Why I Love Black Men

[Voyeur]

Everybody enjoys watching this!

 

[Houston713BBC]

This article was penned by a woman (whose name I've forgotton) but I agree with her so much. The only caveat is that for me personally, I don't want just the sex....but a real substantive connection. Other than that...she's right on the money.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes. That phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling of the skin. And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years.

A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn't have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It's not me, it's them being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or so I claimed. That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that's not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway. Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don't want them. I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on race. We are not those couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or more purposefully come together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and respect. Not as politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The Internet has made it a lot easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory. Women write: seeking tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say: Race is not important. It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad. We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men. Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man. Black women can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath.

But in truth, black sisters, we're after the sex, not the ring and these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway. Yes, the sex! The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie Bright's "white bitch in heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to do that. According to one school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives kick into higher gear and their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes, baby, now I'm ready for you" reaction. When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready and waiting for us.



Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy. Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen, something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like a lady and ravish her too? I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear, leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for two white people to get that close.

These black men, so alive with erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a kiss and the freedom means I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly needed.



My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he could buy me a ******* until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in a cab 30 minutes after that *******. On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees. I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed. Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men. Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.



White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that. With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore. That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables. Analyze the roots of attractions all you want like scientists have done and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to the good opinion of others.



Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately, but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed, I hadn't noticed, because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case." What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I'm a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur? I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way. That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore. Really, it's not them, it's me. Nobody was surprised.

Very in-depth analysis...Salute, and Thank you on behalf of us Alpha-Brothers.

 

[mywayintermsofsex]

Everybody enjoys watching this!

View attachment 3994566

View attachment 3994568

View attachment 3994569

Not really. TBH it looks just like yet another spiritless porn production. :| ImO

 

[petco]

that s the way it should be

All of this is mixed here

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Fucking a married woman in front of her husband

• DAlex
• Mar 12, 2017
• 48

Fucking a married woman in front of her husband

 

[MsThang]

This was a very interesting article indeed. It makes me think of some conversations I have had with the wife I am playing with. She has said to me and I quote " I didn't realize how much I need this in my life " She absolutely loves her husband lets me clear!.. There are moments when she is looking at me, touching me and yes smelling me and I know it's some primal ******* going on in her head. I still remember the first time we went out to dinner the 3 of us. we had already played multiple times. I walked through the door to find their table.. I swear she looked at me like.. I WANT TO FUCK YOU RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!!!... I may have her read part of this article.

no...that is what she was thinking FOR REAL

 

[NEHIGHLANDER]

This article was penned by a woman (whose name I've forgotton) but I agree with her so much. The only caveat is that for me personally, I don't want just the sex....but a real substantive connection. Other than that...she's right on the money.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes. That phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling of the skin. And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years.

A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn't have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It's not me, it's them being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or so I claimed. That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that's not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway. Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don't want them. I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on race. We are not those couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or more purposefully come together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and respect. Not as politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The Internet has made it a lot easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory. Women write: seeking tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say: Race is not important. It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad. We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men. Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man. Black women can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath.

But in truth, black sisters, we're after the sex, not the ring and these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway. Yes, the sex! The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie Bright's "white bitch in heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to do that. According to one school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives kick into higher gear and their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes, baby, now I'm ready for you" reaction. When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready and waiting for us.



Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy. Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen, something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like a lady and ravish her too? I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear, leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for two white people to get that close.

These black men, so alive with erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a kiss and the freedom means I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly needed.



My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he could buy me a ******* until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in a cab 30 minutes after that *******. On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees. I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed. Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men. Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.



White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that. With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore. That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables. Analyze the roots of attractions all you want like scientists have done and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to the good opinion of others.



Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately, but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed, I hadn't noticed, because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case." What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I'm a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur? I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way. That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore. Really, it's not them, it's me. Nobody was surprised.

This woman's viewpoint seems to be similar to my wife's view of black men. I was several years into our marriage before Amie confessed to me that she was attracted to black men and had a number of black lovers before she met me. This turned me on for some reason but I also wanted to know why she found them so desirable. Initially she was reluctant to talk about it but after awhile she opened up to me and told me this:

She said, "I really enjoyed making love to them and was so turned on by them that I would do more adventurous things than I would do with the white guys I dated."

"What do you mean? I asked her. One part of me didn't want to know but another was really excited to find out.

"Well, one of them, Clay, really had some kind of spell on me and after I had only been with him for a week or so he talked me into fucking him and two of his friends one night." she told me.

I pressured her for more details and she also told me they all took her bareback and all of them came inside her. The mental picture of my petite blond wife willingly taking all that bare black cock and letting them dump their cum into her pretty little pussy instantly got me hard. She noticed this and even though we both were a little bothered that this turned me on so much we still had passionate sex several times that night.

This led me to asking her what she liked about her black lovers and she told me that she just found their black skin to be beautiful and loved the texture and smell of their skin. She also was really turned on by the contrast of their dark skin against her pale skin. Another thing was the taboo aspect of it all with her being brought up in the deep South.

I asked her about cock size and she told me that nearly every one she experienced was larger than normal but the big thing was she thought their black cocks were just gorgeous and they seemed to be used in such a way that satisfied her very well. I made the lame joke about "once you go black, you can never go back" and asked her why she settled for a pale red headed white man like me. What I left unsaid was me wondering how my cock measured up to theirs.

"Honey, you know that the attitudes about mixed race couples has not always been as tolerant as they are now especially with me being from the South, my family would have been mortified if they had known I had even made love to a black man. I cannot imagine what they would have done if I had married one. You might not understand coming from New England. I just thought it would make my life way too complicated to stay with them in a lasting relationship. I really enjoyed the sex but decided to move on with my life in a different manner. Besides, I love you soooo much!"

 

[Pcrook]

This article was penned by a woman (whose name I've forgotton) but I agree with her so much. The only caveat is that for me personally, I don't want just the sex....but a real substantive connection. Other than that...she's right on the money.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes. That phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling of the skin. And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years.

A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn't have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It's not me, it's them being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or so I claimed. That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that's not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway. Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don't want them. I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on race. We are not those couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or more purposefully come together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and respect. Not as politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The Internet has made it a lot easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory. Women write: seeking tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say: Race is not important. It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad. We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men. Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man. Black women can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath.

But in truth, black sisters, we're after the sex, not the ring and these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway. Yes, the sex! The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie Bright's "white bitch in heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to do that. According to one school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives kick into higher gear and their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes, baby, now I'm ready for you" reaction. When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready and waiting for us.



Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy. Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen, something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like a lady and ravish her too? I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear, leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for two white people to get that close.

These black men, so alive with erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a kiss and the freedom means I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly needed.



My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he could buy me a ******* until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in a cab 30 minutes after that *******. On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees. I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed. Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men. Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.



White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that. With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore. That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables. Analyze the roots of attractions all you want like scientists have done and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to the good opinion of others.



Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately, but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed, I hadn't noticed, because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case." What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I'm a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur? I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way. That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore. Really, it's not them, it's me. Nobody was surprised.

That is hot love to get to enjoy you and hear more that was hot

 

[europa9922]

 

[randomhotwife]

Being a man is not going through life fucking everything and not taking responsibility for their actions. That is actually not being a man.
Being white and over 40 with a career, bills and a family to support does take a little edge off because its being a man and responsible.

I don't recall the author saying anything about "fucking everything and not taking responsibility"!?! I am a responsible white WOMAN mid-40's with a career, bills, and a family to support and yet I manage to find enthusiasm for life and make the time and effort to still have fun and to take care of myself physically. The other half of this couple is a mid-30's (white) guy who feels the same. After suffering twenty years with the unappealing over-40 depressed white man that so turns off the author, I completely understand her perspective. And it's not an ALL white men or ALL black men that fit her stereotype of course, but a significant enough portion that I was nodding my head reading it. I don't relate to her obsession with black skin but the confidence factor among most black men, the zest for life instead of wallowing in depression and insecurities? Oh I get it! And so does my white, male partner. For the record he's not a "cuck", he's the sexually dominant one and pushed me to try BBC because he likes watching and/or assisting in MY degradation. We tried white guys as a third and they get weird. Seemed uncomfortable with my man and struggled with impotence even though they knew him watching was part of the deal. Black men haven't had that problem!

 

[McstrokinElMac]

Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn’t have when she was 20 something? The tropes and stereotyping is hilarious...

 

[Pcrook]

I don't recall the author saying anything about "fucking everything and not taking responsibility"!?! I am a responsible white WOMAN mid-40's with a career, bills, and a family to support and yet I manage to find enthusiasm for life and make the time and effort to still have fun and to take care of myself physically. The other half of this couple is a mid-30's (white) guy who feels the same. After suffering twenty years with the unappealing over-40 depressed white man that so turns off the author, I completely understand her perspective. And it's not an ALL white men or ALL black men that fit her stereotype of course, but a significant enough portion that I was nodding my head reading it. I don't relate to her obsession with black skin but the confidence factor among most black men, the zest for life instead of wallowing in depression and insecurities? Oh I get it! And so does my white, male partner. For the record he's not a "cuck", he's the sexually dominant one and pushed me to try BBC because he likes watching and/or assisting in MY degradation. We tried white guys as a third and they get weird. Seemed uncomfortable with my man and struggled with impotence even though they knew him watching was part of the deal. Black men haven't had that problem!

You sound like my type of people. I would enjoy getting to know and enjoy your company so reassuring!

 

[curious28]

no...that is what she was thinking FOR REAL

 

[KimberlyNH]

Straight beast with excellent stamina and this long black dick!!

Need that black pole to earn parole

 

[KimberlyNH]

Your analysis made my BBC massive hard!I wish you were here to experience some extraordinary big,black dick!!!

 

[Blonde Wife PAWG]

This article was penned by a woman (whose name I've forgotton) but I agree with her so much. The only caveat is that for me personally, I don't want just the sex....but a real substantive connection. Other than that...she's right on the money.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes. That phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling of the skin. And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years.

A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn't have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It's not me, it's them being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or so I claimed. That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that's not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway. Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don't want them. I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on race. We are not those couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or more purposefully come together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and respect. Not as politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The Internet has made it a lot easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory. Women write: seeking tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say: Race is not important. It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad. We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men. Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man. Black women can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath.

But in truth, black sisters, we're after the sex, not the ring and these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway. Yes, the sex! The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie Bright's "white bitch in heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to do that. According to one school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives kick into higher gear and their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes, baby, now I'm ready for you" reaction. When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready and waiting for us.



Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy. Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen, something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like a lady and ravish her too? I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear, leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for two white people to get that close.

These black men, so alive with erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a kiss and the freedom means I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly needed.



My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he could buy me a ******* until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in a cab 30 minutes after that *******. On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees. I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed. Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men. Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.



White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that. With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore. That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables. Analyze the roots of attractions all you want like scientists have done and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to the good opinion of others.



Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately, but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed, I hadn't noticed, because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case." What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I'm a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur? I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way. That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore. Really, it's not them, it's me. Nobody was surprised.

There's a great deal of science that makes your eloquent self-reflective prose strong, common, natural.

 

[curious28]

Wow

 

[bnwoBeta]

i would be very thankful for black men fucking my future wife/gf and giving her pleasure i cant with my tiny pink thing

 

[Cryptodry23]

Same. It's a privilege to have her blacked owned and it is truly a gift. It's not just alifestyle. Bnwo is life.

i would be very thankful for black men fucking my future wife/gf and giving her pleasure i cant with my tiny pink t

 

[BerlinThroater]

This article was penned by a woman (whose name I've forgotton) but I agree with her so much. The only caveat is that for me personally, I don't want just the sex....but a real substantive connection. Other than that...she's right on the money.

Black skin is thick and lush, sensuous to the touch, like satin and velvet made flesh. There's only one patch of skin on a white man's body that remotely compares to nearly every inch of a black man's skin. The first time I caressed black skin, it felt like a luxury I shouldn't be able to afford. I craved it more strongly than Carrie Bradshaw craved Manolo Blahnik shoes. That phrase, "Once you go black, you never go back" is all about the feeling of the skin. And I had the socially acceptable explanation for my craving. I used that paucity-of-available-white-partners rationale to explain my relationships with black men for several years.

A white woman past forty is often passed over by her white-male contemporaries. She goes younger or ethnic or foreign-born or down the socioeconomic scale or darker or she spends lonely nights at home with her cats. Black men are happy to get the babe they couldn't have when she was twentysomething and fertile. The laws of the marketplace do prevail. It's not me, it's them being the white guys who weren't after me anymore, or so I claimed. That's a lie. The truth is, I attract about the same percentage of available white men my age (and far younger!) now as I did when I was thirty and that's not including the unavailable white men who want to play around anyway. Enough white men want me that I was hardly facing enforced celibacy, but I don't want them. I want black men. They want me. We look at one another and exchange a visible frisson of sexual energy in the lingering glances. And our attraction is based first on race. We are not those couples who "happen to fall in love" with someone of a different race or more purposefully come together but out of some greater sense of interracial understanding and respect. Not as politically-correct men and women do we seek one another out. The Internet has made it a lot easier for us to find each other now. Men advertise: ebony seeks ivory. Women write: seeking tall, dark, and handsome. Very dark. We are not the same people who say: Race is not important. It is important to us. We have race-specific desires.

Even in a time when nearly 40 percent of single Americans have dated outside their race, that deliberate seeking of the specific other makes some people, especially black women, damned mad. We are what they denigrate and castigate: white women and black men who choose one another because of our racial differences. They resent our taking their men. Black men are two and a half times more likely to marry a white woman than a black woman is to marry a white man. Black women can point to that statistic in justifying their wrath.

But in truth, black sisters, we're after the sex, not the ring and these guys aren't the marrying kind anyway. Yes, the sex! The woman who goes after black men is a variant of sex journalist Susie Bright's "white bitch in heat," a woman who puts sex first even though women aren't supposed to do that. According to one school of thought, white women turn to black men when their sex drives kick into higher gear and their social inhibitions recede into the rearview mirror. It's a "yes, baby, now I'm ready for you" reaction. When we get to the "yes, baby" place, they know it, and they are ready and waiting for us.



Black men have more energy, style and edge than white men. They know how to flirt, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. A black man is so damned sexy because he knows how to make a woman feel sexy. Black men have something white guys don't have anymore: confidence in their masculinity, their sexuality. They clearly know they're men. White men appear to be waiting for the latest sociological research study to let them know if they are men or not. Yet black men are gentlemen, something else white men no longer are. They make me feel like a woman, both respected and desired. I can let go of my inhibitions, my need to control, when I am with them. How many white men can treat a woman like a lady and ravish her too? I often felt in my White Period that only during heated sex does that little layer of air bubbles between me and the world pop and disappear, leaving me open to intimate connection. It takes a lot of friction for two white people to get that close.

These black men, so alive with erotic electricity, cut through the bubbles with a touch, a caress, a kiss and the freedom means I can truly touch them. I am like a pampered passenger in a Porsche with an expert driver at the wheel. I know I could suggest a route change, but I never really want to do that. On the other hand, the last time I had sex with a white man, we slogged along a bumpy road in a really old VW, the driver like the typical bumbling tv husband who would neither ask for nor accept the directions he badly needed.



My current lover, a handsome businessman, seduced me via eye contact at a neighborhood bar while I was eating burgers with a friend. Without saying a word, he paid the compliments, asked the questions with his expressive eyes. He didn't move over to sit beside me and ask if he could buy me a ******* until he knew the time was right. Both soft-spoken and assertive, he has impeccable manners and charm. I was kissing him in a cab 30 minutes after that *******. On another night in that same bar, a different black man, an artist, knelt and kissed my knees. I am sure there must be some black men who aren't good in bed. Personally, I have not experienced one who isn't. (True, I am not dating down the socioeconomic ladder, but I didn't do that when I dated white either, so the racial comparisons seem valid and fair.) They look better than white men, they touch and kiss and make love better than white men. Statistically, their penises are only a fraction of an inch bigger on average, but they seem bigger and harder.



White men over 40 have lost their waistlines and their zest for life if they ever had it. They carry resentments, grudges and extra pounds in their basketball bellies. Perhaps a good part of that bloat is unhappiness. Even the thin ones look flabby somehow and deeply aggrieved. They nurse the smallest perceived slight longer than their double shots of Scotch. Surely our culture as much as biology turns them into softer, spongier, less-interesting versions of their youthful selves just at the point where women and black men and other minorities are emerging strong. Society overvalues the white man, leaving him angry and bitter when he realizes, around age 40, that he's not all that. With the exception of some Italians, white men don't turn me on anymore. That admission puts me in the same category as the older man only interested primarily or exclusively in young women. While women my age scowl and frown at these aging, Upper West Side Boomers pushing strollers as the hand of the thin, blonde wife 20 years their junior rests lightly on their arm, I feel a kinship with the old goats. We are the same, me and that bald white guy, drawn to the exotic other, not caring that the object of our desire has no childhood memory of a Kennedy assassination or a typical WASP Sunday dinner of over-roasted beef, lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables. Analyze the roots of attractions all you want like scientists have done and you won't come up with a perfect explanation for why we crave what we do. Desire rises from our depths and is gloriously oblivious to the good opinion of others.



Yet until recently, I pretended that my lust was an equal-opportunity craving, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Halfway through the first glass of wine in my last date with a white man, I realized that little clouds of sadness and self-pity were regularly fluffing off his psyche like the dust clouds kicked up by that dirt-smudged "Peanuts" character as he walks through Charlie Brown's life. This guy was at least mildly depressed, and I wanted to tell him to exercise, lose weight, trim the combover and get interested in something outside yourself. I would have walked out on him immediately, but he seemed to expect that. I couldn't deliver the blow to his ego proffered like the naked neck of a martyr to the ax. My Southern cousins would describe his general demeanor as a "hangdog air." Into the second glass of wine and glancing longingly at the exit, I wanted to hang that dog myself when he mentioned that his face was flushed, I hadn't noticed, because he'd taken a Viagra "just in case." What did he think would entice me more: That he assumed sex was probable because I'm a sex journalist or that he would need chemical help if sex did occur? I cannot even imagine a black man bungling an attempted seduction in such a sad way. That was my last token white guy. I recently came out of my racial-preference closet and told my friends, "I love black men. I'm not attracted to white men over 40, and I'm not dating them anymore. Really, it's not them, it's me. Nobody was surprised.

The generalizations you make about people based solely on the color of their skin...my God, you are thinking exactly in the terms scientists developed more than 100 years ago to justify racism. Porn, fetish, all fun aside, is this what we are: black men fuck like animals. white men don't. Binary. Simple. Reductionist. Exactly what a Jim Crow law requires. Sigh.

 

[MsThang]

First, you are entiteled to your opinion, as well as the rest of us. Second, I did not pen this article but appreciated it's sentiment. Third, my first love was black and I've dated interracially since I was 17 years old.

If you feel white women who have a stated preference equates to Jim Crow then I'm just sorry for you.