The ball is rolling towards Halloween and I’m so excited! Who doesn’t like dressing up and playing pretend for one night? Many of you ladies may believe that slut-a-fying your costume will improve your chances of getting laid. You’re probably right. However, since I work hard to preserve our fading integrity, may I suggest another alternative: flappers!
Sexy and chic – you don’t need to lose your clothes to look lavish this Halloween, observe:
Flappers were a “new breed” of young Western women in the 1920s who wore short skirts, bobbed their hair, listened to jazz, and flaunted their disdain for what was then considered acceptable behavior. Flappers were seen as brash for wearing excessive makeup, drinking, treating sex in a casual manner, smoking, driving automobiles and otherwise flouting social and sexual norms.
Of course, if you must show leg…
That sums up my time in Miami alright, aside from driving automobiles. Flappers had broken free of the stuffy Victorian era, let their hair down and then cut it short. They behaved in the ways of men – and made no apologies for it. In some ways, flappers are the first feminists. Living out loud and doing it in style. Why not pay homage this Halloween. Kick up your t-straps and have some fun!
And here’s a little video that shows you how to do a flapper-style hairdo.
Shout out to Idris who passed away recently. I just got into his stuff last year and the Power of Soul album is a must to anyone who takes their jazz on the rocks, straight-up and mighty smooth.
Friends, I’ve recently discovered that although he was alive in my lifetime – I must have been James Brown in another lifetime because I’m dealing with some heavy karmic payback when it comes to relationships and men. Recently a man, who I only had one in-face encounter with found my profile on Facebook and messaged me. I thought that was sweet – and sent him a reply. We went back and forth for over a year – trying to meet in person – and then failing miserably to do so. Two days ago, after a lengthy correspondence, he sends me a note saying he’s thinking of me. How sweet, was my thought until I looked down at my phone and saw a picture of his penis.
Look it. Guys. I don’t know what GQ article in genital IQ came out saying this was okay. How to win a woman in 50 texts or less does not include sending someone a picture of your dick. You’re lucky I’m just a hustler and not a shady-lady.com. If I didn’t know any better, your FB profile tells me where you work and blackmailing your ass for a couple grand looks mighty tempting when currently making less than a migrant-worker wage. I’m
not totally trying to give anyone ideas, here. I’m trying to save you all from a bunch of heavy embarrassment. You’ll thank me someday.
Send flowers instead.
Perhaps I’m prude. Slopping nude photos across the world wide web has become akin to vacation pictures. We’re all doing it (and photographing it). I’m not innocent in my naked ventures however, sharing intimacy usually comes with being intimate first. Mr. Penis and I haven’t even met. This means his act of affection borders on CRA*and CREE**. Ladies, take care of your vaginas – don’t let any man use yours against you. If you photograph your kitten, do it privately and with no face showing. This way if they come back to haunt you – you can gently say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Kick up some shade and get your blank-stare on. What vagina? That’s not mine. You’re obviously just obsessed with me. What makes you think I would send you a picture of my vagina? That’s my roommates. Whatever it takes to keep your integrity intact.
For those of you making money off your kitten on the WWW dot. Word to the hustle. I give you props because I’m the type of lady who likes to put a black shade on the face of my man and have sex with the curtains drawn, lights off and a lightweight cotton bag over my head. Not being able to see what I’m doing makes it easier to try new positions, thankyouverymuch.
As for Mr. Penis, he hasn’t contacted me since I told him not to. I love men that can read texts and take hints.
*Crazy with a side of CRA-CRA
And now, for some wreck-house realness:
You got to love Facebook for it’s sheer blackmail potential. An old friend of mine posted this throw
up-back on my wall several months ago. I dug it out of my fashion-dungeon to show you kids just how hip my ass was back in 1992. Let’s start with that patch. Polyester and hand-sewn, thankyouverymuch. You know, nothing says Wrote For Luck better than a pair of size XXXXXXL OV’s. There’s no rave girl, only grass and you know I smoked a lot of it getting dressed that day. Those are Puma sneaks, friends. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be a hip-hop dancer, club kid or hippy. One thing’s for sure: I still have the same hair-do.
Recently I purchased a new pair of overalls from my favorite store in the world, Hop Sing. They look like this. Notice: no patch. Funny how trends come back and make you feel old.
Hope I spelled that right.
Who wants to join my hustle gang?
I was born as a silver-spoon street kid. My Dad came from nothing, built a business and was a millionaire by the time he was 36 years old. I remember driving to private school in his red Porsche convertible, blasting the Rolling Stones. We didn’t listen to the Beatles in my house; it was Uncle Mick, Berry White and lots of Rick James. Grit came from hard work coated with low self-esteem. I witnessed my parents keeping up with the Joneses only to give birth to a wheelchair bound son. Game over. No one asks for a handicapped kid for Christmas. But we got one. My brother had a disease that affects 1 in a 100,000,000 men. That’s right one hundred million. We’d have a better chance winning the lottery.
Unfortunately our lottery ended in the 90’s when my father sunk his life savings into building a big home – when the market tanked so did all our money, my parents marriage and sadly, my brother’s life. He ended up passing on from what we all believe to be an out-of-body experience and with it, passed the world I knew into a downhill slide. I believe the death of my brother set the tone for the next 20 years of my life; I internalized it and blamed myself for it. I also set off on a path of self-destruction and exploration that included, but was not limited to, copious amounts of drugs. Trust me, I’m not crying the blues. In fact, I’m grateful for all of it. I don’t think I would be able to write in such a sassy tone if it wasn’t for all my bottoms.
What inspires me are the people that rise from the nothingness of their experience; people who are dealt blows and beat odds. People who make stacks of money the right way (and sometimes the wrong way too). I’ve always admired guts. As a lady, I’ve taken risks and have racked up more failures than victories. I victimize myself because of it – then try and say “turn that victim into a victor!” Even when I don’t believe it.
My goal is to meld my street smarts with business acumen and sell myself as a package deal. I’d like to write, teach, speak in front of people and tell jokes about all the cocaine I did in Miami. I want to be improperly proper; a juxtaposition of smarts, sass and balls. I’d like to do it successfully and then tell others how to do it. Don’t ask me how because I really don’t know. This not knowing keeps me up at night and makes me sick to my stomach every morning. It also keeps me going. Going and going and going; it’s a compulsion, my hustle. Yet, it gives me a reason to believe that I can. Can what? Who knows. I can only trust that I’ve gotten this far and have far to go. As long as I keep my shit straight and my eye on the ball, there’s no reason that all my bottoms won’t get me to the top of my game.
She’s the hottest girl in the game wearing all the chains. If you haven’t listened or seen Ms. Thing rap and perform, you don’t know what you’re missing. Happy Birthday Iggy Azalea! Work it like you 24…because you are.