You Might be a Racist if . . .

If you have an outfit made from 180 count percale white cotton sheets . . . you might be a racist.  If you’ve ever attended an event where a cross was burned and people chanted, “Death to all niggers,” . . . you might be a racist.  Right.  Everyone gets that; that’s the ugly face of racism everyone loves to hate.  In reality, racism is far more subtle and FAR more pervasive than that.  Racism is a sickness so deep, so omnipresent, and so completely enmeshed in the very fabric of American consciousness, it’s dismissed, ignored, and negated because anyone other than a devout, card-carrying, unapologetic Aryan Nation/Nazi/Skinhead/Ku Klux Klan Grand Dragon is given the benefit of the doubt that they aren’t racist. 

People of color have been so oppressed, Black people in particular are so downtrodden by the burden of racism, so conditioned to swallow and choke on the incessant, daily racism that conditions our thinking from birth, that we don’t know how to speak out against racism other than to say, “Post racial my ass,” when we encounter something that is an insult to our vey being. That’s the extent of our outrage; that’s all we’ve allowed ourselves to do.  We are afraid to challenge racists, to get in their faces and silence them.  We lament and whine about racism amongst ourselves but we have been so conditioned to swallow our anger that we don’t know how to confront racism when we encounter it.  Black people have been raised to never, ever, ever, ever challenge white people’s belief systems lest we suffer the wrath of lily-white, blond-haired, blue-eyed God Almighty himself.  Racism has metastasized and grown unchecked for centuries and the perpetrators feel entitled to say and do whatever they want, with impunity; the system remains in place and people of color are not the beneficiaries. 

I’m the nigger that white people hate.  I’m the nigger that will not stay silent in the face of racism.

“I’m not racist.”  That phrase flows off the tongues of white people as easily as they say, “God Bless America.”  They are conditioned to say it.  Every white person knows deep down that racists are supposed to be bad, evil people so they deny any hint that they might actually harbor any racist sentiments with their knee-jerk response of, “I wasn’t raised racist,” and they are absolved all guilt, or so they believe. But because there has never been a healthy conversation about race in this country, because racism is bred into white people’s subconscious minds, they have no clue what it encompasses or even how to recognize their own racism.  Whites still control the conversations about race.  That’s the equivalent of child molesters dictating the conversation and setting the rules about what constitutes healthy sexuality. 

Let me break it down for you. 

·         If you watch Fox News because you think it’s the only news outlet that tells the truth . . . you might be a racist.

·         If you make a habit of going on African-American oriented websites to tell Blacks how racist they are . . . you might be a racist.

·         If you are tormented and tortured by the kidnapping of little blond white girls in the news but have never once given consideration or empathy to the plight of Black children . . . you might be a racist. 

·         If you vehemently oppose Affirmative Action because you think that “reverse racism” is keeping whites from their fair share of the pie . . . you might be a racist.

·         If you have made it your life’s mission to defend the honor of George Zimmerman because you believe that Black, unarmed teenagers are a threat to the safety of America . . . you are a racist.

·         If you think Herman Cain and Clarence Thomas should be role models for all Blacks because you think the only Blacks who have valid opinions are the ones that tow the conservative party line . . . there’s no might about it.

·         If you obsessively watch interracial porn because you think it’s especially hot to see white women having sex with Black men because that makes them especially nasty . . . that’s pretty racist. 

·         If you’ve ever said, “Let it go, slavery was in the past,” or “My ancestors didn’t own any slaves,” or “Jews suffered the Holocaust and they’ve managed to overcome that,” . . . you’re clueless and racist.

·         If you are convinced that Obama was born in Kenya and there was a conspiracy to have his birth announcement placed in a Hawaiian newspaper so that he could one day become President and take away the rights of whites, not only are you a racist, you’re fucking crazy. 

·         If you have ever argued that whites have a right to use the N word because Black people use it . . . let’s not pull any punches, you’re racist. 

·         If the only Black men you respect have the initials MJ (or, realistically, fill in the blank with any Black entertainer, celebrity, or sports figure) . . . I hate to break it to you . . . but you’re infected with the racism bug.

·         If you have ever lamented that you want things to go back to the good old days, you know, when white men had all the power . . . you are very, very racist. 

·         If you have ever accused a Black person of “playing the race card” for simply discussing racism, and then had the audacity to tell them what constitutes racism . . . yeah, you’re racist.

·         If you’re still pissed at OJ . . . let’s call a proverbial spade a spade why don’t we.

·         If you think slavery was a blessing for Blacks to save them from heathen Africa . . . come on now!  Seriously?

·         If you feel like you have to insinuate the phrase, “Color doesn’t matter,” or, “Can’t we all just get along,” into any conversation about race to prove that you aren’t racist . . . oh, wait, that’s hitting a little too close to home.  All white people say that . . . you know you aren’t racist but I hate to break it to you . . .

·         If you’ve ever come to the defense of a white person and said, “No, no, no, they aren’t racist because I know them personally and they’re a nice person,”  . . . that’s an example of everyday racism that you’ve never thought about before that you are guilty of. 

·         If you get anxious and defensive every time a POC talks about being proud of their identity . . . I hate to break it to you but you need to look at yourself in the mirror in a new light.

·         If the only quote you know from Dr. Martin Luther King is, “I have a dream,” and you have used it in a conversation to prove to a Black person you aren’t racist . . . it’s not looking too good for you. 

·         If you insist you aren’t racist because you have dated, are attracted to, or have sex with Black people because you think your sexual attraction negates the millions of messages you’ve been given that place whites above all others . . . you don’t really understand what racism is.

·         If you tell racist jokes and then get offended if someone calls you on it . . . what are the chances you aren’t racist?

·         If you have ever rationalized that there needs to be a White History Month or White Entertainment Television because whites deserve equality . . . you know good and god damn well that you are racist.

·         If you can quote every line of the movie Friday or can rap every word in every Kanye West song because you consider yourself to be so multi-cultural but you’ve never once explored any Black scholars or authors who are actually about lifting Black people up . . . you’d do well to take a look at your own white privilege. 

·         If you think light skinned Blacks are more civilized . . . you’ve been socialized to be racist.

·         If you think you’re giving a Black person a compliment when you say, “You’re not like other Black people, you’re so articulate,” . . .  what do you think you’re really saying?  You’re saying that Black people are inherently stupid. 

·         If you have one Black friend you call “your nigga” who is your go-to person to reinforce to you that you aren’t racist . . . are you getting the picture yet?

·         If you believe that Blacks are genetically predisposed to violence, ignorance, and poverty . . . the sad fact of the matter is, you are a racist, plain and simple. 

·         If you’ve witnessed any one of these acts and not spoken up, if you’ve not been outraged or offended, I would suggest you run, don’t walk to YouTube and watch every Tim Wise video you can find because, sadly, you might be racist.

I could go on and on sadly.   There are so many instances of racism; I’ve only touched on a few.  Racism is so deeply entrenched into this society that I haven’t even mentioned the racism that persists around people of other races and religions.  I could write pages and pages about white people’s racism towards Latinos and Muslims and Asians and anyone different than themselves.  (I wouldn’t dare speak for anyone else because that would be racist to assume that I understand their angst better than they do)  Do you want to know what’s NOT racist, however?  People of color exposing, talking about, and being offended by the racist practices of white people does not constitute racism.  The inmates can no longer run the asylum.  If we are ever going to heal from this epidemic that is killing us all, white people have to let go of this concept that they know more about racism than anyone else and they have a right to tell people of color what’s offensive and what isn’t. 

Copyright 2013 Scottie Lowe All Rights Reserved

Scottie Lowe is the owner of a website called AfroerotiK.  She has made it her mission to show people of African descent in a positive, healthy erotic light.  She is also the author of Minority Affairs, a book that tackles interracial erotica from a decidedly different perspective. 

The Other Half of the Amulet

It was the sound of his voice that triggered the knowing.  In that split second, when I heard the acoustic waves created only by his vocal cords, I knew I had found my perfect submissive.  He is the other half of the amulet, the yin to my yang, the missing piece that fits my kinky puzzle perfectly.  Intelligent, articulate, completely depraved and perverted; he fits me.  He is my equal and my opposite in every way.  For all of my excellence and superiority he is excellently and equally inferior.  He craves filth in a way that is far more extreme than most people could wrap their heads around and I can deliver what he craves and then some.  He recognized my inherent dominance from our first communication and I could see his sub-human true nature instantly. 

He’d been molested as a child.  His father’s best friend had his hands in his pants before he was in little league.  The abuse lasted until he was well into his teens and it grew more and more extreme, more twisted and perverted as the years progressed.  By the time the man was promoted and moved away, my bitch had been emotionally and psychologically warped beyond repair and sexually used by more men than he could count.  Now in his 40s, he’s become successful in his career and maintains the image of normalcy but it is just an image, a fake persona he wears.  He is obsessed with sex.  It consumes him.  All day, every day, he thinks of nothing more than how to get his next nut, of how he can make it more extreme.  His needs for stimulation have graduated far beyond anything remotely close to vanilla.  He’s spent thousands of dollars over the years on toys and gear and hookers and memberships to websites.  In every meeting, at every conference, he schemes and plots about how to be nastier, more sinister.  At every company luncheon, he looks at his co-wokers and knows that they would be horrified if they knew he could fit a dildo the size of a grown man’s forearm in his slutty boicunt . . . and that he craves bigger, thicker, longer ones fucking him senseless. 

Because of the abuse, he has trust issues.  His father knew of the exploitation and turned a blind eye to it.  They had a network of deviants that shared each other’s kids.  His father liked little girls so he would allow his son to have sleepovers and camping trips with his friends while he got to play house with his friend’s daughters.  Because of that, my little bitch doesn’t know what real affection and innocence feel like; he doesn’t know what it means to be a child who is protected and loved.  I exploit that.  I make him call me Mommy and make him feel like shit because of it.  I toy with his emotions, degrade and humiliate him, taunt and tease him and remind him of how inherently fucked up he is, how he will never be normal, never have a normal relationship with anyone.  I threaten to withhold my attention from him for my arousal; I terrorize him by intimating that I will throw him away like a piece of trash.  It hurts him.  I can see it in his eyes.  But it arouses him.  The more I tell him the truth, the more it makes him insane with lust and hunger.  The more I toy with his emotions, the more it gets my pussy incredibly wet. 

I own his very soul.  I can tell him to do anything and he will still need more.  If I tell him to suck my dog’s cock, he will ram his tongue in his asshole.  My absolute favorite thing to do to him is to have him on his knees, with my lover fucking him savagely with his huge black cock, with his face in my hands, whispering in his ear, telling him that he is my white bitch boi.  I punish him with threats that I will make him suck disgusting, old, white cock, like his abuser’s and he curls up like a ball and cries like a baby at the thought.  He knows that his whiteness is an illusion.  He knows that he isn’t more intelligent, that the arrogance and all his accomplishments were ill gotten gains. The truth, and he knows it, is that he has only achieved his success because white men have manipulated, lied, cheated, oppressed, cajoled, and stolen whatever advantages they have gotten.  He knows, every time he has a black cock deep in his throat, that white men are the sick and twisted ones because I remind him that white men are the ones who created him to be what he is. 

Every time he reads the racist rants of white men online, virtually screaming about how Blacks are inherently inferior, he knows that they are fighting their own demons, trying to deny what they know to be true in their hearts as well, that Blacks have more integrity, more ingenuity, more common sense, and a stronger will to survive than any white person could ever hope to have.  With me, he can let down that defense.  With me, he can be the pig he knows is his bloodline, his birthright.  He comes from a long line a pigs and he is proud of it with me.  He sees my grace, dignity, and my morality in my beautiful brown skin, in my deep, intoxicating eyes.  He sees that I can control him with just a glance, a word softly murmured when he is on the verge of orgasm.  I have the ability to break him down in a way no other person has ever done.  He tries to build relationships with women, to pretend to be “that guy” the bachelor who Barbie wants, but his DNA is damaged and we both know it. 

He has cried in my arms when I speak of the real horrors of slavery, of what heinous and evil things white men have done for generations.  He has sobbed like a baby when I described the generations of racist privilege he had inherited to the detriment of my beautiful, strong, resilient, and inherently SUPERIOR ancestors.  He knows that his father’s perversions weren’t isolated, that his father’s friends weren’t unique or exclusive.  With me, he understands that the depravity in his blood has been there for generations and that Africans who were enslaved could never have been as twisted and damaged as his ancestors had been.  His mother loves to be abused.  His sister is a slut of extreme proportions.  His father is a monster.  And with me, my bitch is completely free to be the slug that he was born to be and give up his false sense of white superiority. 

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

Bless Me Father for I Have Sinned

I’m a pervert, and an unapologetic one at that.  I’m so completely confident and comfortable with my sexuality that I refuse to compartmentalize it, lie about it, or be ashamed of it. I’m free from society’s pressure to conform and that is a joy most people will never experience.  To most people in a sexually-repressed society, being unashamed of your sexuality translates to being a perv and trying to convince people that you never have any sexual thoughts whatsoever is considered normal.  That’s insane.  Anyone who knows me knows that I will swear on a stack of bibles in a court of law and admit to anything and everything I’ve ever done sexually, regardless of how uncomfortable it might make some pseudo-conservatives and religious zealots, because I’ve never done anything immoral or illegal and I’m not ashamed of people knowing that I color outside the lines.  I’m of the strong belief that two consenting adults should test the waters to see what they enjoy and explore alternative options.  I personally enjoy exploring where my mind can go sexually and you know what they say; the mind is the biggest sexual organ. A pervert is defined as someone who leads another astray morally.  I like to think that I have the unique ability to seduce people into doing things they secretly crave but publicly denounce.  I get off on seeing people become feral, primal, sexual beasts, shedding their façade of straight-laced formality and conformity only to embrace and revel in their true nature.  I belong to the school of thought that it’s the responsibility of forward thinking individuals like myself to challenge the notion that sex is only valid if it’s missionary position on a Friday night with the lights out between two married, white, mildly unattractive and boring, financially stable heterosexuals. 

It’s rare to find a woman, at least as upstanding and educated as I am, and a Black woman on top of that, who readily admits that she is a aroused by sexual variation and coloring outside the lines.  I didn’t say it was rare to find a woman of my social and economic standing who is a pervert, I meet tons of them. We live in such a sexually repressed society, finding women who are sophisticated and conservative on the outside and horny and willing to push their limits when they let their hair down is a piece of cake.  All one has to do is know what to look for; like attracts like as they say.  It is rare, however, to meet women who are as proud to be as kinky as I am.  It’s easier to find men who are kinksters, at least in name if not in practice.  There are tons of men who claim to be comfortable with their sexuality as I am but all they do is jerk off in front of a computer screen or they lie about their true motives and desires.  You can’t claim to be a comfortable with your sexuality if you your only connection to other people is though a broadband one or if you are ashamed of your actions.  You can’t claim to be comfortable with your sexuality if you need to lie, manipulate, cheat, and do things that are unsafe and unhealthy in the pursuit of illicit sex.  I am the real deal.  Usually, women are so secretive about their sexuality that no one knows about their dark side; they even keep it hidden from their lovers.  They hide the fact that they look at extreme porn on the internet and crave things that they pretend to their co-workers, family, and friends offends them.  Me on the other hand, I don’t care who knows that I am aroused by almost every expression of sexuality in some form or fashion.  Pick a fetish, inclination, or preference and I’ve probably masturbated to it. 

I was in the mood for some fun so I decided to take the afternoon off from work to enjoy the beautiful summer afternoon.  I went to the park to see if I could find some average-looking married guy sucking off some stranger in the bushes.  That always gets my pussy wet.  I love watching the white guys with receding hairlines who wear sweater vests and pocket protectors enthusiastically schlobbing on the knob of some Black or Latino guy with a huge cock and sucking him like a porn star at 2 in the afternoon in the park.  Let him bend over and take that big, brown cock up his ass and I’m turned on and cumming and fucking myself like there’s no tomorrow.   Any guy that horny who is willing to do something that outrageous and contrary to social norms in broad daylight is a risk taker; he is addicted to getting off and that turns me on.  I can get off on just the mental image of this middle management white guy going home and having to take out the trash and pay the bills knowing that he has the cum of a hot black man dripping out of his boipussy while his unsuspecting wife is making meatloaf and green beans for dinner.  That is so fucking HOT!

This particular day, I was in the mood for more than just watching; I wanted to play and play hard.  Every step I took, my wet and throbbing pussy reminded me that I needed relief.  When my perverted mind is turned on, I see sex in everything.  I was searching the eyes of everyone I saw, looking for that look of arousal and secrecy that only other perverts can recognize.  I saw it in the most average looking woman who was coming out of a church.  It was a weekday and it was the middle of the afternoon but I could see she was wearing a top that was just a little bit too sexy for church and she was visibly aroused.  I could see her hardened nipples through her shirt and she looked breathless.  Sitting on a bench across from the park, she had that look of guilt on her face that I could tell she had been doing something naughty and she was trying to collect herself before she had to go home and face her hubby.  She had on a pair of polyester slacks, flats, and a blouse that looked like it was something she got from the junior’s department straight from Wal-mart and she looked like she was on her way to pick up the kids from soccer practice.  I casually strolled up to her and sat down next to her and blatantly stared at her.  It made her uncomfortable and she started fidgeting around, eventually grabbing her purse like I was going to steal it.  One of my shoes literally cost more than 10 times her outfit so I had to laugh at her white paranoia. 

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it,” I casually inquired. 

She nodded, mumbled her agreement, and stared at the ground, trying to avoid eye contact.  She looked like she was trying to catch her breath.  I leaned in close and whispered in her ear.  “So, what was it in that church that got you so hot and bothered?  What got your pussy so wet?”  There was no mistaking the look of terror in her eyes.  She got up and quickly walked away, looking back over her shoulder the entire time until she was out of sight.  I just smiled and waved.  I decided to go investigate myself and I entered the consecrated building.  The place was deserted with the exception of a wrinkled, elderly Latina woman lighting candles at the altar and I highly doubted that she was who had that woman so flushed and aroused.  I sat down and observed for a few minutes.  I was just about ready to go, bored out of my mind, when at about a few minutes to 4:00, a priest came out of a side rectory door and went straight to the confessional and turned on an indicator light.  Giving credit where credit is due, the priest was reasonably attractive.  He wasn’t masturbation material but his face was chiseled and distinguished and his brown eyes danced with brilliance with a sly smile.  He was maybe in his early 40s and I guessed that under his black shirt and pants, his body was toned.  Overall, he was intriguing enough to get my “creative” juices flowing.  I saw the elderly Latina woman make her way to the back of the church and at exactly 4 pm, she entered the small booth.  She was only in there about 5 minutes and when she exited she certainly didn’t look particularly flustered or aroused. 

I hatched the most delicious plan right then and there.  I entered the confessional and sat down.  The partition opened and I said, “Bless me father for I have sinned, I’ve never confessed before because I’m not Catholic.  Shit, I’m not even Christian for that matter.” 

“How then can I help you my child?  The confessional is a sacred space for Catholics to confess their sins and seek absolution. Perhaps, if you are in need of counsel, I can make arrangements to meet with you outside the confessional.” 

“Oh, no, please father, I need someone to talk to and you are the only one.  Anything I say here you have to keep a secret, right?  Cross your heart and hope to die, right?  Well, I need to confess and get a lot of things off my chest.  It would make me feel so much better to do it here, where you can’t see me.  I’d be so embarrassed that I don’t think I could tell you these things face to face, Father.  Please.” 

I was lying.  I didn’t give a half a fat fuck if he saw my face or not.  I couldn’t give a hot damn if someone looked me dead in the eye while I spilled my guts about my fetishes and fantasies.  I just thought it was a turn-on to be in a confessional with a man who took an oath of abstinence and telling him incredibly nasty things. 

He conceded and let me go on with my fake confession.  “Father, I’ve been a very naughty girl.” I paused, giving him time to gather his senses.  “Father, I . . .  hardly know where to begin.  Well, let me ask you this.  Is anal sex a sin?” 

The priest gasped, audibly shocked.  Clearing his throat, he said, “Are you . . . are you  married my child?  Well . . . uhmmmm. . . . whatever happens in the marriage bed is considered sacred in the eyes of the lord but . . .” 

“Oh, I’m not married but my boyfriend is.  Cool, he always fucks me in the ass in his marital bed when his wife is out of town.  Okay, on to my next confession . . .” 

“Wait, no, no.  That’s not what I meant.  I was trying to say . . .” 

I could barely contain my laughter.  “Relax, pops, I was just kidding you.  I know that adultery is a sin.  My boyfriend isn’t married.  In fact, he isn’t even a boy.  He, is a she.  My girlfriend is married though.  Do I get extra forgiveness points or whatever you call it because I’ve known her longer than she has known her husband?  She and I used to fool around in college and we just can’t seem to stop . . . fooling around . . . if you know what I mean.”  “Oh, gosh darnit all to heck,” I sarcastically added and then changed my tone to that of the most intense sexy whisper, “You see, Father, I love eating pussy.  I can’t get enough.  I love sticking my tongue between those meaty folds of her wet cunt and tasting all her sweet juices and swirling her hardened clit between my lips to make her flood my mouth with her hot cum.  Awww poop, I guess that is a sin in your book too.  Man, I’m not doing too well here.  I love getting dicked really hard up the ass with a strapon by my married lesbian lover and having her eat my pussy too.  I’m guessing it’s a good thing I’m not Catholic.  I’d never leave this little room with all the things I do.” 

By this time, the Padre knew exactly what I was trying to do and it looked like he was willing to play along.  “These are some very serious sins, my child, I think you should start at the beginning and tell me everything, don’t leave any detail out no matter how small, so that I can know how to counsel you and give you guidance.”  At that point, I heard the very faint sounds of a zipper being lowered and the tell-tale signs of labored breathing. 

I was in my zone.  I knew I had him just where I wanted him and it was turning me on like crazy.  I was tempting this devout holy man with my particular brand of perversion and he was falling for it hook, line, and sinker.  I have long had my suspicions that anyone who makes a conscious choice to deny their sexuality is ripe for perverse pickings so to speak.  Sex is natural, human beings are supposed to have sex.  Anyone who denies their sexuality, suppresses it, is setting themselves up for mental illness and sexual addiction.  Duh!  All these priests molesting children is clearly because humans are not meant to be asexual and they are driven to these detrimental and deviant behaviors because they have shut off that part of themselves which is natural.  And now that priests can have access to porn every day all day on the internet, every sort of degrading, misogynist, vulgar porn, they are sure to be even more susceptible to being led astray and have more opportunities for sexual depravity than most people would care to acknowledge or accept. 

I moved closer to the partition. I whispered so the priest would be forced to lean in closer.  “I’m not sure where to begin, Father.  I guess it all started when I got my heart broken by a guy who was a sociopath.  Up until that point in my life I had been pretty comfortable being average and regular, hiding and denying my sexuality like everyone else.  Then, I dated evil incarnate, a demon; I fell in love with someone without a soul.  He was beyond a pathological liar.  Every single solitary word out of his mouth was a lie.  He lied when he would swear to me he was telling the truth.  He looked me in the eye and lied to me, used me, he cheated on me.  He told me he loved me, told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, that I was the woman of his dreams, for no other reason than he wanted to fuck me.  He got a perverse thrill out of making me believe that he was my ideal lover, that he believed in me and was supportive of me when he knew I was just a placeholder for the next woman he could romance who would feed his distorted ego.  When I found out the truth, it broke my heart in ways I can’t even explain.  I was emotionally shattered.” 

I continued.  “So, in order to heal from that pain, I had to start really loving myself.  Loving myself meant I had to embrace every part of myself.  Loving myself meant that I could step back from the situation and see how pathetic and sad my ex was because he felt so driven by his sexuality and so ashamed of it that he had to hurt, use, manipulate, degrade, humiliate, and deceive people for his sexual satisfaction and that that had nothing to do with me, my value as a lover, or my ability to make sound choices in a partner.  It was then that I decided that I was not going lie about my sexuality ever again.  Never again would I be ashamed of anything I fantasized about, desired, or got aroused by.  I was not going to be victim of the same beliefs that made him into a narcissist and sociopath; I was not going to be a slave to a society that created monsters like him because they felt like they had to deny their sexuality. When I got to that point in my life, Father, I released all the fear, shame, and guilt that I had been socialized to have my entire life and I started to enjoy my sexuality in a way that I had never even realized I could before.” 

“I see, my child.”  The father was listening intently.  I could see his outline through the partition and he was riveted to my every word.  It was as if I was counseling him in a way.  I think I might have been telling his story.  I knew he had to have some form of sexual release and I just imagined that he struggled with his own sexual demons and maybe what unhealthy, dysfunctional things it might have driven him to do.   

“Do you really see, Father?  I mean, you’ve never even had the opportunity to slide your dick in a wet, hot, tight pussy before.  How could you possibly understand?  You’ve never had soft, full, sensual lips sliding up and down the shaft of your cock, coaxing you to the verge of orgasm.  You’ve never had a thick, hard dick up your ass, hitting your prostate, making your cock leak precum.  Not once have you experienced what it feels like to shoot your cum deep inside someone and know that you are sharing yourself with them in a way that God intended people to connect and share.”

He was moaning softly and I could clearly hear the tell-tale signs of him jerking off.  I decided to join the party.  I stood up and slid my soaking wet panties down my brown, tone legs.  I held them up to the partition and he inhaled deeply my feminine scent.  “No, I’ve never experienced any of those worldly desires personally, but you cannot say that the God wants people to have sex outside of the holy covenant of marriage.  The bible says . . .”

“Fuck that,” I interrupted, “How the holy hell can you say that God doesn’t want us to experience pleasure, ecstasy, and bliss when she created our bodies to feel every bit of that?”

“I’m afraid you are terribly misguided, my child,” he reprimanded me, practically choking on his words. “We have Catechism classes here on Thursday and Friday evenings if you’d like to come and learn about the true word of God.”  It was clear he was getting upset by my assertions.  I’d seen it before.  People who are intent on pretending to be asexual have this form of cognitive dissonance, their brains start to shut down, their wires get crossed and they freak out when they are confronted with facts that contradict their beliefs.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is precisely the point when I can entice people to come to the light, the enlightenment of sexual freedom and expression. 

“So, you’re telling me, Father, that when I touch my clit, like this, I’m not supposed to experience pleasure?  You’re telling me that I’m not supposed to enjoy the sensations of having my hard nipples softly caressed, sucked, and licked unless I have a piece of paper from the courthouse that says I’m married?  Seriously?  You believe that?”  I started masturbating, at first with just one finger on my clit and then quickly graduated to using both hands, one to furiously rub my pussy and one to finger fuck my horny hole.  I was moaning loud enough for him to hear but I didn’t want to attract too much attention and I had no clue who could hear me outside the confessional.  I didn’t want some Bishop or Monsignor or even some other parish priest busting in and interrupting what was quickly becoming one of the kinkiest, most erotic experiences of my life.   

I stood up and turned my back to the partition.  I pulled up my skirt and revealed my ass.  Bending over, I pulled my ass cheeks apart and I backed up.  This time, the priest didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was deeply inhaling the musky scent from my unwashed pussy and asshole.  This smell wasn’t soap and perfume, it was the heady aroma of my unique essence, my pheromones.  “Does that turn you on, Father?  Are you aroused?  Is your cock hard?  Do you want to fuck me?”

He didn’t answer.  He didn’t have to.  He was pounding his dick unashamedly at this point.  He was being even more cautious than I was about making noises so I had to listen carefully for any sounds that let me know he was enjoying every second of this lecherous experience.   I wondered if he had ever seen a Black woman’s pussy before.  African Americans are Baptists and Methodists for the most part, we aren’t Catholics in any sort of great numbers.  Then, it dawned on me that perhaps there were millions of lonely, frustrated, sexually repressed white housewives using confessionals all over the country as their illicit source of sexual satisfaction.  I thought maybe that was a secret hidden in plain sight; that priests everywhere were jerking off to confessions from people who were turned on by getting their clergyman all hot and bothered.

 If that damn booth hadn’t been so damn small, I would have taken every thread of clothing I had on and left it in a heap on the floor so I could really give the good Father a show.  The lighting was poor and the space was cramped and confined so I had to make the best of my circumstances.  I was more aroused than I had been in a long time.  So close, but yet so far, was this man, a virile man who took a vow of chastity whom I had tempted to sin.  I had to use the only skills I could to get us both off, and that was my ability to talk dirty.  “I know you want this wet, Black pussy, Father.  You want to lay me down on your bed, push my legs back, and aim your hard cock and my unrepentant, sinful cunt, don’t you?  You want to bend me over, my big, round ass sticking up for you to slide your hard dick in me like your animal instincts tell you to do, fuck me hard, make me scream, make me cum all over you.  You want that, don’t you?  You want to give me pleasure with your stiff dick in me, make me feel like a woman.  You want to feel like a man when you pump your thick, hot cum up inside me.”

By this time he was moaning uncontrollably and loudly.  Anyone who was even remotely close could have heard both of us.  That inspired me even more.  I was making him lose control.  He was someone else, he was no longer a priest, he was a man driven by his natural desires to release and satisfaction.  I couldn’t stop.  I was in a zone of sexual frenzy that could only be satisfied by my intense orgasm.  I put my leg up on the wall, slid my fingers inside my pussy and I let out a vey audible gasp as I shoved two fingers in my asshole.  Apparently, at some point that I had missed, the priest had taken his pants all the way off and he too was fingering his asshole.  I encouraged him.  “Oh yeah, show me that you know that men are supposed to feel good with things up their assholes.  Show me that you know in your heart that it’s perfectly natural for men to experience anal pleasure, Father.  Oh, Daddy, it feels so good in my ass.  I wish you were ramming me hard and deep in my backdoor.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer.  I was on a collision course with a mind-blowing, earth-shattering orgasm and there was no stopping it.  Apparently, my partner in crime was beyond the point of no return as well.  He was betraying all that he knew to be holy and righteous.  I heard him clearly say, “Yeah, take my stiff cock up your ass.  I know you want it.” 

It was that level of vulnerability, that release of inhibitions, it was that moment of complete emotional honesty that made me explode.  I bit my lip to keep from screaming I was so turned on and my friend could tell I was having a hellified orgasm because he jerked his cock and spurted his cum all over the partition, leaving it obscenely dripping like a holy sacrament. 

I pulled myself together, straightening out my clothes and powdering my nose.  “Thank you so much, Father.  I feel so much better now that I’ve unburdened myself of all my . . . uhmmm, some of my sins.” 

His voice was shaky and it was apparent he needed a bit more recovery time as he said, “If you are ever burdened by your . . . hungers and think you might need some one-on-one personal counseling, I will always be here for you, my child.  Anytime.  Night or day.”    

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

The Evolution of Black Erotica

Today, I was looking for inspiration for my book, In Loving Color, and it really struck me how much of an impact I've had on Black erotica. When I started AfroerotiK in 2003 there were literally no photographers shooting erotic images of Black couples. There were vulgar porn shots of booties and GYN shots of coochies. There were erotic shots of men. There were more erotic images of white couples than I could shake a stick at.  True Black erotica, with couples, was so rare that is was like looking for a needle in a haystack.  There was Black erotic art but it was drawings and paintings.  Photography was limited to romantic images but there was nothing erotic. 

Rundu was big back then and she was the only photographer doing erotica. She was shooting those calendars with men with jheri curls under the waterfalls and Black gay men were worshiping at her altar but she was saying that her images were not for gay men. (I thought that was like biting the hand that feeds you but hey, that's just me). I remember naively calling her and asking her to shoot images of couples for me. She had just published her coffee table book with Black couples but, IMO, they were not very erotic. All the poses were impossible for any normal people to achieve. You had to be a UniverSoul Circus performer to get into those positions and I just kept thinking to myself that wasn't erotic, it wasn’t stimulating or arousing it was more of a curiosity. I had two or three photo shoots with photographers and I asked them for erotic images and they gave me porn shots. They were giving me shots of individuals and I wanted couples, I wanted intimacy, connection, passion, and love.

At the time, I kept saying, "I'm a writer, I'm not a photographer, I don't want to be a Jill of a trades. I just want to write." But it was apparent to me that I had to start taking more control of the photo shoots. I hired a photographer and a female model and asked a friend of mine who was a fitness trainer to model for me. The female model cancelled about two hours before the shoot and I called a girlfriend of mine and she agreed to fill in. I took control of that photo shoot and I posed the models, I told the photographer what I wanted. It was from that photo shoot that I got all the images from the first AfroerotiK website. I couldn't show any faces because my girlfriend had just started dating someone and she didn't want her face shown so I kept that theme throughout the entire website. I didn't show any faces of any models. I started to understand that if I wanted truly erotic shots, with couples that looked like they were in love, with emotion and passion, I had to shoot them myself. That's when AfroerotiK was more than just erotic stories, that's when I knew that AfroerotiK was about more than just erotic photography.  I knew then that AfroerotiK was bigger than me.  It was a movement. 

I was still shooting with various photographers but none of them were giving me what I wanted. I remember one photoshoot where the photographer kept telling me to stay out of it, not give him advice, that he knew what I was looking for. All night, I kept my mouth shut and he took over 1000 images. If 3 of the images were usable, it was a lot. They were just horrible. One photographer bought his own model and all she cared about was getting paid and he was literally shooting with a point and shoot camera. She was a stripper and she was giving me porn poses. It was clear he was one of those guys that called himself a photographer and was only trying to fuck models. I wanted AfroerotiK to be about real people, not strippers.

In 2008 I convinced my best friend to start shooting for me. He fought me tooth and nail, he kept insisting that he wasn't good enough but I knew that he had the talent I was looking for. This time, I wanted faces to be shown. I wanted people to not be ashamed of their sexuality because the images were truly erotic, not porn. We started shooting in my loft and every photo shoot we would get better and better and better. I didn't have a penny to pay models at that point. All I could do was provide dinner and some drinks and try to make everyone feel comfortable. My website wasn't even up and running. Someone had hacked it and I had to shut it down but I knew AfroerotiK was still alive in my heart. My best friend and I did 10 photo shoots together that make up the majority of the photos that are on the current website. Every image was more erotic than the previous one. We got into a groove. I would hire the models, he would design the lighting, I would direct the models and we created magic.

I started rebuilding the AfroerotiK website in 2011 and it launched last year. My best friend and I had both moved from Atlanta so I recruited someone else to be my photographer. He's a little more uncomfortable with shooting nudes, and I'm a lot more demanding about what I want now, so we didn't get as many shots as I wanted but the ones that we did get were breathtaking. The next version of the website is going to be my best friend and I reunited again. We are going to graduate to even more sophisticated images.

Anyway, I said all of that to say this. I'm so incredibly proud of all the erotic images of Black couples that I see today. I know in my heart that I've been the inspiration for lots of people's careers, even if they don't admit it. I can point to the images they used that copied mine. I can see my influence everywhere. The fact that there are thousands of Black photographers shooting couples now, actually trying to shoot more than must porn and oiled booty shots of strippers makes my heart glad. People are actually looking at Black bodies as art now, not just genitals. I had a huge hand in that. I was the start of a Black erotic movement.

I've seen my images stolen and used everywhere. You can't find a website dedicated to Black erotic photography without some AfroerotiK images. Someone stole one of my images and used it on their book cover. People have stolen my images and used them for their websites, ads, etc. The images for my book are going to make everything I've done to date look like tame. I can see it clearly now. I'm going to have a coffee table book of erotic stories and images and I'm going to have an even more explicit (but still classy and sophisticated) edition with nothing but images. And it's going to be full of beautiful Black people. I can't wait.