Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 13

"How do you know them?"

Mitch exhaled, knowing it'd be painful in parts to tell his story, but it would be a load off his mind when he was done. "It's a long story, but I'll be glad to tell you. I just need to try to remember where to start. I don't want to keep any secrets from you about my life, and especially not the recent past." He took another deep breath before beginning.

"I said last night that I watched a lot of BBC porn and had a lot of whiteboi sex. I was married, but my wife and I didn't have sex very often. I just wasn't into her. All I was into was my handpussy, my dildo, my lube, and endless BBC porn. I used to catch the subway up to Harlem and just sit in a park or a coffee shop, watching the sexy thugs. I'd check out their muscles and imagine what they were packing downstairs, knowing that I'd never find out in real life. And I fucked myself every spare private moment I ever got, but it meant that whenever my wife wanted to fool around, I was never in the mood. On the rare occasions we had sex, the only way I could cum was to think about BBC. I wasn't interested in her sexually, but I guess we were still friends. I mean, we were married and living together, so if sex wasn't going to work, I wanted to at least make sure our friendship was OK, otherwise life would've been grim. But as I slowly began to work out, my concessions to our increasingly platonic relationship were in vain. To put it simply, she turned out to be a total psycho bitch who took every available opportunity to humiliate and belittle me, often in front of her own friends. My self-confidence and self-esteem were crushed, and I'm sure she knew exactly what she was doing to me. She got off on it. We're divorced now, by the way, and we're not friends. The only contact we've had lately is through legal channels, and I don't really care whether I ever see her again or not."

Brontë let out a low, sympathetic whistle. "That sounds fucking terrible, babe. Why'd you marry her in the first place? Why'd you tolerate that shit?"

"Yeah. Good questions, but I'm not sure if I have answers. I should probably write it all down one day as a form of therapy. Or maybe I should see a psychologist. Anyway, I'll tell you all about her later. She doesn't matter right now. I know you're asking about something else."

Mitch collected his thoughts once more.

"We went out to dinner one night. Me and Trina, that is. In terms of our relationship, this is before the worst of it all -- at this point, we were still on reasonably friendly terms. We each had busy jobs, but one thing we liked to do to unwind on weekends was to go out for dinner. Trina usually picked the place, which meant we'd end up at some kind of oddball Lithuanian / Indonesian / Panamanian / Antarctic fusion bullshit where the food comes out as untouchable works of art that you feel guilty about eating, until you push your fork in and discover everything is completely flavourless. Anyway, one night, I insisted on picking the restaurant, and I took her to a diner in Harlem. On the way to the restaurant, two thugs bumped into me on the sidewalk. It wasn't until we'd eaten and the check arrived that I realised my wallet had disappeared. Trina had left all her cards at home, so we had no way to pay. I tried to explain it to the cashier, and her response was to call in some muscle to shake me down. I got taken out back by two thugs. I eventually realised that these were the guys that bumped into me on the sidewalk. They stole my wallet and they were about to give it back, minus the cash that was in it, of course, but they toyed with me for a few long minutes. They made me sit in a chair while they stood over me, intimidating me, and their groins were directly in my line of sight. It was intoxicating. I saw the outlines of their cocks and my mouth started watering. They let me go and I settled the check on credit, but I jacked off twice when I got home. I got off that night on being intimidated, belittled, demeaned by two men with fit, alpha physiques and BBCs to match. I would've kissed their boots if they'd asked me to."

"These were the two guys we saw in the street?" asked Brontë.

"Yeah. The one in the Bulls singlet was Tyrone, the other is Leroy. Tyrone's cock is ten inches, and Leroy's is nine. I learned this because the diner had my cell number from the reservation, and they used it to text me dick pics. I jacked off to the pics they sent me that night. A few days later, I set up a Grindr account, and I started spending more and more of my free time in Harlem, just sitting in cafés and bars, watching the sexy men. A few days later, I'm sitting in a booth in a Harlem bar. I was on my own, quietly reading a book. Tyrone and Leroy were sitting in a separate booth. They see me and holler at me to join them. They buy me drinks and next thing, I've got Leroy's BBC in my hand, stroking him under the table. His dick was the first BBC I ever touched in real life. It was so hot that I came in my pants. They took me to Tyrone's place nearby to clean me up, and that's where the fun started. I sucked their dicks, and they nutted all over my face before fucking my ass. Even though they were big, I could take them, even though it still hurt. I think by this time they both knew they had a serious BBC addict on the hook, and they'd decided to reel me in and play with me."

Brontë continued listening.

"Next time I saw 'em was after they invited me up to Harlem to drink with them at the same bar. I probably shouldn't call it an invitation, it was much closer to a demand, and I dropped everything I was doing, including leaving work unacceptably early, in the hope of getting some BBC action that night. After a few drinks, the party moved to Tyrone's, and I was horny as fuck. I got some action that night, but not the kind of action I expected. They handcuffed me to a pole before fishing my wallet and phone out of my pants. They were practically mugging me in Tyrone's own apartment. They dominated me, including Tyrone making me nut in my pants again, until I gave them the code for my phone. They went through all the shit on my phone, and they found the photos they'd sent me that night after the diner. They told me I was meant to delete them, but I didn't remember them telling me that. As punishment, they slapped the fuck out of my ass. I was still manacled to the pole. The pain was nearly intolerable, but a part of me got off on being treated like a piece of meat. And then they fucked the absolute shit out of me and made a mess of my face. Now here's the strange bit. After all this terrorising sex, they led me to Tyrone's mattress and I felt so relaxed that, for a moment, I fell asleep for a few minutes. They woke me up, packed me up and sent me back home -- they didn't let me stay over that night -- but as I caught the night train back home, I decided that if being humiliated and hurt was part of the BBC experience, I could live with it, just so long as there was a little love and affection at the end."

"How was your ass?"

Mitch laughed at the recollection. "Sore. The train was almost empty, I could've sat anywhere, but I chose to stand. And then when I showered at home, I nearly screamed as the warm water ran across where they'd spanked me. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I swear I could see palm marks from where they made contact."

For Brontë, pain and humiliation was no part of a healthy sexual relationship. He wasn't a psychologist, but maybe it made sense at that point in Mitch's life. It sounded like his wife was a complete bitch intent on destroying Mitch's self-esteem.

"It feels strange, looking back," Mitch continued, "but soon enough, it felt like they began to respect me. Their need to inflict pain on me and humiliate me kind of went away. Sure, I was always inferior to them, especially sexually, but they began to notice that I had feelings. I remember drinking with them one night when things with Trina were at a very low ebb. I asked them whether they themselves had ever been married. Their response was something like 'why the fuck would we tie ourselves down when we've got these big black dicks to swing around?' I remember Leroy declaring that 'marriage is for weak men with small dicks', and I lost my shit. I left the bar, cried in the alley, and he came out to apologise. I could tell he was being genuine and sincere. He knew he'd overstepped the mark, but I was in no mood to accept his words at that time. I went home, crying my eyes out, but I eventually calmed down and got some perspective. Leroy texted me later that night, apologising again, and they pleaded with me to come back to Harlem. The three of us had the most incredible sex that night. I began by teasing them, and they responded. They were still dominant, but it was consensual, and that was exactly what I wanted. I stayed at Tyrone's crib that night, sleeping in between them in his bed."

"I'm curious about Tyrone and Leroy," said Brontë. "Are they in a relationship?"

"Fuck no," Mitch replied, having absolutely no idea what had happened just last night. "They've been best friends since they were in elementary school, but not once did I ever see any sexual gestures or feelings pass between them. And to them, there was nothing 'gay' about having sex with me. Initially, I was just a pair of holes, but even as they became more emotionally generous towards me, they continued swapping tales between them about the hoes they were railing. Leroy jacked me off that morning -- he only needed his thumb and forefinger -- but if someone had asked him if jerking me off made him gay, he'd probably punch them in the face."

Brontë wondered whether the two thugs saw Mitch as a man. Probably not. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"You said they became more emotionally generous towards you, but did they ever call you by your name? I'm only asking because today in the street, not once did they ever call you anything but 'whiteboi'."

Mitch pondered. "I don't know, maybe they did once or twice. I can't remember clearly. To them, I was always 'whiteboi', and I knew they got off on the racial distinction, but I was OK with that, because I did too. I just wanted their attention and their cocks. I didn't need to have a name. Besides, if it made it easier for them to fuck 'whiteboi' instead of 'Mitch', I wasn't about to let names get in the way of a good fuck. But at the same time, they became curious about my relationship with Trina. They asked about my hobbies and interests, and they asked me about a typical day in my life. They wouldn't have asked about any of that if I was just a pair of holes."

Brontë nodded. He didn't judge.

"There was one day, the three of us were drinking in a bar, and they were genuinely trying to get to know me as a person, when we got interrupted by a gunman. Everyone in the bar cowered under a table but me. I don't know what I was thinking that day, I must've been fucking crazy, but I stood up and confronted him."

"The man with the gun?"

"Yeah. I walked towards him and showed him I refused to be intimidated. Fear got the better of him, and he fled. Everyone in the bar thought I was a hero, but I wasn't. At that time in my life, with everything turning to shit with Trina, I didn't really care whether I lived or died. My life felt cheap, expendable and pointless, and it probably wouldn't have made any difference to the history of the world if I died that day, but my tiny act of resistance made Leroy and Tyrone think differently about me. I don't think for a second that I saved their lives, but they thought I did."

Brontë imagined watching the TV news that night. 'Some crazy-brave whiteboi idiot got himself shot at point blank range for no discernible reason in a Harlem bar this afternoon ...'

"Oh," Mitch continued, remembering, "and this was around the time Trina and I had sex for the last time. She called me a faggot -- I *hate* that word -- so I pushed her onto the bed and fucked her in the ass. She'd never been fucked in the ass before, so I'm kind of proud that that I took her anal virginity. She came so hard she squirted all over the mattress."

Brontë's eyes began to boggle. This was a monumental amount of information to take in, but the thought of Mitch being dominant in bed was enough to make his dick twitch a little. He'd have to see if he could push that button some time.

"I called Tyrone that night, telling him what had happened. It was over between me and that bitch. I said I didn't want to be with her that night, or anymore ever for that matter, and that I was going to check into a hotel. I can't remember how it all panned out exactly, but instead of checking into a hotel, I spent the night with Tyrone, and he fucked me. Next morning, I was heading back to my apartment when bumped into Leroy in the lobby. I should've mentioned that he and Tyrone live in the same building; I forgot to mention that. Anyway, after Leroy fucked me that morning and I started heading back home, I passed a tattoo place. That's when I got my Jack of Spades ink. After being railed by Tyrone the night before and Leroy the next morning, getting marked for life felt appropriate. My addiction to BBC was now a reality. They began to get to know me as an individual, but when it came to sex, I was still their toy. I won't bore you with the details, but I had a lot of sex with these dudes as my marriage disintegrated and slipped away. One night, I was drinking with them when they had a massive disagreement which was all my fault. I felt terrible that night, and when I woke up the next day, I still felt awful. I felt like I'd lost my marriage as well as any hope of being more deeply connected with Tyrone or Leroy. As it turned out, all of these things came to be true, but I didn't know it at the time. Anyway, to clear my head that morning, I went to the art gallery."

"MoMA?" asked Brontë.

"Fuck yeah," Mitch replied. "That was the day we first met. I thought looking at the art might help me make sense of all the chaos in my life. I had no idea I'd end up on my knees in the bathroom getting my face painted by your big black cock."

"That was a good day," Brontë declared.

"The best," Mitch agreed. He kissed his boyfriend on the cheek.

Brontë propped his frame up on one elbow. "I need you to know," he said, "right from the get-go, that you ain't ever gonna get the same kind of experience from me that you got from those two guys. Sure, I like to be dominant in bed, but I ain't ever gonna chain you to a pole and slap your ass. I ain't ever gonna lift your wallet or scroll through your phone. You're a beautiful soul, Mitch, and I'm glad to be lying next to you right now. I love drinking your rainbow cum, and if I'm not being too forward with you, your story about fucking your ex-wife in the ass made me twitch. You can fuck me any time you want."

Mitch felt unsure. "That was a hatefuck, and I don't want to go to that place again. Especially not with you. Is that OK?"

"Of course it is," Brontë replied. "And I know this is a big ask, but one day, I'd love to watch you having whiteboi sex."

"Really? You wanna watch me fuck myself in the ass while I watch BBC porn?"

"Yeah," Brontë replied. "Watching you fuck yourself would get me so fucking hard."

Mitch blushed. "Sure. That could be fun."

Brontë imagined Mitch pushing his big black dildo in as far as he could, his sphincter nearly screaming as it stretched like elastic. He imagined Mitch sissygasming, drenching his stomach, chest and face with gallons of delicious rainbow cum. "Actually, I'm getting a little hard now, just thinking about it."

Mitch was in heaven. He felt totally accepted in every single way.

"By the way," Brontë explained, "that day at MoMA, I walked into the bathroom with you that day because something unexplained seemed to have passed between us. Nobody ever expects to reconnect after an anonymous blowjob, especially not me, but minutes later, we were back looking at the paintings as if nothing had happened. I asked you if you wanted to grab a coffee and I gave you my number, but fuck, like, I never fucking do that."

Mitch leaned over and kissed Brontë slowly, deeply and passionately. "OK, so you don't give out your number," he asked, "which is cool, but how often do you get your dick sucked in public bathrooms?" Mitch was joking. Brontë could tell by the way Mitch tried to put on a deadly serious face, but failed completely. "I think this is crucially important information for me to have in the context of you and me going forward."

"I don't expect you to believe me when I tell you that's the only time since college that I've done that," Brontë replied, "but it's true. Babe, you might never understand just how hot you looked that day. I guess I must've had some kind of feeling about you, and I was hoping you'd call. I remember you waited three days ..."

"That's the unspoken rule," Mitch interrupted. He reached down to tickle Brontë's nutsack.

"... before you texted me. Do you remember we met up for a drink, and we asked each other a few questions?"

"Yeah," Mitch replied. He'd never forget that day. "I remember. It felt like we were speed-dating!"

"Do you remember you asked me what my favourite movie of all time was?"

"Yeah", said Mitch. "Of course I do. 'Pride and Prejudice', wasn't it?"

"You're lucky you're so goddamn cute," whispered Brontë, "or I'd be kickin' your juicy fat ass to the kerb right now on account of crimes against artistry."

"'The Shawshank Redemption'," Mitch recalled.

Brontë's eyes smiled. "Seen it yet?"

Mitch shook his head. "No. Been waiting for you to ask me to watch it with you. But why is it so good?"

"I have a strong no-spoilers policy, but it's on at the Roxy tonight. A retro screening. Would you like to come with me?"

"Buy me some popcorn and a soda?" pleaded Mitch.

"Soda is cool," Brontë suggested, "but I'm not sure if it's a popcorn-friendly film."

"I need to make it clear I'm not coming if there isn't popcorn," Mitch pouted. "Otherwise, it isn't a proper date."

Brontë purchased the movie tickets on his phone before making dinner reservations at a nearby restaurant. He'd buy the popcorn and soda when they arrived at the cinema. "I love you babe."

Mitch couldn't have grinned any harder if he tried. "I love you too."

They kissed before taking a quick, peaceful nap, lying side by side. Brontë pulled the curtain to keep out the sun, and Mitch draped an arm across his boyfriend's chest.

They had a movie to watch tonight.