You and Me Baby Ain't Nothing But Mammals

I met an African man named Jean-Yves – where else?- dancing. He was dressed in a fashionable suit and vest complete with a stylish hat that would look ridiculous on a lesser man. I was amused when he asked for my number but couldn’t even remember my name. Normally I won’t give a guy my number if he can’t remember my name but Jean-Yves warranted a second chance. He handed me his phone to input my number and I entered it as “Mystery Salsa." Again, I was amused when he still didn’t ask my name but took to calling me “M.”

Jean-Yves texted (ugh) and invited me to an African birthday party. Loving it. I imagined it would be at one of the African-friendly nightclubs with perhaps a band playing international grooves. He gave me the address and we agreed to meet there at a reasonable hour on Saturday night.

I’m walking down the street while looking for the address. Huh. That’s weird. The address he gave me is to a church. Thinking he gave me the wrong address, I call him and get his voicemail. Hmph. I saunter up and ask a older gentleman if there is a bar/restaurant anywhere nearby. He smiles and asks if I’m looking for the African party. Gulp. He sends me around the side of the church and a life-size poster of the birthday boy alerts me that I’ve been invited to an African man’s 60th birthday party. I have two choices: bolt or walk in. What the hell? I walk in.

I’m stunned. It’s literally 150 Africans dressed in full African garb – as in the headdress and everything – milling about a church hall. There are old people, young people, children and babies - I am the only white person. Jean-Yves spots me and comes to retrieve me. I smile thinly and tell him this isn’t what I thought he meant by an African party. He looks confused and says “I said it was an African birthday party. Are you hungry?”

I ate delicious food. I talked to everyone. I danced with every single child in the room. Jean-Yves and I twirled around to a few salsa songs. A woman invited me to her wedding reception the following weekend. She knew a party girl when she saw one. To put it simply, I had a blast. I’m glad I didn’t bolt.

Jean-Yves walks me to my car like a nice boy and holds my hand as we cross the street. He is saying something about never being able to find a sweet girl with long hair (Apparently those are his two requirements for dating). We arrive at my car and I have to hand it to him. He goes right in for the kiss.

So disappointing! It’s not an awful kiss. Mechanically it is sound. How is it possible I don’t feel any chemistry with this gorgeous black man who dances like Patrick Swayze and dresses like Usher? Screw you, pheromones!