The Great Black Hope

     Black. Thick. Beautiful. Heterosexual. I would’ve never guess a woman like her would be into a guy like me. Bisexual. Polyamorous. Black. But she actually read my “Journals of an Intelsexual” and continued to like me. I was floored. In a single sentence, “WOW, Your blog is amazing,” she shattered my every expectation.
     Typically, when I garner the attention of women like her, I tread very lightly. I flirt. I tease. But I know a full relationship would never work. I compliment. I converse. But, I know to keep a large portion of myself out of the fellowship. Due to my personal experiences, I figured a relationship with her would be impossible.
     My heart opened wide to hear the words, “It’s a good read!” from her lips, I was expecting rejection. In the first place, I shared my blog as a means to no longer string her along. I thought my truth would scare her away. I thought the stench of my secrets would turn her stomach. The fact that she was still interested after seeing photos of me dressed in a corset... The fact that she read my erotica featuring fetishism and same-sex dynamics and didn‘t turn away, changed my view of The Straight, Black Woman.
     Deeming me her ‘proto-type‘, she asks, “So are you spoken for?”
     “Well, I’m actually seeing two people right now.”
     “Oh! No wonder you’re so busy! Dividing your time between two women! That has to be stressful.”
     Silence followed my response, “LOL Well, I’m seeing a man and a woman…I have a girlfriend and a boyfriend.” Days went by before I heard from her again. Did she think I was single? Is she suddenly busy? Is Facebook under construction? My mind started to simultaneously push away and grip at the hope escaping my world.
     Days later, I received a message in all-caps, “YOU ARE BISEXUAL???” To my astonishment, she never read my blog beyond the top post. She knew nothing about my bisexuality, my polyamory and fetishes. She even turned a blind eye to the homoerotic advertisements lining the sides of my site. Her message featured a statement of her disappointment and apologies for leading me on. I felt wounded. I felt betrayed. I felt a painful confirmation spreading through my body: acceptance is a fairy tale.
     I haven’t been able to reply since. I wonder if she knows how deeply I’ve been impacted. I’m not angry. I’m not in mourning. However, this exchange have left me even more of a pessimist. I can’t say that I believe that straight, black women and openly bisexual, black men can ever work in a romantic relationship. Of course, this is a gross generalization. I am aware that these unions do exist…somewhere. But, hopefulness, in this context, is severely uncomfortable for me.