Market for Ni99as

I'm not much of a fan of poetry-slam-style spoken word. Moreover, I'm not a fan of rap music at all. However, I find Taalam Acey's insightful critique of the external forces driving the degenerate coonery of the hip hop world to be absolutely riveting. In this piece, he mirrors my own long-held belief that hip hop's descent from its original incarnations as innocuous party music and more serious social commentary into its present state anomic state as a paean to violence, all manner of crime, misogyny and slavish consumerism was driven by the, primarily white, record industry executives who had (perhaps still have)a stranglehold on the dissemination of music.

When rap music fell under the sway of major studios, the genre began to shift away from the more uplifting messages of empowerment espoused by early rap stars, and aimed primarily at a black audience. The big media entities quickly realized that the adolescent white male market, dripping as it was with disposable income, was where the real money was. They also astutely discerned that what this white suburb demographic--who generally hadn't a clue as to the real lives of black folks but nonetheless had a whole mythology of prejudice built up around the dangerous black male archetype--would flock to in droves was hyperbolic displays of black male hyper-masculinity, aggression and criminality.

Tucked away within their insular suburban enclaves, they could vicariously explore their own antisocial desires At the same time, they could accomplish a feat that is seemingly the raison d'être of white American adolescents, pissing off their parents. However, unlike the rappers, whose scowling and dick-holding they found (and still find)so amusing, they could simply turn off the television and go back to a free and easy middle class existence when they'd had their fill. They didn't have to run a gauntlet of crack dealers and gangs, driven to desperation by cyclic abject poverty, on their way to and from school.

In the inner cities, those things were all too real. Even before the advent of gangster rap, poverty-fueled crime was a significant worry for even those with no involvement in any sort of criminal enterprise. However, criminality and ignorance wasn't something to be aspired to. What gangster rap has done is to create a generation of people, many of whom were marginalized to begin with, who have completely embraced a nihilistic rejection of all societal norms. I can remember when the insinuation that someone was a thief (even if they were one) was an affront within the black community that might well have precipitated a fist fight. Nowadays (god, I sound old) kids brag about stealing and robbing. Similarly, a generation or two ago, many people employed the esoteric vernacular of of the streets, but they didn't aspire to it. Now, kids on college campuses go out of their way to speak in broken English, allegedly as a function of "keeping it real." But, in most cases, it is pure affectation. Back in the day, black folks spoke that way because either they or their parents were one or two generations removed from the rural deep south. They lacked education and a facility with standard spoken English. Now, kids, whose parents graduated from at least high school and who spoke a reasonable facsimile of proper English in the home, go out of their way to sound like ignorant jim-crow era sharecroppers, ya heard?

Some people point to the financial successes of a small group of rap impresarios--the Puffies, Jay-Zs and Jermaine Duprees--as evidence that hip hop has improved the economic fortunes of the black community. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rap music has become a cancer in the black community. And, it has produced a generation of black males so inculcated with delusions of overnight success in "the rap game" and so marginalize in their appearance and inability to communicate effectively, that they have difficulty negotiating something so simple and essential to American life as the application and interview process for even a menial hourly job. How these kids could not see that they are being led by the nose by record industry weasel who see their misery as an amusement akin to watching caged animals at the zoo is a mystery to me.

Talaam Acey hit the sociological nail on the head with regard to the white record industry's attitudes toward the black community, whose cultural products they have so profitably exploited, when he said, "The bigger the monkey. The bigger the money ... if you’re effectively rapping about he gun clapping of the black man, say no more nigga, you platinum! ... Just write some bullshit. There’s money to be made for convincing black people that Jill Scott doesn't exist ... As long as white folk got money there’s a market for niggas."

Polly Wanna ...

Last Sunday, my ex text-messaged me from a Superbowl party. At this point, I don't remember what she wanted. I wasn't watching the game. I have little interest in football. That said, if the Lions ever make it to the big game, I'll probably watch it. Admittedly, that is unlikely to happen within my lifetime. So, I had no vested interest in who won. However, I love New York City. The ex and I have been there many times, even since our divorce. Our kid, having grown up watching "Friends," (paraphrasing Woody Allen) romanticizes Manhattan all out of proportion. I suppose that's true of me too. So, when I replied to her text, completely as an afterthought, I wrote "Go Giants." To my surprise, she responded indicated her unequivocal support for The Patriots. This puzzled me. Detroiters and black people typically loathe Boston. This stems from both the bitter Pistons/Celtics rivalry of the 1980s and the quite common impression that Boston is a very negro-unfriendly city. The Patriots, of course, lost to the New York Giants. I didn't even know the outcome of the game until she sent me another text, which said "So what." When I called her back to inquire as to what that meant (I had already forgotten about the game) she informed me that NYC had indeed prevailed against the odds. As Mercury Morris said shortly after the game, in the NFL, on any given Sunday , any team can beat any other team... except in 1972. When I asked her why she'd thrown her support behind a team associated with Boston, she admitted that it was only Tom Brady that she was routing for. I pressed her as to why she would give a rat's ass about Tom Brady. Her reply was that he was sexy. This took me aback, as I have never heard her express any interest in any white dude; not Clooney, not Pitt , none of them. Her type is more typically exemplified by DMX... if DMX was taller and had an 11" penis. So, I asked her if she would screw Tom Brady, and she replied in the affirmative. That led me to think about all of the black women on the internet who blog about their preference for interracial relationships...
Quite a few black women in the blogosphere who express an interest in having a sexual relationship with a non-black male justify their predilection with the claim that black men have long since abandoned them in preference for white women. That is counter-factual. It's a ridiculous assertion to suggest that African-American men don't have an overwhelming preference for black women. The numbers of black men, who marry non-black women, even when restricted to African-American men of considerable financial means, are quite low. Black men, especially in the racist United States, who have white wives or girlfriends, are merely more conspicuous. For instance, no one takes notices of that the majority of NBA basketball players marry some girl who grew up in the same church that their grandmothers attended. However, when a high-profile black male athlete—fully inculcated with the white American beauty ideal through a lifetime of having been beaten over the head with the white media’s ubiquitous insistence of the aesthetic preeminence of bony yellow-haired white women—dates or marries a white woman, it garners an inordinate amount of attention from all quarters, most of it negative. Moreover, is rather hypocritical that black women, who claim their autonomous right to date whomever they please, would feel it necessary to espouse this sort of fallacious rational. I would suggest that there are more pragmatic reasons why black women are beginning to “date-out” in increasingly large numbers. All of this “black men don’t appreciate black women” business is a subterfuge for the reality that black women are now in a position to date/marry way up from a socioeconomic perspective.

Black women express an embracement of the white beauty ideal to a much larger degree than black men. This is strongly hinted at in the disparate grooming styles commonly employed by black men and black women. Black men go out of their way to distinguish themselves from whites. Black men typically groom themselves in opposition to the white male aesthetic, e.g. shaved heads, facial hair, braids, colorful suits etc. Black women, on the other hand, tend to groom themselves in imitation of whites. This is especially true with regard to their hair, which they often either chemically damage or cover up with weaves so as to appear straight. Additionally, there is an increasingly prevalent tendency for black women, whose bodies exhibit a more voluptuous goddess-like sexual dimorphism than any other group, to starve themselves into the emaciated and slightly androgynous body-type preferred by whites. This is particularly noticeable among young black women, who have been brainwashed from birth by the white media.

For the record, I have almost zero sexual interest in white women. That said, I have to agree that it is probably in the interests of college educated professional black women to widen their pool of potential mates, given sistahs' rather bourgeois priorities. With black women graduating at much higher rates than black men, for any number of reasons, there simply aren't going to be enough black men who are what a professional black woman would consider marriageable. Moreover, many black men who are educated professionals, myself included, don't necessarily want to commit themselves to domestic incarceration at the same stage in their lives that most black women do. If you're a black man with a halfway decent job, you're in a target-rich romantic environment. There is an argument to be made for staying single into one's late 30s... or perhaps even early 40s.

On the other hand, in my purely anecdotal observations of white guys with whom I went to school and work with, they are hell-bent on getting married and buying a house way out in the middle of nowhere the very second that they graduate from college. And, again in my purely anecdotal observations, if marriage doesn't work out for them, they're ready to jump right back in there, over and over.

This is going to be a bitter pill for some black men to swallow, but it is likely that the numbers of black/white interracial unions, which are at present overwhelmingly between black men and white women, will shift to the opposite end of the spectrum. As previously mentioned, black women are graduating from universities and entering the professional ranks at higher rates than black men. This creates an environment where black women are surrounded by white males, with rarely a black man to be seen, for most of their child-bearing years. Patriarchy and racism are other factors that will contribute to this shift. As interracial unions become more socially acceptable, white males will find that they have less to lose by crossing the color-line than white women. Perhaps this wasn’t true a generation ago, but in contemporary society a white man who marries a black woman suffers no loss of social status. He is still a member of that most privileged of groups, Oprah notwithstanding, a white man in a white man’s country. Whether one wants to accept it or not, in this racist white-male-dominated society, white women do suffer something of a loss of social status when they choose a black male partner. One needs only to consider the disparity between the paucity of white female celebrities in relationships with black males as compared to the much higher number of black female celebrities involved with white to see this played out. Even white female celebs who shamelessly appropriate black cultural affectations—Madonna, Christina Aguilera, Amy Winehouse, Fergie, Gwen Stefani etc.—rarely ever become seriously involved with black men.

The only bright spot in this cloud of apparent black male obsolescence is that this may strike a blow against America’s innately racist nature and the de facto segregation that persists to this day. Whites show an overwhelming disinclination to live in proximity to black people, even black people of a similar socioeconomic stratum. But, no one is going to tell Robert De Nero or George Lucas that their black wives aren’t welcome in the inner sanctums of white privilege. Even if these black women completely reject all things black, and I’m not saying that they do, their very presence forces whites in their husband’s circle, many of whom have likely never had any social contact with black folks, to confront their racist mythologies. Moreover, most of these marriages, as with most of all marriages, are going to end in divorce. This will have the effect of creating a more equitable distribution of wealth by transferring vast sums of assets out of the hands of white males. And, whether or not these marriages last, they will, more often than not, produce children. A white man with a child, whom he would presumably love above all else, who would be considered black by society at large is likely to use his power to combat the institutional racism that would impact that child’s life… Strom Thurmond excepted.

The Itis

When I started this blog, I had no intention of writing solely about my ex-wife's sexual exploits. However, since we've begun to talk to each other again, she has been very forthcoming about all of the absolutely lurid shit that she's been up to over the years. We had a conversation today wherein she told me that I'm the only person to whom she could reveal herself. Apparently, neither her mother nor her sister nor her best friend are privy to her dark sexually transgressive behavior.

There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason as to when she'll get chatty and unearth some astonishingly hot and twisted episode from her past. But, as it just so happens, today (technically yesterday) was just such a day.

Let me put this into context. She and her man (perhaps ex-man at this point) are on the outs. So, he is no longer de facto living with her. This is, perhaps, a factor in why I've been seeing so much more of her lately.

Anywhooo, I took her out for dinner and a movie on Saturday. We ate Middle Eastern food, and we saw "No Country for Old Men." None of that is pertinent to this story. She told me that we couldn't stay out too late, because she had to take some piddling amount of money to her best friend, who lives way the hell on the east side.

She lives in the bleak redneck abyss of Macomb county Michigan. This is a blue collar--Reagan-loving--lower middle class post industrial nightmare, where it's always 1979 and the mullet has never gone out of style. If you saw the Emimen movie, "8 Mile," then you got a taste of how soul-suckingly grim Macomb county is.

Debra also mentioned something about having to put in an appearance at a party being thrown by one of her co-workers (never have I met and tackier bunch of screw-balls than her fellow postal workers. Newman, from Seinfeld, was not an exaggeration. That is precisely the kind of scumbag who ends up delivering the mail.) So, long story short, I took her home around 22:00, kissed her on the cheek and went about my business. About 45 minutes later, I called her for something or other, and she mentioned that she had just gotten out of the tub. This struck me as every so slightly odd, figurine that, if anything, she would have simply showered. I didn't mention this to her. It is well enough within the realm of reason that a woman would simply want an impractical and not so hygenic--you're basically stewing in your own filth--bubble bath, that I didn't think it bore comment.

I went home and quickly fell asleep whilst reading The Nation and listening to Howard Stern. Fast foward to 05:30, when I work up and decided to run out for the Sunday paper and some just made kosher bagels. For some reason, maybe it's just the stalker in me, but I decided to drive past my ex-wife's house. Mind you, it isn't too far from where I live--I had to stay close in order to take our kid to school every morning until she graduated. However, I wouldn't want to have to explain to a majestrate what I was doing driving past at 05:45. As I approached the house, my breathing became constricted and my nuts drew up to my body. I don't know why the fear of seeing exactly what I knew I was going to see had such a pronounced autonomic effect on me, but it did. There, just as I suspected, was another car parked in the driveway behind hers. This is fitting, because I was to later find out that the car's owner was behind her at around the time that I drove past.

Sometime later that morning, around 11:00-ish, I text messaged her and asked her if she has gotten any last night or more correctly, this morning. However, in the interest of saving time and , to be perfect honest, simply not wanting to type of that on a tiny phone keyboard, I simply wrote, "You got some last night/this morning?" Apparently the question mark wasn't a clear enough indicator that the message was an inquiry. Because, she responded a few seconds later with "How U Know?" She thought that I someone knew that she did indeed get it that night, and then again in the morning before Mr. big-dick-du-jour went on his merry way.

When she told me this, I remarked something to the effect that I hoped that her overly endowed paramours appreciated how special what they were getting was. She instantly dismissed the possibility, saying that he didn't and that he has "The Itis."

Now, as far as I'm concerned--and sorry white people, Dave Chappelle didn't make this up, it's al old old old joke in the black community--"The Itis" is nigga-itis. It refers to stuffing oneself with food, and then--probably due to insulin resistance and the earliest stages of Type-2 diabetes--falling asleep. When I asked what she meant, because she clearly wasn't talking about his eating habits, she said that it was BD-itis. She was in a store at the time, and thought better of spelling it out. I, however, was well aware of what she meant. BD this and BD that is one of her favorite abbreviations. It means, of fucking course, big dick. So, apparently the guy who'd spent the night with her had big-dick-itis. Which, according to Debra, means that he is basically an asshole who knows that he can get away with almost anything where women are concerned because he has a very large penis.

She finally explained her thoughts on The Itis et al. today. On Sunday, she was too busy to go into it. Apparently there was a football game of some interests or something. And, while she was explaining what the itis was, she went on to tell me about another guy she used to fuck, who had an even bigger dick and a proportionately larger case of BD-itis. I'll write about that later. I might even try to turn it into an erotic story. It's pretty wild stuff. Suffice it to say for imagined Debra being submissive to anyone, not even a dude with a huge dick. The-now dead-guy with the 11 inch dick; She had him so emotionally distraught that he threatened to jump off the roof... of a house (what a fucktard.) Yesterday morning, however, she admitted to me that, for a while, she was fucking--there was no dating going on--a guy whose mother lived on her mail route, and that on a couple of occasions, he pulled her into his mother's house, presumably when she wasn't home, and engaged in strong-arm love.

The Ghost of Big Dick Past

It's too late to go into much detail now. So, I will be brief.

I showed a snippet of one of my blog entries to my ex-wife. The excerpt in question had to do with how she met the guy who took her from me. Well, apparently he's dead. He was an auto mechanic. And, (I wrote, savoring the delicious irony... is it really irony or merely a coincidence ... fuck it, I'm going with irony) he died sitting in his car, as a result of a CO leak from an ineptly installed exhaust system. An exhaust system that the deceased, the "mechanic," had recently installed, himself.

This put her in an unusually chatting mood. She went on to tell me quite a lot of utterly bizarre shit. I'll touch on the salient points now, and flesh them out later.

1. Lisa, the woman who introduced them, had grown to hate Eddie. She didn't want Debra to get back together with him. So, I probably owe her an apology for the "rotting in her grave" comment.
2. She had in fact started fucking him again after Lisa died. She told me that she wanted to see if anything had changed. Apparently he was better at 29 than he had been at 19. She went on to tell me how he "blew her back out."
   
3. She claimed that he was still in love with her, and that he was upset because she only considered him to be a "boy toy."
   
4. She expressed an, at least partial, belief a supernatural occurrence. Apparently, some of her girlfriends and family believe that Lisa (and I quote) "called him to his grave" from beyond her own. Yeah... that or he was just a piss poor mechanic. She also claimed that some improbably things happened (this being shortly after Lisa's funeral) when he came over to her house and fucked her.
   
5. She confessed to having what she described as an evil thought when told of his demise. Her first thought was dismay that she would never feel his dick again. I think that it bears saying that I shit you not

She told me all of this stuff as she strolled down some street delivering the mail. I was at work too. I was sitting in my car in the parking lot throughout this rather long midday conversation. The things that she was admitting to made me so incredibly horny, that had I thought that she would have been game to dump the rest of her mail, I would have blown off the afternoon and spent the rest of the day with my face buried in her ass.

Addendum To My Previous Blog Entry

If the prevailing sentiment of cuckold related Internet references is to be believed, quite a lot of guys of average, or worse, endowment, who are involved with women possessed of a penchant for big dicks, derive some sort of sexual satisfaction from eating these women's semen-befouled pussies. The word cuckold literally refers to a man whose wife fucks other men. On the Internet, however, it seems to refers ubiquitously to men with an oh so thinly veiled bisexual voyeuristic interest in watching, and even participating, in their women's extracurricular sexual escapades. I have no interest in any of that business. I have never watched any of the big-dick-loving women with whom I've been involved, and there have been several, having sex with another man. Nor do I have any desire to do so. And, there is no way in hell that I'd ever knowingly engage in the practice that is euphemistically referred to as "cream-pie eating."

I will admit to liking a certain amount of sexual humiliation at the hands of big-dick-loving sistas. I'll also cop to having a psychological complex with regard to my comparative lack of size. I'm sure this stems from the realization--after having been told by several black women that my legitimately 7" member falls into their highly subjective medium-small range of dick sizes--that I didn't have a big one. The expectation that sistas usually have, that a black man of my height and shoe size (6' 6¾" & U.S. size 16 respectively) would be more generously endowed also plaid a part in the formation of my somewhat masochistic kink. I didn't like it at first. However, I have grown to love the idea of my woman lusting for, and struggling to accommodate, a much longer and fatter dick than my own. I love to hear sistas talk about how much they prefer bigger dicks, especially when I'm face-down in their pussies. I even like to hear sistas say things like "fuck me with that little dick" while we're having intercourse. The point of all of this is that I like this stuff solely as it applies to a sista. If you throw another man into the mix, such as in watching my woman get fucked, then the horniness that I experience through sexual humiliating at the hands of sistas, would turn to anger, and probably violence.

The man for whom my wife eventually divorced me, according to her, had an 11" dick. He was also 19 years old. This, of course, pissed me off to no end. However, the inconcealable look of lust on her face when she told me how she first found out that that short bastard had a, and I quote, "monster dick," drove me to distraction. She was literally squirming in the passenger seat of my car as she told me that this guy was her man now, and that they had been fucking all day, right up to the point when she decided to come tell me what was going on.

Her friend Lisa, a fat butterball of a bitch who, I am happy to report is now rotting in her grave as I type this, invited him over to meet Debra when she was over at Lisa's house playing cards. According to Debra, after the card party broke up, she, Lisa, Lisa's boyfriend and this other guy were the only ones remaining at the house. The guy apparently sat on the couch next to Debra and flirted with her until late in the evening. When Lisa and her boyfriend went off to bed, she called Debra (I almost used her real name) into the hallway and handed her one of those Magnum XL condoms. Debra didn't refuse it. She said that as she sat on the couch with this asshole, she noticed that he had large hands for such a short man. For reasons that I don't fully understand--as my hands are much larger than this clown's--this made her think that he would have a huge dick. A short while later, she confirmed her suspicions, when--either he or she, I'm not sure who--pulled it out and she played with it until it grew to its full length in her hands. He fucked her that same night on Lisa's couch, and apparently the second that he got all of that dick inside of her, he owned her pussy.

Not a year later, she had grown tired of him. He, being young and a bit of a dullard, didn’t take it too well, and had a fit. He broke a lot of her things and made some rather reckless threats. Then she called me. I’m not going to go into any details which still might be able to land me behind bars. Suffice it to say that at one point he was hanging upside down from the second storey porch of a two-family flat, and thereafter he got the hint and left her alone.

I say all of this to point out that while there is no limit to the amount of shit that I will take from a black woman, I have no tolerance for any sort of affront from another man. True, some random big-dicked nigga might fuck my woman, but that’s because she wants that. It’s not because, as it almost always is on the Internet, that I am in any way intimidated. The second that my ex-wife turned me loose on the guy, for whom she left me, I put the fear of god in him.

In my previous post, I mentioned having gone down on a woman who had just been fucked. It has occurred to me since writing that post, that the omission of certain facts makes it seem like I might have eaten her cum-filled pussy. Ewww. In point of fact, when I knelt at the foot of her preposterously rococo canopied bed, I saw a used condom in her wastepaper basket. Moreover, she showered before I returned to her house. I love to eat a sista’s sore pussy, but as to the subject of cream-pies, thanks but no thanks.

On The Impetus For My Blog Title

As I have alluded to previously, I have a weird relationship with my ex-wife. One could say that she turned me out sexually with the ease of a 300 pound convict 10 years into a life bid, who is serendipitously assigned a waifish teenage first-time-offender as his cellmate.

I had never really dated a sista before I met her. I went to the whitest of white schools. As J.D. Salinger might say, it was a goddamn boarding school for christsakes. Following that, I attended a similarly homogeneous liberal arts college. Even during my 2 year stint in the Army, I was never really around a lot of black girls. The ones that I was acquainted with weren’t feeling the Depeche Mode t-shirts, ripped blue jeans and Vasque hiking boots, which were representative of my typical attire at that time. White girls, on the other hand, paid me much greater attention, and that’s who I dated throughout my school and military years.

So, when I met the ex, who was then a 17 year old (which is perfectly legal in these parts) ghetto girl, with big lips (something that I find irresistible on a woman) big attitude, big earrings and big big titties, it was a revelatory experience. I wouldn’t say that she was more sexually experienced than other girls whom I had dated. I went out with some freaky lude-popping hippy-chicks before I met her. She was, however, far more pragmatic about relationships than either myself or any girl with whom I had thence far been involved. She had a streetwise hardened exterior, not uncommon in girls who grew up “in the hood,” staying out to all hours of the morning, going to clubs at the age of 15 and accustomed to guys trying to run games on her.

She had a few sexual hang-ups about things like oral sex. I specifically refer to fellatio, which was largely considered as “nasty” and/or something only done by white girls. Having her pussy sucked for hours on end didn’t present the same kind of culturally informed moral dilemma. Neither did fucking. She loved—and apparently still loves, not that you could prove it by me—to fuck. For a 20 year old man, fresh off active military service, with a B.A. in communications, right around 10 grand in the bank, a house (you can buy a house for a song in the city of Detroit proper, provided that you don’t mind living in the ghetto. And, as a 6’ 6¾” tall black man with an AR-15 and a piece of shit Ruger P-85, I didn’t) and, as yet, no post-military job, this was ideal. We fucked all day every day. FYI: I have repeatedly qualified as an expert marksman (the highest Army ranking) with both 9mm handguns and the military equivalent of my AR-15, an M16-A2 rifle… for that matter I’m also an expert with an M-203 grenade launcher, but I’ve never owned one personally.

That ought to be enough exposition. As to the matter of my blog title, it doesn’t directly concern the ex. It was inspired by another woman, with whom I’ve had an off-again-on-again, purely sexual, relationship for several years. Malika is cut from the same sociologic cloth as my ex-wife. She grew up in the same area under roughly the same circumstances. She is quite a bit more overtly kinky than Debra, and she is also bisexual. I’ve long suspected that my ex has a touch of bisexuality as well—and my grandmother was convinced of it by reasons which she never explained—but she has never admitted to it.

My relationship with Malika was kinky from the start. We were never boyfriend and girlfriend. In all of the years that I’ve known her, we’ve only gone out a handful of times. Like the ex (and if you ask me, every sista in the Detroit metropolitan area) she too has a preference for huge dicks. She also shares her penchant for clubbing (something I’ve never had an interest in as I don’t drink.) In large part, my attraction to Malika was motivated by how much she reminded me of Debra. Our relationship has always been predicated on the late-night booty call. Typically, she would call me when she got home from “the club,” as they say. Or, she would call me on her way home from some big-dick nigga’s house, having already been to the aforementioned club. In either event, one of us would go to the other’s house and we’d do the nasty until just before the time when she had to get her kid ready for school, and then part ways.

I have never known anyone who can stay out all night, night after night, the way that she can and then actually go to work the next morning. That kind of bullshit would kill me. When she’d call me at around 3:00 A.M., I would have already been asleep for 5 or 6 hours. Apparently, burning the candle at both ends doesn’t faze her, as she has been doing it for as long as I’ve known her.

I’m inclined to believe that Malika wanted a more serious relationship with me. She intimated as such on a couple of occasions, but she never pressed the issue. I think that she realized that I was still in love with Debra, and that any attempt to form a serious relationship was doomed to fail. I haven’t encountered many women who are amenable to the idea of having a man who will jump the instant that his ex-wife cracks the whip.

Somewhere along the line our sexual association evolved from one where we’d run the gamut of sexual activities to one wherein I found myself in the familiar position of being her pussy-licker, albeit Malika, unlike Debra, likes the combination of simultaneous dildo fucking/cunnilingus. I’m sure that I initiated the change. I’m also certain that it was motivated out of a decidedly unheathy desire to recreate the same quasi-D/s dynamic that I had with Debra.

Well, apparently I wasn’t quite done with the discursive expository blather.

Late one summer night, several years back, she called me from her car and asked if I wanted to come eat her pussy when she got home. I was, of course, game. Eating pussy is my sexual raison d’être. (Oddly, at least to me, I never really liked to go down on white chicks. I’d do it if I didn’t think that I could get out of it, but it was always something of a chore. With black women, however, I am obsessed with it. I actually own a pair of floor-tiler’s kneepads. These are very good for preventing knee discomfort when kneeling at the foot of a woman’s bed (or in front of her couch) for an extended period of time. I recommend them over skater’s kneepads, which have a tendency to slide on hardwood floors or pillows, which don’t offer enough support over the long haul. When I arrived at Malika’s house (Glock 17 in tow—I had long since sold the P-85 at a gun show at Gibraltar Trade Center North. Gibraltar Trade Center is a week-end swap meet full of gun-nuts, tattoo artists and guys selling swords—what is it with white guys and swords?—in the redneck enclave of Mount Clemons, Michigan. For those unfamiliar with Metro Detroit, Mt. Clemons is Kid Rock country… and not too far from Eminem country) there was a note taped to her door addressed to yours truly. Without explanation, it instructed me to refrain from ringing her doorbell. It went on to say that I should go somewhere and kill 90 minutes (specifically 90 minutes) and that she would then call me. So, horny and more than a little intrigued, I went to a 24 hour Super Kmart in Dearborn. Generally, I avoid Dearborn. It has a long history of not being negro-friendly. However, since I didn’t want to drive back north of 8 mile rd. (Detroit’s answer to the Berlin Wall) and since I had a permit to carry my trusty 9mm, I took a chance. Basically, I just wandered around the store, which is similar in size and mission, to Walmart store in other states. I browsed the hardware aisles (always an easy way for a man to kill time) and, true to her word, Malika called me at around 4:30. If memory serves, I took the opportunity to purchase some black socks. A man can never have too many pairs of black socks.

When I got back to Malika’s house, she was waiting at the door. So, I was once again thwarted in my desire to ring her doorbell at an ungodly hour of the night. We had to be quiet since her son and her mother (who lived in her house and not the other way around) were sleeping. Once in her boudoir (which, contrary to popular opinion, does NOT mean bedroom in French. It means finger-sponge-cake.) she told me that another brotha (this one being of the dick-hangs-down-his-leg variety) had called her from around the corner from her house shortly after she had called me. And since, unlike myself, he could “hit bottom” without even trying, I was forced into a holding pattern until he had dicked her down and left. Just before I got down to the serious business of sucking her well-fucked pussy until she couldn't take it anymore, she mentioned her surprise that hadn’t said fuck it and gone home. When I replied that since she'd put a note on the door, apprising me of the necessity to kill some time, I'd done just that, she remarked with apparent pleasure that “Debra trained you well.” Thus my blog title!

Whipped

The ex called me last night. I was just pulling into the parking lot of the local Target Store. I intended to be in and out in a matter of a couple of minutes, since the only thing that I needed was some coffee pods for my Senseo® coffee maker. As per usual, she took the liberty of giving me a list of things to “pick up” for her since I was already at the store. So, instead of a quick in and out purchase, I spent 30 minutes roaming the expanse of a disturbingly brightly lit big-box retailer, piling groceries, toiletries and even towels into a cart. Then, since Target doesn’t sell news papers or the particular kind of diet iced tea that she drinks, I had to stop at CVS to buy those items before driving back across town to take them to her.

Now, since her call came in around 10:00 P.M., and our daughter is away at school, I had a good idea that she wanted something other than iced tea and towels. I figured that her “man” was out of town, or something, because there is no way in hell that I would traipse my black ass from a Target in the suburbs to her house, in the city, if her X-Box loving boyfriend was lying around her house. Sure enough, when I pulled into her driveway, his mid-80s Olds Cutlass (read: hoopty) was nowhere to be seen.

I can’t really justify saying that I actually hate the brother. I don’t really know him. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, and then only fleetingly. My impression of him as an unambitious simpleton, who, at 29, is still perfectly content to work at Kinkos, is a product of--let’s call her--Debra’s frequent complaints. It is safe to say that I am “hating on him.” Although, I rarely voice this sentiment anymore, except in whispered grumblings under my breath, I’m more than a little jealous that he is, for all intents and purposes, living with my ex-wife. I try not to dwell on the fact that he has the run of the very same house that my ex put me out of some five years ago. I’m also annoyed that she seems to have a completely different set of acceptable behaviors for this guy than she ever had for me. I’m not talking about the quasi-D/s stuff. I’m talking about basic expectations that most women would have of a man living with them. For instance, if Debra is to be believed, he can’t fix anything around the house. If something breaks, she still calls me. This was fine when my daughter was still living at home (and there wasn’t another man living there.) Now, however, it just serves to highlight this guy’s privileged position in her life. She has flatly told me, on more than one occasion, that her man (who is six years her junior) “isn’t there to clean the gutters.” The implication is that she keeps him around because he can “put it down” in the bedroom.

Now for the weirdness; while it pisses me off that Debra doesn’t want me as her man, it also sends me into a fever of sexual excitement knowing what she does want. Contrary to what virtually all non-black women (and even a good proportion of sistas) routinely say, Debra makes no secret of the fact that she loves very well-hung men. And, I am driven to sexual distraction knowing that she loves to get big-dicked. At one point, during the period when our marriage was falling apart, she told me that she needed a man with no less than a fat nine inch dick. I hate bring race into this, but I’ve noticed a tendency in the white media to pretend that such things are of little importance to women, and that women certainly never say such things out loud. Having, years of experience overhearing the banter of black women around a card table, I know that is utter bullshit. Sistas sitting around a card table talk as scandalously, if not more so, than men in locker rooms.

Debra is well aware that this turns me on. For most of our marriage, she was fucking whomever she pleased. Initially, we had a normal vanilla relationship. I knew that she liked big dicks (e.g., when we were dating I made an inadvertent reference to my “fat dick,” and she asked me who told me that my dick was fat.) However, to my knowledge, she never cheated on me until we temporarily separated. We had been having an ongoing fight for a week or so. Eventually, I packed my stuff and went to stay at my cousin’s house. She actually initiated our reconciliation. I remember this as though it just happened (it was actually around 15 years ago.) She came over to my cousin’s place one night when I was the only one there. We talked and talked. Clearly we both wanted for me to move back home. Then, she dropped a bombshell on me. She told me that she had been going out to the clubs with her girls, and that she had met some guys. By met, she meant fucked. Her exact words were “I love you but I can’t be faithful to you anymore.” It was shortly thereafter that she told me the thing about her needing nothing less than a thick nine-incher. She told me this as I was licking her pussy (certainly my absolute favorite sexual activity.) Ordinarily, she is reticent about describing sexually graphic situations. However, when I’m sucking her clit, the filth just flows from her mouth.

This brings us back to last night of night. She came to the door wearing a sheer nightgown, but wrapped in a blanket as well. It was around 9°F last night. As soon as I saw her, I wanted to go down on her. I stood at the door and made to hand her her bags and leave, but she asked me in. After putting away all the crap that I bought her, she made me a cup of coffee and we settled on the couch. She was watching some reality show (I don’t watch television, so I can’t be sure what it was). Of course, I began to make advances, holding her hand, rubbing her neck etc. Since she didn’t push me away and because I was caught in the maniacal grip of the kind of overwhelming horniness that only she can inspire in me, I began to kiss on her on her shoulders and to touch her breast (she’s a thick sista of the tigo-bitty variety). Still, she didn’t arrest my forward progress. So, I kissed my way down from her breasts to her stomach, and slid down off the couch and onto my knees between her legs. She scooted down and put one leg up on the arm of the sofa. At that point, I plunged my head into her crotch and inhaled the musk of her fat black pussy. She lifted up off the couch so that I could remove her panties (of which I also deeply inhaled.) I was slightly surprised to see that she was shaved (or waxed) completely bald. That isn’t my cup-o-tea, but I figured that her man must like it. As soon as I tasted her pussy, I was gone. I hadn’t been in that position in a few months. I ate her pussy like I was starving until she came in my face.

After she recovered, she turned off the television and took me up to her bedroom (i.e. our old bedroom.) I sucked her pussy through several increasingly intense orgasms. I don’t know if a big dick does this to her also, but after a couple of rounds of back to back orally-induced orgasms, she always squirts. There is some argument as to the composition of the fluid when a woman squirts. There may well be women whose ejillulate is composed purely of fluid from their Skene’s gland. That isn’t the case with my ex. When she begins to have really gut-wrenching orgasms—the ones where she’s making faces like she’s in labor and her pussy looks like it’s turning inside out—she unleashes a torrent of hot salty urine, in this case right in my face. I, of course, being the sick bastard that I am, love this.

I ended up spending the night with her, and while she didn’t let me fuck her, I did get to orally worship her for most of the night and again this morning. In the midst of my oral servitude, she told me how she had finally met her match a year ago. He was a young Nigerian dude (not the boyfriend) whom she met at a club and took home the same night. According to her (and she is knowledgeable about these things) he had the biggest dick that she had ever seen. She described how he had to work it in her and how much lubricant (which she rarely ever needs) they had to use. He fucked the shit out of her. She said that his dick as so big that it was painful, but that she doesn’t mind suffering for a big dick. All of this business had my comparatively insignificant six inches about as hard as advanced differential calculus. When she went on to tell me that later that night, she had to go to the hospital (I shit you not) I nearly came in my shorts.

I’m sure that being a virtual slave to my ex-wife’s pussy isn’t the healthiest of situations. I enter into relationships with other women, but it’s never as emotionally or sexually intense as my dysfunctional attachment to Debra. Moreover, she is the mother of my child. So, irrespective of what she does or how she treats me, I regard her as something of a Madonna. It would probably be better if I curtailed my contact with her. Now that our kid is away at university, there is really no reason, that doesn’t strain the bounds of socially acceptability, for me to see her. This woman is my heroin (as in the opiate.)