You always said you wanted to be with a professional athlete: A Miami Tale

A GUEST APPEARANCE by DOC T LOVE.

My dreams have finally been fulfilled, as I have experienced what it's like to be in the presence of a professional athlete. While on vacation in Miami, I was more than ecstatic to be surrounded by Caribbean music, food, accents, and most importantly men. Though I was looking to meet the traditional island import (i.e. a strapping young boy from Jamaica named Sheldon, freshly exposed to white t's and 50 cent mixtapes like his Black American counterparts, or a sun-kissed Dominican named Manuel, who lives on top of his auntie's kitchen/in house Dominican salon like everyone else on 103rd and Amsterdam), I was pleasantly surprised with a new type of import: our brethren from England.

I was initially turned on to the accents and the connection to beats by Sizzla that let two young Caribbeans know that they were raised under the same flag and essentially made for one another (see Pump up her pum pum as an example). Yes, it was Sizzla that connected me and my one true love: Jordan. On first sight, I thought he was too skinny for my taste, but I thought back to prior research that has demonstrated how skinny men have a third leg, so I let my intrigue take its own course. After enjoying a good grinding and winding session, which consisted of me gyrating my pelvis as if the rent was due, I said goodbye to my friend and kept it moving. As it was nearing 4am, I exited the club, ready to head home alone when out of no where, young Jordan came outside exclaiming, "That's MINE."

Looking around for some object that he may have dropped on the floor, I was gleefully surprised to see that young Jordan was referring to me (or at least my body, because he did not make eye contact with anything but my breasts for a good 30 seconds). I felt proud, as he ran around telling his British brethren that I was his wifey. An avid believer in true love, I hung on his every word as he hung on my waist for the remainder of the evening. And that's when it happened: Jordan asked me to make his dreams come true and let him be my "Teddy Bear" for the evening. Knowing that meant I had to give up the goods, I politely declined, while Jordan looked at me as if I had six heads. In attempt to convince me, Jordan than requested that we catch breakfast together, and I accepted because deep down, I really did want to scramble around his hotel room asking myself "where are my panties" at 2pm the next day.

We headed to breakfast, which really meant food and a chance for Jordan and friends to plead their case and convince me to let Jordan "play tongue tricks with my kitty cat." I was advised by his sexy personal trainer from Sierra Leone that Jordan was quite skilled and that because it was Miami, I should live and sit on his face for the evening. Even our Mexican waiters joined the cause of a brown man trying to get his, as they implored me to let him lick the gato.

After he realized I was a tough case, young Jordan gave me the kiss of life. It was one of those long fulfilling kisses that let me know I was in love. After 5 or 6 more of those kisses on the sitting area of Jordan's 1000G a night hotel room, I inquired about his line of work, to which he replied, "I play football, what you Americans call soccer." My naiveté let me foolishly wonder what this 26 year old's real job was, and how he had the money to make multiple multi-city trips to the United States year after year. Ignoring the second trip to the ATM machine (because he could only take out $250 at once), I began thinking about our wedding, and how it would have to be in New Jersey because my family was not traveling to the UK. Continuing to think about our lovely half and hour make out session as the sun came up and how I would tell my grandfather that yes, I was indeed going to marry a Jamaican man, I decided it was time to go before I lost my self-control. I really can't tell you why I said no or what the hell possessed me to go back to my own bed solo. We exchanged numbers, and Jordan gave me his myspace page. After letting him no that I didn't have a myspace page, he asked me to just check him out anyway.

Fast forward a week later, I get back to Durham and thoughts of Jordan are driving me nuts. I have been regretting the fact that I didn't let him smash so I decided to do two irrational things. First, I opened a myspace account (which I have no intentions of using) and second, I friended the father of my children, sending him the following book report:

"Hey sweetie,

I don't know if you remember me, we had breakfast in Miami with my friend and some of your boys. I just wanted to say hey...since you don't have a facebook :(
I see you'll be in LA soon...I'm headed out there to visit family around the 15th. If you're free, we should definitely connect and you can be my Teddy Bear this time ;)
Take care,
D"

Within five minutes, my love responded:

"how u doin babes....yeah of course i remember in jerry's!!!!! teddy bear eh.... ;p xxx"

Less than satisfied, I began to look at his myspace profile and to my surprise, Jordan was all over it in soccer attire. Indeed, your man is a professional soccer player. But rest assured this title does not come without all the riches afforded to professional status. Indeed, he has groupies, the most notorious being some bitch named Alana Wanna and another ho called Lydia [Chlamydia]. The page is full of proposals to be next to my husband Jordan, requests to feel his hard body again, and incessant compliments about his good looks. The good news is that since I only have one friend on myspace, I can tell how many times Jordan has looked at my profile and lone picture that makes me look twelve. We've clocked 4 views today (which means I need to get some provocative pictures up there ASAP).

And so, perhaps this story does have a happy ending. Although I never officially 'bagged' a professional athlete, the least I can say is that I turned one down.