That Time I Was Fetishized as a Black Woman
Racial desire is a thing.
When I look back at the incident, I realize now that I didn’t recognize it for everything it was as it was happening. I knew I had been violated but had no idea I was being fetishized and I absolutely should have because the offender told me so.
When someone shows you who they are believe them but when someone flat out tells you, pay attention.
That’s what I get, right?
In 2007 I was still married but both my ex-husband and I knew that our relationship was done. We hadn’t truly cared about each other the way a married couple should for several years but we had reasons for staying together, the biggest being our daughter.
We hadn’t had sex for over a year.
Don’t get me wrong, we were both to blame for the state of our marriage. He cheated on me almost from day one and I allowed it almost from day one, setting the tone that would continue until we separated in 2008.
So in 2007, we were both doing our own thing. We were each cheating but I was doing a better job of it because our daughter was only six years old and her care fell to me. I had to be more careful. My ex worked overnight which provided fertile ground for his activities and left me alone every night to pursue mine.
However, the fact remains: we were both violating our marriage vows but I was the one who received a late-night visit from karma and he looked an awful lot like an unassuming white guy.
Someone was watching
I had begun to get sloppy with my shit.
One night I was outside my house in a car with the man I’d been seeing. My daughter was asleep in the house and I had a clear view of the front door. Funny enough, one of the last morals I had prevented me from bringing him in the house with my kid there.
So we’d hang out in his car for a couple of hours, kissing, touching, doing everything but having sex. I had a line I wouldn’t cross though it didn’t prevent me from giving him a blowjob each night in the front seat of the car.
I lived at the top of a dead-end street and he would park alongside my yard, cut the lights and we’d go at it. Streetlights illuminated the night but there were none directly above us so being seen wasn’t foremost on my mind.
I don’t know why I thought it was okay to go down on him in full nighttime view but not lie on the backseat and have sex. What was the difference between my head bobbing in the front seat and his ass pumping in the back?
Apparently, my neighbor didn’t see any difference either.
He had been watching from his upstairs window, covertly observing our actions through a unique view down into the car through the windshield.
He saw everything. And he thought my husband should know what he’d witnessed.
“I want to see your tits. I’ve never seen a black chick’s tits.”
On that particular night, after my man left, my neighbor came knocking on my door. He was younger than me and I’d known him for about six years, as long as I’d lived on the street. I was friendly with his parents, his dad being the former local fire chief and his mom a crossing guard where my daughter attended school. I saw him often actually. He and his fiance.
I cautiously walked to the screen door on our front porch and looked out at him, surprised to see him. It was pretty late but I figured he was being neighborly about something; maybe my side yard gate was open and my dog had gotten out again. His dad was always bringing my little pug back after his backyard escapes.
But that’s not why he was there.
“Hi.”
“Um, hey…” I looked around and didn’t see my dog. Why was he here?
“Listen, this is weird but I saw you. I’ve seen you quite a few times.”
I knew at that moment exactly what he was talking about but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Saw me do what, Justin?”
“I saw you give your friend a blowjob.”
My heart sank even as the asshole in me wanted to say “I don’t usually give my friends blowjobs; clearly you’re mistaken.”
Even though my ex and I both knew of the other’s shenanigans, we tried to maintain a modicum of respect for the other by being as discreet as possible. Sounds odd, I know, but we weren’t ready to completely call it quits. Our arrangement worked for us and we had practical reasons for staying together. Parading our lovers around wasn’t going to help the situation in which we had put ourselves. I wasn’t going to let Justin mess that up.
“So what do you want, Justin?” My tone had noticeably changed becoming more firm with an undertone of annoyance. I’m certain it turned him on.
“I want to see your tits. I’ve never seen a black chick’s tits.”
And there it was.
I knew I was being victimized at that moment but I didn’t quite get that I was also being fetishized though Justin flat out told me so with his statement.
As a woman and especially as a Black woman, victimization wasn’t new to me but my own fetishization was a concept I’d never explored.
I felt my face get hot but if you'd asked me why I would have said because I was pissed. How dare he! But righteous indignation shared the space with shame. Shame for so many reasons.
How many times had he seen us? Did he jerk off to the idea of my black tits? Did he tell anyone else? Had he witnessed me wipe my mouth after swallowing? Had he formed opinions about my character? Did I perpetuate whatever Black girl magic myth he had going on in his head?
The obligatory threat to tell my husband that came after was almost an afterthought, a non-event. It was like he needed justification for demanding to see my breasts and oh yeah! I saw her suck some guy’s cock in his car outside her house and her husband isn’t home. Got it!
Justin was incredibly pleased with the position he found himself in. He had nothing to lose unless I called his bluff and he knew I wouldn’t.
As I lifted my shirt and the streetlights washed my breasts with an amber glow making them appear almost ethereal and so incongruent to what was taking place, Justin looked as though he had found the sexual holy grail. The one that white men who don’t date outside their race surreptitiously search for from their safe space.
Do you know what went through my mind at that moment? How sorry I felt for his fiance. I’m pretty sure that I had seen her carrying a baby. I don’t remember much about that time except that my neighbor wanted to see a black chick’s tits and had stumbled upon a stroke of serendipity.
What’s the difference?
As a Black woman, I’m intensely aware that we can be a sexual novelty to men of other races. Intellectually I get the allure of the sexual unknown but when it comes right down to it, Black women have the same vaginas, the same breasts, the same asses (well…….) as those of white women or women of any other race.
What about us screams fetish?
Is it the trope of the “strong Black woman” that makes men of other races long to experiment? How does the Angry Black Woman sexually translate? Are men expecting dominance and baseline anger? Does African American Vernacular English guarantee a more vocal and vulgar, for that matter, experience?
Those who reduce Black women to a sexual fetish are the same people who reduce Black people to long-held stereotypes of race.
When my ex-boyfriend told his brother that he was dating a Black woman, the first thing his brother said was, “I’ll bet she wants to fuck all the time.” I’m sorry, what? What about me, other than my race, gave rise to this inspired opinion? He had never met me.
Or is it as simple as color? I’ve been described as mocha, cafe au lait, and high yellow (this one reminds me of jaundice). Is it sexier to run your hand slowly over the curve of a caramel hip? Is it the coarseness of our pubic hair in contrast to that of a white woman? It’s a mystery to me. I’ve never experienced the feeling of wanting a man or wanting to see his penis, for instance, simply because he’s white or Asian or Hispanic.
To this day, I’m ashamed and embarrassed — not at the fetishization or violation, but because I lifted my shirt. I gave Justin what he wanted. I felt cornered and I hadn’t yet learned that advocating for myself as a Black woman is a far different kind of advocacy than standing up for myself as either a woman or as a Black person. It’s harder and much more nuanced.
When you live at the corner of race street and gender boulevard, you must look to your left, your right, up, down, and behind you before stepping onto the avenue. It’s a busy thoroughfare and most people are not paying enough attention to see you.
Black women as a fetish. It’s one more way of setting us apart from other women and perpetuating the myth of Black people as a whole. I still don’t really grasp it.
Whatever it is though, I can assure the men who would fetishize us that all women are pink where it matters most to you.
How about you? Have you ever been fetishized? If so, on what basis? I know I can’t be the only one and would love to hear about your experiences in the comments.
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