The Black Thing
"So," he said, slowly stirring his mocha latte, "Tell me about yourself."
I was taken aback. This was not at all what I had had in mind. I looked
around the coffee shop, trying to think of what I should say. The place
seemed suddenly very small to me.
But there he sat, quietly stirring his coffee drink with an enigmatic smile
on his face. Just calmly waiting for my reply.
I decided to punt. "Well, uh. what do you want to know? I'm 40 years
old...a lawyer...previously divorced with no kids."
He waved his hand casually as if to brush my words aside. "No, you know
that's not what I mean," he said, still smiling and stirring his coffee.
"Let's talk about the Black thing."
The Black thing. This guy wasn't going to make it easy for me.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.
The smile disappeared, and a look of mild impatience crossed his face.
"Why do you like Black guys?"
Why did I like Black guys? How could I answer that question? I quietly
racked my brains, but I didn't have a good answer.
Not that I hadn't thought a lot about Black guys...I had thought about them
almost to the point of obsession. Not that I hadn't been with Black
guys...I'd been with dozens. Mostly one-nighters, some bathhouse tricks, a
little bookstore action here and there.
In all those cases it had been fun, no-strings sex. Some of them had been
"rough trade." Some had talked dirty to me. Some had said things like
"Yeah, white boy! Suck that big black dick! Aw yeahhh!" Some had asked me
for money (which I gave them). But none of them had ever asked me this. I
was on the spot. And this guy wasn't going anywhere.
"I'm waiting," he coaxed gently, as if I might have forgotten the question.
He was gorgeous, even better looking than the picture he had emailed
me. Medium caramel skin tone, hairless except for a soul patch, shaved
head, slim (almost delicate) build. Clear, penetrating eyes. Too
penetrating. Uncomfortably penetrating.
When we had chatted online, he had told me that he wanted to meet me in a
public place first. Said something about needing to conduct a "check-up
from the neck-up." He'd said it was his "policy" when meeting new people. I
hadn't clued in on what he was talking about, but I had been willing to go
along after looking at the picture.
Now, here I was, being "checked up from the neck up." I felt like a bug
pinned under a microscope.
"Well, I dunno," I stammered weakly. "It's just an attraction, I guess."
The smile came back. Not accepting, but tolerant. He was still willing to
hear me out.
"Is it the size that matters? Do you have a burning desire to be dominated
and gang-banged in a cheap motel room by roughneck thugs with big black
mandingo dicks? Are you looking to ride the train?"
I was shocked by the bluntness of his question. And a little embarrassed,
truth be told. I had fantasized about exactly that scenario.
But the man sitting across from me was clearly no roughneck, and I had no
idea how big his dick was. He had sent me only a G-rated face picture when
we were online together. And he didn't strike me as a guy who would be
organizing motel room gang-bangs anytime soon.
"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Big dicks are nice, I won't
lie. But that's not exactly it. Some white guys have big dicks, and they
don't do much for me. And some of the Black guys I've been with were
average-sized at best, and I was still very attracted to them." I felt like
an altar boy sitting in a confessional booth. This was weird.
This seemed to be an acceptable answer to him. He moved on. "Is it the
skin?"
"That's definitely part of it. I do find a Black man's skin very attractive
for some reason. Especially smooth skin." I hoped this would score some
points with him. He had smooth skin. Maybe he would like that answer.
The flattery didn't seem to register at all. "Anything else?" he pressed.
Anything else? I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something
else. I grappled. "Well, I don't know know...this is hard for me," I looked
at him for some sign of mercy but found none. He was a complete blank. I
couldn't read anything from his expression.
I forged ahead. "Well...see. I grew up in a mostly white environment. I
didn't know many Black people growing up. Not that we were racist or
anything..."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Well, we WEREN'T racist. I never heard the 'N' word from my parents, and I
would have gotten into serious trouble if I'd used it in our household. Not
that I ever wanted to." Jesus, that was lame.
"Go on," he said. "I'm listening."
I became flustered. "Look, I'm not a racist, okay?"
"I never said you were."
"Well, these questions...I feel like I'm being interrogated here!"
"You are being interrogated," he said simply.
No shit. This was definitely an interrogation. Damn him! I didn't have to
put up with this, and I told him so.
"I don't have to put up with this!" I said, giving my best attempt at
indignation.
He shrugged and made a graceful little gesture with his palms
outward. "That's true," he said. "You don't have to put up with this."
But I was putting up with it, and I didn't know exactly why.
"Look," I said in exasperation. "What do you want from me?"
"Just the truth."
"Well, I'm telling the truth. Jesus! Is there some litmus test I'm supposed
to pass here?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, what do you want? I didn't bargain for all this! I was just looking
to hook up, that's all. Is that such a crime?"
"Not at all. I like hook ups, too."
"Are we going to hook up or not?"
"I don't know yet."
"Well, when are you going to know? I didn't come here just to spin my
wheels and play head games!"
"I know you didn't. But I have to know where you're coming from. That's
just the price of admission."
The price of admission. I sighed in frustration. This was not going
anywhere. I was clearly not going to get laid tonight, at least not with
him.
He sensed my exasperation. "Look," he said gently. "This is probably enough
for one night."
He took out a pen and wrote a number on his napkin and handed it to me.
"Here's my phone number. Why don't you take this with you and think about
things for the next few days? Then if you're still interested, you can give
me a call."
He smiled sympathetically. "I know this isn't what you'd planned on," he
continued. "But it's something I have to do for myself. I hope you
understand."
I didn't understand, but I didn't say anything. I was horny and frustrated.
He picked up his backpack and readied himself to leave. "Call me in a few
days if you're still interested."
I sat sulking as he made his way out of the coffee shop.
I called Robert that night after I got home and told him about my strange
conversation at the coffee shop.
I'd known Robert for a few years. We had messed around some when we first
met, but our relationship had sort of evolved into a platonic friendship.
Robert is Black. Maybe he'd understand what was going on. Maybe he could
help.
If I could just get him to stop laughing at me.
"Well, well, well..." he chuckled softly on the other end of the line. "It
sounds like you've got quite a little challenge on your hands."
He was enjoying this! I was dumbfounded.
"This isn't funny!" I said. "He's making me out to be some kind of racist!
I don't know what to do. You know I'm a decent person. This isn't fair!"
"Oh Charles," he said. "Charles, Charles, Charles...You're taking yourself
far too seriously."
"But I'm not racist!"
"Are you sure?"
I was stunned. How could my friend say such a thing? We had known each
other for years.
I fumed silently, trying to decide whether I should just hang up the phone.
Robert sensed that he had pushed a hot button, so he backed off. "Look," he
said kindly. "I know you're not a bigot. We wouldn't be friends if that
were the case. But maybe you could do a little...you know...work on the
subject."
Work?! I needed to to work?
He went on. "Let me make the point a little finer. You're not a
racist. You're a kind, open minded person who treats other people with
respect."
That was better.
Robert continued. "But maybe...just maybe...you still have a few racial
cobwebs in the attic that you haven't confronted yet.
"You're not a racist. But maybe you still...have racism."
This sounded like hair-splitting to me. "I'm not sure what you mean by
that."
"Well, most white people don't consider themselves racist these days. A lot
has changed since the 'bad old days' before the civil rights movement.
Almost everybody knows Black people from work, or they have friends who are
Black..."
"Go on..." I was listening closely. I had never heard Robert talk like this
before.
"So, they're not 'racist' in the old-fashioned hateful sense of the
word. But they still 'have racism.' I make a distinction between being
'being racist' and 'having racism.'"
"And you associate with people who 'have racism?'" This wasn't making sense
to me.
Robert laughed. "If I refused to associate with everybody who still had a
few cobwebs in their attics, I'd have to be a hermit! I like white guys, as
you well know."
"So you compromise."
"Life is a compromise. The main thing for me is whether the other guy has a
good heart and is willing to grow. I don't expect perfection, because
that's not realistic. I just work on the cobwebs when they come up."
"That must be hard. You must get some ugly surprises."
"Oh, tell me about it. I've been burned more than a few times."
"How?"
"Well, usually little things, but sometimes big things. You meet a guy who
seems nice and is really into you. He seems like he might be the one...
"You date for a few weeks and maybe he even starts talking like he wants to
become serious...
"Then you realize that he hasn't introduced you to any of his friends.
"You ask him why, and all he can give you is some evasive B.S. It gradually
becomes obvious that even though he thinks you're hot and may even be in
love with you, he still can't connect the various parts of his life, and
he's afraid what other people will think."
"That's gotta hurt."
"It does. That's why I've learned to move slowly and proceed with caution,
at least if it looks like it's going to be more than just getting my rocks
off."
"So, I'm sort of on probation with this guy, then."
"Pretty much."
"And if I want to pursue this, I'll just have to accept that I'm on
probation."
"Yep. Goes with the territory."
I pondered this. "Do you think I should call him?"
"I would if I were you. He seems like he has a good head on his
shoulders. I'm not sure I'd let this one get away."
"I dunno. I wonder if I even have a chance."
"You have a chance. He gave you his phone number, didn't he? He wouldn't
have done that if he didn't think you were worth the trouble."
That was a good point. I switched gears. "So, have you ever put a white guy
on the spot like that? I mean, the first time you met him?"
Robert laughed, "No, but I'm definitely taking notes! This guy's good. I
may borrow his technique myself. Save myself a lot of wasted time and
energy."
"Well, I'll call him in a couple of days. I don't want to look desperate."
"Sounds like a plan," Robert said. "Let me know how it goes."
My conversation with Robert had put some things into perspective, but I
still had a problem.
I was horny. Real horny. And I needed to do something about it now. I
wouldn't be calling Kevin for another few days, and even then, we probably
wouldn't be hooking up for a while.
So, I did what I usually do when I'm in this state. I went to the
bookstore.
Not Barnes and Noble. You know the kind of bookstore I'm talking about.
There wasn't much of a crowd, but there were few homeboys. Some thuggish, a
few twinks.
As per usual, most of them ignored me. I was used to that.
Finally, one homeboy showed some interest. He was in his twenties, slightly
thuggish looking. Tall. Slim. Dark skin. His shirt was clean but a little
bit worn out. He wasn't wearing a watch or any other jewelry.
He wants money, I thought.
That was okay. I'd left my wallet in the car and only had a little cash on
me. Enough to make him happy but not enough to break my heart if it turned
up missing, which had happened to me a few times in the past.
We went into a room, and he unzipped his pants while I put money in the
machine. He sat on the sofa, and I knelt in front of him to do my business.
It wasn't bad. He had a nice dick, and my flute magic seemed to be just
what the doctor ordered. He put his hands on the back of my head and pumped
hard as I worked my tongue and took him down my throat.
He moaned. "Aw, shit! I'm coming!" Then he came.
As we were getting dressed, he said, "Look, I'm a little low on cash and I
need to get some gas for my car. Can you help me out?"
I helped him out with a ten-dollar bill. I knew it wouldn't end up in a gas
tank. He probably didn't have a car. But it would get him a dime of crack,
which was good for two bell-ringing hits.
He smiled at the bill. It was a little more than he had expected. "Thanks!"
"No problem. Be careful out there."
"I will!" he promised earnestly.
We hugged, and he left the room. My thoughts returned to Kevin.
I'm not Catholic, but I actually genuflected and said a "Hail Mary" before
calling Kevin from the office on Monday morning.
I needn't have worried. He sounded glad to hear from me.
"Did you have a good weekend?" he asked.
I told him that it had been good. I made no mention of my trip to the
bookstore, nor of the fact that I had been obsessing about our conversation
in the coffee shop.
"Great!" he said. "I was really hoping you'd call."
That felt good.
"Where are you now?" he asked.
"I'm at work."
"Where is that?"
I hesitated, but then I remembered what Robert had said about people who
were afraid to connect the various parts of their lives.
I told him where my office was.
"Great! It's not far from where I live. I'll swing by this morning. I have
something I need to drop off for you."
Yikes! I wasn't quite ready for that.
He didn't miss a beat. "Don't worry. It's not a big black dildo or anything
stupid. It's just a book, and I've wrapped it up. I'll just drop it off
with the receptionist."
"You're giving me a book?"
"Just think of it as homework. I've gotta go, or I'll burn my
breakfast. I'll drop by in about two hours or so and leave it at the front
desk." We said our goodbyes and hung up.
Hoo boy. Homework. What next?
