Chapter One – Me and My Beginnings
I have always taken an interest in African-American urban culture. This is more likely because of than despite the fact my background is definitively opposite to all that is stereotypically black. Genetically, I am white down to my fingernails. My natural hair colour is garish blonde. My eyes are green. Socio-economically, my family background is suburban to a fault. I have never wanted for anything growing up. And I have never had anything to fear other than the gentle reprobation of my parents.
But my interest will not go away.
For several years I have been addicted to the consumption of various black cultural products. I especially enjoy watching black pornography and sexually explicit rap videos, with my attention almost always concentrated on the women involved.
The reader must appreciate that I am not generally interested in the parts of black culture which resemble white lifestyles; the middle class, respectable blacks; dentists and doctors and teachers. No, I am drawn almost exclusively to the culture of the ‘ghetto’; and as raw and brutal and real a depiction of it as possible. I like to see hood women with large and violent tattoos; on their necks, thighs, and. most excitingly, their asses. I like to see urban porn stars bent over a car, or a toilet, or just put down on all fours in the street, being fucked lovelessly by a dark, strong thug (as his equally dark, equally strong, equally thuggish friends await their turn). I like to see women performing athletic ass displays, surrounded on all sides by lip-licking gangstas and jealous hoes. Every aesthetic and symbol of these scenes, everything that is represented by them, fascinates and arouses me.
The women I describe know their role, or so I enjoy supposing. They do not argue with their condition. In the back of their minds they may sometimes wonder if there is a better kind of life concealed behind the walls of the socio-economic prison in which they were born, but they do not allow these thoughts to linger for long. They are hoes, after-all. It is part of their identity, even of their pride. They want to be good hoes. And that is why they wobble their fattened asses in front of the males of their community or gang. That is why they allow man after man from the local ‘team’ to use them, again and again and again. They accept this. This is their lot. Femininity, suburban comfort, purity rings, financial security, Taylor Swift romances – these are for white girls, Asians, a few fortunate blacks and Hispanics maybe, but not for them.
These women are the descendents of slaves in more than just the obvious, biological sense. The defeated moans they emit when a new tattooed man enters them and commences slapping his pelvis into the bruised jelly of their buttocks is an echo of history; it is the moan of the slave upon hearing the morning bell summoning them to the field. It is the moan of defeated acceptance. This is their place. And they do not dispute it. They relax into it. I truly envy them for this. What serenity they must have with every notion and muscle of dignity relaxed! How tranquilising to human stresses it must be to slacken into wild simplicity! These are the things which have haunted my thinking since my obsession with all things ‘ghetto’ took hold.
I was never going to be able to resist embarking on my own experiment. The passion was simply too strong. And so, when I was eighteen years of age, presented with a way to cut loose at last from the disciplinary grip of my parents by admission to university in Detroit, I finally seized my chance…..
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