The Trailer Park

I am a long way from home, in both the literal and figurative sense. My destination is almost two hours away from where I live. My destination is well north of Paradise City. Bat Country. Confederate flags and, “You ain’t from around here.” stares. An astute observation there. What gave me away? The beautiful Black skin or the glittering, rose gold tennis necklace? Quite all right, the feeling is mutual. I am here because I love pussy. Pussy. Money. Weed. The Holy Trinity. I am willing to travel considerable distances in the pursuit of worthwhile pleasures, and Danielle is worth the excursion.

The drive is beautiful. Stretches of open highway. The sky is an infinite shade of blue. Pop punk and clove cigarettes keep me occupied. Danielle lives in a trailer, a double wide to be more specific. Her mother is an alcoholic. Her stepfather is a useless lump who enables her mother every step of the way so that she does not leave him. Her brother and stepsister are amiable enough, but will most likely never venture beyond the trailer park. Danielle has other ideas. She lives in this world, but is not of it, shooting me a look whenever I crack about her being a backward white.

Danielle is intolerant to white bullshit. Actively hostile. One evening when I was out here with her, someone at a gathering that was held here referred to me as a nigger. I was not present, but within earshot. She promptly beat the shit out of him, then politely asked him to leave. I drive down an unpaved driveway that leads to a double wide surrounded by trees. There is no one else within a few miles, which is handy when I am blowing Danielle’s back out. She is waiting for me outside as I arrive, cigarette between her lips, whiskey + coke in her hands. A babe.

Danielle’s aesthetic is High Trash—white trash with a W subscription. Bubblegum pink lipgloss. A bottle blonde with shamelessly exposed brown roots. A seemingly limitless collection of large hoop earrings. According to Danielle, “The bigger the hoops, the bigger the hoe.” I feel like there is some validity to this observation. She removes the cigarette from her mouth as I approach, pulling me into her body and kissing me passionately. I slide my hands down her waist, settling them on her ass. Danielle pulls my body closer, separating her mouth from mine for a moment to look into my eyes with a penetrative gaze. Someone is hungry.

“No one is home.” Danielle can hardly contain her glee. 

“You better wear this pussy out.” 

Who am I to deny such a request? I follow her ass as she walks ahead of me, as I often do. Women I am intimate with are aware of this and indulge me accordingly. It is great to be the Queen. The simple way to describe my lifestyle is that I am a whore. I spend a significant portion of my life in intimate situations with insatiable and enchanting women. There is pleasure. There is pleasurable pain. There is also catharsis—mental, emotional, spiritual. The sexual aspects of whore life, while still comically misunderstood by mainstream society on purpose, are a given.

Yes, I fuck. A lot. On average, somewhere between three and ten times per week. Every week. I enjoy it. I love performing the Sexual Act. When I am not having sex, I am training for sex. Lifting. Walking. Meditating. Conditioning. Yes, I have other hobbies and interests. I have studied numerous spiritual traditions for example. I love quantum mechanics and behavioral economics. I am not aberration. Whores are into all kinds of shit. My primary interest however, is sex.

Which is why I am in the kitchen of a double wide trailer drinking whiskey with this blonde firecracker with a bad attitude. Danielle is a bitch, and I find that attractive. She is loud, she is aggressive. She chain smokes and is first to admit that, like her mother, Danielle loves her alcohol. Too much? She is one of the most on top of her shit bitches I have ever met, so who am I to judge? 

We talk, we drink, we smoke. Cannabis, not cigarettes. I love drugs. Cannabis is my personal favorite. I am a stoner without a doubt. Life is quite fine as is, but is even better behind the rose gold tinted glasses known as cannabis. Whenever I smoke with white women, I think about the racist propaganda from the early 1900s that positioned Black people as corrupting forces, seducing white women with cannabis, which subsequently turned them into insatiable whores for jungle dick. I believe, now I should preface this statement with a qualifier because the weed and whiskey are pleasantly altering my consciousness, that psychologists would call that projection.

Sharon wants the jungle dick Steve. She wants the cannabis and the jungle dick. Separately and together. It gets worse, but no reason to shatter all of your illusions at once, so I will move on. Two hand rolled palm leaves packed with cannabis smoked down to the corn husk filter and Danielle is more than ready to fuck—right after this shot of whiskey she pours for each of us. Whew. Spicy. All right, on to the sex. Danielle is leading me by the hand to her bedroom which is conveniently on the far end of the double wide, providing the appropriate distance from the other bedrooms so that she can hoe in relative peace.

Writing about sex is peculiar for me. I love fucking. I do not enjoy thinking about fucking. I find thinking to be a considerably overrated activity. Danielle is an insatiable dick monster. Pardon me, she is a white woman, so allow me to rephrase—Danielle is an insatiable cock monster. Better. Cock is an exceptional word. White people snapped with that. Danielle loves dick. Openly. Shamelessly. Passionately. She loves to suck dick and she loves to take dick. In her bed, the side of the house, the middle of a park, on the patio of a Starbucks that overlooked a man made lake—Danielle wants dick when she wants it, and she wants a lot of it.

Who am I to deny her?


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