My Love/Hate Affair with My Country

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A Short-term Thang

Relationships, at least here in the self-centered West, have a specific pattern. When a couple meets, they feel each other out, they date, they make an assessment as to whether the person to whom they are attracted is worth the emotional effort, and if said couple falls in love, the couple decides to pursue a relationship. The understanding is always that the couple is pursuing a “long-term relationship”. The unspoken definition of a long-term relationship, as we have been led to believe, is one defined by no end date. A long-term relationship is supposed to be forever, happily ever after, it’s supposed to symbolize the dissolution of the individuals and the birth of a couple who combine their lives and goals and stuff in a romanticized notion of pair bonding.

I have the distinct pleasure, the very unique opportunity to be in a short-term relationship. A short-term relationship is, as I have defined it, a relationship that has no specific end date but one that is also not formed with the false belief that it will last forever. A short-term relationship is one that takes advantage of the feelings of love, intimacy, companionship, and connection one can feel with an individual while taking into consideration that there are very specific impediments to the relationship that will not withstand the test of time, that will not pass the long-term-litmus. A short-term lover is one who has the benefits of all the closeness, passion, commitment, and love without the threat of maintaining everlasting bliss looming overhead.

My lover, my manfriend and partner, the person with whom I share my life and body is an amazing man whom I love conditionally. He is someone with whom I share a history -- a history that has been blemished by his betrayal and poor decision making. We are vastly different individuals in many ways who are also so alike it is scary at times. I hold no fairly tale illusions about a happily-ever-after with him but I am more than willing to revel in the happy-right-now feelings I have in my heart (as well as my other body parts that are outrageously satisfied). I’m working hard to implement all the things I’ve learned over the years about what it takes to be in a healthy relationship, the things I’ve practiced in my mind with my fantasy partner about not expecting him to read my mind, trying to communicate my fears and dissatisfaction without trying to belittle or demean him. I’m loving every minute of being able to express all the love I have in my heart by spoiling him, nurturing him, by loving him totally and completely without hesitation or reserve. Our core philosophical compasses are so dangerously opposite however it would be foolish to think that we can build a life of long-term goals together.

I am Black. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not only Black, but I’m super, unapologetically Black. I’m passionate about providing people of color, descendents of slaves, individuals of African descent a model and example of healthy relationships and sexuality that celebrates our differences without having to whitewash our unique identity, without conforming to clownish stereotypes, while divesting ourselves of detrimental and destructive behaviors we’ve acquired in trying to conform to an identity that is not our own. While he is a man of color on the outside, he doesn’t identify himself as such. He rejects his identity; he is comfortable, dare I say happy being surrounded by rednecks and very, low-class white people. He has spent his entire life believing that being Black is something negative that has to be overcome, something he has to deny in order to be accepted by his peers. To think for a minute that he and I have the potential to form a long-term relationship would be foolish. I NEED someone in my life long-term who can be supportive of my goals and objectives. I need a partner who not only can believe in my goals but whose goals are similarly aligned with my own. For right now, however, I can overlook those differences and see the things about him that are exceptional.

Because we have been socialized is such different circumstances, my great fear is that because his core/intrinsic attraction is to smoking, drinking, bi-polar, dysfunctional, mentally unstable, white women that I will once again become the discarded victim of his need to distance himself from being Black. He is uncomfortable with my blackness. He doesn’t like me talking about race unless I say that color doesn’t matter. He is more willing to let white people ridicule him about his race than he is willing to consider that I have a right to publicly express my displeasure with the way Black people are portrayed, depicted, and stereotyped. So . . . we choose not to talk about race. For the short term, that works. I can compartmentalize my life in such a way that we can laugh and joke and share a great number of conversations that don’t touch upon race, we can enjoy the moment without the burden of projecting what is going to happen years from now. Can I do that forever, for the long-term? Unquestionably, no!

He has never seen a healthy relationship; I come from generations of Black couples loving each other as far back as slavery. Our perceptions of what it takes to be in a healthy relationship are vastly different as well. His approach to relationships is not to think about anything, never question his choices. My approach is to analyze, dissect, think, and think again. We both see each other’s position as being flawed. I need to assess the mistakes and patterns of my past so that I can grow, mature, and make healthier choice in partners and relationships. His belief is that every choice he’s made in the past has been valid and justified because he was doing what he thought was right at the time, no matter how detrimental the outcome. We live in a tiny, backwards town where adultery, drugs, alcohol, and violence are the norm for relationships. We live in a town where everywhere we go, we are faced with one of his past dysfunctional lovers, all of whom he still cares about and defends as valid choices. I could easily say that I don’t need the drama, that I deserve better in a partner but that would be stupid of me to dismiss the fact that I’ve never met a man more committed to my pleasure, to my happiness, I’ve never met another man more willing to try to be a better man with me.

The things I love about him, the things that make him such an exceptional man, are largely the things that make him so vastly different than most African American men that have been socialized in Black communities. He doesn’t have the defensiveness, machismo, or absurd notion of what it means to be a Black man so he can be his authentic self. He makes me happy. I love being with him; I know deep in my heart that he loves me; I know that being my boyfriend is important to him, so much so that he’s willing to try something different than what he’s tried before. I question his ability to be completely honest but we are working daily on that with very good results. I’m working hard on trying not to change him, I’m trying not to be judgmental of his current emotional maturity but accept him for who he is and all the wonderful things that he brings to the table. I can be outrageously condescending in believing that my way is the only right way and that he has to think and believe as I do. I’m working on that. I know him to be thoughtful and kind, he is beautiful, sweet, sincere, intelligent, warm, and loving. When I think of his accomplishments and abilities, given his surroundings, I’m in awe of how outstanding a man he is. I know that when I tell him my concerns and objections that he’s going to make a concerted effort to address them immediately. He is attentive to my every desire and need. Those things have more value and weight in my choice to be the woman in his life, to be his girlfriend, than the fact that he was raised in a community of rednecks and has embraced them as his peers, loved them as his partners.

I think of all the romantic interests I’ve had in the past that would have benefited from a short-term philosophy. I think about how many nuanced things that adults should experience in a relationship that I’ve been deprived of because my relationships didn’t have long-term potential. I’m not at all sure that my man understands or believes in the whole short-term concept but he’s wiling to take things one day at a time and see where it leads us.

This culture, this society bombards us with clichés about opposites attracting and love conquering all but I’m introspective and self-aware enough to know that those are just empty words meant to distract people from the very real, very hard emotional work it takes to build a healthy relationship. I’m attempting to replace the dysfunctional, romanticized Hollywood picture of a long-term relationship with one that is based on appreciating the good things a person brings to the table while those good feelings last. When will our relationship end? As my grandmother used to say, “Honey, you have to ask someone smarter than me.” I would like to think that our relationship will come to an amicable end when it is time for one of us to move from this place. Maybe the relationship will end when one or both of us decide that the current situation is no longer fulfilling. Ideally, the relationship will end with no hurt feelings and the acknowledgment and recognition of the tremendous love we have for one another and how it has been a wonderful component to what will be our history as we move forward. There are those who would have me believe that our relationship will be long-term as long as we continue to accept each other, love will prevail, don’t be a cynic, anything is possible. etc. Equally as loud and equally as critical of my short-term relationship model are those who say that any man who has hurt me in the past, who doesn’t value me for who and what I intrinsically am as a person is not worth my time and effort as even a short-term partner. I have to say that I’m not only comfortable with my choices but I’m outrageously happy. I have weighed his pros and his cons and the benefits FAR outweigh the negatives. For the short-term, what he and I share is positive, affirming, beautiful, loving and wonderful and that works for me.

Scottie Lowe Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved

To Be a Black Feminist

I recently read a deluded and sad “Letter to a Black Feminist” by a gentleman who blamed feminists for . . . well, basically, anything and everything he could think of. The fact that he didn’t even correctly identify what a feminist was or our real agendas didn’t seem to bother the numerous people who responded and told him how insightful and well thought out is misguided ramblings were. I am a feminist. I am an unapologetic Black feminist. I’m saddened by the lies, mistruths, and ignorance being perpetuated in my name and feel it’s my responsibility to share the truth for anyone who may be so inclined to learn and grow.

Here’s the Feminist Primer as simply as it can be explained.

Feminists work to dismantle the social, sexual, political, and economic disparity between the genders.

Feminists seek equality. Equality doesn’t mean we think we are as physically strong as men; it means we want our different strengths and abilities to have the same weight as men’s strengths and abilities have.

Feminists don’t want to be superior to men; we are not looking to replace patriarchy with matriarchy.

Feminists don’t want to emasculate men (although the concepts of masculinity and femininity are flawed, that’s besides the point). We have no agendas to make men more feminine but simply understand that there is a certain harmony and peace when masculine and feminine energies are in balance.

Feminists don’t seek to form matrilineal societies where women rule and have multiple spouses.

Feminists want to be seen as human beings, not objects, not submissives, not broken ribs or whatever fairy tales Black men want to quote to justify their insecurity with the concept that man and women should hold no power over each other.

Feminists aren’t lesbians, although we can be, but our sexual orientation has nothing whatsoever to do with our desire to fight the systems that keep women as second-class citizens.

Feminists don’t hate men although we certainly have a right to hate their privilege.

Feminists aren’t “against the family,” as so many Black men want to imply, we just don’t want the family to be based on a patriarchal model where men have the final say just because they have a Y chromosome.

Feminists simply take a stand against the oppression and tyranny of women under the false assumption of men being somehow inherently superior.

Feminists don’t want to be defined by how attractive we are to men but by our intellect, skills, talents, abilities, and our humanity.

Black men are so terrified of being equal to women that they raise these absurd and paranoid rants against feminists in order to deflect from their own emotional immaturity. Black men are hysterical. They yell and scream about how they want an end to the fallacy of white male supremacy but they don’t want anything to do with the end of male supremacy, ESPECIALLY if it means they might lose their historically unearned place as leader, ruler, and so-called king. As long as Black men feel they have a right to oppress, subjugate, or dominate women because some white man wrote a book that said that God deemed that anyone with a penis has special privileges to view women as inferior, then black men will be forever handicapped by their own ignorance and arrogance. Emasculating or hating men has NEVER been the agenda of feminists, that's nothing but bullshit rhetoric from immature and insecure men who want to keep women silenced and maintain their privilege of oppression. The very men who so vehemently hate feminists, who make us out to be evil estrogen wielding castrators, are the very men who are raping women, who are committing domestic violence, who are complacent when they see women being treated like whores and objects. Misogyny is a sickness within the Black community; it is a rampant disease that threatens our very existence. Until Black men can boldly declare that they are feminists, activists who fight for the equality of women, meaning they are willing to divest themselves of their unearned penal privilege and address how dysfunctional our society is in terms of gender, they will forever be emotionally handicapped oppressors.

Black women aren’t much better. We have no clue what a feminist is other than what we hear Black men yell and scream, we are so conditioned to try to conform to Black men’s whims, fantasies, and irrational demands, that we never question anything they tell us and we go along with what they say. Black women can more easily define what a touchback in football is rather than correctly define the term feminist, even though one is meant to make them appear more attractive to men and the other benefits their status and standing as a woman in society. Of those who have a tiny clue what the word means, they inevitably say, “White women have commandeered the feminist movement for their own agenda so I consider myself a womanist.” Ask a Black woman, “What’s the difference between a feminist and a womanist?” “Well, a womanist is more concerned with Black issues.” Does that mean that we need to come up with a different name for Democrat since I’m more concerned with Black issues than white Democrats? “Well, a womanist is more concerned with the family.” Well, white women get married more than Black women so this Black womanist movement isn’t being particularly effective, is it? You lessen your position of power if you refuse to face Black men head on with their misogyny and you attempt to side step them by using a more neutral term that they don't object to. You cannot be a warrior in the struggle if you are starting your crusade from a place of concession. If you refer to yourself as a womanist, you’ve already said to the world, “I don’t want to be equal to men because I don’t want them mad at me for being too radical.” Womanism is not the lite version of feminism, it's not the Black version of feminism, it's the patriarchal conformation to Black men's insecurities.

If there was ever a platform upon which we could stand and unite, all men and women, it is the feminist one which states that we will be seen as human beings, no more, no less, that women serve a greater role in the world than doing housework and being receptacles for sperm to satisfy men’s lust. We are individuals with equal strengths to bring to the table as men. They are not the same strengths, but they are equal nonetheless. Just as left is not better than right, hot is not better than cold, up is not better than down, white is not better than black, let us all agree the man is not better than woman.

Scottie Lowe

Phone Bone

I've come to accept that I might not ever share my bed with a true partner. A true partner is someone who appreciates me, accepts me, someone who loves me for all that I am. My bed might only ever provide temporary refuge for men who feel a connection but fear the connection. It's very possible my lovers will be men who leave me feeling insecure and ugly, questioning my value and worth as a woman, a lover, and a partner.

But I am a woman with needs and desires that go unfulfilled for months and even years at a time. I long to feel desired and loved just like any other human being. I don't have casual sex; I can't go out to the club on a Friday night and meet someone I'm attracted to. I've learned the hard way that I can't go on a dating site and find someone with whom I share chemistry and connection.

I find comfort, safety, and release occasionally in phone sex. In the familiarity of my own bed, practicing the safest possible sex, thanks to AT&T, I can experience the intimacy, love and connection I desire. The men need not be perfect. I can pretend there in the dark that he is my ideal lover. His voice can caress me, his words can satisfy my hungers. I can touch myself and pretend that my dream lover tenderly, sweetly, gently delivers each and every stroke.

Phone sex is my only outlet. It's the only form of sex I can seem to have and not have crippling guilt and remorse afterwards. The longer I'm alone the more I realize how essential physical connection is. Every time I have sex with someone undeserving of my body and my love, I feel like I have to punish myself. I feel like I need to revirginize myself and go without sex for painfully long periods of time in order to purge myself of my "sin" of weakness. It's my weakness to my urges that I know are human and normal and natural that haunt me. With phone sex, I have no such angst, that disappointment in myself. My phone lovers aren't real so I can let down my hair and be primal and feral and never feel an ounce of remorse. I feel lonely afterwards, that's for sure, but FAR less than I do when I have sex with and I know that when he leaves my bed, he may not return.

My phone lovers, too, are few and far between. To be honest, most men are not great at making love to a woman's mind so it stands to reason that the skills needed to seduce a woman over the phone are underdeveloped as well. I don't want to be called a bitch; I don't want to hear fake and contrived scenarios. I just want a man to tell me how much he desires me, my body, my personal brand of pleasure. I want to experience his private pleasure with his words and sounds. I want to dance to images in my head sung to a poetic sonata of sensual bliss. I want to cum together and cry out in the night and feel that bond.

Ideally, I would be able to find a man who wants me and who is a great communicator and we could supplement our amazing sex life with occasional phone sex to keep things spicy. Minus that, I will have to find satisfaction in cellular love.

Sensual evolution

When I was a child, I thought as a child, when I became a woman . . . the theory is supposed to be that my thoughts and perceptions shifted to that of an adult. I’m convinced that one’s orientation doesn’t shift, one’s primary programming doesn’t evolve, one just becomes older and more adept at justifying and validating the belief systems passed down to him or her generationally.

In an effort to define my sensual evolution, I’ve taken some serious time to assess where I was and where I am now and where I want to go in terms of my sexuality. I’m reluctant to use the term evolution because I’m not convinced that my shift in sexual desires has moved to a higher plane. Perhaps it has just shifted around like a box of tissues in the back window of a car on a bumpy ride.

When I was a developing teen with raging hormones and no one to help me navigate my sexual feelings other than my other pubescent friends, my sexuality was defined by my mother’s collection of pornography in her closet. I was thrilled with words more than pictures and obviously, given my career choice, a fact has carried over into my adult life. I learned about sexuality from overtly misogynist and sexist material that objectified women. Thusly, my sexual desires reflected that fact. I wanted to be seen as desirable and subsequently my fantasies were in relation to that. My earliest fantasies were of doing the things that would make men want me, to see me as the most beautiful, to be the most pleasing to men. I worked hard to perfect my skills at giving head; I would construct intricate and complex scenarios to seduce my boyfriends, all my fantasies revolved around giving pleasure to men. Rarely, if ever, did I fantasize about men giving me pleasure. Two rapes, a failed marriage, a decade of being single, and the conscious effort to become more comfortable with my sexuality have caused my fantasies to shift. I no longer have a desire to be seen as beautiful or desirable to men, in fact, my desires are just the opposite. I want to be seen as a human being and a woman and the person inside the package.

For many years now, I’ve been asexual. I’ve put up a wall around my sexuality intended to keep people out. For me, the concept of planning a seduction and performing outrageous feats of sexuality to please a man are totally foreign to me. My sexual fantasies now mostly revolve around me being seduced and pleasured. In my 43 years of life, I’ve only been seduced once. I’ve had plenty of men want to give me pleasure but that really had nothing to do with pleasing me as a human being, it had more to do with conquering me as some sort of trophy or possession. I do fantasize of once again planning intricate and detailed seductions for my mate but the concept of finding a mate that appreciates all of me are the details I can’t seem to fill in in my imagination.

I used to fantasize about being with women; it’s been years since I’ve had those sorts of thoughts. I used to fantasize about sucking dick; now I chant “Eat me” in my fantasies. In fact, for the first decade of my sexual life, I never asked a man to perform oral sex on me because I thought that was an indication of being selfish. I would REFUSE to sit on a man’s face, even if he insisted that I do it. In my mind, it was indicative of something exclusively for me I couldn’t relax enough to enjoy it. (I still don’t like doing it but that’s mostly because men tend to suck too hard on my clit when I’m on top and I like it SOFT) I still fake orgasms, almost pathologically, because I can’t let go of my conditioning that says that I have to make the man happy. Today, a large percentage of my fantasies unashamedly revolve around reciprocal anal play. Five years ago, the concept of two men together sexually triggered what I call the “knee-jerk talk show reaction.” That’s the standard, “That’s disgusting,” indignation that 99% of people have in the audiences of Jerry and Maury when the concept of male bisexuality is discussed that is blatantly absent when the issue is two women together. I realize now that my beliefs were part of conservative, Protestant-ethic, brainwashing that has no basis in really dissecting the causes, issues, and genesis of same sex couplings. Today, I find myself aroused by the concept of two men together and I also am aroused by the act of intimacy that a man extends to me in sharing his bisexual desires. Rarely do I fantasize about being penetrated and when I do, my fantasies are romantic more than sexual. In recent years, I was aroused by dominating men. Now, I no longer have a need to be sexually dominant I just accept that as a part of my sexuality. I don’t have a need to assert power over men, or to psychologically manipulate them, I simply long to be treated as a queen.

My ideal sexual fantasy at this stage in my life is to have a mate, lover, partner, boyfriend/husband that is committed to pampering me each night. I dream of a man that draws my bath every evening and pampers my body with oils and lotions and shea butter. Completely relaxed, he then takes painstaking efforts to bring me to orgasm based on the things that arouse me specifically, i.e. licking my asshole, fingering my magic spot, sucking my nipples gently, and eating me SOFTLY. Then and only then, when I’m completely satisfied, do I fantasize that I’m so wickedly pleasured that I have to have him inside me and we make love in a passionate and intense erotic experience. Upon awaking, he’s there behind me, to give me the morning wood that I love so much. I do fantasize that I take great efforts to keep him aroused and plan intricate seductions but it’s difficult to get a good picture of how I do that for the simple fact that I can’t see a man in my life.

I’ve tried to map out a roadmap of where I want to go in my sexual life from here but a lot of that is dependent upon finding a mate. Right now, I tend to think that I’m going to be primarily celibate for the rest of my life and that I’ll supplement my sex life with meaningless episodes once a year or so. That saddens me more than one can imagine but I’m extremely pessimistic about finding a mate. I would like to see myself evolving sensually with my mate, practicing tantric techniques and growing in love and communication. Where I go, how my fantasies will evolve is yet to be seen but I will be sure to monitor my motivations and desires in an effort to track my sensual evolution.

Have you assessed your sensual evolution? Have you asked yourself what things went into making up your sexual personality and how have you grown or changed? How are your desires different now than in years past and are they more healthy or have you just continued on without thinking about your sexual motivations? Share your thoughts and opinions.

Black Porn Sucks

The images of African Americans in the adult industry are largely atypical of the true Black experience. The perpetuation of racist and stereotypical images prevalent in the adult industry work to foster unhealthy and diseased perceptions of African Americans and render the majority of African Americans without avenue for healthy erotic expression. The perpetuation of the Black woman as the Ghetto Bitch, Ghetto Whore, and Ghetto Freak is not reflective of the vast and overwhelming majority of Black women. The perpetuation of the Black man as the barely literate, one-dimensional bull is offensive and steeped in sick prejudices that are not reflective of the vast majority of African American males as well.

The quality, or lack thereof, of Black or Ebony adult material available is horrific. Internet sites tend to list ebony or interracial content as “fetish” as if there is something freakish or abnormal about Black sexuality that sets it apart from the norm. The videos available are as low budget as one can possibly get; the actors and actresses are usually taken from the most disenfranchised and marginalized portion of the population, the sets appear to be nothing more than housing project residences with an HD camera and a tripod purchased from Best Buy. Similarly, Black oriented magazines seem to produce a fair amount of income from recycling images from 1975 with production costs that range around $.04 per poorly printed copy.

The word nigger is a racial epithet, not an aphrodisiac. There needs to be an immediate cease and desist of the use of the word Nigger (or any pronunciation thereof) in adult films/websites. That word should not ever be used in connotation to sexual arousal. When used in that context, it becomes the sexual trigger for people of other races and they then associate that word with Black sexuality and their arousal. It’s unacceptable convince anyone that it's erotic or sensual to throw that vile, offensive word around during sex to fulfill or perpetuate their racist/slave/Mandingo/dark continent fantasies.

Intentional and concerted effort needs to be made to show African Americans in a more favorable and well-rounded light. Black people are capable of more than interracial couplings and Freak Fest Ghetto Extravaganzas. Black adult stars are rarely ever featured together, implying that Black people are only arousing when paired with white people. All black adult entertainment usually panders to the lowest common denominator, virtually excluding those individuals that might be seeking adult entertainment that does not originate from housing projects or Black Bike Week.

Using economically disenfranchised African Americans as tools for adult entertainment is standard fare for the industry. The very nature of the practice is racist and offensive. It leave people of other races with the false impression that Black people are all on welfare, all victims of gunshots, and only capable of the most vanilla and mundane sex acts perform while drunk on malt liquor. It leaves the "actors" themselves with a false sense of identity by promoting the concept that all they are capable of is sex in exchange for money. Most importantly, it is not entertaining or arousing for the vast majority of African Americans that exist outside of that reality. It is offensive to suggest that showing such a miniscule portion of the Black community in an adult light is the source for arousal for all of us.

African Americans that come from all walks of life and aesthetic expression should be represented in tasteful, erotic scenarios. Black women can be beautiful and sexy with natural hair yet they seem to be dangerously missing from the adult industry. Showing image after image solely of African American female buttocks simply serves to objectify and dehumanize the subjects. Apparently, lighter complexioned African American men are not considered attractive or sexual because their presence in the adult industry is minimal which only serves to reinforce the “Mandingo, cotton-picking, big-dicked-Negro-as-Buck” stereotype. That negatively defines Black manhood as being equivalent to skin tone and penis size.

I find it disheartening that it's almost 2010 and I, a reasonably intelligent, sensual mature Black woman, can't find one single erotic film/video that speaks to me. It's sad that my female peers feel the need to deny their sexuality because we have no concept of what it is to have erotica that isn't raunchy and degrading, because we have no erotic outlet other than books. I'm prepared to take the industry by storm, create material for us, by us, that speaks to us and appeals to all races. I create erotica that arouses men and women, both black and white. I write stories that show our complexity and sensuality that aren't whitewashed, colorless tales but rather I write about our issues in our language and that isn't a coon/minstrel show that makes us look like buffoons. People of African descent deserve adult material that is light years ahead of what's available to us now. "Well, the adult industry isn't going to change. We have to make our own." I hear that all the time from the legions of people who share my frustration. Unfortunately, the white power structure has to sign on, someone has to open the door in order for us to get our foot in or else we will be spinning our wheels in futility.

Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe

Nigga What?

We embrace calling ourselves niggers, like that’s empowering, when in actuality, it’s disrespectful to our ancestors and just plain ignorant. To believe yourself to be a nigger, to behave like you are an ignorant sub human (the true implied meaning of the word) has no benefit or value. Defending the use of the word, trying to rationalize that it has been changed into something positive is insanity. Nine times out of ten, the usage of the word is meant to be disparaging and degrading, EXACTLY the way white people intended it to be used, and on the tenth time, it’s an empty a sign of self-hatred masquerading itself as a term of endearment.

White people expect us to behave like niggers, so calling ourselves that, ESPECIALLY in front of them, does nothing but reinforce to them that we are inferior. To carry yourself like royalty, to walk with dignity, to boldly declare that you are not only equal to but better than white people with your speech, your actions, and your intellect is FAR more threatening to white people than calling yourself a nigga. Want proof? Write a blog calling yourself a nigga and talking about cars, drugs, guns, rap, sex, sports, and how much you love living in the ghetto. You won’t get a private response or two from white people. Well that’s not entirely true. You might get a response or two asking you to fulfill their sexual fantasies. Then, write a blog, grammatically correct and spell checked, that talks about the greatness of black people, our strength, and our ability to excel despite racism, oppression, and bigotry. Write about how our true history of greatness has been distorted with white lies and deception. Discuss, academically articulated with footnoted and documented proof, advanced African civilizations and how white people re-wrote history to make themselves appear superior. White people will crawl out of the woodworks to tell you that Black people are ignorant and that you are nothing but a nigger.

You have to ask yourself, what would you rather be called, what benefit do you get from calling yourself a nigga? If calling yourself that makes you feel connected to other black people, consider yourself a slave on the plantation. If you do nothing else this year, decide to stop using the N word to describe yourself, to describe other black people you want to look down on, or as some sort of synonym supposedly meaning Black person. It’s negative, unenlightened, and stupid.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Interracial Relationships and Afrocentric Leadership

I think one of the great failures of African centered thinkers, a group to whom I used to staunchly belong, is the fact that they are tied to the belief that white people are somehow genetically, inherently predisposed to be oppressors. They somehow believe that only Blacks can transcend the fallacy of white supremacy, they falsely believe that whites are incapable of relinquishing their power and privilege. In the history of the world, the fallacy of white supremacy has only existed for the past 2000 or less. The Creator of All, the I Am that I AM, created all human beings as equals. White people, just as African people have the ability to realize the falsehood, lies, and distortions of the past two millennia are nothing more than illusions separating us from the consciousness of love to which we are supposed to vibrate. IF and only if two people can come together, respecting and honoring their differing histories, cultures, norms, perspectives, and share the same goals of eradicating the fallacy of white supremacy, then and only then does color not matter in terms of love. I do NOT believe most African centered scholars who have married white people have done so with partners who have transcended, I do not believe most let go of their mental enslavement that deems white people inherently superior. That doesn’t mean that Black scholars can’t contribute to our revolution. We are ALL, everyone, still enslaved to some degree. Rather than pointing the finger of indignation, we need to embrace that we all still have miles and miles to go before we reach the mountaintop. There are those in the African centered community who will tell me my contributions are invalid because I am open to loving another woman or that I don’t denounce homosexuality. Rather than worry about whom someone loves, we should concern ourselves with our collective scholarship and accomplishment and how we can find commonality to unite in our objectives.

I have had the most exceptional opportunity to meet two white people who are passionate about eradicating the fallacy of white supremacy. I was suspicious; I was filled with hate, rage, and distrust. I learned quickly that my inability to accept them for the true warriors that they are, was my flaw, not theirs. Their motives were pure and they were tackling challenges I never thought white people capable of until I expanded my consciousness and understood a more universal, more enlightened view of the beauty of all of us, not just people of African descent, being created in the image and likeness of The One Most High. Not every white person has attained such enlightenment. In fact, most haven’t even come close. I think we do ourselves a disservice by shutting the door on white people who want to help our cause and encouraging them to pick up armor and fight the valiant fight among their peers. What I don’t think we need to do is pick up their battles. I don’t think we need to help them educate and enlighten their racist peers. I think our energies should be focused on healing our pathologies and ourselves and if they want to help, embrace them, encourage them, invite them to see us in situations where we are behaving in empowered, enlightened ways.

Promiscuous Girl

There’s a HORRIBLE song, musically that is, that touts the virtues of being a promiscuous woman. We, as women of color, have been socialized to fall on either ends of the very limited spectrum. We either think of ourselves as freaks, a derogatory term that has become synonymous with Black women who believe their value is in their big asses. The rest of us think that any sexuality beyond heterosexuality union with our prince charming is bad and we live our lives trying to force men into that role or denying out sexuality and any expression other than the most conservative of behaviors.

Just a couple of years ago, I thought going to a swing club was quite possibly one of the nastiest things I could do. I turned up my nose at it and judged anyone who would go. I couldn't wrap my head around the concept that anyone that would have sex in public was worthy of my respect. Until I experienced a swing club myself. My first experience, I went with a friend who was going through some deep shit and she was going to go with or without me and I decided to go with her in order to make sure she didn't do anything crazy. We walked around and asked a lot of questions mostly but one couple invited us to watch them have sex in a private room. It was better than any porno I've ever seen because they were mad about each other and they were having sex for US. It was like having my own action figures that I could move and position any way I wanted. While the young lady was getting fucked, I was whispering in her ear. She held my hand when she came. That's a moment I won't ever forget. I went to several more swing clubs after that and found that even though I didn't have sex or participate, I enjoyed the experience I shared with people who were willing to share their experiences with me. I had two friends I would go with on a semi regular basis and we would "play" together. Did that make me a promiscuous freak? No. Are there women who go to swing clubs who are promiscuous freaks? Yes, by all means, but just because one engages in sexual expression doesn't define them.

It wasn't until I went to an all Black swing club that I allowed myself to experience group activity. It was so beautiful, so sensual, so natural, so erotic . . . I loved every second of the experience. There was something so spiritual about the entire thing. My friend was going down on me, making me cum like mad, and I was my usual very vocal self. A crowd gathered around to watch and I turned my head and kissed this guy who was lying next to me who happened to be fucking another sista at the time. It was mind-blowing. Before I knew what was happening, there were total strangers, men and women, lined up to give me pleasure.

Did that experience make me a promiscuous freak? NOT AT ALL. I have no regrets whatsoever. It was amazing. If I had two lovers whom I cared about, and my libido was resurrected, I would probably welcome the possibility of double penetration. I had a threesome with a two friends once, a man and a woman, and it was one of the most sensual experiences of my life. There was no jealousy, no hang-ups, it was three peers coming together to experience a level of intimacy that no words can describe.

Judge the person, not the act. It is not beyond my comprehension that a woman would be able to enjoy the act of being fucked in the pussy and asshole at the same time and NOT be a ho. Unfortunately, most women aren't sexually liberated, no matter how promiscuous or celibate they are. How the men who engage in the act perceive it afterwards has a lot to do with the maturity of the individuals beforehand and it has very little to do with the woman herself.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Only in Rio

Black men are going to Brazil in droves to experience uninhibited sex with the women there. To hear them tell the tale, the women there are BEAUTIFUL, putting us lowly American Black women to shame. To all the men who feel the need to travel to Brazil for "sex vacations," let me say to you, that if you find women with African features and brown skin so repulsive, women who look like your mother and sisters, aunts, and daughters, take your happy ass right on the fuck to Brazil and live there. If the only women you find attractive are biracial/mulatto European looking women, then I would invite you to pack your bags and move to Rio immediately.

This trend, for brothas to go to Brazil in search of sex with multiple mulatto, transsexual, underaged hookers, and MOVE there is yet another glaring example of how Black men are emotionally immature and piss poor partners in relationships because their priorities are fucked. It’s extraordinarily superficial and shallow to want women to use as sexual objects and to control. And you can best believe that they are doing more than having sex, there’s scat, bestiality, pedophilia and any perverse thing you can imagine going on in Brazil. Who, besides me, is going to identify the pathology of black men who are so emotionally immature as to want women to shit and piss on and fuck like dogs, or be fucked by dogs and consider that heaven as opposed to forming a relationship with a woman who is going to be supportive and work towards building a family and future together?

Black men who go to Brazil state that the women there “never question your judgment or threaten your authority.” Isn’t that their same argument about white women? Real men aren’t that insecure. What authority can you have if you need to pay women to sleep with you? How sound is your judgment if you can't see the beauty of the women who have sacrificed, loved, and supported you your entire life and you opt for women who only want your money? Men don’t expect unconditional acceptance, it's little boys need unconditional approval no matter how foul their behavior is. Us dumbass Black women are trying to be meet the impossible standards of these damaged men in order to find a partner when we need to be saying, “AWWWW hell no, you don't meet my standards.”

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Untreated Wounds

Haunted Past and Untreated Wounds

There’s a man. He has a terrible secret. His shame and pain haunt him. His secret eats at his very soul; it has shaped his consciousness and the way he views life and he’s formed his identity around his unhealed wounds. When he was a young man, someone stole his innocence. He was sexually violated. He has hidden his secret and he’s denied it. He’s tried to suppress his memories and he’s even convinced himself after all these years that it didn’t happen. He says to himself, “I should have fought harder, it couldn’t have happened. In fact, it didn’t happen at all.” However, the pain is still deep inside. The thoughts plague him and everyone one of his relationships has been affected. He lashes out, he tries to hurt people, he keeps himself closed off, he lies. He refuses to address his past and he can’t figure out why his life isn’t happy, why he can’t seem to cope like other people can.

There’s a woman. She suffered so much abuse, so much daily terror, she internalized it as natural. Her sexuality is wrapped up in feeling like an object, in feeling used and abused. She’s never known her body to be hers, since she was a toddler. She’s never experienced autonomy nor pleasure unless it was at the hands of others molesting her body and raping her of her dignity and self-respect. She is so numb inside she doesn’t even know what pain feels like. Pain and abuse have become her pleasure. She can’t even perceive of a healthy relationship and is drawn to relationships that reflect her painful life as validation that everyone is meant to hurt her. She has no reason to deny her past, however, because it’s all she knows, it’s all she can conceive of so she has no point of reference for anything else. She gets outraged and lashes out at individuals who try to suggest to her that she needs to deal with the pain and the abuse. To her, everyone else is fucked up for not seeing things through her lens of hate, pain, and abuse.

She’s different that the other woman that was sexually assaulted as a child. This young lady only had it happen once or twice. She doesn’t think about it, she only has vague memories that come once in a while. She tells herself it was no big deal because it wasn’t like it was a stranger, it was someone she knew, maybe even someone she was attracted to. Every man that she’s had to fight off, that wouldn’t take no for an answer she justified it by saying it was her fault for sending out the wrong signals. Her relationships with men have been cyclical; she tries to form healthy relationships but she ends up with men that only want her for sex or who don’t take the time to really get to know her as a person. Her identity is wrapped up in being attractive to men; she needs to feel beautiful to feel whole. Tired of having men use her for sex, she decides that she’s going to beat them at their own game. She decides that she’s going to be the sexual aggressor, that she’s going to get hers and fuck anybody else, literally and figuratively, that stands in between her and her pleasure. She tries desperately to use men, but only ends up used again because her feelings get in the way.

Is there any wonder we can’t heal our relationships? We have been violated, abused, used, raped, and we never discuss it. We don’t heal from the sexual devastation that has shaped our personalities. We can’t heal unless we talk about it, and sometimes, that’s not even enough. Our subconscious mind, the mind that exists beyond our waking thoughts, is so used to the pain, that it’s made adjustments in our personalities where the pain becomes normal. The deep, oozing, weeping, puss-filled emotional sores from our sexual past haunt us and the cycle can’t end. The violated are going on to violate, the abused are become abusers, of themselves and the people in their spheres. What, short of a miracle, will heal these haunted pasts and untreated wounds?

Dear Michael

This is not a letter to Michael, it is an ode; my ode to the boy who helped shape my identity.

I will be the first to admit that I was not a fan of Michael Jackson in his later years. I believed him to be a pedophile, largely influenced by the fact that he had never emotionally matured past an adolescent himself. I believe his love of children, while sincere in his mind, heart, and interpretation, was unhealthy. I was repulsed by the physical transformation he underwent and saddened that he hated his blackness so much that he felt the need to mutilate his face to look monstrous and grotesque.

But this is not about the Michael Jackson of later years. This is about the brown, immensely talented little boy with whom I fell in love before I knew what love was. The Jackson Five’s first hit was released when I was three years old. I literally grew up with Michael Jackson. I had posters on my wall and every birthday and Christmas of memory is one marked by a Michael Jackson gift. On my 6th birthday, I received an orange record player and the album Got To Be There. I played the song Ben over and over again, believing in my heart that I felt a connection with young Michael that only he and I could share. His emotion poured through my young body and loved him.

Michael Jackson was the boy to whom I compared all others. In the third grade, I had a crush on Kim Williams because he had a big afro like Michael Jackson. In junior high I had a crush on a boy from my church who had a jheri curl just like Mike. I vividly remember getting a cassette tape of a Jackson 5 album and playing it on my grandmother’s tape recorder one summer until I broke the tape and cried incessantly. I would watch the Jackson 5 cartoon because I felt like it was “my” cartoon, created for me and little brown girls like me. Yeah, there were the Osmond’s for white girls but the Jackson 5 belonged to me. They danced like I danced, they grooved like I liked, and they looked like me with brown skin and African features. I have vivid memories of staring out the window and wondering how far it would be to Indiana. Many a night, when I suffered the abuse of my dysfunctional mother, I would dream of packing my clothes in a red bandana handkerchief, tying it to the end of a stick, and walking to where Michael Jackson lived. I felt sure in my heart that he would love me as much as I loved him.

As I got older, my walls filled with posters of the various heartthrobs of the day. Foster Sylvers, Lawrence Hilton Jacobs, and Ralph Carter all had their respective spots. I even had Scott Baio, Sean Cassidy, and Leif Garret to reflect my diversity. The only person who remained consistent, the only space that remained reserved was the place for Michael Jackson. He represented all that was beautiful to me. I would dream of the day I would be old enough to marry Michael Jackson and I just KNEW that I was his biggest fan.

If I were a gambling woman, I'd put good money on the bet that the very first person I had a masturbatory fantasy to was Michael Jackson. I don’t have a specific memory, but I remember being under the covers, a flashlight, a Right On Magazine, and a funny feeling "down there". When I got Off the Wall, I would play She’s Outta My Life over and over and over. I wasn’t allowed to curse so when he said, “Damned indecision and cursed pride,” I had to skip that word. When he cried at the end, I cried. And even though I knew he wrote the song for Tatum O’Neil, I convinced myself that if he had ever had the chance to meet me, that he would have written it and sung it for me.

When MTV started playing Michael Jackson videos, I would stand in front of the TV and duplicate the choreography and go to school and perform for all my classmates. The debut of a new MJ video was all that we lived for. I remember when Thriller came out. There hadn’t been anything like it before and my best friend and I were MESMORIZED by it. I’ll never forget the woman’s name, Ola Ray, who played his girlfriend. I hated her. Not “hate” the way the word is used today, but hate in the sense that if I had ever seen her I would have beat her ass senseless. I was so jealous that she got to kiss Michael Jackson that I was green with envy. By the time I had gotten to high school, the delusions of me meeting Michael Jackson and falling in love with him were over. I was content to think that I could however marry Randy Jackson and just be NEAR Michael during the holidays and family gatherings. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

When I was in college, he made the Bad video in a subway station in Brooklyn. My friends and I went down there and thought we were going to be able to get a part in the video. She was light skinned and half Puerto Rican and I was the best dancer of anyone we knew. We just knew that if anyone two people could talk our way on the set, it would be us. Needless to say, they didn’t let us anywhere near the set and we went home, dejected and arrogant. “Michael Jackson ain’t shit . . . he don’t know talent when he sees it.” Forget the fact that we didn’t even get close to him. It was after that that my love affair with MJ started to fade. When his nose kept getting smaller and smaller, and his face started getting whiter and whiter, and when his dance moves stayed the same, I fell out of love with my first true love.

Without Michael Jackson, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today, of this I am convinced. Without having him as my tween idol, I’m convinced I wouldn’t love black men the way I do. Michael Joseph Jackson set the standard to which I compared all other potential lovers for a very long time. He was my first crush, my first boyfriend, he was my first true love. I mourn this day at the loss of my first love. I mourn this day for a soul who shaped lived in ways that he may have never comprehended. Beyond his music, beyond his transformation, his core, the beautiful brown boy with the immeasurable talent was a driving force in the creation of who I am today and I honor and praise all that he was.

Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe

Who’s Your Daddy?

I had a guy friend once who had two small daughters. He would take his daughters to work with him, he would pick them up from school, they loved their daddy and it showed every time they would see him. I was mesmerized by their relationship because he took such pride in knowing that his daughters could count on him for anything they wanted or needed. If they were having problems with children at school, they knew that their daddy would be there to resolve the conflict. If a man said something inappropriate to them, they knew that they could run to their daddy and he would defend and protect them at all costs.

I’m 40 years old and I’ve never known what it’s like to have a daddy. I’ve never had a daddy, I have a father I met when I was 16. The only interaction I have with him is him giving me a check on my birthday and Christmas and sending a few emails a couple times a year. I’m no expert but I know that parenting has to go much further than that. I’m not real sure I know all the intricacies of what having a daddy involves but I’m sure that it’s more than giving $400 a year and an email that says, “Hey kiddo.”

I have to wonder how my life would be different if I’d known the safety and security of a father’s love in my life. I have to imagine that my choices in men would have been vastly different if I’d had a daddy to help shape my perceptions. They say you can’t miss what you never had but that’s bullshit, complete and utter bullshit. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man that loves me unconditionally. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man in the world whose primary responsibility is to protect me and provide for me. If I’d had a man to love me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have begged undeserving men to love me and spent so many years of my life trying to convince them that I was worthy of love.

My father isn’t some ex-con deadbeat. He’s a genius whose worked at the same high paying job for over 40 years and who is a daddy to two other daughters other than me. When I was growing up, the concept of “daddy” was something that set my mother off on a rampage so I dared not even bring up the subject. Now I realize how detrimental that was to me.

All too many fathers only want to be a daddy to their sons. Daughters are expendable, disposable and only sons have value in far too many men’s eyes. I know my mother resented me for not being a tiny replica of her and I grew up trying to compensate for being a constant disappointment to her. It’s only now that I’m realizing that I have been compensating for feeling unlovable to the men in my life because I never knew a father’s love. We as women have to start coming to terms with the fact that we’ve been handicapped emotionally by never knowing a father’s love. Moreover, we need to start ensuring that our daughters know a father’s love. This whole, “I can raise my child by myself, I can be the mommy and the daddy,” is noble, but it’s fucked up. Men need to be daddies to their girl children. Maybe then, when we let go of the dysfunctional beliefs that are so prevalent, that so many people want to justify, then we can have a community of women who, when some undeserving man who wants to use and manipulate us for sex asks, “Who’s your daddy,” we can know with assuredness to whom we belong.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

Slave Hair

I remember when I had slave hair. I call it slave hair because not only is it the hair that slaves where told was more beautiful than their own, natural, nappy hair, but I was also enslaved to it. I couldn't go outside when it was raining, I couldn't go swimming, I couldn't have sex with a man right after I got it done, I couldn't scratch my scalp right before I was going to get my six week reapplication of deadly chemicals, I had to live my life around making sure my naps didn't show.

I had all the arguments against relaxed hair PERFECTED. I would argue with any woman who suggested that my straight hair was anything other than a mere styling option. I convinced myself that I was right and that any woman that even suggested that relaxed hair was some sort of Eurocentric standard of beauty was insane.

I was the same as all the women who rationalize their self-hatred, who condemn me, and who defend their slave hair.

Then, I evolved. I grew. I got strong. I put aside the memories of my grandmother telling me that nappy hair was ugly. I rejected the comments, jokes, and taunts of little boys telling me that my natural hair wasn't pretty like white girls. At the time, I was becoming more spiritually aware, I stopped eating meat, I was becoming healthier all around. I was still holding on to my slave hair. I was terrified that if I let go of my slave hair, that I'd be ugly. I was horrified that if I let go of my slave hair, that I'd never get a job, I'd never get a man, that the world would look at me as something less than human and certainly not beautiful. Then one day, I woke up and I realized that history is prologue. I accepted that my natural, nappy hair was my birthright, that I could be beautiful with the hair that God intended me to have, without chemicals, without the messages that every little Black girl gets beaten into them that tells her to be ashamed of her natural hair. It was only then that I became liberated from my slave hair. It was only then that I became free.

It’s Mating Season

Goddamnit, I want to have sex! It’s Spring and I am in heat. It’s not even so much that I’m horny. To me, being horny is when you are distracted by the physical sensation of wanting to have sex. That’s not at all what I feel. I want to have sex with my entire mind, body, and soul. I want to experience intimacy. I want the release of an INTENSE orgasm and kissing and foreplay and all the stuff that goes along with sex that I’m sure I’ve forgotten all about. I want to experience some new and improved sex where I re-learn everything I’ve every been taught and move to a level transcendent love-making. I’m so desperate to be penetrated that I’ve lowered my standards and I’m willing to have sex with the next half way decent guy that wants me. All I’m looking for is a summer lover who can be monogamous, who is the tiniest bit introspective, and who is willing to take a chance on being with me. He can be the poster child for Heterosexual Digest, a delegate for the Republican National Committee, he can be a deacon in the church, and he can even . . . be white. You know what? I can’t even find a man who meets my lowered standards.

Everybody gets in my ass that my standards are too high, that I’m too negative, that there are LOTS of great men out there and that I’m somehow at fault for not attracting them. It is my contention, and has been for some time now, that the standards that the Black community sets for good Black men is soooooooooo incredibly low, that any brotha with a job, a car, and who lives on his own is considered a good man. Hell, I know more than a few Black men who don’t have two of the three and they are still considered good Black men because they are reasonably attractive and have a college education.

If there are so many good Black men out there, where the hell are they? Where are the men who are introspective? Where are the men who aren’t passive aggressive? Where are the men with integrity and honor and who can tell the truth even when they know that they are going to suffer negative consequences? Where are the men who are able to commit to monogamous relationships? Where are the men who aren’t intimidated by a strong, independent woman? Where are the men who are willing to show their fears and insecurities and don’t see their manhood in inches? Where are the brothas who won’t run at the first sign of trouble in a relationship and who know how to communicate their feelings in a way that doesn’t project their insecurities? Show me the Black men who don’t put their feelings first and who don’t see sex as recreation and view their penis as something that gives them some sort of undeserved right to control and dominate women? Every Black man that I’ve met who even comes close is either married or gay. I contend it is exponentially easier for a brotha to find a good black woman, meaning one who brings the exact same things to the table that he does, than it is for a sista to find her equal if she worked on her issues.

I KNOW, I KNOW, every Black man reading this is going to scream that he’s a good Black man. Unfortunately, the problem with that is this . . . Black mothers don’t teach their sons to have integrity, to be introspective, to form relationships with women that aren’t based on getting their needs met first. Black society doesn’t teach Black men to work out there problems, to deal with their issues and hurts, it doesn’t reinforce to brothas that truth is better than lying. So, while every brotha THINKS they are God’s gift to women because they meet the Black communities low standards, they’ve never once thought about what it means to really be introspective. I bet five bucks most Black men can’t even define the word introspective correctly, let alone have they done the emotional healing needed to be introspective. You can’t put something into practice if you’ve never been shown how.

I KNOW, I KNOW, every Black woman reading this is going to scream that I’m being too harsh, that there are plenty good Black men, that all I have to do is wait, and pray, and work on myself, and put positive vibes out into the universe and stand on my head in the full moon in a month with R in it. It’s always my fault why I haven’t found a partner. Black men are never to blame, making sure the standards for Black men remain soooooo low that anyone who doesn’t have a criminal record is considered a good man. Don’t worry, we can always make concessions for those who do have criminal records so they don’t feel ostracized and they can be included in the good Black man category as well.

Where are the Black women who are frustrated, sick, and tired of being alone that can say that Black men aren’t being pushed to be better human beings and partners? Where are the Black men who can concede that they have no fucking clue how to heal their emotional scars? Yeah, I’m sure there are a few select men who meet my standards of good Black men somewhere on the planet but they are few and fucking far between.

Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe

Interracial Domination Broken Down in Black and White

It seems that all my work, all my efforts, all my time and energy trying to educate and enlighten white people is nothing but a waste of time. All the time that I take to construct stories where people of color are shown as multi-dimensional, complex, well-rounded HUMAN BEINGS is futile if all white people get is that I’m promoting some sort of Black sexual superiority. Time and time again, white people write me and compare my work to the most outrageous, degrading, stereotypical, offensive interracial websites imaginable and, not surprisingly, get offended and arrogant when I point that fact out. I do NOT use the N word in any of my stories. I do not think it’s flattering, a compliment, or the meaning of the word has changed. I will not tolerate any white person (or Black person for that matter) using the word with me or suggesting that they know better than I what the real meaning of the word is. Black people in my stories are masterful in every sense of the word but not merely because they have Black skin but because they are intellectually, mentally, spiritually, psychologically, culturally, and emotionally more evolved. I’ve never implied that ALL Black people possess such characteristics (oh, but I long for the day we do) only the characters in my stories.

I don’t even write about the concept of Black supremacy, intellectually or erotically. I believe that Africans were, prior to our enslavement, UNQUESTIONABLY, ethically and morally, more evolved than white people. It’s a point that can’t even be argued. Any race of people that would slaughter, kidnap, brand, torture, and enslave another race of people simple because of their skin tone is clearly morally bankrupt. As to the lame arguments that Africans enslaved other Africans, and it was Africans who sold their brothers into slavery, those distortions and lies are the fairy tales of white people who refuse to accept responsibility, accountability, or blame for the actions of their warped ancestors.

Slavery in African wasn’t race based. It was also not inhumane. If and when Africans engaged in war with another community, the resulting slavery was not that of chattle slavery where individuals lost their rights as human beings. They could retain their names, their families would stay in tact, they could marry and practice their own religions, they were not treated as objects. Clearly they were not ridiculed for their hair, facial features, or bodies because they possessed the exact same physical characteristics of their captors. Africans who had engaged in the trade of human beings with Europeans could have no earthly idea that they were participating in the dehumanization of their brothers and sisters. White people perpetuate that falsehood because they want to appear innocent in their transgressions. It would be akin to a recruiter today getting commission to recruit people to work overseas during this bad economy only to find out that they were essentially selling people into unspeakable conditions. Once Africans on the continent learned of the hellish, nightmarish, disgusting fates that befell their sisters and brothers, they rebelled, and were often captured and enslaved themselves. I’ve said time and time again however that our greatness as a people and race has been diminished and stifled by slavery and that if we are ever to return to our greatness as a people, that it will take nothing short of a miracle to erase the centuries of brainwashing that we have endured. Even then, if and when we assume our true role in the universe, our skills, talents, and abilities should be celebrated as different, not superior.

I have never written about the concept of “getting back” at white people for slavery. It can’t be done. To enslave white people and inflict similar punishment on them is probably the most vile and horrific concept I’ve ever heard of. To assume the role of our oppressor is not to exact revenge for the millions of men, women, and children whose lives were destroyed by slavery, racism, discrimination, oppression, and bigotry. We can not claim superiority and then act as lowly, evil, and immoral as white people. There is no tit for tat, not quid pro quo, no act or acts that can be done to restore the world to the way it was supposed to be had Africans not been enslaved. I DO however write about white people experiencing what it is to be a slave. White people want to sanitize the experience, to make slavery into some Dixieland/Mark Twain fantasy where “it wasn’t so bad” for slaves and I allow them with my work to see exactly what Africans who were enslaved felt. I work diligently to dismantle the delusion that white people have that their sexual servitude is in any way akin to that of the slavery that my ancestors endured that was far from a sexual fetish. That’s VASTLY different than saying that I’m getting back at white people for slavery. Again, it can’t be done.

It seems I have to spell out the lessons to be learned by white people in each of my interracial domination stories.

1. Black Beat: Tracy was a Black woman in a relationship with a white man. They were a couple, a loving couple in fact. Rick desired extreme racial domination with more extreme and cruel punishments. Tracy wasn’t capable of it because she wasn’t secure in her own sense of self as a Black woman. She’d been conditioned by society to see white men as superior so she could barely do more than a light spanking or playful slaps to her partner. It wasn’t until she met Mistress Khadijah (meaning premature daughter) that she became empowered enough to explore her mate’s more masochistic desires.

2. Black Maled (Or Blackmailed on some sites): Ron and Tricia were arrogant, oblivious, perverse, and they objectified Black sexuality. They only saw Black people as objects to satisfy their racist desires. They had no human consideration for Black people other than fodder for their submissive sexual fantasies. Kamal (meaning perfection) was bright, intelligent, articulate, well-read, culturally identified, and wanted nothing to do with playing the Mandingo buck. (For the real definition of Mandingo http://www.accessgambia.com/information/mandinka.html ) He used Ron and Tricia’s perverse lust for him to his advantage and was able to secure a position at work he rightfully deserved.

3. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: It seems apparent to me that the story describes a celebration of Black women who were the victims of institutional racism from insurance companies. The policies of many companies and the people who administer those policies carry with them a great many biases and prejudices. This story was an attempt to show that the kink community could acknowledge that discrimination and contribute to the betterment of Black women while having fun at the same time.
4. Dominant Black Tales and Submissive White Tails: My most popular story and certainly the longest. This story chronicles the evolution of a white man who goes from online fantasies to real time experience and how he tries desperately to hold on to the fallacy of white supremacy every step of the way. Desiree and Derrick are more intelligent, more attractive, and more in tune with their sexuality than Bryan and Becky. The powerful couple masterfully orchestrate and manipulate the white couple. They are superior in that they are more sophisticated, more adept at psycho-sexual torture. They are clearly more than lust-driven ghetto dwellers. Their characters drive the plot; they don’t just act as fillers for white lustful fantasies.

5. Goddess Initiation: This has to be one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written. It’s a story about a secret society of Black people who are trying to restore African ceremonies, traditions, and rituals to their spiritual and cultural practices. They place the woman as Goddess and the men are not inferior, they are protectors and guides. The sole white man in this story is merely there to observe their ritual. He acts as an object in this story, a receptacle for the sperm of the 15 men (or was it 20, I forget). It doesn’t even matter. It shows how Black people can take something like a gangbang that white people would partake in as vulgar and crass and transform it into something spiritual and holy like a Goddess Initiation.

6. Hotel Bonaventure: Steven, the white character, never gets what he wants in this story. Theresa and Carl skillfully play him, making him orally satisfy Carl while not being allowed to touch or taste Theresa. Again, it seems obvious to me that Steven is not made to suck Carl’s dick because it is humiliating and degrading, but its an honor. Steven is the one driven by his lusts, his compulsions, not the Black couple.

7. Jungle Fever: I’ve written extensively already about the social issues of this story. It’s not truly a tale of domination but rather it’s the story of how white people’s racism and obliviousness drive them to act out sexually and it also details exactly how Black men can get sucked up in the hysteria of believing that white women are better and that they are sexual studs simply because of the color of their skin.


8. Neighborly Hospitality: It’s not really a story of domination but it explores the cuckold fetish. Syreeta and Dixon were two highly successful, sexually aware individuals who happened to be Black and who happened to move in next door to a sexually dysfunctional couple, Lisa and Brad. Because Lisa and Brad didn’t talk about their fantasies with each other, because they weren’t open and honest with each other about their sexual issues, it was easy for Dixon and Syreeta to use those things to their advantage. The typical cuckold story doesn’t include a Black woman. This story is woven around the Black woman and her approval and orchestration of the events. The typical cuckold story doesn’t show the lives and backgrounds of the Black man, this story shows Dixon to be an epicure, a jazz lover, a cultural powerhouse, and a LOVING partner to his mate.

9. Plantation Lullabies. This was originally supposed to be a 1250 word story written for a client. It ended up almost 7000 words and what I consider to be one of the most powerful pieces I’ve ever written. The words poured through me and I was awed by how they were being transcribed at my fingertips. It is about replicating the true slave experience, just as the fake website indicates. It’s not about getting back at whitey for slavery. It’s not about proclaiming Black supremacy. Just as the concentration camps at Auschwitz today allow people to see what it was to be a Jew in Nazi Germany, the fictitious plantation on Dewees Island in South Carolina (http://www.deweesisland.com/ )was created to allow white people to see and experience what it was like to be an African who was enslaved. It is a living museum; it is a classroom like none other. At no point does Mistress Emmanuel ever say she is getting back at white people for slavery. She is breaking white men of the notion that slavery is something voluntary, she is divesting them of the false and offensive concept that sexual slavery is in any way comparable to what real slaves had to endure.

10. The Making of a White Sissy Slut: If there was ever a story written to illustrate how a Black woman can use and discard a white man like a piece of trash, this is it. White people assume that because I write stories to show Black people in a positive light, that automatically assumes that I have some responsibility to show white people in a positive light as well. My job is to hold white people up to the mirror of racism and make them see their ugly reflections. My job is to show white people that Black people are more than just one-dimensional savages. If this story were written about two white people, the Female Dominatrix would be considered the quintessential Domme. Black women are allowed to be sexually dominant without that being ALL they are allowed to be. We can enjoy our power as women, as Black women, and enjoy D/s kink as much as any other woman without that being our sole identity. We can be masterful and sadistic in the bedroom and be vulnerable, sensitive, empathetic, compassionate, and very humanly flawed outside the bedroom.

11. Black Daddy Domination: I’m not even sure it’s worth identify the glaring social issues of this story because white people aren’t going to get it even if I do. All they will read is the white man worshipping the superior black cock.

I don’t see the reason for even writing interracial domination stories anymore if white people can’t grasp the social commentary that seems blatantly and painfully obvious.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK

Anal Ramblings

I am to be counted among the women that love anal sex. I remember when I was a teen and I found my mom's collection of porn, I was fascinated with the pictures of anal sex. I don't know if that influenced my desire or was a premonition of my proclivities. When I got to college I was preoccupied with trying to make sense of my bisexuality so anal sex got put on the back burner for a while. When the urge hit me, it hit strong. I thought about it all the time and didn't really know what to do about it. I would try to wiggle and moan more when my boyfriend's fingers got close to that area but I never asked him to do anything. I don't even think I was bright enough to finger myself there at the time.

I asked my boyfriend at the time to try it. He wasn't interested; he kept saying, "that's gay, I don't want to try it." (It was the 80s, anal sex wasn’t popular back then) The very first time we tried it, I was on top and in control of everything. I went slowly, I think the curiosity kept me going more than anything. I was fascinated with wanting to feel it. It was uncomfortable, not painful. The discomfort didn't last long and it soon became a sensation like I'd never felt before. The only way I can describe it was it was like not being able to take a deep breath. It was pleasure in every pore of my body. The very first time I did it, it felt orgasmic. I didn't cum, I didn't even know how to cum at that point in my life. I got scared and stopped and my poor boyfriend at the time thought he had hurt me. We didn't do it for more than a year after that because he said he didn't like it but I wanted to feel it again. I started masturbating by myself at the time with something I'm sure was unsafe. If I remember correctly, it was some sort of arts and crafts glue stick.

After about a year, my boyfriend and I tried it again. I loved it even more. We would save it for special occasions and he took his time every time so by the time we got to it, I was like a crazy woman. When we broke up, he made me promise and swear that I wouldn't do it with anyone else ever again in life and I kept that promise for many, many years. Many years later, during what was the beginning of my life of sporadic celibacy, I would masturbate every day and stimulate myself anally. I couldn't cum without it. For a year I think I did it once a day. Then I went into my phase of not masturbating at all. Went through that for almost three years. Now, on the rare occasion that I have sex, I try to get my partner to finger or lick me there, but its so rare that I am with someone at all, and even then it's not someone that I can let down my guard with.

Few years back, if I wanted to masturbate, I would have fantasies about anal sex. I wouldn't penetrate or stimulate myself there, just think about it. I would watch anal sex porn almost exclusively. Now, I rarely masturbate at all, three or four times a year. I think about what it would be like but the sensation is so distant in my memory that it doesn't motivate me at all anymore. I love to fantasize about what it would be like when I find my twin flame and experiencing it with him, but the fantasy is more about seducing him, teasing him with the idea of it, making him crave my ass, more than about anal sex in particular.

I have used a strapon on men and I love it. It's not about power; it's about giving pleasure. There is something intensely erotic and intimate about seeing a lover in the throes of ecstasy. Hearing him moan and beg for more . . . that is SUCH a turn on for me. I'm not into giving pain so if there is even any indication of discomfort on his part, my hypothetical dick goes down. For me, it's about him sharing a part of himself with me that is secret and private. It's our little secret. When I'm hitting that Gspot and he's working his ass on my "dick", it's like no other sensation in the world. It's not about domination for me.

Sometimes, I occasionally fantasize about making love to my partner in the same way that he would make love to me, slow and tender and gentle, as an act of us showing our love for one another. Ever since I first tried it almost 18 years ago, I have never thought anal sex had anything to do with being gay. The physical anatomy of a man and a woman is the same anally; if a woman is able to enjoy it then a man has the same thing. In fact, a man has a prostate gland, which makes it more enjoyable for him than a woman. (I suspect that I have something similar to a prostate however because I even like to have my pussy fingered towards the back, not the front where my g spot is supposed to be) Sexual preference is sexual preference, either you are attracted to men or you aren't. If you are attracted to women, then a woman should be able to help you experience that level of intimacy and pleasure.

Two interesting notes. One, I can't tell you how many brothas have expressed to me that they want to be penetrated by their wives but they are afraid to ask. Women, talk to your men because their desire to experience it and their fear of talking about it might drive them to engage in unsafe sex in shame and desperation. These aren't feminine men, submissive men, or confused men. I get brothas every day tell me that they would like me to write a strapon fantasy but and that they can’t find a sista to do it to them. When I ask them how many sistas they have asked, they usually say. none

Two, I suspect that the need to experience the sensation of anal penetration has a lot to do with opening up channels for kundalini to flow up the chakras. I'm completely convinced that those dastardly Europeans were made aware of the spiritual potential anal sex held and made it a sin so that the masses would not be able to tap into it's power. I'm not at all suggesting that everyone that has anal sex is more spiritually aware. Sex has become so crass and base that it's spiritual elements have been dormant for centuries.

Whose ancestors DID own slaves?

In every conversation I've ever had about race in my life, and that's been quite a few given my political and social leanings, I've yet to meet ONE white person that has said to me, "Yes, my ancestors owned and profited from slaves." I’m beginning to think that white people only know how to say, “MY family didn’t own slaves.” Well . . . I’ll be god damned, somebody’s family had to own slaves. Where are those descendents?

If I use the barometer of white people’s assertions, slavery didn't exist at all and it played no role in making the US the richest nation in the world. Apparently, the youngest and most violent nation is the richest because it's inhabited by intellectually superior white men not because they stole the land, its resources, and enslaved free labor.

Then there’s the ever popular, "My ancestors were (fill in the blank with some obscure ethnicity), they were immigrants that arrived after slavery, and they were discriminated against too." Which is in essence saying, “My ancestors endured the exact same thing as slaves and they were able to make it.” Which again is saying, “Blacks are just inherently lazy because if my ancestors were able to not speak the language, open a store, become successful, anyone can.” Let’s not take into account that Black people were denied the right to read and write for generations, that they were treated as sub human for 100s of years, that they were beaten, raped, bought sold, tortured, and brutalized for generation after generation. That has NOTHING whatsoever to do with our current standing, that’s just an unfortunate and uncomfortable fact that needs to be dismissed so that white people don’t have to think about the fact that the playing field isn’t really level as long as they don’t share the same history.

Apparently, slavery has no long term effects whatsoever. “Color doesn’t matter, slavery was in the past, let it go.” What conversation about slavery would be complete without white people saying, “Jews suffered during the Holocaust and look at how well they are doing today.” Sure, Jews were imprisoned for 7 years, not enslaved for generations so of course the effects would be vastly different. I'm not interested in comparative "Oppression Olympics" or proving that anyone suffered more or less than anyone else. I would like someone to stand up and say, my family had money passed down generationally that was the direct result of owning slaves.

I wonder what happened to the descendents of slave owners because they certainly don't exist anymore. They must have all evaporated into thin air at the end of the civil war. I would love to have someone say to me, my family didn't own slaves, but they did benefit by using the cheap labor of Blacks during the depression. Or my family was known to traffic in the illegal slave trade after slavery was abolished or some other such shocking revelation. Fuck that. Where are the white people who can say, “Hell, I benefited from slavery because my family didn’t have it as bad as Black families did, pure and simple.” It’s incomprehensible to almost every white person under the sun that NOT being the victim of racism, bigotry, oppression, lynching, and discrimination is a benefit. I had one white man write a three page letter telling me that the poverty stricken white people of the Appalachian Mountain region were the ONLY descendants of slave owners alive because slave owners were stupid and poor and they didn't survive after the Civil War. He seriously believed that.

Fuck that, how about a white person just admitting to me that they have no clue as to the extent of what the psychological damage to enslaved Black people was nor do they understand what its ramifications are today.