Page 31 of Queen of the Pole

This was the first time that he really showed some emotion tonight. That nonchalant shit that he was typically on had gone out of the window.

“I don’t think it’s a situation where it’s just certain men that I deal with that have that mindset. I think all men have that mindset. You can’t tell me otherwise. I think poorly of men. I don’t believe that there are good men out there,” I hate that I even said that to him.

I really did feel this way though. This was just something that I would vent to my girls about or say out loud to myself. That’s because I felt like these kind of conversations were sacred, and it made me come off as vulnerable, and that’s the last thing that I wanted to portray.

“I don’t know what niggas you’ve come across, but it’s sad that they got you thinking that way. You putting every nigga in the same box. I can tell you right now that I’m not shit like the niggas that you’ve dealt with. When I do things for people, I don’t expect nothing in return. I ain’t the nicest nigga in the world, but I got a big heart. I asked you outside the club if you’d eaten yet and you told me you hadn’t. That’s why I got all this shit. I didn’t know the kinds of snacks or candy you like, so I got a little bit of everything, knowing that it had to be something in this box that you liked. I brought you here to the drive- in theater because I wanted to respect you when you told me that you didn’t want to be around a lot of people tonight, since your face had already been in the blogs this week. Ain’t no motive,” he shot.

I nodded my head to that. I didn’t say anything else after that. I didn’t know what I should say. Maybe he was telling the truth. Hell, maybe he was lying like most men. I didn’t know him well enough to trust him yet. He could just be talking up a good game to me.

“You want me to drop you back off to your car? I ain’t trying to have you on edge, thinking that I’m sitting here with thoughts of fuckin you. I can take you back to your car,” he suggested.

“It’s cool. We can stay,” I said, and he nodded his head towards that.

“What’s your real name?” he eventually asked me. That question caused a sly smile to appear on my face, as I rolled my eyes at him, as if I was annoyed.

“I’m sure you’ve done your homework on me. You know exactly what my real name is,” I voiced.

“Yeah, but I would rather you give it to me. I wasn’t trying to address you by your real name, and then you come up with another fuckin theory on the kind of nigga that you think I am. You already accused me of wanting pussy from you. If I had called you by your real name, you would have said I was a fuckin talker,” he said.

“Just call me Poison,” I said to him.

“I ain’t calling you Poison, man. You use that shit at work. You use that shit at the club, when you running game on niggas. We ain’t at the club right now. Give me the name that’s on your birth certificate,” his strict ass said to me.

Another rule was to never give niggas your real name. When you were a dancer, they should only know your stage name. When you start giving out your government name, niggas would get too comfortable. That’s one of the number one rules. Here I was again though, getting ready to break one of my own rules.

“Deja, even though you knew that already,” I finally said to him. He nodded at that.

“What’s your real name?” I was the one to ask a question this time.

“Wolf,” he lied to me. It’s as if no one knew his real name. Whenever they spoke about him, they always referred to him as Wolf.

“I know your mama didn’t name you Wolf. What’s the name that’s on your birth certificate? It took a lot for me to tell you my real name, so offer me that same courtesy and tell me yours,” I said to him. I used that birth certificate line on him that he used on me.

“I knew your real name already. I was just being respectful by asking,” he said.

“Okay, and I’m being respectful by asking you too. What is your real name?” I pried.

“Warren,” he eventually told me. I smiled a little bit because I liked the name. It wasn’t the name that I expected though.

“Who gave you the nickname, Wolf?” I wanted to know.

“My mom nicknamed me that,” he said.

“Why Wolf? What’s the significance of the nickname?” I asked.

“She nicknamed me Wolf the day that I was born. I came out with hair everywhere. Head full of hair. Hair all on my face, back, all that shit. I guess the nickname just stuck,” he said.

Hearing that, I could only imagine how beautiful of a baby he was. There was this piece of me that wanted to so badly ask him to see a baby picture of him, but I didn’t want to look crazy, so I didn’t. Instead, I went ahead and asked a question that me, and a lot of other women wanted to know.

“What’s your background” I went ahead and asked.

“My dad is black. My mom is Ethiopian,” he responded. I’ve been wanting to know what his background was for years, and now that I know, I could say that I was surprised.

“Oh wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I blurted.

“What did you think it was?” he inquired.

“Like Trinidadian or something,” I was honest.