I’ve always taken great pride in being a homegirl. A homegirl a man will talk to when he’s having relationship problems. A homegirl a man calls on when he needs a wingwoman. A homegirl a man takes on platonic dates without expecting anything in return. The homegirl he respects. The homegirl he cares about. The homegirl he trusts. The prodigy. The best friend. The sister. The homegirl.
I was seeing a man for six months. We weren’t dating, but we went on dates and had sex. He had a lot of homegirls, and went out with them occasionally.
“Yeah, my homegirl tried to get me to go out to the museum last Thursday.” “My homegirl works there.” “I’m supposed to watch the game with my homegirl.”
It was then I realized that I too, was his homegirl. Suddenly, it didn’t feel so great. If he held my hand during movies, fucked me on his couch, slept with his arm around me in bed, and kissed me good-bye in the morning – did he do the same with his other “homegirls”? I had to pretend like I didn’t care. I had to pretend like the thought didn’t eat me away inside. I had to pretend like my heart wasn’t breaking.
For months I pretended to barely know this person. We’d say “hello” to each other like we didn’t just say good-bye a few hours before. I didn’t post pictures with him, because people didn’t even know we had each other’s phone numbers. I had to seem interested when I’d hear stories from other people that I already heard from him. We started out as acquaintances, became friends with benefits, then regressed into booty-calls. I settled for less than I deserved, and ended up with even less than I settled for. So what’s worse than the man you want want to call “mine”, calling you his homegirl?
Realizing that you’re even less than a homegirl to him.