pants on fire

he arrived two hours late, wearing what looked to be a mud brown, pea green, and flourescent orange checked santeen shirt with dark green leather pants. when i opened the door (after simmering behind it for about three minutes trying to calm myself down), he was standing in front of me in all his tacky glory, a small box in his hand.

a gift on the first date?

i guess that was his 'i'm sorry i'm a trife mothafucka who's late for our first date' consolation present. i just stood there and glared at him. two and a half hours previous to that exact moment i was racing home from work, battling through an atlanta traffic comprised of every idiot who'd had to take his driving test at least three times before passing it, every little old lady who thought at age 85 she could still drive her model-t looking ancient assed vehicle during the height of rush hour traffic, every eighteen-wheeler driving maniac who didn't see my car in their rear-view mirrors as they swerved recklessly from lane to lane, and every fucking soccer-mom who, in between reaching behind herself to smack the shit out of her badd-assed kids, was grabbing for the dog who was determined to throw himself into oncoming traffic.

after an hour of that shit, i was slamming my car door furiously as i walked quickly to my front door, put the key into the keyhole, and let myself into my apartment. i'd quickly glanced at my watch. SHIT. i'd had thirty minutes to undress, wash my ass, find a halfway decent outfit, get dressed, and be fully presentable by the time he was scheduled to arrive. i was basically running from room to room, yanking off clothes and tossing them into the air, not caring where they landed. i had precious little time to concentrate on being neat about it, because i'd had only thirty minutes...no, make that twenty-four minutes, to get all that shit done before the time he was supposed to be ringing my doorbell.

ten minutes later i was stepping out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body as i raced for the closet. flinging open the door, i'd frantically pushed through clothes until i found a dress i was cool with wearing. i shimmied into the dress, damn near pulled my arm outta the socket as i grasped for the zipper in the back, and was hopping around trying to put together the clasp on my sandals.

five minutes left.

i'd quickly checked myself in the mirror, tossing my head back in a weak attempt to give my locs a semblance of order. i ran back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and was sitting on my couch when seven o'clock hit.

so by the time his ass finally showed up at 9 o'clock, i was a pissed bitch.

thinking back on the frantic hours that'd just past, my face grew into a scowl as i continued glaring at him.

"here." he said contritely, "this is for you."

i looked at the small box in his hand. is that velvet? what the hell is he doing bringing me a velvet encased gift on the first date?

...i wonder if it's shiny and expensive!

i took the box and stepped back, opening the door wide enough for him to step over the threshold. what the fuck is this cat wearing??? as he stepped past me, i turned to look at his backside.

leather pants! this cat's wearing LEATHER PANTS...

closing the door, i pursed my lips, swallowing the giggle tickling my throat.

he turned around to face me, took a deep breath, then opened his mouth to speak.

yeah, mothafucka...what weak-assed excuse you gonna come up with?

"i'm sorry i'm late for our date, but my roommate's dog got sick and i had to take him to the vet."

what? damn, brotha...that's the best you got? shit, you get an 'f' for effort. you probably that kinda brotha who thinks he put in work cuz he went longer then three minutes but shorter than seven.

and then i was paying him little attention, my mind focused on the weight of the little box in my hand. i gave it a furtive shake.

hmmm...sounds like jewelry, but a sista can't be too sure...

i focused my gaze on his face, noting how apologetic he appeared to be. i decided to fuck with him to see just how far he had thought this lie out.

"what's the pet's name?"

"spot," he replied, a little too quickly for my tastes...

"what kind of dog is spot?"

"rotweiller."

a rotweiller named spot? either this is so fucking lame it's true or brotha has no imagination worth a shit.

"what was wrong with spot?" i drilled him.

"he had some kind of pooping problem," he said with a growing look of bewilderment on his face.

what guy says 'poop' these days? say 'shit' like grown folk do! he might as well as say "this is gonna be a swell date! we're gonna have a gay time!"

i had to tell myself to shut up before i ended up ripping him apart in my mind.

"what kind of pooping problem?" i asked, hoping to sound genuinely interested.

he hesitated.

are you gonna make it this easy for me? come on...give a sista a challenge!

"uh, i'm not sure," he stated with a wary look in his eyes as he continued looking into mine.

"you're not sure?" i pinned him with my piercing stare, wishing i could carve him apart on sight, "so spot has a pooping problem so you take him to the vet..."

"yeah," he said with a sigh. i guess he was starting to realize he was in for the negro inquisition. damn right, ya bastid.

"so...spot's pooping alot?" i was starting to find pleasure in saying the word 'poop'. it was certainly more fun than having to wait two hours for his trife ass to show up. he was starting to look really nervous now. i almost rolled my eyes. this was ridiculous.

"yeah...," his brow furrowed as he looked to be trying to come up with additional addendums to the lie, "he was pooping all over the place!"

i responded quickly so he wouldn't have time to think.

"so spot was pooping all over the place so you decided to take him to the vet to end the pooping problem."

he nodded.

then i went in for the kill.

"which vet?"

silence.

i just looked at him and smirked. it took one minute to crack that lie. you're an idiot, aren't you?

he stood there with a vacant look on his face as he realized he didn't have shit to say. the silence continued for about thirty seconds as he silently debated what his next move should be. i decided to put him out of his misery. i slowly started shaking my head disgustedly as i shifted my weight to one foot, crossing my arms so that the token gift in the velvet box was sitting against my left arm.

"why you lying to me?"

he opened his mouth to speak. i interrupted him.

"it would be in your best interest to come with the truth this time."

he cleared his throat, shuffled his feet a little while never breaking eye contact with me. then he started rubbing his hands together slowly. he cleared his throat again.

"well..." he began, "it's like this. i haven't gotten any ass in three months, so i was jacking off and lost track of time."

i raised both eyebrows as i digested his confession. so brotha went from a bullshit lie to the painful truth. no middle ground with this fella...and it had to be the truth. think about it...what guy admits to jacking off and losing track of time? then again, what guy loses track of time while jacking off? was he that in love with his hand? did his hand suck him off, too? i mean, i love my vibrator. it's a long, black, thick rubber piece of perfection i call 'stroker ace' cuz it always strokes perfectly and is always an ace in the hole.

but uh, i ain't gonna miss a date and the potential for real dick cuz me and 'ace' got caught up in the moment.

i stood there trying to decide what i should do. on the one hand, he lied, and it wasn't even an inspired lie, really. he put very little effort into it, probably assuming he was dealing with a dumb broad. i felt insulted twice over.

strike one against his ass.

then there was his outfit, which was something straight up out of a pimp's closet. really...green leather pants??

strike two.

then he's got an unnaturally intimate relationship with his hand. i glanced at his hands to see if i could figure out which one was his 'bitch'. they both looked strong and well used with short, clean nails tipping them. apparently he was ambi-dick-strokes. i fought the inclination to breathe in deeply to see if there were any traces of his intimate encounter from earlier. i wasn't sure which hand he used, but just looking at them had me envisioning him with them wrapped around his dick, stroking it slowly...

whoa, nikki...rein that image in right now.

i blinked and raised my head to make eye contact with him. he was waiting expectantly for me to speak.

is the fact that he lost track of time because he was jacking off really a strike against him? i mean, if he wanted to jack off in the future, he might let me watch. that was a direct appeal to the sista in me who loves watching a guy jack himself off. i began weakening a little bit...

and then there's the gift...it sounded like jewelry and it was in a velvet case.

dilemmas, dilemmas...what's a girl to do?
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so what do you think i did (or should have done?)