No More Tears

by Atieno Mzuri

  “Honored.” he smiled. “Delighted to be your first.”

  “Your turn.” I said.

  “My turn to do what?”

  “Oh don't be coy. You ever dated a black girl?”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I don't want you experimenting with me. I heard that it is the white man's sport to go with at least one black girl during their lifetimes. Something about having a go at the slave.”

  “That's so screwed up. Where did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Read it on an online journal.”

  “Tell me more about it.”

  “The theory was that white males like to dominate. But they are unable to dominate fellow white women because they have been emancipated for so long and know their rights. They know exactly what they want. And white men can't stand that. But black girls don't know their rights so much. And they don't have so much self-esteem. So the white men take advantage.”

  “That's the most cock-eyed bullshit theory I ever heard. Look at me do I look weak in any way to you?”

  I looked up and admired the man seated opposite me. Green eyes, blonde yellowish hair cut to hang to slightly below his ears. Good nose, chin that was not too strong. Lips that were not too thin. Not the regular lips I had seen on so many white guys.

  “No you don't.” I murmured. “You are definitely not weak.”

  I looked up at him and continued admiring his ribbed shoulders and arms. He was wearing a white vest. The type that is commonly referred to as the wifebeater vest. I have no idea why it is called that. But I do find it an interesting concept that the vest is called the wife-beater.

  We sit in silence for a while. There is something so companionable about our silence. It is not awkward. We shift from topic to topic like we didn't just meet last week. If I were the romantic type, which I am, I would say that Matt and I will soon find out we are soul mates. Meant to be.

  “You ever had your pussy ate?” he asks.

  I am startled. And the look on my face reflects my bewilderment. He is struggling to hold his laughter. Then he bursts out laughing. A deep laugh that begins in his belly and spreads to his face and makes me join in the laughter.

  “Gotcha.” he says. “You are all so prim and proper. And living in such a shell. I want to crack open that shell and help you crawl out.”

  I am smiling widely. It's gonna be a tough battle for him. I don't know if I want to be drawn out of my shell. It's taken many years to develop this calm serene composure that I carry around. Nobody looking at me would imagine that I have so many problems. Serenity must be maintained at all costs.

  “We are going to turn you into a sexy little vixen.” he says while glancing at my butt as I stand up.

  I smile again. I have smiled so much this afternoon, I think my jaw is going to break. All the attention that this lovely man is paying me has me distracted from what I must do. I am not sure whether I am merely intoxicated by the compliments or I am falling head over heels with this stranger.

  “Once you go black, you don't go back.” he says.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, oh yes.” he says.

  We walk silently to his car. It takes us a while to find it. A red corvette. Very fitting. All the while he keeps glancing at my behind and making lewd faces. Funny enough I don't feel like a sex object as I normally would. He has a distracted clinical way of looking at me.

  “Sugar butt.” he finally says. “That's what we are going to call you. Sugar butt.”

  Chapter Six (Obama is Black) We had been up for many hours. He had made me breakfast and then washed the dishes and put them away, taking care to line them up exactly the way he always did.

  I was sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV screen.

  "Obama is NOT black.” he yelled as he slammed the bathroom door.

  I waited till he came out so we would resume the argument. We had been going at it since dawn and I was determined to have the last word. I am a woman after all.

  "Yeah, duh, everyone knows Obama IS black ."

  Now, Matt, again I have to emphasize was one of the most intelligent guys I have ever met. With a high IQ. And I am one of those women that are easily trapped by high IQs. Brilliance on all levels fascinates me.

  Matt could recite facts and stories and could talk nonstop on all topics under the sun. He had a way with words. The way he weaved ideas was not just intriguing but it drew you in because he had the ability to explain tough stuff and simplify it. Tough stuff like how the American political system worked. The Electoral College. Who were the conservatives and who were the Democrats? And how a typical Republican looked and how you could recognize one just by looking at him. When we went for evening walks, we played the game of identify a Republican. The American flag on the patio definitely belonged to a Republican. An owl on the porch belonged to a Democrat. An annoyed look at us belonged to a Republican. Heck, he even taught me how to recognize a Republican from their drawl. Southern drawl? His ancestors owned slaves. Definitely a Republican.

  And Matt, you know, didn't make you feel foolish while he explained this hard difficult stuff. He was a talker but also gave one time to chip in and ask questions and participate and feel like they were a part of his secret amazing world of knowledge.

  I can't remember how many nights I sat by Matt's feet listening to him. Worshiping at the loins of his knowledge. And wishing he would stop talking and just take me to bed because he was so brilliant and I was so drawn to him and I was so enamored of him and his wit and his intelligence even though he had already confided in me that he only had a bachelor of arts in communication degree and that all the other knowledge and brilliance was self-taught and selfabsorbed.

  “I just have a brain that retains everything I read” he explained as he sat on the couch one evening and whipped out his penis and started masturbating. I watched the rapid up and down movements fascinated, by the long thick dick and how it seemed to have a life of its own. Rising and falling rhythmically.

  “No, just sit over there and watch me.” he said as he rubbed more vigorously. “This really blows my mind.” he said. “It's just the bomb.”

  By this time, my pussy was seriously soaked. He hadn't ejaculated yet. He continued the rapid movements as he talked. Two months we had been dating and we still hadn't done it. Had never had sex. Two months it was running into.

  “You know they calling Obama black? Right? But look at his skin. Does that look like a black skin to you?”

  “Of course it is. He is as black as I am.”

  “Oh no, he is what we would call Caucafrican. That's a new race. If you and I were to have a baby it would definitely be Caucafrican.” he continued as he reached out for the Vaseline. Rubbed some of it onto the sensitive tip of his penis, with gentle motions that I watched eagle-eyed. I was completely fascinated.

  “You know what I like about you?” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “A white woman would never let me get away with masturbating in her presence. But you African women are perfect. You don't like sex that much. So it is a win-win situation for the both of us.”

  “Mmh...” I said. We don't like sex, us African women, he had said. I could have responded to that. But I didn't feel like contradicting him. Because then he would start quoting textbook knowledge of how Africans only copulated to have babies, each baby coming precisely 10 months after the last baby and with the women needing to have sex helpers because they didn't like sex so much and therefore prepared to share the burden.

  I was turned on, I would have to use the dildo afterward. He had bought it for me at the first sex store I had ever been to. AmErotica LLC it was called. I was embarrassed to be walking into that store but he was sensitive enough to offer me his shades. Under the big dark glasses I was shielded from both people and sin. And anyway I figured that I wouldn't run into anybody I knew in the heart of Wisconsin.

  We had deliberately crossed the State line to go buy stuff
in Wisconsin. And before we went, he told me he had to call his brother and tell him that he was crossing the State border and get his permission to use his car. Well, that was how he explained it to me. He couldn't take the car across the border because he wasn't sure if the insurance covered it. So he had to get permission from his brother.

  That's a story for another day. But I will have you know that I felt and thought more highly of him, when he offered to drive more than 50 miles across the State just to get me the dildo. He said he didn't want us to run into anybody who might know me. Well, as I said that was his explanation.

  The shop attendant, a buxom blonde, wearing a red lace lingerie set that showed her in all her glory briskly strutted over to us, slightly stumbling in her almost ten-inch red heels to match.

  “Feel free to ask any questions.” she gushed. “Are you buying anything in particular or do you just want to browse around?”

  “This is her first time.” Matt explained.

  “Oh, a virgin!” she smiled. “Well, in that case I would recommend the All American Whopper Flesh, which comes in pink and a dark brown. Or the Average Joe bartender. That one is shorter and thicker and most of the people of your color, and I certainly don’t mean to be offensive, they just don't like it. You probably want the Whopper. Do let me know what size you want.”

  “Size?” I asked innocently.

  She looked amused.

  “Yes, the inches. The length. You must know the perfect fit for you.”

  Matt sensing my discomfort took over. I did point out to you how sensitive he was, didn't I?

  “You will have to show us some samples and then we will just pick from there. We don't know how many inches we going to need.”

  “Are you going to need some lubrication with that?” she asked.

  I moved away. And let him choose what size Whopper we would need. And what color.

  “We are going to take the pink one.” he firmly decided. Taking charge. That was my soon to be man, Matt.

  But I digress. On this particular day, we were still on the couch. Actually, let me rephrase that. I was on one couch. And he was on the armchair next to the couch. And by this time, I could see that his movements were about to pay off. Then he interrupted the rapid movements and said he would take a short break.

  “I need to smoke something to relax me. Besides it is best to postpone the pleasure. Never have it all at one go. That's my motto. Please close the windows.” he requested.

  I stood up and went and closed all the windows. And put off the lights. We had to do this just right. Transcend into outer space through inhalation. The room was pitch black. The silence was just right. I knew not to say anything at this moment. For to say anything would be to jinx the very procedure that would help us to quickly achieve a psychotic state under which we understood the nature of the world so much better and clearer. Pot by any other name made our reality so much clearer. For him the direct whiffs. And for me the second-hand sloppy whiff.

  In the pitch dark room, he lit the joint that he kept hidden under the sink. And the little apartment was filled with torrid air that stung the nose and eyes a little until one got used to it. Three puffs later he put it out.

  “Everything in moderation.” he said. “One must not be too much of a glutton.” How very brilliant this man was.

  “So, as I was saying, Obama isn't really black you know.”

  “Oh yes, he is.” I insisted. “The way I have been told is that if you have even a tiny amount of black blood, then you are black.”

  “Well, you are entitled to your view. I have heard a lot of bullshit like that from black people but I am telling you right now he is Caucafrican.”

  He slumped down onto the armchair and whipped out his penis from his shorts to continue with his rapid movements. He was working up quite a sweat. His shiny brow glowed and his eyes glowed in his revered state. His mouth was open, drawing in gasps of air like a drowning man. Not that I have seen a drowning man, but I like to imagine if I were drowning, that would be the way I would breath my last.

  But then quite suddenly, he seemed to be losing interest.

  “I think I am a bit tense today. It's gonna take some work.” he said “Honey bunny, do you think you could come and use that sweet little mouth of yours to finish me off?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” I said. “You can put it in me. But I am not putting that thing in my mouth.”

  “That thing? You know you are emasculating me.” he said.

  I looked at him and burst out laughing. He looked perplexed. How could I explain to him that he was emasculating himself by masturbating in front of me instead of taking charge and giving it to me like a real man?

  For a moment he looked hurt and then he recovered swiftly.

  Chapter Seven (That Girl Was Wahala) One month later Matt and I had sex for the first time.

  The next day as we took our evening walk, Matt surprised me by getting on his feet and crying that he couldn’t live without me and that we should get married immediately. I said yes. He was the only man who had ever got down on his knees and proposed to me.

  Having spent my childhood and my teens reading about the most romantic proposals and finally here I was getting one, it was only right to say yes. I would live with Matt for the rest of my life. I would be his best friend and I would look out for him and I would be all woman and there for him.

  It wasn’t so much of a surprise. I could see the proposal coming.

  Matt had been acting all wired up and strung out. He couldn’t get himself off, however hard he squeezed and pulled during his masturbation episodes which were more regular, and he had been pacing around the house and I asked him if there was any way I could help him and he said there was no use, it just wasn’t working out and many many times he asked if I could help by using my mouth and I said no as frequently as he asked and he said we would have to get someone and he said he knew a girl and that’s how the girl came to our little apartment.

  The girl, an African American, Keisha, and him had been friends for many years but she dated his friend and had a baby with him and lived with him.

  So, I said yes, since I am not going to help you out with my mouth, well, you can get someone. As we waited for her to come, I imagined what was going to happen. Would she come dressed in black leather carrying whips and handcuff him to the bed and give him a thrashing?

  When Keisha arrived I was already tipsy, having had some alcohol to help me get with the new experience. But I was surprised to see that she was just a simple girl in her mid-20s wearing a decently long dress and normal heels and had her hair tied back in a ponytail. Americans would call her the girl next door.

  Matt offered her a glass of wine which she gulped down like a pro.

  And then she asked him to take off his clothes and he took them off and lay in all his naked glory on the bed and I sat by the side of the bed as I watched fully clothed Keisha take my man in her mouth and work him rapidly with her fingers and her mouth.

  And he groaned and thrashed around on the bed furiously and screamed all sorts of obscenities and finally came into her mouth and she swallowed and he patted her on her back, got up and strutted across the room and got his wallet and gave her 20 dollars for her cab fare and 20 dollars for her trouble and she left after gulping another glass of wine to get the taste of sperm out of her mouth so that her man wouldn't smell another man on her lips.

  I sat there for a while sipping more wine as my man continued to lay there on the bed all sprawled out in naked glory but now very relaxed and smoking a regular cigarette.

  “Come here.” he finally said to me, when he put off his cigarette. “Lie down.”

  And I lay down and stared at the white popcorn ceiling and he pulled me closer to him.

  “I don't mean to hurt you, but this had to be done. And it will be done again if we continue being together, I really need you to understand that. There are some things you can't do for me and I would need someone to do them for
me.”

  And I nodded my head in agreement because I didn't know what to say and I was too tipsy and tired and just wanted to close my eyes and sleep. But Matt was not done yet. In his now relaxed state, he was able to become intimate with me and open up and talk about his past and I listened.

  He told me about his ex-girlfriend a Nigerian girl who had left him and gone to university in Tennessee after he had taken out a loan for her and which loan he was still repaying and how she had immediately dumped him as soon as she cashed the check.

  “That girl was wahala” he said.

  And I asked what wahala was and he said that everywhere they went, men just kept staring at her and he had nearly gotten into fist fights but his anger management classes had won over and he had somehow remained calm and let the men stare to their content.

  “Why did they stare so much?” I asked.

  “Well, it was her camel toe.” he said.

  “Camel toe? What is that?”

  “Stand up. Just move over there.” he said.

  I stood up and walked to the middle of the room. I was still wearing my tight jeans. He looked me over as I twirled around for him.

  “No, you don't have it.” he pronounced, connoisseur of camel toes that he was. “But you do have something else.”

  I took off my jeans and lay down next to him.

  “I like you.” he said.

  Without waiting for a response he jumped up on me and without preamble slipped his penis in one rough move into me and pumped up and down and screamed my name and pumped some more and it was over as quickly as it had begun.

  And then I lay there wondering what had just happened and thinking that Matt had finally fucked me instead of making love to me. We had waited for three months and instead of making love to me he had fucked me and I had allowed it and I wasn't the least bit disgusted. Disappointed perhaps but not disgusted. Was this what I had waited for all this time? Is this what I could expect with Matt if I continued to be with him?

  “I like you so much.” he repeated.