White men are Pathetic!

White men are little-dick losers, not real men. Real men can satisfy a woman. Real men can make a woman scream in pleasure an in pain. Real men have big, long, thick, hard cocks, that hang low between their strong, muscular thighs, that they can thrust into hungry wet horny pussies, real men have powerful asses that drive their huge manhood in places that white men’s dicks could never touch. White men have little flat asses, diseased looking skin, pathetic cocks, white men have lips only a snake would want to kiss, and they have defective sperm, only reproducing deviants and monsters, or worse, average, boring, plain, typical losers.

White men habitually crave being used like toilets, beaten like slaves, whipped until their pale flesh is blue and red and green with bruises, welts bleeding, flesh ripped. Pain is pleasure to white men. White men desire being fucked savagely and brutally like little bitches, over and over, potent sperm dripping from their gaped ass cunts, their vocal cords sore from their faces being fucked like a real pussy. White men fantasize day and night about being relentlessly pounded without regard for pain or pleasure, by men who treat them like they truly are, lowly, inferior, worthless trash. Fucking White men!

White men are pathetic little sissy faggots. Well, at least that is what they proclaim themselves to be. White men dress up in frilly pink panties, stockings, heels and makeup, white men create complex personas to pretend to be women all to cover up the fact that they are really just faggots who crave being fucked in their insatiable white male assholes. White men love, love, love pretending to be a woman, claiming to be a woman trapped in a man’s body. But white men aren’t real women. Real women suffer the effects of misogyny, sexism, and patriarchy, real women are victims of a society that treats them like second class citizens.

White men: arrogant, privileged, entitled, oblivious, incompetent, petty white men, with all the benefits and perks of being white men, carry alllll those privileges out in the real world long after the cum painted on their face from the glory hole dries up. White men dress up in their frilly girly slutty outfits and prance around and pay 20-year-old Black college students for sex and then white men put on their regular clothes and go out and continue to be their same old evil, lying, perverted white man selves, white men who are committed to defending any and every institution that perpetuates the lie that white men are superior. White men don’t really think they are women when they dress up, when they put on makeup and heels and fuck their slutty cunts with huge dildos. No, white men PRETEND to be women so they can disconnect from the reality that they are men who crave getting fucked by other men, preferably men with big, hard, thick, engorged Black dicks whose measurements are in the double digits. Isn’t that pathetic?

White men CRAVE humiliation, degradation, and shame . . . all in a manipulative game that benefits them. White men, submissive white men don’t really believe they are inferior. No, no, that’s all an act. Submissive white men crave suffering because it actually benefits them. White men seek out the sickest, most perverted, most depraved forms of sexual expression, nothing is too filthy, nothing is too dark, nothing is too taboo. Nothing. Oh, they will deny it until they are blue in the face.

White men are invested in perpetuating the lie that their marriages are vanilla, they wives are frigid, and that they only masturbate in a closet late at night when their wives are asleep. But that’s all lies. White men LOVE to proclaim that they have no experience, it’s their default lie. They’ve never sucked a dick. Well, one time, but they were forced to do it. Well, there was that time when they were drunk, in college but that was it. The reality is, white men will have cum dripping from their freshly fucked asshole while they tell you that they have only ever dreamed about having sex with a Black man, and it's only been for the last couple of years. ALL LIES. White men will tell you how vanilla and innocent and inexperienced they are when the truth is, they are addicted to sexual gratification and will do anything and everything to get to the next nut.

In fact, the more hurtful, the more destructive and manipulative white men can be, the more they can destroy something beautiful, the more arousing the scenario is for them. Without conscience or remorse, without a soul, without integrity or shame, white men feed off of darkness and evil, it’s their driving force and motivation. White men say they believe in Black superiority for as long as they are talking to a Black person, when, in fact, white men get off on having sex with Black people because they believe Blacks to be inferior animals, beasts of burden with savage sexuality, white men equate Black people to animals like dogs, they equate sex with a Black person as something dangerous and nasty because they see Black people as dumb slaves.

If anyone is a sexual savage, it is the white men who cheat, lie, and live a covert life of homosexuality and perverted sexual deviance. If anyone is a sexual savage it is the white men who regularly molest, abuse, rape, torture, kill with impunity, who get away with all manner of crimes because they are the beneficiaries of a society that covers up the true nature and reality of white men.

White men are transparent. Their only motivation, their only objective, aim, or goal in life, and death, is to exploit, use, manipulate, annihilate, and to hurt as many people of color as they can along the way to obscene, incalculable power and wealth. Even the poorest, dumbest white schmuck who is a victim of political posturing by rich, dumb white schmucks believes that white men are entitled to wealth and power just because they possess pasty skin and little dicks. There is no nuance to white men. Self-centered, greedy, devoid of empathy or altruism, white men have one mode, self-preservation at the expense of everyone different than them. If there is a way to get rich and exploit and hurt others, white men have mastered it. There is only one play in the white man’s book: create war, steal resources, destroy people’s lives, and make a profit all while being a sexual deviant. And then they demand free sexual gratification from women.

White men are habitual liars and cheaters. It’s so true, white men are the masters of cheating. Cheating in college, cheating at their taxes, cheating in business, cheating in marriage goes without saying, there isn’t a married white man alive who honors his vows and who is upstanding and honest, everything white men acquire is through deceptive, criminal, and hurtful measures. There is no such thing as an honest white man. White men are not the moral, upstanding virtuous white men depicted on TV, white men’s first nature is to lie, to defend their lies, to double, triple, and quadruple down on their lies, and then, in typical white flair, white men act offended and indignant if someone questions their lies, when they know they are lying.

But that’s not what makes white men pathetic. What makes white men unquestionably pathetic is the fact that they believe their own lies. White men know the truth. And delusionally, white men have convinced themselves that they are truly superior when they know that they are stole, grifted, murdered, and manipulated to get everything that they have. White men know that their identity is a sham, that they are nothing, that their status, their position, their pretense of superiority is all a farce and yet somehow, they have convinced themselves that they are the architects of all that is good and true in the world and the reality is, they are the imitators, thieves, they are the bargain basement knock offs of the original Hue mans, the original Black Gods and Goddesses.

The Game is Rigged

 (Or why ALL white people are RACIST)

I asked the question to anti-racists recently, "What have you done in the past that was racist?" Tons of white people responded. Most of the answers I got were, "I viewed Black people negatively, I believed XYZ about Black people." (Fill in the blank with a stereotypical depiction of Black people.)

Everyone who responded listed racist thoughts and beliefs they had that were straight from the anti-racist laundry list of white offenses and microaggressions. Very few white people identified actual behaviors or actions that were racist and the ones that did responded with benign, innocent, casual instances of racism. Even fewer identified any behaviors that were hurtful or examples of overt racism.

All the respondents (with the exception of one or two) were all quite adamant that racism wasn't as bad as I said it was because they couldn't think of anything they had done in the past that was offensive, hurtful, or malignant. They were quite content to admit that they had white privilege and they felt shame for being racist in the past, but they were equally as assured that their racism was of the lite variety and that they were innocent of anything that would be considered offensively racist.

Most of the respondents arrogantly asserted that racism was only in certain parts of the country, that I was exaggerating, that they knew more about racism than me, and that I was seeing racism where there wasn't any.

That speaks to just exactly how immature, uniformed, and deluded white people are about race, racism, the impact and scope of racism, their participation in it, and how pervasive it is.

Conversely, I asked Black people to describe the racism they face constantly, so that we could shed light on the behaviors of white people that are offensive and racist and pervasive. Not one Black person offered even an attempt to respond. that speaks to just how used to racism Black people are. We can't even identify racism because the system was built so that being oppressed is the norm and we don't even have the vocabulary or wherewithal to address it.

Today, here, now, I want to address the misperceptions, rationalizations, and false beliefs white anti-racists have about racism.

One of the responses I got referred to an analogy, created by another white person who was working diligently to dismantle their white privilege and racist beliefs, that racism was like high fructose corn syrup being in foods where you wouldn't expect it. That analogy is completely wrong. It couldn't be more wrong in fact.

I'm going to gently suggest that racism is far more pervasive than high fructose corn syrup is in foods. Yes, it's in processed foods and you can barely touch an item in the grocery store without it. But the fact is, you can buy produce without it, fruits and vegetables don't have it. Meat and fish don't have high fructose corn syrup either. Rice and grains don't have high fructose corn syrup. You can shop at coop health food stores that offer foods with it. There are companies that specifically create healthy food without additives and chemicals. You can grow and make your own food that doesn't have high fructose corn syrup.

Equating racism to HFCS is a false equivalent because it implies that racism is pervasive but not ever-present.

EVERYONE born in this society, Black, white, and other, is a victim of racism. White people benefit from it. White people are emotionally, mentally, and psychologically crippled by it. People of color suffer from racism in that we are so debilitated, we don't even understand or grasp what life would be like outside of a racist context. No one is immune from the plague of racism, there is no one who isn't touched by it. There are no pockets of places where racism doesn't exist.

The analogy that I prefer, the analogy that is more accurate than the high fructose corn syrup is equating our reality to a video game.

The video game was designed in what we understand as 1000s of years ago but that's not entirely accurate. Time is an illusion, time is a feature of the game and it's been manipulated by the programmers of the game to make it seem like white people are the creators and inventors of all, the architects of society and civilization. The programmers created a game in which white people are always the winners, Black people are always the losers, and everyone else is somewhere in between.

Being born in racist AmeriKKKa, the epicenter of the deception, programmers designed the game so that white people have all the superpowers, you have all the super weapons, you get all the points, and your character doesn't get shot or killed or dinged, your upgrades don't cost anything, the whole game is built to make white people the superhero and the winner. Cheating gets rewarded, the game is built so that white people win without skill, ability, merit, or prowess.

More importantly, white people get all the points that the Black characters earn in the game. Black characters invent, create, and build everything and the programmers wrote the code so that it appears that white people created everything.

The rules of the video game apply to every character. There aren't any characters in the game that operate under different rules there are no characters in the game that are programmed to operate under different rules.

THERE ARE NO CHARACTERS IN THE GAME THAT OPERATE OUTSIDE THE GAME'S DESIGN.

In the game, the Black characters get not only don't get any points or any superpowers, they not only forfeit all their points to white characters, Black characters get dinged for any mistake they make but they also get dinged for any mistakes that the white characters make.

The game is designed for Black characters to lose and for white characters to win in all ways, always.

White characters can destroy the planet, colonize countries to exploit it's populations, white characters can manipulate the economy and give false value to items and things in order to gain wealth and power, white characters can be sexual deviants who molest children in plain sight and who are still given the benfit of the doubt, they operate criminal networks with impunity, they never suffer the consequences of their actions. They steal, lie, cheat, and murder and they are still seen as moral, upright, upstanding, and inherently superior.

Do all the characters do those things? No. But all the characters benefit from the program being designed to depict whiteness and without flaw.

ALL THE WHITE CHARACTERS BENEFIT FROM THE PROGRAM THAT DEEMS WHITENESS RIGHT.

The white characters have been programmed to see themselves as godlike, even if they aren't as rich and wealthy as the programmers, they still see themselves reflected in the faces of the programmers who created this false reality. They don't comprehend the unfairness of the game, they see it as the way things have always been, it's not unfair, it's the way the programmers designed the game, it's the way things are supposed to be.

For white characters, life is smooth sailing. For Black characters, life is

hell. Life is hell but that is all they know, that is how the program was designed, and they don't even comprehend a reality other than struggle and pain and lack and even more pain. Black characters see white characters, how they interact in the game, how the game was designed for them but the characters in the game can't change the program, so the Black characters keep on playing with no hope of things ever changing, no hope of ever winning.

A glitch in the program has allowed the white characters to see that the program was designed with inequality in the coding. But for white characters, they can't comprehend or grasp what the Black characters have experienced AND they are completely incapable of re-writing the code so that there is equality in the game so that tiny glitch, the knowledge and understanding of how the game was rigged in their favor, to the white characters, is a single grain of sand on a beach.

The white characters, however, perceive it to be the totality of racism. The white characters believe that they can understand and grasp the complexity of inequality when all they really see is a tiny fraction of it.

White characters comprehend a tiny speck of the reality of the surreal world in which they live, they don't see the scope, range, and impact of the inequality and they dismiss any complaints from the Black characters that the game is rigged in their favor. To the white characters, they have won for millennia legitimately.

White people, human beings, have been told, convinced, they BELIEVE that their whiteness is right, they believe that they are superior to Blacks, that Blacks are inherently inferior. It's written in the code. The baseline of their beliefs, built into the program, is that Black people are less than whites.

It's how the game was designed.

The game is rigged in white people's favor.

The game is rigged for Black people to lose.

So, here we are, in the real 3D world. White people have come to realize that racism exists, that the game has been rigged in their favor, they grasp that it's wrong, and they think that because they have some inkling that things have been rigged in their favor, that they understand how the game has been designed, how Black people feel, and that their acknowledgment of racism means that they are not racist.

Anti-racists, in the game of life as we experience it, collectively, see, understand, and comprehend about 5% of the whole picture, they glimpse about 5% of the inequity of the game but the assume they see, understand, and comprehend 95% of the inequality of racism. That is understandable, the game has been designed for you to think that you are the source of all that is good, right, that all knowledge comes from white people. Then there are 95% of the white players in the game still very much content to believe that the game is fair, that the fact that they always win is God's will. God, unfortunately, is a racist programmer who capitalizes off of the blood, sweat, tears, work, art, creativity, strength, beauty, talent, and endurance of Black people.

But because white people in the game of 3D life, in the world as we know it, have been programmed to believe that they are always right, that they collectively do nothing wrong, that they deserve points for doing nothing, that they deserve to win, they are shocked, offended and frustrated when they get dinged, when a Black person calls them on their racism. They can't wrap their heads around being told they are wrong and that the game is rigged in their favor.

Anti-racists are quite convinced that they are immune to the program, that they are characters outside the game.

The entire game, the life we live, the reality of this dimension, the 3D world we live in has been created so white people don't get penalized for their fuck up and they get rewarded for cheating and they always win. That programming can't be changed overnight. That programming can't be changed at all with the limited and narrow glimpse that white people have of how the game is played.

The entire game, the life we live, the reality of this dimension, the 3D world we live in, has been created so that Black people are the best players in the game, the Black characters are the most resilient, the Black characters have the most integrity, the Black characters have the most creativity, ingenuity, the most strength, the Black characters are the better players, period, but the Black characters have been programmed to believe that they are not even in the same league as white people. Black people have lived in a dimensional reality where our contributions have been stolen and attributed to white people. Black people live in a reality where our intellect has been negated and we have been designed as losers.

So here, in 2022 as we understand it, white people have been convinced for their entire lifetimes that time, space, and technology have been their domain, that they are masters of the universe. Here, in 2022, Black people are saying that the game isn't fair, that the game is rigged in white people's favor and the vast and overwhelming majority of white people are saying, "No, it's not! The game absolutely is fair. We are better and you are just complaining because you always lose and we always win but that's because we are really superior."

The small minority of white people who are doing their best to be anti-racist are saying, "OK, I get it that the game isn't fair. I get it." But they have played in a game where the rules have been bent in their favor, so their default mode, the understanding that they go back to when challenged, is, "I'm right, you Black people are wrong, I know more than you, you can't tell me because I know . . ."

That's the nature of the reality we live in. White people BELIEVE that Blacks are inferior, that they deserve to be impoverished and imprisoned disproportionately because that's how the system was designed. They can't articulate it in that way because the programmed wasn't designed for them to be self aware. The program was designed for white people to believe that they are god.

EVERYTHING in this society, every message, every practice, every belief, every law, every societal norm has been designed and programmed around the belief that Blacks are inherently inferior. There is no way a white person can be born in this society (meaning this time and space, across the globe, not just the United States) without being a victim of the belief that white people are superior and Blacks are inferior because that's the foundation of the game, that is how this dimension was built.

White people BELIEVE that racism is like high fructose corn syrup, that you only some foods have it and that it can be avoided. Racism is far more destructive, pervasive, and crippling than any additive in food.

Racism is not in the air that we breathe. Racism IS the air we breathe: it's omnipresent, it's designed into the game, the system is racist. The game has to crash and be redesigned to escape the suffocating oppression of racism.

White Privilege Primer

For the 1000^th time, and for the people in the back, white privilege is not a tangible benefit you get for being white.  It’s not extra money deposited in your bank account for being white.  White privilege is not a coupon code you get for whitewater rafting trips and pumpkin spice lattes; it’s not a trophy you get to hit Black people with when you don’t like them in spaces where you don’t think we belong.  White privilege means never having to know the pain of being something other than the norm.  White people have been the norm since the architects of history erased Black accomplishment and rewrote white people as the heroes. You have what no Black person, no person of color can ever hope to have in this lifetime; you have the benefit of the doubt.  The world will always see you, your opinion, your voice, and your beliefs as more valid than mine because of your whiteness.  That is white privilege.

Society has never hated your whiteness.  You were not born into a society whose foundations were predicated on the assumption that you were less than human.  The fact that you have never had to contemplate what it feels like to have skin that is universally despised, the fact that people with your skin color are seen as universally right, just, beautiful, and smart, the fact that you have never once been seen as a threat because of the color of your skin is the very definition of white privilege. You've never had to manipulate your identity to compensate for the fact that you are seen as less than right out of you mother's womb. Unless you have been raised in a society where you, where who you are as a person, is hated for superficial and false reasons, unless you are powerless to change that perception, you will never understand what the pain of not being white in a society that worships whiteness feels like.  

White people, you have never lived in a world where your whiteness has been viewed as inherently inferior so you have that advantage over Black people.  That is a privilege.  You have lived your entire life in a world where God was created in your image, that’s not anything close to what I can say so you have that advantage over me.  You exist in a world where you’ve been told that every invention of everything good was from someone who looked like you.  That’s not true by the way.  White people stole Black/Africans knowledge, wisdom, wealth, art, and secrets and claimed them as their own. Your anger at that statement, is racism. That feeling of anger boiling up in you is your subconscious mind insisting that Black people are inferior and incapable of creating anything worth stealing.  I wish I could say that I grew up in a world that accurately told the tales of the great accomplishments of my people, but white men have written history so they are always the victors and Black people are always pawns. 

I wish I could know what it feels like to live in a world where Black people were Gods, where Black people performed magic and understood the heavens and the seas, where we were the architects of civilization and art and science and mathematics, and we lived in harmony together.  I can’t live in that society, however.  I was born into a society that falsely believes that people who look like me have never contributed anything to the world stage.  You have no idea what that feels like because you were white and born into this world created by white men just for you to feel like you were superior to everyone else. 

So, your argument is going to be, “I don’t hate Black people, I’ve never seen Black people as inferior so you’re not talking about me.” There are multiple levels of error with that sentiment.  First and foremost, you are unaware of your subconscious beliefs.  You can’t live in a society that broadcasts Black faces as criminals as the first new story every night and not have that negatively color your perception of Black people.  You lock your door when you see a Black person in a neighborhood.  You wait for the next elevator because you fear a Black person is going to rape and rob you.  You shake your head in disgust when you see a Black woman in Walmart with loud kids and you don’t even care if white kids are loud.  That’s your inherent bias.  You might SAY I’m not racist.  That doesn’t mean that every single belief system you have isn’t based on racist beliefs. 

Now, back to your regularly scheduled deprogramming.  You’ve never turned on a television and been stressed out because every single show on TV is about people who look nothing like you, don’t have anything to do with your reality, or make the people who look like you a fucking criminal or a clown.  If you want to find a TV or movie where people who look like you are the heroes, all you have to do is flip a few channels, you’ll find it.  Me, I have to wait for February.  I have to subscribe to a streaming service. You don’t know what that feels like, so you have that advantage over me.  You say that’s not a big deal, that no one cares about that sort of thing. I say that if you turned on the TV and every show, every movie, every person you saw was Black, every storyline was about the greatness of Black people, every Black character saved the day, you would lose your fucking mind.  Every fucking channel is White Entertainment Network.  Every fucking channel has white programming executives creating content based on their personal racist perceptions.  Every Black show, every Black movie has white people behind it inserting their privilege and racist perceptions.  Every fucking month is white history month because your false history, the history where white people are the heroes and saviors of everything, is all that’s taught in schools. 

You are privileged.  You’ve never looked for a book about a topic and discovered that not one single person who looked like you had authored one.  You’ve never even had to think about something like that, right?  That’s a privilege because that is my experience every time I go on Amazon.  Well, there are no published books, because surely, the publishing community rejected all the authors who looked like me because they didn’t think Black people have a valid voice on the subject, whatever the subject may be.  You’ve never had to experience anything like that in your life.  That’s privilege.

“Well, that’s dumb!  Information is information, it doesn’t matter what color the person is who wrote the book!  You’re the racist for caring about what color the author is.” If the shoe were on the other foot, if you were looking for a book on making stained glass or the history of the organ in the Roman Catholic church, you’d be put off if the only authors on said subjects were Black.  If every book you were interested in had a Black author, you’d say that they weren’t as smart, they didn’t do their research well, that they couldn’t be as smart as a white scholar on the subject.  That’s your racism whether you want to admit it or not. 

 What you’re feeling right now as you form your empty arguments against me is racism.  You need to prove that racism isn’t real, that you don’t have any privilege, and that Black people are making it all up.  That need that you feel to put me in my place, that anger you feel when you think about Black people saying that things are unfair and that you benefit and that you perpetuate racism, is racism.  It’s your belief that we don’t have a right to express any complaints, that if we are unhappy and/or poor, it’s our own damn fault because you’re just lazy and dumb, your core belief is that we are inherently inferior, it’s what you’ve been told your entire life in ways you’ve never considered or contemplated. 

You don’t want us to talk about racism because it makes you mad to think that there are justified reasons we are angry, you want to believe that our anger is unjustified because you don’t think racism isn’t real.  I don’t know how else to explain it to you.  That’s racist.  You being mad at me discussing racism because you don’t like me saying that the system is rigged in your favor is the definition of racism.  It’s denying my pain because it doesn’t make you comfortable.  And unfortunately for you, I won’t do any fucking more.   I’m not going to let you get away with your irrational, immature rant, telling Black people to go back to Africa in one breath and screaming that you aren’t racist in the next, and have you walk away thinking that your opinion invalidates racism. 

Sit with it.  Digest it.  Understand that you acknowledging that you have white privilege, acknowledging that you can’t have the same or even similar painful experiences that Black people have since birth if the first step to you letting go of the fallacy of white supremacy. I know you think that you can’t give up anything, if you concede and admit that racism is real, you think that Black people are going to rise up and enslave whites.  Hell, you were born into a world that was created to make you appear as if you are perfect.  And you’ve grown up believing that.  Calm down, I’m not saying you don’t have insecurities and fears or that you’ve necessarily had an easy life vis-à-vis your whiteness.  I’m saying your life has been better than people with Black skin because we have been told that we don’t belong here.  You’ve been told that you created everything in the world we live in. 

If I had a choice, I would rather be the be living in a world where Blackness was seen as beautiful.  I would like you to invite you to shut the fuck up because you are screaming right now that you think Black people are beautiful.  Society doesn’t.  Society sees Black skin as ugly.  Society sees Black noses as ugly.  Society sees Black people as criminal, lazy, stupid, and ugly. You don’t even see Black people as beautiful, you see us as arousing.  Two different things. You pretending that society doesn’t see Black people as inferior because you individually see Black people as sexually arousing does not negate racism, it is an example of your racism.  Please stop being obtuse and insisting that racism doesn’t exist because you think your personal experience and perception of race invalidates the heinous and debilitating institution of racism. 

Wanting to fuck Black people is not an indication that you aren’t racist.  Wanting to be submissive to Black people is not an indication that you aren’t racist. I’m sorry, but wanting to be sexually degraded, humiliated, and tortured by Black people is not an indication that you aren’t racist. Are you getting it yet?  Even if you swear your sexual desires are not driven by race in any way shape or form, color doesn’t matter, kumbaya, the whole nine, that doesn’t mean that you are self-aware or introspective enough to identify your racism. 

Racism is far more complex and nuanced than white people who aren’t active and avid anti-racists have ever thought of.  Unless you have dedicated your life to understanding and fighting racism, you are incapable of speaking on racism because you know nothing, you know less than nothing about racism.  The clichés you repeat, the ones ingrained in you, those aren’t going to work anymore. You are going to be really pissed off in the next few years because I have new for you, your reign of having the last word, of silencing anyone who doesn’t agree with you, the days of having your opinion being considered more valid than everyone else’s is over. 

I’ve got more bad news for you, white people.  Denying that you have privilege . . . denying that white privilege exists . . . that’s racist.  Denying that white privilege exists is essentially saying that the playing field is level and that everyone has the same opportunity and that Black people are making complaints because we are ungrateful, we are exaggerating, that things are fair and just and if there is any evidence to the contrary, it’s all Black people’s fault for being criminal and dumb.  That’s not true.  I know it’s what you believe, but it’s not true.  The truth is, that when Black people are given even the smallest opportunity, even when it comes saddled with racism and obstacles that white people don’t have, we excel at whatever we do.  If Black people had access to the same opportunities as you, in a world that hates us, we would excel in every possible way.  You have yet to give us credit for that.  We have survived and succeeded when you have had every advantage.  That’s testament to our greatness. 

Denying that you have white privilege is the blatant denial of the fact that every system in this country is built to make white people right and people of color wrong.  You don’t want to think about the fact that the justice system is rigged to incarcerate Black people and let white people get away with murder because of the presumption that Black people are more criminal.  We aren’t.  We are more oppressed.  We are more disadvantaged.  We are denied more opportunities than whites.  If you were denied the same opportunities as Blacks consistently, for generations, I would dare say that white people would not have been able to survive. 

I had a white man tell me recently that white privilege wasn’t a thing because . . . follow me with this one . . . white people are the ones creating false identities as Black people, white people are actively choosing and pretending to be Black so white privilege can’t be a thing.  The basis of his belief is that if so many white people are assuming Black identities, he reasoned, then white privilege can’t be a thing because no white person would want to be Black, no white person would want to assume a Black identity, because whiteness would be better, thus white privilege is a made up concept and Black people are just bitching about white privilege. Still with me? This highly educated white man has convinced himself that white privilege is completely baseless because white people have arrogantly assumed that they could navigate the world and speak to the world as a Black person.  He didn’t see that as white delusional thinking.  He saw that as proof that Black people were insufferable whiners who complained about racism where there isn’t any. 

I confess, I lost it.  The more he made his ridiculous and insane assertions, the angrier and more frustrated I got.  I ended up yelling at him to shut the fuck up and I hung up on him because his assertions were so fucking stupid and he kept asserting that he had definitive proof that racism doesn’t exist because it’s white people who are pretending to be Black.  In the end he condescendingly said that I was unable to handle candid conversations because I refused to even acknowledge what he was saying was valid.  That is white privilege.  I’ve never in my life had the ego or audacity to tell someone else that their experience of life wasn’t as bad as they said it was because my opinion is different.  White men are so used to being told they’re always right that they think they can negate 400 years of racism with the actions of a handful of clearly insane white people. 

This white man never once considered that Blackness is more than color, blackness is an experience.  Blackness is having grandparents who survived Jim Crow and oppressive racism shape your sensibilities and your fears about being Black in a world that doesn’t value you; Blackness is not wearing brown makeup.  Blackness is knowing that your life isn’t as valid as white people’s, Blackness is not a posting #BlackLivesMatter in a Twitter post.  This guy created an absurd truth based on his concept of what it means to be Black in his mind.  In his white mind, Blackness is highly coveted.  He thinks Blackness is the ability of Black men to fuck white women with a big dick.  He has no concept of the pain of being Black.  There is nothing painful about being Black to him because he’s white, privileged, arrogant, and obtuse.  More importantly, he never considered that Blackness is a tragedy. 

The tragic flaw with his delusional thinking is those sad and pathetic white people pretended to be Black, they didn’t actually grow up in a environment where they were called redbone, or high yella, or Sambo, or house nigga by other Black people. They never experienced being called the many creatie racist epithets that white people love to throw around when they are feeling cocky and safe.   They never experienced that sort of pain, thus, their fake personas are not an indication that racism isn’t bad or that white supremacy doesn’t exist.  These imposters didn’t grow up in a society where every magazine, every movie, every TV show, fuck, every myth, fairy tale, and magical creature was Black and they felt different and flawed for being born.  This guy failed to grasp that Blackness was more than just the skin color he jerks off to watching interracial porn. 

Racism can’t be reversed.  I know you want to yell and scream that it can be.  You want to believe that someone calling you a cracker in the 7^th grade is the same as calling a Black person a nigger.  It’s not.  Your failure to recognize the historical context of racism, your failure to empathize and understand that being white in a world literally created to falsely identify whites as superior, is racist.  I can’t, I didn’t grow up in a world where my Blackness was revered as sacred, holy, righteous, and pure so I can’t, we can’t have the same experience of racism.  You are always going to be the beneficiary of the fallacy of white supremacy; the system was designed for me to never have power over you.  I will never know what it means to know that my identity, irrespective of anything that I’ve personally done, is worshipped around the world as being the creators and originators of the world as we know it.  African accomplishment and achievement has been erased from history.  African heroes have been written out of world history.   African consciousness has been grafted with the greed, materialism, and the petty insecurity of white consciousness so that we have no access to our greatness as a people.  White people will never ever know what that feels like and that is the ultimate white privilege. 

 

"Reprogram me not to be racist."

Daily, I get some form a communication from white men who ask me to reprogram them to be a sissy/to crave Black dick/not to be racist.  Apparently, white manhood is so deeply entrenched into them, they need guidance and instruction from a Black woman to become a faggot sissy Jack of Spades (NOT my terminology, I would never denigrate Black men that way).

Listen up, racist white assholes.  No, I absolutely will not help reprogram you not to be racist.  You want me to “retrain” you not to be a racist asshole but that is clearly not possible because you are conflating your sexual fantasies with being a decent human being.  Why do you need to be retrained?  Were you indoctrinated in secret whiteness school to think that unarmed Black people should be murdered for minor violations, violations that you and your white friends can get away with with impunity?  Find someone else to reinforce your racist sexual fantasies that Black men are driven by lust for your nasty white girlfriend.  I support Black love, Black men and Black women being emotionally mature, intimate, honest, loving, and working together to eradicate racism, not your racist cuckold fantasies that reinforce that Black men are nothing more than sexual savages, nothing more than human dildos that service slutty, racist, white women or fuel your gay submissive desires.

I am superior to white men.  It’s not a role I play and I find your assertion that you need me to dominate you in order for you to see the humanity of Black people incredibly offensive.  You want me to alleviate your guilt over wanting to be a sissy faggot.  If your racist beliefs are that deeply ingrained that you can’t grasp that Black people have been oppressed, discriminated against, and disadvantaged since being kidnapped, enslaved, denied basic human rights, and objectified for centuries without having your dick in your hand, then you aren’t even worth my respect, let alone my precious time.  Go bother someone else who will tell you that your little cock is pathetic and feed your cucky fantasies.  I am not the one.

To all the white men who insist that they need to be reprogrammed in order not to be racist, I say go, read my blogs, my writings, my essays and my erotic stories.  Explore this new invention called the internet where you can find lots of information about white privilege, the fallacy of white supremacy, and racism.  Read a book, read a few, written by Black scholars.  Wait, you don’t value what Black academics have to say so go watch a few Tim Wise videos.  Apparently, learning about your racism is easier when it comes from a white man.  When you can come to me with some humility and respect for my race without it being tied to your racist sexual fantasies, when you have started doing the work of divesting yourself of the fallacy of white supremacy that is not connected to your erection, then I will be more than willing to converse with you about your racism.  Otherwise, it’s not my job, responsibility, or mission in life to make sure you aren’t racist.  That is your job!

Diary of a Perverted Housewife

So I'm browsing Tumblr last night and I was sucked in to the cycle of endless clicking and exploring. I found a blog that was titled Diary of a Perverted Housewife. (I won't link to it but you are more than welcome to search for it if you'd like). My curiosity and my amateur anthropological nature led me to explore further. This young lady claims that she is a prim and proper young lady who does nothing but masturbate to porn all day while her husband is at work. She's pretty forthcoming about her desires and she interacts with her followers, telling them fantasies and answering questions.

I will be the first to admit that the few white women I know, the ones whom I love, are wonderful amazing beautiful women who are NOTHING like regular white women. I was curious because I know the minds, the pathos, the psychology of submissive white men better than anyone (if I have to say so myself) but my knowledge of the inner workings of white women is limited to say the least.

First and foremost, let me state that her blog is replete with images of white people having sex with animals. OK, let's not waste time pretending to be shocked, we can find it all over the net and if it's on Tumblr, it's clearly a huge sexual fetish that is wildly popular. (It should be noted that bestiality is a violation of Tumblr's terms of service yet there are 10s of thousands of images and videos posted there) Sex with animals is disturbing on multiple levels to say the least but let's all agree that it's hardly uncommon based on the amount of porn that is easily accessible for FREE. 

Anyway, I am exploring this woman's blog and amidst the images of people having sex with animals, the memes that depict blatant pedophilia, incest, and rape, and a whole host of other extreme and depraved fetishes, this young woman has images of interracial sex interspersed in her blog. The vast majority of them are white women with Black men but there are several pages dedicated to Black women having sex with white men as well.

Hear me and hear me well. This is not unique to her blog, it is not uncommon across the net. White people associate sex with Black people the same way they do with animals. We are not humans to them. We are sexual beasts, animals, they look down on us like we are subhuman and that is why they are so aroused by interracial sex. Black men are conforming to their racist beliefs by playing the Mandingo savage who is blinded by his lust for white women.

 

She thinks that  having sex with a Black person is perverted and depraved.  She's not alone.  For more than a decade, I have been trying to tell people that the trend is real, that the white women who like to have sex with dogs are also having sex with Black men.  Now it seems that the white men who are fucking and getting fucked by livestock and members of the animal kingdom are finding that sex with Black women is equally as arousing.  

You can be all about the swirl.  You can say that color doesn't matter. I need to caution you however,  Know who you are sleeping with.  Know how they really feel about you. 

Sold, to the Highest Bidder!

The prospect was just too tempting not to investigate further.  When Donald Meadows was sent an exclusive invitation from Mistress Veronique to an event that was described as a private, very real, and completely voluntary interracial slave auction, he first thought it might be a party or munch where people meet and greet but he certainly couldn’t believe that it was an authentic slave auction.  He was intrigued, however, and he trusted the source of the invite so he started doing his research.  The slave auction was being held in New Orleans and submissive white men were coming from every corner of the country, potentially from all over the world even, to be bought, sold, and traded by Black Masters and Mistresses. 

All the I’s were dotted and the T’s were crossed, avoiding the pesky little fact that the enslavement of real human beings is very much illegal, by virtue of the white men paying for the opportunity to be treated like actual slaves on an auction block.  You can’t technically, or more importantly legally, be considered a slave if you have paid for the opportunity to be treated as such.   And the fee was not at all insignificant; participants could choose from a menu of how long they wanted to be “enslaved” and what circumstances they preferred: the plantation experience, the dungeon experience, or the domestic experience.  The shortest term for participation was for a week and while $5,000 dollars wasn’t enough to take out a second mortgage or anything, it would make anyone who wanted to participate think twice before they RSVP’d. 

                Donald was intrigued.  Being a true masochist, being driven by his obsessive need to experience real slavery at the hands of a sadistic Master, combined with his compelling interracial desires, and driven by this burning, inexplicable NEED deep within his soul to be humiliated, degraded, objectified, and deeply tortured, the potential was just too intriguing to ignore.  Having acquired enough fiscal freedom in his lifetime to fulfill his fetishes and fantasies afforded Donald the time, finances, and opportunity to pack a bag, make a deposit online, and purchase an airline ticket for The Big Easy. 

                Sweltering, sticky, and steamy, the oppressive heat of Louisiana was more than a colorful, descriptive alliteration for dramatic effect from a Mark Twain novel.  From the moment he emerged from the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, Donald started sweating like a pig.  He hailed a cab and headed for his swanky Bourbon Street hotel so he could wash off the perspiration and calm his nerves.  In the heart of all the action, in the center of the city, he could look out his window and see drunken revelers sipping alcoholic beverages from giant, tacky, colorful plastic cups, he could practically taste the heady flavors of spicy gumbo and delectable jambalaya, and he could faintly hear the distinct sounds of zydeco, jazz, and blues blending harmoniously.    Pathologically shy, he ventured out, but he didn’t interact with the vibrant pulse of his surroundings, he simply observed.  He would have been more comfortable had he been there with someone he knew or even if he was assured of what was before him.  Donald’s mind raced with anticipation and nerves.   Long ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that he had a deviant nature, a perverse core within him that would lead him to do dangerous, questionable things in pursuit of sexual pleasure.  Taking chances, being secretive, it all added to the excitement, the thrill of the ultimate sexual experience he was assured was out there somewhere. 

                The next morning, Donald awoke to a text message instructing him to show up at The Marigny Opera House located at 725 Saint Ferdinand Street, at 11:00 am for orientation.  Nervously, he checked out of the hotel and asked the concierge the best way to his destination and as fate would have it, it was within walking distance.  “Who does this?  What’s wrong with me?”  The questions were rhetorical because the tingle in his cock was like a compass pointing due north, leading him to explore the possibilities.  It was do or die, time to shit or get off the pot so to speak.  Taking a deep breath, Donald set out on a journey that would lead him to the realization of his wildest dreams come true. 

                Unaware of the historical significance of the address, Donald walked up to the massive door at the address and knocked far too softly.  No one would have heard him but the security cameras had alerted the hosts of a new guest and they responded accordingly.  The expansive door opened and a young Black male, no more than 20 years old with a boyishly cute face and chiseled muscular body stood there and asked, “Name?” 

                Donald fidgeted.  This kid?  There was no way he could be in charge, he was barely out of high school.  Immediately, Donald’s brain had conflicting messages bombard his consciousness at the sight of this young, Black man.   He didn’t think of himself as racist, he had no reason to believe he was racist as he never used the N word, but his mind flashed to every, single, solitary media source, every core belief, everything in his existence told him that Black men were inherently ignorant, violent, criminal, and, most importantly sexual savages.  He thought of gang-bangers and thugs, he thought of uneducated rappers and basketball players who were all beneath him in status.  He thought of barely-literate ghetto dwellers, unemployed and smoking weed, with enormous, hard black cocks exploding with potent Black sperm in his insatiable asshole and his cock throbbed.  “Donald Meadows,” he whispered as he stepped through the doors. 

                “Follow me,” the young man said as he walked through the huge opera hall, Donald’s hard-soled shoes the only detectable sound, echoed off the walls.  Their first destination was what looked like a classroom with a blackboard and desks from primary school.  As he stepped through the threshold, he saw five other white men sitting at tiny desks, filling out paperwork.  Almost as if choreographed, they all looked up simultaneously, sized up their competition, and nervously looked down again, as if to pretend that they were filling out job applications for a coveted, high-paid, executive position.  They weren’t.  They were signing endless disclaimers and filling out questionnaires.  At the head of the classroom was a long table where three very beautiful Black women were seated.  They were older than the young man who escorted him inside but not by much; the youngest looked to be about 25 and the oldest maybe in her mid-thirties, but given the fact that Black people don’t age the same way that whites do, Donald was open to the possibility that every last one of them could have been older than he was imagining them to be. 

                The entire operation was like a well-oiled assembly line with submissive white men being the finished product.  First, Donald was instructed to pay the balance of his fee and make any additions or changes to his previous online selections.  He had initially chosen the one-week plantation experience with both male and female dominants but being stared down by the Black female across the table from him, he felt intimidated and at the last second, for no good reason, opted for two weeks and as quietly as possible asked if he could use his phone to make the transaction complete.   The cocoa-colored, beautiful woman nodded and he furiously thumbed his phone while she explained that he would be given a refund, minus a 10% handling fee of course, if he was not purchased by any of the prospective buyers. 

As he moved down the line he was told that he would be giving up all of his possession, including his cell phone, his identification, and all of his belongings.   He placed his wallet, his keys, his phone and whatever money he had in his pockets in an overnight express envelope that was pre-labeled with his home address on it and it was sealed and dropped in a bin with about a dozen other similar looking packages.  His luggage was taken from him and opened and the contents examined in front of the room.  He hadn’t packed too much clothing, just enough for two or three days, with the standard toiletries and a few inconspicuous sex toys that could easily avoid detection by nosey TSA officials.  Everything was thrown away.  Even his suitcase.  The young man dumped everything in a huge, gray, industrial trash bin and Donald was instructed to move down to the final young lady.  

At no point after entering the event space did Donald have the desire to stop, go back, or change his mind.  He was invested.  Electricity coursed through his body and the entire experience was erotic, even if nothing sexual had happened yet.  The last young lady at the table was responsible for explaining all the forms.  There were a stack of papers two inches thick that he was supposed to read and sign before he could proceed.  The first pack was, of course, stating that he was there voluntarily and that even though he was submitting himself to be “a slave” that he was not forced, coerced, or blackmailed into the agreement and that he was entering into it with the full acknowledgement that he was going to be treated as closely as possible to what actual Black slaves had endured during the 18^th century antebellum South.  There were medical release forms that had the phrase “in the event of death” highlighted several times.  Donald initialed and signed every place that was highlighted, really only reading the last paragraphs above the signature lines fully, briefly skimming the rest of the documents.  The last packet of papers were to be given to his future owners and he was to fill out what seemed like hundreds of questions about past experiences, fantasies, fetishes, proclivities, skills, talents, and extremely personal, private inquires. 

Moving to one of the schoolroom desks, he started filling out the endless questions.  Just as he got settled, the door to the room opened and another white man entered.  As before, it was now Donald’s turn to look up to see who it was, quickly assess him as competition, and shamefully lower his gaze to the task at hand, answering all those goddamn questions.  How many bowel movements did he have in a week, how often did he ejaculate, how much did he ejaculate, did he have prostate issues, had he ever had hemorrhoids, could he maintain an erection without ED meds?  The questions had no boundaries.  Donald was mortified.  With each question he became more and more aroused.  The more personal and invasive the question, the more he became aroused.  He tried to quantify how much pain he thought he could handle on a scale of 1-10 without exaggerating and without making himself unappealing to potential buyers.  It was all dizzying. 

The building was completely modern and centrally cooled but it seemed that all the white men, seated at desks only appropriate for small children, had drenched their shirts with underarm sweat and had rivulets of perspiration dripping from every possible gland.  When he had finished, Donald, stood to take his completed packets to the front and the male immediately yelled at him to sit the fuck down, in no uncertain terms.   It was as if lightning had hit his body.  Donald realized that all his rights had been signed away and that he had forfeited everything, even the right to stand and sit when he pleased.  His mind reeled at the concept and it aroused him in a place that he had never experienced before.  Not only was he going to be a slave, he was going to be a slave to actual descendants of slaves.  He was going to be subjected to tortures and punishments by individuals who had every right to seek sadistic and cruel revenge against white men who had historically done more evil than he had ever thought to imagine.  The ever-popular adage, “My ancestors never owned any slaves,” didn’t seem like it would to matter very much to this team.  The fact that he was white and had all the privileges that having white skin and a penis in this society would afford him seemed to be all they cared about. 

In his lifetime, Donald had been subjected to treatment by white men, sadists, that was beyond perverted, that was sick and truly fucking twisted.  If white men had been capable of doing those things to him, of getting sexual pleasure from his abject pain and he was one of them, if he in fact “belonged to the club” so to speak, what had white men done to actual slaves that they had no respect for, whom they didn’t even see as human, whom they despised for their skin color?  Donald was too privileged, too enmeshed in the fallacy of white supremacy to even grasp the implications.  The fact that actual slaves, actual Black people couldn’t sign a paper or fill out a form stating their preferences, the fact that actual slaves didn’t get sexual gratification from having their babies ripped from their arms, they didn’t voluntarily choose to be raped or castrated or branded or hanged, that he would never know what it’s truly like to be sold like a horse with no say in the matter; it never crossed his mind and it was beyond his comprehension.  All he could think about was his voracious need to be gangbanged by Black men and being a toilet for Black women.  All he could think about were his own sick fantasies. 

Once all the papers were completed, once everyone had finished, the seven white men were all instructed to follow the young Black man to another destination.  They walked calmly through the majestic stone halls and up a grand staircase where they were ushered into a large room that was completely empty; the only real feature that the space offered were the spectacular views of the historic city.  Inside the room were five other white men who had made themselves comfortable, or at least as comfortable as they could be, seated on the cold, tiled floor.  The door, slammed unceremoniously behind them, was locked from the outside and almost immediately, a few of the others started making small talk.  They were nervously asking questions and making introductions. 

Donald, never one to stand out, remained a little more protective of his personal information than a few of the others seemed to be.  He made sure to put names with faces but he didn’t care about or even believe them when they spoke of careers and families and even their personal lives.  It was not long before Donald had to go to the bathroom.  There was no restroom and he was a victim of a weak bladder that had to be emptied frequently.  One of the other men noticed his predicament and slid next to him to whisper that there was a bucket in the corner that they had taken to be what they were supposed to us to relieve themselves.  As if by unspoken code, everyone turned their backs and pretended not to see or hear the urine collecting in the bucket.  The smell was not as easy to ignore as the strong yellow piss mixture created a rancid odor. 

As the evening wore on, hunger set in.  The setting sun created a magnificent backdrop to the cityscape with its beautiful hues of orange and purple.  Donald’s stomach growled loudly as he tried to think of other things.  A few of his roommates were not as willing to remain silent and they started banging on the door, demanding food, demanding that someone tell them what was going to happen.  They tried to open the windows; they started to get agitated, irritated, and annoyed.  As the lights of the city night illuminated the skyline, it was apparent that they were not going to get any food or answers and Donald took off his shirt to make a makeshift pillow out of it as he lay on the floor. 

With only minutes of sleep, morning came none too soon.  While the city was still sleeping, the door unlocked and a different Black man this time, an older, much larger and menacing one called the name Ted and one of the men stood nervously.  “Come with me,” he bellowed, and his fellow submissive used his eyes to scan the room for empathy and answers.  As the door shut behind him, the others came alive with nervousness and anticipation.  Donald maneuvered his way to one of the windows and used the sill as a seat and he glanced nervously at the guy named Mark and they whispered about what they thought might be happening.  Mark said, “Man, don’t you get it?  This is the true slave experience.  Real slaves were starved to death, they were made to sleep on floors, they were transported and held captives with no explanation, and they were sold like cattle.  We signed up for the true slave experience and we’re getting it.  Pissing and shitting in a bucket, it’s humiliating.  Even this place, man, it’s rumored to be one of the last standing slave trading auction blocks of the era.”

In that moment, Donald felt the souls of the slaves speaking out to him.  They were haunting him, calling him names, telling him that he was a sexual deviant who would never understand what they felt having their humanity traded like a child’s baseball card.  Several men had to use the bucket to shit and the stench became even more oppressive as everyone pretended to be oblivious.  As the morning wore on, one by one, the door opened and another name was called.  Seemingly they were being called in the order of their arrival which meant Donald was the next to last to be called.  When it was down to he and John, and the door opened, he had tried to smooth his wrinkled shirt out and he was ready to move to the next phase, whatever that would be. 

As it turned out, the next phase was a medical examination.  This new Black man escorted him to a room that looked like it was a doctor’s office.  He was given an EKG and a prostate exam that was more like manual rape than a medical procedure.  The doctor, or rather the person who seemed to be functioning as a doctor because there were no medical degrees framed on the wall and no proof whatsoever of his credentials, was another Black man: tall, dark-skinned, handsome, and quiet, he didn’t explain what he was doing, what was going to happen, he had no bedside manner whatsoever.  He was particularly brutal in the way in which he examined Donald’s mouth, ears, and nose.  He squeezed Donald’s testicles so hard as to cause him to groan which was no small feat given the abuse those nuts had endured over the course of his lifetime. 

Stripped of all his clothing, with nothing on but a hospital gown, Donald was led into yet another corral-type room where his fellow slaves were waiting for him as before, all in blue or white gowns that no one even attempted to tie to hide their buttocks.  When everyone had finished their medical exam, it was then a Black woman with a clipboard entered the room.  She seemed to be in control of the entire operation. 

“OK, maggots, I’m going to explain to you what’s going to happen.  I’ve had 150 responses to my invitations for tonight’s auction.  A few are leather daddies but the vast majority are Black female Dommes who are looking for white men who are not playing online games and making empty promises.  Mostly, they are lifestyle Dommes who enjoy the lifestyle for personal reasons.  While they will be ‘buying’ you, they will be compensated nicely for their participation and the amount they bid to purchase you is reflective of your potential value to them as a slave.  It’s your job to impress them so that they want to take you on as a slave.  Get it?  Got it?  Good!”

It was then that Donald started truly sizing up his competition.  With the exception of two of the white men, all of them were older, not very attractive, certainly not well-endowed, and even if they weren’t obese, they weren’t very fit.  The remaining two white men were younger, in the context of their surroundings they could be considered reasonably attractive but they certainly wouldn’t win any contests in the real world.  What they did have to offer was beautiful young bodies.  They were smooth, their skin taught and tanned, their muscles rippled as evidence of working out.  Donald immediately thought of himself in his younger days, how he could have competed with any of them, of how he was the object of lust who could easily tempt men with his boyish charm and looks.  His present demeanor made him . . .  ashamed and insecure.  That feeling stirred arousal within him and thusly, created a conflict within him. 

By then, all the white men were all but starving and Donald spoke up and meekly asked about food.  The woman calmly responded by saying that they would get food later.  It was several hours later and they were fed, but it could hardly be called food.  They were served on metal prison plates a meal of oatmeal and fat back, a greasy piece of pork product that might have had a trace of meat if one were to look very closely or if one were to have a very vivid imagination.  Without any utensils, Donald scooped up the bland, nutrition-less, goop with his fingers and fed himself.  Having no taste or flavor it still tasted like a gourmet meal with him having gone far more than 24 hours without any food.  To drink, they weren’t given water, they were given cheap whiskey.  It burned going down and tasted like the dregs of the bottom of the barrel.  Within an hour, all twelve men were completely intoxicated. 

At the dawn of their second evening there, Donald could hear the makings of a party downstairs.  There were the sounds of music and people being festive, and the aromas of wonderful food being served wafted about, making Donald’s hunger even more apparent.  Intoxicated, Donald tried to figure out a strategy to get purchased.  He was trying to figure out how to stand out, how to make himself more appealing.  His planning was interrupted as several Black men, all ones he had never seen before, entered their room with buckets of water and bars of lye soap that smelled liked disinfectant.  The water was freezing cold and they had no washcloths or towels and the Black men seemed to be amused by their predicament as the white men tried to clean themselves and make themselves presentable.  With each passing moment, the dawn of realization that what actual slaves had to endure was far worse than his circumstances became more and more apparent.  He hadn’t been raised to believe himself inferior his entire life.  He had never done a hard day’s work in his life, he had never been sold away from his loved ones, he had never been forced to do anything sexually that he didn’t want.  It was almost as if the spirits of slaves were whispering to him within those walls, telling him that he would never know what it truly means to be hated for no other reason than the color of his skin. 

The witching hour was nigh.  The woman with the clipboard came in, this time dressed wearing an elegant gold evening gown, and she gave details of what was going to happen.  There was going to be an inspection period where the invited guests would be able to examine, question, and scrutinize them in any way they wanted.   The men were stripped naked and given a hit of poppers, the effects of which combined with the alcohol immediately.  The final insult was that they were all chained together with heavy leg irons that left little room for movement.  Quickly, they had to get in rhythm so as not to fall down and it wasn’t so easy for some of them that didn’t have the natural cadence of Africans. 

In the grand opera hall, opulent and elegant, the white men stood on the stage like they were about to face a firing squad.  Donald tried not to look at any faces in the crowd, rather, he hung his head in shame.  The examination period was akin to gang rape.  The Black men who were present all pulled their dicks out and demanded oral sex from the submissives they were interested in. For Donald, seeing all the sexual activity going on around him flipped the switch in his brain that signaled his love of depravity.  Some slaves were fucked like dogs from behind, without even seeing the face of their penetrators.  Donald was neither required to give oral sex or offer his asshole for use by any of the potential buyers.  He stood there, feeling insecure, and again wishing that this type of event had existed in his younger years, as a few people slapped his nuts and looked in his mouth like they were buying a horse. 

The bidding began.  Even though the room was filled with hundreds, the participants were only allowed to bid on the white men who matched their specific offerings:  Dommes with dungeons were only allowed to bid on those white men who requested that specifically and so on, so the number diminished quickly of potential buyers who had actual property that could be used as a plantation.  The order of the auction didn’t seem to be based on the same order that they had been previously called.  The youngest two were up for auction first.  They both were to be matched with dominants who wanted household domestics, servants, sexual playthings for Black Dommes wanting a boy toy and there was a bidding frenzy for them.  In the age of technology, bids were made by phone and the amounts were posted on large screens around the room.  The opening bid was $100 and quickly rose to $800 for the first and got as high as $1200 for the second young man.  They seemed proud of themselves. 

The next group to bid were the dominants with dungeons.  Six of the remaining white men were matched with those buyers and bidding didn’t get to more than $200 for any of them.  One didn’t get any bids and one got a bid of $50 as a sort of last minute reprieve.  Of the four remaining whites, Donald was feeling pessimistic about his chances of being purchased for the evening.  He would have to go home, dejected and inconsolable. 

Just as his “item number” was being called, and he was being described by the woman in gold, Donald felt the pangs of rejection.  This was his one shot.  In the privacy of his own home, Donald routinely behaved in shameful and disgusting ways in his relentless pursuits of the ultimate in degenerate acts.  This was no time to hold back.  Having no shame and taking a deep breath, emboldened by the amyl nitrate, Donald, desperate to show his depravity to the audience, fell to his knees and turned to his closest neighbor’s hard cock and began sucking it and trying to show just how depraved and perverted he could be.  The bidding began.  Wanting to show their respective perversion, the other white maggots began to perform as well, one fist fucking himself with no lube or spit, another torturing his balls in ways that indicated that they hadn’t produced sperm in a very long time.  By the time Donald had made his fellow submissive shoot a feeble stream of cum in his mouth, the final bid was $400.  Sold!  Now, he could truly be called a slave. 

Donald was given a burlap sack, literally, a bag made from jute with two holes cut for his arms to wear, and he was ushered into a van out a back door of the building.  Seated on a bench, Donald waited.  One by one, the remaining three plantation slaves were loaded in the van and they were again chained together with heavy leg irons and chains that seemed to weigh even more now that the effects of the alcohol and poppers had worn off a bit.  It seems, in his delusional lust, Donald hadn’t noticed that the bidding was for a package deal:  all four subs were sold for $400, $100 a piece, to a consortium of Blacks who took dominating whites very seriously and had purchased a hundred acre plantation in Mississippi for the sole purpose of stripping white men of their dignity and humanity.   For a brief moment Donald wondered what sort of pride and/or shame real slaves felt knowing their value on the auction block.  It was only a fleeting thought; he was more concerned with what sexual thrills might lie ahead of him. 

The ride took hours, exactly how long he couldn’t know, but he was uncomfortable and sleepy and hungry again.  At some point in the middle of the night, the vehicle arrived at its destination and they were herded out of the van and into the night air.  All the slaves were immediately divested of their sacks and they were to remain naked for the duration of their stay.  If at any time a Dominant wanted to use or abuse them sexually, their genitals were to be easily accessible at all times.  Half expecting to be led to their sleeping quarters, the slaves were introduced to their new owners.  There were three men and three women.  Masters Evan, Jason, and Kavai were all professional looking and well dressed, no hoodies or red or blue colored bandanas, there wasn’t a gold teeth or chain among them.  They were not the thugs he had fantasized would be raping him.  They had on expensive designer suits and were groomed to perfection.  They certainly would do, however, as they all sported enormous erections that looked dangerous and lethal. 

Mistresses Alana, Anntia, and Raquel were dressed well but it was not their clothing that captivated Donald.  With their heels, they all stood a foot taller than him and they were all muscular, like body builder/steroid junky/gym rat sort of muscular.  There hadn’t been much miscegenation in their ancestry because all of them were very dark skinned.  Donald couldn’t take his eyes off them.  Mistress Alana wore her hair in braids while Mistresses Anntia and Raquel had their hair styled in a way that Donald didn’t have words for; it was best described as . . . complex and ethnic.  They were dressed exactly how you would expect a professional Domme to look, tight black leather skirts and boots and skimpy tops that barely held their ample breasts and hard, bulging muscles accessorized their ensembles.  They looked like they could crush him like a bug if they wanted to.  And indeed they looked like they wanted to. 

Before they could be led to the place where they were to sleep, all four men had to perform oral sex on their new Masters.  Donald got his face brutally fucked in the wee morning hours as he was slapped, called names, and laughed at by his new owners.  The lovely ladies all donned massive strapons that they forced down the throats of their captives as well.  He choked, vomited, gagged, and swallowed piss and cum before he was thrown in a barn.  The haystacks he made into a makeshift bed felt like a they had been programmed with his perfect sleep number after his ordeal in New Orleans and he passed out from exhaustion. 

His first day of captivity was memorable only in that his surroundings were new and strange.  The very first thing he was subjected to was being placed on a horse with a rope around his neck that was tied to a tree.  He was there for what he imagined to be an hour, his body shaded from the burning morning sun by the shade of the majestic 200 year old maple.   Donald didn’t have to wonder why he was being subjected to this particular punishment and he was made to explain to his owners exactly why he was.  During slavery, Blacks were routinely hanged from trees, it was the strange fruit that Billie Holiday sang about.  Donald felt the fear of his life when Master Jason slapped the horse and it ran off and he was left hanging from a tree by his neck with a rope, his feet were feet from the ground, his air was being cut off while his owners laughed at his predicament. 

He wasn’t sure exactly how he got down from the tree as he had passed out and when he awoke, his legs were spread by a huge bar and his body shackled in a stockade device and he was being whipped by one of his Masters, which one he couldn’t be sure, and a large object, exactly what he couldn’t be sure of either, had been inserted deeply in his rectum.  After that, the days were to run together in his mind because 18 to 20 hours a day, he had no contact with the outside world, and he was being tortured in ways that he’d never contemplated before.  It was clear that while on the plantation his only job would be to suffer the sadistic tortures of his owners. 

The flesh from his back, cock, and balls was beaten raw with various devices until his flesh was a constant shade of red and purple, black and blue.  He was enclosed in metal boxes that had been dug into the ground and left in the unbearable heat with no water with only his head above ground.  Once, his head was covered with honey and he was left there for hours as every sort of insect made a feast of his head, neck, and face.  He wasn’t allowed to bathe, he had no toothbrush, not deodorant, no toilet paper.  Additionally , he was fed food that actual slaves had to eat.  Pig’s feet, chitterlings, and scraps of rotted food that was unfit for humans was served in a trough and they had to eat like real pigs.   Every bite was excruciating. 

It was the Dommes, however, who were the most sadistic.  They took evil delight in seeing their slaves scream in agony.  It was nothing for them to use torches to burn the soles of a disobedient slave’s feet and unleash vicious dogs on them to chase them through the woods, across jagged rocks and rough terrain like a runaway slave.  Donald did not have to endure that particular inhumanity because he willingly submitted to whatever deviant torture he was subjected to but he was ever cognizant of the fact that it could happen to him at any moment.  True to their nature as women, they wanted a more intimate, personal torture of their slaves.  They would sit their full, round, black asses on their slave’s faces until they would pass out, until they were seconds from death, revive them, and then do it again.  Anything that they could put their hands on was used to penetrate their slaves, to fuck them fiercely, and they seemed to be particularly amused by trying to fist each of the slaves as hard and as deeply as possible. 

Perhaps the greatest torture was that Donald was not allowed the pleasure of even seeing his Mistress’s pussies.  Often times, he could smell their arousal and he hear the clear sounds of fucking coming from their quarters so he knew that his owners were engaged in extended sexual pairings, seemingly aroused by their ability to torture and humiliate white men at their whim.  He wanted to lick their cum-filled cunts, he longed to drink their hot piss straight from the source but it was not to be.  During his stay Donald was not to experience anything that was remotely close to pleasure, pain was his only sustenance. 

The evening’s entertainment, after everyone had eaten, the Masters having a catered meal, the slaves eating scraps, would usually be one of the Dommes picking a victim to wrestle.  They would all head to the barn and in a boxing ring, one of the slaves would be made to spar with a Domme while the others watched.  It was the third night before Donald was forced to fight with Mistress Anntia and she thoroughly kicked his ass.  She treated him like a rag doll.  He was flipped and tossed about, punched, and kicked until he was covered in bruises and truly beaten. 

The few hours that they had to sleep, the time before the sun came up when he had a few moments to reflect on his predicament, Donald would think about what real slaves had to endure.  Those were the most painful moments of his day.  He had never been denied education; he didn’t know what it felt like to know that there was no end to his pain.  Everything that he was going through, he knew that actual slaves had it much worse.  That thought tortured him in ways he had never anticipated.  Whatever he had to endure, whatever predicament he faced, Donald knew it was temporary, that he had a home and a life to return to at the end of his “vacation”.  His brain was conflicted.  On some deep level, he wanted this to be his existence for life.  His role in life, his true identity was an inferior pain pig.  He wanted his owners to be proud of him, to be proud of how much pain he could take for them; he wanted them to enjoy inflicting pain on him. 

As the end of the first week drew near, Brain had formed a stronger bond with his captors than his fellow slaves.  He loved the way their minds worked, how they had little or no concern about the well-being of their slaves, he loved the creative and repugnant tortures they came up with.  He loved them.  He loved belonging to them.  And his opportunity to show his utter devotion would be at the slave games which were actually Olympic style competitions for the sole purpose of abusing the slaves for the entertainment of their Masters.  As fate would have it, the competition involved feeding the slaves Viagra and X and then each and every Dominant using stinging nettles from head to toe on each of the slaves until they begged for mercy.  He learned that the use of stinging nettles was actually a punishment inflicted on real slaves in the US historically and he cringed with conflicted guilt and aroused anticipation. 

Set out to pick their own weapons of ass destruction, two of his comrades dissolved into a heaping mass of tears before they suffered the first blow.  They begged for mercy, leaving Donald and Chris, the other remaining slave, to offer any part of their bodies for abuse.  Chris lasted about a minute before he succumbed to the pain and cried out for them to stop.  He was defeated. 

Donald stood proud.  From the moment he entered the opera house he’d felt insignificant, unremarkable.  For the first time since his adventures began, Donald felt noteworthy. Clad in rubber from head to toe, Master Kavai set about to beat Donald about the cock and balls so severely that he would be forced to surrender.  Donald moaned and groaned, but they were sounds of definite pleasure, there was no mistaking that.  He felt each stinging blow as excruciating pain but also pleasure.  Well, it registered as pain, his cock and balls were red and swollen, but the force with which he was being beaten, the level of intense pain, all the eyes watching him, his total surrender, everything worked him into a sexual frenzy.  He wanted to suck cock, to get fucked, he wanted to be put in a head lock with the strong thighs of Mistress Raquel and smell her musky pussy and asshole while his oxygen supply was being cut off.  He wanted, craved, and needed more.  He writhed around on the dusty ground and screamed out, but he never said the word stop. 

Master Even seemed angered and he tied Donald to a tree and donned arm-length rubber gloves and started beating Donald himself.  “You like this?  You want this?  My ancestors didn’t want this.  Who’s really inferior you fucking sick fuck?  Answer me!  Who’s really inferior? Fucking pig!”  He exhausted himself beating Donald.  One by one, everyone took turns beating Donald with the stinging nettles.  Finally, all three Mistresses decided that they would assault him simultaneously. 

Donald’s wrists were tied together and he was strung up in a tree, his feet barely touching the ground.  His cock was hard from the Viagra; his mind was clouded with lust by the Ecstasy.  Front and back, top to bottom, there was not a square inch on his body that did not receive lashes with the stinging nettles.  Donald was in a sub space mentally like he’d never experienced before.  His body was covered with red welts.  He made sounds like a wounded animal.  He was rendered unconscious from the pain momentarily and was revived with ice-cold water only to have the beating start again.  Exasperated and angry, Master Evan cut him down from the tree.  Donald’s body crumpled to the ground and he lay there with his six Masters surrounding him. 

Feral and disoriented, Donald grabbed his cock for the first time since being on the plantation and started furiously jerking off.  His Masters spit on him, kicked him, pissed on him, cursed him and he loved it more and more.  He loved their anger, he loved their disgust, and he loved their cruelty.  His red and abused cock erupted in an orgasm with more force than it had done in 30 years. 

He awoke the next morning in the barn.  He glanced around his surrounding to see that he was alone.  He couldn’t move, his body was literally paralyzed with pain.  Mistress Alana came to give him his breakfast, grits with sugar and butter and more fat back, and he inquired about the whereabouts of the other slaves.

“Oh, you don’t know?  Well, they only signed up for one week, you signed up for two.  We have you all to ourselves for another seven days.” 

Copyright 2016 AfroerotiK