“I Don’t Usually Do This” – A Short Story

“I told you I had a date this weekend, right?” I asked my co-worker.
“Noooo.” He said with slightly bulging eyes.
“Thought I told you about shorty from Brooklyn. The bank teller?”

He looked up as if the answer lied in the air when sudden realization fell on his face. “Yea yea, you did tell me. So what’s good nigga, did you get the buns?”

Sipping from the medium coffee cup, I then set it down while leaning back in the swiveling desk chair. “That was the idea.”
His eyebrows crossed. “Whatchu mean? So, you didn’t fuck the shit outta her?”
“Let me break the date down first. Don’t wanna get ahead of myself.”

He nodded while I took two more sips of coffee followed by a deep breath.

“I met her on okcupid last week. She gave me the digits after exchanging messages for a couple days.”
“She black? White?”
“Mixed. Irish and Asian.”
“Interesting.”
“Word. So, I told her let’s meet up Saturday at two. Her profile said she wanted to go to the museum on the first date so that’s where I took her.”
“Nice, nigga. Which one?”
“MoMa. She’s a photographer and I read they had some new exhibit by this French dude she mentioned.”

My co-workers eyes bulged again. “Woooow bro, I’m impressed. You tailored the date around her.”
“I mean, why not if you’re trying to get into her crib.” I said, which was something my co-worker doesn’t do. Tailoring dates around the woman, not try to get inside her residence.

“We cleared the place in three hours then grabbed a slice. I didn’t want the date to end. I was actually enjoying myself. Haven’t been on a date like that in a while.”
“Did you make a move?”
“Always. She said I’m ‘handsy’ but had no complaints.”
“What’s that?”
“Meaning I like to touch a lot.”
“On some perverted shit, or-.”
“Nah, just light touching with my fingertips and hand holding. Shit women on the internet say is cute. I like that stuff.”

He laughed then said “you didn’t want the date to end, so…”
“Right. So we went to a bar downtown. She bought the first round, I got the second.”
“You paid for drinks?” He asked with what sounded like resentment in his voice. I forget he doesn’t pay for anything on dates. Then again, what he does while getting together with a woman hardly constitutes as a date.

“I paid for the tickets, slices, and the round. She started opening up once the liquor got in her. And, no, I don’t mean sexually. I mean, she touched me. Finally. But no groping. Think that’s why she decided to invite me over.”
“Ahhhh my nigga got the buns!” He attempted to high five me but I left him hanging while saying, “I’m not done.”

Finishing the coffee, I tossed the cup away then faced my co-worker. “We hopped on the M to Brooklyn. Her crib was close by. Bro, her spot is popping. It’s huge. She’s got roommates but you wouldn’t even know.”
“Nice. So what ya did? Just went into her room and got into bed?”
“No dummy, I’m not you. She poured us a drink and as she handed it to me she fucked the whole night up.”

Surprise grasped his face. “She married? Got a kid? She got AIDS? What, bro?”
Laughing I said, “she said ‘I don’t usually do this’. Bro, I can’t fucking stand when women say that.”

He crossed his eyebrows again, remaining silent for a while. Then, “so, wait, did you fuck her or not?”
“Let me explain something to you-”
“Just answer the damn question, bro.”
“I am. I just need to say this first. Damn, so thirsty to hear about me getting box. Fuck.”

I sat back in the chair crossing my arms. “When a woman tells me she ‘doesn’t usually’ do that- meaning invite a guy over, whether it’s right away or ever- it feels like when some men talk up their dick size; an over hyped, fancy ass lie aimed to get one thing. I don’t care if you don’t usually invite a dude over the first night or if you do it all the time. It’s your crib, your box; don’t bring up the past when we’re in the present. Especially if you claim to ‘live in the moment.’ Feel me?”
“First off, bars. Second. I mean- I guess.” He gave me a look. I knew what it meant; the explanation hadn’t satisfied him.

“No, I didn’t fuck her. Maybe I should have. I like her. But whenever a chick says ‘I don’t usually do this’ and we end up having sex, the result is not seeing her again because she ‘regrets’ the decision. We move at her pace; I don’t do anything she doesn’t consent to. So, to me, it feels as if all she wanted was dick. It’s the male equivalent to saying we’re in love just to get the pussy. I’m getting too old for that, feel me?”
“I feel you, dawg. I still would’ve hit it but I understand where you came from cause you don’t do casual sex no more. Me,” he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“Guess what though.” I said. My co-worker looked at me. “I haven’t heard from her since leaving her apartment that night. It’s Thursday; the date was Saturday. Basically a week has gone by and none of my texts have been answered.”
“Wooooow. So you got shitted on anyway.”

I shook my head. “Sometimes I wanna be like you and just say fuck these bitches. But I’m done with that little kid shit. If it works for you, cool. But it doesn’t for me. Although sometimes it looks like I’ll have to, even when I don’t wanna. Feel me.”
“Yea. I feel you.” My co-worker said in a somber tone.

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