The behind-the-scenes festivities of a sporting event or music concert include three basic essentials: food, drinks, and groupies. They’re fixtures in the after-party scene, clamoring for the attention and — oh dare they hope? — a moment of bad decision-making to wrangle the sperm of their wealthy and/or high-powered man targets.
Seeing pictures of some silicone-pumped, big-bootied heffas waiting at the hotel where a fleet of NBA players were staying reminded me recently that I could never, ever, ever, ever date an athlete or a man in a position of power or notoriety. I just don’t possess the social grace or the inherent couth to withstand the urge to kick a scheming groupie in one of her surgically enhanced woman parts if I knew she was plotting on my man.
Not that any all-pro ballers or high-ranking shot callers are Googling my contact information. I’m just sayin’ that I couldn’t do it even if the opportunity presented itself.
Groupies capitalize on a couple of factors: the vulnerability of men who spend a lot of time on the road traveling and away from their families, the party scene that often goes hand-in-hand with the kind of high-pressure careers these dudes excel in, and — let’s keep it real — the tendency of many a man (stop yelling, I said many, not all) to be lured from “just looking” to “it only happened once.” That’s just not a lifestyle that I could get caught up in, no matter how much money he was bringing home or how cushy my closet could be because of his life in the limelight.
One episode of Real Housewives or Basketball Wives always reconfirms it for me. The stress of a regular relationship is enough; the stress of a relationship with mistresses and flagrant infidelities is more than my fragile little ego is built to handle. I honestly don’t see how — or why — so many wives of politicians and entertainers and actors and ball players stick it out when their men are known for dipping into the groupie pool of love. Money will keep you comfortable, but it can’t piece together shattered trust, wasted time, and broken vows. It can, however, buy a good therapist and a sharp divorce lawyer should the situation call for it.
We witness the life of the rich and privileged vicariously, but do you think you could accept groupie love as a hazard of your man’s job?
Image via arhadetruit/Flickr