Savannah Film Festival

The first week in November is my favorite time of the year. It’s the time of the annual Savannah Film Festival and my own personal time for indulgence. I just pack up a bag and head down to Savannah where I’m transported to a different place in time. If I’m lucky, I can catch the fall foliage colors, hit the museums, and listen to some great jazz while I’m there as well. Usually, I go as a spectator, taking in the film and surrounding myself with culture. This year was going to be particularly special for me. I was going to be debuting my first erotic short film. Upon leaving last year, I decided I could do the same thing some of those other people I had done and set out to tell my story on celluloid. I was nervous because there was no “genuine” Black erotic film out there and I was afraid of how it was going to be received. I didn’t want people to think it was porn and I didn’t want intellectuals overanalyzing what I was intending to do. I wanted to present to the world twenty minutes of cerebral dialogue, intense emotions, and exquisite lovemaking between Black people.

I was disappointed because it was yet another milestone in my life where I didn’t have a partner with whom I could share my accomplishment. I couldn’t dwell on it; I had to expose myself to the world. I knew most people wouldn’t be able to appreciate it, so I just meditated on staying grounded. I spent the morning in Forsyth Park right across the street from my Bed and Breakfast. For me, staying in the Magnolia Inn was a far different experience than the other guests. For me, it was a reminder of the slaves that labored to build its opulence while they lived as less than humans. I thought of the black women that had been the possessions of white genteel masters that had to entertain late nights in the very chambers where tourist now casually laid their heads and long for the days of old. No, for me, Savannah was the vehicle to my history, a dark and painful past that came alive to me in the tortured whispers of my ancestors.

The Lucas Theater was relatively packed. I held my breath and recited my brief introduction like I had rehearsed 52 times in my bathroom mirror. I was praying that people would not be able to tell that I had never directed a community play before, let alone an erotic film. I closed my eyes and let the entire thing play out in my head, I knew every second of that film by heart. By the time it was over I had finally exhaled. The kudos and the backslapping reigned down supreme. Everyone was congratulating me on a job well done and talking to me about features and a whole bunch of movie industry terms I had never heard of . . . but I played along like I had.

I saw him lingering in the periphery, waiting to make his approach. He looked nervous almost, or hesitant might have been a better description. The crowd thinned out and he made his way to me. “I loved the fact that you gave him a sense of responsibility. He was selective with whom he slept, I appreciate that commentary. So many sexual representations of Black men make us out to be callous and indiscriminate with our partners. Thank you.” He turned and started to walk away without further introduction.

“Wait . . . thanks . . . wait . . .” There was something about his demeanor that, while soft spoken, was genuine. “No one else got that. Everyone else thought it was just about the sex.” He turned to face me and I couldn’t tell which one of us was more unsettled. I didn’t want him to walk away but I was scared to appear too eager. He was beautiful, there was no denying it, but more than anything I wanted to ask him what he thought, how the movie made him feel. We stood in silence and stared at each other in awkward pause. “My name is Robert, I really loved your work.” We grinned and exchanged pleasantries through the awkwardness.

“Do you have plans for dinner,” he asked, “If you like seafood, the Sapphire Grill is the best place in town. I’d love it if you joined me. We can celebrate the debut of Afroerotik.” It looked like it took every ounce of courage in him to ask me but I was the one that was nervous and flattered and speechless. I felt like a schoolgirl being asked out to prom. I accepted and he agreed to pick me up at 8.

Dinner was magical. The conversation was seamless; we laughed and talked well into the evening. We spoke of erotica and what it meant to us as Black people. He listened intently as I went off into my passionate discussion of my work and what I wanted it to accomplish. Wine loosened my inhibitions and I inched closer whenever I could, I made a point to rest my hand on his arm when he made a particularly interesting point. I let my leg linger on his under the table and made sure my eye contact let him know in no uncertain terms that I was attracted. I was feeling rather brazen, at least for me who spends the majority of my time in front of a monitor with little or no human interaction for weeks at a time.

We stood at the steps of the Magnolia Place and talked some more. “So, I have to ask one more thing. Was your film about your own personal experience?” If anyone else had asked me that I would have been offended. That was personal information that no one had a right to know. The truth of the matter was that I was in everything that I wrote, every erotic story I created. I knew my feelings and motivations better than anyone, so I didn’t have to guess what a character would say, or how she would react. All of my erotica represented a side of me that didn’t have an outlet in real life.

I looked him intently in his eyes and, without answering, took his hand in mine and turned to walk up the ivy-covered steps of the inn. There was no turning back and I didn’t even have time to formulate a plan. I was going off of pure adrenaline, and merlot. Andrew Jackson would probably be rolling in his grave if he knew the things that were going to happen between the two descendents of slaves in the room named after him. I didn’t want to speak; it would have broken the spell. I just wanted this to transpire like a movie in my mind—a sensual, erotic scenario of artistry and magic.

I kept the lights off as we entered the room and dropped my bag by the door. I didn’t have to worry about what to do next as Robert turned me around and pulled me to him. I loved that masculine instinct that took over, that thing men do when they want to unleash that primal beast. It supercedes the reserved, conservative nature that some men have. It’s so sensual; it makes me feel wanted and desired. He pulled me into his arms and I reveled in the sensation. I could feel his hands caressing the small of my back. I didn’t want to speak because that would have broken the spell. If I started talking, my doubts and fears would have crept in. I didn’t want this to stop. I wanted to live life for once with no safety net.

The heat was intense between us. I threw my head back and felt his lips on my neck. My fever was rising. I was unbuttoning his buttons as we moved backwards to the bed. His kisses tasted sweet, his tongue was soft and yielding. He gently laid me back on the bed and undid the ties of my wraparound dress. I felt sexy, revealing myself to him like that. My breasts were aching to be touched and caressed. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light that peaked through the heavily curtained windows and I watched as he undressed at the foot of the bed; his golden brown skin a delicious contrast to my slightly darker mocha. My hands caressed my secret places in anticipation. He lifted my hips and removed my wet panties. He held them to his face and inhaled deeply my scent.

I slid back on the bed and he prepared his complete and relentless seduction. My neck was his first target and he kissed and sucked it, cradling in the gentle slope of my throat, licking his way to from my shoulder to my ear. I threw my head back and moaned; it was my signal to him that I loved every second of his attention. He found my hot spot and began gently sucking on it while his hands found my breast and began massaging them. My nipples were aching from arousal as he slid his mouth lower and began sucking and licking all over my breasts. My arousal was climbing to a fevered pitch as he was arousing me like he had a map to my body and knew exactly how to pleasure me. I watched in amazement as he kissed his way down my stomach and made my belly button into an erogenous zone. He made love to my tummy with his mouth; pampering me in a unique way no one else had ever thought to do. The teasing became more intense. Robert began kissing his way down the fronts of my legs, my hips, my inner thighs, every place except my incredibly aroused pussy.

He positioned himself between my legs. I was grabbing the sheets and thrusting my hips forward trying to get his to lick me. He was blowing hot breath on my parted and aroused lips; the moistness of my inner flesh evident on my pink folds. His mouth made love to my sweet, sticky center. His tongue softly licked my clit and made me cry out with pleasure. His fingers entered me and drove me to the edge of orgasm. He was playing my body like a fine tuned instrument. Giving me pleasure became his sole objective. I was mumbling incoherently, “Yes . . . oh shit . . . yeah, lick my pussy . . . fuck . . . fuck me.” I was pulling my nipples and his hands were caressing every inch of skin he could reach. I placed my hands on his bald head and rested them there because he didn’t need instruction where to go. He held my long legs up in the air and broke his silence with a pointed question, “Do you want me? ”

I needed him more than I needed air at that moment. I let my eyes respond, my eyes, my body and my heart. I was relinquishing control, giving myself to passion. I couldn’t stop; there was no turning back. I didn’t want to be reserved and alone. I wanted to feel like a woman and I wanted Robert to take me there.

My moans were louder than they should have been. He was teasing me and he knew it. I needed to feel him inside me and he was torturing me with his slow seduction. His mouth lowered to my hard nipples and I cradled his face in my hands. I watched him in awe as his left hand touched my body like a paintbrush to a canvas. He stopped only to position himself at my core and drive himself inside me in one thrust.

“Mmmmm, no, yes, wait, don’t stop.” My hands grabbed his ass and pulled him to me. We fell into a rhythm, a solitary unit of passionate expression. I was riding high and about to cum. I shut my eyes tight and felt it about to hit me. I pulled him to me and wanted to feel every ounce of his weight on me as I reached that place that I can only find in the passionate embrace of a beautiful black man. His body tensed and I could tell his orgasm was only a minute or two behind mine. My wetness coated him and added to the soundtrack of pleasure we were experiencing.

He held me in his arms and I drifted off into a peaceful slumber. I already knew what my submission to next year’s festival was going to be.

Ó 2003 AfroerotiK

White America's Obsession with Jon Benet

Her parents made her into a hypersexualized little Barbie. The media made her into a demi goddess. I for one have little or no compassion for her any longer simply because she's been shoved down my throat for the last decade. What happened to the 13 disabled Black children that were kept locked in crates last year by their white foster family? No one knows because it's non news. They are living. They will suffer for the rest of their lives because of what those people did. Jon Benet is dead, life goes on. I don't give a fuck if she was blonde and she would have grown up to be Miss America, I really don't. What empathy I might have had for her is tainted by the fact that they are making her life more valuable than anyone else on the planet. Rest in Peace Jon Benet because I'm sure your soul is tired of being pimped.

White Male Submission

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and Founder of AfroerotiK

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt

I would like to ask the white people specifically, "Whose ancestors DID own slaves?"


In every conversation I've ever had about race in my life, and that's been quite a few given my political and social leanings, I've yet to meet ONE white person that has said to me, "Yes, my ancestors owned and profited from slaves." I’m beginning to think that white people only know how to say, “MY family didn’t own slaves.” Well . . . I’ll be god damned, somebody’s family had to own slaves. Where are those descendents? Maybe they are too rich to even bother with being online.


If I use the barometer of internet, slavery didn't exist at all and it played no role in making the US the richest nation in the world. Apparently, the youngest and most violent nation is the richest because it's inhabited by intellectually superior white men not because it stole the land, its resources, and enslaved free labor.


I know no one will answer this post with the possible exception of the standard, "My ancestors (fill in the blank with even the most obscure ethnicity) were enslaved too." Wait, that’s second only to, “Color doesn’t matter, slavery was in the past, let it go.” What conversation about slavery would be complete without white people saying, “Jews suffered during the Holocaust and look at how well they are doing today.” Sure, Jews were imprisoned for 7 years, not enslaved for generations so of course the effects would be vastly different. I'm not interested in comparative "Oppression Olympics" or proving that anyone suffered more or less than anyone else. I would like someone to stand up and say, my family had money passed down generationally that was the direct result of owning slaves.


I wonder what happened to the descendents of slave owners because they certainly don't post online. I would love to have someone say to me, my family didn't own slaves, but they manufactured the barrels that held the food for the slave voyages from Africa or my family was known to traffic in the illegal slave trade after slavery was abolished or some other such shocking revelation.


Fuck that, how about a white person just admitting to me that they have no clue as to the extent of what the psychological damage to enslaved Black people was nor do they understand what its ramifications are today.

Fisting

When I was in college, 184 years ago, my boyfriend and I couldn't keep our hands off one another. I used to adore when he would finger my pussy because he paid attention to me and knew exactly where my spot was. It was nothing for him to put three fingers in me, and at the time, I would beg him to do it harder. (It needs to be noted that I can't stand having anything done hard now UNLESS I've cum already, that was a LONG LONG time ago.) Anyway, I remember one day when I was begging him to finger me harder, he told me that he already had four fingers inside me. It wasn't that much of a stretch from three to four and if I remember correctly, we tried at the time to get his entire hand inside me. We didn't or couldn't do it for some reason but I remember that day very clearly.

There was a lovely young lady with whom I was involved a several years back. She had AZZ for days. I couldn't keep my face, fingers, or tongue out of it to be honest. It was just a big ole phat delicious booty. One night, I was playing my usual seductress self and I decided I was going to tease her without letting her cum for several hours. (The plan was 8 hours but I think we only made it to six) I used a combination of vibrators, my tongue, fingers, lube and small dildos on her asshole. She was like a wild animal in heat. She was screaming at me to finger her ass harder to shove more of my fingers inside her. Thing was, I already had four in her. I could have easily pushed the widest part of my hand inside her but I was terrified of hurting her, it was just a little too extreme for me. She had no clue how close I was to fisting her ass until I showed her how much of my hand was in her ass.

I used to chat with a beautiful little petite sista and she would think nothing of showing me how she could fist herself on cam. I know it's popular in the gay community and I've seen more than enough websites with white women getting fisted in the pussy and asshole, occasionally both at the same time. I would imagine that it’s something that arises out of very similar situations to the two I described.

What's the general consensus on fisting? Is it something too extreme? It is something that's more widespread than people are willing to discuss but going in on bedrooms all over? Is it something you've tried, wanted to try, afraid to try, disgusted by the mere thought of it? Share your feedback on fisting.

Brown Skin Brotha

Brown Skin Brotha. So regal and so fine.Your back, broad and weary from the labor and pain youmust endure.
Hold your head up Brown Skin Brotha, be not afraid.
I got your beautiful brownskin back.
I melt in your brown skin arms.
I taste the tears from your sensual, soulful, deepbrown eyes.
I receive you, Brown Skin Brotha, into the very depths of my being.
I accept you into my mind, my body, my heart and my soul.
Brown skin brotha there is none other like you.

Experience Making Love to Me

Feel my lips gently nibbling on your earlobe, My breath as I whisper in your ear, I want you. Smell the scent of my perfume as it lingers on my skin. Taste my mouth as we kiss. Feel the softness of my lips, my yielding tongue.

Experience my soft, gentle kisses on your neck, your shoulders, and your chest. Relax and enjoy as I kiss your arms, inside your elbows, the palms of your hands. Maintain eye contact with me as I suck each and every one of your fingers.

Relinquish control as I massage your back. Feel the cool sensation as I leave wet kisses on your spine. Feel my breasts crushed against your back as I try to press every inch of our bodies together. Breathe deeply; inhale the aroma of the candles, the oil I use to massage you, my arousal as my passion builds for you. Turn over and face me. Tingle with anticipation as my hands move slowly back up the fronts of your legs, your thighs.

Ache with need as my mouth kisses and licks your torso, carefully avoiding your erection with the exception of my hot breath. Describe the sensation to me as I lick and gently suck your balls. Tell me how it feels as I lick the head of your dick and make it glisten. Watch me as I swallow you, licking you, sucking you, stroking you, blowing your mind. Scream out my name as I bring you to the verge of orgasm and stop. Feel the head of your dick, deep in the back of my throat while my wet, hot lips, tongue, and mouth envelop you entirely.

Experience the need to have me, be inside of me, to fuck me. Look at me. Notice every detail of my body: my bedroom eyes, my full lips, my tiny ears, my small shoulders, my long arms and fingers, the swell of my breasts slowly rising and falling, the contrast of my nipples, my small waist and full hips, my smooth, long, brown legs and tiny ankles, the high arch of my foot and my perfectly pedicured toes.

Make me need you. Press your body onto mine, laying your weight upon me. Whisper all the naughty things you want to do. Kiss me passionately; long, hard and wet. Let me know that you want me, all of me, and only me. Feel my passion for you build as you fondle and caress my breasts, pinching my nipples, cupping them in your hands.

Watch my excitement build as you lower you mouth to my breasts nursing them like a baby, sucking them like a man hungry with desire. Lick them all over, use your tongue like a sensual paintbrush.

Feel the heat from between my legs, spread them. Examine that part of me that makes me a woman. Notice how aroused I become at even the most gentle stimulation. Touch me softly and watch me writhe in pleasure. Spread my lips apart, feeling my wetness flow. Smell my sex, natural and sweet. Invade me with your fingers. Manipulate that vacant and slippery space with skill. Make me give you my surrender. Invade me with your tongue. Taste me, eat me, lick me, suck me.

And then calmly reassure me of your love. Look deeply into my eyes and let me know that everything will be fine, that you will take care of me, that I dont need to be afraid. And with the hunger of a starving man, the thrill of the first time…………penetrate me. Close your eyes and feel our bodies become one. Experience my gift to you.

Make love to me. Slow, steady. hard, deep. Drive your dick up inside me over and over again. Make me scream with pleasure and ecstasy divine. Fuck me until our bodies are glistening with sweat. Feel my pussy grab you and pull you deep inside of me. Tell me how tight and wet and hot I am and how good my pussy makes you feel. Faster …Deeper. Experience the addiction of pleasure over take your body. And then my dear, sweet lover, fill me with your seed, that which makes me whole. Dont move, dont move, DONT MOVE. Just enjoy the experience of making love to me.

I’ve Got a Secret

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

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

I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way. I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own. But then I got strong. I’ve been by myself for almost 14 years now. I wish I could say 14 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last decade. I’ve decided I don’t want nolying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self-centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have had other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex more than a few times, maintenance dates, yes. But I’ve not had a man in my life. I need a man. I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self.

What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from laying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings. Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact.

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

I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a strong, African-centered, evolved, emotionally mature man. Whew, my secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!

I desire

I desire a black man that loves me so completely, that when another sister approaches him, he laughs at her advances because he knows he has it so good at home.

I desire honesty. Not leaving out parts of the truth, not vague or deceptive answers, not conveniently forgetting to tell me very important details, not blatant stories made up to impress me, not withholding facts, not lies. Honesty! I would rather have you tell me the truth and have my feelings get hurt than lie to me, have me find out later, and destroy our relationship.

I desire emotional intimacy. I desire a Black man to share his dreams, fears, disappointments, aspirations, feelings, and memories with me. I desire to be able to share my most intimate self with a man and know that he in not going to try to take advantage of me, manipulate me, use me, or disregard my feelings as inconsequential.

I desire common goals. I long to be able to share his vision for the future and make coffee and pass out flyers for the movement. I need to know that he will do the same for me. I want him to pay attention to our relationship. I have no desire to shoulder 100% of the responsibility for making the relationship work. I want to know that he is going to put thought into our anniversary, go out of his way to surprise me with a token of affection, and seduce me once in a while.

I desire a Black man that would never, ever even contemplate raising his hand to me. I desire my man who can kill the bugs, fix the thingy in the sink, change the oil in the car, cut the grass without me having beg, and do various other sundry things that is takes a penis to do. (Yes, I will do traditional feminine chores in exchange, it's only fair)

I desire a man whose spiritual vision is greater than his oppressors' I desire a man who is willing to take his time and learn exactly what it is I like in the bedroom, (or wherever) and not assume I am going to like what his last woman liked. I desire a man who can apologize when he has made a mistake, say I'm sorry, and can forgive me when I've done the same. I crave the knowledge that my man needs me in his life, and that I mean more than just convenient ass, or someone he can take advantage of.

I desire a man who loves me for all of me, my flaws, my weaknesses, my shortcomings and can compliment me and help lift me up without making me feel inferior or degrading me. I want him to be my biggest cheerleader, and I have it be sincere. I desire a man who thinks of me before he makes any decision that will affect our lives together. I desire a man who thinks I am beautiful and sexy and smart and intelligent and kind and compassionate. Not because I'm vain but because I think he is all those things and more.

I desire a man who has let go of the stereotypes that preclude women to roles of ho, babymama, golddigger, and maid. I desire a man to love me; mind, body and soul.

The Love I Share

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

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

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

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

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

And just when you think things can't get any better. He gives me that long, hard, hot, wet, sticky, Black love. He eats my pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I'm babbling incoherently. He gives me constant reassurance that he loves me. We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of "love". I can share any erotic fantasy with him and know that I'm not going to be ridiculed or shamed. He takes the time to make every time special: music, candlelight, poetry (his own). I get wet just thinking about him. Sometimes problems do arise. We face them as a challenge to greater heights of understanding. We hardly fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty socks? Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love him, nor that he loves me. His family is mine, mine has become his. Our children, planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love. My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath. Our sons, respecters of Black women, are political, street smart and fine. Our daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as intellect and ambition. Most importantly, I share my love of God with my Black man. Every morning, every night, we thank God for the blessings we have received. We worship, meditate and pray together. He has let go of embracing the oppressor’s value system. His relationship to God defies traditional definition. We make God first in our lives. We face the world knowing that ours is a Divine gift from God.

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.