OK, Cupid. Send Me No White Boys, Please
I once met a gay, white American tourist at a bar in Bangkok who, like so many before him, made everything about race. Unsurprisingly, once he had my attention, he felt compelled to share the racial dimensions of his sexual inclinations.
As he leaned in, I braced myself for more of the same old, same old:
“I love black men.”
“I’ve never been with a black man.”
“I’ve always wanted to be with a black man.”
“Is it true what they say about black men?”
I’d been hearing the song and dance of gratuitous racial profiling and sexual objectification since leaving the United States years earlier to live abroad in countries where black wasn’t just a minority but a true rarity (first Argentina, then Australia, and finally — at the time — Thailand). However, the gay, white American tourist’s variation on the oh-so-familiar theme came with a twist.
“I’m into Asians and black guys,” the farang said to me as if he were the first white person ever to utter those words. Then, the kicker: “I’m not attracted to white guys at all.”
Sexually and romantically speaking, they were virtual non-entities to him. He barely noticed them.
He wasn’t the first GWM I’d encountered with a distaste for anyone lighter than beige. I’d been wined, dined, and pursued by so many who had gone black and had no intention of ever going back. But for those guys, the no-whites dating policy was always heavily implied, never stated out loud.
He wasn’t the first GWM I’d encountered with a distaste for anyone lighter than beige. I’d been wined, dined, and pursued by so many who had gone black and had no intention of ever going back.
This GWM, though, was different. He spoke with such obvious pride and gave me a look laden with great expectations, as if it was my ethnic duty as a gay black male to admire his excellent taste in men.