I remembered Abraham Lincoln, who had died for me. I remembered the Negro maid who had walked from Grapetree, Mississippi, to Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island, and was flogged for being too maidenly fair. I remember the young man who, competing for the title “Blacker the Berry, Sweeter the Juice,” was killed during an avant-garde happening in a Washington Mews carriage house. The killing did not take place during a Black Mass, as was first reported. The Negro youth had committed a sexual outrage, according to Confidential Magazine in its exclusive interview with the hostess and the hostess, who were famous for their collection of Contemporary Stone Art. Their sexual safaris were legendary too. Inspired by childhood tales of lynchings (ah, the gyrations the moans, the sweat, the smell of fresh blood, the uncircumcised odor), the couple had explored Latin rice-and-bean delights, European around-the-world-scootee-roots, Near Eastern lamb, flip-flop, and it’s-all-in-the-family.
Hoping to avoid the press, which arrived by helicopter, fifty miles from shore, exhausted, jaded, they returned to their native land on a luxury liner but in steerage class, with seventy pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage.
“It was off-season,” the hostess had jokingly told reporters. The host added with great dignity: “We are returning to our native land, where fornication is pure and simple. We’re returning to the womb of nature.” They went into seclusion in their Greenwich Village carriage house until the night of the celebrated “happening,” the night that was to reestablish their worldly reputation. The gleaming, white-toothed young Negro with the rough but carefully-combed kinky hair (if one ran one’s hand through his hair, one trembled and saw Venus and Mars) displayed a rosebud instead of a penis! The effrontery—a Negro and nipped in the bud! Certainly a shock that could drive anyone to murder, only it hadn’t been murder, the courts decided. It was only a happening.
From Charles Wright’s fantastic 1966 novel The Wig.