Verifying Your Heterosexuality

For some years now, I’ve been in search of my openly bi, monogamous, non-Christian, emotionally mature divine-right partner.  I’ve never even come close to finding him.  I dated a man who shared my spiritual beliefs but who couldn’t stop fucking anything with a vagina.  I’ve dated several men who could stay monogamous for the short time we were together but they were extraordinarily emotionally immature.  I’ve never dated a man who was openly bi.  I’ve met and engaged with men who were bi in the hopes of forming a relationship, but I’ve never met any who were open about it.  They all struggled with their identity.  Oddly enough, they all started out proclaiming how heterosexual they really were.  Once they got it, once they figured out that I was really interested in an openly bisexual man and I wasn’t trying to trick them into revealing that they were down low so I could denigrate and degrade them, then all of a sudden, they miiiiiiiiiiight have experimented with something in their ass at some point and time or once or twice may have maaaaaaybe looked at tranny porn.  Once they realize I’m legit and I really am romantically interested in bisexual men, then comes the time when they confess how much they love dick.   They say that they have to lie about it because Black women will cut their dicks off if they tell the truth about it.

And I fully acknowledge and respect that a great many Black women are foaming at the mouth to demonize Black men for any sexuality that isn’t reflective of a Macho, Macho Man (I’ve got to be a Macho MAN!) demeanor. 

Here’s the thing.  I’m not aroused by heterosexuality.  I find the concept of heterosexuality to be juvenile and dysfunctional (and created by white men to perpetuate their egomaniacal need to oppress, dominate, and degrade women).  Human beings are capable of fluid sexuality.  All human beings, regardless of gender or race or whatever religion they practice, are capable of fluid sexuality. The men who insist that they are 100% straight, the ones who boast and brag about how straight they are and feel the need to verify it constantly in their conversations, the ones who are adamant that if another man sends them a message on Fetlife, they should fear for their lives, the men who act like they are going to vomit and convulse and die if they see another naked man, are 1. lying, and 2. offensive to me. 

This macho/masculine posturing is a deeply-ingrained part of Black male psyche.  It seems Black men need to constantly validate how heterosexual they are because they are the standard for male sexuality.  They have better bodies, they have bigger dicks, they are ostensibly better in bed, and they are lusted after by everyone.  Black male heterosexuality is the standard for machismo.  Black men are supposed to be driven by sexual lust, they are supposedly consumed with raping white women and making abandoned babies with Black women.  The Black man must be straight at all costs and he has to prove it constantly by reinforcing how he’s NEVER once thought about anything sexually other than “pussy” (women aren’t even usually given the respect of referring to us as human beings, we are only what we possess between our silky thighs).  

Now, FOR ME, and I understand that I’m in the minority but there are other Black women who respect and are aroused by bisexual Black men, I find the constant need to remind me that you are heterosexual to be immature.  It’s 2020.  We’ve all had access to the internet for more than 2 decades.  If someone says to me that they have never seen gay porn, I have to ask why.  You’ve never been curious enough to click on one video?  You think your heterosexuality is that fragile that you think that if you looked at gay porn that you would turn gay?  I’ve looked at every genre of porn there is just to see what it was about and I’ve never feared that my sexual identity would change if I just watched something.  I’ve watched people getting fucked by dogs and I’ve never had a desire to have sex with a dog so I feel pretty safe exploring the internet.  Why is it so hard to find a man who can admit that he’s watched gay porn? 

The few men I’ve met who identified as bisexual were still caught up in verifying their heterosexuality.  “Oh, I don’t kiss men.”  “I top, I don’t bottom,” , “I only like passable trannies, the ones that look like women,” and they ever-popular, “I am not really attracted to men, just dick.”  For the record, all of those perspectives are equally as unhealthy and dysfunctional as the, “I’ve NEVER thought about being with another man,” perspective.  And all those things are evidence that they still think there is something wrong with being bisexual or gay.  There has to be one brotha out there who gets that being bisexual is natural and nothing to be ashamed of, that it doesn't make him less of a man.  Where for art thou?

Everything we know about sexuality and gender is WRONG.  There is no law of nature that says that the rods and cones in a man’s eyes can’t appreciate and respect the color pink or a beautiful rose yet white men have convinced us that men can't like soft pretty, pink things.  Heels and makeup and all the trappings of what women are supposed to wear were all created by white men, not found in nature.  It is IMPOSSIBLE to say that women are supposed to wear heels and makeup when those things are the invention of men, not the divine power that created us.  To say that only women can wear pantyhose and dresses, man-made inventions, is to conform to the limited, fucked up mindset of the people who created those rules.  And the people who created gender rules were fucked up because it was there agenda to make men superior when we should all be considered equals. 

All people, all men and women are capable of being aroused anally.  There is no moral code, no extreme strength of character, no number of swinging inche between a man's legs that prevents some manly, masculine Alpha men from liking anal stimulation.  It’s biological.  Like crying.  If men have tear ducts, it means they are supposed to cry.  But we believe that if a man cries, that makes him . . . duhn, duhn, duhn, . . . weak, it makes him . . . a woman, and there is nothing more repulsive for a man to be than a woman, right?  Look at the rise in cross dressers over the last decade.  White men are buying more women’s clothing than women.  All because they think that if they like anal stimulation that means they are a woman.  How stupid is that?  It’s 2020 and we collectively believe that if a man likes anal penetration, that means he’s  immoral, he’s transgendered, or he’s gay.  It’s past time we stop believing these ridiculous and flawed gender rules.  They were made by white men with little dicks in order to try to control and oppress women. 

Black men are tied to proving how heterosexual they are but that’s extremely unappealing to me.  I want a brotha who doesn’t think he’s gay or immoral if he likes a finger in his ass when he’s getting his dick sucked.  Fuck around, I want a brotha who has kissed another man, I want a brotha who has loved another man; one who has been penetrated by and penetrated another man.  I want one who can admit that he’s looked at every genre of porn, and even one who can admit to being aroused by fringe and fetish porn.  I want a man who doesn’t have to lie about his sexuality and prove that he’s such a real man that he has never ever ever looked at anything other than straight porn. 

Do white men do it too?  Hell yes they do.  But white have the stigma of having little dicks so they are more apt to pretend to be alpha and straight in social settings and in public but their secret sexual identities are tied to being sissy faggots the second they are behind closed doors.  White men love to overcompensate and prove how straight they are, how dominant and alpha they are, but I don’t really give a fuck about white men’s mental health.  I don’t care if they lie about what they like.  I do care that Black men are so sexually and emotionally stunted that they are still holding on to concepts that will prevent them from ever forming a healthy relationship if they have to constantly lie about natural feelings, sensations, inclinations and proclivities.  We have to start being more honest with ourselves, with our partners.   

In the Heat of the Night

It was a steamy night in the ATL and there was a power outage.  No light, no AC, all the entire city could do was sit and sweat and sit and sweat some more.  Luckily, I live on the top floor of my condo so I could go outside naked as the day I was born and enjoy a little breeze without the fear of anyone peeking at me.  My balcony looks out over the parking lot of a major home furnishing store, you know, the one from Sweden, Switzerland, wherever the hell it’s from so there isn’t a building around that could spy on me.  I made a pitcher of Sangria before my ice cubes turned to water and I was just chilling outside, in quiet reflection. 

There’s something about it being Africa-hot at nighttime that really gets to me.  It’s one thing for it to be stifling hot at 12 noon, but when the heat is oppressive and it’s 12 midnight, that’s a whole nutha thing all together.  I was feeling a buzz from my Sangria when the phone rang.  “Who the hell could this be, calling at quarter after “booty call o’clock” at night?”  I glanced at the caller ID on my cell phone and it was my friend Nina who lived downstairs. 

I was glad to have conversation because it was a little boring with no music or TV but I was also enjoying my naked solitude.  Nina was a white girl who started out as just someone I would see in the gym working out occasionally.  She and I were always deeply engrossed in some book and I would ask her what she was reading, she would ask me what I was reading.  One thing led to another and eventually, we started a book club for the building.  It’s only about five of us: two white women, two black women, including me, and a gay Spanish cat.  Once a month, someone hosts the group at their crib and we all bring a covered dish and dish about the book.  Everyone brings their own flavor to the group, literally and figuratively.  Luis has hipped us to all sorts of Latino fiction and Nina had a love of erotica that went far beyond the trash that’s in Borders.  She loves storytelling and she often times reads selections that would get us all hot and bothered.  I even noticed Luis squirming in his seat a couple of times.  “Hey sweetness, what’s up,”  I asked?

“Ebony, I’m sweating like a pig down here.  There’s no breeze and I feel like I’m going to suffocate.  Do you think I could come up to your place and crash on your couch?”  Her unit was on the courtyard side and she was a couple of floors down.  I can only imagine it must have been like an oven in her condo. 

“Sure, come on up, not a problem.”  That’s what I said, what I meant was, “Damn, I’m not really in the mood for company.  I’ve got a buzz going and I’m enjoying my freedom.”  Nina was really good people and I couldn’t leave her hanging in her hour of need so I opened my door with all the graciousness I could muster. 

I grabbed a robe and tied it around my body.  It wasn’t much, just a little short silk thingie I had gotten as a present from an ex-boyfriend.  I weighed the options of whether I should put on panties but my Sangria got the best of me.  “Fuck it, this is my house, if she sees my pussy, then so be it.  It’s too hot to be wearing panties anyway.” 

I opened the door and Nina was there, sheet in hand, and looking like she was dehydrated.  “Girl, come on in, you look like who struck John and ran.”  She knew me well enough to just look at me and not say anything.  It was one of the famous euphemisms my grandmother used to say that have become part of my daily lexicon.  Nina walked past me like she was in a daze and headed straight for the balcony.  Now Nina is a beautiful woman, there’s no question about it.  Her long brown hair fell just past her shoulders, but she was skinny, I’m mean slender, whatever white girls call themselves when they are a size 3.  I’m slender, but I have a lot more meat on my bones.  I have bigger titties, bigger thighs, bigger hips, and a whole helluva lot more azz.  I wear my hair in locs and had them pulled back in a ponytail.  To look at us, you wouldn’t even think we ran in the same circles but we were most certainly friends.  It was hard to find intellectual equals of any race and Nina was cerebral and logical with the best of them. 

Plopped down in a chair, she had her eyes closed and she was lying back like had just finished running a marathon.  Sweat was visible on her white wife beater tank top that clung to her small breasts and her tiny shorts had to be damp because they were so tight I could practically see the outline of her pussy lips.  I thought it was odd that she was wearing high heels but there wasn’t much to them.  She looked like she could have just gotten off the pole at the Cheetah Club

“You look like you could use some water, can I get you some?” 

“No thanks,” she said, “this will be fine, as she reached for the pitcher of Sangria and poured a big glass and downed it in one gulp. 

“Hey, careful there sweetie,” I said, “you are going to wake up with a terrible hangover if you don’t use moderation.”  She gave me another look like, “Do you have any idea how fucking hot I am?  Don’t test me.”  Word weren’t necessary.  I stood there looking at her, trying to cool off.  It was surreal.  There were no lights to be seen anywhere in the distance, illuminating the Atlanta skyline.  There was a silence like I’ve never known before.  It was like a moment frozen in time.  “Here, I’m going to make us another pitcher before the last of the ice melts.  I’ll be right back.” 

It was difficult moving around in the dark, trying to cut up fruit and not slice any fingers off in the process.  I was having difficulty maneuvering around in complete darkness when I heard Nina say, “Do you need any help?”  I could barely make out her form as I accepted her offer but there wasn’t much she could do, not knowing my kitchen as well as I did.  It became just a joke as we would bump into each other trying to get sugar and wine and everything cut up in that pitcher without it tumbling to the floor.  Wouldn’t that be a bitch? 

Nina was touchy feely.  Every time we would bump into each other, her hands would linger on my body.  At first, it was just my shoulder, and then it was my waist.  Then she pressed her body against mine and I almost swore I could feel her grinding on my ass.  I knew the sangria was making me feel a little loose and I certainly didn’t mind and I figured the Sangria had gone to her head rather quickly and it was making her a little amorous as well. 

I decided two could play at that game and I decided that I was going to give her something to think about.  I pretended to drop the dishtowel and I bent over, and I made sure to rub my ass all over her.  I got really bold and decided to step things up a notch.  “Here, let me see if I can cool you off a little bit.”  I took one of the last pieces of ice and I started rubbing it all over her chest.  Nina, as if in a trance, pulled her tank top down, exposing her tits, and I rubbed it all over her nipples.  She was chanting, “Oh shit, that feels so good, please don’t stop.”  Melted ice was running down her body and I wasn’t sure if it was cooling her off or making her hotter. 

It was sort of weird.  We both knew at that point that something intense was happening but neither one of us said anything.  I was giddy, my pulse was racing.  There, in the darkness, I put my hand between her legs and felt her pussy.  I could hear her soft moans but it was hard to make out the expression on her face.  She was humping her mound against my hand and I could feel the heat emanating from her core.  I wanted to ask what was going on but I didn’t want to spoil the mood.  I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen. 

“I think the Sangria is done, let’s go back outside and try to catch a breeze.”  I grabbed the pitcher and tried to maneuver my way back to the balcony without breaking my leg on a piece of furniture.  I sat on the chaise lounge and loosened up my robe so my breasts would be exposed if I moved just a little.  Without much effort at all, Nina could see my pussy if she wanted to, it would be right there, all I had to do was spread my long brown legs.  Nina joined me outside a few seconds after I got settled.  She looked like she was more uncomfortable than when she first walked through the door.  There was a nice breeze blowing and I was sure our little experiment with the ice had cooled her off quite a bit but I knew she was just as hot as I was after our little groping session in the kitchen. 

I was so horny and turned on that I couldn’t think straight.  I didn’t want to have casual conversation but I didn’t want to ruin the thing that was happening between us.  For a long while, we sat in silence, just sipping our wine and staring out into the distance.  I closed my eyes and felt the heat in my body.  It wasn’t heat from the temperature, it wasn’t heat from the drink, and it was a heat from lust.  I was fantasizing about Nina and I in the throws of passion.  She stood up and started speaking in almost hushed, melodic tones.  She was weaving a tale of erotic delight; she was hypnotizing me with her words.

“The beauty,” she said, “of Sapphic delights is in the slow build, the smoldering fire that ignites the flames of passion.  The beauty of interracial pleasures is in the contrast.  Your body is a black canvas upon which pleasure should be painted.”  She paced back and forth, her heels clicking on the tile, punctuating her speech.  “I wish to serve you, you delicious Nubian queen, I wish to submit myself to you, a muse of your whims, so that you may reach ecstasy.  Let me drink from your Ebony source, let me lie next to you, our bodies intertwined, our limbs a tangle of contrasted skin tones.” 

I had never in my entire life had anything like this happen to me.  I couldn’t even explain it.  She was seducing me with prose and I was aching with desire and all I could do was listen, words were caught in my through.  How was I to respond?  I could have lit all of Atlanta proper with the electricity that was flowing through my body. 

Nina sat at the end of the chaise lounge.  I spread my legs and she moved closer.  Gently, she reached for the tie on my robe and undid it.  She pushed the material to the side and exposed my body to her view.  She took in every inch of my brown frame and licked her lips like she was starving.  She leaned forward and she touched her lips to mine.  I reveled in the softness of her kiss, her tongue, and I pulled her body to mine. 

“Let me make love to you,” she whispered, as if she was asking my permission.  I simply nodded my consent and she proceeded to give me pleasure in ways that only another woman can give.  She stood briefly, undressing in front of me.  She pulled off her tank top and tossed it casually to the ground, revealing her perfectly formed breasts to my vision.  Her nipples were pink and puffy and certainly a contrast to my dark, pebble-like nipples that were aching to be sucked.  Turning around, she put her thumbs in the waist of her shorts and bent over.  Methodically she pulled them down, exposing her pussy from behind and her ass, of which she seemed to be especially proud.  She ran her hands all over it, spreading her cheeks and showing off her asshole.  My heart skipped a little beat and my clit seemed to come alive.  I was enjoying the show, such a contrast to any of the other women I had been with.  Her pale skin seemed to glow in the darkened night and her tan lines were visible, just barely.  It was apparent that she was trying to get brown all over.  She left her heels on.  I had always thought that was something that only porn stars did but in that moment, she looked amazing.  I wouldn’t have wanted her to change a thing. 

Being so open in our lovemaking aroused me.  We were outside.  It wasn’t as if we were in the Serengeti, we were in midtown ATL on 17th street, and it all seemed so decadent.  I think she was equally in awe of my skin tone as I was of hers.  She took her hands and massaged my legs, spread them wider, rubbing ever so close to my pussy but not touching me there.  My body was reacting to her touch. 

Our eyes had become adjusted to the darkness and she knelt before me as she lowered the back of the chaise lounge to almost reclining.  Even though the temperature was hot, she was trembling and shaking like she was freezing cold.  She crawled over my body like a panther surveying its prey.  My arms were stretched out above my head, gripping the railing for dear life. 

We kissed again, this time I was able to return the kiss even more passionately.  She began her descent down my body with her mouth, bathing me with sensual kisses.  She covered my neck and throat with corporeal kisses and I moaned in appreciation.  She took an incredibly long time kissing and licking her way down my arms and sucking each and every one of my fingers.  My nipples were hard and aroused like two tiny pebbles waiting for her mouth to lick and suck them.  My body was becoming more and more comfortable, more and more aroused, and I was responding to each touch with more enthusiasm.  She brought her tongue to my left nipple and gently licked it and I let out a hiss . . . She licked the right one and I groaned.  In fact, she spent the better part of a half hour licking, sucking, and kissing on my nipples. 

I kept saying, “Oh God, that feels so good, don’t stop.”  I grabbed her hair and held her mouth to my tits, made her suck them like a baby.  Every sensation was like a jolt of pleasure in my clit.  The more aroused I got, the more I needed to give into the pleasure and the passion of this lesbian lust.  It was more than apparent that I was enjoying myself as she licked and kissed her way down my stomach to my goody trail of soft fine hair that led to my sensual treasure.  She let her mouth wander down to my legs and I spread my thighs enough for her to lick and kiss me there.  I could smell my scent that betrayed my arousal.  I turned my over on my stomach and she began lavishing my back with kisses.  She grabbed my ponytail and pulled it as she whispered in my ear that she was going to make me cum so many times I would pass out.  I responded by grinding my ass on her and saying, “Fuck you.”  She loved my fight and arrogance; it turned her on that much more.  She slid her hand between my legs to gently rub my mound.  She playfully spanked me, not too hard; gently, erotically.  I was thrusting my ass up at her and telling her to eat my pussy, my hot, wet, pussy.   

We were both out of control with lust.  All of my inhibitions had long since disappeared and she was insatiable.  She wanted to experience every sensation she could.  I turned over on my back again.  Now it was her turn to be overcome with lust.  My pussy was so fucking wet it dripped with desire.  I spread my legs and she stared at the center of my being in complete awe.  My lips were parted and swollen with arousal.  My clit was already peeking from its hood.  I was so wet she could see my juices glistening even in the darkened night.  My smell was intoxicating.  She inhaled my aroma over and over again, wanting to breathe it into her very essence.  I held onto the last little bit of control I had left.  “Nina, tell me you want this, tell me that you need to make love to make, to make me cum.  I need to hear you say it.”

 “Mmmmmm, you know damn well that I want to eat and lick and suck your wet cunt.  I want to make you cum with my mouth.  That’s what you need.  I want to stick my tongue deep inside you, suck your clit, EAT YOUR PUSSY.  I want to rub my pussy against yours.  I want to see the contrast.  I am desperate to lick you and eat your pussy and I want you to use my mouth to cum.  I want you to shoot your pussy cream in my mouth.  Mmmmm. Oh fuck, I want you to strapon on a big fat cock and pound my pussy and asshole.  I want this.  I need this.  I’m intoxicated by your beauty and I want to share with you every pleasure imaginable.” 

Her sexy talk pushed me over the edge.  In fact, I almost came from hearing her being so open, so vocal about her desires.  As much as I wanted her to dive in and devour my pussy, I wanted to make it an experience that she would never forget.  I took my fingers and gently spread my lips and started to gently rub on my exposed, fat clit.  She responded by grinding her wet pussy on my leg.  She pulled my hand away and replaced it with her own.  She put her fingers at the entrance to my hole and she started working them inside me, trying to get me to cum.  I had made a transformation then and there.  I was no longer the calm, reserved woman who wouldn’t verbalize her desires lest the spell be broken, I was hot and crazed and I wanted more.  

Her soft fingers reached places that my own couldn’t.  This wasn’t the gentle lovemaking of romantic fantasies, she was fucking me.  Before no time at all, she was finger fucking me with three fingers, ramming them hard and I was meeting every thrust.  She lowered her mouth to my clit and started sucking it, licking it, working her fingers in deeper, hitting my spot.  She grabbed my thighs, pushed them up, and drove her tongue deep in my hot asshole.  She was tongue fucking my backdoor and I was going out of my mind. 

“Come on, eat me.  MMMM.  Oh yeah, you love eating my pussy and sucking my ass.  Does that taste good?  Yeah?”  I reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled her up.  I positioned her in a 69 and we went to town on my balcony.  I was driving my tongue in her twat, tasting her sweet juices; she was gripping my thighs and licking my clit like nobody’s business.  It was loud, passionate, raunchy sex in the heat of the night.  I felt my body tense, I felt her pussy gush.  We were both fingering each other and fucking and licking and sucking like we were possessed.  Oh Nina, oh Nina, yes baby, yes, oh fuck, oh shit, fuck, damn, I’m going to cum.

We stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed on top of the comforter.  The breeze and the cross ventilation cooled us from our physical heat but the heat of passion was still sweltering.  Before the night was over, we fucked in every way conceivable.  At some point in the mid morning, we were awakened by the sound of the TV.  The electricity was restored and the light of day greeted us.  We planned on taking advantage of the air conditioning and our newfound aspect to your sensuality all afternoon long.



Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Willful Ignorance

It’s the 21^st century.  We are living in a time when we have more access to information, to knowledge than any other time in recorded history.  It amazes me, it astounds me actually, the willful ignorance that abounds about sex and sexuality in this day and time truly boggles my mind.  We might as well be living in The Dark Ages with leeches to treat deadly plagues because people, the vast and overwhelming majority of people, believe the most stupid, asinine things about sexuality.   

Being bisexual does not mean that you have to be equally attracted to both men and women.  Being bisexual does not mean that you automatically want to form a romantic, emotional relationship with someone of the same gender, it simply means that you can have sex with both genders.  Just because you have a preference for one gender over the other that does not mean that you are somehow heterosexual.  It’s very possible to be sexually aroused by both genders without your masculinity or femininity being altered in any way.  If you are blindfolded and you are sexually stimulated you will be aroused regardless of the gender of person.  If a woman is sexually aroused by other women that does not mean she is going to become masculine NOR does it mean that a man is going to become feminine if he is sexually aroused by other men.  

Men and women have the EXACT same anatomy that allows them to experience arousal and pleasure when stimulated anally.  That’s not entirely true.  Men have a prostate that women do not have and when the prostate is stimulated, it provides pleasure.  Not just gay men.  Not just feminine men.  Not just some men.  ALL men have the potential to experience pleasure when stimulated anally.  It has nothing to do with a man’s sexual preference or his masculinity.  Bottoms, tops, sissies etc., they are all labels that reinforce the false belief that being a woman is synonymous with being submissive, being humiliated, being degraded and I have news for you, those things are not inherent to women.  There is no genetic markers that make women predisposed to being slapped, spit on, gangbanged or used.  If a man is anally aroused, putting on a dress and wearing stockings and heels does not make him a woman.  

Unfortunately, common sense, logic, reason, and facts have no bearing on the absurdity that people believe about sex and sexuality.  Black people especially.  Because we expect men to be one-dimensional, hyper-masculine Neanderthals, we claim that there is no such thing as bisexuality, that a man has to be gay if he is sexually aroused by both genders and that he’s just denying it.  Because we are so desperate to believe the white man’s religion that was beaten into us, we turn our backs on plain truths that can’t be denied.  There is no big bad sky daddy who watches what we do in the bedroom and who is offended by our pleasure.  We believe all sorts of truly stupid things: that the tightness of a man’s jeans or the color of his shirt can determine if he’s bisexual, that only bisexual men are responsible for the spread of HIV.  This is 2015 and people really believe that.  There is too much information at our fingertips, there is too much damn porn in genres that have to be seen to actually be believed that prove beyond all reasonable doubt that people are aroused by far more than heterosexual, missionary sex on a Friday night with the lights out.  Yet we live in willful ignorance and pretend that humans are supposed to be asexual and chaste.  I’ll tell you what’s a sin.  It’s sinful that we choose to be so close-minded and brainwashed.