He Wished She was White, or, Miller's Country
Sitting up on the bed, she put on her bra. Her back curved down to her ass in the same shape as Miller's violin. Her skin was the violin's color. Her hair, like its strings. Miller ran his index finger down the line of her spine and felt her gooseflesh bump up, but she made no sound. She stood and walked across the floor, into the bathroom. He didn't know why she had bothered to put on her bra but nothing else. Maybe her tits were cold. Or whatever. It didn't matter. Miller pulled the sheet down and looked at his cock, as if that might change anything. Nothing. He wished she had been white.
It had always been a lingering fear, pre-sexual even. As far back (and maybe farther) as nine years old, in his very first youth orchestra. All those cute little Asian girls. Black girls with beads in their braids. Indian girls with funny names. But he loved the little blonde girl. The blonde girl with blue eyes. And as Miller grew he became a champion in his own mind of racial injustices. He gave money every quarter to the NAACP. Hell, he would have marched at Selma if he had been alive then. He had a poster of Cesar Chavez in his freshman dorm room, right next to his poster of Stravinsky. His summers were spent at inner city youth camps and workshops. He knew all the good Korean restaurants and read the Bhagavad-Gita when riding the train. He was no racist. He proved that every day of his life, not just in his words but in his actions. He was no racist. Racism was a disease that could only be cured through love and understanding. Miller loved. Miller understood. He was no racist.
But the fact remained. This woman of color (not sure which), in every curve and in every inch of skin and in every display of her erotic splendor, had done nothing for him. After twenty minutes of fruitless grinding atop her, he faked it. For the first time in his life he faked it. For the first time in his life he was fucking a girl who was not white. They had eaten a large meal that night, sure. And then they went for drinks at a club and got a little tipsy, sure. And he was reaching an age where such things would only become more common, sure. Who's to say that, if she had been white, the same thing would not have happened? Sure. But Miller knew. Miller knew.
Maybe it was her fault. She seemed to be enjoying it. But if he had faked it, perhaps she had as well. Maybe she was just bad at it. That could be. It takes two to fucking tango, after all. Why must he hate himself? Why can't she accept some of the blame in this--shit, she should accept all the blame. Why must he apologize to her? What, because he's white? Is that all white people were allowed to do, apologize? These People come into his country--Miller's country!--and he's supposed to apologize to them, goddamn it? All this fucking false guilt! If They were the majority, don't you doubt for a second that They would treat Us so much worse--
She came out of the bathroom. Miller pulled the sheet back over his body. He smiled at her. She smiled back. She put her dress back on, her stiletto heels. She wrapped up her stockings and put them in her purse. Miller could barely stomach the sight of her, so smug and pleased with herself. He could strangle her with those stockings and no one would ever know or care. She asked for the rest of her money. He grabbed his wallet from the hotel nightstand and handed her the cash inside. Three hundred and fifty dollars--plus dinner and all those drinks. Jesus. He knew where he could have gotten four white girls and come eight times for that kind of money.
Her ass bounced like some primitive drum as she walked out of the room. Miller had a good mind to call up this fancy-as-fuck escort service and tell them that they're not doing anyone any good by pimping out girls like…that. Miller knew. It's just white guilt, is what it is.
It had always been a lingering fear, pre-sexual even. As far back (and maybe farther) as nine years old, in his very first youth orchestra. All those cute little Asian girls. Black girls with beads in their braids. Indian girls with funny names. But he loved the little blonde girl. The blonde girl with blue eyes. And as Miller grew he became a champion in his own mind of racial injustices. He gave money every quarter to the NAACP. Hell, he would have marched at Selma if he had been alive then. He had a poster of Cesar Chavez in his freshman dorm room, right next to his poster of Stravinsky. His summers were spent at inner city youth camps and workshops. He knew all the good Korean restaurants and read the Bhagavad-Gita when riding the train. He was no racist. He proved that every day of his life, not just in his words but in his actions. He was no racist. Racism was a disease that could only be cured through love and understanding. Miller loved. Miller understood. He was no racist.
But the fact remained. This woman of color (not sure which), in every curve and in every inch of skin and in every display of her erotic splendor, had done nothing for him. After twenty minutes of fruitless grinding atop her, he faked it. For the first time in his life he faked it. For the first time in his life he was fucking a girl who was not white. They had eaten a large meal that night, sure. And then they went for drinks at a club and got a little tipsy, sure. And he was reaching an age where such things would only become more common, sure. Who's to say that, if she had been white, the same thing would not have happened? Sure. But Miller knew. Miller knew.
Maybe it was her fault. She seemed to be enjoying it. But if he had faked it, perhaps she had as well. Maybe she was just bad at it. That could be. It takes two to fucking tango, after all. Why must he hate himself? Why can't she accept some of the blame in this--shit, she should accept all the blame. Why must he apologize to her? What, because he's white? Is that all white people were allowed to do, apologize? These People come into his country--Miller's country!--and he's supposed to apologize to them, goddamn it? All this fucking false guilt! If They were the majority, don't you doubt for a second that They would treat Us so much worse--
She came out of the bathroom. Miller pulled the sheet back over his body. He smiled at her. She smiled back. She put her dress back on, her stiletto heels. She wrapped up her stockings and put them in her purse. Miller could barely stomach the sight of her, so smug and pleased with herself. He could strangle her with those stockings and no one would ever know or care. She asked for the rest of her money. He grabbed his wallet from the hotel nightstand and handed her the cash inside. Three hundred and fifty dollars--plus dinner and all those drinks. Jesus. He knew where he could have gotten four white girls and come eight times for that kind of money.
Her ass bounced like some primitive drum as she walked out of the room. Miller had a good mind to call up this fancy-as-fuck escort service and tell them that they're not doing anyone any good by pimping out girls like…that. Miller knew. It's just white guilt, is what it is.