CAN LEGUMES INTERFERE WITH YOUR LOVEMAKING?

When it comes to feminine hygiene, I am exceedingly extra, with a cache of items in my vanity cabinet large enough to replenish a Walgreens shelf. I will never ever be the girl with the vaginal stench in which Notorious B.I.G.'s lyrics went "Those the ones I like cause they don't get nathan, but penetration, unless it smells like sanitation." Not that I need it, but I take my sanitation seriously. There will not be any notorious nicknames following me in my glorious geriatric years and passing down to my descendants.

I even go as far as avoiding gaseous food such as cabbage and broccoli on a date. Although one can muffle the sound of flatulence, the malodorous aroma that wafts in the air immediately thereafter, especially in the confines of a car, usually is a dead give away.

Invariably, I purify the punani before I allow any tongue to travel that erogenous terrain. Totally, not cool to knowingly let another human being sample the sex box with the chance encounter of excrement residue. I have literally cold-cocked a guy in the forehead for attempted trespassing with his tongue before my purification process, so I don't know how I let a legume lurk in my love life and wreak havoc.

Bolting upright in my sleep at 2:00 a.m., after recollecting the night in question, I had a sudden revelation that asparagus was the culprit for my male friend's sudden disappearance after we had been kicking it for months. On that particular night, I was the poster child for Summer's Eve in terms of cleanliness, but I forgot that I had eaten an inordinate amount of asparagus. Who would have known that a legume could be responsible for my current lovelorn state. Damn! Damn! Damn!

Pacing my living room in the wee hours of the morning and repressing the urge to call him and explain that it was the asparagus, I quickly nixed the idea after I realized the time and hypothetically played the conversation in my head:

Katina: "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that night I had asparagus."

lover boy: "Huh?"

Katina: "That night you tried to taste me and maybe your olfactory senses were possibly offended"

lover boy: "What the hell are you talking about?"

Katina: "Asparagus alters the smell of some people's urine because of a sulfur containing amino acid, and I went to tinkle beforehand....... and normally I am a good wiper...... but..... anyway, I had an inordinate amount of asparagus that night."

lover boy: "Listen, I don't know what you're talking about and I have no time for this and first of all sistas don't eat asparagus, they eat collard greens or callaloo."

click.....dial tone

Instead of calling him, I called my girlfriend, who quickly got me back to thinking rationally. After ranting on the phone for almost an hour, I went back to bed and forgot about the nightmare for an entire week.

Coincidentally, I received a call from lover boy the following week, explaining that he hadn't contacted me because his apartment had burned down and he was displaced, and he wanted to get his life back in order before he called me. By that time, however, I remembered the conversation with my girlfriend, where we had a laundry list of reasons for me to be thankful he disappeared like abracadabra.

Determined to sever my ties with him indefinitely this time, I went to Victoria's Secret for sexy lingerie and to the grocers for three bushels of asparagus, and invited him over the following night for a home-cooked meal of sole and asparagus for his good riddance party unbeknownst to him.

A Cougar talking to Cubs on the Street of Toronto! (disclaimer: must be over 21)

While vlogging in the streets of Toronto, I witness these boys getting their alcohol taken away by the police! LOL

Signing the Tribute Shrine at the Apollo!

Paying Homage to Michael Jackson in Harlem

How to do a due diligence of the ding-a-ling.

On a balmy Saturday, while listening to Betty Wright's upbeat track "It's in His Kiss," I pondered whether or not the song was written during her pubescence, a time when kissing and fondling were enough to satiate a young woman sexually, in Betty's heyday of course. The shared sentiment amongst my female friends is that the male member is merely enough to satisfy them, specifically males with modest members, so how could a simple kiss suffice, sexually speaking.

Betty's song reminded me of an earlier conversation with a girlfriend, in which we were gabbing about why a seemingly perfect gentleman was still single, the gamut of reasons ranging from body odor, bad breath, bereft-benjamins, bad-tempered........ bodily brutality. Bromhidrosis and halitosis quickly eliminated as possible reasons, as my friend had discreetly snatched a whiff of him on a previous occasion, and confirmed his body gave off an aroma of lilacs and his breath of Listerine.

A light-bulb moment flashing in my brain, I slapped my forehead and stated the obvious reason - a disappointing ding-a-ling. Observing the deadpan look plastered across my friend's face, I whispered in her ear my dirty little secret: the tongue-kiss as an opportunity to grope the male groin and to determine whether or not he has a monstrous or modest member.


While tongue-kissing your mate fully-clothed and your purse in proximity, finagle your fingers downwards and fiddle with the instrument, employing a bit of finesse. You must be gentle when groping the genitals, and not to grab it like gotcha-your-it, as this is not a game of tag. This is a foolproof method, averting you from a situation where you are lying nude anticipating his entrance, and he unleashes a tool the circumference of a Crayola Crayon or a can of Coca Cola, both warranting a plea " please put it back in your pants PRONTO." The male appendage is the only case in which "average" is a favorable attribute.


If your exploratory efforts return dissatisfactory results, and your plans of bumping bodies in the buff are derailed, please come prepared with a stock of excuses to spew at your suitor as to why you cannot do the deed tonight, or any other night for that matter. Some plausible excuses which have withstood the test of time are menstruation and toothache.

When you are out of options, and you desperately need to take flight, excuse yourself to the bathroom and slip out of the window, making sure to grab your bag nearby as you beeline for the bathroom. Now you see why this necessitates that you be fully-clothed and that your purse be in proximity, allowing enough time to flee while your suitor is sprawled on the sofa with his ding-a-ling dangling from his slacks.



By the time dude realizes that you have departed the domicile, your car engine is revved up and your foot is flooring the gas pedal, en route to I-95. Keeping a pair of driving moccasins or chinese slippers stowed away in your bag comes in handy for moments like these.




I realize that there is a faction of the female population where size does not matter in terms of ding-a-ling discretion. Being a divorcee and dreading those dormant periods of ding-a-ling action, I welcome any ding dong size, just as long it is free of diseases, deformities and dysfunctions.

For those ladies who must do due diligence to unearth the ding-a-ling size, please deploy my fail-safe "kiss feel and flee" method and be sure to tell a friend. Encountering a diminutive ding-a-ling is a rite of passage, which sometimes warrants a lady to leave her lover in the lurch.

SAVE A HORSE AND RIDE A COWBOY - COUNTRY MUSIC HAS A NEW CONVERT.

ONCE IN A WHILE, I WILL KEEP MY POSTS LIGHTHEARTED AND NOT DISCUSS FEMALE ISSUES. IN THIS ECONOMIC CLIMATE, WE CAN ALL USE A LITTLE LEVITY IN OUR LIFE. INSPIRED BY A COUNTRY SONG TITLE, I DESCRIBE MY WEEKEND USING THE TITLE OF SONGS.
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While destined for a night of debauchery with my girls, I attempt to convert my crew of die-hard Hip-Hop/R&B heads to country music by telling them about a song titled "SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY."

When they return quizzical stares, I begin to gyrate like I am riding a cowboy with an imaginary lasso in my hand to illustrate the innuendo of the song title. When the light bulb finally turns on in their brains, they laugh in unison uproariously.

My girl Liz blurts out "she will ride a peacock.. it's been so long."(Poor Birdie - No Pun Intended!!) I respond it's been so long for me "my coochie is like a crypt, you might find cobwebs with spiders crawling out that MOFO." Slouching my back and peering down at my punani, I pat it with the palm of my hand and ask "baby girl you still alive, you alright down there."

Getting my lean on and cruising the streets of NYC with my girls on the way to the club, we hang out the car window, taunting men by bellowing in a mock country accent "SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY."

IN DA CLUB, prancing like we own the piece, because SHAWTY IS DA SHIT. Lookin' mean, sporting a mini-dress with peep-toe STILETTOES, MY SWAGGA' KINDA GHETTO, I am ROCKIN' THAT SHIT. In fact, my entire crew is STYLIN'. We survey the scene, looking for BIG THINGS POPPIN'. We are just some I.N.D.E.P.E.N.D.E.N.T. AROUND THE WAY GIRLS living the GLAMOROUS and SINGLE LIFE. I peep only a few SCRUBS, looking like life is an EVERYDAY STRUGGLE, and I intend to keep "to the left, to the left" as far as I can of these fellows. I AIN'T SAYING I AM A GOLD DIGGA, BUT I AIN'T MESSING WITH NO BROKE NIGGA.

We find a crew BALLIN' and ready to POP DEM BOTTLES, so we FOLLOW THEIR LEAD and sit down.

I want to DROP IT LIKE IT'S HOT, so I go and DIP IT LOW, like Christina Milian, causing men to scurry to the dance floor, even one chic. I tell her I KISSED A GIRL AND I "DIDN'T" LIKE IT.

This guy steps to me and say EXCUSE ME MISS. I tell him my name, he says his name is CHARLIE, LAST NAME WILSON. When the DJ PLAYS A LOVE SONG, he begins to grind on my body. Even though it FEELS SO GOOD, like Remy Ma say, I push him off and I say I'm not tryin' to MAKE LOVE IN THIS CLUB, and he replies I don't see nothing wrong with a little BUMP AND GRIND.

I suggestively stare at the BARTENDER, getting the hint, he asks can I BUY YOU A DRINK. After I get my drink on, I walk off, leaving him CHOPPED AND SCREWED. I bet he said CAN'T BELIEVE IT like the T-Pain track the DJ was spinning.

Gazing at the dance floor, I see SISTA BIG BONES putting a hurting on this scrawny brother, and he looks like he AIN'T GONNA BUMP NO MORE WITH NO BIG FAT WOMAN.....DAMN SHE DID A DIP AND ALMOST BROKE HIS HIP!!!!

Next to SISTA BIG BONES, my girl is on the dance floor, looking like she is going HALF ON A BABY with some dude.

Shortly after my friend's SENSUAL SEDUCTION on the dance floor, she tells me it's GETTING LATE like Floetry and she GOTTA GET HIM HOME WITH HER TONIGHT. Whispering in my ear, she needs some SEXUAL HEALING and wants to be a NAUGHTY GIRL like Beyonce. I know she damn sure going to SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY tonight.

Normally, my friend is not a PROMISCUOUS GIRL, but sometimes that BODY IS CALLIN' and I WONDER IF I TAKE YOU HOME ...... is the last thing on your mind when MY NECK, MY BACK, MY......needs to be tapped.

The next morning, the ringing of the phone awakes me from a very sweet dream. Groggily, I answer "hello" and my girl yells through the receiver "LAST NIGHT I SAVED A PONY, RODE A COWBOY, damn sure didn't sing a FALSETTO and definitely didn't SWEAT IT OUT, SWEAT IT OUT, SWEAT IT OUT."

After I hang up the phone, I go back to the stallion in my dreams and start to TOUCH MY BODY. In terms of pleasure, sometimes you have to CATER TO YOU with ME, MYSELF AND I.

IS WANTING A MAN TO AFFORD MORE THAN AN APPETIZER BEING A GOLD DIGGER???

Lately, I have come across some really rough waves when navigating the sea of life in terms of dating. Invariably, I come across men who are busted financially or facially, sometimes both. I have always been a sucker for the men gorgeous enough to grace the cover of GQ, but the majority of them that I meet are the equivalent of male gold diggers. Yes ladies, men are tricks as well. Be afraid! Be very afraid!

After having my wallet stolen from a gigolo, I decide to give Mr. Homely a chance. Every lady has met Mr. Homely at some point in her life. He is the fiscally responsible man, but frightfully unattractive, where the prospect of procreating with him makes you seriously second-guess the relationship.

Realizing that Mr. Homely’s personality trumps his appearance, I entertain the idea of a serious relationship; however, our courtship is very short-lived after discovering he is a sexual miscreant.

After having bad luck with both Mr. Bankroll and Mr. Broke, I become discouraged, depressed and despondent, resulting in me temporarily removing myself from the dating scene.

For fear of being lovelorn, I decide to reenter the dating scene, determined to find a man who is gainfully employed and relatively good looking. While attending a rooftop party at a hotel in Manhattan, I meet a seemingly cultured and well-spoken man – Jackpot! We exchange numbers and decide to hang out the upcoming Saturday in the City. Both of us being artsy types, we plan a day of patronizing art establishments.

Saturday arrives and I am excited about meeting my potential prince charming, but my hopes and dreams are immediately dashed when he is donning a T-shirt with "Bugar" emblazoned across the back. I want to ask who are you and what have you done to the refined man I met at the rooftop party?

Changing the earlier plans, I suggest we meet up with my friends who were staying at the W Hotel. After introducing him to my girlfriend and her husband, the four of us decide to have dinner at Ruby Foos, which is moderately priced in my opinion.

While seated in the restaurant, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He is studying the menu like it is a Bill from the House of Congress, eyes rapidly darting between the item names and prices. We place our orders with the waiter, and he decides to order just an appetizer with a glass of water. My friends and I decide to order sushi and sashimi along with our entrées, but my date say that he isn’t that hungry and opts out.

Utterly annoyed at his dinner selection, now he is under strict scrutiny by me. The appetizers arrive and I notice he is the first to help himself to the sashimi he opted out of earlier. Now, I am suppressing the urge to smack his hand with my chopstick and say “take your greasy paws off my sashimi.”

Not only do I discover that he is broke on our first date, but I discover that he is blind as well. He repeatedly dips his sushi in an empty bowl, prompting my friends and I to look at each other totally puzzled. With pure disdain in my voice, I ask him “what are you doing?” Apparently, he had mistaken the green plant painted at the base of the bowl for wasabi.

When the bill finally arrives, he immediately snatches up the bill and gives his portion, which amounts to him giving only five percent towards the tip. My friend’s husband seeing me glowering at my date like Sophia did Harpo in the “Color Purple” before she gives him an uppercut, decides to pick up the entire tab.

After experiencing both broke and busted, I think that busted is the better option at the end of the day for me. As a rule of thumb, I do not date men who cannot afford a three-course meal. If this makes me a gold digger, then I graciously accept the title. I refuse to go on another train wreck of a date with the poster boy for pauperism.

SOMETIMES IT IS NOT JUST THE FEMALE THAT NEEDS TO BE NIPPED AND TUCKED!!!

Lately, I get really crestfallen when I hear of women scheduling cosmetic surgery after being mentally forced into it by their significant other. Normally, it is after delivering a child, where the stretch marks and sagging skin are debilitating on one’s psyche and ravaging on one’s physique.

I just want to bring awareness to the fact that cosmetic surgery is still surgery, carrying with it many risks like any other surgery. Do I have to remind everyone about Donde West, the mother of Kanye West, or Tameka Foster’s recent scare. To my dismay, rumor has it that she is scheduled to go back under the knife in two months.

After delivering five kids, Tameka’s body must have been ravaged, but risking your life again for vanity purposes and leaving five kids without a mother is both asinine and selfish.

One day, while attending a gathering at a girlfriend’s house, she casually tells me that she is getting a tummy tuck and liposuction because her husband has been making comments about her post-pregnancy physique.

After chatting in the kitchen, we eventually join everyone else in the living room. Still pondering the news she delivered in the kitchen, I give her husband sitting catty-cornered from me a good once-over. Watching him complacently ensconced in his chair with his hands folded on the girth of his midriff, I take inventory of the paunchy belly, jiggling jowls and miniature feet.

At the end of the night, I am thinking of a way in which I could tactfully say that her husband resembles a bloated muskrat, and the nerve of him to force you into a life- threatening procedure. With his big belly and small feet, I am sure he is not the bedfellow that one boasts about.

Instead of discouraging her from a decision that had already been made, I remain a supportive friend and ruefully tell her to call the doctor and ask “if they offer a two for one tummy tucks for husband and wife!”

The battle of beauty v. brains. Which do men prefer?

While attending a networking event, I had the opportunity to sit back and observe the battle of beauty v. brains with females. As everyone mingled and acquainted themselves at the networking event, I observed the men naturally gravitating towards the more attractive women in the group.

Apparently, I was not the only one who noticed the male migration towards "beauty," because a female, whom I will refer to as “brains,” stepped in and commanded the situation. She cleared her throat and instructed everyone to go around the circle and give his or her name and credentials. When her turn finally arrived, she giddily spewed out the organizations in which she belonged and the Ivy league schools in which she attended. As she gave her credentials, I surveyed her face and noticed that she was very unattractive, causing me to think that she overcompensated intellectually to make up for her shortcomings aesthetically.

The men who initially ignored “brains” suddenly had a newfound interest and kicked “beauty” to the curb. Observing the sudden shift in attention from the girl with beauty to the girl with brains, I metaphorically thought of car salesmen.

I thought of “brains” being an aggressive used car salesman pushing and prodding the potential buyer by boasting about the many features and extras, akin to the intellectual girl promoting herself by focusing on her qualifications and associations.

I thought of "beauty" being a passive salesman at a luxury car dealership. The potential buyer is basically sold at first sight by the pristine exterior of the car. The salesman basically does not have to be as aggressive about the sale because the car sells itself. The pivotal question with this transaction is how much it will cost you?

Figuratively speaking, which type of car do most men prefer? After talking to countless men, most prefer the luxury model. Unfortunately, men are very visual creatures who love their toys. Eventually, the majority of them realize that the maintenance and upkeep on the luxury vehicle is exorbitant, resulting in them trading the car in for another make or model.

Do men who choose beauty over brains regret their decision when they take into account depreciation? Is beauty fading tantamount to a car depreciating over time?

Is there an intermediate area when it comes to beauty and brains? Is the Chevy car equivalent to the girl with the brains and the Rolls Royce equivalent to the girl with beauty? With that being said, is the intermediate area the Mercedes Benz? I think most men would not balk at a Mercedes Benz. I like to think of myself as a Mercedes Benz, possessing a fair amount of both beauty and brains.

Ladies which car make and model are you?

When does the whistling and whooping by males become welcome? Is it a confirmation that we still got “it?”

While walking down the streets of Harlem on my way to a friend’s house, I bypassed a gaggle of guys who were whooping and whistling at female passers-by. Normally, bypassing these guys is a source of trepidation for me, invariably resulting in me crossing the street to avoid the onslaught of obscene remarks.

As I crossed their paths, the predictable ensued: “hey baby, let me holla at you…..can I lick it”

While walking and ignoring the men at the same time, I noticed a middle-aged woman also bypassing the street posse. The middle-aged woman jokingly flirted back with a smile plastered across her face the entire time. At this particular moment, it dawned on me that she viewed the remarks from the men as a source of triumph rather than trepidation. It confirmed for her that she still had “it.” From a cursory glance, she appeared to be about 43 years old, and it immediately led my thoughts to my friend Valerie.

I have always been an old soul and hung around people much older than myself. My friend Valerie is older than me by at least a decade, so I have witnessed firsthand what happens when a woman crosses the 40s threshold. I specifically recall an incident while shopping with Valerie at the Aventura Mall. The entire time at the shopping center she lamented that the men must be gay because they were not hollering at her. It became so intolerable that I had to muster all the strength in my body to avoid blurting out “beeoch everybody don’t want you, now can we enjoy our damn shopping.”

At the time, I was focusing on my sore feet and telling her to get her shit and lets go. It never occurred to me that she was going through growing pains and that I was being insensitive. This is a woman who have always received attention from the opposite sex, and to have the attention wane must be heart-wrenching for her.

I never fully understood why she would tell men she was 37 when she was 43. When I casually asked her about it one day, she said "when you turn 43, then come and talk to me." I often wonder why does society force females to tell this little white lie.

The specter of turning 40 years old one day (thankfully not in the near future) never haunted me. I look at all the female celebrities fabulous and over 40 years old, such as Vivica Fox, Halle Berry, Angela Bassett....the list goes on, and I am not afraid. Are these fabulous women over 40 years old only getting attention because of their stardom? What about the ordinary woman over 40?

I never thought in a million years that I would one day welcome comments such as “yo that booty fat mommy.” Is any form of confirmation that you still have “it" better than no confirmation at all?

A time will come where I will need a guy to publicly humiliate me on the streets of Harlem by yelling “can he lick it,” but I guess that time is not now, so I will continue crossing the street.