Cracka Sissy

When we were in our early 20s, Monica and I moved to an apartment complex for low income. We had both lost our jobs and were receiving public assistance and food stamps. The complex was large and, as you can imagine, the tenants were pretty rowdy. It was full of single mothers with lots of kids. Because there were so many African-Americans there, I did my best to get to know them to try and be friends. Most of them were cool, but it was obvious that some of them had no use for some little white guy like me. I was what you'd call a whigger, I guess.

My wife Monica was a lot more outgoing than I was, and had grown up in a diverse area, so it was easier for her to make friends. She was 23 but she came across as being very immature, and was often mistaken for being in her teens. Most of her friends in the complex were high school aged girls, most of them African-American. There was a pool and a handball court in the middle of the complex, and it was always crowded with rowdy teenagers. I especially avoided the handball court, because it was a magnet for gangster type black guys, and they never failed to mock me when I went by. I was never what you would call the most masculine guy in the world, in fact, far from it. I was 5 foot 6, and weighed about 120 pounds. Why Monica ever went for me, I can only guess. After we broke up she told me it was because I wasn't threatening and was easy to push around.

We actually had a pretty good sex life at first -- we used to fuck several times a day. Honestly though, during sex I was always imagining that I was getting fucked by some guy, especially when Monica was on top. Monica was a really pretty and sexy blond. She was very girly, and loved wearing sexy outfits. And I actually encouraged her to dress like that, because it really turned me on when she'd tell me about guys hitting on her, or even better, if I saw it myself. I'm a talker in bed, and I loved grilling Monica about her sex life before we met. She had no problem discussing the men she had been with, and I'd probe and probe until I'd shoot my load. Monica used to walk around the complex in these really skimpy short shorts and halter-top, and sandals with 3 inch heels. She fit right in with the teenaged girls she called her 'posse," and I was cool with it. She loved going to the pool with her girlfriends and hanging out there all day. Honestly, sometimes I'd watch her as she headed to the pool, wearing just a skimpy 2-piece string bikini and the heeled sandals, walking in that sexy little strut, her pink cell phone in hand, and I'd get so hard because I knew that she had to be attracting so many guys. I'd go in our bed and masturbate, just thinking about it.

Monica liked to talk about her day and about her friends, and I began to notice that she was bringing up this one guy -- his name was James -- all the time. I knew who he was, he was a kid who lived with his welfare mom and several younger half siblings. He was only a teen, but he was like 6 foot 3, and built like an athlete. He was new to the complex -- he had just been released from CYA -- and every time I saw him he was surrounded by adoring girls. He pretty much took over the complex when he got there, and he was always at either the handball court or the pool.

From the way Monica was always bringing him up it was obvious that she liked him. A normal husband would have been pissed off and jealous, and, to be honest, I had some of those feelings too. But when we were in bed some devil in my head would work James into the conversation. I'd ask Monica about how all the girls were on James' jock and stuff like that. Monica was quick to join in and eventually the conversation would get around to, "Would you fuck him if you weren't married?"

Around that time I got a temp job, and I would be gone from mid afternoon until around midnight. One night I got home and Monica wasn't in the apartment. I figured she was at the pool with her friends so I went over. Her friends were there and when I asked where Monica was I saw them giving each other furtive glances. Something was up for them to be acting so sneakily. I went back to the apartment; still no Monica. I heard noises coming from the handball court, so I headed over there, and as I went around the corner I saw something that made me jerk my head back. It was Monica and she was standing there watching the guys play handball. She was holding a shirt in her hand. I watched as the guys finished their game and I saw James walk over to Monica and take his shirt! WTF?? She was acting like she was his little BITCH!

I watched as he put his shirt on and then lean in for a kiss, his hands cupping my wife's ass. I ran home as fast as I could so I could be there before Monica arrived. We didn't fight much, due to my passive nature, but I jumped her as soon as she came through the door. We had a huge fight. At first she tried to deny it but when I told her what I had seen she admitted that she had been seeing James. She actually seemed defiant, like -- "So what are YOU gonna do about it?"

Well the whole complex knew that Monica -- my wife -- was James' bitch. I never got much respect to start with, but now I was the object of either pity or derision. Monica told James that I had confronted her and gave in when she threatened to leave me, and that emboldened him to start coming around to our apartment. I'll be honest, I was afraid of him and I actually started kissing his ass. I could tell from the way he looked at me that I disgusted him. It got so that he and his friends began coming to our apartment to watch basketball games and just hang out. I tried to fit in, but I realized soon enough that I had little in common with black teens who were already more man than I'd ever be. Sometimes they'd send me out for beer and snacks. Once I came home and Monica was sitting in James' lap, wearing nothing but a little black silk Frederick's of Hollywood shorty robe. I felt like such a loser! But the thing is, it was the humiliation that I secretly craved. Monica refused to have sex with me any longer, and asked me to move into the spare bedroom. Many nights I lay in bed alone, masturbating and listening to the sounds of my wife's screams and the pounding of a head board, as she got fucked by her new man.

I began coming to terms with the notion that I was a sissy -- a faggot. When I jerked off I would always imagine that I was a woman, servicing a man. Now that I had been exposed for the coward and cuck that I was, it somehow became easier to accept to myself that I was a queer. I began dressing up again -- something I had been doing from puberty until I married Monica. I had quit then, but now I began doing it again. I knew I looked good, and could totally pass as a woman, due to my slight build and delicate features. Once I had asked some of James' friends about what it was like in CYA, and they looked at each other and laughed. One of them said, "Don't ever get locked up, man, they would put someone like you up in high heels!"

After that all I could think about was getting locked up. I fantasized about it obsessively. I knew I was in an impossible situation; my marriage was all but over -- Monica was pregnant -- and I wanted to be free to be the girl I realized now that I was. So I did something almost beyond belief; I bought a .22 pistol and began robbing convenience stores. I did several in one night, and on the last one, I purposely hung around and waited for the cops to come. After that my life became a living hell. I was not prepared for prison. I knew before I started that I was going to be raped and sold as a whore -- and that's what I wanted! But the misery surrounding that life was horrific. I got my wish -- I was turned out as a prison sissy, sold to a black gangsta who renamed me and turned my ass out on the block. I got beatings from him I never could have imagined. I had imagined being a woman and having sex with men, and all that happened to me. But the disgusting and humiliating things that came with it were beyond my belief. I learned to drink piss and eat out men's ass holes -- all for money --to run back to the cell and give to my man. There was nothing too disgusting for a queen like me in prison. I lived in fear and misery, a Caucasian prostitute -- who was given savage beatings for any excuse. After a few years my man sold me to another pimp, and my life got better, because this man was kind to his hoes. I worked my ass off for him until my release from prison.

The last time I saw Monica she was pregnant with her second child, this one from a guy named Leon. She came to visit me and deliver the divorce papers. I heard she has 5 kids now, all from different black men. Guess she had to grow up fast too.