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.

Must Watch Web TV!

So apparently the answer to what I will write now that I’ve found celibacy is: not so very much! Sorry about that loyal readers. While I work on getting my groove back, please enjoy my favoritest webTV serieses!

First we have Lez-B-Honest Definitely check this out & watch all the episodes! Don’t be put off by the early production issues, it only gets better as the series progresses!

Have you come up for air? Now watch Between Women, Again, stick it out through early production issues.  Also Trigger Warning for domestic violence in some of the later episodes.

Welp, until next time! Enjoy!

Ask A White Girl

Ask a White Girl

Note...That's KD Lang in the Pic--Not Me!

I have another guest post! What can I say, I get around! Actually, this one may be semi regular…so go ahead and hop over to Dinmag.com and check it out! (Also check out the rest of the Mag–it is definitely worth getting the password to read the Juicier bits!)

Got any questions for a white girl? Ask!

British Hotness

A skinny interracial couple kissing

I Just Know

Just a little something to tide you over till I write again. (I don’t really know if this pic is British, it just looks it somehow.)

Second Date

 Close up of Black and White Barbies--look like they're about to kiss

Start with Sun and my First Date.

I drove down to Mattapan, already knowing the route half by heart. Although it was late, folk were still out on their porches and on lawn chairs. A little boy no older than eight years old rode by on his bike.

I parked on her street and got out: a tall, long haired white woman in a tank top and shorts.

Three little children stopped their game to stare at me blankly.

“Hi!” I greeted them politely, and a smile slipped out on the oldest girl’s face. She waved back.

“He has a tattoo!” The littlest one cried incredulously as I passed.


Sun met me at the door in a navy tank and ragged jeans that hugged her luscious curves. A clip on the top of her head secured a mess of straight hair and extensions.

She showed me upstairs and offered me a drink: sex on the beach blended with ice and peppermint schnops.

We talked over her loud music as she expertly rolled up a blunt. Sun had little altars all over her room: one for her family, one for her money, and a third one that she never explained.

I told her how frustrated I was that my dealer wanted more from me than just a business transaction.

“They always want something extra!” She exclaimed, lighting up. “I wish I had a job so I could just be a customer. Mostly I find out who has what and let them think they’re gonna get it…”

As she went on about how frustrating it was for her not to be taken seriously by these dudes, her masculine side came through: if it wasn’t for the sloping brown expanse of her cleavage and the barely contained wildness of her “hair”, I would have sworn I was looking at a slender Malcolm Jamal Warner.

“So,” she said, snapping back to femme mode and eying my slightly tomboyish look. “Are you the boi in this relationship? Is that how this works”

“I don’t know,” I hedged, thinking of the masculine side I had just seen. “I think maybe you are.”

“You might be right.” She smiled, nodding thoughtfully, acknowledging me perception of her masculinity.

The whole time we were together I just felt so drawn to her! I just wanted to touch and kiss her…but she was stand-offish.

At one point she reached out and touched my hair. After a timid stroke, she ran her hands through it again and again, each time with more surety. My face pressed into her chest as she moved into position in front of me, her hands working magic that went right through me. The next thing I knew she was gathering my long straight hair firmly at the top of my head.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m doing your hair.” (duh) She fastened it at the top.

Next she started in on make-up: I felt like a human barbie doll as her sure hands dibbed and dabbed make-up on my eyes, cheeks and lips. No one had ever made me up before. It felt good.

When she was done I looked in the mirror. I looked a horror show: grey around my eyes made me look dead, or at least on my way to decomposing.

“You don’t like it, do you?” She asked bashfully. “I guess that’s why you don’t…”

“Well…racoon eyes…”

“You see the problem!” We both laughed.

“It’s getting late,” I said, looking at my phone and cursing my lack of anything even remotely resembling game. “I’d better go home.”

“Okay”, she said.

I went over to her to give her a goodbye hug, and…

To Be Continued…

Butch For A Femme

Marlene Dietrich in a 3-piece suit & fedora--swoon!

Marlene Dietrich--Swoon!

 Part 2 of Too Many Dudes.

She changed into a thigh-length flowered dress and heals. I stood watching her primp her artificial locks in the mirror, thinking how much work a wig is. I mean, sure it looks good, but I’ll bet her natural hair would look good too.  Of course, I thought–tracing the curve of her shapely calves, thigh and ample booty with my eyes–she looked fine without heels–but then again I wasn’t complaining about how she looked in the heals, either!

Standing there against the wall, I couldn’t help wishing I was dressed as a boi. I would feel soo much sexier with her on my arm if I was wearing a tie, fedora and slacks! But she said she liked femmes–so there I was, feeling like a guy, but dressed femme in my sparkly tank & short-shorts!

She said she had to take her son to her sisters house (oh yeah, her son was still up at 11Pm! ) and he came out of his room bleary-eyed and sobbing quietly.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s just being dramatic.”
We drove about four blocks with him sniffling in the back while I wondered what horrible abuse awaited at her sisters. I offered to go back.

“Please!” She replied gratefully.

We got back to her house and now another dude was there–her room-mate! She finally made her son go to bed, and we smoked a blunt on the porch.

Once again the man dominated the conversation, and once again I edited my words so as not to mention anything gay. When he got up, I moved into his spot next to her and tried to explain how hard it was for me to be back in the closet.

“Why–did he ask you questions?” she responded defensively.

“No, it’s just…if I want to say that my ex girlfriend said something, I want to say that, not ‘my friend'” I tried to explain. I’ve worked so hard to be out, and as a femme that means not censoring my experience to conform with the straight world. I tried to explain it to her.

“Well ok,” she allowed, “You can talk about it for you–just don’t…”

Dude was back. As we small-talked,  all I could think about was her arm touching mine. But it started getting late. I went in the kitchen to get some water before heading home.

Next installment: Home or Hmm…?

That Kiss

CU of two women kissing--with hands

When I was in High School I was very involved with the gay community: the GSA was my social life, I was in the Governors Commission for gay & lesbian youth, etc…but over the years of living on the streets & then  raising children, I lost touch with the gay community.

At first it didn’t seem to matter much, since almost everyone on the streets seemed to be  Bi–but, I didn’t seem able to attract women, while men circled me like sharks smelling blood in the water.

For a long time it seemed like the only girls who liked me invariably had a guy with them who would fidget miserably as she publicly kissed me.

Although I never stopped being attracted to women, I became convinced that women were too scary, too unavailable, something to be “appreciated” but not pursued.

And then she kissed me.

We were talking at a party, and she smiled, leaning unexpectedly in mid conversation to connect our lips. I looked around, expecting to see a pathetically jealous man hovering nearby–but no! Only her blue eyes sparkled at me. For once, a single woman liked me!

We went on a date in Central Square on Valentines Day–holding hands on the street like it was nothing! Dinner and then back to her place…

Walking with her small but curvaceous body pressed into my side, every woman and girl that I had ever had feelings for came back to me, and my heart overflowed.