I sat in VIP like I paid for this shit. I sipped my champagne like I knew somebody to get there. I belted out Lil Wayne’s A Milli like being next to Lil X, Mo Pete and Jalen Rose was just another night out. Truth is, it was Caribana Sunday 2008 and Kardi’s party was way too rammed to sit with your bottle anywhere. The crowd was thick and the Toronto state of mind was getting ralled up. My people and I had to find a live, but low-key spot that had enough elbowroom and breathing space to sip carefully while still bumpin’ to Dangerous along with everyone else. VIP was the only logical solution. In five minutes we were in there, all seven of us. Some of the dudes marked our territory by sparking up while the ladies prepared to get low in the comfort of the crew. The vibe was nice and the view over the crowd was pretentious. We had arrived, and just in time. it seemed like we beat the rush because no more than a minute later the aforementioned celebs trekked in with a stacked entourage. Like any other female I quickly sized up groupies and turned back around. Tonight was too smooth to watch face. In any case the scenery was similar to watching a squirrel get a nut. Nothing I hadn’t seen before. In this setting the ladies didn’t have to speak. Their bright make-up, short-shorts, and tight outfits were their mating call. Macking was now in session.

Imagine, everyone around me is gettin’ silly while I’m jotting down my latest thoughts in my BlackBerry notes. Don’t get me wrong. I rocked out to Jiggaman with the best of them, but the vibe between the men and women was note-worthy and something I couldn’t help but illustrate.

Every now and then I copped a glance to see how close the tempresses were getting to the final destination. It all seemed like a game. Dude says something corny and girlfriend laughs like it’s the hottest joke. That dance continued all night and it was just too predictable. There were points when you would think either person wasn’t interested because they were both typing away on their phones. Yet, since she cleverly wedged herself between his thighs, elbows resting on his legs, and face forward the yield signs were firmly planted around him. Keeping within arms reach was a clear sign that that particular lady had made that celeb hers, even if only for one night. At the end of the night when she walked away switching her hips in fervor, her hand in his, not only had she scored, but she was silently waving, “hi haters.” As he melted like butter on fresh pancakes into her firm grip it became obvious that there was something about the female swag that can be penetrating to the male mind to a degree that no wifey at home could serve as a strong enough defense. Babygirl had her man-to-man strategy down to an art. I can’t say I didn’t feel the slightest bit admirable. Changing someone’s mind with an eyelash flutter was somewhat impressive.

I can’t say I wasn’t happy for her either. I mean she got what he wanted in the end, whatever the cost. Honeydip served up a full plate of desire and homeboy devoured it wholeheartedly. Mission accomplished. So don’t hate the player, hate the game. Until you lose of course.

That’s my word.
Peace.

Everything & Anything