The Benefits Of Hypocrisy

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1 Shade of Gainsboro

     The next time you visit a water park, take a few seconds, head over to the wave pool, and observe the black people. More of us cannot swim than can and just aren't fans of water in or near our faces. So most of us can be seen on the average no deeper than six feet in the water until the waves start. Then it is a mad dash (awkward swim walk) to the shallowest portion of the pool. We don't mind it, we know it can be fun, but when things get remotely out of control, we bail as quickly as possible until things settle back down to a reasonable level. Metaphorically, the previous sentences of this paragraph are the best way to describe my feelings towards kink.

     In my world, words like dirty, filthy, and slutty are terms of endearment. If the precursor of those words in the sentence I'm saying to you is "You are so...", there's a pretty good chance you've just done something amazing with some part of your anatomy in conjunction with a part of mine involving drag coefficients and I am grateful. But sometimes a couple of words and inertia aren't enough to get off effectively. Sometimes, you have to go the Spinal Tap route and simply turn it up to 11 (or make 10 louder). You find yourself looking into things like spanking, hair pulling, foot worship, and handcuffs which doesn't seem too bad. Then you hit wax play, whips, spitting, choking, and water sports and there's a level of reluctance if not outright resistance. But we're not done by a long shot. We haven't hit fisting, caning, plushies, electrical play, sploshing, rope bondage, needles, blah, blah blah, blah, blah! Which at this point, you have a better chance of me passing out than I do of participating. 

     As mentioned before, I'm a voyeur. I will watch damn near anything (I tend to draw my line at things where the woman seems to be forced to perform against her will, especially if there isn't a personal disclaimer by the performer. To me, it's as no bueno as they come.). But the thing with watching is that I am not a responsible party to any of the people involved. When uncomfortable, I do rather poorly with responsibility. How poorly? At 6'4" you still won't see me seated in an emergency row. So if I'm not willing to be comfortable for a five hour flight so I'm not responsible for your well being, it is a safe assumption that I'll at a minimum struggle to acquiesce to your desire to be choked. As hot as it is to see a woman get off, most judicial systems will put my fingerprints around the neck of your lifeless body in the "Open & Shut Case" file drawer. Call me selfish, but I am of the school of thought that my freedom should always take precedence over your extra-intense orgasm. It's not something I'm completely against and I could probably be turned from my position on this particular example. But trust me when I say I would be a very sloooooooooowwwwwwwwwww process to build up to that level of comfort and confidence.

     Any of the various branches of the "kink tree" that I am fond of (and to be honest, even the ones I'm not) have to be rooted in believability. That's what makes a movie like Secretary so damn great. You can see it in everything that Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader do, that they NEED this and they can't trust anybody else to not just understand, but to get them to that place. To set them free. That's why even though I can't take the trip into such territory, I can appreciate the slideshow. Freedom is a beautiful thing to observe; it's intense, it's raw, it's really pretty hot. That's the reason why the Puritanical nonsense of traditional thinking that puts shackles on anything out of the ordinary is enraging. If it's nothing you're into, que sera sera. But the notion that anything that isn't milquetoast, meat and potatoes, solely for the purposes of reproduction, missionary is disgusting isn't just wrong, it's loud wrong. The magic of freedom is that you have the opportunity of the option. You get to sort out if lying down in a bathtub or on a sheet of Visqueen and closing your eyes tightly while someone drinks a few bottles of Fiji and presses on their lower abdomen as they fully relax and estimate accuracy is the right move for you! If it comes from a genuine place and no one is being hurt (without their consent) then everyone wins.
     Enjoy every shade of grey you can handle physically, psychologically, and emotionally, people. Just do it safely and respectfully of your partner's wishes as well. As I once told a co-worker who was clueless to why his girlfriend didn't give him a second chance at anal, "You don't pussy-fuck an ass, you neanderthal." You are being trusted with their complete well-being which is not a responsibility to take lightly. Doors can be opened that neither party knew existed or knows how to deal with but if your partner can trust you with their deepest seeded and rawest emotions, how great do you think both of your worlds will become once freedom is introduced; regardless of how crazy things get between you kids. So while some of you are over by "charcoal", wearing rubber masks with mouth zippers or ball gags with 80%-98% of your movement restricted, hardened candle wax splattered all over your person, and getting popped on the soles of your feet with an electric wand sending you adrift into sweet, sweet subspace, I'll be way the hell over here by "gainsboro", asking if you're okay if you suck in your next breath through clenched teeth after I pull your hair back. And when you say "Yes", I'll pull back a little harder and ask you "What did you say?". And when you say, "Yes, sir.", we'll get back to work...you filthy...little...bitch... 

White Lust, Conspiracies, Black Fear & Anger, Jose Canseco. Not Necessarily In That Order

     "Tiffany and a big girl whose name escapes me." If asked the question "Who were the first two girls you ever kissed?", that would be the answer. Tiffany was a brunette, big girl was a blonde. They both had long, flowing hair. I have no idea if they were good kissers because it happened in Kindergarten. I do recall being douchey to the big girl later on and making her cry which if you know me well, you know this would sadly be a harbinger of the years to come. But the primary similarity was that they were white girls. It wasn't a fad. Nobody dared me to do it. I simply knew even then what I liked.
     With the exception of my first stint in the eighth grade where I became enamored with Spanish women (which I still do enjoy but knowing that they're not above reenacting their favorite Kill Bill scene on one's penis or throwing gasoline in one's face over a lawn mowing discrepancy is a bit of a turn off), it has been a celebration of skin color ranging from "Sweetheart, I can see your veins." porcelain to slightly lighter than me. It does not mean that I'm completely averse to black women. There are some that I've come across that are absolutely stunning. But when I'm not being a bombastic, overly loquacious, nitwit, I like a certain level of calm that the law of averages state I will struggle to find with a black woman. I didn't consult an actuary to come to this conclusion. I have lived this first-hand.

     Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and a woman scorned hath no fury like a black woman who sees any black man with a white woman. I can't get enough of white women so I've seen a substantial amount of the scorn. I've experienced a substantial amount of the fury, and I'm taking a rain check on all of it. The best example I could give of this was during a stint working at Target where an attractive black woman (who was in a bad marriage at the time) that liked me a lot was very upset with my preference of female companionship. I'm talking about smelting metal hot about this topic. She tried to place the flaws of all black men onto my shoulders. She tried to make me feel shame for my decisions. She spoke with rage in her heart and a passionate fury. Her vitriolic words came out so quickly I was nearly compelled to buy a pack of Micro Machines. A few days later she told me that even after all of this injustice that I (the guy who wasn't trying to get in the middle of a bad marriage regardless of my racially amorous preferences) had done to her by simply accepting what I do and don't like, she still wanted to pursue a li'l somethin' somethin' (queue the slide bass and the wah pedal, nod head in rhythm to the melody, lightly bite bottom lip). As fantastic as that sounded in theory, much like communism, I felt it would be in everyone's best interest if she placed www.fuckfromaroundme.com at the apex of her favorite websites and leave me the hell alone. That story ends with me making out with a cute, chubby white girl in her office. Boom.
     The heart simply wants what the heart wants and until something happens that makes me feel something otherwise, my heart wants a snow bunny. During the nineties, there was probably a sliver of hope that could have skewed my opinion on this matter but at some point in the early 2000's, I think the government got involved. I don't have any proof of this but change was in the air, and sometimes...a change...is just what we need...WHITE BITCHES STARTED TO GET ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS CURVES AND HELLA FAT ASSES AND INDIVIDUALS LIKE MYSELF RE-MUTHAFUCKIN-JOICED!!! Oh, my God. They were great already and now, now they're like Blade! It was all the strengths of being with a black woman but with none of (what I always felt were for me) the weaknesses of being with a black woman. The day I realized it wasn't some anomaly and there were the beginnings of an abundance of them, I almost cried. I know I bought a bible because I felt after such a gift, I needed to become closer to a higher power. Instead of shouting to the heavens, I should've screamed "Thank you!" at the front steps of the FDA for putting my needs in front of the health and potential public safety of the people. We needed more food and thanks to steroids in the feed we gave to our livestock, we damn well got it. Sadly, it made it that much more difficult for bouncers and bartenders to eyeball under aged people to their fake ID's effectively because the maturation cycle of teenagers had been cranked up to a road runner-esque rate of speed. But, if you want to make an omelette, you will simply have to break some eggs.
     I was unapologetic about my preferences when white women walked around in Jordache cut off jean shorts and tie-dye shirts with the figure of a surfboard. There isn't a chance in hell now of me looking at this subject with regret. I've always been okay with what I wanted. My government simply took what was great, and gave it a little...boost. I don't have anything against black women at all. I've met some incredible ones but there was simply no attraction. No spark. I like when the needle moves; when the electric connection between a man and a woman cannot be denied. To pigeonhole my opportunity to experience that sensation to solely my race would be the most absurd thing on the planet and I'm not doing it. I'm one man who's only been in several relationships and when they turned sour, I didn't lose a wink of sleep over the skin color of the person I chose to try to be happy with. Every black female, including my lovely mother, that felt at some point that I should feel otherwise and that I'm simply intimidated by a "strong" black woman, you're absolutely right. But all you can do about it is take your racist, double standard, strong-arm tactics, and get on the bus to Bitterville, USA with Tyler Perry's greatest hits playing on your tablet. Just be sure to sit in the front. You've earned it.

The Greatest Night In The History Of The World...Ever

     At six years of age, I had my only birthday party. Someone stole my cousin's copy of Double Dragon 2 and my mother explained that I had to use my birthday money to fix the injustice that was done to him. I didn't have a boatload of recourse because most six year olds don't have recourse and as such, I simply took that loss. Eleven years later at a friend's birthday party, two of my best friends, Chris and the late Dave Rome felt completely ostracized because I felt obligated to split time between them, the birthday girl, and her friends (By her friends, I really mean this really hot little thing that I wanted badly because she was soooo sexy and maybe she was just being flirtatious but since I'm terrible at picking up signals I don't really know). Regardless of my reasoning behind not paying them the attention they deserved, they grew weary of the scene and we left early. When my father came to pick us up, Dave left them the parting gift of taking several lengthy passes along the top layer of cake frosting with his tongue. I miss the hell out of that maniac. Some other birthday parties happened in between and after those two but only one birthday party is worth remembering and that is Samantha's catapulting into adulthood: "The Sam & Unnamed Co-Birthday Girl's 21st Birthday White Trash Bash" or as I refer to it: "The Greatest Night In The History Of The World...Ever"

    

Dateline: February, 2011

     I have been invited to and have decided to attend my co-worker and good friend Samantha's 21st birthday party which she will share the top billing with her lifelong friend. Since I don't know precisely what to buy a young lady who I'm not exactly close enough to get something that shows I pay attention to the nuances of her personality, I roll with the gift that can keep on giving, a carton of cigarettes. (It's not like it was her first one, so take your judgement about me perpetuating her awful habit and send it elsewhere.) As sad as that was to buy them, I had to make sure to purchase the correct brand without giving away to her what the gift is. Enter Sam's sister.

     Sam's sister is a problem. She's young, she's sexy, she's a bit of a hot head, and she's completely aware of the power she wields over men but not the responsibility that comes with that power and that is dangerous to someone like me who has no issue succumbing to the siren's song of practically any young damsel. But at that moment, I needed her because she had information. So if I could just, for once, play it cool and ask her the simplest of questions, I can get through this potential minefield of lust that I'm absolutely certain I'd Pepe Le Pew saunter into. Here goes nothing...

SUCCESS!!!

   With that bullet dodged, it was off to one of the classiest fashion hubs to find appropriate attire for a "White Trash Bash", JC Penney, where I was (shockingly) able to find everything I needed for the occasion: A button down plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off, Coors Light baseball cap, "vintage" (aka: Pre-faded) Twinkies branded t-shirt, and a pair of ill-fitting, stonewashed jorts completed my ensemble. I would be stunned if at least a few of the ladies at the party would be able to contain their wanton desire to be with someone that looked as good as I did that night and didn't need to keep their legs crossed constantly to stop their bodies from showing what their faces tried so hard to hide. Yet, I was stunned. Because every lady there couldn't care what I was wearing and because of what happened soon after.

     Sam's co-birthday girl is wearing a trucker hat that is advertising a faux whore house and I am the ONLY black guy in this place. Two statements of fact that have no relevance to anything yet but are obviously there to foreshadow. I make my rounds meeting and greeting with co-workers and people I'll never meet again. Hours pass and alcoholic drinks are consumed at a rate that only the young think is okay or an alcoholic has conditioned his body to accept. I have finally made it over to the table where a spectacular strawberry shortcake has been partially cut into reasonable slices. The DJ, Sam's brother and my former co-worker drops the volume so that his sister can say a few words of thanks. Most I don't recall but these certainly stick out in my memory bank: "I just want to say thank you to my best friend...Who would've thought we were in Kindergarten together and now we're sharing our 21st birthdays together?" The music starts back up and being the attention whore that I am, I felt there was no better time to uncomfortably bring our races just a little bit closer by grabbing the mic and since I was the only black guy there, I just requested that everyone could find it in their hearts to try to incorporate more black people in their personal lives. I then thanked them all and grabbed another piece of cake. The people that didn't know me were shocked, the people that did know me laughed uncontrollably, and in minutes, every word I said took a back seat to the bedlam that followed.

     In the midst of me devouring piece three of birthday cake, someone says within earshot of Sam's co-birthday girl's allegedly inebriated stepfather, "Bye, whore!" The combination of copious amounts of alcohol and a lack of context was a veritable powder keg that has just been lit and thus elicited this reaction from her stepfather, "Who said it?! Which one of y'all niggas called my daughter a whore?! Which one of y'all niggas did it?!" With there being only one actual patron at the party that could lay claim to the literal label of "nigga", all eyes are of course, centered on me and I calmly, with a mouth full of cake, profess my innocence and a lack of knowledge of the wronged party. Stepfather leaves; young drunk kids talk about what they would have done had he got in their face; stepfather returns with additional vitriol but still just one racial slur in the chamber; I'm on cake piece four. He continues his tirade demanding justice for his besmirched stepdaughter which is finally ended by one patron saying, "Fuck it, I said it!" and for his troubles gets grabbed by the neck and shoved against the nearest wall. A battle royale breaks out in and around the party that was too frantic to focus on it all but what I did focus on was magical.

   Near the same wall where the confessor was choked, co-birthday girl is sitting on the floor crying. Sam tries to help her up and for her troubles has it explained to her that this is all her fault. Sam's mother tries to get in between the two best of friends since Kindergarten and for her troubles gets rocked with a sucker punch that drops her to the floor. At that precise moment, their world slowed down to a screeching halt. As it pertained to their relationship, everything that we knew to be was no more.

     "You fucking bitch! I'll kill you!" screamed Sam as she tried to help up her mother. Sam's sister turned into a raging maniac as she ran as hard as her delightfully toned, booth tanned, drunken legs could carry her which was into our co-worker's arms that she didn't know. So he was bitten. Sam's brother and I tried to explain that it was okay to remove her teeth from his forearm because he was one of us when the remaining two-thirds of the strawberry shortcake I had gone quite fond of soared through the air and had delicious chunks of confectionery shrapnel hit us in the back thanks to the increasingly selfish actions of the co-birthday girl who storms out to the patio area.  Sam's sister breaks free of my co-worker's grasp and in one of the most adorable displays of a disregard for inertia I had ever seen, runs halfheartedly into the bartender guarding the patio door and falls on her ass as the door, which might have been opened just enough to get your arm through it, closed at an insultingly slow rate of speed.

     Some other things happened that I wasn't around to see and their friendship, which I'm sure isn't difficult to imagine, is beyond repair but what they did that night was make it crystal clear that if someone wants to lay claim to having the best birthday party I've ever seen, they have a lot of work to do. Ladies and gentlemen, you are on the clock...