Getting Though

A black friend on twitter has asked for help trying to “get through” to his white friend, who has expressed a number of troubling ideas that display blind white privilege at best, outright racism at worst.

After a number of people told him to she was a lazy racist who would never be a real friend, he still was looking for answers.

“What do you think I could say to make her understand? ” He asks.

This post is my response, since I couldn’t fit my thoughts into tweets:

First of all: there may not be anything that you can say to make her understand, understanding requires an open mind, and unless your friend is committed to opening her mind, it may not be possible for her to understand.

Your friend is actively engaging people of different races, and doesn’t understand why everything has to be “all about race.” Now I can’t think of a POC who would not like for everything to stop being all about race. Unfortunately, white people won’t let them. POC have responded by creating their own spaces where instead of being marginalized, their voices are honored and privileged.

Based on what I saw, your friend is one of the statistically few white people who has gone beyond the ubiquitous “black friend” and actually entered POC spaces. Once inside POC spaces she realized that within POC spaces, POC voices are privileged. Not only that, but that some POC made assumptions about her based on her race and may have been pretty mean about it. She has discovered what it feels like (within the narrow confines of POC dominated spaces) to be the minority, to feel silenced, denigrated, and (somewhat) oppressed.

Being the only white person in a POC space is an opportunity. An opportunity to learn what it actually feels like to not have your voice privileged, and sometimes an opportunity to see what it feels like to be on the other side of racial animosity. (Prejudice against the people oppressing you seems like a pretty natural reaction to me) But it’s just a shadow, a pale reflection of the white supremacy that POC face every day.

Your friend can leave POC spaces, and return to the white dominated spaces that take up the majority of the country. She can easily find white silos where she can speak as frankly and with as much racism as she likes.

Meanwhile, while your voice may be privileged in POC circles, but as soon as you step into the rest of White Supremacist America, it is not.

I would encourage your friend to take these feelings of silencing and racial persecution, and multiply them: multiply them by ten, by a hundred, by a million. Imagine the experiences she has had expanded beyond words and hurt feelings to include poverty, violence, death,  or the threat of all three.

By gaining entrance to POC spaces, with the concurrent mixture of welcome and antipathy, your friend has a wonderful opportunity–an opportunity for empathy. But only if she can use her imagination, opens her mind, and get over herself.


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.

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…

Going Home (DB pt 9)

Start the night.

Orange Haired Abstract Femme

Afterwards, I wanted to cuddle, but she pushed me away.

I understood why she pushed me away–the threat of catching feelings after sex with a near stranger–but the chemicals in my brain demanded cuddles!

Three times I reached out to her and three times she pushed me away.

We got dressed, I put my wig back on and we headed out into the night.

“So, did you cum?” she asked, somewhat bashfully, as I negotiated late night traffic.

“Um…” Did I? My mind flashed back to that moment she pulled out…to be honest I had been so caught up in the intensity of the experience and my pleasure in her orgasms that I hadn’t given any thought to my own…or the lack thereof “I’m not sure. What did you like the most?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“The anal” she checked my face for reaction.

“I liked that too.” My face flushed at the memory. “I was also…kinda surprised at the difference it made without the condom-I mean I know it’s all rubber but it’s –” I got flustered.

“More intimate?”

“Yeah…I felt more connected.”

“That’s why I wanted to do it–I understand why you wanted the condom but–” She shrugged, and I focused on cursing out crazy late night drivers.

“You wanna do it again?” She asked.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”I wondered if she’d let me buy my own dick for round two?

“Yes!” she pumped her fist towards herself victoriously.


“So, I know you’re white–but are you one of those ‘natural women’?” DB asked as I pulled up at her Grandma’s house.

I knew what she meant–“natural” black women are those beautiful proud women black women who rock natural hair, debate politics and often advocate for education,  healthy food, natural medicine and black pride–woman pride–human pride! Human rights. Respect. Self respect…

So, a mentality close to my heart.

“I’m sorry–it looks like that question upset you.”

“No, it’s ok.” I responded. There was nothing I wanted more than to say ‘yes, that’s what I am!’ —

But could I really rep #TeamNatural while wearing a wig?

OMG I Soo Don’t Even Talk Like That!

So, not to sound racist, but this is so fucking funny, watching her, it’s almost like she’s not black! She’s kinda cute for a white girl. She could get it!

To see more of Chesca Leigh’s videos, go here. I know I am!

Head (Meet DB Pt. 4)

Start the night.

A hot chick sticks out her toungue and lots of tatts

I Just Really Like This Picture

DB walked back in with a big brown dick bobbing between her thighs and stood in the middle of the room. The harsh yellow light played against the brown skin of her broad shoulders and made her wife beater look off-off-white.

Her dick was about eight inches of latex chocolate , with a truly massive round head at the end. I got off the bed, kneeling before it. She pressed my head towards it.

“But…a condom…” I protested weakly.

“It’s clean.” She gave me a look like come on now. I knew I should use one but at the moment my giddy mind was unable to find a reason to put an extra layer of latex between my mouth and that big piece of rubber.

I took the monstrous head in my mouth, fighting my gag reflex as I let it go as deep into my throat as possible. Every time it hit the back of my throat I gagged. The faint smell of rubber wasn’t helping any either!

She tried to guide my head but I stopped her. I know from experience that I will throw up giving head if I’m not in control--and that’s not sexy at all! I used to be quite good at giving head–there’s a rhythm to it if you can get your breathing right–but I was sorely out of practice and couldn’t quite find the groove.

“Here, use your hands too–I can feel it on my clit.” she said, guiding me…but I was thankful as we moved on!

“Can I grab your hair?” She asked me as my clothes came off.
“Um…no…it’s a wig.” I touched my long curly red-brown locks.
“Man!” She sucked her teeth, “you have too many rules!”
“Well–I reconsidered–you can pull my real hair.”
“Okay! If the wig comes off it comes off!”

I nodded agreement…

This post was published without protection. But the next one won’t be! Contact me for the password!

Say What Now? (Meet DB Pt 2)

Start the night here.


In this post I violate Rule #1. Don’t try this at home kids!

Sitting there in the car in the dark, DB told me there were some words she wanted me to say.

“You want me to do what?” I responded, grimacing distastefully.

“I want you to say it.”

“Um, ok…” I leaned forward, admiring her tight fade and the contrast of her diamond earring against the smooth dark curve of her neck, inhaling her warmth as I hesitantly whispered the words she had asked for in her ear, barely pushing the words out;

“Give me that big nigga dick daddy.”

I leaned back in my seat, searching her eyes for a reaction.

“How did that feel?” She asked me.

“Um,” I made a face “It went against everything I believe in. Did you like it?”

“No,” she considered, “I didn’t have to work hard enough for it.”

I was relieved, frankly. Yes I’m usually attracted to black women, but I think it’s because they’re beautiful, and maybe because of early childhood conditioning, not out of some perverse racist desire to violate taboos.

“That word does get in my head though, from twitter and friends.” I confided.

“Like, how’d you mean?” She asked, leaning back casually in her seat.

“Like, I’ll think to myself…I haven’t talked to my Dad in a while–I should call that nigga!”

She threw her head back and laughed.

Just then her sister got home…