I fail painfully in my attempt to rock a black girl’s world

I'm a writer and I go by Johnny Dongle, which is a pen name, because everything I write is 100% true and if I used my real name, well — that'd be bad. This is one of my true stories. If it entertains you guys, I'll post more.

I am an equal-opportunity lover, and as such, I LOVE me some brown sugar on occasion. It would definitely be more than “on occasion” if I could convince more black women to sleep with me, but by and large I'm not exactly blow-the-doors-off successful in that department. I believe in the Chris Rock theory of why I can't get a lot of action with black girls: while it's a common fantasy for white women to want to fuck black men, that shit just doesn't work the other way around, unfortunately. Not nearly as often anyway. To paraphrase Mr. Rock, “Sure, a black woman will fuck Brad Pitt or George Clooney, but other than than, black women don’t give a fuck about fuckin’ white boys.”

Sigh. He’s right, and it’s a real bummer for me, because I am really, REALLY into black women. I don’t know why; it’s just built into me. Their dark skin drives me crazy, and the darker and blacker, the better. The contrast between their dark skin makes the pink of their pussies almost glow compared to white girls, and they often have fuller, more muscular legs and asses, which are my favorite body parts. And when they cum, they cum SO hard and loud. If you want the cops to show up on your doorstep, go to a black girl’s apartment and go down on her expertly for a half-hour. The neighbors will think you’re murdering her and they’ll be there in no time.

So, as the previous paragraph indicates, I haven't been totally shut out in my efforts to contract jungle fever. I use a time-tested strategy born of much Craigslist experimentation that I highly recommend if you’re a white boy trying to hook up with a black girl. I post an ad with a headline that says something like: "White man for BLACK WOMEN ONLY. Please." Then in the ad, I reinforce that I'm a white man who prefers black women and politely ask that only black women contact me.

This is just a combination of psychology and bullshitting. I mean, if a super hot white or Hispanic or Asian woman contacted me and begged to come over and ravage me, would I REALLY not have sex with her? Of course I would. Duh. Like I said, I'm an equal opportunity lover.

Thing is, hot white chicks are always in high demand and they always will be and they know it — more than any other race, for sure. But if you post an ad that essentially says, "Hey black women…you know what, fuck all those white girls. I'm not interested in them, I’m not even looking their way. I'm looking for a fine-ass black woman like YOU," then that gives them pause. Everyone likes to feel desired and special, and is flattered to some degree when they hear that, hey, this guy’s looking for someone just like me and excluding all the other white girls that everybody’s always chasing! And that gets way more responses rolling in than an ad that just talks about some general desire to get your dick wet, race, color or creed be damned.

So, every time I post a "white man looking for black woman" ad, I get at least a handful of responses. Doesn't always turn into something, but I get really lucky sometimes.

This is not one of those times.

So, I post my ad and I get a couple of responses, and one of them comes from a cute black girl with nerdy hipster glasses who says she works a lot and REALLY needs to get laid. She's a little heavier than I usually favor but she's cute and down to earth, so I'm absolutely on board. I tell her I’m available whenever she can make time, and it so happens that she can make time tomorrow.

As it turns out, she lives in a ratty motel in a really shitty neighborhood. This is usually a bad sign, but of course, my dick has taken over as Executive Vice President of Strategy here, so we ignore this red flag and power on anyhow. In our email conversations, she tells me about her job, which is very odd. It’s some long-term temp job where she and a bunch of her coworkers all load up in one of those white cargo vans and go visit retail stores all over the state — often several hours away — and count the inventory of every item in the store. A dozen people who drive four hours to document tens of thousands of items and then drive four hours back the same night.

Odd, right? Don’t the stores four hours away have any LOCAL temp workers who will come over and count all their shit without making an eight-hour round trip? I was getting too curious for my own good, so I just stopped asking questions.

So, tomorrow comes, and I admit, I was very excited. I do not get to sex up black women nearly as much as I’d like, so this was a special treat. I bought a 3-pack of condoms and a new bottle of massage oil. As a former massage therapist, an excellent massage is both my icebreaking and finishing move. Gentlemen, if you learn to give an excellent massage, you can make your grandma want to fuck you. I mean, not that I’ve tried that. Poor choice of words. Anyway, you get the point.

Nightfall comes, and we’re texting. She’s ready. Come on over, white boy. I’m in the car and on my way.

Her room was around the back side of the motel, even darker and seedier than I’d imagined. Nobody stays at this motel unless they’re whoring, selling drugs or on the run from the law in another state, and in fact, someone was murdered here about three weeks before, not kidding. I cannot fathom a single reason why any gainfully employed person would choose to live here.

I knock on the door and notice there’s an empty pizza box and chicken wings container sitting outside on the sidewalk. She yells for me to “COME IN!” and I find her lying on the bed watching The Simpsons on this shitty little motel TV. She's cute, but heavy. Much heavier than I'm usually into, but again, the Vice President takes over and reminds me that black girls who like white boys are hard to come by, and what exactly were we expecting a rap video dyme here? No sir, we were not. She’s black, and that’s enough.

She was polite but very nonchalant about my arrival. And she was definitely NOT a talker. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting a red carpet or any kind of parade, but she reacted the same way I think she would've reacted if the maintenance man was there to fix the toilet, or maybe her uncle had come to visit.

I'm usually a good ice breaker, but making small talk here was like getting blood from a stone. How’s it going, I said. “Good.” I asked if she had a long day at work. “Yeah.” You’re a Simpsons fan, huh? Me too. “Yeah.”

One-word answers at every turn, this girl. Stymied, I decided to cut to the chase. Maybe she just wasn’t into talking because she was 100% focused on getting my rigid white cock in between her creamy chocolate thighs as soon as humanly possible, right? So I pulled out my oil and asked her if she's ready for her massage. She said, "OK," in the most bored, disembodied voice I’d heard since the last time I was on hold with my credit card company.

Whew. I had my work cut out for me here.

But I wasn’t all that worried. Many fellas talk a big game about their massage skills, but mine is fully established, vetted and backed up. Since college, many-a-lady has gone into a Dongle massage with an eye-roll and a "whatever" and ended up rolling out my bed the next morning. This was my domain, and no one could escape it.

She took off all of her clothes and lay face down on the bed, and I was fired up. She had a great, thick ass, and I was already imagining how wet her pussy was going to be while I drilled her from behind. This…this was livin’ boys, right here. This is why I get up in the morning, for moments like this.

I opened my oil and covered her back and began the magic, but there was immediately a problem. As I leaned down over her, I caught a wave of stink. I leaned in a little closer toward her armpits and was overpowered by PUNISHING body odor. Not only did Aleah not shower before this planned sexual encounter, but she didn’t even put on deodorant. She reeked.

Red flags mounting, I soldiered on, working every muscle the best way I know how, holding my breath and leaning over toward the door for an occasional gasp of fresh air. I worked her neck, back, and shoulders. I worked her thighs, her ass, her feet…everything. Despite the fact that I was holding my breath half the time, all my techniques were spot-on, and every touch carried the signature smooooov, sensual strokes that truly say…Johnny Dongle.

No reaction whatsoever. Nothing. NOTHING at all was happening here. Based on the feedback I was getting, I might as well have been rubbing Cajun seasoning into a frozen side of beef.

This had never happened to me before. Sure, some women respond better than others, but NO ONE fails to respond AT ALL. She had some sort of invisible cloak that protected her against my powers. I was like that guy in the movies who’s in a standoff with another guy who pulls the trigger and realizes he’s out of bullets, and there’s the instant wave of panic on his face when he realizes he’s dead in the water.

After a solid 30 minutes of what I previously thought was irresistible massage magic and now stripped of my powers, I just said fuck it — might as well start fingering her. That's usually the next move anyway, although it's usually not this abrupt. So I did, and she was, in fact, very wet (total silver lining there, by the way, because if she wasn't even wet from all that bodywork then I was going to have to burst out the door and reconsider everything I thought I knew about massage, sex, and life in general).

I started to work her pussy over…first slowly, in circles, hitting every inch inside her with good pressure, etc. Basically, the same thing that makes almost every other girl I've ever been with start clawing at the bed and calling out to her God, one orgasm after the other.

But nope — Aleah, might have grumbled once or twice, but given the happenings of the previous hour, she was probably just clearing her throat or snickering at a Family Guy joke (the Simpsons was over by this point). I was clearly going to have to navigate this sexual experience blind, with no clue as to what might actually turn this woman on. She was still really wet, so I decided to move on to the next step: oral. Time to wake the neighbors.

Holy Mother of Christ. Eject button. Plan B. I was still in the vicinity of her belly button when the cloud of viciousness wafting up from her crotch hit me like an anvil. It was so much worse than the armpit stink. So, so much worse.

This was not a pussy I could eat.

The night was crumbling, and the only thing left to do was put on my condom and dive in from the rear.

But even that was proving difficult. I'm not a small man downstairs, but nor are you going to mistake my penis for one of those jumbo state-fair turkey legs, and Aleah's booty was massive. Also, the body odor and self-doubt encircling me were combining to really throw a hex on my boner. I was just barely hard — that kind of half-hard where you need to guide your dick in using your index finger as a splint, and then start pumping like crazy hoping that your dick will catch up.

Pro-tip here: the bigger the booty on a girl, the tougher it is to get in deep if you're fucking her doggystyle, simply because all that ass is preventing your pelvis from getting up close and personal into her vagina. This is my theory about why heavy girls tend to disproportionately prefer black men and their giant shafts, but I digress.

So I decide to turn Aleah over, hoping for better results. She halfheartedly opens her legs and we begin going at it missionary. This goes fine for a while, and is the clear highlight on a night full of lowlights. She legitimately moans a few times and is somewhat enjoying herself. But I hold myself to a higher standard when it comes to woman-pleasing, and for me, "somewhat enjoying herself" equals miserable failure on my part. And when your head is full of "YOU ARE FAILING MISERABLY" while you're having sex, you simply won't perform. I won't, anyway.

After about 20 minutes, my dick went limp, and it won't surprise you to hear that Aleah had no enthusiasm for making any attempt whatsoever to get me hard again. No jerking, no sucking, no sticking a vibrator up my ass (long shot, but you never know). She just rolled straight back over on her back and resumed watching Family Guy.

With a heavy fog of shame smothering me, I climbed up and tossed my rubber in the trash, and excused myself to the bathroom to collect myself. I came out and said, as casually as I could muster, "Well, guess I better be heading out." She said — Take a guess. Go ahead, just take a guess. — "OK."

I’d never been happier to be alone in the parking lot of a crime-ridden hotel. I drove away, humbled, while my inner smartass kept repeating “White Men Can’t Hump! White Men Can’t Hump!” I stopped heckling myself after a few minutes. Some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue. Some days are diamonds and some days are stones. John Denver knows his shit, man.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/37tog6/i_fail_painfully_in_my_attempt_to_rock_a_black