Friday, September 30, 2011

Welcome to the Grey Space, Part 2

Hello, campers! It’s GreyGirl. I’m sooo sorry that I wasn’t able to post again on Wednesday, or yesterday—totally left you hanging! Sometimes day jobs can be so annoying. Anyway, let’s get right down to my top 3 interracial dating bloopers. I’ll post them one at a time so that you’ll have something to chew on, even if I’m interrupted with the business of life.

3. I’m not sure if this counts as dating at all (yes, we were 7, but I thought she was pretty!) but it’s kind of classic, so I’m going to put it on the list. I went to one of those awesome hippie schools for elementary school, and one of my best friends was a girl named Emily. One day Emily and I were on the playground at school, playing house (I always played the dad...take what you will from that) and she stopped me. She told me that Ricky, another boy in our class, had said that I taste like chocolate. (Caramel would have been more accurate, as I’m probably not even dark enough to be milk chocolate!) In any case, I assured her that I didn’t, in fact, taste like chocolate, but she was adamant about wanting to “try me” for herself. She had this awesome curly dirty blonde hair, and I told her that if she wanted to “taste me,” I wanted to play with her hair. (She never let anyone play with her hair because her mother didn’t comb it enough and it was a bit of a knotty mess most of the time. Oh how I wished my mother felt the same way. But no, she combed the shit out of my half-breed hair until it fro-ed out like a clown!) She agreed, and then spun me around and planted her tongue on my upper back of all places. Well the lunch lady had served toast and jam for breakfast that day, and I must have had a mosquito bite on my neck or something, because apparently I had transferred some jam onto my neck and upper back. It took me almost a week to convince Emily that black people don’t taste like strawberry jam! I did, however, get to spend the rest of recess that day combing her hair out with my fingers.

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