Thursday, March 29, 2012

Confessions of a Man-Ho Part 1

by Seymour Monet

Confessions of a Man-Ho (Part 1)
via Truth Merchants by Seymour Monet on 11/10/08

In the first installment of the legendary post “How To Talk to Pretty Women”, I mentioned how being labeled as the nice guy is close to leprosy and that I would be explaining later. Well later is now. Later has been this…well…late because I know this is going to be a sensitive issue. Mainly because I will be dealing with a seemingly illogical subject; the fact that women just don’t like nice guys. Personally it will be a tad touchy because I am taking a cue from my cohorts Haight and Hustle and getting a bit personal here. I have been wrestling with how to approach this for maximum effectiveness and I concluded that anecdotal evidence is the quick dissolving strip to solve this situation. So here it goes:

Hello. My name is Seymour Monet and I am a man ho.

I’m recovering actually but I know how it goes. Once a man ho, always a man ho. Now this isn’t going to be some Karrine Steffans-esque name drop fest. And please don’t get it twisted and think I’m some Eric Benet, “To Catch a Predator” type dude. Never have been. But I will admit that I have done quite a few things that I’m not proud of to get that (insert favorite nickname for vagina here…I’m lazy today). I did have standards though. I wasn’t the crack whore of man ho’s. I didn’t tell chicks I loved them just to get it nor did I have a bunch of “girlfriends.” I let women know that I wasn’t looking for a relationship so I figured I wasn’t really that bad. What I did do was lie, coerce, and manipulate to get what I wanted…

…safe passage to the land of milk and honey! I kid.

See, the reason I can talk about this so candidly is because I am a nice guy at heart. I also want women to have some insight into what can lead a man to ho-dom and what can happen after it. You need to know that we all aren’t that bad and that a good portion of the assholes that you’ve already run into were really nice guys in disguise.

Stop cussing at the screen…I said a good portion, not all! So, here’s my story.

I, like many African-American men of my generation, was raised by women. Namely my mother and later my grandmother taught me to be respectful at all times and especially to women. I still flinch now if I forget a “ma’am”, remembering all the pimp slaps I caught from granny. If you remember from the same legendary posting I explained that pretty much all the women in my family are lookers. So, I figured one and one equaled two and if I was nice to chicks (especially the pretty ones) I would get me one. If only I knew. I proceeded to be gentlemanly and an all around nice guy to the girls that caught my eye. I ended up with more “friends” than a Matt LeBlanc greatest hits marathon.

Then more and more I noticed that all the assholes I knew were putting in much less work with a way higher success rate. It just didn’t make sense to me. It went against everything I heard from women and everything I was raised to believe. “Treat women right son”, is all I would hear. But I’ll be damned if I wasn’t being treated like somebody’s little brother. I would constantly hear, “You’re so nice, but…”, “Oh, Mo you’re such a sweet guy, but….” Little did I know that a scarlet N was being slapped on my chest. But everything changed on one fateful road trip.

I had a cousin who lived in another small town maybe 20 minutes away. So, I’m doing the family visit thing and her best friend happens by. This is also where I began to think that all pretty women traveled in packs.

(I was a genius I tell ya!)

Now of course since my cousin is my cousin and since we are the same age we give each other a hard time. It’s just natural. What wasn’t natural to me was the crossover of jokes to her friend. I’m busting jokes on them, ignoring them some, generally NOT doing anything that would make the friend think I was trying to get at her. And what do you know?

She was all over me!

There was the tell tale over-giggle and touch. My male cousins were throwing the football around and she decides to play tackle…with me.

Suddenly jokes turned into, “why don’t you come by my house sometime after school Seymour?”

Hell fuck yeah, is what I was thinking.

“We’ll see what I can do”, is what I said.

Then it happened.


This was the beginning of the end people. I had just learned one of Vicki’s little secrets…exactly how to get in them mo-fo’s! The next 2 years was a blur of bras, backseats and bouncing box springs. And then I graduated high school!

If high school was where the monster was created, college is where he terrorized…

S. Monet…(Part 2 tomorrow)

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