Spring is here-so it’s time to get that business waxed and get them rocks off. It’s the only time of year when I don’t feel creepy about being horny 24 hours a day. That said, I want something to be different this year. I want something fresh and new. Don’t get me wrong, I stay randy, but when it comes to the men I sleep with, I’m consistently pretty dull. White dude after white dude after white dude after white dude. This is a good thing, in one way, because we all know: most interracial couples are doomed from the beginning.
So why not slap on some Dereon jeans, get a weave and roll out on some 22s with one of the strong, independent, church-going black men my mother keeps telling me about? Stop screwing every Tom, Dick and Harry-and start screwing Leroy, Darrell and John. Less white. More black.
Apparently the New Yorker, in a plot to ruin my imaginary future sex life, caught wind of this master plan and decided to foil it before I had a chance to get it off the ground. This week’s book review section, aptly referred to as “The Caucasian Cause” on the contents page, posits that a litany of recently published books suggest that whiteness actually is the new black. My first reaction was, “Hey, this is very interesting. Go blacks!”
But then I was all, “Say what? Like whoa. Hold up. No. They. Didn’t!!!!!” It has never been cool to black. Like EVER. What these books reeeealllly mean to say is, “fuck you black people. We white people are so cool we can be white and black at the same time. HA!”
Those clever sons of bitches think they know everything. But I gotta say, I’ve known for a long time that here in America whiteness is and will always be in vogue. I frequently use this truism to justify my sexual proclivities. You see, I was self-diagnosed with Sally Hemings Syndrome-nothing turns me on more than the idea of getting boned by a white dude who looks like Thomas Jefferson. Consequently, I tend to skew pink in the penis department, desperately trying to recreate those steamy moments in the slave quarters.
Thing is? Most of the white guys I’ve knocked boots with just don’t share this fantasy. They’re only tangentially interested in authenticating my blackness by means of a good pork. Which leads me to wonder: am I looking for love in all the wrong places? Does my founding father have any baby daddy potential or am I just in it for the freedom?
I’ve been thinking on this for a minute now and it occurred to me that this is nothing that anyone should ever be concerned about. So be it. If my speed dial is stuck on “honky,” I guess the cracker is going to have to do until the black man of my dreams waltzes into my living room.
In our glorious, post-racial society, where white and black are interchangeable and self-hating Jews run the White House, it’s no small wonder that any relationship, inter- or intra-, can function at all. Ask Elin! It’s great that Tiger is back, but, wow, what’s up with the Elin no-show? Is she standing on principle, refusing to support him as he carefully attempts to rebound his image and career? I think she’s getting ready to leave that Negro.
So I say, to Elin and everyone, even though interracial coupledom is toast, don’t discriminate. And ladies: if you’re like me and you’re looking to get laid this spring, definitely keep your racial options open. There are lots of good-looking chicks out there and only a handful of men worth swallowing for.
Charlie is the pen name of a sexually liberated professional young woman in New York City.