Anywhere USA, a young woman looks in the mirror and ask “why not me?” She’s pretty enough to be a model, maybe not slim enough to rock haute couture, but if she knew the right people she could be on the cover of King, or so she tells herself each morning as she studies her reflection in the mirror. Her girlfriends share her viewpoints; they all say how pretty she is. The only thing stopping her from being a star is maybe a new hair style, a trip to the swap meet for some new clothes. After that she’ll be any man’s dream. But she’s sick of the Block Boys and the lames at her job; she wants to hit the lotto. And lucky for her the NBA All Star Weekend is here.

Every year countless women ascend on these hosts cities, magnetized by the allure of 6 foot 6 ballers and what being their wifey would mean. Some claim to go only because it’s an event, a spectacle. Never mind that they only know Kobe and LeBron, they claim to be fans of the game and not looking to handcuff anyone, sometimes this is true… often times not. Even the most honest women fall victim to the Cinderella life. She may be making fun of the “Hoe in the short skirt with no panties on” but in her mind she’s hoping to bump into Mello in the elevator, he’ll tell her how pretty she is, next thing you know she’s usurped LaLa as his soulmate. She’ll never say this; just fantasize secretly. But the thing about All Star Weekend. Fantasies are more likely to come true.

Men go where the women are. No matter if you’re Davon from the corner or David the Accountant. Men put on their best gear, jewelry, and shades and go off to the All Star Game to post up like a real G. This is where things get muddled. These women are only in town for a few days, they don’t have time to sort the real from the fake, the 2 thousand dollar dude with the cute smile from the 2 million dollar dude with bad acne. They have to hope that their Bullshit detector is working and throw caution to the wind.

On Friday Night that beautiful young lady and her friends were at Diddy Does Dallas, rubbing elbows with the likes of Ron Artest and Stephan Curry. Dozens of guys whisper in her ear, trying to find out her name, or what hotel she’s staying in. In actuality she’s sharing a room with four other girls in a Budget Hotel, all her money spent on a new Weave and a plane ticket. She’s not trying to bring anyone back to that place, she’s not trying to be someone’s “all-star fuck”, she wants it all. She moves towards the V.I.P, hoping that dancing with her friends near the velvet rope will lead to an invitation from Shannon Brown and his homies; she would love to move to Los Angeles, hang with the Kardashians. Shannon doesn’t invite her in, but another guy does. She doesn’t ask what team he plays for, she assumes a good one because he’s iced out and has a good spot in V.I.P

On Saturday they have lunch. He’s a not a ball player, but he owns his own car shop in St. Louis. Not what she was gunning for but he’s nice, handsome, and is saying all the right things. By Saturday Night she’s in his Hotel room watching the dunk contest. A part of her wants to be with her friends, as they get ready for Round 2 of the baller hunt, but she’s content.

Sunday Morning She wakes up, he’s already getting dressed. He tells her he has to fly out in an hour and she should hurry. She dresses in silence. She gave him the cookies and now things are awkward. They exchange BlackBerry Pins as she exits the room, stepping over the morning newspaper she does the Walk Of Shame, thinking wow, he didn’t even have a Suite. The little details now bother her, was he really from St. Louis? Why did he have a Houston Area Code? Was that Jesus Piece really made of white gold? She passes other women leaving out of the building, their club wear now wrinkled and soiled. Is this what All Star Weekend is about? Looking for a Baller and being smutted by an average Joe with swagger?

On the trip home her girlfriends aren’t speaking, they’re both embarrassed and ashamed that they had a threesome with a guy who claimed to be signed to Grand Hustle. The Three women say no more about the trip.

Monday Morning her co-workers ask “How Was Dallas”. She smiles, drops a few names of NBA stars she’s heard of, and claims to have seen them in the club. She paints a glowing picture about how Thirsty the men were and how she wasn’t trying to be anyone’s hoe no matter what team they played for. She makes a statement that she had fun but she’ll never go again, she’s getting to old for that scene.

She’ll lie to herself, try to forget what happened, maybe wish that Shannon Brown had seen her, how things would have changed, how she could have been on the cover of Smooth. For now she’ll live her life, work hard, stay in shape, and maybe next year in Los Angeles it’ll be different.

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