Acquired Tastes, XIX: Black Men

Introduction:

I’ve wanted to write this particular Acquired Taste entry for a long time.  If you’ve spent any time reading my posts, you will find that I have an appetite for a wind range of different types of men – and that includes black men.  I could use the term ‘African-American’, but it feels to formal for this context, so I am just going to assume that you have no trouble with the term ‘black’ as an indicator of race.  I only bring this up because I want you to know that I have done a considerable amount of research (under the covers) and spent a lot of time considering this particular post.  Why?  Because racism exists and in considering writing a piece like this, I had to consider if doing so was racist on my part.

I do believe that everybody… and I mean everybody – no matter what color their skin is – is at least a little bit racist.  We all have these horrible lies, pre-conceived notions, and misconceptions about people based on their skin color that have soaked into our consciousness via the media, our educational system, our environment, and our family.  ‘Them that’s raised us’ have the most influence over our early belief systems.  Unless you happened to grow up in a real progressive community with an extremely evolved educational system, it is very difficult to distinguish the truth about a different race.  It’s only as young adults, once we break free of the confines of our childhood that we are able to come in contact with people of other races so we might form our own opinions and truths.  As a Minnesota boy, I was pretty clueless.  My relative’s casual racism always struck me as wrong and a tad scary.  While I was aware of color, I never really had any exposure to any other culture.  If I did come in contact with someone of another race, it was in a situation where my culture remained the dominant one, with them as visitors, so I only got a sense of who they were as filtered through my established environ. 

It was only when I moved to Minneapolis that my mind was truly exposed to other racial cultures.  I guess it was my work with the local crisis nursery (a short-term shelter for children in dangerous situations) that served as my first exposure to certain racial cultures in terms of poverty and the cost of being disenfranchised.  During those years I saw firsthand the effects of social neglect: lack of access to education, joblessness, social isolation, alcoholism and drug abuse, sexual and physical abuse, etc. had on the Native American, African American, and Hmong cultures.  It was as horrifying as it was fascinating.  The families I dealt with then were not the Cosby kids.  Nor were they ‘Good Times’.  In a way, it served as a great education.   Did I come away with any hard-set conclusions?  No.  In fact, just the opposite.

Because people – no matter the color of their skin – are individuals and individuals make choices.  To my way of thinking, we’re all like snowflakes – truly unique, none the same.  And that’s true no matter what culture we grow up in or eventually embrace.  Just as there may be some similarities in a given culture, there are also always exceptions to the rule. 

So how can I contemplate writing a piece that sexually objectifies a specific race and gender?  Is such an article racist?  And is it racist to have a preference for a certain kind of sexual partner based on race?

Before attempting this Acquired Taste post, I talked to a couple of people.  A good female friend of mine, who grew up in North Minneapolis and claims not to see color told me that it was not racist.  This is the same friend that, when I offered up my opinion that everybody is at least a little bit racist, got very upset.  For three days we talked about it.  She still, pretty much, disagrees with me on that point.  On the other hand, I spoke with a gay male friend from the south and asked him if he thought such an article would be racist and he told me ‘hell yeah’ and cautioned me about writing it.  His main objection: it’s wrong to objectify anyone.  So, I know that there are going to be very strong opinions about this.  My only saving grace is that this is a tiny blog and not many people will read it.  That said, if you do read this, please feel free to comment – I will post your opinion, provided you present it in a non-inflammatory manner and are respectful of others and the opinions of others.

Wow.  That‘s a lot of introduction.  I guess that makes me something of an apologist (A person who offers an argument in defense of something controversial).  Or not.  Maybe this isn’t all that controversial. 

When I look at the world of porn the term ‘black man’ is definitely in use and is considered a genre.  With that in mind, let’s dive face-first right into one of my personal favorite titillating topics and allow me to explain why it is I idolize….

Black Men

Scope of Activity:

The fetishism or preference for black men as sexual partners

The Official Line:

There is none.  Seriously, there is no term for this fetish (that I could find), which surprised me.  Okinawan women who date primarily black men are referred to as kokujo, but that is the closest I could come to anything official. I think in gay culture – a man who prefers the company of black man – is known as ‘a white ho’.  But don’t quote me on that.

My Experience:

Oh, I thought you’d never ask.

So, keep in mind that I grew up very sheltered and in an extremely white world.  Looking back, I find it kind of embarrassing just how isolated we were from the real world.  This was true of all my early education, right up to my first two years in college!  Rural Minnesota, man.  It sucked.

So my exposure to other cultures, and in particular, to black men, came in the form of what I saw on television or read about in Time magazine or Rolling Stone.  Music-wise, at an early age, I had a hunger for R&B and funk.  I found disco to be exotic and erotic.  The likes of Journey, Boston and Foreigner pretty much left me cold.  I thought Roberta Flack was an angel.  Chaka Khan a goddess.  And Marvin Gaye?  A naughty, dangerous man.  Given that, my initial sexual associations with black men came as filtered through the media.

The television mini-series ‘Roots’ was a huge cultural phenomenon.  Also groundbreaking: sitcoms like ‘Good Times’, ‘Gimme A Break’, ‘Sanford and Son’, ‘The Jefferson’s’, ‘That’s My Momma’, and ‘What’s Happening’.  All these shows, to some degree, carried within it a wonderful 1970’s funky vibe – the kind of energy captured in the Ernie Barnes painting. ‘Sugar Shack’ which adorned the closing credits for ‘Good Times’.  By the 1980’s, that vibe would be whitewashed away by the networks (The Cosby Show, Benson, Different Strokes, etc.), along with my enthusiasm for sitcoms in general, but in the ‘70’s – oh, we had it good.

The first black man I ever had a huge thing for?  John Amos, the daddy on ‘Good Times’.  He was in ‘Roots’ as well.  What a SMF!  I see a picture of him to this day and I just want to bend over and have him either spank me, humiliate me, and/or fuck me. He got an extra dose of whatever it is that makes black men so sexy.  I think there must have been an episode of ‘Good Times’ where he was threatening to take off his belt and spank someone, because that is what I associate him with.  I’d play Boy to his Daddy any time.

Ironically, he did not have the same effect on me when he was playing Gordy Howard, the weatherman, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Maybe I was way too young.  Or maybe Gordy wasn’t as intimidating as James Evans, Sr. 

Other iconic images from that time: Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, and LeVar Burton as Kunta Kinte. 

As for actual physical proximity leading to intimacy?  You gotta fast forward a number of years for that.  I was so far in the closet for so long – that coupled with my limited exposure to black men in the flesh – meant that I was never afforded the opportunity until 1990!  Oh, I had crushes, for sure.  I remember James, this very beautiful boy I worked with at Woolworth’s in 1984.  I wanted to kiss him so bad. He had the prettiest mouth, Michael Jackson eyes (pre-surgery), and the nicest shaped head.  I even wrote a song for him called ‘Pretty Boy Cool”.  And Prince!  ‘Dirty Mind’, indeed!  He had me working my dick overtime.  But I never acted out on my impulses until 1990.  It also coincided with my first foray into the worlds of anonymous, public sex and bottoming!

In 1990, I owned a used-a-bit shop in South Minneapolis.  The shop was divided into two halves – the main store - where there was a person seated at the register – and then the side I was usually on; where all the furniture was displayed.  A section of this part of the store was cordoned off by a couple of big industrial shelves, behind which I would tinker away; cleaning up items, pricing them, and making them ready for sale. 

Lots of black folk shopped in my shop and I even had a black gay male cashier.  So, I didn’t think anything of it, when a black dude, mid-thirties, came into the furniture section one day to wander around.  I was busy pricing things and putting them out on this holding shelf where they would sit until I took them to their department.  I had on a pair of old jeans, nothing special, and I must have bent over to place something on one of the lower shelves before returning behind the shelf unit.  I know that I had greeted the customer, because that was just something I always did, but I didn’t think anything of it.  He was about 5’10”, good shape, wearing a dark blue nylon jacket and a pair of dark rim glasses.  Nothing flashy about him, save the tiny mustache which lined his upper lip. 

I walked back to my workshop, and pretty soon, he wandered back there, too.  I was standing at the sink, he, by the back door.  I asked him if I could help him.  He told me he was just looking around and then told me he really liked my jeans.  I thought: what a weird comment.  I thanked him and turned back to the sink.  He then came up behind me and again told me he really liked my jeans.  By this point, my heart was racing and I was, to say the least, confused.  He then leaned into me, pressing part of his left thigh into my rear and whispered into my ear, “You got a great fucking ass.”  I was flustered, to say the least, and kind of paralyzed.  Then he took my right hand and brought it back behind me and placed it on his rock hard dick which was sticking out of the fly of his pants!  I turned around, looked at his dick and said, “Oh, my, that’s… that’s very nice”, before excusing myself and running into the basement.  I waited awhile, hoping that he had the sense to leave, before coming back up and returning to work. 

That incident worked my mind for days.  Three days later, he walked back into my workshop area.  By this point, I was kind of turned on by the idea of fooling around in my place of business and took a more aggressive stance.  I walked up to him, grabbed his crotch and said, “Follow me”.  I led him down to the basement, where I did as he asked: let my jeans fall to the floor, bent over and showed him my ass.  He walked up behind me and felt the globes of my ass, talking really sexy and secretively, telling me how nice it felt.  Then he took his dick and began to rub it on the crack of my ass.  I’d bottomed with a long-term boyfriend of mine back in like 1987 and then again in like 1990, but really, those were my only two experiences.  Neither had ever taught me about douching and the like, and the internet was not that advanced yet, where such info was easily accessible.  So I had no clue what I was doing.  Instead of allowing him to enter me, I turned around and started sucking his dick, something that, at this time, I was also not very good at, if I remember correctly.  Sucking cock is something I wouldn’t get the hang of until the year 1998!  So, I did what I could and he in turn took his dick out of my mouth and asked me to turn around and show him my ass again.  I complied and he proceeded to jerk his dick off and shoot his load all over the rounds of my ass before using his dick like a butter knife and spreading his jizz all over my rump.  I was jerking my dick, too, but he didn’t bother waiting around until I came, and, in fact, was back upstairs, heading out of the store when I finally did.  I guess this would set the tone for my future – I kind of like it when the other dude cums and runs, leaving me to take care of myself on my own. 

We’d play one more time, pretty much repeating the same scenario, only this time, I came when he came and that meant that there was time for Q&A afterwards.   Only, there were no answers forthcoming from him and I was the only one asking questions.  Apparently, that broke some cardinal rule of his – talking – and I never saw him again.  Which was fine.  To be honest, he was kind of a lame introduction to black men. 

In L.A., I never got to meet any black men.  They did not haunt the mens rooms in the parks I frequented.  And I don’t remember any in Iowa, Arizona, Florida, Hawaii, Washington, or any of the other places I lived.  I mean, yes, I am sure they were there, but I was not very sexual until L.A., and then I guess I was so busy with everything else, it never occurred to me to seek them out.

When I moved back to Minneapolis in the late, late 90’s, and started working downtown, that’s when my exposure to black men would grow into a true passion and appreciation.  My love for tearoom sex bloomed while in L.A., but I really didn’t master it (or bottoming or sucking dick) until I dove into the heady culture that was alive and kicking downtown.  Keep in mind - I didn’t know that people had sex in gay bars. Or other places.  But I did know about mens rooms – learned that during my time in Iowa.  So, by the time I got to downtown Minneapolis, I kind of knew the score.  It was at this time that I met the short white dude with the 10.5” dick who coached me on how to suck cock.  I took those lessons to heart and never looked back.  It was also here and in my work environment that I came in contact with young professionals near my own age, who were also gay.  And some of them were black.  We had a ball in the various store rooms I had access to, in addition to the tea rooms. 

I remember the first time a black dude fucked me in public while others watched.  He was at least 6’6”, built like a football player – not fat, just big.  He was peeking at me through a crack in the stall door in mens room in Gaviidae, so I opened the door a crack.  He told me to turn around and show him my ass.  I did and he started playing with it, fingering my hole.  He told me to turn around and then he guided me to my knees.  From the front of his sweat pants, he pulled a pretty impressive dick, which was already hard.  I slobbered all over that baby, doing the best that I could.  A group of about six other dudes crowded around to watch.  They served as a kind of shield in the event that someone walked in.  The black dude then pulled me to my feet and then he stepped around me, so his body was in the door frame of the stall.  The spectators parted enough in front of me, so that I had a clear view of myself, bent over in front of this powerful figure. 

The black dude lubed up my ass and went to pound town with those watching egging him on.  It was one of those weird, exhilarating, humiliating moments.  Given the circumstances, I decided not to be very verbal.  I do remember arching up at one point, turning my head to see if he would kiss me.  My efforts were met with a decisive hard push on my upper back, as in, ‘bitch, know your place’.  After about five more minutes of fucking, he pulled out and ordered me to my knees.  Pumping his dick by hand, he unloaded on my face; big, hot gobs of white spunk covering my upraised features.  At that moment, someone entered.  The black dude stepped back, slammed the stall door and locked it, the crowd moved swiftly away with many exiting, leaving me on my knees, my pants around my ankles.  Wordlessly, I stood and pulled up my pants as the new arrival gawked.  Both stalls were in use and someone was standing at the urinal, so he had to wait, and as he did, he watched me as I moved to the sink to wash my face.  Once finished, I moved past him without catching his eye.  I was totally embarrassed, and super turned on. 

Since then, I have enjoyed every type of black man there is… all the different skin shades; dusky, red, yellow, etc.  All the different styles; urban professional, gangsta, nerd, etc.  And all the different body types; tall and skinny, short and stocky, footballer, runner, weight lifter, plush, etc.  I love the smell of their balls.  That musk is like no other.  I really like it when they have low hangers, and a nice, long fat one is always a welcome sight.  They have the nicest asses, especially the young pony boys with the sweet curve to their lower back; plenty to grab hold of and fun to eat. 

Based on my limited experience, I have to say that as far as dick size goes, black men really run the same gamut as Caucasians.  So, so much for that cliché. 

The dude that fucked me this spring at a park I frequent was back this past Wednesday.  I hadn’t seen him since the last time we fucked, which was pretty much right out in the open; as detailed in my 3/23/12 post entitled ‘After the Hangover, Comes a Spring Awakening’.  His second visit also served as an even more appropriate example of a perfectly completed seasonal cycle than those shared in my 8/12/12 post, ‘Book Ends: The Summer Knows….’

He pulled into the lot and backed into the parking space next to mine.  He’s wearing dark wrap-around glasses and dress clothes, complete with a suede-looking sports coat.  The man is fly.  Last time I saw him, he was presenting rather gangsta; low hanging baggy jeans that exposed his underwear and a wife beater.  This time, it’s as if he got a Wesley Snipes upgrade.  He gets out of the car and makes a big show of taking of his jacket and folding it neatly on the passenger seat.  Is he looking at me?  Does he know it’s me?  Our eyes never really meet (because he’s wearing dark glasses) and I never get a sense that he’s acknowledging me.  But then why would he park next to me and then back into the space so our driver’s windows match up?  My heart is beating fast.  Yep, I need it bad.

The lot was very fairly empty when he arrived.  There was a red pick-up belonging to this dude that hits on me every time I’m there, but I’m not into.  He’s kind of a stalker; overweight, older, grey beard, trucker hat, paunch – the kind of thing I routinely turn down these days.  The only other vehicle belonged to a pair of straights grabbing each other’s asses in the picnic pavilion.  So I’m thinking I’ve got a good chance at snagging Mr. Snipes.  Of course, my relatively open window begins to close as soon as Mr. Snipes gets out of his car - it’s like all the other spiders on the web got alerted that something fresh had touched ground; three other cars pulled in at once. 

Mr. Snipes walked to behind the restrooms (that are never open) and I have stepped out of my car as well.  I’m thinking that we should hook up in the wooded area behind the pavilion, where we did the deed in March, so I start creeping slowly in that direction.  I know he sees me and he starts to move in the same direction when out of the woods comes Mr. Red Pickup.  He’s hot on Mr. Snipes scent.  Then two other trolls scramble out of their vehicles and I start cursing my luck.    The scene is further complicated by two dog walkers and another straight couple appearing out of nowhere.   I begin to think that the universe does not want Mr. Snipes using my ass.  

After about ten minutes of maneuvering in an effort to dodge trolls and fat dudes in trucker hats, Mr. Snipe sits on the picnic table at the bottom of the hill – the same hill where I caught my rays this summer.  I do my best to escape troll detection, and make a bee line for a path down to the river that Mr. Snipes is currently facing.  I make it.  Standing on the rise, right across the path from Mr. Snipes, I decide to risk rejection (or worse) and put on a little show for him.  I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  The shorts drop to the ground and I bend over, sticking my ass in the air.  Because of the hill behind him, I know no one, but Mr. Snipes, can see me.  I only run risk of discovery by unwanted eyes if someone should happen down the path – which is exactly what a certain bicyclist does!  Fortunately, Mr. Snipes, whom I was not sure was even paying attention to me (he has been coolly smoking a Tiparillo, while striking a pose of casual indifference), gives me a heads up in the nick of time with a sharp hand signal and disaster is averted.

The biker gone, and with renewed confidence (now that I know I have Mr. Snipes attention), I go all out, dropping trou, bending over, spreading my ass cheeks, and fingering my hole.  I keep checking to see if my actions are getting any kind of rise out of Mr. Snipes, and, it would seem, they do, for he discards the Tiparillo and begins to casually pace back and forth on the path between us.  His aloofness makes me feel extra dirty.  He does a quick check to make sure no one sees him before making a move toward me.  I quickly move down the path toward the river.  At one point I turn around and find him standing on a rock above me.  He’s at the perfect height, and through the front tails of his sharp dress shirt I see that he has lowered his dress pants enough to allow his dick free range.  It’s semi-soft when I first wrap my lips around it.  He allows me to work my magic for a bit before suggesting that we move down even further.  I comply and find myself on my knees before him, tucked in a tiny space, buffeted by a fallen tree and some stones. 

Taking his dick in my mouth again, in no time, I have him hard as a rock.  I’m struck by one thing – he’s a lot thicker than I remember.  In fact, there is something almost flat about the top side of his dick.  He’s definitely every inch the man I remember (at least ten).  As I’m expertly deepthroating his knob, he tells me doesn’t have a condom.  No worries, I tell him, I got you covered.  He then starts pulling his dick all the way out of my mouth before plunging it back down my throat.  Keep in mind, I have done no poppers, yet, I am having no trouble making room for his monster dick.  While this is going on, I take note of his pants.  Where does this man shop?  The shirt is an oversized black shirt with white pinstripes.  His pants – they are this wonderful flat, orange-brown.  What is most amazing, to me is how baggy they are – even the crotch area seems to be way more expansive than needed, as if extra material was placed to make that area seem wide and flat.  That’s why they slip off his slim hips so easily. I find the look truly sexy.

After about ten minutes of tonsil hockey, he tells me, “Lemme fuck that ass.”  I whip out a super-sized condom (yep, there is one that is larger than a magnum and I just happen to have it in my pocket) and he rolls it expertly over his hard thick bad boy.  I rip open a packet of ID Glide, finger fuck my hole with some before smearing the remainder on his wrapped cock.  And let me tell you, the sight of that black beauty wrapped in that perfectly-fitting oversized ribbed rubber?  Woah!  I have a whole new appreciation for condoms.  Yep, this man looks good in everything he puts on!

I practically beg him to ‘go slow’ and he complies, nicely teasing my aching cunt with the head of his dick.  In and out it goes, pressing further in with each thrust.  At a certain point, a bit of pain is inescapable, especially when dealing with such a huge fucker, but I keep breathing and once he’s all the way in, something in me releases and I instinctively start to fuck back on his dick.  That’s all the encouragement he needs.  In an instant we go from tentative fuck to all-out motherfucking pound town.  I am definitely getting what I need and let him know how much I’m enjoying it.  He tells me I ‘got a nice ass’ and my heart just soars.  Yeah, I know there is no way in hell this stud is ever going to be seeking out my favors on a regular basis, but just hearing those words come out of his masculine, dom mouth has me tripping big time. 

After going to town on my ass for a bit, he slows down before doing the most amazing thing… he pulls all the way out and then slides it all the way back in – over and over.  I don’t think my hole has enough sense to close, so I can only imagine the open-mouthed beauty he must be sliding his pole back into.  He has me by the hips and is so strong; I know he has complete control of me and I like it.  Gradually, very gradually, the tempo picks up and soon I find myself once again fucking back on his dick, meeting him thrust for thrust.  Then, without a word, he stops cold while holding me on the tip of his dick.  A few beats pass and then he lets out this quiet, deep, guttural sound – it scares me just a little, but soon I realize that he’s shooting his load.  He just holds me there – it’s like suspended animation.  The instant I feel his elbow relax, I push my ass onto his dick and fuck back with all my might.  I want every drop of that load deposited in the tip of that condom, man.  Once I sense that he’s totally spent, I ease off his dick, drop on my knees in front of him, roll off the condom and slide his still hard dick down my throat.  If there is an juice left in that fucker, I want it.  I clean up his dick real well, take a moment to catch one more whiff of his man sack, and then we’re both busy putting ourselves right.  I snatch up the condom wrapper, the lube package and the used condom – I’m keeping that wrapper as a souvenir.

As we turn to move up the hill and back to the path, Mr. Snipes stops short.  “We had an audience”, he says.  I look up.  There’s the fat fuck in the trucker cap – the asshole followed us.  I hate stalkers.  We head up the hill.  Mr. Snipe takes the paved path back to the lot; I make a bee line for my car, walking across the grass.  Neither of us gives the trucker fucker as much as a glance.  Back at my car, I pop my trunk to retrieve my bag with my cleanup equipment – Listerine, wet wipes, a nice white cotton towel – and as I’m doing so, Mr. Snipes reaches his vehicle.  I’m walking to my passenger door; he comes up behind me and buzzes my ear with, “I sure like fucking your ass.”  I tell him, “Any time”.  We get in our respective cars and as I slide in I throw out a “Thank you.”  To him.  To the universe. Because I am grateful.

A good fuck makes one really appreciate being alive.          

My Conclusion:

 I really appreciate black men.  They have brought me so much joy.  Sure, there have been a few duds in the bunch – the hot kinky leather dude who was doing crack, the soft baby one that just laid there and did nothing, the non-commutative one who acted like he had better things to do - but I’ve had their white counterparts as well, proving that race is no guarantee of a good time. 

Yet there is something about a dominant, stiff-lipped, masculine black male – the kind that, yes, makes the panties drop.  It’s a personal preference; a personal appreciation.

Is it racist?

I went to the Acme Comedy Club last night and there was a black female comedian from North Minneapolis named Brandy who talked extensively on the subject of race.  She addressed the fact that so many people are incredibly uncomfortable talking about race and racism.  It’s like the elephant in the room that nobody wants to address. 

Objectifying black males?  How can that be racist?  I’ve come to praise Ceasar – not to bury him.  Here there shall be no burying…

…unless some fine brother’s burying his monster dick up my white ass!

Can I get an ‘Amen’?