American Billionaires With Asian Women - Why No Black Sisters? Foot-binding And Universal Standards Of Beauty

LaShonda Evans was a star, a black sister with a following, men from Pharoah Jones, King of Anacostia, to Jordan Washington, City Councilman, to Congressman Lexus P Finchley, representative from Pennsylvania's Third District, the blackest in Pennsylvania. 

She was also a queen of the ghetto, one of Brentwood's classiest club dancers, the one patrons paid extra to see.  At one point not many years ago, entrance and cover for her show was $500 each.  It was like the old days of the Black Renaissance in Washington where the Owl's Eyes club was bigger than Small's Paradise in Harlem, and the black glitterati from as far away as Kansas City came for the vibes, the Jack and Bailey's, go-go music, and of course her. She danced as Miss Rose - fragrant, elegant, beautiful, and desirable. 

Now Miss Rose had never had any luck with the white high-rollers of Washington.  Gone were the old days when the city was a company town - government - and had grown to become a major metropolitan area, land development, high-rise condos, and high-tech corridors radiating out from the District to Maryland and Virginia.  There was plenty of money now in Washington, bigtime money in the billions, all concentrated in the hands of middle-aged men who were willing to spend it freely. 

These were not scions of the old New England families who kept their own counsel, lived in impressive but unpretentious homes, still had dinner parties, summered on Nantucket and wintered on the slopes of Gstaad.  No, the new crowd was all about yachts and resorts and Great Gatsby lawn parties and whole Caribbean islands.  They loved glitz and glamour and most of all arm candy. 

These Washington land developers and real estate investors were not in the highest echelons of wealth and privilege - they were not members of the genius cluster of Musk, Huang, Page, Ellison, Gates et al but for a few hundred million either way, they could be on the list. 

When the Huang episode hit the press - Jensen Huang, CEO of one of the world's largest companies, the genius behind the computer chips that power AI, and next to Elon Musk, the world's richest man, had been caught in flagrante with a beautiful, young Chinese spy - Miss Rose wondered why Huang and all the rest of the billionaire oligarchs after divorcing their wives of many years, turned to Asian women, not a black sister in sight. 

'Foot-binding' was the facile but most logical answer.  Asian women are known to be complaisant, respectful, dutiful courtesans to white men, happy to serve them for a price.  The ancient practice of foot-binding, a practice in which the feet of young girls were tightly bound and not allowed to grow so that as adults their feet would be small, pretty and delicate, is a metaphor for the rightful role of women as objects of beauty and pleasure for the enjoyment of men. 

All academic, thought Miss Rose who never even got invited to one of these Washingtonian galas.  Yes, black women were in numbers when Joe Biden was in office, but only like the Negro men in the 60s hired by banks to sit at a desk by the plate glass window and look busy.  These sisters were window dressing, for not one of the political inner circle ever ventured past Spring Valley or Georgetown.  Diversity and multiculturalism was a scam worth the best of Pharoah Jones, a man who could con white, black, colored, high-yaller, octoroon, or Chinese out of the last penny of their life savings and never look back. 

The high-rollers were a different story.  They could have, buy, lease, or rent any type of woman they wanted, no affirmative action, no DEI required; so their choice of Asian woman sent an unmistakable message - the top-tier sex market loves Asian women, no blacks need apply. 

'Once you go black, you'll never go back', said Ra'Isis Chandler, a full-bosomed, high-shelved, coal black madam of Anacostia.

'Hah', laughed Miss Rose, 'if you white-lookin', honey'.  How come these chinky pussies get theirs and not us? We can give those white boys a ride they ain't never goin' to forget and we still riding in the back of the bus. 

Miss Rose wasn't one to shout 'racism' - sex is a free market and black women are bargain basement.  Ain't nothing we can do unless we go mestizo, quadroon, and lily white. 

Miss Rose was a rock-ribbed conservative who refused to be compromised and taken for granted by the progressives now taking back government.  Everything, she said, was subject to the law of supply and demand, risk and reward, cost and benefit, and sexual choice was but one selective algorithm among many. 

So separate were the races that wouldn't know where to start.  Eyes on the prize was not enough, and more galling of all was how Ethiopian, Somali, Egyptian, and Fulani women were given an entry ticket and not them. Because other than their black skin, these women are just as white as the Queen of England.  Look what I got, said Jeff Bezos in his divorce interregnum as he squired an Tigrayan beauty from the runways of Milan. 

  

Feminists insist that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but that inner beauty meme has never been the standard.  Statues of women from Ancient Greece and Rome, Persepolis, Florence, and Istanbul have all shared the same Caucasian features of symmetry, alignment, and perfection.  Eyes, lips, nose, facial shape and structure have never been sculpted or painted differently.  Asian models now, except for a modest slant of the eyes could be white.  Black is beautiful only when it conforms to this order. 

Racism? Hardly. Hardwired preference and the persistence of the ghetto - black women unless they conform are back shelf, store room goods. 

Miss Rose took a good look at herself in the mirror.  She was no Fulani, Somali, or Ethiopian - not even Tutsi, the Caucasian-looking tribe so favored by the Belgians compared to the short, grimacing, simian features of the Hutu.  She was ordinary black, some white blood thanks to a Mississippi grandee back in slave times, but not enough to get her on the circuit. 

Even Arab women are ahead of us in the line. Without veils, chador, and burqas, they automatically get on the big board, are traded like gold or rare earths. 

So be it, the luck of the draw.  If we were smart we would be baby mommas to white folk, don't matter who as long as they white, dilute the blood, raise them babies like they was all white and in a generation or two, they would be arm candy for the Musks and Huangs of their world. 

Inclusivity, diversity, equity? Nonsense. The market pays no attention to that. Arm candy has value, Jack. 

Jensen Huang, Marc Antony, And Older Men With Younger Women - A Man's Birthright

When Bill Baxter went in for his yearly physical - well, not exactly yearly since at his age what ails him would either improve or do him in, so why find out before the time came? - Dr. Sherman said, 'You're in fine shape, Bill, heart of an athlete and prostate of a young man'. 

'Numbers don't lie', replied Bill, a man who ordinarily never paid attention to actuarial tables, IRS life expectancy projections or Treasury Department expectations for bond maturity.  He had always been a come-what-may kind of guy, taking life as it, mining its treasures, putting up with its frustrations, and accepting tragedy; but now, suddenly, someone had flipped the channel.  He was no longer looking at the future with any enthusiasm and was spending more and more time dwelling on the past. 

What bothered him most was his sexual insignificance.  God's greatest irony was to create men with a lifelong interest in sex, but to afford them only a few short decades to do something about it. 

Jensen Huang, former CEO of Nvidia, one of the world's biggest companies, was no different.  He was an  older man after all, subjected to the same divine irony as any other.  Wealth, intelligence, influence, and renown are are not insulating material  There is something primal about it all, something hardwired in men's brains.  We were meant to spread our genes far and wide, sexual Johnny Appleseeds, always restive, hungry, and on the prowl 

Bill Baxter had had his share of lovers in his life - the delicious Sultan's princess, Emriye; the Kashmiri queen, Usha, the silky orphan from Soweto, and many more.  Color was no bar, nor continent, nor anything.  

Former French presidential candidate Dominque Strauss-Kahn, a known womanizer, when caught in flagrante delicto with a harem of prostitutes, he famously said, 'How was I to know they were prostitutes? All women look the same with their clothes off' and for him this was the truth. He was not just eclectic in his taste, he was indiscriminate.  Any woman would do, any kind, any color, any class. 

Julius N'gomo, president of a central African republic, was impressed by Strauss-Kahn.  'He's like us', N'gomo said referring to African men's birthright, a woman a day while caressing the Nubian beauty at his side.

N'gomo and his palace retinue had laughed when American President Bill Clinton's dalliance with Monica Lewinsky came to light.  What on earth was the leader of the free world doing with an intern sucking his dick under the Lincoln desk?

'It all depends on what is, is', the President testified to Congress, insisting, 'I did not have sex with that woman'; and N'gomo perfectly agreed. What went on with Monica Lewinsky was indeed not sex at all, and a real president would have fucked her properly on the table, in the Presidential Suite, in the rose garden, and in the war room.

Which leads to Jensen Huang featured in an AI send up with his young beautiful Chinese paramour and spy against a background of his scowling battleax wife.  Every man seeing the photo thinks the same thing. Oh, to be Jensen Huang. 

This thing about younger women gets worse as men age. The Coleman Silk character in Phillip Roth's The Human Stain is having an affair with a much younger woman.  His friend and colleague calls him on it, saying she is not of the same background, education and culture, and more importantly she is being shadowed by her schizophrenic, dangerous ex-husband. 'She's nothing but trouble, Coleman', he says. 

 

Silk pauses, reflects, hesitates, but then replies, 'Granted she's not my first love, and granted she's not my best love; but she's certainly my last love.  Doesn't that count for something?'

In Coleman's case it very much does.  A respected man wrongly accused by colleagues at the college where he teachers and was dean, prematurely widowed, and angry at the system which caused his disgrace and his wife's death, finds solace, comfort, satisfaction, and renewal in his relationship with Faunia Farley, janitor, cleaning woman, and milker at a local dairy. 

It is an old story, older men who leave their wives for or have an affair with a younger woman. There is something inevitable about a man's desire well into his elder years.  Konstantin Levin, Tolstoy's character in Anna Karenina notes God's greatest irony - to have created an intelligent, sentient, creative, insightful, humorous soul, granted him but a few decades on earth and then consigned him for all eternity in the cold, hard ground of the steppes. 

 

A more severe irony is that this same God created men with a lifelong desire for women, but granted them but a few decades to satisfy it.  The longer a man has to fulfill his sexual desire, the luckier he is. Few men whose virility persists well into advancing years do anything about it, either so set in their ways, hopelessly married, or somehow faithful to the idea of fidelity. 

Jensen Huang is by no means old, but again, take a look at his wife - he's old enough to know better, and sitting on billions he knows he can afford to do anything he wants.  Sexual desire for a lithe, beautiful, adoring young thing can addle the most brilliant brain.  

John F Kennedy, the American president so admired by Julius N'gomo because not only did he have his woman a day, a la Africano, but the likes of Marilyn Monroe, also got caught in flagrante delicto with an East German spy.  Rather than out him, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover made a deal - go slow on civil rights, and I will keep my mouth shut; and by the way, the next time be carefwho you fuck. 

There is a certain entitlement that goes with wealth. If you have millions - or billions in Huang's case - you can pay off anyone.  So look at it from Huang's perspective.  He already has more money than he can ever use, youth is fleeting and ephemeral, and although he might be out Nvidia's door, many others will open for him the very next day. 

The Sultan of Izmir, grand pasha of the Ottoman Empire, master of a harem of twenty young women from Azerbaijan to Palestine had written in his memoir:

She came to me in flowing silk, a delicate flower, an Arab princess worthy of Cleopatra and Nefertiti but without their worldliness. She was as innocent as the morning dew, as nubile and desirous as a maiden, a sheer delight. 

And the next night came Usha, olive-skinned beauty from the Levant, dressed in satin, covered with pearls and jewels from the Orient

And the next night came a blonde star, a green-eyed daughter of Alexander the Great from the hills of Mathura...

So why was Jensen Huang any different from the Sultan of Izmir. Oh, yes, patriotism - in his sexual delirium he weakened America's chip competitiveness. Nothing was more important than feeding that need. We've all been there.  Moral rectitude, bank balance, opprobrium, censure all have zero meaning in the face of that desirable, ineffably beautiful, lithe, youthful prize sitting before them. 

Perhaps the most famous and disastrous love affair between an older man and a younger woman was that of Marc Antony, Triumvir of Rome, and Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen.  So besotted was he, so completely seduced by her and 'the sybaritic East'  that he let her lead his insurrectionist navy against the young Emperor Augustus.  She betrayed him, the Battle of Actium was lost, and Antony disgraced. 

Why should Mark Antony – in his early 50s at the time of this love affair with Cleopatra (old certainly for Rome of 41 BC but also for Shakespeare’s England) – behave any different than older men in general?  Antony’s colleagues, Philo and Demetrius, talk of his “dotage” in the first line of the play.  Octavius refers to him as the “old ruffian”. Enobarbus calls him an “old lion”. 

Yet Cleopatra seems not to have aged at all since they met ten years before; but only added to her youthful beauty and sexuality. Therefore, not only was Antony the lover of a beautiful younger woman, but one who could, at the end of this life satisfy all his life’s fantasies, and desires – all of which become more important when the reality of them is only a thing of the past. 

So, cut Jensen Huang some slack. He did what all men do or want to do.  He is not an outlier, but part of the mainstream; and oh, yes, Elon Musk will hire him and the two together will make trillions and remake the world in their image.  Not bad for a serial adulterer. 

What Happened To Climate Change? - The Last Leg Of The Stool Coming Off, A Social Reformer Returns To God

Bob Muzelle never once in his whole life ever diverged from the path of righteousness - the road to a more verdant, peaceful, tolerant, inclusive, and compassionate world.  He was a progressive's progressive, died in the wool, a true believer, a catechetical prophet, a one-in-a-million absolute devotee of the movement's canon. 

'More Catholic than the Pope' was how non-Catholics perceived religious converts.  They, more than those born into the faith, take every precept of canonical teaching as a life-or-death matter.  The books of Graham Greene - The Heart of the Matter, A Burnt Out Case, The End of the Affair, Brighton Rock, and The Power and the Glory - would have been page-turners without the weight of Catholic guilt on the shoulders of his heroes, but with the newfound profound, obligatory life-or-death struggle to square the right secular thing with the more existential divine thing, the novels are intriguing and compelling. 

And ironically so it was when Bob, a child of prayerful Methodists, dutiful and respectful, and faithful evangelists for Christ's teachings, turned to secular gods.  At Yale under the tutelage, charm, and unequivocally sexual appeal of the Very Reverent Isaiah B Sloane, Yale Chaplain, Bob became a progressive.  Its canon of social justice fit nicely over his Christian orthodoxy - encouraging a better, fairer, more illumined world was no different from the divine earthly paradise offered by the Savior. 

Bob loved Ike, as he liked to be called by intimates.  The Freedom Rides, the heady discussions in the Woolsey Hall basement, the marches for peace, dignity, and the ultimate rise of the black man were all as mystifyingly uplifting as the Holy Eucharist, the transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ on the altar. 

 

All in an atmosphere of camaraderie and brotherly love.  Except in Bob's case, this secular love was only the prelude, the preamble, the first course to a very physical love for the Chaplain.  He and Sloane were inseparable, both under the cover and mantel of good intentions.  Sloane saw his increasingly intimate associations with Muzelle as merely and extension of Christian faith and good will - a bonding, if you will. of similarly devout and principled men. 

Bob saw the physical side of the relationship as simply an outgrowth of the Hindu guru-chela, teacher-devotee relationship. The ineffable, spiritual nature of the relationship would only be enhanced by the most sentient intimacy only possible between two men. 

The two of them were inseparable in those halcyon days.  Their personal friendship, they both averred, was a gift from God although the dismissive, adamant secularism of the progressive movement of which they both were now integral members, belied the fact. If God existed, he was irrelevant. 

Bob rode the secular-religious fence for years, until he finally abandoned faith for progress.  There was no proof of God but there was of the warming climate, the continued oppression of the black man, the punitive dismissal of the gay man, and the devastating consequences of accumulated wealth. 

For years, decades, Bob was a tireless fighter for social justice, for the health of the planet, for peace and compassion - all without God or any semblance of what had become a Biblical menace. 

On a recent campaign trip to Mississippi, Bob was accosted by Pentecostals who called for his head - his and the other godless minions in Washington who were hell-bent to return the Republic to the savage Indian days before Columbus and civilization. 

Bob, reading from a prepared speech in which he cited the successes of progressivism, the inspirational hope for the future, and limitless possibilities of statism, socialism, and human compassion, was expecting applause but was greeted with raw eggs and last night's ragu. 

Five men hauled an oversized crucifix with a gruesomely suffering Christ, nailed, pinioned, and suffering up to the podium.  'Apostate! Heretic! Satanic spawn', they shouted again and again until the crowed picked up the chant, and a thousand strong chased Bob from the podium. 

Perhaps it was the crucifix, or maybe the invocation of the Devil, but Bob stopped in mid-sentence, speechless, indefensible against the cries of the crowd.  It was Father Brophy again, ol' fire-and-brimstone Brophy returned from the dead to face him down - Bobby, what have you become?

Bob returned to his small F Street office chastened but unbowed.  'These Bible-thumping social recidivists aren't worth the hair in the crack of my ass', he thought as he put the finishing touches on his climate change monologue to be aired on NPR; but how could such ignorance persist in the face of facts and figures. How had such perversity managed to infect so many?

The PBS interviewer in the pre-taped interview cited evidence challenging global warming - sea levels steady, earth temperatures fluctuating in predictable sine waves, no unusual trans-Atlantic hurricane activity, coldest winters on record in southern Maine - and Bob walked out, refusing to listen to trumped up charges, fake data, and conservative chicanery 

But Bob, Yale alumnus that he was, was not stupid, and as the progressive firewall against anti-liberal propositions began to show cracks, fissures, and holes; and could not hold back the reams and avalanches of confirmed scientific data showing the whole climate change episode to be airheaded, postured nonsense, Bob took a sip of herbal tea and reflected.  Have I been duped? and if I have is it worth protecting the decades of false prophecy I have been heir to?

And if climate change was just nonsense from febrile brains, what about the other chapters of the canon?  Did the black man, mired in self-imposed anti-social anarchy really belong atop the human pyramid?  Was gayness - sucking, buggering, leather harnesses and dog muzzles - really an evolution? And how could socialism, a discredited, dismissed, failed political fantasy ever have a renascence?

There is a small, out-of-the-way church not far from Farragut Square and the White House - a black church that survived whiteness and gentrification and still welcomed Washington's foundlings - in which Bob sought refuge, peace, and solace. 

 After so many years of spinning his wheels, bound in mud and struggling to get out he was willing to give in, give up, and give himself. 

At first he felt uncomfortable.  The church smelled too black, too much perspiration and cheap perfume, but at the preacher's first words, he felt at home.  'We are all one in the sight of the Lord', he said, looking straight at Bob, the only white in the Sunday congregation, and at that defining moment Bob returned to Father Brophy, the Cross, the Eucharist, and sanity. 

Becoming Catholic again was bad enough, but dropping the anointed progressive crusade was another altogether. Double indemnity, double curse, double damnation, 

So Bob returned to faith, constitutionalism, devotion and revulsion.  Bob did not only disavow the progressive canon he spat on it, angry and self-loathing for having for so long been a disbeliever. 

It took an act of courage to ditch the past, the architecture of friends and colleagues which made up his existence, but such is life, coming to one's senses and reasonability