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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
For Steven, his desires revolved around financial servitude and humiliation. For him, the two concepts were intimately and erotically tied. For him, to pay a woman to degrade and shame him was what gave him a thrill, what aroused him. He loved to be taunted, tormented, teased, and tortured and he loved to pay for it. It’s an interesting dynamic because money does equal power in Western society and the fact that he had it and women wanted it meant that he had control over them. Yes, he was giving them money but he was ultimately pulling the strings. Every time he paid a woman to make him do some stupid or embarrassing task, every time he became a woman’s benefactor and paid her bills, she became dependent upon him. He loved that. He loved the fact that women needed him for not only amusement but also in a vicious cycle of dependence. When these women were in financial trouble, rather than learning to budget and survive on their own, rather than using their brains and their inherent talents to make money, he would write a check and instantly, he assumed the role of the benefactor and they would have to fulfill his fantasies of degradation and give him all the attention he craved and wanted. Steven capitalized on the women who saw themselves as objects. He preyed on women who felt their value was in being desired by men, that their beauty was a bargaining chip with a dollar value. He pursued women who were shallow and superficial and who only saw dollar signs when they looked at his pathetic, laughably small cock.
Steven made a huge mistake when he approached me about giving me a tribute. Little did he know that it was to be the biggest mistake of his life, one that would leave him bankrupt, financially impoverished and destitute. When he first approached me some years ago, I told him that I had no interest in receiving a tribute, that I was not for sale. He followed my work and approached me again recently, asking to give me a tribute. As before, my response was the same as it is every time a stranger asks to give me an unsolicited gift or money. That wasn’t sufficient for him however. He sat at home, fantasizing about being my submissive, about me making him do unspeakable, perverted things. He was drawn to my unapologetic commentary on race and racism, my keen insight into the minds of submissive white men, my intensity, and, of course, my beautiful brown skin and strong African features.
Not one to take rejection well, Steven began his efforts to lure me with promises of money. Rather than attempting to get to know me, forgoing any efforts to impress me or appeal to my intellect and sensibilities to become my submissive, he dangled threats and promises of money, telling me of how he could make my life comfortable, spoil and pamper me with nothing expected of me in return. Never in his life had he ever encountered a woman like me. It was unfathomable to him that I didn’t want or need his money. It was clear to me, behind his desires of being forced to pay, that he believed that all women were objects to be purchased, that every woman had a tipping point, a certain dollar amount that would entice them to conform to his twisted fantasies. The fact that his fantasies were to be mistreated and abused were irrelevant; it was money that was the carrot that he dangled in front of women’s faces and there was no way in hell I was going to let him manipulate or control me in that way. What Steven didn’t get, what he couldn’t comprehend is that I am inherently superior. I’m far superior to those women who sell their souls for money or to have a bill paid. I have integrity; I cannot be purchased like an item on the shelf and certainly not like a hooker on the street corner. I am a divinely gifted, magnificent, African queen, worthy of praise, honor, and worship befitting only of a Goddess who walks the earth, who is proud of her African heritage, and who enjoys and takes pleasure in reducing white men to sniveling, groveling, sissy faggot, debased pigs.
I planned on manipulating Steven, controlling him to the point where he was so entirely devoted to me, where I became his religion, that not only would he give me every penny he could, but that he would deny himself the necessities of life in order to lavish me with gifts and money. I intended to make him relinquish all his other money whores and get him to a point where he not only lived for me, that he would work for me, giving me his entire paycheck with the hopes that I would give him enough to allow him to survive. I wanted him to endure psychological pain for my amusement, to drain his wallet to not only finance my company AfroerotiK but to donate to the causes and charities that would benefit people of African descent around the globe. Steven was to become the major backer that would invest in the production of my book that would heal Black relationships and divest white people of their fallacy of white supremacy. He would be the money source that would rebuild www.AfroerotiK.com and make it even bigger and better than it was before. I calculated that if freed slaves were to have gotten the 40 acres and a mule that we were promised at the end of slavery, that it would equate to about $250,000 dollars in today’s economy. That would be just the tip of the iceberg that I intended to make Steven pay, just a drop in the bucket. I wanted him to pay for my great grandmother who had to hold her tongue while she was brutally gang raped by disgusting white men who robbed her of her innocence. He would pay for the way Blacks hung from trees like strange fruit, lynched for the entertainment of whites who regarded Blacks as 3/5th of a human being, deserving of inhumane enslavement. It was my full intention to make Mr. Mueller pay for the unearned privilege and position he got just by virtue of being white and male and to reduce him to his true place, beneath my sacred foot, serving not as my slave but as my pet and my possession, driven to please me and to crave my acknowledgement and praise as a good sub and to pay for it, to pay dearly . . . with his life.
Let’s just say that our first meeting, between Steven and I, didn’t go quite as expected. Well, it didn’t go the way he had anticipated; my expectations were exceeded to say the least. I’d made arrangements for us to meet at this fantastic new restaurant named “& Jelly” in New York City. I thought the place was apropos for our initial encounter because it specialized in unique and flavorful unexpected pairings, just like us. He flew in from Miami and I took the train from Maryland. To his credit, he had a car waiting for me at Penn Station and made arrangements for me to stay in a lovely suite in the Midtown Hyatt, nothing extravagant but certainly not The Vanderbilt YMCA either.
I towered over him. In my heels and standing proud, tall, and strong at not a bit shy of 6’2”, it was more than apparent that he felt emasculated as he reached out nervously to shake my hand. It was a dynamic he found arousing however. He loved the concept of a domineering Black woman who would treat him like shit and sexually dominate him. I wasn’t nearly that crude nor was I anywhere near the manifestation of his one-dimensional Dominatrix fantasies but I smiled as politely as I could, feeling his sweaty palms as we exchanged pleasantries and such.
After we were seated, I ordered the Sacralicious French Toast which was a heavenly combination of challah bread and bacon served with curry butter and plum jelly. I ordered for him; the waitress was clearly amused by that fact as I selected the beef tenderloin waffle with basil butter and mango jelly. Never one to waste time, I asked, “So, what is it exactly you want from me, Steven?”
He’d been prepared for the question mainly because I had instructed him to have an answer ready for me upon meeting. He hadn’t really rehearsed what he wanted to say; he opted for an off-the-cuff, almost flippant response. He decided that his best bet was to keep his answer as simple as possible. “Goddess, I want to be your devoted pay pig, slut, and slave.”
Almost as soon as the words left his lips, Steven knew he had fucked up. He was well aware of my opinion about the word slave and he looked like a deer caught in headlights fearing for his life. “Submissive, I’m sorry Mistress, I meant to say submissive. I apologize. I didn’t mean to . . .”
I immediately allayed his fears. “That’s quite alright, Steven, I know it was nothing more than a mere slip of the tongue, just the common use of the word in a BDSM context. Relax. I know you weren’t suggesting that you wanted to endure the horrors of slavery that my ancestors endured. No one in his or her right mind would ever imply that, right? In fact, I’m not even sure I’m capable of being that cruel and sadistic. I would never think of breaking into your quaint little home in Zurich in the middle of the night, my henchmen and I, and brutalizing your family. I would never put anyone, let alone an innocent teenaged boy through the torture and anguish of having to watch his mother beheaded, her blood draining from her decapitated corpse as I slung her skull across the room by her limp hair. If, and only if I were to enslave someone, I would by necessity have to make them watch their father brutally raped with the blade of a knife until he bled to death, SCREAMING in pain as he watched his daughter raped by strange, sadistic men. It’s almost unthinkable to imagine that I would even be capable of shackling you to other young boys, making you drag their weakened and dying bodies from Zurich to Genoa, Italy, only to be branded like a piece of cattle, kept in a dungeon for months on end, fed food infested with maggots and other vermin, and not even given any sunlight or clean water, let alone medical care. How horrible would I be if I were to be the sort of Mistress who would transport you thousands of miles from your home to a strange land where you knew no one, where you didn’t speak the language, and I beat you for days, weeks even, eight, ten, or twelve hours a day until you renounced your belief in Jesus, until you cursed your God as heathen and, from sheer exhaustion and abuse, renounced your name for one I gave you? I would be one cruel Domme if I were sexually aroused by seeing your reactions as I doused your infected, bleeding wounds with bleach, salt, or anything else I could think of in my wild and vicious imagination. Of course, I could make you work like an animal, feeding you the rotted scraps from my table so that I could profit from your labor. That would only be fitting as my ancestors, who were real slaves, had to endure that and more for generations. More than likely, however, I could never bring myself to rip your newborn, infant child from your arms, still covered with amniotic fluid, the umbilical cord still pulsing with blood, and sell them off like a barrel of oil on the stock exchange, only to make you reproduce again and again and again so that I could sell off all your precious children to pad my bank account. I could do that if you wanted, if you REALLY wanted to be my slave Steven.”
His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white and his face was red, tears were in his eyes, and he was more than angry, he was sickened. “You fucking bi. . . You know that I didn’t mean anything by what I said. How dare you . . .”
I cut him off with his feigned outrage. “Bitch, shut up. My ancestors endured that and more. Fuck you.” I was so calm, so nonchalant compared to his labored breathing; it was quite the contrast. He’d never once thought about the millions and millions of times those sorts of things had occurred during slavery to innocent Black people, people who had no choice in the matter, whose lives were not their own in any sense of the word. No, when he thought about slavery, he thought about big-dicked, muscular Black men being stud for slutty plantation wives. If he had a chance to really think about it, he would think about the movie Roots and some obscure references to slavery being “unfortunate”. Occasionally, he thought about the injustice of slavery but never once had he contemplated it like that, never once had the experience been so personal to him, so horrifying.
I continued. “Or Steven, I could make you my submissive. It’s very conceivable that I could turn you into my depraved, cum-loving faggot. I could make your asshole the center of your being, craving being fucked, stretched, and used only by black cocks and strapons, my little gangbang whore. I could twist your desires and make it so you crave my piss, shit, snot, menses, and vomit as your sustenance. To belong to me, I would make you my bitch, making you wear my used tampons in your asscunt and training you to take my dog’s knot and love it. If you were to choose to be my submissive, if you were willing to give yourself over to the process, I would make you relinquish Infinity, Gertrude, Shanice and all your other women and serve only me. That position is up for negotiation if you’d like. There’s only one stipulation. I WILL NOT accept tributes and dominate you, it’s one or the other.”
In the course of less than three minutes, Steven went from outraged to aroused. Our food arrived and Steven sat there speechless. He knew for the first time in his life that he was in the presence of true greatness, an all-powerful woman. “Will you excuse me,” I said as I left him sitting there at the table alone and returned to my hotel room, my food untouched, no explanations. The next day, he flew back to Miami and couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what had happened to him. For days, he checked his account balances, calculated figures in his mind, obsessed over his finances. He had become overwhelmed with the desire to empty his bank account and give every penny he had to me, to lie at my feet and present himself for me to do with him as I desired. He knew that he could not do both. It was his inexplicable need to pay me that haunted him, his compulsion to compensate me for being a TRUE Ebony Goddess that fucked with his head. For as much as he wanted to do and become all the nasty things I had spoken of, he wanted to see me languishing and luxuriating in wealth and riches while he suffered in poverty even more.