This weekend, a chocolate miracle occurred. I like to think I have relatively solid self-esteem, what I lack in some aesthetics I like to think I account for with chutzpah and a killer rack. One thing that has always hindered my happiness was the absence of male African-American attention. To simplify, black men are just not that into me.
It has gotten to the point where it has become a longstanding joke with my friends that no matter what I do, I cannot pull the attention of a black man on the town. I have tried everything. From my childhood, opting to sit in the back of the bus in honor of my girl Rosa Parks to now in my mid twenties ordering Hennessy on the rocks and insisting we absorb our alcohol over Roscoe’s chicken and waffles. Trying to woo a black boo is fucking exhausting.
Last week I had the pleasure of meeting Charlamagne Tha God and in true politically incorrect form, I asked him why he thought no chocolate studs were into my vanilla samplings. Is it my ass? Do I Is it because I saw Mamma Mia in theaters eight times? Because i thought Meek Mill was an offbeat brand of granola?
He assured me that there is a black consumer for all shapes, sizes and flavors of white girls. This both comforted and insulted me. I told him I was looking for a Pharell Williams/Tyson Beckford hybrid.
Charlamagne did me the service of broadcasting to nearly 2 million people on Twitter and Instagram THIS…
Well that’s subtle. For the record, it’s just the OPTION I have been seeking. I am in a happily committed relationship but a girl has to wonder after a quarter century why the fuck a brotha ain’t into my anaconda. That caption is aggressive as fuck and devalues the true inner turmoil I have suffered. My grandmother is beaming with pride at her little Ashkenazi princess.
As you can imagine there was some negative feedback…
Soon after my white woman seeking black “affection” plea hit social media I have garnered the attention of 423 chocolate male suitors. From Jamal to Leroy, Hollywood to Harlem, my desperation has been heard loud and clear. I have received supportive tweets, Instagram follows and one terrifying dick pic in the process and now can continue on in my life with a spring in my step, lust in my heart and fried chicken in my fridge.
Thank you to the fine gentleman who have made my swirl driven dreams a possible reality #143 and for more insight on this please listen to tomorrows podcast with Charlamagne! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll get 6 bottles of Dom Perignon sent to you by Drake.