Minority Affairs

When the alarm on his Blackberry went off, reminding him of his 3:00 appointment, Kevin Reynolds was almost tempted to reschedule. He was all the way on the other side of town at a meeting with a real estate developer at a construction site. With traffic, it would take him no less than twenty minutes to get back to his office and he would be rushed. As fate would have it, the fortuitous winds of destiny were blowing, and keeping that particular appointment would be the best thing to ever happen to him.

Kevin’s job as the Business Development Coordinator for the City of Sausalito, California had him on the go constantly. Part of his job responsibility was developing minority business for the city. He was so entrenched, so consumed with the demands and rigors of his position that he’d forsaken any attempts at trying to maintain a social life. That would have been a sad state of affairs for most people but for Kevin, it was really just an inconsequential byproduct of having his dream job. Given his recent forays in the romance department, he really didn’t mind. Lucky in love was not a saying that could be used about his love life as of late. It wasn’t as if he bad looking, at 6’ tall with black hair and blue eyes, was very handsome but he was maybe a little too much of a nice guy to be considered edgy in today’s dating pool. He’d heard the infamous, “I think we should just be friends” speech too many times to count. He’d expanded his dating pool to women of color in the past few years and he was comfortable with that but he hadn’t been able to form anything long-term thus far. Timing is everything and his job was just taking up too much of his time for dating. Nevertheless, he loved his work and he was enthusiastic, no passionate about attracting the sorts of businesses to Sausalito that would benefit the residents and the community as a whole.

Exactly on time, with a minute or two to spare even, his appointment was waiting in the reception area as he introduced himself and asked for a few minutes grace period to put his things down and get situated. “You must be Ms. Jenkins. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, the City Manager, Mr. Gold, I think you’ve already met with him . . . he gave me some preliminary information on your venture and I’ve done some prep work in anticipation of our meeting and I just want to go over a few things before we meet.”

Sylvia Jenkins stood to respond, extending her hand as an act of civility and yet igniting a spark that would fan the flames of unspoken passion. She was breathtaking, nothing less than abso-fucking-lutely, stunningly, insanely gorgeous, and Kevin was caught off guard momentarily with her grace, charm, and style. At 5’4” tall, with skin the color of bronze and almond-shaped eyes that danced with light, she was the epitome of Black beauty. Her hair was a mane of flowing dreadlocks adorned with beads that were twisted and piled on her head in some sort of creative crown-like hairstyle that defied gravity and the laws of physics. Her full, sensual lips parted to respond but the words were momentarily lost on Kevin because he was captivated by the sexy pout and the shiny lip-gloss that accentuated the most perfect smile he’d ever seen. Wearing a white cotton blouse that would have been conservative on most women, hers wrapped around and sort of had ties in the back or something that gave just a hint at a very, VERY, voluptuous cleavage. It wasn’t unprofessional, like a stripper inappropriately showing off her new set of triple Ds, it was just sort of a declaration of her womanhood. A long denim skirt that went to the floor and hugged her undeniably round bottom and full hips completed her outfit. She wasn’t fat; she wasn’t even heavy set. She was just the sort of woman that was blessed with heavenly curves in ALL the right places.

She smelled like an exotic combination of flowers and tropical fruit that was subtle yet intoxicating. She wore an arm-full of copper bracelets that made a sort of musical sound as she moved her hand. Her skin looked like it was the most expensive chocolate-colored silk that had been imported from a distant land. Even after taking in all the details of this exquisite woman in a split second, Kevin was able to pull himself back together and remain professional enough to hear her say, “Take your time, it’s not a problem.”

Her venture was an exciting one for the city of Sausalito. She was opening a cyber café/gallery/bistro right downtown. It was the perfect location and the concept was complex but genius in its simplicity at the same time. She was attempting to create a space where people could come, explore unique African imports for sale in a hands on environment, have some dessert, drink some herbal tea if that was to their liking, connect to the net, and even have some space where she could offer various classes and workshops taught by artisans and talents from around the country for two or three week at a time. The meeting went seamlessly as Kevin walked her through the final paper work that she would need for her project, assuring that there would be as little red tape as possible with permits and licenses and the many steps it required to have such an intricate business plan.

It was also a venture that would have the two in constant communication for several months. An artist herself, Sylvia wanted to have a residential space in the space above her storefront that could house the various instructors she wanted to come and teach for a few weeks at a time, that could be used as a studio, and a place for her to crash when she didn’t want to go home. That meant putting in a kitchenette, a shower, and getting residential permits. That required a whole ‘nutha set of paperwork to process and deadlines that couldn’t be missed and just the sort of red tape that Kevin was expert at circumventing. He was there to help her every step of the way and he made the process seem effortless, shielding her from the tedium every chance he got and going above and beyond to make things flow smoothly. He wasn’t doing it to try to gain points or seduce her. He was simply doing his job and being true to his nature to be a gentleman.

Sylvia was appreciative yet professional. On more than one occasion, he would stop by the storefront at 7 or 8 at night, after a long day of his own; only to find Sylvia painting or unpacking boxes herself. He never even inquired if she had a boyfriend, a girlfriend, he never asked if she dated interracially, he never asked about any aspect of her personal life. He kept their interaction professional yet her beauty mesmerized him each and every time he laid eyes on her.

The grand opening of Mombasa was an event like none other. Kevin stopped by to congratulate her and wish her well. The place was filled to capacity with an eclectic mix of people; there were spoken word artists, drummers, reflexologists, and curious passers by who tasted some of the delicious desserts that were being given out for free. “I want to thank you for all the help you gave me during this entire process. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Sylvia said, as she kissed Kevin on the cheek and quickly disappeared into the crowd to mix and mingle as she beamed with excitement.

It would be several weeks before he spoke to her again. Having put her project to bed, Kevin was deeply engrossed in his next project and pouring himself into work as usual. He was pleasantly surprised when he answered his phone to hear Sylvia say, “The Chamber of Commerce is holding that black tie fundraising event at the Crowne Plaza on Saturday night and I was wondering . . . I didn’t know if you . . . I was thinking . . . “

Sensing her unease, Kevin cut her off, “Oh, are you going to that thing too? I was going to make an appearance. I can stop by and pick you up if you want to carpool.” Regretting his choice of words, not wanting to sound like he was being too aloof, he quickly amended it to say, “I’d love for you to be my date if you would do me the honor. It would be my distinct pleasure to accompany you.” He was thinking on his feet because prior to that very minute, he’d never even known that she might have had a personal interest in him. He wasn’t even sure she did have an interest in him romantically, all he knew was she was fine as hell and if she wanted to go to a formal affair with him, there was no way he was going to say no.

For Kevin, the evening was alive with potential. He bought a new suit for the occasion and had flowers for Sylvia when he picked her up at Mombasa. She was even more breathtaking than usual, attired in an evening gown that accentuated her body to perfection. “Wow, you look fantastic,” was all he could say, rendered essentially speechless by her beauty.

“Thank you,” she said as she kissed him on the cheek for the second time since their meeting, this time it seemed to linger a bit longer than the first time. She did a twirl and showed off her outfit and said, “Shall we go?”

For Kevin, the evening was an extension of work, introducing movers and shakers to policy makers and trying to coordinate deals outside the office. He as shaking hands with everyone and he didn’t really have as much time as he wanted to spend with Sylvia. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it just seemed that every time he set out to focus solely on her, someone would interrupt and he would go back into Business Development Coordinator mode. Several of his co-workers were giving him slaps on the back and nods and winks, implying that they had no clue that he was dating a Black woman, and such a hot one at that.

“Excuse me Miss, you look rather lonely sitting there, would you care to dance?” That was Kevin’s chivalrous attempt at adding a little romance to the evening as he extended his hand and wanted to show Sylvia that he appreciated her being so tolerant of him being pulled in so many different directions during the evening. Sylvia didn’t mind being left alone. She liked watching Kevin do his thing. It was part of the reason she was attracted to him. She was attracted to his understated power and efficacy at what he did for a living.

On the dance floor, everyone else seemed to fade away. Kevin held her close and ran his hands up and down her back. For the first time in months, he was reminded of his dormant sexuality as he could hear gentle moans of pleasure emanating from Sylvia as they sort of swayed to the music. For the rest of the night, he paid attention exclusively to her. They talked and laughed and seemed to emit a signal that they were not to be interrupted for business or any other reason. As the night wore down to a close, he offered to take her back to her car and call it an evening.

“You never saw the complete finished product,” Sylvia said as Kevin escorted her to her car. “If you have a few minutes, come inside and I want to give you the grand tour, considering you were so instrumental in helping me.”

He really couldn’t have cared less about the tour. He wasn’t being rude; it’s just that he was captivated by the way Sylvia’s ass moved in that dress and when she walked in those high heels. He mumbled, “That looks nice,” more than a few times, not really mentioning that he wasn’t talking about the various pieces of art or the décor of her establishment.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Would you like to see the upstairs portion? It turned out fantastic.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him up a back staircase. Kevin was expecting something close to a sparse dorm room with a futon, a cook top, and a half fridge, but what he saw looked like a beautiful showroom. It was decorated in beautiful fabrics and colors, there was artwork all around and lovely touches that made it feel like a home.

“You did all this yourself? It looks fantastic! I should have known that if you were going to do anything you were going to do it well.” While intended it to be innocent, there was a sexual undertone to the comment that was felt by both.

“If you only knew, sir,” Sylvia replied, and winked to acknowledge the chemistry that was tangible. “Would you care for a glass of wine, you don’t have to go now, do you?” She offered graciously but she was prepared for him to decline her offer.

“I don’t mind if I do, thanks,” taking off his jacket and making himself comfortable on the cozy loveseat. After the second glass of wine, and even more conversation, the two began to get a little more comfortable with each other. Before either of them realized it, it was 3 in the morning. It

Being a gentleman, he rose, saying, “I better get home. Will you be okay staying here for the evening or would you prefer I call you a cab to get you home? I don’t want you driving. I’ll leave my car here and come get it in the morning, well, I’ll come get it in a couple of hours since it’s already morning.”

Taking his hand in hers, she said, “You don’t have to go.” There was a moment of silence when they both knew what was about to happen but didn’t dare say anything to break the spell. She stood and faced him. Time stood still for an instant and he tilted her face to his and they kissed.

Things certainly went from zero to sixty, but it took quite some time to get there. Both Sylvia and Kevin took their time, exploring each other’s bodies, and capitalizing off of each second of sensual pleasure. They kissed for what seemed like hours on that little loveseat. He wouldn’t be rushed so Kevin kissed and licked her neck, finding her hot spot and making her moan in pleasure. He licked her ears and whispered the sorts of naughty things he wanted to do to her. She would respond by spreading her legs and grinding her body in time with his. Her hands roamed freely over his back, caressing him and unbuttoning his shirt at the appropriate intervals.

At some point, her dress ended up on the floor and Kevin could do nothing but stare in amazement. She was more perfect than he had ever imagined. Her beautiful breasts were round and full and capped off by the most delicious, dark, suckable nipples he’d ever seen in his entire life. Her tiny waist held a belly chain that lay softly on her hips and sparkled in the moonlight. Her big ole booty was what made women envious and men weak with lust. Kevin was no exception and he found himself wanting to just start at her pretty pink toenails and kiss and lick his way up her whole body.

That’s exactly what he did in fact, well, that’s what he started out to do. Laying her down on the bed for more room to stretch out and get comfortable, he began exploring her body with his mouth. He parted her soft, brown thighs and couldn’t believe his eyes. Her pussy was magnificent and it was all he could do not to just dive right in and devour her. Her inner pink lips opened to reveal themselves like a beautiful orchid. He gently rubbed the tip of his finger over her exposed and hardened clit and he saw her body respond to his touch. She arched her back and gripped the sheets, moaning and encouraging him to go further.

Inserting his finger in her hole, he could feel her slippery, wet juices flowing freely. She responded with more moaning this time but she was more vocal. “Oh Kevin, eat my wet pussy. Lick it. Suck me. Make me cum in your mouth. Don’t tease me; stick your tongue in me. Put my clit in your mouth and lick it.”

Kevin didn’t disappoint and he ate her pussy like it was better than the five star meal they had earlier in the evening. Sylvia didn’t stop. “Oh shit, that feels so good, yeah, fuck, eat me, don’t stop, eat me. Damn, I love the way you are working my hot, wet, pussy with your mouth, do you like the way I taste? I’m going to nut all in your mouth.” That was just what he wanted to hear and he went into overdrive to bring her to orgasm. She held his head to her pussy and wrapped her sexy legs around his head. She was grinding on his mouth, using him, fucking his face. Noticing that she wasn’t saying much, he looked up only to see her sucking her own nipple.

Kevin was blown away by how sexy she looked in the moment and stood up and took off the rest of his clothes and straddled her body. He pushed her tits together and cradled his cock between the soft mounds of flesh. The contrast in skin color almost made him blow his load right there. He pinched her nipples gently and began thrusting his white dick between her brown breasts. Sylvia was not one to be passive and she started licking the head of his cock, sucking it between her soft, full lips.

Leaking precum, he grabbed the shaft of his cock and fed it to her, feeling her hot, wet mouth envelop him as she swallowed him. He let her control the pace and she used her mouth like a vacuum, trying to suck the cum from his nuts. There wasn’t much time for a blowjob, as sensual and as hot as it was, because Sylvia was encouraging him to go further. “Fuck me, Kevin. Pump your cock in me. I want to feel you inside me.”

That’s just what he did. Flipping her over, he positioned her on her knees. He took another taste of her pussy from behind, teasing her delicious asshole with his tongue this time and getting ready for the ride of a lifetime. He grabbed his cock and lined it up with her hole. The heat was intense and he could feel the muscles of her pussy walls grabbing him before the head was even inside. He held her hips and pushed forward, hearing her cry out. Once completely inside, she looked back and said, “Fuck me, Kevin, fuck me.” And that’s just what he did.

He pumped his engorged cock in and out of her wet, hot pussy. He stroked and thrust and drove every single inch of his hard meat inside her. She was going wild, chanting and moaning and begging for more. Her full ass was wiggling and bouncing up and down and the wet sounds of sex filled the small room as he kept pounding her. He was a man on a mission. He was intent on satisfying this incredibly sexy woman but he wanted to pour himself into the passion that he’d been denying himself for so long. He fucked her harder. She moaned louder. He could feel the cum in his nuts boiling up. He looked down to see his white cock glistening with her juices as she cried out, “I’m cumming, oh shit, I’m cumming.” He couldn’t hold back any longer and he pulled out and shot his cum on her ass.

They cuddled together until the late afternoon, waking and showering and doing it all over again. Six months later, the couple was still going strong, Mombasa was doing quite well and Kevin was even happier and fulfilled in his job, having found the balance that made his life quite content. Every day, at 3:00, he had a standing appointment to send Sylvia a text message letting her know that he was thinking about her and that she was his first priority.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Plantation Lullabies

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I love my pussy

I love my pussy and I refuse to share it with undeserving men who are superficial and shallow and who have no respect for me as a person or an individual. I honor my pussy because I respect is as the most sacred place on earth, it is my temple. I don't shave it, I love it in its natural state. I may trim it every once in a while but I don’t want it to look like a little girl’s, I’m a woman and I like looking like a woman. I don't feel the need to have jewelry pierced into it because a vagina shouldn’t need fashion accessories. I love my pussy and I would never think of using it as a medium of exchange for goods and services. I love the way it tastes, the way it smells, I love the way the lips close neatly. I love the way my juices flow when I’m about to cum and the way my orgasms make it spasm. I cherish my pussy as holy ground and invite only reverent priests to trespass between its hallowed walls. I love my blood that gives life and nourishes. I love my clit and how responsive it is to the most tender touch. I love my pussy and all that it means.

Sex Workers

There’s a school of thought floating around, led mostly by women who sell their bodies, that says that to legalize prostitution is to somehow give “sex workers” some sort of autonomy in the buying and selling of their “goods”. Hey, that sounds like a plan. While we’re at it, let’s legalize slavery too why don’t we? Selling one’s humanity, selling one’s essence, selling one’s body creates an abyss, a karmic, emotional wound so deep it can’t be healed. How can one ever turn back the time to a place BEFORE they gave away their most sacred and intimate gift? How can one ever erase the memory that they were once a hole to be used, a receptacle for someone’s carnal and base desires for $100? The legalization of sex, the commodization of it doesn’t mean we as a people are liberating our views of sexuality. It’s placing a dollar value on one’s personhood. Sex should be about intimacy and communion, not a dollar transaction.

The selling of sex damages the people who are selling their bodies and the people who are buying the sex. To own a human being, to purchase someone’s body, even for a short period of time, to do with it whatever you want because you have paid for it creates a distorted and warped sense of power that perpetuates not only the objectification of (mostly) women but it creates a sense of entitlement in the world as if anyone can be bought and sold for a price. Those individuals with more money can buy more expensive ass. That creates a warped mentality in those who don’t have the same financial means who want to posses as much power as the ones who can buy any piece of ass they want. It perpetuates the fallacy of supremacy, capitalism, and a false sense of power of the individuals who have the money to buy any hooker they want. It creates further objectification of women in that the most expensive hookers have the traits most desired by the men with the most money, i.e. white men. So the blonde haired, big booobed, Barbie Doll continues to reign as most desirable while anyone with traits that don’t fit the ideal has to discount their pussy in order to pay the bills.

To place a dollar value on your sex, to sell it like a ham in the meat department, to give away your autonomy as a human being to pick and choose your partners based on love, compatibility, attraction, and/or lust is to cheapen your entire identity. How does one set the price for their pussy? How does one determine what their soul is worth? Where do you draw the line? You let some total stranger do some foul, gross, disgusting thing to you because they’ve paid your going rate. The same goes for women who have sex with their “special friend” in order to make ends meet, to pay for child care, and to get that designer pair of shoes. Once you have placed a dollar value on your sex, you have cheapened yourself.

I’ve never had sex for money. Not once in my life. Not for a car note, not for my rent, not for a little spending change, not in exchange for anything that had a dollar value. Does that make my pussy more valuable than someone who has? YES, INFINITELY! Does that make me morally superior? No, but it is an indication that I have a more profound sense of self-worth. My body, my sexuality, my love is priceless; there is no amount of money that can purchase me. There is no amount of money in the world that could make me lay with someone for currency. Legalizing prostitution damages me as a woman who refuses to participate in the exchange of goods and services for sex in that it makes men who buy sex think that they can purchase my body and treat me however they want because it allows them to see women as objects and not human beings deserving of love, respect, commitment, and the things necessary to form a healthy, mature, loving relationship.

The women who sell their pussy like it’s no big deal, who rationalize that it’s the oldest profession, that people are going to do it regardless, that there might as well be regulations on it to prevent the spread of disease, etc, are pawns of a patriarchal system of oppression that allow men to dictate the value of what a person’s body is worth. That’s slavery. “Sex workers” are not empowered; they are not taking advantage of the men who would ordinarily take advantage of them. They are sexual chattel in a capitalist scheme of power and domination.

The Womanist Theory

I’m always amazed at how quickly Black women embrace the term womanist and reject the term feminist. You hear the same argument all the time, “Well, I don’t really hate men so I consider myself a womanist.” Emasculating or hating men has NEVER been the agenda of feminists, that's nothing but bullshit rhetoric from immature and insecure men who want to keep women silenced and maintain their privilege of oppression. Then you hear the argument, “White women have commandeered the feminist movement for their own agenda so I consider myself a womanist because of what Alice Walker wrote about in her book, “In Search of our Mother’s Gardens.” Here’s the news flash. White people commandeer everything to fit their agenda and Alice walker didn’t come up with a womanist theory, she wrote “womanist prose” a term to describe the soulfulness and struggle of Black women. If there was ever an opportunity to help white women understand our plight as Black women, womanist shut the door on that by not allowing them the opportunity to learn and grow from exposure to us. White women are capable of understanding our plight if we explain it to them. Will they take up our banner as diligently? No, nor should they.

Black women are so terrified of being called lesbian and so afraid of offending patriarchal Black men with the term feminist, that they’ve embraced the term womanist and it’s gone unchecked. Ask a Black woman, “What’s the difference between a feminist and a womanist?” “Well, a womanist is more concerned with Black issues.” Does that mean that we need to come up with a different name for Democrat since I’m more concerned with Black issues than white Democrats? “Well, a womanist is more concerned with the family.” Well, white women get married more than Black women so this Black womanist movement isn’t being particularly effective, is it? Entire bodies of study have been created at universities all over the nation in order to appease the insecurities of Black women who are terrified of being called a feminist for fear that someone is going to assume they have hairy legs and wear flannel.

Feminists work to dismantle the social, political, and economic disparity between the genders.

Feminists aren’t lesbians, although they can be, feminists don’t hate men although we certainly have a right to hate their privilege.

Feminists aren’t “against the family,” as so many Black men want to imply.

Feminists simply take a stand against the oppression and tyranny of women under the false assumption of men being somehow inherently superior.

You lessen your position of power if you refuse to face Black men head on with their misogyny and you attempt to side step them by using a more neutral term that they don't object to. just because you want the world to know that you want a man. You can not be a warrior in the struggle if you are starting your crusade from a place of concession. If you refer to yourself as a womanist, you’ve already said to the world, “I don’t want to be equal to men because I don’t want them mad at me for being too radical.” Womanism is not the lite version of feminists, it's not the Black version of feminists, it's the patriarchal conformation to Black men's insecurities.

If there is a platform upon which we can stand and unite, all women, it is the feminist one which states that we will be seen as human beings and not objects, that we serve a greater role in the world than doing housework, being mothers, and being receptacles for sperm to satisfy men’s lust. We are individuals with equal strengths to bring to the table as men. They are not the same strengths, but they are equal nonetheless.

Black Beat

Every August, kinksters from all over the country convene at the annual Black Beat Conference to let off a little steam, party, and revel in some dark debauchery. It’s a common meeting ground for people of color in the BDSM community, and the people who admire them, to explore their fantasies with others. It was also an event perfectly suited for Rick and Tracy, as they were an interracial couple who liked to dabble in the D/s world, and the conference was only a hop, skip, and a jump from their Baltimore digs. They could go, check it out, and if they weren’t particularly feeling the crowd, they could be home in less than a half hour.

It was a gorgeous summer night, electricity was in the air, and the couple was feeling frisky and adventurous. Rick was anxious to attend the event, a little more so than perhaps he wanted to let on, because he was hoping his beautiful Ebony girlfriend of approximately four years would take the opportunity to explore her dominant side with a little greater gusto. He was hoping she would be inspired to be a little more adventurous, a bit more stern, that she would assume her true role as Domme to reduce him to the pain pig/oral slut he longed to be who worshipped at her feet. For Tracy, the weekend was nothing more than a chance to have some fun and release some of the pressure of her job as an attorney, perhaps even get off on a little exhibitionism.

It wasn’t as if the lovely lady was totally unfamiliar with the world of female domination. Elise Sutton, a Dominatrix who specializes in counseling for Doms and subs in loving relationships did a little match making, introduced the pair, and the two hit it off immediately. They were interdependent in the healthiest of ways; they traveled the world together, and just seemed to fit each other like a lock and key. It was their genuine love for one another that cemented their relationship; it was their equal alpha personalities that led them to explore opposite ends of the BDSM spectrum. Rick had always needed Tracy to be a little more sadistic during their play time but it seemed to be a little outside her comfort zone so he didn’t push, he just held out hope that she would one day realize her true power and supremacy as a woman, and more specifically, as a woman of African descent.

The hotel lobby was buzzing with activity. To the casual and oblivious observer, it could have been some sort of work-related conference. Everyone was dressed in their vanilla attire, mixing and mingling, registering, and signing up for presentations. “Honey, why don’t you sign up for this class,” Rick suggested, as he pointed to the sheet titled: Female Domination in Black and White. It wasn’t so much the subject matter that made him push Tracy in that direction but it was the presenter. Mistress Khadijah was a stunningly beautiful Black Femdom who hailed from Tampa and he knew that she was exactly the type of woman who would get his girlfriend’s bisexual juices flowing.

Just one glance at the picture and that was enough for Tracy to say, “Sure, that looks good, I’ll sign us up.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “you go ahead and sign up for that, I’m going to be checking out some of the vendors to see if I can get some things for us to take home with us. Who knows what sorts of things they might have here? I’ll be fine, we’ll catch up with each other later in the room.”

It wasn’t the most well thought out plan, to just leave his girlfriend by herself and hope that she would have a grand epiphany and realize that she really wanted to ride her man’s face to the point of near suffocation. He’d done his research, however, and found out that Mistress Khadijah was the head of a woman’s support group called “Black Women in Kink.” He was sure there were going to be lots of women there who might help her see the female domination light.

He couldn’t have been more accurate if he had planned every detail. Tracy took her place in the front row, mainly to get an up close and personal view of the instructor. She had changed her clothing to something a bit more revealing but nothing like the other ladies who were leather-clad with their tits pushed up and falling out of corsets and bustiers. She glanced around the room and all she saw was women who looked like her. It was an odd sensation, in that she spent most of her time in a white world, the sensation of being among true peers was almost a little too much to digest.

It was the speaker who held her attention the most. Her face, her hair, her body were mesmerizing. The way she moved about the room, the fluidity of her speech, delivered like a true professional, was all very impressive. Tracy had to concentrate to hear the words she spoke and pretend to take notes. Khadijah delivered with a powerful punch too. She asked the class by a show of hands how many owned white subs. With the exception of one woman, everyone raised their hand. She talked openly about how to best harp on racial differences and the necessity of Black women to start owning their true power. In her presentation, Mistress Khadijah extolled the virtues of forced oral. “Normally, eating a black woman’s pussy is an honor and privilege that most subs should not be able to earn unless they are cleaning out the cum of a real man. In rare instances, when a Domme is in need of satisfaction and a real man isn’t available, she can use the services of a sub to pleasure her. It is entirely up to you and at your discretion. It is a good idea to use a tens unit to administer pain to the tiny white cocks of the sub. Don’t be afraid of damaging them. Most of the time, their pricks don’t work anyway, and even when they do, they are too small to please a real woman.”

Tracy squirmed in her seat. What was being said hit a little too close to home. She glanced around nervously at the other women who were whispering to one another and nodding in agreement. She thought for a minute that she might be the only woman in the room who was in a relationship with her “sub.” She never really considered Rick her sub, she considered him her boyfriend who just happened to like a little rough play in the bedroom.

Sensing her discomfort, Mistress Khadijah made eye contact with Tracy and held her gaze captive. It was in that moment, Tracy was able to get lost in the real reason she had signed up to take the class in the first place. Her attraction to Khadijah was intense. Sitting on the table before her, crossing her legs, Tracy was able to see directly up the skirt of the instructor, see her beautiful, shaved pussy just a few feet away. It was all she could do the keep herself from getting out of her seat and spreading those gorgeous brown thighs and burying her face in that soft, sweet, succulent pussy. While not a sub herself, there was no denying that she longed for the taste, scent, and feel of a woman in her life and in her arms. Mistress Khadijah was so confident, so unapologetic in her blackness, it aroused Tracy in a way she’d never experienced before.

She swallowed hard as the Domme continued her lecture. “Choose your instruments of punishment carefully. The cat of nine tails is effective for when they behave badly, disobeying your orders. You can use a riding crop when you want to take out your frustrations from your day on him for no reason. It causes the most damage and will leave him to be unable to sit for days without thinking of your divine countenance. Paddles can be used when training your sub to make them perform tasks they don’t want to do. Make him say, ‘Oh Mistress, please beat my worthless cock and balls and show me what a repugnant, white worm I am, one that’s not fit to eat your divine Black pussy or kiss the bottom of your holy foot.’ Make him beg for more punishment, because most white subs are pain sluts anyway and want nothing more than to experience extreme torture.”

There was a ring of truth to her words but before she could wrap her head around the reality of it, before she could make sense of the feelings that were making her body ache with desire, the lecture was over. “So, what did you think?”

Snapped back to reality, Tracy looked up as Mistress Khadijah towered over her. The other ladies were clearing the room, heading out to other presentations or over to the conference dungeon to put some of the tactics they learned into practice. “It was, uhmmmm . . . Hi, my name is Tracy.” She stood and extended her hand to shake. It was too early to tip her hand that, truth be told, she had never been comfortable in her own skin playing up the racial differences to the degree that Mistress Khadijah seemed to exhibit.

One of the things that makes a woman a good Domme is her ability to sense what isn’t said. Mistress Khadijah said, without even so much as the usual pretense at casual conversation, “Is your sub here, you know, at the conference?” I could always go back with you to your room and give you some private lessons. On me.” She winked.

Things were moving too quickly for Tracy but her competitive nature came out and she accepted the offer. In the elevator, Mistress Khadijah moved closer. Whispering in her ear she said, “I saw you staring at my pussy. Did you like what you saw?”

Without missing a beat, a figurative black beat as it were, Tracy took her hand and ran it down the small of her companion’s back, over her full ass and in between her legs under she very short skirt. She slid her fingers in that hot, wet slit and manipulated the wet folds of flesh. She whispered back,” I can’t wait to stick my tongue in that hot pussy.”

The seal was broken. The two women had made a connection without all the pomp and circumstance of getting to know one another. In some sort of transcendent way, they were the same person. In some sort of other-worldly dimension, they had been meant to meet and connect immediately.

Unaware of the connection that had been made, Rick was waiting anxiously in the room with all of his toys laid about, ready to show his lady. He’d gone all out and purchased metal sounds, needles, a crown of thorns, floggers, whips and a couple of CBT devices he was going to have to read up on the directions when he got home. He was naked and aroused, anxious for Tracy to try out any new techniques she’d learned in her class. When he heard the card in the door, he was excited to see how things had gone. “Honey, wait till you see all the stuff I got, we are going to have a lot of fun trying all this stuff out.”

He turned toward the door and froze momentarily. Instinctually, he covered himself with his hand and then let his hand fall to the side. This was his room, his domain; he saw no need to cover himself in the presence of a stranger. He saw Tracy and Mistress Khadijah, arm in arm, talking like old friends as they strolled in the room. “Honey, I want you to meet . . .”

“Yes, Mistress Khadijah. I’m familiar. Enchante’ mademoiselle. You are even more lovely in person.” She extended her hand as he kissed the back of it softly. His body was alive with excitement. She looked him up and down, noticing what would normally be barely detectable movement in his cock, and smirked. Tracy felt a sense of pride in having Rick on display like that. His body was still in good shape and his nudity in contrast to their fully clothed frames, his pale flesh in contrast to their deeply melanated skin, was erotic.

“What do we have here? I see you’ve been doing a little shopping. Care to try any of these things out?” Mistress Khadijah was circling the bed, examining all the new acquisitions. Tracy was getting more comfortable, taking her dress off and going down to her black garter belt, silk stockings, and bra.
Without even asking Khadijah her preference, she said, “Khadijahi is here isn’t here for you, she’s here for me. You’ll be allowed to pleasure me, but that’s it.”

Rick could sense a newly discovered sense of power in Tracy, a confidence she’d never really displayed before. Mistress Khadijah approached Tracy from behind and cupped her breasts in her hand. She kissed along the back of her neck and her shoulders as Tracy surrendered to the sensation. Tiny moans of pleasure escaped her lips as she felt the soft tongue and lips of her new lover explore her hot spots.

Tracy turned and faced Khadijah. They kissed. For the briefest of moments, Rick felt a pang of jealousy. The kiss was soft, sensual, powerful; the two women were sharing intimacy with their mouths. He cleared his throat, indicating that he wanted to be let in on the play too. That was the wrong thing to do as both women, again without communicating specifically, turned and decided to take out their wrath on him for interrupting their special moment.

Instructed to lie on the bed, Rick’s hands were securely restrained to the nightstands. Both ladies picked up respective instruments of torture and spoke of their plans of attack. Mistress Khadijah held the riding crop, slashing it through the air and sending waves of fear and adrenaline through Rick’s prone body. Not to be outdone, Tracy grabbed a handful of simple clothespins from the collection of toys. She place one on the scrotum of her lover and saw him wince in discomfort. That was nothing compared to the first blow he felt delivered from Mistress Khadijah. He cried out in pain. It was sweet pain, a sensation he’d longed for for a very long time.

“You better make sure he stays silent. How about you sit on his face to muffle any screams.” Tracy felt a chill. The word “screams” seemed so extreme. She looked at Rick and his eyes said all that needed to be said. He wanted this. He craved it. Straddling his face, she lowered her pussy to his mouth as he felt yet another blow from the riding crop delivered to his balls, this one harder than before.

Tracy massaged his lower belly with her soft, sensuous hands as he began to orally service his lover. The tender treatment didn’t last long as another clothespin was applied to the head of his cock. This time, when another blow from the riding crop rained down on Rick, the wet pussy of his girlfriend muffled the evidence of his punishment. The sensations reverberated in Tracy’s pussy and caused her to shudder. “Do it again,” she moaned, as she began to enjoy not only the new sensation of having her pussy stimulated thusly but also the fact that their play was reaching new levels.

“Here, you do it.” Khadijah handed Tracy the riding crop. “Beat that worthless white cock. Go ahead.” Khadijah placed the crop in Tracy’s hand and guided it with her own. He hovered somewhere between consciousness and ecstasy. His senses were deprived and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of wanting to gasp for air along with the intense feelings in his throbbing cock. She had lowered her full weight on him and was making herself comfortable for a long ride. And what a ride it was. Her full ebony ass shielded his vision and her full frame prevented much movement on his part.

The slippery folds of her pussy coated his face with juices as his tongue and jaw ached from trying his best to pleasure his Nubian goddess and give her pleasure. She masturbated herself back and forth at times, rubbing his nose from clit to asshole; the sexy scent of her cunt a stark contrast to the musky aroma of her asshole. He loved it; he loved every second of sweet torture.

THWAP! Tracy felt light headed. It was harder than she had ever hit him before. At the same time, she felt Rick’s tongue go into overdrive in her pussy, working to bring her to the edge of orgasm. She began bouncing up and down on his face, riding him, using his mouth on her pussy and asshole as she pleased. She got encouragement from Khadijah. “That’s it, use him, make him suffer. You own him, you can do anything you want with him. Treat him like a lowly animal.”

Rick’s arms ached as he pulled against the restraints. He didn’t want to get free, he only wanted to pull Tracy’s body closer, to feel his arms around the smooth, soft thighs of the woman who was riding his face to an orgasmic finish line. Blow after blow rained down on him, each time getting harder and harder, each time making Tracy’s pussy gush with more delicious juice. In a zone, she was oblivious to anything other than her own pleasure. Khadijah was encouraging her, whispering in her ear things Rick could only imagine. He couldn’t hear. His entire world was centered on the wet pussy that smothered his face and the steady punishment that was being delivered to his genitals.

Mistress Khadijah caressed Tracy’s body and inspired her to bring it home. An explosive orgasm was close at hand. Tracy bounced harder, driving his tongue in her deeper. She hit him harder, pushing him to satisfy her in ways she’s never thought possible before. Khadijah was kissing her, driving her body and mind into sensory overload. Occasionally, she would raise herself up to give him a brief second of reprieve. For that instant, his eyes would be flooded with light, he would gasp for air like a man drowning and he would feel the cool air revive him. But rather than being the sensation he craved, he longed to feel the warmth and security of the weight of this beautiful Black woman as he teetered near the edge of suffocation and orgasm. She taunted him, teased him, asking him if he could take more. She began bouncing up and down, aroused by the idea of having that much control over another human being. Aroused that she could use his mouth and tongue for her pleasure with no regard for him at all.

His ears were covered by her legs, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum. He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations. He was going to be crushed but he had to make her cum, to feel her juices flow in his mouth. He was a thoroughbred and she was the champion jockey, about to win the sexual Preakness. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming . . . I’m cumming.”

Exhausted, she fell on the bed, drained emotionally and sexually. Mistress Khadijah undid the restraints that held Rick captive and the two cuddled together. She grabbed her purse and was about to make her discrete exit when Tracy called out to her. “Wait, I’m not finished with you yet. Don’t go.”

Smiling, she undressed and crawled in bed next to Tracy. The two would eventually make love in front of Rick while he was forced to watch, they would experiment with all the toys he had purchased and even a few that Mistress Khadijah had in her room before the weekend was over. Black Beat was certainly an enlightening experience for both Tracy and Rick and they headed home with a new sense of self-awareness and more clearly defined roles.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

My Prayer for Black Women

Dear God, lift this veil of dysfunction from our eyes. Allow us to see our diseased thinking. Allow us to recognize that our value as women does not lie in the length of our hair or fingernails nor the roundness of our behinds. Allow us to know deep within our hearts that we don’t have to tolerate cheating and abuse from a man to give us validation. Dear God, open our eyes so that we may see that we hold no more value in life if we have perfectly pedicured feet or a Coach bag for every day of the week. Creator of all, allow us to recognize that all the things we’ve been taught have been from a distorted and unhealthy place and that we must grow in consciousness where we stop praying to a male God, thinking that women are responsible for all sin and that we must forever be subservient to men. Remove the illusion that we have to live with pain as a daily reality. Dear God, fill us with joy, self love and peace.

The days of empowered women are long gone.

There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn’t a dirty word and meant more than “angry lesbian.” Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There’s been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.

Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren’t good enough in bed, you aren’t beautiful enough, you don’t live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard. 

For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It’s easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it’s all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don’t fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn’t flow in the wind, for women that don’t look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It’s a burden Black women don’t talk about because it’s shameful to admit that you don’t compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that’s beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you’ll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it’s an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.

Si, se puede

Miro a gente. Miro tendencias. Observo. Soy particularmente sensible a las aplicaciones la raza, el género, y la sexualidad pues pertenece a la evolución de mi gente. Guardando mi ojo en el clima político, he visto una cambio gradual que está ocurriendo antes de que nuestros ojos y su fabricación de bastantes ondas y yo sospechamos que está interconectado y que relacionado todo con algunas cambios serias en el sentido que es seguro tener impacto profundo en nosotros todo.

Si, se puede.

My sexuality

I am, above all else, committed not to sharing my body with anyone who doesn’t meet my extremely high standards. In this, misogynist, sexist society, I’m looked down upon for having such high standards. Apparently, I’m supposed to have low standards so that any man who wants to fuck me can do so without any critique or criticism from me. My stringent standards have me spending much of my time alone, which I’m not happy with, but it is exponentially better than the alternative of spending it with someone whom I find emotionally immature, mentally enslaved, or just plain mediocre.

My “open mindedness” is perhaps a little bit more than most men would like. I’m not at all interested in heterosexual men. I am not attracted to them, I don’t desire to have a man who identifies himself as straight as a partner, and I can’t be convinced that a heterosexual man can be my night in shining armor if I only allow him to be. My interest is exclusively in openly bisexual men; men who have been in romantic relationships with another man, who are comfortable with being a switch, who have been penetrated and moreover, who don’t mind me penetrating them with toys.

I’m really looking for love. My perversions, if you will, are fetishes that I’m really looking to divorce myself from. At this stage in my life, I’m looking to experience passionate, erotic, sensuous, intense love making without the trappings of the extremes that have aroused me in the past. I deserve to feel loved and cared for in each of my love making experiences. I’m not saying I want it to be soft and tender every time, but I no longer want to be called a bitch and slut while I’m having sex with my partner either. It’s my declaration that I deserve to be cherished by my partner, not a slave to kinks and preferences that have been influenced by a society that takes pride in degrading women and making sex something dirty.

I’m not the super freak, hyper sexual, do-it-all woman that people make me out to be. I’m probably more sexually conservative than most people because I don’t have sex with people who don’t earn my trust, admiration and love; I’m just more public in my discussions of sex.

A little something for anal enthusiasts

Fuck my dirty asshole

MMMM, that’s right baby, eat my pussy. Ohhh, lick it. Work my clit, yeah, suck all that juice. Oh shit, what are you doing? I see, you want to lick my ass? Yeah sweetie, don’t be afraid, no need to be shy if that’s what you like. I LOVE a hot tongue in my ass. Let me turn over for you so you can really get in there good. Spread my full, round asscheeks and really get your nose in there. Yeah, smell it. You like the way that smells? You like my musky, hot asshole? I know you do, look how fucking hard your dick is, look how much precum you are leaking. Yes, you nasty fuck; you get off on smelling my sweaty asshole, don’t you? Take a good whiff; I haven’t had a shower since early this morning. I went for a run after work so it should be nice and ripe for you. Are you going to get it all nice and clean for me? Go ahead, stick your tongue in there, get it and wet. Yeah, tongue fuck my butthole. Rim me. Ram it in deep. Does that taste good? You like it? Suck all my hot, nasty assjuice from my tight, dirty ass. Ohhh, deeper, that’s it. It feels so nasty when you lick it like that, spread my ass and really get in there. Suck it hard. Spit in it. Spit in my dirty fucking hole. Work it up there with your tongue. Eat my fucking dirty ass you son of a bitch, lick it, taste all my nasty ass flavors. Damn, that feels so fucking sexy. Ram your fucking tongue in there so far you can taste what I had for lunch. Yeah, that’s it, get nasty you fucking pig, tell me how much you love digging in my hot, brown hole. What sort of fucking pervert gets off on eating a woman’s nasty, hot, dirty, sweaty, filthy shithole?

Mmmmm, kiss me, let me taste my ass. Let me suck that hot tongue of yours. Ohhh, that’s so nasty, it tastes so good. I bet you want to finger my dirty ass too, don’t you? Work your fingers up in my tight asshole. Goddamn, that feels fucking incredible. Finger me hard; ram your fingers in there. Deeper. Harder motherfucker, really get my hole loose. Make it gape open. Pull ‘em out and let me see you suck them. That’s’ right, suck your dirty fingers straight from my raunchy backdoor. It feels so good. I want your hard dick in my ass. I want you to fuck the shit out of me. I want you to pound my hot asshole and make me scream. Are you going to make me beg? You want me to show you what a dirty ass whore I am? You want me to tell you how much I love big, long, hard, thick dicks fucking deep in my ass? I can’t get enough. I love to be rammed in my shitpipe, my nasty filthy bootyhole. Damn you, frig my poophole harder. What’s the matter, you think I can’t take it? I’ve got news for you. I can take it harder and deeper in my asshole than you can dish it out. I can ride your fucking dick with my tight wet asshole until you are begging me to stop because I’ve drained every drop of hot cum from your big hairy nuts and still can’t get enough. My tight fucking asshole was made to be screwed hard and fucking deep.

What are you waiting for, a fucking invitation? Okay, well, take the head of your hard dick, line it up at my dirty, tight pucker, push the head in and feel me grip it tight with my muscles and work every hard inch deep in my bowels. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck my ass. Make me show you what a dirty asswhore I am. Ram my butthole. Oh shit, it feels so fucking good, so nasty. I love it. HARDER damn you. Pound my ass until you shoot all your hot cum deep in me. I’m going to cum with your fucking dick in my ass. Pull it out. Let me taste it. Let me taste all that hot assjuice from deep in my ass. Mmmm, it tastes so fucking nasty, so fucking good. Cleaning your dirty dick straight from my filthy asshole. Yeah, stick it back in me and fuck me good. I love getting pounded in my asshole and I need you to ram it so good it hurts. Put you cum in me so deep I shit it out tomorrow. You like that, don’t you? You love me being an assslut for you. Fuck, I’m going to cum. Oh shit, I’m going to cum. Fuck me. Fuck my ass. Mmmmm.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Releasing Our Pain, Healing Our Wounds

People are quick to say, "Slavery was in the past, what happened back then doesn’t have an effect today." Well, Black women have been raised, socialized, and programmed for generations to internalize every pain, heartache, and tragedy as if it is nothing more than just another drop in the bucket. It's Black women who suppress our emotions, who treat depression like it’s a normal way of life because we have been taught that to do anything less is paramount to a sin and a shame. The messages that black women have passed on, that we wear as badges of honor, aren't healthy. In fact, they are the key factors to us having high blood pressure in outrageous numbers, of us dying from heart disease exponentially more than any other race, and that prevent us from forming healthy relationships. It is our legacy from slavery. Since African women landed on these shores, we have been told to suffer in silence in order to make it to another day. To feel pain is to be considered weak; it’s not even an option for many of us.

We are a nation of women who don't know how to deal with our pain because we had to keep on keepin’ on during slavery or feel the pain of the whip. Today, our behaviors mirror those of the plantation. During slavery, mother's taught their daughters to expect to be whipped, raped, beaten, used and abused and to hold back the tears when the pain comes in order to survive. Today, we are repeatedly told that if a man molests us, that we are somehow responsible for his abusive and violent actions because we did something to lead him on, if he beats us, we asked for it. When we go to our mothers and sisters and friends, who are unhealed from their own emotional wounds, they tell us to get over it, to forget it and move on. When our men abandon us, we don’t have time to mourn or cry or feel depressed, we still have to work, raise our children, and maintain stability. We make fun of white women for going to therapists, for admitting that they are depressed as if they are less than real women. We’ve been so brainwashed into believing these lies we don’t even question that there is another way to exist.

You can be assured that there are scores of black women who believe it's a good thing to be able to deal with pain without falling apart, to hold everything in, to be the rock that everyone else can count on, that building up a wall to keep everyone out is something to be admired. They are the same black women that have the physical ailments that go along with the suppression of emotions. They are the same Black women who sabotage their relationships because they refuse to show vulnerability because they equate it with weakness, who feel the need to emasculate their men in a futile attempt to try and feel powerful. Resiliency is a strong characteristic; denial is not. We have to start asking ourselves, is the way we are behaving really working for us? Are we really happy holding on to the concept that we have to be super hard and super mean in order to be Black women?

Failure to process pain isn't a good thing. Constantly projecting an image of hardness isn't a healthy thing either. Black women are so conditioned to be the mythological “Strong Black Woman” that we fail to realize that we are living in a constant state of depression that is killing us. We can’t even grasp the concept that there is a better way to live, that we can live life more abundantly and peacefully than just pushing down the pain until it eats us up. We will forever be tied to slavery, and a slave mentality, as long as we refuse to accept that our pain isn’t the foundation of our womanhood. We must acknowledge that we need help, that we can’t be the source of everyone else’s comfort all the time and not have anyone comfort us. We can’t be a caricature of the neck-rolling, “I can do bad all by myself” Black woman who is passing down dysfunction and disease to our children. We have to start loving ourselves enough to admit that it’s okay to break down, to cry, to admit when we are overwhelmed, process those feelings and then HEAL. The objective is not to wallow in our despair but to acknowledge that we have been hurt, that we need nurturing and love and to find that source of love inside first and then to seek it out in people who will help us move to a higher plane.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

9/11 Truth

Loose Change

Carolyn Scott Obituary

On Friday, January 4th, 2008, heaven welcomed an angel in spirit form, Carolyn Elora Scott. Born November 7th, 1927, Carolyn, also known simply as Crouch, her maiden name by her close friends and traveling buddies, was and exceptional woman who was tiny in stature but LARGE on style, personality, and conviction. Never one to hold her tongue, always outspoken about the things that mattered most to her, Carolyn was a dedicated lifetime subscribing member of the Cecil County Chapter of the NAACP, where she served as membership coordinator for many years. She loved to experience life to the fullest and was an avid fan of car racing, sports and hardly a day went by where she missed her favorite game show, Jeopardy, in order to, in her words, “learn one new thing every day.” She possessed the unique ability to recall artist, song, and lyrics of songs that spanned decades and she was fortunate to have seen some of the greatest musicians of her time perform live on her many road trips around the country.

Carolyn was an inspiration and a role model to all who came in contact with her because always carried herself with class, she was well-read and articulate, and a pioneer in many ways. Her fierce independence and “head-strong” personality weren’t typical of women during the time she was coming of age but she made sure that everyone knew that she, and only she, was going to define herself and on her own terms.

Carolyn was preceded in death by her father, Robert Crouch Sr., brother, Robert, Jr., her soul mate, life partner, and husband, William Henry Scott, Jr., and her dynamic mother Virginia who lived to be 105 years old. She leaves to mourn Anna Watkins, Scottie Lowe, and Mary Smith, her primary care-givers and companions, cousin Paula Coles, and a host of nieces, nephews and friends who will greatly miss her. Her final days, in many ways, were reflective of her life. She fought a valiant fight to beat the odds and survive. Her time, however, had come to sit at the right hand of her Lord and Savior and bask in Heaven’s sweet glow.

Waiting for Godot

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

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

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

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

Act 3. She waits.