Dating interracial older woman
And I remember losing my virginity to her; her asking me if I was sure, since she had already lost hers, and me, wanting to share the moment with her, saying I was. This girl, who flung the words with the same indifference as if she had said, “I got a C on my math exam,” was white.She was many other things—my girlfriend, my classmate, my principal educator on matters of sex and romance.When we first began dating, her silence was nourishing.Not because it prevented her from saying things that would hurt me, but because it made me appreciate her words that much more.I had never been with someone so selective with their words.
She even called me by my full given name—Matthew—which no one did, except my parents.
When they met, my mother regarded her with the same kindness she showed any of my friends.
And my girlfriend greeted her with a polite “hello.” I can’t remember what happened after that. What I do remember is the distinct anxiety that wrapped itself around me.
I was sitting on a cold slab of granite facing the barren fountain.
Next to me was a classmate from freshman year, but she and I had recently become better acquainted at a party I threw. We spent hours sitting together; on benches in Gramercy, in parks, in my room, in dining halls, and anywhere else we could speak without being bothered.
In the same way I had plans to grow, to evolve, to discover myself in new contexts, so did the questions that followed me.