I guess growing up in central South Carolina, we held his tongue after desegregation, but the stroke caused him to loose any self control from stating his point of view.
By my teenage years, I avoided visiting him in the assisted living home we put him in. It was 2008 and Obama was campaigning to be elected president. Needless to say, there was never a nice word about him ever spoken.
After high school I went to University of Georgia. I hung out with a diverse crowd. Like most coeds I drank a lot, smoked some pot, did a little ecstasy, and had a few one night stands (some I'm not proud of).
I did like this one time I hooked up with a guy named DJ. He always made me laugh, like to point where beer or vodka would be coming out of my noise. FYI that shit burns! One night we hooked up, the sex was incredible. So much so that I stuck around and fucked him again in the morning and after lunch. He had a thick 8" dick and it filled me up so much. He was also black, which didn't matter one bit to me, so I only tell you that in passing. It was a good hook up, but we reverted back to friends nonchalantly--a rarity I know.
A couple months later, I got a call from mom saying grandpa took a turn for the worse and didn't have much time. I told my mom I didn't want to go to South Carolina to see him, I wanted to stay at college, but she insisted.
The next morning I drove to his hospital. At least with the drugs we wasn't talking, just some incoherent gruntings. I looked at him in pity for a second, then I got mad at the horrible things I had to hear him say over the last 11 years.
When my parents left the room so I could say goodbye, I leaned in real close and said, "Goodbye, you racist bastard. I just want you to know: I fucked a ni**a, grandpa. I fucked him over and over. It was so good! I'm a ni**a lover--your own granddaughter." I then turned and left. He died a few hours later as I was on my way back to college, and I didn't go to funeral.


