Whiteboi Goes to Harlem

Big black cock.

Big black dick.

Big black penis.

Big black phallus.

BBC.

You have an addiction.

A black cock addiction.

It wasn’t your intention …

*

Bullshit. It was always his intention, and he knew it. He was addicted. He wanted to get addicted, and now he was. He couldn’t get enough. He was changed. Sex for him would never, ever be the same again.

The words pounded relentlessly into his ears. Images of big black cocks flashed across the laptop screen, but his eyes were closed. He’d seen the clip so many times he’d almost memorised the imagery. All he needed right now was his imagination.

He lay on his back on the mattress, gooning, his laptop next to him. His left hand was at the base of a black dildo, wedged up his tight, novice ass. His right hand teased his balls.

The dildo wasn’t big, but he imagined he was being ploughed by a ten-inch monster cock. He imagined a tall, muscular black man lay on top of him. He imagined the weight of another body bearing down upon his torso. “Fuck me,” he whimpered to himself, submitting to his imaginary black alpha god.

He stroked his cock and his breath caught. His orgasm began to accumulate. His ass pulsed and spasmed around the dildo as he exploded, drenching his stomach with cum.

He moaned deliriously, writhing on the bed. For a few brief seconds, he was a planet among the stars. He felt the contractions of his orgasm spasming.

His breathing slowly returned to normal. He gingerly extracted the plastic from his ass and rested it on a nearby towel. His ass felt like someone had driven a truck through it. He reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table and mopped up.

He stood up and cleaned his dildo in the bathroom. His head was still spinning from the power of his orgasm.

For a few hours tonight, he had their upper east side apartment to himself. His wife was out at dinner with some friends from work.

He still loved her, but their sex life had dissolved. He didn’t want to fuck her anymore. Only one thing could get him off now.

Big black cock.

He couldn’t quite recall how it all first started. One day, not so long ago, he tried to remember. He was in the office. He sat at his desk and stared out the window. Overdue documents were piled up in front of him, but as he gazed into the distance, his mind whirred back in time, trying to remember what the first trigger might’ve been.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter anymore. His curiosity had turned into an obsession, and his obsession had now become an addiction.

He couldn’t tell his wife. He couldn’t tell her any of this.

An admission would destroy everything.

He showered, taking extra special care to clean his tender butthole. He cleaned and dried his dildo, burying it at the back of his sock drawer where it would never be found.

*

His wife came home an hour later, in a happy mood, and just a little drunk. “Hey babe,” she called out, closing the apartment door behind her.

“Hey, Trina,” yelled Mitch. “How was dinner?”

Trina entered the room. She saw Mitch lying on the couch in front of the television. A half-full bottle of beer sat on a coffee table within his easy reach. Everything looked completely unremarkable. Mitch was enjoying a quiet Saturday night at home.

She’d taken her heels off and was now in the process of removing her earrings – the expensive ones Mitch bought for her last birthday.

“Babe, it was good. We went to that new Korean place on 52nd street, and all the girls from the office were there. Stacey, Ellen, Amanda, Sophie, we had a few drinks…”

Mitch’s eyes drifted back to the TV screen. He wasn’t even sure what he was watching.

“…oh, and before I forget, I need to tell you what we were talking about at dinner. You know that new work project I mentioned to you the other night?” Trina didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “So, Amanda doesn’t think we can do it with the budget we’ve been given, and I think she’s probably right, so we’ve got a few tough decisions to make next week. We could cut some corners in production and hope the client doesn’t notice, but I never feel comfortable when we do that, I always feel guilty when we pitch. We could review some of the creative touchpoints, or we could ask for a slightly bigger budget, or we could…”

Through years of practice, Mitch nodded at all the right points, giving the impression he was listening to every word she said. She never tested his recall; she never asked him any questions.

He wasn’t listening. He was miles away, dreaming about a big black cock. He imagined it was buried deep in his throat, making him gag. He imagined what it would feel like in his mouth. He imagined how warm it’d be, and how delicious it’d taste. He wondered what it’d feel like to make it spew thick ropes of creamy semen onto his tongue.

Trina droned on. Mitch couldn’t give a fuck about her friends or her work project. He still loved her as a soul, but not as a physical presence anymore. Her body was amazing for her age, but he found it difficult to get hard for her these days. He never initiated sex anymore, and thankfully, she rarely did either. Fucking his wife was far too much effort, especially considering how much of a slut his handpussy was.

He’d never told her, but he couldn’t care less if she cheated. It didn’t matter to him what she wanted. All that mattered was what *he* wanted, and it wasn’t her anymore.

*

Mitch was born into a wealthy family. He went to all the right schools, joined all the right clubs and made all the right connections before studying law at Harvard. He looked and dressed like a corporate professional. He wore a suit and tie to the office during the week, and on weekends, he regularly dressed in expensive polo shirts, casual slacks and smart loafers.

He was a lawyer for a major multinational company. He travelled regularly for work, but he rarely explored his destinations. Most of his trips were blurs of offices, hotels and airports, with very little time left over for pleasure. His wife worked in advertising. They were both well paid, which is why they could afford a two-bedroom apartment in a good building on the upper east side without going into unnecessary debt.

His wealth was meagre compensation for having been born with a small penis. He might’ve inherited cash, but he didn’t inherit genes.

Over a pot of Sunday morning coffee, he thought about the city he lived in and the people that occupied it. Millions of people were packed onto this tiny island, but the communities that inhabited it were anything but homogenous. The slice of Manhattan he lived in had a history of opulence, power and ‘old money’, but the sense of privilege that came with that endowment was slowly beginning to fragment and dissolve.

In terms of wealth and opportunity, the upper east side felt a million miles away from Harlem, but geographically, they were adjoined neighbourhoods.

“I’m heading out for a walk, Trina,” he said, finishing the rest of his coffee. “I need some fresh air.”

“OK, babe,” she replied. “Whatever you like.” She assumed he wouldn’t stray too far from home.

He snuck off to the bedroom to change into what he thought were casual street clothes. For the first time in his life, he wore a baseball cap backwards. He hoped he looked cool, but at the same time, he didn’t want to bump into anyone he knew. That’d be embarrassing.

As anonymously as possible, he headed to the 77th Street subway station. He descended the steps, walked through the turnstile, and waited on the platform for the 6 train to carry him northward. He alighted at the 116th Street station. He climbed back to street level, and walked north a couple more blocks before turning west.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in Harlem, but he was sure it would’ve been in a car. He couldn’t ever recall walking these streets before. He’d only travelled 39 city blocks from home, but he felt like he was in a different country.

‘You’re a long way from home, whiteboi,’ he told himself.

There was no opulence here. The stores, cafes and bars were different, the restaurants were different. And the people were different. He knew. That’s what he expected. That’s the reason he came here.

He found a coffee shop and ordered a brew to go. He ordered a ‘cafe Americano’, but he knew what they called the same drink in Australia. They called it a ‘long black’ down under – and a long black was exactly what he craved right now.

He knew he wouldn’t get one. At least, not today.

He sat on a park bench and removed the plastic lid. He sipped his coffee as it slowly cooled, watching people walk by.

It wasn’t the same as he imagined it once was; these days, Harlem was just as multicultural as the rest of his city, but there were scores of tall, well-built African American men walking by. He kept to himself, watching the human traffic.

He made sure not to look anyone in the eye. He didn’t want a conversation, much less confrontation. But sitting on a bench gave him the perfect perspective to check out the bulges as they passed. Some dudes were so big that no amount of fabric could ever hide their secrets.

“Big black cock. Big black cock.” His own personal mantra looped deep inside his consciousness. His mouth began to water, thirsty for dick.

He finished his coffee and caught the subway back home. He walked to his building and rode the elevator. He turned the key and acknowledged his wife before feigning a stomach illness. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind him and locked it.

Some of those Harlem cocks were fucking immense. His own puny whiteboi cock was ready to bust. It took a mere thirty seconds for him to shoot cummies into his palm. He scooped his load into his mouth, imagining that it was a hot black Harlem local unloading onto his tongue.

He knew he needed to go back there again, and soon.

He unlocked the door. Trina was sitting on the balcony, casually flicking through a fashion magazine.

“Hey babe,” he said. He hoped his breath didn’t smell of sperm.

She waved. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“I’ve heard of a new place in Harlem,” Mitch replied.

Trina looked up from her magazine. “Are you fucking serious? I’m not going there. We might get mugged. Besides, since when have you ever wanted to leave the upper east side?”

Mitch’s cock began to rise again as he imagined the possibilities. “We’ll be fine,” he replied. “I’ll protect you. Besides, it’s only a few blocks away.”

Trina shrugged. “Whatever, babe. Could use a change of scenery.”

*

Mitch spent the next half hour googling restaurants in Harlem. He knew gentrification had slowly spread north, but he didn’t want a dining experience he could get on the next block.

He called and reserved a table for 7 o’clock at a place near West 126th street. Mitch asked Trina to be ready to leave by 6.

They left the building to hail a taxicab. “Malcolm X and 127th,” Mitch commanded. They headed north up 3rd Avenue, but traffic was heavier than anticipated.

“Are we going to get there in time?” Trina asked.

Mitch felt confident. “Yeah. We’re good.”

They sat in the backseat, getting whiplash as the driver accelerated, then braked, then accelerated, then braked.

“Hey, driver,” said Mitch, “turn west onto 123rd. We’ll get out at the park.”

Trina squeezed his hand. “Is this where the restaurant is?”

“No, babe. Thought we could walk a few blocks. You know, take in the local atmosphere.”

Trina was nervous as the cab screeched to a halt just before crossing Madison Avenue. She stepped onto the kerb. Marcus Garvey Park was right in front of her. She’d never been here before. Mitch paid the fare and the cabbie sped away in search of his next customer.

“We need to walk up to 126th, then we head west. It’s not too far from here.” Mitch paused for a second. “Or we could walk through the park. If you want to, that is?”

“Have you lost your mind? No fucking way. I’m not leaving the sidewalk. Besides, I’m wearing heels.”

The sun was setting as Mitch and Trina walked the last few blocks to the diner. Trina held Mitch’s hand – not as an expression of love, but of fear. “I feel out of place, Mitch,” she confessed. “We shouldn’t be here. I feel like we’re invading someone else’s neighbourhood.”

Mitch smiled his bold, confident Harvard smile. “We’re still on the island, aren’t we? We’re only a few city blocks from home. Enjoy it, it’s something different!”

Trina didn’t mind being a few city blocks from home, but she wished they’d travelled in the opposite direction towards Midtown. She had no idea what’d gotten into her husband. Never had he expressed any desire or need to visit Harlem. Where had this come from?

Mitch negotiated the sidewalk as he silently checked out the fierce dudes walking towards him. He tried making eye contact.

“What’chu lookin’ at, whiteboi?”

“Uhh …”

The local brushed past Mitch’s arm, but they continued walking. He heard a voice trail behind him. “You see that? Whiteboi’s bitch got some fine titties.” Mitch felt a little rattled now. He could use a stiff drink to settle his nerves.

They arrived and were led to their table. They weren’t the only white people in the room, but they were in a minority. A waitress handed them menus, and Mitch flipped straight to the cocktails page. He felt bold enough to order a beverage for his wife.

“A long island iced tea, please,” he said.

“Make it two, please,” his wife added.

Their drinks arrived a few minutes later. Trina took a dainty sip while Mitch sucked up a third of his drink. “You OK?” she asked.

“Yeah, babe, I’m fine,” he lied. He wasn’t. “Just a little hungry.”

The waitress came back. “What’s good?” asked Mitch.

The waitress glared at him. “Fuck, man, it’s all fuckin’ good,” came her sassy reply.

“Uhh …”

Trina ordered first. “I’d like the grilled salmon, thank you.”

The waitress smiled sweetly. “An excellent choice, ma’am.” She turned towards Mitch. “And for you?”

“Imma get the fried chicken,” he confidently replied.

“Which one? We’ got like fi’ different types.”

Mitch stammered, looking back down at the menu. “I … I’ll get … uhh … the oven-baked half chicken.”

The waitress looked at Mitch’s slight frame and raised a cynical eyebrow. “You gon’ eat half a fuckin’ bird tonight?” She nearly laughed.

Mitch’s mouth gaped open, not knowing what to say.

“You get two sides with that fat ass bird, what’chu want?”

Mitch glanced back down at the menu. “The … black eyed peas and the corn … please.”

“Comin’ right up,” she said, turning on her heel.

Trina waited until the waitress was out of earshot. “That’s a lot of food. You’re gonna be eating leftovers out of the refrigerator for a fucking week, you know that?”

“Sorry, babe … I got flustered. I thought she was disrespecting me.”

Trina didn’t get that impression. “Huh? I thought she was nice.”

Mitch didn’t respond. He continued sipping his drink, looking around the room.

Half an hour later, the waitress returned with their food. She delicately placed Trina’s salmon dish in front her, but nearly threw Mitch’s chicken and sides at him. She smiled at Trina before walking back towards the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, honey, the online reviews I read suggested this was a great place, but if I’d known we’d get this type of service…”

“What are you talking about?” Trina interrupted. “You’re the one who wanted to come here. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” She took a sip of her long island iced tea. “This isn’t at all what I expected. The waitstaff are friendly, the music is great, and I can’t wait to taste this salmon.” Her knife sliced into the pink flesh, which her fork brought to her mouth. She tasted cajun spices. “That’s delicious.”

Mitch stared at the roasted ass-end of half a dead chicken. He’d lost his appetite.

“Come on, honey, aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“Yeah … sure.” Mitch picked up his cutlery.

They ate and drank in silence for a while. The room moved around them. Trina ordered two glasses of white wine for them to enjoy alongside their meal. The waitress delivered Trina’s glass with a smile, but half of Mitch’s wine spilled onto the table as the waitress slammed it down.

Trina finished her salmon, placing her knife and fork on her empty plate, fully satisfied. On the other side of the table, Mitch was determined to eat as much of his meal as he could. Fuck that waitress and her shitty attitude.

Out in the kitchen, staff were placing bets on whether the lame-ass whiteboi would finish or not.

Trina watched her husband with alarm as he shovelled food relentlessly into his mouth. He wasn’t enjoying his meal, but he was determined to finish it. The spectacle was disgusting, and in this moment, she was embarrassed for him. He eventually tapped out before puking, requesting a takeout container to carry the rest home.

“You OK?” Trina asked.

Mitch burped in response. He breathed deeply before nodding.

“Should we get the check?”

“Yeah.” Mitch’s hand dived into his pocket, expecting to find his wallet, but it grabbed air. “Fuck,” he whispered. “My wallet isn’t here. It’s gone.”

Given how Trina joked they might get mugged earlier this afternoon, she thought he was joking. “Yeah, yeah. Funny guy.”

All the colour drained out of Mitch’s face. “I’m not kidding … Trina, I’m serious, it’s … it’s not here.” He checked all of his pockets, but to no avail. Something was terribly wrong. As panic flooded his system, he raced to the bathroom and violently regurgitated his semi-digested meal. He wanted to tidy himself up before returning to the table, but he knew there was no time. He wanted to get home ASAP. He needed get on the phone to cancel his cards.

He staggered back to the table. She could tell he’d been sick. It was obvious.

“I hate to ask, but … can you pay for dinner tonight?” He winced as he said the words.

Trina coughed. Fuck, he looked terrible. “I didn’t bring my purse with me, Mitch. Tonight was your idea, and I thought you had everything under control. My cards are all at home. I didn’t even bring my phone.”

Mitch didn’t know how to navigate the situation. The walls were closing in and his head was pounding like a jackhammer. Fuck the check. If Trina didn’t have her cards, how the hell were they going to get back home? His forehead was caked in sweat. He thought about grabbing his wife’s hand and running for it, but in his current state, he knew he wouldn’t get very far before collapsing. Besides, they didn’t know the neighbourhood, and Trina was wearing heels.

He waved the waitress over. “Miss, umm … I …”

“Don’t call me miss,” she interrupted.

He gulped nervously. “Sorry … uhh … but … I need to explain … I seem to have lost my wallet.”

The waitress sighed before exploding. “Now you listen to me, you piece o’ shit. You wealthy fuckin’ small dick whitebois think you can come up here to Harlem, eat our food, foul our bathrooms and then pretend you can’t pay. Like, seriously, fuck that shit.” The room had fallen quiet, all conversation had ceased. “We’ seen your kind before. And truss me, bitch, you gon’ pay.” She waved her arm, and within seconds, two muscled, powerful, gym-fit African-American gentlemen towered over Mitch.

Shakedown.

Mitch looked up. “What seems to be the problem?” he stammered. There was genuine fear in his eyes.

“You enjoy your meal, whiteboi?”

“I’ve lost my wallet … the meal was … please don’t hurt me.”

The gentlemen shared a knowing glance and a wry smile.

“We ain’t gonna hurt you, whiteboi, we just gon’ ask you some questions. Come out back.”

Mitch wobbled on his feet as he stood to follow them. Trina wasn’t sure what to do. She was about to stand to follow her husband, but the waitress brought another cocktail over to her. “On the house, ma’am,” she smiled. “Wait here. They won’t be long.”