In the Heat of the Night

It was a steamy night in the ATL and there was a power outage.  No light, no AC, all the entire city could do was sit and sweat and sit and sweat some more.  Luckily, I live on the top floor of my condo so I could go outside naked as the day I was born and enjoy a little breeze without the fear of anyone peeking at me.  My balcony looks out over the parking lot of a major home furnishing store, you know, the one from Sweden, Switzerland, wherever the hell it’s from so there isn’t a building around that could spy on me.  I made a pitcher of Sangria before my ice cubes turned to water and I was just chilling outside, in quiet reflection. 

There’s something about it being Africa-hot at nighttime that really gets to me.  It’s one thing for it to be stifling hot at 12 noon, but when the heat is oppressive and it’s 12 midnight, that’s a whole nutha thing all together.  I was feeling a buzz from my Sangria when the phone rang.  “Who the hell could this be, calling at quarter after “booty call o’clock” at night?”  I glanced at the caller ID on my cell phone and it was my friend Nina who lived downstairs. 

I was glad to have conversation because it was a little boring with no music or TV but I was also enjoying my naked solitude.  Nina was a white girl who started out as just someone I would see in the gym working out occasionally.  She and I were always deeply engrossed in some book and I would ask her what she was reading, she would ask me what I was reading.  One thing led to another and eventually, we started a book club for the building.  It’s only about five of us: two white women, two black women, including me, and a gay Spanish cat.  Once a month, someone hosts the group at their crib and we all bring a covered dish and dish about the book.  Everyone brings their own flavor to the group, literally and figuratively.  Luis has hipped us to all sorts of Latino fiction and Nina had a love of erotica that went far beyond the trash that’s in Borders.  She loves storytelling and she often times reads selections that would get us all hot and bothered.  I even noticed Luis squirming in his seat a couple of times.  “Hey sweetness, what’s up,”  I asked?

“Ebony, I’m sweating like a pig down here.  There’s no breeze and I feel like I’m going to suffocate.  Do you think I could come up to your place and crash on your couch?”  Her unit was on the courtyard side and she was a couple of floors down.  I can only imagine it must have been like an oven in her condo. 

“Sure, come on up, not a problem.”  That’s what I said, what I meant was, “Damn, I’m not really in the mood for company.  I’ve got a buzz going and I’m enjoying my freedom.”  Nina was really good people and I couldn’t leave her hanging in her hour of need so I opened my door with all the graciousness I could muster. 

I grabbed a robe and tied it around my body.  It wasn’t much, just a little short silk thingie I had gotten as a present from an ex-boyfriend.  I weighed the options of whether I should put on panties but my Sangria got the best of me.  “Fuck it, this is my house, if she sees my pussy, then so be it.  It’s too hot to be wearing panties anyway.” 

I opened the door and Nina was there, sheet in hand, and looking like she was dehydrated.  “Girl, come on in, you look like who struck John and ran.”  She knew me well enough to just look at me and not say anything.  It was one of the famous euphemisms my grandmother used to say that have become part of my daily lexicon.  Nina walked past me like she was in a daze and headed straight for the balcony.  Now Nina is a beautiful woman, there’s no question about it.  Her long brown hair fell just past her shoulders, but she was skinny, I’m mean slender, whatever white girls call themselves when they are a size 3.  I’m slender, but I have a lot more meat on my bones.  I have bigger titties, bigger thighs, bigger hips, and a whole helluva lot more azz.  I wear my hair in locs and had them pulled back in a ponytail.  To look at us, you wouldn’t even think we ran in the same circles but we were most certainly friends.  It was hard to find intellectual equals of any race and Nina was cerebral and logical with the best of them. 

Plopped down in a chair, she had her eyes closed and she was lying back like had just finished running a marathon.  Sweat was visible on her white wife beater tank top that clung to her small breasts and her tiny shorts had to be damp because they were so tight I could practically see the outline of her pussy lips.  I thought it was odd that she was wearing high heels but there wasn’t much to them.  She looked like she could have just gotten off the pole at the Cheetah Club

“You look like you could use some water, can I get you some?” 

“No thanks,” she said, “this will be fine, as she reached for the pitcher of Sangria and poured a big glass and downed it in one gulp. 

“Hey, careful there sweetie,” I said, “you are going to wake up with a terrible hangover if you don’t use moderation.”  She gave me another look like, “Do you have any idea how fucking hot I am?  Don’t test me.”  Word weren’t necessary.  I stood there looking at her, trying to cool off.  It was surreal.  There were no lights to be seen anywhere in the distance, illuminating the Atlanta skyline.  There was a silence like I’ve never known before.  It was like a moment frozen in time.  “Here, I’m going to make us another pitcher before the last of the ice melts.  I’ll be right back.” 

It was difficult moving around in the dark, trying to cut up fruit and not slice any fingers off in the process.  I was having difficulty maneuvering around in complete darkness when I heard Nina say, “Do you need any help?”  I could barely make out her form as I accepted her offer but there wasn’t much she could do, not knowing my kitchen as well as I did.  It became just a joke as we would bump into each other trying to get sugar and wine and everything cut up in that pitcher without it tumbling to the floor.  Wouldn’t that be a bitch? 

Nina was touchy feely.  Every time we would bump into each other, her hands would linger on my body.  At first, it was just my shoulder, and then it was my waist.  Then she pressed her body against mine and I almost swore I could feel her grinding on my ass.  I knew the sangria was making me feel a little loose and I certainly didn’t mind and I figured the Sangria had gone to her head rather quickly and it was making her a little amorous as well. 

I decided two could play at that game and I decided that I was going to give her something to think about.  I pretended to drop the dishtowel and I bent over, and I made sure to rub my ass all over her.  I got really bold and decided to step things up a notch.  “Here, let me see if I can cool you off a little bit.”  I took one of the last pieces of ice and I started rubbing it all over her chest.  Nina, as if in a trance, pulled her tank top down, exposing her tits, and I rubbed it all over her nipples.  She was chanting, “Oh shit, that feels so good, please don’t stop.”  Melted ice was running down her body and I wasn’t sure if it was cooling her off or making her hotter. 

It was sort of weird.  We both knew at that point that something intense was happening but neither one of us said anything.  I was giddy, my pulse was racing.  There, in the darkness, I put my hand between her legs and felt her pussy.  I could hear her soft moans but it was hard to make out the expression on her face.  She was humping her mound against my hand and I could feel the heat emanating from her core.  I wanted to ask what was going on but I didn’t want to spoil the mood.  I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen. 

“I think the Sangria is done, let’s go back outside and try to catch a breeze.”  I grabbed the pitcher and tried to maneuver my way back to the balcony without breaking my leg on a piece of furniture.  I sat on the chaise lounge and loosened up my robe so my breasts would be exposed if I moved just a little.  Without much effort at all, Nina could see my pussy if she wanted to, it would be right there, all I had to do was spread my long brown legs.  Nina joined me outside a few seconds after I got settled.  She looked like she was more uncomfortable than when she first walked through the door.  There was a nice breeze blowing and I was sure our little experiment with the ice had cooled her off quite a bit but I knew she was just as hot as I was after our little groping session in the kitchen. 

I was so horny and turned on that I couldn’t think straight.  I didn’t want to have casual conversation but I didn’t want to ruin the thing that was happening between us.  For a long while, we sat in silence, just sipping our wine and staring out into the distance.  I closed my eyes and felt the heat in my body.  It wasn’t heat from the temperature, it wasn’t heat from the drink, and it was a heat from lust.  I was fantasizing about Nina and I in the throws of passion.  She stood up and started speaking in almost hushed, melodic tones.  She was weaving a tale of erotic delight; she was hypnotizing me with her words.

“The beauty,” she said, “of Sapphic delights is in the slow build, the smoldering fire that ignites the flames of passion.  The beauty of interracial pleasures is in the contrast.  Your body is a black canvas upon which pleasure should be painted.”  She paced back and forth, her heels clicking on the tile, punctuating her speech.  “I wish to serve you, you delicious Nubian queen, I wish to submit myself to you, a muse of your whims, so that you may reach ecstasy.  Let me drink from your Ebony source, let me lie next to you, our bodies intertwined, our limbs a tangle of contrasted skin tones.” 

I had never in my entire life had anything like this happen to me.  I couldn’t even explain it.  She was seducing me with prose and I was aching with desire and all I could do was listen, words were caught in my through.  How was I to respond?  I could have lit all of Atlanta proper with the electricity that was flowing through my body. 

Nina sat at the end of the chaise lounge.  I spread my legs and she moved closer.  Gently, she reached for the tie on my robe and undid it.  She pushed the material to the side and exposed my body to her view.  She took in every inch of my brown frame and licked her lips like she was starving.  She leaned forward and she touched her lips to mine.  I reveled in the softness of her kiss, her tongue, and I pulled her body to mine. 

“Let me make love to you,” she whispered, as if she was asking my permission.  I simply nodded my consent and she proceeded to give me pleasure in ways that only another woman can give.  She stood briefly, undressing in front of me.  She pulled off her tank top and tossed it casually to the ground, revealing her perfectly formed breasts to my vision.  Her nipples were pink and puffy and certainly a contrast to my dark, pebble-like nipples that were aching to be sucked.  Turning around, she put her thumbs in the waist of her shorts and bent over.  Methodically she pulled them down, exposing her pussy from behind and her ass, of which she seemed to be especially proud.  She ran her hands all over it, spreading her cheeks and showing off her asshole.  My heart skipped a little beat and my clit seemed to come alive.  I was enjoying the show, such a contrast to any of the other women I had been with.  Her pale skin seemed to glow in the darkened night and her tan lines were visible, just barely.  It was apparent that she was trying to get brown all over.  She left her heels on.  I had always thought that was something that only porn stars did but in that moment, she looked amazing.  I wouldn’t have wanted her to change a thing. 

Being so open in our lovemaking aroused me.  We were outside.  It wasn’t as if we were in the Serengeti, we were in midtown ATL on 17th street, and it all seemed so decadent.  I think she was equally in awe of my skin tone as I was of hers.  She took her hands and massaged my legs, spread them wider, rubbing ever so close to my pussy but not touching me there.  My body was reacting to her touch. 

Our eyes had become adjusted to the darkness and she knelt before me as she lowered the back of the chaise lounge to almost reclining.  Even though the temperature was hot, she was trembling and shaking like she was freezing cold.  She crawled over my body like a panther surveying its prey.  My arms were stretched out above my head, gripping the railing for dear life. 

We kissed again, this time I was able to return the kiss even more passionately.  She began her descent down my body with her mouth, bathing me with sensual kisses.  She covered my neck and throat with corporeal kisses and I moaned in appreciation.  She took an incredibly long time kissing and licking her way down my arms and sucking each and every one of my fingers.  My nipples were hard and aroused like two tiny pebbles waiting for her mouth to lick and suck them.  My body was becoming more and more comfortable, more and more aroused, and I was responding to each touch with more enthusiasm.  She brought her tongue to my left nipple and gently licked it and I let out a hiss . . . She licked the right one and I groaned.  In fact, she spent the better part of a half hour licking, sucking, and kissing on my nipples. 

I kept saying, “Oh God, that feels so good, don’t stop.”  I grabbed her hair and held her mouth to my tits, made her suck them like a baby.  Every sensation was like a jolt of pleasure in my clit.  The more aroused I got, the more I needed to give into the pleasure and the passion of this lesbian lust.  It was more than apparent that I was enjoying myself as she licked and kissed her way down my stomach to my goody trail of soft fine hair that led to my sensual treasure.  She let her mouth wander down to my legs and I spread my thighs enough for her to lick and kiss me there.  I could smell my scent that betrayed my arousal.  I turned my over on my stomach and she began lavishing my back with kisses.  She grabbed my ponytail and pulled it as she whispered in my ear that she was going to make me cum so many times I would pass out.  I responded by grinding my ass on her and saying, “Fuck you.”  She loved my fight and arrogance; it turned her on that much more.  She slid her hand between my legs to gently rub my mound.  She playfully spanked me, not too hard; gently, erotically.  I was thrusting my ass up at her and telling her to eat my pussy, my hot, wet, pussy.   

We were both out of control with lust.  All of my inhibitions had long since disappeared and she was insatiable.  She wanted to experience every sensation she could.  I turned over on my back again.  Now it was her turn to be overcome with lust.  My pussy was so fucking wet it dripped with desire.  I spread my legs and she stared at the center of my being in complete awe.  My lips were parted and swollen with arousal.  My clit was already peeking from its hood.  I was so wet she could see my juices glistening even in the darkened night.  My smell was intoxicating.  She inhaled my aroma over and over again, wanting to breathe it into her very essence.  I held onto the last little bit of control I had left.  “Nina, tell me you want this, tell me that you need to make love to make, to make me cum.  I need to hear you say it.”

 “Mmmmmm, you know damn well that I want to eat and lick and suck your wet cunt.  I want to make you cum with my mouth.  That’s what you need.  I want to stick my tongue deep inside you, suck your clit, EAT YOUR PUSSY.  I want to rub my pussy against yours.  I want to see the contrast.  I am desperate to lick you and eat your pussy and I want you to use my mouth to cum.  I want you to shoot your pussy cream in my mouth.  Mmmmm. Oh fuck, I want you to strapon on a big fat cock and pound my pussy and asshole.  I want this.  I need this.  I’m intoxicated by your beauty and I want to share with you every pleasure imaginable.” 

Her sexy talk pushed me over the edge.  In fact, I almost came from hearing her being so open, so vocal about her desires.  As much as I wanted her to dive in and devour my pussy, I wanted to make it an experience that she would never forget.  I took my fingers and gently spread my lips and started to gently rub on my exposed, fat clit.  She responded by grinding her wet pussy on my leg.  She pulled my hand away and replaced it with her own.  She put her fingers at the entrance to my hole and she started working them inside me, trying to get me to cum.  I had made a transformation then and there.  I was no longer the calm, reserved woman who wouldn’t verbalize her desires lest the spell be broken, I was hot and crazed and I wanted more.  

Her soft fingers reached places that my own couldn’t.  This wasn’t the gentle lovemaking of romantic fantasies, she was fucking me.  Before no time at all, she was finger fucking me with three fingers, ramming them hard and I was meeting every thrust.  She lowered her mouth to my clit and started sucking it, licking it, working her fingers in deeper, hitting my spot.  She grabbed my thighs, pushed them up, and drove her tongue deep in my hot asshole.  She was tongue fucking my backdoor and I was going out of my mind. 

“Come on, eat me.  MMMM.  Oh yeah, you love eating my pussy and sucking my ass.  Does that taste good?  Yeah?”  I reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled her up.  I positioned her in a 69 and we went to town on my balcony.  I was driving my tongue in her twat, tasting her sweet juices; she was gripping my thighs and licking my clit like nobody’s business.  It was loud, passionate, raunchy sex in the heat of the night.  I felt my body tense, I felt her pussy gush.  We were both fingering each other and fucking and licking and sucking like we were possessed.  Oh Nina, oh Nina, yes baby, yes, oh fuck, oh shit, fuck, damn, I’m going to cum.

We stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed on top of the comforter.  The breeze and the cross ventilation cooled us from our physical heat but the heat of passion was still sweltering.  Before the night was over, we fucked in every way conceivable.  At some point in the mid morning, we were awakened by the sound of the TV.  The electricity was restored and the light of day greeted us.  We planned on taking advantage of the air conditioning and our newfound aspect to your sensuality all afternoon long.



Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Take my Breath Away

I was old enough to be her ghetto mama.  There were at least 13, maybe 15 years separating our births, but the attraction between us was strong.  Her skin was the color of the deepest ebony; she was BLACK and her skin was hot and soft to the touch.  To say she was sexy was an understatement.  She wasn’t sexy because she happened to be beautiful.  Her beauty was part of the package but it certainly wasn’t the only ingredient in her intoxicating blend of charms.  She oooooooozed sticky, sweet sensuality and feminine mystique.  That, combined with an odd elixir of pheromones, created a persona so confident, intelligent, and so goddamn unapologetic in the space she took up on earth that she was like a Goddess.  Every step she took was confident; her stride swayed with rhythmic cadence.  Her eyes were captivating and she used them like weapons, drawing you in and beguiling you with her charms. 

She hunted me like prey.  I wanted to resist her charms but I am, after all, only human and subject to weakness of the flesh and will.  I had not built up an immunity to her seduction.  I tried for weeks to dodge her advances but eventually, we were alone, in my apartment and I was a victim of her erotic wiles.  On my sofa, with nothing to distract us but the barely imperceptible crackle of the candles that bathed us in a soft, warm glow, we talked and touched.  She was in no rush and she was completely in control; I was just along for the ride and where we were going I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Here, put your head in my lap,” she instructed me and I quickly followed her command.  I felt warm and safe there, staring up at the ceiling as we conversed about life and love and the work of James Vanderzee.  The sexual tension in the air was so thick, so high and tight, that it put Kid’s flattop in House Party 2 to shame.  In silence, she caressed my body.  My nipples responded to the gentle touch of her fingertips on the exposed skin on the nape of my neck; my sighs were a response to her erotic manipulations. 

She placed her hand tenderly on my throat . . . and left it there.  With skillful ease, she began the most erotic massage of my neck.  Her stroke was sensual, soft, but it grew more firm and intentioned gradually.  The sensations I felt were new, exciting and her eyes never left mine and she began to apply the slightest pressure to my throat.  I was moaning, or I should say, I couldn’t help myself from moaning.  I was in an erotic trance.  I kept getting more and more aroused.  I didn’t understand what was happening; all I knew was that I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted and needed more.  Every time she would squeeze my neck just a bit harder I felt the blood rush to my head, it pulsed and throbbed but it wasn’t just in my head.  My pussy felt the sensations just as much.  I was in a trance, a daze from lack of oxygen and an excess of arousal. 

“More, I whispered,” and she responded in kind.  She grabbed my throat and started to squeeze harder.  The sensations in the back of my eyes, in my clit, were like nothing I’d ever felt before.  My body was thrashing around on the sofa and I was grabbing her hand with my own, trying to get her to squeeze harder, longer; I wanted her grip tighter.  She tormented with me her sexy talk, telling me how sexy I looked, how wet her pussy was getting seeing me so turned on.  This was the epitome of erotic asphyxiation; she was choking me, controlling me sensually.  I wasn’t for a moment afraid.  My life was in her hands, literally, and I felt so close, so exposed, so aroused. 

She knew how to control my breath and my body.  I was communicating to her with my eyes; telling her when to stop, how much pressure to apply; that I loved every second of it.  Eventually, I couldn’t control myself.  I unzipped my jeans and slipped my fingers to my engorged, sensitive clit and rubbed it in a circular motion.  I was so turned on, so completely soaking wet; I knew I wouldn’t last very long.  She knew I was about to cum as well and she held my throat and firmly in her hand and applied even more pressure.  I thought I was going to pass out.  I wanted to gasp for air but I couldn’t.  My body tensed up and . . .  orgasmic explosion and the breath of life collided in erotic bliss.

I never saw her again.  She drifted off into obscurity, out of my life but not out of my mind.  The impression she left on my throat was not nearly as lasting as the one she made in my memory.  To this day, that night remains one of the most erotic experiences of my life. 

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK

Faking It

I was socialized to fake orgasms. I don't know how. No one ever said to me, “When you are having sex with a man, you need to cater to his ego and make him feel like he’s the best lover in the world,” but I swear that’s the thought going through my mind every time I do it.  . It's something in the way we socialize girls/women. I don't know what the something is, but it's prevalent. I swear I'm NEVER going to fake an orgasm again, and then, I always do it to boost their egos. I can't even stop myself sometimes. If, me, Miss Healthy Black Sexuality, can't help but fake it, it's an epidemic for sure because most women aren't self aware enough to know that they are faking it. 

Most women don't know the difference between getting wet and having an orgasm. I hear it all day, every day. "Oh, I came from him just kissing me." That's not an orgasm, that's arousal.  And I dare say that most men have never even been given a basic primer course on women's bodies to know how to make them orgasm. I met a male escort, a man who made his living having sex with women, and he had NO CLUE where a woman's clitoris was. He was pointing to the hood and calling that her clit. How can a man give a woman an orgasm if he thinks her hood is her magic button? Thus, a whole lot of faking is going on. 

I faked every orgasm until I was in my twenties and I didn't even know it because I had never had an orgasm before. And this was LONG before the advent of porn at your fingertips. Today, children are seeing porn on average at 10 years old, some even younger. They are being socialized to yell and scream and call out to God before they come close to having sex.  Plenty of girls can masturbate and do not know how to give themselves an orgasm. I sure as hell did something up until the age of 24 or 25 and I thought I was having great sex. I remember the first time I had an orgasm and I was like, "Are you serious? That's what I should have been feeling all along?"

If a dude tells me he has given a woman five orgasms in one night, I run the other direction because 9 times out of 10, she was faking and he has NO CLUE how to truly please her.  And with men addicted to porn these days, they think that pounding away is what gives a woman an orgasm. They have NO concept of what real foreplay is or how to do anything other than "hit it". When most women tell them that they are doing a great job and yelling and screaming how great it is, they will never learn either. 

In my last relationship, I think I faked it 50% of the time. The sex felt good but I didn't cum and I just yelled and pretended I was out of habit. He wasn’t a bad lover at all.  He certainly wasn’t a great love either.  He was a one trick pony in that he knew how to fuck like a rabbit and he thought that was his calling card.  He had a little dick and he was plagued with low self-esteem so he needed to call (other) women names and slap them and degrade them to feel more like a man.  Was he sensual, tactile, erotic, spontaneous, creative, tender, or anything that would make him a truly great lover.  Not even close.  His techniques were what he learned when he was 14 and pounding away at whatever little girl got hot and bothered and he didn’t mature past that stage.  I’m guilty of letting him think he was a much better lover than her really is.  For whatever reason, I just go into “faking mode” and start screaming that I’m cumming and I’m really just feeling the pleasure of penetration, not a real orgasm.  It's a hard habit to break. 

I have had numerous women, too many to count women, tell me, "I can't have an orgasm with a man unless he's 10 inches or bigger." First and foremost, the number of men who have 10 inch penises is so small that they it's virtually impossible to meet more than one man with an appendage that large, let alone a succession of them. What most men call their 10 inch penis is really about 7 inches, which is larger than average but significantly smaller than almost a foot. Second, a woman's G-spot is located about 2 inches inside her vagina. You don't need a foot of dick to reach that. What women feel as the pleasure/pain of having their cervix hit by a large penis is what they are calling an orgasm. Again, knowledge of women's bodies . . . none. And 3. brothas with very average and sufficient penises at around 5 or 6 inches are feeling inadequate and ashamed when they are perfectly capable of providing a woman pleasure but they try to overcompensate by hitting it and stabbing it and killing it and all the things men with larger endowments do in porn. I can't handle the myths, lies, and dysfunction anymore and we need to talk about the issues that are debilitating to us as a community and in almost every instance, it comes back to our views on sexuality.  We have to start having more empowered, enlightened, and informed conversations. 

Ms Bisexual 2013

Trust me when I say that sistas are more scheming, lying, and down low than brothas when it comes to being bisexual.  I’m bisexual and I wear my label proudly.  I can't tell you how many times I've heard women say to me, almost verbatim, "Well, yes, I am attracted to both men and women but am I really bisexual, who knows?"  Goddamn!  I know.  If you are attracted to both men and women, YOUR AZZ IS BISEXUAL.   The rejection of the term bisexual by women is annoying to me when CLEARLY so many women are-- they are just afraid to admit it.  This whole, "I'm not going to say I'm bisexual because it has a negative connotation," bullshit is a cop out.  There's nothing negative about saying you are bisexual except that people would rather continue to perpetuate homophobia than admit the truth.  

I don't drink a lot.  I might have a drink once in two or three months, maybe once or twice a month if I'm being particularly social.  Can I claim that I'm not a drinker?  No.  Frequency doesn't dictate my "label."  I feel no need to make up another term to describe my drinking habits because I drink so infrequently.  No, I'm not an alcoholic; yes, I am a drinker.  See?  No shame in that.  I am a non-smoker.  I don't smoke, have never smoked, and have no desire to smoke.  I can wear my non-smoker label proudly.  People who smoke socially, or who only smoke when they are stressed out can't claim that they are non-smokers.  They give up that right when they take a puff.  Women who have sex with other women can't claim that they aren't bisexual because they only let women go down on them, they don't go down on other women.  It just can't work that way.  That's delusional rationalization and unhealthy.  No, that's insanity. 

I’ve heard the ever-popular, “I don’t like labels,” but women NEVER seem to mind the label of heterosexual, they only have problems with that bisexual label.  I always hear, “I am not bisexual because I’m not attracted to women emotionally, just sexually.”  That would be great if we were defining the word bi-emotional.  This sista told me once that she wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was bisexual.  Read that again.  She wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was.  How is that logical?  Okay, I’m not Black because I don’t like the way white people treat me.  There isn’t a planet in the universe where that shit makes sense.  You can’t define who you are by how other people treat you.  

The most popular excuse for why women don’t consider themselves bisexual, by far, is, “I PREFER sex with men.”  Well, of course, if you have sex with a woman and you don’t really enjoy it as much as you do when you are having sex with a man, that means you earned the right to be called a heterosexual.  RIGHT!  The definition of bisexual in the dictionary is of, relating to, or having a sexual orientation to persons of either sex.  Nowhere does it say, “only if you initiate sex with persons of the same sex.”

Men I can understand.  Black men are demonized for being bisexual.  Bisexual women are exalted in this society, men’s ultimate objectification fantasy.  We do ourselves a disservice by denying who we are.  It’s untruthful and damaging. 

Midnight Tango

We fit together perfectly, our bodies like pieces in a sensual puzzle.  The drumbeat pulsed like the blood coursing through our veins.  The Afro-Cuban rhythms heard only in our heads were genetically encoded in our DNA.  We moved together like two well-choreographed dancers; our dance was of romance, intimacy and erotic expression.