Monday, November 17, 2008

Home Boys Get The Beltway

"There're some hot babes here tonight. Check those two over there . . ."

"Kyle -- we're practically the only white people here."

"Chill, Rick. Obama won. We're safe. Just make sure they can see your hat."

Rick readjusted his "Yes We Did!" ball cap, touching the Obama symbol for good luck. Kyle removed his blue sport jacket and puffed out his doughy chest, hoping that the bar's patrons would notice his t-shirt.




"Man, if this doesn't get us laid, I may have to go Latina," whispered Kyle.

"Well, I still have those Bill Richardson buttons."

They laughed, then ordered another round of Heineken Light.

Rick, a Cornell grad, worked as a Project Associate at the Brookings Institution, studying Near East policy with a principal focus on Pakistan. He hated Brookings, but understood the need to fatten his resume for future advancement, ideally in a second Obama administration. Kyle, a whiz kid from Princeton, wrote financial stories for various liberal outlets, primarily The New Republic, where he made the dullest topics seem interesting with an overuse of adjectives. His pieces on Obama's economic proposals earned him significant attention, most recently an offer from Newsweek. Yet Kyle would give it all away to direct Hustler DVDs and live near a topless, Caribbean beach, a secret passion he told no one about, Rick included.

Kyle did share with Rick a lust for black women. Rick's obsession began in his teens, when he masturbated to photos of Li'l Kim and Destiny's Child. Kyle's came later while at Princeton, where he fixated on a cafeteria worker named Rashea. He wrote graphic love letters to Rashea, but lacked the courage to send them, settling instead for amateur ebony porn, the "ghetto ho" genre his fave.

In the real world, Rick and Kyle's awkwardness and soft pale bodies made it hard for them to attract African-American dates. They became active Obama supporters, thinking that if he got elected, their quest for black pussy might be realized. On election night, Rick and Kyle wept with joy, immediately plotting which black bars would be safest to cruise, always certain to wear prominent Obama gear.

"What about that one near the exit?" Kyle nodded toward a bold, beautiful woman, late-twentyish, wearing a white silk blouse and tight red skirt. "She looks like Serena Williams. God, you know she'd ride you into next week without breaking a sweat. Should I talk to her?"

Rick hesitated. Since Obama's victory, they'd been rejected by at least a dozen African-American women, most of whom laughed at their pathetic come-ons, while a few threatened to hurt them physically. Kyle was fine with that, until Rick suggested their promised aggression had nothing to do with sex.

"I don't know, man. She looks tough. At least let's finish our beers first."

"Fuck that. It's getting late. I'm goin' for it."

Kyle strolled casually to the woman, straightening his t-shirt so that its message could be easily read.

"Hi!"

She turned to Kyle. "Well, hi yourself, baby. What can I do for you?"

She had a slight southern accent, seemed friendly, a first for Kyle, which excited and frightened him.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She ignored Kyle's offer and stared at his shirt. "So -- Obama's your home boy, is he?"

"Yeah. I guess. I mean, he's more my home president than my home boy -- err, man." Kyle winced, expecting another harsh rejection.

The woman smiled. "That's cute. You like Barack, eh? And since you like Barack, you want me to like you, is that right?"

Kyle swallowed hard. "I think so."

"No need to be nervous. I like a little cracker with my soup. That your friend over there, with the hat?"

"Yeah."

"Well, bring his ass over! You boys came to party, and now you got one."

Rick joined Kyle and was introduced to Chanel -- "Savory smell, spicy taste" as she put it, licking her lips. Kyle nearly passed out. He bumped into Rick who held him up, nudging him with an elbow.

"So," said Chanel, "should we make this a private party?"

Both nodded yes, unable to speak.

"All right then. I live down the block. Y'all don't mind walking a lady home, do you?"

Kyle and Rick couldn't believe their luck. The possibility of actual sex with a black woman overwhelmed any anxiety they had about being nude next to each other. They perked up and walked briskly down the street with Chanel, anticipation growing with each hurried step. Living in a post-racial society was already paying off.

NEXT: Kyle and Rick's late night adventure, or "Let's Come Together For The Sake Of The Nation."