“No,you’re staying here tonight. I’ve reserved one of the best suites in the hotel for you. I’ll call you when I get home.” My head spun 360 degrees as the needles jumped and the cabin pressure plummeted out of control.

Easing his big black body from his big black seat, he popped open the trunk of his big black Benz. He came around and opened my door, then grabbed my overstuffed rolling bag from the open trunk.

“I had a really wonderful time,” he said, as I stood there feeling like I was the lead actress in a poorly written romantic comedy turned dramatic horrordy.

Quickly he jumped his big black body back into his big black Benz. The engine roared, the exhaust pipe fumed, and the words of Luther singing “Love Won’t Let Me Wait” grew more distant until I heard only the final chord of “wait…wait…”

“Wait!” I yelled. “Wait! You forgot something! Me!” I yelled and chased after his big black Benz, “Wait! Please, wait!” It was to no avail. In the distance he reentered the Dan Ryan and his car faded into the hazy abyss.

Something had obviously gone god-awful wrong. Suddenly there I was, my forehead still warm from Graham’s kiss in the middle of the street, trying to chase down a big black Benz with an overstuffed rolling bag behind me. I had become love’s crack ho and Graham was my pimp, slanging hope and dealing promises of a future. I had prostituted myself for love. I was Trick Baby, and Graham was Iceberg Slim. But wait, how does this work? He’s the one that took me out to dinner on his yacht. He wined and dined me . So he’s the ho, and I’m the pimp. But then again, obviously sex was what he wanted, so I’m the ho. Now, I’m confused. Who’s the ho?

“Can I help you with your bags?”

Startled, I turned. It was a bowtie-wearing bellman. “Good evening, sistah, can I help you with your bags?” he offered again.

“Yeah, but…do you mind if I ask you a question first?” He nodded. “Who’s the ho? The one who gave it up and liked it, or the one who wanted it and took it?”

Expressionless, the bellman paused for a moment of contemplation. Then with the poise of a Muslim minister from the Nation and the precision of a Harvard professor, the bellman began his dissertation on Ho-ism 101.

“Ho-dom, my sistah, is not in the journey, but in the destination. In each of our very own lifetimes, we have all in some way prostituted ourselves in pursuit of an earthly pleasure. According to the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, it is time for the ho to become the pimp, and the pimp to become the ho. Bean pie, my sistah?” I shook my head no, and he continued. “You see, the white man…”