Let’s get one thing straight before the HR department starts hyperventilating: Stereotypes aren’t gifts from the diversity fairy. They are earned. Generalizations are generally true because they are generally happening. If I walk onto a job site and see the same pattern a hundred times, I don’t need a sensitivity seminar to tell me it’s a coincidence. I trust my eyes.
I grew up in Generation X, in Southern California, back when the “R-word”—Racism—wasn’t the punctuation mark at the end of every sentence. We didn’t see color the way this polarized, bipolar world does now. We saw people. We made jokes. We used words that would get you cancelled today before you could finish the syllable. It was before the “Empathy Activism” took over, before masculinity caved to feminism, and before victimhood became a career path.
Everyone had a hint of self-responsibility back then.
The Attraction to the Aggression
So, why do I date black women? Why do I gravitate toward the “dark meat”?
It’s not a fetish. It’s physics.
I find them attractive because they are the most sexually aggressive partners I have ever had. Period. They are trainable. You don’t have to do the “Husband and Wife” song and dance for three months before you get access. It’s usually a one-night stand, straight to the point, high-octane, and unfiltered.
And the reason? It’s sad, but it’s real. They are treated terribly by the men in their own circles.
Their self-esteem is often shot because nobody is picking them. And when they do get picked, they’re used to being treated like an afterthought. So when a guy like me—tall, white, solvent, polite—shows up, it’s a shock to the system. I pay the bill. I open the door. I pull out the chair. I hold their hand in public instead of walking three steps ahead like I’m ashamed of them.
And in return? They are nasty in bed. Aggressively, wonderfully nasty. They are excited not just by the sex, but by the treatment. They aren’t looking for a soulmate; they’re looking for a reprieve from the bullshit.
The Self-Esteem Deficit
But there is a darker side to this transaction.
The first thing I often hear is, “Have you dated a black woman before?” And my response is always the same: “Don’t pull the hair.”
It gets a laugh, but it points to a tragedy. They hate their hair, so they wear wigs. They hate their eyes, so they glue on lashes that look like spiders. They hate their hands, so they paste on nails that make simple tasks impossible. They wear girdles to fake a curve. They are uncomfortable in their own skin.
And then comes the tribalism. The brainwashing.
I’ve sat across from a woman enjoying mussels and a bottle of wine at a nice restaurant, listening to her tell me how oppressed she is.
“You just did this,” I tell her. “You’re here. You’re eating. You’re drinking. Nobody stopped you. The restaurant didn’t kick you out. The only thing stopping you from having this life is you picking the wrong guys.”
But they can’t hear it. They are programmed. They recite the talking points about systemic racism while ignoring the fact that stereotypes—like the one about bad tippers—aren’t invented by racists; they are observed by servers.
The Political Dealbreaker
I’ve had incredible weekends ruined by politics. I’ve had to kick women out of my house because their entire personality was wrapped up in their political identity. Whether it’s MAGA or Woke, if your “Self” is just a collection of cable news slogans, I’m out.
But here is my new rule, stemming from the trenches of modern dating:
If your personality is “Victim,” I don’t want anything to do with you.
If you identify primarily as a victim of society, of your race, of “the system,” you are boring. You are stagnant.
I am sitting here doing the hard labor of peeling back my layers—the “Mormon,” the “Californian,” the “Project Manager”—trying to find the human underneath. And meanwhile, I’m watching people add layers of victimhood like armor. They identify with their trauma. They scream for representation while demanding jobs created by liberal degrees for made-up problems.
They want the Mayor, the Police Chief, the Senator to look like them, not because they are qualified, but because of tribal loyalty. They want everything the “White Man” has, but they want it handed over as reparations for a history they didn’t live.
It’s a power grab. It’s a way to claim authority without earning it.
And frankly? I’m tired of the noise.
I’m not a racist. I’m just a man who is exhausted by people who would rather rewrite history to make themselves the hero than actually do the work to become one.
So, I’m checking out. I’m taking my “white privilege”—which is really just a lifetime of working my ass off—and I’m going somewhere where competence still matters more than your skin color or your sob story.
You can have the victimhood. I’ll take the freedom.
