A midnight brunch party seems like a good idea in theory until you factor in that the commute requires you to walk through a not so gentrified area in Harlem, wherein street harassment is at an all-time disappointing ass high. What the hell has happened to the men in New York that they feel it is normal, nay acceptable to follow a woman in the dark because she didn’t respond to your “compliments” the way you wanted her to? You know what, that’s another rant for another day. So baby sis Chelsea and I are headed through a mosh pit of disrespect and subsequent fear of going to prison for shanking one of these “men” with obvious mommy issues to get to a midnight brunch party. We worked hard that week and deserved a cute night out. Well that didn’t happen.
She and I both met this guy who we will call Stanley when we interned at Oscar de la Renta. For the longest time we couldn’t tell if he went to our church, played for our team…was a straight man. It’s kind of hard to tell when you work in fashion or the arts. There’s always the question of: is he an eccentric artist or does he favor the masculine gender? Anyway, Stanley had been making empty plans to hang out with her for months, and while he was attractive enough, his social awkwardness towards her was really off putting. They would run into each other from time to time at one social gathering of Howard alum or another, but he never made a real effort to take her out or spend real time with her. Fast forward to midnight brunch where he attempted for a third time to get her to go home with him.
Chelsea wandered off to talk to Stanley the Weirdo as I so lovingly named him in my head during my sentence at Oscar de la Renta. I was left to entertain a guy who she knew through another guy blah blah blah. We shared a few commonalities namely that we were both from Atlanta, and both wanted to get me a little tipsy. Things got creepy when he kept scaring off guys who came in our area as if they were trying to get at me. Things got progressively creepier when he pretended not to know how to get back to his hotel room, and asked if he could come home with me. I very politely sent him the link for google directions back to the Roosevelt Hotel and decided I was done for the evening. Sir, that’s the beginning of a Law and Order SVU episode. Young girl meets a seemingly nice guy at a party. He buys her some drinks, cut to unsuspecting jogger discovering her body parts in a random park. No thank you! I don’t know you or even your last name, so what sick bitch made you feel that if you buy some cheap drinks you can ask to go home with her? Apparently in all of my partying days at home in Atlanta, I was still somehow sheltered because I have never had that happen to me before and it’s supposedly a common thing. Who knew?
Here’s Where Our Stories Ironically Converge:
The same sloppy fat drunk guy groped both of us at different parts of the night. Again, the fear of prison time for taking this young man’s life loomed over my head. Dear Black Men: Do better.
Moral of the Story:
By the time Labor Day weekend rolled around, we were collectively over the idea of a club or party. We decided to do something mildly touristy and take the Staten Island Ferry to a Spanish restaurant that I made a mistake and found a few years ago. This is where I met Johnny Bravo.