[MMF] Barbecue Sauce – The White Guy In The Wrong Place

And you wonder why I don’t go to parties…

It was New Year’s Eve in a year that wasn’t a multiple of five, so nobody cared. I was doing what nerds typically do on such an obvious night for partying, sitting at home on my computer and avoiding the world. I generally avoided recreational pharmaceuticals because I could never figure out if it’s stupid people that do drugs, or if it’s the drugs that make you stupid. Drinking was never a hobby of mine because I never considered puking my brains out and sleeping on someone’s front lawn as my idea of “having a good time”. That combined with my affinity for social awkwardness meant I’ve never really been one for the party scene.

So, the high point of my evening was the random cute blonde girl who started messaging me out of the blue.

I had responded to her ad on a now long-defunct dating website, and we gently hit it off. This evening was our first real conversation beyond initial pleasantries as our orbits came into alignment, and we spent several hours doing the delicate dance of seeing if any of our fundamental traits would instantly terrify or offend the other. The problem with online dating is that it’s filled with people who are at a point in their life where they think online dating is a good idea.

She lived a state away, which was close enough for potential, but there was certainly no way I was going to be seeing her that evening. She could be Miss Right, but she wasn’t going to be Miss Right Now. So, after several hours of chatting with her, I was delighted when another random person messaged me by surprise.

It turns out that even years later, both of these two people would have a notable impact on my life.

The second girl was the exact opposite of the first. In stark contrast to the statuesque, Scandinavian who lived in a different time zone, she was a petite, ebony girl who lived only a couple miles from me. We’d also never chatted before, but she was bored and had been invited to a New Year’s Eve party. She didn’t want to go alone and asked if I would care to join her. I wasn’t terribly interested in being at a party, but she was cute as hell and with thoughts of “a bird in the hand…” I figured, “fuck it, why not”. I politely ducked out of my conversation with the blonde and made plans to meet this second girl in hopes of getting my hand in her bush.

Now, you would think that given the disproportionate amount of emergency services calls to the rougher neighborhoods of Kalamazoo, the residents of such places would be more diligent about putting numbers on their damn houses. This, however, was not the case. That’s how I ended up being the white guy in the wrong place for several blocks in any direction, cruising back and forth for half an hour wandering all over the hood trying to find the right house.

I parked my car and stepped out into the cold night air. It wasn’t the worst neighborhood in Kalamazoo, but it certainly wasn’t the kind of place you want to just be wandering from house to house at nearly midnight. Thankfully, house numbers follow a consistent pattern: odd numbers on one side of the street, even numbers on the other. The whole neighborhood was just a set of giant number lines. With the confidence and motivation of a young, horny, college kid, I knocked on the door of what I had derived mathematically must be the right house.

It’s not like I had google maps to tell me where to go – this was the early 2000’s. This had to be the right house, I was certain of it. I was even more certain than I’d been at any of the previous half dozen houses I’d knocked at. The numbers in the next block were all in the five-hundreds while I was looking for an address in the four-hundreds. We’ll just quietly overlook the fact that I was now over a quarter-mile from where I’d parked.

I put my hand up to knock on the door of the house I knew was the right one when she poked her head out of a second-story window across the street. With all the decorum and subtlety of a sledgehammer, she yelled for me to get my stupid ass inside before someone shot me in the face.

That was totally going to be the next house I would have knocked at. Totally…

I gingerly jogged across the street in that manner known to anyone who lives where the air hurts your face and the roads get slick with packed black ice.

Now, when someone invites you to a party, you hold a fundamental set of preconceived expectations. Usually rather high on that list is some manner of crowd, a gathering of perhaps a dozen people at the very least. What I wandered into was a typical hood-rat habitat. The entryway was dominated by an old mattress leaning bent against the wall next to a long, steep staircase with no handrail and flakey, chipped lead paint of a condition that some daft bint basic bitch on Pinterest would someday call “distressed”.

Still, I sojourned, onwards and upwards. The hopes of my dick leading the way…

There’s a smell, in my entire life I’ve never been able to accurately describe it, but there’s a particular smell. It’s not quite the smell of a trash can that sat too long and went to maggots before being emptied and douched with bleach. It’s that, but from across the room. It smells like a mid-’70s color palette of reddish-ochre, grimy mustard yellow, and stone-washed purple. It’s subtle but sharp and pervasive. It’s the miasma of poverty and neglect. It’s the smell that comes after the last fuck to give has long since gone. It’s like “old people smell”, but for run-down houses. It’s the mephitic smell of “not dead… yet” for a structure in the shitty part of town; it tells you that people still live there, but not for long.

I stepped through the open doorway at the top of the stairs to find a room, poorly illuminated from the sodium glow of a streetlight hanging just below the naked front windows. It was a disheveled, upper-level, low-rent apartment that took up the entire second floor.

Long ago, some enterprising fuckstick slumlord had kicked out the walls of what was likely only a bedroom, a bathroom, and a fair bit of attic and turned it into an apartment the moment he discovered the loophole that square footage was measured on the floor, not the ceiling. This means that you can remove all the full-height walls, push the room back into the attic and get a huge amount of new floorspace. The tradeoff is that you can’t actually stand up in half the room. But who needs to hang art on the walls when you’re already living in a Dali painting.

The whole place was one big open room that melded into a kitchen off to the left towards the back of the house, and three doors that lead to a bathroom, a bedroom, and what could laughingly be called a closet by someone with a level of optimism reserved for morning show hosts and fitness instructors. It was the kind of place where the moment you walk in, you get a good look around for potential exits.

The “party” was a group of six people (including myself), plus a few people in ones and twos across the room, and most of them were varying states of inebriated. It took me all of thirty seconds to realize that the only thing I wanted out of this place was me. I’d been there less than five minutes and had already spent two of them working on a polite exit strategy.

That’s when the KPS disco lights started reflecting off the ceiling. I walked across the room just far enough to get a look outside and see four Kalamazoo Public Safety cop cars lined up on the other side of the street. They were getting out and started milling about the houses and backyards on the other side of the block. A couple of minutes later, a K9 unit arrived and joined in the fun. It occurred to me that they were probably looking for the suspicious asshole who was knocking on front doors a little while ago.

Thankfully my car was several blocks from there, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to just wander outside and start hoofing it. Despite what the “copaganda” would have you believe, unless you’re seven, white, and lost, the police are not your friends. There was nobody out there tonight but cops, drunks, and tow-truck drivers, and I was far too melanin-deficient to be wandering down this part of Douglas to not catch someone’s eye at this time of night.

Well, shit.

Looks like I’m going to have to stay and enjoy the “party” for a little bit.

She walked over and introduced herself. For the first time, I got to meet my mysterious internet girl in person. She was short, about five-three, pert, perky, and firm with curves in all the right places. She had a perfect, blinding smile that would take me another decade of surgeries to catch up to. While mine cost as much as the college education neither of us would ever get, genetics had gifted her with perfection. Her big almond eyes could captivate a man’s soul. She had an ass that was shaped like a perfect heart when she bent over, with a pair of dimples on her back so you knew exactly where to put your thumbs. Her nose was retrousse and her skin was Denzel-black; the whole package combined was breathtaking. She was staggeringly beautiful.

Right up until the moment that she spoke and shattered my dreams of having her ruin my life.

She would have been perfect were it not for the fact that she was as painfully stupid as a fishnet stuff sack full of thumbtacks precariously packed in your back pocket. After talking to her for less than five minutes, it was obvious that the smartest thing that would ever come out of her mouth was the head of my dick. She was vacuously, contagiously stupid, so dumb that I could feel myself losing IQ points merely by standing next to her. I was certain of this because having sex with her was starting to seem like a good idea.

I decided to embark on the most socially-awkward mingling imaginable, because talking to her was like masturbating with a belt sander, and I was already feeling rough enough.

I wandered across the room to a group of four people who were having a passionate discourse about something I couldn’t hear well enough to make out. They were standing in a small circle close enough to touch each other and as I came up behind one of the girls she exclaimed, “I just don’t like white guys!”. I don’t have any idea what the hell they were talking about before that, it was just background noise, but I caught that and started to giggle as I hung back just far enough to not engage the conversation.

A gentleman from across their group who was standing opposite of this girl, and facing me, stepped through the center and shook my hand. He had a sincere, gentle smile that started from his eyes, a soft deep voice that sounded like if a Cummins diesel could idle just above a whisper, and was roughly the size of a refrigerator with feet. He was over six feet tall, easily three-hundred pounds, and had the confidence of someone who was accustomed to being feared with the temperament of someone who didn’t enjoy it. I liked him instantly.

“Ignore her – she’s drunk,” he said

“It’s alright, I don’t like a lot of white guys either,” I said as we exchanged the upward head nod of friends in agreement, “I’m Chris”.

“Curtis, call me CJ,” the gentle giant replied.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

CJ and I wandered the room and talked for twenty minutes. I told him about why the cops were holding a block party outside, and he filled me in on the basics of everyone in attendance. By the end of our lap of the room and our first conversation, we had been friends for twenty years. As we walked around he introduced me to everyone else in the room, except the one little group.

I noticed that every time he’d introduce me to someone he’d say, “This is Chris, he’s alright,” and if it was a guy he was introducing me to, they’d respond with an almost imperceptible upnod. I don’t know if this was something he was conscious of or not, but it seemed like he was giving me the secret black guy seal of approval.

We walked back to the small group and CJ introduced them. First, there was Tamika, who doesn’t like white guys. She was short, stacked, and would make for one hell of a meaningful weekend relationship. There was Nikki, who turned out to be the best friend of my original date for the evening and was clearly the brains of that pair. And there was LaVaughn, an anorexic giant who stood nearly seven feet tall, spoke with the breathlessness of Marilyn Monroe and a queer lilt that told the world he wasn’t just out and proud, he was so fabulously gay that he actually sparkled. I’m pretty certain that if he farted it would sound like someone playing a moonshine jug.

I turned to Tamika and asked, “So, I’m frightfully curious, why don’t you like white guys?”

I was expecting a discourse on the cultural divide, institutional racism, or men being pigs. She had hundreds of years of ammunition to drop on my head to give any one of a thousand intelligent and justified answers. She could have quoted Malcolm or King, taken me from a righteous woman in a Selma bus to Huey P. Newton, and I’d have followed along just fine. She could have taken that in any one of a dozen directions, and I was prepared for any one of them. What I was in no way prepared for was what she actually said,

“They taste like chicken and that’s fuckin’ weird.”

I blinked, and my eyebrows shifted to low-beams as I side-eyed her, “Urm… what?”

“White guys taste like chicken, and it freaks me out,” she said again, more matter-of-factly.

“Chicken?”

“Yep”

“Uh… Okay”, I replied, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say to that?

Thankfully I was saved by LaVaughn who chimed in with, “Exactly how many white guys have you tasted, Tamika?” and everyone laughed.

“Just one – that was enough. White guys have tiny dicks and taste like chicken,” she scowled.

“A chemist, a physicist, and a mathematician were on a train,” I pontificated, “and had just crossed the border into Scotland.”

Everyone stopped and looked at me like I was as high as giraffe pussy. I continued, “Just give me a moment, there’s a point.”

“The chemist looked out of the window, saw a black sheep for the first time in his life, and exclaimed, ‘Look! Scottish sheep are black!’

The physicist said, ‘No, no. Some Scottish sheep are black.’

The mathematician threw down the book he was reading and said. ‘No, you fuckheads! In Scotland there is at least one field, containing at least one sheep, of which at least one side is black.’”

CJ smiled, LaVaughn smiled, Nikki smiled, and Tamika didn’t get the fucking point as one of her brain cells was tossing the other one a life preserver in the tiny pond of ethanol that had flooded the otherwise empty space between her ears.

Thus began a heated debate on body types, shampoo, diet, body wash, and a great deal of time spent on being “ashy” where I tried in vain to understand exactly what the hell that was. I also learned of the importance of both Shea and Cocoa butter, though I got the impression that neither was part of a healthy diet. The end result of the conversation was that LaVaughn and Nikki were trying to goad Tamika into sucking my dick to prove that not all white guys taste like chicken. I was pretty damn sure they just wanted a floor show. Either way, I’m not a complete idiot, and any chance I get for either stupid penis tricks or a random blowjob – I’m there.

Nikki was clearly the instigator and roused enough rabble that ten minutes later Tamika was getting blindfolded in the bedroom by LaVaughn, while CJ and I were standing side by side in the middle of the kitchen. The plan was for Nikki to lead Tamika out and prove to her that she couldn’t tell one from the other. I had no idea what to expect or which girl I was going to end up with by the end of the evening, but I was certainly happy to be along for the ride.

The three of them came out into the kitchen and Nikki pointed at CJ and said “You first, and don’t talk. I don’t want her being able to figure out who is who”. He unzipped, unfurled, and as Tamika got to work while LaVaughn gave color commentary on her ability.

And judging by the show, she had ability. It only took her a few moments to have CJ at full-mast, and she was enthusiastic, to say the least.

Nikki pointed at me and twirled her finger. I took this as my cue to get ready. Thankfully the preceding floor show had already put me in a state so as to be just difficult enough to unfurl to be reasonably impressive.

With an unceremonious tap on the forehead, Nikki signaled CJ that his time was up and we shuffled into our new stations. Tamika didn’t even flinch and dove in with abandon, only to immediately make an “OOMPTHPH” when she realized that sample B, while not quite as thick as the impressively girthy A, had substantially more length than she was expecting. Being motivated by the stereotype, she fell victim to her prejudice and proceeded to prove her point by performing with passionate fervor.

She was moaning and we were both having a hell of a great time for about thirty seconds, right up until she wrapped the base of my cock in her hand. Then, with all the same passion with which she’d been working, she shoved me back out of the moment.

“GAH!” she said, as she recoiled backward in disgust. She nearly fell over in the process as she ripped off her blindfold, spitting and cursing at both me and Nikki.

Nikki gave me a look that could have frozen an Eskimo’s nuts off, clearly thinking I had whitened her smile or something. I shook my head and said, “No, no, I didn’t do nothing”.

It was the hair. None of us had taken into account the immediate and substantial differences in our pubic hair. When she had put her hand up, it brushed against my pubes and her mental image shattered.

Everyone in the room had one hell of a laugh, except Tamika. She was incensed. We had all just watched her go to town, clearly enjoying herself, only to fall victim to her prejudice. LaVaughn, the only guy in the room to not get his dick sucked, laughed harder than anyone and was having a field day with this fact. He was merciless, probably because he was the only one with nothing to lose.

CJ and I just stood there with our dicks hanging out, quietly hopeful, as the conversation continued.

Nikki and Tamika engaged in a heated debate over how she was an idiot and had proven herself wrong. This went on for a couple of minutes with Tamika being steadfast that it wasn’t the difference in race but in taste, and that I most certainly tasted like chicken, etc. It was a dumb and circular argument and nobody got anywhere.

I was paying attention, interjecting as I could, in quiet hopes that I was going to get one or the other by the end of the evening when I was ripped screaming from that entire thought process by the sensation of something very cold happening on my most sensitive of places.

That motherfucker LaVaughn, who I had liked up until this moment, with a bit of whimsical impishness that was impressive for a gentleman of his stature, had taken advantage of my distraction to quietly retrieve a squeeze bottle of barbecue sauce from christ-knows-where in the kitchen. He had come up beside me and while I was arguing the finer points of prejudice being stupid as hell, that rat bastard squeezed a fat line of thick maroon sauce down the entire length of my cock.

I let out a yelp and jumped so high that we almost came eye to eye for a moment.

“What… the fuck… man?” I yelled as everyone in the room took a moment to laugh like hell.

“Well if she’s gonna bitch about you tasting like chicken, I figured I’d help her out and give it some flavor. There ya go girl, he’s all set!” he said, gesturing to my cock like a game-show host.

I had just hit a new record for awkward uncomfortability, and on this evening, that was a pretty high fuckin’ bar already.

CJ and I just stood there quietly commiserating while the rest of the gang all proceeded to torment Tamika. The conversation was lively to say the least, while CJ and I discussed the actual odds that either of us had any chance of actually getting laid that night. Things had been going so well, on a nice predictable path, only to change from 2nd to reverse in a grinding flash.

I looked at Tamika who was still kneeling in front of us with Nikki sitting on the floor just behind her and said, “well at the very least you can help me clean this off”. Tamika made a face that was somewhere between “ick, no” and that dumbass pouty, tantrum face that girls mistakenly think guys find cute. I was half hoping that Nikki may take actions into her own mouth.

What I was most certainly not fucking prepared for was LaVaughn to be a stealthy gay ninja, turn nearly 180 degrees, bend at the waist, and in one smooth movement without a moments notice, reservation, or hesitation inhale my entire cock to the base and suck off the majority of the barbecue sauce in less than half a second.

I let out… well it could only be honestly described as a “shriek”, but I assure you it was the manliest of shrieks and was in no way similar to the sound of a little girl who had just fallen off her tricycle. Not at all, it was quite manly, very becoming of a rugged gentleman such as myself, as I ran with everything I had. I ran out the door, down the rickety staircase, and was on the sidewalk before the cold reminded me to put my dick back in my pants. I ran the few blocks to my car and was home within ten minutes.

I got inside and could hear my roommate upstairs in the front bedroom doing her best to get pounded through the floor. Great, everyone was getting laid for New Years’ but me.

I took a shower, scrubbed until I was nearly raw, and finally sat back down at my computer, where I probably should have stayed in the first place. I had several “Happy New Year” messages from friends near and far and worked my way down the list replying to them.

I came upon the message from the girl who had invited me out earlier that evening and immediately deleted it. I never heard from her again and didn’t consider it any manner of loss.

I went to bed, and in the morning resumed my conversation with the tall, blonde science nerd in the neighboring state. I’m happy to report that one worked out a little bit better.

It’s New Year’s Eve as I’m writing this, and today is our 17th anniversary together.

This is why I don’t go to parties…

Happy New Year Everyone!

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/knbmhs/mmf_barbecue_sauce_the_white_guy_in_the_wrong