So, this incident actually happened before I reached New York. It involves an old friend who we’ll call Round the Way Boo (RtWB from here on). And, for the record, this dude’s personal sex game actually didn’t play a role in the negativity of the experience. As a matter of fact, everything about RtWB checks out—we’ve been friends for years, there’s never any weird shit, we enjoy hanging out minus the sex, and when we do have sex, it always starts out with him giving me very, very good head. Which is like, on my top five list of polite things to do, right next to saying thank you and sharing your gum with people. Giving me good head is waaaay up there. The sex itself is usually pretty formulaic—the usual stuff plus a minute or so of not-quite-cuddling-but-we-like-each-other-so-it’s-not-weird—but he’s very good about making sure I enjoy myself. Essentially my emergency dick-in-a-glass. RtWB is not the issue.
One time when I was back home, he decided to have a hotel party. By hotel party, I mean he paid $60 to get one of those little motel rooms that have been non-smoking for years but still have sheets that smell like cigarette butts and unfulfilling careers. But I’m pretty sure he just didn’t want to get his place dirty, so whatever.
So he threw this thing and invited his buddies over, who brought beer and Jack Daniels Honey. There was also a White girl there who decided to bring pizza. My immediate impression of her was that she seemed cool. She was wearing sweatpants that didn’t fit and had a mysterious stain on them, but she seemed nice. I definitely, definitely would not fuck her, but she seemed nice. I immediately befriended Honey Jack Dude and Pizza Girl, who had already demonstrated that, at the very least, they know how to bring me whiskey and pizza. These are very important qualities in the people I allow around me.
Anyway, as the night went on, Honey Jack Dude turned out to be a total creep; the sort that tries to hem and haw and Jedi Mind Trick you into taking his number even though he looks like a Wookiee. Pizza Girl got off-her-ass drunk and ended up ranting for a solid ten minutes about how it’s so weird that other White people don’t know how to act around Black people, and how she was really comfortable with all her Black friends. Dope. She got so drunk that she couldn’t drive home and ended up slumped-but-still-conscious on one of the beds in the room. So already, she messed up my customary therapeutic assage with RtWB. He also couldn’t give me a ride home because she was sloppy can’t-move-can’t-sleep-can’t-think-can’t-live drunk and could not be left alone. This wasn’t the problem either. He got me a taxi and I assumed my two new “friends” were out of my hair.
A couple days passed. RtWB sent me a text saying that Pizza Girl thought I was super cool. I say "yeah, she was cool, too." Couple more days passed. Another text: “Pizza Girl thought you were really cute.” "Oh," I responded. "That’s nice of her." At this point, my Spidey senses were tingling. But I didn’t really question it further. A couple days later, he texted me asking about a threesome. This too, in itself, was not the problem. It was something on my bucket list, and if there was anyone I trusted for something like that, it was RtWB. As a matter of fact, I was completely preoccupied with something else, so I didn’t even think about Pizza Girl. I actually got excited. I asked who he was thinking of having a threesome with. He called me.
“You remember that girl from the party?” he asked. My face dropped.
Now. he’d known me longer than anyone I kept in contact with. The moment I paused, I’m pretty sure he knew why I didn’t want to have sex with this girl. I could feel it. He probably knew I could feel it. But there’s still something pretty tactless about telling a friend that his buddy looks like the Muppet Babies version of Rolf. I knew and he knew that he was trying to create the most lopsided situation this side of a “say no more” meme.
“Bruh… She looks like Rolf from Muppet Babies. Naaah.” Oops. He took it well, at least, and started laughing.
“So… That’s a no?” If he weren’t my friend I would have cussed him right out. You have people in the world who learn how to speak dozens of different languages; polyglots who can write and read and communicate across cultures. And then you have straight men, who learn how not to understand “no” regardless of what language it’s in. It’s as amazing as it is baffling. Anyway, I confirmed that, no, I did not want to add to the mysterious stains on Pizza Girl’s sweatpants. I’m not really sure what he thought would happen without any attraction or chemistry—maybe he thought she’d turn into a unicorn and magic away the awkwardness out of the situation. I’ve never had sex with a White woman, so I’m not really sure what happens when they want sex. Do White women turn into unicorns when they have sex? That would explain a lot to me about Black men.