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, December 29, 2010

White Male Submission


This particular piece is the most viewed, most searched for post on my blog.  I'm posting it again only because I plan on updating and revising it.  It's been at least five or six years since I've written it and I'm even more familiar with the mind of the submissive white male.  Still, the pathology needs to be addressed.  

White Male Submission (first edition)

One can’t pick up a magazine or listen to a discussion about the black community these days without reading about “DL brothas”, or black men that have sex with other men while representing themselves as heterosexual.  There is a homoparanoia and fear that is largely media driven that is telling black women that they need to question every black man they meet because he might be having sex with other men.  Certainly, one has to believe that black men must be driven by their desires more than any other portion of the population because this “DL” trend is so rampant among black men, according to every single, solitary book, article, and discussion prevalent today. 

I have the unique opportunity to be in a position where people come to me and tell me their fantasies as a function of my career.  There is a HUGE and very stealth underground sexual movement that is growing that has escaped any mainstream examination whatsoever.  While black men’s sexual practices have been put under a microscope and they have been demonized in the media as sexually irresponsible and morally bankrupt latent “faggots,” white men have been able to slip under the radar, with stealth efficacy, with their sexual secrets. The numbers of white men that come to me and tell me that they have fantasies of being sexually submissive, not only to black women, but also to black men, is STAGGERING.  Literally, thousands of white men have approached me in the last several years, all reiterating very much the same themes in their desires, that they believe that white people are inferior, that they want to pay for the atrocities of slavery by their sexual servitude to black people, that black people are more beautiful.

There are common themes and consistencies in their fantasies and the types of white male submissive men can be grouped into three main categories: white men that want white female partners to engage in interracial sex, white men that want black female partners and white men that want domination by both black men and black women.  The first group of men, the men that want their white wives or girlfriends to engage in interracial sex, are known as cuckolds.   Cuckolds are men that get arousal from having a white wife, commonly referred to as a “slut wife,” that has multiple black lovers. The husband is forced to live a life of sexual denial and servitude while the wife has sex with these so called “superior black bulls.”  Servitude can include anything from getting the wife ready for her lover to cleaning her orally after her lover has ejaculated inside her, to orally or anally servicing the black lover himself. Many times, the sexual component is heightened if there is some level of implied “extortion” or money demanded of the white submissive male to perform theses homoerotic acts.  I’ve had innumerous white men tell me that they want their wives to be “black bred”, meaning impregnated by a black man and they are sexually aroused by the idea of their wives forcing them to raise a biracial child as their own.  There’s little doubt that the origins of these fantasies are steeped in the mythical “Big Black Mandingo” stereotype as they profess love for his abnormally large penis while begging to be taunted and humiliated for their comparatively small endowment.  Sexual submission is usually limited to the bedroom for these men because they seem to be able to compartmentalize the fact that they are only inferior because of their perceived, small penis and, on occasion, express angst that they have fantasies of seeing the black man as superior, even if it is only in a sexual situation. 

The second category of white male submissive is the men that hold black women in the highest esteem.  These men love and desire the black woman far more than white woman and very often admire the natural features of black women that have long been rejected by society at large.   Big butts, dark skin, full lips, natural hair, and sassy and domineering attitudes are the attributes that they most readily describe as the epitome of beauty, black or otherwise. The  number of occasions when white men have said they want a black wife to pamper and provide for, to put her on a pedestal as the true mother of all civilization, are too numerous to mention.  Many times, they reiterate the same sorts of fantasies of the cuckold husband: they want her to have a black lover, but more often than not, they describe feelings of inadequacy because they believe they are unable to satisfy or undeserving of having sex with a black woman. They describe fantasies whereby they are forced by a black woman to engage homosexual acts as an act of punishment or for her amusement. They reiterate they same sorts of fantasies about cleaning Black  woman of ejaculate deposited by her lover, being denied orgasm, being “forced” to humble themselves before the black man to show their  unworthiness and inferior status.  The instances of white men telling me that they want to serve as human toilet to black women are so commonplace, so frequent, I don’t blink an eye any longer when the topic is broached. These men describe how it would be an honor to receive the waste of a black woman and how it is their duty as a white male to do so.  Many desire to be subjected to perform household duties for black women, seemingly with no sexual gratification in return, only the desire to be humiliated for their whiteness.  Most desire to form lifelong, loving relationships with Black women as adoring pets or servants and most refer to themselves as slaves. 

The third category of white male submissive is interested whatever forms of degradation they can receive from whatever Black source that sees fit to dish it out.  They are unashamedly bisexual and, in many cases, prefer to perform sexual acts with black men.  Among this group are the most masochistic of the population.  They are constantly asking for approval and validation that they truly are inferior to black people.  They confess that they want to become slaves, stripped of their rights as a human, that they want to pay for the sins of any white person that owned slaves, and that they want to be degraded and humiliated for their whiteness. Their fantasies are extreme, many expressing desires to be lynched and beaten reminiscent of true slavery as part of their sexual fantasies.  Many tell me that they desire to become black and have romantic notions that they will become well-endowed athletes or big-bosomed matriarchal archetypes.  Several have requested books to read to tell them of a more accurate Black history than the limited exposure they’ve received.  I’ve had white men tell me that they go out of their way to hire black people, support black businesses, or provide daily acts of kindness to black people as their own personal form of reparations. 

These examples are the norm not the extreme and I’m confronted with these examples on a daily basis.  It should be noted that almost 100% of the time, white men use the singular adjective black to describe the collective of people rather than as a descriptor.  i.e. “I want my wife to fuck black, I am attracted to black, I am a slave for black” rather than the proper usage, “I am attracted to black women, I want my wife to fuck black men, I desire to be submissive to black people.”  Their grammatical objectification of us is but a minor indication that they have yet to shatter the racist beliefs that they claim so boldly to have done.

If there is any level of validity in my findings, my observations lead me to believe that there is no concurrent movement by black people whereby we, on any sort of collective basis, are expressing desires to make white people pay for the atrocities of slavery or to restore a Black supremist racial hierarchy and to do so by the sexual subjugation of white people.  We seem to be naively playing into the role of dominatrix and Black bull and walking away from the experience and not being particularly braggadocios about them either. Those few African American individuals that have confided in me of experiences with submissive white men seem to take pity on them that they are so warped in their thinking that they could actually believe that black people could be superior.  In my amateur anthropological opinion, these black people feel guilty for holding a position of power over white men, even if it’s only sexually and for brief periods of time.  I’ve yet to meet the black person that has engaged in a sexual liaison with a submissive white man that has truly recognized the larger political implications.  Many black women have seen this as an opportunity to capitalize on their “most coveted object” status and made attempts to use white men for money, which seem to backfire more often than not according to their tales. While very few black men confide in me about their experiences with submissive white men, (and one can only assume from the reports of white men that the numbers of black men that are engaging in these behaviors are equally as staggering) I can only assume that they feel some sort of temporary reprieve from the stresses and strains of a racist society while engaged in the act, and as they go on about their daily lives, they replace their societally-imposed veil of powerlessness, never recognizing that their true power does not lie in their penis. Black people, still largely ignorant of our own past, the origins of African greatness, and still largely brainwashed to believe that white people are better, are sadly, too uninformed to  assert that they will not be made pawns in a sexual game to rid white people of their guilt or fulfill their dark continent lust.

There are a multitude of larger implications that are happening beneath this absolutely HUGE movement that need to be discussed and simply can’t be unless the topic is put on the table so that society at large can examine the trend and not have it kept as white America’s dirty little secret.  First and foremost, these men are still, for the most part, holding onto racist, stereotypical and degrading beliefs about Black people while they are insisting that their desire to submit to black people indicates that they are free from all such beliefs.  They assume that because they are sexually attracted to Black people that automatically means they are not racist.  Many white men claim they used to harbor racist beliefs and some sexual event with a black person cured them of their racism, which is obviously an absurd assumption.  If these white men are in fact engaging in sexual acts with black men as they claim, then the source and spread of HIV in the Black community needs to be examined.  These white men should be spreading the virus to their partners in equal proportions to black men. 

I imagine that there are scores of therapists, counselors, sex workers, medical practitioners and journalists in this country that have the same knowledge as I.  Why aren’t there medical journals and articles that are discussing this trend and the psychological implications?  Where are the 20/20 and Dateline exposes, where are the radio talk shows that are discussing this phenomenon, why isn’t every magazine warning white women about the potential hazards of white men that are engaging in unsafe sex with black men?  Given the current political climate in this country, with this move to the ultra-moral, ultra-conservative right, what conclusions can one draw about this population of white men that have this race-driven guilty, envy, and lust?  Are there white men that are secretly harboring these sexual desires in positions of power and exacting stricter punishments on black men to assuage them of their desires to “submit to black?” 

Race in America is still and extremely volatile topic.  If there are, as I’ve experienced, multitudes of white men that are having these types of fantasies and desires, there needs to be an open and honest discussion in a public forum to determine the origins, the implications, and to form support groups and allegiances to address the very important issues that these types of issues bring to the table.  White men are begging, even if it is only privately, to be immersed in a black sexual experience, and they are being led by individuals that don’t have the ability to train, instruct and accurately inform.  This issue can not be swept under the table because it upsets the equilibrium of the status quo.  White men are desiring to be submissive to Black people in phenomenal numbers and the reasons why and the social implications thereof must be discussed. 

Copyright 2004 Scottie Lowe
CEO and   Founder of AfroerotiK

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

I Have a Dream

I have a dream that white people will one day SHUT THE FUCK UP with referencing Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech.  First of all, they can't even correctly quote even one line from the speech.  Second, the man said so much more than I Have a Dream in his other speeches but the media doesn't want white people to hear anything other than the proverbial, "Can't we all just get along."  For God's sake, the man was assassinated for his views so clearly white people wanted him silenced.  Isn't it just like white people to pretend to be supporters now, after his blood was needlessly spilled.

"It is necessary to understand that Black Power is a cry of disappointment. The Black Power slogan did not spring full grown from the head of some philosophical Zeus. It was born from the wounds of despair and disappointment. It is a cry of daily hurt and persistent pain."

Martin Luther King, Jr., Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?, 1967.

"When we ask Negroes to abide by the law, let us also declare that the white man does not abide by the law in the ghettos. Day in and day out he violates welfare laws to deprive the poor of their meager allotments; he flagrantly violates building codes and regulations; his police make a mockery of law; he violates laws on equal employment and education and the provisions of civil services. The slums are the handiwork of a vicious system of the white society; Negroes live in them, but they do not make them, any more than a prisoner makes a prison."

Martin Luther King, Jr., The Trumpet of Conscience, 1967.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

I AM UNAPOLOGETICALLY

Anti-Racist AND Pro-Black
Pro-Choice
Pro-Woman
Radically Feminist
Pro-Gay Marriage
Pro-Civil Rights For Everyone
Pro-Universal Healthcare
Anti-Xenophobic
Anti-Heterosexist
Anti-Patriarchal
Anti-Religious

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

My Beautiful Ex

I was chatting with an ex of mine and he found some images I took of him.  Photographer I'm not.  His obvious assets aside, and it's much larger than it seems in the pictures, I'm awed by the fact that he's brilliant, beautiful, and not at all, not in the least little bit, defined by his outrageously gorgeous and gigantic penis.  He's kind and thoughtful, introspective, generous and just a sweet, wonderful man.  For all the white people who ask me why I love black men, all I have to say is, what's not to love? I'm very proud to say that I love and admire him and I know that he feels the same about me. 


Thursday, December 02, 2010

Race Matters



I was reading a discussion thread on a sexually-oriented website the other day and there was a question posed by a white dominant asking why there weren’t more submissive black men.  There are about a dozen responses – ALL from white men, waxing philosophically and trying to justify their racism  and stereotypes with clichés.   Not one black person, dominant or submissive, responded.  I was dismayed by the situation, but upon reflection, I had to acknowledge that I probably would have been even more disgusted had a Black person responded because, overall, we as a people are ill–equipped to discuss race in any way that moves the discussion beyond, “Color doesn’t matter.” 
 
Then I reflected on my now defunct website, my shut down yahoo group, and this very blog.  For the most part, the comments added by my own folk sort of resonate around, “Yeah, I agree,” or, “That was nice.”  With few exceptions (and there are some notable exceptions) Black people don’t respond to the topics and forums that confront white people and their racism.  Let me write a piece about getting fucked in the ass, and Black people come out of the woodwork to comment.  Let the topic be about dismantling white people of the fallacy of their unearned, inherited supremacy . . . and you will be deafened by the sound of virtual crickets. 
Sadly, all too often, when Black people do get the gumption to add their feedback, the comments are, I’m sorry to say, barely literate and disjointed.  More often than not, their comments reflect a brainwashed mentality that tries to appease the egos of white folk.  White people, white men really, don’t have a problem espousing whatever contrived logic they’ve come up with to justify their perceptions and they will go on and on . . . and on to make sure they have the last word.   White people control the conversations about race and black people stay mute.  

I’m here to tell the world, as long as we keep letting white people dictate conversations about race, we will forever remained mentally enslaved.  As long as we can’t communicate beyond that of a third grader, as long as we are ill-prepared to dismantle their bullshit, we might as well be back on the plantation picking cotton.  I know I personally provide more than enough thought-provoking material that can be the foundation for lots of discussion.  We need to be able to muster up more than a feeble, “I feel the same way,” in order to really do the work of deconstructing white people of their false sense of superiority. 

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Worship (Part 3)


Steven fucked up.  He had destroyed his chances with the one and only true Black Goddess whom he’d ever encountered.  Apparently, he had gotten in his disturbed mind that I was blackmailing him when nothing could be further from the truth.  Well, not only that, but he had the audacity, the unmitigated nerve to accuse me of things so absurd, so unfathomable to any sane mind, that he offended me in ways not many subs had ever had the occasion or balls to do. 

Steven’s actions made him re-evaluate his own twisted kinks.  It was a painful and shameful look in the mirror for him.  He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that his desires were pathological.  His need for exposure, his fantasies of being “outted”, and blackmailed, even his obsession with shallow, materialistic women was indeed sick.  He invited women to extort him, he wanted his friends and family to know of his perversions.  He got off on the idea of posting humiliating videos of himself doing repulsive things and sending them out to people with his face showing boldly.  At the same time, he wanted to pretend to be a victim, to be faultless in his own financial and social demise.  At the end of the day, he loved all of it.  He masturbated furiously to the actual females who were doing all the things he had falsely accused me of doing.  He sent them money, bought their rank undergarments, he continued to make videos all while pulling his worthless cock and checking his account balances, fantasizing that they said $0.00.  In the light of day, when he was out and about among normal, reasonable people, he felt profoundly ashamed of himself.  He waited for the confrontation he knew would come, someone in his family, his superior at work wanting to speak to him and question him about his bizarre proclivities.  In the privacy of his own home, in front of his computer however, he had no such qualms.  He feverishly stroked his tiny, limp cock to the childish insults of materialistic women who needed him to pay their bills and to their empty threats to expose him as he made endless paypal transactions and ebanned purchases. 

Everything would have been fine; Steven wouldn’t have had a problem in the world if there wasn’t that pesky little blog that he’d asked me to create.  He was obsessed with going to the blog, he repeatedly Googled his name to see the number one result was The Financial Demise of Werner Steven Mueller.  It fucked with him, fucked with his mind.  None of his other exploits showed up so blatantly.  That blog was the bane of his existence.  He needed it to go away and go away soon.  Its mere presence was symbolic of his kinks trespassing into his real life. 

Knowing that I was truly above being one of the money hungry, greedy bitches he usually plays with, thinking that he could appeal to my rational, benevolent self, Steven approached me cautiously.  He sent me an email with no apology, no tone of contrition or hint of regret for his previous foul behavior, asking me how much it would cost to completely delete the blog.  I responded simply, without any fanfare or drama, $20,000 in cash, hand delivered to me in Philadelphia.  True to his nature, Steven responded by trying to negotiate, said he couldn’t afford that much, he even tried to get me to dominate him in exchange for the amount.  After several days without a response from me, he relented and agreed to meet me at the corner of N. 38th and Parrish Streets on Sunday morning, 11 am, and I reminded him that the money had to be in cash. 

Steven, oblivious to the workings of real Black America, showed up on time, thinking we would make the exchange at a small coffee shop or café.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said 50 years ago that the most segregated hour in America was 11 am on a Sunday morning and nothing had changed in half a century.  Wearing jeans and a button down, Steven approached me cautiously as he observed all the church goers, dressed in their Sunday finest, assembling to praise God.  I had donned my best Sunday-go-to-meeting black suit, silk stockings, patent leather pumps, extended my white cotton gloved hand and peered from under my veiled black hat.  “Steven, it’s such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Uhmmm, yeah,” he looked around nervously and said, “I have the money, can we just get this over with?” 

“Oh, goodness, Steven, what’s the rush?  Let’s go inside, shall we?” One of the ushers, a strikingly gorgeous Black man with an imposing figure held the door for us and wished us a pleasant good morning.  Not wanting to make too much of a scene and slightly intimidated by the whole situation, he stepped inside.  Never in his life had he felt so out of place.  His was the only white face in the sanctuary.  I escorted him to the very front of the church.  He stood speechless as he stared up at the 40 ft. stained glass representation of Jesus, depicted as he truly was, a Black man with hair of wool.  Steven was angry, outraged; it was an offense to his every sensibility to see a Black man depicted as his lord and Savior.  Every cell in his body was filled with hatred for me.  He started to tell me to fuck off but every head turned just as he began to raise his voice.  The words stuck in his throat before he could get out a complete sentence and he quietly slid into the pew next to me. 

Glancing around at all the beautiful people, happily married couples, single women, all reserved and devout, Steven fantasized about each and every one of them humiliating him sexually.  He waited for the shouting and speaking in tongues and running up and down the aisles he stereotypically expected but it never came.  The Men’s Choir sang some spirited gospel songs and everyone stood and clapped and praised the lord but the entire experience was more sophisticated than savage.  He fidgeted as I ignored him, trying to whisper to me that he needed to go, that he had other plans.  He didn’t listen to a word of the sermon, he was more concerned with deviant thoughts of being gangbanged, kicked, stomped, and used in this holy place of worship. 

There was a call to the altar for prayer and I whispered sweetly in Steven’s ear that he needed to confess his sins.  He swallowed hard and firmly said no, all eyes would be on him and that was not arousing for him.  He didn’t want to play the game my way, he wanted me to conform to his desires; he wanted me to be like the other classless whores he dealt with.  I discretely signaled for my friend, the usher, to escort Steven to the altar.  He knelt before Black Jesus and I knelt beside him.  “That’s it Steven, pray to Black Jesus, confess your sins.  Tell him what a wretched white heathen you are.  Pray for salvation to Black God, Steven.”  He knelt, with his hands clasped as in prayer but his knuckles were white as he wanted nothing more than to strike me, to shut me up.  



 I leaned in closer and whispered more softly, “Louder bitch, let everyone know you are a sinner, tell them that you accept Black Jesus as your personal lord and savior, that you know he bled and died on the cross for your filthy, nasty sins.  Don’t you want to be washed in the blood of Holy Black Jesus?”  Tears streamed down his face, his knees ached, rage consumed him.  The congregation clapped, praised God, and cheered for his salvation.  The Pastor prayed, his righteous words punctuated with the staccato of the organ.  They passed the collection plate and whispered softly, “Every penny of it, Steven, I want you to put every single dollar in that collection plate.”  His hands trembled as he reached for the envelope in his back jeans pocket and he placed it on the pile of fives, tens, and twenties in the red-velvet-lined brass plate.   He closed his eyes and begged God for forgiveness, to absolve him of his sins, to release him the sexual sickness that consumed him, that prevented him from forming any sort of real, substantial relationship.  He prayed to be normal.  As much as he pretended to be happy as a freak, he deeply wanted to be loved, accepted, and respected by a woman who would love him for something other than his money.  It had been more than 30 years that he had even allowed himself to think such thoughts.  He prayed to the image of a Black man, on his knees, worshipping him, feeling truly worthless and inferior.  When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

He checked the internet the next day, and true to my word, the blog was gone.  He sent me an email, this time with notable humility and respect.  “Mistress, I bow to your will.  I’ve never encountered anyone like you before and I acknowledge and respect that you are nothing less than a true Goddess.  You are my religion and I’m willing to do things your way.  All that I am, all that I have is yours.” 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK  All Rights Reserved

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. 

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Why are White People so Afraid of Being Called Racist?

Bush recently said the lowest point of his presidency was Kanye West calling him a racist.  The lowest point?  Not 9/11.  Not Hurricane Katrina.  Kanye West calling him a racist was his lowest point.  White people react violently to being called racist like it's the ultimate insult.  I've had white people call me every nigger/coon racial epithet in the book, tell me to go back to Africa, inform me why they feel black people are at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder, and then follow with, "I'm not racist."  I've even had those same people tell me that they still wanted to have sex with me them even though they think that I am the real racist.  The white people who hold on to the most racist mindsets, the ones who are the least diverse, the least accepting of anyone or anything different from their experience, the ones who get ANGRY when someone suggests that anyone with an experience that differs from their white reality are the ones most vested to this notion that they aren't racist.  It seems as if the only definition of a racist white people will acknowledge is wearing a white sheet, burning a cross and lynching a black person.  I find it fascinating that white people are sooooo afraid of being called a racist yet they are the least tolerant of anyone else's experiences, culture, and history. 

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Don’t Say a Word



I need you.  When I say I need you, it’s not just in the conventional way people throw those words around meaning they’re horny and wanna get a nut.  I need your spirit, your energy, your essence in me, around me, all over me.  I need you to communicate with me with your eyes.  Stare deep into my soul and tell me that you need me without words.  Speak to me with those mesmerizing eyes that ignite my passions and draw me in.  I want our conversation to be echoed in the windows to your soul, so profound and articulate.  Tell me you crave me, that I stimulate your mind and your body without uttering a word.  Let your eyes speak for you and tell me a love story about how we’ve known each other for lifetimes.  I could stare into your beautiful, expressive eyes for hours.  Let that be our way to express the things that words simply cannot say. 

Close your eyes and communicate with me with your fingers.  Run your hands up the small of my back, spreading heated oil along my spine.  Tell me that you want to soothe my aches and pains as you caress and stroke my brown flesh.  Tickle me, cuddle with me, and let your fingers do the talking as each slow, intentional, sensual touch of my body conveys your lust for me, your burning desire to make love to me, to fuck me.  Leave your fingerprints on every inch of my body as forensic evidence of your motives to embrace my being.  Allow me to lay my head on your lap, the tips of your fingers tracing an outline across my collarbone, down my breast to my hardened nipple so sensitive to your gentle touch. 

Tell me you want to make love to me with your lips, never saying a word but using your tongue, your mouth as your pen, my body as your paper.  Kiss me and communicate how you’ve longed for me; your soft, full, wet lips yielding against mine.  Create a new language by licking, kissing, and sucking all the tender spots on my body that make me squirm and writhe in indescribable pleasure.  Slowly, intentionally, with your mouth exploring every crevice and curve of my body, tease my inner thighs with gentle kisses as my guttural moans and grunts let you know that I can’t stand your seductive tease but I crave it at the same time.  Without uttering a single, solitary word, tell me that you want to be with me, make love to me, that you need me too. 

Copyright 2010 AfroerotiK


Friday, October 22, 2010

Reparations (Part 2)

For most white people, their knee-jerk, conditioned response at the mere mention of the word reparations is to scream, “My family never owned any slaves.  I’m not paying any reparations!  You Blacks need to just get over it, slavery was in the past, let it go for Christ’s sake.”  For Steven, his perceptions were completely opposite.  Steven had a deep-seated, compelling desire to pay for the sins of his hypothetical father; he longed to be the nasty pet of a sadistic Ebony Goddess who would subject him to her erotic demands.  Given that Switzerland didn’t have a stake in the Trans Atlantic Slave trade and his ancestors more than likely had no direct connection to the enslavement of any Africans, Steven’s “white guilt” was more reminiscent of a global and pervasive trend by Caucasian men to sexually submit to people whose origins are from the motherland.  Around the globe, in what seems to be staggering numbers that cannot be dismissed as coincidental or inconsequential, white men feel a compulsion, a driving need to become “enslaved” to black people.  Of course, the word enslaved is not accurate.  It’s almost comical how white people have grafted the meaning of the word slavery to be equated to their kinky fetishes but it’s nothing more than another example of their arrogance and ability to manipulate people and situations in order to validate their perceptions.  True slavery, what my ancestors endured was not a sexual fetish or voluntary, it was dehumanizing and incomprehensible. 

For Steven, his desires revolved around financial servitude and humiliation.  For him, the two concepts were intimately and erotically tied.  For him, to pay a woman to degrade and shame him was what gave him a thrill, what aroused him.  He loved to be taunted, tormented, teased, and tortured and he loved to pay for it.  It’s an interesting dynamic because money does equal power in Western society and the fact that he had it and women wanted it meant that he had control over them.  Yes, he was giving them money but he was ultimately pulling the strings.  Every time he paid a woman to make him do some stupid or embarrassing task, every time he became a woman’s benefactor and paid her bills, she became dependent upon him.  He loved that.  He loved the fact that women needed him for not only amusement but also in a vicious cycle of dependence.  When these women were in financial trouble, rather than learning to budget and survive on their own, rather than using their brains and their inherent talents to make money, he would write a check and instantly, he assumed the role of the benefactor and they would have to fulfill his fantasies of degradation and give him all the attention he craved and wanted.  Steven capitalized on the women who saw themselves as objects.  He preyed on women who felt their value was in being desired by men, that their beauty was a bargaining chip with a dollar value.  He pursued women who were shallow and superficial and who only saw dollar signs when they looked at his pathetic, laughably small cock. 

Steven made a huge mistake when he approached me about giving me a tribute.  Little did he know that it was to be the biggest mistake of his life, one that would leave him bankrupt, financially impoverished and destitute.   When he first approached me some years ago, I told him that I had no interest in receiving a tribute, that I was not for sale.  He followed my work and approached me again recently, asking to give me a tribute.  As before, my response was the same as it is every time a stranger asks to give me an unsolicited gift or money.  That wasn’t sufficient for him however.  He sat at home, fantasizing about being my submissive, about me making him do unspeakable, perverted things.  He was drawn to my unapologetic commentary on race and racism, my keen insight into the minds of submissive white men, my intensity, and, of course, my beautiful brown skin and strong African features. 

Not one to take rejection well, Steven began his efforts to lure me with promises of money.  Rather than attempting to get to know me, forgoing any efforts to impress me or appeal to my intellect and sensibilities to become my submissive, he dangled threats and promises of money, telling me of how he could make my life comfortable, spoil and pamper me with nothing expected of me in return.  Never in his life had he ever encountered a woman like me.   It was unfathomable to him that I didn’t want or need his money.  It was clear to me, behind his desires of being forced to pay, that he believed that all women were objects to be purchased, that every woman had a tipping point, a certain dollar amount that would entice them to conform to his twisted fantasies.  The fact that his fantasies were to be mistreated and abused were irrelevant; it was money that was the carrot that he dangled in front of women’s faces and there was no way in hell I was going to let him manipulate or control me in that way.  What Steven didn’t get, what he couldn’t comprehend is that I am inherently superior.  I’m far superior to those women who sell their souls for money or to have a bill paid.  I have integrity; I cannot be purchased like an item on the shelf and certainly not like a hooker on the street corner.  I am a divinely gifted, magnificent, African queen, worthy of praise, honor, and worship befitting only of a Goddess who walks the earth, who is proud of her African heritage, and who enjoys and takes pleasure in reducing white men to sniveling, groveling, sissy faggot, debased pigs. 

I planned on manipulating Steven, controlling him to the point where he was so entirely devoted to me, where I became his religion, that not only would he give me every penny he could, but that he would deny himself the necessities of life in order to lavish me with gifts and money.  I intended to make him relinquish all his other money whores and get him to a point where he not only lived for me, that he would work for me, giving me his entire paycheck with the hopes that I would give him enough to allow him to survive.  I wanted him to endure psychological pain for my amusement, to drain his wallet to not only finance my company AfroerotiK but to donate to the causes and charities that would benefit people of African descent around the globe.  Steven was to become the major backer that would invest in the production of my book that would heal Black relationships and divest white people of their fallacy of white supremacy.  He would be the money source that would rebuild www.AfroerotiK.com and make it even bigger and better than it was before.  I calculated that if freed slaves were to have gotten the 40 acres and a mule that we were promised at the end of slavery, that it would equate to about $250,000 dollars in today’s economy.  That would be just the tip of the iceberg that I intended to make Steven pay, just a drop in the bucket.  I wanted him to pay for my great grandmother who had to hold her tongue while she was brutally gang raped by disgusting white men who robbed her of her innocence.  He would pay for the way Blacks hung from trees like strange fruit, lynched for the entertainment of whites who regarded Blacks as 3/5th of a human being, deserving of inhumane enslavement.   It was my full intention to make Mr. Mueller pay for the unearned privilege and position he got just by virtue of being white and male and to reduce him to his true place, beneath my sacred foot, serving not as my slave but as my pet and my possession, driven to please me and to crave my acknowledgement and praise as a good sub and to pay for it, to pay dearly . . . with his life. 

Let’s just say that our first meeting, between Steven and I, didn’t go quite as expected.  Well, it didn’t go the way he had anticipated; my expectations were exceeded to say the least.  I’d made arrangements for us to meet at this fantastic new restaurant named “& Jelly” in New York City.  I thought the place was apropos for our initial encounter because it specialized in unique and flavorful unexpected pairings, just like us.  He flew in from Miami and I took the train from Maryland.  To his credit, he had a car waiting for me at Penn Station and made arrangements for me to stay in a lovely suite in the Midtown Hyatt, nothing extravagant but certainly not The Vanderbilt YMCA either. 

I towered over him.  In my heels and standing proud, tall, and strong at not a bit shy of 6’2”, it was more than apparent that he felt emasculated as he reached out nervously to shake my hand.  It was a dynamic he found arousing however.  He loved the concept of a domineering Black woman who would treat him like shit and sexually dominate him.  I wasn’t nearly that crude nor was I anywhere near the manifestation of his one-dimensional Dominatrix fantasies but I smiled as politely as I could, feeling his sweaty palms as we exchanged pleasantries and such. 

After we were seated, I ordered the Sacralicious French Toast which was a heavenly combination of challah bread and bacon served with curry butter and plum jelly.  I ordered for him; the waitress was clearly amused by that fact as I selected the beef tenderloin waffle with basil butter and mango jelly.  Never one to waste time, I asked, “So, what is it exactly you want from me, Steven?”

He’d been prepared for the question mainly because I had instructed him to have an answer ready for me upon meeting.  He hadn’t really rehearsed what he wanted to say; he opted for an off-the-cuff, almost flippant response.  He decided that his best bet was to keep his answer as simple as possible.  “Goddess, I want to be your devoted pay pig, slut, and slave.” 

Almost as soon as the words left his lips, Steven knew he had fucked up.  He was well aware of my opinion about the word slave and he looked like a deer caught in headlights fearing for his life.  “Submissive, I’m sorry Mistress, I meant to say submissive. I apologize.  I didn’t mean to . . .”

I immediately allayed his fears.  “That’s quite alright, Steven, I know it was nothing more than a mere slip of the tongue, just the common use of the word in a BDSM context.  Relax.  I know you weren’t suggesting that you wanted to endure the horrors of slavery that my ancestors endured.  No one in his or her right mind would ever imply that, right?  In fact, I’m not even sure I’m capable of being that cruel and sadistic.  I would never think of breaking into your quaint little home in Zurich in the middle of the night, my henchmen and I, and brutalizing your family.  I would never put anyone, let alone an innocent teenaged boy through the torture and anguish of having to watch his mother beheaded, her blood draining from her decapitated corpse as I slung her skull across the room by her limp hair.   If, and only if I were to enslave someone, I would by necessity have to make them watch their father brutally raped with the blade of a knife until he bled to death, SCREAMING in pain as he watched his daughter raped by strange, sadistic men.   It’s almost unthinkable to imagine that I would even be capable of shackling you to other young boys, making you drag their weakened and dying bodies from Zurich to Genoa, Italy, only to be branded like a piece of cattle, kept in a dungeon for months on end, fed food infested with maggots and other vermin, and not even given any sunlight or clean water, let alone medical care.  How horrible would I be if I were to be the sort of Mistress who would transport you thousands of miles from your home to a strange land where you knew no one, where you didn’t speak the language, and I beat you for days, weeks even, eight, ten, or twelve hours a day until you renounced your belief in Jesus, until you cursed your God as heathen and, from sheer exhaustion and abuse, renounced your name for one I gave you?  I would be one cruel Domme if I were sexually aroused by seeing your reactions as I doused your infected, bleeding wounds with bleach, salt, or anything else I could think of in my wild and vicious imagination.  Of course, I could make you work like an animal, feeding you the rotted scraps from my table so that I could profit from your labor.  That would only be fitting as my ancestors, who were real slaves, had to endure that and more for generations.  More than likely, however, I could never bring myself to rip your newborn, infant child from your arms, still covered with amniotic fluid, the umbilical cord still pulsing with blood, and sell them off like a barrel of oil on the stock exchange, only to make you reproduce again and again and again so that I could sell off all your precious children to pad my bank account.  I could do that if you wanted, if you REALLY wanted to be my slave Steven.” 

His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white and his face was red, tears were in his eyes, and he was more than angry, he was sickened.  “You fucking bi. . .  You know that I didn’t mean anything by what I said.  How dare you . . .”

I cut him off with his feigned outrage.  “Bitch, shut up.  My ancestors endured that and more.  Fuck you.”  I was so calm, so nonchalant compared to his labored breathing; it was quite the contrast.  He’d never once thought about the millions and millions of times those sorts of things had occurred during slavery to innocent Black people, people who had no choice in the matter, whose lives were not their own in any sense of the word.  No, when he thought about slavery, he thought about big-dicked, muscular Black men being stud for slutty plantation wives.  If he had a chance to really think about it, he would think about the movie Roots and some obscure references to slavery being “unfortunate”.  Occasionally, he thought about the injustice of slavery but never once had he contemplated it like that, never once had the experience been so personal to him, so horrifying. 

I continued.  “Or Steven, I could make you my submissive.  It’s very conceivable that I could turn you into my depraved, cum-loving faggot.  I could make your asshole the center of your being, craving being fucked, stretched, and used only by black cocks and strapons, my little gangbang whore.  I could twist your desires and make it so you crave my piss, shit, snot, menses, and vomit as your sustenance.  To belong to me, I would make you my bitch, making you wear my used tampons in your asscunt and training you to take my dog’s knot and love it.  If you were to choose to be my submissive, if you were willing to give yourself over to the process, I would make you relinquish Infinity, Gertrude, Shanice and all your other women and serve only me.  That position is up for negotiation if you’d like.  There’s only one stipulation.  I WILL NOT accept tributes and dominate you, it’s one or the other.” 

In the course of less than three minutes, Steven went from outraged to aroused.  Our food arrived and Steven sat there speechless.  He knew for the first time in his life that he was in the presence of true greatness, an all-powerful woman.  “Will you excuse me,” I said as I left him sitting there at the table alone and returned to my hotel room, my food untouched, no explanations.  The next day, he flew back to Miami and couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what had happened to him.  For days, he checked his account balances, calculated figures in his mind, obsessed over his finances.  He had become overwhelmed with the desire to empty his bank account and give every penny he had to me, to lie at my feet and present himself for me to do with him as I desired.  He knew that he could not do both.  It was his inexplicable need to pay me that haunted him, his compulsion to compensate me for being a TRUE Ebony Goddess that fucked with his head.  For as much as he wanted to do and become all the nasty things I had spoken of, he wanted to see me languishing and luxuriating in wealth and riches while he suffered in poverty even more.

Monday, September 20, 2010

I Am Not Mediocre


I am unique (and nothing less than blessed) in that I have huge numbers of people who like and respect me, even if they don’t agree with everything I say. I try to stay as humble as possible and recognize that those people who like my work, who validate me with compliments and praise, are worthy of my recognition and gratitude. There are times when I couldn’t make it through the day without the kind words and accolades I get from friends and fans alike.

I’m baffled, however, by the number of people who seem to express a hatred, disgust, and venomous rage towards me. By every conceivable measure, I am a nice person. I treat people fairly, with respect, I am kind and considerate, I don’t gossip or backstab. So I am taken aback at those times when people attack me personally, with malicious intent, who try to hurt me, who seem to get some sort of pleasure in saying hurtful things to me.

It’s always my nature to ask myself at those times, when I’m the victim of attack from people, “what did I do wrong, what’s wrong with me?” Intellectually, I have to recognize that there is something inherent in me, something unique, different, and special that makes people uncomfortable with my energy, my aura, my being. It’s precisely because I’m not average, because I am have done the work to evolve, grow, and transform that people find me sooooo offensive. I realize academically that the very people who hate me most, who direct so much energy trying to tear me down and hurt me are the very people who have not done the work to mature or evolve themselves. They would rather I stagnate and wallow where they are, in their complacent, satisfied existence where they don’t question or challenge their worldview or try to grow and evolve. The people who love to wallow in their dysfunction, the ones who have lived their lives rationalizing and justifying their pathologies in order to elevate themselves, in order to make themselves feel good are the ones who HATE me, who feel the need to try to tear me down.

I am different. I see the world differently. I’ve challenged myself to see beyond the mediocre trappings of this society. I’ve redefined what beauty means to me, what masculinity and femininity mean to me. I’ve seen the lies in organized religion and let go of the brainwashing that controls the masses. I work hard to heal the detrimental messages that were forced down my throat about sexuality, relationships, and that have tried to silence my independence. I am HONEST. I speak truth to power. I attack ideas, not people. That offends many people. They hate that I can expose my flaws and shortcomings so easily, so truthfully with the world and they have to hide their true feelings behind a façade of being perfect. My vulnerability and candor makes them angry. They hate me for going against the grain, for not succumbing to the capitalist, materialistic, superficial trappings that hold them captive, by which they measure their worth. Because I can’t be defined by an income amount or a type of car but because I live my life in integrity and in truth, in pursuit of higher goals, they want to do and say whatever they can to hurt me. It seems that they feel better about themselves if they denigrate me.

I am not mediocre, nor will I ever be again. I will not be entertained by Meet the Browns or The Housewives of Any Place. I will not my spend money on any form of entertainment that uses the N word; I do not tolerate the use of the N word in my presence. I do not consider myself a bitch, I’m not aroused by bad boys, I do not want a man with a Hummer or a basketball contract. I do not think Zane is a good writer, in fact, I think she’s horrible and while I have nothing against her personally, I hate what she has done to generations of black girls and women in terms of warping their view of relationships and sexuality. I don’t listen to commercial urban radio with their monotonous, talentless songs and mediocre talk hosts. I do not idolize Oprah or anyone just because they have a big back account. I don’t think my beauty is in my pedicured toes, the length of my hair, or how much of my ass I can show off in my tight jeans. I speak out about racism. I identify the diseased mindsets white people have and black people buy into that perpetuates oppression and bigotry.


I embrace the fact that I’m not average. I accept with graciousness that I have been given the gift of mastery of the written word, insight, and a level of honesty that does touch people. I’m not mediocre and I accept that, I celebrate that. If that means that I have to endure the virulent, bitter attacks of people who wish to tear me down, I will accept their attacks with the understanding that if I weren’t living my life, outside the box, In Loving Color, they wouldn’t be moved to hate me so vehemently.


Friday, July 23, 2010

Our First Place




We put the key in the door of our first home and crossed the threshold hand in hand. We had just come from the closing and the house was officially ours, ALL 2,200 square feet of mid-century Ranch amortized at 6.34% for the next 30 years of it. For a couple of dykes, buying a house together is the closest sort of commitment you can get to getting married. Sabrina was feeling sentimental, going through each room and dreaming out loud of what our lives were going to be like; the Virgo in me was feeling overwhelmed and anxious at the amount of unpacking we had to do just to get to our toothbrushes, towels, and dishes.

I have to confess, when I was watching her unpack, with her red and white scarf tied around her head and her favorite t-shirt with a big ole rainbow on it, I had to marvel at her beauty, both inside and out. She was so calm, so grounding for me. She’d made coming out to my family not easy, but tolerable. She made all the gross and offensive comments from men who thought they could “change me with their super dicks” bearable. She just fits me perfectly in every way. We’ve been together for four years. That’s equivalent to 16 heterosexual years for a lesbian couple and we’ve been together longer than all of our gay friends, both male and female, have ever been in a relationship combined.

I’d just about finished getting the bed frame up when I heard our doorbell ring for the first time. I ran downstairs to see who it could be and I saw Sabrina paying a delivery guy for some takeout food. She’d set up a makeshift table in the living room by taking one of our moving boxes and putting a sheet over it and she decorated it with flowers from our garden in a jar from the garage and some candles she got from who knows where. “Come and get it,” she said, as we sat down on the floor to dine on some Chinese food on the first night of the rest of our lives together.

I was overwhelmed with the feelings of love I had for this woman. “You know, I adore you, right?”

She looked at me and half-laughed. “Of course I do. And I love you too.”

“No,” I said, “I adore you. You mean the world to me. I don’t even want to think what my life would be like without you. I can’t even imagine who I would be without you.” I started to get really emotional and the words got choked up in my throat. She crawled over to my side and I put my head on her shoulder. She kissed the top of my forehead and I reached up to kiss her. Her tongue found mine and we shared an intimate kiss that grew more passionate with each passing tick of the clock. I lay back on the living room floor and she climbed on top of me, pressing her body into mine.

“Mmmm, we don’t have any curtains up yet . . . . we should . .. Stop,” I managed to say.
True to her rebellious nature, she said, “I don’t give a fuck. This is OUR house,” with heavy emphasis on the word our, and if I want to make love to my wife, and people want to watch, then so fucking be it.” With that, she slid her hand between my legs and pressed her palm against my mound. My body responded before my common sense could and I was pulling her t-shirt over her head while she was freeing me from the restrictions of my clothing.



We made love, on the floor, the very first night in our brand new home. Reclining back on an overstuffed pillow, I spread my legs and she made a dessert out of my breasts, licking and sucking my hardened nipples until I was begging her to go down on me. She kissed her way down my stomach and spread my legs. Taking her fingers, she spread the lips of my pussy and softly, gently, licked my clit until I was squirming and moaning and holding her mouth to my wet slit, wrapping my legs around her head and demanding that she let me cum in her mouth. She worked her tongue up inside me and her fingers found my asshole. I was cursing and screaming and telling her how good she made me feel and thankful we weren’t in our old, tiny one bedroom apartment with thin walls.


I turned over and got up on my knees and she alternated between driving her tongue in my pussy and my ass, causing me to reach back and spread my asscheeks wider so she could do her magic. She licked me from my clit to my spine and back again and I was grinding my pussy all over her face. She playfully slapped my ass and warned me that if I didn’t hold still that she was going to stop. Like hell she was going to stop. She wanted my cum and she wasn’t going to stop until I was flowing all over her.

She did a Bruce Lee sort of move and flipped around until her pussy was against mine. I could feel the heat of her warm cunt and the wetness of her slippery folds. She scissored her legs with mine and started bumping and grinding away, clit to clit. It was like our pussies were French kissing. I could feel the first signs of my orgasm approaching and I begged her to stop. I wanted to make love to her, to eat her, to enjoy every inch of her body first. She didn’t listen and she kept taunting me, teasing me, telling me to cum. “Give me that cum baby. Bathe me in your sweet honey. That’s it, squirt all over Mami. Oh yeah, baby, fuck me with that hard clit of yours. “

That sent me over the edge and I exploded. We curled up in each other’s arms and lay there for a while, just basking in the glow. I stroked her hair and intertwined my brown fingers with hers. She said, “We’ve christened one room, just think, we have six more to go.”

Copyright 2008 AfroerotiK

Thursday, July 22, 2010

At Last


My entire relationship with Charles, what little there was of it, consisted of countless opportunities for emotional growth and never-ending nights of frustration. We hadn’t been dating long, only a few months, but our liaison was defined by what seemed to be an endless supply of patience on Charles’ part and innumerable occasions for me to redefine myself anew. Unfortunately, I am plagued with a biological preponderance for self-doubt which he was challenging me to face head on. My mother hadn’t bonded with me during her pregnancy thus I was left challenged to form healthy, loving relationships as an adult. My brain had been wired differently in the womb than most people’s, my subconscious mind operated under the assumption that I was inherently unlovable and intrinsically without value despite how much work I’d done on myself, no matter how many rituals I’d performed, regardless of how many pages I’d written in my journal or affirmations I’d recited in the mirror, even in spite of how wonderful I believed myself to be in my heart. I’d taken tremendous strides toward healing and I had shown marked improvement and I was more than willing to exert the effort needed for me to tackle the internal demons that had been preventing me from attracting someone who was capable of loving me unconditionally.

Apparently, I was doing something right, because I had attracted this amazing, enlightened man of my dreams into my life. So while I didn’t entirely feel worthy of his love, I knew in my heart and in my soul that I was divinely worthy of a love that was greater than my mind could imagine and Charles was intent on proving to me that he wanted to give me every bit of his love. From the moment we met, from the moment I laid eyes on him, I was drawn to his energy, his aura, and his incredible beauty. Initially, in his presence, I felt like he was going to reject me at any moment; I felt like he would prefer someone with a name like Ausar Nut Ma’at Imhotep, who wore locs and constantly smelled of patchouli oil, and who carried around incense and shea butter in the red, black, and green backpack that she had crocheted by hand. I just knew in my heart that he could never really love a woman who wrote about sex and sexuality and whose opinions on race and gender were so outside the norm, who loved wearing high heels occasionally, and who showed signs of insecurity and doubt openly. Luckily, I was wrong. He saw me as infinitely talented, grounded, inspired, and beautiful and he felt the pull of my African centered consciousness and saw my ability to free the descendents of slaves from our mental and psychological bondage with my words.

We vibrated on the same level in so many ways. While not identical in our every thought, we shared similar master numerological energies, spiritual outlooks, and interests. There was something very holistic and organic about what we shared and he was more than willing to nurture and heal my soul and that meant more to me than anything else. Our masculine and feminine energies complimented one another and we just seemed to fit like hand in glove.

For weeks, we grew together. Our days were filled toiling in the earth, growing vegetables, expanding our consciousness academically and culturally. We were always preparing food together as we were both dedicated to a living and raw diet and we even fasted together as well. He pushed me to trust him, to trust that he loved me, to see myself as the special and unique being he saw me as. I met each challenge he gave me head on, never afraid to push myself. Much of our time was spent in meditation or doing ritual. Sometimes we sat in silence, other times would laugh, talk, and listen to music until the early hours of the morning. I loved that he never made me feel like a victim or try to pity me because I was going blind. Charles would use his inspired words to paint pictures so I could see through his eyes and he helped me work out how to get around my apartment with my eyes closed for when the day would come when I had no sight at all. In every way imaginable, he was there for me like no other man had ever been there before and I found myself in falling in love with him in ways that were more profound than I had ever thought possible.

At times, our evenings were simmering, smoldering, and steamy, building a raging inferno of sexual tension between us. He seemed to know how to get me to the edge of explosion without any direct stimulation of my special places. He could whisper in my ear, telling me all the things he wanted to do to me, describing his fantasies about me in poetic, glorious detail and I would melt. He had the ability to lay his body on mine, I could feel his erection, engorged and rock hard grinding against me, and I could detect his unbridled passion, his intense desire to be inside me. His energy was strong and I would arch my back and wrap my legs around him as we kissed, hoping against hope that he would cross the threshold into my sacred space without my verbal consent. My hardened nipples would ache for his mouth to devour them and my swollen, wet pussy throbbed with anticipation and delicious expectation of his penetration. I’ll be the first to admit that when things would get hot and I was on the brink of erotic surrender, I would sometimes freeze up and ask him to stop. It had nothing to do with him. I was letting old tapes play in my head about being used, about men in my past who didn’t mind sexing me up but didn’t want a relationship with me. Charles wanted our lovemaking to be unfettered by fear or negativity; I didn’t want to have any emotional blocks between us. And we both wanted us to join in a union of transcendent, unparalleled ecstasy so we waited until the time was right.

Other times, the subject of sexuality never entered our evening experience. Sometimes, I could sense that I shouldn’t initiate anything romantic or sexual between us because he was at his very limit for frustration. I would hug him and he would give me a look letting me know that I needed to back off. On those nights, after we would part, I would lie in bed alone, pleasuring myself, wanting to call him to me and invite him to be my lover. When I showered, my fingers would find the slippery folds of my pussy and rub my clit and I would imagine him thrusting deeply inside me, completing me. I imagined him, at home alone, white cotton sheets covering his nude body, his erection tenting the covers, a sheen of perspiration covering his lean frame as he lay tortured, frustrated and aroused, thinking of me.

Our dance of frustration came to a screeching halt one night without much fanfare or preparation. We were fixing dinner one night and I was standing at the sink washing up a few dishes as he was moving around the kitchen doing his thing. I felt him slide up behind me, placing his arms on the counter beside me, his lips brushing the nape of my neck. He used his body to push me against the counter and I could feel the evidence of his erection against my backside. Instinctively, I pushed back, grinding the soft, full curves of my ass against him, leaning my body back and luxuriating in his hands caressing my waist and his nibbles to my earlobe. I could feel my temperature rising and my body was responding to his every touch.

As if by conditioning, when I could tell things were reaching their critical boiling point, I said, “Come on baby, stop. Let’s not get too carried away.” That did nothing to deter him however and he became even more assertive, sliding his hands over my breasts and making me elicit the most intense moans of pleasure. “Mmmm, king, that feels amazing.” I forgot all about my request to have him stop momentarily and I met his every thrust with equal passion. As the temperature began to rise, I renewed my objections, thinking he would be at his threshold and he would be packing up his stuff and heading for the door any minute.

Turning me around, facing him, using his body to press my body against the counter, Charles took my face in his hands. “Queen, I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you are in love with me.” I stood frozen. I heard the words fall softly from his lips like lyrics to a song. I diverted my eyes to the floor and he tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine. He said it again and this time I held his gaze intently. “I am in love with you and you . . .”



“And I am in love with you,” I cut him off. I swallowed hard, half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole but deep in my heart knowing that, at last, I had found the love that I had been searching for all my life, for many lifetimes. “I . . . ,” the words momentarily got caught in my throat and found the strength to go on and speak my truth, fixing my gaze on his beautiful brown eyes for comfort, “I . . . need you. I want you to stay tonight. Join with me. Be my lover tonight. Enter me, taste me, and feel my . . .”

This time, he cut me off with a kiss. He placed his mouth gently against mine and tasted my lips. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was much more. It was his declaration of love. I breathed in his air and we became united in that instant. I kissed him, his tongue softly and gently conforming to mine in a soulful dance. My heart raced as I felt his lean body press more deeply into mine, feeling his engorged manhood against my mound. My breasts pressed against his chest and I started to unbutton his shirt, tracing my lips down his slightly salty neck, eliciting gentle moans from him.

Something about him, about what we shared comforted me and I released all my inhibitions and allowed myself to be sensual, erotic, passionate, and primal without reservation. He met me where I was and matched my passions equally. Our kisses become more fevered; his hands under my sarong and slid up the soft, inner flesh of my thighs, finding the moist juncture between my legs. I took his hand and held it firmly in my own. “Let’s go upstairs,” I whispered.

He led the way; I followed with complete trust. Inside my sanctuary, the lights off, he made his way around the room, lighting candles as I put on some music. We met in the middle of the room and embraced again. This was our night to join together in a holy, transcendent union. This was the quintessential union of man and woman, of masculine and feminine energies, of yin and yang. This was the universe revealing itself, creationism and evolution coming together in the ultimate expression.

He laid me on the bed and untied my sarong; he unbuttoned my blouse and slid it off my body. Pulling his locs up and securing them atop his head, he began to make a feast of my body. Slowly, methodically, he used his mouth to lick, suck, taste, and kiss every inch of my body. His lips gently explored the inside of my elbow and his tongue made sensual love to my belly button. As ticklish as I am, I couldn’t stop squirming and giggling. It made me more at ease; I was able to laugh and enjoy every delicious second of his seduction. Charles’ hands explored my curves and with each passing caress, with each tender stroke, I became more and more aroused. I responded to each touch with a moan, a guttural groan, and a heavy sigh. My skin tingled under the manipulations of his fingertips.

Just when I thought I was at the very limit of my arousal, when I thought I could take not one more millisecond of stimulation, Charles decided he was going to up the stakes. Standing, he removed his clothing and stood beautifully naked and erect before me. Without using words, he used his eyes alone to instruct me to spread my legs. I arched my back and did as I was “told” sliding my hands down my body, teasing him seductively. The candlelight bathed his silhouette beautifully, creating shadows and light on his golden skin. I was beyond aroused; each and every one of my senses was stimulated and heightened. My mouth watered staring at him; I wanted to explore his body with my mouth the way he had done with mine but Charles had other plans.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for this moment from the day we met. I need to feel you explode in my mouth. I want to give you pleasure untold and drink freely from your center.” I slid my finger between my engorged lips, brought my finger to my lips and seductively sucked it, tasting my slippery, sweet juices. He took his time, positioning himself so that he was comfortable between my legs. He wasn’t one to be rushed. At first, he just stared at me, taking in every detail of my sacred sex. He spread my lips and studied my clit and lips like a painter studies his subject. He inhaled deeply my fragrance, intoxicated by my personal aroma. Then, only after he had taken in every detail, memorized my every contour to memory, he closed his eyes and softly, gently, lowered his mouth to my flesh. I let out a sound that was otherworldly. Bliss consumed every pore in my body. He tasted, licked, sucked, and kissed me, building my passion, raising my energy up my chakras. I wrapped my legs around his head and grabbed a handful of locs. I was nearing the point of no return. My muscles tightened and my orgasm was eminent. Charles was a man on a mission. He used his fingers to penetrate my holes and his mouth to gently, rhythmically suck my clit. Unable to hold off any longer, I released my cum into his mouth. I shook and trembled with ecstasy but that was not he signal to stop. He wanted my orgasm to unfold against itself, to replicate like a strand of DNA.

Trembling and shaking, I felt intoxicated with pleasure. I was beyond wet; I had soaked the sheets with my juices. Taking his true place between my legs, he positioned himself to penetrate me for the very first time. I wanted to speak words in the moment but none came. Our communication was cellular. I felt him enter me and he took my breath away. I met each thrust and he maintained eye contact with me intensely. I could see concentration on his face but I could tell that he was experiencing intense pleasure as well. He stroked deep and hard, my juices coating him, our bodies sweating, moving in time. We made love, he made loved to me more intensely, more passionately than I’d ever experienced before in my life.

When he was on the verge of erupting, he flipped me over, he entered me from behind, filling the room with the sounds of our bodies colliding as he made love to me like a man on a mission. My orgasms outnumbered his at this point by about five or six to none and he wasn’t even close to finishing. I grabbed the sheets and met his every thrust. I think I might have passed out from pleasure, or at the very least, I was delirious with satisfaction. Four positions later, I was no longer able to keep track of my orgasms. Finally, he laid his body on mine and, almost imperceptibly, I felt his penis throbbing and pulsating within the warm, wet, velvety walls of my vagina. Our eyes held each other’s gaze, we kissed; we were connected body, mind, and soul. In that moment, I felt his body tense and he arched his back and buried himself deeply inside me. I joined with him, releasing my energy into him as I exploded in what was more than sexual ecstasy, it was spiritual bliss. We had made it to a new place in our relationship, and at last, I had released all the pain and negativity that had kept me from experiencing true and abiding love.

Copyright 2010 Scottie Lowe All Rights Reserved