How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired

The West Has Stopped Caring about Sex, That’s Why It Tries to Debase It

I WAKE up to the notes of Saxophone Colossus. Bouba is saying his first prayer of the day. Clean dishes, peonies next to my Remington. Manna in the fridge: cheese, pâtés, milk, eggs, yogurt, fresh vegetables. Miz Literature visited us as we slept. She left a note by the typewriter.

Dear Man, Are you still among the living? If so, let me know. If not, go to hell.

I offer you three choices:

1. Come by at noon and we’ll eat at the McGill cafeteria.

2. Come by this afternoon if you know how to play badminton and meet me in the gym.

3. Tonight Braxton is at the Rising Sun. Me too.—L.

I fix a quick but copious meal. The sun still uncertain. The Remington, always faithful, with its blank page stuck down its throat. Bouba winds up his prayer. (“We spread the heavens like a canopy and provided it with strong support: yet of its signs they are heedless.” Sura XXI, 33.)

I sit down in front of the typewriter. Bouba is having his breakfast.

“Did it work out all right last night, Bouba?”

“She’s totally crazy, man.”

“That’s the way you like them, I thought.”

“Not all the time, man. She wanted to do my astrological chart. Fuck the stars. She took me to her place on Park Avenue. A five-and-a-half, worse than the Oratory. Dark. Mystical bookshelves. Big blow-ups of the maharaji. Every crazy-man was hanging on her wall. She’s totally out to lunch. We sit down lotus-style on reed mats. She tucks her legs under her mystic ass. Legs that would drive the most ascetic bunch of Buddhist monks wild. We do a little meditation. My soldier is standing up straight.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Absolutely nothing. I got up and took a piss to show her that a human being, even a black one (especially a black one!) is made of flesh and blood, muscle and piss. She didn’t move. She uncoiled her legs and went into her room and came out with the tools of her trade. She wanted to do my chart at two o’clock in the morning. Date of birth, place, time, the whole thing: Jupiter influences Saturn and Saturn influences me, and I couldn’t influence her. Finally she remembered I was there. She got up to run a bath. I like a nice hot bath, but it really wasn’t the moment for it. It did smell good, like leaves. But I’m not the aquatic type. I was on fire. In the water. That kind of combination is hard on a man’s nerves. Then she put on a Hindu record, something like The Sacred Music of Plants of the Far East. You can listen all you like but you won’t hear a thing. Plant music, man. Plants aren’t too talkative. All that was missing was the incense. I’m telling you, brother, the West can’t get a hard-on without some kind of stimulant. No natural hard-ons.”

“The Philosopher-King speaks.”

“I’m warming up for my interview. Can you see me on TV, with noted sexologist-for-the-people Janette Bertrand: my opinion, Mme Bertrand, is that we have too many distractions. Leisure time, the bomb, religion, marijuana, TV. Madame, we are the last ones to get off on sex. Whites have lost their interest in it. Though I’m not talking about the women. some interest is still apparent. Am I shocking your audience?”

“Not at all. On this program we’re free to discuss everything. But what about porno films and dirty books; wouldn’t you say that that disgusting proliferation proves that whites, despite what you say, are still interested in amorous activity — in sex, as we say in modem language?”

“It’s a trap, madame. The West no longer cares about sex; that’s why it tries to debase it. It’s all directed against blacks because the Judeo-Christian world believes sex is their domain only. It can’t help but knock down the merchandise. But we blacks must restore sex to its full glory.”

“Is that the theme of your New Crusade?”

“In so many words.”

BOUBA MUST need a sleep cure if he’s confusing a Negro with Janette Bertrand. (Me Tarzan, you Jane.) People have been talking about mutation for a long time now. But I didn’t know it had gone that far.