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 easily be seen as “wifey material” by a rich man, 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 or a trophy wife is maybe is a connection with someone with a name or access to power players. 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. It doesn’t matter if they don’t know the rules of Basketball beyond “ball goes in a hoop… I think” and they can only name LeBron off the top of their head, they claim to be fans of the game. They’re not going to All Star to be groupies, they’re going because they’re going for entertainment and not looking to handcuff anyone, sometimes this is true… often times not.

Even the most honest women fall victim to the Cinderella fantasy. She may be making fun of the “Ho 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.

 Athletes Aren’t Usually Smart, so he’ll be blown away by a woman like you who’s educated.

Athletes usually deal with groupies, so he’ll be blown away by a loyal woman who isn’t for the streets.

Athletes have the kind of money where they won’t make you go half, have you struggling, and will give you the life you claim you don’t need but desperately want… To be a fucking Queen who never has to go in her own purse.


Here’s the information that most of you don’t know… All Star Weekend brings more BROKE MEN to the cities than ballers. 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 local club, the one with the bottle girl sparklers, velvet ropes, and bouncers who may let you in if you give them your number… This young lady played her cards right and the next thing you know she was rubbing elbows with Knicks and Lakers. Dozens of guys whispe 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 a Clipper Player and his homies; she would love to move to Los Angeles, hang with the Kardashians. The Clipper doesn’t invite her to his table, 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 with this man for now.

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 numbers 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 or was it fake? She passes other women leaving out of the building, their club wear now wrinkled and soiled. Each one of these women came to All Star looking to get wifed, but exit the hotel room, just another basic girl smutted by an average Joe with swagger and a shiny watch…

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 ALL STAR”. 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 ho 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 an actual player had seen her. “Maybe if I went to a different club or wore a different outfit, I could have pulled a real baller and he would have fell in love…” She sits on her lunch break at her boring job fantasizing about how things would have changed, how she could have been a basketball wife, a kept woman, the matriarch of a power couple… For now she’ll live her life, work hard, stay in shape, and maybe… just maybe, next year’s in All Star will be different.

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