Single Mom Standards (Tho the dope boy still turns me on)

At some point in time, every girl wants to f*ck with a thug. Don’t act like it wasn’t you. You may not wanna marry him and bring him home to papa, but you want to get down. ESPECIALLY girls out the burbs. Case in point (points to self). I hate to be that girl. And the only reason I’m telling y’all this is because I expect I won’t be the only one with similar stories to share. Do share.

And really, I thought I was past that good girl/bad boy stage. It’s so high school, right? I mean, I’m a grown @ss woman, dog. I need a man who’s neck tat doesn’t show above his collar line, who’s FICO score is a 7 (at least a 6 and climbing) and who has some work history. (More importantly, some work present.) I mean, I KNOW this, right? But yall, I had a near setback the other weekend.



I went to this hole-in-the-wall club in VA with a couple of girlfriends from college. What the hell we were doing there, I have no idea. I was entirely too sophisticated for that mess, okay? Bullet holes in the wall and errything. And I was about ready to just put down my drink, (in a glass I was reluctant to even put my lips on), and be the f*ck out.

That’s when I saw him.

He had to have been 6’3, strong, built like a grown @ss man, dark chocolate and leaning up against the bar drinkin on his dark liquor and smoking on his Black. I saw him and he saw me and I knowd dey wuz a God. (Who saw The Color Purple on B’Way? Fantasia ripped it. Tears y’all. I cried).

Before I could rein it in, my imagination had escaped me, dreaming up all kinds of hot, sweaty scenarios with the dark stranger who’s pants hung low off his hips. I imagined him atop me (pants around his ankles, like a thug do, you know) … astride me … behind me … twisting my body into all manner of hedonistic positions … That Plies line from “Shawty,” rang in my head – “She used to run from the d!ck, now she like pain.” Damn.

Be patient with me yall, God is still workin on me.

I mean, even after I snapped back to reality, I just wanted to ask that man what he was drinkin on so I could get him another one, you hear me? It must’ve been all over my face because he motioned for me to come over. I’m thinkin: What? Negro please. When was the last time a nigga motioned me anywhere and I came? What, 2000? You wanna holla at me, you need to come see me.

Shiiiyt, you know how quick I got my ass over to that bar in my stilettos? Light speed, y’all.

But does the reality ever live up to the fantasy? His shirt pronounced that he was a “HUSTLA” in a bold, bling print, but getting any more information was a task. It was loud and the bass was pumpin, so I tried to give him a pass, but my man’s conversation was seriously laggin. I must admit, I did take his number, but to my credit, it layed dormant on the dresser for two whole days and I left it there when I checked out of the hotel.

I mean, what would have been the point? Through the clarity of sober reflection, it came to me: If I don’t want my son to be like you, you can’t be with me. Simple as that.

So that’s my new standard. Let’s put a list together, Single Mom Standards. You'll find the beginning of the check-off roster to the right. So tell me, mamasitas, what dyou go by when deciding if a man deserves your time?

I’ll be checking for responses, but mean time, I’ll just bump my Ciara and fantasize. That man was fine.

- Melyssa Ganache


Can’t Leave Em Alone - Ciara