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Subject: {ASSM} Control (MM)
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Control

This is a work of fiction, but I have to warn you that this is not your
typical sex story. In fact, it is not a typical story at all - it
does not follow the conventional narrative structure, but rather takes
the form of an extended dialogue. It has its erotic moments, but it is
not all about eroticism.

It is not intended to be read by minors or by adults who are
psychologically unprepared to handle its contents. It touches on a
number of sensitive topics for many people, in a very blunt and highly
opinionated manner. It is not deliberately intended to offend
anyone's sensibilities, but it is also not intended to protect such
sensibilities either.

It is not intended to be taken as a literal representation of the
author's opinions, desires, or experiences. This is fiction, and that
means it is - to a certain extent - role-playing and plays around
with a lot of hypotheticals.

It includes acts of homosexuality and dialogue that includes racial
slurs. It also references contemporary social topics that one may, or
may not, find sexually arousing. If one is offended or easily confused
by this kind of fantasy, please search for something else to read. But
then again, maybe this is exactly the kind of story you should be
reading.

And now, our story:

***********************************

Steve and Scott sat at the bar of their favorite watering hole. It was
nearly midnight on a Monday. Even though it was long past office hours,
Steve kept his suit on and his tie neatly in place, always the
professional. Scott, on the other hand, had his suit jacket carelessly
draped over the back of his bar chair. His collar was unbuttoned and
his graying hair was a mess after having run his hand hap-hazardly
through it several times.

The place was dead. Steve swirled his scotch on the rocks around in his
glass. His face was a contrast of light and shadow in the dim lights of
bar. His white hair seemed to glisten, reflecting what little light
there was from the lamps in the room. The two men talked in hushed
tones, Steve's grey eyes intensely focused on his drinking buddy.

Steve leaned forward as if he were about to confide a corporate secret
to a competitor, and didn't want anyone to overhear him. "Do you
ever wonder if we are in control over our sex drives? I'm talking
about our drives for manhood. Do you ever wonder what it takes to
subjugate other men and make them do your bidding?"

Scott just stared absently at the rows of liquor bottles behind the
bar. "I don't think about those things. You really shouldn't
think too much."

Steve brushed off the comment. "Can I tell you a story? Do you mind
if I tell you about something that happened to me the other day that
makes me question my manhood?"

A mischievous grin spreads across Scott's face, "Yeah. Tell me
about it."

Steve notices the grin. "You know, I really don't care what you do
with the information I'm about to tell you. If I hear about this
conversation again from someone I'll deny it. I don't know if I can
trust you - I don't care if I can trust you. I just have to get
this off my chest."

Scott tries to look earnest, "You can trust me."

Steve takes another sip from his glass. "I doesn't matter whether
that's true or not. I need a confessor. Since I can't think of
anyone I'm really close to, I'll have to settle for you."

"Gee, thanks."

"I think about things. I have to talk this out."

Steve looks down at his glass and plays with the ice with his swizzle
stick before continuing. "You know, every afternoon I go to the
ground floor of our building to get a cup of coffee before returning to
work. It's the same routine every afternoon."

"Yeah? Same here."

"Well, two weeks ago they hired this new guy to work the Coffee
kiosk. He's a black guy; looks about 24 or 25."

"Yeah. I know the guy."

"He's got coca brown skin and bright piercing eyes - like
menacing natives peering out at you from the darkness of the jungle."

Scott laughs. "Yeah. Come to think of it, I noticed his eyes too."

"Jungle savage eyes. Every day he would just look at me with those
jungle savage eyes. I looked back and I felt like I was caught in the
grip of some kind of hypnotic beam. I was frozen in my tracks. I felt
drawn toward his Negro body. His strong sturdy frame and the innocence
of his youth. The masculine dark facial hair wildly untrimmed, growing
on his cheeks and chin. I felt draw toward his mysterious nigger
manhood."

Scott's eyes were wide with amazement at his buddy's candid
confession. He smirked at his friend, but Steve continued.

"And so, while I'm staring into his eyes, he's staring back.
It's an awkward moment and other customers are coming up to the
kiosk. I try to make conversation. 'What's good, my man?' I try
to show him that I'm not afraid of him. He just stares at me,
expressionless, but impaling me with those piercing eyes. 'My
banana,' he deadpans, and hands me a large juicy one from a basket of
fruit that hangs over the kiosk."

Scott stifles a laugh by taking a deep gulp of his gin and tonic.

Steve continues as if Scott isn't even there, "I tell him, 'Is
that so?' and I peel the skin off of the banana. The boy just grunts,
'Uh huh.' He keeps me locked in his gaze. His eyes won't let go
of me. I slide the fruit into my mouth and allow it to melt on my
tongue. The boy grabs his crotch under his apron and says 'I got more
from where that came from. I can bring it to your office when I get off
work. They grow big black bananas where I come from.' Meanwhile
people are starting to line up at the kiosk and I'm afraid they might
overhear us. I find my speech is reduced to a gasp, 'When do you get
off work?' The boy holds up four fingers like he's in elementary
school. I slide my card toward him and tell him stop by when he is
free. For the first time he smiles at me showing his milky white teeth,
like the white insides of a brown coconut. He says, 'Yeah. I like the
way you handled that banana.' I smile sheepishly and get back on the
elevator. For the rest of the afternoon I'm haunted by that bold and
mysterious boy."

Scott tries to keep quiet, afraid that if he says something Steve will
come to his senses and won't go on with his story. Yet Scott feels
uncomfortable with the pause. Maybe he has to say something to get his
buddy to continue. He searches for words of encouragement, "Well,
we're always finding out new things about ourselves I guess..."

This seems to be just the encouragement Steve needed. He stares ahead,
as if describing a vision that is in front of him. "Well, about four
fifteen that black boy comes up to my office. He says he told the
receptionist I'd asked him to deliver pastries and he hands me a
brown paper bag full of glazed doughnuts and sweet rolls. I laugh
nervously and put them on my desk. Then he moves toward me, trapping me
with those same wild jungle eyes. He presses me up against the wall
with his body, grabs the back of my head and starts deep kissing me.
His tongue dances around in my mouth, like a nigger penis fucking a
white virgin pussy."

Scott nearly chokes on his drink. He can't believe his colleague is
telling him all of this.

Steve continues. "For the first time in my life knew what it must
feel like to be a bitch in the arms of a real man. He pulls me close to
his body; I could feel the nigger breathing down my throat. His sweaty
young body smelled of roasted coffee beans. His chest pressed up
against mine, heaving with his heavy, sexually aroused breaths. I could
feel his penis getting hard in his pants. It pushed up against my cock
and he started grinding against my body as if we were locked in a
ritual tribal mating dance. I felt like I was enveloped in his
aggressive young nigger masculine manliness.

"Then he unfastens his belt and pushes down on my shoulders. I find
myself face-to-face with his big, throbbing, hard black cock. The smell
of his manhood fills my nostrils. He smells of fertility; of the power
and the potency of the rich black earth. His cock is leaking precum on
my nose and on my lips. I instinctively open my mouth and begin to suck
it. I suck that nigger's cock as if it flows with the very essence of
life. I feel him breathing heavier and heavier while I'm sucking on
the rich fruit that is stiffly erect between his legs.

"He grabs the back of my head and pushes deeper, deeper - thrusting
his hips and probing the back of my throat - inserting all of his
African manhood deep inside of me. Fucking my face. Then he lets out a
loud sigh and his cock throbs uncontrollably in my mouth. He gushes out
hot, thick streams of potent Negro cum. I never tasted anything like it
before. It was rich, thick and pasty. It tasted so rich and potent, so
full of life, that I was afraid he might even be able to make my mouth
pregnant. I swallowed it down. I swallowed all of that nigger boy's
fresh potent cum juices down, feeling him inside of me - nourishing
me - like some strangely exotic tropical African fruit."

Steve falls silent and looks down at his now-empty glass. He motions to
the bartender for a refill. Scott exhales, not realizing he had been
holding his breath all of this time. He looks at Steve quizzically.

Steve sighs, "Gee, I-I really don't know what to think about all of
this or why I'm telling it to you. I've never lusted for a man.
It's something I've never done before in my life; something I never
thought about doing. It just came on me all of the sudden. But I've
been thinking and noticing a lot of strange things like that lately. I
don't know what it means."

Scott grins at his friend and slaps him on the shoulder. "I know what
it means, my man. It means you've got a bad case of jungle fever -
but in your case the jungle bunnies have penises." He laughs, but
Steve doesn't.

"It's more than that. And it's just not like me because I've
never thought about being sexually intimate with a nigger and I've
never fantasized about homosexuality. I know myself; and that's what
makes all of this so strange. It's out of character for me. I have
never let about another man have that kind of power over me. I never
thought about another man being in control. Now, whenever I see him at
the kiosk and he stares at me with those savage jungle eyes I feel
certain that if he ordered me to come behind the counter and suck his
nigger dick right then and there I would do it."

Scott runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. "Wow.
That's real power alright. And, that nigger shit is strange too.
That's really moving into alien territory. They just aren't like
us."

Steve stops him short, "But that's just the problem - that's
what I've been thinking about. Maybe they aren't so unfamiliar
afterall."

Scott looks at him with mild interest.

"Look Scott, if we are brutally honest about it we have to
acknowledge that the African American is really a hybrid population
that we have created. He is not distinctively African, nor is he
distinctively European. He is a hybrid that was bred between his white
masters' sweaty bed sheets or in the slave quarters as his women
submitted to the needs of sexually aroused overseers."

Steve swirled the fresh glass of scotch on the rocks.

"The problem with my little experience, if it is a problem, is that
that exotic young black man dominated me. I should have been able to
dominate him instead. African Americans are products of our creation.
They are products of white cocks and white semen in African bodies."

Scott shifted uneasily in his chair. "I never really thought about it
that way before. I guess I never really gave it much thought at all."


Steve's eyes bore down on him, "Well think about it. When they were
first brought here, African Americans were largely a transplanted
African population, but over the course of three centuries as property,
servitude and breeding there is very little that is purely African
about them today - and yet they are not, of course, wholly European.
Nonetheless, they are not wholly African; just ask any real African.
They are products of our own creation; to be used by us and to submit
to our sexual needs and demands."

Scott sneered, "Maybe that's just what he was doing. Maybe he was
giving you what you really wanted."

Steve seemed to ignore the comment. "No, the black man in America was
bred in servitude. Their black bodies are meant to be on display for
us, whether as objects for our sexual desires or as athletes in the
sporting arena. The black man's nigger body is only here for the
white man to enjoy - and the same for the bodies of nigger women and
their pussies, when we want them. This is their proper role. This is
the proper order of things."

Scott eyed his buddy carefully but didn't say anything. He just took
another gulp from his glass.

Steve didn't need any encouragement to continue, however. "That's
why it came as no surprise to me late one Friday evening, when most of
our employees had gone home for the weekend when I encountered a weird
scene in the Men's room."

Scott raised his eyebrow, "What happened?"

"Late one afternoon I had a terrible urge to take a leak. I burst
into the Men's room and saw two legs sticking out of a toilet stall,
as if a boy were kneeling before the toilet bowl after a drunken binge.


"The door of the stall he was wide open. The boy was wearing baggy
cargo pants and tennis shoes. I walked over to see who it was and what
was wrong and found myself staring down into the startled and clearly
embarrassed face of a black boy, about 21 years of age, and my equally
embarrassed white accountant, who was being serviced by the boy."

Scott giggled into his cocktail napkin.

"I realized that the black boy on his knees was one of our employees
from the mail room. This is a kid who is always listening to Van Halen,
Stevie Via, and guitarists like that when he's on duty in the mail
room. He doesn't listen to all that hip hop and R&B garbage you hear
other black people listening to."

Scott nodded in agreement, "Yeah, we've got a lot of good,
well-spoken guys working in the mail room."

Steve continued, "Now, from what I hear this was not the first time
the boy was sucking on a senior white employee's dick. Other men in
our department make allusions about how he and other black boys have an
'eagerness to please' their white superiors. They aren't just
doing this for money; there is something more that they are getting out
of it than that. Of course, what our colleagues are getting out of it
is a good old fashioned nigger-lipped blow job - but what are the
colored boys getting out of it?"

Scott laughs, "I can't imagine."

Steve stares into his drink. "Well that's what I kept asking
myself. I notice when they are in the mail room these ambitious young
blacks are bright, respectful and well-mannered. Above all, they
don't show any signs of being homosexual - they all have white girl
friends, you know. I tell you, they seem level-headed and better
behaved than most black boys their age. Of course, who can say? Maybe
it's because of all that white cum they are sucking down after hours
that helps to make them civilized."

Both men laugh, but Scott's eyes brighten.

"You may be on to something there. I've heard rumors about a few of
the boys we have working in the mail room and also on the janitorial
staff. These are young men in their early 20s, lean, good-looking black
boys. They're wearing cornrows and the oversized shirts and trousers
boys are wearing these days. They wear thin gold chains - nothing too
flashy. If they don't have cornrows they have neatly cropped hair
with sharp edges, or zig-zags cut through it making their appearance a
real work of nigger abstract art."

Steve laughs, "I know what you mean."

Scott continues, "Anyway, there is nothing gay about these boys.
They've got black girls text-messaging them all the time on their
cell phones. And yet I've heard that more than one of these
hip-hoppers will go down on a white man's cock if that man is in a
position of authority, like an upper level manager."

Steve nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I've heard that too. It's not
just our middle class black boys, it's our lower-classed black boys
too."

Scott takes a last gulp of his gin and tonic and motions to the bar
tender for a refill. "Yeah, these are black boys from the ghetto,
with black bitches waiting for them at home. They're listening to hip
hop and R&B, unlike the boys in the mail room. You wonder how they face
their nigger girlfriends after they've been naked up in the executive
suite, being groped, fucked, and fondled. A white man with power gets
to take more liberty with those black boys' body than their
girlfriends will every have."

Steve shakes his head and smiles, "I wonder what their women would
think about that."

Scott grins, "Yeah, well I've heard of some cases where nigger
would be arguing with his girlfriend over the cell phone about why he
never spends time with her, meanwhile the boss is porking the nigger
boy up the ass."

Steve laughs.

Scott continues, "Imagine that; the nigger is talking with his black
bitch on the phone while the boss has got his big white cock up the
nigger boy's butt hole." Scott shakes his head, laughing with
disbelief, "I mean, talk about having complete control over someone
- here the boss is able to come between the nigger and his woman in
the most intimate areas of their lives. They've got no privacy.  This
tender, tough, hard, young street nigger boy is trying his heterosexual
best to fill his role as the man of the household, but at the same time
he's got to bend over for the boss man and give up that black booty
without complaint."

Steve laughs, "And he better not complain."

"No. he better not. Some of our colleagues even take those nigger
boys to cheap motels and make them sit in an empty tub. They whip out
their white cocks and piss all over the young nigger just to show him
how much control they have over his body. They piss in his face, on his
flat nose, and in his mouth - even though he tries to keep it shut.
They piss all over his nappy hair. It's a male-male bonding thing;
females won't understand. They don't understand masculine power,
especially when it is between a white man and a young tough nigger who
thinks he knows everything there is to know about the world."

Steve takes another sip from his drink, "Yeah, women don't
understand male rituals but he sure as fuck understands."

Scott swivels excitedly back and forth in his chair. "He sure does. A
black woman doesn't know her man as well as the white man does.
It's always humiliating for the black boy when he realizes that
he's just the white man's plaything, but he knows what he has to do
to get paid. Besides, even though he's straight and his pride is
injured, it's sexually arousing for him as well. It's all about
domination and submission - and that's something he really can
relate to.  He knows that his dick, his balls, his lips, and his ass
- they all belong to some white man somewhere."

Steve gives him a conspiratorial grin, "Yeah, like an employer, a
prison guard, a teacher, a social worker, or a probation officer."

Scott waves his swizzle stick in the air as if he's giving a
scholarly lecture. "Yeah, like that. Those black boys will let upper
level management fuck their big black lips and rape their black asses
just so long as those bonus checks keep coming. Then those boys go home
their girlfriends and nobody is the wiser. Maybe the girlfriend
suspects something because the boys' asses are sore and they aren't
as interested in sex as they used to be."

Both men laugh.

"Yeah, that and they smell of the white man's perspiration and
cum."

Scott laughs and continues his lecture, "Yeah, there's always that.
I'm reminded of that fag song from back in the 80s. You know the
song? It has a husky faggot's voice singing over and over again:
'If that's your boyfriend - if that's your boyfriend - if
that's your boyfriend - he wasn't last night.'"

Both men laugh.

"I don't know that song."

"You don't?"

"No. I didn't listen to music back in the 80s."

Scott laughs into his drink. "Well, too bad. You really missed
something."

Steve is eager to get the conversation back on track, "Okay, but what
I'm saying is, mind you, my accountant who was getting this blow job
isn't a terribly attractive man. Surely that black boy could have
picked up any number of younger and more attractive women or men, had
he wanted to. So what was he doing crawling on the floor of the men's
room sucking on white men's cocks?"

"I dunno. You tell me. What was he doing down there?"

"He was crawling around searching for his manhood. Not the kind of
nigger manhood he sees in ghetto movies or hears in rap music, but a
more responsible, more orderly kind of manhood."

Scott gives him a quizzical expression. Steve continues, "A part of
it is what it appeared to be, he was trying to win the approval of his
superior, but I always got the feeling that there was something more
behind it than that. I think the boy was paying homage to that great
white cock simply because he wanted to do it. I think my accountant's
cock represented the kind of order, stability and rationality that this
black boy realized he needed and was missing in his own life. My
accountant's cock represented all that that black boy wanted to have
inside of him. Sucking on that white dick was the only way that black
boy knew to bring my accountant's world into his own chaotic life -
to maybe straighten things out for him."

Scotts seemed to soak it all in. "Interesting."

"You bet it's interesting. That frightened boy's lips were
dripping with saliva and precum from the white man's cock that he had
been diligent about servicing. I don't know whether I was more
shocked or aroused by the scene. I rushed back to my office and beat
off at my desk, but I never said another word about it to the
accountant or the mail room boy. Still, many a night, while I was
having intercourse with my wife, I replayed that scene in my head -
it always gets me off and makes me go into sexual overdrive. The whole
experience of watching a black boy being controlled by this older white
man; I wish I would have stayed longer and watched them continue."

Scott was finishing off yet another glass of gin and tonic, and
beckoning for more. His voice now took on a sing-song tone and he
tossed his head around playfully, "So, let's say you've got a
young nigger woman working for you - how would you make her aware of
her, er, need?"

Steve, still neatly dressed with every hair in place looked into his
glass and gave Scott a sideways glance and a sly smile. "That's
just the beauty of the whole thing. As I said before, most African
Americans are merely products of our own creation. When you see a
strong young sixteen year old black boy, the color of coffee with extra
cream in it, or caramel colored, or golden brown, just remember - we
created him. He's our property. We own him.  He was invented by the
white man's cock. He is a product of our sexual desire and his place
is to service that desire."

Scott shook his head as if to clear it of something unpleasant;
"Yeah, but what about the women? Do we own them too?"

Steve laid a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder, "Don't worry
- we own the women too; but I'm talking about the men right now.
Under the best of situations every inch of that black boy's body
would be within our grasp - from the brown hairs under his arm pits
to the brown pubes of his hairy bush. We should own that black boy's
pecs. Our hands should freely roam over his abs, his brown biceps, his
dark triceps and his smooth forearms. We should own his nipples and his
butt crack - and even the hairs inside of his ass. We should own the
power of that black boy's cock, and the jizz inside of his balls -
every last drop that we can pump out of it. We should own that
nigger's shoulders and his frightened eyes as he's looking back at
us while we ram our white cocks inside of him. His is a conquered race.
We should take possession of him. We should own his big fleshy lips and
even the soft emerging hair above his lips. We should own everything
that brown or black skinned boy is, and everything he wants to be."

Scott's eyes were glazed. He seemed lost in the dream Steve was
painting for him.

Steve continued, "Most niggers have our seed inside their bodies from
the day they were born. The white man has to keep pumping his seed in
the boy's mouth and in his ass from time-to-time to remind him of
this. He is a product of the white man's sperm and the white man's
imagination when you get down to it. Why shouldn't we have complete
and total access to every part of his black body, anytime we want it?

"And the nigger is as sexually aroused by this thought as he is
ashamed of it. He can easily imagine the emasculation of his black
ancestors as they watched their women being raped to relieve the sexual
tensions and frustrations of horny white teenaged overseers and young
masters on the plantation. Nigger pussy, Nigger cock, Nigger ass and
Nigger lips have been used for centuries to help young white males
mature into manhood. When a black man sucks a white man's cock he's
only trying to validate what he knows to be true, that he's nothing
but the white man's cum bucket. He doesn't have to like it. He
doesn't have to approve of it. He doesn't have to want to continue
the relationship - but he cannot deny it, and his mind and his body
will not let him rest until he gets down on his knees and validates
that truth. As black youth are fond of saying, 'fool, you betta
recognize.' Sucking the white man's cock is his way of saying, 'I
recognize. I'm awake. I'm paying attention. I'm aware of the
reality of the relationship between us. I'm not fooling myself about
it anymore. You got the economic power in this society - I'm gonna
suck your cock to express that fact and make it real for me.' He
needs to know that - not just intellectually, but physically -
sexually. He's got to express the relationship. "

Scott let out a soft gasp in spite of himself.

Steve continued, "I've heard of black student radicals back in the
'60s who, with all of their bitter passion and resentment of the
white man, nonetheless would slip into white confederate flag-waving
bigots' dorm rooms at night and suck those college boys' white
cocks until nearly dawn. There was an unspoken agreement between them.
They didn't bother to articulate their relationship, or try to make
sense of it. They didn't have to try to explain it to themselves -
they probably couldn't do it even if they wanted to. They both felt
compelled to play out the truth about the social drama of their
relationship in the bed room, even though one student was working with
all his might to change the relationship and the other student was
working with all his might to keep it the same. They still needed the
reassurance, acted out in the dorm room at night, that the one student
was still a 'nigger' and the other had the privileges of whiteness.
They needed to confirm, in the most physical way possible, what the
social reality for each of them was. The nigger had to say, in a
non-verbal sexual fashion, 'yeah, you da' white man. You control
de' economy. You got da' power ovah us. Let me suck yo cock ta give
you yo props.'"

Scott let out a softly astonished, "Wow."

Steve sipped his drink and continued, "Back in the day, I'm talking
more than 100 years ago, white teenaged boys were especially good at
using the nigger body. Those teenaged boys could make older black women
do whatever they wanted them to do. Black women who were old enough to
be those boys' mothers had to respect those boys as their masters.
They had to spread their legs and take sexually frustrated teenagers'
hard white cocks between their thighs until those boys emptied his
balls in their pussies. And those emasculated older black men had to
stand around and watch it all, probably stroking their own nigger cocks
in anger and horniness. White boys even used grown black women to work
out their adolescent sexual fantasies and tensions fifty years ago,
when black women had to work in their homes as domestics. The African
American knows all-too-well that as part of his servitude to the white
man he himself was forced to his knees to suck on throbbing hard white
cocks until the boys and men who controlled him had completely spent
themselves, shooting their cum into his mouth and wiping their cum
soaked cocks off on his black face."

Steve took a deep breath before he continued, "The black man knows
all too well that it has been his role through most of American history
to swallow the white man's cum until the white man was good and ready
for him to stop. Black boys with the thickest lips have always been
prized possessions because they are such good cocksuckers. It has been
important to make sure those nigger lips were put to good use. When
nigger lips are not properly used, they tend to be used to talk trash
and verbally harass white people and other niggers. Once those nigger
lips are properly occupied, sucking on a white man's cock and sucking
down his cum, the nigger shuts up and learns humility."

Scott could only nod in uneasy agreement.

Steve continued, "But this is what I mean by control. In order to
keep the African American in his inferior status it is important to
encourage him in his belief that he shouldn't study European culture,
history or music.  He has to think that doing these things is
'Euro-centric,' and that the white man is trying to brainwash him.
He has to think these things have nothing to offer him in his
negritude. He has to believe that reading is 'acting white.' He
should be encouraged in his belief that repetitive and highly emotive
percussion-heavy music is his true identity and his lot in life; that
it is all that he should listen to. This confines and limits him
mentally, emotionally and culturally. If he is to continue to be
controlled it will be important for him to believe that being
'primitive' is being 'authentic.'"

Steve pauses and seems to toy with an idea. He looks up at the ceiling
and then closes his eyes. Scott can see the rapid movements of
Steve's eyeballs under his closed eyelids. A smile crosses Steve's
face and he looks at Scott once again. He begins to speak slowly -
cautiously, "Tell me something, Scott; do you think it is 'gay'
for a man to suck another man's cock and to be fucked in the ass.
Don't worry about offending me just because I accidentally sucked
that nigger's cock. I just want your honest opinion."

Steve laughs nervously. "Well, sure. Yeah. Sounds pretty gay to
me."

Steve takes another sip from his glass. "Now think about it. Take
that sniper pair in the D.C. area a few years ago. Here you had a man
and a boy, riding around in a hot sweaty automobile, eating and
sleeping in that car night after night. You think nothing went on
between them?"

Scott ran his hand through his already unruly graying hair. "I
don't even want to think about it. Those snipers were fucking sickos.
They should get what they deserve - lethal injection. The problem is
we coddle criminals too much. We need to kill some of them to show them
how much we value human life."

Steve presses him, "I didn't ask you if they were sickos, I asked
you how you think they solidified their 'dad' and 'boy'
relationship. What do you think they did to establish male bonding?
What you think the rites of passage were for the boy's journey into
manhood? Do you think that what they were doing was 'gay'?"

Scott tossed impatiently from side to side in his chair, "Let's
talk about something else. I never think about these kinds of
things."

Steve eyed his buddy firmly, "Well think about it. Both of them were
very masculine. The kid was bright; much brighter than most. But like
most boys he was interested in cars, and guns, and adventure. He
wasn't drawing pictures of doilies and flowers during his spare time,
but of race wars and revolution. In many ways he was your typical boy,
with a typical boy's love of fantasy and adventure."

"So, what's your point?"

"My point is - there's no way that that typical boy and that
grown man were riding around and sleeping together without something
going on. They both glorified maleness, yet they both had this maleness
denied to them in their lives. They both tried to embody masculine
power in different ways. There's no way they weren't slurping down
each other's cum to reassure one another of their manhood. Was that
gay?"

"That would have been disgusting."

"But it's reality. Now, was it gay? I'm saying it was a ritual;
it wasn't homosexual - it was male ritual - male bonding. It
would be a textbook case for an anthropological study. That's why I
asked my question about whether or not it had to be that they were gay
just because, let's say, the man was sucking the boy's dick and the
boy was letting the man have a piece of his young black ass."

Scott was incredulous. The words came out of his mouth slowly, "How
could that not be gay?"

Steve had the determination of a bulldozer. "Because neither one of
them was effeminate. Neither was trying to assert their right to
femininity.  In fact, they didn't even believe they had that right.
The kid's writings show he was downright homophobic; or, at least,
that's what he wanted the world to believe. He wrote about how much
he hated homosexuals as much as he hated the white man. Now, why would
he make it a special point to single out homosexuality unless he had
some encounter with it - something to make him doubt?"

Scott stared at the bar and rubbed his chin.

Steve continued, "Is it so strange for a boy to desire masculine
attention, especially from an older father figure? Being gay is when a
man embraces gender ambiguity. These guys weren't trying to get in
touch with their 'feminine side;' they are trying to lay claim
their right to masculinity; something that is often denied to black
males these days, even more than under segregation or slavery. They
don't get to know their fathers, they are unable to get a job that
will pay enough to support a family - only a few tokens hold
positions of power. A black woman is better off being on welfare than
having to depend on a black man's income. So, what is the source of
the black man's power? His dick? Sure. But is that enough to reassure
him of his masculinity?"

Scott seemed lost in his thoughts.

Steve continued, "I'm telling you it's a different motivation
from homosexuality. They aren't trying to undermine currently
accepted gender identities; they are trying to lay claim to them, and
confirm and deepen them. They don't suck each other's dicks because
they are in rebellion against gender roles, but because they are true
believers in them. They may even be the last true believers. They are
trying to recapture control over their lives."

Scott was searching for something to say. He felt compelled to offer
something that would sound both knowledgeable and reaffirming.
"That's interesting," he said.

Steve smirked, "You bet it is."

Scott quickly felt the need to get back on more solid ground, "But
still, that kid was one sick fuck - the way he killed all of those
people. Those guys should be executed."

Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, "Yes, the kid was one sick fuck;
and the man who put him up to it was an even bigger fuck because he
knew what he was doing. But that doesn't change the fact that what
both the boy and the man were trying to gain for themselves was a
feeling of masculine power. It was a power that had eluded them for
most of their lives."

Scott began to find his voice again. He gave his best imitation of a
television news commentator, "I dunno, Steve. It sounds to me like
you're trying to make excuses for them. They should be held
responsible for their behavior. Nobody assumes responsibility for
anything anymore." Scott's courage seemed to leave him as quickly
as it had come to him. He slumped in his chair; put his face in his
hands. "Come on, Steve. Can't we talk about something else? I just
don't like to think about this."

Steve wasn't about to let up, "Good. Don't think about it -
just feel it. Feel it on a very primal level. I'm not trying to make
excuses for them; I'm just trying to understand them. Take the man
who put the kid up to the shootings. The man had his own kids taken
away from him by the courts - that's how he and this kid hooked up
in the first place. He had his kids taken away, yet he always wanted to
see himself as being the epitome of black manhood; a good masculine
role-model. He saw control over his life slipping away. His former wife
used the judicial system to bitch-slap him and make him look like a
pussy in front of his own kids and his whole family. Feel it."

Scott clutched his stomach, "I dunno if I can."

"Of course you can. And then there was this nigger's military
record. He built himself up to be some kind of superman; some kind of
superhero. He saw himself as an expert marksman. But he had discipline
problems in the military and had to leave. It was another blow to his
self-confidence and image of black masculine manhood. So, then he joins
a black militant religious organization, but again he's too
bull-headed. He gets into fights. They boot his black ass out of their
organization too. Yet another fuck-up in his life."

Scott seemed queasy and weakly waved his hand, "No, Steve - let's
talk about something else."

Steve continued to plow forward, "And then the boy comes along. He
grew up in the Caribbean. You can see from the pictures that the boy
was a strong, handsome, strapping young man. People who knew him say
that he was polite and bright as a new copper penny, but his father
abandoned him as child. He spent the whole of his childhood seeking the
attention of older male role models. He craved the attention and
validation of older men - just like a lot of overly 'masculine'
black boys who grow up without fathers in the inner-cities of the
United States do today."

Scott buried his face in his hands.

Steve persisted, "So, he spends hours at a time drawing and writing
lyrics to hip hop and reggae music - black protest music; but it is
protest music that encourages anarchy rather than self-discipline and
collective action that would be needed to build something constructive.
His lyrics emphasize anger rather than reason; rage rather than
rationality; revenge rather than recovery. But still, the boy wrote
about social themes - not just any dumb shit like most sex-starved
teenaged boys falling head-over-heels for a piece of young pussy. He
wasn't thinking about pussy, he was thinking about revolution."

Scott shook his head and covered his ears, "I don't understand any
of this."

Steve gently and firmly pulled his friends hands off of his ears,
"The boy was a man's man. He had the kinds of brains and character
that the older man lacked - he was just too young, too inexperienced,
too impressionable, too much in need of an older man's guidance to
develop it in a more constructive way. They say he was sensitive, but
he was also like any other boy. He liked adventure, he liked toughness.
He romanticized revolution because that was a way he could experience
adventure."

Scott began to pay attention. He looked directly at Steve.

Steve continued, "The kid practically reeked of youthful
testosterone. Like most teenaged masculine idealism, his idealism was
misdirected, but can you imagine the testosterone in that boy's
balls?" Steve let out a sharp laugh.

Scott looked around the bar in embarrassment. This didn't seem to
bother Steve, "Can you imagine the loads of cum he must have shot
while he was beating off to his revolutionary day dreams?"

Scott grimaced and quickly covered his ears again and resolutely facing
the counter of the bar and avoiding eye contact with Steve.

Steve continued to weave his scenario, moving his hands as if he were
weaving cloth in the air, "Now, you throw the two of them together
- a grown man who wants to be the role model for soldierly discipline
and emotionless manhood - a man who is insecure about his masculinity
because he keeps turning out to be a fuck-up no matter what he does to
prove his manhood. First the military kicks him out, then the militant
black political organization kicks him out, then even his wife kicks
him out and bitch-slaps him in the courts."

Scott groans, "You already said that."

"Well I'm saying it again - just to remind you. So, this black
fuck-up wants revenge. He wants to get back what he thinks he has lost.
He wants to get back in control of his life. He wants to try to
recapture his ideal of masculine manhood that keeps being denied to
him; a misdirected image of masculinity that was unrealistic in the
first place. It was too cold, too emotionless, too self-centered, too
controlling, and too lifeless to be real. But then again, most images
of manhood are like that, aren't they?"

Scott shakes his head in denial and grabs his hair with clinched fists.

Steve seems oblivious to all of this, "And then you have the teenaged
boy who is strong, young, bright, handsome, and sensitive - a
teenaged boy who is at the peek of his sexual prowess. His overwhelming
sexual urges and drives are coursing through his young body. He's
using half a box of facial tissues a day to wipe up cum he keeps
pumping out of his cock. They both need each other. The boy needs a
father figure to show him the path to manhood and the man needs an
idealistic boy to look up to him in order to validate his manhood."

Scott looks at him accusingly, "But you suck nigger cock to validate
your manhood. What do you have to say about that? You suck nigger cock.
What's your excuse? What kind of image of manhood is that?" Scott
grimaces, not waiting for an answer. He is hoping that the sharpness of
his words will ward off another flurry of thoughts from his drinking
partner. He sees what he thinks is disappointment in Steve's eyes. He
lowers his voice, "I-I'm sorry Steve, I just don't want to have
to think about all of this."

Steve studied his partner carefully, "Don't worry. I know that most
people don't like to think about these things."

Steve sighed, "Anyway, I think we are dealing with a different sort
of nigger than the ones in the past. The nigger today doesn't know
anything about the Civil Rights movement, other than what he reads
about it on McDonalds' place mats during the Martin Luther King
holiday. He doesn't know anything about the Black Power movement
other than the embellished tales he hears in rap songs. Nobody keeps
niggers today away from the lunch counter - but all of them order
their food for take-out, as if they were afraid to eat in a restaurant.
Nobody forces niggers today to sit in the back of the bus - but all
of them do it anyway. Nobody terrorizes black neighborhoods anymore, so
now they form gangs to terrorize their own neighborhoods. Nobody calls
a nigger a nigger to his face, so now he and his buddies call each
other 'nigger' as loud and as often as they can in public
places."

Steve pauses briefly, but continues, encouraged that Scott is still
following what he has been saying, "The nigger today thinks that the
terror of white supremacy is a distant memory; the young nigger today
has a false sense of equality and security - and then when he can't
get the job, or the home, or credit, or into the school he thinks he is
qualified for he gets confused. The only place he knows where to turn
is the white man's cock. He gets down on his knees to suck on that
cock because the white man seems to have it all together where he and
his kind are lacking. He may not bother to reason it out, but at least
sucking on that white cock and getting fucked in the ass gives him a
sense of security and power. At least, in an unspoken way, it
communicates to him the reality of his status in life. In that sense,
it gives him the feeling that things are pretty much under control -
even if that 'control' places him at the bottom; white on top of
black. He can act out sexually what he dares not admit socially."

Scott is dumbfounded. Even Steve seems mildly surprised by his own
words - as if he himself wasn't expecting what he had just said.
Both men look down at their drinks glumly.

Steve laughs, as if to break the tension. "You know, they all go out
of their way to claim to be heterosexual. They put on a big show of
being homophobic, but it is all just for show. Meanwhile they have
their trousers hanging off of their black asses just inviting anyone,
male or female, to take a peek."

Scott lets out a short laugh that seems to give him some relief.

Steve sighs and runs his hand through his hair for the first time, then
neatly pats it back into place. The light and the shadow from the dim
lamps in the bar seem to sharpen on his face. He levels his gaze at
Scott, "What I'm saying is that the nigger today is a bundle of
insecurities and contradictions. He only tries to cover all of this up
by the cool pose he strikes on the streets, when he knows everyone is
watching. It's when he thinks everyone is not watching, including his
buddies and his other 'home boys,' that he begins to suspect the
truth about himself and his situation. At that moment he turns to the
white man's cock."

Scott's reddened eyes are now barely open. He slumps at the bar, his
hair askew and his chin resting on the palms of his hands, propped up
by his elbows. He weakly offers the statement that he thinks is
expected of him, "I guess you gotta feel sorry for them in a way."

Steve looks around slyly - he appears ready for another drink.
"Yeah, you gotta feel sorry for them, but you've also gotta control
them. You can't allow black people to have too much freedom. You have
to control them through their culture - or, at least, through the
culture that they think is theirs."

Scott rolls his eyes, fearful that he's just opened up another long
discussion that he won't be able to follow. Now he allows his cheeks
to slide onto the palms of his hands.

Steve continues, undiscouraged, "Yes, take away their real culture
and replace it with a commercial substitute and you've got them
enslaved for life. It's one thing to enslave a man's body, but
it's an altogether different proposition to enslave his mind. It's
a more powerful means of slavery."

Scott seems to be close to falling off of his chair, "Whatever you
say..."

Steve seems to just be warming up to his subject, "Yes. Discourage
him from listening to Negro Spirituals - because Negro Spirituals
might give him a feeling of pride, dignity, and collective action.
Instead, encourage niggers to listen to Gospel music - because this
will focus his attention on material things, divas, individualism and
super stardom. Unlike the quiet and understated dignity and discipline
of Negro Spirituals, Gospel will get him to shout and make him
excitable. It will focus his mind on raw emotionalism so that he will
act without thinking. If you can replace the one with the other you can
keep the nigger in an infantile state of mind forever."

Steve looks over at Scott and sees that he has completely lost his
audience. Scott now has his face buried in his folded arms on the bar.
Steve gently pats his drinking buddy on the back and lets him rest. He
wanders outside. He is startled to find himself facing the same
coca-skinned black youth with the piercing eyes who works during the
day at the coffee kiosk. Their eyes lock. Steve feels weakness in his
knees and finds his cock growing hard in his pants. The boy gives him a
teasing smile of recognition, "Are you trying to stalk me?"

Steve fumbles for something to say. His tongue seems tied. He points
uneasily back toward the bar, "No, I - ah, we were just having a
drink - my buddy and me - I just had to come out for some air..."

The boy eyes Steve curiously, slightly amused by the white man's
awkwardness. He brushes it off, nonchalantly, "That's cool, man.
You gonna be at the kiosk tomorrow?"

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to get in control of the situation,
"I'll be there."

The boy turns and wanders out of the streetlight, "Good. I'll have
another banana for you to suck on after work."

Steve feels his shoulders droop. He feels the need for a long exhale.
He softly mutters so that nobody else can hear, "Do you ever wonder
what drives us to crave manhood? What does it take for one man to
subjugate another into doing his bidding?"

With half-closed eyes he watches as the boy slowly fades into the
darkness of the night.

The End

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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