N*gger C*ck


“You know, before last year I didn’t even find black men attractive,” a pale coworker said hoping to earn gold stars, which I keep forgetting to carry with me.

If I did, she could have one. I’d put it right on her forehead. I move the disheveled hair she thinks looks like free-forming dreadlocks (but they’re not, because bone straight hair can’t lock up. Ever. Under any circumstance. Your hair is unwashed. It is held together by its own oils and greases and not in the sensual Mediterranean way, but in the “your suburban parents are paying your rent every month” way).

I won’t even find the energy to tell you about the yoga class she teaches weekly at a place I have no intention of visiting on purpose.

For the rest of this piece, we can call her Sherry, which isn’t her name, but it’s close.

“I keep wanting to call you Markus for some reason,” she says right before she asks me to grab something in her arms reach.

That reason, Sherry, is racism. Absolute and blatant racism. Let’s move along.

Sherry is currently seeing a black guy.

She’s told me his name, but I rightfully question the accuracy of that information.

Also, I’m using the word ‘seeing‘ because it’s the shortest variation of what they’re doing that wouldn’t require me to lie.

They aren’t lovers; they don’t love each other

They aren’t dating; They don’t go anywhere to date.

I’d call them fuckers, but that could get lost in interpretation, so “seeing” works on the most practical level possible.

They are physically seeing one another with their eyes, and maybe not that either, but for now, seeing works.

Sherry (who without cultures of brown people, would have no idea how to style her hair or what to teach weekly to other white women in their 20’s who care little of mindfulness) was seeing this man. How often? I don’t know. How serious? ehh..

“It’s the best sex I’ve ever had.” She confessed and while I love the openness of sexuality, I’m also a lover of time and place. That time should be not on the clock  that place should be not during my modest job at the bookstore.

Sherry doesn’t seem to care. Why should she? She’s having a moral dilemma and why should this world operate in perfect order despite her complication?

It isn’t okay, Sherry. Keep telling me about the parts of your life I never asked to hear.

Sherry convinces me she’s not racist by repeating “I’m not racist or anything, but…” before a smooth 40% of every statement she makes.

As a Negro, I translate that to “I’m racist AND…”

Try it yourself. The sentences work together and transition seamlessly:

  • I’m racist AND black people get an attitude when I touch their hair.
  • I’m racist AND I feel uncomfortable when Black people converse with each other and I feel excluded.
  • I’m racist AND my family is.

See? Easy.
Sherry goes on describing the sex, not in extreme detail, but in enough details to need to lower the tone of her conversation. She uses that tone we use to share personal information with one another that could easily incite judgement. I’d argue this tone works best with consenting sharers and listeners, but here we are.


The rhythm of the sex befuddles her.

The pace was a new discovery.

She had never been touched like that.

The positions, there were many,

and the rolling of her eyes during that night and even now as she recalls the details.


I’m not a doctor, but I can diagnose this one:


You’ve got a case of Nigger Cock, sweetheart.


The bad news is it’s deadly.

The Good news is, not for you.

Keep enjoying it.

Demand it.

You deserve it just for being yourself. It’s your birthright.

Simply fuck black men in the privacy of your own home, but pretend you’re deathly disgusted by them in the broad daylight.


You might have to feed and clothe your nigger occasionally, but that’s really it. You’re not going to have to do much else. You don’t have to take any interest in what that man does outside of your bedroom. Worry not your poorly dreadlocked head little Caucasoid queen, you can have him as long as you need him. Maybe even tell your friends about him. Treat him like your best kept secret. Suggest your friends find some Nigger cock of their own.


Nigger Cock is contagious.


And should you ever want to put an end to the meetings,

should it ever become too complicated,

should you ever feel unsafe,

or bored,

or should the dreaded controversy arise,


simply cry rape.