by Tiana Laveen
Laughter burst forth.
“I have several sex therapy videos available that go into great detail about how to do this. If you follow the steps and practice, I promise you that she won’t be looking anywhere else for great sex. She won’t have any complaints, I guarantee you. Also, be romantic. Flowers and candles are a must, but also try to be creative. Set the scene in advance. Have nice music. Be well-groomed and clean. Start seducing her days in advance. What I mean by that is you need to make her pussy wet before you even touch her. Send her flowers, text her sweet messages, call her just because, present little gifts to her, and compliment her. Make sure it’s sincere. The art of seduction is fucking a woman’s mind first, then her body. By the time you get to her pussy, she should be putty in your hands. On that note, I’ll take a few questions before we take a quick break.”
Saint took his seat and dabbed the slight perspiration along his brow.
“Great job, Saint. You’re a real inspiration for these guys,” one of the speakers whispered to him. Saint nodded and waved, maintaining his silence while the host approached the podium.
“I hope you guys realize what an honor it is to have someone as important as Dr. Saint Aknaten come and speak to you. He’s usually booked at least two years in advance but went out of his way to be here for the L.A. Rainbeau Valentine Conference even though he had a sudden scheduling conflict. He knows how important this is. We’re going to take some questions from you and then after a refreshment break, we’ll resume with his portion of the lecture,” the host announced. “Raise your hand if you have a question. We won’t be able to get to all of them right now, but we’ll answer a few. Yes, you over there.” The spotlight moved to a lanky young white man. Saint slowly stood up and approached the podium.
“Hi, Dr. Aknaten,” the man said nervously. “It’s an honor to speak to you. I’ve read all of your books and watched your videos. I’ve dated a couple of Black girls, but I must be turning them off or doing something wrong, because they tell me they only see me as a friend after the first one or two dates. Can you help me figure out what I’m missing?”
“So you were put in the friend zone? It’s hard to tell what went wrong without hearing the particulars, but let me start by doing some shooting in the dark. Did you mention anything, and I mean anything at all, about race?”
The young man thought for a minute. “I think I may have told one I really find Black girls attractive,” he said tentatively.
“OK, were you specific about what you found attractive, and did you say this early on?” Saint questioned.
“I believe so. I told them I liked their complexions and their lips. One of them, I told her I liked her hair and asked her if it was really hers, and I think she got offended.”
“That may have been the problem. Saying you like Black girls doesn’t always come across right. They want to feel that you’re dating them because you like them, not because you find their skin a sexual turn-on, at least not at first. Also, for many Black women, the hair topic is taboo, especially when it’s being discussed with a white person, so in the future, just compliment her hair and leave it at that. You went too far, and that question wasn’t appropriate for someone you didn’t know that well yet. When you’re first dating, act as if she’s a white girl. Don’t do anything differently. That’s really key. If you deviate from this, it may make her feel like you’re fetishizing. Also, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but your voice sounds prepubescent.”
There was some intermittent laughter.
“Stop laughing men, seriously,” Saint snapped. “I’m not trying to embarrass him. He had the courage to stand up and ask me for advice. I’m trying to help him. This is a common issue, especially with younger guys. Your voice is fairly high for a man, and you don’t have much natural control over that, so you need to concentrate on lowering it an octave or two until it becomes your usual tone. You have to train your vocal chords. You don’t have to sound that way. You may need to work with a speaking coach. I’ve advised several of my past patients who had similar issues to do that, and it’s helped them tremendously. Black men have more testosterone than men of other races, and it lowers their voices, making them more appealing to women in general. That’s actually one of the handicaps of white men – one that bred jealousy when white women wanted Black men in their beds. That’s the one thing white men coveted – adoration of women from all around the world, even for the wrong reason. We just need to tell the truth here, and that’s part of the reason so many white women run around trying to fuck a Black man. Darkness and deeper voices are considered more masculine in our society. If you’re short, that’s another strike against you, so in order to compete, you need to make sure – without sounding ridiculous, of course – that your voice is as low as it can possibly be. Don’t try to be like a Black man, but you need to embody qualities that are considered masculine. Don’t try to sound like Barry White either. Only Mike Tyson can walk around with a high voice and not be mistaken as a sissy. Unless you’re knocking motherfuckers out with one punch and have muscles all over your body, you won’t be able to get away with that.”
Again, laughter erupted through the crowd.
“OK, next question,” Saint said as he watched where the spotlight landed.
“Hi, Dr. Aknaten,” a middle-aged Hispanic man said.
“Hello, Brother,” Dr. Aknaten answered.
“How do you handle the people that speak against you? I’ve seen you on several talk shows, and you’re often attacked, but you stay calm. Are you ever afraid of someone trying to hurt you or your loved ones?”
“That’s a good question. We’re all human, so of course, sometimes depending on my mood, I can become more agitated, but I try to stay focused on my mission. I truly believe I was born to ensure that Black women are upheld as the queens that they are, and that they’re able to choose from not just Black men, but all men. I’m fighting racism, and that’s always an uphill battle. I’m also fighting people’s ego and pride. When a man’s pride is bruised, he may respond to me with death threats, verbal abuse, and the like. It won’t stop me. The work I’m doing is very important, and even when I die, I’m training and teaching others that’ll be able to take my place. As I said, this is a war. I’m not afraid of being hurt because death is a part of life, and you have to be willing to die for something or someone. Although I do have a bodyguard, I don’t walk around afraid. I can’t. I have to enjoy my life as much as possible.”
The host stood up. “One last question before break.” The spotlight shined on an attractive man with dark-brown hair and a clean-shaven face.
“Dr. Aknaten, it’s a pleasure to see you in person. I, too, am a fan of yours and have been dating interracially for several years now. I agree with you regarding Black women being the salt of the earth, and I want a Black bride, but I do have one question that’s been bothering me.”
“And that question is?” Saint encouraged.
“How can you teach us, if you don’t have a ‘queen,’ yourself?” the man asked before sitting back down. The sea of men in the audience began to whisper.
“No, now, everyone calm down. That’s a question many people have. I’ve been asked this before, and I have the same answer. I take relationships and sex very seriously now. I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve been fucking since I was fourteen, and over seventy-five percent of those women were Black. That’s who I’ve always been attracted to and wanted. I’ve had sex with women of other races and am able to tell you that there is no real difference with the body, per se; it’s the soul – the spirit. Something was always missing from the experience when I had sex with non-Black women. I was never full afterward. I was always hungry when it was over. Because of that, and because I take my advice to you all seriously, when I select my bride, I won’t have any doubts whatsoever. I’ll know who she is soon after we meet. That’s how good I am now with spotting who I desire. I’ve trained myself. I’ve travelled all over the world. I’ve seen women so be
autiful if you looked at them too long you’d go blind. I’ve met women so intelligent that they’d make you feel self-conscious to even utter a word to them. The ‘queen’ for me is a challenge, because not only do I do this for a living, I’m a unique, and quite frankly, odd and egotistical son of a bitch.”
Laughter roared from the crowd.
“I’m serious. I’m not kidding in the least. The woman who can handle me is hard to find because of my personality and how I live my life. I’d need to find her physically attractive. She’d need to be uninhibited and a have a good sex drive, but with me and me alone. I doubt that any lover of mine would have a sex drive as high as mine, but she needs to enjoy sex and want it frequently. I require loyalty. I’m an alpha male. I have to be the one running the show, but I want her to be brave enough to tell me about myself, and her opinions in general. She needs to be intelligent and accepting of who I am as a person. I’m also in demand of a woman who knows how to be a woman. I expect her to respect me, to trust me, to allow me to explore her sexually in ways she’s not accustomed to and to allow me to teach her new things. I also need to be taught, however. I don’t want to be with someone who can’t show me anything I don’t already know. She needs to be able to put me in my place without emasculating or demeaning me, though. She needs to be healthy and want to have children. She needs to be supportive, attentive, spiritual, and loving. I know she exists, and I’ll go all around the globe to find her if I have to. I’ll find her, and I’m currently on the hunt. Anything I ask of her, I’ll have and provide as well. Because my criteria are so tailored to my needs, it’s taking me a while to find her, but she’s out there somewhere. I can teach you all about this because the woman for you isn’t the same woman for me. Every single man here needs something a little different. Some of you are insistent she be dark-skinned. Some of you only want the ones with long hair. Some of you only want the skinny ones or the thick ones. Some of you only want the quiet ones. We all have preferences, just like any other man on the planet. I’ve had serious relationships with Black women. I haven’t found my soulmate yet, but I don’t blame a person for not being a good match for me. That’s pointless and counterproductive. When I find her, I’ll know. Until then, don’t mistake my lack of a ‘queen’ for an argument against my message. A priest can talk about marriage. A nun can talk about a healthy sex life. A drug addict can discuss the wonders of sobriety. Thank you for your question.”
Saint stepped away from the podium and took his seat. He clasped his hands together as he thought about his lack of a ‘queen.’ This was something he did at least once a week, and it was starting to grate at his nerves.
* * *
The lecture continued until 3:00AM. Saint was shrouded in applause and whistles. After a few photo ops and book signings, he disappeared into a black limousine surrounded by three women unsuccessfully vying for his attention. He was whisked away to the lavish five-star London West Hollywood Hotel where two women waited anxiously outside for him. Saint pretended to not see them and hurried to his tenth-floor suite and immediately partook of the liquor that was calling his name from the mini-bar. He turned on the television and stood in the middle of the vast, circular living room area with high dome tray ceilings and a spectacular Los Angeles city view. He removed his shirt, casting it aside on the couch. He picked up a glass of brandy, the dark-red liquor coating the sides of the glass as he slowly swirled before sipping. His cell phone rang. He recognized the number immediately. It was US Congressman James Kessler, who was also the CEO of the prolific, but secretive group, White Knights of the Round Table. The group was comprised of twelve officers and thirty-eight members holding powerful positions. Some were government officials holding high posts in military and political arenas. Some were big-name attorneys, and some were Wall Street moguls. They all had one thing in common – their deep love and desire for Black ‘queens.’ This group was originally formed to assist white, Asian, and Latino men who suffered hate crimes because they were involved with Black women. Several years ago they adopted Saint into their fold. He was now their front man, the person they used to teach at conferences and public events. Saint made several engagements on his own, but his time with the White Knights proved to keep his schedule full beyond his expectations.
“Good morning, James. I know you had to cut out early to get back to D.C. I hope your flight was OK. I figured you’d be asleep by now,” Saint said as he paced the floor.
“Normally, I would be. I’m getting old,” James laughed. “I just got in the door. This commuting between Washington and L.A. is starting to wear me down. The Mrs. came with me this time. My ‘queen’ is waiting for me upstairs, but I wanted to call you and tell you what an excellent job you did this evening. I heard you just fine in the back. The acoustics were perfect. We’re extremely proud of you. You know I think of you as a son, and it warms my heart to know you and see the impact you have on people. I knew over four years ago when we contacted you about joining us that you were the right person for the job.” Saint smiled as James complimented him.
“Thank you, James. You’ve been an inspiration to me, and without your assistance, I’m certain that many of the men in need of my help would probably not even know of me. These conferences are changing people’s lives, and they owe that to you.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but you know we work as a team. It’s all coming together, and I won’t keep you any longer, so on that note, I bid you adieu. Good night.” James hung up the phone. Saint exhaled for a moment, sat on the couch, and picked up the phone for room service.
“Yes, this is Room 1092. I’d like an artichoke and pear salad. Please, hold the feta cheese. I’d also like a piece of grilled tilapia with mango salsa and a bowl of seedless grapes on the side. Thank you.” He sighed as he hung up the phone, rubbing his long, nimble fingers through his black satiny hair. He leaned back and slowly closed his eyes, opening them intermittently to stare at an exercise infomercial. His hotel phone rang. Saint immediately answered, figuring it was room service asking a question before the delivery.
“Hello, Dr. Aknaten. I understand that you require a female masseuse, preferably African-American. We’re calling to confirm.”
Saint sighed. He had completely forgotten about his pre-scheduled back massage and possible sexual liaison.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’m quite tired tonight. Thank you for remembering, though.” He promptly hung up the phone and waited for his food. Room Service arrived soon after. He tipped the hotel staff worker generously and took his food into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He removed the rest of his clothing and stretched. He went to the mini-bar in the bedroom, pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured a glass before sitting on the bed. Holding the glass of white wine, he made himself comfortable under the thick, Egyptian cotton sheets. He sat up against the headboard, stretching his well-toned, naked body and leisurely ate his food while daydreaming with the television on in the background. After he was finished, he set the tray aside, turned off the TV, and turned on some contemporary jazz. He then turned the light off and sighed as he lie back in the dark. He delicately glided his hand under the sheet, then took his incredibly thick and lengthy joystick in hand. He moved his hand up and down the shaft with ample friction. Saint moaned lowly as his orgasm quickly approached. He pressed the back of his head against the headboard, moving his hand faster and faster until he exploded, causing the white, sticky eruption to run down his fingers onto his thighs. He breathed, resting as his heart rate returned to normal. He sluggishly rose, making his way to the elaborate bathroom. He turned the shower on and stood under the hot water, sighing. He proceeded to meticulously wash his hair and body with peppermint and cocoa butter body wash. Suds ran down his hard chest and eight-pack into his jet-black, pubic hair. He finished bathing, then stepped out of the shower and dried off with the thick, white towel. He slid on one of his favorite pair of white silk pajama pants and headed back to the bed, removing the soiled sheet and replacing
it with a fresh one that was in the closet. He watched television as his thoughts drifted to the hectic schedule ahead – two morning radio interviews, one of which was in person, an evening interview via satellite, and a party appearance later that night back in New York City. He saw his cell phone flashing, indicating that he had received a new voice message.
“We’re going to kill you. This isn’t a joke. You’ve been warned many times. Stop having these meetings or else!” an unknown man said. Saint deleted the voicemail and closed his eyes. It was one of many and was becoming old news to him. His exhausted body begged for rest. Thoughts of his missing ‘queen’ haunted him. He fell asleep, but woke soon after in a cold sweat.
‘I’m so lonely,’ he thought, as he fought in vain the insomnia that often threatened to steal his peace. “Where is she?” he said in a whisper to himself. His incredible pickiness led him to unexpected emotional lows. He refused to lower his standards ever again even though colleagues encouraged him to find a spouse quickly or risk people becoming increasingly skeptical of his authority. His answer always remained the same, “My bride is out there. I’ll find her in due time.”
This he truly believed, but there were times it wore heavily on him. Saint had declared to himself that he would no longer have sex until he found her. His struggle with celibacy had now lasted over six months, and it became almost unbearable for him. He continued on, however, believing that his past sexual exploits may have been responsible for his failure to attract the woman he so desperately desired. He had to become what he wanted to attract. He needed to follow his own rules. The temptations were great. Every city he visited, there would be amazingly beautiful women hanging around, desperately waiting for him to choose one of them and disappear together into his hotel room. Saint had developed a reputation over the past five years for his unbelievable sexual escapades, and he was now being asked about it in interviews. He repeatedly refused to discuss his private sex life with the public, but the questions never ceased. One woman wrote a tell-all book, breaking the contract he made her sign. He did so with all of his female visitors, asking them to never disclose the details of their one-time encounters. That breach of contract resulted in a public court case. It was revealed that all women who entered Saint’s room had to allow their purses to be searched by a bodyguard for recording devices. Details were leaked about his preferences in women. He disliked women who ate red meat, believing it made their insides toxic. He always suspected that women who smoked cigarettes, had breast implants, and who douched did so to cover an infection since they were not necessary practices. He almost always had his visitors shower first, and he would stand there and watch or join them, making sure every inch of them was clean since what he had planned would involve his licking all over their bodies. The unusual list continued. No matter how annoyed a woman might become, no woman ever refused because she knew what she would be jeopardizing if she did not comply with his requests. Saint was very strict with himself, as well as the women he would share his bed with, even if for only one night.
