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

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? 

The Bisexual Male Primer for the Black Community

The Black community never ceases to amaze me with the lengths they will go to in order to perpetuate homophobia.  Black men have to be masculine.  Not just masculine, they have to be hyper-masculine, a warped manifestation of part criminal, part abuser, part dictator in order to be considered a real man.  They have to control and command and lead the household and make all the decisions and make all the money and they have to have big dicks or the Black sexuality police will deem them gay and less than a real man.  They have to wear the right sneakers and their jeans have to be saggin’ or they will be considered girly and undeserving of the title of Black man.   Wait, their jeans can’t sag too much or that will mean that it’s some sort of secret prison sign of being gay, a homosexual beacon calling out to find those other disgusting gays.  OK, so there’s a fine line of how much your jeans can sag but you can rest assured that Black people will be able to tell you where that line is and anyone who doesn’t have the appropriate amount of heterosexual jean sag is a fag. 

The only problem is that the tightness of one’s jeans doesn’t indicate a person’s sexual preference.  The color of a man’s shirt doesn’t indicate his sexual preference.  The timber and bass of his voice doesn’t indicate his sexual preference either.  How articulate a brotha is or isn’t has nothing whatsoever to do with his sexuality.  I hate to break it to you but none of the absurd and asinine gay indicators that Black people (and Black women are the worst with your supposed gaydar so I’m calling you out specifically) use to identify gay men are valid and all they do is perpetuate a bigoted and uninformed mentality that perpetuates misogyny, sexism, and men hiding their sexual preferences, desires, and curiosities in further continuance of lying, denying, and stupidity. 

You want to know what does indicate a man’s sexual preference?  Nothing.  Not a damn thing.  Because we are so sexually immature, we don’t understand the difference between gender identity and gender roles.  But we have swallowed, hook, line, and sinker that men are supposed to be aggressive and violent and sexually promiscuous and that women are supposed to be submissive and genetically predisposed to cooking and cleaning and satisfying a man’s lusts.  There are real differences in gender but they don’t have a damn thing to do with masculinity and femininity.  They aren’t even all genetic.  And just as in nature, right is not better than left, night is not better than day, up is not better than down, male is not better than female.  And masculine is certainly not better than feminine. 

Masculinity and femininity are concepts not found in nature.  Masculinity and femininity are SOCIAL constructs, not biologic or genetic.  A female lion doesn’t say, “Oh, look at that juicy gazelle over there.  I would love to fix him for dinner tonight but I have to wait for my big, strong husband to do it because I’m too demure and girly and only males do that sort of yucky stuff.”  Elephant herds are led by the females, not the males.  Female elephants are not relegated to be inferior to the males, their contribution to the herd is not diminished because they bear the children.  Male penguins are the primary care-givers of their offspring.  They feed, shelter, protect, teach, guide and love their babies while the mothers are off frolicking in the semi-frozen surf.  But one thing you won’t see on Penguin Twitter is the entire penguin community in an outrage, demeaning the male penguins for being sissies.  But women will tell you with a quickness that they don’t want to get the oil changed in their car because only men are supposed to do those sorts of things.  They have been socialized to believe that “car stuff” is manly, as if, if you are forced to do the horrid job of taking your car to the mechanic you are going to grow hair on your chest and wear flannel.  Be believe that men have certain roles and women have certain roles and we don’t question where those rules originated or the significance of what it means to us as individuals. 

The concepts of masculinity and femininity are man-made, literally and figuratively.  It was men, very insecure and immature ancient men in fact, who deemed what role women were to have in society and what role men were to have and any deviation from those made up rules meant that that person was some sort of social leper.  It’s no accident that men decided that they were supposed control and rule over women. 

Black folk LOVE to falsely claim that homosexuality doesn’t exist in nature.  Except . . . it does.  In almost every single species known to man homosexual acts are commonplace.  What doesn’t exist in nature is homophobia.  That is a social construct as well.  Hating someone because they experience pleasure with the same gender is as illogical as hating someone just because they have a different skin color.  Homosexuality is not the going to end human population.  Loving someone, even having sex with someone for nothing more than pleasure isn’t bad or dirty or wrong.  It’s simply a different form of sexual expression from what is come to be accepted as the norm.   Your male dog isn’t going to start barking with a lisp and wearing a skinny collar if they have sex with another dog but my people, my poor, misguided, gullible people think that if a man has sex with another man, even if he is “the top”, that he is going to start singing Lady Gaga songs and going around saying, “Two snaps and a twist, gurl.” 

If I hear one more time, “I don’t want no man crying more than me,(sic) I need a real man,” I’m going to lose it.  Right, you don’t want a man to use his tear ducts because you have deemed you know more than perfect and divine Mother Nature that men aren’t supposed to use them.  If men weren’t supposed to cry, they wouldn’t have tear ducts.  No one wants a partner who is overly emotional, male or female, but crying is essential, we are human beings and we are supposed to process and release our emotions, penis notwithstanding.  The fact that men don’t cry, don’t express their emotions is the reason they are holding so much rage and frustration in and acting out in unhealthy ways.  Women are promoting it with their backwards thinking.  I’ve heard women say, “I knew he was gay because he liked his nipples stimulated and only women supposed to like that.(sic)”  That level of stupidity is astounding.  What biology class did you take that told you that men’s nipples aren’t supposed to provide them pleasure because you need to demand your money back? 

Let’s dispel some myths right now, shall we? 

1.        First and foremost, Bisexuality is an actual thing.  Yes, it’s very real.  Black people love to say that Black men can’t be bisexual, that if they have ever been with or thought about another man sexually then he is gay.  Bisexuality means that you enjoy, appreciate, and are aroused by sex with both genders.  It does not mean that you prefer both genders equally, in the same proportions and ways, but this whole concept that a Black man can only be straight or gay is really, really . . . not intelligent.  We don’t have a problem (behind closed doors) with female bisexuality but we are the original kings and queens of double standards when it comes to men being bisexual. 

2.        I know this is going to offend many a person but it has to be said.  EVERY male, every single solitary one, has the potential to experience pleasure when anally stimulated.  The nerve endings in the anus are the exact same as in the female and women have the potential to experience explosive pleasure, even orgasms when stimulated anally and women don’t have a prostate.  Men have a prostate, a gland located within the anus, that when stimulated not only provides pleasure, but it is healthy for them.  It’s not just some men, it’s not just gay men.  EVERY male has the potential to experience pleasure when stimulated anally.  Nature, biology itself, has set the stage for men to experience sexual pleasure when stimulated anally so let’s stop relegating it to only something only gay men like and let’s collectively mature to the point of understanding that a man experiencing sexual arousal and/or pleasure when he is anally stimulated has anything whatsoever to do with his sexual orientation. 

3.       The color, tightness, style, or cost of a man’s clothing does not indicate his sexual preferences.  It does indicate his style and his willingness to either conform or rebel against who and what society tells him he has to be.  It’s clothing, not a genetic marker.   Wearing a skirt does not make a man gay.  It does not make him feminine.  What men and women wear is nothing more than an evolution of Victorian and puritanical belief systems that have dictated that women were bras, makeup, heels, pantyhose, and dresses while men wear pants.  Indigenous men all over the planet, for millennia, have worn skirts and the population didn’t cease to exist because they were all in the closet gays.  Recognize your own level of brainwashing within the matrix and understand that clothing is nothing more than a socially-acceptable way to cover our naked bodies that we have been taught to be ashamed of. 

4.       Ladies, the more you make up these ridiculous rules about what makes a man masculine, about who is and isn’t gay, about what makes a man a “real nigga” you are going to force men to lie about their sexuality.  It’s no wonder so many men are in such denial about their real sexuality because Black women are quick to demonize anyone who isn’t a thug as less than a man.  And ladies, if you are continually measuring masculinity by how tight a man’s jeans are you are surely going to bed down with a man who is hiding his sexuality because you’ve already let him know that you won’t respect him if he admits to having same sex desires. 

5.       Black men are NOT responsible for the spread of HIV, the virus that causes AIDS.  Black women want to demonize bisexual men, point the finger of sanctimonious indignation at bisexual brothas for being down low and for spreading the disease.  Check it out, sista.  If you spread your legs and don’t care to get your partners tested first, you are a hypocrite and you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror because your HIV status is your responsibility, no one else’s.   

6.       The only way to truly ascertain a man’s sexuality is to be non-judgmental, open, honest, mature, and to effectively communicate.  The vast majority of young boys experiment with other young boys when they are young.  That does not make them gay or bisexual.  Lots of boys are molested by older males when they are young and many experience that molestation as pleasurable physical sensations.  That does not mean that they are gay or bisexual.  The problem lies in ridiculing, shaming, and shaming men when they tell the secrets of their past that haunt them.  We have to redefine what we want in a man and what it means to be a man.  If you want a man who is hard, aggressive, who is masculine, be prepared to accept him when he is abusive, distant, and emotionally immature and unavailable.    Just as a bisexual woman’s identity doesn’t change or become less desirable as they explore their sexuality with another woman, a bisexual man’s identity doesn’t make him an untouchable and disgusting.  Manhood should be defined by honesty, integrity, emotional maturity, and commitment, not some biblical edict that says that men are supposed to be aggressive and violent and women are supposed to be demure and submissive and can only be between men and women to be viable. 

There was a time in the past when I belonged to the “Black gay/bisexual men are yucky,” club.  As I evolved, I realized that sexuality has nothing whatsoever to do with who and what a person is.  I realized that I was wrong for my position.  There was also a time when I was asked if I thought everyone had the potential to be bisexual.  I rejected that argument summarily because I believed, or more accurately, I had been socialized to believe that heterosexuality was the norm against which all other sexuality should be judged and that bisexuality and homosexuality were abnormalities.  Today, I am of the mindset that bisexuality should be the normal, natural state for all human beings and that it is only our socialization, our conformity to repressive rules, rules that dictate that an individual should be repulsed by the very same sexual organs they have between their legs when viewed on another person. 

I now believe that bisexuality represents true enlightenment.  The ability to see the value and worth of a person, their essence as a human, the ability to acknowledge chemistry, both physical and spiritual, in another person regardless of their genitalia, in my opinion, is how we are supposed to be as humans.  I reject the idea that a person’s gender should dictate whom they love or with whom they seek pleasure.  I reject that men should screw any woman they can because it’s in their nature.  I reject that casual sex is no big deal and I believe that the energy exchanged when we have sex with another human being should be based on true connection and chemistry, not just recreation and certainly not manipulation.  We should be attracted to a person’s heart, their energy, their talents, their spirit, and their sensuality, not solely the bits between their legs.  That, to me, is the ultimate form of enlightenment. 

I do not think that all bisexuals are enlightened.  Not even close.  I think that our collective sexuality is so backwards, so distorted, so unhealthy that I believe that most bisexual people are in denial, they hate the part of themselves that is seeking pleasure with someone of their own gender and thus they are far from enlightened or evolved.  One thing I know for sure is that bisexuality is far more common than anyone wants to acknowledge.  It pains me to think of how many Black sons have been degraded and humiliated for their sexual experimentation by fathers who have engaged in all sorts of same-sex proclivities themselves all because the Black community wants to make manhood about being hyper masculine, one-dimensional, stereotypes of what manhood is supposed to be. 

Scottie Lowe