Desi- Telugu Aunty Jayasudha

You even see short-haired, buff chicks in guy clothes. You see all kinds of guys too. Nerdy Asian guys, alert, suspicious white guys and cool, laid-back Arab guys. You spot the studious Hindu guys, always looking vaguely uncomfortable for no reason. They need to learn to relax, seriously. Drink a beer and get laid or something. Anyhow, the one guy who always gets the stares is the Black guy. As I walk through campus, wearing my Obama T-shirt with pride in the aftermath of his successful bid for re-election, the white students ( and others ) at school are staring. Let them stare. I am the new breed of Black man. I don’t play basketball, I don’t rap and I don’t have a record. I can outperform you in the classroom, the boardroom AND the bedroom. Worst of all, you know it. That’s why you fear me. I go to class, and the professor, this bearded white guy with beady little eyes, ignores me when I raise my hand, for I’m the guy with the answers while the rest of the class is stumped. So I. I know that she needed me to love the picture as much as she did and to be proud of her, and to remark on her beauty and sensuality, which were undeniable, but there were other words that came to my mind first, thoughts which I struggled to keep from verbalizing. She simply needed me to love her - which I do, God, so much - and to approve, and to let her know all of that, which is what I was struggling with. She kissed me again, and then looked down, shyly, probably at her hand on my cock. “Davey, honey, do you like it?” “My god…you’re so beautiful. You’re so perfect, so sensual.” My hurt and anger was an overreaction, I knew that; I was making far too much, in my mind, of a little bit of nudity. She had maybe pushed it farther than I ever imagined she could – farther than she had imagined as well, I felt sure – but so she had taken her clothes off for a professional photographer, so what? There’s no sin in that. And the thing is, I trust her! I love her, and I absolutely trust her.
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