Published: Tuesday - April 3, 2007
Words by PalmsOut.com
Over the weekend I traveled with a friend and we got into a hilarious discussion about the state of our current relationships and how unique they seemed to be (Now when I say unique, I don't mean like Nike ID unique, or putting parts and half moons in your haircut unique. I mean, everybody living in your local projects having a college degree unique or like being a 7 foot tall asian unique -- We're talking the Yao Ming of relationships here). Nevertheless, what we discovered during our wonderfully enlightening convo, was that we were brothers in a select fraternity; a secret society if you will; illustrious members of Wifey Phi Wifey Fraternity Inc. Now this was crazy because members of said fraternity are not readily identifiable. Often times, we don't even recognize each other. Ain't no secret handshakes or frat daps; No brands or tattoos; we don't get no t-shirts or windbreakers; No "Stomp the Yard" is being made about us. The closest thing we have is "I Think I Love My Wife" (but even that's a little off in the title alone).
This is us...
What makes this whole relationship masonry so unique is that, we are the only two males we know in relationships that can say with absolute certainty do not cheat on their girlfriends. Now as the women reading this go "STFW" (*ref* STFW = So The F@ck What??!??!), don't go patting yourself on the back for something you supposed to do, I'm sure that the fellas are reading this thinking, "see what happens when that vasectomy surgery goes awry." But I would like to assure my female counterparts that there is more depth to this particular subject than may appear. And to the fellas: don't bash a nigga for trying to live it up jesus style. (Work wit me here son -- work wit me). But I digress. The simple fact of the matter is that men cheat. Like Alot. Like A Whole Lot. Women cheat too. Probably just as much, but I'm not a woman, so we ain't talking about that today. Today we discuss man-dom. And this particular part of man-dom is like "Soul Plane". It's really that bad. Yeah, it's dope to be in love, and boo-lovin' and baby talking and holding hands and all that. Yeah. Awesome son. Woo-hoo. But what no one tells you, is that love is a drug. And unfortunately, for us men, there are no labels on the packaging of this over-the-counter nonsense, so niggas just gotta experience the side effects less the warning. I mean, at least the Levitra ads be showing a dude hiking or bike riding in the park or something before they hit you with the "may cause irritable bowels". Not love. Love just gives you the shits outta nowhere. F-U Dr. Cupid.
Now love is known to have many side effects. However men and women may suffer differently. Men are commonly known to experience symptoms such as chronic headaches, stress, depression, insomnia, and loss of appetite. Women, on-the-other-hand, are known to suffer stress, headaches, increased weight gain, chattiness of the mouth, decreased oral ability, persistent feelings of inadequacy, increased desire to eat publicly and accompanied, and in severe cases loss of sex drive (which, if left untreated, ultimately leads to loss of vagina). It's meeeeeeeeean man. Mean & Vicious. So what, I ask, is a penis-havin brotha to do??
Now normally, I can boo it up with the best of 'em. I'm down to watch some "Grey's Anatomy", some "Girlfriends", a little "Take Home Chef" and even some "Top Model" (see ladies, I ain't even add the "America's Next". Ya boy knows what's up). And I don't really imbibe the ol' alcohol, but I'll go out for "drinks" anyway. As for the whole holding hands in the street (even in the freezing cold) - Nooooo Prahblem Mahn. I even keep my facial hair a bit scruffy. Why?? Not because I like it, but because she likes it. That's why. (And that shit be itchin' the hell outta me, but its cool... cuz I'm in loooooooove). Plus I'll even get me some of that spoonage action in lieu of the dubs I should be catching while shaking my ass to the latest and greatest Pretty Ricky record or some such. I'm even @ the point of sleeping with her in my arms (all night mind you) during the hottest of the hot ass summer nights, when my ball sweat alone could fill up one of them buckets Jay carried for the little African girl. Yes son. I am pledging Wifey Phi Wifey faithfully. However, with all of this stuff that I will gladly haze myself to do, I call no Amerie on myself for that one thing that's got me trippin' -- that whole indefinite sexual sabbatical women seem to take just after the relationship's grace period has ended and the status can finally be deemed long term.
Now I'm not sure how it's supposed to work, but I always figured that from a purely practical standpoint, if ever a person wanted to guarantee themselves the opportunity to have sex on a regular basis, they could simply engage another party in a relationship type arrangement and at worst, they would just be having bad sex with a person they'd otherwise not acknowledge. Simple. But now it seems I've been duped. Hoodwinked. Run a muck. Lead Astray. Bamboozled. Okie Doked. And whatever else my man Malcolm said in that speech. You women, yes, all of you, have been sitting on the world's single greatest resource since the beginning of time. And now it seems you've finally realized it. And that really sucks. Ya'll are really on some oil baron shit right now, with the cost of poontang skyrocketing. When has there ever been a time in history when your average Joe McRegular had to "Make It Rain" in his local den of ass-jigglery just to get a hello. And just as the gas prices have affected all sectors of the economy, so too has the recent increase in the punani price. AND NO ONE IS GETTING A BREAK. If you're single, you gotta Throw Some D's On It first. And if you got a girl, you might as well pack it in son, cuz she ain't giving you none till David Stern rocks a Du-Rag. To understand just how ridiculous things have become, look at the case of another one of my good friends. This gangster-of-love's theme song was Lil Wayne's "Get Back To The Money", but after looking at the vaginal real estate market he's broken down. Mr. I-Don't-Need-No-Bitch has chosen to lock down a prime piece of pussy property. Not necessarily because he believes this particular one to have a high rate of return, amounting to something later on; but because trying to find anything else of even moderate value down the road might cost him twice as much time, money and effort at half the value. Kem. That's how rough it is out there son. Well, for some of us. Others just get the nookie tossed at them softball style. And to each and every one of you, I say -- Fuck You All and I hope you catch Chlamydia in your next wet dream... back to the hoarding of vaginal real estate and cheating ass niggas.
Now we know the price of punani is high, but not always high for the same reason. Sometimes it's high due to the scarcity principle (high quality + low volume = good pick up and usually hard to obtain). Sometimes there's just a high pussy tax on "discount" or "wholesale" pussy (low to medium quality + high volume = ehhhh pick up & pretty easy to get -- this type of nana is commonly taxed with additional consequences, usually of the stalking, child bearing, or disease sharing variety). But either way you slice it, the goodies is gone cost ya. And this is a primary reason why men cheat. Men are poor consumers of the pussy market. We are constantly looking for cheap chocha of the highest quality, eternally convincing ourselves that it exists, somewhere, some place and that it is our sacred duty to seek it out and hoard it on some Manifest Destiny shit (thus my "Get Back To The Money" Friend). But listen dude, no matter what you think, you will never find a Costco Card for pussy. Remember that the first and most basic economic principle is TINSTAFL (There Is No Such Thing As a Free Lunch). Nothing in life is free and one way or the other, you will have to pay. And when it comes to fur burger, you're gonna have to pay double buddy. Time, energy, money, emotion, etc. It's gonna cost you son, and ain't no student loans you could take out on this. You know how many babies have been birthed because some dude thought he could try to get a nut and he got a nut in (WHAT). Straight Bananas (pause)... but you still can't knock the hustle.
So this brings us back to first guy I told you about. Now we are fighting this primal urge to find free pussy, but are faced with two major problems. One, the vast amount of "non-sex" we are both currently enjoying and two, the subsequently greater amount of daily punani on display. Add to this that we are both in long distance relationships and you have two ticking time bombs. We're about one "I Love New York" episode away from flipping the eff out. And how we've reached this point ladies and gentleman, I really have no idea. I can still remember the days when sex was like spam to my inbox and I was turning it down left and right. So much so that I decided... hey, let me give this relationship crap a try. And it was great at the beginning. Sex all the time. I mean we were tellin' dem at will. But then, some kind of drastic shift occurred like there'd been a global pussy warming or something, and this my friend is quite an inconvenient truth. And a once so promising sex life has completely vanished on some Jimmy Cozier shit. And where its gone, I don't have the slightest effing clue. I can't really explain why its gone either. But in talking to my homeboy, I found that I was not alone in this. He too was experiencing this mysterious "non-sex" nonsense. The same endless nights of marathon spooning and decade long cuddling sessions had been plaguing him too. And all of this was worsened by the fact that we waited weeks on end to see our girlfriends and release a little man juice only to be greeted by a cold shoulder in need of endless holding, hugging and caressing. Yuck.
He, like me, was feeling like the stars had to be in perfect alignment and the pull of the moon had to be just right in order for anything remotely sexual to jumpoff between he and his love muffin. But God forbid an argument should happen during the process of celestial arrangement, cuz nah-uh nigga, u ain't getting no parts of the pussy tonite. Getting ass these days is like playing a game of Jenga with a partner who has Tourette's Syndrome. It's always a high pressure situation. But alas, even with all the anti-butt we're getting in our long distance relationships, and the fragile state of the ass getting process, we have still chosen to stay committed to the wifeys, and that is what separates us Wifey Phi Wifey bruhs from the rest. We're not married, don't live with the GF. But we stay committed.
And staying committed ain't easy son. Not with all this scattered ass all over the place. I've learned that you don't need Axe Body Spray when you have a woman. Women can smell that on you a mile away. They know son. They know. "Back then they didn't want me, cuz of wifey they all up on me." I could write a hit song about this stuff. As my man Biz Markie would say, "It's Spring again. Everbody knows it's -- Spring Again" and the reason everybody knows is because women start walking around half butt nekked. Ass hanging all out, titties mashed together like ply wood. It's disgusting. I can't take all this walking around seeing cleavage poking through the top of your damn turtleneck. And wearing pants that put the crease directly in your bum cheeks. Does that not seem a little bit ridiculous to anyone else???Am I taking crazy pills over here??? And now style has gone and cursed the faithful man with constant visions of tights and leggings all over the place. Are you kidding me?? Even white girls look like they got hella ass in those. So with all these women walking around looking like Buffie the Body, what, I ask you, is a penis-having, committed, no sex-having, cuddle champion brotha to do??? That's easy. Write blog posts to pass the time.
I Love You Boo, Muwa.
Palms Out's blog is presented to you in conjunction with the people at Ballerstatus.com and Palms Out Sounds, another blog located at PalmsOut.com.
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