Thisexcerpt was from an articlewritten by an American black woman and I think it is so true, what do you think?



[align=left]Oh, Oh, Those West Indian Men! By Marianne Ilaw
Posted on Wednesday, August 13 @ 15:09:28 CDT by ugogurl
"Walking past a soccer field at dusk in Barbados, clad in a black, ruffled off-the-shoulder dress with a giant hibiscus blossom tucked behind my ear. The game stopped and the players gave me a rousing round of applause."

Oh, Oh, Those West Indian Men! By Marianne Ilaw ---REMEMBER THAT WICKEDLY FUNNY ROUTINE EDDIE MURPHY DID A FEW YEARS AGO? Don’t let your woman visit the Caribbean alone, he warned. Because she’s gonna run into “Dexter St. Jacques,� the island playboy, who will purr, “I want to make love to you endlessleeeee!� Sisters who vacation in the Caribbean shrieked in recognition when they saw that number, for anyone who has ever stepped foot on West Indian soil knows that “Dexter St. Jacques� is ubiquitous throughout the region. He’s tall, often lean and long-legged, cocoa brown, with a luxurious mustache fringing his full kissable lips. Or else he’s very fair skinned (known as “clear,� “red�, or “bright� in the islands) with wavy blondish-brown hair, green or hazel eyes, and a penchant for bragging about how his “granfodder� was a pureblood Englishman. (The Puerto Rican variation on this theme is, “My grandparents came from Spain.�) Whichever West Indian model you choose—and both are plentiful—he’s likely to be named “Trevor,� “Fitzroy,� “Winston,� “Neville,� “Denroy,� “Basil,� “Godfrey,� or “Junior.� He has a lilting accent, and when he addresses you as “me darlin’,� you’re ready to sell your Chicago condo, resign from your job in human resources, and make plans to open up a beachside café (“Chez Wanda�) on his island. Girlfriend, get a grip! West Indian men are great—they’re sexy, sweet, charming, and attentive. They’re a lovely diversion for sisters fed up with self-absorbed buppies and commitment-phobic boyfriends. And there is no man shortage in the Caribbean. Now, don’t get me wrong—all island men are not playboys or gigolos. There are just as many hard-working family men who are faithful to their wives, churchgoing, dignified brothers, and studious young guys who would rather prepare for the future than fritter away their hours badgering tourist women to buy them a shot of Mount Gay. However, if you are a single black woman traveling without male companionship, the men you’re going to meet will be the ones who are looking for babes like you—cute, sassy, with discretionary income and no husband lurking in the background. But remember it’s only an island fantasy. If you keep a clear head and remember that your Caribbean fling is just that, you’ll enjoy yourself. And remember, too, you don’t have to have sex with an island man to enjoy his stellar rap. Kissing and midnight walks on the beach will give you that nice tingly feeling without having to worry about the consequences of pregnancy or disease. And, if you’re an exhibitionist, you can get your jollies by simply doing a “wicked wine� to a steamy soca tune on the dance floor. Keep a cool head, and don’t get hung up on that muscular bartender who serves you a frosty “Bahama Mama.� He’s had plenty of practice, and he knows just what to say: “What! A beautiful woman like you and no husband?� “I’ve never felt dis way before, for real.� “Of course, I’ll wait for you to come back next year. There’ll be no odder woman!� Trust me, they’ll be cruising the arrivals terminal the minute your Delta flight takes off. But don’t take my word for it—listen to my good buddy Rhona A., who was born in Dominica and raised on St. Croix: “West Indian men are oversexed, girl!� she says, laughing. When Rhona and I and another pal went to St. Martin some years ago, she was not impressed with the antics of the local men and yawned as I gaped, wide-eyed, at the sexy, loose-hipped, chocolate-skinned brothers who were crawling all over us. (She sniffed, “You yellow gals go for these ‘hard-core’ nasty men. Not me. I want someone quiet, with a small face—not these twenty-five-pound-head guys.�) These dudes literally hid in the bushes behind our cottage, grabbed our ankles as we splashed in the ocean, and even hung over the roof of our unit one morning and peered in the bathroom window, hoping to catch one of us showering. Happily married to a soft-spoken Southern-bred brother, Rhona says, “Yeah, I liked West Indian men, but they have to have a lot of women: a wife, a girlfriend, and some stuff on the side. And you know what—they love fat women! Sure, they’re romantic, but that’s because they’ve had a lot of practice!� (But they’re so irresistible, like the gallant Bermudian admirer who told me, as we strolled through a fragrant garden during a tropical shower: “Oh, sweet lady, the island is crying because you’re leaving tomorrow.�) Desmond B., a West Indian–born bachelor who now works in New York City, reluctantly agrees with Rhona. “Yes, there is some truth to this,� he sighs. “There are some West Indian men who love to philander. They just don’t have any restraint. Now, if an American man could get away with this , he would! But American men understand the consequences—West Indian men let the urge overpower them and they just go for it.� Yes, I know West Indian men and how they work. I live in New York City, a magnet for island immigrants. Many of my suitors here have been of Caribbean or Latino ancestry. (And I also have island blood in my own veins, so I know how mangoes, curry, and rum can enliven one’s temperament.) However, after years of being exposed to rap music, BMWs, Armani suits, and the hype over the black man shortage, the transplants have adopted the “cool� façade of American brothers. They don’t have to work for the boots. The indigenous Caribbean man, on the other hand, is earnest, anxious, and “in your face.� ( It’s kind of like the difference between powdered ginger in a jar and the fresh, pungent root—both are spicy, but the unadulterated stuff has the biggest, nose-opening kick.) And for a black woman who is weary of men who are too selfish to cater to her, Caribbean men are a sweet treat. For fifteen years now, I have been fulfilling my college dream of traveling widely throughout the Caribbean. I often go alone, since I’m a freelance travel writer and I don’t want to be encumbered by companions who prefer to spend their days at the beach and their nights at the casino. (“Girl, let’s check out that $8.99 buffet over at the Tropicana!�) No, I seek out adventures, talk to everyone from cabinet ministers to barefoot crackheads. I’ve been to nearly every island, from sprawling Jamaica and Barbados to tiny Bequia and Nevis. I’ve danced barefoot at the Friday night “jump-up� in Gros Islet, St. Lucia; got into a heated discussion on male-female relations (“de problem wit’ American men is dat dey rodder buy a foncy cyar den take care o’ dey woman�) in a smokey bar in Tortola; and ventured alone, my thirty-five-year-old body poured into a scandalous orange miniskirt, into a packed disco on Grand Cayman, where I had nineteen-year-old studs panting to “wine� with me. Traveling alone has many advantages: You can make your own itinerary each day, without worrying about the friend who wants to price crystal and perfume; you can eat when and where you choose (some of my best meals have been takeout curry chicken and homemade ginger beer consumed on my balcony at sunset) and you have a greater opportunity to meet local folks, including men. Some Caribbean men think black American women act “hard to get.� Once I was in a nightclub in Freeport, dancing with a guy who sported a gold tooth and pink polyester pants. He asked, “Are you Italian?� “Spanish?� (I’m beige with that “Is that a weave?� kinda hair.) When I replied, “No, I’m a black American,� he left me standing on the dance floor. Damn, right in the middle of “Caribbean Queen!� I asked his homeboy what was going on, and he replied, “Oh, you know, black American women don’t give it up and they sure don’t spend their money on you, so he thought he was wasting his time. He wants a girl who will give him sex and greenbacks.� I didn’t know whether to be flattered or pissed off, and when I later asked the fire-eater (who wore a jheri curl with enough grease to fry five chickens) to explain what had happened, he said, “White women want these black island men. You sistahs have black men at home, so you expect more from us. It’s not enough that we be big and black. For a blonde chick we’re a novelty. So it’s easier to score with them.� If it’s any consolation, I was later propositioned by the portly, balding contortionist—in his civilian garb of a black felt “Superfly� hat and orange and yellow satin cape—who whispered, “Wanna see me scoot naked across de floor like a crab?� I passed. In St. Croix, I met a man who had six jobs. (Yeah, just like the Headleys on the show, In Living Color.) Foxton was a photographer, a waiter, a bodyguard, an illustrator, a security guard, and a paramedic. He used to joke and say, “Me so black, I gotta smile for you to find me face at night.� He thought he could win my favor by inviting me to his house to view videos of fatal car crashes. “Yah, you should see dis one partikalar video. It was brutal. De mon, he bloody head roll out on de ground!� In Grenada a ruffian followed me along the beach for about ten minutes. I thought he was trying to get a rap, but, actually, he was trying to steal my bag. He insisted that he was a member of the secret police and wanted to search me for drugs and contraband. I shrieked a string of curses, New York–style, and a security guard came a running. He ordered the suspect to “sit on de beach until de police come!� Surprise—he did! The constable took the ne’er-do-well into custody and assured me, “We don’t really have crime in Grenada. The only reason this guy tried to rob you is because he used to live in New York.� Gee, thanks, pal. The following day, the arresting officer paid me a call at my hotel, and questioned me for about, uh, forty-five minutes as I was sprawled on a chaise lounge in an eye-popping pink bikini. He asked in earnest if I needed a bodyguard for the remainder of my trip. He wasn’t the only one who offered his services. After word got around about my unfortunate experience, all manner of local men were volunteering to squire me around. Humphrey tried to impress me with his brute strength by bragging, “You know I killed ‘tree people with a machete.� I yawned. “It was I alone who killed dem.� Yawn plus a shrug. He leaned forward and whispered, “Dey wuz ‘tree white people, woman!� I later learned from Virgil, a beachside crafts vendor who claimed to be a former cop, that Humphrey fabricated stories to impress women. “Dat bwoy kunna kill a damn mosquito if it land on him nose!� Virgil offered to protect me by spending the night in my hotel room. “I promise, I sleep on de floor and stay awake all night to guard you!� With his eyes trained on my overflowing tank top and his breathing raspy and labored, I declined. Some of these island guys are too bold to be believed. I was minding my business on a beach in the Bahamas, eyes closed, Walkman snugly attached, when I felt a dog licking my foot. I reached down to stroke him, but when I opened my eyes, I discovered it was a young man. Sunglasses lowered, my neck popping, I demanded an explanation. He shrugged sheepishly “I was just removing the sand from your toes.� (Feet must be popular in the Caribbean. In a beach bar in Barbados, a man I had never see before pulled off my sandal and put it in his mouth. “These shoes have walked on the streets of Manhattan!� I shrieked. And in St. Thomas, a handsome local dinner date dropped his car keys, dove under the table to retrieve them, and gave my bare tootsies a quick slurp.) On the ferry from St. Vincent to Bequia in the Grenadines, I was ogled by a hygienically challenged dude with bare rusty feet housing toenails so long and strong they could open up a bottle of ginger beer. He winked his bloodshot eyes at me and ambled over. “Hi dere,� he nodded, wafting breath that smelled as if a monkey had slept in his mouth. “You wan’ company?� “No, thanks,� I declined. He clucked his white-coated tongue and peeled a scab off his arm. “You gwine be sorry you turned dis down, sister!� Despite some crude knuckleheads, for the most part I have felt cherished, respected, and admired, even if I was being handed a truckload of fertilizer. And I did meet a bunch of men who were absolute gentlemen and were appalled at the behavior I described. “Dey ’ave no home trainin’,� one cab driver clucked. The fellas in St. Lucia were pretty smooth; well, you know, those Creole cultures have that extra little continental twist. I met men who would bow at the waist and kiss my hand, a guy who crooned to me in French under a palm tree one evening, and a bunch of mannerly teenage boys who plucked hibiscus blossoms and fresh coconuts for my approval. Why, even a local crackhead was a bucket of charm. As I explained the penalties for narcotics possession in New York, he fashioned a cricket and a beach hat out of palm fronds for me. I was the only patron in a charming seaside restaurant one night off-season. The elderly owner was courtly and attentive, and as the cooks prepared my fresh dolphin, and the bartender concocted a special drink just for me, the proprietor spun me around the establishment’s concrete floor as an infectious calypso tune poured from ceiling speakers. Just the two of us, twirling around the empty room. Startling or sweet, I have great island memories: —Walking past a soccer field at dusk in Barbados, clad in a black, ruffled off-the-shoulder dress with a giant hibiscus blossom tucked behind my ear. The game stopped and the players gave me a rousing round of applause. —Being given a tour of Antigua by an earnest young business man who suddenly stops the car, leaps over a roadside fence and plucks a fat, juicy mango to present to me. —Strolling along downtown Nassau, minding my own business, when this dude jumps off a moving bus and rushes up to me. Startled, I asked him what was up, and he kissed my hand and said, “You just so pretty, I had to say hello to you.� He pointed to the sky-high water tower behind us and said, “Men would jump off dat tower for a girl like you.� (Even if it was a crock, I sure ain’t never had no brothers in New York jump off a speeding subway train to rap to me.) —Hanging out with two of my girls at a hot nightclub in Bermuda, basking in the male attention. We all get up to dance, and when we return to our table, there are twelve—count ’em—twelve pastel-colored drinks in front of us, courtesy of several admirers. —Chuckling while I overheard two waiters arguing over who was going to serve me at my hotel’s restaurant in Aruba. Alright, alright, so the only other customers were a group of middle-aged German men. —Lying on a deserted beach in St. Kitts, hearing giggles floating from behind a sand dune. When I turned my head to check it out, I saw two young boys whispering and pushing each other. “Hi there,� I waved. One of them waved timidly and said, “When we grow up, we gonna look for a girlfriend just like you, Miss!� (They start young, don’t they?) If you’ve never been to the islands, you’re in for an unrivaled experience. Whether you’re sixteen or sixty, slim or stout, sophisticated or shy, you’ll return from your trip agreeing that if Caribbean men could bottle and sell their charm, their finesse, and their sex appeal, the region’s sluggish economy would soar. Be safe, and don’t take it seriously.
[/align]

@Midori, Of course it stands to reason that Caribbean men are masters at these things, have plenty charm, humour and can whine when ready.and bust arse to an unparralled degree.Too many assetts to list.

But to be fair we have our share of serious low lifes to...and a particular set who prey on US women. Not too sure personally if I would take that article or the flattery of this African American woman to heart. Just the cultural difference is so sharp and they often feel overwhealmed compared to what they know to often. Good US brothers notwithstanding. Which is why they are prey....to these smooth, charming etc brothers.

Know some brothers from my island doing scandalous things to US women. They love men from small islands. How does it go excuse me.."Where's your accent from?"

FBbanana.gif

Long live the good Caribbean man. Drink to that...

Big up to mi st. Lucian an Jamaican bre dem big up blup blup chaam an umaclp)

does it all the time.

two types i lovvvvve

1)the whole of the west Indies men
2)south african men

BY THE WAY VIN DEISEL IF THAT IS THE EUROPEAN MAN YOU ARE REFERRING TO IS HALF BLACK. I WOULD NOT START A TREAD ABOUT A WHITE MAN.

give me a yard man any day or someone with yard background mmm yummy

or any west indian man!!!!!!!!!!

its a cultural thing and a personal preference. as i have been brought up by west indian people i know when a man it sweet talking me or trying to get his leg over.

well what would you know i married a west indian man

blkclapwell done LadyDayblkclap

jamflag

why thank you LOL

Midori29 wrote


"Well I have tried both, I had black boyfriends and now my boyfriend is white"

erm what was that all about then?

Thats just typical of the Blackwomen like you go with a white male because you feel, it safer and secure tell me this do feel safer when things go wrong, I prefer blackwomen even when they don't like me.Been some up and downs but never would choose a white woman as you have for control sorry, but you are blatent stereotype I prefer my woman of African origin.Not a woman who I have to explain to was rice, wash, meat also wash herself properly.

NO SELL BIG TIME JUST LIKE ALLOT OF BLACK MEN TIRED EXCUSE!!

offtopic.gif
Midori29 you know as well as I do that any one can go out with whoever they want and nobody has the right to stop them.

I know I have no right in hell to tell anyone what to do with regards to this stuff

What people like me and others are fed up of, is people like you Spice and others trying to make IR stuff central to black peoples thinking.

If you think that the black race was haphazardly thrown together and that 'anyone' would go out with a white person, you should think again.

"I never thought I would go out with a white person, but here I am"

Read countless variations of that. I find some of you so annoying, because you think that that's important. You think you are that important to blacks.

Funny thing is, you said your the most pro black person you know, but all you talk about is the usual stupid garbage.

I know people from other races, and I know for a fact that this stuff doesn't get a mention. If someone wants to do
it (IR), then they do, but they don't harp on about it. They certainly don't think that they could talk about they're white boyfriend, and screwing other races in front of them.

I could just imagine a meeting of Chinese or Indians and some chick from they're group bring they're white boyfriend and starts telling them to start speaking English so he can understand.

Midori29 said:


"Read the forum topic it was about sex, which is better black men or white men. No one is obligated to only date black men, black men certainly do not turn down white women , why should I? Please, I love black men. Caribbean men are the best. The black men I have dated in the past have not been very nice though. For the past two black men, the police were involved, due to domestic violence. And you tell me if a nice , respectful white man comes along I am not going to go out with him? confused3 I would have to be a fool"

Why do you think you have to explain yourself to me?