Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

True Power and Control (discarded ending)

The following is the ending of a story I wrote for my book, In Loving Color, but I’ve decided to go with a much different story line, a much more hardcore one in fact, so this one is no longer needed.  Even though it doesn’t have any of the story details and character development found in all my other stories, you pervs should still enjoy it.

Veronica opened the door and Evan almost lost his balance.  She looked better than he could have even imagined.  Her face was fully made-up; her eyes were smudged with a dark shadow, making them look smoky and mysterious.  She wore a black halter-top and black mini skirt, not fetish wear, skimpy and sexy but sophisticated at the same time.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?  You look like you’re ready to go on a date.  I can come back some other time if you’re busy.”  He was looking for any excuse to turn around and go back to his condo.

 “Come in.”  She stepped to the side and held the door open for him to enter.  Evan felt like his legs were going to give out on him as he crossed the threshold.  He heard the door close behind him and was paralyzed with fear.  He had no idea what was going to happen.  She could have just invited him over to say, “Look leave me alone,” but he didn’t care at that moment.  All that mattered was the fact that he was there and there was the potential to plead his case, however small it may have been.

He sat quietly, taking in his surroundings.  Her living room window faced the city, substantially more moving than his view of the parking lot of the Save-Right grocery store.  Veronica’s view was nothing less than breathtaking and he sat hypnotized by the illuminated urban skyline, trying to distract himself from his fears.  He fidgeted.  A few minutes had passed and he shuffled his feet and twirled his thumbs in nervous anticipation.

Carrying two glasses of wine, Veronica strolled in casually, placing one glass before him and sipping from the other as she sat in the chair adjacent to him.  “What are your limits?”  She was direct and to the point.

“My limits?  What do you mean?”  Evan looked puzzled and immediately tried to back track as his mind raced for an answer that wouldn’t make him look like a total fool.  He had to pull out whatever stops he could to make “this” happen.  He wasn’t quite sure what the details of “this” were, but he was damn sure, well, reasonably sure, okay, almost sure that he wanted it.  “Ohhh, you mean my limits?  Right.  Well, I’m not into kids or animals or anything like that, of course.  You know, I believe the children are our future,” he said, trying to be funny.

Veronica didn’t crack a smile.  “Is that so?”  With that, she began rattling off a list of things that sounded so perverse, Evan didn’t know what half of them were, the others he could figure out and he didn’t like the sounds of them one bit..  “So, you are open to CBT, handballing, feltching, chemical play, golden showers, klismaphila . . .”  It really might as well have been Charlie Brown’s teacher sitting there, mumbling in incoherent banter, because Evan didn’t grasp a word she was saying.  She was testing him and Evan was failing miserably.

He cut her off.  “Wait, are you saying that I’ll get a chance to  . . . you know . . . serve you?”  He chose his words carefully; he didn’t want her to think that he was only trying to play and he wanted to be sure that they were on the same page.  Veronica pulled her legs underneath her and sat back in the chair.  Evan didn’t wait for a response.  He was in survival mode and he started pouring out his plea.  “I don’t know what all those things are.  I know you are more experienced than I am and I know I don’t deserve this opportunity.  If you give me a chance, just one chance, I’ll show you that I can please you.  Even if it means that I endure pain just for your pleasure.  Let me serve you; let me be your plaything.  I want you to take control of me; I want you to reduce me to nothing.  I don’t know why but I feel like I owe it to you.  I know you know more than me but if you just give me a chance I know that I can prove to you that . . . ”

Evan’s declaration of servitude froze on his lips.  Veronica shifted in her seat and he could very clearly saw her pussy between her legs.  She wasn’t wearing panties and she intentionally shifted to give him a view of heaven.  It was as if he’d lost his train of thought and could only focus on the thing of beauty before him.  His gaze remained there, transfixed, glassy-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights.  He swallowed hard and tried to find the words to continue but he couldn’t.  Two months ago, he was a pompous ass, trying unsuccessfully to get laid.  Today he was pleading his case to be allowed the pleasure of being submissive to an incredibly beautiful and mesmerizing woman.  A woman like he’d never known before.

A wave of insecurity washed over him, he stood, downed his wine in one gulp, and got ready to make his exit.  “I’m sorry.  You’re obviously more experienced than I am and I don’t have a right taking up any more of your time.  I’m sorry.  I promise I won’t bother you any more.”  He looked around for a second, getting his bearings, and turned towards the door.  “I’ll let myself out.  Have a good night.”

“Freeze!”  There was no mistaking a direct order and Evan stopped in his tracks.  He stood like a statue and heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floor behind him.  He felt her presence, her body heat near him.  He shut his eyes tightly; the alcohol was warming his insides, rushing to his head.

“Do you remember, Evan, that first day we met?  Do you remember how obnoxious you were to me?  Playing your offensive music and invading my privacy?  What happened to him?  What happened to that guy who got an attitude because I wouldn’t fulfill his fantasies?  Where’d he go, Evan?”  Hearing her speak his name made him feel weak.  Sweat formed on his upper lip and he worried that his deodorant wouldn’t withstand the stress.  He wanted to run but his feet were glued to that spot.  “The entire reason you are here right now is because I was impressed by your email.  It showed incredible change.  In fact, it turned me on.”

Evan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Without warning, he felt the buckle of his belt being unfastened.  His first instinct was to push her hand away but he stood still, not wanting to move until he was instructed.  Veronica pulled his belt free from its loops and circled him slowly, dragging it behind her.  She undid the button on his pants and slowly lowered the zipper.  His pants fell to his ankles and his heart skipped a beat.  His cock didn’t miss a beat, however, and was as hard as it had ever been in his life.  It was throbbing and pulsing and dripping with desire.

Reaching into his boxers, Veronica pulled his hard cock out and stroked him softly.  He wasn’t anticipating such tender treatment; her touch was delicious, soft, mind-blowing even.  He couldn’t control the guttural sounds of pleasure that escaped his lips as she jerked him off, try as he may.  With one swift motion, she yanked his boxers down to mid thigh and inspected him like a piece of meat.  Every millimeter of his penis was standing at attention.  She went about her inspection casually,  squeezing his cock and nuts.  She took her finger, rubbed it across the head, and held it to his lips.  Maintaining eye contact, she whispered, “Lick it.”

Evan instinctively began sucking and licking the precum from her finger.  He was ravenous as she fucked his mouth with her digit.  His enthusiasm was obvious and she yanked her hand away and left him standing there in a state of longing.  Immediately feeling embarrassed he started to explain.  “It’s not like what you are thinking.  I was just trying to show my enthusiasm.”  Shame consumed him.  He’d been eating his own cum since he was a teen.  He didn’t do it all the time, only when he was “in the zone.”  That was the way he described it when he was so horny that nothing could satisfy him, when he craved stimulation.  It was in those moments that he drink his own spunk, rationalizing that it was his so it wasn’t really gay or anything.  He felt transparent, as if Veronica could read his mind, as if she knew all his dirty little secrets without him saying a word.  Evan felt as if the was telepathically transmitting his depravity to her and he was desperately trying to send her false signals.

In some parallel universe, that might have worked.  In this one, however, Veronica was manipulating his every move, two, three, and maybe even four steps ahead.  Evan was out of his league.  “Bend over, hands on your knees,” she said.  Feeling degraded and proud at the same time, Evan leaned forward at the waist and let her continue her inspection.  She pulled his shirt tail up and ran her soft hands over his ass.  Evan would have given anything in that moment to have a big fat bubble butt like a black man.  His was flat, pale, and pretty unspectacular in the scheme of things but he tried his best to stick it out, he wanted her to approve of him.  He never thought feeling like an object could feel so liberating, so sexy.  The irony of the role reversal wasn’t lost on him and his cock jumped even more.  He wondered momentarily if she would look in his mouth like a horse as well.

Unceremoniously, Veronica spread his asscheeks and examined his hole, not touching it, just looking at it.  Even was so humiliated he couldn’t speak.  Then, without warning, he felt the first blow of his belt come crashing down on his ass.  He cried out, not in pain, but more out of fear.  He hadn’t expected things to go like this.  What was going to happen?  What was she going to do?  He wanted to just stop things and call it off, say, “time out” and start over.  The next blow landed with greater force and he knew deep in his soul that he couldn’t leave.  He’d volunteered himself for her pleasure and there seemed to be a karmic debt he had to pay, so he endured in silence, muffling his cries of pain by biting his lower lip.  The heat spread quickly across his ass, the pain grew more intense with each strike.  At some point, reality shifted and the pain turned to pleasure.

Veronica punctuated each stinging blow with a question.  “Do you want to stay, Evan?  Do you like the kiss of pain, the sting of pleasure?  You’ve waited a very long time to be here, haven’t you; you’ve waited a long time to submit to me.  Is it everything that you’d thought it would be?”  She played him like a violin, asking questions he could only answer in the affirmative, forever branding in his mind that the pain he was experiencing was tied to pleasure.  Instinctively, he grabbed his cock and started stroking it.  Veronica stopped the whipping and pressed her body against his, leaning in close.  “Does that feel good, Evan, you like stroking your little cock?”  The words “little cock” turned him on; it was embarrassing and oh so arousing.

“Oh, yes, Mistress, yes, it feels so good.”  He’d never uttered the words mistress before in his life but it felt so natural rolling off his tongue.  He was stroking himself to beat the band, pounding away, feeling her soft breasts pressed against his shoulder, smelling her sweet perfume, feeling the heat on his ass from his spanking.  Even the word spanking seemed erotic, he had just gotten a spanking.  He was ready to cum, to shoot his load all over the floor.  He was prepared to lick it up if he had to, to show his submission.  Just then, with her hand gently stroking his hair, Veronica said, “Evan, I didn’t give you permission to jerk off, did I?  If you cum, I can assure you that not only will I make you pay for it, but you’ll never get the chance to play again.”

Evan panicked.  He was going to cum, there was no holding back, he was on the verge.  He stood up quickly, grabbed his cock, and squeezed with all his might.  His body was convulsing and he was having an orgasm.  He squeezed harder, crying out in anguish.  He was in such excruciating pain but it was also a pleasure like he’d never known.  He stumbled backwards, still gripping his cock tightly, terrified that if he let it go, his cum would leak out.  He used the edge of the sofa for support and tried to regulate his breathing.

Veronica let him take his time.  “Are you okay, Evan?”  He was confused by her compassion but he welcomed it at the same time.  He was expecting her to be cruel, to be irrational and demanding.  Quite the contrary, she seemed genuinely empathetic.  He looked at her with a puzzled look in her eyes and he did his best to communicate his fears to her non-verbally.  He wasn’t as fluent as she was with this language and he questioned in his mind what was going to happen next.

“You were right, Evan, I was just about to go out when you came over.  My girlfriend is on her way and she should be here any minute.  Now, you are more than welcome to stay and  . . . how shall we say it . . . entertain us, or your can call it a night and go home now.  Now, if you stay, you’ll be subjected to more humiliation than your puny imagination can comprehend.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.  Evan looked around, wanting to pull up his pants and run.  There was no back door.  Maybe he could make a flying leap off the balcony to his.  A million thoughts ran through his mind as to how to get out of there but he didn’t listen to one of them.  His throbbing cock dictated his actions and he stood erect, in more ways than one, while Veronica ushered in her guest.  She actually made introductions, as inappropriate as they were.  “Yvette, Evan.  Evan, this is my friend Yvette.  Isn’t she beautiful?”  The two women shared an intimate kiss that was the stuff of fantasies, right in front of him.

He tried to remain as still as possible, blending in as it were, trying to camouflage himself off as if he were a piece of furniture.  A piece of half naked furniture.  A piece of half naked, completely aroused furniture, if there was such a thing.  The ladies giggled like schoolgirls playing with a doll.  “Ronnie, you are a trip.  Girl, where do you get these white boys from?”  The women, obviously not new to the experience, inspected him together, unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his muscles.  Four hands fondled him while they talked like he wasn’t even there.  “You remember that one that you made do all those brothas at that party, turned him into a sissy.  What ever happened to him?”

“Hmmm, I can’t remember which one you are talking about.  OHHHHHH, him,” the dawn of recognition in her voice.  “I have no idea.”  Evan swallowed hard, trying to drown out his terror from what he had just heard and the casual inference that Veronica had discarded so many guys like a pieces of trash once she had broken them completely that she could barely keep track of them.

Yvette was interested in taking advantage of the situation.  “He’s not that cute but he does have a nice body.  He’s truly not cut out for fucking.  Can you make him eat my pussy?”

Confident and unfazed by the question, Veronica replied, “Girl, I can make him do anything you want, name it.”  Evan’s arousal was tied to humiliation.  He was turned on by the fact that didn’t have regard for his feelings, that they were not afraid to ridicule him, that they talked about him like he wasn’t even there.  “Come on, let me show you the work I’ve done on my new playroom and you can have him use him any way you want.”

Veronica pulled him by his tie, using it like a leash, and the three were off to get into some hot and heavy action, Evan struggling to walk with his pants and underwear around his ankles.  Veronica opened the door to a bedroom and his heart dropped.  The room had been equipped with custom built furniture that was obviously intended for hardcore domination.  The women laughed at his fear, pulled him in the room, and shut the door.  “Don’t worry, Evan, I made sure the walls were soundproof so no nosey neighbors can hear.”

Veronica led him over to some sort of medical table and handcuffed him to it.  The steel cut into his flesh, they were too tight but he dared not complain.  The ladies finished undressing him, tossing his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor.  “Evan was a bad boy earlier, jerking off without permission, so we’ll have to make sure he can’t do that anymore.  Bend over!”  Her tone was still soft, but her intent was clear.  Even put his face on the padded table and waited, exposed and vulnerable.

Veronica kicked his legs open and reached between him and felt up his crotch.  She pulled his cock backwards, grabbed his balls.  Some sort of leather strap was secured around his genitals and was surely intended to prevent him from cumming.  He felt the softness of someone’s hands caressing his ass again, and then, without warning, a finger was invading his hole.  He bit his lip and held back his moans.  It was clear that lube was being applied to his hole.  It was cool, the hands were soft, and the sensation was out of this world.  He was squirming, enjoying it when he felt the head of a dildo being pushed in.  He grabbed the table and held tight as the ass plug pushed deeper.

Evan was determined not to scream out in pain, to endure more than he had thought was possible.  His knuckles were white as he gripped the table and felt the burning sensation in his hole.  He wanted to make Veronica proud, to prove to her friend that he was worthy of sticking around.  Soon, the pain turned to indescribable pleasure as the dildo started hitting the right spots.  Within seconds, Evan had gone from one extreme to the other, only now, trying to stifle the moans of pleasure instead of ones of pain.  He didn’t want them to know that he had been so easily converted, he was afraid of what potential scenarios that would create.

The sounds of talking brought him back to reality and he listened intently to a conversation that had been going on for some time, drowned out by his own voyage of anal pleasure.  “. . . yeah, I know, me too.  But right now, I can’t think about that.  Right now, all I want is for him to eat my pussy.  I’m so wet and I want to cum so hard.”

Veronica released the handcuffs and instructed him to lie on the table.  He did as instructed and felt his hands being handcuffed again.  He spoke up on his behalf.  “Please, I don’t want to get away.  I’m not going to resist.  Can you please leave the handcuffs off?”

Veronica smiled and nodded, acknowledging his demands but not meeting them.  Yvette slipped her skirt down her legs and then her tiny thong.  Evan was mesmerized and he looked at Veronica, seeking some sort of approval.  He wanted to make her proud, he wanted her to know that he was doing it for her.  He desperately wished he could be eating Veronica’s pussy but he knew that was an honor he’d have to earn.  Yvette was incredibly sexy but it was Veronica that Evan wanted to belong to, whom he wanted to worship.  She looked deeply into his eyes, conveying her compassion and understanding and admonishing him with her stare that he had better not disappoint her.

Yvette climbed on the table, lowering her cunt slowly to his face.  Evan stared up in disbelief.  Her pussy held him captive by the sweet folds of flesh as they opened for him.  He stuck his tongue out and waited, not so patiently for his first taste of dark desire.  Teasing him, Yvette let him take in every detail before she positioned herself comfortably on his face, using it as a seat cushion of pleasure.  The full weight of her body was a bit overwhelming but he felt Veronica’s hands caressing his body and he was inspired to do whatever he had to do to make her proud.

Even though Yvette was petite, with her full body weight on him, Evan hovered somewhere between consciousness and ecstasy.  His senses were deprived and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of wanting to gasp for air along with the intense feelings in his throbbing, restrained cock.  Her full ebony ass shielded his vision and prevented much movement on his part.

The slippery folds of her pussy coated his face with juices as his tongue and jaw ached from trying his best to pleasure this woman and give her pleasure.  She masturbated herself back and forth at times, rubbing his nose from clit to asshole; the sexy scent of her pussy a stark contrast to the musky aroma of her butt.  Evan loved it; he loved every second of sweet torture.

Occasionally, she would raise herself up to give him a brief second of reprieve.  For that instant, his eyes would be flooded with light, he would gasp for air like a man drowning, and he would feel the cool air revive him.  Rather than being the sensation he craved, he longed to feel the warmth and security of that gorgeous black pussy on his mouth again as he teetered near the edge of suffocation and orgasm.  He pretended it was Veronica, riding him, using him.  He imagined he was driving his tongue up in the sweet recesses of her sexy treasure.  Veronica taunted him, teased him, asking him if he could take more, demanding that he make her friend cum or else.  She humiliated and degraded him.  “Look at your pathetic cock, jerking wildly, dripping like a faucet.  Make her cum white boy.  Make her cum and I just may let you back to experience more.

Yvette began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  Veronica began to slap and twist Evan’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Yvette’s cum pouring down his throat.  Her legs covered his ears, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum.  He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations, bouncing up and down harder.  For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.  The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that Veronica was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and Yvette was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and . . . without warning, Veronica removed the strap, causing Evan’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before.

Evan awoke the next morning in his own bed.  His limbs were fatigued and sore; his body ached and his mind was drained.  He stumbled to the kitchen to get some juice and after that he wasn’t really sure what to do.  His experience the evening before had left him emotionally drained.  He couldn’t go back to the way things were, he had been transformed.  He was experiencing every detail over in his mind.  He opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside to get some fresh air.  Veronica was seated outside, sipping iced coffee and engrossed in the morning paper.  She looked up, acknowledged him with a wave, and went back to reading.  Evan retreated back inside, unsure of what to say, what to do.  When he sat at his computer and opened his email that he saw that Veronica had emailed him.

“I was extremely proud of you last night.  You did very well.  I will look forward to pushing you further, exploring more in the future.  V.”

He felt a sense of accomplishment and pride like he’d never known.  He ran to the balcony again and opened the door.  Veronica was gone but she’d left her mark, on his body and in his soul.

Sunday, October 02, 2016

The Hysterical Hatred of Hillary

I am bewildered by this hysterical hatred of Hillary Clinton, as if she is the spawn of Satan.  I’m not a fan of hers because I’m a Socialist and I wanted Bernie Sanders to win the nomination because he’s a Socialist and I felt like he would truly implement policies that would truly benefit people of color in this nation.  That doesn’t mean I hate Hillary, it just means she’s not my first choice, not my second choice.  I would much prefer a candidate that is far more liberal.  That being said, that doesn’t mean I think she’s a demon.  It seems to me that her haters are made up of sexist, patriarchal, misogynist men and the completely uninformed masses are merely repeating this hysterical hatred because it’s the popular thing to do.  I get that men are terrified of a female president because they feel emasculated, they believe that women are supposed to be subservient to them because their white male God deemed it to be so.  Women hating Hillary makes absolutely no sense to me.  Consistently, the arguments against Hillary are delusional and unfounded but they seem to keep making headway. 

Hillary Clinton has been investigated eight times for her role in the four deaths in Benghazi, by REPUBLICANS, and they found every time that she was NOT AT FAULT.  More importantly, there were thirteen Embassy attacks prior to Benghazi and no one was ever investigated because of those deaths.  She’s been investigated for the damn emails until she can’t be investigated any more.  God damn! The woman didn’t send any classified emails on her personal server!  Continually saying it won’t make it true.  Her server was not hacked.  She didn’t transmit top secret information to anyone.  And I’m not entirely convinced that all three Secretaries of State who have held the position since the internet and email became commonplace didn’t use private email servers for non-essential communication as well.  For whatever reason, a reason that is completely confusing to me, the two black Secretaries of State weren’t investigated and the one white one was.  Perhaps because they were both Republican.  I don’t know.  It doesn’t make sense to me at all.

Do I think Hillary Clinton is racist?  Yes, I do.  All white people are racist.  It’s part and parcel of the fallacy of white supremacy and it exists in all white people to varying degrees, some more extreme than others, but no white person is immune, even the most liberal ones.  I think she’s FAR less racist than the vast majority of white Americans and more importantly, I think she’s intelligent enough to have advisors around her who will people of color who will educate her and she won’t do anything as President that will be outrageously detrimental to us as a people.  Donald Trump is a blatant racist and he will do everything in his power, dirty, underhanded, and illegal to make sure that the advances made during the Civil Rights for Blacks are destroyed.  But I don’t think Hillary Clinton is any more racist than Bill Clinton and Black people LOVED him.  You all called him the first Black President (which was offensive and stupid btw).  Black people did well under the Clinton administration.  I suspect that Hillary was essential in helping Bill make decisions so that would mean her presidency would mirror Bill’s.  Yet consistently, the masses HATE Hillary with a passion that exceeds anything I’ve seen before, even Barack Obama, which blows my mind. 

Here’s what I know.  Hillary Clinton is a Yale Law School graduate, a law firm partner, cofounder of the Arkansas Advocates for Children and Families, First Lady of Arkansas, First Lady of the United States, US Senator from New York, and US Secretary of State.   She is outrageously qualified to be the President of the United States.  People get their political opinions from social media.  They don’t research, they don’t read or investigate.  Hating her because it’s the popular thing to do, because it’s the popular opinion on Facebook and Twitter or Fox New is just insane however.  Even I’m not her biggest fan and I still think she would make a good president. 

Friday, September 16, 2016

LWC or the Little White Cock

I have a theory. Trump and all his supporters are CLEARLY, IRREFUTABLY insane. No question about it, period, the end. Their insanity is accepted as the norm and the media and society as a whole dismisses, ignores, rationalizes and debates their talking points as if they have actual validity, as if they are worthy of consideration as valid. What if . . . their mental instability is a result of them all being deficient anatomically, or more accurately, they are mentally ill because they have anger, frustration, jealousy and envy for anyone who threatens their perceived manhood and power because they measure less than average below the belt. 

Wait, follow me here. Let's suppose that the individuals who are the most virulent racists, the ones who feel the most emasculated by powerful women, the ones who are so desperate to go back to the good old days when niggers knew their place and women stayed at home are the ones who are the most frustrated by their lack of manhood. I think it's very reasonable to assume that because they feel so lacking in the genital department their psyches have compensated with their rampant xenophobia, racism, bigotry, and sexism that has gone unchecked in this country for centuries.

It makes sense if you think about it. Society equates manhood with dick size. The smaller their junk, the more power hungry they are in an effort to compensate for how inadequate they feel as "real men". The more delusional they are, the more limp their equipment is. The individuals who have made policy in this country since its inception are the one who have had the least impressive Popsicle sticks. The women who support Trump are the women who have been left frustrated by their spouses inferior equipment. If they've never had a thorough sexing in their lives, if the most they've ever had is a woefully inadequate 30 second hump, that would make any woman crazy. Certifiably so.

My theory might seem fringe to a sexually repressed society but let's take a look at the men who are conducting the Republican crazy train. Trump, Guliani, David Duke . . . does anyone believe for a fraction of a second that they have more than three or four inches below the belt? It's not that much of a leap to think that the individuals who support Trump are similarly handicapped. They hate Obama because they think he has a big black dick. They hate Hillary because they think she is trying to cut their nuts off. And the rest of sane society is left to integrate their insanity into our lives as the norm.

Just think about it.

Wednesday, September 07, 2016

Yes, You Do Have a Right to . . .

(Young, twenty and thirty something women won’t read this, they will reject it immediately.  It is my prayer that mothers and fathers of young girls and boys will read this.  It is my hope that parents of young girls and boys will grasp my intent and teach their children about the consent and rape from a more enlightened perspective.)

As a car owner, you have a right to leave your car running with the keys in the ignition, the doors unlocked and wide open, in the middle of a huge mall parking lot while you run in to grab a few items.  It’s your right.  It’s your car.  You bought it and paid for it and it’s yours to do with what you want.  You worked hard for that car and if you feel like you don’t want to have to turn the ignition off and on, and if you feel like you should be able to leave the keys in the ignition and unlocked simply because your name is on the title and it belongs to you, yes, you have that right.    If you did that, you would be clowned as the biggest, most delusional idiot to walk the face of the earth though.  The story of your stupidity would go viral around the world and you would break the internet.    Twitter would create a hashtag just for you. 

When you go on vacation, you have a right to leave the door of your house or apartment wide open, with all the lights on, with the mail and the newspapers piling up letting everyone know that you are out of town.  You certainly have that right to leave your TV, furniture, electronics, jewelry, and clothes in plain view of everyone to see while you enjoy yourself without a care in the world.  It’s your right.  You own that home.  You shouldn’t have to have a security system, you shouldn’t have to lock your doors if you don’t want to.  Everyone should know that it’s your home, your sanctuary, and that they should respect your rights and not violate them.  The police might even be able to muster up the pretense that you aren’t the biggest moron on the planet . . . for a few minutes when they arrive at the scene when you return home to find that every single thing that you own has been moved out and there is nothing left in your house but the nails in the wall where your once beautiful artwork used to hang.  

There can be no question or debate about whether or not you have the right to go to a coffee shop and do your personal banking on an open, unsecure WIFI account and leave your screen open, with your financial information in plain sight while you decide to go buy a double vanilla soy latte half caff with an extra espresso shot and foam, without having your identity stolen and every penny you own being embezzled.  Forget the designer drink and obscene stupidity of that scenario.  If you are in a free WIFI hotspot, you have the right to ask a total stranger to watch your laptop while you go to the bathroom.  I’ve done it.  You’ve done it.  We’ll all done it at one point.  If we’re lucky, the person will be honest and when we return from the rest room our things will still be there and we will not have been violated.

You have a right to have unprotected sex, you have a right to get drunk every night of the week, and you have a right to leave a loaded gun with the safety off in your home with children.  You have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, don’t you?  You can do whatever floats your little boat as long as it doesn’t violate another person’s rights.  There shouldn’t be any consequences to your actions, right?  You should be able to do anything you want and people have to respect that you have a right to do it.  It’s in the Constitution, isn’t it?  And while we would like to think that the person sitting next to us in Starbucks is honest and will not steal our stuff, that’s just wishful thinking because we know that in our society, people steal.  They lie.  They cheat.  They often times take what doesn’t belong to them. 

Just as all these examples of legitimate rights that people have are valid, they have committed no crimes, they have not broken any laws, there is NOTHING in the world that prevents anyone from doing each and every one of these things, there are foreseeable outcomes to each and every situation where a criminal will disregard a person’s right to be stupid and will violate them.  It’s like, for example, a young lady has a right to go to a fraternity party, dressed in what amounts to denim panties and a tube top, get drunk off her ass, and play strip poker while drinking out of strange cups.  She has a right to expect not to be raped, right?  But is that a smart thing to do?  Oh dear Goddess in heaven, if I suggest that it’s misguided for a young woman to do that, I’m slut shaming.  It’s respectability politics.  “How dare you!  Take two seats.  Shut the fuck up you ankh nigga bitch!” 

We as a society would make an artform of clowning, degrading, humiliating, and ridiculing anyone who could think that they had a right to leave their personal property readily available to criminals to steal but if I suggest that women should apply common sense measures to protect their bodies from being raped, I’m oppressing women’s rights.  Check it.  A gazelle has a right to wander freely throughout the savannah, enjoying the sun and the birds and all the pretty flowers.  That does not mean that a lion is not going to make dinner out of it, though. 

There is this pervasive, widespread, and delusional notion that women do not have to use common sense in order to protect themselves from being raped.  Is your need to get drunk and pass out so great that you cannot comprehend that you are putting yourself in harm’s way if you do it around men who will not respect your rights?  No one deserves to be raped.  Let me say that again.  NO ONE DESERVES TO BE RAPED.  But that is not to suggest that there aren’t some basic, common sense measures that young women can take to prevent being raped.  No one should be shamed for their sexuality.  But that’s not at all the same thing as suggesting that you should go out and play chicken at high speeds on a curvy road at midnight when you are under the influence of alcohol and that you can’t expect there to be fatal consequences either. 

We live in a society of rape culture.  Men see women as objects.  Men see women as things to be used, slapped, choked, beaten, ejaculated on, and thrown away like trash.  We don’t teach our boys to understand that no means no, we don’t teach them about consent.  Males are socialized to view sex as power and that taking it, stabbing it, killing it, and that every other violent metaphor for sex makes them “real men”.  So, the solution can’t be to tell women that they have a right to wear clothing that has no other objective than to arouse lust in men, and then feign outrage and disgust when a man wants to violate them.  You lock your car.  You lock your house.  You don’t give your laptop to the homeless person on the street to watch while you go to the bathroom.  But you’ll scream at the top of your lungs that you have a right to be naked and walk down the street and no one should say anything to you.  It’s deluded logic. 

I get that the right to party and get drunk is an inalienable right.  If men do it, women should be able to also.  I get that if you wear more than a bikini, you are going to suffer the consequences of spontaneous combustion and be consumed with flames because anything that covers more than you labia and areola is simply too uncomfortable to wear.  I get that you can’t possibly wear modest clothing because that is somehow infringing on your sexuality and you have a right to be sexual without being shamed.  I get it!  You have a right to cover your naked body in honey and chain yourself to a tree in the woods too, but you better expect to be eaten up by insects or worse. 

It’s tragic that we aren’t teaching our sons not to rape.  It’s reprehensible.  But it’s equally as tragic, no more or less so, that we aren’t teaching our daughters to pair up, protect one another, to have a safety net when they meet with a man for the first time, or the second or third time for that matter.  We should be teaching our girls that they shouldn’t be alone with a guy until they know him well enough to know that he is not going to violate them.  Of course, some men will earn a woman’s trust and violate her any way.  It’s going to happen for sure because we live in a society where sociopaths and sexual predators abound.  But let’s not give an engraved invitation for men to violate us and then call it empowering or our right either.  Young girls should be saying to men, “I have texted my whereabouts to my network of girlfriends.  They know where I am and who I’m with and you should know that I’m committed to protecting my safety at all costs.”  

Just as we should be teaching our boys from before the onset of puberty that they should not be violating girls, in school, at home, and in the media, we should be teaching young girls that if they are going to a party, that the D.C.B., the designated cock blocker has to stay sober, someone has to make sure that in a drunken state that the other girls won’t go off and make unsafe choices, or to call the police immediately if they see some creep trying to violate a woman, and they should have a rotation so that everyone has to be said cock blocker when it is their turn.   We need to start teaching our girls that they don’t have to be hot and sexy all the time, that they have more value than showing off every possible inch of skin, that conforming to sexist definitions of womanhood is NOT empowering.  In my dream world, we teach young women that their intellect, their integrity, and their activism are their most attractive traits and that they can be as sexual as they want to be with individuals who have EARNED the right to their intimacy and that their value is not in the size of their ass. 

Young girls are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that if they aren’t being sexy and attractive 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, that they are somehow being confined in an oppressive prison that tells that they have to be asexual and virgin in order to have value as women.  I’m not saying that.  I’m saying that your sexuality shouldn’t be defined by how much skin you expose to men who aren’t going to value you as a person any god damn way.   

The women who have responded in outrage to this posting, the ones who are sending messages to their friends to read this and unfollow me, didn’t read past the word “raped.”  This youthful arrogance that has been promoted, this denial of logic, reason, and common sense, has been perpetuated for so long and is so wide spread that it passes as sanity.  But I’m telling you from what I know because I have been raped.  I’ve been raped more than once.  Once, by a friend in college.  Once, by an acquaintance because I rejected his romantic advances and he thought he would pay me back by raping me.  The first two instances were completely beyond my control.  I could have done nothing to stop them.  The third time, I  was raped by a young man who saw me as sexual prey and stalked me until he could get the opportunity to be alone with me.  I let him into my apartment.  I felt uncomfortable with him being there because I wasn’t attracted to him and I knew he had a crush on me.  I shouldn’t have let him in my home.  I should have trusted my gut that his intentions weren’t pure.  What I did or didn’t do does not mean that I deserved to be raped.  It means my judgement was off.  It means I didn’t value myself enough, that being polite to him should not have been as important as my personal safety.  I’m not saying that any of my rapes were more valid or that my victimization was better or worse than the young woman who gets drunk at a party.  I can’t say it enough, no person, woman or man, deserves to be raped.  I am suggesting that as long as we hold on to this delusional notion that young women can do and wear anything they want, and that they can willfully put themselves in harm’s way and that there aren’t “supposed” to be consequences because in Utopialand, women can do and wear what they want, we are teaching young women to play Russian roulette with their safety and possibly their lives. 

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