What should I be doing instead of this?
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The Dating

By Erma P. Sanders · March 9th, 2000 · Diva
Eliot will go down in my history as the only man I was romantically involved with who initially approached me because he thought I was a prostitute. I'm not sure how that affects me. I mean, it's not the first time I was mistaken for a prostitute. There was that time in Sarasota where the police picked me up, but I forgive them because in Sarasota it is unusual to see a sistah in the middle of night loitering in St. Armand's Circle, a fashionable part of town, dressed to maximize the boobs and the booty. My college ID and my sad pathetic story about how my girlfriend ditched me got me off the hook and a ride home. But back to Eliot. See, I always had a glamorous view of hookers, until I started watching Cops and realized any skank can be a ho.

I was minding my own business window shopping on Short Vine. This reasonably cute male started talking to me. We flirted a bit and, before I knew it, El was offering me cash for a little sexual activity.

I should've been insulted, but at the time I wasn't. I enlightened him on his mistake. He apologized profusely, and we got to talking.

Eliot lived in California and was only visiting friends in town for a spell, but I believed him. Every once in a while he'd throw a few lyrics he was working on with his letters and that made his story more believable.

Then Eliot promised he would write a song just for me. I couldn't wait. I've had guys sing to me and make tapes for me, but no one had ever written a song just for me. Furthermore he was going to try to get the song published, he said, so then the whole world would hear his love song to me. One day a couple of weeks later his letter arrived. He didn't have the music part yet, he said, but he had the lyrics.

I won't bore you with the main part, let's get right to the chorus: "Keep on a rockin' me baby." Hell, I didn't need to get that far. My antenna went up when I read the part that went "from Phoenix, Arizona, all the way to Tacoma, Philadelphia, Atlanta, LA." That plagiarizing mofo's so-called original song for me was already a hit song for Steve Miller! I never directly called him on his lie, but my trust in him withered. The letters got less frequent and eventually stopped.

There is a lesson to be learned here. Maybe more than one. First, if you're going to pick up a woman, the best approach is not suggesting she's a hooker. El got lucky. I was nice. Most women would have taken him out with one punch. Also, if you're going to write someone a song, a crappy original beats ripping off a popular song.

Then again, it may be okay to rip off somebody else's song. But at least pick a good one.



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