It was a humid summer night. I was sitting next to my date at the bar, having dinner, laughs, and lots of sexual tension. The second glass of Malbec I ordered only made me hungry for him, my body was satisfied with the nutrients I had.

He was beautiful. Copper skin Moroccan, 5’10, slim build, 30 years old, fluent in English, Spanish, French, and Arabic. His naturally squared jaw, only got sharper when he leaned his head back and let out a deep belly laugh. He had the softest eyes, the kind that remind you of your favorite teddy bear. Most importantly, he was a Gemini.

Gemini men will always tickle the teenage girl inside of me that’s thirsty for danger, and I admit that.

While I sipped my second glass of Malbec, I could only think about wanting to see more of his bare copper skin tone up against my caramel skin. But I took a deep breath to relax and watch him enjoy the very corny joke I’d just made.

While I was very mystified by his presence, I couldn’t help but notice the ginger-haired white woman who was watching us from another end of the bar, then right next to us. I thought this to be weird but very usual for white women. I understand they struggle to understand giving anyone space, black women in particular.

She wasted no time injecting herself into an obviously intimate conversation between me and him- “Where’s a good place to dance around here?”- her presence surprised him. But he entertained her question with a joke about it being a “dead town”. I tried to maintain calmness, but I was HOT. We were also in a small, quiet, lovely restaurant in a quaint neighborhood in Arlington, and I promised to leave Northeast DC Mani at home.

They continued and I let out a few annoyed laughs and 1000 sideyes, then he politely ended the conversation. Almost too politely. It almost felt as if my presence was blocking something that he would’ve shown interest in, had I not been there. I felt dismissed and awkward, almost like he couldn’t really see me. Like I was there but in the presence of this white woman, it didn’t matter. I hushed my mouth about it for the rest of the night, because honestly, I wanted to fuck him, even in my shame. The night continued and we fucked. It was amazing. I felt as high as I had imagined but my gut was still hungry for answers about the other night.

“How could he not see me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be annoyed, and why wasn’t he ?”

“How could he not see or mention the blatant disrespect of that event?”

“Am I trippin?”

So I let another day pass but that’s all I could take. I texted him.

“What do you think about what happened at the restaurant the other night?”

“WYM?”

“You know when that white girl interrupted us. You were extra polite about it…almost flirtatious. I felt like you could’ve been polite without being flirtatious and joking with her in front of me. It was actually kind of embarrassing, although I did enjoy the rest of the night. I just wished you would’ve thought more about me and how I felt in that moment.”

“How? She asked a question, I answered it.”

I stared at that text for awhile. “How?”…how? I thought about typing out the event of that night in detail but I got that feeling again. That I was invisible, just like that night when she openly flirted with him in front of me and he happily responded. Then, the feelings started tumbling over into guilt, then sadness…then regret.

That dismissive feeling came over the conversation and I made a quick exit out of it to spare what self-esteem I had left. I realized I’d come in contact with this feeling a lot when I’m dating men who exclusively talked to white women before me. Often times, my vulnerability is dismissed, softness is slow to come and quick to go. While the sex maybe great, it lacks intimacy and there just always some gaping hole that is always there but looked over. That hole is my humanity, my femininity, my softness, as a big, black, and woman. While they all thought my full figuredness was sexy and my dominance was appealing, the idea of my femininity was still very cartoonish to them. So, being intimate was joke or completely void. This hole isn’t there when I’m dating men who exclusively date black women. Not that they are perfect with acknowledging my humanity outside of what services it can provide for them but, intimacy was never as stagnant as it is with men that I know have dated white or nonblack women exclusively before me.

I, also, have many faucets of myself and being a suburban black girl trying to work against her “black-cent” was not one of them and will never be. In my days of trying to appeal softer, quieter, less hood, less…colorful, all fell on blind eyes and deaf ears- I was still invisible and hard to fathom as soft and feminine and a big, black, and woman. Every time I allowed this to happen felt like a punch to the rib, so I stopped. I stopped trying to make my humanity matter to those who were not socialized to see it, and didn’t notice me outside of grand performances. I was abusing myself by dating men who “didn’t date black women” but made me an exception. It’s seeped in condescending strife; packaged as an honorable compliment.

I can only hope that my choices are not my grand children’s because their generation has evolved passed such violent socialization. But, who knows?