You’ve just returned from Bolivia. What were you doing there?

Besides drinking coca tea, eating llama meat, and dancing fitted out with a cap that had a penis sticking out of my head? I was collaborating with a wonderful nonprofit in Cochabamba, Educar es fiesta, that believes training in the arts prepares young people for life. They work with kids in difficult circumstances and families in crisis.  For a lot of these kids, like many of the young people I’ve worked with in Los Angeles, school is a site of frustration, failure, and disrespect, so we did our writing workshops with kids sprawled out on the floor of a circus tent.


Let’s get this out of the way: I’m a white woman who likes black men. I like the stories black men tell and the way they talk and the way they look at me, this way they have of being sure and tentative all at once, and yes, oh yes, I’m not gonna hide it, the hard sweet way they ball. Still, I don’t like having that reputation, white folks–not to mention the sistahs–all thinking I’m just after black cock. So let’s be straight: at the time I’m talking about, the only black cock I was on intimate terms with was attached to Samps, and I wasn’t after Samps, we just…well, OK, we fucked, we fucked a lot, but I want you to know the guy was homeless, penniless, quite likely clinically insane. Believe me, I didn’t have my hands on anything you would want.