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Mama Used to Say

One of the most unhealthy, dysfunctional behaviors that is crippling the Black community today is the practice of women selling pussy.  It’s so common, so accepted, we don’t even blink an eye when we hear songs like Erykah Badu’s Tyrone suggest that ass in exchange for cash is not only perfectly acceptable in a relationship but it’s to be expected.  “Bill collectors at my door.  What can you do for me?”  The last decade of Black erotic books has cemented in the minds of young women that what’s between their legs is something men will pay for and they market their pussies like a commodity on the stock exchange. 

Almost without exception, every single solitary show on television that has Black women depicted bringing nothing more to the table than their beauty in various stages of hot pursuit of men with high incomes.  There are some sex educators who will tell women that if they don’t sell pussy, if they don’t demand money from their sexual partners, that they are disadvantaged and stupid.  They will tell you that women who don’t have sex for money are petty, jealous, and envious of the women who sell pussy; that women who sell pussy are empowered and masterful manipulators of men.  Rather than telling women to develop and evolve their intellects, their employment skills, and their relationship skills, they tell women to hone their sexual skills in order to do more tricks in bed and get men to pay more money.  It’s well-known by athletes, artists, friends of athletes, and anyone even remotely close to someone famous that any major sporting or music event becomes a mecca for Black women all over the country to sell their goods and services.  Capitalism, greed, and the insane need for things, not just things but offensively and outrageously expensive things, has created a culture where sex and money go hand in hand. 

For many Black women, the advice to exchange pussy for payment, the belief that selling sex is a viable employment option comes from our foremothers.  It is, very much so, a legacy of oppression, patriarchy, and sexism being internalized and passed down from generation to generation.  Born during the Great Depression, raised under the oppressive weight of Jim Crow, surrounded by racism, sexism, bigotry, and poverty everywhere, Black women during our (great) grandmother’s time had little options given to them.  They were not just women during that time, they were BLACK women.  They had less opportunities for survival than white women.  It’s easy to see how a Black woman during that time came to the understanding that having sex for money was a viable and valid option.  She couldn’t get employment making the same wages as white women, she couldn’t get an education, she had to rely on her own devices to earn money.  For many Black women of the time, being molested and abused by their fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, Pastors, and just about everyone else was the norm.  Many black women internalized that abuse, accepted that it was just the way things were supposed to be and internalized the messages that went along with it, that they were only good for one thing, what was between their legs.  For a woman of that era to come to the understanding that it having sex with men for money was a legitimate and reasoned thing to do was understandable. 

Unfortunately, what women of that era didn’t understand were the larger implications of giving their bodies to men for money.  They didn’t understand that they were actually devaluing themselves.  They didn’t understand that they were creating monsters in the men whom they got paid to lay with who would think of women as things to be purchased and not ever want to honor them as real women but just whores they paid for the night.  They relegated themselves to being holes to be used, receptacles for men’s unhealthy lust and they got no love, respect, or concern for their well-being in return, just a few bills on the nightstand. 

It’s understandable that women of that era who had to take that route, who lived in impoverished areas and who weren’t members of large sororities and mega churches and who didn’t have access to libraries to provide them a window to worlds that were emotionally, psychologically, and mentally healthier how they might teach their daughters to “be sure he pays the bills before he drills.”  I don’t want anyone to think that for a fraction of a minute that any woman expressing or espousing sentiment that to her daughters, or her granddaughters, was sexually empowered or enlightened in any way.  She was a victim of her circumstances and her environment and she did what she had to do in order to survive.  There’s no shame in that whatsoever. 

If a woman raised during that era, or even the 60s or 70s, passed down her “words of wisdom” and beliefs to her daughters and granddaughters that pussy has value and that she should sell it in order to keep the lights on, it’s understandable to some degree how women could grow up thinking that it’s right, never questioning it, believing that there is inherent truth in it.  We are all byproducts of our parent’s belief systems and it takes an incredible amount of introspection to be able to say that what we were taught was wrong.  Teaching girl children that spreading their legs for undeserving men who bring nothing to the table but a few twenty dollar bills is, unquestionably, misguided. 

Our grandmothers should have been taught by their mothers and grandmothers that they were priceless and that there is no amount of money that a man could pay to earn her body, her heart, and all that comes along with having sex.  Sadly, our foremothers weren’t taught that.  Sadly, they were raised in a society that didn’t allow them that luxury.  But, that does not mean that we must continue the dysfunction of allowing men with no social skills, no valor, no honor, integrity, and no sincere motives into our sacred spaces just for a dollar.  And it most certainly should not mean that we teach our girl children that. 

We say, “Prostitution is the oldest profession in world,” like it’s the truth when in fact it’s not even close to the truth.  Women didn’t start selling pussy until money became a tool to control and oppress others, until men became obsessed with objectifying women, using us, equating sex as a weapon, and sex became something they did for recreation, not as a form of intimacy.  The women who sell their bodies today, who “use” men to pay their bills, who consider pussy a source of income get defensive, offended even, if anyone suggests that what they are doing is detrimental, unhealthy behavior.  They will tell you that there is nothing wrong with it, in fact, they will tell you that it’s an informed, empowered, fiscally intelligent choice.  What I would say in response to them, what I would ask is, what price do you pay for men who don’t love you, care about you, who wouldn’t lift a finger to help you in your time of need because they only see you as a product, a hole to pump and dump?  I’m not saying the women who have been socialized to believe that their greatest/only value lies between their legs are bad women, I’m not calling them sluts, I’m not putting more blame on them than I am the males who are their “customers”.  I am saying that we must evolve, heal, and grow.  We must escape the blinding disease of materialism and place more value on who we are as women, as human beings.  We must understand that the things our grandmothers taught us were based on flawed, misguided, and unhealthy belief systems. 

Sex for money isn’t going to go away any time soon.  The porn industry is becoming bigger every day with women choosing sex as a career plan.  Sex workers have been given a more glamourous, less stigmatized status in society, completely ignoring the fact that men pay to use sex workers in disgusting, foul, perverse and unspeakable ways.  Hook up culture is prevalent, our youth aren’t even versed in the skills of forming a real, loving relationship; rap music tells our young women that they have no value if they aren’t charging top dollar to rent their vaginas.  And the women who only sell pussy in times of need, who only do it as a last resort, who don’t make a career out of it but who know that they can call an old friend when they are short on the rent will vehemently degrade and denounce other women in public to hide the fact that they feel twinges of guilt and shame in having to sell pussy.  We live in a society that tells women that they shouldn’t even enjoy sex, that it should only be for procreation, that if you have sex with anyone other than a husband that they are whores and sluts.  Regardless of how women defend or deny their actions, they will feel pangs of conflict because their actions will be in conflict with society’s standards of virgin and sexless women being the only women of virtue and value. 

Victorian, conservative morality is certainly not the solution to our plague.  Casual, meaningless sex should not be the goal we are striving for either.  Informed, empowered, intelligent sex, with partners who care about us for more than the holes we have to stick their dicks, men who help us out financially not because we let them climb on top of us and do their business but because they are INVESTED in us as partners should be what we are striving for.

To the women who sell pussy, to the women who think they have no other options, who think it’s easier than working a minimum wage, dead end job, I’m going to say that I hope that there is some part of you that will see fit to look back on your life and your choices, look back on the men who have paid for your body and if there is a tiny bit of discomfort, if there is even an inkling of a sensation that your daughter deserves better, teach her not what your grandmother or mother taught you but that she has lots of options for income and that selling her sacred pussy to undeserving men should not be one of them.  Teach her to DEMAND that the men she invites into her sacred yoni need to bring more than cash but they must respect her, honor her, they must court her and win her affections with their efforts to prove that they are worthy of her time and her energy and her body.  Tell her that she can have as many partners as she wants, but that they must not be simply for money or empty pleasure but they must be men willing to get to know her, respect her, and value her priceless gift to him.  Teach her to own the power of her pussy and the pleasure that it gives but I beg of you to never have her put a pricetag on it.  NEVER. 

Copyright 2014 AfroerotiK

What is Black culture?  It’s the rhythm in our walk; it’s the soul in our music.  Black culture is the connectedness we share when we can say my brotha or my sista and mean it not because we are related by blood.  Black culture is the struggle we endure, it’s the fight we have had to internalize day in and day out in a world that marginalizes us.  What is Black culture?  It’s the wisdom of our grandmother’s, informed by a mentality of slavery, passed down from generation to generation.  Black culture is the spirit that our ancestors had that kept them alive in the hull of a ship that wasn’t fit for human beings that exists in us today.  Black culture is the need to accept dysfunction, to justify it, to claim it as our own.  Black culture is something that Black people want to deny, erase, and ignore so they can be assimilated and accepted by a race of people who will never see us as equal. 

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

I can close my eyes and feel the sensations of my imagination.  We’re sitting outside on a balmy summer night; the Riesling is chilled and sweet.  Our crystal wine goblets makes a melodic, almost angelic sound as we clink our glasses and toast to our love.  We share a decadent chocolate dessert; you feed me, I feed you.  Your hand rests on my thigh as you whisper deliciously naughty things in my ear.  I giggle, trying to be discrete but anyone who is observant can clearly see my labored breathing and the way I’m fidgeting in my seat.  You are seducing me.  Your seduction of me is complete; making me desperate to be with you, to experience all that you have to give.  Check please!


I Love Who I am When You Are Inside Me 
(recorded version of this found HERE)
I close my eyes and I feel your lips touch mine and I’m lifted, transported to a time and space where I become the embodiment of all that is feminine and womanly.  That primal instinct, that genetic, biological, evolutionary stuff that makes me a woman, that makes me think and move and navigate the world like a true womb-man is activated and I feel … I FEEL alive and whole.  Your hand reaches out to caress my flesh and my body comes alive.  You tell me your dirty little secrets, I reveal mine, and I know that we are intimately bonded.  All of the nerve endings that make my nipples hard, longing for your mouth to suckle and nurse them, that make my pussy start to tingle and throb, getting wet and slippery with arousal awaiting your gentle manipulation, are electrified and I feel aglow with warmth that only your touch can ignite.  

Feelings of joy, peace, tranquility, and love flood my very soul when our bodies are intertwined.  Our legs become a tangled mass and our heartbeats begin to sync up; my inhalation and your exhalation become a sensual metronome counting our fevered passion until we become one.  Your hands roam my body and I feel your hardness, your wetness against my brown thigh, evidence of your desire for me.  You need to be inside me, to feel my pussy envelope and embrace you, to let down your guard and feel safe, nurtured and loved.  It’s because when you are inside me, those DNA strands that make you feel inherently like a man, those instinctual drives that propel you to unload your hot cum deep inside me, filling me, completing me, make you feel like a provider and protector, like you are truly home.  

I love who I am when you are inside me.  I love feeling desired, pleasured, and needed.  I love when I feel your sweat raining down on me, knowing that pussy, MY pussy is driving you mad with bliss.  When we are fucking, the sheets damp with our fluids, the neighbors’ blaring music becomes a soundtrack to our lovemaking to drown out the sounds of my very vocal encouragement.  Hearing you grunt, working hard to make me cum and feel my juices explode all over you fills me with a sense of intimacy and security only shared by tu y yo.  I am your woman, your lover, your divine right partner and nothing and no one can disturb our peace.

Scottie Lowe copyright 2011 All rights reserved
Zoom Info
Camera
Nikon E8400
ISO
400
Aperture
f/3.2
Exposure
1/15th
Focal Length
10mm

I Love Who I am When You Are Inside Me

(recorded version of this found HERE)

I close my eyes and I feel your lips touch mine and I’m lifted, transported to a time and space where I become the embodiment of all that is feminine and womanly.  That primal instinct, that genetic, biological, evolutionary stuff that makes me a woman, that makes me think and move and navigate the world like a true womb-man is activated and I feel … I FEEL alive and whole.  Your hand reaches out to caress my flesh and my body comes alive.  You tell me your dirty little secrets, I reveal mine, and I know that we are intimately bonded.  All of the nerve endings that make my nipples hard, longing for your mouth to suckle and nurse them, that make my pussy start to tingle and throb, getting wet and slippery with arousal awaiting your gentle manipulation, are electrified and I feel aglow with warmth that only your touch can ignite. 

Feelings of joy, peace, tranquility, and love flood my very soul when our bodies are intertwined.  Our legs become a tangled mass and our heartbeats begin to sync up; my inhalation and your exhalation become a sensual metronome counting our fevered passion until we become one.  Your hands roam my body and I feel your hardness, your wetness against my brown thigh, evidence of your desire for me.  You need to be inside me, to feel my pussy envelope and embrace you, to let down your guard and feel safe, nurtured and loved.  It’s because when you are inside me, those DNA strands that make you feel inherently like a man, those instinctual drives that propel you to unload your hot cum deep inside me, filling me, completing me, make you feel like a provider and protector, like you are truly home. 

I love who I am when you are inside me.  I love feeling desired, pleasured, and needed.  I love when I feel your sweat raining down on me, knowing that pussy, MY pussy is driving you mad with bliss.  When we are fucking, the sheets damp with our fluids, the neighbors’ blaring music becomes a soundtrack to our lovemaking to drown out the sounds of my very vocal encouragement.  Hearing you grunt, working hard to make me cum and feel my juices explode all over you fills me with a sense of intimacy and security only shared by tu y yo.  I am your woman, your lover, your divine right partner and nothing and no one can disturb our peace.

Scottie Lowe copyright 2011 All rights reserved

Sequel

Hi! I just wanted to let you know that I am a fan of your work, specifically the lesbian fiction. I just read your story titled, Feminine Seduction, and was wondering if you would ever revisit the story with the morning after? Or have you ended it and the rest is to our imagination.

I don’t usually write sequels to my stories.  I have a few times because I feel like the characters need to say more about race or gender and I need to give them more opportunity to speak to the audience.  Most of my stories I leave for people to imagine how they would want the characters to interact.  In Filling the Void, I leave the characters on the morning after with the hopes of forming a stronger relationship.  In all of the stories in my upcoming book, In Loving Color, I let the reader finish painting the picture of what happens to the characters.  I want my images and my words to tell a story but I want my readers to question, discuss, and debate as well.  I hope I do that with some efficacy. 

We, as a people, are so deeply entrenched in doing what we’ve always done and never realizing that it ain’t working, that it’s detrimental to our very being. We don’t want to redefine ourselves, change our thinking. We want to hold on to destructive patterns and then complain time and time again when we end up hurt over and over and over again. We are so tied to unhealthy behavior. We are so intent on finding what’s wrong with other people and defending and holding on to our own dysfunctional behaviors. My heart aches when I see my people holding on to dysfunctional and insane beliefs. I’m not healed but I’m not who and what I used to be. I am introspective. I have grown. I challenge and push myself to question WHY I believe the things I do and how they I just wish we could WAKE UP as a people. I wish we could see how we hold on to pain by not trying to grow and change rather than trying to examine how our own behaviors are unhealthy. The last thing we as a people want to do is change what we believe. Sadly, what we believe keeps us steeped in misery.

(Source: afroerotik)

I’m sure Robin Thicke’s efforts to get his wife back are what most women want from their man. They want a man to sing to them, plead, “Please, baby, baby, please,” and say how sorry they are for all the wrong he did and make the grand effort to show that he is really truly sorry and he realizes what a great woman he had in you and how bad he feels for fucking up.

If you chose a man of integrity and character, who is a man of excellence in the first place, he will not do the things that facilitate a need for these grand displays of contrition. While he may make a mistake, he will not cheat and lie and treat you like something that can be throw away when the next woman comes along. He will value you for more than what’s between your legs or how you look. He will work at the relationship and cherish you. Choosing a “real nigga” a thug, someone with questionable character, choosing a man who is emotionally immature, someone with no integrity, will guarantee that the promises will always be empty and meaningless. The “I’m sorry’s,” will forever be followed up with more meaningless, “I’m sorry’s,” because you haven’t chosen a partner worth investing in, worth your time, energy and effort. We as Black women have no clue what a healthy relationship looks like, feels like, how to form one or maintain it so we are blinded by the empty romance of insincere apologies. It will not be until we value ourselves more and start raising our standards for the men in our lives, until we redefine what makes a man a good man, not buying things, not paying bills, not throwing the dick, or looking good.


Deep Inside My Neo Soul
Sometimes, the best erotic expression is short and sweet and to the point, like your favorite song on the radio that moves you and is over almost as soon as it begins.  The words and the music all come together and wrap themselves like a memorable lover wraps themselves around your mind, arousing you and satisfying you in a multitude of ways.  It’s the steady pounding of the Afro-Cuban rhythm that is genetically encoded in our DNA.  It’s the sexy salsa song that gets the blood pumping in your veins.  It’s that jazzy, funky, R&B that Black people all over the world can relate to.  That soulful rhythm that soothes and moves you to a place where you can say, “I’m happy to be nappy, I’m black and I’m proud, that I have been chosen to wear the conscious cloud, And I’m fine under Cloud 9.”  
 
And you sho do feel like you are on Cloud 9 when your lover is touching you in your hot spot, caressing it, manipulating it to get you so turned on you can’t see straight.  You ever notice how your favorite song can take you back and you can remember the exact place and time you and your lover were the first time you made love?  You can recall exactly what they smelled like, what their kisses felt like.  You were so nervous when you first met, afraid to even let them know you liked them, let alone that you wanted to go out.  But somehow, you got up the nerve.  You rehearsed exactly what you were going to say before you picked up the phone and said, “Let’s take a long walk, around the park,  find a spot for us to spark conversation, verbal elation, stimulation Share our situations, temptation, education, relaxation, elevation, or maybe we can talk about Surah 31:18” 
 
It was all about spending time together and getting to know each other.  It was all about that thrill you got when the phone rang and you saw their name on your caller ID and your heart would skip a beat.  Isn’t that the best feeling?  If I could bottle it up and sell it I would be a millionaire.  It seems like you have that feeling in abundance when you are a kid and you are infatuated with a new person every week.  As we get older, that feeling doesn’t happen as much so we try to hold on to that sensation whenever we feel it.  Our thoughts get clouded and all we can think about is that person and what they are doing and when the next time you can see them and if they are thinking about you in the same way.  You get all nervous that they don’t feel the same way about you until you get that voicemail that you play over and over again.  You know the one that says, “I’m not trying to pressure you, just can’t stop thinking bout you, you don’t even really have to be my girlfriend.  I just want to know your name and maybe sometime we could hook up, hang out, and just chill.” 
 
Those were the days.  You hear that song and you say, “Oohhh shit, that was my jam.”  You wonder how someone else could have put into words exactly what you were thinking and feeling so well.  You know good and god damn well that you would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and sing into your toothbrush and fantasize that you were singing to that special person in your life.  You could envision everything in your mind, the candles, the Cool Whip, actually it was Ready Whip cause you needed the nozzle to aim and fire. Maxwell was in the background telling you, “It happened the moment, when you were revealed ‘Cause you were a dream that you should not have been A fantasy real. You gave me this beating baby, this rhythm inside, and you made me feel good and feel nice and feel loved, give me paradise.”
 
Oh damn, now that was some hot shit.  That first night you made love was the stuff they write erotic stories about.  The anticipation, the tension, the foreplay, all of it had your juices flowing and your body tingling.  Tender skin and erect nipples, soft moans of pleasure serenading your ears.  It’s all about making love and feeling that body crushed against you, sweating, grinding, driving you to the edge of ecstasy and beyond.  It’s the moment of penetration for the first time when you are overwhelmed by the sensation and you feel like you can’t catch your breath.  It’s that wet, hard, sticky, hot Black love when you look in your lover’s eyes and say, “All you gotta do is say yes, Don’t deny what you feel let me undress you baby, Open up your mind and just rest, I’m about to let you know you make me so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so” 
 
You make me so so hot for your special kind of love.  That fast and furious kind of fucking in public when I don’t give a damn if people see us, all I know is that if I don’t cum soon I will explode.  It’s that special kind of love when we start fucking on a Friday evening and don’t stop until Saturday afternoon when we have to open the door for the take out delivery guy because we are both too exhausted to move.  We aren’t too exhausted to take a shower together though, soaping up our bodies and getting hot and wet.  Then after the shower you oil up my body with the Kemi Oil and my body responds to your touch and I’m desperate to have you inside me again, in my mouth, in my pussy, even in my ass.  By Saturday night, your neighbors are pounding on the walls trying to get some sleep because our passion is loud and primal with no apologies.  They can hear me calling out your name.  But it’s all good because, “There’s nowhere to hide when the love is callin’ your name, yeah From the dark, babe, nowhere to hide, baby There’s nowhere to hide, so let love have it’s way with your heart When love calls, love calls, love calls your name.” 
 
Copyright 2005  AfroerotiK.com
 
http://afroerotik.com/shop/catalog/product_info.php?products_id=53
 
 
 
Zoom Info
Camera
Canon EOS 5D Mark II
ISO
640
Aperture
f/2.8
Exposure
1/40th
Focal Length
35mm

Deep Inside My Neo Soul

Sometimes, the best erotic expression is short and sweet and to the point, like your favorite song on the radio that moves you and is over almost as soon as it begins.  The words and the music all come together and wrap themselves like a memorable lover wraps themselves around your mind, arousing you and satisfying you in a multitude of ways.  It’s the steady pounding of the Afro-Cuban rhythm that is genetically encoded in our DNA.  It’s the sexy salsa song that gets the blood pumping in your veins.  It’s that jazzy, funky, R&B that Black people all over the world can relate to.  That soulful rhythm that soothes and moves you to a place where you can say, “I’m happy to be nappy, I’m black and I’m proud, that I have been chosen to wear the conscious cloud, And I’m fine under Cloud 9.” 

 

And you sho do feel like you are on Cloud 9 when your lover is touching you in your hot spot, caressing it, manipulating it to get you so turned on you can’t see straight.  You ever notice how your favorite song can take you back and you can remember the exact place and time you and your lover were the first time you made love?  You can recall exactly what they smelled like, what their kisses felt like.  You were so nervous when you first met, afraid to even let them know you liked them, let alone that you wanted to go out.  But somehow, you got up the nerve.  You rehearsed exactly what you were going to say before you picked up the phone and said, “Let’s take a long walk, around the park,  find a spot for us to spark conversation, verbal elation, stimulation Share our situations, temptation, education, relaxation, elevation, or maybe we can talk about Surah 31:18”

 

It was all about spending time together and getting to know each other.  It was all about that thrill you got when the phone rang and you saw their name on your caller ID and your heart would skip a beat.  Isn’t that the best feeling?  If I could bottle it up and sell it I would be a millionaire.  It seems like you have that feeling in abundance when you are a kid and you are infatuated with a new person every week.  As we get older, that feeling doesn’t happen as much so we try to hold on to that sensation whenever we feel it.  Our thoughts get clouded and all we can think about is that person and what they are doing and when the next time you can see them and if they are thinking about you in the same way.  You get all nervous that they don’t feel the same way about you until you get that voicemail that you play over and over again.  You know the one that says, “I’m not trying to pressure you, just can’t stop thinking bout you, you don’t even really have to be my girlfriend.  I just want to know your name and maybe sometime we could hook up, hang out, and just chill.”

 

Those were the days.  You hear that song and you say, “Oohhh shit, that was my jam.”  You wonder how someone else could have put into words exactly what you were thinking and feeling so well.  You know good and god damn well that you would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and sing into your toothbrush and fantasize that you were singing to that special person in your life.  You could envision everything in your mind, the candles, the Cool Whip, actually it was Ready Whip cause you needed the nozzle to aim and fire. Maxwell was in the background telling you, “It happened the moment, when you were revealed ‘Cause you were a dream that you should not have been A fantasy real. You gave me this beating baby, this rhythm inside, and you made me feel good and feel nice and feel loved, give me paradise.”

 

Oh damn, now that was some hot shit.  That first night you made love was the stuff they write erotic stories about.  The anticipation, the tension, the foreplay, all of it had your juices flowing and your body tingling.  Tender skin and erect nipples, soft moans of pleasure serenading your ears.  It’s all about making love and feeling that body crushed against you, sweating, grinding, driving you to the edge of ecstasy and beyond.  It’s the moment of penetration for the first time when you are overwhelmed by the sensation and you feel like you can’t catch your breath.  It’s that wet, hard, sticky, hot Black love when you look in your lover’s eyes and say, “All you gotta do is say yes, Don’t deny what you feel let me undress you baby, Open up your mind and just rest, I’m about to let you know you make me so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so”

 

You make me so so hot for your special kind of love.  That fast and furious kind of fucking in public when I don’t give a damn if people see us, all I know is that if I don’t cum soon I will explode.  It’s that special kind of love when we start fucking on a Friday evening and don’t stop until Saturday afternoon when we have to open the door for the take out delivery guy because we are both too exhausted to move.  We aren’t too exhausted to take a shower together though, soaping up our bodies and getting hot and wet.  Then after the shower you oil up my body with the Kemi Oil and my body responds to your touch and I’m desperate to have you inside me again, in my mouth, in my pussy, even in my ass.  By Saturday night, your neighbors are pounding on the walls trying to get some sleep because our passion is loud and primal with no apologies.  They can hear me calling out your name.  But it’s all good because, “There’s nowhere to hide when the love is callin’ your name, yeah From the dark, babe, nowhere to hide, baby There’s nowhere to hide, so let love have it’s way with your heart When love calls, love calls, love calls your name.”

 

Copyright 2005  AfroerotiK.com

 

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(Source: afroerotik)

Do NOT ever use the N word!

The following is a true story.  Just how long ago it happened no one knows for sure.  The sad fact of the matter is that it is not an isolated incident.  Millions of times, I repeat, millions of times, the same story played itself out.  We just seem to have forgotten.

Once, there was a strong, brave African that was beaten, kidnapped, and stolen from his homeland.  He awoke one morning to find his village being attacked by a strange and violent people.  He fought a brave fight but the weapons formed against him certainly did prosper.  He fought to protect his family, his village, and his home.  There was confusion and death all around him.  He was captured and chained while he watched his entire existence, and the existence of generations to come, being altered by brutal acts of violence perpetrated by unknown and strange enemies.


He watched in disbelief.  He watched this enemy destroy his home.  He watched them slaughter men, women and children without respect for life.  He watched as they captured the strongest and healthiest of his people.  His eyes witnessed violence and war like the contemporary mind cannot comprehend.  In his mind he wondered, “Who could these people be and why were they attacking his village?”  He had never seen a people like this before.  Pale faces and stringy hair with loud weapons that left blood and carnage behind.  He did not understand the language they spoke and he knew his people had never taken any land from them.  Surely, they must be devils.

Fatigued, limbs aching with pain, he began the longest walk of his life.  It lasted for days yet seemed an eternity.  He plotted.  He tried to devise a plan to free himself and his people.  He needed to know if his wife and family were all right.  The heat was unbearable and he was given no water to drink.  The food they served him was not fit for animals.  Rotten, infested with maggots, barely enough to survive on, he sucked the food through his teeth so that he would be able to have the strength to fight when the time was right.  He prayed to God to give him strength to kill his captors.  Surely, God would not forsake him.  He could think of no sin he committed that would deserve such punishment.

The motivations of these red faced “men” confused him.  They seemed to take pleasure in forcing themselves sexually on women and men, the young and the old.  It was for their enjoyment to torture and beat people to death.  For an extended period of time, the brave warrior was forced to drag the body of a dead brother that had been chained to him.  It was to serve as a reminder not to try to rebel.  A sister, trying to protect her child from rape, had her arms broken and her teeth pulled out to prevent her from fighting.  Outraged and incensed, this brave soldier called on every amount of strength he could muster from his body to fight back.  Just as the end of the loud weapon came crashing down on his head, he heard the one word that would haunt him for the rest of his life on earth … NIGGER!

He did not know who or what this nigger was.  How could these creatures with the diseased looking skin confuse him for a nigger?  Couldn’t they see that he was a man?  Surely, this nigger must be some sort of vile beast to deserve such treatment.  He had never met a nigger before but he hated them with all his might.  It was this nigger that caused him pain like he had not known existed.  Every time he heard the word - NIGGER - he wretched with disgust.

At the end of his march, he was placed in a dungeon and left to exist in the most horrific of conditions; chained to the dying and the dead, laying in pools of blood, urine, feces, vomit, sweat, and filth, beaten daily with little food or water, unable to move.  It was during this time that he called out to God repeatedly.  He was covered in oozing sores and desperately needed medical attention.  Sometimes, he would leave his body and go back to the sunny meadows of his village when he was a child and didn’t have a care in the world.  His body had been beaten but his mind remained strong.  If only he could wake up from this horrible nightmare in the arms of his loving wife and have her tell him that this was only a bad dream.  It was at this point, unsure of what was to come, he made a vow to live.  Whatever happened, he would not allow the pale-faced enemy to take his life.  He was going to survive.

Not many people have imagined what it would be like to become a slave; if you were to go from being a strong, healthy, intelligent, constructive citizen to being owned and used as property for no reason at all other than the color of your skin.  Nevertheless, it is to this individual or someone just like him who decided to live, that I owe my life.  I stand in awe of the fact that the very blood that courses through my veins is the same blood of the person who chose to survive the middle passage.  Millions did not, could not.  Words cannot describe the debt I owe to that very special one.  And when I pass over from this realm to the next, when I come face to face with whomever survived the Black Holocaust, I’m gonna say, “What’s up my nigger?”  After all it’s just a word, a term of affection, right?

Thank you for taking the time to read my ramblings.  Obviously, it is a personal choice whether you choose to use the word or not.  For me, I have to look to the larger perspective.  Somehow, I know, deep in my heart, that to use the term is to disrespect the African who lived and died at the base of that vile and disgusting word.

Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe

 

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