: Fields of Gold :

She lay down on her stomach and I took it as my cue to make my move. As I lowered my face to her neck, I couldn’t help but notice the small blonde hairs that flowed like fields of gold down the line of her back. Much like the same hairs that had bristled off the side of her cheeks and caught the sunlight ever so slightly while she scooped Pad Thai in her mouth over lunch. But that’s ok, I thought. No chin, no lips and a waist wider than mine could all be dismissed for what I was about to do.

I was determined to have sex with my first white girl. The tall blonde from Riverside didn’t count given she was a crackerjack and I released my boys prematurely partly out of tiredness but mostly because I was nervous. God forbid how quickly I would have come if her vagina wasn’t so deep. My hotdog didn’t stand a chance in that hallway. She never returned my messages after that. Bitch.

But Margaret Thatcher was a revenge fuck. A single act of standing up for our people having lost so many of our daughters and sisters to the white man’s plague. I vowed I would avenge my brethren and through this one act of penetration, inspire our kind to gather, put down our fancy cars and superior math skills and fight back one snow white princess at a time.

This selfless act alone could ignite a revolution.

I made a mental list of my scars: Illyana, the professional hair coloring girl who subtly touched my arm while laughing at all my jokes at the bar. Lindsay, the account executive whom I had interrupted for her number in the middle of her client schmoozing meeting. Amy, the hot halfie lawyer who gave me her real number and then proceeded to let some guy (her boyfriend probably) take a message for her when I called. And then Yvette, the yoga instructor who had looked me up and down at the club and then paid me no attention and gave up no number when I finally summoned up the courage to talk to her. All had started promising with witty banter and disarming smiles. But no messages were left, no emails written. I was a product of their diversity training, a non-descript supporting character in the background of their beer commercial, a means of fulfilling their affirmative action policy. But these wounds meant nothing now. In fact, they had toughened me up and sweetened the taste of inevitable victory.

But victory never came. I got as far as seeing her left boob when she pulled her crop top up and covered her face to wipe away her tears. I’m sorry she said. Buts it’s just, she was not over this guy…3 years…she loved him so much…why did he have to leave her. And as certain as I was five minutes ago that it was going to happen, in that strange twist of events I became as certain that it wasn’t.

So with that, I sat up, took off my contacts went to bed…defeated. The revolution will have to wait another night.