The Original Man

The power of a people reside in how they tell their stories.  For descendents of slaves, African Americans, we don’t have many written records of the powerful stories our ancestors.  The voices of those whose blood courses through our veins were effectively silenced by the system of chattel slavery.  Slavery isn’t even something we as Black people want to talk about; it’s something we want to place in its own little compartment and reference it when we’re talking about racism and put it right back the second we start to feel pangs of inferiority and shame. Yet, there were true tales of survival, triumph, fortitude, enduring love, and even lust that slaves shared that have gone untold for centuries.  This is one such story. 

E’ry night, I gotta sneak out ‘n tend to my man.  He taint none uh my husband on paper cuz ole Massa says niggers not ‘posed to get married legal ‘n all like de white folks but we jumped de broom under de full moon so I says we’s married.  Maw says it too so dats good ‘nuf fo’ me.  Adam, dats mu husband’s name, like in da bible, like de first man dey ever was. Dat ain’t his real name.  His real name is . . . well . . . I cain’t say it outside ma head cuz it don’t be ‘lowed fo’ slaves to have no name lessin’ a white person give it to ya.  Adam is big ‘n strong ‘n black as midnight.  He stands tall as a tree and his arms be as big as a canon.  His eyes is dark and sad, you kin see de sadness in ‘em like when he be lookin’ at sumtin that don’t be dere. He say he be memberin’ his real home, his real kin folk.  He’s smart cuz on de boat over here, da captain learned him to read ‘n write ‘n do figgers but dis here Massa don’t know nuffin’ bout dat. 

Dey call me Margaret on dis here plantation.  When I’s a little girl, I had anuva name but I don’t reckon what it was no mo’.  I jest member dat when I come here to da McKinley Plantation in Latta, SC, ole Misses say she don’t like da name I come wit so she change it to Margaret.  Sometimes, ‘n my mind, I pretend like I’s Eve ‘n he’s Adam like in da Garden a Edun ‘cepin Massa say ain’t no niggers in da bible.  I don’t be carin’.  Sometimes, I closes my eyes ‘n sees us runnin’ around all free ‘n happy like.  I’s scurred o’ snakes sumtin fierce in real life so I don’t eat dat dang apple in my mind’s eye, we’s just be free ‘n happy . . . free ‘n happy. 

See, me ‘n Adam was runnin’ fo freedom when da catcha’s dun snatched us up in some place called Louisville.  Folks say we wuz almost to freedom iffin we wasn’t catched.  T’was my fault we got catched.  I had my moon flow ‘n we was in de woods ‘n I didn’t have no cotton to swab up de blood so we jest walk ‘n walk ‘n walk most de night ‘n durin’ de day we hide.  All de time we wuz walkin’, I was leavin’ a trail for dem ole dogs to follow. Adam dun tried to carry me but he was too tired from walkin’ all dem nights.  I tole him to leave me be and go on but he wouldn’t.  Dem ole hounds caught de smell o’ my blood ‘n tracked us ‘n catched us right on up ‘n brought us back to here to ole Massa. 

Massa tell de ova’sea to do ev’rytin’ to Adam ceptin’ kill ‘em.  Well, he say not to cut him down dere cuz he need him right for breedin’ ‘n all cuz Adam is a good bull.  He make good babies for massa to sell fo’ lots of money.  I kin’t have no babies cuz my insides t’aint right after ole Massa dun used a broken bottle on me dere.  But I’m a fancy, meanin’ I’s yella cuz my pa was my ole Massa, so dis here Massa keeps me round for his “musemint” is wut he be callin’ it.  I call it hell.  See, Adam don’t love me cause I’m half white, he love me cuz I got . . . wut he call it . . . a regal air ‘bout me.  I taint positive wut dat means fo’ sho’ but he say dat I be a queen where he from, a real live queen wit a crown ‘n all. 

Massa say not to beat me.  I was hopin’ to get da whip cuzin I know da pain of da beatin’ be ova in a few days.  Wut massa do to me, dat pain don’t neva go way.  Dat pain be in my heart, you know, you kin’t touch it but it be dere, from de sun to da moon ‘n back to da sun one mo’ ‘gain.  Massa hurt me down dere.  He make sure I know not to run away no mo’ ‘n he make me do awful things to make me pay.  He say I need to know my place so he tell his sons to do things to me down dere too.  Iffin’ I wuz all de way white, I could choose who could know me in de bible way.  Slave gals don’t have no say in dat. 

Adam been down almost 2 weeks.  His fever dun broke but he tain’t ate nuffin’ yet.  I be givin’ him tea with hyssop, nettle, ‘n honey in it fo’ when he get his strength back.  Dey’s healin’ roots from in de bible so I knows dey gotsta work.  His wounds got ‘fected real terrible like ‘n I had ta clean ‘em e’ry night after doin’ ma chores.  I knows he gunna be betta, I’s can feel it in ma bones. 

Sometimes, when I look at Adam, my eyes fill up wit tears and my heart feel like it wanna ‘splode like a fire cracker.  I loves him more dan anythin’ in de whole world.  I knows with e’ry bit o’ my soul dat Adam loves me with e’ry bit o’ his soul too.  Massa say niggers ain’t got no souls.  He say only white folks got souls but he crazier dan a loon.  Even I know a soul is what makes you ‘live, a soul be da thing dat makes you sing ‘n dance ‘n jump around. 

God dun answered my prayas.  Adam is ‘woke.  He’s still weak but da fire be back in his eyes.  Ole Sadie say he pull through cuz he gots pure African blood in ‘em.  Well, dat ‘n de love of a gud womin.  She help me get fixed up nice an purty for Adam and de ovah slaves done left and let us be alone in da quarters. 

I went to Adam in de night.  He weren’t sleep none, he wuz just layin’ dere, eyes open, like he been waitin’ for me.  He say I smell real sweet.  I put some ‘o de missus toilet water straight from Paris France behind my ears.   I let my frock fall to da floor and I stood dere, with nothin’ on but da light from da moon dat wuz lightin up da room, and showed myself to him.  I could see da covers movin’ down below so I knowed he was happy to see me.  I slid under da covers wif ‘im and he was warm to da touch.  He wrapped his arms ‘round me and I felt safe ‘n . . . I felt like a womin is ‘posed ta feel.  I put my leg ova his leg and my arms ‘round his body.  His skin was smooooooooth like a baby.  He put his full sof’ lips on mine ‘n kissed me, real gentle like.  It wuz like he was sayin’ thank you fo’ takin’ gud care ‘o me, not wif words but wif kisses.  My nature dun start ta rise and my body dun start ta squirmin’ ‘n wigglin’ round like a cat in heat.  My lady parts wuz tinglin’ sumpin’ fierce.  I neva get dose feelin’s with ole Massa.  Sometimes, I wishes dat only Adam knowed me like a husband knows a wife but, tain’t so. 

He started to nurse from me, Adam did, just like a baby does from his mama.  T’weren’t no milk coming out o’ me tho’, just noises from me that say I liked it.  And when he started ta touch me in my special place, it felt real good, real good indeed.    His fingers went down where da daisies grow ‘n he wuz pettin’ it real soft.  Seem like e’ry time he do dat, I start makin’ sounds I cain’t control.  It be like a strange tongue be comin’ out ‘o me dat I don’t have no have power ovah.  I was like a ripe peach with all ma juices flowin’.  ‘N you’se can best b’lieve dat his rod was stiffer dan all get out.   I took him in my hands and stroked him.  He liked it, I could tell.  His sap started to leakin’ and he was thrusting his hips. 

I didn’t want him to climb on top ‘o me cuz I didn’t want him to get too weak so I had to do all de work.  I got on top ‘o him ‘n he filled his hands with my backside and I joined with him.  My, my, my.  We was together, nuffin between us but love.  I put my hands on his chest ‘n started ridin’ him like he was one ‘o Massa’s prime stallions.  Our bodies was movin’ together, poundin’ out a rhythm in time sorta like a drum beatin’ out our song of love.  I see’d Adam’s eyes roll back ‘n his head and I knowed he was ready to spill his seed.  Dere I was, filled up with joy and his manhood, his eyes were locked wit mine, ‘n he was whispering to me in his real tongue.  I don’t be knowin’ wut he be sayin’ when he talk dat African talk but it sound real nice and I feel de meanin’ somehow.  He be sayin’, “Margaret, I’s gonna love you til de end of time.”  I say it right back too, with my heart. 

Copyright 2013 Scottie Lowe

12 Million Mental Slaves

In this nation, with its land stained with the blood of millions upon millions of innocents, we are completely backwards in our thinking.  Descendents of slave are ashamed of our past, embarrassed and humiliated because our forefathers and mothers labored like beasts under heavy chains.  Slaves were the strongest, most resilient, most persevering, most amazing people to be able to survive the physical, emotional, psychological, sexual, and spiritual abuse of slavery.  Consistently, Black people have the unmitigated audacity to say, “I’m sick and tired of seeing movies about slavery and butlers and maids,” as if they want to distance themselves from the reality of our past.  The noblest people to hold their heads high and live to see another day were our ancestors, who endured more pain than the contemporary mind can even comprehend. We come from a people who fought to survive, to love, to define themselves just so that today we can make celebrities of idiots and clowns, crave mediocrity, and defend dysfunction.  We idolize and emulate a race of people whose false sense of superiority and arrogance are contemptible, shameful, and appalling.  I, even if I stand alone, am PROUD to be the descendent of cotton picking, nappy-headed, illiterate slaves for I honor and respect all that they had to endure, no matter how mundane, menial, and un-glamorous it was. 

Conversely, the descendents of slave masters walk around as arrogant as fuck, saying, “Slavery was in the past, let it go.  My ancestors never owned slaves.  Jews got over the Holocaust, etc., ect., ect.”  Slave masters, and overseers, and wives of slave masters, and white people in general were, for generations, the most reprehensible, evil, soulless, sadistic, cruel human beings to walk the face of the earth YET they are proud of their heritage, proud to be descended from people who administered beatings, lynchings, rape, torture, and abuse like it was their birthright.  They long for the good old days.  They covet the sort of power they had at the safe end of a whip again.  They arrogantly assert that the reason that they are economically, and educationally more successful as a race of people is because of their hard work ethics and superior intellect.  They fail to recognize just how loathsome, vile, and repulsive their beginnings in this nation truly are, that it was Blacks who built this nation, created its wealth with their spirits all but broken, their bodies bruised and beaten. 

Take my Breath Away

I was old enough to be her ghetto mama.  There were at least 13, maybe 15 years separating our births, but the attraction between us was strong.  Her skin was the color of the deepest ebony; she was BLACK and her skin was hot and soft to the touch.  To say she was sexy was an understatement.  She wasn’t sexy because she happened to be beautiful.  Her beauty was part of the package but it certainly wasn’t the only ingredient in her intoxicating blend of charms.  She oooooooozed sticky, sweet sensuality and feminine mystique.  That, combined with an odd elixir of pheromones, created a persona so confident, intelligent, and so goddamn unapologetic in the space she took up on earth that she was like a Goddess.  Every step she took was confident; her stride swayed with rhythmic cadence.  Her eyes were captivating and she used them like weapons, drawing you in and beguiling you with her charms. 

She hunted me like prey.  I wanted to resist her charms but I am, after all, only human and subject to weakness of the flesh and will.  I had not built up an immunity to her seduction.  I tried for weeks to dodge her advances but eventually, we were alone, in my apartment and I was a victim of her erotic wiles.  On my sofa, with nothing to distract us but the barely imperceptible crackle of the candles that bathed us in a soft, warm glow, we talked and touched.  She was in no rush and she was completely in control; I was just along for the ride and where we were going I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Here, put your head in my lap,” she instructed me and I quickly followed her command.  I felt warm and safe there, staring up at the ceiling as we conversed about life and love and the work of James Vanderzee.  The sexual tension in the air was so thick, so high and tight, that it put Kid’s flattop in House Party 2 to shame.  In silence, she caressed my body.  My nipples responded to the gentle touch of her fingertips on the exposed skin on the nape of my neck; my sighs were a response to her erotic manipulations. 

She placed her hand tenderly on my throat . . . and left it there.  With skillful ease, she began the most erotic massage of my neck.  Her stroke was sensual, soft, but it grew more firm and intentioned gradually.  The sensations I felt were new, exciting and her eyes never left mine and she began to apply the slightest pressure to my throat.  I was moaning, or I should say, I couldn’t help myself from moaning.  I was in an erotic trance.  I kept getting more and more aroused.  I didn’t understand what was happening; all I knew was that I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted and needed more.  Every time she would squeeze my neck just a bit harder I felt the blood rush to my head, it pulsed and throbbed but it wasn’t just in my head.  My pussy felt the sensations just as much.  I was in a trance, a daze from lack of oxygen and an excess of arousal. 

“More, I whispered,” and she responded in kind.  She grabbed my throat and started to squeeze harder.  The sensations in the back of my eyes, in my clit, were like nothing I’d ever felt before.  My body was thrashing around on the sofa and I was grabbing her hand with my own, trying to get her to squeeze harder, longer; I wanted her grip tighter.  She tormented with me her sexy talk, telling me how sexy I looked, how wet her pussy was getting seeing me so turned on.  This was the epitome of erotic asphyxiation; she was choking me, controlling me sensually.  I wasn’t for a moment afraid.  My life was in her hands, literally, and I felt so close, so exposed, so aroused. 

She knew how to control my breath and my body.  I was communicating to her with my eyes; telling her when to stop, how much pressure to apply; that I loved every second of it.  Eventually, I couldn’t control myself.  I unzipped my jeans and slipped my fingers to my engorged, sensitive clit and rubbed it in a circular motion.  I was so turned on, so completely soaking wet; I knew I wouldn’t last very long.  She knew I was about to cum as well and she held my throat and firmly in her hand and applied even more pressure.  I thought I was going to pass out.  I wanted to gasp for air but I couldn’t.  My body tensed up and . . .  orgasmic explosion and the breath of life collided in erotic bliss.

I never saw her again.  She drifted off into obscurity, out of my life but not out of my mind.  The impression she left on my throat was not nearly as lasting as the one she made in my memory.  To this day, that night remains one of the most erotic experiences of my life. 

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK

“But I like it!”

We are in a perpetual state of sexual dysfunction because we can’t have an informed, mature, logical conversation about sex and sexuality without one of two dynamics halting any forward progress.  The first is always the ever popular “Ewww, that’s nasty.”  People LOVE, love, love to insist that everything is nasty, everything is wrong, everything is inappropriate to discuss.  People have been socialized to have an obsessive need to shame, disparage, denigrate, and denounce anything, everything, and anyone who has the audacity to discuss sex and sexuality so that they can appear infinitely more holy, moral, chaste, and conservative than those highly inappropriate and morally-offensive sexual people.  For them, nothing is ever appropriate to discuss, everything is “too much information,” and dear lord, anything concerning sex besides vanilla sex on a Friday night with the lights out with your married opposite gender spouse for the sole purposes of procreation is DISGUSTING!

The vast and overwhelming majority of society falls into that category.  It’s how we are socialized as a culture.  It’s the default mode.  It’s unhealthy in that it negates and denies that people are, essentially and fundamentally, sexual beings.  It makes everything about sex dirty, bad and wrong and that is the recipe for sexual immaturity and dysfunction.  It’s immature, both sexually and psychologically.  But there is another side to the equation.  The other side of this very dysfunctional sexual coin are the people who say, in essence, “Well, it can’t be wrong if I like it.”  There is a defense mechanism that human beings have, it kicks in with all discussions of “right and wrong” that people defend whatever it is they like to the detriment of logic and reason.  If a person likes a particular behavior, activity, fetish, object, or fantasy, their mind won’t allow them to say that it’s wrong, because, in essence, admitting that there is something not quite right about a behavior they possess is admitting to the world, and to themselves, that they are flawed and people are just not emotionally mature enough to do that.  What we, collectively and as a society as a whole have done, is not allow people the safe space to say that they aren’t perfect, that there are areas of their lives that need to be worked on, that need to evolve and grow.  It’s created this stringent need to hold on to the patterns and behaviors that are unhealthy and we can rationalize and justify them because other, “Well, other people like it too.”  It’s our psychological safety net.  “I like it, so it can’t be wrong,” means, “I’m fine just the way I am, and if I’m comfortable with it, if I can admit to liking it, it means that it’s perfectly fine. It means that I’m perfectly normal and there’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Both positions prevent us from having healthy conversations about sex.  The visceral, violent reaction I got the other day from suggesting that the need to degrade or be degraded during sex was unhealthy is a prime example.  I’m going to use the same example to illustrate my point.  If there was an individual highlighted in the news who proclaimed that they enjoyed being bullied, or even abused by their spouse, that they go enjoyment and satisfaction from being beat up and harrassed, everyone without exception would say, “Wow, that poor person.  They are psychologically damaged.  That’s so sad.  I hope they get help.”  And people would be right for the most part.  I’m sure the motivation to appear superior to them would be at the base of most people’s comments but anyone who got emotional or psychological or even physical pleasure from being humiliated certainly has some issues they need to work on.  That wouldn’t be up for debate.  If someone were so bold and brazen, and presumably crazy enough to admit that they enjoy beating their spouse, that they get pleasure from bullying others, that didn’t find anything whatsoever wrong with beating up people because they got a sense of satisfaction from it, people would be ready to throw them under the jail.  There wouldn’t even be room for discussion.  Certain people were highly offended, however, because I suggested that the same behavior in the bedroom is unhealthy.  Because they like to degrade others sexually, because there are those who enjoy being degraded sexually, because the sexual degradation and humiliation of women is so common that it’s accepted as normal, because the BDSM community is so large, people were adamant that the behavior was just fine, there were no problems with it whatsoever, that I’m a fucking bitch for even suggesting that something is wrong with it. 

I’m a writer, I’m more than a writer however, I’m dedicated to shifting our perceptions of sexuality, to creating a healthier paradigm.  I can freely admit to liking, wanting, and being aroused by behaviors in my life that were unhealthy.  I’m not at all ashamed to admit that.  It’s part of my growth process.  It’s a sign that I’m evolving as a human being.  I am not content to hold on to belief systems that are unhealthy.  I’m also aware that my writing is a vehicle for promoting conversation.  The stories I write about degrading and humiliating white men are NOT my fantasies, they do not arouse me.  They are stories that I write for clients of my personalized, customized erotic stories.  They are divine (figuratively) opportunities for me to highlight the inherent racism of white culture and to provide white people an opportunity to see Black people in a healthier, more well-rounded light.  They are all written with the objective to shine a very ugly light on their objectification of Black sexuality and genitalia.  People respond to the messages they get when they are in a highly aroused state, they associate the things that are introduced to them during that state with sex.  I set the stage, as it were, for white men the world over to read and learn and understand that Black people are not just things for them to fantasize about but complex human beings who are more valuable than just our sexuality.  Read my interracial stories again and see if you don’t get that.  All the Black characters are empowered, autonomous, highly-intelligent and function as more than just props to get white men off. 

That being said, in my private life, I have been a Domme.  I have dominated, humiliated, and degraded white men in my personal life (not to the extent of the characters in my stories because I’m not that one-dimensional) but I would not only be foolish but I would be delusional if I didn’t acknowledge that the pleasure I got in seeing white men mentally and psychologically broken didn’t stem from the generations of oppression Black people have endured and it’s resulting effect that has had on my personal identity as a Black woman.  Just because I like it doesn’t mean that it’s healthy.  Just because the white men I’ve dominated liked it doesn’t mean that they are psychologically, mentally, emotionally, or sexually healthy.  Just because they have jobs and function in society well doesn’t equate to the behavior being healthy either.  Just because hundreds of thousands of people enjoy similar behaviors doesn’t mean that it’s healthy.  Just because the entire porn industry, society in general, and all the we know to be true and right and normal says that degrading, objectifying, humiliating, and abusing women sexually is okay doesn’t make it right or healthy. 

So, there are going to be people crawling out of the woodworks again to tell me how wrong I am, that I don’t know what I’m talking about, that it’s just my opinion and be sure to point out exactly how they think I’m contradicting myself with my previous writings.  There are going to be individuals who are going to insist that anything that happens between adults that is consensual is perfectly fine.  We are not talking about rape, we are talking about the need to degrade and be degraded; we are talking about the psychological factors that go into the sexual arousal associated with making someone feel less about themselves.  The discussion has to go beyond just what’s consensual to what’s healthy.  Everything that we do, regardless of its popularity, regardless of how accepted and isn’t evolved, isn’t moving us towards healing our collective sexuality. 

Sex is about more than just lame baby oil and a massage.  I intentionally write about sexual acts beyond the fringe, beyond what’s vanilla and plain and boring.  I write about strapon sex from a point of love and giving pleasure.  It’s passionate and vigorous but it’s NOT about degrading one’s partner, it’s not about power or control, it’s not about degradation and humiliation.  I write about watersports.  I write about lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered individuals who enjoy sex in a way that celebrates them as sexual beings.  And if I do write about something that might appear to the superficial reader to be about something that I’ve said is unhealthy, you can be assured that I’m doing so in a way that promotes discussion about how to move to a healthier way to relate to one another. I am meeting people where they are at.  Look deeper and see that I’m writing about a way for people to see sex as being compromised of a whole host of things that are exploratory, adventurous, and beyond vanilla that are in no way associated with devaluing a person’s worth or identity.  I address people’s unhealthy behaviors and I lead them to a way that is healthier with my words. 

Sex should be about being expressive, passionate, emotionally honest, it should be about pleasure.  There are tons of things that are included under that umbrella, that indicate a healthy way to look at sex that go way, way, way beyond what puritanical society tells us is acceptable.  “But I like being called a slut and a whore during sex, I like being slapped and having my hair pulled.  It turns me on.”  Women who enjoy being degraded during sex, ask yourself, why is it okay to like being degraded during sex with behaviors that you would absolutely, positively NOT be okay with outside of a sexual situation?  What about the act of sex makes being slapped and called names okay, arousing even, that you would not tolerate outside of a sexual situation?  Is it because you learned that being sexual was bad, that you need to be punished?  Is it because some dude called you a name during sex when you were younger, when you were in a highly aroused state, and your subconscious mind associated that behavior with sex?  They are hard questions.  It requires you look at yourself and your behaviors in a way that most people are unwilling to do.  It requires a level of introspection and soul-searching that will make you challenge your belief systems and maybe even admit that all the things you like aren’t completely healthy.  Most people will hit a brick wall, their brains won’t let them even process the questions because it will put them in a place of maybe, quite possibly, having to admit that they aren’t perfect. 

Men who enjoy degrading women during sex, there’s nothing under the sun I can say to you that will make you question your motives or behaviors.  You are trapped in your pathos and you won’t be moved.  Patriarchy and misogyny are so deeply ingrained in our society there’s nothing that anyone could say to make you challenge your belief systems.  But, maybe, there is a woman out there, with God’s graces, there will be a few women, who will say to themselves, “Why do I think it’s wrong for me to pleasured, pampered, and seduced?  Why do I not feel deserving of extended foreplay and tenderness that leads up to indescribable passion?  Why do I need to be called names during sex and why do I think that’s arousing?”  Perhaps there is one woman somewhere reading this who will start to question why she needs to be slapped and abused in order to feel arousal, or why being with someone’s husband feels more exhilarating, or she will start to ask herself if she’s worth more than the $100 she’s getting to have sex with someone who doesn’t value and respect her as a person.  With any luck, she will start to unravel the layers of her sexuality that have created her to be the woman she is and she will, one day, when you start calling her a slut and a whore, tell you that you cannot call her names just to boost your ego, you cannot slap her, choke her, spit on her, that she wants more than just her back blown out and she will feel deserving of asking for being pampered, catered to, and adored BEFORE she gets to the hot and sweating fucking that will make her eyes roll back in her head.  Perhaps. 

Copyright 2013 Scottie Lowe