Mr. Jones, can you tell us about the time you made love to a black woman?

Well, I don’t really see how this is going to help anyone with anything. Then again, you could argue that such a story could enrich the lives of countless people and last time I checked enriching the lives of countless people was my responsibility.

Like many stories of passion it starts and ends with a castle. Unlike most stories of passion however, the castle was located on a mini-golf course between a hole with a giant Paul Bunyan statue and a hole with a windmill that had a nasty reputation of making guys look like kind of a douche in front of their dates.

We never did make it to the windmill.

Wait, hold on. It didn’t start with the castle. It couldn’t start at the castle because I had to pay before I got on the course and the place where you pay and the castle were two totally different places. My mistake. It still ended with one, though.

Anyway, I went mini-golfing by myself as I often do when I find myself troubled. What was troubling me, you ask? Honestly, the details are personal and I’m really not at liberty to tell.

On a completely unrelated note, Becky is still a huge bitch.

I saw her when I went to pay for my admission. Sometimes I still see her when I close my eyes. Or when I drive by the mini-golf place and she’s working. I knew it cost $7.50 for a round, but I did not know it was also going to cost me a piece of my heart and that she was going to keep the change. When I say she kept the change I’m referring to my heart and not actual money. If she short-changed me I probably would have said something and lovemaking would not have occurred because she would probably have thought me a bit of an asshole for calling her out on her mistake.

She was something else, though; practically perfect in every way. She was shorter than me, which is a huge deal for me. I mean I’m only like five foot seven so you can see how this is important. She also weighed less than me. Another huge bonus. Other than that, she was pretty normal. As far as black chicks go.

It should be noted that I usually mini-golf with two balls when I’m alone and sorting things out. Sometimes this causes issues depending on whose behind the counter. If this bothered her, she showed no sign that it did. I paid her and she handed my club. I thanked her, but my voice was shaky. Embarrassed at the sound of my voice, I began to sweat uncontrollably. She found this endearing and she smiled at me. At this point, a white girl would probably have spit in my face.

“What color balls do you normally golf with?” she asked.
“Blue,” I said.
She placed her hands over mine.
“Not today, you don’t.”

She grabbed my hand and led me to the castle on hole 8. She opened a tiny maitenence hatch and led me inside. I asked her what we were doing and she just giggled. I pretty much assumed she wanted to bang me from the get go, but I figured I’d ask anyway.

What happened inside that little castle on that unassuming par two was nothing short of magical. Our love was primal and raw, while at the same time maintaining a touch of civility. I was forceful and she loved it. I bet she felt like the Titanic as it crashed into that iceberg on that fateful night.

Actually, no. She probably didn’t. That’s a bad simile. A boat crashing into ice does not feel good. She probably felt like someone who was having really good sex. Which she was.

When we left that castle, a family of five looked on in awe. The mother started to clap but her husband stopped her. We also managed to accidentally switch pants in the darkness of that castle, so maybe they were just horrified.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story that will continue to enrich your life.

Edit by Leon Firestone: Yeah, I'm pretty sure this never happened. And I don’t know who Becky is either.

Edit by Mr. Jones: You know what? Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I like writing a special genre of erotica where unassuming white guys partake in no-strings-attached interracial sex.

Edit by Leon Firestone: That’s not a genre.

Edit by Mr. Jones: Yet.