Joe Biden Retires White - After Years Of Diversity, Now Among His Own Kind He Says, 'I'm Home'

Joe Biden had always wanted to be black.  “I want to be black”, the President had said to his wife one night before retiring.  “I wish there could be a race change operation just like there is for sex”.

For years, but especially since he was elected President, Joe Biden wished he could channel Bill Clinton, get down with the black community and be one of them. In fact he had always wanted to be blacker than Clinton, a tall order, for the former President had done everything except blacken his skin and curl his hair to become the first black president.   He loved fried chicken, collard greens, and the blues.  He loved hanging out with black men on the stoop, sharing stories about poontang and moonshine.  

Clinton liked the Reverend Al Sharpton, and the aging coterie of Martin Luther King.  He said that he felt for the plight of black people – it was a personal, emotional thing with him, not just a political one.  Even more than LBJ who did more for the black community than any president since Lincoln, Bill Clinton’s empathy was heartfelt.  He was moved to tears over a poor black child, fist-clenching angry over reports of lingering Jim Crow and continuing denial of black rights. 

Black people loved him.  They loved his warmth and good-natured camaraderie, and felt that his friendship was above and beyond ‘the black vote’.  He was a friend to the black man, and they would never forget it at the polls. The fact that he drew the line at black women – his preferences were uniquely white – gave some blacks pause.  If he were really one of them, he would be courting their women.  

 

Ordinarily black men were angered at white sexual trolling – for that was what it was, sexual adventurism which never amounted to anything; and worse, white men never settled for anything less than the high-toned, sassy, and best black women, emptying the gene pool of the best.  Yet, they forgave Clinton for his white women.  He meant well, but how could an Arkansas cracker ever get above high-gloss nail polish, tight skirts, and cheap beauty parlor hair?  He was as black as a white man could get, but still as white as an Easter lily.

And so Joe Biden lamented as he left office, giving Kamala Harris a kiss, the closest thing he had ever gotten to intimacy with a black woman, and this one sent shivers up and down his spine.  A buss on the cheek and a 'see you later' smile was all he could manage, and a fare-thee-well grimace was all he got in return.  

Why hadn't he used the perks of office to bed some hot chocolate pussy?  Why had he been forced, thanks to DEI into a life of black servility and not the black, wiry, scented Garden of Eden?

'Bill Clinton had himself some chocolate pie', Joe mused, and that black Lothario, Dr. King had it every which way'; but he, now at the end of a long life and career promoting The Black Man, he ended up dry as a bone, alone with his faded, wrinkled, cunt of a white wife. 

Many were the nights that he dreamt of Lourdes McMichael, New Orleans octoroon, cream-colored, magnificent Mardi Gras queen who served as his cultural liaison to the marginalized poor.  Her scent, her soft, smooth, delicately colored skin, her....

Here the former President stopped himself in his tracks.  Not only was he a political has-been but a horny old man, regretting sexual encounters never had and dreaming of impossibilities.  If he were bluntly honest, Lourdes and Lenora and Bette were chosen not because of their partisanship and progressive loyalty but because of their dreamy allure, and fitting nicely into a diverse White House, configured like a pasha's harem. 

And if he were even more bluntly honest, that was all he expected of black folk - a hot time in bed with a darky.  He was, again if he came clean, little more than a Southern grandee, a plantation owner with seigneurial rights, a Thomas Jefferson, an Andrew Jackson and a slew of white men from King Carter to Jefferson. 

 

'Wake up, Joe', said his wife Jill on the morning Donald Trump and Melania were to take over the Presidential chambers.  'It's time to go'.

The President mumbled his assent, searched for his slippers and shuffled one last time to the presidential toilet.  He wanted this dream to go on.  There he was in a tropical idyll with a tawny, bare-breasted tribal maiden ready to take him as her lover, the hot, cloying air wrapping them both in a moist, sensuous cloud.  They moved together....

There the dream evaporated as he looked at the scary figure of Jill muscling her way to the sink, all sagging, lined, and stupid.  For a moment he grasped at straws and reached out at his delicious brown phantom. 

Where would he go now, he wondered as he took his last sip of presidential tea, took a last piss in the Presidential toilet, and fitted himself for the last time with the presidential pin. 

'Delaware, my dear', said his wife anticipating his every thought as she had for the last few years as his dementia took him farther and farther away. 'Rehoboth, the beach, lounge chairs, and sundowners'. 

But the President simply couldn't shake his dream and the luscious thoughts of Lourdes McMichael.  Why couldn't she be part of his security detail, an agent ready to service him? After all LBJ's bodyguards pimped for him during and after office. 

The good news and the bad news was this - on the one hand retirement in Rehoboth would be lily white, a haven, a racial redoubt, an asylum from all the hectoring bitchiness of BLM, uppity ghetto women and shiny bald dudes come for their due.  On the other it would be white bread, white sand, and white dreams without even a scintilla of black pussy. Where had the time and opportunity gone?

He had been trousered, contained, and propered for his entire political life when all he wanted was to eat black chone, to be one of them, to be finally and once and for all black 

It was not in the cards and Jill had attended to that.  His retirement would be lily white, as white as snow, as untainted, unsullied, and uncolored by racial desire as could be.  He and she would be the older couple everyone admired, the latter day Jimmy and Roslyn Carters, resting on well-deserved laurels. 

Of course there was the black upstairs maid and the downstairs butler, a bit of color in the retirement spectrum, but they were irritating reminders of what had escaped him.  After four decades of touting the black man, working for his rights and his dignity, he was left on the beach with a scraggly old woman.  What divine justice was there in that?

Worse of course was the cavalcade of white, blonde, blue-eyed Iowa beauties filling the offices of Trump's West Wing.  His for the asking, a jamboree of white, silken, flowing-haired young things at his beck and call.  

Joe had neither - neither scented, earthy black bush nor white Minnesotan crystalline white delight.  JFK, LBJ, MLK, Jefferson and just about every President since Washington had a little bit on the side while he, a latter day potentate had none. 

'I should go to confession', Joe said to his wife who looked quizzically at him, wondering in what corners of a very bourgeois childhood he was wandering; but at her insistence he demurred to a life of reverie instead of forgiveness.