Free The Awesome Girl's Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men by Ernessa T. Carter Page A

grandma,” I said. “You promised. Bring him along if you want.”
    “I know I promised, and I would bring him, except he’s black, and your whole show is about how trifling black men are,” she said, like her ditching me was all my fault.
    Reason #1 I didn’t date black men. Black comedians and rappers could throw shade at black woman all day, and black men not only laughed, but also gave them enough money to buy mansions, cars, and even more women for them to make fun of in their routines and songs. But let a black woman do a routine about how crazy black men are—suddenly everybody gets offended.
    “I mean, some of your points are funny, but black men already have so many people attacking them. It just feels like you’re ganging up on them,” Sharita said after my first show.
    Funny that she never seemed to feel like black men were attacking black women when she bought rap albums back in college or liked blackcomedians on Facebook who did routines about how crazy black women were.
    “Can I ask why you’re dating a guy that takes himself so seriously that you can’t bring him to the show you promised me you would attend?”
    “Did you invite Caleb to the show?” Sharita asked, her voice the sharpest pencil in the making-a-valid-point bucket.
    “No, but only because nobody gets invited to see me perform if we haven’t been dating for at least three months.”
    “Nobody’s ever made it to three months.”
    “Sharita,” I said, hand to brow. “Do you understand that you’re really letting me down here? You promised me you’d come out this time.”
    “I’ll make it up to you,” Sharita answered.
    My fifteen-minute break had come and gone and I could tell that I wasn’t going to be able to make Sharita budge. Have you ever met one of those borderline-autistic genius types that could tell you how much 1,623,426 times 30,748,642 was without blinking an eye but couldn’t, like, tie his shoe? That’s kind of how Sharita was. She was brilliant with money but just plain stupid when it came to men. And she could become weirdly blind to the feelings of her friends when an eligible black man came sniffing around.
    “I expect you to come to my next show with three guests,” I told her.
    “One,” Sharita countered. This wasn’t our first negotiation. “It’s hard to get anyone out to anything with a two-drink minimum. Those drinks are so overpriced.”
    “You’re accountants. You can afford it,” I shot back.
    “We’re accountants, so we know when we’re being gypped.”
    “Two. Final offer.”
    “Fine,” Sharita said.
    “Fine,” I echoed back. Then I mumbled, “Love you,” even though I didn’t really feel like saying it. But my mother’s death had taught me that the last thing you said to loved ones should always be “I love you.” Because those might be the last words you ever got to say to them.
    “Love you, too, girl,” Sharita answered before hanging up.

RISA
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    T hursday called me to complain about Sharita on her lunch hour. I wasn’t surprised to hear she flaked on Thursday’s show. Sharita is the queen of doing the things she wants to do and finding a reason not to do the things she doesn’t want to do.
    On one hand I felt bad for Thursday, since I wouldn’t be there either because of my Space Camp show. On the other hand, during my many years as a lesbian with straight friends, I’d noticed that straight girls tended to fall out with each other when one or both of them got into a new relationship. Things they didn’t mind about each other before suddenly became major problems, which usually didn’t get resolved until one or both of them broke up with whomever they were dating and decided that the other wasn’t so bad after all. Half the time, Thursday and Sharita couldn’t remember what they got so mad about a few weeks later. I’d have to remind them, just because I like instigating shit.
    But the lunchtime bitch session took my mind off that night’s show for