Intimacy

Is it a Question of LOVE?

I was asked to answer the following questions on love because, supposedly, I’m a thinker. Here are the questions and my responses.

1. What is love (to you)?
Love is a feeling, an emotion, a state of being where you care for someone else’s well-being, you care about their feelings, you want to make them happy, see them happy, you don’t mind sacrificing for them.

2. What is IN love (to you)? I don’t differentiate the terms love and in love simply because I don’t think there’s any quantifiable way to define how much one loves another person. We use the words love for family and friends and people we don’t want to have sex with and we use the words in love for someone to whom we are romantically attracted. I don’t love the little boy I baby-sit for any more or less than I once loved his father. Most people would get upset if I were to say that I was in love with a child but my level of emotion, concern, and the depth of my feelings is on par with the love I’ve felt for grown men. I want to see him smile, I look forward to seeing him, I miss him when he’s not here, I think of things to do for him that will make him happy. Those are the exact same things I once felt for his father. Because I have no sexual feelings for him, society says I’m not “in love” with him. I say society needs to separate romantic love from “other” love because we are so sexually repressed, because we don’t teach people how to love, only what it is to be loved. I LOVE my sister and I don’t think I’ve seen her more than a half a dozen times in my life. I still remember the first time I laid eyes on her, she was a grown woman . The feeling of wanting her to be happy and healthy, of wanting to protect her . . . it still brings tears to my eyes. I’m in love with her. My love for her is active and growing and alive.

3. Have you or anyone you know, mistaken LOVE for IN LOVE? If the assumption is that being “in love” is somehow real and true and that to only “love” someone means that the love is superficial or doesn’t have as much substance or validity as being “in love” then I reject the terms. I have fallen in love with men who I’ve later been repulsed by. I’ve loved men who have not deserved my love. I’ve loved men who have fooled me into thinking they were someone that they were not. I love men whom I once cared for deeply but have no romantic feelings for currently. Love can grow and evolve, the depth of one’s feelings can change and transform. Love is real. The baggage we apply to it is what makes it appear false.

4. Is conditional love natural or can it be inherited? I think conditional love is a manifestation of selfishness. Conditional love is only loving someone if they love you a certain way, if they only fulfill your needs in a way that is pleasing to you. That is a creation of a society that teaches people to love themselves, to only look out for number one. I think we teach our children conditional love by beating them, by withholding love from them when they misbehave, by not showing them healthy examples of love. I think conditional love is a sickness we’ve inherited from a society that is spiritually bereft.

5. Why is love so complicated when it suppose to be the most simplest of all acts and feelings? We live in a society of fear. We fear that if we love someone and we don’t get that love returned, that we have to hurt them back. We live in a society that teaches us how to be loved, to enjoy the feelings of someone treating us special but we don’t learn how to make someone else feel special. Love is complicated because we are taught models of love from our mothers and fathers, who most often were not together, who fought, who didn’t love each other, and who brought a whole host of other emotional issues to the table when they did. Love is difficult because it leaves us vulnerable and that is scary. Love is difficult because it takes work. Love is difficult because we fall in love with money and looks and superficial things that have nothing to do with true emotion and feeling. It’s hard to find love because first we need to love ourselves, and to do that, we have to take the bandage off our emotional wounds and really heal them and that hurts.

6. Is 'material' love a bad thing? If yes, then how can we 'de-love' it? If by material love, you mean love of things, I think that is purely a manifestation of Eurocentrism. Almost all indigenous, brown people loved the land, they loved their people, and they loved the Creator more than they loved things before the influence of Europeans. The importance of things, outside trinkets, stuff, money, belongings that give people a false sense of worth seems to stem from the people who think that they can take land, kidnap and kill people, steal possessions as their god-given right. The only way I can imagine to de-love material things is to see ourselves as truly spiritual beings, the way God intended us to be. If God is love, then all we are is love. If love is truth, then material things are the lie.

7. Is there really such a thing as self-love? (take your time on this one) I have to wonder why this question was posed as such. It seems to indicate that self-love is perhaps fictional or delusional. Self-love is not needing validation from someone or something else, it is holding yourself to a higher standard than others around you would. Self-love is making sure you don’t put yourself in harmful, dysfunctional situations. Self-love is very real. It is knowing yourself, your triggers, your weaknesses, it’s knowing everything about yourself, the good and the bad, and being comfortable in your own skin.

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.

Soul Mates

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.

Time

Every time I taste your lips, I’m reminded of how intense every second is that I spend with you. My senses are aroused and I’m lost in your eyes. I can feel my nature rise and my juices begin to flow simply melting into your tender kiss. Every second is a gift in your presence and I want to unwrap them slowly, methodically and with tender loving care.


Fifteen minutes. All I need from you today is one quarter hour. Steal away on your lunch break and love me down intensely but for a few brief minutes. I need to be rejuvenated by your touch, your taste, and your sweet, sexy scent. Save the foreplay and romance for another day and give me that hot, sticky passion only you know how to give me.


Time is really an illusion, it doesn’t exist. Time is really man’s way of measuring the passage of events that occur; it is really just a figment of our imagination. What is real are my feelings for you. Reality is that feeling I have when I hold your body close and I don’t know where you end and I begin.


Timeless love, that is what we share. Weeks, months, or even years could go by and you’d still be connected to me. No amount of time will alter or diminish this chemistry, this magic. You touch will forever send shivers down my spine. I will forever long for kisses from you. Your caress will always ignite my flame. We will spend eternity as lovers.


Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

Filling the Void

Who would have thought that after a year of sitting at home alone, I would be on a date? Not only a date, but a date with a great guy. I’d been standing in the grocery store, minding my business, when the gentleman in front of me turned around and said, “Can you watch my daughter for two seconds, I just need to run and get some Pampers, right there.” He pointed to the aisle directly behind us and then his toddler. She was wearing the cutest little t-shirt with Kente embroidery on it and the brightest smile you’d ever want to see.

“Sure, go ahead.” No sooner than her father walked away, the little girl stood up in the cart and made a lunge for the candy, trying to leap like she was the star acrobat in the UniverSoul Circus. I grabbed her just in time before she took a big spill on the floor. “Slow down there little lady.” Rather than her being scared by a stranger, she fit in my arms perfectly and started playing with my earrings and talking to me quite fluently in little girl baby talk.

By the time her father came back, he was apologizing. “I’m so sorry. Let me guess, she made a dive for the candy. I don’t let her have sugar and her mother does so we go through a period of withdrawal every time it’s my time for custody.” She was smiling at me with this little innocent, angelic, brown face and all I could do was come to her defense.

“Nooooo, she . . . it wasn’t like that. She was just , , , “ I wasn’t very good at lying and I just stopped in mid sentence. “What’s your name, Princess?”

She told me her name quite promptly. I didn’t understand what the heck she said but at that point, she was focused on my necklace and jabbering away about something I’m sure only another two year old or a parent could understand. “Her name is Shakhari, and she is indeed my little princess. I’ll take her back now, thanks.” Shakhari was having none of that and she grabbed my neck and laid her sweet little head on my shoulder. “I share joint custody with her mother and when she lives with me, my brother, and his two sons; she’s the only woman in the house. She has a need for female bonding that defies logical thinking. That estrogen is some powerful stuff, right?”

“It’s okay, I’ll hold her, go ahead, it looks like you could use an extra hand.” While Daddy was unpacking the cart, getting his super savings card swiped, and paying, I was checking him out; he was actually very cute. He had a full beard and a delicious looking chocolate complexion and a shopping cart full of health food. I whispered in Shakhari’s ear, “You know, your Daddy is pretty handsome.”

That must have been the magic phrase because almost immediately Shakhari wanted to go back to Daddy and she reached out to him. He scooped her up and kept loading his cart with the bags like he was the featured juggler with UniverSoul. Right before they were ready to leave, he said, “Say goodbye to the pretty lady, Shakhari.” She blew me a big kiss and I could hear her saying bye-bye over and over until they were well beyond the automatic doors.

I paid for my groceries and made my way to the parking lot. I was putting my groceries in the back seat and still thinking about Dad and that sexy smile when I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I looked up and it was Dad. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Vernon; I wanted to thank you for taking care of my little lady. I was wondering if . . . Do you think it would be okay if I gave you my number and you could give me a call . . . that is if you aren’t married or seeing someone or anything. Sorry, I’m not very good at this. I haven’t dated in a long while so I’m a little out of practice. I’m sorry.”

I extended my hand, “I’m Deborah, nice to meet you. There’s no need to apologize.” He handed me his business card with his home and cell phone numbers written on the back. A week later I was on a date with him, sitting at a table staring into the dreamiest eyes possible and pinching myself that he was so amazing.

The chemistry was just there, it wasn’t forced or anything, we just seemed to connect. He told me that he’d moved to the area two years ago, a little before Shakhari was born, and his pregnant girlfriend at the time had no intention of moving away from her family, and they had no plans to get married. “I got a chance to really make a difference,” he explained, “so when my brother told me they were opening an Office of Minority Affairs in the county, and were looking for someone to head it up, and he could get me an interview, I jumped at the chance. Janet is a massage therapist on a cruise ship for 3 or 4 months at a time so it works our perfectly that I can take Shakhari, my brother and his two teenage sons are the perfect babysitters whenever I need them. When she is with her Mom, I feel like my entire life is on hold.” He explained to me that he’d largely gotten caught up in his ex’s looks and while he could have made better choices in a partner, and used a lot more precaution, i.e. protection, he was making the best of the situation and being the best father he knew how to be.

The more we talked, the more attracted I was. Sure, we’d talked on the phone, gotten to know each other a little bit before the date, but there was something about being in his presence, smelling his cologne, seeing those shoulders, just being in the company of a man that was intoxicating. I told him my sad story, of how I’d let myself love a man who didn’t love me and how it had fucked with my self esteem so I’d been alone for a while, just trying to work on myself. Isolated was a better term for it. I’d sort of shut myself off from the rest of the world to figure things out and make sense of it all. Usually, when you admit flaws to a man, they run 100 yards in the opposite direction but Vernon was hanging right in there with me, it didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. I could tell from his actions and his words that he was really interested in finding a woman of substance, which is rare. Most men are looking for a woman of beauty, who won’t question them or demand anything of them. He explained that after Shakhari was born, he was intent on finding a great role model for his daughter and a great partner with whom he could build a life together. Boy was I glad the recipe I was using called for shallots that night and I had to run to the store.

After dinner, we walked hand in hand by the bay, looking out over the water and up at the stars. We sat on a bench for a while and watched the other couples walk by, kissing and hugging, feeling each other up as if no one could see what they were doing. I got a little chilly and he gave me his jacket and put his arms around my shoulders. It was getting late but I was in no rush to end the date so I asked him if he wanted to come back to my place for a drink.

I had no plans on having sex with him; I just wanted to appreciate his company a little more. Vernon was picking out music in the living room while I was in the kitchen getting out the glasses and opening the wine. All of a sudden it hit me that I had made a huge mistake. Wine, music, alone in my apartment. Duh, that meant SEX! Hot, buck naked, sweaty sex. My hands started shaking and I couldn’t even hold the bottle opener steady. I was trying to figure out a way to put a stop to the whole thing, call it off, ask him to leave, when Vernon came in the kitchen and said, “Deborah, is everything alright? Here, let me help you with that.”

He intentionally stood behind me, pressing his body against mine, and wrapped his arms around me, placing his hands on top of mine, and opened the bottle. My heart was racing out of my chest. I could feel the fullness of my ass against him, his chest against my back, his arms were strong but his hands were gentle. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against his chest for a moment and just stood there. He started massaging my shoulders, and he said, “This is nice, thank you for inviting me over.” I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear and in that moment, I felt like a woman. I am a woman of course, but when you spend so much time alone you don’t get a chance to FEEL like a woman. I leaned back into him fully, subconsciously rubbing my ass on him, and I could detect the slightest movement in his pants.

That’s when panic hit me. What the hell was I doing? I wiggled out from between the counter and his body and decided that I was going to gain full control of the situation. I was going to fake a headache and call it a night but Vernon beat me to it. “Whoa, look at the time,” he said! “My nephew has rugby playoffs tomorrow and I have to get home to uhmmm . . . take care of things, to get ready. I mean I need to get up early to get the kids ready and . . . well, I better get going.” He was trying to discretely reposition himself and scramble for his jacket to put in front of him.


I walked him to the door and we said our goodbyes. I guess neither one of us knew what was the appropriate thing to do. The date was awesome, there was chemistry out of this world, but we were both out of practice in the romance department. We stood at my doorway and saying what a great time we both had and how we should do it again soon. I knew good and damn well that I wanted a kiss. I could tell he wanted a kiss too. He stood there stalling for another minute until finally I just put my arms around his neck, leaned in close and closed my eyes.

The next thing I felt were his lips pressed softly against mine, his tongue softly exploring my mouth. He pulled my body tightly to his and I cupped his face in my hands. His hands explored my back and the further down they went, the more I moaned into his mouth. We went from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat. One kiss turned into deep soul kissing and there was no turning back. He sucked my tongue gently in his mouth and I got dizzy. His mouth tasted slightly sweet, like he’d eaten a mint in anticipation of kissing me while I wasn’t looking. Our lips parted and he started kissing my neck. His technique was out of this world, gently sucking my hot spot and nibbling on my flesh while his hands were pulling me closer, rubbing me all over. There was no way I was going to let him leave so I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the living room. We both fell on the sofa and started making out like two teenagers in high school.

There is something transcendent about being in the arms of a Black man. Anyone who has every had the pleasure can testify to that. Being in the arms of a beautiful Black man, after months of being alone, is like finding an oasis in the desert after crawling on the hot sands. When I’m in that moment, feeling his muscles, the power of his grasp, if feels like it’s the reason I was created, it’s like climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and reaching the Apex. Pressing his full body weight into mine, he took my breath away. I tried to pull him closer, to become one with him, to somehow feel his breath inside of me. He put his leg between mine and I started humping on him. My skirt was sliding up and I kept trying to subconsciously pull it back down. My mind was so used to putting me off when they made advances; it was hard to turn off that record that allowed me to be fully sensual and expressive with a man.
Truth is, I was scared. I was scared of letting down my guard. I was unsure of how to be sexual with a man anymore. I wasn’t sure what healthy boundaries were. I was playing all sorts of old tapes in my head about being a slut for sleeping with a man on the first date. I’m 30 years old and I was feeling like a teenager on the couch with my mom upstairs, ready to scold me for being fast.

Vernon must have been having the same apprehensions, well, at least comparable ones. He sat up and moved to the far end of the sofa. I was still lying there, with my legs spread, breathing heavy, and a look of tortured lust on my face. I could clearly see the outline of his dick tenting his pants and he made no efforts to hide it.

“Is everything okay,” I asked, sitting up and trying to gain some composure.

“Sure, I’m cool. It’s just that I’m not really sure that we should be doing this. I can’t lie; I want to be with you. You CAN’T imagine how much I want to be with you right now. It’s just that I don’t want my judgment clouded because it’s been so long since I . . . you know. I’m into you for a lot of reasons but I don’t want to just get caught up in the moment because I’m trying to fill the void, feel me? I’m not sure if I’m thinking with the right head.”

I think we both needed that minute to catch our breath and regroup. To be honest, the fact that he wanted to slow things down made me want him that much more. Not completely because you always want what you think you can’t have, but I’m sure that had a little to do with it, but mostly because he was actually thinking about the consequences of us getting too carried away. That was a first. Every other man I’d been with, once we’d gotten to the dry humping, spit swapping, simulating sex stage, there was nothing short of a natural disaster that could get them to think about anything other than fucking.

He pulled my skirt hem down to my knees, rather reluctantly I could tell, and then he pulled me onto his lap. We talked for a few minutes but neither of us made a move to end the evening. I tried to move to sit next to him, expressing that I was fearful that I was hurting him, and he sucked his teeth and gave me a look like, “Gurl, pleeease, don’t even think that you could hurt me.” I TOTALLY felt like a woman in the moment.

It was only then that all the work I’d done on myself, redefining and healing, kicked in. I was a vibrant, vital, woman with a lot to offer and sexual needs, the need for human contact. I was deserving of pleasure and sensual release. Yes, I wanted a relationship but more than that I wanted a man to appreciate me for more than being just a piece of ass. I was reasonably confident that Vernon didn’t just want a one night stand. But the real kicker was in coming to terms with the fact that, even if he did, even if having a sex on the first date wasn’t what I’d been conditioned to think a virtuous woman did, I was empowered and responsible for my happiness. I could choose to see the situation as one of opportunity and take ownership of my emotions afterwards, whatever the outcome.

I straddled Vernon’s lap and faced him. I slowly undid the buttons on my blouse, verrrry slowly. He didn’t say a word; he just sat there and watched me. I pulled my blouse off and dropped it to the floor. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts and he started massaging them. I undid the snaps of my bra and let if find a home on the floor on top of my shirt. Instinctively, his mouth found my nipples and started sucking them. I held them up for him, feeding him, throwing my head back and enjoying the sensation of his tongue, moving from one titty to the other, licking my hardened nipples, sucking them, biting them gently, driving me absolutely fucking crazy.

I started grinding on him, undoing the buttons on his shirt. He said, “Wait, shouldn’t we . . .” I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I kissed him again, this time even more passionately than before, if that was at all possible, and silenced him.

“Vernon, do you want to . . .” I didn’t know what words to use, so I just said what I was really feeling in that moment. “Vernon, do you want to fuck me?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Deborah, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t see straight.” He buried his face between the soft flesh of my breasts and pushed both nipples together and sucked them at the same time.

I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward my bedroom so we could stretch out and be more comfortable. He kept asking me if I was sure about this. I turned on my mackadocious music, the music I played when I wanted to get in the mood to fuck myself, and I started dancing for him, taking off the rest of my clothes. I slid out of my skirt and he just sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable. Leaving my red lace panties on, I knelt between his legs and undid his belt buckle. He was looking down at me like he was having an out of body experience. I undid the button and lowered the zipper on his pants. I reached in his boxers and felt the heat of his dick. I pulled it from the opening and looked up at him, licked my lips, and licked the head. I saw his eyes roll back in his head and I knew that was my go ahead. I swirled my tongue around the head and started licking his shaft. I slip my lips sensually up and down the length and took his entire dick in my mouth deeply. He was bucking his hips and I was matching his thrusts. He grabbed my by my shoulders and pushed me away. “Stop,” he said breathing heavily, “I need you to slow down.”

I stood up and turned around. I slid my panties down over my full hips and stepped out of them. By the time I had turned back around, Vernon was naked and laying on the bed looking like a chocolate vision of beauty. “My turn,” he said, “and he stuck out his tongue. “I want to taste you.” I climbed on the bed and tried to lie next to him. He wasn’t having that and he told me that he wanted me to ride his face. For a woman who was out of practice at having sex, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable being that assertive. I stopped myself before I got too caught up in old tapes in my head and accepted his invitation.

I grabbed the headboard and threw my leg across his shoulder. He stuck his tongue out and said, “Come on, baby, let me lick that sweet pussy.” I lowered myself slowly, letting the lips of my pussy gently caress his lips. He started kissing my pussy, frenching them like he’d done to me earlier. I was biting my lip, trying to stifle my moans of appreciation but there was no use. I felt fucking fantastic. I started rubbing my pussy on his soft lips, sliding back and forth, feeling his tongue in my hole and his lips sucking at my clit. The sensations were out of the world. Before long, I was bouncing a little harder on his mouth, riding his tongue. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me forward and started licking me from my clit to my asshole. I’ll be a black son of a bitch if I could hold back my sounds of appreciation at that point. I was moaning and talking dirty, telling him how much I loved it.

“Ohhhh, yessss, sexy mother fucker. Let me ride that tongue, shove it in me. Oh shit, that feels so good.” He grabbed thighs and pulled me tighter. Poor little thing, I could have suffocated him I was bouncing up and down on his face so hard. I could feel the tremors, they were building and there was no turning back.

I rolled over on the bed, exhausted, but energized at the same time. Vernon rolled over on me and kissed me and I could taste my juices on his tongue. “Do you need some time to recuperate,” he whispered?

I reached between his legs and felt for his dick and rubbed it on the slit of my pussy. “Fuck me, NOW,” was all I needed to say.

“Oh shit,” he said, “Hold on there sweetness.” He reached for his pants on the side of the bed and pulled out some condoms, opened the package with his teeth, and slid it on his dick. I was so happy he’d taken the initiative to be responsible because I would have kicked myself a thousand times in the morning for not insisting that we use protection.

Locked and fully loaded, he placed my legs on his shoulders. He looked down at me and rubbed the head of his dick on my slit. I was sweating, trying to get him to penetrate me. I was still soaking wet from cumming before but I hadn’t felt a real dick in my in so long, I couldn’t wait any longer. Vernon made me wait. He teased me, excruciatingly painful teasing. He pushed the head in and I gripped the sheets. I was tighter than usual I guess, from not having sex in so long, so he had to work hard to get it all in. We were both sweating and grunting and he was going deeper and deeper. Finally, I could feel his balls on my ass and the head of his dick was deep inside me.

Gripping my thighs, he started fucking me. When I say he was fucking me, he would withdraw all the way to the head and then push every millimeter inside me, rhythmically, methodically, sensually. I was twisting and turning, playing with his nipples, playing with my own, rubbing my clit, just adding to the sensations. I grabbed his ass and started trying to get him to fuck me harder. We were grunting and groaning, he was fucking me senseless. He let my legs go and I wrapped them around his back. He fell on top of me and we began kissing passionately. Our sweaty bodies were slipping and sliding together.

“Oh shit, I’m going to cum.”

He fell on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not saying a word. I pulled the covers over us and drifted off to sleep snuggled up next to him. I awoke to the sounds of him getting dressed, glanced at the clock, and it said 5:30.

“Listen, Shakhari has never woken up with me not there so I need to run,” he whispered. “I left the address of where my nephew is going to be playing. Meet us there when you get a chance. I can’t wait to see you later.” He kissed my forehead. Go back to sleep and get some rest and we can pick up where we left off tonight.”

I was relieved. While I was prepared for the big blow off, I was pleased that it looked like things were going to move ahead. Where things were going to go was entirely up to us but I was pretty assured that he hadn’t just taken advantage of me and I was confident that I had truly made the empowered choice that signaled a sensual rite of passage for me as a woman.

(And just so you know, he nephew’s team won the regional title.)

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

The Naughty Phone Call

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