AfroerotiK

Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Light and Dark





One of the many benefits of heading up a company that creates erotica is that I can turn any and every business trip into a pleasure trip with a little bit of creative license.  If I’m scouting locations to shoot new videos, I absolutely must stay in the best hotels with a spa because I might be able to use it as the site of my next couple’s retreat.  If I’m doing a model search for new models, for fresh faces, what better place to do that than some sleepy little resort town in The Seychelles with pristine beaches, seafood that will make you question what the hell you’ve been eating your entire life, and gorgeous, toned Black bodies that have never even seen the inside of a gym or a mall.  And if Snarky Puppy is playing at the Jazz Festival in Amsterdam, well, it was just a coincidence that I had a book signing scheduled there that same weekend.  Talk about lucky! 

Snarky Puppy was playing at the jazz festival and my agent was able to make arrangements for me to have a book signing there but it lasted a whole of two hours.  The additional six days and twenty-two hours that my photographer and I stayed there were purely to sample the many delights that The Netherlands’ fair city had to offer.   If Uncle Sam asks, I was there looking for venues for the European leg of my live sex show.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. 

Have you ever met a brotha who is fine but doesn’t know it?  No, you probably haven’t.   They are an entity so rare they are listed on the extinction list of mammals.  Most brothas, no matter how trifuliing they are, no matter how pathetic, think they are God’s gift.  Jason, my closest friend and photographer, was one of those rare, beautiful creatures found in nature who was part geek, part intellectual, part artist and he didn’t fit in with typical brothas so he just carved out a niche where he ended up a loner.  Look up fashion sense in the dictionary and there is a 3-D pop-up of him with a midi audio file that plays “I’m Too Sexy.”    With a smile that lights up any room, he was 6’3” of unadulterated café-au-lait-colored beauty. 

We were usually joined at the hip on my “business trips” (wink wink).  I’m exponentially more extroverted than he is but we fit together like hand-in-glove.  He’s the driving force behind the images for In Loving Color, we created the empire together from a dream and pure determination, so nine times out of ten, where I go, he goes.  This trip was no different.  We listened to amazing live music, ate great food from morning till night, and we smoked weed that had us glued to the sofa, practically comatose and simultaneously giggling, for six hours straight.  We met the locals, made friends, we traveled the countryside, him taking breathtaking images and me getting inspiration for my some future project.  I wasn’t sure what that inspiration was or what project that would be at the time but any time I have the opportunity to bask in such beauty and diversity, I take that sensation and store it away in my memory banks to use when I’m writing. 

Amsterdam’s Japanese population is relatively small but they get a fuck-ton of tourists from Japan there so they have some pretty exceptional Japanese restaurants.  One of my parlor tricks when we go out to have sushi is to let Jason order for us.  He lived in Japan for a number of years and picked up the language extraordinarily well.  I consider him fluent, he considers himself conversationally adequate.  When Japanese people hear him, their jaws drop and they stare in disbelief.   It never fails that people sitting near us start whispering to themselves, and within minutes, heads start popping out from the kitchen to see the Black guy who can speak Japanese.  Our restaurant of choice for the evening was Yamazoto and I have to give it five stars.  The food was amazing, the staff was super friendly, and the ambiance was perfection.  And the eye candy . . . it turned out to be the best in town. 

Midway through our meal, an actual God from Black Africa walked through the doors.  He was about 6’3” and blacker than blue black.  He had a bit of gray in his hair which made him look like he could have easily been Idris Elba’s blacker, more beautiful, big brother.  Swag?  He not only invented the word, he copyrighted and trademarked that shit.  He was wearing an ensemble by MaXhosa and he looked like he just stepped off the runway from Paris Fashion Week.  Every eye in the place turned and watched him as he made his way through the restaurant to sit with his dinner companion, a caramel-skinned brotha who was beautiful in his own right but over-shadowed by the glow of melanin, charm, charisma, and pure magnetism that emanated from his cohort of deep, dark, chocolate heaven. 

As luck would have it, the pair sat at the table next to us, I was facing the other brotha and Jason was sitting opposite Shaka Zulu.   That was all I could think to call him at the time because words failed me in the presence of his stature and beauty.   With the wait staff paying extra attention to both our tables, Jason and his Japanese and brotha man being damn near a rock star, my sake cup was practically overflowing every time I took more than two sips.  I was getting tipsy and emboldened so I started striking up a conversation with the masculine perfection to my left.  I couldn’t tell exactly what sort of relationship he had with his dinner companion; I couldn’t tell if they were lovers or friends or business acquaintances or what.  What I could tell, unquestionably, was that big sexy had eyes for Jason.  He was smiling and flirting and giving Jason the I’m-going-to-stare-you-down-until-you-look-in-my-direction-and-then-I’m-going-to-let-you-know-with-my-eyes-that-I-want-to-devour-you-whole-until-you-are-intimidated-and-you-look-away look.  What?  That’s a thing, isn’t it? 

If I wasn’t the reigning Queen of monogamy, very happily in love with the man of my dreams who was working on a project in Canada and unable to join us, I would have felt like the fat, ugly, wing-woman because brotha man didn’t even look in my direction.  To his great credit, the brotha sitting next to Jason didn’t seem to be intimidated or jealous at all.  He seemed to know that he had to pause his conversation when his friend was distracted and making goo-goo eyes at Jason and he waited for a break in the flirting to make his important points. 

Totally tipsy and typically outgoing, I struck up a conversation with the pair.  The Jews say that the name of God cannot be pronounced or spoken.  Dey was wrong, dey was dead ass wrong.  He introduced himself as Adeshola Adetola and in that moment, a chorus of little brown cherubs descended from heaven and started playing the pan-flute, a few trumpets, and I’m pretty sure there was a harpsicord in the mix as well.   With his lilting French/West African accent, I was convinced that no sweeter sounding name had ever crossed anyone’s lips in the history of mankind.  His friend, Samuel Owatulu, and he were friends from childhood in Cote D'Ivoire and they had formed a tech business together and had moved to Amsterdam to further their education and take it to the next level.   Within minutes our tables were pushed together and I was eating off their plates like we were good friends.  Did I mention the food was out of this world? 

I couldn’t even get our names off my lips before Adeshola erupted with glee.  He knew of In Loving Color, our book, and he started gushing like a school boy.  In all honesty, finding anyone who hadn’t heard of our book would have been difficult to do.  It would be like trying to find someone who hadn’t heard of Harry Potter or 50 Shades of Grey.  We’d sold over 20 million copies worldwide and that was only for the hardcover coffee table book of stories and images.  The pillow-book, the supplemental books of all photography, the videos, the entire AfroerotiK brand was in every corner of the world.  I’m sure there were a few people on the planet who had never heard of it but they were blind, deaf, paralyzed and lived in a cave in Uzbekistan.  For all our success, Jason and I were conspicuously low-key and could come and go without much fan-fare.  We enjoyed the success without the fame and celebrity. 

Both Adeshola and Sam started singing our praises, Sam making sure to let us know that he was in a stable, heterosexual relationship and how our book had done wonders for his relationship with their sex life and their communication.  I think he was quick to share that information so that he could make sure that “everyone” knew that he and his friend weren’t lovers.  And when I say everyone, I really mean Jason.  Adeshola didn’t even attempt to hide his sexual preference and he went on and on about how he loved that the book gave men like him, who felt free to love men and women equally, a voice that had been silenced before.  They were both going on and on about which stories were their favorites, about which pictures and characters turned them on the most.  They were true fanboys. 

Jason loosened up and started to be more engaged with our dinner companions, flirting back a little bit.  Jason was also a man who felt free to love both men and women equally and the process of shooting for the book, its subsequent phenomenal success, and our resulting financial windfall, he’d sort of had to learn to be very comfortable in his own skin and his sexual preferences, or lack thereof.  He didn’t feel the need to wear a t-shirt that said, “I Like Dick,” but he also was very comfortable letting it be known in appropriate settings that he had no reason to hide his real identity.  That was the reason I wrote the book in the first place, to give people of African descent a real model of emotional maturity, intimacy, communication, and mind-blowing sex to arouse them.  Every shape, every shade, size and sexual preference was shown in a healthy, erotic light.  You can’t be closeted or uncomfortable with your own sexuality when you are two-handedly . . . double-handedly responsible for moving millions of people from freaks, of both the puritanical and ghetto varieties, to expressive, empowered, sensual, sentient, passionate, erotic, Black beings.  I wrote the stories, Jason took the images.  It wouldn’t have been such a phenomenal success without both of those elements together so whatever you want to call it, it wasn’t single-handedly, it was a true partnership. 

Samuel and Adeshola insisted on paying for our meal, saying that it was only fair because we had given them so much pleasure with our book.  They invited us for drinks and weed at a café on the other side of town and we quickly accepted.  The town was replete with jazz artists playing in small little venues and the idea of listening to Gregory Porter in a club as big as my living room and enjoying the effects of some of the world’s best goddamn Kush ever was an invitation that was impossible to pass up.  We piled into a cab and Jason and Adeshola were VERY close.  They were so stunning together they could have been models for an AfroerotiK photoshoot.  They were a study in chiaroscuro, light and dark all within the spectrum of pure BLACK. The chemistry and sexual attraction between the two of them was so thick you could cut it with a knife. 

We all tumbled onto the sofa in the club virtually on top of one another and looked over the cannabis menu.  I usually prefer to use oil but I opted to vaporize the AK-47 so I could get more immediate results.  Having learned my lesson from previous days, three hits and I was sufficiently fucked up to enjoy the music and the company and not be a drooling idiot.  Before I knew anything, J & A were shot-gunning and making out in the dimly-lit speak-easy, exchanging tongues more than smoke.  I couldn’t take my eyes off them.  They were sexy.  The contrast in skin tones, the ease and comfort level they had with themselves, I’m not going to lie; it was sexy as two fucks. 

After the show and out in the beautiful night air, Adeshola invited all of us back to his flat to listen to some more music and to smoke a little bit more.  Jason and I did a quick huddle.  I told him that I didn’t want to cramp his style and I would take a cab back to the hotel and see him whenever he got back.  Adeshola and Sam did a quick huddle of their own and before I could even begin to guess what they were discussing, Adeshola was saying goodbye to Samuel and telling me that I was going with Jason and he back to his place, no questions asked.   Samuel and I hugged goodbye and I hoped we would see each other again. 

I don’t even remember how we got from the club to Adeshola’s apartment I was that buzzed.  His flat looked like he did, fit for a rock star.  It was industrial and sleek and masculine and modern with crazy sex-appeal.  Every furnishing, every piece of art was a show-stopper.  With the push of a few buttons, the lights were dimmed, music played softly, and a fire glowed in the fireplace to take the slight chill out of the air.  Adeshola excused himself to his bedroom and returned wearing a pair of white linen drawstring pants and not another stitch of clothing.  I had to laugh as Jason’s eyes almost popped out of his head and I heard him say, “Oh, fuck,” which I’m pretty sure was meant to be internal dialogue. 

Ade made his way to the kitchen and was calling out to us for our drink orders.  I didn’t need another drink, I didn’t need another anything I was flying so high so I stayed glued to the sofa and was hearing notes in songs that I was absolutely sure no one else had ever heard before.  Jason asked for a Rum Runner and then nonchalantly made his way to the kitchen to help make it.  I was pretty sure he didn’t want a Rum Runner, a Rum Jogger, or a Rum Speed-Walker, he just wanted to be close to Adeshola. 

I’ll be honest, I have no idea how much time had passed but eventually, I realized that I had been sitting there alone for a very long time.  I got up and made my way to the kitchen.  “Hey, what are you guys . . .”  I stopped mid-sentence. 

There, in the middle of the small kitchen, was Jason, on his knees giving an incredibly slow, sensual, deep blow-job.  Adeshola looked up at me and let me know it was some of the best head he’d ever had in his life, biting his lower lip and his eyes rolling back slightly in his head.  He caressed Jason’s head and fucked his mouth gently. My boy was going all in.  He was licking and fingering balls, he was stroking and sucking and I could hear Adeshola’s soft moans getting louder and louder. 

He grabbed his dick and pulled it away.  In his sexy West African accent he said, “Jason here tells me you like to watch.  I understand you don’t want to play, that’s off limits.  But, if you are interested, would you care to join us in the bedroom while we get more comfortable? I’m going to fuck your friend all night long.”  Jason moaned. 

Uhmmm, did I want to watch?  I would have donated a kidney in that moment to be able to watch these two.  I would have done the operation myself with no anesthesia to be able to watch.  Adeshola held out his hand and Jason steadied himself to stand up.  Having discarded his linen pants and fully naked, his dick was thick and long and shiny with spit and stood proudly against his abs.  He turned to walk to the bedroom and his ass was a sculptor’s dream in Ebony.  I had the good sense to find my phone to call my boo and tell him very quickly what was about to go down.  We had complete trust in one another and he had no reason to be afraid I was going to do anything to jeopardize our relationship.  He knew that I was comfortable enough with my sexuality that I am a confirmed voyeur; I’m aroused by seeing people be uninhibited and intimate. 

I slid my panties off and put them in my purse and made my way to where the action was.  In the bedroom there was a chair that was perfect for me to observe the goings on.  Things were already heating up.  I positioned myself comfortably; hopefully my dress would provide enough protection so I wouldn’t make a mess in the seat.  Ade and Jason were kissing.  It had to be one of the most sensual, erotic kisses I’d ever witnessed, and again, I’m in the business of creating erotica so try to grasp the full impact of what I’m saying.  They were making love with their mouths.  Adeshola held Jasons face gently in his hands and their tongues were communicating their desire for each other.  I was pretty convinced, although I couldn’t be sure, that this was going to be way more than a one night stand.   Jason and I had known each other almost 20 years.  We’d shared lots of intimate and sexual voyeuristic opportunities with one another.  Never before had I felt this electric current before that seemed to fill the room. 

Adeshola took charge and I knew my boy loved it.  He undressed Jason slowly, seducing him, teasing him.  Every button on his shirt seemed to take FORRRRever to unbutton.  Once Jason’s shirt was gone, Adeshola teased and twisted Jason’s nipples, not brutally, but definitely enough to get a response.  Jason’s response was to grab for that black fuckstick and try to suck it again, he wanted things to progress faster.  He hated the tease and he simultaneously loved the tease.  He loved being seduced.   I think Adeshola was a little shocked when he unzipped Jason’s pants and pulled out a huge hunk of meat.  It certainly rivaled his own in length and girth and it was standing at full attention.  It was Adeshola’s turn to display his oral skills and he pushed Jason down on the edge of the bed and got between his legs on his knees and started sucking him off like a champ.  It was clear that the roles of top and bottom were antiquated to Adeshola as he was about pleasure, both giving and receiving it.   And Jason was receiving it in spades.  Ade licked his way down his chest, teased his nipples, his tongue circled the head and licked the precum that was freely flowing.  A master at deep-throating, he showed off his skills. 











By this time, I could see that Jason was about to explode and he had to put a stop to the oral action.   “Come on, Daddy, give me some of that big dick,” he said and he laid back on the bed and held his legs up, inviting Adeshola to plow him deep and hard.  Not one to be rushed, Adeshola wanted to enjoy all the sensations his new lover had to offer.  He grabbed Jason’s thighs and pushed them further back, touching his chest, and made a dive to eat some hot ass.  Jason groaned like a wounded animal.  His head thrashed about on the pillow, back and forth.  I was beside myself with arousal and I slid my finger between my pussy lips gently, afraid I was going to cum too quickly. 

Jason started speaking in Japanese, Adeshola in French.  I couldn’t understand what the hell either of the two of them were saying but I didn’t need a translator.  I could tell from the look on Jason’s face that he was in the throes of intense pleasure.  The tongue fucking he was getting was superb.  I wanted him to look at me.  I wanted to make eye contact with me to show me that he was loving every second of this.  He shut his eyes tightly and thrust his ass to make that tongue go deeper.  He stroked his big dick and started saying, “Fuck me, ram that big black dick in my pussy, Daddy.  Make me your nasty little bitch, Daddy.  Hard, long, deep, dick my wet pussy.” 

They kissed again, sharing in the intimate taste of ass.  Adeshola flipped Jason over and positioned him on his knees with his head on the pillows.  His hole was wet and loose and winked at him to invade it deeply.  Adeshola grabbed a bottle of lube from the nightstand and poured it liberally on his big, dark meat.  Jason turned his head and he made eye contact with me.  I was rubbing my pussy and moaning, ready to shoot my cum across the room.  It signified, for me, a level of trust he had with me that said that he would do things in front of me that he wouldn’t do in front of anyone else in the world. 

“Fuck me, Daddy,” was all he said.  It was understood by all what he needed.  Feeling that throbbing, enormous, super-black, dick pumping him, filling him, was what he craved.  He wanted the connection of having his lover inside him.  He wanted sex the way it was supposed to be. 

Adeshola didn’t hesitate.  He lined up the head of his dick with Jason’s hole and pushed it in.  They both moaned.  “Tell me you love this dick, say you love it.” 

Jason complied almost before the request could be completed.  “I love that fucking dick.  Harder!  Deeper!  Fuck my pussy.  FUCK it!  I need it so bad.”  The room filled with the scents of real men fucking: sweat, pheromones, and ass.  I came.  I tried to hold back but I couldn’t help it.  It didn’t stop me one bit.  I was still wet and aroused and masturbating and wanting more.  They gave me more.  They changed positions and Jason rode Ade, bouncing up and down trying to get every millimeter of that gorgeous penis inside him. 

They switched positions again and this time they were face to face.  They started kissing again as Adeshola aimed his powerful dick at its intended target and drove it home.  Jason wrapped his legs around him and tried to pull him in deeper.  The moaning from all three of us was at a fevered pitch.  Jason grabbed his dick and started stroking it and begging for Adeshola to deposit his cum as deeply as he could.  Jason came first.  His cum shot all the way up to his face, landing on his mouth.  He licked his lips as Ade kissed him again and started pounding his raw, well-fucked hole.  He was a man on a mission.  I couldn’t believe he had lasted this long.  He grabbed Jason’s legs and pushed them back and started ramming his dick harder than I would have thought possible.  “Mon dieu!  Fuuuuck!” 

He collapsed. 

Within a minute, the two of them were a mass of flesh, light and dark, intimately intertwined, snuggling and falling fast asleep.  I collected myself and covered them with the sheet.  I freshened up in the powder room and left them there to rest, rejuvenate, communicate, and fuck some more. 

Copyright 2015 AfroerotiK

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

The Gay Male Gene has been Identified!

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

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

Monday, February 24, 2014

Taking it to the Hole





“Let’s head over to West 4th for a pickup game, whadda ya say?”  It was a hot summer New York night, the kind where it doesn’t dip below 80 degrees and anyone and everyone is out and about, looking for something to do. The idea sounded like a great one to Ernesto; his friends, however, weren’t as enthusiastic. 

“Whadda ya fucking crazy?  It’s fucking hot as fuck.  What the fuck do I want to fucking go all the way to fucking Manhattan for a fucking game of fucking basketball to further sweat my big, hairy fucking balls off at 10 o’clock at fucking night?  Are you fucking kidding me?”  Ernesto’s cousin Vinny had the vocabulary of a Soprano and the basketball skills of a third grade girl so there was no way in hell he was gonna go anywhere to play basketball at any time.  He needed to play it off so he went on and on about how hot it was and about how it was too far to travel.  The rest of the gang; Tony A., Tony M., and Joey, weren’t the worst basketball players in the world but they certainly knew enough to know that if they were going to go to W.4th Street for a pickup game, they would get spanked.  They all moaned about how hot it was and dismissed the idea. 

Ernesto couldn’t be dissuaded so easily.  It was a hot Saturday night and he knew the courts would be packed.  He needed to go.  He just couldn’t see himself hanging out in the neighborhood, drinking 40s out of a brown paper bag, talking about bangin’ girls, listening to Tupac, and bitching about over how hard it is to be a white man in today’s society.  Ernesto was different.  Born in Tuscany, he’d moved to Brooklyn when he was 11 to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car crash.  Twenty years later, he had lost his foreign accent but never quite acquired a New York one either.  He stood out like a sore thumb in so many ways.  He was the most worldly of the group always looking to experience new adventures, he’d even gone to out of state for college.  Most of the guys around the way had never gotten past high school, let alone moved out of state.  Truth be told, a few had never even been to the Bronx.  He had a great job in Manhattan as a massage therapist; his friends thought that was some fairy shit.  It was okay when his clients were hot chicks but they were disgusted by the idea of him rubbing on some sweaty dude.  Ernesto even looked different.  His complexion was naturally darker, his jet black hair just touched his shoulders, steel gray eyes, and a 6’2” body he worked on religiously all worked together to make him look like a Calvin Klein model.   Most of his buddies stood about 5’10” with short hair and were getting beer bellies in their 30s. 

For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted and loved in the community like he was no different at all.  And he loved his family and his friends.  They had taken care of him when he was at his lowest, most lonely point.  While most people anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the neighborhood to help take care of his grandmother who had come from Italy 10 years ago because she was aging.  His aunt and uncle both worked graveyard and didn’t have the time to care for her in the evenings and Vinny and Theresa, his other cousin, only knew how to curse in Italian so they couldn’t really communicate well with her.  Ernesto loved his family and would do anything for them so leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was really out of the question. 

“I’ll check you guys later, I’m heading to the city to play some ball.”  Nobody was shocked and they barely looked up as Ernesto grabbed his gym bag and headed for the subway.  He plopped down on the cool seat and pulled out the book he’d been reading, a collection of works by James Baldwin.  He was fascinated by the social commentary and the descriptions of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a Black gay man in America.  Being a gay man himself, a closeted gay man, he connected with the words, he connected with the struggle and the rage.  His friends, even though he had sucked off most of them when they were younger, including his cousin, were as homophobic as they come.  They had to be.  It was part and parcel for the good fella’s persona that they had to carry off.  It never occurred to them that Ernesto could be gay because he was masculine, athletic, and he had women swooning over him every time he walked in a room.  The stuff that happened when they were younger was just boys being boys, and they would never admit it to anyone the experimentation they had done as kids so his secret was pretty safe. 

As he emerged from the bowels of the train system, into the humid night air of Greenwich Village, except for the fact that it was dark, it could have been 11:00 in the afternoon instead of 11:00 at night.  The streets were bustling with activity, packed with people out doing anything and everything you could think of.  He made his way to the courts and just watched the first two games.  Ever since he could remember, he’d loved Black men.  As cliché as it sounds, after his first Black lover, he had no desire to be with another white man again so the old “once you go black” adage was true in his case.  For the better part of 7 years he’d dated Black men exclusively.  Sitting there, seeing all of those toned and muscled bodies, gave him an even further appreciation of the Black male form.  It wasn’t a lustful appreciation, well, at least not in the overtly sexual sense.  It was a profound and deep respect for not just their physical bodies, but for the struggle they endured that he read about in the pages of his book. 

There’s an unspoken code that says that white boys who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get served so people were always looking to school them and make sure they play.  Three on three, half court, to 21, shirt vs. skins.  Ernesto was shirts and he was playing the team who had just won the last game.  Skins got the ball first and scored three points right off the bat.  He was guarding a guy who had dominated the previous game and he knew he had to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to toe under the rim.  They were the same height, even the same body type, but his opponent was the color of caramel with a shiny bald head.  It was a queer guy’s heaven, being able to publicly run his hands over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles, sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own.  It was all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard, making sure everyone knew he was there to ball.  The guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent him to the ground.  There ain’t no fouls in street ball so he was right back up and in the game; he didn’t miss a beat.   He got the ball and showed he had some skills.  The other part of the unspoken code is, that when a white boy has skills on the court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite, getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines n’ everything. 

The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and the shirts had the ball.  Dude was blocking him, checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the paint.  He pivoted and -- whoosh, nothing but net.  In the split second right before the shot, he thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his cock.  Not just body contact that happens during the course of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost caressing it.  It happened so quickly and the score was tied so he couldn’t dwell on it.  The two adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye contact.  The court lights made every drop of sweat glisten on his opponent’s shirtless body.  One of the other skins sank the final shot ending the game.  The entire court erupted in cheers and back-slapping and kudos about the great game. 

Ernesto sat on the bench and pulled out his towel.  His book was on the top of the bag so he sat it next to him.  While he was toweling off and catching his breath, drinking a little Gatorade, he saw a hand reaching out to him.

“Good game man, I’m impressed.” 

He extended his hand and looked up, “Yeah, congratulations, great game,” Ernesto replied, still trying to catch his breath. 

“Name’s Flex.  Anytime you want to play a little game of pick up, let me know, I’d love to have you on my team.”  He smiled a gorgeous smile and Ernesto looked up and then down, his eyes resting on the crotch directly eye level in front of him. 

“Your mom named you Flex,” Ernesto asked, trying to sound aloof but still out of breath and doing his best not to show it. 

“My pops named me Eugene, Jr. but I’ll beat somebody’s ass if they call me that.  So it’s Flex.”  They both laughed.

“Yeah, my name is Ernesto and we got problems if anyone calls me Ernie, so I’m really feeling you.  Here have a seat.”  He moved his book out the way and slid down a half a foot to let Flex sit down next to him.  They watched a little bit of the next game in silence. 

“You from around here,” Flex asked? 

“Nah, I live in Brooklyn,”

“Oh, I see.” 

That sat in silence some more, watching the game and neither one of them willing to address what had happened on the court.  Ernesto figured he’d been mistaken.  It was a physical game and maybe Flex didn’t know he was grabbing his cock.  Maybe he thought it was his arm or something.  That had to be it. 

“”Is this your book?  Man, I love James Baldwin.  ‘I am what time, circumstance, and history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that.’  Now that some deep shit right there.”  Just then, it was as if the wall of ice had been broken.  The two men started talking and sharing and letting down their guards. They had a connection more than sports and it was electric. “Are you busy right now, I mean, are you in a rush to head back to Brooklyn, because I only live around the corner from here.  We can go to my place and hang out if you want.  I’m not a serial killer . . . any more, I promise.”  They both laughed and Flex flashed that gorgeous smile again and before Ernesto knew what was happening, they were walking towards 10th street and in a cute little studio apartment.  Flex was a graphic designer for an advertising firm and had moved from his own roots in Queens to his little apartment 7 years ago. 

Once inside the apartment, the only place to sit comfortably was the futon.  Ernesto looked uncomfortable.  He didn’t want to put his smelly, sweaty ass on the place where Flex slept and sat on a daily basis.  He was really feeling this guy and wanted to be invited back and he didn’t think that would make such a great first impression to leave his scent, so to speak, so he was trying to figure out how he could sit on the floor without looking like a dork. 

Flex came to the rescue before he could even process the thought completely in his head.  “Hey, it’s pretty hot out there; you can take a shower if you want to cool off.  Guests first.  Here’s a towel and everything’s in the bathroom you should need.”  Ernesto dropped his gym bag by the door inside in the small bathroom.  He took off his sweaty clothes and stepped in the shower, feeling the warm water wash away the layer of sweat.  Shutting his eyes, he thought back to the court.  Had he gotten his signals mixed?  Maybe Flex was just a nice guy who wanted to hang out; maybe he happened to like James Baldwin because he was a great writer, not because he was a great gay Black writer.  Maybe that hand caressing his cock wasn’t really caressing it; maybe it was just part of the game, maybe to make him miss his shot.  Whatever it was, Ernesto was deep in thought, remembering the feel of Flex’s hand on his cock, the same cock that he had in his hand now and was stroking, thinking about his sexy, sweaty new friend.

He shut his eyes tightly and started thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts, jerking off and fantasizing.  A knock at the door shocked him back to reality.

“Hey, don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” Flex yelled through the door, but do you want something to drink?  A martini, a beer, a glass of wine, water, Kool Aid.  Anything? Iced Tea, maybe?” 

“A beer’s cool, thanks,” he yelled back and quickly turned off the water to dry off.  Ernesto wasn’t trying to put the same stinky clothes back on so he tied the towel around his waist and headed out to see if Flex had anything he could put on.  His cock was still hard but he pushed it down and tried to will it to stay soft. 

That thought lasted an entire 1.5 seconds because when he opened the bathroom door, he saw Flex, standing naked in front of the closet, grabbing for a towel to put around him.  “Hey, how was the shower?”  He turned, wrapped the towel around himself and, not waiting for an answer, he said, “Your beer is on the coffee table, make yourself at home, I’ll be right back, I need to take a shower myself.” 

Ernesto was impressed with the tiny apartment.  Flex’s music collection was eclectic but mostly all Black: jazz, blues, R&B, hip hop, and some gospel.  The art on the walls was amazing and inspecting further, he saw that most were signed with the name Flex.  Because the place was so small, every square inch of space was utilized.  Oddly enough, the place didn’t look cluttered at all; it might have been small on space but it was big on style.  The timer on the oven went off and Flex was still in the shower so he decided to take out whatever was in there.  Opening the oven door, a fantastic aroma came wafting out.  He pulled out the dish and it was some sort of dip that had been heated to go with the tri colored chips that had been put out on a platter.  Ernesto was blown away.  “This guy can play ball, he can quote James Baldwin, he has a great apartment, he’s creative, he can cook, and he’s sexy as hell.  Damn, I think I just met my future husband,” he said under his breath.

“What did you say?  Oh good, I’m glad you pulled that out. Thanks.”  Flex looked even more amazing fresh from the shower with his towel around his waist.  Ernesto didn’t bother answering his question and instead took the tray and set it on the coffee table while Flex was opening up the futon.  “Here, this will be more comfortable.  Have a seat, take a load off.”

The two men lounged on the futon, talking about everything under the sun, sharing details about their lives, drinking beer, listening to music, and eating.  It was soon very apparent that Flex was gay, out, and very confident in his sexuality, so much so, he didn’t even make it an issue.  Because Ernesto had been ruled by his hidden identity, everything had more impact on him, he had to analyze and dissect everything as if there was a hidden meaning behind it.  When Flex offered to let him spend the night, he didn’t know if it was a sexual invitation or not; he didn’t know how to respond. 

Flex could sense his hesitation and he left the question open for him to decide.  He got up, turned off all the lights, lit a few candles and came back, this time, taking off his towel and letting it fall to the floor.  He stood there for a few seconds, letting his new friend take everything in.  “Does this make you uncomfortable?”  Ernesto shook his head but didn’t say a word.  He climbed back on the futon, this time even closer.    His heart started beating faster, the blood started pumping in his veins; he was being seduced.  Flex reached out to kiss him softly; Ernesto forgot to close his eyes; he wanted to see everything.  The kiss was soft and gentle and in many ways atypical of most of kisses Ernesto had ever shared with someone.  Usually the men he was with were closeted, intent on proving their masculinity, on dominating the proverbial white boi behind closed doors, playing up the thug/Mandingo role.  He let his eyes close gently, experiencing the kiss with the rest of his senses.  He could smell the clean scent of Flex’s skin, still fresh from the shower; he could feel the softness of his lips against his own.  He could taste his tongue gently exploring his mouth and he could hear the soft moan escape from his own lips in awe of the sensations he was feeling. 

 “Okay, Mr. Massage therapist,” Flex said, “let me check out some of your magic,” as he pulled away from the sensual kiss.  He stretched out on his stomach, adding, “Let’s see if you can work out some of this tension I have in my shoulders.”

Ernesto said, “Hold on, let me get my bag.” He returned a few seconds later with a special blend of massage oil he used for work.  This time, he also took off his towel and let it fall to the floor as well, exposing his cock that had been half hard since they left the courts.  Flex didn’t even look, he had his head resting on his arms and his eyes closed, waiting for his massage.  Ernesto straddled his legs and looked down at the gorgeous body he was about to caress.  He warmed the oil on his hands and started at the shoulders, aroused by the contrast in skin colors.  Flex let out a moan and shifted a little but he didn’t say a word.  Working his way downwards, he found the spots that were tight and loosened them; he rubbed the sore muscles and left that smooth brown skin glowing in the candlelight.  He worked his way further down, hesitating for a few moments before he started massaging the full, round ass cheeks of his new friend.  Flex let out more of a moan and started grinding his hips, even adjusting himself to make his thickening tool more comfortable under him.  Grabbing the bottle of oil, he drizzled it on his skin and started massaging those magnificent mounds of flesh.  He wanted to stroke his own cock, now fully erect, but he didn’t, he was intent on doing a good job, better than he’d ever done before. 

He worked his way down Flex’s thighs and even used a few reflexology techniques on his feet.  “Here, do the fronts of my legs now, I’m sore from that workout you gave me earlier.”  He turned over and Ernesto couldn’t move.  Flex flashed that gorgeous smile yet again but that paled in comparison to the body of perfection before him.  Shoulders that were broad leading down to muscular toned arms, a hairless, well-developed chest and six pack abs that looked like a washboard.  His dick stood up straight and tall and his balls were resting on his thighs.  Ernesto didn’t even want to look at the rest of him; he just wanted to drink in the beauty of that magnificent hard dick. 

Flex teased him, stroking it casually with his other arm behind his head.  “You like that?  Go ahead, touch it.”  He put his other arm behind his head and repeated, “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”

Ernesto swallowed hard and held the shaft in his hands.  The heat from it was incredible and the thickness was impressive to say the least.  He grabbed it at the base and brought his hand all the way to the top, twisting his hand just a bit for a little more stimulation.  Flex moaned his approval and licked his lips.  “Don’t stop,” was all he said.  Putting more oil on his hands, Ernesto started stroking more, bringing him to full hardness, coaxing out precum from the head of that delicious piece of meat. 
“Go ahead, suck it, you know you want to, suck my dick.”  The confidence that oozed from Flex made the situation that much more intense, more erotic and Ernesto felt light headed.  He wasn’t being rude or domineering, he was just sure of himself, uninhibited. 

Ernesto positioned himself between Flex’s legs, stroking him some more, teasing him, and Flex spread his legs to accommodate him.  Fingering his balls and holding them up, he started his mouth job there, licking and gently sucking his nuts.  Rolling them around in his fingers, he was getting them wet with saliva and licking the sensitive sacks.  Flex appreciated the attention to his balls and let him know how good it felt.    “Oh shit, it’s been a long time since someone paid attention to my nuts like that.  Damn, that feels so good. Ohhhh yeah.”  He grabbed his knees, pulled them to his chest, giving Ernesto better access.  Stopping momentarily to catch his breath, he put one testicle in his mouth and started flicking his tongue back and forth rapidly.  Flex could barely breathe it felt so good.  “Damn, if you suck my balls that good, I can’t even imagine how good it’s going to feel when you suck my dick and eat my ass.”

Anxious to get to both of those tasks, he said, “Which of those things would you prefer I do first?”  Flex’s dick jumped at those words, his mind reeling with all the erotic possibilities. 

Flex grabbed his dick at the base, tapping the head against Ernesto’s lips, teasing him.  His instructions were clear.  “Suck my dick.” 

Not needing any more of an invitation, Ernesto set about his task.  He replaced Flex’s hand with his own and started stroking it, using massage techniques to stimulate spots that would make Michelangelo's David squirm.  Using his tongue, he began softly licking the head, swirling it around and flicking it gently at the hole.  Flex moved his hands down to Ernesto’s head, but not to face fuck him or force him down on his swollen member, but to hold his hair out of the way in order to see the expert job he was doing.  He licked up and down the sides, getting the shaft wet, running his tongue over every vein.  Flex couldn’t help but show his appreciation by moaning.  Lowering his mouth on that beautiful column of flesh, he took just half of it in his mouth.  He started sucking it like a baby would suck a nipple making sure to grip the base of the cock firmly in his hand.  He took his tongue and started swirling it around the head and shaft and increasing the suction on his sucking.  Moving his hand away, he started bobbing up and down on the cock, taking it further and further into his mouth each time.  He was getting it wetter and wetter, taking the head to the back of his throat.  Flex could do nothing but grip the sheets for dear life and moan, “Holy fuck, damn, shit, that’s some good shit.  Oh my god that feels so good.” 

Just when he thought it couldn’t feel any better, Ernesto relaxed his throat muscles and let the head of Flex’s thick cock go several inches down.  His lips could feel the tickle of his hair so he knew he had accomplished his mission of taking his full length.  Then, he decided to perform his magic, he started bobbing up and down, from the head to the base, taking him deep in his throat every time.  Spit was dripping down his balls and Flex was breathing so hard he thought he might hyperventilate. 

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.  I can’t take much more of that.  Damn, where did you . . . oh shit, you are going to make me cum before the party even starts.”  Flex sat up a little bit and the look of sheer panic on Ernesto’s face was evident.  “Hey, what’s wrong?  What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I just wanted to make you feel good, that’s all.”  What he really wanted to say was, “I am used to guys using my mouth as many times as they want and I feel like I’ve failed if I didn’t make you cum.” 

“You did make me feel good.  Too good in fact, that was incredible.  I just didn’t want to nut too soon.  I like to make things last, go slow, you know.”  He leaned over and kissed Ernesto again, as gently and as tenderly as before.  Flex lay down on the bed, pulling Ernesto on top of him.  Their kissing became more urgent, more passionate.  Their tongues and lips were sucking and licking, their dicks were sensually rubbing against one another.  Flex was caressing his hands along Ernesto’s spine, grabbing his ass, spreading his cheeks and teasing his hole with his fingertips. 

Ready to take things to the next level, Ernesto said, “I want to feel your big cock in my ass.  Fuck me.”  Quickly repositioning himself, he crawled to the foot of the bed, got on his knees, and looked back over his shoulder and said in a lust-filled daze, “Fuck me.”  He gripped the frame of the futon tightly, prepared to get his asshole savagely fucked but what he felt was entirely different than the searing pain/pleasure he was anxiously anticipating.  “Nooo,” he hollered out. 

Flex had repositioned himself as well.  He was laying between Ernesto’s thighs underneath him and started sucking his dick.  He wrapped his arms around Ernesto’s back and held him in place while he delivered some equally spectacular head to his new lover.  Try as he might, Ernesto could not pull away and he felt his body succumb to the oral pleasures he was receiving.  “No, no, no, no,” was all he could say.  He thought to himself, “Can’t he tell that I’m a bottom whose only use and purpose is to serve and please?”  Flex was fucking with the entire fabric of the universe.  Ernesto was in the closet and he was sub to Black men, meaning he got his pleasure, alone, in the solitude of his bed in shame and in silence, long after the sexual experience was over, reliving it in his mind, jerking off to how he had pleased his lover, how he had been the perfect bottom, never expecting any pleasure in return whatsoever.  Flex couldn’t hear any of that internal dialogue; all he was doing was focusing on tasting Ernesto’s dripping precum and returning the sensual favor. 

The roles had changed again, this time with Ernesto trying to change the direction of things.  He was able to pull away and this time he lay back on the bed and spread his legs, holding them up and pleading with his new lover to be fucked.  “Ram that big dick in my pussy, fuck me hard.  FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF ME.  Come on, daddy, I need it so bad. Pound that meat in my slutty asshole and make me beg for more.  I’ll be your little whore and your bitch daddy.  Spit on that hole and make it nice and wet and shove that fucker in me and make it hurt.”

What happened next sent a chill of panic and pleasure through Ernesto’s body.  Before he could realize what was happening, he felt the soft, gentle tongue of Flex exploring his hole, kissing it, licking it, tongue fucking it.  He’d never felt that sensation before in his life.  He grabbed his knees and pulled them closer to his chest, exposing his hole even more.  All he could feel was the warm, wet sensation of that probing tongue and while his head wanted to say, “Stop.” His mouth was saying, “Oh shit, that feels so fucking good, don’t you dare stop.”  As many times as he’d rimmed his lovers before, he never imagined that being on the receiving end could feel so damned sexy. 

Flex, inspired by his lover’s words, didn’t disappoint.  He licked and sucked and tongue fucked that hole, making it wet and ready.  He got on his knees and aimed his bloated dick at that sexy hole.  He teased it, teased him, by rubbing his head on that hole.  Just before he pushed it in, he leaned down and whispered in Ernesto’s ear, “I want you so fucking bad.”  They kissed again and Ernesto felt the head of Flex’s cock enter him.  It was slow, steady, calculated and giving him pleasure in every cell of his fucking body.  They were grunting and sweating again as the pace was slow and agonizingly sensual.  Ernesto was being made love to and he knew it.  He used his fingertips to softly explore Flex’s body while the two worked out a rhythm.  Flex stroked, Ernesto squeezed, they fucked each other like gorgeous wild animals.  The pounding became more intense, the stroking harder, deeper.  Their moans grew wilder and their kissing more frenzied. 

Flex pulled out and replaced his dick with his mouth, tonguing out that gaping, well-fucked hole.  Ernesto made a sound that couldn’t be described.  It was the singular most erotic, nasty, sensual feeling he’d had in his life.  He grabbed his cock and started pounding it furiously, ready to spew his load then and there.  Flex had other plans.  Grabbing the bottle of massage oil, he flipped the top open and poured it on Ernesto’s prick.  Ernesto held his breath, almost sure he knew what was going to happen next but terrified to think about it. 

Flex moved into position and straddled his body.  He could feel his cock rubbing between those full, round ass cheeks.  In that moment, in his mind, Ernesto outted himself.  He knew that he could no longer remain in the closet; he realized that he had handicapped himself by not being able to love whomever he wanted freely.  He knew that he could not keep his secret any longer to anyone.  In the darkness of his self-imposed closet, he was a submissive bottom.  In the glaring light of his sexual freedom, he was a man who loved other men.  The feel of his cock penetrating Flex’s tight asshole distracted his revelation.  He felt the ring of Flex’s ass gripping every millimeter of his erection, squeezing it, riding it up and down.  He looked up to see a look of sheer pleasure and ecstasy on his lover’s face, unencumbered by roles of top or bottom, just expressing his sexuality freely and genuinely. 

With his ass settled down on Ernesto’s body, Flex started grinding and working his ass, using his ass muscles to milk that hot cock.  Ernesto grabbed Flex’s hips and started thrusting, fucking him back, working his dick in harder, trying to go deeper.  Flex started bouncing up and down on his dick, riding him hard.  The look on his face was one of pure bliss.  Ernesto shut his eyes and got lost in the sensation, “Oh Flex, I love . . . this, I love this.”  He really wanted to say I love you.  It was as if every fiber of his being wanted to profess his love for the man who was giving him pleasure in ways he’d never imagined. 

Flex leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I love you too.”  Both of them knew it was the lust talking, both of them knew intellectually that it couldn’t be love based on a couple of hours. Both of them knew that there was a connection there that would last well past a one night stand or casual sex as well. 

Using his muscular arms, Ernesto flipped Flex over and placed him on his knees.  Flex looked back and said, “Fuck me, ram that dick in me.”  They both groaned as Ernesto pushed the entire length of his cock in that hot hole and started pounding away.  It was pure, unbridled, sensuous fucking.  He gripped that brown flesh and pulled him closer, he could see the contrast in skin color, the way Flex’s asshole would grip his cock as he slid in and out, faster, harder, deeper, faster still, harder, using every muscle in his body to give pleasure.  He was hitting that hot spot, making Flex moan like a little bitch.  The way his cock felt, surrounded by that hot, tight ring, he was cursing in a string of Italian and English and what seemed like another primal language only understood by lovers. 

He could feel the cum about to explode from his cock.  He began pistoning his cock in and out, harder than he thought he was capable of doing.  Flex was taking it all and begging for more.  He crushed Flex beneath him and used his ass to pump and pound, His fingers intertwined with Flex as he unloaded his cum deep inside him. 

Six months later, Flex and Ernesto stood as a testament to true interracial gay love.  They didn’t flaunt their sexuality but they certainly didn’t hide it either.  All of his friends in Brooklyn disowned him, wouldn’t speak to him again.  They would have been a little more tolerant of the idea if Flex hadn’t been Black but they couldn’t get it out of their minds that their friend, their paesano, was the bitch to a black guy.  It was beyond their comprehension that the two were far more than top and bottom, they were reciprocal, versatile lovers with no roles or labels. 

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

 Tired of seeing black women being portrayed as ghetto bitches, freaks and whores, and black men as barely literate thugs, bulls, and pimps, Scottie Lowe decided it was time to show black people in a positive sexual light. Ms. Lowe is the sole owner and founder of www.AfroerotiK.com, a company dedicated to eradicating the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality and providing customized, personalized erotic stories for and about people of color.  Her innovative approach to writing Black erotica is shattering misperceptions and opening the doors to dialogue about subjects long considered taboo.