I encountered my first BBC--that's Big Black Cock--about two days into service as a phone whore.
Not that I had never slept with African-American men before (or women, for that matter). As a free-wheeling, sexually voracious woman, in a large-ish metropolis on the West Coast and with access to craigslist, it was statistically impossible for my pool of play partners to NOT include people of color.
But the BBC is different from just any old cock that happens to be attached to a black man. It's different.
By definition, it's Big. Not just bigger than average, but BIG. Double digits always, and really, you probably need both hands to maneuver it around and into your mouth, although why you'd want to do that when you are clearly running the risk of cracking your jaw, I don't know.
Also by definition, it is Black, shining out like an inverse beacon against the (invariably) white or pale pink skin of whoever is getting fucked with it, whether it's the hot cuckoldress wife or the cock-hungry caller himself. In the universe of the BBC, the relative skin colors of the fucker and fuckee are as dramatic as a United Colors of Benetton ad.
When I took that first BBC call, and then my second a few hours later, and then the third that night... I had to wonder about the appeal. Separate from the whole issue of homoerotic impulses, why Black? I mean, I get Big. But what was in the pigmentation of this mythical male that made his body in general, and his cock in particular, so unbearably, unbelievably attractive to my BBC callers?
I'm going to start by saying in some ways it doesn't matter. If there's one thing that I'm solid on in this business, it's that you can't argue away desire or fetish or lust. It may not make any sense to me at all, but if it makes you hard and/or wet, well, it is what it is and I will take you there and through it and out the other side panting.
But in other ways, it does matter. Because I think, given what I know about race in the US and our supposedly post-Obama-as-president society, a lot of people probably aren't, you know, playing fair. Like, it's okay to worship the BBC in your fantasy, but in real life maybe you lock your doors driving through "urban" neighborhoods. Or maybe you want that delicious, velvety dark rod so bad you'd make a third hole just for it, but you'd be nervous about your neighbors seeing the owner of that BBC standing on your doorstep.
Karma and ethics and race and psychological dissonance, okay, I get it. Not hot. Rest assured, BBC-lovers of the world, I'm not going to take away your cocoa-colored, rock-hard, jizz-blowing binkie. I'm definitely not going to stop taking those calls (I'd be losing at least 40 percent of my call volume if I did, seriously!) But in my BBC series, starting next week, I'm gonna encourage you to think about your kink. Just a little.
Fantasies don't exist on an island, sprung from nothing. They come from somewhere. And in some cases, like this one, I really want to know where.