White Girlfriend In Harlem
So, my girlfriends asked me: Why did you move to Harlem? I told them because the housing is reasonably priced, it's a few subway stops from work, near Central Park for my dog, all good reasons.
And all true.
They feared the worst. But I had visited Harlem a thousand times and never saw the stereotypical images of the 'hood --- men warming their hands in fires burning in metal drums, junkies shooting up their drugs in alleys or shootouts between the Crips and the Bloods.
I saw nothing but men and women walking home from work in business suits, kids walking home from school in uniforms - and old men sitting on folding chairs outside the corner bodegas. It looked safe to me.
So, I told my parents I was moving to Harlem. Dad just said, "Mmmm," while Mom's face wrinkled with worry.
I couldn't tell my girlfriends or my parents the truth: I was moving to Harlem because I just can't get enough of black men.
I caught the fever - jungle fever, that is -- back in high school.
I was one of a few white girls in the school, which was 70 percent black. I joined some competition, riding piggyback on a guy in a race against another team. Ah, Smitty was my man. I wrapped my alabaster limbs around his chocolate ones. My legs tucked under his brawny arms, my hands wrapped around his neck, and we were off. Or at least I was. My crotch bumped against his back as we ran.
I've been hot for black men ever since. The ebony ones. Full lips. Strong hips. Thick tips. Girlfriends, you know what I'm talking about.
These are the men who buy extra-large condoms - and need them - not the ones who purchase Magnums only to have them slip off midstream, if you know what I mean.
White's not always right. Sometimes it's outright wrong. Take my ex-husband -- please. He said he had a big one lately, but I couldn't recall it - and we were together for eight years.
And Latino. Well, the Latino men got it going on - but only for so long. Ask my ex-boyfriend. He recently challenged me. "Why don't you go on line to find big black men? You know that's what you like."
Talk about penile envy.
I didn't realize I was being so obvious. But then again, I did tell him that I don't care how old Sidney Poitier is - if I meet him, I'll sleep with him. Bring on the Viagra. It's my old "To Sir With Love" fantasy that just can't seem to lose its grasp on me.
But I didn't have to go on the Internet, as my ex-boyfriend suggested. I just walked outside my door.
There ain't no slim pickin's here in Harlem. There's an abundance of big, black and beautiful.
There's my locksmith who promised to make me oxtail stew.
There's the bus driver, who said he'd give me a ride anytime - but hasn't had the chance. (He ignores me whenever he's with some fine, young black sistah.)
There's the trainer who offered to work me out at the gym.
And there's my neighbor who cooks me fried chicken and brings it over with a bottle of rum behind his girlfriend's back. And let me tell you girlfriends, he's finger-lickin' good.
That's why this white girl moved to Harlem.
And all true.
They feared the worst. But I had visited Harlem a thousand times and never saw the stereotypical images of the 'hood --- men warming their hands in fires burning in metal drums, junkies shooting up their drugs in alleys or shootouts between the Crips and the Bloods.
I saw nothing but men and women walking home from work in business suits, kids walking home from school in uniforms - and old men sitting on folding chairs outside the corner bodegas. It looked safe to me.
So, I told my parents I was moving to Harlem. Dad just said, "Mmmm," while Mom's face wrinkled with worry.
I couldn't tell my girlfriends or my parents the truth: I was moving to Harlem because I just can't get enough of black men.
I caught the fever - jungle fever, that is -- back in high school.
I was one of a few white girls in the school, which was 70 percent black. I joined some competition, riding piggyback on a guy in a race against another team. Ah, Smitty was my man. I wrapped my alabaster limbs around his chocolate ones. My legs tucked under his brawny arms, my hands wrapped around his neck, and we were off. Or at least I was. My crotch bumped against his back as we ran.
I've been hot for black men ever since. The ebony ones. Full lips. Strong hips. Thick tips. Girlfriends, you know what I'm talking about.
These are the men who buy extra-large condoms - and need them - not the ones who purchase Magnums only to have them slip off midstream, if you know what I mean.
White's not always right. Sometimes it's outright wrong. Take my ex-husband -- please. He said he had a big one lately, but I couldn't recall it - and we were together for eight years.
And Latino. Well, the Latino men got it going on - but only for so long. Ask my ex-boyfriend. He recently challenged me. "Why don't you go on line to find big black men? You know that's what you like."
Talk about penile envy.
I didn't realize I was being so obvious. But then again, I did tell him that I don't care how old Sidney Poitier is - if I meet him, I'll sleep with him. Bring on the Viagra. It's my old "To Sir With Love" fantasy that just can't seem to lose its grasp on me.
But I didn't have to go on the Internet, as my ex-boyfriend suggested. I just walked outside my door.
There ain't no slim pickin's here in Harlem. There's an abundance of big, black and beautiful.
There's my locksmith who promised to make me oxtail stew.
There's the bus driver, who said he'd give me a ride anytime - but hasn't had the chance. (He ignores me whenever he's with some fine, young black sistah.)
There's the trainer who offered to work me out at the gym.
And there's my neighbor who cooks me fried chicken and brings it over with a bottle of rum behind his girlfriend's back. And let me tell you girlfriends, he's finger-lickin' good.
That's why this white girl moved to Harlem.
