I am in my second marriage with both of us nearing fifty life and love start taking on new dimensions, blossoming out into things, hopes and desires that once would have seemed taboo, forbidden, even sinful. The two of us are very open in discussing sex, fantasies and our desires. However, with my wife in menopause, many nights find me downstairs on the computer looking at porn and remembering the good old days, or creating fantasies that maybe one day will come true, with or without my wife involved in some of them.
Many of those fantasies revolve around sharing a black man with my wife...not sharing her, but us sharing a very well endowed black man. Now, suppose there are several reasons for this, but two reasons shape my desires in this area more than any others. The first is the very real reality that before my wife and I met she had been dating a black man. We have discussed this at length, and the topic a few times has even made its way into our love making chat. Hearing her tell the tale excites me every time, and I know that sinful, lusting part of her adored her times with him. She readily admits that the whole thing was a very big turn on to her, and she loved the contrasts between them when they had sex. The idea of her/us making love to a well hung black man truly excites me.
Her former boyfriend though black did not fit the stereotype of the "hung like a horse" black man, so the desire of a hung black man takes me to reason number two, which would be my own experiences with black men almost 30 years ago now.
One has to go back some 30 years to the 70's out in San Francisco during a very turbulent time in the city's history. The hippies had pretty well left or sold out to what would become the yuppies of the Reagan driven decade of the 80's, the gays were reclaiming Height Ashbury, and Danny White's successful Twinkie defense and the verdict of not guilty had seen a night of rioting not seen since the race riots of the mid 60's.
With various stops along the way I had hitch hiked cross country in a search to find that inner me. Head WEST young man, and I have a dream, ask not what the country can do for you, but what can you do for your country, hey brother can you spare a dime, and don't ask me I don't give a damn, next stop is Vietnam...no wait a minute, that's right, we had lost that war, there was an all volunteer military (or the start of one) both Kennedy's were dead along with Martin Luther King, and Nixon had vacated the premises.
A few days after reaching San Francisco, and visiting some of those places of my dreams such as the Haight Ashbury District and Winterland I settled in to look for a job as money was getting tight and rent on the room I'd taken just off of Polk Street was only paid through another week. The search was short and I took a job as a bike messenger and started making plans for staying there awhile.
Nights found me out till the wee hours of the morning as I explored the dark night side of this very magical city by the bay. You could still easily buy a joint in any bar, there were a few hidden clusters of hippies hiding out here and there, and now and then some of that free love we had all heard about back in our high school days was still to be found.
My room had been exchanged for a one bedroom apartment with my first check, and I was now just off of the corner at Polk and Ellison Street at the very beginning of the Tenderloin and had met a small petite strawberry blond that I saw two or three evenings a week. Money was tight, but I'd found I could always get a few drinks at the numerous gay bars on Polk Street, and on the weekends it was easy to hustle a few hundred dollars shooting pool in some of the rougher gay bars about six blocks from my place. It was in one of these bars while shooting pool that I met the man who would shape my desires and needs for a well hung black gentleman.
It was a Friday and I'd gotten off work early because of the rain and taking advantage of this early start to the weekend I'd gone down to my favorite bar to hustle money in and put my quarters on the table. My new found girlfriend had said she had to work that night, so I was free to do whatever I wanted. Feeling in a good mood I ordered myself a drink from the bar to celebrate my good fortune and waited for my turn to come up.
That first game I hung in close but missed a shot at the eight and the other player came back to win...I gave him his five bucks and went back to the bar after tossing down another set of quarters. It was raining and the bar was getting crowded early which boded well for my plans. I downed my drink, ordered and another and then went to play my second game, this time for a ten spot and a drink from the bar. It was close, my opponent could smell a win but after he missed a bank shot to set him up for the eight I ran the table and said, " I'll have a Jack and Coke, and Oh, can I have my ten."
My next opponent was Jack, a tall older black man who said he never played for money, but he'd buy me a drink if I won. He was from England, educated at Harvard, his mother from Scotland and his father from Jamaica, a tall dark island man. He was in short, interesting...a disarming smile that seemed to appear at the strangest of times, a proper English accent with a touch of the island thrown in. Old faded blue jeans, a pressed burgundy button down shirt with bare feet in sandals. I'd never have picked him to be an attorney though his business card bore witness to the profession he was in. I won, he put a new set of quarters down and went to the bar to get me a drink.
A few hours passed by, I was feeling good and winning every game. Every fifth or sixth game there was Jack and we'd shoot pool and chat, I'd say play for drink and he'd say no you've had enough but I'll buy you a coke. I'd quit drinking after four, and though feeling a buzz I was far from being drunk.
At around midnight I decided it was time to call it a night, so told everyone I'd play one more game and that's when Jack stepped in, his rich English accent tinged with a touch of the island capturing every ones attention, "He's done all, say good night boy." putting his arm around my shoulder he said in almost a command, "Come on, let me buy you a drink."
At the bar I looked at him perplexed and he smiled that smile of his as that lilting voice said, "You have not lost since your first game, and some of these men are a bit pissed at you. Let me walk you home, or at least down a few blocks to make sure you are safe. They will not bother you if they think you are with me."
Hey, I've been in bars when a pool game started a fight, and I was not interested in one tonight. Hesitant, questioning, I asked him, "You sure about that Jack?"
His voice was almost a whisper, taunting, yet teasing all at the same time, "Sure am, trust me!"
It was odd, but for some reason as he smiled down at me, I did trust him and was surprised to hear my own quiet, acquiescing voice say, "Sure, let's get out of this place."
Again I heard that formal English voice tinged with the dark mystery of the islands as he asked, "In which direction are you?" I pointed down the street towards city hall and heard him say, "Me to, lets go."
We walked, we chatted, his voice lilting, almost hypnotic, "You up for a drink?"
