In my personal experience when you have sex with a black man you are really being fucked. When I say fucking I mean you have his full attention, he is completely in the moment with you and he wants to make you cum. Fucking for them is like the air they breathe. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to them all of my life. I really didn’t have the opportunity and no one really pursued me. Sure. There were sweet black guys I knew growing up in my quaint little parish, but to date one would cause a type of shunning from your friends and relations the likes of which you would never recover. Thirty four years ago when I graduated from high school I had only known of three girls who had dated a black guy. They became social pariahs in their circle of friends, but have since recovered because after thirty four years no one remembers. I had a boyfriend who told me he would never date a girl we knew because he knows that she’s had sex with “one” and that he found it sickening. We didn’t last long after that statement. He seemed ignorant and not just for that comment. I could tell he wasn’t enlightened by any stretch of the imagination and that he really wouldn’t go very far with a narrow mindset like that. And he hasn’t. I’m sure he put a MAGA sticker on his bumper because he’s that kind of a dumb ass. I went through my twenties and not one black man approached me. I went through my thirties and I noticed marked flirting from them that was awkward because I wasn’t expecting it or maybe I never realized I had been noticed all my life by them until now. I remember my mother told me when I was in Kindergarten there was this little black boy who would come to the passenger side of her car when we pulled up each day. He’d open the door and let me out. The teachers told her that we were always playing together at recess and he had evidently fallen for me. I don’t remember him or any of this story. Maybe we were just friends who were on the same level. So, it wasn’t long after my mother moved us to another town and this budding relationship wasn’t an issue any longer for the teachers and the other parents who noticed. So, I grew up knowing that there was no dating black boys. Bewildered by them mostly, I didn’t know if I was really into them until I discovered Prince. I think this man was the first black man I was attracted to. He made me think about sex in a new way as a budding woman. Sex seemed natural and primal to him. He lured you in with his lyrics while reassuring “It’s okay if you want to fuck. Let me show you how. You don’t have to feel bad because this is what humans do. Let’s celebrate it.” I was lily and white for sure, but I loved the seduction all the same. However, I was born with an edge and a sexual curiosity that challenged me. I was always trying to hide how hungry I was for a pounding. I thought my chastity was worth not humiliating my family, but at what cost? It was a sacrifice and that’s no lie, but I held out until college and no one found out. I was that patient and devoted to my family and their reputation in our tiny rural community. I had a role to play and that was to be the best virgin in all of the parish. When I grew up motherhood and obligations like keeping food on the table and helping my child make it on to college took over my thoughts. I thought about sex and had a good bit of sex alone, but tried to limit the few encounters I had for when he was on a sleepover at a friend’s house. Then, I became an empty nester I decided that I really did want to try some big black cock before I departed this earth. But I had to work up to it. I think I had this idea that if I had sex with a black man I would change in some way. Unsatisfied and disillusioned by what had become regular serial sex with guys I met on OK Cupid or another silly site, I began searching in New Orleans. I only searched for men in this area because I was living in another state that was as milk toast as it could be. Mississippi is about the worst place in the world to try and find amazing sex. The people lack a certain edge or soul to get the job done properly if you ask me. However, I wasn’t seeing black men when I lived there. I guess it’s all that church and guilt and so forth. Maybe Faulkner was right. “In order to understand the world, you must first understand a place, like Mississippi. Well. I spent sixteen years there and I’m not sure if I fully comprehend this wasteland of oppression and hopelessness. I haven’t been able to completely put into words what I find so unappealing about this momma’s boy loving, tornado alley infested cotton picking state! However, it was where I was living and I knew I wanted to live somewhere else. So, I had to start looking for another type of life. I had to think in another way in order to prepare myself to branch out and get the hell out of there. There was a woman I didn’t know hiding inside of me my entire life. New Orleans is the kind of town where a woman can make her mark without fear of much stopping her. As long as you get up every morning and believe you can keep a roof over your head you can. Jilly was born and with that came the task of developing a good reputation in the world of men. The men I’m speaking of are the clients. Some of these men write the reviews and get your name out there. I created a brand. So to speak. So, how do you stay on top and carefully see the men that want to see you without compromising your integrity, your values, much less, your morals? You cannot. You must change or go back to Mississippi. I’m no different from all of the country girls through the ages who came to the big city and strayed away from their values because they were tempted by shiny things and the bright lights in the night. New Orleans is where you can become a local star even in the most secret circles. It’s all good and it’s all accepted. Then comes the day when a hobbyist of some weight comes a calling. His handle on Eccie says it all. I can’t tell you what it is, but the moment I read his email I knew that here was a do or die moment where I would see what I was truly made of. Am I able to see him for the man he is instead of what I was warned about? Would I be okay sharing myself with the one type of man I’d never had? Would I feel the weight of the shame or damnation raining down upon my soul because I will do something utterly and contemptibly taboo? It was time to grow up and take a stand. I trusted myself that I had something in me that could see beyond the surface of a man and I was old enough to handle what was to be after the deed was done. In his email he was courteous and gentle. He even provided me with a recent reference who would vouch for his character. She was a girl from out west with a name like “Bubbly” either before or after her stage name. I can’t remember. I reached out to her and asked her about my gentleman and she sung his praises. Then when I told her that I had never been with a black man before and could she give me a little advice she said “Oh darlin! He’s just like any other man except this one really treats you right and when it’s right with one like him it’s the best kind of sex.” That’s all I needed to know. I felt serene relief and knew that it would be okay. The day came and he showed up early to my first Jilly pad in the Lower Garden District. He texted me when he had arrived and was waiting downstairs for me to bring him up. He was exactly like I expected him to be. He had a cute dad bod with gym clothes on and was smiling sweetly at me as he made his way up the stairs. I offered my hand and he introduced himself as I led him inside. I told him where he could put his clothes and showed him the bathroom in case he wanted to freshen up. He didn’t need to, he said. He smelled great and I don’t just mean because he was freshly showered. He smelled sweet in a way that brought me back to her. She smelled like this and it was such a gift to feel her with me at this very special moment in my life. Margaret was my grandmother’s housekeeper beginning in the late 50’s. She took care of her house and was there for her children after school. When I was born she was still around, but was considered part of the family by then. She was the color of dark chocolate with straight ear length hair and glasses. She was slim and sinewy and never was without her gold lighter and cigarettes nearby. I spent many summer afternoons in her lap as she took her break after a morning of taking care of me and sometimes my cousins to watch her “stories.” She would pat my leg while nestling me onto her lap and flipping up her gold Zippo’s cap, lighting her Menthols and blowing the smoke right in front of my face. I loved that first whiff of lighter fluid mingling with the smell of tobacco. I breathed it in as it burned through my nostrils and her lungs. The intimacy I shared with this older generational black woman was such a gift. Her skin was so soft and she smelled like Dr. Pepper or maybe it was maple syrup or a combination of the two. God! I loved her and she loved me. I thought she was one of the most graceful things I’d ever seen. Even if I couldn’t put it into words I just knew she was good. She lived just as she died. Humbly. Patient and kind. She was a much needed model of a strong woman and her presence in my first ten years of life made a difference because I knew she had my back. Always. Snapping back to reality now my client asks where can he put his things. Nervously I tell him “this is my first time with a black man.” He said that this wasn’t the first time he’d metaphorically deflowered a white woman and that it would be okay. Then he unwrapped himself in front of me and there it was. I looked down at his long and pointy banana shaped penis. He was already rock hard and I wanted to put that banana into my mouth. His skin was soft and supple and he smelled like vanilla. He came forward and kissed me so tenderly, for a moment I felt very young again. Guiding me to the bed he put his hands into my panties and started fingering me as I lay down on the bed before him. He was seducing me and I needed to know how this was going to feel. Kneeling before me on the bed he grasped the back of my head and moved it upwards towards his dripping cock. I can tell he’s ready to burst. I take him all in my mouth and begin milking this cock for everything I can suck. He’s moaning and saying my name. I have a moment of levity and tell myself to just let this happen. Let go. Who knows when you’ll have this kind of sex again? He climbs on top of me and I quickly reach for a condom in a bowl on my nightstand. I grab one of the bigger condoms and strap it on him. He covers me with his torso and I feel am exquisite liberation as he probes my sexy hole with the tip of his banana. Suddenly, he just fell into it. I was surprised. Yes indeed. He fucked me like that for quite some time and then flipped me over for another round, but doggy style which is my favorite. I think he was making the most of me while he had the opportunity. I was getting worn out and smells were filling my room. It was a sweet and earthy combination of he and she. Moving his hips harder now he grabs my ass with both hands and starts backing me up to him as he strokes. I’m matching his strokes now and I begin to squirt all down my legs. This really turns him on because he went into full beast mode and made grunting noises while telling me that he really likes how tight my pussy is. I arch my back deeper because by then I was feeling myself and with a few more strokes he blew inside me. He spasmed on top of me for a little bit and then rolled off and onto his back. I basically slumped over into a puddle of jelly. It was perfect and I felt so very satisfied. As I gathered myself I thought of her again and what she would think if she knew. Would she take the old school approach and say neither one of us have any business with the other? Or, and I hope she might think this instead, she’d love me like she always did for simply being human. I didn’t change after he dressed and hugged me goodbye. Seems I was just late to the party and he was kind enough to show me around. Black men are good lovers. I like their heat. These days I have a few that come on a regular basis. Mr. O is a local guy who likes to see all the girls and follows me on all of my social sites. Mr. A is a local chef who can’t get enough of the mature woman next door experience and says that having sex with me is like fucking his high school librarian. Mr. J is a hard working dad who is always in a hurry, but made time recently for a three way with me and a fellow provider. He loves to tell me while forcing that hot black meat into my throbbing pussy “you like taking this black cock?” I answer “I love your big black cock!!”