Ti-Jocelin lived his life as a womanizer for many years, and he loved to brag about it. He even claimed to be in a tight competition with Joe Le Coiffeur who was said to have controlled more than 50 women around the Little Haiti area in Miami. Ti-Jocelin held no professional job, but seemed rejoiced over this fact. “My ladies take care of me,” he would say each time someone questioned him about his seemingly precarious life.
Ti-Jocelin was extremely popular, for he was a friend of Fat, younger brother of famed Haitian folk singer Mano Charlemagne. Ti-Jocelin commended a lot of attention in Miami’s Little Haiti. Every Saturday night, at the YWCA in over-town Miami, Ti-Jocelin would be seen pulling into the driveway in his convertible Volkswagen dressed in white, totally in white, even his pair of shoes was white. He was called L’Homme en Blanc (The Man in White).
Tonight was once again Ti-Jocelin’s night. With one bounce, he walked out of his car without looking back and with a stroke of his finger, he remotely locked his grayish toy.
A group of fancily dressed ladies lined up to greet the man of the hour. Like an alcohol-induced aficionado, he topped on his Mexican sombrero and took the lead as the young women followed him, totally submissive. The revolving light beamed on his jet-black face. He was neither tall nor short, but he sure portrayed the perfect replica of a night time Caribbean chulo.
Meanwhile, on the opposite corner of the room, a reedy thin girl named Gerda and her friend Francida were already hard at work to find a way to coax him, wheedling him until he became the quintessential cuckold. Ti-Jocelin, who was always in the hunt for new adventures, turned his back on all the attention while directing his attitude toward the two friends on the other side.
“If he comes to us, it’s gonna be his last stop in his sleazy game,” affirmed Gerda as Francida shed a foxy smile to lay the bait. Laying the bait, she did. Ti-Jocelin walked right into them and asked Gerda, the prettier, for a dance. Like exotic Elaine, she obliged while following him to the dance floor. They began to dance while Gerda purposely putting the pressure on the recalcitrant chulo. On the dance floor, Gerda fainted to be suffering from an unexpected cramp and politely asked him to excuse her. She did it right at the moment when the dance was the sweetest. Disappointed, Ti-Jocelin followed her. As soon as Gerda reached her seat, Francida took her to the restroom, leaving Ti-Jocelin on the chair to wait. “I think the time is ripe for him to be bluetoothed,” said Francida.
“To be what?” Inquired Gerda, completely puzzled by the word.
“Bluetoothed,” Francida reiterated.
“How do you bluetooth someone?
“Listen to me, you’re going back in there and play the awesome game, but never fully give him what he wants. Give him just enough to sniff around and start whimpering like a hungry little hound. We ought to make him pay for all the wrong he has committed to these young women.”
“Now, I understand.”
The two friends and accomplices returned to their seats. Ti-Jocelin was right there waiting for them. But Gerda was no longer interested in dancing. So Ti-Jocelin felt compelled to stick around. They talked, sweet-talked in a bouche-en-bouche (close-lips) fashion. The night wore thin and the party ended, but Ti-Jocelin walked away empty-handed. However, they exchanged phone numbers. Ti-Jocelin would call 24/7. At times, they would meet up, cajolingly kissing but nothing seriously had ever been materialized. Weeks turned to months to years, and Ti-Jocelin got completely dazed. When he finally realized what had happened to him, it was too late. The other women left him, for he was no longer at their services. He couldn’t walk away from Gerda because he was being held by a thread of hope that someday he would get his chance—a chance he never got for he was completely bluetoothed.
Note: Dr. Ardain Isma is a novelist and teaching Cross-Cultural Studies at the University of North Florida. He is Editor-in-Chief of CSMS Magazine. He may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.