I Feel So Guilty

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic


The sad story of a white man with a black woman deep inside struggling to be set free.



"I knew then that deep inside, as a man, I would always have a woman inside striving to be herself with a woman in need of satisfaction, and that it made no difference if I were with a black man
who stiffed me for the dinner bill or a white man with good teeth and equally refined table manners, that no man could ever satisfy me.



I knew that when reincarnated as a man, I wasn’t ever going to have sex with a man. And this is how I concluded that if I was to experience prior and future lives, I would have to be a young
lesbian black woman. With a bountiful body, legs that didn’t end, and tits to die for."

Submitted: January 02, 2017

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Submitted: January 02, 2017

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As is my habit, when I am in New York City, I stay at the Lowes Regency, located at 540 Park Avenue, near Central Park.  It is upscale, friendly to guests and casual without being common.  The Sant Ambroeus Coffee Bar is located there and offers a delightful choice of fine imported teas and exotic imported coffees.  This crisp yet casual offshoot of the Milanese-inspired café serves pastries and breads to accompany your morning macchiato or Americana.  They also have free copies of the New York Times for customers.  I thoroughly enjoy the atmosphere but while exotic, the menu is a bit pedestrian, so I always tip the Concierge to fetch me a Spiced Sweet Cream Cold Brew made with Nariño 70 cold brew coffee (slow-steeped for a super smooth flavor) with a dash of spice and a float of house-made sweet cream, from one of the nearby Starbucks, while I take a seat where I can observe the morning parade of common humanity in the Streets of New York City.  That morning, so as not to offend, while I waited for my Starbucks Spiced Sweet Cream Cold Brew, I had a Shakerato Espresso, with sugar and ice served in a martini glass.  I wasn’t disappointed.

It was chilly that morning and, fortunately, even though I had clad my feet informally in open toe Salvatore Ferragamo Groove Slide Sandals, that I had found for a steal at only $195, I was wearing a pair of my Mephisto brand NYC socks, which are crafted of the most luxurious materials, including superfine Merino wool, to provide natural temperature control and moisture management.

My feet were warm.

As sometimes happens, my morning revelry was soon broken by the news of a heart broken young black woman’s eternal quest for love.  A sassy young black woman, strong, wise, caring with so much love to give, standing up right, head held high, hands on hips, breasts jutting firm and strong and upright, telling the world to bring life on, ready for combat and whatever life throws—no fear—who was despairing because she simply was not attracted to black men and she was having pains of guilt sufficiently severe to keep her awake at night.  In her words, “I’m not attracted to black men and I am not going to date one.”

I am in full sympathy with this because I too, frankly, am not going to date any black man.  For that matter, I’m not going to date any man, but that is topic for other discourse that can be contentious here in New York.

She went on to explain that while some of her best friends, and even her father, were black men, she simply didn’t feel the urge.  This stance is not without its costs.  She feels guilty about not feeling guilty about “dating outside her race” because of the black women magazines say she should feel guilty.  She admits to feeling some pangs of culpability because her father is a proud black man who deserves more than a daughter who eschews men of his cut, but she doesn’t feel any sense of having betrayed him.  She does not date black men, period. Shouldn’t she at least try to find a black man?  Has she betrayed her race?  She doesn’t feel like it, and she is not sure how a person could betray her race by dating only a man she can love, regardless of his race, and she feels guilty because of that.

She has searched for the answers high and low.  She reads every page of every issue of Essence, watches Oprah religiously and almost all of the talk shows on BET, even Jerry Springer, Maury Povich, Montel, Whoopi, Wendy Williams and all of the other female talk show hosts regardless of race.

No luck.

The current man in her life, who, by the way is satisfying her every need, has blue eyes and good teeth and he picks up the bill when they dine out and pays the household expenses and goes grocery shopping with her and doesn’t cheat on her and hasn’t given her an STD or beat her.  Still, she feels guilty for dating outside her race.

“Why?” she beseeches God above, “Why can’t I love a black man the way I love this blue eyed, freckle faced, Irish man?”

In short, this is the type of gritty, true life story of real people, real Americans struggling to do what is right, emblematic of the New York Times.  Truly, no other editorial staff would have the courage to run such an honest, insightful story of tragedy in America.

I can empathize across a broad range of tragic heartbreaks and this is one.

While I am obviously a white male, I haven’t always been so.  In prior lives, I have been any things but that which God has blessed me, more often than not, is incarnation and reincarnation as a sassy young black woman.  Most folks can’t remember their prior lives or if they do it is only after expensive regression therapy and hours upon hours on the therapy couch. 

I am different.

I remember that in one of my earliest lives I knew Lucy.  I was there with her in Ethiopia’s Afar region and I held her hand as she lay dying after a fall from her tree.  While my memories of her are vague, I remember she was the life of the party and loved picking lice from all the others and crunching the little devils between her incisors.  Not carefree because you couldn’t be back then—you would either be eaten by a beast or killed by raiders—but Lucy was different.  Special and it pains me to speak of her, so I won’t.

In my first special reincarnation, I was the Queen of Sheba.  I was a curious young woman and I traveled far and wide.  As the Queen, I could afford it.  This got me into a little trouble when I visited Jerusalem.  As you might imagine, an unescorted virginal young woman, of heavy breasts, wide rounded hips and prominent buttocks, with tiny feet, dressed in the finest and sheerest robes and wearing the most precious of jewels, as was fitting my station, drinking only the finest of teas from Ceylon, I created quite a stir. While all men have a weakness for curvaceous dusky women, those men would roll their big brown eyes and “hubba hubba” me where ever I went.There, I met up with a brigand known as Solomon, a man well known Biblically who came to know me Biblically, and when I finally returned home, I was with child. 

Since, all my previous reincarnations, at least those I could remember, had been as a man, this was a new experience to me.  I may have been the first woman to introduce Solomon to oral sex.  Perhaps as a harbinger of things to come, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth.

But, he sure enjoyed it.  He enjoyed it so much that my ensuing pregnancy was nothing short of a miracle.

By the time, I was reincarnated as Shanakdakhetei, the First Great Nubian Queen, I realized that I was very comfortable as a strong, sassy, beautiful black woman possessing a body with more curves that a World Series champion New York Yankees pitcher with a head full of shaggy black hair more magnificent than the noblest of lions’ manes.  I needed no King.  I summoned whichever man I wanted whenever I felt the need.

I was Shanakdakhetei.

But, deep inside I felt a persistent undefinable longing.

And then it happened—the epiphany. 

I had been out with my cavalry for over a month.  We’d been riding hard raiding neighboring Nilote villages for slaves and penetrating deep into Egypt for gold and jewels and other precious commodities.  As was my manner, I wore the finest of goat zebra hide, tanned, shaped and cut by Alkolawi, the highly skilled, wise and ancient goats man, known the world over, at that time, for his excellent armor made of various hides and his lions mane helmets and head gear that were the rage in the best of Warrior Society.  I’d been on horseback the entire time and I was physically and emotionally drained.  I needed to recharge my batteries.

I was eager anticipating a long, leisurely hot bath and having my voluptuous body washed by my ladies in waiting.  On the long ride back, I rode ahead, rocking to and fro on my galloping stallion, my hips thrusting so in that time-honored manner of women who prefer to be on top, creating friction between my horses and that part of my body that touched it.

I contemplated the physical release that I would experience after the bath with one of my Nubian Stallions.  I imagined a man’s hands on my body, his pudenda inside me, and I became aroused.

But something was missing.

The ladies in waiting ran their hands and wash cloths over my shoulders and back and over and around my breasts and my tummy and washed and rinsed my lady garden.  And they massaged my shoulders and back and breasts and buttocks and legs and cleaned my provocatively protruding labia of the saddle dust that had accumulated over the past month.

And it filled me with feelings and sensations there to fore foreign and unknown to me and when they made to stop and have me stand to enable them to dry me I bid them continue, and they did.

As I sat on the side of the bath while they massaged my body and my shoulders, my first lady in waiting was standing to my side and I noticed her Mons Venus protruding boldly from between her hip bones and her manicured lady garden and my nose was filled with the aroma of ripe peaches in summer. 

I looked at her and saw her as if for the first time.  Her ebony skin and full hair, her soft brown eyes and full inviting lips. Her breasts, firm and pendulous begging to be kissed and sucked and fondled and her hips rounded and full and the slight pooch of the tummy below her belly button.

Unthinking, unknowingly and unable to restrain myself I leaned closer and examined the pristine softness of her protruding labia.  I leaned closer yet and kissed those inviting nether lips and was shocked at what I had done.

In shame and surprise, I recoiled from what I had done but she came closer and closer and thrust those lovelies even closer and I kissed them again, placing my full lips on their equal fullness and softness and tasting their sweetness.  She gasped loudly and moaned, “My queen, my queen, I am yours,” and I was driven to kiss them more fully while probing her inner secrets with my searching tongue.

Her ecstatic and sensuous moans of pleasure excited the other ladies in waiting and they soon joined in and we all as a group and as individuals pleasured each other for the rest of the night.

The bath was long, but definitely not leisurely.

My next royal incarnation was as Amanishakheto, the Great Warrior Queen, of Nubia.  I commanded thousands of Amazon Nubian Women, each one a proud and sassy, physically strong and spirited, black as coal Nubian, with a body that adolescent boys fantasized, from atop my War Elephant.  My infantry and horse cavalry and my force of Fighting Elephants, numbered in the thousands and were legendary far and wide and when we marched to advance against a conquering Alexander, he blinked and withdrew his forces.  He came forward to negotiate peace in the aftermath of his defeat and I made him my bitch before releasing him to pursue his history elsewhere.

While I generally avoid discussing these things in public, he wasn’t all that great where it counted.

He was not a woman.

While I experienced other reincarnations as female warrior royalty, I knew then that, in my reincarnations as a woman, no man would ever satisfy me as thoroughly as a woman. 

The all-male armies we attacked and conquered were no match for my Nubian women.  We conquered the then known world, capturing men and bringing them back to be our slaves.  Some, we trained as farmers, artisans and cooks, still others with special qualifications, we took for service as sires.  Some were good for that, some were not.  The good were rewarded with licks for their Good Ship Lollypop; those who didn’t have what it took, lost their heads. 

Sure, they would whine and cry and snivel and promise to do better next time, but, deep in your heart, you know they’ll say anything and you just can’t play favorites.

I knew then that deep inside, as a woman, I would always have a man inside striving to be himself with a woman in need of satisfaction, and that it made no difference if I were with a black man who stiffed me for the dinner bill or a white man with good teeth and equally refined table manners, that no man could ever satisfy me.  

I knew that when reincarnated as a man, I wasn’t ever going to have sex with a man.

And this is how I concluded that if I was to continue experiencing prior and future lives, I would have to be a young lesbian black woman.  With a bountiful body, legs that didn’t end, and tits to die for.

So, I wrote this poem for that young black woman who can’t bring herself to date black men but has no problem with white men with good teeth, a regular paycheck, and manners.

Look at me

Look at me

What you see

Is a white man, honey

But that’s not me.

But, that’s okay.

Look closer still,

There’s a black woman, honey

inside of me.

She is down there deep

Inside of me

Struggling mightily, to be free

My wholly owned black woman

Deep in me.

So, I’m not gay, that isn’t me

Just the black woman

Deep inside of me,

Struggling, Struggling,

to be free.

Look at me, Look at me,

See, see, see

‘cause

I AM SHE!

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2017 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

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