Back in the day, I used to cherish the one week at the end of every summer when my cousins from Hollis Queens would venture to the land of Pat Robertson and PETA to visit their country relatives - even though as adults we have gone our separate ways, only barely keeping contact, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the childhood memories that they were willful participants in. What I loved about them is that they never took it upon themselves to rub my nose in the fact that I was figuratively a million miles away from Hip Hop's epicenter, my cousins were well aware that I would never be an old man who randomly waxed poetic, telling "..and then the DJ plugged his equipment into the light post" stories. So when they told me about LL Cool J playing Atari in their basement, the members of Run DMC walking down their block signing autographs, or seeing the god Rakim spit deadly verses on some miscellaneous street corner - they always did it rather matter-of-factly, an unassuming humility only known by prepubescent cancer patients. Outside of them giving me three tapes for my birthday that would forever ignite the "Hip Hop Snob" inside of me(EPMD's "Strictly Business", Big Daddy Kane's "Long Live the Kane", and Public Enemy's "It Takes a Nation of Millions.."), they left another impression that still resonates with me today - and it all started with the very innocent sounding word: "Gilsey".
"Gilsey" was a word that they made up, basically meaning "inside joke" - and because my cousins and I already had a million of them, adding it to my already serviceable vocabulary was nothing short of effortless. In the years to come, whenever one of us would randomly belt out "Leave them Drugs alone" in our deepest and most authoritative voice - the other two would laugh like weed addicted schoolgirls because we knew that the other one was mocking MC Lyte at the end of the "Cappuccino" video. If I happened to raise my hand to the sky for an extended amount of time in the most public of places, it would definitely get some chuckles from my cousins - only because they would automatically recognize that I was mocking what Treach questionably did in the "Hip Hop Hooray" video. Sometimes we would get obscure with it, whenever one of our girlfriends left us for another man we would sarcastically yell out "Heeeeeey!!!" - a reference to a movie called "The Getaway"(1994), where a kidnapped man(tied to a chair) struggles to get a peak through a bathroom door to see his wife(Meg Tilly) having sex with the kidnapper(Michael Madsen)- and then proceeds to give that utterly comedic sound of despair.
In more recently years, because of the hermit-like existence in which I live when I'm not ruining my liver and placing my hard earned one dollar bills into the undergarments of women with daddy issues and glitter shards embedded in their respective skin - my "Gilsey's" have become a sad state of affairs, primarily because inside jokes where only one person knows the back-story is as depressing as a Mary J Blige interview. That's why I decided to share some of my gilsey's of a sexual nature with you today - in an age where people aren't sure whether or not some of the sexually deviant acts that have become popular over the past decade(see Blumpy and Dirty Sanchez) are actually practiced or just comic fodder, at least you know that I am practicing what I preach. When you see a young minstrel act like Souljah Boy talking about "Superman dat hoe", you fine people can rest assured - if I decide to degrade a woman, I won't call her out of her name and at least there will be some comedic value to it.
Getting back into the dating game after an extensive layoff is tough, especially if your last girlfriend very cavalierly ripped the beating heart out of your chest - actually listening to what someone is saying to me has been a challenge, and being chivalrous makes me feel as awkward as watching two retards fuck. But as I'm transforming into this decent guy, my memory is refusing to partake in this life changing makeover - so during the first few sexual episodes with this particular woman that I was dating, I had to write her name on my wrist so I didn't make any ill advised exclamations during sex.
"The Jacques Cousteau"
Usually I'm a stickler for personal hygiene, the few times that I've encountered a potential lover with "not-so-April-fresh" nether regions - not only did I make it my business to vacate her premises as soon as humanly possible, exiting her zipcode was next on my "to do" list. That being said, recently I met a woman at my local YMCA who I shoot hoops with occasionally - she is beautiful, intelligent, and most off all she never whines about my gender whenever I hack the shit out of her as she's driving to the hoop. I couldn't possibly imagine why she had an interest in me, maybe its the way I drive past 70 year old basketball players and make innocent remarks like "Shouldn't you be somewhere dying Gramps?" - or possibly it was the baby-arm of a boner that poked her hip as she tried to post me up. Who knows? All I know is that I found myself at her apartment, making out with the passion of spanish soap opera stars - to the point in which I felt compelled to ask her, "You want to hop in the shower right?" She didn't, apparently she wanted to consummate our basketball relationship au' naturale - as soon as hairy bushed porn stars of the 70's filled my head she asked, "Do you have a condom?" Of course I had a condom, because I'm the type of asshole who carries stray Trojans in his sweatpants - so within a few moments I said to myself, "Man, I'm actually fucking a point guard!!" But I was doing so while holding my breath, the understandable body odor of the young lady rapidly filled my nostrils - hence "The Jacques Cousteau".
"The Marion Barry"
When I tell people that I've never sexually been with a white woman, first they look at me the way someone would stare at a cloned sheep - then, when they realize that I'm not trying to pull the wool over their eyes(pun intended), they assume that I'm some black militant who masturbates to the teachings of Marcus Garvey while Dead Prez acts as the soundtrack to my "self love". In reality, it just simply has never happened - and anyone who has read my blog for more than a week knows, my undying love for Janeane Garofalo proves that I would cross racial lines faster than you can say "The Truth about Cat's and Dog's" if the right opportunity ever presented itself. But to be blatantly honest with you, the variety of white girl that has made me the object of their affection - well, they either look like they were in a 200 meter radius of a nuclear reactor, or they see it fit to tell me recent "gonorrhea" stories that I never asked them about.(..that happened recently) But one day it's going to happen, far away from the judgemental eyes of black women who were never going to fuck me in the first place - me doing something with naughty with a white girl at some seedy hotel room. When that happens, rest assured - I will call it "The Marion Berry"
"The Bill Belichick"
On top of my overall emotional unavailability when it comes to relationships, some of that happened to spill over into my sex life as well - so recently when I had mentioned that I was planning on building a "glory hole" inside my house to avoid mid-coital eye contact, I was only partially bullshitting. Kevin Smith talks about refusing to take his shirt off whenever he's making love to his wife, I can only hope to one day leave my inhibitions behind like he already has - not only have I been known to fuck with sweatshirts on with the hood up, but I make it my business to utter the raciest pillow talk while sounding as monotone as humanly possible: "Oh baby, that's it - punch me in the back while verbally emasculating me, I cum faster that way!!" Oh yeah, you never know when I'm taping it.
"The Howard Hughes"
Don't worry, I'm not as bad as the man Leonardo DiCaprio portrayed in "The Aviator" - even though some women feel that my tear-away sheets, the same kind you find in doctors offices, is kind of disturbing. My penchant for wearing three condoms, making my penis resemble a balloon animal - probably doesn't help my case, more times than not multiple prophylactics makes a woman feel like the fucking "Outbreak" monkey. Maybe I should wait until the woman leaves my house before nervously scrubbing my genitalia in scolding water, huh?