A Good Man
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Synopsis
"A Good Man earns a place at the top of the to-be-read pile." --USA Today
Sonya Richardson can't resist starring on a hit reality dating show to give America a taste of what a real black woman is like. The former celebrity pro athlete is breaking all of "Hunk Or Punk's" rules, refusing to bling-up like a diva, and tackling whatever drama her suitors have in store. But one contestant is throwing Sonya off her game. He's kind, way too easy to spill her secrets to--and giving her the type of hope she hasn't felt in a long time. . .
Widowed former pastor John Bond knows he's the show's "designated white guy," expected to fail every challenge and be gone in a month. He also knows he has to take risks to find love again. Now Sonya is inspiring him to do whatever it takes to stay in the running, win her heart. . .and prove their dreams can be a reality.
"Readers will be cheering for all of Murray's characters to find their joy." --RT Book Reviews (A TOP PICK)
"Murray's wonderful characters, caring perspective, humor, and the story's fabulous ending make this a winning read." --Booklist
"Deceptively light but ocean-deep. . .readers should brace for a three-hanky finale." –Publishers Weekly
Release date: November 14, 2013
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 352
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A Good Man
J.J. Murray
It started with a phone call from Sonya Richardson’s publicist.
“Sonya, how’s it going?”
I haven’t heard from Michelle Hamm in five years, Sonya thought. “Fine, Michelle. How have you been? A better question is where have you been?”
“I expected only to leave you a message.”
Sonya sighed. Michelle was infamous for not answering her questions.
“I am so surprised that you answered, Sonya,” Michelle said. “It’s ten o’clock on a Friday night. Why aren’t you out with your bad self?”
Because I don’t have a “bad self” anymore, not that I ever had a bad self. “I lead a quiet life now. You know that.”
Just me in my suburban Charlotte, North Carolina, home on my suburban couch in my suburban great room, watching my new flat-screen TV bought at a suburban electronics store. Wow. This is the first phone call in days that hasn’t asked me for a donation. Hmm. Michelle’s on the line. I may be donating my time somewhere soon.
“Let me guess,” Sonya said. “There’s some WNBA function I just have to attend.”
“Nope,” Michelle said. “WB is doing a new show called Hunk or Punk.”
She’s calling me to discuss what’s going to be on TV. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“You’re single.”
She has to remind me. Ten hard years in the WNBA, playing for two Olympic teams, traveling around the world several times, taking mission trips to Haiti and New Orleans in the off-season. I had no time for a man. I barely had time for myself.
“What’s your point, Michelle?” I have my own TV shows to watch.
“They’re looking for a strong, attractive, literate, intelligent black woman just like you.”
“No, they aren’t. Not on shows like that.”
“They are. Wouldn’t you like to have twelve hunky men fighting over you?”
“No.”
“The actual word is ‘woo.’ These men are going to ‘woo’ you on national TV.”
Woo? Noo. “And you thought of me?”
“I could only think of you, Sonya.”
“Gee, thanks. Um, you’re still single, aren’t you, Michelle?”
“Yes, but I am not—”
“And you’re strong, attractive, literate, and intelligent, right?”
“Of course, but I don’t look anything like you. I’m thick in some spots and much thicker in others. Some spots I haven’t seen in years, not even with a mirror. You’re cute. You probably still have some baby fat. Unless you’ve let yourself go.”
“No, I’m still in shape.” I just don’t have anyone to admire my shape except me. “What makes you think I would go on TV to find a date?”
“Are you married, shacking up, or dating anyone now?”
“No.” Loneliness is next to godliness. Most of the time.
“Are you even trying?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you have to go on TV to get a date.”
Sonya shook some cobwebs from her head. “That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. It ain’t happenin’ with what you’re doing now, right? Why not roll the dice and see what happens and get paid to do it at the same time.”
Because I don’t need it to happen! “Look, I’m not hurting for money, and I don’t need a man, okay? I’m happily single.” And my couch needs me to keep it warm. My remote control whimpers when I’m not around. My TV sighs whenever I don’t turn it on.
“C’mon, Sonya. No one is really single and happy. If it weren’t for my cat and an occasional hookup, I’d be miserable. Why don’t you live a little? Go on the show. Let your hair down. Have some fun for a change.”
I’ve never had much hair to let down. “No.”
“Well, look at it another way. Do we really want another diva with an attitude representing us on TV? This is our chance to show America a real black woman for a change.”
Now that is tempting. I am sick of what’s on TV for the most part. Reality shows are often faker than regular shows. It’s why I watch Animal Planet and Man v. Food just about every day. Those are real shows. I mean, who doesn’t want to know what parasites are living inside the human body? And who doesn’t eat? And sometimes the shows seem to overlap. I’ll be watching something about tapeworms on Animal Planet, and then I’ll wonder if the host for Man v. Food has a tapeworm that helps him eat so much. How many shows can do that overlap?
“Earth to Sonya.”
“I was just thinking about . . .” I can’t tell her I was thinking about tapeworms. “I was just wondering why you think I’m a real black woman.”
“You’re a success story without the extensions, the attitude, and the diamond-studded fingernails. You grew up in Jersey as an orphan in the ’hood, got raised by your saintly grandmama, you were the first in your family to graduate college, your college team won the national championship twice, you were an all-American in college three times, your team made the NCAA tournament all four years you were there—”
“I know my bio, Michelle,” Sonya interrupted. “What’s your point?”
“You’re not only beautiful—you’re actually interesting, unlike a lot of the beautiful people on TV. If I were the average American couch potato, I’d want to get to know you better.”
“I am a couch potato.” And loving every lazy minute of it. “Couch potatoes are not interested in the lives of other couch potatoes.” If there were a market for it, it would already be on TV.
“Sonya, you are the ultimate role model for black women. TV needs you.”
TV needs me about as much as I need TV. Wait a minute. I need TV, mainly to help me sleep. Does that mean TV needs me to help other people sleep?
“Michelle, please listen,” Sonya said. “I am not a role model. I played ball. I earned my living playing with a ball. That doesn’t make me—”
“You’re a role model,” Michelle interrupted. “Little girls looked up to you.”
Right. I’m too short for them to look up to me. “And I’m forty. Those shows are for much younger women. I don’t have a chance of being a Nubian princess.” Who thinks up that noise anyway? Nubian princess? Why not Nubian queen? TV is always downgrading black women.
“Forty is the new twenty.”
“Not to a twenty-year-old,” Sonya said. Or to a forty-year-old with a reluctant knee, elbows that pop for no reason, and toes that rarely warm up.
“You could be glamorous, you know.”
“My glamorous days are over.” Not that I had any in the first place. When they put makeup on me for those WNBA calendars, I felt like a clown. “Don’t they have an age limit for shows like that?”
“You just made the cutoff.”
How nice. “Thank you for thinking of me, really, but no thanks.”
“Um, I already sent in a few of your old headshots and your bio.”
Sonya shot off the couch. “What?”
“And the producers are very interested in what they’ve seen. They want to meet with you soon. As in, as soon as you can get to LA. That kind of soon.”
The witch! “You already signed me up?”
“It’s what I do, right? And I didn’t exactly sign you up. I just sent a few pictures and your bio. No harm in that.”
“Michelle, you haven’t really been my publicist for the last five years,” Sonya said. She turned back to her TV and tuned it to The Food Channel, muting the sound. “And Michelle, those headshots have to be at least ten years old.”
“They’re actually fifteen years old.”
Geez, I was still a kid! “But that’s not how I look now. You’re misrepresenting me.”
She’s still misrepresenting me. She tried to paint me as some “bad girl from Jersey” back in the day to increase my salary, as if being “fierce” would put more people in the seats. No one bought that mess. Nike wouldn’t have signed me to represent their shoes if I were a “bad girl” from anywhere.
“I’ll bet you haven’t aged a day.”
I have aged many days, and a few more during this conversation. “Michelle, I have several body parts heading south, I have wrinkles, my evil knee cracks—”
“And all of that can be fixed or hidden,” Michelle interrupted. “They are really interested in you, Sonya. They are willing to pay you a lot of money to take the role.”
The what? “The role? I’m playing myself, right? How is that a role?”
“You know what I mean. You’ll be playing the role of the woman in waiting, the role of the damsel in the castle waiting for her knight in shining armor, the role of—”
“The desperate middle-aged woman afraid of dying alone,” Sonya interrupted. Ouch. That hurt to say. It must be somewhat true if it hurts me like that.
“It’s funny you should mention desperate, Sonya. The producers actually sounded desperate when I talked to them.”
“So let them remain desperate. I’m not desperate.”
“You’re a beautiful woman alone on a Friday night.”
“And I’ll be a beautiful woman alone on a Saturday night, too.” And on Sundays and Wednesdays, I’ll be a beautiful woman getting my prayer and praise on in church. “I like my life, Michelle. I like quiet. I didn’t know how necessary quiet was to me until I had some quiet. Silence is indeed golden. You know I didn’t like all that noise and hype. I never liked doing post-game interviews or having any microphones jammed into my face or cameras following my every twitch. And now you want me to go on TV for what, months? That’s not me at all. You know this.”
“Well, um, I already told them that you were interested in doing this show.”
Sonya snapped off the TV. She had already seen the host of Man v. Food eat the five-pound burrito. “You told them I was interested before you even tried to get me interested?”
“Well, if they weren’t interested in you being interested, I wouldn’t have called you to check on whether you were interested or not.”
Her logic still escapes me. “So what if they’re really interested. I’m not interested.”
“But, Sonya, the money is ridiculous, more than your first year’s salary for the Comets.”
“I told you. I’m not hurting for money.”
Because I’m not hurting for common sense and I actually learned something from my business administration classes at the University of Houston. I lived like a nun for ten years in the league before splurging on this house and the Maxima outside. The interest from the money I earned and invested wisely during my playing days keeps me living comfortably.
“I told them you’d consider twice that,” Michelle said.
“What?”
“And they said fine. They said fine, Sonya. See what I said about desperate?”
And this makes me feel . . . less homely for some reason. They’re willing to pay old me double. “They doubled the money?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Whoa. They are seriously desperate. Who can afford to throw that kind of money around these days?
“At least think about it,” Michelle said.
“Oh, I’ll think about it.” For about a minute. This is not gonna happen.
“It could be fun, Sonya.”
“It could be stupid, Michelle.”
“Not with intelligent you as the star.”
“I don’t want to be a star.” I was the point guard, the player who made everyone else look good. “I’m middle-aged now. I’m past my need for attention.”
Okay, who am I kidding? I would love to have the attention of a good man, but not the smothering kind of attention. The remote belongs to me. This couch belongs to me. My space belongs to me. But to have twelve men pawing at me? At the same time? I’d have a football team and the coach after me.
“Do this for us, Sonya. Do this for all us thirty- and forty-something sisters who don’t have hot men or any men in their lives for that matter. Be our shining example in these dark times. Be our Nubian princess.”
“Michelle, you’re tripping.”
“It’s part of my job description.”
Sonya laughed. “I am not saying I’ll do this, but if I did, how long would this show last exactly?”
“You’re thinking about doing it?”
“I said if I did.”
“The show will last for approximately six months to a year.”
Geez. Movies don’t take that long to film. “I don’t know. Those guys will be so young.”
“You don’t look your age at all, Sonya. And that could be the big secret they reveal at the end. That’s how these shows work, you know. Our Nubian princess has been hiding something from you hunky punks. She’s actually old enough to be your mama!”
Not funny.
“Remember that Penthouse playmate on Momma’s Boys a few years ago?”
“No.” They don’t have Penthouse playmates on Animal Planet.
“The ratings for that show went through the roof when she revealed that secret. Oh, yeah, she got dumped and vilified on all the entertainment shows right after that, but the ratings were fantastic.”
But I’m her opposite. “I doubt I’d be good for ratings.”
“Why?”
“I’m good, Michelle. I’m a Christian, remember?”
“You never let me forget, Sonya.”
“And I’m boring. I am a home-girl homebody. And if I revealed my true age to the man I eventually chose, he would dump me in a heartbeat, and I’d look foolish.”
“Oh, one can only hope! Then you could do another show! Dumped by a punk, she’s back to win her hunk. It will make TV history.”
Michelle is a seriously damaged woman. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, and that would almost be better. You’d be on TV for up to two years and we could easily clear half a million—or more with endorsements and appearances.”
We. She said “we.” Michelle must be hurting for money. I stopped paying her a long time ago. “Two years of that foolishness? That’s insane. If I did do it, I know I wouldn’t last more than six months.” Why does it sound as if I’m talking myself into this? Why am I still talking to Michelle at all? Is part of me actually intrigued by this? “And when the younger guy dumps me in the end, that’s it. No sequels.”
“Oh, you never know. The man you choose might like cougars. And you played for the Lady Cougars in college, too.”
“Once upon a time when both of my knees worked, Michelle.” Sonya returned to the couch, digging her feet under the cushions. “I can’t believe you told them I was interested.”
“You could have been a movie or a TV star and you know it. You still could be. Look at all the older women out there raking it in. Halle Berry, Vanessa Williams, Regina Hall, Nia Long, Kimberly Elise, Tyra Banks, Angela Bassett, Sanaa Lathan, Vivica Fox. Every one of them is forty or older. Older women have staying power. You think the Kardashians will look that good in their forties?”
I don’t think they look that good now. “Who cares about the Kardashians?”
“See, you’re already sounding like a diva.”
Me? Never! “That’s not the life I wanted after basketball, and it’s not the quiet life I crave.”
I want only what God wants. I have always wanted that, and I hope I’ve done Him proud. I wouldn’t have had all that injury-free success in the WNBA without His almighty help. “How does she keep doing it year after year?” those so-called basketball experts asked. Hard work, dedication, and the God in me. So what if I haven’t been fruitful and multiplying. Not every woman has to be married with children to be fulfilled.
“Michelle, I don’t think this show is right for me.”
“It’s perfect for you.”
“Nothing is perfect except the love of God, Michelle.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll level with you. I, um, I already sort of . . . okayed the contract. All you have to do is sign it.”
Sonya nearly threw her remote control across the room. I can’t believe I thought about throwing my remote control across the room. How would I function? “You just . . . sort of... okayed the contract.”
“Um, yeah.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I already did it.”
“Not without my permission!”
“True, but it was actually kind of easy. Just a few strokes of a pen. I hope I spelled your name right.”
“I don’t even pay you anymore.” She forged my signature! This is not happening! “And they haven’t even met me yet!”
But why aren’t I just saying no and hanging up on her? Why am I still even talking to Michelle? What is it about being a Nubian princess that is keeping my interest? Okay, I’ve never been one. Not many people have. I’m sure there’s something psychological about all this, but I’d have to be crazy to go on this show!
“They need you, Sonya. Their first choice took a spot on Survivor instead.”
“And that’s a show I might actually like to do. It’s athletic, outdoors, a challenge. This show, I mean, where’s the challenge? All I have to do is kick guys off until I’m left with one man, right? Where’s the challenge in that? I could probably do it on the first episode. I am good at saying no, and I’m sure I could say it eleven times in less than thirty seconds!” Only I’m not saying no now. Nubian princess Sonya. It has a nice ring to it.
“Sonya, they are so desperate that they’re willing to fly you out to LA, pamper you to death, and do whatever it takes to make you happy.”
Sonya rolled her eyes. “But I’m happy right now.” Oh, that wasn’t very convincing. “I am happy, Michelle.” And I’ve always thought that people who say they’re happy usually aren’t happy at all. “In fact, for them to keep me happy, they’ll understand if I don’t do this.”
“When’s the last time you kissed a man?”
Geez, stay with the conversation. She’s so random.
“Sonya, when’s the last time you kissed a man?”
Middle school? But that was a boy. “I don’t remember.”
“I didn’t think you would. When’s the last time you even talked to a man?”
High school? Those must have been the days. I wish I could remember them. “I don’t need a man. A man is too much trouble.” But how would I know that? I haven’t been with any man long enough for him to give me any trouble. Maybe that’s why I’m so happy.
“On this show, the men come to you, and you decide who stays or goes,” Michelle said. “I would give anything for that kind of power. I would give up Starbucks forever if I could have that power for even one day.”
That is a lot of power. Michelle practically lived in Starbucks when I was in the league. “Michelle, there has to be someone else out there who craves that kind of attention. I’m not that person.”
“Your last date was seventeen years ago—today.”
It was? Seventeen years ago? Geez. Who was the president? “How do you know that?”
“I’m your publicist. I write stuff down. I update your bio. You remember who it was with?”
No clue. “Who was it?”
“Archie Freeman.”
“I went out with him?” What was I thinking?
“Girl, I rest my case. You can’t even remember your date with the then NBA rookie of the year and future league MVP. You two made such a cute couple.”
Archie’s now playing ball in China because no one in the NBA can afford him or his failed drug tests anymore. Or the arthritic knees that keep him out of thirty games a year. “I didn’t remember the date because it wasn’t memorable.” The man had the nerve to call me “Ma.” He said it was like calling me his “boo.” Right. He just wanted me to be another one of his baby mamas.
“Sonya, what are you wearing right now?”
There she goes being random again. “What does this—”
“Sonya,” Michelle interrupted, “what are you wearing?”
“Sweats and a T-shirt.” No socks. Old, comfortable house slippers. No makeup. A hair tie. Drawers. Standard outfit for watching shows on The Food Network.
“Who are you with?”
“No one.” Sonya turned on the TV. “Oh, I’m with the big guy on Man v. Food. He is a trip. Last night he put away seven pounds of seafood.” Where does he put it all? He’s not that big. I’ll bet he has huge calves.
“And you’re okay with that?”
No. Watching a man eat too much for my amusement is lamer than lame, but I get so many cool recipes this way. “I’m not saying that I’m interested, all right? I’m just saying that I’ll think about it. Please don’t tell them I’ve agreed to this foolishness.”
“I won’t. But they’re on a timetable.”
And so am I. My time is my time. Sonya sighed. “What would I have to do next?”
“Go to Instant Talent dot com and answer a few questions.”
“What kind of questions? Didn’t you send them my bio?”
“Your bio doesn’t answer these kinds of questions. Promise me you’ll answer them.”
“I promise.”
“And promise you’ll consider this opportunity carefully.”
“Carefully and prayerfully.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.” Click.
That was rude.
Sonya booted up her laptop, which was always waiting a foot away from her on the lounge chair next to the couch, and got on Mozilla Firefox, her favorite Web browser because it was uncomplicated. In moments, she was staring at:
To see if you qualify for Hunk or Punk, answer the questions on each page.
Question 1: How tall are you?
Five-seven. That was in my bio.
What is your hair color?
Black with a few mean grays. I am so tired of plucking them, and they’re right at my hairline, too.
What is your eye color?
Hazel. It isn’t light brown. It’s true hazel.
What is your ethnicity?
African? African American? Caribbean? All three? But I can only mark one. African American.
What is your body type?
Athletic? Yeah, right. Lean muscle? Not as lean as it was ten years ago. I guess I’m “Slim.” But where’s “Thick” or “Big-boned” or “Stacked”? I thought they wanted a black woman for this show.
What “body apparel” do you have?
As a freshman at the University of Houston, I added a tiny cougar cub tattoo to my arm. It’s faded to a birthmark-looking thing now. I have pierced ears but nothing else. I am so not the right person to be a Nubian princess.
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
Michelle already gave them my picture and I am not giving out my e-mail address.
Sonya hit the “Make Me Famous!” button, the screen went blank, and then she saw:
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
“I don’t have a recent picture, and you can’t have my e-mail address,” she said to the screen.
She clicked the button again.
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
“Geez.” She sighed, and then she smiled. “A recent photo. They don’t specify what kind of photo.” She browsed the Web until she found a cute baby cougar, right clicking and saving it to her hard drive. She typed “you [email protected]” and “1-800-000-0000,” attached the baby cougar, and hit the “Make Me Famous!” button.
Thank you for submitting your answers. We will contact you if you’ve made the cut.
Don’t call us, we’ll call you. She laughed. I don’t know how.
On a whim, she checked her e-mail in-box and found a message from WB:
What? I didn’t even give my correct e-mail address! And so soon? They are seriously desperate.
She checked the time on the e-mail. Were they sitting there waiting for my answers to arrive in LA? They only had about a minute to look at my answers. Creepy. But how’d they know it was me? I shouldn’t have sent the baby cougar. That was a dead giveaway.
Please click below to view our eligibility requirements.
Sonya clicked, and another Web page opened on the screen.
All applicants must sign statements acknowledging that they have read, understand, and will comply with all of the eligibility requirements of Hunk or Punk:
That is a long list of companies. It’s a wonder anyone in California can even go on these kinds of shows. I’ve only ever had one employer in my entire life, and that was the Houston Comets, and they don’t even exist anymore.
So if I wanted to be president, I couldn’t run right away because I was on this show? That sounds un-American. This must be another part of the Arnold Schwarzenegger rule.
I know my passport is in this house somewhere. I haven’t’t used it since the Sydney Olympics. I looked young in that passport picture, too.
I’m forty. Wait a minute. They wanted people twenty-five to forty, but everyone has to be at least twenty-one? You mean there may be some guys younger than twenty-five trying to pass for twenty-five? Geez, I will be as old as some of their mamas!
I definitely qualify there. I’ve been single all my life. At least they can’t drag any of my old boyfriends onto the show to talk smack to me or dish any dirt about me. Unless they fly in Archie from China.
Sonya shuddered. God, keep Archie in China, okay?
Maybe that’s why they can’t find any true divas to do this show. “Moral turpitude” . . . “restraining order” . . . “violence.” But this means my suitors, no matter how hardcore they look or act, are going to be a group of squeaky-clean men. Fakin’ the funk, that’s all it is. Maybe I am the right person for this show.
Death? Illness? Disease? Property damage? Romance can be that dangerous? Lord Jesus, thank You for sparing me all that so far. Oh, WB, you make it sound so fun. Sign me up right now!
That is definitely not a list for women of color. I’ve never done any of these things. I may have gone roller-skating twice in my life. Snow skiing? Please! Paying hundreds of dollars to go rushing down an icy mountain at eighty miles an hour and ending up wrapped around a tree is not my idea of a good time. I ain’t that crazy. Skydiving might be fun—once.
What could they find? My lifetime stats? Boring. Maybe the specific shoes I wore for Nike. A knee injury that sidelined me for five games and keeps me limping around on cold days now. I usually keep my opinions to myself. I’ve been a member of St. Mark AME over in Pineville for eight years. There’s really nothing that they could ever find that—
Sonya lost feeling in her hands.
No. That’s . . . No. That was a long time ago. They couldn’t’t find out about that. Only two living people know about that, and I’m one of them.
She said a quick prayer and continued reading.
The universe? Who are they kidding? As if we’re going to mail boxed sets of the show to another galaxy to market reality TV. Then the aliens will know for sure that there’s no intelligent life on this planet. I used to be on camera all the time. I was watched by millions during the Olympics, but I don’t miss that kind of attention at all.
Way to cover thy backside, WB. How could they portray me as anything but what I am? I am what I am. And if they even attempted to humiliate me, I’d walk out. I mean, unless they found out about . . . No. That was over a quarter century ago. Long past history, and those records are sealed. And they better stay sealed.
I have heard there are people out there who make a profession of being on reality TV. That’s scary. I’d get worn out saying, “Look at me!” all the time. They must be too afraid to live their lives outside of the spotlight. That’s so sad. Their lives only have meaning if they can rewind it and relive it. Do I really want to join them? I suppose if I do find the man of my dreams, it would make telling people how we met much easier. “Wanna know how we met? Pop in that DVD and fire up some popcorn.”
Who could they talk to? All my coaches? They’d only have good things to say. I played the game, and I played the game the right way at all times. I practiced hard, made all the right sacrifices, and stayed true to the game. I respected the game. My teachers in high school would have good things to say, too, even my professors. I earned that degree in business administration. I wasn’t one of those scholarship athletes who used her star status as an excuse not to do assignments or go to class. But would the producers go back to when I was a teenager, too? They don’t seem that thorough, I mean, they’re pretty much accepting me sight unseen from the jump.
They give psych evaluations, too? Let’s see. First question: “Do you want to be on this show?” Oh, yes! “Then you’re crazy.” If I pursue this thing to its completion, I just might become crazy.
Huh? “Selected days over a six-month period for one year.” That makes no sense whatsoever. Does it mean that about half of my time I’ll be taped? They better not put cameras in my bathroom and bedroom. What is my business is nobody’s business, no matter what the contract says.
I traveled for four years with my college team and ten years with my pro team. If I can survive a dozen women on long road trips for a total of fourteen years straight, I can survive anything. But a house full of men? Yuck. So what if they’re hot men. Still yuck. A normal man makes a mess. A hot man would make a hot mess. And if they’re younger, hot men, I’ll probably be picking up their drawers. More yuck.
In other words, if I’m not attitudinal enough or “black” enough or “diva” enough, they may try to put words in my mouth or make me do things I wouldn’t normally do. That ain’t happening. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my soul be acceptable to You, oh Lord, my strength and my redeemer. I’m definitely gonna be praying every other breath during
“Sonya, how’s it going?”
I haven’t heard from Michelle Hamm in five years, Sonya thought. “Fine, Michelle. How have you been? A better question is where have you been?”
“I expected only to leave you a message.”
Sonya sighed. Michelle was infamous for not answering her questions.
“I am so surprised that you answered, Sonya,” Michelle said. “It’s ten o’clock on a Friday night. Why aren’t you out with your bad self?”
Because I don’t have a “bad self” anymore, not that I ever had a bad self. “I lead a quiet life now. You know that.”
Just me in my suburban Charlotte, North Carolina, home on my suburban couch in my suburban great room, watching my new flat-screen TV bought at a suburban electronics store. Wow. This is the first phone call in days that hasn’t asked me for a donation. Hmm. Michelle’s on the line. I may be donating my time somewhere soon.
“Let me guess,” Sonya said. “There’s some WNBA function I just have to attend.”
“Nope,” Michelle said. “WB is doing a new show called Hunk or Punk.”
She’s calling me to discuss what’s going to be on TV. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“You’re single.”
She has to remind me. Ten hard years in the WNBA, playing for two Olympic teams, traveling around the world several times, taking mission trips to Haiti and New Orleans in the off-season. I had no time for a man. I barely had time for myself.
“What’s your point, Michelle?” I have my own TV shows to watch.
“They’re looking for a strong, attractive, literate, intelligent black woman just like you.”
“No, they aren’t. Not on shows like that.”
“They are. Wouldn’t you like to have twelve hunky men fighting over you?”
“No.”
“The actual word is ‘woo.’ These men are going to ‘woo’ you on national TV.”
Woo? Noo. “And you thought of me?”
“I could only think of you, Sonya.”
“Gee, thanks. Um, you’re still single, aren’t you, Michelle?”
“Yes, but I am not—”
“And you’re strong, attractive, literate, and intelligent, right?”
“Of course, but I don’t look anything like you. I’m thick in some spots and much thicker in others. Some spots I haven’t seen in years, not even with a mirror. You’re cute. You probably still have some baby fat. Unless you’ve let yourself go.”
“No, I’m still in shape.” I just don’t have anyone to admire my shape except me. “What makes you think I would go on TV to find a date?”
“Are you married, shacking up, or dating anyone now?”
“No.” Loneliness is next to godliness. Most of the time.
“Are you even trying?”
“No.”
“Then maybe you have to go on TV to get a date.”
Sonya shook some cobwebs from her head. “That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. It ain’t happenin’ with what you’re doing now, right? Why not roll the dice and see what happens and get paid to do it at the same time.”
Because I don’t need it to happen! “Look, I’m not hurting for money, and I don’t need a man, okay? I’m happily single.” And my couch needs me to keep it warm. My remote control whimpers when I’m not around. My TV sighs whenever I don’t turn it on.
“C’mon, Sonya. No one is really single and happy. If it weren’t for my cat and an occasional hookup, I’d be miserable. Why don’t you live a little? Go on the show. Let your hair down. Have some fun for a change.”
I’ve never had much hair to let down. “No.”
“Well, look at it another way. Do we really want another diva with an attitude representing us on TV? This is our chance to show America a real black woman for a change.”
Now that is tempting. I am sick of what’s on TV for the most part. Reality shows are often faker than regular shows. It’s why I watch Animal Planet and Man v. Food just about every day. Those are real shows. I mean, who doesn’t want to know what parasites are living inside the human body? And who doesn’t eat? And sometimes the shows seem to overlap. I’ll be watching something about tapeworms on Animal Planet, and then I’ll wonder if the host for Man v. Food has a tapeworm that helps him eat so much. How many shows can do that overlap?
“Earth to Sonya.”
“I was just thinking about . . .” I can’t tell her I was thinking about tapeworms. “I was just wondering why you think I’m a real black woman.”
“You’re a success story without the extensions, the attitude, and the diamond-studded fingernails. You grew up in Jersey as an orphan in the ’hood, got raised by your saintly grandmama, you were the first in your family to graduate college, your college team won the national championship twice, you were an all-American in college three times, your team made the NCAA tournament all four years you were there—”
“I know my bio, Michelle,” Sonya interrupted. “What’s your point?”
“You’re not only beautiful—you’re actually interesting, unlike a lot of the beautiful people on TV. If I were the average American couch potato, I’d want to get to know you better.”
“I am a couch potato.” And loving every lazy minute of it. “Couch potatoes are not interested in the lives of other couch potatoes.” If there were a market for it, it would already be on TV.
“Sonya, you are the ultimate role model for black women. TV needs you.”
TV needs me about as much as I need TV. Wait a minute. I need TV, mainly to help me sleep. Does that mean TV needs me to help other people sleep?
“Michelle, please listen,” Sonya said. “I am not a role model. I played ball. I earned my living playing with a ball. That doesn’t make me—”
“You’re a role model,” Michelle interrupted. “Little girls looked up to you.”
Right. I’m too short for them to look up to me. “And I’m forty. Those shows are for much younger women. I don’t have a chance of being a Nubian princess.” Who thinks up that noise anyway? Nubian princess? Why not Nubian queen? TV is always downgrading black women.
“Forty is the new twenty.”
“Not to a twenty-year-old,” Sonya said. Or to a forty-year-old with a reluctant knee, elbows that pop for no reason, and toes that rarely warm up.
“You could be glamorous, you know.”
“My glamorous days are over.” Not that I had any in the first place. When they put makeup on me for those WNBA calendars, I felt like a clown. “Don’t they have an age limit for shows like that?”
“You just made the cutoff.”
How nice. “Thank you for thinking of me, really, but no thanks.”
“Um, I already sent in a few of your old headshots and your bio.”
Sonya shot off the couch. “What?”
“And the producers are very interested in what they’ve seen. They want to meet with you soon. As in, as soon as you can get to LA. That kind of soon.”
The witch! “You already signed me up?”
“It’s what I do, right? And I didn’t exactly sign you up. I just sent a few pictures and your bio. No harm in that.”
“Michelle, you haven’t really been my publicist for the last five years,” Sonya said. She turned back to her TV and tuned it to The Food Channel, muting the sound. “And Michelle, those headshots have to be at least ten years old.”
“They’re actually fifteen years old.”
Geez, I was still a kid! “But that’s not how I look now. You’re misrepresenting me.”
She’s still misrepresenting me. She tried to paint me as some “bad girl from Jersey” back in the day to increase my salary, as if being “fierce” would put more people in the seats. No one bought that mess. Nike wouldn’t have signed me to represent their shoes if I were a “bad girl” from anywhere.
“I’ll bet you haven’t aged a day.”
I have aged many days, and a few more during this conversation. “Michelle, I have several body parts heading south, I have wrinkles, my evil knee cracks—”
“And all of that can be fixed or hidden,” Michelle interrupted. “They are really interested in you, Sonya. They are willing to pay you a lot of money to take the role.”
The what? “The role? I’m playing myself, right? How is that a role?”
“You know what I mean. You’ll be playing the role of the woman in waiting, the role of the damsel in the castle waiting for her knight in shining armor, the role of—”
“The desperate middle-aged woman afraid of dying alone,” Sonya interrupted. Ouch. That hurt to say. It must be somewhat true if it hurts me like that.
“It’s funny you should mention desperate, Sonya. The producers actually sounded desperate when I talked to them.”
“So let them remain desperate. I’m not desperate.”
“You’re a beautiful woman alone on a Friday night.”
“And I’ll be a beautiful woman alone on a Saturday night, too.” And on Sundays and Wednesdays, I’ll be a beautiful woman getting my prayer and praise on in church. “I like my life, Michelle. I like quiet. I didn’t know how necessary quiet was to me until I had some quiet. Silence is indeed golden. You know I didn’t like all that noise and hype. I never liked doing post-game interviews or having any microphones jammed into my face or cameras following my every twitch. And now you want me to go on TV for what, months? That’s not me at all. You know this.”
“Well, um, I already told them that you were interested in doing this show.”
Sonya snapped off the TV. She had already seen the host of Man v. Food eat the five-pound burrito. “You told them I was interested before you even tried to get me interested?”
“Well, if they weren’t interested in you being interested, I wouldn’t have called you to check on whether you were interested or not.”
Her logic still escapes me. “So what if they’re really interested. I’m not interested.”
“But, Sonya, the money is ridiculous, more than your first year’s salary for the Comets.”
“I told you. I’m not hurting for money.”
Because I’m not hurting for common sense and I actually learned something from my business administration classes at the University of Houston. I lived like a nun for ten years in the league before splurging on this house and the Maxima outside. The interest from the money I earned and invested wisely during my playing days keeps me living comfortably.
“I told them you’d consider twice that,” Michelle said.
“What?”
“And they said fine. They said fine, Sonya. See what I said about desperate?”
And this makes me feel . . . less homely for some reason. They’re willing to pay old me double. “They doubled the money?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Whoa. They are seriously desperate. Who can afford to throw that kind of money around these days?
“At least think about it,” Michelle said.
“Oh, I’ll think about it.” For about a minute. This is not gonna happen.
“It could be fun, Sonya.”
“It could be stupid, Michelle.”
“Not with intelligent you as the star.”
“I don’t want to be a star.” I was the point guard, the player who made everyone else look good. “I’m middle-aged now. I’m past my need for attention.”
Okay, who am I kidding? I would love to have the attention of a good man, but not the smothering kind of attention. The remote belongs to me. This couch belongs to me. My space belongs to me. But to have twelve men pawing at me? At the same time? I’d have a football team and the coach after me.
“Do this for us, Sonya. Do this for all us thirty- and forty-something sisters who don’t have hot men or any men in their lives for that matter. Be our shining example in these dark times. Be our Nubian princess.”
“Michelle, you’re tripping.”
“It’s part of my job description.”
Sonya laughed. “I am not saying I’ll do this, but if I did, how long would this show last exactly?”
“You’re thinking about doing it?”
“I said if I did.”
“The show will last for approximately six months to a year.”
Geez. Movies don’t take that long to film. “I don’t know. Those guys will be so young.”
“You don’t look your age at all, Sonya. And that could be the big secret they reveal at the end. That’s how these shows work, you know. Our Nubian princess has been hiding something from you hunky punks. She’s actually old enough to be your mama!”
Not funny.
“Remember that Penthouse playmate on Momma’s Boys a few years ago?”
“No.” They don’t have Penthouse playmates on Animal Planet.
“The ratings for that show went through the roof when she revealed that secret. Oh, yeah, she got dumped and vilified on all the entertainment shows right after that, but the ratings were fantastic.”
But I’m her opposite. “I doubt I’d be good for ratings.”
“Why?”
“I’m good, Michelle. I’m a Christian, remember?”
“You never let me forget, Sonya.”
“And I’m boring. I am a home-girl homebody. And if I revealed my true age to the man I eventually chose, he would dump me in a heartbeat, and I’d look foolish.”
“Oh, one can only hope! Then you could do another show! Dumped by a punk, she’s back to win her hunk. It will make TV history.”
Michelle is a seriously damaged woman. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, and that would almost be better. You’d be on TV for up to two years and we could easily clear half a million—or more with endorsements and appearances.”
We. She said “we.” Michelle must be hurting for money. I stopped paying her a long time ago. “Two years of that foolishness? That’s insane. If I did do it, I know I wouldn’t last more than six months.” Why does it sound as if I’m talking myself into this? Why am I still talking to Michelle at all? Is part of me actually intrigued by this? “And when the younger guy dumps me in the end, that’s it. No sequels.”
“Oh, you never know. The man you choose might like cougars. And you played for the Lady Cougars in college, too.”
“Once upon a time when both of my knees worked, Michelle.” Sonya returned to the couch, digging her feet under the cushions. “I can’t believe you told them I was interested.”
“You could have been a movie or a TV star and you know it. You still could be. Look at all the older women out there raking it in. Halle Berry, Vanessa Williams, Regina Hall, Nia Long, Kimberly Elise, Tyra Banks, Angela Bassett, Sanaa Lathan, Vivica Fox. Every one of them is forty or older. Older women have staying power. You think the Kardashians will look that good in their forties?”
I don’t think they look that good now. “Who cares about the Kardashians?”
“See, you’re already sounding like a diva.”
Me? Never! “That’s not the life I wanted after basketball, and it’s not the quiet life I crave.”
I want only what God wants. I have always wanted that, and I hope I’ve done Him proud. I wouldn’t have had all that injury-free success in the WNBA without His almighty help. “How does she keep doing it year after year?” those so-called basketball experts asked. Hard work, dedication, and the God in me. So what if I haven’t been fruitful and multiplying. Not every woman has to be married with children to be fulfilled.
“Michelle, I don’t think this show is right for me.”
“It’s perfect for you.”
“Nothing is perfect except the love of God, Michelle.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll level with you. I, um, I already sort of . . . okayed the contract. All you have to do is sign it.”
Sonya nearly threw her remote control across the room. I can’t believe I thought about throwing my remote control across the room. How would I function? “You just . . . sort of... okayed the contract.”
“Um, yeah.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I already did it.”
“Not without my permission!”
“True, but it was actually kind of easy. Just a few strokes of a pen. I hope I spelled your name right.”
“I don’t even pay you anymore.” She forged my signature! This is not happening! “And they haven’t even met me yet!”
But why aren’t I just saying no and hanging up on her? Why am I still even talking to Michelle? What is it about being a Nubian princess that is keeping my interest? Okay, I’ve never been one. Not many people have. I’m sure there’s something psychological about all this, but I’d have to be crazy to go on this show!
“They need you, Sonya. Their first choice took a spot on Survivor instead.”
“And that’s a show I might actually like to do. It’s athletic, outdoors, a challenge. This show, I mean, where’s the challenge? All I have to do is kick guys off until I’m left with one man, right? Where’s the challenge in that? I could probably do it on the first episode. I am good at saying no, and I’m sure I could say it eleven times in less than thirty seconds!” Only I’m not saying no now. Nubian princess Sonya. It has a nice ring to it.
“Sonya, they are so desperate that they’re willing to fly you out to LA, pamper you to death, and do whatever it takes to make you happy.”
Sonya rolled her eyes. “But I’m happy right now.” Oh, that wasn’t very convincing. “I am happy, Michelle.” And I’ve always thought that people who say they’re happy usually aren’t happy at all. “In fact, for them to keep me happy, they’ll understand if I don’t do this.”
“When’s the last time you kissed a man?”
Geez, stay with the conversation. She’s so random.
“Sonya, when’s the last time you kissed a man?”
Middle school? But that was a boy. “I don’t remember.”
“I didn’t think you would. When’s the last time you even talked to a man?”
High school? Those must have been the days. I wish I could remember them. “I don’t need a man. A man is too much trouble.” But how would I know that? I haven’t been with any man long enough for him to give me any trouble. Maybe that’s why I’m so happy.
“On this show, the men come to you, and you decide who stays or goes,” Michelle said. “I would give anything for that kind of power. I would give up Starbucks forever if I could have that power for even one day.”
That is a lot of power. Michelle practically lived in Starbucks when I was in the league. “Michelle, there has to be someone else out there who craves that kind of attention. I’m not that person.”
“Your last date was seventeen years ago—today.”
It was? Seventeen years ago? Geez. Who was the president? “How do you know that?”
“I’m your publicist. I write stuff down. I update your bio. You remember who it was with?”
No clue. “Who was it?”
“Archie Freeman.”
“I went out with him?” What was I thinking?
“Girl, I rest my case. You can’t even remember your date with the then NBA rookie of the year and future league MVP. You two made such a cute couple.”
Archie’s now playing ball in China because no one in the NBA can afford him or his failed drug tests anymore. Or the arthritic knees that keep him out of thirty games a year. “I didn’t remember the date because it wasn’t memorable.” The man had the nerve to call me “Ma.” He said it was like calling me his “boo.” Right. He just wanted me to be another one of his baby mamas.
“Sonya, what are you wearing right now?”
There she goes being random again. “What does this—”
“Sonya,” Michelle interrupted, “what are you wearing?”
“Sweats and a T-shirt.” No socks. Old, comfortable house slippers. No makeup. A hair tie. Drawers. Standard outfit for watching shows on The Food Network.
“Who are you with?”
“No one.” Sonya turned on the TV. “Oh, I’m with the big guy on Man v. Food. He is a trip. Last night he put away seven pounds of seafood.” Where does he put it all? He’s not that big. I’ll bet he has huge calves.
“And you’re okay with that?”
No. Watching a man eat too much for my amusement is lamer than lame, but I get so many cool recipes this way. “I’m not saying that I’m interested, all right? I’m just saying that I’ll think about it. Please don’t tell them I’ve agreed to this foolishness.”
“I won’t. But they’re on a timetable.”
And so am I. My time is my time. Sonya sighed. “What would I have to do next?”
“Go to Instant Talent dot com and answer a few questions.”
“What kind of questions? Didn’t you send them my bio?”
“Your bio doesn’t answer these kinds of questions. Promise me you’ll answer them.”
“I promise.”
“And promise you’ll consider this opportunity carefully.”
“Carefully and prayerfully.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.” Click.
That was rude.
Sonya booted up her laptop, which was always waiting a foot away from her on the lounge chair next to the couch, and got on Mozilla Firefox, her favorite Web browser because it was uncomplicated. In moments, she was staring at:
To see if you qualify for Hunk or Punk, answer the questions on each page.
Question 1: How tall are you?
Five-seven. That was in my bio.
What is your hair color?
Black with a few mean grays. I am so tired of plucking them, and they’re right at my hairline, too.
What is your eye color?
Hazel. It isn’t light brown. It’s true hazel.
What is your ethnicity?
African? African American? Caribbean? All three? But I can only mark one. African American.
What is your body type?
Athletic? Yeah, right. Lean muscle? Not as lean as it was ten years ago. I guess I’m “Slim.” But where’s “Thick” or “Big-boned” or “Stacked”? I thought they wanted a black woman for this show.
What “body apparel” do you have?
As a freshman at the University of Houston, I added a tiny cougar cub tattoo to my arm. It’s faded to a birthmark-looking thing now. I have pierced ears but nothing else. I am so not the right person to be a Nubian princess.
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
Michelle already gave them my picture and I am not giving out my e-mail address.
Sonya hit the “Make Me Famous!” button, the screen went blank, and then she saw:
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
“I don’t have a recent picture, and you can’t have my e-mail address,” she said to the screen.
She clicked the button again.
Thank you for your time. Please attach a recent photo and type a daytime telephone number in the box below. Click the “Make Me Famous!” button below to submit your answers, photo, and phone number.
“Geez.” She sighed, and then she smiled. “A recent photo. They don’t specify what kind of photo.” She browsed the Web until she found a cute baby cougar, right clicking and saving it to her hard drive. She typed “you [email protected]” and “1-800-000-0000,” attached the baby cougar, and hit the “Make Me Famous!” button.
Thank you for submitting your answers. We will contact you if you’ve made the cut.
Don’t call us, we’ll call you. She laughed. I don’t know how.
On a whim, she checked her e-mail in-box and found a message from WB:
What? I didn’t even give my correct e-mail address! And so soon? They are seriously desperate.
She checked the time on the e-mail. Were they sitting there waiting for my answers to arrive in LA? They only had about a minute to look at my answers. Creepy. But how’d they know it was me? I shouldn’t have sent the baby cougar. That was a dead giveaway.
Please click below to view our eligibility requirements.
Sonya clicked, and another Web page opened on the screen.
All applicants must sign statements acknowledging that they have read, understand, and will comply with all of the eligibility requirements of Hunk or Punk:
That is a long list of companies. It’s a wonder anyone in California can even go on these kinds of shows. I’ve only ever had one employer in my entire life, and that was the Houston Comets, and they don’t even exist anymore.
So if I wanted to be president, I couldn’t run right away because I was on this show? That sounds un-American. This must be another part of the Arnold Schwarzenegger rule.
I know my passport is in this house somewhere. I haven’t’t used it since the Sydney Olympics. I looked young in that passport picture, too.
I’m forty. Wait a minute. They wanted people twenty-five to forty, but everyone has to be at least twenty-one? You mean there may be some guys younger than twenty-five trying to pass for twenty-five? Geez, I will be as old as some of their mamas!
I definitely qualify there. I’ve been single all my life. At least they can’t drag any of my old boyfriends onto the show to talk smack to me or dish any dirt about me. Unless they fly in Archie from China.
Sonya shuddered. God, keep Archie in China, okay?
Maybe that’s why they can’t find any true divas to do this show. “Moral turpitude” . . . “restraining order” . . . “violence.” But this means my suitors, no matter how hardcore they look or act, are going to be a group of squeaky-clean men. Fakin’ the funk, that’s all it is. Maybe I am the right person for this show.
Death? Illness? Disease? Property damage? Romance can be that dangerous? Lord Jesus, thank You for sparing me all that so far. Oh, WB, you make it sound so fun. Sign me up right now!
That is definitely not a list for women of color. I’ve never done any of these things. I may have gone roller-skating twice in my life. Snow skiing? Please! Paying hundreds of dollars to go rushing down an icy mountain at eighty miles an hour and ending up wrapped around a tree is not my idea of a good time. I ain’t that crazy. Skydiving might be fun—once.
What could they find? My lifetime stats? Boring. Maybe the specific shoes I wore for Nike. A knee injury that sidelined me for five games and keeps me limping around on cold days now. I usually keep my opinions to myself. I’ve been a member of St. Mark AME over in Pineville for eight years. There’s really nothing that they could ever find that—
Sonya lost feeling in her hands.
No. That’s . . . No. That was a long time ago. They couldn’t’t find out about that. Only two living people know about that, and I’m one of them.
She said a quick prayer and continued reading.
The universe? Who are they kidding? As if we’re going to mail boxed sets of the show to another galaxy to market reality TV. Then the aliens will know for sure that there’s no intelligent life on this planet. I used to be on camera all the time. I was watched by millions during the Olympics, but I don’t miss that kind of attention at all.
Way to cover thy backside, WB. How could they portray me as anything but what I am? I am what I am. And if they even attempted to humiliate me, I’d walk out. I mean, unless they found out about . . . No. That was over a quarter century ago. Long past history, and those records are sealed. And they better stay sealed.
I have heard there are people out there who make a profession of being on reality TV. That’s scary. I’d get worn out saying, “Look at me!” all the time. They must be too afraid to live their lives outside of the spotlight. That’s so sad. Their lives only have meaning if they can rewind it and relive it. Do I really want to join them? I suppose if I do find the man of my dreams, it would make telling people how we met much easier. “Wanna know how we met? Pop in that DVD and fire up some popcorn.”
Who could they talk to? All my coaches? They’d only have good things to say. I played the game, and I played the game the right way at all times. I practiced hard, made all the right sacrifices, and stayed true to the game. I respected the game. My teachers in high school would have good things to say, too, even my professors. I earned that degree in business administration. I wasn’t one of those scholarship athletes who used her star status as an excuse not to do assignments or go to class. But would the producers go back to when I was a teenager, too? They don’t seem that thorough, I mean, they’re pretty much accepting me sight unseen from the jump.
They give psych evaluations, too? Let’s see. First question: “Do you want to be on this show?” Oh, yes! “Then you’re crazy.” If I pursue this thing to its completion, I just might become crazy.
Huh? “Selected days over a six-month period for one year.” That makes no sense whatsoever. Does it mean that about half of my time I’ll be taped? They better not put cameras in my bathroom and bedroom. What is my business is nobody’s business, no matter what the contract says.
I traveled for four years with my college team and ten years with my pro team. If I can survive a dozen women on long road trips for a total of fourteen years straight, I can survive anything. But a house full of men? Yuck. So what if they’re hot men. Still yuck. A normal man makes a mess. A hot man would make a hot mess. And if they’re younger, hot men, I’ll probably be picking up their drawers. More yuck.
In other words, if I’m not attitudinal enough or “black” enough or “diva” enough, they may try to put words in my mouth or make me do things I wouldn’t normally do. That ain’t happening. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my soul be acceptable to You, oh Lord, my strength and my redeemer. I’m definitely gonna be praying every other breath during
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