He snuck off to the bedroom to change into what he thought were casual street clothes. For the first time in his life, he wore a baseball cap backwards. He hoped he looked cool, but at the same time, he didn’t want to bump into anyone he knew. That’d be embarrassing.
As anonymously as possible, he headed to the 77th Street subway station. He descended the steps, walked through the turnstile, and waited on the platform for the 6 train to carry him northward. He alighted at the 116th Street station. He climbed back to street level, and walked north a couple more blocks before turning west.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in Harlem, but he was sure it would’ve been in a car. He couldn’t ever recall walking these streets before. He’d only travelled 39 city blocks from home, but he felt like he was in a different country.
‘You’re a long way from home, whiteboi,’ he told himself.
There was no opulence here. The stores, cafes and bars were different, the restaurants were different. And the people were different. He knew. That’s what he expected. That’s the reason he came here.
He found a coffee shop and ordered a brew to go. He ordered a ‘cafe Americano’, but he knew what they called the same drink in Australia. They called it a ‘long black’ down under – and a long black was exactly what he craved right now.
He knew he wouldn’t get one. At least, not today.
He sat on a park bench and removed the plastic lid. He sipped his coffee as it slowly cooled, watching people walk by.
It wasn’t the same as he imagined it once was; these days, Harlem was just as multicultural as the rest of his city, but there were scores of tall, well-built African American men walking by. He kept to himself, watching the human traffic.
He made sure not to look anyone in the eye. He didn’t want a conversation, much less confrontation. But sitting on a bench gave him the perfect perspective to check out the bulges as they passed. Some dudes were so big that no amount of fabric could ever hide their secrets.
“Big black cock. Big black cock.” His own personal mantra looped deep inside his consciousness. His mouth began to water, thirsty for dick.
He finished his coffee and caught the subway back home. He walked to his building and rode the elevator. He turned the key and acknowledged his wife before feigning a stomach illness. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind him and locked it.
Some of those Harlem cocks were fucking immense. His own puny whiteboi cock was ready to bust. It took a mere thirty seconds for him to shoot cummies into his palm. He scooped his load into his mouth, imagining that it was a hot black Harlem local unloading onto his tongue.
He knew he needed to go back there again, and soon.
He unlocked the door. Trina was sitting on the balcony, casually flicking through a fashion magazine.
“Hey babe,” he said. He hoped his breath didn’t smell of sperm.
She waved. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“I’ve heard of a new place in Harlem,” Mitch replied.
Trina looked up from her magazine. “Are you fucking serious? I’m not going there. We might get mugged. Besides, since when have you ever wanted to leave the upper east side?”
Mitch’s cock began to rise again as he imagined the possibilities. “We’ll be fine,” he replied. “I’ll protect you. Besides, it’s only a few blocks away.”
Trina shrugged. “Whatever, babe. Could use a change of scenery.”
*
Mitch spent the next half hour googling restaurants in Harlem. He knew gentrification had slowly spread north, but he didn’t want a dining experience he could get on the next block.
He called and reserved a table for 7 o’clock at a place near West 126th street. Mitch asked Trina to be ready to leave by 6.
They left the building to hail a taxicab. “Malcolm X and 127th,” Mitch commanded. They headed north up 3rd Avenue, but traffic was heavier than anticipated.
“Are we going to get there in time?” Trina asked.
Mitch felt confident. “Yeah. We’re good.”
They sat in the backseat, getting whiplash as the driver accelerated, then braked, then accelerated, then braked.
“Hey, driver,” said Mitch, “turn west onto 123rd. We’ll get out at the park.”
Trina squeezed his hand. “Is this where the restaurant is?”
“No, babe. Thought we could walk a few blocks. You know, take in the local atmosphere.”
Trina was nervous as the cab screeched to a halt just before crossing Madison Avenue. She stepped onto the kerb. Marcus Garvey Park was right in front of her. She’d never been here before. Mitch paid the fare and the cabbie sped away in search of his next customer.
“We need to walk up to 126th, then we head west. It’s not too far from here.” Mitch paused for a second. “Or we could walk through the park. If you want to, that is?”
“Have you lost your mind? No fucking way. I’m not leaving the sidewalk. Besides, I’m wearing heels.”
The sun was setting as Mitch and Trina walked the last few blocks to the diner. Trina held Mitch’s hand – not as an expression of love, but of fear. “I feel out of place, Mitch,” she confessed. “We shouldn’t be here. I feel like we’re invading someone else’s neighbourhood.”
Mitch smiled his bold, confident Harvard smile. “We’re still on the island, aren’t we? We’re only a few city blocks from home. Enjoy it, it’s something different!”
Trina didn’t mind being a few city blocks from home, but she wished they’d travelled in the opposite direction towards Midtown. She had no idea what’d gotten into her husband. Never had he expressed any desire or need to visit Harlem. Where had this come from?
Mitch negotiated the sidewalk as he silently checked out the fierce dudes walking towards him. He tried making eye contact.
“What’chu lookin’ at, whiteboi?”
“Uhh …”
The local brushed past Mitch’s arm, but they continued walking. He heard a voice trail behind him. “You see that? Whiteboi’s bitch got some fine titties.” Mitch felt a little rattled now. He could use a stiff drink to settle his nerves.
They arrived and were led to their table. They weren’t the only white people in the room, but they were in a minority. A waitress handed them menus, and Mitch flipped straight to the cocktails page. He felt bold enough to order a beverage for his wife.
“A long island iced tea, please,” he said.
“Make it two, please,” his wife added.
Their drinks arrived a few minutes later. Trina took a dainty sip while Mitch sucked up a third of his drink. “You OK?” she asked.
“Yeah, babe, I’m fine,” he lied. He wasn’t. “Just a little hungry.”
The waitress came back. “What’s good?” asked Mitch.
The waitress glared at him. “Fuck, man, it’s all fuckin’ good,” came her sassy reply.
“Uhh …”
Trina ordered first. “I’d like the grilled salmon, thank you.”
The waitress smiled sweetly. “An excellent choice, ma’am.” She turned towards Mitch. “And for you?”
“Imma get the fried chicken,” he confidently replied.
“Which one? We’ got like fi’ different types.”
Mitch stammered, looking back down at the menu. “I … I’ll get … uhh … the oven-baked half chicken.”
The waitress looked at Mitch’s slight frame and raised a cynical eyebrow. “You gon’ eat half a fuckin’ bird tonight?” She nearly laughed.