White-Ass MotherFukers are doomed to fuking Kids, Assholes and Animals due to their lack of sexual powers & penis size.....
tiligibar
A white woman's opinion regarding white men's inability to treat her
like a lady:
Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in
their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White
men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to
let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen,
something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman,
both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to
control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like
a lady and ravish her too?
I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that
little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear,
leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for
two white people to get that close. These black men, so alive with
erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a
kiss�and they free me�and I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered
passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I
could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the
other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a
bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv
husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly
needed.
My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at
a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without
saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his
expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he
could buy me a drink until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken
and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in
a cab 30 minutes after that drink.
On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist,
knelt and kissed my knees.
I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed.
Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating
down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white
either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better
than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men.
Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on
average, but they seem bigger and harder.
White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life�if
they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in
their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is
unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply
aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their
double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them
into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful
selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities
are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry
and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that.
With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore.
That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only
interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age
scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing
strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior
rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are
the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not
caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a
Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted
beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables.
Analyze the roots of attractions all you want�like scientists have
done�and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave
what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to
the good opinion of others. Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust
was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right
thing to do.
Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white
man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were
regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that
dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's
life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him
to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in
something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately,
but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego
proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins
would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second
glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that
dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed�I hadn't
noticed�because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case."
What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable
because I'm a sex journalist�or that he would need chemical help if sex
did occur?
I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in
such a sad way.
That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my
racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not
attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore