Scott Clair hated his whiteness. He wasn't able to articulate it exactly in that way; he claimed to be coming to terms with his submissive nature and his overwhelming desire to serve the Black race. Had he been a bit more self-aware, a bit more introspective, he could have accurately described his self-hatred as stemming from his inherent need to feel superior. Whiteness was his disease, magnified by a Napoleonic complex of huge proportions given his height of 5'1". He suffered from narcissism extraordinaire. In his delusional mind, the universe owed him an apology for his height and he compensated for it by singing "Woe is me," every chance he got-- the 12" extended, remix, house music version. Lying was his first nature, he could construct a tale of deceit without so much as the blink of an eye, all to make himself seem more important or to perpetuate an image of his false sense of superiority. He treated people as objects to use and didn't give a damn who was hurt, used, or annoyed in the process. He felt he was the sun, the chosen son, around whom all the world had an obligation to rotate.
He began feeling uncomfortable with his identity, with his whiteness, with the advent of interracial porn. Initially, he was outraged and angered by Black men and their enormous cocks fucking white women. He would watch in disgust at the videos of men endowed with equipment that made his tiny penis look infantile in comparison and seethe in anger, proclaiming how he hated Black men for being lazy, ignorant, criminal, and nothing more than savages. Of course, all that internal dialogue was drowned out while he was masturbating furiously for hours on end to image after image of white women screaming in pleasure and pain while having the sex of their lives with Black men. He would go to Black blogs and forums and protest that size didn't matter and Black men did not, in fact, have bigger cocks, that it was all just a myth. He took pleasure in his anonymous rants of degrading Black men for being bad fathers, for all being illiterate rappers, and he always seemed to find a way to espouse racist, hateful beliefs that made white men seem inherently and naturally superior. Immediately after taunting anyone and everyone who expressed even the slightest outrage, disbelief, or anger at his psychotic rants, he would log on to one of the numerous pay sites he subscribed to and download videos of white women being fucked by Black men in every orifice so he could jerk off.
In phase two of his awakening, he had a grand epiphany whereby he decided he was sensitive to the Black race. He became a self-proclaimed, liberal, reformed racist who insisted that he was atoning for the sins of all white men, past and present, and righting the wrongs of slavery by being submissive to Black women. His motives might have been pure except for the fact that he wasn't even capable of seeing Black women as human beings but merely things to satisfy his perversions. He watched BET, he listened to Black talk radio, and he rented every Black movie ever made so he could claim expertise on Blackness. In his submission, he would get off on the idea of black women using him, making fun of his small appendage, slapping him around, maybe even fucking him with a strapon and going home to his white world where he never interacted with another Black person. His sexuality was compartmentalized. For a few hours a month, if he was lucky, a few hours a week, he could take off his white privilege, leave it at the door, and role-play to his heart's content that he was a slave to a Black woman. When it was over, he could go home and feel absolved of his white guilt and assured that he was free of all inklings of white supremacy and racist beliefs.
In reality, he used Black women like life-like toys. He used the threat of giving them money to fuck with them. He would promise them large amounts of money and then, for no reason whatsoever, he would rescind the offer with the hopes that the women would be irate and that they would in turn then beg and plead for the money in order for him to feel powerful and in control of their lives. He would demand that they fulfill his fantasies, in exactly the way he saw fit; he thought nothing of calling on them at obscene hours of the day or night whenever he wanted to live out his submissive fantasies, stalking them, completely disrespecting their time and lives. The fact that he erroneously viewed his fetish as being submissive is what allowed him to believe that he was pardoned of his responsibility of being a total and complete asshole who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, without regard, respect, or reverence to anyone else.
His fascination with the Black female body was colored by his hatred of the Black male one. The more a woman looked like a man, the more he was obsessed with being the "victim" of her abuse. If she was pumped up on steroids and bulging with muscles everywhere, if her facial features were masculine, if she wore her hair short and natural or if she was transgendered and sporting a big ole, juicy, fat cock, he would make that woman the center of his lust to the extent it would become a maniacal obsession. He would spend endless hours, furiously masturbating, thinking about being pulverized by these she-men, beaten to a bloody pulp, raped against his will, and had no reason to associate his desires with his hatred of the Black male.
It was, in fact, his hatred of the Black male, his odious and undeniable jealousy at his strength, power, and unquestionable masculinity, all things Scott dangerously lacked, which motivated his fantasies. He wanted to destroy the Black man, to castrate him, but short of being able to do that, he could covet these women who were essentially men and feel secure in knowing that he was dominating them passively with his threats of giving and withholding money. In truth, he was worshipping the black male, just minus the penis. Many a night, he would sit at his computer, nipple clamps in place, a black butt plug firmly in place stretching his anus, stroking his small cock with his thumb and forefinger, fantasizing about taking on Mike Tyson, Kimbo Slice, or some other black boxing champion and veritably kicking their ass. He was too stupid to even acknowledge or realize that his fantasies were sexual in nature, that he was jerking off to these images because they aroused him; he could only focus on the adrenaline he felt when he imagined himself victorious over these bastions of Black masculinity. His warped, delusional mind could only comprehend that he viewed the Black male body, the muscular black male body, as his enemy.
Simultaneously, he dreamt of being a Black man. Being transformed to a Black male body, in his warped mind, would mean women, both white and black, would throw themselves at his feet, that he could fuck whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Never, not once did he consider that being a Black man carried more burdens and responsibilities than just standing around on the basketball court waiting for some white woman to get lost in the hood. In his mind, being a Black man was about athleticism, sexuality, and masculinity.
It was indeed a Black man who masterminded phase three of his evolution. Having "graduated" from serving masculine Black women, and compelled by his deviant urges and conflicted emotions, Scott moved on to the worship of the mythical big black cock. He became obsessed with it, all the power it represented and he CRAVED to be degraded and humiliated by Black men with nothing less than 8 inches or more of man meat. His need to be submissive to Black men became obsessive, traveling to adult book stores, bath houses, and gay bars in search of the biggest, blackest cock he could find. The men the cocks were attached to were inconsequential; it was the penis that was his object of desire. He became the proverbial slut for black cock. That was, until he responded to a particular ad on craigslist.
The ad was simple enough. "Professional Black male seeks same for LTR." It outlined the specifics of who the guy was and what he was looking for: complexion, similar interests, education, height, and age—all the average things in a personal ad. The photo section included several pictures of a tall, very attractive, dark-skinned guy with a nice house, a nice car, and a package that was so big UPS would have refused to deliver it.
Had the ad not included the picture of the cock, Scott probably would have moved on, clicking on another ad to find someone who was looking for a quick, anonymous suck or fuck in the immediate future. It was the perfect cock: uncut, heavily veined, thick, Black, and what had to be 10 inches ... soft. Scott's mouth watered and his asspussy throbbed at the thought of feeling that huge monster invading him, pounding him, stretching him to beyond capacity, ripping him, filling him with load after load of scalding hot cum. He had to have it.
He fired off a response, quickly detailing what a fuck slut he was and how he had a hot, wet mouth perfect for sucking and a tight, hot, hole ideal for fucking. He attached a picture he found on the net of a beautiful young twink who could have been a perfect Calvin Klein model. It really didn't matter to him that he looked NOTHING like the picture, nothing mattered to him other than getting what he wanted. He waited for a response. And he waited. After two days, he figured he would send another response, this time being more explicit.
.... There is more of this story ...