Michael Jackson Masquerade Surprise

Caucasian man fools a black princess into believing he's black, too.

Had he not worn Michael Jackson's trademark sequined gloves, she would have known from the color of his hands, no doubt, that he wasn't a black man, but a Caucasian man impersonating the late, great Michael Jackson for Halloween. Compared to black men, much in the way that white men can't jump, white men can't dance either. Yet, he could. Starting with the Moonwalk and finishing on his tippy toes, he had all of Michael's moves down perfectly, even the split, when sliding across the dance floor on his inner thighs and buttocks. Good thing there wasn't a nail protruding from a loose floorboard.

On the surface, aren't they all, it was a match made in Heaven and love at first sight, when seeing one another from across a crowded dance floor. The fact that he was dressed as Michael Jackson and she was dressed as Janet Jackson was what made her first notice him. The fact that he could dance, boy could he dance, was what attracted her to him.

Oh, yeah, there's nothing like a symbiotic brother getting together with his surrogate sister for some romantic rubbing and horny sweating on the dance floor. As if doing a sexually explicit, ritual dance around the imagined lustful fire that burned inside her, he was shaking his ass on the parquet in the way that any woman would fantasize him shaking his ass in bed. Wild thing, I think I love you, screamed through her brain, while watching him dance.

"Look at that man dance," said Desiree to her friend, Venus. "He moves almost as good as Michael."

"Hmm, hmm, I've been watching him all night. If you don't move on him, sister, I will," said Venus to Desiree with a lascivious laugh and a forward jerk of her head, as if she was inserting a visual exclamation point.

With his style and fashion, by his walk and talk, he had all the moves and swagger of a fine, black man. He was good, real good in making all the women want him, when he was strutting his stuff on the dance floor. Every women's eyes were upon him and shining for him, just as every women's pussy, no doubt, glistened with the imagined touch and gleamed with the imagined lick of him. He had his pick of women. Tall and lean, he had a tight, little ass that Desiree appeared enamored with, that is, whenever not staring at the bulbous bulge of his cock. He was fine, so very fine and, a done deal that she just needed to sign his contract with a kiss, she had already made up her mind to claim him.

"You'd better not put any claims on that man. That man is mine, Venus, all mine."

Whenever he spoke his sexy, suggestive words to her, his voice reminded her of Barry White whispering sweet nothing not on his record but in her ear. She imagined him sweet talking her, before making passionate love to her. His voice was as deep and as sweet as brown sugared molasses that poured out over her dark chocolate skin. Beneath his Michael Jackson mask, she imagined his skin as dark as Don Cornelius of Soul Train and, at least, as dark as her skin. They'd make beautiful, dark chocolate babies, a color so pure, her ancestors would be proud that she maintained the bloodline without being tempted to taint it with white blood.

The imagined thought of rubbing her naked breasts against his black, muscular chest, while he rubbed his big, black cock against her soft belly, made her wet with desire for him. Cooing in anticipation of it, she imagined reaching down to take him in her hand, before taking him in her mouth. With a body like Shannon Sharpe, the ex-tight end for the Denver Broncos and Baltimore Ravens, the imagined feel of his muscular thighs, his tightly defined stomach, and his big biceps and rock hard shoulders, she could almost feel what it would be like to be naked and in bed with him. Already sexually aroused with the thoughts of him holding her, touching her, feeling her, caressing her, kissing her, and pounding her proud, black ass, while feeling her big, tits and fingering and sucking on her dark chocolate nipples, it was love at first sight alright, at least, for her.

With her back turned to him, she pretended she wasn't paying him any mind, when he walked across the dance floor directly to her, as if she had a GPS up her ass. Venus, facing him, was her commentator.

"Oh, girl, here he comes, as if he's hungry and you're the main course. He hasn't taken his eyes off your big, black ass."

"I don't have a big ass, Venus," she said giving her shoulder a shove.

"You know what I mean, Desiree."

She could feel him looking at her and her desire burned hotter with his imagined stare. She imagined him wanting her, as much as she wanted him. She imagined he was undressing her with his eyes, as she had just done with hers. With his cock pressed against her ass crack, she imagined him stepping up closer to her and leaning down to kiss her neck, while feeling the sides of her breasts, before reaching around her to cup her big tits in his strong hands.

Then, she imagined him reaching down to cup her sweet ass and grabbing her about the waist and giving her a little hump to show her by how hard and how hot he was for her and how much he wanted to make love to her. Kissing her, taking her, stripping off her clothes, and fucking her hard, so hard that all her ancestors could hear them fucking in Africa, she imagined him fulfilling all her sexual desires. Then, when he leaned down to whisper in her ear, so that she could hear him over the loud music, the sound of his deep, sexy voice was a verbal love potion that made her swoon, before she melted.

"What's your name, baby?"

She turned and looked at him, his face covered with the image of Michael. Still, she didn't have to see his face to know he was the one. She just had to see his eyes to see the reflection of his desire for her. Looking deeply into the man, she recognized his look of love and passion, as if she was looking in the mirror at herself. When fate steps in, as if struck by lightning, dizzy with desire and sparking with sexual electricity, she could sense the fireworks of passion they'd soon have and the beautiful babies they'd surely make.

In the way that he looked at her, undressing her by his focused attention, she swooned when he called her baby. That one word, baby, was all he needed to say and all she needed to hear. Just as Renee Zellweger, as Dorothy Boyd, told Tom Cruise, as Jerry Maguire, in Jerry Maguire, that you had me at hello, he had her when he called her baby. Baby! Baby, baby, baby, she was already his baby to have and to hold for better or for worse.

She imagined him falling to one knee and calling her baby, when he presented her with a big, diamond ring and asked her to marry him. She imagined him calling her baby, while he made hot love to her, before cumming in her pussy, in her mouth, and in her ass. She imagined him calling her baby, when he carried her over the threshold of their new house. She imagined him calling her baby, after she gave him a baby of her own for her to call baby, one that was just as beautiful and dark as they were. Love at first sight, in deep within a minute, she was already his baby to take, to live with, and to love, happily ever after.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride," she imagined her Reverend saying to them at the altar.

She heard the bells. She saw her beautiful dress. She saw the church with her dressed in white and her father walking her down the aisle to give her away on her wedding day. Where would they live? Where would they go for their Honeymoon? How many children should they have?

"Desiree," she said flashing him her sexiest smile and batting her long eyelashes that her abbreviated Halloween mask did little to conceal.

As if they were polished, shiny black onyx, her eyes sparkled with real interest and, as if he was the only man in the room, she took him all in with focused attention. Already changing the way he walked, talked, and dressed, she'd make him over in the image of her Ebony and Esquire man. As if she was Eve in the Garden of Eden, she looked as if she was a ripe piece of fruit to be taken from the tree of life and devoured, while treasured by the right man, that is, so long as he was a dark, black man.

"Desiree. That's a perfect name for you," he said with a bright, white smile. "Only, I'd be more apt to call you desire, instead of Desiree, baby."

Desire? Oh, baby. Not only did he call her baby again, but he called her desire. Just as she was already desiring him, he was desiring her, too. No black man had ever sweet talked her in such a way. All the black men she ever knew were rough and crass around the edges. They were more ready for sex and than for love.

It was apparent to her from the start that this man wanted to take his time with her and was there for the whole meal and not just there for dessert. He wanted to linger with her and take her all in, as if she was a fine wine and he was a connoisseur. She imagined him holding her, smelling her, taking her in his mouth, as if she was the most expensive glass of champagne. He called her baby, as if she was already his baby. She wondered if he was as taken with her, as she was with him.

"Ask him if he's married," whispered Venus in her ear.

"Shh," said Desiree with a wave of her hand.

"Ask him if he has a brother," persisted Venus.

"Didn't you say you were going to the lady's room to powder your nose?"

"Pardon me," said Venus. "I need to use the lady's room."

"You know just how to make a woman blush," she said giving him her sexy smile again and making sure he received the look that told him she was interested, now that she was free to make her moves without her friend interfering. "And what's your name, honey?"

She imagined her calling him honey, when his breakfast was ready in the morning. She imagined calling him honey to watch the kids, while she took their youngest one to the emergency room for an ear infection. She imagined calling him honey, when he filled her up with his big, black cock and they spooned, before falling asleep, after making love.

She imagined him having a strong name, a manly name, and a name that transcended the generations that passed between a black man coming here as a slave, being freed, and succeeding in life and in America. She imagined his name being Denzel or Will or Muhammad or Tyler or Morgan.

"Anthony."

"Anthony? You don't look Italian to me," she said with a laugh.

She thought he was African-American in heritage. She thought he was as black as a star filled night. She didn't know he was the color of homogenized milk.

Careful of her hair, she removed her Janet Jackson mask and, not much of a change in appearance, certainly much younger, she was every bit as beautiful, if not more so, than Janet Jackson. With not a wrinkle or a mark on her ebony skin, her face was flawless. With that face, she could have been a model and with her body, she could have been a cheerleader.

"Janet Jackson wished she looked as good as you, baby."

Suddenly, she felt flushed. He knew all the right things to say. Suddenly, she felt like Samuel L Jackson, as Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction when he told Brett that if he said "What" one more time, he'd shoot him. Only, in her case, if Anthony called her "baby" one more time, she'd blow him.

Go ahead, I dare you. Call me baby one more time and I'll fall to my knees, unzip your fly, and take your big, black cock in my mouth and suck you, right here, right now. She imagined her mouth stretched with the girth of him, while sucking her man. She imagined him exploding his passion and desire for her in her mouth and her swallowing all that he had to give.

"You know all the right things to say, Anthony," she smiled her sexiest smile.

From the first second she saw him, she knew he was the one for her. Women know such things instantly. Usually needing a baseball bat to the back of the head, along with constant and continual nagging to remind him and convince him, it takes a man much longer to figure out his doomed reality and his forever future, whenever a strong, black, beautiful woman enters their lives and takes control of their destiny, as if it was their own.

A black woman knows immediately that he's her man. A black man just wants to score with one, before moving on to the next. Yet, Desiree already had the ball and chain wrapped around his big, black cock with an indelible stamp that read, "Bitches beware. Stay away from my man or I'll kick your ass. He's mine."

Not even giving it a second thought or a doubt of suspicion, she thought Anthony was her dream, black man. Then, when he removed his Michael Jackson mask and looked as pale as she was, after the blood drained from her face to make her look nearly as white as Nicole Kidman on a feverish day. His porcelain skin shriveled her heart and widened her eyes, as wide as Buckwheat of Spanky's Little Rascals or Roscoe on Jack Benny.

She couldn't believe he was white. She couldn't believe he wasn't black. Half expecting him to remove his Caucasian mask to reveal his real black self, she was crushed.

Got milk? The milkman is here, she thought and wanted to say, but didn't. Jive, honky, cracker pretending he's a black man is not funny, it's just not right. Damn fool to think he could trick me. Okay, he did deceive me, but I knew all along he wasn't black. Lord almighty, I thought he was a black man. Why did you do me like this Lord? Why didn't you make Anthony a black man and give him a respectable black name like Denzel.

As if a brilliant lighthouse light that warned her of the impending doom of a sandbar dead ahead and to reverse direction full speed to steer clear, before beaching herself with a white man, her gut told her to return to the deep ocean, as fast as she could to look for other fishes in the sea. Without wading out any further in his sea of sweet talk and getting in over her head, her need to be with a man as dark as she was drowned in her unrelenting desire for him. Help! SOS. If only Venus was there to save her. Someone through her a line.

Lifting her head above his ocean of compliments for her to see other, real, black men across the room, she finally had a view of the shore. Now that she saw her safe harbor, she wanted nothing more to do with him. Never is when she wanted him to call her baby again. She needed to don a lifejacket as protection from drowning in his ocean of dialogue by launching her own diatribe. Sink or swim, she needed to get back in her boat to motor away and leave him there to drown in his unrequited desire for her. He just wouldn't do, not for her, a white man taking charge of her black life. Uh uh, oh no. No way.

As if a needle that ran the width of a record to ruin a romantic Lionel Ritchie song, while her long fingernails scratched the length of a chalkboard, a cat caterwauled outside, and a car screeched to a grinding halt from 100 miles per hour, the shock of his white skin ran through her black brain with panicked disappointment. Without doubt, this white boy was just as sexy and desirable as any proud, black man she knew, but she didn't do Caucasians. Nope, uh uh. No way.

She wasn't about to have herself a bunch of malato children that had problems in school and all throughout their confused, mixed race lives. Proud of her dark, chocolate color, she'd rather pick one color and stay with that, rather than to go digging through the Crayola crayon box to mess with various shades that don't favor either race but, instead, mixed them in a beige porridge of pain, hurt, and suffering. She couldn't believe her dream man was as white as the ghost he'd surely be, if her brothers ever saw her walking home with him.

"You're white," blurted Desiree with a look of astonishment that quickly turned to shocked sorrow.

Trick or treat, his costume of Michael Jackson played her this Halloween trick but she wasn't about to fall for him and treat him to anymore of her sweet nectar. As if a bee passing by a plastic flower to pollinate the real rose in her garden of weeds, she was done with him and was already searching the dance floor with her eyes for a real, black man, her Romeo of color, a quality gentleman and someone without outstanding felony convictions. No more looks, no more flirting, no more sexy smiles, no more suggestive innuendoes, and no more interest, he was already history, done and finished. Bye, bye.

Even though he was still standing there hoping, no doubt, to score with her, he was already gone from her mind and she was checking out who else she could target with her love arrow. She just needed a polite excuse to leave and find herself a real, black man and not some carnation white imitation. Chocolate was her favorite flavor and not vanilla.

"I know," said Anthony with a laugh, "I've always been white. Sorry. And you're beautiful."

"Yeah, well, thank you," she said, already tired of his compliments and giving him a look that translated as yeah, well, fuck you, not interested, you jive turkey.

Yet, suddenly doubting her rash decision to pass him by, she paused to take another look at him, as if trying to make certain of her choice to give up on him and flee. Definitely, without doubt, he was handsome, as good looking as Denzel, sexier than Blair Underwood, and with a better body than that black hunk of a model, Tyson. If only he was as dark as T. O. She wouldn't even care if he had a mug like Joe Frazier.

"I was wondering, if after the dance, you'd want to accompany me to--"

"I don't date white men. Sorry," she said with a wave of her hand.

In a huff, she turned up her nose with her sudden and steadfast disinterest and rejection of him. Trying to change the mind of a proud, black woman is like trying to move a stubborn donkey, when the animal has had enough of carrying your load of shit and was done with walking down your crooked ass path. Hee haw, hee haw, hee haw. For sure, this white boy won't be braying or strutting his stuff like a crowing cock, after he's had sex with her because it ain't never gonna happen. She'd have none of that, not with him. They'll never be a white cock in her black pussy or his cum in her black mouth.

"You've danced with me for an hour and I thought you knew that I wasn't black," he said with a seemingly uncomfortable laugh. "How could you not know?" He gave her a look that told her he wasn't trying to deceive her. "Besides, what does it matter, anyway, the color I am. I thought we made a connection," he said looking at her, as if she was the most valuable jewel in the display case and she was, when it came to the women at this party.

There was no comparison. She was in a class of one. Beauty, brains, and substance, she'd make him a good wife and they'd make for a great couple, if only she could see past his skin color and give him a chance to redeem himself for something he didn't do, but for something that was merely an accident of his birth.

As if the whole room had stopped to take a breath, everyone watched their interaction. Every black man in the room was watching them, while waiting for their opportunity, no doubt, to score with her, after she kicked his white ass to the curb. Every white woman and some black women had their eyes fixed on him, while waiting for their opportunity to make a love connection with him.

"You danced like a black man and when you were rubbing that big, hard cock up against my belly, you sure felt like a black man. We made a connection, sugar, because I thought you were black," she said with more self-assuredness and a bit more attitude this time. "We made a connection," she said explaining herself more, "but my Daddy would kill me and you, if I brought home a white man. He doesn't like white people," she said with some awkwardness, before making a face and slowly shaking her head side to side.