I Married a White Woman

White hands with wedding rings.

Well not really married…who can afford to lose free health insurance and food stamps by getting married? Committed to, living with, what have you.

Although I have been open to dating all races, for years I lowkey thought I’d end up with a black woman. But when I found myself falling hard for a kind, smart soft white butch. She gets my jokes, she puts up with my faults, and she pays most of my bills. (Nothing + nothing equals nothing, ok?)

I tried to tell myself she’s not “white-white.” her Guayanese co-worker calls her “one of those hood-ass white girls.” She was one of the only white girls in her school growing up, her 20+ year best friend and her ex and her son are all black. But her outlook…it’s still very white.

The first worrying moment was fairly soon after we moved in together: we were trying to choose a movie, and for whatever reason I was feeling the black cinema offerings (out of the admittedly crappy selection on Netflix). She confronted me afterwards, referring especially to a movie I lingered over about drug dealers in the Hood.

“I’m white. I don’t relate to the hood” She told me angrily. “It’s not my experience!”

I was flabbergasted. First of all–she basically did grow up in the hood, if not the drug dealing part. (Although her sister sure is an addict) And second of all–it’s the point of a movie to bring you into things outside of your experience. I’ve never been to South Africa, but I was able to enjoy White Wedding I’ve also never been to space, or the distant past, but I was able to get into Star Wars.

Then recently she asked “who’s Floetry”

Increduous Face








Followed a few days later: “Who’s Nina Simone?”

Really Incredulous Look

“Do you even hang out with older black people?” I asked.

Her: “No why would I?”

Me: (why wouldn’t you?) “Let me learn you something!”

So I made her watch What Happened Miss Simone

Ok, so our shared black media experience starts when we fell in love with Hip Hop in ’92. I could get used to that.

But then I made the mistake of talking to her about Sandra Bland.

Photo Of Sandra Bland

Now, it took me a day or two to even click on a link to find out what happened to Sandra Bland. She was just so beautiful, I couldn’t bear to think of her life ending pointlessly in a Texas Jail cell. When I look at her I see someone I would have wanted as a friend. I see my aunt. I see my cousins. I see a vibrant intelligent soul. I see one more victim of the horrible scourge of white supremacy that gives police near impunity to kill black people and get away with it.

I was so depressed after reading the details of her arrest and death that I could barely get out of bed. Barely made it to physical therapy.

Despite my melatonin deficiency, this video sums up how the news and my Facebook/twitter feeds have had me feeling lately.

So I made the mistake of talking to my Boo about Sandra Bland. She agreed that Sandra’s death was wrong and the fault of the cops. But apparently HER facebook feed was full of different stories from mine. HER feed promised “incontrovertible” “video evidence” that Sandra took her own life.

I still haven’t read one article that backs this claim, but the most striking thing from our conversation was this: she’s not angry. She doesn’t feel the deep, abiding anger in her bones. Just this overwhelming violent angry rage and sorrow as black person after black person gets modern-day lynched for the most imaginary of offense.

When I asked: “What if this was your son?” She asked:”Why did you have to take it there?”

Because she doesn’t look at Sandra, Treyvon, Tamir, and see her son. Even though the cops sure as hell will one day. She sees all these incidents as wrong, but ultimately as single incidents.

She sees these incidents as a white person, a white woman.

I married a white woman.

Keep it Moving

A long time ago I used to go to this Black Lesbian night in Southie called Slainte. Twenty years prior a small clubs worth of blank lesbians venturing into this staunch Irish neighborhood coulda ended in bodies, or at least blood, but in 21st century Massachusetts it was cool.

I used to go with my dancing buddy, a cute tomboi who could tear up the floor. One night we were out dancing and some gorgeous back to Africa type sistas walked in with their effortless prints and radiant smiles.

There was one woman particular who intrigued me: she was so beautiful with her rich brown skin and thick curves. Each step and dance move owned her space and honored her body.

I told my friend how beautiful I found her and she tried to get me to talk to her.

“Naw.” I shook my head. “She’s not looking at me”

She and her friends were wrapped up in themselves and in each other and in the music.

So I respected them and didn’t try to intrude. I danced with my friend and enjoyed my night while she enjoyed hers.

Part of being in that space was respecting the people there. I’m sure a lotta folk might have tried to insert themselves in some way into their evening; but that would have felt wrong to me.

I’m not sure why my attitude is so difficult for others to take on. Check her out and if she’s not checking for you? Keep it moving. Everyone can still have a good time. That’s all I’m saying.

My Second Arrest Part 2

Start the night here. (yes this post was 3 years ago, so?)

Butch Prison Guard

They took me down to the station where once again I was jammed into a holding cell: a glass room with about 20 prostitutes, all accessorizing their skin tight ho clothes with bright orange jail shirts or pants like wearable  OJ was some kind of new fashion statement.

“Oh honey what are you in for?” Asked the only non-orange clad ho. I don’t know what it was about her, but she seemed like the classiest of the group. Her velour top and clingy pants were revealing but tasteful in a way that made tohe other prostitutes in their the skimpy remains of their ho garb look shoddy.

“Obstructing the sidewalk.” I spat out weekly.

“Aww honey,” A brown-skinned ho looked at me pityingly. “If I couldn’t sell my cooch I’d be homeless asking for money like you.” That seemed so strange to me. Asking for change seemed way less degrading than selling my twat, but not to her.

“You’re pretty,” the classy ho sized me up. “Ever thought about going into the business?”  I shrugged politely. The thought of anyone touching me sexually who I was not attracted to disgusted me. Being homeless was part spiritual quest for me–distancing myself from attachment to objects and limiting my needs to the basics.  All I needed was a couple bucks a day to get by and I didn’t have any addictions or children to make me need more. “You look tired, here, lay on this shirt.” I thanked her and reclined on an orange jail shirt.

“I love being a ho.” One of the women chimed in. “Anywhere I go I can always sell my pussy!”

“I need to sell my pussy,” the “classy” one said, “I have my four year old son to take care of.”

“How did you get in the business?” Another one asked her.

“Like a lot of women do, I was a dancer in a club and I realized hooking could make a lot more money…”

That’s where I started coughing. And coughing, and coughing. Sleeping outside in the cold damp winter combined with smoking had given me a nasty cold. I spat some blood into the common toilet sitting exposed in the corner of the cell.

“Are you alright honey?” Classy ho asked.

“Yeah, I’m ok. I just coughed up some blood tho.”

“Coughed up BLOOD?!” One of the hos yelled. “Oh my god do you have TB?!!”

That’s when all hell broke loose:


“She has TB!!”

“Guards, gaurds, she has TB!”

After a few minutes the guards moved me to another holding cell. Only it wasn’t a regular holding cell, it was a white tiled room with every inch–floor, walls and ceiling–covered in blood stains of varying shades. It had a drain hole in the middle of the floor presumably for when they failed to wash the stains out. Or maybe for the blood to drain down. I didn’t know. All I knew was there was NO WAY I was touching anything!!!

I couldn’t sit down without touching the floor  (no benches in this room) so I paced the room wearilly. In a desperate attempt to look at something besides blood stains my eyes traveled accross the room. The holding cells were set up in a circle like a glass menagerie around a cubicle farm. cops in their uniforms non-chalantly processed paperwork while us chattel watched from our glass pens.

The men were penned up accross from me and to the left, and then–my eyes stopped. Directly accross from me was what looked like a padded cell. Unlike the rest of the cells this one only had a tiny windoe, but it looked soft and white from where I was. Not only that, but it was inhabited. Inhabited by what looked like a naked woman. A naked woman staring straight at me and screaming in anguish. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

That’s when I realized I had been listening to her scream all night…



1st Glimpse of D


Boy and girl cartoon looking in underwear

The 1st time I saw an erect penis I burst out laughing. It looked so bizarre and bulbous, protruding purple and brown from between his legs like some weird discolored mushroom.
I covered my mouth, playing it off like I was nervous. In fact I felt the opposite. I felt completely comfortable naked with Joe, comfortable in a strangely non-sexual way. More like friends who happened to be naked. One of whom happened to have a very strange physical defect.

Joe had been my “crush” the year before as a freshman in high school, the boy I trotted out as the object of my affection every time my friends talked about boys. I knew I couldn’t say that it was the gorgeous big-boned Anya that I longed for, with her wide hips and long red hair…

In fact I had spent hours in science class staring in fascination  at his hair. His kinky hair and olive skin stood out in my Lilly white suburban high school. Especially his hair: forty individual braids spiraling up up like exotic underwater sea plants from his tan scalp.

Later I learned the braids were done by his mom, certainly no African American hairdresser would create braids so unruly. I always kinda wondered what trick of genetics produced this swarthy, kinky haired, thick lipped boy from his two rather ordinarily Jewish parents.

By the time we “dated” his hair was in a neat short fro, and I was officially out as bi. I dated him after being rejected by  the main focus of my affection: Judy who I was hopelessly in love with, but whose affection was sadly fixated on the unusually tall and Giselle-like Chloe.

Up to the point where we rather casually removed our clothes in his bed room our entire relationship consisted of passing dirty notes in class.

“Are you sure this is ok?” I asked, thinking of his mom downstairs.
“Don’t worry, my mom trusts me. She won’t interrupt”
We undressed without fuss, talking comfortably.  His grossly engorged member a sign that he was much more sexually engaged than I.
“So do you wanna have sex?” he asked, stroking my arm tentatively.
“What?” I looked down in surprise, scoping his member, contorting my bewildered amusement at its strangeness into shy embarrassment. “But…” I cast about for an excuse–there was NO WAY I wanted to touch that thing! “We don’t have a condom.”
“That’s alright, I can pull out.”
“Pull out?! I raised my eyebrows as I started putting clothes on, taking one last glance at the bizarre growth sprouting inexplicably from between his legs. “Do you pay any attention in Sex Ed?” I laughed even harder. Did that line actually work on anybody? Especially from his 15 year old self?

We didn’t “date” long after that. In some bizarre bid for Judy’s affection he attempted suicide a couple weeks later, and I learned that this was the first time (though far from the last) that the biggest thing a boy I was dating and I had in common was a crush on the same girl.

Sun Burst Pt 3

Start the night.

Sun pressed her soft wet pussy into my mouth, clutching my arms up in the air. For five, ten minutes I was in heaven sucking and licking on her savory second lips. Eating pussy has to be right up there at the top of my favorite things in the history of ever. Words can’t express how much I enjoy eating pussy!

I was going at it with a passion. But then my neck started twinging.

The way Sun had my arms positioned I was unable to get the relief I should have had from this position. I could have kept going and going but instead the pain once again mounted.

I tried to move my arms to get more comfortable and that’s when I realized that she had me in a submission hold.

I struggled to free myself but she had me locked down, immobile. Gripping me tight even as I struggled to break free, she pressed her pussy into my mouth as wave on wave of pain shot from my spine through my forehead.

I tried to cry out but she smothered me with her pussy. I was helpless underneath her.

“Shut the fuck up!” she grunted.

My whole neck and face seized up in pain and panic as my whole body fought, thrashing and sobbing for freedom and an end to pain.

“Shut up!” She humped me angrily,

My mouth opened to its widest involuntarily and then tried it’s best to close. It took every inch of will power not to bite hard on her clit, but even with the pain she was putting me through I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her or damage that glorious pearl.

And then she let me up. She looked almost surprised at the naked agony on my face.

I lay, traumatized in her arms. Somehow still wanting her to touch me. Wanting her to hold me. But most of all wanting her to care enough not to hurt me.

I had liked her dominating me in the past, but I thought underneath it that she cared on some level. That if I wanted to stop she would let me. I guess I was wrong.

I went home determined to never see her again.


Sun Burst Pt 2



Start the night.
Sun closed the door and stripped to her purple silk bra, presenting her donk to me imperiously. It was a true thing of beauty: her thin waist opening up to a thick, round chocolate heart.

Gazing at her thick brown ass all that I wanted to do was press my lips against it. After being celibate so long it was almost startling to realize that  I could act on my desires.

I knelt behind her, pressing my mouth into her squeaky clean ass. OMG it was good! I worked from the back to the front and she moaned softly as my tongue grazed–then enveloped her clit. I felt a kind of shock as my mouth fitted to her pussy–as if it wasn’t so good. It tasted good, but the vibe was a little off. I prayed silently to myself that I wasn’t making a mistake.

I worked and worked on her, licking and sucking her sweetness until my neck sent me a warning twinge and I realized I could not do this position long. (I have chronic neck pain, and have to switch often, but I will go for as long as it takes!)

She was just getting into it when the pain got to great for me .

“Can you…ride my face..?” I panted. She glared at me but reluctantly got up and bestrode my face, holding my arms up awkwardly…

Sun Burst Pt 1

Ghetto Booty Cartoon

Check out my earlier adventures with Sun.

Sun texted me out of the blue.

I knew what she wanted and knew from the instant flood of blood away from my brain that it was what I wanted too. Angry at my lack of control in the face of my New Years Resolution, I drove from my white suburban hide-away to back to one of Boston’s “black” neighborhoods.

This time the street was empty as I approached her house. Three story apartment complexes crouched together to form a wind tunnel and the cold breeze bit into my skin.

The front door lock was busted so she told me to come on up, light turning on with my step.

Sun was a hot mess at the door: 2 inch army-style stilettos, curve hugging jeans barely maintained by her belt which hung sloppily over and her belly hanging out of her tight camouflage shirt. She gave me a look that was barely a smile and waved me in.

Seriously? She couldn’t even fix herself up a little bit  knowing I was coming? And why was she dressed for the club if she asked me over hours ago?

Her friend was there: thick, brown skinned with a black weave. She was dressed for the club too.

“Man fuck all that standing in line.” She complained bitterly about not getting into the club.

Sun nodded and rolled a blunt. We passed it as they dished about the night and their mutual acquaintances. I despaired of getting any quality time alone with Sun and low-key hated myself for wanting her so bad, but even dressed sloppy ghetto her body shined: her ass cleavage was hypnotic, as was the curve of her breasts as she sucked in the pungent smoke.

I felt powerless in the face of my desire. Wanting her more than anything but fearing she would dismiss me, afraid to ask. My tongue tied from speaking by the presence of her friend and Sun’s closeted status.

And then her friend left.

To be continued…


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