Decolonize your pussy

Sex on Tuesday

I’m shirtless on his bed, chatting with someone through his bedroom window of the Person of Color theme house. He kisses down my back, hints that I should cut my conversation short. He starts taking off my clothes and pushes my head toward his dick — no words, just a gesture. And promptly after giving him head, he tries to stick his dick inside me, which to no surprise is fucking impossible because of the complete lack of foreplay. He lies beside me, satisfied — he thinks his dick is too big to fit inside me. I lie beside him, satisfied that I didn’t fuck such a cocky asshole. I think to myself, instead of wasting his time posting some fake-woke nonsense on Facebook, he should take a moment to read a Reddit thread on how to eat a woman out.

I love fucking men of color. I appreciate the commonalities — that they know what it’s like to be in a space, on a campus, in a world that doesn’t value us because of our skin. I like the way foreplay consists of discussions on colonialism and railing on white supremacy. I like the silent knowing of traumas, cultures and childhood memories. Something beautiful occurs when I have sex with someone who is also a person of color. It’s a realization and recognition of shared centuries of history between our bodies. A narrative of pain, struggle, migration, diaspora and subjugation, interwoven to the touches that brought us here, in this moment. Culminating in a brief yet lingering moment of joy.

I hate fucking men of color. I hate the way they cut me off when I’m speaking, the way they act like I don’t know anything. I hate the way they cling to their race to avoid recognizing their male privilege. I hate the way they demand orgasms, with an entitlement to cum inside you that mimics a possessiveness over the body that women of color know too well. I hate that sometimes they couldn’t give a single fuck about my orgasm. I hate that when you tell them this, they jump to defensiveness. They claim that these arguments mirror those that have always oppressed them, that women of color are harming the ultimate fight for liberation. And they do all this rather than recognize that we are shedding light on the masculine tendencies instilled by colonialism — shedding a light on how they are re-enacting the violence of the colonizer.

One guy I met at a party, and 30 minutes later he was eating me out on a couch in the basement of his co-op. We were fuck buddies for months on end — but in addition to the sex, there were hours spent unpacking his traumas, from past heartbreaks to childhood pain to his struggles with his biracial identity. I gave him space to discover himself, question the world, and have his dick sucked. I began to ask for my own emotional space, for him to reciprocate, and he promptly told me he couldn’t do “this” anymore.

I met this other guy on Tinder, and after fucking for a month he tells me that we shouldn’t see each other anymore because he got a sign from Allah. In moments like these, I think to myself, men of color can be such entitled pieces of shit.

But then other moments come, and I reconsider my quick judgments and blanket statements.

I had met him 20 times before, but he only stuck on me after the 20th. Sometimes I worry that he can’t keep up, that all my heat will have him running. My “fuck white supremacy” attitude, my curly, coarse, tangled hair, my shit temper. I wonder if he can accept the generations of trauma I’ve inherited or the ingrained fear and hatred from the abusive, careless men I’ve been tasked with loving.

He’s cool chilling though, keeping up with my heat, and I keep up with his. He bleeds motherland pride, and his comfort food is what his tias make. I love his machismo, though it drives me crazy. Sometimes I think I could punch a fucking wall, set a house on fire — but maybe that’s just because I crave his heat. Between broken Spanish and Tagalog, between pancit in Union City and mariscos in Fruitvale, between him and me, my world feels like it’s breaking and reshaping and becoming whole.

There’s always heat when it comes to our sex. He asks me if anyone’s ever fucked me as good as he does. He asks me, but he always knows the answer. He asked me to call his dick Tenoch or Cuauhtémoc, the first or the last of the Aztec kings. Out loud, I tell him he’s full of absolute shit, just like the rest of them, men of color, all machistas. Inside, I tell him I love him, that I would do anything for him, that I’d call him anything he wanted.

So here I am, in a stuck place, somewhere between resentment and passion, where lessons are learned and taught on a two-way street — and to myself I call this place love. I realize that fucking men of color is love and hate felt simultaneously, a balancing act, filled with painful realizations, uprooting feelings of joy, and everything in between.

I keep that to myself, though. Men like him always need to be left on the heat a little bit longer.

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Rizza writes the Tuesday column on sex. Contact her at [email protected] .