Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... understand the mixture of anger and despair he was feeling. But I was thirteen, things were happening to me too. Puberty was turning everything upside down inside me. I had a cock that seemed like it was always hard. No matter how often I masturbated, I still woke up in the morning with wet underpants. My cock was like some ravenous alien creature that was grafted onto me - I couldn't go more than a minute without seeing something, or thinking of something that made it stir. If the world had been kinder to my father, if he was still the strong, vibrant man I grew up with he might have helped me with this. He might have shown me that all men feel that way. But the father I knew was gone. Instead of feeling sadness, I was angry at him. Angry at his weakness, fearing that his defeat by the world meant that I too would be beaten down. I'd look over at him with contempt, wondering how he could let the world treat him this way. "C'Mon Dad - put the Jeffersons back on!" "I'm sick of seeing jigaboos. I see enough of them without having to watch them in my own house." He wasn't even looking at me. Funny though -- it seemed like every channel he switched to had a black person on it: Barbara Jordan pontificating on Nixon; Soul Train; Howard Cossel interviewing Muhammed Ali. And when he saw Ali, he flicked the set off. And then it started: that roar that started every night at this time from upstairs. Our walls started vibrating as the music of James Brown thundered over our heads. They ...

... must have speakers like steamer trunks up there, and it sounded like they were placed face down on the floor, so loud was the rumble. He tried to ignore it. He pretended it didn't bother him. He buried his face in the News. There was no place for him to hide, because even the News was about blacks - the front page had a picture of a couple of black killers being led in handcuffs up the stairs of a precinct. Still, he just sat there, and I felt this strange feeling rise within me. Each time the music started I remembered what happened a few weeks ago. It was a Saturday morning when a black woman and three tall boys got on the elevator with me. She said hello, she told me they had just moved into the building, and when I spoke with her I realized they were in the apartment above us. She seemed really friendly. Her sons were between 17 and 20, they were tall lanky kids with huge afros, they looked down at me coolly, saying nothing. When I went home and told Dad, he looked pissed, as if this was just the latest in a long line of personal wounds. He didn't say anything, but I could see the anger on his face, the way he looked upwards as if he might see them through the ceiling. That night the music started. Not too loud, but loud enough for both of us to hear. I think it was Sly and the Family Stone, once he heard it he sprang out of his recliner and stormed out the door. I hadn't seen him act so decisively, so boldly in months. A few minutes later I heard footsteps from upstairs ...