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, May 27, 2006

Vanity is a Sin

As distorted by man (read males) as I know the bible to be and their oppressive agendas, I do believe that it holds within it some truths that the co-opters of the original text did not understand and thus remnants of truth can be found there. We, as a race of people, as human beings, have become so removed from our true natures, from our true divine selves, so superficial that our logic has been stunted. We no longer know how to extract the truths from spiritual texts because our minds no longer function at the level at which we were created to perform; we no longer are capable of comprehending anything more than our current state of diseased thinking. Because Black people specifically learned our religion at the end of a whip, at the base of enslavement, because we had no choice but to believe what the slave master told us was true, we are crippled that much more from our true spiritual selves. Ignorance is truly bliss, because when I lived like the masses, when I thought like the unconscious, I was happy to repeat clichés and never question the things I’d been told.

I remember when I was growing up that my grandmother used to tell me that vanity was a sin. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that concept because I couldn’t figure out how being vain could possibly offend God in any way. I could understand murder, I could understand adultery, but I figured that God created you, why would he be upset if you boasted about his work. Now, I know that there is no such thing as “sin” in the sense that God will punish us for our bad behavior. I now understand that “sin” is really that which prevents us from realizing our true God nature, that which keep us from realizing enlightenment and peace. Studying the mind, dedicating myself to the study of consciousness, I now realize that vanity, narcissism, and self-absorption are states of being that keep us dismembered from the body of the Creator and distort the balance of the universe.

The U.S. is funny in that we are the most dysfunctional nation and yet we parade ourselves the best. This over-inflated ego of the entire nation is an interesting phenomenon but it’s lead, in large part, by individuals who can not acknowledge flaw, who have an over-inflated sense of self, whose worlds don’t revolve around the sun, but their egos. It’s a crippling state of mind. The sicker we become, the more arrogant, the further we get from a state of consciousness that is as we were intended to be.

We have become a nation of people who only care about the very things that are spiritually debilitating. “I know I look good. What wo/man could resist me, because I am so hot.” Any time you hear those words you can be assured that the person uttering them is prone to drama, who can’t form healthy relationships, who isn’t capable of realizing how there are consequences to their actions beyond how it directly affects him or her. The obsession with looking good, with clothing, hair and makeup, cars, whatever accouterment is outside the Self, is a sign of death of the spirit. If Jesus is truly supposed to be our model, then the pre-occupation with our appearance, our obsession with proclaiming how we are better than everyone else is, is glaring indication that we are un-Christlike in our carriage.

Just look around at the people who are supposed to be our spiritual leaders. They are the flashiest, the most outwardly oriented people in our society. Turn on the TV and look at any reality show that is created around competition for affection of someone. People who can not admit flaw, people who are determined to be the most desirable, the best looking, the best dressed are the most shallow, superficial, insincere people and the ones that blame everyone else for the issues that they create.

This younger generation seems laser-like in their agenda to be self-absorbed. Relationships can’t be formed if the only person you are intent on pleasing is the reflection in the mirror. I used to think, when I was growing up, that men were more guilty of a distorted sense of self than women. I would meet the biggest, fattest, sloppiest, man who would be unappealing in every way and he would proclaim how great he was and I would scratch my head in wonder. A part of me thought that it was a good thing that people could find something attractive in themselves when the world around them didn’t. Women, to a much, much greater extent, seemed to have more low self-esteem and more humility and I always thought that there was something tragic about a beautiful woman who couldn’t see her own beauty. I can no longer say the same thing today. Brothas now demand that the world revolve around their distorted egos and women are socialized to think that their value is to be found in how sexy they are and how many people desire them. I can only imagine how distorted things will be in 20 years from now when this generation’s children are grown having been raised by parents whose only concern are themselves.

Now, before you respond and say, “Yeah, it’s really sad how other people are so vain today, I’m glad I’m not like that,” realize that you are guilty of it yourself. There is an absence of humility that has infected you if you feel you are somehow above anyone else’s behavior. Are there some individuals who have been able to transcend this trend? Yes, of course. Are they the individuals intent on proving to others that they are more enlightened than everyone else around them is? No.

Vanity is surely a sign of dysfunction. A growing cancer is spreading rapidly, killing our spirit, and keeping us from God. Vanity is a sin that is staring us in a very dirty, clouded, cracked mirror.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Review: Shine Annie by Betty Oglesby Payne

If you travel deep down south on a dusty road in Tobacco County, Georgia, you’ll come across a big farmhouse built in the 40s. Inside, up a set of creaky, old stairs, in a sweltering hot attic, there’s a fabric-covered box with a Victorian floral print shoved in a corner. Inside that box are the memories of days gone by. That antique box holds faded and torn black and white pictures, some cracked, some stuck together, others are moldy with hand-scribbled descriptions written in pencil on the back. The only people who remember the faces and places in the pictures have gone on to be with the lord a long time ago.

There’s a picture of young girl named Annie Ruth, with her smooth brown skin and the eyes of a dream deferred. Her eyes hide the pain of disappointment deep inside. Looking fondly at her are a baby, Patricia, with bright eyes and the innocence of youth, and Curtis, her husband. With his chest puffed out and the countenance of a man who loves being a husband and father, Curtis shows immense pride in his family and you can tell that the ground on which his feet are planted is his own.

Annie Ruth and Curtis weren’t real however. Tobacco County doesn’t really exist. The images however are very real; they are alive and in vivid color between the pages of Shine Annie. Betty Oglesby Payne has taken a snapshot in her mind and described it with exacting detail in her freshman novel. She expertly recollects the mindsets, pains, and the debilitating conditions of a racist Jim Crow reality. It’s more than a body of fiction to entertain; it’s a lesson in history, social consciousness, morality and exaltation of Black culture.

Shine Annie tells the coming-of-age tale of a young girl who is forced to grow up and accept responsibility for choices made in haste. Life goes on all around her and she makes adjustments to each of those challenges; sometimes making the right decision, other times opting for the easy route not the high road. Her first love almost loses his life at the hands of white men who are intent on teaching him that loves certainly does know color. Her cousin, conceived from rape, struggles with loving a man who loves himself more than he loves her. Her Daddy, Big Sid, provides a model of character and integrity when the forces around him are working to oppress and dehumanize him.

Anyone that remembers the pain of segregation, anyone who wants to understand the past to grasp an understanding of the present, anyone who is looking for a compelling read that conveys emotion and weaves a unique tale would do well to read Shine Annie. It stands out as a wonderful alternative to contemporary ghetto lit that recycles the same materialistic tale. This most certainly is a snapshot of days gone by that will touch your heart and make your heart shine.

Scottie Lowe, Owner of AfroerotiK

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Demonizing the DL

I'm in a very unique position because of my profession to have men confess their desires to me. Married men, playboys, thugs, scholars, nerds, even ministers, every type of man has opened up to me and told me that they have the desire to experience sexual arousal with another man. These are men that would never ever ever tell the women in their lives that they have those desires. They go out of their way to tell the women in their lives that they hate fags, that they would never want to be with another man. They can't even accept within themselves that they have bisexual desires, they fight them, they try to deny them, and they most assuredly don't tell their partners that they have them.

Even in my own personal life, I meet and date men that swear up and down that they are straight and then in the process of opening up, in the act of sharing fantasies and becoming intimate with me, they "confess" that they are curious about sex with other men. Once the comfort level is established, they can confess to me their desires to share intimacy with other men but they have this innate fear that I'm going to see them as being less than a man. Once they realize that I am not going to look down on them for their desires, when they see that I'm aroused by the idea, they then confess fantasies and desires that they've wanted to share with someone for a long time. The floodgates open up and they confess all sorts of emotional and sexual feelings to me at that point.

Society, and its rigid and dysfunctional definitions of what manhood is, is responsible for the perpetuation of the whole DL phenomenon. If a brotha came to a sista and said, "I have this desire to be penetrated by you, to experience role reversal and I like my ass stimulated," the neck rolling would commence immediately and she couldn't wait to get on the phone with all her friends and tell them that he was a fag. Being interested in a woman penetrating you does not mean that you are interested in a man penetrating you. Even if a man is interested in another man penetrating him, or even what it would be like to have the full sexual experience with a man does not mean he is going start wearing a purse and talking with a lisp. Manhood has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to suck a dick or even kissing another man. (It takes an act of heaven and earth to get a "straight" man to say that he wants to kiss another man. It is usually when he's aroused and he's let down his guard enough to know that I really am comfortable with the idea of him being with another man that he will say that he wants to feel loved and protected by another man sometimes and that he wants to kiss.) Manhood should be defined by the ability to be truthful, respectful, and emotionally mature. Physical pleasure, and the source from which one receives it, has nothing to do with being a man. The longer this society continues to have these debilitating beliefs about manhood, the more "DL" men you are going to have.

I recently had the experience of being in a living situation with a man that had desires to be with other men but his primary romantic interests were with women. He would spend great efforts telling them how he wasn't homophobic but how much he didn't like gay men getting in his space, how he didn't like gay men looking at him, he would tell women how to spot a DL man and counsel them on when they suspected a man who was. In bed with me, he would tell me how he wanted to suck a dick and get pounded by another man. His fascination was with a very dark skinned man with a big dick. That seemed to represent the embodiment of a real man to him in bed. In life, he would go out and be with a transsexual, taking on this thug persona that he normally didn't have in his every day dealings. It seems each role was tied to a definition of manhood. To women, he was the all around man, being sensitive and this shoulder to cry on yet still a manly man. With me, he wanted to be a bitch; he wanted to be fucked by this embodiment of what he thought a real man was. To the transsexual, he became the real man, the thug and the nigga.

It seems to me, if we lived in a society that allowed men to be feeling, complex, emotional human beings, we wouldn't have this dichotomy that creates the "DL" man.

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Dominant Black Tales and Submissive White Tails

Did she have a hidden agenda? Was her desire to dominate white men driven by some racial hatred or need to seek revenge for her enslaved ancestors? By all outward appearances, that would appear to be the case. Mistress Desire was far more complex than superficial appearances would allow. Black, strong, confident, and proud, there was no mistaking that the Domina was proud of her African heritage and took pleasure in reducing her white submissives to whatever it was that they feared the most. There was a certain subtlety she possessed that could not be defined by labels.

She chose to meet him in a very public bar. It was a gay bar in fact, and it was on the evening of the citywide famous drag show. Queens weren’t the only people in attendance, butches, studs, lipsticks, straights, bisexuals and everyone in between showed up to revel in the god damned decadence and defiance the night represented. Anyone who wanted to thumb their nose at the status quo and acknowledge that they couldn’t be defined sexually by the strict and puritanical morals of the Bible belt felt comfortable showing up. There was plenty of hootin’ and hollerin’ for the glammed up female impersonators doing yet another rendition of “Rollin on the River” and “It’s Raining Men.” Her date for the evening did not fit in that category. After hours of subtle interrogation, she had determined that his greatest fear was being seen for who he really is. He was an introvert, a social recluse of sorts that wanted to keep his desires hidden from everyone, including himself. Inside, he was a slut. Not just any slut, a slut of the most insatiable, perverted, depraved kind. He wanted someone to force him to bring out his dark fantasies and help him to become who he felt he really was inside.

She was taking a chance that he wouldn’t show but she was betting that the chemistry and the desperation he felt to fulfill his desires would be motivation enough for him to make the leap into the unknown. She positioned herself at the far end of the bar at a table where she could see him enter. If her assessment was wrong and he didn’t show up, she would entertain herself with the spectacle of others that wanted to exhibit their sexuality for the entire world to see. He hadn’t cum in over three weeks and he had been nightly aroused with descriptive tales of her fantasies and desires. The Internet and the phone were vastly different than the adventure he was about to go on however.

Stevie Wonder could have seen him walk through the front door. Nervous as hell, he looked around the place needing only the tiniest of excuses to turn around and leave. The promises of mind-blowing strapon anal assaults and wild, uninhibited sexual release propelled him to move forward. He spotted her immediately. She didn’t have to signal for him or make her presence known to him; she exuded the regal stature whereby he knew her immediately. He made his way to her table and she had his favorite drink waiting for him. He downed it with one gulp and nervously looked around taking in all the sights.

“Bryan, did you do as I instructed?” He lifted his arm that had been lying casually in his lap above the table and showed his baby smooth, hairless body; the only hair remaining on his body being under his arms and above the neck. She placed her hand under the table and felt for the evidence of his other command. Apparent through his clothes was a harder than steel erection and the telltale signs of a cock ring. He swallowed hard as she stroked him through his clothes, knowing full well that he couldn’t cum restrained as he was. They settled back and began to converse; controlling the flow of the exchange with her eyes and her will. He knew he was being dominated and it was more than sexual.

She draped her legs over his and he instinctively began to massage her silken calves. He swallowed hard as he glanced down and realized that her pussy was exposed just inches away from him under her short dress. “Listen, can we get out of here? I did what you asked and I’m just not comfortable here,” he stammered, his eyes darting around the room to make sure no one he knew was there. She laughed politely and ignored his comment, stroking his exposed arm and caressing his face with her soft fingertips.

As the lights dimmed and a slow song began to play to supplement the time between performances, they were interrupted by the most breathtaking Black man in the bar approaching the table. Dressed impeccably, not a bit shy of 6’2”, masculine, and looking like he stepped off the pages of a magazine, he extended his hand to the nervous submissive and said, “Would you care to dance?”

“No thanks, I’m not gay,” Bryan managed to eek out, looking like a dear caught in headlights more than unassuming business professional that wielded so much confidence at his place of work.

“He’d love to,” Desire answered, moving her legs and placing her submissive’s hand gently in that of his suitor’s.

He was in a state of shock. He had specifically told Mistress Desire that he wouldn’t do anything with another man. He was straight. The confusion in his eyes, the panic, the anger overwhelmed him. He had limits that were not negotiable. Being submissive and being gay were too different things. “He stood firm on his decision, “No thanks,” he said with determination, “I’m not gay.”

He reached for his keys in his pocket and began to stand. “Listen, I don’t know what sort of games you are playing but I’m not interested, Go fuck yourself bitch.”

Desire laughed at his defiance, placed her hand gently on his arm, and leaned in close. Her voice was sweet and gentle. “Bryan, you are standing on the verge of all of your dreams come true. Before you leave, think about everything that we’ve been through to get to this point, are you willing to throw it all away for a dance? Think of all the nights online where your heart felt like it was pounding out of your chest and you were begging me to use you in any way possible. Think about the things you went through to gain my favor. You know I’m the only woman that can push you past your fears. Are you ready to throw that all away for a silly little dance? If you leave, you’ll go home and jerk off in solitude dreaming of the things that could have been. Do you want to do that Bryan? Do you want to abandon the potential for your wildest fantasies to come true?”

Her voice never went above a whisper. “You can leave you little bitch but don’t you dare think of contacting me again. Think about trying to find another Mistress like me that will make you feel like the depraved dirty slut that I bring out in you. Haven’t you always wanted to be the submissive bitch boy to a superior Black domme? The night of indescribable sensation that you’ve waited for is there for you. All you have to do is dance. Go! I won’t think about you ever again, but can you say the same thing about me?”

The synapses in Bryan’s brain were misfiring. He was pissed and aroused. The gentleman waiting for the dance chimed in, tired of waiting and said, “Listen, don’t worry about it.” He turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Bryan said meekly. Desire leaned even closer, the warmth of her body penetrating Bryan’s aura. She whispered something in his ear and leaned back. Bryan stood, fighting back the tears, and said with defiance in his voice, “Wait, I’d love to dance.” He knew that the dance was not the not to be the end of his test.

Slightly shorter than this beautiful specimen of a man before him, he didn’t even know where to place his hands. His dance partner took control. He placed Bryan’s arms around his neck and pulled Bryan close. Bryan swallowed hard, his frustration showing in the color in his cheeks. The alcohol in his system allowed him to relax just enough, knowing that this humiliation would be over in less than three minutes. He shut out the people around him and danced, it was more like moved to the music; he was never really that good of a dancer. Bryan had to hold on to reality. He was getting confused. The arms around his waist made him feel sexy. A feeling of security and arousal enveloped him. The sexy black shoulder that he rested his head upon was comforting. He could feel full lips brush against his neck and he yielded to the temptation to moan ever so slightly at the sensation. Strong Black hands caressed his ass. He froze momentarily; his ass had always been a highly erogenous zone for him but he made sure that he only fantasized about women taking him there. However, behind the safety of his closed eyes, in the secure embrace of the beautiful man that held him, he erotically thrust his ass back and forth, fantasizing about being fucked by his Mistress later on. The hands grabbing his ass were forceful and he loved the sensation of being taken . . . forced, which only cause him to grind his ass harder and harder against his dance partner.

“Uhmmm, the song’s over. Would you like another dance?” Bryan was snapped back into reality.

“No . . . hell no! I was just dancing with you because . . . No.” Bryan knew his defensiveness was transparent but he had to maintain his façade of defiance if only for his own sense of well-being.

Back at the table, Mistress Desire chuckled as Bryan slid into the seat next to her. The Black gentleman slid into the booth across from them. “You were so right Desire, his little cock was hard the entire time. And the way he was grinding his ass on me, I can tell he’s going to be one hot fuck.”

“I told you his slutty side would come out, Derrick. When will you learn to trust me?” Their laughter burning his ears like acid would burn his flesh. They were sitting there causally discussing his little cock, his slutty nature, and the plans that they had made to in advance. Bryan was incensed. He fumed at the thought that this was all a set up and he mumbled something under his breath. He stood to rise and leave when the gentleman said, “Sit down, bitch. We didn’t tell you that you could leave.”

A lump formed in his throat as Bryan felt helpless to move. His cock had no such limitations. It was raging hard and hurting from being constrained as it was. The casual power that the Black man had over him at that moment made him feel like the submissive slut he had longed to feel like. He wondered momentarily if they had slipped something in his drink to make him have . . . you know, those kinds of thoughts.

“What’s going on here? I thought . . .” he was mumbling incoherently. Desire giggled and ignored him momentarily.

“Oh, forgive my manners. Bryan, I would like you to meet Derrick. He’s my lover. We like to play together. He’s the male version of me, don’t you think? Derrick . . . you’ve already met Bryan.” The rapid eye movement of Bryan indicated confusion. “You didn’t honestly think someone as breathtaking as him would actually be attracted to someone like you, did you?” She laughed even louder, Bryan afraid that her amusement would be draw attention to them. He felt unattractive with her comment but that somehow aroused him even more. He wondered what people would think, a white man sitting there with two Black people. He was sure everyone in the place could read his mind. Bryan couldn’t even discern his own thoughts at that moment. All sorts of thoughts ran through his mind about what the two of them had in mind for him. He feared the outcome if he decided to let them go through with their plans and he was terrified of letting the extreme sensation of arousal that he was experiencing go.

For years, his attraction to Black women had consumed his every fantasy. He loved their strength and their assuredness. He loved their comfort and sophistication. White women hadn’t aroused him in the better part of four years or more. They were insignificant to him except on the rare occasion he fantasized about having a white wife that would be a slut for black cock. Occasionally, he would dream of having a white wife that craved huge black cocks fucking her mouth, pussy and asshole unmercilessly while he served the Black wives of those men in whatever degrading or humiliating ways they saw fit. Those thoughts didn’t seem realistic, his conservative wife would never think of such things, so he dismissed them as a fleeting fantasy. He was comfy defining himself as submissive to Black women. A submissive of the most extreme proportions. If he were to allow himself to be honest and frank about his own desires, there had been many nights he has dreamt of being forced to be a cross-dressing sissy for Black cock, but he wanted to be “forced” so he could absolve himself of the guilt of desiring those yummy Black studs. He allowed himself to freely fantasize about Black women all the time, and all the things that he would do for them.

“Let’s go,” her directive was simple and to the point. Out into the night air, Bryan had more reservations. All the “ifs” and the “what ifs” and logistics were causing him to panic. He stood helpless, like a child, waiting for further instruction. They were in control.

Derrick and Mistress Desire kissed in the darkness and shadows of the parking lot. They held hands and ignored Bryan but they were ever aware of his presence behind them as they made out while he watched. They approached an SUV and opened the back door and Derrick turned momentarily to tell Bryan to get in. Other than that, they were ignoring him as if he was insignificant to their arousal. Bryan, on the other hand, was mesmerized watching them kiss. Their skin looked so . . . different. They seemed so . . . powerful. It was intoxicating to watch them together.

He stepped in the back seat and closed the door behind him as he regretted not telling someone whom he was going to meet, getting some significant contact information from this woman in case something went wrong. Derrick drove while he and Desire chatted and laughed and occasionally looked in the rear view mirror. He went to adjust his cock as it had been hard for hours before meeting her and the dull ache in his nuts was a sweet and painful reminder of that fact. He wanted those nuts to be kicked, slapped, and twisted at the hands of the gorgeous mistress that sat in the passenger side of the truck in front of him. His boypussy was throbbing thinking about being fucked savagely. The pair in front of him seemed so sensuous, so oblivious to his presence, he wondered if they would forget about him and leave him to stroke his hard cock while he watched them make love or if he would be allowed to cum at all.

His thoughts were about to be answered as they pulled into the driveway of a lovely home. It was secluded and well maintained and more fears crept into his mind. He had more fears and more fantasies of what was to come as well. Desire slid the door open and said, “Get out.” He complied eagerly, in a fog of lust at that stage from the hours of pent up arousal.

As he stepped into the night air again, Bryan felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life. Mistress Desire circled him, her body close without touching him. She ran her nails along the side of his face lightly, sending chills down his body. “Undress,” she said calmly.

Bryan looked around confused. Surely, she was not going to make him undress in the driveway. It was too early in the evening; people were awake, watching television, someone might see.

“Undress now!”

As if in a trance, Bryan began to undress in the middle of the driveway. Derrick had entered the house and was nowhere in sight. He wasn’t sure what to do with his clothes so he folded them as he undressed and placed them in a neat pile on the ground. He removed his shoes first, feeling more comfortable with that accessory than a major piece of clothing. He removed his shirt next. At that moment, he wished he had the smooth, rippling muscles that most black men seemed to have and he felt ashamed of his pale complexion. Next to go were his pants. His tightie whities bulged obscenely in the front from the erection he was sporting and the cock ring in place. He pulled his socks off and stood in anticipation of his next command. He felt even more naked because he was hairless. Somehow, it made him feel more vulnerable.

“I said undress.” Her voice was so damned soothing and melodic, he felt helpless to deny her anything.

He slid his underwear down, his erection bobbing in the night air. Even at full erection, he was barely six inches. He always told inevitable Internet lie that he was six inches erect but that was only in the most extreme state of arousal. Tonight, he was convinced he might be a little more than six even.

Mistress Desire stroked his cock in the cool night air. The sensation was indescribable. Her hands were so soft and silky, he was under her control, people could be watching, and he knew that he had planned a night to explore his wildest fantasies. He moaned out loud as she stroked him with skill.

“Tell me what you want, Bryan. Tell me why you are here.”

The words came tumbling out of his mouth as if they had been rehearsed. “I want to be used by you, my superior Black queen. I want you to put me in my place as the inferior white boy that I am. I want you to take out your frustrations on me and make me your bitch. Humiliate me, Mistress. Force me to do unspeakable things. I want you to show me that you have power over me. Use me any way you see fit, Mistress. I belong to you.”

The more he confessed his desires, the more she stroked him. This Black woman, fully dressed, masturbating a completely nude white male in, seemingly her front yard, making him spill his guts. If anyone were looking they would have gotten an eyeful.

“Put your clothes in the backseat and bend over with your hands on the floor of the truck. He did what he was instructed to do and waited even further instruction.

“Let’s see if this pussy is as slutty as you claim it is,” she mused.

She spread his ass cheeks and rubbed her fingertip over his hole. He let out a slight moan. His knees were shaking and he was glad that he could brace himself on the frame of the truck, his ass exposed for the entire world to see. Mistress Desire slid her finger in to his unlubricated hole. That was nothing to him, he had gotten so used to fucking himself he actually leaked “pussy juice” as he called it when he was horny. His ass was always ready to be penetrated by a huge, black dildo any time of the day or night. She began fingering him harder, driving him to maniacal fits of pleasure.

She was giving him more pleasure than he had ever imagined. Gone were all inhibitions and he was anxious for more. “Oh, yessssss, Mistress. Finger my pussy, pleaaase.” If her fingers were just a little longer, she could have reached his spot. She knew exactly what she was doing and she worked his pussy like a pro.

She pulled her fingers out of his ass abruptly, causing him to cry out, his moans echoing off the cul-de-sac serenity. “Get on your hands and knees and crawl to the front door. Wait there until you are allowed in.” With that, she walked away up the walkway and entered the home.

Bryan was lost. He stood shakily and closed the truck door quietly, hoping not to draw any more attention than his previous moans and display had garnered. He willingly got on his hands and knees and crawled on the walkway to the front door. His hands and knees ached from the concrete but he relished the pain in anticipation of his fate to come. He knelt submissively at the door and waited. He suspected that they were watching him so he posed like a prize animal at a show. He arched his back and thrust his ass high in the air, showing that he was ready for anything. He lowered his head in submission, to prove that he was lowly and insignificant. His erection couldn’t be seen in his kneeling position but it was red from arousal and restraint. He wanted to be beautiful to all the eyes watching him, to whomever they may have belonged. He didn’t care if the nosey neighbors saw him; in fact, he wanted them to see him for who he really was. He wanted to be on display as a submissive to Blacks and he was proud of that fact.

In an instant, the porch lights were turned on and he was flooded with light. He maintained his composure and pride, sticking his ass out even more and lowering his head to the ground. His asshole was throbbing and desperate for penetration and his soul craved humiliation. At that moment, the door opened and he heard his Mistress command him to come in. He crawled forward with confidence and agility.

She stroked him like a pet, running her hands through his hair and down his back. Bryan purred like a kitten and humped the air like a bitch in heat. She placed a collar around his neck but he was afraid to tell her it was a little too tight so he suffered in silence. It was a good discomfort, one he would gladly suffer for the Divine Mistress that stood above him. She put a leash on his collar and pulled him in the direction of a back room. The carpet under his knees felt good compared to the concrete but the pain in his nuts was ever present.

She opened the door to a playroom and pulled him in unceremoniously. The furnishings were sparse but there was no denying it was a room for hedonistic desires. Not quite a dungeon and far from a spare bedroom, there were toys and tables, and chairs that had been designed for play. Derrick was there, naked and erect, oiled and glistening, a vision of ebony perfection. She dropped the leash and commanded Bryan to stay, like a puppy being trained. Desire and Derrick conspired, whispering and planning what to do with their toy. Derrick assisted her in undressing, the way they interacted making them look like dancers more so than anything else. Her body was a work of art. Her skin looked like the smoothest velvet and her curves were a sculptor’s dream.

She walked over to a table and picked up a strapon. Derrick helped her put it in place as Bryan began to whimper unconsciously at the thought of what was to come. “Silence, bitch,” as she continued to secure her harness and what looked like a nine inch black dildo to her sleek frame. Bryan was dizzy with lust and confusion.

Desire sat in a chair and motioned for Bryan to come closer. “This, my pet, is going to be very simple. You are going to suck my dick until you prove that you are a cock craved whore and then you are going to get your slutty white boycunt pounded by the most formidable Black cock that you’ve ever seen. Does that sound okay with you?” 

Bryan nodded furiously as he was anxious to get underway. She leaned back in the chair casually and Bryan took in every inch of her beauty. Her face was a face that could launch a thousand ships; her body was athletic and toned. Her nipples were dark and puffy and Bryan longed to feel them in is mouth. Her legs were out of this world. They seemed to go on forever. She stroked her strapon like it was real flesh. He approached her with confidence. He had sucked his own toys enough to know exactly how to do it. He had prepared himself to deepthroat dildos that didn’t look humanly possible to swallow.

His assault was calculated. He wanted to show her a cocksucker like she had never seen before. He had often fantasized what it would be like to have such a huge dick and he had practiced sucking his toys the way he would want his cock sucked if he were a black man. He maintained eye contact with her as he began to lick sensuously up and down the shaft. He licked the head and circled it with his tongue and began stroking it with his hand methodically. He licked up and down the shaft, inching his mouth closer and closer to the sweet pussy that lay underneath, the scent of it making his little red cock leak profusely with precum. He placed his mouth over the head and began his descent. Barely more than half of it was in his mouth and it was already hitting the back of his throat. It was thicker than he had ever sucked before but he was determined to show her that he was a good slut for her.

Her words fueled his passion to do an even better job. “Come on you dirty white cocksucker, show me what a slut you are for my juicy black cock. Suck my beautiful black dick. Tell me you love it.”

He went into a cocksucking frenzy. “Yes, Mistress. I’m in love with your big, black cock. It tastes so good in my mouth. I love being your white cocksucker. Feed me your cum.” He was sucking harder and faster, taking it deeper and deeper. His spit was dripping down the side; he wanted to be like the white whores he saw in all the videos that gave messy blowjobs.

She grabbed the back of his head and forced him all the way down on her “cock.” He choked and gasped for air and he felt like he was going to pass out. The head of the black toy was deep in his throat and he felt like he was going to puke. He kept sucking. He sucked and she pumped until they were in a rhythm. He was taking every inch down his throat in every thrust. Every time she would let him up for air, she would ask him, “Do you want some more?” He nodded affirmatively but he eagerness was evidenced in the fact that he wouldn’t stop sucking and licking that sexy black strapon.

“You’re ready to get your pussy fucked, aren’t you?” He nodded uncontrollable, only stopping for a few seconds before he continued to lick and suck and swallow her strapon. “Derrick, get him ready for me, will you please?”

Bryan froze for a second. He was past the point of pretense or care and all he wanted was to be used. He arched his back as he felt lubricant being poured on his hole. Derrick’s fingers were longer, thicker, and penetrated him more completely than Desire’s fingers had previously done. He moaned in appreciation of the stimulation and sucked that much more. She kept taunting him with her words,” you want to get fucked by a big black cock, to be a white faggot whore to be used by the Superior Black race, don’t you?

He didn’t have time to answer. His mouth was crammed full of the strapon and he was sucking it like a whore. At that instant, he felt the head of Derrick’s dick at the entrance to his pussy. He reached his hand back to feel its size and to guide it in but he wasn’t prepared for what he encountered. It was as thick as a beer can and twice as long.

“Noooo,” he cried out, “I can’t take that, please no.” The words coming out of his mouth rang of fear but his heart told a different tale. He craved the pain of being used by Black people to rid him of his horrible guilt, to make him feel as inferior had he knew himself to be. He wanted to be fucked like a white rag doll and he wanted to earn his punishment. The head burned as it penetrated him and he turned back to suck the strapon to distract himself. Desire had unhooked the dildo and spread her legs wide and presented him with her wet slit.

Bryan was experiencing sensory overload. A Black man was about to fuck him with the biggest black cock he had ever seen and before him was a sexy Black woman shoving her pussy in his face. He cried out, “Fuck me. Fuck my mouth, Fuck my pussy. Use me. Fuck me!!!” Tears formed in his eyes. He was lowered to a mass of flesh and lust at the hands of these Ebony gods.

The cock in his ass pushed its way past his sphincter and deep into his bowels. It hurt. It was the kind of pain ushered in by the grandest pleasure. The sweet, sexy pussy in his face tasted like heaven. He felt what he previously thought was impossible . . . Derrick’s balls were firmly against his own. He was impaled on that massive meat.

He licked the clit in his face furiously as he wanted his Mistress to come in his mouth. “More . . . more . . . more,” he kept chanting.

Derrick began slapping his ass and calling him names and it sent Bryan into a lust-driven high. The pounding was harder now; he was being fucked without mercy. His guts ached, his prostate had never had that sort of stimulation and he was eating the wet musky cunt of his sexy Nubian Mistress. His tears were uncontrollable. His balls were aching. He started stroking his own cock uncontrollably as he unsnapped the cock ring and let out a cry. His cum exploded from his prick as Desire held his head to her spasming pussy and Derrick unloaded blast after thick blast of thick, hot cum in his well used pussy. He passed out from the pleasure and the pain.

It was early morning when they dropped him off at the parking lot of the gay bar where they met. They had used him in so many delicious and unspeakable ways he couldn’t remember them all. They were kinder to him then when they first met, treating him like a pet now more than a plaything. He was desperate for some sign that he had pleased them. “Will I see you again? Would you like to use me some more?” The longing in his eyes a telltale sign of the delight he had taken in being fucked so completely.

“Know that tonight was child’s play compared to what you will experience again,” Desire said. They drove off into the early morning, masters of dominant pleasure.

Copyright 2004

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Alternative Intimacy

Great sex doesn’t always have to fit narrow definitions. True pleasure can be achieved when partners allow themselves to experience passion without prejudice, sensuality without censor. Journey with me as I open the bedroom door on an Afrocentric couple who has chosen to shed the rules and regulations of classic conservatism and who has chosen to expand their boundaries and explore all that life has to offer.

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Wednesday, May 17, 2006

I am Black

What do you see when you see me? Do you see responsibility and dignity encoded in my DNA? Do you see generations of survival and struggle in my eyes? Open your third eye and see that I am Black. I am a black woman with the burdens, trials, and tribulations that come along with that honor. Don’t look at the color of my skin to see my blackness, that the sun has graced me with its kisses. See my blackness and my femininity as intricately intertwined and divinely gifted, see my blackness as my nature and my demeanor, not the way society has narrowly defined me. The realization of my true place as a black woman did not come until I let go of my insecurities and fears, my false beliefs that kept me separated from my other half. My soul was incomplete without the presence of my Nubian king. He waited patiently for me to grow and mature, she waited for me to wear the crown that had my name inscribed on it so that we could reign together. Now that I have found him, I will not forsake his love. My thoughts are filled with ways I can bring a smile to his lips, those sweet and seductive lips that make my knees weak and my palms sweaty when they gently touch my cheek . . . my brow. I am filled with the need to give him pleasure like he’s never known before, to bring him satisfaction until he passes out from sensory overload. Laying my head on his chest, finding that spot that belongs only to me fills me with a profound joy and peace like I’ve never known before. With his arms wrapped tightly around my brown curves, I know my challenge is to show him my emotional wounds and let him heal them with his compassion and his love. I’m humbled by the ways I’ve grown with him and his ability to see me as a complete human being, not just an object to acquire. She is the reason for me being and I’m made whole in his arms.

Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK

The Great Afrikan-Centered Debate

Try as I might to get the Afrikan-centered community involved in this dialogue, they seem to think it’s not Afrikan centered to discuss sexuality, especially any topics that they deem Eurocentric. I am always confronted with the argument that AfroerotiK is not Afrikan-centered because it addresses homosexuality and the Afrikan-centered community denounces homosexuality in all of its forms.

Because I am an outspoken member of the Afrikan-centered community and bisexual, I will address those claims, defend my position, and outline how AfroerotiK lends 100% of its energy to the promotion of an Afrikan-centered ideology. AfroerotiK’s mission, first and foremost is to educate and enlighten Africans born in America. To do so, you have to reach people where they are. As president, owner, and sole driving force behind AfroerotiK, I can say that while I would love for all descendents of kidnapped Africans throughout the Diaspora to embrace Africa as their cultural and spiritual homeland, I fully recognize that is a reality far from fruition. Black people, especially here in the US, usually want nothing to do with Africa and must be re-educated about our history, we must have to have the centuries old brainwashing that we have endured reprogrammed, we must look to challenge the way we see life and how we navigate the planet. Black sexuality is cancerous as is. There’s no question about it that what passes as healthy sexuality in the black community is leading us to an even further and further breakdown of communication and intimacy. How does one attempt to restore a healthy way to engage people sexually? Do you do so by condemning people for their beliefs and behaviors, or does the true Africentrist look to the origins of the behaviors, look to the gain an understanding of the person, and try to push themselves to expand their consciousness and embrace a higher way of looking at things?

Karenga, Dr. Ben and a host of other male Afrikan-centered scholars all denounce homosexuality as being outside of the parameters of Afrikan-centered ideology. While I respect their contributions to the academic body that makes up their scholarship, I respectfully submit that I don’t think that they evolved past the patriarchal and misogynist mindsets that have been engrained in African Americans for centuries. Black men have struggled for so long to try to gain the power that white men have had, they are hard pressed to accept a reality that says that women are equal, that homosexuality doesn’t determine one’s masculinity or femininity, or that there just may be another way to look at life than the knee jerk conservatism that we’ve been fed. To simply denounce homosexuality as wrong and not consider that their may be other alternatives to heterosexuality is a Euro-centered as one can possibly be. To imply that there is only one way and anything else is wrong is exactly what the slave master would have wanted us to believe, so to use that same line of reasoning to condemn people within our community is absurd. The Afrikan-centered community’s failure to embrace homosexuality is the exact same behavior expressed in the Christian community whereby the congregation and choir is littered with gay men and turns a blind eye to their behaviors. Both mindsets are flawed and both need to be addressed if we as a people are to move forward to a truly healthy Afrikan-centered paradigm.

Sobunfu Some, ( in her work, The Spirit of Intimacy: Ancient African Teachings in the Ways of Relationships, wrote of the gatekeepers, or individuals who were homosexual and were regarded as spiritual sentinels between the earth plane and the heavens. She clearly outlines how homosexuality was NOT regarded as a sin in pre-colonial African communities, but rather revered as a sacred gift and homosexuals were revered, not reviled. Both she and her husband, Malidoma, have repeatedly spoken out that this belief that homosexuality is an unnatural from an African viewpoint is wrong. Rather than accept the research and observation of African scholars who have bridged the Eastern and Western cultures, who have explored both spiritual and earthly realms, those that claim to be Africentric in many cases, insist that homosexuality is wrong and there’s no room for discussion.

Many of the behaviors and practices of contemporary homosexuals can be seen as wrong, but they don’t have a corner on that market. For as many promiscuous and manipulative homosexuals there are, there are ten times as many heterosexuals committing the same or more egregious offenses, debasing the intent of what sex should be about. The gender of the person that one engages in sex with has little or nothing to do with engaging in sex as a vehicle for communication, a way to share intimacy, and a medium of meditation and connection to the One Most High. If two individuals come together in love, respecting and cherishing one another, committed to fostering growth and evolution in one another, it shouldn’t matter if they have the same genitals or not.

Homophobia is probably one of the most euro-centered beliefs one can foster. I strongly believe that bisexuality is the natural state of human beings. That does not mean that I think that given a chance, everyone will become a homosexual and procreation as we know it will cease. Afrikan-centered homophobia is based on the belief that if a man is homosexual then he will be less than a man. Do not for a minute believe that if a man desires to penetrated or engage in same sex eroticism, that makes him feminine or less of a man or is a woman desires to be intimate with another woman she is abnormal. There are a myriad of factors that contribute to an individual’s sexual preferences. Genetic factors, influences during essential childhood development stages, adolescent sexual abuse and molestation, societal and religious ingrained fears, and unexplainable sociological and psychological factors all contribute to a person’s sexual orientation. To suggest that melanin alone prohibits one from being attracted to the same gender is absurd.

How does who I sleep with have anything whatsoever to do with my ability to share my knowledge, to help heal my people, to embrace Africa as my cultural and spiritual homeland. I have had far too many brothas in the Africentric community try to fuck me and not even pretend to want a relationship with me. Is promiscuous, un-emotional, causal sex more Afrikan-centered than me loving a woman and building a strong, monogamous relationship? It’s funny how the Africentric community can INSIST upon the objectification of women vis-à-vis the perpetuation of polygamous relationships that are solely purposed to stroke the male sexual ego when there is more than enough evidence that many, many African cultures embraced matrilineal societies. It seems that Afrikan-centered has to mean catered to appease the ego to the heterosexual male or it’s not valid.

Male homophobia is almost too comical to debate. “That’s for exit only” “A real man doesn’t like that freaky stuff” That absurd rhetoric is from socialization and conditioning, and it’s not even close to being based on any sort of truth. I’ve said it before and I’m going to say it again. The prostate is a male sexual organ that is located within the rectum. It is HEALTHY for it to be stimulated. Sharing intimacy with a person that happens to have the same genitals as you does NOT decrease your ability to be honest, to communicate effectively. “Gay” behaviors and homosexuality are related but different issues. It’s closed minded to suggest that the ONLY healthy relationships are those between men and women. I guess that’s why I’m no longer Christian and hold no ties to the guilt ridden Judeo Christian rules that tell me that I’m going to burn in hell for loving another woman while a man that fucks any and every woman he can without regard for her feelings gets the stamp of Afrocentric approval? Indeed.

What a beautiful world it would be if anyone was free to find intimacy with whomever added the most value to his or her life without any silly restrictions. It’s difficult to imagine a world where people sought out intimacy and not sex, and that genitals were insignificant in the pursuit of true communion. I guess I’m alone in my vision. I am committed to the healthy expression of Black sexuality. That includes any and all sexual expression that is SAFE, sane, and consensual. I 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. I seek to foster the intimate, communicative sexual expression of couples, regardless of gender or orientation. 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 relationship. I 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.

My acceptance and willingness to embrace ALL people of African descent, regardless of their sexual or gender orientation, is far more Afrikan centered than only acknowledging those that are invested in perpetuating patriarchy. Connecting to an individual’s spirit is far more holistic and Afrikan-centered than homophobia.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Feeling Particularly Ugly

I’ve been struggling with my image the last couple of days. There seems to be a pattern in my life that the men that I’m most attracted to do not find me physically attractive. In the third grade, it was Kim Williams, who had a huge afro like Foster Slyvers. (Hotline Hotline) He was light skinned and I thought he was the finest thing since Michael Jackson (when he was black with a big assed nose). He liked my best friend Lydia Cherry who was also light skinned. They boy who liked me was Tony Davis. Tony Davis looked like a skeleton with some brown skin he was so skinny. He would write me little love letters, put cut out hearts on them, and glitter. He was crazy about me through high school. Needless to say, I wasn’t really attracted to Tony.

In Junior High, on the first day of school, I saw the boy that would have my heart for six years. Darren Davis. I remember the sensation of seeing him for the very first time to this day. I was walking down the stairs and he was coming up. It was right after homeroom and he turned the corner and bumped into me and my heart skipped a beat. I said right then and there that that was the man that I was going to marry. Within a week, he was going steady (that’s not what we called it, that sounds like something from Happy Days) with my best friend of five years, guess who, Lydia Cherry. They dated for two or three years until which time they broke up and he started dating Jenny Colombo, who was white. They dated for about two years and then he and Lydia finished up high school back together. The entire six years, I was his summer lover. School would let out, he would come over to my house and, eventually when we were about 16, have sex every single day. On the first day of school, he would ignore me like I was a leper for the entire school year, kissing and holding hands with Lydia or Jenny. For six years, the same pattern repeated.

The boys who liked me in high school were the outcasts. There were two brothers, Mark and I forget the other one’s name Clark. They both were into heavy metal and had crusty stuff in their eyes and white gunk in the corners of their mouths and didn’t fit in with the black crowd. One of them asked me to the prom on the day of the prom. Needless to say, I sat home on the night of the prom and watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I did not find either one of them attractive.

In college, I dated the same guy for three and a half years. We were in love but when I met him I was truly not attracted to him. He was attractive but he was white with strawberry blonde hair and he didn’t look anything like Darren Davis who was 6’1” and chocolate. I was so in love with him that I didn’t look at another guy the entire time we were together.

My ex husband looked almost like Darren Davis’ twin. Actually, people used to confuse he and I for twins. He was tall, had a fantastic body, brown, and looked like the boy next door. I was attracted to him the very first second I laid eyes on him. He left me, for surprise, a white woman.

The latter half of my twenties I would go out with men who I didn’t find particularly attractive but I liked something that they had to offer on the inside. I felt I owed it to them to be open and receptive to the person that they were and not the package it came in. I found myself being patronizing because I was really only trying to be a nice person and not aroused on a physical level.

My early thirties . . . enter Emmanuel Bell. I remember the second I laid eyes on him. I remember the feeling of knowing he was standing behind me before he said anything. He took my breath away. Not only was I physically attracted to him, I was intellectually drawn to him. He, however, is only attracted to women with light skin and long hair. Well, that’s not true. They can be Latina or Asian, they don’t have to be light skinned black women. For 7 years, I tried to get him to love me. For 7 years, I tried to get him to see that we were perfect for each other. For 7 years, he fucked me and pursued every other woman who was light skinned and high maintenance. Derrick Scott, not attracted to me. Billy Odum, not attracted to me. I have a string of men that think I’m the best thing since sliced bread and all of whom are beautiful . . . on the inside.

Anyone noticing a pattern? From the time when I was 8 years old till now, the men that I’m attracted to are attracted to light skinned or white women. The men that are attracted to me, I don’t really find physically attractive. I think I’ve done a reasonably good job of dealing with the issues of attracting men to me that make me feel like I have to prove that I’m worthy. That was an issue from my mother that I was trying to resolve. I’m really only attracted to Afrikan centered men now, so the whole issue of white/light beauty isn’t really an issue for me anymore.

That still leaves the issue of the fact that the vast majority of men who are attracted to me, are not men who give me chills shall we say. The men that I meet that I find attractive never seem to show interest in me. The men that would worship the ground I walk on are men I’m not sure I could feel a genuine physical attraction for.

Here’s my concern. If the men that find me attractive are men that I don’t find attractive and the men that I find attractive don’t find me attractive . . . isn’t that really an indication that I’m not as physically attractive as I think I am. Granted, I don’t think I’m a knock out, but I think I’m okay. But if I’m honest with myself, the men who I don’t find attractive must say the same thing about themselves.

Maybe what I see in the mirror is not appealing to the men that I find attractive because my perception is distorted. Maybe I’ll forever chase after men that think I’m ugly because I’m truly not as attractive as I once thought I was. I’m not sure that I ever thought I was attractive but I thought I was at least attractive enough to be appealing to the men that I found attractive. I remember having honest humility in my life and saying, “There’s no way in hell that he would find me attractive, I’m not anywhere close to his level.” It think it’s healthy to have an honest assessment of what you bring to the table.
I have this fear now that I’m about to achieve my goals, now that I’m finally putting to bed some of the demons from my childhood, that I’m going to meet some amazing man who knocks my socks off and he’s going to think I’m ugly. I’ve been staring in the mirror, trying to be honest with myself. What I see looking back at me isn’t very pretty. Maybe I’m seeing myself truly for the very first time in life. Perhaps the men that are most attracted to me are so because I’m resonating on their level and not the level of the men that I’ve been pursuing. Part of me wants to think that really pretty and that the men that I find attractive will find me attractive as well. I’d love to have a man in my life who looks at me and says, “Damn, my baby is so fine.” I know I’m not attractive to quite a few men because I have no hair and long hair is the standard of beauty, even when it’s nappy. I don’t know. Maybe if I hope to find partnership I have to look past the outside and find companionship with someone who isn’t really aesthetically pleasing to me and accept that I’m not aesthetically pleasing to the world.

Essential Definitions

I can see now that this blog is going to be race relations. I get so many people sending me messages daily, using terms that they don't even know the meaning of. Time for a lesson.

Ebony - Wood of several species of trees of the genus Diospyros (family Ebenaceae), found widely in the tropics. The best is very heavy, almost black, and from heartwood only. Because of its color, durability, hardness, and ability to take a high polish, ebony is used for cabinetwork and inlaying, piano keys, knife handles, and turned articles.

Ivory - (I thought everyone knew the definition but I've been shocked by the number of people that had no clue) Hard white substance that makes up the tusks of such animals as elephants, walruses, and preserved mammoths. It is prized for its beauty, durability, and suitability for carving. In ancient times it was treasured as highly as gold and precious stones. Most ivory used commercially once came from Africa; sales of ivory declined in the 20th century as the populations of African elephants shrank, and worldwide concern about endangered elephant populations have led to bans on the export and import of ivory.

Nubian - (The most used word that people have NO clue as to its meaning.) There is no modern location called Nubia. The area known by this term lies today partly in Egypt and partly in the Republic of the Sudan. A large portion of the northern part of ancient Nubia currently lies submerged under the reservoir formed behind Egypt's High Dam at Aswan. Nubia is the homeland of Africa's earliest black culture with a history which can be traced from 3100 BC onward through Nubian monuments and artifacts. More than fifty ancient pyramids and royal tombs rise out of the desert sands in Nubia. The people of Nubia are referred to as Nubians. Sistas, when men approach you and call you a beautiful Nubian queen, ask them to name one. Don't just be complacent and let it slide.

Chocolate - Chocolate is food prepared from ground roasted cacao beans. It is consumed as candy, used to make beverages, and added as a flavoring or coating for confections and baked products. I am a Black woman. As a Black woman, I am far more complex than a simple confectionary treat. I have a personality, identity and history that make me a Black woman. For that reason, I don't want to be called chocolate. Chocolate is NOT a race and I'm too proud of mine to tolerate someone calling me a food and thinking it's cute or innocent. If you want my affection, call me what I am.

Colored - (I can't get over how many times people still use this term) The term colored was used as recently as the 60s to denote Black people. Every person has color so it's not only an inaccurate description but its origins were racist and meant to be demeaning. "Person of color" is more accurate when describing the 90% of the world's population that is not Caucasian.

Afro - (As in Afro-American) Afro was a term that coined after slavery because Black people didn't want to be associated with Africa, they had been indoctrinated to think that anything African was wrong and bad. There is no Afroland, no Afro language, there is no race of Afro people, and thus it should not be used to identify anyone's ethnicity or nationality. An Afro is a hairstyle and Africa is a continent, not a country. African Americans are an amalgamation of many African ethnicities that were kidnapped from Africa, crossbred like livestock, and raised to disassociate themselves with any traditional cultural identifiers.

Negro - Spanish for Black. The first European enslavers were Portuguese, in 1444, and it was used to identify Africans. Again, there is not Negroland, no Negro language and thus is inaccurate in defining a people. English speaking enslavers adopted the word Negro to nigger to the derogatory and offensive meaning dark skinned people of Africa that were something less than human, vile, and repugnant.

Nigger, nigga, niggah (or any other spelling of the word) - Nigger is not now, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be a term of affection. It is used today in the exact same context that it was used in slavery, to indicate a Black person, specifically a man, a black person with little education, or a Black person that doesn't conform to white standards of acceptable behavior. Any slave narrative will reveal the use of the word as commonplace as it is used today, except today, it's considered entertainment. During slavery it was the only term Black people had to describe themselves and they used it because they believed themselves to be niggers. It is used in much the same way today. Black people with education, money, and a sense of history don't use the word to describe themselves, they use it to describe the portion of that has suffered the most generational oppression and disadvantage. Those people at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder use it, not because they have money, education, means, or a sense of history but because they don't know themselves to be anything other than niggers.

Racism - Racism is an ideological, structural and historic stratification process by which the population of European descent, through its individual and institutional distress patterns, intentionally has been able to sustain, to its own best advantage, the dynamic mechanics of upward or downward mobility (of fluid status assignment) to the general disadvantage of the population designated as non-white (on a global scale), using skin color, gender, class, ethnicity or nonwestern nationality as the main indexical criteria used for enforcing differential resource allocation decisions that contribute to decisive changes in relative racial standing in ways most favoring the populations designated as 'white.' Contrary to popular white belief, racism is more than wearing a white sheet and burning a cross.

Language has power, be careful how you use it. Ignorance is not bliss.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Help me Define Bi-sexual

I’ve had countless conversations with people and I’ve asked them if they were bisexual. Almost 100% of the time, they say that they aren’t but then tell me of bisexual experiences. It’s women as well as men. It seems awfully delusional to me. The excuses for why they aren’t bisexual are irrational. They claim they aren’t bisexual because they don’t actively go out “seeking” sex with the same gender, but if it happens it happens. I have men say that they aren’t bisexual because they only engage in oral sex with other men. I’ve heard the ever-popular, “I don’t like labels,” but they never seem to mind the label of heterosexual, just bisexual. I will always hear, “ I am not bisexual because I’m not attracted to (the same gender) emotionally, just sexually.” That would be great if we were defining the word bi-emotional. This sista yesterday told me that she wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was bisexual. How is that logical? The most popular excuse for why people don’t consider themselves bisexual, by far, is, “I PREFER sex with the opposite gender.” Well, of course, if you have sex with people of the same gender and you don’t really enjoy it as much as you do when you are having sex with someone of the opposite gender, that means you can be considered heterosexual. I guess I’m supposed to believe that they were having sex with someone of the same sex and saying, “This really sucks, I’d rather be with a person of the opposite gender.” As my uncle would say, “Dain Bramaged!”

The definition of bisexual in the dictionary is of, relating to, or having a sexual orientation to persons of either sex. Nowhere does it say, “only if you initiate sex with persons of the same sex,” “only if you like sex just as much as you do with people of the opposite gender,” and I don’t think it can be interpreted as saying, “only if you are emotionally attracted to the same gender.”

Women, who have been in RELATIONSHIPS with other women, claim they aren’t bisexual because they don’t think that they will ever be with another woman again. These same women are usually the same women who will say it’s disgusting if a man is with another man but yet they can somehow rationalize that their bisexual relationship didn’t happen. Men I can understand. Black men are demonized for being bisexual. We can blame them for everything wrong in the world. Bisexual women who deny they are bisexual and THEN demonize bisexual black men are so far out there for me, I can’t even wrap my mind around that one.

Mind you, white men don’t seem to have the same inability to identify themselves as bisexual. They claim bisexuality if they just masturbate to fantasies of other men. I would ALMOST be willing to grant people who have never engaged in actual sex with someone of the same gender the title of bi-curious, but at a certain point, you have to be able to say that you are more than just curious, you just haven’t figured out the best way to have a bisexual experience.

I’m bisexual. I have the ability to find arousal in both women and men. It’s rare that I find a woman with whom I’m attracted but that doesn’t negate my orientation. I am not attracted to most women. I would prefer to form a relationship with a man. That still doesn’t make me less bisexual.

For me heterosexual would be anyone who has never been aroused by a person of the same gender and who has never had a consensual sexual experience with a person of the same gender. There aren’t many people that can fit in that definition. If you can’t say either of those things, news flash, you are bisexual.

What is your definition of bisexual?

Strange Bedfellows

Shakespeare said, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.” It seems that lust, much more so than misery, makes for some the most interesting boudoir companions. Such was the case for Pamela, Michael, and Imani. From all outward appearances, the trio of friends looked like a cross section of Black America. Pam was typically conservative in her demeanor and appearance. You know the kind; you would never suspect she was a seething hotbed of sexuality until you got her behind closed doors. Michael was quickly climbing the corporate ladder. He had all the makings of a playboy; he was fine, smart, charming, and focused on getting the most enjoyment out of life he possibly could. Imani was the Bohemian granola girl type. At any given moment she could go off on a tirade about Pan Africanism, holistic living, or the perils of misogynist videos on the developing psyche of Black children. As unique and diverse as they were individually, they functioned all together differently as a unit.

Collectively, Pam, Michael, and Imani were lovers. Not in the typical modern day scenario where the guy fulfills his varying tastes for women in different beds and the women pretend not to know of his extracurricular activities. No, once a month, these three individuals came together in a “lifestyle” club to revel in sensual exploration and erotic discovery.

It would all begin with an email, Re: Let’s get together. Pam would usually initiate the momentum and Imani and Michael would soon follow along. With the date and time finalized, the anticipation would build as the three went about their daily business knowing that the upcoming Friday night would be an exercise in hedonism.

Friday’s were the night of choice for the threesome. The club was one of the emerging alternative venues where adults came to explore their primal side. The club was usually populated with as many blacks as whites while single men, couples and adventurous single women roamed around in various degrees of arousal and undress looking for a chance to be someone that society said was taboo. There were men who wanted to see their wives fucked by other men . . . or women, and men that wanted to satisfy their exhibitionist side. There were those that wanted to get what they couldn’t at home and of course those that just wanted to watch and jerk off. The women were not as easy to read. A few looked like they couldn’t get dates any other way than in an anonymous, dark sex club. Most were attractive and comfortable with their sexuality but needing something different. It was clear that within the walls of Club Eros, society’s narrow standards of acceptable sexual behavior were being pushed and stretched to their very limit.

All eyes would be on Pam, Michael, and Imani whenever they would walk in the door. Their individual attractiveness was multiplied collectively. Pam and Imani wore clothing to accentuate their delicious, dark bodies. Pam had the body of a brick shithouse. She was thick and round and packin’ in all the right places. Imani, putting away her usual Afrocentric attire, would ooze of sexuality showing off her statuesque frame. The hours Mike spent in the gym showed well in his form-fitting shirt. Mostly, they turned heads because they were so comfortable with one another.

Every man in the place had every right to be jealous of Mike. He had two incredibly sexy women that were at his disposal but secure enough with themselves to steer the ship of their own sexuality as well. It was fascinating to see them in action: kissing, touching, caressing each other openly and loving all the attention. Pam and Imani often amused themselves kissing each other while sitting on opposite sides of Michael, stroking his raging hard-on through his pants, while spectators gathered around.

On one particular night, Imani was feeling particularly daring and she pulled Michael’s dick out and began to sensually lick and suck up and down while Pamela knelt behind her to finger her. Imani could feel Pam’s heavy breasts on her back as she turned momentarily to suck those glorious nipples. Pam offered up her tits and threw her head back in ecstasy, reveling in the pleasure she was receiving.

Mike, noticing it was time to spread out and have some more room, interrupted the ladies momentarily and took them by the hand to a room where they could be more comfortable. Those that were regular spectators in the club knew to follow closely behind because the show always proved to be spectacular.

Inside the room, Pamela undressed, lay back on the bed, spread her sexy legs and began fingering herself. Mike almost couldn’t wait to taste her but he knew that it would be better to undress sooner rather than later when things tended to get more heated. The whispers and sounds of appreciation from the female onlookers made him proud of his body but it didn’t distract him from his mission. He loved eating pussy more than anything and he was damn good at it. He was enamored with a woman’s nana like a connoisseur loved a vintage Merlot. He savored every nuance of Pam’s unique taste and drank of her succulent juices.

Imani loved to watch Pam and Michael in action. She held Pam’s legs in the air as Michael’s tongue worked its magic. He ran his tongue over and over her clit, in and out of her pussy, licking and sucking her gently at times, ravenously at others. He sucked her pussy lips in his mouth and drank of her sweet juices. Time and time again he brought her to the edge of orgasm with his mouth and lips only to deny her her journey to bliss. Pamela’s conservative demeanor was nothing more than a persona she easily discarded and she made sure that Mike was getting good instructions. “ Mmmmm, lick my pussy. Oh shit. I love the way you eat me. Damn, you lick pussy better than a woman.”

“Oh really?” Imani chimed in, “let’s see about that.” She placed her legs over Pam’s head and asked Michael if she could have the honor. He moved out of the way, his face covered with juices, to watch his two lovers pleasure each other. It was virtually impossible to sit back as a spectator however. Michael began caressing the intertwining silky smooth limbs of his lovers . . . and stroking his own hardness as well. Every man that had crammed into the small room to watch was now jerking off as the two women sensually licked each other’s pussies. The moans, groans, sights, smells, and sounds of beautiful feminine lovemaking filled the room. Pam climaxed first, wrapping her legs around Imani’s head and begging her not to stop sucking her clit. Not one to disappoint, Imani drank all of her friend’s cum down and prepared to execute her own orgasm shortly thereafter. It took but a few short moments for Imani to orgasm as she sat up and rode Pam’s tongue and came hard in her mouth.

With barely a moment to catch her breath, the three began kissing each other passionately. Not one to be denied, Michael grabbed Imani and placed her across his face to taste her. Variety is, as they say, the spice of life. Pamela, needing a different level of satisfaction, climbed on Mike’s dick and slid her wet folds down on him and began using his dick like it was her own personal dildo. The two women kissed each other and caressed each other’s breasts as they were getting pleasure from Michael below. Michael worked his fingers into Imani’s ass and sent her into fits of orgasmic overload.

There was no time for rest. “Imani, you have to get some of this dick,” Pam moaned, as the three climbed higher and higher to a plane of indescribable passion. They shifted positions yet again and Imani was on her knees, looking back in desperation, begging for Michael to fuck her. He knew that his dick hit her in all the right spots when she was getting fucked doggy style so he prepared himself for a wild ride. Pam, not one to be denied, spread her legs in front of Imani and invited her girlfriend to sample her juices once again. Actually, she said something closely resembling, “make me squirt in your mouth, Imani. Suck my pussy until I shoot my cum.”

Michael eyes practically rolled back in his head as he penetrated Imani. Her pussy gripped his dick and she was so wet he could actually hear the squishing sounds as he stroked her in and out. The silky smooth walls of her pussy milked him as the curve in his dick manipulated her g-spot perfectly.

Imani was in another world. She had a dick made for her pussy inside her, fucking her rhythmically, and the phat, pink, sweetness of her lover’s pussy in her mouth. She managed to eek out, “Fuck me harder. Ohhhh yes, fuck me,” in between tongue-fucking her sexy female partner. Imani was the first to explode in orgasmic bliss, her third for the evening, which soon triggered Mike and Pam to cum as well. Moaning and groaning, fucking and sucking, they all yelled out as pleasure overtook them.

There was never any jealousy or any feelings of discomfort in the afterglow. The three shared a bond, a unique friendship that defied definition. They kissed and giggled as the crowd dissipated until the next time they would come together to share in each other’s sensual selves. Their day-to-day realities were vastly different but their connection was nothing less than rare and beautiful. Lust, it seems, makes for strange yet sexy bedfellows.

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

Black Leaders

I hear it all the time, “There are no Black leaders.” There are plenty of Black leaders but there are no Black followers. The civil rights movement was a movement against an oppressor. The movement of today has to be one of consciousness. We have to dismantle the beliefs that hold us captive. It’s easy to form a movement when the enemy doesn’t look like you. How do you establish a movement when the enemy is staring you in the mirror?

There are plenty of people out here with messages of enlightenment but our messages aren’t pretty, aren’t popular, they aren’t even easy to digest. The beliefs that we have that are killing us are ones that were beaten into us for hundreds of years. They are so deeply ingrained in our psyches, so much a fabric of our belief systems, that people would rather die then to change the things that are killing us.

I don’t know why I have been given this vision. I used to be like the masses. I used to be just like the people that rally against me; I accepted what my mother told me, what her parents had told her, what had been passed down for generations since the first generation of slaves were born in this country. Africans who were enslaved could hold on to truth, hold on to traditions. Slaves born in this country had their consciousness shaped by the most oppressive form of chattel slavery known to man. No one except for a few of us can acknowledge it but I know it to be true. I know that the psychological ravages that occurred during slavery are what keep us so dysfunctional. I see it clearly but the masses insist that that which is most dysfunctional is healthy and right.

Who is willing to stand up and say, “Hmmm, it’s not healthy for me to hate my natural hair. I will forever be in conflict if I inherently hate that which The Creator intended me to be.” We already know that men aren’t capable of hearing constructive criticism, yes criticism, without claiming they are being bashed. Their behavior collectively is foul, immature, and far too often abhorable. Yes, Black men need to be spanked, disciplined, and criticized and they need to step up to the plate and start correcting their shit. Black men don’t want to be criticized at all. They want to hold on to oppressive, misogynist, homophobic, sexist, dysfunctional beliefs and defend them to the death. They feel as if they get a free ride because of their penis to never have to look in the mirror and correct their own stankness.

I can name all the things that make us unhealthy and people will find 1002 reasons to justify the most fucked up beliefs. Black men and their obsession with light skin and long hair, black women holding on to the irrational and detrimental “strong black woman” archetype, our abusive child rearing practices, our obsession with money, the way we see sex, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US is infected by belief systems that are tainted with poison, myself included. The way we raise our children is wrong, the way we eat is wrong, the God we serve is wrong, everything we’ve learned since our enslavement is crippling to us and is dead wrong. Those of us that are working to free ourselves from those chains are the leaders, fighting a war against ignorance. Ignorance reigns supreme in this land. I’m working on mine every day. I’ve made miraculous transformations. I’m open to learning from people who are more enlightened than I, who’ve made miraculous transformations in their lives. There are so few people who have but the knowledge is out there. Even those of us who have freed ourselves from some of the bonds are still enslaved, thinking that we have achieved perfection. I’m still searching, I’m still seeking truth, I’m still meditating and affirming that I am open and receptive to Thy loving spirit of Truth.

I had a conversation with a woman yesterday, a woman with whom I’ve had a very adversarial relationship. I asked her if she had any women friends. And she said not really. I asked why and she went on to say that women were catty, manipulative, and only concerned about dick. That sort of thinking is so warped and dysfunctional it’s scary. It’s the ultimate form of self-hatred. Hating women when you are one ranks like 785 on a pathological scale of 1-10. All of a sudden, it was perfectly clear why our relationship had been so contentious. It’s a pathology that is pervasive, I’d dare to say that the majority of black women harbor thoughts like that. She claims that the only reason she has women friends now is because she became more egotistical and selfish. She thinks that’s healthy. This whole, “women are untrustworthy, women are evil” drama is infinitely pathological. She went on to say, “Yeah, those women who don’t like other women are really sad.” She couldn’t even see how fucked up she was for trying to attack other women.

I lost a dear friend because he refused to look at his own fucked up patterns. Rather than deal with his own shit, he attacks everyone else. He repeats the same dumb behaviors all the time and then goes into severe depression and his solution is that he’s NEVER going to be in another relationship again. That lasts for two weeks. He would rather attack me, me who’s been nothing but nice to him, rather than deal with his own shit.

When the demons are internal, it’s virtually impossible to get people to change. Who’s going to go to a sit in for healing self-hatred? Uhmmm, no one. We can’t fight any outside system of oppression until we heal ourselves and we ain’t trying to heal ourselves. To do that, we have to say that what we know and who we are is flawed. We aren’t flawed because of our own doing, we are flawed because of the system of slavery. But to get people to see that is next to impossible. Trust me, I know.

You can’t have a leader when people are tied to dysfunction and refuse to change. People refuse to listen to logic. Sometimes, I wish I was still unconscious. Sometimes I wish I didn’t see things the way I do now. Ignorance is truly bliss.