me and my bobby lee

I am, at my heart of hearts, a guilty white liberal. My great-grandmother resigned her membership to the DAR when the organization wouldn’t let Marian Anderson sing at their 1939 national convention because she was black. My grandmother had subscriptions to Ebony and Essence, wore “Black is Beautiful” badges and took me to NAACP meetings. I have, in nature and in nurture, been created to believe in the inalienable equality of all people, regardless of race, creed,  sex, national origin, religious practice, sexual preference, gender identification, age, physical ability and so forth.

We are all created equal, in my family, except for maybe Republicans, about which I am compelled to add that some of my best friends are.

So it pains me to admit this: the biggest cock I’ve ever encountered happened to be attached to an African-American man.

I should, in all fairness, note that cocks numbers 2 and 3 in the great size pantheon were attached to two white Brits. Tall, skinny boys both. One, Rex, had a floofy ass like a girl. The other, David, did not. Each of them had a sizeable member, and each of them dwarfed the cocks of the other men of African, Caribbean, or Afro-Caribbean descent with whom I have fucked.

But Bobby Lee, his cock was a colossus. It strode the earth mightily and the earth shivered with each footstep. It towered above all cocks, a monolith of cockiness, erect and turgid, chocolate and gigantic, a skyscraper of cock, a cockian behemoth.

I exaggerate. It was a plenty big cock—it was wider in girth than my wrist. I couldn’t, for example, close my thumb and forefinger around it, which I can around my wrist, at least not with out causing Bobby Lee to wince and tell me to cut it out. It was long, too. My memory has no doubt embiggened it, as it has so many other things—my childhood snowfalls; the trunk of my 1970 Impala; the natural cleavage  of Cyndi Swanson, with whom I went to high school, a soccer cheerleader notable both for the exuberance of her team spirit as for the size of her Cheer sweater: all of these have grown in my memory, loomed larger than life in each passing year.

But Bobby Lee’s cock reached 3/4 up my forearm (when you’re in bed, your arm becomes a very facile measuring stick. You can’t very well pull out a tape measure).

Vermont is a small place, and Burlington is even smaller. It wasn’t hard for Bobby Lee to pretty much have his way with gleeful Burlingtonian women. He was beautiful—tall, good-looking with high cheekbones and a black-rose mouth, long hard bicycler’s legs. He was smart, he was charming, he dressed well. He smelled great. He had the hotflash smile and the quickwit word. He seemed debonair. Worldly. And, dare I say it, exotic.

Not so much because of his blackness, though that set him apart (Vermont has more disabled people than all peoples of color combined), but because he had been born and bred in Brooklyn, USA. I knew a bunch of African-American Vermonters and they were all a lot like me. Bobby, though, was different.

We traveled in the same social circles, more or less, and eventually, somehow, while on a break with my strobe-light boyfriend Eff, I ended up on a date with him, then back at his very cozy apartment in Shelburne. We kissed, we fondled. He dropped his pants.

And, once more I admit with shame, I looked at his cock and said, “I don’t think so.” It was that big, and though I was a slut, I was that inexperienced.

Then he took me in his arms, he kissed me, he teased my nipples and licked my pussy and before I knew it, he was inside me and I felt like I was being ripped asunder. It hurt. I bore it like a trooper. I hobbled home.

And a couple days later, I came back for more. I got fairly fixated on Mr. Lee (not his real name), but really that was not so uncommon. I tended, in those days, to be fairly Velcro in my attachments. If it had furry loops, I’d dig my sticky feet in and hold on until I was forcibly shaken loose. I did find him fascinating, charming and funny, but I think I equally found him unavailable and therefore fantastically attractive.

Sooner or later, he did shake me free; sooner it was, if memory serves. I went back to Eff, my off/on/off/on/off/on/off boyfriend of seven years, and shamefully I told tall tales of Bobby Lee’s epic size. Bobby, quite coincidentally, moved away shortly thereafter.

A couple years later, I had been living here in Gotham with Eff, we had broken up, he had taken up with a girl back home, and so I had decided to stay here, figuring that there was a smaller chance of running into him here in Gotham than back home in Burlington. I never ran into Eff, but I did run into Bobby Lee, when I was in those first fledgling post-break-up steps of singlehood.

We ran into each other at the Famous Ray’s on 6th Avenue near Jefferson’s Market. He recognized me. We kissed and chatted and I found out that he had returned to live in Bedford-Stuyvesant, had quit the stock-trading biz, and was now temporarily working as a bike messenger while he figured out what next. He got my digits and later called to ask me to dinner.

We met somewhere near that pizza shop, and we took what seemed to me a very long ride on the train out to Bed-Stuy. Slowly the train drained of white people, until for the last few stops, I was the lone white person. This was about fifteen years ago,. This was just after Do the Right Thing, but this was before Spike Lee made Bed-Stuy hip. This was long before people like my friend the Romantic Gringo had come to appreciate the area for its beautiful architecture and low rents. This was before the “gentrification.”

This was when Bed-Stuy was kinda scary.

And again, it pains me to admit all this—all of it—that Bobby Lee’s cock was huge and black, that I found him exotic, that Bed-Stuy frightened me—but to tell this story inaccurately or to choose not to tell it at all is to do my pretty dumb things a disservice. For the fact of the matter is that as much as any one of us may be raised to be color-accepting, and not color-tolerant, which is offensive, or color-blind, which is just stupid, we are all influenced by our culture. My culture has a long tradition of extraordinary racism. I wish it weren’t so, but it is. I am a product, I am sorry. Hence the guilt with the whiteness and the liberalism.

Now let me return to my pained admissions, to Bobby Lee and to his various body parts.

Bobby and I walked hand-in-hand through the streets of Bed-Stuy to his home. It was early fall and still warm and many people were sitting on their stoops, cooling off in the early evening air. They watched us pass. We arrived at his apartment, which was large and architecturally lovely, and he cooked me dinner.

It had been pre-arranged that I would spend the night, returning with Bobby in the morning to Manhattan. It was, in essence, a convivial and nostalgic booty call. Once more, we kissed and cuddled. Once more he slowly opened me with his lavish lips. Once more, I quaked daintily at the sight of his cock. Once more, he rammed it into me, again and again, and once more I both bore the pain and liked it. Once more we did it. And once more, and when the sun rose, once more again, until the day grew late and we hurried, me slightly bowlegged, to the train and back to Oz, to Manhattan, the island.

I never saw him again. I have thought of him often.

The thing of it is this: I had a mad crush on Bobby Lee, and he saw me as a plaything. Or maybe it was the other way around. Or perhaps something somewhere in the middle. My memory says that he never called me again, but my memory also says maybe that isn’t correct.  At the end of the story, I’m left with a recollection of an ever-growing cock, a still life of his toiletries with some coconut unguent for ashy skin, a brightwhite smile, and the lingering and undeniable sense that somehow I’m not quite the liberal I always considered myself to be.

Comments

[Traboyk]

Chelsea-

As a young black fella, I can somewhat relate to your story. It's a bit of a dual edged sword when it comes to things like this. My most recent brush with this: My hair. Specifically, I choose to have it in an afro. Nothing major to me; just a hair style. Yet almost every white girl seems to trip out when they see it. Coming up asking to touch it.

Sure, it's cool and interesting...but lately, I have been thinking if I just lopped it all off, would said girls still give me the time of day? And that's just hair.

The idea of every black man is carrying a infant's arm in their pants is absurdist. Granted, some fellas certainly live up to the billing. But I have known some guys pulling less than 4". Does that make them to be disregarded?

I don't know. It's nice to see someone being straight up honest about it, rather than use some lame excuses or (even worse) "I have plenty of black friends".

[Jonathan]

Interesting post. I was thinking about this kind of thing the other day - the area of the UK I live in is has very, very few racial minorities living in it, and I kind of miss it. I grew up near a forces base, and the airmen were from all over the world. There was never any prejudice either among the children or the adults.

The place I live now is teaming with snobbish, ignorant, "not in my back yard" types...

[efg]

cg, can I call you theodora... gift of god? You strike me to the quick with your recountings. Thank you.

[Pietro]

Why are liberals always so guilt-ridden? Is it some kind of residual Catholicism?

Anyhow, this great Web site takes up monster cocks today:

http://ethnorotica.com/

[chelsea girl]

Traboyk...the afro has never been just a hair-style. It's as iconic, as invested in power dynamic, as symbolic as dreadlocks, pig-tails or a mohawk.

But good point. We white girls do want to touch them. I still do. It's like a forcefield that pulls my hand and I have to keep it to myself because touching is "inappropriate." I also love afro-puffs.

Sigh. Thanks for making think.

kissykiss,
cg