Morning Edition - 12/12/06

Gucci vs. Louis Vuitton
We’ve talked about this in recent weeks and it was just a matter of time before this issue reared its head. I met a wonderful, smart and pretty man right before going on vacation to Puerto Rico. What troubled me – and I told him this – is that we both share the exact sexual preferences and therefore would soon find ourselves both fighting for the same position in bed. At the time, he joked that I needn’t worry, since we could recruit a third party to fill-in where we rather not go… no pun intended. During my entire vacation, he and I talked and text each other throughout the day and when I returned, the interaction only intensified. It seems that our “role” problem was somehow being ignored – granted, by the two of us. We’ve officially been on two dates, the last one taking place late last Saturday night, when we almost started a forest fire to avoid addressing the issue that we’re not sexually compatible. Unfortunately, we really like each other – enough to continue this charade – and are spinning our wheels deciding what to do. Yes, we can try being friends, but right now we’re enjoying the games of spin the bottle and wrestling that appear to be going on.

Strategic Flirting
After an experiment in same preference intimacy Saturday night, I needed a night out to unwind and explore new opportunities. This isn’t to say that I’m being greedy; I just needed to have an opposite preference person to interact with – not intimately… LOL. I lounged around all of Sunday and did a few loads of wash before hitting the gym for a leisurely run and some lower-body toning – yeah, at 37, lower body toning becomes a HUGE necessity. I returned home, showered, and slipped into some comfy jeans and a black fitted t-shirt (no draws, of course). I have an OCDish routine that includes scrubbing profusely, lotioning thoroughly and my strategic fragrance spritzing that has really become quite obsessive – but I digress. As I walked into the bar and approached my favorite bartender to order my beer, I noticed that folks were looking at me as though I had my penis hanging out or something… I took it (and hopefully not mistook it) as a positive thing and simply sauntered over to a corner by a big-screen TV that was showing the Dallas game. I’m not a football fan, but can be quickly sucked-in to the testosterone jostle that unfolds. Five minutes into my intense fixation on the game, a Lutheresque guy walks up and says, “I don’t mean to interrupt you shawty, but wanted to let you know, you’re looking good.” I smiled and said, “Thank you” and suddenly turned to see the bar had become quite populated since my arrival. I walked back to the front of the bar where I ran into some friends and who is in the midst of these guys? – right, Mr. Lutheresque. So the conversation is growing loud and heated about what you rate yourself as opposed to how others rate you. One-by-one everyone is calling out their 1-10 rating, with the group chiming-in to reveal their opinions. Suddenly, everyone turns to me and I smile and say, “I think I’m a solid 6.” One of the guys smirks, and “Luth” says, nah, I’d say you’re a 7.” Okay, let me be honest… I was offended. I always low-ball myself in the hopes that someone will hit me up with a high 8 or something… this mutha fuka says 7! The nerve! …but let me keep it real. I fail to realize that physically, I am a 7 – or thereabout. It’s only after turning on the wit and charm that I can actually increase my score. So, I inch over to “Luth” and say, “So I’m a 7 huh bruh?” He smiles wide and says, “Yeah, but a solid 7… and we’re in a crowd of about 4s” Okay, so he got me. I was out to increase my score and fast. Luth and I begin a back-and-forth convo that excludes the rest of the group and before you know it, brutha-man is all smiles and leaning in to insure he doesn’t miss a word. My strategically placed fragrance captivates him, my Trident White spearmint gum keeps him at centimeters from my mouth and I can see, he’s in the net. So he says, “Why is a sexy Puerto Rican man like you single?” I said, “Cuz I’m a 7 boo… remember.” BAM! You know I can’t let that slide. He’s got to come back with a revision on his score. So he says, “Nah, you were a 7 until we spoke, now I think you’re a 9.” Since I’m on my 5th Heineken, I don’t blush, rather I take a step back and grab my jacket. “Well fellas, it’s time for me to roll,” I announce. Luth offers to walk me to my car and we exchange digits. Turns out he’s part of a pretty interesting book club that does some networking. I’m intrigued by the concept behind the group and tell him it’s cool to hit me up. Luth lets me know he lives near me and we agree to talk Tuesday. I drive him back to the bar and he awkwardly leans over and lands a wet one on my lips. So, it’s all good. Mission accomplished. We can still drag out an alcohol induced 9 at 37.

Regifting? Two-to-eight Years for Trying
Michael Ivy, 45, was diagnosed HIV positive in December 2002. When he was told he was infected, he was also instructed not to donate blood. On September 13 he walked into a blood plasma center in Indiana, lied about his medical history and donated blood. Ivy then returned to the plasma center on September 22 to donate more blood and was told that the batch he donated earlier in the month was infected and his blood could not be accepted. Police have arrested Ivy and he is charged with donating blood while knowing he carries the HIV virus.

On Blast
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