The State of Black Erotica

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

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My nastiest tale of Black female domination EVER!

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Disillusioned and disappointed . . . again

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

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

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

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

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

How could I have been so fucking wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scottie Lowe

True Power and Control

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



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Life Imitates Art

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



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Reality Bites

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



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Twist of Fate

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



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An Exciting Opportunity

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

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Mixed Chicks are Better

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Nigger Porn

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

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

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

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

Minority Affairs 

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


Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK

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Showered with Love

June is too hot to wear anything but sundresses in Atlanta, but on this trip I would surely need to pack a variety of things to wear. I was going home. It had been more than a year since I moved to New York City and I was looking forward to this trip back to the dirty south. I was going to do some shopping and of course hang with my partners to get in some trouble. That wasn’t the only reason for my trip. WE were finally going to meet. It wasn’t your typical internet hookup. Blake and I had met debating the merits of bisexuality and Black Unity and a host of other heated topics for the better part of three years. The bond was formed quickly and had endurance to say the least. We flirted, we argued, and on that rare light night occasion, we had even sexed it up hot and heavy, all on instant messenger of course. Actually, we had never even spoken on the phone, in fact, I’d never even seen a picture of him. The pretense of our meeting was just a friendly lunch. You know, to finally meet each other face to face. My plane was late arriving at Hartsfield/Jackson, so I emailed him to tell him that we had to reschedule for dinner.

For the first time in my life, I was staying in a hotel in Atlanta. It seems all my friends had families, children and lovers that were not conducive to my black ass having an extended stay in their houses. I took Marta directly to the hotel and I had every intention of taking advantage of all the amenities before my date. You know, manicure, pedicure, massage, facial, mineral mud thingie, a sea salt whatchamacallit, the works. What the hell! I could afford it. I was a legitimate writer. Paid and everything. Well, it wasn’t a date, it was more like a reunion. We were like family; the regulars on my yahoo group. This was far from a date. All my pampering put me behind schedule as I looked at the clock and yelled. “Holy shit. 6:30! There is no way I’m going to be ready when he arrives.”

I unpacked my things and tried on every outfit I brought. Every time I tried on something I would scream at the mirror, “Oh my God, I can’t wear this! This is too trashy. This isn’t sexy enough…. I look too fat…. Yuck, why did I ever buy this?” Nothing seemed to be right. I had to prove to him that I really am all that I had bragged about. When all was said and done, I choose a pair of black leather shorts and a halter-top from bebe and my black leather knee high boots. It was way too sexy, but I put on my jacket to make it more conservative if it could be. I planned on taking off my jacket at the opportune moment, making his mouth drop, then calling it a night. It’s a good damn thing he wasn’t on time. It gave me just enough time to put on my makeup and throw all my clothes into drawers and turn the TV on and act like I had been waiting impatiently for him to arrive. Sure enough there was a knock at the door the second I made myself comfortable.

I was hoping that there was going to be some physical attraction but I was prepared for the worst. I kept repeating to myself, “Get ready, he is going to be a troll that lives under a bridge. Don’t look disappointed. This is just a friendly meeting.”

“Hi, It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,“ I said, “Come on in.” I closed the door as he walked past me. Holy shit, it was going to be a long night. That’s all I could think when he walked past me. This fine specimen of ebony masculinity was standing there in my hotel suite looking too good for words. He took my breath away. His smooth caramel complexion was set off by a dazzling white smile and if you look up the word memorizing in the dictionary, a picture of his eyes would be there. There was no way in hell that anybody should look that good. Every man I’ve every met from the internet was 5’6” with white tube sock showing beneath his pants that were too short and too tight, jailhouse tattoos, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, with the social skills of a leper. How in the hell is this motherfucker going to show up at my door looking and smelling this damn good. God was playing some sort of terrible trick on me. I stood there in disbelief and tried to play it off. I made every attempt to appear like his Fine azz didn’t even phase me, but DAMN. I graciously accepted his offer of flowers and brandy. It was a nice touch he remembered from a message of mine long, long ago that I had a weakness for brandy. I called the concierge to have a vase for the flowers sent up immediately.

All I could manage to think to myself was, “OK, think quick girl. You are no sack of potatoes, throw him off guard.” I’m sure all I had to do was distract him a little bit, gain an advantage. That’s what this was all about. Power. All the arguing and bickering was nothing but a pissing contest to prove who had the bigger dick. Granted, mine was only theoretical, but it was substantial none the less. I needed him to know that I could hold my own with the best of them. If only he would submit to my superior will and intellect and this would be a relatively painless night. I felt like a damn coach of a high school football team trying to psyche up the players for the big game, only I was trying to convince myself that I was the one in control. It wasn’t working.

I calmly asked him, “Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” Wouldn’t you know it, this son of a bitch had the nerve to put his arms inside my jacket when he hugged me. That meant his hands were on my bare flesh. I was aware of every inch of my body against his. The muscles in my thighs were tensed against the fronts of his pants as I stood on my tiptoes to reach him. My midriff felt the cool sensation of his belt buckle. My breasts were crushed against his well developed, muscular chest. My arms were around his neck. Of course I was trying to rub my little thing up on him to see if I could feel his dick. I closed my eyes and got lost in the embrace. He must have felt the same chemistry because I felt his hands start caressing the flesh of my back, almost instinctively moving to feel my ass. BINGO! I knew I had him. I pushed away with the most wicked smile. “Hey, are you trying to feel me up?”

Why wait for a response? I knew the answer. I turned around to pretend to pick something up and to give him a better view of the ass he had been invited to kiss so many times, in the heat of argument and of passion. I heard him say “damn” under his breath.

“Did you say something?” I turned around quickly and he was smack dab in my face. For the first time we made serious, intentional, prolonged eye contact. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I was frozen. He was looking into the very depths of my soul. He grabbed me by the waist, pulled me to him and (knock, knock, knock) “Room service, you called for a vase ma’am?”

All I could think was, “OK Maxine, pull yourself together girl. Yes, he might be fine, but remember your standards, your principles, your objectives. You are not looking for a casual fuck so just get over it.” With that said, I set out to enjoy the rest of the evening. All I had to do was change my perspective. Blake was just like one of my boys. I had plenty of male friends who were top shelf, and with each and every one of them, we had that initial uncomfortable stage in the beginning with sexual tension. This was no different. In time, I would see him just like one of my brothers.

"So, Maxi, how do you like my fair city? Hot enough for ya?” he said.

“You forget, I lived here for nine years. This will always be home to me. And it's good to be home," I replied, sitting next to him. “

It's your call, your night. What should we get into?" He was quick to move the evening forward.

I poured him a brandy as he sat beside me on the couch. His nearness was affecting me but I tried my best not to let it show. He finished his brandy and had another while I nursed my first one slowly, I didn’t want it to go straight to my head. My bet was that he was a little nervous too and didn’t want to show it. I started playing with his tie as we chatted for a while, about careers, the weather, politics, sex. All the stuff that made it good. It being our little cyber tryst, that is. His closeness, as much as the brandy, was intoxicating. It was time to make a move before I did something I would regret. I turned the conversation back to our night. "Well, what do you want to do with me?"

"I think I need some food in my stomach to help absorb some of this alcohol. Besides I'm starving. I read about this new hotspot in Buckhead in Creative Loafing last week and I’ve been wanting to check it out and I thought we would hit that get some dinner, hear some music. Sound good to you mami? ".

"Sounds good to me kind sir, I'm prepared to be entertained, wined, and dined for the evening."

"Great. I hope you don’t mind but I made arrangements and there’s a town car downstairs waiting for us."

It was a great Atlanta night. Temperate with a cool breeze. There’s always so much going on in the city keeping it abuzz. I settled back into the plush seat and closed my eyes in comfort. Yeah, tonight was going to be about fun. No work. No outside pressures. Trust Northside Drive to have a pothole or two and at the appropriate bump, I used it as an excuse to slide up close to Blake. He took my hand, interlocked fingers, and nonchalantly set them on his lap. "I'm glad you're taking some of my advice for a change little girl." He knew I didn't like him calling me that but what the hell? What could I do, go offline? Turn off the computer? I had to just enjoy the ride, literally and figuratively.

“Advice?” I queried, unsure of what he was talking about.

"Getting out. Having you some fun. Not being so serious and tight-assed about saving the world all the time".

"You know what? Why don't you kiss my entire black ass?” I said pouting.

"I'm just teasing you, don't be mad," he laughed. He pulled me to him. "Give me a hug. And what is your fascination with my mouth on your ass?" As we embraced his mouth brushed the side of my neck and I’m sure he could feel me twitch. "Damn baby, you smell so good," he said. Before I knew it, we were kissing deeply and fully in the mouth. His hands were about my waist as I leaned into him--then I realized what was happening and I abruptly stopped. "Hey, hey, hey we need to slow things down a bit."

“It's okay. We’re friends, friends can kiss. No harm done," he reassured me.

As we exited the car his hand found its place on the small of my back. "I have to wonder though, Maxine . . . "

"Wonder what?” I questioned, having no clue what he was talking about.

"You're not an easy woman. Some might say difficult. You’re not going to give yourself to any man without him earning the honor--so when was the last time you were sexed up like you need to be?"

“That is none of your mother fucking business. Last time I checked, I was a grown ass woman, I don’t have to report to anybody. You know what you crass, ignorant bastard, I could say some really foul shit right now but I’m not going to. You just don’t know where to draw the line. Fuck you, I should have known you were nothing more than an arrogant, pompous, proper ass.”

Fuck! Me and my big mouth. I had ruined the whole tone of the evening. I couldn’t help it. He had touched a raw nerve. My reaction was instinctual and defensive. That was the only way I knew to have him back up off me. Truth be told, it had been months since I had even been touched by a man, well over a year since I had had sex, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had been dicked the right way. In fact, his touch was the closest thing I had come to intimacy in a long, long, long, long time.

I saw the look of hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry Max, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Damn, why did he had the nerve to make me feel even guiltier.

“I apologize. I guess my frustration got the best of me. I’m going to be really honest with you. I’m doing the best I can here not to want you. It’s difficult. I’m attracted to you on many different levels. Maybe this was not such a good idea. I’ll understand if you want to call it a night.”

I held my breath hoping he would dismiss my childish behavior and be able to really have fun. I didn’t even get a chance to wait for his response. “MAAXXX!, is that you?” I couldn’t believe it. My old roommate, Bobby Sahara, was the manager at the club. I grabbed Blake by the hand and pulled him into the club, VIP style no less. My old roommate hooked us up with drinks and food, the best table in the house, the whole nine. I knew I had to address my little irrational display outside. I put my arms around him, hugged him really close, looked into his eyes, and said, “I’m really sorry, please forgive me.”

He kissed me on the forehead and said, “It’s ok little girl, I understand you can’t help but be frustrated around me because I’m so fine. It’s cool.”

I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard. That was his way of saying that he forgave me. We put it behind us and went on to enjoy one of the best meals I’d had in a long time. We laughed, we joked, and of course we argued, but it was all in good fun. We drank, and laughed and drank some more. We even fed each other dessert. It started getting a little too hot and sticky for me. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. No sooner than he walked away from the table, this other brotha sat down across from me and threw his best game. I’m not going to lie, he was attractive but he was just a bit too one-dimensional for me. I played along because I really needed the distraction. I had been having all sorts of erotic fantasies about Blake during dinner and I had been rationalizing why it wouldn’t be so bad to get hot and sweaty with him for just one night. Under any other circumstances, the thought of a one night stand would make my flesh crawl. When Blake came back I introduced him to Malik (I think that was his name) who asked, “You don’t mind if I ask the lady to dance, do you?”

Blake couldn’t have been happier to get rid of me. “Naw man, she’s all yours man, have a good time,” like he was my damn pimp or something. I took off my jacket and handed it to Blake and asked him to hold it for me. No sooner did we get to the dance floor than the DJ started his reggae set.

We were dancing for a while when Blake interrupted, "Max. Let me holla for a minute. 'Cuse us cuz. Look, you met someone, y'all doing y’all thing. It’s been a good evening. I'm not trying to block your grown woman business or nothing. I'm thinking I should leave the town car and catch a taxi home, that way you can do what you like and not be anchored down. You two look like this could get . . . personal and I'm not trying to block, nahimsayin. Holla, tell me how it goes".

Girl code 342 Section 2 Paragraph 4 specifically states: that if you go to the club with your partner you leave with your partner. Those are the rules. Blake knew nothing of such secret girl codes. Tyrik (maybe that was it, why can’t I remember that child’s name?) was NOT the type of man that I would get personal with. There was no use trying to explain that when his dick was pressed up against my ass and I was grinding on him. That was cool with me however. But Bobby was the manager, and if I didn’t feel safe with him to protect me, then I would never feel safe. Besides, I was so hot for Blake, that at the slightest invitation, I would be ass up on the balcony of my suite and screaming out his name. No, it was better for him to leave. He was too much of a temptation.

We were saying our goodbyes and he gave me the coat check ticket for my jacket and maybe we took just a little too long because when I looked up, Rashaan (Okay, okay, I wasn’t paying attention when he told me his name) was on the other side of the dance floor dancing with someone else. Blake decided to take advantage of the situation and scooped me up in his arms and started dancing with me. I can’t front; he looked so damned sexy. I was crazy about the way Blake looked, the way he smelled, the way he moved. The chemistry he and I shared was out of this world. I could feel his hands on my flesh and his body pressed against mine. My thoughts got way more explicit. I was standing there fantasizing about him ramming his dick up in my hot, wet, pussy over and over again, making me scream, and fucking me senseless. I could feel my legs wrapped around his body and him holding my ass, sliding me up and down on his dick. In my mind, I was kissing him and sucking him and fucking him and… The next thing you know, I got one of those hot flashes and was I standing there trying to figure out, in the back of my mind, how I was going to explain the stain on my leather shorts to my dry cleaner.

I wanted Blake, he wanted me, and there was nobody else in the club at that moment besides he and I. I was out of my mind. All of a sudden, nothing else mattered except being with him. I opened my eyes and I was staring into Blake’s eyes again. As much as I wanted him right then and there, for all the shit I had talked online about how I was going to seduce him, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted him there in the club, in the town car, in my hotel room, in the goddamn fountain at Centennial Olympic Park. Fuck, everywhere I could have him, I needed him. I wanted to kiss him again, but I was scared. Reality is a bitter pill to swallow and I knew that as much as I wanted him up inside me at that very instant, that hooking up with him meant that I’d be back in NYC in a couple of days, alone, feeling like a notch on a bedpost. I swore to myself that I would never be that woman again and I was committed to only sharing myself with someone who valued all of me, for the long run, not just what was between my legs for a night.

My eyes were closed as my body clung to Blake’s, swayed with his, given to him like a sheet hung on the laundry line on a humid summer day. His hands went from my ass up the column of my naked back, back to my ass again. He turned me around and pressed me tightly to him, his arms locked about my just below my breasts. My hand reached back and clung to the back of his neck. His tongue played with my earlobe and we danced and grinded and swayed. Before I knew what was happening, we had retrieved my jacket said good-bye to Bobby and departed the club.

Before the driver could open the car door Blake pulled me to him and started kissing me again. He tasted my lips, explored my tongue, and we kissed and grunted and gasped for breath. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," he said.

Pulling away, I said, "I'm going to stop now while I still can. Please Blake, from here on out think and think carefully about what you do or say. You feel the fire between us. The longing. The need. I'm just a woman. A good woman yes, but there is only so much temptation I can bear. You know better than most that I can’t handle being someone’s fling or conquest. I don’t want to ruin what could be a solid friendship and I’m not interested in being just another piece of ass so think carefully before we do something that will leave me nursing hurt feelings."

The ride back to the hotel was quiet. I rested my head on his chest. He messaged my neck. It was a sweet and sober time, one of reflection and contemplation. We arrived at my room. I gave him a big hug, a soft kiss, muttered goodbye, and turned-- fiddling with the door.

He placed his hands on my shoulders. "Can't a brother come in for a nightcap?"

“Look Blake, here’s the deal. Let’s not play games or pretend here. I’m telling you now, the thought of fucking you is an erotic dichotomy. I want you, I need you more than I care to admit. But I am also well aware of the ramifications. When you leave, I’ll be just another notch in your belt. You have to ask yourself are you comfortable using me? You know better than anyone, I’ve been saving myself for my soul mate. Are you willing to take what belongs to him? We’ve known each other long enough, you know what I want and need. If you can’t be that man, don’t cross that threshold. You and I are connected, it’s deep, it’s hot, it’s passionate and intense. If you come in, make no mistake about it, I’m going to fuck you. And I’m going to do it very well I might add. But like I let you know before, it’s your decision. If you come in, I intend to ride your fingers, your mouth, and your dick for my pleasure over and over again. If you come in, I expect you to fuck me until I pass out, and then do it some more. But also know that my heart comes along with the package. Know that if you don’t intend to really work at being in a relationship with me, of making this real and substantial, that you’ll kill a part of me inside. You have to ask yourself if you are willing to break my heart just so you can fulfill your lust or if I mean more to you than just a roll in the hay.”

I opened the door and walked through. “Take your time. Think about it. But if you do come in, I expect you to be prepared for all it will bring.“

I left the door open. I walked over to the bed and threw my jacket on the chair. I sat at the foot of the bed and unzipped my boots and slid them off. He was standing there, like a statue. I could see the contemplation on his face. I couldn’t take the tension anymore, so I decided to take a shower. When I came out, either he would be there waiting for me, or the door would be closed and it would be another long, lonely night.

I got undressed, turned on the water to get it hot. I hated him at that very moment for making me want him so much. Yeah, the hot water cascading over my tense muscles would definitely take my mind off the situation, or make things worse.

I stepped in the stall and the water hit my body from every direction. I braced myself against the wall and thought about Blake touching me, caressing me. I ran my finger along the slippery folds of my pussy and rubbed my clit. I shut my eyes tightly as the water made love to my body and I imagined what it would be like to have Blake’s hands touching me in all those places. I slipped my finger in my pussy and starting fingering myself, One finger wasn’t enough so I used two and started doing it harder, faster. I wanted it to be Blake inside me, his dick penetrating me, filling me, fucking me. I was lost in the fantasy, moaning out his name, wondering what it would be like to experience him in real time.

I felt his hands on my body and it took a moment before I realized that it wasn’t my imagination. I turned around and he was there, in all of his magnificent brown beauty. He moved closer and tilted my face towards his and our lips met again. The kiss was tentative and sweet. His arms encircled me and pulled me to him like he was holding on to me for dear life. He professed his love.

“Maxine, I’ve wanted you since we first started debating online over three years ago. You are everything that I need but I’m afraid I can’t be what you want. You’ve made me a better man, you’ve challenged me to shed some of the ways that I held onto that crippled me. I’m 34 years old and I’ve never had a successful relationship. I knew I couldn’t come through that door unless I was prepared but I’m scared I’ll disappoint you, I’m scared you’ll see the real me and be disappointed. But I am even more scared of losing you. I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. I want to be your man. I just hope that you will accept me as I am and be patient with me.”

I cut off his words with a kiss. One thing was for sure, neither of us knew what was going to happen in the future but in that moment the connection was real. I let my hands caress his body, feeling his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms. Blake pulled my body to his, filling his hands with my ass, and I felt his hard dick pressed against my mound. He filled his hands with my sensitive breasts and gently pulled at my hardened nipples. I let out a soft, muffled moan as he twisted them gently, sending volts of electricity throughout my body. I shut my eyes tightly as he lowered his mouth to my tits and began sucking and licking them. He went from one to the other and I was getting wetter. The steam was rising and not just from the shower.

I grabbed the shower gel and poured some in my hands. I began caressing his cocoa complexion and massaging his magnificent frame. I let my hands roam downward, past the sculpted muscles of his abdomen and felt the thickness of his dick. It curved downward and was growing under my tender touch. I began stroking him, coaxing him to full hardness. I wrapped my hand around the smooth flesh, feeling the veins, the head, the weight of it within my grasp. I squeezed the shaft and began fingering his balls, rolling them around in my hand. I started jerking him off faster, harder, stroking him to the edge of orgasm and stopping. He was out of breath, fighting the feeling. I positioned him in front of the shower head and knelt before him as water cascaded down his back and the backs of his strong thighs. I placed the head of his dick in my mouth and sucked gently, softly at first, savoring the feel of his hardness, the taste of his precum. I slipped my fingers past his balls and rubbed the tender flesh of his asshole. Feeling insecure, Blake tried to push my hand away but I looked up at him and let him know he was safe. I inserted my fingertip in his ass and swallowed his dick whole, taking him deep in my throat. His knees buckled and he was whimpering like a baby. I could tell he was digging the treatment I was giving him and I turned it up a notch, fingering, licking, sucking, stroking. I was deep throating him and using my tongue to paint pleasure up and down his shaft. Lowering my head, I took his balls in my mouth, rolling them around. I could tell Blake was holding back, perhaps afraid that he was going to unknowingly breech some sort of unspoken rule and send me into another outburst. What he didn’t understand was that once I make the decision to be with someone, that there’s no turning back for me. I needed him to be fully present in the moment with me so I decided to make sure he knew that I was down, 100 percent.

“That’s okay, sweetie, don’t be afraid to let go.” He reached out to caress my face and I took his hands and placed them on the back of my head, letting him know it was okay to guide the action. I decided to concentrate on sucking the head of his dick, so for the next several minutes, I used my lips around the crown, tickling the underside with the tip of my tongue. “Does that feel good, baby? You like the way I suck your dick? Mmmm, it tastes so good. You wanna fuck my mouth? Are you going to squirt that creamy load deep in my throat?” He responded by grunting his approval and guiding my head down on his dick. The head of his dick was deep in my throat, I was using my tongue to lick the base and trying to drive him crazy.

I was getting goosebumps from being chilly and Blake picked me up and placed me under the hot water stream. As the water heated my body, Blake went to work and got my juices flowing. It was his turn to take care of me and I enjoyed every second of the special treatment. He covered every inch of my body in lather, from my fingers to my toes. After he finished rinsing me off, it was time to get down to business. He spread my legs and started rubbing my hard clit. His touch was exquisite and I was holding on to his strong forearm for dear life, It was like he could read my mind and he pushed two of his strong fingers inside me and started finger fucking me. I couldn’t take it, I was out of control. I’m sure the people in the next room could hear me saying,” Oh Blake, that’s it. You’ve waited a long time for this pussy, haven’t you? Oh fuck, it feels so good. I bet you can’t wait to fuck me, can you? I can’t wait until you put your hard dick in me where your fingers are now. You know it’s going to be some sweet, tight pussy for you, don’t you?”

Feeling more confident and overcome by lust, he started responding verbally. “I’ve already had your mouth. If you pussy is anywhere near as good, I’m going to shoot a gallon of cum inside you before the night is over. But first . . . “

I didn’t know what he was planning but when he got down on his knees, I could figure it out. “First things first,” he said, “I’ve got to kiss your entire black ass, like you’ve told me to do one hundred times.” I braced my hands on the wall and felt him massaging my ass. He started out by gently placing kisses all over my cheeks, teasing me really. When he spread my ass and started licking my crack, I almost lost it. I was grunting and groaning and thrusting my ass back in his face, delirious with erotic sensations. His tongue was like magic and when he started using it to fuck my pussy, I thought I saw stars. Then, he took his thumb and inserted it in my pussy and drove his tongue in my asshole at the same time while he was rubbing my clit. I really did lose it and I started cumming like crazy. I didn’t even have time to enjoy it completely because Blake stood up and placed the head of his dick at my hole and pushed it in. He filled me. He touched me in places that hadn’t been touched in forever. I tried to catch my breath but I couldn’t, I was experiencing too much pleasure. He reached around and grabbed my tits. I was backing up on that gorgeous dick and the curve was hitting my spot perfectly. I reached between my legs and I started rubbing my clit and fingering his balls.

We were too far gone. At that point we were like a well-oiled erotic machine, pistons firing, engine revving. Every stroke I was begging for more, I used my pussy muscles to squeeze him, please him. I looked back and said, “You realize, this belongs only to you, right?” He went into overdrive and gave me every inch and then some. I put my leg on the ledge for better footing and it was enough to shift the pressure on his dick and make him lose it. “I’m going to cum.” We were both yelling it at the same time. I actually came before him but it didn’t stop me from wanting more. He was able to hold off long enough to have my pussy coat him with my sticky juices. A minute later, I felt his hot seed erupting on the small of my back.

I spent the rest of the week, hanging with my friends, visiting my old stomping grounds, and making love to Blake in ways I hadn’t thought were possible. He made good on his promise and he was open to really exploring the possibilities of a relationship. I couldn’t have been happier, he is an exceptional man, inside and out. We were both realistic in our expectations. Long distance relationships are hard, even for people who have a strong relationship firmly in place; they are damn near impossible for people who only know each other by way of a computer screen. We made plans to talk on the phone and he was going to come visit me in NY by the end of the summer. Somehow, I feel confident that we have the makings of something real good.

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK

An Erotic Goldmine

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The DL man versus the AfroerotiK man

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

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

Black and White Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Air AfroerotiK

Welcome aboard Air AfroerotiK Flight 694U headed for the beautiful, sunny shores of pleasure and delight. My name is Scottie and I’m going to be your erotic stewardess for your sensual journey today. The captain assures me it’s going to be a VERY VERY bumpy ride so we ask that you unbuckle your belt, on your pants that is, and any other constricting clothing that limits your mobility and freedom of movement. If you look in the compartment on the back of the seat in front of you, you’ll find a bag to place bras, underwear, or any other unnecessary undergarments that might impede your stimulation and fun. Please take note of where the rest rooms are located aboard the plane for anyone who is interested in redeeming their Mile High Member Club points today. Veteran Mile-Highers are welcome to move freely about the cabin in order to engage in fast and furious fucking inspired by the thrill of getting caught but first time and novice members to the club are asked to restrict their participation to late night flights and first class accommodations only.

We ask that you please observe the smoking signs when lit because the sex you are going to have is going to be smoking, scorching, sizzling, steamy, and hot. Forget peanuts and overpriced mini bottles of alcohol, the meal aboard the flight today is going to be tempting and tasty cum, the kind that erupts from throbbing hard dicks and slippery wet pussies. Cabin pressure is bound to be uncharacteristically high as the entire flight should be dedicated to erotic foreplay that sets the stage for unbridled, raw, passionate, down and dirty sex.

In the event of an emergency, a blanket can be used to obscure prying eyes from the sensual and seductive stroking that comes from throbbing hard erections or aroused and swollen nipples. Very vocal complaining about being too cold from the air conditioning or casually mentioning how sleepy and jet lagged you are will appease those nosey neighbors who might otherwise raise an eyebrow or two as to why someone is scrambling to hide their private parts from view. Do keep in mind that it’s just a rouse in order to get to the more hardcore play.

By now you should have set the stage for some hot and heavy fun. You should be able to pretend to be sleeping so that prying eyes won’t be able to see female passengers freeing their traveling companion’s dick from his pants. Skillfully, slowly, gently, glide your hand up and down that shaft, coaxing it to a fully engorged and aroused state. Once he is in the fully upright and locked position, ladies should whisper in your partner’s ear how you are going to fuck him senseless.

Make sure and tell him exactly how you want it, letting down your guard and exploring all your fantasies. Be sure to tell him things like, “I want you to beat this pussy up. Bend me over and spank my ass while you are ramming your hard dick in me and making me scream and beg for more.” Be liberal in your descriptions, saying things like, “I want you to pull my hair and flip me around like your little rag doll. I want to be your nasty little girl, daddy. I want you to fuck me until I pass out and then fuck me some more. I want my pussy to be sore and my legs to be weak from too much sex so that all we can do is order room service in order to replenish our energy so we can fuck again.”

That dick should be leaking precum by now which can be used to stimulate the sensitive spot where the head and the shaft connect. Continue to stroke slowly, causing the blood to fill that stiff member. Increase pressure and speed slowly, so as to not cause any uncontrollable moaning, building the momentum until that boiling hot cum is ready to erupt in spurt after spurt of orgasmic bliss. Just as that pressure builds, slow down your movements to allow for the procedure to be repeated several times almost to the point of ejaculation and then starting all over again. More than pleasure, you should be eliciting erotic torture so that once behind closed doors, he will be forced to show no mercy and pound . . that. . fucking . . dick . . in . . your, , , pussy. . .so . . . hard . . . you . . . scream.

If the oxygen masks should fall, please attend to the needs of your partner first as one good turn deserves another. Similar techniques can be used to simulate hot wet pussies and stiff erect nipples as well. If our female passengers are appropriately attired, a gentlemen can slide his hand up the smooth warm thighs of his beloved and sexy partner to that soft, wet pussy. Some ladies will be reluctant to let go of their typically cautious and demure demeanor. In this particular instance, it might be necessary to pull out the big guns and hit her with an arsenal of words that will release the inner wanton slut that is longing to get out. One might try saying things like, “I want you to ride my face, sit on it, let me lick that wet slit, drive my tongue up in your hole, tongue fuck it. I want to feel your juices coat my face while you use my mouth to make you cum. Yeah, I can’t wait to feel those soft lips spreading open to give me that delicious honey that pours out when you cum. I want to suck that clit in my mouth and feel your thighs gripping my head, letting me taste all those sweet folds of that pussy I love to eat so much.” Should further inspiration be needed to coax her out of her shell, additional descriptions should be given of how desperate you are to fuck her. For example, if you say to her, “I want to see that sexy ass of yours when you are riding my dick, using it to get off on, working your tight, hot, wet pussy to make yourself cum. Play with my balls so I can shoot my hot nut deep in that pussy and see it leaking out as you collapse on the bed. I want to slide my dick between your sexy lips and let you taste your delicious cum after I fuck you.”

If fingering her wet pussy is not logistically possible due to clothing restrictions, direct all the erotic tension to the sensitive nipples of the passenger. Those passengers sitting next to the window are encouraged to completely expose their breasts beneath the blanket, adding to the excitement and thrill. Using a soft and gentle technique, slowly pull and pinch those nipples, causing the passenger to squirm with frustration and desire. If done correctly, the passenger should be wet and ready for serious fucking the second the landing gear is lowered.

Once again, thank you for flying Air AfroerotiK. We hope you have enjoyed your flight and we hope you will consider traveling with us again.

Vanity is a Sin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neurotic White Women

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There’s a new breed of Black women in town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scottie Lowe

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