When a beautiful woman I was Facebook stalking for a while began liking my posts and flirting with me, I messaged my phone number to her. Within a few hours, we were texting and planned a date for the next evening. I felt desired. I felt hopeful. I felt like I was enough.
As we continued texting, I asked her: “So, what kind of women do you date?”
Smart. Loyal. Funny. Creative. Family oriented. Hard-working. Kind.
Those were some of the responses I expected. But, what she said was, “Honestly, typically white or Spanish.”
Well, there’s no need to slap me in the face, your words already did that.
Me: “So, you’ve never dated someone like me?”
Her: “No. I don’t normally date black girls but you’re super hot.”
Aw, shucks. I’m so honored that you’re willing to pretend you like me for 1-3 weeks until you suddenly remember that I’m black, and stop returning my phone calls.
It took everything in me not to say to her, “Why did you flirt with me for weeks and agree to go on a date when we both know it will go NO WHERE because you think I’m not enough due to the fucking color of my skin?” I felt even angrier with myself because, for a split second, I wished I wasn’t black. I wished I could change the color of my skin so she would like me. And even as I type this, I have tears in my eyes because I know how sad that is to admit.
Let me be clear, I completely understand having preferences and turn-ons. Maybe you like dating bald women, or really get turned on by natural, long hair regardless of race. Perhaps women who don’t shave and rock hairy armpits get you wet. Maybe you date younger or older people. To that I say, “Boo, do you.” I love big breasts and dark hair. Those things turn me on, and that’s totally okay. Do I date women who don’t look like that? Yes, but I also understand if people like certain physical characteristics; when you are going to potentially be with someone for the rest of your life, these things matter.
But, when I’m talking to a woman who knows nothing about me, and determines whether or not we can date based off the color of my skin–I cringe and shake with disappointment. When I hang out with gay men and they say, “I don’t normally date black men, but he’s sexy” I feel upset.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I was dating a woman. We were standing in her doorway kissing. She had her hand on my black cock (I was wearing a strap on), and was whispering nasty things. I got shy and backed away to catch my breath.
Her: “It’s cute when you’re shy.”
Me: “I wouldn’t say I’m shy. I like you.”
Her: “You know, I’ve never dated a woman like you before.”
I immediately knew what she meant, and in that moment it was clear to me it wouldn’t last. This would be a fling; she would end it suddenly; tell me she met someone else. The reason wouldn’t matter because she wouldn’t tell me the truth, which was–I don’t normally date black girls. Sure enough, she ended things abruptly after a few weeks.
Each time this happens, I am left with the same thoughts:
When we were in your bed and you were begging me to put my big, black dick in your pussy, the color of my skin didn’t matter.
When I was pulling your hair as you sucked on my big, black cock, the color of my skin didn’t matter.
When you were begging for it at 2am and I came by to fuck your brains out, the color of my skin didn’t matter, did it?
Maybe some of you are reading this and thinking, “She’s tripping. I’ve dated women who are completely open to dating someone of the opposite race.” That’s fine, but it doesn’t take away from my experiences.
I’m sick of feeling like I’m not enough. Not black enough. Not white enough. Not skinny enough. Not tall enough. Not femme enough. Not butch enough. Not rich enough.
I grew up in a middle-class family in an affluent neighborhood for most of my life. I never fit into any groups because I wasn’t black enough, and I was never white enough. I still remember kids asking me why I was black. I would say, “I don’t know” as if it was a bad thing.
And as an adult lesbian living in California, despite years of therapy and daily self-affirmations, this feeling has not gone away. Los Angeles is racially segregated, and lesbians mainly hang out with people who look like they do. I have friends who choose to only date women of their race, and I respect that because their happiness is all that matters to me.
The cause of this segregation, in my opinion, is not always about preference. It comes down to rejection. I’ve felt it many times when I go to a club with 90% white lesbians and no one talks to me. Or, when I go up to a group of cute white girls and they eventually walk off after pretending to want to chat with me for a few minutes. This is how segregation happens, y’all. This is why people become suspicious of other races, y’all. When there is a lack of acceptance and openness, fear wins.
When I go to dinner or hang out with a woman of another race, I automatically assume we would never seriously date because of the color of my skin. I’m not saying this to sound like a victim, or in the hopes that you’ll feel bad for me. I’m saying this because it’s how I feel.
When I’m with a few friends of another race and we go to a club, I fade in the background. I always say I like to be alone, but it’s really because I don’t want them to feel obligated to stand next to me; to show others we came together because I’m black and their white. This is a sad time y’all, but these feelings are real.
Let me say this:
The thing that makes me remain so open and hopeful is the woman who changed my life–my stepmother, Jennifer. She is the first person who made me feel like I was enough as a young child. She just happens to be white. And she is married to my father who happens to be black. They are blissfully happy, and I am grateful to witness their love.
So, when I’m talking to my black or white friends who say they don’t date someone of another race, it’s tough. To a certain extent, I get it–there’s cultural understanding, a common ground in many ways, etc. However, I also believe that love is love. And, that goes WAY beyond the color of your skin.
I know the woman who is meant for me–regardless of her race/ethnicity–won’t care about the color of my skin. She will just love me for me.
To all of those women reading this who don’t feel like they are enough, please know that you are. Don’t ever let another human being tell you that you aren’t. If they do, pick up your purse and get the hell out of there. Go talk to someone who will listen and let you cry. Grab a pillow and scream into it until some of the hurt subsides. And always remember: