Lately, Smoove has had much on his mind.
I have been contemplating the future of Smoove. It is time to admit that the first playa among equals is no longer the young man he once was. The clothes may be as fresh, the skills may be as sharp, and the hair may still be perfect, but there is no stopping the march of time.
Smoove cannot seduce death.
About a week ago, I heard that my one true girl is now pregnant. I have not met the father, nor do I know if it was planned. All I know is that the child was not conceived on my large round bed, in my hot tub, or bent over my breakfast bar. The news made me sad in ways that I have not experienced before.
Usually when something happens with my one true girl, I feel sad in a walk-around-all-night-in-the-rain-slowly-shaking-my-head-at-everything-I've-lost way. But this was a different pain. This was a sit-in-front-of-the- fireplace-contemplating-life-while-sipping-on-Courvoisier kind of pain.
These are two distinct kinds of pain.
But this one came with a moment of clarity. I realized I needed to find someone who could carry on the Smoove legacy. Who will receive my recipe for carrot-orange muffins? Who will learn how to use the hundreds of pickup lines I have developed? Who will inherit my collection of the finest dessert plates that can be imported out of Spain?
Right now there is no one.
I've considered taking my nephew under my wing and fashioning him an all-white suit made of the finest silks, taking him to my personal stylist, Ed, and beginning to teach him the ways of Smoove, but even at the age of 8, I can tell the boy has no game.
The next move is now unclear to me. You see, for Smoove, the game of seduction comes naturally. It is a dance. A dance improvised but also very formal. There are infinite possibilities within the dance, but there are also boundaries that cannot be broken. Choosing an heir to my seduction throne is a far more challenging dance whose nuances I have not yet mastered.
Certainly there have been many women over the years who have longed to give Smoove a child. Even if they didn't say the words, I could see it in their eyes. Their eyes said, "I would like this passion, a passion that eclipses the sun and the moon itself, to create an impeccable offspring." Some have gone as far as to tell me directly of their desire, but Smoove is cautious. His one true scion can only be created by a perfect union.
That perfect union cannot be, as my one true girl is in San Diego, living with a computer programmer and pregnant with his child.
When I was with my one true girl I did not think of children. I thought only of bringing her pleasure. My mind was focused on taking her to the four corners of the world, places filled with exotic delights that stimulate the mind and body. Once we arrived in such a place, we would walk the strange streets together, basking in the unknown sights and smells. We would bargain with the charming shopkeepers to get the best price on tokens of our love. We would feed each other delicacies made especially for us by café owners who had never before encountered two people so perfect for one another.
Later I would hit my girl doggy style on the steps of an ancient monastery whose occupants would become so inspired by our love that they would renounce their vows and worship us as gods of beauty and passion.
That now seems unlikely to happen ever again.
Adoption is a fine alternative for other men, but not for Smoove. I can teach a young man how to walk, how to talk, and all my moves, but unless the blood of a true playa runs through his veins, he will never be able to attain the level I have. It is my hope that my son will surpass me one day, but unless he is the Leonardo da Vinci of hitting skins, that day will not arrive for a long time. And without my genes, the boy will have no chance at all.
I long to have a little B of my own, whom I can look on with fatherly pride. My offspring will surely grow into a titan of game, blessed with powers of seduction beyond anything previously known to womankind. This is known to be true.
I have talked it over with my main man, Darnell, and he thinks I'm crazy for wanting to father a child. However, Darnell never really thinks in the long term. That is why I am developing a line of fragrances for men and he is not. He just doesn't see the big picture.
Yet I must admit that no path before me seems clear. I will have to spend less time at the city's finest clubs and restaurants and consider what shall be done. It may mean many nights of sitting on my balcony as the wind blows my thin white silk robe around in a dramatic fashion, but I will do this. It is important to me. It is also important to future generations of women who want to be brought to heights of ecstasy they never thought possible.
I do this for the future ladies as well as for myself.