What’s our obsession with unstable women?
Is it because we’re hunters by nature and we love the challenge? Is it because emotional instability is entertaining? Is it because the sex is mind-blowing? Is it because they love harder than any type of woman on the planet?
I think all those things and a few others contribute to the attraction, but it’s a question that may never be fully answered. The appeal is mind blowing, a love that many won’t ever experience or survive to tell about it. Luckily, I did.
Let me tell you all about my favorite psychotic woman of all time.
This is a true story, you can ask any of my friends, family or mentors about this. I remember as clear as day. For the sake of privacy, let’s call this young lady… “Spark.”
I saw her venting on twitter one day back in 2012 and I made my approach. She was brash at first, but soon would succumb to my charm. I never thought for a second that I would soon be dating the most deranged, psychotic woman that I’ve ever come across.
She was beautiful. 5’4″ and curvy. Her smile would light up a room. Brown skinned with almond eyes, full lips, and brown hair with blonde highlights. Huge, proportionate titties, and a tattoo that started at her shoulder and went all the way down her thigh and covered her back.
Aesthetically flawless with the mind of the Joker. Didn’t know she was a nutjob.
We began to speak and hang out frequently. It was electric. Emotions swirled, smiles and feelings were exchanged. We got along better than anyone I had dated prior to her in my then 22 years. I thought she was IT for me. We were inseparable, two peas in a pod. For the first time in my life, I was truly dating a woman who was my friend first.
That soon would change.
The first time she invited me over I should’ve known not to take it any further, but I was blind to the signs as a young man. In hindsight, the visit was full of red flags.
She shared a home in East Atlanta with her big sister. Not far from me at all. Now because my car was in the shop and I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity, I walked two miles in the Atlanta summer heat.
In Cole Haan Loafers, Gravel jumping into my shit and rubbing my feet raw.
The walk was worth it. She met me at the door, smiling and scantly clad. Kissed me and jumped on me like a puppy who’s owner had been gone all day. The house was cool and it smelled sweet. She fed me and gave me lemonade. Sat on my lap and spoke beautiful words into my ear. I was content.. But something stood out. She straddled me, put one hand on my chest and in angelic voice she said “I just want someone to stay, no matter what. Men are always leaving me, will you stay, Malcolm?”
RED FLAG RED FLAG RED FLAG.
I didn’t know then, but I know now.. But of course I agree not to leave, Like a jackass. Instantly things get lusty. Shit got real in a hurry and clothes started to come off, furniture starts moving, her aggression and mine are matching, testosterone is through the roof! She starts to grind on my knee and I feel her moisture through her leggings.
Through. Her. Leggings.
Then, she jumps off me and darts down the hall.
I’m in an unfamiliar house in East Atlanta, without my gun or my car. I’m terrified at this point. I don’t know if Michael Myers is around the damn corner or what. I pull myself together and lean around the corner to see where she is. There she is standing in the sunlight, smiling and twirling her hair. She holds up my unlocked ass iPhone and cryptically says “Look what I got.”
Nigga I thought I was on the Superman at six flags the way my stomach dropped. Her getting in those messages denied 22 year old me any chance of getting the ass, and I couldn’t let that happen. Making myself look guilty, I chased her. She dipped and darted and cut all through the house on some Scooby-Doo shit. It was like an action movie and she was Jackie Chan dog. She slid under tables, hopped over the banister, went out the garage and came back through a window. I was completely out of my League.
Because I had been chasing her so long, I started to learn the house and was able to cut her off. Man, I’ve played football my whole life but any defensive player would’ve been embarrassed for me after the way I got juked. I’m sure somewhere Ray Lewis felt a pain in his heart for the way I got juked. I didn’t breakdown, chop my feet, bring my hips or anything. She caught me running full speed in an effort to pin her against the wall. As I came down the finished wood hallway in dress socks, she gave me the classic in and out, complete with head fake. She even grunted out “Ugh, Ugh” as she did it.
I slid into the bathroom, legs crossed. Hit my knee on the toilet, shin on the bathtub, head on the tile. As I sit on the floor in agony, she locks herself in the adjacent bedroom and goes through my phone. She comes out chuckling, my phone in one hand, a knife in the other.
“Come back in a week after you cut those little bitches you talking to off. I like you a lot, don’t make me have to kill you. Get out my house.” She walked me to the door, threw my phone in the grass, kissed me and smiled. I walked up River Road on that hot summer day bloodied, bruised and intrigued. I should’ve never gone back… But I did.
Conclusion next Tuesday.