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.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

AfroerotiK is . . . . Redefining Black Manhood

AfroerotiK is . . . is a show that examines black sexuality and that provides insight and alternatives to individuals seeking healthy erotic expression. It highlights the beauty and sensuality of African Americans without being vulgar and stereotypical and it provides a fresh perspective from which to examine the issues that shape the perceptions of Black sexuality. It’s a show for everyone that will challenge myths, destroy clich├ęs, and set the foundation for intense erotic exploration. AfroerotiK is features debates, discussions, interviews, and steamy erotic readings to stimulate and arouse.

This month, we are exploring REDEFINING BLACK MANHOOD. It’s a hard-hitting, no holds barred discussion that sheds light on a much-maligned topic. It’s essential listening for women who feel like they can’t find a good man and men who are tired of being narrowly defined. It’s for anyone open to conversation about shifting the behaviors that are keeping black relationships in danger.

Take a listen and experience for yourself.

It takes several minutes to download and your patience is appreciated.
Click HERE to Listen!

AfroerotiK is . . . . Podcast

You are invited to re-listen to the very first ever broadcast of AfroerotiK is . . . a titillating talk show that takes a peak into Black sexuality and discusses topics that dismantle offensive stereotypes and that provides a forum for the healthy expression of Ebony sensuality. This topic sparked such debate, such controversy that it inspired another Podcast that is dedicated to Redefining Black Male Sexuality. This version tackles a lot of myths and false perceptions about Black male sexuality and includes a VERY sexy erotic reading.

It takes several minutes to download and your patience is appreciated.

Click HERE to listen

Saturday, March 25, 2006

AfroerotiK Bylaws

1. AfroerotiK is committed to the healthy expression of Black sexuality. That includes any and all sexual expression that is SAFE, sane, and consensual. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of homophobia, patriarchy, sexism, or any other limiting and oppressive belief that narrowly defines sexuality or places restrictive guidelines on collective erotic practices.

2. AfroerotiK looks to foster the intimate, communicative sexual expression of couples. The backbone and foundation of a community is in the health and stability of its relationships. Honesty and open communication are key to building a great sex life. While every individual has the right to choose what fits their needs best, AfroerotiK supports sexual expression that is based on truth, introspection, and interconnectivity of partners. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of sex in exchange for money or fulfillment of selfish sexual desires that disregard the emotional needs of one’s partner.

3. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any perpetuation of use the word nigger, any phonetic spelling thereof, or the word slave in relation to a sexual fetish. There is never an occasion or opportunity in which Black people should be referred to as niggers, the term is NOT a term of endearment, and it is extremely disrespectful to those that bled and died at the base of the word. Similarly, sexual submission is completely voluntary and not in any way indicative of the extreme abuses that people of African descent endured from which they derived no pleasure.

4. AfroerotiK sees sexual expression optimally as an avenue to transcendence and a connection to the Divine. Because Africans had very valid, enduring, and complex spiritual systems prior to their kidnapping and enslavement and because there are many, many avenues to access the Creator, AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of Christianity as being the only, right, or valid religion.

5. One of the primary concerns of AfroerotiK is to dismantle the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality. While there are many instances of interracial sexuality, AfroerotiK asserts that the healthiest expression of sexuality between the races is based first and foremost on a holistic and integrated love of self, history, and identity for people of African descent. Conversely, admiration, respect, and adoration of Black people should be based on far more than genitals, skin tone or some perceived image of sexual savagery.

6. The spread of HIV and AIDS in the African American community is rampant and crippling. There is an absolutely huge propensity to demonize and vilify bisexual or gay black men as the sole perpetuators of the transmission of the deadly disease. An individual’s HIV status is completely their own responsibility and AfroerotiK will not assign blame to or deflect culpability away from partners that choose to engage in unsafe sexual practices.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Children of the Diaspora

Children of the Diaspora, descendants of slaves, suffer the emotional, psychological and spiritual chains of mental bondage. The chains that rattle about us are no longer iron and steel. They are the chains of complacency, misogyny, materialism, disdain and apathy. Our masters have become the almighty dollar and emotionless pleasure. The overseer need not hang us from trees any longer for we kill ourselves with poison in our veins, and bullets for our brothers. The auction blocks have become the maternity wards, pregnant themselves with bastard children and immature mothers.

We’ve lost our community to narcissistic desires. We inflict our own punishment with our willful criminal behavior. Education need not be held from us any longer, for we voluntarily turn our backs on it. What purpose does it serve for massa to give us his hand me down clothes, we actually believe the Tommy and Ralph and Gianni make us better than the next person. Our men find it perfectly acceptable to use women indiscriminately, to be emotionally unavailable and to abandon their heirs. Our women serve the Prada pocketbook and the Optima relaxer. So deep are our wounds that we call ourselves degrading and vile names and defend the right to do so. Rather than call ourselves Kings and Queens, we vehemently support the right to be Nigggers, bytches, and freaks. Slavery created a monster that roams the earth seeking it’s own self-destruction. Let us stand up and break the chains that keep us oppressed.

Parenting and Sexuality

I disagree with ALL the standards of raising children when it comes to sexuality today. I find it hard to believe that we as a nation can let our children watch violence as entertainment and we refuse to accept that it has any effect whatsoever. Forget the fact that children are committing mass murder, gang rapes, and going on shooting sprees for fun. No, watching violence has nothing to do with that. In the same vein, we let out kids watch pornographic music videos, we pretend their sexuality doesn't exist until it's too late, we don't show them healthy examples of sexuality, and we tell our children to wait till marriage to have sex or we let them have orgies in the basement and think we are great parents. I've yet to meet the single mother of a son who has a healthy perspective of her son's sexuality. Time and time again, they either insist that their sons are asexual angels and blame girls for trying to seduce their sons or they don't even care that their sons are sexually active at age 9 or 10, they think its some sort of sign of manhood.

Parents today seem to think that it's not good to show our children our "freaky" side. First and foremost, any person that considers their sexuality freakish is not going to have a healthy perception of their own sexuality. Sex is beautiful, natural, and healthy. Damn right children should witness their parent’s sexuality. Notice I didn’t say that children should watch their parents have sex but children should know that their parents kiss, that they are intimate, that they need time alone to relate to each other like a man and woman (or whatever gender the parents happen to be). How else can you teach a child how to relate to a partner in a romantic and intimate way if not by showing them by example? Children should know that their parents enjoy touching and kissing and holding each other. Children should know that on some weekends that they have to go to Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop's in order to give their parents time alone and that it's perfectly okay to tell them that Mommy and Daddy are going to have sex. If we continue to make something nasty, dirty, and secretive, we are never going to heal as a people.

I think it's unbelievably damaging to a child to ignore their sexual maturation. I have a professor whose wife is a counselor at an inner city school. A mother actually sat and watched pornos with her 7-year-old child because she said she didn't want him to be gay. That child is now damaged for life because his sexuality has been shaped by objectification and misogyny. Children should not be exposed to sex at that age and there is not justification for a child to be introduced to sex by an adult. Kids have more access to pornography than when I was a kid and I saw my fair share of it. Kids today grow up with images of sex on music videos that objectify women and make sex recreation. Every movie makes sex into some gross distortion bumping and grinding.

We don't teach our girls to love their bodies, to respect their bodies, we teach them to use their bodies as ways to manipulate men. We don't teach our girls that their bodies are sacred and that a man must earn her treasure with his honesty and integrity, we teach them that designer jeans will make their asses look better to get a bad boy. We don't teach our boys to honor their bodies and to treat them as sacred, we say, "Don’t get anyone pregnant" and that's that. We don't teach our children anything about sex and they grow up with distorted and fucked up images.

We try to repress the natural sexual development of our children, trying to deny their sexuality when they reach puberty. Instead of talking to them about sex, explaining to them step by step that sex is something that is emotional, spiritual, and physical, we don’t discuss it at all and then expect our children to come to us and tell us about their sex lives. Instead of having discussions about masturbation and providing children the opportunity to grow up without porn images shaping their sexuality, we turn a blind eye and pretend that our children aren't sexual at all. Kids are doing things these days that I had never even heard of when I was their age. I remember that almost everyone in my high school was having sex except for the ugly and the nerdy, and even a few of them were having sex with each other. I have no doubt in my mind that the instances of children NOT having sex is probably so rare it should be documented if it’s found.

There is nothing we do right as a society when it comes to raising our children and sexuality. We hide nudity from our children like it's a bad thing and let them think it's okay to have sex in a club for some Krystal. I'm not a parent but if I'm ever blessed enough to raise children, I can promise you that I'm not going to raise them in any way shape or form like most people do. My children will grow up understanding that homosexuality is normal and natural, that music videos are degrading, that sex is natural and beautiful and that it's a form of communication in a relationship and not something to do in the basement on a Friday night in order to get off. I will teach my boy children to call the police if an older woman propositions them for sex and that it’s not a rite of passage to have sex with an older woman, it’s a crime. I will teach my children that they should have an emotional and spiritual connection to whomever they lay with and that they must be prepared to nurture their partners and unless they are prepared to do that they shouldn’t have sex. My only prayer is that there will be other parents out there, raising their children in an equally enlightened way, so that my children can have partners that have perverted and distorted views of sex.

Dating with Children

I’m confused about the standards we have set for ourselves these days. It seems to me that people think nothing of the ramifications of the choices that their partners make. People ask me all the time if I would date a man with children. I’m 40, what man my age doesn’t have children? I wouldn't date a man that had five children by four or five different women because that is a HUGE red flag that he is an irresponsible man. If a man had five children by one woman, and they split and he had partial or full custody, I would LOVE to date him. That's a HUGE indication that he is a responsible man. I don't have children so I don't hang out at PTA meetings or playgrounds or ballet classes (if I wouldn't feel like some sort of desperate housewife I would consider checking out some of those places but that seems awfully manipulative) so I don't meet the types of men that are caring fathers.

I meet the men that think that getting their children two weekends a month is babysitting. I met the men that think I'm some sort of trophy because I'm 40 and I don't have any children but they have children they haven't seen in years. I meet the men that think that child support payments are some sort of ransom payment that mothers benefit from for manicures and bon bons. I dream about meeting a single father that is raising his child alone. Instead, I meet married men that have children for whom they have no regard because they are so busy trying to convince me that I don't understand how loveless their marriage has become.

I will NOT date a man that thinks that I’m some sort of extra value prize because I don’t have any children. That sort of man is the worse sort of partner possible. I feel for the woman that has children and is looking for a man. I hear the disparaging comments that men make about women with children when they are trying to impress me. They tell me how they lead women with children on to get the panties and walk away before they get too close (sign of emotional immaturity). They tell me of the impossible standards that they put on women with children, making them and their children jump through hoops to adhere to some sort of antebellum standard of behavior where children are seen and not heard and a good backslap was supposedly good for a child. No matter how well behaved the child is, if the mother isn't raising her child like a concentration camp prisoner, they get deemed an unfit mother and therefore disposable. The fear of responsibility, of being an adult, prevents men from forming relationships with women with children. Because men can make babies and walk away without so much as losing a night’s sleep, the scales will always tip in their favor when it comes to degrading women with children. My prayers are with you ladies that you find a suitable mate. And if you meet a man and you want to know his true feelings about how he feels about dating a woman with children, ask one of his ex’s that don’t have children, she’ll tell you the truth.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

White Male Submission

One can’t pick up a magazine or listen to a discussion about the black community these days without reading about “DL brothas”, or black men that have sex with other men while representing themselves as heterosexual. There is a homoparanoia and fear that is largely media driven that is telling black women that they need to question every black man they meet because he might be having sex with other men. Certainly, black men must be driven by their desires more than any other portion of the population because this “DL” trend is so rampant, or so one is lead to believe by the books, articles, and discussions that are so prevalent today.

I have the unique opportunity to be in a position where people come to me and tell me their fantasies as a function of my career. There is a HUGE and very stealth underground sexual movement that is growing that has escaped any mainstream examination whatsoever. While black men’s sexual practices have been put under a microscope and they have been demonized in the media as sexually irresponsible and morally bankrupt latent “faggots,” white men have been able to slip under the radar, with stealth efficacy, with their sexual secrets. The numbers of white men that come to me and tell me that they have fantasies of being sexually submissive, not only to black women, but also to black men, is STAGGERING. Literally, dozens of thousands of white men have approached me in the last several years, all reiterating very much the same themes in their desires, that they believe that white people are inferior, that they want to pay for the atrocities of slavery by their sexual servitude to black people, that black people are more beautiful.

There are common themes and consistencies in their fantasies and the types of white male submissive men can be grouped into three main categories: white men that want white female partners to engage in interracial sex, white men that want black female partners and white men that want domination by both black men and black women. The first group of men, the men that want their white wives or girlfriends to engage in interracial sex, are known as cuckolds. Cuckolds are men that get arousal from having a white wife, commonly referred to as a “slut wife,” that has multiple black lovers. The husband is forced to live a life of sexual denial and servitude while the wife has sex with these so called “superior black bulls.” Servitude can include anything from getting the wife ready for her lover to cleaning her orally after her lover has ejaculated inside her, to orally or anally servicing the black lover himself. Many times, the sexual component is heightened if there is some level of implied “extortion” or money demanded of the white submissive male to perform theses homosexual acts. I’ve had innumerous white men tell me that they want their wives to be “black bred”, meaning impregnated by a black man and they are sexually aroused by the idea of their wives forcing them to raise a biracial child as their own. There’s little doubt that the origins of these fantasies are steeped in the mythical “Big Black Mandingo” stereotype as they profess love for his abnormally large penis while begging to be taunted and humiliated for their comparatively small endowment. Sexual submission is usually limited to the bedroom for these men because they seem to be able to compartmentalize the fact that they are only inferior because of their perceived, small penis and, on occasion, express regret that they have fantasies of seeing the black man as superior, even in a sexual situation.

The second category of white male submissive is the men that hold black women in the highest esteem. These men love and desire the black woman far more than white woman and very often admire the natural features of black women that have long been rejected by society at large. Big butts, dark skin, full lips, natural hair, and sassy and domineering attitudes are the attributes that they most readily describe as the epitome of beauty, black or otherwise. The number of occasions when white men have said they want a black wife to pamper and provide for, to put her on a pedestal as the true mother of all civilization, are too numerous to mention. Many times, they reiterate the same sorts of fantasies of the cuckold husband: they want her to have a black lover, but more often than not, they describe feelings of inadequacy because they believe they are unable to satisfy or undeserving of having sex with a black woman. They describe fantasies whereby they are forced by a black woman to engage homosexual acts as an act of punishment or for her amusement. They reiterate they same sorts of fantasies about cleaning Black woman of ejaculate deposited by her lover, being denied orgasm, being “forced” to humble themselves before the black man to show their unworthiness and inferior status. The instances of white men telling me that they want to serve as human toilet to black women are so commonplace, so frequent, I don’t blink an eye any longer when the topic is broached. These men describe how it would be an honor to receive the waste of a black woman and how it is their duty as a white male to do so. Many desire to be subjected to perform household duties for black women, seemingly with no sexual gratification in return, only the desire to be humiliated for their whiteness. Most desire to form lifelong, loving relationships with Black women as adoring pets or servants and most refer to themselves as slaves.

The third category of white male submissive is interested whatever forms of degradation they can receive from whatever Black source that sees fit to dish it out. They are unashamedly bisexual and, in many cases, prefer to perform sexual acts with black men. Among this group are the most masochistic of the population. They are constantly asking for approval and validation that they truly are inferior to black people. They confess that they want to become slaves, stripped of their rights as a human, that they want to pay for the sins of any white person that owned slaves, and that they want to be degraded and humiliated for their whiteness. Their fantasies are extreme, many expressing desires to be lynched and beat reminiscent of true slavery as part of their sexual fantasies. Many tell me that they desire to become black and have romantic notions that they will become well-endowed athletes or big-bosomed matriarchal archetypes. Several have requested books to read to tell them of a more accurate Black history than the limited exposure they’ve received. I’ve had white men tell me that they go out of their way to hire black people, support black businesses, or provide daily acts of kindness to black people as their own personal form of reparations. Oddly, this trend is not limited to America; European men make up a large percentage of this population.

These examples are the norm not the extreme and I’m confronted with these examples on a daily basis. This isn’t just limited to the heterosexual community; I’ve encountered many gay men that have expressed comparable desires. It should be noted that almost 100% of the time, white men use the singular adjective black to describe the collective of people rather than as a descriptor. i.e. “I want my wife to fuck black, I am attracted to black, I am a slave for black” rather than the proper usage, “I am attracted to black women, I want my wife to fuck black men, I desire to be submissive to black people.” Their grammatical objectification of us is but a minor indication that they have yet to shatter the racist beliefs that they claim so boldly to have done.

If there is any level of validity in my findings, my observations lead me to believe that there is no concurrent movement by black people whereby we, on any sort of collective basis, are expressing desires to make white people pay for the atrocities of slavery or to restore a Black supremist racial hierarchy and to do so by the sexual subjugation of white people. We seem to be naively playing into the role of dominatrix and Black bull and walking away from the experience and not being particularly braggadocios about them either. Those few African American individuals that have confided in me of experiences with submissive white men seem to take pity on them that they are so warped in their thinking that they could actually believe that black people could be superior. In my amateur anthropological opinion, these black people feel guilty for holding a position of power over white men, even if it’s only sexually and for brief periods of time. I’ve yet to meet the black person that has engaged in a sexual liaison with a submissive white man that has truly recognized the larger political implications. Many black women have seen this as an opportunity to capitalize on their “most coveted object” status and made attempts to use white men for money, which seem to backfire more often than not according to their tales. While very few black men confide in me about their experiences with submissive white men, (and one can only assume from the reports of white men that the numbers of black men that are engaging in these behaviors are equally as staggering) I can only assume that they feel some sort of temporary reprieve from the stresses and strains of a racist society while engaged in the act, and as they go on about their daily lives, they replace their societally-imposed veil of powerlessness, never recognizing that their true power does not lie in their penis. Black people, still largely ignorant of our own past, the origins of African greatness, and still largely brainwashed to believe that white people are better, are sadly, too uninformed to assert that they will not be made pawns in a sexual game to rid white people of their guilt or fulfill their dark continent lust.

There are a multitude of larger implications that are happening beneath this absolutely HUGE movement that need to be discussed and simply can’t be unless the topic is put on the table so that society at large can examine the trend and not have it kept as white America’s dirty little secret. First and foremost, these men are still, for the most part, holding onto racist, stereotypical and degrading beliefs about Black people while they are insisting that their desire to submit to black people indicates that they are free from all such beliefs. They assume that because they are sexually attracted to Black people that automatically means they are not racist. Many white men claim they used to harbor racist beliefs and some sexual event with a black person cured them of their racism, which is obviously an absurd assumption. If these white men are in fact engaging in sexual acts with black men as they claim, then the source and spread of HIV in the Black community needs to be examined. These white men should be spreading the virus to their partners in equal proportions to black men.

I imagine that there are scores of therapists, counselors, sex workers, medical practitioners and journalists in this country that have the same knowledge as I. Why aren’t there medical journals and articles that are discussing this trend and the psychological implications? Where are the 20/20 and Dateline exposes, where are the radio talk shows that are discussing this phenomenon, why isn’t every magazine warning white women about the potential hazards of white men that are engaging in unsafe sex with black men? Given the current political climate in this country, with this move to the ultra-moral, ultra-conservative right, what conclusions can one draw about this population of white men that have this race-driven guilty, envy, and lust? Are there white men that are secretly harboring these sexual desires in positions of power and exacting stricter punishments on black men to assuage them of their desires to “submit to black?”

Race in America is still and extremely volatile topic. If there are, as I’ve experienced, multitudes of white men that are having these types of fantasies and desires, there needs to be an open and honest discussion in a public forum to determine the origins, the implications, and to form support groups and allegiances to address the very important issues that these types of issues bring to the table. White men are begging, even if it is only privately, to be immersed in a black sexual experience, and they are being led by individuals that don’t have the ability to train, instruct and accurately inform. This issue can not be swept under the table because it upsets the equilibrium of the status quo. White men are desiring to be submissive to Black people in phenomenal numbers and the reasons why and the social implications thereof must be discussed.

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and Founder of AfroerotiK

Monday, March 20, 2006

The Love I Share

The love I share is with a Black man. A strong, beautiful, talented, intelligent, wonderful, Black man. Not just as in the color of his skin, but Black in his heart: proud, confident, and secure. A man that knows that keeping it real does not mean getting blunted or that he is a nigga. He strives for excellence and looks to lift up and enlighten others along the way. The Black man I love is my friend, my lover, my partner, my advocate and the father of my Black children.

I believe in him and he believes in me. I never have to ask, “Do you love me?” because the evidence is there is word and in deed. Every morning we get up and share time with one another. Sometimes we shower together, bathing in the closeness and love that we share. Other times we make love until we are both late for work. It’s passionate and fulfilling, not borne of a morning hard on, but of genuine passion and respect. The time we spend together in the morning makes it easier to face the petty annoyances of the day. I can reflect on his love and nothing seems to bother me. I can face every challenge assured. Assured that he will never call me a bitch or raise his hand to me. Assured that the first woman with a big butt and no panties won’t lure him away. Assured that our fights will not be with each other, but against racial and societal ills. I’m assured that we are fighting for a future together.

Do I love my Black man? More than words can say. When I speak of him, my eyes light up and I tell everybody about his talents, abilities and accomplishments. (He gets so embarrassed sometimes.) And I show him I love him every chance I get. My love is there for the long haul, I’m down for whatever. I’ll stand beside my man ready to face any challenge given to us.

Why do I love my Black man? When I’m afraid, he doesn’t make me feel inferior, he allows me to cry. When I succeed, he doesn’t feel threatened, he rejoices in my accomplishments. He deals with my faults and shortcomings. I’m not perfect but he thinks I am perfect for him. He helps me to be a better person. He doesn’t put undue pressure on me to be Superwoman: holding down a job, fixing dinner in high heels and a tight dress, ready to suck his dick and spread my legs, right after I do the laundry and put the kids to bed. When I feel down, who do you think is my biggest cheerleader? He stays awake through the entire ballet, and he only complains a little. That’s OK, I make sandwiches and snacks for him during the game, cause that’s what makes him happy.

Our time alone together is just that, alone. Away from the pressures of a day to day existence. Words are not necessary. Our deepest communication is nonverbal. Our dreams are the same, our hearts beat in the same rhythm. It’s a good thing we get to spend time apart occasionally. When I’m away on business or he’s having a boy’s weekend, we get a chance to reflect on how much we mean to one another. There is never any insecurity or jealousy between us. I smile when I see his head turn at the sight of a beautiful Black woman. He jumps to the defense of sisters when they are being dissed by less enlightened men. He takes the time to spend with young brothers, providing a positive role model for them to aspire to. How could I not love this man?

And just when you think things can’t get any better. He gives me that long, hard, hot, wet, sticky, Black love. He eats my pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I’m babbling incoherently. We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of “love.” I can share any erotic fantasy with him and know that I’m not going to be ridiculed or shamed. He takes the time to make every time special: music, candlelight, poetry (his own). I get wet just thinking about him.

Sometimes problems do arise. We face them as a challenge to greater heights of understanding. We hardly fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty socks……Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love him, nor that he loves me. His family is mine, mine has become his. Our children, planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love. My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath. Our sons, respecters of Black women, are political, street smart and fine. Our daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as intellect and ambition.

Most importantly, I share my love of God with my Black man. Every morning, every night, we thank God for the blessings we have received. We worship, meditate and pray together. Our relationship to God defies traditional definition. We make God first in our lives. We face the world knowing that our love is a Divine gift from God.

My Invitation

I invite into my life the opportunity to wear my man's t-shirt on a Sunday morning to fix him breakfast. That means he will have spent the night in my bed on Saturday night. I desire the constant presence of my divine right partner in my life.

I invite the opportunity to worship and commune in spirit with my man, to raise our vibration collectively as a manifestation of the one most high. I desire a man that shares my spiritual vision and wants to grow with me.

I invite the opportunity to nurture and pamper my man, to spoil him to let him know that my first thought is showing him love any chance I get. I desire the constant presence of him in my life whereby it becomes second nature to buy his favorite food, or to buy extralaundry detergent to wash his clothes.

I invite the opportunity to fit my man into my list of things to do. I desire the opportunity to make planning for him a place in my life.

I invite feeling his tender caresses. I desire being kissed by him because he cares for me, not because he's trying to fuck me.

I invite the opportunity to feel so comfortable with my man that can fall asleep in his lap. I desire the level of intimacy where I can feel safe enough with him that I can relax, let down my guard and slumber like a baby, to feel his hand rubbing my head, giving mecomfort.

I invite the level of intimacy where I can ask to take a shower at his place and know that I will not be molested or leered at if I close the door. I desire the comfort and intimacy to invite him to share in my bathing ritual with me because he wants to hear me ramble on about my vision and dreams.

I invite the sensation of being pampered by my man. I desire someone that takes pleasure in making me sigh and feel cared for.

I invite the sensation of being touched caressed and pleasured, not groped and molested. I desire the sensation of closing my eyes and drifting off to a place of peace while I feel his masculine hands all over my body and I can enjoy every second of his touch without fearing that I'm going to be perceived as a ho, used, manipulated or a notch on someone's belt.

I invite the opportunity to receive pleasure. I desire to be so comfortable with him that I don't have to worry about asking him to stop because things are going to far.

I invite the sensation of opening my legs for him, inviting him into my sacred space, feeling his desire for me, of knowing I can cum and not be afraid that he's going to walk out and I'll never see him again. I crave the sensation of having him cum inside me. I desire hearing him say that being inside me completes him and that he wants our baby to grow in my womb. I want to fall asleep with him inside me. I want to have a regular partner that loves me, for me, and only me.

Copyright 2004

I've Got a Secret

I’m going to let y’all in on a little secret. I’ve been keeping it for a long time. Now, when y’all hear my secret, the sistas will hiss and boo and think of me as a weak traitor, The brothas will say, “I told you so, I knew it all along.” I’ve wrestled with this secret for a long time, feeling guilt and shame for harboring these thoughts. Living my life in the closet, afraid to express myself, living a lie. In public, I deny my true feelings, crossing the line, extolling the sentiments exactly the opposite of how I feel. What is my secret? My badge of shame. Come close. Don’t tell a soul. I need a man. There I said it. It’s out in the open. I need a man.

I grew up being told that a woman needed a man for survival, to be the provider and protector. The man was the breadwinner and the woman stood behind him. I was told that men could lie and cheat and treat you like sh!t and as long as they paid the bills and eventually came home, that’s all you could expect. Women were never supposed to argue or disagree with a man. “Oh, you are so funny.” “Stop, don’t say that.” You had to have a man in your life. Even if that man was somebody else’s. A borrowed man was better than no man at all. I was raised to believe that all a woman could hope for was to play stupid, never have an opinion and to do whatever it takes to make a man happy. Which included spreading your legs, cooking, cleaning and being passive. My momma never said outright, ”you have to have a man to make you complete,” but actions speak louder than words. There was never a day when she didn’t have someone’s husband calling her. She would fix them gourmet meals and offer them her dysfunctional mind and sexual body. And of course they took it and went home to their wives, bellies full and balls empty, ego’s enormous.

I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way. I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own. But then I got strong.

I’ve been by myself for almost 4 years now. I wish I could say 4 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last few years. I’ve decided I don’t want no lying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex a dozen times or so, maintenance dates. But I’ve not had a man in my life. And damn it, I need a man.

I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self. What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from lying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings.

Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact. I hear sistas saying that they don’t need a man but I sure as hell do.

And tell me this, if men were so damned unnecessary, why is it that successful sistas who have got a man are not trying to give them away. All these women out here talking about I don’t need a man. I tell you what I don’t need. I don’t need panty liners with wings. I don’t need low fat chocolate ice cream. I don’t need 36 pairs of shoes. Seems like to me, if men were so damned unnecessary, there would be a lot more hairy-legged lesbians around.

I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a Strong Black man.

Whew, My secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!

Copyright 1997 Scottie Lowe

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Black on Blonde Whore

AfroerotiK creates personalized and customized erotic stories, for and about people of color, specifically to provide an alternative to the stereotypical and negative depictions of Black sexuality. As an author of personalized and customized erotica, I’m requested by many white men to create stories that fulfill their fantasies of seeing their wives and girlfriends degraded and savagely fucked by black men. It’s a very slippery slope to tread on when writing that sort of erotica. First and foremost, it objectifies Black men to nothing more than their genitals. Anyone whose ever heard me debate the issues of interracial sexuality has heard my lamentations on how black men are portrayed as barely literate thugs standing on the basketball court waiting to fuck the hot slut wife. A fact that no one is willing to discuss is that white men are extremely aroused by the idea of a black men sexually degrading white women, the more base and raunchy, the better. Here is my descent into the cesspool of interracial sexuality that objectifies Black men for the sole purpose of satisfying white men’s most perverse desires. I do so with the caveat that I’m hoping to stimulate conversation and dialogue that shed light on topics that are rarely discussed. Is it hypocritical of me to degrade white women when I work diligently to show black people in a positive light? Yes. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. With that, I invite everyone to listen to this excerpt of interracial erotica and share your feedback and opinion. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s graphic and it’s dirty and it pulls no punches about using white women as filthy fuck sluts.

I welcome comments and dialogue.

White sissy fuck toy

Be forewarned, this is only for submissive sissy white boys.

Light skin and good hair

I love spending time with my older relatives. They have such rich stories to tell, they share so much history and give me perspective. I’m always amazed at what they had to endure and how closely their stories resemble tales of slavery. They are stories white people don’t hear, so it becomes easy for them to think that slavery was over and it has no effect on today. They are stories that the youth of today don’t want to hear so they live in oblivion about where we come from and just how bad things were for us not so long ago. It’s an ignorance that leads people to believe that we are totally emancipated from dysfunction when the truth is, we are passing on detrimental beliefs directly from slavery and thinking it’s normal.

I had the opportunity to spend time with a relative the other night. She’s 68 years old and she brought pictures to show me. It’s a conversation I don’t think I’ll forget for a very long time. She told tales of being degraded by white people that had my skin crawling. What was everyday life for her was like something I’ve never seen in any movie. She’s an exceptionally light skinned woman, wearing her cotton jogging suit and wig, like millions of other black women her age. She related tales of a cheating husband and how she had to cope with that in order to keep a roof over her head for her children. I looked at old black and white pictures from the forties and fifties of dark skinned men with light skinned black women.

I have a huge family. Any family reunion you go to, you’ll see that the majority of the male relatives under the age of 55 are married to or have baby mommas that are white women. I sat the other night, looking at picture upon picture of cousins with white women and my older relative justifying it by saying how good their children’s hair was.

I saw a baby picture of a child who had the thickest hair I’ve ever seen on a newborn child in my life. While I was in awe of this beautiful baby, my older cousin started lamenting over how bad and nappy the hair of this child was and how her mother couldn’t wait to perm their hair now that she was older. My uncle, who only dates black women who are light, bright, and damn near white with long flowing hair, defended this family elder’s assertions by reinforcing that if the girl child did in fact have a “bad grade” of unmanageable hair, that they should look to getting it permed and braided as soon as possible. They laughed and talked about nappy hair while I sat in silence, thinking about the self esteem of that poor girl child, having to hear scores of female relatives and beauticians tell her that her natural hair, the hair god intended her to have, her beautiful African hair was bad, wrong, and ugly.

My heart ached for that girl child’s self-esteem. How can she ever feel inherently beautiful if she feels that her natural hair is a mistake? I sat there all night and I could say nothing. I understood that this family elder had no idea that her beliefs were formed from the idea that black people were inferior. The need for black men 50 years ago to have light skinned women was because they believed black was ugly. Generations of black women were told that our hair was ugly and it had to be controlled and changed to look like white women’s in order to be beautiful.

My uncle claims that the fact that he’s only attracted to black women that can pass for white has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that that’s his personal preference. It’s his personal preference and the preference of a generation of black men who can’t understand that hearing tales of unmanageable black hair and ugly dark skin forms your preferences. I have cousins who have never dated a black woman in their lives. Their mother’s complain to the black women in the family but praise their son’s choices and compliment them for having children with “good hair.”

I know this trend isn’t exclusive to my family. I’ve seen family gathering photos of other people’s families and they justify the fact that not ONE, not one single black man married a black woman as merely coincidence. We aren’t evolving; we are staying stagnant and justifying it. We are still thinking that our natural hair is bad and wrong; we are still perpetuating the belief that light is right. We will perish as a race holding onto these diseased beliefs and hating what makes us black and beautiful.

Our dark skin isn’t ugly, it’s gorgeous. Our nappy hair isn’t bad, it’s exactly the way the Creator wanted it to be. Our thick lips and noses aren’t unattractive except if you believe that white people are better. I’m weary from seeing how disabled we are as a people and how intent we are to pass on that self-hatred to our children and exalt that dysfunction as normal.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Starting Over and Healing a Broken Past

One of my favorite shows on Television is Starting Over. For the employed and for most men, you have no idea what I’m talking about because it comes on during the day. It’s a reality show where women from different walks of life come together to deal with their issues, heal broken pasts, face demons, and grow as individuals. I watch the show with great interest because I’m in love with the concept of people going through the steps to become better individuals from the inside out. I strongly believe that everyone needs to go through a similar process and incorporate rituals and exercises that transform lives.

I learn something from each woman on the show; I see my own pains and hurts in each of them. A lot of the issues that they are dealing with, I’ve worked on, a lot of the things that have held me back. I can feel compassion and empathy for the grown women who have never met their fathers before. I didn’t meet mine until I was 16. I can only imagine how disconnected and unwanted I would feel as a woman if I hadn’t met him. The relationship that he and I have is far from perfect but I know who I am and where I came form and I don’t have the feeling of being unworthy anymore. It’s not the perfect relationship but I’ve made peace with his denial and dysfunction in order to be able to unpack that piece of baggage and put it neatly away.

I’ve done a lot of work on myself in terms of forming relationships. I haven’t really been able to form a healthy relationship yet but I think I have the tools to do it once I meet a man who has done a comparable amount of work on himself. I practice being in the relationship of my dreams with every man I meet. I do my best to be honest the way I want to be honest with “him,” I listen without judgment, I communicate my feelings without placing blame, I say I’m sorry when I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t yet found a relationship so maybe I’m doing everything wrong but at least I know that I’d like to be in a relationship with a person with the skills I possess. I’m not perfect by any means but I have a lot to offer in a relationship.

The one area of my life that I can’t heal, the one area that haunts me and keeps me from moving forward is my relationship with my mother. My mother is so dysfunctional, I can’t even describe it. I’m too emotionally invested in the dynamic to be able to walk away. I’ve done a lot of the work to heal from the pain and abuse I’ve suffered but I am still not free. I was watching Starting Over this morning and a woman was confronting her mother about her past. I’ve done that. I’ve done it several times. The thing that is different is that on the show, the mother was making an attempt to accept responsibility for her fuck ups. My mother swears she’s perfect. I have such unresolved anger and resentment towards my mother that I can’t get past because she REFUSES to acknowledge, no matter how many times I go to her. She maintains that she was a perfect mother, she made no mistakes, and that she has no idea why we don’t have a good relationship.

My mother was abusive. She hated me because my father abandoned her. She beat me daily because I inconvenienced her life. She’s a control freak, destroying every relationship she has with people if they don’t put her on a pedestal. She is the masterful manipulator. She never lets go of resentments and twists her reality to make sure that she is seen as perfect. God forbid someone challenges her angelic self perception, she will move heaven and earth to destroy that person’s life, from making them lose their job, undermining their relationships, breaking up families. She’s lived a foul life, sleeping with every married man she could find. Now, she’s a mother of the church who claims angelic status. She spends her life gossiping and staying busy. It’s like she can’t be idle for one second or she’ll have to look at how fucked up she is as a person. She has to micromanage everything in her life and if people don’t fall in line with her, she sit up at night trying to turn people against whomever doesn’t agree with her.

She has never liked me. She wants me to be a miniature version of her and because I’m not, she has discarded me. She “adopts” lots of other daughters, daughters who are all addicts, abused, or some other glaring flaw so she can shape and mold them into the perfect daughter and everyone can tell her how wonderful she is.

I’ve never had a mother’s love. I’ve suffered for it because I never feel like I’m good enough, I’ve always wanted her approval and her love. I’m damaged because of the abuse I suffered at her hands. I feel like I can’t heal because she isn’t coming to the table willing to admit what she did, what she continues to do. I procrastinate because I feel like I need someone to push me, to support me like she’s never done. I am paralyzed by a fear that I’m never good enough because that’s what she beat into me daily. I obsess over details that are insignificant because my mother does the same thing. She’s never believed in herself and she wants to keep me mediocre and average so she can feel superior. The fucked up thing is that I seem to be stuck playing her game rather than living my life.

I’m at a crossroads. I am about to take off and I’m still feeling insecure and afraid. Part of me wants to confront my mother again, make her deal with the lies, the abuse, the emotional torture that I’ve endured all my life. I know she’s not going to admit her faults, I know she’s not wiling to look at her issues so why bother? She’s not going to say that she’s proud of me, she’s going to say how disappointed she is in me, what an embarrassment I am to her.

What ritual can I do to heal? How can I get over this feeling of never been good enough because my mother doesn’t approve of me? I just want to feel whole and complete. It’s amazing how the lack of a mother’s love can damage a person. I’m not even sure I can ever heal. Maybe I’m always going to be fucked up because the essential things a human being needs to develop, I never got. Maybe I’m an irresponsible dreamer that will never be able to fulfill my dreams because I’m really incapable of being a fully functioning, healthy adult. Perhaps I’ll be trapped forever as a child that has to watch her ever step in order not to incite rage and fury from my mother. I don’t know how to Start Over. I don’t know how to take the steps I need to heal.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe. All rights reserved.

Tired of seeing black women being portrayed as ghetto bitches, freaks and whores, and black men as barely literate thugs, bulls, and pimps, Scottie Lowe decided it was time to show black people in a positive sexual light. Ms. Lowe is the sole owner and founder of, a company dedicated to eradicating the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality and providing customized, personalized erotic stories for and about people of color. Her innovative approach to writing Black and interracial erotica is shattering misperceptions and opening the doors to dialogue about subjects long considered taboo.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

AfroerotiK Meditation

Close your eyes and slip into a deep meditative state. Allow yourself to enjoy true relaxation and peace as you are guided into a deep, restful state where you can explore sensual freedom.
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Saturday, March 04, 2006

The Naughty Phone Call

Today my love will overpower any
hurt and abandonment in my life.
I will be gentle with myself.
I will respond victoriously to my fears.
I will embrace my love freely
The days of empowered women are long gone. There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn’t a dirty word and meant more than “angry lesbian.” Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There’s been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.

Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren’t good enough in bed, you aren’t beautiful enough, you don’t live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard.

For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It’s easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it’s all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don’t fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn’t flow in the wind, for women that don’t look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It’s a burden Black women don’t talk about because it’s shameful to admit that you don’t compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that’s beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you’ll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it’s an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.

For years, Wanda harbored feelings of dejection and low self-esteem. She didn’t know where the feelings came from; she couldn’t identify the source of her own pain. All she knew was she was suffering from having her ex husband leave her for a white woman, a wound that she would never let heal because it served to remind her that she wasn’t woman enough. She concentrated on her career; she raised her children alone, wearing the badge of strong black woman proudly and moving through life in silence, never giving voice to her pain.

One day, things changed. Wanda picked up the book, The Real Lives of Strong Black Women by Toby Thompkins, and it transformed her life. She’d seen it in Essence magazine and she thought it was going to be a book to validate her belief in her role as a strong, Black woman. Little did she know that it would be the turning point she needed to grow. The book was the source of healing for a tremendous amount of her pain and allowed her to begin moving past her hurts and disappointments and toward to a life of empowerment and redefining herself. She started looking in the mirror and seeing true beauty. She started getting up in the morning with a renewed vigor, seeing colors more vividly, able to let go of past hurts and see herself in an entirely different light. She began defining herself and her life from the inside out and letting go of the beliefs that kept her feeling like she was never good enough. Within the pages of the book, she found freedom, strength, and a deep and abiding love for herself.

The benefits of Wanda’s emotional rebirth spilled over into every area of her life. Freeing herself from mental chains from her childhood, from past lovers that had hurt her, from the demons in her head, allowed her to truly take charge of her life. It was her sex life that reaped the greatest rewards. No longer inhibited, no longer afraid to ask for what she wanted, Wanda became liberated sexually. Rather than feeling like she needed men to validate her, she was inspired to explore her sensual side with men that honored her new vision for herself.

George had been a supporter and lover of her even before her transformation. He’s always been there, in the background, quietly prodding and pushing her to see herself the way he saw her, as nothing less than a beautiful Nubian queen. He reaped the rewards of Wanda’s sexual awakening and loved every second of it. The woman who had been hesitant to ask for what she wanted was now confident to demand pleasure and feel no regrets. She hadn’t become a dominating bitch, she was a self-assured woman who owned her sensual feelings and had no problems expressing her desires. Wanda called George on Friday night and asked him if he was interested in getting together. Anxious to see her, he asked her to dinner and suggested that he would get a nice hotel room for them for the evening if she wanted.

“The kids are going to be spending the night at friend’s houses and I’m in no mood to come home to an empty house.” Wanda was sounding particularly seductive and George was more than turned on. “I’ve got a little something special for you that I think you’ll like too,” she said, creating an air of mystery and leaving George throbbing, wondering what was in store. Having experienced Wanda’s erotic liberation, he knew that whatever was going to happen, it was going to be smoking hot.

Wanda had arranged to meet him at Houston’s for a bite to eat before they headed off to the Park Plaza Hotel for the evening. George got there early and put their names on the list. Wanda arrived a few minutes late but it was well worth the wait. She was radiant as she walked in and she oozed sexuality from every pore in her body. Her red dress fit every curve and she was swaying her hips with confidence. George stuck his chest out a little bit more, proud that he was the object of envy for all the guys that were lingering on from the after-work happy hour, scoping out all the single ladies who walked in.

Wanda greeted him with a gleam in her eye and a seductive smile on her lips. They were seated almost immediately and placed their order. George was trying not to be too forward but he was curious to know what the surprise was going to be. His nervousness as well as his anxiousness to experience the intense sexing he knew he was gong to get showed on his face. Wanda was in her element. She was casually flirtatious and playing him like a violin. Her hands roamed freely under the table, caressing his thighs and she snuggled close up close and whispered polite dinner conversation in his ear. He could feel her warm breath on his neck and her breasts pressed against his arm. Wanda did everything but take his dick out and stroke him underneath the table.

Ready to leave and get things underway, George was rushing through the meal, trying to get as quickly as possible to his hot chocolate dessert. If only he was in control, if only he had any say in the events of the evening. Wanda was clearly steering the erotic ship and George was second in command. She handed him an envelope, slid back in her seat, and licked her lips sensually.

“What’s this?” George was as puzzled as he was intrigued.

“Just open it,” Wanda was smiling like a Cheshire cat. She slid off her shoe and ran her foot up and down his leg as George ripped open the seal to read the contents of the envelope.

“This coupon is good for one Naughty Phone Call? Gee . . . that’s nice, thanks.” Disappointment showed all over his face. It was an AfroerotiK Intimacy Coupon and needless to say George was hoping for something more, well, something a little more dangerous.

Wanda slid out from her seat, whispered in his ear that he should get the check and announced that she was going to go to the ladies room and would be right back. George’ disappointment was short lived; he began looking forward to an evening of sensual exploration with his lovely dinner companion. The waitress was waiting patiently for him to sign his credit card receipt when George’ cell phone rang. He looked quizzically at the caller ID; it was Wanda calling.

“Hey, what’s going . . . ,” he was interrupted before he could finish his words.

“Hey sweetie, mmmmm, I’m so looking forward to feeling your tongue in my pussy tonight. You know, it’s so wet right now. I bet it will feel so good when you are sucking my clit. Mmmmm, my juices taste so sweet,” she said, licking her fingers. “Are you going to lick my pussy till I cum in your mouth?” She was purring sensually and George was looking around like he was on a hidden camera television show. He swallowed hard and subconsciously grabbed his rapidly swelling dick. The waitress cleared her throat and quickly brought him back to reality. He signed the bill and gave her a huge tip while Wanda whispered naughty things in his ear and he fidgeted in his seat.

“Are you going to fuck me good tonight, George? I’m really looking forward to feeling your stiff dick inside me, thrusting deep inside me. You want that don’t you? You want to feel my tight, wet walls gripping you, squeezing you. I know you do. I know you want me to ride you, work that hard dick, up and down, using you to get me off. You want to suck my hard nipples while I’m fucking you? Oh yeah, grip my hips while I work my hot pussy on you and get myself off”

George was aroused beyond his imagination. He did his best to reason with her like a man negotiating the deal of a lifetime without letting the people at the next table know what he was talking about. “Listen, let’s get out of here and we can see about taking care of your needs. I’ll be more than happy to lend my services to you, hopefully to your satisfaction.”

Wanda toyed with him. “I’m going to suck your dick so good you’re going to be screaming like a little bitch. I’m going to lick that head, I'm going to swallow it and use my lips to drive you crazy. I’m going to give you the hottest, wettest, sloppiest blowjob you’ve ever had. How’s that sound?”
George swallowed hard and could barely catch his breath. The woman of his dreams, a sexy, self-assured, black woman was seducing him with confidence and skill. She knew exactly how to demand what she wanted and that turned him on more than he had ever experienced before. He was in a daze, listening to her soft whispers and naughty promises when she casually strolled up to the table, still on the phone, still taunting him with erotic images that had his blood boiling. “Can you hear me now,” she teased.

He hung up and made no effort to hide his desire to leave. He was going to take her up on every one of her offers and then some. He put his hand on the small of her back and escorted her to the door. Outside, in the cool night air, Wanda stopped George and planted a sexy kiss on him. She pressed her body to his and put her tongue seductively in his mouth. He feasted on her soft, full lips and ran his hands up and down her back.
He opened the door to his car and watched her slide in. By the time he made it around to the driver’s side, Wanda had her dress up and was fingering her pussy, shoving her fingers inside, fucking herself with abandon. Where her panties were was anybody’s guess. George was frozen. All he could do was stare. He glanced around nervously in the parking lot to see if anyone could see his lovely date about to have an orgasm.

Wanda played him well, teasing him all the way to the hotel. By the time they made it to the room, George felt like he was going to explode. They were rippeing their clothes off like horny teenagers. Wanda pushed him back on the bed and mounted his face. She worked her pussy over his mouth, feeling his tongue probe deep inside her hole. He grabbed her thighs held on tight as she came in his mouth.

She wasn’t finished with one orgasm. Steadying herself, she stood up and walked over to the dresser, bent over and looked back through lust-filled eyes and said, “George, fuck me!”

George stood behind her and took aim. His dick was rock hard and he rubbed the head along her wet slit. Shutting his eyes, he grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her. He was releasing his sexual frustration; he was trying to make her scream. He was intent on ramming every inch of his hard dick inside her. Wanda was fucking him back, rubbing her clit, moaning so loud that the people in the next room could hear. They were like sweaty, hot animals in the throws of primal passion. Wanda’s legs started shaking and she was going to cum. “Fuck me harder, fuck me deeper, fuck me. That feels so good. Oh shit, I’m going to cum.” George wasn’t far behind her. He pulled out and stroked his dick, shooting hot, white cum all over her smooth, brown ass.

Exhausted, they fell on the bed in a tangle of quivering flesh and limbs. Wanda had a look of profound satisfaction on her face. Empowered and satisfied, she was a woman of true strength and beauty and all the tools to define herself, the real definition of a strong, black woman and George was the lucky beneficiary of her newfound esteem.