Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day
THE BACHELOR CHAPTERS: A THINKING WOMAN’S ROMANCE
What I grew to love about the bachelor lifestyle was the social freedom it conferred. I thrive on human interaction, and because I was uncoupled, I could have as much as I was willing to find. I did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I certainly did not have sex with every interesting, single man who crossed my path. But I did choose to interact in an adventurous social life; and I talked to many, many men. In my pursuit of meaningful connections, I had become an explorer in social culture, and I constantly traveled over the borders of both gender and racial divides. My lifestyle had given me access to the hearts and minds of single men in general, and black men in particular.
I liked cultural differences, and I liked the discoveries that came with new territory. Because of my travels, because I had been a lesbian, and because I was involved in biracial relationships, it was simple for me to cop the analogy that race and gender were also foreign lands. By the time I arrived at mid-age, I had been a white female my entire life, and a lesbian for almost half. No one had to convince me that interacting with men was a distinct border crossing, or that there was another frontier called the color line.
There was always a candid exchange about race and gender with my lovers, including plenty of teasing that could be misunderstood as politically incorrect. We were different and I was curious; I asked questions when I wanted to know something. Not being exclusive, not emotionally or sexually dependent on the other, opened the dialogue, and I suspect I’ve had some particularly uncommon and revealing conversations.
Almost every white adult I know drinks coffee, but ninety-nine per cent of my black boyfriends never touch the stuff, including Chicago’s Finest. One time I was with Kyle in Chicago, and he was waiting with me in line at Starbucks, when I remembered something I had read on the plane.
“Have you heard about recreational-Viagra?” I asked. The look on Kyle’s face gave me his answer. “It’s when a man doesn’t have erectile dysfunction, but takes the drug, so he can keep it up—for marathon sex.”
“That’s jus’ lazy,” he sneered. Kyle was quite capable of prescription-free marathon sex, a trademark of most of my lovers, and certainly all of my black ones.
“Hell, yea. You gotta train for that.”
“You train for sex?”
“Got to. You don’t train, you always gonna come too soon. Pussy’s made for dick to come—you gotta fight it.” I had no idea. I wanted to know more.
“So what do you do?” Kyle shook his head, and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand.
“Ah, Vicki Marie, don’t be makin’ me tell you ‘bout that.” But I insisted, so he explained a masturbatory practice of deferring ejaculation, followed by more stimulation, then more deference, and more stimulation. It was a young man’s exercise, and when he had practiced the skill, he told me about setting goals, and keeping score, steadily increasing the timeline before ejaculation.
“So, do all men do that?” I was fascinated.
“Every man that’s not a fool. How else you gonna’ keep your woman if you don’t?”
I also got an earful about the gender divide, and how men of all colors perceive the opposite sex. Men were passionate in their opinions of women, and they expressed their views from either one of two camps: the men who loved women, and the men who loved pussy. But with both categories of men, one thing was certain; we were women, and we drove them crazy.
I heard it again and again, in the same voice, both from lovers and from friends. The script was as simple as it was consistent. Men’s collective discontent with the female species could be summed up in one mega headline: A woman will always try to change you—always. She will try and change the way you dress. She will try and change your choice of friends. She will try and change what you like to do for fun, what you eat, what you say, and how you say it. She will also try to change how you feel, and when you should feel it. In essence, a woman will make you her project for lifelong improvement. She may swear she won’t, but just you wait. Give her time and she will.
With my bachelor title, and my past lesbian lifestyle, I would cringe at every sentence that began with, “You women, you…” I wasn’t looking to change anyone: man, woman, boss, or client. Not only did I believe we had to accept people for who they were; I had spent a lot of money in therapy to learn the real truth: people can’t change other people. Eventually, I was also smart enough to keep my mouth shut, and give up defending myself, or my other enlightened sisters. There was just no telling an adult man that his experiences with women were not true for the entire species. In fact, there was just no telling any man anything that contradicted his life experience. At the same time, however, there was no arguing that the gripe men had with women was legitimate. It wasn’t universal, but I could swing with prevalent. Both Brian and Kyle had made that case, and I’d heard it too many times since then. Many women were dead set on re-tooling a man into a more satisfactory model, which was foolish, and completely out of line.
As my relationships with black men multiplied, I discovered that I had an essential common bond with the brotherhood. The black men in my life modeled a frank openness toward sexuality that rang true to me. Repression was absent. Judgment was scarce. Sex was essential, and fun, like an athletic event. Love was optional, and competition was a given. Black men were not intimidated for a second by my bachelor lifestyle, or that they might rank lower than my other lovers. At an early age, they aspired to be great lovers, and quite frankly, they all believed they were the best. Sex was competition in black culture, and as Kyle had pointed out, only a fool would not train to win. Black men took pride in sex: in wanting it, in pursuing it, in performing it, and in mastering it. Black culture was unabashedly sex positive, and I came to believe I had located my tribe.
In black men I found a model that acknowledged my sexual expressiveness. My plan to prioritize sex outside of partnership, to experience the thrill of disparate lovers, and my desire to expand my capacity for pleasure was simply business as usual for the majority of brothers I came to know. Two years into my unconventional lifestyle, it appeared I was writing my personal guidebook for sexual emancipation from the pages of established male prerogatives. Why should that be a surprise? Of course men were the fucking experts, because men had always had the permission to have a sex life. Besides being my lover, the French Cowboy was important as a mentor in my bachelor life. With the expansion of my man collection into black culture, I got lucky, and found another.
TOMORROW: Chapter 46
Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell, Tyson@rarebirdlit.com, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.