Shades of White

Ren asks:

I know this is old, but I’m very curious about this topic. You grew up with significant exposure to predominantly black environments, so it makes sense, to me, that you like black men and/or black women. But I’ve been noticing more and more that many white lesbians are interested in black women, which is stunning to me because I thought white people were…racist (in the US)…and thought most of us are unattractive. And still think that, which is probably the reason why I am really struggling to understand the attention I get from white women and the reason why I’m pretty much always very suspicious of it.

I wouldn’t doubt it if you’ve experienced some suspicion, especially from black women. Black men usually just turn flips when a white woman is interested, but black women are hardly that simple. But considering that white women have never really seemed interested in even being friends with me as adults and almost never showed that interest while growing up, I can’t fit that and the experiences I had with white people growing up with the fact that probably 80% of the interest I get and have gotten all of my life has been from white women sexually/romantically, a little more than 10% has been from Asians (generally Indian women and usually not from the US, i.e. online) and less than 10% has been from black women. I mean, 10 years ago when I tried to chat with white lesbians online they didn’t want to talk to me 95% of the time, especially after finding out my race! Basically, I’m looking for plausible explanations as to 1) if these white women seriously are interested in/attracted to me, 2) if so, why, and 3) why don’t black women seem to be interested in me (because, honestly, I prefer black women).
<br />
<br />I’m not asking you, but that’s how I got to this post. It’s very easy to find tons of articles and videos online about why white women like black men–there’s tons of focus on that. But you can’t find the same thing for lesbians, really, and what you do find is usually something like “race doesn’t matter,” “there are attractive black people, attractive white people, unattractive black people and unattractive white people,” and “I don’t know why I like black women, I just do” (i.e. your post). I don’t know–looks like I need to consider white lesbians since that’s who I attract in my country, but, at the same time, I don’t really want to start dating one and find out it’s all a huge joke, a big sex experiment, a fetish or they’re bringing me to the KKK for a hanging…sorry, but being real, and if you’ve seen Donald Trump and his supporters, you should understand, lol.

I know you’re “not asking” but you kind of are, so here’s my answer as best I can give it:

First of all, I see what’s going on with Trump and it’s terrifying. I’m writing this right now because I need a break from my FB and Twitter feeds.

Secondly: racism is a spectrum. Racism is so woven into the fabric of this country that everyone is racist to some degree, even if that racism is a form of self hate.

White women are also a spectrum. Now, we know 56% of white female voters voted for Trump. Let’s break that number down: 64% of the elligible voters in the country voted, and if we assume that half of them were women that puts the white woman Trump voters at 28% of the country. Still fucked up, but that’s a little perspective. (Hashtag #NotAllWhiteWomen)

Now, while it’s possible that these white women approaching you are white supremacist fetishists looking to tie you up and call you their “dirty negress”–it’s pretty unlikely. 

It’s much more likely that the white women expressing interest in you are on the left side of the spectrum. Probably somewhere between “I don’t see color” beige and “woker than you” white.

As to why are they attracted to you? Probably because you’re attractive. Why now and not before? I have no clue.

I spent a lot of years thinking that no one could be or was attracted to me–until one day I realized that almost everyone I’ve ever been attracted to reciprocated my feelings to some extent. I’m not saying everyone has a that experience (I’m certainly not attracted to everyone who’s expressed attraction to me) but attraction is weird, and many people are attracted to characterizes far different than the ideals the media feeds us.
So should you try dating a white woman? Only if you mean it. If a white woman approaches you who you genuinely find attractive and seems like a good person, then why not go for it? Could you get hurt? Absolutely. But isn’t potential hurt intrinsic to the beginning of any relationship?

Now I’m not saying that these white women wont ever say something ignorant, but chances are that that just by being interested in you they’ve self sorted to be someone who genuinely is trying to not be racist and has made it a good distance down that path.

As far as experiments go: won’t she be your experiment? Life is about experimentation. Some experiments are a success, some fail, but that doesn’t mean the intentions aren’t good.

Many of the black women I dated were at best experimenting with me, or at worst using me until they could find someone of their “own kind”. Ouch. That hurt! I still don’t regret trying though. 

As far as black men go. Maybe more conventionally attractive women get backflips, but most of the black men (my sweet late BF excluded RIP) who have dated or expressed an interest in me had a kind of entitled attitude that I owed them sex and money. The title of this blog arose from those moments when MOC I dated reduced my hurt feelings (at their bad behavior) and legitimate perspective to being “just another white woman.”

As far as fetishization goes–that’s kind of a hard one. Where exactly is the line? If I’m attracted to women with big foreheads and wide noses–is that a fetish? Or just a preference? 
I felt the most fetishized when a white trans man I was dating showed me a picture of his ex–and she looked almost identical to me. That was creepy!

So should you date a white woman?

If you want to? If you are genuinely attracted to her. If you can put aside your preconceptions. If you can be prepared to possibly have to do some educating. 

Who knows, the love of your life could be an amazing white woman and you’d never know it without exploring it!

Or not. I wouldn’t fault anyone for preferring to date black women. Y’all are so beautiful! I don’t know what the “scene” is like where you live, but there’s a small but vibrant black lesbian community here in Boston that I wish I could introduce you too!

As far as why BW aren’t expressing interest in you: maybe their shy? Maybe they’re waiting for you to make the first move or don’t think *you’re* interested?

TL; DR: if you’re interested in someone–regardless of race, give it a try! Go get em! No reward with out risk! 

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.

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.

I Don’t Wanna Be A Playa No More

A dapper white butch licks a burlesque white femme.

I wrote this in January. Shortly before the new year. It’s taken me this long to publish it but I stand by it. Have been working at standing by it.

What goes on in the mind of a playa?
Well, she’s always talking to at least a couple of women, with two or three more “prospects.” Every outing & event is an opportunity to get more digits.

Each “relationship” is a delicate balance of sexual intrigue and studied indifference. The party who cares or communicates more looses.

Life becomes a dance of texts and dates and quick replacements. A date cancels or is on her period? Quick, pick up the phone and you can be in another’s arms.

Hot sexual encounters are brief pinnacles of pleasure against stark valleys of emotional distance, the feeling that the women you are dealing with really just don’t give a fuck.

Casually broken dates, text messages not returned, lovers turned cold, each rebuff is a cue to go back into your contacts for the next conquest.

Lust and a deep, unquenchable loneliness coupled with hurt and anger that these women–the ones you won’t let close to you–also treat you with casual indifference.

That and a deep uneasiness that you will never find “the one.” That the acts you go through to keep these women as placeholders in your bed while you search for “the one” are changing you to make you someone “the one” wouldn’t want.

All this is in the mind of a playa. All this has been in my mind.

No more. I’ve let my contacts lapse. Every day I fight the urge to text women who have expressed an interest in me.

Like a fiend in withdrawal my lips long for clit and kisses, my breasts for caresses, my pussy for tongue and penetration…

My fingers remind me that women are out there…that with the right combination of words and circumstances we could be climbing that mountain of ecstasy…

But then my head reminds me of all the hurt and loneliness that surely will  follow.

I know that I’m weak, that one DM, one text, one “extra” smile, and I might just jump foolishly back on that wheel. But I’m trying not to.

I didn’t set out to be a playa. I didn’t become one over night, but I can stop the cycle.

I will.

My apologies, dear readers, if my blog dries up but…

I don’t wanna be a playa no more.

(Time to invest in sex toys…)

Just Because: (Dirty Version)

This Time Last Year

So, um, last year this happened:

This is a re-post of Feb 5th, 2011. At the same low-key event I went to this past weekend. Only that night was packed with people waiting in line three stores long. Start the night here.

A man and woman spotlighted grinding on the  dance floor

Like This But Not

I made my way to the stage, where there was a spot waiting for me. I tuned out the world–riding the beat.

Before long a couple studs and a femme came onstage. The bigger stud was dancing nearby with her girl, and the smaller stud took up a post almost directly behind me. Now Instead of tuning the world out all I could think of was her behind me, hopefully admiring my ass.  It felt like such a primal mating ritual, me dancing for her, but I couldn’t stop. Finally I got tired of waiting for her to make a move and danced up to her.

She pulled me almost immediately into some of the hottest grinding I’ve ever experienced. My hips locked against hers as we moved against each other–energy pulsing back and forth between us.  Before I knew it my leg was between her thighs and her hand was on my ass…my hand was on hers, seeking desperately to touch her through her clothes.  Our bodies arched frantically with the music, although every time it sped up we backed off a bit and bounced with it, pretending that we were doing something other than  fucking right there on the dance floor!

Before I knew it I was asking if she had a girlfriend and she was telling me she had her apartment to herself for the weekend.

Before I knew it my lips were locked with hers, my hips gyrating with hers, tongue rolling with hers.

“What are you going to do for me? She asked. I didn’t know how to take that question, so I slithered down her chest suggestively. Although she was putting more effort into downplaying them than showing them off, I could tell she had nice titties. She pursed her lips commandingly at me, and I attempted to meet them with my own.

I say attempted, because she had her hat down low, and was about four inches shorted than me. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever kissed someone who is significantly shorter than you and is wearing a low hat brim forward, but it’s not easy. I had to contort myself around her lid.

“I can’t do this.” I told her, “It keeps hitting me in the head.”

“I can’t take it off,” she said, taking it off. “I gotta big forehead.

“Well, I said, surveying her wide forehead and sweat thick smiling face. “I like it.” I kissed her on the forehead and she got all bashful, putting it back on, but this time cocked to the side. Yay, I thought now I can kiss her without getting wacked. But somehow when her head turned back to me the brim was back in front.

I turned around and pressed up against her. The music raced to a feverish pitch and I came along with it–right there on the dance floor!

I paused to fan myself with my hands. I don’t know how she wasn’t hot. The whole underside of my hair was soaked, and I was wearing a tank top. She had on a blue and white flannel and a white down vest.  (Yes she was wearing plaid–but it looked fly on her.)

“Would you like to go to the bar?” She asked me.

“What are you trying to say?” I responded cautiously.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.” We started walking towards the bar. She actually led me by the hand! No one ever did that to me before!

“Oh wait,” She paused. “I don’t usually come here…is there an ATM nearby?”

“There’s one next door.”

“Could you…?”

“I don’t have any cash either.” (Totally true, I brought $12 and that already paid for two beers and a generous tip.) “I am really thirsty, though.”

“Some water?”

“Sure.”

She ordered me a water and thoughtfully handed me a napkin to go with it. We talked for a moment, then she looked up across the room.

“I gotta go talk to my friend. “

“Okay, I need to visit the Ladies…meet you in a few?”

“Sure, I’ll be over there.” She motioned with her chin.

When I got out of the bathroom I didn’t see her immediately, but I didn’t worry about it unduly. I pulled my friend outside to chat. Heat steamed off our bodies in the icy night.

“So I saw you grinding with that stud.” She smirked at me.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet back up with her in a minute–“

“Oh really? Because I think I saw her leave–“

“You what?”

I raced back inside. But it was true, she was gone. In the three minutes that it took me to squat over the toilet and wash my hands, she had dashed.

Continue the adventure with “Second Chances

More with the Asking and the Answering

White Femme in Fedora smoking a cigar

See not all of my pics are dirty!

So, remember when I said I would be writing semi-regularly for DinMag.com?

Welp, I’ve done it again. Here’s an excerpt:

1.) Are you just as equally attracted to Doms and Femmes?
**Usually when a white lesbian couple is spotted in an urban area, its difficult to differentiate between the two..so its a common myth that white Femmes date everybody**

I am attracted to both Doms (or Studs as I say) and Femmes..and women who fall in between. But I do have a serious weakness for Studs though. White women definitely have our preferences, but a lot do not subscribe to the butch-femme dynamic.

I think that the white lesbian community used to look a lot more like the lesbian community among POC: small, marginalized, and tending towards a culture Dominated by the butch-femme dynamic (I’m not judging, just calling it as I see it!)

Then a few things happened:

1) Feminism: as white women became more aware of patriarchy, I think a lot of them rejected the masculine-feminine dynamic within their own community.

2) Main-streaming: As lesbianism has become more accepted in main stream white culture, more women are coming out who have not been exposed to old-school lesbian culture, and who are, frankly, embarrassed by it. They reject genderqueerness in an attempt to appear more “normal.”

Continue reading…

And check out the rest of the site while you’re there! (It is sooo worth getting the password)

Meet the Dom

Start the Night, or

Start with our First Date.

Warning, the pic at the bottom is EVEN LESS safe for work than this one:

white woman tied up and crouched submissively

I went to give her a hug goodbye. She flashed me that shy, sweet smile, her eyes sparkling out from rather serious glasses.

She hugged me back briefly–and then threw me onto the bed!

Straddling me, she pinned my arms expertly over my head.

“You’re coming back to me, aren’t you?” she demanded, voice thick with desire, her hips grinding against me. Her physical presence overpowered my senses.

“Y-yes,” I gasped, barely able to speak, “I’m coming back to you”

“I didn’t say you could talk!” Her hot hand slammed down on my mouth, pushing my head slightly to the side. I can not even describe how much that turned me on.

“Are you my new little bitch?” She asked, rubbing fiercely against me.

Unable to talk, my whole boy trembled a delicious Yes! I’m your little bitch!

She stripped first my shorts then my shirt off me, binding the tank effortlessly around my wrists. Then she put the gloves on…

“You’re my dirty girl, aren’t you?” she commanded darkly, stroking my pussy with her fingers.

“Y–yes..” I started to say, but her hand slammed back down on my mouth.

“I didn’t say you could talk!”

“You’re my dirty girl, aren’t you?“She repeated.

I’m your dirty girl! every inch of my body trembled in silent ecstatic response. I was aware of the rapey overtones of this encounter–but why did it feel so good? Why did she need to dominate me so completely? And–why did I like it?

Her hips gyrated against mine, and I thrust back.

“I didn’t say you could move!” I desperately tried to will my body to stillness even as her fierce kisses and the press of her flesh against mine drove me crazy.

“Close your mouth!” She told me, then shoved her ample breast into my mouth.

I sucked with the desperation of a newborn baby.

“Slow down” she laughed. “I know what you want...you want, you want me to lick your pussy.”

She leaned over in the bed so her perfect round ass was by my face and engulfed my pussy in her hot, wet mouth.

Her tongue worked magic on my clit, sending me into a barely controlled frenzy as a I came again and again.

Sun raised up off of me, pressing her lips hotly on mine, sharing the sweet saltiness.

Under the heat of her gaze, I felt naked. Naked and vulnerable like I never had before.
“You’re so beautiful!” She marveled. I felt too naked to be beautiful--naked beyond not wearing clothes. “You’ve been good, baby, you can use your hands.”

But I did not want to be good, I wanted to be bad so she could punish me more.

Sun released my hands and I cupped her full breasts as we kissed.

That only lasted a minute or two, and then she had me tied up and blindfolded, kneeling in front of her wide open legs at the edge of the bed.

I want you to lick it” She said, grabbing me by the hair. I had a brief, rueful thought about my dental dam as she pressed my face into her pussy–but hey, master’s orders!

Sun’s pussy-lips were sweet and delicious as I worked them with my mouth and tongue…seeking out the pearl of her clit from the soft, elongated flesh of her labia. Soft moans escaped her mouth along with something that sounded suspiciously like:

“I could be your girlfriend”

I licked and sucked until finally an earthquake rocked through her body, and, quivering, she pushed me away.

After a moment, Sun took off my blindfold. I stared, dazed, at her beauty.
“It’s time to go home now.” She informed me solemnly.
“Wha?”
“I’m not done” Sun said pointedly, “But it’s late. I want you to go home and touch yourself while you think of me.” She admonished.
“I, I will…” I gasped, still not compose-mentis, trying to locate my clothing.
“Go home now–” She laughed a little. “I don’t want your mother to hate me already!”
“You want to meet my mother?
“Well, I’m going to have to eventually–you already met my son”
“!!!”

Interracial Lesbian Bondage

Not Quite This Ellaborate