Blackhumouristpress's Blog

March 25, 2018


It was some time after 9-11 that Lars Bjornson left his home in Stockholm to discover America. He wanted to eat hot dogs, see sporting events of sports he knew nothing about. He wanted to be in the audience of a Jerry Springer show. He wanted to see where Michael Jordan played basketball and where Al Capone once ran around. Lars wanted to see the tall buildings of Chicago and he also wanted to see the ghetto.

Lars rented a car and asked the doorman of the posh hotel he was staying at on Michigan Avenue, where he could go to see the real ghetto. You know… Poor people. The doorman thought Lars was a bit nuts but then again he felt that all of those really white, white people of Northern European countries, were truly different than your run of the mill American whites. In reality, it was not unlike going on a safari in Africa or visiting a zoo. Lars wanted to see blight, hopelessness, drug addicts and the mentally ill hanging around on street corners. The doorman spoke frankly with him.
“Hey man, there’s shit in life you just should not do. You puttin your life in yo own hands…. It ain’t like round here, dude…. Shit…. It’s yo life. Tell you watchu do…. Take any one of these streets named after old dead white dudes that was once president. Madison, Washington, Adams…. Randolph…. I don’t remember no President Randolph in school but it coulda been one them dudes who was president fo like a day and then got shot. You might wind up like them but you welcome to go. Four miles that way. You cain’t git lost.”
Lars was excited in a sick way not unlike when people go online to view people getting beheaded or shot and watching the life drain out of them. Lars wanted to visit the most dangerous city in an area where the most people get killed every year in the richest most prosperous country in the world. Lars was hoping to actually see a shooting happen in the streets. He slowly drove up and down streets that were strewn with debris, high weeds, barber shops with men hanging out in front of them, boarded up storefronts and liquor stores on almost every corner. People looked back at Lars not unlike when animals make eye contact with humans at the zoo.

Lars saw a beautiful young black woman at a bus stop, eating something carefully out of a bag. Her young, perfect body and model like face attracted Lars. He parked the car and strangely pitched the idea of the woman getting into his car to go to dinner, talk to him and then later have sex with him. For $1,000.00. Asha ( pronounced ASIA ) thought about all the things she could do with $1,000.00 and hopped into the car of the tall blond man from Sweden. Asha went to an expensive seafood restaurant and then back to Lars hotel room to do the deed. Asha marveled at her strange day as she put her clothes back on in front of a floor to ceiling window that looked out at Lake Michigan and the high rises that lined the downtown. It was a glimpse into a life she had only seen on television. She concluded that to be white was truly a boost up the tree of life that black people rarely get unless they have some redeeming value to white people. Lars thought to himself while he showered with all his jewelry, cash and credit cards where he could see it in the locked bathroom, that it was a really cool experience and that having sex with someone of a different color was something that everyone should experience once. Sometimes weird moments and actions lead to something surreal. Well… It did.
Two presidents and sixteen years later, Asha’s son Lars was about to play in the state championship basketball game. Picture a tall caucasian looking child with a tint to his skin with sort of yellow hair with large rotini like curls. Around his ankle was a tracking device for those that should probably be in prison but are allowed back out in society. Lars was arrested for carjacking. Several times in the past, Lars had successfully secured a car, drove it around, smashed it up and abandoned it. In Chicago, things such as that are sport for underprivileged inner city kids who see the disparity between those that have and those that have not. The last carjacking backfired when Lars and his buddies tried to carjack the car of an off duty cop who had a vintage 1970 Plymouth Challenger. Upon pulling a gun on the officer and hopping in, they found that the car was manual transmission and none of the trio knew how to drive a car with a stick shift. Lars looked up to find a gun back in his face. Lars’ two friends had no redeeming value to society at this point in their lives- high school drop outs, gangbangers with criminal history but Lars intrigued the judge. The judge listened to the tall boy speak who looked like he could be white but also could be black, looked at his African American mother and asked the boy rhetorical questions. Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to die young? Do you want your life to amount to nothing? Do you want to become something? Asha told the judge that her son was a very good basketball player and that 6’ 7, he had a good chance of getting a college scholarship and possibly professional basketball. Asha handed a handful letters of intent from division one universities from around the country that were interested in having young Lars play basketball. The judge saw a letter from his alma mater and grew excited. The stern looking white judge looked at Lars and said that he wanted to see him, his mother and his attorney in his office. Once in the judge’s quarters, the judge picked up his phone on his desk and made a call to the president of his alma mater who happened to be a friend, a golf buddy, a drinking buddy to let him know that he should send someone from the athletics department to come to the championship game in Quincy, Illinois to sign Lars to their university. Asha and Lars were stunned by how the serious looking judge was talking so casually to them.
“You’re going to love this school. It is one of the greatest schools in the country. You’ll get a great education in a good environment and you could really help the school by being on the team. They came so close this year! Sweet sixteen! Hopefully you can help them win a national championship…. So listen. Lars will have to wear an ankle monitor for a while. You’ll come back in a few weeks and I’ll clear him. No record. You have to stop fooling around, Lars. You have a promising life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up…. Tell you what…. I think I can make that game in Quincy. I have nothing on my calendar. I will be there with your mom.”
Somewhere in Europe, there is a man with an American son that he knows nothing about. Lars Sr. would be so proud to know that he helped create hope for a woman who was destined to live a dismal, mundane life. Stories such as this make white people feel really good when they know their own kind are helping in some small an indirect way to create prosperity and equality. Even if they didn’t mean to.

January 4, 2010

The Mason Dixon Excuse

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:44 am
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Colin Mason left Grand Rapids, Michigan to pursue his passion of being an artist in New York City. He found job in a coffee shop with a struggling black poet by the name of Deandra Dixon. Deandra wrote poetry about being black and poor and angry and a woman. A lot of her work was very abstract and really hard to read into but she had several poems published in anthologies whereby she never earned a cent. Deandra would read her poems at poetry slams and open microphone nights at small clubs in Brooklyn. After spending so much time with Colin in the coffee shop, Deandra decided that Colin was a safe catch. He was white, smart, fairly attractive and pliable. Deandra for all her militant black, feminist liberalism, she really wanted the old fashioned nuclear family and so she married Colin and they had a son. His name was Obama Mason-Dixon.
Obama of course was named after the president of the United States. He was conceived shortly after the election in November of 2008. Colin and Deandra drove in Deandra’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle to Chicago to take part in the historical moment in Grant Park when President Obama declared himself victorious in the 2008 presidential elections. Both Colin and Deandra cried as President Obama took the stage. They were both deeply touched.
Working at an independent coffee shop in Brooklyn, provided them enough money to make ends meet barely. Deandra had decided that she wanted to take their young son to visit her grandmother in Mississippi for Christmas. Deandra’s grandmother was getting old and Deandra feared that her grandmother might never meet her 31st grandchild and so Colin and Deandra left New York City on a Wednesday night late so that little Obama could sleep through the night. Colin was dead set against driving to the south with a black woman in a yellow Volkswagen with political bumper stickers plastered across the back. Deandra wanted everyone to know at all times how she felt about things. The several bumper stickers gave a thumb sketch as to her political leanings. Colin felt as though he had to comply if for no other reason than to ensure the safety of his wife and child even though he had never engaged in a fist fight in his life.
Colin snuck down to the south, carefully following behind those that needed to go ten to fifteen miles an hour beyond the posted speed limit of seventy miles per hour. Meanwhile, Deandra and little Obama slept like angels in the back seat of the Volkswagen while Colin listened to whatever he could tune into in their car radio. They arrived early on Christmas morning if you can believe this, in a town called Hot Coffee, Mississippi. It is roughly thirty miles north of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. They just could not get away from coffee and Colin had been wolfing it down at every filling station along the way just to keep alert.
Now Deandra’s relatives were southern folk born and raised in the south and most never ventured out of the south for anything. None of them really had any desire to ever visit New York and so their only link to the northern world was Deandra. Deandra was an outspoken buxom young black woman in her late twenties who wore her in an Afro. Her cousins thought she was too intense and probably a bit crazy. They all decided that Colin fit the description of a compliant and subservient mate and so they felt sorry for him more than anything else. Colin had spindly arms and a sunken chest. He had no interest in football or college football. All of Deandra’s male cousins were all geared up to watch bowl games on television. Colin went for long walks on country roads and people passed by and looked at Colin like he was a Martian. Nobody messed with him but he was an oddity. New Years day rolled around and it became time for the great trek back north.
Colin made the mistake of buying a combination cheese and beef jerky all wrapped up in plastic. It looked safe enough when he filled up for gas and poked around the filling station/diner/locker room for truckers. Amid the confederate flag license plate holders and hats, sat days old donuts behind a glass case and so Colin opted for packaged products and a bottled water. The old woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and more wrinkles than a Shar Pei Dog, told Colin that was one of her favourites as she broke into an uncontrollable smoking induced cough. By the time Colin had driven to Meridian, Mississippi, something had gone seriously wrong within his intestines.
Colin tried with all his might to keep from shitting in his own pants as he broke out in full body sweats. He pulled off the highway and carefully walked as though he was trying to keep something in his ass and he really was. As Colin lowered his draws, the liquefied feces shot out of his anus at blister speed. It sputtered as it hit the tank and wall and dripped onto the seat. Colin trembled as the episode seemed to go on for minutes. Finally the uncontrollable need to relieve himself ended. He crawled into the backseat beside his son who was asleep with a pacifier in his mouth and pulled the Snuggle up to his chin as he shivered in the back seat.
“I think that cheese or beef jerky was no good. I think I got food poisoning… I’ll be alright soon. You’ll need to drive for a bit,” said Colin.
Now Deandra was not a patient driver. If seventy was good, ninety was better and so she flew down the left lane of the two lane interstate leading out of Mississippi towards Alabama. Just before the Alabama state line, a Mississippi trooper sat parked with a radar gun pointed right at blazing yellow Volkswagen.
“Oh Fuck!” Said Deandra, as she slammed on the brakes.
Officer Clinton Dixon, no immediate relation to Deandra, sauntered up to the driver’s side with one hand near his gun. Officer Dixon was a stern man who had served in the first Gulf War as a Marine and then returned home to Mississippi to be a law man. He was born Baptist, coached high school football, loved to hunt and thought George W. Bush was a darn good president. The “Buck Fush” sticker on the back of Deandra’s car angered Officer Dixon right off. The Obama sticker, peace symbol in rainbow colors and pro choice sticker only served to solidify what Officer Dixon was already thinking as he saw the neon yellow foreign automobile with highly offensive bumper stickers and a New York license plate. Officer Dixon posed a rhetorical question to himself as he exited his car; what in the hell is this damn world coming to?
“License, registration and proof of insurance, ma’am,” said Officer Dixon.
At the same time that Officer Dixon was learning that he shared a last name with Deandra, Deandra was learning that she too had something in common with the Mississippi state trooper. Officer Dixon could not bring himself to refer to Deandra as Ms. Dixon and so he used Deandra’s first name. This only angered her.
“Ms. Deandra, are you aware of the posted speed limits hare on this hare interstate within the state of Mississippi?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay then Ms. Deandra… Cain you tell give me a reason why you was goin eighty nine miles an hour in the posted seventy mile an hour zone?”
“I was trying to pass some cars on the right.”
“That’s an excuse not a reason. A reason would be that someone was ill or dying. Anything short of that is an excuse… Now then what is the problem with that young man in the back seat of your vehicle, Ms. Deandra?”
Officer Dixon assumed that two young people had obviously been partying on New Years Eve and Colin was paying the price all day. Deandra told the officer it was possible food poisoning but he wasn’t buying the story.
“Ms. Deandra, if I was to find an open bottle of alcohol in your vehicle, I spect that the issue would not be so much food poisoning as intoxication… I will now ask you if you have been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Deandra, angrily.
“Spell your last name backward for me,” said Officer Dixon.
“It’s a simple question… We share the same last name. I want to hear it backward…”
“I cain’t believe this fucking bullshit!” Said Deandra, while gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Officer Dixon was shocked by the lack of respect. He felt that anyone with no regard for the unborn or George Bush, had no respect for order and further measures would have to be necessary. Colin stepped up to qwell the situation.
“Sir, I stopped for gas back near Heidelberg. I have the receipt in my pocket. I purchased some cheese with beef jerky and got sick within twenty minutes. I had to stop to use the restroom and I broke out in body sweats… We haven’t been drinking. We came down to visit my wife’s relatives here in Mississippi and are working our way back to New York City,” said Colin, calmly.
“Let me see your license.” Said Officer Dixon.
Officer Dixon could not believe what he was seeing. A Colin Mason married to a Deandra Dixon. Luckily he never asked for their child’s name. Officer Dixon blinked heavily, shook his head and gave the license back to Colin.
“Set tight…” said Officer Dixon.
Officer Dixon handed Deandra her license back and told her that she was two miles an hour from being taken into custody. She had the option of returning back to Lauderdale County Court for a hearing at the end of the month or pay the fine of $150.00 by mail. Deandra took the ticket without saying a word and got in the back seat so that Colin could continue driving.
Officer Dixon returned home to his pretty wife who was wearing a summer like dress. She was putting the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and greens on the supper table for her husband who was just stopping in to eat his lunch before going back to work. She did what any wife would do which is to ask her husband how the day was going.
“Well darlin… Picture this picture; a large black woman with a puffed up Afro hairdo driving a VW bug in bright yellah. Now she goin nearly ninety miles an hour and got some sickly looking white boy in the back huddled undah some blankets. She go by the last name Dixon and he go by Mason. They got themselves a baby asleep with a binky in his mouth and this woman is defiant as the day is long. I aks her if her boy been drankin and she swore at me. Ifin it wasn’t for the boy speakin up, ida hauled them in for any number ah reasons… Hares the kicker, love; hates Bush, for abortion, wants peace and is from New York City… All this wrapped up in one yellow bug…”
Mrs. Dixon laughed and gave her husband a kiss on the forehead. Having a good sense of humor, she had an idea for her husband.
“Honey… Why don’t we go visit New York City sometime. We kin use mah brother’s jacked up Chevy Blazer with the Confederate flag sticker on the back. If that ain’t enough, we kin git a “Rush was right” and “Charlton Heston is my President” bumper stickers. We kin bring shotguns and shoot at rats running loose in Manhattan… Wouldn’t that be fun, honey?”
Officer Dixon took a sip of his coffee and thought about the idea of going up north with the hoards of people, pollution, and crime and winced.
“Oh… The humanity…”

October 21, 2009

Gypsy Voodoo Queen Martini Maker

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:13 am
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It all at once hit Glad. Her husband had been having an affair with a woman the same age as their children and their son was in trouble once again with the law. Glad began to cry as she stood in front of the prison. She felt so helpless and alone. Glad wondered what it was that she could have done in her life to deserve what was happening to her.
Standing outside his cab, within a few feet of Glad was Horatio. Horatio was an average European looking man with a strong five o’clock shadow. He had been talking to his cousin who had just opened up a martini bar on Halsted Street on the south side of Chicago. His cousin reasoned that since so much of the south side was being bought up by developers, it was just a matter of time before young urban professionals would troll the neighborhood, looking for a place to wet their whistles. His cousin went by the name of Toula. It was really something too hard to pronounce in Hungarian and so she went by Toula and told people that she was Greek. When Greeks spoke Greek to Toula, she could speak Greek. Toula once had a husband that was Greek and he spoke Greek to her. Hungarians would have known she was a Gypsy if she spoke Hungarian to them. Instead she claimed that she was Greek and cut down on discrimination.
Horatio hung up his phone and approached Glad who was sobbing heavy. Horatio suspected she was robbed or assaulted in some way and genuinely wanted to help.
“Lady… You okay, lady? Why you crying, lady? Somebody try to take your money, lady… Come on, why you crying?”
Horatio, rubbed Glad’s bare arm. Ordinarily Glad would have been taken back by such a thing by a stranger, but she was actually comforted by the stranger whom she did not fear. She explained what was going on to Horatio. Horatio offered to help her occupy time for the next half day.
“I gotta place you can visit, lady… It’s a really nice place. It’s run by my cousin Toula… We’re Greek, lady? You Greek?”
“No, I would say I’m mostly Irish with a little English and German…”
“No wonder you cry… You all mixed up, lady. I cry too if I not know if I German or English… During the war, you would know which side yourself gone try to kill the other half…”
With that Glad smiled and laughed a bit. Horatio gave her a napkin from Dunkin Donuts from his glove compartment and herded her into the cab. Horatio had a CD of Frank Sinatra playing in his cab.
“You like Frank? I like Frank a lot. When I live in Europe, I like Frank. He the reason I move here. I say to myself one day… I gonna go to Chicago just like in that song Frank sing about… Don’t worry bout nothing, lady. I gone take you to Toula. You gone stop and talk to Toula. Toula gone help you feel better and you gone look at the world like it a sunny day… It a nice day to be alive, lady… You gone see.”
Horatio called Toula and they spoke in a Gypsy dialect of Romanian as Horatio drove towards her martini bar that had been open less than two months. The martini bar was only a few blocks away from US Cellular Field, home of the Chicago White Sox. At the ball park, the players were getting ready for the game against the Chicago Cubs. The White Sox won the night before and were poised to repeat during the afternoon game.
Toula was readying herself for overflow of patrons from the well established drinking holes of White Sox fans. Toula believed that blue collar baseball fans, would like something different. She was right. Many people in the area liked the idea of a bar where martinis were served. Toula served beer but it was beer from Greece. Many were reluctant to try the beer because they could not read the label. It looked too foreign to them.
Horatio told toula in their Romanian dialect, that he had a really nice woman who
was all alone in Chicago and that she needed a place to help her feel better while she waited for her son to be released from jail. Horatio explained about the accident that her husband was in and the discovery of an affair too. Horatio believed that Toula could help. Toula had the ability to make people forget whatever was on their mind for a while as they watched and listened to her speak and gesture. Toula appeared to dance as she walked and she spoke poetically and cryptically.
“What do you believe, my beautiful friend?”
“Do you mean faith? I was raised Catholic…”
“You were raised Catholic… That means that someone had imposed their faith upon you at an early age and you have yet to decide for yourself, what it is you believe…People who know me call me Queen Toula.”
Toula had lived in New Orleans for ten years and while there, she became interested in a Voodoo museum in the French Quarter. Toula herself lived on Dumaine, down the street from the museum. Toula became very involved in Voodoo and believed with all her being in it’s powers.
Toula cut a lemon peel from a lemon as she spoke to Glad. Glad sat on a bar stool at the bar. Nobody had come in as of yet, it was still morning. Toula proceeded to make two martinis for Glad. One was made of apple and the other pear. Toula explained that she was a bonified Voodoo priestess. Glad was sceptical. Toula knew that Glad lived a pretty straight forward life and that Voodoo sounded make believe.
Toula locked the front door and took Glad to a room in the back that had statues, beads and candles burning. It was called a gris-gris room. Behind that was a former closet that was turned into an alter room. Around the alter were notes, locks of hair, trinkets, photographs. Glad was impressed.
“Give me something that represents you…”
Glad took out a photograph of herself that she thought made her look very attractive. She kept it with her for days when she felt ugly. Glad would take it out and look at the photograph and feel better about what she looked like. Toula began to blink and held the photo close to her cleavage. Rhythmic music played in the back ground. It seemed African. A lot of drums and a tamborine and some call and response in a foreign language. Toula began to dance in a circle. Her summer dress clung to her as she got sweaty. Toula had the body of a teenager. She was wiry strong and very fit looking. The trance like dance went on for several minutes. Glad kneeled in the corner and watched. The music sped to a frenzy and then it stopped. Toula dropped to the ground in a pool of her own sweat. Glad thought that she had collapsed and came to her aid. Toula looked up with piercing eyes and grabbed Glad by the chin so that she would carefully hear all that she was about to say.
“You have to believe me without doubt… Do you understand? You have been racked with self doubt your whole life. You have gone day to day feeling as though you were never good enough. You have let others walk on you and you have wallowed in your self pity… You are going to change all that beginning today. It starts now…”
Glad took a drink of the martini that was mixed to perfection. It was an apple martini that was tart yet sweet. She guzzled the martini down and then took a sip of the pear martini. Glad had always hated the texture of pears. It made her skin break out into goose bumps whenever she bit into a pear. Apples never had that effect on her but pears did. Glad took a sip and broke out into goose bumps. She told Toula that she could not drink it. Toula with a stern face and intense eyes, pushed the drink back into her hand.
“You must drink it… It is part of the gris-gris… Do you want this to work? Do you want to believe that change is possible? Then drink it…”
Glad wolfed it down and felt nothing more than buzzed. All that Glad had to eat were a bag of cookies that she bought at the airport in Detroit. That had been hours ago. The drinks hit her immediately. Toula left Glad in the room to reflect on what would be different from that point on. Toula went back to conjure up two more martinis. One apple the other pear.

Glad sat on a bar stool and ate peanuts out of a bag and sipped martinis. She had
one pear and one apple. At noon time, Glad was on her sixth martini. There was a band of young black men, playing jazz fused funk for the patrons that were downing a few drinks prior to going to see the White Sox take on the Cubs at US Cellular Field. Nobody spoke with Glad and Toula was racing around making sure that everyone had drinks with her two man staff. It was their busiest day. Toula would be able to pay the rent with just that one day. Within an hour, the people filed out and the band sat at the bar to have a drink. The band was taking a break until after the game. One of the men in the band was a man named Anthony. Anthony was a tall black man of nearly fifty years of age. He had the body and energy of a man half his age. He wore bib overalls with a tank top t shirt underneath. He wore a White Sox hat and laughed heartily at everything said. He sat besides Glad and stuck up a conversation.
“Motown… Oh yes, oh yes. Spent mucho time in D town. Matter fact I lived just round the corner from Tigers Stadium in Corktown. Shit… It was dangerous foh a brotha in that hood. I member once driving my 1968 Chevy Impala down Michigan Avenue round bout there and some young brothers threw a brick through my passenger window. I’m just driving listening to some Marvin Gaye and the next thing I knew. I was wearing the glass of my passenger window and a brick sat on my lap… Hee hee hee… First I was
like… I’m gonna whoop me some ass and then I remembered me once dropping bricks from the overpass on the 94 back when I was a lad…Hee hee hee… God took while but he didn’t fo-get. He might take while to get back to you but all deeds will not be fo-gotten… All in all though, De-troit a good town. You want some good food… I mean really good foh the soul, honest to goodness, soul food to rest the soul and make you feel good foh living, there a restaurant off seven mile and a woman go by the name of Matilda… She was in her late fifties and built like a kettle… Pretty nuff smile and sweet as her sweet potato pie… I taste that food, that pie and I said to her, I done found the love of my life…hee -hee hee… Yes ma’am… Every time I got a gig in De-troit, I stop there… You probably ain’t never been round them parts… You probably from way out west somewhere… I’m right ain’t I girl? Yes sir… north and west, way far way from the hood… I ain’t hating though. You all got nice homes, nice restaurants and people obey the speed limits… Hee hee hee… What brings you to the south side of Chicago?”
Glad did not hold back. She took a good half hour to tell Anthony about her relationship with her husband, problems with her son, her lack of sex and low self asteem. Glad told Anthony about her plan to get into shape and eat better. She told Anthony that she was going to internet date and find a good man to be with who really appreciated her. All Anthony could think about was having a casual romp with a sexually frustrated woman. It did not matter if she was a bit homely and unfit. Anthony had a thing for women with smaller waists and large asses. He always marvelled at that phenomena of nature. A twenty inch waist and thirty eight inch hips with buttocks large enough to set a drink upon it.
Anthony used to believe in monogamy and fought hard to be exclusive to his wife. It was during a six month job working on a cruise ship that things changed for Anthony. He had been working with three young women from Sweden who believed that if you wanted to have sex, it was possible to do without having any other feelings other than sexual attraction. Anthony understood their point of view and quickly adopted it. Anthony’s wife was not so understanding or tolerant. It had been nearly ten years since his divorce. Anthony was much happier and really appreciated the variety and more than happy to not slog through the mundane necessities of day to day life, with each woman he met. That was for their husbands.
“Come on… It’s much more comfortable upstairs…” said Anthony as he lead Glad up the stairs.
At that moment, the White Sox had scored three runs in the sixth inning and were
ahead. There was still about an hour or so until the hoards returned either despondent or euphoric over the outcome of the game.
Glad had never been attracted to black men. There was something too raw about them in all facets of who they were. Of course Glad tried to be open minded and tried not judge all blacks the same but she could not help it. Black men were scary and strong and when they had their minds up to rob or rape you, it would be done. Black women were sexual too. Glad had decided that all black women constantly ooze sexuality in how they look, talk and dress for nothing more than attention from black men. Anthony was the exception.
Anthony thought about sex every twenty seconds like any boy with an extremely high libido. Being nearly fifty years of age, Anthony learned that he could have all that he wanted by being nice, attentive and patient. It nearly worked every time. White women would talk and drink and before they knew it, Anthony was just like white men. He wasn’t so scary after all. It was the same with Glad. Glad never panicked as Anthony helped her remove all her clothes. Glad never panicked either when Toula walked into the room and joined them in the bed. Glad kept her eyes closed and enjoyed her sexual spontaneity more than any sexual experience she had ever had before. After nearly an hour, Anthony dressed and went down to start playing again with the band as customers began to return. Toula too dressed and headed down. She took Glad’s chin in the palm of her hand and asked her if she felt better. Glad felt much better. In fact she masterbated again while the post game interview went on. White Sox won 4-3 against the Cubs. The booze would flow like water in Bridgeport that night.
Glad fell asleep for close to a half hour. The sound of the drums and bass woke her from her slumber. She dressed and made her way down the stairs. The room was shoulder to shoulder and required some tunnelling in order to get through the door. Toula was feverishly mixing drinks and Anthony had his eyes closed while playing a Stan Getz tune on his tenor saxophone. Neither Anthony nor Toula noticed Glad leave and within a few days, they both forgot they had met her. They both meet so many people everyday.

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