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.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

The touch of your hand awakens dreams deferred.


At first, the touch of your hand to my stomach arouses fear and panic in me. Not because I’m afraid you will use me for sex, I don’t believe you are capable of that. I have so many old, negative tapes going on in my head. I have so many dreams and aspirations that I’ve yet to realize playing in my mind.

The touch of your hand makes me feel afraid of being sexual with you because my sexuality has been stifled for so very long. I don’t feel confident in myself, in my ability to be sexual. I know how the mechanics of sex work. I recognize that it’s natural. It’s just that I’ve pushed men away for so long, I’ve relegated my sexuality to a computer screen and an occasional late night phone call for so long, I don’t know how to let you know that I want you, that I crave you. So, with your hand on my tummy, I freeze, unable to move, unable to tell you that the warmth of your hand on my body makes me feel alive, makes me feel like a woman.

I’ve fantasized about what it will be like the very next time I make love to a man. We will be in love with one another; we will be twin flames, reunited after lifetimes of refinement, only to connect in a passionate exchange of passion and intimacy. The touch of your hand reminds me of those dreams, of hearing my man say, “Scottie, I am so in love with you,” as he penetrates me for the very first time, knowing that we will never be with another person for the rest of our lives. The heat of your hand on my body reminds me of fantasies of tasting my man’s tears as he is deep inside me, knowing that I am his protector and shelter, that I am the place he runs to feel whole, to receive nourishment. Your fingertips stimulate my dormant imagination and remind me of fantasies of a lover who caters to my every need, who takes the time to please me knowing that my satisfaction will bring about his. Your hand becomes the hand of my fantasy lover, who bathes me every night, who anoints my body with lotions and oils, who licks me softly until I explode in his mouth and who slowly, gently, tenderly makes love to me each and every night until I’m begging and screaming for him to fuck me savagely. With your simple touch to my belly, you have ignited visions of my husband cumming inside me and creating life together with our love.

Instead, I freeze at the touch of your hand to my body. I don’t know how to express my fears to you, so I say nothing, a single tear falling from the corner of my eye I quickly brush away.
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