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I know I love BWC. I know I'm not a racist. And I know I hate justifying myself.
I've learned the hard way that thoughts of what others may say or think about our desires will keep us from perfectly attainable satisfaction. My desire for hardcore raceplay was something I'd repressed throughout my entire adolescence and early adulthood. I never chose to implicate any nonconsenting parties. It was always an absurd fantasy that only existed, could only exist, inside my head. And even still, I was afraid of validating actual racists, afraid of angering my family, afraid of being chastised by an increasingly sensitive court of public opinion. It wasn't until I realized that my mind was my only refuge, and if I couldn't indulge my repressed desires there, I couldn't indulge them anywhere.
At the ripe old age of 26, I'd realized I was thrilled by the idea of being a beautiful brown slut for BWC. I'd always been. I was just repressing my fetish. It made me feel sexy. It made me feel desirable. It made me feel good. I wasn't going to apologize for something that induced such an intense feeling of catharsis.
This book is, above all else, a clarification for my readership, but aside from that, it's an examination on the line between reality and fantasy, the real and the illusory. My fetish is simple, but the underlying motivations for it are not. In this brief essay, I relay my personal background and further explain my fetish in its complete absurdity.
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