Preface on Interracial Lovin'
Before we launch into Mr. HOBG's story, we would like to begin with a word on cross-cultural relations. (And don't worry, we're working on an entire series of "Adventures in Interracial Dating." It's just too glorious to release so soon. Until then, we tease with HOBG.)
So we're sure you've already suspected, but we use the word "dating" loosely here. Honestly, they don't call it Jungle Fever for nothing. Knowhaimsayin? And while plenty of healthy relationships result from mixed-skin hookin' it, we're fairly certain it never starts with the thought, 'Wow, this person has so many interesting things to say.' At least we're not all that interested in talking.
Now, for those of you who are already offended and reeling with rebuttals involving the words "wild generalizations," we present this universal truth: Black guys love them some ample white bitches, and hyper-educated white dudes die for...well, really any kind of Asian ass. Stereotypical, yes; incorrect, no. Just try and argue us.
We're sure you've ALSO suspected, but we're fairly experienced in this. And no we're not the Asians.
So there's that. B and W openly support a love of the darkness. Not in the trashy-white-girls-trying-too-hard-to-be-ghetto-therefore-exclusively-date-black-guys kind of way but in the super-awkward-white-girls-that-thankfully-realize-black-guys-are-amazing-in-bed-DUHHHH kind of way.
Enter HOBG: Hot Office Black Guy
Again, before you get all politically correct on our ass, please recognize that these are all truths. This man is indeed hot and indeed black. And due to the face that W works for a major media company overrun—like all major media companies these days—with boring white women, the moment she first laid eyes on HOBG in all his Tyrese-but-professional yumminess she declared him Hot Office Black Guy.
W encounters HOBG on pretty much an hourly basis each workday. But rarely if ever does she hold a conversation. Unfortunately she just so happens to sit right next to a main printer in her office, and he just so happens to print entirely too much. EVERY fucking day she nervously pretend to type as a chocolate Adonis clad in turquoise sweaters strides past. It's more than a girl can handle.
First Actual Conversation
It's a typically brutal January morning in New York, yet W gets her ritualistic Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. (Shut up. It's delicious and she would rather suffer arctic hypothermia than start a day without it.) Well, this particular morning, the newbie at DD hasn't quite learned her precise amount of desired milk, so W stops by the office kitchen for a splash more. As she approaches she sees HOBG casually leaned against the counter top, stirring his own coffee. Slowly his clean-shaved head lifts to reveal an abso-fucking-lutely brilliant white smile. W loses any and all bodily fluid at this point.
He lets out a faint chuckle and says, "Iced coffee? Bold."
W pours her milk and half speaks into the refrigerator, "Yeah, I just really like iced coffee." (Trust us, this conversation was in fact as boring in person as it is here.)
"You don't get weird looks on the street?" he continues. (Again, enthralling.)
"Oh sure, all the time." She pauses, then says the following before even remotely thinking ahead of herself, "But sometimes I see someone else with an iced coffee, and we both nod and acknowledge each other. It's like our street cred."
WHY WOULD YOU EVER SAY THAT?!?!?!
TO A BLACK MAN?!?!?!
Laughter explodes out of HOBG, and he exits the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement. W faints into the refrigerator in embarrassment. And the rest is to be continued later.