One of the most insidious aspects of these parties were the masksthat some of the black guys wore. My face was totally exposed, but therewere dozens of black men. It first hit me when I was riding the train afew days after the first party and a black man in a business suit wassitting across from me. We made eye contact in the casual way thatstrangers do and suddenly it hit me; did he recognize me? Did he know me?Had he fucked me at the party, or had I sucked his cock? Not knowing wasthe worst. Now, no longer would I be able to ride a train or sit in ameeting with a black man without wondering if he was one of the guys thathad seen me at my most vulnerable and whorish. Every black man I met fromnow could, potentially, already know me more intimately than anyone else.I could be recognized in the grocery store, at the gym, while shopping forclothes, eating in a restaurant, anywhere. I could never be sure anymore,and the realization that these parties would fundamentally alter. The other hand was gently stroking my hair and my back.Yep, definitely one of the nicest feelings in the world.I felt his body shift slightly, and then I felt him gently kiss the top of my head. “Welcome back, princess,” he whispered, his voice soft and gentle as if he were trying not to frighten a nervous animal. Maybe he was.I wanted to acknowledge him. I wanted to let him know that I’d heard him talking to me and felt him holding me. I wanted to make some great, inspiring thank-you speech. All I could come up with though was, “We’re sitting in my closet!” My voice came out like a hoarse whisper.Somehow I sensed that he smiled at that. “Well technically, I’m only half in your closet. It seems I’m way too big to sit in your closet, especially with you in here as well.”“Obviously I need a bigger closet,” I whispered. “I’ll have to ask my sweet big brother to build me a new one.”He chuckled, “I’ll get right on that!” His chuckle had done interesting things to his chest and stomach.
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