Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating by alan mitchell

own shit to ensure that no one had any
control over me. Nor would I feel any sense of obligation to her.
    Topeka had a voracious appetite, so she
ordered a rack of lamb, complete with collard greens, candied yams, and mac and
cheese. I had a Cobb salad, trying to conserve money to make sure I could afford
the meal. I know I planned on treating but goddamn!  I mean, who orders a
full rack of lamb? It must have looked really funny me eating a salad while she
picked over a sheep’s carcass. What Rain said to me a few days earlier resonated.
I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to sit across from her pearly
whites and inviting eyes instead of Topeka’s.
    She was actually pretty cool, and I wouldn’t mind
kicking it with her if she would just shut the fuck up. If the
queen had balls, she would be the king. It was easy to see why she didn’t have
a man.
    “So how come you’re not married any more?”
    “Long story.”
    “No kids?”
    “Even longer story.”  And was it ever.  Kennedy
and I tried, but she was having trouble.  We were going to try in vitro
fertilization right before she left me so I guess it worked out for the best
that we didn’t.  Feeling uncomfortable, I flipped the table and
reciprocated her third degree badgering.  “How come you don’t have a man?”
    “I did.  He left me and the kids. Sorry
mothafucka!”
    “Kidsssss?”  I emphasized the pluralness of the
statement.
    “Two beautiful boys and a girl.” 
    “I’m sure they are beautiful.”
    “He left us for another man.”
    “Excuse me?”   
    “My dick likes dick. The man I loved, laid down and
had children with, decided the dispatcher at the trucking company he works for
has more to offer than me. I give good head. I would have tossed his salad.”
    That was too much information. I felt bad for Topeka. It was becoming an epidemic in our community. I watched these flaming young boys
riding the subway with their pants hanging off of their asses. Unknowingly,
when they get to prison, they will be easily identified as a target for the
hardened prison predators. I am a live and let live type of person, but I find
it hard to understand how at such a young age you’ve already written off the
opposite sex when you haven’t had enough experience yet to know what you like.
    Topeka buttered her bread casually before firing
her own shot with no warning. “So, you ever been with another man?”
    I almost choked, not believing she would ask me a
question like that. “Definitely, unequivocally NO!”
    “You played big time ball. You never looked at
another guy’s joint in the shower?”
    “Of course. All guys look at other guys in the
shower. It's an ego thing.”
    “Never wanted to go home and cook up some sausage?”
    “Never.” I wasn’t attracted to men and I knew that for
a fact. Scores of gay men had offered to set me up for life—the house, the
cars, the clothes, the expense account.
    “Why didn’t you take it?”
    “Well, there happened to be this funny little thing:
I DON'T LIKE MEN!”
    “No man ever offered me all that stuff.”
    “That's because you're not what's in any
longer to successful men. You went out with the nineties the way pretty boys
went out with the eighties. But we're making a comeback.”
    “Honestly, I find it hard to believe that you're not
a little bit interested in men.”
    “Why?”
    “Look at you! Perfectly manicured hands, your
eyelashes are longer than mine, and it even looks like your eyebrows are waxed.
I bet you even watch Wendy Williams’ show?  How you doin’?”
    “As a matter of fact, I do. So just because I take
pride in my appearance and can recognize a diva when I see one, it makes me
gay?”
    “I don't know. You tell me.”
    I spent most of my life trying to convince people
that I wasn’t gay. There wasn’t anything wrong with being gay, but no one wants
to be accused of being something they aren’t. No one.
    After two more glasses of Merlot each and a