Spend some time with me

I used to say I never met a girl like you before
Still aint gotta fuckin clue as to who you truly are

I am a pious habitué of rap music. I love rap – italics used in place of heavy panting and self-inflicted hair pulling. Not the intellectually stimulating, emotionally fraught indie-hip hop that conceals – with a dab of natural beige – the throbbing blemish of a traumatic childhood, alcoholic father, depressed mother, and all that jazz, but the misogynistic, drug selling (drug using is for those emo emcees), MOP doused shit.

My mother told me yesterday over the in-n-out service of T-Mobile, that I will never be recognized for my borderline brilliant writing if I "keep up my vulgar speak", quoted verbatim. This was proceeded by a vocabulary of so-called "vulgar speak" by myself, and a verbal battle of robotic voices, with transmissions of an eerie raspy crackle. But I digress.

Why rap? It is a simple enough question, but the answer is not so.

Before a quasi-explanation begins, the critics may sound. Self-proclaimed music snobs, audiences of the classical genre, and neo-feminists: Read first paragraph and rabble.

I grew up on the streets of L.A. or something along those lines. My older, plain white-T wearing, back-pocket tucked handkerchief (pre-trend) cousins made up my summer school education, and I, their junior and female, worshipped the rounded toes of their boar-bristle scrubbed sneakers. To my younger version, they spoke the word of God.

We never discussed the patent sexist lyrics of the music that accompanied the suffocating heat of summer. I never asked. They never explained. My innate curiosity suppressed by their senior coolness. My dark hair is longer and sans frizz, but my hips still sway in the same direction, padded by womanhood and tattooed. I can still sing along to the customary chorus of "bitches", and "suck my dicks" with the best of them.

My childhood babysitter manifests into an auditory aphrodisiac.

Rap is a turn-on, a sadistic Spanish fly buzzing in my ear. Scraped knees, misplaced homework sheets, and sneaked tongue licks of Corona limes have been replaced by wrung hands, text message foreplay, and desperate partner seeking. The adjective desperate added only for literary effect. Lil Wayne crawls, gremlin-like, to the stereo on lonely winter nights; although the Al Gore backed global warming effect is revising the ratio satisfaction: frustration.

I necked for the first time to Tupac's "temptations". I was a late bloomer, or just awkward. The musical selection was my suggestion. He wanted Boyz II Men, and in that lurks the reason we parted ways. My taste in music trumped his, that, and he had braces. Having recently undergone the painful but worthwhile process of braces-removal, I felt superior.

All this talk of rap-induced sex is putting the fear of venereal diseases in me. The question posed remains unanswered, the blog is still thesis-less, and I am going to engage in mental sex with my new novel*. – Nerd.

* It is not part of the Twilight series.