My Prayer for Black Women

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

The days of empowered women are long gone.

There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn’t a dirty word and meant more than “angry lesbian.” Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There’s been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.

Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren’t good enough in bed, you aren’t beautiful enough, you don’t live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard. 

For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It’s easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it’s all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don’t fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn’t flow in the wind, for women that don’t look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It’s a burden Black women don’t talk about because it’s shameful to admit that you don’t compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that’s beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you’ll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it’s an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.

Si, se puede

Miro a gente. Miro tendencias. Observo. Soy particularmente sensible a las aplicaciones la raza, el género, y la sexualidad pues pertenece a la evolución de mi gente. Guardando mi ojo en el clima político, he visto una cambio gradual que está ocurriendo antes de que nuestros ojos y su fabricación de bastantes ondas y yo sospechamos que está interconectado y que relacionado todo con algunas cambios serias en el sentido que es seguro tener impacto profundo en nosotros todo.

Si, se puede.

My sexuality

I am, above all else, committed not to sharing my body with anyone who doesn’t meet my extremely high standards. In this, misogynist, sexist society, I’m looked down upon for having such high standards. Apparently, I’m supposed to have low standards so that any man who wants to fuck me can do so without any critique or criticism from me. My stringent standards have me spending much of my time alone, which I’m not happy with, but it is exponentially better than the alternative of spending it with someone whom I find emotionally immature, mentally enslaved, or just plain mediocre.

My “open mindedness” is perhaps a little bit more than most men would like. I’m not at all interested in heterosexual men. I am not attracted to them, I don’t desire to have a man who identifies himself as straight as a partner, and I can’t be convinced that a heterosexual man can be my night in shining armor if I only allow him to be. My interest is exclusively in openly bisexual men; men who have been in romantic relationships with another man, who are comfortable with being a switch, who have been penetrated and moreover, who don’t mind me penetrating them with toys.

I’m really looking for love. My perversions, if you will, are fetishes that I’m really looking to divorce myself from. At this stage in my life, I’m looking to experience passionate, erotic, sensuous, intense love making without the trappings of the extremes that have aroused me in the past. I deserve to feel loved and cared for in each of my love making experiences. I’m not saying I want it to be soft and tender every time, but I no longer want to be called a bitch and slut while I’m having sex with my partner either. It’s my declaration that I deserve to be cherished by my partner, not a slave to kinks and preferences that have been influenced by a society that takes pride in degrading women and making sex something dirty.

I’m not the super freak, hyper sexual, do-it-all woman that people make me out to be. I’m probably more sexually conservative than most people because I don’t have sex with people who don’t earn my trust, admiration and love; I’m just more public in my discussions of sex.