Over the years, I have cultivated a strong solo date routine. It’s my sincerest belief that knowing how to treat yourself to a good time and an orgasm is what it means to be a grown ass woman. You must know your spots.
On one particular Wednesday on a late afternoon in Los Angeles, I was on my way to one of my favorite spots for my usual order of spicy tuna crispy rice, the chef’s special sushi deluxe, and a lychee martini. By myself, of course. I was feeling extra special that day so I also planned on walking off my meal in Sephora to grab whatever new Pat McGarth glam product grabbed my attention. As I was whipping around the parking garage looking for a spot, the name of the person I started dating a few weeks prior flashes across my Apple CarPlay screen. I answer.
A soft voice with just enough confidence spilled out of my speakers asking, “What are you doing? Can I come see you?” I laugh and respond with, “I’m at The Grove about to have lunch. Is that ok with you?” I’m tickled because I’m sure they were hoping to catch me at my house for a midday work from home thumb wrestle. I’m not complaining, because I love a rendezvous at noon– my favorite perk of being a freelance narrative consultant and writer. However, in my queer relationships I try to maintain that I’m not a Uhaul type of girl. It’s way too easy to get caught up under brown titties or giggling on FaceTime for multiple hours a day. Next thing you know, you’ve parlayed one 10 hour date into a new relationship and a 1 year lease with someone you barely know. I don’t care if we had our chats read together and share a an angel number! The sapphic leaning queers know exactly what I’m talking about. We do a little too much, too soon. I don’t blame us, because the shit do be fun in the moment. I still get chills thinking about a lover whose appetite for morning sex almost got me fired from my good non-profit DC job during an election year. I have since learned to maintain new sex life balance by honoring the fact that I enjoy my alone time, my work, my hobbies, and my life beyond romantic partnerships.
Now, I would be lying if I didn’t mention how deeply thrilling it is when I get “in someone’s nostrils” as the women in my family would call it. Here’s the thing– I hate indifference. I find uncertainty deeply annoying and unattractive. Especially from anyone trying to access my coochie. I’m inspired by focused flirting and direct eye contact. Let me be the first to tell you that when it comes to dating someone who named herself Amber Abundance, if you’re scared, find something safer to do that is not me. I require clarity that there is no doubt I am the one you’re trying to please. I learned early on that too many people are ok with hiding their attraction and pursuit of darker skinned Black women. Especially those of us moving through the world in fat abundant bodies with undeniable ambition and goals. Something about that combo makes suitors think it’s ok to waste your time and finesse you into secret relationships.
At my big age and in this big life, I of course expect more. And I get it too! I have enjoyed flowers being left at my doorstep. Picking up tickets that are left for me at Will Call to see my favorite musical acts or Black theater productions. Signed first edition books and beautifully packaged vintage accessories and home decor goods appearing at my home with handwritten notes. And this is just the fun and flirty side of what I accept as offerings of care, safety and pleasure. If I were to create a series of romance novels or Lifetime movies, my plots would go the way of eldest daughters getting everything we need and exactly what we asked for. Not just what other people think we want or deserve.
When you do the work of creating healthy standards and boundaries to begin any type of relationship, you learn that the easy part is in naming your needs. Everything after that takes constant discipline and determination to stand up for yourself. And my momentary flavor of the month was hitting all my favorite notes. But as masc niggas with neck tattoos and a mysterious nature about them tend to do, they taught me my first major lesson about dating in the city of angels.
Things started off well. We were bopping around the kind of LA events where you had to give your name to a light skinned lady with a list, most times in a some kind of blazer dress, before you could enter the function. We hung out at private pools. They somehow managed to always provide excellent weed. And whenever we headed out for the evening smelling like an ounce and well dressed, Black cars were sent so I wouldn’t have to worry about how many glasses of prosecco I would sip down while twirling on the dance floor. They knew who they were dealing with. It seemed like I didn’t have to shy away from the standard of fun, adventure, and pleasure I had spent years cultivating for myself alongside my best friends. All of whom happen to be the most caring Black women I’ve ever met. I have a theory that oldest daughters, only daughters, and mothers are secretly powering the entire United States economy.
So yes, I was more than happy to pick up the phone and allow this suitor to join me on my hump day adventure. At this last supper, I wish I could tell you what we talked about in the final moments where the twinkle of new romance was in my eye. But I don’t care to remember. What I do recall, is at the end of the meal I felt nourished and ready to be tossed around my bedroom. While tracing the lines on the palm of my hand with their finger from across the table, the check came. Up until that moment I felt so well taken care of over our first 2, almost 3 weeks of dating that I didn’t even flinch to pretend like I was going to pick up that bill. But this time something in the air shifted. While maintaining their smile, they released my hand to reach for their wallet to retrieve their debit card and slid it into the black padded booklet that held our receipt.
Expressing my gratitude I said, “Thank you for crashing my solo date.” They respond with, “You’re welcome” that was followed up with a deep breath and that tricky pause I had felt early. They continue by asking, “So do you expect this all the time?” I note the new awkwardness, “What do you mean?” They ask again, “Like do you expect princess treatment all the time?” I’m still newish to the intimate workings of the life so I abruptly asked ”What is princess treatment? I’ve heard you mentioned this before but I’m actually confused.” With the same little bit of confidence in their voice they ask the same question flipped into its final form, “Do you expect me to pay for meals anytime we go out?”
Something about the inquiry instantly dried up my coochie. This statement ran through my body like a factory reset button for my horniness. Maybe I would have received this question better if I weren’t on a date that I had set up for myself. Or maybe not. Yea, no. It would have still pissed me off because up until that very moment I had never heard of “Princess Treatment”. But I’ve certainly heard of princesses. Those are the bitches who are born or marry into a life of luxury, political power, and inherited land and jewels, right?!!
Well apparently in some relationships, “Princess Treatment” is a dynamic that exists as a sort of standard of responsibilities between femmes and masc/butch presenting folks where the femme is being treated well. Or like a…lady. So much so, that there are TikTok videos where studs are demanding that they too desire “Princess Treatment”. From what I’ve gathered these acts of kindness start and stop at gift giving and pickup checks for dates. I’m gagging trying to write this explanation because as we will explore within most of the essays on this substack, the way patriarchy enters into some LGBTQIA+ intimate relationships is through the sneaky bitch that is heteronormative dating practices.
What I’ve come to lament since my first lesbian relationship at 26 years old and coming out to my family at 29 years old, is there is very little guidance on sex and relationship for people who aren’t cisgender, straight and only seeking long-term monogamous relationships. Which is beating a lot of our asses interpersonally and of course at a systematic level. While there is a ton of potential for reimagination and building new ways of relating in our relationships with ourselves and each other in societies refusal to engage with queer and trans identity as a natural part of life, it’s also incredibly isolating. Not having adequate information about your body as well as how to partner with each other leads to all types of confusion…i.e. Princess Treatment.
It seems to me, when you are dating someone you actually like, a part of the experience of dating is completely based on exchanging acts of care, love, safety, and kindness. It also seems to me that instead of trying to question or talk me out of what I have determined is my standard of care, it would be better to admit that you aren’t able to maintain what I require in a relationship and graciously move on. Unfortunately, it’s still quite difficult for people, even queer folks, to acknowledge the ways in which patriarchy is the top bitch in charge. If we don’t want to imitate white supremacy capitalistic patriarchy but in rainbow, we must name it when it shows up in queer sexual and romantic partnerships. Then make the choice to be rigorous in creating ways to eliminate it when it’s so obvious that it is in the room.
But I’ve learned the hard way that there are more people interested in fucking me than people interested in fucking me and not making me their own personal mammy but in pink. I was well prepared for the reality that cis-hetrosexual men wanted to ultimately have dominion over me and call it love. All the women in my family taught me their version of that. But coming out and dating as a Black queer lesbian taught me that anyone can imagine a use for my flesh that serves their life over my own.
In theory, I believed queer romantic partnerships would protect me from patriarchal violence. In reality, the devil will use anyone to oppress Black fat femmes. Which is why I’ve had to get honest about the realities of the different types of experiences I will have dating as a Black femme presenting woman. Especially if I don’t let go of these damn studs and “I’m not a stud!” studs. I’ve had to create my own internal guidelines on how to navigate the ways queerness interacts with patriarchy by way of masculinity and gendered expectations in order to survive it and still have my fun.
I’ve decided that my coochie is a Black Capitalist.
Yup.
I consider myself a very unregulated type of dyke. I refuse to let anyone turn me into the good cooking cleaning girlfriend or housewife that they escaped from becoming by over-investing in Fear of God ESSENTIALS hoodies, button up shirts, sweater vests, and sneaker collabs.
Like in any experience in a capitalist society, you can’t have me just because you want me. This ain’t communist pussy. It’s barely progressive cunt. This is Black girl luxury, talented tenth, reparations now, BLACKS ONLY! pum pum. A real kept type of girl! If Jackie Ania made a yoni steam, my coohie would sign up for the presale. But the perfume will do. I think of my coochie as a status symbol that is easily recognizable from the dupes once you’ve tried it on yourself. Just being associated with my pocketbook is guaranteed to increase your clout as well as your property value. You gotta pay to play, beloved. The rules are unfair as fuck and I hire and fire at will.
When the Combahee River Collective Statement that was created in 1977 and that group of Black feminist thought leaders, activist, and writers penned “Black women are inherently valuable” I felt that shit!
I am a Black woman. And I believe that Black women deserve to work, create and build political and economic power that is in their best interests. We also deserve to fuck and love in our best interests as well. And I can’t help but to notice that who we date is taking us out faster than the United States government ever could.
My reading list is still working on me to develop a principled economic framework beyond capitalism. But my coochie’s mind is made up, honey! When she’s active, she’s wealth building and you must meet her where she’s at— or better. Dis my coochie and Imma be choosy.
I used to live for whirlwind romances. However, the problems always come when you try to make a relationship home out of them. Because you know what people tend to do when the wind is whirling? Lie! It took way too long for me to realize that the black cars and box seats I was jumping in weren’t princess treatment. They were perks of dating someone who was adjacent to the entertainment industry. Here’s a pro-tip for dating in LA: If a person only takes you out to industry events they are taking you for a fool! One, those events are always free. Two, they are always planned by someone else. Meaning this ain’t their money or their idea, honey. So of course picking up a few of my lunch bills felt like pressure when it was outside of the confines take a bad bitch to work day. But in this case, the work was an unpaid internship with an expense account! WEEPS WITH LAUGHTER!
The first time a potential lover tries to talk me out of my standard of care, I’ve learned they are more than likely to do it again. How bad does it have to get for you to say “No, thank you”? I can always spot the op at the dining table when I inform them that I’m allergic to nuts and avocados and they respond with “Are you really allergic to avocados or do you just not like them?” or “How bad is your allergy? Can you pick it out?”
Bitch, does it matter?! Do I need to promise you my death in order to have my food prepared the way I can enjoy it?
These are just a few examples of the small never ending ways people have tried to humble me as a Black girl who is putting in the work to not just accept what people want to give me. I desire dating experiences that are more expansive than the myth of Princess Treatment. If I am to live a life that’s mostly free from harm, abuse, and gendered expectations that have the potential to put me in an early grave, I must practice being ungrateful and exclusive. And sometimes that’s not even enough.
The spirit in me that loves myself the most responded to the questioning of my standards by saying, “This isn’t princess treatment. This is lunch.”
Right then I knew I would never let this person see my high yield coochie with an excellent interest rate ever again. They’re lucky I didn’t call the cops on my way to Sephora. 💋
It’s fun when it’s fun. And the second that stops being true…I’M OUT OF THERE!! Sorry to Mrs. O!
The absolute audacity of fixing her face to ask you that question when she interrupted your peace to see you in the first place. Thank you, next. It makes me sad that dating can be such a wasteland but it's great that you have a standard of care and are willing to enforce that boundary in a world where people invest so much energy in dismantling or ignoring boundaries.