Steven had fucked up. After his failure of a first meeting with me, he sat and stewed and seethed with animosity. Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks. It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him. He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological. His need for extortion and blackmail, his fantasies of being “outted”, and financially drained, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women were all indications of him indeed being mentally ill. He invited women to extort him, he fantasized about his friends and family knowing of his perversions. He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly.
At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise. At the end of the day, he loved all of it. He sent other women money, bought their used undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00. In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself. He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities. In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms. He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills or buy them expensive shoes they had no real occasion to wear them, and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and purchases.
Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously this time. He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to meet again. I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia. True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount. After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash.
Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café. Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century. Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God pass us by and politely but not so subtly stare. I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps. I extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat. “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.”
“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously. All of his fantasies of being humiliated and sexually shamed in public just vanished and he wanted to run and hide. This was not at all what he had expected. He said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?”
“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush? Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning and handed us a program. Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside. Never in his life had he felt so out of place. His was the only white face in the sanctuary and he was the only person dressed casually. I walked to the very front of the church and he felt compelled to follow. He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool. Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior. Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me. He started to tell me to fuck off, that he was going to leave, but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice. The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me.
Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually. He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came. The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage. He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans. He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship.
There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins. He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him. He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with. I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar. He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him. “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins. Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are. Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.”
He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up. I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins. Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?” Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him. The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation. The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ. They passed the collection plate and I whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.”
His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate. He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship. He prayed to be normal. As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money. It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts. He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior. When he opened his eyes, I was gone.
He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect. “Mistress, I bow to your will. I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess. You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way. All that I am, all that I have is yours.”
Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved