Other

Other

Because of my role as a writer of erotica, a great portion of it being interracial content, I’ve spoken for more than a decade about the astronomical numbers of whites who crave sexual submission to Blacks.  The numbers are astounding considering it is such a “secret” in the mainstream media.  Millions upon millions of whites are desperate for sexual domination from Blacks.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s so pervasive, so widespread, so prevalent and yet it continues to be America’s dirty little secret in plain sight for anyone who wants to see.  It’s not just one sort of white person, it’s every sort of white person.  Male and female, rich and poor, white collar, blue collar, young, old, and all driven by their core beliefs that Blacks are somehow sexual savages and that sex with us is especially degrading and nasty.  Some suggest that they have come to the understanding that Blacks are truly superior but their motivations are driven by their sexuality, they have done NO work to rid themselves of their racist beliefs.  These are the same people who voted for Trump; these are the same people who spend inordinate amounts of time trying to convince Blacks that they know more about racism than we do, these are the same people who post videos online of their trysts in seedy motels with their faces obscured for everyone to see and who revel in being Jacks and Queens of Spades, as if that is some sort of compliment.   (insert vomiting face emoji) 

And now it seems there is a new trend.  In the last few years, a growing number of Blacks are sexually aroused by being called nigger and being sexually degraded by whites.  They are turned on by being degraded, humiliated, ridiculed, and objectified while being called racist names by actual racist white people. 

I’m on a quest to find out the reasons why, the psychological origins of this growing trend among Blacks who find sexual arousal in being called nigger/coon/jungle bunny etc., and being sexually degraded by whites; Blacks who are sexually turned on by replicating master/slave scenarios.  I’ve witnessed the trend grow over the last couple of years and I’m just the sort of person who wants to understand the origins of growing trends.   My very first exposure to it was Ghetto Gaggers, where I ASSUMED the women were doing it just to get paid and they didn’t realize how detrimental it was as social commentary, I assumed they didn’t grasp that they were essentially telling white men that it was okay to abuse us because they were disenfranchised and merely looking for a way to get some money.  Perhaps I was wrong about their motivations.  Maybe they sought out this treatment because it resonated with them.  Then I started to notice that Black men were seeking out white women to degrade them for not having a foot of dick and not being the thug/Mandingo archetype that society tells Black men is all they are capable of being.  Then, about two years ago, I started to see multiple pages on Tumblr and other adult social media with sistas writing racial epithets on themselves and being used by white men.  Now, I see groups, websites, and every form of media touting this sort of behavior as empowering. 

Let me state first and foremost that I find the trend alarming, unhealthy, and dysfunctional.  Apparently, a great many people take serious offense to me suggesting that any sort of behavior, especially any sort of sexual behavior is unhealthy.  It seems that anything sexual, as long as it is agreed to by the participants, is to be considered empowering and perfectly fine, even if that means degrading and objectifying yourself.  (I wish I could find the white bitch who started this absurd concept and punch her in the throat; she has done more damage to Black Millennials with that dumb ass bullshit concept than any sheet wearing Klansman).  I get it.  No one wants to think that their behaviors are dysfunctional so we’ve created a social environment where EVERYTHING is healthy.  Unfortunately, as a student of psychology, I can assure you that isn’t true. 

OK, rewind to a few days ago when I posed a question to find out WHY Black people are embracing this trend with such, what I consider to be, alarming numbers.  I prefaced my question to Black submissives by saying that I was interested in finding out what motivated them without judgement but I guess that’s not true.  I don’t think the trend is healthy so my judgment is inherent and inexorable.  I do not think they are bad people, but I do not think that their behaviors are unhealthy.  People don’t hear that.  They only hear, “You’re a bad person,” rather than the real issue is that we ALL have unhealthy behaviors, let’s work to find out where they come from and heal them so that we can evolve and grow.  No, this society wants us to remain stagnant and unhealthy and we have support systems to tell people that anything they like it hunky dorey, even if it erodes their sense of self. 

This trend of Blacks being sexually submissive to whites is across the board among social status: poor middle class, and rich.  For the more affluent, there are actual slave plantations where Blacks go to in order to be sold on auction blocks and get treated like they were real slaves with all of the racial/sexual humiliation and degradation associated therewith.  For those Black folk who can’t afford such luxuries, they are left to take to the internet or Tinder or however one meets partners these days to find willing whites who will slap, choke, spit on, beat, degrade, humiliate and call them racial epithets while having sex.   

I had a fascinating conversation with a woman yesterday about this topic that is haunting me today.  The young lady who responded to my question was NOT a Millennial but rather an X’er, very close in age to myself.  She said that she had a “friend” who was in a relationship with a white man and that she engaged in race play with him occasionally.  It seems her friend found a sweet surrender in being degraded by her white lover and she found it to be empowering and a “release.”  When I probed further, asking about what sort of release and comfort she experienced, I was lead to understand that her friend found solace in being able to be “other.”  She didn’t want to be a strong Black woman all the time.  She didn’t want to be who she was during the day.  I can’t imagine who she thinks she is pretending to be during the day that seems so burdensome that she wants to be the nigger-fuck-toy of a white man but apparently it is quite an awesome burden for her to bear.  The young lady with whom I communicated was quite confident in asserting that her friend was perfectly normal because she and her white lover were in a relationship and didn’t engage in this sort of activity all the time and that the only people who were really dysfunctional were the Blacks who sought out racial degradation in non-sexual contexts.  Her friend, she assured me, was only doing it to momentarily become, “other.”  My question then became, “What’s the other that she is referring to?”  That is the quintessential question.  Let’s examine it further. 

I do not hide the fact that I have and may possibly continue to dominate white men exclusively.  I’m not at all sure what my role as a Domme will be going forward as I’ve found that I’m emotionally and mentally drained by the insanity of white men and I do not want to be infected with their lunacy.   I most certainly want to decrease my exposure to them, especially in the context where they see me as an object of their sexual desire.   I dominate white men because they have a tremendous amount of unearned privilege in this society, they are beneficiaries of the fallacy of white supremacy in a racist society that is built upon their adulation for being Caucasian.  For centuries, white people have lied, cheated, stolen, manipulated, used, abused, and murdered all with the belief that they are the superior race so that all they do is justified by God.  They even created God in their image: a white male in the sky, a white male on the cross, a white male who saves the day. 

As I told the young lady, whites are born into a world where they are told that God is white, Jesus is white, Superman is white, Santa is white, everyone who is supposedly good is white.  That belief, from the day they are born, creates a very FALSE sense of superiority, regardless if they swear up and down that they weren’t raised racist.  To be white and to be born in the last half millennia is to be born inherently racist.  Not genetically racist but socialized to believe that everything good comes from someone that looks like them.  The truth is, however, that whites are not superior.  In fact, one can argue that they are inherently inferior because of their innate and pathological need to control, destroy, manipulate and own every god damn thing under the sun and to hell with morality, humanity, ecology or anything else that gets in their way. 

But, I digress.  My function as a Psychological Domme is to divest white men of their fallacious sense of superiority.  As a psychological Domme, I do not engage with white men sexually, even though I use their sexual arousal as a tool to rewire them.  Even those who come to me thinking erroneously that their sexual submission indicates that they realize that they are inferior to Blacks, I school them.  I re-educate them.  I show them the truth and I rip from them their arrogant beliefs.  I present them with an ugly and realistic picture of themselves.  I make sure that after they have left me, they know that they are not superior and that they can’t live their vanilla lives with the arrogance of thinking that they are better than Blacks when they are with their friends and then sucking a Black dick through a glory hole or drinking some Black piss and that is supposed to mean that they are not racist.  I make them face a cold, harsh, reality that they are inherently deviant, immature, perverted, deceptive, and infinitely inferior.  I make them address their true “other.”

So now, it begs the question of what these Blacks are feeling when they are being called nigger by whites.  There is no fallacious sense of superiority in Blacks, we’ve been born, bred, and raised in a society that has told us from the first second we take a breath that we are inferior.  Our ancestors bled and died at the base of horrendous, horrific, sadistic treatment from whites who fallaciously believed that they were superior to our gorgeous brown bodies, our resilient spirits, to our indefatigable will to survive.  So, what “other” is it that Blacks feel that they are getting such empowerment from in subscribing to the very fallacious belief that we are inherently niggers?   What is this “other” that they feel is healed or released or soothed by being degraded by whites?  Blacks are degraded in the media.  We are degraded by society.  Black people are minimized, reduced, stereotyped, objectified and diminished day in and day out, every god damn day, without reprieve.  What’s the fucking “other” they are seeking to embrace? 

The young lady with whom I spoke suggested that her friend was normal because she didn’t engage in race play all the time.  Silly me, here I go thinking that if your white lover calls you a “dumb nigger fucking coon bitch” while his dick is hard on Saturday night, there is no way to pretend that you are in a healthy relationship when you are raking up the leaves in the backyard together on Sunday afternoon.  Those are not just some words he’s using in a sexual context and then all of a sudden he doesn’t believe them after he nuts.  Spoiler alert!  If your white lover calls you a nigger bitch, cunt, whore, spook, and/or porch monkey, he doesn’t love or respect you.  He doesn’t respect your race, your ancestors, your history, or your culture.  He believes you are inferior.  He is racist at his core and his drives, motivations, and beliefs are antithetical to the TRUE growth, survival, and empowerment of the African American community.  There is nothing healthy about that.  But God bless our little hearts.  If we can say, “It’s not that deep,” or we can dismiss the entire conversation by saying, “most people don’t put that much thought into it,” that’s the exact panacea we need to keep our heads in the sand and go on about our lives without being introspective about the source of our issues. 

I completely get how the Blacks who have grown up in all white communities, maybe even by white, racist grandparents, foster parents, or adopted parents, who were surrounded by all white racist teachers and classmates, who didn’t have any positive images of Blackness, end up being submissive to whites.  They have been isolated their entire lives, they are constantly bombarded with images of whiteness as being supreme.  I get it!  I absolutely don’t get how Blacks who have been exposed to Blackness all their lives, who’ve grown up in Black households and neighborhoods, who might not have been exposed to positive images of Blacks but at the very least they have Black grandma’s who love them, they have sat around and heard conversations of Black elders talking about some form of racism and injustice and inequality, end up wanting to be slaves to whites.  I truly grasp that parents don’t teach their children about Black history any more but there is a survival mechanism we learn just from being Black that sets us apart and we know that racism is real from a very young age.  We learn it through osmosis.  How then do these Black people find sexual arousal in being made into niggers for white’s sexual arousal?  Help me understand!

I suspect that some Blacks are the victims of childhood sexual molestation from whites who called them names and degraded them when they were pre-pubescent.  Pedophilia is RAMPANT among whites, again leading back to this sense of entitlement and superiority, they can do anything, they can do nothing wrong, that they are deserving of a greater and greater sexual thrill and anything and everything becomes their object of lust. It makes sense that if a Black child’s very first sexual exposure was initiated by a racist white person who sought to take advantage of them that their brains would be hard-wired to seek out whites to degrade them as adults.  I’m having a hard time grasping . . . I do not understand how Blacks who see racism in society, who speak up against it, who are discouraged by it, who are consumed with the rage in fighting to make our lives significant to the majority, then turn off the lights and find comfort being degraded by the very people whom they know benefit from the racist systems that dictate that Black Lives Don’t Mean Mother Fucking Shit.  Is that the source of the majority of these individuals who have this fetish?  What other factors are contributing to it?

It’s not a question I’m going to let go of any time soon.  I want to know the how’s and the why’s (I know that isn’t the correct punctuation but hows and whys just looks too wrong).  I want to work to heal this mindset.  I want EVERY person of African descent to understand, embrace, and be proud of our identity as the strongest people on the planet.  No one else could have survived the conditions we have survived.  No one else carries within them a legacy so great.  I want us to respect and love ourselves, so much so that we violently reject being degraded and called niggers by whites for love or acceptance or sexual arousal. 

For the record, healthy sexuality would be where you do not feel the need to be degraded, objectified, humiliated, demeaned, used, or abused.  Oh shit, I’ve just called out 50% of the BDSM community as unhealthy and I’m perfectly fine with that.  Just because it’s popular, just because it’s the norm does not mean it’s psychologically or emotionally healthy.  We are de-evolving as a society.  We have so many pseudo-intellectuals talking about self-care and safe spaces, the first safe space we should have is in our own skin where we love, value, accept, and respect ourselves, so much so that we know that our sexuality doesn’t have to be tied to being degraded or humiliated.  Only in a truly fractured, unhealthy society is that a radical, offensive concept.  It almost goes without saying that if one feels the need to degrade, objectify, demean, use, abuse, and otherwise humiliate one’s partner, that is a sign of low self-esteem.  So there, that makes up the other 50% of the BDSM community and identifies them as equally as unhealthy.  (I’m being facetious in my percentages.  I don’t know how many submissives there are compared to dominants but the point is that the origins of all of the behaviors are unhealthy, my own included. I am not exempt.) 

For the record, a healthy sense of self is one in which you are comfortable with your sexuality and you don’t feel like you have to be “dirty” or bad or a slut behind closed doors but one in which you are integrated and content with your sexual desires as an adult.  Healthy sexuality is one in which Black men don’t feel like they aren’t valuable if they don’t have a stallion dick but they understand that Blackness and manhood are about being given less and doing more.  If you feel like you can’t tell your friends about your desires, you can’t let your co-workers know what you’re really into, if you spend your life lying, hiding, diminishing, and publicly denying the things that arouse you in private, you are unhealthy.  

There is a healthy standard of sexuality.  It’s not being shown, taught, or comprehended but I can assure you that women are NOT meant to be used by men. There is NOTHING inherent to women, not genetically or biologically, that dictates that we are predisposed to being slapped, choked, gagged, called names, or otherwise degraded.  We have a right to be seduced, romanced, pleasured, valued, cherished and adored and not in the context of using men or dominating them but as sex as a form of communication.  Sex should be about mutual pleasure and ecstasy.  When I say that, people hear, “Sex has to be boring and vanilla,” because they have NO concept, they are completely ignorant of how sex can be great, vigorous, passionate, hot, and sweaty without it having to be about domination and/or degradation. That’s sad.   But that’s not what porn shows us, is it?  Porn shows us white/sexist/oppressive men’s perception of sex that women are things, holes to be used for their pleasure and women accept and co-sign for it and they are offended, outraged, and disgusted with me for suggesting that that is unhealthy or abnormal. 

If you have a fetish or fantasy that is extreme, or outside the norm, like I do, even if millions upon millions of people share the same fantasy, it does not mean you are healthy.  As hard as I work to divest white men of their fallacious sense of superiority, I work ten times as hard divesting myself of the beliefs that have been inflicted upon me and that make my fantasies come from a place of dysfunction.  The trend for Blacks seeking to be degraded by whites is not going to go anywhere, it’s going to grow and metastasize like a cancer.  I accept that.  But you can rest assured that I’m going to do my level best to heal the source of it.  It’s more important to me than divesting white men of their fallacious sense of superiority.  I will divest people of African descent of their fallacious sense of inferiority.    

Scottie Lowe Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved

The Fate of Our Race

Sometimes I wallow in my own existential angst so much until I get so frustrated I feel like there is no hope for the future.  I am in the very unique position of being born in the very first year of Gen X’ers.  I was not raised by a Baby Boomer, the generation before me, however; well, at least not the most formative years of my life.  The most formative years of my life, from 0-4, I was raised by Depression Era grandparents who instilled in me values and beliefs that reflected the slave mentality/oppressive/austere practices with which they were raised. Certainly, while I was raised by a Baby Boomer from 4-17, my love, allegiance, and sensibilities have always been more aligned with my grandparents than my biological parents. The differences between myself and the people raised by Baby Boomers are as clear as night and day. I don’t think like, act like, I don’t believe the things that my peers do, nor do I value the same things that they do. I am also in the very unique position of never having a child so I’ve never had anyone to impart my knowledge and mistakes upon. 

It seems that across the board and almost unwavering consistently, that Baby Boomers, those individuals who born between 1946-1966, raised their children with far less standards, guidelines, and restrictions . . . which might not necessarily have been a bad thing given that the alternative was to raise your children in the abusive, restrictive, and stagnating environment of the 50s, but the results have certainly not been positive.  My peers, the X’ers born 1966-86, are the Me generation, self-centered and emotionally immature, but they’ve given birth to the ME, ME, ME, ME, ME generation, the Millennials born ’86-’06, and I’m terrified of what’s going to become of the Gen Z’s, 2006-‘26.  Baby Boomers and X’ers wanted to raise their children with a life of privilege, a life free of stress and pain.  What they’ve created is a generation of spoiled, self-centered individuals who are incapable of helping to break the chains that have kept us in mental bondage since our collective consciousness was created in this land. 

The studies of traits of Millennials are discouraging, to say the least.  Millennials are pathologically narcissistic, sociopaths, fame-obsessed, tech dependent, under-educated while achieving the highest level of education, and they feel entitled to recognition and reward without having done anything to deserve it.  And while the studies are not encouraging about the state of Millennials, I can guarantee you that African American Millennials were not included in their studies and that the negative traits of Black Millennials are exacerbated and magnified tenfold due to our exposure to continual, institutionalized, and rampant racism.  Ethics, structure, civic-mindedness, altruism, benevolence, responsibility, logic, reasoning, introspection, accountability, integrity, contextual history, literacy, art appreciation, home-economics . . . those are things AND MORE parents stopped teaching their children in the 60’s.  Parents stopped raising children in the 60s and they let the TV and the schools raise them.  It created a self-centered generation that has created an even more pathologically self-centered generation in Millennials.  What, dear lord, is going to become of future generations if we have two generations that have no concept of what the concept of delayed gratification means, or earning your accomplishments rather than just getting them because you’ve reached a milestone?  How are our relationships ever to survive if we have two generations who have no clue what it means to compromise, to apologize, to build a life based on selflessness and shared goals when all they’ve seen are ghetto depictions of relationships, and all they know is focusing on what makes ME feel better?  You can’t teach what you don’t know so how are parents going forward going to teach their children?  And what is to become of us as a race of people if we don’t teach our children the things that will allow us to survive or even excel in this world? 

I might be wrong.  I don’t want to assume my perspective is correct simply because I see things from a much more complex lens than my peers.   Is it “wrong” for your child to get a car just because the Earth has circled the sun 16 times since their birth?  Maybe, it’s a good thing for parents to teach their children that they don’t have to DO anything to be worthy, that they are inherently worthy just for being alive.  I can’t co-sign with that concept entirely because if I were a parent, I would make damn sure that before my child got a car, any kind of car, whether I paid for it or I made them pay for it, that they would be able to fix dinner, clean the house, take out the trash, volunteer in the community, and understand that they had to pay for car insurance, gas, and maintenance as their responsibility.  Of course I would help if they needed it, that’s what parents are supposed to do, but I would not let them just get a car because all their friends have cars.  There is valor in understanding that there are consequences for your actions.  If you aren’t taught that, it’s not a lesson you are going to learn, even if you have to deal with the negative consequences of your actions.  To someone who has never been taught that lesson, they will never see a correlation between their unhealthy behavior and the detrimental outcome of their own actions. 

If I had children, they would start preparing for adulthood YEARS in advance, setting part of their allowance/income aside for the items they will need when they become truly independent and get their first place.  I could never raise child who has never read a book or been to a museum, or who can’t recite the words of Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech.  But, I’m not a parent.  I wouldn’t let my child listen to barely literate, monotonous, mono-syllabic, degrading, unintelligent rap/pop music.  I couldn’t.  It’s like giving them an engraved invitation to be hypnotized and indoctrinated by stupidity.  If I were a parent, I would make good and god damn sure my child had a TALENT that they could rely upon.  I would make sure they understood that they need to nurture and develop their creativity, intellect, and understanding of the world before I sent them out as an adult.  They would know how to clean a house, top to bottom, they would know how to articulate their feelings in a mature, healthy discussion without being passive aggressive or co-dependent or hurtful.  But, again, I’m not a parent.  Parents today don’t teach their children any such things. 

My grandparents were as traditionally conservative and blindly conforming to unhealthy practices as any Black people could be who came of age in the 40s.  They taught me, however, to examine things from many different perspectives, to RESEARCH, to investigate, to not just assume that what I know is the “only” truth.  That allowed me to grow up and study world religions, to truly think about how African Americans came to practice Christianity, to learn about other religions and belief systems and to ascertain that Christianity is not a religion but a tool to control the masses.  I’ve studied every major world religion.  I’ve studied Ancient Egyptian beliefs and myths.  I’ve studied New Age, Metaphysical, Mystical, Occult teachings as well as physics and science.  I’m versed and learned in a great many ways that allows me to intelligently discuss, examine, and dissect exactly why I know for a fact that the Bible is written by men who wanted to manipulate and control people with fear.  My grandparents would be HORRIFIED to know that I’m not blindly Christian, like a slave on the plantation afraid that the Big Bad Sky Daddy was going to punish me to eternal damnation, but it’s because they instilled in me a thirst for knowledge, a desire to learn more than just what I’m told, that I have been able to learn and see and understand truths that would otherwise keep me ignorant.  For Black X’ers and Millennials to say, “I’m Christian because my grandparents were and that’s good enough for me,” when they literally have every bit of information in the world available to them at their fingertips, is to say, “I don’t want to be smart or informed.  I don’t want look at history, I don’t want to understand our past, I don’t want to question anything that was beaten into us on the plantation and I’m perfectly fine with that.” 

My grandmother taught me how to sew, how to play piano, how to do every craft known to womankind.  So what, you say!  Those things aren’t important today, right?  Well, the parts of the brain that they stimulated, the skills I learned from continual practice and repetition, from creating things from nothing are skills that people don’t have today and that’s important.   My grandfather taught me about the political process, about government, about activism.  He would sit with me for hours and we would talk about math problems and how to solve them.  It taught me that reasoning, logic, it taught me that I can’t just take things the media tells me at gospel.   Parents stopped teaching their children those things in the 60s.  Materialism, money, celebrity, and shallowness replaced character building skills.  I saw in my grandparents the skills of cooperation, support, love, commitment and partnership.  I see in my peers, selfishness and immaturity, an unwillingness to examine one’s own behaviors for fear of being seen as being inferior or flawed.    They nurtured and believed in one another.  Millennials think relationships are built on tearing down and degrading one another.  How can we evolve as a race if we are stagnating in unhealthy behaviors? 

For as many horrible, damaging, detrimental things my mother did to me when she raised me, she did some things that I am eternally grateful for.    Joan made it her mission to expose me to as much Black culture as she could.  Every Black play, dance company, concert, museum, theater project, anything to do with Black history, we were there.  I NEVER went to school on Martin Luther King’s birthday, even before it was a holiday.  When I was growing up, I HATED that I had to clean the entire house, to do very adult chores, every single solitary Saturday, before I could go outside and play.  She taught home economics for a living so I learned the proper way to set a table, the way to make hospital corners on a bed, the correct way to do laundry, she taught me how to budget for a household and pay essentials first and luxuries for the month get crossed off the list if you don’t have enough income.  People today don’t know that there is a proper way to set the table because they eat out of Styrofoam boxes and no one has ever taught them that there is a right and wrong way to do certain things.  Part of that is slave mentality, I get that.  I get that it’s not the most important thing in the world to know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork or that there’s a difference between a white wine and a red wine glass.  But it’s also important to note that I’m not a slob. I know how to clean a bathroom, dust, vacuum and keep a house presentable.  I don’t have to be cajoled to load or empty the dishwasher and I’m not so immature that I refuse to put a bag in the trash can because I think I’m too good to do it.  I’m also not caught up on instant gratification which is a trait of an immature person.  I’m aware that genres of music exist beyond what’s played on the radio and I read more Black history books before I was 15 than the average 15 other Black people combined have read in their entire lives.  We’ve lost that.  X’ers and Millennials have never read a book in their entire lives.  Well, other than Zane and 50 Shades of Gray which were so poorly written, so laughably and horribly illiterate that it’s frightening.   Millennials don’t read more than 140 characters so I guess the fact that they have read at least one book is . . . who am I kidding, it’s pathetic. 

I’m afraid for our future.  I’m afraid because we (Baby Boomers on down) have not taught our children to be activists.  But, you say, Black Lives Matter is being championed by Millennials, it’s their energy that has given voice to the concerns of a generation being slaughtered unjustly.  But look deeper at the movement, something that most X’ers and beyond can’t and don’t know how to do.   BLM is a movement without an objective.   Are they fighting for legislation?  Are they trying to get a bill passed that will address police brutality and the institutionalized racism that has rendered us target practice for white police who see us as animals?  That’s how change is created.  Nope, BLM activists are Twitter bullies telling anyone who doesn’t agree with them to have two seats.   BLM is predicated on the fact that “being respectable” is a bad thing, as if carrying oneself with dignity and character, being articulate, educated, and informed are bad things. They can’t even comprehend that being ghetto is not inherent to being Black.  They think that being inarticulate, dysfunctional, and disenfranchised is the definition of Blackness, they are fighting for our worst behaviors to be seen as normalized.  BLM is based on the premise that those who came before us, those who shed their blood and died, who sacrificed and suffered didn’t do a damn thing, that they were sellouts, that all that is important in a historical context are the self-centered needs of people to be even more self-centered without any repercussions.  So, while most Black people think that BLM is a great achievement, that it’s momentous and life-altering, it’s only because they have no clue or context of what it means to truly create social change.  A #hashtag does not beget equality or social change. 

If you ask any parent, they will swear that they are the best parent, that they’ve never done anything wrong, that they teach and guide and shape their children and the things I’m writing about apply to everyone else but them.  Again, you can’t teach what you don’t know so if you’ve never been taught to be introspective, you have no clue that you aren’t teaching it to your children.  If you’ve never be thought to use logic and reason, if you’ve never been held accountable for your wrongdoings, you can’t pass that knowledge down to your children.  And trust and believe that the school systems are making sure that Black students don’t know the educational basics.  They are being tested and after the test, they forget everything that they learned and they are ill-prepared to face the future with any sort of intellect whatsoever.  Learning involves more than taking a test.  So what exactly are children learning today?  And what will they teach their children?

I have dreams and plans, real ones, laid out, developed, intricate plans on creating a paradigmatic shift in consciousness for African Americans.  I’ve been working on them for more than 15 years.  I’ve conceived of and outlined very specific ideas that will attempt to lift us out of our quagmire of dysfunction and slave mentality.  I’m not for a second suggesting that I’m completely healed from my own issues, in fact, it is a sign of my emotional maturity to unequivocally state that I know for a fact that none of us, myself included, no one who has his or her ancestry steeped in the horrors of slavery is immune to the disease of slave mentality.  Not one Black person is immune from the plague of the fallacy of white supremacy.  I’m at least aware of my own shortcomings.  That’s something most Baby Boomers, Gen X’ers, and Millennials are incapable of doing.   I hope like hell I can work through my own issues enough to be able to exact some significant change in my lifetime.  I hope that the children of the today, the Z’s or whatever they are going to be called, might have a brighter future if I can at least start to chip away at the unhealthy mindsets that debilitate us today. 

True Power and Control (discarded ending)

The following is the ending of a story I wrote for my book, In Loving Color, but I’ve decided to go with a much different story line, a much more hardcore one in fact, so this one is no longer needed.  Even though it doesn’t have any of the story details and character development found in all my other stories, you pervs should still enjoy it.



Veronica opened the door and Evan almost lost his balance.  She looked better than he could have even imagined.  Her face was fully made-up; her eyes were smudged with a dark shadow, making them look smoky and mysterious.  She wore a black halter-top and black mini skirt, not fetish wear, skimpy and sexy but sophisticated at the same time.


“Oh, I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?  You look like you’re ready to go on a date.  I can come back some other time if you’re busy.”  He was looking for any excuse to turn around and go back to his condo.


 “Come in.”  She stepped to the side and held the door open for him to enter.  Evan felt like his legs were going to give out on him as he crossed the threshold.  He heard the door close behind him and was paralyzed with fear.  He had no idea what was going to happen.  She could have just invited him over to say, “Look leave me alone,” but he didn’t care at that moment.  All that mattered was the fact that he was there and there was the potential to plead his case, however small it may have been.


He sat quietly, taking in his surroundings.  Her living room window faced the city, substantially more moving than his view of the parking lot of the Save-Right grocery store.  Veronica’s view was nothing less than breathtaking and he sat hypnotized by the illuminated urban skyline, trying to distract himself from his fears.  He fidgeted.  A few minutes had passed and he shuffled his feet and twirled his thumbs in nervous anticipation.


Carrying two glasses of wine, Veronica strolled in casually, placing one glass before him and sipping from the other as she sat in the chair adjacent to him.  “What are your limits?”  She was direct and to the point.


“My limits?  What do you mean?”  Evan looked puzzled and immediately tried to back track as his mind raced for an answer that wouldn’t make him look like a total fool.  He had to pull out whatever stops he could to make “this” happen.  He wasn’t quite sure what the details of “this” were, but he was damn sure, well, reasonably sure, okay, almost sure that he wanted it.  “Ohhh, you mean my limits?  Right.  Well, I’m not into kids or animals or anything like that, of course.  You know, I believe the children are our future,” he said, trying to be funny.


Veronica didn’t crack a smile.  “Is that so?”  With that, she began rattling off a list of things that sounded so perverse, Evan didn’t know what half of them were, the others he could figure out and he didn’t like the sounds of them one bit..  “So, you are open to CBT, handballing, feltching, chemical play, golden showers, klismaphila . . .”  It really might as well have been Charlie Brown’s teacher sitting there, mumbling in incoherent banter, because Evan didn’t grasp a word she was saying.  She was testing him and Evan was failing miserably.


He cut her off.  “Wait, are you saying that I’ll get a chance to  . . . you know . . . serve you?”  He chose his words carefully; he didn’t want her to think that he was only trying to play and he wanted to be sure that they were on the same page.  Veronica pulled her legs underneath her and sat back in the chair.  Evan didn’t wait for a response.  He was in survival mode and he started pouring out his plea.  “I don’t know what all those things are.  I know you are more experienced than I am and I know I don’t deserve this opportunity.  If you give me a chance, just one chance, I’ll show you that I can please you.  Even if it means that I endure pain just for your pleasure.  Let me serve you; let me be your plaything.  I want you to take control of me; I want you to reduce me to nothing.  I don’t know why but I feel like I owe it to you.  I know you know more than me but if you just give me a chance I know that I can prove to you that . . . ”


Evan’s declaration of servitude froze on his lips.  Veronica shifted in her seat and he could very clearly saw her pussy between her legs.  She wasn’t wearing panties and she intentionally shifted to give him a view of heaven.  It was as if he’d lost his train of thought and could only focus on the thing of beauty before him.  His gaze remained there, transfixed, glassy-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights.  He swallowed hard and tried to find the words to continue but he couldn’t.  Two months ago, he was a pompous ass, trying unsuccessfully to get laid.  Today he was pleading his case to be allowed the pleasure of being submissive to an incredibly beautiful and mesmerizing woman.  A woman like he’d never known before.


A wave of insecurity washed over him, he stood, downed his wine in one gulp, and got ready to make his exit.  “I’m sorry.  You’re obviously more experienced than I am and I don’t have a right taking up any more of your time.  I’m sorry.  I promise I won’t bother you any more.”  He looked around for a second, getting his bearings, and turned towards the door.  “I’ll let myself out.  Have a good night.”


“Freeze!”  There was no mistaking a direct order and Evan stopped in his tracks.  He stood like a statue and heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floor behind him.  He felt her presence, her body heat near him.  He shut his eyes tightly; the alcohol was warming his insides, rushing to his head.


“Do you remember, Evan, that first day we met?  Do you remember how obnoxious you were to me?  Playing your offensive music and invading my privacy?  What happened to him?  What happened to that guy who got an attitude because I wouldn’t fulfill his fantasies?  Where’d he go, Evan?”  Hearing her speak his name made him feel weak.  Sweat formed on his upper lip and he worried that his deodorant wouldn’t withstand the stress.  He wanted to run but his feet were glued to that spot.  “The entire reason you are here right now is because I was impressed by your email.  It showed incredible change.  In fact, it turned me on.”


Evan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Without warning, he felt the buckle of his belt being unfastened.  His first instinct was to push her hand away but he stood still, not wanting to move until he was instructed.  Veronica pulled his belt free from its loops and circled him slowly, dragging it behind her.  She undid the button on his pants and slowly lowered the zipper.  His pants fell to his ankles and his heart skipped a beat.  His cock didn’t miss a beat, however, and was as hard as it had ever been in his life.  It was throbbing and pulsing and dripping with desire.


Reaching into his boxers, Veronica pulled his hard cock out and stroked him softly.  He wasn’t anticipating such tender treatment; her touch was delicious, soft, mind-blowing even.  He couldn’t control the guttural sounds of pleasure that escaped his lips as she jerked him off, try as he may.  With one swift motion, she yanked his boxers down to mid thigh and inspected him like a piece of meat.  Every millimeter of his penis was standing at attention.  She went about her inspection casually,  squeezing his cock and nuts.  She took her finger, rubbed it across the head, and held it to his lips.  Maintaining eye contact, she whispered, “Lick it.”


Evan instinctively began sucking and licking the precum from her finger.  He was ravenous as she fucked his mouth with her digit.  His enthusiasm was obvious and she yanked her hand away and left him standing there in a state of longing.  Immediately feeling embarrassed he started to explain.  “It’s not like what you are thinking.  I was just trying to show my enthusiasm.”  Shame consumed him.  He’d been eating his own cum since he was a teen.  He didn’t do it all the time, only when he was “in the zone.”  That was the way he described it when he was so horny that nothing could satisfy him, when he craved stimulation.  It was in those moments that he drink his own spunk, rationalizing that it was his so it wasn’t really gay or anything.  He felt transparent, as if Veronica could read his mind, as if she knew all his dirty little secrets without him saying a word.  Evan felt as if the was telepathically transmitting his depravity to her and he was desperately trying to send her false signals.


In some parallel universe, that might have worked.  In this one, however, Veronica was manipulating his every move, two, three, and maybe even four steps ahead.  Evan was out of his league.  “Bend over, hands on your knees,” she said.  Feeling degraded and proud at the same time, Evan leaned forward at the waist and let her continue her inspection.  She pulled his shirt tail up and ran her soft hands over his ass.  Evan would have given anything in that moment to have a big fat bubble butt like a black man.  His was flat, pale, and pretty unspectacular in the scheme of things but he tried his best to stick it out, he wanted her to approve of him.  He never thought feeling like an object could feel so liberating, so sexy.  The irony of the role reversal wasn’t lost on him and his cock jumped even more.  He wondered momentarily if she would look in his mouth like a horse as well.


Unceremoniously, Veronica spread his asscheeks and examined his hole, not touching it, just looking at it.  Even was so humiliated he couldn’t speak.  Then, without warning, he felt the first blow of his belt come crashing down on his ass.  He cried out, not in pain, but more out of fear.  He hadn’t expected things to go like this.  What was going to happen?  What was she going to do?  He wanted to just stop things and call it off, say, “time out” and start over.  The next blow landed with greater force and he knew deep in his soul that he couldn’t leave.  He’d volunteered himself for her pleasure and there seemed to be a karmic debt he had to pay, so he endured in silence, muffling his cries of pain by biting his lower lip.  The heat spread quickly across his ass, the pain grew more intense with each strike.  At some point, reality shifted and the pain turned to pleasure.


Veronica punctuated each stinging blow with a question.  “Do you want to stay, Evan?  Do you like the kiss of pain, the sting of pleasure?  You’ve waited a very long time to be here, haven’t you; you’ve waited a long time to submit to me.  Is it everything that you’d thought it would be?”  She played him like a violin, asking questions he could only answer in the affirmative, forever branding in his mind that the pain he was experiencing was tied to pleasure.  Instinctively, he grabbed his cock and started stroking it.  Veronica stopped the whipping and pressed her body against his, leaning in close.  “Does that feel good, Evan, you like stroking your little cock?”  The words “little cock” turned him on; it was embarrassing and oh so arousing.


“Oh, yes, Mistress, yes, it feels so good.”  He’d never uttered the words mistress before in his life but it felt so natural rolling off his tongue.  He was stroking himself to beat the band, pounding away, feeling her soft breasts pressed against his shoulder, smelling her sweet perfume, feeling the heat on his ass from his spanking.  Even the word spanking seemed erotic, he had just gotten a spanking.  He was ready to cum, to shoot his load all over the floor.  He was prepared to lick it up if he had to, to show his submission.  Just then, with her hand gently stroking his hair, Veronica said, “Evan, I didn’t give you permission to jerk off, did I?  If you cum, I can assure you that not only will I make you pay for it, but you’ll never get the chance to play again.”


Evan panicked.  He was going to cum, there was no holding back, he was on the verge.  He stood up quickly, grabbed his cock, and squeezed with all his might.  His body was convulsing and he was having an orgasm.  He squeezed harder, crying out in anguish.  He was in such excruciating pain but it was also a pleasure like he’d never known.  He stumbled backwards, still gripping his cock tightly, terrified that if he let it go, his cum would leak out.  He used the edge of the sofa for support and tried to regulate his breathing.


Veronica let him take his time.  “Are you okay, Evan?”  He was confused by her compassion but he welcomed it at the same time.  He was expecting her to be cruel, to be irrational and demanding.  Quite the contrary, she seemed genuinely empathetic.  He looked at her with a puzzled look in her eyes and he did his best to communicate his fears to her non-verbally.  He wasn’t as fluent as she was with this language and he questioned in his mind what was going to happen next.


“You were right, Evan, I was just about to go out when you came over.  My girlfriend is on her way and she should be here any minute.  Now, you are more than welcome to stay and  . . . how shall we say it . . . entertain us, or your can call it a night and go home now.  Now, if you stay, you’ll be subjected to more humiliation than your puny imagination can comprehend.


As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.  Evan looked around, wanting to pull up his pants and run.  There was no back door.  Maybe he could make a flying leap off the balcony to his.  A million thoughts ran through his mind as to how to get out of there but he didn’t listen to one of them.  His throbbing cock dictated his actions and he stood erect, in more ways than one, while Veronica ushered in her guest.  She actually made introductions, as inappropriate as they were.  “Yvette, Evan.  Evan, this is my friend Yvette.  Isn’t she beautiful?”  The two women shared an intimate kiss that was the stuff of fantasies, right in front of him.


He tried to remain as still as possible, blending in as it were, trying to camouflage himself off as if he were a piece of furniture.  A piece of half naked furniture.  A piece of half naked, completely aroused furniture, if there was such a thing.  The ladies giggled like schoolgirls playing with a doll.  “Ronnie, you are a trip.  Girl, where do you get these white boys from?”  The women, obviously not new to the experience, inspected him together, unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his muscles.  Four hands fondled him while they talked like he wasn’t even there.  “You remember that one that you made do all those brothas at that party, turned him into a sissy.  What ever happened to him?”


“Hmmm, I can’t remember which one you are talking about.  OHHHHHH, him,” the dawn of recognition in her voice.  “I have no idea.”  Evan swallowed hard, trying to drown out his terror from what he had just heard and the casual inference that Veronica had discarded so many guys like a pieces of trash once she had broken them completely that she could barely keep track of them.


Yvette was interested in taking advantage of the situation.  “He’s not that cute but he does have a nice body.  He’s truly not cut out for fucking.  Can you make him eat my pussy?”


Confident and unfazed by the question, Veronica replied, “Girl, I can make him do anything you want, name it.”  Evan’s arousal was tied to humiliation.  He was turned on by the fact that didn’t have regard for his feelings, that they were not afraid to ridicule him, that they talked about him like he wasn’t even there.  “Come on, let me show you the work I’ve done on my new playroom and you can have him use him any way you want.”


Veronica pulled him by his tie, using it like a leash, and the three were off to get into some hot and heavy action, Evan struggling to walk with his pants and underwear around his ankles.  Veronica opened the door to a bedroom and his heart dropped.  The room had been equipped with custom built furniture that was obviously intended for hardcore domination.  The women laughed at his fear, pulled him in the room, and shut the door.  “Don’t worry, Evan, I made sure the walls were soundproof so no nosey neighbors can hear.”


Veronica led him over to some sort of medical table and handcuffed him to it.  The steel cut into his flesh, they were too tight but he dared not complain.  The ladies finished undressing him, tossing his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor.  “Evan was a bad boy earlier, jerking off without permission, so we’ll have to make sure he can’t do that anymore.  Bend over!”  Her tone was still soft, but her intent was clear.  Even put his face on the padded table and waited, exposed and vulnerable.


Veronica kicked his legs open and reached between him and felt up his crotch.  She pulled his cock backwards, grabbed his balls.  Some sort of leather strap was secured around his genitals and was surely intended to prevent him from cumming.  He felt the softness of someone’s hands caressing his ass again, and then, without warning, a finger was invading his hole.  He bit his lip and held back his moans.  It was clear that lube was being applied to his hole.  It was cool, the hands were soft, and the sensation was out of this world.  He was squirming, enjoying it when he felt the head of a dildo being pushed in.  He grabbed the table and held tight as the ass plug pushed deeper.


Evan was determined not to scream out in pain, to endure more than he had thought was possible.  His knuckles were white as he gripped the table and felt the burning sensation in his hole.  He wanted to make Veronica proud, to prove to her friend that he was worthy of sticking around.  Soon, the pain turned to indescribable pleasure as the dildo started hitting the right spots.  Within seconds, Evan had gone from one extreme to the other, only now, trying to stifle the moans of pleasure instead of ones of pain.  He didn’t want them to know that he had been so easily converted, he was afraid of what potential scenarios that would create.


The sounds of talking brought him back to reality and he listened intently to a conversation that had been going on for some time, drowned out by his own voyage of anal pleasure.  “. . . yeah, I know, me too.  But right now, I can’t think about that.  Right now, all I want is for him to eat my pussy.  I’m so wet and I want to cum so hard.”


Veronica released the handcuffs and instructed him to lie on the table.  He did as instructed and felt his hands being handcuffed again.  He spoke up on his behalf.  “Please, I don’t want to get away.  I’m not going to resist.  Can you please leave the handcuffs off?”


Veronica smiled and nodded, acknowledging his demands but not meeting them.  Yvette slipped her skirt down her legs and then her tiny thong.  Evan was mesmerized and he looked at Veronica, seeking some sort of approval.  He wanted to make her proud, he wanted her to know that he was doing it for her.  He desperately wished he could be eating Veronica’s pussy but he knew that was an honor he’d have to earn.  Yvette was incredibly sexy but it was Veronica that Evan wanted to belong to, whom he wanted to worship.  She looked deeply into his eyes, conveying her compassion and understanding and admonishing him with her stare that he had better not disappoint her.


Yvette climbed on the table, lowering her cunt slowly to his face.  Evan stared up in disbelief.  Her pussy held him captive by the sweet folds of flesh as they opened for him.  He stuck his tongue out and waited, not so patiently for his first taste of dark desire.  Teasing him, Yvette let him take in every detail before she positioned herself comfortably on his face, using it as a seat cushion of pleasure.  The full weight of her body was a bit overwhelming but he felt Veronica’s hands caressing his body and he was inspired to do whatever he had to do to make her proud.


Even though Yvette was petite, with her full body weight on him, Evan hovered somewhere between consciousness and ecstasy.  His senses were deprived and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of wanting to gasp for air along with the intense feelings in his throbbing, restrained cock.  Her full ebony ass shielded his vision and prevented much movement on his part.


The slippery folds of her pussy coated his face with juices as his tongue and jaw ached from trying his best to pleasure this woman and give her pleasure.  She masturbated herself back and forth at times, rubbing his nose from clit to asshole; the sexy scent of her pussy a stark contrast to the musky aroma of her butt.  Evan loved it; he loved every second of sweet torture.


Occasionally, she would raise herself up to give him a brief second of reprieve.  For that instant, his eyes would be flooded with light, he would gasp for air like a man drowning, and he would feel the cool air revive him.  Rather than being the sensation he craved, he longed to feel the warmth and security of that gorgeous black pussy on his mouth again as he teetered near the edge of suffocation and orgasm.  He pretended it was Veronica, riding him, using him.  He imagined he was driving his tongue up in the sweet recesses of her sexy treasure.  Veronica taunted him, teased him, asking him if he could take more, demanding that he make her friend cum or else.  She humiliated and degraded him.  “Look at your pathetic cock, jerking wildly, dripping like a faucet.  Make her cum white boy.  Make her cum and I just may let you back to experience more.


Yvette began bouncing up and down, one the verge of orgasm.  Veronica began to slap and twist Evan’s balls cruelly, pulling them to administer pain, or was it pleasure?  Determined, he refused to stop until he could taste Yvette’s cum pouring down his throat.  Her legs covered his ears, he could barely hear her moans but he knew that she was about to cum.  He sensed the muscles in her legs tighten up and she was more aggressive with her gyrations, bouncing up and down harder.  For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.  The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that Veronica was stroking his cock, twisting it, slapping it, masturbating him cruelly.  He couldn’t breathe; he was feeling faint.  The pleasure was indescribable and Yvette was riding him hard, cumming even harder.  He could feel her nails digging into his flesh and . . . without warning, Veronica removed the strap, causing Evan’s body to explode in orgasm like he’d never known before.


Evan awoke the next morning in his own bed.  His limbs were fatigued and sore; his body ached and his mind was drained.  He stumbled to the kitchen to get some juice and after that he wasn’t really sure what to do.  His experience the evening before had left him emotionally drained.  He couldn’t go back to the way things were, he had been transformed.  He was experiencing every detail over in his mind.  He opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside to get some fresh air.  Veronica was seated outside, sipping iced coffee and engrossed in the morning paper.  She looked up, acknowledged him with a wave, and went back to reading.  Evan retreated back inside, unsure of what to say, what to do.  When he sat at his computer and opened his email that he saw that Veronica had emailed him.



“I was extremely proud of you last night.  You did very well.  I will look forward to pushing you further, exploring more in the future.  V.”


He felt a sense of accomplishment and pride like he’d never known.  He ran to the balcony again and opened the door.  Veronica was gone but she’d left her mark, on his body and in his soul.