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Why, No, I’ve Never Had Intercourse with an African-American Woman
March 2007

Sometimes reality provides me with all the fodder I need for this webzine.

One of the true joys in my life is dealing with people who think I’m wild and crazy. Get a few tattoos and throw some piercings in your face, and people assume you do drugs or lead some gritty, interesting lifestyle (or they think you’re nuts), no matter how nerdy and boring you are in real life.

And from what I understand, tattooed girls tend to get hit on by guys who assume they're some type of nymphomaniac and are wild in the sack (right Jenny?), but it’s a little different for guys with body modifications. Usually, you get women who are either out to shock their friends and family, are looking to live out some secret fantasy of dating a "bad boy" or are professionals in the "adult entertainment industry" (i.e. strippers and porn stars).

Here’s a recent example:

I got out of the studio at a fairly decent hour (11pm-ish) Monday. I headed home to do some Pro Tools editing, and after I finished that up, I called my hetero-lifemate Nathan Smithson to see if he wanted to get a drink. Smithson and I have a particular fondness for dive bars, and I had recently been told about an establishment that met the "dive" criteria and wasn't too far from my house.

So we decided to check out said bar, the Blue Room, especially since we spent entirely too much time (and money) at Sardo’s, our usual (karaoke) dive bar o'choice. For you Burbank kids, the Blue Room's on Alameda and San Fernando, and while the beer's cheaper, the liquor’s the same price as Sardo’s, and the wait staff at the Blue room is far less attractive.

Anyway, after a conversation about the place's decor, September 11th conspiracies, and misogyny in hip-hop (seriously), Nate made the comment that the place was a bit of a sausage fest. I was inclined to agree with him, as there were only two women in the place, one of them being the cocktail waitress. Ten minutes later in walks a group of "young people," three of them being girls, two of them looking very "adult industry professional."

I’m not trying to stereotype, but there's a certain, uh, physical build and fashion sense that tends to go along with that profession, and both of these ladies were very "chesty," made up, and wearing skin-tight tank tops and jeans. As a friend of mine puts it, they were “built like thoroughbreds.” Of course they rapidly became the center of the bar's attention, especially when they started grinding on each other in a sexual manner.

While they were both very attractive, women who look like strippers/porn actresses aren't really my thing. But I did find it really amusing. Most notably because they were watching themselves dance in the large mirror on the back wall of the bar the whole time.

After this minor distraction, the conversation resumed, interrupted by the occasional glance to the side and some chuckling. We were about halfway through our second round of drinks when I heard, "Hey, hey you! With the beer! Hey, you with the tattoos!"

Realizing this probably meant me, I turned to see the aforementioned girls waving me over to the table they were sharing with some guy. I came over, and they asked me to remove my glasses, saying that I looked like "someone." I complied, mainly out of curiosity because I’m not really one of those people who looks like anyone.

"Hmm.... you really shouldn't wear those glasses. You look better without them. You look too 'nice' with glasses. You’d look tougher if you took them off," one of them said. Her friend backed her up with a head nod.

I laughed and replied, "Well, they do help me see better, so I think I’ll probably keep wearing them."

"You shouldn't smile as much either. You just don't look ‘tough’."

"Uh, okay. I’ll keep that in mind," I said.

"Did those hurt?" one of the girls asked, pantomiming dimple piercings.

For the record, I hate that question. Don’t ever ask anyone that question about his or her piercings or tattoos. I’ll clear it up for everyone right now: yes, they hurt, but it’s really not that bad. It’s a dumb question if you think about it.

But I decided to be polite about it. "Yes, they did, but only the installation." They don't get the joke, or maybe it just wasn’t funny. Probably both.

"Oh okay."

Conversation over, I head back to the bar. Nathan smiles and greets me with, "so... the 'did it hurt’ question?" He laughs. I laugh. We have this thing called the "did that hurt?" game. Whenever we enter an establishment, we both guess how long it'll be before someone asks me that question (yeah, it happens that often). Generally, we go by The Price Is Right rules. The person who's closest without going over wins. The loser buys the winner a drink.

Drinking resumes.

I’m just about done with my beer, and they've already done last call, when I hear the stripper table beckoning me. I turn to glance their way, and I’m getting waved over again. I excuse myself and wander back over.

“Umm…. Is your dick pierced? One of the girls asks (yes, I realize I could say “penis” there, but it’s important I use the correct vernacular of these girls to maintain the integrity of my story).

Why lie? “Yeah, actually it is.”

“Can we see it?” she replies. Her friend backs her up with another round of nodding. Believe it or not, neither of those questions is really all that uncommon. Maybe the girls are right that I don’t look tough enough, so people assume it’s okay to ask me about my genital décor. Regardless, it’s a pretty harmless question to ask if about the piercings. Asking to see them is a little different.

I decide lying might be a good idea. “You know what, I took my jewelry out to clean it this evening so yeah, no piercings in there right now. Sorry.” In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t just say no.

“Can I touch it?” the girl responds without batting an eye.

Okay, now I’m caught off guard. “Uh… touch it?” I ask. Then I realize in the time it’s taken me to come up with that answer, she’s begun feeling my chest, and stomach, and then she firmly grabs my ass. I think of people checking horses before they buy them. I wonder if she’s going to check my teeth next.

I decide that saying no is now a good answer to try. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, how big is it?”

Again, I’m caught off guard. “The piercings or my penis?” is the only response I can muster. I need clarification.

“Your cock.” Again, her words not mine.

“Wow, you know, I can’t say that I’ve ever really measured my penis,” I respond. That’s a lie--every guy has measured his penis at some point--but it’s honestly not a measurement I keep in mind. I know my shirt, shoe, and pant size, and they tend to get me through the day.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she asks. I tell her I think I’m more comfortable standing. Then comes a question that really throws me for a loop.

“Have you ever fucked a black chick?”

I think my jaw actually dropped open. Now, my dear readers, the reason she asked this was that the girl I was talking to was, in fact, black. So it wasn’t completely from left field, but it was pretty close.

“No, uh, no I haven’t,” I stammered.

“Why? Don’t you like black chicks?” her friend (master of the head nod) pipes up. Her friend is a white woman with blonde hair, overly plump lips, and huge breasts. I almost stare at her lips (not her breasts, seriously), as they look so unusual that now I can’t help but be engrossed by how odd they are.

“No, I don’t dislike black women. It’s… well, I guess you could say the opportunity’s never presented itself.”

“Would you fuck me?” says the black girl without missing a beat.

I really wasn’t prepared for that one. Normally, I pride myself on being a pretty quick wit, but this has all become so surreal that I’m just standing there, mouth agape, trying to think of something to say. I begin re-thinking my opinion on women. I’ve always hated it when girls play coy, but this is a little too overly direct, even for my tastes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Where are my manners?” It’s the perfect comeback.

“We don’t need names. Would you fuck me?” She replies, raising her eyebrows.

I am now out of my league. I glance at her friends for help. “She’s hot; why don’t you want to fuck her?” asks Crazy Lips: Queen of the Head Nod. I stare at her for a moment, trying to come up with an answer. She winks at me and jiggles her breasts in her hands.

“You’re blowing it, dude,” their male friend chimes in. I ponder this for a moment. The guy chuckles into his beer. Head nod is shaking her head at me in disappointment. I decide to at this point, the conversation can only get more interesting.

“Sure. You’re very attractive. Sorry, I’ve just never dealt with someone being that direct about it.” I’m aware that I’m blushing.

“You should sit down.”

“I think I’ll keep standing, thanks. I sit at work all day, and it’s more comfortable if a stand,” I replied (this also meant I could escape more quickly if necessary).

“So what’re you doing later?”

While I would like to think that I’m as much a man’s man as anyone, the concept of taking a stripper/porn actress back to my place for coitus isn’t doing it for me. Not only am I not really the type to pick up strangers for one-night stands, this girl is obviously a professional, and would probably seriously injure me. It’d be like playing basketball against Shaq, and I don’t need to be humiliated in bed.

“Oh, I have a friend in town who needs to crash at my place so I have to go meet up with him.” I decided lying was the best option after all. She looked disappointed, as did her friends.

She asked me where I’m from. I responded that I’m from Tennessee (this doesn’t seem to mean much to them, but I’m not surprised). Then they asked if I’m some kind of mama’s boy. I asked if they’re asking because I’m from Tennessee or some other reason. They told me I was too polite, and they couldn’t believe I wasn't jumping on the chance to “fuck” the overly direct black girl. She returned to checking my build to make sure I was sturdy or something to that affect.

“Seriously, what are you doing after this? Where are you going?” she asked again. I again gave her my story that I had a friend who’s coming into town late that night, and I needed to go meet up with him. My beer was empty now, but I pretended to drink the last sip anyway just so I didn’t have to talk. She continued to look at me with a “how could you pass this up?” expression. Her friends continued to shake their heads at me, disappointedly.

“It was really nice to meet you,” I said. “Without sounding too clichéd, do you frequent this establishment? Maybe we could talk more next time.” I was just reaching for a graceful way to bow out of all of this.

“This is my first time here,” she said somewhat coldly. I didn’t think she was used to rejection. She sure as hell didn’t appear to be fond of it either. I told her it’s my first visit, but as it’s such a lovely and friendly place that I’m sure I’ll be back so maybe I’ll see her around. I then returned to Nathan at the bar.

“You going to hit that?” he laughed.

“We should go. Now,” I replied.

“You’d never make it on the road. What kind of rock star would you be? Here you have a hot stripper throwing herself at you and you’re leaving?” He was only 50% joking, but he got why we’re leaving. As we stepped outside into the parking lot, he also quipped, “way to be a shitty wingman, too. She had a friend. You could’ve introduced me.”

I tried to explain to him that she had freakishly large lips, but I realized it’s a moot point. I assured him that next time I’ll get his back and he can have all the porno sex his heart desires (and to be fair, usually I’m a pretty good wing man).

“We could come back tomorrow,” I offered.

“I hate you,” he affectionately retorted.

We haven’t been back to the Blue Room since, but it has only been a week. Anybody want to go with me? You might get to “fuck a black chick.” I suggest that you get some tattoos and/or piercings and don’t wear glasses, though.

Josh Newell resides in Burbank, California. He is pierced in over 100 locations. He is the proprietor of Josh Newell Recordings and works as a recording engineer.


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