White Men Fucking Black Women

white men fucking black women

white men fucking black women – Why Black

Why Black Men Love White Women: Going Beyond Sexual Politics to the Heart of the Matter
Why Black Men Love White Women: Going Beyond Sexual Politics to the Heart of the Matter
THE IRREVERENT, EYE-OPENING, AND HILARIOUS BOOK THAT DARES TO ASK…
Why do so many high-profile black men date and marry the most ordinary white women?
Why do so many other black men desire and covet the company of white women?
And why does this subject deeply touch so many people of both races?
Are these provocative questions matters of love, sex, revenge, power, or politics? All of the above, asserts Rajen Persaud in this illuminating, no-holds-barred book that will have you laughing with recognition while fundamentally changing the way you see just about everything — from sex and marriage to your own gender and race in all its foibles, pretensions, and ultimate possibilities.
Challenging every one of our preconceptions about mixed-race relationships, Rajen Persaud’s commentary lights up a topic that has only deepened in intensity and relevance in the decades since Sidney Poitier asked the world “Guess who’s coming to dinner?” The answers, so deeply ingrained in our fabric as a nation and even grounded in our past, force us to look at ourselves and our culture with new eyes while pondering matters of
CELEBRITY: From Michael Jordan to Bryant Gumbel to Tiger Woods, high-profile affairs and marriages with no shortage of controversy.
SEX: Are black men choosing white women — or rejecting black women?
RACE: How white male insecurity is the key to understanding racism.
RELATIONSHIPS: Is it more than love that brings the races together?
POLITICS: How fear is used to gain power, from sexual politics to global war.
MEDIA: How movies and television keep black men running to white women.
…and much more. Get ready for Why Black Men Love White Women — and finally understand the relationship phenomenon of our times.

twelve people you found

twelve people you found
if you read this poem i have posted below and the last stanza makes you feel like you have hope that maybe there is a possibility that some very lucky people could possibly understand each other, if not fully then at least for the most part
for ten fucking seconds, or maybe just one
but more importantly, for any length of time at all, possibly
then maybe we are soul mates
and maybe there is a future in store for us
and maybe we will share a kitchen and a bathroom and a bedroom someday
and maybe i will cook for you a lot of the time
sometimes we will eat at a resturaunt and we will enjoy the food but mostly we will just feel good about ourselves for being the kind of people who eat in a resturaunt like this and for the consumer conscious meals we will order
and then i will feel guilty about this fact
and you will tell me i am important even though i know i am just one person
and i will think that you’re important even though you’re just one person
and you will touch my face a lot even in public, sometimes when we think no one is around
and i will kiss all of the places that everyone else ignores on you, places like behind your knees and the space the left of your breast, on the side
the area behind and directly above your ankles
the skin between your eye and eyebrow
etcetera
and i will take your photograph and spend a lot of time thinking about how you are not like anyone else that i have ever met
and you will spend a lot of time thinking about how i am not like anyone else you have ever met
and your parents will think i’m strange and my parents will think you’re appropriate
and your hands will fit in, on, or around my hands, depending on their size

this is my favorite poem right now
"one time i wrote a poem that looked really weird
it looked like a scrabble board would
if i were playing against you and losing by three hundred
because i’d just mix up all the tiles and then, you’d be angry
but you’d laugh and maybe that would be fun

this other time you had the paris review anthology
you were looking for a poem about boats to show me
i pointed at a poem that looked weird
and said, ‘i hate it when they do that’
and you said, ‘i don’t; i think it’s pretty’

another time i was thinking about you
i was thinking that you think weird poems are pretty
and i think you are pretty
and i was thinking there was something there, in that thought
some sort of connection that was completely free of bullshit, finally"

On The Run

On The Run
"Those fucking dagos, they must’ve used hollow points." I whispered, as I cut the shrapnel out of my leg. I’m losing blood, but I’ll live. I couldn’t go to the doctors or they’d call the 5-0, and with my record, they’d pin every death that happened tonight on me. I can hardly move my left leg, but I had to move before some deadbeat cop notices me. I doubled back to find the Esposito Brothers lying in the same spot as I left them in. I turn out their pockets. I found some dope, two fat wallets, and two pairs of keys. I take the dope, the wallets, and the keys to the 52′ Chevy. I pop the trunk, and move the bodies inside. As I walk to the driver’s door, I notice a silhouette, but I can’t make out who, or what it is. I open the door and take a seat, pulling out my Colt 1911 as I close the door. The shadowy figure gets close enough so that I can see them. I make out the curves of a woman, and the lingerie of a whore. This whore was different, she knew something was up, but what had she seen? what had she heard? I notice her getting closer, with every step her face becomes clearer. I recognize this whore. When I knew her, her name was Tiffany. She had probably changed it by now. She has broken too many hearts to count. I put my gun away, as she makes her way to the window. I didn’t speak, only listened. She told me that a few of Jimmie’s men had roughed her up asking about me, and that they’d kill her unless she coughed up an address. She didn’t say a damned word. Could I trust her? I had to, she was the only person who didn’t want me dead in this city, I told her where I was going. I needed to find help, but where?

white men fucking black women

White Women, Black Men: Illicit Sex in the Nineteenth-Century South
This book is the first to explore the history of a powerful category of illicit sex in America’s past: liaisons between Southern white women and black men. Martha Hodes tells a series of stories about such liaisons in the years before the Civil War, explores the complex ways in which white Southerners tolerated them in the slave South, and shows how and why these responses changed with emancipation.
Hodes provides details of the wedding of a white servant-woman and a slave man in 1681, an antebellum rape accusation that uncovered a relationship between an unmarried white woman and a slave, and a divorce plea from a white farmer based on an adulterous affair between his wife and a neighborhood slave. Drawing on sources that include courtroom testimony, legislative petitions, pardon pleas, and congressional testimony, she presents the voices of the authorities, eyewitnesses, and the transgressors themselves — and these voices seem to say that in the slave South, whites were not overwhelmingly concerned about such liaisons, beyond the racial and legal status of the children that were produced. Only with the advent of black freedom did the issue move beyond neighborhood dramas and into the arena of politics, becoming a much more serious taboo than it had ever been before. Hodes gives vivid examples of the violence that followed the upheaval of war, when black men and white women were targeted by the Ku Klux Klan and unprecedented white rage and terrorism against such liaisons began to erupt. An era of terror and lynchings was inaugurated, and the legacy of these sexual politics lingered well into the twentieth century.
“A fascinating and important book, a persuasive and insightfulexploration of a volatile topic”. — Edward L. Ayers, University of Virginia

White Women, Black Men is a fascinating study of a category of interracial relationships that conventional wisdom has held did not exist: liaisons (the term author Martha Hodes prefers) between black men and white women in the antebellum South. Hodes shows how such relationships were tolerated, though not encouraged, to a surprising degree before the Civil War. In a fascinating feat of historical detective work, she uses court documents and other records in cases involving racial status, rape, divorce, and property, to explore the nature of these relationships. She shows white women who voluntarily gave up their privileged status to cohabit with black men, and white communities that turned a blind eye toward such unions. It was not until after the Civil War–when freedom for blacks meant Southern whites needed new ways to enforce their putative superiority–that black men were routinely punished with violence for real, or imagined, relationships with white women.

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