Brad Applegate sat alone at a table in Mama June's, the only bar in town where live Blues music played seven days a week. Tonight was open mic night, so a few locals were present to hone their craft while looking for their shot. It was a Wednesday, ten p.m., and though the crowd was diverse insofar as ethnicity was concerned, it was still sparsely populated; a little less than half the seats were occupied.
Brad noticed the woman when she walked in. She looked to be around five-nine, maybe 135 pounds, 36D, slim waist, and a nice ass. She also had long, luxurious hair, and her skin was the color of light mocha. She wore dark red lipstick and a green iridescent dress with red three-inch heels. She was beautiful, a knock-out. Brad reckoned her to be late twenties or early thirties. She seated herself, then ran her fingers through her hair. That answered one of Brad's questions. He now knew it was all her own, for extensions would not have allowed her the ability to do that.
As the waitress passed his table en route to the woman, Brad stopped her and told her that the lady's drink would be on him. The waitress took the woman's order, went to the bar, and returned a few minutes later. She pointed to Brad after setting the drink on the table, then she went to check on the other patrons.
The woman stood and made her way to Brad. She eyed him for a few seconds, then asked, "May I?" as she tapped a chair with a well-manicured nail.
"By all means," Brad said as he stood and held the chair for her. Once she was seated, he returned to his. "Good music tonight, huh?"
She studied him for a few seconds, then replied, "Something tells me you aren't here for the music."
Brad laughed. "Is it that obvious?"
"What did she do?" The woman asked.
"Who?" Brad responded.
"Your wife, presumably," she said as she inclined her head toward the wedding band on Brad's left hand. "And if it's your idea to pick up chicks, I'd suggest taking that thing off first. It might increase your chances." She studied him a bit more. He was a handsome man. White. She liked white guys. Nothing against black men. It was just her preference. He was built well, also. Nice, well-defined chest and arms. He had a nice ass, too. She wondered what he was packing.
Brad looked at his ring, then laughed. "I really don't know what I want."
"Tell me what's wrong," she said.
"I'm sure you didn't come here tonight to hear a sob story," Brad stated. "Woman as beautiful as you should be having fun."
"Maybe right now this is fun for me," she retorted. "Thanks for the drink, by the way. Next round is on me." She waved, and when the waitress looked her way, she held up two fingers. A few minutes later a double Tom Collins for him and a Seven and Seven for her were placed before them.
Brad drained the last bit of drink from his first glass, then said, "Okay, but just remember that you asked for this." She nodded, drained her own glass, then smiled and inclined her head, telling him to begin. "Let me start by saying that I have always dated black women. I don't know why. I mean, I have just always been attracted to them. Anyway, I went through a couple of bad breakups and decided to just not date for a while. Soon, though, my friends were really pushing me to get back on the horse, you know? 'You have to get back out there. You can't be alone.' I just waved it off because I wasn't ready.
"After about three months of solitude, a friend set me up on a blind date. Her name was Deb—Deborah—and she was the first white woman I had ever been on a date with. Can you believe that? I was twenty-five and had never dated a single white woman. Anyway, I found out a lot about Deb that first night, and most of it wasn't good. Nope. Not good at all. First, Deb's parents were racist as hell. Against any non-white, but blacks most specifically. Second, Deb was raised to believe every stereotype that exists about every ethnic group. I will say that in her defense, she did not use the 'N' word. In fact, she told me that she abhorred it, and even after two years of marriage I still haven't heard her use it once."
"Wait a minute," the woman broke in. "Are you telling me that you married her?"
Brad chuckled. "Just listen. Something told me that she wasn't a bad person. I mean, she had been brainwashed by her parents since birth to believe the things that she did, but there was still a morality within her that knew using epithets of any kind was wrong. I decided to take it upon myself to educate her, show her that the stereotypes just weren't true."
"And how did you go about doing that?"
"I started by introducing her to the works of Phillis Wheatley and Frederick Douglass. From there it was Zora Neal Hurston and Langston Hughes, then Maya Angelou. I showed her photography by Gordon Parks and Ansel Adams, art from Edmonia Lewis and Faith Ringgold. We listened to The Three Degrees and A Taste of Honey, The Temptations and Sam and Dave. These things worked to show her that black people could create beautiful, wonderful things.
"Next, I began introducing her to people I knew. First was a couple of professors of mine from when I was in college. She saw that these men had doctorate degrees, and it impressed the hell out of her. Next was my friend David and his family. Deb was under the impression that all black men did was have a slew of baby-mamas and no responsibility, and that all black families were large and poor. David and his wife Shakita had two children, he was in the home, and he made good money as a financial consultant. After David, I introduced her to Kressmann Saunders, who worked with disadvantaged youth of all ethnicities.
"Don't think this was a three-day crash course into all things black, because it wasn't. This took place over the course of about three months, during which she opened herself up to trying foods she had never before tasted and visiting landmarks ... It was a work in progress, and I could see that the prejudiced opinions that had been hammered into her were falling to the wayside, and the more they fell, the more in love with her I found myself becoming."
"Now, that's interesting."
"It just happened," Brad told the woman, "and when I expressed my feelings for her, she did the same. So, we were officially a couple, and I was surprised to find I was relatively happy. Well, until the first time I mentioned sex, anyway. She told me her virginity was a virtue and a prized possession and that she wouldn't have sex until after we were married. You see, she was raised in the church. Her family were God-fearing racists, if you can accept the oxymoron. Anyway, I backed off the sex thing with her, but as time passed my libido raged. She believed in making out, and she even allowed me to cup her breast over her shirt, but whenever she saw I that I had achieved an erection, she would put the brakes on and pretty much reprimand me, like I could stop that from happening, especially since I had not masturbated in a while."
"So ... What? A quickie marriage?" the woman asked.
"No, not at all, but she kept telling me, 'Just wait until our wedding night, then all our dreams will come true.' She would never really say anything in particular, just that our consummation of our love would be the stuff of which legends are made." Brad laughed. "I suppose you can guess all the things that were going through my mind: Oral, anal maybe, titty-fucking, every position I could think of ... I was ready for it, and I was cheesing on her so badly that on the six-month anniversary of our first date I asked her to marry me."
"And she said yes," the woman replied with a smile.
"Actually, I asked her, but I thought it only right that she know about my previous girlfriends, therefore I told her that they all were black."
"And how did she respond?"
Brad laughed again. "She told me she would never marry me because she didn't think she could satisfy me. I asked her what she meant, and she said, 'I know the old saying "Once you go black you never go back." What am I? A pit stop?' I did my best to tell her that was just another stereotype, but she wouldn't listen. She left my apartment and returned home, and for the next two weeks I did everything I could think of to make her understand how wrong she was. She had stopped taking my calls, then her father and mother both called me and told me to keep my nigger-loving distance from their daughter."
"Oh, wow."
