Be it the years of being at a historically black college.

Or the years of being in cities with a high percentage of black men.

Or even the years of being attracted to black men and feeling the attraction back. 

But after six months I have realized one sad truth.  I miss game.

Game:  The line or actions a person uses to pursue interest in another party to hopefully close a deal based upon a lust, love, or simple yearning.  Those who manage to close end negotiation with their intentions as favorable are known to have good game.  Very popular in the African-American community.

Now, being a female on the receptacle end of game at 14 years on the legal time 18 years when you count the pedophile attempts, I have been able to recognize game, predict game, rate different game, and even play the game myself.  It’s a survival technique, just like males sit in groups telling stories of different game-induced situations; females sit in groups relating times of game rejection plays.  It’s life, this merry-go-round of bait and attraction and being single you have to be well versed in the different aspects of game, or you will wind up between a rock and a hard place. 

Being that I moved to Africa, I was well versed on this new aspect of game…I prepared by listening to stories, watching movies, and anything else.  I was determined that any moves that I made would be under my intentions and digressions but here…there is no game, or its is so weak sometimes you just want to give a brother a “do-over” another opportunity for them dust themselves off and approach you again with something memorable.

The game aspect is WACK. Makes me want to get my referee whistle and give out hand signals to help the young players get it right.  You get marriage proposals while waiting on a taxi.  Young boys sit around saying nothing and then ask for you number.  They use every “strong, African-American woman” tactic they have learned from waiting to exhale movies, and if all else fails they resort back to “Go Obama! I congratulate you on your win.”  All these desperate attempts are a yawn to an ol’ pro gamer like me and I crush them down like

So recently, in my quest to have oneness time to myself, I decided to take a stroll on the beach. I put on my workout clothes, headphones, and began my journey.  After a mile I made it to a restaurant and they’re calling me like the opening credits of a Spike Lee Joint were a group of rocks facing the roaring tide.  I sat there, became one with the Lord, praying in my heart listening to the world in my headphones in space, immune to life.  I mean, I almost dropped a tear it was so spiritual, so imagine my surprise when the rock next to me became occupied with a black man with a dried S-Curl, old school groove group Whispers box with a mullet tail, in black socks pulled up to his knees. 

So in true Jes’ka fashion, I ignored him, hoping that he would get the picture that I wanted to be LEFT ALONE, but body language must not be a strong enough hint because he begins this conversation where I now realize that I need to at acknowledge this man, because I ain’t trying to be in Africa and get hit over the head with no witnesses. I take out my headphones and realize he has been talking to me the whole time…

“…Yeah, you know people don’t know that I am 66 years old, but I am.  But I run everyday, I exercise and I can do more than men 40 years younger than me because I am strong and fertile, and I used to be in television production but then the war hit so now I am a security guard.  But I get paid good money and I get a discount.  So huh, you know I’m single…looking to get a good woman.”

And this is where I interrupted him to tell him I was going to the bathroom, where I guess he had it as a cue to help me…he continues talking…

“Well, you are a pretty young woman, even though you have a lot of weight on you…”

And to this I blanked out.  Did this fool just interrupt my day to let me know I was a sexy ham sandwich?  Didn’t he approach me just to let me know I was a suitable mate with thick thighs and a gut?  Did he just mess up the rest of my day because of his inability to run game? 

The whole purpose of game is to make a woman feel priceless based off your attention. Then the woman will be willing to work with you in order for you to conquer whatever goal you present to her, from marriage to a one-night massage.  Game is done to put your feelings on the line for an attempt at a goal. The woman chooses to either accept the play or decline, but you don’t INSULT THE WOMAN during GAME!  That is the biggest no-no ever. 

Now, many have insulted after the decline but you have at least tried to set things up and we understand that rejection hurts and so in your male ego, we might get called a couple of names but daggone….at least set up desirable game in the first place.

I’m going to have to visit Atlanta when I get back to the states and I might have to kiss the first brother who approaches me with “Ah..Shawty, what ur name is?  Dang, why you got to work that swag like that ma? It must be jelly cuz jam don’t shake like that…and I can use a peanut butter and jelly sandwich right now.”

I miss him, I really do.

It’s like my heart yearns for his comfort, his stability, of the life I had with him before I moved out here.  Call me a fool for believing in long distance, that the wires of land and air would transport his soul to my fingertips.  It would let me hear the melody of his attention.  I thought that the satellites would be able to project pictures that would catalog in my memory of what was and is only natural to me.  We had been together for so long, I couldn’t remember life without him…I know I took him for granted.

It’s so hard to remove him out my system.  I sit in a cycle of insanity, trying over and over to patch through to him, to his world, his mind, his way.  It’s worse than crying at his death; because he isn’t dead…if he were then I would just have to get over it.  Start brand new, throw away what I knew and make a new way.  But he taunts me, a message here, a IM pop up there, all these teases makes it worse because as soon as I log on to him we reminisce on what I am used to and then he just leaves.  In dead air. And I am left alone, again, and again…yearning, desiring, my legs, wringing my hands, stressed over this man I used to know…  

The way we met was so simple.  Just a little at a time.  I had met him in college and we hung out and never for too long, just enough to get to know each other.  A slow relationship that built towards him coming in my home, but his presence was more than this secret relationship.  He found me on my jobs, in coffee houses, public libraries, even hotels, and soon I knew that any where I could go he would find a way to get to me. 

Almost like a stalker, I couldn’t shake him.  But I didn’t mind because he only came to me when I sent out signals hook up with him.  I don’t even know the day or time when he became such an integrate part of my life it’s just that now that I am here, I am going ballistic without him. 

I was careful not to abuse my lover, like so many do.  I wouldn’t sneak from my workload to have a quickie, I wouldn’t talk into all hours of the night, and we always had a time and a place and an even a pattern as well.  He helped me through school, through the moves and transitions of my life, he made life fun and exciting, and know that I think about it he helped me become a better me.

And now he left me, or I left him…but who is telling this tale?  He has abandoned me, when I need him most because he connects me to home.  He is the foundation for my strength when I am so far from everyone.  My family, friends, colleagues, work, everything and everyone I know works through him.  I mean, he tries…but his efforts aren’t strong any more.  What he could accomplish in 45 minutes now takes 505 hours.  When he needed 20 minutes from me…cost him 5 hours.  And what he did in two minutes takes 50 minutes.

And I can’t wait for him because at times he moves so slow, he forgets where he was going, what he was doing for me and I have to tell him over and over and over and he just locks up.  And I get frustrated, trying to work out our problems, but I am at the bottom of this communication difference with no real voice…just wants and desires.

It’s like he punished me for moving so far away and here, I have to share him.  I’m a concubine for him while so many others seek for their lovers like I do.  We all gather together in houses, pounding and crying demanding for respect from our significant other.  And the more that show up, the further our loves slip away…until they are non-respondent, a coma victim to our cries while we walk home defeated.

I miss him, I really do.

Mr. Inter Net

He keeps leaving me hanging on to a dial-up complex begging for just a little more time together. But he always leaves me warning me to prioritize our time together. I’ll never be able to leave a session fully satisfied anymore, so I deal what little affection I get at what time.

So if you get a call, email, voice note, forward, or even a blog from me….know that I went back to him, just for a little and negotiated some time for you.  And no matter how many times I sat through a blackout, waiting for a reboot, sent re-send on whatever page to talk to you, waited timelessly while the computer searched for commands, I FOUGHT FOR YOU. And the only way to let you know anything is to go in battle with Mr. Net until I get back to America when he isn’t the only thing that could stop me from you.

And I must leave this blog, before Mr. Inter Net leaves me.