Swirling Singles

Taking Liberties in Vegas: Jenee Darden Has Encounter with a Fetishist

By Jenee Darden, AKA “Cocoa Fly


This economy has been hell. Sorry for the unpretty language but that’s how I’ve been feeling for a long time. And what better place to go during a recession and spend money? Viva Las Vegas! I was having one of those Kindred “far away from here, far away from here” moods and needed a serious break from reality. Nothing says “unrealistic” more than a city where Egyptian pyramids, and the Statue of Liberty are within blocks of each other.


The Vegas clubs were calling me and it had been a long time since I dressed up to party. I wanted to wear the tightest thing I could find. I mean, hold your breath, stomach sucked in, don’t even eat a Triscuit tight. I slipped on a $14 dress I found at Ross that made me feel priceless and my favorite strappy gold heels. A few spritzes of water and jojoba oil on the the fro , one coat of lip gloss and I I hit The Strip. Destination: Tryst at the Wynn Hotel. I couldn’t ask for a better night. My girls and I got hooked up with free admission and drinks. The club wasn’t too crowded because most people hit Aria for Kim Kardashian’s birthday party. The DJ was spinning the right stuff and I took in the buzz of nightlife and my second Georgia Peach.


Now for the juicy part. My girls and I were sitting at a table when a guy tries to snap a picture of us. We covered our faces and told him that taking pictures without people’s permission is not cool. He apologized and I heard an accent. Traveling the world is my dream. My intrigue gets turned on when I hear an unfamiliar accent. He was from Israel. I lectured him again about taking photos without permission and asked, “Do you go up to Israeli women and snap their picture without asking?” Of course he said no. From there we started talking. He answered all of sorts of questions I had about living in Israel and cultural tensions with the Palestinians. We talked about the value of entrepreneurship in the Jewish culture. Then dating came up. Did I tell you he was 26 and had deep brown eyes? And he was very cute with light-bronze glazed skin? Did I tell you he owned a real estate business and was traveling the Western U.S. and Mexico for vacation? He wanted to know why my 30-somethin’ somethin’ self was single with no kids. I told him I didn’t know and it doesn’t bother me. Three months later, I still don’t have the answer.


We danced. He knew how to work it the floor. My friends were very impressed with his hip -hop dance style and rhythm. A few songs later he slowly got closer . And closer. He whispered in my ear, “You are so beautiful and you have beautiful skin.” I thanked him with a flirty smile. We sat down. He said he’s always been attracted to dark women. But he made “dark” sound like something he wasn’t, which I found odd because he was only a few shades lighter than me. He wasn’t Al B. Sure light, nor was he Wesley Snipes dark (To do: research complexion issues in Israel). It was late and I had been up almost 21 hours straight. He was getting dreamier by the late, late minute. But I was ready to return to my gorgeous room at New York, New York Hotel and call it a night or morning. He was staying at the Belagio. We started to head out when he gave me a swift, soft kiss on my bare shoulder. Then he looked at me with his endless brown eyes and asked for a kiss on the lips BECAUSE he “always wanted to kiss a dark girl. ” What-the-hell? Why do guys say dumb things and kill the mood????? So he wants to kiss me because I’m “dark”? He wants to kiss me so he can go back home and tell his Israeli homies what black lips feel like? Or maybe how black girls feel different from other women? This all ran through my exhausted mind. I gave him a friendly hug and wished him well. He was confused by my rejection.


“Girl, what happened?” my friends asked when I returned to them. I told them and they understood. If I weren’t so tired I would have schooled him.


I have swirled and I understand how someone else’s skin color, eyes, hair texture or style can be a turn on when it’s unlike yours. But that’s different than a fetish. To me a fetish is when you can’t see the person for who they are because you’re so caught up in whatever about them turns you on. The Israeli dude felt fetish-y to me. But there’s a happy ending to this story. I left Vegas with $40 extra dollar in my pocketbook and a good idea for a blog post.


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