Interacial dating and sex between white men and black women updating database tables from xml
It felt too ironic; the first black man who I dated had left me in exactly the way that I feared.
He had grown tired of letting me pretend, I realized.
We rolled down the windows in her beat-up car and took in as much air as we could. Every black girl I knew was saying, “Get yourself a white man,” as though they were selling out quick.
We live together in a small studio in Chelsea, where we cook dinners and take showers.
We ask each other about dessert options and call each other good-looking even though we have gained weight.
It was only when he started saying things like, “They’re all wondering why you’re with me,” while gesturing to a group of black men, that I realized he was doubting himself, too. We got stared down in every bar that we entered, and approached with unsolicited offers for company, as though our relationship could only be sexual, as though we needed more than each other to be satisfied.
These were the days that he learned how to hold me when I cried.