Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The heart of darkness.

I spent most of last Saturday surrounded by thousands of delicious, buxom, costumed and scantily-clad black and latina women of all sizes, shapes, and shades. The Caribana Festival was in full swing, and coloured people from throughout the world were converging in my city for this annual debauch of food, festivity, and dance.

For me, interracial play can be incredibly hot, but it's so riddled with sexual politics. Is that part of the point? Admittedly, I'm from white-male-reasonably-middle-class stock, so I'm clearly the marginalized person here, the enemy, when thousands of people who share common roots in white marginalization converge to celebrate their various cultural identities.

The "underclass." "Black rage." The Simpson trial. The Obama candidacy. As author Jonathan Kozol has pointed out, racism is often a question of context and class.

The volatility within these sexual politics also seem to vary depending on the gender role. Is a black woman sucking white cock as culturally "sensitive" (read: taboo) as a white woman sucking black cock? If not, could this be why black dudes fucking white women is such a successful niche in porn (albeit often presented in its own racist ways), while the opposite might not be so?

Apart from black cock mystique, is it the social disparity between some whites and blacks that makes it such an attraction for white women? Questions of class? "Badness?" "Dirty?" The allure of the marginalized has its attractions: race, class (the French maid), outlaws (guys in jail), power (Monica Lewinsky). At its core, even BDSM plays completely on the sexualization of the marginalized. Sex partners "from the other side of the tracks" can be hot stuff. It's "wrong," isn't it?

Is it a sense of in-your-face cultural revenge then, or from the woman's point of view, in-your-face thumbnosing of (racist) societal mores that adds to the attraction of white-woman-black-man? What do black guys think about when they fuck white women? What do white women think about when getting banged by black dudes? Is there a deeper sense of submission for white women who are getting so fucked?

And if there is, if I reveal that I have a race-based power fantasy of my own, as a white man, exactly how much politically-incorrect trouble am I liable to get into? Black men who dallied with white women risked getting lynched by Klansmen because of their hatred of blacks (and, probably, their secret also-racist jealousy over the cock mystique). If I reveal that I have a fantasy to take, use, fuck a black woman in a Sally Hemings sort of theme (which I do), exercising my pleasure upon "my slave, ""my property," am I risking getting shot by the Fruit of Islam or my local Crips?

It would have to be one helluva open-minded black woman who was GGG with that. I wonder is she's out there... (Email me.)

I like watching white women suck black dudes, get fucked by black dudes. Maybe its the aesthetic, the contrast of colour, the inherent outlawish sexiness of it. Maybe it's my own attraction to the marginalized. I (only) dated a woman once who had a black husband, and enjoyed the glint in her eye when we talked about her sex with him. Her psyche was definitely getting stroked as much as her vaginal walls.

Enjoying Caribana, I couldn't help myself but take long, pleasureable looks at the many interracial couples around me. They've come out in droves. Like virtually everyone, I check out women all the time, but in this case, I often find myself really, deeply (but from a nonintrusive distance) studying them. I see her features, the contours of her face, the shape and colour of her hair, the way her behind is sculpted. I imagine exactly how she looks when she's on her hands and knees before him; what her lips, her face, the look in her eyes is like when she's bobbing her mouth around his dark tool and her cheeks are wet with spit.

When I see a white woman pushing a beautiful mulatto baby in a stroller, I think about her thighs pressed hard against her man, her ankles locked above a dark ass that's pumping glistening muscle into her quivering, soaken depths. The balls slapping against her. The contrast of colour of her widened labia against his phallus.

"Phallus." Isn't that a great word? "Phallus."

Caribbean men in particular seem to have a much broader appreciation for various bodytypes, and I suppose this is part of the reason I see so many heavier-set women with them. The same, in my eyes' experience, might be said for 40+ women, but I wonder if that's a relationship between black cock mystique and the feminine sexual peak. A 'chance' to explore old fantasies, maybe?

There's a scene in the tragic drama Requiem For A Dream where Marion, pressured by her boyfriend to score some heroin, is finally forced to hook up with Big Tim, a black dealer "who only gives it up for pussy." What follows in his suave but obvious manipulation begins with a casual opening of his pants as they relax over drinks on the couch. "I know it's beautiful, baby, but I didn't take it out for air." Just before she descends, the look in her eyes alone, a blend of tragic resignation and glazed first-time lust, is enough to get me off. She sucked his black phallus.

Connie tells me that for more than twenty years, the only men she dated were black men, and tells me that, in her experience, black men either behave like "absolute gentlemen" or "dogs." The Grrl, when asked once if she had ever had a black lover, scrunched her nose in Jersey girl disdain. In our partying days, Diva and I made friends with a big-bellied black dude, a bouncer in one of the stripclubs where she used to dance, but to my knowledge she never went there.

The mystique seems very different for white guys and black women. I've enjoyed the company of four. Abimbola was from Nigeria, and my first girlfriend ever. High school. What a contrast we were: me, the white metalhead, she the black fundamentalist Baptist. Maybe it was she who had the marginalzation fantasy. She tried to save my soul, but all she got was a handful of Levis-covered cock as we necked in the outfield of a baseball diamond under the stars.

Pamela was one of my favourite partners, a one-date serendipitous stand that was unfortunately never repeated. All these years later, I wince and smirk at that thought. I almost stayed in New Jersey for the possibility of her.

My exhausted and tipsy one-night stand with the Vampire was very weird. I first encountered her at one of my favourite dance clubs where, poor goth grrl she was ("I'm so goth that I'm really black"), she tried to make ineffective attempts at intimidation by showing her fang implants. Yeah. A year or so later, I would encounter her during my workday, and she remembered me. Later still, during a drunken night of dancing and partying, I'd see her again at the same club, we actually danced together, and she invited herself back to my place. She gave me a toy rubber bat the next morning. Romantic, no? I would later see her panhandling in my area's club district, unkempt and looking tired. I understand that she eventually went travelling crosscountry. She called me New Year's 2007 while in Vancouver, asking for money.

Lastly, of course, there was Charlotte. I met her through a meditation group. I couldn't have been older than nineteen, and at the time was working at the Pink Pussycat Boutique in New York where I happily sold vibrators, condoms, latex and leather bondage gear, and other assorted goodies to tourists and sex performers alike. I hadn't quite left home yet, and would borrow a co-worker's apartment from time to time to give Charlotte and I a place to fuck. For Valentine's Day, I took us out to great restaurants and a room in a hotel that advertised itself on late-night television.

The room was huge, with ceilings so high that our voices nearly echoed. Dressed in gold striped wallpaper, it must have been an excellent suite in its time, but then was peeling and aging in a saddened way. I lay on my back on the room's king-size bed as Charlotte, a lithe woman with glowing skin the tone of darkroasted coffee beans, gave me my first blowjob-to-orgasm. I like knowing that that milestone occured in a once-swanky New York hotel. I remember seeing, when it wasn't the peeling ceiling paint, stars. With her head of glistening black hair, short tight curls worn close to the scalp, in my hands as she bobbed and slurped on my teenaged cock, I burst into her teenaged mouth. I remember how her skin smelled like coconut oil, how babysoft it was. The way her little ass shook when I took her from behind, how she buried her face in pillows and screamed my name as I fucked her hard. The pungency of her night-black folds, the angry shade of reddened pink of her swelling clit and glowing core as my tongue gained experience with her.

Sometimes I wonder what black women feel, in general, about black guys going at it with white women. I've seen some interesting looks. In my city (at any rate), I don't see nearly as much evidence on the street that black women can be into white guys, so I might find myself frustrated should I ever want to re-experience something like that again.

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Anonymous said...

An endlessly fascinating post, Rogue. Definitely food for thought, I'll say. And, (as usual) quite erotic as well.

Rogue said...

Thank you.

Anonymous said...

i love sucking big black dik

our rockstar life said...

Do you mind if I link to this post? I want to start a piece on the BBC lifestyle.....

Fantastic observations by the way, and yes there are some black women who will cater to your fantasy....

Rogue said...

Anonymous ~
And I'd love to watch you.

Rockstar ~
Absolutely you may. I'm pleased you enjoyed this.

Feel free to network me with your friends. ;)

Welcome to UR, both of you.

Anonymous said...

Very well-written.
As far as women who will cater to your fantasy...there are hundreds if not thousands of us....

Rogue said...

Anonymous ~
The email addy is this.urban.rogue at gmail dot com. :) I only bite with consent.

Thank you for visiting and commenting. Be well.