is a multi-million dollar industry dedicated exclusively to the black-market reproduction of Louis Vuitton. That is a back-handed compliment if I have ever seen one.

The different paths and influences of each label are reflective of the culture that spawned each label and you can usually notice in the designs. The same applies with people.

With a handful of exceptions, labels go through periods of cessation. In the 80's, Gucci had lost it's luster and by all accounts was failing. Nevertheless, things changed, the label incurred a time of restoration and is again among the most luxurious and recognizable brands in the world. Often, this is not the same with people.

Labels such as 'whore' and 'slut' do not offer an opportunity of vigor.

I am always posed a variation of the question: Is a (female) whore always a whore? Why is she a whore? How does she eliminate this label?

A man-whore can eliminate his label by finding one woman. A whore cannot often find one man who cares enough to disregard what she was as an individual, to consider the possibilities that can be with them. Even if she does, this man will often be hesitant and haunted about people, places, and participation that precedes his arrival. The male ego is frail; especially when it comes to the chastity of a woman; particularly his woman.

Men want a woman who is a sexual virtuoso, yet, someone as pure as snow; the Madonna-Whore syndrome*. Well, in the real world, this is becoming an 'either-or' scenario. The either-or ultimatum will always result in men choosing an average chaste woman over a beautiful whore (at least in public...).

Women by nature are more nurturing and forgiving. Given these two characteristics, it would seem ideal that women would be willing to open themselves up to a man whose promiscuity is well noted; in some cases, his promiscuity will be apart of the allure that draws women to him. Many seek to 'tame' him. Some women feel that they are the missing component that will change these men; sometimes this is successful, often it is not.

Men do not hold the same view. When a man chooses a partner, she becomes an extension of himself. In the lives of most men, respect is priority. A man feels he will not be respected with a (ex) whore as his partner. Even if he does believe she has 'changed', there is still the overwhelming premise that she will (at some point) assume her old ways. This believe is usually taught to men when they are boys. It was taught to me in the form of a folktale called "The Scorpion and the Frog"*. The tale highlights the insuppressible nature of one's self; thus, boys become men with an understanding that most people will inevitably show you who they are through actions and behavior and cannot change...even if they wish to.

Too often for men, women are complicated. A woman's actions, behavior, beliefs, thoughts, are often linked to emotions and events that cannot be easily interpreted or deciphered. Usually when a man has sex outside his relationship/promiscuity is because there is someone who wants to give them unrequited sex or physical desire; when a woman behavior is unchaste, it is often tied to emotional vulnerability. This vulnerability could be the result of something happening in her life today or something that happened 15 years ago, their is no way to know. To a man...that is terrifying. The uncertainty of an emotionally vague individual whom you hold into the world as your 'lady', your 'woman' that may harm you not only emotionally, but socially and professionally.

Contrary to popular belief, men display their emotions. We don't sit around talking about how we feel, instead our actions and behavior changes. The changes must be observed not heard. Most men (like me) were taught that expressing emotions is a sign of weakness unless it is among 'family'. Family in this context means blood relatives, long-time friends, and people you love.

You wonder how a woman can hurt you socially and professionally? I will explain by contrast and comparison: cheating.

For example, when a man cheats on a woman or has multiple partners.

When a man is a hoe or a man-whore: we accept that. Twenty years ago there was a premise that 'a man will be a man'. The premise itself was based on the guise that masculinity was defined through sex. Thus in manhood promiscuity was normal. People expect men to sex random ass and flirt with bad intentions. The exception was usually the man who did NOT engage in this type of behavior. When a woman finds out her man of interest or partner is involved with other women, their is an outpour of support from everyone: friends, family, co-workers...men & women. It is the man who must incur the backlash--because he is the one who has committed the wrong. There is never an questions about his woman's role.

The same does not hold true for a man on the opposite end.

When a woman cheats on a man or has multiple partners it is presumed that the man was insufficient. People summarize that the man must had done something to compel the woman into the arms of others: blame the victim. There is no outpour of support from friends, maybe family, and the overwhelming thought that he must be 'stupid' or 'weak' to fall for a woman of such character or ability. Women are no longer interested, because his virility has been tainted. His mind will wonder and replay the things that he has done and how he could have changed them. He will become insecure. The only rational thought will be that he should have never engaged said woman in the first place. His work may suffer and he will regress to a state of temperamental antics and behavior that may affect how he does his work. This is not good for a man. People expect him to be composed and put together no matter what, so when he steps outside this box: people leave his life, thus, leave him. He will suffer humiliation and embarrassment: alone.

I know, because I have been that man. Despite my banter and posts of superiority and sexual conquests, I have been on the opposite end of various spectrums, including this one as well. This is why I feel confident disregarding the absurdities spewed across websites and blogs. This is why I will only tell you what I know, rather than what I 'think'. You do not have to like it: but it is the truth.

Despite my experiences (good & bad), I am not a man concerned with the sexual history of a woman I am dating. Once we have talked and I have decided to take further steps with you, it becomes irrelevant. I can only accept what I know, not what was or maybe. I attribute this to age, maturity, mistakes, humility, and change; attributes alot of people have yet to experience.

As a result, most men would rather not even place themselves in the prospective situation altogether. They will seek these women out for the same purpose that she has always been sought out for. They will continue to take advantage of her social vulnerability through dazzling diction, elaborate items, and compelling company. All in an effort to secure utility. All with the attempt to join an effort to define her with the label.

Bond. BlkBond.

*Madonna-Whore Syndrome needs to be deprogrammed from boys at a young age. Women also perpetuate this but placing chastity on a pedestal (i.e. virginity) and slut shaming one another.

*This folktale is sometimes replaced with a fox or snake in the forrest. Google is your friend.

What the story is

Inspirational Movies: Love Jones & Closer

Inspirational Song: Goodbye Love by Guy

Line: "I mean, all of these people running around here jumping, skipping, falling in love...falling in love ain't shit. Somebody talk to me, please, about how to stay there"--Savon, Love Jones

Line(s):

Dan: You think love is simple. You think the heart is like a diagram...

Larry: Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist wrapped in blood! Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar!----Closer*

A few months ago I was talking to my sister. We were discussing romantic movies. She said that by and large Love Jones was the film that epitomizes the dating experience. About 5 years ago I would have agreed without hesitation, however, today I must disagree. If not for insight and enlightenment, then for purposes of discussion and new interests. Don't get me wrong, I love Love Jones just like anybody else who has ever seen it. I have analyzed it like a thesis ("Why did Nina start to smoke after she met Darius? or "Do you think she slept with her ex when she went back to NY?), I quote it often ("Lemme see your wallet: cause it got to say bad muthafucka"), and to the extent that I looked up Theodore Witcher one day to find out why he has not brought anything else to the screen; especially during a time when Black cinema is stuck between pseudo-militant avant garde theater, ghetto stories, and Million-dollar minstrel shows. Why, is a debate for another day however.

I tell my sister that just like love, the love story often varies. I explained that Love Jones is forever etched into the consciousness of an entire generation as the general model of what takes place when Boy meets Girl. Moreover, it's significance is even more compelling because it provides other races, nationalities, and cultures with a realistic and (dare I say) general interpretation of what dating is really like for Black America*.

I told my sister that I believed Love Jones is the general idea for Black cinematic romance, however, past a certain age, so does the story. Thus, when I was 21-25, Love Jones was a visual collage that mirrored many of my dating experiences or those of people I knew. I am no longer 21 or 25.

Inquisitively, she asked me what movie would epitomize dating, love, the romantic experience in your late twenties-early thirties? I said: Closer.

She was in a shocked stated of awe. She replied that Closer was no love story, but a tragedy (laughs).

"How does a person come to be Closer from Love Jones?"

The irony in wordplay did not escape me. I smiled broadly at the genius that is Mike Nichols. I realized that as you get older, the idea of the love story seems to lose luster as moments pass.

The charm loses gleam. The jokes become mundane and the smiles become dim. Reality closes in like a final curtain and then...the show is over. Sometimes you are left with mementos that sometimes remind you of a when and sometimes you are left with remnants that remind you of a who.

Closer is brilliantly written. Each person represents a variation of each other. For example, Alice is young and carefree; Anna is older and conscientious. It begs questions like whether or not Alice will become Anna as result of what has happened? Does Alice represent what Anna has never been?

In Closer, each person's interaction with another character represents a meaningful aspect of not only the dating dynamic, but the interchangeable roles people play. For example, with Alice, Dan is reassuring, confident, and consistent; however, with Anna he is volatile, infatuated, and uncertain...almost child-like.

Closer fills in those gaps of the happenings when Nina was in New York (Love Jones) or when Angela left Marcus (Boomerang). Closer is what happens when a fairy tale romance extends into reality. The glass slipper shatters and there is blood.

Before I persisted with my thesis, I restrained myself. I did not want to propel my history and experiences on her. She deserves better. There is a chance that she maybe among those whose love life will precede the happily ever after.

My parents have a childhood friend who dated a girl from the eighth grade until senior year in high school. During his senior year, he was teased about being a monogamous guy for virtually his entire life.

On whim, he decides to go out with this girl who had a crush on him. They went out, things happened, and she got pregnant. During these days, smushmortions* among alot of Black people were (still is) frowned upon. He decided that he would marry his crush. His girlfriend was devastated to no end.

He was an ideal father: they attended church as a family, he participated in the child's extra-curricular activities, etc. His high school girlfriend was devastated. She dated, but never married.

When the child reached 18 years of age, the man divorced his wife and asked his childhood girlfriend to marry him. Everyone was shocked (including the child). The wife was confused and upset. She did not understand. They had lived as a family for 18 years, very few arguments, etc.

His high school girlfriend accepted his proposal. They have 2 children together and are still together to this day.

YO...that is a love story.

In addition to the question in bold noted above, now I ask you:

What is a love story? Why is it a love story?

Extra credit: What's your love story?

Bond. BlkBond.

*I thought Love Jones epitomized the experience for most, i.e. those that I know and knew. I understand that due to socio-economic reasons some stories mirror Baby Boy or Jason's Lyric as well.

*smushmortions = I love that movie. What's better, that movie or 40 yr. old virgin? It's a perpetual debate in my family

*That closer line is vintage. Bleeding hearts beware. Ugh!

Feel That

Inspirational Movies: Highlander, Lethal Weapon 4

"Your Love Ain't like mine"

A few weeks ago, The Champ on verysmartbrothas asked me to define Love. I could not. I replied that there was no one definition, no clear understanding of what love is. There is no one model of love either. One model does not supercede another. Each love is different. The Obama's love is a stark contrast to Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown. Both are love.

I had a conversation with a friend, who brought up the possibility that no one knows what love is.

His theory was that love was based on a feeling. Since we cannot feel what another person feels, love as felt by one person may not be the love that is felt by another. He could be on to something. For example, apply the same feeling with pain. If you lose someone close to you, you may grieve by anger, crying, depression, etc; however, someone else may not grieve in the same manner. The way we grieve does not negate or inflate our love for the deceased, it simply distinguishes how we feel based on who we are. No one way is better or effective, it is simply different.

I note all of this because as a late twentysomething (now thirty), I am among those always asked about my marital status and love. Everyone has an opinion on who you are with or who you are not with. Most of this inquiry comes from people who are usually in relationships or married. It's like once they have become apart of a pair, their expertise in relationships increase.

I have been fortunate to date since I was 12. When I say date in reference to that age, I mean that in the most loose terms. I remember my parents taking me and my 'girlfriend' to movies, restaurants, and dances. I credit my parents for their liberal views and social insight that would teach me how to forge relationship with people, notably those of the opposite sex. I learned early about principles like commitment, trust, honesty, and compromise. Though I have not always applied these principles to all of my relationships, being placed in those situations early allowed me to learn and adapt as necessary, in contrast to many who have no knowledge at all.

The amount of people taking their cues from movies, music, and other people are uncanny. I believe in being open minded, yet intelligent. The advice of others can sometimes offer insight and perspective to your situation, however, it is not your situation.

Often, the people who may be offering you advice may not be the most knowledgeable.

On to the recollection:

My cousin, Alisa called me one night to talk. She was having trouble with her boyfriend (he would become her husband). He had been very distant and non-responsive when she tried communicating with him. She was very much in love and did not understand what the problem was in the relationship. In short after some probing, we came to the decision that maybe their libidos were not in sync.

She acknowledged that she was not a very 'sensual' person. She had only been with 4 guys and even then, neither were 'casual'. After a short discussion, she joined that group of people who annoy me: Love Judge. A Love Judge is someone who tries to pass judgment on the state of love in your life (usually after a new discovery of love in theirs).

Her: So Why haven't you found love? You haven't been in a real relationship in a few years...

Me: What? Where is this coming from?

Her: I mean, you're my cousin and I love you. I want you to be happy...to be as happy as I am at least.

Me: (sigh) It's pretty condescending to assume I'm not happy Alisa. Be mindful that you yourself just entered your first meaningful relationship in roughly 5 years.

For a second things got tense, but cooler heads prevailed.

Me: Your love is not like mine.

Her: What do you mean?

Me: Just what I said, your love is not like mine.

I tell her about the girl I dated on and off from high school through college. When we would have sex and I would climax, my eyes would see bright speckles of light. It would feel like traces of flashing lights were shone on my eyes. This was not even the best part: I could feel her.

No, not mentally, not only physically, but emotionally. I remember going to club ESSO my freshman year, standing on the bottom level listening to Kilo Ali when suddenly a feeling came over me. A dire urgency that everything was not right. I remember leaving the club catching the MARTA back to campus to call her. This was before everyone had cell phones, so I called her house. Her mother thought I was insane. She was at a party, but I told her mother I needed to speak with her and I wanted her to call me back as soon as she got in.

When she got home. I told her that I felt something concerning her and I wanted to know if she was alright. She was silent. She wanted to talk to me the next day, but I insisted. After small talk and probing she told me that there was a guy she was talking to and she exchanged numbers with him. Shortly after she had regrets and informed him that she was involved with someone and wanted to be honest with him that they could only be friends. She admitted her attraction to him, but broke down among her friends because she could feel that I knew.

Wow.

How did I know that?

I did not know exactly what happened, who was involved, but I felt it.

We would have this connection for the entire duration we dated. We would fight, f*ck, fuss, cuss, criticize, love, lie, and surprise one another until our demise.

Yet, that intuition remained:

2006

I was in law school. I had not spoken to her in years. We spoke when I went into the hospital. When I got out, but that was it.

As I sat in Agency & Partnership I got that feeling. I didn't know what was happening. We had not been romantically involved in years. We have not been friends in years. When class ended I called her.

She was sniffling. "Oh my God. Oh my God" she replied. I asked her what was wrong: she was at her grandmother's funeral. We sat in silence for about 10 seconds. I didn't know if God was giving me sign about us or providing insight about love. I interpreted this as the latter. Despite the good, we had enough conflicts for me to know we were not meant to be. We spoke about her grandmother's passing, her well-being, etc. Before we hung up she said I am the only person she has ever felt that with. She does not even know anyone else who has ever experienced it--not even her parents who have been married for 30 years. I agreed.

After I told my cousin this story she sat in awe on the phone. She responded that she had never felt anything like that with anyone. She apologized and noted that maybe she is the one who is missing out. Touche.

I quell her concerns by noting that love is not a contest where we compete against one another. In short, Love is: what we make it.

I do not evaluate the relationships of others. Like any other person, my opinions are based on a combination of my personal experiences and knowledge. If that knowledge and/or experience is limited, then perspective may be restricted to the same confines of a closed mind and hardened heart. As a person, I recognized that even on a perfect day I am flawed: simply because I am human.

I admit, that my ambivalence for relationships and marriage stem from my experiences and emotions. Both of which skew perspectives and taint objectivity. Everyone has not experienced what I have. Nor does their intuition allow them to know what I know.

That love thing?

I encourage all of you to feel that.

Bond. BlkBond.

PS--My cousin is now divorced.

Vegas Finale: Bond & Diddy Strike Back

(This is the finale for the Vegas series. I was there for another night, but it was uneventful as I was there alone. I know each post was lengthy and I took awhile to finish, but I wanted to be as descriptive and authentic as I could be. I will be back to 'normal' blogs from this point. At least until the next series--Bond)

Starring: The Black Bond

Co-Starring: Diddy

Guess Starring: Latino Mami(s), The Texas Girls, The Beckys, D list celebrities, retired athlete, Pop starlet, random video vixen/jersey chasers, etc.

Location: VEGAS!

Soundtrack courtesy of The Black Bond iPod

"Run This Town", "F*ck All Night", "Excuse Me Miss" by Jay-Z

"Money to Blow", "Still Fly", "Ransom", "Stunt Hard" by Drake

"Never Get It", "H*es" by Lil' Wayne

"First Day Out" by Gucci Mane (AYE!)

"3 in the morning" by UGK

"PWA" by 5th ward boyz

"Hey Ma (remix)" by Cam'Ron

"Bubble Music" by Cam'Ron

"Bad Whiskey (Wavy)" by Max B

"The Game is ours

we'll never foul out...

Y'all just better hope

we gracefully bow out"--Sean Carter, Do It Again, Vol. 3

Diddy gets a call from a gamer in ATL. A gamer is what we call a female player. She usually has the face of an angel, body of a goddess, personality of a jester, and the aura of a queen. When I was in college and I would be in cities like Atlanta, Houston, D.C., etc. they were frequent. Now I see more clucks than a little. I think people in general just are not what they used to be.

Anyway, this particular gamer is calling Diddy about a business opportunity. He puts his phone on speaker to let me hear her slick talk. She is selling a product called a body wrap*. She has a practical monopoly from Atlanta to Houston with this product and she wants to expand to Los Angeles. She boasts that she has made $15,000 in one month. She wants Diddy and whoever he knows (i.e. Me & J) to put some money up for her to expand or to take the body wrap to our respective cities of origin/residence. The money sounds good, but I'm a guy--what the hell do I look like selling body wraps to women?!

She goes in about how when she was in Vegas a guy noticed her ass (yeah, that'll do it) and put her up in a penthouse. He lives in L.A. but she hasn't had a chance to break him. She's not about sex, she says it takes a check to get her wet. Hilarious...but I love it; reminds me of one of my lines. Diddy tells her he will hear her out, types in the dates she will be in L.A. then hangs up.

I go through my wager slips to see if there are any I have overlooked. Damn. I notice all of the money I lost; moreover, the money I lost out on. I find two slips that seem to be live: 8-team parlay cards with one game left for Ole Miss. Win potential: $1100 dollars. I think my luck is about to change.

Diddy texts the Italian girl, her name is Janelle*. She works for a publishing and media company on the east coast. She was in Vegas initially for business, but decided to go out Saturday. I instruct him on what to say. She comes across as a woman who is susceptible to flattery. She eventually stops texting and calls after one of his (my) lines intrigue her. She wants to meet us at the infamous pool party that takes place at the Hard Rock every Sunday. She has passes & VIP, however, we must go now to take advantage.

I tell Diddy I will meet him at the Hard Rock. I do not want to be a third wheel and I want to see if I will win these bets. I also need to pack because I cannot stand being at this hotel any longer than I have to. I tell him to call me once he gets in line. He tells me that Fabolous was at a club inside the Bellagio last night called The Bank, and we probably could have gone in with me in jeans and a t-shirt. I don't think he realizes that I am impartial.

Diddy leaves and I turn the television to ESPN to see the Ole Miss game. Ole Miss is winning, however, they are not covering the spread. Damn. I'm about to be depressed all over again. I send out a few texts to see if anybody else had any luck yesterday. The next thing I know, Ole Miss bounces back to score 28 points in the 4th quarter. I win. Guess my luck has changed.

I jump up to pack and take a shower. After I get dressed, I noticed Diddy has called. He says that the line to the pool party is around the block. The pool party was free until noon, however, the line will negate anybody getting in there by noon. I ask him about the passes, but her connect is no longer there...probably in the pool party. It turns out that T-pain and Fabolous will be at this pool party so it will be a concert as well as a party. I tell him to call me back when he finds out what the cover is.

I put on cargo shorts, polo shirt, and uptowns then head to my original hotel. On my way out there are men holding hands by the pool area. Pause.

I catch a cab to my hotel to check in. I walk into the lobby and there seems to be more people here than ever before. It seems like every time someone leaves Vegas, three people replace them. I ignore the line and walk directly to the attendant and inform her I have a reservation. She motions me to one of the people at the front desk. They place me on the 21st floor with a view of the strip. Guess my luck has improved.

After receiving my key card I walk to the sportsbook to collect my money. I see the Latino guy from Saturday, who asks me how my luck has been. I tell him it just got better: $1100 dollar parlay win. He says "shit! Damn homie, I need to do what you're doing". I give him dap then head upstairs to drop off my bags. Diddy calls to inform me that the cover is $100 dollars for guys, $50 dollars for females and it is already after noon. I tell him that I will be there, but he does not want to go, because he and Janelle decide to get massages. Now I see he is in impressive mode because he starts whispering asking me what type of massages are available and how much they cost. He wants to know what type of massage I had and how much it costs.

I tell him the massage was about $135 for a 60 minute session. He yells that I was bugged for paying that but...it's Vegas. I enjoy living life without the harsh confines of possible restrictions.

He tells me he will call once they finish. I tell him to ditch the massage and go straight to her room. He laughs, but says he doesn't think so. Despite his initial aggression, he sometimes gets passive after initial contact; whereas I am usually tame initially and my aggression escalates as time goes on.

I decide to grab something to eat. I find a gourmet burger restaurant. This restaurant has all kinds of hamburgers made from various meats: pork, beef, lamb, turkey, etc. They also have a great selection of beers. To start off I have an apple beer while I look over the menu. In lieu of my win, I decide to order a Kobe beef burger on ciabatta bread. I finish the apple beer in 2 minutes. The bartender tells me that they offer a better selection. This is a coy way of him saying I need to step my beer game up (laughs). Never one to back down from a challenge, I go straight to the beers from Germany.

My uncle served 2 tours in Germany during the 80's. He would always remark about three things: Cleanliness, Beer, and Women. He would tell me stories where his German girlfriends behavior was damn near obsessive. They would drink with him, fight people with him (laughs), and sex him crazy. He would get excited reminiscing about his time in Germany. I tried to remember the name of the beer he always spoke about. He's been gone for a few years now and though we were not close, I miss him. When he got out of the Army to live with us for a few months when I was a child, I though he was the biggest man on earth. 6'4, 280 lbs of muscle. Baritone voice. Country boy through and through: he loved to eat, drink, fight, and chase women so much so that could have been his obituary. Most of all he loved his family. One of the guys he drank with noted how pretty my sister was once and he grabbed his Glock and chased the guy down the street. My father had to be called to calm him down because he wanted to kill the guy...and that was his friend. I often think about my uncle in an NFL uniform or in a boxing ring. His room at my Nana's house lined with trophies, metals, and athletic awards. I think if he had received the guidance at a young age his story would have ended differently.

Doppelbock. That is the name of the beer. I order a Doppelbock to pay homage to my uncle. I have yet to enjoy the life of the Deutsch, but at least with this beer I will give my uncle his moment. The beer is corked. The bartender must uncork the beer before I can drink it. The alcohol content is about 12%. At this point two girls are seated on my left and everyone else is looking at the spectacle that is a beer. I take a sip: it tastes like a Guiness syrup. The girls want to know how it tastes. I tell them it is good, just very strong. They introduce themselves as: Liz* and Hailey*. Liz lives in San Diego, Hailey lives in Vegas. Hailey is the better looking, but Liz is the most personable. Hailey has a boyfriend (damn), Liz does not. I lay on the charm and discover Liz is a buyer for a department store. I inquire about the Barney's limited edition converse and she gives me a number of someone in NY to contact Monday. Out of the blue, Hailey declares that she likes me and I am cool. Guess I passed the test. They whisper for awhile, then my phone rings: Diddy.

Diddy informs me that he is at the Wynn receiving a deep-tissue massage with Janelle. Janelle was concerned that I was lonely and wanted to check on me. I tell him that I won my bets, unpacked my bags, and I am now enjoying the companies of two ladies. He says, "Damn, I guess you winning?", I reply, "that's what I do. Win.". He tells me he'll call me when he finishes.

I tell the girls it was Diddy. They vocalize their initial concerns why I was alone. They though I was with a female. After small talk, Liz gives me her number and asks me to call them tonight to hang out. Yeah, that usually turns out well for me. Hailey mentioned getting my opinion on some lingerie she bought and Liz casually mentioned that she had never dated a Black guy. Guess my luck has changed.

The girls give me hugs with promises to call me tonight for fun. I continue my conversation with a couple sitting to my right. We have an enlightened conversation about marriage, careers, children, and love. I thank them, pay my tab, then head back to the room.

I lay down for a minute to allow my body to enjoy a $50 dollar hamburger. I am confused if the past few days have been a fallacy or reality. I no longer have the urge to hit the club every night, sleep with every Beyonce/Kenya Moore doppelganger, drink like a fish, or smoke like a train, but I'm not sure I'm ready for the pasture that is suburban cookouts, khakis, and conformity.

Diddy calls to tell me that he and Janelle went back to her room. He notes how soft and curvy her body was. The type of body that makes men end up with 7 kids and neurotic habits. She gave him head that was mindblowing (pun intended). Just when he was about to lay her, her boss calls to be picked up from the airport. She jumps up and tells him she must go and she will see him later. He is pissed. He thinks she is sleeping with her boss or her 'boss' is her boyfriend. Anything is possible. Few people today have a code. I think that's why when I meet people who do I am both intrigued and infatuated. He plans to rest, workout, shower, then dress with the hopes to be here by 9 or 10pm. I co-sign, as I too will rest, run (cardio), shower, dress with hopes to be ready by 10pm (laughs).

After I wake up it is already 8ish. Fuck, I overslept. Liz has already sent me two texts asking what I'm doing and telling me where they will be. If this text were from Hailey I would be all over that, but I can fall back with Liz...unless times get hard (laughs). I wake up and take a shower. Long, hot shower. Hot like the kind that makes you sweat while you're showering. I remember one of my girls tried to sneak in behind me one day and she jumped out because the water was too hot.

I decide on a grey Ralph Lauren suit with a silver gucci tie. White french cuff shirt, white polo pocket square, with silver cuff links, Black gucci loafers. I'm ready. Diddy calls to see if I'm dressed. He comes up to the room with his brown Ralph Lauren sport coat with no shirt underneath (laugh). He has a Hermes hankerchief in his pocket with tortoise shell gucci frames and Louis Vuitton drivers. When I open the door he seems serious like we're playing in a championship. We talk very little. I think we both believe in some way tonight will have underlying implications on the both of us. Like clockwork, Jay-Z's Run This Town comes on the television. We look at each other and give a nod. Tonight will not disappoint.

We head down the elevator in complete silence. We stop at the upscale restaurant in my hotel for a short dinner. I have a filet mignon, baby carrots and a baked potato. Diddy has water (laughs). We leave the restaurant where we discuss tonight:

Diddy: It's do or die

Me: Yeah. I have better things to do than die. I've had sex with sisters*, a threesome, sex with women from various nationalities...I've been that dude. No need to stop now.

Diddy: I feel you. So you bringing back Sweet Jones?*

Me: Fa' show Youngblood*. (laughter) I'm gonna start calling you Iceberg, cause you've graduated (laughter).

Diddy: (sarcastic laugher) well, I appreciate it.

Me: Nah man, but seriously, you do your thing. I just fuck with you because I know what you used to do...and hell, some of the things you still do (laughter).

Just as we walk out the hotel, we notice two white girls holding long tropical drinks drifting around the cab stand. I greet them. them turn around smiling. I got'em. I love that feeling right there: when my conclusion preceeds even the beginning. Space-Age (word to Eightball & MJG).

Diddy asks where they are going. They reply that they do not know. They compliment us on our attire and ask where we are going. We tell them we are going to club XS inside Encore. We invite them to join us, which they oblige. We all enter the same cab. The girls are from Texas. The girl Diddy is talking to is blonde, my girl is a brunette. As we take off my girl puts her hand in my hand. Yeah....she's gonna get it. She starts playing with my hand---trying to pop my thumb from it's place (?!?), then suddenly she puts her tongue in my mouth. She's all over me. Diddy yells out, "Bond! It's not over! We the FLYEST!!" (laughter)

We make out all the way to the hotel. I put my hands up her dress--no panties on. I start kissing and sucking on her breasts, she moans, puts her legs across mine and leans on Diddy. I have no idea what Diddy is doing over there because I'm only thinking the damage I am about to reek. We get to Encore and tip the driver. I hop out and grab the brunette's hand to help her out the car. Me and Diddy begin to pow wow about what we will do:

Diddy: Yo, I think we need to go back to your hotel, cause these two are READY.

Me: Forget my hotel, let's get a room here or next door at the Wynn.

Diddy: Yo, what about the club? Nigga, I bought this hankerchief, these gucci frames, somebody gotta see me! (laughter)

Me: Way ahead of you: We go upstairs, do them, then come back downstairs to go in the club (laughter). If they flake, we still have a room for other options that may be available.

Diddy: Bond, you're on your SHIT!

Just as we decide to take the Texans upstairs, I turn to see the woman I was kissing laid out on the ground face down. She has passed out. Her friend is trying to revive her by lifting her hand, but she is not moving. Security comes over to ask us to move. She opens her eyes then heads to the trash can to vomit. Her friend is holding her hair. Security asks if we are staying there we are good, otherwise we will have to leave because the hotel wants no liability. I tell him that we are not together (laughter) only that we shared a cab. Diddy asks the blonde if she still wants to go upstairs (3-some), but she says no, her concern is her friend. We ask the security guy to bring out a wheelchair to place her in. I ask the blonde what she is going to do when she replies that she will go back to the room. I can respect that. Security calls a cab for them.

The cab driver is skeptical, because she may get sick again. I tip him $10 dollars to drive them back to the hotel. The blonde gives me a kiss on the cheek, then they drive off.

Diddy gives me dap and we walk into the Encore hotel like we own it. People are looking at us like one of those sequences in a movie when the protagonists enter at a pivotal point in the plot. We walk up to the hostess to inquire about entry. Cover is $50 dollars, bottle service starts at $400 dollars. I want to do Bottle service, but Diddy does not because he does not want to be 'tied' down to one location. This whole trip I have not had bottle service yet.

We look at the general entry line which seems to stretch around the corner of the hotel. We ask how much for 'special' entry. She says for $50 dollars she can accommodate us. She tells us that there is someone special inside: Rhianna. She tells us to look for Bungalow 5. We pay (it's Vegas) and walk in with escort. I have a new target. I've been watching that slim sexy caribbean woman waltz around in magazines, television...I think it's time she waltz around my room naked (laughs). I think back to those naked pictures online. Oy vey. Just unfair to be sexy like that. She's an I.E.*

As soon as we get into the club, I tell Diddy I do not care what he does, but I need to find Bungalow 5 (laughs). We walk around the pool area where we notice a group of women eyeing us. They wave us over but we wave and keep walking.

The club is nice. We entered the main room where there are booths set up along the entry way. There is a dancefloor playing trance, techno, and trip hop. We walked through there past a stage area to an open area that has a pool. It is in a hotel after all. What's crazy is there are people inside the pool with all of their clothes on. Girls are in bikinis prancing around with drinks in their hand. It's like a separate club. I notice two european girls kissing each other and fondling a guy by the steps into the pool.

The pool is lined with lounge chairs. In the background there are a number of bed that people have purchased with their crew/girls. We walk to the back searching for bungalow 5. We count, but did not see it. After another lap we notice that there is an area upstairs with bungalow's that contains a sofa and mini-bar. This club is probably the nicest we have gone to. Diddy keeps texting Janelle to find out where she is, but she is at dinner with her 'boss'; tells him she will here soon.

I get two texts from Hailey and Liz: they are at the Venetian gambling and they want me to come join them later (smiley face). Guess my luck has changed.

After scouring the upstairs area for Ms. Fenty, we head downstairs to order drinks. We both have Mojitos. The drinks were so good, I could taste the fresh mint and the sugar from the simple syrup. Bravo XS, Bravo.

We make our way back to the main floor when a man stops us to tells us we are sharp. He gives us both dap, then yells out "Vegaaaas!!". As we make our way to the main dance floor, Diddy sees an beautiful Indian girl he tries to talk to. She smiles and rubs his chest. I laugh, then she turns to me and rubs my face. All I can hear is her saying "Oh, my God. Oh, my God". We laugh then I see: Rhianna. She is tucked away in a corner close to the main dance floor area. I only know it's her because of the hair. I call out to her. She looks in my direction and smiles then puts her shades on. A group of security personal in the shape of a diamond (with her in the middle) move across the dance floor, pushing us farther from her. We enjoy our drinks and make small talk, when the PA system announces a special guest performance by Montell Jordan. Um, ok.

Montell Jordan gets on stage then performs "This is How We Do It". The crowd is going crazy, lot of 90's kids in here. The lights are going off, everybody has a camera recording the show or taking flicks. After the performance we walk around awhile longer when I see a tall guy yell out 'What's up?!" I look back to see who he is talking to. He points to me and says "Nah, man, I'm talking to y'all". It's Gary Payton. He leans over to tell me "I just wanted to compliment both of y'all niggaz. Y'all niggaz CLEAN! Y'all the cleanest niggaz IN here!" I laugh and give him dap. He remarks that he is only in a polo shirt (2 button Lacoste) and jeans. I tell him that when you have millions, you can dress that way. He laughs then goes behind us to talk to someone.

Janelle texts Diddy that she is at the club. Of course he wants to find her, so we walk around for about 15 minutes looking for that broad. I get tired and decide to go onto the dance floor to chill. I leave Diddy in the area where the booths are. While I'm standing there, a red head with curly hair dances up against me; I entertain her for awhile, but my loafers are killing me so this does not last long. She asks me where I am from, she is from Tacoma. I don't try to mack her, instead I hug her then wish her a good night.

I return to find Diddy still by himself, texting frantically. Janelle has supposedly gone back to the room and is now in bed. It is 3:24 am at this point. I have 2 texts from Liz and Hailey inquiring about my whereabouts and asking me to call when I leave. Damn, it's time to go. I gotta get wet, that would make this trip a good trip: I won money, I ate good, I hung out, and if I have sex...that would be the icing on the cake.

I ask a security guard upstairs where Rhianna is. He looks surprised that she is there tonight, noting that she has been there all week. He thinks she is built funny, but says that she must have left. I inquire about all of the techno, electronica, etc. He tells me that the owner caters to a certain crowd and the music reflects their taste. He notes that anonymous people spend thousands on bottles every night there. They have bottles that are as expensive as $50,000 per bottle. Many of the people buying the bottles are not even Americans. I give him dap, thank him for his time and head back to the bungalow where Diddy is.

We have another round of drinks on me and sit upstairs where Diddy confides that he also is tired. He talks about his need for connection with a female and how it often leads to bad life decisions. I can see that he is sincere, so I keep the comedy, satire, and sarcasm unsaid. I tell him that he should probably change his life to reflect what he wants. He nods in agreement. I suggest that we leave.

We hail a cab, when the cab stand guy tells us that a Blonde is headed to our hotel as well, however, she has no cash only a charge card. I invite her with us. We ask her why she is alone and remark how her safety should be a concern. She tells us she came with friends but lost them. Some of the girls she did not even know. She got drunk, lost, and ended up outside alone. Her and I begin to comment on how hungry we are. We talk about how tangy shrimp at panda express would be good right about now. We exit the cab, I tip the driver, and Diddy walks the girl to her room. I try to call Liz and Hailey back, but no answer, they are asleep. I then try to call the brunette, but no answer in their room. Eh, still a decent day. I call Diddy to tell him I will change shoes then meet him in the cafe downstairs.

I take off my loafers and put on my stan smiths. Today was good. Not Good like going to club 559 and getting on some ghetto ass that made you reevaluate your life, but good for this time and life perspective. I realize that just as times have changed, so have me and my friends. I don't have to mack every woman or drink all the alcohol. I can just be and still have a great time.

I take the elevator down with a new since of enlightenment. I walk to the cafe to find Diddy. Diddy is in a booth with two BAD ASS Latinas. That's my boy. Damnit that is my boy. One looks like Jennifer Lopez from out of sight, the other looks like a prettier Irene from the Real World. I have a seat next to Irene because Diddy seems to have claimed J-Lo junior.

The girls are visiting from Los Angeles with friends. They decided to stop over and have a meal. We talk about Vegas, relationships, children, etc. Irene's real name is Kennedy*. Kennedy gives me her number and ask when I will be in L.A. because she wants to see me again. Diddy and J-Lo exchange numbers, but I don't think it will work out due to some comments he made about her and a threesome (shrugs). We all hug then they depart.

Diddy decides that he will catch the bus at 7:15am back to L.A. today instead of tomorrow. I give him dap, wish him well and tell him I will see him next month sometime. He chuckles in disbelief. I tell him to be safe then head back upstairs to rest. It's now 6:20 a.m.

As I walk past the slots and the starbucks to get onto the elevator, my phone rings:

Her: Are you sleepy?

Me: Depends.

Her: (laughter) Depends on what?

Me: Depends on if you want to talk or if you want to see me.

Her: Are you heading to your room?

Me: Yeah...are you coming with?

Her: What's the number?

Me: 2118

Her: I'm on the way.

This was a good trip.

Somethings never change...

Fin.

Bond. BlkBond.

*Body wraps are a deceptive tool used to 'tighten' the body. It is the modern day girdle or corset. You could just work out (shrugs).

* The sex with the two sisters was not at the same time. One sister is 2 years older than me, the other is two years under me. The oldest was one of my first sexual partners, the younger sister..that just jumped off one day after chilling, drinking, etc.

*Sweet Jones is the gorilla pimp from the Iceberg slim novel, Pimp. Youngblood is Iceberg Slim's pimp name before he starts using heroin and becomes 'Icey'. I call Diddy Youngblood to denote his 'inexperience' and inconsistency.

*I.E. = Instant Erection. Sometimes we say 'E.I.', but because of that damn Nelly song, we usually only say I.E. Examples of I.E. include: Kenya Moore, Andressa Soares, Nicole 'Coco' Austin, etc. You get the picture. If not you should definitely download them (laughs)

*Names, traits, appearances, origins changed to protect the innocent & guilty.

Vegas part 4: Contemplations

I'm exhausted. Part of the exhaustion has to do with the massage, the other aspect is the drinking and running around. I'm hurting. It feels like I just finished playing 10 games of 5 on 5 full court. I look at the clock: 11:06 a.m. I am about to miss the checkout time. I call downstairs to inquire if I can check out late. There is so much noise I cannot hear the woman on the other end of the phone. She tells me that I can not stay any later than one o' clock. I jump up to take a shower and throw my clothes into my suitcase. My throat is hurting, feels like I am going hoarse. I take a shower then get dressed to go downstairs.

Diddy calls me to make sure I'm good. He stayed at the club until almost 7 a.m. trying to leave with a woman there with no luck. Today is J's last night in Vegas, then he returns home. I don't think J is having a good time; hell, I don't know if I'm having a good time. I'm not sure if I remember what a good time is.

Law school is very demanding. I have become accustomed to dedicating 8+ hours of my day to reading and writing. Once that concluded, I have been running errands for my father and helping him out daily, so it's not like I've been out here crazy.

I get into the checkout line to inform the hotel staff I will be checking back in Sunday. The woman takes my information and reserves me another room for two more days. I don't fly out until Tuesday, so until then I have awhile to improve the quality of this trip; but what does that mean? Sex? Public intoxication? Police custody*? What 'fun' am I looking for? Because all of the aforementioned conditions I have already experienced at some point in my life. I think this trip is starting to confirm what I've began to suspect for sometime: I'm older.

Maybe I'm just not so hot. Maybe I do need to start thinking about getting married and having a family. Maybe I have already ran my course on the scene and it's time for me to begin a new chapter of my life.

I go into the sportsbook to choose from the parlay cards what additional wagers I will make. All together I have about $400 dollars to play with. I take a seat next to some latino guys sipping corona's out of 22 bottles. They are from Los Angeles. Not because they told me they were, but because they all have on some form of Dodgers paraphernalia: jersey, cap, tshirt, etc.

We talk about the weekend. He comes down with his friends for labor day weekend every year. He says this very excitedly. I look at the four of them: mid-thirties, tattooed, single...damn. I get depressed. A man several years older than me is spending his labor day weekend with 3 of his friend rather than his children (he has a daughter and son) and a woman; moreover, he does this every year. I begin to think that if that were me, I would rather take my daughter to disney world bring them with me to see the Lion King (shrugs).

University Of Georgia is killing my parlays. Damn. I'm going to lose out on hella money. I think I have UGA in a $100 dollar parlay that would yield like $60,000, but too bad they are going to kill that. When the final score settles, I lose like 8 bets. Fuck. I give the latino guy dap then head to the restaurant with my bag. I decide to treat myself so I go into the upscale restaurant and have a NY strip with madeira sauce, asparagus and citrus butter, and baby carrots. Diddy and J call me to meet them at hooters (again) but I'm not feeling it. Truth is I'm not feeling none of it. Not Vegas. Not Hooters. Not the 21 year old kids who smile at me and touch on me only to reveal they have boyfriends. Not the older women who are my parents age who ask me 'what's up?'. Nada. I think I may be done. I am now officially Carlito Brigante.

Diddy has made reservations at a hotel that is off-strip for one night. It is the only hotel whose rates have actually gone down instead of up. On the surface, this is good, however, my intuition tells me to be apprehensive. After I finish my meal, I watch more football. Truth is, I'm not so excited about going out tonight. I know it's Saturday, J's last night, blah blah, but I just want to chill. I don't think J wants to go out either. He and his co-workers left pretty early yesterday. I think he's ready to get back home to his girl. Diddy is still the same Diddy. I think because he was somewhat of a late bloomer. I don't know, but I do know I don't want to be the old nigga in the club.

I call Diddy to find out what hotel he has us at. I get the address then head to the cab stand. We drive about 5 minutes away from all of the bright lights and structures of the strip. I check in to find the lobby cluttered with people. I get my keys then call Diddy to find where he is. I notice alot of guys in the pool area. I find my way to the room, place my things on the bed then go to sleep. I wake up to missed calls from Gino & 'shorty'.

I call Gino back and voice my disdain with Vegas and life generally. I feel like most of my 'mature' friends are married or in relationships serious enough to be parallel to marriage, yet, I am out here chasing tail as I've done for most of my life. I don't know if the reason is because that's all I want to do....or....if it's all I can do. Hmm. Wit, sarcasm, charm, and good looks are great, but then what? What is it that I want? I've already stated that I am not happy. Do I want a relationship? Do I want a lifetime of cocktail parties and women in short black dresses? I don't know. For someone so certain about most things, I am vague about what should be important.

Gino tells me that I will know when it's right. He is going through a rough patch with his own marriage, so he advises me against it (laughs). He tells me that his only bright spot is coming home to see his newborn son. He tries to make me promise him that I will never get married so that I can live the dream for people like him who are dying inside (laughs). Gino is a comedian when he wants to be. I tell him I will be there shortly before I go to D.C.

Gino sounds defeated. His tone is that of a man losing more of himself with everyday he is involved in a marriage. I offer kind and supportive words in an attempt to support my friend, but it is hard when I myself am disillusioned about where I among the relationship hierarchy.

I call shorty back. On vacation I usually talk to few people who are involved in the vacation themselves. Mostly, because I only want to deal with what I see and hear before me. The events and actions taking place in other places cannot affect me, yet they can alter my mood where I am. I decide to call shorty. We have known each other for years and we are actually considering taking our friendship to more--but we have issues. She knows me: too well. She is a good woman, so I have no doubts or apprehensions about her--past, present, or future; yet, I do wonder about her consistency.

We started talking after we lost a mutual friend to a drunk driving accident. She was closer with them than I was. Death places life in perspective. After my own experience I did alot of self-examination and re-evaluation. Shorty is going through the same process now. She has lived most of her life 'by the book' and is by all means the epitome of the type of woman men want to marry: she is cute, she is smart, she is hard-working, personable, cooks, selfless...her only flaw seems to be that she is too good (yeah, that exists). I call her because I need to. During the rare times of uncertainty and ambiguity, I need to talk to people who never waver. People who have known me forever and a day. One minute I'm just a skinny kid with Air Jordan's singing along to born and raised in compton at house parties, then, I blink: I'm a young, single, educated, black man, whose diction is dissected like the cerebellum in neuroanatomy with all of these expectations and pre-conceived notions that have been bestowed upon me by everyone from family and friends to employers.

And right now I need that reassurance. So I call:

Her: How much is your bail?

Me: (laughs) You think I would call you if I was in Jail. Stawpit.

Her: (laughs) what's up? I sent you a text, are you having fun?

Me: Eh, I dunno. Truth is I think my definition of fun has evolved and this may no longer be it.

Her: Aww, is that baby growing up? Aww, see you gonna have to trade in those red bottoms and get you some stacy adams old man.

Me: (laughs) you craaazy. First, I don't own red bottoms, you negros ran out and invaded the stores as soon as that verse came out (she laughs). I am a red-stripe wearer and a Double G gangsta. Negro the day you see me in some stacy adams, is the day you get a neck tattoo with your baby daddy name, orange hair (she's laughing hysterically now), and baby phat scrubs (inside joke)!!

Her: (laughs) you are a fool! But you don't have everybody fooled, so what's up? You're supposed to be enjoying yourself in Vegas....what's going on?

Me: I'm not feeling it. Just think I'm done with this aspect of my life. I think it's time we quit playing and I meet you at Tiffany's (she laughs) in the Galleria so we can make our mothers happy (chuckle)

Her: My mother thinks you nasty (I laugh); she remembers you from middle school, you AND your little brother, trying to sleep with people (I laugh hysterically).

Me: You mom doesn't like me anymore?

Her: My mother loves you, she just knows you and told me to watch you.

Me: How does you mother know I was a mannish boy? You can't tell your mother stuff like that?

Her: She already knew Bond! It's not like it's some big secret! Y'all were nasty! I'm playing with Barbie and Nintendo, you and your brother, your LITTLE brother, trying to mack. Like, dude, we're 12...go sit down.

Me: (laughter)

Her: But seriously, like I can see that. You have been, um, out there a minute.

Me: I know. It's one of those times, when I feel like I experienced so much so early and I am jaded; but what's the other option for me, marriage? kids?

Her: I don't know. That's something we're all trying to figure out Bond. You're not alone with this thinking. I mean, I moved to______ and I've been traveling like Anthony Bourdain because I feel like I haven't done ENOUGH. I'm almost freakin' thirty!

Me: Hey, thirty is the new twenty, I'm so hot still, word to Hov.

Her: Negro you too hot that why you by yourself trying to figure out which way is up...(laughs)

Me: (laugh) Nigga, you by yourself too! See, there is no 'correct' answer to this happiness equation. If that were so you would be with (millionaire) or (athlete)...but your here with me (jay z voice) I appreciate that....

Her: (laugh) shut up! I'm not with you Bond...we're still...growing.

Me: Aight, I don't want you to get all uncomfortable; so I'm going to end the call on that note.

Her: Negro, you don't scare nothin' over here!

Me: You talk real tough, maybe that move to Texas is going to your head.

Her: (laughs) you crazy! But, you alright boo boo. I would wait until your trip is over before you start to discard the entire experience.

Me: True. It could be worst: women could approach and ask for my number based on how 'smart' I look*

Her: SHUT. UP! (Hysterical laughter) It was all-star weekend damnit! Compared to what those women had on we did look smart!

Me: Whatever it takes to get you through the day (laughs). I appreciate the talk babe. Take care. Tell yo' mama I'm STILL nasty...(laughs)

Her: (dying laughing) I will, be good, be safe, be blessed. I'll call you in a few weeks before I go to Atlanta, maybe you can meet me out there. Take care.

We hang up. I feel a little better. Diddy comes in we dap and call J. J decides he is staying in for the night because he flies out in the morning. I feel J. As a matter of fact, I think I just want to get a good meal, chill, and rest. The last few night have been exhausting for nothing.

Diddy and I walk to a hotel and have supper at an Italian restaurant. We talk about college and the time thereafter and how we've changed. Diddy is in a suit, I'm in jeans and a tshirt and baseball cap. Even my attire suggests that I am not into hanging out tonight.

We go back to the room and notice something weird: All of the people we saw earlier are MEN. They are bunned up with each other...what the fuck is going on?!? I go to the desk to ask what is going on at the hotel, when the front desk attendant tells me that that particular hotel is sponsoring some kind of homosexual conference. What. The. FUCK? Immediately I ask Diddy what type of dope he's been sniffing that he didn't think to inquire about this. He tells me that the price was decent in comparison to the rest of the strip, so he did not ask questions. Well, this now explains why. I go to the room to watch sportscenter. I have to see if I have won any bets. The hotel is charging $15 dollars per day for wi-fi connectivity. Fucking Oklahoma loses in an upset that kills damn near every parlay wager I have placed. Great. Not only having a bad time, I'm losing money. I tell Diddy that I want to go the the Venetian/Bellagio to see what it's like there. He's changing clothes again and seems hesitant to come out so he wants me to call him when I get there. I don't even bother putting on a suit or slacks. I just catch a cab and go.

When I get to the hotel, I see all kinds of young, attractive, women. This is where we should have been. I call Diddy to tell him that I have found an oasis in a desert. I see all kinds of women: Black, White, Latino, Asian....and they all look good. Damn, guess I should have dressed up. I walk around for about 15 minutes then Diddy calls. This negro is truly pussy crazy--if I call him for anything else, I will have an hour wait minimum, but for women, he'll teleport.

We walk around awhile, flirt with a few women, when I begin to feel tired. I am tired though--tired of this entire ordeal. Tired of going out. Tired of the same wack songs in clubs. Tired of the same lame dating game. I may be ready to turn my hand in. Permanently.

Diddy suggests we go to the Caesar's, because there is a club inside called PURE that is supposed to be hot tonight. We exit the Bellagio when I notice two guys that look like Gucci Mane talking to a tall blonde. One of the guys gets her number and she walks into the hotel.

"Working girl" says Diddy. "Think so?" I reply. "Gotta be. what else she gonna do with them?" says Diddy. "Fuck'em. That's what." I reply matter of factly.

Educated people amaze me sometimes: they act as if the carnal desires of individuals are restricted among class structure. Like an orgasm gives a fuck about your MBA.

As I snap back into reality, I notice a curvy thick Italian woman hopping out of a lincoln towncar. Goddamn. My dick gets hard instantly. She smiles, but at who: me or diddy. Diddy immediately rushes over to her. Damn, too slow Bond. He gets her name and number and they kiss each other on the cheek before we depart. I suck (laughs). That was a gift and I didn't take it. Diddy such a cakemaster he'll probably find a way to incomplete that task. If I would have been more assertive I would have have her tanned Italian legs wrapped around my waist while I dent her head board to the yells of "fottere mi piu difficile!*"

We walk to Caesar's and now I am really disgusted. My experience has been sub-par and I just let Diddy grab a woman that could be Monica Bellucci's little sister. Fuck. It's not that I'm envious, but I know Diddy: what happens is he gets possessive or obsessive and begins to treat the woman like they're already in relationship, which eventually drives her away instead of simply allowing nature to take it's course. What's even more frustrating, he does this BEFORE he gets any sex. A waste. I'll never let him live down the one from undergrad. Long story short: he drags me to the roller rink sophomore year, he meets a HS senior who is BAD, hooks me up on with her friend, she calls the crib later, starts feeling me, but out of some sense of loyalty I tell him, he catches feelings, I back off, he continues to see her for 2 more year where nothing happens, eventually she moves away. Fail. And she was BAD. AS. FUUCK! Beyonce Junior...why else would I still be talking about her 8 year later (laughs).

We walk to the entrance of PURE and there is a group of women trying to get my attention "HEY!" and "Sexy Boy" (laughs) are what they are trying to lure me with. I mean there is no doubt that I could respond, have a conversation, then be punishing their clitoris in about 30 minutes, but I don't want to. Not them (laughs). I mean, depression and all, there are still standards. We go to the entrance of PURE to see practically the same group of people we've seen over the past 2 days. Same music. Just the same. I've had enough.

Before I leave, he wants me to accompany him back to the Bellagio. We enter and there seems to be a crowd going into the lounge inside of the hotel. Just when we are preparing to enter, I am denied admission because I am not dressed. That is a sign to go. I tell Diddy that I am returning to the hotel. He tells me that he is going to stay until he brings something back to the room. I wish him good luck then leave.

I make it back to the room around 1 a.m. I connect my ipod and dose off to sleep. About 5 hours later, I hear Diddy with a female voice. Oh shit, this fool closed. The student has now become the teacher. I am now officially on the outside looking in. Wow. Never in a million years did I believe I would have to surrender my crown. With all of the weights he lifts and his embellishments*, I still consider him my apprentice, rather than my peer; at least when it comes to macking women. I turn over to get a peek: she's tall, light skinned...reminds me of Jurnee Smollett. Wow, I can't front: he's that dude. Maybe this is more confirmation that I need to quit. I can't keep up with a guy who once drove from East Point to Duluth in one night to take a woman chinese food and didn't get to spend the night. Well....not exactly.

I hear her ask him if he wants me to watch. What?! What the hell?

They go into the bathroom and I hear the shower come on. Eventually I hear some noises...moans...then it ends.

She comes out and I start hearing talks of money. Hell to the naw. She leaves. I get up to piss. When I enter the bathroom there is a condom wrapper in the trash. I come out and we talk:

Me: Nigga you scored? Good Job, you did that.

Diddy: Yeah, well. I just got tired of waiting on the odds, so fuck it: I just paid a bitch.

Me: Foul on the play. Nigga what?!?

Diddy: Yeah. Me and that bitch was talking at the bar, then she asked would I 'take care' of her, I said yeah, so for $200 dollars..fuck it.

Me: Aight, I take it back cause you cheated...

Diddy: (laughs) We all pay eventually

Me: Yeah, but not like that. In a way I'm glad you went that route because I was actually starting to doubt myself and believe that you were the superior mack but, when you do things like that, I can breathe a sigh of relief that I haven't lost anything

Diddy: (laughs) Nigga, fuck you (laughs). I fucked. You didn't.

Me: I didn't fuck yet. And I don't pay. I am cut from the cloth of the space-agers. You can't be a pimp if you're a trick.

Diddy: It ain't trickin' if you got it.

Me: That's a muthafuckin lie (laughter)...that's some shit some lames made up to make themselves feel better about paying for sex (laughter). You still my nigga though (laughter).

Sunday is the last 'official' night. Guess if it's over for me, I will find out tonight. A few years back I went to homecoming and I felt the same. Guess this trip is my confirmation of what I already suspected. I just need to build my life with one woman. Guess it's like one of my favorite Puff lines, "I'm through being a player and baller/ Just need one bad chick/ so I can spoil her". True that Puff...maybe if I had a Cassie (with a Kim in the background) I would be more focused in all other aspects such as my career.

Guess Sunday night will be my official closure. It will be my game 6 in a black and red twenty-three. Well, it's like the rat pack philosophy: I would rather burn out, than fade away. So I will go out with a bang. Fuck it. I had a hell of a run, but I am man enough to know when it's over...but is it?

To Be Continued...

Bond. BlkBond.

*When I was young (16 yrs old), I was cuffed, but never charged. My big homie got me out of that.

*I had to look that Italian phrase up

*Diddy is still my friend; I can't tell EVERYTHING about him.

I've been busy with alot

My fault family, I have been crazy occupied. I started on the part 3 and 4, but haven't finished. I got the emails, and I thank you all for your support of the blog, I've just had a lot going on:

1. I'm Back in D.C.

That's right, the mysterious man return to the district. I will keep you posted on the haps & adventures. The homie already hit me up about going to Josephines, The Park, etc. I can't because..

2. I'm sick.

No soon as I get her, I get a head cold. I'm been laid up in the bed taking everything from my cold healing arsenal: theraflu, zycam, orange juice, and enough vitamin C that my saliva looks like orange juice. Bare with me. This does not go well because...

3. I'm going to L.A.

I'm supposed to go meet up with Diddy and latina mami (I didn't finish the vegas trip). That's a problem, not only because I've been sick, but because...

4. I got offered an interview.

You all should know how I feel about my paper. I may have to push the depart date back and/or shorten my time in L.A. I gotta get this money.

I will keep you all posted, hopefully I will finish the blogs I started so that we may move forward with our discussions.

Any questions or comments, hit me on the mac.

007blackbond@gmail.com

Bond. BlkBond.

Vegas: part 3

I slept for all of 4 hours. My spa appointment was at noon and I did not want to be late because I have been stressed out over the past few months and need this massage! (laughs). I go downstairs to grab a quick meal: I have the fried shrimp and fries. I come back upstairs to shower and shave then I head to the spa. I walk in and show my credit card. I am then escorted to the locker room where I am asked to change into a robe and sandals. I ask if I must go naked but they leave it up to me. Shortly after, I am escorted to a separate part of the building with many doors. I meet my masseuse, her name is Gabby*. She is a cute older woman from the islands. I lie down on my stomach where she massages my scalp and works her way to my shoulders. This is a deep tissue massage so her motions are very deep and soothing. We talk, she tells me she has been in Vegas for about 20 years, she has a son in high school, and does not like living there. She tells me that there are the largest number of per capita pedophiles in Vegas (random). We talk politics for a bit, while I enjoy the rest of my massage. I lay there in a trance. It feels as if her fingers are touching every fiber of my muscle tissue. Ahh, now this is living. After my massage, I tip her, we shake hands and I go into the sauna. I am the only young guy in there. I figure to sit for awhile and sweat out some of the toxins over the past few months. I take another shower then head back to my room. As soon as I get into the room and take off my shoes, I collapse on one of the beds. I lay there until my phone rings. It's Diddy and J:

Diddy: Get yo' spa treatment ass up Bond!

Me: For what? It's early, it's nothing poppin' off...

J: That's what I'm sayin'

Diddy: Yo, they had something poppin' off last night where J was (laughs)

Me: Word?

J: Maaaan, I don't even want to talk about it...

J is in Vegas partially for business purposes so he is here with people from work. He tells us that the call later that night was from his friend, who told him to come back to the hotel. Upon entering he found that one of the women was performing oral sex on the other while his friend was face-fucking the one being eaten out. Wow.

Me: So, did you join in?

J: Man, if you see these women...I'm good. (laughs)

Diddy: Yo, I saw'em and it's not happening...(laughs)...

J: I mean...I got a girl back home. Also, like...they ain't hot.

Diddy: Bond, they aren't hot like that.

Bond: Anyway, so what are y'all about to do?

J: We're about to gamble for a bit. Tonight is supposed to be poppin' at club Rain.

Bond: Where's that?

Diddy: The Palms. That's where we prolly should be staying at. I mean, in terms of young, trendy, crowds...

Bond: Aight. Y'all know I'm not with throwing money away on slots, and I'm not a strong poker player, so, y'all hit me up when it gets close to meet up. What's the cover?

J: We've got passes so as long as we all go in together, we should be good. If's it's nice, we can just get bottle service & a table.

Bond: That's what's up. I'm about to zone hit me in 3 hours or so to eat.

Diddy: Ai-ight, cool. I'm about to call Ms. Trini so we can get up, that way I don't have to be tied up tonight.

Pause.

Me & J: Whatever.

(laughter)

I go to sleep. That massage was so invigorating I should get one every week. I wake up with 7 missed calls; Diddy is 3 of those. I wonder if anything is wrong so I call him back, but he's just bored. Seems that Ms. Trini is not picking up the phone. I tell him that she will call him once it's time to go out. She does not want to spend any money, she wants free drinks and companionship, so his phone will ring around 9-10 p.m. After I determine what I have a taste for, we decide to meet at P.F. Chang's before we go to the club. I have my usual: Shrimp with lobster sauce, seafood wantons. Diddy has water. For a man who will splurge two grand on a suit or five hundred on a scarf, he comes across as a cheap bastard. His logic is that those things help generate more money or women, so they are worth it. He claims he ate earlier when he met up with J. He fills me in on the hilarity that are his co-workers. They ask him to join in, but when he declined, they accused him of being scared. He left the suite and went into the lounge where he spent much of last night on the phone with his girl and falling asleep in the chair.

After I eat we have a drink at the restaurant, when Ms. Trini calls like clockwork. She does enough flirting to keep Diddy curious: he tells her all of our plans for the next 3 years seem like it. I shake my head in dismay. He reassures me that tonight he will close or cut her loose.

We catch a cab to the Palms where club Rain is located. There are 2 or 3 other clubs in there as well, so in case Rain does not live up to expectations, we may have other outlets. See, Vegas does not sleep, but the people who own the establishments do.

We exit the cab and I notice a long line on the cab stand: some people are leaving. Outside I notice a few whips: AMG S550 white on white, Black Maybach, Grey Aston Martin...young money. None of the plates are Nevada also. I guess all of the Vegas Money is at home or at some place where locals hang out.

We enter the Palms into a mist of smoke. There are slot machines immediately in fron of us. We walk to hour left and head straight toward the back when we pass the Roulette table where we see a familiar face: Flavor Flav. Flav is there with about 5-10 racks gambling. He has the his last baby momma is close proximity. People are coming up to him to take pictures and yelling out, "Flavor FLAAAV!". I notice when the baby momma walks off he immediately takes off after her. I laugh, because it seems that he is kind of jealous. They go into the playboy club, which from the outside looks like a lounge. We walk further up before we see a long line. We walk up to notice there are two lines that seem to form a ' T '. We stand at the beginning of the vertical line and ask the bouncer about the cover: $50 dollars. It's Vegas, as long as I have a good time, money is not a big problem. I have been apart of Super Bowl Weekend, NBA All-star weekends, etc. thus, the premium is expected. They inform us that the premium is not in vein because DJ Jazzy Jeff will be spinning. Before we pay, we try to contact J and his people for an estimated time of arrival. They will be another hour. We try to wait, however, after several conversations with J we determine that it would be best to go in rather than wait. There is still the issue of the line. The good thing about Vegas is that if you have money and you are willing to spend it, you can have whatever you like (word to T.I.). After a short conversation with the bouncer, we tip $50 to skip the line.

We enter Rain to discover it is half full. That sucks. We make our way to the bar: I order us both vodka tonics. We make our way to the dance floor filled with cougars and mountain lions* in tight jeans and low halter tops. I feel awkward. It's like I'm dancing among women who mirror co-workers and colleagues to the sounds of Jay-Z. We find two girls to dance with for a minute: both girls are blondes. Their doing their best impression of a luke video, it's bad. Just when I'm about to walk off, I notice a bad ass Asian girl dancing in one of the booths. She is spanking her friend who is bent over...hmmm. That would be nice... I have all kinds of thoughts and flashbacks...this is reassurance that I need to get back to D.C.

We dance there for about an hour when J calls Diddy to let him know they are in the club. We walk around to meet them. I greet him and two of his co-workers with the 'dap-hug', but the third gives me the awkward 'head tilt'. Guess he's got some issues with me...ah well, fuck him.

I meet one of the women from last night's episode and they are all that I expect: chest tattoos, piercings, FUPA's*, braids, etc. Looking at them made me wonder where the hell J worked at: an office or a prison! We go into one of the 'reserved' areas with a bar. J buys everyone drinks and we talk about a joint business venture we were supposed to get into once I graduated. Everything is still good, we only need to meet formally to discuss money. That's always a problem.

Diddy is talking to a brunette who is clearly lit. She is pretty, but intoxicated nevertheless; she reminds me of a young Demi Moore with a Jersey accent. Diddy is in mack mode because has his hands on her waist. She keeps telling him how much she loves 'chocolate muthafuckas', so sarcastically I ask if she is a mother, to which she replies 'yes!'. Hilarious. I tell her we can make that euphemism a reality; everyone laughs. I'm getting annoyed. Whenever I get aggravated my sarcasm gets sharper and more frequent. She rubs her hand along my cheek and tells me how sexy I am. Me and Diddy both start kissing on her neck. She moans that she is married and tells us we are going to get her ass beat (laughs). She claims her husband is a 'Mandingo'. She tells us that she just can't resist the sexy 'chocolate muthafuckas' and how she wishes she was single. As a precautionary measure, we inquire about her husband (laughs). He is back in New Jersey with their child (?!?). Diddy catches a wave and bounces back into the open space of the club with J and his friends. I stay in place because I haven't finished my drink, and I don't feel like going through the crowd with my drink. The Jersey girl begins nibbling on my ear before she stops and chastises herself for her indiscretions (laughs):

(nibbling on my ear)

Her: NO! Oh GOD! What am I doing?

Me: You're nibbling on my ear. Guess you call yourself trying to get me hot...

Her: I should go! My husband is gonna beat my ass! He gonna beat the fuck outta me...but you sexy chocolate muthafuckas just do something to me...oh God...I need to be good...

Me: Hey....it's Vegas. I dunno your husband...do what makes you happy...(smirk)

Her: You BAD T.I.....ohhh, you milk chocolate muthafuckers...

Me: WHO? (laughs)

It's time to go find the crew. I walk around to the front door to see Diddy, J, and the crew talking with Ms. Trini and Ms. Cuban. Now, the night is taking a turn for the worst. We were already attached at the hip once, now another night? Um, no. I greet them, hug Ms. Cuban and whisper to J that "it's a wrap". He nods. We stand there for about 30 minutes before Diddy runs off to get Ms. Trini a drink. I walk off. I go on my on to explore the upstairs area: there are bungalows upstairs where parties are seated and taking photos with bottle service. Again, I notice the usual bottles: Grey Goose and Patron. I look out over the dance floor to observe all of the people who are now there: various ages, ethnicities, occupations, etc. Most of the people have smiles and are dancing like maniacs: I am not. I feel nothing (word to Don Draper). I'm not really having 'fun' .

I drift in thought about how at 12 and 13 we would get dropped off at the movie theater to catch the late show with all the high school and college kids. At 14 and 15 we would sneak my parents car down the driveway by parking in neutral and pushing it a few houses down before starting it up to go to teen clubs. I thought about how at 17 I would pay an extra $20 cover to get into the strip clubs to sip Maker's Mark and Wild Turkey while watching hood mamas and trailer trash dance. My freshman year we would go to the hood club down the street to make out with locals, and wild out with the trapstars. I think about how from 19-20 we would scrape up ways to be at the spots with the rappers, actors, dopeboys, video vixens, and groupies. From 21-24 I was basically sick--but I still did my share of travel, blunts, and stunts. By the time I was 25, I began to have this feeling. I wondered if it was because I was still in the south, so I relocated to D.C. The good times continued...but less frequently. I would leave the party scene again because of my health. I thought I was missing something, but I am slowly realizing that maybe what I thought I was missing: I already had experienced. It's like when you listen to dopeheads talk about the first time they shoot up or get high: no time thereafter equals that first time. They spend the rest of their lives chasing that high, but they never catch it. Every high thereafter is but a shadow of that first time, then... they die with an empty life. Immediately I start thinking about Jay-z songs like "Allure", "Regrets", and "The Watcher". I don't want that.

I snap out of this when I notice Diddy and J dancing crazy among themselves. It reminds me of all the wack ass parties I attended in college, when we would make up other means of entertainment like shits and giggles*, hilarious. I decide to walk down to join in. I think this is the last hurrah; for me at least.

They greet me with a roar of 'YOOO!!' like I've been missing for years; essentially, I have been. We return to the reserved area for more drinks. J and his colleagues eventually leave and it is me and Diddy.

I ask Diddy about Ms. Trini, but he waves me off. The Jersey girl returns (laughs). She starts grabbing my arm and dancing in front of me I entertain her for awhile. She whispers in my ear that she may be married, but if I go say 'Hi' to her friend on the wall, she will fuck the shit out of me (laughs). I look toward the wall to see a woman who mirrors one of my aunt's friends: Brwon skinned, weave pony-tail, dark lips (smoker), saggy & separated boobs, etc. Remnants of a woman who has partied alot. She is not bad looking, but the resemblance is an indication that the show is over. I tell the Jersey girl I will keep that in mind and wink. Diddy begins talking with a group of sorority girls. Sorority girls are the only ones that travel in packs larger than 4. He is pushing up on this black haired girl like she is Rosa Acosta. He must be really drunk (or horny). I grab her friends hand and dance with her: She has sandy brown hair and can move. I saw her dancing earlier to Biggie. I was getting a strong 'freak' vibe from the group, but I could not decipher who it was from. It turns out I made the wrong choice: she is a senior at Arizona State and has a boyfriend. She gives me her number, but 'makes no promises'. There was a time when 'no' meant 'no' and 'yes' meant 'hell yeah!', now I know I'm getting older. Because I don't have the patience to play...at least not tonight.

I dance awhile longer with several females in the group. Jersey comes by to dance with me, when some random nigga asks me if I'm going to pay for the drinks (?). I ask him, "for what?!" to which he replies, "just thought you were trying to get it in". What the FUCK? Lame ass nigga...I give him a look then turn my back to him. I'm sick of people misusing slang. Like, if I hear another person refer to a chick as 'thick' and she is fat, a guy as 'diesel' when he is fat, weed that 'fire' when it is dirt, I may just stop talking to them altogether. Ugh.

The club is damn near empty so I look at my phone: 5:36 a.m. Damn. I've got to gamble in the morning. I tell Diddy I am about to leave. He tells me that he will stay until he leaves with someone. I give him a weird ass look of pity, to which he replies "I've got to make up for yesterday, so I'm not going until I leave outta here. I do this in L.A. all the time". I give him a pity pat on the back then head to the cab stand. I am intoxicated. The line is long, I wait behind a tall light-skinned woman who gives me a smile. I guess that was my green light, but I am too tired and a little drunk, in order to get at her. I get into the cab then fall asleep on the way back to my hotel. After I use the restroom, I go into the cafe and have a turkey sandwich with swiss cheese and fries, then return to my room.

I strip naked, turn the air down then collapse onto the bed. I'm going to change hotels for one night because the rate jumps up to almost $400 dollars, so I've got to be out by noon (I think). I have a text from shorty, she asks if I'm having 'fun'. But, I dunno....

To Be Continued...

Bond. BlkBond.

*Names changed to protect the innocent and guilty

*FUPA = Fat Upper Pu**y Area

*'Shits and Giggles' is an absurd game that young men play in order to salvage a bad time. We would go to parties that were wack, so in order to save the night, we would play this. It's when you would drink or get drunk then do crazy shit for giggles (thus the names). For example, we would play shits and giggles and require that guys could only dance with women with no hair. To win 'shits and giggles' you would have to sleep with her, make out with her, kiss her, etc. If you lost, you had to pay for all of the drinks for that night (which was usually very high).