So the other day my good friend MsDarkstar forwarded me an email from someone who owns a private membership sex hotel and is looking to employ me as a once a month blog writer.
But not so much with the yay and woot-woot because when I spoke with him on the phone he said I’m “too white” and that his audience is young, urban, upscale and mainly black–think Kanye West drinking Hennessey and blaming it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol.
See? That’s all I know about young, urban, upscale, black folks–they blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol. Actually, so do I, so maybe we are more alike my friends than we are unalike? (what poem is that from? High five to the Queefie who gets it without Googling).
Clearly, I’m in over my head with my skinny white ass.
Did Eminem ever fret so? I think not. He’s not from Rhode Island: Home of the White People.
But before giving up, I’m going to give it a whirl because I have managed to fool some people on the Interwebz into thinking I’m pretty and funny and interesting, so maybe I can fool people into thinking I’m young, urban, upscale, and black, too.
Maybe I am *that good* of a writer. This has yet to be tested.
Just in case though, I emailed my only black friend to see if maybe she’d just want the job instead and even she was like “I still say things like get jiggy with it and what up? I can’t do it! Totally not up my alley.” Okay, so if my hot black friend who lives in a city isn’t comfortable, how will I ever pull this off?
So, at the suggestion of a white friend who has a black friend (are you still with me?), I bought a bottle of Hennessey, “cause’ dat’s wass hood” and spent the whole weekend pretending to be P-Diddy.
Other than having a pretty dope collection of new designer sunglasses and several children by different Babymamas, I’m still no blacker than I was, and so I’m still fucked.
The trouble is, aside from my one black friend, I don’t actually know any black people. I grew up in and still live in a part of the country where there really aren’t any black folks around. They’re like, a novelty around here. In fact, when I was telling Lynne about this gig, she looked out to the lobby of the library and was like “OMG! THERE’S A BLACK PERSON IN THE LOBBY RIGHT NOW!! YOU WANT ME TO SEE IF HE’LL BE YOUR FRIEND?” I said “no” because there was no guarantee that he was the right type of black person I need to help me find my voice for this particular gig.
And that was the last black person that either I or anyone else I know has seen in days and now I’ve got a raging Hennessey hangover and nothing written for my Thursday deadline.
Maybe the Queefies can help me. What sort of topics would Kanye West be interested in reading about with regard to having sex in private membership sex hotels? Think Toy with Me only Kanye West is writing it and not me. Or Beyonce, except I’m a much better dancer than she is.
GO! Mama needs a new car and it ain’t gonna buy itself!