A little something for anal enthusiasts

Fuck my dirty asshole

MMMM, that’s right baby, eat my pussy. Ohhh, lick it. Work my clit, yeah, suck all that juice. Oh shit, what are you doing? I see, you want to lick my ass? Yeah sweetie, don’t be afraid, no need to be shy if that’s what you like. I LOVE a hot tongue in my ass. Let me turn over for you so you can really get in there good. Spread my full, round asscheeks and really get your nose in there. Yeah, smell it. You like the way that smells? You like my musky, hot asshole? I know you do, look how fucking hard your dick is, look how much precum you are leaking. Yes, you nasty fuck; you get off on smelling my sweaty asshole, don’t you? Take a good whiff; I haven’t had a shower since early this morning. I went for a run after work so it should be nice and ripe for you. Are you going to get it all nice and clean for me? Go ahead, stick your tongue in there, get it and wet. Yeah, tongue fuck my butthole. Rim me. Ram it in deep. Does that taste good? You like it? Suck all my hot, nasty assjuice from my tight, dirty ass. Ohhh, deeper, that’s it. It feels so nasty when you lick it like that, spread my ass and really get in there. Suck it hard. Spit in it. Spit in my dirty fucking hole. Work it up there with your tongue. Eat my fucking dirty ass you son of a bitch, lick it, taste all my nasty ass flavors. Damn, that feels so fucking sexy. Ram your fucking tongue in there so far you can taste what I had for lunch. Yeah, that’s it, get nasty you fucking pig, tell me how much you love digging in my hot, brown hole. What sort of fucking pervert gets off on eating a woman’s nasty, hot, dirty, sweaty, filthy shithole?

Mmmmm, kiss me, let me taste my ass. Let me suck that hot tongue of yours. Ohhh, that’s so nasty, it tastes so good. I bet you want to finger my dirty ass too, don’t you? Work your fingers up in my tight asshole. Goddamn, that feels fucking incredible. Finger me hard; ram your fingers in there. Deeper. Harder motherfucker, really get my hole loose. Make it gape open. Pull ‘em out and let me see you suck them. That’s’ right, suck your dirty fingers straight from my raunchy backdoor. It feels so good. I want your hard dick in my ass. I want you to fuck the shit out of me. I want you to pound my hot asshole and make me scream. Are you going to make me beg? You want me to show you what a dirty ass whore I am? You want me to tell you how much I love big, long, hard, thick dicks fucking deep in my ass? I can’t get enough. I love to be rammed in my shitpipe, my nasty filthy bootyhole. Damn you, frig my poophole harder. What’s the matter, you think I can’t take it? I’ve got news for you. I can take it harder and deeper in my asshole than you can dish it out. I can ride your fucking dick with my tight wet asshole until you are begging me to stop because I’ve drained every drop of hot cum from your big hairy nuts and still can’t get enough. My tight fucking asshole was made to be screwed hard and fucking deep.

What are you waiting for, a fucking invitation? Okay, well, take the head of your hard dick, line it up at my dirty, tight pucker, push the head in and feel me grip it tight with my muscles and work every hard inch deep in my bowels. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck my ass. Make me show you what a dirty asswhore I am. Ram my butthole. Oh shit, it feels so fucking good, so nasty. I love it. HARDER damn you. Pound my ass until you shoot all your hot cum deep in me. I’m going to cum with your fucking dick in my ass. Pull it out. Let me taste it. Let me taste all that hot assjuice from deep in my ass. Mmmm, it tastes so fucking nasty, so fucking good. Cleaning your dirty dick straight from my filthy asshole. Yeah, stick it back in me and fuck me good. I love getting pounded in my asshole and I need you to ram it so good it hurts. Put you cum in me so deep I shit it out tomorrow. You like that, don’t you? You love me being an assslut for you. Fuck, I’m going to cum. Oh shit, I’m going to cum. Fuck me. Fuck my ass. Mmmmm.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Releasing Our Pain, Healing Our Wounds

People are quick to say, "Slavery was in the past, what happened back then doesn’t have an effect today." Well, Black women have been raised, socialized, and programmed for generations to internalize every pain, heartache, and tragedy as if it is nothing more than just another drop in the bucket. It's Black women who suppress our emotions, who treat depression like it’s a normal way of life because we have been taught that to do anything less is paramount to a sin and a shame. The messages that black women have passed on, that we wear as badges of honor, aren't healthy. In fact, they are the key factors to us having high blood pressure in outrageous numbers, of us dying from heart disease exponentially more than any other race, and that prevent us from forming healthy relationships. It is our legacy from slavery. Since African women landed on these shores, we have been told to suffer in silence in order to make it to another day. To feel pain is to be considered weak; it’s not even an option for many of us.

We are a nation of women who don't know how to deal with our pain because we had to keep on keepin’ on during slavery or feel the pain of the whip. Today, our behaviors mirror those of the plantation. During slavery, mother's taught their daughters to expect to be whipped, raped, beaten, used and abused and to hold back the tears when the pain comes in order to survive. Today, we are repeatedly told that if a man molests us, that we are somehow responsible for his abusive and violent actions because we did something to lead him on, if he beats us, we asked for it. When we go to our mothers and sisters and friends, who are unhealed from their own emotional wounds, they tell us to get over it, to forget it and move on. When our men abandon us, we don’t have time to mourn or cry or feel depressed, we still have to work, raise our children, and maintain stability. We make fun of white women for going to therapists, for admitting that they are depressed as if they are less than real women. We’ve been so brainwashed into believing these lies we don’t even question that there is another way to exist.

You can be assured that there are scores of black women who believe it's a good thing to be able to deal with pain without falling apart, to hold everything in, to be the rock that everyone else can count on, that building up a wall to keep everyone out is something to be admired. They are the same black women that have the physical ailments that go along with the suppression of emotions. They are the same Black women who sabotage their relationships because they refuse to show vulnerability because they equate it with weakness, who feel the need to emasculate their men in a futile attempt to try and feel powerful. Resiliency is a strong characteristic; denial is not. We have to start asking ourselves, is the way we are behaving really working for us? Are we really happy holding on to the concept that we have to be super hard and super mean in order to be Black women?

Failure to process pain isn't a good thing. Constantly projecting an image of hardness isn't a healthy thing either. Black women are so conditioned to be the mythological “Strong Black Woman” that we fail to realize that we are living in a constant state of depression that is killing us. We can’t even grasp the concept that there is a better way to live, that we can live life more abundantly and peacefully than just pushing down the pain until it eats us up. We will forever be tied to slavery, and a slave mentality, as long as we refuse to accept that our pain isn’t the foundation of our womanhood. We must acknowledge that we need help, that we can’t be the source of everyone else’s comfort all the time and not have anyone comfort us. We can’t be a caricature of the neck-rolling, “I can do bad all by myself” Black woman who is passing down dysfunction and disease to our children. We have to start loving ourselves enough to admit that it’s okay to break down, to cry, to admit when we are overwhelmed, process those feelings and then HEAL. The objective is not to wallow in our despair but to acknowledge that we have been hurt, that we need nurturing and love and to find that source of love inside first and then to seek it out in people who will help us move to a higher plane.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

9/11 Truth

Loose Change

Carolyn Scott Obituary

On Friday, January 4th, 2008, heaven welcomed an angel in spirit form, Carolyn Elora Scott. Born November 7th, 1927, Carolyn, also known simply as Crouch, her maiden name by her close friends and traveling buddies, was and exceptional woman who was tiny in stature but LARGE on style, personality, and conviction. Never one to hold her tongue, always outspoken about the things that mattered most to her, Carolyn was a dedicated lifetime subscribing member of the Cecil County Chapter of the NAACP, where she served as membership coordinator for many years. She loved to experience life to the fullest and was an avid fan of car racing, sports and hardly a day went by where she missed her favorite game show, Jeopardy, in order to, in her words, “learn one new thing every day.” She possessed the unique ability to recall artist, song, and lyrics of songs that spanned decades and she was fortunate to have seen some of the greatest musicians of her time perform live on her many road trips around the country.

Carolyn was an inspiration and a role model to all who came in contact with her because always carried herself with class, she was well-read and articulate, and a pioneer in many ways. Her fierce independence and “head-strong” personality weren’t typical of women during the time she was coming of age but she made sure that everyone knew that she, and only she, was going to define herself and on her own terms.

Carolyn was preceded in death by her father, Robert Crouch Sr., brother, Robert, Jr., her soul mate, life partner, and husband, William Henry Scott, Jr., and her dynamic mother Virginia who lived to be 105 years old. She leaves to mourn Anna Watkins, Scottie Lowe, and Mary Smith, her primary care-givers and companions, cousin Paula Coles, and a host of nieces, nephews and friends who will greatly miss her. Her final days, in many ways, were reflective of her life. She fought a valiant fight to beat the odds and survive. Her time, however, had come to sit at the right hand of her Lord and Savior and bask in Heaven’s sweet glow.

Waiting for Godot

Or for the existentially illiterate, “Waiting for Mr. Right”

Act 1, Black man, In his 30s or 40s, convinced he’s flawless, goes after women who are superficial and materialistic, convinced that all women are like that and that he is righteous on his path of lies and manipulation because he has never once examined own role in drawing unhealthy relationships to him. He goes from woman to woman to woman and becomes more arrogant, continues to lie more, to treat women poorly because he is manifesting women in his life that reflect his own level of dysfunction. He trash talks Black women and waves the banner of “good black man” because he is employed and not incarcerated.

Act 2, Intelligent, attractive, genuinely introspective Black woman sits at home alone, reading self-help books, writing affirmations, analyzing ways in which to make her next attempt at a relationship better, trying to find ways to fill her time without the company of a partner. She visualizes a man in her life who has integrity, compassion, who is emotionally mature, who is ready and willing to commit himself to a monogamous, healthy, equally loving relationship. She waits.

For a great many Black women, a growing population, this isn’t thespian flair, it’s reality. For far too many of us, we are relinquishing the one night stands, the booty calls, the homie lover friends and we are setting our standards higher. We are saying that we deserve more, that we are going to save ourselves until we find a man who is deserving of our time and company. In a perfect world, Act 3 of this tragedy would be the Black man in his 30s or 40s would take evaluation of his life, he would make steps to heal the past hurts that shaped his worldview, he would strive to be a man of character, integrity, and a good partner in a relationship. Sadly, he arrogantly expects his needs to be met without being willing to make sacrifices and he stamps his feet and screams that he is being unfairly critiqued or male bashed any time someone tries to hold him accountable for his actions. He wants the gorgeous video vixen who doesn’t ask him for money, who doesn’t ask questions about his whereabouts, who will forgive him straying, and who doesn’t demand any emotional commitment. Those are the delusions of a child however. And without a male role model to tell him that those are immature and irresponsible objectives, he becomes louder and louder, saying that there are no good women.

Act 3. She waits.