The thing about living with a person of the opposite sex you’re not sleeping with (but would sleep with if given the chance, only you don’t because one does not use the bathroom in the exact same place they eat) is both parties must be true to themselves.

The two of  us were roommates, not each others father or mother, so this idea that certain behavior was unacceptable on the grounds that it was unbecoming of a man or woman to act or speak a certain way was done away with almost immediately. The only way either of us were going to last in what at the time felt like a most unusual arrangement, was if she let me be a man and I let her be a woman.

This philosophy helped us stay the path of harmony. The two of us got along well, and I’m proud to say we never crossed that mythical line. For two years we were remarkably patient with one another, and as I recall, we had only three or four genuine disagreements. But awkward moments? Oh yeah, there were probably more of those.

For the first year we lived together, my roommate and I had separate televisions. Well, actually, we had one-and-a-half televisions. See, she had one in her room, and we shared the one in the living room. The reason I didn’t have my own is because my room was so close to the living room, I could actually drag the TV in my room. Now of course, I could have watched TV in the living room, but I’m part Puerto Rican, and if you know anything about Latinos, they like to watch their televisions on one volume setting: VERY LOUD. So when my roommate turned in for the night, I dragged the television into my room, this way the volume wouldn’t keep her up.

One night, I had a difficult time falling asleep. I don’t recall exactly what time it was, but I know it was one of those times where it felt like the whole world was asleep, no matter their time zone. I couldn’t pick up the phone and call anybody. I didn’t have a laptop at the time, so there was no personal computer for me to peruse the Internet. It was just me, my boredom, and over 1,000 channels of television with nothing to watch. That was until I found the Adult Video On Demand Network.

For those who don’t know what  the AVOD Network is, it’s basically HBO On Demand but instead of titles like Sex AND The City there’s titles like Sex IN The City. See how that works? And unlike the selections on HBO On Demand, the AVOD selections were not a part of our cable package. In order for me to indulge myself in any one of these titles, I would have do two things: Pay $9.95 for a six-hour block of adult videos and betray my Latino people by turning down the volume to a reasonable level so my roommate wouldn’t hear.

Now when bootleggers are selling any one of these titles I saw on the AVOD Network for $5 on the street, $9.95 seems a little unreasonable. But on this one particular night, I was making an exception. Like I said, I was bored and wide awake, and sure I could have used my imagination but it was only playing reruns. I wanted some fresh sounds and visuals to enhance my, umm, experience(?), so I thought, Ten dollars? For six hours? What a deal!

My only concern was my roommate seeing the titles on the cable bill at the end of the month. Then I remembered how in hotels, a person who was bored and wide awake late at night, could order any movie they wanted, including the adult ones, without worrying about the funny looks from the staff when they check out. This was because hotels always said all movie purchases show  on the receipt with no titles. As for the extra charges on the bill, I wasn’t worried about those because should my roommate ask me where they came from, I could pass them off as like regular movie titles or something.

SEX IN THE CITY Press B to buy this event:

B

SEX IN THE CHOCOLATE CITY Press B to buy this event:

B

SEX IN SIN CITY Press B to buy this event:

B

SEX IN THE CHOCOLATE CITY 2 (That was a good series, I can’t even lie.): Press B to buy this event:

B

That’s how it went down, B, B, B, B, for four nights that first month. Each time, I wasn’t thinking about a total of $40. Each time I was thinking,  Ten Dollars? For six hours? What a deal!

One of the great things about my roommate was her organization skills. Every month she would open up the bills we shared and calculate what each of us owed. Because she went to school while I was working full time, she usually got them first, then she would do her calculations and send me an email with what I owed. She also showed the math she did in long hand on a blank space of the envelopes in which the bills came, such a nice, feminine touch I thought.

I don’t remember what the total amount I owed was, but I do remember it was $40 more than usual, and I remember when I opened the email being worried she was going to ask me where the charges came from. Fortunately, there was no such question in her email, just the total cost with a sentence that said, “They’re on the table. See you later.”

Good, I thought. No questions means no titles showed up on the bill. I was in the clear.

When I came home, my roommate was in her room. “Hey,” I yelled from the living room as I put down my stuff. “Hey,” she yelled from behind the door of her bedroom.

I walked over to our coffee table and picked up our bills to go over the calculations. On our Time Warner Cable I see the following:

PURCHASED: SEX IN THE CITY $9.95
PURCHASED: SEX IN THE CHOCOLATE CITY $9.95
PURCHASED: SEX IN SIN CITY $9.95
PURCHASED: SEX IN THE CHOCOLATE CITY $9.95

All four movies I purchased with the titles! In all caps too! I was frozen by my embarrassment, red in the face. For ten minutes, I couldn’t move and in my head I’m screaming:  Time Warner Cable, you jerks! Why are you trying to rat me out at the top of your lungs? What happened to the code?! The hotel code! You don’t put the titles of the movies you purchase! All caps!? All capital letters!?

Later that night, I was in the kitchen making some breakfast. My roommate came from out of her room to get something out of the refrigerator. We made small talk, asked each other about our day. The usual stuff. And before she went back in her room she says, to me, “You saw the bills, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said.

“Cool,” she said. “And you saw the extra charges, right?”

I stopped whatever I was doing, only for a moment, and then muttered, “Yeah. I’m going to write a check for them before I go to work in the morning.”

She chuckled and said, “Okay. Awesome.”

That night I went to bed, the television stayed in the living room.

Awkward.

I’m not talking about two people who have said beforehand, “Hey, this is a one night thing.” Or two people who say afterwards, “Yeah, we’re not doing that again.” They could be one night stands, they could be long-standing trysts. It really doesn’t matter. What I’m talking about is two people who had sex, perhaps enjoyed it, and then without saying a word to one another, agreed they weren’t going to do it again.

Well sometimes, the answer lies not in the overt, but rather in the subtle. Here are five of those signs that the person we slept with will never sleep with us again.

WE DON’T CARE IF THEY DON’T REMEMBER OUR NAME

Anyone who knows me, knows I pride myself on learning a woman’s name up front. It’s an understated charm factor. Well, one night, I went home with a girl whose name I could have sworn was one thing, but as it turned out, was completely different. How did I find this out? The next morning, when I said bye to her and used the name I thought was hers, she kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Bye.” Then as she walked away, she turned around and said, “Oh by the way, you were saying my name wrong all night.” She never told me how to say it right.

SPEAKING OF A KISS ON THE CHEEK

If when we say goodbye, we move in to kiss one another, and it’s not on the lips we’re not sleeping together again. I mean, for goodness sakes, a couple hours ago (or maybe a couple minutes ago) we were as close to each other as is humanly possible and now we can’t even kiss on the lips? That’s a sign, my friends.

WE BOUGHT THE CONDOMS THE SAME NIGHT WE MET AND THEY WERE A THREE PACK

Nothing says “We’re never doing this again” more clear than a quick run into a store to pick up a three-pack of Trojans. (Sidebar: Don’t you hate it when the place you go into is cash only, and you don’t have any cash, so you have to go to the ATM and take a whole $20? Man, I really do hate that.)

THEY HAVE A PICTURE OF THEIR BOYFRIEND OR GIRLFRIEND BY THE NIGHTSTAND AND THEY SAY IT’S THEIR EX-BOYFRIEND OR GIRLFRIEND

A rule about exes: Nobody keeps a picture of their ex by their nightstand. Maybe they keep them up on a window sill, or a book shelf, but the night stand? Hell no. Nothing says I’m still in a relationship with this person more than a picture of that person on a nightstand. Prepare to leave and never come back the next day.

INSTEAD OF A PHONE NUMBER YOU GET AN EMAIL ADDRESS

To the girl who gave me her email address and said, it’s the best way to get a hold of her, check your inbox. I sent you a thank you note for teaching me this lesson.

What say you all? Any other signs I miss?

“Three Things Men Must Do To Watch Tiger Woods’ Comeback With Women”

Men fake orgasms.

Now I’m sure some women have heard of this phenomenon that is the fake male orgasm, while others are surely rolling their eyes and would also like to sell me a piece of property called The Statue of Liberty for cheap. Those women think I’m lying, while the rest of the women are upset I have just reminded them of a very sad truth. Meanwhile, my male readers are probably hoping and praying I don’t reveal the methods we utilize to fake an orgasm.

Don’t worry men, I won’t.

Trust me, the first time I felt a fake orgasm coming on (no pun intended) I was  shocked. This was back in high school, and honestly, it was relatively early in my sexual life. Actually, not relatively early, it was the very beginning. The first time I had sex was not the first time I had an orgasm. The first time I had an orgasm was my fourth time having sex.

I think.

Yeah, definitely the fourth time.

Now in my partner’s defense, she too was a virgin (I know, right? How lucky am I to get the oh-so-rare she’s-a-virgin-too combination. Nothing eases the process of learning how to have sex properly more than a partner who doesn’t know what they’re doing either, but I digress.) so she was adjusting to this new experience just as much as I was. But see, women go into sex with a totally different mentality than men do. Whereas men enter sex with the same optimism we had the first time we ever went into a Toys R’ Us, women tip-toe in, skeptical and sometimes cynical. Do they want to do it, of course? Do they expect fireworks? Eh, maybe, it depends on what kind of information they were being fed in their virgin years. But one thing they do expect is for the man to enjoy himself. In her mind, he is getting everything he wants, orgasms included.

Wrong.

I had to deliver my first fake-0ut around the second or third time I had sex. Not only was I bummed, I was shocked because my girlfriend at the time asked me if I did, and she didn’t even ask me straight up. She said, “What’s it feel like when you finish?” The question blew my mind. A little presumptuous, are we? I didn’t even act like I reached a peak of any kind, but because my girlfriend assumed I did, I couldn’t let her down, so I had to answer with a lie. “It’s incredible,” I replied. (Yes, I actually used the word incredible). Unfortunately, I could  tell it wouldn’t be the last time I would have to lie about such a thing or use the word “incredible” when I did.

As a man, there are two things I learned very early on. I wasn’t always going to get mine, and she wasn’t always going to get hers. Now, of course I always do my best to be a woman’s best, but hey, even Michael Jordan missed a shot or two in his lifetime. I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist. So I know not every woman I sleep with is going to have an orgasm because, well, frankly, not every woman I slept with has.

Most men know this. But why don’t most women know men fake too? Or if they do know, why does a woman think a man has never faked with her.

Ladies, deal with it. You’re not batting a 1,000 either. Sometimes, for any number of reasons, men just aren’t feeling it, and we’re going to have to act out the O for the same reasons women act out the O: To either get it over and done with, to satisfy a woman’s sexual ego, or the best reason of all, because we care too.

I always try to tell the woman I’m sleeping with to not fake with me, that if she actually cared about my happiness she wouldn’t act like I’m knocking it out the park when I’m not. Rather, she would take the time to tell me and communicate what works for her and what doesn’t. Don’t do me any favors and act like I’m killing it when I’m merely giving it wrist slaps. Yet, I find it so surprising that a woman never makes the same request. She just goes along assuming I climaxed, and you know how I know this?

BECAUSE NO WOMAN HAS EVER ASKED ME IF I HAD AN ORGASM!

They either assume I did or they don’t care if I did.

So let’s just clear the air right here and now.

I faked.

So did he.

And he did too.

All men have faked. Period.

Are we clear?

Good. Now that we know this, I’m closing out with a couple of questions.

For the male readers, just one: Am I right or am I right?

For the female readers, a couple:

How important is it to a woman that a man have a real orgasm? Or is it not important at all when we consider women pretty much have to spend most of their sexual lives acting out an orgasm like they were trying to win the Starlight of the Year Award at the AVNs? And last but not least: If a  man doesn’t have an orgasm, whose fault is it, mine or hers? I’d say hers, but, I cannot wait to hear from the women all the reasons why it is not.

“The Best Part About HBO’s New Series? The theme song.”

But every now and then, I can’t sidestep the race issue. Every now and then, I must go in and acknowledge race matters. Today is now and I hope you all pay attention to what I’m going to say a little bit closer than usual.

Last week I was interviewed for a news magazine show on CUNY, one of New York City’s local channels. The story was a response to a story Nightline did earlier this year on this large number of single (beautiful!) black women. During the interview, the question was posed to me (I’m paraphrasing here), “A lot of black men feel they were portrayed in a negative light when this story came out. Do you feel that way?”

Of course I answered the question as succinctly as television allows, but if given the room to say more, here’s what I would have said.

If we are going to accept the argument that men are to blame for the disproportionate number of single black women, then why can’t the blame be extended to all men, regardless of their skin color or racial makeup? The onus should not be on just black men, it should also be put on Asian men, White men, Hispanic men, Middle Eastern men. French men, Norwegian men, Italian men, South American men, Central American men, North American men, and Canadian men.

Basically any man who likes women and dates women should be held accountable for all these single (beautiful!) black women walking the Earth.

The saddest story the number of single black women tells me (whichever ones you want to believe) is how underrated and underappreciated the black female is by all men. Not to sound cliche, but black women are beautiful, yet the numbers show this is obviously still a secret to the majority of men out there.

I love black women and have been dating them all my life. The first girl I ever liked was black. The last girl I went out with was black. The woman I end up marrying will probably be black. Ditto goes for most of my friends. They too will probably end up marrying black women. And still, STILL, there will be black women out there unmarried and unwed because the fact is there are more black women walking this earth than black men. Yet me and my boys, the ones who do settle down and marry black women will be blamed for our unwed and single sisters as though polygamy is legal and accepted, and my boys and I are bad men for not taking advantage of it.

If people want to start helping black women get hitched, they need to move beyond the finger-pointing of black men and start extending it to all men. They also need to make an extra effort to make the beauty of the black woman an American standard. So much of black beauty is fetishized and marginalized, and it’s really unfair. It’s as though any man who likes a black woman has a taste for chocolate and that is so fucking wrong, even if it’s only an expression.

Look, to say I like black women, is to say I like women, period. There is not one group of women I don’t like. White women, Hispanic women, Asian women. Like I said, I like them all. But I love black women. That’s me. And what’s sad is I don’t know too many men out there who share my taste.

Of course, after the finger pointing at black men, a popular place to put the blame is squarely on the shoulders of the “victims” themselves, black women. The critics and media say, Well, you know, if black women were just more open-minded about the kind of men they dated, there wouldn’t be so many of them single.

Bullshit.

I have a theory called the cell phone theory and it goes like this: Until we have it, we don’t know we need it. (As in, we never knew we needed cell phones until we got one.) The reason black women aren’t as open-minded to date outside of their race is because men outside of their race are not open-minded enough to date them.

Say whatever you want about gender roles and how evolved they are. The fact of the matter is, if a man takes the lead a woman will follow. So if more men, regardless of their race, take the initiative and start actually approaching black women, more black women will start dating outside of their race. I don’t get upset about the number of black men who date outside of their race. I get upset about the number of non-black men who don’t date outside of their race or when they do, they don’t date black women.

The truth is not ugly, the truth is invisible. The reason there are so many single (beautiful!) black women is because their beauty is utterly ignored by the world at large.

A couple of years ago, when I was at VIBE, we threw a huge party. Most of the women in attendance were two things: Beautiful and black. Not only was this my kind of party, it was the kind of party I was used to attending most of my life. The next day, one of my co-workers, a white male my age, came up to me and said, “Last night’s party was crazy. I never seen so many beautiful black women in one place.”

Sad it took him his whole life to see it, but what’s even sadder is he probably won’t ever see it again.

No, I am not a competitive eater. Although, I always manage to be the first one to finish my plate whenever I’m eating with others. Yes, I do understand there’s a good chance after I finish the contest, my love for tacos will morph into hate. But none of these things matter. What matters most to me is I do well, because if I do well, women will be lining up outside of the restaurant with Tums in hand.

I’m kidding.

I actually don’t want any woman I know to come to the competition. I understand they are there for support and to cheer me on, but there’s one overwhelming fear I won’t be able to shake. The fear of losing in front of a woman who has come to root for me and thus never getting fed tacos again.

I know, I know. It’s just tacos. What kind of women would ever look at a man differently simply because he didn’t win first prize in some taco-eating contest? But see, such questions don’t apply to any competitive scenario, even ones as trivial as being the first person to finish a whole platter of tacos.

The only thing men like doing more than winning is winning in front of their woman. The only thing they hate more than losing is losing in front of their woman. Just ask any man who plays video games in his spare time.

Let’s say he’s playing a game of Madden football and his woman decides to go ahead and watch him play for a couple of minutes. She doesn’t want to play herself, and she just doesn’t want to watch him play the whole game. All she wants to do is get a peek at this THING that has her man so enthralled everyday. So in order to follow, she simply asks, “Which team are you?” Her man answers, and now he knows she’s going to watch him play for a couple of minutes.

His team is on offense. She says, “So you have the ball?” He says, “Yep, and I’m about to bomb it right into the end zone. Watch.” Now she’s interested because her man is about to win. Right?

He does his thing on the controllers, his quarterback is back to pass, the ball is in the air. It’s going in the right direction. It’s coming down and INTERCEPTION! The computer has just totally hated on this man, and made him a laughingstock in his own house. The man’s girl chuckles to herself, and goes back to whatever she’s doing. She won’t say anything, because she knows her man is mad. Now’s not the time. The time will come later, when she calls him and asks him if he wants to hang out, and he says, “Okay, let me just finish this game of Madden.” Then she will say, “I don’t know why I have to wait for a game you suck at.” Meanwhile, this time, he’s actually winning but she doesn’t see that nor does she care. She just remembers the time he was losing.

And so you see? This is how it goes for men. No matter the competition, winning in front of his woman means everything in the world to him. Why? Because women love winners, even more than they love their man. As a lady friend of mine told me, “If my man lost a game or a competition, I’d still give him some. But if he won, I’d go down on him too.”

Men know this, and that is why they act a damn fool whenever they win in front of their woman. I remember one time I was playing some flag football with friends of mine. In this game, I caught two touchdown passes. The first one I caught, I handled it like a gentleman. There was no hot-dogging. There was no grandstanding. I just tossed the ball to my opponent and got back on defense. But sometime between the first one and the second one, my girlfriend at the time came to watch.

All of a sudden, I’m drawing up plays to get me the ball. We break into formation. I go long, stupid long, like there’s-no-reason-to-go-that-long-in-a-game-of-flag-football long. But our QB throws it to me anyway. I jump up. Catch it. TOUCHDOWN! SCORE! GOAL! SIX POINTS! WHAT NOW, BABY!? WHAT!? OH YOU WANT THE BALL? YOU WANT IT? YOU CAN’T HAVE THE BALL!

After the game, as we were walking home, I asked my girl what she thought of the play. “It was cool,” she said. “Cool?” I asked. “Cool? Girl, we won the game. We won the game because of my touchdown! That’s more than cool. That’s like…”

“Baby,” she said. “You won. That’s what you were supposed to do.”

Well, this Thursday, when I sit down to gorge myself with the world’s finest dish, I don’t know if I’m supposed to win. Shoot, there’s a good chance I’m supposed to lose. Who knows? All I know is if I ever want my lady friends to make me some tacos in the future, to take my love for the food seriously, it’s best I win or lose this competition without them watching.

Wish me luck.

For instance, I have dated a lot of women who are obsessive about the gym. They not only are disciplined about their gym time, they actually savor it and enjoy it. Every once in a while, if I notice this gym rat I’m dating hasn’t been on top of it like she usually is, I might inquire and ask, “Hey, you good? I noticed you haven’t been to the gym in like four days.”

Now, some women I have dated understand I am only asking because I notice this break in their routine and that could mean something is bothering her. But some women interpret the question as a statement on their weight or how they look. “Why?” they retort. “Am I starting to look like I haven’t been to the gym in like four days?”

From there, I have to give the question some context, which doesn’t help because since we’re on the subject of looks (one that she brought up herself, not me) now we are going to talk about it.

This, my friends, is what we like to call a misunderstanding. These things are common in relationships and dating. Sometimes, even the best communicators often get misunderstood by whoever their dating not because of a lack of clarity, but because the other person is doing some serious overthinking or underthinking.

Below, five things that are misunderstood by some women and what the man actually means by them.

COUPON DATES

What She’s Thinking: He’s cheap

What He’s Thinking: Girl, I could have used these coupons on my Mom or my boys, but you know what? I didn’t. I saw these coupons in my mailbox and who did I think of? That’s right, I thought of you. No one else. Don’t be so ungrateful.

FIVE YEARS OF DATING AND STILL NO RING

What She’s Thinking: He doesn’t want to marry me.

What He’s Thinking: Man, when we first started dating, I asked her what kind of ring she wanted. You know what she said? “A big one.” Now, I’m trying to save up enough money to get the ring she really wants. I probably would’ve had that money years ago, but ever since she got an attitude with me about using coupons, I’ve been paying full price on every meal we have. She’s just going to have to either wait for the ring she wants or settle for the man she has.

MEETING THE PARENTS

What She’s Thinking: This is serious.

What His Parents Are Thinking: What’s this one’s name again? I’m starting to lose track of these girls he’s introducing me to.

What He’s Thinking: I hope my parent’s don’t forget her name like the one I introduced to them last week.

IGNORING PHONE CALLS

What She’s Thinking: That’s probably some girl calling him right now and he’s not picking up because he doesn’t want me to blow up his spot.

What He’s Thinking: Why do bill collectors still call people and why do they call so early or late? Can’t we work this out over email?

COOKING

What She’s Thinking: Damn, this taste so good. He can really cook.

What He’s Thinking: Thank God, I had those coupons for the prepared meals at Whole Foods. I knew these things would come in handy. I hope I buried that receipt deep in the trash.

“Interracial Love At The Movies”

A few words on Lil Wayne and Eminem’s new video for “Drop The World” over at The Wall Street Journal.

‘Drop the World,’ Lil Wayne and Eminem: The New Video

But what if we’re not tested like that? What if we never get confronted with a life or death circumstance to prove our love. What does a man do?

Well, it’s simple. He does the little things.

These little things are sometimes nothing to write home about. Maybe we pick up her favorite snack while we make a quick store run. Maybe we rub her back without her asking. Or maybe we send her a quick text to say that we’re thinking about her.

All of this sounds sweet and easy enough because they basically are both of those things. But sometimes, the little things are the hardest things in the world to do. Sometimes the little things break our pockets because the “little thing” is a diamond ring. Sometimes, in a man’s mind, the little thing he did for his woman is something he has never done for any woman prior to her and since her.

In my years of dating, I have done my fair share of little things and I’m not talking about flowers. I’m talking about the type of little things that from the outside looking in, don’t look like much, but trust me, they are. There have been some little things I have done that have stayed with me longer than some big things I’ve done.

I regret none of them. Every time I look back on some little thing I did I laugh and  say to myself, Damn, Jozen, you must’ve loved that woman or maybe liked her a lot. Who knows? What I do know is there have been some girls I really liked (or loved), who asked me to do this little thing, and I did it even though in my mind, it was the biggest thing in the world.

Here’s one of them.

THE ZIPPER

Everyone who knows me knows I hate roller coasters and any ride where the motion induces nausea. What can I say? I get motion sickness. Been getting it since I was a little boy, and so I learned a long time ago, don’t go on any rides where people are screaming while its moving. Usually this is a good sign I’m going to get sick.

Well, in high school, my high school sweetheart and I were at the county fair. Usually we brought other people along so she could ride the rides with someone not named me. But one particular night, all our friends left early so it was just me,  her, and this one particular ride she wanted to go on called The Zipper. It was her favorite, it was my nightmare.

For anyone who has been to a county fair, you know the Zipper. It’s this huge contraption where people are locked into these caged pods. The ride goes around and around like a ferris wheel, but unlike the ferris wheel, the pods people are sitting in go round and round too. So within this 360 degree turn you’re making on the Zipper, you and your podmate can swing yourselves around another 360 degrees over and over again.

She begged me and begged me and begged me to go on. She said I could close my eyes and if I did that, I wouldn’t get sick. She even said, “I know you’re not scared, it’s just the motion sickness, but trust me, you won’t get sick.” Man, she was laying it on thick, and the fact that she wasn’t punking me into it, only helped her case. But then, right as I was taking a piece of her cotton candy, she said the words no man wants to hear, the fighting words that will make a man say, “Oh yeah? Is that right? Okay, watch.” That’s right she said, “If you loved me, you would do it.”

I took the cotton candy out of her hand, threw it in the trash, and walked straight over to the Zipper with her in tow. How dare she challenge my love for her! I think we even cut a couple of people who were waiting in line, but what did I care. I had a point to prove.

We strapped on our seat belts, closed the cage, and the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the operator pulling the lever. Then, four minutes of dizzying hell.

When we got off the ride, she hugged me, kissed me, said she knew I really loved her and she was so happy I proved it to her.

As for me, I threw up on her shoes.

The little things, man.