My Prayer for Black Women

Dear God, lift this veil of dysfunction from our eyes. Allow us to see our diseased thinking. Allow us to recognize that our value as women does not lie in the length of our hair or fingernails nor the roundness of our behinds. Allow us to know deep within our hearts that we don’t have to tolerate cheating and abuse from a man to give us validation. Dear God, open our eyes so that we may see that we hold no more value in life if we have perfectly pedicured feet or a Coach bag for every day of the week. Creator of all, allow us to recognize that all the things we’ve been taught have been from a distorted and unhealthy place and that we must grow in consciousness where we stop praying to a male God, thinking that women are responsible for all sin and that we must forever be subservient to men. Remove the illusion that we have to live with pain as a daily reality. Dear God, fill us with joy, self love and peace.

The days of empowered women are long gone.

There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn’t a dirty word and meant more than “angry lesbian.” Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There’s been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.

Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren’t good enough in bed, you aren’t beautiful enough, you don’t live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard. 

For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It’s easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it’s all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don’t fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn’t flow in the wind, for women that don’t look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It’s a burden Black women don’t talk about because it’s shameful to admit that you don’t compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that’s beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you’ll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it’s an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.

Si, se puede

Miro a gente. Miro tendencias. Observo. Soy particularmente sensible a las aplicaciones la raza, el género, y la sexualidad pues pertenece a la evolución de mi gente. Guardando mi ojo en el clima político, he visto una cambio gradual que está ocurriendo antes de que nuestros ojos y su fabricación de bastantes ondas y yo sospechamos que está interconectado y que relacionado todo con algunas cambios serias en el sentido que es seguro tener impacto profundo en nosotros todo.

Si, se puede.

My sexuality

I am, above all else, committed not to sharing my body with anyone who doesn’t meet my extremely high standards. In this, misogynist, sexist society, I’m looked down upon for having such high standards. Apparently, I’m supposed to have low standards so that any man who wants to fuck me can do so without any critique or criticism from me. My stringent standards have me spending much of my time alone, which I’m not happy with, but it is exponentially better than the alternative of spending it with someone whom I find emotionally immature, mentally enslaved, or just plain mediocre.

My “open mindedness” is perhaps a little bit more than most men would like. I’m not at all interested in heterosexual men. I am not attracted to them, I don’t desire to have a man who identifies himself as straight as a partner, and I can’t be convinced that a heterosexual man can be my night in shining armor if I only allow him to be. My interest is exclusively in openly bisexual men; men who have been in romantic relationships with another man, who are comfortable with being a switch, who have been penetrated and moreover, who don’t mind me penetrating them with toys.

I’m really looking for love. My perversions, if you will, are fetishes that I’m really looking to divorce myself from. At this stage in my life, I’m looking to experience passionate, erotic, sensuous, intense love making without the trappings of the extremes that have aroused me in the past. I deserve to feel loved and cared for in each of my love making experiences. I’m not saying I want it to be soft and tender every time, but I no longer want to be called a bitch and slut while I’m having sex with my partner either. It’s my declaration that I deserve to be cherished by my partner, not a slave to kinks and preferences that have been influenced by a society that takes pride in degrading women and making sex something dirty.

I’m not the super freak, hyper sexual, do-it-all woman that people make me out to be. I’m probably more sexually conservative than most people because I don’t have sex with people who don’t earn my trust, admiration and love; I’m just more public in my discussions of sex.

A little something for anal enthusiasts

Fuck my dirty asshole

MMMM, that’s right baby, eat my pussy. Ohhh, lick it. Work my clit, yeah, suck all that juice. Oh shit, what are you doing? I see, you want to lick my ass? Yeah sweetie, don’t be afraid, no need to be shy if that’s what you like. I LOVE a hot tongue in my ass. Let me turn over for you so you can really get in there good. Spread my full, round asscheeks and really get your nose in there. Yeah, smell it. You like the way that smells? You like my musky, hot asshole? I know you do, look how fucking hard your dick is, look how much precum you are leaking. Yes, you nasty fuck; you get off on smelling my sweaty asshole, don’t you? Take a good whiff; I haven’t had a shower since early this morning. I went for a run after work so it should be nice and ripe for you. Are you going to get it all nice and clean for me? Go ahead, stick your tongue in there, get it and wet. Yeah, tongue fuck my butthole. Rim me. Ram it in deep. Does that taste good? You like it? Suck all my hot, nasty assjuice from my tight, dirty ass. Ohhh, deeper, that’s it. It feels so nasty when you lick it like that, spread my ass and really get in there. Suck it hard. Spit in it. Spit in my dirty fucking hole. Work it up there with your tongue. Eat my fucking dirty ass you son of a bitch, lick it, taste all my nasty ass flavors. Damn, that feels so fucking sexy. Ram your fucking tongue in there so far you can taste what I had for lunch. Yeah, that’s it, get nasty you fucking pig, tell me how much you love digging in my hot, brown hole. What sort of fucking pervert gets off on eating a woman’s nasty, hot, dirty, sweaty, filthy shithole?

Mmmmm, kiss me, let me taste my ass. Let me suck that hot tongue of yours. Ohhh, that’s so nasty, it tastes so good. I bet you want to finger my dirty ass too, don’t you? Work your fingers up in my tight asshole. Goddamn, that feels fucking incredible. Finger me hard; ram your fingers in there. Deeper. Harder motherfucker, really get my hole loose. Make it gape open. Pull ‘em out and let me see you suck them. That’s’ right, suck your dirty fingers straight from my raunchy backdoor. It feels so good. I want your hard dick in my ass. I want you to fuck the shit out of me. I want you to pound my hot asshole and make me scream. Are you going to make me beg? You want me to show you what a dirty ass whore I am? You want me to tell you how much I love big, long, hard, thick dicks fucking deep in my ass? I can’t get enough. I love to be rammed in my shitpipe, my nasty filthy bootyhole. Damn you, frig my poophole harder. What’s the matter, you think I can’t take it? I’ve got news for you. I can take it harder and deeper in my asshole than you can dish it out. I can ride your fucking dick with my tight wet asshole until you are begging me to stop because I’ve drained every drop of hot cum from your big hairy nuts and still can’t get enough. My tight fucking asshole was made to be screwed hard and fucking deep.

What are you waiting for, a fucking invitation? Okay, well, take the head of your hard dick, line it up at my dirty, tight pucker, push the head in and feel me grip it tight with my muscles and work every hard inch deep in my bowels. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck my ass. Make me show you what a dirty asswhore I am. Ram my butthole. Oh shit, it feels so fucking good, so nasty. I love it. HARDER damn you. Pound my ass until you shoot all your hot cum deep in me. I’m going to cum with your fucking dick in my ass. Pull it out. Let me taste it. Let me taste all that hot assjuice from deep in my ass. Mmmm, it tastes so fucking nasty, so fucking good. Cleaning your dirty dick straight from my filthy asshole. Yeah, stick it back in me and fuck me good. I love getting pounded in my asshole and I need you to ram it so good it hurts. Put you cum in me so deep I shit it out tomorrow. You like that, don’t you? You love me being an assslut for you. Fuck, I’m going to cum. Oh shit, I’m going to cum. Fuck me. Fuck my ass. Mmmmm.

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Releasing Our Pain, Healing Our Wounds

People are quick to say, "Slavery was in the past, what happened back then doesn’t have an effect today." Well, Black women have been raised, socialized, and programmed for generations to internalize every pain, heartache, and tragedy as if it is nothing more than just another drop in the bucket. It's Black women who suppress our emotions, who treat depression like it’s a normal way of life because we have been taught that to do anything less is paramount to a sin and a shame. The messages that black women have passed on, that we wear as badges of honor, aren't healthy. In fact, they are the key factors to us having high blood pressure in outrageous numbers, of us dying from heart disease exponentially more than any other race, and that prevent us from forming healthy relationships. It is our legacy from slavery. Since African women landed on these shores, we have been told to suffer in silence in order to make it to another day. To feel pain is to be considered weak; it’s not even an option for many of us.

We are a nation of women who don't know how to deal with our pain because we had to keep on keepin’ on during slavery or feel the pain of the whip. Today, our behaviors mirror those of the plantation. During slavery, mother's taught their daughters to expect to be whipped, raped, beaten, used and abused and to hold back the tears when the pain comes in order to survive. Today, we are repeatedly told that if a man molests us, that we are somehow responsible for his abusive and violent actions because we did something to lead him on, if he beats us, we asked for it. When we go to our mothers and sisters and friends, who are unhealed from their own emotional wounds, they tell us to get over it, to forget it and move on. When our men abandon us, we don’t have time to mourn or cry or feel depressed, we still have to work, raise our children, and maintain stability. We make fun of white women for going to therapists, for admitting that they are depressed as if they are less than real women. We’ve been so brainwashed into believing these lies we don’t even question that there is another way to exist.

You can be assured that there are scores of black women who believe it's a good thing to be able to deal with pain without falling apart, to hold everything in, to be the rock that everyone else can count on, that building up a wall to keep everyone out is something to be admired. They are the same black women that have the physical ailments that go along with the suppression of emotions. They are the same Black women who sabotage their relationships because they refuse to show vulnerability because they equate it with weakness, who feel the need to emasculate their men in a futile attempt to try and feel powerful. Resiliency is a strong characteristic; denial is not. We have to start asking ourselves, is the way we are behaving really working for us? Are we really happy holding on to the concept that we have to be super hard and super mean in order to be Black women?

Failure to process pain isn't a good thing. Constantly projecting an image of hardness isn't a healthy thing either. Black women are so conditioned to be the mythological “Strong Black Woman” that we fail to realize that we are living in a constant state of depression that is killing us. We can’t even grasp the concept that there is a better way to live, that we can live life more abundantly and peacefully than just pushing down the pain until it eats us up. We will forever be tied to slavery, and a slave mentality, as long as we refuse to accept that our pain isn’t the foundation of our womanhood. We must acknowledge that we need help, that we can’t be the source of everyone else’s comfort all the time and not have anyone comfort us. We can’t be a caricature of the neck-rolling, “I can do bad all by myself” Black woman who is passing down dysfunction and disease to our children. We have to start loving ourselves enough to admit that it’s okay to break down, to cry, to admit when we are overwhelmed, process those feelings and then HEAL. The objective is not to wallow in our despair but to acknowledge that we have been hurt, that we need nurturing and love and to find that source of love inside first and then to seek it out in people who will help us move to a higher plane.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

9/11 Truth

Loose Change

Carolyn Scott Obituary

On Friday, January 4th, 2008, heaven welcomed an angel in spirit form, Carolyn Elora Scott. Born November 7th, 1927, Carolyn, also known simply as Crouch, her maiden name by her close friends and traveling buddies, was and exceptional woman who was tiny in stature but LARGE on style, personality, and conviction. Never one to hold her tongue, always outspoken about the things that mattered most to her, Carolyn was a dedicated lifetime subscribing member of the Cecil County Chapter of the NAACP, where she served as membership coordinator for many years. She loved to experience life to the fullest and was an avid fan of car racing, sports and hardly a day went by where she missed her favorite game show, Jeopardy, in order to, in her words, “learn one new thing every day.” She possessed the unique ability to recall artist, song, and lyrics of songs that spanned decades and she was fortunate to have seen some of the greatest musicians of her time perform live on her many road trips around the country.

Carolyn was an inspiration and a role model to all who came in contact with her because always carried herself with class, she was well-read and articulate, and a pioneer in many ways. Her fierce independence and “head-strong” personality weren’t typical of women during the time she was coming of age but she made sure that everyone knew that she, and only she, was going to define herself and on her own terms.

Carolyn was preceded in death by her father, Robert Crouch Sr., brother, Robert, Jr., her soul mate, life partner, and husband, William Henry Scott, Jr., and her dynamic mother Virginia who lived to be 105 years old. She leaves to mourn Anna Watkins, Scottie Lowe, and Mary Smith, her primary care-givers and companions, cousin Paula Coles, and a host of nieces, nephews and friends who will greatly miss her. Her final days, in many ways, were reflective of her life. She fought a valiant fight to beat the odds and survive. Her time, however, had come to sit at the right hand of her Lord and Savior and bask in Heaven’s sweet glow.

Waiting for Godot

Or for the existentially illiterate, “Waiting for Mr. Right”

Act 1, Black man, In his 30s or 40s, convinced he’s flawless, goes after women who are superficial and materialistic, convinced that all women are like that and that he is righteous on his path of lies and manipulation because he has never once examined own role in drawing unhealthy relationships to him. He goes from woman to woman to woman and becomes more arrogant, continues to lie more, to treat women poorly because he is manifesting women in his life that reflect his own level of dysfunction. He trash talks Black women and waves the banner of “good black man” because he is employed and not incarcerated.

Act 2, Intelligent, attractive, genuinely introspective Black woman sits at home alone, reading self-help books, writing affirmations, analyzing ways in which to make her next attempt at a relationship better, trying to find ways to fill her time without the company of a partner. She visualizes a man in her life who has integrity, compassion, who is emotionally mature, who is ready and willing to commit himself to a monogamous, healthy, equally loving relationship. She waits.

For a great many Black women, a growing population, this isn’t thespian flair, it’s reality. For far too many of us, we are relinquishing the one night stands, the booty calls, the homie lover friends and we are setting our standards higher. We are saying that we deserve more, that we are going to save ourselves until we find a man who is deserving of our time and company. In a perfect world, Act 3 of this tragedy would be the Black man in his 30s or 40s would take evaluation of his life, he would make steps to heal the past hurts that shaped his worldview, he would strive to be a man of character, integrity, and a good partner in a relationship. Sadly, he arrogantly expects his needs to be met without being willing to make sacrifices and he stamps his feet and screams that he is being unfairly critiqued or male bashed any time someone tries to hold him accountable for his actions. He wants the gorgeous video vixen who doesn’t ask him for money, who doesn’t ask questions about his whereabouts, who will forgive him straying, and who doesn’t demand any emotional commitment. Those are the delusions of a child however. And without a male role model to tell him that those are immature and irresponsible objectives, he becomes louder and louder, saying that there are no good women.

Act 3. She waits.

Married Slut Desperate for Black Cock

Maria took a deep breath and felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. She was electrified by his touch and the strength with which he seemed to know exactly what to do.

"Are you sure you want this because it might be a little more than you can handle?" With that, Edward took Maria’s hand and put it on his growing erection. Maria’s eyes widened, thinking of what it would be like to have it inside her and reflected momentarily if she would become a “slut for black cock” like she had seen so many white women profess themselves to be on the internet. She responded by moving her hand to his belt and unbuckling it. There was no turning back. She rationalized that the stars had created the events of the day in such a way that this was her right, her duty to strike out with a statement of racial equality like this. “Do me,” was all she could say.

Edward took Maria’s legs and spread them wide. He took his hand and rubbed it against the crotch of her pants, feeling the heat emanating from her core. Maria responded by rubbing herself against his hand like a stripper half her age would do. She placed her elbows against the bar and leaned back to give him better access. She wished he would just rip her clothes off and take her like an animal. She could sense that Edward was far from an animal, he was in control of the situation, overpowering her with his sophistication and natural ease.

He carefully undid the buttons on her blouse as she watched in amazement. He slid the sleeves of her shirt down her arms and tossed it on the floor. Her breathing grew heavier. Next, he undid her pants and discarded them with ease as well. She was before him in her sensible bra and panties. She was feeling like the grandmother that she was, nervous that she wasn’t attractive in her semi nude state.

“Turn around,” Edward whispered. She followed his orders without hesitation and he removed her bra. He reached around her and began to fondle her breasts sensuously. Maria was in a trance, looking at the contrast of skin color as he pulled at her nipples and played rather roughly with her tits. She loved every second of the sensation, rubbing her ass on him to make sure he knew she was enjoying every second of his attention. Her husband would never have made her feel like this. Having sex with her husband wasn’t erotic, it was routine. This was living on the edge. Edward grabbed her by the hips and pulled her panties down to her thighs. He pushed her body forward, so her upper body was lying against the leather padding of the bar stool. He took his strong fingers and inserted them in her wet cunt. Maria let out a loud moan. She reached around and held the cheeks of her ass wide open, giving Edward the view and the access he needed to finger her sopping wet pussy.

“You like that?”

“Maria started spewing obscenities like the women in the porno’s would do. “Finger that white pussy; get it ready for your black cock. Make me cum like the slut I need to be.”

Edward withdrew his fingers and Maria cried out like a wounded animal, panting, begging and screaming for him to finger fuck her some more.

“Relax,” the calmness that he had and the power he had over her made her that much more aroused, punctuating the sexual tension in the air.

Here she was, married, tipsy, naked in front of a fully dressed black man, and bent over with her ass in the air like she needed to be fucked by whoever came along. Maria wished she was being watched. She wanted someone to see her in her predicament; she wanted men to jerk off looking at her being intimate for this young black man. Her words were coming in incoherent babble. Every sentence was punctuated with something to do with black cock and white pussy. Edward started spanking her lightly, well, not so lightly but not enough to leave marks that her hubby would question either. Maria started chanting, “Yes, yes, yes, oh yes,” and fingering her own pussy, desperate to get to the fucking part.

Edward pulled Maria up by the hair and forced her to her knees. She knelt submissively, looking up at him waiting for him to give her instructions. He pulled his zipper down and reached in his pants to pull out his cock. Maria’s mouth watered, anxious to taste it. Edward took his dick and rubbed it over her face, smearing precum on her lips. Maria licked it like a kitten licking milk. She grabbed his cock in her hands and stared in disbelief at the contrast. The diamonds in her wedding ring shone in dimly lit room and made her pussy gush even more knowing she was being so naughty. She wrapped both of her hands around his cock and started stroking it. Edward began fucking her hands like it was a pussy, thrusting back and forth, getting the tip even wetter with precum.

Maria couldn’t wait anymore; she had to have that cock in her mouth. She closed her eyes and went for it. She could barely get her mouth around the head. She had to use her mouth and hands together to get it wet and suck it and stroke it at the same time. She was like a crazed woman, starved for black cock. She licked and sucked and tried her best to deep throat it but there was no way she could. Edward pushed her head down and made her lick his balls and she took to the task like a pro. Sufficiently satisfied that she was hungry for cock, he grabbed her head and started fucking her mouth. The way Maria was sucking it; one would have thought she needed black dick to live.

Edward, noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Outside the front door were spectators. One of his regular customers, an attorney who often worked late, was watching the entire thing and next to him was a black homeless man that often came around at closing to get some food. The two were both stroking themselves through their pants and having some sort of conversation. Edward tapped Maria on the shoulder to alert her of the spectators and she looked up from her cocksucking responsibilities and went back to her job with even more renewed enthusiasm. She began fingering her pussy and pulling her nipples while she was sucking, licking and blowing the ebony meat in her mouth.

Edward grabbed her by the hair and bent her over the bar. She braced herself for the fucking she was about to get. He took aim with his hard cock and rammed it in her in one stroke. He rammed all he could get inside her that is. Maria cried out, in pleasure and in pain. She turned her head so that she could see the men watching her. She made sure that they could read her lips as she said, “fuck me” over and over again. Edward grabbed her hips and rammed his cock in her wet cunt over and over again. Edward pulled her tits and slapped her ass, no longer caring if her husband saw evidence of the nasty fuck he was giving his wife.

“Make me a slut for black cock, Edward. Make me never want white cock again.” Maria was surprised by the words coming out of her own mouth. It was as if she was releasing some long held inhibitions and beliefs that she had never wanted to acknowledge before. Edward was taking out his frustrations on med school, reveling in his exhibitionism, and even getting off on the fact that he was fucking a married white woman.

“Oh shit, I’m going to cum,” he said.

“Noooooooooo,” Maria called out, please not yet, there’s one more thing I need you to do. Edward slowed his pace and tried to hold off his ejaculation. Maria looked back and took her finger and placed it in her mouth. She sucked it seductively and put it to her ass. She pushed her finger in and winced. “I only give this to my husband on very special occasions. I want to give it to you tonight. I want your black cum dripping out of my asshole so I can feel like I really belong to you. Fuck my white ass please.”

Edward grabbed his dick and squeezed it tight to keep from being too aroused. He knelt behind Maria and put his tongue to her puckered hole. He tongue fucked her asshole and got it lubricated with his spit. Maria was moaning, practically screaming about how good it felt. Edward took one finger and put it in her ass. It felt like her asshole was going to cut off the circulation in his finger, there was no way he could fit his dick in there. Maria went into sexual overdrive. She was fucking his finger like crazy, begging for another finger, for black cock “back there.”

Edward spit on her asshole and stuck two fingers in her ass. Maria was grunting and groaning like an animal. “Do it, do it. It feels so nasty, it feels so good.”

Still wet from her pussy and the precum he was practically leaking on the floor, Edward took the head of his cock and took aim at her tiny pink asshole. He let her control the penetration. Maria was not to be denied. She had her fingers in her pussy, fucking herself like mad and she was backing up on that cock until the head was firmly planted in her backside. Her hair was wet with perspiration and she was breathing erratically. She began a gentle motion of rocking back and forth, and working more and more of that magnificent black cock in her asshole.

“You want this black dick, I’m going to give it to you. I’m going to cum so deep in your ass, you’ll be shitting my cum for a week. Is that what you want?”

“Stop talking and just do it.” Maria was pissed, horny and crazed.

Edward grabbed her by the hips and started to fuck her. He fucked her hard, without regard for her safety. He pumped his long black cock in and out of her bowels relentlessly. His balls were slapping her wet pussy and he was long stroking her. Every time he would pull out to the head, Maria would cry and scream for him to put it back in deeper. There were red marks on her skin where his hands were gripping her so tightly. He glanced over at the windows and saw the two men had taken their cocks out on the street and were trying to discretely stroke them without drawing too much attention to themselves.

He couldn’t hold back any more. He felt the cum boil up from his nuts. He fucked her long and hard, he fucked her deep. Maria was cumming from getting fucked in her ass and the convulsions of her muscles were milking the cum out of Edward’s dick. Edward screamed out as he felt the walls of her ass coated with his thick seed.

Exhausted, he fell back against one of the barstools and tried to catch his breath. The men watching left evidence of their participation on the window as they parted ways in silence.

Maria felt more alive than she had in years. While Edward made efforts to clean up, Maria reached for her cell phone. “Yes, I know what time it is. Yes, I’m fine, relax. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .” She slid her panties on as she spoke to him. “Honey, when I get home, I want to watch one of those movies you have hidden in the family room. . . Yeah, one of the interracial ones. And I have something to tell you that I think you might like to hear. If you’re lucky, you might get a special treat as well.”

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

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The Black Man's Manifesto

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True Love Never Grows Old

There are some things in life that can be counted on without question. The sun will surely rise tomorrow, summer comes after spring, and given the opportunity, William Jennings is going to pull out all the stops to create a special occasion for his wife, Wanda. Birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s day . . . nothing was too extreme for making sure the woman in his life knew how much she was loved, appreciated, and desired. Even after twenty-five wonderful years together as man and wife, he was committed to letting her know that his feelings for her were just as strong, if not stronger, than that fateful day they got married.

“I have a lot to be thankful for,” he said, “as he rolled over and greeted his wife with a good morning kiss. The two snuggled under the covers on an unusually warm November morning, staying there a little while longer than usual to reflect back on all the blessings they shared and the memories of a lifetime of wonderful times together. William pulled his beloved close and felt her body conform to his as he held her and kissed the nape of her neck. The temptation to stay in bed all day was strong for him but he had things to prepare, surprises to pull off so he had to stay focused. With a playful slap to her bottom, he said, “Come on, Wanda, stop being so lazy. Half the day is gone. Get up and do something with your life.”

Wanda pulled her sleepy frame from the bed and glanced at the clock and wondered how 8:30 in the morning could be considered half the day in any measurement of time. She knew he was up to something so she just rolled her eyes and went along with game plan, expecting the unexpected. Knowing her husband, anything was possible. He might have a full band downstairs to accompany him as he serenaded her with a special rendition of Mr. Bojangles. Literally, anything was possible.

Bill didn’t have anything too terribly outrageous planned, the day was going to be low key, the usual running errands and what-have-you. The night was going to be something else entirely. It was going to be a night to remember. He had planned out every detail to seduce his wife in a way that would take her breath away and leave her body a quivering mass of pleasure and delight.

Feeling particularly proud of himself for his attention to detail, William set about his plans of mystery and seduction. As the sun set, he instructed his wife to go upstairs to find her present. Not sure what to expect, Wanda entered the bedroom to find a brand new dress laid out on the bed. It was a black cocktail dress with brand new shoes and everything. There was a card that said, “If I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second,” and it was signed, simply, B. She held up the dress and marveled at her husband’s ability to get such a beautiful one in her size without any coaching from her at all. She tried it on and for a moment was unsure of herself. The dress revealed a little too much cleavage for her comfort level but she knew it would drive her husband to distraction. It was definitely designed to show off her assets to the max and she got a thrill knowing that her body could still incite passion in her man.

As she descended the stairs, Bill was waiting for her in tuxedo and a dozen roses in hand. All she could do was shake her head because she knew whatever he had planned for the evening; she was going to be in for a bumpy ride. All Bill could do was shake his head as well because he was blown away by how beautiful his wife looked. For the second time that day, he was tempted to forget all about his plans and turn around and head back to the bedroom for a night of reckless abandon. Wanda stood on the bottom stair and asked, “What do you think?” She did a little turn and showed off her new outfit.

William was speechless. All he could do was take her in his arms and kiss her. It was a tender kiss yet passionate. He kissed her with the intensity and desire of a man who had just returned home from a long road trip who was starving for the affection of his wife. There was fire and heat in that kiss that ignited a flame. Even 25 years after they said, “I do,” there was a love so strong, so real, it could not be denied.

Putting the roses in a vase, Wanda felt the warmth of her wrap going around her shoulders. “Come on, Wanda, let’s go.” She put her hand in his and prepared for an adventure. An adventure that would turn out to be an erotic one.

They went outside into the brisk evening air and a stretch limo awaited them. Holding her hand as they walked down the stairs, the driver helped Wanda slide comfortably into the back seat. William slid in next to her and winked at the driver. Apparently, he’d been instructed where to go and what to do in advance. Wanda relaxed back into the plush leather seats and made herself comfortable.

William opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. “Shall we toast? Here’s to the most wonderful wife in the world and for her making me the best man I could be.” Wanda was a little choked up. She was used to Bill being the prankster and the jokester but in those moments when he revealed his emotional side, she was caught a little off guard. Not in a bad way, she just had to stop and reflect on how lucky she had been to find such a special man.

It was time for things to get turned up a notch so William moved in closer. His hands found the curve of her calf and moved upward, caressing her flesh. The sexy slit in the dress allowed him access to her warm thigh as he massaged her nylon-covered leg even higher. Wanda pushed his hand away and whispered, “Bill! Stop, the driver can see us.”

As if on cue, the partition between the driver and the back seat went up, obscuring them from view. If the driver had been able to see, he would have seen two people who were like teenagers at a drive-in movie making out. They took full advantage of the spacious back seat to stretch out. His hands roamed up her sides and found the fullness of her breasts. Wanda bit her lowered lip as she wanted to say stop but the words were trapped in her throat. Bill kissed her collarbone and down her chest. Just then, the limo stopped. They had arrived at their location. They pulled themselves together enough to be collected when the driver held the door for them. There was something about that night, something special, something that was like they were on their honeymoon all over again. William teased her, “It’s a good thing I didn’t make reservations at that resort in the Pocono’s for this weekend. You probably wouldn’t have let me out of that heart-shaped bathtub until my skin looked like a prune for two weeks.”

Wanda teased him back, ‘Yeah, you’re right.”

He’d made arrangements for them to have drinks and see a show but it was Wanda who was distracted. She didn’t want to share her husband with the world; she wanted to be alone. The nightclub was great and the ambiance was romantic but this was their time, their night, she wanted to go get away from the rest of the world and have some alone time. The ride back in the limousine was less intense. They held hands and Wanda rested her head on Bill’s shoulder. He kissed her forehead and let her close her eyes and take a little nap. It was going to be a long night so she needed her rest.

Apparently, there had been others who had conspired with Bill on his plan while they were out because the house had been decorated. Rose petals lined the stairs and candlelight cast a glow that illuminated the bedroom. She would have been happy to just watch a movie and relax for the rest of the evening but Bill had other plans in mind.

There was a Victoria’s Secret box on the bed this time and Wanda had to wonder when he had done all this shopping without her knowing it. This time, he opened the box for her and held up a beautiful nightgown in red silk and satin. “Are you going to model this for me?” Wanda excused herself to the bathroom and returned in her new nightie. Bill was undressed and sitting up in bed. She did a little twirl again and showed off her sexy new lingerie.

Bill could feel his nature rise and his temperature was elevated. He was determined to have the stamina and endurance of a man half his age on this night for no other reason other than to give indescribable pleasure to his wife. Wanda felt like a school-girl, nervous and excited. She sat on the edge of the bed next to him, unsure of what to do, of what plans he had for her in mind.

Nature was to take its course. He pulled her close and kissed her again. Rolling her over, he lay his body on hers and heard her moan softly as he began painting kisses up and down her neck. “Happy anniversary babe, I just want you to know that I want you as much today as I did almost 30 years ago.” For all the practical jokes, for all the times when Wanda had been exasperated and drained from his outrageous actions, for all the times she wanted to put her hands around his neck and choke him for his outlandish pranks, there were times like these, when he was being so sweet and thoughtful, that she just melted.

He took his time. He treated her body like a sumptuous dessert and he devoured every morsel slowly. He took great pride in hearing her sounds of pleasure as he played her body like a fine tuned instrument. Like a fine wine that gets better with age, their lovemaking had been perfected with the passage of time. He knew her spots, she knew what drove him crazy. Of course, Wanda returned the favor. It was only her pleasure to make sure that Bill felt her desire with every kiss, every caress.

The scent of vanilla filled the room as he began kissing his way down her body. He slid the straps of her nightgown down and began sucking her hardened nipples. Wanda moaned, grabbing his head in her soft hands and caressing his head. He kissed his way down her body, licking her tummy and further down still. She slid her gown up her legs and William stared at her pussy. Her lips opened sensually and seemed to be calling to him. He lowered his mouth to her and began gently lapping at her flowing juices. His tongue softly licked her sweetness from front to back, tasting her honey and savoring her flavor. His tongue circled her clit, causing Wanda to moan louder and wrap her legs tightly around his head. William flicked her sensitive spots softly, making Wanda tremble and squirm.

“William, make love to me, please.” She was pleading with him, desperate to have him inside her. He pulled his briefs down to mid thigh his heart skipped a beat as Wanda pulled her legs back. He took the head of his dick and placed it at her hole. The heat traveled up his body and Wanda pulled him to her. Her silky walls grabbed him and pulled him deeper. Their cries echoed out into the calm night sky. He was stroking her hard and she was meeting each thrust with passion. Perspiration glowed on their bodies and their grunts became animal-like. He braced himself and started working her body, hitting every spot, every angle. He was a machine, giving her pleasure like he’d never done before, experiencing pleasure in ways he’d never known were possible.

Wanda came all over him. Her body was trembling and her juices were flowing freely. She was begging for more, pleading with him not to stop, so William concentrated and kept up his technique. Her soft flesh filled his hands. He couldn’t stop his own orgasm from overtaking him. The cum in his nuts boiled up and exploded inside his lady love as she held him tightly to her body.

Needless to say, the night of their 25th anniversary was one to remember. It’s true what they say about true love never growing old. It gets stronger and deeper but never old. And no sooner had the sun risen to greet the happily married couple, Bill was planning on how he could make their 30th anniversary that much more special.

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

My Desires

I desire a love that defies definition, all-encompassing, passionate, deeply-abiding love with an African-centered, metaphysical, brilliant, beautiful Black man

I desire three beautiful children, more enlightened, more intelligent, and healthier than I

I desire a life of transcendence, of the highest possible consciousness I can achieve in human form.

I desire to see the enlightenment of my people and to see the chains of mental slavery that still enslave us broken like shattered glass

I desire my words to be healing agents that dismantle the fallacy of white supremacy that infects the world

I desire the ability to levitate, to be an alchemist, to create reality with my mind

I desire a book, In Loving Color, to be a NY Times Bestseller and stimulate the conversations that usher in healing

I desire the opportunity to produce my erotic CD and have it begin the momentum to replace the offensive and degrading images of Black sexuality with healthy ones

I desire the stories from In Loving Color to be made into BEAUTIFUL videos images and shown on HBO and on DVD

I desire a radio talk show that offers an alternative to the dysfunctional messages that are perpetuated

I desire the opportunity to produce events, workshops, and retreats that help people heal their relationships

I desire my PhD and a lifetime of learning

I desire the ability to produce the initiatives that will heal the collective consciousness of my people

I desire to live a life of healthy eating, fasting, prayer, meditation, and physical activity

I desire three beautiful homes, one in an urban setting, one is a rural setting, and one in the motherland

I desire to live in harmony with nature, ecologically friendly and a life free from materialism and capitalistic greed

I desire a library of books that hold secrets within them and music that moves the soul

I desire a collection of art that rivals the best African/African American collections

I Don’t Have a Dog in that Fight

There are times when I HATE having to log onto my computer to read the latest current event and the Black community’s response. This Michael Vick episode has made me dread the Internet because I know how people are going to respond even before reading the moronic, idiotic comments of my people. I’ve purposefully stayed far away from anything that has to do with the dog fighting story because I know, I know without a doubt, that Black people are defending him and claiming he is a victim of yet another Black man being lynched by the media. I can almost quote word for word how Black people are defending his actions and how white people are making him out to be the spawn of Satan.

Michael Vick is a criminal. He is a criminal of the highest order. He profited from breeding innocent animals and pitting them against one another in violent fights. That is foul, repulsive, repugnant and unforgivable. I guess it’s to be expected in a society where violence gets the highest ratings. It just goes to show you how warped we are as a society and how the status of celebrity makes an individual above any wrongdoing. He is employed in a sport that pits men against one another like animals in a violent game of aggression so it’s easy to see how he could think it was innocent to do with dogs. We’ve accepted and internalized white men’s pathologies so much, that we can’t see the inherent sin of violence as a form of entertainment. We are not better than cavemen with clubs or Romans throwing innocent people in a den of lions for sport. It’s barbaric and there’s no excuse in the world for his behavior.

Experience Making Love to Me

AfroerotiK

Listen to My Music

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Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

One of the real joys of the holiday season is how the kink community comes together to celebrate. It seems that everyone is allowed to let their hair down that much more, to party like pagans, and to lose him or herself to pure hedonistic pleasure. This holiday season, the Houston kink community was coming together not only to celebrate in grand style, to say goodbye to ’05 and usher in a brand spanking new year, literally and figuratively, but also to raise funds for those in their BDSM family that were displaced by Hurricane Katrina. Meaning, quite bluntly, insurance companies left many Black Dominas from Crescent City to fend for themselves when it came to replacing many of their custom built pieces of furniture, equipment, and paraphernalia while their white counterparts got a check cut, no questions asked. Houston PEP recognized the disparity and decided to have a fundraiser for its newly adopted Lousiana transplants to help them re-establish themselves and to embrace them with open arms and have a hell of a blowout party at the same time.

The generosity of the partygoers that evening was beyond compare. People brought everything from whips and paddles to swings and straight jackets, to a St. Andrew’s Cross and everything in between. One generous benefactor was even kind enough to donate space so that Mistresses Eden, Cree, Ana, Ebony, and Chocolate would have a place to set up shop without much hassle. Electricity was in the air as the ladies mixed and mingled among their newfound family to introduce themselves. Charlie Papadopoulos was particularly aroused at the presence of the guests of honor. He had always been attracted to women of color and he had acknowledged that he was submissive for nearly two decades. He was like a kid in a candy shop, distracted and fidgety. His wife, Eva, was barely able to have a conversation with him because he was so preoccupied. He hadn’t even heard her inform him that he was going to be a contestant in a very special selection process to serve and worship the honorees for the evening. It wasn’t until she led him to the stage by a leash where he stood among four other subs and waited to be inspected to see if he would have the privilege of serving the Black Dommes that he truly got an understanding of what could potentially happen.

His heart was beating fast and his face was flush. His cock was so hard it ached as he stood for what seemed like hours. People passed by, making comments and speculations about who would win and be subjected to the sadistic whims of FIVE strict Dominatrixes. Charlie swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the floor. He dared not look at the other subs that stood next to him. He felt inferior; his body not as young, lithe, or muscled as his other competitors. He could hear their laughs and taunts as they described his small cock and middle-aged paunch, assured, in their minds at least, that they would get a place at the feet of the Dominas and the opportunity of a lifetime.

The lovely Dommes examined the submissives one by one. First was Mistress Eden. The youngest of the group at 21, she had a lot to prove. She wanted everyone to know that she was truly a dominant and not just a kid playing at being domme. Charlie only saw her well-pedicured feet as he kept his eyes on the floor but he certainly felt the pain in his nuts as he grabbed them and twisted them enough to bring him to his knees. He wouldn’t, however, crumble that easily and he kept his composure through the pain. His honor was at stake and he focused his mind to endure whatever was necessary in order to serve. He would endure more humiliation, more degradation, more pain than the human mind and body was capable of for the honor of serving. Mistress Cree, dressed in a full-length latex gown, and Mistress Ana, wearing a leather corset and panties, poked and prodded Charlie like he was a piece of livestock. They opened his mouth and examined his teeth like they would a horse as he stood stoically as the onlookers took bets to see who would survive the next elimination. They bent him over and fingered his ass and Charlie couldn’t help but whimper. He felt his knees weaken slightly but the prize was too close. Two of the others had been eliminated and it was down to just him and two others. He felt them shoving fingers in his tight mancunt and he looked out into the audience and saw his wife Eva casually chatting away with her friends, oblivious to his predicament while everyone else in the room seemed to have their eyes glued to the makeshift stage.

Mistress Ebony was a super-sized BBW, tipping the scales at well over 300 pounds. Her red see-through negligee showed her pendulous breasts and rolls of fat. She seemed to be intrigued with having each sub on his knees to swat his tender flesh with her riding crop, listening to the most creative pleas for more punishment. Charlie was in sub space. He was intoxicated with lust. The words came tumbling out of his mouth as the crop came down on his body. “Oh Mistress, I crave your punishment. I’m a dirty, filthy, lowly white pig that lives to serve your Superior Ebony whims and desires. Make me endure the most cruel penalties, the most degrading tortures and I’ll prove to you that I want more by begging your to push me further. I’m a disgusting white slut that needs to be used and I will gladly eat your ass, drink your piss, or anything that you desire to show my submissiveness to you.”

By the time Mistress Chocolate stepped on the stage, it was down to Charlie and one other sub. The crowd was in a frenzy. Mistress Chocolate didn’t lay a finger on him. She simply whispered in his ear with a sweet melodious voice, that if she selected him, she was going to make regret his desire to submit to her. She began stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, and rubbing it gently with her black satin-gloved hand, trying to bring him to orgasm. Every tendon, every sinew in his body was tensed as he focused on her words and kept his eyes focused on the crowd. She pressed her very muscular frame into his back and whispered, “I’m going to take you down. You’re the one I want to see suffer. You have the most to lose. You, with your high paying job, your middle class air of superiority. I want to see you kneel at my feet and worship me.” Charlie let out a moan like a wounded animal and fought with every ounce of his being to hold back his cum. Everyone was in a state of arousal. Subs were licking wet pussies and being forced to lick feet as the all white crowd watched with wide eyes.

Charlie passed out. When he awoke, he was trying to figure out what had happened. Had he won? Had he cum? He tried to speak but he was overwhelmed with the sensation that he was firmly secured in a stockade in a room with a glass window. He couldn’t turn his head to see anyone but he assumed that there was a large audience.

For the next few hours, Charlie was the plaything of the five black women. Mistress Eden was intent on using his asshole with her black strapon like he was a whore. No longer feeling the need to hold back, he moaned, groaned, and begged for more. “Oh Mistress, I need your hard, thick, black strapon rammed in my sissy pussy. Fuck me. Fuck me harder, make it hurt. It feels so fucking good, ram me. Use my white slutty asshole. Can’t you fuck me any harder than that?” His taunts were met with the Domme fucking him like a rag doll. His pleas for more weren’t to be heard for very long because he his mouth was quickly put to use licking the huge, sweaty asshole of Mistress Ebony. He could barely breath with the fleshy mounds of her enormous ass covering his entire face. He worked his tongue in and licked the musky flavors as he could hear the muffled laughs as he felt he was going to pass out.

Deeper in sub space than he had ever been, being watched by dozens of onlookers, Charlie felt the sting of even more punishment applied to his ass. Mistress Ana administered a cat-o-nine tails on his back, ass, and thighs, hitting his tender balls. He would have cried out if Mistress Cree hadn’t grabbed his hair firmly in her hands and pressed her hot cunt to his mouth and forced him to drink her hot piss. It was a never-ending onslaught of sensation, each woman demanding pleasure in different ways.

It was the mysterious and gorgeous, Mistress Chocolate, however that stalked her prey. She wanted his singular focus and she waited patiently for the others to tire of using him. Charlie wanted more; he was desperate to be pushed past his limits. His neck was aching as he strained to look up at her. Her toned brown legs were inches from his face. She lifted her skirt slowly, making the crowd gasp in shock. Underneath the short miniskirt was the fully functioning cock of a transsexual. It was a full 8 inches in length and impressively thick. Charlie swallowed hard and started begging, “Feed me that hot black cock, shove it in my mouth, fuck my face, make me suck it like the depraved cocksucking whore that I am.” Not one to disappoint, Mistress Chocolate fed him her entire dick, making him choke and gag. In the zone, Charlie used his tongue, lips, and mouth to make that gorgeous cock shoot loads of creamy cum in his mouth.

Exhausted and sore, Charlie and Eva made the trip back home the next day in relative silence. Charlie could be more proud because his actions were part of a terrific fund-raiser for a very worthy cause. It was a night to remember and the stuff dreams are made of for a white sub named Charlie with an incredible desire for chocolate.

Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK

Leather Bondage Kit

Introspection

introspection. a reflective looking inward : an examination of one's own thoughts and feelings

People are not introspective. They do NOT take the time to contemplate their own thoughts, feelings, and sensations or do extensive self-examination. Introspection requires that people are able to recognize where their thoughts, feeling, and sensations are flawed and where they need to change. While I stated that introspection is the foundation, the very first element in forming a healthy relationship, if people aren't wiling to be introspective, then they aren't willing to say that they have areas that need work. One must be able to take constructive criticism AND be able to admit when they are wrong in order to form a healthy relationship. I preach every day about being introspective.

It is this need to be defensive, this need to prove that you are right at all costs, that prevents us from growing and connecting. The imperative that drives us to grow emotionally is dangerously lacking in most individuals and that prevents the formation of healthy relationships. All the time and energy spent in trying to hold on to your position, without the benefit of introspection, is wasted ego and arrogance. We don't, as a people, understand how to be humble, nor do we understand what it is to acknowledge that we could be wrong. It is introspection itself that allows us the space acknowledge individuals that have more knowledge than ourselves, that can help us get to another space as human beings where we release our bullshit and move forward. If the skill of introspection is necessary to form healthy relationships, then it is the ability to take heed of people when they offer advice to help us grow and see our past behaviors as detrimental that is the sign of maturity that will help us form better relationships, both intimate and non-intimate.

Introspection allows you to differentiate between people who are criticizing you because they want to bring you down and people who are offering constructive criticism to help you be a better person. Introspection allows you to see that you aren't perfect and that there are areas of your life where you could use a little fine-tuning. Introspection allows you to silence that voice that needs to have the last word in an argument and to justify your behaviors.

Additionally, admitting that you are wrong is a related issue. Accepting constructive criticism is something that CAN be done without drama and without argument. It is a process of analyzing the advice of someone and getting to a place where you weigh the pros and cons of their input and making adjustments to your behavior based on your desire to grow. Admitting when one is wrong is something that is done after the argument, after the disagreement, when you've had a chance to reflect and see that you were being egotistical, that you weren't being receptive, that you made a mistake. How can a relationship succeed if you refuse to apologize when you are wrong? Apologizing is the healing salve that tells your partner that you respect them and that you want to give them the respect that is owed them. All too often, people think that they can never admit when they are wrong because it will mean that the other person is better, that there is somehow something flawed or defective in themselves. If you can never be wrong, and your partner can never be wrong, then your relationship is bound to fail.

The State of Black Erotica

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Ask Afro

Although many people want to deny it, our community is in a state of severe dysfunction when it comes to our choices, our logic, our patterns, and our responsibilities. Won't you come and share your informed and intelligent opionions and address the pathogoly that is keeping us tied to dysfuntional and detrimental behaviors that are keeping us oppressed.

Join the discussion TODAY!

My nastiest tale of Black female domination EVER!

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Disillusioned and disappointed . . . again

When oh when will I learn? I’m 40 years old, essentially 41, and when it comes to men I’m like a child. Truth be told, I’m an idiot. I don’t understand men, I don’t understand their motivations, I don’t get why I’m so freakin’ stupid when it comes to the male gender.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the hospital visiting my grandfather and I bumped into an old friend of mine. A very old friend in fact. He was the second person I ever had sex with . . . nearly 25 years ago. I was working at a radio station and he was the midday disc jockey. I lied to get the job and told them that I was 19 or 20 and being my height and as well spoken as I was; they hired me on the spot and took me under their wing. He taught me how to run the boards, produce shows, he made me get my radio license and, of course, we would fuck like bunnies. He was six years older than me so we were never really boyfriend and girlfriend but we were great friends nonetheless and remained so until I met my boyfriend in college. Good lord he was beautiful, and thinking back I remember thinking that he was out of my league because he was so gorgeous. We had loads of fun that wasn’t sexual because we connected on so many different levels.

Fast-forward to today, I ran into him and he recognized me IMMEDIATELY. I’m shocked that he remembered me and he goes on and on about how happy he is to reconnect, how he never forgot about me, how special I was and what an impression I made upon him. I’m trying to take it all in because to be honest, I’m still dumbfounded how he could have even recognized me because the last time I saw him I was 18 years old. We talk on the phone and he says he’s ready to settle down, he’s anxious to see if we can re-establish a relationship again, and can’t wait until we can go on a date.

All this time, I’m taking it easy. I’m not willing to rush into anything because he never knew me as an adult so he doesn’t know my politics, he doesn’t know my convictions and my passions. I wasn’t nappy when I was 16, I wasn’t a vegetarian, I didn’t even have a clue what Afrocentric meant. (In my defense, if there was such a word back then, it didn’t have the same meaning as it does today but the point is, I have an entire body of knowledge today that was totally foreign to me then.)

We go on a date. I have my guard up but he scores high and impresses me every step of the way. I’m grading him on the issues that are really important, and he’s passing with flying colors. He’s gained a little weight but he’s still gorgeous and his core values are comfortable with me, they just fit with mine. What got me most was that he was so connected to me from the past, he knew my family, he loved my family, he and I have a history that definitely tied us together more than the logical mind would have imagined. He was a perfect gentleman. His vision for a relationship mirrored mine. And to top it all off, he was into me. He wanted to be with me, in a relationship, and he wasn’t afraid of saying so. I sat at the dinner table across from him and saw his eyes light up when he was talking about what a future with me would be like. I TOTALLY felt like he was attracted to me on every level, spiritually, intellectually, mentally, socially, and sexually.

How could I have been so fucking wrong?

I couldn’t have asked for a more magical date. At the end of the evening, he invited me back to his place. My dumb ass KNEW not to go. I hadn’t had sex in two years. Hell, I hadn’t even been on a date in two years. I hadn’t even had a hug or a handshake with a man in more than two years. I knew my body was going to betray me and sure enough it did. While my mind was saying, “Scottie, get your black ass the hell outta here before things get too carried away,” my pussy was screaming, “Girl, it’s like riding a bike, you can do it.” Long story short, we had sex. I was scared the entire time and I never really gave myself to the experience fully because I kept saying, “I want the next time I have sex to be with the last person I’m ever going to have sex with in my life and I need to be SURE, I need to be 100% positive that this is the man I’m going to be with forever before we have sex.”

He said everything I wanted to hear. He told me how he wasn’t going to let me go again after finally meeting up after all this time. He made me feel safe and protected; he pleasured my body unselfishly while I didn’t give nearly as much in return. The thing is, I still was being cautious. I had my filter on and I would have bet hard cash money dolla dolla bills y’all that he was dead serious. I’ve had 3 cajillion men try to fuck me and say shit that they think I wanted to hear and I never fall for it. I know the, “My dick is hard and I’m going to say whatever I can to get it wet,” routine. He was saying things to me that had meaning, depth, that are really connecting with my spirit.

The next day, Sunday, I was busy all day and we spoke briefly and he reinforced how much he wanted me in his life. The following day, we touched base briefly but neither of us could really talk during the day so I asked him to call me Monday night, and I stressed to him that it was really important. I wanted to talk about HIV testing because we did have unprotected sex. I was still freaked out about the whole thing because I hadn’t even had a kiss in over two years and I was in his bed screaming for him to eat my ass like I was a crazy woman.

He didn’t call me back on Monday and I got a call on Tuesday morning. I answered the phone and I told him how happy I was to hear from him and that I was hoping to have heard from him the previous night because I did have something really important to discuss with him and that a 30 second call to let me know he was going to bed or busy or whatever would have been appreciated.

I heard, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, have a nice life.” CLICK.
It was a like a Cingular commercial where the person is talking and they don’t get a response. I was looking at the phone going, “What did he say? Did he say something about have a nice life?” I called him back because to be honest I almost thought that we had been cut off. He answered the phone and said, “Listen, I don’t have time for the third degree and I don’t communicate like that and I don’t want to see you anymore, have a nice life.” Again with the click.

Now, I know that he didn’t want to stop seeing me because I asked him why he hadn’t called me. I know there HAS to be another reason the same man who introduced me to his son, who couldn’t stop singing my praises about how wonderful I was would dismiss me so quickly. What’s that reason? I don’t have a fucking clue. I’ve had several men offer explanations and they all fall into the, “I’m going to make him look bad so I can get in your panties” category or the “everything men do can be explained away by saying, ‘ALL MEN ARE DOGS’” category.
He most certainly wasn’t a dog because he wouldn’t have scored so highly when I was asking him questions. He wasn’t a dog 25 years ago; he was a great guy. I know dogs; so saying that all he wanted to do was fuck me and kick me to the curb doesn’t float. He wanted to be with me in the worst way. In fact, he was more likely to think that I was out of his league today. Something scared him off and I don’t have a clue what it was but I know in my heart it had to be more than me saying that I wanted to talk to him.

Here I am, 40 years old and wanting closure from a man who obviously doesn’t give a shit about me. I haven’t heard from him in over a week and I doubt that he’ll call because he was so quick to write me out of his life. I don’t get it. I’m asking myself what was wrong with me, I’m playing over and over in my mind what the sex would have been like if I had let go completely and been uninhibited. I’m supposed to be so mature and evolved and I’m behaving like an idiot. I’m kicking myself for having unprotected sex AGAIN when I swore I wouldn’t do that unless we both got tested first. I feel like I’m 16 years old again. I feel hurt and betrayed. I’m beginning to doubt that I’m capable of forming a healthy relationship.

Scottie Lowe

True Power and Control

In this controversial tale of interracial BDSM, white-bread, oblivious, spoiled Evan learns all too painfully that he can’t have anything and everything he wants just because he decides it’s so. He becomes obsessed with exploring his fascination with sexual submission to Veronica, his neighbor and a Black Dominatrix extraordinaire. He has a shift in consciousness when he comes to realize that the woman controlling his actions and desires is truly superior to him in every way and that his submission to her is not something he can turn on and off at his whim.



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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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Reality Bites

Flip channels on the television on any given day, morning, noon, or night, and you are sure to see a barrage of images of Black women being depicted as ghetto whores, freaks, bitches, and shallow, superficial, amoral, gold-digging tramps. Brianna Rydell decided to take a stand. She decided to speak out against the degrading way in which Black women are constantly depicted on television by planning her own one-woman “Reality TV Revolution”. Her plans go a little astray when she meets up with a man who knocks her socks off and stimulates her body, mind, and soul. Check out this sexy excerpt from the story Reality Bites from the book In Loving Color and pick up your copy TODAY!



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Twist of Fate

When does pain become pleasure? When does fear become an aphrodisiac? Taja Phillips has to ask herself those questions when she comes home to find herself restrained and held captive by a mysterious stranger that seems to know all the erotic buttons to push to drive her to fits of orgasmic ecstasy. Check out this sexy excerpt from the story Twist of Fate from the book In Loving Color and pick up your copy TODAY!



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An Exciting Opportunity

Surely there are a few people who are looking to capitalize off of an exciting new venture that reaches an adult market previously untapped. I'm looking for venture capital for my book of Black and interracial erotic stories and photography, In Loving Color.

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Mixed Chicks are Better

Share your opinions on the supposed benefits of being biracial.

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Nigger Porn

Interracial pornography, and Black porn for that matter, is fundamentally racist and no one is addressing it, complaining about it, or even acknowledging it. It’s nigger porn, right off the plantation: big, Black bucks who can’t control their lust for the beautiful white women. Interracial porn throws the N word around like it’s rice at a wedding and white men are masturbating to it as if it’s an aphrodisiac. Black men, farmed from the underprivileged ghettos where Black porn stars are bred, are effectively emasculated in white male society so they actually think it’s a sign of power and status to be considered some sort of savage beast who can’t control his sexual desires for the elusive and desirable white woman. Give him money to fuck, make sure there are no positive images of Black manhood in the media, and there you have the makings of the scores of Black men willing to degrade themselves and the entire African American community perpetuating stereotypes that are readily embraced by the actors and the consumers of this genre.

Black porn is even more offensive. Black women are always Ghetto Freaks, Ghetto Whores, or Ghetto Booty Bitches. We are nothing more than our big round asses bent over with our fake blonde extensions getting the most mundane and vanilla sex from Ghetto Dogs, Ghetto Pimps, and Ghetto Playaz (always with a z). If the only white porn available was Trailer Park Tarts or some offensive variation, the entire porn industry would come to a screeching halt with the outrage of people demanding variety. Mainstream black people, the vast majority of Black people, those of us who have no affiliation whatsoever with the ghetto, are so terrified we are going to be associated with the base element perpetuated in porn, we stay silent, never expecting or demanding anything more than the vile and racist way we are depicted in the adult industry, never really having an outlet for our sexuality. White people are left to believe that Black people are truly nothing more than the one-dimensional caricatures seen in porn.

If I, as a Black woman, want to see images of myself that associated with “da hood” I have no choice but to turn to interracial porn. God forbid I am not attracted to white men or don’t find them sexually arousing (I know it’s impossible to believe that my preference could actually be Black men) I have NO outlet. Even this new range of interracial porn that features Black women and white men is going the same route as standard nigger porn. Ghetto Gaggers and the like sell white men on the notion that Black women are nothing more than barely literate welfare queens that can be thrown a couple of dollars and who will be willing to do anything in front of the camera. Of course Don Imus felt free to call the Rutger’s basketball team Nappy Headed Ho’s because I’m sure he’s jerked off to dozens of porno’s of almost the exact same name. And the nation, meaning white men, are outraged and offended that he got fired because they believe Black women are nothing more than nappy headed ho’s. How could we be offended if what he said was accurate?

Any discussion of racism in porn is halted because white people say, “I’m not racist,” “Color doesn’t matter,” and, “You’re playing the race card,” and that is supposed to be the end of the subject, nothing further. Color matters in everything, especially porn. You cannot claim that color doesn’t matter when the entire reason white men think it’s so “taboo” and dirty for their white PTA wives to have sex with Black men is because they associate the color of Black skin as being inferior. The reason why you don’t see an abundance of porn where white women are having sex with Asian or Latino men and having it be considered taboo is because they aren’t seen as the same sort of sexual savages as Black men. And while there are many cultural and social differences between the races, Black men are not on a lower rung of the evolutionary ladder thereby sex with them to be considered a fetish. Having sex with a child is taboo, having sex with an animal is taboo. Having sex with a dead body is very, very taboo. Having sex with a Black man is only taboo if you think he’s inherently beneath you and thus you are performing some wildly heathen act. Black women are not inherently sassy, dominating, or sexual. What we are is conditioned to believe that we have to capitalize off our sexuality in order to be seen as desirable as white women.

Minority Affairs 

My work in the adult industry as a writer has been extremely frustrating because I have to battle people who refuse to accept that there is a market for Black erotica outside of the ghetto. White publishers tell me that I don’t know what Black consumers want. Read that again. White publishers tell me, a Black woman, that they know better what the Black buying public wants. Black publishers are either terrified to have anything to do with erotica because they don’t want to be seen as one of the low class ghetto freaks or they have been so mis and undereducated they are intellectually disabled when it comes to identifying quality work. When I have the nerve to speak out to suggest that white men who capitalize off of our continued degradation drive the silence that surrounds the nigger porn industry, I’m inevitably met with the same response, “Well, Black producers are making it too.” That’s supposed to mean it has validation. As long as there is no variety in Black and interracial porn, as long as the only images of black people are of us being driven by our lust for white flesh and green backs, the Black and interracial adult industry is diseased and needs to be healed like the racist sore that it is. White men make and perpetuate the images of Black sexuality that fit their unhealthy perceptions of us and those who sign on to their program are nothing more than puppets for their sick agenda.


Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

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