Confessionals (Queer Empathy)

I sometimes watch porn of black men fucking white chics. What a racist bastard to even notice but it's hard not to notice when I've provided all the variables. I remember Mack saying once, it's pretty easy not to fuck somebody, you just don't fuck 'em. That's true of a great number of things including looking at porn. Still, I don't judge it. Ain't none of us makes a lick of sense if all the variables are laid out. I watch black men fucking white chics because in some odd extreme sense I feel that watching this will somehow serve as catharsis to my acute traumatic past when my then wife chose to leave me for dead while simultaneously enjoy a new relationship with a black man in my own bed, a bed I never returned to, within a week of my absence, after five years of marriage. That man left a woman pregnant to enjoy this new found relationship and also had several children to care for besides the pregnant woman. Her point I thought was that I was simply useless, so useless that it should be an objective fact that I had gone, it was a clean break and that she was free to enjoy a new relationship. No matter what that relationship entailed. This was not love she later admitted although given the attraction and choices they had made I imagine they both felt in love. Slowly, over some months and years I realized the extent of that trauma. There is no satisfactory answer other than, you lose and/or you are crazy (meaning me) and look what you have driven me to (meaning she). And/Or, I never loved you or I simply no longer love you. A lot to think about. A lot to process. But there is nothing to process and no court to reconcile as has been true for all time. To extremes. So I pull out my cock, pull up a video, the bigger the black cock the better and jerk off to it plunging into the imaginary form of my wife until I can see all the physical intimacy of her experience and the shallowness of mine. And when I can see it and say it and not fear it and know it through and through without the slightest need for permission or posture, I'm through. Spurt. Done.
Now before my reader imagines this a rant of foulness or a knife for an ex-bride, know the extent also to which I don't focus on these things. The countless hours of building and seeking and working, yes working most waking moments, to represent most effectively and efficiently the inter connective tissues of a diseased life, most lives, and healthy ones. In want of health. In honest report. A foul and flawed thing. Hope.