Don't Put Your Dick in a Racist (Not Actually Porn)

What if this...

"OH HAY GUYZ! I'll see you on Thursday..."

"...AT THE KLAN RALLY."

You know, I’m in my thirties now. One of the really amazing benefits of age is that I need increasingly scant reason to do anything. By the time I’m in my 50s, my lack of accountability will be ghastly. I’ll be hurling nail bombs at passing children and calling in to talk radio, and nothing my mother says will be able to stop me. But let’s stay in the now. I don’t need MUCH reason not to fuck a racist.

When I was in my 20s, however, I think I might have needed a little more reason not to fuck a racist. Because I kind of totally did, and it’s been on my mind recently. Of course, we all have this fantasy that sex has no political belief and that if you have sparks with someone, hell, you have sparks. In much the same way that every movie is someone’s favorite, someone has to suck Glenn Beck’s cock some time.

But here’s the thing: just to take one example, have any of the liberals reading this ever really tried to have a sustained sexual partnership with a libertarian?  IT’S IMPOSSIBLE.  IT’S FUCKING ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE.  First of all, libertarianism is a godawful stupid philosophy.  Hell, it’s barely even a philosophy.  All of the trappings that allow libertarians to live their lives and yell in relative comfort about how they have no need of the government are provided by the government.  It’s not like some magical unicorn swoops in from the sky and shits infrastructure.  Don’t get me wrong, that would be awesome.  But unicorn shit doesn’t fix bridges.  No, libertarians piss and moan about how the government should basically tax them next to nothing and get off of their lawns.

Anyone who gives a shit about the government giving aid to the poor, the oppressed and the shit-out-of-luck can’t possibly hit that ass for more than a few times on the trot.  After a while, their partner’s callous disregard for even the barest civility and defiant, childish delusion that somehow the private sector will take care of the big stuff will wear on them.  They will grow cold, distant.  They will try to ignore that voice in the back of their head that says “You are with a complete tool who shares none of your values.  DITCH THIS PRICK.”

For the record, I prefer libertarians to Tea Party Republicans, largely because libertarians, not by and large a spiritually-driven group, don’t care whose dick is in whose ass as long as it’s not on their lawn.  Though precisely which queers are doing all the lawn-fucking in this little scenario is a mystery to me.

Libertarians: THIS IS YOUR GOD. A shitty novelist with bad teeth and a rape fetish. Kudos.

I may have complicated this unnecessarily.  Suffice it to say, it’s very difficult to be in a relationship with someone whose values system exists at a painful angle to your own.  Case in point: Laura.  The Blonde Racist.

In my defense, the first few times I had sex with Laura, I had no idea she was a racist.  I thought she was just, you know, intense.  A firm, unyielding woman with muscular thighs and a full body tan, Laura was the hard-charging, all-business friend of a cute redhead I was doing my damnedest to talk into bed.  Being 21, my game had not caught up to my ability to sustain an erection, so I wound up doing what most men of class and distinction do when they can’t score with a cute redhead: I fingerblasted her blonde friend.

Laura had a blunt, fruity, inexplicable scent, the kind you can’t really call good or bad.  It was just there, and it became a thing of comfort.  Her face was unmemorable, a pleasant arrangement of exactly what you’d expect to see on a face but without that crucial extra molecule of character. Her voice, similarly, performed all the necessary duties of a voice without ever becoming familiar.  What sticks with me is the rope-like consistency of her hair, her permanently hard nipples, and those fantastic thighs.

Our arrangement: she’d pick me up, we’d go to her place, she’d talk about business, I’d stare at her thighs and we’d fuck around.  She was an animal.  It’s not that the sex was life-changing or even filthy, just that she had absolutely no interest in foreplay, and her sheer physical strength meant that I could either go along with it or risk getting a joint bent backwards.

Being someone who’s always eroticized emasculation, I took an odd pleasure in it, though I distinctly remember spurning her one night and turning over to sleep.  Her words rang with simian confusion: “Uh…so we’re not going to fuck?”

It took every molecule in my body not to respond, “I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT.”

I am NOT a piece of meat.

After a few weeks of this joyless, convenient roundelay, we went to see James Toback’s Black and White.  If you don’t know this one, it’s the James Toback movie with  drug use, lots of fucking, and endless scenes of people batting intellectual douche-bombs back and forth.  You know, that one.  Also, it has a shit-ton of Black people in it, and it’s almost exclusively about America’s troubled relationship with race.

I enjoyed it even though, being a James Toback movie, it had no aesthetic and the characters were intolerable.  I mean, it had some sweet, sweet fucking.  So come on, now.  A discussion started in the car on the way back from the theater.  I talked a little about how I thought race was a class issue in America, how Black people have been marginalized and degraded economically and culturally, and how White America has been lazily complicit in the process.

Her response: “Ugh.  I mean, I just can’t stand them.”

“The…the characters, right?  In the movie?  It’s true, they were pretty shrill…”

“No, no.  Black people.”

There followed some silence.  She spoke again.

“I mean, they’re just so entitled.  Like, the way they act is ridiculous, and if you call them on it, they yell about racism.  It’s so aggressive and there’s the music that they play SO LOUD and again, if you’re like, ‘Turn it down!’ they call you a racist.  And then they want jobs, and it’s like, am I supposed to give you a job dressed like that?  I’m not a racist, but PLEASE.”

Before I could say, “No, I’m pretty sure you’re a racist,” a few thoughts came to me.  First, I wondered whether I should ever have sex with this woman again.  Second, I thought that if I did, I might be able to talk her into performing any depraved, fucked up sex act, because racists are essentially gullible and can be talked into anything.  If you can convince someone that, say, Jews have tails, or that Chinese women have sideways vaginas, or that Armenians smell like cabbage, you can probably convince them to get slamfucked at both ends by dildo-wielding leatherdykes while dressed as a member of the Lollipop Guild.

This is what occurs to me at times like that.

Let’s face it, racism at this point has been so mainstreamed that if you really called someone out on it, they’d be shocked.   White America does not know itself, because to know itself would be to grasp White Privilege.  If you pointed out that White people get a free seat at the table, a lot of them would tell you that they just don’t see race.  That maybe you have the problem.  These are usually the same people who don’t mind Brown folk being asked for papers in Arizona, because hey, there are illegal immigrants down there, and if they have nothing to hide, why should it be a problem?  This lazy slide into racism-by-any-other-name is exactly what makes it possible for mainstream political figures to embrace Birtherism.  “If it’s about his birthplace, then obviously it’s not about his race, and can the American left knock it off with this race obsession?  It’s getting embarrassing.  Yes, Julio, the hedges need trimming.  God, they’re affordable, but so lazy. Which reminds me, hide the silver.”

Convenience is the American God, after all, and to interrogate why there’s a White Hetero Male Hegemony in this country is a pain in the ass.  So is growing up.  Someone I know suggested that if Obama could win the presidency, we should end affirmative action.  Because obviously, racism is no longer a factor in American politics.  This person also plays Halo for 6 hour stretches and really enjoys Eli Roth movies.  Let’s not start taking policy tips from that guy just yet.

It took a few minutes of imagining Laura bent into impossible bondage predicaments, with spreader bars, ball-gags, plugs, inflatable plugs, a TENS unit, clothespins and sundry other leisure items before it became clear to me that this just wasn’t going to work.  Every time I imagined her body slumping in post-coital exhaustion, my cum oozing out of multiple orifices, I imagined her saying, “And what is the deal with that Puerto Rican Day Parade?  Do I get to celebrate my culture without being called a RACIST?!”

So long, erection.

There was some arguing on the way back to my place, and I may have weakened my position by insisting that the CIA had destroyed Harlem by selling crack, but that’s passion for you.  When she dropped me off, she was faintly annoyed that she didn’t get a goodnight kiss, but I knew that if I was to ejaculate that night, it was going to be in the warm, cheap embrace of Skinemax, not with this budding Grand Wizard Cheerleader.  Skinemax knew no prejudice, no hate.  Only bad writing with poorly staged fucking every few minutes.

As Muhammad Ali said, “No Shannon Tweed ever called me Nigger.”

Definitely not a racist.

P.S. I am in no way equating libertarianism with racism.  Tea Party Republicans, however, need to make their shit just a little clearer to me.

2 Comments on Don't Put Your Dick in a Racist (Not Actually Porn)

  1. Well, this is all brilliant, but the unicorn shitting infrastructure just made me laugh out loud in the middle of a Brooklyn laundromat.

  2. It’s a beautiful dream.

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