Years ago when I was still living in California I was having lunch with a “black-curious” friend of mine. I say “black-curious” as unlike my other non-black friends she had some weird psycho-sexual obsession with black people.
At the time, I’d brushed it aside as a mild curiosity, but that lunch really put into perspective the difference between someone fascinated with black culture and someone who just really wants to fuck a black person so bad they can taste it.
I should have known something was wrong early on when I noticed this friend could not say no to a black man, any black man, it seemed. Not her trainer. Not her borderline verbally abusive friend. Not the strangers she met on the street. This was a woman who was otherwise assertive and all too in control of her life. So I was shocked when I would learn of how she would pretty much let a guy disrespect her if he happened to also be black.
Then came that conversation about the first time she went to Washington, D.C.
FRIEND: I got off the bus and I saw all these beautiful black men EVERYWHERE! They were all so gorgeous.
ME: Mmm hmm.
FRIEND: I mean, their long, sinewy muscles and white teeth and God damn, black men are gorgeous. Don’t you think they are just beautiful?
At this point, it all clicked for me what she was doing, and I gave her the following response.
ME: Well, yes, but I mean, my dad is a black man and so are my uncles and cousins and friends. Black men are just men to me.
I wanted to add “AND NOT MAGICAL SEXUAL BEASTS!” But I didn’t. Between Hottentot Vensuses and Big Black Mandigo Bucks, I just didn’t feel like going down black hyper-sexuality lane with her no matter how much she wanted to go there. It goes without saying we fell out of touch and I don’t think she ever figured out my point. That I’m a person, not the personification of your sexual taboos and fantasies.
Keep it in the pants, please.
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