How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired Read Online Free PDF

headlines in La Presse.
    THE TALK OF THE TOWN — “Did you hear? Two blacks ate a McGill co-ed.”
    â€œHow did they discover the crime?”
    â€œThe police found her arm in the refrigerator.”
    â€œOh, good lord! Is that the new immigration policy?
    Importing cannibals?”
    â€œI suppose they raped her first, while they were at it?”
    â€œWe’ll never know. They ate everything.”
    â€œOh, good lord.”
    Miz Literature climbs into my bed. I put the book down at the foot of the bed, next to the bottle of wine, then bring her down to my level. Europe has paid her debt to Africa.

And Now Miz Literature Is Giving
Me Some Kind of Blow Job
    MIZ LITERATURE pours water into a ceramic vase she brought yesterday, then carefully arranges the flowers. She opens the window and places the vase in the left-hand corner, just above my head.
    Miz Literature is standing on the bed and her long legs, sheathed in mocha stockings, bring visions of the Golden Gate. The sun is with us now. Hot air fills the room. I drop the book to the floor and pull Miz Literature to me.
    Miller says there is nothing better than making love at noon. Miller is right.
    If you think you’re about to be served up a hot slice of Miz Literature’s sexual proclivities, think again. You’ve got your choice of porno novels for that. I recommend the Midnight series. Miz Literature says I make love the way I eat. With the hunger of a man stranded on a desert island. When you think about it, that’s no compliment. Strange, but she says I remind her of an innocent child who has been mistreated too long. She likes making love to me. After the storm has passed, she holds me in her arms. I doze off. On her white breast. I am her child. An untrusting child, so hard sometimes. Her black boy. She strokes my forehead. Happy, gentle, fragile moments. I am more than Black. She is more than White.
    If she had been giving me a blow job, I would have had my cock lopped off. Oof! Cut clean off! This time the ceiling fell in—literally, in a cloud of pink dust. Beelzebub is pulling out all the stops upstairs. A fuck to the death. Miz Literature has never attended one of Beelzebub’s demonstrations. The galloping ghost. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The ceiling opening up. We’re rooted to the spot and in our minds, the terrifying image of a couple fucking crushing a couple in repose. The Koran says, “Tell me, if the scourge of Allah overtook you unawares or openly, would any perish but the transgressors?” (Sura VI , 47.)
    Miz Literature has been staring straight ahead since it began. Hypnotized. Her lips tremble slightly. A contraction at one corner of her mouth.
    Upstairs Beelzebub is going back for second helpings. Miz Literature is as red as a boiled lobster. I’m sure she’s going to drop from a stroke. They’re tearing each other apart upstairs. A super-performance. Shamefully, I must face the fact: I start to get hard again. White, right and proper, Miz Literature glances surreptitiously at my penis. The snaking veins begin to uncoil. A serpent’s head rising. The Koran says, “Men, have fear of your Lord, who created you from a single soul. From that soul He created its mate, and through them He bestrewed the earth with countless men and women. Fear Allah, in whose name you plead with one another, and honor the mothers who bore you. Allah is ever watching over you.” (Sura IV , 1.) I cannot countenance this thing that abases me. No doubt, man is an unnatural animal. The Koran asks, “How many generations have We destroyed before them! Can you find one of them still alive, or hear so much as a whisper from them?” I try to think unpleasant thoughts; I think of The Critique of Pure Reason. Kant becomes porno. The Critique gives me a hard-on. It grows. Miz Literature stares straight ahead. We hear the double gasp of Beelzebub and his accomplice. Like a slow dance.