The Polished Glass 03
How her obsession grew
Eventually, her husband left. Then another. And then another. The pattern was all too familiar. Her looks would draw them in; they'd accept their advances, only to eventually realize that she had no interest in sex with them. They'd marry anyway, under the guise of securing a future and sharing resources – but it wasn't enough.
Her disinterest in sex combined with her refusal to get therapy created a rift between all of them. Eventually, they all left. Porn stayed.
By the 3rd divorce, she kept things civil and quick. Despite her reputation as a “Karen,” divorces were probably one of the most stress-free things she did now; lawyers took their paychecks, and ex-husbands felt like they'd dodged a bullet.
One day, she asked herself why bother with the charade? No man would stay with a woman who had no interest in his white manhood. They never knew the real reason, and she kept it that way. Black porn was her only source of true sexual pleasure. On her 35th birthday, she vowed to devote her life to black porn and pleasure – no more husbands, no more awkward nights; just her hand, her toys, and hours and hours of beautiful black porn.
Now that she was free, her porn addiction could take root and grow.
It started with late-night rentals. Then pirated clips. Then a second laptop. Then she built a dedicated room just for porn and masturbation. Then she got a custom PC built with multiple screens. Then she just flat out starting buying porn outright with multiple subscriptions. She stopped watching movies, or ‘normal’ TV.
She only kept enough free space to terrorize her co-workers nag the neighbors to death over arbitrary HOA rules. Meredith really didn’t have friends. She didn’t know how to really talk to people. Any attempt to communicate just came off harsh and off-putting. She really couldn’t help it. But it also built a wall so no one got curious.
Meredith knew exactly what she was – not asexual, not prudish, but simply disinterested in sex that demanded anything from her. She wanted to watch, hidden and dripping, craving the kind of raw abandon she could never fake with a white man in the room. Naked white flesh didn't interest her.
She tried other porn: white bodies, artsy erotica, cheap gonzo; interracial – but it all felt airless, plastic, too much like her own life: sterile and polite. Black porn, though – the raw amateur stuff, scenes shot in messy bedrooms, women who laughed while they sucked dick, men who didn't pose or act – that was real. That made her drip.
Her first orgasm watching black porn had changed her forever; she was bonded to it, worshiped it, devoted to it.
She started hunting for it obsessively: anonymous accounts, secret folders, curated playlists no lover would ever see. She'd stand in front of her HOA neighbors the next day, pale and pressed and perfect, all while her thighs would still be tacky with the memory.
It became more than a brief indulgence over time. Somewhere along the line, it turned into a ritual. It became a hunger that waited for her every day at 5 PM.
Her goon cave – a room in a house bigger than she needed – was her true marriage and partner now. The tabs were her vows, the moans her comfort, and the pixel shadows of black skin, sweat, and stretch marks more real than the local country club brunches she skipped.
It wasn't about the men who left her; they could leave, and they did leave. She'd always belonged to this screen, this endless library of black beauty that made her cold exterior crack and melt.
She'd never tell a soul, but every time she came, she told herself thank you – to the faceless performers, to the strangers who uploaded shaky phone clips, to the pro amateurs with the good lighting, the bodies that made her feel alive in ways her real life never did.
Black porn worked for Meredith because her whole life was curated performance: neatness, coldness, politeness. But the black porn she found was everything she wasn't – raw, unpolished, alive, sweat-slicked, loud, unashamed.
White porn felt staged; fake moans and airbrushed bodies that mirrored her own life's sterility. But black porn, especially the kind she found on fan sites, looked real: real skin, real curves, real talk, real noise.
A black woman in a grainy amateur video or even in a home studio – thick thighs, stretch marks, unbothered by the mess – was the opposite of Meredith's buttoned-up HOA universe. It was liberation – proof that a woman's body didn't have to be stiff and apologetic; it could take up space, drip, laugh, roar.
And she couldn't be that woman in living life, but she could worship her in secret. On loop. Over and over, until her fingers went numb.
As she looked back on everything she wondered why she even married white men at all. Meredith didn't understand that part of herself at first – she thought her numbness in bed was just “being a lady.” She'd been raised to believe good girls crossed their legs and kept the lights off. The first marriage was what was expected: college sweetheart, starter home, missionary for him once a week. She told herself it was normal to feel nothing.
When he left, she married again – older man, better money, bigger house. Same cold bed. She tried harder that time: lingerie, candles, wine. Nothing. She thought if she acted the part well enough, the spark would come.
It never worked. Nothing could replace porn. By the third marriage, she didn't even pretend; he had affairs, and she didn't mind. She had her cave. The more he was gone, the more she had time to indulge in pornography and masturbation.
So now Meredith's whole life is a contradiction: a carefully manicured fortress of coldness... with a hidden, dripping shrine to the messiest, loudest, realest bodies she worships but can't ever be.
Porn was just the door; the real hook was that she couldn't have them. No black woman would want her: brittle, cold, coiled in country club blandness. That made porn perfect and safe. She could consume and worship them in endless loops, pixel and pixel, a ghost behind her locked door. No risk of being seen for what she really is: a fraud who only melts for the softness, the power, the rawness she'll never deserve to touch.
She married men because that was what women like her did – numb sex, fake moans; all camouflage for the real ritual waiting at 5 PM: pull the curtains, open the tabs, see and masturbate to the women she could never speak to in daylight.
No black woman has ever touched her. None ever will. Her worship stays as a one way ritual. She has sacrificed everything for black porn. Her knees on the rug, fingers soaked, breath rasping on the silent name:
Goddess.
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keep touching yourself