AfroerotiK

Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The Great Afrikan-Centered Debate



Try as I might to get the Afrikan-centered community involved in this dialogue, they seem to think it’s not Afrikan centered to discuss sexuality, especially any topics that they deem Eurocentric. I am always confronted with the argument that AfroerotiK is not Afrikan-centered because it addresses homosexuality and the Afrikan-centered community denounces homosexuality in all of its forms.

Because I am an outspoken member of the Afrikan-centered community and bisexual, I will address those claims, defend my position, and outline how AfroerotiK lends 100% of its energy to the promotion of an Afrikan-centered ideology. AfroerotiK’s mission, first and foremost is to educate and enlighten Africans born in America. To do so, you have to reach people where they are. As president, owner, and sole driving force behind AfroerotiK, I can say that while I would love for all descendents of kidnapped Africans throughout the Diaspora to embrace Africa as their cultural and spiritual homeland, I fully recognize that is a reality far from fruition. Black people, especially here in the US, usually want nothing to do with Africa and must be re-educated about our history, we must have to have the centuries old brainwashing that we have endured reprogrammed, we must look to challenge the way we see life and how we navigate the planet. Black sexuality is cancerous as is. There’s no question about it that what passes as healthy sexuality in the black community is leading us to an even further and further breakdown of communication and intimacy. How does one attempt to restore a healthy way to engage people sexually? Do you do so by condemning people for their beliefs and behaviors, or does the true Africentrist look to the origins of the behaviors, look to the gain an understanding of the person, and try to push themselves to expand their consciousness and embrace a higher way of looking at things?

Karenga, Dr. Ben and a host of other male Afrikan-centered scholars all denounce homosexuality as being outside of the parameters of Afrikan-centered ideology. While I respect their contributions to the academic body that makes up their scholarship, I respectfully submit that I don’t think that they evolved past the patriarchal and misogynist mindsets that have been engrained in African Americans for centuries. Black men have struggled for so long to try to gain the power that white men have had, they are hard pressed to accept a reality that says that women are equal, that homosexuality doesn’t determine one’s masculinity or femininity, or that there just may be another way to look at life than the knee jerk conservatism that we’ve been fed. To simply denounce homosexuality as wrong and not consider that their may be other alternatives to heterosexuality is a Euro-centered as one can possibly be. To imply that there is only one way and anything else is wrong is exactly what the slave master would have wanted us to believe, so to use that same line of reasoning to condemn people within our community is absurd. The Afrikan-centered community’s failure to embrace homosexuality is the exact same behavior expressed in the Christian community whereby the congregation and choir is littered with gay men and turns a blind eye to their behaviors. Both mindsets are flawed and both need to be addressed if we as a people are to move forward to a truly healthy Afrikan-centered paradigm.

Sobunfu Some, (http://www.sobonfu.com/) in her work, The Spirit of Intimacy: Ancient African Teachings in the Ways of Relationships, wrote of the gatekeepers, or individuals who were homosexual and were regarded as spiritual sentinels between the earth plane and the heavens. She clearly outlines how homosexuality was NOT regarded as a sin in pre-colonial African communities, but rather revered as a sacred gift and homosexuals were revered, not reviled. Both she and her husband, Malidoma, have repeatedly spoken out that this belief that homosexuality is an unnatural from an African viewpoint is wrong. Rather than accept the research and observation of African scholars who have bridged the Eastern and Western cultures, who have explored both spiritual and earthly realms, those that claim to be Africentric in many cases, insist that homosexuality is wrong and there’s no room for discussion.

Many of the behaviors and practices of contemporary homosexuals can be seen as wrong, but they don’t have a corner on that market. For as many promiscuous and manipulative homosexuals there are, there are ten times as many heterosexuals committing the same or more egregious offenses, debasing the intent of what sex should be about. The gender of the person that one engages in sex with has little or nothing to do with engaging in sex as a vehicle for communication, a way to share intimacy, and a medium of meditation and connection to the One Most High. If two individuals come together in love, respecting and cherishing one another, committed to fostering growth and evolution in one another, it shouldn’t matter if they have the same genitals or not.

Homophobia is probably one of the most euro-centered beliefs one can foster. I strongly believe that bisexuality is the natural state of human beings. That does not mean that I think that given a chance, everyone will become a homosexual and procreation as we know it will cease. Afrikan-centered homophobia is based on the belief that if a man is homosexual then he will be less than a man. Do not for a minute believe that if a man desires to penetrated or engage in same sex eroticism, that makes him feminine or less of a man or is a woman desires to be intimate with another woman she is abnormal. There are a myriad of factors that contribute to an individual’s sexual preferences. Genetic factors, influences during essential childhood development stages, adolescent sexual abuse and molestation, societal and religious ingrained fears, and unexplainable sociological and psychological factors all contribute to a person’s sexual orientation. To suggest that melanin alone prohibits one from being attracted to the same gender is absurd.

How does who I sleep with have anything whatsoever to do with my ability to share my knowledge, to help heal my people, to embrace Africa as my cultural and spiritual homeland. I have had far too many brothas in the Africentric community try to fuck me and not even pretend to want a relationship with me. Is promiscuous, un-emotional, causal sex more Afrikan-centered than me loving a woman and building a strong, monogamous relationship? It’s funny how the Africentric community can INSIST upon the objectification of women vis-à-vis the perpetuation of polygamous relationships that are solely purposed to stroke the male sexual ego when there is more than enough evidence that many, many African cultures embraced matrilineal societies. It seems that Afrikan-centered has to mean catered to appease the ego to the heterosexual male or it’s not valid.

Male homophobia is almost too comical to debate. “That’s for exit only” “A real man doesn’t like that freaky stuff” That absurd rhetoric is from socialization and conditioning, and it’s not even close to being based on any sort of truth. I’ve said it before and I’m going to say it again. The prostate is a male sexual organ that is located within the rectum. It is HEALTHY for it to be stimulated. Sharing intimacy with a person that happens to have the same genitals as you does NOT decrease your ability to be honest, to communicate effectively. “Gay” behaviors and homosexuality are related but different issues. It’s closed minded to suggest that the ONLY healthy relationships are those between men and women. I guess that’s why I’m no longer Christian and hold no ties to the guilt ridden Judeo Christian rules that tell me that I’m going to burn in hell for loving another woman while a man that fucks any and every woman he can without regard for her feelings gets the stamp of Afrocentric approval? Indeed.

What a beautiful world it would be if anyone was free to find intimacy with whomever added the most value to his or her life without any silly restrictions. It’s difficult to imagine a world where people sought out intimacy and not sex, and that genitals were insignificant in the pursuit of true communion. I guess I’m alone in my vision. I am committed to the healthy expression of Black sexuality. That includes any and all sexual expression that is SAFE, sane, and consensual. I will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of homophobia, patriarchy, sexism, or any other limiting and oppressive belief that narrowly defines sexuality or places restrictive guidelines on collective erotic practices. I seek to foster the intimate, communicative sexual expression of couples, regardless of gender or orientation. The backbone and foundation of a community is in the health and stability of its relationships. Honesty and open communication are key to building a great relationship. I will NOT promote, condone, endorse, or defend any expressions of sex in exchange for money or fulfillment of selfish sexual desires that disregard the emotional needs of one’s partner.

My acceptance and willingness to embrace ALL people of African descent, regardless of their sexual or gender orientation, is far more Afrikan centered than only acknowledging those that are invested in perpetuating patriarchy. Connecting to an individual’s spirit is far more holistic and Afrikan-centered than homophobia.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Feeling Particularly Ugly




I’ve been struggling with my image the last couple of days. There seems to be a pattern in my life that the men that I’m most attracted to do not find me physically attractive. In the third grade, it was Kim Williams, who had a huge afro like Foster Slyvers. (Hotline Hotline) He was light skinned and I thought he was the finest thing since Michael Jackson (when he was black with a big assed nose). He liked my best friend Lydia Cherry who was also light skinned. They boy who liked me was Tony Davis. Tony Davis looked like a skeleton with some brown skin he was so skinny. He would write me little love letters, put cut out hearts on them, and glitter. He was crazy about me through high school. Needless to say, I wasn’t really attracted to Tony.

In Junior High, on the first day of school, I saw the boy that would have my heart for six years. Darren Davis. I remember the sensation of seeing him for the very first time to this day. I was walking down the stairs and he was coming up. It was right after homeroom and he turned the corner and bumped into me and my heart skipped a beat. I said right then and there that that was the man that I was going to marry. Within a week, he was going steady (that’s not what we called it, that sounds like something from Happy Days) with my best friend of five years, guess who, Lydia Cherry. They dated for two or three years until which time they broke up and he started dating Jenny Colombo, who was white. They dated for about two years and then he and Lydia finished up high school back together. The entire six years, I was his summer lover. School would let out, he would come over to my house and, eventually when we were about 16, have sex every single day. On the first day of school, he would ignore me like I was a leper for the entire school year, kissing and holding hands with Lydia or Jenny. For six years, the same pattern repeated.

The boys who liked me in high school were the outcasts. There were two brothers, Mark and I forget the other one’s name Clark. They both were into heavy metal and had crusty stuff in their eyes and white gunk in the corners of their mouths and didn’t fit in with the black crowd. One of them asked me to the prom on the day of the prom. Needless to say, I sat home on the night of the prom and watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I did not find either one of them attractive.

In college, I dated the same guy for three and a half years. We were in love but when I met him I was truly not attracted to him. He was attractive but he was white with strawberry blonde hair and he didn’t look anything like Darren Davis who was 6’1” and chocolate. I was so in love with him that I didn’t look at another guy the entire time we were together.

My ex husband looked almost like Darren Davis’ twin. Actually, people used to confuse he and I for twins. He was tall, had a fantastic body, brown, and looked like the boy next door. I was attracted to him the very first second I laid eyes on him. He left me, for surprise, a white woman.

The latter half of my twenties I would go out with men who I didn’t find particularly attractive but I liked something that they had to offer on the inside. I felt I owed it to them to be open and receptive to the person that they were and not the package it came in. I found myself being patronizing because I was really only trying to be a nice person and not aroused on a physical level.

My early thirties . . . enter Emmanuel Bell. I remember the second I laid eyes on him. I remember the feeling of knowing he was standing behind me before he said anything. He took my breath away. Not only was I physically attracted to him, I was intellectually drawn to him. He, however, is only attracted to women with light skin and long hair. Well, that’s not true. They can be Latina or Asian, they don’t have to be light skinned black women. For 7 years, I tried to get him to love me. For 7 years, I tried to get him to see that we were perfect for each other. For 7 years, he fucked me and pursued every other woman who was light skinned and high maintenance. Derrick Scott, not attracted to me. Billy Odum, not attracted to me. I have a string of men that think I’m the best thing since sliced bread and all of whom are beautiful . . . on the inside.

Anyone noticing a pattern? From the time when I was 8 years old till now, the men that I’m attracted to are attracted to light skinned or white women. The men that are attracted to me, I don’t really find physically attractive. I think I’ve done a reasonably good job of dealing with the issues of attracting men to me that make me feel like I have to prove that I’m worthy. That was an issue from my mother that I was trying to resolve. I’m really only attracted to Afrikan centered men now, so the whole issue of white/light beauty isn’t really an issue for me anymore.

That still leaves the issue of the fact that the vast majority of men who are attracted to me, are not men who give me chills shall we say. The men that I meet that I find attractive never seem to show interest in me. The men that would worship the ground I walk on are men I’m not sure I could feel a genuine physical attraction for.

Here’s my concern. If the men that find me attractive are men that I don’t find attractive and the men that I find attractive don’t find me attractive . . . isn’t that really an indication that I’m not as physically attractive as I think I am. Granted, I don’t think I’m a knock out, but I think I’m okay. But if I’m honest with myself, the men who I don’t find attractive must say the same thing about themselves.

Maybe what I see in the mirror is not appealing to the men that I find attractive because my perception is distorted. Maybe I’ll forever chase after men that think I’m ugly because I’m truly not as attractive as I once thought I was. I’m not sure that I ever thought I was attractive but I thought I was at least attractive enough to be appealing to the men that I found attractive. I remember having honest humility in my life and saying, “There’s no way in hell that he would find me attractive, I’m not anywhere close to his level.” It think it’s healthy to have an honest assessment of what you bring to the table.
I have this fear now that I’m about to achieve my goals, now that I’m finally putting to bed some of the demons from my childhood, that I’m going to meet some amazing man who knocks my socks off and he’s going to think I’m ugly. I’ve been staring in the mirror, trying to be honest with myself. What I see looking back at me isn’t very pretty. Maybe I’m seeing myself truly for the very first time in life. Perhaps the men that are most attracted to me are so because I’m resonating on their level and not the level of the men that I’ve been pursuing. Part of me wants to think that really pretty and that the men that I find attractive will find me attractive as well. I’d love to have a man in my life who looks at me and says, “Damn, my baby is so fine.” I know I’m not attractive to quite a few men because I have no hair and long hair is the standard of beauty, even when it’s nappy. I don’t know. Maybe if I hope to find partnership I have to look past the outside and find companionship with someone who isn’t really aesthetically pleasing to me and accept that I’m not aesthetically pleasing to the world.

Essential Definitions

I can see now that this blog is going to be race relations. I get so many people sending me messages daily, using terms that they don't even know the meaning of. Time for a lesson.

Ebony - Wood of several species of trees of the genus Diospyros (family Ebenaceae), found widely in the tropics. The best is very heavy, almost black, and from heartwood only. Because of its color, durability, hardness, and ability to take a high polish, ebony is used for cabinetwork and inlaying, piano keys, knife handles, and turned articles.

Ivory - (I thought everyone knew the definition but I've been shocked by the number of people that had no clue) Hard white substance that makes up the tusks of such animals as elephants, walruses, and preserved mammoths. It is prized for its beauty, durability, and suitability for carving. In ancient times it was treasured as highly as gold and precious stones. Most ivory used commercially once came from Africa; sales of ivory declined in the 20th century as the populations of African elephants shrank, and worldwide concern about endangered elephant populations have led to bans on the export and import of ivory.

Nubian - (The most used word that people have NO clue as to its meaning.) There is no modern location called Nubia. The area known by this term lies today partly in Egypt and partly in the Republic of the Sudan. A large portion of the northern part of ancient Nubia currently lies submerged under the reservoir formed behind Egypt's High Dam at Aswan. Nubia is the homeland of Africa's earliest black culture with a history which can be traced from 3100 BC onward through Nubian monuments and artifacts. More than fifty ancient pyramids and royal tombs rise out of the desert sands in Nubia. The people of Nubia are referred to as Nubians. Sistas, when men approach you and call you a beautiful Nubian queen, ask them to name one. Don't just be complacent and let it slide.

Chocolate - Chocolate is food prepared from ground roasted cacao beans. It is consumed as candy, used to make beverages, and added as a flavoring or coating for confections and baked products. I am a Black woman. As a Black woman, I am far more complex than a simple confectionary treat. I have a personality, identity and history that make me a Black woman. For that reason, I don't want to be called chocolate. Chocolate is NOT a race and I'm too proud of mine to tolerate someone calling me a food and thinking it's cute or innocent. If you want my affection, call me what I am.

Colored - (I can't get over how many times people still use this term) The term colored was used as recently as the 60s to denote Black people. Every person has color so it's not only an inaccurate description but its origins were racist and meant to be demeaning. "Person of color" is more accurate when describing the 90% of the world's population that is not Caucasian.

Afro - (As in Afro-American) Afro was a term that coined after slavery because Black people didn't want to be associated with Africa, they had been indoctrinated to think that anything African was wrong and bad. There is no Afroland, no Afro language, there is no race of Afro people, and thus it should not be used to identify anyone's ethnicity or nationality. An Afro is a hairstyle and Africa is a continent, not a country. African Americans are an amalgamation of many African ethnicities that were kidnapped from Africa, crossbred like livestock, and raised to disassociate themselves with any traditional cultural identifiers.

Negro - Spanish for Black. The first European enslavers were Portuguese, in 1444, and it was used to identify Africans. Again, there is not Negroland, no Negro language and thus is inaccurate in defining a people. English speaking enslavers adopted the word Negro to nigger to the derogatory and offensive meaning dark skinned people of Africa that were something less than human, vile, and repugnant.

Nigger, nigga, niggah (or any other spelling of the word) - Nigger is not now, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be a term of affection. It is used today in the exact same context that it was used in slavery, to indicate a Black person, specifically a man, a black person with little education, or a Black person that doesn't conform to white standards of acceptable behavior. Any slave narrative will reveal the use of the word as commonplace as it is used today, except today, it's considered entertainment. During slavery it was the only term Black people had to describe themselves and they used it because they believed themselves to be niggers. It is used in much the same way today. Black people with education, money, and a sense of history don't use the word to describe themselves, they use it to describe the portion of that has suffered the most generational oppression and disadvantage. Those people at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder use it, not because they have money, education, means, or a sense of history but because they don't know themselves to be anything other than niggers.

Racism - Racism is an ideological, structural and historic stratification process by which the population of European descent, through its individual and institutional distress patterns, intentionally has been able to sustain, to its own best advantage, the dynamic mechanics of upward or downward mobility (of fluid status assignment) to the general disadvantage of the population designated as non-white (on a global scale), using skin color, gender, class, ethnicity or nonwestern nationality as the main indexical criteria used for enforcing differential resource allocation decisions that contribute to decisive changes in relative racial standing in ways most favoring the populations designated as 'white.' Contrary to popular white belief, racism is more than wearing a white sheet and burning a cross.

Language has power, be careful how you use it. Ignorance is not bliss.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Help me Define Bi-sexual



I’ve had countless conversations with people and I’ve asked them if they were bisexual. Almost 100% of the time, they say that they aren’t but then tell me of bisexual experiences. It’s women as well as men. It seems awfully delusional to me. The excuses for why they aren’t bisexual are irrational. They claim they aren’t bisexual because they don’t actively go out “seeking” sex with the same gender, but if it happens it happens. I have men say that they aren’t bisexual because they only engage in oral sex with other men. I’ve heard the ever-popular, “I don’t like labels,” but they never seem to mind the label of heterosexual, just bisexual. I will always hear, “ I am not bisexual because I’m not attracted to (the same gender) emotionally, just sexually.” That would be great if we were defining the word bi-emotional. This sista yesterday told me that she wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was bisexual. How is that logical? The most popular excuse for why people don’t consider themselves bisexual, by far, is, “I PREFER sex with the opposite gender.” Well, of course, if you have sex with people of the same gender and you don’t really enjoy it as much as you do when you are having sex with someone of the opposite gender, that means you can be considered heterosexual. I guess I’m supposed to believe that they were having sex with someone of the same sex and saying, “This really sucks, I’d rather be with a person of the opposite gender.” As my uncle would say, “Dain Bramaged!”

The definition of bisexual in the dictionary is of, relating to, or having a sexual orientation to persons of either sex. Nowhere does it say, “only if you initiate sex with persons of the same sex,” “only if you like sex just as much as you do with people of the opposite gender,” and I don’t think it can be interpreted as saying, “only if you are emotionally attracted to the same gender.”

Women, who have been in RELATIONSHIPS with other women, claim they aren’t bisexual because they don’t think that they will ever be with another woman again. These same women are usually the same women who will say it’s disgusting if a man is with another man but yet they can somehow rationalize that their bisexual relationship didn’t happen. Men I can understand. Black men are demonized for being bisexual. We can blame them for everything wrong in the world. Bisexual women who deny they are bisexual and THEN demonize bisexual black men are so far out there for me, I can’t even wrap my mind around that one.

Mind you, white men don’t seem to have the same inability to identify themselves as bisexual. They claim bisexuality if they just masturbate to fantasies of other men. I would ALMOST be willing to grant people who have never engaged in actual sex with someone of the same gender the title of bi-curious, but at a certain point, you have to be able to say that you are more than just curious, you just haven’t figured out the best way to have a bisexual experience.

I’m bisexual. I have the ability to find arousal in both women and men. It’s rare that I find a woman with whom I’m attracted but that doesn’t negate my orientation. I am not attracted to most women. I would prefer to form a relationship with a man. That still doesn’t make me less bisexual.

For me heterosexual would be anyone who has never been aroused by a person of the same gender and who has never had a consensual sexual experience with a person of the same gender. There aren’t many people that can fit in that definition. If you can’t say either of those things, news flash, you are bisexual.

What is your definition of bisexual?

Strange Bedfellows


Shakespeare said, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.” It seems that lust, much more so than misery, makes for some the most interesting boudoir companions. Such was the case for Pamela, Michael, and Imani. From all outward appearances, the trio of friends looked like a cross section of Black America. Pam was typically conservative in her demeanor and appearance. You know the kind; you would never suspect she was a seething hotbed of sexuality until you got her behind closed doors. Michael was quickly climbing the corporate ladder. He had all the makings of a playboy; he was fine, smart, charming, and focused on getting the most enjoyment out of life he possibly could. Imani was the Bohemian granola girl type. At any given moment she could go off on a tirade about Pan Africanism, holistic living, or the perils of misogynist videos on the developing psyche of Black children. As unique and diverse as they were individually, they functioned all together differently as a unit.

Collectively, Pam, Michael, and Imani were lovers. Not in the typical modern day scenario where the guy fulfills his varying tastes for women in different beds and the women pretend not to know of his extracurricular activities. No, once a month, these three individuals came together in a “lifestyle” club to revel in sensual exploration and erotic discovery.

It would all begin with an email, Re: Let’s get together. Pam would usually initiate the momentum and Imani and Michael would soon follow along. With the date and time finalized, the anticipation would build as the three went about their daily business knowing that the upcoming Friday night would be an exercise in hedonism.

Friday’s were the night of choice for the threesome. The club was one of the emerging alternative venues where adults came to explore their primal side. The club was usually populated with as many blacks as whites while single men, couples and adventurous single women roamed around in various degrees of arousal and undress looking for a chance to be someone that society said was taboo. There were men who wanted to see their wives fucked by other men . . . or women, and men that wanted to satisfy their exhibitionist side. There were those that wanted to get what they couldn’t at home and of course those that just wanted to watch and jerk off. The women were not as easy to read. A few looked like they couldn’t get dates any other way than in an anonymous, dark sex club. Most were attractive and comfortable with their sexuality but needing something different. It was clear that within the walls of Club Eros, society’s narrow standards of acceptable sexual behavior were being pushed and stretched to their very limit.

All eyes would be on Pam, Michael, and Imani whenever they would walk in the door. Their individual attractiveness was multiplied collectively. Pam and Imani wore clothing to accentuate their delicious, dark bodies. Pam had the body of a brick shithouse. She was thick and round and packin’ in all the right places. Imani, putting away her usual Afrocentric attire, would ooze of sexuality showing off her statuesque frame. The hours Mike spent in the gym showed well in his form-fitting shirt. Mostly, they turned heads because they were so comfortable with one another.

Every man in the place had every right to be jealous of Mike. He had two incredibly sexy women that were at his disposal but secure enough with themselves to steer the ship of their own sexuality as well. It was fascinating to see them in action: kissing, touching, caressing each other openly and loving all the attention. Pam and Imani often amused themselves kissing each other while sitting on opposite sides of Michael, stroking his raging hard-on through his pants, while spectators gathered around.

On one particular night, Imani was feeling particularly daring and she pulled Michael’s dick out and began to sensually lick and suck up and down while Pamela knelt behind her to finger her. Imani could feel Pam’s heavy breasts on her back as she turned momentarily to suck those glorious nipples. Pam offered up her tits and threw her head back in ecstasy, reveling in the pleasure she was receiving.

Mike, noticing it was time to spread out and have some more room, interrupted the ladies momentarily and took them by the hand to a room where they could be more comfortable. Those that were regular spectators in the club knew to follow closely behind because the show always proved to be spectacular.

Inside the room, Pamela undressed, lay back on the bed, spread her sexy legs and began fingering herself. Mike almost couldn’t wait to taste her but he knew that it would be better to undress sooner rather than later when things tended to get more heated. The whispers and sounds of appreciation from the female onlookers made him proud of his body but it didn’t distract him from his mission. He loved eating pussy more than anything and he was damn good at it. He was enamored with a woman’s nana like a connoisseur loved a vintage Merlot. He savored every nuance of Pam’s unique taste and drank of her succulent juices.

Imani loved to watch Pam and Michael in action. She held Pam’s legs in the air as Michael’s tongue worked its magic. He ran his tongue over and over her clit, in and out of her pussy, licking and sucking her gently at times, ravenously at others. He sucked her pussy lips in his mouth and drank of her sweet juices. Time and time again he brought her to the edge of orgasm with his mouth and lips only to deny her her journey to bliss. Pamela’s conservative demeanor was nothing more than a persona she easily discarded and she made sure that Mike was getting good instructions. “ Mmmmm, lick my pussy. Oh shit. I love the way you eat me. Damn, you lick pussy better than a woman.”

“Oh really?” Imani chimed in, “let’s see about that.” She placed her legs over Pam’s head and asked Michael if she could have the honor. He moved out of the way, his face covered with juices, to watch his two lovers pleasure each other. It was virtually impossible to sit back as a spectator however. Michael began caressing the intertwining silky smooth limbs of his lovers . . . and stroking his own hardness as well. Every man that had crammed into the small room to watch was now jerking off as the two women sensually licked each other’s pussies. The moans, groans, sights, smells, and sounds of beautiful feminine lovemaking filled the room. Pam climaxed first, wrapping her legs around Imani’s head and begging her not to stop sucking her clit. Not one to disappoint, Imani drank all of her friend’s cum down and prepared to execute her own orgasm shortly thereafter. It took but a few short moments for Imani to orgasm as she sat up and rode Pam’s tongue and came hard in her mouth.

With barely a moment to catch her breath, the three began kissing each other passionately. Not one to be denied, Michael grabbed Imani and placed her across his face to taste her. Variety is, as they say, the spice of life. Pamela, needing a different level of satisfaction, climbed on Mike’s dick and slid her wet folds down on him and began using his dick like it was her own personal dildo. The two women kissed each other and caressed each other’s breasts as they were getting pleasure from Michael below. Michael worked his fingers into Imani’s ass and sent her into fits of orgasmic overload.

There was no time for rest. “Imani, you have to get some of this dick,” Pam moaned, as the three climbed higher and higher to a plane of indescribable passion. They shifted positions yet again and Imani was on her knees, looking back in desperation, begging for Michael to fuck her. He knew that his dick hit her in all the right spots when she was getting fucked doggy style so he prepared himself for a wild ride. Pam, not one to be denied, spread her legs in front of Imani and invited her girlfriend to sample her juices once again. Actually, she said something closely resembling, “make me squirt in your mouth, Imani. Suck my pussy until I shoot my cum.”

Michael eyes practically rolled back in his head as he penetrated Imani. Her pussy gripped his dick and she was so wet he could actually hear the squishing sounds as he stroked her in and out. The silky smooth walls of her pussy milked him as the curve in his dick manipulated her g-spot perfectly.

Imani was in another world. She had a dick made for her pussy inside her, fucking her rhythmically, and the phat, pink, sweetness of her lover’s pussy in her mouth. She managed to eek out, “Fuck me harder. Ohhhh yes, fuck me,” in between tongue-fucking her sexy female partner. Imani was the first to explode in orgasmic bliss, her third for the evening, which soon triggered Mike and Pam to cum as well. Moaning and groaning, fucking and sucking, they all yelled out as pleasure overtook them.

There was never any jealousy or any feelings of discomfort in the afterglow. The three shared a bond, a unique friendship that defied definition. They kissed and giggled as the crowd dissipated until the next time they would come together to share in each other’s sensual selves. Their day-to-day realities were vastly different but their connection was nothing less than rare and beautiful. Lust, it seems, makes for strange yet sexy bedfellows.

Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK

Black Leaders

I hear it all the time, “There are no Black leaders.” There are plenty of Black leaders but there are no Black followers. The civil rights movement was a movement against an oppressor. The movement of today has to be one of consciousness. We have to dismantle the beliefs that hold us captive. It’s easy to form a movement when the enemy doesn’t look like you. How do you establish a movement when the enemy is staring you in the mirror?

There are plenty of people out here with messages of enlightenment but our messages aren’t pretty, aren’t popular, they aren’t even easy to digest. The beliefs that we have that are killing us are ones that were beaten into us for hundreds of years. They are so deeply ingrained in our psyches, so much a fabric of our belief systems, that people would rather die then to change the things that are killing us.

I don’t know why I have been given this vision. I used to be like the masses. I used to be just like the people that rally against me; I accepted what my mother told me, what her parents had told her, what had been passed down for generations since the first generation of slaves were born in this country. Africans who were enslaved could hold on to truth, hold on to traditions. Slaves born in this country had their consciousness shaped by the most oppressive form of chattel slavery known to man. No one except for a few of us can acknowledge it but I know it to be true. I know that the psychological ravages that occurred during slavery are what keep us so dysfunctional. I see it clearly but the masses insist that that which is most dysfunctional is healthy and right.

Who is willing to stand up and say, “Hmmm, it’s not healthy for me to hate my natural hair. I will forever be in conflict if I inherently hate that which The Creator intended me to be.” We already know that men aren’t capable of hearing constructive criticism, yes criticism, without claiming they are being bashed. Their behavior collectively is foul, immature, and far too often abhorable. Yes, Black men need to be spanked, disciplined, and criticized and they need to step up to the plate and start correcting their shit. Black men don’t want to be criticized at all. They want to hold on to oppressive, misogynist, homophobic, sexist, dysfunctional beliefs and defend them to the death. They feel as if they get a free ride because of their penis to never have to look in the mirror and correct their own stankness.

I can name all the things that make us unhealthy and people will find 1002 reasons to justify the most fucked up beliefs. Black men and their obsession with light skin and long hair, black women holding on to the irrational and detrimental “strong black woman” archetype, our abusive child rearing practices, our obsession with money, the way we see sex, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US is infected by belief systems that are tainted with poison, myself included. The way we raise our children is wrong, the way we eat is wrong, the God we serve is wrong, everything we’ve learned since our enslavement is crippling to us and is dead wrong. Those of us that are working to free ourselves from those chains are the leaders, fighting a war against ignorance. Ignorance reigns supreme in this land. I’m working on mine every day. I’ve made miraculous transformations. I’m open to learning from people who are more enlightened than I, who’ve made miraculous transformations in their lives. There are so few people who have but the knowledge is out there. Even those of us who have freed ourselves from some of the bonds are still enslaved, thinking that we have achieved perfection. I’m still searching, I’m still seeking truth, I’m still meditating and affirming that I am open and receptive to Thy loving spirit of Truth.

I had a conversation with a woman yesterday, a woman with whom I’ve had a very adversarial relationship. I asked her if she had any women friends. And she said not really. I asked why and she went on to say that women were catty, manipulative, and only concerned about dick. That sort of thinking is so warped and dysfunctional it’s scary. It’s the ultimate form of self-hatred. Hating women when you are one ranks like 785 on a pathological scale of 1-10. All of a sudden, it was perfectly clear why our relationship had been so contentious. It’s a pathology that is pervasive, I’d dare to say that the majority of black women harbor thoughts like that. She claims that the only reason she has women friends now is because she became more egotistical and selfish. She thinks that’s healthy. This whole, “women are untrustworthy, women are evil” drama is infinitely pathological. She went on to say, “Yeah, those women who don’t like other women are really sad.” She couldn’t even see how fucked up she was for trying to attack other women.

I lost a dear friend because he refused to look at his own fucked up patterns. Rather than deal with his own shit, he attacks everyone else. He repeats the same dumb behaviors all the time and then goes into severe depression and his solution is that he’s NEVER going to be in another relationship again. That lasts for two weeks. He would rather attack me, me who’s been nothing but nice to him, rather than deal with his own shit.

When the demons are internal, it’s virtually impossible to get people to change. Who’s going to go to a sit in for healing self-hatred? Uhmmm, no one. We can’t fight any outside system of oppression until we heal ourselves and we ain’t trying to heal ourselves. To do that, we have to say that what we know and who we are is flawed. We aren’t flawed because of our own doing, we are flawed because of the system of slavery. But to get people to see that is next to impossible. Trust me, I know.

You can’t have a leader when people are tied to dysfunction and refuse to change. People refuse to listen to logic. Sometimes, I wish I was still unconscious. Sometimes I wish I didn’t see things the way I do now. Ignorance is truly bliss.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Healing Piss

I had a white gentleman tell me a story once that I found fascinating. He told me, admittedly, that he used to be racist but had a transformative experience. He went on to say that he had procured the services of a professional dominatrix. She blindfolded him and went about her business of degrading him, humiliating him, whathaveyou. Unbeknownst to this man, the pro domme had in fact switched with a Black domme who was responsible for giving him what he felt was the most intense experience of his life. This black domme apparently had urinated on him. Well, once the blindfold was removed, voila', his racism was gone. Healed by the magical piss of the Black woman. I suggested to him that racism isn't just washed away with a little Shug Avery pee (he didn't get it) and that in order for him to truly rid himself of racist behaviors that he wouldreally need to challenge his beliefs. At that point, he called me a racist.
Time and time again, I have white men tell me that they aren't racist because they are attracted to black women. But, in the same breath, they are afraid to meet me in public in a place where people that know them might see them. Or they tell me that black women are superior because they are so naturally dominant, never giving credence to the totality of us as women. Uhmm, isn't that racist?

I've had white men tell me that they want to be with a black woman to see if our pussies taste different. Number one, I'm not a scratch and sniff experiment; I'm a human being. There is absolutely nothing different about my physical make up other than the presence of melanin. My blood is the same, my tears are the same, my piss is the same, and my pussy is the same. If there’s a difference in my taste it’s because I’m an individual and EVERYONE is going to have a different taste. If a person thinks a Black woman's pussy tastes different just because of the color of their skin, uhmm, isn't that racist? .

I had a white man tell me the other day that his wife had a black lover and he would be forced to pay the black man to service him orally and how he felt that was the ultimate humiliation. He professed that he wasn't racist and how he thought that Blacks were superior. When asked how he thought Blacks were superior, he listed physical characteristics. Check it, if he thought blacks were truly superior, he would not feel it was humiliating to give a Black man money. I asked him some of the Black people that he thought were intellectually superior and he said Condoleezza Rice and me. First and foremost, there should NEVER be an occasion where Condi Rice and I are compared on the same scale. She is the anti-Christ and I denounce her as a black woman. Second, it's obvious he had no clue about my intellect; he was enamored with my physicality.

I can't tell you how many times I've had white men tell me, "Oh, I wish I was a black man." When asked why, the number one reason, "They have such big cocks." Okay dumbass, you think being a black man is all about fucking white women with your 11-inch dick? You don't see the correlation between black men and the prison population, Driving While Black, the inordinately high Black on Black crime. No, you don't want to be a Black man; you want to have white privilege, a big dick and have white women throwing themselves at you. White men that say that stupid shit inevitable say, "I don't have a racist bone in my body anymore. Not since I started watching interracial porn (or fill in the blank with a similar sexual experience, as if sex orgasm while looking at a black person have sex cures diseased perceptions)." What the fuck? Say it with me . . . Uhmm, isn't that racist?

My favorite? White man approaches me and tells me how submissive he is to black women. I tell him I’m not interested in a submissive at this time, white, black, or other. They tell me that they can (fill in the blank with a degrading and humiliating act, usually eating my shit and drinking my piss) and refuses to accept that I’m not interested in him. Next thing out of his mouth . . . N&*%$ BITCH.

Let's make a list, shall we?

Saying they aren't racist and then saying that white women should be "bred black" because black men are not good fathers.

Saying they aren't racist, then saying that Jews overcame the Holocaust, as if Jews are inherently superior, and Blacks choose to be lazy.

Saying they aren't racist and then saying how much they respect Oprah, Colin Powell and Michael Jordan and when I ask them what's the last black book they've read they look at me like I'm crazy for suggesting that they would ever read a black book.

Saying they aren't racist and then denigrating Spike Lee, Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton in the next breath and having the unmitigated nerve to say that there are no Black leaders. I guess white leadership is so stellar that they have room to critique.

Saying that they aren't racist and then in the next breath calling me a racist because I suggest that there are abundant examples of racism that they don't see because they won't allow themselves to go outside their comfort zone and imagine a life different than their's.

Since when did racists get to identify when they aren't racist anymore? Who is defining racism? Is racism just an overt hatred of black people and wearing a white sheet or is it white men looking at me in amazement when I tell them I'm pursuing my PhD and them telling me that I'm a credit to my race? Like for my next trick, I'm going to pull a rabbit out of my hat. Where is the white sub that has read one book about slavery, Black history, Black culture, or one that tried to delve into the reasons for oppression and bigotry? No, he was in a heightened state of arousal and figured out that Black women could be as sexually arousing as white women. Big shit! That doesn't mean he's going to fight for Black children to get a fair education, that he's going to battle discrimination in housing and employment whenever he sees it. He's not even going to tell his buddies at the office that he's attracted to Black women. That's racist.

It’s more than obvious that Black people aren’t capable of determining what’s racist or not because we are the ones that think the N word is a term of affection, that think it’s cute to refer to ourselves as bitches, freaks, thugs, and pimps. Those who don’t use that terminology turn a blind eye and a deaf ear when it’s used. There are far too many black men that think it’s a compliment to be called a bull and to try to impregnate white women for fun. That's sick. FAR, FAR, FAR too many black women think that our beauty is in our behinds, fingernails, or length or our hair and give no credence to developing what’s inside us.

"Whiteness" is a disease of privilege that has been created by a society founded in racism. I didn't say white people are inherently racist because of genetics. I said that because white people have seen black people and people of color as inferior for so many centuries, because it has been so conditioned in their minds, because it has gone unquestioned in their psyches that they are superior, that SOME white people (I would dare to say the vast and overwhelming majority) perpetuate a lack of compassion for anyone's else's experience other than their own, they diminish the complaints of people of color because it doesn't match their experience

There are white people who assert that it is hard to define whites and blacks in this society, I'm going to ask what society they live? In case you hadn't noticed, Blacks are the people are the most disproportionately incarcerated. If, there is no such thing as an inherent Black criminal gene then there has to be a reason for that beyond skin color. Blacks are the people that are the most unemployed. Again, if there is no inherent Black lazy gene, how do you reconcile that with your experience? And just a little reminder, Black people are the one that do the poorest on standardized tests in school. Again, there is no such thing as a Black stupidity gene so there has to be some reason for it. What do you think those reasons could be?

I’ve officially lost hope. Fucked up beliefs are being accepted as normal and even being touted as great accomplishments in race relations. Where’s Armageddon when you need it?

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Shit ain't Changed

Black people are hysterical. We really are a comical people. We have internalized racism to the point of insanity and we justify it, throwing logic out the window. Somehow, Black people have been convince that the N word is now a term of affection simply because it can be heard on the radio and TV, we now think that the word has a positive meaning. Some uniformed clown said, "oh, we changed the meaning of the word," and everyone said, "Ohhh, yeah, we changed the meaning." The meaning of the word hasn't changed one bit since we first landed on these shores. We might USE it as a term of affection but that’s a far cry from the meaning the word being changed. If a woman says, "That nigga didn't pay his child support," or, “girl, that nigga don’t have a job,” I'm almost positive that she doesn't mean it as a term of endearment. When Chris Rock does his Black people vs niggers, I can promise you that he doesn't mean wonderful person. Pay attention to how the word is used on a daily basis. It’s not used interchangeably with my dear brother, it is used as a way of saying black man. How has that changed from slavery? The meaning of the word hasn't changed. The only thing that has changed is the FCC ruling that says that it can't be said on TV.

Name one other word, in the English language or any other, that started out with a negative meaning and was changed to mean something positive. Name one. Black people used the word after slavery to refer to each other because that is all they knew to refer to themselves as. At no point in history did the meaning of the word change. The only thing that has changed is that you can now turn on the radio and here the word. White record execs are the masterminds behind the mainstreaming of the word, not some underground movement by Black people to change the connotation of the word. Do not fool yourself into thinking that we as a people made some sort on conscious decision to take the negativity out of the word. The word is now and will always be – NEGATIVE. I missed that meeting when we as a people decided to turn the word into a positive word with lots of love behind it. Who was in attendance at that meeting? Jay-Z, Ludacris , oh no, I guess it was Diddy and Snoop? I guess Dr. King wasn‘t at the meeting. Certainly, Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, all the slain civil rights leaders of our history weren‘t there either.

I want to vote again. THE WORD NIGGER IS A VILE AND DISGUSTING WORD. Just because we use it commonly, does not mean that it is now positive. We need not even go back to slavery to find the abhorrent use of the word. My mother was imprisoned for demonstrating in the sixties. She was spit upon until her dress was ripping with spit. Read that again, dripping with spit. She risked her life so that we would not be called NIGGER and now it is on every song on the radio. My grandfather was a civil rights leader, he affected the lives of thousands. I have never heard him, to this very day, use the word when referring to another black person. NEVER! But I guess because Kanye does, than it is a term of affection. Right!

I find it very hard to believe that as creative as we are, that we can't find one other word to use that means brother. We have to defend the word that our ancestors were called when they hung from trees, their flesh ripped from their bodies with the whip.

What more can I do?

It is so true, I do not know, understand, nor can I comprhend what it is to be a Black man. The mysteries of the unobtainable “Y” will forever remain elusive to me. I am a Black woman, in fact I am all Black women.

I struggle to get an education and a job in a society where my melanin rich skin is detested and abhorred. “They” don’t want me to excel, they would just as soon pass me over for that promotion, make me train my supervisors, deny me the sub-standard raise, create a hostile environment, and fire me unjustifiably. In their eyes, I am weak and stupid and criminal, I dare say, not even human. The only reason the police don’t beat me down and kill me in such great numbers, is I do not resist them as much. Trust me, were I to have more testosterone, every time I am pulled over unjustifiably, I would be face down on the side of the road rather than paying the fine for an imagined infraction.

What I do understand is that I’ve got to live up to outrageous and unreasonable demands to be a Black woman. I know what it is to walk down the street and I have to respond to every comment and criticism from Black men, regardless of how rude, degrading, or vile it is, lest I be called out my name. I know that I have to have a big booty and show it off to be considered attractive, ooops, but I can’t show it off too much or I’m a hoochie. I have to put on makeup to not be considered to’ up, but not too much or I’m fake. I have to be a freak in the bedroom to satisfy my man, but if I’m too freaky, I’m not worthy to be his wife. I have to match my perfectly pedicured toes to my fingernails right after I pick up my child from day care and take care of all the household responsibilities. I gotta pay the bills, cook and clean, raise the children, (most times by myself) go to work, try to make a way for myself and be supportive to my man. But what does being supportive mean?

Seems like I will never be able to obtain the standards of a good Black woman. I have to not ask questions about where he goes when he says he was out with the boys? I have to not ask him to contribute to the household financially or I’m a gold digger. I have to look the other way if he cheats because that’s just the nature of men, right? I can’t be too thin, I can’t be too fat. My hair has to be done all the time. I can’t be too outspoken or I’m a bitch.

Then I have to deal with the racist media telling me what I can and can not be. My hair can’t be nappy or I’m radical. My nose can’t be too wide, my skin can’t be too dark, and my lips can’t be too full. I’ve gotta look like a video dancer every time I leave the damn house.

To make matters worse, I gotta have Black men tell me I’m not enough by choosing white women because they are “more supportive.” You tell me what is a sista supposed to do, what more can I be?

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

When Ladies Make Love


I sat her at the foot of my bed and stood a few feet away. I unwrapped my sarong and let it fall to the floor, wearing only the white shirt that just barely covered my panties. I undid each button slowly, giving her time to voice her apprehensions and back out if she so desired. I felt so vulnerable standing before her because I felt more afraid than she did at that particular moment. This was the moment I had dreamt of for months and I wanted everything to be perfect. I kept my bra and panties on because I wanted her to know that this evening was about her, I didn’t want to scare her away making her think that I was going to demand that she do anything to me. In my fantasy, I pleased her repeatedly, all she had to do was lay back and enjoy.

Our eyes adjusted to the darkness and I knelt before her at the foot of the bed. I took off her shoes and placed them neatly under the bed. She lifted her arms like a little girl waiting for her mommy to undress her and let me remove her shirt over her head. I stood her in front of me and knelt before her to undo her pants and slide them down her body. Even though the temperature was warm she was trembling and shaking. I told her to lie down on the bed and I crawled over her body like a panther surveying its prey. Her arms were stretched out by her side and gripping the comforter for dear life. We kissed again, this time she was able to return my kiss even more passionately. I began my descent down her body with my mouth, baptizing her with sensual kisses. I covered her neck and throat with sensual kisses and she moaned in appreciation. I took an incredibly long time kissing and licking her down her arms and sucking her fingers. I undid the clasp of her bra and revealed her perfectly formed breasts to my vision. Her nipples were hard and aroused like two tiny pebbles waiting for my mouth to lick and suck them. Olivia’s body was becoming more and more comfortable and she was responding to each touch with more enthusiasm. I brought my tongue to her left nipple and gently licked it and she let out a hiss . . . I licked the right one and she groaned. In fact, I spent the better part of a half hour licking, sucking and kissing on her nipples.

She kept saying, “Oh God, that feels so good, don’t stop.” The more aroused she got, the more I needed to give her more pleasure. It was apparent she was enjoying herself and I licked and kissed my way down her stomach. She had the most glorious goody trail of soft fine hair that I had ever seen that led to her sensual treasure. I let my mouth wander down to her legs and I spread her thighs enough to lick and kiss her there. I could smell her scent and her panties showed a very visible wet spot that betrayed her arousal. I aggressively turned her over on her stomach and began lavishing her back with kisses. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled it as I whispered in her ear that I was going to make her cum so many times she would pass out. She responded by grinding her ass on me and saying, “Fuck you.” I loved her fight and arrogance; it turned me on that much more. I slid my hand between her legs to gently rub her mound. I pulled her panties up in the crack of her ass and playfully spanked her, not too hard; gently, erotically. She was thrusting her ass up at me and telling me to do it harder at that point but I didn’t want her to think she was in control.

She was out of control with lust. All of her inhibitions had long since disappeared and she was insatiable. She wanted to experience every sensation she could. I turned her over on her back again and slid her panties down her thighs and off her legs. Now it was my turn to be overcome with lust. Her pussy was so fucking sexy it took my breath away. I spread her legs and stared at the center of her being in complete awe. Her lips were parted and swollen with arousal. Her clit was already peeking from its hood. She was so wet I could see her juices glistening even in the darkened room. Her smell was intoxicating. I inhaled her aroma over and over again, wanting to breathe it into my very essence. I held onto the last little bit of control I had left. “Olivia, tell me you want this, tell me that you need me to make love to you. I need to hear you say it.”

She knew that she was in control at that point. In fact, she was getting off on the control she had over me. She was asserting herself again. “Mmmmmm, you know damn well that I want you to eat and lick and suck my wet pussy. Go ahead, make me cum with your mouth. That’s what you need. Stick your tongue in me, suck my clit, EAT MY PUSSY”

Her sexy talk pushed me over the edge. In fact, I almost came from hearing her being so open, so vocal about her desires. As much as I wanted to dive in and devour her pussy, I wanted to make it an experience that she would never forget. I took my fingers and gently spread her lips and started to gently lick on her exposed clit. She responded by grinding her pussy on my face, trying to get me to suck it harder. I put my fingers at the entrance to her pussy and she started grinding her hips trying to get me to finger her. “Damn you, stop being such a tease, finger me. Finger me the way I need you to.” The calm, reserved woman that I had secretly lusted after for months was now a primal beast in my bed. I reached down between my legs to stimulate my own needy clit but I couldn’t get too distracted. This vision of sensuality was lying in front of me and driving me crazy with desire.

I reached over to my nightstand and pulled out my vibrator and long-double-sided dildo. My intention was to ride it with her to indescribable waves of pleasure. My vibrator was glow in the dark pink and dainty, but packed a powerful punch. My double-sided dildo was as black as midnight, 18 inches long, and looked more like a weapon of mass destruction. I asked her if she wanted me to fuck her and she nodded through her haze of arousal, yes. I wanted to slow the pace down a little and prolong her pleasure so I turned her over again, this time placing her on her knees. I couldn’t resist the temptation to go down on her yet again and lick her from her pussy to her asshole. My face was covered in her juices and she was grinding her pussy back on my mouth, encouraging me to make her cum. Actually, she was pleading with me. She reached back with both hands and spread the cheeks of her ass, her head to the pillow and was practically chanting, “Eat me, fuck me, make me cum.” She was delirious and insane with lust.

I picked up the vibrator and placed it on her clit. She was so hot I thought she was going to explode. My previous objectives were lost in a haze of confusion and passion. Here she was, an exquisite representation of Black female beauty, wanton with lust in my bed. She belonged to me at that point. Her surrender was complete. I grabbed the dildo and started gently rubbing the head of it up and down her slit. It looked so sexy coated with her juices that I could hardly resist the temptation to suck it. I placed the head of it to her entrance and she rotated and thrust her hips trying to get me to penetrate her. The lust in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I gave her about an inch of dildo and she started cumming. I worked her pussy through her orgasm, licking her clit, fucking her with more of the dildo. By the time I had about seven inches in her she was having a string of multiple orgasms back to back. She collapsed on the bed, exhausted and drained.

I climbed on the bed next to her and held her in my arms. She rolled on top of me and kissed me full on the mouth. “Thank you,” she breathed. I wanted to ask her why she was thanking me but I sort of understood. She nestled her naked, sweaty body against mine and drifted off to sleep. I lay there watching her sleep as the rain gently fell against the window. We would fall back into our normal roles in the morning, or perhaps we wouldn’t. I contemplated all that would become of us as I stared at her glistening brown skin and smelled her sex heavy in the air. Indeed, conversation wasn’t the only thing that flowed freely that evening.


Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK


Double Dong

African Art in Motion

In African societies where art and goodness are synonymous, the critique of dance can be an art form in and of itself. The evaluation of dance is a critique whereby gender roles, style, carriage and technique are appraised. Typically, for the dance to be judged worthy of praise, the arms must move in time with the legs, the facial expression must be somber, the costume must be impeccable and the entire dance must be wildly expressive and pleasing. The critique itself becomes a part of the dance, as essential to the rhythmic movements and performance as the drum and dancer themselves. Perfection is the standard; any variance from that bedrock can lead to ridicule and shame for the artist.

African Americans have unconsciously inherited the same propensity for harsh critique. Any informal or formal performance in the Black community is sure to be accompanied by opinion, unsolicited and inexorable, dissecting every measurable variant. From family reunions to urban street corners, from college fraternity lines to smoke filled clubs, the best dancers are revered and the not so good dancers feel the wrath of the omnipresent community standard of perfection. Seemingly, in the Black community, one doesn’t even have to be a good dancer in order to recognize and critique one. Even children know at an early age to practice and rehearse their dance moves to perfection before debuting them in public. The Apollo Theater’s Mr. Sandman serves as the modern day amewa (Yoruba: knower of beauty) or artistic sentinel while the audience passes judgment on the worthiness of the contestants. The Africana eye seems to be able to assess and appraise the components of metered, rhythmic movement on both sides of the Atlantic. In Brazil, at the now infamous Bailes Funk, where urban dance and spectacle mirror the dance and drama of the North American ghettos, dance moves and their subsequent critique are ever prevalent. As in traditional Africa, if you are a good dancer and don’t have the proper clothing, hair, or display a certain sexuality, your performance is devalued. Where the corruption of the ideal of dance critique occurs is in placing value on a person based on their expression, and not of the expression itself. The bad dancer becomes a valueless person; the exceptional dancer with the incorrect clothing becomes equally as insignificant a person. Not limited to the professional arena or dance itself, any and all forms of expression are subject to the critique of the masses. The art of critique has metastasized into the malicious act of criticism, for the sole purpose of self-aggrandizement.

Ephebism, or youthfulness, is universally admired in Africa as an aspect of fine form.
[1] The strength and vitality that are associated with youthful vigor and stamina are seen as traits to take delight in. Antithetically, the wisdom that comes along with seniority in traditional African culture is also revered, however the elderly tend to exhibit the behaviors and countenance normally associated with pubescence. Supple and fluid movements associated with youth are the ideal in African dance and rigidity is seen as an abomination. Afro-American dance and expression has shown similar reverence throughout its history. From the swing and jive dancers of the prohibition period to the poppers and lockers of the soulful 1970s and the limber, contemporary choreography of today, the African American body has performed contortions that appear to defy skeletal constraints. Even the untrained eye can see the similarities in African movements displayed in the dance styles of the capoiera and the nimble gyrations of the Dan, Tiv, and Luba peoples of Africa. The flexibility of the Caribbean limbo dancer displays the very same tresor de souplesse, or flexibility, that is admired in traditional African art and dance. Veering from the African homage to youthfulness and its attributes is the concurrent Western adaptation that stipulates that while youth is revered, the elderly become despised. Deference goes to the immature and age becomes a liability. The elderly have ceased to move with youthful agility, but simply acquiesced to their role of useless and immobile pillars.

The descending direction in melody, sculpture, and dance, or the attribute of “getting down,” recognizes the trend in movement from high to low. Thompson states:

. . . the use of the “get down” sequences in the dance, where a performer or a group of performers assume a deeply inflected, virtually crouching position, thus moving in proximity to the level of the earth, is important in African and found in a number of societies of the western and central portions of the continent. Here is field evidence: Anago Yoruba_ ”step . . . finished at a level superbly low”; Dahomean Yoruba-“if the drum strikes strong, you bend down” . . . .
[2]

It is worthwhile to note that even the vernacular of African Americans reflects an inherent propensity for this lower movement. “Man, that guy was really getting down on the dance floor,” can translate figuratively to mean that he was a very good dancer and literally to suggest that he was incorporating moves that had him on the floor. Anyone old enough to remember the show “Soul Train” can certainly remember that the most imitated dancers in the Soul Train dance line were the men who got down on the floor with their dance moves. The indication of gender in the aforementioned example is significant in that the best dancers in this society are still considered to be men. Formal Africana dance usually either begins or ends on the floor and most assuredly incorporates multi-elevations in its posturing. The break-dancers of the early rap 1980s utilized cardboard to make the streets suitable for their dance moves. The hypnotic rhythms of reggae lend themselves to getting down with dances like the butterfly and other sexually suggestive dance maneuvers. It is that displaced and diseased perception of sexuality however that can be attributed to the axiological metamorphosis of the term “getting down” from signifying a connection to the earth to base vulgarity. It has only been in the more recent decades that sexually suggestive dance has come to be a measure solely of attractiveness and to double as sexual foreplay.

The examples of a transcendental African aesthetic surfacing on very distant shores demands further investigation. On the haute couture catwalks of high fashion, statuesque ebony models undulate with the elegance of rural African women carrying loads upon their heads, replicating the stability or straightness seen in many forms of African art. The “human beat box” phenomenon of the 1980s, whereby an individual used his voice box to create sounds, resonates with the traditional African concept of suspending and preserving the beat. The music styles of drum and bass and electronica, both Afro-European creations, preserve the tradition of “dancing many drums.” Any Black dj worth his weight in vinyl knows that he can get the crowd at a party moving by leading the call and response tactic of, “If I say house. . . You say party,” or some such chant. Recent dances like the Cha-Cha Slide and the immortal Electric Slide imitate line dancing that can be seen on the continent. The largest body of African American art that exists today might be identified as graffiti. Its “loud” colors and abstract imagery certainly fall in line with the traditional continuum of vividness cast into equilibrium. African Americans do not produce textiles but certainly lean towards patterns and colors that reflects visibility and luminosity. While only an infinitesimal portion of the African American population can trace their lineage back to a specific tribe in Africa, an even smaller number can say that the standards and practices of that particular culture were knowingly passed on. Yet those very same practices and traditions somehow phenomenologically manifest themselves with uncanny similarity in trends and numbers too great to dismiss throughout the Diaspora. Arguably, maybe hidden within the genetic makeup of the melanin rich descendants of the Maafa, there is a marker that identifies meter and movement, rhythm and cadence of African art and motion.

[1] Robert Farris Thompson, African Art in Motion: Icon and Act in the Collection of Katherine Coryton White, (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974) p. 5.
[2] Ibid., .13.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Home of the Brave


War is an evil mechanism of the political elite. Its intent is to create money for the connected few at the expense of the masses. In this “great” country, we repeat what we hear on talk radio and consider it the gospel truth. There is a sick belief in this country that our air is somehow more sacred, our lives are somehow more valuable than any other people in the universe. “Oh Dear God, they attacked us on OUR soil . . .” we cry, not realizing that we have no special immunity that makes us above anyone else. Our blood is not more red; our lives are no more valuable than anyone else’s. We have no red, white, and blue blanket of protection that makes it a sin against God for us to suffer the ravages of war and a patriotic duty for others to suffer and die needlessly to stroke our inflated egos. No, the lives of Iraqi people are just as valuable; the dreams of the Afghani are the same as ours, their blood is the exact same color, they bleed and die in the same horrible way we do.

I remember when the war on terror began. I was all over the internet, asking people to think for themselves. I was screaming that there should be an investigation into the real perpetrators of 9/11 because things didn’t make sense. People accused me of being a terrorist and anti-American because I was bringing up very logical questions about the circumstances around the attacks. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that amidst all that destruction, all that rubble, all that that horror, rescue workers could find a paper passport of one of the terrorists on the day the towers collapsed. There is fire, death, destruction, and chaos all around, the likes of which have no equal, and the rescue workers find a paper passport belonging to one of the terrorists on one of the planes. I’m supposed to believe that they found a paper passport when they couldn’t find the indestructible black box from the cockpit, they couldn’t find one body of any of the passengers, but they found a paper passport that flew out from the luggage of a terrorist on a domestic flight.

By noon that same day, a bag was found in Boston with a Koran, a passport, a suicide note and a video on how to fly a plane, proving. The media said, without a doubt that Al-Qaeda was responsible. I have to wonder why suicide bombers that flew planes expertly into the WTC needed a video on how to fly a plane on their way to executing the most precise act of terrorism ever committed? Were they going to get some last minute flying pointers before they took over the cockpit? Maybe they were going to show it to the passengers as the plane was crashing. They were so stealth in their planning that no one knew what they were going to do but they were so stupid as to leave a trail that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that they did it? If they wanted to brag that they were responsible, why not take credit for the event AFTER they pulled it off? No one has taken responsibility for the attacks and the only evidence we have of who did it is what the US government says. Which begs one to wonder why the US is sooooo invested in proving to the American people that they have the true perpetrators of a crime based on such OBVIOUSLY manufactured proof.

I bring up all of this conspiracy speculation to make the point that if there is even a tiny iota of room for doubt that 9/11 had suspicious beginnings, then we have to question how we could be at war within a month of that day and of how we have justified that the war in Iraq because of links to 9/11 as well. The entire house of cards falls if September 11th wasn’t really an act of terrorism. The American public doesn’t care. They want to blow the towelheads off the face of the planet. We want to fight for freedom. People who have no idea how many US senators there are or who can’t tell you how many Supreme Court Justices there are were waving flags in their yards and saying God Bless America.

I had a conversation with a white woman just after the war in Afghanistan started. (Did that war ever end by the way? Aren’t we really in two wars?) She said she was having the worst day of her life because her roof had leaked because of some recent rain and the contractor that was scheduled to fix it was late. I asked her if she meant to say that it was the worst day in her life and she told me without a doubt, it was the WORST day of her life. I told her that there were Afghani mothers that were dodging bullets and bombs, who had lost their homes and husbands, who were trying to protect their children and find food and shelter to stay alive that could hardly compare to her leaky roof. Why did I say that? She was HAPPY the people in Afghanistan were suffering. If she could have dropped the bombs herself she would have. “God Bless America,” she kept saying, “Remember 9/11.” When I reminded her that there wasn’t one single supposed terrorist that was from Afghanistan, she didn’t give a fuck. She told me that she wished that they were all dead. I wept for her soul.

The sin of this war in Iraq, is that the US has sent children over there and made them into murderers and torturers and it’s justified as fighting for freedom. We mourn for the 2000 American lives lost but we don’t mention the 200,000 Iraqi lives lost. The children, mothers, the brothers and sons, the people that had nothing to do with 9/11 and the people that had nothing to do with the WMD, had they been real in the first place. We call them insurgents and we cheer for the American soldiers every time they kill an uprising, never realizing that insurgents are really people that are saying, “GET OUT OF OUR COUNTRY and take your death and destruction with you.” We are heroes of democracy and fighting for the concept of “freedom” when we kill them but they are cells of terrorists when they fight for their homeland. Soulless Americans don’t see the inherent evil in that because American air is sacred, American soil is holy, American lives have more value.

The young men that are over there, fighting for oil for Bush’s elite friends, will never be the same when they return and I mourn for the loss of their innocence. They will come back and they will be killers. Your UPS driver and your car mechanic will have killed other human beings and be walking around thinking it was justified because they were fighting for the flag. They will have been exposed to chemicals that will fuck with their health for the rest of their lives, and their children’s lives. Don’t kid yourself. The acts of torture at Abu Ghraib were not isolated. Men and women who have never voted a day in their lives will have committed acts of torture that the white male power structure justified to line their pockets.

I support the individual soldiers in this illegal war because I know that their lives will never be the same. Those with a conscious will have nightmares about the death and destruction for years and years to come. Those too naïve and damaged to understand that killing is not a sport or recreation will think nothing of snapping their spouses necks when they get into an argument. They will never consider that human beings, with dreams and desires parallel to their own, were killed for profit.

When it’s all said and done, Osama Been Forgotten will remain elusive, Bush will not be held accountable for the lies he told about weapons of mass destruction and he’ll find a way to justify another war in Iran. The American people will not care, because those sand niggers don’t deserve life in the first place. It’s only the good old US of A that has any value and only our lives that have any worth.

Copyright 2005 Scottie Lowe