My Wife is Fucking a Nigger

Just Kidding!!!!! 

I don't refer to Black people as niggers, EVER.  Not as a joke, not casually, I don't ever "let it slip", nor do I think impoverished or undereducated Black people are deserving of the word.  These images not about anyone's wife, not about cheating, not about anything cuckold, submissive, or humiliating.  It's just a series of beautiful, interracial images I took a few years ago.  

I thought I'd stir things up with the title a little bit to highlight the racism and prejudice that exists in interracial porn (although there is nothing pornographic about these images). I think they are an important commentary on sex between black men and white women and how those types of images are perceived and received by the public.  

A Question for Black Women about Submissive White Men

I have been writing erotica for almost 10 years now.  What started out as outlet for my sexuality that I couldn’t find represented in the then current offerings of porn/erotica quickly developed into a study of human sexuality and an opportunity for me to share the gospel of truth as I see it with my written word.  The more I wrote, the more I shared my writing, the more people would open up to me about their fantasies.  The more they opened up, the more I saw common themes and desires in certain groups of people.  It didn’t take very long in fact for me to figure out that white men were CRAVING domination from Black men and women alike in outrageous numbers.   

In fact, the most searched, read, and sought out essay I’ve ever written is the one I wrote years ago about White Male Submission.  In the years since that piece was written, white male submission has become more widespread in fantasy, but the outlets for it are still very limited.  Most porn sites dedicated to Black Female Domination are owned and operated by individual Black females themselves, not big corporate conglomerates understanding the niche and trying to capitalize off it.  Conversely, if you did an internet search for sites dedicated to white women submitting (whether overtly or subtly) to Black men, you could spend the rest of your natural born life clicking on websites and never see them all. 

White men, still by and large, often individually feel like they are the only white man in the world with desires to submit to Black sexuality.  The media covers their obsessive need to molest children and even made a weekly television program showing how pervasive the trend is but I’ve yet to see any mainstream media coverage of the scores, the hoards, the multitudes of white men who are sucking black dick, who are longing to be spanked, beaten, pissed on, and used by Dominant Black women.  I recently did a search for images of Black couples dominating a white male and I couldn’t find any.  Not any.  In the year 2011, when you can readily find pictures of anime midgets engaged in underwater bestiality or anything that one’s perverted mind can imagine, it was virtually impossible to find an image of a white male being dominated by a black couple. 

My question is this.  I’ve seen the number or submissive white men over the years multiply exponentially.  What I’d like to know is, are the numbers of Black women who find the idea of dominating a white male increasing as well?  I know there are a number of Black women who have dabbled and experimented in financial domination but I suspect they have tired of that very quickly because white men are masterful at stringing women along, using money as a tool to control and dictate their whims, never really following through on their promises of giving money but using it as the proverbial carrot to manipulate Black women into fulfilling their fantasies as they see fit.  Are there more and more Black women who are truly recognizing their power, are they exploring their sexual selves and finding that it can in fact be pleasurable to dominate and control someone, especially a white male?  Are Black women feeling a need to dominate on par with the white male’s need to submit? 

I’d love for some honest feedback.  Are the numbers of Black women in kink, in the D/s world staying pretty stagnant for the most part or is there an emergence of dominant Black women that has gone under the radar because no one wants to discuss, explore, or acknowledge that white men desire to be dominated by Black men/women?  Ladies, share your experiences and your fantasies.  If you find the concept arousing, speak up, don’t remain silent. Share.  If you’ve tried it and you didn’t like it, can’t be bothered anymore, I’d love to know that as well. 

Suck it!

I hesitated posting addition pictures from this particular photo shoot for several reasons.  First and foremost, I couldn't be less interested in dominating white men at this point in my life.  I'm in a relationship, I'm happy, we are working things out and domination is the last thing on my mind.  Second, the images aren't the usual AfroerotiK quality.  They weren't taken by my regular photographer but by my boyfriend, and while he has a great eye, he has never done anything like erotic photography before and it can be very intimidating.  He was nervous, it was new for both of us, so they are interesting images but not breathtaking images.  Lastly, I want to believe that the vast majority of my fans are people of color interested in my commentary and stories on Black love and sexual expression, not the domination and submission of white men.  I love that fact that there may be lots of Black people who are aroused by the concept of seeing white men dominated, and it pleases me to no end to be able to provide images of that sort to Black people, solely for our enjoyment, I also don't expect that there are as many Black people into dominating white folks as there are white men who are desperate to submit to us Black folks.  I do realize, however, that a huge part of my fan base are white men who are interested in being submissive to Black sexuality.  So, in the interest of being as transparent and as truthful as I know how to be, here are a few more images.  

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (Complete Story)

Time is measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years.  Distance is measured in feet, yards, acres, and miles.  But time can feel like it’s frozen in place and a few hundred miles can feel like hundreds of light years when you are away from the one you love.  There is a delicate equilibrium to maintaining a long-distance love affair.  Most people think that the time and the distance away from a lover keep the relationship fresh and exciting.  The perception is that if you only see one another every few months, that you are filled with passion and lust for one another; that you don’t have to deal with the mundane and the tedium that plague average relationships.  To some extent, there is validity in that theory.  You have to squeeze a whole lot of loving and living into a few days when you live far apart from the one you love and sometimes you can’t wait to tear each other’s clothes off and get into some hot and sweaty love-making.  Sure, there is a lot of late night phone sex, and sexting, and all the other forms of intimacy people can share with new technology to hold you over.  But people who are in long-distance love affairs know all too well the down sides of having a partner who is not there day in and day out.  They know about the lonely nights and empty beds, the subtle fear and insecurity that creeps into your subconscious mind, wondering if your lover is finding comfort in the arms of another.  Being separated from your lover is no fun when you need a shoulder to cry on or a simple hug.  The rush you get when you see each other is countered by the long, painful goodbyes that feel like your heart is being ripped out.  Once the relationship has survived the obstacles of time and distance, then there is always the dreaded “conversation,” the looming question is always hanging out there, just beneath the surface at every reunion, “When is it time to move this to the next level?  When is it time for us to move closer together?  What will it take for us to make that commitment?”  Bill and Suzy Suburbia never have to deal with those issues, never have to factor those things into their stable, familiar day in and day out equation.

Cynthia and Esteban were working out the dynamics of a long-distance relationship in their relationship.   When Cynthia moved to Chicago from Philly, the couple didn’t have years together to solidify their connection, they had a few months, a rough and rocky start, and a tremendous connection.  If their affair was to survive, it was going to have to make it on a wing and a prayer, a commitment to honesty, fidelity, and open communication.  It wasn’t the ideal arrangement but it was going to have to work for them as long as they were in love with one another and determined to make it work.  

Esteban had been feeling the pangs of something unfamiliar, something nagging at his gut.  In his heart, he knew that Cynthia was a wonderful woman and perfectly suited for him.  They were compatible in so many ways and the sex was great, which means a lot when you are “no spring chicken” shall we say.  But his commitment to a relationship where he only got sex every few months had been on his mind.  In his heart, he wasn’t sure he could handle the temptation much longer nor was he even sure he wanted to.  Sex with Cynthia was fantastic when they had it, and they had enough phone and cam sex to relieve some of the pressure but it wasn’t the same as flesh to flesh contact.  In his heart he KNEW he didn’t want to be in a relationship with any another woman, Cynthia WAS the woman for him, but he wasn’t as convinced he didn’t want to get hot and sweaty between the sheets with someone else.  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her but he didn’t think he could live indefinitely with the concept of having sex every three months either.  He knew Cynthia was feeling the pains of separation herself.  He heard the longing in her voice when they spoke on the phone, the growing insecurity she had that he was ready to move on, and he saw the unconditional love and passion she had for him when they were together just lounging around the hotel room when he went to visit.  Neither of them was ready to relocate to be closer to one another again and financially it was still too much of a burden to visit much more often than they did.  He held on to his love for her.  He struggled to remain faithful and, if he was being honest with himself, he was ready for the relationship to move to the next level.  A year of being apart was more than enough time for him to recognize that he didn’t want to live without her but circumstances demanded that they did.

Cynthia was struggling with the distance as well.  For her, it wasn’t so much the temptation of having sex with someone else, it was the lack of intimacy that haunted her.  She needed the touch, the bond, the physical presence of her lover there to keep her motivated on her goals; she needed that shoulder to cry on when she was weary.  It was her job that caused them to be apart and hardly a night went by where she didn’t want to pack it all up and run back to him.  She made a point of bringing up their fidelity frequently enough to let him know that she was aware of his physical needs and she just wanted to stay informed but she didn’t bring it up so much as to lead the horse to the water so to speak.  Cynthia wasn’t sure if their relationship could endure being open but she needed to know that she was going to be kept up to date and in the loop BEFORE the dynamics of their relationship changed. 

With a significant tax refund check in hand, Esteban decided that the best thing to do in order for the couple to recharge their batteries and decide what the next step should be would be to take a much needed vacation for the two of them.  Initially, he was planning on going to New Orleans but there, in the travel agent’s office, he decided he wanted to take her to his hometown, a secluded village in Puerto Rico called Aguadilla.  He knew there that they could be undisturbed and uninhibited.  Aguadilla was exotic and exciting yet comfortable and familiar and someplace they could both just relax and unwind.  An extended four day weekend would be just what they needed to and talk about their future and decide what was to lay ahead for them.

They had connecting flights in Miami and they met in the airport lounge.  Cynthia’s face lit up when she saw him and erupted in that smile that was reserved only for her man.  Esteban was filled with that feeling of intense lust and emotional connection every time he was in the presence of his lady love.  Thanks to a very romantic ticket agent who could tell the two were in love, they were upgraded to first class.  True to her adventurous spirit, Cynthia was intent on igniting passions even before they left the runway.  As they slid into the seats she leaned over to Esteban and whispered, “Honey, I’m so absent minded.  I think I forgot to put on my panties.”  She winked and slid her tongue in his ear seductively.

Esteban tried to remain as calm as possible but he was visibly moved by her naughty revelation.  He glanced down at her smooth, brown legs and ran his eyes up to the bottom of her floral-print silk dress.  Cynthia, feeling particularly bold and empowered, shifted in her seat and spread her legs ever so slightly.  She raised the hem of her skirt a little more to expose more of her sexy thighs as Esteban glanced around to get an idea of who was around and get his bearings.  No one was directly across from them, thank goodness.  Esteban was going to enjoy the ride, literally and figuratively, and with any luck, it would be an extremely bumpy one.

Cynthia leaned closer again; this time whispering in his ear of how wet her pussy was, of how she couldn’t wait to have his hard cock pounding in and out of her hot, tight cunt.  Esteban was feeling light headed and they hadn’t even begun to taxi on the runway.  If she wanted to play, he was going to make her pay.  He leaned in closer and slid his hands up the silky smooth skin of her inner thighs.  Cynthia held his gaze firmly as she spread her legs just a bit more.  As his fingers explored her legs, as he began caressing her sleek folds; electricity shot through his body as his fingers felt the slippery juices of her wetness.

“Okay, enough of that sweetie, let’s wait until we land,” she said.  Cynthia was being playfully coy and flirtatious but Esteban had other plans in mind.  He gently pushed her legs apart more and began softly circling her clit with his index finger.  Cynthia hadn’t planned on things getting so public so soon, her plans were to pace themselves, and let the tension build.  Esteban had other plans in mind.

In a smooth, confident tone, he whispered, “Spread your legs for me.”

Cynthia felt powerless to do anything but comply.  She began nervously looking around, to see who could see their goings on.  She tried to push his hand away but the way he was touching her was causing her mind to be clouded.  Her pussy lips felt so good and the wetter she became the more her inhibitions were washed away.  She regretted her rather flimsy, ill-thought out plan almost immediately, being willing to concede that Esteban was far more of an exhibitionist than she had ever been.

The male flight attendant was making his way down the aisle and Esteban’s fingers got more adventurous.  He pushed Cynthia’s legs open wider and searched for her sweet spot.  Cynthia, practically panicked at the thought of being discovered, was doing her best to dissuade Esteban’s antics as quietly as possible.  She began making negotiations, bargaining, whispering whatever she could to get him to stop what she was sure was going to cause a very public and embarrassing scene.

Esteban would not be denied.  He spread the lips of her sweet pussy and began his digital assault on her aroused clit.  Cynthia squirmed and waged a battle in her own mind about her conflicting emotions.  On one hand, she loved how her man was making her feel, on the other, she was too conservative and shy, too scared to be discovered.  Her body was winning the war as her pussy was leaking and her juices were actually running down her ass.  Esteban stepped up the pace and inserted a finger in her pussy and Cynthia actually had to bite her lip to keep from moaning out load.  He leaned in close, brushed his soft, sexy lips against the nape of her neck and whispered, “Don’t fight it, cum for me.”

Cynthia closed her eyes.  She was about to take a trip, literally and figuratively to a place she had never been before.  The flight attendant was only one seat away when he turned to Esteban and Cynthia.  He froze momentarily.  Esteban, not at all afraid to openly display their sexuality, gave him a knowing look that said, “Don’t say a word, just acknowledge and enjoy,” and the gentleman did a quick double take and calmly asked if there was anything he could do to make their trip more enjoyable.  Esteban shoved another finger in Cynthia at that very moment and she was helpless to do anything but surrender to the exquisite sensations he was giving her body.  Esteban never took his eyes off the flight attendant as he continued to finger fuck Cynthia’s hot pussy.  Beneath the rumpled folds of her dress, he was thrusting his hand between her legs.  Cynthia wanted to keep her eyes shut but she couldn’t.  She was compelled to keep them open, to look directly at the very attractive man who was staring down at her, to let him know that what Esteban was doing felt incredible and she didn’t want it to stop.  She was outside of her comfort zone and feeling vulnerable but she relented to the waves of pleasure that overtook her.  She was incredibly turned on and she trusted her man enough to let him have his moment of very public arousal.

Esteban was truly beside himself as he held the strange man’s attention, captivated and frozen with his actions.  The woman seated beside him was fighting an orgasm in a very public place and the man standing inches from him in the aisle of the plane was obviously very aroused by the scene before him.  The flight attendant’s breathing was becoming labored as he held his eyes fixed to the spot between Cynthia’s legs.  It was all Cynthia could do not to scream right then and there.  She was grinding on Esteban’s fingers, trying to get them deeper, trying to get them to hit her magic spot, trying to be quiet.  Esteban grabbed Cynthia’s hand and placed it on his dick, which could was clearly outlined through his pants.  She started stroking it, hypnotized by the sensations she was feeling, her body aching for release.  She could feel the warming sensations traveling her body.  He could feel her muscles tense up as she was climbing towards her peak.  The flight attendant was in a daze, glancing around to see if anyone was aware of what was going on, and cautious of what the repercussions might be for himself if any of his colleagues discovered his complicity in the obscene behavior, and completely turned on as a man.  Cynthia could hear herself whispering, “Oh no . .  . Oh my God,” over and over again, but she wasn’t in any sort of position or rush to stop, she was feeling too much pleasure.

Without notice, Esteban stopped; he pulled his fingers out of her pussy abruptly and left both Cynthia and the flight attendant gasping for air.  The entire scene probably only lasted a few seconds but it seemed like an eternity; like there had been a glitch in the time and space continuum that made seconds seem like hours.  He began casually chatting with the flight attendant about the options for lunch as Cynthia was trying to regain control.  He held his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply; even taking the opportunity to lick away some of the sweet juices there as he repositioned his dick and went about his business like nothing had happened.  Cynthia was still aroused and tingling with sensations.  She pushed her seat back and gave herself over to the feeling that it was going to be a memorable trip.


The isle of Puerto Rico was home for Esteban and he gave his beloved a tour that included not only the amenities the island had to offer but also included the places most significant to his childhood.  He showed her the very spot he lost his virginity, the high school he attended, and the house he was raised.  The hotel they were staying at was charming and secluded and everything one could ask for in an exotic paradise getaway.  The beaches looked like blankets of soft sand made by God for lounging and relaxing even with their ominous-sounding names like Crash Boat and Gas Chambers.  The crystal clear blue water didn’t even look real, the azure color was that of a captivating and mesmerizing semi-precious gem and the temperature invited all those who dared to dip their toes in its foaming surf to bathe in its gentle waves.  Before long, Esteban and Cynthia were settled into their suite, comfortable, and they had shed the stress and tension of their daily lives and were luxuriating in their tropical love nest.  The food couldn’t be fresher, caught from the sea and prepared daily, the sweet and spicy flavors of the Caribbean mixing perfectly to please even the pickiest of palettes.  The sounds of salsa music and drums filled the air, providing the perfect backdrop to keep the blood pumping and the tension of eroticism ever-present.  Even without asking, fruity alcoholic beverages in fresh coconut shells with little umbrellas appeared like magic from young, bronzed, shirtless hunks of masculinity and machismo named Juan or Miguel.


For the couple, this vacation was an opportunity to experiment, to explore, and to take the next step, wherever that led.  Esteban knew that this trip was setting the stage for the next phase in their relationship.  Esteban’ biggest present was to come, when he revealed to his long-term, long distance lover his plans for the future.  Cynthia was considering her own options.  She was loving every second of this impromptu getaway and she wanted to commemorate it in a very special way.  They had often talked about the idea of anal sex but they had never tried it with one another.  After her third mango colada, the throbbing intensity of her pussy and her hormones were convincing her that not only would it be a good idea, but that she was actually anxious to get down to business.  She was the perfect level of tipsy, enough to feel no pain, and to experience that uninhibited freedom that liquor affords but not so out of it that she wasn’t responsible or would get sick and forget and regret everything in the morning.

Nestled safely in the confines of their ocean-view suite, Cynthia smiled, feeling that familiar tingle in her bottom, inspired by the thought that they were going to completely lose themselves in a new sexual frontier.  She slid her sexy body next to his, kissed him deeply, and whispered that she was going to go to the bathroom for a few to freshen up.

Cynthia returned minutes later to a darkened room, the light of the full moon from the open balcony doors the only illumination.  Esteban was reclining on the bed, stroking himself in anticipation of making love to his brown beauty.  Still sufficiently tipsy, Cynthia climbed on the bed and snuggled her naked papaya and cocoa butter scented body next to him, using her body to create some sexual tension and friction.   She grabbed her container of shea butter and positioned herself on her stomach, and wordlessly instructed her lover that she wanted a massage.  He complied happily, warming the oil between his palms before kneading her flesh with gentle, loving strokes.

Cynthia decided to keep her secret a while longer but she wanted to tempt and tease Esteban.  Every time he would get closer to her buttcheeks, she would moan and wiggle around, letting him know that he was doing the right thing.  Esteban was not immune to her reactions and he began caressing and kneading her backside with more sensual attention.  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Why don’t you finger me . . . back there,” and nervously buried her face in the pillow.  Esteban caught on immediately and started working more of the slippery oil between his fingers to get her ready.

Wanting to go very slow, not for a second wanting to cause Cynthia a fraction of a second of pain, he ran his finger up the inside of her thighs, teasing the bottom of her ass, and traced her spine up and down.  Cynthia was beside herself and moaning and making all sorts of noises.  Inspired by her liquid courage, she grabbed the cheeks of her ass and pulled them apart, winking her asshole at him.  “Do it honey,” she purred, “do it.”

Esteban almost lost it then and there.  He turned the intensity of his massage up a bit and placed his finger at the entrance to her backdoor.  Cynthia had never felt anything so sinfully delicious in her life.  She arched her back and slid her fingers between her legs to her clit, rubbing the engorged button sensually, making her level of arousal increase that much more so.  Esteban, taking matters into his own hands so to speak, slid his other hand between her swollen pussy lips and felt the slippery moisture that had collected there.  By this time, Cynthia was humping the bed and thrusting her ass back at her lover.

“Are you sure you want this?”  Esteban wanted to be sure that what he thought was going to happen was really what Cynthia wanted and needed.

She seductively looked back at him and said, “Oh yes, honey, I want you to really fuck my ass good tonight.”

Esteban almost fainted.  He was sure that was the sexiest thing he had ever heard anyone say in his entire life.  Taking his time, he began his seduction of her backdoor.  He was slow and intentional.  By the time he had worked his finger in her, Cynthia was oblivious to anything but pleasure.  “MORE,” she panted desperately.  He was all the way to the third knuckle when she was saying how delicious it felt, how should couldn’t believe they had waited so long for this, that she was loving every second.  Her pleas became commands, “MORE,” she demanded.

“Babe, I already have two fingers in you all the way.  Are you ready for the real thing?”

Cynthia, quite sure that she could take his dick in her butt, stimulated by the nerve endings in her ass, the sensation of lust, her intoxication, her hard nipples, throbbing clit, dripping pussy and the love she felt for her man, she got up and sensually walked to the open balcony door.  There, in the cool night air, she crawled, naked, onto the chaise lounge and got on her knees and presented her ass like a gift to her man, the ocean a panoramic backdrop to her brazen sexuality.

Esteban got behind her and stared in awe, the salty sea air and Atlantic heat fueling his passions.  He spread the lips of her gorgeous pussy and dove in, tongue first, drinking her juices and spreading them around, getting her prepared.  He rubbed a liberal amount of lubricant on the head of his cock and took aim.  Cynthia controlled the pace and told him when to push and when to hold still by using the commands more and wait.  By the time he had managed to work the entire length of his shaft in her taboo place, Cynthia was sweating and shaking.  Perspiration covered her entire body and shone in the reflection of the moon.  “MORE,” she grunted.

“Babe, I can’t, it’s all the way in,” Esteban responded.  In a state of disbelief, Cynthia reached back and felt the connection of their two bodies.  Other than a brief second or two of discomfort, nothing even close to pain, she realized that she was getting ready to get fucked in the ass.  Just the thought of that in her head made her want to explode, it was so forbidden and sexy and hot.  “Esteban, baby, do it, fuck me.  Fuck me in my ass. Do it, honey. Fuck my asshole.”

A lesser man would have lost it and pounded away with reckless abandon.  Thank goodness Esteban was always the man in control.  He heard her ardent plea but knew he had to go slow.  Slow and steady wins the race and he built up a slow, sexy pace, met with the Cynthia’s thrusts.  The sensation for Esteban was overwhelming: it was tighter, hotter, and more intense than he had ever imagined.  Every nerve in Cynthia’s body felt electrified, she was being pleasured by this new, erotic sensation, the intimacy and the closeness was out of this world.  In so many ways, this was more than just something she was doing for her man; it was something she was enjoying as a woman who was taking control of her own passions.

That revelation was enough to push her over the edge.  She pushed her fingers in her pussy and could feel the engorged ridge of Esteban’ cockhead through the thin wall that separated her pussy and ass as he thrust harder and harder in her back door.  Her juices coated her fingers.  She rubbed her clit in time with his pounding.  Their breathing was in sync and anyone who was walking the beach could have looked up and seen them there, heard their cries of passion.  Cynthia felt the tremors of her orgasm approaching.  She knew without a doubt in her mind that she wanted to make Esteban cum with her ass before she exploded and couldn’t take any more stimulation; she wanted to make her man lose control and experience indescribable pleasure in this newfound way.  “Esteban,” she panted, “Oh, baby, come on, I want you to cum for me. Fuck me.  FUCK ME.  Shoot your cum in my ass.  Deep baby.  Dick me.  I need it.  Fuck my tight asshole.”

Esteban didn’t need to be told twice.  He was already on the verge.  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the pleasure her tight orifice gave him.  Within minutes, he knew he had reached the point of no return.  He grabbed her hips and withdrew his cock almost to the head and thrust it deeply in again and again.  The sound of Cynthia’s moans, the grip her muscles had on him, the exhibitionism, the location, everything served to drive him over the edge and he erupted like a volcano, collapsing to his knees momentarily and then crumbling like a spent and exhausted athlete who had crossed the finish line first.

Breathlessly, Esteban whispered in her ear, “Baby, marry me.”  He hadn’t planned on saying it then, there, like that, but the moment was right.  Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears and she laughed simultaneously.  Even in their post coital bliss, she knew that marriage, the act itself, wasn’t in the cards for them, it was just his way of saying that he was as committed to her as he would ever be, that he couldn’t love her any more than he did.  She didn’t want to move; she didn’t want to spoil the moment.  Esteban knew in that instant that the flight home would be spent discussing the future more than sexy displays of exhibitionism.  He didn’t know what the future held for either of them; all he knew was that he wanted it to include some manifestation of the two of them and the special love that they shared.  The last three days on their island vacation, they fucked, made love, screwed, and fucked some more.  There was to be no more anal sex on that particular trip, Cynthia was a bit tender and needed some time to recuperate, but she had gotten the greatest gift of all in knowing that her soul mate and long distance lover envisioned a future, together, with her.

Copyright 2011 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved

If you are interested in getting a customized, personalized story written just for you, about you, contact me for details. 

Learning to Love

I am, what I like to call, emotionally retarded.  You see, I did not receive love from the first, most important source every child experiences love, my mother.  I have to struggle to love, to receive love, to feel deserving of love every single day of my life. 

In her defense, my mother probably never really learned how to love from her parents.  In fact, she probably learned that love is strict, mean, violent, oppressive, and very conditional from her parents.  That’s not to say that her parents, my grandparents, didn’t love her or were abusive to her, I’m saying that loving, how to love, isn’t something that’s taught in Black families.  My grandparents loved their children but didn’t know how to show it with affection, hugs, reading to them, spending quality time with them, or even saying, “I love you.”  To my grandparents, descendents of slaves born during the depression, raised under the oppression of Jim Crow, and who became parents on the eve of the civil rights movement, loving your children meant putting a roof over their head, clothes on their backs, food in their stomachs and enforcing enough discipline to keep them from being identified as “a nigger.”  Their parenting skills, while probably exceptional when being measured in terms of their providing stability for their children, left much to be desired.  They raised three completely dysfunctional children. 

I have one uncle who is an alcoholic, wife abuser, and the most “niggerish” of the bunch.  All that discipline and structure created a rebellious, stagnated soul who buries his pain in a bottle, makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like the poster boy for marital family values, and who has raised his own two sons to try to single-handedly attempt to repopulate the planet.  Every year, if there isn’t a new grandbaby by a different baby mama, there’s an adult, coming out of the woodworks, identifying themselves as a long, lost offspring who wasn’t acknowledged or raised by his very fertile sons.  He sees nothing wrong with his sons’ behavior and loves them unconditionally  which usually takes the form of him praising them, even when they do something wrong. 

My other uncle stopped maturing at about the age of 10 years old.  While there is absolutely nothing about him that could be considered niggerish, he throws hissy fits and tantrums when he doesn’t get his way.  His entire life is based on superficial perceptions.  Whenever he walks in a room, he has to have the most beautiful (light-skinned) woman on his arm, be the best dressed, and the most charming.  His conversations, however, are limited to celebrities, music, and the most publicized politics of the day.  If there is a task to be done, responsibility to be taken, or manual labor to be performed, he can only, will only do it if there is someone there to see him do it.  Otherwise it will NOT get done, EVER, no matter how pressing, urgent, or important that task is.  He is the epitome of narcissism.

My mother SEEMS the most balanced of the three but in many ways she is the most unbalanced.  Her great dysfunction is in her need to control, dictate, manipulate, and lie.  She got pregnant with me in her senior year of college which brought shame to her very prominent family.  The shame was actually all in her head, constructed from her own internal dialogue, not an indisputable fact.  The fact that my grandfather more than likely didn’t say anything to her made her construct a reality in her head where he hated her for her “mistake”.  Combine that with the fact that my biological father (look up the definition of absentee father in the dictionary and you will see his picture) dumped her and married another woman before I was even born, coupled with the fact that she and I have different RH factors which made her sick for her entire pregnancy, means she resented my very existence before I was even a person.  My mother never loved me.  She never bonded with me like most mothers do; she never thought I was a special and unique gift, she never felt the genuine love a mother feels for her child.  She felt burdened and shamed by being forced to be my mother.  She took out her frustration and hatred on me, and still does to this very day.    

I remember my mother would go for WEEKS without speaking to me.  Some people think that’s rather benign, not so bad in the scheme of life, no big deal.  It is, however, emotional abuse of the most extreme sort and sets a child up for a life of isolation and feelings of being disconnected.  It was always in response to some minor infraction, some insignificant slight she perceived I had done wrong to her.  Not hanging my coat up after school, setting the table without napkins, or GOD FORBID, not performing some chore to her impossible standards of perfection, all resulted in violent, abusive physical outburst followed by weeks of emotional withdrawal.  Any way I deviated from what she wanted, from how she expected me to behave was interpreted as me disrespecting her, resulted in her withdrawing her “love” from me as a form of punishment.  Love, for her, was providing me with educational and cultural opportunities and had nothing whatsoever to do with her feelings for me. 

My mother didn’t know how to love me, even if she had actually loved me.  Her concept of love is based on people doing exactly what she deems appropriate.  Unfortunately, her perceptions of what she considers reality are based on elaborate lies she constructs and then believes them to be the truth and her fear of going to hell for the hurt and dirt she has done to far too many wives and people she no longer considers friends.  She alienates and ignores anyone from her past who knows the truth and she sets out to hurt, destroy, and demonize anyone who threatens to expose her for who and what she is.  She has an irrational need to be right (as do most people) and she justifies her actions without an ounce of guilt, remorse, or regret, no matter how heinous, manipulative, or just plain wrong she is.  She feels justified in treating me like I’m evil, like I’ve done something wrong to her, because I’m not rich and successful.  She NEVER apologies because in her mind, she’s never wrong. 

It is that mentality that can allow her to believe that she is perfectly justified in telling me that I wasn’t raped, because, as she said, “You didn’t act like you had been raped to ME.”  When I needed her support the most, when I needed a mother’s unconditional love at my lowest point, she not only withheld it, she falsely accused me of lying to cover up my alleged promiscuity.  You see, my mother refused to accept that I had gotten pregnant from being violated from a man who took what I would not give him.  No, my mother assumed that my pregnancy was because I was fast and loose and that I refused to accept responsibility for my actions like she had so nobly done.  She has defended her actions, justified her behavior and continued to deny that I was raped over the subsequent decade and a half that has passed since that day because she refuses to acknowledge that my pregnancy wasn’t like hers. 

I could write a list of egregious and offensive things my mother has done to me over my lifetime for which she has never and will never apologize.  Some people reading this will inevitably offer their apologies to me, uncomfortable with my level of honesty and needing to say something to me to show that they empathize with my pain.  Some others will find my openness about mother offensive, suggesting that I’m too sensitive, ungrateful, or just plain fucked up and trying to blame my mother for things that are my fault.  It is most often those people who will flat out tell me that I am undeserving of love because they are similarly hurt, struggling with their own feelings of inadequacy, and they will strike out at me for daring to be unashamed of my emotional wounds. Others still will offer advice, tell me what I need to do in order to heal, tell me to pray and forgive my mother in order to release my pain.  The vast majority of people who will offer advice, critique, or words of solace have never thought to examine their lives as I have done, never thought to explore their issues, and are most certainly not brave enough to share their pain with the world. 

My healing comes through loving.  Well, writing and loving.  For almost two decades, I wasn’t in a relationship.  Certainly, nothing that resembles anything healthy and nothing that would facilitate my healing.  I have learned that through loving, and allowing myself to be loved, that I experience my true, divine purpose.  It’s a process, and not one that is particularly easy at that.  Sometimes, I don’t feel worthy of love, other times, I find myself withholding my love from people because they don’t love me the way I want them to love me.  More often than not, I have given my love to people who don’t deserve it or who make me feel inadequate. 

There will never be a day when I don’t have to struggle with the gift of love.  It is a burden I will carry with me until the day I die.  I can never be completely healed of something that is so deeply embedded in my psyche, in my subconscious mind, that is can’t be accessed.  The best I can hope for is that I continue not to be afraid of telling my truth so that I can face my demons head on and that I continue to recognize when I am playing the broken tapes in my head that tell me that I’m not deserving of being loved.  I’m quite assured that it will get easier for the more I love, the more I want to experience giving and getting true, unconditional, L.O.V.E.

Scottie Lowe Copyright 2011 All Rights Reserved

I Love Who I am When You Are Inside Me

Inside Me

 

I close my eyes and I feel your lips touch mine and I’m lifted, transported to a time and space where I become the embodiment of all that is feminine and womanly.  That primal instinct, that genetic, biological, evolutionary stuff that makes me a woman, that makes me think and move and navigate the world like a true womb-man is activated and I feel . . . I FEEL alive and whole.  Your hand reaches out to caress my flesh and my body comes alive.  You tell me your dirty little secrets, I reveal mine, and I know that we are intimately bonded.  All of the nerve endings that make my nipples hard, longing for your mouth to suckle and nurse them, that make my pussy start to tingle and throb, getting wet and slippery with arousal awaiting your gentle manipulation, are electrified and I feel aglow with warmth that only your touch can ignite. 

Feelings of joy, peace, tranquility, and love flood my very soul when our bodies are intertwined.  Our legs become a tangled mass and our heartbeats begin to sync up; my inhalation and your exhalation become a sensual metronome counting our fevered passion until we become one.  Your hands roam my body and I feel your hardness, your wetness against my brown thigh, evidence of your desire for me.  You need to be inside me, to feel my cunt envelope and embrace you, to let down your guard and feel safe, nurtured and loved.  It’s because when you are inside me, those DNA strands that make you feel inherently like a man, those instinctual drives that propel you to unload your hot cum deep inside me, filling me, completing me, make you feel like a provider and protector, like you are truly home. 

I love who I am when you are inside me.  I love feeling desired, pleasured, and needed.  I love when I feel your sweat raining down on me, knowing that pussy, MY pussy is driving you mad with bliss.  When we are fucking, the sheets damp with our fluids, the neighbors’ blaring music becomes a soundtrack to our lovemaking to drown out the sounds of my very vocal encouragement.  Hearing you grunt, working hard to make me cum and feel my juices explode all over you fills me with a sense of intimacy and security only shared by tu y yo.  I am your woman, your lover, your divine right partner and nothing and no one can disturb our peace.

Scottie Lowe copyright 2011 All rights reserved