I sat in the comfort of my home, reflecting on the turbulent aftermath of George Floyd's murder as well as the unending quarantine. The looting bothered me, but I understood the rage. I understood as well as any seventy-year-old white woman can. I've lived through social unrest before with civil rights and Vietnam War protests. These days for excitement I'm venturing out in my mask and gloves like a senile proctologist. Sure, it's inconvenient but so is being hooked up to a respirator.
But, we Americans have the attention span of a rabid ferret so all this turmoil will soon be forgotten without even one effective solution.
Now a little about me. I grew up in the south where the dreaded N-word was heard more often than at a Dave Chappelle show.
My parents were the rarest of southerners...liberals. And they raised me that way, thankfully. Although, being both lesbian and white civil rights advocate in the '60's assured I would never be invited to the weekly KKK cross burning and sock hop. But I wore that as a badge of honor. Some of my early memories are painful and some bittersweet such as how in my youth my figure was compared to Betty Boop. Today it's more Betty White.
School in the south was no bargain either. For starters, Lincoln's emancipation proclamation was listed as fiction in our library. Plus, the classroom was overflowing with more confederate flags than a Skynyrd concert.
This racism spilled even into recess. Instead of a huge variety of Crayolas to color lush landscapes, we were given a single white crayon and a Klan Grand Dragon coloring book. There was also a Johnny Winter book available for extra credit. White bread was our lunch staple. The bread couldn't even be toasted because our Principal claimed toasting caused the bread to appear 'mulatto.'
Despite my distaste of southern politics, I remained in Tennessee for college, attending Peabody University in Nashville, named after the dog who invented the time machine on 'Rocky and Bullwinkle.' It was much more open-minded than the rural parts of the state. It was refreshing to be around more enlightened minds. I was finally able to explore both my politics and sexuality without being shunned like a leper at a dermatologist.
Still, everyone wasn't so left-leaning. Due to being a hotbed of country music, racial tension still ran high. Rednecks even had a saying, "The only negro who doesn't have to hide, is one who starts for the Crimson Tide." One sunny fall day I spotted HER, Alana. A lovely black girl who would soon capture my heart.
She was recruiting volunteers for a voter's rights protest march in Selma, Alabama. It sounded promising since I was already a political activist, having recently worked with Sen. Goreon the 'Barney Fife Bill' designed to halt senseless police shootings.
The idea was to give each policeman only one bullet to be kept in his or her pocket. Would it work? Of course! When did you ever see an innocent black man gunned down in Mayberry? But, back to Alana.
Standing with her back to me, my eyes somehow ended up on her curvaceous bottom which swayed hypnotically as she danced to a Temptations song. Her curvy cheeks were testing the tensile strength of her Levi's. But, it didn't take long before my bulging eyes discovered her more-than-ample breasts. They appeared mountainous in her snug Angela Davis tee. Her chest looked like a 3-D map of Tibet and it was rumored astronauts could spot her figure from space.
Her complexion was like hot chocolate, even more so when I imagined mounds of Reddi Whip scooped over her. I read her flyer. It dealt with blacks not being allowed to vote in Alabama due to Gov. Wallace. Dr. King would lead. I was intrigued until I noticed Peter, Paul, and Mary would perform. I can only handle so much, after all.
Any trepidation was removed when Alana moved near, brushing me with her DD's and smiling. "Will you be accompanying me to Dr, King's rally," she asked in a seductive whisper?
"Of course! Nothing can stop me," I instantly replied.
She giggled adorably. "Well, some are turned off by a forty-mile march."
"Forty-miles? Be sure to call when you get back."
I turned to leave when she loudly guffawed, thinking I was joking. (Gullible. Just the way I like my women!) While she laughed I decided to seize the day. My problem with women is I tend to be overly charming at the start of a relationship then burn out quicker than a Dollar Tree light bulb. But, I wanted this badly and not just because I'd never been intimate with an African American chick.
Still, that would be another badge of honor. At this rate, I would need a Girl Scout's vest to display my honors.
After introducing ourselves I invited her to dinner which is when the bad vibes began.
Yes, I should have realized going to an all-you-can-eat Spam buffet on our first date was a tactical error. She didn't seem overly enthusiastic about my Amos and Andy impersonations either before suddenly changing the subject and asked if I liked jazz. I immediately answered "No," thinking she said 'jizz'.
After clearing that up she invited me to see legendary jazz trumpeter Miles Davis at a downtown club. Being white I knew nothing about jazz so she filled me in. For starters, in Europe he is known as Kilometers Davis
At the venue, free heroin was handed out at the door. I passed, being content to settle on my marijuana which was called a "gateway" drug and I was determined to never let my gate grow rusty from disuse. I surprisingly enjoyed the show even if the loon did play with his back to the audience. She was educating me and I had a few things to teach her as well. We spent the next few hours discussing everything from politics to music. I was smitten. She was inspiring my politics, libido, and creativity.
After that night I raced home to write a song about her that I called "Black Pepper." I eventually peddled it to the Stones but they turned it down until Mick changed it to "Brown Sugar" and took all the credit. Limey bastard!
That same night I even wrote a children's book about racial equality. It always warmed my soul to watch black-and-white toddlers playing together, laughing and joyful without a single thought of the horrific racial strife to come later in life when they lose their innocence. Adults could learn much from our children instead of raising them in an environment of fear and bigotry. Crosby, Stills, and Nash taught us that. My book was titled "Soul Sister and the Honky." It even made the Black Panthers' Recommended Reading list.
Our second date went smoother. Being a movie buff, I took her to a double feature of the two most popular movies out, 'Dr. Zhivago' and 'The Sound of Music.' Once seated we held hands and played a fascinating game of 'spot the African American on the screen or in the audience'. It proved much harder than expected. We had better luck later while attending "Shaft." Between films we talked quietly, learning about each other.
It was then she admitted she was strongly bi-curious leading me to let out a rebel yell which seemed to inspire a young Billy Idol who was sitting near us. Already, I could tell how important music would be to us.
Alana was big on Motown while I preferred protest music of Dylan and Seeger (Pete not Bob). After the movies, we held hands and skipped home where my seduction plans would be set in motion. I felt like Hef.
Once there I switched on the appropriate blacklight highlighting a poster of Jimi and we danced to a Four Tops eight-track. She didn't seem to mind my clumsy Caucasian dancing. She also never objected to my teeth nibbling on her exposed neck causing our breasts to smash together like IHOP pancakes.
The only thing missing was maple syrup which was Plan B. Reaching around my African Queen, my open hands gripped her bubble butt, fondling, squeezing, kneading. The room became very aromatic with the sweet smell of weed and even sweeter smell of pussy.
Her desperate pleas encouraged me. First burying my face in the nape of her neck then touring the Grand Canyon of her cleavage, drooling and motorboating. My tiny bites and tugs caused her knees to buckle as did mine when her hand slid between my spread legs. Guiding her to bed I expertly unbuttoned her skin-tight jeans.
The contrast of her white panties and brown skin was mouth-watering. But nothing compared to the contrast of her pink, glistening pussy after slipping those panties off. Diving headfirst between her legs, my lips tugged on her slippery petals while my tongue strummed her clit like Chet Atkins at the O'pry.
She wrapped her legs around my head and drew my mouth closer. With her heavenly bum lifted off the bed, I reached under, dragging nails below her curves. Her moans reached a decibel level normally reserved for Grand Funk Railroad. On an impulse, I slapped her left hip.
Her body stiffened as she yelped, "FUCK YES! I LIKE IT ROUGH!" After proposing, I flipped her over quickly, my hands playing erotic bongos on each bare cheek. I felt like Ricky Ricardo on meth. I noticed a growing wet spot on the sheets beneath her. Laundry was going to be fun.
"Spread your cheeks," I ordered. She complied immediately with a loud gasp. I helped with my thumbs pressing between her cheeks, prying. Then sliding my tongue up and down her crease before plunging into her crinkled, winking rose. She even reached back to hold my head firmly in place. Always the lady.
"God, yes! Eat my asshole!" Incredibly aroused by her elegant vocabulary, my tongue began drilling deeper than a Jed Clampett oil well. Once her anus was saliva-lubed I searched beneath the bed, finding a hefty, red butt plug. Guiding it gently to its tight target, she struggled to accept its girth before lifting to look at me over her shoulder, eyes bulging.
"Stop in the name of love," she begged. Her face contorted like a Diana Ross mugshot. As I penetrated her hole I noticed her legs opening as she rubbed herself. Her squishy sounds were a perfect complement to the background Motown tunes.
Lost in primal lust, I spanked the back of her thighs briskly, hand prints displayed. It was then I committed a mood-killing faux pas. Without thinking I asked, "Alana, are you, my sex slave?" I realized my mistake immediately as she turned, glaring, and smacked the shit out of me. I would have much preferred an enema had I known her fetish of choice.
"I ain't nobody's slave, you cracka bitch," she growled down at me.
To make amends I quickly put on some Barry White and crawled next to her. Kissing passionately and apologizing profusely. Mercifully she forgave my lack of sensitivity and brain cells. Lost in the comfort of cuddling and the delicious foreplay we watched each other masturbate... the greatest spectator sport ever.
With my climax nearing I straddled her face grinding my pussy over her nose and mouth. I began humping and hunching as if performing some lewd lambada. When she dug her long nails into my fleshy ass, my orgasm erupted, spewing over her face. And with her hand moving rapidly between her legs, her orgasm quickly followed.
"Was it good for you, " I asked?
"Is James Brown 'the godfather of soul," she promptly replied?
I assumed that meant 'yes' but I had much to learn. For instance, I asked once if she wanted to watch 'Psycho' to which she replied, "I can't watch scary movies. I pee myself."
Nodding I replied, "I know. I washed sheets this morning. Apparently you watched 'Exorcist' last night...more than once." That laundry wasn't fun.
We stayed together for almost thirty years, deeply in love. Only death could separate us... which it did in 1992 at the so-called Rodney King LA riots. An unidentified bullet took her life and a huge chunk of my heart. The killer was never found despite my desperate search. Alana deserved justice and I needed closure. We got neither. She was condemned as an instigator. I knew better. To me, even in my heartache, she remained my hero. Someone who couldn't or wouldn't back down from her beliefs.
It's now Pride month, another reason for my poignant reflections. The rainbow LGBTQ flag wasn't around in our day but we would have carried it proudly. I don't protest much these days other than telling meddling kids to get off my lawn. Alana would be as troubled as I over the depressing, misguided direction America is headed.
Where are the leaders we desperately need? We lost another Kennedy and Dr. King to assassins in '68 and with them we lost our direction as a once-respected, caring nation. Now, other countries condemn our violations of civil rights as we once righteously condemned others.
Where are our leaders with fresh ideas, offering hope? Instead, we have senior citizens running for President; men likely to name Jessica Fletcher as FBI Director and Ben Matlock as Attorney General. We have a minimum age for office, why not a maximum too? Hell, is it too much to ask for one viable candidate who doesn't qualify for a senior citizen discount at Cracker Barrel?
In the meantime, I'll listen to Al Green and cry myself to sleep remembering a love I will never experience again. A friend I will never laugh with again. Heartbreak knows no skin color nor expiration date.
Orange on the rainbow flag represents 'healing and friendship.' The land of the free needs both badly now. The great Brian Wilson wrote a song called 'Love and Mercy.' America needs those qualities as well. We're all in this together. Vote!
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than avataransk.ru
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.