Even a relatively small black male, you continue, with the air of one imparting a reluctant truth, yet a truth that must be uttered, will have a proportionately larger penis than a white male.

Really! Is that so.

Smiling, a ghastly insincere smile. As if the (white) man’s fear has been confirmed. All that he’d dreaded, turning out to be an open secret.

You begin laughing, suddenly. A snort of laughter though this exchange is (possibly) not funny at all but dangerous.

Which is why it is funny—danger.

Time now to explain to the astonished (white) man that it has all been a joke. Keep that fist from flying wild. Striking you in the face. But does a joke not-funny qualify as a joke?

Having to go through the motions of the joke as you’d gone through the motions of lovemaking how many times.

You would tell him—Actually, I have not slept with any black man. I have not slept with eleven men. I have never known eleven men.

But no, you don’t say this. Like hell you will say this, to undo the spell.

Suddenly Metti is livid. Saying, Why don’t you shut up, Violet.

Still you are laughing. You are thinking, Kill me, strangle me. Go ahead, you bastard.

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Looming over you. The bully shaking you. Saying crude things to you. If there’d been a leash around your neck he would have dragged you as he’d dragged the little bulldog. Thrown you into a room, locked the door.

Still you can’t seem to get serious, your face is melting. So funny!—outrage of the white male.

Should strangle you, Violet. You fucking cunt. That would stop you laughing at me.

No. It wouldn’t stop me.

Wild laughter as he lunges for you, but you are no longer where you’d been.

Scrambling to your feet. Grabbing at clothes. Not shoes, you’ve forgotten shoes. Fuck shoes.

Wanting to flatten you on the bed. Smelly trodden bed. His heavy body weighing yours down, helpless. Shoving himself inside you deep as he can for your words have excited him as nothing has excited him recently. He would tear off what remains of your clothing, raging rogue male. No matter that this rogue male is middle-aged, fattish at the waist, jawline loose-jowled, breath coming fast and shallow as his heart thumps desperately in his chest. No matter he no longer recalls who you are, which one of them you are who has disappointed him, betrayed him, escaped him. You are the fucking cunt, the cunt-to-be-fucked until you scream in pain, to his ears the most delicious pain; until you are bleeding, the male rogue has thrust himself inside you like a samurai sword piercing your guts.