2 White Wives & 2 Black Men Ch. 05

At first, I considered getting the tattoo on my lower back or maybe even somewhere on the butt. I even had a fleeting idea about a private location in my pelvic area, but both tattoo artists warned me that it's crazy painful and takes forever to heal.

All of a sudden, it hit me -- a tattoo right above my right ankle would be so dang sexy. Can't recall where I got that notion. I suppose I overlooked how much you enjoy me wearing all those short-shorts or miniskirts and the fact that my badass new tattoo would always be on display, no matter where we are. My judgment was off; whatever we'd been smoking in the hotel suite had me still feeling loopy.

Jacquie was dead set on getting the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The design would match mine, just a tad smaller. She mentioned needing to wear a bracelet every day to keep it under wraps at work. It felt like a heavy commitment, and logically, it wasn't the most sensible sacrifice, but a compelling force drew us to get these tattoos anyway.

"I can't help but notice you both have some nice bling on your ring fingers!" Alenka remarked saucily, clearly relishing the implications of her statement. "You know, Tyreeq's crew keeps bringing 'round all these young and gorgeous wives to get this tattoo. What are your husbands thinking? Are they really into this kind of thing?"

Jacquie rolled her eyes in response and laughed, "Oh, yeah. My husband's a sick puppy, and Monica's husband is messed up in the head, too."

Alenka winked, "Don't get me wrong; I have the exact same type physically. But I prefer an educated brother over these South Side gangbangers. My boyfriend is a tall Jamaican studying at the University of Toronto up in Canada. I haven't broken the news to my racist southern dad just yet."

Alenka discreetly glanced at her father, checking to make sure he hadn't picked up on her whispered comments.

Jacquie responded with a deep sigh, "There's just something so fascinating about their authentic and vibrant culture. I think I have a soft spot for ghetto boys. Good girls secretly want a thug, right?"

Alenka let out a sharp laugh, "Trust me, these black boys are just bad enough to keep things interesting."

Since my tattoo would be on my lower calf above the ankle, they had me lay back, raising the leg rest on the chair. Remember, I was wearing that super short Bulls jersey dress, and there was no way I could stop myself from flashing Ray in that position. To my relief, he remained completely professional. After preparing all the equipment, Ray cleaned the area with a sterilizing wipe and applied the stencil. After doing this, he let me go look in the mirror to ensure the placement was exactly how I wanted it. Once I saw the outline of the design above my ankle, I was way more enthusiastic than scared and was ready to get started.

Ray did the outline first. I was stiff as a board when he first started, but I quickly realized that the pain wasn't that bad. The discomfort was no worse than tweezing an eyebrow! As he progressed, he diligently applied ointment to keep the tattoo moist. Once he finished the outline, I got to look in the mirror again and was getting more and more joyous by the minute. But my joy was quickly killed when he told me he had to do the whole outline again. Ray didn't like the way it was taking, so he decided to use a bigger needle. Needless to say, I wasn't too pleased.

The pain intensified when Ray switched to the new needle, but redoing the outline was quicker. Following a short break, he delved into the intricate filling process, a relentless ordeal of suffering. With each prick, the agony surged. Ray, sensing my pain threshold, orchestrated a strategic dance of the needle, periodically moving to a new location and granting brief reprieves before plunging me back into the abyss. Just as I had feared, getting a tattoo turned out to be pure torture!

Ray reminisced between tattoo strokes, "This right here miscegenation's proof the world's a better place. When I was growin' up in West Virginia, the mere notion of your woman with a black feller in her past near 'bout as scandalous as a raccoon in the henhouse. If a girl had just one black date back in twelfth grade ending with a lil' peck on the cheek, it woulda rendered her as untouchable as plutonium! Let alone had she ever screwed a negro!"

I agreed and poured my emotions into a heartfelt speech, "Yeah, I'm super glad things have changed because these black guys are awesome! If someone has a problem with us being together, they can respect our choices or keep their opinions to themselves. I gotta say, black men are so freakin' hot!"

Ray responded with genuine warmth, "Well, ya know, I'm real happy for ya. Y'all make a dadgum good-lookin' couple, or however y'all are mixin' it up with this bunch."

Babe, guess what?! I'm officially inked! The whole thing took about an hour, and my tattoo is roughly 3×4 inches in size. When I finally laid eyes on it, I was thrilled. It turned out even better than I thought and was totally worth the pain.

The black guys went wild, hooting and hollering for our "QOS" tattoos. They said these tats made us even more gorgeous in their eyes.

FINALLY! My FIRST tattoo!!!! It's empowering and beautiful to have a customized piece of art on myself, and having that art memorialized forever is an experience unlike anything else. So that was the big secret--I've now disclosed permanent change #2. I know it might be a bit surprising, but please don't be upset!

PART 16: THE CLUB

It was a bone-chilling 0°F, and Jacquie's whorish neon green dress showed a scandalous amount of skin and was so short, it hardly concealed her bum -- talk about brave in freezing temps! And as if that wasn't daring enough, she kept her end of the bargain and was still "going commando" and not wearing any panties! I'll bet her vagina was freezing! My hoo-ha was certainly cold from being molested by the icy night air. My dress? Well, its hemline was merely an inch below my crotch, and my crotchless panties were more an illusion of coverage than actual insulation. Thank goodness that the sidewalks in downtown Chicago had been cleared of snow; otherwise, we'd be risking our lives teetering in those 5-inch stilettos, clattering toward the dance club like cheap hookers. Oh my god, we were so cold!

Jacquie strolled hand in hand with DeShawn and Lavonte up ahead while Abdi and I tagged behind. Two white girls paired with two (or more) black guys attracted attention everywhere we went, and I was beginning to relish the sideways glances and disapproving stares. I couldn't ignore the contrast not only in our skin tones but also in the amount of clothing we had on. The guys were decked out in their puffy jackets, baggy jeans, and Timberlands, ready for the icy weather, while we were barely wearing any clothes at all! Talk about a stark contrast in more ways than one! It felt a tad unfair, considering us ladies are perpetually freezing, bravely facing the cold night air in our super-micro-mini dresses!!!!

Wobbling in 5-inch heels, I clung to Abdi for dear life on the icy sidewalk as we reached PRYSM. A massive line snaked behind the velvet rope outside despite the freezing weather. As we neared the entrance, a mix of perfumes and colognes, charged with the electric vibe of excitement, mingled with the crisp night air. The black guys chatted with the doormen, who happened to share their melanin-rich skin, while we shivered in the cold. I pondered if DeShawn and Abdi were buddies with them, scoring us free entry, or if, against all odds, they had somehow paid for bottle service despite the appearance of not having very much money.

Once inside the nightclub's entrance, the thumping bass hit me like a physical force. Hostesses, clad in eye-popping attire, welcomed us with beaming smiles, their voices drowned by the immersive beats. Another set of doors was graciously opened for us as we stepped into the club, and it felt like entering the epicenter of a bass-heavy hurricane! Boom, boom, boom -- the music was so loud it could have woken the dead. Lasers fired in all directions like a maniacal incandescent storm as saccharine smoke pumped out from below.

The club was truly an experience like no other. They made us feel like real celebrities. The seasoned hostesses, weaving through the sea of bodies, confidently escorted us through the club. Beside us, security personnel, easily identifiable in black T-shirts, dress slacks, and headsets, formed an entourage emphasizing our status as part of an elite group within the club. Through a somewhat confusing maze and up a set of stairs, we found ourselves in the VIP area on the mezzanine, overlooking the dance floor below.

Hey, remember our college clubbing days from 5 or 6 years ago? Hostesses in sexy minidresses were the norm, but guess what's in style at clubs now? These hostesses, or "bottle girls," are strutting around in high-cut leotards paired with fishnet tights! They are bending over in people's faces and having to maneuver in very tight spaces in these outfits! Wild, right? It's a tad peculiar having these ladies wander through a crowd of fully-clothed adults in what's essentially a bathing suit. And get this--they call it a uniform. Times have seriously changed!

The VIP area was PACKED! Most of the clubgoers gathered in large groups around the stylish, low-slung U-shaped sofas dividing the sections of tables, with only a few bothering to take a seat. The sophisticated décor sparkled in enchanting purple hues. Ambient lighting strips beneath and around each booth emitted an ethereal glow, infusing an otherworldly touch into the fabulous scene. Above, on the ceiling, crisscrossing beams of light formed captivating Xs at various angles. The air hummed with a fusion of excitement and exclusivity, making this VIP haven the ultimate hotspot to see and be seen. Below, the dance floor was a sea of people and pulsated with an electrifying energy.

DeShawn, Abdi, and Lavonte rendezvoused with about a dozen other black guys at the center of the VIP, encircled by an equal or greater number of stunning blondes and brunettes, all younger than us. They clustered around a table adorned with bottles of Grey Goose and Cristal. Meanwhile, the dazzling VIP hostesses in their skimpy uniforms worked their magic, delivering top-notch bottle service with premium picks, mixers, and extra perks. Glasses clinked, champagne bottles popped, and a luxurious ambiance filled the air and fused into an unforgettable overall party atmosphere!

The instant I heard, "It's Britney, bitch," I knew it was MY MOMENT. I went absolutely crazy, kicked off my stilettos, and climbed up on the lounge-style seating. Then Jacquie removed her heels and started dancing on the sofa cushions beside me. We were dancing up a storm, going absolutely wild!! Adrenaline surged, and I was riding a wave of euphoria. Someone kept pouring me Vodka Red Bulls. In no time, a couple of the other girls hopped on the sofa and started dancing beside us. The sense of female camaraderie was intense and immediate. We showed off our raunchiest dance moves and could shake, grind, and hair flip as much as we wanted with escalating levels of ridiculousness!

Otherwise, the VIP mezzanine had your usual suspects--super douchey investment bankers, commodity traders, and private equity types, blond guys predictably clad in tailored sports jackets, button-ups, and slim-fitting designer jeans, all playing the part of high rollers. Yet, our section was the outlier, boasting tough-looking black guys in urban streetwear who somehow got a free pass on the dress code. They could have passed for rappers or pro athletes, and it was a mystery how they were able to throw money around like they were, although I had my suspicions about the source of their income.

For the ladies, the currency was confidence, and the dress code was, well, as daring as you dared it to be! We certainly weren't underdressed for the club in terms of how revealing our attire was. This was a nightclub, after all! Dressing like a total slut is practically the dress code, right?! Surrounded by young women flaunting serious skin, we didn't really stand out. The catch? While other girls donned slightly risqué, on-trend, and high-priced dresses, my best friend was wearing what was obviously a stripper dress with the quality of fabric and stitching to match its $39.99 price tag. As for me, I was in a second-hand NBA jersey dress, a fashion relic from the early 2000s. Why were we dressed in this questionable style? No clue! DeShawn had forced us to wear these trashy outfits!

The girls in our group were simply breathtaking, surrounding us in a whirl of long legs bedecked in ultra-short figure-hugging dresses--a tempting lure for deep-pocketed guys. At first glance, I categorized them as the paid-to-party, aspiring model, or gold-digger types, assuming they were low-IQ women hunting for a sugar daddy amid the bottle service extravagance. Imagine my shock when I struck up conversations and discovered that at least half of these girls were Ivy League college students back home for the weekend. Not only that, but they had "smarter" majors like business, engineering, and pre-med. Talk about shattering expectations!

Jacquie and I clicked instantly with Ally, Sophie, Emma, Madison, Audrey, Tricia, and Charlotte. All of them embraced the stereotypical blonde "sorority girl" look, except for Tricia, who was, to put it mildly, a Greek stunner, and Audrey, an aloof Asian hottie. Both flaunted long, voluptuous raven-black hair cascading halfway down their backs.

The music was crazy loud in the club, and we could hardly hear each other. I leaned into Ally, covered my hand around her ear, and screamed what I wanted to say. Then, she did the same when it was her turn. That's how our convo went as we tried to chat in the middle of all the noise and fun!

Ally gushed, "I just absolutely adore your vintage Bulls sports dress! Where did you ever manage to find it?"

"I'm actually more of a Celtics fan since I grew up near Boston. I'm only wearing this because DeShawn wanted me to."

Ally leaned in closer and hit me with the question: "Can I ask you something very personal? Are you and Jacquelyn actually hotwives?"

I wasn't familiar with the term yet and responded, a bit puzzled, "Oh, totally! We're wives, and we're not with our husbands! You know, both of us are married, double-income, no kids, at least not yet."

Ally looked surprised and said, "Wow, so your hubby actually gets off on you being fucked by black guys? That's hilarious! I bet he's as turned on by black dick as much as you are! You're like the older generation that was born in the '90s. For your generation, half of what you get off on is the interracial taboo. I swear to God!"

I didn't bother correcting her that I was actually born in December 1989 and just replied, "White girls having sex with black guys is a bit on the taboo side, don't you think? The whole contrast in skin color?"

Ally explained, "That's the difference between millennials and Gen Z. For the younger generation, we grew up with interracial couples in movies, TV, and commercials nonstop. Nowadays, white girls are confident that society wants us to get with a 'black king.' It's almost like we're being encouraged."

"Wow, so it's, like, just expected?" I asked in surprise.

Ally answered, "Yeah, exactly. I'm not one to buy into conspiracy theories, but it seems like they're pushing rap songs to the top of the charts that carry a certain message. Don't get it twisted, I absolutely love Megan Thee Stallion, and I'm totally obsessed with her Tina Snow EP, but when I'm with my high school girls, doing our makeup, dancing around, and mouthing the lyrics to our pump-up music: 'Like a fucking charm / Make a nigga cum quick like I fucking owe him,' I start wondering what listening to this stuff is doing to our brains. Those kinds of lyrics put things in a young girl's mind! I'm not saying it's a bad thing; it just feels like society is telling us to have sex with black men, you know, like it's the expectation. There's no taboo, nothing forbidden about going out with a black guy. We see it as something that's just a nice thing to do. White girls know black guys just 'hit' different, that's all. We also know we're going to be in for a very satisfying fuck."

Suddenly, it felt like this story was too recent, and the details weren't adding up. I asked, "Hold on a second, how old are you? When did you start dating black guys?"

Ally beamed, "I'm 18 years old, I slipped into this club with a fake ID. I'm like the baby of this group; the rest of these girls are in college. My first boyfriend? He was white. But you know how it is; most of my high school friends were hooking up with black guys, so I thought, why not give it a try? Just one date and I'm totally ruined for anything else now!"

"So, would you ever go out with a white boy again in the future, assuming you hit it off?" I asked, a bit scared to hear her answer to the question.

"Probably not," Ally admitted, shouting in my ear. "Uhh...you know we're all snow bunnies, right? I'm only attracted to black kings! White boys get so mad! They're always asking me out, and I have to tell them I only date black guys. Sorry, loser, I'm not being prejudiced; it's just my preference! The tricky part is, there aren't enough black men to go around. Honestly, there's like ten of us for every one of them. It feels like you're in this constant competition with other girls all the time. Gotta learn to share those niggaz! They definitely know how to manipulate the system and are all such total players!"

Suddenly, we hear the ultimate club anthem, the City Girls' "Twerk," leaving us with no option but to unleash our inner twerk masters and BOUNCE DAT ASS! You had to be there! Imagine the chaos! The four of us (me, Madison, Ally, and Charlotte) dropped down to our hands and knees, unleashing a frenzy of twerking on the floor, with the black guys erupting in cheers and tossing cash at our asses like they were in a strip club! If you recall, all our dresses were quite short; out of the corner of my eye, there was the flashing of brightly colored thongs everywhere. Perched on the couch, Jacquie was doing her best to twerk, mostly mimicking Sophie and Tricia next to her--those two were amazingly talented dancers!! They had the twerking skills of Cardi B and Nikki Minaj combined!!!

As the music transitioned from hip-hop to EDM, the vibe shifted back to us standing around and engaging in animated conversations.

Perhaps an introvert, Audrey carried herself with an air of haughtiness, standing a bit apart from the others. Even though she was a natural beauty, her Asian features were adorned with heavy makeup, and she seemed like the kind of chick who never left the house without high heels. There was something intimidating about her "bad girl" look, sporting a cropped lace bustier, a vast expanse of midriff, painted-on faux leather leggings, and chunky sky-high platform heels.

Given her standoffish attitude and ice-queen cold face, I was shocked when Audrey approached me, cupped a hand over my ear, and shouted a question in a friendly tone of voice. She gestured at the bandage neatly taped over my right ankle and asked, "Is that what I think it is? Is that a Queen of Spades tattoo?"

I nodded in agreement, and Audrey continued, "Oh, that's seriously fire! I want a Queen of Spades tattoo in that exact same spot! Maybe someday I'll get one when I marry a rich white dude who wants a hotwife to humiliate him, but for now, I've got something even sexier to show you!"

She grinned conspiratorially as she slowly pushed down the front of her black leggings and held them open so that I could peer inside, revealing a tattoo in a gothic font just above her vagina that read "Black Cock Only." Talk about shocking and unexpected!!!