Manfred stood watching the three bearded men playing onstage. He didn’t want to be there, but he promised Max he’d go weeks before, and he knew that he had to get out more if he wanted to get laid.

There were plenty of girls around, but they were all fixated on the band. He noticed a few of them watching the bass player, real lust in their eyes. He thought maybe he should learn an instrument, but he knew it would never happen. He had neither the talent nor the motivation, and anyway, it was too late for him to reinvent himself now.

Max was dancing like the others. Occasionally, he would pump his fist in the air or sing along to the chorus. Max was in his element, while Manfred had to calculate how to act, how to be, and his movements (what he was doing could not be described as dancing) felt unnatural and absurd.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said to Max, who still had half a pint in his hand. “Do you want anything?”

Max shook his head, and Manfred weaved his way through the crowd to the bar.

The bartender was watching the band and looked a little piqued when she noticed Manfred lingering by the beer taps. He ordered a Heineken and two shots of bourbon. She poured the beer, put the shot glasses on the bar, served the bourbon, and took his money.

He took his first shot as she turned towards the cash register, and the second as she turned back to give him his change. She did not care to hide her distaste for the impish creature before her.

He took a few sips of his beer and walked back towards the stage. Max clinked his glass when Manfred arrived back by his side. It lifted Manfred’s spirits a little. He began to tap his feet, move his shoulders. As the music approached a crescendo, he even began dancing a little. He didn’t like the music, but the alcohol was transporting him to a place where nothing mattered.

The song ended. The crowd cheered, and with cool indifference, the band began to play another. This one was slower, deeper, prompting the girls around him to dance more seductively.

There was one alone by the stage. She had a Cleopatra haircut, pale skin, a shapely figure, and tight, all-white clothes. She moved her body up and down, side to side, her hips working a kind of hypnosis upon him.

Manfred was transfixed. He couldn’t look away.

He imagined her name was Anna, that she was kind and gentle, and might appreciate his shyness and the way that he tried hard to improve his station in life, even if his efforts never returned tangible results. He decided Anna was an art student, that she had only been with a few boys, and that none of them had really satisfied her.

The strobe light flashed, freezing the image of her hair suspended horizontally in Manfred’s mind.

The bodies, the music, the lights, the heat. It was all so real; too real, maybe. He felt everything closing in around him in an orgiastic wave.

As the lights came back on, a girl and a man sidled up beside Anna. The three joined hands—Anna, an Asian girl, and a black man Manfred thought was probably a homosexual—and they jumped up and down like children in a playground. It warmed Manfred’s heart a little.

The song came to an end, the now stationary crowd blocking Manfred’s view of Anna.

You have to go and talk to her, he told himself. Go and dance beside her; what do you have to lose?

The music started again, and as the crowd began to move, Anna finally came back into view. She was only dancing with one of her friends now, and it was not the little Asian girl. The black man had his long arms wrapped around her and was controlling her in a way she seemed to find pleasing.

Manfred felt a little crestfallen. But then he thought that at least he didn’t suffer a humiliating rejection. And he was glad that a person of colour got the girl if it wasn’t going to be him.

Manfred was a progressive. He was in favour of affirmative action. He was comfortable with interracial relationships. He was aware that whites, especially white men, had for the longest time enjoyed the Annas of this world, and that it was about time they stepped aside for some historically oppressed peoples to get a whiff of that A-grade pussy.

And he was honest enough with himself to know that Anna would have more fun with the black man than she was likely to have with him. He was smoother, cooler than Manfred was, and the fact that her parents would probably disapprove of their relationship made it all the more exciting.

Then, of course, he would love her better; of that there was no doubt. And it was not just the plus size phallus. From the way he was grinding against her, it was clear he knew how to move his body, too, how to handle a woman just the way she wanted, especially an innocent little white girl.

As he watched the two of them dancing, he remembered how his mother blocked his access to porn sites when he was a teenager, forcing him to make do with the few videos contained on a floppy disk a friend had given him at school. His favourite was called “BBC Breeds Slut White Wife.” He must have watched it a thousand times. The title was accurate enough, although the word breed—a clinical, agricultural term if ever there was one—struck Manfred as strange. For it was not breeding that occurred in the video, but a barbarous corporal ravishing that Slut White Wife was not likely to soon forget.

It looked so good going in and out, he thought. And as he watched, his slender white rod in hand, it crossed his mind that perhaps it was all just a little unfair. How could a guy like him ever hope to compete with a BBC?

But then images would flash before his mind’s eye; dark images, historical images. Lynchings, race riots, Trayvon Martin, Rodney King. He’d think about how overrepresented blacks were in the criminal justice system, how in a sense slavery never ended.

Why shouldn’t their songs about wearing expensive clothes and killing police officers be popular? Why shouldn’t they nail down some dinky white hoes with their swinging equine meat cudgels? He’d continue jerking off, his mind now at ease. Sure, he’d never have a BBC, but there were other ways to please a woman, and with all of his privilege, it was a tad rich to be complaining.

Manfred watched the man sliding his hands down the side of Anna’s body as they moved in sultry unison. Thoughts came to him, sexy thoughts, until he realised he had an erection. He tucked his prick between his belly and his jeans and resumed dancing, all the while watching the happy couple in his peripheral vision.

The band announced it was the last song. Manfred sighed. Tonight was not his night. No matter. When he got home, he would kick back, maybe put on a movie. He knew just the right one.