Kwame sent me an article about one of those groups of people we happen to mutually dislike, groupies. So our list of people that we dislike (and in some cases loathe) reads like this:
Any team Terrell Owens or Kobe Bryant is on
It may seem weird to dislike a group of people devoted to spreading their legs, until you work for a sports league and have to deal with them. Think of a woman with the aggression of a soccer mom fighting for the last discounted TMX Elmo on Black Friday, the attitude of a beauty pageant contestant who knows her competitors look better and the self-importance of a celebrity's best friend demanding that Hermes open exclusively for them when the store is closed and workers are rushing around trying to prepare for a promotional event. Then multiply that by a hundred and you have your average groupie at NBA's All-Star Weekend.
The article on ESPN's Page 2 discusses how groupies have now been given the Power To Act by book publishers. Great. I once read the autobiography of Linda Lovelace while waiting in a doctor's office. Knowing about groupies making money off their groupieness gives me the same feeling the chapter on Lovelace having sex with a dog did. Jemele Hill wrote some official rules for atheletes and groupies in the article but she missed some that should be covered in the lecture rookie athletes are given when they enter the league (the one that the existence of Shawn Kemp necessitated):
1. Use a condom. Use a condom with spermicide. Use a condom with spermicide that has been dipped in holy water and blessed by a rabbi. "I'm on the pill" is this century's equivalent of "I have a bridge to sell you."
2. Do not give a groupie any type of gift. That's called "evidence." Make her take a shower with you after copulation. Brush your clothes off with a lint brush. Remove what CSI refers to as "trace evidence." The rule of thumb for most cheating husbands is that if you're stupid enough to walk back into your home reeking of perfume, with a long blonde hair attached to your Armani sweater then you deserve to get caught.
3. The groupie's place is in the motel bedroom. Motel, not hotel unless you're on the road. There's no need to spend that kind of money on a sure bet. When you start taking her out in public you're opening a can of worms that also contains snakes, caterpillars, tarantulas and roaches.
It's not the sluttiness of the groupie's endeavors that's sickening, but the mercenary aspect of it. The idea that their vagina is their meal ticket, not for survival but for diamonds and furs. If a groupie was just having sex because she was a fan that's one thing, I mean how many guys are going to turn down the chance to have sex with Jessica Alba. Say there's one girl whose "magic number" would make her a defensive end on a football team. And another whose number is low but she bangs men for what gifts they can give her. The second one deserves the scarlet letter (S for super hoochie gold-digger.)
My point is that Kwame thinks I'm easy, he said so in this conversation:
Me: I was trying to explain to Geo how a guy could let himself be used by a gold-digger. But he's an attractive, charming, intelligent man. He's never had to work for it.
Kwame: Yeah, you barely even made him work for it. Not that you usually do.
Me: True. Oh and thanks for calling me a slut.
Kwame: No, I meant that once you decide you're going to sleep with a guy you don't play games.
Me: Haha meaning I didn't sleep around but I slept quickly. I don't have the patience for coy little mind games.
Kwame: See, you're not easy. You're EFFICIENT.
Me: Word. Nice recovery.
Okay that wasn't my point but I wanted to get it in there. Quickly.