Handicapping our Sons

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Minority Affairs: Intense Interracial Erotica

Check out this groundbreaking book of sexy tales across color lines.  Not only will you get hot erotic stories but breathtaking images as well.  

My Emotional Needs

Every person is going to have different emotional needs based on their life experiences and their personality.  What many people don’t grasp, understand, or acknowledge is that events from our childhood, events that happened that we don’t even remember, psychological factors form our identities and how we process our emotions.  A great many people, the overwhelming and vast majority of people have never once considered or examined those things, those contributing factors to understand why they are the way they are.  I’m not that lucky. 

For ME, and me alone, I was raised by an emotionally and psychologically disturbed, unloving, physically abusive mother.  For the first, most formative years of my life, I was raised, however, by my grandparents who did an exceptional job of loving me and laying the foundation for me to be SOMEWHAT sane.  Many of my emotional needs stem from the psychological abuse my mother inflicted upon me. 

My first essential, primary, instinctual need is to feel loved.  Now, for most people, saying, “I love you,” means, I want to be in a relationship with you.  That’s not nearly enough for me.  I need to see your love evidenced.  Love is a verb.  Love is action, not words.  Love is showing me that you value me more than any other person, that you want my happiness, that you appreciate my talent and gifts and you’re willing to nurture them, that you respect them, that you are willing to put the needs of the relationship above your own personal, selfish needs.  If you curse me out, call me names, if you do things to intentionally hurt me, that’s not love, that’ abuse.  Love is not having to be asked to fix chicken soup and orange juice when I’m sick because your heart hurts when you see me in pain.  Love is cleaning off my car when it snows without me having to ask.  Love is making note of something I said I want six months before my birthday.   I NEED to feel loved.  I need to feel like my presence in your life is essential and that you would be “less than” without me.  It doesn’t mean buying me things, although sometimes that may be part of the package, but I need to feel like when I’m not in your physical presence that you are thinking about me and that it is your desire to make me happy . . . because you know and see and feel that I love you equally as intensely. 

I NEED honesty.  Honesty is not an emotional need however.  The emotional need is trust.  I’ve yet to meet the man who understands the concept of true honesty.  In this society, lying is first nature.  Most people lie by their first interaction with another human being during the day. Most people lie more than tell the truth.  I need honesty in ways that most people have never contemplated.  If you’ve never made a concerted effort to make sure that every word out of your mouth is true, then you lie habitually and constantly.  I have spent the last 20 years of my life trying very hard to make sure that I not only tell the truth but that I confess my lies when I tell one.  It’s hard work.  But, with that, comes the trust I need in a relationship.  I need to know that you will tell me if you aren’t happy, if you meet someone you find attractive, I need to know if you can confess when you lie.  I need to trust with all my heart that you will protect my heart.  I’ve said it to every lover and none of them have honored their promise.  I can handle the truth.  I can handle when you tell me something bad, something embarrassing, something regrettable.  I can handle you telling me that you cheated.  I can handle the truth.  If you tell me that you did something heinous and reprehensible, and you explain to me why you did it, and you come to me in HONESTY, we can figure out what made you do that particular thing, it’s possible I might be able to forgive you.  More than likely I won’t even be upset or mad.  More than likely, if you tell me the truth, if you tell me the thing that you think is going to make me hate you, I will simply see you as human and capable of making a mistake or being misguided or being damaged, like we all are.  If you lie . . . if you lie and don’t come clean and confess and make every effort to tell the truth so that I know that I can trust you, the relationship is over. 

My mother has never been supportive of me a day in her life.  Never once has my mother said, “You can do it, I believe in you.”  Because of that I need a lover who can be my cheerleader.  That means being able to make coffee and hand out flyers for the movement.  Seriously, it means I need you to see the vision I have for AfroerotiK and be able to contribute to my efforts, not deter from them.    What do you do well?  Show me that you believe in me not only with words but with your actions.  Are you going to set up the chairs for an AfroerotiK event, are you going to make sure the club owner has the right music queued up?  If all you are going to do is show up after everything is set up, and leave before everything is broken down, you are dead weight and I don’t need you in my life.  Of course, I understand if you have RESPONIBILITIES that prevent you from being there each and every time, but your support should be the rule, not the exception.  If you have to take your mother to the doctor’s, if you have to handle an emergency at work . . . I will certainly understand if you can’t be there for me on occasion.  But being supportive of me means knowing what projects I have in the works, getting a business card from someone you meet that you think might be able to help me.  It means that your only focus in life is not your career or the things that directly affect you but that you will make sure that I have quiet time when I need to write and you won’t pout and be self-centered and act like my every waking moment should be spent attending to you. 

When I was a child, a very small child in fact, my mother would get mad at me and not speak to me for WEEKS.  I lived in the same house with my mother who would go two, three, four weeks without saying a word to me.  I have the emotional need of being listened to, of being heard, of being respected, of being forgiven for my wrongdoings, and for basic communication.  I need my lover to be able to articulate his feelings in a healthy, constructive manner.  He can be mad at me all he wants.  He can’t be mad at me and not tell me about it.  He can’t expect me to know why he’s mad.  What he can’t do is not talk to me for extended periods of time.  That hurts me.  If he can’t express his feelings in a healthy way, I feel that same horrible isolation and fear that I felt as a young girl and that’s not good. 

I need to be valued for more than my gender role.  I am not sure what emotional need that would be.  Respected?  Appreciated?  I get that for thousands of years women have been relegated to the role of domestic, cook, maid, and child care provider.  I cannot and will not be in a relationship with anyone who thinks that my vagina makes me the only person in the household who can clean a toilet or dust.  We have to be able to sit down and figure out a system where I don’t feel like I’m your maid or where I feel like I’m being taken advantage of because you are holding on to absurd ideas about what a woman brings to the table.  I bring empathy, compassion, intellect, integrity.  Yes, I’m a very neat, clean, tidy person but it’s not my job, there is nothing about my uterus that designates that I have to follow behind you and clean up after you.  I need the spirit of cooperation in my relationship for me to flourish emotionally. 

Those are MY emotional needs.  If I have each of those needs met, I am desperate to fulfill every single solitary sexual fantasy my partner has.  Other women, obviously, will have other needs to varying degrees.  It’s the responsibility of each partner in a relationship to communicate their needs and work to helping their partner getting their emotional needs met.  That could be anything from being admired, feeling safe, feeling proud, or being in control, etc.   Men have emotional needs as well but they really haven’t done the work to know what they are.  Most men confuse their emotional needs with their physical needs.  They want to feel special and unique and they think that a woman having sex with them is sufficient to fill that need.  They don’t know how to communicate or express their fears or insecurities so they look for sex to fill that void.  The point is, even if your partner doesn’t know what their emotional needs are in the same way I do, it doesn’t mean that they don’t have them nor does it mean that they can be ignored.  In a relationship, you should be working to figure out what your emotional needs are, as they should always be evolving, and the need or your partner based on their actions and patterns, in order to build a stronger partnership. 

Diary of a Perverted Housewife

So I'm browsing Tumblr last night and I was sucked in to the cycle of endless clicking and exploring. I found a blog that was titled Diary of a Perverted Housewife. (I won't link to it but you are more than welcome to search for it if you'd like). My curiosity and my amateur anthropological nature led me to explore further. This young lady claims that she is a prim and proper young lady who does nothing but masturbate to porn all day while her husband is at work. She's pretty forthcoming about her desires and she interacts with her followers, telling them fantasies and answering questions.

I will be the first to admit that the few white women I know, the ones whom I love, are wonderful amazing beautiful women who are NOTHING like regular white women. I was curious because I know the minds, the pathos, the psychology of submissive white men better than anyone (if I have to say so myself) but my knowledge of the inner workings of white women is limited to say the least.

First and foremost, let me state that her blog is replete with images of white people having sex with animals. OK, let's not waste time pretending to be shocked, we can find it all over the net and if it's on Tumblr, it's clearly a huge sexual fetish that is wildly popular. (It should be noted that bestiality is a violation of Tumblr's terms of service yet there are 10s of thousands of images and videos posted there) Sex with animals is disturbing on multiple levels to say the least but let's all agree that it's hardly uncommon based on the amount of porn that is easily accessible for FREE. 

Anyway, I am exploring this woman's blog and amidst the images of people having sex with animals, the memes that depict blatant pedophilia, incest, and rape, and a whole host of other extreme and depraved fetishes, this young woman has images of interracial sex interspersed in her blog. The vast majority of them are white women with Black men but there are several pages dedicated to Black women having sex with white men as well.

Hear me and hear me well. This is not unique to her blog, it is not uncommon across the net. White people associate sex with Black people the same way they do with animals. We are not humans to them. We are sexual beasts, animals, they look down on us like we are subhuman and that is why they are so aroused by interracial sex. Black men are conforming to their racist beliefs by playing the Mandingo savage who is blinded by his lust for white women.

 

She thinks that  having sex with a Black person is perverted and depraved.  She's not alone.  For more than a decade, I have been trying to tell people that the trend is real, that the white women who like to have sex with dogs are also having sex with Black men.  Now it seems that the white men who are fucking and getting fucked by livestock and members of the animal kingdom are finding that sex with Black women is equally as arousing.  

You can be all about the swirl.  You can say that color doesn't matter. I need to caution you however,  Know who you are sleeping with.  Know how they really feel about you. 

Society Told Me a Secret

There is this rumor going around that the white woman is prettier, no, no, she’s HOT.  That’s exactly what society wants me to believe.  She’s sexier, she’s better in bed; she’s more sophisticated and less sassy.  Everyone, and I do mean everyone, desires a white woman; she’s the epitome of beauty and lust.  Society told me a secret that a white woman’s pussy tastes better than mine.  The white woman is a sign of status, she lets Black men know that they have arrived when they can have her on his arm; she’s the trophy to be put on display.  She sure is beautiful, flawless even up there on that pedestal, the ultimate object of desire.

I have to wonder though, is a Latina woman’s sex really that much better than mine?  Ay caramba, it must be, society told me so.  She’s got more sazon, she’s spicier, she’s muy caliente and fine.  Her Spanish and African blood makes her just right mixture of all things sensual, not an ugly savage like me.  You see, that’s what I’m led to believe by the whispers of the slaves who are no longer beaten by the massa’s whips and tethered by steel and iron chains but by the ones who drive expensive whips and wear gold chains around their necks.  They tell me that Carmen is sooo, soooo very fine.  Who am I to compare?  Just a regular ole Black chick, not sexy in any way, ghetto and unwanted. 

Wait, what’s that you say?  Oh damn, not the Asian chick too!  She’s submissive and demure and her coochie is tighter.  Man, a sista can’t win.  OK, that’s it, there’s no one else in line before me.  Wait, biracial women too?  Alright, I can see that.  They are only half black so I’ll take a step back.  Two steps you say?  Oh, got it.  Light skinned women, damn, I forgot. 

Well, I’ve got news for you society, you’ve got it all wrong.  You see, I am the original woman, all life comes from me.  I will not let you dictate my self esteem and sense of worth based on your lies.  You may have forgotten, you may have been misled.  But I’m here to tell you that I Am beautiful, I am sensual, I desirable and you’re just plain wrong. 

My black as midnight skin is like satin and silk to touch.  You see, Black don’t crack and it absorbs the sun.  Feel the heat of my spirit rise as you experience a true Goddess.   My eyes are deep and dark and they’ve seen a lot of pain but they reflect my inner light that shines so bright, unafraid to be Black, proud to be sexy. My sensual lips are full and made for kissing, my full, round hips sway and swerve in rhythmic time.  You tell me my features are too full, not refined.  I say kiss my entire Black ass.  You told me to cover my thick, natural, nappy, African, wooly hair, that I should be ashamed.  I can create more styles with my mane of glory than any white woman ever could and make them all look good.  My breasts are full and heavy and my milk flows like the river Nile.  My nipples stand proud like Kilimanjaro, hard like a diamond mined, my sacred blood nourishes the generations.  I am mother earth, I am Africa.  I am Egypt and Ghana and Timbuktu. I am the Sahara and Sudan and Madagascar.  I am the starry night sky and dessert plains.  I am Cleopatra and Sheba and Venus Hottentot too.  I am the antelope and the cheetah simultaneously; I am the hunter and the hunted.  I am the gentle waves of an unforgiving dark ocean lapping at the hull of the slave ship. 

So, I invite you to experience sex the way it was meant to be, with the original woman, and you will see that I’m not the lowly thing you’ve tried to convince me I am.  Do you smell that, that intoxicating scent?  That’s my beautiful black pussy, deliciously pink hot wet and sweet.  Taste that sacred space, that holy temple.  My juices taste like honey so sweet.  I will give you my surrender, my uncontrolled cries of passion.  Fill your hands with my thick ass, lose yourself  inside me.  Join with me and as you feel my silky wet walls envelop you, surround you, bathe you in dark divinity.  Make love to me, pleasure me.  Fill me with your seed. Society knows that I am beautiful, sexy, and erotic.   I will ascend to take my rightful place as coveted and desired, the Black woman, compared to none. 

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