Today my guest blogger is the outrageous and huggable Cava Supernova! She’s here to tell us about her younger self being being Dropped in the Deep End.

“Call me your n****r. Go on, it gets me going. I want you to call me your n****r.”

“Oh my god, no. I could never do that.”

“It’s fine. Please do it. Call me a ‘fucking n****r’.”

“No. I just can’t. I can’t do that.”

“OK, call me your slave boy, then.”

“Nooooo. It’s horrible.”

“I need you to, honestly. It really turns me on.”

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t do that… Really, I can’t… Oh look, your glass is empty, quick, let me get you a refill.”

It’s not often I turn into an ‘attentive hostess’, the gracious bearer of wine, canapes, nibbles, all that stuff.

But rushing off to refill an empty glass, it’s the ultimate Get Out Of Jail card for uncomfortable social situations isn’t it?

Uncomfortable?

This was off the grid.

Well? How would you handle it if a black guy asked you to racially abuse him?

Especially if he did it in the least convenient situation possible.

When you’re slap bang in the middle of a threesome; you’re sitting on this particular black guy’s cock, your husband’s watching, with the world’s biggest hard-on, none of you are wearing a stitch of clothing, and you’re all completely wasted?

Taking time out, pouring him a cauldron-sized glass of merlot, stomach churning with anxiety, and pretending it hadn’t happened, that was the short term answer.

But for years, it’s left me with a ton of unanswered – and barely articulated – questions.

This whole, utterly unhinged situation had taken place at about three o’clock on a Sunday morning, waaaaay back when, in the living room of the home I shared with my ex.

Back story: He and I had gone out for a drink and we’d bumped into Q, a black guy of our acquaintance.

Q was hot, funny, intelligent, accomplished. He was one of those ‘super-people’ who only normally seem to exist on award ceremony red carpets or huge billboard ads for expensive cars.

He’s the only person I’ve ever met who has a PhD. He was respectable. Beautifully spoken. Dead classy.

And somehow, by some miracle, he’d ended up coming home with us two tragic miscreants.

I don’t even want to think how my Machiavellian ex manoeuvred Q into making that decision, it’s a separate ethical nightmare of its own.

So me and Q, we’re there doing ‘interesting things’ with a string of pearls (BTW, pearls? Conservative? Sedate? I don’t think so).

My ex is looking on avidly, and Q drops the N-bomb.

All of a sudden he’s begging me to racially abuse him. Urging me to trash talk him like a sadistic 18th century cotton plantation owner.

Ugh, god, it came out of nowhere and it was indescribably shocking.

What do you say?

Really, what do you say?

It was impossible.

It turned my stomach.

But not him – he was consumed with some sort of fevered, malignant energy.

He kept repeatedly urging me to say these things, and I could feel his abyss-like hunger to be talked down to, almost like it was something physical that I could reach out and touch.

I wanted to do stuff that’d turn him on, but this, I couldn’t deliver.

Dashing off to fill his wine glass was probably a big-time cop-out but I’ve still no idea how I could have played it any better.

Seriously. How screwed up?

There’s more, BTW. Oh, there’s more.

Wine finished, things had got back on track in a “boys, here’s what I want you to do to me” kind of way, and now we were having a break, of sorts.

More wine. More chat.

Then suddenly my ex pipes up, “I want to suck Q’s cock.”

My head nearly exploded.

“I really, really didn’t just hear that, did I?”

“I didn’t, did I?”

I just started laughing. I thought he was joking. Or that he was trying to outdo Q’s racial degradation request in some sort of perv Top Trumps.

He wasn’t.

He said it again. “I want to suck Q’s cock.”

Prolonged, excruciating silence…

Q was totally not up for it.

It was quite ironic that Q had had this shit sprung on him, the way I’d had “Call me your n****r” sprung on me.

It was also farcical, sordid and hideous.

Q handled it with aplomb, though.

He didn’t bat an eyelid, just gracefully declined, and somehow, against unsurmountable odds, we managed to re-rail the situation, and the rest of the night was pretty damn hot.

The situation wasn’t even mentioned the following morning. Coffee, breakfast, some random chit chat, and then Q was out of the door – on his way to meet up with friends to go to a footie match.

Nor was it mentioned any of the numerous subsequent times we saw Q. We gradually lost touch without it being an elephant in the room, an issue or even a ‘thing’.

Conclusion: A spontaneous night of depravity. Chalk up the weird bits to experience.

I thought nothing of it for quite a few years after that.

But now, the memory occasionally re-ignites in my brain. As I’ve done my research into dominance and submission and all that stuff, it’s shed light on the forces and impulses that had been at play here.

At the time, I’d assumed everyone involved in this scenario was straight and (relatively) vanilla. I had no real concept of kink stuff – as far as I was concerned, this was just a chance for some major hedonism.

That being the case, nothing was negotiated. (When it came to stuff ‘like this’, I never negotiated anything with my ex; it would never even have occurred to me to do so and vice versa. You just got on with it, and took the consequences if things went a bit mental, like they were doing now.)

I’d pirouetted blindly into the situation, believing it to be a common or garden act of threesome pervery, and ended up caught in the crossfire of some major racial kink issues.

Here’s what I think might’ve been going on…

Q was big on racial degradation and got over-enthusiastic when unexpectedly confronted with a deviant white chick. He made the typical rookie error of assuming that being up for a threesome meant I was up for every flavour of wrongness. How wrong he was.

My ex, who had bi and cuck tendencies anyway, had decided (without consulting me) to extend his interests into a form of inter-racial cuckolding via an MMF threesome.

I didn’t even realise inter-racial cuckolding was ‘a thing’ till a few months ago. And when I did find out what it was, the whole concept (especially the dehumanising black guy/bull aspect of it) made me feel unwell, to put it mildly.

If other people enjoy it, then good for them, but it’s no way something I would’ve agreed to participate in, given the choice.

There are elements to that threesome that I think were super-hot (that’s another post, though).

But I feel massively uncomfortable with the fact that I was somehow weirdly complicit in two separate, concurrent, racial degradation scenarios, even though I had no idea of the dynamics that were being played out.

They say you live and learn, don’t they?

I have no idea what I’ve learned from this, though, and it happened FOREVER ago.

So when lovely, learned Yingtai asked me to guest post, I thought I’d take full advantage and throw this story out to her and all her huge-brained readers.

Discussing all this, Yingtai said to me “My blog is absolutely about figuring things out”, and she’s right.

I’m not big on analysis; my blog has never been about that kind of thing (getting the information written down in a coherent manner has always been a big enough challenge).

So someone – pleeeeeeease – help me figure things out. Tell me what the hell was being played out that night?

I’ve used up more brain cells than I’d care to imagine, trying to work it all out, and I still suspect I’m nowhere nearer the truth.