Still working on this, lessons learned from drunken nights.
Weaving through wanton waving limbs holding glasses filled with iced down alcohol, I found myself face to face with an uncomfortable case of booty chase. My boy comes up to me with a Grinch like grin and proposed that, ” we should have an early Christmas with these hoes.”
He’s the kind of dude that tries to date girls for their sisters, leaves blisters in his homie’s hands when their big brothers come around. I mean, this is that guy at the party kissing every female hand he can find claiming to be sent by the divine spirit, tells us all the girls want it, when really, all they want is not to hear it. I was there the day he went to the pains of editing Lil Wayne on his phone, two hours for a 20 second ring tone so he could let every red bone class know that he, “just wanna fuck every girl in the world,” when his Mom calls. Seriously, I heard him call a girl “Mignon,” and I knew that was the only French work his tongue would do that night.
But I’m tugged along his mishap road by the obligating pull of Bro-Code. He guides me again through the crowds downing shot after shot by Lil Jons command, pulls his hand up to a stop and for effect lets his jaw drop as we stand in front of the vast mass of cats doing the no pants dance. It was an ocean brimming with the fish your best friends assured you were out there, so we charter a vessel, take a shot and nestle ourselves into comfortable positions and he starts casting his lines.
“Hey Girl what’s your sign, ‘cause mine is this,” throws up the Shocker, laughs obnoxiously and I can see his muscles begin to pucker for a kiss. But he gets no bites.