11 - Hollywood

Easy on the eyes, queasy on the ears...

From the very beginning, we've covered how I feel about the jiggle. I simply cannot. We've covered how I feel about the short. I simply cannot. But what presented itself that Friday evening threw me for a whole new loop entirely.

Hollywood looked like just that-a movie star. The sculpted jawline, sensual lips, piercing green eyes against his olive-toned skin. His neck looked strong, sinewy. He was incredibly handsome, almost too pretty.

Our messaging was charged from the get-go. We spent most our conversations debating about misogyny in rap music or discussing the use of graphic content in film. He wrote, directed, produced and even acted in his own film and was working on promoting his work. With that face, he could promote anything. I was pretty nervous about our date based on his sheer beauty. And I don't get intimidated easily. He recommended we meet at a Jamaican restaurant near the Design District late that Saturday night.

Saturday night rolls around. About 5 minutes late, I pull up to the restaurant to valet my Mustang. I stand to hand the attendant my keys and see Hollywood walking toward me. On sight, it was confirmed: Dressed in all black, hair perfectly coiffed, he was one of the most handsome men I've seen in real life. Standing ovation indeed.

From the neck up.

From the shoulders down, he looked like captain of the middle school wrestling team. Eighth-grade quarterback. The star of the junior high basketball league. He was muscular and toned; he was miniscule and tiny. He looked like his petite body only made it 68% of the way through puberty. He was a specimen, no doubt. Sinewy biceps, sculpted shoulders, you could even see his defined abs through his size 4T shirt. He worked out and his body showed it. It was just a very, very confusingly small body on his 6-foot frame.

If I haven't made it clear-please see the Kelly Clarkson single Whole Lotta Woman for a description of my frame. His thigh was the size of a beer can, while mine is about the size of a keg. If I'm thicc, he's definitely thinnn. Do they have Popeye’s spinach on Amazon Prime? If so, somebody get this man a can, pronto. Go ahead and pay the extra $7 for same-day shipping, too.

Pretty Princess and I walk into this dark, windowless establishment and I realize the tables have turned for once in my life. This is a Jamaican-inspired hip hop club and my date is the only colonizer under the roof. #WakandaForever.

We walk through the crowd toward the bar. He buys my drink (pass) and we head to the patio. By patio I mean the assortment of metal lawn furniture under the tarp in the parking lot outside the back door.

I am immediately aware of two things: the colossal size of my butt (I swear it gets bigger around black men) and the overwhelming aroma of plant-based medicine. The stench was so heavy, I had a coughing fit. Remember, reader, we're outside and the smell is still that thick in the air.

"What's that smell?" I ask.

"Ganja," he says knowingly as we pass by 2 Rastafarians.

A smarter woman would have left the scene. But I figure if the cops come, I'm not the only black person for once so I'm less likely to get the cuffs. If it's real, it's real, y’all. That’s genuinely what I thought.

We sit down in the lawn furniture and yell at each other over the reggae music blaring in the background. Sometimes I try to listen, sometimes I give up and stare at his impeccable face. Both were equally satisfying until he dropped the hammer. Confidently he declares, “The most endangered person in America right now is the straight, white male.”

I almost choked on my cranberry and vodka. I beg your pardon?

I glance down to see if I'd left my girls at home but no, I didn't leave my breasts on the counter. Could he not tell I was a woman? Certainly the span of my hips in my tight black dress gives it away. I pull my hair to one side, confirming that-yes, I still had my Senegalese twists in...but Kim Kardashian did step out in micros so maybe that's not a sign of black womanness anymore. Terrified, I glance down at my arm just in case a melanin-eating bacteria had suddenly attacked and left me with a case of Rachel Dolezal, but (relieved sigh) no-I am still very much brown.

I definitely still look like a black women. What is happening here?

Befuddled. I was befuddled, perplexed, mind-boggled and confused. A white man sat across from a black woman and lectured her about the systemic inequality based on race and gender in this country.”It's way easier to be a black woman than a white man in our society,” he asserts.

Ladies an gentlemen, the award for most astounding nonsense rant goes to: Hollywood for his mesmerizing performance in Pretty Boy Petite Body. He'd like to thank the little people with whom he identifies: Mighty Mouse, Alvin and the Chipmunks, that guy in the corner of every gym staring ladies down while they squat.

I just can't. So I turn my ears off and just enjoy the way his full lips pursed when I laughed at his logic. I set my glance at the clench of his lovely jaw when I rolled my eyes. Man, is he pretty when he turns his head slightly to accentuate his jawline and his claim about "white shame", the moonlight gleaming off his smooth skin like the shimmer of the gravestones of the unarmed black men mercilessly slain by cops last year.

Oh, wait, wrong blog.

Back on track. I turn my ears back on in time to hear him switch topics to film. I can get with this. I say, “I’m honestly not a fan of TV. I prefer watching movies. I like the depth of a story and movies tend to feel like a more intentional art form in that way.”

To which he coughs and announces "You just gave me a boner."

Oh. Wait, what? Did he just get a contact high or something? He must have. “Uhh that’s not appropriate,” I reply.

“I’m just joking. I have a vulgar sense of humor. But honestly, you’re very beautiful and have a great body. Most guys who look at you probably get a boner.” He smiles flirtatiously, revealing perfectly white, straight teeth with nothing but foolishness behind them.

“I suppose that’s a compliment. But I'm celibate, so sucks for them.” No sex in the champagne room or in the me.

“That's just because you're still in your 20s,” he argues, “When you get in your 30s, all you'll want to do is fuck. I've dated a lot of older women, so I know. It's great.”

Oh. Oh, this must be a contact high.

I think we've seen enough of this hot, marijuana scented night. Roll the credits.

Test 1: Passed.

Test 2: No, thanks, just send me a picture instead. If he has a big brother...way bigger brother who’s not crazy, sign me up though!

Verdict: He eventually asked me out again. No, thank you. The end and hallelu.

Oh, and shout out to James for the title credit : ).

Click for Date 12 - Jolly Green