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.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Worship (Part 3)

Steven fucked up.  He had destroyed his chances with the one and only true Black Goddess whom he’d ever encountered.  Apparently, he had gotten in his disturbed mind that I was blackmailing him when nothing could be further from the truth.  Well, not only that, but he had the audacity, the unmitigated nerve to accuse me of things so absurd, so unfathomable to any sane mind, that he offended me in ways not many subs had ever had the occasion or balls to do. 

Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for exposure, his fantasies of being “outted”, and blackmailed, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women was indeed sick.  He invited women to extort him, he wanted his friends and family to know of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly.  At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He masturbated furiously to the actual females who were doing all the things he had falsely accused me of doing.  He sent them money, bought their rank undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and ebanned purchases. 

Everything would have been fine; Steven wouldn’t have had a problem in the world if there wasn’t that pesky little blog that he’d asked me to create.  He was obsessed with going to the blog, he repeatedly Googled his name to see the number one result was The Financial Demise of Werner Steven Mueller.  It fucked with him, fucked with his mind.  None of his other exploits showed up so blatantly.  That blog was the bane of his existence.  He needed it to go away and go away soon.  Its mere presence was symbolic of his kinks trespassing into his real life. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to completely delete the blog.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or cafĂ©.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps, extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously and said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary.  I escorted him to the very front of the church.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.”  He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  

 I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.”  His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He checked the internet the next day, and true to my word, the blog was gone.  He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved

Air AfroerotiK

Welcome aboard Air AfroerotiK Flight 694U headed for the beautiful, sunny shores of pleasure and delight.  My name is Scottie and I’m going to be your erotic stewardess for your sensual journey today.  The captain assures me it’s going to be a VERY VERY bumpy ride so we ask that you unbuckle your belt, on your pants that is, and any other constricting clothing that limits your mobility and freedom of movement.  If you look in the compartment on the back of the seat in front of you, you’ll find a bag to place bras, underwear, or any other unnecessary undergarments that might impede your stimulation and fun.  Please take note of where the rest rooms are located aboard the plane for anyone who is interested in redeeming their Mile High Member Club points today.   Veteran Mile-Highers are welcome to move freely about the cabin in order to engage in fast and furious fucking inspired by the thrill of getting caught but first time and novice members to the club are asked to restrict their participation to late night flights and first class accommodations only. 

We ask that you please observe the smoking signs when lit because the sex you are going to have is going to be smoking, scorching, sizzling, steamy, and hot.  Forget peanuts and overpriced mini bottles of alcohol, the meal aboard the flight today is going to be tempting and tasty cum, the kind that erupts from throbbing hard dicks and slippery wet pussies.  Cabin pressure is bound to be uncharacteristically high as the entire flight should be dedicated to erotic foreplay that sets the stage for unbridled, raw, passionate, down and dirty sex.  

In the event of an emergency, a blanket can be used to obscure prying eyes from the sensual and seductive stroking that comes from throbbing hard erections or aroused and swollen nipples.  Very vocal complaining about being too cold from the air conditioning or casually mentioning how sleepy and jet lagged you are will appease those nosey neighbors who might otherwise raise an eyebrow or two as to why someone is scrambling to hide their private parts from view.  Do keep in mind that it’s just a rouse in order to get to the more hardcore play. 

By now you should have set the stage for some hot and heavy fun.  You should be able to pretend to be sleeping so that prying eyes won’t be able to see female passengers freeing their traveling companion’s dick from his pants.  Skillfully, slowly, gently, glide your hand up and down that shaft, coaxing it to a fully engorged and aroused state.  Once he is in the fully upright and locked position, ladies should whisper in your partner’s ear how you are going to fuck him senseless.  Make sure and tell him exactly how you want it, letting down your guard and exploring all your fantasies.  Be sure to tell him things like, “I want you to beat this pussy up.  Bend me over and spank my ass while you are ramming your hard dick in me and making me scream and beg for more.”  Be liberal in your descriptions, saying things like, “I want you to pull my hair and flip me around like your little rag doll.  I want to be your nasty little girl, daddy.  I want you to fuck me until I pass out and then fuck me some more.  I want my pussy to be sore and my legs to be weak from too much sex so that all we can do is order room service in order to replenish our energy so we can fuck again.”

That dick should be leaking precum by now which can be used to stimulate the sensitive spot where the head and the shaft connect.  Continue to stroke slowly, causing the blood to fill that stiff member.  Increase pressure and speed slowly, so as to not cause any uncontrollable moaning, building the momentum until that boiling hot cum is ready to erupt in spurt after spurt of orgasmic bliss.  Just as that pressure builds, slow down your movements to allow for the procedure to be repeated several times almost to the point of ejaculation and then starting all over again.  More than pleasure, you should be eliciting erotic torture so that once behind closed doors, he will be forced to show no mercy and pound . . that. . fucking . . dick . . in . . your, , ,  pussy. . .so . . . hard  . . . you . . . scream. 

If the oxygen masks should fall, please attend to the needs of your partner first as one good turn deserves another.  Similar techniques can be used to simulate hot wet pussies and stiff erect nipples as well.  If our female passengers are appropriately attired, a gentlemen can slide his hand up the smooth warm thighs of his beloved and sexy partner to that soft, wet pussy.  Some ladies will be reluctant to let go of their typically cautious and demure demeanor.  In this particular instance, it might be necessary to pull out the big guns and hit her with an arsenal of words that will release the inner wanton slut that is longing to get out.  One might try saying things like, “I want you to ride my face, sit on it, let me lick that wet slit, drive my tongue up in your hole, tongue fuck it.  I want to feel your juices coat my face while you use my mouth to make you cum.  Yeah, I can’t wait to feel those soft lips spreading open to give me that delicious honey that pours out when you cum.  I want to suck that clit in my mouth and feel your thighs gripping my head, letting me taste all those sweet folds of that pussy I love to eat so much.”  Should further inspiration be needed to coax her out of her shell, additional descriptions should be given of how desperate you are to fuck her.  For example, if you say to her, “I want to see that sexy ass of yours when you are riding my dick, using it to get off on, working your tight, hot, wet pussy to make yourself cum.  Play with my balls so I can shoot my hot nut deep in that pussy and see it leaking out as you collapse on the bed.  I want to slide my dick between your sexy lips and let you taste your delicious cum after I fuck you.” 

If fingering her wet pussy is not logistically possible due to clothing restrictions, direct all the erotic tension to the sensitive nipples of the passenger.  Those passengers sitting next to the window are encouraged to completely expose their breasts beneath the blanket, adding to the excitement and thrill.  Using a soft and gentle technique, slowly pull and pinch those nipples, causing the passenger to squirm with frustration and desire.    If done correctly, the passenger should be wet and ready for serious fucking the second the landing gear is lowered. 

Once again, thank you for flying Air AfroerotiK.  We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we hope you will consider traveling with us again. 

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Why are White People so Afraid of Being Called Racist?

Bush recently said the lowest point of his presidency was Kanye West calling him a racist.  The lowest point?  Not 9/11.  Not Hurricane Katrina.  Kanye West calling him a racist was his lowest point.  White people react violently to being called racist like it's the ultimate insult.  I've had white people call me every nigger/coon racial epithet in the book, tell me to go back to Africa, inform me why they feel black people are at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder, and then follow with, "I'm not racist."  I've even had those same people tell me that they still wanted to have sex with me them even though they think that I am the real racist.  The white people who hold on to the most racist mindsets, the ones who are the least diverse, the least accepting of anyone or anything different from their experience, the ones who get ANGRY when someone suggests that anyone with an experience that differs from their white reality are the ones most vested to this notion that they aren't racist.  It seems as if the only definition of a racist white people will acknowledge is wearing a white sheet, burning a cross and lynching a black person.  I find it fascinating that white people are sooooo afraid of being called a racist yet they are the least tolerant of anyone else's experiences, culture, and history. 

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Don’t Say a Word

I need you.  When I say I need you, it’s not just in the conventional way people throw those words around meaning they’re horny and wanna get a nut.  I need your spirit, your energy, your essence in me, around me, all over me.  I need you to communicate with me with your eyes.  Stare deep into my soul and tell me that you need me without words.  Speak to me with those mesmerizing eyes that ignite my passions and draw me in.  I want our conversation to be echoed in the windows to your soul, so profound and articulate.  Tell me you crave me, that I stimulate your mind and your body without uttering a word.  Let your eyes speak for you and tell me a love story about how we’ve known each other for lifetimes.  I could stare into your beautiful, expressive eyes for hours.  Let that be our way to express the things that words simply cannot say. 

Close your eyes and communicate with me with your fingers.  Run your hands up the small of my back, spreading heated oil along my spine.  Tell me that you want to soothe my aches and pains as you caress and stroke my brown flesh.  Tickle me, cuddle with me, and let your fingers do the talking as each slow, intentional, sensual touch of my body conveys your lust for me, your burning desire to make love to me, to fuck me.  Leave your fingerprints on every inch of my body as forensic evidence of your motives to embrace my being.  Allow me to lay my head on your lap, the tips of your fingers tracing an outline across my collarbone, down my breast to my hardened nipple so sensitive to your gentle touch. 

Tell me you want to make love to me with your lips, never saying a word but using your tongue, your mouth as your pen, my body as your paper.  Kiss me and communicate how you’ve longed for me; your soft, full, wet lips yielding against mine.  Create a new language by licking, kissing, and sucking all the tender spots on my body that make me squirm and writhe in indescribable pleasure.  Slowly, intentionally, with your mouth exploring every crevice and curve of my body, tease my inner thighs with gentle kisses as my guttural moans and grunts let you know that I can’t stand your seductive tease but I crave it at the same time.  Without uttering a single, solitary word, tell me that you want to be with me, make love to me, that you need me too. 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK