PREVIOUSLY ON B**CHES BREW…A girl meets the guy of her dreams and it causes her to take a trip down memory lane to reflect on all the men who filled her life with so much drama. She enters therapy and realizes for the first time that her addiction to men who aren’t good for her may have something to do with her relationship with her father. (Read “Drama Mama: Part I” for the full story)-

Hello Sylvester…

He was your first and most dysfunctional male relationship of all. Though anyone could see that you were his child, he denied you the first year of your life. And time did nothing to mend the distance. It was so great that calling him dad would have been the equivalent of running up to a complete stranger and giving him a big hug.

You don’t remember him being around much (he and your mom were never married), but you do remember every time he showed up with that Brown Paper Bag, the immediate sign as to what kind of mood he was in. To see The Bag meant to watch out, that his foul alcohol-fueled comments and attitude would be enough to reduce you to tears; not to see it, well that was so rare that it barely rates a mention. So why mention it?

Age seven brought with it the realization that you’d never have the Cosby show dad. That fantasy came to a screeching halt when you accompanied Sylvester on a beer run to the corner store. Your mom warned against it, seeing that he’d already tossed back too many cold 45’s, however you insisted, wanting to experience the thrill of some alone time with your dear old dad. You skipped all the way there, waving to every neighbor like a princess on a float. Once inside the store, your eyes lit up at the sight of your favorite candy. “Can I have some Lemon Heads?” you asked, full of excitement. “What?” he shot back as if you’d demanded a pack of cigarettes. “Can I have some…” WHACK! A slap whipped across your face so hard you saw stars. Standing there dumbfounded, wondering what you had done to deserve such a thing, his eyes said everything and nothing. The vacant corpse standing before you had no answers- didn’t even care beyond the moment that had just passed. He’d slapped your face and moved on in a matter of seconds. There was no time for further contemplation or acknowledgement. With a flick of the wrist he grabbed his brown bag and walked out of the store. Meanwhile, you trailed behind him feeling angry, disappointed and wishing that you’d listened to your mother. It was then that you decided he would never get the opportunity to hurt you again because you would never allow him to get that close. So your interactions with him stayed on the surface, with no conversations lasting longer than a few empty sentences. It seemed to suit him just fine because he was a no-show when you graduated from high school at the top of your class, and when you almost died of appendicitis at age 17. It was a pattern that repeated itself with every man you dated. No matter how much you claimed to love your current beau, you never allowed him to get too close. In fact, you intentionally picked men who had no intention of getting close to you (Rodney, Mr. Rebound and Jay) because they were safe and familiar. Now it was this familiarity that was making you want to jump on a plane and stab a man and his newly preggars girlfriend. There had to be a better way!

With the help of your new best friend– Carole, thera-priest– you performed an all out exorcism on all remnants of evil left over from Sylvester’s reign of terror on your life. It wasn’t easy. After months of therapy, prayer, forgiving every man you’d ever dated, writing and performing a one-woman show entitled My Dad Sucked. Get Over It, enough tears to end the drought in Ethiopia, and a swift kick in your own butt, you were ready to move on. A palace fit for a King had been created and that is exactly who walked in, bringing truth to the phrase be careful what you ask for.

Yet…
Eight weeks and no drama?
Like a junky starting a new life free of drugs, your mind longingly thinks back to the days when drama is what kept you feeling alive in a relationship. When spending a whole day wondering who Rodney or Mr. Rebound was with gave you a high that was as destructive as it was a waste of time–old habits die hard. This man is right in front of you, the only place he wants to be, and there’s no more chasing and begging him to return your calls, look at your childhood photo album, meet your friends, take long walks, eat Taco Bell with a bottle of Merlot, play cards, have sex and lie in bed for hours, watch movies…
And how do you reward such amazing behavior?
By breaking up with him.
In that tacky over the phone way.
“I’m sorry, you’re wonderful, but I’m just not feeling it,” you told him, a few hours after a fantastic dinner.
In so many ways that was the truth. You weren’t ‘feeling it.’ Not once had you felt that burn in your stomach so severe that getting hit by a bus would have been a relief. None of your girlfriends were screaming at you to stop your “why-is-he-treating-me-like-this?” 1am emergency phone calls. And when you guys made love the last time, and he woke up singing weird Brazilian songs, like he could boil over from the sheer joy of being with you, it was kinda cute, but scary. Who were you to handle the heart of a vulnerable man? One who had allowed himself to stand before you completely naked, while others had stood before you with nothing but a hard d*ck? Were you worthy?

This is the part that Carole didn’t warn you about, because had you known that paving the way for a King was only the first part of the journey, and once he arrived there would be more work to do, you would have left her office voluntarily, no need to be kicked out.
Now the question that must be answered is do you really desire a man who will be around? One who wants to know and love you? Perhaps the fear of losing a man so great, this anti-Sylvester, is what keeps you from fully embracing him. True intimacy is the ultimate villain because the last thing you want is to give your heart to a guy like Mr. Perfect, just to have him leave you once he discovers that there is nothing in you worthy of a man’s love. Because that is what Sylvester showed you by never bothering.

‘Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.’
Without being Einstein you know that it would be completely crazy to keep choosing idiots and expecting true love. Without the slightest idea of what the future holds, or what good can come from investing yourself fully in this relationship, you’re ready to give it a try because it’s time to walk down a new path. Hopefully, Mr. Perfect will give you another chance when you lay it on the line and tell him that you were just scared. No matter what, you’re ready to go from Drama Queen to Queen.
Ciao Sylvester!- Erickka Sy Savané

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You met him on the dance floor while droppin’ it like it was hot to Luke Skywalker’s ‘Doo Doo Brown’. Not the most romantic scene but, hey, this is real life. It wasn’t just his good looks that threw your two-step out of rhythm, or the way he leaned so close to your ear when speaking that it vibrated, almost giving you an instant orgasm. He had that undeniable thing called presence. By the boatload. It was so strong that your immediate response was to flee–a mad dash right off the dance floor, all the way home–yet something begged you to stay, for the next four hours. That same something guided you to your doorstep where you sat with this man for two more hours, laughing, talking, joking (“If you gotta pee you’d better go behind that tree ‘cause you’re not coming in my apartment!”), relenting (“Do you want honey in your tea?”), after the conversation had moved from the doorstep to your living room. Now you’re celebrating week eight of dating a King. This man calls when he says he will, is intelligent, cultured, funny, self-sufficient, focused, and treats you the way you deserve to be treated. In one word he’s perfect. Yet…

You started dating Rodney, the aspiring R&B singer from Virginia, when you were twenty. He promised to call at 4pm, but wouldn’t til 7pm, if at all. Meanwhile, you sat anxiously by the phone, periodically picking it up to make sure it still worked. When you finally did hear from him all anger dissolved as soon as he hit you with some of that Southern sweet talk: “Baby, I was in the studio all night, but I was thinking about you the whole time. You miss me?” Soon you were giggling like a stupid schoolgirl. He was such a natural at talking shit that he may have missed his calling as a phone sex operator, by chasing that music thing. “What are you wearing?” he’d say in a whisper so sexy that your panties were already drenched. Funny how that and a few sporadic sexual encounters were enough to keep you dangling on a string for over a year.

Then there was Mr. Rebound. Week One consisted of him flushing out memories of his ex-girlfriend. “She just upped and left town. I don’t know why.” Week Two he started paying attention to you. “Where you from again?” Week Three the sex was starting to get good. Week Four got weird because all of a sudden he wasn’t available to you. “Hi, it’s me, call me back. Hey, hope you’re okay, call me back. What’s up, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Call me back. I’m a little worried. Call me. Call me. Call me!” Week Five reunited him with his ex. He thanked you for helping him realize what he really wanted, and for inspiring him to set the bar higher for his girl.

And let’s give a big round of applause to Mr. Oh My God He’s So Fine I Can Hardly Look At Him. He made you pen a term called ‘the stomachies’ because just being in his presence tied your stomach in so many knots that you couldn’t eat the whole time you were with him- it had been two years since you were able to wear those white low-rise jeans. This was a match made in heaven except for his commitment issues, occasional bad temper, and sweet tooth for Asian chicks challenged only by Wesley Snipes. There wasn’t much you wouldn’t do to win his heart, including anal sex and throwing down on some of the best soul food he’d ever eaten. You know it was The Bomb because afterwards he said, “I love you”–then two days later–“I’m not ready to be with only one person.”

And finally there was Jay. He deserves a trophy because he broke your heart not once but twice. They do say the second time is a charm: It took five years but you finally got the nerve to contact him again. Even though he hurt you the most, the hope that one day he’d be your baby’s daddy still held strong. Google became your main source to keep up with him, and you used it liberally. Finally, unable to take it any longer, you reached out to him via his sister. She relayed an email: he responded, and then came a phone conversation. Now living in another city, and already in love with a girl, things still looked very promising. He seemed so happy to hear from you and made big apologies for past actions like lying about being single while still dating an ex, inviting you both to the same barbecue, and continuing to keep you around for sex though he knew he didn’t want a relationship. Daily emails brought euphoric smiles as he shared wonderful insights about life: “Man, I didn’t do shit today. I think we work too hard in this life.” You knew you should have pulled away when he told you a month long trip to Europe with his girl was approaching, however you couldn’t. After years of dreaming about what it would be like to talk to him again you wanted to soak up every single minute. So the dream continued until the day he was set to leave. Like a scene right out of a Hollywood movie, you pictured him showing up at your doorstep (in the rain), telling you that he’d come to his senses, cancelled his trip, and was ready to be your man. When it didn’t happen you decided to focus on his return instead (of course, by then he’d realize that she wasn’t right for him and that he was madly in love with you). It was sheer faith that kept you grounded in this belief, especially since you never received one email from him his entire time away, not even to say go f*ck yourself.

He called two weeks after his return date with some exciting news. “My other half is preggars.” Ick! Who says preggars? “That’s great!” you responded, as the axe went straight through your back and out through your chest. With a plan to relocate her to his city, that was it … the end of a f*cking dream. And a pain so deep it forced you straight into the open arms of Carole LaBar–therapist to the needy. She was legendary for her no nonsense approach to cutting through the shit. You heard she once threw someone out of her office for refusing to do the work. Drastic times called for drastic measures. It was beyond time to examine why you were so willing to invest energy into guys who never put a fraction of that energy into you. This was the part you dreaded because therapy had always seemed like such a scam. Paying someone money to chat about your relationship drama just didn’t seem like a wise investment, especially when it cost the equivalent of your favorite creamy rock shrimp, sticky rice and black cod at Nobu; and besides, you had girlfriends. (Actually, they banned you from even speaking the name of your current heartbreaker the first time he kicked you in the gut, so therapy was your last resort). Early on it became apparent that therapy just might be the best thing since fried chicken. Carole was being paid to help you comprehend relationship drama so tired that only someone getting hard cold cash would ever sit through it. And though there were times when you’re sure her frustration made her want to scream, “Get over it b*tch, the motherf*cker don’t want you!’ her expert training forced her to ask, “Do you think it has something to do with your father?” No she did NOT think you were THAT cliché!!! And then, “AHHHHHH, that bastard ruined my LIFE!” you cried, burying your head beneath the pillows of her couch. Damn, leave it to a therapist to keep referring everything back to the father. You were hoping not to have to go there. Hello Sylvester…

-Erickka Sy Savané

To be continued…

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PREVIOUSLY ON B**CHES BREW…after encountering every small d*ck on the planet, a girl goes on a quest to find a big d*ck. What she discovers, however, is that the d*cks may not be the problem at all. (Read “Attack of the Big D*ck: Part I” for the full story)-

Your mind flashes back to your early 20’s when an ex-boyfriend first introduced size to your world. At the time you equated intelligence with age and success, so being almost ten years older and a millionaire gave him a lot of power. He loved sharing his philosophies, and frankly, you sucked them up like a sponge. One of his favorites was, “In life, women will only remember the guy with the biggest and smallest d*ck. Everyone else will fall somewhere in-between.” He claimed to be somewhere in-between, and with so few d*cks to compare him to it was easy to take his word on it. Once he bragged, “I used to date a girl whose p*ssy was so tight she could grip a pencil.” Wow. “How’d she learn that?” you asked, fascinated. He responded with a lecture on Kegel exercises. Never one to be out done, your training started right then. If that girl could grip a pencil, you were determined to grip a piece of dental floss. Sadly, he never got to feel the benefits of your hard work because the relationship dissolved not long after. And though he was physically gone from your life, mentally he was as present as ever. It started with your breasts. One of his theories still rang fresh in your ears: “I know why your breast are low,” he once stated.“You were a fat kid so the skin stretched out in that area (then like a plastic surgeon he used his finger to outline the area around your breasts that he was referring to), but never went back once you lost the weight.” From then on you couldn’t look at your own breasts in the mirror without wondering if they’d dropped another decimal of a centimeter.

Ironically, you also never stopped thinking about the p*ssy thing, and realize now that there’s been an underlying insecurity about size that started with your ex. He was the first to bring up the word ‘tight’ in reference to p*ssy. The fact that he boasted of an ex having a tight p*ssy meant that he thought tighter was better. And if his average-sized d*ck was unable to find satisfaction within your walls it probably meant that you had a BIG P*SSY. No one wants to be that girl because the stereotype is that they f*ck a lot. All the time even. So much so that their walls become loose and unable to provide a tight warm spot for a poor erect penis. God forbid! Could this fear be partly responsible for your stop-at-nothing quest to find a big d*ck? Somewhere in the back of your mind did you question the likelihood that you, and only you–your girlfriends all swore that they had no d*ck size issues–just happened to encounter every small d*ck on the planet? Perhaps they weren’t small at all, and only seemed that way because your big p*ssy dwarfed them like some big monster. Attack of the big p*ssy, if you will.

As you take a mental note of all the guys you’ve slept with, fortunately no one has ever said, “Damn, girl, this is some huge p*ssy!” But were they thinking it? If so, what does that mean?

Thank God for male friends…

These guys have been your lifelines, whether nursing you back from a messy breakup or preventing you from spending a birthday alone on the couch with a self-help book.

On the topic of tight vs. loose p*ssy:

Lifeline #1: I used to like loose when I was younger because I could go crazy in it. Now I prefer a Louisiana Snapping Turtle p*ssy. That’s one that’s so tight it can crack open a pecan.

Lifeline #2: I’ll take a wet, loose p*ssy over a dry, tight one any day.

Lifeline #3: P*ssy needs to be worked and broken in already. I prefer loose because I feel like she’s been around and has more maturity.

Lifeline # 4: Tight p*ssy annoys me. If she’s squirming I can’t let go and really get in the groove.

On whether p*ssy size is a deal breaker:

Lifeline #4: I’ve been frustrated with women who are too tight so it could be a deal breaker for me because it’s just too much work.

Lifeline #2: For most men just getting the p*ssy is enough. I wouldn’t throw a big p*ssy out of bed. Especially, if she could do a squeeze at just the right time.

Lifeline #3: I don’t care because I’m gonna work with it regardless.

Lifeline #1: I have broken up with loose p*ssies because it means she probably sleeps around. Why else would her p*ssy be loose?

Somehow, speaking to them only created more questions. So in order to keep your sanity about the fact that you may just have the biggest p*ssy on the planet, you do more research.

When a woman is aroused her vagina is going to expand and lubricate to ease penetration. Some women seem looser because they are wetter. Some men love women who are wet because they know that she’s aroused, however some women are aroused but don’t produce as much secretion. Taking it a step further, some women get so wet that they do a thing called squirting. A guy you dated shared his experience with an ex who, like a wave coming to shore, exploded all over the sheets every time she orgasmed. Though the cleanup afterwards could be a real chore, he loved that he was responsible for such a tidal wave. (Thank God you didn’t try to compete with that.)

Also a woman may seem ‘loose’ because p*ssies come in different sizes. There’s not one size d*ck for all men so why would there be one size p*ssy for all women? Therefore, a woman’s looseness is not necessarily related to how many kids she’s had or how much sex she has. Lifeline # 2 says that he’s been with women with kids and they’ve still been tight. It’s kind of ironic that he doesn’t seem to know what ‘loose’ p*ssy is (whisper: you suspect that he has a big d*ck). He definitely has a reference for tight and knows that he doesn’t like it. You suspect that the Lifeline who is quick to breakup with a woman with ‘loose’ p*ssy has a small d*ck. Otherwise, how would he know loose p*ssy so well and hate it so much? Perhaps it’s the constant reminder of how small he is. He’ll break up with her before she gets bored with his small d*ck and breaks up with him. As if the one who exposes the other first is right. It’s only now that you’re beginning to fully realize that it was never about you having a big p*ssy at all. Your ex had a small d*ck (the Kegel lecture should have been a sign). He did everything he could to place insecurity in you in order to take the spotlight away from him, perhaps fearing that once you found him out you’d leave. It’s a game that you’re tired of playing, and it’s getting older by the minute. The truth is that you have become your ex-boyfriend with the small d*ck.

To give a better view of yourself, you meet a woman who is your mirror. She brags of a sure fire way to tell if a guy is packing. “I make a joke about small d*cks to see how he responds. If he laughs and also chimes in, I know that he has a big d*ck. If he keeps quiet, I know he’s small.” Reverse the situation: You’re having drinks with a new guy and out of nowhere he makes a joke about women with big p*ssies. (A) You think he’s the funniest guy in the world and add to the joke to make it even funnier. (B) You look at him like he’s a moron because making such a statement is insensitive, tacky and a little suspicious. Why would he say something like that in the first place? To unequivocally show you how unattractive you’ve become, another one of your Lifelines shares a story: While on a third date with a girl, she jiggled his d*ck like a package inspector and said, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this. The last guy I was with was so small that I can’t take any chances.” Your friend who professes to have no problem in the size department stopped seeing her after that because he says the pressure to perform was too great, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. Interesting how her desperation impeded the flow and ruined what could have been a good time, and maybe a good relationship with a really super d*ck.

Wow. Who knew that chasing d*cks could take you so far and give you such an opportunity to grow? It’s now clear that d*cks were never been your problem, insecurity was. Funny how, like a worm in an apple that continues to grow and contaminate an otherwise good piece of fruit, insecurity had contaminated you and turned you into something that you’re not: tacky, desperate, self-centered and insensitive. Two words that most accurately describe your feelings for how you’ve acted are embarrassment and regret. Embarrassment for all the d*ck conversations in which you thought you were cleverly figuring out a guy’s size– using that to judge whether he was worthy, while qualities like kindness, honesty, and integrity took a back seat– just to realize that you were only making yourself look small; and regret for anyone that you may have offended or caused to feel bad along the way. Carrying your own insecurity for so long was hard enough, but giving someone else a piece to carry was just plain wrong. You’d never want a man to see his penis, or any other part of his body, in the same negative way that your ex boyfriend helped you to view your breasts. How great it would be to have a person feel better about himself after dating you, not worse, regardless of whether the relationship worked out or not.

And though it would be easy to blame your ex for every bad thought that you’ve ever had about yourself, it wouldn’t be fair. Aren’t you guilty of giving him way too much power in the first place? Remember your girlfriend who dated the guy who loved big boobs, and constantly made comments about other women’s breasts? “You’d look great just one cup size bigger,” he’d tell her. Finally, she succumbed to the pressure and got the boobs yet, he still wasn’t happy. “For some strange reason they don’t gel with your frame. If you gain ten pounds they might look better,” he told her. Sadly, only a few months after her surgery she found him cheating with a girl with small boobs. The lesson learned: her boobs were never the problem, he was.

Since you can’t go back and change the past (call up every guy you dated that you felt had a small d*ck and tell him, “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had a small d*ck, I think I had the big p*ssy, at least I thought I did because of my ex boyfriend who I really believe had a small d*ck, tried to make me believe I had a big p*ssy to make himself feel better. Well, anyway, sorry for all that. Have a great day.”) the best thing to do is learn from it and enjoy the present. And while you know that no d*ck journey will ever be completed–unless you abstain from d*cks altogether, or stay with the same d*ck for a lifetime– you’re not as worried as you once were. Now that you’re dealing with your insecurities your focus is not on big or small, but whatever is right for you. How freeing it is to know that this time the guy’s package will include qualities like tenderness, confidence, intelligence, and honesty, not just what’s hanging between his legs. The truth is, you deserve so much more than that.-Erickka Sy Savané

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After meeting him five weeks ago through your best friend you instantly hit it off. It’d been so long since you were seduced by a man’s attentiveness that you almost forgot what it was like to spend hours on the phone analyzing everything from politics, to music, to love. “How far are you willing to go?” he asked one night when talking about the L-Word. “Because I want to go all the way.” Though the thought of getting to know him on such an intimate level was extremely intimidating, it was a refreshing change to have a man so interested. It’s one of the reasons sex was put on hold. You wanted the opportunity to get to know him before the conversation became about who’s turn it was to pick up the condoms. And yet here you are five weeks later, wondering if you made a big mistake, as he’s standing before you with a penis stretched to full capacity.

You pray for a miracle. Perhaps if you wish hard enough an extra inch or two will magically pop out. Fat chance. It was the same with the last guy you dated, who now looks like a porn star in comparison to this dude. Why is this happening to you? Again. Are you repaying some karmic debt? There’s simply no logical reason why the last few guys you’ve had sex with have had such small penises. You think about a conversation with your best friend, “He’s got to be packing something good. Look how tall he is,” she said. “Yea, but he’s got small hands,” you pointed out. Had you given his package a pre-tug all of this could have been avoided. But since you can’t always judge a book by its cover, you decide to go for it, on the chance that he knows how to work his little machine. You meet his every thrust with greater force. If you could just get right on top of every single inch of his d*ck it might just reach your back wall. After trying every position known to man and inventing some new ones, it’s time to face the fact that you won’t feel the pinch you desire. At this point, just feeling him at all is a huge accomplishment. There has to be hope for this relationship. Exhale…

“Is there anything I can do to make my vagina smaller besides Kegel exercises?” you ask your gynecologist, the beautiful, young, and hip Dr. A. Simone. Located on the Upper East Side (NYC’s plastic surgery headquarter), she’ll know how to get you a tighter p*ssy or him a bigger d*ck. She could probably get him a new d*ck. After looking you dead in the eyes she responds, “If your boyfriend’s that small, get out before things get too deep.” And then adds with a chuckle, “But I guess that’s not going to happen.” Thanks, doc.
But she’s right. After researching everything from Alum, a product that is supposed to temporarily tighten the walls of the vagina, but can cause irritation, yeast infections, itching, swelling, lesions, uterine cervix membranes, and God knows what else, to benzocaine, a topical anesthetic used to numb and decrease sensation in the vagina so you don’t get as wet, which makes it harder for a d*ck to maneuver, thus giving the illusion of tightness, you realize that it’s all too complicated; and the side effects could ruin your p*ssy for life! And what if you do all this and still long for a bigger d*ck?
It’s not like you feel comfortable asking him to try one of those penis enlargement methods that seem to be tested only on lab rats. Is there anyone out there that knows for sure if this stuff really works? It’s such a secret society that even reality TV can’t break through. Has there ever been a ‘Total D*ck Makeover’?
You do have one friend who says she dated a guy whose d*ck grew. When they had sex in the 80’s he was small; when they got back together in the 90’s she swears it was bigger–– noticeably so. But since it’s not the kind of thing you can just come on out and ask a guy, “Damn, something’s different. Did you get your d*ck enlarged?” She’ll never know with absolute certainty. It’s probably much easier to ask a woman if she’s had her breast done.
Breaking up with this guy is your only option. Your gut tells you that this d*ck will not keep you interested for a lifetime. At some point you would fall prey to a bigger one. He thinks you weren’t ready for something so deep: you wish that were the case.

It took being taken siege by damn near every small d*ck in the city to have ’small’ clearly defined. Before it existed as an idea, a vague picture, the reference used to describe men with Napoleon complexes. “Oh, he must have a small d*ck to act so rude.” Now small d*cks have faces, names, addresses and history. One guy even holds the title of having The Smallest D*ck of All. Though you never had intercourse, oral sex occurred several times. You remember how easy it was to deep throat him. Actually, it’s not fair to call it deep-throating at all because his penis never actually touched the back of your throat. Thankfully it didn’t work out with any of them because right now you’d probably be miserable. One thing that is certain is that you’ve had it with small d*cks. You’ve paid your dues and are no longer willing to take in every small d*ck that comes your way like the small d*ck shelter. There will be no more pitty sex, where your energy is spent feeling sorry for the guy rather than enjoying the moment.

And speaking of enjoying the moment…hmm…there is one big d*ck from your past that you remember quite fondly. Big Reg is what you called him––the guy, not the d*ck. Being with him was great because it felt like every inch of your vagina was being filled. Afterwards you ran to your girlfriends to share the news. “Girl, he had a monster d*ck!” And like any tale that gets told over and over again it got bigger and bigger with time. “Big Reg’s d*ck hung all the way down to the floor!” It was like an amusement park ride that you longed to master, but never did. Being the d*ck that he was things didn’t work out. He was as reliable as a wet paper bag and wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t to his convenience. After a while you got tired of being the stupid girl chasing a stupid d*ck. Now you refuse to be the nice girl with the small d*ck.

Like paparazzi scouting a celebrity, d*ck scouting is now your obsession. The first thing you notice on a guy is his shoes and hands (a face is completely optional). You slide d*ck-talk into casual conversation. “Hey, how was that new movie, and by the way, can I see your d*ck?” Once you went as far as grinding right on top of a guy on the dance floor so you could survey his erection. In your mind it’s simple, find a big d*ck and all your problems will be solved. In fact, it’s the answer to every problem. The neighbor’s dog barks all night: find it a big d*ck. Your boss is a bitch: find her a big d*ck. The light bill is due? Just f*ck it!
The day finally comes when the universe answers your prayers. A d*ck so big and long it makes you gasp, comes walking through the door. ‘Hello Big Boy, where have you been all my life?’ you ask, while ripping off your panties. It’s only seconds before he’s on top of you trying to stuff it in your box. As you struggle to get in a groove it becomes painfully obvious that the pinch you sought hurts way more than you want. As he bangs you with the sensitivity of a brick, you attempt to connect with him in some way. You try to look him in the eyes but realize that he has no head (remember, heads were optional). It pops into your mind like a news flash that the last few guys you were with were way more attentive and sensual than he. Your inner walls didn’t feel like they were on fire. Nor did you have to tense your whole lower body for fear that if you were too relaxed he’d plow so deep you’d fall into a coma. Now that the experience is finally over––and he’s nutted all over your freshly washed sheets––you’re able to take a deep breath and reflect.
You realize that what you thought you wanted wasn’t what you really wanted at all. When having sex or making love you want to feel relaxed and cherished, not attacked. A big, one-dimensional d*ck that doesn’t know how to explore all the wonderful rhythmic nuances of you is a very self-centered, lazy d*ck. Perhaps you didn’t appreciate the smaller d*cks for what they offer: variation and an eagerness to please. Small d*cks are usually willing to go all out to make sure you love the whole experience; and they don’t treat you like it’s a privilege to be f*cked by them.

Damn. Big d*cks, small d*cks, fat d*cks, long d*cks. D*cks, d*cks, d*cks! The more you try to figure them out the more confusing they become. It just doesn’t make sense. You got the big d*ck that you wanted and still aren’t happy. If the problem is not the d*cks… Oh shit… could it be… YOU?-Erickka Sy Savané

STAY TUNED FOR PART II…

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Your friend, we’ll call her “Anna” due to her striking resemblance to Anna Nicole Smith, invited you out to dinner with some of her friends from out of town. You decided to say “yes” because, frankly, you love a free dinner at a great restaurant. “Dress sexy,” she said, knowing that you didn’t always like to dress model chic. A stylist to New York’s elite, Anna wouldn’t be caught dead without a pair of three-inch stilettos and something tight that showed off her voluptuous figure.

At the restaurant, Anna introduced you to two distinguished looking Frenchmen in their mid-to-late forties. After exchanging pleasantries, you settled into a seat and ordered a drink with the three of them. One of the Frenchmen began to make small talk. Turns out, he was the owner of one of the trendiest restaurants in Paris and he told you he’d love for you to come by the next time you were in town. “I’d love to!” you responded, knowing that you’d be there with bells on the next time you were in Paris. I mean, you do love free dinner at a nice restaurant. A few minutes passed and after some meaningful eye contact, he and Anna excused themselves. It all seemed a bit shady but, hey, they were friends. In less than five minutes, though, Anna returned, whisking you off to the bathroom.

You were in the mirror, reapplying your lipstick when she dropped the “indecent proposal.”

“The Frenchman you were talking to said ‘name your price.’”

“What?” you responded, unsure if you’d heard her correctly. Honestly, he was not the type of guy you’d expect to pay for sex. Rich and fairly attractive, he probably had his share of women who would do him for free. When Anna looked you straight in the eyes without blinking, it was clear. Curiosity made you wonder how much a piece of your ass could go for. Come on, haven’t most people asked themselves how much it would cost for them to sex someone they weren’t interested in?

“Fifteen thousand,” she offered.

Time stopped. Bills, rent, dinner, shopping… all flashed through your mind. In that order. And then, surprisingly, it occurred to you that it hadn’t taken a million dollars to make you at least think of sleeping with a strange man. Finally your answer came out.

“No, Anna.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and I can’t believe you tried to pimp me out.”

“Pimp you out? Do you know how many women would love to be in this position?”

“Well, call them because I’m about to bounce.”

With that, you walked out of the restaurant, passing the two French hounds on the way.

But having a thing called “values” isn’t easy. Just because you said “no” doesn’t mean that you didn’t think about the proposition again. And again. Fifteen thousand wasn’t enough to change your life but, damn, it was still a nice chunk of change. And who was going to know besides the four of you? But you also thought of being introduced to that same man later, under different circumstances, and how awkward and embarrassing it would be to know that he’d paid fifteen grand to fuck you.

And what if it wasn’t so bad? What would keep you from doing it again? A future of chasing rich men for fast cash unfolded in your mind. We all know these women. Some call them “goldiggers,” others call them “kept.” You saw your self-esteem plummeting and envisioned burning through the money like a madwoman, as if keeping it around would remind you of how many dicks you had to suck to get it. Next would come drugs, to help you get through yet another sleepless night of wondering if one of your financiers would make you a legit woman like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

When you thought about it, though, you weren’t doing that bad with your life anyway. Rich and famous you were not, but your bills were current and you had the satisfaction of knowing that you were the person who was paying them. You didn’t need anyone to help you along at the expense of your self-worth.

Okay, so you did do the right thing after all, you decided. The only other thing to do was to avoid hanging out with Anna. One, because obviously she tried to pimp you (like damn, was she going to get a percentage or what?), and two, because who knows if your decision would change if your financial situation was really jacked up. Who needs the temptation…right?–Erickka Sy Savané

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You were walking down the street on your way to meet Sherri for a drink when you ran into him. He looked the same, just older. He sported the same high top fade from the early 90’s and seemed to wear the same outfit from back in his heyday. The days when he had a hit single on the radio in heavy rotation and seemed destined to become an R&B legend. He reminded you of those singers like Peaches and Herb whose look never changed for fear that if just one hair was different, no one would recognize them.

After exchanging pleasantries, he spoke to you with the passion of a man who must have been waiting all of the eleven years since you’d seen each other for this chance meeting.

“I’m really sorry for what I did to you,” he blurted as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Just like that. Unsure of how to respond and not sure if you even wanted to, his lips seemed to move in slow motion while your mind drifted back…

You were eighteen years old and new to the big city, fresh off the boat from Tiny Town, USA. Your mission was to chase your dream of becoming a supermodel, like your one-name idols (Naomi, Christie, Cindy and Linda). Unfortunately, your addiction to Haagen-Dazs Butter Pecan ice cream made it difficult to work steadily that first year. Thank God for side jobs like waitressing and hostessing. And Sherri.

Sherri was your best friend and partner in crime. You met while auditioning for a music video. Both of you clad in neon green and orange, with teased hair. You were alike in many ways, having both left your small towns to pursue dreams in the big city–you as a model, she as a singer. Though she’d only been in New York a year before you, she was already street smart in ways that made you feel like a square. And when you decided to share a one-bedroom apartment in Harlem, you slept on the living room floor while she used the whole bedroom as her bedroom slash walk-in closet. But not the stylish kind you see on TV, this walk-in was the ghettofied version where you tripped over shoes, couldn’t find your shirt, and a thick rope hung from one wall to the other and served as a hanger for her clothes. Sherri was ghetto fabulous before anyone gave it a name.

You met him one night while you and Sherri were out on the town. Just when you were preparing to leave, Sherri rushed over introducing him as both bouncer of the club you were in and cousin to the guy she just met (and liked). Though he lacked the edge that never failed to make your eyebrows twitch, there was something strong and dependable about the way he carried himself that held your attention; as if he’d take good care of you. But what you found most fascinating, something that Sherri relayed to you right there on the spot, was that he was also a singer with an album coming out in a few months. It was the most exciting thing you’d ever heard.

From the moment you heard his singing voice, the kind of old school soul that reminded you of being in your grandmother’s church, becoming the Jerry Hall to his Mick Jagger was the only thing on your mind. Sherri had dreams too, and started dating his cousin, the producer. It was amazing how seriously you took your role as Jerry. Many hours were spent sitting around the producer’s recording studio all the way in Jamaica, Queens; supporting him through his many record company woes, even giving money when needed. But what a small price to pay because once his music came out life would be a fairy tale filled with concerts, parties and shopping. On more than one occasion you and Sherri cackled, “They’re going to be big stars and we’re going to be their GIRLFRIENDS!”

It didn’t matter much that you only had his pager number, he swore he was never home anyway with his busy schedule.

And then he disappeared.

It was about three months into your relationship, and a few days before Thanksgiving. A marble rolling through the streets of Harlem would have been easier to find than this guy. Leaving messages on his pager was useless. The holiday came and went without one single peep from him. Even his cousin swore he hadn’t seen him. It was the first time you’d gone a whole week without hearing from him, and frankly, you were worried sick. On the seventh day he showed up at your doorstep with a story about working overtime at the club, his mom being sick, and losing his pager.

“Just don’t let it happen again,” you scolded him, after pouting for a good two hours. It helped that he rattled off the address of his apartment in Brooklyn in case you ever had trouble finding him again. You took it as a sign that you guys were growing closer.

Great make-up sex on top of a heap of Sherri’s clothes in the bedroom/closet made the stress of the past week just melt away. The truth was you were just happy to have him back in your life. The relationship, though new, had a rhythm to it that had totally sucked you in. There was no greater high than knowing you could be there for him. Your life had become so intertwined with his that when he stepped away, even briefly, you were lost. If you could just give him more, you thought, maybe he wouldn’t need to work so hard. So it came down to this, if you were gonna be his Yoko Ono you would have to understand his lifestyle.

“Sacrifice now, so that we can enjoy later,” he told you on more than one occasion. The word “we” had never sounded so good. For a time, life resumed back into a semi-normal flow, even though you did see him less frequently.

Christmas brought with it a surprise that really wasn’t.

He disappeared again.–Erickka Sy Savané
To be continued…

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Previously on B**ches Brew…Young aspiring model, fresh off the plane to the Big City, meets an older male singer with an album about to drop at any second! Excited by his impending fame, she falls for him. Hard. Supports him like his number one fan. Yet, around Thanksgiving, he disappears. After promising never to vanish again, a few weeks later, at Christmas, he’s nowhere to be found. (Read my previous post “Blast From the Past: Part 1″ for the full story)–

This time worry didn’t consume you, suspicion did. Right at the top of your mental Rolodex was the address that he so casually dropped a month earlier. Surely, he assumed you’d never remember it. Perhaps no one had ever told him that women don’t forget anything. Scorned women, even more so. Midnight, two days after Christmas, you were somewhere deep in Flatbush, Brooklyn. The walk from the train, though not long, was definitely uncomfortable. Your uneasiness came from feeling like an outsider in this world of loud West Indian accents meshed with roughneck neighborhood kids. But none of this really mattered because you would have walked through fire to learn the truth. You came upon a street and house that matched the number in your head and took a deep breath. So far, so good, but the real question was…was he inside? You steeled yourself and knocked on the door. “Is ‘Mick’ here?” you asked the fifty-something-year-old woman who peered at you from a side window, never bothering to come to the door. In a tone so cold you felt like she’d thrown a bucket of ice into your face, she responded, “My son is married, has two kids, and no longer lives here.” With that she walked from the window without another word, leaving you standing there feeling like a lost, cold, wet puppy.

Eighteen years old and as green as a blade of grass, not a good combination.

In an attempt to smoke him out of his hole so that you could confront him, you let Sherri talk you into leaving him a voice message that said you’d been robbed at gunpoint and were completely devastated. At least the devastated part was true.

A few days later he showed up unannounced looking tired and old. Was he really overworked or was his sexiness gone now that your rose colored glasses had finally been stripped away? And though there was a part of you that despised him in the worst way, there was also a part that hoped he would tell you that that old witch in Brooklyn was lying. That she wasn’t his mother at all, that he didn’t know who she was. And his absence around the holiday was due to something like a car accident, food poisoning or something else improbable that left him completely incapable of making a five-minute phone call. Anything would have been better than knowing that he had a family to attend to. You had him step into your office (Sherri’s walk-in closet) since Sherri was giving him a look that made you think she might kill him before you got a chance. Then you told him straight up about your meeting with his mother and what she said. His response? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Wait a minute! That’s it? You didn’t know which was worse, him trying to insult you with lies or not even bothering. You wanted more than that. Denial. Screaming. Hollering. A tussle. Something that would prove that this whole thing was real. That he was as invested in you as you were in him. This was not the confrontation you had envisioned. As he watched you cry till your eyes were almost swollen shut, he did genuinely look sorry. And at one point something shifted and he began to open up. He explained that he wasn’t happy in his marriage. That he and his wife had been together for about eight years but she no longer supported him and his dreams. He wanted to tell you he was married but didn’t think you’d understand that at some point he was planning to leave, once his kids got a little older. And then there was the comment that you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to.

“You are the type of woman that I can really see myself with.”

It’s a tricky moment when you’re sitting with the man you love and even though he’s lied to you, he’s apologizing and saying that he could see a future with you. And yet, he said, “the type of woman that I can see myself with.” Not you, per se.

The truth was he wasn’t asking you to stay. He never offered you anything. He only insinuated the possibility of continuing the relationship with his ‘”I can see a future” comment. In actuality, he put everything on the line and was making you shit or get off the pot. Thank God something inside you prevented you from waiting for him to leave his wife. The most disappointing part was how easy it was for him to let you go. And how sad it was for you to walk away.

When his album finally came out, he had a wife who was going to be on his arm. Not you. And, as absurd as it seemed, all you could think about was whether his children looked like him.

It was the dirtiest life lesson you’d learned and it sucked royally. It took a long time for you to stop wishing he’d lose his dick in a freak accident, but once you calmed down you began to see what was really going on. Perhaps you never really loved him that deeply at all, it was what he represented–a man on the verge of stardom– that had you saying “how high?” whenever he said “jump”. Okay, okay … you jumped on your own, he didn’t have to ask. Of course he should have told you that he was married, no question, but on some level you chose to ignore the red flags showing you who he really was because to acknowledge that would have meant leaving him, and you so wanted to be that girl. To walk around with him while looking drop dead gorgeous as every other woman looked at you with envy. To know that of all of the women out there he had chosen you. Isn’t that what you fantasized about as a little girl when you plastered your walls with your favorite male singers? Thankfully, there was a limit to how far you’d go for a taste of the high life. When you think of Jerry Hall today, you wonder if being “Mick’s girl” was everything she would have liked it to be. A few years ago, despite years of infidelity, she finally left when he fathered a child with a young model. Damn.

Now, in present tense, standing on the street with him was surreal because the last time you’d seen him was in a music video, singing his heart out to a stunning model– (a role that he’d promised you, by the way). You’d be lying if you said it hadn’t hurt. But like most pain, it eventually subsided. The fact that the rest of his album flopped helped because you no longer had to “run into him” on the radio or TV. It was the first time his disappearance was a good thing.

Ironically, listening to him sweat through an apology so many years in the making made you feel nothing: not happy, sad, vindicated, or anything else. He couldn’t know that your experience with him had become one of those cool war stories that you share when describing the naiveté of your youth. That you’d become almost grateful to him for what he showed you: that it’s impossible to live someone else’s dream. You threw yourself, heart and soul, into his life because with all the work that yours needed, his just looked like an easier road. He was on the brink of fame, while you were an aspiring model who hadn’t yet figured out how to lose her baby fat. If you could just help him to the finish line… get him where he needed to be, life would be perfect. And yet you discovered that there’s no easy road to success because tending to him was a full time job—one that held no guarantee for a joint future. The discovery of his deceit was a blessing because it took something deplorable to shock you out of a bad relationship. From that relationship came the knowledge that YOUR dream was important, and the only way to have a guaranteed spot at the finish line was to put the majority of your energy into Y-O-U. It’s something you still remember every time you date a guy and find yourself treating him like a King and yourself like a pauper.

After an awkward pause, you decided it was time to put him out of his misery. “Don’t worry about it,” you said and meant, “That was a long time ago.”

With renewed energy and a look that said, “Hell, maybe it can be on again after all these years,” he invited you down the block to a club where he was the doorman. It was interesting how not much had changed with him over the years. With the exception of now being single (at least that is what he claimed), he was still stuck in the same rut, while you had moved on to become a full time model and actress with no need of a side job or a man to pin her hopes on.

You politely declined and wished him the best. Maybe you’d grown from the encounter more than he had. Boy, did you have a story for Sherri.–Erickka Sy Savané

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It’s been damn near five months since you’ve had some, so this dude better break you off something supernatural. You’ve been through all the prelim screenings, and you’ve had enough. No more coffee, not another movie, and, no, you don’t want to know his mama’s maiden name. At this point, you don’t care if he has a mama.

Making out on your couch for the second time, your kisses are so compatible. Passionate. This time you’re gonna let him go all the way, baby. Where the hell is that emergency condom you slid under the sofa cushion? Aiight, let’s do this, you think as you slide it into his hand. Ready, set…

You’re waiting….

You’re waiting….

You’re waiting….

Okay. So maybe it takes his motor a little longer to get started. Being the sexual mechanic you are, you decide to help things along by orally greasing his engine. For a reason that stumps your expertise, you’re left nursing a flat tire. This is a first. Is it some type of punishment for a past blunder? Bad karma coming back to bite you in the ass?

Finally, he blames it on the alcohol you shared at dinner. You think he’d better sign up for AAA because you’ll never let him drink in your presence again.

You flick on the TV, doing your best to shrug it off; he rattles off something about having to go walk his dog and makes a hasty exit. While a Happy Days rerun plays in the background, you’re left to contemplate what went wrong. At the risk of sounding cocky, you know it wasn’t you. Was it? Hmmn. It’s only 10:30 p.m., still early enough to make some emergency phone calls to get some male input.

You phone Male Friend number 1. He’ll tell you anything. Even at the risk of ruining his future chances of getting with you. He admits he doesn’t always “lift the plank.” “Sometimes we just have other shit on our minds and sex ain’t always at the top of the list,” he insists. “A real woman would understand that it can happen.”

That makes sense, but you need more, so you call Male Friend number 2. He’s pretty insightful and always likes to offer his two cents on your love life. At close to 40 years old, he’s both a dirty old man and a Dr. Phil wannabe. “If a woman is too fine,” he says, “getting it up could be the equivalent of bench-pressing Staten Island. Size questions and performance qualms could paralyze the most prodigious stud.” Damn, so your only fault is that dude thought you were genetically magnificent?

Male Friend number 3 won’t admit to ever having a problem getting it up. (Whisper: You suspect he likes you and feels there’s still a chance you two could burn the midnight oil.) You skip to number four.

Male Friend number 4 has nothing to lose. You two have already been there and done all of that before deciding you worked better as friends. “Getting it up is only half the battle,” he explains. “The real work is keeping it up. Condoms don’t exactly enhance sexual pleasure. And if a man’s been drinking, his senses aren’t at their peak.” Translation: What goes up must come down. It’s just a matter of when.

The fact that this has never happened to you before is a miracle of the best kind. And though you hope like hell that lightning won’t strike twice, you know that you’ve benefited from the experience. You now realize that there’s a double standard in which men get shortchanged. Sex for him will always mean having the added pressure of “performing.” Tired (and tipsy) or not, he must get it up, keep it up, and be good. Conversely, if women are tired or intoxicated, sex can still occur, with minimum effort on their part. It may not be the best sex ever, but at least it can happen.

Maybe the “old” you would have cracked jokes, or been annoyed and deleted his name from your little black book, but the “newly-schooled-in-male-physiology” you knows that shit happens and you can’t take it personally. Men aren’t robots designed to give you what you want, when you want it, exactly how you want it every time (guess you won’t be throwing away that vibrator anytime soon). Feeling educated, tired, and (thankfully) reassured that tonight’s occurrence had nothing to do with any deficiency on your part, you decide to stop calling male friends, go to sleep, and give old boy a second chance. Better luck next time. —Erickka Sy Savané

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He shows up at your apartment for a first date wearing a pair of ball-busting sky blue polyester pants, a tight blue fishnet shirt, and some silver tennis shoes. Part of you wonders if it’s a joke, because even though you live in Chelsea, America’s gay capital, nothing has ever looked quite this queer. You walk 10 blocks down to the West Village to grab a bite to eat, knowing that you shouldn’t care what people think but praying that you don’t run into any of your friends. You’re wondering if fate is playing some type of joke on you because up till now everything looked like a good fit: Girl meets hot boy in a club (yeah, I know, but it happens). Speaks to him every day on the phone for a week and realizes that he’s also extremely intelligent and they have lots in common. And now, fas-forward to the present, girl realizes that hot, intelligent boy dresses like he is blind. Damn, but you like this one. So the real question becomes, can you upgrade him?

The next day you get encouragement from a girlfriend who tells you about her experience dating an older man who liked to wear his shirt collar up, probably to remind him of how hot he was in the ’80s. She also speaks of an ex who used to wear sweatpants with hard-sole dress shoes. She was able to break both men of their played-out fashion habits, she brags.

This reminds you of the lawyer you once dated. You helped his after-work wardrobe go from corny to presentable by first making him throw away his black-leather biker jacket and matching cowboys boots. Then it was off to the barber for a haircut that didn’t make him look like a Republican. And speaking of haircuts, there was also the model who you finally convinced to abandon his pretty boy image by cutting off his Christopher Williams curls in favor of a hip buzz cut. And afterward, he traded in his outdated, funky sneakers for some fresh Timberlands. Today he’s a successful TV star. (You’re just sayin’!)

While you are reminiscing on these past makeover successes, someone else comes to mind.

Rewind back a few years to the banker you dated who wanted you to reapply your lipstick in the middle of a New Year’s Eve house party. It was annoying that you couldn’t relax for five minutes without him worrying about how you looked. He also tried to turn you into a Condoleeza Rice look-alike by buying you bland dress suits. The fact that he claimed to have liked you but couldn’t seem to accept you for who you were was always an issue because it felt like his interest was dependent upon your appearance, not what was on the inside. Once he critiqued the size of your breasts and gave you a complex that you couldn’t shake for…wait a minute, you still have that damn complex! What hurt you the most was his favorite quote, “You’re going to be great in about five years.” It made you wonder, Am I such a loser now? Eventually the relationship ended when you realized that he was never going to be satisfied with you. That revelation came after you went on a three-week business trip to London and he informed you, over the phone, that “things would be different when you returned home.”

“Different how?” you asked, curiously. He said he’d been talking to a few of his buddies about your relationship and could now see that it needed some serious work.

A terrifying thought considering who his buddies were: One was a 58-year-old lawyer who had never been in a serious relationship in his whole life and only dated models just days out of their teens. The other was a promising young politician whose latest girlfriend was a stripper with the prestigious reputation of being able to grip the shit out of a pencil with her pussy. Okay, so now these two Village Idiots were weighing in on your relationship. You imagined them giving him all sorts of twisted ideas about how to turn you into the perfect bitch. His authoritative tone and the fact that he wouldn’t give you a clear answer about what the new changes would be made you feel as if you were diving head first into a cement swimming pool.

Enough was enough.

“Hey, we don’t have to do this, you know, we can actually just break up,” you proposed, surprising you both with an answer that immediately felt like the perfect solution. He agreed without hesitation and that was the end of a year’s worth of bullshit. You haven’t seen him since.

So remembering what it felt like to have someone try to upgrade you, it’s clear that there is a point after which it becomes too much. Arrogant even. Granted, the banker did introduce you to fine dining and exotic vacations, but who says you wouldn’t have discovered those things on your own? And why was his ass with you in the first place if you weren’t gonna be ripe for another five years? Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to just find the type of woman he wanted to be with? Or maybe he didn’t feel secure enough to approach “that girl,” so he thought it simpler to find a young girl like you to mold into his ideal superchick. The problem is that you, like most people, didn’t consider yourself to be in need of molding, so all he got in the end was resentment.

Okay, so knowing that it’s not too cool to attempt an all-out P-Diddy remix on somebody, what to do about your new guy?

Finally, you toss aside your fashion police card, hoping that things will just fall into place. Aside from this small…technical difficulty, things have been pretty good. Maybe you’ll make suggestions when it comes to toning down his wardrobe, but you’re not going to stress it too much. True caring can’t be derailed by a pair of silver tennis shoes. At least not this time. —Erickka Sy Savané

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