Black women, white women and the joy of sex

Posted in Sexuality.

I was having dinner last night with a group of friends somewhere in the Adams Morgan neighborhood when an admirer walked up to me to felicitate and inquire: “what’s next on your list of subjects to write about?” Well, since I don’t have such a list, I didn’t know what to say. As is commonly the case with me, I write whenever the spirit moves me. At other times, I write when I am sufficiently angry or befuddled. There is no routine to my style. I write when I have to write so long as I have ninety or so minutes to spare.

Taken aback by my new found friend’s inquiry, I said, “Sex…I’ll be writing about sex!”
The three members of my table, along with my new friend, went silent for about three second and then, almost in unison, started chuckling…quietly and then loudly, followed by an uneasy silence and inquisitive look. The stranger then asked: “pornography?” “No, no, no, that’s not what I am going to write about. I am not interested in writing about sex or lovemaking or things like that. I am going to tell a simple story of two men, one white and one black, and their experiences with sexing outside their race” was my copious answer.
I was thinking along that line because I remember the time a Ugandan friend came to me to reveal his joy filled heart after his first sexual encounter with a White girl. Not long after that he partook in a threesome with two White damsels. After all these years, he still revels in the blissful encounters. And I remember too the request of a Caucasian colleague, whose life ambition was to get into the pants of a Black woman. Week after week after week, that was all he talked about — until fortune smiled at him. He is married now, to a White woman, he kept a Black woman as a mistress ass.

Anthony: You mean interracial sex…
Sabella: Sort of…
Bimpe: What’s so different or special about interracial sex?
Sabella: Well, there are those who think otherwise…that there is a world of difference
Ada : I don’t think so, sex is sex; with a black man or a white man…sex is sex
Nwachukwu: Ooppss, not from what I know. My experiences are quite different
Sabella: How so?
Bimpe: Are you telling me what we do is different from what you’ve done in the past?
Anthony: Interesting, interesting…

Ada : Why are we having this discussion in the presence of someone we don’t know?
At this junction, I wanted to ask Anthony to leave, or hope he’ll take Ada ‘s subtle hint and leave. But he didn’t. Three or so minutes later, I thanked Anthony for his remarks regarding my leisure pursuits and hope he’ll continue to follow my work. He shook hands with everybody and was about to leave when his companion, an obvious African — who, as it turned out, has been his wife for six years — showed up. She is from the Indian Island nation of Zanzibar ( Tanzania ). How do we ask him and his wife to leave?
Anyways, before you knew it, Ada and Bimpe and Aiisha had begun to chit-chat about small and big stuff — there was an instant liking between the women. And before you knew it, a wait staff moved the seats to accommodate our new found friends. Half-an-hour later, Bimpe placed her right hand on Aiisha’s shoulder and asked: “what’s the difference between a black man and a white man?” There was no answer. There was no answer, only a startled and shy look from Aiisha. Then, her husband came to her rescue.
Bimpe: The question was whether there is a difference between what the whites and the black do in the bedroom; whether one race is better than the other when it comes to sex, or it is all just in our head? Personally, I read up on a lot of things. I bought the Kamasutra, the Sanskrit treatise when I was 21 living in
Denmark …

Ada : Gosh…I got the Kamasutra as a present on my 22nd birthday…ha, what that book can do for you…good lord, save my soul from the valley of fire!
Nwachukwu: Really? Does Sabella know you have it?
Sabella: Indeed, what that book can do for ones soul
Anthony: You all are into esoteric sex and toys…
Nwachukwu and I have been friends for over a decade. Until his engagement to Bimpe, I had not seen him with a Black woman. His last and penultimate girl friends were from Venezuela and Greece . Before that he dated a voluptuous red-hair from Texas . And even when he lived in Paris , he didn’t care much for African women. He liked the way non-Africans made him feel in and out of the bedroom. He referred to his French girlfriend’s “congo” as the “talker” or the “grabber” because, according to him, her “congo” talked to him, grabs and squeezes him.
Bimpe’s is th

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