It’s Not You, It’s Me…But Maybe It’s You
I took a Peloton 30-minute, full body strength class this week, with my boy Adrian Williams. The music was all 2000s hip hop, and I caught a vibe. It’s all I have been listening to since Tuesday. Mostly I put it on as background noise while I’m doing dishes or cooking dinner or cleaning Cheerios off the floor. And mostly it’s fun to shake my booty and reminisce about particular stages of life I was in when the songs were popular.
MOSTLY.
This morning, while organizing the drawers in my upstairs bathroom vanity (while Luke took a bath and also pooped in said bath), I listened to three songs in a row and it got me thinking. The three songs were:
Freak-A-Leek by Petey Pablo;
What’s Your Fantasy by Ludacris; and
Candy Shop by 50 Cent.
And since that 10-12 minute period of my life, all I can think about is a) all the ways I don’t want to have sex and b) all the places I don’t have to have sex. Let’s dive in.
The premise here is that Petey likes sex with a multitude of curvy women, who apparently only go to his house for the expressed purpose of getting fucked up and boning. He appears to consider himself quite the well-endowed ladies man, and likes to fornicate in a variety of sexual positions. While he does mention getting it on in a bed, with his partner’s feet crammed into the headboard or her face covered by a pillow - ever the gentleman - he then offers to move down to the floor. The song ends with Petey, obviously not one to not kiss and tell, listing out all of the women he’s sleeping with: Shameka, Keisha, Tara, Shawna, Sabrina, Crystal, Daronda, Lisa, Felicia, Tenisha, Sharon, Monica, Monique, Christina, Yolanda. Not a Kim in sight, and it’s not a coincidence. Here’s why. If a GROWN MAN named “Petey” invited me over to do drugs, drink alcohol, and engage in uncomfortable bed sex before moving to uncomfortable floor sex, I’m fairly certain I’d decline. The other part that I’m unclear about is how I am supposed to feel about the shout-out to his concubines. Like, am I supposed to feel fortunate to snag an invite? Or jealous? Food for thought.
Here we have Ludacris, who seems to be a considerate lover wanting to focus on the needs and sexual fantasies of his partner. Seems thoughtful, right? Considering he doesn’t talk about smothering his love interest with a pillow, things really could be looking up. But then he starts listing out potential locations for hook-ups and that’s where he loses me. Here are my favorite suggestions, along with reasons for why they just won’t work for me:
The 50 yard line of the Georgia Dome: To start, this site was demolished in 2017 so it’s a non-starter. If I were to time travel, however, I’d have to decline the offer turf burns on my skin and those tiny black pellets being forced into areas where the sun doesn’t shine. No, thanks.
The DJ booth or VIP section of a club: Cliche much? No, thanks.
Whipped cream with cherries and strawberries on top: Yeast infection waiting to happen. No, thanks.
Beach with black sand: This idea is at least a little romantic, but the application would be all wrong. Chafey chafey chafe chafe. No, thanks.
Table top: Like the dining room table? Where my family and I eat dinner? Who’s going to clean that? No, thanks.
Stage of the Ludacris concert: I can’t even pee when I know someone is standing outside the bathroom door. How would I be expected to hump in front of a sold-out crowd? No, thanks.
On hay in middle of the barn: Wait, what? No, thanks.
Thank goodness Ludacris isn’t calling me. I’d hate to disappoint him with my proposal: Bed sex, but at night only because it needs to be dark so my partner can’t see the acne cream I have already applied to my face after my multi-step evening skincare routine. No music or TV should be playing because I will need to listen for the possible approach of my children, in which case our antics would need to be cut short. I will also need to be under the covers but also have a fan blowing on me because of possible hot flashes. When it’s over, I’ll have to dress quickly in my dinosaur or outer space pajamas then hustle in to the bathroom to pee, because you know I’ll get a UTI otherwise and that’s no fun. I don’t really even like cranberry juice.
My primary problem with this song is in thinking about how disappointed I would be if someone said they would take me to a candy shop and then, like, didn’t, because “candy shop” was code for sex, but like, I really wanted Haribo gummy candy. I can’t get past that.
So that’s all I have for you today, readers. Being a woke mom in this world is a burden sometimes. I can’t even pretend to whore it up in the club by listening to songs of my youth because I actually listen to lyrics now and even if I don’t find the words to be offensive (which I really don’t), I can’t stop my brain from wondering who actually falls for this horse shit. This was a fun blog to write so if you have ideas for other songs I can dismantle, please send me suggestions. And now that I have incorporated music into my blog, I think that I’m going to try to include a theme song for each new piece I write. I said try.
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