I am the head man of the most powerful sports league in the world. Millionaires seek me out in a crowd to shake my hand. Lavish gifts come pouring into my office just for the consideration of being spit on by me. I’ve met presidents, monarchs, and emporers, and rest assured that The Rogg has been king in every court.
And don’t forget that the Rogg is one perceptive son of a gun. I know what you came hear to discover. I can almost hear the question rolling around in your head. Have I ever banged a black chick?
The answer is yes. Yes, I have.
She was an education major during my last year at Wash and Jeff. I like to call it “Wash and Jeff,” because people always ask, “Who’s Jeff?” I don’t think it’s very funny, but I enjoy making others look stupid. It’s a gift, really. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Her name was Chrissy, and she was amazing. Big boobs, big ass, and yet somehow still skinny as a rail. She defied proportion just as she defied society’s expectations of a black woman in 1980. She always wore these button-down shirts, pleated skirt, and argyle socks. I always hoped that one day I might see one of those massive jugs bust out of that shirt. Jesus, if I had a dime for every time I had jerked off to that thought. Big titties know no season.
She had this cute little afro, usually with a headband, and if you saw her walking your way you’d swear your cock was going to detonate in your pants. She had that “it” thing, and every time I saw her I had to run off and put “it” out of “its” misery.
We had an economics class together in the spring, and I remember one day she came into class crying. I remember going up to her and gently, just gently putting my hand on her back. She turned around and, with tears still streaming down her face, she smiled at me. I thought I was going to fall over. Somehow, I managed to ask her out to dinner that night. She smiled again.
Dinner was a blur. I remember inviting her up to listen to some Earth, Wind & Fire. She came up, and before I could close the door, she was already naked. Then she jammed her hand down my pants, and I started to play with her, too. I think she could tell I was a little nervous. “You doin’ alright, baby?” I nodded; I was nervous. We laid down on the floor.
I didn’t last more than a couple of minutes, but it was great. So great. We kissed, and then I went into the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, she was gone. We had class a couple days later. I couldn’t wait to see her, but she never showed up. I found out that she had dropped the class.
You doin’ alright, baby?
A couple weeks later I found out that she’d had a big fight with her boyfriend the day she was crying. That’s why she was crying when I saw her. I fight the urge to second-guess everything that happened on that night. Our night. What was real, and what was revenge, I just don’t want to tear that apart.
You know, I could close a billion-dollar deal every day for the rest of my life, and I’d still never get the feeling I did when Chrissy came up to my apartment that night. “You doin’ alright, baby?” Sometimes I can still hear those words. Some things just stay with you, I guess. My dick still has a scar from our endeavor that evening. You wanna see it?