At Last

My entire relationship with Charles, what little there was of it, consisted of countless opportunities for emotional growth and never-ending nights of frustration. We hadn’t been dating long, only a few months, but our liaison was defined by what seemed to be an endless supply of patience on Charles’ part and innumerable occasions for me to redefine myself anew. Unfortunately, I am plagued with a biological preponderance for self-doubt which he was challenging me to face head on. My mother hadn’t bonded with me during her pregnancy thus I was left challenged to form healthy, loving relationships as an adult. My brain had been wired differently in the womb than most people’s, my subconscious mind operated under the assumption that I was inherently unlovable and intrinsically without value despite how much work I’d done on myself, no matter how many rituals I’d performed, regardless of how many pages I’d written in my journal or affirmations I’d recited in the mirror, even in spite of how wonderful I believed myself to be in my heart. I’d taken tremendous strides toward healing and I had shown marked improvement and I was more than willing to exert the effort needed for me to tackle the internal demons that had been preventing me from attracting someone who was capable of loving me unconditionally.

Apparently, I was doing something right, because I had attracted this amazing, enlightened man of my dreams into my life. So while I didn’t entirely feel worthy of his love, I knew in my heart and in my soul that I was divinely worthy of a love that was greater than my mind could imagine and Charles was intent on proving to me that he wanted to give me every bit of his love. From the moment we met, from the moment I laid eyes on him, I was drawn to his energy, his aura, and his incredible beauty. Initially, in his presence, I felt like he was going to reject me at any moment; I felt like he would prefer someone with a name like Ausar Nut Ma’at Imhotep, who wore locs and constantly smelled of patchouli oil, and who carried around incense and shea butter in the red, black, and green backpack that she had crocheted by hand. I just knew in my heart that he could never really love a woman who wrote about sex and sexuality and whose opinions on race and gender were so outside the norm, who loved wearing high heels occasionally, and who showed signs of insecurity and doubt openly. Luckily, I was wrong. He saw me as infinitely talented, grounded, inspired, and beautiful and he felt the pull of my African centered consciousness and saw my ability to free the descendents of slaves from our mental and psychological bondage with my words.

We vibrated on the same level in so many ways. While not identical in our every thought, we shared similar master numerological energies, spiritual outlooks, and interests. There was something very holistic and organic about what we shared and he was more than willing to nurture and heal my soul and that meant more to me than anything else. Our masculine and feminine energies complimented one another and we just seemed to fit like hand in glove.

For weeks, we grew together. Our days were filled toiling in the earth, growing vegetables, expanding our consciousness academically and culturally. We were always preparing food together as we were both dedicated to a living and raw diet and we even fasted together as well. He pushed me to trust him, to trust that he loved me, to see myself as the special and unique being he saw me as. I met each challenge he gave me head on, never afraid to push myself. Much of our time was spent in meditation or doing ritual. Sometimes we sat in silence, other times would laugh, talk, and listen to music until the early hours of the morning. I loved that he never made me feel like a victim or try to pity me because I was going blind. Charles would use his inspired words to paint pictures so I could see through his eyes and he helped me work out how to get around my apartment with my eyes closed for when the day would come when I had no sight at all. In every way imaginable, he was there for me like no other man had ever been there before and I found myself in falling in love with him in ways that were more profound than I had ever thought possible.

At times, our evenings were simmering, smoldering, and steamy, building a raging inferno of sexual tension between us. He seemed to know how to get me to the edge of explosion without any direct stimulation of my special places. He could whisper in my ear, telling me all the things he wanted to do to me, describing his fantasies about me in poetic, glorious detail and I would melt. He had the ability to lay his body on mine, I could feel his erection, engorged and rock hard grinding against me, and I could detect his unbridled passion, his intense desire to be inside me. His energy was strong and I would arch my back and wrap my legs around him as we kissed, hoping against hope that he would cross the threshold into my sacred space without my verbal consent. My hardened nipples would ache for his mouth to devour them and my swollen, wet pussy throbbed with anticipation and delicious expectation of his penetration. I’ll be the first to admit that when things would get hot and I was on the brink of erotic surrender, I would sometimes freeze up and ask him to stop. It had nothing to do with him. I was letting old tapes play in my head about being used, about men in my past who didn’t mind sexing me up but didn’t want a relationship with me. Charles wanted our lovemaking to be unfettered by fear or negativity; I didn’t want to have any emotional blocks between us. And we both wanted us to join in a union of transcendent, unparalleled ecstasy so we waited until the time was right.

Other times, the subject of sexuality never entered our evening experience. Sometimes, I could sense that I shouldn’t initiate anything romantic or sexual between us because he was at his very limit for frustration. I would hug him and he would give me a look letting me know that I needed to back off. On those nights, after we would part, I would lie in bed alone, pleasuring myself, wanting to call him to me and invite him to be my lover. When I showered, my fingers would find the slippery folds of my pussy and rub my clit and I would imagine him thrusting deeply inside me, completing me. I imagined him, at home alone, white cotton sheets covering his nude body, his erection tenting the covers, a sheen of perspiration covering his lean frame as he lay tortured, frustrated and aroused, thinking of me.

Our dance of frustration came to a screeching halt one night without much fanfare or preparation. We were fixing dinner one night and I was standing at the sink washing up a few dishes as he was moving around the kitchen doing his thing. I felt him slide up behind me, placing his arms on the counter beside me, his lips brushing the nape of my neck. He used his body to push me against the counter and I could feel the evidence of his erection against my backside. Instinctively, I pushed back, grinding the soft, full curves of my ass against him, leaning my body back and luxuriating in his hands caressing my waist and his nibbles to my earlobe. I could feel my temperature rising and my body was responding to his every touch.

As if by conditioning, when I could tell things were reaching their critical boiling point, I said, “Come on baby, stop. Let’s not get too carried away.” That did nothing to deter him however and he became even more assertive, sliding his hands over my breasts and making me elicit the most intense moans of pleasure. “Mmmm, king, that feels amazing.” I forgot all about my request to have him stop momentarily and I met his every thrust with equal passion. As the temperature began to rise, I renewed my objections, thinking he would be at his threshold and he would be packing up his stuff and heading for the door any minute.

Turning me around, facing him, using his body to press my body against the counter, Charles took my face in his hands. “Queen, I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you are in love with me.” I stood frozen. I heard the words fall softly from his lips like lyrics to a song. I diverted my eyes to the floor and he tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine. He said it again and this time I held his gaze intently. “I am in love with you and you . . .”

“And I am in love with you,” I cut him off. I swallowed hard, half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole but deep in my heart knowing that, at last, I had found the love that I had been searching for all my life, for many lifetimes. “I . . . ,” the words momentarily got caught in my throat and found the strength to go on and speak my truth, fixing my gaze on his beautiful brown eyes for comfort, “I . . . need you. I want you to stay tonight. Join with me. Be my lover tonight. Enter me, taste me, and feel my . . .”

This time, he cut me off with a kiss. He placed his mouth gently against mine and tasted my lips. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was much more. It was his declaration of love. I breathed in his air and we became united in that instant. I kissed him, his tongue softly and gently conforming to mine in a soulful dance. My heart raced as I felt his lean body press more deeply into mine, feeling his engorged manhood against my mound. My breasts pressed against his chest and I started to unbutton his shirt, tracing my lips down his slightly salty neck, eliciting gentle moans from him.

Something about him, about what we shared comforted me and I released all my inhibitions and allowed myself to be sensual, erotic, passionate, and primal without reservation. He met me where I was and matched my passions equally. Our kisses become more fevered; his hands under my sarong and slid up the soft, inner flesh of my thighs, finding the moist juncture between my legs. I took his hand and held it firmly in my own. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered.

He led the way; I followed with complete trust. Inside my sanctuary, the lights off, he made his way around the room, lighting candles as I put on some music. We met in the middle of the room and embraced again. This was our night to join together in a holy, transcendent union. This was the quintessential union of man and woman, of masculine and feminine energies, of yin and yang. This was the universe revealing itself, creationism and evolution coming together in the ultimate expression.

He laid me on the bed and untied my sarong; he unbuttoned my blouse and slid it off my body. Pulling his locs up and securing them atop his head, he began to make a feast of my body. Slowly, methodically, he used his mouth to lick, suck, taste, and kiss every inch of my body. His lips gently explored the inside of my elbow and his tongue made sensual love to my belly button. As ticklish as I am, I couldn’t stop squirming and giggling. It made me more at ease; I was able to laugh and enjoy every delicious second of his seduction. Charles’ hands explored my curves and with each passing caress, with each tender stroke, I became more and more aroused. I responded to each touch with a moan, a guttural groan, and a heavy sigh. My skin tingled under the manipulations of his fingertips.

Just when I thought I was at the very limit of my arousal, when I thought I could take not one more millisecond of stimulation, Charles decided he was going to up the stakes. Standing, he removed his clothing and stood beautifully naked and erect before me. Without using words, he used his eyes alone to instruct me to spread my legs. I arched my back and did as I was “told” sliding my hands down my body, teasing him seductively. The candlelight bathed his silhouette beautifully, creating shadows and light on his golden skin. I was beyond aroused; each and every one of my senses was stimulated and heightened. My mouth watered staring at him; I wanted to explore his body with my mouth the way he had done with mine but Charles had other plans.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for this moment from the day we met. I need to feel you explode in my mouth. I want to give you pleasure untold and drink freely from your center.” I slid my finger between my engorged lips, brought my finger to my lips and seductively sucked it, tasting my slippery, sweet juices. He took his time, positioning himself so that he was comfortable between my legs. He wasn’t one to be rushed. At first, he just stared at me, taking in every detail of my sacred sex. He spread my lips and studied my clit and lips like a painter studies his subject. He inhaled deeply my fragrance, intoxicated by my personal aroma. Then, only after he had taken in every detail, memorized my every contour to memory, he closed his eyes and softly, gently, lowered his mouth to my flesh. I let out a sound that was otherworldly. Bliss consumed every pore in my body. He tasted, licked, sucked, and kissed me, building my passion, raising my energy up my chakras. I wrapped my legs around his head and grabbed a handful of locs. I was nearing the point of no return. My muscles tightened and my orgasm was eminent. Charles was a man on a mission. He used his fingers to penetrate my holes and his mouth to gently, rhythmically suck my clit. Unable to hold off any longer, I released my cum into his mouth. I shook and trembled with ecstasy but that was not he signal to stop. He wanted my orgasm to unfold against itself, to replicate like a strand of DNA.

Trembling and shaking, I felt intoxicated with pleasure. I was beyond wet; I had soaked the sheets with my juices. Taking his true place between my legs, he positioned himself to penetrate me for the very first time. I wanted to speak words in the moment but none came. Our communication was cellular. I felt him enter me and he took my breath away. I met each thrust and he maintained eye contact with me intensely. I could see concentration on his face but I could tell that he was experiencing intense pleasure as well. He stroked deep and hard, my juices coating him, our bodies sweating, moving in time. We made love, he made loved to me more intensely, more passionately than I’d ever experienced before in my life.

When he was on the verge of erupting, he flipped me over, he entered me from behind, filling the room with the sounds of our bodies colliding as he made love to me like a man on a mission. My orgasms outnumbered his at this point by about five or six to none and he wasn’t even close to finishing. I grabbed the sheets and met his every thrust. I think I might have passed out from pleasure, or at the very least, I was delirious with satisfaction. Four positions later, I was no longer able to keep track of my orgasms. Finally, he laid his body on mine and, almost imperceptibly, I felt his penis throbbing and pulsating within the warm, wet, velvety walls of my vagina. Our eyes held each other’s gaze, we kissed; we were connected body, mind, and soul. In that moment, I felt his body tense and he arched his back and buried himself deeply inside me. I joined with him, releasing my energy into him as I exploded in what was more than sexual ecstasy, it was spiritual bliss. We had made it to a new place in our relationship, and at last, I had released all the pain and negativity that had kept me from experiencing true and abiding love.

Copyright 2010 Scottie Lowe All Rights Reserved

Good for one Quickie

Print this out and present it to your lover and reap the rewards.

Afroeroticism

Intimacy

Communication, Romance and Intimacy

If communication is the recipe for a healthy relationship, romance and intimacy are the key ingredients. For most men, the concept of genuine, truthful communication in a relationship is an alien concept, let alone understanding the concepts of romance and intimacy. For most men, the idea of romance is equated to “game” or trying to get a woman into bed and the concept of genuine honesty is incomprehensible to many. Men have been convinced that crying, a natural, healthy, biological release of emotion makes a man weak. Reality check. If men weren’t supposed to cry, they would not have tear ducts. Crying is as natural as sneezing, it is necessary to help an individual process emotion, yet we have an entire population of men that think that shedding a tear means an individual less than a man. Black men in particular have been socialized for generations to deny their feelings and never taught to process or share those feelings with another person. To have feelings is to be considered weak or gay. When we look at all the false perceptions that are in place to keep men from being fully functioning, emotionally mature human beings it’s no wonder that the state of Black relationships is in such peril.

Being someone that has dedicated her life to showing Black sexuality in a healthy light, men often come to me to share their desires, secrets and fantasies when they have wives, girlfriends, and lovers that should be that confidant. Day in and day out, brothas come to me and share with me, a total stranger, their most intimate desires. They always seem to preface it by saying, “My wife would never understand . . .” News flash, your wife should be the first person you go to share your feelings and if she’s not, you need to re-examine your relationship and take the steps necessary to make that so. Your wife is your partner and your mate, if you don’t have a relationship where you can be open and honest with her, there’s something drastically wrong with that. Let’s assume that you married a woman with whom you share common ideologies, goals, and beliefs. If all of those things are in place, then you have the makings of fantastic communication and all that needs to be done is learning how to open up and share with your partner your thoughts.

The number one fantasy that Black men come to me and share as their secret desire is to be submissive to a (in most cases, Black) woman. We must be cautious how we use the term submissive in this particular case because mainstream society would lead us to believe that being submissive means being beaten and whipped and assuming an inferior position in some sadomasochistic exchange. While in some cases, that may be the desire, more often than not they mean that they want to put aside their satisfaction for that of their partner. Unfortunately, the term submissive is the closest term Black men have to describe their fantasies of catering to a woman’s needs. I hear it time and time again, “I want to satisfy my woman . . . her pleasure is more important than mine . . . I want to do whatever it takes to make her cum until she passes out.” Society would have us believe that a Black man is supposed to “kill it” to use his dick as a weapon and that pleasing a woman is of no concern. Imagine Jay-Z making a rap where he says that he gave a woman pleasure without concern for his own. That’s not going to happen in this lifetime because Black men have to live up to the stereotype that women are for their pleasure, not the other way around. Again, the absurdity of the concept and the extent to which we as a people hold on to it is causing us to perish.

When Black men approach me about their fantasies, they tend to be somewhat forthcoming with the details. Conversely, when I approach Black men about their fantasies their responses tend to be either, “I don’t have any fantasies,” or, “I have done everything that I want to do, I prefer the real thing.” When they do admit to a fantasy it’s the standard “threesome” scenario. Black men aren’t adept at expressing their fantasies or allowing themselves to creatively explore their sexuality. It’s only after intense and directed questioning that they can admit to having other fantasies. Conversely, white men tend to be able to describe in great detail their fantasies and have very involved and complex scenarios. Fantasies are a natural, normal part of our existence and allow us to experience different realities in a safe way. Going out and engaging in unhealthy behaviors rather than learning to express healthy fantasies is dysfunctional. Not being comfortable enough to share one’s fantasies with one’s partner and then going out to explore those fantasies as a reality with someone outside one’s relationship is unhealthy. We must, as a people, reexamine the guidelines that are keeping us dysfunctional.

There seems to be a tremendous difficulty in men understanding that women crave romance and intimacy, a reluctance to embrace any personal responsibility in creating romance and intimacy in their relationship and even a difficulty understanding those terms. There is a belief that men seem to have that is reinforced by a society that says that women have to do the work to keep a man, not the other way around. Men, understand this if you understand nothing else I say. If you want peace in your relationship, if you want your woman to treat you like a king, then the single-most easiest way to do that is to treat her like a queen. For every one step you make to make a woman feel special, she will take ten in return to make you feel special. Surprise her with a small token that lets her know you are thinking of her, that she crosses your mind during the day. It needn’t be something extravagant or expensive. There are more things than just flowers, candy, or a designer purse that you can give that will show her that you care. Sadly, men don’t seem to understand the erotic potential and possibilities of anything other than material gifts as indications of romance have been conditioned to, thus they are limited in their creativity and expression.

I would be remiss if I didn’t discuss Black women’s responsibility in fostering healthy communication and intimacy in relationships. Sadly, there are a great many women that will judge and condemn a man for sharing his thoughts and fantasies with her, no matter the level of honesty or intimacy he is showing. We’ve been conditioned to either view any expression of sexuality outside of missionary sex as vulgar, or conversely, we view sexuality as a tool of manipulation, source of income, or as recreation. As Black women, we’ve also been socialized to narrowly define manhood and equate it with sexual prowess and earning potential, not realizing that emotional depth and intimacy are things that men are capable of giving. We must be held accountable for our false perceptions and debilitating belief systems but the change must be partnered with Black men in an effort to grow together.

Getting a woman to be receptive to your fantasies is not as difficult as one might think. Increasing communication, romance and intimacy in your relationship is not an impossible task. The most effective way to introduce your fantasies to your partner is to get her to a heightened state of arousal and subtly introduce the new concept to her. She will be more receptive to any new ideas that are initiated during that time. Getting her to a heightened state of arousal takes work on your part. It means that you must be willing to ask questions about what arouses her, to set aside everything that you’ve learned about what turns a woman on, and set aside your preferences for the things that turn you on. The benefits will be amazing and you will lay the foundation for a partnership with outstanding potential.

Scottie Lowe is a regular columnist at Black Men in America and the founder of AfroerotiK. If you need some suggestions on what you can do to create more intimacy, romance and communication in your relationship, check out AfroerotiK for dozens of ideas or email Scottie directly with your questions.

Defining Love

We can't be in loving relationships if we can't define love. Most people assume that if they enter into a relationship, they have to protect themselves, look out for themselves, stay in the relationship as long as it makes them happy. Most people proudly proclaim that they will never put the needs and wishes of their partner above their own because they don’t want to be used or taken advantage of. There's a huge difference between putting the needs and wishes of your partner above your own and being weak. In loving yourself, you are selective in waiting for the right person who matches you; you don't just find someone attractive who meets your superficial desires. In loving yourself, you work out your issues first and heal yourself from the patterns of dysfunction that have plagued your family for generations. 

In loving yourself, you don't tolerate abusive or destructive patterns from your partner. In a healthy relationship, you can go grocery shopping and by the brands that your partner loves most because you know that they prefer Colgate and you prefer Crest but you know that making your partner happy is more important than what toothpaste you use and your teeth will get just as clean. It shows your ability to be in a healthy relationship if you let your spouse eat the drumstick because you know that he or she likes it the most when you can just as easily eat the thigh. If you had a bad day at work but your spouse had an even worse day, in a mutually supportive relationship, you can hold off on complaining until they have processed their situation. If you’ve really given yourself to a commitment, if you want to buy that ATV or big screen TV really badly but you know that you and your partner are saving for a down payment on a house and you can defer your wants for the needs of the family first. It's because you love that person, LOVE, that you put aside the little i for the bigger picture of US. If you have chosen wisely, you will have chosen a partner who will do the same and more for you as well. Your happiness together is more important than your happiness as an individual. That's love.


You can't know love unless you give up yourself. That's the whole thing. That's the whole deal. Love is losing yourself in someone, becoming one, where you have no end and they have no beginning. If you love yourself more than your partner you don't have it right. True love is a big leap of faith. It's saying, I'm joining with this person and I'm going to erase me and become us. We are a two headed being, one heart, one goal, one objective. Love is being able to say in every choice, how will this benefit us? Society tells us that it's all about me first, that you can't give up yourself, that you have to stay in control, separate and autonomous. Society is producing tons of unhealthy relationships as well.

Swim in my Soul

I want to be so possessed by a man that I don't know where he begins and where I end. I want my heart to belong to a man so completely, so intimately, that I feel every breath he takes, as my own. I want to be in love. A love that transcends definition. I want my man to love me so completely that I couldn't imagine not fulfilling his wildest fantasy. I want to communicate with him non-verbally, with my eyes, my hands, my soul. I want a man to penetrate me and look deep in my eyes and know that my body is a precious gift to him, and only him. I want to do every erotic, sensual thing my mind can conceive of and know that ultimately it is an act of making love.

I want to taste my man's tears while he is deep inside me. I want him to know that he is protected and safe and I won't let anything or anybody hurt him. I want my man to know that only he and I can share such intimacy and know that there is no reason to look elsewhere for either one of us. I want to feel electricity and sparks every time I see his face, look in his eyes. I want to kiss for hours, losing track of time and not even giving a damn. I want him to be late for work every damn day cause we can't bear the thought of starting the day off without connecting. I want “him,” the man that was created for me, that I was created for.