Because my mind wanders like someone with Alzheimer's driving without a GPS system, I tend to think about certain periods of my life in terms of Hip Hop songs. In the early 80's, when the only thing that was on my pre-pubescent mind was Saturday afternoon kung-fu flicks and performing back-spins that would put rival crews to shame, for some reason Nucleus' "Jam on it" comes to mind. As I entered my early teens, lazy weekday afternoon's where I'd give some young girl an unlicensed breast exam that led to fire-starting dryhumping sessions, for some reason LL Cool J's "Bristol Hotel" plays in my memories. Back during my college years when I had a six pack, and ego the size of a city block, and when I first realized that being an asshole puts you in the express lane in terms of getting inside some poor woman's Lane Bryant's, I can't stop thinking about Gangstarr's "Dwyck" when playing that time period back in my head. Those were some great times, and I feel myself thinking back on those happier times as a form of escapism for me now, because the song that comes to mind when I think about my life currently is BDP's "The Homeless". Don't get it twisted, I have a very comfortable residence to take women with low self-esteem to, where I make sweet and tender love to them, only afterwords scrubbing my cock in the sink feverishly with an S.O.S pad.
In that BDP song KRS talks about how black folks in America, at the end of the day, don't have a place that we call "home" so to speak, based on how many of us in America can't identify with mother Africa. Being a 33 year old unmarried man looking for a woman who I can promote past the level of "Practice Vagina" and "Sperm art canvass", I find myself in the unluckiest of demographics when it comes to finding that cliched soul-mate. Granted, I know what's it's like to feel somewhat out of place and misunderstood, I'm a Hip Hop fan from Virginia for Christs sakes! Let me explain: For as long as I can remember, anyone North of the Mason Dixon line considered my state to be nothing short of Hicksville, a bunch of toothless and inbred Jed Clampetts running around making moonshine and wearing overalls all year round. Maybe not so much now, but it seemed that anyone from North Carolina downwards considered Virginia's to be nothing but fast talking city slickers, a place where sky-scrapers and big city ego's literally fought each other for elbow room. That lack of identity that my dear state has had to deal with, is the same kind of dilemma that a single 33 year old chronic masturbater has had to deal with as well.
Dating Younger Women: For the longest time I couldn't even think about dating a woman considerably younger than me, call me a pervert with standards but if I met a chick who happened to be 21, immediately my brain would go into "Rain Man" mode: "21? Really? Do you know that when you were born, I was in junior high and shit? Did you know that when you were 3 years old, I was already fucking?(Grabbing my head) Jesus Christ, when I graduated from High School you were in fucking kindergarten!!" But as time passed I've relaxed my restrictions just a bit, not so much because of all the mature 20-somethings with brilliant minds that I've met over the past year or so, it has more to do with a 33 year old pre-ejaculator who's starting to see less and less of his penis as the days go on, running out of options. So I've started dating women younger than myself, and let me just say right now, it's absolutely horrible. This isn't an indictment of all younger women, maybe I just have picked the wrong one's, but the chattiness during sex has got to go. I mean, I like a frisky woman as much as the next guy, but all of that "How you like this ass gramps!" and "After I'm done with you, you'll be giving me that social security check!!" has got to go. I can deal with the fact that she might not know who "The treacherous three" were, or that "The Fat Boys'" original name was "The Disco Three", but a steady diet of hyphy music, Dipset, and Keisha Cole will lead any self respected Hip Hop fan to have a freezer full of young chicks for the local authorities to find.
Dating Women my Age: This might sound a little fucked up, but I like to refer to the woman around my age as the "Vietnam Veteran's of the dating game", because they always tend to come to me wounded, disheartened, and feeling betrayed by the last leader that sent them off to battle for what turned out to be unnecessary reasons. Granted, I can relate to these women on a pop culture level that's unparalleled, nothing gets my unimpressive penis stiffer than late-night conversations where her and I end up rapping "Self Destruction" in unision, or talk about how excited we were when Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video first came out, no doubt about that. But these broads tend to have the most issues, after a few conversations you learned that her last boyfriend shot her, twice, she was once married to a Colombian drug-lord who's only use for her was as a drug-mule, she had a 5 year relationship with a lesbian that was nothing but a "fling", an awkward time when she dated her uncle, and a shitload of depressing tales that trick your mind into thinking that you're watching an episode of "Good Times".
Dating Older Women: Like most antiques, at first the ride is a smooth and nostalgic one, you benefiting from the richness that ride has to offer and the elegance people can recognize as you drive by. But after a while the gas mileage starts to be a bitch, so many things start becoming wrong with it that you always find yourself under the hood fixing it, after a while it becomes more trouble than its worth based on you having to go out of your way to find parts, sifting through junkyards, paying a thousand bucks for a three inch part from Indonesia. (OK, I might have gone overboard with the car reference, but you get the idea.) But seriously, everything is great for while, dinner' ready for you when you as soon as you get in the house, besides having to constantly oil her joints as if she was a cast member in the "Wizard of Oz"-the sex is great because your penis is better than no penis at all to her, and finally someone who can appreciate my habit of spending Sunday afternoons playing John Coltrane and Duke Ellington. That being said, it usually gets weird, the nagging, complaining about the trash not being taken out, bitching about not wearing a scarf while buttoning up my jacket, reminding me of my....my....mother!!(yuck) That's usually when its time to call it quits, besides, her long winded stories about how she used to hang out with Josephine baker gets kind of tiresome.