The Pain we Hold Inside

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Shit ain't Changed

Black people are hysterical. We really are a comical people. We have internalized racism to the point of insanity and we justify it, throwing logic out the window. Somehow, Black people have been convince that the N word is now a term of affection simply because it can be heard on the radio and TV, we now think that the word has a positive meaning. Some uniformed clown said, "oh, we changed the meaning of the word," and everyone said, "Ohhh, yeah, we changed the meaning." The meaning of the word hasn't changed one bit since we first landed on these shores. We might USE it as a term of affection but that’s a far cry from the meaning the word being changed. If a woman says, "That nigga didn't pay his child support," or, “girl, that nigga don’t have a job,” I'm almost positive that she doesn't mean it as a term of endearment. When Chris Rock does his Black people vs niggers, I can promise you that he doesn't mean wonderful person. Pay attention to how the word is used on a daily basis. It’s not used interchangeably with my dear brother, it is used as a way of saying black man. How has that changed from slavery? The meaning of the word hasn't changed. The only thing that has changed is the FCC ruling that says that it can't be said on TV.

Name one other word, in the English language or any other, that started out with a negative meaning and was changed to mean something positive. Name one. Black people used the word after slavery to refer to each other because that is all they knew to refer to themselves as. At no point in history did the meaning of the word change. The only thing that has changed is that you can now turn on the radio and here the word. White record execs are the masterminds behind the mainstreaming of the word, not some underground movement by Black people to change the connotation of the word. Do not fool yourself into thinking that we as a people made some sort on conscious decision to take the negativity out of the word. The word is now and will always be – NEGATIVE. I missed that meeting when we as a people decided to turn the word into a positive word with lots of love behind it. Who was in attendance at that meeting? Jay-Z, Ludacris , oh no, I guess it was Diddy and Snoop? I guess Dr. King wasn‘t at the meeting. Certainly, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, all the slain civil rights leaders of our history weren‘t there either.

I want to vote again. THE WORD NIGGER IS A VILE AND DISGUSTING WORD. Just because we use it commonly, does not mean that it is now positive. We need not even go back to slavery to find the abhorrent use of the word. My mother was imprisoned for demonstrating in the sixties. She was spit upon until her dress was ripping with spit. Read that again, dripping with spit. She risked her life so that we would not be called NIGGER and now it is on every song on the radio. My grandfather was a civil rights leader, he affected the lives of thousands. I have never heard him, to this very day, use the word when referring to another black person. NEVER! But I guess because Kanye does, than it is a term of affection. Right!

I find it very hard to believe that as creative as we are, that we can't find one other word to use that means brother. We have to defend the word that our ancestors were called when they hung from trees, their flesh ripped from their bodies with the whip.

What more can I do?

It is so true, I do not know, understand, nor can I comprhend what it is to be a Black man. The mysteries of the unobtainable “Y” will forever remain elusive to me. I am a Black woman, in fact I am all Black women.

I struggle to get an education and a job in a society where my melanin rich skin is detested and abhorred. “They” don’t want me to excel, they would just as soon pass me over for that promotion, make me train my supervisors, deny me the sub-standard raise, create a hostile environment, and fire me unjustifiably. In their eyes, I am weak and stupid and criminal, I dare say, not even human. The only reason the police don’t beat me down and kill me in such great numbers, is I do not resist them as much. Trust me, were I to have more testosterone, every time I am pulled over unjustifiably, I would be face down on the side of the road rather than paying the fine for an imagined infraction.

What I do understand is that I’ve got to live up to outrageous and unreasonable demands to be a Black woman. I know what it is to walk down the street and I have to respond to every comment and criticism from Black men, regardless of how rude, degrading, or vile it is, lest I be called out my name. I know that I have to have a big booty and show it off to be considered attractive, ooops, but I can’t show it off too much or I’m a hoochie. I have to put on makeup to not be considered to’ up, but not too much or I’m fake. I have to be a freak in the bedroom to satisfy my man, but if I’m too freaky, I’m not worthy to be his wife. I have to match my perfectly pedicured toes to my fingernails right after I pick up my child from day care and take care of all the household responsibilities. I gotta pay the bills, cook and clean, raise the children, (most times by myself) go to work, try to make a way for myself and be supportive to my man. But what does being supportive mean?

Seems like I will never be able to obtain the standards of a good Black woman. I have to not ask questions about where he goes when he says he was out with the boys? I have to not ask him to contribute to the household financially or I’m a gold digger. I have to look the other way if he cheats because that’s just the nature of men, right? I can’t be too thin, I can’t be too fat. My hair has to be done all the time. I can’t be too outspoken or I’m a bitch.

Then I have to deal with the racist media telling me what I can and can not be. My hair can’t be nappy or I’m radical. My nose can’t be too wide, my skin can’t be too dark, and my lips can’t be too full. I’ve gotta look like a video dancer every time I leave the damn house.

To make matters worse, I gotta have Black men tell me I’m not enough by choosing white women because they are “more supportive.” You tell me what is a sista supposed to do, what more can I be?

Thank you Dave Chappelle.

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When Ladies Make Love

I sat her at the foot of my bed and stood a few feet away. I unwrapped my sarong and let it fall to the floor, wearing only the white shirt that just barely covered my panties. I undid each button slowly, giving her time to voice her apprehensions and back out if she so desired. I felt so vulnerable standing before her because I felt more afraid than she did at that particular moment. This was the moment I had dreamt of for months and I wanted everything to be perfect. I kept my bra and panties on because I wanted her to know that this evening was about her, I didn’t want to scare her away making her think that I was going to demand that she do anything to me. In my fantasy, I pleased her repeatedly, all she had to do was lay back and enjoy.

Our eyes adjusted to the darkness and I knelt before her at the foot of the bed. I took off her shoes and placed them neatly under the bed. She lifted her arms like a little girl waiting for her mommy to undress her and let me remove her shirt over her head. I stood her in front of me and knelt before her to undo her pants and slide them down her body. Even though the temperature was warm she was trembling and shaking. I told her to lie down on the bed and I crawled over her body like a panther surveying its prey. Her arms were stretched out by her side and gripping the comforter for dear life. We kissed again, this time she was able to return my kiss even more passionately. I began my descent down her body with my mouth, baptizing her with sensual kisses. I covered her neck and throat with sensual kisses and she moaned in appreciation. I took an incredibly long time kissing and licking her down her arms and sucking her fingers. I undid the clasp of her bra and revealed her perfectly formed breasts to my vision. Her nipples were hard and aroused like two tiny pebbles waiting for my mouth to lick and suck them. Olivia’s body was becoming more and more comfortable and she was responding to each touch with more enthusiasm. I brought my tongue to her left nipple and gently licked it and she let out a hiss . . . I licked the right one and she groaned. In fact, I spent the better part of a half hour licking, sucking and kissing on her nipples.

She kept saying, “Oh God, that feels so good, don’t stop.” The more aroused she got, the more I needed to give her more pleasure. It was apparent she was enjoying herself and I licked and kissed my way down her stomach. She had the most glorious goody trail of soft fine hair that I had ever seen that led to her sensual treasure. I let my mouth wander down to her legs and I spread her thighs enough to lick and kiss her there. I could smell her scent and her panties showed a very visible wet spot that betrayed her arousal. I aggressively turned her over on her stomach and began lavishing her back with kisses. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled it as I whispered in her ear that I was going to make her cum so many times she would pass out. She responded by grinding her ass on me and saying, “Fuck you.” I loved her fight and arrogance; it turned me on that much more. I slid my hand between her legs to gently rub her mound. I pulled her panties up in the crack of her ass and playfully spanked her, not too hard; gently, erotically. She was thrusting her ass up at me and telling me to do it harder at that point but I didn’t want her to think she was in control.

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

She knew that she was in control at that point. In fact, she was getting off on the control she had over me. She was asserting herself again. “Mmmmmm, you know damn well that I want you to eat and lick and suck my wet pussy. Go ahead, make me cum with your mouth. That’s what you need. Stick your tongue in me, suck my clit, EAT MY PUSSY”

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 to dive in and devour her pussy, I wanted to make it an experience that she would never forget. I took my fingers and gently spread her lips and started to gently lick on her exposed clit. She responded by grinding her pussy on my face, trying to get me to suck it harder. I put my fingers at the entrance to her pussy and she started grinding her hips trying to get me to finger her. “Damn you, stop being such a tease, finger me. Finger me the way I need you to.” The calm, reserved woman that I had secretly lusted after for months was now a primal beast in my bed. I reached down between my legs to stimulate my own needy clit but I couldn’t get too distracted. This vision of sensuality was lying in front of me and driving me crazy with desire.

I reached over to my nightstand and pulled out my vibrator and long-double-sided dildo. My intention was to ride it with her to indescribable waves of pleasure. My vibrator was glow in the dark pink and dainty, but packed a powerful punch. My double-sided dildo was as black as midnight, 18 inches long, and looked more like a weapon of mass destruction. I asked her if she wanted me to fuck her and she nodded through her haze of arousal, yes. I wanted to slow the pace down a little and prolong her pleasure so I turned her over again, this time placing her on her knees. I couldn’t resist the temptation to go down on her yet again and lick her from her pussy to her asshole. My face was covered in her juices and she was grinding her pussy back on my mouth, encouraging me to make her cum. Actually, she was pleading with me. She reached back with both hands and spread the cheeks of her ass, her head to the pillow and was practically chanting, “Eat me, fuck me, make me cum.” She was delirious and insane with lust.

I picked up the vibrator and placed it on her clit. She was so hot I thought she was going to explode. My previous objectives were lost in a haze of confusion and passion. Here she was, an exquisite representation of Black female beauty, wanton with lust in my bed. She belonged to me at that point. Her surrender was complete. I grabbed the dildo and started gently rubbing the head of it up and down her slit. It looked so sexy coated with her juices that I could hardly resist the temptation to suck it. I placed the head of it to her entrance and she rotated and thrust her hips trying to get me to penetrate her. The lust in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I gave her about an inch of dildo and she started cumming. I worked her pussy through her orgasm, licking her clit, fucking her with more of the dildo. By the time I had about seven inches in her she was having a string of multiple orgasms back to back. She collapsed on the bed, exhausted and drained.

I climbed on the bed next to her and held her in my arms. She rolled on top of me and kissed me full on the mouth. “Thank you,” she breathed. I wanted to ask her why she was thanking me but I sort of understood. She nestled her naked, sweaty body against mine and drifted off to sleep. I lay there watching her sleep as the rain gently fell against the window. We would fall back into our normal roles in the morning, or perhaps we wouldn’t. I contemplated all that would become of us as I stared at her glistening brown skin and smelled her sex heavy in the air. Indeed, conversation wasn’t the only thing that flowed freely that evening.

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK


Double Dong

African Art in Motion

In African societies where art and goodness are synonymous, the critique of dance can be an art form in and of itself. The evaluation of dance is a critique whereby gender roles, style, carriage and technique are appraised. Typically, for the dance to be judged worthy of praise, the arms must move in time with the legs, the facial expression must be somber, the costume must be impeccable and the entire dance must be wildly expressive and pleasing. The critique itself becomes a part of the dance, as essential to the rhythmic movements and performance as the drum and dancer themselves. Perfection is the standard; any variance from that bedrock can lead to ridicule and shame for the artist.

African Americans have unconsciously inherited the same propensity for harsh critique. Any informal or formal performance in the Black community is sure to be accompanied by opinion, unsolicited and inexorable, dissecting every measurable variant. From family reunions to urban street corners, from college fraternity lines to smoke filled clubs, the best dancers are revered and the not so good dancers feel the wrath of the omnipresent community standard of perfection. Seemingly, in the Black community, one doesn’t even have to be a good dancer in order to recognize and critique one. Even children know at an early age to practice and rehearse their dance moves to perfection before debuting them in public. The Apollo Theater’s Mr. Sandman serves as the modern day amewa (Yoruba: knower of beauty) or artistic sentinel while the audience passes judgment on the worthiness of the contestants. The Africana eye seems to be able to assess and appraise the components of metered, rhythmic movement on both sides of the Atlantic. In Brazil, at the now infamous Bailes Funk, where urban dance and spectacle mirror the dance and drama of the North American ghettos, dance moves and their subsequent critique are ever prevalent. As in traditional Africa, if you are a good dancer and don’t have the proper clothing, hair, or display a certain sexuality, your performance is devalued. Where the corruption of the ideal of dance critique occurs is in placing value on a person based on their expression, and not of the expression itself. The bad dancer becomes a valueless person; the exceptional dancer with the incorrect clothing becomes equally as insignificant a person. Not limited to the professional arena or dance itself, any and all forms of expression are subject to the critique of the masses. The art of critique has metastasized into the malicious act of criticism, for the sole purpose of self-aggrandizement.

Ephebism, or youthfulness, is universally admired in Africa as an aspect of fine form.[1] The strength and vitality that are associated with youthful vigor and stamina are seen as traits to take delight in. Antithetically, the wisdom that comes along with seniority in traditional African culture is also revered, however the elderly tend to exhibit the behaviors and countenance normally associated with pubescence. Supple and fluid movements associated with youth are the ideal in African dance and rigidity is seen as an abomination. Afro-American dance and expression has shown similar reverence throughout its history. From the swing and jive dancers of the prohibition period to the poppers and lockers of the soulful 1970s and the limber, contemporary choreography of today, the African American body has performed contortions that appear to defy skeletal constraints. Even the untrained eye can see the similarities in African movements displayed in the dance styles of the capoiera and the nimble gyrations of the Dan, Tiv, and Luba peoples of Africa. The flexibility of the Caribbean limbo dancer displays the very same tresor de souplesse, or flexibility, that is admired in traditional African art and dance. Veering from the African homage to youthfulness and its attributes is the concurrent Western adaptation that stipulates that while youth is revered, the elderly become despised. Deference goes to the immature and age becomes a liability. The elderly have ceased to move with youthful agility, but simply acquiesced to their role of useless and immobile pillars.

The descending direction in melody, sculpture, and dance, or the attribute of “getting down,” recognizes the trend in movement from high to low. Thompson states:

. . . the use of the “get down” sequences in the dance, where a performer or a group of performers assume a deeply inflected, virtually crouching position, thus moving in proximity to the level of the earth, is important in African and found in a number of societies of the western and central portions of the continent. Here is field evidence: Anago Yoruba_ ”step . . . finished at a level superbly low”; Dahomean Yoruba-“if the drum strikes strong, you bend down” . . . .[2]

It is worthwhile to note that even the vernacular of African Americans reflects an inherent propensity for this lower movement. “Man, that guy was really getting down on the dance floor,” can translate figuratively to mean that he was a very good dancer and literally to suggest that he was incorporating moves that had him on the floor. Anyone old enough to remember the show “Soul Train” can certainly remember that the most imitated dancers in the Soul Train dance line were the men who got down on the floor with their dance moves. The indication of gender in the aforementioned example is significant in that the best dancers in this society are still considered to be men. Formal Africana dance usually either begins or ends on the floor and most assuredly incorporates multi-elevations in its posturing. The break-dancers of the early rap 1980s utilized cardboard to make the streets suitable for their dance moves. The hypnotic rhythms of reggae lend themselves to getting down with dances like the butterfly and other sexually suggestive dance maneuvers. It is that displaced and diseased perception of sexuality however that can be attributed to the axiological metamorphosis of the term “getting down” from signifying a connection to the earth to base vulgarity. It has only been in the more recent decades that sexually suggestive dance has come to be a measure solely of attractiveness and to double as sexual foreplay.

The examples of a transcendental African aesthetic surfacing on very distant shores demands further investigation. On the haute couture catwalks of high fashion, statuesque ebony models undulate with the elegance of rural African women carrying loads upon their heads, replicating the stability or straightness seen in many forms of African art. The “human beat box” phenomenon of the 1980s, whereby an individual used his voice box to create sounds, resonates with the traditional African concept of suspending and preserving the beat. The music styles of drum and bass and electronica, both Afro-European creations, preserve the tradition of “dancing many drums.” Any Black dj worth his weight in vinyl knows that he can get the crowd at a party moving by leading the call and response tactic of, “If I say house. . . You say party,” or some such chant. Recent dances like the Cha-Cha Slide and the immortal Electric Slide imitate line dancing that can be seen on the continent. The largest body of African American art that exists today might be identified as graffiti. Its “loud” colors and abstract imagery certainly fall in line with the traditional continuum of vividness cast into equilibrium. African Americans do not produce textiles but certainly lean towards patterns and colors that reflects visibility and luminosity. While only an infinitesimal portion of the African American population can trace their lineage back to a specific tribe in Africa, an even smaller number can say that the standards and practices of that particular culture were knowingly passed on. Yet those very same practices and traditions somehow phenomenologically manifest themselves with uncanny similarity in trends and numbers too great to dismiss throughout the Diaspora. Arguably, maybe hidden within the genetic makeup of the melanin rich descendants of the Maafa, there is a marker that identifies meter and movement, rhythm and cadence of African art and motion.

[1] Robert Farris Thompson, African Art in Motion: Icon and Act in the Collection of Katherine Coryton White, (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974) p. 5.
[2] Ibid., .13.

Home of the Brave

War is an evil mechanism of the political elite. Its intent is to create money for the connected few at the expense of the masses. In this “great” country, we repeat what we hear on talk radio and consider it the gospel truth. There is a sick belief in this country that our air is somehow more sacred, our lives are somehow more valuable than any other people in the universe. “Oh Dear God, they attacked us on OUR soil . . .” we cry, not realizing that we have no special immunity that makes us above anyone else. Our blood is not more red; our lives are no more valuable than anyone else’s. We have no red, white, and blue blanket of protection that makes it a sin against God for us to suffer the ravages of war and a patriotic duty for others to suffer and die needlessly to stroke our inflated egos. No, the lives of Iraqi people are just as valuable; the dreams of the Afghani are the same as ours, their blood is the exact same color, they bleed and die in the same horrible way we do.

I remember when the war on terror began. I was all over the internet, asking people to think for themselves. I was screaming that there should be an investigation into the real perpetrators of 9/11 because things didn’t make sense. People accused me of being a terrorist and anti-American because I was bringing up very logical questions about the circumstances around the attacks. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that amidst all that destruction, all that rubble, all that that horror, rescue workers could find a paper passport of one of the terrorists on the day the towers collapsed. There is fire, death, destruction, and chaos all around, the likes of which have no equal, and the rescue workers find a paper passport belonging to one of the terrorists on one of the planes. I’m supposed to believe that they found a paper passport when they couldn’t find the indestructible black box from the cockpit, they couldn’t find one body of any of the passengers, but they found a paper passport that flew out from the luggage of a terrorist on a domestic flight.

By noon that same day, a bag was found in Boston with a Koran, a passport, a suicide note and a video on how to fly a plane, proving. The media said, without a doubt that Al-Qaeda was responsible. I have to wonder why suicide bombers that flew planes expertly into the WTC needed a video on how to fly a plane on their way to executing the most precise act of terrorism ever committed? Were they going to get some last minute flying pointers before they took over the cockpit? Maybe they were going to show it to the passengers as the plane was crashing. They were so stealth in their planning that no one knew what they were going to do but they were so stupid as to leave a trail that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that they did it? If they wanted to brag that they were responsible, why not take credit for the event AFTER they pulled it off? No one has taken responsibility for the attacks and the only evidence we have of who did it is what the US government says. Which begs one to wonder why the US is sooooo invested in proving to the American people that they have the true perpetrators of a crime based on such OBVIOUSLY manufactured proof.

I bring up all of this conspiracy speculation to make the point that if there is even a tiny iota of room for doubt that 9/11 had suspicious beginnings, then we have to question how we could be at war within a month of that day and of how we have justified that the war in Iraq because of links to 9/11 as well. The entire house of cards falls if September 11th wasn’t really an act of terrorism. The American public doesn’t care. They want to blow the towelheads off the face of the planet. We want to fight for freedom. People who have no idea how many US senators there are or who can’t tell you how many Supreme Court Justices there are were waving flags in their yards and saying God Bless America.

I had a conversation with a white woman just after the war in Afghanistan started. (Did that war ever end by the way? Aren’t we really in two wars?) She said she was having the worst day of her life because her roof had leaked because of some recent rain and the contractor that was scheduled to fix it was late. I asked her if she meant to say that it was the worst day in her life and she told me without a doubt, it was the WORST day of her life. I told her that there were Afghani mothers that were dodging bullets and bombs, who had lost their homes and husbands, who were trying to protect their children and find food and shelter to stay alive that could hardly compare to her leaky roof. Why did I say that? She was HAPPY the people in Afghanistan were suffering. If she could have dropped the bombs herself she would have. “God Bless America,” she kept saying, “Remember 9/11.” When I reminded her that there wasn’t one single supposed terrorist that was from Afghanistan, she didn’t give a fuck. She told me that she wished that they were all dead. I wept for her soul.

The sin of this war in Iraq, is that the US has sent children over there and made them into murderers and torturers and it’s justified as fighting for freedom. We mourn for the 2000 American lives lost but we don’t mention the 200,000 Iraqi lives lost. The children, mothers, the brothers and sons, the people that had nothing to do with 9/11 and the people that had nothing to do with the WMD, had they been real in the first place. We call them insurgents and we cheer for the American soldiers every time they kill an uprising, never realizing that insurgents are really people that are saying, “GET OUT OF OUR COUNTRY and take your death and destruction with you.” We are heroes of democracy and fighting for the concept of “freedom” when we kill them but they are cells of terrorists when they fight for their homeland. Soulless Americans don’t see the inherent evil in that because American air is sacred, American soil is holy, American lives have more value.

The young men that are over there, fighting for oil for Bush’s elite friends, will never be the same when they return and I mourn for the loss of their innocence. They will come back and they will be killers. Your UPS driver and your car mechanic will have killed other human beings and be walking around thinking it was justified because they were fighting for the flag. They will have been exposed to chemicals that will fuck with their health for the rest of their lives, and their children’s lives. Don’t kid yourself. The acts of torture at Abu Ghraib were not isolated. Men and women who have never voted a day in their lives will have committed acts of torture that the white male power structure justified to line their pockets.

I support the individual soldiers in this illegal war because I know that their lives will never be the same. Those with a conscious will have nightmares about the death and destruction for years and years to come. Those too naïve and damaged to understand that killing is not a sport or recreation will think nothing of snapping their spouses necks when they get into an argument. They will never consider that human beings, with dreams and desires parallel to their own, were killed for profit.

When it’s all said and done, Osama Been Forgotten will remain elusive, Bush will not be held accountable for the lies he told about weapons of mass destruction and he’ll find a way to justify another war in Iran. The American people will not care, because those sand niggers don’t deserve life in the first place. It’s only the good old US of A that has any value and only our lives that have any worth.

Copyright 2005 Scottie Lowe

Thanks and Praises

I must give thanks and praises for the love like I’ve never known. I gaze upon his sleeping form and I’m humbled by his beauty. His gentle breathing is like music to my ears. I ask myself could there be a wine more intoxicating than his beauty. If it exists, I know that it could only be when I drink from him, tasting his essence when he erupts in my mouth. Savoring his juices, I’m intoxicated by his seed and I drink freely.

I’ve searched forever for this man. I was created for him and he for me. When those around me told me to settle, when others told me to compromise, I held steadfast to my vision and I was delivered the perfect embodiment of my dreams. His gentle touch makes me wet and I see the world anew through his eyes. His mouth envelops my clit and the softness of his lips paint pleasure like I’ve never known before. The soft round curve of my tummy is the perfect pillow for him to lay his head. My aching hard nipples are like magnets for his mouth. I can fall asleep with him sucking them like a baby.

It is most certainly his manhood, that column of beauty and lust, which enslaves me and holds me captive. His locs tickle my face as we kiss passionately, his lips kiss me with tenderness. My tight, wet, warm core surrounds him and I can’t help but release my cum from the depths of my being as he strokes me deeply, hard. He is my king and my strong, Nubian Knight. He is my lover, ally, and confidant and I’m a better woman for knowing him in the most intimate way.

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

To: Executives in the Adult Entertainment Industry

The images of African Americans in the adult industry are largely atypical of the true African American experience. The perpetuation of racist and stereotypical images prevalent in the adult industry work to foster unhealthy and diseased perceptions of African Americans and render the majority of African Americans without avenue for healthy erotic expression. The perpetuation of the Black woman as the Ghetto Bitch, Ghetto Whore, and Ghetto Freak is not reflective of the vast and overwhelming majority of Black women. The perpetuation of the Black man as the barely literate, one-dimensional bull is offensive and steeped in sick prejudices that are not reflective of the vast majority of African American males.

The quality of Black or Ebony adult material available is horrific. Internet sites tend to list ebony or interracial content as “fetish” as if there is something freakish or abnormal about Black sexuality that sets it apart from the norm. The videos available are as low budget as one can possibly get; the actors and actresses are usually taken from the most disenfranchised and marginalized portion of the population, the sets appear to be nothing more than housing project residences with cameras and lights set up. Similarly, Black oriented magazines seem to produce a fair amount of income from the most minimal of investment. This not only fosters a belief in the members of the economically disadvantaged Black community that sex is somehow the equivalent of Black identity and the only way out of poverty but also reinforces a false and offensive belief in members of other races that people of African descent are nothing more than highly-sexual, primitive beasts.

We, the undersigned, hereby demand that the following conditions IMMEDIATELY be set forth by the decision makers of the adult industry that knowingly and willfully sustain these offensive images of African Americans in order to make a profit.

We call for: ·The immediate cease and desist of the use of the word Nigger (or any pronunciation thereof) in adult films. That word should not ever be used in connotation to sexual arousal. When used in that context, it becomes the sexual trigger for some and they then associate that word with Black sexuality. The word nigger is a racial slur, not an aphrodisiac. While the use of the word has become commonplace in African American vernacular, that does not mean that it’s acceptable to promote or convince anyone that its meaning has somehow been morphed into something positive or benign.

·Intentional and concerted effort to be made to show African Americans in a more favorable and well-rounded light. Black people are capable of more than interracial couplings and Freak Fest Extravaganzas. Black adult stars are rarely ever featured together, implying that Black people are only arousing when paired with white people. All black adult entertainment usually panders to the lowest common denominator, virtually excluding those individuals that might be seeking adult entertainment that does not originate from housing projects or Black Bike Week.

·The reinvestment of profits made from the adult industry Black market be made into inner city neighborhoods to improve schools and provide job training to rectify the intentional exploitation of lower income African Americans. If there is to be even the pretense of racial equality in this country, then there must be concerted efforts made to rectify the educational and vocational imbalances that exist in urban areas. Reinvestment of funds made from the exploitative measures of the adult industry that has capitalized on disenfranchised Black people is step one in a good faith effort to show the African American community at large that mainstream America believes that everyone can achieve given the proper tools.

·An immediate cease and desist of the practice of using economically disenfranchised African Americans as tools for adult entertainment. The very nature of the practice is racist and offensive. It gives people of other races with the false impression that Black people are stereotypical caricatures only capable of base behaviors. It leaves the victims themselves with a false sense of identity by promoting the concept that all they are capable of is sex in exchange for money. Most importantly, it is not entertaining or arousing for the vast majority of African Americans that exist outside of that reality. It is offensive to suggest that showing such a miniscule portion of the Black community in an adult light will be source for arousal for all.

·African Americans that come from all walks of life and aesthetic expression be represented in tasteful, erotic scenarios. Black women can be beautiful and sexy with natural hair yet they seem to be dangerously missing from the adult industry. Showing image after image solely of African American female buttocks simply serves to objectify and dehumanize the subjects. Apparently, lighter complexioned African American men are not considered attractive or sexual because their presence in the adult industry is minimal which only serves to reinforce the “Mandingo, cotton-picking, big-dicked-Negro-as-Buck” stereotype. That negatively defines Black manhood as being equivalent to skin tone and penis size.

While it is true that if these demands are not met, the adult industry will continue to operate utilizing these racist and offensive practices without much repercussion. Implementing these changes however will usher in a new wave of Ebony adult entertainment that will appeal to larger percentages of African American and mainstream populations alike. The adult industry must be held accountable for perpetuating and profiting from stereotypes that must be dismantled.

Sincerely,

http://www.petitiononline.com/Afro4321/petition.html

AfroerotiK is . . . . Redefining Black Manhood

AfroerotiK is . . . is a show that examines black sexuality and that provides insight and alternatives to individuals seeking healthy erotic expression. It highlights the beauty and sensuality of African Americans without being vulgar and stereotypical and it provides a fresh perspective from which to examine the issues that shape the perceptions of Black sexuality. It’s a show for everyone that will challenge myths, destroy clichés, and set the foundation for intense erotic exploration. AfroerotiK is features debates, discussions, interviews, and steamy erotic readings to stimulate and arouse.

This month, we are exploring REDEFINING BLACK MANHOOD. It’s a hard-hitting, no holds barred discussion that sheds light on a much-maligned topic. It’s essential listening for women who feel like they can’t find a good man and men who are tired of being narrowly defined. It’s for anyone open to conversation about shifting the behaviors that are keeping black relationships in danger.

Take a listen and experience for yourself.

It takes several minutes to download and your patience is appreciated.

Click HERE to Listen!

AfroerotiK is . . . . Podcast

You are invited to re-listen to the very first ever broadcast of AfroerotiK is . . . a titillating talk show that takes a peak into Black sexuality and discusses topics that dismantle offensive stereotypes and that provides a forum for the healthy expression of Ebony sensuality. This topic sparked such debate, such controversy that it inspired another Podcast that is dedicated to Redefining Black Male Sexuality. This version tackles a lot of myths and false perceptions about Black male sexuality and includes a VERY sexy erotic reading.

It takes several minutes to download and your patience is appreciated.

Click HERE to listen

AfroerotiK Bylaws

1. AfroerotiK is committed to the healthy expression of Black sexuality. That includes any and all sexual expression that is SAFE, sane, and consensual. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of homophobia, patriarchy, sexism, or any other limiting and oppressive belief that narrowly defines sexuality or places restrictive guidelines on collective erotic practices.

2. AfroerotiK looks to foster the intimate, communicative sexual expression of couples. The backbone and foundation of a community is in the health and stability of its relationships. Honesty and open communication are key to building a great sex life. While every individual has the right to choose what fits their needs best, AfroerotiK supports sexual expression that is based on truth, introspection, and interconnectivity of partners. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of sex in exchange for money or fulfillment of selfish sexual desires that disregard the emotional needs of one’s partner.

3. AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any perpetuation of use the word nigger, any phonetic spelling thereof, or the word slave in relation to a sexual fetish. There is never an occasion or opportunity in which Black people should be referred to as niggers, the term is NOT a term of endearment, and it is extremely disrespectful to those that bled and died at the base of the word. Similarly, sexual submission is completely voluntary and not in any way indicative of the extreme abuses that people of African descent endured from which they derived no pleasure.

4. AfroerotiK sees sexual expression optimally as an avenue to transcendence and a connection to the Divine. Because Africans had very valid, enduring, and complex spiritual systems prior to their kidnapping and enslavement and because there are many, many avenues to access the Creator, AfroerotiK will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of Christianity as being the only, right, or valid religion.

5. One of the primary concerns of AfroerotiK is to dismantle the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality. While there are many instances of interracial sexuality, AfroerotiK asserts that the healthiest expression of sexuality between the races is based first and foremost on a holistic and integrated love of self, history, and identity for people of African descent. Conversely, admiration, respect, and adoration of Black people should be based on far more than genitals, skin tone or some perceived image of sexual savagery.

6. The spread of HIV and AIDS in the African American community is rampant and crippling. There is an absolutely huge propensity to demonize and vilify bisexual or gay black men as the sole perpetuators of the transmission of the deadly disease. An individual’s HIV status is completely their own responsibility and AfroerotiK will not assign blame to or deflect culpability away from partners that choose to engage in unsafe sexual practices.

Children of the Diaspora

Children of the Diaspora, descendants of slaves, suffer the emotional, psychological and spiritual chains of mental bondage. The chains that rattle about us are no longer iron and steel. They are the chains of complacency, misogyny, materialism, disdain and apathy. Our masters have become the almighty dollar and emotionless pleasure. The overseer need not hang us from trees any longer for we kill ourselves with poison in our veins, and bullets for our brothers. The auction blocks have become the maternity wards, pregnant themselves with bastard children and immature mothers.

We’ve lost our community to narcissistic desires. We inflict our own punishment with our willful criminal behavior. Education need not be held from us any longer, for we voluntarily turn our backs on it. What purpose does it serve for massa to give us his hand me down clothes, we actually believe the Tommy and Ralph and Gianni make us better than the next person. Our men find it perfectly acceptable to use women indiscriminately, to be emotionally unavailable and to abandon their heirs. Our women serve the Prada pocketbook and the Optima relaxer. So deep are our wounds that we call ourselves degrading and vile names and defend the right to do so. Rather than call ourselves Kings and Queens, we vehemently support the right to be Nigggers, bytches, and freaks. Slavery created a monster that roams the earth seeking it’s own self-destruction. Let us stand up and break the chains that keep us oppressed.

Parenting and Sexuality

I disagree with ALL the standards of raising children when it comes to sexuality today. I find it hard to believe that we as a nation can let our children watch violence as entertainment and we refuse to accept that it has any effect whatsoever. Forget the fact that children are committing mass murder, gang rapes, and going on shooting sprees for fun. No, watching violence has nothing to do with that. In the same vein, we let out kids watch pornographic music videos, we pretend their sexuality doesn't exist until it's too late, we don't show them healthy examples of sexuality, and we tell our children to wait till marriage to have sex or we let them have orgies in the basement and think we are great parents. I've yet to meet the single mother of a son who has a healthy perspective of her son's sexuality. Time and time again, they either insist that their sons are asexual angels and blame girls for trying to seduce their sons or they don't even care that their sons are sexually active at age 9 or 10, they think its some sort of sign of manhood.

Parents today seem to think that it's not good to show our children our "freaky" side. First and foremost, any person that considers their sexuality freakish is not going to have a healthy perception of their own sexuality. Sex is beautiful, natural, and healthy. Damn right children should witness their parent’s sexuality. Notice I didn’t say that children should watch their parents have sex but children should know that their parents kiss, that they are intimate, that they need time alone to relate to each other like a man and woman (or whatever gender the parents happen to be). How else can you teach a child how to relate to a partner in a romantic and intimate way if not by showing them by example? Children should know that their parents enjoy touching and kissing and holding each other. Children should know that on some weekends that they have to go to Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop's in order to give their parents time alone and that it's perfectly okay to tell them that Mommy and Daddy are going to have sex. If we continue to make something nasty, dirty, and secretive, we are never going to heal as a people.

I think it's unbelievably damaging to a child to ignore their sexual maturation. I have a professor whose wife is a counselor at an inner city school. A mother actually sat and watched pornos with her 7-year-old child because she said she didn't want him to be gay. That child is now damaged for life because his sexuality has been shaped by objectification and misogyny. Children should not be exposed to sex at that age and there is not justification for a child to be introduced to sex by an adult. Kids have more access to pornography than when I was a kid and I saw my fair share of it. Kids today grow up with images of sex on music videos that objectify women and make sex recreation. Every movie makes sex into some gross distortion bumping and grinding.

We don't teach our girls to love their bodies, to respect their bodies, we teach them to use their bodies as ways to manipulate men. We don't teach our girls that their bodies are sacred and that a man must earn her treasure with his honesty and integrity, we teach them that designer jeans will make their asses look better to get a bad boy. We don't teach our boys to honor their bodies and to treat them as sacred, we say, "Don’t get anyone pregnant" and that's that. We don't teach our children anything about sex and they grow up with distorted and fucked up images.

We try to repress the natural sexual development of our children, trying to deny their sexuality when they reach puberty. Instead of talking to them about sex, explaining to them step by step that sex is something that is emotional, spiritual, and physical, we don’t discuss it at all and then expect our children to come to us and tell us about their sex lives. Instead of having discussions about masturbation and providing children the opportunity to grow up without porn images shaping their sexuality, we turn a blind eye and pretend that our children aren't sexual at all. Kids are doing things these days that I had never even heard of when I was their age. I remember that almost everyone in my high school was having sex except for the ugly and the nerdy, and even a few of them were having sex with each other. I have no doubt in my mind that the instances of children NOT having sex is probably so rare it should be documented if it’s found.

There is nothing we do right as a society when it comes to raising our children and sexuality. We hide nudity from our children like it's a bad thing and let them think it's okay to have sex in a club for some Krystal. I'm not a parent but if I'm ever blessed enough to raise children, I can promise you that I'm not going to raise them in any way shape or form like most people do. My children will grow up understanding that homosexuality is normal and natural, that music videos are degrading, that sex is natural and beautiful and that it's a form of communication in a relationship and not something to do in the basement on a Friday night in order to get off. I will teach my boy children to call the police if an older woman propositions them for sex and that it’s not a rite of passage to have sex with an older woman, it’s a crime. I will teach my children that they should have an emotional and spiritual connection to whomever they lay with and that they must be prepared to nurture their partners and unless they are prepared to do that they shouldn’t have sex. My only prayer is that there will be other parents out there, raising their children in an equally enlightened way, so that my children can have partners that have perverted and distorted views of sex.

Dating with Children

I’m confused about the standards we have set for ourselves these days. It seems to me that people think nothing of the ramifications of the choices that their partners make. People ask me all the time if I would date a man with children. I’m 40, what man my age doesn’t have children? I wouldn't date a man that had five children by four or five different women because that is a HUGE red flag that he is an irresponsible man. If a man had five children by one woman, and they split and he had partial or full custody, I would LOVE to date him. That's a HUGE indication that he is a responsible man. I don't have children so I don't hang out at PTA meetings or playgrounds or ballet classes (if I wouldn't feel like some sort of desperate housewife I would consider checking out some of those places but that seems awfully manipulative) so I don't meet the types of men that are caring fathers.

I meet the men that think that getting their children two weekends a month is babysitting. I met the men that think I'm some sort of trophy because I'm 40 and I don't have any children but they have children they haven't seen in years. I meet the men that think that child support payments are some sort of ransom payment that mothers benefit from for manicures and bon bons. I dream about meeting a single father that is raising his child alone. Instead, I meet married men that have children for whom they have no regard because they are so busy trying to convince me that I don't understand how loveless their marriage has become.

I will NOT date a man that thinks that I’m some sort of extra value prize because I don’t have any children. That sort of man is the worse sort of partner possible. I feel for the woman that has children and is looking for a man. I hear the disparaging comments that men make about women with children when they are trying to impress me. They tell me how they lead women with children on to get the panties and walk away before they get too close (sign of emotional immaturity). They tell me of the impossible standards that they put on women with children, making them and their children jump through hoops to adhere to some sort of antebellum standard of behavior where children are seen and not heard and a good backslap was supposedly good for a child. No matter how well behaved the child is, if the mother isn't raising her child like a concentration camp prisoner, they get deemed an unfit mother and therefore disposable. The fear of responsibility, of being an adult, prevents men from forming relationships with women with children. Because men can make babies and walk away without so much as losing a night’s sleep, the scales will always tip in their favor when it comes to degrading women with children. My prayers are with you ladies that you find a suitable mate. And if you meet a man and you want to know his true feelings about how he feels about dating a woman with children, ask one of his ex’s that don’t have children, she’ll tell you the truth.

White Male Submission

One can’t pick up a magazine or listen to a discussion about the black community these days without reading about “DL brothas”, or black men that have sex with other men while representing themselves as heterosexual. There is a homoparanoia and fear that is largely media driven that is telling black women that they need to question every black man they meet because he might be having sex with other men. Certainly, black men must be driven by their desires more than any other portion of the population because this “DL” trend is so rampant, or so one is lead to believe by the books, articles, and discussions that are so prevalent today.

I have the unique opportunity to be in a position where people come to me and tell me their fantasies as a function of my career. There is a HUGE and very stealth underground sexual movement that is growing that has escaped any mainstream examination whatsoever. While black men’s sexual practices have been put under a microscope and they have been demonized in the media as sexually irresponsible and morally bankrupt latent “faggots,” white men have been able to slip under the radar, with stealth efficacy, with their sexual secrets. The numbers of white men that come to me and tell me that they have fantasies of being sexually submissive, not only to black women, but also to black men, is STAGGERING. Literally, dozens of thousands of white men have approached me in the last several years, all reiterating very much the same themes in their desires, that they believe that white people are inferior, that they want to pay for the atrocities of slavery by their sexual servitude to black people, that black people are more beautiful.

There are common themes and consistencies in their fantasies and the types of white male submissive men can be grouped into three main categories: white men that want white female partners to engage in interracial sex, white men that want black female partners and white men that want domination by both black men and black women. The first group of men, the men that want their white wives or girlfriends to engage in interracial sex, are known as cuckolds. Cuckolds are men that get arousal from having a white wife, commonly referred to as a “slut wife,” that has multiple black lovers. The husband is forced to live a life of sexual denial and servitude while the wife has sex with these so called “superior black bulls.” Servitude can include anything from getting the wife ready for her lover to cleaning her orally after her lover has ejaculated inside her, to orally or anally servicing the black lover himself. Many times, the sexual component is heightened if there is some level of implied “extortion” or money demanded of the white submissive male to perform theses homosexual acts. I’ve had innumerous white men tell me that they want their wives to be “black bred”, meaning impregnated by a black man and they are sexually aroused by the idea of their wives forcing them to raise a biracial child as their own. There’s little doubt that the origins of these fantasies are steeped in the mythical “Big Black Mandingo” stereotype as they profess love for his abnormally large penis while begging to be taunted and humiliated for their comparatively small endowment. Sexual submission is usually limited to the bedroom for these men because they seem to be able to compartmentalize the fact that they are only inferior because of their perceived, small penis and, on occasion, express regret that they have fantasies of seeing the black man as superior, even in a sexual situation.

The second category of white male submissive is the men that hold black women in the highest esteem. These men love and desire the black woman far more than white woman and very often admire the natural features of black women that have long been rejected by society at large. Big butts, dark skin, full lips, natural hair, and sassy and domineering attitudes are the attributes that they most readily describe as the epitome of beauty, black or otherwise. The number of occasions when white men have said they want a black wife to pamper and provide for, to put her on a pedestal as the true mother of all civilization, are too numerous to mention. Many times, they reiterate the same sorts of fantasies of the cuckold husband: they want her to have a black lover, but more often than not, they describe feelings of inadequacy because they believe they are unable to satisfy or undeserving of having sex with a black woman. They describe fantasies whereby they are forced by a black woman to engage homosexual acts as an act of punishment or for her amusement. They reiterate they same sorts of fantasies about cleaning Black woman of ejaculate deposited by her lover, being denied orgasm, being “forced” to humble themselves before the black man to show their unworthiness and inferior status. The instances of white men telling me that they want to serve as human toilet to black women are so commonplace, so frequent, I don’t blink an eye any longer when the topic is broached. These men describe how it would be an honor to receive the waste of a black woman and how it is their duty as a white male to do so. Many desire to be subjected to perform household duties for black women, seemingly with no sexual gratification in return, only the desire to be humiliated for their whiteness. Most desire to form lifelong, loving relationships with Black women as adoring pets or servants and most refer to themselves as slaves.

The third category of white male submissive is interested whatever forms of degradation they can receive from whatever Black source that sees fit to dish it out. They are unashamedly bisexual and, in many cases, prefer to perform sexual acts with black men. Among this group are the most masochistic of the population. They are constantly asking for approval and validation that they truly are inferior to black people. They confess that they want to become slaves, stripped of their rights as a human, that they want to pay for the sins of any white person that owned slaves, and that they want to be degraded and humiliated for their whiteness. Their fantasies are extreme, many expressing desires to be lynched and beat reminiscent of true slavery as part of their sexual fantasies. Many tell me that they desire to become black and have romantic notions that they will become well-endowed athletes or big-bosomed matriarchal archetypes. Several have requested books to read to tell them of a more accurate Black history than the limited exposure they’ve received. I’ve had white men tell me that they go out of their way to hire black people, support black businesses, or provide daily acts of kindness to black people as their own personal form of reparations. Oddly, this trend is not limited to America; European men make up a large percentage of this population.

These examples are the norm not the extreme and I’m confronted with these examples on a daily basis. This isn’t just limited to the heterosexual community; I’ve encountered many gay men that have expressed comparable desires. It should be noted that almost 100% of the time, white men use the singular adjective black to describe the collective of people rather than as a descriptor. i.e. “I want my wife to fuck black, I am attracted to black, I am a slave for black” rather than the proper usage, “I am attracted to black women, I want my wife to fuck black men, I desire to be submissive to black people.” Their grammatical objectification of us is but a minor indication that they have yet to shatter the racist beliefs that they claim so boldly to have done.

If there is any level of validity in my findings, my observations lead me to believe that there is no concurrent movement by black people whereby we, on any sort of collective basis, are expressing desires to make white people pay for the atrocities of slavery or to restore a Black supremist racial hierarchy and to do so by the sexual subjugation of white people. We seem to be naively playing into the role of dominatrix and Black bull and walking away from the experience and not being particularly braggadocios about them either. Those few African American individuals that have confided in me of experiences with submissive white men seem to take pity on them that they are so warped in their thinking that they could actually believe that black people could be superior. In my amateur anthropological opinion, these black people feel guilty for holding a position of power over white men, even if it’s only sexually and for brief periods of time. I’ve yet to meet the black person that has engaged in a sexual liaison with a submissive white man that has truly recognized the larger political implications. Many black women have seen this as an opportunity to capitalize on their “most coveted object” status and made attempts to use white men for money, which seem to backfire more often than not according to their tales. While very few black men confide in me about their experiences with submissive white men, (and one can only assume from the reports of white men that the numbers of black men that are engaging in these behaviors are equally as staggering) I can only assume that they feel some sort of temporary reprieve from the stresses and strains of a racist society while engaged in the act, and as they go on about their daily lives, they replace their societally-imposed veil of powerlessness, never recognizing that their true power does not lie in their penis. Black people, still largely ignorant of our own past, the origins of African greatness, and still largely brainwashed to believe that white people are better, are sadly, too uninformed to assert that they will not be made pawns in a sexual game to rid white people of their guilt or fulfill their dark continent lust.

There are a multitude of larger implications that are happening beneath this absolutely HUGE movement that need to be discussed and simply can’t be unless the topic is put on the table so that society at large can examine the trend and not have it kept as white America’s dirty little secret. First and foremost, these men are still, for the most part, holding onto racist, stereotypical and degrading beliefs about Black people while they are insisting that their desire to submit to black people indicates that they are free from all such beliefs. They assume that because they are sexually attracted to Black people that automatically means they are not racist. Many white men claim they used to harbor racist beliefs and some sexual event with a black person cured them of their racism, which is obviously an absurd assumption. If these white men are in fact engaging in sexual acts with black men as they claim, then the source and spread of HIV in the Black community needs to be examined. These white men should be spreading the virus to their partners in equal proportions to black men.

I imagine that there are scores of therapists, counselors, sex workers, medical practitioners and journalists in this country that have the same knowledge as I. Why aren’t there medical journals and articles that are discussing this trend and the psychological implications? Where are the 20/20 and Dateline exposes, where are the radio talk shows that are discussing this phenomenon, why isn’t every magazine warning white women about the potential hazards of white men that are engaging in unsafe sex with black men? Given the current political climate in this country, with this move to the ultra-moral, ultra-conservative right, what conclusions can one draw about this population of white men that have this race-driven guilty, envy, and lust? Are there white men that are secretly harboring these sexual desires in positions of power and exacting stricter punishments on black men to assuage them of their desires to “submit to black?”

Race in America is still and extremely volatile topic. If there are, as I’ve experienced, multitudes of white men that are having these types of fantasies and desires, there needs to be an open and honest discussion in a public forum to determine the origins, the implications, and to form support groups and allegiances to address the very important issues that these types of issues bring to the table. White men are begging, even if it is only privately, to be immersed in a black sexual experience, and they are being led by individuals that don’t have the ability to train, instruct and accurately inform. This issue can not be swept under the table because it upsets the equilibrium of the status quo. White men are desiring to be submissive to Black people in phenomenal numbers and the reasons why and the social implications thereof must be discussed.

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and Founder of AfroerotiK

The Love I Share

The love I share is with a Black man. A strong, beautiful, talented, intelligent, wonderful, Black man. Not just as in the color of his skin, but Black in his heart: proud, confident, and secure. A man that knows that keeping it real does not mean getting blunted or that he is a nigga. He strives for excellence and looks to lift up and enlighten others along the way. The Black man I love is my friend, my lover, my partner, my advocate and the father of my Black children.

I believe in him and he believes in me. I never have to ask, “Do you love me?” because the evidence is there is word and in deed. Every morning we get up and share time with one another. Sometimes we shower together, bathing in the closeness and love that we share. Other times we make love until we are both late for work. It’s passionate and fulfilling, not borne of a morning hard on, but of genuine passion and respect. The time we spend together in the morning makes it easier to face the petty annoyances of the day. I can reflect on his love and nothing seems to bother me. I can face every challenge assured. Assured that he will never call me a bitch or raise his hand to me. Assured that the first woman with a big butt and no panties won’t lure him away. Assured that our fights will not be with each other, but against racial and societal ills. I’m assured that we are fighting for a future together.

Do I love my Black man? More than words can say. When I speak of him, my eyes light up and I tell everybody about his talents, abilities and accomplishments. (He gets so embarrassed sometimes.) And I show him I love him every chance I get. My love is there for the long haul, I’m down for whatever. I’ll stand beside my man ready to face any challenge given to us.

Why do I love my Black man? When I’m afraid, he doesn’t make me feel inferior, he allows me to cry. When I succeed, he doesn’t feel threatened, he rejoices in my accomplishments. He deals with my faults and shortcomings. I’m not perfect but he thinks I am perfect for him. He helps me to be a better person. He doesn’t put undue pressure on me to be Superwoman: holding down a job, fixing dinner in high heels and a tight dress, ready to suck his dick and spread my legs, right after I do the laundry and put the kids to bed. When I feel down, who do you think is my biggest cheerleader? He stays awake through the entire ballet, and he only complains a little. That’s OK, I make sandwiches and snacks for him during the game, cause that’s what makes him happy.

Our time alone together is just that, alone. Away from the pressures of a day to day existence. Words are not necessary. Our deepest communication is nonverbal. Our dreams are the same, our hearts beat in the same rhythm. It’s a good thing we get to spend time apart occasionally. When I’m away on business or he’s having a boy’s weekend, we get a chance to reflect on how much we mean to one another. There is never any insecurity or jealousy between us. I smile when I see his head turn at the sight of a beautiful Black woman. He jumps to the defense of sisters when they are being dissed by less enlightened men. He takes the time to spend with young brothers, providing a positive role model for them to aspire to. How could I not love this man?

And just when you think things can’t get any better. He gives me that long, hard, hot, wet, sticky, Black love. He eats my pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I’m babbling incoherently. We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of “love.” I can share any erotic fantasy with him and know that I’m not going to be ridiculed or shamed. He takes the time to make every time special: music, candlelight, poetry (his own). I get wet just thinking about him.

Sometimes problems do arise. We face them as a challenge to greater heights of understanding. We hardly fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty socks……Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love him, nor that he loves me. His family is mine, mine has become his. Our children, planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love. My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath. Our sons, respecters of Black women, are political, street smart and fine. Our daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as intellect and ambition.

Most importantly, I share my love of God with my Black man. Every morning, every night, we thank God for the blessings we have received. We worship, meditate and pray together. Our relationship to God defies traditional definition. We make God first in our lives. We face the world knowing that our love is a Divine gift from God.

My Invitation

I invite into my life the opportunity to wear my man's t-shirt on a Sunday morning to fix him breakfast. That means he will have spent the night in my bed on Saturday night. I desire the constant presence of my divine right partner in my life.

I invite the opportunity to worship and commune in spirit with my man, to raise our vibration collectively as a manifestation of the one most high. I desire a man that shares my spiritual vision and wants to grow with me.

I invite the opportunity to nurture and pamper my man, to spoil him to let him know that my first thought is showing him love any chance I get. I desire the constant presence of him in my life whereby it becomes second nature to buy his favorite food, or to buy extralaundry detergent to wash his clothes.

I invite the opportunity to fit my man into my list of things to do. I desire the opportunity to make planning for him a place in my life.

I invite feeling his tender caresses. I desire being kissed by him because he cares for me, not because he's trying to fuck me.

I invite the opportunity to feel so comfortable with my man that can fall asleep in his lap. I desire the level of intimacy where I can feel safe enough with him that I can relax, let down my guard and slumber like a baby, to feel his hand rubbing my head, giving mecomfort.

I invite the level of intimacy where I can ask to take a shower at his place and know that I will not be molested or leered at if I close the door. I desire the comfort and intimacy to invite him to share in my bathing ritual with me because he wants to hear me ramble on about my vision and dreams.

I invite the sensation of being pampered by my man. I desire someone that takes pleasure in making me sigh and feel cared for.

I invite the sensation of being touched caressed and pleasured, not groped and molested. I desire the sensation of closing my eyes and drifting off to a place of peace while I feel his masculine hands all over my body and I can enjoy every second of his touch without fearing that I'm going to be perceived as a ho, used, manipulated or a notch on someone's belt.

I invite the opportunity to receive pleasure. I desire to be so comfortable with him that I don't have to worry about asking him to stop because things are going to far.

I invite the sensation of opening my legs for him, inviting him into my sacred space, feeling his desire for me, of knowing I can cum and not be afraid that he's going to walk out and I'll never see him again. I crave the sensation of having him cum inside me. I desire hearing him say that being inside me completes him and that he wants our baby to grow in my womb. I want to fall asleep with him inside me. I want to have a regular partner that loves me, for me, and only me.

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

I've Got a Secret

I’m going to let y’all in on a little secret. I’ve been keeping it for a long time. Now, when y’all hear my secret, the sistas will hiss and boo and think of me as a weak traitor, The brothas will say, “I told you so, I knew it all along.” I’ve wrestled with this secret for a long time, feeling guilt and shame for harboring these thoughts. Living my life in the closet, afraid to express myself, living a lie. In public, I deny my true feelings, crossing the line, extolling the sentiments exactly the opposite of how I feel. What is my secret? My badge of shame. Come close. Don’t tell a soul. I need a man. There I said it. It’s out in the open. I need a man.

I grew up being told that a woman needed a man for survival, to be the provider and protector. The man was the breadwinner and the woman stood behind him. I was told that men could lie and cheat and treat you like sh!t and as long as they paid the bills and eventually came home, that’s all you could expect. Women were never supposed to argue or disagree with a man. “Oh, you are so funny.” “Stop, don’t say that.” You had to have a man in your life. Even if that man was somebody else’s. A borrowed man was better than no man at all. I was raised to believe that all a woman could hope for was to play stupid, never have an opinion and to do whatever it takes to make a man happy. Which included spreading your legs, cooking, cleaning and being passive. My momma never said outright, ”you have to have a man to make you complete,” but actions speak louder than words. There was never a day when she didn’t have someone’s husband calling her. She would fix them gourmet meals and offer them her dysfunctional mind and sexual body. And of course they took it and went home to their wives, bellies full and balls empty, ego’s enormous.

I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way. I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own. But then I got strong.

I’ve been by myself for almost 4 years now. I wish I could say 4 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last few years. I’ve decided I don’t want no lying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex a dozen times or so, maintenance dates. But I’ve not had a man in my life. And damn it, I need a man.

I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self. What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from lying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings.

Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact. I hear sistas saying that they don’t need a man but I sure as hell do.

And tell me this, if men were so damned unnecessary, why is it that successful sistas who have got a man are not trying to give them away. All these women out here talking about I don’t need a man. I tell you what I don’t need. I don’t need panty liners with wings. I don’t need low fat chocolate ice cream. I don’t need 36 pairs of shoes. Seems like to me, if men were so damned unnecessary, there would be a lot more hairy-legged lesbians around.

I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a Strong Black man.

Whew, My secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!

Copyright 1997 Scottie Lowe

Black on Blonde Whore

AfroerotiK creates personalized and customized erotic stories, for and about people of color, specifically to provide an alternative to the stereotypical and negative depictions of Black sexuality. As an author of personalized and customized erotica, I’m requested by many white men to create stories that fulfill their fantasies of seeing their wives and girlfriends degraded and savagely fucked by black men. It’s a very slippery slope to tread on when writing that sort of erotica. First and foremost, it objectifies Black men to nothing more than their genitals. Anyone whose ever heard me debate the issues of interracial sexuality has heard my lamentations on how black men are portrayed as barely literate thugs standing on the basketball court waiting to fuck the hot slut wife. A fact that no one is willing to discuss is that white men are extremely aroused by the idea of a black men sexually degrading white women, the more base and raunchy, the better. Here is my descent into the cesspool of interracial sexuality that objectifies Black men for the sole purpose of satisfying white men’s most perverse desires. I do so with the caveat that I’m hoping to stimulate conversation and dialogue that shed light on topics that are rarely discussed. Is it hypocritical of me to degrade white women when I work diligently to show black people in a positive light? Yes. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. With that, I invite everyone to listen to this excerpt of interracial erotica and share your feedback and opinion. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s graphic and it’s dirty and it pulls no punches about using white women as filthy fuck sluts.

I welcome comments and dialogue.

White sissy fuck toy

Be forewarned, this is only for submissive sissy white boys.

Light skin and good hair

I love spending time with my older relatives. They have such rich stories to tell, they share so much history and give me perspective. I’m always amazed at what they had to endure and how closely their stories resemble tales of slavery. They are stories white people don’t hear, so it becomes easy for them to think that slavery was over and it has no effect on today. They are stories that the youth of today don’t want to hear so they live in oblivion about where we come from and just how bad things were for us not so long ago. It’s an ignorance that leads people to believe that we are totally emancipated from dysfunction when the truth is, we are passing on detrimental beliefs directly from slavery and thinking it’s normal.

I had the opportunity to spend time with a relative the other night. She’s 68 years old and she brought pictures to show me. It’s a conversation I don’t think I’ll forget for a very long time. She told tales of being degraded by white people that had my skin crawling. What was everyday life for her was like something I’ve never seen in any movie. She’s an exceptionally light skinned woman, wearing her cotton jogging suit and wig, like millions of other black women her age. She related tales of a cheating husband and how she had to cope with that in order to keep a roof over her head for her children. I looked at old black and white pictures from the forties and fifties of dark skinned men with light skinned black women.

I have a huge family. Any family reunion you go to, you’ll see that the majority of the male relatives under the age of 55 are married to or have baby mommas that are white women. I sat the other night, looking at picture upon picture of cousins with white women and my older relative justifying it by saying how good their children’s hair was.

I saw a baby picture of a child who had the thickest hair I’ve ever seen on a newborn child in my life. While I was in awe of this beautiful baby, my older cousin started lamenting over how bad and nappy the hair of this child was and how her mother couldn’t wait to perm their hair now that she was older. My uncle, who only dates black women who are light, bright, and damn near white with long flowing hair, defended this family elder’s assertions by reinforcing that if the girl child did in fact have a “bad grade” of unmanageable hair, that they should look to getting it permed and braided as soon as possible. They laughed and talked about nappy hair while I sat in silence, thinking about the self esteem of that poor girl child, having to hear scores of female relatives and beauticians tell her that her natural hair, the hair god intended her to have, her beautiful African hair was bad, wrong, and ugly.

My heart ached for that girl child’s self-esteem. How can she ever feel inherently beautiful if she feels that her natural hair is a mistake? I sat there all night and I could say nothing. I understood that this family elder had no idea that her beliefs were formed from the idea that black people were inferior. The need for black men 50 years ago to have light skinned women was because they believed black was ugly. Generations of black women were told that our hair was ugly and it had to be controlled and changed to look like white women’s in order to be beautiful.

My uncle claims that the fact that he’s only attracted to black women that can pass for white has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that that’s his personal preference. It’s his personal preference and the preference of a generation of black men who can’t understand that hearing tales of unmanageable black hair and ugly dark skin forms your preferences. I have cousins who have never dated a black woman in their lives. Their mother’s complain to the black women in the family but praise their son’s choices and compliment them for having children with “good hair.”

I know this trend isn’t exclusive to my family. I’ve seen family gathering photos of other people’s families and they justify the fact that not ONE, not one single black man married a black woman as merely coincidence. We aren’t evolving; we are staying stagnant and justifying it. We are still thinking that our natural hair is bad and wrong; we are still perpetuating the belief that light is right. We will perish as a race holding onto these diseased beliefs and hating what makes us black and beautiful.

Our dark skin isn’t ugly, it’s gorgeous. Our nappy hair isn’t bad, it’s exactly the way the Creator wanted it to be. Our thick lips and noses aren’t unattractive except if you believe that white people are better. I’m weary from seeing how disabled we are as a people and how intent we are to pass on that self-hatred to our children and exalt that dysfunction as normal.