Figure You Out (Joseph x Reader)
Request: Can you write about the first time the reader and Joseph have sex? @thomas-ellis
Rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! SEXUAL THEMES HEAVILY DISCUSSED!
Warnings: Cursing throughout, mentions of being a virgin, loosing virginity, masturbation, fingering, oral sex, protected sex multiple times (p in v sex), multiple orgasms, mentions of bleeding after sex.
Author’s Note: SMUT SMUT SMUT SMUT ahead. I took this and ran with it so far away lol. I did not proof read this extensively so I apologize for any mistakes. The song below helped inspire me. :)
It was a normal day like any other in the beginning. You were at your apartment trying to decide what movie to watch with your friend, Maya. You had met through Joseph, your boyfriend of six months. She was easy to talk to and very non-judgmental. You all had hit it off instantly. You decided to watch a movie and order in some take-out for lunch. Joseph was working on some interviews today, letting you know he would be free tonight and asked you to come over and stay.
Up to this point, the sleepovers at Joe’s consisted of a lot of cuddling and literal sleep. Maya teased you, asking when you all were going to take your relationship to the next level, but honestly you weren’t sure when that was going to happen. The furthest you had been was heavy petting with your high school boyfriend, but you’d never had sex—you were still a virgin.
A knock came to your apartment door. You quickly laid down the movie selections you were between and moved to answer to the door.
“Hey.”, Maya smiled brightly, instantly hugging you.
“Hi.”, you smiled back.
You allowed her into your apartment. A small laugh escaped your lips, Maya acting like she lived in your apartment. She noticed the movies you had been deciding between on the coffee table, picking them up.
“Hm….classics.”, she mumbled. “Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween, or Friday the 13th.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “They’re all good.”
She nodded. “We could watch two of them.”
You all eventually decided on Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Friday the 13th. Maya wasted no time in finding your fridge, pulling out some wine, shaking it at you playfully. You just chuckled and pulled two wine glasses from your cabinet. You popped the cork easily before pouring the wine into the glasses. You both made your way to your living room before sitting down on the couch, feeling instant relief.
The opening credits began playing as you both settled in, taking a sip of your wine.
“Soooo,”, Maya sing-songed.
You eyed her, instantly knowing where this was going. “What?”
“Have you and Joe—ya know?”, she smirked, winking at you.
You laughed easily, feeling nervous. You looked down eyeing your wine before sloshing it around.
Maya rolled her eyes before laughing. “Had sex.”, she voiced candidly.
You felt her eyes on you as you took another drink. You almost choked on it, quickly coughing. Maya raised her eyebrows at you.
“Does that mean yes?”
You profusely shook your head. “No—no—I’m still a—a virgin.”, you stammered, visibly shaken up by her words.
Maya sighed easily. “Y/ Nickname, you’re still sticking to the “virgin” story?”
“Not a story, Maya. A reality.”, you corrected, but still knowing she was just teasing you.
This day and time, it was slightly uncommon to hear about someone your age being a virgin. Most people had already lost their virginity long before now. You had multiple opportunities to loose your virginity, but you didn’t feel that close or comfortable with the guys you had dated before to take that step. That was just one of the reasons you didn’t have sex. Accidental pregnancy was also in the cards that you wanted to avoid at all costs, especially being in high school or going to college. You were aware they made condoms and birth control, but those weren’t a hundred-percent effective.
It was different now. You were older, more mature. You also were dating Joseph and he was such a good boyfriend. He was different than any boyfriend you had before. He was caring, compassionate, honest, a good listener, funny, basically all the things you had ever wanted in a boyfriend and you were determined not to mess things up with him. Sex was one of those things you didn’t want to come on too strong about.
Joseph hadn’t really brought it up or made any advances towards you. He was a true gentleman about things. He even asked if you wanted the bed and wanted him to sleep on the couch for the first time you ever slept over at his house. You insisted it was fine to just sleep—literally just sleep in the same bed together. He would just cuddle you or hold you in his arms, whichever you preferred and that was it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Geez, just let the man pop your cherry already.”, she groaned before smirking.
“Maya!”, you shoved her playfully, shocked by her euphemism.
“Well,”, she chuckled. “Believe me it’s not as bad as they make it out to be.”
Part of you still wasn’t convinced. You had heard woman bleed the first time they ever have sex and the pain was almost unbearable. You had sex ed in high school and had the talk with your mom, however, these were two topics not readily discussed.
“Don’t you—you know, bleed? Doesn’t it hurt?”, you asked Maya easily.
She shook her head. “No. Not all women bleed or find it painful.”
“Are you sure?”
You nodded easily. Joseph was such an attractive man. His dark brown eyes that looked deep into yours, his curly hair that fell just perfectly, his arms that looked so strong, chest so firm when you laid on it at night. You felt a burning in the pit of your stomach running over his features mentally in your head. You had felt this feeling before, however, you tried to ignore it and shove it away. Sometimes you were successful, others you weren’t.
“I’m sure Joe has been jerking off to the thought of you because you won’t have sex with him.”, Maya looked down at her wine, shrugging her shoulders.
Here comes the teasing again.
“Maya, really?”, you rolled your eyes again.
“Come on. You’re depriving the poor man.”
You facepalmed easily, causing her to laugh.
“Just think about it. Maybe hint to him you want this—if you do.”, she winked.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”, you finally said. “I just don’t want to screw things up.”
Maya smiled sympathetically. “I don’t think you would. Maybe he doesn’t know how to bring it up to you.”
This seemed to satisfy her.
The rest of the afternoon into the early evening went great, allowing you to spend some quality time with one of your new best friends. Maya left, allowing you to prepare to go to Joseph’s apartment. You began packing your bag, throwing the necessities in like clothes. You opened your underwear drawer, noticing your lingerie. You liked to sleep in the babydoll lingerie when you were home but you tried to be slightly more conservative when sleeping with Joseph.
You eyed it easily, debating whether you should pack it or not. You grabbed it, stuffing it into your overnight bag. You eyed your apartment before leaving, making sure nothing was left undone. Once you were satisfied, you grabbed your keys and closed the door, locking it. You quickly rushed to your car, climbing in. The radio turned on, you humming and singing along to popular songs on the radio.
It didn’t take long before you pulled up to Joseph’s apartment. You shut your car off, grabbing your things before walking inside the building. His were more upscale than you were used to. Yours was decent, you couldn’t complain. You reached his and knocked easily. He threw open the door, an oven mitt on his hand.
“Hey love. Sorry I’m finishing up dinner.”, he smiled.
“You didn’t have to do that, Joe.”, you smiled before coming inside, sharing a kiss with him instantly.
“I’ll always do it for you.”, he smirked.
Maya’s words were still plaguing you, but you shook your head easily, pushing them away as you sat your stuff down on the couch.
“I made roast, love.”, he spoke out from the kitchen, breaking you out of your trance.
“Sounds amazing, babe.”, you called out from the living room.
Were you going to take her advice?
Joseph’s dinner was amazing as usual, you all spending dinner catching up on what had happened since you two had last spoken. You all texted everyday, FaceTimed or called each other on the phone every night, but there were occasions he was very busy especially after Stranger Things premiered. With everything that was going on in both of your lives, it didn’t take you long to wind down and get ready for bed.
As you turned the hot water on in Joe’s shower, Maya’s words echoed in your head. Geez, just let the man pop your cherry already. You squirted body wash onto the washcloth, making it suds up. Your mind began to wonder just exactly what that would entail. You began washing your body, running the washcloth in curricular motions. Closing your eyes, more of her words ran through your mind. Come on. You’re depriving the poor man. Were you really depriving him?
You shook your head, attempting to bring back some clarity of the situation but your core began to burn, imagining Joe, desperate to feel himself inside of you. So desperate he was willing to take care of himself. You weren’t totally clueless when it came to sex or sexual encounters, you read smutty books (including Fifty Shades of Grey). Maybe Joe took care of himself in the shower—one hand leaned against the wall, his other on his hard cock, stroking it easily, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, imagining just how he’d feel inside of you.
That feeling creeped its way back into your core. It was hot, twisting, and aching. You knew what that feeling meant—you wanted that. You closed your eyes, releasing a heavy breath. You wanted him—more than you wanted to admit. This wasn’t the first time you had thought about having sex with Joe. There were nights you’d get that hot, twisting ache in the core of your stomach after hearing his sleepy voice on the phone or his breathing hitch. You’d easily tell him goodnight and that you loved him before tossing your phone down beside of you.
Closing your eyes, you’d bring one hand to your right breast, easily resting it on your areola, causing your nipple to almost perk up instantly. Your left hand would brush down your chest and your stomach before reaching its desired destination. You parted your own legs instinctively, letting your left hand snake down your left thigh, edging closer to your throbbing core. You slightly jumped at your own fingers beginning to work in and out of your slick folds, pretending it was Joe until you reached your climax.
You climbed out of the warm shower, grabbing your towel, and wrapping it around your body quickly. Not fast enough to avoid the chill bumps that cascaded up your arms and chest, causing you to instantly feel your nipples grow hard. You tried to ignore your reflection in his mirror, scared you would loose your nerve as you continued to dry off, grabbing your underwear which matched your lingerie. You gulped, wondering what Joe would think about it. He was so used to you sleeping in shorts and a t-shirt.
You slipped it on easily, admiring yourself in the mirror. It cupped your breasts perfectly, making them look perky and plump. You slid your underwear up your silky smooth thighs, concealing it under your lingerie. You turned the light off, slowly opening the door that led to his bedroom. He barely looked up as he heard the door open. He was in bed, covered up reading his book with the lamp dimly lit. You felt your cheeks heating up as you came over to your side of the bed, easily turning the covers back.
He looked up from his book, cocking an eyebrow in question. You were waiting for any comment from him. The silence was getting to you. You prayed he wouldn’t think you were trying to be too forward. This was a subtle way Maya had suggested to get his attention that you wanted to take things to the next level, you wanted to be intimate with him and give him just what you were depriving him of.
“That’s new.”, Joe murmured, closing his book.
“Yeah, I thought it would be nice and cool to sleep in since it’s warmer this time of year.”, you smiled nervously.
What a stupid reason. He was still eyeing you, trying to process this in his own mind. You just didn’t know how this was throwing him off.
“I didn’t even know you owned those.”, Joe chuckled, placing his book on his bedside table.
“I’ve had it for a little while.”, you looked down, eyeing it before brushing the material with your hand easily.
Joe was still staring at you, trying to take this in. He had never seen you in something as sexy as this. His brown eyes were focused on you, making you that much more nervous. You began wondering if you should have listened to Maya and taken her advice. Maybe this was a huge mistake. Part of you was trying to read Joe and his expression. His mouth was slightly gaped, his tongue brushing the top row of his teeth.
Nervously, you began to eye your hands, focusing on the comforter. Anything to avoid Joe’s stare. It felt like an eternity passed before he finally spoke a sentence that caught you off guard.
“Love, are you trying to tell me something?”
Your head shot up, instantly meeting his eyes. “What do you mean?”
This was going to go one of two ways. You just didn’t know which.
“Well, you’ve never worn anything like that when you’ve stayed over before, love.”, he began easily.
Your words had left you. Your brain was working to find the words for you to say.
Joseph leaned over to you, not breaking his eye contact. “Are you trying to tell me that you want me?”
His voice was deeper, more sensual.
“Want you to what?”, you asked, innocently.
This caused Joe to chuckle lowly before leaning over placing a soft kiss on your jaw bone just below your ear. “Do you want me to fuck you? Show you exactly what it feels like to be fucked properly?”
His choice of words caught you off guard. There that feeling was again in your core, this time more intense. “Joe—I’m a vir—”, you stammered easily.
“Virgin. Yes, I know, love.”, he finished for you with a smirk on his face, his brown eyes were darker now, a slight red tint visible in them.
“So just a fair warning it’ll probably su—”
He cut you off with a passionate, deep kiss. You instantly brushed your hand over his jaw, feeling his beard under your touch. It felt like dull pins and needles against your skin. He easily pushed you back on the bed, barely pressing his weight on you. He continued to kiss you, each kiss showing you just how much he wanted this. The way his lips tasted was addictive and you had thought about what this moment would feel like.
He broke the kiss unexpectedly, leaning up from you. He slid his pajama pants off quickly, leaving him in just his boxers. You eyed the sight, finally learning what had been left to your imagination for so long. He wasted no time in climbing back on the bed, towering over you once again. However, this time he uses one of his legs to wedge between yours. He kisses you a few more times, just enough to make you miss his lips when he pulls away.
His hands easily caressed their way down your body, the silk and lace material under his fingertips. You felt his hands run over the seam of your underwear, passing it up the first time. He instantly realized his mistake as his lips curved into a devilish smirk.
“Why don’t we just do away with these?”, he asked, feeling the seam again before beginning to slid them down your thighs.
You nodded quickly, the words you wanted to say caught in the back of your throat. He kept his eyes locked on you, watching your reaction as he finally reached your ankles with your panties, tossing the pair to the floor of his bedroom. He moved back closer to you, running his hand slowly back up your right leg. His fingertips sent chills down your spine.
“Part your legs for me.”, he requested as he reached your right inner thigh.
You did as he requested, allowing him a full view of your pretty little pussy.
“Just look at you,”, he began. “So tight and ready for a good fucking, yes?”
You nodded easily before his his fingers entered your wet folds, causing you to jolt slightly. His fingers were much larger and thicker than yours, something you weren’t exactly used to anymore. Your breathing hitched, letting out a small moan.
“So fucking tight—God.”, he breathed as he continued to work in and out of your slick folds.
Following your instincts, you rolled your hips against his finger tips, already feeling eager and ready for him. His fingers continued to work on your slick, swollen folds. His thumb hit your clit, already causing your toes to curl and caused you to writhe slightly under his touch.
“Hm, looks like I’ve found your clit, love.”, he said softly.
Your clit was sensitive under his touch, causing shockwaves to travel through your body.
“Jo-Joe.”, you stammered, clearly not used to this sensation.
“Hm?”, he hummed, obviously enjoying himself.
“Give you a break?”, he asked, rubbing your other thigh with his free hand.
Breathlessly, you nodded.
His fingers left your dripping heat, admiring your wetness on his fingers. You instantly felt self-conscious from the view and from the squelching noises you had heard from him working his fingers in and out of you.
“Fuck, baby, you’re soaked for me. Let’s just see how sweet you taste.”, he smirked as he brought his fingers soaked in your juice up to his mouth, popping one in.
He closed his eyes, sucking on his pointer finger like it was a lollypop, moaning at the taste. “Why don’t you just let me eat you out? I need more of you. I want to taste you so bad.”
You eyed him, your heart pounding and body feeling like you’re on fire. “If-you-want.”
He smirked back at you. “I’ve been wanting to—for so long.”
You gulped down your response as Joseph parted your legs once more, the air hitting your your thighs were your wetness lingered causing a chill to develop on your skin. You had imagined Joseph having his head buried between your legs, dragging his tongue up and down your slick folds. Now, it was becoming a reality. Joseph had also waited—dreamed of the day you would finally let him savor you and show you how it felt to be fucked.
Joseph’s brown eyes stared deep into yours as he laid flat, visibly digging his hips and his rock hard cock into the mattress. He could at least grind his hips against the bed, providing him some relief until he was able to bury himself deep inside of you. Joseph couldn’t wait to hear your pitiful, needy moans of profanity mixed with compliments of how he was eating you out so well—better than you had ever had it. He was determined to use his tongue to make you cum, lubing your pussy up for his rock hard cock. You’d need it.
You weren’t going to lie. Part of you was very self-conscious about him sticking his whole head and mouth down there.
“What if-if it tastes bad?”, you raised your head to look at him.
“I assure you, love, it doesn’t. It tastes so fucking good—best I’ve ever had.”, he breathed, his breath hitting your pussy reminding you just how close he was to your core.
His head went back down between your legs, him wasting no time in beginning this task. You felt his tongue take a first swipe between your wet folds. Your back arched just at this slight action. You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against you. His grip on your thighs tightened, making sure to keep you close to him. You weren’t aware of it, but this was one of Joseph’s favorite acts of sex he preformed. However, with you it was better than he’d ever had it.
The fact you were a virgin, him being the first one allowed to do these things to you— to be the first one inside of you drove him crazy, making him realize just how much he already meant to you.
Without warning, you felt his tongue once again swipe between your wet slit, eliciting a moan from you. You could tell this pleased Joseph. You parted your legs as far apart as they’d go, allowing him full access to you. You eyed him, resting your head on the pillows at the head of the bed. He wanted you to be as comfortable as possible while he fucked you with his fingers, tongue, and cock soon enough. You had seen Joe clean shaven and with a copious amount of stubble. You loved him either way, but the stubble just did something to you.
Your stomach had twisted sitting across from him, eating dinner, eyeing his stubble. All you could think about was how it would feel between your heat, brushing the delicate, sensitive skin on your thighs. Joseph began picking up the pace, flicking his tongue over your folds.
“Fu-fuck, Joe.”, you moaned, grabbing the sheet beneath you.
His lips curved into a smile again, pulling away from you just for a moment. “Do you like my mouth, baby?”
You nodded feverishly as if you were silently begging him to continue. He teased you, just enough to feel his breath once again on your clit.
“Words, baby. Tell me what you want.”
“Good girl.”, he praised as he moved his mouth back to your folds, flicking his tongue over your folds.
Your eyes rolled back easily, this already blowing your mind. Joseph easily took his hands, moving your legs up to his shoulders, allowing him more leverage. It was hot. So very hot. Your hands continued to grip the bedsheets with each flick and swipe of his tongue, you not being able to hold back your feral moans.
You couldn’t wait any longer before you decided you needed something else to sink your fingers into. You eyed Joseph’s curls hazily, your brain already turning to mush. You lifted your gripped hands from the bedsheets before brushing them through Joseph’s hair. What you did next slightly caught him by surprise. You tugged at his curls, causing him to moan, sending vibrations all over your pussy and throughout your heat. His fingers dug deeper into your thighs. The sounds filling the room were those that reminded you how wet you are.
Another sensation struck you suddenly—his beard.
You could feel the tickle of his stubble rubbing against your sensitive, throbbing clit. His stubble brushed against your clit as he moved his face, fucking you with his tongue. Joseph was well aware of what he was doing, his stubble dragging against your skin eliciting moans of pleasure from you. He was being so dirty and you loved it.
Joseph’s tongue was fucking you the right way in all the right places, you beginning to feel your high take over. It wasn’t taking very much from him with his stubble and motions of his tongue to bring you close to your release. Joe felt pride at this, considering it an accomplishment he was going to make you cum this easy. You could feel the building hot, twisting, ache in your stomach signifying your impending orgasm was near.
“Joe—”, you moaned out, mewling under his tongue.
“Hmm?”, he hummed against you.
“I’m gonna—cum.”, you choked, feeling the intensity increase.
He pulled away from your pussy just for a moment, another whimper escaping from you for the lack of his tongue buried in you. “Cum for me, baby. I wanna taste you so fucking bad.”
His tongue went back to its dastardly deeds and that was all it took to send you over the edge.
“I’m cum—cumming.”, you moaned out as you gripped your fingers in his curls, tugging slightly.
He ceased working his tongue, allowing you to have your orgasm for just a moment before he stuck his tongue back in you, he was going to give himself the pleasure of tasting your sweet juices. Considering he was the one who worked so hard for it. Your toes were curled near his head, your vision going blurry as you cried out, feeling your pussy tighten around his tongue, releasing your juices.
Your chest heaved up and down as he lapped at you, smothering himself in your pussy to get that final taste. Once he was content, Joseph pulled away and looked up at you, feeling his breath against your core once more. Joseph was usually a man of composure and class, however, how he looked right now made him that much more irresistible. He looked so feral and lustful, craving you.
He wasn’t breaking his eye contact with you as you noticed his beard glisten with the coating from your juices. You swallowed hard at the sight. He ran his tongue over his lips and upper stubble from his beard, tasting the remainder of you from tongue fucking you. A small moan escaped you taking in the sight of this.
“God you’re so fucking sweet, I just can’t get over it. Do you want a taste?”
Your eyes widened at his question, his suggestion.
“Do you want a taste?”, he asked again. “See exactly what drives me so fucking mad?”
You nodded absentmindedly, leaning up and forward meeting him. He met you and crashed his lips into yours, moaning into his mouth. His free hand rested on the small of your back, assisting in keeping you from falling backwards in the bed, still reeling from your orgasm just minutes before. That was the caring side of Joseph coming back out, one of the very many reasons you loved him and had fallen for him.
You instantly felt the stubble from his beard tickle your upper lips, causing you to hum in satisfaction from this sensation. You remembered how it felt on your core. It was just before you were met with the sweet, slight tart taste of your own release. He had been right—it wasn’t bad. He continued kissing you, allowing you to taste yourself and how sensual it was.
He broke the kiss unexpectedly. “What do you think?”
“Not too bad.”, you blushed at him.
“Not too bad? Fuck, the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Honest, love.”
Joseph moved easily, standing up from you. His beard was absolutely soaked with you so much that it was glistening even from the low light of the lamp, causing your stomach to twist and turn again. You looked up at him, noticing a wet spot on his boxers that was becoming increasingly wider—he was already leaking precum. You kept your gaze on him as he did you.
He was giving you this time to recover from your orgasm. He reached for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down with no hesitation, allowing his cock to spring free. Your eyes widened at his size as he took himself in his hand, stroking it to keep it rock hard while eyeing you. Once again, this was something you could only fantasize about before.
“Shit.”, he muttered, feeling his pre-cum on his hand.
“So, what now?”, you breathed easily, looking up at him groggily.
“I’m going to fuck you.”, he said bluntly.
You nodded. “What do I need to do?”
“Just lay back and relax. I’ll coach you through what to do, love.”, he smirked.
You fell back against the pillow, a soft thud as you took the sight of him in again. It wasn’t going to be just as simple as him fucking you. He was going to teach you a couple different ways to fuck. He threw his head back, closing his eyes and giving his cock a few more long, slow strokes before he climbed on the bed, towering over you. However, he leaned over to his side of the bed, opening the top drawer, grabbing a condom, and ripping it open with his teeth.
You stared up at him with longing eyes, just wishing he’d shove it in already.
He unpeeled the condom with one hand, while taking his cock in his other, slowly rolling it onto him, taking his time as if he was teasing you, making you admire his size and girth. It was all you could have imagined and more. You let out small whimpers, watching him before he finally stretched it completely out across his erect cock.
“Ready?”, he asked breathlessly.
You nodded sheepishly, trailing his chest with your finger tips. He smirked as he lined his cock up with your pussy. Without warning, he shoved his cock deep into your throbbing, wet pussy eliciting a gasp from you as you stared up at him wide-eyed, having never felt this sensation before. The initial entrance of his cock stretched you, causing minimal pain but it wasn’t long before the pain dissolved into pleasure as he gave you a moment to adjust to his size and girth.
He fucked into you rhythmically, going deeper with each thrust. You moaned as your eyes rolled back into your head, your brain going stupid. He was beginning to heavy breathe as he towered over you, dominating you.
“How—does—it—feel?”, he grunted as he fucked into you, hitting the spot that made you forget your name.
“Am-amazing—”, you moaned back, opening your eyes.
He could tell he was hitting all the right places, doing all the right things. He could feel his cock throbbing, pulsing inside of you. He knew he wasn’t going to last a very long time, but there was more he wanted to accomplish with you—more positions he wanted to fuck you in. It wouldn’t take him long to get hard again, the both of you able to go at it again, exploring more of each other.
“Good, love. Now, cum for me.”, he eyed you, his brown eyes burning with desire.
He could see the sweat beginning to form on your forehead, on your chest. He had to get you out of the lingerie—he needed to. He desperately wanted to watch your breasts bounce freely up and down with each thrust he provided you. He wanted to see you completely spent after this sex escapade was all over.
“Don’t hold it back, love.”
You nodded hazily, the image of him on top of your beginning to blur. He was grunting, really giving this all his energy. He wanted you to cum so bad he couldn’t stand it. He didn’t seem to be tiring out even though a few of his curls stuck to his forehead before he took his free hand, running through it as he thrusted deep in you, causing a hiccups of moans to escape you, just continuing fueling his fire. He was exceeding every expectation you had of him and how he would fuck you.
“Joe.”, you hiccuped easily as he never slowed down—the looks he was getting from you were driving him.
He could see it in your eyes, all over your face before the words he had been waiting to her came out of your mouth. Your pupils were blown from being fucked out but he was far from finished.
“Hmm love?”, he hummed.
“I’m-I’m getting real-really close.”, you stuttered.
A smile spread across his lips, his goal almost accomplished. He wanted to cum too but he was more concerned about you. You were a priority to him. You were always a priority to him. It wasn’t to be confused and twisted—yes he loved the thought of fucking you into the next week, but he would always be a protector and an amazing boyfriend—hopefully more. He would take care of you in anything you needed.
“God, I’ve been waiting to hear those words roll off that pretty little tongue of yours.”, he rolled his eyes, grunting as he fucked himself into you deeper and a little faster than previously.
Was he trying to fuck you dumb? If so, he was doing just that. Your brain blurred out all other thoughts that had nothing to do with him about to make you cum. You could hear his balls smacking against your ass, causing your brain to register just how hard and fast he was giving it to you. You could hear the wet, squelching sounds from your pussy returning reminding you how wet you were for him. If it felt this good with a condom, you could only imagine how it felt without. Maybe in the future you’d find out.
“Joe….”, your moaned softly, closing your eyes and gripping the bedsheets, toes curling, trying to edge yourself.
“Fucking cum all over my dick—I’m begging you.”, he groaned, pleading with you.
“I’m-gonna-ri-right now.”, you hiccuped, tightening your grip on the bedsheets.
Your back arched and you felt yourself hit your climax, the muscles in your pussy twitching and tightening around his rock hard cock. Lightheadedness took over at this point, you feeling the heat of your orgasm wash over your entire body. Every sensation, every time he fucked himself into you was so much more intense now causing you to whimper. He smirked, watching you come down off your high. Your chest was heaving, visibly trying to recover a little before he came.
You felt his dick twitch and pulse, a reaction from your orgasm. Even with a condom on, he could tell you were soaked—utterly soaked. He could feel your juices all over his curls at the base of him.
“Are you ready for me to cum baby?”, he cooed at you, his demeanor sweeter than it had been.
You nodded groggily.
He mentally counted how many thrusts it took after you came. One. Two. Three. His thrusts ceased immediately as he released the loudest groan he had of the night. His fingertips sank into your thigh, his hips stuttering, keeping himself buried inside of you as deep as he could. You felt his cock pumping his cum in the condom, missing your cervix completely this time. You both smiled at each other, breathing heavily. He stayed like that just for a minute before he pulled out, the tip of the condom filled with a copious amount of his seed.
You fell back into the pillow at this sight. Joseph chuckled through trying to regain his composure. He eyed the condom easily, peeling it off and tossing it in the garbage near his bed. That didn’t stop some of his cum spilling onto the sheets, however, you both didn’t mind. He fell beside of you, before taking you in his arms and kissing the top of your head.
“Are we done?”, you asked quietly as he stroked his hand through your hair.
“Do you want to be done?”, he asked, trying to hide the pang of disappointment in his voice.
You eyed him. “Not really,” you sighed nervously. “But do you think I can go again?”
Joseph’s ray of disappointment disappeared quickly before he chuckled at your question. Not because it was dumb, but it was an innocent, honest question and concern of yours.
“Yes, love. You just need a few minutes to recuperate.”
You nodded, snuggling into him. The scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of both of your arousals that lingered. He kissed your head again, rubbing his hand up and down the small of your back. It was nice to finally connect and be intimate with him like this, taking your relationship to the next level. The room was quiet, just the sound of you both breathing. Your eyes were beginning to feel heavy, already almost fucked out.
“Joe.”, you whispered.
“Hm?”, he hummed.
He immediately perked back up almost instantly. “If you feel ready, love.”
“More than ready.”, you smirked at him, finally feeling a little more confident.
You sat up in the bed, eyeing him. He wasted no time in grabbing his his cock, stroking it, attempting to help it grow hard again—not that he needed a lot of help. The sight of you aided in this immensely. He watched your eyes focus on him, a deprived glimmer in your eyes. It made him feel even more feral, craving you even more than he had previously.
Now, he had a taste and he knew what he was missing.
He brushed a hand through your hair, helping move your hair out of your face, keeping eye contact with you.
“Babe?”, you asked, finally using his pet name.
“Yes, love?”, he eyed you, still continuing to work himself.
“Can I maybe—um, return the favor?”
You sounded so unsure of yourself, instantly cursing yourself for doing so.
“You want to put my cock in your mouth?”, he asked, helping you.
You nodded. “Least I could do. I mean you’re teaching me so much.”
He smirked, giving his cock a few more strokes. “Why didn’t you just say so, love?”
“I tried.”, you muttered easily, pushing your hair back behind your shoulders, stifling a small chuckle from him.
It was so fucking cute to see you flustered. You eased over to him, getting on your knees, folding your legs underneath you. He rested his palm on the back of your head easily, guiding you down just mere centimeters from his cock. You weren’t exactly a pro at preforming oral sex—but you had the gist of it down. However, you wanted to impress Joe, earning an orgasm from him before you move on to more sex positions.
You took one last look at him before going down on him. He gave you a sympathetic smile, encouraging you to go on.
“You’ll do fine, love—more than fine—amazing.”, he corrected, stroking his hand through your hair.
His smile was soft and seductive, eyes filled with desire.
You took a deep breath, the nerves beginning to come back. You tried to shove them away, but when you reached to take his rock hard cock in your hands it felt like your hand was moving in slow motion, trembling. You only imagined what he was thinking in his head. Did he see your hand trembling, outstretched to grab his cock in your hand? You hoped not. How lame would that have been?
You closed your eyes, trying to drown out the thoughts of doubt that were trying to take over your brain and ruin your concentration. You felt contact with his cock, it already pulsing and twitching under your touch. He closed his eyes, groaning lightly at the sensation. He didn’t mean to show you this early on how you were getting to him, but he couldn’t help it. Fuck, he couldn’t help it.
You eyed him again, giving it a few strokes just like had previously. You had paid a lot of attention to exactly what he did. Small details like how much pressure he applied, how far down his shaft he went, and the speed he used. He grunted once more in satisfaction, stretching himself out on the bed a little further before running a free hand through his curls.
“Fuck, that feels good.”, he groaned softly.
“It does?”, you asked before a smirk spread across your face.
His eyes were still closed. “Mhmmm.”, he hummed.
You felt more confident now, he was complimenting you.
His brown eyes managed to flutter open, slightly hazy just from you stroking his cock. You could only imagine what it would look like once you used your tongue and mouth. You eyed the creamy mix of his pre-cum mixed his cum from when he was inside of you. You bit your lip before bending down, moving your hair slightly out of the way. It wasn’t enough to be sufficient. Joe, however, helped you, brushing it back over your shoulders before gripping it into a loose ponytail.
You can do this. You opened your mouth before taking in as much of his rock hard cock as you could. Closing your lips around him, your tongue began running up and down the sides of his shaft, something he clearly wasn’t prepared for. Even though this wasn’t the first time he had gotten a blowjob. He tensed up at this, gripping the handful of your hair, tugging. You moaned with a mouth full of him.
“Fuck.”, he muttered.
A smirk came across your lips. You ran your tongue up his shaft before finding his tip, some pre-cum already leaking once again. You brought the hand you weren’t steadying yourself with up to find his balls, gently massaging them—clearly getting to him. His breathing hitched under your new ministrations. After a few minutes of doing both, him groaning in satisfaction. That’s when he had enough.
“That’s—enough.”, he grunted. “Time—to—fuck—you.”
Your mouth went all the way down his shaft one more time before he tugged your hair slightly.
You popped your mouth off of him with a smile, a teasing one.
His chest was heaving, visibly affected by your mouth. His eyes, focused on you. He knew exactly what you were doing. He himself wondered if he would be able to last much longer.
“Do you want to ride me?”
Your eyes widened, lighting up. “Ride you?”
He nodded groggily this time, visibly sex drunk.
“You’ll help me?”, you asked easily.
He nodded again, his words somehow escaping him.
He’d have to regain his composure quickly.
You crawled towards him on all fours, fuck how he wanted to do it doggy style with you. He would soon enough. He gulped at the sight, the tables slightly turning now. He hurriedly threw open the drawer on his bedside table, grabbing another condom, quickly ripping it open, tossing the wrapper to the side. You giggled at his eagerness. You began kissing him as he stretched the condom over his hard cock.
He broke the kiss once he got it on, eyeing you seductively.
“Straddle me.”, he extended his arms, ready to grab you by the hips.
“Okay.”, you breathed lowly, sauntering towards him.
You threw one leg over his torso before easing down on top of him, feeling his hard cock begging for entrance to your tight, wet pussy. Joseph assisted you in getting comfortable, gently placing his hands under your ass, gaining a squeal from you, before helping you align your body with his and maybe rub your ass a little.
“Now, we’re gonna just guide me in. I’ll help you, love.”, Joe eyed you.
He took your hand in his before leading you to his shaft. You instinctively wrapped your hand around him. Joe was noticeably holding back a moan. His hand guided yours, moving his cock towards your entrance. He aligned it with your entrance.
“Raise up, baby. Just for a minute.”, he instructed.
Without hesitation, you did as he asked.
His eyes locked with yours as he grabbed your hips. You felt his fingertips sink into your waist as he eased you down slowly. Almost immediately, you felt his cock stretching out your pussy. The feeling intensified as he continued easing you down, feeling like he would split you open at any second. You bit your lip and closed your eyes as you felt tears forming in yours eyes. Not tears of sadness or pain—tears from how fucking good it felt.
“Love, are you okay?”, Joe asked as a tears slid down your flushed cheeks.
Sex seemed to be the furthest thing on his mind at that moment in time.
You nodded before blinking, causing another tear to roll down your cheek.
“Love, do we need to stop?”, Joe asked easily, brushing your hair out of your face.
You shook your head. “N—no.”
This seemed to satisfy him. “Just let me know if it hurts too much, okay?”
You nodded. “Just feels so fu-fucking good right now.”
His hands went back to your hips before trailing down your ass, brushing up under the sheer skirt of your lingerie. Damn, he meant to pull that off but you looked so damn sexy in it. It pushed your breasts up, some spilling out over the top. He could easily pull them out when you began riding him.
“Are you ready, love? All you do is place your hands on my chest and work your hips up and down just like this.”, Joe instructed as he rocked his hips up and down a couple of times, causing you to bite your lip and hold back a moan.
You nodded easily. He ceased his movements, making it your turn to work on him. His brown eyes looking into yours patiently. You steadied yourself against his chest, fingertips brushing against his chest. You both shared a kiss before you began riding him—giving it all the energy you had. You began to buck your hips against him, slowly gaining your rhythm.
Joseph threw his head back, closing his eyes. “Feels so good.”, he moaned.
You smirked. “Really?”
“Really.”, he opened his eyes, smiling.
Your hips bucked up and down repeatedly working on him. One of his hands remained on your waist, the other finding your top and pulling it down, letting one of your breasts out. He took that same free hand and began toying with it, causing it to get hard and adding more stimulation to your already fucked out brain. You moaned out with satisfaction, Joe smirking in response.
Picking up your speed came without warning to Joseph. You could read it in his face that it was totally unexpected by you. Your abdominal muscles were burning, setting your torso on fire. But you knew it was where you were not used to this. Joseph was so deep inside of you, you could feel him in the pit of your stomach.
You weren’t going to say anything but you were beginning to tire out and fast. You just didn’t have the stamina yet for all of this. Joseph noticed the sweat beginning to form on your forehead and chest. He was sweating and was barely doing any of the work.
“Love, are you getting tired?”, he asked, his breathing hitched.
“No.”, you lied.
Joseph knew better. “Love, you’re visibly spent. Let’s try one last one—I’ll do all the work.”
Your stomach twisted at his words. Your brain felt like it was in a fog, trying to somehow keep up with all of these new things he’s taught you.
“You sure?”, you asked, hazily.
“Yes.”, he kissed you.
You ceased bucking your hips, your chest heaving. Once you stopped, your abdomen burned even worse. Your whole body felt like it was on fire and you felt extremely lightheaded.
“Just ease off of me.”, Joe instructed.
You did easily, feeling just how much he stretched you. You hissed easily. The condom was still intact, ready for the next adventure. You climbed beside of him, almost just wanting to crash there and then.
“Just get on your hands and knees baby. I’ll help guide you.”, he said softly.
Your legs felt like jello, following his instructions. He was being so patient with you. One of the many qualities that you fell in love with.
Before you knew it, Joe had helped you bury your head in the pillows, face down ass up. You felt Joe teasing your entrance with his cock. He brushed against you a few times, readying himself.
All you could do was nod through a small moan.
He thrusted into you with one fluid movement, burying himself deep inside go you. You let out a long moan, gripping the pillow with your fingers—so hard your knuckles were white.
“Feels fucking good, doesn’t it love? Me fucking you like this—your head buried in the pillows?”
“Joe…”, you moaned out, closing your eyes.
“What? Can you take me fucking you like this?”
You nodded feverishly. “Joe, please….make me cum.”
You could just imagine Joseph smirking after seeing what an affect he had on you.
“Feels—so—good?”, he grunted, ramming into you.
He was fucking you so hard, ramming into you as his thick cock was stretching you. You felt one of his hands rubbing your ass as he continued to fuck himself into you.
“Yes…..”, you moaned out.
“Are—you—a—good—girl?”, he grunted.
You nodded. “Yes…..”
` “Yes such a good girl letting me show her how to be fucked properly.”, Joe praised, sending chills down your spine.
He smirked before he removed one hand from your ass and spanked you, causing you to jolt and squeal. He loved how it caught you off guard, a smirk spreading across his face once more. Your cheeks were becoming rosy as he continued to fuck himself into you relentlessly. You could feel his cock twitching and pulsing deep inside of you.
“Joe….”, you moaned out.
The same, familiar feeling returned to the pit of your stomach just like it had so many times tonight. It was going to happen again. Your climax was impending and you knew it wouldn’t be much longer before you’d have to cum. You eyed the pillow, the muted colors becoming blurry while you let another moan escape your lips. He grunted with each thrust into you, hitting your cervix
“I’m gonna—cum—like soon.”, you breathed.
“Cum for me baby. God, cum all over my dick again.”, Joe hissed, picking up his pace.
He was fucking you so hard and good, his balls were smacking your ass again. This was going to be all you could handle—if this wasn’t the death of you. He loved looking at your ass while he fucked himself into you. He could see your energy dwindling, satisfaction from successfully fucking you out. Truth be told, he wouldn’t last much linger—he needed you to cum like now.
“Joe….”, you moaned groggily.
“Yes, love?”, he grunted.
“I’m gonna fu-fucking cum right now.”, you hiccuped, gripping the pillow for dear life, sinking your fingertips deep into it.
“Cum for me, baby. Please fucking cum for me.”
Your back arched once again and you felt yourself hit your climax, the muscles in your pussy twitching and tightening around his rock hard cock. Lightheadedness took over once more at this point, you feeling the heat of your orgasm wash over your entire body. Joseph smiled, accomplishing his goals for the night. You whimpered as he continued to fuck himself into you, his thrusts getting lazy.
“Here it comes, baby.”, he warned as his thrusts ceased immediately as he released the second loudest groan he had of the night.
His fingertips sank into your ass, his hips stuttering, keeping himself buried inside of you as deep as he could for the last time. You felt his cock pumping his cum in the condom, missing your cervix again. Your chest was heaving, your knees trembling. Joe rubbed your hips, beginning his aftercare early. Joe easily pulled out, eliciting another whimper from you.
You collapsed on the bed, no longer able to hold yourself up. Joe easily disposed of his condom before moving beside of you, covering you both up. You didn’t move. This concerned him.
“Love, are you okay?”, he asked, easily brushing through your hair before kissing your head.
“Amazing.”, you mumbled against the pillow, still not viewing him.
You could feel that his chest was heaving too, but he let out a small chuckle. He laid his arm over in an attempt to cuddle you, but you didn’t budge for a good two or three minutes. You finally found just enough strength to turn over to face Joe. His pupils matched yours—blown out from sex. You both just smiled liked two giddy teenagers, causing you both to laugh.
“Was that good baby? I mean really, tell me the truth.”, he eyed you, rubbing your hips before kissing you.
“Very good.”, you breathed with a smile.
“Want to do it more often?”, he asked, winking.
You giggled. “Yeah, I won’t deprive you so badly now….”
“Deprive me? Who said you were depriving me?”, he chuckled.
“Maya.”, you rolled your eyes playfully, eliciting another laugh from both of you.
If you both didn’t know better, you’d think you both were drunk.
“Appears we were both deprived.”, he eyed you before kissing you passionately, smirking into the kiss.
“Seems so, yes.”, you agreed, breaking the kiss.
You stopped in your tracks, feeling a sensation you weren’t used to. You sat up easily, peeling the covers back—Joseph eyed you, confused.
“Shit.”, you hissed, eyeing the bed.
“What’s wrong, love?”, he asked easily, sitting up.
“I’m bleeding….on your bed…..”, you trailed off sheepishly.
Joe jumped out of bed easily. “I’ll grab a towel, love. It’s okay.”, he reassured you.
He disappeared into the bathroom before you had time to process his sentence. He came back with a towel before climbing back into bed with you. You lifted your hips up, allowing him to slide it under you before you eased back down.
“God, that’s so embarrassing.”, you sighed.
Joe eyed you again, as if he was taken aback by your words. “Love, it’s fine. It’s normal.”
“I’m so sorry, Joe.”
“Stop apologizing for something normal.”, he eyed you, sighing before kissing you. “It’s okay, baby. Sheets will wash.”
He took you in his arms, cuddling you as you laid your head on his chest, completely and utterly spent.
“I love you, Joe.”, you looked up at him.
“I love you too, Y/N.”
The first new Alt-Right Playbook since just after the pandemic began. This video was started two and a half years ago, and languished in various states of production through a severe back injury, an ADHD diagnosis, a case of COVID, and the general stress of living in ongoing crises of health and democracy. With the help of guest artist Micael Schuenker Alves and script consultant Isabelle Felix, The Cost of Doing Business is now, finally, public.
My Patreon has taken a hit in the last few years, so, if like this work and can spare some money to keep it coming, please back me on Patreon.
Transcript below the cut.
Say, for the sake of argument, there’s this… call him a “provocateur.” A conservative who makes his living off of being a public figure, saying scandalously evil things in public because controversy = attention and attention = brand recognition. He gets his writing gigs and interviews and guest spots sometimes because people agree with the awful things he says. More often, it’s because he gets views. His economy runs on engagement, and hate-clicks are still clicks.
One revenue stream is speaking engagements. The college campus circuit. Fans at, let’s say, UC Emeryville invite him as a guest lecturer. But UCE is, broadly, a progressive campus, which means his presence would likely provoke a lot of outrage, maybe even a protest.
And a protest would be pretty flippin’ sweet.
Protest means local news coverage. Maybe more than local. Hell, the conservative media machine loves taking stories like this and blowing them up to national importance. If he plays his cards right, he could get his words in front of millions of people instead of just the student body of UC Emeryville. Of course he’s gonna take that gig.
But the progressive students at UCE are wise to his tricks. They’ve seen him pull this stunt at other UC’s - Stockton, Bakersfield, Vacaville - so they make the decision, “We’re not gonna protest. We’re just gonna let him speak. Let the boy stamp his feet. And, in a month, no one will even remember he was here.”
As the date approaches, and the provocateur sees he’s not getting the response he wants, he starts hinting things on social media, trying to bait a reaction: “Psst, psst. Hey. I’m gonna make jokes about the Holocaust. I’m gonna say Americans treated their slaves well.” Nothing. So he ups the ante. Makes it personal. “I’m gonna put up pre-transition photos of your trans students. I’m gonna out the queer students I’ve seen on Grindr. I’m gonna name which of your students I think are illegal immigrants.”
Student body’s like, “Bro, do your worst. Nobody’s falling for it.” Until one student’s like, “Hold up… he’s gonna dox immigrants in front of his audience of white nationalist gun nuts… and we’re just gonna let him? You know some of his fans were in Charlottesville, right?”
What we’re seeing here is a game of chicken between one group of white conservative reactionaries and one group of - let’s be honest - mostly white liberals, for whom the stakes are who gets paid attention to. The provocateur doesn’t have the ammunition nor the optics to attack privileged liberals directly, so he pokes and prods at various social minorities whom privileged liberals are supposed to care about until he gets a reaction. Going after people of color is a pure Xanatos gambit for his fans - either they get a protest and a national audience hears their reactionary rhetoric, or there’s no protest and they get to fuck with some immigrants. And, because white liberals are largely ignorant to the threat posed to those immigrants, white liberals are not great at assessing the full scope of the danger. Often enough, this remains, to them, an argument about ideas and principles. To them, they are but words. (Until someone gets hit by a car or shot and then it’s “who could have predicted?”)
The provocateur’s animating force is not hatred of people of color, it’s hatred of white liberals, just as white liberals’ animating force is less advocacy for people of color than moral victory over conservatives. Neither side acknowledges people of color as entities in this fight; they’re viewed as tools for getting white people what they want, and their suffering is viewed as an “acceptable” byproduct. You’ve maybe heard the phrase, “In the game of patriarchy, women are not the opposing team, they are the ball.” Well, in the game of imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, minorities are not the opposing team, they are the cars, store windows, and newspaper kiosks that get wrecked when the home team loses. Or when the home team wins. It’s the Eagles Fan view of oppression.
And, make no mistake: weaponizing or disregarding students of color is still racism. But it’s racism of a kind most white people have trouble recognizing - or, to speak with a sharper edge, that white people often refuse to acknowledge. From the white provocateur who does not hate minorities directly but is willing to utilize the hatred of others to get what he wants from some white people - who says “I will hurt them a lot just to hurt you a little” - to the white liberal who does mental gymnastics to not come out and say “that is a Black and Brown sacrifice I’m willing to make,” racism is not always a passion. But it is tolerable. Usable. Easy to disregard.
In a white supremacist world, it is the cost of doing business.
Let me make it clear: nothing about this is okay.
Now, the weaponizing of minority suffering is employed against many minoritized groups - I could be making this video about transphobia or homophobia, and, while many details would differ… I wouldn't even have to change my intro. Samuel R. Delany (yeah, yeah, take a shot) argues that misogyny is the oldest bigotry, and, therefore, the model on which all other bigotries are based. I’m focusing on institutional racism as my chief example, first, because this is America and the cup runneth over; second, because, in the 2016 election, the greatest indicator a person was going to vote Republican, more strongly correlated than being registered as a Republican, was racist sentiments; and, third, because racism is a fundamental building block of fascism and a primary means of sowing discord on the Left, but we’ll get to that.
I am going to curb my reflex to try and make every Alt-Right Playbook some kind of definitive statement; I do not have the last word on American racism. If you want to hear about American racism from the people who experience it, here’s a book. Here’s five books. What I bring to the table is: I have, at this point, several decades’ experience being white. And, in trying to explicate white supremacy, it is sometimes worthwhile to look at it from the inside. So my focus will be: What does whiteness mean to white people?
American racial discourse has four principle (white) characters.
On the far right end, you’ve got the guy white people picture when they hear the word “racist”: your klansman, your neo-Nazi skinhead, your suit-and-tie ethnonationalist. This guy knows he’s a racist and he’s proud of it.
Next to the white supremacist, you’ve got the white collaborator; the politician, public figure, or businessman who does not agree with the white supremacist “on paper” but will seek out their votes, attention, or money.
Next to the collaborator, you’ve got the white moderate: people who ostensibly believe in racial justice as an end goal, and are somewhat committed to bringing it about, but only with the cooperation of the white collaborator. It wouldn’t be fair to do it without their consent, you see, and thus the white moderate spends a lot less time opposing collaborators than “appealing to their better natures.” They tend to operate on behalf of people of color rather than with them.
Plainly put, the “Cost of Doing Business” maneuver is this group [collaborators] using this group [racists] to attack this group [moderates] using people of color as their weapon of choice. It is white supremacy in the form of three groups of white people fighting amongst themselves.
Finally, on the far opposite end, you’ve got the honest-to-goodness anti-racist. Where the racist will support white supremacy, and the collaborator uphold white supremacy, and the moderate seek to reform white supremacy, only the anti-racist is trying to get rid of it. And even they are not free from racial bias! And, if you tell one of them “you are not free from racial bias,” it’s not guaranteed they will react well! It’s just, if you’re trying to fight white supremacy, they’re the white folks you have the best odds with.
Now, this little chorus line is not how white people typically frame the situation. We usually think of racism as binary: there are racists, and there are non-racists. In that framing, the provocateur is someone whose allegiance we get to debate. He willingly sacrifices people of color without personally hating them; does that count as #racism? This “debate” lasts approximately the rest of your goddamn life, which should be evidence enough that the frame is wanting.
In today’s framing, there are several shades of racism and there is anti-racism. There is no “non-.”
Now, before we map the choreography of how these four types interact, first a quick note on how most white people think about whiteness. Short answer: whenever possible, they prefer not to.
Whiteness in America: is it vanilla? No, it’s fior di latte. Nothing but milk and sugar. Where non-whites are flavors, we are the base. In the same way one does not hear one’s own accent; British people have accents, but we speak English "normal-like." If you haven’t built your whole identity around being white, you probably don’t think about your whiteness very often, and perhaps even feel uncomfortable when one points it out. For it is the white experience to passively, unconsciously conceive of oneself as a kind of raceless default.
This is privilege. Indeed, this is part of what makes privilege privilege: it’s the identity that’s treated as a norm. The one you don’t have to think about. A movie with an all-white cast is widely perceived as being no way about race. But that’s not true of one with an all-Black cast.
Identities being treated as defaults makes institutional racism difficult to understand, even for well-meaning white people. “How can I be racist if I don’t identify as a racist? How could I be part of a group I never opted into?” It sounds like racism without racists. But let us reflect a moment: would “a group one never opted into” not describe a minority? People don’t choose to be gay. And, while people also don’t choose to be straight, being straight is “normal.” People don’t “come out” as straight, or have complex codes for signalling heterosexuality (that they’ll admit to, at least); in lieu of other evidence, straightness is presumed. But if people clock you as gay - or even think they’ve clocked you as gay - then you stand out from the background. It makes you more visible, where the appearance of straightness makes you less so. Makes you “the everyman.”
Of the many identities one may have, at any given time on any given axis there is typically only one default, whose rules operate differently to the rest. The more of these “normal” identities one has, the more accustomed one is to being the default. The idea is foreign that people might group one not by how one thinks of oneself, but by how one is perceived and by how one impacts others. It gets hard to fathom that, any more than whether or not a light-skinned Mexican gets to be white is up to them, whether or not you fit the definition of racist isn’t up to you. The boundaries are not policed from the inside.
So! Okay. Going again from right to left: this is where we find the titular Alt-Right. What’s novel about the suit-and-tie ethnonationalist is how they break from the iconography of racism. Their goal, like that of many racist people, is to attack and oppress people of color, but in such a way that the white establishment will let them get away with it. The average white person’s shorthand for a racist is still primarily the klansman and the neo-Nazi; respectively, a rural, working-class white nationalism and an urban, working class white nationalism. The Alt-Right is the gentrification of white nationalism. Their pocket squares and MBAs and $90 haircuts short out the white moderate’s brain because they still associate white supremacy with white trash. Racism is worse than evil, it’s common. It’s why they insist reactionary conservatism is propped up by the white working class in flyover states despite all evidence to the contrary. The Alt-Right can’t be as bad as everyone says, because who ever heard of a racist going to Harvard? (Harvard.)
The Alt-Right bridges the gap between white nationalism and the rest of white culture, using class signifiers to gain access to the political and social capital of the more mainstream collaborator and getting the moderate to treat them not as someone to be ignored but someone to bargain with in good faith.
The collaborator finds value in this relationship because, regardless of one’s position on it, racism works. A police officer may not be personally racist, but, when it’s the end of the month and they need to hand out a few more tickets to make quota, it’s safest to do so in a low-income neighborhood where the average driver can’t make their life hell by hiring a lawyer, and, due to decades of racist redlining, most low-income neighborhoods are disproportionately Black and Latine, sooo… And a prison warden may not be personally racist, but racist white people are approved by jury selection more often than people who think the justice system is racist, so Black and Latine people are the easiest to jail and private prisons get more funding when they’re full, sooo… And a conservative politician may not be personally racist, but Black and Latine people predominantly vote Democrat, and, since they’re disproportionately imprisoned, if the politician denies convicts the right to vote, they are more likely to get reelected, sooo…
Now, these people frequently are self-identified, card-carrying racists. My point is, for this system of incentives and rewards to operate, they don’t have to be. Any of them may, but none of them must. Racism exists and it’s efficient. And, in a capitalist society, where cops are competing for promotions, private prisons are competing for contracts, and politicians are competing for votes, if an unethical behavior sees a higher return than the alternative… then ethics are a luxury. There are hundreds of examples of businesses that claim, in periods of prosperity, that they prefer to do what is right over what is profitable. But what tune do they play when prosperity ends? Every boom has a bust - since 1900, the US has spent one out of every four years in recession. And, in the lean season, not using this generations-old system built by white people to advantage their descendents is a liability. A values-based business typically goes one of three ways: compromising their values to stay competitive, getting bought by someone who compromised their values to stay competitive, or sticking to their guns and facing a higher risk of going out of business. Many choose to do the right thing, and some even survive. But that’s beating the odds. The market trends toward the optimal strategy.
No one ever went broke appealing to the ignorance of white people.
The collaborator treating nonwhite suffering as the cost of doing business also works rhetorically. The average conservative citizen doesn’t know anything about the Syrian Civil War, but they know the refugee crisis is something the Left seems to care about. So demonizing refugees is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to rally their base by spiting liberals and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Arabs. The average conservative citizen doesn’t understand epidemiology, but they don’t want to blame their own party for letting a million die of COVID. So calling it “the Chinese virus” is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to deflect blame onto a foreign nation and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Asians.
Yet, despite their blatancy in collaborating with white supremacists, and having eerily similar goals to white supremacists, the collaborator maintains that they are, themself, “non-racist.” Their decades of opposing affirmative action, right to assembly, police reform, fair voting efforts, redistricting, funding for public schools, prisoner’s rights, religious tolerance, shutting down Guantanamo, accessibility for non-English speakers, immigration, investment in low-income neighborhoods, decolonizing school curricula, Indigenous People’s Day, putting Harriet Tubman on the twenty, kneeling, ending the drug war, or withdrawing from the Middle East are framed as problems of implementation. “We agree with the aim of closing the racial wealth gap, just not like this. We agree with the aim of Latin-Americans entering the country, just not like this. We agree with the aim of peaceful protest, just not like this.”
And, if we on the Left are to ask, how exactly are we supposed to get this without this, oh, coming up with that solution? That’s our job. And, if it’s not getting done? It’s because we haven’t come up with a solution they like yet. And probably what they don’t like about our solutions is that we implied the problem was racism. “Yes, white people are over-represented in dozens of industries nationwide, but have you considered that it’s a fluke? Pitch me a solution for it being a fluke.” The Collaborator’s white supremacy exists in the negative space. They agree racism exists, they agree we should oppose it, but they disagree that any individual thing you’re talking about is an example of it. Getting a Republican to identify an actual incident of systemic racism is like trying to point at your shadow with a flashlight.
And it’s reasonable to ask, Jesus, how far can these guys push the envelope before the rest of the establishment calls them what they are? But, if you’re waiting for the moment a white moderate agrees mainstream conservatism has done something unacceptably and unequivocally racist, you’re underestimating how long white people can equivocate.
There’s a lot to say about the white moderate. And I’m about to be that lefty who expends as many words complaining about liberals as he does fascists, but, look: as much as this series is about the tactics of the Far Right, it is at least as much about how the Center Left is susceptible to them… and complicit.
So, okay. When Democrats lose an election, what happens with the white, liberal, pundit class? Well, there’s suddenly a lot of chatter about how to talk to your racist uncle over Thanksgiving, about how liberals in red states can contact their representatives, about the value of debate. “This is our fault,” they say. “We let this happen because we didn’t have enough conversations with white conservatives.” You hear a lot more of that than talk about how the gutting of the Voting Rights Act cost a lot of the Left the right to vote, and what could be done to guarantee their representation in the next election. In fact, you hear more about how that kind of talk is alienating to the white conservatives who supported gutting the Voting Rights Act, about how reaching across the aisle is gonna mean easing off race talk, at least for now. POC representation is quickly reframed as a critical long-term goal, but, in the present moment, while we are competing for elected office, guaranteeing the minority vote is a luxury.
What’s prioritized is that the people who suppressed the Black vote in order to win elections not be made to feel that they are racist.
Because, I mean, what if they genuinely believe the Voting Rights Act unfairly targets Southern states? Or even if - and I’m saying if here - they did do it to suppress votes, if hurting Black people isn’t their goal, and they’re just trying to win elections, is that really “racist?”
Moderates are very cagey about breaking out the R-word for a fellow white person.
See, there’s this other definition of racism that most white people learn in grade school: racism is when you say mean things to other kids about skin color and it hurts their feelings; racism is about cruelty. And harm done by white people, therefore, isn't racism if isn’t cruel; it’s merely ignorant. Or apathetic. But ignorance and apathy can be reasoned with; you just gotta sit down and hash it out. As long as it takes. Real white supremacy is about emotional distress or interpersonal violence; it’s uncommon, it’s unpopular, and it’s a hearts and minds issue.
What this definition leaves out is any notion that white supremacy is about power. That white people who disavow racism still live longer, get paid better, get arrested less often, and are typically in position to negotiate with whomever’s in power. That this society was built for The Everyman, and being The Everyman confers power upon you.
When children of white moderates get older and first brush up against this definition, wherein white supremacy is not small but all-encompassing, where it can be cruel, but is at least as often indifferent, and where every white person in the country is bound up in it and privileged by it whether they want to be or not, and will never, ever experience it themselves - where it’s not about feelings but power - how often do they say, “oh, maybe the definition I grew up with was simplified for 9-year-olds”?; or, “oh, maybe the definition given to me by white grown-ups was less complete than the one a Black grown-up might’ve given”? And how often do they say, “you can’t just redefine racism?”
Right out the gate, the white moderate is possessive not just of their whiteness but of the very definition of racism.
In the definition they know, racism exists only over here. And the white collaborator is a compatriot who shares their ultimate vision for the future, but has simply gone off course somewhere. And they don’t see themselves as flawed individuals with a long way still to go; they’ve already arrived! They’re the destination everyone else needs to get to! Living proof that white supremacy can be easily and painlessly opted out of. They can’t see collaborators as opponents because there is no definition of white supremacy that includes collaborators and doesn’t also include them.
And this is critically important: they don’t want to start thinking of themselves as white. They don’t want the constant awareness of one’s race or how one’s race is perceived – you know, the things the rest of humanity deals with. And who would want that? I’ll tell you who wants that: Nazis and klansmen want that. They’re the only ones who like thinking about whiteness every day. So, white moderates cling to the other definition, the comfortable one. They may be more or less willing to collaborate with people of color, but mostly in ways that don’t foreground their whiteness. White-as-default is one concession that can never be made, in part because it’s the one that can’t be spoken.
Their ideal is a kind of Big-Tent Antiracism, where victory comes by winning over reactionary conservatives. This might strike you as odd, given that reactionary conservatives have seen many victories in the last twenty years, none of which came by winning over us. White supremacists bolster their numbers by finding little, disgruntled pockets of America that have not, heretofore, engaged much in politics and radicalizing them to the cause, and then pitching themselves to white collaborators as a demographic now large enough to sway a narrow election. If moderates wanted to counter this strategy, they might look at who out there is sympathetic to progressive causes but isn’t voting, maybe because they don’t feel liberal candidates represent them, or maybe because someone just happened to shut down all the polling locations in their neighborhood. And, you know, mathematically, there’s probably a lot more disenfranchised people of color who match that description than racist white people who aren’t already Republicans.
But that strategy would mean doubling down on anti-racist talking points instead of easing off of them. It would mean a willingness to alienate some white people. It’s… giving up on them. It’s admitting a significant percentage of American whiteness is not on the side of racial equity. It means there’s a definition of racism where it isn’t fringe, but common and pervasive, and where addressing it requires thinking about their place in it. It means asking why they feel more affinity for white people who oppose them than people of color they claim to agree with. Why the votes of the former have to be earned but the latter are expected. And, since all that seems intolerable, they fixate on the kinds of gestures that feel like moving in the right direction but run very little risk of arriving anywhere. “How about, instead of defunding the police, we give them more money than any Administration in years, but, also, Juneteenth is a national holiday now. Something for everyone!”
The Left has the numbers to leave behind white centrists who slow down anti-racist efforts, and it doesn’t because white moderates don’t want to. They and the white collaborators are supposed to be in this together, and they are… just not in the way they think.
The irony is that the Right feels no affinity for white moderates whatsoever. They hate - and I mean haaaaate - white moderates. Smug pricks always talking about unity whenever they win an election. “Reach across the aisle?” That's what you say when you’ve lost and you want the other guys to make concessions they don’t have to make—you don’t do it when you’re in power! Are they trying to humiliate us, or did we really lose to a bunch of clowns who don’t even know how to win right? Debasing themselves in front of minorities just to get their votes when they clearly aren’t going to do anything real for them. Christ, at least white supremacists are honest!
The Right will threaten POC sometimes just to call the white moderates’ bluff.
Racism must be understood as more than a set of individual beliefs and feelings, but as a tool for achieving political ends, first and foremost because claiming otherwise is both factually and morally wrong. But also, without this understanding, white culture can’t recognize the stakes.
Fascism exists in a state of permanent conflict. Things like declaring an indefinite state of martial law, suspending elections, or executing members of government, are justified on the grounds that the people are in danger and need to be protected and mobilized. This isn’t unique to fascism: between the Cold War, the War on Drugs, and the War on Terror, the US has been in some form of ongoing conflict for the last three generations, but: you’ll note the Cold War didn’t end on a battlefield, it ended when the Soviet Union collapsed in on itself. Communism, terrorism, and drug dealing are patterns of behavior, and they wax and wane, often for reasons outside our control. Geopolitics may someday shift such that terrorism becomes less prevalent, or that lowers the demand for drugs.
Communism can be fought with diplomacy and economic sanctions because communists can choose not to be communists anymore. And fascists have no use for soft power. To justify a military dictatorship, they need an opponent that won’t just go away on its own one day. It always come back to identity politics because Black people can’t stop being Black; theirs is a number that will not be reduced without the hard power of violence and displacement.
Fascism begins by stealing populist targets from the Left: they focus on elites, corrupt businessmen, weak-willed politicians, subtly shifting focus away from leftist critique of systems to types of people. But, sooner or later, they settle on something unchangeable: race, gender, ethnicity, religious background. The bigotry is localized to the region’s existing prejudices: in Nazi Germany, it was Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Roma, Slavs, Black people, queer people, and people with disabilities; in fascist Italy, it was Slovenes until Mussolini invaded Libya and Ethiopia and so demonized their citizens as well; in the US, the Klan and the American Nazi Party targeted African-Americans, Jews, and Catholics, queer people, and immigrants; Spain under Franco tried to determine the exact racial makeup of the Spanish people so they could cast out those with the “wrong mixture of bloods.”
This is why the Far Right has gone all in on transphobia of late, by the way. It has joined Islamophobia on the outer rim of acceptable bigotries. On some level they know trans folks aren’t just cis people in disguise, that desistance is rare and conversion therapy doesn’t work, because it trans people could just stop being trans… they never would have picked them for an enemy.
This is where it starts. This is why you should have no patience for anyone saying “wokeness is dividing the Left, we should focus on class.” They’re not attacking us on class. They’re trying to sell themselves as better on class than we are. Where do you think that fairy tale about “blue-collar whites” comes from? They want you to believe that they, and not the socialists, are the path forward for the downtrodden. There’s a reason fascism started popping up all over Europe right after the Russian Revolution; Mussolini got his start beating up socialists in the Po Valley, on the grounds that he was defending not wealthy elites but struggling rural farmers who didn’t like the socialist takeover of their industry during the biennio rosso. The fascist goal is to harness and redirect class resentment towards a scapegoat. They come at us on identity. It always comes down to the shape of the human skull.
When a provocateur shows up on a college campus to talk about “ideas,” it’s not a debate. There’s no special sequence of words that will defeat them [expecto patronum gif]. This is a show of dominance. They are presenting themselves as white compatriots to be reasoned with rather than agents of white supremacy to be opposed. In that framing, the stakes are attention, the weapons are words, and people of color are not players but tokens on the game board. And they are checking whether you will submit to that structure.
They don’t care about ideas. They care about power.
And power is what beats them. They tell you four hundred people showing up in protest is just free news coverage. But when four thousand show up? They cancel. That’s power. And, in absolute numbers, most events they can’t rustle up four thousand supporters, but we can, provided cishet non-disabled white dude lefties (like myself) haven’t told all the Right’s biggest targets their struggles don’t matter. (And, it’s worth mentioning, cops fuck with protesters less when some of them are white.)
(It’s also worth mentioning racism affects 58% of the working poor, so there can be no class solidarity that doesn’t address it.)
This [white moderate] isn’t who needs to win. This [POC] is who needs to win, and, if you’re white, you need to be over here [antiracist]. I’ve collected as many resources as I can find by POC on what they need and want from white allies, and put them in the down-there part. There’s a plurality of opinions on this, so I recommend reading more than one. It may not always be a four-thousand-strong protest; every direct action is unique, and must be strategized in concert with the people most affected.
But what I can tell you is, when business gets done, white folks need to split the check. A movement cannot be antifascist if it isn’t antiracist.