The Gay Male Gene has been Identified!

If, as my most devout and delusional homophobes assert, ONLY gay men experience pleasure when stimulated anally, wouldn't that mean that there is a gay gene or specific homosexual nerve endings or some biological and/or anatomical source of said anal pleasure that can be identified scientifically and we can dispel this stupid idea that homosexuality is not natural?  I mean, if there is something that makes some men experience pleasure and others not experience it, that would clearly indicate to me that homosexuality in men is not a choice but rather a biological occurrence that makes homosexuality perfectly natural.  It's like left-handedness: most people are right-handed but left handed people are not unnatural or freaks, just different.  

Wait, you mean that no doctor or scientist has found this gay anal pleasure DNA sequence that allows ONLY homosexual men to experience pleasure when anally stimulated?  Are you serious?  Oh, okay, let's rethink this.  There isn't anything that makes ONLY gay men experience pleasure anally so . . . what if . . . OK, stay with me . . . ALL men experience pleasure when they are stimulated anally and that has nothing whatsoever to do with their sexual orientation?  That couldn't be possible, could it?  Either there something that makes ONLY gay men experience pleasure when stimulated anally and that makes homosexuality as natural as say, red hair or blue eyes.  If there ISN'T something specific that makes only gay men experience pleasure when stimulated anally, that means that all men have the potential and ability to experience pleasure when stimulated anally and receiving pleasure anally has nothing whatsoever to do with sexual orientation.  So which one is it? 

Assism is not Feminism

In response to the article ourlegaci.com/2014/11/15/assism-is-not-feminism/

I've been trying desperately to explain to this generation of young women who think that objectifying themselves is empowering that feminism is NOT about being as sexually indiscriminate as men.  I understand, recognize, and fully acknowledge that my generation has let them down.  We have let them be raped, molested, abused, and used.  We have let them grow up in a society that shames them for their sexuality and conversely celebrates men's sexist behaviors.  My generation dropped the ball.  We never told or taught our girls that being sexy should not be their objective.  We never taught our daughters to love themselves as unique human beings and individuals, instead we told them to be beautiful to get a rich man, to sell pussy to pay the bills, to be be competitive and petty with other women.  We didn't show them examples of love, of respectability so they rally against it, they reject and hate the very concept of respectability because they feel as if it invalidates their place on the planet.  We didn't teach them to lift themselves up, we let them wallow in dysfunction and we turned a blind eye to it because we never addressed our hurts from the men who used us, who violated us.

We let our daughters be raised by Zane's tales of adultery and promiscuity without offering a healthier alternative.  We didn't give them guidance and direction about becoming a woman and understanding their sexuality, we let them raise themselves.  Now, we have a generation of women who believe that showing your ass is empowering.  We have a generation of women who believe that being degraded and humiliated during sex is normal and healthy.  We have a nation of young women who righteously want to  strike out and rally against the oppressive forces that look to silence them and diminish them for their identity as Black women but we haven't properly armed them for the fight.  We have allowed them to set their standards so low that they consider barely literate, immature  criminals, thugs, and violent males as ideal partners.  We've not given them anything to strive for, no standards to set for themselves so they rally, they fight, they violently defend conforming to sexist, patriarchal, and demeaning sexual objectification because that's all they know.

My generation has to take full responsibility for dropping the ball.   We are to blame.  We let our daughters think that having a big ass gave them value, that having a man with money was more important than having a man with integrity.  We didn't teach them the difference between not being ashamed of their sexuality versus being proud of being vulgar.  They think the world is defined by their flagrant sexuality.  Deep inside, they want to feel valued and loved and understood for more than their sex, they have the very human need to be connected and partnered but we haven't shown them anything close to a healthy relationship let alone how to sustain one so they get offended if a man speaks to them, they are disgusted when someone suggests that all they've known to be true and right is wrong.


Assism is not Feminism but to tell that to a generation who has been raised with Beyonce flaunting her sexuality, with the degradation of women in porn available 24 hours a day before they become fully mature sexual adults, the subculture of weavism and housewives who don't do any housework but who marry one dimensional, sexist men with money has completely handicapped the Black community.  We've let boys continue with their emotionally immature, sexist, oppressive, bullshit and we've let girls think that wearing seven inch heels that cost as much as rent makes them have more value. 

Remote Possibilities

When the universe sends you the person of your dreams, there’s nothing you can do but hold on for the ride of a lifetime.  There’s no way to plan for it, there’s no way to calculate how things should progress; you just have to be present in each moment to receive the gifts you deserve.  Little did Marcus and Karen understand how perfectly suited they were for one another and how vulnerable it would make them in the eyes of the other. 

Most people assume that when you meet someone whom you like, it all happens by chance, that it’s all a matter of luck.  Little do they know that cosmic forces work diligently, crafting and planning, coordinating and preparing the perfect set of circumstances in order to facilitate the spark that ignites true love.  All the forces of extraordinary chemistry were in place at the Borders bookstore in Hyde Park and the only thing missing were the key players in the game.  Karen Anderson was in place, sipping a cup of tea with her head buried in her laptop, oblivious to the world.  Enter Marcus Stevenson, stage left, precariously balancing a tray with food, books, and an ulterior motive while looking for a seat. 

“Excuse me, Miss, is this seat taken?” 

Karen looked up, slid her things to the side to make space for her new table companion, and mumbled something barely audible that sounded like, “No, go right ahead.”  She went back to staring at her computer screen and shutting out the world around her.  She was desperately trying to stay focused but deep inside her heart had just skipped a beat.  Marcus was breathtaking.  Standing 6’ even, he towered over her 5’6” petite frame.  His butterscotch complexion, dark brown expressive eyes, and enormous smile melted her heart.  Karen was attracted in a way she hadn’t felt since her first crush in Middle School.  Her palms were sweaty and she could actually feel an electric current coursing through her body.  Her body was one big mass of heightened sensation.  To the casual observer, she was just another lady in self-absorbed, technological distraction.  Nervous and shy, she didn’t even dare look up to make eye contact with her tablemate. 

“For all your generosity in sharing your space with me, I think you should at least accept my offer of some more tea.”  Karen looked up as Marcus was sliding a freshly brewed pot of Good Hope Vanilla tea towards her.  He motioned at the fellow behind the counter and said with a smile, “He was kind enough to tell me what you were drinking, I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Gee, that’s very nice of you but it’s not at all necessary,” she said, thinking that was the most polite way to say, “Oh hell no, you aren’t going to drug me with a roofie.”  Before she could even get the thought completely processed, Marcus anticipated her reaction, poured a cup for himself, and took a sip.

“Hey, this is pretty good, I think you might have turned me on to something new.  I like it!” 

Karen smiled at the coincidence and graciously accepted the offer of tea and went right back to burying her head in her work.  She didn’t want to assume he was flirting with her and she was totally unskilled at how to show interest in a man, so she went back to pretending she wasn’t at all interested in Marcus and planning on what she would say on the remote possibility that he extended himself to her again in conversation.  After twenty minutes, she figured she’d ruined her chance of striking up a conversation with him and made a mental note to herself to be just a little bit more assertive the next time a gorgeous man sat down at the table next to her.  She had all but given up her hopes that he might be interested in her, when, she stared at her computer screen and blurted out in complete shock, “Three thousand dollars?”

Marcus looked up from his reading and inquired, “Is everything okay over there?” 

Karen apologized for disturbing him, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but I put a bid on something on eBay and the price has shot up to $3000 with only twenty minutes left in the auction.  I’ve been watching this item for a week now and there was no activity on it at $800.  Now, there’s no way I can get it.  It’s way out of my budget.”  She looked disappointed but Marcus thought her cute little nose squished up and her lips pouting out made her look incredibly sexy. 

“What on earth were you interested in getting that upset you so, if you don’t mind me asking that is?”  Truth be told, Marcus was looking for any opportunity to strike up a conversation.  He had seen her sitting at the table from the second he walked in and he was instantly attracted.  It was the sort of, “This is the woman I’m going to marry,” attraction that guys talk about in locker rooms when they are describing the woman that is going to make them change their ways.  From head to toe, she was his idea of perfection.  From her head of braids to her exquisite face, all the way down to her delicious looking toes that peeked out from beneath the table in her cute sandals.  After he made the first move and she didn’t respond, he figured she was probably happily married already with two kids and a dog.  Women that beautiful weren’t the type of women to be single. 

“Oh, it was just a piece of Shona sculpture that I wanted to add to my collection and . . . well, never mind, it’s no big deal.” 

Marcus’s face lit up.  “You like Shona sculpture?  No way!  Check it, I’m reading a book on Shona sculpture right now.”  He handed her a substantial coffee table book that he had been reading and went on and on about how it was such a small world. 

Skeptical, Karen remarked, “Yeah, coincidence, isn’t it, just like the tea.”  Are you sure you didn’t look over my shoulder and see what I was looking at?” 

Confessing all his sins, Marcus whispered so the people at the table next to them couldn’t hear of his attraction to her and his attempt to show his interest with the tea.  “Honestly, I love African art and I was just here to look at some different books and Shona sculpture is one of them.  Promise.  Cross my heart.”  That puppy dog expression on his face made Karen just melt.  For the first time, she let down her guard and started to open up. 

It was only then that Karen let the forces of nature take over and guide the connection that would prove to be the most amazing relationship of her life.  Time seemed to stand still as the two began to get to know each other.  Minutes turned into hours, hours turned into days, days turned into weeks.  The more they shared with one another, the more obvious it became that they were twin souls separated at birth.  They shared the same loves, the same passions, and the same temperament.  Most people would say that a love like that would get boring, that opposites attract, variety is the spice of life and all that.  That’s only because they have no concept of what it’s like to find a true soul mate.  They base their beliefs off of relationships formed from physical attraction and lust and then criticize emotional, intellectual, and spiritual connection because they can’t grasp its parameters. 

Within a few months, it was more than apparent that Karen and Marcus were inseparable.  They both loved salsa music and creative vegetarian cooking and obscure cerebral films.  Their love was blossoming and taking on a life of its own.  They were both supportive of each other’s goals in life, Karen the more creative and Marcus the more technical.  There were no secrets to be kept because they could be completely honest without fear of being judged.  No secrets except for one.  There was something unspoken, something unsaid that was the wedge in their machinery.  Marcus was sure it was the bullet that would kill their budding romance. 

Karen, unaware that there were any secrets, was in bliss.  They’d become physically intimate and he seemed like the perfect lover.  He was responsive and gentle and his sensitivity to her needs reminded her of her previous female lovers.  She’d been completely honest with him, sharing details of her past and being completely open about her preferences.  She wasn’t tied one way or the other with being with women or men.  She was open to loving relationships and she was interested in monogamy so whomever she decided to be with, male or female, was going to be the recipient of all of her love and affection, and she expect the same back in return. 

It was a typical Friday night and the pair had just settled in after dinner to listen to some music and relax for the evening at Marcus’s crib.  Neither of them were big fans of television so when Karen suggested that they watch a movie, it sounded like a great and novel idea to both of them.  There was no TV in the living room; it was hidden in an armoire in the bedroom.  Karen made her way to the bedroom with a copy of the DVD Chocolat in one hand and her shoes in the other while Marcus was off to the kitchen to make popcorn and open a bottle of wine.  He was carrying the tray up the stairs when he froze in his tracks.  He almost dropped the goodies out of sheer terror.  He could hear the sounds from the television coming down the hall. 

Karen has made her way to the bedroom to start the movie.  There were three remote controls and she was just pushing combinations of all of them trying to get the DVD to play.  Marcus still has a combination DVD/VCR player and when the screen flickered and images appeared she quickly climbed on the bed to get comfortable.  She was ready to call out to Marcus to hurry up when what she saw made the words freeze in her throat.  There, live and in living color was a video of two men engaged in some serious, hot, and heavy action.  Karen stared at the scene, two men licking and sucking and fucking, but it was more than just typical porn, it was almost as if they were making love.  Karen shifted on the bed, pulling her legs up under her, drawn to the action and afraid to look away but almost sure she should turn it off before Marcus got there.  In an instant, Karen realized that the porno on the screen wasn’t a regular porno; it was a homemade video.  It was a homemade video of Marcus with another man.  She gasped out loud and looked up to see Marcus standing in the doorway with a look of sheer terror on his face. 

She scrambled for the remotes, trying to find the one that would turn off the video but she was pushing buttons in vain.  For a full minute, she was fumbling, cursing, and pushing more buttons trying to turn off the video.  Finally, she pushed the right one and the screen went to blue.  Blue easily described the look on Marcus’ face as she turned to apologize for the accidental invasion of privacy.

“I’m sorry . . . . I  . . . I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I’m so sorry.” 

Looking dejected and broken, Marcus set down the tray and sat on the edge of the bed to keep from falling down.  He whispered, “There’s no need to apologize, I’m sorry for being dishonest for all these months.”

It was in that moment, Karen froze.  It hadn’t occurred to her that the video might be current.  They had spent every moment together possible and there wasn’t any time that Marcus’s whereabouts weren't unaccounted for, or so she thought.  She was scrambling for her shoes and trying to make her way out of there without crying.  “I thought, I thought we had something special,” she said, sniffing and holding back the tears.  “I never thought you would be capable of cheating.”

Marcus was dumbfounded.  He hadn’t even considered that she would think that he was cheating on her, he was sure she was going to call him a faggot and a sissy and go off about how he wasn’t really a man and about how she was going to out him to the world.  “No, no, no, that was made over two years ago.  I would never cheat on you.  I respect you too much to lie to . . .”  He stopped himself, realizing that his lack of full disclosure counted as a lie.  “I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.”  He waited patiently; ready to answer questions if she asked, mentally preparing himself for her to walk out of his life forever.

Karen sat on the bed next to him, covering his hand with hers.  She comforted him.  “I can understand why you wouldn’t tell me about this.  I really wish you had but I can understand why you didn’t.  Boo, we were tested.  I know you aren’t positive.  I could have handled it.  You should have trusted me.”

Marcus felt a sigh of relief flow over him.  He’d been expecting the neck rolling, irrational, deranged tantrum of a woman who was going to rip him a new asshole.  It almost seemed to him that Karen was being supportive, allowing him to share with her without judgment.  He couldn’t even conceive of a woman like that.  “Have I watched one too many Oprah shows or is it possible . . .”  He sat staring at the floor, afraid to speak. 

“Or what?  Is it possible that I’m understanding of you being with another man,” she said, finishing his thoughts.  Baby, you should know me by now, you should know me well enough to know that I would never equate your manhood to something as silly as who you share yourself with.  My identity isn’t shaped by whom I sleep with, why would I think anything different for you?” 

With those words, a weight had been lifted off Marcus’ shoulders.  He turned to face Karen and she touched his cheek softly.  She kissed his lower lip, gently sucking it in her mouth and his hands instinctively encircled her.  She fell back on the bed and he tumbled on top of her, driven by passion.  “No, stop,” he said, “We have to talk about this.”  He stood up and paced the room.  He was trying to find the right words but he was just saying the first thing that came to mind. 

“Sometimes, I think we are more alike than is even possible.  I wanted to tell you so many times.  I wanted you to know but I was so afraid you’d leave.”  He continued pacing and talking.  “Reggie and I were lovers, for over a year in fact.  He’s the only man I’ve ever been with, I swear.  I have to tell you the truth and do with it what you want.  It wasn’t just sex, we were a couple.  I cared about him; he cared about me.  There was no top or bottom; nobody was the woman.  We were both men, involved in an intimate, sexual relationship.  I guess I secretly wanted to get caught by leaving the video of us in the machine.  Seems like some sort of sub-conscious fuck up, right?”  He went on and on about how the relationship taught him more about himself than he had ever imagined, and how he sometimes just missed the sex.  It wasn’t a reflection of his dissatisfaction with Karen; it was just a part of his sex life that really couldn’t be duplicated. 

Finished pouring out his heart and soul, Marcus came out of his oblivion and looked up.  Karen was on the bed naked, with her legs spread, watching the video and rubbing the remote on her clit.  His dick jumped at the sexy sight and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face between those silky thighs.  He looked at the TV and his dick jumped again.  It was the scene where he was engaged in a hot, wet 69 with his lover.  Karen’s eyes were glued to the screen and she seemed to be in a trance. 

“Marc, sweetie, is it inconceivable to you that I could be aroused watching you with another man?  How would you feel if you were to watch a video of me with another lover?  You should have trusted me, trusted that I wouldn’t unfairly judge you.  You should have had faith that I would respect you for who you are and not whom you have sex with.  When I look at that video, I see two incredibly beautiful people engaged in an intensely erotic situation.  It turns me on incredibly.”  She spread her legs and beckoned Marcus to come join her on the bed.

It was Marcus who was in a trance now and he fell to his knees and pulled her sexy body close to him.  Karen took his head and held it tightly against her mound.  Karen spread her legs and awaited her moment of reckoning.  He lowered his mouth to her sweet center.  Her slippery and sweet juices were flowing freely.  Her lips were parted slightly, exposing her silken and pink center.  His tongue softly flicked at her clit, sending waves of pleasure throughout her entire body.  Karen’s body jerked and shook every time his lips sucked her sensitive button.  The more he licked the wetter she became.  Her moans and utterances of profane and graphic directions were music to his ears.  “Baby, I love the way you lick my pussy . . . oh shit . . . fuck . . . yesssss.  . . finger me.  Oh, it feels so good.”  Marcus cupped her ass in his hands, pulled her pussy to his mouth, and drove his tongue deep inside her as she released her juices down his throat.  

Karen was not a woman to be denied her own brand of pleasure.  She moved quickly to take advantage of the situation and climbed on top of Marcus.  She held his stiff dick in her soft hands.  She began to softly, gently lick the head, licking it like a soft serve cone and expertly using the tip of her tongue in his slit.  She began swirling her tongue around the head, getting it wet and slippery with her spit; stroking him to full hardness with her hand.  She looked at him with a sexy look in her eyes took his entire length in her mouth in one stroke.  She took a deep breath and went further down, deep-throating him with a technique that would make porn stars jealous.  “Is that the way your boyfriend did it,” she teased. 

Totally consumed, all Reginald could do was moan and grab the sheets tightly.  He was breathless as he knew what was about to come.  Karen began her technique of licking, sucking, and stroking his dick in a way that made him want to lose his mind.  The pleasure was indescribable.  Her lips, her tongue, her mouth and hands all worked together to suck with the right pressure, to lick the right spots, to give him sloppy, wet, sensuous pleasure. 

Marcus, out of control with lust, grabbed his dick and squeezed it tightly so as not to cum.  “Marcus, make love to me, please.”  She was pleading with him, desperate to have him inside her.  Marcus paused, nervous again.  He took the head of his dick and placed it at her hole.  The heat traveled up his body and Karen pulled him to her.  Her silky walls grabbed him and pulled him deeper.  Their cries echoed out into the calm night sky.  He was stroking her hard and she was meeting each thrust with passion.  It was too intense.  Marcus couldn’t control himself.  He needed to be deep inside her, to fill her completely.  Perspiration glowed on their bodies and their grunts became animal-like.  He braced himself and started working her pussy, hitting every spot, every angle.  He was a machine, giving her pleasure like he’d never done before, experiencing pleasure in ways he’d never known were possible. 

Karen was cumming all over him.  Her body was trembling and her juices were flowing freely.  She was begging for more, pleading with him not to stop, so Marcus concentrated and kept up his technique.  He placed her legs on his shoulders and gripped her hips tightly.  Her soft flesh filled his hands.  The head of his dick was hitting bottom and he couldn’t stop his own orgasm from overtaking him.  The cum in his nuts boiled up and exploded inside his lady love as she held him tightly to her body.

           

His orgasm hit him hard.  More than just the physical sensation of pleasure overtook him; it was the realization that they there were no more secrets, that he was accepted and loved unconditionally.  He collapsed on top of her and she cradled him and comforted him in her sweet and loving embrace. 

           

“I will always respect you baby,” she kissed his cheek, “as long as you continue to be a man of integrity,” she whispered our of breath, “and as long as you let me control the remote.”  They laughed, snuggling together as they fell asleep in each other’s arms contemplating the possibilities of what was to come with their new-found sexual freedom. 

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Well, I hope I’ve given a few people something to think about and I’ve opened the door to greater communication for some others.  It’s really past time that we redefine what makes a man and stop having such illogical, knee jerk reactions to healthy erotic expression.  We need to raise our standards of behavior so that sex becomes more than just a way to bust a nut but it is really about sharing someone special with your partner, whether they be male or female. 

Imperative from on High

I began writing in the third grade.  My mother would punish me to no television and I had to do book reports on a certain number of books before I could get off punishment.  My reading list consisted of Nancy Drew books at the time and she quickly realized that they were pretty much the same story so she relegated me to doing book reports on Black History.  (I was also made to memorize Dr. King's I Have a Dream speech which I WISH parents made their children do today).  Reading became my escape and I would read all the time.  Writing was an extension of that.  I loved words.  I loved how they could transport me. 

I started writing erotica in the 10th grade.  The boy I had loved from afar for 5 years sat in front of my in my typing class and I wanted to impress him with my newly budding sexuality so I would write stories like I had read in my mother's extensive porn collection hidden in her closet.  I would sell the stories I had written to boys for $5. 

In college, I had a boyfriend and I loved writing him erotic stories.  I loved writing erotic letters.  I loved writing.  My degree was science and technology based but I took liberal arts classes whenever I could that would allow me to write.  One professor BEGGED me to go to law school after I wrote a paper about defending women's right to choose.  As fate would have it, upon graduation, I got a job based on my artistic and creative merit and not my scientific accomplishments.  I would show people my portfolio and they were more impressed with the aesthetics than the content.  For years, I did very little writing.  I was married and we alternated years of being outrageously happy and unbearably miserable, off and on. 

It wasn't until I got divorced that I started writing again.  I would buy expensive journals and write about my spiritual and emotional evolution and write erotica simultaneously.  I loved writing on crafted papers (still do)  and telling stories.  I would try to seduce men with my writing.  It was the very beginnings of AfroerotiK even though it was a decade before I would come up with the concept.  I would buy lingerie and lotions and cassette tapes and make sexy recordings while I masturbated and recite my stories.  I would create these packages and give them to men as my indication that I wanted to be intimate with them.  (I don't think it worked one time if I recall correctly) 

Fast forward to 2001 and I went to grad school to study African and African American Studies with a concentration in psychology.  I got As on all my papers and I thought it was just because the standards for the school were so low.  It wasn't until I started writing my thesis and working with Dr. Linda James Myers at OSU that I realized that I was really far more exceptional at writing than I had previously acknowledged or comprehended.  I was asked to speak at a conference in England.  I presented my paper and professors from all over were asking me to travel to their countries and teach classes at their various universities.  I hadn't even gotten my Masters.  It was then that I realized that I had a gift that not a lot of people had. 

Meanwhile, in my personal life, I had started writing erotica again.   I had created my perfect life at the time with academic and cultural pursuits but I was single and I wanted an outlet that was different than the emerging erotica market offered me.  I was not at all aroused by rappers, drug dealers or basketball players so I started writing erotica to appeal to my desires for a transcendent, Africentric love with my intellectual, spiritual, emotional, mental, physical, and sexual equal.  I didn't want to write about  ghetto behaviors because I wasn't from the ghetto and the ghetto ain't as fabulous as Black people want to make it out to be.  I wanted to write about the complexities of Black folk, the ones that weren't shown on TV or in music videos.  So, I would write.  I would write and when I was finished, I wouldn't be aroused because I was so invested in the sentence structure, the character development, the grammar that the stories were more like projects and when I was finished, I would post them online and people would say, "Oh my God, that was the best story I've ever read.  Write one about XYZ."  And I would.  And more people would ask me to write stories for them about topics and fetishes that aroused them. 

It was around that time that Zane started showing up on the scene.  I've been pretty vocal about saying that I don't think she's a good writer.  That's not a secret.  I've told her so personally.  I don't have anything against her personally and I'm sure she's a nice person but I think what she's done to millions upon millions of Black people is eroticize incredibly unhealthy and dysfunctional behaviors to the point that Black people, an entire generation of Black people now think that selling pussy, cheating, and casual sex is normal and right.   Our collective need to see ourselves depicted in sexual situations was met by her willingness to use the words dick, pussy, and fuck in poorly-written stories of dysfunction and it sold. 

So, AfroerotiK was born.  I have never written about Black people cheating (I have written about white people cheating but they don't have a lack of positive images of themselves so I couldn't give half a fuck about portraying them in a positive light.  I'm far more concerned with exposing their inherent racism.)  I do not use the N word in any of my stories, I do not refer to women as bitches or other derogatory terms.  I don't write about perfect characters but beautifully flawed characters who are working on themselves, who are committed to their evolution as a people.  I fill my stories with lessons about life and love and communication and intimacy . . . you know . . . all the stuff dangerously lacking in any depictions of us as a people. 

I tried, a decade ago, to get a book deal.  I thought surely that agents would read my work and fall to their knees begging to represent me.  Rather, they said they weren't interested.  I went to publishers who surely would see that my writing was far superior to the newly emerging urban lit with its fifth grade level writing skill.  In academia, I was touted as an exceptional writer.  In publishing, people didn't like what I had to offer.  Meanwhile, I'm writing more stories and posting them online, I'm building a following, people are telling me that they LOVE my work, that it touches them in ways nothing else has. 

Today, I am dedicated to my mission to show Black people that love, intimacy, commitment, and emotional maturity are not bad things and that they can exist inside of a relationship that is sex positive, that explores more than vanilla sex.  I'm dedicated to rid people of African descent of their oppressive, sexist, misogynist, homo and transphobic views.  I'm dedicated to making Black beautiful again. 

And so, I write. 

Essential Reading List

The following list is comprised of scholars who will assist in divesting white people of their fallacy of white supremacy.  They will challenge your worldview and provide you insight into the racism that is inherent in your socialization.   Please, invest in a library of their works. 

Dr. Cheikh Anta Diop

Dr. John Henrik Clarke

Dr. Marimba Ani

Dr. Amos N. Wilson

Ivan van Sertima

Dr. Yosef Ben-Jochannan

Dr. Chancellor Williams

Dr. George G.M. James

Dr. Molefi K. Asante

Dr. Asa Hilliard

Dr. Na'im Akbar

Dear White People,

It seems it’s time for a public service announcement once again.  If a person of color tells you that something is racist or offensive, it is not your role, job, responsibility or position to tell them that it’s not.  Understand this, the very nature of you telling a person of color what is or is not offensive or racist is . . . follow me closely on this . . . the very definition of racism.  You do not get to dictate the conversation of race.  You cannot say, “Jeez, stop being so sensitive, it wasn’t meant to be offensive,” or, “you’re the one perpetuating racism by talking about it all the time,” because you are being racist by negating the fact that the person of color has more knowledge, understanding, and intimate experience with what encompasses racism.    Your infantile need to silence people of color who are speaking out about racism is . . . say it with me . . . racist. 

I know, I know, you created racism.  Shit white people invented and refined that shit down to a science.  You want to define it; you want to control it.  I get that you want to have the last word on everything that involves race because it is your own very diseased fallacy of white supremacy that created the systems of oppression, bigotry, and racism.  You feel entitled to silence any of those uppity Negroes who have the unmitigated audacity to tell you what’s racist.  But, unfortunately, you don’t get to tell any person of color what is racist.  You see, you got racism on lockdown.  You are the reigning champions of it, that’s indisputable.  But when it comes to dismantling it, when it comes to ending the historic and institutionalized systems that you put in place, which you benefit from daily, it’s us outspoken and angry Black people (you know, the people you refer to as niggers in private) who get to have the last word.  It hurts your feelings.  It makes you mad.  But you are going to have to deal with it because we will not be silenced by your arrogance; we will not back down in the face of your ignorance. 

Sincerely,

The omnipresent angry black chick

P.S. Please feel free to substitute the concepts of men dictating what is sexist, heterosexuals deciding what is homophobic, cis-people controlling the conversation of transphobia, and skinny people asserting they know more about sizism than fat people.