The Broken Child

There are certain things one needs in life in order to grow up emotionally healthy. Because our culture has this deep seated hatred for Black men and an irrational worship of Black males, we, meaning Black society, raise our little boys in ways that dishonor their proper maturation process. We set the stage for them to be horrible fathers and husbands in childhood with practices and patterns that are nothing more than diseased remnants of slave teachings. Because, however, these practices are accepted as standard, and touted as healthy, we, in essence, manufacture, disabled Black men. All of our patterns and behaviors begin in childhood. We go through our entire lives mirroring the “truths” we learn before we are 10 years old. So to get to the origins of some of the pervasive and debilitating issues surrounding Black men, which are many of the issued Black men possess in staggering numbers, let’s take an in depth look at the life of a typical Black little boy, let’s call him Damon.

Damon is a beautiful, brown little boy with all the potential in the world. He, like almost every black child, is being parented by his single mother. He was the “byproduct” of a four month fling in which his mother, a very pretty, light-skinned women got pregnant and her “boyfriend” did a Maury Povich and said, “It ain’t mine.” Turns out he was and the father has to pay court order child support and has scheduled visitation. His grandparents are “high yellow” and they often criticize their daughter for getting pregnant by such a “Black” man, right in front of Damon. His mother wasn’t emotionally prepared to have a child, because she, like most Black women, hadn’t dealt with her own issues. Oh, she is excellent at repeating clichés like, “I’m a strong black woman, I don’t need a man, and, I can be the mother and the father.” But those are just empty and irrational sayings that have no meaning because any mature adult knows that a child is best reared by two parents in a loving environment and it’s not even emotionally possible for a mother to teach her son how to be a man because she has no clue what it means to be a man. She might be capable of raising him to be a good person, IF she had cleaned up the mess of her own emotional life first, but she didn’t and she beats the crap out of her son for every minor, perceived, or imagined infraction, every chance she can get, saying that she’s teaching him discipline when all she’s really doing is reinforcing violence and hatred.

In order to be a trusting adult, you need to have reliable, dependable people in your life, you need stability. Damon is 8 years old and he’s lived in four apartments already. He and his mother move frequently to avoid getting evicted for failure to pay the rent. His mom works a steady job but she spends her money carelessly, opting to buy clothes and shoes, and getting her hair done in order to be attractive to men rather than budget her money and provide a stable home for her child. She thinks that Damon is the reason she can’t get a man, an although, to her credit, she doesn’t come out and say it, she shows it in her behavior, quick to leave him at various “auntie’s” houses any and every chance she can get to go out on a date. Damon’s absentee father breaks promises all the time in order to get out of his parenting responsibilities so he can run the streets with all his women. Poor Damon. He learns very early that the only thing that is constant in his life, the only thing that he can truly trust, is that there is going to be change and disappointments. He has to make new friends every time they move and he never really feels a sense of permanence or feels like he has a home because he knows at any moment, his mother could say, “Start packing, it’s time to go.” Damon grows up and he doesn’t let people get close to him because believes relationships are temporary and he’s never had anyone provide stability, consistency, security, or even a sense of being loved in his life.

Little Damon learned early on that he wasn’t enough, that there was something inherently wrong with him. His mother would come home from work, frustrated and angry from the job and yell and scream at him. It was usually her chance to get out all her frustration with the world. “Damon, you stupid little nigger, you are just like your father, that no good son of a bitch. I hate him. You are an evil hateful child.” Sweet innocent Damon hears that and learns that there’s he’s born no good, that he isn’t good enough as is, so he has to become something else, someone else. He wears the mask that grins and lies. Big Damon adapts his behavior to what he learns as a child by being untrustworthy, never really being his authentic self with anyone, shaping and morphing his personality to fit people’s needs, and ultimately, he tires of the façade and lets them down when the game gets too demanding. It becomes too tiresome to keep up the image of something and someone he really isn’t, of pretending to be someone he’s not, so he doesn’t keep his promises, he doesn’t follow through, he doesn’t live up to his word. But the real authentic Damon, the one inside is looking for validation. He’s never gotten it, he’s not even sure it exists, so all he knows is to keep lying, keep pretending to be something he’s not to prove to the world that he is worthy. When he let’s the people around him down, his subconscious mind validates his mother’s words, that he really is no good.

Little Damon learned to lie at an early age. His mom would always make him responsible for her happiness. She would call him “her little man” and tell him that he was the only man in her life. He felt responsible for making his mommy happy. He hated seeing his mommy mad at him, and she would fly off into a rage when he did something bad, so when she confronted him, he would lie to make his mommy proud of him, to make sure she loved him. Damon would never get a spanking when he lied, but he would get a beating every time he told the truth. Mommy, desperate to make Damon the man in her life, never held little Damon accountable when he lied to others. She coddled him and defended him against anyone who would dare accuse him of anything wrong because she thought any implied imperfections of her son were a reflection on her poor mothering skills. If his mom sanctioned his lying by telling her own lies then lying couldn’t be all that bad. Lying got him out of trouble, made people happy, didn’t make them mad at him. It became first nature for Big Damon to lie, to deny, to deceive, and to lie some more. Adult Damon lies so much, he doesn’t even realize what the truth is. He can look a person in the eye and lie without so much as blinking an eye and he has no concept that he’s wrong for it.

“Little boys don’t cry.” Little Damon heard it over and over again. “Be a man, don’t be a sissy, real men don’t cry.” Okay, so little Damon holds in his tears as best he can. He wants to be a man, right? All the men in his life are playboys. All the men in his life use women for sex. Every message he gets, from TV to friends to that same absentee dad who blows him off for his dates is that men fuck women to prove their manhood. When he has sex for the first time, usually at an exceptionally young age, he “feels” this great sensation. It’s more than physical, it’s a moment of release where he can be himself. He loves that feeling. He isn’t able to articulate it because . . . well because he’s never ever been taught to express his feelings because that’s not something boys do. He associates sex with feeling good but never with intimacy and connection because those are terms he doesn’t even understand. Everything in society tells him that his big, black dick makes him a man. Not once is he told that a being a man means having integrity, keeping your promises, being honest when it means you won’t get what you want. Big Damon uses women for sex left and right, craving the sensation of closeness, craving the opportunity to let down his guard but completely unaware of how to go about it with a partner. He knows pornos and women who yell and scream at him for being emotionally unavailable but he doesn’t have a clue as to what they are talking about so he moves on to the next woman to fuck and see if he can’t get that feeling.

Damon is every Black man. His experience isn’t identical to every Black man but in far far too many instances it’s damn close. Now, the triggers can be different. I could tell the same story with Damon and he could have lived in the same home all his life, with a dad who died of a heart attack and a mom who was super rigid and super strict, he could have waited until he was a grown man until he had sex but the messages he learned were the same: that people are untrustworthy, that there’s something inherently bad about him that needs to be suppressed and that lying makes life easier and that sex soothes his weary soul. Damon has grown up to be an emotionally immature man who uses women for sex without remorse, who lies constantly, who feels justification for never trusting anyone and who changes his persona to fit every relationship in his life. The saddest part is that Damon doesn’t see anything wrong with the way he is because it’s been his programming since before he had memories and it’s his natural state of existence. I’m not saying that the reason black relationships are failing is because of Black men, but I’m saying that until men can break their patterns and as long as society tells them that they are justified in whatever they do, we are fucked as a race.

If Black men can figure out the messages they got as children, the bad programming, figure out what happened to give them the blueprint for their life, they can start the healing process. I pray that I can somehow get Black men to see that their blueprint wasn’t designed well but that doesn’t mean that they are bad people and it doesn’t mean that the foundation for their lives is right, we can start heal Black relationships.

To be continued.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Tired of seeing black women being portrayed as ghetto bitches, freaks and whores, and black men as barely literate thugs, bulls, and pimps, Scottie Lowe decided it was time to show black people in a positive sexual light. Ms. Lowe is the sole owner and founder of

http://www.AfroerotiK.com

, a company dedicated to eradicating the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality and providing customized, personalized erotic stories for and about people of color. Her innovative approach to writing Black and interracial erotica is shattering misperceptions and opening the doors to dialogue about subjects long considered taboo.

Dating married men

I was chatting with a young lady the other day and she casually mentioned she was dating a married man. Correction, she said she was in love with a married man. While I’m sitting there, with my mouth open, staring at the screen in total horror and disgust, she goes on to say she doesn’t want him to leave his wife and kids, that she’s happy with the arrangement the way it is. She didn’t have an iota of remorse, guilt, or shame. In fact, she was quite proud to tell me of her supposed “enlightened” viewpoint. I think I threw up in my mouth.

My mother ONLY dated married men when I was going up. Once when I was 17, she dated a man who was single but I think he was only 21. I knew how to be a mistress at age 6. I knew that if he had to call his wife, that I had to remain silent. I knew that if we saw him out in public that I was supposed to pretend we didn’t know him. I knew that if he cancelled plans without calling to charge it to the game.

In my adult life, I’ve stayed pretty far away from married men. One brotha I went out with, who I later found out asked me out when his wife was 10 feet away, didn’t tell me he was married until we were ready for dessert. Another brotha told me after we had sex, which I blame myself for not knowing him better but I certainly didn’t do it intentionally. I kicked both of their asses to the curb immediately. Once, I had this torrid emotional online/phone thingie with a guy for a month and when he told me that he was married, it was hard to turn off the feelings and we both fought the urge to take it further. Again, that was his deception, not mine and we didn’t do anything other than exchange emails and kiss once. (He was a HORRIBLE kisser)

I have never had the desire to be someone’s mistress. That is just so stank to me. When I moved to ATL, more married men hit on me than ever before in my life. They were open with it, like it was nothing. I have a friend who cheats on his wife every day with probably hundreds of different women. I’ve been out on a date and seen him with other women. I told my date we had to go because I wasn’t going to sit there and watch my friend cheat when I knew his wife. He couldn’t see the problem with it. Needless to say, his ass got kicked to the curb as well for showing his true colors.

Now almost every man I’ve met who falls in the dog category has said, “I date married women because I don’t want the emotional strings involved with a relationship.” That’s a piss poor excuse for adultery and a sign of immaturity to say the least. I was hoping that women still held themselves with enough respect to understand that taking a man away from his home and family is foul. I know women have always dated married men, but I was under the impression that they were duped into it and made the horrible choice to stick around hoping he would leave his wife. That’s understandable, not excusable but understandable.

If women now feel as if they are getting something from being the other woman, if we now feel that the optimal relationships is one in which a man allots us time based on his schedule with his wife and family, if we are now so deluded to think it’s empowered to suppose that saying that you don’t want a man to leave his wife and kids for you, then we have lost a huge chunk of our humanity.

I was the wife who was cheated on. It’s a horrible, painful, sinking feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I would never knowingly do that to another person. I would never actively seek a relationship like that. FUCK THAT, I don’t even want a man who has a girlfriend. No, no, no, I don’t want to date a man who has many partners, I don’t give a rat’s ass if he is honest with me about all of them. I want a man who can be honest, who has integrity, I want a man who can resist temptation and put our commitment first and foremost above pussy.

Stolen Legacy

African-centered psychologist, Wade Nobles, in his work entitled African Psychology: Toward its Reclamation, Re-ascension and Revitalization, introduces the reader to the concept of scientific colonialism. He asserts that scientific colonialism is a three-pronged process by which politically manipulative entities distort the African origins of information and ideas and intellectually usurp those thoughts in an effort to appear intellectually superior. That act only not only renders the true authors of said information the unwitting victims of theft but also of a diseased perpetuation of deception that creates the false perception of their intellectual inferiority. People of European descent have incorporated this distortion for millennia thus destroying and distorting volumes of knowledge and wreaking havoc upon the legacy of greatness that belongs to people of African descent.

It is in the translation of information that the greatest wealth of African knowledge has been lost. Europeans’ quantifying and calculating minds could not conceive of the spiritual, symbolic, and metaphysical elements of the pilfered ancient Kemetic materials so they simply discarded or kept hidden those elements that did not resonate with their linear consciousness. The keys to transcendence, truths of the universe, intangible secrets of the body, mind and soul became waste products in the process of integrated modificationism whereby Europeans commandeered and re-authored African wisdom. The belief that only that which can be measured and seen is real stems from the perpetuation of European distortions. Even in the recent reclamation of a more metaphysical reality, Caucasian people now assert themselves as the keeper of the “New Age” keys. It seems that even now, they want to dictate that they alone possess the knowledge of spirit with their workshops and expo’s on other realms. For Europeans to maintain their position of power, they must continue to perpetuate their lies and falsehoods.

It is entirely plausible that some of the ancient truths of Kemet escaped westward and were maintained in remote villages through the spiritual practices of the indigenous Black peoples of West Africa. Europeans, in the form of colonizers and slave merchants encountering these practices thousands of years after their original theft, and fully indoctrinated to believe that only that which originates from white skin could hold any validation, dismissed the rituals and practices of the Africans and labeled them barbaric. The psychological enslavement of Black people created a shift in consciousness that rendered them susceptible to the notion of these traditions and practices were to be considered heathen, uncivilized, and “of the devil.” Today, even the most Afrocentric scholar must speak of “beingness,” the soul, even of masculine and feminine energies as essentially foreign concepts that have a vague ring of familiarity that resonates from within. The eastern-bound dissemination of Kemetic information mirrors itself in the shamanic temples and practices of the Far East. The brown peoples of Asia now stake claim to knowledge that is inherently African in its origin and hold dear its secret tenets. They too have been convinced that African peoples are inferior, not even acknowledging the origin of their own melanated skin as coming from the base of the Nile.

The far-reaching and deleterious effects of scientific colonialism created a conceptual incarceration, or a mental imprisonment, for both the descendants of Europeans and Africans, as well as world citizens that have been subjected to the imperial domination of the oppressive colonizers. Collectively, our minds have been grafted to think that Europeans are superior and Africans are inferior. The ancient Kemetic adage, “As a man thinketh, so is he,” speaks well to the fact that Europeans now believe themselves to be so superior that they feel that they can dominate the world from their own pedestal of power. Africans, and their Diasporic descendants, now conceptually embrace their status of inferiority and navigate through the universe as victims of this diabolic manipulation of truths.

It is quite one thing to steal information from someone to appear to be as intelligent as they are. It is quite another monumental task altogether to steal that information and then to depict the original authors as being infantile and moronic. To even conceive of such a reality one must be steeped in a sense of inferiority that is so overwhelming that it perpetuates the diabolical and systematic oppression of other human beings. It is that diseased perception that has ruled and controlled the wisdom of the ages for centuries. It is also that very perception that people of African descent must vehemently deny to reclaim our spiritual heritage, to re-ascend to our position of intellectual power, and to revitalize our current state of consciousness, as the title of Nobles’ work implies.

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe

STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF AFRICAN AMERICAN PIONEERS

Diversity, inclusion, and tolerance are key buzzwords for corporate America in an age where bottom-line profits and revenue depend on the increasing numbers of people of color not only as customers but also as employees. Embracing difference is the foundation for capitalizing on a marketplace where “minorities”, and ill-defined term that once only meant either the darker-hued or non-English speaking percentage of the population, bring to the table a wealth of knowledge, creativity, and disposable income. Such was not always the case in this land of opportunity and justice for all. In every instance, in every conceivable indicium, there was a “first” African American that had to forge the way where no other had gone before, to pave the way and to break the stigmatic bonds of chattel slavery that rendered people of African descent as undesirable. It is on the shoulders of those brave individuals, those souls that dared to protest, “I deserve to be here,” that African Americans today must draw strength from and persevere. It is with an eye to the past and a vision towards the future that African Americans must come to understand that ours is a journey traversed by unsung heroes and indefatigable spirits.

The contribution and very presence of African Americans in the contemporary workplace is something that is becoming coveted by executives and boards of directors across America. It is almost certainly understood that the presence of African Americans as a customer base and as employees are favorable conditions to fiscal solvency. It wasn’t that long ago however that the very presence of an African American employee was seen as a liability and not as an asset to some companies. Obscured in the lost annals of unsung heroes and tales lost to the fate of time, are the accounts of individuals like Fleetwood Walker, the first African American major league baseball player, and others who endured egregious racism and unwarranted hostility to prove that they were as capable, if not more so, than their white counterparts. The very fact that most people, white or black, have never heard of Mr. Walker is testament to the fact that one must most assuredly know where he or she has come from to know where they are going.

Some critics object that bringing up the past is a self-defeating behavior that only serves to perpetuate a victim mentality. Victims are individuals that have had a crime committed against them. They are guilty of absolutely no wrongdoing and thus should not harbor shame at their status as such. Fleetwood Walker was a scholar and a pioneer that was victim to a society that inhibited his natural genius and ability with the pernicious racism of the day. His is a story of triumph and victory over the odds. African Americans must hold up and honor our ancestors as inspiration when times seem difficult. African American history serves as a bridge, as a link to the past that will light the way to a more constructive future.

The social clime of today has created an environment whereby minorities, more specifically African Americans, want to minimize their differences and be seen as acculturated pieces in the “we are all the same” pie. Homogenization does not foster diversity. The mindset of sameness is particularly shortsighted given the maleficent and odious treatment of enslaved Africans in this country that endured dehumanizing treatment for no reason other than perceived differences in color of their skin. The fallacious belief that enslaved Africans were inferior and the diseased mindsets and conditions that oftentimes continues to perpetuate such beliefs about their descendants must be brought into the light. The triumphant stories of the African Americans who pioneered, who paved the way, must not be dismissed as merely painful reminders to a past that some want forgotten, but they must serve as inspiration and stimulus to be seen as different—and competent. To minimize the difference is to deny the travails of Black men and women who wept, bled, and died for freedom and equality.

The vicious attack on Affirmative Action and the defensive position of those in the majority to maintain their stronghold of dominance can be interpreted as the very influences that might forever obscure the stories of great individuals like Fleetwood Walker and others like him. African Americans must stand up and say that our collective experiences are different, not because of genetic contributors that make our noses broad and hair nappy, but because of our ability to transcend the horrific injustices of our past and to excel despite those debilitating obstacles. It is in recognizing those differences and celebrating the transformative actions of brave pioneers that we must draw our strength. We must continue to fight in the workplace, in the healthcare system, and in education to diversify, to make our presence known and felt. We must stand proudly on the shoulders of those individuals that made a way out of no way to continue their legacy and create one of our own.

Copyright Scottie Lowe

Beyond Keepin' It Real

Beyond Keepin' It Real

Toyz ‘R Us

MAN OVERBOARD! Isn’t that always the case when men set out to do something though? They always seem to do a little too much, go a little too far, take things to the extreme. AJ was no exception. In his defense, however, his motives were entirely genuine and, quite possibly, there was no such thing as too much when it comes to seducing one’s wife. When it comes to husbands, he ranked up there at the top of the list. There wasn’t a special occasion, no hallmark event to celebrate; he just wanted to let his wife know that he loved her. He loved her more than he could put into words. He adored her from a place so deep, so profound, that words couldn’t adequately describe the feelings in his heart. Shirelle was his world, his reason for being, his best friend, and this was his way of saying, “I’m a better man for having you in my life.” Okay, maybe he went a little overboard when planning the special weekend but in the grand scheme of life, he could be forgiven for it.

Reservations were made at Philly’s most distinctive, luxury hotel, The Rittenhouse, and everything was set in motion. He’d placed a special invitation card in her car in the morning with instructions for her to get cleaned up real nice and meet him in room 1214 at 8 PM. Knowing his wife, that meant he had at least until 9:30 to get things ready. Not saying she operated on CP time or anything . . . well, yeah, she operated on CP time so that give him a window of opportunity to calm his nerves get everything set up the way he wanted. He was anxious and he kept remembering things he wanted to do. He ran the water in the bathtub and forgot to sprinkle the scented silk rose petals on the floor. Just as he finished that, he ran back to turn off the water and to turn out the lights . . . and light a candle. Actually it was several candles but Teddy Pendergrass would have been proud nonetheless.

He ran to his bag of goodies, pulling things out and continuing to set things up exactly the way he had planned them in his mind’s eye. He’d done his research and gotten all the toys and things he could think of to knock his wife’s socks off. That was his goal and he wasn’t going to stop until he had accomplished his mission. He’d searched AfroerotiK.com for hours and loaded up his virtual shopping cart with everything he needed to leave her a mass of quivering flesh.

He put the DVD, Advanced Sexual Secrets of Black Lovers, in the player and let it play through the advertisements and credits. He wanted it to be playing when she walked in the room, a sort of visual soundtrack to set the stage. It wasn’t really a porno; it was more like an erotic how-to video that would get the juices flowing. He stopped to watch for a moment, imagining that he would be fucking his wife in a similar fashion in a couple of hours. He couldn’t allow himself to be too distracted because there was still a lot of things to set up. He’d run the bubble bath and warmed the edible gourmet chocolate massage oil. Yummy! The champagne, compliments of the hotel, was already chilled. He still had to put batteries in all the toys. The Colossal Kit had more vibrators and toys, some of which he didn’t even know how to use. He set up the board for the Foreplay game and all the pieces and laid out everything from the Silk Seductions Bondage Kit. He was ready. The only other thing he purchased was the nipple exciter and he had that on the nightstand, ready for action when he heard the knock on the door.

“Are you crazy? You know we are supposed to be on a budget, why you got hotel room is beyond me.” Shirelle came in, loud and proud, in her usual commanding self. She had gotten her hair done and she looked stunning. If nothing else, she could make an entrance. AJ just stood and let her take everything in. She marched through the room like Sherman went through Appomattox. She was inspecting every detail, taking it all in, and beginning to feel a little overwhelmed by all that her husband had done. She didn’t let on her true feelings however, she just continued with her, shall we say, boisterous declarations and flair for the dramatic.

By the time she had finished examining every detail, she had quieted down just a little bit. She saw the toys laid out and glanced at the TV. The aroma of rose filled the air from the bathroom and she sort of just stood silently.

AJ scooped her up in his arms and kissed her passionately. It served to silence her for a minute but then she went right back to her animated self. “What’s this? What’s going on? What . . . why?” She was demanding answers and all AJ could do was laugh. He didn’t even say a word as he started undressing her. Shirelle wasn’t about to have that because she’d just spent the better part of two hours getting dressed and she wanted to at least get a couple of hours of wear out of her look, maybe have a drink at the bar. But AJ had planned things out in his mind and he was intent on trying to come as close as possible to his vision.

Once enveloped by the bubbles, Shirelle quieted down a bit. The warm water felt soothing but not as relaxing as the massager her husband was using on her aching muscles. His arms surrounded her in the water and rubbed her curves, causing her to relax and give into the flow of things. Her sarcasm was a little less biting and her gregarious personality was softening just a bit. They both wrapped themselves in the luxurious bathrobes and made their way to the bed on the trail of rose petals.

Shirelle climbed on the bed and propped herself up, watching the DVD. She’d never seen anything like it before. It was almost as if she was peeking into someone’s bedroom, watching their most intimate moments. The next thing on the agenda was a little round of foreplay, courtesy of the board game AJ had purchased. They didn’t even bother with the rules, they were both winners as they began to lick and suck each other in all sorts of sensual places.

“I have an idea,” AJ said, trying to sound as if he had just come up with a flash of brilliance. “How about I tie you up and pleasure you. You would have thought that he had said, “How about we take a trip to the moon.” Shirelle was used to being in control; she was used to asserting her will in everything she did. She was not having it. She complained, bitched and moaned the entire time he took the silk scarves and secured them to her wrists. He’d already tied them to the bed posts so he was ready for her reaction. She relented to his wishes but she was running her mouth a mile a minute the entire time, asking questions and adding her biting commentary to the evening.

It wasn’t until AJ pulled out the silk blindfold did she really put up a fuss. That meant surrender and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. “Shhhh, don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of you,” he said as he slid the satin covering over her eyes.

For the first time in the evening, Shirelle was silent. Her arms were restrained and she was cloaked in darkness, unaware of what sort of sensations to expect. AJ wanted to start things off slowly, kissing her passionately, moving his way down her body, pausing at her neck to give her gentle love bites. Shirelle bit her lower lip, stifling a moan. This was a place she’d never been before and she was caught off guard by how sensual the feelings were.

Taking his time, AJ moved lower still, taking time out to give pleasure to her nipples. He knew that was her hot spot and he reached for his secret weapon, The Nipple Exciter. Applying it gently to the left and then the right nipple, he turned up the vibrations slowly, torturing Shirelle with pleasure. Unable to move her arms, Shirelle felt trapped, but it was confinement in the most erotic prison. She fought back her moans, trying to control the situation. She could no longer form words, just guttural sounds as every sensation in her nipples sent tremors of arousal straight to her clit. Her pussy was soaking wet and AJ hadn’t even come close to touching her there yet.

AJ was hard as a rock but his pleasure was not even on the agenda for the evening. All he wanted to do was please and tease his wife. In a last ditch attempt to gain control, Shirelle started negotiating for her release. “Come on baby, let me go. We can still have some fun. Just untie me.” AJ pretended he didn’t even hear what she had said. He poured the heated massage oil on her thighs and started licking his way towards her pussy. Shirelle spread her legs and was anxious to guide his head to her dripping, hot sex. She was fighting against her bonds, in vain, and all the while relinquishing to the sensations. The Nipple Exciter was driving her insane, practically making her cum. Feeling AJ’s tongue getting closer and closer to her clit, yet still 100 erotic miles away was going to make her crawl out of her skin. She tried to use her legs to pull him closer but he was too much in control.

AJ was in heaven. His beautiful wife had been reduced to a mass of quivering flesh and he was in control of her pleasure. It was his ultimate fantasy. He loved being the one who dictated her sensations, who owned her responses. She couldn’t cum without him and that fact alone made him so turned on he almost couldn’t see straight.

The feather tickler came next and Shirelle couldn’t hold back her moans any longer. She was purring like a kitten, feeling the light touch from her nose all the way down to her toes. The next sensation she felt was something against her lips. She stuck her tongue out, out of habit, to get a feeling for what it was. She tasted the familiar taste immediately and opened her mouth, desperate to have AJ fill it with his dick. She was begging and pleading with him to let her suck him. Her pleas were from a woman who was crazed with lust. “Oh god, fill my mouth, come on sweetie, fuck my mouth. Let me just lick it a little, let me lick the head. You know it’s going to feel so good. Why don’t you just let me suck it a little.” She wasn’t sure which one of them was going to enjoy it more. All she knew was she was still feeling intense sensations in her nipples and it was about to make her go out of her mind if she didn’t experience release soon. AJ put the head of his dick in her mouth and she sucked him in like a vacuum, pulling him in with her lips. He almost lost control as he looked down and saw his restrained wife giving him the sloppiest, wettest blowjob he’d ever gotten. He took his dick out and replaced his thumb. There was something incredibly erotic about her sucking his finger like that, out of control.

He had to pull back a little or his plan was going to go off schedule. He positioned himself between her legs and used one of the vibrators to stimulate her lips. Beyond words, Shirelle was a mass of quivering flesh and guttural moans and grunts. She was communicating with feral sounds of passion, demanding to be fucked like an animal in her primitive tongue. AJ, intent to stay the course, took his time. He took his fingers and gently parted her lips. He placed his tongue softly on her clit and lapped at it gently. The bed shook with Shirelle trying to free herself from her restraints. She was screaming a string of profanity that didn’t make sense, just a litany of fuck, shit, and damn that was intended to let her husband know that if he didn’t fuck her, and fuck her hard, in the very immediate future, there was going to be hell to pay.

AJ fingered her hole, feeling the juices literally run down his hands. She was like a faucet, pouring out sweet honey. He licked her clit to near explosion and then stopped. Shirelle moaned so loud he was afraid someone would call the front desk. That fact turned him on even more.

On his knees, he took careful aim. He lined up the head of his dick with her wet slit and rubbed it up and down. Shirelle’s body contorted and twisted to get him to penetrate her. “FUCK ME. FUCK ME NOW,” she demanded. Never one to disappoint his wife, AJ complied. His fingers gripped her flesh tightly, taking careful aim, he rammed himself inside her. They both let out moans, the anticipation and buildup driving too much for them to bear. Sweat covered Shirelle’s body; her arms ached from being tied. She was turned on by the sensation and pissed off that she couldn’t see. It was that anger that inspired her more. She used the muscles of her pussy to squeeze and stroke AJ’s erection inside her. If she had any control left, it was in how her tight walls massaged him. For AJ, he realized he was no longer in control. Her reached up to untie the silk scarves and remove the blindfold and almost immediately, he felt his wife’s fingernails in his back. He was riding her like a bucking bronco and she was going to throw him off. He fucked, she fucked him back. Her body went into convulsions and he knew she was having the mother of all orgasms. He refused to give in, and he kept fucking her with all his might.

At some point in the middle of the night, he awoke. Shirelle was still sleeping and they were both pretty exhausted but it was the good kind of exhaustion. There were still a heap of toys to play with and he started calculating what other erotic tortures he could subject his wife to before checkout. He’d accomplished his mission. He’d taken his wife out of her comfort zone, silenced her presence and reduced her to nothing more than a heap of sexual flesh. All in all, it was well worth all the effort and the hard work.


Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Body and Soul

Beads of perspiration formed on his cinnamon colored skin. She felt his body press into hers and it took her breath away. Her legs wrapped around him and they moved together in unison, two bodies, one soul.

“I need you.” The words flowed softly, sweetly over his lips like honey dripping on her being but it was her honey that she wanted to taste as he kissed his way down her body. She invited him to taste her, lick her, to eat her sweetness and she cried out like an animal as his lips worked her sweet spot. Her breathing was labored and her legs were trembling as she felt her climax approaching. Intertwined in her fingers were his cascading locs as she held his head in place and prepared to flood his mouth with pleasure. He wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop; he needed her sweet juices to run down his face like the juices of a sticky, sweet mango on a hot summer’s day.

Exhausted yet aroused, she closed her eyes to the world. He kissed her sweetly and they shared her unique flavor.

He craved her body and it was her hot, wet core that was calling out to him. He took careful aim and made his descent. Now it was his turn to cry out into the night as her silky walls caressed him, bathed him. Deeper, higher, harder, faster their bodies collided together as their passionate lovemaking turned into heated fucking. It was pure, unbridled heat that lifted them in unison to a higher spiritual plane.

“Oh please, don’t stop. Fill me. Complete me.” It was their symphony of words and sounds, moans and groans that was a soundtrack to transcendent pleasure. He gripped her hips hard and buried himself deeply. The sensations enveloped them and they cemented their bond between man and woman, between body and soul.

Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK

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Afrocentric Passion

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And he will rule over you

The entire concept of men being entitled to rule over, objectify, to control women is flawed from the get go. This whole concept of men being granted some special god like power by virtue of their penis is the lie that started the fall of man, not some mythological woman eating an apple. A penis grants no one any greater importance, no superiority, no special powers, a penis is not a leadership wand to be waved over women to control them. Testosterone gives men more physical strength but that, in and of itself, is only one tiny thing on a list of gender traits that doesn't equate to superiority UNLESS you've been conditioned to think that force and aggression have more value than nurturing and intuition. Sadly, that's been the pervasive thought form for 1000s of years and it's created this imbalance that prevents us from healing. We can NEVER heal as a people if Black men think the world revolves around them and Black women feel as if their identity is enhanced if they have a man.

Let's take a look at a Creation story from traditional Africa BEFORE enslavement and Christianity. God, The All There Is, was not a man, God was a powerful force, no gender attributed to it, just spirit and energy. In this story, God created man and woman as brother and sister, equals. Now, think about it for a minute. Man and woman are equal, there is no curse on women, there is no sin, and women aren't inferior. Who would benefit from creating a situation in which men had dominion over women? God? I can't imagine the Creator of All, The Most High God being that insecure with his own manhood that he needed to create woman to own like a pet, to control. That's a really insecure God, don't you think? That sounds more like a characteristic of a person who is lacking confidence, who wants to assert themselves and control everything. Who does that sound like? God did not create us in his image. White man created God in his.

Left is not better than right. Hot is not better than cold. Up is not better than down, and man is not better than woman. Until we can get that basic concept in our heads and in our hearts, we can't even come to the table to discuss black relationships. Think about it. If we sit down at the table and one person assumes that they have more power, that their word is final, that they hold no obligation to compromise with the other person, that's not going to be a very healthy conversation, is it? I don't need to tell you why Black men's sense of masculinity is so fragile and so easily threatened. During slavery, Black manhood was stripped away from our men. Not just their ability to objectify women as they pleased but the ability to walk with dignity, to make choices and decisions on their own. Manhood was redefined for them and it came to mean how big your dick is and how many things you could possess, women being one of them. That's the mindset of most Black men today. If the TRUE definition of manhood was left on the shores of Africa, where men and women were compliments and not master and slave, then we can't even speak in a healthy language when we get to the table of reconciliation until we shed ourselves of our false beliefs.

If you take a look at the men who are the most outspoken and the most argumentative about Black relationships, they are the men that INSIST that women are at fault for everything. If only Black women would stop tolerating such bad behavior from men, if only Black women would carry themselves in a more feminine manner. It's Black women who try to emasculate them by not letting them be the head of the house and damn those Black women for asking for money. That's nothing more than articulation of a belief that women are supposed to serve the needs of the Black man without considering that they have needs of their own. The head of anything needs to demonstrate leadership. A penis alone isn't a evidence of leadership so if the head of the household is only appointed as such because he has a Y chromosome, that is a doomed relationship. If that household can't take the strengths of both partners and compliment the weaknesses of both partners, regardless of gender, then you are fucked.

I don’t want to overwhelm you with concepts that you can’t digest so I’ll hold off until later to discuss how Black women suffer from a belief in man as superior and how it disables the conversation at the table of reconciliation.

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The word Nigger is not Erotic

Raising the bar on Urban Lit

I am a writer of erotica and I abhor the genre it is marketed today as a whole with very few exceptions. I stand firmly as one of those staunch oponents of urban lit, ghetto lit and any sort of lit that falls in the category of just plain crappy writing. Our standards are apathetically low and no one, well very few of us, are demanding that the bar be raised. Do not confuse the message of criticism with censorship. I can only speak for myself as someone who most certainly isn’t a fan a great deal of hip-hop or literature that is produced.

Robert Farris Thompson in African Art and Motion states that in traditional 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. Why, then, can not we as Diasporic Africans, not critique the “art” of our time in an effort to make our dancers, more fluid,, our writers more eloquent, our rappers less repulsive?

When I was a preteen, my grandmother taught me how to sew. I would make an error and she would tell me to take it out and do it again. I would cry and whine that no one except myself would be able to see the flaw, that it was at least as good as what other people were wearing. I fought and complained all summer long. Every time I made a mistake, my grandmother would calmly say, “Take it out and do it again.” It was her commitment to excellence, her stringent standards that made me an exceptional seamstress. Her harsh critique wasn’t to ridicule me or belittle me, it was to make me the best I can be. We’ve lost the propensity to function optimally and settled for a reality when we condone and applaud mediocrity. In far too many instances, we should be telling authors, metaphorically, “Take it out, do it again,” when what we are saying, even with our silence, “Ehhh, it’s crappy but that’s okay.”

I don’t mind reading about the stories of those who’ve overcome. I do mind reading stories where punctuation is optional, spell check is unheard of, and paragraphs go on and on for pages. Most of the urban lit that I ATTEMPT to read aren’t stories of those who’ve risen above their surroundings, however. The stories I’ve read, especially in the erotic genre, are of super beautiful women with abnormal libidos and their big dicked lovers who almost without question are super rich. Throw in several dozen references to Escalades, Alize, and Prada and you have every erotic story on the shelves. When is enough enough? I can’t stay silent about any literature written at a fourth or fifth grade level, no matter the genre.

Breaking Bread at the Table of Reconciliation

Black Relationships are failing. Black relationships are in danger of becoming extinct. As a Black woman, searching for a Black man for a partner, I’m constantly accused of male bashing if I say ANYTHING at all about the unfavorable behaviors of Black men. I’m attacked for having standards that are too high and barraged with rhetoric. I can point out the issues Black women have and Black men are all too quick to jump on the bandwagon and blame Black women for everything wrong in the universe.

Well, if we are ever going to heal, if we are ever going to come together, we need to start having the discussions that are tough. Sadly, the vast majority of Black men who are the most outspoken are the ones that are the most dysfunctional. I’m putting out a call for Black men who can take constructive criticism and who can voice their concerns in a way that is conducive of communication. Let’s take off the gloves, let’s truly converse.

Black men can be:
Afraid of commitment
Irrationally Defensive
Distrustful
Untrustworthy
Deceptive
Physically intimidating
Passive Aggressive
Sexually promiscuous
Emotionally unavailable
Hardened by their role in society
Unsure of how to express their real feelings
Searching for identity

DO NOT GET ME WRONG! I’m not saying all Black men are all those things, but let’s not sugar coat things either. Every Black man has to deal with some, if not all, of those issues to some degree, regardless of socio-economic status. Black men have been socialized to be emotionally immature and they expect the world to revolve around their dysfunction. Ain’t no relationship going to heal if that’s the case. Black mothers, almost categorically, don’t raise their sons to be good partners in relationships; they coddle them and don’t hold them accountable for their actions. All too often, they make their sons responsible for their own emotional happiness while blaming them for the absence of their fathers. Even the most exceptional models of Black men have issues with some facet those things. And let me address the issue that I know is going to be brought up. Yes, white men and other races deal with those exact same things. But I don’t give a damn about those other races. My concern, my priority is my own race.

I’m not dissin the brothas. I’m simply pointing out that their model of was left somewhere on the Gold Coast 500 years ago. Any descendant of slaves is going to have to deal with issues to some degree because that is our legacy. Simply because we are sick does not mean we should pull the plug. Yes, we have healing to do. Yes, we as Black women have our own baggage too. The state of affairs between Black women and men is not a stagnate one. It can change and evolve if we take the time to nurture ourselves to regain our true position of grace and dignity.

My personal preference is a Black man. I can’t imagine anything finer. I love the way they smell when they sweat. I love the way I feel safe inside their strong arms. I love the feel of those thick, hot, juicy lips pressed against mine. I adore being penetrated by that harder than steel Black love. (Oh shit, I better stop cause I think I am having a hot flash) Where was I? I lost my train of thought. Even with my love of Black men, I’m not going to say that they are without flaw. Talk therapy is the only way I know to get to the heart of the matter. Let’s get the ball rolling.

Waiting for Godot

Or for the existentially illiterate, “Waiting for Mr. Right”

Act 1, Black man, In his 30s or 40s, convinced he’s flawless, goes after women who are superficial and materialistic, convinced that all women are like that and that he is righteous on his path of lies and manipulation because he has never once examined own role in drawing unhealthy relationships to him. He goes from woman to woman to woman and becomes more arrogant, continues to lie more, to treat women poorly because he is manifesting women in his life that reflect his own level of dysfunction. He trash talks Black women and waves the banner of “good black man” because he is employed and not incarcerated.

Act 2, Intelligent, attractive, genuinely introspective Black woman sits at home alone, reading self-help books, writing affirmations, analyzing ways in which to make her next attempt at a relationship better, trying to find ways to fill her time without the company of a partner. She visualizes a man in her life who has integrity, compassion, who is emotionally mature, who is ready and willing to commit himself to a monogamous, healthy, equally loving relationship. She waits.

For a great many Black women, a growing population, this isn’t thespian flair, it’s reality. For far too many of us, we are relinquishing the one night stands, the booty calls, the homie lover friends and we are setting our standards higher. We are saying that we deserve more, that we are going to save ourselves until we find a man who is deserving of our time and company. In a perfect world, Act 3 of this tragedy would be the Black man in his 30s or 40s would take evaluation of his life, he would make steps to heal the past hurts that shaped his worldview, he would strive to be a man of character, integrity, and a good partner in a relationship. Sadly, he arrogantly expects his needs to be met without being willing to make sacrifices and he stamps his feet and screams that he is being unfairly critiqued or male bashed any time someone tries to hold him accountable for his actions. He wants the gorgeous video vixen who doesn’t ask him for money, who doesn’t ask questions about his whereabouts, who will forgive him straying, and who doesn’t demand any emotional commitment. Those are the delusions of a child however. And without a male role model to tell him that those are immature and irresponsible objectives, he becomes louder and louder, saying that there are no good women.

She waits.

Zane: Queen of Black Erotica

We, as Black people, believe in scarcity. We believe that there is a finite amount of success/fame/wealth and that we have to prevent other people from getting our piece of the pie or else we won't get any.

I write erotica. Every day, people compare me to Zane. Not once, has anyone ever compared me to Jaid Black, the leading white erotic writer or even Sage Vivant, the only other person who writes personalized or customized erotic stories. I appreciate that Zane has opened the door for Black erotica but I don't think by any stretch of the imagination that Zane is the end all be all of Black erotic literature. Zane's position in the market is established and I can do nothing to diminish her standing NOR do I believe that she can diminish mine. I strongly believe that there is more than enough room in the erotic world for AfroerotiK and Zane.

Zane is not a good writer. In my humble and possibly worthless opinion, Zane does not possess the ability to create a complex storyline nor can she deviate from urban format where every woman is a materialistic, cheating, and without integrity or depth and men are little more than place holders for extra large genitalia. Granted, I've only read a half dozen of her stories but the ones I did read . . . I thought were comical. The story about the Barber Shop was just downright gross. Negropectate was classic, it's just so ghetto it's laughable. The other story I still laugh about to this day was in Sex Chronicles and it was about a woman who was a Madame with a twist, her job was to have her whores sleep with men to test run their abilities for high powered female executives who were too busy with their careers to have sex with men themselves. Yeah, that's realistic. I know a least a half dozen black women who have careers that are so time consuming that they need other women to sleep with potential mates. The part that made me want to blow big chunks was the whole assertion that this Madame was so gorgeous and wealthy that she was too good to wear clothes off the rack, it was only haute couture for her. She even had to be made ugly by a makeup artist. Give me a fat fucking break. I read her attempt at writing horror. While I will admit that it was more grammatically correct than any of the other stories I've read, it was simple, like it was written by an eight grader. The plot was stupid, not scary at all. Zane is coming out with TV shows and she's got her cruises and plays and any book she writes is going to be on the NY Times Best Seller List.

Here's the deal. I am an exponentially and phenomenally better writer than Zane. I bring more to the table because my writing is socially relevant, uplifting, doesn't fit any overly simplistic format and deals with vitally important issues that facilitate the healing of Black relationships. All of my stories are realistic and describe facets of Black life beyond the one where Prada and Alize reign supreme. I've never met a person who only buys CDs from one recording artist, only goes to movies with one actor in them NOR have I ever met a person who only buys books from one author. I'm finding it hard to wrap my head around the concept that Jackie Collins is sitting at home biting her acrylics because Danielle Steele is releasing a book. I would be hard pressed to believe that Andrea Bocelli is losing sleep that Pavarotti is releasing s box set. I'll be damned if I'm going to panic that Zane is releasing a new book or producing a play.

I release fear, jealousy, envy, and competition. I respect that Zane has done a tremendous job in creating her fame and fortune but it certainly doesn't detract from my talent. It's a big enough universe for me, Zane, Sally, Suzie, and Shemica to all shine. My book of erotica, when it is finally published, will not be the last book of erotica people will ever buy. I doubt that Zane fans will forsake her and run to form an allegiance with me.

Writing Black erotica is a lot like rapping. Anybody who can come up with three words that rhyme can call themselves a rapper. Sadly, there is a whole entertainment industry that has convinced a lot of people that the crappiest music has merit. And the masses eat it up, not expecting or demanding more. Anybody can write a story with the words dick and pussy. Publishers realized that the same people that buy crappy music will buy crappy . . . books, I can't use the word literature when describing the majority of what's out now. Even with the proliferation of crappy music and books and the mediocrity, there are still those that appreciate the melodies and harmonies of jazz, who feel the angst of Morrison’s Beloved and the beauty of the Eleone Dance Theater. The universe gave me a voice and a vision and I'm quite sure Zane or anyone else can't keep me from my destiny.

How do you feel about Zane and her writing? What’s your opinion, good or bad, about her and what she has to offer? More importantly, how do we rid ourselves of this belief that there’s only enough room at the top for one person?

Peace and Plenty

Disclaimers

The following story is completely fictional. Any similarities between any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. HIV, the virus that causes the deadly disease AIDS, can be prevented with the practice of abstinence or monogamous relations with a partner that has been tested and proven to be negative. The use of latex condoms greatly reduces the risk of infection for HIV. Please practice safe sex when having intercourse, refrain from behaviors that could put you at risk for getting the virus and get tested often. All content is the exclusive copyright content of AfroerotiK. No part shall be duplicated or redistributed without the express written consent of AfroerotiK.

Every relationship undergoes key pivotal points in its evolution. Casual dating transitions to an exclusive arrangement. Exclusivity begets genuine feelings of love. Love ushers in cohabitation: a combining of lifestyles and possessions, a bold declaration that the pairing has a sense of permanence, and a testing ground for matrimony. Of course, there are sexual acts as well that serve as major milestones in a relationship. The exploration of fantasy and sharing a “first” builds trust and intimacy and signals a stronger, more tangible bond.



For Jamie and Shawn, their two-year relationship was about to turn the corner into un-chartered territory. The plans were made, the date was set, the cable had been cut off . . . all the details were in place for Shawn to make the move from Ohio to Delaware to create a new home for himself under the same roof as his beautiful queen and soulmate. He was nervous about what the big change might bring but completely confident in his decision. In anticipation of the big move and as a special gift to Jamie, he planned a surprise get-away, week-long vacation to Exuma, Bahamas Grand Isle Villas. It was a luxury resort that had every amenity one could ever want or hope for: a free form pool with a swim-up bar, a private chef for in-villa dining and most importantly, a crescent-shaped white sand beach that was created by God for the sole purpose of rest and relaxation and soaking up the sun. It was his way of saying, “Jamie . . . I’m so in love with you. Thank you for completing me,” and to set a peaceful, relaxing stage before movers, boxes, and disorganization reigned supreme. They had seven whole days with none of the pressures and stresses of work, obligations, or commitments. In their Caribbean hide-a-way, they could let their hair down and be uninhibited.



From the moment their plane landed, they soaked up every decadent and hedonistic experience they could. There wasn’t a massage, spa treatment, or alcoholic beverage they didn’t sample. Shawn went horseback riding, parasailing, snorkeling and deep sea fishing while Jamie didn’t leave the lounge chair and her novel. One day, opting to do a little bit of nude sunbathing, Jamie was more than happy to give Shawn a special show when applying suntan oil. She did a sexy little lap dance for him, pouring oil all over her body and rubbing it in to her smooth, bronze skin. Bending over in front of him, she spread the cheeks of her ass and gave him a breathtaking view that wasn’t on any of the brochures the travel agent had shown him. She slid his swimming trunks off and Jamie slid down on his dick. She rode him hard, bouncing up and down, using his dick to get herself off. They were in full view of several passengers on a sailboat that was anchored slightly off-shore. There was no shame or embarrassment to be felt, they were a couple taking advantage of paradise and living with no regrets.



By day four, Jamie was ready to venture out to do some shopping. They combed the tiny streets of Exuma, in search of the perfect gifts to take home to friends and family. The Peace and Plenty Gift Shop had such an inviting name, it was virtually impossible not to go in. It was indicative of the bountiful things that Shawn and Jamie shared, a metaphor for their love.



“Welcome, is there something in particular that you are looking for today?” The voice came from the shop owner as she came out from behind the counter to greet the pair face to face. She was breathtaking—and quite willing to share lots of intimate details about her life in a very short period of time. Raised in Brazil, her name was Kia and it seems her mother was half French and Spanish and her father was half Kenyan and Indian. She ended up on the island after having gone on vacation with an ex-boyfriend and falling in love with the place and making the decision never to leave. She purchased the shop for a steal after Hurricane Andrew and never looked back.



Jamie began moving around the shop in complete ease and comfort. Shawn was content to just watch the two chat and browse. It was more than apparent that the ladies were getting along like long lost friends who’d been reunited. Kia proclaimed, “Here, you absolutely must try on this bikini, it will look fabulous on you.” She pulled Jamie behind a small partition that was cordoned off to create a make shift fitting room. Hidden behind the silk curtain, Kia undressed Jamie and dressed her like a mannequin, talking her time. They seemed to be in there for an inordinately long period of time and Shawn wondered what could be happening. As the curtain was pulled back and Jamie emerged, he saw the signs of her arousal. Her nipples were hardened and poking out from the thin material, her breathing was shallow, and her eyes were glazed over with a look of pure lust. Shawn could feel his dick stiffen with unspoken excitement. Kia emerged, equally as radiant and supercharged with sexuality. All Shawn could do was say, “WOW, you look fantastic. We’ll take it.”



Back at the villa, Shawn was anxious for details of what had happened in the fitting room but he knew Jamie well enough to be patient and that she would share at the perfect time. He didn’t have to wait long because shortly after they’d unpacked and repacked all their souvenirs, there was a knock at the door. “In your haste, you forgot your old clothes. Lucky for me, you mentioned where you were staying so I could return them to you.”



“Oh, thank you so much, do come in,” Jamie said as she closed the door. Did it really matter that the premise of returning the clothes was a thinly-veiled rouse coordinated by Jamie? As soon as she was safely inside, Kia turned and the ladies began kissing, making out really, while Shawn stood staring in disbelief. Jamie broke the kiss long enough to come over to him and whisper in his ear, “This is my way of saying, ‘Thank you for completing me, sit back, relax, and enjoy. I love you.’”



Shawn almost couldn’t believe his eyes. It was like a dream. The incredibly sexy woman he loved more than anyone or anything was about to make love to another incredibly sexy woman for his enjoyment. He sat back in a comfortable chair, pulled out his dick, and watched the seduction begin. Jamie was amazing, expressive, uninhibited in her actions. Her movements were fluid as she gave into passion like she’d never known before. Their sun-kissed, brown limbs were a blur of sensual tangles. Not once did Jamie hesitate or have second thoughts as she devoured every inch of Kia’s body with her mouth. Their kisses were soft and tender and Shawn was amazed at the passion the two women shared. In all of the times they had shared the fantasy in the privacy of their bedroom, Shawn never expected Jamie to be so creative when making love to another woman. He took notes as she spread Jamie’s pussy lips and licked and sucked her hard clit. Ramming her tongue deep inside Kia’s hole, Jamie used her tongue to fuck her like a dick. In a million years, he never would have thought that Jamie would be so bold as to get into anal play with a total stranger but she didn’t have a problem probing Kia’s tender backdoor with her finger and making her go into orgasmic overdrive. Even her dialogue was that of a seasoned expert. “Mmm, I love your sweet, juicy pussy, I love the way it tastes. Cum in my mouth you sexy thing. I’m going to lick my man’s hot cum from your pussy after he fucks you senseless.”



Kia, no stranger to being with another woman, was equally as talented and brought Jamie to several orgasms with her mouth and fingers. She took special pleasure in sucking on Jamie’s gorgeous breasts. Intertwining their legs, they rubbed their clits against one another, mixing their juices and aromas like a special blend of intoxicating perfume.



Shawn was stroking himself, crazy with lust. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any better, couldn’t get any hotter, he felt the tender caress of soft lips against his own. Almost at the same time, a set of lips began sucking his erection. Jamie was sharing her man out of love, out of connection and there was no jealousy or competition to be found between the three of them. Both ladies knelt between his legs and began licking his dick at the same time. One licked, one sucked, they kissed it together. It seemed that whenever Jamie was swallowing him deep, Kia was licking his nuts. They were fingering each other and Shawn had four breasts to caress and fondle.



They all moved to the bed and made themselves more comfortable. Shawn was almost too nervous to know what to do. He looked at Jamie for direction and approval. She was the most important person in his life and he needed to know that she was still okay with everything, he needed to let her know that if she wanted to pull the plug on anything that it was okay with him. Jamie kissed him softly, letting him taste Kia’s pussy for the first time. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, getting harder from knowing that the women he wanted to share his life with was “Dining at the Y” only minutes earlier. Kia felt a little out of the loop. The chemistry between the couple was intense. Jaime loved the power she had in that moment. She took Kia’s hand and guided her over Shawn. She held his dick in her hand. Shawn felt the warmth of her soft fingers surround his shaft and the heat of Kia’s pussy on the head of his johnson. Jamie jerked him off and masturbated Kia at the same time. She used the tip of Shawn’s dick and slid it between the fat, wet lips of Kia’s cunt, rubbing her hard clit. Kia was chanting and moaning. Jamie gently twisted her nipples which sent her body down, enveloping every inch of Shawn’s dick deep inside her.



Shawn gasped. Kia’s pussy was different, he fit her differently, he felt his balls tighten to his body. Before he could gather his thoughts, Jamie settled in on his face, lowering her own salty sweet pussy to his mouth. The two women were kissing and sucking each other’s hard nipples, fucking themselves on Shawn. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. All he could do was lay there as two sexy women got off on him. At one point, they switched positions and he tasted Kia’s pussy from the source. Jamie decided to step things up a notch and lowered her asshole onto Shawn’s dick. She rode him like a bucking bronco. Kia reached around and spread Jamie’s cheeks, played with Shawn’s dick. She whispered in Jamie’s ear, “I thought you were going to lick his cum out of my pussy. I don’t think he can last another minute with you fucking him like that. Shawn drove his tongue deep in Kia, the way Jamie had done earlier. Jamie started screaming and yelling, turned on more than she’d ever been in her life. Shawn came first, Jamie wasn’t too far behind. Kia was the last to cross the finish line, flooding Shawn’s mouth with her cream.



The remainder of the three days were spent making, erotic, exotic love; Shawn, Jamie and Kia. It was a stepping stone for the couple, a portal through which they traveled in order to become closer. There were no regrets to be had. Back in the States, they would consummate their combined lives with renewed vigor and the knowledge that they could look forward to the next major milestone in their relationship with eager anticipation.



Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

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Making Passion a Priority

All too often, we let the stresses and strains of day to day living consume us. Work becomes number one in our lives; we let our responsibilities become our identity. It’s almost as if we’ve forgotten the things that are most important to us; we forget to give importance to the things that will sustain us most. When it’s all said and done, and we are on our dying bed, will we really say that we are most proud of how organized our day calendar was or will we regret not stopping to smell the roses? Will we mourn the relationships that we could have nourished along the way?

Fred and Alicia were on a path of self-destruction. Were they dinking and drugging and living a life of sinful debauchery? No, far from it. Were they lying and cheating on one another? Hardly. They were focusing their attention on everyone and everything OTHER than themselves. You name a social commitment, and they had several hours a week carved out to volunteer for it. Everything had its allotted timeslot during the week, even romance. Penciled in, right after caring for Alicia’s convalescent mother, driving the van for the senior citizens at church or planning for the Home Owner’s Assoc. Annual Cookout . . . and work of course, was alone time. There were bills to be paid and 50 hours a week was nothing for this “successful” couple to put in for the job. Sex always found itself at the bottom of a very long list of things to do.

It wasn’t as if Fred and Alicia were in a loveless marriage either. No, that was far from the case. They had a deep-abiding love, one that had grown since those first days on the campus of Morgan State University, when Fred was a jock on the swim team and Alicia was studying accounting. Over the years, their romance blossomed and grew and they cemented an honest, loving bond that seemingly could not be broken. They found a true love that most people long for, that most people would give their right arm to experience. In all their travels, however, no one had ever told either of them how important it was to fan the flames of passion in a marriage FIRST in order to be better prepared to face life’s challenges. They were going about it all wrong. They were putting everything else under the sun above themselves. They were making time for generating heat in their lives the very last thing that they gave time and energy to developing. Sex for the couple, while still mind-blowing when they had it, was almost an afterthought-- or at least something to be fit into the weekend amidst all the other chores.

What Fred and Alicia needed was a jolt to their sex lives. They needed a reminder that communication and intimacy, that passion and pleasure should come first and foremost in their lives. The Creator has a way of teaching us lessons, even when we least expect it. Every relationship pays the price for unspoken truths and denied pleasure. In their roles of conservative duty, Fred and Alicia had learned to suppress their true desires and were content to let their fantasies and desires be implied. It was fate that served as the spark that reignited the smoldering embers that held the key to a long-lasting, sensual and loving relationship.
Alicia was spending Saturday morning at home alone. Fred was out with a car wash to benefit juvenile diabetes research and she decided to forego laundry for some “me” time. What was different about that particular morning was how incredibly horny she was. It was all she could do to concentrate on anything other than her throbbing pussy and the visions of untamed sex that filled her thoughts. Taking advantage of the solitude, Alicia decided to indulge in a little decadent indulgence. She went through their collection of porn looking for something that would really get her juices flowing, and she ripped open the packaging on her brand new dildo, one she’d kept secret from her hubby. She decided on a lesbian flick because it always got her incredibly hot thinking about being with another woman. She would often fantasize that she would be seduced by one of the women that on the minority outreach committee for the local community college. Fred knew of her desires and it was arousing to him but they never discussed it. As open-minded and as liberal as they both were about their sexuality, there seemed to be a disconnect in communicating it to each other because they had adopted these roles of conservatism and didn’t know how to take them off anymore.

Alicia was laying back, her eyes shut tightly, and she was fucking herself slowly, intentionally, the way Fred would do it. The television filled the room with sounds of pure, hedonistic fucking. She was moaning softly, lost in fantasy of things she wouldn’t tell the one man she loved more than anyone else in the world. Her mind was racing, filled with thoughts and visions of untamed sex. Her body was filled with lust, well, lust and six inches of hard dildo. She was muttering, moaning, babbling incoherently about things she would never say to her husband in real life. “ Oh baby, I love the feel of your breasts in my mouth. Mmmm, let me taste that sweet pussy of yours. Oh fuck, you know only another woman could make me feel that way., YESSS, of yeah, strapon that dildo and FUCK me hard.”

What she didn’t know was that she was revealing all her secrets to Fred. Storm clouds put the kabash on the car wash and Fred had nothing else planned for the morning. He was thrown off when he arrived home because he didn’t see Alicia’s car parked in the driveway. He had totally forgotten that his brother-in-law had borrowed the car for a road trip and that his lovely wife would be at home. He entered, expecting to be able to have some alone time for erotic release to himself.

He heard the sounds coming from the bedroom and he moved toward them, almost afraid of what he might discover. His fears were for naught because as he peeked in the room, he saw a vision that made him instantly erect. Alicia was in the middle of ecstasy and uninhibited in her declarations. She was like a wild woman, right before his eyes, and he was instantly reminded of the reason why he craved her body so much. Her breasts were glowing with perspiration, heaving up and down as she fucked herself. He looked intensely at the TV screen, seeing the images that gave him a special thrill. He knew Alicia was stimulated by “alternative” desires but he was insecure that they meant that he wasn’t man enough to satisfy her. As if in a trance, he unzipped his fly and pulled out his hard dick. He was stroking it and watching Alicia masturbate. In that moment, in that erotic instant, Alicia and Fred were connected in a way that almost seemed to defy the odds.

Alicia was lost in her self-love and hadn’t heard Fred come in. What she felt was his hands spreading her thighs. She sat up, startled by the intrusion momentarily, and immediately gave way to the moment, the erotic potential. Fred knelt between her legs, staring at her new toy as it plunged in and out of her tight, wet pussy. He replaced her hand with his own and started fucking her. Alicia practically screamed out as Fred alternated licking her hard clit and ramming her full of dildo. She grabbed her breasts and started playing with her nipples, watching the images on the TV screen, looking down at her husband, feeling her body overcome with pleasurable sensations. She was in the zone, she was turned on more than she’d been in a very long time. There was something in the air that was different and she was going to take advantage of every second of it.

Grabbing hold of the dildo, Alicia pulled it out, covered with her sexy juices and began licking it seductively. She would have ordinarily never done anything like that because she was afraid that she would offend him or that she would seem too vulgar. Somehow, she felt like she was released from a prison of unspoken truths, free to share with her true soul mate the things in her heart. There was no one she trusted more, there was no one else who filled her with desire; she wanted to be able to let go and divulge all her secrets.

Fred was aroused, not offended. He watched his wife intently, tasting her cream. She sensually licked all her sweet honey from the toy and made sure she knew that she was enjoying it. Alicia was out of control, her pussy was flowing. She grabbed the back of her husband’s head and pushed him down between her legs. She was lost in fantasy of having a women go down on her but it was her man who was doing the job and doing it quite well. Fred, content to be a surrogate in his wife’s fantasies, swallowed every drop of her cum without missing a beat and licked his lips when he came up for air.

Alicia was beside herself. She was positive she’d never experienced anything sexier in her entire life. There was something about the intimacy of it all, the fact that only her husband could be with her in that moment, in that way. Fred started stroking his own dick harder, sucking harder, turned on by Alicia’s unapologetic openness. Whatever was making her so hot, he wanted more. He took off the rest of his clothes and got on the bed with his wife. He kissed her deeply, allowing her to taste her own pussy on his lips. Alicia was outdone by his kisses, igniting her flames that much more in a way that rivaled the first kiss they had shared so many years ago that still made her toes curl.

Fred began his usual seduction, enveloping her body with tender kisses in a slow, methodical manner. Alicia wanted to change the tempo, add some spice into things so she took charge of things and controlled the action. She wanted him to feel the heavenly sensations that he’d given her so many times. She began using her mouth on him in the most decadent ways: licking his nipples to drive him insane and saying things she only previously would have thought but never spoken aloud. “You know I want to fuck you, right? No, I want you to fuck me, I need you to fuck me senseless until I pass out. I want to feel you pound your hard dick in me and ram it hard, use my pussy, FUCK me.” The more she revealed, the hotter she got. She’d been afraid to admit to him that she wanted to him to take her in that way, that she wanted things a little more . . . intense, because, again, she didn’t want to offend him. Neither of them were skilled in how to communicate their sexual desires so they had just fallen into a rut of satisfying but predictable sex. This was far from predictable. Both Fred and Alicia were more expressive, more free with their wants and needs than they had ever been in their lives. It was as if they were experiencing a sexual rebirth.

She knelt between his thighs and began blowing his mind. Her mouth was like hot velvet, consuming every inch of his dick in sensual delight. The intensity of their unbridled lust and her dripping wet blowjob had Fred out of his mind. Inspired by his wife’s insatiable appetite, Fred was leaking precum and horny for more. Unable to take any more without exploding, Fred grabbed Alicia and flipped her over on her back. He threw her legs in the air and took careful aim. “Tell me you want this,” he said.

All Alicia could do was speak her truth. “Fuck me,” she said, her eyes glazed over, panting like an animal.

Fred took the head of his dick and slid it into the wet, warm, moist folds of Alicia’s pussy. He started working her slowly, hitting the right spots, making her beg for more. “FRED, fuck me. Fuck me like you need it. Fuck me like you want it. Fuck me like your life depends on it.”

The invitation had been made and Fred responded with enthusiasm. He began pounding her like he was a man driven by lust. It was clear he was treating her like a fuck doll and Alicia was loving every minute of it. In fact, she couldn’t get enough. The harder he pounded, the more she screamed for more. Her cries were primal, carnal even. The more pleasure he gave his wife, the more inspired he was to give her more.

He flipped her over on her stomach and pulled her to her knees. He was more rough with her than he usually would be but the wet, frothy juices on his dick told him that his wife was loving every second of the treatment. She put her hands on the headboard and looked back with lust in her eyes. “FUCK ME NOW!”

Fred took careful aim and lined up the head of his dick with her tight hole. The heat was intense and he shoved himself in in one full stroke. Alicia braced herself for the ride of a lifetime. Fred could go for a long time and she was going to take full advantage of the situation. She was like a bucking bronco and Fred was breaking her in. He gripped her hips tightly and punctuated his thrusts by smacking her ass hard. Alicia loved every second of the rough treatment. The more she came, the harder he fucked her. The pounding became more intense, he was smacking her ass and driving her crazy, giving her a string of multiple orgasms.

Alicia was exhausted, drained of energy. Fred wasn’t finished yet, however. When she collapsed on the bed, a mass of quivering and sensitive flesh, he flipped her over on her back and put her legs on his shoulders. The fact that he was being so aggressive, so sexual gave her new life and aroused her that much more. Fred’ dick was hitting her spot and making her cum even more. The sheets were on the floor and they were fucking on the bare mattress. Looking up into his face, Alicia could see the look of pure lust on her husband’s face and she felt more love for him in that moment than she’d felt in a long time. He rammed, fucked, and pounded her without mercy.

When he was ready to cum, he pulled out and started jerking off over Alicia’s stomach. She loved watching him cum but on this day, it was like torture . . . sweet, erotic torture. He spilled his seed on her slippery flesh and they collapsed on together, exhausted from such a strenuous experience.

Things began to fall in place after that. Alicia and Fred took more time to be together, to make sure that passion had a place front and center in their lives. All in all, they learned that in order to accomplish all the other things that they had to do in their lives, the most important thing was to take the time to be open and available for honest, intimate communication and make passion a priority.

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

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My sexuality is broken

I came last night. Last night, to the glow of the computer screen, I came. I masturbated for the first time in months. It’s been at least three months, maybe more, since I last masturbated. I wish I could say that I pleasured myself but it wasn’t in the least bit pleasurable. It was disappointing to say the least. I’m not even sure why I decided to do it, I didn’t feel particularly horny. It wasn’t very satisfying. It took much longer than I expected it to take. I thought I would be able to bust a nut so to speak in a relatively short period of time but it just dragged on and on and on and it got annoying. I tried to fantasize about having sex but I don’t have a single solitary person in my life that I am attracted to on a sexual level right now. I couldn’t form the images of my dream lover, he’s fading fast. I read some mediocre erotica and rubbed my clit until I came. I couldn’t even get wet. I tried not to think about the last person I had sex with because he was so warped, our relationship was so fucked up, that it’s unhealthy for me to even conjure up ANY memories of him, let alone sexual ones. The last time I had sex before that was almost two years ago and it wasn’t good sex. The last time I had sex more than three times a year was 1999 I think.

I forget what it’s like to have sex. I forget what it’s supposed to feel like. I can look at movies and see people kissing but I don’t have a memory of what it’s like anymore. I remember kissing people but I can’t remember what it feels like. I remember what it was like to make out on my sofa with a guy I really liked but I can’t remember what it feels like. It’s like I’m watching myself in a movie but I don’t feel the sensations.

I forget what it’s like to have someone eat my pussy or finger my ass. I forget what it’s like to suck a dick and make a man cum in my mouth. I really think my sexuality is broken. I haven’t used it in so long I think it’s no good anymore. I know that I used to LOVE having my nipples sucked but they don’t seem to give me pleasure anymore when I touch them. I know how to have sex but I don’t remember how it felt. I know in my head that I used to love that feeling, the first time you have sex with someone, and he penetrates you for the very first time and it just takes your breath away but when I close my eyes, I don’t feel anything. The panting, the sweating, the moaning and groaning. . . . It’s all a vague memory, like a faded photograph where you can barely make out the images.

My sexuality doesn’t work anymore. It’s dried up like a raisin in the sun.

Celebrating our Enslavement

Another Juneteenth has come and gone. Every year, I'm horrified by the perpetuation of the day as a holiday Black people should celebrate. If there was ever a day that we should NOT celebrate, it's June 19th. For those how don't know the history of the day, Juneteenth is the oldest known celebration commemorating the ending of slavery in the United States. Dating back to 1865, it was on June 19th that the Union soldiers, led by Major General Gordon Granger, landed at Galveston, Texas with news that the war had ended and that the enslaved were now free. Note that this was two and a half years after President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation - which had become official January 1, 1863. Later attempts to explain this two and a half year delay in the receipt of this important news have yielded several versions that have been handed down through the years. Often told is the story of a messenger who was murdered on his way to Texas with the news of freedom. Another, is that the news was deliberately withheld by the enslavers to maintain the labor force on the plantations. And still another, is that federal troops actually waited for the slave owners to reap the benefits of one last cotton harvest before going to Texas to enforce the Emancipation Proclamation. All or none of them could be true. For whatever the reason, conditions in Texas remained status quo well beyond what was statutory.

I'm not stupid enough to believe that there was no form of communication to Texas for two and a half years. I'm not stupid enough to celebrate a "holiday" just because slaves rejoiced in being freed. We should be fighting for legal restitution. If one white person were falsely imprisoned and then freed but no one told them about it for TWO AND A HALF YEARS, there would be a lawsuit the size of Texas on his behalf. Hell, he would own half of Texas after he got finished suing. Yes, I'm sure he would rejoice when he was freed but turning it into a holiday? Hell no. Rather than point out the injustice, we want to make it a national holiday. The insanity of it all is what confuses me.

I've spoken to Black people from Texas, who are the people who seem to celebrate it the most, and they insist that they celebrate it because that's what they were taught. Isn't this the same thing I hear every Thanksgiving when I bring up the fact that celebrating Thanksgiving is really celebrating the holocaust of 15 million Natives? Where's the common sense? The movement should be for reparations for every second of every day that Black people were enslaved past Jan 1st, 1963. The US government should be held accountable for its illegal actions. Texas landholders should be held accountable. The monies should go to education, housing, small business loans, and health care for Black Texans.

Can you imagine Jews celebrating the fact that people were left in concentration camps for two and a half years after they were freed? Can you imagine white people trying to deny Jews legal justice for anyone who was in that situation? Not only do we not want to hold the people who were responsible accountable, we want to have a party on top of it. It's so sinful it's a shame.

My Desires

I desire a love that defies definition, all-encompassing, passionate, deeply-abiding love with an African-centered, metaphysical, brilliant, beautiful Black man

I desire three beautiful children, more enlightened, more intelligent, and healthier than I

I desire a life of transcendence, of the highest possible consciousness I can achieve in human form.

I desire to see the enlightenment of my people and to see the chains of mental slavery that still enslave us broken like shattered glass

I desire my words to be healing agents that dismantle the fallacy of white supremacy that infects the world

I desire the ability to levitate, to be an alchemist, to create reality with my mind

I desire a book, In Loving Color, to be a NY Times Bestseller and stimulate the conversations that usher in healing

I desire the opportunity to produce my erotic CD and have it begin the momentum to replace the offensive and degrading images of Black sexuality with healthy ones

I desire the stories from In Loving Color to be made into BEAUTIFUL videos images and shown on HBO and on DVD

I desire a radio talk show that offers an alternative to the dysfunctional messages that are perpetuated

I desire the opportunity to produce events, workshops, and retreats that help people heal their relationships

I desire my PhD and a lifetime of learning

I desire the ability to produce the initiatives that will heal the collective consciousness of my people

I desire to live a life of healthy eating, fasting, prayer, meditation, and physical activity

I desire three beautiful homes, one in an urban setting, one is a rural setting, and one in the motherland

I desire to live in harmony with nature, ecologically friendly and a life free from materialism and capitalistic greed

I desire a library of books that hold secrets within them and music that moves the soul

I desire a collection of art that rivals the best African/African American collections

Her name was Jenny Kitchen.

She'd been infected by her addict boyfriend for over 10 years. She'd lived a hard life, an inhabitant of the housing projects in the Bronx and dependent on the state for her survival for her entire life. Her daughter is one of the most beautiful and amazing women, both inside and outside, in the world. Jenny was determined to see her child graduate from college so she willed herself to live. The universe masterfully orchestrated events so that I was there with Jenny the day she died. Less than 24 hours earlier, Jenny was her usual, sickly but fiercely independent self. She spoke her last words to me, I fed her her last meal. I covered her naked body after the doctors and nurses left her lying like a piece of trash. The doctor didn't even tell us that she had died. He said, Oh, are you here for Jenny Kitchen? You can pick up her personal belongings with the nurse." They are so much more sympathetic on ER.

Last year, almost to the day, I was the "houseguest" of someone with whom I've had sex with for many many years. We used condoms twice, eight years ago and haven't used one since. I KNOW him to be a pathological liar. I KNOW that he was having unprotected sex with multiple partners when I was sleeping with him. I KNOW for a fact that he was engaged in high risk behaviors with people were potentially infected. He would tell me that he loved me, that he wanted to be inside me, and he wanted to give me a baby and I would spread my legs and invite him to my sacred space without a condom. The year before that, I met a younger man, substantially younger who was altogether brilliant and who has an entire matching set of baggage due to sexual molestation as a child. We waited a month before we slept together. He told me he loved me. He told me that the wanted to be my man. I craved the connection and the intimacy. No condom.

Six months before that, I met a man who was a promoter for a Black swing club. There was no profession of love, there was no promise of a future together, there was no long history or extended courtship. I hadn't had sex in eighteen months prior to that and I was lonely and horny and the first time he kissed me I felt electricity course through my body. We slept together the very next time we saw each other and every step of the way I kept saying to myself, "I should tell him to use a condom." I didn't.

The truth of the matter is, sex without condoms feels incredible. For me, it's the key to having the baby I so desperately want, it's symbolic of the pure, unadulterated love I'm longing to share with someone. I have no doubt in my mind that my not having a child is a biological trigger for my poor and unhealthy risky behavior. If I, Ms. sexually aware and painfully celibate, is engaging in unsafe sex practices, when I've seen the effects of AIDS taking its toll on someone, then I'm quite sure that there are millions upon millions more who aren't as self aware, who aren't as educated, who making the same unhealthy choices.

Black women, especially the ones that are the most outwardly critical of bisexual men, are the most likely to engage in unsafe sex. They put the responsibility of their HIV status on their partners, they don't take ownership of their responsibility of keep themselves HIV negative. They are the women that are BEGGING men to not use condoms, telling them that they are offended if a man says he wants to use a condom with them. I've spoken to countless bisexual men who tell me that they were in the heat of the moment and they wanted to use condoms with women and the women insisted that they not use a condom.

I've seen condom use in swing clubs. I've spoken to many a married man who says that they love their wives too much to bring a disease home (I know, cheating is the ultimate disrespect but they rationalize it anyway) so they always use a condom. I'm convinced that men who are bisexual or men who engage in sex acts with other men (even if they refuse to identify themselves as bi) are in most cases in denial about what they want, about their desires, so they get in the zone, they are all hot and bothered, and they don't use condoms because it's surreal to them. They are outside of their own reality so they suspend reason for fantasy and unsafe sex.

I tested HIV negative last year. I haven't had sex since. I sometimes fantasize what it will be like the next time I have sex, imagining that it will be with the man that I spend the rest of my life with. Never once, in all of my visions of love, have I never imagined that he and I use a condom. I do imagine that we wait to have sex until we are both tested. I can consider myself pretty typical in my behaviors I'm sure, just a whole helluva lot more open and honest about my shortcomings and willing to take responsibility for my HIV status.

AfroerotiK is . . . Showered with Love

Is love something that grows over time or can you experience true abiding love instantly? Is love all romance and cheesy songs or can love be fostered amidst contention? In a day and time when people look for instant gratification and put their own needs above everyone else's feelings, can true love really grow? These are important questions that must be asked in an effort to redefine the formula for a healthy relationship. There's a fine line between trusting your instincts and making an uninformed choice. Take the AfroerotiK audio journey and experience how scorching hot passion can be born from the right mix of trust and vulnerability.

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