Ode To The Black Man
Ode To The Black Man
People get the wrong idea. When an uptight caucasion woman like me eyes a fine looking Black man, people think, yeah, she just wants that mythical cock. (That’s it, girl.) The big package. The snap. The payoff. Six, eight, nine, 10, 12 inches of ebony railroad tie. (Make me stand like a pool stick.) Mississippi mudsnake. Atlanta asp. Detroit dick. Maryland muscle. (Take it all, baby.) A giant rod thick as a tree limb and the color of golden caramel or rich hot cocoa or even midnight, with a rosy bulging head sensitive to the slightest puff of air from my lips, the slip of my tongue, the pull of my mouth, the nip of my teeth. (Do me just like that.) More than enough. (Damn, girl, you are fine.) Enough to stretch me like the first time everytime.
Nah. That’s not me.
I’m looking at his mouth. It’s not what you think. (Don’t stop, sweet thing.) It’s not those firm full lips that engulf mine like he’s sucking juice from a fresh peach. (Give me your tongue, sweetheart.) It’s not even his bold red tongue that he can flex like a bicep to reach inside every corner of every tingling crevice on my body. (Mmmm, the smell of you, love.) Or even those lightening white teeth that lash out when he laughs big suddenly.
It’s none of that, really.
Instead, I’m thinking about what comes out of that beautiful, totally male mouth. (You taste so good.) His words. (I want that. Let me bump that.) His voice vibrating low like an exotic drum. (Gotta have you now.) I also like his moans and growls, his warm breath, and that deep musky music rumbling up from his belly and rolling out across his lips when I hit the right spot. (Back that thing up, woman.) But I love his words the most. (Don’t tease me, honey.) His words get me hotter than cinnamon oil, steamy as a rainy August night, slicker than spit.
Maybe it grows out of his culture, full of flavor. (Don’t play me, girl.) Rappin’ the babes. (Com ‘ere. Let’s do this.) Maybe every African American father teaches his son this talent. How to slow his voice just so that I want it to hit my ear just so. (Gonna fuck you, baby girl.) Even before his kisses take my neck. (Bang you ’til you scream.) Before his hands knead my breasts. (Ride you long and slow and hard.) Before his mouth devours my nipples. (You like that?) Before his fingers pound my pussy. (Watch your face when you cum for me.) Yes, even before his cock bangs me over the edge.
Word fucking.
It might be a genetic thing, like his smooth skin, woody scent and stubbornly muscular body. (Baby, you want my cock. It’s your cock, baby. All yours. Only yours.) That man thing. Just sitting there. (Aight then. Take it from your man.) Natural. Sexual. Animal. All masculine and everything. (Work it, baby girl.) He doesn’t even have to work at it. (I can feel you cummin all over my cock.) Take any number of Black males and the same number of any kind of race, color or creed. (Fuck, I’m there, shooting right into you.) From among all of them, without steroids or pumping iron, the dark knight wins out hands down. (Baby, don’t go. Not now. Not yet. Let me hold you. Like this.) Yeah, God must have just blessed him with this skill of sensual speaking, hot love talk that slides instinctively from his throat like chocolate silk.
Now, come here. (You MY boo.) And talk to me.