My Skin was the Selling Point for His Ardour
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Your Skin is so Soft: Do you know how to take care of it?
That’s what he said to me as soon as we were seated at the table and he cop’d a feel of my arm.
He stole a caress and his exuberance at the silky smooth feel of my skin was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever experienced on a date.
Let’s rewind.
I met Jean Phillipe on Tinder fall 2016. I was fresh off of my trip to Italy and back in France itching to find a new love to sate an appetite that got blown wide open on my trip to Milan.
After a few minutes of swiping left and right, I came across Jean Phillipe. He was 43, blonde hair, blue eyes, typically French, but he looked young and was fit. It was an instant match.
Our conversations began almost automatically, he was so excited and eager, causing alarm bells to peel in my dating senses but I ignored them. He was hot after all and if I’m being honest Tinder had brought my shallow side into sharp focus.
After about a week of texting and phone calls in both English and French, we decided to go on a date. I picked a bar downtown not too far from where I lived. A beautiful and trendy art bar with good enough lighting to ensure I wasn’t catfished.
Though, he insisted on picking me up from home. In fact, we argued about it in which he told me he’s not a killer and wants to be a gentleman, I relented and rolled with it.
Once we were seated at the bar he ran his finger down the inside of my arm and made his declaration about how soft my skin was and then inquired on how much knowledge I had for taking care of my skin.
The touch wasn’t as weird as his question about skin care.
Of course, I know how to take care of my own skin, why do you think it’s so soft? It is what I wanted to say in a haughty response but I didn’t. I simply responded, yes I know with a coy smile. He continued with his unsolicited advice about not using lotions with parabens and proceeded to touch me again. I reassured him and steered the conversation elsewhere.
This was my first experience of how some European men truly view black women as an object of exotic desire to satiate their fetish.
It left me feeling uncomfortable. It wasn’t overt objectification but it was insinuated.
I didn’t have time during the date to fully unpack what he said and as the night grew on his advances went from eager to a rabid frenzy as we sat in his car near my apartment debating on why he should be allowed inside my inner sanctum.
I didn’t sleep with him that night on principle. Perhaps if he was better behaved I would have (yes I weaponize sex sometimes) but Jean Phillipe didn’t deserve to sample my jelly.
I only wish to share my inner world with men who are truly for me. I recognized that my sole purpose that night was to give him a fix.
No one likes or wants to be a mere fetish.
I’ve never had issues with interracial dating. My first boyfriend was white. The first guy I ever did anything sexual with was white. I’ve dated white men for years. In fact, I’ve dated a spectrum of races and nationalities.
But Jean-Phillipe was the genesis of my preference to the only date within my race moving forward.
You may think this particular encounter was innocuous but for the sake of being succinct, I’m leaving a few details out that bolster my argument that Jean-Phillipe is indeed a fetish-chaser, asking you to trust me on this. Trust that my experience made me question interracial relationships in a real way.
We saw each other for a few weeks after but there are more stories in there that I will share in the next installment of Couplings in 4 Hours or Less.
