AfroerotiK

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.

Monday, August 27, 2007

I Don’t Have a Dog in that Fight


There are times when I HATE having to log onto my computer to read the latest current event and the Black community’s response. This Michael Vick episode has made me dread the Internet because I know how people are going to respond even before reading the moronic, idiotic comments of my people. I’ve purposefully stayed far away from anything that has to do with the dog fighting story because I know, I know without a doubt, that Black people are defending him and claiming he is a victim of yet another Black man being lynched by the media. I can almost quote word for word how Black people are defending his actions and how white people are making him out to be the spawn of Satan.

Michael Vick is a criminal. He is a criminal of the highest order. He profited from breeding innocent animals and pitting them against one another in violent fights. That is foul, repulsive, repugnant and unforgivable. I guess it’s to be expected in a society where violence gets the highest ratings. It just goes to show you how warped we are as a society and how the status of celebrity makes an individual above any wrongdoing. He is employed in a sport that pits men against one another like animals in a violent game of aggression so it’s easy to see how he could think it was innocent to do with dogs. We’ve accepted and internalized white men’s pathologies so much, that we can’t see the inherent sin of violence as a form of entertainment. We are not better than cavemen with clubs or Romans throwing innocent people in a den of lions for sport. It’s barbaric and there’s no excuse in the world for his behavior.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory



One of the real joys of the holiday season is how the kink community comes together to celebrate. It seems that everyone is allowed to let their hair down that much more, to party like pagans, and to lose him or herself to pure hedonistic pleasure. This holiday season, the Houston kink community was coming together not only to celebrate in grand style, to say goodbye to ’05 and usher in a brand spanking new year, literally and figuratively, but also to raise funds for those in their BDSM family that were displaced by Hurricane Katrina. Meaning, quite bluntly, insurance companies left many Black Dominas from Crescent City to fend for themselves when it came to replacing many of their custom built pieces of furniture, equipment, and paraphernalia while their white counterparts got a check cut, no questions asked. Houston PEP recognized the disparity and decided to have a fundraiser for its newly adopted Lousiana transplants to help them re-establish themselves and to embrace them with open arms and have a hell of a blowout party at the same time.

The generosity of the partygoers that evening was beyond compare. People brought everything from whips and paddles to swings and straight jackets, to a St. Andrew’s Cross and everything in between. One generous benefactor was even kind enough to donate space so that Mistresses Eden, Cree, Ana, Ebony, and Chocolate would have a place to set up shop without much hassle. Electricity was in the air as the ladies mixed and mingled among their newfound family to introduce themselves. Charlie Papadopoulos was particularly aroused at the presence of the guests of honor. He had always been attracted to women of color and he had acknowledged that he was submissive for nearly two decades. He was like a kid in a candy shop, distracted and fidgety. His wife, Eva, was barely able to have a conversation with him because he was so preoccupied. He hadn’t even heard her inform him that he was going to be a contestant in a very special selection process to serve and worship the honorees for the evening. It wasn’t until she led him to the stage by a leash where he stood among four other subs and waited to be inspected to see if he would have the privilege of serving the Black Dommes that he truly got an understanding of what could potentially happen.

His heart was beating fast and his face was flush. His cock was so hard it ached as he stood for what seemed like hours. People passed by, making comments and speculations about who would win and be subjected to the sadistic whims of FIVE strict Dominatrixes. Charlie swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the floor. He dared not look at the other subs that stood next to him. He felt inferior; his body not as young, lithe, or muscled as his other competitors. He could hear their laughs and taunts as they described his small cock and middle-aged paunch, assured, in their minds at least, that they would get a place at the feet of the Dominas and the opportunity of a lifetime.

The lovely Dommes examined the submissives one by one. First was Mistress Eden. The youngest of the group at 21, she had a lot to prove. She wanted everyone to know that she was truly a dominant and not just a kid playing at being domme. Charlie only saw her well-pedicured feet as he kept his eyes on the floor but he certainly felt the pain in his nuts as he grabbed them and twisted them enough to bring him to his knees. He wouldn’t, however, crumble that easily and he kept his composure through the pain. His honor was at stake and he focused his mind to endure whatever was necessary in order to serve. He would endure more humiliation, more degradation, more pain than the human mind and body was capable of for the honor of serving. Mistress Cree, dressed in a full-length latex gown, and Mistress Ana, wearing a leather corset and panties, poked and prodded Charlie like he was a piece of livestock. They opened his mouth and examined his teeth like they would a horse as he stood stoically as the onlookers took bets to see who would survive the next elimination. They bent him over and fingered his ass and Charlie couldn’t help but whimper. He felt his knees weaken slightly but the prize was too close. Two of the others had been eliminated and it was down to just him and two others. He felt them shoving fingers in his tight mancunt and he looked out into the audience and saw his wife Eva casually chatting away with her friends, oblivious to his predicament while everyone else in the room seemed to have their eyes glued to the makeshift stage.

Mistress Ebony was a super-sized BBW, tipping the scales at well over 300 pounds. Her red see-through negligee showed her pendulous breasts and rolls of fat. She seemed to be intrigued with having each sub on his knees to swat his tender flesh with her riding crop, listening to the most creative pleas for more punishment. Charlie was in sub space. He was intoxicated with lust. The words came tumbling out of his mouth as the crop came down on his body. “Oh Mistress, I crave your punishment. I’m a dirty, filthy, lowly white pig that lives to serve your Superior Ebony whims and desires. Make me endure the most cruel penalties, the most degrading tortures and I’ll prove to you that I want more by begging your to push me further. I’m a disgusting white slut that needs to be used and I will gladly eat your ass, drink your piss, or anything that you desire to show my submissiveness to you.”

By the time Mistress Chocolate stepped on the stage, it was down to Charlie and one other sub. The crowd was in a frenzy. Mistress Chocolate didn’t lay a finger on him. She simply whispered in his ear with a sweet melodious voice, that if she selected him, she was going to make regret his desire to submit to her. She began stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, and rubbing it gently with her black satin-gloved hand, trying to bring him to orgasm. Every tendon, every sinew in his body was tensed as he focused on her words and kept his eyes focused on the crowd. She pressed her very muscular frame into his back and whispered, “I’m going to take you down. You’re the one I want to see suffer. You have the most to lose. You, with your high paying job, your middle class air of superiority. I want to see you kneel at my feet and worship me.” Charlie let out a moan like a wounded animal and fought with every ounce of his being to hold back his cum. Everyone was in a state of arousal. Subs were licking wet pussies and being forced to lick feet as the all white crowd watched with wide eyes.

Charlie passed out. When he awoke, he was trying to figure out what had happened. Had he won? Had he cum? He tried to speak but he was overwhelmed with the sensation that he was firmly secured in a stockade in a room with a glass window. He couldn’t turn his head to see anyone but he assumed that there was a large audience.

For the next few hours, Charlie was the plaything of the five black women. Mistress Eden was intent on using his asshole with her black strapon like he was a whore. No longer feeling the need to hold back, he moaned, groaned, and begged for more. “Oh Mistress, I need your hard, thick, black strapon rammed in my sissy pussy. Fuck me. Fuck me harder, make it hurt. It feels so fucking good, ram me. Use my white slutty asshole. Can’t you fuck me any harder than that?” His taunts were met with the Domme fucking him like a rag doll. His pleas for more weren’t to be heard for very long because he his mouth was quickly put to use licking the huge, sweaty asshole of Mistress Ebony. He could barely breath with the fleshy mounds of her enormous ass covering his entire face. He worked his tongue in and licked the musky flavors as he could hear the muffled laughs as he felt he was going to pass out.

Deeper in sub space than he had ever been, being watched by dozens of onlookers, Charlie felt the sting of even more punishment applied to his ass. Mistress Ana administered a cat-o-nine tails on his back, ass, and thighs, hitting his tender balls. He would have cried out if Mistress Cree hadn’t grabbed his hair firmly in her hands and pressed her hot cunt to his mouth and forced him to drink her hot piss. It was a never-ending onslaught of sensation, each woman demanding pleasure in different ways.

It was the mysterious and gorgeous, Mistress Chocolate, however that stalked her prey. She wanted his singular focus and she waited patiently for the others to tire of using him. Charlie wanted more; he was desperate to be pushed past his limits. His neck was aching as he strained to look up at her. Her toned brown legs were inches from his face. She lifted her skirt slowly, making the crowd gasp in shock. Underneath the short miniskirt was the fully functioning cock of a transsexual. It was a full 8 inches in length and impressively thick. Charlie swallowed hard and started begging, “Feed me that hot black cock, shove it in my mouth, fuck my face, make me suck it like the depraved cocksucking whore that I am.” Not one to disappoint, Mistress Chocolate fed him her entire dick, making him choke and gag. In the zone, Charlie used his tongue, lips, and mouth to make that gorgeous cock shoot loads of creamy cum in his mouth.

Exhausted and sore, Charlie and Eva made the trip back home the next day in relative silence. Charlie could be more proud because his actions were part of a terrific fund-raiser for a very worthy cause. It was a night to remember and the stuff dreams are made of for a white sub named Charlie with an incredible desire for chocolate.

Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK

Leather Bondage Kit

Monday, August 13, 2007

Introspection


introspection. a reflective looking inward : an examination of one's own thoughts and feelings
People are not introspective. They do NOT take the time to contemplate their own thoughts, feelings, and sensations or do extensive self-examination. Introspection requires that people are able to recognize where their thoughts, feeling, and sensations are flawed and where they need to change. While I stated that introspection is the foundation, the very first element in forming a healthy relationship, if people aren't wiling to be introspective, then they aren't willing to say that they have areas that need work. One must be able to take constructive criticism AND be able to admit when they are wrong in order to form a healthy relationship. I preach every day about being introspective.

It is this need to be defensive, this need to prove that you are right at all costs, that prevents us from growing and connecting. The imperative that drives us to grow emotionally is dangerously lacking in most individuals and that prevents the formation of healthy relationships. All the time and energy spent in trying to hold on to your position, without the benefit of introspection, is wasted ego and arrogance. We don't, as a people, understand how to be humble, nor do we understand what it is to acknowledge that we could be wrong. It is introspection itself that allows us the space acknowledge individuals that have more knowledge than ourselves, that can help us get to another space as human beings where we release our bullshit and move forward. If the skill of introspection is necessary to form healthy relationships, then it is the ability to take heed of people when they offer advice to help us grow and see our past behaviors as detrimental that is the sign of maturity that will help us form better relationships, both intimate and non-intimate.

Introspection allows you to differentiate between people who are criticizing you because they want to bring you down and people who are offering constructive criticism to help you be a better person. Introspection allows you to see that you aren't perfect and that there are areas of your life where you could use a little fine-tuning. Introspection allows you to silence that voice that needs to have the last word in an argument and to justify your behaviors.

Additionally, admitting that you are wrong is a related issue. Accepting constructive criticism is something that CAN be done without drama and without argument. It is a process of analyzing the advice of someone and getting to a place where you weigh the pros and cons of their input and making adjustments to your behavior based on your desire to grow. Admitting when one is wrong is something that is done after the argument, after the disagreement, when you've had a chance to reflect and see that you were being egotistical, that you weren't being receptive, that you made a mistake. How can a relationship succeed if you refuse to apologize when you are wrong? Apologizing is the healing salve that tells your partner that you respect them and that you want to give them the respect that is owed them. All too often, people think that they can never admit when they are wrong because it will mean that the other person is better, that there is somehow something flawed or defective in themselves. If you can never be wrong, and your partner can never be wrong, then your relationship is bound to fail.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

The State of Black Erotica


Perhaps one day someone will convene a panel of scholars and academics that discusses Black sexuality and that addresses the subject of Black erotica. From the rhythmic tales of the sagacious griot, weaving tales of slaves whose love endured the horrors of chattel slavery, to the Harlem Renaissance with its unapologetic look at that mysterious element which made our natures rise, to the soul-stirring harmonies of R&B that have been the soundtrack to our seductions for decades, Black people have always had a long tradition of erotic expression. In 1992, an editor by the name of Miriam Decosta-Willis, published an anthology of erotica called Erotique Noire that was not only groundbreaking, it truly was a celebration of Black sensuality and set the stage for a new genre of expression. Today, if you venture into the African American section of any bookstore, it’s filled with shelf after shelf of degrading, crude, and offensive books that don’t even deserve to be called erotica. We’ve come a long way baby, but it certainly hasn’t been an erotic evolution.

One can’t have a discussion of the topic of Black erotica today without discussing Zane; she and Black erotica are virtually synonymous. For those of you who haven’t been in the African-American section of a bookstore in the last five years, Zane is the number one selling Black author who writes Black erotica. She says she is empowering Black women with her in-your-face brand of sexual writing. She certainly has done well for herself, selling over 2.5 million tittles and plans to launch television shows, plays, movies and a whole host of other branding opportunities from her tales of dark lust.

Zane’s story is one of triumph. She started out with rejection letter after rejection letter from publishers who told her that her brand of writing was too vulgar, that people wouldn’t buy such hard-core material. Self-publishing her books and selling them out of the trunk of her car, soon publishers were beating a line to her door to offer her a deal. Now she has her own imprint and is publishing upwards of 30 authors herself. She certainly deserves kudos for her good old-fashioned ingenuity and determination. She’s single handedly reshaped the face of Black erotica an opened the door for anyone, ANYONE who writes about sex to get a publishing deal, regardless of talent, or in most instances, the lack thereof. Sentence structure, spelling, grammar, and editing be damned. Publishers have taken the Zane story and capitalized off of it to the detriment of the genre and to the absolute degradation of any sort of example of healthy Black sexuality.

Writing Black erotica is a lot like rapping. Anybody who can come up with three words that rhyme can call himself or herself a rapper; anyone who uses the words dick, pussy, and fuck in a sentence can call themselves an erotic writer. Black erotic today consists of the same storyline told over and over again: super-beautiful women with abnormal libidos and superficial standards seduce their super-rich, lovers who always have super-sized genitalia complete with matching, heightened sexual appetites, and a non-existent commitment to being in a relationship. Throw in several dozen references to capitalist trinkets and you essentially have every erotic story on the shelves today. Black erotica has made being ghetto equivalent to being Black. We have a unique culture and experience that can come across on the page in our reflections, our words, and our perceptions. That, however, doesn’t have to include baby mamas, visiting day at prisons, spelling the words boys with a z, or eroticizing the N word. Instead of writing about our beauty, our pain, our history, we write about our dysfunction, throw in a few sexual escapades, and call it erotica. Yes, our stories need to be told, but glorifying behaviors that are unhealthy isn’t art. There certainly is more to Black life than what we are being force-fed.

The publishing industry has all but shut out writers with integrity to the craft who want to tell our stories in a way that don’t degrade but that celebrate Black and interracial sexuality beyond clich├ęs and stereotypes. So terrified are the Black middle class of being associated with the freaks and nymphos depicted in Black erotica, so distanced are we from a healthy example of our sexuality, we sit in silence, never demanding more, never complaining about the proliferation of erotic literature that reduce our sexuality to nothing more than a sweaty, recreational activity.

When our literary diets consist only of poorly written, grammatically incorrect, inane tales of ghetto sex, it's not feeding our souls, it's poisoning our minds. It's reinforcing that the institutionalized, substandard education that we have been fed is acceptable. It's crippling us, as Black people, academically so that we will never be able to read and appreciate a well-written novel in our lives, let alone be able to construct a sentence that would be considered well-written. We MUST raise the bar when it comes to what we are feeding ourselves, what literary sustenance with which we nourish ourselves.

Even with the proliferation banal Black erotica and the horrendous mediocrity of it all, there are still those who value the melodies and harmonies of jazz, who feel the angst of Morrison’s Beloved, who treasure the beauty of Alvin Ailey’s Revelations, and who appreciate the artistry of true erotica. Long gone are the days when we dog-eared the pages of Erotique Noire and quoted passages to our lovers in steamy late-night phone calls. Truly empowering erotica lifts us up, paints a picture of our lives and our sexuality that have nothing to do with exchanging sex for money or adultery but that allows us sensual release and to mentally travel to a place of sights, sounds, sensations, and tastes that arouse all of our senses.

Scottie Lowe is the owner of www.AfroerotiK.com, a website dedicated to showing Black people in a positive sexual light and the author of In Loving Color, a cutting-edge book of erotica and photography for which she is seeking investors.


Sunday, August 05, 2007

Ask Afro



Although many people want to deny it, our community is in a state of severe dysfunction when it comes to our choices, our logic, our patterns, and our responsibilities. Won't you come and share your informed and intelligent opionions and address the pathogoly that is keeping us tied to dysfuntional and detrimental behaviors that are keeping us oppressed.


Join the discussion TODAY!