tagInterracial LoveI Am a Racist Lesbian

I Am a Racist Lesbian


I'd only gone to see him to talk, I didn't have time to do anything else. I slipped out of my prior obligations to see if I could find him, which usually wasn't the easiest thing to do. By fate, or luck, or maybe pure coincidence, he was in the first place I looked, the same place he always was, where they all always were.

He was sitting with two other girls, one I knew, one I didn't. They were all eating diner chicken; talking about his inevitable obesity once his metabolism wore down at thirty. I sat down next to him, as close as I could (only to fit in the booth), and at the moment I wanted him to move over, but looking back on it I realize how much I appreciated the mundane intimacy.

We left, walked down the street, down another street, to nowhere in particular. We stopped near a school playground, we stood and talked.

"Why California?" he asked. His eyes were so dark and so rich and seemed so sincere. I kissed him, reminding myself of what he tasted like after months of hopelessly attempting to remember. He slipped his hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt and pulled me closer and everything seemed perfect, until the memory of his girlfriend invaded his thoughts and he pulled away, guiltily mentioning her name.

He was uncomfortable in the open, possibly paranoid, so we walked down a quiet sidestreet to an alley. We had a short conversation about slapping women, stealing bikes, and racist lesbianism before he led me into the back entrance of an apartment complex. We ended up in the building's laundry room. He was leaning against the washer and I held myself against him, it had been so long since I'd been that close to him. He reached up and turned the light off, and I had to beg him to turn it back on; I don't know why I didn't just do it myself. I told him I was afraid of the dark and he said he knew.

"You're shaking again," he whispered to me. The last time I was with him, I'd been shaking like mad, shivering and twitching with anxiety and nerves. He'd held me throughout the night and eventually his embrace had calmed me down. Again, he hugged me and tried to help me stay still. I suppose it could have been because I was more worried than usual - I had to be back within an hour, but I knew that I had no control over the situation past this point.

I stood there idly, watching his dark hands undoing the buttons on my blouse. He kissed my neck, my collarbone... he slipped my breasts out of the bra I was wearing, and he kissed them too. I told him I couldn't do this just then, to wait until Saturday, I'd see him on Saturday and do whatever he wanted, but his lips and fingers embraced my nipples and I was lost.

I hardly noticed that I'd been naked from the waist down before he slid his fingers inside me. I almost moaned, but for the moment I couldn't find my voice. He knelt and tasted me again after so long, until my knees became weak and I had to lean against the washer.

He stood and kissed me, but his flavour was coated with mine. When he asked me if I'd do something for him, I was reluctant to fall to my knees and take my turn. I didn't feel quite at ease, because I wasn't supposed to be there, and so much was riding on how well pleased he was with my performance, so at some points I couldn't handle him, and I was embarrassed at my inability, but he comforted me by stroking the back of my head.

I was in tears by then, terrified that nothing would turn out the way I needed it to, and that he didn't understand how I actually felt. I rested my head against his leg, pathetic as I tried to breathe against my sobbing. He helped me to stand and held me close for a bit. He lifted me onto the washer, I was a mess, but he looked into my eyes and for some reason I let him be inside me, I wanted him to be inside me, and there was nothing between us as he filled me all the way up through my heart, and I could hardly bare to open my eyes in fear that I might wake up.

I did open them though, only for a moment, I fixated on the contrast in our flesh. It was so vivid and so vibrant and so real...

He backed away from me and started muttering about "what was he doing". I sat still, I didn't know how to respond, or even if I should respond. He lifted me down and helped me dress, I watched his hands again as he redid the buttons on my shirt, and I tried to kiss him but he pulled away.

We left, he walked me to the train, he let me smoke his last cigarette, but I love him, I need him, and I still haven't seen him since...

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