She is a black girl. Don't know why society tells me to call her that. Really, she's brown. I don't even know how to describe this brown. Chocolate Brown? Coffee Brown? Sandalwood Brown? Long Island Iced Tea Brown? Bone Marrow Brown? (Chocolate Black? That doesn't sound right.)

(Why isn't Bone Marrow Brown a compliment? I take my coffee with lots of cream and two sugars. She is not the color of my coffee. David Letterman is the color of my coffee. I guess David Letterman is black. He is Coffee Black.)

Nevertheless, this girl, she is brown. Apparently, this is an important distinction. She has luscious long hair, her perfect form is replete with muscular calves and thighs, she has big-B let-me-outta-this-bra breasts, a smooth jawline and a slight (oh so feminine) belly; her throaty laugh sounds like a scratchy tape of Pam Grier and Kathleen Turner in the third of a four-course lesbian buffet; and her body language sighs I am a wonderful being; I taste like heaven; when naked, I show you not the deception of perfection, but the perfection of human female beauty."

Where was I?

Ah, yes. I remember. Worshipping a human. Pardon me, while I go gather in her name, sucking on every letter (I hope her name is long, like Clytemnestra, or Persephone) as if each one were a luminously sweet Jolly Rancher scattered across the map of my universal desire.

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