Defining AfroerotiK

Apparently, some people are under the impression that AfroerotiK is a porn blog and thus should be limited to “freaky stuff” and not social commentary or discussion of socio-political issues.  Let me explain a few things.  First and foremost, AfroerotiK is a brand, not a blog.  It is a complex, sophisticated, unapologetic resource/outlet where people of African descent can come for validation of our unique identity and culture, for refuge from the daily beat down of racism that we must endure, a place to come for education, enlightenment, and most importantly, for sexual arousal.   It is about our role in a racist society that demeans us, degrades us, and murders with impunity us without even the tiniest consideration for our humanity.  AfroerotiK’s intent is to explore all facets of Black culture, not just our sexuality, with the hopes that understanding our history, our culture, how we are perceived in the world, and how all of these things work towards how we perceive ourselves has much larger implication of how we function in our intimate relationships.  Only addressing sexuality without all the contributing factors that have led to the formation of our collective consciousness and identities would be an exercise in futility. 

AfroerotiK produces erotica, not pornography.  Just because people don’t know the difference between porn and erotica does not make them the same.  Moreover, it does not make AfroerotiK pornographic in any way, shape or form.  Erotica is any artistic work that deals with a sexually arousing subject matter.  The key word is artistic. I get that many people don’t understand the concept of what artistic means because creativity and art died a painful, slow, and tragic death many years ago. Erotica does not mean selfies taken with your cell phone.  That does not mean a picture taken of a woman’s labia, buttocks, breasts, anus, clitoris, and/or cervix in disgustingly close up range.  It does not mean a photographer merely taking pictures of two people having sex.  Erotica does not mean pictures of very attractive women in sexually suggestive poses.  (That’s objectification but that’s another lesson for another day).  Erotica is art that incorporates the construction of images that will leave you feeling the connection between the participants. AfroerotiK images are not about just looking at naked people engaged in a sex act but it’s a beacon of eroticism and sensuality that is evolved from porn, it’s exactly they want I want to feel in the arms of my lover. 

In the past decade and a half, Black erotic stories have become mainstream reading, on everyone’s bookshelf and nightstand.  Unfortunately, it’s termed literature but it’s nothing even close.  Contrary to popular belief, erotica is NOT a barely-literate short story with the words dick, fuck, suck, and pussy in it written at a fourth grade level about a pathetically stereotypical and urban storyline.  That’s not art, that’s commercially produced crap whose sole purpose is to keep the Black masses anesthetized and complacent with stupidity.  We are so desperate to see ourselves depicted in our own media that we’ve lowered the standards of even basic literacy.  We are reading tales of baby mams and jail house visits and adultery and getting aroused because they use scintillating words, never understanding that those unhealthy messages are being imprinted on our subconscious minds with our arousal.  “They” want us to read stories that make sure us glorify rappers and basketball players and drug dealers because they want to keep us oppressed and seeking unattainable and unhealthy goals.  Those stories are pornography in written form, no different than the billions of videos available online to that show us in the worst possible light.   Just as we are more than the sum of our bodies parts we are more than the same tired and ghetto story. 

                                                                                      

AfroerotiK’s primary product, if you will, is erotic stories. Many people don’t know that. There are over 300 erotic stories, “poetic” pieces, scripts, and erotic shorts in the AfroerotiK library.  With very few exceptions, and there are some that do not, they provide a lesson, a model of healthy behavior, they paint a picture of sensuality and passion and love (yeah, that’s a bad word these days) for Black folks to see, absorb, learn, discuss, and enjoy.  They are pieces of literature.  They are grammatically correct, they utilize vocabulary that is above a fourth grade level, and they show all facets of Black life, not just the urban/ghetto clichés.  Because they use correct English does not mean that they are less authentically Black however.  They tell complex stories of the various tapestries of Black life without ever ascribing to a notion that says that our lives and our identities have less value if we aren’t chasing the capitalist dreams of our oppressor.  They are stories of unapologetic blackness, meaning there is far more than just a simple plot with no real substance that leads to vanilla sex, they are celebrations of our struggles and our triumphs as people of color in a world not created for us. 

There are, however, some AfroerotiK shorts that were written expressly to tease and tempt people of other races to explore my work further.  At face value, they might seem like just crass and pornographic bits of a story but they were crafted specifically to appeal to the triggers of those who lust after black sexuality in private but who have never taken the opportunity to understand that we are more than a race of sexual savages and to be exposed to facet of our lives that they would not see in porn or reality shows.  There is a method to my madness.  Just as a fisherman uses bait to hook the big fish, I lure people of other ethnicities to my work by enticing them with the keywords that arouse them and then I hit them with unique stories, often times that don’t even include them, and I keep them in an aroused state so that they might see our humanity, that their brains might be reprogrammed to view us as more than objects.  It’s taking what the powers that be do and flipping the script and using the technique to educate those who would only see us as a fetish.  Pretty ingenious, right? 

I am very proud of the fact that before I started AfroerotiK in 2004, there were NO Black erotic images on the net and now Black erotica is a photographic genre.  It’s a small one, but it exists.  There did exist several collections of artistic nudes before AfroerotiK, a different genre altogether that is comprised of models in extreme and contrived poses that highlight their nude bodies but not really a representation of a sexual act.  And, of course, there was porn, with nothing but oiled booties of Black women and models straight from the hood looking to get paid for having sex.  Today, artists and photographers have stepped up to the plate and started creating breathtaking images of Black couples engaged in stimulating scenarios. 

Look for emotion in every AfroerotiK image you see.  Look for connection, intimacy, and passion.  AfroerotiK set the bar for Black erotica and it is high.  All AfroerotiK images are of couples.  It was precisely because there were no Black erotic images that I had to start creating my own.  The goal of every AfroerotiK image is for the viewer to feel as if they opened the door and caught two people in the middle of intense love-making.  Models were selected and used to represent all facets of Black America, not just the ones with the least melanin and the most European standards of beauty.  Each shot was carefully thought out in terms of composition, lighting, angle, framing, background and each shot is artistic, not just clicking away trying to catch a good shot.  While editing is done on the images, it’s not to erase imperfections, because real women with stretch marks and cellulite are deserving of pleasure as much as the size 8 surgically-enhanced and sculpted black Barbies are.  Black men with average sized genitalia should be able to see themselves represented as well and I made sure to choose male models based on their cooperativeness, not penis size.  AfroerotiK is for everyone.   Young, old, big, small, light, dark, everybody gets a shot at seeing themselves as sensual. 

AfroerotiK images depict every sexual orientation.  It has from day one, it will continue to do so unapologetically until the day it is no longer in existence.  Every single person of African descent deserves to see themselves in a healthy, erotic light.  The LGBT community is as deserving of seeing themselves in beautiful images as heterosexuals are.  More so in fact because so many degrading and uninformed opinions exist about any form of sexuality that isn’t normative.  (Shout out to the trans community.  I haven’t gotten the opportunity to shoot any images of you yet but they are coming, I promise.  It’s a priority.)  That offends some people.  I’m perfectly fine with that.  I’m not going to cater or pander to those who are too immature to comprehend that sexuality is complex and flexible and not one narrow, oppressive definition that is based on patriarchy, misogyny, and sexism.  The gay community deserves to have a voice in our liberation and they deserve to be showcased as sensual, beautiful, and erotic, not ghetto thugs, fetishes, or objects of dysfunctional down low lust. 

AfroerotiK is the very definition of old-school feminist.  Old-school feminism is vastly different than this new wave of feminism that is about conforming to and complying with sexist definitions of what makes a woman attractive and calling it empowering.  You will not see women dressed up in constricting, uncomfortable lingerie and outrageously high heels in order to appeal to men’s definition of attractiveness.  You will not see women overly-made up either.  Every woman wants to feel attractive and we use the tools available to us to do that.  That includes makeup.  But we cannot allow ourselves to be defined by perfection or standards that are impossible if not impractical to achieve.  Your hair doesn’t have to be done every minute of every day in order for you to feel sexy and desirable.  Your fingernails and toenails don’t have to have matching polish in order for you to have value as a woman.  And you don’t have to hide, pretend, deny, or regret your choices in the bedroom or your beautiful imperfections. 

TRUE empowerment does not mean that you jump in and out of bed with anyone, not respecting that there are very real and often times dire consequences to having multiple partners.  Empowerment means you make informed, intelligent, conscious choices in your partners that are not based on manipulation, getting something in exchange for sex, cheating, lying, or having sex with someone without even knowing anything other than their Instagram name.  AfroerotiK feminism is not just for women.  AfroerotiK wants to insure that Black men are evolving, seeing women as complex human being, not just holes to fuck.  AfroerotiK is providing a framework where brothas evolve emotionally and sexually to honor relationships, not just sex.  Men can be feminists; because feminist doesn’t mean feminine.  Black men need to see women as complements, not adversaries. 

Women have been led to believe that ANYTHING a woman does is empowering, even if and especially if it’s degrading to herself.  In AfroerotiK artforms, you will never see a Black woman being called a bitch, a ho, a slut, or any other degrading name.  You will never see a Black woman depicted being slapped, choked, spit on, or otherwise used by men for their sole pleasure.  Yes, I understand completely that many sistas enjoy being called degrading names, that they experience pain as pleasure, and they have no issue with being spit on or used by men, multiple men in fact.  I also get that there is a growing movement for Black women to “own” their abuse by choosing to be sexually submissive to men as a way of controlling the fact that we have been raped, molested, and beaten by the men in our lives at every stage in our development.  Luckily for them, there are bajillions of outlets for them to find arousal on the net.  AfroerotiK is not one of those places however. 

OK, you say, but you have read plenty of AfroerotiK stories in which white people were called degrading names, where they were beaten and slapped and choked.  Very true.  The difference being, white people have 10 billion other outlets where they can find images of themselves as being virtuous, being desired, being depicted as the most attractive people on the planet.  Black people don’t.  We only have AfroerotiK where I work diligently to create images of us that make us the heroes, that make us the morally superior and advanced, like they’ve seen themselves depicted for 1000s of years.  AfroerotiK is not now, has never been, will never be for white people to see themselves in a healthy, erotic light.  The purpose of AfroerotiK’s interracial stories is for white people to address race and racism in ways that they’ve never done before.  It’s to show them that we are not things for them to use to get their jungle fever fix.  Every interracial story I write exposes white people to our complexity and our humanity.  They may be lured to my stories because of their interracial fetish but they are going to leave having digested much more than that. 

AfroerotiK was created for Black women, like me, who want to be valued, treasured, seduced, romanced, and loved.  AfroerotiK is for women who don’t want to be objects but rather seen as and treated like real human beings with multifaceted needs and desires.  AfroerotiK is certainly not softcore however.  It is for women who want commitment, who want equal partners who are willing to communicate and build based on a desire to see their relationships flourish and grow and evolve.  Basically, I started AfroerotiK because there was nothing that spoke to me as an African-centered, highly-educated, multi-dimensional woman.  I wanted to see nappy women being sexual, I NEEDED to see older women taking control of their sexuality and not being led by shame or guilt that we grew up on.  I wanted to see women who weren’t conforming to European standards of beauty and who weren’t attracted to the pathetic archetype of Black men that is ever-present that is little more than a dog standing upright.  AfroerotiK explores every consensual fantasy possible, some taboo, some extreme, all intense and all with the express purpose of depicting our collective enlightenment through our sensuality.  We have embraced dysfunction, we have internalized our own oppression.  We rationalize that our unhealthy behaviors are inherent to us, not borne of a system of racism.  Look for the lesson in every story; look for black history, examination of our roles in larger society, look for the evolution of the characters from flawed but healthy to slightly less flawed and infinitely sexy. 

Sexuality is not bad, dirty, shameful or wrong.  Not every expression of our sexuality is healthy however.  That message, unfortunately, has been lost amidst the din and the noise of validating patriarchy, under this new guise of feminism masquerading as empowerment.  Rather than women making smarter, more informed choices about their sexuality, their partners and practices, and their behaviors, they have been programmed to believe that equality is to be found replicating men’s unhealthy, dysfunctional, detrimental sexual patterns.  Logic and reason are things of the past.  They have been replaced with arrogance and egotism at the mere mention that some of women’s behaviors are simply not wise.  Yes, women have a right to walk naked down the street if they want.  You also have a right to leave your car running with the doors unlocked too but that’s just not a smart choice.  We have failed to teach young women that they can make intelligent, informed choices, and while they might not be as fun as say, going to a college party and getting drunk off your ass and asking seven fraternity brothas to get you home safely because you lost your shirt in the wet t-shirt contest, they take into consideration that expecting a lion not to eat a baby gazelle left alone is not the smartest logic either.  Yessss, I get it.  If you don’t wear shorts that expose 3/4^ths of your ass cheeks, you are going to spontaneously combust into flames because any time the temperature is over 60 degrees wearing anything more than that is oppressive.  I   understand.  What I’d like young women to understand is that showing off every bump and curve doesn’t make you sexier, it merely advertises that you are insecure with the person on the inside so you have no choice but to highlight the packaging with the false hopes that some man will pick you above all the other women who have squeezed into impossibly small outfits. 

AfroerotiK women know that being sexy emanates from the inside and that it one’s attitude, that one’s integrity, one’s character and intellect is what makes them inherently attractive, not one’s hair, or the cost of one’s purse, and not the contest to see who can wear the least, show off the most, and who can pout their lips and gyrate like a porn star.  So while you are obsessing over your eyebrows being on fleek (which is not a real word and it’s indicative of a community obsessed with embracing ghetto mindsets as the norm) and your dress being short enough to leave bodily fluids on your chair when you sit down, AfroerotiK women are confident in the fact that they don’t have to be attractive to every single man under the sun in order to have value and worth in this world.  AfroerotiK women are comfortable with the fact that they can dress in appealing clothing but that it doesn’t have to conform to the teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy, teensie, weensie definition of what men think is hot in order for them to feel attractive.  That is not empowering.  That is not feminism.  That is conforming to patriarchy!  AfroerotiK women don’t feel a need to be sexy to all of society, just their partner with whom they have mutual love and respect.  The key word being mutual, with love being the cherry on top the sundae. 

AfroerotiK women understand that using men is unhealthy.  You cannot be upset that men are using you, treating you like an object and then turn around and use them and think that’s empowering.  It’s wrong regardless of gender. I know, that’s crazy, right?  Lying, manipulation, and cheating are wrong regardless of whether the person has a penis or a vagina!  Who knew?  Oh, emotionally mature people do.  AfroerotiK people do. 

Getting money for your sexuality is not empowering.  It is participating in the objectification of women. It’s reinforcing and validating to men that women are things to be bought and sold by men to be used and traded for a better model at their immature whim.  You devalue ALL women when you decide that your body has a price tag.   Oh dear God, I get that some woman’s studies professor told you that sex work was empowering and now, that is the rule, anyone who says anything different is trying to oppress you and slut shame you and they are evil and sexist.  Yes, yes, I get it.  I’ve been told to have two seats and shut the fuck up and I’ve been called everything but a child of God for suggesting that there is a better way than selling your body to some dude who does not give a half a fat fuck about you as a person and who only sees you as a hole to pump his sperm. 

If the man with whom you share your body is not going to fix you chicken soup when you are sick, if he’s not going to calm your fears with words of encouragement when you are scared, if he’s not going to love and support you and your growth as a human being for the UNIQUE individual you are, not just your pussy or ass or weave or your Loubutins, but for who you are and what you bring to the table, sweetness, that’s not empowering.  Empowerment comes from being selective with your partners and holding them to high standards, exacting standards that you demand from a partner, not handing out coochie to any Tom, Dick, or Harry every time you feel a tingle between your legs or when you need your car note paid.  Demand honesty.  Demand fidelity.  Demand respect and all the things you need in a relationship from whomever gets your juicy delight.  That is empowering!  Annnnnnnnnnnd queue the respectability politics police to scream that women can have casual sex all they want with anyone they want just to fill their sexual needs and that sex doesn’t have to be about antiquated love and romance.  Right, you sure can.  But there are consequences to replicating men’s unhealthy behaviors and they ain’t pretty, trust me on that. 

Take it from someone older and wiser and with many more years of experience and scar tissue on my heart. Learn from my mistakes. Your refusal to understand that communication, intimacy, respect, and cooperation should be at the foundation of your choices in partners, not who has the most money, or who is the most attractive, or who has the biggest dick, or even who is available to sex you up when you are in the mood is going to bite you in the ass when you get older.  I wouldn’t even be telling you this if I didn’t love young Black women and want the best for you all.  I don’t want you to end up alone, with your expensive things you’ve purchased from selling your body and no one to share them with because you haven’t been taught how to form a relationship, all you’ve been taught to do is lie, cheat, manipulate, and barter your body to the highest seller.  You’ve never been taught the skills necessary to form a healthy relationship so your plan, to just sell it when you’re young and stop when you’re 30 or so and settle down and get married, that ain’t going to work.  Why?  Because men aren’t going to want a woman to settle down with when you’ve been reinforcing and participating in them buying women like convenience store fuck holes.  I get that 10,000 YouTube videos say differently.  I get that the overwhelming belief is that anything a woman does with her body is empowering.  You don’t have to believe me, agree with me, or change your mind; you don’t have to waste your time or mine telling me how ignorant I am.  I’m working to provide a model of healthy relationships for people of African descent, giving our pathologies, our issues, and our challenges in a racist society.  Go on believing that degrading yourself is empowering if you so choose.  Fine with me. 

AfroerotiK is not just for women however.  I have been passionate and relentless in holding a mirror up to Black men’s collective unhealthy behaviors and trying to provide them a model that is healthier than the one-dimensional hyper-masculine caricature that they have become.  I’m educating men to see women as complete beings, not objects.  I’m educating men to be more honest with themselves and their partners so they don’t falsely believe that some women are for marrying and some are for sexing. I work hard trying to educate men and women, to liberate them from absurd ideas about sexuality that should have been left behind in the 1800s.  I’m ever amazed at how many people believe such silly concepts about sex when information is abundant.  It’s slow, arduous, tedious work because women are intent on countering every positive thing I teach men with their negative behaviors that reinforce to men that all men need to bring to the table is a wallet and a dick.  But with every AfroerotiK story, I expose men to a model of what it is to be an empowered man, making mature, intelligent, informed decisions about birth control, about the emotional bond that IS formed with the connection of two bodies, and about their confidence in their manhood has nothing to do with how they receive pleasure. 

AfroerotiK is not just stories or photography.  Well, AfroerotiK used to be a website, owned and solely operated by me.  I’ve had to shut down two different versions of the website: the first because it was hacked and destroyed by someone who didn’t want me spreading my messages of erotic enlightenment to the Black masses.  I’ve had more AfroerotiK social platforms shut down than I can count.  I think there have been three Facebook groups shut down alone.  But I keep coming back and I won’t stop until I accomplish my mission of providing a framework for people of African descent to use in helping them construct healthier relationships.  The ability of a race to survive depends upon our intimate relationships: without ourselves, with our partners, with our families and communities, and with the people who would prefer to see our demise.  The second version of the AfroerotiK website had to be shut down because it was costing me more than I was making.  Never fear, AfroerotiK is not going anywhere.  It’s going to continue to grow and evolve.  I fully intend for my future book, In Loving Color, to have a great impact and scope than 50 Shades of (poorly written) Gray.  AfroerotiK will continue to be founded on breathtaking images and compelling stories and it will also shares podcasts, events, music, and . . . VIDEO.  That’s right.  I have plans for an extensive video venture that showcases our beauty and complexity.   All the steps I’ve made on my journey, all the perfectly-guided missteps, still have me headed to creating a shift in consciousness for me people that allows us to be more holistic, self-aware, and enlightened.  Can’t nobody hold me down. 

Copyright 2016 AfroerotiK  All rights reserved 

Interracial Domination Duo

Andre West fidgeted in his car seat.  “OK,” he whispered into his watch, like it was a spy gadget from a James Bond movie, “the time is 17:30 hours and I’ve been surveilling the unknown address for two hours with no sign of any movement other than the mailman leaving a package.”  Did it matter that he didn’t have a smart watch recording him, that his watch was a decade old Timex that only told time?  Ehhh, not so much.  Clearly, he was going a little loopy with no one to talk to and trying his best to stay under the radar slouched down in the back seat of his Tahoe.  He wasn’t a private eye or a police detective on a case, he was a man on a mission to get some answers.  He had been dating an amazing woman named Asali Attison for 6 months.  They were in love by all reasonable measures.  The problem was, she was still being distant and guarded.  Normally, any two people with that much in common, who had amazing, mind-blowing sex, who were interested in a long-term commitment with each other wanted to spend every waking moment with each other.  Asali was being secretive.  For no discernable reason whatsoever, she wanted “space.”  On the nights they didn’t spend together, she would very often rush off the phone and he could tell there was something just not right. 

A decade or so ago, Andre might have had to just settle for her answer that she just wanted time alone but Andre had the internet.  He did a background check on her and found out that she had two addresses listed in Dallas.  He had been to her loft plenty of times.  This other address, the one he had been camped out in front of for a couple of hours was a condo she had never even mentioned.  It’s a good thing he had tinted windows because a Black man in a strange neighborhood sitting in his car for any length of time was enough to cause his name to become a hashtag.  He was stealth.  He had an empty Big Gulp cup with a very secure lid just in case he had to pee and he made sure he was dressed professionally so it would lessen the chances that someone might think he was some sort of thug and chase him through the neighborhood, you know, standing their ground.  Oddly enough, he saw some scraggly-looking white guy walk past a few times who looked like he could have been an extra on the set of Breaking Bad and none of the neighbors even raised an eyebrow.  Meanwhile, Andre made sure he wasn’t listening to hip-hop on his car radio, he had jazz playing very softly on his phone, and he had his driver’s license, registration, and car insurance cards on the front seat of the car so he wouldn’t have to reach in the glove box for them. Oh, the things Black men have to do in an average day to avoid getting shot. 

His time in the car was over as he saw Asali’s black Infinity pull into the parking space for the unit.  She got out, dressed like she had just come from the office, and sauntered in her confident, sexy way to the mailboxes and got her package.  Andre decided he was going to wait for her to get to the front door, with her key in the lock before he decided to approach her.  Just as he was about to open the door to his truck, a late model Honda Accord pulled up and parked in the second space for the unit.  Andre froze.  Of all the scenarios he had run in his head, Asali cheating was never one of them.  That’s what Andre kept telling himself, even as he saw a white man get out of the car and greet her on the walkway, open the door with his own set of keys and let her enter the unit first. 

To say that Andre was heartbroken was an understatement.  He took a few minutes to gather himself and fight back the tears.  If she had some sort of sugar daddy/jungle fever, she could go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200.  Steeling his nerves, he slammed the door of his truck a little too hard and blinked a few times to make sure that he didn’t have any tears in his eyes.  He knocked on the door with the force of someone who was not selling Girl Scout cookies. 

The white man answered.   His face showed signs of shock and fear.  “Andre!  I uhmmmmm.  Hold on, let me get her.” 

“Who the fuck are you and how the hell do you know my name?  Yeah, tell her to come to the door right now because I want some answers.”  Andre’s voice was getting a couple of octaves higher and he could feel his emotions boiling over.  The white guy left him standing outside.  He didn’t want to make a scene and have the police called so he waited patiently.  He loved Asali.  More than any woman he had ever loved before.  This was just not happening.  No fucking way. 

Dressed in a stunning red knit dress that hugged her body but that was still professional, she took his hand and pulled him inside.  “Sweetie, I am so sorry.  I can explain.”  In the seconds that had passed, it was clear there were tears in her eyes as well.  She stood still, waiting for him to say something.  Not letting go of his hand, she led him to the living room and motioned for him to sit down. 

“Todd, come here please.”  The white guy tentatively came out of what was surely a bedroom as the place was exquisitely decorated but very small.  The kitchen was a galley kitchen and there was a breakfast bar that appeared to serve as the dining room.  In the corner of the living room there was a desk with a desktop computer set up.  There was no TV and there didn’t seem to be any happy couple pictures of the two of them framed anywhere.  Andre was devastated but he waited for the explanation.    Todd, wearing the remnants of his business suit from work, stood silently,

“I didn’t know how to tell you and I realize now what a mistake it was to keep it from you and I’m so very sorry.  Andre this is Todd, Todd Wentley.” 

“Really?  This dude?  You are fucking around on me with him?  I’m outta here.”  Andre was emotional and irrational.  He got up and Asali cut him off.

“Noooo, it’s not like that.  It’s . . . it’s complicated.  Let me explain.”  They sat down on the sofa again, this time, her soft hand covered his.  He wanted to pull away he was so disgusted but the part of his brain that adored her wanted this to be all a joke, a terrible, horrible, unbelievable, complex joke where cameras were going to pop out and let him know that he was being pranked.  She continued.  “I know I should have told you when we first started getting serious but there just didn’t seem like a good time.  And after a while, I realized that I should have told you in the beginning and then I was just ashamed and embarrassed by the whole situation.  I didn’t want to lose you and I wasn’t ready to give up Todd.” 

“Oh hell no!  I swear to God if you tell me that you love this dude I will lose my mind.  Him?  Get the fuck outta here!  If you want him, you can have him!”  He pulled his hand away, devastated. 

“Andre!  Stop!  It’s not like that.  I own him.  He belongs to me.”    The room fell silent. 

The look of confusion on Andre’s face was apparent.  He sat back down this time and he collected his thoughts for a moment.  The silence was deafening but Asali knew him well enough to let him have his space to process.  He was aware that she had been a Domme and had dominated white men in the past but he thought that it was just that . . . in the past.  Not once did they ever have a conversation about it being in the present.  Andre was still shaky but he needed details.  He couldn’t even fully pay attention; in his head he was trying to figure out how they could go back to the way things were 2 days ago, before he even had a clue that there was a secret love nest. 

He took a couple of deep breaths and he queried.  “So, this guy is so important to you that you would rather risk our relationship than let him go?  Is that how it is?  I cut off all my previous relationships when we fell in love.”  The word love sounded flat and empty to him as it left his lips. 

“Listen, it’s not how it seems.  I’ve invested a lot of time and energy into him.  I’ve created him to be exactly what I want and need and he’s . . . he’s exceptional.  He’s just too valuable an asset to just throw away.”

Andre was incensed!  “This dude?  You’re telling me that this white man satisfies you sexually so much so that . . . I’m going to be sick.  Where’s the bathroom?”  Andre’s whole world was turning upside down and inside out.  

“Stop it!  Andre!  You have to calm down. Tell him, Todd, tell him what you do for a living.” 

Todd spoke up softly, trying to help ease the tension in the room.  “I work as the Director of Social Media for the Dallas Police Department.  Well, that’s my official title.  In actuality, in secret, I function as a liaison between the media and the community to hold the police accountable when I can verify that they are doing something racist or that there are suspicious circumstances surrounding any incident that involves race that they might try to cover up.” 

“Right,” Andre interjected, “I’m supposed to believe that whitey here is champion for the oppressed black man.  Give me two fucking breaks.  This bitch doesn’t even know what racism means, let alone can he do anything about it.  He sold you a bill of goods.  What he really means is he deletes comments from their Facebook page that the police don’t like.  That’s his damn job.  And how the hell did you get that fucking job in the first place Mr. Black Lives Matter?” 

Both Asali and Todd smiled.  “Well, I got him the job.  He got a divorce slightly after I met him and he needed a fresh start so he moved from Seattle to Dallas and let’s just say I know people who got him the job.  People with secrets.  People in positions of power who don’t want their secrets told so the job was created for him at my behest.  The fact that he is spying on the cops and making their questionable actions known to the press is our little secret.  I promise he’s legit.  You have to trust me.  Todd, tell Andre what racism means.” 

Todd didn’t even hesitate.  “Racism is NOT one race not liking another race. Racism is the historic, systematic, and institutionalized oppression of people of color by Caucasians in their efforts to perpetuate the fallacy of white supremacy in order for them to maintain the power structures that allow them to have social, economic, educational, financial, and vocational privileges. People of color cannot be racist. They can be bigoted, they can be biased, but they can't be racist. More importantly, even if Black people are bigoted, it does not hold the same weight, power, and privilege racist white people have.”  

He had Andre’s attention.  It took him a full minute to collect his thoughts enough to speak.  “OK, OK, so he can repeat what you taught him.  Good little monkey.  But that doesn’t mean that he is really champion for the Black race.  I’ve yet to meet a white man who . . .”

“Quiz him,” Asali interrupted.  “Pick a topic.  Any topic.  The Trans-Atlantic Slave trade.  The principles of Afrocentricity.  White privilege.  Slave mentality.  He’s read Asante, Akbar, Marimba Ani, he can quote John Henrik Clark.  He is not just a parrot that can repeat what I’ve told him.  I’ve trained him, I’ve shaped him, and I’ve educated him.  That’s what I meant by I said he’s far too exceptional to let go.   Let me explain, please.” 

Andre sat back on the sofa.  He was confused but he wanted some sort of explanation that made sense to him.   He nodded. 

“When I met Todd two years ago, the best he could do was say, ‘Racism isn’t fair.’  He was of the mindset that if it didn’t affect him personally, he didn’t have to think about race even though he has only been attracted to Black women for almost all his adult life.  I decided to manipulate his sexuality in order to refashion him into exactly what I wanted him to be.  I would restrain him, handcuff him to the bed and I would whisper in his ear.  I would stroke him, stroke his dick.  I would bring him to the brink of orgasm over and over and over again.  I reprogrammed his brain.  I took the things that he loved, things that aroused him like having his nipples stimulated and I would manipulate them for hours, all the while training and teaching him.  I associated his sexual pleasure with the things I wanted him to learn, the things I wanted him to become.  He would be out of his mind, crazed with lust, begging for release, and I transformed him into my perfect pet.  He will do anything I tell him to do, without question or hesitation.  He craves the things that turn me on; craves them as if his life depends on it.”

“You have sex with him?  Oh, hell no.  You have got to be fucking kidding me!” 

“No, no, no,” she interjected, “that’s not it at all.  He doesn’t really service me sexually, He has never in two years eaten my pussy.  He . . . well . . . he services . . . Black men for me.  I get off on watching him suck and get fucked.  He gets off on it.  It’s like I said, he craves it.”

“Oh, he’s gay?  Yeah, figures. White boys!” 

“Well, not exactly.  I suppose you could say that but it’s a lot more complex than that.  See, well . . .  let him explain it to you.” 

Todd spoke up in his defense again.  “I’m attracted to Black women.  I will always be attracted to Black women first and foremost.  That doesn’t mean my sexuality is singular however.  I’m not gay.  I’m not a sissy.  I don’t have a need to dress up as a woman to assume a submissive role, I would never demean women in that way.  I respect them too much to assert that wearing some heels and some makeup means that I am somehow transformed into a woman.  I’m not a woman, I’m a man who is submissive, I’m a man who is bisexual and I enjoy pleasing Black men and I don’t have to pretend to be forced in order to do it.   I love pleasing my Mistress and it gives me intense pleasure to feel a hard dick explode in my mouth or ass and know that I was able to do that.  I love pleasing Black men for her.  I love making her proud of me.  I experience pleasure from being penetrated, whether it is from her divine strapon, one of my toys, or if it is from one of her lovers.   I’m so very grateful that Mistress allows me release but I know that I will never be allowed to pleasure her sexually.  I know I’m not deserving of that honor.  That is purely the domain of the Black men she allows into her heart as lovers.”

Andre coughed and blinked.  He knew by now not to over-react and to just listen.  He was trying to process it all.  He continued looking around the small condo.  The bookshelves were packed with hundreds of books on black history, black psychology, and black culture.  There was no TV but he figured the computer could be used for streaming media.  The complex looked like it had been built in the 60s but the interior had clearly been updated with dark hardwood floors and a semi-open floorplan that would not have been the style a half a century ago.  Andre studied Todd, now sitting, who looked nervous but not overly so as he was clearly taking his cues from Asali.  In the average Black person’s lifetime they NEVER meet a white person who understands and is sympathetic to the issues of race so it would have been easier if someone handed Andre a piece of paper and said, “Here is a Chinese calculus problem solve for 近平”    

Todd continued.  “Eradicating racism has become my mission in life.  Whereas when I first met Mistress, I could distance myself from race, now it consumes every part of my life.  I attack racism online every chance I get knowing that for every one person I dismantle, there are thousands of other lurkers there reading and learning like I did.  I feel like it’s my place to use my energy to combat what my Mistress has had to endure every day of her life.” 

“Man, this is too much to handle.  I’m not sure I can understand everything that is being said.  I will give him credit for at least being more knowledgeable about racism than the vast majority of white people but you can’t seriously think that he . . . I mean come on . . . wait . . . what?  This is all so confusing.” 

Asali turned to him and lifted his face to hers.   “Beloved King.  I take full responsibility for your confusion because of my deception.  I knew from the minute I met you that I wanted you in my life.  I allowed my fears of rejection by you to keep this secret.   I was so ashamed of myself for what I considered cheating that I rationalized that I had to lie.  Trust me, if it had been any other sub, I would have dismissed them before you and I had our first kiss.  Todd is different.  Sweetie, he’s not just a mimicking what I tell him to say, however, he’s come up with his own theories of racism in his efforts to dismantle it.  I mean, he blew my mind with his concepts.  Honestly, you need to hear him out.”

Todd raised his eyebrow signaling he was asking Andre for permission to explain himself.  Andre flicked his hand in Todd’s general direction, indicating that he had the floor, he had better impress him.  “The way I see it, racism permeates every single solitary facet of our society.  There is not one single area where it doesn’t persist so white people as a rule can’t say, ‘I’m not racist, I wasn’t raised racist,’ and all the other rhetoric and clichés they spout when they are trying to silence people of color.  Our nation was built on the foundation of racism.  There has never been a point in our history, recent or distant, where whites have been forced to collectively address, acknowledge, or heal their racist beliefs so they persists like a cancer.  Every childhood book has whites as the heroes.  Every TV show shows whites as upstanding and virtuous and saving the day.  Magazines show people who look like me as the 100 most beautiful people in the world, the world where we only make up 10% of the population.  History books tell us that whites invented everything great when in actuality we stole everything great from people of color; violently stole I might add.  School districts are zoned so that whites get the best educations and Blacks get . . . well, you get the idea.   No white person can escape the breadth and depth of racism.  Racism is the default disease of our society and it has been since whites invaded, stole, and inhabited this nation.  Of course, racism had gone rampant and continues to do so with the advent of technology.  I’ve identified four very distinct classes of racism that persist in this country, and this country is vastly different than any other because of its history of slavery and the long-term effects that linger unaddressed.”

“First, there are the blatant racists.   They are the Klan members, the Neo-Nazi’s, the white supremacists.  They are the most vocal about hating Black people.  They will claim that they are white purists, trying to advance the cause of the white race.  They stay isolated from anyone different from themselves but if you go on their computer’s you will find gigabytes upon gigabytes of interracial porn.  Trust me, I’ve been in the crime lab when the techs go through their computers, I’ve seen time and time again that the most staunch racist will have thousands of files of interracial porn on their computers.  But no one tells you that.  That’s the secret that whites get to keep.” 

“The second group consists of the vast and overwhelming majority of white people in this country.  The members of the second group are equally as racist, but they are the most adamant that they are not.  They are the ones who troll African American websites telling Black people that they are racist.  They believe Blacks are inferior, and they defend whiteness at all costs.  They tell the racist jokes at work and get offended if someone catches them.  Talk about denial, their own children will be addicted to meth, heroin, and cocaine and they will swear that it’s only Blacks who are the criminals.  Just look at the internet, look at any porn site.  White people abound posting their videos of them doing depraved, perverted, extreme things yet white people will swear that Blacks are the sexual savages, driven by lust.  They feel entitled to everything, they think that the world owes them.  They come to the defense of any and every white person who is accused of being racist like they know them personally.  They swear racism doesn’t exist and but they will call a Black person racist in the blink of an eye.  Their mantra is, ‘Martin Luther King said,’ and they always have a Black “friend” who seems to cosign their racism.  They mimic conservative talk show hosts and media and they have never once challenged or questioned their own racism or beliefs about race.” 

“Group 2 not only watches interracial porn, they have all sorts of interracial sex in real life.  The white men are actively engaged with gay sex with Black men in percentages too staggering for my little mind to comprehend.  There are so many married white women having gangbangs in hotels with Black men they meet on craigslist it should be considered a national pastime.  My domain, where I came from, fetish and domination websites, they have millions of profiles with pictures with white men showing their faces proclaiming that they are submissive to the superior Black race.  But those same men have never once challenged their erroneous beliefs about Blacks.  They still hold on to the core racist beliefs that Black men are only as valuable as the inches between their legs, that Black women are ghetto hoochies and reality star drama queens.  The same white men who are sucking black dicks in glory holes and the back seat of their cars, who are pimping their wives out to Black men for unprotected sex, are the same ones in corporate boardrooms who are making deals that keep Black people disenfranchised and oppressed.” 

“The third group is where I fell when I first met Ma’am.  I was in the silent offenders.  I knew that Black lives mattered and that terrible racial injustice existed.  I knew that the hatred of Obama was because of his race but I didn’t have to think about it too much so I could be upset for the total amount of time it took me to read a news article and then compartmentalize it and put it away.  The third group of whites thinks racism is bad but they aren’t willing to do anything about it, they don’t want to rock the boat, so they are just as complicit as the first two categories.  The issue with the third group is that while they won’t burn a cross and they a have sincere desire not to be racist, they still are because you can’t be anti-racist until you study, until you learn, until you dismantle the fucked up baggage that we whites have inherited that tells us that the sun rises and sets around us.  That’s what I didn’t understand until I met Mistress.  She showed me that my apathy meant that I was contributing to the problem, that I was in fact, racist.  That’s the hardest thing for white people to hear.   There is no greater insult than to be called racist.” 

“The final group doesn’t even make up one half of one percent of the white population.  The last group are the true anti-racists who acknowledge that we have privileges based on our race and that history has been distorted to depict us as superior when we as a race have been guilty of the most heinous aggressions against people of color around the globe.  The last group has taken off our rose-colored glasses and we see the hypocrisy and irony of stealing land, enslaving people and then proclaiming yourself superior.  We, the last group, are truly the minority.  It’s my job as part of that minority to fight racism with every ounce of my being.  Ma’am taught me that.  ”

Andre’s jaw almost hit the floor.  He paused momentarily to collect his thoughts.  “Ain’t that some shit!  I’ve never even heard a black person explain it so succinctly before.  Is this for real?”  Asali and Todd both smiled.  “So wait a minute.  I’m willing to concede that this guy is on some new shit.  No doubt. But I’m still a little confused about the sucking and fucking part.  Don’t think I missed the part about him sucking your lovers off.  I know he hasn’t ever sucked my dick so whose dick is he sucking exactly?  You bring other men over here for him to screw while you watch?  Is that what you do on the nights you aren’t with me?” 

Asali could do nothing but apologize again.  It was her fault Andre had all these doubts and insecurities.  If she had been honest with him from the beginning none of this would be an issue right now.  She explained that they had not had anyone else involved in their play in almost a year.  She also explained that she felt a sense of obligation to Todd to him to keep him aroused so that he could continue to fight for justice both at work and at home because she didn’t feel that his efforts to put his life on the line to fight for equality should go unrewarded and she didn’t just want to release him from ownership. 

“On the nights I spend time with him, I usually let him sniff my pantyhose and massage my feet.   I might fuck him with a dildo or a strapon until he releases.  When I think he’s done a particularly good job at work, when he’s exposed something major, I will let him have my panties to sniff and lick while he masturbates.  I allow him to wear a butt plug when he’s at home and I keep him aroused with stories of how you fuck me. That’s how he knew exactly who you were when you knocked on the door.  He is allowed to fuck himself with toys and I even got a machine that I turn on really slowly and I keep him edging for a few hours while I tease him.  I’ve told him that I will allow him to see other Dommes and even date other women but he’s okay with the situation as it is.  Seeing as we are in full confession mode I have to tell you that it turns me on to get him in that sub space where he craves stimulation.  I do get aroused.  I make sure I release all that arousal allllll over you when we are together but Todd is not the only one getting pleasure from our little sessions.” 

Andre got up and walked around the small apartment.  He was trying to collect his thoughts.  Even though Todd had seen pictures of Andre seeing him in person was a little overwhelming in real life.  They made a beautiful couple.  The man pacing back and forth made love to the woman of his dreams, it was hard to wrap his mind around.  Todd felt something emotional welling up inside him but it wasn’t exactly jealousy.  It was pride.  There was joy in knowing that his Mistress was happy, that she had found someone so much like her that complimented her.    If there were any feelings of jealousy, it was in his desire to see what was beneath that dress shirt and slacks that fit his toned body. 

Andre cleared his throat.  “OK, how do you say it, full confession mode?   Alright, I have some confessing to do too.  I’ve been . . . there have been a few . . . I know some white guys who love to take a walk on the wild side, or the dark side if you will.   At every point in my life I’ve had white men trying to get in my pants.  When I was in college, the coach of the football team would bend over the desk and beg to get pounded.  Shit, my roommate sucked me off every night.  Whenever I’m single, I know I can always go online and within a few hours, meet up with some white guy who is willing to suck me off with no strings attached.  I used to know this couple and the guy wanted to watch while I fucked his wife but that didn’t do it for me so much.   Fucking white women is not that great compared to sistas.”

Todd chuckled, “Ain’t that right,” and they shared a bonding moment. 

“If I’m being fully honest,” Andre continued, “I love the power of having white men service me, bow to me.  I’ve often tried to do what you guys are doing here but on a much smaller scale.  I’ve tried to get white men to see my humanity, not objectify me when they are down there on their knees, sucking my dick.   I tell them about what it means to be a Black man, that it is much more than having a big dick, but I’ve never invested any time in them.  I’ve never wanted anything to do with them after I get my nut.  I’ve never met anyone like Todd though, that’s for sure.  It makes sense that I’m clearly not the only Black man being serviced by white men and I know it’s extremely prevalent I just never, I mean you just never hear anything about it in the media so it’s easy to believe that it’s isolated and rare if you don’t examine and think about it.”

In the blink of an eye, things went from zero to sixty.  Asali stood up and kissed Andre.  She was turned on by his revelations, by the ease with which he was able to share his history with her.  She was aroused because she had spent months fantasizing about him joining her and Todd and them dominating him together: she the psychological manipulatrix who was able to arouse him with just a whisper and Andre who was willing to lend his Hershey colored temple of perfection to be worshiped and adored while she watched.  This was her kinky dreams come true. 

She pulled away and turned her head to Todd.  “Todd, meet your new Daddy.”  Andre, still caught up in the rapture of her sweet, seductive kiss, squeezed her ass playfully, speaking in their non-verbal code that he was down for anything and everything that she had in mind.  He loved her.  He, like Todd, wanted anything that made her happy. 

Todd responded to the sound of Asali’s sexy voice like a Pavlovian dog, his breathing got quicker and the nerve endings in his body were on full alert and his mouth salivated.  He loved seeing her aroused. 

“Come with me,” she said and she pulled Andre along behind her as she went to the bedroom door.   She gave instructions before opening it.  “The rules are the same for you as they are for my sweet submissive.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, no always means no, and there are no judgements within these walls.” 

She probably had to explain those rules to the other people that entered the room but he and she had been lovers for a while, he understood her in all her complex and beguiling wonder.   He was trusting that she understood the reason for his deception was based on the same fear of rejection that she had had with him.  He was reasonably assured that she was not going to think less of him if he revealed a past that was not 100% what he had previously admitted to.  He had butterflies in his stomach but his hardening erection worked to distract him just a bit. 

Inside the room it was just as he had imagined.  There was a large, queen-sized bed on the right side of the room, clearing the way for the rest of the space that had sex toys and equipment set up all over.  There was what was the equivalent of a dog’s bed at the foot of the bed.  Andre pointed and asked, “Is that where you sleep?”

Todd shook his head no.  “I used to.  I mean, I would sleep there when Ma’am would sleep here or when we had company.  But she hasn’t slept her in a long time and Mistress told me that it was fine if I slept in the bed every night, that she didn’t mind.  She’s always been so thoughtful and generous that way.  It’s one of the reasons I fell in luuhhhhhvvv . . .” His words trailed off into the ethosphere.   He knew he had overstepped his boundaries.  Sure, he and Andre had bonded but his role was as a submissive, not a lover.  He never wanted his Queen to know that he loved her because he didn’t want her to be burdened with such unnecessary information.  She would never love him back and he knew it.  It was an unrequited love that tortured his every waking thought but it was also the same impetus to the sweet imprisonment of eternal servitude at the feet of the one he adored more than any other. 

Sensing his discomfort, Asali tilted his eyes towards her, lifting his chin with her finger.  “I’ve known you loved me from the day I told you that you belonged to me.  It was pretty easy to figure out.  Listen . . . I love you, too.  With that, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. 

Ten thousand volts of electricity shot through Todd’s body.  The world could end in that second and he would die the happiest man on earth.   He was in a daze.  He wasn’t even entirely sure what happened.  All he knew was his very next conscious experience was watching Asali and Andre making love on the bed in front of him.  He was nude, restrained in chastity, nipple clamps firmly in place, and one of his vibrating butt plugs was in his ass.  Asali had never had sex with anyone in front of him before.  It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.   

It was exactly as if Todd was living the experience through Andre, like their consciences got mixed up somehow and Todd could look down and see and feel what Andre was experiencing.   He could feel the warmth of her lips as he kissed them and the fullness of her magnificent breasts capped by protruding rock-hard nipples that were created to be sucked.  In the heat of the moment they changed bodies and Andre gifted him with the opportunity to experience Heaven on Earth.  Every thrust he gave her, burying his dick in the deep recesses of her exquisite universe, was him giving his heart his soul and his love and feeling her wet, hot, slippery, frothy love being given in return.  

Andre was purposed.  He had become masterful at reading Asali’s body and crafting his love-making around her responses.  Her moans told him everything he wanted to know in a covert code of grunts and groans that translated to how much pleasure she was experiencing.  Soft whimpers let him know that she was luxuriating in the sensations and wanted them to last as long as possible.  Loud breathing meant that she was climbing the ladder of ecstasy and craved more stimulation.  Feral, hedonistic grunts of un- intelligible origins signaled that she was in a primal state between the throes of pure, unadulterated pleasure and cosmic, orgasmic bliss. 

Asali rode him.  She rode him hard.  She was taking her own pleasure and nothing could stop her.  Todd stood mesmerized.  The room filled with the scent of her wet pussy and sweat and pheromones.  Breathing deeply, intoxicated and bewildered, Todd’s soul ached.  Before his eyes, he could see his Mistress cumming, impaling herself on the erect staff of her true Ebony King.  Exhausted, she fell to the bed; exhausted and satisfied. 

Andre, satisfied and drained sexually and emotionally but still unfulfilled physically, signaled for Todd to kneel at his feet as he stood.  It was Todd’s turn to whimper and moan.  He knelt before the powerful man and looked up.  He dare not make a move until told to do so.  Andre’s dick was beautiful: thick and long and standing proud and tall.  With his hands on his hips he directed Todd, “SUCK IT!”

Trembling, light-headed, Todd reached for that dick and held it in his white hand.  The contrast in coloring was amazing to him.  Even in the darkness of the evening light, he could clearly see the glistening juices of his Mistress thickly coating the entire length of that gorgeous penis.  His tongue came out of his parted lips and touched the silky glans of his new Daddy.  Salty, sweet precum mixed with heady, earthy lady-cum and filled his taste buds.  Todd licked like a puppy licks his brand new owner’s face on Christmas morning.  He wanted to taste every drop.  As many times as he’d imagined it, as many times as he had fantasized about tasting his Mistress’ pussy, never had he imagined it would taste like such sublime joy. 

Todd transitioned from licking to full-on sucking rather smoothly.  Before long, he was handling it like a pro, like he had been trained, and practiced, and he loved to do.  He used all his skills.  He wanted to please Asali and Andre equally.  He wanted her to know that he had been worth the investment and that he appreciated everything she had given him, made him into being.  He wanted to please him because he wanted his new Dom to enjoy being serviced and pleasured by a white man, to want more, to feed him that dick and let him swallow that cum all the time.  He wanted to be a slut for his new Daddy. 

Andre was blown away for the second time in one night.  Meeting a white man who had the racial sensitivity and consciousness of the most ardent Black activist and academic was mind-blowing.  Having that same white man on his knees in front of him and giving him head that was blowing his mind as he was about to blow his wad was too much to process.  Andre gently started fucking his face, not brutally at all, but he clearly took control. 

Todd’s senses were on overload.  In a parallel, surreal universe this could never happen.  But it was happening, here and now.  And just when he thought things couldn’t get any better, he felt her presence kneeling directly behind him.  Her moist, naked flesh pressed against his back.  Her nails pinched his nipples.  She whispered in his ear, “Suck that beautiful dick for me.  Show me how you love it.  Show me how much you need it.  Prove to Dre that you love sucking his heavy, thick, hard, Ebony column.”

Todd did just that.  He sucked that dick and put the most enthusiastic female cocksucker to shame.  Andre spurred him on.  “Yeah, suck that cum out of my balls.  You want this cum?  You want it?  Work for it.  Show me that you love the feel of my dick in your mouth.  Of fuck, that’s it.  Come on.  I’ve got a nice bigggggg . . . Ohh shiiiit.” 

Todd didn’t miss a drop. 

As with most fairy tales, they all lived happily ever after.   But it wasn’t the end.  It was just the beginning in fact.  Andre, Todd, and Asali embarked on an erotic journey together.  One that would push all their boundaries and have them re-define their limits. 

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