Undesirables

Love is meritless, random, a strike from Cupid’s bow, so they often say. But we all know the truth of that. We know that love is not so innocent nor so blind. We know that Wendy was just a bit too fat for your liking. What a shame, since you really liked her save for her massive waistline. And Jamal would be perfect if only he weren’t three inches shorter than you. Still, people romanticize love despite knowing in their heart of hearts that love is as finicky an emotion as any other.

There was the time that I was sure Michelle loved me back. And she did. That is, until she found out my dirty little secret. See, my physical appearance is deceptive: I’m the worst kind of deceiver. The kind that lures a nice white girl in with sweet talk and a slight olive complexion. I spoke to her about physics, memes, and stupid bullshit. I made ridiculous jokes that she vibed with and she only added fuel to the flames of our jovial stupidity. Oh, how fun were our Skype conversations! Miles and miles apart but it felt like she was right next to me. Her pale face was in contrast with the deeply stained mahogany table her gaming rig sat atop. Still, she was never quite as white as Suzy, that Norweigian Forest cat she loved so dearly.

We talked with each other for hours, day after day, until things started heating up. She talked about how she gets wetter than most women. She told me how she loves to have her hair pulled while getting rammed from behind. She not-so-subtly implied that these are the boxes I ought to tick when she comes over. She insisted that we play video games after we fuck; we were nerds, after all. Things were great.

Then, teasing me, she jokes about the bright pink tip of my dick. I correct her, telling her that, actually, the tip of my penis is a lighter brown tone and that my shaft is tan. I expressed to her that I had a Hispanic man’s dick. Then, a silence followed by a painful realization. I was not the white boy of her dreams. I was a fucking spic. Her half Australian and half Norweigian pedigree was far above my own. She wore her white ethnocentricism like a Zwarte Piet mask on Christmas.

She finally replied. “Oh, I thought you were white. I’m sorry, this can’t work.” The words hung in the air like Carlos Esclava’s body hung from that lonely tree on Mokelumne Hill. She went on to tell me how she wishes to keep her ancestry pure and that this was surely no sleight against me. Of course, there was nothing particularly racist about it. She simply wanted to keep my dirty spic legacy far away from her untainted white genepool. She cited lame excuses about “culture” and other such nonsense; as if Australians and Noweigians have cultures that anywhere near resemble each other, yet somehow her parents overcame these cultural differences. Michelle went on to tell me that Italians weren’t really white and that they were a source for much of the problems in Europe.

I was sixteen then. It was the first time I tasted the bitter pill of reality, that my immutable characteristics would bar me from love. It was the first of many pills, since, my dear reader, this was far form an isolated incident. To this day, she believes I’m “too sensitive”, a “snowflake liberal” who became unjustifiably upset. After all, it’s only biological determinisn, right? And why should I take biology so personally when nature doesn’t care about feelings. This is the way things are. I should just grow up, shut my spic mouth, and move on with my life.