Chapter 1

Alisa

A Story of Race, Sex, Class, and Shame

Or

Memoirs of a Privileged Wigger

Or

The Frustrated Adventures of a Retard-Genius

Or

I Just Wanted Some Puerto Rican Love

(and pussy too, almost as an afterthought…)

A WORK IN PROGRESS

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

OCTOBER 1996:

Alisa kept her greasy black hair in a tight-sloppy bun, the style of an uptight porn-cliché librarian. A few tassels of curls sprung out from the clip willy-nilly like an oily exhaust painted by a depressed Kandinsky. A strait-jacketed coiffe in accord with our then-image of her.

The shiny sheen did not stymie the blood-flow to her wide watermelon head (we considered her the smartest student in our Math class.) Her dark eyes sparkled in company or by her lonesome and they were either extraterrestrial-profound or iguana-shallow.

Her nose squatted wide and flat, like an Eskimo shitting by the fire; a Native nose obligated to serve as a holding place for the cum-filled balls of white settlers (as it is a well-known custom that an Eskimo must share his wife with foreign guests.) Little did any of us know at the time that her nose would not only be pierced by a literal stud but profaned by many human studs, more than an obedient Eskimo esposa would pleasure in a lifetime. And most of the horse-hung bucks would be big and black at that (none of us could have pictured that scandalous future for her.)

Her half-shy and half-welcoming smile broke like the sun through bully-conditioned inhibition and we saw teeth pearly-white and shaped like square candy corns.

A thin, crane-like, E.T.-Phone-Home neck supported her pumpkin head and sloped down to saggy and very slightly hunched shoulders. Her upper back was wide (quite wide) yet weak from genetics or malnutrition in early childhood, as if she came to us directly from the Third World (which many of the crackers in our school might have assumed.)

Perhaps her back was bent from the weight of her enormous tits – gravity-defiers. Sorry I couldn’t think of a classier Victorian word, but Alisa did not have breasts – she had tits; cantaloupe tits; and some of the juiciest I have ever seen (and I’ve seen more than a few on television and in real life.)

I never found out for sure, but I (and I think we) all assumed that her areolas and nipples were dark. Not the blue-black or purple-black hue of a very dark African or South Asian woman, but perhaps halfway there. Most of Aliza’s blood was likely Taino with a few olive oil drops from the Iberian Peninsula. Her several tinctures of African blood must have filtered straight to her titties. They were probably (if only I had found out) as Sub-Saharan as the livid, throbbing stinger of an Africanized killer bee, the sort that frequently attack her Mexican brethren as they perform their landscaping tasks (do Mexicans ever suffer from allergies?) The tits shouted “negroid” as loud as a tribal war whoop, but the Euro and Native blood tempered the rest of her skin to a cacao as subtle as milk chocolate, a “café ole” tone, the color of the powder found in a tin of creamy instant cappuccino; the tin rounded at the corners, like the space-time curvature of the universe itself. Could Alisa, similarly, alter space-time? At least for me?

But back to her tits.

For our purposes here, we may take a quick gander at the Mexican-American porn star Kiara Mia. Alisa was Puerto Rican, but her skin tone was about the same as Kiara Mia’s:

Alisa’s tits put Kiara Mia’s to shame, if only because Alisa’s were 100% natural. Oh, why did I drop the ball on that one and fail to fuck her? We could have fucked and lost our virginities together! I had no idea how to act with women back then! And even if I’d had, I probably would have failed through cowardice (or just nerves) anyway! Are weak nerves and cowardice the same affliction? What would General George Patton have thought of me?

So, mark the color of Kiara Mia’s nipples and areolas and try to imagine Aliza’s tits (as I have so many times.)

She "sorta" looked like Salma Hayek (see how lucky I almost was), but with a belly, the proverbial “spare tire” around the waist. She wrapped her chichos (pockets of side fat, for you non-hip gringos) in tight, fuzzy sweaters and parkas, the fashion sense of a wise, old, asexual owl. Salma, I mean Alisa, later told me that birthmarks spotted her belly, though she did not specify the size, shape, or exact location. I sure would have delighted in licking them. There’s a reason they call them “beauty marks.” I have a port wine stain myself.

Now, on to her ass…

Many people presume I have the taste of a black man, an exclusive devotion to “ghetto booties.” While I always appreciate a good J. Lo booty (or even bigger – much bigger) my taste (literally so) is not limited to gargantuan backsides.

            Sometimes I crave a small, tiny, white-girl ass, the hiney of an Eastern European supermodel. The cheeks separate, possibly one never touching the other. The asshole always visible even while our hypothetical model stands upright, but as prominent as a bulls-eye from an all-fours position. I’ve had few if any of those asses, but I’m sure their shit tastes just as good as J. Lo’s (even if their turds are lighter and more delicate.)

            “Renaissance asses” are just as appealing if not more so. They may be the most appealing of all. Motherly asses. Reference Titian’s “Venus and Adonis” for an idea of what I’m talking about. Let’s call them “fat-flat.” Perhaps the quintessential Caucasian ass found only on the best women of European descent. In fact, your dear author may in fact prize “Renaissance asses” over any other shape or form of hiney. Do any of us know ourselves well enough to make declarative statements on our preferences?

            And, of course, there are the ginormous asses, the ones that most often belong to ladies of black or Latina extraction. Needless to say, these marvels of creation (God knew what he was doing when he made woman) are not for the nervous beginner (nature has it so that many white cucks are naturally repulsed by such beauty), but rather for the hands and tongues of seasoned connoisseurs. Who knows what sort of natural seasonings such thick asses may develop on hot days, the spicy brews on the hotter days, the tastes, smells, and fragrance of heaven itself on the hottest days (again, God knew what he was doing when he made women with J. Lo asses or with asses that are bigger – much, much bigger.)

Alisa’s backside, in the words of a Neocon warmonger, was a “known unknown.” We may state with some confidence that it was not a J. Lo or a Kiara Mia booty. In the best case, her backside protruded as nothing more than a tasteful ellipsis. As I stand to reckon, she had “no-ass-at-all,” a term I once heard used by one of Alisa’s Puerto Rican hermanas (not real life hermana, but racial hermana) to describe the derriere of a white girl. She covered whatever she had or didn’t have with shirts (some of which sloppily extended below the owl parkas), sweaters, and jeans that were loose and baggy, but too dirty and inexpensive to be accoutrements of 90s Hip-Hop culture; nay, her jeans were more the clueless style of a fresh off the boat Dominican 13-year-old, a spigger with a heart as tender as her hair, a scared immigrant soon to be made fun of by the local Boogie-Down blacks and Puerto Ricans for being both an unstylish foreigner and a nappy-haired morena, respectively. Yep, Alisa’s banana boat jeans (unfortunately) left everything to the imagination.

Didn’t matter. A connoisseur of asses loves all sorts of asses, from the “wow-there” to the “wow – where”?

Her chicken legs may have been bow-legged or not, but what interests me here are her feet. Ain’t never saw those! Just like I ain’t never seen her pussy or titties (or her non-existent culo.) In accordance with her family’s humble status, her sneaks were just regular Kmart specials, nothing airbrushed white, fluorescent flashy, or named after a famous basketball player. Why couldn’t she have worn open-toed sandals?

What did her feet look like? Did the brown of the instep taper off to a light, white, or pinkish sole, the “light-hand side” of a black person? Or were her “pies” as uniformly brown as the rest of her? Should I watch a video of Kiara Mia getting fucked, her “pies” in the air as Wesley Pipes slams his ferocious cock in and out of her? Just to get an idea?

We may say for certain that Alisa’s feet must have smelled like a pair of unwashed socks, grass-stained lumps of sweat-soaked cotton jammed at the bottom of a dusty-moldy gym locker.

Alisa smelled.

Like rice, beans, unwashed jeans, and traces of Marlboro Light cigarette smoke (her dad puffed and puffed, mostly outside.) I later learned (through the course of our dating relationship) that lawn equipment (including a mower and weed-wacker) littered her bathtub and so the shower was seldom if ever used. I would wager on never.

Fine with me! It should be illegal for women to bathe more than, say, once every few months (if ever.) Down with the sterile idol Hygeia! Gustav Klimt painted the frigid goddess, but he wore smelly socks and smocks. Cleanliness may be next to Victorian Godliness, but dirtiness is as Divine as Pan’s pipes.

            She sat in front of me in math (so I was well-acquainted with her odors.) A mildly gifted Freshman (at least in arithmetic), the school officials had bumped her up to my mediocre Sophomore math class.

            As an untutored virgin, unsophisticated in matters of taste and discrimination, I did not give Alisa much thought or consideration. She was just a Mexican, likely from West Belmar, the “ghetto” of Wall Township (and so not very ghetto at all); her drunk dad sitting on a tattered front porch recliner, strumming a guitar; the older cousins teaching the trillion younger nieces how to jump hopscotch on the cracked sidewalk of a corner liquor store.

Oh, I didn’t yet know Alisa was actually Puerto Rican. What an inexperienced dummy I was. Though, being Puerto Rican, she still had the trillion nieces and cousins. They too played hopscotch outside the grubby booze stop, the glaring fluorescents of the interior and the flickering bulb of a Budweiser sign casting reds and yellows on their swarthy skin. A semi-alcoholic carpenter might have stepped around their game. Or an abyss-dwelling wino (an unfortunate urchin well degraded and impotent beyond interest in Puerto Rican women) could have stumbled between the little Mexicans (Puerto Ricans) and through the jangly door of very-temporary salvation. The contractor spending his hard-earned greasy dollars on a case of Bud and the bum plunking down his dusty change for a bottle of Thunderbird. On the hottest-goldenest mid-June Jersey Shore beach day, both such men lived on the uncanny (agitated depression makes one feel “uncanny” and “not-at-home”) dark matter side of the sun (unless the dark matter side is better – and then it would be too bright for them to live there.) The little Mexicans (Puerto Ricans), unlike old drunks, seemed to live happily in the brownish lamplight of bunk beds and Paquito’s Grocery toys. Alisa and her relatives were (in this tableau, one would think) non-decadent despite living in a membranous, all-encompassing decadence, a Being (from their unwashed perspective) as infinite as Spinoza’s “God.” They were too late to grow up in the America of “A Christmas Story” but just about on time for Michelle Obama.

            I’d had only one interaction with Alisa the Mexican (Puerto Rican) my Sophomore year:

            “May I borrow a pencil?”

            She turned around and, without a word, handed me an extra nub, a bowling pencil tinier than Howard Stern’s penis (who was “the shit” at that time.) A graphite micro-phallus stored in the mini-compartment of her fibrous-bound Trapper-Keeper. She must have thought I was a schlemiel! Her family had jumped a border wall and swum across the Rio Grande to provide her with educational opportunities and my spoiled white ass couldn’t have been bothered to bring a pencil to school (though she was, of course, Puerto Rican and so 100% legal.)

            Maybe she just had a Mexican vibe, a nervy Mexican vibe, like “I’m going to fit in without anyone mentioning my heritage.” Not that Mexicans are impudent. But some of the first-generation Mexican-American public school kids swallow the “Martin Luther King was great” tripe and spout SJW nonsense with sincerity (because they might, better than me, know what an empty pantry looks like, a shelf devoid of anything but generic corn meal.) They’ll play with black kids on the playground and white kids too (especially if the white kids’ parents are tattooed, toothless, and unwed.) They may participate in the Christmas pageant! They may star as Joseph in the fuckin’ thing even though they don’t speak a word of English or Aramaic. Not that Christmas celebrations were ever politically-correct. Until now. In an act of anti-Trump derangement, the liberals will celebrate the virgin birth of a Nubian Horus!

Better yet, a Mexican 5^th Grade girl will go full “drag king” and star in the class play (the one put on for Pop Pops and Meemaws) as the young Patriot Johnny Tremain, a country boy gone “soldierin’” against the British, musket and burritos in tow.

            Nothing is wrong with this inclusion of the “other,” of course. I would choose Latinos in general over white people any day of the week and a trillion times on Sunday, but the P.C. public school teachers should deconstruct the politically-correct situation, the dynamics of it, and not ignore the sombero-wearing elephant in the room, the prominence of a rainbow-striped burro. They should eschew the mandated politeness and discretion, the semiotic light show centered around a glossy MLK poster, a 2001-esque Monolith to intellectual laziness and institutional hypocrisy, a laminated vertical rectangle purchased from the Scholastic website. Rather than “eschew,” they “mew,” like Kubrickian apes but, unlike the proto-humans of the steppe, they degenerate backward to undifferentiated protoplasm.

            Yet, thanks to MTV, I daily cucked-out almost as much as the average public school teacher and attained, through passive reception of rap videos and reality show decadence, the penultimate heights of mealy-mouthed cuckoldry (though no one can be more cucked than the average public school teacher.)

            But, unlike cuckold white supremacists (and every white supremacist is a cuckold in the sexual sense, the only sense that really matters), I thank the Jews at MTV (this one’s for you Sumner Redstone, you Viacom-helming kike) for glamorizing interracial relationships. Black and Latina women are generally superior to dumb white women (not all white women are dumb and inferior, just many of them.) MTV pushed me toward a Great Adventure with superior non-white women (some of whom also dislike the minorities at Six Flags Great Adventure.) And I can read Heidegger. I’m not a K-Fed-esque, pencil-bearded, Fred Durstian wigger who only reads the World Star website, and with some difficulty at that. No, I’m a proud non-decadent miscegenist. No toothless old white women with mulatto grandbabies in my world (very nice and kind people too, mind you, but a little inconsiderate when blowing Virginia Slims cigarette smoke in my face – at least they read my palm and told me I have a long lifeline!) Non-decadent miscegeny is the only way to go!

            And so, this country should be 99% Latino… Sheeitttt… 99.99999% Latino (with me as the only white person.) Just as long as there is no Martin Luther King impudence about the enlivening demographic shift. No sir!

Deconstructive honesty is the antidote to Mexican-MLK impudence. The Mexican girl playing Johnny Tremain should preface her performance by saying “Johnny Tremain was a white boy, probably a Presbyterian or Episcopalian of Anglo-Saxon stock, and there were no Mexicans in the colonies back then. However, it’s cool to have a Mexican girl like me playing a white male Revolutionary War soldier. This is like a really avant-garde and slightly pretentious production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at BAM, conceptual crap like Romeo as the American engineer on the International Space Station and Juliet as the Russian mission specialist. The globalist Space Age Montagues against the nationalist Space Age Capulets. Just suspend your fucking disbelief, you parents. I’m a Mexican girl playing a Revolutionary War soldier. Fuck off, racists!”    

            In summation, just be nice about giving me your shitty bowling pencil, Mexican! Give me your shitty fucking bowling pencil so I can do my math problems! Mexican!

            Alisa… Not Mexican… Alisa… Wait, why was a popular boy like me bothering to think of her by her name?

            The brown of her hands did, by an imperceptible succession of a quantum-Kantian color-subtlety, taper down to a whitish-pink palm (a hint as to her fifty shades of feet?) Her incongruous fingers (holding a microphallic pencil) were long and pointy for someone who had a ball-like shape. She was a Fernando Botero painting come to life (I can’t be a Nazi because they would have called her “degenerate art.”) The nails medium-long and glossy but unpainted. Her family could afford nail gloss but not the water bill for a shower? Fine with me! Her sharp, pointy fingers recalled the liquid metal stabbing instruments formed by the T-1000 from “Terminator 2” and I could hear Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Teutonic monotone: “It can form sharp objects, knives and stabbing weapons.” Would she impale me through the throat, as the T-1000 did to John Connor’s foster father? Were they alien grey fingers? I had always needed her (or any woman I found attractive) to protect me from alien grey fingers. Stop it! Stop it! I needed to stop it! I would stop being an insane ninny and get past a detail as insignificant as fingers if need be. The rest of her was sexy by my pervert standards, right? She wasn’t a blonde cheerleader, a type soon on the endangered species list. The rest of her wasn’t alien-like at all (unless you’re talking about fictional aliens, like the Ewoks.) Why was I calling Alisa an Ewok? Why, again, was I thinking of Alisa at all?

            I didn’t think of her as girlfriend material. Just a quiet Mexican nerd who did well in math. That would soon change.

            I pinched the pencil from her fingers and for a moment my forefinger touched the nape of her palm. Oh my Goodness! I had touched a Mexican! That had never happened before. My cock stirred in my pants despite myself. Her skin felt tougher and stronger than our cracked, brittle white skin!

            On her middle finger, a cheap owl ring, the sort sold at the Hot Topic in Monmouth Mall. The owl, symbol of both Athena and Hecate, the feminine wisdom of day and night, respectively; the night dissolving us arrogant and imperious men into the ocean of mystery. The dark feminine, destroyer of ego and all spurious designs. If only I’d had the slightest (clue that is) what was to come with Alisa, someone as “dark feminine” as a black hole.

            Every Monday (moon day), our math teacher, Mr. Nelson, had everyone in our class write and then sign (with our John Hancocks) pop trivia questions on pieces of paper. I forget what I wrote (probably something to do with Hard Rock or Heavy Metal or even something cutesy), but I will always remember what Aliza wrote on her little slip of paper. Oh, the privilege of sitting behind a smelly Mexican and snooping over her slumpy shoulder! I witnessed her write the following:

            Who says “it’s time to make the donuts?” - Alisa Alvarez

            Hmmph! Fat Mexican.

            Every Friday (Frige Day), Mr. Nelson picked one of the student-written pop culture trivia questions from a hat and wrote it on the chalkboard. The person who wrote the question and the first to answer it would both receive extra credit on the week’s quiz.

            One Frige Day (the Norse Venus – how apropos), Alisa’s question was selected and scratched on the green chalkboard.

            Mr. Nelson wrote:

            Who says “it’s time to make the donuts?”

            “Who the fuck wrote that?” said Phil Holtsman, a curly-headed stoner kid, a cool kid more popular than me (and I had reached a respectable peak of popularity.)

            “Who the fuck wrote that?” Phil asked Mr. Nelson.

            “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Phil. And please watch the language.”

            Mr. Nelson, a bearded hippie (much like the peacenik teacher from “Beavis and Butthead”), did not know how to discipline/control his students. They only respected him at all because he liked the Grateful Dead. On the eve of every holiday break he treated us with acoustic renditions of Jerry Garcia’s classics. “Play ‘Friend of the Devil’ Mr. Nelson! We love the way you do it!”

            All the most popular kids liked the fuckin’ Dead back then!

            They also loved donuts, but not trivia questions about them.

            “I mean, I fuckin’ love donuts. They’re good as hell! But who would write a question like that. It must be a fat person.”

            “That’s enough, Phil.”

            I watched Aliza curl up like Nietzsche’s worm from “The Twilight of the Idols.” The Puerto Rican worm (a rum rather than a tequila worm) scrunched up so that someone like Phil would not step on her again (because there are a trillion Phil Holtsmans out there.) As she tensed and contracted, her mound-like back pushed out, an instant defensive shell: no longer a worm, but a turtle. The size and shape of her weak back resembled the earl gray upper aft of the beloved 80s sitcom character Mr. Belvedere. Just like Mr. Belvedere, she also wore a fuzzy cardigan (hers was mustard yellow.) When she tensed her whole body (but especially her back), the fabric of the Belvedere-esque cardigan warped like space-time against the gravity of a massive star (Phil was a hypergiant star back then but he grew up to be a mechanic - and not a quantum mechanic.)

Mr. Belvedere in his Aliza-type cardigan:

            No one (other than Mr. Nelson and I) knew for sure that she was the one who had written such a corny fat person question.

            But they probably suspected.

            That’s how Aliza stood to my life (as much as she did) my Sophomore year. At the height of my popularity she seemed nothing more than a fat, smelly, poorly-dressed but somewhat smart Mexican Freshman who had been the ostensible victim of bullying; a hairy, smelly, “othered” joke to her cruel Freshman peers. To misquote Edgar Allan Poe: “‘Tis the taco truck worker and nothing more…”