Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Dark, Sweet Knight
Dear, delicious, sweet, chocolate
warrior. One thing we need to work on is redefining how you function,
operate, and communicate with me. I
don't need a sub to yes Ma'am me to death.
You are a Black man, you carry the weight and responsibility of being
the most revered, feared person on the planet.
You are strong, wise, noble, altogether brilliant and beautiful. That should come across in every word you
utter, every minute of the day, in my presence and out. I don't want a weak, sniveling submissive
Black man who doesn't have a mind of his own, who can't answer a question, who
wants to relinquish all his thoughts and preferences. Your role on earth is of the mighty African
warrior. You can never forget that, you
must never carry yourself as less than that.
Rather than being my bitch or my
submissive, perhaps you can be my knight.
A knight's responsibility and duty is to protect and serve his
Queen. A knight is strong, valiant, and
chivalrous. A knight considers it an
honor to ensure that the Queen is pleased.
The queen doesn't look at the knight as lowly and worthless but as a
trusted warrior, soldier, protector, and servant. A knight follows all the commands he is given
without question or hesitation but he is smart, witty, and resourceful. Certainly, there are no limits to what he would
do to please his Queen. Behind closed
doors, in the dark of night, he would bow to her, kiss her feet, show his
devotion, and perform any task she desired.
I think you shall be my knight and I your queen. That feels much better to me than being my submissive.
Of course, behind closed door, I
will use you in every delicious, nasty, perverted way possible. Behind closed doors, I will be your Mistress
and your Master, your Mommy and your Daddy.
I will be your teacher, your guide, your disciplinarian, and your
lover. I will keep you horny and
aroused, I will allow you to be the filthy slut you long to be. You will beg and plead with me for release,
for more stimulation. I will be the
center of your universe and I will use you to please me, entertain me, and
serve me in any way I see fit. I will
make you into my footstool, masseuse, dildo, and
plaything. You'll serve anyone I tell
you to and do it with pride. You'll BEG
me to get fucked to satisfy your insatiable ass.
In public you will open my door,
pull out my chair, you will take my arm and lavish me with gifts and trinkets
to show your devotion. In private, you
will bathe my body, anoint me with oils and lotions and lick me until I explode
in your mouth. You will provide me with
endless hours of foreplay until I demand that you fuck me. Your pussy will be mine to use and fuck any
way I want, you will bend over, spread your legs or ride my strapon or the fake
dicks of my friends when I say the word.
That's if you want to belong to me.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Monday, May 07, 2012
Having a Pussy is NOT a Job
There seems to be this thought
process, this commonly-held belief that being a woman, that having a pussy is
some sort of form of employment, that a vagina is a commodity men must purchase
in order to be able to enjoy it, that sex is a business. I’m here to say that while that’s what a
pussy might have become in this patriarchal, misogynist, sexist, oppressive
society, I’m here to boldly declare that having a pussy is not a job.
I’ve heard and witnessed several
conversations, exchanges, diatribes, monologues, and debates as of late where
this notion that women who are not “selling it” are disadvantaged. Supposedly, the poor, unfortunate women who not
selling pussy are bitter and angry because they are not getting paid for what
other women are profiting from. There
seems to be this deluded notion that a woman’s role in life is to please a man
and that he must pay for that right. When
you have a society based on the concept that God is a man and he created woman
for man, you will forever had a warped perception of what a woman is supposed
to be. People will even tell you that
selling pussy is the oldest profession, that women were selling pussy long
before any other sorts of business transactions were being made. That is absurd. Sex was for procreation. Sex was for recreation. Sex was for meditative, transcendent pleasure. Sex was not for purchase until men decided
that they needed to find a way to control women, to harness women’s power, to
deny them pleasure. Let me tell you
something here and now, as long as men and women believe this lie, as long as
women are seeing their pussies as something of value that men can purchase, intimate,
healthy relationships are going to suffer the consequences of such warped
beliefs.
A woman’s body was not ever
intended to be something to be purchased.
I’m here to boldly declare that having a pussy is a privilege, an
awesome responsibility, at times a burden, but it is not now, nor was it ever
intended to be way to make money. Women
give birth; we are the victims of rape, molestation, and abuse. We are used for
no other reason than we can provide men carnal pleasure. Capitalism, money,
business are all man-made concepts, and rather warped concepts spiritually. When you pay for something you own it and no
man should ever be able to say that he owns a woman’s most sacred space. Women who sell pussy are not empowered, they
are pawns in the game that men control.
Ultimately, it’s men who determine their worth. Women have to meet the impossibly high
standards of men’s tiny definition of beauty and femininity to be considered valuable. Women who sell pussy are dependent upon men
for their sense of self worth. When the
men stop paying for it, where does she turn to find her value? Caring for a man and pleasing him is not a
woman’s responsibility in life, it’s her choice to do so when she finds a
partner who values and pleases her.
I’m here to say that as a woman
who has NEVER sold her pussy, not once, not for a car note, not for a rent
payment, not for any dollar amount, I don’t feel bitter or angry at the women
who are selling it. I have never had sex
unless it was for love or lust and I’m perfectly fine with that. I know that my mind and my heart are my
greatest assets, that I don’t need a man to validate my worth. I know that I’m not an object to be purchased
and replaced by some man who is going to buy me like he buys the next woman who
gets his dick hard. I know that I was
not created to serve a man, to cater to his whims, I know that my job as wife/lover
is not to “make it hot for my husband.”
My job as a partner and lover and spouse is to support my husband as he
supports me. It’s not a one-sided transaction
where he fills his lust because he’s been out all day making money and I’m
supposed to be at home fixing dinner and cleaning the house to keep him happy. Sex, either in marriage or without, should
never be about money. It cheapens the
value of women when they sell it and it warps the minds of men who pay for it because
they think that women are items to be bought and sold. Sex should be about intimacy, passion, lust,
pleasure, communication, prayer. Sex
should be about sharing time and energy with the person you love. When sex becomes a bargaining chip, a service
rendered for a payment, a chore or duty for which compensation is required,
then sex itself becomes vulgar. And as
hard as it is for some men to believe, every woman does not sell her pussy,
whether it’s for dinner or in marriage.
Many do. Maybe most have been
conditioned to think of their pussies as for sale.
Women, empower yourself. Redefine yourself. You are not worth whatever a man will pay for
you, you are priceless. Your value is
not in the number of designer shoes you own or the car you drive or being able
to pay your bills because you can give great head. You were not put on earth to be the mistress,
maid, or cook for men. Your role as a
woman is not to stand behind a man but to stand beside him, to build with him,
not do his bidding. Ask yourself how
much a man is willing to pay for your goods and services and then multiply that
times a number so large you can’t comprehend it to know your true worth. Men, you will forever be emotionally stunted
and immature as long as you think pussy has a price tag. See a woman’s value in her integrity, her
character, her intellect, not in the fat, wetness between her legs. You are perpetrators of the most heinous
behavior when you pay for that which is supposed to be sacred and
worshipped.
Copyright 2012 Scottie Lowe
AfroerotiK
Saturday, May 05, 2012
The love I share is with a Black man.
The love I share is with a Black man. A strong, beautiful, talented, intelligent,
wonderful, Black man. Not just as in the
color of his skin, but Black in his heart: proud, confident, and secure. A man that knows that keeping it real does
not mean getting blunted or that he is a nigga.
He strives for excellence and looks to lift up and enlighten others
along the way. The Black man I love is
my friend, my lover, my partner, my advocate and the father of my Black
children.
I believe in him and he believes in me. I never have to ask, “Do you love me?”
because the evidence is there is word and in deed. Every morning we get up and share time with
one another. Sometimes we shower
together, bathing in the closeness and love that we share. Other times we make love until we are both
late for work. It’s passionate and
fulfilling, not borne of a morning hard on, but of genuine passion and
respect. The time we spend together in the
morning makes it easier to face the petty annoyances of the day. I can reflect on his love and nothing seems
to bother me. I can face every challenge
assured. Assured that he will never call
me a bitch or raise his hand to me.
Assured that the first woman with a big butt and no panties won’t lure
him away. Assured that our fights will
not be with each other, but against racial and societal ills. I’m assured that we are fighting for a future
together.
Do I love my Black man? More than words can say. When I speak of him, my eyes light up and I
tell everybody about his talents, abilities and accomplishments. (He gets so embarrassed sometimes.) And I show him I love him every chance I
get. My love is there for the long haul,
I’m down for whatever. I’ll stand beside
my man ready to face any challenge given to us.
Why do I love my Black man? When I’m afraid, he doesn’t make me feel
inferior, he allows me to cry. When I
succeed, he doesn’t feel threatened, he rejoices in my accomplishments. He deals with my faults and
shortcomings. I’m not perfect but he
thinks I am perfect for him. He helps me to be a better person. He doesn’t put undue pressure on me to be
Superwoman: holding down a job, fixing dinner in high heels and a tight dress,
ready to suck his dick and spread my legs, right after I do the laundry and put
the kids to bed. When I feel down, who
do you think is my biggest cheerleader?
He stays awake through the entire ballet, and he only complains a
little. That’s OK, I make sandwiches and
snacks for him during the game, cause that’s what makes him happy.
Our time alone together is just that, alone. Away from the pressures of a day to day
existence. Words are not necessary. Our deepest communication is nonverbal. Our dreams are the same, our hearts beat in
the same rhythm. It’s a good thing we
get to spend time apart occasionally.
When I’m away on business or he’s having a boy’s weekend, we get a
chance to reflect on how much we mean to one another. There is never any insecurity or jealousy
between us. I smile when I see his head
turn at the sight of a beautiful Black woman.
He jumps to the defense of sisters when they are being dissed by less
enlightened men. He takes the time to
spend with young brothers, providing a positive role model for them to aspire
to. How could I not love this man?
And just when you think things can’t get any
better. He gives me that long, hard,
hot, wet, sticky, Black love. He eats my
pussy till my eyes are rolling back in my head and I’m babbling incoherently.
We have made love for days at a time, only stopping to open the door for the
Chinese food deliveryman and wash off a healthy sheen of “love.” I can share any erotic fantasy with him and
know that I’m not going to be ridiculed or shamed. He takes the time to make every time special:
music, candlelight, poetry (his own). I
get wet just thinking about him.
Sometimes problems do arise. We face them as a challenge to greater
heights of understanding. We hardly
fight, we playfully disagree, and if I have to pick up one more pair of dirty
socks……Yeah, he works my nerves once in a while, but I never forget that I love
him, nor that he loves me. His family is
mine, mine has become his. Our children,
planned and beautiful, created or adopted, are reflections of our love. My eyes fill with tears sometimes when I see
him reading them a bedtime story or giving them a bath. Our sons, respecters of Black women, are
political, street smart and fine. Our
daughters not dictated to by any stereotype, have beauty and charm as well as
intellect and ambition.
Most importantly, I share my love of God with my
Black man. Every morning, every night,
we thank God for the blessings we have received. We worship, meditate and pray together. Our
relationship to God defies traditional definition. We make God first in our lives. We face the world knowing that our love is a
Divine gift from God.