The BBC Effect: When Black Bodies Objectify Each Other

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Prologue

By now, we have all heard (and most of us cringe at) the term “BBC.” For anyone unfamiliar, that’s big black cock. This is a term originating in white generated studio pornography in reference to not only black penises, but Black adult actors themselves–a contemporary evolution of the porn label “ebony.” Porn is no stranger to and is a massive supporter of sexual objectification. The easier an adult actor or model can be categorized for search engine optimization (SEO), the more clicks, views, downloads, subscriptions and payments porn studios and independent sex workers will gain. It’s business.

Unfortunately, porn is no different from all other media where behaviors found in-industry and onscreen bleed into the cultures and societies that engage with it. “BBC” is now a phrase that is used socio-sexually among white people who desire black penises, “thug” or athlete fantasies, and the people of color who socialize and sexually engage with those very people. A pattern of objectification that I once thought exclusive to non-Black people, I am seeing in exclusively Black sexual spaces as well.

There’s a chance that we have always sexually objectified ourselves as they have us. After all, we are not immune to racial propaganda just because we are Black. Many of us have fallen victim to the campaigns that told us that our hair is unruly, that our noses are ugly, that our skin is dirty-looking, that our bodies are too shapely, or that our general features are too severe. An extension of those ideas, one that is and has been prominent in exclusively Black spaces, is our skin’s hues in determining whether or not we are masculine or feminine.

Identifying Color Lines

The color lines are the first instance that I noticed of Black gay men falling prey to sexual self-categorization–leading into objectification amongst ourselves. I sexually blossomed in Atlanta, GA, in the early 2010s, when the city was still considered the Black [Gay] Mecca. It was the perfect place for a young gay PK (Preacher’s Kid) to show out. Immediately, I was labeled a bottom by my peers, and I took to my designated role well, but something that bothered me was how I was given that label. I was no more feminine than some of my friends or others in my social circle, but some of them didn’t get “bottom,” they got “top.” It wouldn’t have bothered me if not for the fact that the divide seemed to happen along colors lines; my darker complexioned peers, who were also coming into their sexual awakenings, were determined to be masculine, sexy tops, while me and the other lighter complexioned newbies were feminine, pretty bottoms, in this weird social Sorting Hat ceremony.

These labels, of course, weren’t set in stone, with many of my darker skinned friends embracing their true desires as bottoms, versatiles, sides, sissies, and/or butch queens, just as I did, through varied experiences, lessons learned, and a dedication to self-awareness. Those color-struck origins, in hindsight, feel extremely similar to how I’ve witnessed us talk about and treat ourselves today; there have been times where “BBC” was never uttered, but the sentiment was fully present in the room with us. “Look at his nostrils, I know that dick is BIG,” “girl, he’s too pretty, that’s a bottom,” etc. Color, features, body shape, personality, or anything outside of actual sexual pleasure can’t determine your sexual roles outright, nor the way that you use your genitals, and yet we find ourselves utilizing the same racial sexual tropes that non-Black people use to fetishize and objectify us too.

I’ve mainly observed this in Black gay men, having rarely heard these types of comments around Black gay women, and only sometimes in other types of Black queer environments. I’ve seen a bit of bleed-through from social whiteness into sexual Blackness. Are we losing a foundational need to see our Black peers as multifaceted first and instead just seeing each other as sexual objects? I get it, particularly in a hook-up–who is trying to do excess thinking and analysis? Let’s get this nut and go, right? There simply seems to be a shift, from my perspective, in how we engage with each other that wasn’t always the case.

The Mirror We Didn’t Ask For

This all could be a reach, but after having a conversation with a friend–a dark-skinned Black power-bottom who only has sex with other Black men–who expressed to me that he feels disposable and undesired because he expresses to his potential partners that he doesn’t use his penis sexually, and they, in turn, either reject him in full or treat him as “less than” outside of the bedroom. I didn’t inquire further. The conversation went no further than, “I hate that. You deserve so much more. You’re not disposable.” In truth, I don’t know if it was due to the inability to relate or that maybe I felt similarly to his partners. “How could you identify as a man, have a penis, and not want it touched?” Had I, too, been corrupted by a dangerous mindset that maleness–Black maleness, at that–requires a pre-designated sexual usage? Was I unknowingly feeling the sentiment that the Black male body requires the “BBC” treatment?

I feel as though we are reaching a point in our small subculture that [white] porn’s influence has affected our sexual behaviors amongst each other. After all, he and I can’t be the only two who feel a level of disposability amongst our racial and ethnic peers when we don’t fit a certain desired stereotype or fetish category. The smokescreen is “we all just like what we like” but the truth is, something taught us to like what we like; experiences, media, and social learning trained us on our earliest desires. Is it so farfetched to consider that pornography and anti-Black cultural dominance has infiltrated our sexual psyches?

As a necessity, even if it’s just a hookup or “Mr. Tuesday” on your interchangeable roster, we have to be intentional in treating our Black [sexual] partners with a level of dignity and care that we should be treating ourselves with. The psyche needs protecting, I’d argue, especially in sex and we know that we are faced with crushing negativity regarding our Black humanity so if anyone is going to reinforce Black objectification, perhaps the last person it should come from is each other. So, in the spirit of communal bonding and sexual liberation, repeat after me: My Desire Cannot Come Before Your Humanity.

C.E. Williams

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