Italian Stallion

Okay, I’ve been holding on to this one for a little while.

Just before Christmas, a senior coworker hosted a Holiday party.

I rode solo, so just like at the office… it’s just me.

Now I’ve been over his house a couple of times before, and I must admit he did it up. The food was good. (I’d never heard of most of it.) Guitars were strummin’.

(For the purposes of this story, its important to note that I’m what most might consider light-skinded.)

So, as the evening wore on and alcohol flowed, things started getting a little… well… it goes a lil’ sumthin’ like this.

I walked into the kitchen to get another brew.

As I close the refrigerator, with Nat King Cole (of all people) playing in the background, the hostess of the party reaches up and wraps her right arm around me…

“You’re not really black are you?”
“Uhh, yea... I’m black.”
And with sad, intoxicated, puppy dog eyes asks, “You’re not Italian?”
“Uhh… no.”
“Oh… That’s okay.”

Then she unwrapped her arm from around my neck and threw both her hands in the air like a co-ed on spring break and shouted, “We need to integrate this party anyway, WOOOOO-HOOOOO!!!”