Archive | November, 2010

Once You’ve Had Black

29 Nov
Eating blackberries

flickr image by Chris Latham


My friend Lucy has always been someone to envy. Her vivacious, infectious energy draws others towards her like blue-rinsed coffin dodgers to a batch of fresh scones. She greets everyone she meets as ‘Gorgeous’ and possesses the ability to turn even the most simplest of menial banter into an unwittingly flirtatious tête-à-tête.

One Saturday afternoon, during our hedonistic London days, at a rather dull barbeque hosted by a mutual friend, we approached a trio of attractive black British men. With a flick of her auburn hair and an audacious look in her eye, the words huskily pealed from her cherry red mouth.

“Is it true?”

She slowly, yet deliberately, made bold eye contact with each man in turn.

Speaking on behalf of his friends, one of the men replied confusedly, “Is what true?”

A small exasperated sigh escaped from Lucy’s lips. “That once you’ve had black you can never go back?”

One man spluttered on the sip of beer he had just taken. Another’s eyes bulged incredulously. The man who had spoken clapped a hand good naturedly across her back. All three laughed uproariously.

Lucy’s stance remained confident, her questioning face slightly tilted upwards, obviously waiting for an answer.

The speaker for the group choked back a chuckle, his eyes meeting hers with a serious expression. “Damn straight it is.”

The pair were subsequently seen bundling into a cab together less than half an hour later. Lucy later reported, quite gloatingly I may add, that he had indeed been speaking the truth.

My opportunity to seek the truth came a couple of years later whilst backpacking through Cambodia. Having teamed up with two British girls I’d met in Saigon, we bumpily made our way via bus to Phnom Penh – Cambodia’s capital city. Once there we spent the majority of our nights at the guesthouse bar – a rickety deck overlooking the murky waters of the lake. While chilling out by the lakeside we lounged on worn floor cushions, played lazy games of pool and breathed in the scent of marijuana drifting on the evening breeze.

It was here I met Stan the Man – a large Nigerian clothed in a crisp white Adidas hoody, despite the balmy Cambodian weather. His fingers were adorned with thick gold rings and his hair artfully sculpted into a forest of short, stumpy dreadlock type knobs. His deep, thickly accented voice was eerily reminiscent of the chef from South Park; an asset I imagined would help coax an orgasm from the genitals of anyone wishing to indulge in phone sex with him.

Stan the Man approached us, swathed in a cloud of cannabis smoke. He formally introduced himself as Stanley and his wingman as Michael. Clearly well trained in the art of wingmanship, Michael promptly initiated conversation with my friends, while Stanley turned his full attention on me.

At the risk of sounding terribly stereotypical, I was well aware that men of African descent are renowned for their attraction to big arses. Of course with any stereotype, there are exceptions to every rule. But as a young woman with quite a sizeable backside, I’ve gained far more attention from black men than any of my skinny counterparts. And trust me, I’m not complaining. Having a hot black man gyrate with you on a dance floor somewhere in London, whilst paying homage to your ample behind with compliments such as , “I love your J.Lo ass!” is rather quite flattering. Especially for someone who still ensures she backs out of a room after sex, in order to prevent the guy from copping a good look at her naked behind.

I’ll admit I found Stan’s speech a little hard to decipher. And not just because he was clearly stoned and I was rather tipsy from the cheap vodka I’d been consuming all night. English was obviously not his first language and, as such, a myriad of overformal and misplaced words peppered his dialogue. As part of what I assumed to be his pre-shag banter, he continually informed me he wasn’t just after a one night stand, but instead was searching for something more “fruitful”.

Initially my sozzled brain confusedly conjured up an image of an apple orchard, before I slowly began to realise that in his haphazard awkward use of English, Stan the Man was actually attempting to execute one of the oldest tricks in the pick-up manual. The “I-Really-Want-To-See-You-Again-After-We-Have-Drunken-Sex-Tonight- Because-I-Really-Do-Respect-You” strategy.

You don’t sleep with a cornucopia of sleazy drunken males without picking up on a couple of their slimy tricks. Hold onto your hats ladies, because, shock of all shocks, the guy feeding you this kind of crap usually has no intention of seeing you again. He probably just wants to get a quick shot away, hopefully without catching gonorrhoea.

Any female who’s been single long enough has heard this breed of pre-sex banter before. For example, when you drunkenly stumble into a guy’s bedroom (more often than not on the same night you met him) and he feels the need to make a patronising comment such as, “You better get used to this room, something tells me you’ll be coming here a lot!” Wink, wink. When in actual fact he hopes you’ll be getting a cab home later, saving him forking out for breakfast the next morning.

Or rewind back to the pre-bonk banter at the bar, both huddled closely over alcoholic beverages, regaling him with witty anecdotes about your friends and family. “I can’t wait to meet them,” he murmurs, with a wistful half-smile on his face. Lying fucker, he’s actually just wondering how many more drinks he’s going to have to buy you before you’ll open your legs for him.

Now, to any men reading this, I shall impart some valuable wisdom. Most women know this kind of pre-sex banter is bullshit. In fact, the more you indulge in it, the more insulted she will probably become. Believe it or not, that girl sitting across from you is not wondering whether your wedding will be a spring or autumn affair. Chances are, she’s not rushing off to write the wedding invites just yet. Instead, she’s probably just as horny as you are.

Needless to say, I certainly hadn’t been backpacking my way through Cambodia hoping and praying to meet ‘The One’. Certainly not in the form of a huge Nigerian man with a limited grasp of English, rambling on about fruitful relationships.

I questioned him on his reason for living in Cambodia and he replied with a rather vague, “For Business,” as his response. He was clearly a pimp. Or a drug dealer. Possibly both. Undoubtedly not the kind of guy you’d want to indulge in a ‘fruitful’ relationship with. However, the perceived danger of it certainly did make me want to have sex with him. What can I say? Vaginas work in rather mysterious ways.

As the stilted conversation wore on, I slowly began to sober up. Being sober is often not harmonious with the go ahead of a one night stand. As my head started to pound and the cooler late night air began to chill my previously alcohol-flamed face, I said my goodnights, passed on my phone number, retired to bed and thought nothing more of the meeting.

The next night, after a weary day of sight-seeing, we made our way by tuk tuk to the infamous Phnom Penh nightspot (well, it was given a good rap in the backpackers bible – Lonely Planet), Heart of Darkness. Here we witnessed old jowly white men attempting to woo young Khmer women. The men in question were all over the age of sixty, sporting protruding beer guts, dosed up on Viagra and visibly salivating at the assortment of young women milling around them willing to be plied full of free Absolut. However, apart from this sickening spectacle, the club’s patronage also consisted of well-to-do young Khmers and a variety of backpackers and internationals.

While at the bar placing an order, a sizeable quantity of vodka already coursing through my veins, a deep male voice beside me proclaimed, “You didn’t call me.” I turned around and there was Stan the Man, looking me up and down with hungry eyes.

“You didn’t call me either,” I replied, with what I hoped was the right mix of haughtiness and playfulness.

A low sexy rumble escaped from his chest, “Dance with me, baby.”

We made our way onto the crowded dance floor, leaving my friend’s high pitched giggles and taunts of “Stan the Man!” behind. Why is it that every black man seems to be born with the innate ability to dance spectacularly? Stan the Man moved as smoothly as a knife through soft butter, while in comparison I resembled a cross between somebody having a vertical epileptic fit and a dog trying to hump an imaginary leg.

We danced on, his sizeable erection digging into my pelvic bone. “Baby, I want to kiss you,” he murmured deeply into my ear. His large pillowed lips found mine and his imploring tongue began working away purposefully. Sweat mingled with saliva. Hands grappled with bra straps and buttocks. Cheeky travelling companions took incriminating photos to torturously post on facebook at a later date.

Again, typical pre-sex banter was whispered in my ear. Talk of fruitful relationships, not just wanting a one night stand, blah blah blah. By this stage my inebriation was making it difficult to concentrate on the specific words spewing forth from his luscious mouth. Also, the blood rushing to my overexcited sexual organs was creating a whooshing sound in my ears, rendering my hearing rather impaired. Then, a shocking proclamation jumped from his mouth. “I love you, baby.”

For a moment I halted with my over exaggerated hip gyrating (also known as dancing) and took stock. I love you? A little unexpected, yes. However, perhaps simply a case of English not being his first language and those three powerful words being lost in translation. Or, more likely, pre-sex banter being taken one step too far.

I felt pity towards him. The poor man obviously thought I was such a nice girl that I wouldn’t sleep with a guy if I didn’t feel he loved and respected me. I decided to put him out of his misery. Let’s face it, I was backpacking through a foreign country, horny and, well, if I’m brutally honest, a little bit of a slut.

Evoking the power of Lucy I asked him, “So is it true?”

“Is what true, baby?”

“That once you’ve had black you can never go back?”

His eyes bulged incredulously. “You’ve never had a black man, baby? I’ll be your first?”

I nodded coyly and was very nearly sent reeling backwards with the sheer force of his ever-growing erection. My hand was promptly taken possession of and I was led from the club without saying goodbye to my friends; now with their faces attached to a couple of male backpackers. I was then led a short way up the road, into a hotel, where I was deposited onto a neat double bed.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” Stan the Man pledged, slobberingly mauling my mouth with his, before stalking out of the room and back down the hall.

This gave me time to perch awkwardly on the edge of the unfamiliar bed and reflect. Reflect on what the hell I was doing in a foreign hotel room, in a foreign city, in a foreign country with a foreign man. Had he just run off to gather a hoard of his mates to take turns raping me then cutting off my limbs? Despite the warm trickle of alcohol still flowing through my veins, I began to fret. Actually, ‘freak out’ is probably a more accurate term. I sprang from the bed and torpedoed towards the door.

But my exit was blocked by a proud looking Stan the Man, triumphantly holding up a packet of condoms. He threw them onto the bed and gathered me in his arms.

I’m not sure what it is about danger and sex, but from my experience in that hotel room, it seems the more scared shitless you are, the more heightened your sexual pleasure. And to those of you who have a boyfriend with a small penis, silently chanting to yourself, “It’s not the size that counts!” every time you have sex, well, you’ve clearly never had a big black one inside you. Just the sheer size of it was enough to prompt an orgasm.

However, I suppose the real issue that needs addressing here is the age old, once you’ve had black can you ever go back? It’s a tough one for me to answer given that Stan the Man, although undoubtedly a very skilful lover, was clearly a little soft in the head. This became increasingly apparent as he told me he loved me over and over again, shortly followed by perching himself against the pillows with downcast eyes and whispering sadly, “I know you don’t love me, but that’s ok.” At one point he asked to view the photos on my phone and after gazing admiringly at a photo of my nine month old nephew, murmured wistfully, “I wish I had a son.”

It seemed his pre-sex banter might have actually been mingled with a touch of truth.

It was well and truly time to leave. But this wasn’t such an easy feat when I was holed up in a hotel room in Phnom Penh at five o’clock in the morning, not knowing the way back to my guesthouse. Luckily Stan the Man, forever the gentleman, offered to escort me back via tuk tuk. However, only after he’d repeatedly tried to convince me to stay by his side and not return to my friends.

Was it my imagination, or did the tuk tuk driver stare at me accusingly, barely able to hold himself back from screaming out, “You dirty whore!”? Although of course he would do no such thing, so desperate he was for the three dollar fare.

Stan the Man continued to openly grope me as we hurtled towards my guesthouse.  I felt the judgemental stares of market stall owners as they watched the slutty western girl with scarecrow hair and panda eyes being dry humped by a large black man in the back of a tuk tuk.

As the seemingly never-ending ride finally came to a halt, Stan the Man left me with proclamations of love and a promise to come and visit me once he’d gone back home for a few hours sleep.

Racing into the room I had been sharing with the two British girls, I hurriedly began packing my bag. I informed them I was off to catch a bus to Sihanoukville; a seaside town a merciful five hours away.

As I sat on the bus bound for Sihanoukville, my hangover kicking in and bouts of nausea rising, I fielded frantic phone calls and text messages from Stan the Man. Where had I gone? When was I coming back to Phnom Penh? Would I move to Cambodia to be with him? If not, would I at least allow him to fly me out from Australia to visit him every couple of months?

It seemed pimping and drug dealing were rather lucrative professions.

For two months following the incident, I ignored his barrage of phone calls and texts embedded with proclamations of love. Perhaps I really had left the poor guy broken hearted. Possibly he really had been after a fruitful relationship.

Maybe he just really wanted an Australian visa.

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