I know y’all are wondering why in the world is she still talking about Jill Scott and there’s a reason for it. Essence Festival streamed this year and Saturday night Jill took the stage and did what Jill does. It reminded me of all the times she was playing in the background and made me fall in love with each and every curve on my body because that body was gifting someone else’s body with all of the pleasure it could handle. Jill is also nasty. Folks seem to hear He Loves Me and Golden and don’t listen to the other stuff like Crown Royal or My Love or even one I overlooked So Gone. Jill is a vibe. Jill also was good and tired of the rich bitch, hood bitch, boss bitch, that bitch messaging and mentioned that before she hit us with another bit of gooey love and then bounced for the night. Some of you may be wondering how Jill could possibly get me in trouble and well let me tell you. Jill sends my brain into cute little succubus mode. She makes me centrally focused on a pleasure exchange. Especially since quite a few of her songs are vaguely and sometimes not vaguely coded submissive entreaties to a dominant partner. And when you’re already in that energy exchange mindset you really don’t need any encouragement from an outside melodic source do you? I don’t and I don’t need my folks to have one either.
The next night, one of the people she could have been referring to took the stage in form of Megan Thee Stallion—not to be confused with Megan Thee Reporter that covered MTS shooting trial vs Tory Lanez and his dad’s interesting hairline—and she did what Meg does as well. She bopped, twerked, cussed folks out as appropriately and displayed excellent breath control. I am most definitely not built like Meg and while I can rock with more of her songs than I thought before her performance, she would get my behind in trouble. I’d get sassy and start mouthing off and then yeah my behind would be on fire and not because we were both excited about that. Well he might be excited. I just wouldn’t be able to sit down. And that would make me smile a few days later but in the moment I’d just pout.
I think they’d be fun to drink with but find about 17 ways to make sure I was limping the next day. That’s great wing woman behavior but yeah could end up with me in varying degrees of damn I fucked up. Okay it’s looking more like bedtime after three nights of being up past 3AM.