Intimacy Deprivation

A friend of mine told me the other night that he suffered from a condition called skin hunger.  I was reminded of him telling me that years previously and it resonated with me then but it’s just something that I haven’t had in my conscious mind for a long time.  Skin hunger is a term used to describe basically a lack of human contact.  Other than the same short article reposted on several sites, http://everything2.com/user/arianne/writeups/Skin+hunger there really wasn’t much information on the condition.  I need to find out the effects of adults going without touch.  I’m convinced that I suffer from the effects of skin hunger and I suspect a great deal of what’s wrong with our society is because of an epidemic of skin hunger on a very large scale. 

I’ll summarize the article for you.  Essentially it says that babies, the elderly, and monkeys suffer without human contact and that they thrive, are better adjusted, less aggressive, and overall just do well with touch.  It also says that adults probably, more than likely, maybe in some vague, abstract, undocumented, unscientifically researched way do also.  It says that technology, the media, and disconnected lifestyles have led us down a path where we no longer touch.  It doesn’t discuss the results of adults going without touch and it only offers massage therapy as a solution. 

I’m here to say that going without touch for extended periods of time is detrimental to our physical, spiritual, and social identities.  I suspect it’s a vicious cycle.  We don’t get touch which in turn means we feel isolated, which means we recoil in solitude where we don’t get touch.  Going without touch hinders your interpersonal skills, leaves you feeling isolated and lonely, it just isn’t natural to go without human contact.  This society tells us that human contact is bad, sinful, wrong.  We discourage children from touching because we think it means they are going to be sexual.  I think we need to explore the effects of going without touch in greater depth and I think it needs to be called something else other than skin hunger.  Intimacy deprivation is what it is, going without connection, being deprived of that which makes us flourish. 

I’m single, have been for four months now.  Other than an accidental bump into someone at Wal-mart and a few hugs from friends, I’ve gone without any human contact whatsoever.  I crave to be held, touched, caressed, and to snuggle.  I know for a fact that my heart feels better when I can just lay my head on a man’s chest, I feel lighter, less burdened.  I used to babysit for a little boy and we hugged, kissed, and touched all day.  At nap time, he would say, “Scottie, you rock me to sleep,” and I would hold him in my arms and gently rock him until he couldn’t fight the sandman any more.  I remember what I felt like for that year and I have tried to get that sensation back.  I’ve tried to figure out what it was about that time in my life that made me so much more enthusiastic about life and serene and I’m convinced it was because I was getting so much touch.  I’ve often said that I flourish in relationships, that I just function more optimally in with a boyfriend.  It makes sense.  If your heart rate, your vital organs need touch, and you have someone with whom you can share a bed, even if it’s not every night, it just makes perfect sense that people are supposed to be partnered, that it’s genetically wired into us to have that connection. 

I know in the past when I’ve lamented about feeling lonely and depressed and longing and aching for intimacy with a partner, people come out of the woodworks to tell me that I should find happiness being alone, that I need to work on myself.  They basically suggest that I’m some sort of whiny, insufferable wretch who is complaining for the sake of complaining and that I just need to suck it up and put on a happy face.  But just as babies fail to thrive without touch, as do the elderly, I know in my heart that human beings of every age suffer from lack of human touch.  I think of the number of Black woman who are alone and who say, “All I need is Jesus,” and they go without human touch for years.  I think about how trapped they are in behaviors that are detrimental and how it’s accepted as normal.  They feel the longing for human contact and they go out and have sex with someone and then deny it because it goes against their religious beliefs when clearly God created us to need touch for our human survival.  I think about how Black men are socialized to not touch, feel, to seek anything other than sex.  They are getting their touch needs filled by being promiscuous because they have never been taught to snuggle or hold hands or hug.  We don’t teach our children to touch in a healthy way so they go out and have sex.  Baby strollers and playpens and all the stuff of an advanced age has created a nation of aggressive, unbalance, unhealthy people and we are cutting ourselves off from one another even more. 

I’m sitting here, alone, with no prospects of touching or being touched any time soon and I have to say it feels like a death sentence.  I don’t even live close enough to someone whom I can say, “Hey, come spend the night with me and let’s just touch.”  I’m going to work on that in 2012.  I’m going to throw AfroerotiK cuddle parties, I’m going to develop friendship with people I can touch and be intimate with.  I’m going to make intimacy and touch a priority in my life. 

Psychologists Explain 911 Denial

This is a fascinating video but I think it's very relevant to the discussion of white submissive males I have been trying to have. White people in this country are the most sheltered, the most arrogant and it would seem that this cognitive dissonance applies to their fetishsizing of race and how they compartmentalize their fantasies. Black people in this country have never had the luxury of feeling secure so it stands to reason that we are not as thrown off by concepts that "rock our reality."  I'm not going to go further right now unless I get a significant comment from someone other than Scott.

My Twin Flame

Dear kindred spirit, my divine right partner,

I am writing these words to you without even knowing your name.  So sure am I that you are my other half, the yin to my yang, that I have no fear that our destinies have brought us to this very place and time.  I knew you in a remote village in Africa when we made love under the stars without care.  You kept me alive when we were shackled and dying, in the bowels of a slave ship with just your eyes to comfort me.  I nursed you back to health from wounds that the slave master inflicted because you were too defiant, too strong.  Our souls have been black for a very long time.  I have been your mother, your father, you daughter and your son.  I have been your sister and your brother, you lover and your enemy.  I have known you as both my husband and my wife.  Now is our time to be those things to one another again.

We have come to each other, fragmented parts of a whole, to be reunited as a manifestation of the One Most High.  We have been chosen to give voice to a shift in consciousness.  We have been gifted with a vision that seems a curse without one another.  Come to me, my beloved, so that we might unite and fulfill our souls’ mission.  Separately, we are ineffectual.  Together we can give birth to Gods and Goddesses. 

I come to you today, flawed and damaged, far from perfection.  This journey has taken a toll on my being.  Share you dreams with me as we fight to restore a holistic and spiritual paradigm.  Read poetry to me until the wee hours of the morning.  Hold me in your arms so that your heartbeat serenades my soul.  Allow me to love you from the very depths of my being with a love that transcends definition.  Dear lover, I come to you empty and alone.  I have no fear, no shame in my plea.  You can see past my flaws and insecurities to the visionary and prophetic wisdom that is waiting to be born inside me.  Impregnate me with your inspiration, your serenity, your love. 

Fear not, my love.  These are not the ramblings of the insane.  You have been tortured with dreams that seem unobtainable at times.  You dream of penetrating you lover for the very first time with the knowledge that you will never be with another woman again.  You dream of nursing from your wife at the same time as she feeds your baby.  You dream of raising a family at the foothills of Kilimanjaro with nothing but an organic garden and Divine Love to feed you.  These are my dreams as well. 

I AM putting the universe on notice that I AM open, ready and receptive to receive my divine right partner, my twin flame, right now.  I invite you into my life to embark upon a journey like none other.

With all my heart and all my love,

The Culture of Rape

The abuse of women’s bodies, our spirits, is so accepted, so ingrained in our society that rape isn’t even seen as anything abnormal.  Black women’s bodies especially are seen as objects to be used and abused by men.  We’re supposed to take it, like it even.  If we as a culture, society, and community don’t do something to stop this NOW it will be the end of us. 

Fate is a mother fucker.  I get into an argument on Facebook today, on someone else’s page mind you, and someone else, an “innocent bystander” as it were, starts fanning the flames, trying to provoke the disagreement.  The instigator sends me a friend request.  I accept, not thinking anything about it more than he’s someone who likes what I have to say.  He sends me a private message, asking me if I used to live in the apartments in downtown Atlanta.  In that first few seconds, I couldn’t imagine how he would know me like that.  I didn’t really think anything about it, but I didn’t panic or anything, I just responded, “How do you know me?”  He responded by saying, “You probably don’t remember me.  We met in the summer of ‘99.  You took me to your apartment. Wow, small world. LMBAO.” 

My home is sacred to me.  I’m very cautious of the people I invite into my home.  When he said, “You took me to your apartment,” I think I knew who it was before I even went to his profile.  At this point, time is moving in slow motion.  Going to his page, pulling up his pictures, opening the albums that show his face . . . everything is taking light years.  Sure enough, it was the face of the man who raped me, whose name I hadn’t previously known.  Jason Mass is his name as it turns out.  I confront him.  I say that I do in fact remember him, that you are the man who raped me. 

He wasn’t even a man at the time, he was 19 or 20.  I was in my early thirties. I was not attracted to him in the least even though I shouldn’t even have to mention that fact.  We met at Atlanta’s Underground Mall outside the Haagen Dazs store.  I saw him there a few times.  I’m guessing he was a student at Georgia State.  He could have just been hanging out there, I don’t know.  I didn’t really inquire too much, he was far too young for me and I was not at all interested in him.  I was nice to him; we might have even had lunch in the food court once.  I’m not sure. 

One day, he asked me to come to my apartment.  I told him no.  He kept asking, saying he just wanted to hang out with me.  I told him that we could hang out in the club room of my apartment building but that we couldn’t go to my apartment.  We watched TV for a while and I told him that I was not interested in him, he was far too young for me.  He wasn’t my type at all.  He said that didn’t matter, he just wanted to hang out with me, he wanted to see what sort of music I listened to, he said he thought he could learn from me.  He wouldn’t take no for an answer and I really thought I had made myself clear that I wasn’t interested in him. 

Finally, I told him that we could go to my apartment to check out my music.  I didn’t own a TV at the time so I had a super duper extensive music collection.  I honestly believed he saw me as a mentor or semi-mother figure.  There was nothing remotely sexual or romantic between us and I thought he was a harmless kid.  We went to my apartment and he was impressed by the Black art, all the books; I wasn’t a kid and I wasn’t ghetto so he probably hadn’t been exposed to very many homes that were like mine.  I showed him my balcony and that’s when things started to go terribly wrong.  We came back inside and he started to try to kiss me, grab me, hold me.  I started pushing him away.  He took out his dick.  I remember it so clearly, like a movie in my head.  It was almost like he was in a trance.  He was stroking it, telling me, “I love my big dick, I’m in love with my big dick.  I have such a big dick, don’t I?” It was like he was hypnotized by his own penis.    I told him to get out, I was trying to make it to the front door and he pulled me to the floor and we fought.  We fought and fought and fought.  We fought until I couldn’t fight any more.  I cried out, I said no, stop, NO.  We fought until I had no more strength in my body.  I lay there, in tears, while he raped me, unable to fight any more. 

So, here I am, on Facebook, and I’ve just accepted a friend request from the man who raped me.  I’ve written about him before, years ago, in my efforts to reclaim my own personal power.  I didn’t know his name but I would identify him whenever I spoke of the instance when men have violated me.  I confront him, in my haze of confusion, anger, and disbelief.  I say, “You raped me.”

He responds by saying, “Rape?  Don’t say that.  It didn’t go down like that.  We didn’t even get a chance to finish because you said stop.” 

Finish?  Finish?  Perhaps he wanted a second or third time to rape me but I most certainly had finished.  I informed him that we had fought, that I didn’t want him, that I said no, and he had raped me.  At that point, he gets an attitude with me, like I’ve offended him, saying, “Are u fuckin' kiddin' me?!  om fuckin' g!!!”  At this point, I’m scrambling to block him before I explode in anger and outrage. 

This wasn’t my first time to meet up with him.  The first time was as FunkJazzKafe, one of Atlanta’s premiere music events, a few years later.  We were both going in the backstage door in a dark, not heavily traffic parking lot.  He said something to the effect of, “You probably don’t remember me but . . .”  I turned around and looked at him and I knew him immediately.  I think I said, “You’re the guy who raped me,” but I’m not sure.  I got so scared I just turned around and ran away, shaking and crying and terrified.  The second time, I had my hands full of groceries and I was coming home and he was coming out of my neighbor’s apartment two doors down.  It was all I could do to open the door and get inside and I was terrified.  He took my sense of safety.  He took my sense of peace in the world.  He took something from me that was no his to take.  He stole a piece of my soul.  He’s walking around, not a care in the world, no remorse, no guilt, seemingly no consciousness at all that he RAPED me.  I think I knew that if I ever did have a chance to meet him again, he would deny it but I didn’t think he would send me a friend request, like I was going to be happy to talk about old times.  There’s something delusional about a person who doesn’t even realize the hurt that they’ve caused. 

I can’t describe to a man the fear that consumes you when you come face to face with your rapist and you know he could do it again.  Most men will never know that sensation.  He felt justified in violating my body.  He felt he had a right to take it without my permission.  We fought.  Not a tussle, not slap and grab, but I’m yelling NO and pushing and kicking and trying to punch and bite and do anything I can to get away and somehow, in his head, he thought that was foreplay.  He somehow interpreted that as perfectly acceptable to force himself inside me as long as it felt good to him. 

This god damn obsession society has with dick size, specifically black men’s dick size, is breeding rapists.  Objectifying women and this willingness to see us as things to be used by men, for men’s pleasure is manufacturing rapists.  Mothers raising their sons not to take responsibility for their actions is creating a nation of rapists.  Fathers teaching their sons to measure their manhood by the number of women they fuck is Rape 101.  This shit has to stop.  IT HAS TO STOP.  I don’t want another black girl to endure what I did.  I don’t want another black woman to know the sort of fear I felt.  There is a culture of rape that let him think that without any foreplay, romance, no attraction whatsoever, that he had the go ahead to force himself on me and that I would like it. 

I’m going to speak truth to power.  I’m going to continue to address the pathologies of this diseased and sick society that treats women like things to be used and thrown away.  Don’t feel sorry for me and tell me how you wish you could take the pain away.  Do something.  Confront men when they talk about women like things.  Confront the men you know are rapists, make them admit what they did.  Don’t waste your empathy on me, I’m going to be okay. 

A Full-Course Meal

I struggle with finding suitable partners, ones to whom I attracted, who meet my criteria, and who appreciate what I bring to the table.  I’m most assuredly, unquestionably sapiosexual; I’ve yet to meet the man who is too intellectual for me, so finding someone who stimulates me mentally (notice I didn’t say challenges me mentally, I ABHOR verbal sparring with my partner) is essential.  That eliminates quite a few men from my potential dating pool.  I’ve dated men who were smart, I’ve dated men who were intelligent, I’ve even dated those who were not particularly bright, but nothing compares to dating an academic and an intellectual in my book.  I don’t need to date Einstein (Who am I kidding? Yes I do.  And, if he comes in the body of a 6’3” beautiful black man, I'm chaining him up in my basement and never letting him leave.) but I mos def need a man who thinks outside the box, who sees things beyond black and white, who has challenged the status quo.  I’m tall, I’m outspoken, I wear my hair short and natural, and I’m AfroerotiK, so that intimidates a lot of men.  Bam, my dating pool just got infinitely smaller.  I’m convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt in fact, that there is a man out there who will find me attractive, whom I find attractive, who meets my criteria (I will not settle for anything less than a Black man who is HONEST, a man of integrity, socially and politically liberal, and emotionally mature) AND who appreciates all that I have to offer. 

I am the real deal.  If I have to say so myself, I’m quite the package, or as applies in this metaphor, I bring a lot to the table.  First and foremost, my table is set with fine china, linens, crystal and sterling silver cutlery.  I’m far from ghetto.  I’m not average, mediocre, or typical.  I’m sophisticated, worldly, traveled, well-read, educated and I come from a family of professional, intellectuals, and activists.  I carry myself like a queen because I am descended from royalty.  I don’t do drugs, I’ve never engaged in any illegal activity, I don’t associate with riff raff, degenerates, or those prone to drama.  The table itself is reflective of five-star dining. This ain’t no take out joint or chain restaurant. 

What’s on the menu?  Well let’s start out with the appetizer.  How about a woman who is mentally stable, a great communicator, pathologically honest, of above average intellect, creative, talented, and independent?  I’m not at all superficial or materialistic; I’m extremely grounded and down to earth.  I’m loyal, a great friend, and trustworthy.  I’m a great cook and very domestic but a phenomenal entrepreneur to boot. I’m socially conscious and empathetic and very much an advocate for the oppressed. 

Is that enough to whet your appetite?  Well for the main course we have a woman who has a HUGE heart and who is unbelievably loving.  Caring, affectionate, romantic, and thoughtful are all words that accurately describe how I behave in a relationship.  Do you like gifts and surprises for no reason?  Perhaps you like a woman who is spontaneous and adventurous?  That’s me.  I will be supportive, I will help you fulfill your dreams, I will take excellent care of you when you’re sick, and be your biggest cheerleader.  I won’t give up on the relationship; I’ll work hard at it to make it happy and satisfying for both of us.  Compromise is my middle name and I’m never so arrogant as not to admit when I’m wrong. 

And for dessert . . . ahhhhh . . . dessert is the sweetest, most mouth-watering treat imaginable.  My sex is like whoa.  I do not give my body away indiscriminately; I’m very selective with my partners so if you get to taste this rare delicacy, consider yourself lucky.  Once you get it, once you get my juicy, hot, sticky, sweet, wet love it is all yours, and no one else’s.  I am a fanatic about keeping the fires burning in a relationship and seduction is an art form I’ve mastered.  My passion burns hot and I love to express it all the time.  Intimacy is my drug of choice and I’m addicted to it.  Prepare yourself for a night of extended foreplay, beautiful love-making, and finished off with sweaty, loud, primal fucking over and over and over again. 

What’s the cost of this sumptuous meal?  Your commitment to me and the relationship, your complete honesty, and your love.  Not a very high price to pay for such an exquisite meal. 

Stevie Wonder + Prince Superstition live in Paris 2010

I'm not sure how much the tickets to this cost but I think I would have sold a kidney to go to the concert.

Eye-opening to say the least

I thought I would and should  publish the follow up comments from the gentleman after he read my piece about submissive white men.  It really concerns me that the only comments being made about this topic are coming from the insane submissive white guy whose name I'm not allowed to mention.  White women, I would love to hear your comments.  Black women and men, please don't stay quiet.  There is mass dysfunction here and it needs to be addressed.  Remaining silent is not the solution.  I know sex is a messy, unpleasant subject and talking about white men's sexuality is unpopular and fraught with decades of complications and social stigmas but I'm begging you to participate in the discussion. 

Date	Tue, November 29, 2011 - 2:11 AM
Subject	Re: Black female superior

Thank you for responding. I do appreciate it very much. Any insite you can provide me is welcome. I would still like to hear more about your personal opinions, I am curious what turns you on. You obviously have an inate interest in sex that goes beyond your personal pleasures. I imagine your interest in this particular topic goes beyond your duties as moderator of a "tribe."

I dont know if you care but I will tell you alittle bit about myself and maybe shed some light on the topic. I am, by definition bi-sexual. Only because I do have, and happen to enjoy, sex with women from time to time. However at an early age I had a preference for men. After I became comfortable with that, I realised more specifically I enjoyed being the 'bottom.' During this time it wasnt necessary to always be the bottom but that was my preference. Also during this time I had sex with several black guys and their race wasnt much more than a after thought. even in these instances it mattered little who assumed the submissive role. I hardly thought about it beyond the desire to have sex with another man. Now, let me get one thing out of the way, long before any of this I found I had a particular attraction to black women. I said that I do enjoy sex with women occassionally. This includes all varieties of woman but, for a white guy, I had more than a passing attraction to black girls.

As I aged and grew more comfortable with my desires I learned that I really liked being the 'bottom.' More and more I began to enjoy being very effeminate when in the intimate company of other men. Back around 2003 or 2004 I began to explore my effeminate side by reaching out to other fems in particular online. At first it start as nurturing my feminine side with some accessories like panties or a wig and lipstick. Soon it became more elaborate with lingerie and womens shoes ( OMG! How I love womens shoes!) Various role playing with me being the schoolgirl or the nurse or the cheerleader all became a part of it and was just as enjoyable as the sex itself. Then around 2006 I found a yahoo group called "Black Men Turning White Boys into Girls." WOW!!! What a mind fuck THAT turned out to be. It was like watching a train wreck yet I was oddly drawn to it. Further I was pleased to see how many members the group had. So my eyes were opened to a fetish that really appealed to me: men transforming into women for Dom tops. Which is what I had been doing anyway. Now there was this whole black/white dynamic that I wasnt sure what to make out of it but I was pretty sure that I liked it.

With that I began to explore the world of the black bull and the white sissy. I enjoyed it...ALOT! I never have seen beyond the sexual act of it though. Although for role playing I do like to play up the master/servant relationship. I have never found slavery or BDSM to be arousing nor do I find cuckolding or castration to be turn-ons either. I dont know why they just seem too extreme for me. I like to show up, meet with a black guy or guys, let them all know that I am the slut in the room, walk into the bathroom and come out dressed as the white girl of their choice and get down to the seriously, deleriously good time of being beat up by black dick. I DO have standards I like well built guys who are of a decent age who are clean and drug free (for the most part anyway).

For some odd reason I have developed at least three other fetishes that relate to this sexual dynamic. One, I like seeing real white girls fucking black guys, Two I like to meet real white girls who date black guys exclusivley and tell them about my own desires ( I dont know why but for some reason it appeals to my inner teenage girl, once that topic is exhauseted the conversation turns awkward and ends on a lame note, you can only say "I like black guys, Yeah me too! Black guys are hot! I know what you mean! I feel the same way!" so many times before the convo runs its course) Of course it is all role playing for me. I have found that I like to be treated the way black guys are often portrayed as treating women. I like being refered to as a ho or a bitch. I like hearing things like "damn bitch you got a fat ass" while Im sucking dick.

So that brings me to where I am today. It comes full circle, my early admiration fro black girls and my new found feminine side mixed with the image of pop/hip-hop culture/rap music and the way black men are portrayed as treating black women...it all adds up to my third newfound fetish. I now find myself emulating the black woman during my sexual escapades. Wearing wigs that are styled like black womens hair, wearing stereotypical clothes of a black girl, apple bottom and babbyphat and the footwear (the shoes! the shoes!) This is the latest barrier I have discovered about myself and I love it too. This is not always so easily accepted and often requires several encounters to test the waters. In many ways I am only emulating alot of the white girls who date black guys and therefore adopt these fashions. Who knows where it will go from here, but much like my first experiences with cross dressing I still find the dressing and role playing just as fun as the sex itself. I would probably be just as happy spending the day shopping for clothes and doing hair and make-up with a black girl as I would spending the night with a black dude balls deep in my ass....Well, probably not but you get the idea.

On a Leash

Midnight Tango

We fit together perfectly, our bodies like pieces in a sensual puzzle.  The drumbeat pulsed like the blood coursing through our veins.  The Afro-Cuban rhythms heard only in our heads were genetically encoded in our DNA.  We moved together like two well-choreographed dancers; our dance was of romance, intimacy and erotic expression.