Once You Go Black

With all the terrible news about violence against people because of their race, I felt compelled to do something for my country. I am not an activist (although apparently being a mom with a sex drive is in itself a radical act) yet when the opportunity arose to do my part, I was ready. And willing. And gosh darn it, I was wet. I answered the call from President Kennedy all those years ago, and sought to do for my country what my toys could not do for me. That’s right, I slept with a black guy.

I grew up in Australia, as many of you know, land of the White People. Any time I have met African American men who were planning a trip to Australia I have always had the same conversation.

“Do you know about black men and Australian women?”

“Um, no,” they would reply, unless they’d already heard.

“Be prepared. You will be highly exotic to them. You will be getting laid on the tarmac. Once the plane lands, you will be getting blown. Bon Voyage!”

Most have confirmed this theory, and it seems the fascination runs both ways. And yet. In all my escapades since my separation (or before I met my ex-husband at the age of 23) I had somehow not managed to sleep with a black man (how is this even possible?) although I once made out with a Ghanaian in London at 20, and also believe I made out with Floyd Mayweather Jr., the boxer, in New York City in 1997. Of course I was still drinking then, and there were drugs involved, so perhaps he was just a waiter/impressionist who knew the word “welterweight”? I remember he was shorter than I was, and also his lips. Oh. My G-d. Those. Lips.

For the record, I know I’m skating a very fine line of taste here, even finer than the fraction of a millimeter you’re used to. But those that appreciate this blog have learned to tolerate me like the dinner guest who says the embarrassing, politically incorrect things because they know her heart’s in the right place. So… onto desert.

I was out. (Now would be the time to congratulate me for putting on clothes and leaving the house.) He was checking me out while I danced. He was smiling. He didn’t approach me. I left. I got into my car. It sucked in my car. I came back. He was still smiling. I approached him.

“Do you smile at everyone like that?” I asked.

“No,” he said, smiling.

It. Was. On.

He was young. He told me he doesn’t date black women. I accused him of being a racist. He laughed. We had a good banter going. I drove him home. (He was old enough to drive, he wasn’t that young.) We got to his house. We sat on his couch, after he removed his roommate’s giant bong from the coffee table. He made a move.

And… His. Skin.

The moisture in his skin… I have long felt that people of African heritage are more beautiful than white people. Just my opinion. I felt scaly and dry and pale, but I often feel like that when I’m with someone much younger and I haven’t moisturized. Even if someone is paler than I am, which is difficult to accomplish, but not impossible. (I’m like an ashy white person.) And then this particular guy’s Siri turned on by accident, and she had an Australian accent. He had made Siri Australian. He had a redhead Australian fetish. I had a fetish for getting laid. Win-win.

I’m not going to confirm or deny the ethnic stereotype, but I know you will ask, so I will say, “What do you think?” It wasn’t the point. He was affectionate and sweet and knew what the fuck he was doing (and did I mention he was YOUNG) and all I could think afterwards was, “I hope he’s not going to hit it and quit it.”

Will I ever date a white guy again? Maybe. I mean, probably, right? When I was dating a woman I thought I might never date a guy again, and yet here I am, obviously still quite fascinated by both the penis and its wrangler. Clearly I go for the person, the energy, the spark, the attraction- and matters of gender, race, age, and good use of grammar fade into the background. Actually I don’t tend to fuck people who can’t spell. And ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ is a dealbreaker.

Call me a Patriot. Call me a Cougar. I would go with Opportunist. What I did, I did for America. Free at last, free at last, thank G-d almighty I am free at last…

I do not think I have any taboos left to smash, but I will do my best.
I do not think I have any taboos left to smash, but I will do my best.

12 comments

  1. I once made out with a black woman and it was indeed very exotic…the contrast in color especially…hers and mine and especially her dark skin and the pink of her pussy…it was also taboo too… Not the interracial aspect; the fact we were in the store I managed after hours and we had somehow set off the silent alarm…the sound of the owner’s voice screeching ‘HIS CAR IS OUTSIDE; SO WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?’ caused more shrinkage than any ice bucket challenge…never did see her again…she crept out while I explained to my boss and several officers that the reason my pants were unzipped was I was looking for my keys…

  2. This is sooo good. I dated a black woman while I was training with the Marine Corps. We were housed in one of those huge bay barracks – where fifty bunk beds lined the room in perfect rows. Sneaking around those rows in the middle of the night, amongst sleeping Marines… Nothing was hotter than unbuttoning her camoflauge fatigues, boots still on… And her muscles. Perfect skin.
    I still don’t know how we never woke anyone … So much for those Devil Dogs being “mission ready”. They couldn’t even hear us cats.

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