Black Snake Moan

I’ve always had a bit of a fetish for black men. It started with a major crush on Theo Huxtable (admittedly, one of the “whitest” black characters ever on TV), progressed into a weird thing with Arsenio Hall (I think it was the fingers) and eventually to classmates and dudes from my neighboring high school.

But let me backtrack a bit. I was an outcast for much of early grammar school - tossed aside because I was the “nerd” with glasses, stringy hair with bangs that would never tease high enough to be cool (this was the early 90s after all) and, of course, NO TITS (my how things change). As a result, most of my friends were the other kids rejected by the rich white assholes who populated my school - the nerds and the black and Puerto Rican kids (many of whom were nerds too - double torture whammy).

The first boy who ever tried to kiss me was black. (It was during this aforementioned time of teasing and torture.) I wanted to kiss him back but I was too petrified of kissing anyone in the entrance leading to a bowling alley with my mother about to pull up in the family heap-of-shit. However, this first form of sexual interest stuck with me and many of my early sexual fantasies were about him. But nothing ever happened between us in large part, I suspect, because it was a taboo at this particular school and I was too afraid to ever do anything to further distance myself from the cool pack.

Later I went to an all-girls catholic high school in the South Bronx - one of only 11 white girls in my graduating class - and remember going to dances at our “brother school” where I would literally try to get the attention of the black dudes dancing. I recall being one of the few white girls “freakin” on the dance floor - sometimes sandwiched between two guys at once - feeling hard-ons pressed against me for the first time (all while being watched by Priests, mind you). But the thing is, once the songs ended - I was left standing alone.

I remember asking one of my Puerto Rican friends in gym class one day why it was that the guys really had no interest in talking to me once the dances were over and she said, without hesitation: “Because you have no ass.” Now, what’s funny to me is that America only seemed to realize that women have asses about 5 years ago when J-Lo got popular. However, I grew up with the understanding that a big ass was a prize - something that was valued in the way that most other pubescent kids seem to admire breasts. It was a HUGE insult to tell a girl she had no ass (in fact it was the main “dis” thrown back and forth between the Puerto Rican and Dominican girls in my high school). So since that day I’ve always had issues about my (lack of) back.

(Side note: I am not stereotyping ass as something only minority men covet. NO WAY. Again, ever since J-Lo and, now, Jessica Biel, white dudes are even more ass-obsessed than black and Hispanic men, at least in my opinion.)

We can pretty much fast forward all my college years for this entry as I went to one of the whitest, jewiest (yum) universities in the country - Boston U. Of course there were black kids that went there - in fact, my college roommate for the first two years was black - but I swear there were hardly any black MEN. It was remarkably noticeable to me.

Post-college I finally got to live out my fantasy - now thrice over. The first was with a guy I met at a friend’s birthday who - and I swear to you - looked like Gary Coleman. He was also rather short and wore a very large hat that made him seem even tinier. It was weird because the next morning I was REALLY not attracted to him and, on top of it, he just wouldn’t leave. I think he finally did, but I guess he could very well be hiding out in my medicine cabinet for all I know.

The next black man I slept with was a bouncer at some bar in the LES. We flirted all night by calling each other “cracka” and “fitty” (you can guess who called whom what). We had sex in the DJ booth after the bar closed (a stupid risk that ella took and would never, ever do again with ANY bouncer) and then again at my apartment. He had a body from HELL - with a 6-pack that literally rippled across the tip of my tongue. However the most memorable part of the evening/early morning was when I tripped over his bulletproof vest on my way to the bathroom. I made the most of the situation by putting it on and getting back into bed.

The third brotha in my trifecta of lust is an accomplished writer who - in many respects (primarily education) is whiter than me. It was the first time I ever felt like I was “dating” a black man but, as most things do, it ended up going nowhere.

What’s ironic about this musing is that black men have never given me much grief over my small(ish) ass. It’s white men - mostly italian and jewish men - who seem to have opinions about it.

In fact, black men tend to notice my face, compliment me on my eyes and smile. In many ways, I think they see me more. And that’s exactly why I keep looking for them.