A White Woman Explains Why She Prefers Black Men of White-Ass MotherFukers
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Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and
velvet made flesh. There's
only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to
nearly every inch of a
black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a
luxury I shouldn't be able
to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo
Blahnik shoes. That
phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling
of the skin.
And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that
paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my
relationships with black men for
several years. A white woman past forty is often passed over by her
white-male contemporaries.
She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic
scale or darker or she
spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get
the babe they couldn't
have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the
marketplace do prevail. It's not
me, it's themthem being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or
so I claimed.
That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of
available white men my age
(and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirtyand that's not
including the unavailable white
men who want to play around anyway.
Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but
I don't want them.
I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a
visible frisson of sexual
energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on
race. We are not those
couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or
more purposefully come
together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and
respect. Not as
politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The
Internet has made it a lot
easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory.
Women write: seeking
tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say:
Race is not important.
It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.
Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated
outside their race, that
deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially
black women, damned mad.
We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who
choose one another
because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men.
Black men are two and a half
times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry
a white man. Black women
can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath. But in truth,
black sisters, we're after
the sex, not the ringand these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway.
Yes, the sex!
The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie
Bright's "white bitch in
heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to
do that. According to one
school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives
kick into higher gear and
their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes,
baby, now I'm ready for
you" reaction.
When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready
and waiting for us. Black
men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to
flirt, a nearly lost art
among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how
to make a woman feel
sexy.
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?
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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 kissand
they free meand 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.