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, April 29, 2006

AfroerotiK is . . . Intense Heat

When ladies make love, they create intense heat. The pleasures that only another woman can give are the secret fantasies and the unspoken dreams of many. But what happens when you give into that lust, that burning desire to drink from the source of all life? What happens when you cross racial boundaries and that lady love is a different background, from a different race? Can lust between ladies both black and white exist without all the stereotypes and influences of a racist society? Take a listen to the latest AfroerotiK Podcast to hear an erotic story that explores interracial lesbian passion.

Clicke HERE to listen or

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Healing Piss

I had a white gentleman tell me a story once that I found fascinating. He told me, admittedly, that he used to be racist but had a transformative experience. He went on to say that he had procured the services of a professional dominatrix. She blindfolded him and went about her business of degrading him, humiliating him, whathaveyou. Unbeknownst to this man, the pro domme had in fact switched with a Black domme who was responsible for giving him what he felt was the most intense experience of his life. This black domme apparently had urinated on him. Well, once the blindfold was removed, voila', his racism was gone. Healed by the magical piss of the Black woman. I suggested to him that racism isn't just washed away with a little Shug Avery pee (he didn't get it) and that in order for him to truly rid himself of racist behaviors that he wouldreally need to challenge his beliefs. At that point, he called me a racist.
Time and time again, I have white men tell me that they aren't racist because they are attracted to black women. But, in the same breath, they are afraid to meet me in public in a place where people that know them might see them. Or they tell me that black women are superior because they are so naturally dominant, never giving credence to the totality of us as women. Uhmm, isn't that racist?

I've had white men tell me that they want to be with a black woman to see if our pussies taste different. Number one, I'm not a scratch and sniff experiment; I'm a human being. There is absolutely nothing different about my physical make up other than the presence of melanin. My blood is the same, my tears are the same, my piss is the same, and my pussy is the same. If there’s a difference in my taste it’s because I’m an individual and EVERYONE is going to have a different taste. If a person thinks a Black woman's pussy tastes different just because of the color of their skin, uhmm, isn't that racist? .

I had a white man tell me the other day that his wife had a black lover and he would be forced to pay the black man to service him orally and how he felt that was the ultimate humiliation. He professed that he wasn't racist and how he thought that Blacks were superior. When asked how he thought Blacks were superior, he listed physical characteristics. Check it, if he thought blacks were truly superior, he would not feel it was humiliating to give a Black man money. I asked him some of the Black people that he thought were intellectually superior and he said Condoleezza Rice and me. First and foremost, there should NEVER be an occasion where Condi Rice and I are compared on the same scale. She is the anti-Christ and I denounce her as a black woman. Second, it's obvious he had no clue about my intellect; he was enamored with my physicality.

I can't tell you how many times I've had white men tell me, "Oh, I wish I was a black man." When asked why, the number one reason, "They have such big cocks." Okay dumbass, you think being a black man is all about fucking white women with your 11-inch dick? You don't see the correlation between black men and the prison population, Driving While Black, the inordinately high Black on Black crime. No, you don't want to be a Black man; you want to have white privilege, a big dick and have white women throwing themselves at you. White men that say that stupid shit inevitable say, "I don't have a racist bone in my body anymore. Not since I started watching interracial porn (or fill in the blank with a similar sexual experience, as if sex orgasm while looking at a black person have sex cures diseased perceptions)." What the fuck? Say it with me . . . Uhmm, isn't that racist?

My favorite? White man approaches me and tells me how submissive he is to black women. I tell him I’m not interested in a submissive at this time, white, black, or other. They tell me that they can (fill in the blank with a degrading and humiliating act, usually eating my shit and drinking my piss) and refuses to accept that I’m not interested in him. Next thing out of his mouth . . . N&*%$ BITCH.

Let's make a list, shall we?

Saying they aren't racist and then saying that white women should be "bred black" because black men are not good fathers.

Saying they aren't racist, then saying that Jews overcame the Holocaust, as if Jews are inherently superior, and Blacks choose to be lazy.

Saying they aren't racist and then saying how much they respect Oprah, Colin Powell and Michael Jordan and when I ask them what's the last black book they've read they look at me like I'm crazy for suggesting that they would ever read a black book.

Saying they aren't racist and then denigrating Spike Lee, Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton in the next breath and having the unmitigated nerve to say that there are no Black leaders. I guess white leadership is so stellar that they have room to critique.

Saying that they aren't racist and then in the next breath calling me a racist because I suggest that there are abundant examples of racism that they don't see because they won't allow themselves to go outside their comfort zone and imagine a life different than their's.

Since when did racists get to identify when they aren't racist anymore? Who is defining racism? Is racism just an overt hatred of black people and wearing a white sheet or is it white men looking at me in amazement when I tell them I'm pursuing my PhD and them telling me that I'm a credit to my race? Like for my next trick, I'm going to pull a rabbit out of my hat. Where is the white sub that has read one book about slavery, Black history, Black culture, or one that tried to delve into the reasons for oppression and bigotry? No, he was in a heightened state of arousal and figured out that Black women could be as sexually arousing as white women. Big shit! That doesn't mean he's going to fight for Black children to get a fair education, that he's going to battle discrimination in housing and employment whenever he sees it. He's not even going to tell his buddies at the office that he's attracted to Black women. That's racist.

It’s more than obvious that Black people aren’t capable of determining what’s racist or not because we are the ones that think the N word is a term of affection, that think it’s cute to refer to ourselves as bitches, freaks, thugs, and pimps. Those who don’t use that terminology turn a blind eye and a deaf ear when it’s used. There are far too many black men that think it’s a compliment to be called a bull and to try to impregnate white women for fun. That's sick. FAR, FAR, FAR too many black women think that our beauty is in our behinds, fingernails, or length or our hair and give no credence to developing what’s inside us.

"Whiteness" is a disease of privilege that has been created by a society founded in racism. I didn't say white people are inherently racist because of genetics. I said that because white people have seen black people and people of color as inferior for so many centuries, because it has been so conditioned in their minds, because it has gone unquestioned in their psyches that they are superior, that SOME white people (I would dare to say the vast and overwhelming majority) perpetuate a lack of compassion for anyone's else's experience other than their own, they diminish the complaints of people of color because it doesn't match their experience

There are white people who assert that it is hard to define whites and blacks in this society, I'm going to ask what society they live? In case you hadn't noticed, Blacks are the people are the most disproportionately incarcerated. If, there is no such thing as an inherent Black criminal gene then there has to be a reason for that beyond skin color. Blacks are the people that are the most unemployed. Again, if there is no inherent Black lazy gene, how do you reconcile that with your experience? And just a little reminder, Black people are the one that do the poorest on standardized tests in school. Again, there is no such thing as a Black stupidity gene so there has to be some reason for it. What do you think those reasons could be?

I’ve officially lost hope. Fucked up beliefs are being accepted as normal and even being touted as great accomplishments in race relations. Where’s Armageddon when you need it?

Sunday, April 16, 2006

The Pain we Hold Inside

It pains me desperately to see the pain Black women suffer because we fail to see our own dysfunction. We are so steeped in the very human disease of seeing ourselves as flawless, of validating everything that we experience as healthy, that we are killing ourselves, literally and figuratively, in an effort to hold on for dear life to the very belief systems that are destroying us. I see it around me daily. Women that are suffering from clinical depression, that are being eaten up with unhappiness, perpetuating destructive patterns and being unable to see how to get out of them and never questioning the core issues that keep us unhappy. I’m ever amazed at the numbers of black women that complain that their life isn’t what they want it to be, that they can’t seem to move forward or find a place of peace in their life and continue to repeat the behaviors that made us feel devalued with our children.

There are a lot of things in life I don’t get. I’ve never understood the process involved in breaking the patterns of one’s life other than to know that there are functions of the mind that exist beyond my comprehension. Some people are able to move past their negative patterns in life with relative ease, others become slaves to addictive patterns and never move forward. What do I get? I get that people can’t grasp their own dysfunction. I understand fully that whatever circumstances one is surrounded by as a child; one accepts as normalcy in their life as an adult and sees everything else as wrong. Everyone believes in their heart that they way they see the world is right and that every one else is wrong if their experience contradicts with what we know. Every single person is guilty of that. That’s why it’s virtually impossible to have a conversation with a black woman involving the relaxed vs. natural hair debate because Black women really and truly believe, deep in the very fiber of their being, that their natural hair will make them unattractive. 
It’s so deep in their subconscious mind, so ingrained in their belief system; they can’t conceive of or comprehend that their natural hair will make them more beautiful; they refuse to even acknowledge that altering their natural hair is a sign of low self-esteem and dysfunction. I got that. I got that Black women think that they don’t need a man to raise their children because that’s just the way it’s been for so long, that it’s been accepted as the standard for so many generations, that questioning it seems ridiculous. Hell, if we admit that raising a child in a single parent household is dysfunctional then at least 80% of us have to admit that we are flawed. And that ain’t gonna happen. (I’m not suggesting that the other 20% of us that were raised in two-parent household are healthy by any stretch of the imagination.)

It makes me sick that the things that hurt us as children are the things that we are repeating with our own children. We are a race of women suffering from depression and we make excuses for it by calling it being moody. Our daughters suffer because we yell at them, shame them, and try to embarrass them to make them feel bad about themselves because we feel so bad about ourselves. We make them our Barbie dolls, internalizing that their beauty gives us more value. We raise them in the exact same way our mother’s raised us, justifying it by saying, “Hey, I turned out fine.” Did we? We seek validation from men who don’t deserve our time. We erupt in violent bursts of anger when things don’t go our way rather than setting healthy boundaries and communicating our needs in a rational manner. We validate our pain by saying we are strong black women and making that the cure-all excuse for all our pains rather than truly loving ourselves and admitting that we are aching. We spend our lives trying to be attractive on the outside and we neglect our own emotional needs.

My mother used to beat the hell out of me because she was so angry at the world. She would take out her frustrations with being a mistress, being unhappy with her job, her frustrations with the world. She would beat me until she was exhausted and physically drained. What she was doing was releasing the pain she felt on the inside. There are women reading this now, they know they do the same things to their children; they know they use beating their children to make up for the emptiness they feel inside. Black women will justify beating our children out of rage rather than loving and nurturing them and then be quick fast to boldly say, “I’m not going to raise my child like white people do, letting them say or do whatever they want.” There’s a difference between buying your child a gun, letting them do drugs, ignoring the swastika on their bedroom wall, then wondering why they shoot up a school and talking to your child rather than yelling at him or her for every single little thing under the sun. We use yelling and hitting as a way to control a child. I can say as an introspective adult, the most painful memories of my life were my mother trying to degrade me for natural expressions of childhood. What would it possibly hurt to let our children make decisions for themselves, to let them voice their opinions, to hug and kiss them more than we hit and yell at them?

When are we as black women going to say to ourselves, “I want love and nurturing and I’m hurting inside, I want encouragement and support”? When are we going to take off this façade of perfection and strength and admit that we feel insecure and inadequate? Black women can’t see the correlation between what happened to them as children, to the pain that we suffer as adults. How many times have I felt ineffectual, afraid, or insecure and KNOWN that it had to do with messages my mother told me as a child that I carry deep within me? I can look at all of the pain in my life and recognize how some fucked up pattern of dysfunction that happened as a child has created it.

Black men don’t suffer with depression in the same ways as Black women. Men are obviously affected in different ways because they seem to internalize and rationalize in different ways. It’s more than apparent that black men don’t have the same ability or potential to be as introspective as women do so they appear to live rather contently with their refusal to look at their own lives. They’ve mastered the art of displacing any sense of personal responsibility onto the backs of black women and seem pretty content with rationalizing how faultless they are in the process. Black men are depressed, but they show it by numbing the pain with adrenaline, women, drugs, and denial. Rather than facing responsibility, they run away from it. Women are tied to our depression through our umbilical cords, through our wombs. We can’t hide from the sexual abuse that has scarred us emotionally. We can’t run away from the pain of rape and the abortions and the children that are our daily reminders of the accomplishments we didn’t achieve, our dreams deferred.

Dear God, lift this veil of dysfunction from our eyes. Allow us to see our diseased thinking. Allow us to recognize that our value as women does not lie in the length of our hair nor the roundness of our behinds. Allow us to know deep within our hearts that we don’t have to tolerate cheating and abuse from a man just to give us validation. Dear God, open our eyes so that we may see that we hold no more value in life if we have perfectly pedicured feet or a Coach bag for every day of the week. Creator of all, allow us to recognize that all the things we’ve been taught have been from a distorted and unhealthy place and that we must grow in consciousness where we stop praying to a male God, thinking that we are responsible for every sin in the world and that we must forever be subservient to men. Remove the illusion that we have to live with pain as a daily reality. Dear God, fill us with joy, self-love, peace, and many blessings.

Scottie Lowe

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.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Shit ain't Changed

Black people are hysterical. We really are a comical people. We have internalized racism to the point of insanity and we justify it, throwing logic out the window. Somehow, Black people have been convince that the N word is now a term of affection simply because it can be heard on the radio and TV, we now think that the word has a positive meaning. Some uniformed clown said, "oh, we changed the meaning of the word," and everyone said, "Ohhh, yeah, we changed the meaning." The meaning of the word hasn't changed one bit since we first landed on these shores. We might USE it as a term of affection but that’s a far cry from the meaning the word being changed. If a woman says, "That nigga didn't pay his child support," or, “girl, that nigga don’t have a job,” I'm almost positive that she doesn't mean it as a term of endearment. When Chris Rock does his Black people vs niggers, I can promise you that he doesn't mean wonderful person. Pay attention to how the word is used on a daily basis. It’s not used interchangeably with my dear brother, it is used as a way of saying black man. How has that changed from slavery? The meaning of the word hasn't changed. The only thing that has changed is the FCC ruling that says that it can't be said on TV.

Name one other word, in the English language or any other, that started out with a negative meaning and was changed to mean something positive. Name one. Black people used the word after slavery to refer to each other because that is all they knew to refer to themselves as. At no point in history did the meaning of the word change. The only thing that has changed is that you can now turn on the radio and here the word. White record execs are the masterminds behind the mainstreaming of the word, not some underground movement by Black people to change the connotation of the word. Do not fool yourself into thinking that we as a people made some sort on conscious decision to take the negativity out of the word. The word is now and will always be – NEGATIVE. I missed that meeting when we as a people decided to turn the word into a positive word with lots of love behind it. Who was in attendance at that meeting? Jay-Z, Ludacris , oh no, I guess it was Diddy and Snoop? I guess Dr. King wasn‘t at the meeting. Certainly, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, all the slain civil rights leaders of our history weren‘t there either.

I want to vote again. THE WORD NIGGER IS A VILE AND DISGUSTING WORD. Just because we use it commonly, does not mean that it is now positive. We need not even go back to slavery to find the abhorrent use of the word. My mother was imprisoned for demonstrating in the sixties. She was spit upon until her dress was ripping with spit. Read that again, dripping with spit. She risked her life so that we would not be called NIGGER and now it is on every song on the radio. My grandfather was a civil rights leader, he affected the lives of thousands. I have never heard him, to this very day, use the word when referring to another black person. NEVER! But I guess because Kanye does, than it is a term of affection. Right!

I find it very hard to believe that as creative as we are, that we can't find one other word to use that means brother. We have to defend the word that our ancestors were called when they hung from trees, their flesh ripped from their bodies with the whip.

What more can I do?

It is so true, I do not know, understand, nor can I comprhend what it is to be a Black man. The mysteries of the unobtainable “Y” will forever remain elusive to me. I am a Black woman, in fact I am all Black women.

I struggle to get an education and a job in a society where my melanin rich skin is detested and abhorred. “They” don’t want me to excel, they would just as soon pass me over for that promotion, make me train my supervisors, deny me the sub-standard raise, create a hostile environment, and fire me unjustifiably. In their eyes, I am weak and stupid and criminal, I dare say, not even human. The only reason the police don’t beat me down and kill me in such great numbers, is I do not resist them as much. Trust me, were I to have more testosterone, every time I am pulled over unjustifiably, I would be face down on the side of the road rather than paying the fine for an imagined infraction.

What I do understand is that I’ve got to live up to outrageous and unreasonable demands to be a Black woman. I know what it is to walk down the street and I have to respond to every comment and criticism from Black men, regardless of how rude, degrading, or vile it is, lest I be called out my name. I know that I have to have a big booty and show it off to be considered attractive, ooops, but I can’t show it off too much or I’m a hoochie. I have to put on makeup to not be considered to’ up, but not too much or I’m fake. I have to be a freak in the bedroom to satisfy my man, but if I’m too freaky, I’m not worthy to be his wife. I have to match my perfectly pedicured toes to my fingernails right after I pick up my child from day care and take care of all the household responsibilities. I gotta pay the bills, cook and clean, raise the children, (most times by myself) go to work, try to make a way for myself and be supportive to my man. But what does being supportive mean?

Seems like I will never be able to obtain the standards of a good Black woman. I have to not ask questions about where he goes when he says he was out with the boys? I have to not ask him to contribute to the household financially or I’m a gold digger. I have to look the other way if he cheats because that’s just the nature of men, right? I can’t be too thin, I can’t be too fat. My hair has to be done all the time. I can’t be too outspoken or I’m a bitch.

Then I have to deal with the racist media telling me what I can and can not be. My hair can’t be nappy or I’m radical. My nose can’t be too wide, my skin can’t be too dark, and my lips can’t be too full. I’ve gotta look like a video dancer every time I leave the damn house.

To make matters worse, I gotta have Black men tell me I’m not enough by choosing white women because they are “more supportive.” You tell me what is a sista supposed to do, what more can I be?

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Thank you Dave Chappelle.

Thank you Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Damon Wayans, and every other Black comic that has made the word nigger a form of entertainment that can be heard on every channel on the television now. Thank you Jay-Z, 50cent, Ice Cube, Three 6 Mafia and every other rapper that has perpetuated images of Black women as nothing more than strippers and hookers and things to be used. Thank you to all the nameless and brainless idiots who make a living off of calling themselves niggers and fucking white women on video for the entertainment of white men. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s because of you that the incident at Duke happened. It’s because of you, socially conscious leaders that you all are, that those boys didn’t see the humanity of a mother, a student, and a woman trying to make a living to provide for her children, they saw a nigger bitch ho that they could use to release their pent up little dick frustrations upon. They hired a black woman because they could sit at home and watch videos of Black women being degraded and it desensitized them. They didn’t hire a white woman to come entertain them; they hired a sista to be their little nigger ho. Trust me, that’s exactly the verbiage they used when they were planning their big event. Why wouldn’t they? They are inundated every day with thousands of images of Black women as nothing more than that, aroused by porn of black men as sexual beasts fucking white women. It was their turn to seek revenge, to live out their jungle fantasies. Thank you

You see gentlemen, and I use the word very loosely, scholars that you are, you didn’t see the correlation of using the word nigger in front of white people and them seeing us as niggers. See how that works? Here’s something that you might not have ever considered. If WE stop using the word so casually, then white people wouldn’t feel comfortable using it. As it stands now, white people have been so desensitized to the word that they think it’s synonymous with Black people. It’s because of you that I have to be considered a nigger whore when I walk down the street. It’s because of you that white men will think that I’m some darkie plaything that can be slapped and used and throw away like a piece of trash.

Do all the black women who have degraded themselves in videos, who have used their bodies as sources of income have responsibility in this whole mess? Of course. While I will acknowledge that it’s not Black women who are the producers, executives, or deal makers pulling the nigger bitch strings, it is certainly black women who don’t demand more for themselves than to be sex objects. You are pawns in the game but you are full participants in the strategy that leads to our demise as black women and black people.

Do I think for a minute that those white boys are innocent of rape? Nope. They saw that sista for what the entertainment has made her out to be . . . a ghetto whore, ghetto bitch, a ghetto freak without humanity, without the dignity. Those twenty something boys will surely have a creative defense in the courtroom. “Your honor, we plead innocent on the grounds that we didn’t know Black women were human beings.”

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.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

When Ladies Make Love

I sat her at the foot of my bed and stood a few feet away. I unwrapped my sarong and let it fall to the floor, wearing only the white shirt that just barely covered my panties. I undid each button slowly, giving her time to voice her apprehensions and back out if she so desired. I felt so vulnerable standing before her because I felt more afraid than she did at that particular moment. This was the moment I had dreamt of for months and I wanted everything to be perfect. I kept my bra and panties on because I wanted her to know that this evening was about her, I didn’t want to scare her away making her think that I was going to demand that she do anything to me. In my fantasy, I pleased her repeatedly, all she had to do was lay back and enjoy.

Our eyes adjusted to the darkness and I knelt before her at the foot of the bed. I took off her shoes and placed them neatly under the bed. She lifted her arms like a little girl waiting for her mommy to undress her and let me remove her shirt over her head. I stood her in front of me and knelt before her to undo her pants and slide them down her body. Even though the temperature was warm she was trembling and shaking. I told her to lie down on the bed and I crawled over her body like a panther surveying its prey. Her arms were stretched out by her side and gripping the comforter for dear life. We kissed again, this time she was able to return my kiss even more passionately. I began my descent down her body with my mouth, baptizing her with sensual kisses. I covered her neck and throat with sensual kisses and she moaned in appreciation. I took an incredibly long time kissing and licking her down her arms and sucking her fingers. I undid the clasp of her bra and revealed her perfectly formed breasts to my vision. Her nipples were hard and aroused like two tiny pebbles waiting for my mouth to lick and suck them. Olivia’s body was becoming more and more comfortable and she was responding to each touch with more enthusiasm. I brought my tongue to her left nipple and gently licked it and she let out a hiss . . . I licked the right one and she groaned. In fact, I spent the better part of a half hour licking, sucking and kissing on her nipples.

She kept saying, “Oh God, that feels so good, don’t stop.” The more aroused she got, the more I needed to give her more pleasure. It was apparent she was enjoying herself and I licked and kissed my way down her stomach. She had the most glorious goody trail of soft fine hair that I had ever seen that led to her sensual treasure. I let my mouth wander down to her legs and I spread her thighs enough to lick and kiss her there. I could smell her scent and her panties showed a very visible wet spot that betrayed her arousal. I aggressively turned her over on her stomach and began lavishing her back with kisses. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled it as I whispered in her ear that I was going to make her cum so many times she would pass out. She responded by grinding her ass on me and saying, “Fuck you.” I loved her fight and arrogance; it turned me on that much more. I slid my hand between her legs to gently rub her mound. I pulled her panties up in the crack of her ass and playfully spanked her, not too hard; gently, erotically. She was thrusting her ass up at me and telling me to do it harder at that point but I didn’t want her to think she was in control.

She was out of control with lust. All of her inhibitions had long since disappeared and she was insatiable. She wanted to experience every sensation she could. I turned her over on her back again and slid her panties down her thighs and off her legs. Now it was my turn to be overcome with lust. Her pussy was so fucking sexy it took my breath away. I spread her legs and stared at the center of her being in complete awe. Her lips were parted and swollen with arousal. Her clit was already peeking from its hood. She was so wet I could see her juices glistening even in the darkened room. Her smell was intoxicating. I inhaled her aroma over and over again, wanting to breathe it into my very essence. I held onto the last little bit of control I had left. “Olivia, tell me you want this, tell me that you need me to make love to you. I need to hear you say it.”

She knew that she was in control at that point. In fact, she was getting off on the control she had over me. She was asserting herself again. “Mmmmmm, you know damn well that I want you to eat and lick and suck my wet pussy. Go ahead, make me cum with your mouth. That’s what you need. Stick your tongue in me, suck my clit, EAT MY PUSSY”

Her sexy talk pushed me over the edge. In fact, I almost came from hearing her being so open, so vocal about her desires. As much as I wanted to dive in and devour her pussy, I wanted to make it an experience that she would never forget. I took my fingers and gently spread her lips and started to gently lick on her exposed clit. She responded by grinding her pussy on my face, trying to get me to suck it harder. I put my fingers at the entrance to her pussy and she started grinding her hips trying to get me to finger her. “Damn you, stop being such a tease, finger me. Finger me the way I need you to.” The calm, reserved woman that I had secretly lusted after for months was now a primal beast in my bed. I reached down between my legs to stimulate my own needy clit but I couldn’t get too distracted. This vision of sensuality was lying in front of me and driving me crazy with desire.

I reached over to my nightstand and pulled out my vibrator and long-double-sided dildo. My intention was to ride it with her to indescribable waves of pleasure. My vibrator was glow in the dark pink and dainty, but packed a powerful punch. My double-sided dildo was as black as midnight, 18 inches long, and looked more like a weapon of mass destruction. I asked her if she wanted me to fuck her and she nodded through her haze of arousal, yes. I wanted to slow the pace down a little and prolong her pleasure so I turned her over again, this time placing her on her knees. I couldn’t resist the temptation to go down on her yet again and lick her from her pussy to her asshole. My face was covered in her juices and she was grinding her pussy back on my mouth, encouraging me to make her cum. Actually, she was pleading with me. She reached back with both hands and spread the cheeks of her ass, her head to the pillow and was practically chanting, “Eat me, fuck me, make me cum.” She was delirious and insane with lust.

I picked up the vibrator and placed it on her clit. She was so hot I thought she was going to explode. My previous objectives were lost in a haze of confusion and passion. Here she was, an exquisite representation of Black female beauty, wanton with lust in my bed. She belonged to me at that point. Her surrender was complete. I grabbed the dildo and started gently rubbing the head of it up and down her slit. It looked so sexy coated with her juices that I could hardly resist the temptation to suck it. I placed the head of it to her entrance and she rotated and thrust her hips trying to get me to penetrate her. The lust in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I gave her about an inch of dildo and she started cumming. I worked her pussy through her orgasm, licking her clit, fucking her with more of the dildo. By the time I had about seven inches in her she was having a string of multiple orgasms back to back. She collapsed on the bed, exhausted and drained.

I climbed on the bed next to her and held her in my arms. She rolled on top of me and kissed me full on the mouth. “Thank you,” she breathed. I wanted to ask her why she was thanking me but I sort of understood. She nestled her naked, sweaty body against mine and drifted off to sleep. I lay there watching her sleep as the rain gently fell against the window. We would fall back into our normal roles in the morning, or perhaps we wouldn’t. I contemplated all that would become of us as I stared at her glistening brown skin and smelled her sex heavy in the air. Indeed, conversation wasn’t the only thing that flowed freely that evening.

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

Double Dong

African Art in Motion

In African societies where art and goodness are synonymous, the critique of dance can be an art form in and of itself. The evaluation of dance is a critique whereby gender roles, style, carriage and technique are appraised. Typically, for the dance to be judged worthy of praise, the arms must move in time with the legs, the facial expression must be somber, the costume must be impeccable and the entire dance must be wildly expressive and pleasing. The critique itself becomes a part of the dance, as essential to the rhythmic movements and performance as the drum and dancer themselves. Perfection is the standard; any variance from that bedrock can lead to ridicule and shame for the artist.

African Americans have unconsciously inherited the same propensity for harsh critique. Any informal or formal performance in the Black community is sure to be accompanied by opinion, unsolicited and inexorable, dissecting every measurable variant. From family reunions to urban street corners, from college fraternity lines to smoke filled clubs, the best dancers are revered and the not so good dancers feel the wrath of the omnipresent community standard of perfection. Seemingly, in the Black community, one doesn’t even have to be a good dancer in order to recognize and critique one. Even children know at an early age to practice and rehearse their dance moves to perfection before debuting them in public. The Apollo Theater’s Mr. Sandman serves as the modern day amewa (Yoruba: knower of beauty) or artistic sentinel while the audience passes judgment on the worthiness of the contestants. The Africana eye seems to be able to assess and appraise the components of metered, rhythmic movement on both sides of the Atlantic. In Brazil, at the now infamous Bailes Funk, where urban dance and spectacle mirror the dance and drama of the North American ghettos, dance moves and their subsequent critique are ever prevalent. As in traditional Africa, if you are a good dancer and don’t have the proper clothing, hair, or display a certain sexuality, your performance is devalued. Where the corruption of the ideal of dance critique occurs is in placing value on a person based on their expression, and not of the expression itself. The bad dancer becomes a valueless person; the exceptional dancer with the incorrect clothing becomes equally as insignificant a person. Not limited to the professional arena or dance itself, any and all forms of expression are subject to the critique of the masses. The art of critique has metastasized into the malicious act of criticism, for the sole purpose of self-aggrandizement.

Ephebism, or youthfulness, is universally admired in Africa as an aspect of fine form.
[1] The strength and vitality that are associated with youthful vigor and stamina are seen as traits to take delight in. Antithetically, the wisdom that comes along with seniority in traditional African culture is also revered, however the elderly tend to exhibit the behaviors and countenance normally associated with pubescence. Supple and fluid movements associated with youth are the ideal in African dance and rigidity is seen as an abomination. Afro-American dance and expression has shown similar reverence throughout its history. From the swing and jive dancers of the prohibition period to the poppers and lockers of the soulful 1970s and the limber, contemporary choreography of today, the African American body has performed contortions that appear to defy skeletal constraints. Even the untrained eye can see the similarities in African movements displayed in the dance styles of the capoiera and the nimble gyrations of the Dan, Tiv, and Luba peoples of Africa. The flexibility of the Caribbean limbo dancer displays the very same tresor de souplesse, or flexibility, that is admired in traditional African art and dance. Veering from the African homage to youthfulness and its attributes is the concurrent Western adaptation that stipulates that while youth is revered, the elderly become despised. Deference goes to the immature and age becomes a liability. The elderly have ceased to move with youthful agility, but simply acquiesced to their role of useless and immobile pillars.

The descending direction in melody, sculpture, and dance, or the attribute of “getting down,” recognizes the trend in movement from high to low. Thompson states:

. . . the use of the “get down” sequences in the dance, where a performer or a group of performers assume a deeply inflected, virtually crouching position, thus moving in proximity to the level of the earth, is important in African and found in a number of societies of the western and central portions of the continent. Here is field evidence: Anago Yoruba_ ”step . . . finished at a level superbly low”; Dahomean Yoruba-“if the drum strikes strong, you bend down” . . . .

It is worthwhile to note that even the vernacular of African Americans reflects an inherent propensity for this lower movement. “Man, that guy was really getting down on the dance floor,” can translate figuratively to mean that he was a very good dancer and literally to suggest that he was incorporating moves that had him on the floor. Anyone old enough to remember the show “Soul Train” can certainly remember that the most imitated dancers in the Soul Train dance line were the men who got down on the floor with their dance moves. The indication of gender in the aforementioned example is significant in that the best dancers in this society are still considered to be men. Formal Africana dance usually either begins or ends on the floor and most assuredly incorporates multi-elevations in its posturing. The break-dancers of the early rap 1980s utilized cardboard to make the streets suitable for their dance moves. The hypnotic rhythms of reggae lend themselves to getting down with dances like the butterfly and other sexually suggestive dance maneuvers. It is that displaced and diseased perception of sexuality however that can be attributed to the axiological metamorphosis of the term “getting down” from signifying a connection to the earth to base vulgarity. It has only been in the more recent decades that sexually suggestive dance has come to be a measure solely of attractiveness and to double as sexual foreplay.

The examples of a transcendental African aesthetic surfacing on very distant shores demands further investigation. On the haute couture catwalks of high fashion, statuesque ebony models undulate with the elegance of rural African women carrying loads upon their heads, replicating the stability or straightness seen in many forms of African art. The “human beat box” phenomenon of the 1980s, whereby an individual used his voice box to create sounds, resonates with the traditional African concept of suspending and preserving the beat. The music styles of drum and bass and electronica, both Afro-European creations, preserve the tradition of “dancing many drums.” Any Black dj worth his weight in vinyl knows that he can get the crowd at a party moving by leading the call and response tactic of, “If I say house. . . You say party,” or some such chant. Recent dances like the Cha-Cha Slide and the immortal Electric Slide imitate line dancing that can be seen on the continent. The largest body of African American art that exists today might be identified as graffiti. Its “loud” colors and abstract imagery certainly fall in line with the traditional continuum of vividness cast into equilibrium. African Americans do not produce textiles but certainly lean towards patterns and colors that reflects visibility and luminosity. While only an infinitesimal portion of the African American population can trace their lineage back to a specific tribe in Africa, an even smaller number can say that the standards and practices of that particular culture were knowingly passed on. Yet those very same practices and traditions somehow phenomenologically manifest themselves with uncanny similarity in trends and numbers too great to dismiss throughout the Diaspora. Arguably, maybe hidden within the genetic makeup of the melanin rich descendants of the Maafa, there is a marker that identifies meter and movement, rhythm and cadence of African art and motion.

[1] Robert Farris Thompson, African Art in Motion: Icon and Act in the Collection of Katherine Coryton White, (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974) p. 5.
[2] Ibid., .13.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Home of the Brave

War is an evil mechanism of the political elite. Its intent is to create money for the connected few at the expense of the masses. In this “great” country, we repeat what we hear on talk radio and consider it the gospel truth. There is a sick belief in this country that our air is somehow more sacred, our lives are somehow more valuable than any other people in the universe. “Oh Dear God, they attacked us on OUR soil . . .” we cry, not realizing that we have no special immunity that makes us above anyone else. Our blood is not more red; our lives are no more valuable than anyone else’s. We have no red, white, and blue blanket of protection that makes it a sin against God for us to suffer the ravages of war and a patriotic duty for others to suffer and die needlessly to stroke our inflated egos. No, the lives of Iraqi people are just as valuable; the dreams of the Afghani are the same as ours, their blood is the exact same color, they bleed and die in the same horrible way we do.

I remember when the war on terror began. I was all over the internet, asking people to think for themselves. I was screaming that there should be an investigation into the real perpetrators of 9/11 because things didn’t make sense. People accused me of being a terrorist and anti-American because I was bringing up very logical questions about the circumstances around the attacks. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that amidst all that destruction, all that rubble, all that that horror, rescue workers could find a paper passport of one of the terrorists on the day the towers collapsed. There is fire, death, destruction, and chaos all around, the likes of which have no equal, and the rescue workers find a paper passport belonging to one of the terrorists on one of the planes. I’m supposed to believe that they found a paper passport when they couldn’t find the indestructible black box from the cockpit, they couldn’t find one body of any of the passengers, but they found a paper passport that flew out from the luggage of a terrorist on a domestic flight.

By noon that same day, a bag was found in Boston with a Koran, a passport, a suicide note and a video on how to fly a plane, proving. The media said, without a doubt that Al-Qaeda was responsible. I have to wonder why suicide bombers that flew planes expertly into the WTC needed a video on how to fly a plane on their way to executing the most precise act of terrorism ever committed? Were they going to get some last minute flying pointers before they took over the cockpit? Maybe they were going to show it to the passengers as the plane was crashing. They were so stealth in their planning that no one knew what they were going to do but they were so stupid as to leave a trail that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that they did it? If they wanted to brag that they were responsible, why not take credit for the event AFTER they pulled it off? No one has taken responsibility for the attacks and the only evidence we have of who did it is what the US government says. Which begs one to wonder why the US is sooooo invested in proving to the American people that they have the true perpetrators of a crime based on such OBVIOUSLY manufactured proof.

I bring up all of this conspiracy speculation to make the point that if there is even a tiny iota of room for doubt that 9/11 had suspicious beginnings, then we have to question how we could be at war within a month of that day and of how we have justified that the war in Iraq because of links to 9/11 as well. The entire house of cards falls if September 11th wasn’t really an act of terrorism. The American public doesn’t care. They want to blow the towelheads off the face of the planet. We want to fight for freedom. People who have no idea how many US senators there are or who can’t tell you how many Supreme Court Justices there are were waving flags in their yards and saying God Bless America.

I had a conversation with a white woman just after the war in Afghanistan started. (Did that war ever end by the way? Aren’t we really in two wars?) She said she was having the worst day of her life because her roof had leaked because of some recent rain and the contractor that was scheduled to fix it was late. I asked her if she meant to say that it was the worst day in her life and she told me without a doubt, it was the WORST day of her life. I told her that there were Afghani mothers that were dodging bullets and bombs, who had lost their homes and husbands, who were trying to protect their children and find food and shelter to stay alive that could hardly compare to her leaky roof. Why did I say that? She was HAPPY the people in Afghanistan were suffering. If she could have dropped the bombs herself she would have. “God Bless America,” she kept saying, “Remember 9/11.” When I reminded her that there wasn’t one single supposed terrorist that was from Afghanistan, she didn’t give a fuck. She told me that she wished that they were all dead. I wept for her soul.

The sin of this war in Iraq, is that the US has sent children over there and made them into murderers and torturers and it’s justified as fighting for freedom. We mourn for the 2000 American lives lost but we don’t mention the 200,000 Iraqi lives lost. The children, mothers, the brothers and sons, the people that had nothing to do with 9/11 and the people that had nothing to do with the WMD, had they been real in the first place. We call them insurgents and we cheer for the American soldiers every time they kill an uprising, never realizing that insurgents are really people that are saying, “GET OUT OF OUR COUNTRY and take your death and destruction with you.” We are heroes of democracy and fighting for the concept of “freedom” when we kill them but they are cells of terrorists when they fight for their homeland. Soulless Americans don’t see the inherent evil in that because American air is sacred, American soil is holy, American lives have more value.

The young men that are over there, fighting for oil for Bush’s elite friends, will never be the same when they return and I mourn for the loss of their innocence. They will come back and they will be killers. Your UPS driver and your car mechanic will have killed other human beings and be walking around thinking it was justified because they were fighting for the flag. They will have been exposed to chemicals that will fuck with their health for the rest of their lives, and their children’s lives. Don’t kid yourself. The acts of torture at Abu Ghraib were not isolated. Men and women who have never voted a day in their lives will have committed acts of torture that the white male power structure justified to line their pockets.

I support the individual soldiers in this illegal war because I know that their lives will never be the same. Those with a conscious will have nightmares about the death and destruction for years and years to come. Those too naïve and damaged to understand that killing is not a sport or recreation will think nothing of snapping their spouses necks when they get into an argument. They will never consider that human beings, with dreams and desires parallel to their own, were killed for profit.

When it’s all said and done, Osama Been Forgotten will remain elusive, Bush will not be held accountable for the lies he told about weapons of mass destruction and he’ll find a way to justify another war in Iran. The American people will not care, because those sand niggers don’t deserve life in the first place. It’s only the good old US of A that has any value and only our lives that have any worth.

Copyright 2005 Scottie Lowe

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Thanks and Praises

I must give thanks and praises for the love like I’ve never known. I gaze upon his sleeping form and I’m humbled by his beauty. His gentle breathing is like music to my ears. I ask myself could there be a wine more intoxicating than his beauty. If it exists, I know that it could only be when I drink from him, tasting his essence when he erupts in my mouth. Savoring his juices, I’m intoxicated by his seed and I drink freely.

I’ve searched forever for this man. I was created for him and he for me. When those around me told me to settle, when others told me to compromise, I held steadfast to my vision and I was delivered the perfect embodiment of my dreams. His gentle touch makes me wet and I see the world anew through his eyes. His mouth envelops my clit and the softness of his lips paint pleasure like I’ve never known before. The soft round curve of my tummy is the perfect pillow for him to lay his head. My aching hard nipples are like magnets for his mouth. I can fall asleep with him sucking them like a baby.

It is most certainly his manhood, that column of beauty and lust, which enslaves me and holds me captive. His locs tickle my face as we kiss passionately, his lips kiss me with tenderness. My tight, wet, warm core surrounds him and I can’t help but release my cum from the depths of my being as he strokes me deeply, hard. He is my king and my strong, Nubian Knight. He is my lover, ally, and confidant and I’m a better woman for knowing him in the most intimate way.
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

To: Executives in the Adult Entertainment Industry

The images of African Americans in the adult industry are largely atypical of the true African American experience. The perpetuation of racist and stereotypical images prevalent in the adult industry work to foster unhealthy and diseased perceptions of African Americans and render the majority of African Americans without avenue for healthy erotic expression. The perpetuation of the Black woman as the Ghetto Bitch, Ghetto Whore, and Ghetto Freak is not reflective of the vast and overwhelming majority of Black women. The perpetuation of the Black man as the barely literate, one-dimensional bull is offensive and steeped in sick prejudices that are not reflective of the vast majority of African American males.
The quality of Black or Ebony adult material available is horrific. Internet sites tend to list ebony or interracial content as “fetish” as if there is something freakish or abnormal about Black sexuality that sets it apart from the norm. The videos available are as low budget as one can possibly get; the actors and actresses are usually taken from the most disenfranchised and marginalized portion of the population, the sets appear to be nothing more than housing project residences with cameras and lights set up. Similarly, Black oriented magazines seem to produce a fair amount of income from the most minimal of investment. This not only fosters a belief in the members of the economically disadvantaged Black community that sex is somehow the equivalent of Black identity and the only way out of poverty but also reinforces a false and offensive belief in members of other races that people of African descent are nothing more than highly-sexual, primitive beasts.
We, the undersigned, hereby demand that the following conditions IMMEDIATELY be set forth by the decision makers of the adult industry that knowingly and willfully sustain these offensive images of African Americans in order to make a profit.
We call for: ·The immediate cease and desist of the use of the word Nigger (or any pronunciation thereof) in adult films. That word should not ever be used in connotation to sexual arousal. When used in that context, it becomes the sexual trigger for some and they then associate that word with Black sexuality. The word nigger is a racial slur, not an aphrodisiac. While the use of the word has become commonplace in African American vernacular, that does not mean that it’s acceptable to promote or convince anyone that its meaning has somehow been morphed into something positive or benign.
·Intentional and concerted effort to be made to show African Americans in a more favorable and well-rounded light. Black people are capable of more than interracial couplings and Freak Fest Extravaganzas. Black adult stars are rarely ever featured together, implying that Black people are only arousing when paired with white people. All black adult entertainment usually panders to the lowest common denominator, virtually excluding those individuals that might be seeking adult entertainment that does not originate from housing projects or Black Bike Week.
·The reinvestment of profits made from the adult industry Black market be made into inner city neighborhoods to improve schools and provide job training to rectify the intentional exploitation of lower income African Americans. If there is to be even the pretense of racial equality in this country, then there must be concerted efforts made to rectify the educational and vocational imbalances that exist in urban areas. Reinvestment of funds made from the exploitative measures of the adult industry that has capitalized on disenfranchised Black people is step one in a good faith effort to show the African American community at large that mainstream America believes that everyone can achieve given the proper tools.
·An immediate cease and desist of the practice of using economically disenfranchised African Americans as tools for adult entertainment. The very nature of the practice is racist and offensive. It gives people of other races with the false impression that Black people are stereotypical caricatures only capable of base behaviors. It leaves the victims themselves with a false sense of identity by promoting the concept that all they are capable of is sex in exchange for money. Most importantly, it is not entertaining or arousing for the vast majority of African Americans that exist outside of that reality. It is offensive to suggest that showing such a miniscule portion of the Black community in an adult light will be source for arousal for all.
·African Americans that come from all walks of life and aesthetic expression be represented in tasteful, erotic scenarios. Black women can be beautiful and sexy with natural hair yet they seem to be dangerously missing from the adult industry. Showing image after image solely of African American female buttocks simply serves to objectify and dehumanize the subjects. Apparently, lighter complexioned African American men are not considered attractive or sexual because their presence in the adult industry is minimal which only serves to reinforce the “Mandingo, cotton-picking, big-dicked-Negro-as-Buck” stereotype. That negatively defines Black manhood as being equivalent to skin tone and penis size.
While it is true that if these demands are not met, the adult industry will continue to operate utilizing these racist and offensive practices without much repercussion. Implementing these changes however will usher in a new wave of Ebony adult entertainment that will appeal to larger percentages of African American and mainstream populations alike. The adult industry must be held accountable for perpetuating and profiting from stereotypes that must be dismantled.