We all maintain at least one “friend” who’s less a “friend” and more someone you used to fuck and still contact in hopes that one day you’ll be able to smash again. Since hey, that was all that really worked between you two. You have a mutual understanding better known as “wantin’ that old thang back.”
This is a tale of why you should leave that old thang right the hell where it was.
Recently an old thang called me. She’s selling dream vacations out West now (GWURL). She recruited another salesperson in Atlanta and needed a place to stay while she trained the newbie in the art of peddling bullshit to fools. On background, we kicked it in 2008 until I got tired of her saying sideways things like “You irk my nerves!” There’s language I just don’t tolerate from a so-called boo. I cancelled her ass and cut all ties.
Lesson note: In Lesbian World, not speaking to your ex, even years after the fact, is a form of shade that’s deeper than rap. It’s like reneging in spades.
Fast-forward to 2015. She got in touch a while back and so began a text relationship premised on the unspoken notion that the P will be sampled again one day, when circumstances allow.
Her trip and a my newly single status presented the right circumstances. I agreed to let her stay at the crib from Tuesday to Sunday (!) and began preparing myself with advanced yoga poses. I happened to mention the sitch to my West Indian homey who immediately had the gas face. Her take: Six days is a long time with someone you DO like, let alone someone you don’t. And sex with some long distance chick who has a live-in estranged and bisexual girlfriend would only end badly. Damn West Indians always being real!
I called Old Thang back and told her it was a nawl, though we could hang out when she got here. She acted like I’d shut the entire trip down, because you know, hotels aren’t a thing. Oh well. I choose ME.
A few days later, she texts me:
Her: Hey I’m here!
Me: Oh you came after all. Did you just get here?
Her: NO, I’ve BEEN here as you know very well (Insert My Govt Name)
At this point I should say that I once threw my own shoe at a rude ass “Can I Holla” nigga while in the PMS Zone. He threw it back. And I threw it back. Because you do shit like that in the PMS Zone.
I’m currently in the PMS Zone.
Hence, the tone of that text just didn’t work for me. I commenced to verbally O-Ren Ishii her ass, notifying her that you will NOT ask me to post up in the bando for six (!) effin days like that’s normal (NIGGAAAA!), you will not text me when you’re still clearly in your feelings and you will NEVER again call me by my full name all stern like you birthed me, whore. EVER.
Now remember, I ate her disrespect for a long while before I chopped her in 2008, so this had built up. It was a classic not today bitch moment!
There was some back and forth (“Clearly you have some old energy!”) and it ended with me blocking her number before I ended up coming to wherever she was posted and chasing her with an iron (that’s some ol’ 2001 shit…I’ve grown!)
And that’s how you go from candle lights and Isley Brothers to “Ya know what, ho…” real quick.
What was the lesson here? If you don’t like a bitch, don’t like her pussy neither. Because you can’t separate the two: Even if you can enjoy one, the other is gonna show up and it ain’t gonna be lovely.
You can apply this to dack as well.
Had she come to my house with that fuckery I inevitably woulda had to tell her to pack up her dream vacations and call Tyrone FORTHWITH. That’s if bows didn’t get thrown first – and I ain’t going back to jail.
Chasing old P burned me in 2011 too. Me and an ex agreed on a humpcation. She paid my airfare and swore up and down she was totally single. Then the day before I fly out, she mysteriously flakes. A few months later, she’s on Facebook LEGALLY MARRIED to some broad. Chile. Good. Day.
As for me, well I’ve learned my lesson: Leave trash in the trash bin. You put it there for a reason.