On a Thursday evening Blacktress and her British friend, Ann are waiting in line amongst film snobs and film students for a free screening of the new art house indie, Red Romance.

“Its getting a lot of Oscar buzz and I hear the performances are impeccable, ” they overhear the woman in front of them explain to her husband.

Blacktress and Ann are seemingly there to enjoy high art, but are actually there for the much publicized down and dirty sex scenes.

“I hear the lead girl gets head for ten minutes.  In real time.”  Blacktress explains to Ann.

“Oooooh!  Lovely,” she responds.  Her proper English accent warms over with a smoldering breathiness.

“What would respectable single girls do without kinky, art films?”

The girls giggle.

Just then a pudgy man in over-sized Clarke Kent glasses rounds the corner with unhappy news.

“Listen Up guys…No one this far back will be getting in.  We didn’t expect this kind of turn out. I’m really sorry.  There’s just no more room.”

The crowd shoots the messenger with more than dirty looks.

An outraged film snob blasts him.

“Fuck you fat boy! I RSVPed!”

It becomes a rallying cry.  The would-be movie goers become volatile.  The messenger retreats in fear.    Damn, I didn’t know film cats were this gangster, Blacktress thinks.

Ann is stuck in a haze.

“There’s no more room for me in Red Romance,” she laments.  “Its a metaphor.  If it weren’t so sad it’d be funny, wouldn’t it?  God is such a poetic and cheeky, little bastard.”

Twenty minutes later the girls find themselves having a Yellow(tail) romance at the sushi spot across the street.  But Ann still hasn’t moved on.

“I’ve been looking for a romance since I got to this city.  There’s no man for me.  I’m going to die alone.”

“ It’s not a metaphor.  There’s plenty of penis in the sea.  He. Is. Out. There.”   Blacktress says between sips of her miso.

“Yeah way way waaaay out there.  Not in LA.  Not even in the valley.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, all the cute black men in LA are either, attached (and they don’t want to admit it), or living below the poverty line (and they don’t want to admit it), or ego driven and completely self-absorbed (but that they will freely admit to).  It’s a nightmare.”

Ann stuffs sushi into her face and begins to tear.  Blacktress reaches across the table to give her a soothing touch.  Ann shakes it off.

“The wasabi went down the wrong way.  I’m not crying.  I’m English.”

Well okay then, Blacktress thinks.

The next day Blacktress leaves the girl talk behind her, as she darts up the stairs toward her commercial audition. She’s surprised to find the waiting room unusually jammed- packed with girls all up for the role of “African-American wife.”   Blacktress signs in and takes a seat.  A friendly, blondish blacktress fills her in.

“You just missed the announcement.  They want us to run up to the guy like he’s just come back from war. Hug, kiss, and spin. They’re gonna pair us up…”

“Okay but where are the guys?”

The friendly, blondish blacktress shrugs.

“That’s why they’re so behind.  They aren’t showing up.”

Blacktress notices a steady stream of even more blacktress’ darting up the stairs.

The frazzled casting lady pops out into the lobby.  Her voice echoes through the lobby.

“Have any new men arrived?…..  Any New Men? ….ANY AFRICAN AMERICAN HUSBANDS?”

…………………………………………………………..crickets………………………………………………………………………………….

“Ok no men,” she says exasperated, before throwing her hands toward the heavens.

Now this might actually be a metaphor, Blacktress thinks.

She turns to her friendly neighbor and whispers.

“So this is becoming a serious fucking problem, huh?”

The friendly neighbor looks at Blacktress as if she’s been taking up residence in Siberia.

“Duh.”

Blacktress Tip of the Week:  Black women,  If loyalty to black men has left you lonely, (newsflash:  It’s not 1952) expand your fucking options.  Literally.

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