As always folks, there's some truth here and some embellished truth. It's up to you to decide. – FL
Many nights I sit up and read stories like the ones on this board, and I read many with fascination, trying to decipher the truth from the embellished. Numerous stories seemed like fantastic fiction – like something seen on an Andrew Blake classic.
In 30 years, I have dated black, white, Bolivian, Taiwanese, German, Laotian and a Papago Indian. I never had an experience similar to the ones on this site. I'm certainly not a prude. Outdoor sex, exhibitionism, teasing and voyeurism were and still are a normal part of my sex life.
A few years back, a life-long friend wanted me to add a new dimension to that sex life, and I couldn't do it.
I've known Drew since the seventh grade, and he's more like a brother than a friend. We've been through a lot in 20-plus years. A couple high school girlfriends used to call us Brown Sugar and Chocolate.
I thought I knew everything about Drew.
We went dancing one night, Drew, his wife Malia, who for the purpose of this story is multiracial and me. It was just like any of the other thousands nights we hit the clubs. This particular night we went to the Boom Boom Room. (Johnny Lee Hooker's (God rest his soul) club in San Francisco) The band played some sweet blues, both fast and slow numbers.
While dancing with Malia, I turned and bumped into a woman I'm training. I have personal training business. Cheryl looked sweet wearing one of those flesh-colored skirts with the transparent black material covering it.
I complimented her and joked about how my hard work was making her body more beautiful. She introduced me to her two girlfriends. I introduced Malia. I didn't know where Drew scampered at that point. Malia complimented Cheryl, too. Then Malia twirled and said her body was a product of my training. None of the women believed her, so she whipped out a crusty old picture she always carries.
Malia is 5 feet 7 inches, but in the picture, she says she was well over 220 pounds. She is never without that damn picture. Drew says she even puts it by the bed when she sleeps. She says picture is better than any diet pill because she never wants to look that way again.
I don't know how much she weighs now, don't really care, but she has a spectacular body. Her and Drew run, bike, hike, play basketball and do all the stuff she couldn't do four years ago.
Anyway, we meet up with Drew and have a great night. Two guys and five women having great conversation and dancing to some sweet blues, it couldn't get any better.
Cheryl was getting touchy on the dance floor. I passed it off on the alcohol and the mood of the moment. However, it was great seeing this side of her. She's all determination and business when we work out. But by the end of the night, she made it very clear that she was determined to get in my bedroom business. And that would've been fine, but she was a client, and I didn't want the possible headaches.
Drew and Malia saw everything and were telling me not to be so damned high and mighty.
"Go on and have some fun," they both laughed.
And Cheryl, feeling very good at this point, added something corny, along the lines of: "I'll give you the aerobic workout of your life."
The band started playing Stormy Monday, one of my favorite blues joints. I wanted to dance. But Cheryl was a bit too drunk to stand. She said she'd rather watch me anyway. I asked Malia, but she and Drew were playing grab ass under the table. Cheryl's friends (I don't remember their names) jumped up and I followed them to the small dance floor.
If you've never heard Stormy Monday, done well, it's a thrillingly slow tune with lyrics that make the mind soar. This was the first time I've heard it played with a saxophone, and that woman blew her ass off.
Candy Dulfer could not have sounded better.
By the time the lead singer hit the note "...the eagle flies on Friday..." the two women and I were in a reverse Oreo, and we were so close, so tight with hands roaming over butts, faces, sides, legs and stomachs that we'd drawn attention. The song is normally five minutes, but the band got into us, too. They stretched it to what seemed like ten minutes or more.
When we finished the people around us clapped. Drew and Malia were giving me this devilish look. They know I like to tease women with sexy dance (at least I try to) and they thought I was doing it then. That was far from the truth. I'm glad I wear baggy clothes because my dick was painfully hard.
I gingerly walked back to the table. Cheryl's friends said they had to go, and everybody looked at me.
I was like, "What?" And Cheryl asked me for a ride home. After a couple moments, I said O.K. Her friends smiled, kissed her on the cheek and were gone. Cheryl excused herself to go the bathroom.
While she was gone, Drew said I outdid myself on the floor that time. I told him that I hadn't because I was excited as I've ever been. I told him my dick was still hard and was hurting. It had been five minutes since I stopped dancing and the thing wouldn't go down.
He laughed at me as if I was joking. So I stood up and pulled my shirt up. Drew and Malia saw my tented pants. Both just gasped, shook their heads and laughed even harder.
Cheryl came back a few minutes later. I was still hard at that point. Instead of sitting in her seat, she plopped in my lap.
Surprise.
Surprise.
Surprise.
Cheryl lurched a little. Drew and Malia laughed even more. Then Cheryl reached under her butt and grabbed my dick. She rubbed it a couple times, and my already resistance was fading fast.
While she's rubbing it, she says, "I've never done it with a black man."
I froze and said, "What?"
She looked me in the eye and said, "I've got to sex it with a black man."
Never has a mood changed so rapidly. The dick I couldn't get to go soft, got "limpier" than a soggy noodle. I easily move her off me. Drew and Malia noticed I wasn't happy anymore.
"You only wanted to have sex with me because I'm black?" I asked.
She stuttered and quite soberly stumbled over several incoherent sentences.
"I, ahh, I well, I've thought ... ahh ...," Cheryl couldn't get it out.
I sat there shaking my head, wondering if what I thought were actually true. By that time, it didn't really matter what I thought. The mood was history, and my emotions were carrying me.
I didn't get loud, didn't yell, and didn't curse. I was seriously stunned. I went to the bathroom. A minute later Drew came in
"Cheryl asked us to take her home," he said. "The girls are getting their shit together now. I'll hit you up tomorrow. You go home and take it easy. Do those stress relieving pushups you always tell me about. Peace."
"Yeah, see you tomorrow," I said.
After getting an apology together, I went to the table only to find them gone. I felt even worse then. I'd created some ill feelings and then didn't get the chance to apologize. It was a long, introspective ride home.
I knew why I'd reacted like that. I didn't want to be a trophy, a notch on some woman's belt. Cheryl didn't have to love me, just respect me. And I didn't think wanting me because my skin is darker than hers was a sign of respect.
To say I felt bad would be an understatement. Thinking about how she must've felt made me feel even worse.
Drew and Malia came over the next day. They landed tickets to the Giants – Mets game. It was a sport so I went without hesitating. Along the way, they told me about their ride to Cheryl's house. They said she cried to whole way. She called herself names, saying how stupid she was and a myriad of other things.
I told them they weren't helping my mood. But they kept on.
They said she asked about thirty times, "Why'd I have to call him a black guy? Why'd I have to call him a black guy?"
Drew says he stopped her by saying, "Maybe, Cheryl because he's black!"
She responded by saying she could've used sexy, nice, funny, smart, big, athletic, intelligent anything but black. She thought it was talking dirty that it would turn me on even more.
I told them about my drive home and explained my feelings to them.
Throughout the game, which the Giants won, they asked me a ton of "what if" questions.
"What if she did think talking like that turned you on?" Malia said. "What if she genuinely cares for you, but was too afraid to say it? What if she knew you longer? What if she was friend and a lover? What if you're missing the best experience of your life?"
"Yo, M, you're making way too much out of someone you just met the night before," I said.
"At any rate, you should call her."
I didn't do it right away because I couldn't think of what to say. However, after missing three scheduled appointments, I had an excuse. I left messages about the missed appointments every day for a week.
Finally, she came into my place with this tired and worn appearance.
She looked at me with these droopy eyes and slouched stature, "I've gained nine pounds in two weeks," she said.
We both busted out laughing and everything appeared normal. We talked for a few hours and yes, everything was fine. We even set up a date to go to Lou's, a Blues Bar by the Wharf (Fisherman's Wharf). We had a blast there and ended up at my place with Drew and Malia.
We had the incense going and the four of us sat my hot tub talking about everything from Drew's smelly feet to the "blackness" of Bill Clinton. All the while plenty of touchy-feely went on below the bubbles.
"You guys know what I'm going to do?" Cheryl said, and added the overt sexuality to the conversation. "I'm going to take the nice dick I have in my hand. I'm going to sit on it and ride it until I cum. Now you can stay and watch me or you can go in the other room."
We all laughed because we thought the drink was talking again.
But it wasn't.
She stood, pulled off the shorts I lent her, turn and straddled me. I glanced at Drew and Malia and they were in a trance. Cheryl slowly lowered her body in the water she lined her pussy with my dick and as she slid down she stared at me.
