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.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Interracial Erotica

I asked the question yesterday if I was being hypocritical because I didn’t write my brand of erotica, focused on the relationship and the connection between lovers, for couples that include Black men and white women.  Since everyone seems to feel I did the right thing, I’ll play my own devil’s advocate.  I never want to be so arrogant as to assume I’m always right about a situation and something about this particular situation is nagging at me.  I created AfroerotiK for Black people to find a home where they could feel validated and secure in their sexuality, to see healthy examples of not just sex, but intimacy and communication, to perhaps give them the tools to form better relationships and thus, have better sex.   I was tired of the gutter/ghetto erotica that was so cliché and so poorly written and oh so very stereotypical. I was drained by the unhealthy, dysfunctional sex that was being made erotic.  I wanted something that spoke to me because I wasn’t aroused by what was available to me and I wasn’t as one-dimensional as publishers of Black erotica seemed to think I was. 

I wanted to create a space where dark skinned women, women with nappy hair, and larger sized women who are all too often relegated to fetishes saw themselves as beautiful.  I started AfroerotiK because I wanted gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people of color to find a place where they could be just as welcomed as hetero folk and not feel like their sexuality was fringe or different, but rather showed them, and more importantly showed the world, that it really doesn’t matter what is between your legs or who you are attracted to, that there is a sameness in our insecurities, drives, passions, and our desires.  It’s important to me when straight people say, “You know, I’m not gay but I really loved that story because I related to the characters.”  I wanted to start making sex beautiful and erotic and intense and diverse without it being degrading or vanilla. 

A funny thing happened when I started writing erotica.  White men started writing to me and telling me how much they couldn’t get enough of my stories.  There wouldn’t be a damn thing in my stories that related to white men; I’m not even sure most of them could even understand the verbiage in it because it was academic and Afrocentric and “conscious” and unapologetically Black in a way that most white people have never ever been exposed to in their lives.  But as their following grew increasingly larger I saw an opportunity to teach white men that Black people weren’t just fetishes or objects or stereotypes and that we are complex people and far more nuanced than they see in porn or on TV.  My interracial erotica grew out of their voracious appetite for my writing and I saw it as an excellent vehicle to teach them about their racism, our history, and use it as a teachable moment.  What we experience when we are aroused leaves an imprint on our psyche so I had an opportunity to teach white men about their privilege, their racism, and to divest them of some of their bigoted views by appealing to their desires. 

What evolved was my hardcore interracial BDSM erotica.  Unfortunately, white women got the short end of the stick because sooooo many white men fantasize about seeing their white wives and lovers degraded by Black men.  And when I say degraded, I don’t mean just being slapped and called names.  I’ve never written a story with a white woman being degraded that any white man has said, “Wow, that was a little too extreme.”   But, I wasn’t writing to appeal to white women, and I was painfully aware that all of heaven and earth bends to exalt the unparalleled beauty of the magnificent white woman, so, I didn’t feel bad at all.  White women would always have outlets that sang their praises and put them on a pedestal.  It wasn’t my job to make them feel validated.

Yesterday, a white woman asked me why I don’t have more loving depictions about Black men and white women and my response was, because it’s not my responsibility to create erotica that caters to white women and nor should I have to as a Black, super Black, Blackety Black BLACK woman.  Now, I’m questioning my motives and trying to evaluate if I need to push myself to grow.  I want Black people to see themselves in a healthy light.  Shouldn’t that include Black men who date/love white women?  I do very strongly believe that the vast majority of real life BMWW interracial relationships are based on 1. Black men’s conditioned slave mentality that tells them that white women are better, prettier, sexier etc., and 2. white women’s racist fetish of Black men’s sexuality.  But, as a true facilitator of social change, I think it might be my responsibility to show healthy examples of Black men and white women for several of reasons.  

  1. Not all interracial relationships are formed out of diseased mindsets even if they are few and far between.  There are Black men who are self-aware involved with white women who are not objectifying Black men who are in relationships.
  2. Black men, even if they don’t recognize how their preferences were formed, even if they can’t articulate why they prefer white women over Black women, should have at least one place where they aren’t made out to be the Mandingo, ghetto thug, big black cock, hypersexual stud that white society makes them out to be, and that’s ultimately why I created AfroerotiK.  It shouldn’t matter if they are attracted to Black women or not, they are still deserving of erotica that doesn’t perpetuate negative stereotypes about them.
  3. I think if I write erotica that features white women and Black men in healthy relationships, it just might cause Black men to reflect on their sentiments and white women to examine their motives and biases and I can use this as a teachable moment as well. 

I’m still on the fence about my final decision but I’m leaning towards changing my perspective.  I’d like to think that my writing is strong enough that whomever decides to read it will be able to see something of themselves in the characters even if it doesn’t relate to them directly.     If I’m really about shifting consciousness and this might be my next challenge. 

Saturday, November 09, 2013

Say Yes

We've been out for dinner and drinks. We come back to my place for conversation and listening to music. To the casual observer it’s just a girl’s night out. You know I want more but we don't even discuss it. It’s late and you say you have to leave. I walk you to the door and you stall. You want me to make the first move you don't know how to say it. I sense your hesitation and I absolutely can't wait another moment. I lean in close and I start to gently, softly kiss your neck. You throw your head back and you let me make love to your neck with my mouth. I push you gently against the door and you moan. Your hands reach out to touch my waist and I almost explode. I want to kiss you so badly and our lips are millimeters apart. Your eyes tell me yes. But I need you to say it.

Ever so imperceptibly, you pull my body closer to yours but it’s still not enough for me. You have to say it. You have to say something. I run my hands up and down your sides to your back and your hips and you're moaning softly but audibly now. I lift your face and look deep in your eyes and you say, "Yes." It's just one word but I know what you mean. I take you by the hand and we walk to my bedroom. I want to be assertive with you; I want to give you the space to think that you're not in control. But you are. You want it. You lay back on my bed without me even having to ask. I climb over you, our bodies just inches apart, and we kissed for the first time. You know you're safe with me and you say, "Don't stop."  That turns me on more than anything you can imagine I make it my business to give your body pleasure like you've never felt before.

Yes! I want that to be "our" word. I want you to control me by making me wait to taste you. I can't do anything to move forward until you say yes. I want you to tease me for months. I want to see your sexuality blossom and grow. I want you to become more and more assertive, telling me how to please you, teasing me. I want you to know that I want to make love to you, and eat and you control every bit of it. Force me to think of creative ways to please you and tease you and make you come back for more. I want to see your confidence grow and blossom. I want to see you tease man and turn them on and know that it's because you've mastered the art by teasing me. I want to figure out creative ways to tease you and please you for weeks between the time you let me kiss you and you let me put your incredible nipples in my mouth. I want my roommate to walk in and see my hand up your shirt and you tell me not to move it. As he lingers and tries to watch his dick gets hard and it turns you on. I want you to excuse us and take me by the hand and lead me to my bedroom knowing that he's listening and stroking his dick imagine what we're doing. I want you to be exceptionally loud. I want you to tell me what you like.

I want you to bring an overnight bag knowing that you can stay any night you want. I want you to take a shower and know that I'm masturbating in the bedroom waiting for you thinking about you fantasizing about you. I want you to introduce me to people as your girlfriend and put your hand on my thigh on the small of my back and only you and I know that we mean more. I want people to see us and assume we're lovers and they never know that I've never tasted you before. That you're making me wait.

I want to lick and kiss your inner thighs and know that I'm not allowed to put my mouth on you until you say yes. I'm going to be consumed with emotion the very first time I touch you pussy and feel how wet you are and kiss you. I want you to see the look of desperation in my eyes when I finger you and I take my fingers out and they're covered with your juices and I want to lick them but you don't let me. And you know that I won't lick some until you give me permission, until you say yes. Even after you leave. I want to smell your pussy on my fingers for hours.

I wanna fuck you so bad. Make me sit across the room and watch you fuck yourself with toys. Get on your knees with your ass up and your head down and tell me to eat your pussy. Demand it. I want to hear you scream into the pillow. I want to make you into this insatiable woman who's not afraid and ask her what she wants, to show her arousal. I want you to feel confident telling me about your fantasies with other men. I need you to know that I would be completely faithful to you.

I want to hear your chanting yes, yes, yes as I'm between your legs and you grab the back of my head and you flood my mouth with your cum. I want to take you out of town, wine you, dine you, and then, in the elevator on the way to the hotel room, I want you to look me in the eye and tell you to make you cum. In front of the security cameras. God, I want to finger your pussy and feel you moaning and chanting yes into my mouth as we Kiss passionately. The doors open, a man gets on and sees us and you tell me not to stop. My hand between your legs fingering your wet pussy and you’re coming and he's watching and you don't care because it turns you on.

And then one night, after we've been out, and we come back to my apartment, step inside the door and you lift my eyes to yours and say yes. On that night we make love for the first time. We make love to each other. Uninhibited. Equal. You taste me. We surrender to each other. We tell each other that we are in love with each other with our bodies and our lips and our hearts. We both know it’s not happily ever after love but it's real.

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK

Thursday, November 07, 2013

The Original Man

The power of a people reside in how they tell their stories.  For descendents of slaves, African Americans, we don’t have many written records of the powerful stories our ancestors.  The voices of those whose blood courses through our veins were effectively silenced by the system of chattel slavery.  Slavery isn’t even something we as Black people want to talk about; it’s something we want to place in its own little compartment and reference it when we’re talking about racism and put it right back the second we start to feel pangs of inferiority and shame. Yet, there were true tales of survival, triumph, fortitude, enduring love, and even lust that slaves shared that have gone untold for centuries.  This is one such story. 

E’ry night, I gotta sneak out ‘n tend to my man.  He taint none uh my husband on paper cuz ole Massa says niggers not ‘posed to get married legal ‘n all like de white folks but we jumped de broom under de full moon so I says we’s married.  Maw says it too so dats good ‘nuf fo’ me.  Adam, dats mu husband’s name, like in da bible, like de first man dey ever was. Dat ain’t his real name.  His real name is . . . well . . . I cain’t say it outside ma head cuz it don’t be ‘lowed fo’ slaves to have no name lessin’ a white person give it to ya.  Adam is big ‘n strong ‘n black as midnight.  He stands tall as a tree and his arms be as big as a canon.  His eyes is dark and sad, you kin see de sadness in ‘em like when he be lookin’ at sumtin that don’t be dere. He say he be memberin’ his real home, his real kin folk.  He’s smart cuz on de boat over here, da captain learned him to read ‘n write ‘n do figgers but dis here Massa don’t know nuffin’ bout dat. 

Dey call me Margaret on dis here plantation.  When I’s a little girl, I had anuva name but I don’t reckon what it was no mo’.  I jest member dat when I come here to da McKinley Plantation in Latta, SC, ole Misses say she don’t like da name I come wit so she change it to Margaret.  Sometimes, ‘n my mind, I pretend like I’s Eve ‘n he’s Adam like in da Garden a Edun ‘cepin Massa say ain’t no niggers in da bible.  I don’t be carin’.  Sometimes, I closes my eyes ‘n sees us runnin’ around all free ‘n happy like.  I’s scurred o’ snakes sumtin fierce in real life so I don’t eat dat dang apple in my mind’s eye, we’s just be free ‘n happy . . . free ‘n happy. 

See, me ‘n Adam was runnin’ fo freedom when da catcha’s dun snatched us up in some place called Louisville.  Folks say we wuz almost to freedom iffin we wasn’t catched.  T’was my fault we got catched.  I had my moon flow ‘n we was in de woods ‘n I didn’t have no cotton to swab up de blood so we jest walk ‘n walk ‘n walk most de night ‘n durin’ de day we hide.  All de time we wuz walkin’, I was leavin’ a trail for dem ole dogs to follow. Adam dun tried to carry me but he was too tired from walkin’ all dem nights.  I tole him to leave me be and go on but he wouldn’t.  Dem ole hounds caught de smell o’ my blood ‘n tracked us ‘n catched us right on up ‘n brought us back to here to ole Massa. 

Massa tell de ova’sea to do ev’rytin’ to Adam ceptin’ kill ‘em.  Well, he say not to cut him down dere cuz he need him right for breedin’ ‘n all cuz Adam is a good bull.  He make good babies for massa to sell fo’ lots of money.  I kin’t have no babies cuz my insides t’aint right after ole Massa dun used a broken bottle on me dere.  But I’m a fancy, meanin’ I’s yella cuz my pa was my ole Massa, so dis here Massa keeps me round for his “musemint” is wut he be callin’ it.  I call it hell.  See, Adam don’t love me cause I’m half white, he love me cuz I got . . . wut he call it . . . a regal air ‘bout me.  I taint positive wut dat means fo’ sho’ but he say dat I be a queen where he from, a real live queen wit a crown ‘n all. 

Massa say not to beat me.  I was hopin’ to get da whip cuzin I know da pain of da beatin’ be ova in a few days.  Wut massa do to me, dat pain don’t neva go way.  Dat pain be in my heart, you know, you kin’t touch it but it be dere, from de sun to da moon ‘n back to da sun one mo’ ‘gain.  Massa hurt me down dere.  He make sure I know not to run away no mo’ ‘n he make me do awful things to make me pay.  He say I need to know my place so he tell his sons to do things to me down dere too.  Iffin’ I wuz all de way white, I could choose who could know me in de bible way.  Slave gals don’t have no say in dat. 

Adam been down almost 2 weeks.  His fever dun broke but he tain’t ate nuffin’ yet.  I be givin’ him tea with hyssop, nettle, ‘n honey in it fo’ when he get his strength back.  Dey’s healin’ roots from in de bible so I knows dey gotsta work.  His wounds got ‘fected real terrible like ‘n I had ta clean ‘em e’ry night after doin’ ma chores.  I knows he gunna be betta, I’s can feel it in ma bones. 

Sometimes, when I look at Adam, my eyes fill up wit tears and my heart feel like it wanna ‘splode like a fire cracker.  I loves him more dan anythin’ in de whole world.  I knows with e’ry bit o’ my soul dat Adam loves me with e’ry bit o’ his soul too.  Massa say niggers ain’t got no souls.  He say only white folks got souls but he crazier dan a loon.  Even I know a soul is what makes you ‘live, a soul be da thing dat makes you sing ‘n dance ‘n jump around. 

God dun answered my prayas.  Adam is ‘woke.  He’s still weak but da fire be back in his eyes.  Ole Sadie say he pull through cuz he gots pure African blood in ‘em.  Well, dat ‘n de love of a gud womin.  She help me get fixed up nice an purty for Adam and de ovah slaves done left and let us be alone in da quarters. 

I went to Adam in de night.  He weren’t sleep none, he wuz just layin’ dere, eyes open, like he been waitin’ for me.  He say I smell real sweet.  I put some ‘o de missus toilet water straight from Paris France behind my ears.   I let my frock fall to da floor and I stood dere, with nothin’ on but da light from da moon dat wuz lightin up da room, and showed myself to him.  I could see da covers movin’ down below so I knowed he was happy to see me.  I slid under da covers wif ‘im and he was warm to da touch.  He wrapped his arms ‘round me and I felt safe ‘n . . . I felt like a womin is ‘posed ta feel.  I put my leg ova his leg and my arms ‘round his body.  His skin was smooooooooth like a baby.  He put his full sof’ lips on mine ‘n kissed me, real gentle like.  It wuz like he was sayin’ thank you fo’ takin’ gud care ‘o me, not wif words but wif kisses.  My nature dun start ta rise and my body dun start ta squirmin’ ‘n wigglin’ round like a cat in heat.  My lady parts wuz tinglin’ sumpin’ fierce.  I neva get dose feelin’s with ole Massa.  Sometimes, I wishes dat only Adam knowed me like a husband knows a wife but, tain’t so. 

He started to nurse from me, Adam did, just like a baby does from his mama.  T’weren’t no milk coming out o’ me tho’, just noises from me that say I liked it.  And when he started ta touch me in my special place, it felt real good, real good indeed.    His fingers went down where da daisies grow ‘n he wuz pettin’ it real soft.  Seem like e’ry time he do dat, I start makin’ sounds I cain’t control.  It be like a strange tongue be comin’ out ‘o me dat I don’t have no have power ovah.  I was like a ripe peach with all ma juices flowin’.  ‘N you’se can best b’lieve dat his rod was stiffer dan all get out.   I took him in my hands and stroked him.  He liked it, I could tell.  His sap started to leakin’ and he was thrusting his hips. 

I didn’t want him to climb on top ‘o me cuz I didn’t want him to get too weak so I had to do all de work.  I got on top ‘o him ‘n he filled his hands with my backside and I joined with him.  My, my, my.  We was together, nuffin between us but love.  I put my hands on his chest ‘n started ridin’ him like he was one ‘o Massa’s prime stallions.  Our bodies was movin’ together, poundin’ out a rhythm in time sorta like a drum beatin’ out our song of love.  I see’d Adam’s eyes roll back ‘n his head and I knowed he was ready to spill his seed.  Dere I was, filled up with joy and his manhood, his eyes were locked wit mine, ‘n he was whispering to me in his real tongue.  I don’t be knowin’ wut he be sayin’ when he talk dat African talk but it sound real nice and I feel de meanin’ somehow.  He be sayin’, “Margaret, I’s gonna love you til de end of time.”  I say it right back too, with my heart. 

Copyright 2013 Scottie Lowe

12 Million Mental Slaves

In this nation, with its land stained with the blood of millions upon millions of innocents, we are completely backwards in our thinking.  Descendents of slave are ashamed of our past, embarrassed and humiliated because our forefathers and mothers labored like beasts under heavy chains.  Slaves were the strongest, most resilient, most persevering, most amazing people to be able to survive the physical, emotional, psychological, sexual, and spiritual abuse of slavery.  Consistently, Black people have the unmitigated audacity to say, “I’m sick and tired of seeing movies about slavery and butlers and maids,” as if they want to distance themselves from the reality of our past.  The noblest people to hold their heads high and live to see another day were our ancestors, who endured more pain than the contemporary mind can even comprehend. We come from a people who fought to survive, to love, to define themselves just so that today we can make celebrities of idiots and clowns, crave mediocrity, and defend dysfunction.  We idolize and emulate a race of people whose false sense of superiority and arrogance are contemptible, shameful, and appalling.  I, even if I stand alone, am PROUD to be the descendent of cotton picking, nappy-headed, illiterate slaves for I honor and respect all that they had to endure, no matter how mundane, menial, and un-glamorous it was. 

Conversely, the descendents of slave masters walk around as arrogant as fuck, saying, “Slavery was in the past, let it go.  My ancestors never owned slaves.  Jews got over the Holocaust, etc., ect., ect.”  Slave masters, and overseers, and wives of slave masters, and white people in general were, for generations, the most reprehensible, evil, soulless, sadistic, cruel human beings to walk the face of the earth YET they are proud of their heritage, proud to be descended from people who administered beatings, lynchings, rape, torture, and abuse like it was their birthright.  They long for the good old days.  They covet the sort of power they had at the safe end of a whip again.  They arrogantly assert that the reason that they are economically, and educationally more successful as a race of people is because of their hard work ethics and superior intellect.  They fail to recognize just how loathsome, vile, and repulsive their beginnings in this nation truly are, that it was Blacks who built this nation, created its wealth with their spirits all but broken, their bodies bruised and beaten.