nAUGHTy Girl Chronicles. Vol 2.

Diary entries of a Black girl navigating love, lust, and the aughts in D.C.

October 2007

[Sounds coming from the bar’s sound system as she journals]

Dear Diary,

So…I went out with this guy who apparently has a semi-criminal past, so I’ll call him Desperado. I first met him at a restaurant in D.C. He was my server. I swear, I have a thing for servers. It’s a recurring theme. Maybe the power dynamic? Anyway, I thought he was decent-looking when I first saw him, but I honestly didn’t think much of it at the time.

Then I bumped into him again on the Metro, Columbia Heights stop. I struck up a conversation, and he asked for my number. I gave it to him, thinking it really wouldn’t go anywhere. But the next week he called and asked me out. I said yes.

We went to a local bar, and the conversation was easy enough. Except… he kept talking about his wild exploits in Latin America, claiming he fought alongside Colombian guerrillas and even saved his father from being killed. I wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but I went along with it. Who am I to argue with someone’s story, especially if they’re the one buying the drinks?

Obviously, because he apparently narrowly escaped death, I had to go home with Desperado. I still don’t know what I was thinking. Honestly, I was bored, and the idea of going home alone just didn’t sound that appealing.

We immediately started kissing, touching, and fooling around when we entered his place. Then he slowly, almost ceremoniously, took off my underwear with so much reverence as if it were a ritual among the gods. I closed my eyes, anticipating his touch, expecting his hand or mouth… but instead I felt him move away and sit at the end of the bed.

When I opened my eyes, I guffawed. He was smelling my underwear. Smelling. My. Underwear.

He looked at me and said, “You just don’t know how much this turns me on.”

And I said, “You just don’t know how much I’m grossed out.”

Needless to say, I never spoke to him again.