It's All Pink in the Middle
"It's ok stud," my friend says to me, grinning and pointing at me with the neck of his beer bottle. "Doesn't matter what color she is, it's all pink in the middle."
What's that supposed to mean? I feel embarrassed and defensive by that statement for some reason. Gay men can be so blunt sometimes, but that's why I was friends with Kurt--he was funny as hell but always truthful and he slings it like hash, serving it up with a steaming side of sarcasm. We have a strange friendship where we use one another as sounding boards for our sexual experiences. He is a cool coworker that gives honest criticism about my Hetero swinging experiences with married couples, and I in return, his Homo encounters. Strange, but our friendship works.
We are at The Inner-City Bar and Grill, our usual rendezvous for sex debriefing that occurs once or twice a month after work. We multitask, comparing sex notes while we crush club sandwiches with chips and swill way too many beers. We are both buzzed, happy hour is ending, and the light from a setting spring sun bathes half of the bar that faces the front city street windows in golden amber warmth. The bar is beginning to fill up with dinner patrons, so our conversation will have to be low-key less someone overhears us. I am trying to explain to Kurt about the other night. I was at the Swinger's Club and a black couple approached me. I am flustered over the experience; they are trying to hook up with me and I am oblivious to all of their cues. We all had a nice, long, friendly conversation at the bar. The lady did flirt a little, but nothing overly blatant. They never came right out and invited me...
"I thought they were just being friendly and making conversation," I say weakly. "I didn't think for a moment they were interested."
"You mean you didn't think for a moment that they might be interested in a white guy--
you
."
"Yeah."
"Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is the first case of self-inflicted racism. You assumed."
"And you know what to assume something does..."
"...It makes an
ASS
out of
U
and
ME
." We both say in unison and laugh.
Yet this continues to bother me for days and over time I realize that there really was a certain truth to it. Am I prejudiced against other races, to the point of not even picking up on their attempts to flirt with me? Did I assume they would not find me attractive? I thought hard about this and suddenly realize that I have never tried interracial sex--so how does one know if one hasn't tried it?
No, I decided. It's a preference. Your dick likes what it likes, I reason. I usually find white and Hispanic/Latino women gorgeous, then Asian women. I just don't find many African American women all that attractive. But every now and then I did find one, and she was usually a stunner. Oh God, I am ranking women by culture! Am I racist? Did I let preconceptions override my actions toward them? I go back and forth, trying to remember what the lady from that night looked like and I cannot completely recall her face or figure. I remember her husband, Rex, but the rest is a total fog. I decide the next time an opportunity presents itself; it would be time for me to find out.
Months go by and I forget all about the encounter. It has been a long Summer, and I now have a lady friend that I have been dating for weeks. Romance is its own drug, and I am an addict. Sex is no longer that important, and only so with her. I am like a light switch that way. I am either on or off: not swinging when I date seriously and swinging when otherwise. It has been weeks since I looked at my online profile or emails, let alone gone to the Club. The interest is not there. I am focused because she is my world.
My world goes Armageddon and destroys itself when she suddenly drops a bomb on me: she has a hell of a new job offer and she's moving. Far away. No way I can come; no job there even closely compares to what I have here. Let's make the long-distance work, she urges. No, I counter. Been there. Done that. My closet has a few of those T-shirts and I am not interested. Try, she pleads.
So, we give it a try. You know what happens...
Weeks later and it is a Friday night, and I am back at the Swingers Club. I sit at the bar, heavily into my drink and I am thinking of her. The music volume is starting to rise and there is an influx of people coming in. Sexy black dresses and suits are everywhere. People are starting to hook up and go to the back to get rooms to play in. I probably shouldn't be here, but the switch flicked on, so it's time to move on. I checked my online profile earlier and saw a few interesting looks and flirts. Meh. I make myself come here anyway, for the 'social' aspect of it. It's Friday night and I need to be out. But crying in my drink?
Between drinks and out of sheer boredom, I check my profile on my phone app and there they are: Rex and Camella, the black couple who talked to me earlier in the Summer. They have looked at my profile and flirted with me. What's up? Says the message they have sent.
I like them back, flirt, and reply: looking to seriously talk with you again. Lame, I know. But I want to be classy and show sincere interest without coming on too strong. Better to lead them with a trail of breadcrumbs.
A drink slides in front of me.
"Hey, man."
I look up and there they are. Rex is in a black suit with a black dress shirt and tie. Camella is standing beside him. She had somehow managed to slide herself into a slinky black cocktail dress, gold earrings, and long, full hair that drapes down on her shoulders. Nice.
"Thank you for the drink," I take a sip. "That was fast. Please, grab a seat."
"We were right over there," Rex points over past the tables to the lounge area with couches. "We had just spotted you when I got your email, so we came right over."
"Let's all go back and grab the couch. More comfortable that way." Camella chimes in, wide-eyed and smiling. I nod while getting out of my chair and follow them back to the leather couches.
We all make ourselves comfortable on the couch, Rex, then Camella, followed by me. We each turned sideways to face the other, chatting it up. She's telling me all about the swinger club and the who's who list of people she knows that attend. I am nodding and listening, trying to hang on to her every word and asking the occasional question to let her know she has my complete attention. Another two couples are having a conversation on the couch across from us, the husbands bookend the couch with the two wives in the middle. We all look across to each other now and then, smiling and knowing the full math of the situation.
Rex excuses himself to get us some more drinks, Camella talks, occasionally touching my arm, brushing my leg, or shoulder. Subtle and brief touches, almost not noticed as I am really trying to concentrate and focus on nothing else in this club but her. She keeps looking at the other people across from us, and I know she's looking to see if we are being watched. We are. I glance over and see the two wives kissing and making out while their husbands talk to each other while watching.
Then Camella suddenly makes her move, leaning in without warning and forcefully begins to kiss me. Her tongue is forcing itself into my mouth. I am caught unaware, and I am startled and pull my face back.
"You don't like that, do you?"
I am suddenly embarrassed. My first black girl kiss and I fuck it up. But deeper than the embarrassment a small ember has been lit aflame in a furnace deep within me. I glance back to the other couch where the husbands have now traded ends of the couch, so each is now seated next to the other's wife. Only in a swinger's club...
"No...I do," I mumble, trying to recover my fumble. "I just didn't see you coming with that. Some couples have rules involving kissing. I was asked to leave one time when a lady and I kissed."
"Oh, there's a story there! You are gonna have to tell us about that! Camella does come on strong," Rex laughs loudly. He had just returned with the drinks and was watching us with intensity. "She sees something she wants, and she just takes it."
She laughs as well but smiles at me the entire time. She then leans in again and forcefully locks her lips to mine. This time I kissed back. Her lips are soft and inviting. Her tongue is once again forcing its way into my mouth, probing me, searching. It finds what it is looking for and its wetness envelops around my tongue, and we are coiled onto each other. I once encountered two snakes entwined together in combat when on a walk in the woods. Or were they mating? This visual plays over and over as she deeply and passionately French kisses me in front of Rex. Her hands are roaming on my chest...then down to my legs as she kisses my neck.
She strokes my thigh. Back and forth. Up and down. Music is now playing loudly, and conversations are going on all around us. The husbands are now passionately making out with each other's wives on the couch across from us. One of them stops to watch us for a moment while Camella's hand finds the outline of my penis through my slacks and slowly caresses it; then he picks right back up where he left off with her.
Aggressive in public. I kind of like it. Nice to be the one being pursued for once. I go back to kissing her as my hand cups her breast through her dress and I give it a firm, friendly hello squeeze before it slips inside her dress and gets better acquainted with her naked flesh. Her breast is firm and warm, her nipple an erect mountain in the palm of my hand. She moans in my mouth as I stroke and squeeze her. I moan back. I have no idea of what Rex is doing and I could care less. Probably watching and I welcome the audience.
Two can play this game, I muse, and I free my hand from her breast and slide it down her dress to her waist and over the legs. Our tongues continue their wet dance with one another, and she strokes my semi-firm bulge. I slowly trace the outline of her leg over her skirt until it reaches her naked knee. While she is stroking me, I slide my hand up her skirt. The palm of my hand samples and strokes her exquisite naked thigh and I travel all the way up it to her groin. Camella's breathing is getting heavy, but so is mine.
I stop short outside of her honeypot and concentrate on her upper inner thigh, massaging it with my fingertips, alternating with pressing firmly with the palm of my hand. I convey gentleness and sensitivity, but firm, masculine control at the same time. I keep to her thigh and go no further. She doesn't get to have that. She senses this is the plan and she gasps. She wants more from my hand.
