Tiffany: “Stop tripping.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “Stop tripping? I didn’t fuck no handicapped. I gotta watch you now, I gotta be on the lookout for dudes with shit wrong, creepin’ on my girl!”
A few weeks later, he was going through some old messages of mine on Instagram, still on this handicapped thing.
Ex-Boyfriend: “Look at this dude, saying he love you and want to marry you! He look a little touched, look at his eye. Oh shit, you probably like him, I’mma block this motherfucker off your page.”
Tiffany: “Why are you even in my shit like that, we’ve only been dating five months, it’s not that serious. It’s really not that serious.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “I don’t know, man, what if we get married, Tiffany? You’re going to cheat on me with somebody with a disability?”
Tiffany: “I wouldn’t cheat on you with nobody. If I wanted to cheat, I would just leave you.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “YOU’D LEAVE ME FOR A DUDE WITH A DISABILITY!!?”
Tiffany: “No! Roscoe’s the only handicapped dude I’ve been with, he’s the only one. I don’t have a variety of handicapped dudes.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “Yeah right, Tiff, yeah right.”
He did not believe me. He eventually got way back into my social media, and found a dude that I did used to mess with who got shot.
Ex-Boyfriend: “Look at this motherfucker, you told him you love him, and he in a wheelchair!”
Tiffany: “Well yeah, and that was three years ago. I did love him when we were dating.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “This motherfucker in a wheelchair! I knew you liked handicapped!”
Tiffany: “When I was in love with him, when I was with him, he was not in a wheelchair. He got shot in the back, okay? That’s why he’s in a wheelchair.”
Ex-Boyfriend: “I bet you were fucking in that wheelchair.”
Tiffany: “Stop trippin’!”
Ex-Boyfriend: “I bet you would.”
Anytime we had an argument, he would always bring up Roscoe or some kind of handicapped dick.
Well, we’re not dating anymore. I guess that was easy to predict.
Other Guys I’ve Dated
I’ve dated a few policemen, and that was generally cool. Cops tend to be pretty good dudes. They are strong and polite, and they treat you right.
Well, not all of them. One of the guys, he ended up going to jail for robbing some Mexican fruit stands. He was a crooked cop.
I didn’t know about him robbing the fruit stands, obviously, but I had a feeling something was off with him. When he would come to my house, he always put his gun on my dresser. It made me uncomfortable. It was like he was subconsciously saying, “Don’t try nothing, bitch, or I’mma shoot you.” That’s what I felt. I didn’t like that, so I backed off of him.
Good thing, too. I don’t want to date no guy who robs poor Mexicans just trying to make some money selling fruit. That ain’t right.
I dated two dope dealers, but there’s nothing really funny about that. They’re in jail, too. Come to think of it, I’ve dated about five guys who ended up in jail in some form.
One was this African dude who would always bring me clothes.
Well, I didn’t really date him. It felt like I dated him, because he would call me so much, and he would bring me shoes and clothes that didn’t fit. He put them in front of my house—like, right at the front door, like some sort of broke-ass Santa Claus.
I never went anywhere with him, because who leaves gifts at your door? And they were bad gifts, like really small clothes, double zero clothes. Or a pantsuit, and it’s double zero, too. I don’t wear a double zero. I’m not close to that size.
He brought me some Dada shoes, but they were a size six. I wear a ten. I was like, ugh. I didn’t like that. I threw the clothes and the shoes away, and then he stopped bringing me things, because he went to jail.
He was running some of those Nigerian prince email scams. Using people’s credit cards and checks, for identity theft. Hitting up old people for their money, that kind of stuff.
The Nice Guy
I dated a lawyer once. He was much older than me, like sixty, and he was so nice. He was always kind, always polite, and bought me nice things. He took me nice places, taught me a lot, was easy to talk to, a good communicator, and we had a lot of fun. Wherever we’d go, we would have a good time. We could go to a baby shower and still have fun, and we went to that kind of stuff all the time. He was dope.
But that’s not why I dated him. To be honest, I dated him for racist reasons.
I dated him because he was white. At least, I thought he was. I didn’t ask him, I just assumed.
I found out the truth when he went in for surgery on a torn rotator cuff. I went with him to the hospital to help him afterwards, because I’m a good girlfriend. When he was asleep, I wanted to see if we was healthy—you know, because we’d been hooking up without a condom for a while.
So I went through his charts, and right there, plain as day on his blood test, it said he’s African-American. I went up to the nurse, all confused.
Tiffany: “He’s not African-American. Why y’all got this on here? He came in here with me, I know him.”
Nurse: “No, that’s his chart. That’s what it says.”
I got sad, because I really thought I was dating a white man. When he woke up, I gently broached the subject:
Tiffany: “You black?!?!”
Old Boyfriend: “I don’t normally talk about it.”
He didn’t know his mom. He was raised by his white, English father in London. When he asked his dad about his mom, his dad was like, “Your mom was mixed, but she was a harlot.” Some English people call a ho a harlot, I guess. So his dad was calling his mom a ho.
You know the sad thing? If he’d been white, I might have kept dating him.
Well, maybe. There were other problems. He was also old.
He kept asking me to have babies with him. That didn’t make sense. Here he was, sitting around with a messed up shoulder, already sixty, and he wants me to have a baby.
First off, he can’t hold a baby with that shoulder!
Second, I’m not about to have to change your diaper and the baby’s diaper. That’s too much work.
Third, he already had two grown kids. What if they have babies? Now I’m getting grandpa dick. I don’t want grandpa dick. I’m cool with baby daddy dick, but grandpa dick is no good.
That’s how I felt, anyway. But he was the best boyfriend I ever had. If he was like twenty years younger, it would have been cool.
Toxic Shock
This isn’t really a boyfriend story, but it kinda fits in this chapter, ’cause I wanted this doctor to be my boyfriend. Here’s how it went down.
When I was thirteen—right before my mom hit that baby with a two-by-four and I got put in foster care—I got toxic shock syndrome.
I got toxic shock because I was using a super-absorbent tampon and I probably should have just been using a junior-sized tampon. I didn’t even know how to really use it right. I had the applicator in there and everything.