Some men have frowned upon my recent definition of a mighty good man.  They have laughed themselves silly because I defined my former, hot-music-man as a good man after he stated he only wanted a romp in the hay.  Well, go ahead and laugh your heads off.  Laugh till your tummies hurt and your tear ducts dry and you’re rolling around on the floor gasping for air.  I won’t take it back. As a matter a fact, I’ll say it again. My former, hot-music-man is a mighty good man. He’s a mighty good man because honesty is good. He’s a mighty good man because expressing clear and direct intentions is rare and admirable.  He’s a mighty good man because giving women closure is considerate. So men, stop chuckling and be mighty good men.  If you just want to fuck a woman, tell her.  If you have a wife and want her on the side, tell her.  Be honest about what you want because lying to women is no laughing matter. 

Love strongly and wisely,

The definition of a “good man” varies from woman to woman.  For some women, a “good man” is a man who doesn’t cheat.  He can come home at four o’clock in the morning on a nightly basis. He can spend hours swigging shots of whisky in a smoky bar.  As long as there are no ink-stained napkins in his pockets or no lipstick marks on his wifebeater, he’s a mighty good man.  Other women wouldn’t stand for such behavior. For them, a good man is a man who values the home.  So what if she hasn’t ordered from a restaurant other than Dominos in years.  So what if she hasn’t felt the hot Caribbean sun on her skin since their honeymoon in la Repulica.   For her, home is where the heart is.  He’s a mighty good man because he stays put.

My definition of a good man encompasses more than faithfulness and indoor living.  For me, it comes down to honesty.  If a man is honest, it shows he has the utmost respect for me. And nothing demonstrates goodness like respect.  It doesn’t even matter if the truth told causes pain.  I would have preferred Elijah, my ex from three years ago, to express his desire to return to his ex-girlfriend instead of asking for space and promising we would reunite.  I would have also preferred Johnny, my ex from a year and a half ago, to express his desire to break free from my “drama” instead of using his health as a reason to end our relationship.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to ask Eric, my hot music man, to be honest.  He just was.  He called me the next day, just like he said he would, after I cut our late-night-recap short.  He was also direct, expressing his interest and his attraction for me, but his lack of interest in a relationship due to a recent break-up.  I was pleasantly surprised with his frankness. I was relieved he wanted something casual.  It was also too soon for me to open my heart to someone new.  But then Eric became a “typical man”.  The definition of a “typical man” being one who stops calling with no explanation, one who runs away from any emotional confrontation; the synonym of “the cowards way”.  Two weeks after spending a few days and nights with Eric, he vanished.  A day passed and he didn’t call.  Three days passed and he didn’t call. Five days passed and I didn’t even receive a text.    After the seventh day, I decided to contact Eric.  My intuition told me Eric’s disappearance might have been due to my reluctance to have sex with him.  I was going to call, express what was in my gut, and see what he had to say.

I picked up my cell a Monday afternoon, intent on finding Eric’s number, when my phone rang.  I looked at the screen reading Eric and answered the call.

“Hey, I was just gonna call you,” I said immediately.

“Oh…good. I thought you might have been mad since I haven’t called lately. I actually called to apologize. I’ve been really busy.”

It was a “typical man” excuse.

“Well, I was actually gonna call to see what’s up,” I replied boldly. 

“Yeah, well, me too.  I think you’re cool as shit, and so sexy…I’m so attracted to you, which is the problem…”

“Cause you wanna have sex with me and I’m not giving it up,” I said calmly. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Eric replied bluntly.  “I just don’t want a relationship and I know you’re cool with it, but I wanna have fun, and sex is fun,” he continued with a chuckle.

I laughed, agreeing with his idea of fun.

“I know you have your morals and I would never wanna disrespect you. But I cant hang with you and not wanna have sex with you,” Eric finished.  

“I understand. You wanna fuck and I’m not fucking you.  Its all good Eric,” I said sincerely.

“Really? You’re not upset?” he asked surprised.

“Not at all. No hard feelings.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that” he said relieved.

“I’m a woman Eric.  I understand how it is.  But thank you for your honesty.  You’re a really good man,” I expressed.

Eric thanked me for being so understanding.  He also expressed his desire to keep in touch.  I agreed we should and actually meant it. Eric was one of the few men to tell me what he truly wanted.  Eric was one of the few men who didn’t fear being honest no matter what the issue at hand and no matter what the consequences.  I had found a good man and a mighty good man at that.  Too bad the timing was off and he couldn’t stay put.

On this week's "Love Trippin' with Sujeiry" a few rockstars give us pointers on how to party like a rockstar.

Partying like a rockstar can be a very exhilarating experience.  Just imagining myself dancing atop a stretch limo, high on “life”, and drinking bottles and bottles of Moet with my entourage sends shiver down my spine.  But then I come back to my logical and rational senses. I imagine the fall from the limo, the pictures splattered all over the tabloids of me lying flat on my ass with a broken bottle of Moet in hand, and my entourage no where to be found.  I imagine these tragic things and realize that as much fun as it is to party like a rockstar there are limits. So if you are going to party like a rockstar, keep yourself off the roof of a speeding limo.  Dismember your entourage from thirty to three.  And please keep away from the likes of Tommy Lee.  Be a smart rockstar and you’ll save yourself the concussion, the embarrassment and the STD’s. 

Love strongly and wisely,

Sujeiry

I've always wanted to let loose and party like a rockstar. I've craved to strip away my layers, jump on a stage, and get wild and naughty. I've dreamt of spilling bottles of Moet like in rap videos, but in my rap videos the cold champagne will glisten over the toned bodies of men instead of booty shaking women.   I've even pled to the rockstar Gods to lead me down the path of debauchery, temptation, and liberating chaos.   Morrison, TuPac, and Biggy have all been called upon.  "Help me ‘take it easy baby’,” I've asked Morisson.  “I don’t wanna give a fuck either!” I've sang to Tupac.  "How do I become the player and the president?" I've pondered with Biggy.  Unfortunately, no matter how much I've fantasized, I have yet to transform my logical mind into that of a free and wild rockstar. I can take my clothes off half-way and shake that bottle of Moet, but just can't seem to get down to my knickers, point, and spray.

The problem is I am a logical, cautious, guilt-ridden woman.  And this makes me the antichrist of rockstardom.  If I get trashed to the point of stumbling and slurring, I wake up with a pounding headache and a nauseating sense of regret.  If I sleep with a man on the first date, I feel like a dirty hoer, and that form of thinking is sinful to a rockstar. Needless to say, I have always struggled to liberate myself from my inhibitions.  Luckily for me, Eric, my hot music man, came along to set me free. 

My first bold act occurred right after Eric’s last performance.  Eric jumped off stage, dodging adoring female fans and male pounds, and walked toward the bar.  He positioned himself next to me and asked how I liked the show.  I told him I was impressed, especially with the smoothness of his voice.  It was very reminiscent of Jay-Z.   He smiled a beautiful smile and asked,

"Now, when am I going to here you sing?

I pondered the question. Typical Sujeiry would only sing after chugging a few more Bacardi and Cokes.  But new and improved rockstar Sujeiry would openly display her talent.  I looked up at Eric and thought, “Fuck it!”  I moved in close, cupped my hand over his ear, leaned in, and began to sing…

“Come a little bit closer. And look into my eyes. If only for a moment, boy don’t be surprised!”

Eric listened. His breathe on my neck. I continued to belt out Xscape’s song. Before finishing, I added seductive adlibs to make any man shiver.  

“You’re voice is beautiful,” he gushed.  “You’re beautiful…you should come chill with us, we’re going to a bar in the LES soon,” Eric said. 

I paused.  Hanging with a hot musician and his band after only knowing them one night?  Was that smart?  I questioned. 

“Come on, come out with us,” he coerced. “I wanna keep chillin with you.”

I smiled and nodded, accepting his invitation.  I was attracted to him and also wanted to continue our flirtation.  Besides, rejecting a night out in the LES with a band would have been so un-rockstar like.

More drinks were guzzled at the next bar. Soon enough, Eric and I were chemically elevated and began to dance seductively.  I grinded my ass onto his pelvic area and he caressed my hips and thighs.  He kissed my neck and I leaned into him.  He spun me around and we kissed while swaying on the dance floor.  His bandmates hollered and hooted throughout our makeout session. I was definitely partying like a rockstar. 

By nights end, Eric made me another offer. He asked me to come over to his apartment and spend the night.  I refused to stay over, but my newfound wild side still got me in a cab with Eric.  Soon we were in his apartment, kissing heavily. Soon Eric’s hands traveled down my pants.  Soon he attempted to pull down my pants.  And that’s when things got a little too rock and roll for me.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” I said while pulling away his hands.  I backed away and buttoned up my shirt. 

“I’m sorry. I wont do it again,” Eric said.

I didn’t believe he had any self-control.  He was a rockstar after all. So instead, I grabbed my purse and asked Eric to walk me downstairs and help me hail me a cab.  He obliged, and while in my cab, said he would call me.  I nodded and smiled but didn’t expect him to call at all.  And for the first time, I didn’t care.  Not caring felt liberating.  Not caring felt a little wild, a little bold, a little rock and roll.  Not caring made me feel like a rockstar, and it was all good, baby baby.