I have yet to meet a dude who didn’t use Trojan Magnums, but I can assure you the long-standing myth about Black guys and big dicks is false. I learned this years ago, after being foreplayed out of my drawers, and eaten the way hungry vultures tackle roadkill. That magical mouth was connected to 6 feet and 4” of Black bearded bae-ness and one of the better sculpted, veiniest bodies on this side of the Ivory Coast. His voice was warm and commanding and dripped syrupy vulgarity that could bring Erik Killmonger under submission.
“You want this dragon?” he asked
“I do.” I whispered back.
My eyes were fixated on the way he gripped his johnson with his left palm and wiped cooch juice from his goatee with his right hand. I was eager to screw until his boxers fell to the floor, exposing the biggest set of testicles I’d seen attached to an inconsequential penis. Calling it a dick is disrespectful to the human anatomy — to my emotions as well. I was utterly shocked and thoroughly disillusioned by the puny package before me. Ole boy was proud, though. He stood at the foot of the bed, donning a Kool-Aid smile, still stroking what was visibly not there and with his teeth, he tore through the infamous gold-foiled wrapping as I braced myself for a painless mercy fuck — or so I thought.
He breathed into my ear: “turn it over for daddy.” The words were a distraction. They raised the soft hairs around my earlobe and aroused other parts of my body which made me acquiesce. He positioned my rear-end at the height of his waist, then pressed his palm down into the center of my back — basically, face-down-ass-up. I fathom it is a position of power that allows someone to see themselves dominating the person they mounted. In this case, I imagined my wide ass and hips would only depreciate that vision and magnify the teeniness of his peen. That didn’t derail him, though. He went for it anyways. I did not feel a thing — well, not in my vagina — until he clawed the meatiest portions of my love handles and slammed his groin into my bare ass-cheeks — like eight times. I know for sure because I counted them in blinks, as my forehead tapped against the headboard.
He rolled me onto my back and dived into a missionary performance that included twelve crossfit pushups and an equal amount of labored breaths. He pumped, planked, panted and perspired over my nakedness for two microwave minutes. Still, there was no coital action — just the sting of sweat burning through my left cornea.
“I know, baby. Daddy is killing that pussy, right?” He asked; clearly misreading my scrunched face and tightly squeezed eye.
I could not agree, until he hoisted my thighs above my own shoulders, and locked my ankles in a kung-fu death grip, and banged his pelvis into my hip-bone. Things got really interesting then. He slow grinded into my left thigh and humped his heart out while pulverizing my right thigh. My poor crotch beared the brunt of every one of those wild thrusts. He moaned and groaned and heaved into my collarbone each time the thwack of his body struck mine. In four minutes and thirty pumps, his ass clenched and hips convulsed. He hollered my name alongside Jesus’ and muttered something about being thankful to my mama, then emptied out his soul into a supersized latex receptacle.
The sight of a baggy condom, dangling from an embryo-sized eggplant was quite painful–as were my contused butt cheeks, my chafed inner thighs and having to squint out of one eye for an hour and a half afterward. My vagina was bulldozed by this nubbin penis and I suffered zero penetration. Not none. It was the safest sex ever. He “killed it.”
I be writing. I’m aiight with standard English, but poetic with Black Vernacular. I’mma dope dealer, too.