Reparations (Part 2)

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If a Picture Paints a Thousand Words . . .

 

What does this say to you?  

I Am Not Mediocre

I am unique (and nothing less than blessed) in that I have huge numbers of people who like and respect me, even if they don’t agree with everything I say. I try to stay as humble as possible and recognize that those people who like my work, who validate me with compliments and praise, are worthy of my recognition and gratitude. There are times when I couldn’t make it through the day without the kind words and accolades I get from friends and fans alike.

I’m baffled, however, by the number of people who seem to express a hatred, disgust, and venomous rage towards me. By every conceivable measure, I am a nice person. I treat people fairly, with respect, I am kind and considerate, I don’t gossip or backstab. So I am taken aback at those times when people attack me personally, with malicious intent, who try to hurt me, who seem to get some sort of pleasure in saying hurtful things to me.

It’s always my nature to ask myself at those times, when I’m the victim of attack from people, “what did I do wrong, what’s wrong with me?” Intellectually, I have to recognize that there is something inherent in me, something unique, different, and special that makes people uncomfortable with my energy, my aura, my being. It’s precisely because I’m not average, because I am have done the work to evolve, grow, and transform that people find me sooooo offensive. I realize academically that the very people who hate me most, who direct so much energy trying to tear me down and hurt me are the very people who have not done the work to mature or evolve themselves. They would rather I stagnate and wallow where they are, in their complacent, satisfied existence where they don’t question or challenge their worldview or try to grow and evolve. The people who love to wallow in their dysfunction, the ones who have lived their lives rationalizing and justifying their pathologies in order to elevate themselves, in order to make themselves feel good are the ones who HATE me, who feel the need to try to tear me down.

I am different. I see the world differently. I’ve challenged myself to see beyond the mediocre trappings of this society. I’ve redefined what beauty means to me, what masculinity and femininity mean to me. I’ve seen the lies in organized religion and let go of the brainwashing that controls the masses. I work hard to heal the detrimental messages that were forced down my throat about sexuality, relationships, and that have tried to silence my independence. I am HONEST. I speak truth to power. I attack ideas, not people. That offends many people. They hate that I can expose my flaws and shortcomings so easily, so truthfully with the world and they have to hide their true feelings behind a façade of being perfect. My vulnerability and candor makes them angry. They hate me for going against the grain, for not succumbing to the capitalist, materialistic, superficial trappings that hold them captive, by which they measure their worth. Because I can’t be defined by an income amount or a type of car but because I live my life in integrity and in truth, in pursuit of higher goals, they want to do and say whatever they can to hurt me. It seems that they feel better about themselves if they denigrate me.

I am not mediocre, nor will I ever be again. I will not be entertained by Meet the Browns or The Housewives of Any Place. I will not my spend money on any form of entertainment that uses the N word; I do not tolerate the use of the N word in my presence. I do not consider myself a bitch, I’m not aroused by bad boys, I do not want a man with a Hummer or a basketball contract. I do not think Zane is a good writer, in fact, I think she’s horrible and while I have nothing against her personally, I hate what she has done to generations of black girls and women in terms of warping their view of relationships and sexuality. I don’t listen to commercial urban radio with their monotonous, talentless songs and mediocre talk hosts. I do not idolize Oprah or anyone just because they have a big back account. I don’t think my beauty is in my pedicured toes, the length of my hair, or how much of my ass I can show off in my tight jeans. I speak out about racism. I identify the diseased mindsets white people have and black people buy into that perpetuates oppression and bigotry.


I embrace the fact that I’m not average. I accept with graciousness that I have been given the gift of mastery of the written word, insight, and a level of honesty that does touch people. I’m not mediocre and I accept that, I celebrate that. If that means that I have to endure the virulent, bitter attacks of people who wish to tear me down, I will accept their attacks with the understanding that if I weren’t living my life, outside the box, In Loving Color, they wouldn’t be moved to hate me so vehemently.

Our First Place

We put the key in the door of our first home and crossed the threshold hand in hand. We had just come from the closing and the house was officially ours, ALL 2,200 square feet of mid-century Ranch amortized at 6.34% for the next 30 years of it. For a couple of dykes, buying a house together is the closest sort of commitment you can get to getting married. Sabrina was feeling sentimental, going through each room and dreaming out loud of what our lives were going to be like; the Virgo in me was feeling overwhelmed and anxious at the amount of unpacking we had to do just to get to our toothbrushes, towels, and dishes.

I have to confess, when I was watching her unpack, with her red and white scarf tied around her head and her favorite t-shirt with a big ole rainbow on it, I had to marvel at her beauty, both inside and out. She was so calm, so grounding for me. She’d made coming out to my family not easy, but tolerable. She made all the gross and offensive comments from men who thought they could “change me with their super dicks” bearable. She just fits me perfectly in every way. We’ve been together for four years. That’s equivalent to 16 heterosexual years for a lesbian couple and we’ve been together longer than all of our gay friends, both male and female, have ever been in a relationship combined.

I’d just about finished getting the bed frame up when I heard our doorbell ring for the first time. I ran downstairs to see who it could be and I saw Sabrina paying a delivery guy for some takeout food. She’d set up a makeshift table in the living room by taking one of our moving boxes and putting a sheet over it and she decorated it with flowers from our garden in a jar from the garage and some candles she got from who knows where. “Come and get it,” she said, as we sat down on the floor to dine on some Chinese food on the first night of the rest of our lives together.

I was overwhelmed with the feelings of love I had for this woman. “You know, I adore you, right?”

She looked at me and half-laughed. “Of course I do. And I love you too.”

“No,” I said, “I adore you. You mean the world to me. I don’t even want to think what my life would be like without you. I can’t even imagine who I would be without you.” I started to get really emotional and the words got choked up in my throat. She crawled over to my side and I put my head on her shoulder. She kissed the top of my forehead and I reached up to kiss her. Her tongue found mine and we shared an intimate kiss that grew more passionate with each passing tick of the clock. I lay back on the living room floor and she climbed on top of me, pressing her body into mine.

“Mmmm, we don’t have any curtains up yet . . . . we should . .. Stop,” I managed to say.
True to her rebellious nature, she said, “I don’t give a fuck. This is OUR house,” with heavy emphasis on the word our, and if I want to make love to my wife, and people want to watch, then so fucking be it.” With that, she slid her hand between my legs and pressed her palm against my mound. My body responded before my common sense could and I was pulling her t-shirt over her head while she was freeing me from the restrictions of my clothing.

We made love, on the floor, the very first night in our brand new home. Reclining back on an overstuffed pillow, I spread my legs and she made a dessert out of my breasts, licking and sucking my hardened nipples until I was begging her to go down on me. She kissed her way down my stomach and spread my legs. Taking her fingers, she spread the lips of my pussy and softly, gently, licked my clit until I was squirming and moaning and holding her mouth to my wet slit, wrapping my legs around her head and demanding that she let me cum in her mouth. She worked her tongue up inside me and her fingers found my asshole. I was cursing and screaming and telling her how good she made me feel and thankful we weren’t in our old, tiny one bedroom apartment with thin walls.


I turned over and got up on my knees and she alternated between driving her tongue in my pussy and my ass, causing me to reach back and spread my asscheeks wider so she could do her magic. She licked me from my clit to my spine and back again and I was grinding my pussy all over her face. She playfully slapped my ass and warned me that if I didn’t hold still that she was going to stop. Like hell she was going to stop. She wanted my cum and she wasn’t going to stop until I was flowing all over her.

She did a Bruce Lee sort of move and flipped around until her pussy was against mine. I could feel the heat of her warm cunt and the wetness of her slippery folds. She scissored her legs with mine and started bumping and grinding away, clit to clit. It was like our pussies were French kissing. I could feel the first signs of my orgasm approaching and I begged her to stop. I wanted to make love to her, to eat her, to enjoy every inch of her body first. She didn’t listen and she kept taunting me, teasing me, telling me to cum. “Give me that cum baby. Bathe me in your sweet honey. That’s it, squirt all over Mami. Oh yeah, baby, fuck me with that hard clit of yours. “

That sent me over the edge and I exploded. We curled up in each other’s arms and lay there for a while, just basking in the glow. I stroked her hair and intertwined my brown fingers with hers. She said, “We’ve christened one room, just think, we have six more to go.”

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

At Last

My entire relationship with Charles, what little there was of it, consisted of countless opportunities for emotional growth and never-ending nights of frustration. We hadn’t been dating long, only a few months, but our liaison was defined by what seemed to be an endless supply of patience on Charles’ part and innumerable occasions for me to redefine myself anew. Unfortunately, I am plagued with a biological preponderance for self-doubt which he was challenging me to face head on. My mother hadn’t bonded with me during her pregnancy thus I was left challenged to form healthy, loving relationships as an adult. My brain had been wired differently in the womb than most people’s, my subconscious mind operated under the assumption that I was inherently unlovable and intrinsically without value despite how much work I’d done on myself, no matter how many rituals I’d performed, regardless of how many pages I’d written in my journal or affirmations I’d recited in the mirror, even in spite of how wonderful I believed myself to be in my heart. I’d taken tremendous strides toward healing and I had shown marked improvement and I was more than willing to exert the effort needed for me to tackle the internal demons that had been preventing me from attracting someone who was capable of loving me unconditionally.

Apparently, I was doing something right, because I had attracted this amazing, enlightened man of my dreams into my life. So while I didn’t entirely feel worthy of his love, I knew in my heart and in my soul that I was divinely worthy of a love that was greater than my mind could imagine and Charles was intent on proving to me that he wanted to give me every bit of his love. From the moment we met, from the moment I laid eyes on him, I was drawn to his energy, his aura, and his incredible beauty. Initially, in his presence, I felt like he was going to reject me at any moment; I felt like he would prefer someone with a name like Ausar Nut Ma’at Imhotep, who wore locs and constantly smelled of patchouli oil, and who carried around incense and shea butter in the red, black, and green backpack that she had crocheted by hand. I just knew in my heart that he could never really love a woman who wrote about sex and sexuality and whose opinions on race and gender were so outside the norm, who loved wearing high heels occasionally, and who showed signs of insecurity and doubt openly. Luckily, I was wrong. He saw me as infinitely talented, grounded, inspired, and beautiful and he felt the pull of my African centered consciousness and saw my ability to free the descendents of slaves from our mental and psychological bondage with my words.

We vibrated on the same level in so many ways. While not identical in our every thought, we shared similar master numerological energies, spiritual outlooks, and interests. There was something very holistic and organic about what we shared and he was more than willing to nurture and heal my soul and that meant more to me than anything else. Our masculine and feminine energies complimented one another and we just seemed to fit like hand in glove.

For weeks, we grew together. Our days were filled toiling in the earth, growing vegetables, expanding our consciousness academically and culturally. We were always preparing food together as we were both dedicated to a living and raw diet and we even fasted together as well. He pushed me to trust him, to trust that he loved me, to see myself as the special and unique being he saw me as. I met each challenge he gave me head on, never afraid to push myself. Much of our time was spent in meditation or doing ritual. Sometimes we sat in silence, other times would laugh, talk, and listen to music until the early hours of the morning. I loved that he never made me feel like a victim or try to pity me because I was going blind. Charles would use his inspired words to paint pictures so I could see through his eyes and he helped me work out how to get around my apartment with my eyes closed for when the day would come when I had no sight at all. In every way imaginable, he was there for me like no other man had ever been there before and I found myself in falling in love with him in ways that were more profound than I had ever thought possible.

At times, our evenings were simmering, smoldering, and steamy, building a raging inferno of sexual tension between us. He seemed to know how to get me to the edge of explosion without any direct stimulation of my special places. He could whisper in my ear, telling me all the things he wanted to do to me, describing his fantasies about me in poetic, glorious detail and I would melt. He had the ability to lay his body on mine, I could feel his erection, engorged and rock hard grinding against me, and I could detect his unbridled passion, his intense desire to be inside me. His energy was strong and I would arch my back and wrap my legs around him as we kissed, hoping against hope that he would cross the threshold into my sacred space without my verbal consent. My hardened nipples would ache for his mouth to devour them and my swollen, wet pussy throbbed with anticipation and delicious expectation of his penetration. I’ll be the first to admit that when things would get hot and I was on the brink of erotic surrender, I would sometimes freeze up and ask him to stop. It had nothing to do with him. I was letting old tapes play in my head about being used, about men in my past who didn’t mind sexing me up but didn’t want a relationship with me. Charles wanted our lovemaking to be unfettered by fear or negativity; I didn’t want to have any emotional blocks between us. And we both wanted us to join in a union of transcendent, unparalleled ecstasy so we waited until the time was right.

Other times, the subject of sexuality never entered our evening experience. Sometimes, I could sense that I shouldn’t initiate anything romantic or sexual between us because he was at his very limit for frustration. I would hug him and he would give me a look letting me know that I needed to back off. On those nights, after we would part, I would lie in bed alone, pleasuring myself, wanting to call him to me and invite him to be my lover. When I showered, my fingers would find the slippery folds of my pussy and rub my clit and I would imagine him thrusting deeply inside me, completing me. I imagined him, at home alone, white cotton sheets covering his nude body, his erection tenting the covers, a sheen of perspiration covering his lean frame as he lay tortured, frustrated and aroused, thinking of me.

Our dance of frustration came to a screeching halt one night without much fanfare or preparation. We were fixing dinner one night and I was standing at the sink washing up a few dishes as he was moving around the kitchen doing his thing. I felt him slide up behind me, placing his arms on the counter beside me, his lips brushing the nape of my neck. He used his body to push me against the counter and I could feel the evidence of his erection against my backside. Instinctively, I pushed back, grinding the soft, full curves of my ass against him, leaning my body back and luxuriating in his hands caressing my waist and his nibbles to my earlobe. I could feel my temperature rising and my body was responding to his every touch.

As if by conditioning, when I could tell things were reaching their critical boiling point, I said, “Come on baby, stop. Let’s not get too carried away.” That did nothing to deter him however and he became even more assertive, sliding his hands over my breasts and making me elicit the most intense moans of pleasure. “Mmmm, king, that feels amazing.” I forgot all about my request to have him stop momentarily and I met his every thrust with equal passion. As the temperature began to rise, I renewed my objections, thinking he would be at his threshold and he would be packing up his stuff and heading for the door any minute.

Turning me around, facing him, using his body to press my body against the counter, Charles took my face in his hands. “Queen, I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you are in love with me.” I stood frozen. I heard the words fall softly from his lips like lyrics to a song. I diverted my eyes to the floor and he tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine. He said it again and this time I held his gaze intently. “I am in love with you and you . . .”

“And I am in love with you,” I cut him off. I swallowed hard, half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole but deep in my heart knowing that, at last, I had found the love that I had been searching for all my life, for many lifetimes. “I . . . ,” the words momentarily got caught in my throat and found the strength to go on and speak my truth, fixing my gaze on his beautiful brown eyes for comfort, “I . . . need you. I want you to stay tonight. Join with me. Be my lover tonight. Enter me, taste me, and feel my . . .”

This time, he cut me off with a kiss. He placed his mouth gently against mine and tasted my lips. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was much more. It was his declaration of love. I breathed in his air and we became united in that instant. I kissed him, his tongue softly and gently conforming to mine in a soulful dance. My heart raced as I felt his lean body press more deeply into mine, feeling his engorged manhood against my mound. My breasts pressed against his chest and I started to unbutton his shirt, tracing my lips down his slightly salty neck, eliciting gentle moans from him.

Something about him, about what we shared comforted me and I released all my inhibitions and allowed myself to be sensual, erotic, passionate, and primal without reservation. He met me where I was and matched my passions equally. Our kisses become more fevered; his hands under my sarong and slid up the soft, inner flesh of my thighs, finding the moist juncture between my legs. I took his hand and held it firmly in my own. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered.

He led the way; I followed with complete trust. Inside my sanctuary, the lights off, he made his way around the room, lighting candles as I put on some music. We met in the middle of the room and embraced again. This was our night to join together in a holy, transcendent union. This was the quintessential union of man and woman, of masculine and feminine energies, of yin and yang. This was the universe revealing itself, creationism and evolution coming together in the ultimate expression.

He laid me on the bed and untied my sarong; he unbuttoned my blouse and slid it off my body. Pulling his locs up and securing them atop his head, he began to make a feast of my body. Slowly, methodically, he used his mouth to lick, suck, taste, and kiss every inch of my body. His lips gently explored the inside of my elbow and his tongue made sensual love to my belly button. As ticklish as I am, I couldn’t stop squirming and giggling. It made me more at ease; I was able to laugh and enjoy every delicious second of his seduction. Charles’ hands explored my curves and with each passing caress, with each tender stroke, I became more and more aroused. I responded to each touch with a moan, a guttural groan, and a heavy sigh. My skin tingled under the manipulations of his fingertips.

Just when I thought I was at the very limit of my arousal, when I thought I could take not one more millisecond of stimulation, Charles decided he was going to up the stakes. Standing, he removed his clothing and stood beautifully naked and erect before me. Without using words, he used his eyes alone to instruct me to spread my legs. I arched my back and did as I was “told” sliding my hands down my body, teasing him seductively. The candlelight bathed his silhouette beautifully, creating shadows and light on his golden skin. I was beyond aroused; each and every one of my senses was stimulated and heightened. My mouth watered staring at him; I wanted to explore his body with my mouth the way he had done with mine but Charles had other plans.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for this moment from the day we met. I need to feel you explode in my mouth. I want to give you pleasure untold and drink freely from your center.” I slid my finger between my engorged lips, brought my finger to my lips and seductively sucked it, tasting my slippery, sweet juices. He took his time, positioning himself so that he was comfortable between my legs. He wasn’t one to be rushed. At first, he just stared at me, taking in every detail of my sacred sex. He spread my lips and studied my clit and lips like a painter studies his subject. He inhaled deeply my fragrance, intoxicated by my personal aroma. Then, only after he had taken in every detail, memorized my every contour to memory, he closed his eyes and softly, gently, lowered his mouth to my flesh. I let out a sound that was otherworldly. Bliss consumed every pore in my body. He tasted, licked, sucked, and kissed me, building my passion, raising my energy up my chakras. I wrapped my legs around his head and grabbed a handful of locs. I was nearing the point of no return. My muscles tightened and my orgasm was eminent. Charles was a man on a mission. He used his fingers to penetrate my holes and his mouth to gently, rhythmically suck my clit. Unable to hold off any longer, I released my cum into his mouth. I shook and trembled with ecstasy but that was not he signal to stop. He wanted my orgasm to unfold against itself, to replicate like a strand of DNA.

Trembling and shaking, I felt intoxicated with pleasure. I was beyond wet; I had soaked the sheets with my juices. Taking his true place between my legs, he positioned himself to penetrate me for the very first time. I wanted to speak words in the moment but none came. Our communication was cellular. I felt him enter me and he took my breath away. I met each thrust and he maintained eye contact with me intensely. I could see concentration on his face but I could tell that he was experiencing intense pleasure as well. He stroked deep and hard, my juices coating him, our bodies sweating, moving in time. We made love, he made loved to me more intensely, more passionately than I’d ever experienced before in my life.

When he was on the verge of erupting, he flipped me over, he entered me from behind, filling the room with the sounds of our bodies colliding as he made love to me like a man on a mission. My orgasms outnumbered his at this point by about five or six to none and he wasn’t even close to finishing. I grabbed the sheets and met his every thrust. I think I might have passed out from pleasure, or at the very least, I was delirious with satisfaction. Four positions later, I was no longer able to keep track of my orgasms. Finally, he laid his body on mine and, almost imperceptibly, I felt his penis throbbing and pulsating within the warm, wet, velvety walls of my vagina. Our eyes held each other’s gaze, we kissed; we were connected body, mind, and soul. In that moment, I felt his body tense and he arched his back and buried himself deeply inside me. I joined with him, releasing my energy into him as I exploded in what was more than sexual ecstasy, it was spiritual bliss. We had made it to a new place in our relationship, and at last, I had released all the pain and negativity that had kept me from experiencing true and abiding love.

Copyright 2010 Scottie Lowe All Rights Reserved

Defining Racism

I'm always amused at white people, when there is some example of racism in the news, inevitably they say, "Oh no, it didn't have anything to do with racism," as if white people have enough insight and sensitivity to anyone's experience other than their own to be able to determine what’s racist or not.  Racist behavior goes far beyond wearing a sheet and burning a cross. Racism is white people telling Black people that our experience is invalid because it doesn't coincide with their reality. Racism is the INCESSANT need for white people to tell Black people that things are not as bad as we make them out to be. Racism is the ever-present need white people have to suggest that the  inequality that exists between blacks and whites today has NOTHING to do with the enslavement of our ancestors, the racism that this country was built on. If slavery had nothing to do with the psychological condition of Blacks today then all you are saying is that Black people are truly inferior and that is, by definition, RACIST.

The constant and infuriating comparison of slavery to other tragedies is racist. "Well Jews had the Holocaust and they don't behave like you blacks." Jews weren’t enslaved without human dignity for GENERATIONS. Every white person that throws that comparison out is actually saying, "See, Blacks behave the way they do because they are natural savages because Jews don't behave like that." The psychological devastation of enslavement for seven years is VASTLY different than the enslavement of an entire race for 250 years. "Well, look at Oprah/Condoleezza, she made it." Yes, Oprah did, and so did quite a few others of us but the obstacles she had to overcome were greater than any white person would have had to face. Condoleezza takes pride in distancing herself from her Blackness and she’s adopted the white man’s pathology more than any other Black woman I can think of. Their success doesn't mean that the playing field is equal for all Black people. It also doesn't mean that they didn't face racism every step of the way. Moreover, it doesn't mean that every black person has had the same opportunities as they did.  Most importantly, it doesn't mean that the impact of slavery isn't long-term.  The incessant need to deny the impact of OWNING human beings and subsequently denying them every right as a human being is, by definition, RACIST. 

How many clichés can you quote? “Black people have BET, what would happen if white people had WET?” Every fucking channel is White Entertainment Television. Every fucking channel is run by white executives to please white viewers, with white racial biases abound. “I didn’t own any slaves; my family didn’t own any slaves.” No one’s family owned slaves according to white people. Moreover, white people didn’t benefit in any way from slavery today. In fact, every white person’s relatives came here during the depression and they had it just as bad as Blacks, worse even. They were able to make it because they worked hard. Blacks chose to be lazy and that’s why they didn’t prosper. That’s the reasoning of a racist. “I’m not racist, I __________ fill in the blank with a.) have black friends b.) I dated a black person in college or c.) am submissive to Blacks sexually.” Again, white people get to define what’s racist. Having Black friends and being attracted to Black genitalia doesn’t mean you’ve shed yourself from the racist beliefs that this country was built on.

Racism is insinuated into every single facet of our society. It takes effort to rid oneself of racist beliefs and I can assure you that anyone who says, “I’m not racist and follows it with justification of why they aren’t hasn’t done that work.

Deep in the Heart of Africa

Taking it to the Hole

“Let’s head over to West 4th for a pickup game, whadda ya say?” It was a hot summer New York night, the kind where it doesn’t dip below 80 degrees and anyone and everyone is out and about, looking for something to do. The idea sounded like a great one to Ernesto; his friends, however, weren’t as enthusiastic.

“Whadda ya fucking crazy? It’s fucking hot as fuck. What the fuck do I want to fucking go all the way to fucking Manhattan for a fucking game of fucking basketball to further sweat my big, hairy fucking balls off at 10 o’clock at fucking night? Are you fucking kidding me?” Ernesto’s cousin Vinny had the vocabulary of a Soprano and the basketball skills of a third grade girl so there was no way in hell he was gonna go anywhere to play basketball at any time. He needed to play it off so he went on and on about how hot it was and about how it was too far to travel. The rest of the gang; Tony A., Tony M., and Joey, weren’t the worst basketball players in the world but they certainly knew enough to know that if they were going to go to W.4th Street for a pickup game, they would get spanked. They all moaned about how hot it was and dismissed the idea.

Ernesto couldn’t be dissuaded so easily. It was a hot Saturday night and he knew the courts would be packed. He needed to go. He just couldn’t see himself hanging out in the neighborhood, drinking 40s out of a brown paper bag, talking about bangin’ girls, listening to Tupac, and bitching about over how hard it is to be a white man in today’s society. Ernesto was different. Born in Tuscany, he’d moved to Brooklyn when he was 11 to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car crash. Twenty years later, he had lost his foreign accent but never quite acquired a New York one either. He stood out like a sore thumb in so many ways. He was the most worldly of the group always looking to experience new adventures, he’d even gone to out of state for college. Most of the guys around the way had never gotten past high school, let alone moved out of state. Truth be told, a few had never even been to the Bronx. He had a great job in Manhattan as a massage therapist; his friends thought that was some fairy shit. It was okay when his clients were hot chicks but they were disgusted by the idea of him rubbing on some sweaty dude. Ernesto even looked different. His complexion was naturally darker, his jet black hair just touched his shoulders, steel gray eyes, and a 6’2” body he worked on religiously all worked together to make him look like a Calvin Klein model. Most of his buddies stood about 5’10” with short hair and were getting beer bellies in their 30s.

For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted and loved in the community like he was no different at all. And he loved his family and his friends. They had taken care of him when he was at his lowest, most lonely point. While most people anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the neighborhood to help take care of his grandmother who had come from Italy 10 years ago because she was aging. His aunt and uncle both worked graveyard and didn’t have the time to care for her in the evenings and Vinny and Theresa, his other cousin, only knew how to curse in Italian so they couldn’t really communicate well with her. Ernesto loved his family and would do anything for them so leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was really out of the question.

“I’ll check you guys later, I’m heading to the city to play some ball.” Nobody was shocked and they barely looked up as Ernesto grabbed his gym bag and headed for the subway. He plopped down on the cool seat and pulled out the book he’d been reading, a collection of works by James Baldwin. He was fascinated by the social commentary and the descriptions of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a Black gay man in America. Being a gay man himself, a closeted gay man, he connected with the words, he connected with the struggle and the rage. His friends, even though he had sucked off most of them when they were younger, including his cousin, were as homophobic as they come. They had to be. It was part and parcel for the good fella’s persona that they had to carry off. It never occurred to them that Ernesto could be gay because he was masculine, athletic, and he had women swooning over him every time he walked in a room. The stuff that happened when they were younger was just boys being boys, and they would never admit it to anyone the experimentation they had done as kids so his secret was pretty safe.

As he emerged from the bowels of the train system, into the humid night air of Greenwich Village, except for the fact that it was dark, it could have been 11:00 in the afternoon instead of 11:00 at night. The streets were bustling with activity, packed with people out doing anything and everything you could think of. He made his way to the courts and just watched the first two games. Ever since he could remember, he’d loved Black men. As cliché as it sounds, after his first Black lover, he had no desire to be with another white man again so the old “once you go black” adage was true in his case. For the better part of 7 years he’d dated Black men exclusively. Sitting there, seeing all of those toned and muscled bodies, gave him an even further appreciation of the Black male form. It wasn’t a lustful appreciation, well, at least not in the overtly sexual sense. It was a profound and deep respect for not just their physical bodies, but for the struggle they endured that he read about in the pages of his book.

There’s an unspoken code that says that white boys who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get served so people were always looking to school them and make sure they play. Three on three, half court, to 21, shirt vs. skins. Ernesto was shirts and he was playing the team who had just won the last game. Skins got the ball first and scored three points right off the bat. He was guarding a guy who had dominated the previous game and he knew he had to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to toe under the rim. They were the same height, even the same body type, but his opponent was the color of caramel with a shiny bald head. It was a queer guy’s heaven, being able to publicly run his hands over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles, sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own. It was all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard, making sure everyone knew he was there to ball. The guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent him to the ground. There ain’t no fouls in street ball so he was right back up and in the game; he didn’t miss a beat. He got the ball and showed he had some skills. The other part of the unspoken code is, that when a white boy has skills on the court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite, getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines n’ everything.

The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and the shirts had the ball. Dude was blocking him, checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the paint. He pivoted and -- whoosh, nothing but net. In the split second right before the shot, he thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his cock. Not just body contact that happens during the course of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost caressing it. It happened so quickly and the score was tied so he couldn’t dwell on it. The two adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye contact. The court lights made every drop of sweat glisten on his opponent’s shirtless body. One of the other skins sank the final shot ending the game. The entire court erupted in cheers and back-slapping and kudos about the great game.

Ernesto sat on the bench and pulled out his towel. His book was on the top of the bag so he sat it next to him. While he was toweling off and catching his breath, drinking a little Gatorade, he saw a hand reaching out to him.

“Good game man, I’m impressed.”

He extended his hand and looked up, “Yeah, congratulations, great game,” Ernesto replied, still trying to catch his breath.

“Name’s Flex. Anytime you want to play a little game of pick up, let me know, I’d love to have you on my team.” He smiled a gorgeous smile and Ernesto looked up and then down, his eyes resting on the crotch directly eye level in front of him.

“Your mom named you Flex,” Ernesto asked, trying to sound aloof but still out of breath and doing his best not to show it.

“My pops named me Eugene, Jr. but I’ll beat somebody’s ass if they call me that. So it’s Flex.” They both laughed.

“Yeah, my name is Ernesto and we got problems if anyone calls me Ernie, so I’m really feeling you. Here have a seat.” He moved his book out the way and slid down a half a foot to let Flex sit down next to him. They watched a little bit of the next game in silence.

“You from around here,” Flex asked?

“Nah, I live in Brooklyn,”

“Oh, I see.”

That sat in silence some more, watching the game and neither one of them willing to address what had happened on the court. Ernesto figured he’d been mistaken. It was a physical game and maybe Flex didn’t know he was grabbing his cock. Maybe he thought it was his arm or something. That had to be it.

“”Is this your book? Man, I love James Baldwin. ‘I am what time, circumstance, and history, have made of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than that.’ Now that some deep shit right there.” Just then, it was as if the wall of ice had been broken. The two men started talking and sharing and letting down their guards. They had a connection more than sports and it was electric. “Are you busy right now, I mean, are you in a rush to head back to Brooklyn, because I only live around the corner from here. We can go to my place and hang out if you want. I’m not a serial killer . . . any more, I promise.” They both laughed and Flex flashed that gorgeous smile again and before Ernesto knew what was happening, they were walking towards 10th street and in a cute little studio apartment. Flex was a graphic designer for an advertising firm and had moved from his own roots in Queens to his little apartment 7 years ago.

Once inside the apartment, the only place to sit comfortably was the futon. Ernesto looked uncomfortable. He didn’t want to put his smelly, sweaty ass on the place where Flex slept and sat on a daily basis. He was really feeling this guy and wanted to be invited back and he didn’t think that would make such a great first impression to leave his scent, so to speak, so he was trying to figure out how he could sit on the floor without looking like a dork.

Flex came to the rescue before he could even process the thought completely in his head. “Hey, it’s pretty hot out there; you can take a shower if you want to cool off. Guests first. Here’s a towel and everything’s in the bathroom you should need.” Ernesto dropped his gym bag by the door inside in the small bathroom. He took off his sweaty clothes and stepped in the shower, feeling the warm water wash away the layer of sweat. Shutting his eyes, he thought back to the court. Had he gotten his signals mixed? Maybe Flex was just a nice guy who wanted to hang out; maybe he happened to like James Baldwin because he was a great writer, not because he was a great gay Black writer. Maybe that hand caressing his cock wasn’t really caressing it; maybe it was just part of the game, maybe to make him miss his shot. Whatever it was, Ernesto was deep in thought, remembering the feel of Flex’s hand on his cock, the same cock that he had in his hand now and was stroking, thinking about his sexy, sweaty new friend.

He shut his eyes tightly and started thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts, jerking off and fantasizing. A knock at the door shocked him back to reality.

“Hey, don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” Flex yelled through the door, but do you want something to drink? A martini, a beer, a glass of wine, water, Kool Aid. Anything? Iced Tea, maybe?”

“A beer’s cool, thanks,” he yelled back and quickly turned off the water to dry off. Ernesto wasn’t trying to put the same stinky clothes back on so he tied the towel around his waist and headed out to see if Flex had anything he could put on. His cock was still hard but he pushed it down and tried to will it to stay soft.

That thought lasted an entire 1.5 seconds because when he opened the bathroom door, he saw Flex, standing naked in front of the closet, grabbing for a towel to put around him. “Hey, how was the shower?” He turned, wrapped the towel around himself and, not waiting for an answer, he said, “Your beer is on the coffee table, make yourself at home, I’ll be right back, I need to take a shower myself.”

Ernesto was impressed with the tiny apartment. Flex’s music collection was eclectic but mostly all Black: jazz, blues, R&B, hip hop, and some gospel. The art on the walls was amazing and inspecting further, he saw that most were signed with the name Flex. Because the place was so small, every square inch of space was utilized. Oddly enough, the place didn’t look cluttered at all; it might have been small on space but it was big on style. The timer on the oven went off and Flex was still in the shower so he decided to take out whatever was in there. Opening the oven door, a fantastic aroma came wafting out. He pulled out the dish and it was some sort of dip that had been heated to go with the tri colored chips that had been put out on a platter. Ernesto was blown away. “This guy can play ball, he can quote James Baldwin, he has a great apartment, he’s creative, he can cook, and he’s sexy as hell. Damn, I think I just met my future husband,” he said under his breath.

“What did you say? Oh good, I’m glad you pulled that out. Thanks.” Flex looked even more amazing fresh from the shower with his towel around his waist. Ernesto didn’t bother answering his question and instead took the tray and set it on the coffee table while Flex was opening up the futon. “Here, this will be more comfortable. Have a seat, take a load off.”

The two men lounged on the futon, talking about everything under the sun, sharing details about their lives, drinking beer, listening to music, and eating. It was soon very apparent that Flex was gay, out, and very confident in his sexuality, so much so, he didn’t even make it an issue. Because Ernesto had been ruled by his hidden identity, everything had more impact on him, he had to analyze and dissect everything as if there was a hidden meaning behind it. When Flex offered to let him spend the night, he didn’t know if it was a sexual invitation or not; he didn’t know how to respond.

Flex could sense his hesitation and he left the question open for him to decide. He got up, turned off all the lights, lit a few candles and came back, this time, taking off his towel and letting it fall to the floor. He stood there for a few seconds, letting his new friend take everything in. “Does this make you uncomfortable?” Ernesto shook his head but didn’t say a word. He climbed back on the futon, this time even closer. His heart started beating faster, the blood started pumping in his veins; he was being seduced. Flex reached out to kiss him softly; Ernesto forgot to close his eyes; he wanted to see everything. The kiss was soft and gentle and in many ways atypical of most of kisses Ernesto had ever shared with someone. Usually the men he was with were closeted, intent on proving their masculinity, on dominating the proverbial white boi behind closed doors, playing up the thug/Mandingo role. He let his eyes close gently, experiencing the kiss with the rest of his senses. He could smell the clean scent of Flex’s skin, still fresh from the shower; he could feel the softness of his lips against his own. He could taste his tongue gently exploring his mouth and he could hear the soft moan escape from his own lips in awe of the sensations he was feeling.

“Okay, Mr. Massage therapist,” Flex said, “let me check out some of your magic,” as he pulled away from the sensual kiss. He stretched out on his stomach, adding, “Let’s see if you can work out some of this tension I have in my shoulders.”

Ernesto said, “Hold on, let me get my bag.” He returned a few seconds later with a special blend of massage oil he used for work. This time, he also took off his towel and let it fall to the floor as well, exposing his cock that had been half hard since they left the courts. Flex didn’t even look, he had his head resting on his arms and his eyes closed, waiting for his massage. Ernesto straddled his legs and looked down at the gorgeous body he was about to caress. He warmed the oil on his hands and started at the shoulders, aroused by the contrast in skin colors. Flex let out a moan and shifted a little but he didn’t say a word. Working his way downwards, he found the spots that were tight and loosened them; he rubbed the sore muscles and left that smooth brown skin glowing in the candlelight. He worked his way further down, hesitating for a few moments before he started massaging the full, round ass cheeks of his new friend. Flex let out more of a moan and started grinding his hips, even adjusting himself to make his thickening tool more comfortable under him. Grabbing the bottle of oil, he drizzled it on his skin and started massaging those magnificent mounds of flesh. He wanted to stroke his own cock, now fully erect, but he didn’t, he was intent on doing a good job, better than he’d ever done before.

He worked his way down Flex’s thighs and even used a few reflexology techniques on his feet. “Here, do the fronts of my legs now, I’m sore from that workout you gave me earlier.” He turned over and Ernesto couldn’t move. Flex flashed that gorgeous smile yet again but that paled in comparison to the body of perfection before him. Shoulders that were broad leading down to muscular toned arms, a hairless, well-developed chest and six pack abs that looked like a washboard. His dick stood up straight and tall and his balls were resting on his thighs. Ernesto didn’t even want to look at the rest of him; he just wanted to drink in the beauty of that magnificent hard dick.

Flex teased him, stroking it casually with his other arm behind his head. “You like that? Go ahead, touch it.” He put his other arm behind his head and repeated, “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”

Ernesto swallowed hard and held the shaft in his hands. The heat from it was incredible and the thickness was impressive to say the least. He grabbed it at the base and brought his hand all the way to the top, twisting his hand just a bit for a little more stimulation. Flex moaned his approval and licked his lips. “Don’t stop,” was all he said. Putting more oil on his hands, Ernesto started stroking more, bringing him to full hardness, coaxing out precum from the head of that delicious piece of meat.

“Go ahead, suck it, you know you want to, suck my dick.” The confidence that oozed from Flex made the situation that much more intense, more erotic and Ernesto felt light headed. He wasn’t being rude or domineering, he was just sure of himself, uninhibited.

Ernesto positioned himself between Flex’s legs, stroking him some more, teasing him, and Flex spread his legs to accommodate him. Fingering his balls and holding them up, he started his mouth job there, licking and gently sucking his nuts. Rolling them around in his fingers, he was getting them wet with saliva and licking the sensitive sacks. Flex appreciated the attention to his balls and let him know how good it felt. “Oh shit, it’s been a long time since someone paid attention to my nuts like that. Damn, that feels so good. Ohhhh yeah.” He grabbed his knees, pulled them to his chest, giving Ernesto better access. Stopping momentarily to catch his breath, he put one testicle in his mouth and started flicking his tongue back and forth rapidly. Flex could barely breathe it felt so good. “Damn, if you suck my balls that good, I can’t even imagine how good it’s going to feel when you suck my dick and eat my ass.”

Anxious to get to both of those tasks, he said, “Which of those things would you prefer I do first?” Flex’s dick jumped at those words, his mind reeling with all the erotic possibilities.

Flex grabbed his dick at the base, tapping the head against Ernesto’s lips, teasing him. His instructions were clear. “Suck my dick.”

Not needing any more of an invitation, Ernesto set about his task. He replaced Flex’s hand with his own and started stroking it, using massage techniques to stimulate spots that would make Michelangelo's David squirm. Using his tongue, he began softly licking the head, swirling it around and flicking it gently at the hole. Flex moved his hands down to Ernesto’s head, but not to face fuck him or force him down on his swollen member, but to hold his hair out of the way in order to see the expert job he was doing. He licked up and down the sides, getting the shaft wet, running his tongue over every vein. Flex couldn’t help but show his appreciation by moaning. Lowering his mouth on that beautiful column of flesh, he took just half of it in his mouth. He started sucking it like a baby would suck a nipple making sure to grip the base of the cock firmly in his hand. He took his tongue and started swirling it around the head and shaft and increasing the suction on his sucking. Moving his hand away, he started bobbing up and down on the cock, taking it further and further into his mouth each time. He was getting it wetter and wetter, taking the head to the back of his throat. Flex could do nothing but grip the sheets for dear life and moan, “Holy fuck, damn, shit, that’s some good shit. Oh my god that feels so good.”

Just when he thought it couldn’t feel any better, Ernesto relaxed his throat muscles and let the head of Flex’s thick cock go several inches down. His lips could feel the tickle of his hair so he knew he had accomplished his mission of taking his full length. Then, he decided to perform his magic, he started bobbing up and down, from the head to the base, taking him deep in his throat every time. Spit was dripping down his balls and Flex was breathing so hard he thought he might hyperventilate.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. I can’t take much more of that. Damn, where did you . . . oh shit, you are going to make me cum before the party even starts.” Flex sat up a little bit and the look of sheer panic on Ernesto’s face was evident. “Hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I just wanted to make you feel good, that’s all.” What he really wanted to say was, “I am used to guys using my mouth as many times as they want and I feel like I’ve failed if I didn’t make you cum.”

“You did make me feel good. Too good in fact, that was incredible. I just didn’t want to nut too soon. I like to make things last, go slow, you know.” He leaned over and kissed Ernesto again, as gently and as tenderly as before. Flex lay down on the bed, pulling Ernesto on top of him. Their kissing became more urgent, more passionate. Their tongues and lips were sucking and licking, their dicks were sensually rubbing against one another. Flex was caressing his hands along Ernesto’s spine, grabbing his ass, spreading his cheeks and teasing his hole with his fingertips.

Ready to take things to the next level, Ernesto said, “I want to feel your big cock in my ass. Fuck me.” Quickly repositioning himself, he crawled to the foot of the bed, got on his knees, and looked back over his shoulder and said in a lust-filled daze, “Fuck me.” He gripped the frame of the futon tightly, prepared to get his asshole savagely fucked but what he felt was entirely different than the searing pain/pleasure he was anxiously anticipating. “Nooo,” he hollered out.

Flex had repositioned himself as well. He was laying between Ernesto’s thighs underneath him and started sucking his dick. He wrapped his arms around Ernesto’s back and held him in place while he delivered some equally spectacular head to his new lover. Try as he might, Ernesto could not pull away and he felt his body succumb to the oral pleasures he was receiving. “No, no, no, no,” was all he could say. He thought to himself, “Can’t he tell that I’m a bottom whose only use and purpose is to serve and please?” Flex was fucking with the entire fabric of the universe. Ernesto was in the closet and he was sub to Black men, meaning he got his pleasure, alone, in the solitude of his bed in shame and in silence, long after the sexual experience was over, reliving it in his mind, jerking off to how he had pleased his lover, how he had been the perfect bottom, never expecting any pleasure in return whatsoever. Flex couldn’t hear any of that internal dialogue; all he was doing was focusing on tasting Ernesto’s dripping precum and returning the sensual favor.

The roles had changed again, this time with Ernesto trying to change the direction of things. He was able to pull away and this time he lay back on the bed and spread his legs, holding them up and pleading with his new lover to be fucked. “Ram that big dick in my pussy, fuck me hard. FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF ME. Come on, daddy, I need it so bad. Pound that meat in my slutty asshole and make me beg for more. I’ll be your little whore and your bitch daddy. Spit on that hole and make it nice and wet and shove that fucker in me and make it hurt.”

What happened next sent a chill of panic and pleasure through Ernesto’s body. Before he could realize what was happening, he felt the soft, gentle tongue of Flex exploring his hole, kissing it, licking it, tongue fucking it. He’d never felt that sensation before in his life. He grabbed his knees and pulled them closer to his chest, exposing his hole even more. All he could feel was the warm, wet sensation of that probing tongue and while his head wanted to say, “Stop.” His mouth was saying, “Oh shit, that feels so fucking good, don’t you dare stop.” As many times as he’d rimmed his lovers before, he never imagined that being on the receiving end could feel so damned sexy.

Flex, inspired by his lover’s words, didn’t disappoint. He licked and sucked and tongue fucked that hole, making it wet and ready. He got on his knees and aimed his bloated dick at that sexy hole. He teased it, teased him, by rubbing his head on that hole. Just before he pushed it in, he leaned down and whispered in Ernesto’s ear, “I want you so fucking bad.” They kissed again and Ernesto felt the head of Flex’s cock enter him. It was slow, steady, calculated and giving him pleasure in every cell of his fucking body. They were grunting and sweating again as the pace was slow and agonizingly sensual. Ernesto was being made love to and he knew it. He used his fingertips to softly explore Flex’s body while the two worked out a rhythm. Flex stroked, Ernesto squeezed, they fucked each other like gorgeous wild animals. The pounding became more intense, the stroking harder, deeper. Their moans grew wilder and their kissing more frenzied.

Flex pulled out and replaced his dick with his mouth, tonguing out that gaping, well-fucked hole. Ernesto made a sound that couldn’t be described. It was the singular most erotic, nasty, sensual feeling he’d had in his life. He grabbed his cock and started pounding it furiously, ready to spew his load then and there. Flex had other plans. Grabbing the bottle of massage oil, he flipped the top open and poured it on Ernesto’s prick. Ernesto held his breath, almost sure he knew what was going to happen next but terrified to think about it.

Flex moved into position and straddled his body. He could feel his cock rubbing between those full, round ass cheeks. In that moment, in his mind, Ernesto outted himself. He knew that he could no longer remain in the closet; he realized that he had handicapped himself by not being able to love whomever he wanted freely. He knew that he could not keep his secret any longer to anyone. In the darkness of his self-imposed closet, he was a submissive bottom. In the glaring light of his sexual freedom, he was a man who loved other men. The feel of his cock penetrating Flex’s tight asshole distracted his revelation. He felt the ring of Flex’s ass gripping every millimeter of his erection, squeezing it, riding it up and down. He looked up to see a look of sheer pleasure and ecstasy on his lover’s face, unencumbered by roles of top or bottom, just expressing his sexuality freely and genuinely.

With his ass settled down on Ernesto’s body, Flex started grinding and working his ass, using his ass muscles to milk that hot cock. Ernesto grabbed Flex’s hips and started thrusting, fucking him back, working his dick in harder, trying to go deeper. Flex started bouncing up and down on his dick, riding him hard. The look on his face was one of pure bliss. Ernesto shut his eyes and got lost in the sensation, “Oh Flex, I love . . . this, I love this.” He really wanted to say I love you. It was as if every fiber of his being wanted to profess his love for the man who was giving him pleasure in ways he’d never imagined.

Flex leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I love you too.” Both of them knew it was the lust talking, both of them knew intellectually that it couldn’t be love based on a couple of hours. Both of them knew that there was a connection there that would last well past a one night stand or casual sex as well.

Using his muscular arms, Ernesto flipped Flex over and placed him on his knees. Flex looked back and said, “Fuck me, ram that dick in me.” They both groaned as Ernesto pushed the entire length of his cock in that hot hole and started pounding away. It was pure, unbridled, sensuous fucking. He gripped that brown flesh and pulled him closer, he could see the contrast in skin color, the way Flex’s asshole would grip his cock as he slid in and out, faster, harder, deeper, faster still, harder, using every muscle in his body to give pleasure. He was hitting that hot spot, making Flex moan like a little bitch. The way his cock felt, surrounded by that hot, tight ring, he was cursing in a string of Italian and English and what seemed like another primal language only understood by lovers.

He could feel the cum about to explode from his cock. He began pistoning his cock in and out, harder than he thought he was capable of doing. Flex was taking it all and begging for more. He crushed Flex beneath him and used his ass to pump and pound, His fingers intertwined with Flex as he unloaded his cum deep inside him.

Six months later, Flex and Ernesto stood as a testament to true interracial gay love. They didn’t flaunt their sexuality but they certainly didn’t hide it either. All of his friends in Brooklyn disowned him, wouldn’t speak to him again. They would have been a little more tolerant of the idea if Flex hadn’t been Black but they couldn’t get it out of their minds that their friend, their paesano, was the bitch to a black guy. It was beyond their comprehension that the two were far more than top and bottom, they were reciprocal, versatile lovers with no roles or labels.

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

Satisfying my Sweet Tooth

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Take This Pussy

I want to be face down on the bed with my ass up, my pussy lips spread for you, showing off my wet, pink, aroused center. I want to feel the head of your dick sliding up and down my wet slit, teasing me, rubbing on my clit, making me whimper, making me desperate to have you inside me. I want to feel you penetrate me, drive your dick deep inside me and stroke me, make me moan. Grip my hips, steady yourself and take aim. Fuck me. Fuck me until our bodies are sweating and the only sounds in the room are of our bodies slapping together, the steady rhythm of our unbridled fucking. I want to feel the head of your dick hitting all my spots, making me scream and grip the sheets, pulling them off the mattress. FUCK ME, BABY. Make me cum all over you, getting you wet, feeling my juices drip down your thighs. Take your pleasure. I want to hear your incoherent grunts, telling me in animalistic sounds that you love the way my pussy makes you feel. Take this pussy. Make it yours. Plant your seed deep inside me and let me know that you love the way I make you feel.

Don't Ever Wonder

Afro Kama Sutra

For my Same Gender Loving Fellas

My Soul is Restless

Something is not right in my soul, there’s something amiss. I feel ill at ease, anxious maybe, like I’m suffering from withdrawal; something’s just not right. Old folks used to say, “Honey, you just have a good ole fashioned case of the blues.” It’s not that I’m depressed or melancholy; I’m simply frustrated. My body is aching for connection, touch, for intimacy. Really, what I feel right now can be summed up with two words. I’m lonely.

I want to dive into that magical bond with a man that is chemical, genetic even. I want to sit across a bistro table in the warm summer night air and stare into beautiful brown eyes and laugh at silly jokes and flirt. I want to smile . . . just smile from my heart when I see him. I want my hand to fit perfectly in his when we walk along the water’s edge, staring at the full moon, and feel him put his arm around me when I get a chill. I need that romantic, thoughtful, sweet, amazing brotha in my life who takes my breath away every time I see him.

I want to kiss. Oh God, I want to kiss for hours. I want to feel his body on top of mine, feel his arousal pressing against my body, his hands roaming over my entire curves while he whispers in my ear, “Scottie, I want you.” I want to be serenaded by Coltrane playing softly in the background as I feel his lips kissing the nape of my neck, nibbling softly on my ear. I need to fall asleep in a brotha’s strong arms, feel his body conforming to mine, our naked bodies covered by a soft, white, cotton sheet as a ceiling fan swirls above us.

I’m lonely. I miss the sensations that only a brotha can bring. I want to make love. I want to join body, mind, and spirit together in a hot, sweaty union of passion and bliss. I want to fuck for hours: tasting, touching, exploring and every inch of his body. I want to feel my orgasm building to a fevered pitch, feeling the pleasure consume my body as I fight it, as I struggle to channel that energy up my chakras through the top of my head. I miss the sensation of my juices flowing freely, that slippery, sticky sweat coating our bodies.

I can’t sleep at nights. I don’t like going to bed alone. I toss and turn in solitude, longing for that touch, that connection that I crave so intensely because I’m a better woman when I’m connected. I offer up my prayers, my petition to the One Most High that I might find a partner with whom I can connect and bond intimately.

Scottie Lowe

Stress Reducers Increase Quality of Life

Stress is wreaking havoc on our lives. Marriage, children, threats of terror, and our daily 9-5 are causing us tension. Stress can manifest itself in a number of physically debilitating ways. That excruciating migraine that pounds your head, that searing pain in your neck and shoulders, and that dull aching pressure you feel in the small of your back can all be caused by stress. It seems the body translates the anxiety and frustration you feel and manifests it as very real, very painful physical sensations.

There’s good news, however, about the ways to relieve and lesson some of that stress and tension in our lives. Perhaps the best news of all is that the answers can be found in simple ways that don’t involve being doped up on addictive medicines or expensive surgeries to alleviate the physical pains that have a non-physical origins in the first place.

The simple practice of meditation, incorporating yoga into our lives, and good old-fashioned hands-on massage therapy will do wonders in decreasing the stress in our daily lives and, thus, adding years to our cumulative lives.

Begin each day with 15 minutes of deep breathing and quieting the mind. You’re saying to yourself, “I don’t have 15 minutes in the morning with the kids, the commute, I have too much going on in the mornings and I need every minute of sleep I can get.” Fifteen minutes of meditation in the mornings can work to help you handle all the other stresses in your life with ease. You don’t have to be a monastic priest; you don’t have to spend years practicing chanting. Simply create a little space perhaps where you can look outside in nature, or at least someplace that you feel is tranquil and peaceful. Sit quietly for 15 minutes, finding a place of peace deep within you and you’ll find that you the little things that work to pluck your very last raw nerve aren’t as bothersome anymore.

Working out, going to the gym, and running are all great stress relievers but who knew that something as simple as yoga could add years to our lives? Millions of people who are joining the craze and crawling around on little mats must know something. And that something is that yoga is a great way to relieve stress and add years to our lives. It’s something that can be done in the privacy of your home or in a group class and will give us greater flexibility and decrease the tension that is causing us so many physical ailments.

Human touch can work wonders in reducing the stress in our lives. You don’t have to schedule an appointment with a professional masseuse, set aside time with your spouse for a little exchange of touch. If you don’t have a partner, ask a friend for a little shoulder rub. If you are serious about living a long, happy, healthy life, incorporating these very simple things into your life can do wonders.

Scottie Lowe