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(I'm Dreaming of) A White Christmas




He kneaded his big black cock in his hand. He rested his bare naked hip and the side of his buttocks against the pavement. He couldn’t believe Larry had told him the truth this time. There really was a window under the plywood.


He looked in through the gap and marvelled at the naked white bodies, bare and pink from head to heel. Some young and some old. Most of them relatively flat, or if not, shapely due to excessive weight. Though some of them moved through that locker room, and the showers next to it, with marvelous shape and bounce to them. He knew they had been upstairs, doing crunches and other butt and thigh exercises in order to grow in all the right places, and he loved them for it. He remembered what it was like on the first floor, back when the building was a boxing gym. He used to go there to watch his uncle spar with Darius and Crazy Alfy with the lazy eye. Nothing looked like it did back then. The building had been completely changed from top to bottom, from the layout within to the paint on its outer bricks and columns. Not that they would let him in, but he had seen what the place had been transformed into by looking through the glass of the vestibule before being consistently shooed away.


And back in his day, in his teens and twenties, even when he came across the occasional white girl, she was never shaped like the ones today were. He salivated as he watched their bodies through the crack, feeling his cock get as hard as it used to get when he was a teenager, watching them put on or remove scrunchies or wristbands, and he loved the moment when their butt flesh would give to the rising leggings being pulled up over it, or burst from outside of it when the leggings were pulled down. O’stasia had a giant ass, as jet black as the night, one which her diet of crack and alcohol couldn’t deflate, and he had tried a few rounds with it like the others when she’d fall comatose, next to the trash can where everyone would warm up during winter nights. But there was just something different about white ass. Or at least he thought there was. Maybe because he had been so unfamiliar with it his entire life, white people in general being so remote to him, that he’d never think of seeing any in person. Or maybe it was just the way the dark crack between the cheeks contrasted with their light flesh that appealed to him like it did.


It was all too good to be true. Yet he lay there on the ground, not far from where he would often rest in the alley, close to the trash bin that he’d stand behind and smoke from his glass crack pipe. It was getting harder to find the privacy to smoke these days. The cops were out unceasingly. On top of that, the citizenry in the neighborhood seemed to function as their own police force. Not like they used to, when the gangs ran everything, and they’d pull out on any trouble-maker on the block. Now it was more like a middle-aged fat woman from out the donut shop who’d film you and lecture you when you did anything slightly out of the ordinary. It was strange how much things changed. Though Frank had trouble complaining, what with the bare white flesh he’d get to see moving up and down the street.


He lay there now, unconcerned with the world and the nosy busy-bodies, his two black buttcheeks out in the Californian December sun, massaging his elongating cock as he watched a mother (40’s) and daughter (20’s), side by side, getting changed, their butts like a before and after video in an infomercial. He had seen their mutual husband and father drop them off at the front of the building an hour earlier, and he watched now as they stood naked in a sea of exposed white flesh, bodies so close they’d often bump into and rub against one another. Clothed bodies walked around on the floor just above them, or in the city block around the building, but separated by just one flimsy piece of plywood, they all stood underneath the busy world, all as one, naked as the day they were born.


Frank didn’t care who saw him there in that alley. Unlike those women below, he didn’t care who saw his buttcheeks. That was one of the few perks being homeless, you were given much more leverage to humiliate yourself. Nobody would believe he was seeing what he was seeing anyways, so he didn’t fear getting caught, at least not from people walking past outside. It was just too much of a blessing that anyone could assume it would fall in such a wretched creature’s cock-heavy lap. Most would assume that he was peering inside an empty janitor’s room, watching two other homeless people who had climbed in to have sex. Nothing better than that ever happened for the homeless. And it was this cover of the mundane over this little Christmas miracle which shielded him from sight.


Frank looked down at the sea of pink-beige softness with broken in its purity by the occasionally garish color of a scrunchy or painted toenails. There wasn’t a single black or Hispanic girl down there. “Yeah Becky,” Frank whispered to himself. “Show me that ass, Caitlyn.” A hipster girl with a Princess Leia style bun turned around under the showerhead. Her butt, which had been hidden from Frank’s view in the world above by her flowing dress, was large and dimpled delightfully on her right cheek.


“Yeah, Moonbeam,” he said in a husky whisper. “Let me see that aassss.”


As if in response, her bottle of liquid soap slipped form her hands and rattled against the drain and the wall. She bent down to pick it up, and when she did, her butt cheeks opened wide, displaying her discolored butthole.


“Oh god!”


Frank then looked over to see the mother and daughter, both facing away, with their butt cheeks touching each other’s. In the shower, a college girl splashed around, wiggling her butt to Rocking Around the Christmas Tree, which was playing both from the intercom within and from a car stereo that Frank could hear moving down the street without. The skinny girl from the Starbucks across the street, the one Frank saved money to buy coffee from, walked past, completely nude, without fanfare, her bush was furry with fine blonde hair. Frank thought of what it would feel like to slowly slide the black head of his cock through those hairs.


“Oh fuck yes!” he grunted. He was almost ready to nut on the side of the wall, but before he could, something stopped him.


A vision, wrapped in perfect pink-beige and with a red bow of hair at its top, her eyes a steely blue, came into the change room, her body unfairly clothed. It was a pinky he had never seen before. But at seeing her now, he almost felt like he had seen the most beautiful woman he ever had, and ever would, and at seeing her, he let go of his dick, letting it slap against the pavement, not wanting to release just yet. She was sweating, but gorgeously so, in her gym clothes, and she carried a blue towel over her slender shoulder. And even in her modest dress, Frank could see the vague outline of her body, and he knew, though he still couldn’t believe, that he was in for a treat. She grabbed her bag from a locker, then she looked around for a vacant spot, her eyes seeming to be wide as if for the occasion, but all the benches were filled with gorgeous white bodies which floated through the steam like ghosts through the smoke of a warzone. The woman walked through it, the only real human being, even if a pale one, and just as a young girl grabbed her bag to get up, the vision put hers down urgently but still sheepishly. She looked around, as if concerned that she were offending someone, and then at seeing that she had won the spot fairly, she grabbed her tights and began to pull down.


“Oh beautiful,” Frank said. He began to knead his cock. “Take it off you white-“


“Hey!”


Frank heard it, and at hearing it, he felt volley after volley of cum shoot from his balls over the brickwork. He let got of the plywood and it snapped back against the building, closing off the vision of heaven, obscuring the sight of its most beautiful angel just before the moment of her gym shorts coming down.


“Hey,” the voice yelled again as Frank felt the contents of his balls empty violently.


When he was just about finished, he rolled over to face the accusatory voice, little volleys still ejecting from his throbbing dick. He looked up at the opposing apartment block to see a scowling man, forty, thin, athletic, balding, and white, looking down at him from an apartment window. “What the hell is wrong with you? You want me to call the police? Find a bathroom to do that in like a fucking human being! Not the alleyway!”


Frank felt a strange relief at his little secret not completely being found out. He rested himself on his back, the man yelling at him as he did, and he began to pull his pants up over his cum-spent softening dick. When the man realized he was getting dressed after all, he shut his mouth, only watching as the homeless man pulled what was left of his tattered pants over his snake-like penis.


Frank got up and he looked up at the man, who just looked down at him with disgust, and their eyes locked, even as Frank walked his way out of the alley.


“Bums,” the man said to himself. “This neighborhood would be perfect if it wasn’t for these fucking bums.”


Frank emerged on the sidewalk. People took an extra large arc around him as they passed. Most tried to ignore him, but he could feel their sneers. He couldn’t see a single colored face. Everyone pale. It had been getting that way for a while. But he never noticed how bad it had gotten until this very moment.


He stood by the hydrant he used to wrench open with his friends in the summertime, it now painted an accepting rainbow, as the white bodies around him ignored him as a nuisance, though one which occupied none of their time. And as he reflected on it all, in the lucid thrust of his post-nut clarity, it had just occurred to him.


He looked back at the window that the man had yelled at him from.


“Son of a bitch,” he said. It was closed now, both the window and its shade. “That used to be my apartment.”



They had heard a snapping noise. And they all looked up, at least most of them did, to see nothing but a bare baby blue wall, with a notch made out of wood, also painted baby blue. No one thought anything of it, and they continued on with their showering and changing.


After the vision, the one with the steely blues eyes, was done changing into her day attire, she packed everything into her duffle bag, hoisted it to her shoulder, and she walked out of the room. She jogged up the steps and pushed open the door of the vestibule, sidestepped two muscular blonde men coming in, and she pushed open the door to the outside with her shoulder. She stood on the building steps. She looked down at her watch. Before she could even look back up, an SUV pulled up in front of the building.


You sat in the driver’s seat. You were looking at something in the rear-view mirror. Then you looked over at the beautiful vision of a woman. You leaned over and opened the passenger side door. You looked the woman in the eyes. “Hey mom,” you said. “Get in.”



 

As you lay in your bed, your feet up against the wall over your bedrest, occasionally bouncing a red rubber ball against your white wall, you thought about what you had seen earlier today. Standing there in that rearview, a foreign entity sticking out like a sore, you saw that homeless man standing by the hydrant, looking at your mom with intense… something…. as she got into the SUV. It had been a long time since you saw anyone with that much need in their heart. As you thought about it, you heard your parents discussing Christmas in the echoey living room.


They were discussing what they were going to get your brother. “We got him a new car last year,” your mom said.


“We did,” your dad replied. “Didn’t we.”


“He barely drives it.”


Your mom was right. Once your dad gave him permission to drive the old Porsche he had rotting in the corner of the garage on the condition that he got it fixed, your brother had refused to go anywhere without it. You had basically taken his car as a hand-me-down, even though your dad offered to buy you your own.


You threw your rubber ball against the wall, and your mom spoke as it bounced back into your hands:


“What do you get the young man who has everything?” your mom mused to herself.


“I wouldn’t say that,” your dad said, sounding offended. “Times are getting tough, honey. What we don’t need is austerity. Especially not on Christmas. We’ll cut corners everywhere else, but this isn’t the time for it.”


You couldn’t see her, but you could imagine her looking over at your dad, with her blue eyes wide, not knowing what to say.


There was some silence for a bit.


“Speaking of splurging…” your dad began. You smiled to yourself, knowing where this was going. “I just thought that maybe this year, as a… you know… as a gift to me… because I’ve been a good boy… that maybe…”


“Maybe what?” your mom asked.


“Maybe…. Maybe you can give me a little more of yourself than usual.”


At that sentence, the violating thought of your mom’s butthole, or at least an approximation of what you assumed it would look like, came flashing to your mind like a horror film jump scare. The mental image obscured the ball bouncing back at you, and you suddenly felt it smack into your nose.


“Ow fuck!” you said aloud, not meaning to.


You heard a silence from the living room. Uh oh, you thought.


It was obvious they had heard you and were now aware that you were in the house with them.


After a few more awkward moments, both for them and for you, you heard your mom whisper to your dad, the both of them sounding like they were in the kitchen. “Okay,” she murmured. “On Christmas night.”


You heard your dad’s hands clap together. You knew it was an involuntary act.


“Shhh,” your mom said. You could imagine her brows furrowing as she looked up in the direction of the hallway leading to your bedroom.


Though she did, you knew that both you and your dad were too preoccupied by the thought of her butthole being penetrated by your dad’s throbbing white cock to care.


This is going to be a good Christmas, you thought to yourself, and you began to undo your pants to let your stiff cock loose. You then grabbed it by its stem and bobbed it up and down as if it were a face in speech. “God bless us everyone…”


 

You stood off to the side at Starbucks, waiting for your mocha latte, and to pass the time you stole glances at the pretty blond skinny girl who worked at the till. Tufts of ethereal blonde hair puffed out at the space above her ears and below her green Starbucks cap. When she looked over at you, you looked away.


You tried to distract yourself with memories of going to the mountains in December as a kid, the only place in California with snow, and as you imagined it, the look of it making everything calm and dreamlike, and the sound of it as it crunched underneath your boots, the aspect of it which grabbed at you the most viscerally was it’s distinct smell, like water, but sweeter and more pungent and your mom’s red hairs as you and your brother playfully threw snowballs at her and she dodged. All while your dad stood off to the side, frustrated as to why he wouldn’t be getting service when he was closer to the satellites which twinkled in the sky like stars than he ever could be closer to sea level.


The daydream was delicate in your mind, so delicate that an overpowering stench which suddenly filled your nostrils was enough to tear the memory to shreds as quickly as the thoughts were conjured. The sight of sunny southern California of moderate elevation forced its way into your awareness, with only the tinny rendition of Frosty the Snowman coming through the Starbucks speakers, and the red-green-white aesthetic of the cups and promotional material, to at all signal that Christmas was fast approaching.


The stimuli which tore you so violently from that moment of happiness, of archetypal Christmas fun as known by the rest of the world, was a stimulus picked up by your most nostalgic sense. It was your sense of smell which had the misfortune of spotting it. And when you scanned your surroundings, focusing entirely on that which was in front of you for the time being, an instinct which turned out to be justified, a sore thumb in the crowd, a sore thumb in every sense of the concept, immediately informed you with his presence to the fact that he was the source of this plague on your imagination and memory.


Among the lineup of pale white faces, there was a lone black face, its features worn with age and the stresses of life. Going from below the neck, the tight lineup of smooth white limbs, and the clean and fashionable clothing which clung to them, or which they emerged out of, were broken in consistency by his black limbs, which peaked out of clothing which was torn and shredded by use and reuse, and dirt and grime and age and a lifestyle involving who-knows-what, registering in tears and rips and splits and frayed fabric. Judging by the look on the faces of others in line, you weren’t the first to notice his smell. You wouldn’t be the last. And though you knew nobody wanted him there, you also knew that it was the unspoken culture of you and your people, to not allow yourself to let anyone know explicitly that they were not welcome, though everything implicit about you and your culture seemed to scream as much at every waking second through subtleties so abstract and small that without their combined weight, they’d be as invisible as a single straw when compared to a haystack.


Everybody there, including the skinny blonde busily punching in orders at the till, wanted him gone, not just from the store, but from the neighborhood that he seemed to incessantly haunt the sidewalks of. Everybody wanted him gone.


Everybody except you.


But why?


Even you were surprised to feel what you felt. It was a weird fondness for the figure. It couldn’t have been his race. You didn’t see race (or so you told yourself). It couldn’t have been his aesthetic, which was revolting to you in every way, worst of all, olfactorily.


When it hit you, it hit you as viscerally and perhaps nostalgically as thoughts of past dallying in the snow with mom and dad. And that’s when you realized it, and realized why he might not have been as directly familiar to you as he should have been. Because the last time you had seen him, you had seen him backwards.


You remembered him standing there, by that painted hydrant, leaning on it as he glared at your mom, watching her body as she climbed into the passenger seat of your family SUV. You saw him there, small and distant in your rear-view mirror. Ridiculous, ragged. His black skin, you were ashamed to say, even more than his comically baggy clothes, made him as strange to the landscape as makeup does a clown. And, even still, it was the nature of his gaze, the intensity of it, the ache, the want, the need, which secured himself so firmly in your imagination, and apparently, as you were now finding out, even more firmly in your sympathies.


You were so lost in thought, this time thought of what was immediately in front of you, that you hadn’t noticed two things. The first was that the man was now looking back at you, a look of confusion, aggravation, and fear, at the sight of a young white man, possibly a teenager, eyeing him so severely. The next thing which you failed to notice was something of a more auditory nature.


It was your name.


It was being called.


Incorrectly.


You snapped back into the real world, and you looked over at the blonde barista behind her counter, her brows furrowed in rushed angst between her tufts of blonde hair, as she extended the latte out towards your direction.


When you saw her, you moved to the till, grabbed the coffee and thanked her. She thanked you back with as much goodwill as was necessary to keep the job and she went back to work on the next person in line. You turned around, and when you saw the man, you saw him, his big white eyes like pools in the middle of his dark face, glaring back at the blonde barista with a strange and confident grin. It was the type of look you weren’t used to the homeless making. A look of confidence, and possibly even that of domination, though the woman he stared at, even as a coffee barista, was hundreds of times more successful in life than he had ever been, clearly. Even still, the man seemed to move with an extreme confidence, when it came to her and her alone.


You moved over to the side and sat at a long table, and you watched as the line, its sore part moving with it like the scar on a caterpillar or the outdated and worn car of an otherwise new train, inched up toward the counter.


When the man got there, he ordered what he wanted, the blonde seeming to know what it was before he had even finished saying it, and as she punched it in, and he fished through his pocket for the accumulated change of the day, he asked her “so, not going to the gym today?”


She stopped for a second, as if shot, but then continued as if nothing was said. After all, what was said? It was a strange question, but a harmless one. It was useless in every way, though it lacked any element which would even qualify it in her mind, or the mind of any other woman, as flirting or creepy verbal aggression. It was just an incomprehensibility, there were many in her work day, and it troubled her even less that this incomprehensibility came from a man who was homeless and from a much different culture to her own.


“Not today,” she said. “I…” she seemed to be about to say when it was she would go to the gym, what days of week or on what principle of time, but then thought the better of it.


“Tell me something,” he said. “They have showers in there?” He asked it with a wry smile, his thumb pointed over his shoulder toward where the gym stood directly across the street.


She, naturally assuming that he as a homeless person needed to know these things, and not being opposed to him finding a set of showers he could use for once, nodded her head innocently without looking at him, her eyes on the keys of the till as she punched them. “Yup, there is,” she said.


“Do they have hot water?” he asked.


“They do.”


“Wonderful,” he said. “Just wonderful,” and he stood up straight.


When he stood aside, waiting for his coffee, you were the only person who didn’t crawl subtly through space to avoid him. You sat where you had been seated, looking at the back of his neck, its skin darker there than anywhere else. He turned his head and looked out the glass of the storefront, then back at the barista. Every time his eyes were on her he seemed to brim with a certain pride.


After he got his coffee, he thanked her and then walked out through the doors. When he held the door open for a thirty-something year old gay couple coming in, they instead opted to open the opposing door without even acknowledging his existence. His eyebrows raised as if to say “well okay then…” and he continued outside with his coffee.


After you were done yours, you waited outside in your family’s SUV. You sat in the driver’s seat watching people pass on the sidewalk. A van rolled past blasting Christmas in Hollis by Run DMC, and you noticed that it was being driven by two middle aged white guys. You looked down at your watch. Your mom would be out soon. You pulled out into traffic when given the opportunity, and when you caught a break in the opposing lane, you did a U-turn, preparing to pull up to the curb in front of the gym. But as you did, something caught your peripheral. Something which seemed private and obscene in a primal way, even before you had enough sight of it to register it as much. But by then, you had already passed the lane you saw it in.


You pulled over and you sat there thinking about that sight, whatever it was, and whatever it was about it which grabbed you so. And then, as you realized you still had a few more minutes before your mom would be out, you put the vehicle into park and you got out.




Frank lay there, his butt cheeks baking out in the December sun, looking in through the gap between brick and plywood, hints of steam coming out through the crack, and he watched with glorious pleasure, his eagerness now caffeinated, as the ghostly white bodies flowed past in every direction, like a hubbub of angels working to keep the cosmos circulating around the will of its one true creator, their workplace an office in heaven.


Ass and breasts, the areolas of which painted a different color on each, their butt cracks riding up and between their cheeks at different lengths and thicknesses with fine hairs giving each its own shade. Their thighs, hairless and white, and their calves often shapely. Their heels and their feet delicate and specific in their movements. Water trailed off some of their bodies in a way that rivalled, in fact beat, the greatest waterfalls in the entire state. The cheeks of their face blushed as one bumped into the other in the crowded fray, and their lashes fluttered, and their chins turned as they rummaged through their locker, and their hair fell over their eyes as they sifted through their duffle bags and little knapsacks, and they laughed and giggled and screamed and hummed to themselves. He felt like a goblin, a little freak from the world below, even as he watched from above, hunched over into demonic shape, playing with himself, his giant throbbing black dick, with comically protruding butt cheeks poking out behind him.


He thought it couldn’t get any better, but then it did, because down below, coming down the stairs into the basement, sweating and breathing heavy with her blue eyes wide and her red hair tied into a pony tail, came the vision of Caucasian perfection, her entire face, and what could be gleaned from her clothed body, being everything he thought he could ever want. More than he knew he could want. She again looked for a vacant space, not knowing her place among the angels, being even rarer than that. And when she found it, she set down her bag, still somehow apologetic for the crime of it.


Frank watched, his cock, big and black, growing in his palm, a python which snaked through his weathered fingers. The side of his left nutsack rested on the pavement which cooled in his shadow. The underside of his cock tip rested against the brick of the building. His left hand was sore from the digging in of plywood into the underside of his knuckle.


“Yes,” he whispered. “Fuck yes.”


Your mom looked around, and after looking around, seemingly for nothing in particular, she grabbed the waist of her shirt and she pulled it up.


Just as it was about to clear her midriff, Frank suddenly felt a terror. He used to call it his Nigga Sense, until white people in the neighborhood decided for him that that word was a taboo, and that they decided this with his best interests in mind of course. Whatever it was called (African American Sense? POC Intuition?) it was going off now so intensely that it even somehow drew his line of sight from the heavenly little gap. He turned to look, and when he did, he saw a solitary white boy, the same one from the Starbucks, standing at the end of the lane, awkward and unsure, looking directly at his exposed butt cheeks, all black and chocolatey.


He almost yelled out “what are you, a faggot?” but he caught himself, realizing that he’d not only blow his cover, but would end up alerting those inside that their was a chink in their little armor called privacy, one which would need to be filled in with brick or cement, or at least stronger wood, immediately. Instead, he just stared back at the gay white boy.


After a few moments, he decided to ignore the apparition, and he looked back inside. Your mom stood there, now fully clothed in her daytime attire, hoisting her duffel bag up to her shoulder, ready to leave. Frank let go of the plywood, letting the crack snap shut, and then he let it close even further by resting his weary ahead against the wood.


He looked back up, and you were still standing there, glaring.


He got up, his softening but still large dick out and flopping, and he pulled up his pants, or what was left of them, and when he turned around to walk off, his butt cheeks still hanging outside as bare as day, he said “kiss my black ass,” without even looking back at you.


Your mom had come out the front door and, seeing the SUV there with its driver seat empty, she looked around.


You looked at the now vacant alley, stood there for a moment taking it all in. And then you slowly walked down its length. And when you got to the place where the man had been laying down, it marked for his presence by an empty Starbucks cup, you looked down at the thin piece of plywood that had apparently been nailed into the side of the building. You slowly kneeled down and you touched its face. It had graffiti in red scrawled over it, followed by graffiti in white, both sets incomprehensible to you. You let your hand run over it, and then pulled back slightly when you almost got a splinter. You then took a different approach and let your fingers crawl over it with less drag and you tried to remember what he had been doing with his hand. And when it occurred to you, you let your fingers fall to the bottom right corner of the plywood. You pulled up, and when you did, the sound of a chorus of angels came through, as clean, clear, and heavenly as a choir singing Christmas carols in the night, but with an otherworldly echo, almost dreamlike and large. You let the plywood fall shut.


You looked down at your fingers and noticed they were wet with moisture. Something warm. You then took another breath, grabbed the plywood, and you slowly pulled it open, lowering yourself enough to see tile below. And at seeing it, a bare ankle and foot suddenly walked past. Followed by another one. Then a bare thigh which seemed to rise almost up to the point of a white buttcheek.


The plywood slipped out of your hand and snapped shut.


You stood up suddenly and looked down at the little doorway into a world you were never meant to witness.


Then you thought about the hunched over black man, his hands busy, and his butt cheeks perked.


You stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say or do, forgetting your duties as a son. Forgetting the SUV out front and your mom, who was now sitting in its passenger seat, waiting.


You felt a shadow over your head. You turned around and looked up.


Staring down at you from a window was a middle-aged white guy, his head blocking out the sun.


He didn’t say anything, only looked at you, seeming to be bored.


Then after a few moments with the two of you doing nothing but looking at each other, squinting in the sun, he said “be careful there.”


You said nothing, only glaring upward at him.


“I seen a homeless bla- a homeless guy laying down there doing… you know. Playing with himself. Maybe shooting up too. I don’t know.”


Your gaze was on his and after a few more seconds of silence, you only nodded. “Thanks.”


“Don’t mention it,” he said, and he looked out at the neighborhood. Observing it for its own sake seemed to be his daily activity.


You turned around.


You then began to walk down the lane.


Your mom saw you approaching the SUV through its rear-view mirror. You had a look on your face of real distance. Not one of despondency or exhaustion. Just the look of an aimless confusion. You then disappeared from her sight as you crossed over to the driver’s side.


When you opened the door and came in she asked “anything wrong sweety?”


You looked at her. She was fully clothed and cherry-headed, clean and dry and delicately wrapped and big eyed. She looked at you with those eyes, their center an inviting blue. There was no smile on your face, but one began to form within the cockles of your heart.


“No,” you said, looking away. “Nothing’s wrong.” You put the vehicle into drive. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”


You stepped on the gas.



 


You stood at the front door, looking through its body-length window as your dad sat on the couch, his neck looking uncomfortably pressed against its backrest. His eyes were wide and intent, and his head bobbed on his shoulders as his torso jerked back and forth. You leaned in more to see that he was doing exactly what you thought he was. He tugged on his throbbing cock to whatever it was he was watching on the television. You thanked fate that your mom had been distracted into conversation by the neighbor across the street, the two of them talking on her lawn as people passed on the sidewalk.


Your dad thighs were white and harry with black hairs, his balls fuzzy and full, and he massaged his big dick, and you admired to the way its flesh crawled up and down its length as he tugged, salivating at the thought that that was what he wanted to stick up your mom’s butthole. Your mom, and her butthole (which sat safely not just behind the thick fabric of her pants, but sheltered in a deep foxhole between the cover of her enormous white butt cheeks), stood across the street in conversation, oblivious to the whole dynamic within.


When she was finished and she came to the stoup she asked why you hadn’t gone in yet.


“Just enjoying the view,” you said, and you looked out at the neighborhood.


She turned around, her face bewildered, and looked at the street, with nothing of note except one of the neighbors walking her shihtzu, which had a red santa hat pinned to the hairs of its head, and she turned back around and playfully said “you’re weird,” before grabbing the handle of the door.


When you both walked in, you caught a flash of your dad’s buttcheeks as he seemed to disappear loudly down the hallway in an instant. It happened so quickly that your mom might not have even registered it, yet the empty pair of pants and underwear on the couch, along with the shower clip from the movie Porkies, which when finding its end revealed itself to be playing on Xvideos.com and then repeated, left no doubt as to what was happening here.


Your mom laid her duffle bag on the couch, picked up the remote control, shook her head with a grin on her face, and then shut off the TV, its final image that of a young blonde woman, the water falling over her relatively thin and shapeless body. You just continued on to your room as if you didn’t understand or notice anything.


You hopped backward onto your bed and undid your pants, and for the next few minutes, imagined your dad’s cock, exactly like you had seen in on the couch, as it slowly pressed its way into the expanding orifice of your mom’s precious butthole.


Your parents’ sexlife had been a passion for you since puberty. It only made sense. Your dad, who had needs just like you did, was easy to relate to in his evergoing quest to further and further get more out of your mom and her wonderland of a body. And your mom, being beautiful, was a perfect object to imagine being used by your dad for these urges. Sex as a concept and stimuli was naturally interesting. Sex involving one’s mom was the most heady of concepts and intense of stimulation, her body, both familiar in appearance and foreign in that role, creating such a specific cocktail of pink-fleshy bliss to imagine, its every motion, malformation, and jiggle a gift to the senses.


And as hard as it was to imagine, you now had half of what it took to do so. You imagined your dad’s drooping right eyelid, as comical to see as it was on the couch moments earlier, as he slowly pressed his beautiful dick into the one part of your mom’s body he had yet to get to. The one part of her she had selfishly kept to herself, a hole she had kept to herself, as tight and pleasurable as the others, but which she withheld, only to find the Christmas spirit to be charitable with it twenty-five years into her marriage.


You remembered The Grinch and laughed to yourself imagining your mom’s butthole growing three times larger this Christmas in place of a heart.


But what confused you most about your mom’s decades of reluctance wasn’t the selfishness. Selfishness was a trait you could understand and relate to. It wasn’t that at all. It was the philistinism. Having just seen your dad’s cock, and the beauty of his naked lower half, you couldn’t believe that your mom could deny him any part of her. If he were to come into your own room right now, completely naked but for a t-shirt, and he demanded you to take his swollen, throbbing member in your mouth, you’d do it without delay. You’d feel his mushroom sized dickhead press into your inner cheek, and feel those balls on your chin, and you’d remove his cock and begin to lick his balls, and the insides of his thighs because to do so would be to have a good time. It wasn’t even a gay impulse. It was just an appreciation and respect for something beautiful.


But your mom, covered in a shroud of her own pale, blue-eyed making, galivanted through your dad’s circle, like a pixie or ghost, impervious to touch but for a secret rule or writ, unfair and arbitrary, which kept parts of her locked in a cage like some exotic beast or bird. Hidden from touch. Hidden from vie-


The sudden image of a window covered in plywood came to you, and soon after, as if to rock your world, you saw that same plywood sheet, but now being tugged backward by a rough and ashy black hand. And when you saw it, and you saw that legion of pale bodies come into view, you saw your mom coming in, clothed and dishevelled from an intense workout, and, as he watched, you imagined her, her delicate pink fingers, moving down to her zipper, which was watched coyly by her blue eye, and she’s about to tug. And she does. And she grabs the sides of her waists with her thumbs. And she pulls down, down until the very top of the crack of her –


*bang bang bang*


You let go of your cock and you grabbed at your balls, with your middle and ring finger curving underneath them, as if trying to stop your cock from involuntary ejaculation.


“Babe?” you heard your mom’s voice calling for you.


You could feel the potential orgasm passing, sparing you from its embarrassment, but still your voice began just as the tail end of it trailed off, causing you to speak with a sudden flutter. “Yes, mom?”


You then heard a whisper, sounding as if she was speaking to somebody behind her, maybe a few yards off. “I told you he’s home,” she said.


Your dad said something in response. Something whiny and thin.


“No,” she said.


He spoke again.


“No,” she said. “Wait until Christmas. Jeeze, you’re like a child.”


As you heard them, you, ignoring the fact that they must have thought you were too dull to know what was happening, thought about the two of them standing out there, in that hallway, ridiculous figures, Pagliacci-like, baggy and ridiculous. Complete clowns but for the fact they lived in a community full of them. A community that was nothing but clowns. Clowns with their faces caked white and the rings around their eyes a baby blue. Their hair red and their noses red with inebriation, drunk off their own cloistered being, and their mouths moving and their butts big. And you realized soon after that you mostly had your mother in mind. And you imagined her out there, her index finger to her mouth, begging your dad to be quiet, as if you hadn’t figured it all out already. As if your mom’s body and what was done to it wasn’t your greatest hobby and joy. The tip-top of your life. More than the car, more than the yacht in summer, or the mountains in the winter. More than the flights to Europe, and the designer clothes, and the goddamn Starbucks.


Yet they stood out there, figures of pantomime, symbols of their own pale existence. Stamping down soul with one soft, giant, white foot, the toes of which painted a playful purple or pink. And from underneath that soft foot which pushed downward with so much pressure, was a humbled figure. Humbled by life, humbled by experience, and humbled by force. And all of him, all that ragged victim had, obscured by sight, except for a very humble part of him.


His buttcheeks. Big and black and chocolaty, sticking out from underneath, a target for the missiles of ridicule thrown by the careless gestures of your mom and people like your mom.


And then all of it, like a sheet being tugged aside in the court of the wizard, that wonderful wizard of oz, she stood, now naked behind that curtain, her eyes sapphire and the skin of her ass a fine porcelain. And she stands there, exposed, with his black hand on the tugged curtain, and his big black cock out, and his butt cheeks hanging out behind him. And she there, without recourse to politeness or custom or rules or even the inanimate brick of a wall. She was there, without anything. Just an elegant deer, caught in the fading headlights of a putting chevette, her big doe eyes wide and blue, all of it just before the car struck.



*slap*



“No, I said!” your mom erupted, her voice now loud. And then with less volume: “I said on Christmas. Can you not wait a couple of days?”


“No,” he said. “I can’t.”


And their voices trailed off as they went down the hallway.


“Well you’re going to have to,” was the last thing you heard.


And with your balls in your hand, you looked at your door and you thought about Christmas and what it meant and what you had. And, for the first time in your life, your thoughts filled with those who didn’t have the same. It didn’t take three ghosts, or a visit from Santa, or a night finding out what it would be like if you’d never been born. It didn’t have to take all that. All it took was your parents as they actually were, their souls as naked in the dark as their bodies on the day they were born, and with that, and with that alone, the scales had fallen from your eyes.



 


He had found it there, laying like a hollow pyramid against his usual spot. At first he thought it was trash, but when he seen how pristine the card was, he couldn’t help but pick it up and look at it. And when he first did, and when he saw that he was its subject, his heart almost gave.


The slight steam whistled out from between the cracks of the plywood and he looked down at the card and he wondered what the game was. Was he being blackmailed? Had someone told? But told who? The window was still covered with manipulable plywood and he could hear the choir of angels within, their music uninterrupted by shock or discovery. What was happening?


“Black Man,” it said, scrawled in a playful candy cane colored text. “If you like what waits for you below, find out what’s waiting for you above.”


He could only interpret it as a threat. But it had been years since he heard something that direct. Not since the last black person he knew had moved from the neighborhood had anyone threatened him in such a physical and direct way. Luckily, the way it rang hollow and seemed to be more a product of a naïve and sheltered mind without the street smarts to know how it came across, he kept on reading.


“If you want to know the real meaning of Christmas cheer, don’t come here tomorrow. Come to 134 Providence Street, gold, frankinsence, and mirrh awaits you.”


He recognized the reference, and in recognizing it, knew the writer must be white. It was just too pretentious to be otherwise.


“Besides, there won’t be anyone down there tomorrow morning,” the message continued. “The gym (and its shower) is closed on Christmas.”


He now stood in front of that house, it being an hour’s walk away from his usual spot. He looked down at the card. 134 Providence Street. This was it. He looked up at the house, marvelled at its size and shape and otherworldly craftmanship. Its walls a pure white as if pressure-washed daily, and its grass green. Its flower bed rich with all the colors of the rainbow, and its eaves, in the early morning light, glimmered with Christmas cheer.


He trembled as he moved toward the front door.


When he got up to the stoup, he stood at the door and looked at it. After gathering some courage, he knocked.


He stood there, looking at the door. Then he turned around and looked at the empty early-morning neighborhood, fearing any of its residence, all of whom lived in equally gorgeous homes, would come out early and see him, in his raggedy scraps of clothes, standing there on their neighbor’s porch like a home invader waiting for permission.


Just as he saw the door on the house opposite start to jiggle open, he heard a clicking noise just behind him. He spun around, and seeing an open space where the front door of the house once stood, he grunted.


You were standing there, looking back at him.


“Hey,” you said. A smile came over your dimpled white face. “You came. Merry Christmas.”




He lay in the bathtub, warm water permeating his every submerged inch, and he looked around at the décor. He couldn’t believe a bathroom could be this nice. Every splash he made, no matter how small, seemed to echo off the walls and there was no sign of mold or cracks in the tiles whatsoever. The only thing in the entire room which evoked the dirty world without were his clothes sitting in a ragged pile in the corner, and the water in the tub which floated with the dirt that it washed from his body.


Before he could contemplate too much, the bathroom door startled him out of contemplation by rocketing open.


You came in, your smile still affixed to your face, animated by an acute nervousness which brimmed underneath your equal or greater excitement. Your facade was the latter though, as you clearly were trying to make a great impression.


You kneeled down next to the tub and lifted a luffa up to your grinning face.


“Here,” you said. “Let’s get you scrubbed clean.”


His body tensed up, but as he felt the warm luffa against his upper back and shoulder, scrubbing and massaging them as one, he felt himself go loose. And with even more time, he began to relax to a degree that he rarely ever had. Maybe decades ago when he still had a home, but even then his mom yelling at her boyfriend or the sounds of sirens and wondering if it were one of his friends, whether as the perpetrator or victim, always kept him on tired edge.


Instead now he sat there, in the tub, and looked over at the awkward white grin. The white boy washing him wasn’t looking him in the face, almost seeming to be nervous, making as if he was just too intent on washing his back, the shade of which was as dark as onyx. The man looked into your eyes, being weirdly drawn to them. Drawn to their deep wells of baby blue. They reminded him of somebody. He remembered you from the coffee shop, and from the alley. He figured that out pretty quickly. But your eyes. There was something deeper there. Some shining word in his life which was being rhymed now in this very moment.


He felt your other hand grab his arm. And when he looked down at it, startled by your touch, he noticed a blue tinge on your fingers, just barely perceptible but there none the less. Of course, he thought. The white boy’s a blue head. That was the drug of choice for white junkies. But then as he thought about it further, his black body engulfed in either water or steam or the warm touch of that trembling white hand, he couldn’t see how somebody addicted to blue could be living in a house this nice and well-kept.


Apprehensively he asked “Why are your fingers blue?”


Rather than look him in the eyes, you just kept yours on his black back, the depth of which was illimitable, so much so that you felt like to look at it could mean to fall within it. It was an exotic blank slate, the likes of which fascinated you to no end. You kept scrubbing with a smile on your face.


He kept looking at you, suspicious. But with time, he leaned back, settling into the comfort of the brush and your affectionate fingers on his arm and shoulder.


He was sure you must be gay now, and, to his surprise, he didn’t feel a need to protest. He wasn’t a big fan of gay stuff, but at the same time, it was almost a fair trade for the current treatment, as long as he wouldn’t be asked or expected to give or take it in the ass. And on top of it, you were pretty enough. His cock began to get hard thinking about it, your white hands and your pink mouth and tongue and those pretty blue eyes.


Your hand went lower on his arm and he suddenly reached over for it, and, grabbing it by your wrist, he brought it down to his hardening cock, which cut a line through the water as it throbbed. You felt the thing in your hand and at feeling it you said “wow.” But when he tried to push your hand on it with more pressure you pulled away.


“What?” he said in a gravelly hush, his dick twitching in the water. “Jerk it. It’s okay. I like it.”


“No,” you said, and then you reached beneath the water, finding his balls and massaging them. “You’re going to need to save that for later.” You pulled your hand out of the water.


He looked into your shy eyes, still unable to meet his. “Why?” he asked. “What’s later?”


You didn’t speak. You only smiled as you washed his black chest.




He walked down the hallway with a white towel on, following you to the room at the end of it. And when he got there, you ushered him in.


He saw a set of clothes waiting for him on the bed. “The fuck,” he murmured to himself, noticing that the clothes were those that a black person would have wore in 2006.


“Here,” you said, your face brimming with an intolerable pride. “There’s some clothes for you. I bought them a few days ago. You can keep them. That’s your stocking stuffer before the main gift.”


“Thanks,” he said, trying to conjure enthusiasm.


“Okay,” you said, awkwardly letting your hands come together with your shoulders stiff. “You can change now if you like.” You backed out of the doorway and shut the door.


He stood there, looking back at it. Then he turned around and looked at the room, seeing its walls covered in posters of various rappers. Mace, Chingy, Ja Rule, and 50 Cent were among the names and faces there. On the wall was a strange orbit of marks of various intensities, as if something small had been thrown at it continually, marking its pure white surface with awkward rings of black.


He looked down at his new wardrobe. The white hat, the shirt, the chain. Even when this was all in fashion, during the days when the first white hipster coffee shop opened up (on the exact spot where the Starbucks now stood), he was already too old to wear it. He would walk through and around the black youth, seeing them, their shoulders swaying, going up and down the street, speaking with their new slang and reference pool. Occasionally he’d catch a white boy doing the same, sticking out like a sore thumb and often catching grief for it.


He looked down at the hastily placed articles of dress and he shook his head.


He came out of the room, and he almost wished he could take back all the dirt and the grime and the ragged clothing, anything to not be dressed as he was. But as he moved down the pristine hallway, its walls a pure white with the occasional black vase on a stand dug out of the purity of the wall, or an off-white door which was closed securely shut, he realized he could get used to this.


Just as he was about to reach the hallway’s end, you popped up from behind the bend. The first thing he noticed about you, other than your goofy smile, was that you had a definite bulge in your pants. He really is a faggot, he thought. It had to be true.


“So,” you said, your hands coming together as if in imitation of the host of a gameshow. “You ready for your gift?”


Visions of your pretty white face as you licked and sucked at his tight nut-sack, his cock laying lengthwise against your forehead, came to him in a flash, and he bit his lower lip. “Yeah,” he said.


You turned around and you went down the bend, as you did, his eyes were on your ass. He grinned.


When he rounded the bend, you stood on the ground floor and something off to the side caught his eye.


On the living room couch, peaking over the backrest, was a bushel of a burgundy-red strands. He looked at it, confused as to what he was looking at or why it was there.


“Come on,” you said, and you motioned him to come down the steps.


He took a step, and then another, all the while his sight on the strange abstraction on the couch. And then another step, the bizarre object rotating in his sight as he went. And then one step more. He rounded the backrest of the couch. And then he froze.


He could see it now. Underneath that mop of red was a face. A white face. A white face that he recognized.


And when it hit him, it hit him like ringing bells.


“Look familiar?” you asked, the smile on your face like a tight ribbon being pulled to release a bow. “Merry Christmas!”


He stood there, not knowing what to do. Having no reference point for it or sense of license.


“Come on,” you said. “Let me show you.” You walked up to your mom and you slowly pushed her on her side. You grabbed her hip and began to pull it back and forth.




“Oh God,” he said.


“It is his birthday after all,” you replied with a grin.


Your mom’s ass jiggled. He looked into her eyes, and they stared back at nothing, big and blue and wonderous, but blank all the same. The shape of her face as if cut out of ivory by the hands of a long-gone master.


Then he looked down at your blue fingers. You noticed him looking. You smiled at him. “I had to put it in her eggnog. She drinks a glass of it every Christmas morning. It’s a tradition.”


He looked back down at his gift, a large package in white wrapping with a burgundy red bow at its top.


“Go get her, man,” you said. “Merry Christmas.”


Thoughts of O’stasia, and her giant black ass as she lay passed out next to that burning can of trash, came to his mind, and he took his first step. It was the same thing. The only thing that had changed was her skin color.


He grabbed your mom by her soft and smooth shoulder. He pulled her up onto her pink feet. She barely kept an upward balance thanks to the manoeuvrability of her delicate white toes. She smelled divine, though he was half-surprised to discover her scent wasn’t that of vanilla, cream, or white lilies.





The cheekbone of her face cupped themselves within the cradle of his lips. And he saw in her that same blue haziness, active but inactive all the same, the perfect slave, as he had seen in so many other afflicted whites. There was something in this drug that appealed to the white body or mind, he was sure of it. But when he saw the drug working its magic fingers through a white body that hadn’t even seen it coming, his cock throbbed harder than it would have had the drug’s ingestion been consented-to.


After feeling her soft breasts, he slowly pushed her toward the ground, being afraid to bruise her, knowing that whites bruised easily. He took down his trackpants, happy to get them off for more reasons than one.


He couldn’t believe he was about to do it, and after doing it, couldn’t believe it was being done. He slowly pushed his big black cock into her mouth, feeling it being engulfed by the warmth and wetness.




You whimpered as you saw your mom’s mouth being invaded by the big black cock you had just spent the last few minutes scrubbing every inch clean with a sponge. You had earlier marvelled at its thickness and length and the way it throbbed in your hands, distorted to be even larger than it was by the glassy surface of the water. It looked even better now, unobscured by steam or distance, and in use in the very mouth of your mom, who also, appeared better to him, unobscured by the same factors, a flesh and blood reality before him, without the obscurant element of steam or plywood or race or station between them.




Your mom was an honorary sister to him, just based on ass alone. He had heard a white kid, skinny with an ironic Barny the Dinosaur shirt and thick-rimmed glasses, standing on the sidewalk use the term “Built for BBC” once and it had taken him a few more examples of the kid murmuring it as shapely white women in yoga pants passed by on the sidewalk for Frank to understand.


He had been an unofficial anthropologist of the white race for nearing up on a decade now, and he always seemed to be continually shocked by their strange ways. He couldn’t get a grasp on how it was that a species of humanity so successful – and more, so dominant – could have such strange inclinations towards some sort of submission, even if that submission took a performative stance more often than not.


As he was about to insert his cock into your mom with these thoughts in his mind, you said, with a voice as white as the driven snow, “yeah, rape my mom’s white ass.”




Your mom’s pink, wet goodness swallowed his dick.


He turned his head to see white pre-cum coating the tip of your beige cock. The flesh on the underside of your testicles fascinatingly darker than the rest of you.


“Yeah, rape that white ass,” you said, smearing pre-cum all over your cockhead with your palm. “Rape it good.”




“Don’t mind if I do,” he said with a trembling voice. “Don’t mind if I do.”


Just hours earlier, the thought of being identified by one of these shaky white voices as being a rapist would have been Frank’s primary fear. But now, in this context, it was his greatest badge of honor. Your mom’s ass, white in tone, but not in size and shape, belonged to him, and he pummeled it with the same righteousness he would a malfunctioning object or tool with the palm of his hand. *pat pat pat*




Your mom seemed to react to this ass pummelling beneath him, but not in any way which would fly with what he knew of white people and their reactions to these things. The way they almost expected life to always buckle for their preference, never mind need, and the shrill screaming and scowling and scribbling of angry letters or e-mails if they didn’t get their way. All of that was gone now, gone when it should have been there most. All thanks to the second most common proclivity within the white race, that was: perversion, a proclivity which you had proven yourself to have an excess of.




You whimpered behind him as he kneeled down and began to press his juicy black lips in between your mom’s luscious white butt cheeks. You remember the weed-smoking kids in high school, the ones who used to hang out by the doors in the back, and the phrase they would use for someone who got the joint wet. “Nigger-lipping.”


You were watching now as your mom’s ass was being nigger-lipped.


“Nigger,” you mumbled to yourself.


He had heard it, but it was the least of his worries now, so he ignored it.


You mumbled again.


“Nigger.”


You had never used that word in your entire life, your parents telling you it was the worst one you could say. And here you were, a “nigger” in your house, saying the word, as your mom lay there, as oblivious to the sound of the word as she was to the fact that a nigger’s lips and tongue were in between her ass cheeks, nigger-lipping her asshole, probing it with his purple tongue, eating the negative space within those cheeks as if he had just come upon a solitary puddle of water at the center of a million-mile desert, eager to quench his violent hunger and thirst.




“There’s a nigger’s face in my mom’s ass,” you mumbled, as if in a masturbatory haze. The bottom half of his face disappeared between her cheeks, the sound of smacking and sucking and pops abound, echoing through the oversized living room.




Frank heard you use that word, but he couldn’t care less. He’d take a thousand “niggers” in exchange for this any day of the week. He’d take a “nigger” over a rude glare or a condescending word meant to be kind in the mind of a white gentrifier. Just like he’d take a firehose over white folks floating away from him slowly in awkward nonchalantness, or a rottweiler chewing on his ankle during a clash with the police over a man yelling at him from the safety of Frank’s old bedroom window without knowledge of whose home he was now living in.




“My mom’s ass is being fucked by a nigger,” you mumbled again.


You were the only white boy he had ever heard use it. And you were also the only white boy he could tolerate it from. As far as he was concerned now, he was a “nigger,” with a hard R. And speaking of hard R, your mom was a “cracker.” And she was being hard R’d right now. Hard R’d right in her giant and open white ass.




“Pound her ass, nigger,” you said, your tone flat and distant, but your furious jerking arm and fist unstoppable.


“Yes massa,” he said, staring down at her cotton white ass. “Your will is my command.”




He looked down at your mom’s winking asshole. A cracker bitch’s asshole was the most remote place to the eyesight of a black man. And yet he was looking directly at one as it was throttled back and forth below him. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen had to be a white one, and what’s more, her son had to be the freakiest white boy to ever exist. Despite what the white know-it-alls who took his neighborhood from underneath him seemed to believe, Frank once had really good math grades in school and he knew just how unlikely this whole situation was, at least according to the virtue of probability.




Your cock wasn’t as big as his, but it was a nice one, similar to your dad’s, and you beat it in your first below your gooning face. Your dad and brother were upstairs, drugged to unconsciousness on the same bed. Their eyes shut tight like kids on Christmas night whose little dreams were filled with visions of sugar plumbs, the line between the top of their eyelids and the bottom as black as the line which existed between your mom’s right cheek and her left. But instead of waking up to a tree with presents beneath it, they’d be sleeping while their respective wife and mother got fucked in that same living room.




“Yes,” you groaned. “Kiss her with your big black lips.”


His juicy lips smacked into your mom’s thin lines of a mouth, and they exchanged germs. The white ones for the black. Their skin was so different, yet their saliva was the same color.




You noticed how his chain, the one you had gifted him as a stocking-stuffer, jangled on his neck as he fucked, and he grunted his negro grunts as his black pelvis pummelled your mom’s beige ass from behind.


“It’s like watching her getting fucked by a silverback ape,” you somehow said aloud.


He pulled out and grabbed your mom’s hair and positioned her to suck his cock.





“Yeah,” you grunted. “Suck that nigger dick while daddy sleeps.”


“You heard your boy,” Frank said. “Suck this nigger dick, cracker.”


“Yeah,” you exhaled as you tugged on yourself frantically. “My mom’s a cracker wet dog smelling bitch. A cave-dwelling bitch with a nigger sucking mouth.”


He went back to fucking her.




“You’re not even getting blacked anymore, mom,” you said. “You’re now officially getting nigged.”


“She’s not getting blacked or nigged,” Frank said, his voice trembling. “She’s getting raped. Raped by a nigger.”


You had to let go of yourself to not cum from the thought of it.


“I’m raping this white bitch like they all need to be raped.”


It was at this moment, for the first time in your life, you had realized something.




What you realized was simple. So simple you had the second realization that you were dense this entire time.




Dense for not realizing something about yourself.


What you realized was that you were a racist.


Because his last statement was the wisest thing you had ever heard, and, at hearing it, you were shocked that it could even come from his mouth. Why would you be shocked? You knew the answer. This entire time, you had assumed he was dumb.




“You’re my Beth-Sheba,” he whispered in her ear. And then it hit you, the story of King David and his mistress Beth-Sheba, who had witnessed bathing on the roof. The story you had learned in bible study as a kid. This brilliant and poignant metaphor was made by none other than a homeless ni…


Homeless black man. A metaphor that you would never have been able to make yourself, no matter how many times you witnessed this amazing event. No matter what wild heights of poetry it brought you to.




“Your lilly white ass belong to this black king,” he said. “Fuck yeah.”


“White trash for a black king,” you said.




“White trash…” he began to repeat, and then continued licking her nipple. “For a black king. Ain’t that the truth.”


You grinned at the swelling pride in him.




“Ughh,” he said. “Mommy has cake.”


“Yeah,” you said, smiling through gritted teeth. “That’s all she has. White delicious cake.”




“She’s a regular Dairy Queen.”


You stared into your mom’s glorious butthole. You never thought you’d even get to see it, but it sat before you now with slight discoloration, not that different from what could be seen in the scuffed snow of the mountains you could remember as a child. You remembered the one time you wadded up a patch of that scuffed snow only to throw it and peg your mom directly in her face.




You remember the look in her eyes, the one which formed after that of being startled and the pain. It was a look of complete hurt. You remember how strange it was that you had felt almost nothing at seeing it. Only humor. The comedy of it only underlined by her shock.


Frank picked your mom up in his black arms.


“Okay,” he said. “Now time for the ole’ Frank jackhammer.”


He laid her down on her back.





You sat there, tugging your throbbing prick, as the black ass you had seen laying naked in that alley now stood naked, it gyrating back and forth as he pumped into the insides of your mom, his black butt-cheeks with as much jiggle as what your mom’s white ones were capable of.




Your mom’s butthole winked back at you in its blemished purity.


The black cock dipped inside her without obstacle or concern. Nothing to even slow it down, never mind stop it. Not even a loose plywood board.





“Uggh,” he grunted. “No wonder white dicks are so small. Their women’s pussies are so tight.”


Your jerked your white cock at the statement. Its mediocre size was in great contrast to the fat ass of your mom and the fat cock of her ravisher.


“Let’s get this white bitch up on her feet and do her doggystyle.”


You imagined your mom, as she was pranced on her tip toes toward the pure white column, as a little poodle being made wet in the rain.






Your mom’s ass made the loveliest slaps as he collided with their cheeks with real aggression.


You could see a pent up anger releasing itself redemptively with every thrust. He wasn’t just fucking your mom’s white body, he was fucking Whiteness itself. Punishing it for what it did to him. Punishing it for the life it stole.





The thought of Emit Till, both before and after, flashed in your mind, and you imagined your mother as if she were the white grocer he was killed for the simple crime of admiring.




History was being made right, right before your eyes.


Gentrification, Jim Crow laws, redlining, gerrymandering congressional districts, excessive sentences for crack-cocaine possession, the one drop rule, the Tuskegee Experiment, white beauty standards, stealing rock and roll, stealing jazz, stealing hip-hop, stealing Jesus Christ himself.





You looked into your mom’s face, her features not so different from a renaissance painting of Jesus Christ, her hair red and her eyes a striking blue, while looking nothing like the historical Jesus in actuality.


You wondered, if the ghosts of Native Americans could see this, would they clap? Would Martin Luther King, in his naïve devotion to the assumptions of white Christianity, see this as a moral wrong? Did it really matter? You were John Brown, and you watched as Nat Turner fucked the living personification of whiteness itself. Dignity was being reclaimed this Christmas, by any means necessary.






The white man’s rape culture had been turned back on your mother. Generations of African slaves worked through Frank, powering his thrusts toward cosmic revenge. It was meant to be. Even the shape of your mom’s body, which was no less curvaceous than the shape of a black woman in the fields, was meant to be. It was needed to make the payback equal.





Somehow, even while witnessing the beauty which happened before you, you noticed a glimmer in the corner of your eye.


Frank, noticing the same glimmer, only looked out the window. His expression didn’t change, neither did his thrusts slow down. He only shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not stopping.”


You turned your head and looked out the window. Your heart stopped. A police car pulled into your driveway. Across the street, your neighbor stood on her stoup, standing there, holding her white robe closed in her gripping fist.


“They can shoot me first,” he said, and he pulled his cock out of your mom’s body. “But I’m not giving her up.”





You saw him there, standing proud, resilient, with nothing resembling slavery in him, not even a shadow or reflection in the puddles of his being.


You stood up, and you pulled your pants back over your hard dick. “I only have to keep them away from the door,” you mumbled to yourself.


Frank heard you say something and he looked at you.


You rushed to the door.


Frank watched you go. You let the outdoor air in for only a second, then you shut the door behind you.


He stood there next to your mom and her hourglass figure. “When they see what I’m doing to you,” he said to her. “They’re going to want to take me out. At least I’ll have a human shield.” He grabbed her brought her down to the couch with him so quickly that the ends of her hair fell a half second later than her body did.





Frank lay there, his cock being worked by the weight of that giant and soft ass. He had become the man of the house now. He had been homeless for most of his life now, and he began to think that dying in a house wasn’t such a bad way to go out.





He looked up into her giant eyes. “It could have ended worse,” he said. And then he gave her a kiss on her cheek.


The front door rocketed open, and he was lucky that he didn’t ejaculate right then and there out of shock. The door shut. He looked over your mom’s bare white shoulder. You stood there. Alone.


He expected you to say something, or to dictate a plan of action to him. Instead you just moved toward the couch and began removing your pants.


“What’s going on?” he said, your mom’s ass still riding him, her cheeks filling the fullness of his palms.


“Nothing,” you said, and you took out your cock and began to stroke it.


“The police?” he said.


You looked at him, your face shaking with your strokes. You shook your head. “They’re gone.”


“Gone?” he asked with such surprise that he held your mom’s ass still with his hands. It still wobbled between and around his fingers from inertia.


“Yeah,” you said.


“How?”


You looked up from your mom’s ass into his eyes, a grin forming in the right side of your mouth. “I just told them to go.”


“That works?”


“It does,” you said. And then you looked down at your mom’s ass and rebegan your strokes. “Or at least it always has for me.”




Frank had already made himself your hero by depriving white women of their hiding places. You knew that of all those naked white bodies down in that basement locker-room, many of them would nod their eager and wide-eyed heads to the idea of fighting whiteness, agreeing that it was of the utmost importance. Yet how many of them realized what fighting whiteness would actually take in real terms?





It would take that.


Black men have been taking it in the ass in this country for centuries. It was now time for white women to have a turn at it.





Your dad slept peacefully upstairs next to his son as his wife’s asshole was plundered below. Penetrated before he even got his chance. But this was every white man’s fear wasn’t it? The fear of being replaced. The fact that your mom’s body even had a place in it that a black man could fill would have killed him from shock. And the fact was, a black cock could fill a woman as well as any other, if not more so. White men weren’t needed for that task.





And because they weren’t needed, what was the harm in them being replaced? Not as humans of course. They weren’t any less deserving in that regard than anyone else. But when it came to the family, women are indispensable, being the ones who literally create life itself. Men only provide the seed. Patriarchy started at home, and it was the cornerstone of whiteness. The domination of white males over the bodies of their women, and the privacy of heir homes.






Whiteness was such a cancer of the mind that even sharing resources, shelter, or bodies used by white people seemed like an attack. White women had internalized this neuroses, viewing the protection of their own sexual being as their highest moral concern.






It was sadly the case that it took being drugged to make white women stop being a threat to the safety of black men, the tears of white women being like an acid rain which stripped all the paint off the color palette of the black man’s life. It was nothing less than some sort of sorcery, a druidic spell which found its way into this nation from the deep forests of Celtic and Germanic Europe.





Now that spell, that blue-eyed witchcraft, was finally getting the treatment it had always deserved.




But now that it was here, the malicious hatred dissolved within the sight of her sea-and-sky-blue eyes.


He looked down at her, and then he smiled, stroking his cock. “Women are the niggers of the world,” he mumbled to himself.


She looked up at him with a smile, oblivious to her current surroundings as she was to the pernicious system she existed in while sober. He knew that she was a victim just like he was, her only crime being ignorance. A pretty face and body pinned to the cool pavement by the bare foot of the white man. Her whole life was a war she wasn’t aware she was fighting, and she only looked up into the eyes of her ally, her comrade in arms, now. Seeing in him, while her lifelong biases were rubbed away by the chalky dust of blue velvet, a friend and a liberator.


He stroked his big black cock in celebration with her.


The first volley of cum shot from out his dick and landing in a satisfying splash on your mom’s right ass cheek. The rest of the volleys followed, with cum splashing off her ass, either after its own volley, or from the jiggling of her ass by the next volley. Wads of white cum, pure and untarnished, rolled down her black butt-crack.


Your mom looked back at him, over her sticky white ass, her eyes big, blue and oblivious. He looked back into them, shocked to see that his longing for her didn’t die with his orgasm. That had never been the case for him in his entire life. Their sights were on each other, each gazing into the others’ soul and essence.


“I’m glad to see you enjoyed your present,” you said, cum dripping down your stomach and thighs, looking satisfied.


“I did,” he said.


“Did?” you repeated.


He looked over at you.


“You don’t enjoy your present any more?”


He just stared back at you. You were the most confusing white boy he had ever met.


“The present isn’t sex with her,” you said, explaining it to him as if you were talking to a toddler. “Your present is her.”


He looked at you for a full ten seconds. Then he looked back at her. She was looking at him, oblivious to what was being discussed, the trade being made, with her two big blue eyes.


“You can keep her doped up. If you need money for more blue, you know where to get it from. You’re officially a pimp now. I mean, if you don’t mind sharing, that is. Do you?”


He didn’t say anything, but a smile began to form on his face.


“She’ll make a lot of money for you. And you won’t even have to lift a finger being the logistics of getting her around from place to place. I wouldn’t stay where you’re staying though. Wherever that is. I don’t know why you hang around in that neighborhood. There’s nothing for you there. Go live with your people. Take her with you, where no one will find or will care to check. I’m sure you can find a crackhouse in South Central that’ll take her. There’s no way that they won’t.”


“I’m just supposed to carry a naked white woman out of here?”


“No,” you said. “Who says she has to be naked? We have clothes here of course. And…” a smile began to form mischievously on your face. “Who says you have to walk?”


Frank stared at you for a second. “You gonna drive me then?”


“You don’t know how to drive?” you asked. You tilted your head to the side in mock innocence.”


The door to the garage rocketed open, and the two of you, with your mom laying, eyes shut, in his arms, stepped inside.


Sitting there, decorated with a red bow on its roof, was a brand new Mercedes.


“Consider this another stocking stuffer,” you said.


He stared at the car, his eyes large, marvelling at it.


Your mom fell out of his arms. He stepped over her to get to the car.


You laughed to yourself, and you picked her up, feeling her weight, heavy and real in your arms, and carried her to the backseat, throwing her in and saying “just wait here.”


You ran back into the house.


Frank sat in the driver’s seat, turning the wheel back and forth. Examining the pure white dashboard. Looking up in the rear-view mirror. He caught a smooth line of beige. He adjusted the mirror, and your mom came into perfect view. Resting there, laying flat and face down, defenceless.


The backdoor opened up and a suitcase flew in on top of her.


“That’s her clothes. Or at least the best of it,” you said. “I picked out my favorites.”


You shut the back door and then you rested your arms on the passenger side window, looking in at the newly-made black man, sitting there in your garage with a fresh start. He looked back at you, an uncertainty in him as if he hadn’t yet settled into his new life.


You smiled at him with a real affection. “Where do you think you’re going to head out to?” you asked.


“Mexico,” he said.


“Mexico,” you repeated, looking down at the shifter as if trying to imagine it. You then shot your glance up at him, a thought just occurring to you. “You can share her with the spicks there!”


He looked back at you, his face stoic. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll do that.”


You smiled to yourself, feeling good for making that suggestion.


“Or,” he started. You looked up at him. “Maybe I’ll take her somewhere where it’s snowing. I’ve never seen snow before.”


“You’re going to love it,” you said, as your gaze became distance. You imagined those days on that mountain, white snow flying from your gloves, your dad, brother, and mom together as one. As your mother stood there, looking up at the sky, extending her tongue to catch a single flake of snow, you winded back your arm. You aimed at her joyful face. You swung your arm in a beautiful arc. You let go fo the snowball.


You looked back at your mom sleeping in the backseat with a suitcase on her lower back.


Frank put both hands on the wheel. “Can you open that?” he said, pointing at the garage door.


You didn’t take your eyes off your mom. “Yeah, yeah,” you said. “Um, can you just give me a minute to say goodbye to her.”


He looked at you, then he turned in his seat and looked back at her.


“Yeah,” he said, apprehensively. Still unsure of what your intentions were. “A minute.”


You went to the backseat and you opened the door. Her hair spilled out and her face lay there sleeping.


“Hey mom,” you whispered to her. “Don’t think I’m not going to miss you,” you said. “You have no idea how much I love you.”


You grabbed a fistful of her flowing red hair. You tugged on it, lifting her head, and jostling her slightly out of her rest. Her eyes hung half-open and she looked around. This would be the last moment you’d ever see her open blue eyes ever again.


“Catch the snowflake, mom.” You tugged on your cock as you stared at her. And in very little time, you felt the waves of pleasure, not unlike the excitement you used to feel every Christmas morning, come over you all at once.


The first thick volley of pure white cum ejected from your penis’s tip, hitting your mom on her cheek, followed by wave after wave, growing in strength, until reaching their peek, and lowering in volume with each amount of it dripped from her features. The eyes on her white face, now made whiter with ejaculate, were shut closed.


You watched the Mercedes leave the garage, and you stood in the safety of its shade as it turned down the street and went its own way. You knew that some of your neighbors were seeing it go. You ducked in the shade of the garage so they couldn’t see you there, watching it leave.


After you heard the last purrings of its engine fade, you went back in the house. You grabbed the lamp by the couch and threw it across the living room. You then went to work pulling out all the kitchen drawers, flipping every table and chair, going upstairs to trash every bedroom.


You wanted it to look as much like a breaking and entering as possible. Of course, it was impossible to completely recreate what one looked like and make it look entirely natural. But you weren’t worried. After all, who would believe that anyone would let a black man into their house to pluck his very own sugar plum for himself? And on Christmas of all days? No, no, it was simply ridiculous. Simply ridiculous indeed.


Nobody has that much Christmas spirit.

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