Transformation

The bartender noticed the slight movement of hand and the universal nod as the gentleman discreetly ordered another round of drinks while his date wasn’t looking.  He wasn’t trying to get her drunk; he was actually trying to work up his nerve.  Who would have thought that Doug Rivers, President and CEO of Major Conglomerate, Inc., or some such corporate plantation, would be nervous on a date with the overnight security guard in his office building? 

He had seen her for months.  He would leave his office at midnight and return at 6 a.m. and she would be there, competent, friendly, efficient and smiling.  Even with their brief interaction, Doug could tell that she wasn’t the usual overnight lackey that used the job to catch up on sleep or play video games on the computer.  She always looked him in the eye, anticipated his wants and followed up with details above and beyond what Doug required. 

Regina Marvel took her job seriously but it wasn’t difficult to do.  The job was beneath her, she dangerously underemployed and could do the job with one hand tied behind her back.  It fit her schedule perfectly however, she could go to school in the evenings, use the overnight shift to study and do research and sleep during the day.  It was the perfect gig for a grad student and she was going to take advantage of the situation as long as it was beneficial to her. 

There was something about Regina that absolutely fascinated Doug.  He found himself lingering in the lobby on his way home for inexplicable reasons.  He would actually look forward to their brief encounters on his way to the lobby in the elevator, aware that she could see his every move on the security cameras.  He wanted to strike up a conversation with her but he wasn’t sure exactly how-- or why for that matter.  She was a freakin’ security guard for God’s sake.  AND Black.  He was almost positive that he wasn’t attracted to her.  Regina was NOT his type.  Doug could get any Playboy centerfold of his choice.  If he met a bimbo and something wasn’t exactly to his liking, he had the money and the wherewithal to hire the best plastic surgeons money could buy to remedy it.  Surely, Doug Rivers could have any blonde-haired, blue-eyed, size 2 woman he wanted.  Why on earth would he find himself looking forward to seeing her every day?  Sure, she had a pretty face but she was every bit of size 18.  The top button on her navy blue uniform did little to hide her ample cleavage and Doug found himself trying to not stare occasionally. 

His curiosity could not be contained one night when he peeked over the desk one night and asked, “What are you reading back there?”

“Re-reading actually.  It’s a standard.  Patricia Hill-Collins’ Black Feminist Thought.  I’m dismantling the womanist vs. feminist argument YET AGAIN for my professor. 

Doug froze.  He’d never expected a response like that.  “Wow, I’ve never even heard of Patricia Hope-Collins yet alone can I articulate what the hell a womanist is.  I didn’t think you were that smart . . . “   He felt like an idiot the second the words left his mouth.  He never intended to be disrespectful, even to the hourly employees.  He knew he had insulted her and the sincerity in his voice was apparent as he said, “ I’m so sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

“It’s Hill-Collins and don’t sweat it.  I get it all the time at this job.  People expect me to be functionally illiterate and stupid all time.  It’s part of the job . . . It’s part of your white privilege.  You don’t have to see me as a human being.  I’m just the black body behind the desk to wait on you hand and foot.”  Regina had never been one to censor her true thoughts and the words flowed from her mouth without even the slightest hesitation. 

Doug felt the blood rise up in his cheeks.  He was mad at her for being so blunt and mad at himself because she was right.  He couldn’t let her know that he was so shaken by her forwardness.  “I’m not racist . . . I see everyone the same . . .  color doesn’t matter.”  He was spewing out clichés left and right, stumbling over his words in an effort to ease the guilt and the fact that he was painfully aware the that higher the floor number in his company the lower the numbers of African Americans.  “I don’t think that at all,” he mumbled.  “And to prove it,” gaining more nerve as he spoke,” how about I take you out for a drink on Saturday night to make up for my stupidity?  You can explain to me what womanism is.”  The words came out before he knew what he had said. 

“Mr. Rivers, I don’t need your pity date.  I’m quite confident in who I am and I don’t need to validate my intellect or personhood to alleviate your white guilt.” 

How dare she!  The gauntlet had been thrown.  How dare she challenge his motivations.  Did she have any idea who she just turned down?  Doug wondered if she had any idea how many zeroes he had in his net worth.  He was incensed that she would be so bold as to reject his offer.  There was some movement in his slacks that indicated that she had pushed the right buttons however and stirred him to an almost maniacal competitive passion. 

“This isn’t a pity date and I won’t take no for an answer.  I’ll pick you up here at 8 on Saturday,” his ego dictating his words more than common sense at that point.  “I sincerely want to get to know you better.” 

Regina laughed at his persistence and said, “If you are going to pick me up you will pick me up at my home, like a gentleman.  Unless you are afraid to come to the ghetto, Mr. Rivers . . . ,” her voice trailing off leaving a trail of innuendo and challenge. 

At that moment, Doug wanted to say, “My roommate in college was Black,” but he had attended enough of those damn sensitivity workshops to know that would be digging a deeper hole for himself.  Regina had scribbled her address on a post-it and extended it to him as an unspoken invitation. “Eight it is,” he said.

Doug was pleasantly surprised at the neighborhood that Regina lived in.  Half because he expected her to live in the ghetto and half because it looked relatively affluent and ALL Black.  He knocked on the door promptly at 8, hoping he could ease his guilt, have a drink and have her home by 9:30.  Then it would be on to a wild night of drinking and partying with the boys. 

Doug could barely believe his eyes when she opened the door.  Gone was the navy blue polyester uniform and conservative demeanor of the night security guard.  Before him was an astonishingly beautiful woman.  Her hair was down, rather than in a severe bun, and it framed her lovely face.  Her eyes were dramatic and smoky and her lips were seductive red.  She was wearing a gold colored blouse that came off the shoulder and a rust colored silk skirt that hugged her full hips, thighs and round ass.  Her smooth legs were bare and she had the tiniest high-heeled sandals that looked like nothing more than a delicate leather string that went across her perfectly pedicured toes and around her ankles.  She smelled like a mix of coconut and jasmine and something else . . . something feminine.  Her brown skin was luminescent and staring at her curvaceous figure and dazzling smile he wondered momentarily how he had not found Black women more attractive previously.  Regina was nothing less than breathtaking.

At that moment, Doug knew he was in over his head.  He quickly changed his game plan and decided to take her to his favorite exclusive martini and cigar bar.  If there was ever an atmosphere for seduction, it was there.  It was dark and secluded and the perfect environment for some sensual interplay . . . or foreplay if he was lucky.  He wasn’t sure if this was a game anymore or pure desire. 

Regina controlled the conversation, her wit, charm and intellect completely blowing Doug out of the water.  When she laughed she leaned in close and put her hand on his thigh, when she listening to his tales of mergers, takeovers and general male bravado, she licked her lips seductively and maintained her seductive eye contact.  The semi-erection Doug sported all night served to make his stories more animated and his movements guarded. 

After a few drinks and more than enough flirtation, Regina took control.  “Mr. Rivers,” she leaned in close,” Let’s drop the pretenses here, shall we? There’s enough chemistry between us to win the Half Hollow Hills Annual Science Fair.  Let’s go back to my place and see what happens.  No strings.” 

Doug swallowed hard.  He had never been with a Black woman before.  He wondered silently if it would look different, taste different, feel different.  What would his friends say?  Would they be able to tell just by looking at him that he was “different”?  A million thoughts raced through his head.  Only one word came out.  “Sure.”

He was out of his element in her home.  It was beautifully decorated, immaculate and filled with exquisite examples of Black artwork.  Doug never before considered that Black people would have all Black people in their artwork.  He hadn’t even considered that such a genre existed.  He sat nervously as she went to make herself more comfortable.  She emerged from the bedroom in a white satin nightgown.  Her nipples poked through the shiny material and her full breasts were overflowing.  In her bare feet now, she sat close to him to resume her seduction. 

Doug’s eyes couldn’t focus.  He wanted to touch her hair to see if it felt different, touch her skin to see if it felt like the velvet he imagined it to look like.  His body was alive with electricity.   “What am I doing here,” he kept thinking to himself, “she’s the overnight security guard?”    No matter what her job, or his for that matter; he knew he wanted her with every ounce of his being. 

Breaking the ice, Regina leaned in close and kissed Doug.  Her lips tasted like the slightest hint of strawberry.  Doug closed his eyes and felt his male instinct take over.  Gone were the roles and the titles, this was a man and a woman and she was about to receive every bit of his all out maneuvers.  He was intoxicated with her full lips and soft tongue.  As he cradled the back of her head he marveled at how soft her hair was.  His hands roamed freely over her curves, caressing gently her small waist and sexy bottom. 

At that point Regina was a simmering hotbed of hormones.  She didn’t give a damn if it was Duke of Windsor on her sofa, she was aroused, he was a man, and she was a woman.  They kissed more passionately, the fever rising higher.  She could feel the wetness between her legs increase.  She felt for his dick, half expecting to be disappointed.  It wasn’t the biggest dick she’d ever felt in her life but it seemed formidable enough to do the job.  It certainly was hard and it belonged to a man that was the object of her desire at that particular moment.  She placed his hand in hers and said, “let’s go.” 

The trail of men’s clothing that led to her bedroom looked like a fitting room at Saks during their annual blowout sale.  For a moment it was looking doubtful that they would make it to the bedroom at all.  Regina had lit candles and incense when she had changed her clothes so the room was warm, almost too warm, and the scent made Doug slightly light headed.  She stood before him and lowered the straps to her gown and sensuously stepped out of it, glowing in the candlelight. 

Doug was so hard it almost hurt and he was leaking precum like a teenager.  His own insecurities flashed in his mind momentarily.  “Will I be enough to satisfy her,” he thought?  Sensing his reluctance, Regina kissed him again, this time more animalistic than before.  She stroked him and whispered in his ear, “I want you,” to allay any of his imagined and unfounded fears. 

“Suck my titties, Mr. Rivers,” the exchange of power completely evident even with her use of his surname.  Regina was in control of this ship.  The weight of her breasts captivated him.  He had never in his life felt tits that big AND real.  He suckled and nursed for pleasure and comfort, wanting to bury his face in between them. 

Regina eased herself back on the white down comforter and Doug sucked and followed suit.  He positioned himself between her legs and made himself more comfortable.  His hands found her sweet center and he said, “Oh my god, you are soooo wet.” 

He held his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply her scent.  He licked her fingers and tasted her sticky, sweet, salty, earthy juices.  He was in heaven.  He spread her legs further apart to view all of her.  He clit stuck out and was begging to be sucked.  Her lips parted to reveal a pink center that was glistening with moisture.  Regina spread her pussy lips and finger fucked herself just inches away from his face.  He was mesmerized.  She pulled her fingers out and sucked her juices. 

Her raw sensuality almost drove Doug over the edge.  He put his lips to her core and tasted her sweetness, assured it was the best tasting pussy he’d ever had.  He wanted to live up to the reputation white boys had about being the best at oral sex.  He licked, sucked, tongued, and licked some more.  He kept his eyes open so he could see everything.  Regina grabbed his head and held it to her pussy as she had a series of mini orgasms in his mouth.  He had no desire to stop eating her.  He licked even more, encircling his arms around her thighs to ensure that she could not get away. 

“Oh shit, white boy, eat my pussy,” the sweet melody of her voice a different kind of honey to feed his appetites.  He was ready to explode.  “Come here baby and let me return the favor.” 

Doug’s head was spinning.  He had to make a judgment call then and there.  He was at the peak of his arousal.  A few seconds of those soft, wet lips on him and he was surely going to shoot his load.  He had to prioritize.  Feeling that pussy was first and foremost on his agenda.  This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity.  He paused, and as if reading his mind, Regina whispered, “Don’t worry.  Before the night is over I’ll have you in my mouth, pussy and ass if you are lucky.” 

He groaned in a fog of disbelief and arousal.  He straddled her face and hesitated.  For a brief second, he wondered if it was politically correct to assume a superior position over Regina.  Not only was she an employee but the centuries of disproportionate power whites had over blacks also played on his mind.  He knew deep in his heart that she was every bit his equal but he hesitated.  All reservations quickly disappeared as he felt her full lips envelop him.  “Oh shit, suck my cock, that feels so good.” The magic her lips created erased all doubt.  Her mouth was an erotic vacuum, coaxing his cum out of his balls.  He closed his eyes for the first time during the evening and fucked her mouth like it was a pussy.  He saw lights behind his eyes as he shot spurt after spurt of cum in her mouth. 

He collapsed in silence next to her and lay in silence.  Embarrassment and insecurity crept over him.  Tonight had been an eye-opening experience and quite possibly the best sexual experience of his life.  He wanted more but was unsure how to ask for it.  Unsure of what to say or do he lay there motionless, pretending to drift off to sleep, fully awake and semi erect. 

Regina snuggled next to him and stuck her tongue in his ear as she whispered.  “Come on lover.  I’m going to give you the ride of your life.”  She got up on her hands and knees and presented him with a view of perfection.  Sweet, soft mounds of Ebony flesh presented to him for his pleasure, the promised land lay within his reach.  He knelt behind her and held his erection to her opening; the contrast in color was intoxicating.  Never in his life had he seen anything so sexy.  Never in his life had he felt so alive.  Transformed, it seems by the overnight security guard. 

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

The Admiration of Lovers

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There was that moment of recognition, that split second when I first laid eyes on you that I knew you were the one.  Every fiber of my being, every cell in my body recognized you as my other half.  I was enveloped with a peace that passeth understanding and love so deep, so profound that I knew my reality had been shifted forever.  Never more could I be satisfied with the mundane and the average.

You moved slowly and deliberately, arousing me with your mere presence.  Your hugs would cause my knees to weaken and the gentle touch of your fingertips to the nape of my neck would elicit intense sensations of pleasure.  Your seduction of me was complete, stimulating my mind with your knowledge, my soul with your insight and my body with your slow and calculated caresses.  Your kisses, oh your sweet kisses, such ecstasy and intoxication I’ve never known.
I close my eyes to receive your kiss and I float freely in a realm of bliss.  Your soft tongue licks and your tender lips envelope mine and I respond in kind, letting my mouth express my passion and desire.  Your hands explore my body with such tender and intentional strokes.  I feel my temperature rise and my body begin to ache for you to complete me.  Lover, come unto me, join with me so that we might fulfill our destinies and become one.

Come lover; lie all night between my legs.  Lay your weary head on me and let me provide shelter for you from the stresses of the day.  I will be your refuge and your respite.  Come lover; lay your weight upon me.  Feel out bodies crushed together; see our limbs intertwined, a beautiful embrace where you have no ending and I no beginning.  We are the alpha and the omega made manifest as one.  We are yin and yang, created perfectly to give one another balance and completion.  Oh dear lover, fill your hands with the fullness of my hips, grip them as tightly as you would a security blanket in the dead of night when you are awakened from your peaceful slumber by a nightmare.  I will protect you; I will shelter you always with my love.  I know that ours is a love created in the stars and birthed in grace.  Come lover; let my legs surround you, pulling you closer as we prepare to journey to a holy union of body, mind and soul.  Let me feed you with my words of support and encouragement; let me bathe you with my kisses softly on your skin.  Let us possess each other so that your breath becomes my life force, my heartbeat becomes your rhythmic pulse, our vibrations rise together until we become one.

Deep inside me is the place where you belong.  I will be your shelter from the storm, the comfort you need when you are weary.  Allow me to envelope you, embrace you within my sacred space.  Penetrate me and join with me as we become one.  I have found you, you whom my soul has loved from the beginning of time.  I will hold you deep inside me and I will not let you go.  I will invite you into the space that will soothe you and protect you.  This space will be the beacon in the night and I will bathe you with sweet surrender.  Inside me is where you and I cease to exist and we are transformed into a complete entity in and of itself.  No one else shall enter this space from now on; it belongs to you and you alone.  You have the key to my heart and my body.  You are the key that fits me perfectly and you have unlocked my desire.  I crave you inside me.  Home, where you know you are loved.  Home, where you are safe from harm.  The room where you plant your seed will be all you need to wash away your doubts and fears.  Climb the stairs and lay your burdens down as I welcome you home.

A love that God has ordained cannot be destroyed or separated. Love is the ultimate truth and universal love cannot be broken.  You’ve come home to me, to us, because our energy is far greater together than apart.  You will not find another that will hold you through the night and anticipate your needs like I will.  No one else will fuel your passions and satisfy them so completely.  It’s not vanity that makes me speak these words.  It’s the recognition that we are the sum of two parts that together make a whole.  United we are stronger, together we can accomplish any task.  You are my King and I live to serve you, to exalt you as divinely capable, strong, and wise.  I know that I reign supremely as your queen; not your servant or your maid but as your partner and your equal.  We have put aside those notions of subservience and domination and we have defined anew how we will command authority as a couple.

I love you.  I love you from the depths of my soul and I place that love upon a pedestal to be honored and cherished.  I love those deep expressive eyes that undress me from across the room.  I love your stubborn demeanor that yields to reason.  I love all of you, flaws and imperfections, strengths and talents too.  You promised me a lifetime ago that one day we would join together to become one, to fulfill our destinies and you’ve fulfilled your promise.  This love is greater than I’ve ever known.  This love is stronger than my mind could conceive and it fills me with a peace that transcends time and space.

White Male Submission

This particular piece is the most viewed, most searched for post on my blog.  I'm posting it again only because I plan on updating and revising it.  It's been at least five or six years since I've written it and I'm even more familiar with the mind of the submissive white male.  Still, the pathology needs to be addressed.  

White Male Submission (first edition)

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

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

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

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

The third category of white male submissive is interested whatever forms of degradation they can receive from whatever Black source that sees fit to dish it out.  They are unashamedly bisexual and, in many cases, prefer to perform sexual acts with black men.  Among this group are the most masochistic of the population.  They are constantly asking for approval and validation that they truly are inferior to black people.  They confess that they want to become slaves, stripped of their rights as a human, that they want to pay for the sins of any white person that owned slaves, and that they want to be degraded and humiliated for their whiteness. Their fantasies are extreme, many expressing desires to be lynched and beaten reminiscent of true slavery as part of their sexual fantasies.  Many tell me that they desire to become black and have romantic notions that they will become well-endowed athletes or big-bosomed matriarchal archetypes.  Several have requested books to read to tell them of a more accurate Black history than the limited exposure they’ve received.  I’ve had white men tell me that they go out of their way to hire black people, support black businesses, or provide daily acts of kindness to black people as their own personal form of reparations. 

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe

CEO and   Founder of AfroerotiK

I Have a Dream

I have a dream that white people will one day SHUT THE FUCK UP with referencing Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech.  First of all, they can't even correctly quote even one line from the speech.  Second, the man said so much more than I Have a Dream in his other speeches but the media doesn't want white people to hear anything other than the proverbial, "Can't we all just get along."  For God's sake, the man was assassinated for his views so clearly white people wanted him silenced.  Isn't it just like white people to pretend to be supporters now, after his blood was needlessly spilled.

"It is necessary to understand that Black Power is a cry of disappointment. The Black Power slogan did not spring full grown from the head of some philosophical Zeus. It was born from the wounds of despair and disappointment. It is a cry of daily hurt and persistent pain."

Martin Luther King, Jr., Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?, 1967.

"When we ask Negroes to abide by the law, let us also declare that the white man does not abide by the law in the ghettos. Day in and day out he violates welfare laws to deprive the poor of their meager allotments; he flagrantly violates building codes and regulations; his police make a mockery of law; he violates laws on equal employment and education and the provisions of civil services. The slums are the handiwork of a vicious system of the white society; Negroes live in them, but they do not make them, any more than a prisoner makes a prison."

Martin Luther King, Jr., The Trumpet of Conscience, 1967.

I AM UNAPOLOGETICALLY

Anti-Racist AND Pro-Black
Pro-Choice
Pro-Woman
Radically Feminist
Pro-Gay Marriage
Pro-Civil Rights For Everyone
Pro-Universal Healthcare
Anti-Xenophobic
Anti-Heterosexist
Anti-Patriarchal
Anti-Religious

Reverence II

Morning Sun

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To Become

My Beautiful Ex

I was chatting with an ex of mine and he found some images I took of him.  Photographer I'm not.  His obvious assets aside, and it's much larger than it seems in the pictures, I'm awed by the fact that he's brilliant, beautiful, and not at all, not in the least little bit, defined by his outrageously gorgeous and gigantic penis.  He's kind and thoughtful, introspective, generous and just a sweet, wonderful man.  For all the white people who ask me why I love black men, all I have to say is, what's not to love? I'm very proud to say that I love and admire him and I know that he feels the same about me. 

Race Matters

I was reading a discussion thread on a sexually-oriented website the other day and there was a question posed by a white dominant asking why there weren’t more submissive black men.  There are about a dozen responses – ALL from white men, waxing philosophically and trying to justify their racism  and stereotypes with clichés.   Not one black person, dominant or submissive, responded.  I was dismayed by the situation, but upon reflection, I had to acknowledge that I probably would have been even more disgusted had a Black person responded because, overall, we as a people are ill–equipped to discuss race in any way that moves the discussion beyond, “Color doesn’t matter.” 

 

Then I reflected on my now defunct website, my shut down yahoo group, and this very blog.  For the most part, the comments added by my own folk sort of resonate around, “Yeah, I agree,” or, “That was nice.”  With few exceptions (and there are some notable exceptions) Black people don’t respond to the topics and forums that confront white people and their racism.  Let me write a piece about getting fucked in the ass, and Black people come out of the woodwork to comment.  Let the topic be about dismantling white people of the fallacy of their unearned, inherited supremacy . . . and you will be deafened by the sound of virtual crickets. 

Sadly, all too often, when Black people do get the gumption to add their feedback, the comments are, I’m sorry to say, barely literate and disjointed.  More often than not, their comments reflect a brainwashed mentality that tries to appease the egos of white folk.  White people, white men really, don’t have a problem espousing whatever contrived logic they’ve come up with to justify their perceptions and they will go on and on . . . and on to make sure they have the last word.   White people control the conversations about race and black people stay mute.  

I’m here to tell the world, as long as we keep letting white people dictate conversations about race, we will forever remained mentally enslaved.  As long as we can’t communicate beyond that of a third grader, as long as we are ill-prepared to dismantle their bullshit, we might as well be back on the plantation picking cotton.  I know I personally provide more than enough thought-provoking material that can be the foundation for lots of discussion.  We need to be able to muster up more than a feeble, “I feel the same way,” in order to really do the work of deconstructing white people of their false sense of superiority. 

Worship (Part 3)

Steven fucked up.  He had destroyed his chances with the one and only true Black Goddess whom he’d ever encountered.  Apparently, he had gotten in his disturbed mind that I was blackmailing him when nothing could be further from the truth.  Well, not only that, but he had the audacity, the unmitigated nerve to accuse me of things so absurd, so unfathomable to any sane mind, that he offended me in ways not many subs had ever had the occasion or balls to do. 

Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for exposure, his fantasies of being “outted”, and blackmailed, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women was indeed sick.  He invited women to extort him, he wanted his friends and family to know of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly.  At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He masturbated furiously to the actual females who were doing all the things he had falsely accused me of doing.  He sent them money, bought their rank undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and ebanned purchases. 

Everything would have been fine; Steven wouldn’t have had a problem in the world if there wasn’t that pesky little blog that he’d asked me to create.  He was obsessed with going to the blog, he repeatedly Googled his name to see the number one result was The Financial Demise of Werner Steven Mueller.  It fucked with him, fucked with his mind.  None of his other exploits showed up so blatantly.  That blog was the bane of his existence.  He needed it to go away and go away soon.  Its mere presence was symbolic of his kinks trespassing into his real life. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to completely delete the blog.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38^th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps, extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously and said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary.  I escorted him to the very front of the church.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.”  He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  

 I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.”  His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He checked the internet the next day, and true to my word, the blog was gone.  He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved

Air AfroerotiK

Welcome aboard Air AfroerotiK Flight 694U headed for the beautiful, sunny shores of pleasure and delight.  My name is Scottie and I’m going to be your erotic stewardess for your sensual journey today.  The captain assures me it’s going to be a VERY VERY bumpy ride so we ask that you unbuckle your belt, on your pants that is, and any other constricting clothing that limits your mobility and freedom of movement.  If you look in the compartment on the back of the seat in front of you, you’ll find a bag to place bras, underwear, or any other unnecessary undergarments that might impede your stimulation and fun.  Please take note of where the rest rooms are located aboard the plane for anyone who is interested in redeeming their Mile High Member Club points today.   Veteran Mile-Highers are welcome to move freely about the cabin in order to engage in fast and furious fucking inspired by the thrill of getting caught but first time and novice members to the club are asked to restrict their participation to late night flights and first class accommodations only. 

We ask that you please observe the smoking signs when lit because the sex you are going to have is going to be smoking, scorching, sizzling, steamy, and hot.  Forget peanuts and overpriced mini bottles of alcohol, the meal aboard the flight today is going to be tempting and tasty cum, the kind that erupts from throbbing hard dicks and slippery wet pussies.  Cabin pressure is bound to be uncharacteristically high as the entire flight should be dedicated to erotic foreplay that sets the stage for unbridled, raw, passionate, down and dirty sex.  

In the event of an emergency, a blanket can be used to obscure prying eyes from the sensual and seductive stroking that comes from throbbing hard erections or aroused and swollen nipples.  Very vocal complaining about being too cold from the air conditioning or casually mentioning how sleepy and jet lagged you are will appease those nosey neighbors who might otherwise raise an eyebrow or two as to why someone is scrambling to hide their private parts from view.  Do keep in mind that it’s just a rouse in order to get to the more hardcore play. 

By now you should have set the stage for some hot and heavy fun.  You should be able to pretend to be sleeping so that prying eyes won’t be able to see female passengers freeing their traveling companion’s dick from his pants.  Skillfully, slowly, gently, glide your hand up and down that shaft, coaxing it to a fully engorged and aroused state.  Once he is in the fully upright and locked position, ladies should whisper in your partner’s ear how you are going to fuck him senseless.  Make sure and tell him exactly how you want it, letting down your guard and exploring all your fantasies.  Be sure to tell him things like, “I want you to beat this pussy up.  Bend me over and spank my ass while you are ramming your hard dick in me and making me scream and beg for more.”  Be liberal in your descriptions, saying things like, “I want you to pull my hair and flip me around like your little rag doll.  I want to be your nasty little girl, daddy.  I want you to fuck me until I pass out and then fuck me some more.  I want my pussy to be sore and my legs to be weak from too much sex so that all we can do is order room service in order to replenish our energy so we can fuck again.”

That dick should be leaking precum by now which can be used to stimulate the sensitive spot where the head and the shaft connect.  Continue to stroke slowly, causing the blood to fill that stiff member.  Increase pressure and speed slowly, so as to not cause any uncontrollable moaning, building the momentum until that boiling hot cum is ready to erupt in spurt after spurt of orgasmic bliss.  Just as that pressure builds, slow down your movements to allow for the procedure to be repeated several times almost to the point of ejaculation and then starting all over again.  More than pleasure, you should be eliciting erotic torture so that once behind closed doors, he will be forced to show no mercy and pound . . that. . fucking . . dick . . in . . your, , ,  pussy. . .so . . . hard  . . . you . . . scream. 

If the oxygen masks should fall, please attend to the needs of your partner first as one good turn deserves another.  Similar techniques can be used to simulate hot wet pussies and stiff erect nipples as well.  If our female passengers are appropriately attired, a gentlemen can slide his hand up the smooth warm thighs of his beloved and sexy partner to that soft, wet pussy.  Some ladies will be reluctant to let go of their typically cautious and demure demeanor.  In this particular instance, it might be necessary to pull out the big guns and hit her with an arsenal of words that will release the inner wanton slut that is longing to get out.  One might try saying things like, “I want you to ride my face, sit on it, let me lick that wet slit, drive my tongue up in your hole, tongue fuck it.  I want to feel your juices coat my face while you use my mouth to make you cum.  Yeah, I can’t wait to feel those soft lips spreading open to give me that delicious honey that pours out when you cum.  I want to suck that clit in my mouth and feel your thighs gripping my head, letting me taste all those sweet folds of that pussy I love to eat so much.”  Should further inspiration be needed to coax her out of her shell, additional descriptions should be given of how desperate you are to fuck her.  For example, if you say to her, “I want to see that sexy ass of yours when you are riding my dick, using it to get off on, working your tight, hot, wet pussy to make yourself cum.  Play with my balls so I can shoot my hot nut deep in that pussy and see it leaking out as you collapse on the bed.  I want to slide my dick between your sexy lips and let you taste your delicious cum after I fuck you.” 

If fingering her wet pussy is not logistically possible due to clothing restrictions, direct all the erotic tension to the sensitive nipples of the passenger.  Those passengers sitting next to the window are encouraged to completely expose their breasts beneath the blanket, adding to the excitement and thrill.  Using a soft and gentle technique, slowly pull and pinch those nipples, causing the passenger to squirm with frustration and desire.    If done correctly, the passenger should be wet and ready for serious fucking the second the landing gear is lowered. 

Once again, thank you for flying Air AfroerotiK.  We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we hope you will consider traveling with us again. 

Why are White People so Afraid of Being Called Racist?

Bush recently said the lowest point of his presidency was Kanye West calling him a racist.  The lowest point?  Not 9/11.  Not Hurricane Katrina.  Kanye West calling him a racist was his lowest point.  White people react violently to being called racist like it's the ultimate insult.  I've had white people call me every nigger/coon racial epithet in the book, tell me to go back to Africa, inform me why they feel black people are at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder, and then follow with, "I'm not racist."  I've even had those same people tell me that they still wanted to have sex with me them even though they think that I am the real racist.  The white people who hold on to the most racist mindsets, the ones who are the least diverse, the least accepting of anyone or anything different from their experience, the ones who get ANGRY when someone suggests that anyone with an experience that differs from their white reality are the ones most vested to this notion that they aren't racist.  It seems as if the only definition of a racist white people will acknowledge is wearing a white sheet, burning a cross and lynching a black person.  I find it fascinating that white people are sooooo afraid of being called a racist yet they are the least tolerant of anyone else's experiences, culture, and history. 

Don’t Say a Word

I need you.  When I say I need you, it’s not just in the conventional way people throw those words around meaning they’re horny and wanna get a nut.  I need your spirit, your energy, your essence in me, around me, all over me.  I need you to communicate with me with your eyes.  Stare deep into my soul and tell me that you need me without words.  Speak to me with those mesmerizing eyes that ignite my passions and draw me in.  I want our conversation to be echoed in the windows to your soul, so profound and articulate.  Tell me you crave me, that I stimulate your mind and your body without uttering a word.  Let your eyes speak for you and tell me a love story about how we’ve known each other for lifetimes.  I could stare into your beautiful, expressive eyes for hours.  Let that be our way to express the things that words simply cannot say. 

Close your eyes and communicate with me with your fingers.  Run your hands up the small of my back, spreading heated oil along my spine.  Tell me that you want to soothe my aches and pains as you caress and stroke my brown flesh.  Tickle me, cuddle with me, and let your fingers do the talking as each slow, intentional, sensual touch of my body conveys your lust for me, your burning desire to make love to me, to fuck me.  Leave your fingerprints on every inch of my body as forensic evidence of your motives to embrace my being.  Allow me to lay my head on your lap, the tips of your fingers tracing an outline across my collarbone, down my breast to my hardened nipple so sensitive to your gentle touch. 

Tell me you want to make love to me with your lips, never saying a word but using your tongue, your mouth as your pen, my body as your paper.  Kiss me and communicate how you’ve longed for me; your soft, full, wet lips yielding against mine.  Create a new language by licking, kissing, and sucking all the tender spots on my body that make me squirm and writhe in indescribable pleasure.  Slowly, intentionally, with your mouth exploring every crevice and curve of my body, tease my inner thighs with gentle kisses as my guttural moans and grunts let you know that I can’t stand your seductive tease but I crave it at the same time.  Without uttering a single, solitary word, tell me that you want to be with me, make love to me, that you need me too. 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK

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.