What Happens When A Rapper Has A Crush On You

Yes, I am a pretty girl. No, I am not a thot. Disclaimers are necessaries when telling tales as such, a story in which I’m sure you’re waiting for me to pull my panties down and throw them off the banister rather than let my hair down from the window of my tower. Final disclaimer, I will not reveal the name of this rapper, however, you soon will know that rappers become just like any other average boy you’ve ever come across when they’re suddenly trying to hit on you, so “who” is not the moral. 

I work in fashion, and sometimes working with celebrities is part of the job description. It’s certainly better than other parts of the job description, depending on the celebrity, yet rappers have become regular encounters. Recently, I worked personally with a particular guy, one who was definitely not new to my work, we even have a few mutual friends. I’d never worked with him one-on-one, and soon I would find I would be his new favorite shop girl.

He flirted, adamantly. He gave me his personal number, and told me to text him about a pair of shoes he wanted. He gave me a very intimate hug, one where his hands were in much closer proximity to my ass cheeks than to my shoulder blades. He even asked a friend shortly after our encounter what my “situation” was. Once again, rappers are no different from all dudes when it comes to asking this question; regardless of the answer, they quite frankly don’t give a shit if you’re taken or not.

Laying in bed next to my boyfriend about a week later, my phone lights up. I reach over and see a text from the last person I expected to see a text from. Yes, he’s in my phone as his stage name, we’re not on that level of intimacy yet. It’s 10 pm, what could he possibly want? I open it and remember I had texted him a couple days prior about the shoes he was thinking about, and he had simply slipped on responding until this (not quite yet) inappropriate hour of the night.

We responded back and forth for a while innocently before my boyfriend even thought to prod about who I was texting. I laughed nervously, but gave him the honest answer.

“Wait, what?!”

“It’s just about some shoes he wanted from work, he just didn’t respond the other day.” He seemed uninterested after that. He’s not jealous, and he doesn’t need to be…if I just leave out certain teeny-tiny details. No reason to go around concerning anybody.

Ironically, after my boyfriends’ lack of interest, the texts about shoes suddenly stopped and a whole new batch started up. He started asking me about my holidays, and then what I like to do in my free time and then any other question he could possibly think of that didn’t directly spell out, “Do you have a boyfriend?” I bantered with him and kept up accordingly, but when I didn’t give him the correct information he was looking for, he cut to the chase.

“Do you like me? Or am I not your type?” was the exact text. In this moment, I realized exactly who I was talking to. Someone that a million girls would have a simple, three-letter response for. Y-E-S. Yet, I felt like I was in high school again. I can’t believe this guy, this huge MC who could probably fuck any shop girl of his liking, had handed me the reins and I was free to tug on them if I pleased.

Bottom line is, I’m not going to leave my boyfriend for a rapper, but I wouldn’t leave him for any other dude either. A) Yes, I am familiar with that Tumblr quote, “Protect your vagina, and stay away from rappers” and b) even I was to at least have my fun with it, once again, I reiterate religiously, rappers are just dudes. If there’s a moral to the story, remember that rappers are exactly the same as any other guy you’ve met. They’re not any worse, they’re just more direct about it. They have this bad stigma as being the ultimate players, and I’m sure some are. However, general rule that applies to most males I know; the second they have it, they don’t want it anymore anyways. So keep them guessing, and make some money while you’re at it. Just because I didn’t get to see what it would really be like with Ariana Grande’s ex doesn’t mean I’m not getting mine out of it. Oops, I’ve said too much.

Story courtesy of a friend who chooses to remain anonymous.

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