Bad, Bad, Boy

Working for an advertising agency has its advantages.  At the drop of a hat, for barely any reason at all, there’s cause for an after work get together with free-flowing drinks for all.  On this particular Friday evening, there was reason for celebration because Michael Shield’s company signed a major client and glasses were being raised all around Schmidt's Bistro.  Michael was his usual self, in his element.  He was an interesting fellow because while an outsider would think that Michael was a CEO or at least someone of importance, he was merely an accountant, a job considered mundane, boring, and non-integral to the advertising game.  He raised his glass and made toasts; he laughed and patted backs like he had written the ad copy himself. 

As the night wore on, Michael was becoming increasingly more intoxicated.  He began to slur his words and he was insulting to the waitresses for no other reason than he thought he could be.  He even slapped one young lady on the ass hard enough for it to be heard from across the room.  Michael thought it was part of his charm; his male bravado entitled him to treat anyone he wanted like shit.  In a word, he was an asshole.  He wasn’t the most obnoxious asshole in the world; he was just a regular ole, intolerable asshole, exacerbated by the alcohol. 

Everyone started thinning out, and the place was becoming empty.  Michael was still in the mood for festivities and he was one of the last people to leave.  He stumbled outside in the cool night air and couldn’t really remember where he had parked his car.  The fact that he was totally unable to operate a motor vehicle had no meaning to him because if he got pulled over by the cops, surely they would let him slide.  It was his right as a white man; his skin color gave him a get out of jail free card.  By the time he found his car, he realized that he didn’t have his keys.  Either they had fallen out or someone had been wise enough to take them in deference for the other drivers on the road. 

Michael cursed and kicked the tire of his vehicle, hurting his foot in the process.  He made plans to go back to the bar and try to find his keys but the call of nature was stronger.  He had to piss like a racehorse and piss immediately.   Rather than try to find a bathroom, or even a discrete place to urinate, Michael pulled out his stuff right there on the street and started whizzing away, on the front steps of a brownstone row house.  As luck would have it, Michael’s particularly bad luck in this case, the owners of said brownstone were returning from a night out on the town just as he was hosing down their front steps. 

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?”   Michael turned to see a young man, Black, about his age, of the same size and stature, angered but not irate, scolding him.  Unable to control himself or his bladder, Michael continued to piss right on the young man’s shoes as he mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology.  The young lady who stood next to him didn’t say much; she seemed to be quite confident that her companion could take care of the situation.  Michael noticed that they looked rather different, like they were punk rockers or something.  Most Black people he knew blended in, but the young woman, a pretty brown skinned woman with a bright pink Mohawk and piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip, was vastly different.  She was dressed in a ripped t-shirt that had strategic safety pins to cover her small, braless breasts under a black, leather motorcycle jacket.  Her jeans, equally as ripped, showed her smooth chocolate colored skin off even in the moonlit night.  She wore black Doc Martens that had been spray-painted with red, black and green artwork. 

There was something sexy and dangerous about this chick that didn’t escape Michael ’s notice and he openly and brazenly started pulling on his still pissing cock, his judgment clouded by the alcohol.   The guy, now past his limit for tolerance, went to grab Michael’s arm and he pulled away and defiantly said, “Fuck you.”

The punch that landed on Michael’s jaw knocked him out cold, aided by the alcohol, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with his hands handcuffed behind him and he was secured to a chair in a strange room.  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the couple sitting, casually watching him.  His clothes reeked of urine and vomit, the air smelled of cloves and he felt considerably more sober.  He began to protest rather loudly, demanding an explanation. 

“I see you’re awake,” the young woman said with a clearly British accent.  She put a filter-less cigarette to her lips between her thumb and forefinger and inhaled like a rebel with a cause; the light of the burning ash illuminated the contours of her ebony face.  “I don’t know what sorta manners you have, and I don’t know what sorta bloke thinks it’s okay to use other people’s homes like a public loo, but you need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you agree Percy?”  She turned to her male counterpart and he laughed casually as the young woman circled Michael like a panther. 

“Unquestionably, Patra.  Me thinks he needs to be taught a serious lesson about respect. G’won, teach him bout respect.”  It was only then that Michael noticed that the male half of the couple was dressed in a similar fashion to the female but his accent seemed to be more Jamaican than British.  Percy was about 6 feet tall; around 190 pounds if one were to guess, and he appeared to be the Black version of Sid Vicious only with outrageously long dreadlocks piled atop his head.  He too wore black Doc Martens with the picture of a lion airbrushed on his left boot and a picture of Haile Selassie airbrushed on the other. 

Patra whispered in Michael’s ear, “You have been a very, very, bad boy and you are going to be punished, ya hear?”  She grabbed his face, pushing his cheeks together and blowing smoke in his eyes.  Michael tried to turn away but she held his face firmly in her grip. 

WHAP!  She slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety.  He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows.  Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy. 

Percy seemed to enjoy sitting back and watching the show as Patra went about her business.  She spit in Michael’s face, pulled his hair, used his mouth as an ashtray, and for entertainment, burnt the backs of his hands with her cigarettes.  Trying to remain defiant and strong, Michael felt his will slowly bending to hers.  He became her puppet.    She was ruthless, relentless in her punishment.  Placing her boot against his crotch, she stomped his nuts without care for his well-being or health.  Kicking the chair over, Michael struggled against his restraints.  For a brief moment, he was released only to be secured again with his hands behind his back to a metal pole in the center of the room. 

Being made to kneel on the cold, cement floor, the ordeal continued for Michael, who felt himself desperate for his release and willing to perform any duty, no matter how degrading, no matter how painful, so that he could please his captors and be let go.  Patra placed her boot squarely on Michael’s mouth and made him lick.  The grime and the dirt were foul.  He licked the heavily soiled treads while the pair laughed at him.  She kicked him in the side of the head so hard he saw stars but he kept on licking.  His cock was fully awake and aware of the fact that he was suffering and in pain.  His arms were sore and aching, his knees were raw and nearly bloody as the night turned to day yet he was turned on by the humiliation, aroused by the pain.  The couple didn’t seem to care that the hours passed.  With each new hour they dreamt of a new torture that pushed Michael ’s body to new limits.   Painful enemas, burning hot candle wax, dangerous breath play, and extreme cock and ball torture seemed to go on in an endless cycle.  At one point, improvising with what was laying around, Patra found an extension cord and used it to beat Michael’s face, chest, and body in a cruel show of pure sadism.

Percy couldn’t sit idly by and watch, he joined in the fun as Patra directed.  Her arms were tired from beating him without mercy so she called on her lover to take over.  What Michael thought was excruciating pain before was magnified 10 times when Percy began his lessons in respect.  “You treat my home like a toilet, I’ll show you what a fucking toilet is . . . “ and he unzipped his jeans and pulled out a hefty cock, blacker than midnight and as thick as a beer can, and hosed Michael down.  The piss was strong and forceful and Michael tried to turn his head but he was slapped and his head held in place, forced to drink the urine.  The salt in the pee stung as it seeped into the open sores on the backs of his hands and in his eyes. 

“Enough of this playing around,” Patra said, “make him your bitch, baby, show him who the real man is.”  The pair seemed to silently acknowledge that the entire night’s antics, and the better part of the morning’s, were all leading to the grand finale when Michael would be forced to endure the ultimate humiliation. 

Percy grabbed Michael’s head and forced his semi-erect penis into his mouth.  He tried to turn his head, he contemplated biting it but he was far too scared.  There was no way he could fight, his arms were still tightly handcuffed behind him, and he was weak from exhaustion.  He could hear Patra’s cruel laughter in the room, around him, unaware of exactly where she was.  As Percy fucked his mouth, choking him, making him gag, forcing that black cock deep in his esophagus, Michael felt the rumblings of what was surely stale beer coming back up.  He tried to hold it back but Percy showed no mercy and kept pounding away, using his mouth like a pussy.  Vile smelling chunks of puke came up and big black cock forced it back down.  Michael was trying to gasp for air but his airways were blocked with dick and vomit and cum.

“You fucking son of a bitch, look what you did!”  Patra kicked him in the side and made him cry out.  Quickly, she undid the restraints and repositioned him on his hands and knees.  She took the belt from his khakis and pulled it free.  She lowered his pants and bared his naked ass for her punishment. 

Blow after painful blow reigned down on Michael’s pale, flabby, white ass.  He began sobbing uncontrollably.  “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again.  Each time the leather made contact with his skin, the pain reverberated up his spine.  Welts formed, blood dripped.  Just when he thought he could take no more, he heard Patra say, “Spit on it to get it wet first or else you won’t be able to get it in on the first thrust.” 

Michael’s heart dropped.  He was completely virgin and terrified of what he knew was coming.  He cried, begged, and pleaded.  He tried to bargain and negotiate.  He sobbed uncontrollably like a little bitch.  “Please, please don’t do this.  I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.” 

Patra and Percy would have no such talk.  “Now look who’s the big man now.  What happened to all that arrogance?  You’re not so full of yourself now, are you?  Well, you are going to get fucked and you are going to beg for it.  In fact, you are going to plead to get fucked like the sissy faggot you are, do you hear me?”

Michael was broken.  He didn’t even feel like a man anymore.  He was a bad, bad boy who was suffering the ultimate abuse.  There was something in him, something dark and perverted that wanted, no craved being taught this lesson.  His manhood had been taken, his dignity and self-respect destroyed, and he was a mere shell of a man.  With his eyes on the ground, he whispered a demure, “Please.” 

“That’s not good enough,” she yelled, “beg for it like you need it.  Prove that you want it.”

His arrogant taunt of “Fuck you,” that caused him to end up in this predicament turned into a chant of “Fuck me.”  “Fuck me,” he cried out as he felt the enormous head of Percy’s cock against his asshole.  “Fuck me,” he yelled as he felt the pain of his sphincter being ripped and inch after inch of black meat invading his anus.  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he begged over and over again as he was pounded and used like a little rag doll.  “Fuck me like I’m a dirty whore.  Fuck me like I’m a little bitch.  Fuck me harder.  FUCK ME DAMN YOU!  FUUUUCKK MEEEEE!”

Sometime that afternoon, hungry, thirsty, and smelling like the men’s room at a bus station, Michael stumbled out onto the street.  His car had been ticketed and he still had no idea where his keys were.  He was ashamed to call his wife and explain where he’d been all night but he knew she would be worried to death.  He didn’t emerge a new man; he wasn’t somehow magically cured of being an asshole.  He was, however, sore and tired, his nuts ached for relief, and he had been relieved of some of his white guilt that had brought about immense sexual satisfaction. 

Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved

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Be a Man

I am horrified about the fate of Black relationships.  I’ve been aware for the better part of two decades that there has been a lowering of standards, a “hip-hopization” of Black boys where they behave like rappers and thugs, play video games and make beats in the basement, and shun education for making that dollar.  The standards for raising men, real men, seem to have gone the way of the dinosaur.  Black boys have not been taught to carry themselves with respect, to have integrity, to accept responsibility for their wrong doing, hell, they’ve not even been taught to speak properly or how to tie a tie, let alone own one.  I’m pretty sheltered so I suppose I’ve been mistakenly thinking all this time that it’s been primarily an issue in the lower economic communities but I see it’s deeply entrenched in the middle and upper classes as well.  Black men, across the board, are not really men, they are little more than boys who are legally able to buy alcohol. 

I’ve witnessed, even in my own family, intelligent, educated, seemingly together young ladies choose partners who were barely literate and who looked like they had just gotten out of jail and I’ve scratched my head in wonder at 1. how her parents tolerated such an obviously unacceptable partner for their child and 2.  how his parents aren’t ashamed of the fact that they raised a child who can’t sit at a dinner table and know the basic rules of etiquette.  I’ve counseled far too many young ladies about their tragically pathetic and drama-filled lives with males whose greatest accomplishment in life is coordinating their outfit to their sneakers.  We don’t teach boys how to cook and clean up after themselves, we don’t teach them how to look someone in the eye, how to give a firm handshake, how to keep their word, we don’t TEACH them anything about being a man.  We certainly don’t teach them anything about being in a relationship, about finding and winning the affections of a good woman.  We don’t teach them how to communicate their feelings in a relationship, how to resolve conflicts, we don’t teach them what it takes to make a relationship work.  Nope, we send them to school and let them watch music videos 24 hours a day and that’s the extent of parenting Black men. 

I’m never one to reminisce about the good old days because I’m ever aware that the past holds a whole host of issues with racism and sexism that are glossed over in lieu of only remembering the things that pretty and nice but I’m here to say that if we don’t do something, and soon, on a global scale, we will not continue to exist as a community.  We can’t continue to have Black men be sexist, misogynist, emotionally immature, highly-functioning children and think that we will survive as a race.  It’s a recipe for disaster.  Relationships are the cornerstone for every race.  If Black boys are never becoming men, if they are never being taught to think logically, to dress appropriately, to be able to have a conversation that doesn’t include, “Nahmean?” then we will have no future.  No, I don’t understand what you mean.  Articulate yourself in a way that adults do.  Carry yourself with dignity.  Don’t look to emulating rappers as you ideal.  I blame the mothers and the fathers equally.  Black mothers have babied their sons, let them get away with far too much, they’ve been emotionally incestuous by making their sons the man of the house and not really teaching them what that meant other than having a penis.  Black fathers have neglected their sons, and when present, haven’t really parented their sons, they’ve been buddies and they’ve facilitated their son’s substandard behavior and seen nothing whatsoever wrong with it.  There is a father who posts daily on Facebook paraphrased conversations with his son and everyone thinks the exchanges are funny and amusing and I’m the only one cringing in horror at how completely inept the father is at seeing how his son is profoundly immature.  It’s a disease.  It’s a complicated one for sure because the flip side of the coin is how we have raised our daughters to accept these sorts of males in their lives as partners, not to have higher standards for the men they become involved with.  Self-destruction, we’re headed for self-destruction. 

AfroerotiK Wedding Vows

There is a true war on Black love.  There’s a concerted effort by the media moguls, by the powers that be, by those with influence over what we see, consume, and what we are entertained by to make sure there are NO images of Black men and Black women in healthy, committed, romantic, loving, supportive, intimate relationships.  They love to show you a Black person all mixed up in a swirl and proclaiming how color doesn’t matter.  Well, the fact that there are 1000’s of white couples that are happily married in the media and the only instances of Black relationships are based on the gross materialism of hip hop, involve a sports figure, or are based on some sort of “reality” that has nothing whatsoever to do with what REAL Black people have to do in order to maintain a relationship, proves that color really, really does matter.  They don’t want us to love one another.  They want us to think that white partners are better.  They want us to consider the cooning, clowning, and dysfunctional models they show us of getting married for money as real relationships.  Black LOVE is revolutionary. 

AfroerotiK has always been and will always be about the formation and support of Black LOVE first and foremost.  I created the following wedding vows, to be used freely and abundantly, for your wedding ceremony.  They can be used if you are getting married in a church, in a courthouse, in the park, or exchanging vows under a full moon with no one there to officiate but Mother Nature. It doesn’t matter if you are renewing your vows or if you are a same gender loving couple.  The essence of the words, the spirit of them celebrate the unbreakable bond of our DNA that is BLACK, unapologetically and beautifully so, and the union of souls committed to building an enduring AfroerotiK love. 

My beloved, my Divine right partner, I stand here today committing my heart, mind, body, spirit, and my eternal soul to you. 

I pledge my heart to you.  Within me beats a magnificent rhythm, synchronized by Oschun, the Goddess of Love and Abundance, that symbolizes my commitment to us.  The blood that courses through my veins is driven by a strong, steady, and constant force greater than mother Africa herself.  I give my heart freely on this day to you, to love you unconditionally, to be open and receptive, and to be vulnerable, authentic, and true in each and every moment we share together. 

I vow to keep an open mind, to continue to learn, and to occupy my thoughts with how we might be able to build a stronger, more cohesive unit together.  I will put aside my ego that tells me to look out for myself and I will think first and foremost of you and I.  United, indivisible, we possess the potential to create new worlds with our thoughts.  I will read, study, and learn so that I might be prepared for any mental battle we might encounter. 

I promise my body to you and all the pleasures it holds for you and you alone.  I pledge my fidelity without excuses and to share my most intimate self with you and only you.  I solemnly promise I will not hold back any secrets, fears, or insecurities that might hinder our communication.  I will put in effort to be romantic, to show I care, and I will not take our personal time together for granted.  And, if there ever comes a day when I find myself tempted by another’s charms, I pledge to you complete honesty and I will love you enough not to lie to, cheat on, or betray your precious heart. 

On this day, I take your heart, your hand, your love and your spirit and receive them as part of me, indistinguishable from my own identity.  I relinquish my life of solitude for one of partnership, communion, and connection.  I vow to thee a commitment greater than I’ve ever known, one worth fighting for for as long as I have breath in my lungs.  I take you as my spouse, friend, partner, and my equal in all ways.  Let our strengths complement each other and weaknesses be made strong together.  Accept me as your family and we will build a future united in LOVE. 

Interracial Erotica

I asked the question yesterday if I was being hypocritical because I didn’t write my brand of erotica, focused on the relationship and the connection between lovers, for couples that include Black men and white women.  Since everyone seems to feel I did the right thing, I’ll play my own devil’s advocate.  I never want to be so arrogant as to assume I’m always right about a situation and something about this particular situation is nagging at me.  I created AfroerotiK for Black people to find a home where they could feel validated and secure in their sexuality, to see healthy examples of not just sex, but intimacy and communication, to perhaps give them the tools to form better relationships and thus, have better sex.   I was tired of the gutter/ghetto erotica that was so cliché and so poorly written and oh so very stereotypical. I was drained by the unhealthy, dysfunctional sex that was being made erotic.  I wanted something that spoke to me because I wasn’t aroused by what was available to me and I wasn’t as one-dimensional as publishers of Black erotica seemed to think I was. 

I wanted to create a space where dark skinned women, women with nappy hair, and larger sized women who are all too often relegated to fetishes saw themselves as beautiful.  I started AfroerotiK because I wanted gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people of color to find a place where they could be just as welcomed as hetero folk and not feel like their sexuality was fringe or different, but rather showed them, and more importantly showed the world, that it really doesn’t matter what is between your legs or who you are attracted to, that there is a sameness in our insecurities, drives, passions, and our desires.  It’s important to me when straight people say, “You know, I’m not gay but I really loved that story because I related to the characters.”  I wanted to start making sex beautiful and erotic and intense and diverse without it being degrading or vanilla. 

A funny thing happened when I started writing erotica.  White men started writing to me and telling me how much they couldn’t get enough of my stories.  There wouldn’t be a damn thing in my stories that related to white men; I’m not even sure most of them could even understand the verbiage in it because it was academic and Afrocentric and “conscious” and unapologetically Black in a way that most white people have never ever been exposed to in their lives.  But as their following grew increasingly larger I saw an opportunity to teach white men that Black people weren’t just fetishes or objects or stereotypes and that we are complex people and far more nuanced than they see in porn or on TV.  My interracial erotica grew out of their voracious appetite for my writing and I saw it as an excellent vehicle to teach them about their racism, our history, and use it as a teachable moment.  What we experience when we are aroused leaves an imprint on our psyche so I had an opportunity to teach white men about their privilege, their racism, and to divest them of some of their bigoted views by appealing to their desires. 

What evolved was my hardcore interracial BDSM erotica.  Unfortunately, white women got the short end of the stick because sooooo many white men fantasize about seeing their white wives and lovers degraded by Black men.  And when I say degraded, I don’t mean just being slapped and called names.  I’ve never written a story with a white woman being degraded that any white man has said, “Wow, that was a little too extreme.”   But, I wasn’t writing to appeal to white women, and I was painfully aware that all of heaven and earth bends to exalt the unparalleled beauty of the magnificent white woman, so, I didn’t feel bad at all.  White women would always have outlets that sang their praises and put them on a pedestal.  It wasn’t my job to make them feel validated.

Yesterday, a white woman asked me why I don’t have more loving depictions about Black men and white women and my response was, because it’s not my responsibility to create erotica that caters to white women and nor should I have to as a Black, super Black, Blackety Black BLACK woman.  Now, I’m questioning my motives and trying to evaluate if I need to push myself to grow.  I want Black people to see themselves in a healthy light.  Shouldn’t that include Black men who date/love white women?  I do very strongly believe that the vast majority of real life BMWW interracial relationships are based on 1. Black men’s conditioned slave mentality that tells them that white women are better, prettier, sexier etc., and 2. white women’s racist fetish of Black men’s sexuality.  But, as a true facilitator of social change, I think it might be my responsibility to show healthy examples of Black men and white women for several of reasons.  

1. Not all interracial relationships are formed out of diseased mindsets even if they are few and far between.  There are Black men who are self-aware involved with white women who are not objectifying Black men who are in relationships.
2. Black men, even if they don’t recognize how their preferences were formed, even if they can’t articulate why they prefer white women over Black women, should have at least one place where they aren’t made out to be the Mandingo, ghetto thug, big black cock, hypersexual stud that white society makes them out to be, and that’s ultimately why I created AfroerotiK.  It shouldn’t matter if they are attracted to Black women or not, they are still deserving of erotica that doesn’t perpetuate negative stereotypes about them.
3. I think if I write erotica that features white women and Black men in healthy relationships, it just might cause Black men to reflect on their sentiments and white women to examine their motives and biases and I can use this as a teachable moment as well. 

I’m still on the fence about my final decision but I’m leaning towards changing my perspective.  I’d like to think that my writing is strong enough that whomever decides to read it will be able to see something of themselves in the characters even if it doesn’t relate to them directly.     If I’m really about shifting consciousness and this might be my next challenge.