love alise

Stimulation Overload

2012-02-14T06:33:00.002-08:00

Reneeka Rae asked "what type of sex is your music?" My answer, an enthusiastic, "sex on X". By that I meant explosive and self-indulgent. She's now taking her Eargasm Interview Series live!

Come to "Stimulation Overload" at Raw Space in Atl on Feb 16th and experience the gamut of stimulation that the featured artists shall provide.

David Fuller, Naj Murph, Yani, The Whatley, Glenn Saddler...

Doors at 7, Show is $5

Come to Apache

2012-02-01T06:28:00.000-08:00

Come to Apache Cafe in Atlanta this Friday. I'm performing, as is Marian Mereba, David Fuller, Jori, and Jimi Cravity. Tickets are $7 in advance here

Then come to the W - Whiskey Park. Theophilus London finna there.

Planet of the Ape$

2012-02-01T06:21:00.000-08:00

It's finally here! Kendrick "Great Eclectic" Daye of Art Nouveau releases his debut as a producer featuring the vocal and songwriting talents of the likes of Rahbi, Madam CJ and motherfuckin Me! Is there anything Kendrick can't do? Download here.

"Fire" | New Song | Karen Alise original

2012-01-16T11:40:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Download the song, "Fire" from here.

It's mine.

As in I wrote, composed, and performed that hoe.

I will also be performing for the first time at Apache Cafe in Atlanta on Feb 3rd.

Opening for MIGUEL was a blast!

2011-11-12T16:10:00.000-08:00

This past October I finally got to perform some of my own music with an amazing band and three brilliant singers. Special thanks to Eric Ross of IconVizion photography for the photos.

Stand Here / by Karen

2011-07-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

I've decided to release a fun little song called Stand Here. I'm currently working on an EP, and this is one from the cutting room floor. Enjoy.

Stand Here by Karen

Karen and Kyle / "Blinking Pigs"

2011-07-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

My good friend Kyle and I were playing around putting some songs together and decided to record a cover of Little Dragon's "Blinking Pigs". Listen and I hope you enjoy.

(For some reason there's a delay between sound and video. Not my fault, it's youtube's and its kind of pissing me off. But alas I'm helpless.)

Lisztomania

2011-06-19T12:30:00.001-07:00

A video montage of me doing hoodrat things with my hoodrat friends to the tune of Lisztomania.

Eargasm Provided By...

2011-06-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

This interview is an installment of the series, "Eargasm Provided By..." The interviewer and curator of the series is my beloved Reneeka Rae so I'm smiling super hard through this whole thing and when i do that you can barely understand what I'm saying or see my eyes. The video features an original song and footage from The Release, a bi-weekly night of live entertainment at Cloud IX on Peter St. Enjoy.

Make Love Not War / Fight AIDS why don't yah

2011-06-17T10:53:00.000-07:00

Join City of Savages in their #makeLovenotWar campaign to support the American Foundation for AIDs research, simply by wearing a free button! For every person who sends a picture over twitter to @CityofSavages of themselves wearing the button, the clothing line will donate $1 usd to the American Foundation for AIDS Research. The buttons are FREE. For a button, visit CityofSavages.blogspot.com

Love, Alise

I've Been Published!

2011-06-17T07:03:00.000-07:00

I've been published! It was a proud moment when the book featuring a selection of my essays and articles arrived in the mail. For only $12 you can be the proud owner of "Once Upon an Ever After," a collection of well-written articles and essays by some brilliant people. Visit the Invade NOLA store for your copy!

Time Flies

2011-06-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

Kyle Drew magically both directed this video and played the guitar. It took us several takes [hilarious], but this is a cover of the Lykke Li song "Time Flies". We had a good time putting this together.

Come Over

2011-06-16T15:52:00.000-07:00

Every first and third Tuesday a bunch of singers have a really great time at Cloud IX lounge on Peters Street. Here I'm performing Aaliyah's Come Over with Brandon Thomas on guitar and Henry Conway III on drums. I always have a good time there. If you're in Atlanta you should come out.

Love, Alise

Mardi Gras Miracles

2011-06-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

I can't believe i didn't share this on my blog immediately! My roommates and I shut that city down for Mardi Gras. It was one of the best experiences of my life. My roommates and I rented a car, found some strangers on couchsurfing.org, and stayed there from Saturday to Tuesday. I lost some footage so you don't get to see the DJ we all fell in love with. Her name is Musa and she DJs at Saints on saturdays if you ever find yourself in what i like to call Devil's Paradise. It was an indescribable experience, a real party experience. The amount of history in the city was also a special experience. It was the living embodiment of the things I've only read about Black culture. I'm rambling, I hope you are not reading this and are actually watching the video.

Love, Alise

Daughter Needs to Hear

2011-05-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

"Daughter Needs to Know" song written and performed by Karen Alise

I've been writing songs, friends. This is something I kind of threw together, but I love it. It's actually really comforting for me to listen to when I miss my mother. I think everyone has that song that helps them get through something

Further, I was talking with a friend today about my blog and I think I let the negative press distract me from how effective this blog has been in communicating my ideas to you. More to come as summer heats up.

Love, Alise

Almost a Hooker

2011-02-14T15:54:00.000-08:00

I once had a Sugar Daddy who I never fucked, and from that little tryst I learned that not having sex is the most powerful thing a woman can do. As a self-proclaimed sexophile it is with great pain that I make this admittance, but whatever. I know, I know you’re judging me and some of you will now find it too appalling to read on, but whatever to you too. Frankly, I was in a tight spot. It was the classic story of a little girl in a big world who desperately needed her rent paid. With no one to turn to, I reached for the phone number of some rich old white dude in the bottom of my thrift store purse. Mind you, this was one of my lowest points.

Before you completely divorce me and my blog, consider that I had exhausted all of my viable options. I thought long and hard about it. I wished there was another way. I even prayed. And if in the back of your mind you’re thinking “ask your parents for money,” I want you to go home and shoot your mother. I considered that this would weigh on my conscience for the rest of my life, or that I’d be going down a slippery slope that lead to prostitution and an addiction to crack and household cleaning products.

Then I thought about sex, competition, and power. Since the beginning of time women have had the opportunity to wield her sexual power for the things she needed. Delilah got over on Sampson, Cleopatra brought the whole world to conflict, and King Henry VIII changed whole religions just so he could bang the women he liked. While men have lorded political power over women, it is our sexual power that has historically made us equals and allowed us to compete. The introduction of a moral code that prohibits the use of this sexual power is man’s way of upping the competition making it more difficult to get ahead. But then I finally decided “fuck it” I really need this money.

Well, the way things transpired, he simply gave me the money and we didn’t end up banging. I was, obviously, relieved as I don’t think I could get it up for a man of his age. Maybe a Black man, because Black don’t crack, but this man had cracked. He had liver spots and a hanging chin. I was uncomfortable about my dealings with the old coot, and I immediately broke contact with him. However, he was so persistent that I let him take me out again. I would go on a date and he’d slide me some hundreds. All I had to do was talk in a sweet little voice, tell him he was the sweetest thing, and get offended whenever he said something even remotely sexual.

I know what you’re thinking. Impossible. You can’t get that kind of return from a guy that you’re not banging. Initially I thought the same thing, but whenever I rejected him he’d just apologize and say, “you’re such a lady”. I thought it incredible that some man would apologize for insinuating that he wanted to have sex with me. Especially when I’m at the age when guys ever insinuate is that they want to have sex with me.

In the back of my mind I knew that if I banged him, I would probably have a summer house on Miami beach or something. I mean he told me stories about his friends who fly their women all around the world and pay their tuition and shit. Dope shit that none of you guys could ever dream of doing for me. In the end I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about the money or the sex. It was about control. I didn’t like that instead of being with a guy I actually liked, I was with him or that I had to amend my personality in order to appease him. I was always agreeable and docile, which was extremely tiresome, because as you can see I’m very fucking outspoken and my intelligence is about the most valuable thing I have.

We were dining one evening. I was talking about music and I said the word genre, to which he responded, “genre, now that’s a big word,” while giving me this Sean Conrey-esque scowl. He was dead serious. Genre? GENRE?! You fucking kidding me? I thought to myself. Of all the words I know, genre is one you’re gonna patronize me on. And then he thought it was “cute” that I was reading a book. So yeah trading sex for much needed cash is far less insulting than having a man undermine my brilliance.

What can I say? Your morals aren’t real unless they’re tested in the fire. You won’t really know what you are capable of until you are confronted with strong adversity. Like pro-lifers who get knocked up, or men with terminally ill wives who must all of a sudden consider shit like euthanasia. From this experience I learned that you never know when you’ll need a creepy old white man by your side to cover a meal, a bill, or a mortgage. I also learned that I don’t make a very good hooker. A better hooker would have been able to stomach a little patronizing for easy income. I hit the jackpot of all jackpots, the Richard Gere of a pretty woman’s fantasy and I blew it. So if any of you ladies need his number let me know. Perhaps you’ll make better use of it than I did.

Love without Rules

2011-02-07T18:40:00.000-08:00

In the Woody Allen film, Manhattan, Woody Allen’s character is dating a significantly younger girl, named Tracy. Isaac is a 42 year old TV writer while Tracy is a 17 year old high school senior. Despite Tracy’s affections for the older man, Isaac is resistant throughout the movie. He lords his age over her, establishing his superior understanding about the world, love and the future progression of their relationship. In one scene, Tracy asks while lying in bed with him, “What’s gonna happen with us?” Isaac responds, “You’ll think of me always as a fond memory.” He is her paternal and omniscient lover.

Despite his acclaimed certainty, it is revealed through his character that Isaac has no real definitive answers about relationships. His character was twice divorced and dates his best friend’s mistress behind his back. He in fact, admits in the film, “nobody knows what the hell they’re doing” when it comes to love. Even still, it seemed that Tracy had more clarity on her feelings, than did Isaac. She said she loved him, while it took him the whole movie and an intermittent fling to say he loved her back.

It’s easy to assume that staying married was easier in the olden days, but that’s not the whole story. There was a sense of duty and obligation that recent generations have only just begun to shed. Consider the narrative about the princess who is forced to marry a man for political reasons. In our modern society we consider arranged marriages to be either archaic or of the developing world, unless you had my Grandaddy for a father. Then it was he who arranged all marital unions within my family. Progressively people have felt less of an obligation to remain in an unsatisfactory situation, including jobs and marriages. Perhaps with so many vehicles of communication and travel available to us, we are more aware of the opportunities available to us all around the world.

It is also a simple thing to define love in a religious context. My brother once posted on his Facebook, “What is love?” and my Father responded with a Bible passage. I never forgot that moment in Facebook history, because despite the certainty with which my Dad pulled from his favorite text, it seemed my brother’s question went unanswered. I’d say so in the definitive since all of his life’s troubles are girl-related.

What is love and how do we make a relationship work? I won’t pretend to have the answers. I can only live my experiences and reflect on them, if only for your entertainment. We can follow the prescribed rules: abstain from fucking for three to six months, make him pay for everything, ignore his calls for the first three days and only text him after he texts you, blah blizzity blah blah. Personally, I was never given the dating rules. My Dad’s were always too holy for real life application and Ma wasn’t around long enough to impart them upon me. Further, I find that the rules out there only make dating too scripted and inauthentic.

When I first started dating – much later than normal kids – I was quickly frustrated by the kinds of conversations I was having with boys. Everything was so careful and timid, and I wasn’t accustomed to holding my tongue. And when I spoke my mind, the fellows didn’t know how to handle it. I realized that the boys were fully educated a skill that I lacked. They were scripted in dating etiquette while I’d missed a lesson, skipped a grade, something. I was out of sync. We learn these rules by dating in grade school and our parents affirm them, I assume. Dating, like religious belief and political affiliation, is a social custom that we believe is naturally formed. However, dating, like all other social customs, should be challenged and reconsidered. There are things that we accept because they are easy, like a prescribed definition of ‘love’ from the religious doctrine in which we thoughtlessly believe. Having missed out on the rules, I had to become my own pedagogue. I’m on a solo journey where I try to allay my fears of rejection and heartache, in favor of discovery, experience and certainty.

When we subscribe ourselves to a strict set of rules, we inherently deny certain aspects of ourselves that don’t really fit. Also, it makes it difficult to really get to know someone, when he’s mimicking a prototype. I think it’s best to define one’s own rules. Fuck what yo daddy told you. What are your bottom lines; what are the things you can’t tolerate? I’ve learned that I can’t date someone who isn’t at least as intelligent as me. I become horribly and unintentionally condescending and bitchy. There are non-negotiables that only you can define for oneself. You might like being in the position of feeling smarter than your significant other. The guys I date must love it, I guess.

As Isaac in the movie put it, no one really knows what the fuck they’re doing. So before rushing into relationships armed with absolute certainty and a list of ‘the rules’ I suggest we all enjoy the experience of defining what is non-negotiable. I think you’ll find your life was more fulfilling that way.

I like a boy and I don't think he likes me back

2011-01-26T20:55:00.000-08:00

I like a boy and I don't think he likes me back. He hasn't made it plain that he doesn't like me back but I think to a less infatuated eye the signs are clear. First, we are an unlikely match. We're at distinctly different stages of our lives. We're not star-crossed lovers, we're more like two galaxies in crossing. Second, he leaves me sexually frustrated. You guys know how I like to get down. I enjoy a little tete-a-tete on the regular, but from him I just haven't been getting much. Finally, I see him a lot less than I did initially. We talk on the phone often but we don't go out on dates like we once did.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm probably being let down easy. He wants to be friends.

That's the (obvious) conclusion, but since he hasn't said it explicitly, it's a bit difficult for me to accept. What if I'm wrong? What if he's just really busy? What if it's me; I've sent the wrong signals and I just need to be more expressive of my desire? Yeah, I know, garbage.

The thing is, despite the conclusion I've made, there is a part of me that doesn't want to let go. You know how the story goes, someone rejects you and it makes you want them more. Dr. Helen Fisher, an anthropologist, did a study of your brain in love, from which she decided that love is not an emotion, it's a drive. This drive is much like the motivation to achieve a bomb ass GPA or to get into a good law school. When in love, lust, and infatuation you're brain goes all haywire: you're high on dopamine and scans of your cranium look the same as if you were doing cocaine. Nice. What makes Dr. Ritter so sure? She hooked 49 subjects up to an MRI machine and asked them a series of questions. Her conclusion: love is intoxicating and easily as important to us as our personal success.

Knowing that, I guess sometimes when someone gets to ignoring us, we become even more driven. Add the dopamine effect and it's like driving under the influence. Right now, I guess I'm like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas trying to make meatballs, sniff and deliver blow, and dodge a helicopter at the same time. It's upsetting that I can be of two minds about this. There are the rational conclusions based in evidence and logical thinking, then there's Ray Liotta in the passenger seat destined to fail.

Love, lust, and infatuation are about compatibility and timing which is why it's so hard to find someone and why the one who once rejected you can have feelings for you later. The thing is, sexual energy is often exchanged between two people of the opposite sex who we adore and admire, but they just may not be good for us as boyfriends or girlfriends. With due dilligence we learn that some of the folks we envisioned having babies with better serve our lives as great friends, And while friendship sometimes feels like an awful consolation, we have to remember that the most intense friendships often last longer than the relationships we blow through.

Now, for a move-on mechanism. The fastest way to forget someone is sex (for me). Right now I do want some loving. The season is changing, I'm sleeping in the nude again and I'm wrapped in a high ass thread count. That's the formula for desire, but until the reality of friendship settles in, I'll be masturbating to the sound of his voice in my head.

-Karen

for more from Helen http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYfoGTIG7pY

In the Good Old Days

2011-01-09T12:55:00.000-08:00

In the good old days, women were not as promiscuous and sexual as they are now. False. That would mean that either women like Mae West and Josephine Baker were sexual aberrations, or women have been using their vaginas for a lot longer than we as a society will admit. Once we managed to pull our pussies from under the ruling thumb of the white male majority we became more sexually competitive and expressive, but the biology of desire has always been there.

Throughout Western history, literature is often the only vehicle through which women vocalized social opinions. Heroes of that kind of expression are women like Charlotte Perkins Gilman, author of “The Yellow Wallpaper,” who challenged assumptions in modern medicine about psychosis and sexuality. Contemporary with her time, though not addressed in her story, a sexually expressive woman was considered mentally ill. Were I white woman in 1892, I’d be banging some male nurse and journaling about it from inside a white-walled room.

Well, in class on Early to Medieval English literature, I was unceasingly bothered by the statements that typically emerged when we read female authors. My colleagues were either surprised that the women were writing, that the women were writing well, and that some of their stories were so sexual. There surprise was all relative to the fact that it was “back then”. Mind you pre-Medieval England was not a Christian place, and the sex politics were vastly different, but even Chaucer’s Wife of Bath had very powerful and distinct ideas about sex despite her piety.

Listening to the girls I wondered if perhaps they were all chaste half-virgins, or if we women have internalized this societal prognosis of our simple sexuality. If they had internalized this system of belief, that would then denote that they were in denial about the urges in their own vaginas. When all women are portrayed as feeling a particular way about sex, you personally will come to feel that you are the only woman in the world with a needy vagina. We are biologically designed to sexually desire insertion. The when, where, and with whom is determined by personal views on the politics and morals of sex.

In one of my favorite movies, Six Degrees of Separation, Will Smith’s character says, “I was just so happy I wanted to add sex to it. Don’t you do that?” Sex for pleasure is frowned upon by religious types, but it’s an expression of the body that is often the least expensive way to dope ourselves up. Love and sex expert, Dr. Helen Fisher claims that sex does the same shit to your brain as cocaine does.

If sex is so good and all the grown-ups are doing it, how have we also allowed ourselves to be so misinformed about it. First, is the myth of The Good Ole Days. They never existed, because humans were as sexually, emotionally, and mentally complex now as they were at the beginning of our written history. Therefore, we were always as selfish and prone to evil then as we are now. Though, as a species we’ve become like hoarders when it comes to written information, we still manage to deny the ugly parts of history. Women would have had less opportunity to have casual sex and may even have been less likely to because they were married just as her flower was beginning to bloom. The conditions surrounding your sexuality are far different than your grandmother’s.

Further, the censorship in Hollywood promotes limited depictions of sexuality. The rating committee (the people who give a movie an R rating) are more likely to give high ratings for depictions of a woman experiencing pleasure than pain. Sex is either violent or comical, but never enjoyable. In the documentary This Film is Not Yet Rated, filmmakers express their frustration over the politics behind the ratings. One says that sexism and abuse of women is promoted through these depictions. Pleasure, specifically an orgasm, is often juxtaposed with pain, so that the encoded meaning is that a woman will be punished for her pain. This portrayal of punishment for the sexually satisfied promotes submission, fear, and self-hatred amongst its real life viewers. Whereas huge amounts of violence are acceptable in even G-rated films.

Believe what you will about the moral value of chastity, waiting, etc. Personally, I wish I were better at the whole waiting thing. It could possibly make things better. I don’t know. However, do not assume that women have only just recently emerged from the dark. We’ve been been fucking – and writing about it – for a good minute.

On Health Care Reform

2011-01-05T12:12:00.001-08:00

I'm irate! I voted in the mid-term election. Hell I voted early in this election. But it feels that my vote didn't count as the House to day was overhauled by the Republican party. My qualms with this right heavy House: Health Care Reform. It didn't hit me until today that I won't be getting my universal healthcare. I am, therefore, more livid than I've ever been about probably anything.

One frustration, and likely the frustration of most democrats, is that an argument against universal healthcare is so inhumane that it our side was almost indefensible. Why should we have universal healthcare? Because we are a so-called first world country, we have the resources, and the poor are now dying from curable illnesses that they cannot afford to have treated. However, through the use of inexplicably effective propaganda, the Republican party managed to protect their interest. Greedy bastards.

I think about my Mother. Everyone knows she died of cancer in 2005, a year before MA got a universal healthcare system. Well she's lucky she died in Massachusetts, because anywhere else she probably wouldn't have lasted so long. Often poor people do not seek medical care because they are afraid to be diagnosed with something they cannot afford. My mom waited an extremely long time before she sought hospitalization. She discovered she had cancer. Because of the nature of her illness and the fact that we were below the poverty line in the most socialist state in the fucking union, her care was free up until the day she died. She could have been diagnosed sooner if we'd had some kind of insurance, if she were seeing a doctor regularly, etc.

My mother isn't the only woman who has cohabitated uncomfortably with a terminal illness. There are people all around the country too afraid to enter a hospital. We need universal healthcare or at least a system that protects not only our poor but our middle class in case of illness. In order to have universal health care it would require higher taxes and for citizens to pay for comprehensive subsidized health care packages unless they choose to go with either an employer provided or private health insurance.

My largest frustration is that the Democratic Party, which I'd consider the more progressive, gets no love because of their efforts to appeal to common sense and intellect rather than propaganda and religion. Fundamentalist and extremist Christians support the party because it backs their desire to control the dominant ideology of this country, and in exchange they are willing to sacrifice the civil and human rights of the poor. They are more concerned with prayer in school and Nativity Scenes on State property, than the idea of sharing just enough wealth to ensure that cancer victims of the lower class, at least, die peacefully.

Silence and Intolerance

2010-12-10T05:01:00.001-08:00

Let's not talk about it. Let's not discuss it. Don't even bring that shit up!

I'll never forget, in sixth grade I was the scholarship kid in a room full of wealthy suburbanites. I took two public transit buses alone to get to school everyday while the other girls carpooled in from the far reaches of Massachusetts just to attend the prestigious private school for girls in the heart of the city. We'd been exchanging stories. I listened through frustrations over cleaning ladies and descriptions family vacations to the Caribbean, while contemplating my own frustration of having to clean both mine and my sister's mess in our shared room and the fact that a good family vacation entailed finishing a 1000 piece puzzle with my mother over Christmas break.

I was the token inner-city negro and the bearer of significant difference. So during one of these discussions, I, in a nutshell, described what poverty looked like. I guess their minds were all blown by the very thought that it was probably their parents' taxes that paid for my basic necessities like MassHealth and their donations to the school that made it possible for me to even be there. Within that week I was called to the headmistress' office. "We don't talk about that stuff here," she instructed. Her smile was evil. Her words I'd never forget. It was like being told that I don't exist.

Interestingly enough I was in a progressive school environment where "diversity" was the favorite word. A lesbo-friendly school, it seems that homosexuality was a level of difference they could handle. But why would they want me to shut up about government assistance, taxes, and crammed apartments along Blue Hill Ave? We avoid really delving into difference because it would require some social responsibility. The girls in my class probably went home to ask, what's up with the poor people in the ghetto and do we have to do anything about it? With a sense of homogeneity, then we're all fine. There is nothing wrong with my lifestyle, becuase everybody lives it.

I was actually reminded of this story when talking to an atheist. I told him that I hate talking about religion so let's not talk about it. He in turn described the frustration of being frequently silenced by religious types. For the first time I realized that in terms of religion, I am amongst the majority. No! I thought to myself, I'm the victim! I'm a Black woman, meaning that I am the embodiment of the term socially oppressed minority. But I was challenged by the atheist to consider that there is a difference between tolerance and silence.

Having been raised Christian I know that the very idea of atheism or non-Christianity weasleing its way into the dominant ideology is a sign that the world is increasingly being destroyed by sin. Herein lies the problem of coexistence. It challenges our religious beliefs. Human decency, and allowing one person to believe as they may, comes against the belief that he is ruining the earth with his beliefs. Yikes!

In America, despite the seperation of church and state, socially and politically we still cling to Christian ideals. In France, I don't know if the law past but only a couple of years ago there was a bill to ban Muslims from wearing headscarves in public. Both governments have made an effort to ensure homogeneity, but as Muslims in France and impoverished sixth graders in the wealthy girl's school will tell you, homogeneity is oppression and we cannot avoid having the uncomfortable conversations that challenge us socially. Perhaps if we allow for difference, we can improve the social experiences of a lot more people.

The Woes of the Blogger

2010-12-09T01:34:00.001-08:00

A lot of people asked why I stopped blogging. I'm a graduating senior so the extra-curriculars have taken a back seat. Five classes and a job: I was a busy muffucker but thank God for Christmas break, right?

Further, I'm doing more than simply bang bangin. I'm dating now, and my experiences with men are slightly more intimate. Writing about a relationship would be like giving a man cheat codes on a PlayStation. He knows how I feel and can manipulate accordingly. Plus if I'm being a player, writing about it will undoubtedly get me caught.

I try to keep things vague by writing in the super past tense and I try to keep the identity of these fellows anonymous.

I've reached a new chapter in my life (and apparently a new stage of grief). Read on, kids, your favorite writer is back.

I Guess I've Been Modeling

2010-08-08T16:55:00.001-07:00

Shoot with Horace Ottley, IBO Photography. Makeup and Styling by Karen Alise

Tin Man, Tin Can Heart

2010-07-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

"When a person shows you who they are believe them,"

...is one of the greatest lines of any song I've ever heard. Its from a song by Jerreau [of Fly Union], called "Less is More." A boy previewed it for me before it was released. He told me that it aptly explicates his history with women. I played the song over and over when I first downloaded, absorbing every lyric in search of its core meaning. Jerreau's rap style in this song is simple, clear, his diction precise. Every word is spoken plainly. Jerreau's "Less is More" is a monologue that finally and honestly sheds light on the male point of view in a relationship. It was like an answer to all the arguments that ended in angry sex. It was like finally having clear communication with a man.

Men are often painted as heartless dogs, and we women are certain that we are absolute victims in any situations involving love and lust, but this song makes me think and re-evaluate how many times a man has given me a proposition at face value and I've rejected the truth for my own wishful thinking.

A boy told me he wanted to be friends. It took me several weeks to realize that things would escalate no further than meeting up at parties and shit. The one who sent this song told me that as a "long distance boo" he wanted to keep things low key and easy, but of course I got jealous and emotional.

My ex-boyfriend warned me about his trust issues. So I made sure to be absolutely trust-worthy. I never cheated and I was always honest with him, even to the point where I'd warn him "I'm leaving you soon if you don't change." The problem was not that he failed to trust me, but that I failed to acknowledge core characteristic. One woman's honesty could not magically erase years of painful dating experiences.

Sometimes we need to take a man's words at face value. If he tells you he gets crazy jealous, there's no reason why he'd be exaggerating such a scary character trait. A man warns you that he loves women... you're probably not his only hoe. A man warns you that he's emotionally distant and always busy, perhaps you should consider if you can handle so little attention. We women need to alter our perspective, stop thinking of ourselves as victims in the dating scene and take some responsibility for the way things are.

I had a heart to heart with hot roommate. He happened upon www.LoveAlise.com, and had things of his own to say (I wrote about him in the previous post). He broke down some of his experiences with women. Crazy shit. Shit I've done. Women who told him he was too nice, for instance. "Women don't know what they want," my little hoodlum explained, I agreed. "They say they want one thing, but when they get it..." he ended there, taking another pull from his exotic weed while he shook his head in dull frustration. Hot roommate is right; sometimes we like to be bossed around, and appreciate a man who's a little mean to us... some more than others. When he told me about the girls who need abuse to know its love, I was glad to know that there are levels of crazy that I have yet to explore.

What he said reminded me of my Father, a sweetheart with a hard-hearted lady of a wife (God rest her soul). Unlike Hot Roommate, my Dad wasn't too jaded to scoop him up a hot young wife later on (and I'm happy for him). I don't know if Hot Roommate will ever be able to unhinge his the rusted tin encased heart. All through my childhood my Dad coached me on dating, how to treat a man blah blah blah. It was obvious to me even as a kid who was most like my mother, he wanted to correct some of those inherited personality traits. He didn't fix them all, of course, especially since I inherited much from him.

Women, it's time we reflect upon our faults. I know, I know, love makes us crazy and irrational. And monthly excursions to the Ruby City make us especially psychotic, but how many times do we deny the function of our left brains? "Huh, huh?" in the words of my Father. My brother once said, "y'all [women] know what to do, its just half the time you go with your emotions instead of using your head. Then you end up feeling stupid." S.B. is right, because I've damn sure had rational conversations with myself that ended in, "but whatever," as I went traipsing behind some undeserving fool.

Now back to this dope ass song: ladies peep the lyrics, and try to recognize areas where we often misunderstand our men - "but all you hear is no" - or when we feel like he doesn't respect us in front of his friends - "When people call you crazy, you make it hard to defend you." I don't know how many times ex-boyfriend and I fought over both those quoted phrases.

I don't know how to fix the dating game, but I think that the best thing one can do is to keep their eyes open [to game], maintain integrity, and hope to eventually find someone who is sensitive, considerate, hard working, and who communicates well. Whether you believe in Karma or the wrath of Jesus Christ, be patient and the right man will find you...let's hope.

Girls, Girls, Girls

2010-07-22T10:22:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching an old classic, Jay-Z's music video for "Girls, Girls, Girls." If you don't remember or perhaps live under a rock, this is the song where Jay-Z explains why he loves women so much and what he can achieve from all of them. He's got girls to cook for him, model girls that look good at parties, girls he gives money to, the project girl who holds him down, etc. He's got a veritable library of women who support and maintain his well-being.

As I watched the video, I go to thinking: what place has monogamy when a man can have a collection of women who fulfill his needs? The benefits of Jay-Z's arrangement in the "Girls..." video is that he has women who serve a multitude of purposes. He'll never go hungry, he went through at least a dozen apartments in that video alone. Knowing women, I bet real live Jigga had hundreds, perhaps thousands of apartments that he could've just run to for anything at that time in his career.

So why did Jay-Z (supposedly) give that all up to be with Beyonce?

Hot roommate, the guy who lives downstairs, is the living embodiment of the video. He has women rolling through at least twice a day. He has a girl who drives him around, another to handle his laundry, a few who cook for him and I don't know what he does with the rest of them. He thought he could get me to wash his dishes once. I gave him the ill screw face. One could say that hot roommate is living it up, especially since he has a closet stocked with designer clothes, shoes, and underwear. He has Versace boxers. He never has to buy a car or get a job as long as he's dicking these girls down. Its the privilege of being pretty when a man or woman doesn't have to pay for anything.

I'd assume that the lifestyle is taxing, because its the constant juggle of a woman's attention. I was hanging with hot roommate once, and I overheard him talking to a woman. She wanted to come visit. She was going to take a cab, but he told her, "I don't feel comfortable with you taking a cab over here. Its late, and its dangerous." Bullshit, I thought to myself. I don't know if the girl believed him, or not. Someone came over soon after I left.

Another guy around the area argued that a woman should take care of her man. He didn't mean good cooking and hot sex - you know the usual womanly duties - he meant like mothering a grown child. I couldn't even argue with him. What he said was too foolish to even entertain, but it got me all heated inside. Do we women have to settle for love? Do we have to babysit adults or ignore infidelity in order to have someone to come home to? How do we find someone who will actually love and deserve us?

There are men who are satisfied by their collection of women. That's their prowess and that's how they measure their worth, their success. Then there are the men who are far more concerned with their future, with financial security and being an anchor to their family. These men take pride in independence, and are more likely to avoid excessive attention from groupies. I want the latter, and when I finally choose, not settle, it'll be a man who compliments my drive and my ethic.

Don't You Say No

2010-07-16T10:18:00.000-07:00

Rejection. The last time I got rejected by a boy was in the 3rd grade. I’d chased boys all through elementary school, but by 3rd grade I was exhausted. 4th grade was the first time a boy ever considered me cute. He was way strange, but it was a novel experience, being adored by someone other than Ma and Daddy. One would think that my fourth grade crush would have laid the foundation for sweeping ovations from boys at every moment, but I cowered out and began a single-sex education in 6th grade. I’ve been in all girls schools since.

I was, without pain or ceremony, rejected from more than five colleges. I skimmed the letters for the word “sorry” and promptly tossed them to the garbage, but the idea of having a love unrequited is far more than my little heart can bear. On my own accord, I’m certain that I’m a catch, but if a boy were ever to say no to me, the floodgates of insecurity would outpour. First I’d blame my hideous feet, wonder if perhaps I’d come on too strong, and then assume that I’d played everything all wrong.

I was recently reeling over a rejection: moping at work, listening to one sad song on repeat, and not eating… or rather, eating less. I was nothing short of devastated, till I met my sad little eyes in the mirror. No good, no good. I was whimpering over a boy and ruining my day and my face.

He probably wasn’t right for you anyway, I told myself. I’m a believer in fate, destiny, and appointed time. And not all things go down how we’d like, because either timing or the situation aren’t particularly right. In this instance I resigned myself to the belief that maybe this boy just wasn’t it. Often in crushes we ignore a person’s flaws and trust you me, I was modulating this dude into some kind of angel. With simple re-examination I realized that this guy and I could never work: he’s a good liar, and I’m super gullible.

The problem is that sometimes it’s something other than love or lust that compels us in dating. Sometimes we get competitive, and feel validated or satisfied in achieving the attention of someone we desire. If he doesn’t return our attention we question our beauty, our personalities; we blame our outfit and lament over not chewing a piece of gum before he arrived. However, sometimes we have to look at a failed crush for its positives. Perhaps we were saved from being burned. Perhaps we missed being drafted into a war. Or maybe you’re a dirty bitch who looks like a frog and should avoid flirting with boys till you learn how to shower and walk in those heels you’re rocking. I’m just sayin’…

I'm Almost There!

2010-07-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

Don't make any sudden movements, and when I say hold it right there, don't be stupid and change anything. That's right, I'm a woman after my orgasm and don't you dare mess that up. You, man, with your fingers, your flickering tongue, and your rock hard penis may try all you can to get me off. You'll get frustrated by my silence, and if you ask me how I like it, my response could very well be "I don't know."

You've got it easy. The male orgasm is a repetitive stroke. Its usually a guarantee that if the combination of moisture and pressure are applied to your genitalia, you're going to bust. But women, like our emotional makeup, is so complicated that not even we completely understand it. Do you know that we orgasm without cumming (sometimes). Then other times we squirt! (Squirting is real). Sometimes you touch us and we don't feel a thing, other times we can just be thinking about you on a train and bust all over our panties. Some of us can't get ourselves off. We need your help. Others can only get themselves off and have to close a session alone with four fingers and a porno.

Do you know how to make a woman violently angry? Disobey her when she says "don't stop" or "keep it right there". You go ahead and stop or move your finger an inch to the left and I she'll learn to hate you. I warn you boys (and random clueless lesbians) the female orgasm is elusive and precious discovery. One is never guaranteed to get it twice. My suggestion is to be very attentive: moans, breathing patterns, sudden silences are all indications of where she is in her orgasm. The best thing to do is remind her to stay calm and show you what she wants.

We're Friends. Hold the Benefits

2010-07-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

Friends. Just friends. Why is it that friendship is the consolation prize when it comes to relationships? It’s the bronze medal of dating and it feels like the closest thing to complete rejection, despite the fact that everyone knows the best relationships are between individuals who are fundamentally friends.

A while back a boy and I stopped dating. Though I knew we were romantically incompatible, I felt I couldn’t completely discard the man who was once my closest companion in the whole wide world. Well, he was not a fan of my pleas for friendship, and said he wanted all or nothing. Nothing meaning he wanted to never hear from me again. So we parted ways.

It doesn’t always work out with the people we are dating. You like a boy for his charm, but later find that he makes a better business partner, background vocalist, chem tutor and such. Just as people change, relationships with people are subject to evolution and redefinition. So my question is, can a relationship change? Can we be friends for the better?

The answer is no. Well, yes but only if you’re smart. I was once in a converse situation where a guy handed me a bronze medal of my own. He wanted to be friends without the benefits, whereas before we were benefiting without actually being friends. Initially I was disappointed, because I liked the benefits. I felt that he was friends with my vagina first so it was unfair to just take him away from her like that. But what can you do. Further, I was a bit skeptical of his motive. Was he writing me off. Kindly throwing me in the recycle bin as opposed to the garbage.

I obsessed over the idea for a while, threw my phone at the wall and such, but then my underused left brain eventually kicked in. Friends. Friends! Unless I’m being secretly second-tiered to some main squeeze, friendship is a considerable honor (right?). Taking it back to friendship gives two people the opportunity to authentically learn their compatibility with one another. It could evolve to like, love, or lifelong and continuous friendship. One never knows.

I know. I know. Friendship can be so dissatisfying, because five years of quality time its relatively arduous in comparison to hours of making out and weeks of hot intense other stuff. However, we’ve gotta employ our left brains and get perspective on that thing there called friends (without benefits).

All I'm saying is that if "friendship" was really a diss I'm gonna be so pissed.

Univercity's "Good College Girl"

2010-07-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

I met Genesis in college, but apparently he's my cousin. Go figure. He now comprises 50% of the duo "Univercity." The other half is LS (which stands for Lyrical Savage and trust me he spits something stupid).

Anyway their new single is hilarious, a well written breakdown of what it means to be a girl in college. Good College Girl, the song is called about a girl who's straight A student by day and party animal freak by night. How many of us were that girl? And how many of us forewent the straight A part? My favorite part is in the beginning when Genesis recognizes the girl in his class from a party and she looks away embarrassed. That's a typical college moment, seeing someone while sober that you met in an inebriated capacity. Sucks.

Haha anyway, I'll stop blogging while you watch the video. Have fun kids.

The Inevitable Ex-Change

2010-06-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

The other day I offered to do something nice for this boy I kind of like, but then I freaked out and changed my mind, called my best friend and asked, "is this okay. I'm I giving too much?" In my last relationship I was far too generous for an impossibly selfish man, but I'm typically a generous woman and daughter of an exceptionally generous dad. The people around me are generally appreciative, but in that relationship I had offered far too much of myself to be manipulated and misused.

At that moment I became angry, at the fact that my past relationship had managed to make its way into the present. I have always had the fear of being bitter, jaded, so hurt I could never love again but I've come to realize that there is no possible way to be in love without being changed by the relationships we have.

Some of my post-relationship changes are more obvious than others - my hair being the most luminous change - but then there are changes in me that I've only since discovered from my interactions with other men. Changes that were inevitable yet frustrate me, because I can never revert back pre-Fatman Karen (we don't use his name). I have new fears that I never had, new things that I'll never do for a man, new standards, and a new bottom line. For instance, my view of men's capacity to abuse women was skewed so that for a good month every man was a woman beater, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of the idea of ever being a wife and mother.

After a relationship, change is unavoidable, which is why when any discussion of that mess of a relationship emerges, I tend to call it My Learning Experience. I have evolved into a more savvy and intelligent girl. Although, I think I've had somewhat of a summer of 79-like rebounding period, I think I'm ready for a man to change me for the better.

YOUR FAVORITE WRITER IS BACK

2010-06-30T07:27:00.001-07:00

Dear Lovelies,

I've been on sabbatical but I'm writing again. I can't wait to begin posting. This time around will be different. I will no longer be writing specifically about my relationships/sex because I don't want to jinx my gosh darn love life. However, I will start to feature more music/artist reviews, some of my fiction work, and my thoughts on the every day.

I found that while I whole heartedly enjoy being absolutely honest with you, it came at a price. I was easily taken advantage of. You all were privy to my desires and were given the formula to seduce me, so that I found myself being manipulated by some tricky tricky individuals, none of whom had my interest at heart. In short, being open with everybody makes a girl far too vulnerable.

My blog is, as always, for you to enjoy and for us to communicate and understand each other, so never hesitate to comment, challenge me praise me whatever dude.

I will also begin writing for the Morehouse Maroon Tiger, so don't be a square and pick that up this semester.

Love always,

Alise

The Magic of Marian

2010-05-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

I met her in glee club. She was the new girl, I the outcaste (for fucking someone's baby daddy). I wanted to be sure she had a positive experience since mine had been far from ideal and we became friends. But I quickly went from friend to groupie when I first heard her perform at the end of that academic year at an outdoor festival.

Girl and guitar, her voice ethereal floating along the late spring breeze, dancing against our ear lobes. I was mesmerized by my friend, an uncomfortably fresh experience that I managed quickly to embrace. I didn't stay long after her set was over, but from my laptop I found her facebook page and searched hungrily for recordings. She had a few videos of her singing at parks or at the school from which she transferred, but in my desperate hunger for Marian, I was frustrated by the poor quality of these digital camera recordings. From then I had to wait for another performance, a better recording, or the stolen sound of her whispered hum over a difficult homework assignment.

She is gentle to the ear, sweet and subtle yet a master of her craft. Her lyrics are poignant, poetic. Her clarity and precision remind me of Maxwell (my favorite lyricist), yet her vocal control is unmatched. Her sound is as effortless as breathing. The magic of Marian is uncomperable.

Marian is currently teasing her fans with The Basement Collection, songs recorded in her basement studio that will not be making it to her album. The fact that one of my new favorite songs is from that collection ("Dancing Through My Mind) makes me so so so excited for her official project. Come, be enthralled by the gentle seductress, Marian Mereba.

Follow her @marianmereba Listen to her http://limelinx.com/files/acbb5cbb1938392c3b823ab25b48d9c2 AND http://limelinx.com/files/96d6ea45578e0b4df646d4d3c495b804

Why Cudi? Why?

2010-04-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

Why do I enjoy Cudi so much? I had to ask myself last night, after I legit rashed on some kid for denouncing the Cudder. I realized that primarily and above all things its the Genre Mash.

Last night a kid asked me to compare Kid Cudi and Styles P. Here lies the inherent problem. These are rappers of two different periods in rap and with completely different styles. Styles P is quintessential New York Gangster rap. Cudi is...

Cudi is untethered by categorization and he supersedes genre. Kid Cudi clearly has a varied music taste that is a great influence on his capabilities. His mom's a classically trained opera singer for Pete's sake, of course his music would encompass a wholistic appreciation of music without labels or boundaries. He is music.

I am music. I have a fat collection of thousands of songs including the complete collections of Barbra Streisand, Madonna, Edith Piaf, and Jay-Z not to mention Gabriel Faure's Requiem and several techno remixes of Pink's "Please Don't Leave Me". I fuck with Cudi because he fucks with music in every form (I think). As do I.

In short, I realize that I my adoration for his music may be approaching obsession. It's problematic. Severely, yet I cannot help it. Favorite Cudi track? I haven't the foggiest notion.

Check Please

2010-04-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

I have to write this post. I'm going to be late for class, but this has to be written. One of the greatest rap songs that I ever heard is Track 27 - "Check Please" of the Cleveland Show. It's one of those songs that strikes you, stops you cold, arrests time. The beat is cool. The repetitive violins invoke a dreamlike state and against it, he artfully tells a story, beginning with a list of his desires and aspirations: "I just wanna be fried." The first verse ends as he returns to the present, he asks "somebody call for my valet parkin'."

In the hook he says "Hold on you did what? Gave the waitress a tip, and said stay out of the dark end. Cleveland." He anchors his thoughts, here. Chip returns to reality, but warns the waitress to stay away from that which continues to haunt him. In his next verse, Chip returns to his inner thoughts and the rhythm doubles. He is consumed by his preoccupations, "a nigga be stressed..." he says. He rants on his hard work and perseverance in the music industry, then he notes that "...niggas be phony/fuck a new homie/rather be lonely..." The verse continues at doubled speed, signifying that he is overwhelmed by his preoccupations.

Suddenly the music ceases: "Damn, daydreaming this whole verse sitting here at this restaurant." Chip returns to reality. He closes the song with a description of his exit from the restaurant. I love this song. Its epic. Chip goes stupid. Listen to it, or you are no longer my friend.

Harajuku Barbie

2010-04-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

I don't hate Nicki Minaj, and there's so much hype surrounding her that I haven't made an effort to even listen to her raps. She must be good, because everybody feels her. Then again Gucci is on the radio. I'm certain he pays for his beats with crack money, because he has the lyric ability of a third grader. I youtubed the song Lemonade, and I couldn't make it through the first verse. Garbage. Curren$y, on the other hand, killed that beat. Wait, I'm talking Nicki...

Anyway Nicki Minaj: I can't critique her music because I've never taken the time to listen to it, but what creeps me the fuck out about her is her army of clones. I swear Ms. Minaj is casting spells because everywhere I turn there is someone in a heavy black china doll weave and bubblegum pink lipgloss. I want to ask these girls, This doesn't feel strange to you, playing dress up? My name is Karen, I have a birth certificate that says so and a family to affirm that and for the most part I am an easily identifiable human being. I enjoy being myself and having creative control over my life, my decisions. I don't want to be anybody else but me. Why don't Mini Minaj's feel the same? I just can't fathom.

Additionally, Ms. Minaj is boasted for being a sexually liberated woman, though in actuality her image is a recast of Lil Kim's except she also eats pussy. Maybe the fact that she is bisexual is why people find her liberated. Personally, I think she is just the embodiment of the male fantasy. And how sexually liberating is it to call oneself the Black Barbie? (She ain't a Barbie... a Bratz doll perhaps.) I think that sexual liberation means that you embrace your natural beauty, you love your body and all its flaws, and you look fairly similar at 8 am in your jammies and at 8 pm in your makeup. Nicki Minaj and I have a very different view of the concept of sexual liberation.

Personally, I think that in order for a female to get respect in the rap game she must either be masculine or hypersexual. Think back to all the female rappers who have ever existed. Missy Elliott, Queen Latifah, and Da Brat performed masculinity. They could roll with the boys and therefore they had respect in the game. Then there is Trina, Lil Kim, and Foxxy Brown, three very, very sexual women who, when they come to mind, are all rapping in bikinis. I think in order to survive in mainstream rap, a woman must express some form of aggression, whether violent or sexual. Nicki is just the repetition of that aggressive sexual image penned by female rappers before her.

I do want to note that people often say that Nicki has a ghost writer; I cannot affirm the truth of this statement. However, a number female rappers (the sexy ones) are accused of not writing their own material. Biggie Smalls and Diddy are said to have written Lil Kim's. My question is, are female rappers discredited because they are women? Just wondering.

Much respect to Nicki Minaj, she has managed to make a living off her talent and looks, which is more than I can say for myself. However, the quality of her fan base leads me to believe that she ain't all that.

Kid Cudi said he likes my hair...

2010-03-28T12:21:00.000-07:00

I don't know what to say, I've been trying to write a blog post about one of the greatest moments of my life for the last several days, now. I will however, analyze this picture for you.

1. My facial expression: I've never looked happier. Actually I look kind of crazy. I think I was star struck and oblivious. Kid Cudi told me he liked my hair (twice, he said "I like your hair," and then he said, "I really like your hair") during Q&A and then I managed to get a picture with him. Everyone says I should have slipped him my phone number of at LEAST my name but I swear I was so excited my brain literally shut down.

2. His hand placement: Right around my waist, and honestly, I was so elated that I couldn't even feel it. It wasn't until seeing the picture from my screen that I realized just how close I was.

3. My hand placement: That's right, there is none. My hand was hovering somewhere near his shoulder. I was afraid to touch him. Haha, fuck you, I know your laughing at me. He's my stinking hero/celebrity crush/favorite artist. Actually managing to get the picture was a major move in itself.

4. My outfit: Was fucking perfect (inner exclamation point). Its my hoodie dress from london. Classic black hoodie-look with white strings, only its really a minidress, worn with black tights and pearl grey shoes. It's not form-fitting and sexy, though short, but it has character and pays homage to the style of the man to my right.

In the end, Scottie disappeared into a sea of screaming fans and boys guffawing over having gotten an autograph on their Jordan's. Fuck y'all I got a compliment and a picture, and when I tell you that handful of hours continues to play on in my head... Some say I missed out on a lifetime opportunity to blah blah blah, whatever. What is meant to be will always be.

Too Much Makeup, Makeup Girl

2010-03-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

I call her Makeup Girl, because she wears a full face of makeup to swim class. Anyone who loves makeup enough to swim in it, deserves to have their name changed. I've seen her outside of the water, and it looks like her foundation stands about three feet off her face. I wonder if she sleeps in it? I digress, but I'm not going to lie every time I see her matte brown face I get to thinking, Did her Mommy ever tell her she was beautiful? Did her Dad ever tell her to take that stuff off her face, 'cause she didn't need it?

There is nothing wrong with makeup. Oh please I've got a vanity covered in pigment, I love makeup. It can make your face look perfect, but the scary thing about makeup, is once you start wearing it its hard to stop. Remember when I ranted about how some girl stole my makeup from a party at my house? She stole my entire kit: Urban Decay eye shadows, Mac Studio Fix, Mac Blush, Nars lip colors, a collection of mineral pigment, a brush set, among other things that I can't recall. She even stole my cotton balls. Well, as my dolled up readers can tell I had a decent collection of quality stuff. It was like stealing all of my Jordans (for you readers who don't understand). The next day while getting ready for school I had to sit before the mirror and remind myself that I was beautiful. It was so sad; something off the Tyra Show. My makeup use had diminished a previously high self confidence. Goodness me!

I didn't realize that I had fallen that far. I don't even wear a lot of makeup. I keep it light and natural so most people don't know when I have any on. Actually, the only person who can tell is my makeup artist friend. I don't want to look like Karen with makeup, I want to look like Karen at her best. In short, I lost my makeup and I had to reevaluate myself and my self-esteem.

Best believe I got my ass some more foundation, and I'm running low so a refill is soon to be in my future. However, since that sorry little moment in the mirror, I've promised myself to enjoy more days in the week without makeup than with it. No lie, I can't go a day without lipgloss and eyebrow pencil, however the shadows the blush the concealer the foundation the blot powder the liner and the mascara need to take frequent breaks. I can't become makeup dependent again, because the more you wear makeup the more you feel you need.

Makeup Girl didn't start off as makeup girl. She probably only wore it to church and funerals at one point in her life and even then it was a swipe of mascara and blots of concealer on the dark spots, but gradually and increasingly she couldn't stand the way her face looked without it.

Evaluate your self. Makeup can highlight and define your features or blend with your undertone to make your skin appear brighter. It will not make you prettier, but what will make you exceptionally more beautiful is the confidence that you exude when you smile and speak.

Hey There Lonely Girl

2010-03-22T18:22:00.000-07:00

A couple posts ago, I acknowledged the fact that sometimes (most of the time) I trade pussy for affection. That was written a couple of weeks ago, and the lonely spell has recently taken another dip. Can you blame me? My last relationship ended 14 months ago, and I'm human. Even the Bible says that "it is not good for man to be alone," (Genesis 2:18) (that's about the only Bible verse I know by heart...I actually got it wrong and had to Google it). I've been doing well on this single journey. I have learned a lot about myself and I have established some amazing friendships, but the kid is getting lonely. And when I'm not having sex to distract myself, I get to thinking about the Ex.

It's always uncomfortable discussing an ex, because the men in your future want to be sure that you're over him. They're afraid to be compared to him and if anything goes wrong then its his fault. I'm always afraid of being called bitter, that's like being called a witch in post-colonial Salem Massachusetts. It is a most powerful accusation, but no proving otherwise. The reality of the matter is that my ex-boyfriend does exist. He was my stinking first love. The relationship taught me a lot, and it also scared me out of seriously dating for over a year.

The ex the ex the ex. Do I really miss the ex, or do am I thinking about him because he's the most available thing right now? I'm leaning towards the availability factor. He says he misses me all the time. I know I miss him too, in theory. From the distance that a text message allows, I crave to spend a moment in his arms. Until I get to recalling last time I saw him and how immediately pissed I was. I missed him for a good 10 minutes, but soon after I wanted to castrate him and toss is testes under a lawnmower.

If I cannot conjure the anger that keeps me from running back, I usually text my three girlfriends. Each witnessed my relationship saga at some point and are privy to the madness that I endured. I text them and each responds with something that kicks my memory in motion. I clench my teeth against the residual anger and practically throw my phone down. It plops on the pillow of the cold and empty side of my mattress, a sound that mocks my loneliness.

Most times I don't allow myself to listen to love songs: I'm on a strict diet of rap, alternative, and techno at the moment to take the edge off. I reward myself with tastes of Anthony Hamilton and Maxwell when I'm feeling particularly strong. One album that I still to this day can not listen to is Usher's Here I Stand. It was our favorite. We drove to visit our family in New York and Boston for Thanksgiving and we listened to that album most of the way.

I realize that college life makes single life more difficult, which is probably why so much sexing is going on. I left an immensely huge family back in Boston: siblings like best friends and cousins like siblings. Back home I had little desire to date boys. Loneliness was cured by hours at my aunts' houses, or hanging with my cousins. If I were back home I'd actually spend more time taking care of my brothers, babysitting nieces and nephews, and getting bullied by cousins not much older than me. I think I've managed to replicate that family dynamic by frequently having my friends over for dinner, though that shit gets expensive. I especially like playing matchmaker. I try to invite new people each time, and I let my closer friends make requests on who I should invite.

My best friend says that I need to start dating more, but I honestly hate dating. I don't think I'm good at it. How do I know what men want to date me and which just want my lady space? Having put my sexy out all over this blog, I'm afraid that the only guys who have maintained interest in me will begrudge me a dinner and a movie before I am expected to deliver the pussy. Some have been appalled my audacity to even consider such. I am now a dating pariah, or is it really this difficult to find a guy. There are men everywhere, how hard is it to find one I like? Should I be actively looking, because at this point I was expecting him to fall through the sky, knock on my door, or sit behind me in a class.

I don't even want a full on boyfriend. I'm not ready for the full commitment. I just want chill ass homie who speaks my language: private, intimate, relaxed, giving, caring, blah blah blah. You know, all that good stuff without the extravagant drama. Well, I will continue to meet people, have dinner parties, and love my fucking life.

My Lovely Lady Lumps

2010-03-17T08:51:00.001-07:00

"Have you felt this before?" the nurse asked.

"No," I lied. I have felt a lump before, but in all honesty I convinced myself that I had, in my obsessive fear, imagined its existence. I guess I wanted the nurse to form an unbiased opinion on the contour of my seemingly perfect breasts. She continued to roll her cold nurse's fingertips against the knot inside my chest. I squirmed to avoid the feeling of that lump pressing against my skeleton. I didn’t want to be aware that they were there. "I get nervous," I offered, as an explanation for fidgeting and face scrunching, but the nurse didn't seem to understand. She continued to press and roll and inspect, and in a matter of moments, I was crying. Her insensitivity made it impossible to bridle my fear.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yep," I answered, as if the tears weren't even there, and she was clearly disarmed by my oddly placed cheery tone. She didn't seem to understand. I guess cancer isn't everybody's deepest fear. I guess some really do place M. Williamson's inadequacy over the thought of rotting on a hospital bed. Personally, I think I fear nothing more than cancer. I fear it more than God.

"Have you ever given yourself a breast exam?" the nurse continued to ask. I told her no, but the truth is I've tried three times. Twice alone and once with my boyfriend. Each time I balled, but at least with my boyfriend he held me and we had that emotional patch-up sex. This summer I finally braved a breast exam and found a lump. I cried myself to sleep and in the morning convinced myself that the lump didn’t exist.

Well, I probably looked pretty foolish to that nurse, who has probably never gotten tears during a routine breast exam. And when she asked what cancer my Mommy died of and my answer was not breast cancer, she looked at me even more strangely. Cancer is cancer, no matter where it ends up on your bod…right?

Though the nurse made every attempt to assure me that the lump was probably benign, she offered to refer me to a breast specialist so I could have an ultrasound of my lumps. When I visited the breast people, I was so elated to find that my doctor was a hot doctor. I actually couldn’t help it. He walked in on my paper-robed body and pulled on some gloves and felt me up. “You’ll get better contact with the gloves off, doctor,” I wanted to say. But I figured I’d save that comment for my next dream when I masturbated to his image. My right breast was a bit insulted to have been spoken off in solely medical terminology. If she wasn’t going to be sucked, I think she at least wanted to hear how beautiful she is.

The hot Indian doctor told me that my lumps – I’m so special , I have two – were benign and absolutely normal for women in their twenties. “We can have them removed, or we can just keep monitoring them.” Knives belong in the kitchen not in the body, so I opted to leave my lumps be. Besides, I would consider myself a spoiled human being, in that I never get sicker than a cold, the only needles I’ve taken are vaccinations and stitches when I was two and too young to remember, and the only time I spent overnight in the hospital is in my mommy’s arms after she pushed me out. My most invasive procedure to date has been the beloved pap smear, and while strange they don’t hurt too much. I’m afraid of all things of and relating to hospitals.

I walked home, but I was still unsettled. Was I making the right decision by leaving my ugly lady lumps? Well, since I had posted my worries on my Facebook and Twitter, my friends and family felt the need to comment. My cousins tripped on me, “YOU NEED TO GET THEM REMOVED NOW!” an attitude that I found a bit excessive, considering I’m the one with the dead Mommy. Some guy told me insensitively, though he meant well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. I kept getting word from friends of friends of friends who had had lumps giving me both perspectives. And when I tried to google my situation, the first article I found read something like “21 year old college student battles breast cancer.” I immediately closed my computer screen, and just so I wouldn’t have to see that headline again, I pulled the battery out of the back rather than simply close the window.

But finally, a friend of mine sent me a message that said she too had a breast lump and was getting hers removed. Days later, a girl told me that she’d had a lump in her breast since 7^th grade. She’s in college now, so she’s been holding on to her lump for years.

So, if it is okay to hold on to a benign breast lump, or two, then there is a far lesser sense of immediacy and room for far more questions. Does surgery hurt? Will I have a scar? Will they ruin my breasts? Will losing a lump make one breast smaller than the other? How much does surgery cost and can bill paying Karen afford it? How much school will I be able to miss? Those were the physical questions, but the whole lump situation brought up a lot of emotions for me as well. Some were expelled in that poem two posts down. However, the best solution has been telling people about my lump so they can reflect their opinions, both expert and foolish.

My charge to you, ladies (I'm sure the boys stop reading several paragraphs ago), is to cradle your breasts between your finger tips and go lump hunting. It is common for women in their twenties to have a few floating around, but be sure to check them out, know they’re there and monitor growth or shrinkage. There is probably no reason for you to explode in tears every time you put a little pressure on your breast tissue. If you struggle with the scenario, go to a doctor, and perhaps a counselor, and get your issues worked out. Awareness and prevention are the key to longevity when it comes to terminal illnesses.

Date Night

2010-03-15T09:18:00.001-07:00

I took a walk yesterday, and passed by a couple on a date. The chick was wearing a trendy outfit, but something about it didn't look right. She looked uncomfortable, like she was wearing someone else's outfit. I had to fight every urge and instinct not to go STOP! so I could re-dress her.

There is no denying that in general boys love a sexy girlfriend. My ex-boyfriend would make me get out the car just so he could show me off to any and every random rogue who came within sight of us. However, when the outfit is not working all those feelings of pride turn to shame. Many guys would prefer a girl in sweatpants to one who has on an outfit that isn't working.

Here are a few tips for choosing your outfit for date night.

1. Try on your clothes the day before, so you know exactly how things look and feel, what works together and what does not. If you buy something new, wear it around the house for a while. You'll get familiar with the piece, that the strap always slips, that the shorts ride up too high, that you can't bend over in that skirt. Just wear the best that your closet has to offer.

2. Don't wear your friend's favorite outfit. Wear the outfit that suits you (even if you've borrowed it). You may have a friend who looks hot in one thing, but it may not be the look for you. Take a trend and mold it to fit you. The chick I saw had on denim shorts, black embroidered tights, and calf length boots. High boots and shorts make your legs look shorter and wider, so only wear that look if you have long legs. If not, try flat shoes (or heels) with your shorts for a lengthening effect.

3. Wear a tried and true outfit. When you're on a date, you don't want an outfit failure to be your greatest preoccupation of the evening. You want to look sexy and effortless. And while showing skin is probably is my favorite thing (see image above, hello), it doesn't look good to show bod in clothes that don't hold themselves up. Don't wear a strapless top that requires too much adjustment or pants that give you super camel toe. The best way to show skin comfortably is with a v-neck t or a see-through top. These two looks require no readjustment of the straps and look a lot classier than a tube top.

4. Practical can still be cute. Wear flats instead of heels, pants instead of a skirt, and carry an extra layer if you have any doubts. Be comfortable as you can. Sneakers for me is entirely uncomfortable, oh my gosh I'd look like a fool, but heels for you may have you falling over.

5. Please wear clothes that fit, starting with your bra. Nothing is more disgusting than quadraboob. Go to Victoria's Secret and get measured! You may not buy their bras (I find them to be cheap quality despite the price) but at least know your size. I actually buy my underwear from www.barenecessities.com. I was a 34DD at one point and Vicky didn't carry my size, which is why I went and scoped this site out. Bare Necessities has every single size imaginable and brands from Calvin, DKNY, to Betsey Johnson. Additionally, don't wear jeans that you can't sit in or shoes that haven't been broken in. It just makes you look silly.

If you ignore all my advice, just remember that you attracted the guy in whatever you were wearing at the time, so continue to allow your wardrobe to be an expression of you, not Karen or Megan Fox or Nicki Minaj or your best friend with the great breasts. Do you.

Photo credits:

"Childhood Flames" exceptional fashion/photography blog http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2260/2443829496_a926a217be.jpg

"The Muff Stit Shop" a Euro brand, purchase this and other items http://www.muffstitshop.com/2009_03_01_archive.html

"Blue & Cream" features Lily Allen http://www.blueandcream.com/blog/wp-content/lilyallen_denimshorts.jpg

2010-03-14T22:44:00.000-07:00

The things I am afraid of

My mother
was sick.
She was always sick
she ended sick – a skeletal figure in a nursing home bed
she weighed as much as a ten year old child, her flesh hung loosely
slipping and detached from the bone
she was withering, evaporating, disappearing

Closed casket

She may have been born sick
I don’t know
but by the time I knew her she was sick
she used to flip
crazy
she used to be another woman, sometimes. Only sometimes.
When she was angry, she was not my mother
she was evil and hateful, in a way that was uncontrolled.
She was spiteful. Showed favoritism. And my brother got it the worst.

She used to hurt my father
it was clear she hated him, sometimes
from behind a bedroom door we heard violence
I don’t know who was hurting who, but I’m almost sure he was restraining her.
He’d walk out crying, defeated, Bible in hand
“I’m going for a walk,” he’d tell us. He was going to talk to Jesus about the crazy
wife He gave him

She used to stand by the window
the sun warming the tones of her face
she was talking, out loud and under her breath
discussing. Her eyes expressive, her brow dancing up and down
do not disturb her. She wouldn’t hear you anyway if you called her while she and she
were discussing.
So when you saw her by the window, you let her be.

My mother was a beautiful and epic catastrophe
She was volcanic : erupting then cool
but in her sanity she loved immensely.

I am afraid to be like her
I’m afraid that if my thoughts are not like yours then they are like hers
I’m afraid to die the withering body
who left a husband and children who are yet too afraid of her, to ever completely love her back.

Crymax and Other Sexual Expletives

2010-03-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

"Crymax"

My cousin introduced me to this term. It's when the orgasm is so good you start crying. On one occasion I had actual tears in my eyes and that nut is unforgettable, but typical a perfect orgasm will have me whimpering. Most recently I crymaxed from the sticky fingers, and that was a bit embarrassing, but I haven't made sexy in kind of (not really) a long time.

The crymax is kind of funny, because I can imagine some of the sounds that women make just trip you guys out. I let out my feeble whimper and kid with the fingers gave me a confused look. I think he needed to look in my face for affirmation that he was not, in fact, finger raping me.

What is the crymax? Its when the penis, or the fingers, fills you with so much bliss that you don't have enough physical reactions at your disposal to absorb the pleasure so you let out tears. They are tears of joy, trust, but they are never the less tears.

Why, woman? Why are you crying? If we could, we would sing like porn stars rather than grunt and cry. We can't help it, and sometimes we - I - practice in secret, in the shower, and during masturbation. I would love to moan pretty, but when you're feeling the sexy a few tears here and there are actually a good thing.

Similar to the crymax is the gigglegasm (still working on a name). Again, it's induced by an orgasm so spectacular that you let out a laugh. I've gigglegasmed when the multiplicity of the orgasm is becoming too great. The gigglegasm often occurs just before my clitoris has to beg for the sex (usually the head when this happens) to cease.

Man the noises we make during sex, it's embarrassing. Sometimes I want to hear what other women scream during sex so I can gage just how (ab)normal I am. For instance, why is it that I cannot help taking God's name in vain during climax? I think I am at my most spiritual when staring into that white light that is orgasm. Once I accidentally said "Jesus," I was trying to avoid the use of the word God oddly enough, and I feel like that was an even worse offense against the cross.

When the sex is spectacular, it's difficult for a person to control what comes from her mouth, whether its "spank me Daddy, make it hurt" or "yes, yes, cum on my face," (I will not attest to ever requesting a facial, but had I done so, I was likely to have been superbly drunk). So gentlemen be sure not to rape a bitch, but when she starts crying, laughing, screaming bloody murder, or begging God to save her just indulge her. Spank her. Just wipe her tears away and deepen the stroke.

Intimacy Synthetic

2010-03-05T16:59:00.001-08:00

Some people have sex to affect intimacy. I have long suspected, and now come to the full acceptance, that I often have sex to affect intimacy. I'm having a lonely spell, brought on in particular by the fact that I haven't had sex in nearly a month. A month is already a long time for me to go without sex, and I actually like this feeling. However, I also notice that my body still needs to be touched, and felt. I need to be held and caressed.

I'm currently listening to a one sad song on repeat. Geez, Karen, snap out of it.

You may not know but this monthmarks a lot for me. It marks the first anniversary of the blog. It marks the anniversary of my short hair cut. It also marks a new attitude about life that I had taken one year ago. I dumped the fat man in January and started fucking around immediately. I was sexually liberated, making up for lost time, enjoying more orgasms in the last year than the whole entire time with my ex-boyfriend (no shade?). I enjoyed my sexual activity, and have a short list of regrets - about 4 inches a piece, short. However, I've come to a point where I don't want to barter my pussy for a little cuddle time.

Boys, be honest. You don't like to just cuddle. You don't like to just relax. You don't like to just watch a movie. You don't like to just sit in a room together having a conversation. But these are things that women - or just I - need. The secret to dating is in these things here. Pay attention.

Dating doesn't happen in the formality of it all. First dates are like interviews, they're inauthentic and horrifying. You get to know someone through the way they interact: by listening to the way they talk to their mother, by how they command a group of people, by the way they conduct themselves in an assembly, by the way they leave you feeling even though they never even spoke to you. It is in a person's interactions that we come to meet them. Not, in that formal interview where two people sit across from each other asking mundane questions just to fill time. Dating is getting to understand someone, not through the identity they choose to present you, but with the one they haphazardly exude amongst their peers.

The problem with attending conservative single sex schools (as I do), is that most interaction between the genders is either highly formal or completely sexual. The only safe space for a woman entering the all-male space is in a class, a meeting, or with her gay friend. Otherwise, her interaction is expected to be sexual. Don't believe me? Why is it that every guy I ever chilled with asked me "why not" when I told them we weren't having sex (and this is before I became known as the sex-blogger). Experiences like those always end in frustration for me, because I should never have to justify why I'm not fucking.

My solution to this irksome situation is now to have people over the house. If I have a crush on a guy, I invite him to hang at the house with a bunch of friends. I create neutral environment, where I can witness his interaction with my friends as well as experience his personality. This is dating, to me. It's similar to the way parents would say, "bring him over, I want to meet him." You create a situation where there isn't that sexual tug of war, and you can see just what the boy is like.

I have yet to find a boyfriend, or even a "boo" type situation, and periodically I feel as though I need one. I know I don't, but I think you can understand the way it feels when your body craves the feeling of someone's heat beside you, your mind desires to solve someone else's problems, and your soul wishes to conjoin with that of another. What to do? Wait to find someone to hold you? Shack up with someone and beg him to stay the night? Convert to homosexuality?

I think there are many women like me, who are so frustrated by the absence of intimacy and sincerity, that we're willing to trade pussy for a little time in the presence of another body. Its a beautiful feeling waking up in someone else's bed, washing the scent of someone else from your body in someone else's shower.

What will little Karey do? I stroke my pussy, scroll through my phone and wish I had someone willing to cuddle. Truthfully, I did consider fucking someone tonight, just so I could sleep in his tiny twin dorm room bed, just so we could devise a plan to sneak me out when no one was looking, just for a moment of synthetic intimacy.

photo credit: Yijun Liao http://nymphoto.blogspot.com/2008_12_01_archive.html

The Commitment of an Artist

2010-02-27T11:35:00.000-08:00

I haven't written in a long time, and I think the passion that I feel for my blog as an outlet of expression has waned. I began this blog for a number of reasons: because I love talking about sex, because I feel that women need an open outlet through which they can discuss their sexuality and sexual experience, and because I don't want anyone to mis- or reinterpret me as a something that I am not. Through this blog I have defined myself and it has made me very powerful in that I think I wholly control how I am perceived based on my lyrics.

Through the blog, I have made some really beautiful connections with very driven people around the nation through this thing we call the internet. There are people who are driven, passionate, and immensely talented all around me (people like singer/songwriter David Fuller and the W.A.T.I.A. conglomerate, Caesar Jackson and his clothing line City of Savages, Joe & Terrel creators of the clothing line Vita-Morte, photographer Floyd-From-Ohio to name a handful) who have really inspired me to be fearless. Funny, I just realized that everyone that I listed left college to pursue their passions, and I can imagine that it takes an immense amount of fearlessness and drive to make that move.

I'm the daughter of a musician, so the term starving artist is a life reality for me. I never starved, but there are times when food was appearing on our table like mana from heaven, times when my father was jobless, when we were buying school clothes at thrift stores, when eviction was eminent. In coming to college, I was trying to taylor my talents to fit a corporate existence, but in doing so I was denying my passion, my love, my drive.

As a senior in high school applying to college, most of the administration wanted for me to try Julliard, the New England Conservatory, and other performance schools. I avoided them, because I was afraid of starving. My mother and I had a tacit agreement that I'd go to college and somehow get rich, whether I had to marry a doctor or become one myself.

But my passion is music. I thrive on sound, to alter my mood and to express myself. I'm a writer, but my heart is where the music is, but sadly I haven't performed, outside of the Glee Club, since I was in high school. I need to get back to my roots.

A lump was found in my breast. I haven't had it checked out yet, so it very well may be fatty tissue. But when I was thinking about the possibility of breast cancer I remembered that I only have one life to live with an unknown term. That being said, it is important to be fearless in this life and to take steps in the dark with the faith that our feet will find ground. Find your passion and be unafraid of it.

This post is a commitment thank you to my friends and mentors - those listed and those in my head - who are fearless and driven. I truly look to you for guidance and inspiration.

These are the projects I want to begin to commit to. I will start performing again starting, of course, with Jazz Man's on thursdays. My name is already on the list, I just have to choose a song. I will scope out writing opportunities, hopefully Creative Loafing likes my pitch. I will travel more, without worry about money or security. I also will be working on something very special with my friend DaniRae. I won't drop any information on that except to warn you that its going to be ridiculous.

This is the commitment of an artist, love Alise.

Grown Ups Don't Let Grown Ups Pass STDs

2010-02-19T05:53:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, my best friend caught Chlamydia. Actually, a couple weeks ago my best friend discovered that she had caught Chlamydia somewhere within the sixth month period between her regular tests, but she had no idea from whom it came. She had gone to the clinic that day like any promiscuous, yet healthy, adult, with the confident belief that her genitalia was uninfected and the desire to simply be proven right.

“Any symptoms?” the nurse asked.

“No. This is just my regular six month checkup,” she answered back proudly, with a smile. She always practiced safe sex, and whenever she left a clinic, she was never ashamed to take a handful of free condoms. When the procedure was finished, they told her she did not have AIDS, and that if she had any other infections, they would call her. She sauntered out of the clinic and decided that tonight, she would have sex just to celebrate.

A couple days later, she got that phone call. One of her whores had passed on Chlamydia...

to continue reading click InvadeNOLA.com

The Brown Street Walk of Shame

2010-02-17T16:54:00.000-08:00

You will only see them in the early morning hours floating among maintenance work and eight a.m’ers. They are ghostly hooded figures flashing down Brown Street making their return to education as usual back to their campus. These ghosts are our peers, and in an attempt to do the Walk of Shame discreetly, they only make themselves exponentially and comically conspicuous to the casual collection of sauntering boys. Conversely, these ghosts walk quickly at nearly Olympic speeds, with hoods tied tightly around their heads to conceal mussed up weaves and much of their guilt strewn faces.

They are a literal eyesore, but this article is actually an announcement to let these early morning walkers know that there is a better way to handle the Brown Street Walk of Shame.

1. Wipe that guilty look off your face – We know you weren’t doing anything as horrid as your expression may portray. In fact, you were probably tutoring your Morehouse brother before you accidentally fell asleep fully clothed at the foot of his bed. And as exceptionally intelligent woman, one is often called upon to lead some very crucial study sessions that happen to stretch far past reasonable hours. That is nothing of which to be ashamed. Think academic thoughts and your face will reflect the innocent disposition of a scholar and not that of a trollop, though one you very well may be.

2. Attire – Were you planning on giving an all night tutoring session? I suspect you were, that’s why you’re wearing your best most academic underwear. Keep the panties red, but I suggest you anticipate your early morning stroll and dress for the morning after. Wear slacks. Slacks are the attire of an academic, and when someone sees you peeling through the neighboring all male campus at the crack of dawn, they will without question assume that you had a meeting.

3. Timing – Morning classes usually start at 8 am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and 9:25 am on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Time your walk accordingly by making your way back to Spelman when the only people who are awake have already settled in their respective classes. Further, it takes 10-15 minutes to get from Fair St. to Lee St. at a Northerner’s pace and perhaps 40 minutes for a Southerner. No one will see you leaving a dorm if you avoid peak times.

Take heed ladies, and turn that walk of shame into a regular and random stroll through an all male college at 8:18 on a Tuesday morning. And if there are still questions about where you’re coming from, you answer back “Karen’s house.”

Pee After Sex

2010-02-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

I woke up a cold, late December morning to a sore back and hips. My body had been the victim of my sexual appetite for past couple of days, and it seemed that nothing could stop me from pretty much nagging my boyfriend into making sexy with me. Thankfully his bathroom was about three feet from his bed, so it was only a matter of rolling myself to the foot of his California King and shyly venturing a warm foot onto cold tile to get to the toilet. My nude body tensed and awoke when it made contact with a frozen white toilet seat. But I relaxed and let it flow until Shit Mother Fucker Shit! It felt like I was trying to pass a burning match through my vagina...

for the rest of the article, check the InvadeNola.com. Love you.

Chivalrous Feminist

2010-02-01T23:29:00.000-08:00

Oh feminism. When the suffragettes were busy fighting for their right to vote, I don't think they anticipated creating the amount of confusion and discomfort that accompanies the discussion of money. My dad didn't have much to say on the topic of dating other than, "No." The only other pearl of wisdom was, "when you're out with a man, you don't have any money." Translation: make the man pay for everything.

Well, Daddy, I wish it were that simple, but I think men of today have caught wind of this feminist shift and are decreasingly interested in paying for shit. Now, I don't mind paying for my own things, but one often gets unsure trying to figure out when things are equal and when a guy is taking advantage.

My friend had only been seeing this guy for a few weeks, but he called and asked if she wanted to come over. He offered to cook if she provided groceries. "Kare, what does that mean?" she asked.

"I don't know," I answered. I was very skeptical of this boy's intentions, especially because, "I say this all the time, but it's usually because I have no groceries in the house."

She bought the groceries anyway and when she arrived at his house, there was another guy there. The friend stayed and ate and then left. Poor girl was the meal ticket to this hot guy and his friend. Perhaps the suffragettes were hoping, simply for equality, not that guys would turn into selfish ass holes.

As a girl who's willing to give in a dating setting, I am still trying to negotiate a middle ground where I feel comfortable, because their are social implications attached to money, which is why the conversation is so uncomfortable. There is the expectation that a man is supposed to pay for most everything. When he doesn't, then he's not a date and you are just friends. When he does, he's supposed to be making the effort to impress you.

My observation is that guys take a lot of responsibility when it comes to dating. Traditionally, they express initial interest, they ask you out, they organize the date, they are required to entertain and intrigue, and then they pay. We women just have to show up looking our best. It seems unfair that so much work is placed on the part of the male. Then again, the traditions of this dating ritual help to set the standard by which you want to be treated.

Men aren't the only ones putting in all the work. Male peacocks strut their stuff in order to impress a peahen in an attempt to prove that they are strong, healthy and good providers. Is not dating just a way for men to strut their stuff as well? Besides, what are a few dollars in entertainment to get to know a girl, particularly if that girl turns out to be a worthwhile investment.

While the dating rules continue to readjust themselves, consider taking a more active role in the process. Be the one to ask a guy out, choose the location, or opt to cook for him if he buys the groceries. Whatever you choose, make sure you feel comfortable. If you are afraid that you are being taken advantage of, then either cancel or use it as an opportunity to learn who the guy really is. No matter what you choose, happy dating.

Mama Told Me

2010-01-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

Having a dead mother is incredibly different than having a live one. When a mother dies, the lessons don’t cease; they continue to resonate and repeat themselves like a beautiful mantra from the sky. For some reason, the mantra ran strong today and I thought I would share the five most important and memorable things my mother ever said.

“Show some leg”

Now, having been raised in very traditional Baptist Church, these instructions didn’t fly well with the missionaries, but it was Mother’s belief that mine and my sisters’ skirts should go no lower than the top of our knees. My sisters and I have legs like our mother – long, shapely, muscular, and thick. They are truly a work of art, and of course my Mommy wanted us to be as proud of them as she was of hers. What I have come to realize is that each woman has a special body part that she needs to show without fear or hesitation. Not every woman will have a small waist, dainty toes, and a coke bottle figure. But you got something, now show it.

“Nothing on your face”

She believed that bangs were for ugly people to hide their faces. I will never forget how hard she tripped when I came home from the salon with a side swept bang. So face tattoos, piercings, blemishes, and makeup were a no go for my Mommy. She wanted us to take care of our faces, rather than hide its imperfection. She also wanted us to understand that though your face is not the first thing people see, it is probably the most important and communicative part of our body. Its where all the expressions are, and people should see them.

“No scars on your body”

My mother wanted my sisters and I to be careful outside so as not to scar, and from then I realized that I would be stuck with this body for the rest of my life, so I should take care of it. Don’t put any and everything in your body – that goes for food, chemicals, medications, penises, anything. Your body isn’t a pair of shoes. You don’t buy new ones once the old pair is worn out. Don’t abuse your body.

“You can’t keep a man if you can’t cook”

I know this isn’t an absolute rule, especially if your non-cooking ass were married to a chef. But I have come to interpret that even if you get a man, you still have to keep him. You heard the saying that pussy comes a dime a dozen, and looks fade. What do you have that will make a man stay? Are you honest and loving? Can you cook his dick into submission? Do you have a serious understanding of money that will keep your house afloat through any economic tide? Whatever you got, use it, because we all know that men have roaming eyes.

Separate bank accounts

My Mommy never said separate bank accounts, but I think she would have if she lived long enough to see me date boys. By the time I turned eleven, we had lived three months without electricity. My father was unemployed and couldn’t afford to pay the bill. We sat our food on ice in picnic coolers and shat and showered by candlelight. I had, of course, given up on the hope of a birthday. But on September 16^th my mother bought me an art set complete with oil pastels and acrylic paints. The irony is that I had to paint by short stem prayer candles that we’d bought from the corner store. No matter, this birthday went down in history as one of my favorite birthdays in the history of my life. I learned that with separate monies, you can achieve separate goals. I got my birthday and a couple weeks later, the electric bill was paid. Everybody wins.

I hope that you appreciate the fact that I shared my Mommy with you. She was a beautiful woman and she was cool and tempestuous like the ocean. But that woman managed to make six beautifully confident kids.

Nobody Asked You

2010-01-24T16:42:00.000-08:00

My green dress is not a dress, it's a t-shirt. My older cousin bought one of those deep V t-shirts from American Apparel and subsequently lost too much weight to wear it. I, who thoroughly enjoys the challenge of turning rags into a spirited outfit, requested that he give the shirt to me. Normally I wear that bitch in the summer with sandals and a belt at my waist, but seeing as the weather in Atlanta was uncharacteristically warm for January, I thought I'd sneak in a leg show while the opportunity was present.

I wore my green dress with a black leather jacket and black leather boots. I think the combination of all that leather and the length of my dress made this outfit a bit more scandalous than usual. The boys, of course, loved it - I think I caused a my share of car accidents on Fair St. - however, my female colleagues were less receptive to the site of my thick thighs.

You can always tell when someone is looking at you, and I felt as though I was standing before a tribunal while on my campus. It made me uncomfortable having so many women interested in the way I looked, and I began to wonder why women do this. Why do women feel the need to police each other's activity?

The moment I looked at myself in the mirror, I became fully aware of the length of my dress as well as the potential that excessive amounts of wind would put me in a precarious position. Bearing all of those awarenesses, I left the house anyway. However, women frequently felt the need to tell me that my skirt was short and that I knew I was cold. I came back at these women with clever quips, but at the same time I kind of wanted to tell them to mind their own wardrobes.

It is a tendency for women to police each other. Is it because we are protecting the values of our community, or are we made uncomfortable by the bold choices of others? When I cut my hair, I had girls coming to me saying, "I liked it better when it was long," or, "I don't like that color." My answer was simply, "ok" because their comments were as essential to me as a crucifix is to an atheist. Nobody asked you, is what I should have said, because seriously if I cared I would have taken a poll and weighed the data before I left for the barber shop.

As a kid, when girls used to bother me, my mom would tell me they were jealous. To me, it made no sense. In my logic, it seems that if I were jealous of someone, the most productive thing would be to find out exactly how to achieve what they have. It wasn't until years later that I believed her, when I realized that there are people out there who express their jealousy in anger. For instance, there is this girl on campus who seems to be imitating and emulating my persona. We used to be on kind speaking terms, but now when I see her she grills me like I killed her best friend. I understand it now, she is so frustrated by her inability to be me, that she now takes it out on me. Such is the dynamic of a hater.

I'm no saint. I talk shit about some of the garbage my fellow ladies wear: off-white cable knit tights as leggings still haunt my dreams, as do leggings that are see-through at this lumpy girl's lumpy cell-u-lit ass crack. I do try to avoid talking shit, and I will continue to try to be less of a hypocrite. At the same token, I don't make those comments known, because just as I saw myself in the mirror and decided that I was still going to wear my favorite not-a-dress in the whole world, you whores in your faux pas witnessed your own crimes of fashion and kept it pushing.

By the end of the day it got cold and I began laughing at myself for having misjudged the weather for the morning. Again, I was aware that I was actually cold, and I wanted so bad to get home and out of the cold. I don't need anyone to tell me how my body feels.

Why can't we just leave each other alone? Who are you to tell me what to do? Are you some sort of expert in fashion, morality? Are you Jesus? Are you my father? Are you even my favorite aunty? If you cannot give me a credible answer to any of these questions, then I would kindly ask you to put all your comments and suggestions down the toilet. That is, unless you are offering to buy my ass an alternative outfit. I never turn down free clothes.

Night at the Metropolis

2010-01-12T06:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers, I hate dating. It makes me uncomfortable, and I wish there were another way around it. I may have a bit of exaggerated anxiety when it comes to dating, but doesn’t everybody?

I’m afraid of being stood up, I would be humiliated by a bad date, I hate when people watch me eat, and I fear that the more things I order off the menu, the more he expects me to do him. An escalating price range subliminally begets escalating sexual expectations. Yet, despite the amount of discomfort felt on the first date, it still makes a girl feel special when a guy is willing to spend a little cash to hang out with her.

It made me feel just that when, on my daily walk to the Fields Corner library, a man asked me out. He spoke with such earnest enthusiasm as he complimented me, as if I were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen on this side of the Mississippi River. He was busy moving furniture into his apartment, so he handed me his business card and we arranged to meet each other for dinner. “Hey, Karen,” he yelled as I was approaching the corner, “ while you’re at the library, think about where you want to eat. I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

Glee is what I felt. This was not a college boy with a twenty dollar dinner limit. Here was a man who owned his own car dealership. On the way home from the library I saw one of the free magazines that review local restaurants and nightclubs and the like. I grabbed one and searched for a good review, and landed on a restaurant called Metropolis. It was located in one of the oldest and most expensive neighborhoods in Boston and the article suggested I try the veal scaloppini. The price was reasonable and the veal was free-range. Hell to the yes, I thought to myself.

At nine o’clock that night, he rang the bell and I sauntered downstairs in my velvet peep toe platforms to find a man in Walmart jeans and blue/red on white low-top Top Ten Adidas. You may not remember what those sneakers are, because their glory days in my city faded the year I finished high school. I began to fear that he would be turned away for wearing those clothes within five miles of the South End.

He walked me to the car, and before I could remember to put my seatbelt on I wanted him to take me home. I realize that the enthusiasm with which he complimented me was not because I was a breathtaking beauty; it was because he was either mentally ill or just really stupid. I had no idea how I missed this. He had impressed me by telling me that he was writing a screenplay, and I was glad to be in the company of a fellow writer. But he spoke for close to 10 minutes with awe and fascination about his editor, commending her for her ability to differentiate to, two, and too or their, there, and they’re. The Boston Public School system is one of the better ones in this country. How the hell did this guy miss that grammar lesson on homonyms.

It wasn’t until later, when we were talking about school and he only told me which elementary and middle schools he attended that I realized he never even went to high school, let alone graduated. I peeked into my black Iguana skin clutch to find his business card. I realized that he didn’t own a dealership, but that he worked on commission for a cheesy website. All my glamorous illusions were being shattered like a drunk driver’s windshield on the 4^th of July.

We arrived at the restaurant and it was beautiful. It was tucked into one of Boston’s historic brownstones on Tremont St. The restaurant seated no more than 64 people, and the setting was comfortable, relaxed, and intimate and the maître d’ was a warm hostess.

My date removed his bubble jacket to reveal a striped Sean John shirt, that would make Diddy himself laugh. It was a shirt that Marshalls has been trying to get rid of for about five years. He also had three large gold chains. This man was so 90s hip hop. It was embarrassing, because, I’m 2010 chic.

He spoke nervously and in depth about the most insignificant things. And I looked in his eyes and though he looked back at me, they were blank and distant, almost empty. Our waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I ordered water and asked about the veal, which he highly recommended. “That’s what I’m getting, then,” I concluded.

“Are you all set sir?” my cute waiter asked. My date mumbled something nervously, but he didn’t even look up. Mind you he no less than six feet and over 200 lbs, and my waiter was about 5’7’’ and pretty. Still the man across the booth was afraid to look him in the eye. When the waiter left, he asked me to order for him. I thought it was because he was going to the bathroom, but he just sat there. When the waiter returned, I ordered for the both of us, without question. Not because I wasn’t curious, but because I didn’t care for answers. I wanted out.

He kept talking nervously, but none of his thoughts made any sense. He talked extensively about things like parking tickets, even though I told him I don’t even know how to drive. He delved deep into his emotional pit, describing how his recently passed grandmother speaks to him in his dreams. I usually try not to mention my deceased mother until after the second date, to avoid low spirits. He expressed a conspiracy theory about white people and their hatred of blacks. Two of my closest friends are white and a half so naturally that discussion made me uncomfortable, especially in a tiny little restaurant where even the kitchen staff can hear your every breath.

Finally, to change the tide of the conversation, I asked him about his screenplay. I had to fight laughter with all my might. I won’t give too many details, just in case it actually does become a Blockbuster. It was a film about three urban woman trying to help their community. He couldn’t tell me how they went about helping it, only that they were about solutions rather than the problem. Then I asked about the main characters and he answered, “I want the role of Mary to be played by Mary J. Blige, but I don’t want her to be Mary J. Blige. I just want her to be Mary. I want Latifah to be played by Queen Latifah, but I don’t want her to be Queen Latifah. I just want her to be Latifah. I want the role of Kim to be played by Lil Kim, but I don’t want her to be Lil Kim. I just want her to be Kim.” I had to end this comedy of errors right there.

I skipped desert, though I love all things sweet, and on the ride home when he asked, “You coming over, Karen?” I answered, “Oh, I can’t, I have to get in the bed, but I had a wonderful time.” I had had a horrible experience, and not even free-range veal was enough to assuage the painful memories I continue to endure. It may be several months before I can ever date again.

Drinks and Breakfast Sausage

2010-01-11T19:07:00.000-08:00

I missed the last flight out to Atlanta and I had to return into the bitter Boston cold to get back home. So when the guy who I met earlier that day pulled his giant Toyota Tundra beside my suffering body, I was beyond relieved. I was already opening the passenger door when he offered me a ride.

He was a miniscule little man. He was thin as Giselle Bunchen, but probably wouldn't be able to see above her hip bone if they stood beside each other. He was unreasonably cocky, a tiny Jamaican pixie who owned a hair shop. He was a bite size heterosexual diva with no chin, so I knew that this tiny pixie was packing less heat than an unloaded pistol. (Note: testosterone levels are what make masculine features, like a manly jaw. His one apparent masculine feature was his facial hair.) As we rode on, he asked if I wanted to go out for drinks. The buzz from that nip of gin I drank on the way to the airport had worn off and I relished the idea of getting drunk on someone else's account. I said yes.

He took me to a bar and I to Pixie's disadvantage it was Latin night. In a sea of light-skin men willing to roll their Rs all over my chocha, I was clinging to the little man out of obligation. It was as shamefully embarrassing as wearing fake Coach to a Fendi fashion show. We eventually abandoned the joint for Kay's Oasis, a reggae club in Boston. This time I ordered a long island. The drink was so sweet, I guzzled it like a cold Gatorade. Big mistake, because in no time I was more open than a street walking whore. A tiny sober voice told me, no but I let him slide his hands inside my pants, made easy by the fact that they were a cotton rayon blend and I was, as usual, without panties. I danced against his tiny frame to the pulse of his fingertips.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered. Though sober little voice inside me warned otherwise. I was beyond saving, so we left the club.

By the time we got to his house, I really wanted to just go to sleep. I was sobering up and aware of the fact that I wanted nothing to do with this Pixie man. I could barely keep my eyes open and I was fading fast. From a corner of the bedroom I could hear a ration of pills being poured from a bottle, but let's not jump to the conclusion that it was Viagra. I'm going to say that he was taking his multivitamins. Suddenly, a tiny little Pixie was on top of me, and so the battle royale began. He approached my vagina with a nub of a penis. It reminded me of a breakfast sausage. It had commendable width, but it was about as long as a Blackberry is wide. It made my tight vagina feel like a gaping hole. I told him I wasn't interested, but he tried as best he could to get me to do him. I denied his pleas and I managed to get some sleep.

Soon, I was awakened by the sensation of a vibrator and for a brief second, I thought I was back in Atlanta reunited with a certain toy in my top drawer. I opened my eyes and realized that it was the Pixie's. Clearly, this man is fully aware of his shortcomings, because he was armored with tricks. He tried to switch out his little toy for his even littler toy, but I grabbed the vibrator with all my girl strength. We struggled, but I wouldn't relent. Finally, he let go of the pulsating bullet, and I attached it to my lady. He slid his breakfast sausage inside me, and I was too focused on my own feelings to bother with what he was doing. Before I could even finish I had man-mucus splashing at me from what seemed to be all directions. Most guys pick a spot and aim, but he exploded on my shirt, my hands, my belly, and my hip. Who knew such a small wee-wee could be so messy.

I finished myself off and fell right to sleep, and it wasn’t till I woke up the next morning that I saw the mess he made on my body. I hopped up to shower, then decided that I may as well get ready to hit the airport.

"No, no don't do that. Take your clothes back off and play with me." He said play with me. I say play with me. Tester bottles at the Victoria's Secret Store say Play with Me. Men do not ask to be played with. "No," I said firmly, and then I pulled a line out of my bag of women tricks. "I don't feel good about myself right now," I answered, and finally he left my pussy alone. He lay back down, but he wanted pillow talk and what he said began to scare me. He wanted to come visit me in Atlanta, he was worried that I had a boyfriend, and he kept talking about me being with him and helping him around his house. He was whipped and I hadn’t even given him the good pussy. He was a desperate, jealous, 26 year old single man with three kids. He was fervently looking to lock down a relationship immediately.

I kept up the charade. I told him he could visit. He could stay for as long as he wanted. No there were no other men in Atlanta. Yes, I would like that. Really, I wanted to shut him up so I could get my ride to the airport. Since he jizzed all over my shirt, he offered to give me one of his. He handed me a tiny DKNY sweater that is probably DKNY Kids. Moreover, as he put on his jeans he said, “these are girl’s jeans and I didn’t even know. I had my daughter try them on but she’s too wide in the hips for them.” I didn’t comment, because I knew only mean thoughts would spill from my mouth.

When we got to the airport, he said “wait, I don’t have your number,” just as I was stepping out of the cab. “I’ll call you, I answered,” though I knew I never would.