Carl Van Vechten
Library of Congress
Mingo
__________________
“Away in the octopoid darkness”
—Charles Johnson,
“The Education of Mingo”
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
I met Mingo in Missouri—that’s where Moses Green took the kid after he offed Harriet Bridgewater.
“Suh?” the lanky African kid said. “Talky old hen daid now, boss.”
The same with Isaiah Jensen—a meat cleaver exactly splitting his ugly face down the middle.
They made it to Missouri—that’s where Moses kicked the bucket. And that’s how I ended up meeting Mingo the Man—Mingo my Boyfriend.
Mingo was a prince—the youngest son of the reigning king of the Allmuseri. He was a wild, marshy-looking sixteen year old—with shoulders as broad as a barn door.
Mingo had big thick hands that hug down from his wrists like Gold’s Gym barbells. He had high cheekbones and spoke with a deep voice like a hoodoo voodoo man. Even though he was just a boy.
He didn’t know what to do with Moses gone—so he did what most Allmuseri wizards would do. He laid a curse on me and made me fall in love with him.
My education by Mingo was short and quick. It involved the denouement of my dirty white boy existence—and the coherent, constant, simple union and the embracing of another life alien, voodooist, strange.
Slowly Mingo conjured me, then he taught me his language. It was telepathic and silent—I picked it up right away. I soaked it up like a sponge. His gestures and idiosyncrasies and long lanky body language.
Mingo had this “milky leg” that needed to be milked now & then. Even though Mingo was strong as an ox—he got weak in the knees like a baby when I milked the black bull. He had this reedy twang and grimace when we made love—he made me swallow it, his cumly African hetero-homunculus.
Before very long, I began turning into Mingo’s double—his distorted shadow, his spitting image. Mingo knew things—he was shrewd and gnomic when it came to turning me into a Zombie Boy. He made me swallow it when I should have breathed—and breathe when I should have swallowed it. It’s lucky I didn’t choke to death—all that exquisite Negritude Nectar.
Mingo was manly—a stream of sticky pearly fluid like the glutinous trail of a snail oozing outta him. I could see myself imprisoned in the retina of his eye—when I did him on my knees on the floor in the moonlight. He got weak in the knees when he lost it—splitting me in half with his Mandingo meat-cleaver.
Mingo shot me “daid” between the eyes—turned me into a holly-roller Abolitionist hot for his body.
“Oh Lordy, Lordy!” I said, doing a little dance, half rock & roll. I clapped my hands and slapped my ass and thighs. I went completely bananas over Mingo—I was totally in love with him.
“Listen up, white boy,” Mingo said. “I gave you my thought and tongue—and look what you’ve done with it! You’ve become a fuckin Dinge Queen!”
“Oh gawd, Mingo,” I said. “What are you gonna do?”
“What Mingo knows, you know now.” he said. “What Mingo sees or doesn’t see is what I taught yo to see or don’t see. Like Mingo now lives through you…”
I didn’t believe it at first. But I could latch onto the notion with no trouble at all, pouring sweat and remembering all the wetdreams and nocturnal emissions I had in bed with Mingo at night.
It was true—Mingo and I were wired together like two ventriloquist dummies—one black, one white. And somebody or something I didn’t know—was yanking my arms and legs with strings. I’d become Mingo and Mingo had become me!!!
I was hip to this crazy dream—doorwaying luxuriously through both Mingo and me. “Whose fault is it then?” Mingo said picking his nose and pointing down between my legs.
“Huh? Huh? Huh?”
I looked down between my legs—and there was Mingo’s big Mandingo dick. It throbbed and grew with monstrous all-male Allmuseri magic & wonder.
“You’re me now,” Mingo said. “And I’m you.”
It’s a God-awful secret—please don’t tell anybody.
But I can feel the deep, powerful stroke of Mingo’s dark meat between my legs—and I’ve ended up limping like a gimp with this cross-eyed grin on my face all the time…
__________________
“Away in the octopoid darkness”
—Charles Johnson,
“The Education of Mingo”
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
I met Mingo in Missouri—that’s where Moses Green took the kid after he offed Harriet Bridgewater.
“Suh?” the lanky African kid said. “Talky old hen daid now, boss.”
The same with Isaiah Jensen—a meat cleaver exactly splitting his ugly face down the middle.
They made it to Missouri—that’s where Moses kicked the bucket. And that’s how I ended up meeting Mingo the Man—Mingo my Boyfriend.
Mingo was a prince—the youngest son of the reigning king of the Allmuseri. He was a wild, marshy-looking sixteen year old—with shoulders as broad as a barn door.
Mingo had big thick hands that hug down from his wrists like Gold’s Gym barbells. He had high cheekbones and spoke with a deep voice like a hoodoo voodoo man. Even though he was just a boy.
He didn’t know what to do with Moses gone—so he did what most Allmuseri wizards would do. He laid a curse on me and made me fall in love with him.
My education by Mingo was short and quick. It involved the denouement of my dirty white boy existence—and the coherent, constant, simple union and the embracing of another life alien, voodooist, strange.
Slowly Mingo conjured me, then he taught me his language. It was telepathic and silent—I picked it up right away. I soaked it up like a sponge. His gestures and idiosyncrasies and long lanky body language.
Mingo had this “milky leg” that needed to be milked now & then. Even though Mingo was strong as an ox—he got weak in the knees like a baby when I milked the black bull. He had this reedy twang and grimace when we made love—he made me swallow it, his cumly African hetero-homunculus.
Before very long, I began turning into Mingo’s double—his distorted shadow, his spitting image. Mingo knew things—he was shrewd and gnomic when it came to turning me into a Zombie Boy. He made me swallow it when I should have breathed—and breathe when I should have swallowed it. It’s lucky I didn’t choke to death—all that exquisite Negritude Nectar.
Mingo was manly—a stream of sticky pearly fluid like the glutinous trail of a snail oozing outta him. I could see myself imprisoned in the retina of his eye—when I did him on my knees on the floor in the moonlight. He got weak in the knees when he lost it—splitting me in half with his Mandingo meat-cleaver.
Mingo shot me “daid” between the eyes—turned me into a holly-roller Abolitionist hot for his body.
“Oh Lordy, Lordy!” I said, doing a little dance, half rock & roll. I clapped my hands and slapped my ass and thighs. I went completely bananas over Mingo—I was totally in love with him.
“Listen up, white boy,” Mingo said. “I gave you my thought and tongue—and look what you’ve done with it! You’ve become a fuckin Dinge Queen!”
“Oh gawd, Mingo,” I said. “What are you gonna do?”
“What Mingo knows, you know now.” he said. “What Mingo sees or doesn’t see is what I taught yo to see or don’t see. Like Mingo now lives through you…”
I didn’t believe it at first. But I could latch onto the notion with no trouble at all, pouring sweat and remembering all the wetdreams and nocturnal emissions I had in bed with Mingo at night.
It was true—Mingo and I were wired together like two ventriloquist dummies—one black, one white. And somebody or something I didn’t know—was yanking my arms and legs with strings. I’d become Mingo and Mingo had become me!!!
I was hip to this crazy dream—doorwaying luxuriously through both Mingo and me. “Whose fault is it then?” Mingo said picking his nose and pointing down between my legs.
“Huh? Huh? Huh?”
I looked down between my legs—and there was Mingo’s big Mandingo dick. It throbbed and grew with monstrous all-male Allmuseri magic & wonder.
“You’re me now,” Mingo said. “And I’m you.”
It’s a God-awful secret—please don’t tell anybody.
But I can feel the deep, powerful stroke of Mingo’s dark meat between my legs—and I’ve ended up limping like a gimp with this cross-eyed grin on my face all the time…
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