An Erotic Goldmine

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The DL man versus the AfroerotiK man

The DL man is so afraid to admit to himself that he can’t live up to the narrow role of manhood that society has afforded him that he goes off and engages in unprotected and dangerous sex acts with other men because he can distance himself from the act. It’s not really “him” doing those things, being unmanly, so he can turn off his moral compass and separate himself from his actions. The DL man, in his heart, believes that his manhood is defined by how he receives sexual pleasure, in how many women he can conquer so he doesn’t feel guilt or remorse for telling women how much he despises homosexuals when, in fact, he, feels compelled to have sexual experiences that fall outside that reality without ever having to face up to his own desires or the motivations that drive him to them.

The opposite of the DL man is the AfroerotiK man. The AfroerotiK man is a man who can acknowledge that wearing that role of super-macho, emotionless, manly man isn’t working out for him. The AfroerotiK man, one who can acknowledge the truth that he finds arousal in the arms of another man for many reasons, not the least of which could be the concept of feeling loved, nurtured, protected, and even submissive, is healing and transformative and has no shame in that fact. The AfroerotiK man is one who can redefine manhood to mean something more than paying bills and having a woman on his arm that other men desire. The AfroerotiK man is one who acknowledges that honesty, commitment, integrity, compassion, empathy, courage, and being able to admit your fears, insecurities, and flaws is the TRUE measure of a man. The AfroerotiK man realizes that a woman is more than a pretty symbol of how successful a man is, that she is a partner, a friend, an ally, and someone with whom he can build a solid future with.

Black and White Love

Interracial relationships are one of the most highly controversial issues that the Black community deals with. Black women feel justifiably slighted by Black men when they choose white women as partners proclaiming them as symbols of status or beauty or behind the cry that white women are more supportive. Black men feel a sense of betrayal and rage when they see sistas with the proverbial “slave master.” All too often, the reasons why white people pursue interracial couplings are based on the objectification of Black people and racist, stereotypical perceptions of our sexuality. There are a host of reasons a great many interracial relationships operate from of an unhealthy perspective. That is not to say that they don’t work for some people. Obviously, with the numbers of interracial relationships, a great many do work for the people who engage in them. For a great many others, they refuse to see how their preferences are not born out of colorblind love but of deep-seated beliefs that white people are better.

As more and more African Americans become completely assimilated, distancing themselves from the Black people and culture in all areas of their lives including the workplace, church, social outlets, in every aspect of their lives, it’s only reasonable to assume that those people would have more in common with people who don’t look like them. Does that signal the end of racism or a model for all Black people to emulate? Adopting someone else’s identity to distance yourself from your own unique culture, heritage, history and culture is never psychologically healthy. The mainstream would have us believe that we as Black people should disavow ourselves from anything and everything that has to do with our African identity in order to be more like them. The real problem lies in the fact that African American identity was born out of oppression and slavery; it was formed out of inferiority and self-hatred. Africans who were enslaved had to form their identities, beliefs, customs and coping mechanisms because they were beaten, whipped, and tortured, because they were raped, bought and sold like property, they were taught to hate anything that was inherent to their African identity and to covet those things that their owners possessed. Many African American behaviors are, in fact, unhealthy. Not through our own devices, however, but because of our unique history of enslavement. It is in the restoration and recognition of healthy African principles, re-establishing and redefining an African centered identity that one should be able to form healthy relationship with someone of another race.
How could anyone love themselves when everything in society tells them that they are inherently inadequate, that they are less than human? Slaves couldn’t love their own hair, their own facial features, their traditions and customs when white people repeatedly beat into them that they were inferior. But that was a long time ago, right? That has no effect on anyone today, right? While no one wants to admit or believe that slavery has had any long-lasting effects, while everyone wants to believe that they are beyond any of the messy realities of an ugly past, unfortunately, there are far too many Black people today who don’t want to be Black. Add a whole bunch of clichés and rhetoric like, “color doesn’t matter,” and “love knows no color,” and you get a whole lot of denial about how many interracial relationships are formed. If you can’t find beauty in the features that stare back at you in the mirror, if you want to distance yourself from the people who look like you, if you feel validated because white people find you attractive, then you’ve set up an internal struggle with your subconscious mind, fighting with your external desire to be someone other than who you are.

What about those Black people who don’t look Black? What about those African Americans who don’t have African features? One could argue that it’s perfectly okay for them to date interracially because they have the same features of white people, they look closer to white than they do Black. That ignores the fact that the history of light skinned Black people is that of rape by slave owners. It discounts the generations of ancestors who did everything they could to maintain their light privilege. Concerted efforts were made to ensure that darker skinned genes didn’t “infect” the family line. How can anyone deny the dysfunction in that sort of thinking? Many do, most people adamantly deny it because they refuse to see the connection of the tragic history of mulatto slaves being given preferential treatment and how that made them want to distance themselves from their Black-featured brothers and sisters.

All too often, when Black people come into an interracial relationship, the assumption is that they have somehow raised themselves up to a level in which they can be equal with whites. That basic assumption is based in the racist belief that black people are inherently inferior. If a person has to have no cultural identity to be with a partner, if they must conform to a set of standards and behaviors that denounce their unique background and heritage, there is something terribly wrong with the balance of that relationship. No interracial partnership should be formed without both parties willing to share equally in cultures and histories and traditions that support the equal and balanced footings of both partners. Black people have a history of slavery, racism, oppression, discrimination, and suffering that has shaped our collective consciousness. To deny that from, from both black and white partners, is unhealthy.

All too often, the selection of a white partner is based on an inheritance of passed on “mental enslavement.” During slavery, white people were heralded as the most attractive, more intelligent and overall better race. The features of white people, thin lips, small noses, flowing hair, and fair skin were held as the standard of beauty for Black people. The nappy hair, thick lips, wide noses and dark skin of African people was thought to be ugly and that belief was instilled in slaves for generations. Those messages have been passed down generationally and have never been addressed on a collective basis to rid our consciousness of those poisonous beliefs. To many Black men, the only women that are attractive are women that look as close to white as possible, so it’s little wonder they would migrate to white women. Dark skinned women represent what they believe to be ugly.

Lots of Black men justify their choices to fuck white women, to have them as sexual partners and not romantic partners, by saying that they are doing it to get back at the white man. Black men do not make a conscious decision to sleep with a white woman because so many Black women were raped at the hands of white men and to seek revenge. The conscious decision to fuck a white woman is made because they like feeling the supposed “power” they have in the beds of white women where the sexual stereotype is reinforced, where they are told that they are superior because of their savage sexuality. I have never met a brother who was so proud of his Black heritage and culture that he decided to seek his own brand of reparations from society and have his way sexually with the white woman to make up for the years of degradation that Black women have suffered. In almost every case, you hear Black men saying how sexy white women are, how beautiful, how uninhibited they are in bed. It’s usually followed by a litany of reasons why Black women are unattractive as partners because they have too much attitude, aren’t sexual enough, or they simply say, “I can’t help who I’m attracted to.”

The thought processes of the plantation are not that far removed from our consciousness. During slavery, light skinned women were allowed the luxury to be in the house, thus, as a Black man, to get one meant you might have some special privileges. White women were even more privileged. Those were the reinforcements that our grandparents were taught by their grandparents. Just because we have stopped delving into the origins of our sickness, does not mean the disease is not rampant. Show me the man that says, “I want my child to have short, wooly hair, a wide nose, thick lips and blacker than coal skin.” Those things are not revered in our society. I'm not saying a man with that consciousness does not exist, I'm saying that in this society, the Black man (and woman) is taught to love everything opposite of that.

In very recent years, Black women have decided to make a mass exodus of sorts in terms of romantic relationships and start dating white men. For many, it’s a choice because they say that the pool of good Black men is shallow, for others, it’s a variation of the same theme as it is for Black men. White men are seen as validation. The message implied is that if a white man is attracted to a Black women, that has to mean she is attractive that she’s achieved the ultimate acknowledgement of acceptance. White men are the final say on everything so their approval has to indicate overcoming the insurmountable stigma of Blackness. The desire to have kids with good hair, and light eyes is rampant in the discussions of Black women who date white men but it’s drowned out by the discussions of how so much more supportive white men can be. How can that be healthy? The answer is that it’s not but those of us who speak out about the REASONS why so many of us find comfort in the arms of people who don’t look like us, we are attacked by the masses who refuse to acknowledge that there are a myriad of contributing factors to the interracial dating trend, most of which are dysfunctional.

Interracial dating is still the forbidden taboo on many people’s lips and in many people’s hearts. The taboo is the people who aren’t willing to look at the reasons why they date interracially. The taboo is in not peeling off the layers and seeing that the true reasons for interracial dating are self-hatred at its most extreme in far, far too many cases.

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

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.

Vanity is a Sin

As distorted by man (read males) as I know the bible to be and their oppressive agendas, I do believe that it holds within it some truths that the co-opters of the original text did not understand and thus remnants of truth can be found there. We, as a race of people, as human beings, have become so removed from our true natures, from our true divine selves, so superficial that our logic has been stunted. We no longer know how to extract the truths from spiritual texts because our minds no longer function at the level at which we were created to perform; we no longer are capable of comprehending anything more than our current state of diseased thinking. Because Black people specifically learned our religion at the end of a whip, at the base of enslavement, because we had no choice but to believe what the slave master told us was true, we are crippled that much more from our true spiritual selves. Ignorance is truly bliss, because when I lived like the masses, when I thought like the unconscious, I was happy to repeat clichés and never question the things I’d been told.

I remember when I was growing up that my grandmother used to tell me that vanity was a sin. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that concept because I couldn’t figure out how being vain could possibly offend God in any way. I could understand murder, I could understand adultery, but I figured that God created you, why would he be upset if you boasted about his work. Now, I know that there is no such thing as “sin” in the sense that God will punish us for our bad behavior. I now understand that “sin” is really that which prevents us from realizing our true God nature, that which keep us from realizing enlightenment and peace. Studying the mind, dedicating myself to the study of consciousness, I now realize that vanity, narcissism, and self-absorption are states of being that keep us dismembered from the body of the Creator and distort the balance of the universe.

The U.S. is funny in that we are the most dysfunctional nation and yet we parade ourselves the best. This over-inflated ego of the entire nation is an interesting phenomenon but it’s led, in large part, by individuals who can not acknowledge flaw, who have an over-inflated sense of self, whose worlds don’t revolve around the sun, but their egos. It’s a crippling state of mind. The sicker we become, the more arrogant, the further we get from a state of consciousness that is as we were intended to be.

We have become a nation of people who only care about the very things that are spiritually debilitating. “I know I look good. What wo/man could resist me, because I am so hot.” Any time you hear those words you can be assured that the person uttering them is prone to drama, they can’t form healthy relationships, they aren’t capable of realizing how there are consequences to their actions beyond how it directly affects him or her. The obsession with looking good, with clothing, hair and makeup, cars, whatever accouterment is outside the Self, is a sign of death of the spirit. If Jesus is truly supposed to be our model, then the pre-occupation with our appearance, our obsession with proclaiming how we are better than everyone else is, is glaring indication that we are un-Christlike in our carriage.

Just look around at the people who are supposed to be our spiritual leaders. They are the flashiest, the most outwardly oriented people in our society. Turn on the TV and look at any reality show that is created around competition for affection of someone. People who can not admit flaw, people who are determined to be the most desirable, the best looking, the best dressed are the most shallow, superficial, insincere people and the ones that blame everyone else for the issues that they create.

This younger generation seems laser-like in their agenda to be self-absorbed. Relationships can’t be formed if the only person you are intent on pleasing is the reflection in the mirror. I used to think, when I was growing up, that men were more guilty of a distorted sense of self than women. I would meet the biggest, fattest, sloppiest, man who would be unappealing in every way and he would proclaim how sexy he was and I would scratch my head in wonder. A part of me thought that it was a good thing that people could find something attractive in themselves when the world around them didn’t. Women, to a much, much greater extent, seemed to have more low self-esteem and more humility and I always thought that there was something tragic about a beautiful woman who couldn’t see her own beauty. I can no longer say the same thing today. Brothas now demand that the world revolve around their distorted egos and women are socialized to think that their value is to be found in how sexy they are and how many people desire them. I can only imagine how distorted things will be in 20 years from now when this generation’s children are grown having been raised by parents whose only concern are themselves.

Now, before you respond and say, “Yeah, it’s really sad how other people are so vain today, I’m glad I’m not like that,” realize that you are guilty of it yourself. There is an absence of humility that has infected you if you feel you are somehow above anyone else’s behavior. Are there some individuals who have been able to transcend this trend? Yes, of course. Are they the individuals intent on proving to others that they are more enlightened than everyone else around them is? No.

Vanity is surely a sign of dysfunction. A growing cancer is spreading rapidly, killing our spirit, and keeping us from God. Vanity is a sin that is staring us in a very dirty, clouded, cracked mirror.

Neurotic White Women

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This is a Test

Check out the AfroerotiK Forums for videos, stories, debate, discussion, polls, and lots more.

I'll probably have to shut the forums down again but I'm just checking to see if I've found the problem.

There’s a new breed of Black women in town

It’s funny how life sends you circumstances when you resist your internal urges. For a few days now, I’ve been thinking about writing a little something about this new breed of Black women. I kept putting it off and now it seems I must do so because a young lady has put forth a call to have a civil discussion about an article she reposted supposedly to incite people to think.

The said article was nothing less than ignorant, repulsive, misogynist crap. I won’t even quote what it said because it was so vile and offensive that it doesn’t even deserve any more attention. Suffice it to say, it was from the type of emotionally retarded black man who feels free to degrade women for not conforming to his sexist oppressive definition of a woman. The article did NOTHING to make people think. Its sole purpose was to spew sexist rhetoric, displace blame for any wrongdoings men do and place it unfairly on the shoulders of women, and to get women to blindly follow along and jump through chauvinistic hoops in order to degrade other women.

My concern is not the young man who wrote the initial article however. I write enough about that sort of Black man who feels so threatened by Black women that he takes every opportunity to denigrate us and claim he wants to go back to the good old days when men were King of the castle, yet he has NO CLUE how to reign as anything other than an oppressor. You know the one, the guy whose only response is to call a Black woman angry or imply that she doesn’t have a man because she dares to challenge Black men’s obvious short comings. This dude wasn’t even particularly unique, he was typical, stupid, no, ignorant is a better word, and just disgustingly sexist. This dude is laughable and cliché. He’s symptomatic of this ever growing portion of Black men that need to degrade Black women in order to feel manly.

Like I said, my main concern is not the dude who wrote it. My overwhelming concern is the young lady who reposted it, defending her repost of it by saying that it “had validity and truth to it.” My main concern is the generation of young women who can’t articulate, or even recognize and identify, men who are blatantly sexist and offensive. It’s not just this one particular young lady, it seems to be scores of Black women. These women, who, by all measures, should be reasonably intelligent, seem to be as dumb as a bag of rocks when it comes to defending the honor of Black women or even articulating an argument that seems reasonably cogent when such flimsy attacks on us are made. Not only do they not take offense, they celebrate these men.

It’s what I like to call the “Michael Baisden Fan Complex”. No matter how offensive and sexist his comments, no matter how disrespectful his is to Black women, women callers are waiting on the line to say, “Yeah, Michael, you are right.” It’s a new breed of women who defend, coddle, agree with, support, and otherwise glorify the sexist, offensive, divisive, vitriolic filth that emotionally immature men spew and they sign on for it, lock stock and barrel. We’ve raised several generations of Black women to be enslaved to their own oppression. We, as a society, have taught women to conform to men’s sexist demands and to never question, speak out, or confront men whose only interest is in getting women to appease their grandiose and diseased egos. They are so blissfully ignorant, they don’t even have a concept that they should be offended. We’ve let them believe that being called a feminist is a far worse thing to being called than a bitch.

There is something pathological and sick about a man who feels the need to denigrate a Black woman for what we stand for, for what we’ve had to endure, but the sickness is even greater when Black women don’t scream out in outrage. What does it say about us, about our mental health, when Black women pat men on the back for their offensive beliefs? It’s like these young ladies are incapable of even recognizing how detrimental these types of statements are.

What have we done to our young Black women? We teach them that their beauty is in the length of their hair, the roundness of their behinds, the price of their high heeled shoes and pocketbooks. We cripple them by never making them question the status quo and telling them to conform to an ideal of beauty that doesn’t look like them. We celebrate them when they fall in line with the narrow definition of femininity and we try to silence and denounce them when they stand up and say, “No, I won’t be your black Barbie Doll, I’m far more than that.” When Black men say stupid shit like, “What’s wrong with the Black community is Black women haven’t raised Black children right,” these young ladies don’t even have enough common sense to say intelligently in response, “Black women are doing the best they can with the broken tools we’ve been given considering Black men are absentee as fathers, only interested in fathering sons not daughters, and emotionally immature fathers at best when they are around.”

We are in peril as a people as long as we let diseased men define us and Black women follow along like hypnotized drones. Black men keep making the box smaller and smaller for what is acceptable for Black women and Black women keep redefining themselves to fit into that tiny box. As long as our value and worth is placed in appeasing the distorted beliefs of sick men, in feeding their needs as egomaniacs, then we will perish as a people. If Black women can’t even identify blatantly offensive rhetoric that is undermining to Black women as a whole, we are doomed as a mentally enslaved people.

Scottie Lowe

Sex Sells

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Life Imitates Art

Sex is not that big of a deal for Norma. She never really understood why everyone gets so excited about it; in fact, she doesn’t even really like it. She has to rethink her position, she has to re-evaluate and re-examine her entire life, however, when she meets up with a woman who turns her world upside down, re-ignites her passions, and makes her want to live life in an entirely different way. Check out this sexy excerpt from the story Life Imitates Art from book In Loving Color and pick up your copy TODAY!

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Final Curtain Call

When the artistic director of the Sankofa Dance Company, Isisara Imhotep, finds her spiritual, emotional, intellectual, and social equal, she struggles with the fact that he doesn’t quite come in the package she’d always hoped for. Jacques is certainly tall, dark, and handsome . . .but he’s white. She is challenged with the implications of dating interracially as he quells her fears with his insight, tolerance, and determination to sweep her off her feet to be all the man she’s ever wanted.

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Advance Praise for In Loving Color

IN LOVING COLOR is a stellar collection of erotic stories. WARNING: there is a story for everyone no matter what your sexual preference or style. However, the scenes are tastefully written that will have you living through the characters. As you finish each story it will have you begging for more. Lowe has clearly set herself apart from those writing about sexual acts to a literary genius using passion and love to string words together in the primer collection of afroerotikism. Lowe has set the new standard for erotic literature – yes, I said it. This isn’t just sex on paper it is a new genre – erotic literature with substance called AfroerotiK.



Reviewed By – Deltareviewer For Real Page Turners

Your Mama’s a Nappy-Headed Ho

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Discrepancies in Education

In a perfect, color-doesn't-matter world, everyone is the same, everyone is equally handicapped by the monster of complacency that has let our children down, and the problem of miseducation is one of equal injustice. In the REAL world, black neighborhoods get less funding, less qualified teachers, have lower standards. For every four public schools where Black children are warehoused like cattle and whose curricula is made up of various gym and dance classes there is a private school too expensive for them to attend where white kids are learning physics and trigonometry. In the real world, white teachers have biases and prejudices where they believe Black kids are less deserving of a quality education, compassion, and where they don't have a clue as how to relate to children of color and could care less or respect that they have different experiences that require a more inclusive approach to teaching. In the real world, Black and white teachers alike see dark skinned children as having less value and worth than light skinned children. In the very real, racist world, Black children are expected to be stupid. Our Black scholars and academics don’t come from the hood, not anymore. Whereas in days gone by Black people could excel in a Black school system, today, those of us who excel are educated in a school system where we are the minority.

I attended predominantly white schools for 16 years. In my 30s, I decided to go to grad school. I wanted to attend an HBCU because I wanted to have that Black experience, I wanted to connect to my peers, plan the revolution. What I found was an entire university of undereducated students. I sat in classrooms with adults who hadn't learned the basics that I'd learned in junior high. I was continually frustrated with the lack of the ability of students in graduate school, who were paying a LOT of money for Masters and Doctorate of Philosophy degrees, to even use sound reasoning or logic for the elementary concepts with which we were being assigned.

I've had people ask me to read their papers for college. College students, adults all of them, have emailed me papers that I wouldn't accept from a 7th grade student. The evidence is there in black and white every day. Black people who create their own language, those who can't form a compound complex sentence, who don't know the basics of punctuation, and those who can't comprehend that writing actually has rules of grammar are the hard evidence. We have people who think any barely literate collection of words is deserving of praise.

There are those who want to believe in a world where everyone has equal access to education and that those Black people who don’t have the basic skill set of an elementary education have just chosen not to learn, not to apply themselves but I’m here to tell you that is not the case. Black people are intentionally under and miseducated to keep us an oppressed, working class.

Out of Town Meeting

Dinner was seamless, the food, the music, the wine, the company. Tony’s out of town business meetings were usually painful, in that he hated living out of a suitcase and eating alone in overpriced restaurants. This trip, he was enjoying every second of it. He’d met up with Chantal, a woman he’d met online a few months back. They’d hit it off and started talking on the phone. It was a casual thing; neither of them stopped seeing the people in their lives and neither of them had a desire to take the relationship to a different level. They both enjoyed the same kinks, they had some late night conversations that ended up in some hot phone sex occasionally, and had a lot of things in common.

When Tony got news that he was going to have to go to sales conference in Dallas, he sent Chantal an IM letting her know to make reservations at the best restaurant in town and prepare to paint the town red. When he walked into the restaurant, he was blown away; she was even more beautiful in person than in her pictures. Her cinnamon colored skin was flawless; she was wearing a sexy black business suit that fit her like a glove. The fact that she wasn’t wearing a blouse underneath her jacket, and the hint of her cleavage drew men’s attention there like a beacon in the night, made her that much more alluring. She kissed him on the cheek and the smell of her perfume and the feel of her soft warm hand against his cheek made his dick stir. Even the maitre’d had to take a second look at Chantal’s sexy brown calves and full backside; he winked at Tony as if to say, “You are a lucky son of a bitch.”

The couple laughed and flirted with one another throughout the meal. As they became more comfortable with one another, Chantal got more adventurous. She moved closer and slid her pump off and began rubbing her foot along Tony’s leg. The more they laughed and got along fantastically, the more Chantal would find an occasion to rest her hand on Tony’s thigh, inching closer and closer to his crotch with each witty anecdote. Tony ordered a cigar and a brandy and leaned back into the plush leather banquette and played the playboy role to the hilt. Chantal giggled and played along. Tony belonged to the new wave of Black businessmen who made their fortune in one generation and were not shy in letting people see their success. Feeling bold, he unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out; the white linen table cloth obscured it from view from the other diners.

Chantal took advantage of situation and moved closer still. She grabbed the shaft of his penis and stroked it softly. Tony thought he could sit there and enjoy the hand job without letting on what was happening but within a few seconds, he was squirming around and fidgeting, afraid that he was going to shoot his load right then and there. Chantal was expertly stroking him, squeezing the head, sliding the skin up and down, trying to coax out a load. “Damn baby, slow down or I won’t have any steam for the after party,” he said, reluctantly pushing her hand away and putting everything back where it belonged.

During dessert, it was his turn to return the favor. Chantal was snuggled close, and they were like a couple who had been together for a very long time. Feeling brazen, the lovely lady opened her legs and allowed her new friend to explore. Tony’s strong hands traveled up her legs, caressing the smooth silk of her stockings, and encountering the even smoother skin of her flesh above her thigh high stockings. He caressed her flesh and his hands roamed higher until his fingertips brushed the expensive lace of her panties. Chantal spread her legs more and allowed him full access. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “You know I’m going to fuck that hot pussy of yours tonight until you can’t walk straight tomorrow, right?”

Chantal laughed, “Yeah, right big boy, promises, promises. Other men have tried and failed.” But the evidence of her arousal was to be felt in her panties. Tony fondled her and slid her panties to the side in order to get better access to her package. It was quite an impressive package at that. At least seven inches with a full set of balls, and the fact that it was getting harder with every passing second confirmed that Chantal was indeed the sexiest, fully functioning shemale he’d ever met.

“Check please,” as Tony signaled for the waiter to bring the bill as quickly as possible. In the elevator to his hotel room, Chantal was transformed from a sexy and sophisticated woman to a ravenous, insatiable vixen. Undoing the three strategically placed buttons on her suit jacket, she exposed her full tits encased in a sexy black lace bra. She pulled down the tops of the overflowing cups and let her nipples be exposed to the security cameras. She flashed a sexy wink at the security guards who were probably sitting in the basement with a half eaten turkey sandwich and playing a game of Spades. She offered up her tits to Tony and he caressed the full mounds and pinched the swollen nipples. Chantal let out a sexy little purr and Tony pinched harder.

That was their kink. Tony liked to give pain, and Chantal liked to get it. They were both into rough play, spanking, pain, the whole nine. As much as Tony needed to release his frustrations being the powerful business mogul, Chantal liked to be the girly submissive to powerful men. She got off on pain and he had a lust for women who could take a little punishment and ask for more.

The elevator neared the 18th floor and Chantal made efforts to button up her jacket. “Leave it open,” was all Tony said as he leaned down to bite one of those sexy chocolate nipples. The doors opened and they were met, face to face, with one of the maids. Poor little thing, her mouth flew open and she averted her eyes to the floor. Chantal was warm with arousal and the couple walked past her without a care in the world. The maid was so flustered, so shocked, that she let the elevator doors close without getting on. Tony fumbled for his key, pretending he couldn’t find it, and pushed Chantal against the door and shoved his tongue down her throat. The maid couldn’t help but stare at the obscene play right in front of her and Tony played it up. He turned towards the maid and looked her right in the eye as he put his hand up Chantal’s skirt and groped her. What the maid couldn’t see was that Chantal had a boner under that skirt that was leaking precum.

The elevator doors opened again and the maid rushed in but not before Chantal winked at her, her tits still obscenely exposed for public view. Tony fished in his pocket and found the key, slid it in and opened the door. The door was barely closed behind them before they were all over each other. This time Chantal was reaching for Tony’s pants, unzipping them and sliding her hand in to find his stiffened prick. He pushed her to her knees and grabbed the back of her head and started unceremoniously fucking her mouth. Her lip gloss smeared his shaft and she took it deeper and deeper with every thrust. Tony’s dick grew longer, stiffer with each stroke and he gave her more encouragement. “Yeah, choke on it. Suck that big dick; take every inch.”

Chantal grabbed his ass and started pulling him deeper and deeper into her throat, urging him to fuck her face harder, faster. Tony wasn’t a little boy either, he had at least 8 inches of stiff meat in her throat and it was getting bigger the more he banged her face. There was no foreplay, there was no romance, just nasty, hardcore sex the way they both liked it. The pace was frantic; Tony was grunting and slamming his hips faster and faster, pistoning the head of his dick deeper and deeper in Chantal’s throat. She was gagging and choking, gasping for air, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth.

Placing his hand around her delicate, elegant neck, he started choking her, erotically of course. Chantal looked up and never took her eyes off of him. The lack of oxygen was dizzying and she pinched and pulled her own nipples for stimulation. She was gasping for air as Tony released the pressure and she dove for his dick again, not waiting more than a split second to feel him ramming her mouth again. He grabbed her by her throat again, this time he slapped her face with his dick. “Look at you,” he taunted, “getting my pants wet. You are a bad girl. I need to teach you a lesson.”

Chantal looked up, licked her lips, and said, “Oh Daddy, I’ve been such a bad girl, you should punish me.”

Tony pushed her away, still on her knees, and undid the belt on his pants. He let them slide to the floor and he turned around. He thrust his ass backwards, the full chocolate mounds filling out his tightie whities. He wiggled his ass in her face and she pulled the waistband down to expose his ass. “Are you going to show me what a naughty girl you are? Show Daddy how nasty you really are. Spread those cheeks and get in there, sniff it, smell my ass. Then kiss it. Kiss my ass and tell me how much you adore it.” He was really just talking to hear himself talk because Chantal was way past the sniffing and kissing stage; she was in the full out licking and sucking stage. She couldn’t wait and was driving her tongue deep in his ass, getting it wet and blowing air in it. Tony had his hands on his knees, bent over, enjoying the best rim job he’d ever gotten. “Oh shit, that feels so fucking good. Eat my ass; tell me how good it tastes. You like the way a real man tastes?”

She mumbled something that sounded like it could have been, “It’s the best ass I’ve ever eaten,” but it just as easily could have been, “I use Equal for my tea to sweeten,” because she never took her tongue from deep in his hole, sucking, rimming, licking, tongue fucking.

“Hot damn, you are one hot, nasty, little mama.” He stepped out of his pants, threw his jacket on a chair and sat on the bed. Chantal was still at the door, on her knees, looking like she was hungry for more. “Crawl to me.” She pulled of her jacket and tossed it in the same direction as his and crawled on her hands and knees towards him. He pulled off his tie and took off his shirt, throwing it on the floor. With his legs spread and his dick bobbing just inches from her face, Chantal was trying to lick it again, get it in her mouth.

“Take off the rest of your clothes; let me see that sexy body.” Doing anything she was told, Chantal stood up and undid the button and zipper on her conservative skirt to completely reveal her silk, black thigh high stockings, her garter belt and straps holding them up and her French cut black lace panties. The head of her dick was peeking out for the sides, unable to be hidden with such a delicate piece of material. Leaving her bra on, with her tits still hanging out, she slid her panties down her thighs and stepped out of them, kicking them to the side with her high heeled foot.

She stroked her shaft just inches from Tony’s face. She knew what he wanted and she coaxed out a drip of precum, ran her finger over the tip, and brought it to her lips. She sucked that finger like a mini dick, making Tony moan. She wiggled it in his face and he took the bait like a fish takes a worm. This was a helluva worm, full and thick and filling his mouth as he sucked it. Chantal was a helluva fisherman as well, wielding that rod with skill. In fact, she fucked his face with an equal level of skill as he had done to her. “Look at you, big strong man fagging out on my T-girl dick. Who would have guessed? I bet before the night is over you’ll be bending over and begging me to fuck you too.”

Her words were meant to incite him, to push his buttons and they did. “You little . . . I’m no fag. I’ll show you.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her over his lap. His dick and her dick were sensually rubbing against one another. He ran his hands gently over her ass cheeks. She squirmed and wiggled, waiting for the inevitable. The first blow came down without warning, warming her ass but she didn’t make a sound. Intent on making her beg for mercy for her insolent comments, he wanted her to cry, wanted to hear her beg for forgiveness. With a steady slow pace, he reigned down on her ass with blow after blow of hard spanking. But rather than eliciting the response he expected, Chantal was moaning and groaning, begging for more, begging for it harder. She truly experienced pain as pleasure. Perhaps her neurons were misfiring or her brain wasn’t wired correctly but she craved sensation and the more intense the better. Her body was alive with arousal and she felt safe and secure in the arms of this big strong man.

His hand was becoming sore and his dick was ready to explode. He grabbed her by the back of the hair and threw her on the bed. He stood over her, just staring at her. She was breathtaking. Her face was flawless and even through her haze of lust; she still had a look of sophistication. Her body had been sculpted to brown perfection and her dick was one any man would be proud to own.

“Turn over.” That was all he said and she complied.

She got up on her knees and looked back over her shoulder. She reached back with her manicured fingers and spread her cheeks. She made her hole wink at him and pleaded one more time. “Make it hurt Daddy. Shove that big dick in me and show me how a real man fucks. Ram my pussy until I can’t take it anymore. Use it, use me. Fuck me.” He words became an erotic chant, a mantra of sorts, urging him to go balls deep.

He pulled her ass open and spit on it. She moaned out and waited but she didn’t have to wait for long. He lined up the head of his dick with her hole and started pushing in. It was a lot tighter than he had expected. He thought he was going to be able to shove the entire length in in one stroke. In reality, her hole gripped him tighter than any ass he’d been in before, female or shemale.

Chantal braced her arms on the headboard and looked back. “What’s that matter, this pussy too much for you?”

That was all he needed. He pulled back, pulling out until just the head was still inside her, and rammed himself deep in her. Chantal let out a sexy moan and said, “YESSSS, more.” He built up a steady pace, pounding her, working it from side to side, deeper with each stroke. He was spanking her bubble butt hard and gripped her hips so tightly he left imprints in her skin from his nails digging into her flesh. Harder . . . he fucked. Harder still . . . she fucked back, grinding on his dick and doing magic with her pussy. He was sweating, his manly smell covering her perfume.

“Oh shit, I’m going to cum.” Chantal took that as her clue and turned around and dove for his dick with her mouth. “Damn girl, look at you, you are so fucking nasty. Suck it, suck my . . . oh shit . . . fuck . . . damn, I’m going to bust my creamy nut all in your mouth. Here it . . . agrhhhh.”

Chantal moved back enough to get every blast on her tongue. She showed it to him just before she swallowed it. Tony collapsed on the bed and was asleep within a minute. He awoke under the covers in the morning with Chantal fully dressed and looking magnificent again. She kissed him on the forehead. “Hey, I’ve got to get going, I have a lot to do this weekend and I need to get a head start on my errands.”

He reached up and held her hand. “Don’t go,” he said in his sleepy voice, “I want you to stay so we can do it again. This time I don’t want it to be nasty. Let me make love to you.” He pulled back the covers and showed her his morning wood. She tried to pull away but she was mesmerized by the beauty of his body and his throbbing erection that called out to be licked and sucked some more. “I had a wonderful time last night but let me show you the other side of me. I’m only here for a couple more days. It’s be a shame to waste any of that time. Let me satisfy you.” Her protests were quickly quieted as she climbed in bed with him and snuggled her naked body next to his.

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

Some rules are made to be broken.

The word limit for stories posted on AfroerotiK is usually 2500. You will be hanging on to every one of these 5000 steaming hot words, penned by erotic author extraordinaire Kenya. Kenya has given us a gift that epitomizes everything that AfroerotiK stands for. Her story, Breakfast in Bed, Sort of . . . shows that sex between committed, loving partners is the most mind-blowing sex possible. I was aroused beyond belief from the scorching HOT intimacy and I was thrilled that someone was courageous enough to show a Black couple exploring all sorts of romantic, sensual, seductive, and passionate play together.

Check out the latest featured erotic writer.

Taking it to the Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good game man, I’m impressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You from around here,” Flex asked?

“Nah, I live in Brooklyn,”

“Oh, I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

Tired of seeing black women being portrayed as ghetto bitches, freaks and whores, and black men as barely literate thugs, bulls, and pimps, Scottie Lowe decided it was time to show black people in a positive sexual light. Ms. Lowe is the sole owner and founder of www.AfroerotiK.com, a company dedicated to eradicating the negative and stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality and providing customized, personalized erotic stories for and about people of color. Her innovative approach to writing Black erotica is shattering misperceptions and opening the doors to dialogue about subjects long considered taboo.

The womanist theory

I’m always amazed at how quickly Black women embrace the term womanist and reject the term feminist. You hear the same argument all the time, “White women have commandeered the feminist movement for their own agenda so I consider myself a womanist because of what Alice Walker wrote about in her book, “In Search of our Mother’s Gardens.” Here’s the news flash. White people commandeer everything to fit their agenda, there’s nothing new there, and Alice walker didn’t come up with a womanist theory, she wrote “womanist prose” a term to describe the soulfulness and struggle of Black women. Black women are so terrified of being called lesbian and so afraid of offending patriarchal Black men with the term feminist, that they’ve embraced the term womanist and it’s gone unchecked.

What’s the difference between a feminist and a womanist? Well, a womanist is more concerned with Black issues. Does that mean that we need to come up with a different name for Democrat since I’m more concerned with Black issues than white Democrats? Well, a womanist is more concerned with the family. Well, white women get married more than Black women so the womanist movement isn’t being particularly effective, are they? Entire bodies of study have been created at universities all over the nation in order to appease the insecurities of Black women who are terrified of being called a feminist for fear that someone is going to assume they have hairy legs and wear flannel. God forbid a Black woman stands up and says, I am a woman and I am a feminist.

Feminists work to dismantle the social, political, and economic disparity between the genders. Feminists aren’t lesbians, although they can be, feminists don’t hate men although we certainly have a right to hate their privilege. Feminists aren’t “against the family,” as so many Black women want to imply. Feminists simply take a stand against the oppression and tyranny of women under the auspices of men being somehow inherently superior. Black women weaken our movement by catering to the irrational fears of Black men. You can not be a warrior in the struggle if you are starting your crusade from a place of concession. If you refer to yourself as a womanist, you’ve already said to the world, “I don’t want to be equal to men because I don’t want them mad at me for being a feminist.”

Poolside Fun by AfroerotiK

It was a perfect day for lounging by the pool, the temperature was just right and the sun was shining brightly with billowy clouds of white decorating the sky. With manicured hedges, the neighbors couldn’t see a thing, which made nude sunbathing a perfect option. Chancellor had invited a friend over to have some drinks, relax in the hot tub, and “play”. The doorbell rang and he threw a towel on for modesty’s sake and invited Amber inside. She looked like a vision of bronze beauty standing there. Her hair cascaded down around her shoulders, her makeup was done to perfection, her tits spilled out of her skimpy bathing suit top in every direction and her sexy bathing suit cover-up barely covered anything. Even her toenails were a delicious color of cotton candy pink in her sexy open toed sandals.

Walking past Chancellor and heading straight for the bar, Amber fixed herself a drink. She tossed her oversized purse down and excused herself to the ladies room to freshen up a bit. Chance was waiting for her by the pool, one leg on the side, one leg in the water, casually stroking his stiffening cock when she returned. Amber emerged, freshly applied lip-gloss shining in the sun, her smooth brown skin looking like a Hershey’s chocolate bar and her bathing suit bottoms were filled out to perfection. It wasn’t just her heavenly round ass that made it bulge; it was the nine inches of fully functioning hard dick meat that filled them to capacity as well. You see, Amber was a passable, GORGEOUS Black T-girl and affectionately called Saddam Hussein because she was known around town for hiding a huge weapon of mass destruction.

Chance moaned as he watched Amber do a sexy striptease, first removing her bikini top, rubbing sun screen on her puffy, dark nipples. She turned around and bent over, giving Chance a great view as she slid her tiny bikini bottoms down her long, shapely legs and kicked them to the side. Teasing him, she spread the cheeks of her ass and winked her sexy hole at him. Still in her high heels, she turned around and showed off her body in it’s full splendor: a face so beautiful that it could launch a thousand ships, tits that longed to be sucked, a tiny waist and full hips, a flat tummy with it’s silver jewelry sparkling in the sun, a set of legs that would make any supermodel envious, and hooked to the right, already at half mast, thick as a beer can, as dark as midnight, and a few inches shy of a foot, it was the thing Chance desired more than anything.

Laying on a towel by the edge of the pool, Amber stretched out and closed her eyes. Chance got in the pool and walked over to where she was, looking so beautiful he almost couldn’t believe that there could exist such a beautiful Ebony Goddess with such a big fucking dick between her legs. Without foreplay, without pretense, he bent to lick the small drop of precum that had collected at the tip. Amber didn’t move, she just lay there waiting for her friend to service her. Using both hands to grip it, Chance started licking and sucking, sliding that monster prick in and out of his mouth. He was bobbing up and down on it, getting more and more enthusiastic with his sloppy blowjob. He took the full length in his mouth and started gagging, it was just too long and too thick to take, but that didn’t stop him. He ran his tongue around those huge balls and tried to get them both in his mouth. He inhaled the musky smell of a man’s nuts only too look up and see a woman playing with her sexy tits. He did his best he could to get that dick hard and wet. Amber grabbed his head and pushed it down on her fat cock, this time really making him choke. She sat up on the side of the pool and swung her legs around to hang in the water. Chancellor moved his mouth to her breasts for a moment, pushing them together to try and get both nipples in his mouth at the same time, before looking up and saying, “Please fuck me with that big beautiful dick of yours. Fuck my manpussy, make me scream, make me your bitch. I want it so bad.”

Being more assertive, Amber grabbed Chance by the hair and pulled him over to one of the lounge chairs. She had him standing but his hands were resting on the arms of the chair. She flipped open the bottle of suntan oil and poured it on the crack of his ass. He moaned out because it was warm from being heated by the sun but also because he knew what was about to happen. Amber used two of her perfectly manicured fingers to work some of the oil into his hole and Chance was whimpering like a baby, begging to get fucked.

Amber took the oil and poured half the bottle on her fuck stick. She gripped it firmly and aimed the head up with Chance’s tight hole. He gripped the sides of the chair firmly, waiting and ready for the fuck of his life. It took some time to get even the first few inches inside him. He was wiggling his ass, sweating, cursing, he wanted to cry it hurt so badly but he knew in a few short minutes, it would feel better than anything he’s ever felt before. It wasn’t their first time together but each time was better than the previous time. Each time, Chance knew what to expect and he could give himself over to the pleasure of that long, thick, hard, black tool pounding him harder and deeper than anyone or anything could ever do.

With half of her dick in him, Amber started spanking Chance, getting more abusive. “Look at you, look at you fagging out on this sexy T-girl cock. I’m practically ripping you apart and you love it. You love this big hard shaft deep in you. You want me to unload these sexy low hanging balls in your cunt, to turn you into my little bitch, don’t you, and breed you like a little whore? Work for it. Show me how much you love my girl meat in you.”

Well placed shrubbery couldn’t do a damn thing to keep the neighbors from hearing Chance’s moans and groans as Amber worked the last few inches deep in his asshole. She gripped his hips and started pounding him, slamming the thick tool hard and fast. She leaned over and he could feel her titties against his back which only made him moan louder. Her balls where slapping against his. His dick was rock hard and ready to explode. “Where do you want it bitch? Where do you want my hot load of cum,” she taunted him.

His answer really didn’t matter; she would give it to him any way she wanted. She gripped his hips tighter, started pistoning faster, deeper, harder. She slammed every millimeter deep in his hot ass as his muscles tried to drain her of every drop of cum. Balancing herself on her high heels, gripping his hips for leverage, she pounded, rammed and fucked him senseless, depositing every drop of cum she had deep in his belly.

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK