A caller asked me for help with his Christmas shopping.

It was B., of course, who recently gave me my first encounter with tease and denial. He calls me every week or so,  spinning out a labyrinthine tale of cuckoldry that any soap opera writer would give their studio parking spot to dream up. Because why? It would keep them in business for decades. I’m hoping to still be hearing about this when B.’s as-yet-unborn kids who clearly aren’t his are scouting out colleges and hitting him up for outrageous allowances.

In this week’s episode, B. called and said, straight out the gate, “I need your help.” (Duh duh duhhhh!) For a split second I thought, oh god, it all turned out to be real and his wife Deanne is asking for separation and he needs a sofa to crash on while she and her dominant bull lover Jamal work out living arrangements. Nothing so simple. B. said Deanne had just texted him at work, telling him to get presents for Jamal and Joellen, her lesbian lover. Which raises that perennial holiday question:

What do you get for the guy who already has everything, including an irresistible BBC and your wife?

I’ll be honest, the part of my head that goes “real or ridiculous?” whirred for a couple of frantic seconds. But then my PSO-mind clicked back on, and I sat back and started pulling out from B. what he knew about the recipients of his flamboyantly humble cuckold gifts. Of course, what he “knows” is all sexual–he doesn’t know Joellen’s favorite color, but he knows her bra size and how many strap-ons she keeps in her travel suitcase. And Jamal, what does he like? “Beer and your wife,” I answered my own question while thinking out loud.

In the end, we decided that he should get Joellen a nice, domme-ish black leather halter top (in my mind, she’s a slightly femme dyke-on-bike). And Jamal is going to be given a his-and-hers set of subtle, chain-mail collars, for him to make B. and Deanne wear at his pleasure . I figured Jamal would appreciate the symbolism behind it; I mean, B. sure did.

For that added weight of verisimilitude, I gave B. some sites to look at for submissive-type jewelry, and told him sternly that if he wanted the collars to get there in time he would have to have them overnighted (extra expense and therefore humiliation!). As a finishing touch, I instructed him to take his wedding band and his wife’s as well (she hasn’t been wearing it for months), and bring them along with the collars to a jeweler, and have their wedding bands attached to the collars as the connecting loop for the leashes.

I was kinda proud of that last bit.

It was the same guy,  B., one of my regular cuckolds who, over the past 5 months, has spun a regular soap opera of a tale around his hot wife and her lesbian lover, who basically humiliated him and fucked his wife silly and then 6 weeks ago handed her over to, wait for it… Jamal. (Oh, my dear, delicious BBC, you are never far away, are you?)

The first time B called yesterday, he was filling me in on his wife’s absence for the weekend, and also told me about the panties that he had purchased under my directive, a pair of satin, powder-blue French-cut bikinis that he had bought in a three-pack. He was wearing them under his trousers, at work (he’s a financial advisor), and had locked the door and told his secretary to hold all calls.

I could have gotten him to come. Easy. I know my way around his buttons. Just calling him a good girl makes him hyperventilate for a few seconds. But on a whim, I told him to get down in a really humiliating pose, pull his tackle out and let it dangle, and then wiggle his ass around slowly while I told him to think about me watching him. Then I told him to stand up, pull his trousers back up, tuck his shirt in properly, and think about that moment on the floor for the rest of the day.

He called me back in the evening, upon which I accused him of trying to get me to let him come. He denied it passionately, and said he just wanted to let me know that he noticed, when he got home, that his hot wife had not taken her birth control pills with her on the weekend with her black lover. (Duh duh DUHHHHH.) He also said that he had gotten a call from her, and that they were going to be coming over in 15 minutes.

What did I do? I told him to put on the thigh-high stockings that he had purchased, also at my command, and wear those under his at-home pants. And then make sure that there was plenty of beer chilling in the fridge, because he’s a good girl and I expect him to give good service. I told him to make sure and add this second call to the journal that I’m making him keep of when he gets an erection. And then I said good night.

I don’t know why I did it that way. It just seemed like the right approach for him. And afterward I had to smile. Easiest money I ever made NOT getting a guy off. I wonder how long I–and he–can keep it up?

Try me, I said, trying not to laugh. The young man on the other end sounded shy, and I didn’t want him to startle and disappear into the forest.

I really want to fuck those tits of yours…

Okay.

Can you just make sure to say “big white tits” and “big black cock”?

Sounds easy enough, right? I do have big white tits, and I can imagine wrapping those suckers around a decent-sized dick of any color. He said he was African-American, so hey, let me drop that rack all over you. But after about 10 minutes into his half-hour block, in the middle of a ritualistic, impressionistic, stream-of-consciousness narrative of black hardness and big-white-tit-ness, I am a) running out of ways to say ‘big white tits’ and ‘big black cock’–which makes me feel inadequate as a professional wordsmith–and b) wondering, yet again, what is it about this combo of white and black that turns many people on, so very much?

He seemed to be getting off on the visual of it, the idea of that contrast between his dark cock and the expanse of soft creamy white flesh. Every repetition of those words made him shudder, and when I said once, just to take a break, “you like how that looks?”, his response was, “Oh my god, it looks so amazing!” It is a striking contrast, for those who don’t see it often or only in carefully staged porn, so I imagine that it’s part of it.

But the taboo aspect is more interesting, being more difficult to untangle. White folks have been placed as sexually off-limits for people of color in American society, enforced by centuries of slavery and lynchings and laws, so to be able to have that flesh might feel, in some way, to some people, like a release or a challenge. (I’m not saying it’s a conscious thing. We’re all fucking soaking in this shit…) And for the white men who call up looking for that experience from the other side, perhaps the act of being done by a black man is the easiest line from A to B, owing to how marginalized, feared, and hated African-American men are in our culture. “I want 7 minutes of violation and degradation” = “quick, get a black man raping my ass”.

Now that I think about it, race-based fantasy is kinda like the fast food of phone sex. A lot of people like it, although they may be ashamed to admit it. It’s quick and easily accessible and doesn’t require a lot of thought, either as a provider or as a consumer. The whole fetishistic package uses images and emotions and cliches and stereotypes and ingrained gut response to go straight to the libido and satisfy it, for a time. And then, well, they’re hungry for more.

Like my titty fucker. He’s now a regular. I guess he likes the way I serve it up. I’m into it, he says, and describe it so well. But really, every time it’s the same damn meal.

Big white tits. Big black cock.

And always a milkshake to wash it down.

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.