Alone with Memories for Christmas

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Reminiscing on Christmas, a lonely black man remembers better times in his life.

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Michael's favorite thing to do, while masturbating, was to remember a few select white women from his past. Recalling the white women that he had sexual relations with always made him excited. Where some men may have one or two favorite females to remember naked, having fucked, sucked, and licked himself and his partner to orgasmic pleasure through the alphabet several dozen times, Michael had hundreds of women to recall. Even having sex with the rarer lettered names, such as, Olga, Olive, Olivia, Uma, Ursula, Veronica, Victoria, Yvonne, Yolanda, Zelda, and Zoe, Michael had hundreds of favorite women from which to choose to remember, that is, all except for a woman whose name began with the letter X. The only letter of the alphabet that eluded him, he never met and had sex with a woman who's name began with the letter X.

"If only I could find and have sex with a woman with a name that began with X, my life would be complete," he said with a laugh. "I'd die a happy man."

Now, with the passing of years, no longer sexually active, in the way he once was, what he was once able to recall in great detail of all the women that he had sexual intercourse with, pleasured with cunnilingus, and received fellatio from faded. Instead of remembering the women in whole, he was left with naked flashes and incomplete and infrequent snippets of sexual activity that included a breast here, a naked ass there, or remembrances of a shaved, trimmed, or bushy pussy. With their names no longer matching their faces, playing out as just one big sexual orgy of naked body parts that more resembled a modern art painting than his sexual reality, his memories merged, morphed, and compacted together as if one. Entwined, in the way that their naked bodies once did, with his long, black arms and strong, muscular legs wrapped around some beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman, there were so many women in his sexual past that he could no longer remember their names.

"Doesn't seem worth banging them, if I can't remember them," he said unable to recall what he needed to remember to get him off, while masturbating. "Oreo, Oreo, Oreo," he repeated the word over and again, while trying stroking himself to maintain his erection long enough to cum.

A term used to slam those uppity niggers, who tried to live in a white man's world, to others, Oreo was the hard shelled cookie with the soft, white, creamy center. Indeed, Oreo best described what he remembered of his dalliances and the word he now used to jog his memory to remember. If he was to pick a name, one word, to best describe him, when having sex with a white woman, Oreo was his word.

When thinking about his interracial sexual affairs, surrounding her so completely with his big, black, beautiful body, the handsome, African American Knight that finally gets the beautiful, blonde Princess, it pained him that he could no longer put their names with their faces. Their names, their names, what were their names? Now that he was older, if only he could remember their names, reliving his sexual realities that he had back then, as his renewed sexual fantasies now, would make his masturbation sessions so much more heated and so much more pleasurable.

Still, when he finally remembered some women, when he was able to put their names with their faces, the thing that turned him on, when having sex with them, akin to the cookie, Oreo, was the shocking, albeit exciting, color contrast of their skins. In the way of white piano keys, against a shiny, black Grand piano, in the way of a black tuxedo, with top hat and tails, against the shocking contrast of the required starched, white shirt, the women were all so white and he was so very black. As if they were snow, white Lilies, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, they were always so pale, nearly translucent, and he was as black as the shoe polish he used to shine customers' shoes, when he was a shoeshine boy in his youth. Shoes, played an important part in his life, especially women's shoes. High heels were in his blood and he ended up owning a retail chain of more than a hundred shoe stores that were found in the better neighborhoods of Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey.

Never satisfied having sex with just one woman or several women in the course of a year, he couldn't stop having sex with different women. If he could have had sex with a different beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman every day of his life, he would have and in the way that he went through women, he nearly did. Forever trying to replicate those beautiful, blonde, busty, white women that he never had a chance to meet and to bed, always looking to find his Marilyn Monroe, Mamie Van Doran, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Morgan Fairchild, Elizabeth Montgomery, Farah Fawcett, Cheryl Ladd, Christie Brinkley, Cybill Sheperd, and Loni Anderson, there was always a new blonde starlet or model to take her place.

Truth be told, the accidental and/or intentional up skirts of bikini panties or naked pussies and the fortunate and exciting down blouse views of bras, breasts, areolas, and nipples, from helping customers try on his shoes, were how he met his ex-wives and how he met most of the women with whom he had sexual affairs. Having bedded so many women, too many women to remember, he required a system to keep track of the women he bedded. He kept track of the women he bedded with their names and the date of their sexual encounter by the shoes that he gave them; the better quality the woman, the better quality the shoes that he gave her.

His generosity of free shoes was all recorded in his inventory that he erroneously marked as shrinkage, a description that should have been noted more descriptively as engorgement. By the price of the shoes they bought, all the customers he served, whether at his store or in bed at a hotel, had money. Just as the women didn't want their white, rich, boring and inattentive husbands to know that they had sex with a big, beautiful and exciting black man, Michael didn't want his wife, at the time, to know about all the extramarital affairs he was having. With both parties wanting to keep their sexual affairs discreet, as if a boy locked in a candy store, Michael was given free rein to sample all the merchandise without ever needing to buy any of it, that is, other than when he met and married his two ex-wives.

No longer able to blame his memory loss on his drinking, his forgetfulness troubled him. Michael wasn't much of a drinker now as he was in his younger days. A proud, black man, that some have called an uppity nigger, even though he once did more than his share of drinking, as did most everyone else in their youth, and even though he could imbibe now, as he wasn't an alcoholic, he hasn't had a drink in years. Yet, as much as he drank back then, a direct result of his drinking, Michael had a talent for sniffing out blonde, available, and willing pussy. Even though he took some guff from the black women in the neighborhood, who heard the rumors for his preference to race, he preferred white women to black women.

His taste for alcohol coincided with his lust for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Drinking and carousing, one was never without the other. Now that he was older, no longer able to enjoy a long, wild night of drinking and fucking, he couldn't drink and/or carouse in the way he used to do. Now, that he was older, all that he had to fuel his passion, when his hand was stroking his cock, were his fading memories of all the beautiful women he bedded. With his cheating days behind him, so wasn't his drunken binges. To be honest, except for the occasional setback, he doesn't miss those days of excess white wine and naked, white roses.

Busy with his business and with raising a family, he lost his taste for the buzz received when drinking too much and the guilt that burdened him, when cheating. Deciding to be an attentive husband and a better father, before deciding to go cold turkey with booze and women, he limited himself to having one drink after work to relax from his day, that is, before he stopped drinking completely, around the same time that he stopped his philandering. Sober and faithful for some years, but now drinking again, more than he had a taste for alcohol, he had the need for the numbness that the alcohol provided. Having come full circle, only more than the satisfaction of being a faithful husband, he had the need for the excitement he felt by being serviced by an anonymous beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman.

"Say, what's your name, baby?"

A good looking man, so long as he bought the drinks and paid for the room, when not peeking beneath the skirts and peering down the blouses of women he serviced in his shoe store, he didn't need much more of an introduction at a private club than that to go from standing upright in a bar to lying down naked in bed.

As if a baby given a bottle, when sucking on big, white breasts with pink nipples, instead of nursing on coffee colored breasts with black nipples, just as the excitement of having sex with an anonymous, white women gave him, the alcohol calmed him. Whenever he was high and sexually aroused, the pensive relaxation he had from drinking conflicted with the excess excitement he received from having sex. Yet, the two tied so tightly together that they not only kept him balanced but also gave him the insight he needed to see the ramifications of his life more clearly. His diversion of being high and sexually excited, that preferred, albeit temporary altered state was his place on the mountaintop. Being high and sexually excited was where he needed to be to forget the past and to help him heal in the future.

With all the folderol happening in the political arena, much of it instigated by the press looking for a story, the opposing political party needing him to lose, and lawyers wanting to make a fast buck, he couldn't help but compare his prior life to the recent political setbacks of Herman Cain. If one woman coming forward wasn't enough, two more came forward with charges of unwanted sexual harassment and now a fourth claiming that she had a 13 year sexual relationship with the presidential candidate. Where there's smoke there's fire and, of course, he believed the charges of the women. If he compared himself to Herman Cain, then he knew that Herman was guilty of cheating on his wife, in the way that he had cheated on his ex-wives. Just as he always had, Herman had a thing for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Only, Herman's mistake was running for public office. Herman's mistake was running for the presidency of the United States. Herman's mistake was being a black man in a white world.

Call it sexual harassment, but Herman's mistake was in thinking that a black man can have sex with white women without being put on trial. Even when denying everything, calling everyone a liar, and playing the happily married for 43-years card, in the end, he was just another black man being discriminated against. Not willing to tow the line, Herman's mistakes were his arrogance in flaunting his sexual escapades in everyone's face and in not thinking that his prior dalliances weren't fodder for public digestion and inspection, once throwing his hat in the political ring and running for public office. All the press needed was to find the smoke to see the fire, before destroying his hopes of becoming the next President of the United States ablaze.

If this was the good, old days, those vigilante white men, who now hide their KKK robes in the closet, instead of wearing them at night, would have already lynched Herman. Under the penalties of a horrible death, if this was the good, old days, Herman never would have dared date a white woman. If this was the good, old days, Herman's body would have been found in the woods, after being dragged down the road behind a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on its back window. With racism changing with the times, instead of being crucified on some back, country road, he was crucified on national TV. Some things never change and racism is alive and well in America.

Michael wondered how many blonde, beautiful, busty, white woman would step out of the shadows to embarrass him, if he was ever to run for political office. An entire stage full, certainly, with all the white women he's had the pleasure to satisfy, no doubt, he had many more Caucasian skeletons in his closet than did Mr. Cain. He's had sex with a few hundred white women, while he was married and pretending to be a faithful, loving husband.

With one drink leading to another and another, one drink was no longer enough to quiet his mind from thinking of yesterday and from remembering his memories with sadness, instead of with contentment. With the holidays always the worst times of the year for him, instead of the best times, one drink wasn't enough to numb the pain of being so alone and lonely on Thanksgiving and now on Christmas. After all his family and friends abandoned him to his bad self, he couldn't help but wonder if his drinking and carousing, as well as his subsequent loneliness, had anything to do with him being a black man trying to live and blend in a white society. When one drink was enough and sometimes too much for so long, suddenly, one drink was never enough.

Maybe he was an alcoholic. He didn't know. Maybe he was addicted to sex. He didn't know that either. All he knew was he enjoyed drinking and having sex with white women. Just as he couldn't remember if he just liked to drink or if he had to drink, he didn't know why he was so attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Yet, then, again, who wouldn't be attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women?

Getting caught up in the power that he felt he had over beautiful Caucasian women, maybe fucking white women was his way to get back at white men. He didn't know and it pained him to think about his sexual relationships with white women in that way. Yet, indeed and without doubt, it excited him to see a head of golden hair cascading around his lap, while receiving a blowjob and before filling her mouth with his semen. As simple as that, wanting and needing to control an inferior woman to make him feel superior, was it that simple? Unable to discern one condition from the other, the need to drink and the lust for sex, and unable to stop either one, what did it matter? The catalyst to his nefarious affairs was his drinking and the fact of that matter was that he was drinking again. No doubt, it would only be a matter of time before he found some blonde, beautiful, busty white woman to fulfill his sexual needs.

He remembered that his attraction to white women started when OJ Simpson, his idol, made public his preference to Caucasian women known by dating dozens, before marrying one. Just as it was with many black athletes, OJ only dated white women, before marrying Nicole Brown. She was so blonde. She was so beautiful. She was so busty.

It was then that he noticed more black men dating white women, especially blonde, white, beautiful, busty women, than there were black women dating white men. Why? He didn't know. Then, when Tiger Woods married Elin Nordegren, he wondered again why it was that black men so loved white, blonde women? Just as Adam couldn't refuse Eve and resist the temptation of eating the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden, Michael wondered if beautiful, blonde, busty, white women were his forbidden fruit? Consciously or subconsciously following in their footsteps, as evidence to his truth, he recalled some of the famous interracial relationships.

Famed boxer Jack Johnson married three white women. Sammy Davis, Jr. had a long relationship with May Britt. Seal married Heidi Klum and actor Cuba Gooding, Jr. has been happily married to a white woman, since 1994. Then, there's Sidney Poitier married to the same white woman for 35 years. Hell, even the President's father, Barrack Obama, Sr., married a white woman, when he married Ann Dunham in 1948. Even though it's more accepted today than it was forty years ago, there's just something so dangerously exciting about a black man having sex with a white woman, an excitement that he doesn't feel when having sex with a black woman.

Without the sex to combat the alcohol to balance out his mood and with the alcohol acting as a depressant, as if it was a fog slowly settling in around him, the liquor invited a sadness that altered his disposition, before a deep melancholy took hold of him. Even though that first drink relaxed him and the second drink made him feel good, one, even two drinks were never enough to make him forget, and there was so much he needed to forget. Already depressed, the alcohol caused him even more depression, yet, even without having sex with white women, there was still a method to his madness.

Instead of creating a bitterness that would eventually burn into self-destructive rage and self-destructive behavior, working in the way that years of therapy would but, in conjunction with his depression to limit it, the alcohol served as a magic elixir that gave him the insight to help him understand why his life had turned out the way it had. Now, finally, acknowledging all the things he did wrong in his failed relationships with his ex-wives, his children, his family, and his friends, the lost promise of what could have been happier days now plagued him with remorse and sorrow. Too late to fix all that was wrong with his life, already too tragically and irreversibly ruined, it wasn't until years after his relationships had ended that he accepted the full responsibility for their failures.

"It was all my fault and I'm sorry," he said for no one to hear. "I'm so sorry," he said for no one to care. "Please forgive me," he said hanging his head in shame and being so seriously sincere.

He looked around his small room, as if the room was his prison cell, but he wasn't incarcerated. He wasn't even held against his will. He was free to come and go as he pleased, but with nowhere he wanted to be, he remained sequestered. With no one to go anywhere with anyway and tired of going everywhere alone, he may as well remain isolated in his room. As if ostracized and abandoned by all of society, with sadness and sorrow his best friends, he preferred reveling in his self-pity.

But for one, dim light that lit up the photograph album he balanced in his lap, as if holding all the memories of his life in his shaking hands, his room was as dark as his mood. He didn't need the light to see all that was wrong with him and with his life. With the sudden insight that illuminated his mind, he already knew what was wrong and it was nothing that he could fix, even with the brightest light. Besides, having grown to prefer the darkness to the light, the darkness was his only way to confront his demons. The dark is when the demons all came out to haunt his dreams and interrupt his sleep. The darkness is what he used to hide his pain.

As if a vampire needing to hide himself in the dark, turning on a brighter light was as if turning on the sun and, so troubled by the memories of yesterday, he couldn't face the brightness of another day that reminded him of yesterday. Shinning a concentrated spotlight, this little light was all that he needed to illuminate his reality. Unfortunately, the little light made his mood even worse by adding a ghostly ambience, albeit an appropriate but spooky feel to the room. Encouraged by his imagination, no doubt, the light cast reflective glimmers in the shape of familiar, albeit imagined faces on his walls that added to his melancholy. The reflection of the little light that lit up his lap so brightly, also cast shadows on the wall that appeared to him as ghosts from the past to haunt him and to remind him of his misdeeds.