I'll give you a hint: it starts with the letter "r" and rhymes with "tay-cism."
By: Jimbo X
For an entire summer, I was madly in lust with Robyn. Yeah, her first name was spelled just like the singer, and thanks to the ravages of time, I totally forgot what her last name was. Harris? Williams? Henderson? Your guess is as good a mine, folks.
A little background here. I was fresh out of high school and in that weird part of my life where I wasn't totally dead set on going to college quite yet. Needing money but not really looking for a career, I took a job at a local textbook warehouse - where virtually all of the employees were local college kids trying to pick up a little bit of spare change during the summer break.
Turnover was high. A month in, I was already one of the senior employees due to worker atrophy, so every time a new herd of recruits came in, I was tasked with showing them the ropes. Mostly, this meant teaching them how to look up ISBN numbers on the ancient Tandy computer terminals we had all over the place and the proper way to make "book squares" (the trick? You do five lairs going one way, then another five lairs going the opposite way and you repeat until the damn stack is taller than you are.)
Robyn was one of my first trainees, and I was smitten by her. She was a couple of years older than me (maybe three or four?) and she had a nice curvy build - about 5'7, 170 pounds, at least half of it ass and titty. She was also kinda-sorta gothy (she always wore this frilly, black cobweb looking blouses like Morticia Addams) and she nailed pretty much all of the semi-skanky quasi-trashy aesthetics I love about a young woman in the 20-to-30 age range: she chain smoked cigarettes, wore an absurd amount of indigo eyeshadow and made sure her lips were constantly coated in a thick, juicy layer of MAC LipGlass (aka, that clear lip balm stuff all the girls used to wear back in the My Chemical Romance era that at least partially resembled a smudge of semen.) Oh, and one more thing: she was black.
OK, I guess if we were being sticklers for facts, she was more of a medium brown, but you know what I mean. I had never been with a black girl, and being a male who has lived in the American south his whole life, let me tell you - we desperately, direly want to date black girls. I don't care how gruff or menacing or prejudicial the exterior portrait may be, if a white man has genetic roots in Dixie soil, he's molecularly inclined to want to have sex with African-American women. You get a Grand Cyclops drunk enough, and trust me, it won't be long before he starts blurting out how bad he wants to plow Halle Berry's cotton fields, if you catch my drift. Say what you will about white men in the South being culturally predisposed towards anti-black bigotry, I can attest to this: ain't no real Southern man's dick a racist, at least.
So, back to Robyn. I'd greet her each morning (usually, she was dual wielding a Marlboro and a Styrofoam cup of coffee) and just listen to her yell at her baby's daddy on her cell phone (the kid was two or three, I think.) The thing that struck me about her voluble calls was the tone of her voice. At times, it almost seemed like she trailed away from her "default black girl voice" and drifted into California mallrat tones. I have no idea, but every time her voice cracked and squeaked and she sounded like a white girl from Stockton named Emily or Hanna (with no second "h," naturally), I would get supremely aroused. As in, "having to mask my boner while clocking in" aroused. And if they whole "seductive white girl with a bompin' black body" thing wasn't enough to get my penis blood a flowing, she also smelled absolutely delicious - this super-intoxicating trifecta of cocoa butter, Afrocentric hair product and grape body spray. I may be able to recall my mother's maiden name, but I assure you I will never forget that wondrous little love potion.
Of course I flirted with Robyn. Being a 130 pound honky with hair down to his rib cage, however, I assumed I wasn't exactly her type. Still, she'd flirt back a little, sometimes even touching my collarbone and mussing my hair. Which brings me to The Sports Page.
What was The Sports Page? It was this crappy little bar kinda' sorta' close to the factory. On Friday's, we'd go there and pop a few brews (strangely enough, they never bothered checking my ID - even though I was just 20 at the time.) Now, not that I need to tell you this or anything, but the crew was a pretty diverse mix. About 45 percent white, 45 percent black and 10 percent whatever the fuck Ronaldo was. Straight down the middle, a 50/50 male-to-female ratio. I had already made out with three fellow employees (all female) and even received a blow job from one of them (once again, I feel the need to address the giver of said blow job was a woman.) And since we were mostly horny college kids that considered whatever happened that summer to be non-canonical, meaningless sexual trysts weren't just accepted, they were pretty much encouraged.
|Even David Duke beats off to this.|
So, one afternoon, I convinced Robyn to join me and about seven other workers for a few drinks. I even gave her a ride in my piece of shit Toyota, which by that point, used more oil than actual gasoline. We get there and we shoot the shit - she pairs up with a nice, multicultural throng of the womenfolks and I buddy up with a nice, multicultural throng of the sausaged set. After a while, a somewhat slurred Robyn waltzed up to me and asked if I wanted to dance. This is especially peculiar, considering the fact that not only was no one else dancing, there wasn't even any music playing at the bar (unless you count the dulcimer tones of Michael Wilbon and Tony fuckin' Kornheiser on Pardon the Interruption as something you want to cut a jig to.) I look over at her gal pals, and they are all egging her on. Great, I must be some kind of lost bet or something. Still, that delightful miasma of grape scented sex in her hair goaded me into action, and we awkwardly fumbled around in front of God and everybody. "Give him so booty!" one of the hoochies across the bar yelled, so Robyn hiked her ass up and started gyrating just inches away from my most assuredly Caucasian whangdoodle. Naturally, my instinctual reaction was to pop the biggest boner of my life up to that point, which without question managed to tickle the back of Robyn's gold-glitter speckled jeans. I look up at table of dudes from work, and every last one of them have a look on their face like I just took a shit in their cervezas. I glance at the girls' table and they look even more pissed. I swear, I saw one of them mouth "this is disgusting" before slamming her wadded up napkin on the table.
Of course, I didn't pay their reactions any attention. After all, I had a girl I had a major crush on literally grinding her buttchecks into my pecker in public, and I ain't ever going to complain about that. She gave me a big hug after the debacle was over and done with and retreated to the gals's section. I ambled on over to the guy's table, my Johnson still rock hard - shit, I was worried I might knock a table over on the trip back.
Everybody was quiet. I mean deathly quiet. The white guys wouldn't look me in the eye and the black guys looked like they wanted to beat the shit out of me. And Ronaldo - well, I don't know what the fuck he was thinking, but come on, like anybody gave a shit what Ronaldo thought. About five minutes later, Robyn comes up to the table and meekly asks me if I can give her a ride home. I paid the tab and downed one more nacho chip (this time, without the salsa) and courted Robyn back to the terrible Toyota.
She lived about five minutes away, so it wasn't that long of a commute. In fact, she lived in an apartment complex that abutted the apartment complex of the very girl who went down on me a few weeks earlier, so I was quite familiar with the environs. She thanked me for the ride, but before she unbuckled her seatbelt, she leaned over towards me.
"You ever been with a black girl before?" she posed.
The answer, of course, was that I hadn't. But considering I was still kinda' liberal back then, I mulled whether saying that could be construed as racist. So, as would any sort with his salt, I just stammered and said nothing.
"I just gotta' say, I think you're really cute and sweet," she responded. "And if I was a white girl, I'd totally date you." (Keep this line in the back of your head - it's central to the whole damn premise of the article.)
I was embarrassed/nervous to high heavens. Do I tell her I think she's cute, too, or that I really, really liked the last Geto Boys album and had seen Shaft's Big Score at least five times? I didn't even notice her lacquering her mouth up with that translucent lip goo.
"If you want, you can gimme' a guh-night kizz," she said. I had to spell it like that because I honestly had no idea what she was saying at the time. I honestly thought she asked me if I wanted a "gonad kit," which I presumed was a very popular dessert in the regional African-American community. It wasn't until she cupped her hand under my chin and started pulling me towards her puckered maw that I realized what she trying to get at - that's right, robbing me.
That was the first - and so far - only time I've ever had a black girl's lips laced over my own. And it was awesome. Her lips were so puffy and succulent that it felt like I was slurping on four sets of smackers instead of just two. I thought it was just about the most amazing thing in the world - that is, until she crammed her tongue down my esophagus. No, I don't mean that as a euphemism for French kissing, I mean her tongue was so big and long that it literally jabbed me in the uvula and I thought I was going to puke down her throat, which conceivably could've been considered a hate crime. Rather, I gutted it out and tried to pretend I was in the throes of passion while she tried to impregnate my mouth, Alien style. After a good 30 second galocher, she wiped the excess spit and lip gel off her face, opened the car door, and with a downright sing-song intonation, lilted "and if you think that felt good, you ought to feel my pussy." She laughed, closed the door, and said see you Monday. I then went home, my tonsils still bruised and swollen from her literal tongue lashing, and proceeded to jerk my monkey thinking about her no less than three times over a four hour timeframe. Hey - I earned this one.
|...because, as we all know, telling a black woman what kind of dick she is allowed to have is the exact OPPOSITE of "racism."|
So things are all fine and dandy, but on Monday morning, she's nowhere to be seen (even though her car was there.) That was literally the first time she didn't greet me outside smoking, swigging a coffee and trying to get child support payments. We finally rendezvous in aisle 10 (that's where we kept the middle school biology textbooks) and she wouldn't so much as look me in the eye. Yeah, a pretty big turnaround from frantically tongue kissing me the last time we were in each other's company, I'd say. I said hello, and she let out a very passive aggressive "hey" and kept sliding books around like Tetris pieces. About an hour later, another African-American coworker gently-but-not-that-gently bumped up against me and bluntly told me "it's a good idea to stay away from our women." Since he was wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers shirt at the time, I initially thought he was talking about Steelers fans, but after catching yet ANOTHER sinister glare from yet another black employee - you know, the kind of look like I just performed half the Johnny Rebel discography in front of a burning cross - it slowly dawned on me what was happening.
I don't know how much the other people at the warehouse knew, but they knew enough that we both kinda' wanted to make some sweet, sweet caramel in the sack, if you catch my drift. And this being before Obama ended any and all racial divisiveness in our country for good, this whole romantic racial intermingling didn't precisely sit while with my black or white brethren (I still don't know what Ronaldo's opinion was, and quite frankly, I don't give a shit neither.)
Here's the thing. My white coworkers were a bit miffed at me for my amorous interracial interactions, but they never actually said anything about it. They were more passive aggressive - you know, just not saying anything at all to me - while the blacks were very, very vocal about my "infringements." I got a text from Robyn after work, saying she didn't want to talk to me anymore. The reason? All the other African-American warehouse workers were giving her too much shit about booty dancing with a white boy (and had they known about our spit-swapping escapade, they probably would've gone Turner Diaries on our asses.) I didn't even respond, and we never spoke again. And without that surname, I can't even stalk her on Facebook and surreptitiously jack off to her public photos - a real bummer, I know.
Now, I told you all of that to tell you this. I catch shit from time to time because some people think I'm some kind of alt-right Neo-Nazi racist simply because I write about white supremacist propaganda (primarily, to make fun of it) and have the gall to call #BLM and their ilk out for hypocritical bullshit, like when they demand their universities codify actual racial segregation and they get popped by the po-po for owning honest-to-goodness actual slaves. Well, folks, I can tell you this - I don't think whites are inherently superior to black people. In fact, my poor-ass upbringing actually gives me a closer bond with African-American culture than it does Albinoid American artifacts, and my public admiration of Malcolm X, Booker T. Washington and Diff'rent Strokes more than backs up my argument. Hell, I co-habitated with an African-American in college for two years and have been paid to write articles about real racism in African-American journals (for real, yo.) So if I'm a "racist," I'm that really liberal kind that's totally cool with black-on-white French kissin', A-OK signing a lease agreement with members of the African-American community and proudly supports a team so idiosyncratically black even our punter is a brutha. What I'm trying to get at here is a crass and crude double standard when it comes to white/black relationships in these United States. For all the hubbub we hear about whitey being racist, from my own personal experiences, the honkeys I've hooked up with are supportive of miscegenation, or at the very least, tolerant enough of it that they won't make a big fuss out of it in public. And even if they do hold some prejudice against romance a'la Oreo, a good 99 percent of 'em are too guldarn scared to say anything about it, because they KNOW that would get them branded with the Scarlet "R" and they'd get fired and lose their house and have to live out of an R.V. or something.
The thing the media doesn't have the guts to tell you is that - point blank - black people in the U.S. are generally more prejudiced against white people than the other way around, especially when it comes to interracial intercourse. Sure, you can show me Pew data from four years ago that forgets to tell you upfront they count Asians and Hispanics as "white" to argue to the contrary, but trust me - as a person who lives in a state with the largest number of blacks anywhere in the U.S., I can tell you how it really is.
Now, are there really prudish old-ass white people out there who consider race-mixing a sin on par with bestiality? Yeah, but their numbers are so infinitesimal as to be irrelevant; besides, those fuckers are either so old or so culturally isolated that their impact on prevailing social norms is about as profound as a butterfly's fart during a Raiders home game.
The frank reality is that there's a lot more stigma in the black community about interracial dating than there is in the white community (although, to be perfectly honest, I think the terms "the [insert absurdly reductionistic group here] community" are non-existent segregatory labels concocted by white and black opportunists alike to promote their own rancorous, ethnocentric agendas.) Every white guy I've ever met - yes, even the yokels I grew up with who said the word "nigger" more than the articles "a," an" and "the" - has at least shown some kind of personal approval of black-on-white dalliances - if not for general society, at least for them and their own dicks. I'd venture to guess that a good 95 percent of white people in America don't give a hoot about race-mixing, and of the five percent that are adamantly opposed, I'm guessing at least half of them still jack off pictures of Gabrielle Union and K.D. Aubert on the downlow. But within the general black community - ESPECIALLY when it comes to black woman/white man lovin' - there's still a considerable amount of discomfort over the matter.
|Now that's what I call "tolerance!"|
The reports don't lie - for whatever reason, black women (in particular, college-educated ones) are absolutely aghast at the idea of getting their wombs nice and spermed by anyone who ISN'T the same color they are. The idea of shacking up with a white dude - by and large - is seen as some form of race betrayal, with black women into honky dong oft considered the post-Obama equivalent of Uncle Toms (err, Aunt Toms, I guess.)
But don't take my word for it - just listen to what Stanford professor Ralph Richard Banks had to say about the root causes of why college-educated black women are so hesitant to give vanilla a try:
"...there is still enormous social pressure on black women to only marry black men — to 'sustain' the race and build strong black families. And this means marrying black men even if they are less educated or earn less money. In short, no matter the personal cost, black women are encourage to marry 'down' before they marry 'out.'"Sweet mayonnaise on a whole grain cracker, can you imagine the reaction a white woman would get for saying the exact same thing about black dudes? Old blue eyes would be drug out of her house at midnight by her golden locks and prolly sacrificed in the town square for mass linguistic hate homicide.
So loathe to being loved and embraced and taken care of be a white man, scores and scores of black women VOLUNTARILY elect to marry and breed with practically random black men simply for the sake of maintaining "racial pride." That's LITERALLY the exact same supremacist ideology you'd hear over at The Daily Stormer or whatever Paul Kersey's working on nowadays, but for some reason, nobody in the general public ever raises a stink about it. Let's just come on out and say it, folks: black women won't date white men because - deep down - THEY are racist as fuck. They put arbitrarily-designated racial in-group pride over their own physiological, financial and most distressing of all, emotional wants because that herd identity, apparently, means more to them than their own personal happiness. The mass black consciousness they allow to supercede their own desires, dictating not only their wombs, but their very hearts. What kind of individual life can you have when you feel THAT indebted and tethered to in-group conformity at all times? Prolly not a very enjoyable one - indeed, one could almost say that this rigid adherence to ethnic cultural norms represents a kind of ideological neo-slavery. If it's horrid and backwards and destructive when displayed by white identitarians, then why don't we call a ... shovel ... a shovel and label this individual squelching black identitarianism, which is so despotic that it forces people to reject pure love for another human being on account of him needin' way more sunscreen, as the hateful, bigoted ideology it actually is?
How weird is it that the P.O.C. at the vanguard of the multicultural movement are also the ones least likely to date outside their own ethnicity and Crayola shade? Indeed, the white boyfriend taboo alone ought to be enough to get you to see "intersectionality" as the scam and scheme it is. "We celebrate diversity in all its manifestations," the loud and the proud Black African-American Cis-Women of Color (or BAACWOCs, for short) cheerfully clamor, "you know, just as long as it isn't within our reproductive orifices."
On some sleepless nights, when I can hear that morose little pitter patter of raindrops on my windowsill, I think about Robyn and what could have been had the local "black community" not been so damned racist. Who knows? Maybe me and Robyn would've fallen in love and we would've moved in together and decided to get married and have some beautiful toffee-colored children of our own. But no, African-American society thinks that's "culturally unacceptable" because it cheats the black race out of another full-blooded black baby, and their crude ethnocentrist nationalism has to lord over everybody like P.C.-age plantation whip crackers.
How dreadful it must be to be a woman of color in these disunited states, stuck in a racially prejudiced subculture that not only expects BUT demands ethnic supremacism reigns over your every thought and action. Forget about the alleged tyranny of the white patriarchy, the intersectionalist dogma you fearfully force yourself to abide by is doing MUCH more to de-individualize you and goad you into involuntary behavior - indeed, one may even consider such to constitute a form of ideological bondage.
And at the end of the day, THAT's why black women, even in our super-duper wonderful multiculturalism uber alles utopia, STILL have an aversion to courting, marrying and reproducing with white males. So hateful the racial nationalism coursing through their veins that they've convinced themselves that simply loving another human being makes somebody a bona fide in-group deserter and a biological Benedict Arnold. So maddened by learned hatred of the white man that they consider merely admiring and appreciating a Caucasoid male to be a cultural perversion - an unthinking, illogical form of prejudice every bit as contemptible as the anti-black hatred spewed by a Klansman or the homophobic spoutings of a Neo-nazi.
Of course, good luck getting anybody in today's America to say anything about this flagrant Albanophobia running rampant throughout black culture, particularly the domain populated by college-educated women of color.
Hate explains a lot, y'know - and unfortunately, that appears to explain why black women won't even consider giving the time of day to old Paleface.