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.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

The Petition to Keep CBS from Airing Racist Survivor.

The thirteenth season of CBS’ Survivor pits teams of African-American, Asian-American, Hispanic and White players against one another to compete for a million dollar prize. This blatant and offensive example of perpetuating racism is unacceptable. The choice to air this racist programming is nothing less than sensationalism for the sake of ratings. It seems that the producers of Survivor care nothing about a person standing on their individual merits; they want people to be judged by the color of their skin, not the content of their character.

Won't you sign the petition and forward this very important message on to as many people as you can.

Click HERE to Sign the Petition

You’s a punk mother fucking bitch

Yeah, you punk mother fucker, thinking you all that. You ain’t shit bitch, that’s right I called you a bitch. You talk shit all fucking day about how you all this and that and you ain't got shit to show for it ‘cept halitosis. You stand on the corner, grabbing your dick, but everybody know you ain’t packin. All that hot air you blow is just mental farts to compensate for the fact that you ain't jack. Whaaa, whaaaa, whaaa, you bitch and moan how everybody is trying to keep you down. You keeping yourself down by spending 18 hours a day fucking with XBox when you should be getting a job. You got babies over here and babies over der, not taking responsibility for any of em. And you cry how you are such a good black man and you can’t find a woman who will support you when you don’t do anything worth supporting. You’re lazy, dumb, broke and black, you ain’t good for nothing but a roll in the hay and sometimes not even that. You can’t eat pussy, you don’t last long, all you do is pump a few times to get yours and you’re gone. You smoke weed all day and you live in your mama’s basement.. You’re a loser bruh and it’s fact, you ain’t nothing but a punk ass little bitch mother fucker and there’s no doubt.

These are the lyrics to a new song I’m working on. It’s for all those men who defend offensive rap lyrics by saying that it’s not about ALL Black women. For all the men who don’t speak up about the offensive rap songs that degrade Black women, this goes out to you. It’s not about ALL Black men, just the ones that refuse to defend the honor of Black women by defending misogynist (c)rap. Put a beat to it and I got a platinum single right der. Now you know how it feels.

Seven Myths about Black Men

Someone recently posted in my yahoo group a list of 7 myths about Black men. The list was supposed to counter these lies with truth. Unfortunately, the list didn’t really address the core issues, it simply was a way for some poor soul to try to feel validated as a human being. I understand that need but it should have been done with much more introspection. Therefore, I’m going to step up to the plate and dismantle his list of lies and myths of Black manhood summarily and with efficacy.

Black men are morally and intellectually inferior.
The intellectual inferiority of Black PEOPLE, not just men, is directly related to the fact the educational system is designed to keep Black people stupid. Black PEOPLE are not inherently or genetically intellectually inferior. If you undereducate an entire race for hundreds of years, yes, unfortunately, you are going to have a race of people who aren’t intellectually superior. That’s not an indication of our capability or potential as a race, it’s just a manifestation of the fact that whites are the beneficiaries of a better education in this country. Poor nutrition, a staple in the black community, leads to lesser intellectual capacity as well. That’s not something that is inherent to Black people, it’s across racial lines. If a child is raised on sugar and processed food, they aren’t going to be able to have their brains develop properly because they lack the essential and key nutrients that stimulate brain function. Again, not inherent to Black people, it just so happens that we’ve been socialized to eat out of Styrofoam boxes, not gardens. Black people are just as capable of learning and intellectual superiority as any other race. Unfortunately, we were denied education for our first 250 years and it takes a lot longer to catch up. Unfortunately, the playing field isn’t level so we haven’t been able to catch up en masse the way we could have. There are plenty of examples of Black brilliance in spite of our handicaps and that speaks volumes to our potential and our natural intellectual gifts despite the roadblocks that white people have institutionalized to keep us oppressed. Moral inferiority is a joke. White people are so amoral it boggles my mind. Who else could start a war that kills thousands of people, endangers the environment for thousands of years, destroys hundreds of thousands of lives, for MONEY? Serial killers and pedophiles and bestiality . . . white people got immorality on lock down but the media is white so they have a vested interest in making us look immoral.

All black men are well-endowed and are better lovers.
Many, many, many Black men are better endowed. Not every single one, but a great many are. The reason why white slave masters were so intimidated by Black men is because they did in fact have larger penises. They would gather around in mobs and castrate Black men in order to feel empowered. The fact that Black men tend to have larger penises, and more muscle tone, which would make for a better lover, is not a myth. The myth comes in making their larger sexual organs and better skills something negative. The Black man is not a sexual savage. He should not be defined by his sexual skill or endowment. He is far MORE than just a big dick and a primal fuck. Sadly, most Black men have come to define their manhood as just that.

Black men prefer white women
White women are seen as the standard of beauty in this society. They have been put on a pedestal as the icon of beauty for hundreds if not thousands of years. Black women, in this country, have been told for hundreds of years, not only are we not beautiful, but that we are ugly and undesirable. It’s no great shock that many, many Black men subconsciously see white women as more attractive, better partners. We have a nation of black women who are trying to change their aesthetic to those of white women, wouldn’t it stand to reason that a woman who doesn’t have to have a relaxer to “correct” her nappy hair is better than one who does? Doesn’t it stand to reason that if a black boy is told that he is black and ugly that he would want to make sure that his kids have a chance at being mixed and beautiful? A great many black men see white women as more beautiful subconsciously. White people feed their subconscious lust for white women by saying, “love knows no color,” and thus allowing them never to heall their wounds and address their own issues of self hate. Thankfully, not every Black man prefers white women, but the failure as a culture to address the centuries of brainwashing Black people have endured, does in fact create a large percentage of black men who feel white women are more socially, sexually, and/or romantically desirable.

Black men are irresponsible fathers
Seven out of ten black children are born to single mothers. Black women are raising their boys in homes without fathers, in emotionally incestuous relationships that cripple their sons and make them incapable of accepting responsibility as adults. It’s a cycle that will repeat itself till the end of time unless we address the emotional maturity of black men. Parenting skills in Black men are dangerously lacking for the most part. Again, that’s not something that is inherent to us or a genetic trait that is passed down. It’s a manifestation of socialization and a byproduct of lessons learned, and unlearned, in slavery. African men were just that, men, and completely capable of raising their families. During slavery, breaking up the home, preventing men from being good fathers was essential to controlling the slave population. (THERE WAS NO GOD DAMN WILLIE LYNCH) The model for the black home was set when responsibility was taken from the black man and it’s damn near impossible to give it back to him now. Even when black men are present in the home, their parenting skills are usually based on a patriarchal “I’m the bread winner and the disciplinarian: model which is unhealthy as well. Are Black men incapable of being good fathers? Absolutely not. Are the vast majority of Black men emotionally crippled as to not lend themselves to being good fathers, unfortunately, yes, but it’s not an unfixable problem, its not something that in inherent to Black men because of genetics.

Black men are superior athletes and entertainers
Black men ARE superior athletes and entertainers. Again, the problem isn’t in stating that as a fact, it’s in relegating that to the only things Black men are capable of. No, not every single black man is a superior athlete or entertainer. Our naturally muscular bodies and our natural rhythm lend themselves well to sports, dancing, singing, playing music. There’s nothing wrong with that. The problem lies in saying that’s the ONLY thing Black men are capable of. The problem lies in relegating Black men to roles of entertainer or athlete. Are there some white men who can sing and dance and have muscular bodies? Of course. But no one is telling them that’s all they can be. Check it, white people wouldn’t have kidnapped and enslaved us if our bodies weren’t superior and our dark skin didn’t make it easy for them to differentiate us. Anyone who could survive the middle passage is a physically superior person, genetically. The fact that white people like to be entertained by us is more of a commentary on them than anything disparaging to us.

Black men are poor businessmen
I’ve never heard of this, Black men are poor businessmen, myth. I’ve heard the myth that black business are poorly run so I guess whatever Black man wrote this list co-opted the myth to fit black men. It’s almost redundant at this point to mention that there is nothing inherently inferior about Black people that makes us behave in negative ways OTHER THAN the set of circumstances that white people inflict on us. We aren’t as likely to have inherited businesses, trust funds, endowments, willed fortunes, and insurance policies to give us the capital to start and run a business. We also have, what I call, the Black people disease. We have been socialized to fear our own success; we would rather work for someone else. There’s no DNA code for Black people that renders us more likely to be an employee than an employer, it’s just that we have been taught to follow the rules, not make our own. White people are taught that they can do anything, its drilled into their heads from childhood, We are taught that we have to do whatever we can to barely stay alive and that we have to conform to do it. Those of us lucky enough to have gotten different messages are more than capable of running successful businesses.

Black men contributed nothing to the advancement of civilization
I’m not sure why gender is an issue here. Black PEOPLE, both men and women, were the architects of civilization. This propensity to erase women from history is yet another example of how black men have been socialized to accept the norms of the white man. Erasing Black women from history serves what purpose, to elevate Black men to a position of superiority? The need for black men to want to rule over Black women, to diminish our contribution is one learned in slavery and it’s self destructive.

Oddly enough, the most glaring myths about black men are missing. Black men are supposedly more criminal, drug addicted, and lazy. Those are the myths I would have love to seen addressed. In each of those instances, I think white people take the award, hands down. Stealing land, stealing people, stealing resources, slaughtering millions of people. THAT’S Criminal. White people can find ways to justify their criminality in ways that boggle my mind. In my local newspaper yesterday, they had a picture of a black baby left in a car white the guardian was robbing a bank, took up half the front page with a color picture. Two weeks ago, a woman was arrested for embezzling a million dollars from her company and her husband was the State Comptroller for the state of Delaware. Page six, no picture, two paragraphs. Her husband is the man responsible for the finances of an entire state and that wasn’t even enough to warrant being on the front page. White people might not be genetically more criminal but they certainly are socialized to think their criminal behavior is justifiable, invisible.

I don’t know about now, but I know when I was in college 20 years ago, white people were doing drugs like they were vitamins. Black parties I would go to, everyone was concerned with dancing and rubbing your little thing up on someone, there might be some weed somewhere. White parties, there was coke, and pills, I don’t know what kind, and they wanted to drink until they puked. Drug addiction certainly isn’t genetic but white people have this, “I need to get fucked up,” attitude far more than black people. Now, with all of these manufactured drugs like X and meth, that are being produced in white homes and neighborhoods, its hard for me to comprehend how anyone could say that Black people are more addicted to drugs. We might have more homeless drug addicts but that’s not a measure of us being more drug addicted, that’s just a measure of how white people treat their drug addicts and a whole measure of economics.

One could argue that if white people weren’t so lazy, they could have built their own nation rather than having to enslave people to do it for them. Is that a trait inherent to them? Far be it from me to say that, god forbid. In fact, SOME might say that white people are inherently more violent, that they’ve made violence a form of entertainment, that aggression is what they are capable of most. My great grandfather was a sharecropper for a white man. He would work 16 hours a day to grow and harvest food for the white land owner. At the end of the year, that white landowner would steal the profits he was supposed to share with my great grandfather and keep them for himself. One of those men was lazy, one was not. Sadly, the entire system of sharecropping was built on the model that the black man would work for an entire year and the white man would reap the benefits of his hard work and not give him one thin dime, and in many cases force the black man to pay him. If one were making an argument about who was inherently lazy, it would be hard to form the argument that it was black men.

Myths and stereotypes have origins in truth. The problem becomes when Black people are narrowly defined by their stereotypes. Black men are more than just big black bucks who can run and jump and shoot and breed white women. If one asserts that Black men are incapable of more than that, that all they are is a collective of negative traits that have been ascribed to them, that’s the definition of racism.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Scottie Lowe is the founder, CEO, and the creative driving force behind AfroerotiK, THE most unique website dedicated to showing the true beauty of Black sexuality in all its many facets. AfroerotiK creates customized and personalized erotic stories written from a decidedly Afrocentric perspective and embraces diversity in sexual expression. Tired of erotica that portrayed black women as man-stealing gold diggers and brainless nymphos, and black men as thugs, players, and emotionally immature dick-slingers, she decided it was time to write erotica that represented the complexity and full spectrum of African Americans. Look for her highly controversial upcoming book, In Loving Color, to create quite a stir with literary works of art that are dripping with sensuality and explore groundbreaking, socially relevant topics. It will include breathtaking photography that will be sure to arouse and stimulate intense passion and establish In Loving Color as the standard for Black erotica.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006


I am determined to get my book published. Ive met so many different obstacles to getting it published, from agents who request my work and never get back to me and publishers who are afraid to take a chance on Black erotica that is not ghetto crap. I have amazing supporters who remind me every day that my work has merit and that my words are transformative. I need a little help. If you appreciate my stories, my essays, my website, if you want to see In Loving Color on the shelves, say a prayer to whatever God you serve that I might be able to fulfill my mission and that my book can get published.

I am getting antsy. I just want it to happen so badly. I'm so tired of living like this. I have remained so good about not sharing any of the stories from my book with anyone other than agents and publishers. It's my best work. It makes my stuff that I post on the net look like a third grade reader. Below, I've posted the acknowledgement for my book. I have to keep putting the positive energy out there because I know it's imperative that my work help heal Black relationships, sexuality, and destroy stereotypes.

Forty years ago, a girl child was born who was to be a messenger; it was decided before she took her first breath that she would carry Truth and Justice with her voice. She lived an ordinary life, with no accomplishments and kudos, one filled with self-doubt and intense introspection. She spent most of her years thinking she could have no profound effect in life because no one would find legitimacy in her words. One day, the stars aligned and this messenger of Truth sang out, she cried out in anguish, she shouted from every corner. People stopped to listen; they were moved by her clarity and wisdom. She touched those she spoke to in profound ways and she showed them a path to transformation. Her life became a beacon of light for many and she learned to accept her mission with grace and humility. I AM merely a manifestation of The One Most High, seeking to experience itself with this costume and this role. All Praises.

To my ancestors who survived the long march, the slave castles, the middle passage, seasoning in the Caribbean, transportation to the US, and dehumanizing chattel slavery, I humble myself before your souls and ask that you continue to guide me and lead me to Truth. I will not let your blood be spilled in vain.

To my Grandparents, my debt to you is greater than the any words can convey. You are my rock, my stability, and my inspiration. You provided the foundation for my activism, my integrity, my understanding of what real love and commitment are. Your unconditional love and support has been invaluable to me and I love you in ways more profound than you can imagine. Thank you for being such exceptional role models, for loving me and for helping me become the woman that I am today.

To Michael, I kept trying to tell you that I wasnt cut out to pick cotton; you just didnt believe me. Youve taught me lessons in forgiveness and love that I didnt think were possible. When you were mad at me for not conforming, you still loved me. When you would scratch your head at my choices and I would defend them with a logic you couldnt understand, you still loved and supported me. Weve made quite a transition in our lives and I only pray that the relationship we share continues to grow. You are the first place I run when I need validation and support, thank you for never being stingy with either. I love you.

To my mother, Ive struggled for years to be who you want me to be, to not be like you, just to make sense of this love/hate dynamic that has consumed anything that could have been positive and fruitful between us. I acknowledge your contribution of creativity, attention to detail, and aesthetic artistry to who I am as a person. Your influence has shaped me in profound ways and when its all said and done, the journey may have been painful but I love who I am at the end of it. For that, I can say thank you and I love you. To Tanya Marie, my sister and my friend. Your belief and love have kept me going when I didnt think I could go on. I pray that you can find your mission and your own Truth and work tirelessly to accomplish it. I will be by your side, Ill have your back, and Ill do whatever you need because I believe in you and I love you.

To Chelsie, this acknowledgement is the final feather in your, I told you so, cap. Its been a long time coming and for years you pushed me to write a book when I was consumed with fear and doubt. You kept me off the street when I didnt have a place to go and loved me through some trying times. Thank you beautiful queen, for everything. I love you.

To Emmanuel, you have been the sole outlet for my passion and my pain for so long; I almost dont know how to separate the two concepts. Ive learned more about myself from loving you than most can comprehend. Im a much better person for having had the experience of the dysfunctional drama that has been our friendship, I truly wish you peace and many blessings on your journey, and I now release you completely.

To the person that has added breathtaking visual images to my words, Aaron, your artistry, and vision are truly beyond compare. Only you can take a picture of the mundane and give it life so that it takes ones breath away. I knew you were the one I trusted to capture the images that would be seen as groundbreaking artwork for years to come. You are a creative and visual genius and Im incredibly blessed by the bond and the friendship that we share.

There are so many others I need to acknowledge that have helped me get to this place. To Michael, George, Tricia, Frank, and Bruce, youve each been there for me in invaluable ways. To Jim, Dean, Stuart, Mark, and Gary, you contributions to the AfroerotiK dream kept it alive when it was on life support. To the members of my AfroerotiK group, whove been with me through thick and through thin, to those that have hated me for being so blunt and those that would send me messages of encouragement when I thought I could not go on. To everyone that has come into my life and enriched me with an experience that helped me refine and define who I AM, I thank you.

Peace and many blessings.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Civil Rights, Civil Fights

One can barely have a discussion about civil rights without discussing the movement of the 1950s and 1960s, the two being virtually synonymous in conversation. In its classical definition, civil rights can be defined as the inalienable rights granted by a nation to its citizens. Rights that are supposedly afforded to everyone, irrespective of race, gender or age, nor to sexual orientation, national origin or physical ability. Duly noted, civil rights should never have to be championed in this, the supposed seat of democracy; they should be administered justly, without discrimination. The very fact that this country was founded on the premise of all men being created equal, while millions of its inhabitants existed as chattel beneath citizenship, speaks to the very inequities of the political and social clime that we as contemporary African Americans emerged from. When one’s citizenship is granted as an afterthought, as an amendment, it’s reasonable to assume that liberty and justice will most certainly not be for all. It also might be safe to postulate that those persons with original privilege, and their descendants, are more likely to be the beneficiaries of the judicious administration of rights.

The need for equal access to employment, quality education, housing, voting rights, and protection under the law is still very much an issue, if not more so, than it was 30 years ago. Racism and discrimination, instead of being administered at the hands of hooded cowards in the dark of night, is now stealth and institutionalized. Yes, we can ride on the front of the bus but African Americans are at risk for being denied loans for housing, being looked over for promotions, unjustly imprisoned and grossly undereducated. But because there are no more marches, no more poignant speeches from eloquent leaders, we have been lulled into a false sense of security that we have our civil rights. Perhaps we think that the struggle is over because there are no more dogs and fire hoses. We ignore modern day church burnings and the lynchings of Black men as insignificant. The fact remains that African Americans are more likely to be pulled over in our cars for perceived and minor infractions, victims of “Driving While Black.” Brown skin will land you in jail for a negligible possession of drugs while the white perpetrator of the same crime will end up in rehabilitation or on probation. Substandard housing has become so acceptable for economically disadvantaged African Americans that no one even raises an eyebrow at their deplorable conditions; there are many of us who have come to view urban decay as a sign of “Blackness.” Now, with the presence of a black middle-class that drives big cars and lives among the oppressor with relative ease, it becomes easier to overlook the social injustices of the masses. Yet the fight for social justice and civil rights is far from over.

Civil rights has in fact become a term that is synonymous with African Americans. Race becomes the pervasive and deciding factor when one is discussing civil rights. Color trumps sexual orientation, age, creed and disability. The white homosexual will always be able to slide under the proverbial discrimination detector when driving in his car. The black homosexual is a Black man first, and is afforded no protection from his own skin. The loan officer sees black skin approaching the desk first, not religious affiliation. Such is the case with the black elderly, the disabled and gender biased offenses. Affirmative action, enacted to Disparity based on race is rampant and the ideals of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness seem to be more and more evasive for people of color in this society.

I’ve noticed from a few of my contemporaries an interesting trend towards disregarding the contributions of the warriors of the civil rights movement by saying that what they did was counterproductive to the betterment of Black people. According to some, the civil rights movement was lead by a middle-class, elitist, bourgeoisie whose only agenda was to fatten their pockets and “Tom” their way to the political forefront. I find this an interesting position in that the real villains of justice to Afro peoples in this country wear white, whether it be skin, collars and/or sheets. Public policy has done more harm to the advancement of African Americans than those foot soldiers that risked their lives so that we might have a better way of life. It smacks of a certain amount of disrespect to belittle the contributions of those that sat-in, those that marched, those that put their lives on the line. Rather than attack racist agendas and GOP politics, they point the finger at those that resisted the status quo with negative critique. It is my contention that the civil rights leaders of the past did the best they possibly could under the extreme circumstances. The civil rights movement didn’t die in the 1960s, it was assassinated. It didn’t end because Negroes had obtained all of their rights and were finally equal; it ended with a bullet on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel. It ended in gunfire at the podium of the Audobon ballroom and in illegal raids in Oakland, CA. The movement ended because its efforts were effectively halted and the forward movement of an oppressed people quelled. The remaining civil rights leaders didn’t pack up their things and move to the suburbs saying, “job well done, I got mine.” Agendas became scattered, organization broke down. Everyone, working and middle-class alike went their separate ways, doing the best they could to carry on in the shadow of injustice.

I cut my teeth on the civil rights movement, learned to walk with freedom and equality as my goals. I am the offspring of a civil rights leader and it was towards the end of the volatile era of the civil rights movement that I garnered my agenda for affecting social change through civic-minded responsibility. Through the eyes of a child, I saw the remnants of a dream that had been killed, and I struggle to resuscitate it daily.

In 1968, Operation Draw Fire was an initiative in coordination with Lincoln University and the Maryland NAACP to desegregate local eating establishments in response to the arrest of three South African students trying to get served at a local pub. In the plan, a colored operative would go in and order food, and if he was denied service, he would then signal for the second team of whites to come in and request service. This lone individual went into these establishments unarmed, without backup in the territory that was the headquarters for the Klan in the violent 1960s. Tensions were high and tempers easily flared at the thought of a Negro trying to take away white privilege. On many occasions, guns were pulled and life and limb threatened. There is very valid reason that none of this information is footnoted and documented. This story is a part of my legacy, tradition I can call upon at any time. That solitary colored operative was my grandfather. It is the blood of a hero that courses through my veins, and it is his name that I carry.

On July 25, 1968, Ku Klux Klan members threw 15 sticks of dynamite into the home of the first Black man to run for political office in Cecil County Maryland. Fortunately, the dynamite rolled down a bank and no lives were lost. If the perpetrators of that deed had accomplished their mission, I would not be alive today. I was in that home along with my uncle and my grandparents. It was my grandfather’s dedication to paving the way for all Black people that motivated him to continue to struggle past the death threats and attempts on his life. Not greed or power, it was his passion to fight for our rights as human beings.

My mother desegregated her high school in 1960 and was the only Black student in North East High School for three years. She went on to be arrested four times in 1964 attempting to integrate a movie theater as a student at Morgan State College. She was sprayed with insecticide, fed moldy food, and housed in the general population of the jail with murderers and violent criminals. As you can see, my heritage is rich with the tradition of the civil rights movement. Today, I head a non-profit organization created to battle the injustices of inequality in this society. It is my mission to create social change and to make level the playing field that keeps my people disadvantaged.

In conclusion, I might suggest that one’s civil rights in the new millennium are just as elusive as they were for the freedmen during reconstruction. The culprits are not as blatant, but they are equally as oppressive nonetheless. I will leave you with the words of my grandfather and his admonition to my generation in the pursuit of civil rights for us all: “As you travel along life’s highway, keep a sharp eye on that door that leads to equality, don’t let it close behind you because your brother or sister may be trying to get in.”

Copyright 2001 Scottie Lowe

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

She Said She Wanted It

This month, it is my extreme pleasure to present to you, “She Said She Wanted It” a story written by Darren K. Chester . In this erotic tale, we are allowed to peek in the lives and share the passions of a man who falls outside the narrow definition of Black manhood. His love for his woman supercedes his need to fuck women for sport, to put his needs above anyone else’s. You’ll hear the thoughts in his head as he executes his meticulous seduction, planned out to the last detail. What a beautiful contrast to the numerous erotic stories where love is an afterthought, where relationships develop AFTER the one night stand of casual sex, where men are mythological studs who never care for their partners other than using them for sex. Every sista who reads this beautiful story will be swept away by the romance and the intense passion and every brotha will do well to take notes on how to make the lady in your life feel immense pleasure, both physically and emotionally.

As always, you are invited to share you feedback, thoughts, comments, and constructive criticism. Be sure and let others know about this wonderful story and beautiful expression of Afroerotica.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

The Spirit of Sankofa

I asked myself a question one day, a question I was not prepared to get the answer for. It opened a door for me that I wish I could shut. Life was much simpler when I did not have to re-examine everything that I knew as truth. One day, when I was in deep meditation, the spirit of a strong willed African woman came to me and lifted my veil of illusion and confusion. Let me recount for you the true story she revealed to me.

One beautiful, glorious early morning, this young woman rose to greet the sun and face another day in harmony with the earth. She was greeted by the gunfire and weapons of white men that raided and attacked her village. She fought but she was beaten and subdued. She saw the bodies of her family and community, massacred around her as the stench of death and blood hung heavy in the air. She was dragged away, kicking and screaming as she saw the crying and anguished faces of the young and the old that were left to die like useless livestock.

For months, she walked alongside the horseback prone pale men that raped her and beat her at will. Her feet were bloody and raw, she was lonely and hungry and she ached for rest but they did not and would not let up. She was chained to the bodies of men and women that were dead, sick, fatigued and dying, yet she had no choice but to carry on under the whip of the slave traders. She learned quickly to stifle her cries of pain and anguish because they seemed to bring the sting of the whip that much more. It was clear her pain served to amuse her captors so she resigned within her soul to not give them that pleasure.

They waved strange items in her face, two wooden sticks tethered together and a coded document of some sort that was bound by a dark piece of cow hide with golden symbols on the front. They would yell and scream at her in a strange tongue and seemed to take much pleasure in kicking her in her private parts or even her head while screaming this strange word over and over again. They were brutal in their torture, pushing her body past the human limits for pain. The only way she survived the excruciating pain was to call upon her God to save her. She prayed and chanted, she did rituals in the dark of night when her captors were fast asleep, all to help her survive this unknown journey into darkness.

Arriving at what she thought was to be her final destination on earth; she was ushered beneath the ground to a hole with a stench so awful she could not hold anything on her stomach for days on end. She was separated from the people in her village, most of whom hadn’t even survived the journey to the coast, and she was housed in a room made of stone with more rats and insects than humans. The other women there ministered to her, even though they were from different tribes and did not speak the same language; they bonded with her sharing the same evil fate. They anointed her body with oils and herbs they were able to procure by having sex with the guards of the dark place. She longed for a medicine woman to come to help heal the weeping and oozing sores on her body and to heal her ripped flesh of her vagina, torn savagely as the men inserted any many of things into her body. Her period had stopped on the journey and she was sure she was no longer a woman but an empty shell to be beaten and left to die. She was sure she was going to be a sacrifice to the heavens for a crime she had not committed.

For months she lay in the urine, feces and blood of the stone rooms while she called upon the holy names of Obatala, BabaluAye, and Orunmila to protect her, to deliver her from this nightmare. She prayed fervently, pleading with them to deliver her prayers to Olodumare to spare her life so that she might live to survive to the glory of the Universal Father/Mother, the Creator, The One Most High. She sent up prayers constantly because that’s all she could do. Her body was so severely malnourished she could scarcely put up a fight when the men came to defile her with their sick, twisted and perverted pleasures. Branded with the searing hot iron at the hands of the captor men, she was called a name that was not a name her had tribe had ever used. She learned quickly her new name was to be Nigger, but it seemed odd to her that all of her brothers and sisters in captivity had the same name as well.

Just when she thought she could go on no longer, she saw the light of day only to find that her fate was worse. She was boarded on a ship, packed tightly one body on top of another, scarcely enough room to breathe. Some days, the only water she would get to drink was the rancid piss of the people that were chained to the deck above that would drip through the rotted planks of the ship’s hold. She clung to life in whatever way she could, so she could die of her own choosing, not at the hands of the evil men. Her plan was to jump overboard to end her own life and not have it be taken from her by her vile captors. That was not to be the case; she survived, clinging to life with the tender caresses of the others who had not gone insane from the pain, dehydration, disease and despair.

For months, she had no way to comprehend time or space. They landed in a place where she was poked, prodded and inspected like cattle only to be put on another ship to land at another strange destination. Once again, she was paraded around, inspected by the stringy-haired men, and she was put in the back of a wagon with other Black people and taken to a farm with an enormous cottage, the likes of which she had never seen before. The king was a pinkish man who would come to her at night and use her in ways a man was never supposed to use a woman. During the day, she was forced to work the land. Her tears fertilized the crops as she worked in silence alongside the people that spoke the same language as the brutal pale people.

Many times, she would sneak off into the woods at night and dance and sing and escape in her mind to her home where she could be carefree and happy again. She would offer her prayers up to the orisha, pouring out libations on this unholy ground, and begging them to wake her up from this horrible nightmare. She prepared a secret alter to present gifts to the heavens and; it was her place of solace and refuge and it was her reminder of her peaceful but distant home. She longed to wear colors again, she needed to eat food that gave life, not the garbage the captors threw away, longed to dance and sing, and to feel joy again. She longed for the sensual touch of a man, not the brutal attacks she endured that made her die a little inside. She was slowly losing the sensation of dignity and self-respect, traits her fellow slaves never knew.

One day, in the solitude of the woods, she anointed herself a high priestess. She had secretly fasted and prayed for one full rotation of the moon and gathered the herbs she needed to burn to put herself into a trance to pass through the spiritual portal to the heavens. With only the stars in the sky as her illumination, she uttered the holy words she had heard the spiritual elders say back home along with a prayer that the spirits would forgive any misspoken words in her solitary and extreme conditions. She knew that if she were caught, she could be killed instantly; the whites in charge were insistent that every African denounce all that was holy and good from their homeland. She couldn’t share her secret place with anyone, the blacks that were born in captivity in this new world knew nothing of the spiritual beliefs that kept their parents and grandparents alive on the bowels of those horrible ships, they ridiculed her for her language, stories, songs, and traditions, telling her that only the God of the evil white man was good. She wept for their souls; for they had never known what it was like to truly be free. All of their beliefs and thoughts were dictated by their owners and they would never know truth or independence all the days of their lives.

Her secret place was not to be a secret for very long because one of the guards followed her one evening, found her alter, and flew into a rage. He slapped her body to the ground and dragged her to the front of the big house. He tore her meager garments from her body and began to lash her back with a whip. The leather tore at her flesh as she screamed out in anguish. The blood ran from the open wounds as she lay defenseless on the ground. He was screaming at her to accept Jesus as her personal lord and savior. She would never accept the God of these evil men and she prepared herself for death as she felt the flesh ripped from her body with each lash. Fatigued and frustrated from administering such a relentless beating, the man poured salt into her open wounds and forbade anyone to touch her. He admonished everyone that if they didn’t accept Jesus, that they would get the same treatment or worse. For hours she lay on the ground, drifting in and out of consciousness, floating between life and death, visions of her homeland calling out to her.

That night, the others came to collect what they were sure was her lifeless body. How had she survived such a brutal beating? The word that clung to her lips was faint yet determined, “Yemaya, Yemaya.” The fact that she went on to recover physically was nothing less than a miracle.

The years passed, she learned the language of the people, she gave birth many times, her children not hers to raise; they were sold off to other slave owners, never to be seen again. She wanted desperately for her children to know their real names, to understand that where they came from was a much better place, to pass on the history, culture, language and traditions of the place that she knew to be home, the people she loved and missed. She didn’t want them raised to be niggers, dead to the ways of life and conditioned to believe in their inferiority.

Her last child was the child of the slave master, and she was allowed to keep him. She would sneak him off into the night as a young boy and teach him the traditions of her homeland. He learned quickly and showed great promise and enthusiasm. The slave master heard rumors that she was teaching her son the ways of Africa in secret and threatened her that if she didn’t stop her teachings immediately, if she didn’t teach her son to worship Jesus and denounce her African beliefs, she was going to witness her son being lashed until death in front of all that could see. The pain she felt inside was the greatest pain she had endured since her nightmare had begun. She knew that she could not bare the thought of seeing any harm coming to her child but she also believed that his only chance for freedom was in the saving grace of Olodumare to deliver him from the false perceptions that surrounded them.

She watched her son grow to manhood; he denounced his mother and her African ways and wore a cross around his neck exactly like the one that she had seen so many years ago around the neck of the men that first raped her. He called upon the name of Jesus for his salvation and he refused to study anything but the leather bound book that justified the reason for the enslavement of his people. He looked down on her in disgust for her flawless skin the color of rare ebony. He cringed in horror at the sight of his mother’s natural hair, completely convinced that the hair of white women was somehow more beautiful because he believed that white people were better than blacks. He could not comprehend that the wooly hair, thick lips, wide nose and high cheekbones of his mother were in any way beautiful for he had been told all his life that only white women were beautiful. He did whatever he could to separate himself from being a nigger because no one in their right mind would want to be that.

I wish that was the end of my story. I wish that had only happened in isolation and this was a fictional but tragic story. Sadly, it rings true for every African American who has ancestry in slavery. The details might be slightly different but the experience of capture, transportation, spiritual annihilation, and mental enslavement are the same. There is a lineage of survival and courage in our veins that are at unrest because we, the children of the great ones, are practicing the religion of the people that made them endure the most horrific torture possible. They cry out to us to look back, to feel their presence, to understand that the lies of the slave master were only to justify his evil actions and the beliefs that we were inferior. Africans were not heathens, Christianity was not a gift to Blacks, we were not rescued from a savage place we were kidnapped and stolen to live life lower than an animal.

Today, the beliefs of the slaves are still so much a part of our psyche, that most Black people reading this will react violently at the thought of threatening their religion and reality. They will do anything to hold onto the beliefs of the whip that told us that Africans were saved by slavery. They will justify the lessons taught by white people and they will insist that other Africans sold their ancestors into slavery and that it wasn’t white’s fault, completely absolving whites from any guilt in their participation in the slave trade. They will say, “God had a plan and that was to bring Christianity to us through slavery,” justifying the torture and abuse of our African ancestors that survived so that their legacy might live on in honor and in glory, not in captivity. I’m sure they could find no equal justification if even one white person were to endure that same treatment today. They would never find the “silver lining” in the brutal enslavement of white people yet the very blood that runs through their veins is from those that endured more than their minds will even try to grasp. They will say, “I’m not a victim,” incorrectly assuming that to be a victim means one chooses to be weak. They will not understand that if they do not see the horror and errors of our collective past, they are victims of brainwashing and lies.

Perhaps there is one however that will read these words over and over again, looking for their own answers, putting together the pieces of a long forgotten puzzle. Perhaps there is one who will go into meditation and prayer and call out to the one that refused to let go of their beliefs during captivity and died knowing that they were truly free. Perhaps there is one that will ask the questions that reveal the ultimate truth.

The spirit that called out to me lives in these words. Her blood was not spilled in vain because it sustains me and gives me life so that I might share her story with those willing to hear. I must be her vessel and her voice.

Copyright 2005 Scottie Lowe

Inspired by the film Sankofa

Scottie Lowe is a lifelong student of African and African American Studies with a concentration in psychology. She writes extensively on her theory of the Psychospiritual Stages of Disability of African Americans and intends on developing her hypothesis towards a transcendent Africentric paradigm that lifts the collective consciousness of descendents of slaves. She intends on pursuing her Doctorate degree in Consciousness Studies. Scottie is also 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.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Do Black men have bigger dicks?

Black people have bigger noses, bigger lips, bigger asses, why on earth is it so hard to conceive that Black men have bigger dicks. Overall, more often than not, in general, the answer is yes, black men have bigger dicks. Of course not every single one is big but by and large, yes, brothas pack more. I’ve seen quite a few dicks that were larger than average, all of which belong to black men. I’ve seen a few on black men that were obscenely large and scared the hell out of me. I saw one that was so big it hit him in the chin and he told me that his doctor told me that he was in the top 4% of men with large penises. I was terrified by that thing and I had to fight to get him out of my apartment. I can’t even imagine what the top 3% looked like cuz that thing was bigger than a horse dick. (He was a neighbor, not a date btw)

I think this topic is one that must be explored in great depth. I have conversations with white men daily, DAILY, that beg me to look at their little dicks, that tell me beg me to humiliate them on cam and insist that I must love to laugh at little white weenies. When I tell them that I have no such inclinations, that's when they insist that I only like Big Black Cocks. They can't seem to comprehend that I love black men for far more than just their genitals and they get offended when I say that they are racist for objectifying Black men for their penises. Usually, they then launch into some diatribe about how black men can't raise their children, or how all they are good for is sports and how they all want to fuck white women. I guess when I call them out for their racist behavior that triggers their true racist feelings and they can't stop themselves from spilling their racist guts.

It's been my experience that black men do have larger penises than white men. I've seen more than my fair share of tiny micro penises on white men and dicks that are far less than average. Black men fall in the average to above average range in almost every case that I've seen with very few exceptions. Now, that being said, I don't think penis size has a god damn thing to do with being a man, masculinity, or giving me sexual pleasure. I think it's a dangerous thing for black men to identify themselves with their dick size because the men that aren't packing 11 inches are somehow made to feel less than a man. I know quite a few black men that have chosen to live a gay lifestyle or choose to be sexually submissive to women because they feel like they could never satisfy a woman with their completely sufficient, fully functioning average sized penis.

It breaks my heart every time I see a brotha with a screen name that references his dick size and then says that he wants to (insert some metaphor for fucking that references hurting a woman with his dick). I want black men to see themselves as more than just a dick to fuck white wives while white husbands watch. I want black men to equate their manhood with being a full, well-rounded human being, able to process their emotions, able to be introspective, able to communicate openly with their partner. Brothas don't get that fucking white women for the entertainment of cuckold hubbies does not make them more of a man. It doesn't make white men respect them more. In fact, it makes them respect them less because all they do is see Black men as savage Mandingos, not as complex human beings. Most times, white men are quick to tell me that they think its degrading to have their wives "fuck black" because black men are such big dicked beasts. These brothas are just fueling the racist beliefs of white people and degrading themselves in the process. YET NOT ONE is addressing the fact that interracial porn is the largest growing segment of the adult industry and that 100% of the images perpetuate Black men in a negative light.

Sadly, there are more than a few black men with average penises, 5-6 inches, that somehow think that they aren't living up to the ideal of black manhood, that are suffering psychologically, It’s an ugly byproduct of the myth. It is equally as tragic that brothas with 8-9 inch dicks feel inferior because of this outrageous standard of Black masculinity. I find that a lot of brothas with average sized dicks SAY that they have much bigger dicks in order to feel like they fit into the brotherhood. Black men with large penises are, in far too many instances, the least emotionally evolved individuals because they've accepted their role as Mandingo to the detriment of building strong relationships. We need to redefine black manhood so that penis size has nothing to do with manhood.

I've asked for years now for brothas to speak up and discuss how the fact that they have an average sized or small penis has affected their self-esteem and self-perception as a Black man. Good thing I wasn't holding my breath for an answer. With such a dirty little secret how can we ever heal as a people?

Tall and Tan and Young and Lovely

Michael Baisden’s radio show with the same name discusses issues that are supposedly meant to bridge the chasm between men and women. His perspective, from what I gather, is to let women in on the secrets that would enable them to keep a man. I was supposed to be a guest on the show and for some reason, they . . . well, I’m not sure what happened. A producer called me and asked me to be on the show and told me she would contact me in a couple of weeks to discuss a date for me to be on the show and then never called back, returned my emails, nothing. Apparently he changed his mind about having me on the show. Probably a good thing because I have LOTS of issues with Mr. Baisden. I’ve not read his books, nor do I have any desire to having listened to his radio program. I find him to be one of the most offensive men with a public voice who does nothing but promote misogyny.

I was listening to the Michael Baisden show the other day and he was discussing the Brazil phenomenon. Black men are
going to Brazil in droves to experience uninhibited sex with the women there. He went on and on about how BEAUTIFUL the women there were. He said that the women there make the most beautiful women in this country look average. He named off who he considered the most beautiful women which included Halle Berry, J Lo, and Beyonce. I was so furious I almost drove off the road. Mr. Baisden, let me say to you, that if you find women with African features and brown skin so repulsive, the very same women who brought your books and propelled you to fame, take your happy ass right on the fuck to Brazil and live there. If the only women you find attractive don’t look like your mama, then I would invite you to pack your bags and move to Rio immediately.

This trend, for brothas to go to Brazil in search of sex with multiple mulatto hookers, and MOVE there is yet another glaring example of how Black men are emotionally immature and piss poor partners in relationships because their priorities are fucked. It’s extraordinarily superficial and shallow to want women to use as sexual objects and to control. And you can best believe that they are doing more than having sex, there’s scat, bestiality, pedophilia and any perverse thing you can imagine going on in Brazil. Who, besides me, is going to identify the pathology of black men who are so emotionally immature as to want women to shit and piss on and fuck like dogs, or be fucked by dogs and consider that heaven as opposed to forming a relationship with a woman who is going to be supportive and work towards building a family and future together? Black men that go to Brazil state that the women there “never question your judgment or threaten your authority.” Real men aren’t that insecure. What authority can you have if you need to pay women to sleep with you? Little boys need unconditional approval no matter how foul their behavior is. How extraordinarily immature! Isn’t that their same argument about white women? Us dumbass Black women are trying to be meet the impossible standards of these damaged men in order to find a partner when we need to be saying, “AWWWW hell no.” I wouldn’t even want to touch a man after he came back from Brazil, I wouldn’t even want to be in the same room as one because they are damaged psychologically. That’s a twisted and sick individual that sees women as things to purchase.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Savannah Film Festival

The first week in November is my favorite time of the year. It’s the time of the annual Savannah Film Festival and my own personal time for indulgence. I just pack up a bag and head down to Savannah where I’m transported to a different place in time. If I’m lucky, I can catch the fall foliage colors, hit the museums, and listen to some great jazz while I’m there as well. Usually, I go as a spectator, taking in the film and surrounding myself with culture. This year was going to be particularly special for me. I was going to be debuting my first erotic short film. Upon leaving last year, I decided I could do the same thing some of those other people I had done and set out to tell my story on celluloid. I was nervous because there was no “genuine” Black erotic film out there and I was afraid of how it was going to be received. I didn’t want people to think it was porn and I didn’t want intellectuals overanalyzing what I was intending to do. I wanted to present to the world twenty minutes of cerebral dialogue, intense emotions, and exquisite lovemaking between Black people.

I was disappointed because it was yet another milestone in my life where I didn’t have a partner with whom I could share my accomplishment. I couldn’t dwell on it; I had to expose myself to the world. I knew most people wouldn’t be able to appreciate it, so I just meditated on staying grounded. I spent the morning in Forsyth Park right across the street from my Bed and Breakfast. For me, staying in the Magnolia Inn was a far different experience than the other guests. For me, it was a reminder of the slaves that labored to build its opulence while they lived as less than humans. I thought of the black women that had been the possessions of white genteel masters that had to entertain late nights in the very chambers where tourist now casually laid their heads and long for the days of old. No, for me, Savannah was the vehicle to my history, a dark and painful past that came alive to me in the tortured whispers of my ancestors.

The Lucas Theater was relatively packed. I held my breath and recited my brief introduction like I had rehearsed 52 times in my bathroom mirror. I was praying that people would not be able to tell that I had never directed a community play before, let alone an erotic film. I closed my eyes and let the entire thing play out in my head, I knew every second of that film by heart. By the time it was over I had finally exhaled. The kudos and the backslapping reigned down supreme. Everyone was congratulating me on a job well done and talking to me about features and a whole bunch of movie industry terms I had never heard of . . . but I played along like I had.

I saw him lingering in the periphery, waiting to make his approach. He looked nervous almost, or hesitant might have been a better description. The crowd thinned out and he made his way to me. “I loved the fact that you gave him a sense of responsibility. He was selective with whom he slept, I appreciate that commentary. So many sexual representations of Black men make us out to be callous and indiscriminate with our partners. Thank you.” He turned and started to walk away without further introduction.

“Wait . . . thanks . . . wait . . .” There was something about his demeanor that, while soft spoken, was genuine. “No one else got that. Everyone else thought it was just about the sex.” He turned to face me and I couldn’t tell which one of us was more unsettled. I didn’t want him to walk away but I was scared to appear too eager. He was beautiful, there was no denying it, but more than anything I wanted to ask him what he thought, how the movie made him feel. We stood in silence and stared at each other in awkward pause. “My name is Robert, I really loved your work.” We grinned and exchanged pleasantries through the awkwardness.

“Do you have plans for dinner,” he asked, “If you like seafood, the Sapphire Grill is the best place in town. I’d love it if you joined me. We can celebrate the debut of Afroerotik.” It looked like it took every ounce of courage in him to ask me but I was the one that was nervous and flattered and speechless. I felt like a schoolgirl being asked out to prom. I accepted and he agreed to pick me up at 8.

Dinner was magical. The conversation was seamless; we laughed and talked well into the evening. We spoke of erotica and what it meant to us as Black people. He listened intently as I went off into my passionate discussion of my work and what I wanted it to accomplish. Wine loosened my inhibitions and I inched closer whenever I could, I made a point to rest my hand on his arm when he made a particularly interesting point. I let my leg linger on his under the table and made sure my eye contact let him know in no uncertain terms that I was attracted. I was feeling rather brazen, at least for me who spends the majority of my time in front of a monitor with little or no human interaction for weeks at a time.

We stood at the steps of the Magnolia Place and talked some more. “So, I have to ask one more thing. Was your film about your own personal experience?” If anyone else had asked me that I would have been offended. That was personal information that no one had a right to know. The truth of the matter was that I was in everything that I wrote, every erotic story I created. I knew my feelings and motivations better than anyone, so I didn’t have to guess what a character would say, or how she would react. All of my erotica represented a side of me that didn’t have an outlet in real life.

I looked him intently in his eyes and, without answering, took his hand in mine and turned to walk up the ivy-covered steps of the inn. There was no turning back and I didn’t even have time to formulate a plan. I was going off of pure adrenaline, and merlot. Andrew Jackson would probably be rolling in his grave if he knew the things that were going to happen between the two descendents of slaves in the room named after him. I didn’t want to speak; it would have broken the spell. I just wanted this to transpire like a movie in my mind—a sensual, erotic scenario of artistry and magic.

I kept the lights off as we entered the room and dropped my bag by the door. I didn’t have to worry about what to do next as Robert turned me around and pulled me to him. I loved that masculine instinct that took over, that thing men do when they want to unleash that primal beast. It supercedes the reserved, conservative nature that some men have. It’s so sensual; it makes me feel wanted and desired. He pulled me into his arms and I reveled in the sensation. I could feel his hands caressing the small of my back. I didn’t want to speak because that would have broken the spell. If I started talking, my doubts and fears would have crept in. I didn’t want this to stop. I wanted to live life for once with no safety net.

The heat was intense between us. I threw my head back and felt his lips on my neck. My fever was rising. I was unbuttoning his buttons as we moved backwards to the bed. His kisses tasted sweet, his tongue was soft and yielding. He gently laid me back on the bed and undid the ties of my wraparound dress. I felt sexy, revealing myself to him like that. My breasts were aching to be touched and caressed. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light that peaked through the heavily curtained windows and I watched as he undressed at the foot of the bed; his golden brown skin a delicious contrast to my slightly darker mocha. My hands caressed my secret places in anticipation. He lifted my hips and removed my wet panties. He held them to his face and inhaled deeply my scent.

I slid back on the bed and he prepared his complete and relentless seduction. My neck was his first target and he kissed and sucked it, cradling in the gentle slope of my throat, licking his way to from my shoulder to my ear. I threw my head back and moaned; it was my signal to him that I loved every second of his attention. He found my hot spot and began gently sucking on it while his hands found my breast and began massaging them. My nipples were aching from arousal as he slid his mouth lower and began sucking and licking all over my breasts. My arousal was climbing to a fevered pitch as he was arousing me like he had a map to my body and knew exactly how to pleasure me. I watched in amazement as he kissed his way down my stomach and made my belly button into an erogenous zone. He made love to my tummy with his mouth; pampering me in a unique way no one else had ever thought to do. The teasing became more intense. Robert began kissing his way down the fronts of my legs, my hips, my inner thighs, every place except my incredibly aroused pussy.

He positioned himself between my legs. I was grabbing the sheets and thrusting my hips forward trying to get his to lick me. He was blowing hot breath on my parted and aroused lips; the moistness of my inner flesh evident on my pink folds. His mouth made love to my sweet, sticky center. His tongue softly licked my clit and made me cry out with pleasure. His fingers entered me and drove me to the edge of orgasm. He was playing my body like a fine tuned instrument. Giving me pleasure became his sole objective. I was mumbling incoherently, “Yes . . . oh shit . . . yeah, lick my pussy . . . fuck . . . fuck me.” I was pulling my nipples and his hands were caressing every inch of skin he could reach. I placed my hands on his bald head and rested them there because he didn’t need instruction where to go. He held my long legs up in the air and broke his silence with a pointed question, “Do you want me? ”

I needed him more than I needed air at that moment. I let my eyes respond, my eyes, my body and my heart. I was relinquishing control, giving myself to passion. I couldn’t stop; there was no turning back. I didn’t want to be reserved and alone. I wanted to feel like a woman and I wanted Robert to take me there.

My moans were louder than they should have been. He was teasing me and he knew it. I needed to feel him inside me and he was torturing me with his slow seduction. His mouth lowered to my hard nipples and I cradled his face in my hands. I watched him in awe as his left hand touched my body like a paintbrush to a canvas. He stopped only to position himself at my core and drive himself inside me in one thrust.

“Mmmmm, no, yes, wait, don’t stop.” My hands grabbed his ass and pulled him to me. We fell into a rhythm, a solitary unit of passionate expression. I was riding high and about to cum. I shut my eyes tight and felt it about to hit me. I pulled him to me and wanted to feel every ounce of his weight on me as I reached that place that I can only find in the passionate embrace of a beautiful black man. His body tensed and I could tell his orgasm was only a minute or two behind mine. My wetness coated him and added to the soundtrack of pleasure we were experiencing.

He held me in his arms and I drifted off into a peaceful slumber. I already knew what my submission to next year’s festival was going to be.

Ó 2003

Thursday, August 17, 2006

White America's Obsession with Jon Benet

Her parents made her into a hypersexualized little Barbie. The media made her into a demi goddess. I for one have little or no compassion for her any longer simply because she's been shoved down my throat for the last decade. What happened to the 13 disabled Black children that were kept locked in crates last year by their white foster family? No one knows because it's non news. They are living. They will suffer for the rest of their lives because of what those people did. Jon Benet is dead, life goes on. I don't give a fuck if she was blonde and she would have grown up to be Miss America, I really don't. What empathy I might have had for her is tainted by the fact that they are making her life more valuable than anyone else on the planet. Rest in Peace Jon Benet because I'm sure your soul is tired of being pimped.

White Male Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and Founder of AfroerotiK

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt

I would like to ask the white people specifically, "Whose ancestors DID own slaves?"

In every conversation I've ever had about race in my life, and that's been quite a few given my political and social leanings, I've yet to meet ONE white person that has said to me, "Yes, my ancestors owned and profited from slaves." I’m beginning to think that white people only know how to say, “MY family didn’t own slaves.” Well . . . I’ll be god damned, somebody’s family had to own slaves. Where are those descendents? Maybe they are too rich to even bother with being online.

If I use the barometer of internet, slavery didn't exist at all and it played no role in making the US the richest nation in the world. Apparently, the youngest and most violent nation is the richest because it's inhabited by intellectually superior white men not because it stole the land, its resources, and enslaved free labor.

I know no one will answer this post with the possible exception of the standard, "My ancestors (fill in the blank with even the most obscure ethnicity) were enslaved too." Wait, that’s second only to, “Color doesn’t matter, slavery was in the past, let it go.” What conversation about slavery would be complete without white people saying, “Jews suffered during the Holocaust and look at how well they are doing today.” Sure, Jews were imprisoned for 7 years, not enslaved for generations so of course the effects would be vastly different. I'm not interested in comparative "Oppression Olympics" or proving that anyone suffered more or less than anyone else. I would like someone to stand up and say, my family had money passed down generationally that was the direct result of owning slaves.

I wonder what happened to the descendents of slave owners because they certainly don't post online. I would love to have someone say to me, my family didn't own slaves, but they manufactured the barrels that held the food for the slave voyages from Africa or my family was known to traffic in the illegal slave trade after slavery was abolished or some other such shocking revelation.

Fuck that, how about a white person just admitting to me that they have no clue as to the extent of what the psychological damage to enslaved Black people was nor do they understand what its ramifications are today.

Monday, August 14, 2006


When I was in college, 184 years ago, my boyfriend and I couldn't keep our hands off one another. I used to adore when he would finger my pussy because he paid attention to me and knew exactly where my spot was. It was nothing for him to put three fingers in me, and at the time, I would beg him to do it harder. (It needs to be noted that I can't stand having anything done hard now UNLESS I've cum already, that was a LONG LONG time ago.) Anyway, I remember one day when I was begging him to finger me harder, he told me that he already had four fingers inside me. It wasn't that much of a stretch from three to four and if I remember correctly, we tried at the time to get his entire hand inside me. We didn't or couldn't do it for some reason but I remember that day very clearly.

There was a lovely young lady with whom I was involved a several years back. She had AZZ for days. I couldn't keep my face, fingers, or tongue out of it to be honest. It was just a big ole phat delicious booty. One night, I was playing my usual seductress self and I decided I was going to tease her without letting her cum for several hours. (The plan was 8 hours but I think we only made it to six) I used a combination of vibrators, my tongue, fingers, lube and small dildos on her asshole. She was like a wild animal in heat. She was screaming at me to finger her ass harder to shove more of my fingers inside her. Thing was, I already had four in her. I could have easily pushed the widest part of my hand inside her but I was terrified of hurting her, it was just a little too extreme for me. She had no clue how close I was to fisting her ass until I showed her how much of my hand was in her ass.

I used to chat with a beautiful little petite sista and she would think nothing of showing me how she could fist herself on cam. I know it's popular in the gay community and I've seen more than enough websites with white women getting fisted in the pussy and asshole, occasionally both at the same time. I would imagine that it’s something that arises out of very similar situations to the two I described.

What's the general consensus on fisting? Is it something too extreme? It is something that's more widespread than people are willing to discuss but going in on bedrooms all over? Is it something you've tried, wanted to try, afraid to try, disgusted by the mere thought of it? Share your feedback on fisting.

Brown Skin Brotha

Brown Skin Brotha. So regal and so fine.Your back, broad and weary from the labor and pain youmust endure.
Hold your head up Brown Skin Brotha, be not afraid.
I got your beautiful brownskin back.
I melt in your brown skin arms.
I taste the tears from your sensual, soulful, deepbrown eyes.
I receive you, Brown Skin Brotha, into the very depths of my being.
I accept you into my mind, my body, my heart and my soul.
Brown skin brotha there is none other like you.

Experience Making Love to Me

Feel my lips gently nibbling on your earlobe, My breath as I whisper in your ear, I want you. Smell the scent of my perfume as it lingers on my skin. Taste my mouth as we kiss. Feel the softness of my lips, my yielding tongue.

Experience my soft, gentle kisses on your neck, your shoulders, and your chest. Relax and enjoy as I kiss your arms, inside your elbows, the palms of your hands. Maintain eye contact with me as I suck each and every one of your fingers.

Relinquish control as I massage your back. Feel the cool sensation as I leave wet kisses on your spine. Feel my breasts crushed against your back as I try to press every inch of our bodies together. Breathe deeply; inhale the aroma of the candles, the oil I use to massage you, my arousal as my passion builds for you. Turn over and face me. Tingle with anticipation as my hands move slowly back up the fronts of your legs, your thighs.

Ache with need as my mouth kisses and licks your torso, carefully avoiding your erection with the exception of my hot breath. Describe the sensation to me as I lick and gently suck your balls. Tell me how it feels as I lick the head of your dick and make it glisten. Watch me as I swallow you, licking you, sucking you, stroking you, blowing your mind. Scream out my name as I bring you to the verge of orgasm and stop. Feel the head of your dick, deep in the back of my throat while my wet, hot lips, tongue, and mouth envelop you entirely.

Experience the need to have me, be inside of me, to fuck me. Look at me. Notice every detail of my body: my bedroom eyes, my full lips, my tiny ears, my small shoulders, my long arms and fingers, the swell of my breasts slowly rising and falling, the contrast of my nipples, my small waist and full hips, my smooth, long, brown legs and tiny ankles, the high arch of my foot and my perfectly pedicured toes.

Make me need you. Press your body onto mine, laying your weight upon me. Whisper all the naughty things you want to do. Kiss me passionately; long, hard and wet. Let me know that you want me, all of me, and only me. Feel my passion for you build as you fondle and caress my breasts, pinching my nipples, cupping them in your hands.

Watch my excitement build as you lower you mouth to my breasts nursing them like a baby, sucking them like a man hungry with desire. Lick them all over, use your tongue like a sensual paintbrush.

Feel the heat from between my legs, spread them. Examine that part of me that makes me a woman. Notice how aroused I become at even the most gentle stimulation. Touch me softly and watch me writhe in pleasure. Spread my lips apart, feeling my wetness flow. Smell my sex, natural and sweet. Invade me with your fingers. Manipulate that vacant and slippery space with skill. Make me give you my surrender. Invade me with your tongue. Taste me, eat me, lick me, suck me.

And then calmly reassure me of your love. Look deeply into my eyes and let me know that everything will be fine, that you will take care of me, that I dont need to be afraid. And with the hunger of a starving man, the thrill of the first time…………penetrate me. Close your eyes and feel our bodies become one. Experience my gift to you.

Make love to me. Slow, steady. hard, deep. Drive your dick up inside me over and over again. Make me scream with pleasure and ecstasy divine. Fuck me until our bodies are glistening with sweat. Feel my pussy grab you and pull you deep inside of me. Tell me how tight and wet and hot I am and how good my pussy makes you feel. Faster …Deeper. Experience the addiction of pleasure over take your body. And then my dear, sweet lover, fill me with your seed, that which makes me whole. Dont move, dont move, DONT MOVE. Just enjoy the experience of making love to me.

I’ve Got a Secret

I’m going to let y’all in on a little secret. I’ve been keeping it for a long time. Now, when y’all hear my secret, the sistas will hiss and boo and think of me as a weak traitor, the brothas will say, “I told you so, I knew it all along.” I’ve wrestled with this secret for a long time, feeling guilt and shame for harboring these thoughts. Living my life in the closet, afraid to express myself, living a lie. In public, I deny my true feelings, crossing the line, extolling the sentiments exactly the opposite of how I feel. What is my secret? My badge of shame. Come close. Don’t tell a soul. I need a man. There I said it. It’s out in the open. I need a man.
I grew up being told that a woman needed a man for survival, to be the provider and protector. The man was the breadwinner and the woman stood behind him. I was told that men could lie and cheat and treat you like shit and as long as they paid the bills and eventually came home, that’s all you could expect. Women were never supposed to argue or disagree with a man. “Oh, you are so funny.” “Stop, don’t say that,” in a coy and docile manner. You had to have a man in your life. Even if that man was somebody else’s. A borrowed man was better than no man at all. I was raised to believe that all a woman could hope for was to play stupid, never have an opinion and to do whatever it takes to make a man happy. Which included spreading your legs, cooking, cleaning and being passive. My momma never said outright,”You have to have a man to make you complete,” but actions speak louder than words. There was never a day when she didn’t have someone’s husband calling her. She would fix them gourmet meals and offer them her dysfunctional mind and sexual body. And of course they took it and went home to their wives, bellies full and balls empty, egos enormous.
I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way. I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own. But then I got strong. I’ve been by myself for almost 14 years now. I wish I could say 14 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last decade. I’ve decided I don’t want nolying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self-centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have had other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex more than a few times, maintenance dates, yes. But I’ve not had a man in my life. I need a man. I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self.
What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from laying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings. Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact.
I hear sistas saying that they don’t need a man but I sure as hell do. And tell me this, if men were so damned unnecessary, why is it that successful sistas who have got a man are not trying to give them away. All these women out here talking about I don’t need a man. I tell you what I don’t need. I don’t need panty liners with wings. I don’t need low fat chocolate ice cream. I don’t need 36 pairs of shoes. Seems like to me, if men were so damned unnecessary, there would be a lot more hairy-legged lesbians around.
I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a strong, African-centered, evolved, emotionally mature man. Whew, my secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!