Afroeroticism

Interracial Relationships and Afrocentric Leadership

I think one of the great failures of African centered thinkers, a group to whom I used to staunchly belong, is the fact that they are tied to the belief that white people are somehow genetically, inherently predisposed to be oppressors. They somehow believe that only Blacks can transcend the fallacy of white supremacy, they falsely believe that whites are incapable of relinquishing their power and privilege. In the history of the world, the fallacy of white supremacy has only existed for the past 2000 or less. The Creator of All, the I Am that I AM, created all human beings as equals. White people, just as African people have the ability to realize the falsehood, lies, and distortions of the past two millennia are nothing more than illusions separating us from the consciousness of love to which we are supposed to vibrate. IF and only if two people can come together, respecting and honoring their differing histories, cultures, norms, perspectives, and share the same goals of eradicating the fallacy of white supremacy, then and only then does color not matter in terms of love. I do NOT believe most African centered scholars who have married white people have done so with partners who have transcended, I do not believe most let go of their mental enslavement that deems white people inherently superior. That doesn’t mean that Black scholars can’t contribute to our revolution. We are ALL, everyone, still enslaved to some degree. Rather than pointing the finger of indignation, we need to embrace that we all still have miles and miles to go before we reach the mountaintop. There are those in the African centered community who will tell me my contributions are invalid because I am open to loving another woman or that I don’t denounce homosexuality. Rather than worry about whom someone loves, we should concern ourselves with our collective scholarship and accomplishment and how we can find commonality to unite in our objectives.

I have had the most exceptional opportunity to meet two white people who are passionate about eradicating the fallacy of white supremacy. I was suspicious; I was filled with hate, rage, and distrust. I learned quickly that my inability to accept them for the true warriors that they are, was my flaw, not theirs. Their motives were pure and they were tackling challenges I never thought white people capable of until I expanded my consciousness and understood a more universal, more enlightened view of the beauty of all of us, not just people of African descent, being created in the image and likeness of The One Most High. Not every white person has attained such enlightenment. In fact, most haven’t even come close. I think we do ourselves a disservice by shutting the door on white people who want to help our cause and encouraging them to pick up armor and fight the valiant fight among their peers. What I don’t think we need to do is pick up their battles. I don’t think we need to help them educate and enlighten their racist peers. I think our energies should be focused on healing our pathologies and ourselves and if they want to help, embrace them, encourage them, invite them to see us in situations where we are behaving in empowered, enlightened ways.

The Taste of You on My Lips

My dear, sweet, sensuous lover, I woke up in the middle of the night last night. I had the most incredible dream. It seemed so real, so lifelike; it took me a few minutes to pull myself together. I awoke last night with the taste of you on my lips. Even though you had not been there, I swear I could taste the salty skin of your neck, like when I kiss you there right after you play ball with the fellas. I could hear your gentle moans, like when I suck your fingers with every intention of letting you know that’s not what I want to be sucking.

I had dreams of tasting, licking, and sucking every inch of your smooth, cinnamon colored skin. I had to realize it was only a dream and not the reality of my mouth giving you indescribable pleasure, my soft tongue licking you all over and not the reality of my lips kissing you in places that drive you crazy. Like I know that it drives you wild when I suck and bite your nipples. I know for a fact that it’s sweet torture for you when I trace my tongue all the way down your back, to the base of your spine, and tease you with my mouth on that smooth, round, brown bottom of yours. It all felt so real.

I wonder if you could feel it too? Did you dream of me kissing you on the backs of your thighs, my tongue in your sexy little belly button, or maybe you felt the sensation of me tonguing you in naughty, unspeakable places. I sure as hell felt every luscious detail. I could feel you get as hard as a rock in my mouth. I felt the way you were at my mercy, going down on you, getting you wet with my mouth. Sliding my lips up and down you with precision and skill. I wonder if you could feel the heat and the slick sensation as my mouth swallowed you, sucked you, licked you, consumed your entire length and sucked on you some more.

Was it all a nightmare? To wake up and find that every rock solid inch of you was not throbbing in my mouth was devastating. I could hear you moaning, saying, “Ohhh, that’s it baby, take it, suck it, yessss, that feels so good.” I could have sworn I heard you screaming, “Don’t stop, oh damn. Please don’t stop. I’m going to cummmm.”

Then I awoke with the taste of you on my lips.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK

Explicit Love

Intimacy

That Moment of Bliss

What a WOMAN looks like

When Ladies Love

Promiscuous Girl

There’s a HORRIBLE song, musically that is, that touts the virtues of being a promiscuous woman. We, as women of color, have been socialized to fall on either ends of the very limited spectrum. We either think of ourselves as freaks, a derogatory term that has become synonymous with Black women who believe their value is in their big asses. The rest of us think that any sexuality beyond heterosexuality union with our prince charming is bad and we live our lives trying to force men into that role or denying out sexuality and any expression other than the most conservative of behaviors.

Just a couple of years ago, I thought going to a swing club was quite possibly one of the nastiest things I could do. I turned up my nose at it and judged anyone who would go. I couldn't wrap my head around the concept that anyone that would have sex in public was worthy of my respect. Until I experienced a swing club myself. My first experience, I went with a friend who was going through some deep shit and she was going to go with or without me and I decided to go with her in order to make sure she didn't do anything crazy. We walked around and asked a lot of questions mostly but one couple invited us to watch them have sex in a private room. It was better than any porno I've ever seen because they were mad about each other and they were having sex for US. It was like having my own action figures that I could move and position any way I wanted. While the young lady was getting fucked, I was whispering in her ear. She held my hand when she came. That's a moment I won't ever forget. I went to several more swing clubs after that and found that even though I didn't have sex or participate, I enjoyed the experience I shared with people who were willing to share their experiences with me. I had two friends I would go with on a semi regular basis and we would "play" together. Did that make me a promiscuous freak? No. Are there women who go to swing clubs who are promiscuous freaks? Yes, by all means, but just because one engages in sexual expression doesn't define them.

It wasn't until I went to an all Black swing club that I allowed myself to experience group activity. It was so beautiful, so sensual, so natural, so erotic . . . I loved every second of the experience. There was something so spiritual about the entire thing. My friend was going down on me, making me cum like mad, and I was my usual very vocal self. A crowd gathered around to watch and I turned my head and kissed this guy who was lying next to me who happened to be fucking another sista at the time. It was mind-blowing. Before I knew what was happening, there were total strangers, men and women, lined up to give me pleasure.

Did that experience make me a promiscuous freak? NOT AT ALL. I have no regrets whatsoever. It was amazing. If I had two lovers whom I cared about, and my libido was resurrected, I would probably welcome the possibility of double penetration. I had a threesome with a two friends once, a man and a woman, and it was one of the most sensual experiences of my life. There was no jealousy, no hang-ups, it was three peers coming together to experience a level of intimacy that no words can describe.

Judge the person, not the act. It is not beyond my comprehension that a woman would be able to enjoy the act of being fucked in the pussy and asshole at the same time and NOT be a ho. Unfortunately, most women aren't sexually liberated, no matter how promiscuous or celibate they are. How the men who engage in the act perceive it afterwards has a lot to do with the maturity of the individuals beforehand and it has very little to do with the woman herself.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Only in Rio

Black men are going to Brazil in droves to experience uninhibited sex with the women there. To hear them tell the tale, the women there are BEAUTIFUL, putting us lowly American Black women to shame. To all the men who feel the need to travel to Brazil for "sex vacations," let me say to you, that if you find women with African features and brown skin so repulsive, women who look like your mother and sisters, aunts, and daughters, take your happy ass right on the fuck to Brazil and live there. If the only women you find attractive are biracial/mulatto European looking women, then I would invite you to pack your bags and move to Rio immediately.

This trend, for brothas to go to Brazil in search of sex with multiple mulatto, transsexual, underaged hookers, and MOVE there is yet another glaring example of how Black men are emotionally immature and piss poor partners in relationships because their priorities are fucked. It’s extraordinarily superficial and shallow to want women to use as sexual objects and to control. And you can best believe that they are doing more than having sex, there’s scat, bestiality, pedophilia and any perverse thing you can imagine going on in Brazil. Who, besides me, is going to identify the pathology of black men who are so emotionally immature as to want women to shit and piss on and fuck like dogs, or be fucked by dogs and consider that heaven as opposed to forming a relationship with a woman who is going to be supportive and work towards building a family and future together?

Black men who go to Brazil state that the women there “never question your judgment or threaten your authority.” Isn’t that their same argument about white women? Real men aren’t that insecure. What authority can you have if you need to pay women to sleep with you? How sound is your judgment if you can't see the beauty of the women who have sacrificed, loved, and supported you your entire life and you opt for women who only want your money? Men don’t expect unconditional acceptance, it's little boys need unconditional approval no matter how foul their behavior is. Us dumbass Black women are trying to be meet the impossible standards of these damaged men in order to find a partner when we need to be saying, “AWWWW hell no, you don't meet my standards.”

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

The Myth of the Magical, All-Powerful White Man

Or Debunking the Fallacy of White Supremacy

I’ve come to understand that there are certain Black people who believe that white men have super powers, supposedly genetically-inherited, superior intellectual mind-control techniques that they use to oppress people of color around the globe. If I understand their assertions correctly, they believe that white men are capable of controlling the minds of brown people universally and conversely no one is able to get into their minds, no one is able to control them because everyone else is under their spell, hypnotized by their . . . whiteness I guess. Their whiteness is theoretically impenetrable and renders mere people of color helpless to combat their evil machinations. It seems that this small faction of Black people believe that white men possess genetic predisposition to rule the world and, oddly enough and quite contradictorily, they believe that it is the secret mission of white men to become Black, or at least commandeer Blackness because they feel jealous of it. I’m led to believe that they accomplish their mission with their superior intellect, secret societies, and agendas passed down from white brethren to white brethren to intricately know the minds of Black folks and to beat us at our own game. I’m here to say that NOTHING could be further from the truth.

Dr. Frances Cress Welsing http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Cress_Welsing is the preeminent black scholar of these types of assertions. If she is not the originator of them, she certainly is the benchmark Black people use to quote and or paraphrase their “white supermen” theories. I think it should also be noted here that the vast and overwhelming majority of Black people believe completely differently than the above-mentioned theories. Sadly, most Black people believe in the fallacy of white supremacy but they don’t have a clue that they do. Most Black people say color doesn’t matter and sign on hook, line, and sinker for any cliché that white people cast at them. Most Black people wouldn’t know how to question the status quo if you paid them. That’s not because we are inherently stupid, it’s a byproduct of our enslavement where we were taught not to question white people or anything they tell us. People of color have to believe in the fallacy of white supremacy, lest you get those pesky minorities who try to buck the system and talk about racism and the inherent privileges white people have simply by virtue of their skin color.

First, let’s break it down and establish some truths in these fallacious white supremacist concepts. There is UNQUESTIONABLY a fallacy of white supremacy that dictates, rules, and poisons the entire world. It seems that the smallest population of people have been able to order, control, dominate, oppress, and manipulate the earth’s resources so that they control and “own” damn near everything. I say the fallacy of white supremacy implicitly because it is nothing more than illusion. It’s a fallacy that they are superior, it’s not a fallacy that they have been able to take their inflated belief in self and transform that into global domination. Does average white Joe or Sally believe that they are better than people of color? Yes, that’s how the game is perpetuated. Average white Joe or Sally has to believe that history started with their arrival on the planet, that white people are the originators of the arts and sciences. They have to believe that whites made every technological advancement. If they don’t sign on for the belief that whites were smarter, stronger, more capable, more civilized, more refined, more god-like than any other people, then the whole house of cards starts to fall. Average Joe and Sally White has to believe that there is something inherent about them that makes them better, that makes them more deserving of peace, justice, and liberty than anyone else on the planet. God is a white man thus white men have to be given more insight, more leadership ability, more spiritual stuff, right? The air white people breathe has to be more sacred, the land they live on has to be more consecrated, more blessed, more protected than anyone else’s land. Greece has to be the birthplace of the humanities, Columbus has to be the greatest explorer, Shakespeare has to be the best composer, Rocky has to be the best fighter, Jesus has to have blue eyes and blonde hair, and white people have to believe that to be true from the time they are born in order for the fallacy of white supremacy to thrive. White has to be right or the entire fallacy of white supremacy crumbles like a crunchy taco shell on Cinco de Mayo at an all you can eat Mexican buffet.

Ever watch the news right after some white person has gone on a killing spree and killed everyone they could? The neighbors all say the same thing. “Oh, he was so nice. You just don’t think something like that can happen in this neighborhood.” That, dear ladies and gentlemen, is the fallacy of white supremacy at work. It is the belief that crime only happens in Black/Latino neighborhoods. It’s the belief that Psycho Joe, as everyone in the neighborhood calls him, is a good ole boy regardless of the fact that he kills the neighborhood cats and drinks their blood because he has white blood. You see, whiteness equals good in this society. It’s what children are taught in school, it’s what’s reflected in the media, it’s the thread that’s woven into the very fabric of how the perceptions of how the world is viewed. White men who get to decide what is and what isn’t racist comes purely from the fallacy of white supremacy. It’s the notion that they don’t have to consider anyone else’s experience or perspective because what they see, and think, and believe has to be right.

Are there secret societies that have been formed to keep people of color oppressed? Yes. Do those men have super abilities, do they have access to mind control techniques that keep people of color hypnotized in order to exact their plans of global domination? Not exactly. What those secret societies posses are members who are egotistical and greedy and intent on keeping their illegitimate power. Their ego is born from this belief that white men are special, that they have rights and privileges no one else is deserving of. Their ego is what drives them to steal, rape, kill, and oppress. Their ego makes them narcissistic bastards who sit around and try to figure out ways to control the money and power so that it doesn’t get into the hands of brown, yellow, or (what’s left of) red people. It is nothing more than their ego that makes white men think that they have more inherent value than anyone else that has created this false sense of superiority. Their ego is greater than most white men but it’s certainly not genetic and it’s not indication that they want to be Black or have a need to oppress people because they feel insecure because they lack melanin.

From where did this warped sense of self originate? How did white people first come to believe that they had dominion over the colored people of the planet? I have no earthly idea. I can’t even begin to speculate. I do know that it has infected every country, every place white people have been for thousands of years. What I can do, however, is tell you how the fallacy of white supremacy has been able to flourish and metastasize in this country over the last 400 years. There’s no magic to it, there’s no genetics involved, there’s no secret societal agenda, it’s pure psychology. Understanding the mind and how it works holds the key to understanding how and why white people in this country have been able to dictate and dominate the minds of people of color for over four centuries.

Europeans saw the beautiful brown bodies of the indigenous people of the land that is now known as Africa and believed that they were inferior savages. They assumed they themselves were inherently superior and that is was their right to capture, kill, kidnap, enslave, and own those people. That belief, what they thought was truth and knowledge and undisputable fact, is what created the system of racial slavery in the US that has been unequaled in the world before or since. They believed that their skin was better, their hair was better, their features were more attractive; they believed that their language, arts, customs, religion, and practices had more validity than anything Africans could contribute. They had a deep-seated need to control and subjugate and veritably crush the wills of those people of color.

Africans who were enslaved, those who survived the middle passage were and transportation to the United States were emotionally, psychologically, spiritually healthy people. They were capable of making choices and decisions on their own, forming their own opinions, knowing what it was to be a human being outside of their enslavement. Slaves born in this country, those who never knew freedom, were never privileged enough to know anything other than what the system of slavery taught them. Slaves born into they system believed from birth that whites were superior, that Blacks were inferior, and that anything and everything that was good was white. Every black child born into slavery learned the same lessons, that white was right and that black was equivalent to evil.

Conversely, every white child born in this country was the beneficiary of being born in a system that told them that every thing about their life, their world, their entire existence that they were superior to anyone with color. (Rather, anything, because they didn’t see slaves as humans) The prevalence of racism and the systems, laws, and beliefs enacted during slavery set the stage for every white child to not only believe they were superior but it was validated (at least in their minds) because anything and everything of accomplishment was achieved by white people.

Fast forward and the beliefs held by the children of slave owners and the children of white people in general, whether they owned slaves or not, have been passed down from generation to generation. The key instruments in building a child’s self esteem are to shower them with praise and reinforce to them that they have an inherent worth. Having books, and TV shows and movies that show children people that look like them builds a sense of self. Reading children stories where all the heroes are white perpetuates the fallacy of white supremacy. Teaching children that God in heaven looks like them validates that white is the baseline, the standard by which everything else has to be measured. White children, never having read a book about Black people, never having heard a story of African accomplishment, never conceiving that anyone other than white people contributed anything to society will grow up with an inherited and false sense of superiority. White children never have to wait until the one night of the week when the “white shows” are on, they never have to wait for the white movie to come out. They have access to centuries of images of themselves that show them in a positive and healthy light. So while Blacks have inherited and passed down a slave mentality (even though we don’t acknowledge or admit it) whites have passed down a slave master mentality.

Slave master mentality is the mindset of white people who have never once had to question that people like them have been the masters of finance, industry, medicine and the arts. Slave master mentality is the mindset of people who have never once in their lives felt that their skin color was a liability, something that they had to denounce in order to be accepted. Slave master mentality is the belief systems passed down from generation to generation that allows white people to accept that the final authority, the last word, the law from on high is going to come from a person who looks like them. It’s that diseased sense of self, that inflated super ego that has created Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly, Sarah Palin and George W. Bush. It’s what lead Pat Buchanan to say, and moreover BELIEVE, that this country was built by white men. It’s that isolation from a world where people of color are equal, that inocular vision which creates the ego of white people who think that it’s okay to be racist, that they can say whatever they want, to whomever they want, without repercussion, without censure because they have a birthright to do so. The fallacy of white supremacy is perpetuated on the beliefs of white men who think that they have more right to money, power, and control than anyone else.

While I recognize and acknowledge that the pervasive and overwhelming mindset of white people in this society, EVEN those who claim to not have a racist bone in their body, is based on the fallacy of white supremacy, it is just that . . . a fallacy. White people are not truly superior, they have no super ability to understand the minds of people of color and mastermind techniques to keep us oppressed. What keeps us oppressed is our inability to understand and comprehend our history, our inability to be introspective and examine our dysfunctions and their origins, and our fear of admitting that we might be flawed (through no fault of our own mind you). It is far easier for us to worship a blonde haired, blue eyed Jesus than to change the belief that we’ve learned from childhood, passed down to us from our parents, and their parents and their parents before them that black is ugly and bad. What keeps them in power is their belief that they are superior. They believe it so they behave in ways that reflect their beliefs. They start wars, they dictate and manipulate, they work diligently to keep people of color from taking their power or from becoming equal because what’s been taught to them by their parents, what their great grandparents taught their grandparents is that white people have more value. Even if the message isn’t overt, even if the message doesn’t come from behind the percale softness of a poly-cotton white sheet, the result is the same. Any white child born in this society has been the beneficiary of an educational, medical, judicial, legal, and social system that has placed whiteness on a pedestal, as an entity deserving of worship and praise. When white people try to silence any discussion of racism, it’s because they believe that they have a right to say what’s valid, what’s true, what’s right in the world, that no other experience other than their own has weight. They see the world through white colored glasses. In that world, everything comes back to the fact that they have been validated, reinforced, and reminded every single solitary day of their lives that white people are great. They’ve never once had to live in a time or place where white people are not seen as the origin of everything good in the world.

So in order for white people, the few elites who do have global power and control, to remain in power, for them to maintain the status quo, people of color have to be complicit in their agenda. There has to be a population of Black people who believe that there are white men who possess super-human, secret Echelon infrastructure powers to control and dominate people of color. Once we accept that the fallacy of white supremacy is based on nothing more than the narcissistic, self-centered and childlike behaviors of men with inflated egos who have the same flaws, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities as everyone else, then and only then can we start restructuring a world where everyone is equal. Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney can no longer be secret society masterminds but they are little boys who were told over and over that the Lone Ranger was good and that the injuns were bad. They cease to be keepers of keys to sacred texts that were created in ancient times to mesmerize the people of color around the globe to goose step to their tune of supremacy. It is in truth and understanding that we see them as individuals who were told that God was a white man and that they were literally created in his image and likeness. Left unchecked, the ego can be a dangerous tool. Understanding that illusion is the key to our liberation. The fallacy of white supremacy can be dismantled and destroyed with knowledge of self, re-writing our stories to include people of color, and dismantling the notion that white men are somehow in possession of tools that will allow them to control us. Every human being has the ability within them to crush the inflated ego of self and shine the light of truth, justice, and peace on the shadows of injustice that have plagued the world.

Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe of AfroerotiK

Immature vs. Decent

This is like a bad broken record. "I'm a good black man, I have a job, I have an education, and the reason why the Black community if falling apart is ALL Black women's fault because they only want thugs and they are gold-diggers, etc." If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it 34,791 times. It's a glaring sign of emotional immaturity on the part of Black men and it's tiring. The fact that so many, many, many black men can't even say, “I don't know how to deal with my emotions because I've never been taught," is embarrassing. It's embarrassing that grown men can't even acknowledge that they have areas to work on without it being seen as if they've said something that makes them weak. Hey, this is life; it's not a competition to see who can die without admitting that they have faults. The men who blame Black women for their shortcomings are the men who are the least introspective, the most emotionally distant, and the ones looking for the woman who will not hold them accountable for their actions, who will tolerate their belligerent, uncompromising foul behavior and not say a word.

Women, you can keep quiet all you want, you can blame other black women but if you don't start speaking up and holding these men accountable then you deserve the sorry assed emotionally immature men that you get. If you want a partner who respects your opinion, who will have integrity when making choices that effect your lives together, who has come to terms with the hurt he's caused in the past and who is willing to make a very concerted effort to treat his relationships with more respect in the future, THEN YOU BETTER START SPEAKING UP. You better let your voices be heard. If all you can do is blame other black women for Black men's poor behaviors then you are as emotionally immature as Black men. I won't coddle, I won't cajole. Your silence equals death. Death of the hopes that black relationships will ever flourish.

A decent sista won't let you run in and out of her bed without a commitment. I decent sista won't let you get away not accounting for your whereabouts when you are in a relationship with her. I decent sista will not pretend that your lies are truth. I decent sista will not accept you stringing her along with romance and empty promises without giving of yourself emotionally. A decent sista won't be number two three or four in your life just because you are "honest" with her. A decent sista won't let you disregard her feelings when your actions put your relationship with her in jeopardy of failing. A decent sista put up with your constant need to argue, have the last word, and constantly be right. A decent sista wants a man who can outline his past mistakes and show how he's making efforts not to repeat them in his current relationship. To be a good man to a decent sista is a lot harder than just saying you are a good black man and then blaming Black women for the destruction of the Black race.

Men, ask yourselves, do you want a decent sista, or do you want a decent looking sista who will have a high paying job, cook your meals, not stress you over where you go and what you do, and who will let you buy all the toys and gadgets you want without ever asking for money for the bills and who will give you sex when you want it without having to work for it and who fulfills all your sexual fantasies like a damn Playboy bunny? That’s not the sign of a decent man.

A decent man wants a decent woman and a relationship with a decent woman takes a lot of hard work. It’s easier to blame women than do the work it takes to be a decent emotionally mature man.

Is it a Question of LOVE?

I was asked to answer the following questions on love because, supposedly, I’m a thinker. Here are the questions and my responses.

1. What is love (to you)?
Love is a feeling, an emotion, a state of being where you care for someone else’s well-being, you care about their feelings, you want to make them happy, see them happy, you don’t mind sacrificing for them.

2. What is IN love (to you)? I don’t differentiate the terms love and in love simply because I don’t think there’s any quantifiable way to define how much one loves another person. We use the words love for family and friends and people we don’t want to have sex with and we use the words in love for someone to whom we are romantically attracted. I don’t love the little boy I baby-sit for any more or less than I once loved his father. Most people would get upset if I were to say that I was in love with a child but my level of emotion, concern, and the depth of my feelings is on par with the love I’ve felt for grown men. I want to see him smile, I look forward to seeing him, I miss him when he’s not here, I think of things to do for him that will make him happy. Those are the exact same things I once felt for his father. Because I have no sexual feelings for him, society says I’m not “in love” with him. I say society needs to separate romantic love from “other” love because we are so sexually repressed, because we don’t teach people how to love, only what it is to be loved. I LOVE my sister and I don’t think I’ve seen her more than a half a dozen times in my life. I still remember the first time I laid eyes on her, she was a grown woman . The feeling of wanting her to be happy and healthy, of wanting to protect her . . . it still brings tears to my eyes. I’m in love with her. My love for her is active and growing and alive.

3. Have you or anyone you know, mistaken LOVE for IN LOVE? If the assumption is that being “in love” is somehow real and true and that to only “love” someone means that the love is superficial or doesn’t have as much substance or validity as being “in love” then I reject the terms. I have fallen in love with men who I’ve later been repulsed by. I’ve loved men who have not deserved my love. I’ve loved men who have fooled me into thinking they were someone that they were not. I love men whom I once cared for deeply but have no romantic feelings for currently. Love can grow and evolve, the depth of one’s feelings can change and transform. Love is real. The baggage we apply to it is what makes it appear false.

4. Is conditional love natural or can it be inherited? I think conditional love is a manifestation of selfishness. Conditional love is only loving someone if they love you a certain way, if they only fulfill your needs in a way that is pleasing to you. That is a creation of a society that teaches people to love themselves, to only look out for number one. I think we teach our children conditional love by beating them, by withholding love from them when they misbehave, by not showing them healthy examples of love. I think conditional love is a sickness we’ve inherited from a society that is spiritually bereft.

5. Why is love so complicated when it suppose to be the most simplest of all acts and feelings? We live in a society of fear. We fear that if we love someone and we don’t get that love returned, that we have to hurt them back. We live in a society that teaches us how to be loved, to enjoy the feelings of someone treating us special but we don’t learn how to make someone else feel special. Love is complicated because we are taught models of love from our mothers and fathers, who most often were not together, who fought, who didn’t love each other, and who brought a whole host of other emotional issues to the table when they did. Love is difficult because it leaves us vulnerable and that is scary. Love is difficult because it takes work. Love is difficult because we fall in love with money and looks and superficial things that have nothing to do with true emotion and feeling. It’s hard to find love because first we need to love ourselves, and to do that, we have to take the bandage off our emotional wounds and really heal them and that hurts.

6. Is 'material' love a bad thing? If yes, then how can we 'de-love' it? If by material love, you mean love of things, I think that is purely a manifestation of Eurocentrism. Almost all indigenous, brown people loved the land, they loved their people, and they loved the Creator more than they loved things before the influence of Europeans. The importance of things, outside trinkets, stuff, money, belongings that give people a false sense of worth seems to stem from the people who think that they can take land, kidnap and kill people, steal possessions as their god-given right. The only way I can imagine to de-love material things is to see ourselves as truly spiritual beings, the way God intended us to be. If God is love, then all we are is love. If love is truth, then material things are the lie.

7. Is there really such a thing as self-love? (take your time on this one) I have to wonder why this question was posed as such. It seems to indicate that self-love is perhaps fictional or delusional. Self-love is not needing validation from someone or something else, it is holding yourself to a higher standard than others around you would. Self-love is making sure you don’t put yourself in harmful, dysfunctional situations. Self-love is very real. It is knowing yourself, your triggers, your weaknesses, it’s knowing everything about yourself, the good and the bad, and being comfortable in your own skin.

Communication, Romance and Intimacy

If communication is the recipe for a healthy relationship, romance and intimacy are the key ingredients. For most men, the concept of genuine, truthful communication in a relationship is an alien concept, let alone understanding the concepts of romance and intimacy. For most men, the idea of romance is equated to “game” or trying to get a woman into bed and the concept of genuine honesty is incomprehensible to many. Men have been convinced that crying, a natural, healthy, biological release of emotion makes a man weak. Reality check. If men weren’t supposed to cry, they would not have tear ducts. Crying is as natural as sneezing, it is necessary to help an individual process emotion, yet we have an entire population of men that think that shedding a tear means an individual less than a man. Black men in particular have been socialized for generations to deny their feelings and never taught to process or share those feelings with another person. To have feelings is to be considered weak or gay. When we look at all the false perceptions that are in place to keep men from being fully functioning, emotionally mature human beings it’s no wonder that the state of Black relationships is in such peril.

Being someone that has dedicated her life to showing Black sexuality in a healthy light, men often come to me to share their desires, secrets and fantasies when they have wives, girlfriends, and lovers that should be that confidant. Day in and day out, brothas come to me and share with me, a total stranger, their most intimate desires. They always seem to preface it by saying, “My wife would never understand . . .” News flash, your wife should be the first person you go to share your feelings and if she’s not, you need to re-examine your relationship and take the steps necessary to make that so. Your wife is your partner and your mate, if you don’t have a relationship where you can be open and honest with her, there’s something drastically wrong with that. Let’s assume that you married a woman with whom you share common ideologies, goals, and beliefs. If all of those things are in place, then you have the makings of fantastic communication and all that needs to be done is learning how to open up and share with your partner your thoughts.

The number one fantasy that Black men come to me and share as their secret desire is to be submissive to a (in most cases, Black) woman. We must be cautious how we use the term submissive in this particular case because mainstream society would lead us to believe that being submissive means being beaten and whipped and assuming an inferior position in some sadomasochistic exchange. While in some cases, that may be the desire, more often than not they mean that they want to put aside their satisfaction for that of their partner. Unfortunately, the term submissive is the closest term Black men have to describe their fantasies of catering to a woman’s needs. I hear it time and time again, “I want to satisfy my woman . . . her pleasure is more important than mine . . . I want to do whatever it takes to make her cum until she passes out.” Society would have us believe that a Black man is supposed to “kill it” to use his dick as a weapon and that pleasing a woman is of no concern. Imagine Jay-Z making a rap where he says that he gave a woman pleasure without concern for his own. That’s not going to happen in this lifetime because Black men have to live up to the stereotype that women are for their pleasure, not the other way around. Again, the absurdity of the concept and the extent to which we as a people hold on to it is causing us to perish.

When Black men approach me about their fantasies, they tend to be somewhat forthcoming with the details. Conversely, when I approach Black men about their fantasies their responses tend to be either, “I don’t have any fantasies,” or, “I have done everything that I want to do, I prefer the real thing.” When they do admit to a fantasy it’s the standard “threesome” scenario. Black men aren’t adept at expressing their fantasies or allowing themselves to creatively explore their sexuality. It’s only after intense and directed questioning that they can admit to having other fantasies. Conversely, white men tend to be able to describe in great detail their fantasies and have very involved and complex scenarios. Fantasies are a natural, normal part of our existence and allow us to experience different realities in a safe way. Going out and engaging in unhealthy behaviors rather than learning to express healthy fantasies is dysfunctional. Not being comfortable enough to share one’s fantasies with one’s partner and then going out to explore those fantasies as a reality with someone outside one’s relationship is unhealthy. We must, as a people, reexamine the guidelines that are keeping us dysfunctional.

There seems to be a tremendous difficulty in men understanding that women crave romance and intimacy, a reluctance to embrace any personal responsibility in creating romance and intimacy in their relationship and even a difficulty understanding those terms. There is a belief that men seem to have that is reinforced by a society that says that women have to do the work to keep a man, not the other way around. Men, understand this if you understand nothing else I say. If you want peace in your relationship, if you want your woman to treat you like a king, then the single-most easiest way to do that is to treat her like a queen. For every one step you make to make a woman feel special, she will take ten in return to make you feel special. Surprise her with a small token that lets her know you are thinking of her, that she crosses your mind during the day. It needn’t be something extravagant or expensive. There are more things than just flowers, candy, or a designer purse that you can give that will show her that you care. Sadly, men don’t seem to understand the erotic potential and possibilities of anything other than material gifts as indications of romance have been conditioned to, thus they are limited in their creativity and expression.

I would be remiss if I didn’t discuss Black women’s responsibility in fostering healthy communication and intimacy in relationships. Sadly, there are a great many women that will judge and condemn a man for sharing his thoughts and fantasies with her, no matter the level of honesty or intimacy he is showing. We’ve been conditioned to either view any expression of sexuality outside of missionary sex as vulgar, or conversely, we view sexuality as a tool of manipulation, source of income, or as recreation. As Black women, we’ve also been socialized to narrowly define manhood and equate it with sexual prowess and earning potential, not realizing that emotional depth and intimacy are things that men are capable of giving. We must be held accountable for our false perceptions and debilitating belief systems but the change must be partnered with Black men in an effort to grow together.

Getting a woman to be receptive to your fantasies is not as difficult as one might think. Increasing communication, romance and intimacy in your relationship is not an impossible task. The most effective way to introduce your fantasies to your partner is to get her to a heightened state of arousal and subtly introduce the new concept to her. She will be more receptive to any new ideas that are initiated during that time. Getting her to a heightened state of arousal takes work on your part. It means that you must be willing to ask questions about what arouses her, to set aside everything that you’ve learned about what turns a woman on, and set aside your preferences for the things that turn you on. The benefits will be amazing and you will lay the foundation for a partnership with outstanding potential.

Scottie Lowe is a regular columnist at Black Men in America and the founder of AfroerotiK. If you need some suggestions on what you can do to create more intimacy, romance and communication in your relationship, check out AfroerotiK for dozens of ideas or email Scottie directly with your questions.

Black Beauty

Untreated Wounds

Haunted Past and Untreated Wounds

There’s a man. He has a terrible secret. His shame and pain haunt him. His secret eats at his very soul; it has shaped his consciousness and the way he views life and he’s formed his identity around his unhealed wounds. When he was a young man, someone stole his innocence. He was sexually violated. He has hidden his secret and he’s denied it. He’s tried to suppress his memories and he’s even convinced himself after all these years that it didn’t happen. He says to himself, “I should have fought harder, it couldn’t have happened. In fact, it didn’t happen at all.” However, the pain is still deep inside. The thoughts plague him and everyone one of his relationships has been affected. He lashes out, he tries to hurt people, he keeps himself closed off, he lies. He refuses to address his past and he can’t figure out why his life isn’t happy, why he can’t seem to cope like other people can.

There’s a woman. She suffered so much abuse, so much daily terror, she internalized it as natural. Her sexuality is wrapped up in feeling like an object, in feeling used and abused. She’s never known her body to be hers, since she was a toddler. She’s never experienced autonomy nor pleasure unless it was at the hands of others molesting her body and raping her of her dignity and self-respect. She is so numb inside she doesn’t even know what pain feels like. Pain and abuse have become her pleasure. She can’t even perceive of a healthy relationship and is drawn to relationships that reflect her painful life as validation that everyone is meant to hurt her. She has no reason to deny her past, however, because it’s all she knows, it’s all she can conceive of so she has no point of reference for anything else. She gets outraged and lashes out at individuals who try to suggest to her that she needs to deal with the pain and the abuse. To her, everyone else is fucked up for not seeing things through her lens of hate, pain, and abuse.

She’s different that the other woman that was sexually assaulted as a child. This young lady only had it happen once or twice. She doesn’t think about it, she only has vague memories that come once in a while. She tells herself it was no big deal because it wasn’t like it was a stranger, it was someone she knew, maybe even someone she was attracted to. Every man that she’s had to fight off, that wouldn’t take no for an answer she justified it by saying it was her fault for sending out the wrong signals. Her relationships with men have been cyclical; she tries to form healthy relationships but she ends up with men that only want her for sex or who don’t take the time to really get to know her as a person. Her identity is wrapped up in being attractive to men; she needs to feel beautiful to feel whole. Tired of having men use her for sex, she decides that she’s going to beat them at their own game. She decides that she’s going to be the sexual aggressor, that she’s going to get hers and fuck anybody else, literally and figuratively, that stands in between her and her pleasure. She tries desperately to use men, but only ends up used again because her feelings get in the way.

Is there any wonder we can’t heal our relationships? We have been violated, abused, used, raped, and we never discuss it. We don’t heal from the sexual devastation that has shaped our personalities. We can’t heal unless we talk about it, and sometimes, that’s not even enough. Our subconscious mind, the mind that exists beyond our waking thoughts, is so used to the pain, that it’s made adjustments in our personalities where the pain becomes normal. The deep, oozing, weeping, puss-filled emotional sores from our sexual past haunt us and the cycle can’t end. The violated are going on to violate, the abused are become abusers, of themselves and the people in their spheres. What, short of a miracle, will heal these haunted pasts and untreated wounds?

Dear Michael

This is not a letter to Michael, it is an ode; my ode to the boy who helped shape my identity.

I will be the first to admit that I was not a fan of Michael Jackson in his later years. I believed him to be a pedophile, largely influenced by the fact that he had never emotionally matured past an adolescent himself. I believe his love of children, while sincere in his mind, heart, and interpretation, was unhealthy. I was repulsed by the physical transformation he underwent and saddened that he hated his blackness so much that he felt the need to mutilate his face to look monstrous and grotesque.

But this is not about the Michael Jackson of later years. This is about the brown, immensely talented little boy with whom I fell in love before I knew what love was. The Jackson Five’s first hit was released when I was three years old. I literally grew up with Michael Jackson. I had posters on my wall and every birthday and Christmas of memory is one marked by a Michael Jackson gift. On my 6th birthday, I received an orange record player and the album Got To Be There. I played the song Ben over and over again, believing in my heart that I felt a connection with young Michael that only he and I could share. His emotion poured through my young body and loved him.

Michael Jackson was the boy to whom I compared all others. In the third grade, I had a crush on Kim Williams because he had a big afro like Michael Jackson. In junior high I had a crush on a boy from my church who had a jheri curl just like Mike. I vividly remember getting a cassette tape of a Jackson 5 album and playing it on my grandmother’s tape recorder one summer until I broke the tape and cried incessantly. I would watch the Jackson 5 cartoon because I felt like it was “my” cartoon, created for me and little brown girls like me. Yeah, there were the Osmond’s for white girls but the Jackson 5 belonged to me. They danced like I danced, they grooved like I liked, and they looked like me with brown skin and African features. I have vivid memories of staring out the window and wondering how far it would be to Indiana. Many a night, when I suffered the abuse of my dysfunctional mother, I would dream of packing my clothes in a red bandana handkerchief, tying it to the end of a stick, and walking to where Michael Jackson lived. I felt sure in my heart that he would love me as much as I loved him.

As I got older, my walls filled with posters of the various heartthrobs of the day. Foster Sylvers, Lawrence Hilton Jacobs, and Ralph Carter all had their respective spots. I even had Scott Baio, Sean Cassidy, and Leif Garret to reflect my diversity. The only person who remained consistent, the only space that remained reserved was the place for Michael Jackson. He represented all that was beautiful to me. I would dream of the day I would be old enough to marry Michael Jackson and I just KNEW that I was his biggest fan.

If I were a gambling woman, I'd put good money on the bet that the very first person I had a masturbatory fantasy to was Michael Jackson. I don’t have a specific memory, but I remember being under the covers, a flashlight, a Right On Magazine, and a funny feeling "down there". When I got Off the Wall, I would play She’s Outta My Life over and over and over. I wasn’t allowed to curse so when he said, “Damned indecision and cursed pride,” I had to skip that word. When he cried at the end, I cried. And even though I knew he wrote the song for Tatum O’Neil, I convinced myself that if he had ever had the chance to meet me, that he would have written it and sung it for me.

When MTV started playing Michael Jackson videos, I would stand in front of the TV and duplicate the choreography and go to school and perform for all my classmates. The debut of a new MJ video was all that we lived for. I remember when Thriller came out. There hadn’t been anything like it before and my best friend and I were MESMORIZED by it. I’ll never forget the woman’s name, Ola Ray, who played his girlfriend. I hated her. Not “hate” the way the word is used today, but hate in the sense that if I had ever seen her I would have beat her ass senseless. I was so jealous that she got to kiss Michael Jackson that I was green with envy. By the time I had gotten to high school, the delusions of me meeting Michael Jackson and falling in love with him were over. I was content to think that I could however marry Randy Jackson and just be NEAR Michael during the holidays and family gatherings. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

When I was in college, he made the Bad video in a subway station in Brooklyn. My friends and I went down there and thought we were going to be able to get a part in the video. She was light skinned and half Puerto Rican and I was the best dancer of anyone we knew. We just knew that if anyone two people could talk our way on the set, it would be us. Needless to say, they didn’t let us anywhere near the set and we went home, dejected and arrogant. “Michael Jackson ain’t shit . . . he don’t know talent when he sees it.” Forget the fact that we didn’t even get close to him. It was after that that my love affair with MJ started to fade. When his nose kept getting smaller and smaller, and his face started getting whiter and whiter, and when his dance moves stayed the same, I fell out of love with my first true love.

Without Michael Jackson, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today, of this I am convinced. Without having him as my tween idol, I’m convinced I wouldn’t love black men the way I do. Michael Joseph Jackson set the standard to which I compared all other potential lovers for a very long time. He was my first crush, my first boyfriend, he was my first true love. I mourn this day at the loss of my first love. I mourn this day for a soul who shaped lived in ways that he may have never comprehended. Beyond his music, beyond his transformation, his core, the beautiful brown boy with the immeasurable talent was a driving force in the creation of who I am today and I honor and praise all that he was.

Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe

Who’s Your Daddy?

I had a guy friend once who had two small daughters. He would take his daughters to work with him, he would pick them up from school, they loved their daddy and it showed every time they would see him. I was mesmerized by their relationship because he took such pride in knowing that his daughters could count on him for anything they wanted or needed. If they were having problems with children at school, they knew that their daddy would be there to resolve the conflict. If a man said something inappropriate to them, they knew that they could run to their daddy and he would defend and protect them at all costs.

I’m 40 years old and I’ve never known what it’s like to have a daddy. I’ve never had a daddy, I have a father I met when I was 16. The only interaction I have with him is him giving me a check on my birthday and Christmas and sending a few emails a couple times a year. I’m no expert but I know that parenting has to go much further than that. I’m not real sure I know all the intricacies of what having a daddy involves but I’m sure that it’s more than giving $400 a year and an email that says, “Hey kiddo.”

I have to wonder how my life would be different if I’d known the safety and security of a father’s love in my life. I have to imagine that my choices in men would have been vastly different if I’d had a daddy to help shape my perceptions. They say you can’t miss what you never had but that’s bullshit, complete and utter bullshit. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man that loves me unconditionally. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man in the world whose primary responsibility is to protect me and provide for me. If I’d had a man to love me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have begged undeserving men to love me and spent so many years of my life trying to convince them that I was worthy of love.

My father isn’t some ex-con deadbeat. He’s a genius whose worked at the same high paying job for over 40 years and who is a daddy to two other daughters other than me. When I was growing up, the concept of “daddy” was something that set my mother off on a rampage so I dared not even bring up the subject. Now I realize how detrimental that was to me.

All too many fathers only want to be a daddy to their sons. Daughters are expendable, disposable and only sons have value in far too many men’s eyes. I know my mother resented me for not being a tiny replica of her and I grew up trying to compensate for being a constant disappointment to her. It’s only now that I’m realizing that I have been compensating for feeling unlovable to the men in my life because I never knew a father’s love. We as women have to start coming to terms with the fact that we’ve been handicapped emotionally by never knowing a father’s love. Moreover, we need to start ensuring that our daughters know a father’s love. This whole, “I can raise my child by myself, I can be the mommy and the daddy,” is noble, but it’s fucked up. Men need to be daddies to their girl children. Maybe then, when we let go of the dysfunctional beliefs that are so prevalent, that so many people want to justify, then we can have a community of women who, when some undeserving man who wants to use and manipulate us for sex asks, “Who’s your daddy,” we can know with assuredness to whom we belong.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

Handful

Peaceful Slumber

Buckle your seat belt . . .

Facing the foot of the bed, she climbed on top of him and placed her pussy just inches from his mouth. It was a thing of beauty to behold; he could see it, smell it, and virtually taste it. With painstaking slowness, she lowered her pussy down onto his mouth. Slick . . . that was the sensation he felt when her lips parted and he gained access to her sweet treasure. It was so slippery, and sweet, and earthy. She obviously knew what she wanted him to do because she worked his mouth like a fine-tuned instrument. She moved back and forth, up and down, riding his tongue and lips and mouth like a champion bull rider.


He did everything he could to work his mouth and make his lady cum. He nibbled on her fat lips, licked her slit, tongued her hole and sucked her clit. He was not going to stop until she filled his mouth with nectar from the heavens. Her moaning became louder and louder, her hips were grinding away. He was barely able to catch his breath, all he could do was moan and lick and suck that much more. His jaw ached but he had no concern for his own pleasure at that moment. With one last valiant effort, he pointed his tongue and tried to fuck her mercilessly with it. Rhythmically, she bounced up and down. He’s face was wet with her desire. She coated his lips and face with her sweet sauce. She collapsed on the bed, drained of her life force, whimpering and gasping for air. He however could not be denied and he rolled her on her back and prepared her for more oral love making.


Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK

He Holds the Key to my Arousal in his Hands

Is it possible to be in love with a man for his hands? Well, I’m not in love with him FOR his hands, he’s an amazing man without question but I’m definitely in love with his hands. I can’t explain it. His hands actually turn me on. The shape of his hands, the length of his fingers, even the way he holds his fork drives me to distraction. I think I love his hands more than I love his dick. Okay, let me not go off the deep end, it ain’t that extreme, but his hands give me a special thrill that I just can’t explain.

I love watching him masturbate. It’s like sensory overload. Seeing him stroke the length of his dick, his fingers gripping it tightly, seeing the cum flowing over his fingers thrills me in a way that words can’t describe. I can suck his fingers or his dick and both arouse me beyond belief. One Sunday morning he brought me breakfast in bed. He thought he was being cute by dipping his finger in the honey and putting it in my tea. I grabbed his finger and started licking and sucking every bit of that honey. We had to go to IKEA and buy a new headboard that afternoon because things got so heated after that.

Who knew that hands could be a sex organ? The first time we kissed, he held my face gently in his hands and I felt my heart skip a beat. When I’m riding him, and his hands grip my hips, for a brief second, all my attention is focused on the feel of his hands on my flesh. We walk in the park and he’ll reach out to hold my hand . . . and I feel safe, protected, and secure in the connection.

His hands represent strength to me; the centuries of labor our ancestors endured building this nation that hates us so. His hands represent tenderness to me; his gentle nature is reflected in the movement of his artistic hands. I’m mesmerized when he wears his ring; it reminds me of a sunset over a beautiful horizon.

His hands pleasure me in ways that defy definition. When my body is warm and relaxed after a bath, he’ll anoint my body with oils and massage me to sleep. Well, his intention is to massage me to sleep but feeling his hands slide sensually up and down my body, caressing my sore spots and stimulating my hot ones . . . who can sleep?


We went out for drinks the other night, enjoying a few Afrotini’s and a little jazz. He pulled my chair close and whispered in my ear that he wanted me to spread my legs. My heart started pounding out of my chest. I felt the heat of his hands on my thigh as he moved up my leg, sliding my panties to the side. There, in the middle of a very public place, he took his finger and started rubbing my clit, causing me to signal for the waiter to bring the check and get the hell outta there. He had other plans. I grabbed the edge of the table and held on tightly as his fingers penetrated me, making me bite my lower lip to keep silent. Tease that he was, he stopped, leaving me desperate to cum. He ordered dessert and would wipe his sexy mouth with his cloth napkin, which was really nothing more than his discrete way of smelling my pussy juices on his fingers, inhaling my fragrance. Of all the things that I love about this man, it’s his hands that hold the key to my arousal. I know he was made for me, I for him, because even his hands fit me.

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

Sometimes

Sometimes, the best seduction is slow and intentional, with lots of foreplay culminating in tender lovemaking. Other times, hard, fast, furious fucking is the only thing that will satisfy that intense craving. Her desire for him was complete, body, mind, and soul, so all that was left for her was to satisfy her hunger for him sexually.


She lay back, spreading her legs, and inviting him to enter her. He paused momentarily to taste her juices, to wrap his lips around her clit and suck it between his full, soft lips. She was already soaking wet and his face was soon coated in her juices. She wrapped her legs around his head and grabbed the back of his head, making sure she was going to shoot her first nut right in his mouth. She fucked his face with her wet folds, thrashing, grinding, and humping her pussy on his mouth until she exploded in screams of passion and sensual release, delivering her creamy treat.


He drank it all down and didn’t give her a minute to recuperate. Her grabbed her legs and pulled them up on his shoulders, aiming his hard dick at her spasming hole. He pinned her to the bed and rammed his dick in in one thrust, his balls resting on her phat ass. She screamed out pain and pleasure as she gripped the sheets and chanted, “Fuck me, fuck me,” over and over again.



Following her instructions to the letter, he went deeper, harder, slamming her pussy with the full weight of his body. She grabbed his ass and tried to pull him deeper, the sweat on their bodies creating a sheen. He could feel her walls tightening up and he knew she was close to orgasm again. He pulled out and sat back for a moment and she cried out like a wounded animal, desperate to feel his thickness inside her again.


Not a woman to be denied, she used her secret weapon. Turning over, she got on her knees and looked back at her lover. She lowered her head to the pillow and reached back and pulled her ass cheeks apart. She winked her sexy hole at him and taunted him, teased him, dared him to give her that pounding like she craved.


Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

Sucking your Dick

Your hands reach out to caress my face and I stop you. I grab your wrists and I pull them behind you. Obviously, your strength could overpower mine, so your restraint is symbolic to say the least. In fact, you voluntarily hold you hands behind your back as an indication of your submission to me. I place my hand at the base of your dick. I survey my prize. My lips gently kiss the tip and I hear an intake of breath. I take my finger and slide it back and forth over the moisture that has collected at the tip.Sucking my finger for good measure, I look deep in your eyes. Starting at the base of your dick, I slowly lick you. Soft and gentle. I use my tongue to get your dick wet. I gently squeeze your dick to make sure you remember that I am in control. I lick every inch of steely resolve. I use my tongue to paint pleasure all the way up the shaft. I lick the head. “That’s OK baby, let it out,” I say. Your breathing gets louder.

I slide the head between my lips and suck you gently. I concentrate on licking and sucking the head for several minutes. I grab the base of your dick again and start drawing you in my mouth. I slide my lips all the way down. Back and forth, up and down, you are moaning now. I have made your dick so wet, that it glistens in the candlelight. My mouth envelops you. I use my lips to pleasure you, my tongue to torture. I slide your dick deep in my mouth and stop for a brief second.


You are completely consumed, until I slide my mouth even further down your dick and the head of your dick penetrates the back of my throat. “Oh shit,” you scream and I feel your knees buckle. I start fingering your balls and sucking you, blowing you, licking you. Harder and faster, I take you deeper, higher. I want more. You need it. I’m so hungry for your passion. I stop for just a second to ask you if you like it and all you can say is, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

Bad, Bad, Boy

Working for an advertising agency has its advantages. At the drop of a hat, for barely any reason at all, there’s cause for an after work get together with free-flowing drinks for all. On this particular Friday evening, there was reason for celebration because Michael Shield’s company signed a major client and glasses were being raised all around Schmidt's Bistro. Michael was his usual self, in his element. He was an interesting fellow because while an outsider would think that Michael was a CEO or at least someone of importance, he was merely an accountant, a job considered mundane, boring, and non-integral to the advertising game. He raised his glass and made toasts; he laughed and patted backs like he had written the ad copy himself.

As the night wore on, Michael was becoming increasingly more intoxicated. He began to slur his words and he was insulting to the waitresses for no other reason than he thought he could be. He even slapped one young lady on the ass hard enough for it to be heard from across the room. Michael thought it was part of his charm; his male bravado entitled him to treat anyone he wanted like shit. In a word, he was an asshole. He wasn’t the most obnoxious asshole in the world; he was just a regular ole, intolerable asshole, exacerbated by the alcohol.

Everyone started thinning out, and the place was becoming empty. Michael was still in the mood for festivities and he was one of the last people to leave. He stumbled outside in the cool night air and couldn’t really remember where he had parked his car. The fact that he was totally unable to operate a motor vehicle had no meaning to him because if he got pulled over by the cops, surely they would let him slide. It was his right as a white man; his skin color gave him a get out of jail free card. By the time he found his car, he realized that he didn’t have his keys. Either they had fallen out or someone had been wise enough to take them in deference for the other drivers on the road.

Michael cursed and kicked the tire of his vehicle, hurting his foot in the process. He made plans to go back to the bar and try to find his keys but the call of nature was stronger. He had to piss like a racehorse and piss immediately. Rather than try to find a bathroom, or even a discrete place to urinate, Michael pulled out his stuff right there on the street and started whizzing away, on the front steps of a brownstone row house. As luck would have it, Michael ’s particularly bad luck in this case, the owners of said brownstone were returning from a night out on the town just as he was hosing down their front steps.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Michael turned to see a young man, Black, about his age, of the same size and stature, angered but not irate, scolding him. Unable to control himself or his bladder, Michael continued to piss right on the young man’s shoes as he mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology. The young lady who stood next to him didn’t say much; she seemed to be quite confident that her companion could take care of the situation. Michael noticed that they looked rather different, like they were punk rockers or something. Most Black people in he knew blended in, but the young woman, a pretty brown skinned woman with a bright pink Mohawk and piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip, was vastly different. She was dressed in a ripped t-shirt that had strategic safety pins to cover her small, braless breasts under a black, leather motorcycle jacket. Her jeans, equally as ripped, showed her smooth chocolate colored skin off even in the moonlit night. She wore black Doc Martens that had been spray-painted with red, black and green artwork.

There was something sexy and dangerous about this chick that didn’t escape Michael ’s notice and he openly and brazenly started pulling on his still pissing cock, his judgment clouded by the alcohol. The guy, now past his limit for tolerance, went to grab Michael ’s arm and he pulled away and defiantly said, “Fuck you.”

The punch that landed on Michael ’s jaw knocked him out cold, aided by the alcohol, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with his hands handcuffed behind him and he was secured to a chair in a strange room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the couple sitting, casually watching him. His clothes reeked of urine and vomit, the air smelled of cloves and he felt considerably more sober. He began to protest rather loudly, demanding an explanation.

“I see you’re awake,” the young woman said with a clearly British accent. She put a filter-less cigarette to her lips between her thumb and forefinger and inhaled like a rebel with a cause; the light of the burning ash illuminated the contours of her ebony face. “I don’t know what sorta manners you have, and I don’t know what sorta bloke thinks it’s okay to use other people’s homes like a public loo, but you need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you agree Percy?” She turned to her male counterpart and he laughed casually as the young woman circled Michael like a panther.

“Unquestionably, Patra. Me thinks he needs to be taught a serious lesson about respect. G’won, teach him bout respect.” It was only then that Michael noticed that the male half of the couple was dressed in a similar fashion to the female but his accent seemed to be more Jamaican than British. Percy was about 6 feet tall; around 190 pounds if one were to guess, and he appeared to be the Black version of Sid Vicious only with outrageously long dreadlocks piled atop his head. He too wore black Doc Martens with the picture of a lion airbrushed on his left boot and a picture of Haile Selassie airbrushed on the other.

Patra whispered in Michael ’s ear, “You have been a very, very, bad boy and you are going to be punished, ya hear?” She grabbed his face, pushing his cheeks together and blowing smoke in his eyes. Michael tried to turn away but she held his face firmly in her grip.

WHAP! She slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety. He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows. Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy.

Percy seemed to enjoy sitting back and watching the show as Patra went about her business. She spit in Michael ’s face, pulled his hair, used his mouth as an ashtray, and for entertainment, burnt the backs of his hands with her cigarettes. Trying to remain defiant and strong, Michael felt his will slowly bending to hers. He became her puppet. She was ruthless, relentless in her punishment. Placing her boot against his crotch, she stomped his nuts without care for his well-being or health. Kicking the chair over, Michael struggled against his restraints. For a brief moment, he was released only to be secured again with his hands behind his back to a metal pole in the center of the room.

Being made to kneel on the cold, cement floor, the ordeal continued for Michael, who felt himself desperate for his release and willing to perform any duty, no matter how degrading, no matter how painful, so that he could please his captors and be let go. Patra placed her boot squarely on Michael ’s mouth and made him lick. The grime and the dirt were foul. He licked the heavily soiled treads while the pair laughed at him. She kicked him in the side of the head so hard he saw stars but he kept on licking. His cock was fully awake and aware of the fact that he was suffering and in pain. His arms were sore and aching, his knees were raw and nearly bloody as the night turned to day yet he was turned on by the humiliation, aroused by the pain. The couple didn’t seem to care that the hours passed. With each new hour they dreamt of a new torture that pushed Michael ’s body to new limits. Painful enemas, burning hot candle wax, dangerous breath play, and extreme cock and ball torture seemed to go on in an endless cycle. At one point, improvising with what was laying around, Patra found an extension cord and used it to beat Michael ’s face, chest, and body in a cruel show of pure sadism.

Percy couldn’t sit idly by and watch, he joined in the fun as Patra directed. Her arms were tired from beating him without mercy so she called on her lover to take over. What Michael thought was excruciating pain before was magnified 10 times when Percy began his lessons in respect. “You treat my home like a toilet, I’ll show you what a fucking toilet is . . . “ and he unzipped his jeans and pulled out a hefty cock, blacker than midnight and as thick as a beer can, and hosed Michael down. The piss was strong and forceful and Michael tried to turn his head but he was slapped and his head held in place, forced to drink the urine. The salt in the pee stung as it seeped into the open sores on the backs of his hands and in his eyes.

“Enough of this playing around,” Patra said, “make him your bitch, baby, show him who the real man is.” The pair seemed to silently acknowledge that the entire night’s antics, and the better part of the morning’s, were all leading to the grand finale when Michael would be forced to endure the ultimate humiliation.

Percy grabbed Michael ’s head and forced his semi-erect penis into his mouth. He tried to turn his head, he contemplated biting it but he was far too scared. There was no way he could fight, his arms were still tightly handcuffed behind him, and he was weak from exhaustion. He could hear Patra’s cruel laughter in the room, around him, unaware of exactly where she was. As Percy fucked his mouth, choking him, making him gag, forcing that black cock deep in his esophagus, Michael felt the rumblings of what was surely stale ale coming back up. He tried to hold it back but Percy showed no mercy and kept pounding away, using his mouth like a pussy. Vile smelling chunks of puke came up and big black cock forced it back down. Michael was trying to gasp for air but his airways were blocked with dick and vomit and cum.

“You fucking son of a bitch, look what you did!” Patra kicked him in the side and made him cry out. Quickly, she undid the restraints and repositioned him on his hands and knees. She took the belt from his khakis and pulled it free. She lowered his pants and bared his naked ass for her punishment.

Blow after painful blow reigned down on Michael ’s pale, flabby, white ass. He began sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again. Each time the leather made contact with his skin, the pain reverberated up his spine. Welts formed, blood dripped. Just when he thought he could take no more, he heard Patra say, “Spit on it to get it wet first or else you won’t be able to get it in on the first thrust.”

Michael ’s heart dropped. He was completely virgin and terrified of what he knew was coming. He cried, begged, and pleaded. He tried to bargain and negotiate. He sobbed uncontrollably like a little bitch. “Please, please don’t do this. I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

Patra and Percy would have no such talk. “Now look who’s the big man now. What happened to all that arrogance? You’re not so full of yourself now, are you? Well, you are going to get fucked and you are going to beg for it. In fact, you are going to plead to get fucked like the sissy faggot you are, do you hear me?”

Michael was broken. He didn’t even feel like a man anymore. He was a bad, bad boy who was suffering the ultimate abuse. There was something in him, something dark and perverted that wanted, no craved being taught this lesson. His manhood had been taken, his dignity and self-respect destroyed, and he was a mere shell of a man. With his eyes on the ground, he whispered a demure, “Please.”

“That’s not good enough,” she yelled, “beg for it like you need it. Prove that you want it.”

His arrogant taunt of “Fuck you,” that caused him to end up in this predicament turned into a chant of “Fuck me.” “Fuck me,” he cried out as he felt the enormous head of Percy’s cock against his asshole. “Fuck me,” he yelled as he felt the pain of his sphincter being ripped and inch after inch of black meat invading his anus. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he begged over and over again as he was pounded and used like a little rag doll. “Fuck me like I’m a dirty whore. Fuck me like I’m a little bitch. Fuck me harder. FUCK ME DAMN YOU! FUUUUCKK MEEEEE!”

Sometime that afternoon, hungry, thirsty, and smelling like the men’s room at a bus station, Michael stumbled out onto the street. His car had been ticketed and he still had no idea where his keys were. He was ashamed to call his wife and explain where he’d been all night but he knew she would be worried to death. He didn’t emerge a new man; he wasn’t somehow magically cured of being an asshole. He was, however, sore and tired, his nuts ached for relief, and he had been relieved of some of his white guilt that had brought about immense sexual satisfaction.

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved