See how much of this story do you think is true?
Way back in time my girlfriend and I split up, because of her determination to spend a "gap" year in London. We Aussies are essentially all cucks, because it is almost a rite of passage for our hottest girls to spend a year in London and fuck their brains out.
This s from my pre-Asian era.
=======================================
This was me in 1983, 28 years ago at time of writing. I was, what I would have described as an “alpha male”, but you, and most others, might have described as a crass, overbearing, misogynist asshole with way too high an opinion of himself. I realise now that I only really got my way sexually by employing a form of intellectual bullying and manipulation. I wasn’t intentionally nasty. I was just another insecure guy making his way, and I had the brains and insincerity to pull off all kinds of persuasion. I actually thought I was hung too, topping the 6” mark, with a degree of thickness. Intellectually I knew that penis sizes were generally exaggerated, and that I was probably above average (true to this day). And I fucked hard and long (although probably not well). And of course I knew that the large black penis size was an urban myth, because all intelligent people knew that.
I had a problem with my girlfriend. We had both just finished our undergraduate degrees at university (me in physics, and she in primary school teaching). Mandy was a lovely woman. She was soft, alabaster white-skinned, with waves of brown hair and ample breasts. She had a wonderful, kind spirit, and soft yielding nature. She had been my girlfriend for four years, but she had been my friend for even longer. We had gone to the same high school together before university.
The problem was that she wanted to take the traditional gap year in London, before her career, as so many Australian girls do. I didn’t want her to go. I was starting my postgraduate studies, so naturally thought she should stay to look after me in the tough, intellectually challenging time I faced. The layers of privilege and expectation that I had are almost impossible to describe – the expectation that she stay for me; that my physics was more important than her teaching; that if I couldn’t travel, then neither should she. We had our first real arguments, and I cringe to think back to how I tried to emotionally manipulate her. I made her cry more than once, but to her credit, she stood her ground and headed off to London in the New Year. I was left alone. Bitter, for a moment, then suddenly relieved that I was off the leash. I serious underappreciated that woman.
In her first weeks over there Mandy wrote to me every day, and we spoke on the phone together, ISD, as often as possible. Her communications were full of excitement and trepidation, detailed poetic descriptions, and a longing for me.
I then made an error. Or was it an error? Was it the turning point toward something good? Or did it even matter? As what happened next was possibly pre-destined anyway. I told her that we needn’t be exclusive in our relationships. We would be apart for a year, and perhaps we both needed to find some special friends near at hand. What this meant was, I had a hot little undergraduate fresher (hot and insane actually) named Kirsty that I wanted to fuck, and I didn’t want to be sneaking around to do it. The truth is, I thought things might work out between Kirsty and me, and that I could probably get Mandy back at the end of the year if it didn’t. I didn’t care that much.
Mandy was looking for digs, and as a temporary solution, moved from her hostel to an illegal squat with a bunch of African immigrants. Her first messages about them were very positive, saying how kind they were, and how they looked after her. It wasn’t sly sexual innuendo either. I got the feeling Mandy’s pussy was in high demand everywhere she went, and she had found some guys who were looking out for her when players got overly aggressive. But the communications trailed off a bit subsequently, in both frequency and intensity. They went from massive, descriptive tomes of London life, to a few lines wishing me well in the most cursory fashion. And they reduced from one a day, to a few a week, and so on.
About a month in, I asked Mandy if she had taken up on our deal of playing around with other partners – fully believing that she had, with one of her housemates, or more than one. She confirmed that was the case, and I wasn’t surprised. I had asked her only because I had too – with Kirsten, and another fresher girl. Yet suddenly, the thought of Mandy getting fucked by these African guys created pangs – shots of stress and fear. Also, because I knew so little detail, my imagination could run wild. Suddenly, I found I wanted Mandy more than ever. Suddenly, these mad freshers on tap didn’t seem so appealing after all, while Mandy’s luscious curves were from heaven. I honestly believe that it is my nature to want to control. I didn’t love Mandy when I had her to myself, but when I started losing control of her, suddenly she was my only desire.
I wrote a carefully crafted letter to Mandy suggesting she “watch out” for those black guys, and be cautious. I had some friends in London I wanted her to meet up with too, some nerdy white physicists doing postgraduate study there. It was almost as if, if I could get her to spend a day with my safe nerds, it was a day she wouldn’t be getting fucked. I was that petty.
I got a photo of Mandy a week later, at a market with some of her new black friends on her arm. Some street performer was doing something that involved blowing water from his mouth. Mandy and her friends were recoiling from the spray in horror, whilst laughing hysterically. I didn’t know the full story. I studied her face in that photograph – she was so damn happy!
I had written a few letters before that one from her, saying how much I missed her. I am embarrassed by the level of envy and meanness in those letters. I promised her too that I was coming over to visit, and trying to make that seem like that was her salvation. I really was visiting her too – I had bought my tickets.
Shortly after she wrote to say she that had found a share house, and was moving out of the squat. I got a wave of relief, but if I had known the details of her life at this point, it would have been no solace at all. She was still deeply into those guys at the squat, and they were still deeply into her – and sexual innuendo is intended at this point. I asked her about her new housemates on the phone. “Two guys, two girls” she replied. “Black guys?” I followed up pointedly. One of them was. I gnashed my teeth just a little.
At this point I will say that I was suffering from a form of cognitive dissonance. She was way out of my control and influence by now, but I entered into a pretence that she was still my girlfriend. And also, by pretending out loud in letters to her, and phone calls, I was trying to ******* her conform to this fantasy. And I could do this to some extent! It is almost as if I embarrass her into not saying the truth to me. But it was a paper thin pretence.
In late May, I flew in to Heathrow, and she was there to greet me. It was magical in a way. I looked upon her with such fresh eyes when I saw her. Here she was, my lovely girl, all grown up, meeting me at London airport. She looked fabulous. It’s a funny feeling you get when you have known each other since childhood. It was also surreal, because I knew she had been fucked by others, and black guys too, and I had an ******* fear that they were way better. I was racist. Also, by this time I had split up with Kirsten, or rather, she had split up with me. Kirsten had hooked up with a guy named John, who people called “Big, bad John” if you can believe that. And I had a fair bit of denial about that situation too. The anxiety of my work and my obsession with Mandy were all getting to me, and I wasn’t cutting it back home = academically or socially. I had way more invested in my meeting with Mandy than I could ever admit to. How could I admit it? I was the big guy in town, the super intellect, and she was a school teacher of moderately good looks. Well, those looks looked better than I ever remembered them to be. She was an absolute peach. There was a kind of swagger in the way her butt bounced as well. My God, she was hot.
Despite all of my anxieties, the next few days went pretty well. After all is said, Mandy was happy to see me, despite being hesitant at first. I put this down to my acting abilities and ******* skill at manipulation. Her house was suddenly very crowded with me there with them, but her housemates were genuinely friendly, and adopted me into the fold! There were six of us in a small 3-bedroom house. But I lightened up with their acceptance of me. For a supposed alpha, I sure was sensitive to the acceptance I received, or otherwise, from others.
That night I fucked Mandy. I did my best. Passionate kissing, eating her pussy, fucking. I had some performance anxiety, but that doesn’t lend itself to erection difficulties in me. I just tried so hard to be good, I wasn’t loose and free. When I fucked her it was like plunging into warm butter. Had her pussy felt that way before? The less spoken of it the better. For the moment, she I had her attention. The following day she took me out and about sightseeing. It was relatively anxiety free for me, except where we ran into some guys on the street who knew her, and waved her and said hi. They were men of colour and very familiar with her. You know that intimate level of comfort and familiarity? We went to restaurant where she was kind of withdrawn. I asked her about why, and she told me I was imagining it. I wanted to ask her how many guys had fucked her, but couldn’t. I wanted to know how many were black, how big they were and how thick and plentiful their come was. But I just froze on it.
The following day things came to head. After a languid morning at home eating toast and crumpets with her housemates, and drinking too much coffee, we headed out to a market. It was a Sunday, and there is nothing merrier than an old-style English market, on the local village green, with its multitude of stalls. But this was modern England, so it was infused with an international flavour too, Asians and Africans there – like a perfect marriage. Like an advertisement for multiculturalism.
It was basically fun as we strolled from stall to stall, until we came to a Jamaican stall, selling nick knacks, ******* paraphernalia for marijuana, and printed clothes with Caribbean insignia. Two massive black guys manned it. One was the thick set, muscular type of about 6’, with a leather jacket, while a second had that long, lean muscular body at 6’6”, and trademark knitted reggae hat. I found such guys to be overwhelming sexual just by their mere presence. Did anyone else even notice? I found them overwhelming, yet all these twee English folk strolled about there with disinterested nonchalance. Was I the only one kind of intimidated? Mandy caught a spring in her step, and said “Oh, let’s take a look”. I went along. We got chatting and they were nice, friendly guys, with that intoxicating Jamaican cadence common London back then. I found my rhythm a bit. We talked about where they came from, and I effortlessly mentioned how Mandy and I had talked of vacationing there, and how perhaps they could give us some tips. In fact, we had never discussed it and I was just making conversation. It was like I was infinitely adaptable, but with no core self. As long as I seemed cool. I was also profoundly naïve back then, having no concept of what a Jamaican vacation actually entailed for many white couples. No wonder they were so friendly!
I got talking to the tall guy while Mandy showed some interest in footwear. To try them out, they had some upended crates for clientele to sit on. Mandy placed herself down on one, while Mr Muscles brought her some sandals to look at, whilst also subtly putting hand around her shoulder, with his bulging crotch inches from her face. It was effortlessly familiar, and Mandy did not recoil one bit. You could feel a frisson of mutual appreciation there. I didn’t understand it then – black man, white woman. It is just incredible.
She was wearing a billowing floral, summer skirt. To try a sandal on she hitched her skirt up to half thigh height. Muscles bent over to help her put it on. With that, she stretched out her leg, toes extended and wiggling, to help him get it on, and get his opinion on how it looked. As she wiggled the toe around, did her legs part slightly? He was getting a really nice, unobstructed view between her legs.
After trying the one style, she moved on to another, then another – trying some different sizes with each style. It was so innocent, and so not – at the same time. After the conversation between me and the tall guy had run its natural course, we turned toward them, to engage in the sandal purchase saga. Tall guy moved across to get a look between Mandy’s sweet thighs also. I was helpless. I felt it was like a massive joke they were playing on me, when actually they were just digging each other. Eventually, she took a glance at me, and made a decision on the sandals, and for a moment all that sexual tension subsided. I bought a t-shirt for myself, with a Jamaican flag on it. Why do we do this sort of thing? It’s random and token. Then we headed off.
Mandy literally had a bounce and a skip in her step. She was so elevated in mood after that exchange, she couldn’t hide it. She could barely carry on a conversation. I just looked upon her and did the talking, deluding myself somehow or some way about what had just occurred. Then, maybe 10 minutes later, on the other side of the green, she suddenly burst out, “Oh, I forgot something. Oh…honey…just wait a moment and I’ll be back”.
Mr Stupid asks her, “What? What did you forget?”
“Oh, nothing, I’ll just…” she said, and she came back toward me a bit, then, “Can you grab us a coffee?”, and she pointed at the coffee tent, over behind us.
“OK” I said, disconsolately.
I didn’t go for the coffee. Instead, I followed her. She was easy to tail undetected, because she was absolutely absorbed in rushing back to the Jamaican guys. She got back there, and I stopped 25 yards away or so, and watched. Some nervous exchanges ensued between them, for 30 seconds or so, before some nodding of heads, some hand waving gestures from Mandy, as if she were explaining something. Then diaries and notepads were taken out at the ready. Mandy swung around next to Muscles, and they scrawled on earnestly sharing names and numbers. She turned to tall guy to repeat the process, while Muscles stepped in closely behind her. Did he actually put his hand on her arse? Yes, I swear to God, right out on the village green, there he was with his hand on her skirt, then under it, while she exchanged details with the other guy. There was a lot of big smiles all around.
As Mandy swung away from them to return innocently to me, she tripped and went arse up on the grass, dress up around her waist, knickers showing for all – such the dork that she was. And that happened because she couldn’t take her eyes off them while trying to coolly walk away, causing her to trip on a board. It was actually so cute looking back on it, but I didn’t think so then. Tall guy was over to help her up and there was a little bit more excessive touching for what the situation actually required. I didn’t see everything that happened, because I had to make an early getaway over to the coffee stall – head spinning, wondering how I was going to play it.
She got there shortly after me, all blustery, to find me strangely, still at the back of the queue. She was a little bit manic, but I was brooding and sullen. I couldn’t see any way of pretending any of that didn’t happen, so I would have to confront her over it, whilst pretending not to have seen what happened.
We got our coffees and adjourned to nearby rail that we leaned back on, side by side. Coffee had never tasted so awful, and I found myself thinking, literally, “Why do I even ******* this *******?” I was bleak.
So, Mandy was babbling aimlessly to close space down, but at first opportunity I asked, “Did you go back to the Jamaican stall?”
“Yes”
Silence.
“Mandy, are you going to fuck those guys?”
There was a long pause, but then she said “Yes”
That seemed like a good cue for me to go on a manipulative rant.
“Are you shitting me? For fuck’s sake, I am only here for a week”
Mandy didn’t say anything. In my mind, I want her to apologise. Once she says that magic “s” word, I would have her on the run. But she didn’t. Instead it was,
“You said we could go open”.
I said, “But when I am here? You couldn’t wait?”
It is kind of slut-shaming. Like, according to some rules that I just made up, just then at that moment, she is supposed to have this perfect discipline, and know exactly when I think it is OK for her to hook up with others, and when not to.
She just shrugged her shoulders, saying “I really like them”.
Tears were welling up in her, but it wasn’t guilt, just annoyance at me. Sadness at being stuck with a ******* guy for a week, I suspect. In fact, she had perfect resolve. Thank God I couldn’t beat her down this time.
After some more dramatic silence I asked her,
“So when did you plan on meeting them?”
“Today, later. After they finish up here”
I asked her pointedly, if and when she was going to tell me, if at all. She didn’t really have an answer because she was living on instinct, not a plan. But it allowed me to act all wronged, and to wave my hands and say,
“For fuck’s sake, like you don’t even know if you are going to tell me, and I have just flown 20,000 km to be with you”.
“I was going to tell you” she flatly replied.
So driving back to her home I did my very best sullen jerk impression, inch by inch destroying the best relationship I had ever had. Once we got back, I made a point of asking to use their phone, so I could book my flight home immediately - my superbly dramatic gesture. There was always a 24-7 number for plane bookings. I got a flight for early the next morning. I would be gone before she got back from her fuck date, which would be mid-morning the following day.
We had some further dramatic exchanges before she went out. But you know, bless her, she was clearly thinking about her date while I was ranting. Even I stopped for a moment as she was selecting underwear, to wonder what choice she would make.
I said something inane about how when she first arrived she hadn’t been in London a week before she was hopping on black cocks. She then told me she had had black guys before then, and a truly remarkable story emerged!
“Do you remember” she began, “when we went to…?”
But that is another story! The point was, she had tasted that sweet fruit already.
I was getting kicked in the head, and I deserved it. Every bit of it.
On the flight back I read through a good erotic novel and nearly wanked myself to death over it, and I got over Mandy to some extent. But I got over it by papering over reality. I was like that. I had the ability to self-delude and create an alternative narrative that made me the winner. These tales didn’t bear much scrutiny, but they got me through.
I remember later that year I was talking a medical student named Melissa. She was a fresher, but a mature age student – a 27 year old who had done nursing earlier in life, but was now going back to study, to become a doctor. A great story. In a social context, but a group of people discussing black cocks, and their size, in relation to a certain black fresher guy from Kenya who had fucked something like 40 out of the 100 girls in his co-ed residential college. I boldly propounded that the larger size of the black penis was an urban myth. Melissa, who had nursed in a US military hospital for time, just scoffed and said “Pffft”, and looked at me like I was a complete moron. It was all part of my education!
Way back in time my girlfriend and I split up, because of her determination to spend a "gap" year in London. We Aussies are essentially all cucks, because it is almost a rite of passage for our hottest girls to spend a year in London and fuck their brains out.
This s from my pre-Asian era.
=======================================
This was me in 1983, 28 years ago at time of writing. I was, what I would have described as an “alpha male”, but you, and most others, might have described as a crass, overbearing, misogynist asshole with way too high an opinion of himself. I realise now that I only really got my way sexually by employing a form of intellectual bullying and manipulation. I wasn’t intentionally nasty. I was just another insecure guy making his way, and I had the brains and insincerity to pull off all kinds of persuasion. I actually thought I was hung too, topping the 6” mark, with a degree of thickness. Intellectually I knew that penis sizes were generally exaggerated, and that I was probably above average (true to this day). And I fucked hard and long (although probably not well). And of course I knew that the large black penis size was an urban myth, because all intelligent people knew that.
I had a problem with my girlfriend. We had both just finished our undergraduate degrees at university (me in physics, and she in primary school teaching). Mandy was a lovely woman. She was soft, alabaster white-skinned, with waves of brown hair and ample breasts. She had a wonderful, kind spirit, and soft yielding nature. She had been my girlfriend for four years, but she had been my friend for even longer. We had gone to the same high school together before university.
The problem was that she wanted to take the traditional gap year in London, before her career, as so many Australian girls do. I didn’t want her to go. I was starting my postgraduate studies, so naturally thought she should stay to look after me in the tough, intellectually challenging time I faced. The layers of privilege and expectation that I had are almost impossible to describe – the expectation that she stay for me; that my physics was more important than her teaching; that if I couldn’t travel, then neither should she. We had our first real arguments, and I cringe to think back to how I tried to emotionally manipulate her. I made her cry more than once, but to her credit, she stood her ground and headed off to London in the New Year. I was left alone. Bitter, for a moment, then suddenly relieved that I was off the leash. I serious underappreciated that woman.
In her first weeks over there Mandy wrote to me every day, and we spoke on the phone together, ISD, as often as possible. Her communications were full of excitement and trepidation, detailed poetic descriptions, and a longing for me.
I then made an error. Or was it an error? Was it the turning point toward something good? Or did it even matter? As what happened next was possibly pre-destined anyway. I told her that we needn’t be exclusive in our relationships. We would be apart for a year, and perhaps we both needed to find some special friends near at hand. What this meant was, I had a hot little undergraduate fresher (hot and insane actually) named Kirsty that I wanted to fuck, and I didn’t want to be sneaking around to do it. The truth is, I thought things might work out between Kirsty and me, and that I could probably get Mandy back at the end of the year if it didn’t. I didn’t care that much.
Mandy was looking for digs, and as a temporary solution, moved from her hostel to an illegal squat with a bunch of African immigrants. Her first messages about them were very positive, saying how kind they were, and how they looked after her. It wasn’t sly sexual innuendo either. I got the feeling Mandy’s pussy was in high demand everywhere she went, and she had found some guys who were looking out for her when players got overly aggressive. But the communications trailed off a bit subsequently, in both frequency and intensity. They went from massive, descriptive tomes of London life, to a few lines wishing me well in the most cursory fashion. And they reduced from one a day, to a few a week, and so on.
About a month in, I asked Mandy if she had taken up on our deal of playing around with other partners – fully believing that she had, with one of her housemates, or more than one. She confirmed that was the case, and I wasn’t surprised. I had asked her only because I had too – with Kirsten, and another fresher girl. Yet suddenly, the thought of Mandy getting fucked by these African guys created pangs – shots of stress and fear. Also, because I knew so little detail, my imagination could run wild. Suddenly, I found I wanted Mandy more than ever. Suddenly, these mad freshers on tap didn’t seem so appealing after all, while Mandy’s luscious curves were from heaven. I honestly believe that it is my nature to want to control. I didn’t love Mandy when I had her to myself, but when I started losing control of her, suddenly she was my only desire.
I wrote a carefully crafted letter to Mandy suggesting she “watch out” for those black guys, and be cautious. I had some friends in London I wanted her to meet up with too, some nerdy white physicists doing postgraduate study there. It was almost as if, if I could get her to spend a day with my safe nerds, it was a day she wouldn’t be getting fucked. I was that petty.
I got a photo of Mandy a week later, at a market with some of her new black friends on her arm. Some street performer was doing something that involved blowing water from his mouth. Mandy and her friends were recoiling from the spray in horror, whilst laughing hysterically. I didn’t know the full story. I studied her face in that photograph – she was so damn happy!
I had written a few letters before that one from her, saying how much I missed her. I am embarrassed by the level of envy and meanness in those letters. I promised her too that I was coming over to visit, and trying to make that seem like that was her salvation. I really was visiting her too – I had bought my tickets.
Shortly after she wrote to say she that had found a share house, and was moving out of the squat. I got a wave of relief, but if I had known the details of her life at this point, it would have been no solace at all. She was still deeply into those guys at the squat, and they were still deeply into her – and sexual innuendo is intended at this point. I asked her about her new housemates on the phone. “Two guys, two girls” she replied. “Black guys?” I followed up pointedly. One of them was. I gnashed my teeth just a little.
At this point I will say that I was suffering from a form of cognitive dissonance. She was way out of my control and influence by now, but I entered into a pretence that she was still my girlfriend. And also, by pretending out loud in letters to her, and phone calls, I was trying to ******* her conform to this fantasy. And I could do this to some extent! It is almost as if I embarrass her into not saying the truth to me. But it was a paper thin pretence.
In late May, I flew in to Heathrow, and she was there to greet me. It was magical in a way. I looked upon her with such fresh eyes when I saw her. Here she was, my lovely girl, all grown up, meeting me at London airport. She looked fabulous. It’s a funny feeling you get when you have known each other since childhood. It was also surreal, because I knew she had been fucked by others, and black guys too, and I had an ******* fear that they were way better. I was racist. Also, by this time I had split up with Kirsten, or rather, she had split up with me. Kirsten had hooked up with a guy named John, who people called “Big, bad John” if you can believe that. And I had a fair bit of denial about that situation too. The anxiety of my work and my obsession with Mandy were all getting to me, and I wasn’t cutting it back home = academically or socially. I had way more invested in my meeting with Mandy than I could ever admit to. How could I admit it? I was the big guy in town, the super intellect, and she was a school teacher of moderately good looks. Well, those looks looked better than I ever remembered them to be. She was an absolute peach. There was a kind of swagger in the way her butt bounced as well. My God, she was hot.
Despite all of my anxieties, the next few days went pretty well. After all is said, Mandy was happy to see me, despite being hesitant at first. I put this down to my acting abilities and ******* skill at manipulation. Her house was suddenly very crowded with me there with them, but her housemates were genuinely friendly, and adopted me into the fold! There were six of us in a small 3-bedroom house. But I lightened up with their acceptance of me. For a supposed alpha, I sure was sensitive to the acceptance I received, or otherwise, from others.
That night I fucked Mandy. I did my best. Passionate kissing, eating her pussy, fucking. I had some performance anxiety, but that doesn’t lend itself to erection difficulties in me. I just tried so hard to be good, I wasn’t loose and free. When I fucked her it was like plunging into warm butter. Had her pussy felt that way before? The less spoken of it the better. For the moment, she I had her attention. The following day she took me out and about sightseeing. It was relatively anxiety free for me, except where we ran into some guys on the street who knew her, and waved her and said hi. They were men of colour and very familiar with her. You know that intimate level of comfort and familiarity? We went to restaurant where she was kind of withdrawn. I asked her about why, and she told me I was imagining it. I wanted to ask her how many guys had fucked her, but couldn’t. I wanted to know how many were black, how big they were and how thick and plentiful their come was. But I just froze on it.
The following day things came to head. After a languid morning at home eating toast and crumpets with her housemates, and drinking too much coffee, we headed out to a market. It was a Sunday, and there is nothing merrier than an old-style English market, on the local village green, with its multitude of stalls. But this was modern England, so it was infused with an international flavour too, Asians and Africans there – like a perfect marriage. Like an advertisement for multiculturalism.
It was basically fun as we strolled from stall to stall, until we came to a Jamaican stall, selling nick knacks, ******* paraphernalia for marijuana, and printed clothes with Caribbean insignia. Two massive black guys manned it. One was the thick set, muscular type of about 6’, with a leather jacket, while a second had that long, lean muscular body at 6’6”, and trademark knitted reggae hat. I found such guys to be overwhelming sexual just by their mere presence. Did anyone else even notice? I found them overwhelming, yet all these twee English folk strolled about there with disinterested nonchalance. Was I the only one kind of intimidated? Mandy caught a spring in her step, and said “Oh, let’s take a look”. I went along. We got chatting and they were nice, friendly guys, with that intoxicating Jamaican cadence common London back then. I found my rhythm a bit. We talked about where they came from, and I effortlessly mentioned how Mandy and I had talked of vacationing there, and how perhaps they could give us some tips. In fact, we had never discussed it and I was just making conversation. It was like I was infinitely adaptable, but with no core self. As long as I seemed cool. I was also profoundly naïve back then, having no concept of what a Jamaican vacation actually entailed for many white couples. No wonder they were so friendly!
I got talking to the tall guy while Mandy showed some interest in footwear. To try them out, they had some upended crates for clientele to sit on. Mandy placed herself down on one, while Mr Muscles brought her some sandals to look at, whilst also subtly putting hand around her shoulder, with his bulging crotch inches from her face. It was effortlessly familiar, and Mandy did not recoil one bit. You could feel a frisson of mutual appreciation there. I didn’t understand it then – black man, white woman. It is just incredible.
She was wearing a billowing floral, summer skirt. To try a sandal on she hitched her skirt up to half thigh height. Muscles bent over to help her put it on. With that, she stretched out her leg, toes extended and wiggling, to help him get it on, and get his opinion on how it looked. As she wiggled the toe around, did her legs part slightly? He was getting a really nice, unobstructed view between her legs.
After trying the one style, she moved on to another, then another – trying some different sizes with each style. It was so innocent, and so not – at the same time. After the conversation between me and the tall guy had run its natural course, we turned toward them, to engage in the sandal purchase saga. Tall guy moved across to get a look between Mandy’s sweet thighs also. I was helpless. I felt it was like a massive joke they were playing on me, when actually they were just digging each other. Eventually, she took a glance at me, and made a decision on the sandals, and for a moment all that sexual tension subsided. I bought a t-shirt for myself, with a Jamaican flag on it. Why do we do this sort of thing? It’s random and token. Then we headed off.
Mandy literally had a bounce and a skip in her step. She was so elevated in mood after that exchange, she couldn’t hide it. She could barely carry on a conversation. I just looked upon her and did the talking, deluding myself somehow or some way about what had just occurred. Then, maybe 10 minutes later, on the other side of the green, she suddenly burst out, “Oh, I forgot something. Oh…honey…just wait a moment and I’ll be back”.
Mr Stupid asks her, “What? What did you forget?”
“Oh, nothing, I’ll just…” she said, and she came back toward me a bit, then, “Can you grab us a coffee?”, and she pointed at the coffee tent, over behind us.
“OK” I said, disconsolately.
I didn’t go for the coffee. Instead, I followed her. She was easy to tail undetected, because she was absolutely absorbed in rushing back to the Jamaican guys. She got back there, and I stopped 25 yards away or so, and watched. Some nervous exchanges ensued between them, for 30 seconds or so, before some nodding of heads, some hand waving gestures from Mandy, as if she were explaining something. Then diaries and notepads were taken out at the ready. Mandy swung around next to Muscles, and they scrawled on earnestly sharing names and numbers. She turned to tall guy to repeat the process, while Muscles stepped in closely behind her. Did he actually put his hand on her arse? Yes, I swear to God, right out on the village green, there he was with his hand on her skirt, then under it, while she exchanged details with the other guy. There was a lot of big smiles all around.
As Mandy swung away from them to return innocently to me, she tripped and went arse up on the grass, dress up around her waist, knickers showing for all – such the dork that she was. And that happened because she couldn’t take her eyes off them while trying to coolly walk away, causing her to trip on a board. It was actually so cute looking back on it, but I didn’t think so then. Tall guy was over to help her up and there was a little bit more excessive touching for what the situation actually required. I didn’t see everything that happened, because I had to make an early getaway over to the coffee stall – head spinning, wondering how I was going to play it.
She got there shortly after me, all blustery, to find me strangely, still at the back of the queue. She was a little bit manic, but I was brooding and sullen. I couldn’t see any way of pretending any of that didn’t happen, so I would have to confront her over it, whilst pretending not to have seen what happened.
We got our coffees and adjourned to nearby rail that we leaned back on, side by side. Coffee had never tasted so awful, and I found myself thinking, literally, “Why do I even ******* this *******?” I was bleak.
So, Mandy was babbling aimlessly to close space down, but at first opportunity I asked, “Did you go back to the Jamaican stall?”
“Yes”
Silence.
“Mandy, are you going to fuck those guys?”
There was a long pause, but then she said “Yes”
That seemed like a good cue for me to go on a manipulative rant.
“Are you shitting me? For fuck’s sake, I am only here for a week”
Mandy didn’t say anything. In my mind, I want her to apologise. Once she says that magic “s” word, I would have her on the run. But she didn’t. Instead it was,
“You said we could go open”.
I said, “But when I am here? You couldn’t wait?”
It is kind of slut-shaming. Like, according to some rules that I just made up, just then at that moment, she is supposed to have this perfect discipline, and know exactly when I think it is OK for her to hook up with others, and when not to.
She just shrugged her shoulders, saying “I really like them”.
Tears were welling up in her, but it wasn’t guilt, just annoyance at me. Sadness at being stuck with a ******* guy for a week, I suspect. In fact, she had perfect resolve. Thank God I couldn’t beat her down this time.
After some more dramatic silence I asked her,
“So when did you plan on meeting them?”
“Today, later. After they finish up here”
I asked her pointedly, if and when she was going to tell me, if at all. She didn’t really have an answer because she was living on instinct, not a plan. But it allowed me to act all wronged, and to wave my hands and say,
“For fuck’s sake, like you don’t even know if you are going to tell me, and I have just flown 20,000 km to be with you”.
“I was going to tell you” she flatly replied.
So driving back to her home I did my very best sullen jerk impression, inch by inch destroying the best relationship I had ever had. Once we got back, I made a point of asking to use their phone, so I could book my flight home immediately - my superbly dramatic gesture. There was always a 24-7 number for plane bookings. I got a flight for early the next morning. I would be gone before she got back from her fuck date, which would be mid-morning the following day.
We had some further dramatic exchanges before she went out. But you know, bless her, she was clearly thinking about her date while I was ranting. Even I stopped for a moment as she was selecting underwear, to wonder what choice she would make.
I said something inane about how when she first arrived she hadn’t been in London a week before she was hopping on black cocks. She then told me she had had black guys before then, and a truly remarkable story emerged!
“Do you remember” she began, “when we went to…?”
But that is another story! The point was, she had tasted that sweet fruit already.
I was getting kicked in the head, and I deserved it. Every bit of it.
On the flight back I read through a good erotic novel and nearly wanked myself to death over it, and I got over Mandy to some extent. But I got over it by papering over reality. I was like that. I had the ability to self-delude and create an alternative narrative that made me the winner. These tales didn’t bear much scrutiny, but they got me through.
I remember later that year I was talking a medical student named Melissa. She was a fresher, but a mature age student – a 27 year old who had done nursing earlier in life, but was now going back to study, to become a doctor. A great story. In a social context, but a group of people discussing black cocks, and their size, in relation to a certain black fresher guy from Kenya who had fucked something like 40 out of the 100 girls in his co-ed residential college. I boldly propounded that the larger size of the black penis was an urban myth. Melissa, who had nursed in a US military hospital for time, just scoffed and said “Pffft”, and looked at me like I was a complete moron. It was all part of my education!
