The love I share is with a Black man.

The love I share is with a Black man.  A strong, beautiful, talented, intelligent, wonderful, Black man.  Not just as in the color of his skin, but Black in his heart: proud, confident, and secure.  A man that knows that keeping it real does not mean getting blunted or that he is a nigga.  He strives for excellence and looks to lift up and enlighten others along the way.  The Black man I love is my friend, my lover, my partner, my advocate and the father of my Black children. 

I believe in him and he believes in me.  I never have to ask, “Do you love me?” because the evidence is there is word and in deed.  Every morning we get up and share time with one another.  Sometimes we shower together, bathing in the closeness and love that we share.  Other times we make love until we are both late for work.  It’s passionate and fulfilling, not borne of a morning hard on, but of genuine passion and respect.  The time we spend together in the morning makes it easier to face the petty annoyances of the day.  I can reflect on his love and nothing seems to bother me.  I can face every challenge assured.  Assured that he will never call me a bitch or raise his hand to me.  Assured that the first woman with a big butt and no panties won’t lure him away.  Assured that our fights will not be with each other, but against racial and societal ills.  I’m assured that we are fighting for a future together. 

Do I love my Black man?  More than words can say.  When I speak of him, my eyes light up and I tell everybody about his talents, abilities and accomplishments.  (He gets so embarrassed sometimes.)  And I show him I love him every chance I get.  My love is there for the long haul, I’m down for whatever.  I’ll stand beside my man ready to face any challenge given to us. 

Why do I love my Black man?  When I’m afraid, he doesn’t make me feel inferior, he allows me to cry.  When I succeed, he doesn’t feel threatened, he rejoices in my accomplishments.  He deals with my faults and shortcomings.  I’m not perfect but he thinks I am perfect for him. He helps me to be a better person.  He doesn’t put undue pressure on me to be Superwoman: holding down a job, fixing dinner in high heels and a tight dress, ready to suck his dick and spread my legs, right after I do the laundry and put the kids to bed.  When I feel down, who do you think is my biggest cheerleader?  He stays awake through the entire ballet, and he only complains a little.  That’s OK, I make sandwiches and snacks for him during the game, cause that’s what makes him happy. 

Our time alone together is just that, alone.  Away from the pressures of a day to day existence.  Words are not necessary.  Our deepest communication is nonverbal.  Our dreams are the same, our hearts beat in the same rhythm.  It’s a good thing we get to spend time apart occasionally.  When I’m away on business or he’s having a boy’s weekend, we get a chance to reflect on how much we mean to one another.  There is never any insecurity or jealousy between us.  I smile when I see his head turn at the sight of a beautiful Black woman.  He jumps to the defense of sisters when they are being dissed by less enlightened men.  He takes the time to spend with young brothers, providing a positive role model for them to aspire to.  How could I not love this man?

And just when you think things can’t get any better.  He gives me that long, hard, hot, wet, sticky, Black love.  He eats my pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I’m babbling incoherently. We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of “love.”  I can share any erotic fantasy with him and know that I’m not going to be ridiculed or shamed.  He takes the time to make every time special: music, candlelight, poetry (his own).  I get wet just thinking about him. 

Sometimes problems do arise.  We face them as a challenge to greater heights of understanding.  We hardly fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty socks……Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love him, nor that he loves me.  His family is mine, mine has become his.  Our children, planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love.  My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath.  Our sons, respecters of Black women, are political, street smart and fine.  Our daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as intellect and ambition.

Most importantly, I share my love of God with my Black man.  Every morning, every night, we thank God for the blessings we have received.  We worship, meditate and pray together. Our relationship to God defies traditional definition.  We make God first in our lives.  We face the world knowing that our love is a Divine gift from God.