midnightpulp
07-11-2011, 01:50 AM
"Kobe five, Duncan four...Kobe five, Duncan four...Kobe five, Duncan four..."
Culburn timed his favorite phrase with each thrust, and with each thrust, the words grew louder. These words, which Culburn has been saying night and day for a year, were delivered with a breathless, high-pitched voice that tells me he is nearing his climax.
"Kobe five, Duncan four!"
"Kobe five, Duncan..."
The last of the phrase was replaced by a sustained moan that lasted about ten seconds, which quickly dropped in frequency to a rhythmic pant. I parted my legs and Culburn rolled off of me. He lay there, bathed in the neon of Vegas, catching his breath. I lay beside him, thinking about anything but him or the last two minutes, which were like every other two minutes since our honeymoon.
Culburn's stamina gives another one of his favorite phrases, "That's it and that's all," a new meaning, indeed, one that Culburn definitely would not appreciate, because in his mind, he is the lover of lovers, a regular Casanova that women the world over would kill sleep to with. Truth is, Culburn has all of the sexual sophistication of a schoolboy. And for me, a woman who has never known another man, to make such an observation without any kind of compare and contrast says a lot.
He caught his breath and said, "Koolaid Man invited us to dinner tomorrow. Buffet at the Circus-Circus. We're paying of course."
"I hate that n-----."
The words just flew out, right through that part of our brains that keep our prejudices, fetishes, temptations and other inappropriate thoughts and feelings locked up where, for most people, the people we deem "socially well adjusted," they serve a life sentence as our dark side.
I just let a prisoner escape. And Culburn got out the search light, which is a metaphor for that steely eyed stare he gets when the Lakers lose, when a college student stands him up at restaurant, and in this case, when his beloved wife says n-----.
"I can't believe you just said that," Culburn said. "Koolaid Man's the goods and you just called him the n-word."
"I'm sorry, Cubby," Oh how I hate calling him Cubby. I gave an apologetic tug to his post-orgasm member, which had all the consistency of a regurgitated hot-dog, or so I imagine, since I've never taken it upon myself to find a vomited up weiner and examine what it feels like.
"That's okay, baby. We don't have to oblige. We'll go catch Danny Gans instead."
"He's dead."
"I know."
A joke. Ha-ha. I gave Culburn a playful slap. "Think I'm gonna take a shower," he said. He pecked me on the cheek. "Even if you have a little racist in ya, you're still my Katie-Girl." With that, he disappeared into the bathroom. I reclined into the bed and stared up at the ceiling, which was illuminated with a kaleidoscope of neon that seemed to dance.
I thought about what Culburn just said, and you also might think I have some racist in me, but I don't. N----- didn't escape from the prejudice cell block in that part of our brains where we keep our dark side prisoner, it escaped from another area, the fetish cell block, released by the inadequacy I feel as a woman.
The fetish I have for black men started when I was a young girl. I'm not sure how it began, it just kind have always existed. I grew up in an all white small town, and dad refused to buy a television, so I wasn't able to see black musicians, actors, preachers, or athletes, therefore the black man remained on the edge of my consciousness, as something mysterious, alien, and forbidden. Only in school is where I could learn about them, and one day in my 8th grade history class, as the teacher talked about slavery, I had my first and most intense fantasy.
If you would've looked at me at that instant, you would've seen my eyes widen and stare far away into something you yourself couldn't see. If you would've tried to talk to me, I wouldn't have responded, because I was in a place where I couldn't hear your words. I was deep into my thoughts, which had widened into the landscape of a daydream that I was helpless to escape from.
It was 1858 Louisiana. I was the only daughter of a wealthy plantation owner. As you might have already guessed, we had many slaves. I was 13 and on the verge of womanhood. Father rode into Baton Rouge one day for a meeting with the Governor, who was a close friend of his. Father had no qualms about leaving me alone with the slaves, which I understand isn't completely realistic, but this is a fantasy after all.
I was in my room reading a passage from the Bible, wearing a pure white lace dress. Outside, the birds were signing, a breeze fluttered the curtains, and a shaft of sunlight spanned the room. I lifted my eyes from Exodus and took a moment to enjoy the contentment that seemed ubiquitous throughout my body. Then suddenly, the cramping I experienced all week long, which I thought had finally stopped, returned with an intensity unlike before. I fell from my chair and collapsed to the floor. As the tears welled up, I felt a dampness between my legs. I looked down and noticed my white dress turning red, the color of blood. I had no choice but to scream.
Moments later, Ezekial, a slave of about 20 and father's stable boy, rushed in, frightened at the sight of a bloody 13 year old girl crumpled on the floor, clutching at her belly as if nails were being driven into it.
"Miss Katie, whassa matter?" Ezekial said.
"I-I dunno. I just started bleeding for no reason," I replied, trying my best to hold back the tears.
"Didya cut yourself or somethin'?"
I shook my head.
"Where it hurt?" Ezekial said.
I pointed at my belly. Ezekial inched closer and I inched away, wary of the slave's intentions, which I must admit was by my imagination's design, since I liked the idea of being this helpless girl somewhat afraid of Ezekial, this large, muscular, obsidian black negro whose mercy I was at.
Ezekial sensed my fear and halted. Smiling he said, "Don't worry, Miss Katie. I a good Christian man and would never in one million years think'a doing harm to you. I jus' wanna make sure you alright and don't need the hand of a docta to fix you up."
I nodded and allowed Ezekial closer. He smelled of hay and horse sweat, which stirred me, awakened in me a desire I never knew I had. His first gesture was not to check my body for injury but to wipe a freshly shed tear from my face. His finger was calloused and rough against my cheek, and at that moment, I loved him.
He said, "Now, now. Les' have a look."
He placed his hand on my belly and gently pressed. My breathing grew rapid at his touch.
"This hurt, Miss Katie?"
I shook my head.
Ezekial took his hand away, and I immediately felt a void, like some unknown part of my body was just amputated. I knew then I needed his touch like I needed my arms and legs.
He looked me over with brow furrowed and studied. His eyes traveled down to the source of my bleeding. He stroked his chin for a moment and then his face lit up with a smile.
He said, in a cheerful and singsong voice, "Aw shucks, Miss Katie. You alright. Today's the day God decided you become a woman."
I replied, "I can have babies now?"
"Yessam."
The room fell silent. And outside, the birds stopped singing, the wind stopped blowing, and the shaft of sunlight diffused into nothingness. Next, the walls of my room fell away, the blue sky turned to night, and we were surrounded by nothing except stars.
"Come here, Ezekial," I said.
The negro needed no further provocation. Incited by the scent of my blossoming womanhood and emergent sexuality, he took me in his arms, laid me down, and made love to me, under a canopy of stars.
I was a woman.
Now here in Vegas, I was a woman, but a woman very different from the one I imagined I'd be.
The bathroom door opened. Culburn stepped out wearing a towel around his waist. He smiled.
"Boiled down, it's still Kobe five, Duncan four."
I placated him with a smile of my own, as is custom when he utters any of his asinine sayings.
"Whatta ya say, Katie-girl? Round two with the ol' Cubster?"
I nodded. What else could I do?
And all I could think about during the uneventful two minutes was Ezekial and how I could make him a reality.
Tomorrow, I would figure out a way to fuck a black man.
Culburn timed his favorite phrase with each thrust, and with each thrust, the words grew louder. These words, which Culburn has been saying night and day for a year, were delivered with a breathless, high-pitched voice that tells me he is nearing his climax.
"Kobe five, Duncan four!"
"Kobe five, Duncan..."
The last of the phrase was replaced by a sustained moan that lasted about ten seconds, which quickly dropped in frequency to a rhythmic pant. I parted my legs and Culburn rolled off of me. He lay there, bathed in the neon of Vegas, catching his breath. I lay beside him, thinking about anything but him or the last two minutes, which were like every other two minutes since our honeymoon.
Culburn's stamina gives another one of his favorite phrases, "That's it and that's all," a new meaning, indeed, one that Culburn definitely would not appreciate, because in his mind, he is the lover of lovers, a regular Casanova that women the world over would kill sleep to with. Truth is, Culburn has all of the sexual sophistication of a schoolboy. And for me, a woman who has never known another man, to make such an observation without any kind of compare and contrast says a lot.
He caught his breath and said, "Koolaid Man invited us to dinner tomorrow. Buffet at the Circus-Circus. We're paying of course."
"I hate that n-----."
The words just flew out, right through that part of our brains that keep our prejudices, fetishes, temptations and other inappropriate thoughts and feelings locked up where, for most people, the people we deem "socially well adjusted," they serve a life sentence as our dark side.
I just let a prisoner escape. And Culburn got out the search light, which is a metaphor for that steely eyed stare he gets when the Lakers lose, when a college student stands him up at restaurant, and in this case, when his beloved wife says n-----.
"I can't believe you just said that," Culburn said. "Koolaid Man's the goods and you just called him the n-word."
"I'm sorry, Cubby," Oh how I hate calling him Cubby. I gave an apologetic tug to his post-orgasm member, which had all the consistency of a regurgitated hot-dog, or so I imagine, since I've never taken it upon myself to find a vomited up weiner and examine what it feels like.
"That's okay, baby. We don't have to oblige. We'll go catch Danny Gans instead."
"He's dead."
"I know."
A joke. Ha-ha. I gave Culburn a playful slap. "Think I'm gonna take a shower," he said. He pecked me on the cheek. "Even if you have a little racist in ya, you're still my Katie-Girl." With that, he disappeared into the bathroom. I reclined into the bed and stared up at the ceiling, which was illuminated with a kaleidoscope of neon that seemed to dance.
I thought about what Culburn just said, and you also might think I have some racist in me, but I don't. N----- didn't escape from the prejudice cell block in that part of our brains where we keep our dark side prisoner, it escaped from another area, the fetish cell block, released by the inadequacy I feel as a woman.
The fetish I have for black men started when I was a young girl. I'm not sure how it began, it just kind have always existed. I grew up in an all white small town, and dad refused to buy a television, so I wasn't able to see black musicians, actors, preachers, or athletes, therefore the black man remained on the edge of my consciousness, as something mysterious, alien, and forbidden. Only in school is where I could learn about them, and one day in my 8th grade history class, as the teacher talked about slavery, I had my first and most intense fantasy.
If you would've looked at me at that instant, you would've seen my eyes widen and stare far away into something you yourself couldn't see. If you would've tried to talk to me, I wouldn't have responded, because I was in a place where I couldn't hear your words. I was deep into my thoughts, which had widened into the landscape of a daydream that I was helpless to escape from.
It was 1858 Louisiana. I was the only daughter of a wealthy plantation owner. As you might have already guessed, we had many slaves. I was 13 and on the verge of womanhood. Father rode into Baton Rouge one day for a meeting with the Governor, who was a close friend of his. Father had no qualms about leaving me alone with the slaves, which I understand isn't completely realistic, but this is a fantasy after all.
I was in my room reading a passage from the Bible, wearing a pure white lace dress. Outside, the birds were signing, a breeze fluttered the curtains, and a shaft of sunlight spanned the room. I lifted my eyes from Exodus and took a moment to enjoy the contentment that seemed ubiquitous throughout my body. Then suddenly, the cramping I experienced all week long, which I thought had finally stopped, returned with an intensity unlike before. I fell from my chair and collapsed to the floor. As the tears welled up, I felt a dampness between my legs. I looked down and noticed my white dress turning red, the color of blood. I had no choice but to scream.
Moments later, Ezekial, a slave of about 20 and father's stable boy, rushed in, frightened at the sight of a bloody 13 year old girl crumpled on the floor, clutching at her belly as if nails were being driven into it.
"Miss Katie, whassa matter?" Ezekial said.
"I-I dunno. I just started bleeding for no reason," I replied, trying my best to hold back the tears.
"Didya cut yourself or somethin'?"
I shook my head.
"Where it hurt?" Ezekial said.
I pointed at my belly. Ezekial inched closer and I inched away, wary of the slave's intentions, which I must admit was by my imagination's design, since I liked the idea of being this helpless girl somewhat afraid of Ezekial, this large, muscular, obsidian black negro whose mercy I was at.
Ezekial sensed my fear and halted. Smiling he said, "Don't worry, Miss Katie. I a good Christian man and would never in one million years think'a doing harm to you. I jus' wanna make sure you alright and don't need the hand of a docta to fix you up."
I nodded and allowed Ezekial closer. He smelled of hay and horse sweat, which stirred me, awakened in me a desire I never knew I had. His first gesture was not to check my body for injury but to wipe a freshly shed tear from my face. His finger was calloused and rough against my cheek, and at that moment, I loved him.
He said, "Now, now. Les' have a look."
He placed his hand on my belly and gently pressed. My breathing grew rapid at his touch.
"This hurt, Miss Katie?"
I shook my head.
Ezekial took his hand away, and I immediately felt a void, like some unknown part of my body was just amputated. I knew then I needed his touch like I needed my arms and legs.
He looked me over with brow furrowed and studied. His eyes traveled down to the source of my bleeding. He stroked his chin for a moment and then his face lit up with a smile.
He said, in a cheerful and singsong voice, "Aw shucks, Miss Katie. You alright. Today's the day God decided you become a woman."
I replied, "I can have babies now?"
"Yessam."
The room fell silent. And outside, the birds stopped singing, the wind stopped blowing, and the shaft of sunlight diffused into nothingness. Next, the walls of my room fell away, the blue sky turned to night, and we were surrounded by nothing except stars.
"Come here, Ezekial," I said.
The negro needed no further provocation. Incited by the scent of my blossoming womanhood and emergent sexuality, he took me in his arms, laid me down, and made love to me, under a canopy of stars.
I was a woman.
Now here in Vegas, I was a woman, but a woman very different from the one I imagined I'd be.
The bathroom door opened. Culburn stepped out wearing a towel around his waist. He smiled.
"Boiled down, it's still Kobe five, Duncan four."
I placated him with a smile of my own, as is custom when he utters any of his asinine sayings.
"Whatta ya say, Katie-girl? Round two with the ol' Cubster?"
I nodded. What else could I do?
And all I could think about during the uneventful two minutes was Ezekial and how I could make him a reality.
Tomorrow, I would figure out a way to fuck a black man.