Sex is serious work. A few weeks ago, I went to a sex-party with my guy, and boy did we put on a show. Despite my content, I’m not always sexual, but at parties, for some reason, my levels increase, and I low-key become a porn star. My nails and toes are always done, and I carefully plan my outfit. I chat it up with the people I know, and I play into the innocent school-girl vibe for strangers. I play it humble until the magic hour starts; then, I become a fucking beast.
My guy and I walked around for a bit, trying to find a room with some action before picking our beginning spot. We found a place where a couple was on one bed, and we decided to occupy the other. He started by eating my pussy, until I came. Then I sat up and began sucking his dick. As I licked, sucked, and slurped, I could hear an audience growing behind me. If you’ve been reading my blog, you know I enjoy an audience. So, as I’m going in, trying to keep it sexy, sloppy, gaggy, and drippy, a bitch starts to get tired. My guy has a habit of being a bit extra when people are watching. In addition to that, he’s a ‘savor the moment’ kind of guy. That is fine when we’re alone. But at a sex party or when it’s supposed to be a quickie, you need to fuck me hard and fast, so we can keep it moving.
Getting tired of jerking my neck back and forth and my saliva constantly dripping down my thigh, I look up at him and let him know I’m ready to fuck. He decides that he wants me to ride him, so —Giddy up Cowgirl! When I turn around to a better position on the bed, I realize the audience has grown, and right in front of my face is a beautiful brown skin woman. She says something (I don’t remember), but once I’m in position, I mount my man, like a sumo-squat, and begin to bounce up and down. On many occasions, I’ve been told that I ride dick well, and I give all the credit to low squats. I continue to bounce up and down, alternating my hands between his neck and his waist. I was riding like a champ, but, eventually, my 220+lbs body can’t do it all night. So, I dropped one leg down and continued. At that moment, the same chocolate-skin woman gave me a compliment and a $10 tip. I wasn’t expecting it, of course, but I’m not turning down money. Then I thought about it. I’ve given plenty of free shows, not to mention the free pussy and head at these parties. Boy! It’s a lot of fucking work.
After I rode my guy, we switched positions to doggy-style. While there, a guy I clocked earlier at the party positioned himself in front of me, essentially asking if I would suck his dick. It was a beautiful dick, so of course, I did. Because he was thick, I was face down and ass up; I had to maneuver my body just right to get a proper motion to perform all of my tricks. After a few minutes, he asked me if I would let him fuck. I was still very much on my period, and I only usually engage with my main partners during that time. However, I had already started up his engine; I didn’t want to send him down a different path, so I let him know I was on my period; he said, “OK.” Almost immediately after my guy came, the other guy got up and positioned himself behind me. He put on a condom, slid in, and went to town. Once again, trying to keep it cute while getting jack-hammered from the back, one after the other, was not easy. But, being the champ that I am, my body adjusted and enjoyed the ride. After he came, I needed a break and a shower.
I showered with my guy then we walked around to give our bodies time to reset. I enjoyed being a voyeur as I watched other couples go at it and made light conversation. There was an interracial couple that I clocked and couldn’t take my eyes off of. Her skin was smooth and dark chocolate while he was dulce de leche, and I wanted them both. But, as it seemed they were only there to enjoy the atmosphere, I kept my fantasies to myself.
After my guy and I refreshed, and my pussy no longer felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, we went back to action. We started on a couch but eventually moved to a bed with a few other couples already in action. From one position to the next, we flipped and fucked while caressing against other bodies. I even think I sucked a titty that I think delivered me a dose of breast milk, but I’m not sure. Anyway, we fucked our way all around the bed, then voila the guy from upstairs, positioned himself back in front of me. I knew because his dick and balls smelled like baby powder. Once again, I had to reposition my body to properly suck while getting fucked. Like a champ, I handled my business, then switched partners, and braced for more impact. After that second round, I was DONE! I tapped out for the rest of the party.
The next day, the pain of the party began to settle in. Not the pain of my pulverized vagina, the pain of my fucking back. Like I said, anything I do, I try to do it 100%. So that means my desire to please is always A1. I’ll contort myself in the most awkward positions to look and perform like the porn star I think I am. Which means face-up, chest down, and ass up. Or, on my back, head twisted sucking dick, while my legs are spread or pushed behind my head. Sex, especially at a party, is a fucking workout.
When I decided to start my blog, my purpose was to create a shared emotional outlet. When I began divulging my sexual exploits, I strapped on my seatbelt and got ready for the ride. When I made public my herpes status, I braced for impact. I knew very early that my views and progressive ideas about sexuality, sexual health, and inclusion would not be popular, and I didn’t care. I stopped caring about what others thought, and I focused on telling my story. I told my story for myself and those who needed to hear something different, something new and inspiring.
With every story, every blog, and every interview, more and more people reached out to me and congratulated me for being the voice they couldn’t find. I’ve since picked up the torch, with other sex-positive activists, to push and correct the language for change. Every day we’re posting, tweeting, blogging, and podcasting for proper and thorough education regarding sexual health and STI stigmas. We know that the road ahead is long, and we continue to rush against the tide. I take pride in what I do, and I maintain a positive outlook, even in the face of nay-sayers. However, last week, I found myself having to check a bitch!
To be clear, I use the word bitch the same way the late great Bernie Mack used the word “Mother-fucker” in The Kings of Comedy. The word bitch is used as a noun to describe a person, a place, or a thing. And by my definition, these people were complete and utter bitches.
On Facebook, I’m a member of many sex-positive, polyamorous, and swinger group. These groups exist as a safe space for both new and veterans of the lifestyle to meet and engage with like-minded individuals. The groups are regularly a sex-positive space that exists without shame. So, imagine my surprise when a group member decided to screenshot comments from a post, repost them on their page, and use it to further perpetuate an already existing negative and inaccurate stigma.
A close FB friend of mine alerted me to a gentleman that used my public position on being herpes positive to sex shame by writing, “It’s all fun and games until you catch something.” Of course, he posted this in a group that I wasn’t a member of, so I joined the group and addressed him directly when it was brought to my attention. For what it was worth, the group people actually attacked him for trying to shame me; kudos to them. But I wanted to know what his goal was? He claimed that he didn’t like promiscuous people, and he thought that was a good enough excuse. I took the opportunity to inform him that many people who find themselves STI positive (especially when it came to herpes) were anything but promiscuous.
The kids living with herpes (acquired through a kiss from their parents), to the victims of assault and rape, to the people who didn’t know their partner’s cold sores caused a threat, and the people whose test results didn’t include herpes. There are many ways a person can get an STI without being promiscuous. He continued to debate me with opinions, despite my facts, but I was relentless. He claimed that he was just trying to get the information out there, and I told him he could’ve done that without adding his little flair. When the conversation got too heavy, and he realized that he was in an unwinnable fight, he flipped the switch and commenced blaming the women he stole the post from.
In full transparency, he wasn’t in the original group where the comments were screenshot from. It was a black woman in the (polyamorous, swinger, sex-positive) group that took it upon herself to screenshot the comments and repost them on her page, and he copied them from her. As black women, we are already oppressed. As black women who are sex-positive, we are double oppressed. It never ceases to amaze me how people who already exist in an oppressive society will find empowerment in oppressing others. I went on her page and couldn’t find the actual post, but from her ill-informed followers’ comments, it is evident that sex-positive activists had A LOT of work to do to break the stigma.
As much as he tried to deflect from the virtual ass-whooping I was serving up, he was right that I should re-direct my energy to her. But before I do, I had to make it clear; I didn’t care to change his mind. Truth be told, I never go out of my way to change the minds of those who have their heads buried in the sand. I only ever comment to reach those struggling with their diagnosis, know someone who is struggling with their diagnosis, or be a voice for those who (years later) need to remember seeing my comments, to see that they are still loved. I do it to empower, NEVER to shame.
Now, onto Bonita (aka Black Becky), your ignorance runs through your veins. The fact that you saw fit to try and shame a person who is already public about her herpes-positive status shows not only how immature you are but how desperate you must be for attention. I’ve looked through your Facebook, and you’re all over the place; you reek of someone incapable of thinking for themselves, and your followers are no better. I’m sure that you and over half of your negative commentators genuinely believe that they “know when a person got something,” despite the fact that you, or them, have probably NEVER seen the full STD panel test of your partners. You’re ill-equipped with the knowledge and ability to have the conversation, and you gloat from a position of sheer-luck and blind-faith.
In closing, I’ll say this. You are toxic. The rhetoric you perpetuate is toxic. And the fact that you tried to infiltrate a sex-positive space only to shame others is toxic. I pray you get all the help you need and that you don’t find yourself facing the same ridicule you tried to place onto others.
On Friday, I got the call from my mom that my father passed; I didn’t know how to feel. I know how I should feel, but the reality is “that” feeling feels ingenuine. I remember seeing my father a total of two times, once when I was 18 and the other time, last year at my cousin’s wedding. You see, my father left before I turned one, and when he reached out to me later in life, the time apart had done so much damage the bridge couldn’t be rebuilt.
We would talk on the phone on occasion; he would see how I was doing and like my Facebook pictures from time to time. But, the interactions lacked depth. So, when I got the call that he was dead, there was a short reset and sensation similar to an ache, but not quite.
I’ve never been the cry right then type of person. When my grandmother passed, I didn’t cry until we were at her funeral. With one look at my crying uncle, I could no longer hold it together, and all the tears fell. All the memories of the times we shared came flooding back. And I realized that I would never get to see her again. My family would never go over to her house for the holidays. I would never braid her hair, and I would never get to hear her curse out her home-health-aid. I would miss all the memories, and I would forever miss what could have been.
But, with my father, there are little to no memories to reflect upon. When I saw him when I was 18, I was a moody adolescent with an attitude because he left in the first place. When I saw him again, in my thirties, I just enjoyed the moment. With less than twenty-four hours worth of memories and a lost future of what could have been, I sat down in the tub last night during my shower and tried to find conjure up the emotions society said I was supposed to feel. Mixed with the steady stream of hot water came crocodile tears, followed by a day-long headache.
I posted a picture last night on my Instagram and Facebook. It was a picture taken at my cousin’s wedding with my mom and father; we all looked happy. That day we laughed, danced, and ate, and when the night was over, we talked about visiting him in North Carolina. Other family problems happened, then COVID happened, and before I knew it, he was gone. Below the picture was messages of condolences and prayer emojis from various friends and followers. I appreciated every one of them, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they felt worse for me than I did for myself.
Last night my brother and sister-in-law called me to express their condolences; this was interesting considering my brother actually spent more years getting to know my father than I did. We laughed about it, but the truth of the situation stung a bit. I know he left for a good reason, but I’d be lying if I said I totally understood. I’d be lying even more if I said I forgave him for it.
Holding onto that grudge won’t change the fact that my father is gone, and he won’t ever be coming back. There will be no more calls to make or receive. I’ll never see him like a Facebook post. And he’ll never get to attend my hypothetical wedding or meet his hypothetical grandchild.
Another thing I realized is that the news of death comes in waves. The first wave acknowledges death; it’s the heavy feeling in your stomach that first weighs you down. The second is missing; missing the person and the memories of them. But the last, which is the one I always feel, is the feeling of regret. I always wish that I had done more. Could I have called more? Could I have texted more? Could I have visited sooner? When my grandmother passed, I saw her a week before, and we spoke often; but I still felt regret and wished that I had done more.
Death sucks. Getting the news that someone you know, love, or care for died sucks. Wishing you had done more while they were alive sucks. And knowing that you’ll never get the chance to do things over, or better, sucks. My father wasn’t a perfect man, but he was my father, and I wouldn’t exist without him. So, I have to thank him for contributing to my existence. I have to thank him for loving me from a distance. And I have to thank him for trying.
When I was a little girl, my street was closed off for a block party. I remember being in the middle of the road, with my colorful dress swaying as I danced to the music. I remember posing for pictures, raising my hand in school, auditioning for various social groups, and enjoying being the center of attention. You see, at a very young age, I was a performer, and as I got older, I perfected my craft.
I live on the fourth floor, and on more than one occasion, over the 20 years I have lived at this address, I have left my curtains wide open. Over the years, I’m sure my neighbors have seen me sing and dance in my room, undress, have fantastic sex and masturbate at all hours of the day. There were many times when my mom would enter my room when I was getting dressed and close my curtains. She’d make a remark about my body being all over the internet that I’d brush off, and when she’d leave, I’d wonder if anyone was watching. I’d always been an exhibitionist at heart. So, it was only natural that, once I entered the sex-positive space of a sex club, I let my true freak-flag fly.
I’m 25% voyeur and 75% exhibitionist. I enjoy watching people have sex, but I really love being watched. When I used to masturbate, I used to imagine a crowd of bodies around touching me all over, helping me reach my orgasm. When I attended my first sex party, I was finally living out a long-awaited fantasy. The random hands caressing my ass, rubbing my legs, and pinching my nipples heightened my orgasm. After every party, I grew more emboldened.
As my primary partner and I attended more parties together, we often took center stage (not a real stage, just a bed). He would eat my pussy, I would suck his dick, then we’d fuck. We’d occasionally play with other people, then come back together to end our night. Having to tell a man you have herpes with another man’s dick in your mouth is no easy task. So, I got into the habit of inviting men that I already knew and were aware of my diagnosis. It would ensure that the night would be fun, my partners knew my status, and I would be thoroughly fucked by the time the party was over.
At the last few parties we attended, I started taking time to please myself when my pussy needed a break from actual fucking. So, while he was either cleaning up or playing with another woman, I took the liberty to pull out my Womanizer. I would lay back, relax, and let the fantastic sucking motion bring me to a wet orgasm. Every party where I used my Womanizer, a moist spot was left behind as evidence —Sorry. Not Sorry—
The last party I attended was a Luau themed party at Caligula. In the corner, I was getting fucked when one of my other partners entered the room, positioned himself in front of me, and pulled his dick out for me to suck. I was in heaven. —I’ll never know where or how this came to be my bliss, but I have no desire to turn back.— Nonetheless, they switched positions, and once again, I was getting pleased from both ends. Then my partner positioned me on his face and ate my pussy as I sucked my guy’s dick. When we were all thoroughly pleased, we went and danced for a bit. A little conversation, some flirtation, then we all ended back upstairs in the infamous corner. Another MFM threesome and my pussy needed penetration rest.
The room was dark, so I laid back on the bed with my body facing the room, and I pulled out my Womanizer. I turned her on, and shortly after, the sensations started to radiate through my body. I moaned and writhed with pleasure as the guests in the room speculated what was causing me to make my sounds. Hearing their wondering voices made my breathing quicken, and as I had my orgasm, I let out a loud scream and a steady stream of squirt. I realized the bed was now soaked, so I pulled up the sheet to signal for the attendant to switch it out.
I wanted to freshen up, so I tip-toed to the 6-person shower. I removed my lingerie, turned on the water, and soaped up. I had an audience, and I liked it. I thought about playing with myself to give my onlookers a show, but my clit was still sensitive, so I just showered and went back to the room.
I ended up back with my original players and a special guest star. He had told me earlier that day that he wanted to fuck my brains out; and that he did. For what felt like an hour, and a shower break somewhere in the middle, I was fucked while slobbing two knobs. With lube and persistence as my best friends, I survived the pounding he delivered to me. When he finally screamed, “I’m about to bust!” and did, the entire room was cheering for me. They all knew that I had just taken a thorough beating, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Not too long after we finished, they began announcing that the club was closing. When I went to take my last shower, I was approached by BDE (the guy from Corset, Collar, and Lingerie – Part 3). I don’t know if he remembered me, but I definitely remember him. I gave him a short hello and went back to my partners.
I may not care for eyes on me when I’m walking down the street or on the train. But, for some reason (maybe because it’s a sex-positive space), I love knowing that my sexploits are on full display. I suck with more passion. I moan so the person downstairs can hear me. And like a marathon, cheers from the crowd keep me going, so I can fuck longer. When I’m at a sex party, I feel that people are watching me, and I love it.
I will never understand how some people can love one part of a person’s anatomy, but when people organize and ban together to support that shared anatomy, it becomes the most hated thing in the world. This thing is pussy-power, AKA feminism, or for my specific purpose BLACK-FEMINISM OR BLK-FEM.
I’m a member of various social groups, so I witness the human unfiltered audacity on a daily basis. I get to witness the shit that most people wouldn’t say in mixed company, but behind the safety of a screen, these people feel emboldened to express their toxic opinion as fact ¬—Welcome to the digital age! — And when this happens, I feel it’s my duty to set them STRAIGHT!
A few weeks ago, I entered a back-and-forth debate with a keyboard-gangster on the topic of feminism. He posed the question, why do black women support feminism when the movement wasn’t originally for them. I responded with, the same reason why black men support patriarchy and the nuclear family, despite both being pillars and symbols of white supremacy. —He did not like that.— We went back and forth a few times, then he blamed feminism for why the black family is broken and they don’t care for black women. That’s when I had to hit him with the facts.
For those who are unfamiliar with the origins of the feminist movement, he is correct. In the 1920s, the movement was predominately for white women to gain some semblance of independence from their white husbands. To achieve this independence, they joined with black women (strength in numbers, AKA pussy power) to push for change. We marched together, lobbied together, and when some of the battles were won, they closed the door on black women issues. As the movement continued to grow over the decades, the feminist movement as an ideology continued to focus on white issues, ignoring those issues that affected black women.
Despite decades of fighting, it wasn’t until the 1970s and 1980s that black women started to draw a line and call out the fact that white-feminists had, for decades, dismissed black issues. But, the damage was already done, and black women began forming their own organizations that focused on issues that plagued black families. We saw a new wave of feminism that wasn’t white-washed. The new wave was UNAPOLOGETICALLY BLACK —BLACK FEMINISM—
Feminist ideals, at their core, are universally about fairness and equality. I sincerely believe that if you lay out scenarios of what feminism fights against, most people would fight for those same things. But, mention the word F-word, and people go running.
1. Your daughter/sister/mother has a job, and they find out that their salary is $20K less than their male co-worker, even though they do the same exact job.
2. Your daughter/sister/mother graduates top of her class, with honors, and goes for a top company job to get turned down by a man who lacks her credentials.
3. Your daughter/sister/mother is sexually harassed at work, and they take the issue to HR, and HR dismisses and minimizes the case.
4. You want your daughter/sister/mother to have ownership over their bodies and what they can do with it.
5. Your daughter/sister/mother is getting abused by their male spouse, you’d want them to be free and safe to press charges for their safety.
The above issues are about fairness, equality, and safety. None of them are about casting aside men (especially black men), as some would push you to believe.
It’s difficult for people to consider the fact that some women don’t want to have kids. I mean, it’s been pushed down our throats since birth that our only goal in life, as females, are to get married and have kids. It is okay if a female wants the above for herself. But feminism makes it clear that if you choose to not have kids or get married, that is also okay. There is nothing wrong with a woman that wants to work instead of having kids. It’s her body, so it’s her choice.
While all the above is fine and dandy, black feminism kicked in the door waving the four-four, screaming, “Hold up! Wait a minute!”
Black feminism shines an even brighter light on all the issues that affect black men, black women, and thus, black families; while also calling out those female-women who don’t acknowledge our problems because they don’t see through our glasses.
Yes, we are in an era where black men and women are making more money than ever before (minus the pandemic). From black CEOs to black COOs, we’re doing the damn thing. But the reality is we are still earning less, even within our highly decorated fields. The order often goes White Man, White Woman, Black Man, Black Woman. My race and gender shouldn’t correlate to my salary. If I do the damn job, pay me my money.
He argued that feminism tears down the black family dynamic, and that liberals are the problem. This is not the first time I’ve seen (what I consider) weak men use this argument. They, and those women who are also anti-feminism, often refer to the old-school nuclear family ideology. This was when the husband would work and support his family while the wife stayed home, and dinner would be on the table by 5pm. That vision is lovely, but as stated before, it’s very white and not realistic for the world we currently live in. Even higher earning working-class black families, with no kids, need two incomes to survive, depending on where they are. And our original cultural upbringing was more ‘a village to raise a child’ than ‘every man for himself.’
He then blamed welfare and black feminist women for black men not being in the home instead of looking at the real and undeniable data on systemic issues.
He didn’t mention the lack of black male presence due to gun-violence, drug-use, alcoholism, spousal abuse, mass incarceration, and the fact that some men simply don’t want the responsibility of being a father. He ignored all the above, but make feminism his focus of animosity. Because of his animosity, he didn’t care to learn that the new wave of black-feminism is in full support of the black family (despite the lies that others push).
When a black son or husband gets locked up, who do you think takes on the family’s financial and emotional burden? Who do you think is the person putting money on his books, answering his phone calls, and making the visits? The black woman.
He didn’t care that black-feminists are actually the women marching on the front lines for so many of the black lives lost at the hands of law enforcement and random gun violence. Their marching is for black lives and black families.
He didn’t care to research the fact that many black-feminists, for decades, have been pushing for criminal justice reform, to altogether abolish the prison system. We know that people who go to prison, have a higher chance of becoming repeat offenders. Prison does not rehabilitate the person: what it actually does is put a scarlet letter on their back while making it harder for them to get back on their feet after they have been released. Add to that the over-sentencing of black men compared to white offenders being under-sentenced. This disparity creates years of broken black families. And black feminists, by fighting these injustices and if they succeed, can restructure and restabilize black families.
He didn’t care to research that black-feminists call attention to and are combatting the systemic injustices regarding health. He brought up the abortion rate amongst black women as a tactic, completely disregarding the black woman’s choice. But he remained silent when I brought up the fact that black women are 4x more likely to die during childbirth, and black children whose mothers experience trauma during birth have a higher infant mortality rate, which directly impacts black families. He also didn’t know the numbers that show black women are often diagnosed with more aggressive types of heart disease and various cancers, while the many ailments that affect black men (high blood pressure, colon cancer, heart disease) cause them to die younger than their white male counterparts.
These are all pivotal issues for black-feminists, as these issues don’t plague the white community like it does ours. And this is just the tip of the iceberg of the matters that black-feminists fight for.
Another follower expressed his disdain in dealing with difficult feminist women as justification to not support the (black) feminist movement, which I found amusing. Black women continue to support black men. We support and fight for the same black men that verbally, mentally, and physically assault us, day in and day out. We put our feelings aside because we know that we’re fighting the injustice that may be forced upon them, and that’s not okay.
And as with any group pushing for change and equality, there will always be some extremists. But the same way we don’t paint a broad-stroke and hold a grudge against all black men based on the actions of the few, we should receive the same support. And the actions of the few should never overpower the truth of the movement.
So next time someone tries to make you feel bad for being a feminist or black-feminist, do your job and school them with the facts.
I know the vagina is a beautiful work of art. Sure, it bleeds once a month, but it also brings life into the world. And throughout history, a few wars have been waged to attain it. Its allure can make a man want to get a better job, or it can drive a man to sell his car and remortgage his home. The vagina has undeniable power. And, sadly, I think mine may have shrunk.
I attended a sex party while I was on my period last year. And since I didn’t want the night to be a total waste, I sucked a few dicks. And one that stood out from the rest. It was chocolate, long, thick, and hard. I hoped that I could one day ride him into the sunset, so I was elated when he asked me for my number before leaving. We kept in touch, on and off. Then, a year later, during a pandemic, we finally made plans to link up.
He asked me if I wanted to join him and swap with a couple he met last year. I agreed. To be completely honest, I wasn’t 100% enthused about the swap, as he and I had never even had sex. I didn’t want the first time I rode his horse to be at a county fair. None the less, he booked the hotel, picked me up, and we headed to New Jersey.
When the couple arrived, we started drinking, played a game of strip-adult-charades, then things started. The woman and I began by licking at each other’s nipples; then she went to use the bathroom. When she returned, I was on my knees sucking my date’s dick like the world was ending (because it just might be). The length of his dick presented a challenge I was eager to conquer. With my mouth a slippery mess, my left hand playing with his balls, and my right tugging at his nipples, he almost lost control, and to avoid his orgasm, he pushed me away. The other guy wanted to see what I was working with, so when I returned from rinsing my mouth, I gave him a sample. When it was time to fuck, it was hard for him to keep it up. And my annoyance only increased as I heard the screams and moans from his wife getting pounded out by my date. I was annoyed as fuck!
Eventually, her man got his head in the game, and it was decent. But I knew what I wanted, waited a year for, and hauled my ass all the way to New Jersey for. My date had stamina, so after her man had his orgasm, I needed to get off. He walked to the bathroom to clean off, and I pulled out my Womanizer. As I watched them in action, I imagined I was her. I moaned and yelled commands to “fuck her harder” and “fuck that pussy.” When I had my orgasm, I let out a moan, and a moment later, he came. We all took a moment to freshen up and find out more about each other, and then it was back to business. I needed to feel him inside of me, and I refused to wait another year.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took him into my mouth, and instantly he was hard. He played with my clit as I sucked with a mission. When he pushed me back on the bed and slipped on the condom, I was happier than a dentist’s child on Halloween. He pulled me down to him, and he slid into me. His initial entrance felt terrific, then something felt off. The sensation that I used to take like a champion was no longer there. In my fucking years, I definitely fucked dicks longer than his. So, what was it? Every thrust was a mixture of pain and pleasure, but more pain than I usually like. When he bent the girl over to fuck her doggy-style, I envisioned throwing it back and giving him a run for his money. Thank God I’m not a shit talker because I surely wouldn’t have been able to cash that check. I managed to fight through the pain and still throw it back and take the dick, but I couldn’t comprehend what was happening to me.
When he came, we cleaned up, and we swapped one more time. Luckily, the second time around, the other guy had no problems staying up, and I rode him like a cowgirl in a western movie. I used my low squat form to bounce up and down, then I grounded on my knees to move just the pussy, and finally, I winded him into an orgasm. The final time we fucked, he bent me over, and once again, there was that feeling – What the Fuck! – He wasn’t as painful as my date, but when he switched to missionary, I was very thankful.
The couple left, my date had to pick up his kids, and I remained in the suite. After I showered, I laid in the bed and wondered- is my vagina shrinking? My first had a seven-inch dick, my 10-year fling had an eight-inch dick, and my last two exes ranged between seven and eight. I took every last one of them all like a fucking champ. So why was I, all of a sudden, wincing at a dicks? I may not fuck donkey dicks as often as I used to, but my partners are not, by any means, small. They all (yes- they) have nice sized dicks, so it made no sense.
Last week I went to a sex-party with my guy, and we had a blast. I fucked some lengthy Johnson’s and I was ready for more, until the last one. When I was sucking his dick as my man ate me out, I could tell he was big, but I didn’t realize how big. When he put on a condom to fuck me, it was then that I realized I was in for a rude awakening. Not only was he long, but he was rock hard and as amazing as every slow grind felt, each rapid pump felt like a dagger. It was as if I could feel him hitting a rib. I considered telling him to stop, but my fucking pride got the best of me. I used to be able to fuck these like no problem. When he asked if I would do doggy-style, I said, “Hell No!” It started to feel better, and soon as his rhythm became thoroughly enjoyable for me, he came. After him, I was done.
I wanted no more sex, and I didn’t want to see another dick for the rest of the party. I don’t know if my pussy is shrinking, or it’s just used to what it’s used to. But I’ll continue to push the barrier. The vagina is a muscle after all, so if you work it- it works for you back.
It’s always interesting to see how a person acts when you take them out of their comfort zone. Someone who’s amazing in bed and fantastic on intimate dates can be a total disaster when you toss in a little too much alcohol and mixed company. This was my experience with one of my partners early on.
In February, a good friend of mine invited me to a burlesque show. I mulled over the invite for a few days, and when I finally agreed and she got our tickets. A week later, she messaged me that her husband surprised her with tickets to the very same burlesque show. I didn’t want to be the awkward third wheel, so I invited Milo, a dance instructor I was dating. I often hesitated to bring men I dated around my friends, especially when it’s still new. In the past, when things would end, I hated having to explain why we broke up or stopped seeing each other. But luckily, both her and her husband were in the lifestyle, and that awkward conversation could be avoided. When I decided to invite him, it was for multiple good reasons. Not only was the sex amazing, but he was also reliable, and since he was a dance instructor, I knew he owned formal attire that the event called for.
It was agreed that he would pay her husband for his ticket. They would pick us up in the city, we would drive out to Brooklyn, see the show, then go dancing. It was a simple enough agenda, but the night went a bit array.
The night of the show, I met Milo at a Mexican restaurant downtown for a quick drink. When I saw him at the bar, I could tell he already had a few too many. While we waited for my friend to arrive, I got us each a margarita against my better judgment. Right when we finished our drinks, she and her husband pulled up. When we got into the car, she reminded us that she had made a pre-game drink to avoid the overpriced ones. But, because the drink was too strong for me, she and Milo finished most of it.
When we arrived at the loft, the atmosphere was incredibly sexy. It reminded me of a scene from the 1920s speakeasy, and I loved it. We walked up the stairs, greeted the host, and looked for the right spot to view the show. The show progressed nicely, the dancers were beautiful, and their sets were entertaining. All would have been amazing had it not been for my date.
When we first met, I asked him if he smoked, to which he said no. I had to remind myself that a person that smokes when they’re drinking will never admit they’re a smoker. Many times, throughout the show, he would disappear onto the balcony to take a smoke. When he wasn’t inhaling toxic fumes, he was poorly executing a whisper that everyone within earshot could hear. I had to tell him multiple times to be quiet, and I began to get embarrassed. The next thing I knew, when I turned back around, his shirt was off. I guess he figured that since the dancers were taking off their clothes, and he too was a dancer, it was an open invitation for all dancers to strip. I saw the hostess strut over, perky breasts exposed, landing strip visible, and wearing a feather-trimmed sheer robe; into his ear, she whispered, “Sir, you need you to put your shirt back on.” She stood firm, waited for him to follow her instructions, and she walked away. Two acts before the last, I turned around, and he was nowhere to be found. I walked downstairs and out of the building to see him walking back. Where he went, I will never know; but when we got back upstairs, it was the final act. — Thank God! — After the show, we all chatted for a bit, then left to go dancing.
We bopped around from bar to bar, drinking, dancing, and hoping to find the spot that would keep us going to the sun came up. The final place we ended was tight as a virgin, but the energy was amazing. I was still reeling from his earlier behavior, and to rid myself of the ordeal, I passionately kissed him with a touch of anger. When we kissed, I felt my annoyance change into arousal. I felt a pinch on my ass that I swore came from my friend or her husband (which I would’ve happily invited), but nothing else happened. We left in search of food, then he whispered that we should head back to his place. Once again, I got the impression that they wanted the night to end with all of us possibly together, but I kept my mouth shut.
We sat back as they drove to his place and dropped us off. Once upstairs, I was overcome with so many emotions, I had to end the night on a good note. So, I made sure to fuck all the bad parts away. Despite how I described the events of the evening, make no mistake, I was mortified. I seriously debated seeing him again, so I had no option but to erase it with sex. I sucked his dick, he ate my pussy until I came, and we fucked like it was the end of the world. When it was all done, and we were both orgasmed out, we passed out.
In the morning, I took a shower, and on my way out, he apologized for getting that drunk. I told him, “I forgive you, but let it be the last time.” We kissed, and I left. Over a year later, we still see each other, and I’m happy to say, that was the first and only time he got that drunk in my presence.
I love oysters. For many years, I stayed far away from them, then overnight, I was addicted. I had my first oyster in the summer of 2019, and I went on a mad dash to find the perfect oyster again. I went to several restaurants and shelled out hundreds of dollars to find the taste that took my oyster virginity. For months I was unlucky, then one afternoon I went to a restaurant near my job. I tried their oysters, and it was as if the world I was living went from black and white to colors. Their daily happy hour $1 oysters and their delicious cocktails had me signing a check that was never less than $60.
In February of 2020, I wanted to do a mini alcohol detox before my first half-marathon. So, for a month, I stayed far away from the restaurant, its cocktails, and its oysters. I simply didn’t trust myself to go in and not buy a drink, so I stayed away. Then, a week before the race, the event was canceled due to coronavirus. I was pissed! I couldn’t believe that I had deprived myself for almost a month for nothing. A few days later, my office closed, and bye-bye went my access to oysters.
Unable to order oysters to go, I had to suffer until things started to open up. As the city entered phase three, I looked forward to finally getting my oyster fix, but the options were super limited. Then one afternoon, I decided to dine by myself, have the oysters that I so craved, and was also able to fulfill an unchecked fantasy.
I sat down, ordered a margarita, and a half-dozen oysters. I took a sip of my margarita as I waited for my oysters to arrive. The margarita was cold, perfectly sweet, and strong, just the way a margarita should be. As the tequila made its way down my throat, I felt the gentleman a few tables over, staring at me. When I turned in his direction, he winked at me. I winked back just to be polite, but when my oysters arrived, my vision became tunneled. A squeeze of lemon, a dash of tabasco, and a drizzle of mignonette sauce, and I was in heaven. Each oyster was a spicy orgasm in my mouth, and I devoured them one after the other. When I was done, my lips tingled from the tabasco, and my longing heart was content.
As I sipped the rest of my drink, I continued to feel his piercing stare. I glanced over at him, and unlike last time, I didn’t break my line of sight, and neither did he. I sipped my drink as he licked his lips. Maybe it was the tequila or the oysters’ aphrodisiac effect, but I started to get wet. As we stared at each other, I could feel his eyes undressing me. They started at my polished toes, up to my legs, over my breasts, and stopped at my mouth, where my tongue twirled my straw.
I ordered a second margarita and diverted my eyes for a brief moment. When my second drink came, I downed it much faster than the first. I could’ve continued eye-fucking him, but it was getting late, and I wanted to walk back home. I asked the waiter where the restroom was and went to freshen up for my walk home. As I walked past his table, I could feel his eyes scanning my body like lasers; my nipples grew hard.
When I entered the restroom, I put some cold water on my face to cool off. I washed my hands, and when I opened the door to leave, he was there, blocking my exit. He smelled of burnt sugar and diesel, and it intoxicated me. He pushed his body up against mine, our bodies entered the bathroom, and he locked the door in a swift motion. In the next moment, his lips and tongue were on my neck, and his hands gripped my ass. He rubbed my clit over my thong, and I got soaking wet. He brought his fingers back up to his nose to sniff and whispered in my ear, “delicious.”
He licked his fingers, dropped to his knees, and pushed up my dress. He buried his face into my pussy and inhaled deeply several times. He nibbled at my flesh through my underwear, then slowly he pulled them down. He slid his moist fingers in my pussy and began to coax an orgasm out of me. When he placed him juicy lips on my clit, I almost fell over; but he pushed his face deeper into my pussy pinning me against the wall. He licked, sucked, and slurped at my clit, the way I slurped those oysters, and finger fucked me into an orgasm. I rode the multiple waves as I held his head in place. After he drank all my newly released juices, he got off his knees, washed his hands, said, “thank you,” and walked out of the restroom.
When I gained my composure, I walked to the mirror, and the person looking back at me was unfamiliar. My eyes were glassy, and my face was covered with beads of sweat. What did I just do? I continued to use the bathroom, and I washed my face and hands. By the time I returned to my table, the man was gone. I wanted to pay my bill and get the hell out of dodge. My moans were low when I orgasmed, but there was always a chance that they saw him enter the restroom behind me. I awkwardly signaled for the nearest waiter and said, “Check, Please!” He went into the restaurant only to return to tell me, “the gentleman has paid your bill.” And with that, I gathered my things and started my walk home.
Certain youthful thoughts will forever be engraved in my mind. I remember the day I got glasses because I tripped stepping off the curb; I was wearing shorts and pink clogs. I remember my first boy crush; we couldn’t have been older than 5 years old. We used to sleep next to each other, on our individual cots, during nap time. I remember one day when we were stretch partners; we put our feet together, held hands, and rocked back and forth. I remember this distinctly because both he and I rocked way too close to each other’s genitals, and after that, we were never stretch partners again.
Another thing I remember was my first girl crush. We went to the same school, lived in the same building, and lived on the same floor. She would always come over my house so we could play after school and on the weekends. I remember us seeing a (heterosexual) couple kiss on TV, and we wanted to try it. One day, when she was over, we hid by the kitchen table, and we kissed. After our lips made contact, we opened our mouths to allow our tongues to dance. When the kiss was done, we never mentioned it again. At eight years old, I didn’t quite have the language, but I knew I really enjoyed the kiss.
The kiss we shared felt just as passionate as the flirtation I shared with the boy, from when I was five. So, at a very early age, I knew I felt a like for boys and girls, I just didn’t call it bisexual. As I got older, my attraction to women never waned, I just suppressed it for my like of boys. When you grow up in Catholic school, have a Baptist grandmother, and a heterosexual family, you don’t question anything, you just go with the flow. So, for years, I said nothing. I occasionally watched lesbian porn, on late-night TV, but didn’t read into it having to do with my sexuality.
At the age of fourteen, I joined a youth chorus. There must have been a fine-print that I missed because almost every member was either gay or bisexual. I instantly felt at home. I finally felt free to explore that side of my sexuality without being judged. I flirted with my female and male peers; I even had a girlfriend for about a week. But, when she asked me for money, I broke it off. When my sister-in-law got wind of my questioning sexuality, she assumed they were trying to ‘turn me out.’ There was an exchange of words between her and another girl. And, just like that, I was back in something resembling a closet.
I flirted with women on and off, but nothing ever manifested. When I was diagnosed with herpes, I put the entire idea to rest. I wasn’t allowed to be a questioning bisexual; so, I had to pick a side and stick with it. For almost a decade, I lived my life as a heterosexual woman, and most of the time, I was content. But, from time to time, I wondered what it would be like to flirt and be intimate with a woman; but fear of rejection kept me quiet.
Then one day, when I was on PositiveSingles.com, a couple came across my feed. We chatted, met up for drinks, and a few weeks later, I had my first threesome and sexual encounter with a woman. I loved every second of it. Sadly, my time with them was short-lived, as they broke up soon after. I wanted the experience again, but it proved way too difficult to find women with a mutual attraction that wanted to meet. It also became evident that lesbians did not like women that were bisexual. And too often, the women that claimed to be bisexual preferred a consistent male presence, instead of a female one. I wanted to explore being with women only at that time.
I wasn’t sure where I stood, so I decided the only way to know if I really enjoyed being intimate with women, without investing too much time, was to go to a sex-club. At my first sex club, and most after, I engaged with women. I enjoyed the feeling, but I still questioned myself. When I appeared on the Whoreible Decisions podcast, I defined my sexuality as bi-flexible. Since I never saw myself in a romantic relationship with a woman, it seemed unfair or a lie if I said I was bisexual. Fast forward a year later and countless sexual trysts with women at sex parties, I’m turning a new leaf. As my desire to engage with women at sex parties is beginning to disappear, my passion for real intimacy with a woman is increasing.
When I’m walking down the street, and a beautiful woman walks past me, I don’t think to myself, damn, I want to eat her pussy (like a man would). I think I want to get to know her, and I wonder if she wants to get to know me, then we’ll see what happens. Despite being totally satisfied in my primary relationship, I want to explore a female connection on an intimate level.
Every so often, I wonder how it would feel to walk, holding hands with my female love interest. I wonder how we would meet and what our first date would be. I wonder if she would be ok knowing that I’m polyamorous and a swinger. Would we intermingle our lives, or would we keep things separate? And I wonder if our sexual chemistry could transform into love? These are just some of the things that float through my mind when I think about my bisexuality.
This is not a post on the cleanliness of my ass; I shower 2-3 times a day, so my ass is very-very clean. This is a post about going through an extra step to make sure my ass is exponentially spotless for whatever activities may lay ahead.
A few weeks ago, I had a dick appointment with one of my partners. I was looking forward to having my pussy eaten and fucked in all my holes. But, as luck would have it, I was worried about my approaching period. It was slated to come that week, and although I knew he was ok with fucking me during my period, I didn’t want certain activities to be off-limits. When he had to push it a week back, I thought to myself, great. My period would arrive in a day or two and be gone, or in the very least, extremely light, by the time we planned to meet up.
A week passed, and no period came. I was hoping it would be a scenario where my period would disappear for a month (or two or three), as it had in the past. But the day I was finally going to get some long-awaited dick, I used the bathroom before getting into the shower, and BOOM! There was my period. I was immediately annoyed. I messaged him to let him know that I just started my period, and to confirm if he still wanted me to come over; he didn’t respond.
The day after he and I first had sex, when he stuck his tongue and thumb in my ass, I went to the Pleasure Chest, in Manhattan, and purchased an anal douche the following day. Sure, my booty was clean, but I know I wasn’t sticking my finger all the way up to make sure the canal was clear. The last thing I wanted to see was poop on the condom, or him to see poop on his finger. So, despite the fact he called my booty ‘spotless,’ I didn’t want to take any chances.
If you’ve never used an anal douche, trust me when I say, it’s a fucking process. It’s also easiest to do in the shower. You fill up the bottle with room temperature water, guide the nozzle up you booty-hole, then squeeze the water into your ass. You then get out of the tub, walk to the toilet, and push out the water. You do this a few more times until all the water comes out clear, confirming that your ass and the tunnel are thoroughly clean. It’s a hassle, it’s sometimes uncomfortable, and it’s not a process you do if you don’t plan on anal-play.
So, there I was about to shower, and there he was, not answering his text message. I had just gotten off the phone with him, and I needed an answer. I didn’t want to do the process for no reason, but I didn’t want to shower, get out, then have to go back into the shower, after the fact. So, I did something I usually never do; I called him. (LOL) He answered and said to still come over. So, I showered, cleaned my ass, put in a Softdisc™ then had him call my Uber.
When I got to his apartment, he gave me a glass of wine, he had a few beers; then things got started. We started kissing then I removed his pants to suck his dick. As things heated up, we took it all to the bedroom. He removed my clothes, and I continued sucking. He changed positions and laid me on my back and slipped a butt-plug into my ass. He licked at my neck, sucked my breast, kissed down my navel, then began to lick my clit. I rubbed his head as he found his rhythm. He swirled his tongue in delicate tornadoes around my clit and savored my juices that his tongue produced. He brought me to a screaming orgasm, and my thighs gripped his head in response. When he kissed me, I could taste my sweetness on his lips.
He got a condom, spread my legs, and slowly entered me. He felt great, but when he pulled my legs apart and rammed into me, I began to lose my mind. He flipped me over and fucked me doggy-style. With my decorated ass in the air, he hammered into my pussy, and I cried out with every thrust. When he began to slow down, he started pulling out and reinserting the butt-plug; with each motion, the sensation increased. When he pulled it all the way out and placed it on the bed, I knew exactly what he was about to do. He licked and poked his tongue into my, now opened, booty-hole. As he grabbed the lube, I grabbed my Liberty Womanizer®.
He slid his dick into my ass as the sensations from the womanizer teased my clit. Once my ass was ready, I gave him the green light to fuck my ass as hard as he wished. The combined sensation drove me up the walls as I screamed in pleasure. I told him how good his dick felt in my ass, and how I wanted him to fuck me harder, and after a while, he came. I still had the Womanizer on my clit, and I told him to stay in my ass because he felt so good. Then, with a few thrusts from him, I came hard.
We passed out on the bed for about an hour. When we woke up, I cleaned up, got dressed, and he called my Uber back home. When I got home, I removed my disc in the shower and swapped it with my Diva Cup® and went about the rest of my day.
Over the year, it has become a routine of mine that, when I know I’m going to have sex, I always go the extra mile to clean my ass. Although it can be an annoying hassle, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It seems like the entire world has come together to show solidarity for the racial injustices that we face, and it breaks my heart to see so many black people still divided.
From classism, to colorism, to LGBTQIA+ rights, this shit has got to stop. We will never get anywhere if we continue to fight the differences that exist between us. A unified black fist can do severe damage; but, if we remain separate and battle amongst ourselves, a weak ass slap is all we’re delivering to our oppressors. If we genuinely investigate the reasons, we remain divided, it all points back to slavery. And, Boy! Slavery did a number on us.
Slavery not only stole us from our land, but it also robbed us of our knowledge, our wealth, and our beliefs. Captors of our ancestors pushed lies into their brains, by preaching, to once kings and queens, that they were heathens, and needed to be retrained. They couldn’t handle seeing a brown society living in harmony alone; so, they turned us against one another, made a sale on our lives, and forced us into servitude. The captors of our ancestors raped our men, women, and children; forced sons to mate with mothers; and forced fathers to mate with daughters on breeding farms. If you ever wonder where the phrase “mother fucker” or “put a paper bag over the head” came from, it came from forced incest rape during slavery.
From field nigger to house nigger, light skin to dark skin, black men versus black women, wealthy black to poor black, and the strongest, the hatred within the black community against LGBTQ+ blacks; the mental fuckery of slavery still runs ripe within our community. Slavery did a number on us.
Educated blacks can have a logical conversation about colorism and how that affects black people in society and the media. But those same people won’t acknowledge how that tool is still used against each other, by each other. It’s no longer the slave master driving the wedge. They simply planted the seed for hundreds of years, and we’re too brainwashed to stop watering the tree. Both light-skinned blacks and dark-skinned blacks are guilty of continuing to contribute to the division. Let’s be real; if the members of the KKK put on their robes and ran through our communities, neither one would be exempt from the lynch mob. It’s time we stop giving power to an oppressive system and fight the same fight.
Slavery did a number on us when it robbed us of our riches. We come from kings and queens, so why do we not support our own? Why do we continue to give all of our hard-earned dollars to a system that oppresses us? Why? Because we no longer associate success with ourselves from our lineage of kings and queens, we associate our progress, success, and status with theirs. That is why we give hundreds of dollars to various European designers but ask for discounts with our own. A white Gucci shirt for $200, take my money; but, that same white shirt for $50 from a black-owned company, it’s too much. We don’t take pride in our own, because many don’t see the value in our endeavors.
I won’t stand on a soap-box and say that I’ve never given my money to a corporation that doesn’t care about my black life. But during these times, when faced with so many injustices, and with so many companies donating toward the fight for equality, we have to do our part. We may not be able to donate millions to the cause, but we can push our dollars back into our communities. So, for myself, I have been and will continue to support my local shops, my local restaurants, and buy black. Stop fighting with our fists, and start fighting with our dollars.
Slavery did a number on us when I ripped us from our beliefs and forced onto us a god of hate. I saw a meme that read, ‘black people hate everything about slavery, except for religion.’ I decided to attempt to explore that.
Who were our ancestors, before Christianity came to their land? How did we worship? What did we believe was right and wrong? I’ve asked this question to many god-fearing-Christians, and none of them can ever answer me, because all that they know has been taught to them by their ancestor’s captors. Just think about it, the Bible is simply a collection of stories; but the power interpreted by those stories, by the reader, has caused more harm than good. Think of all the wars waged in the name of religion. Think of all the invasions of civilizations in the name of religious expansion. And when it comes to slavery, the stories in the Bible were used as tools by slave masters to teach blacks that slavery was where they belonged. Hell, the only reason blacks get dressed up for church on Sunday is the tradition of showing off your slaves. As a slave owner, how your slaves looked on Sunday showed your status. So, the better the slaves looked, the more high-class you seemed. And, despite being released from slavery, we held onto that slave mentality. If the Lord indeed said,” come as you are,” you don’t need a large-brimmed hat and new pastel suit to praise.
Slavery did a number on us when it took symbols and acts of love and procreation and used them to break us down. What is the reason why so many blacks have a problem with homosexuality? We didn’t have the language before slavery. So, why is there so much dislike and hate now? The answer is slavery.
Simple research will inform you that are places that historically had buck-breaking camps, butt-breaking camps, have the highest level of hatred for homosexuals. Just think of the damage done to a black man, when the white slave owners, or overseers, would rape the men in front of the entire black population. And despite all their resistance, they were forced into submission. Think of how that mentally impacted them for generations. Then, consider how the women and children had to stand by and see their once strong protective man forced into submission. These heinous acts, put on full display for all to see, is why there is such hatred within the black community against homosexuals. And despite finally getting our freedom, our minds remained enslaved.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a proud supporter of the LGBTQ+ community. I was finally able to acknowledge my own (B)Bisexuality in my 30s, despite the fact that I have a very liberal family. I can only imagine the struggles for those whose family is religious and conservative to live their truth.
Being a member of many Facebook groups, I often find myself in a thumb battle trying to break down the nuances on Black LGBTQ+ rights, and how if Black Lives really do matter, then All Black Lives should matter too (not just the straight black lives). I find myself arguing against comments like; gays have more rights than we do, or they’re forcing their lifestyle on us.
I tell them that the civil rights for black people and other religions, etc. have been in the constitution since the 60s. Decades later, under Obama, there was an extension to include the LGBTQ+ community at large; but that is not MORE, that’s EQUAL. I tell them that, just because a bill is signed into office does not mean justice will always be served. If that were the case, the country wouldn’t be protesting for black rights 50 years later. I remind them not to conflate the more significant LGBTQ+ movement to be inclusive of the blacks and POCs within the movement. The first gay pride can be credited to two trans-women of color (Marsha P Johnson & Sylvia Rivera). But, the movement of then did not acknowledge trans rights along with gay rights. Sadly enough, the movement today has all but white-washed that history from its beginnings.
Merely wanting to be free to exist is not a force. Wanting to see like representation in the media, is not a force. Wanting to walk down the street without being harassed or assaulted, is not a force; it is a fundamental human right. And the same goes for being black. You don’t have to like me, but I’m here, so you should respect me.
Again, black people, slavery did a number on us. But we have to stop giving it power today. We have to stop watering the trees planted by racists. We have to come together and march for every injustice thrown our way; because that’s the only way, we’ll make and see change.
I am tired of seeing people that look like me choked, beaten, gunned-down, stop and frisked, over-policed, racially profiled, and murdered. I’m tired of seeing people that look like me receive harsher prison sentences, and I’m tired of seeing people that look like me presumed guilty before they get a chance to prove their innocence.
Last week the world watched George Floyd die slowly for 8 minutes. One cop held his knee to George’s neck, two others held his body down, and the last one stood by to make sure bystanders didn’t stop the MURDER that was in progress. The cops were called in the first place because a store owner accused him of using a counterfeit $20 bill. I don’t know about you, but that’s definitely not worth an execution by suffocation. George didn’t die because he was hurting anyone, he didn’t die because he killed anyone, he didn’t even die because he used a bill that he may, or may not have known, was counterfeit. He died because the officers of the law that were supposed to protect and serve (whose salaries are paid by the very citizens the abuse) took it upon themselves to be the judge, jury, and executioners. George simply didn’t die; he was murdered because they didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. He was murdered because, to them, his life, freedom, and rights didn’t matter.
Year after year and decade after decade, black people are murdered by the very people that are in place to protect us.
Something has to change.
You stole our ancestors from their native land, raped and beat our men, women, and children. You ripped apart our families and made postcards of our dead and burning bodies hanging from trees. You manipulated the words of The Bible to keep us enslaved. You offered us a glance at freedom, then changed laws to re-enslave us all over again, under the 13th amendment. You bombed our homes (Tulsa, Oklahoma; Black Wall Street). You hosed us, burned down our churches, murdered our leaders, and you released dogs on us (Civil Rights Era). You sent us to the front lines of many wars to be killed, for a country that hates us. You ran experiments on us and stole our DNA (Tuskeegee and Henrietta Lacks). You allowed your racist leaders to take off their white robes, put on uniforms and suits, and infiltrate all government levels (google that yourself). You wrote laws that were supposed to be fair and just, but black and brown people often get the short end of the stick compared to their white counterparts.
This country was built on the backs of slaves. The contributions of African-Americans to this country are immeasurable. From gardening, science, to technology, much of what we all use today is due to an ancestor that looked like me; but you don’t care.
When we didn’t know the language to speak, you killed us. When we learned to read, you killed us. When we marched peacefully, you killed us. When we fought back, you killed us. When we took a knee, you hated us; and you’re still killing us.
Something has to change.
It’s time for the police and elected officials to be called out and held accountable for sitting on the sidelines and allowing so many injustices to happen. As a tax-paying citizen, I have a right to walk down the street and feel safe knowing that my skin color will not be a reason I may not make it home.
Well, what about black on black crime? You ask. — Here’s the deal. — If Pookie from across the street murders Ray-Ray, Pookie is getting arrested, tried, and convicted. Pookie will not be able to say, “I thought I saw a gun” or “I feared for my life,” then go home to a meal with his family.
There is a lack of justice when the murder is committed by a person who wears a badge. And in more recent cases, had a badge, or is a friend of someone with a badge.
Ahmaud Arbrey was going for a run, minding his own business, when three racists (retired officers) took it upon themselves to consider him a criminal worthy of being shot; because they claimed, he fit a description. This murder happened in February, but the local department and the elected officials felt no need to question their motives. Only after the video was leaked, and social media rained down a fiery hell-storm, were the men arrested. It later surfaced that there was no report out or description.
A coward of a man murdered Trayvon Martin. That man left the safety of his vehicle, pursued Martin on foot, called 911 (and the dispatcher told him, he didn’t need to pursue him). He continued to follow Trayvon and started an altercation that ended with him shooting and murdering Trayvon. And despite his prior history of being prejudice, despite the fact that he initiated the entire incident, despite the fact that Trayvon Martin was defending his own life (with his bare hands), his murderer was found not guilty. Because the law said that, all that matters was a few lost minutes of a fight. And because the murderer may have experienced fear (during a fight he caused), he walked away, a free man.
Something has to change.
Officers and people with badges have to stop using fear as an excuse when they take an innocent life. The fact that cop after cop fears for their life, over a gun that is, often, never there means one of two things. Officers need to get their eyes examined, so they can be sure that what they see is a gun, or they should go back to school to pursue a different line of work. If defending a community of people is too scary for you, go back to school and become an accountant or a dentist. I’m tired of people in uniforms that carry badges, are armed with a taser, a baton, and a gun using fear as an excuse for the murder of an unarmed black or brown person. I’m tired of these same people in uniforms, having little to no fear when the perpetrator is white. They could’ve just shot up a school, a church, or a synagogue, but, for some reason, the fear the officers had when the perpetrator was black, disappears into thin air.
Why are cops able to apprehend a white mass-shooter, for them to have their day in court. But a black man coming out of a night club (Sean Bell), a kid playing in the park (Tamir Rice), a black man selling a cigarette on the street (Eric Garner), and so many more, are not worthy of the same due-process?
Early in May, a white man (Joshua Kelsey), who had multiple run-ins with the law since 2007, and had been in front of numerous judges, went on a killing spree and murdered three individuals. The details on how they apprehended him are still unclear. But you know what didn’t happen, they didn’t murder him. Despite killing three people, he’s still alive to see his day in court.
And here are just a few more that fit the same profile.
Marjory Stoneman Douglas HS in Parkland, Florida; 17 dead, suspect arrested and charged with premeditated murder.
Walmart in El Paso, Texas; 22 dead, suspect arrested and charged with capital murder
Tree of Life Synagogue, Pittsburgh, 11 dead, suspect arrested and faces multiple charges
Santa Fe High School, Texas; 10 dead, suspect arrested and faces capital murder charges
Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, South Carolina; 9 dead, suspect arrested, tried, and sentenced to death.
These above, white murderers, were led away from the incident with their lives intact, despite the lives they had just stolen. Where is the fear when the threat is undeniable? And why are officers so scared when the only danger of a weapon is all in their heads?
Something has to change.
Like I said in the beginning, I’m tired of seeing the gross amount of injustice. I know that it is not all cops, but if you’re silent and complacent with the officers that are corrupt and go too far, you’re guilty by association. I know that not every elected official and politician is corrupt. If you don’t address the issues of all people within your jurisdiction, or don’t do your part to set right the wrongs that happen, you’re guilty by association. Lastly, I know that not every white person is prejudice or racist. From my work to school, to my extracurricular groups, and in my dating life, the white people that I know empathize with the difficulties we face while being black; they also want to see a change.
But, here’s the problem, if you don’t acknowledge the terrible things done to our people, and you don’t want to learn, your complacency is a problem. If video surfaces of an unarmed black person being held down and beaten by cops, and your first response is, “We don’t know the whole story,” you’re willful and blind arrogance is a problem. If you commented on riots and looting, but said nothing about George Floyd’s death, that the world is outraged by, that’s a problem. If, after everything, you still don’t understand why Colin Kapernick took the knee. You’re a problem, and I don’t know what else to say.
It’s up to lawmakers and elected officials to make changes and hold others accountable for their actions and poor judgment. It’s time for all of us to ban together and put our collective knee on the neck of the government to push for change. We pay their salaries, so we have the power; we just have to learn to wield it. Here are a few suggestions.
Let’s work to rebuild trust between the community and the officers within the community.
Let’s stop trying to find excuses, and start prosecuting killer cops.
Mandate periodical psychological evaluations and drug tests.
Perform thorough background checks on all officers.
Make it illegal for an officer not to have a body-cam and a dash-cam (on and functioning) in all 50 states.
Re-train and remind officers that they work for the people, and they’re paid to serve the people.
Train all officers in all 50 states, to respond with the least amount of force.
Start making the officer and their precincts responsible for the crimes they commit against unarmed and innocent civilians. If officers know they’ll be liable and they can’t hide behind a badge and a lie, they’ll start thinking before they shoot.
The change doesn’t stop there. Beyond the officer, above the precinct, sits the elected officials. It’s time for them to be responsible for their lack of action as well. Your mayor, governor, senator, congressperson, etc.. Again, your tax dollars pay for their salaries, so they work for you. When the headlines shift, the work must continue. Organize a petition, write, call, show up at your elected official’s office, and push for a change. If they appear complacent with the tragedies you and your community face, vote them out and elect someone else. Do not sit by silently and wait for the next headline or election to get in the fight. For too long, the oppressed have been playing defense and losing. Now, it’s time to ban together, execute a plan, and play offense; because I’m tired of being on the losing team.
For as long as I can remember, I never loved the feeling of being drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good margarita with my Mexican, or bottomless mimosas during brunch. But when it comes to getting drunk, it’s just not my thing; I prefer to get nice. Because I don’t get drunk, I can never use the excuse, ‘I was so drunk, I can’t remember’ line. This means I have the unfortunate responsibility of having to playback, in excruciating detail, all the events of a drunken night with friends, or a day of drinking that ended up in a fight.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no goody-two-shoes. I’ve thrown up across tables, fell asleep in bathroom stalls, and in many clubs. But, like an elephant, I remember everything that happened leading up to the moment I fall asleep. I can recall the exact sip that put me over the edge. On a drunken birthday, I remember picking up dollars from the floor and handing them to the strippers on stage. I remember waiting on line to use the bathroom, then falling asleep on the toilet. I remember the bathroom attendant looking over the top of the stall to make sure I was alive. And I remember my friends escorting me back to my section and letting me go to sleep. I woke up when the ship docked.
I used to envy those people that blacked out, for the sole reason of zero accountability. I always saw the ‘too drunk to remember line’ as a cop-out or an excuse to do fucked up shit and get away with it. –” I’m sorry I slept with you best friend; I was drunk.” — I wished that I could fuck up majorly and, like Jamie Foxx, blame it on the alcohol, but I couldn’t. For a while, I envied those people; Then, when I started attending sex parties, I learned to love my ability to remember.
If you’ve never been to a sex-club or swinger party, they’re always BYOB. To my very first party, I brought a bottle of Bacardi Coconut Rum. I had the bar-lady mix it with pineapple juice, took a few sips, and then scoped out the room. The liquid massage the rum offered my body, was just the right amount of relaxation I wanted and needed. I engaged in some great conversations, ate some pussy, sucked some dick, was in a threesome, and rode a man’s face. And the only reason I remember every detail of that night was because I was sober.
When I started attending LS (Lifestyle) parties regularly, less and less alcohol was needed. For starters, attending parties with a guaranteed partner removed a lot of pressure. And since I screened my partners before the party, I had an assortment of dicks ready to please me. Secondly, with the right amount of people, the party jumped off rather quickly, and with everyone having a good time, a drink to loosen up wasn’t necessary. That high school dance feeling of, waiting for other couples to dance, did not exist. I was extremely comfortable being one of the first couples to start things off. Lastly, I wanted to be in total control of whatever happened throughout the night. I need to know what titty I’m licking, dick I’m sucking, pussy I’m eating, and whose dick is fucking me. In a room full of bodies and chaos, I need to have control; and I couldn’t have that if I was too far gone. Would I recognize the person a few days later, while walking down the street? –Of course not! But, at that moment, I knew that every decision I made was mine, and that was all that mattered.
In addition to wanting to have that control, I wanted to be able to remember how it all felt. I wanted to remember the kiss on my partner’s lips when he sees the outfit I changed into. I wanted to remember the feeling of my lingerie against my skin. I wanted to remember the feeling of eyes on me. I wanted to remember my partner kissing me, then laying me down on the mattress, and removing my panties to devour my pussy. I wanted to remember the weight of other bodies on the bed. I wanted to remember the feeling of tangled limbs and hands caressing my legs in the air. I wanted to remember the feeling of my toes and nipples being sucked and licked. I wanted to remember the feeling of a veiny dick in my mouth as my partner devoured my pussy into a screaming orgasm. I wanted to remember the moment he turned me over to fuck me. I wanted to remember the smell of the pussy I bend over to eat and the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I wanted to remember his hands around my throat, restricting my airway as he rammed my pussy and found his orgasm. And, in the end, I wanted to remember him pulling me back to kiss my lips once he reached his orgasm.
I make all of my bad decisions sober because I want to be in control, and I want to be able to recall the memories of each encounter. I want to remember the feelings of inhibitions lost and lust that enveloped the room. I may forget the names and faces, but that intoxicating feeling will stay with me forever, all because I make my decision sober.
I don’t recall when I saw the first women squirt. But it seemed like overnight, the world was suddenly obsessed. Every time I searched for porn, my feed was bombarded with women gushing all over the screen. As squirting gained popularity, it became every man’s mission to make me squirt. From dating apps far and wide, once the topic changed to sex, every man would gloat about how he made this girl and that girl squirt. They all proclaimed to have the magic touch; however, when it came to me, they were never successful.
The first time I squirted was after seven hours of masturbating, and several clitoral orgasms. I felt my body quiver, and then I released a steady stream of fluid. The release happened a few more times when I was having sex, but the amount never matched what I saw in porn. At the beginning of my sexual revolution, it caused me to question my abilities. But, as years passed, I learned that some women didn’t squirt; and I was ok being one of them. That all changed when I purchased my Liberty Womanizer.
It’s true what they say; once you open the flood gates, they can never be closed again. Night after night, I would pleasure myself and, every time my sheets would end up soaked. I squirted at a sex party while sucking my man’s dick. I even squirted with another partner as we masturbated side by side. My Womanizer never failed me. And, when I started using my Womanizer during anal, it was no different. While my ass was being impaled, and my Womanizer sucked my clit, every orgasm was multiplied and liquified, at the same time.
During my duo-partner threesome, I used my Womanizer; and like clockwork, I released a gush of fluid all over his bed when I reached my orgasm. My primary and I were used to it, but I could tell that he was a bit shocked (to say the least). It wasn’t the first time I used my Womanizer with him, but it was the first time I squirted with him. The surprise and excitement of it all must’ve been too much for him because he never finished. However, the next time we met he knew exactly what he wanted.
I arrived at his apartment and immediately got comfortable. He poured me a glass of wine, and we sat down on the couch. We talked a little bit; then he put my glass down. He stood in front of me and pulled out his dick. I had told him over the phone that I was itching to suck his dick, so he wasted no time. As I sucked his dick, he massaged my breasts, and my pussy got soaking wet. I sucked, gagged, and slurped until he exploded in my mouth, but I didn’t stop there. I continued to play with his cum, and as it mixed with my saliva, I let it drip onto my breasts and the floor. When he couldn’t take anymore, he pushed me away, and I giggled as I fell back against the couch. He went to the bathroom, and when he returned, we went into the bedroom.
He undressed me while delivering me passionate kisses, and once I was naked, he went down to devour my pussy. It was messy and intentional, and with his finger pleasing my ass, he brought me to a phenomenal orgasm. I was ready for him to fuck me, but he wanted to explore my pussy a bit more. He licked his left fingers and slowly inserted his middle, followed by his index finger into my pussy. As I responded to his fingers, he slipped his right index finger into my ass and finger-fucked me into submission. When he was satisfied, he turned me onto my side and ran his fingers up and down my moist openings. My pussy yearned for his dick, and I was eager to be fucked, but he was in bliss, teasing me. I started to grow sexually frustrated, then he whispered in my ear, “I want to fuck your ass.” — Say Less!
He slid the condom onto his dick as I grabbed my Womanizer. I bent over on all fours and lifted my ass in the air. He delivered a few licks to my booty-hole, and when I placed my Womanizer on my clit, he slid right in. As he pushed passed the tightness of my opening, I bit my lip in response. He gripped my waist tighter and began to pick up his pace. Each thrust, combined with the stimulation on my clit, brought me closer and closer to orgasm. When I felt myself reaching the peak, I screamed at him, “Fuck my ass!” and he pounded into me repeatedly. I felt my ass clench around his dick, and with an exhale, my pussy exploded. He continued to fuck my ass as I continued to shower him with my juices. A mixture of screams and obscenities filled the room, then he delivered his final thrust and moaned, “Fuck!” When he was done, with my face still buried in the mattress and my gaping ass in the air, I turned to him and said, “That’s what you wanted all along, didn’t you?” He simply answered, “Yes.” I passed out onto the bed, and after he tossed the condom, he joined me. When we both woke up, about an hour later, I took a quick shower and headed home.
During the Uber ride home, I thought to myself how surprised he was when I squirted on him during the threesome. But, the second time around, he pressed all the right buttons to make my body do precisely what he wanted. The first time, I apologized; but this time, it was all induced. So, when I got dressed and saw that his sheets were still wet, I knew that his mission was accomplished.
A few years ago, I found my first herpes support group on Facebook, and on the façade, it seemed very supportive. Messages of “Keep your head up!” Be strong, you’ll find someone!” and “It wasn’t meant to be.” seemed to flood the daily feed. Even though I knew I wasn’t the only person living with herpes, it was great to finally see and hear other people’s stories. The overall morale of the chats was positive and uplifting, which for a newly diagnosed individual can be essential. However, every so often, I would come across a post asking for advice and support.
I feel terrible, and I need your advice. Last week, I was drinking, partying, smoking (whatever) with my friend. Things got out of control, we had sex, and I forgot to tell them about my herpes status. I feel terrible, and I want to tell them, I just don’t know how to.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that once the comments have been disabled, it was safe to assume that the poster was virtually attacked. Similar posts often bring out, what I like to call, The Bully-Brigade. The Bully-Brigade is the barrage of people that come together to virtually bully anyone whose actions and views don’t align with theirs. With comments like, “You’re a terrible person.” “How could you forget…” and “People like you should be locked up!” — The Bully-Brigade has struck again.
The comments and attacks vary, but the one that sticks out the most is the one of blame. It’s the person that says, “You know, many of us wouldn’t be here if our partner had told us. If my partner had told me that they had herpes, I never have had sex with them. You should’ve given them a choice.”
This one always bugs me, because they so conveniently forget that they, in fact, did have a choice. To have consensual sex, without knowing your partner’s sexual health status, was a choice. The power to control the sanctity of my body is my responsibility, and the same for your body. Do you not eat when you’re hungry, drink when you’re thirsty, or sleep when you’re tired? So, why when it comes to sex, is it only the other person’s responsibility to protect you? I don’t say this to point blame, I say this to take accountability.
Think of your body as a new car you just bought. You wouldn’t give the keys for your new car to a person whose driving record you didn’t know and whose license you haven’t seen, would you? No! You wouldn’t! But if you did, and they crashed it, was it not your choice to hand your keys over to them, in the first place? We don’t take that risk with material things, but we assume that risk with our bodies every day. From the moment I laid eyes on my partner, once I know I want to have sex with him, the responsibility to ensure my sexual health is mine, and mine alone. It was my responsibility to make sure that he posed no threat to me, and the choice I made to not verify his status was, in fact, A CHOICE.
Over the years, I learned to stop arguing with The Bully-Brigade; because they had already made up their mind that their positive diagnosis was someone else’s fault. What I try to do now is pose the question, what if…
You say — “If they had told me they had herpes…” I pose the question — “What if you had asked…?”
What if they told you they were clean, because the test they took didn’t include herpes? Therefore, they had no way of knowing they had the virus.
What if they had the test that included herpes, but because they recently acquired the virus, the antibody test came back negative? (It took 9 months for my antibodies test to detect herpes).
What if you had used condoms? (I used condoms when herpes was transmitted to me).
What if they told you they had a history of cold sores? Marketing doesn’t make it clear that cold sores and herpes are the same virus. Many people don’t think that their cold sores are herpes or that they can impact their partner’s genital region. What if this information was made clear to the masses?
What if doctors did a better job of educating patients before, during, and after their diagnosis? What if they pointed patients to support groups after their diagnosis, instead of giving them a prescription and sending them on their way?
What if sex education was clear and transparent, and inclusive of all sexual behaviors, sexualities, and sexual health? What if consent and boundaries were mandated? What if the stigma was never able to exist because people were educated on the truth of all sexually transmissible and non-sexually transmissible viruses?
What if testing were made easier for all to access? What if when I asked to be tested for everything, I was tested for EVERYTHING?
What if we stopped shaming sex, sexuality, and people with STD/STIs?
What if you’re herpes positive, you disclose to your partner, but you don’t ask to see their results in return? (Is that not, once again, handing someone the keys to your car without checking their license, all-over again?)
What if asking about a person’s sexual health was as easy as saying hi? What if asking to see a person’s test results (and getting them), was as easy and pleasurable as having sex?
What if they never assaulted me?
What if the dad, the aunt, the uncle didn’t kiss the toddler, and pass them the herpes virus?
What if the mother didn’t kiss her child and pass them the herpes virus?
What if you had waited another 3-9 months to get re-tested before having sex?
What if you had waited to go and get tested together?
What if you had asked your partner their sexual health status?
While the what-ifs are endless, none of them can guarantee that you still wouldn’t have ended up with herpes virus. With all the precautions that you could’ve taken in your adolescent or adult life, you still could’ve acquired the virus before ever taking your first steps. At the end of the day, we’re all here. So, instead of focusing on what if, focus on the future. A lot of why we feel what we feel is stigma. So, instead of trying to change others, maybe we can change our perception. And with that, we can change the stigma.
I made the decision to live my true polyamorous life in January 2019; in February, I met M. He was my first poly partner, the first to eat my ass, and the first man I used a butt-plug with. Almost weekly, we had phenomenal sex, he ate my pussy just right, and he was a freak like me. In May, I met A, my primary partner. Over time, it occurred to me that they had a lot in common. So, in December, I set up a group chat (Two Men Walk into A Bar), and a week later, we all met up.
I arranged for us to meet at a Mexican restaurant, by my job, and on the walk there, I was extremely nervous. I was confident that they would get along, but I was worried that the male ego might get in the way. However, once we were seated, everything went off without a hitch. Over dinner and a few margaritas, they got to know each other and talked on how much they both enjoyed fucking me. It was, to say the least, a great introduction date.
After our date, the conversations in our group chat became highly sexual as we tried to plan out the details for our threesome. A few times, they attempted to rush the plan, like the horny men that they are; but I wanted to make sure the event was not rushed. As weeks and months passed, I wondered if our long-awaited threesome would ever happen. Then, a week before New York City went on lockdown, the stars finally aligned.
We arranged to meet at M’s on a Sunday afternoon. I met A when I got off the train, and we walked together to his apartment. Once there, we sat down and talked over some wine. I could tell that M was nervous, as it was to be his first threesome, but I assured him that he would enjoy himself. After a while, we all went into the bedroom to get things started. We got undressed, and with me sandwiched between them, I started kissing my dates for the evening. M began to lick my nipples, A started to eat my pussy, and I sucked M’s dick. I released a loud scream as I was delivered my first orgasm of the day; afterward, he slipped on a condom to fuck me until he reached his orgasm. As he went to clean up, M changed positions and went down on me, and in no time, he delivered me my second orgasm. Still riding my orgasm, M bent me over and fucked me from behind as I sucked A’s dick. Since attending my first sex club, I had been in quite a few MFM threesomes before. But fucking strangers versus men that I actually had cared for, was a totally different experience; it was totally euphoric.
An essential role in being the woman in an MFM threesome is to make sure all people involved are paced and having a good time. After round one, A was ready to keep going, while M suggested a moment of rest. Men, enjoying an MFM threesome, often forget that a woman’s body, not only, needs to reset, but is also her possession. My body has to be enjoying every second of the encounter. So, because my arms, clit, and vagina had just put in serious work, despite A’s resistance, I made the decision to rest. We weren’t on a clock; therefore, there was no need to rush. We took a nap, and when we were all ready, we started up again.
At the start of round two, I wanted it doggy-style, with M lying on the bed and A behind me. He lubed up and proceeded to fuck me in the ass, and with my Womanizer on my clit, like clockwork, I collapsed onto M’s lap as I rode my trembling orgasm. My ass needed a break, so I let my mouth do the work for me. With deep passion, I sucked, licked, and swirled my mouth and tongue back and forth around their dicks, and when I was ready, M positioned himself behind me.
With my ass in the air and my face buried in A’s lap, M licked and bit at my ass. He slipped one finger in and then another, and knowing what was coming next, I grabbed my Womanizer. As he slid into my booty-hole, my body instantly began to tremble. Each thrust felt like heaven, and, once again, with my Womanizer on my clit, my orgasm began to build. As he picked up his pace, my body started to lose control. When my orgasm finally peaked, each outcry of orgasm was accompanied by a burst of squirt. I had no control over what was coming out of my body, but I kept the Womanizer placed over my clit. And with every breath, I exploded again and again. I could tell he was taken aback and aroused at the same time as he was showered in my juices. Fearing that my screams could be heard up and down the Grand Concourse, I buried my face into the bed and rode out the rest of my orgasm through muffled screams. When my tank was finally empty, I fell onto the bed; and after four orgasms, I was officially done.
After we showered, we got dressed and took a walk. Walking down the street with my guys, I felt empowered, sexy, and magical. As stated before, MFM threesomes are always amazing; but partaking in one with partners you care for, that care for you in return, was the cherry on my Sunday.
I don’t know about you, but since this whole Covid-19 lockdown has been in place, I’ve been spending a lot of money shopping on amazon.com. From acrylic nail kits, hair, leggings, and hoodies, I’ve been buying up a storm. It’s been over a month, and sitting in this house has driven me mad, with a massive case of buyer’s virus. If you’re in the same boat as me, you may have been doing the same. You may have also noticed that the delivery people no longer make contact. Since social distancing started, the delivery people simply knock on the door, drop the package, and keep it moving. I had grown used to this; then, I got a package that required a signature.
On this particular day, the rest of my household was out. I had ordered a MacBook Air, and I didn’t want to risk missing the delivery, so I decided to stay home. I did a few video workouts and hopped in the shower. Right when I finished, I heard the doorbell ring. I threw on a towel, put on a pair of flip-flops, and ran down the stairs. As I ran into the kitchen to get a knife (something I always did), I yelled at the delivery man, “One Minute.”
When I opened the door, my breath was stolen. He was tall, had gorgeous blue eyes, brown hair, and a very fair complexion. If it wasn’t for the mask covering his face, I would’ve thought he was Tommy from Power. Lost in the moment, I drank him in, and I could tell he was doing the same to me. He looked at my moist afro, to my still damp shoulders. I felt him visualizing my figure underneath my towel, and when his eyes locked in on my feet, he licked his lips. I felt my body getting hot as he analyzed every visual inch of my body. When his vision reconnected with mine, with a nervous yet sexy voice said, “I’ve got a package for you.” I took a deep breath, I felt my body grow hot, and my nipples began to perk up. With my arousal building, I replied, “I’m sure you do.” I reached for the package, and when his gloved hand grazed mine, it was like a fire was lit. With our eyes locked, he pushed open the door and entered my house.
He pulled down his mask and began kissing and biting my neck. As he nibbled my ear, he pressed his body up against mine. I felt his muscles underneath his shirt, and I could feel his rock-hard chest pressed up against my breasts through my towel. My pussy was throbbing as I felt his dick grow hard through his uniform. When he sat me on the stairs, my towel fell open. He bent down and took my left foot into his mouth. He licked and sucked at every toe and left a trail of kisses up to my thigh. When he got to my pussy, he licked his lips then began to explore my opening. He ran his hands along the inside of my legs as he sucked my clit into orgasm. With the wood edge of the stairs pressing into my back, my body jerked with pleasure. Aroused, I pulled his lips to mine to savor the flavor of my pussy. I opened his belt and pants to free his hard dick, and god was it beautiful. He was long, with a perfect girth and full of veins. I could tell that he’d been without sex since the lockdown, and I was more than happy to drain him dry.
I ran to my room to grab a condom, and when I came back down the stairs, he was more than ready for me. He turned me away from him and began licking and nibbling my bootyhole. He delivered my ass cheek a vicious slap, then slid deep into me. Every thrust into my pussy pushed me hard against the wood stairs. The pain was undeniable, but the pleasure of him being deep inside of me felt so good I didn’t want it to end. He wanted to get a better angle, so he pulled me up and walked me to the kitchen. When he sat down on a dining chair, his dick stood up at attention; and with pure carnal lust controlling me, I slid my wet pussy down the length of his shaft. I rode him until my pussy was sore, and as I felt my muscles vice-grip around his dick, I let out an orgasmic roar.
After I regained my composure, I could still feel his dick hard inside me. As I raised off his lap, I wanted him to finish me in the worst way possible. I bent over the kitchen table, giving him easy access to take full control of my body. I heard him whisper, “fucking perfect,” then he entered me. By this time, all his finesse had left, and all the remained was pure animal. He pounded me over and over, delivering slap after slap to my ass. He pulled my hair back with one hand, while he choked me with the other. Then, right before he was about to cum, he let go of my neck, sucked at his thumb and stuck it in my booty-hole. If he had kept it there a bit longer, I would’ve had another orgasm. But right as I felt it growing, I heard him yell out, “FUUUUUCK!” then he collapsed onto my back.
After a moment, he pulled out of me with a condom full of milky cum. He went up to the bathroom to freshen up, and when he came back down, we locked eyes; then I noticed his wedding ring. He must’ve seen me looking, but when he went to speak, I stopped him.
“–Shh! Don’t ruin the moment. If we never see each other again, what does it really matter?” He had just fucked my brains out, delivered me two orgasms, and helped me live out a long-time fantasy. I offered him a bottle of water, which he accepted, then he went on about his day.
I know a lot of you are probably thinking, “She ain’t shit!” But we were both lost in the moment, and talking about it (after the fact) wouldn’t change a thing.
No, this is not your typical big dicks are the best rant. If you’ve been following my blog since the beginning, you already know that I despise small dicks (aka gherkins, aka little pickles). The other day I was walking while listening to the Whoreible_Decisions podcast, and they had on Jet Setting Jasmine, a public figure who is also the wife of King Noire (public figure, master fetish trainer, and etc.). During the episode they touched on the topic of his dick size, which is huge. They’re have an open marriage, and she mentioned, in a joking way, that she outsources certain sexual acts, and anal was number one. If you’ve ever seen his dick, it’s clear to see why. So, just as some dicks are too small, there are dicks that some women consider too big. So, I came up with this classification that is not based on measurements but based on personal preference.
First, I’ll start with GAP.
No, this is not short for gaping pussy and booty holes. GAP stands for Good in All Positions. This dick length and size may feel better in some positions, but, in general, it’s suitable for all. There’s nothing more annoying than riding a dick that keeps slipping out. Sure, sometimes the pussy can be juicy, but more often than not, the dick is just a few inches shy on the ‘You need to be this tall to ride this ride’ ruler. A dick that feels good in missionary, doggy-style, various riding positions, anal, and fills the mouth just right is a GAP dick.
The second classification is the DSO dick.
DSO stands for Doggy Style Only: this is the dick that only feels good in doggy-style because it is trash in all other positions. It is trash in missionary, it’s trash when riding it, it’s trash from the side, and it offers no challenge when getting sucked. This dick only feels good in doggy-style; with your ass high up, lots of lube, and your face so far down, it’s under the mattress.
The first time I encountered a DSO dick, it took me by surprise. It was attached to a chocolate man with a rock-solid body. He was tall and skinny, so I was beyond confident that his dick would be just as long as he was tall. When I pulled his pants down to suck his dick, I wondered where it was; it was short and fat, in the most unflattering way. I did the best job I could at sucking it, hoping that he was a grower and not a shower, but what I saw was what I got. I bent over on all fours hoping that maybe he’d feel better. I felt him push past my opening then nothing else. He was pumping for dear life, and I felt nothing. My back was arched, and my ass was so high in the air that a satellite could’ve looked into my anal cavity. But nothing I did made the sex feel any better. It was him that first debunked the myth that all black guys were packing because his luggage was definitely lost.
The next classification is NFA, and that stands for Never Fucking my Ass.
If a dick can be too small, one can also be too big. A dick that I deem to big will never get the chance to fuck my ass. Now, sure the first time I had anal was with a guy with an 8″ dick, and I loved it; but he took his time. He made sure I was very aroused, moist, and then he slowly entered me. Each and every thrust felt lovely, and when we had our fill, he switched back to my pussy. For almost a decade, I refrained from anal, and then slowly, I was able to find partners that I deemed suitable for my ass. Their length isn’t super-long, and their girth isn’t too thick; their dick is just right.
The final classification is MLBS, and that stands for Must Lick Before the Stick.
MLBS is the dick that, upon first sight, seems to lack sustenance, and it doesn’t look like it can satisfy. However, after he eats the pussy and makes me cum when he slides into me, it feels like heaven. Some positions may feel better than others, but none of them will feel bad.
My first time encountering an MLBS was when I returned from Mexico. I started talking to him via OkCupid, while I was still on vacation. He messaged me that he wanted to eat my pussy, and since I was feeling free, I agreed to let him once I got back. I met him, and we went to his place. He ate my pussy on the couch in the living room and delivered me an incredible orgasm. When it was time for me to return the favor, as stated before, I was less than enthused. Looking at his size, I listed the possible positions that would deliver me the most pleasure while fucking, and I concluded doggy-style. But, when he bent me over the couch to fuck me, his dick felt like it had grown 4 inches. After he ate my pussy, my walls were still clenching, the orgasm continued to rush through my body, and I was soaking wet. After the wonders he worked on my clit, his dick felt fan-fucking-tastic. His dick felt so good that I went above and beyond to get it. I would go to his house before my long runs. I fucked him after work. I even took the train to fuck him during my lunch break. He fucked me from the back, he fucked me missionary, I rode him like a cowgirl, and he even fucked me from the side (a position that’s not my favorite), and they all felt amazing. As long as he ate my pussy first, his dick felt magical. The only reason we stopped fucking was me; I felt that I was lowering my standards, and I ended it. But now and then, when I’m on the west side of Manhattan, I think about his mouth and dick, and my pussy starts to get wet.
The above is the beauty of a MLBS dick. As long as his tongue delivers you to an orgasm, his dick possesses the same capabilities as a GAP dick. So, because I love getting my pussy eaten, MLBS dicks have become my personal favorite. Now, isn’t that better than grading dicks by measurements?
I love sex. Something I love more than sex is masturbating. I love the time when I can connect with my body and bring myself pleasure. Even if I find myself in a loving relationship with a partner that dicks me down every single night, the honest truth is that, before I go to sleep, I need to orgasm on my own. Sometimes, I would masturbate in the morning; other times, I would masturbate when I got home after work, but the most convenient time for me to masturbate would be in my bed at night.
For a good couple of years, masturbation was my nightly sleeping pill. After my shower, I would lay down in my bed, grab my phone, and google whatever porn interested me (mostly Gangbang). I would power up my vibrator and ride the wave to reach my orgasm. With heavy panting, leg spasms, and an increased heartbeat, I would silently climax then pass out. That was my nightly routine for years. Then, one day I heard about the Womanizer. I heard about the sucking-pulse mechanism, and that it would deliver an orgasm I’d never experience before, and I simply had to have it. During a visit to Babeland, I finally made my purchase. When I got home, I charged it up; and after my shower, I laid down and placed the opening on my clit. The orgasm I had was more powerful than anything I could have imagined. The power of the Womanizer was so good that I didn’t even need to use porn.
Over the next few months, I enjoyed many orgasms with my Womanizer. Then, one night, I went for a second round. My clit was already highly sensitive, but I was determined to push my boundaries. Gingerly, I placed the opening back onto my clitoris, I started it on a low setting, then increased it slowly. My breasts rose and fell rapidly to match my breathing, a tingling started at my toes and generated throughout my body; when I finally reached my second orgasm of the night, with a stifled moan, I squirted all over my sheets. I took a moment to regain my composure, got a blow dryer, dried my sheets, and then went back to sleep.
As much as I loved the comfort of my bed, having to dry my sheets every night became a mood killer. Luckily, the Womanizer was waterproof, so the next night, I took her into the shower. With my back against the wall, the hot water rolling over my breasts, and my left foot propped up on the edge of the tub, I allowed the sucking sensations of my Womanizer to deliver me an orgasm, then another accompanied with a vicious squirt. In my bed, I never wanted to make a mess; however, in the shower, I was able to let it all go. A nightly shower orgasm had become my routine. Multiple times, I came so hard that my stomach cramped. I was masturbating so much, I worried that my clit would fall off, but there was an injury brewing that took me by total surprise.
I purchased my Womanizer around June, I started masturbating in the shower in September. At the beginning of October, I noticed a shooting pain in my foot when I would wake up in the morning and after long walks. Every morning, I tried to alleviate the tension on my foot by rolling it on a stress-ball and performing a round of foot exercises; but none of them worked. Because I’m a runner, pain is nothing new for me. From random back pains, butt pains, and foot pains, I’ve encountered them all, but eventually, they all subside. However, this new pain, that was isolated in my left foot, that had no apparent reason for being caught me totally off guard. Then, one night, while I was putting lotion on my leg, I had my left foot resting on my desk chair; when I slightly arched my foot, the pain was instantaneous. Like a lightbulb, it became clear to me where my pain was coming from. I remembered that every time I orgasmed in the shower, I would crouch down during my orgasm, putting irregular stress on my arch. I was finally at ease to know where my pain was coming from, but I worried about my future orgasm routine. What would be the best angle to keep my shower orgasm routine going?
The next night, I went into the shower and tried a new position. Instead of propping my foot up, I turned towards the wall, allowing the water to cascade on my back. I slightly parted my legs, positioned my clit into the opening, and started the Womanizer. At first, it was a weird angle, then I played a fantasy in my mind. I thought back to my first time at a sex-club (Caligula). And I remembered the big shower they had on the upper level. I imagined myself with the shower on, naked, and masturbating while all the other patrons looked on. Being the sexual center of attraction, on full display for all to see and not touch, aroused me to another level. The fantasy drove me to an orgasm that poured out from my body. I finished my shower then went to sleep.
Every few nights, I rotate positions, from standing to squatting, to sitting on the edge of the tub, to occasionally kneeling. Thankfully, each and every position still delivers me the same fantastic orgasm I had become accustomed to, minus the pain in my foot.
It was official; states across America were locking down to avoid the global pandemic of COVID-19 (the Corona Virus) from devastating their towns. Luckily, my boss had sent us home early on Tuesday. Like everyone else, I, too, was glued to the news on Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday morning, with the news confirming that this virus was a long way from being over, I remembered I had masks and Lysol at my office. (I had a co-worker that was always sick. One day I got fed up with her germs, so I went onto Amazon.com; I purchased 100 masks, three cans of Lysol, and a big jar of hand sanitizer. She wasn’t sick for the next month. Then COVID 19 came through with a vengeance. I threw on some leggings, a hoodie, my mask, gloves, and headed to the train. I decided to take the Q train because I knew it would be the quickest and possibly the emptiest train— I just had no idea how empty.
I made it onto the train just before the car doors closed. Unfortunately, I bumped into a guy that was standing in the doorway; he was tall with a lean body. I apologized a few times, and he replied, with a sexy voice, “No problem, beautiful.” Was he flirting during a pandemic? I could feel his eyes tracing the curves of my legs, but I figured he wouldn’t approach me. We locked eyes, and when I saw the shape of his mask wrinkle, I knew I wasn’t alone in my attraction. After 86th Street, the train came to a slow stop, and the announcer said, “This train is being held due to a sick passenger on the train ahead. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Knowing it was going to be a longer ride than expected, I decided to sit. I turned on my R&B 90s playlist and closed my eyes.
A tap awakened me; I opened my eyes to see the guy standing over me.
“I just had to tell you, your body looks amazing in those leggings.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Your scent is very intoxicating, as well.”
I couldn’t see myself, but I was sure my cheeks were turning red. “Is that so?” I flirted back.
“Yes. Coming across a woman with such an intoxicating scent is a turn-on. Can you see what it’s doing to me?”
I was so busy staring into his deep dark eyes, and being aroused by his full lips, that I didn’t realize his pants were getting tighter.
“Do you smell like that everywhere?” He asked.
Thinking what my answer would be, I could feel my body heat beginning to rise.
“I’ve never had any complaints,” I replied. He smiled in response.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to find out.”
He extended his gloved hand to me and raised me from my seat. Towering over me, he bent over and inhaled at my neck; his facial hair tickled me in the process. His body moved closer to mine, and I could feel his dick pressing against my stomach. He inhaled down the length of my body. When he arrived at my pussy, he used his left hand to caress my ass; then he bent my leg to lift it onto the seat. He lowered down and buried his nose deep into my crotch. I wasn’t sure what had come over me. Maybe it was the pandemic or the fact that I was horny and finally about to live out a fantasy. All I knew was if the world was coming to an end, I might as well enjoy the ride. When he came up, the smile on his face was pure sex.
He asked, ”May I?” then I slid down my pants.
He hoisted me up onto his shoulders and, for dear life, I held on to the overhead bar. With my leggings pulled down to my knees, he slipped his head in between my pants and began to devour my pussy. All my push-ups had come in handy because a month ago I could barely do a pull-up. Although it was a struggle, I was able to hold myself up as he licked and sucked my clit to a trembling orgasm. When he lowered me back to the floor, I saw that his dick was rock hard. I pushed him against the car door. I removed my gloves and grabbed his dick from his pants. His dick was nothing short of fantastic. I squatted down, licked my lips, and moved in for the kill. I inched my way down the length of his dick and cupped his balls in my hand. He placed his hand behind my head and pushed my mouth farther down the length of his dick, and with every motion, my pussy grew wetter. Between the sounds of my slurping he yelled, “Fuck” and “Shit”. Inside I knew, I was probably giving him some of the best head he had in his life.
“God! I wish I could bend you over and fuck you right now!” He said
I pulled his dick from my mouth, “I thought you’d never ask.”
He removed his gloves, pulled me up, then groped my ass as he bit at my neck. He bent down to lick at my wet pussy; then he bent me over. I could see our reflections in the window as he slid his dick into me. The welcomed pressure of his dick entering my pussy forced me to close my eyes and savor the moment. I lowered my head like a rag-doll as he took control of my body; with every thrust, my head jerked up and down. He whispered for me to put my mask on, which I did, then he told me to look up. I looked into the glass and his eyes. As his thrusts started to slow down and get deeper, my moans got longer. He would completely exit my pussy to admire the gaping hole he left, then ram it back in, to make me scream in ecstasy. The train had started to move, and he began to pick up his pace. He reached one hand around my neck, and the other gripped my hoodie, and he proceeded to pound into me. In the race for him to have his orgasm, I had become his sexual rag doll. He thrust into me over and over; then I heard him scream, “I’m gonna cum!” With a few more thrusts, he walked back and emptied his dick on the floor. I looked at the reflection of a total stranger in the window and said to myself —What the Fuck! I could tell he was thinking the same.
I pulled up my pants and eased my body into a seated position. He put his dick back into his pants and sat back down to catch his breath. With the train entering the 72nd street station, we stared each other down. Before the doors opened, all he could get out was, “Damn! You got some good pussy!” I smiled and said, “So I’ve been told.” He chuckled. When the doors opened, he got up and exited the train, keeping his eyes on me as he left. When the doors closed and the train pulled out of the station, I put my headphones back in and closed my eyes.
I jolted awake when I heard the announcement and felt the wind from the open door at 42nd street. I jumped up and ran off the train just as the doors closed behind me. Walking up the stairs, my body felt weak and my pussy was moist. I asked myself, “Did I just fuck a total stranger on the train, or did I dream it?”
A few years ago, when I was still online dating, I came across the profile of a cute Latino. His profile indicated that he lived near me and that he, like myself, enjoyed running. Once we started talking the conversation flowed like water. We spoke, consistently, for a few weeks before we decided to meet up. All seemed to be going well, but he kept giving me random reasons why he couldn’t meet me when it was convenient for me. He kept trying to get me to meet him at his house or in front of his building late at night. I made it clear to him that, if he wanted to meet me, he would have to do so at my convenience. Even though he was resistant to meeting, we continued to communicate.
During one of our conversations, I asked him what he did for work. He told that he was a personal assistant for his cousin (whom he claimed was Jessica Caban, the longtime girlfriend of Bruno Mars). He also said that he was a part-time hairstylist. I made a comment, that I thought would end up being a light-hearted joke. In response to him saying that he was a hairstylist, I joked, and asked if he was also gay. I expected a variety of responses, equating to a no. Although he did say no, when he told me that he was a cross-dresser, I almost choked. Immediately my phone was flooded with messages from him dressed like a woman. Now, don’t get me wrong, he didn’t look half-bad; I simply wasn’t expecting that. I thought about deleting his number and blocking him, but I wondered if I was being too close-minded. There was a party of me that knew I couldn’t get with it. But there was another part of me that considered the courage that it took for him to be honest with me; and, that part didn’t want to just walk away.
We agreed to meet up one evening and go for a walk in Central Park. He was less handsome in person, but still good looking. I don’t remember what I wore; but I remember he wore a huge multi-colored puffer jacket and NYC Marathon ASICS. —Why do I remember those details, you ask. The only reason why I remember them is because he kept mentioning them. He kept mentioning how expensive his coat and sneakers were, and how much money he had. As he tried to win me over by saying how much money he had, I kept changing the conversation to other topics. We spoke about running, him doing hair, and eventually I asked him when he started cross-dressing. He explained that on one day he just decided to try it and he liked it. He had this cockiness about him that I hated; but his honesty kept me intrigued.
I felt like dessert, so we walked down to Pinkberry. On our walk, the conversation continued to evolve. I was semi-surprised to think that despite how things began; we were actually having a decent first date. Once inside of Pinkberry, and only because he made such a big deal on how much money he had, I was taken aback when he didn’t offer to pay for my $7 dollar dessert. —If you’ve been following my blog from the beginning, you know how I feel about men that don’t offer to pay on first dates. If a man doesn’t pay on a first date, there will not be a second. I thought to myself, for a guy donning $130+ sneakers, and a coat that he claimed was over $500, the least he could do was buy my frozen yogurt; when he did not, it was an automatic major deduction. I was ready do ditch his ass; but, unfortunately, he lived in my area, and we had to walk in the same direction. He said that he was thirsty; so, walking back uptown, we stopped into Whole Foods. He walked to the beverage station, grabbed a beverage, and asked me if I wanted anything. I said no, and I started walking towards the cash register. I was, once again, taken aback when he turned around and made his way back to the entrance. —Yes! While wearing over $600, this fool decided to steal a seltzer water from Whole Foods. I looked at him like he was bat-shit crazy. Once outside of the store I ripped into him about what he did, and he seemed to not care. I needed to change the conversation over the remaining 15 blocks, so we spoke about movies and TV shows. When he reached his building, he invited me to come up, but I eagerly declined and made my way home.
Most women would’ve blocked his number. However, there is always (and probably will forever) be a part of me that never knows when to call it quits. I can say it in my mind, but there is always the heart. When the mind and heart align, then along comes the conscience, that convinces me to give a person one more chance. So, after our first meet & greet, where he stole and didn’t even buy me a dessert, we were still talking. A part of me found it interesting having a person that was so different in my life. So, I wasn’t quite ready to sever all ties. A week later, I was with my friends at the bar having wings, and my date came up. I went over all the details of the date and they were appalled for me. When I mentioned that he was also a cross-dresser, they thought that I was out of my mind for going on the date, in the first place. I tried to justify the reasons for us staying in contact, but in the end, I knew it had run its course.
After a few nights, he went from being interesting and different to classic fuck-boy. One evening, he kept repeatedly asking me to come over and I told him no. He then proceeded to say that if I didn’t come over, he would call someone else to. I guess he thought my decision to talk to him was out of desperation, but I was simply trying to be open-minded. I told him he was well within his right to do what he wanted. This went on for about twenty more minutes. Growing annoyed, I told him that I would block him. When he didn’t stop, I did just that. To this day, I still wonder why I even went down that road in the first place. I knew, the moment he told me that he cross-dressed, red flags went up. After his behavior on the first date, I knew there would be no romantic future. I don’t really know what it was, but I wanted to give him a chance to see if we could at least be friends. In the end, nobody can say I didn’t try.
So, here we are, almost two weeks into the Covid 19 shut down, and never in a million years did I think it would’ve gotten this bad. I can remember making jokes about the virus just over a month ago, assuming that people were over-reacting, and that this would boil over before it even started. Boy— were we wrong.
As I write this post from my kitchen table, it has been exactly one week since my office, in Times Square, closed for business, and we were made to work from home. Two weeks was the initial time-line we all looked forward to. Just two weeks— if we all stay inside and practice social distancing, all would be back to normal. As I’m glued to the news, and I’m certain that you are too, the time-line seems to be nowhere in sight. With the unemployment rate seeing heights that have never been seen, and the number of people infected constantly increasing, I am officially worried.
For as long as I can remember, any hardship that I ever faced, was with a grain of salt. I’ve been laid-off before and fired from quite a few jobs (because of my mouth). But my saving grace was that, I lived with my family and I always knew that I could find another job. When I got the email from my company that they were cutting our salaries in half, until further notice— Shit Got Real! I work in fashion, and my company’s survival depends on the public’s ability to buy. If over half of the population is out of work, because businesses can’t open, I could be out of a job; and that cushion that I once relied on disappears.
I could make this a post all about my sad position, “Sad girl, who lives with her family, has her salary cut in half,” but here’s my silver lining. I have a roof over my head, food in my refrigerator, and money in my savings account. For what it’s worth, I’ll be ok. I turn my focus to others that don’t have those safety nets. I consider the household, who just lost their sole bread-winner. I think of the children whose safe place was the schools they attended. I think of the family in poverty that may run out of food, if things don’t return to normal soon enough. A $1500 dollar check when rent in NYC for a studio can easily top that, is a band-aid on a wound worthy of stitches.
Facebook reminded me that last year I was in Vegas, squeezing my thick ass into too tight waist-shapers, drinking with my friends, and living my best life. The farthest thing on my mind was a virus that would come and literally cripple the country. Hell, two weeks ago I was planning to grab oysters and a few cocktails after work. But in the blink of an eye, my half-marathon was cancelled, my writing group was cancelled, my monthly gym memberships have been put on hold, and all the little joys are now huge threats. Even walking outside poses a risk my family, and it’s really tough to think of all the things that I once took for granted.
Before shit hit the fan, on Mondays I used to go to Barnes & Noble with my boyfriend. He would meet me after work and we would sit there and write until they closed. It offered me the quiet that I needed to focus on my writing and to be with My Love, away from my family. Now, because every place is only to-go and delivery, and it’s too cold to sit outside, I’m lucky if I can find a quiet moment to work in my home. When I freelanced from home, it was the most amazing experience. I would wake up, brush my teeth, wash my face, eat breakfast, then sit down to work. I ate when I wanted, and I worked out when I wanted. A few weeks ago, I joked about how I would love to go back to freelance work, and how much I missed it. However, when that fantasy became a reality-nightmare, I realized that I had no business complaining.
This past weekend, my friends and I went out for a walk. We hadn’t seen each other since our brunch on New Year’s Day, and we kept saying that we wanted to meet up; then this happened. The few of us that felt well and lived close by arranged to meet up and go for a walk in Central Park. Saturday was a beautiful day; and, I’m certain the number of people would’ve been triple, had it not been for the current state of contagious virus. The shine and warmth of the sun, the chirping of the birds, the ducks in the pond, and the laughter of the children playing, was a total juxtaposition to what was going on in the real world. We walked for a bit to get some fresh air, we made our way to Dunkin’ Donuts, then walked back to the park. I did a little shopping, and when I parted from my friends, my guy and I continued to walk home. I made him a plate for dinner and he stayed for a while as we watched a movie. When it was time for him to go, I told him, “I Love You.”
As I lay in bed, I wondered when things would get back to normal. I wondered when would be the next time I would see my friends. I wondered when would be the next time I would see My Love. This virus has sent the world, as we know it, into a frenzy. I have friends and family working on the front-lines, in the hospitals. I have friends that work in public transportation, risking exposure every day. I have family that are still required to report to work and deal with customers day in and day out, I have a friend that is sick, and My Love has to report to work in the middle of this pandemic.
I say all of this to say, now is the time to call your loved ones and see how they’re doing. Virtually reconnect with your friends to keep those bonds established. Stay inside but keep in touch. We don’t know how long this is going to last and how long the impact will have on each and every one of us. It’s time to forgive and move forward.
Unlike the previous parties we had attended, this one was extremely slow to start. My guy and I greeted the people we knew, scoped out the room, and decided to stake our claim on the chaise by the large open window. We kissed and flirted while we waited for more guests to arrive. About 30 minutes later, a guy I played with at the last party, walked in with his play-partner. He had made his decision to come to the party solely based on our previous sexual interaction and my recommendation; so, I really hoped that the party would get better. He told me about his ex, and showed me pictures from the parties they attended when they were together.
An hour later, it was finally time to start the introductions. We went around the room, introduced ourselves, stated our DOs and DONTs, then it was dress-down-time. I couldn’t help but notice that it was way more of a sausage party than previous parties, and that there were very few women that attended with the intention to play; neither of which made me happy. Nonetheless, I retreated to the restroom to change into my lingerie and when I returned, over half the party was still fully dressed—What the Fuck! Unlike other parties, that had a designated smoking bathroom, since the hotel was non-smoking; anyone that wanted to smoke had to go down to the street. When ¾ of the party returned, I hoped that once everyone returned the party would get better. Normally, I don’t mind being one of the first to get things started; but since everyone was still dressed it was very difficult for me to lower my inhibitions. My guy, being the horn-dog that he is, didn’t care, and I could tell that he was ready to go, but my mood was totally halted. We remained sitting on the chaise, playing with our phones, and hoping more guests would arrive. After a while, the guy that came to play with me got fed up with the lack of order, got his partner, and they left. When I spoke to him later I apologized for the bad experience he had. I told him that was a one-off bad experience, and that the next party would be way better. He asked me how the rest of the night went, and I was happy to let him know that the night wasn’t a total bust.
After a while, one of the other guests and his wife decided to take the lead to get the party started. He made a show of eating her booty hole and that allowed a few others to start openly engaging. Another woman started sucking her man’s dick, and seeing another couple in action made me horny. I was finally ready to play; and the first thing I wanted to do was have my pussy eaten. I laid down on my back for my man to devour me. My breasts came out as my robe slipped to the side, exposing my pierced nipples for fellow party-goers to adore and rub on. My moans from my partner’s oral pleasure were heightened by hands rubbing on my feet, my legs, and my thighs; it felt intoxicating. As I reached my orgasm I let out a loud scream and clenched my thighs around his head. Once down from my high, I was ready for him to fuck me. As he got into position behind me and put on a condom, I went into my bag of treasures and pulled out my jeweled butt-plugs. By this time, the room had begun to fill up and we had a crowd of spectators that were amazed at my butt-plug. I moistened it in my mouth and had my man insert it, and braced for impact; only he had a different plan.
I was bent over, wet, butt-plug inserted and ready for sex; except, my guy decided to try an put on a show. He wanted to show the spectators how good he was at eating pussy. The only problem was, I just had an orgasm, and I can’t have two back to back (my body isn’t set up like that). As he kept working his tongue on my clit for the audience, I grew less and less aroused. When he finally got the hint that I wasn’t going to cum, he slid the condom on and prepared to fuck, only he had grown soft. He put so much focus on pleasing the crowd, he missed the opportunity. I turned around and began sucking his dick to get him hard; once my job was accomplished, he bent me over and began to fuck me. As he fucked me from behind, another of my repeat-play-mates, positioned himself in front of me and I reveled in sucking his dick. I licked, flicked, sucked, and gagged on him as I was being fucked from the back. After my guy had his orgasm, he cleaned up and then they swapped places. I always enjoy the pressure of a dick entering my pussy and that time was no different. Once inside of me, he delivered into me deep and intentional strokes. When he had reached his orgasm, it was clear that my vagina was done and mouth were done.
I went to the shower to freshen up and when I returned my guy was ready to go again, but I was not. He was getting hard, but I had no desire to have a penis in my mouth, or vagina; so I told him we could masturbate together.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and I got my womanizer out and kneeled down in front of him. Once he started to stroke I powered her up. The sucking pulse of the womanizer performed wonders on my clit, and I moaned louder and louder. As I felt my orgasm reaching a peak, my moans became a vocal example of what was happening inside my body. I heard one of the guys in the room say; “Yo! Her moans are getting my dick hard.” But after that, all other sounds died away. As my screams overpowered the sounds in the suite, my orgasms continued to build. Right after my guy came on my tits, I reached the peak of my orgasm with an extreme high-note, followed by my juices exploding onto the carpet. My body shook as the rushes of orgasms kept coming and forced me to release more and more fluid; then I collapsed onto his lap. Once I regained my composure, I got up from the floor, and he joined me in the shower. Once clean, we gathered our clothes and got dressed. It was then that I realized I accidentally got his briefs wet with my juices; but, there was nothing we could do about it. After we dressed, we put on our clothes, said our good-byes, and exited the party.
Despite the beginning, the party ended on a literal high-note. And, on the 34th floor of One UN Plaza, with the FDR Drive and the night sky outside the window; I had my first swinger squirt.
I’ve reached the final love language—Thank Heaven!
I’m not surprised that Words of Affirmation is at the bottom of my list, now. But, when I was growing up, I used to crave Words of Affirmation. At a young age, they often mirrored the actions that were being delivered my way. Parents, family, and friends were all walking examples of actions and words that actually matched. But as I got older, things began to change. Naturally, discipline from a parent or an older family member, to a rebellious teenager, did not feel like love; so, when I was told I couldn’t do something, followed by an I love you, I called Bull Shit! And it only got worse as I got older.
I was picked-on, as a kid. I was picked-on because of my hair, my glasses, and lack of designer clothing. At first, it used to bother me, but with time, the things that separated me from the crowd began to shine. I had a great voice, I was a good artist, and I was decent in sports. As time passed, I started being accepted for qualities and skills that were undeniable, and the teasing stopped. People stopped looking for reasons to not like me, and learned to accept me for who I was.
When I started dating, the phrase “I love you” was tossed around, like a salad ingredient. The phrase was everywhere; but, like a salad, it lacked sustenance. It was a great side or starter, but it could never fill me up. So, when actions never corresponded with the words, through trial and error, I had to learn that words had no real weight if actions didn’t corroborate them. By the time I graduated high school, I had adapted the concept of ‘love me or hate me’ with the confidence to match. People, more often than not, liked and/or loved me; and once I started to feel the energy that I was sending reciprocated, I no longer needed and/or required words of affirmation.
Don’t get me wrong– it’s always nice to receive a compliment. I couldn’t see myself being, truly happy, with a person that never said one nice thing to me or about me. And, I totally understand that my partner is doing so because they feel it, and they want to profess it. But, the fact remains, it does not impact me the same way; because I’d rather feel than hear.
Another reason why Words of Affirmation doesn’t have such a high rank for me, is because, a part of me struggles with accepting compliments. For example: I’ve finished 5 marathons, 10 half-marathons, and countless other races; I know that it’s no easy feat. However, there are people that run faster, longer, and more frequently than I do; so, with that in the back of my mind, I choose to remain humble in the face of all compliments.
Today, words of affirmation sound nice, but they hold no weight in the grand scheme of my life. Over the years, I’ve become head-strong, resilient, and confident. When I set my mind to do something, nothing can stand in my way. So, as much as it feels good to hear someone say, “good job,” subconsciously, I already know that. I didn’t need to hear it; but, since saying the words made the say-er feel better, I happily accept their support and encouragement.
Writing on the 5 Love Languages has been quite a journey. Writing this series has allowed me to dive deeper into my past to understand my present. I never set out to be a Pulitzer Prize winning writer. I just wanted to vent a little, talk about sex, break some stigmas, and maybe gain a fan or two that could relate to my problems. There were many times, during the love languages posts, that I wanted to just stop and change course; but, by sticking with it, I learned so much more about myself. I opened up memories I was certain didn’t exist, and I was able to process why I felt the way I did about things. I encourage you all to read or audio-book the 5 Love Languages, and to take the quiz. Once you have your results, take the time to process what they mean for you and why they rank as they do.
People often assume that sexual touch and physical touch are the same thing. Another common assumption is that, a sexual person must also enjoy being touched. For much of my life, I made these assumptions as well. I loved having sex so much, that I was sure Physical Touch would be my top love language. I was certain that, with all the kissing, caressing, and humping; it would be my number one -How could it not be? While doing the test, I was surprised to see that so many of my answers proved otherwise. With Physical Touch coming in at number 4, I reflected back to some instances where I was being touched, but I didn’t feel loved.
I remember a time, years ago, when I was lying beside my boyfriend. We were both naked, as we just finished having sex; his arm was draped over my body, and my head was nestled underneath his chin on his chest. All was right with the world, until he started rubbing my arm, up and down. The feeling of his hand against my skin had changed. The caressing of his hand that had just ignited our 30-minute love making session, suddenly felt like a catheter, stopping my blood flow. I remember wanting him to stop, but because I didn’t want to sound mean – I said nothing. Recently, I was on the sofa with my guy, as we watched Netflix. He was sitting up and I was resting my head on his lap. In that position I felt safe, secured, and precious; I could’ve stayed in that position forever. When his hands moved from around my waist and started to rub on my breasts; those feelings began to fade. I tried ignoring it at first, because I knew that he was happy touching me in that way; eventually it was all I could focus on. It went from being something I could ignore to annoying. Again, I didn’t want to come across as unaffectionate; so, I placed my hands over his to stop the motion.
On both occasions, a person that I loved was delivering love to me, but it was in the form that best suited them. It wasn’t the first time those actions had taken place, but it was the first time I had processed them that way. I needed to find some reason or logic as to why, in those moments, I shut down and, in a way felt slightly offended.
For centuries, a woman’s body was the property of her father, and after marriage it became the property of her husband. It’s still common to hear women relinquish their bodies to their husbands on demand (I was exhausted, but when my man wants it, I give it!). It’s been instilled in women that a wife’s duty is to see to it that her husband was satisfied. For a time, if he wanted to have sex and she did not, he was within the full rights of the law, to use his male-domination to either convince his wife and/or dominate her into submission. Even though there are laws that exist against these acts today (depending on where you are in the world and if violence is involved), many women still believe that their bodies are not their own. Sure, if a stranger touched me, I could handle the situation quite abruptly and without hesitation. But when love is involved the once clear line begins to blur.
From birth, it’s easy to overlook all the times when a person’s body is not their own. We’ve all seen the child writhing and screeching, as their being passed around like a dessert plate for people to “ooh” and “ahh” at them – We’ve all been this child at least once. Try counting how many times your parents or family told you to give a hug or a kiss to someone that you didn’t want to – If you could even remember, you would lose count. When we’re in school, if a classmate hit us, or invaded our personal space, we were told to be nice, shake hands, and hug. Once out of the womb, we were repeatedly forced to lower our bodily-boundaries for people that we knew and loved. The roads run parallel for both sexes until approximately puberty. After puberty, boys were taught to take power and control of their bodies, while girls are taught to protect bodies, but only for the later use of a man (Don’t you want to be perfect for your husband on your wedding night?). With this rhetoric it’s no wonder why I had issues declaring my body as my own.
I first had to learn that my body was my own; entering into a relationship did not give my partner rights to my body. The second thing I had to learn was, not wanting to be touched did not mean a lack of love. There are certain touches the register certain emotions, and those emotions control how I feel in my relationships. I’m a sexual being that likes sex, writes about sex, and I get a lot of sexual attention from strangers; it’s imperative that, in my relationship, I feel loved. I prefer hand holding to random ass-slaps while walking down the street, innocent kisses over childish grabs and/or pokes at my breasts, and standing big-spoon cuddles over fingers poking at my holes. One touch says I love and cherish you, the other says I want to fuck you, I want to possess you, to own you, and that your body is not yours, it’s mine.
When I allow my partner(s) to explore my body as their momentary playground, it’s with much love, excitement, and sensuality. But when the sun sets, and the park closes, so does the playground inside of it. When my partner(s) continue playing after the park closes, it’s a direct disrespect of the rules and boundaries that were set in place.
Maintaining control is of the utmost importance for me, and understanding that Physical Touch is not the same for everyone.
The first time I took the 5 Love Languages quiz, I was dead single; and, with no hope for a relationship in sight. I felt that learning my love languages would allow me to process why certain relationships didn’t go as planned. When I took the quiz my love languages were as follows:
1. Receiving Gifts
2. Acts of Service
3. Physical Touch
4. Quality Time
5. Words of Affirmation
Over the last week, as I knew I planned to dive deeper into exploring my love languages, I felt it only made sense to read the damn book; but, since I was on a time crunch and I am not a fast reader, I listened to the audiobook. Absorbing the messaging from the book, further broke down my understanding of my love languages. Outside of the occasional religious reference (which I easily glossed over), the average person could learn to apply the tools of the book to their specific relationships.
I re-took the test before writing this post, just to see if there were some changes, and these were my results.
1. Receiving Gifts
2. Quality Time
3. Acts of Service
4. Physical Touch
5. Words of Affirmation
It was no surprise that my primary love language remained Receiving Gifts; I’ve known and suspected this for quite some time. I was, however, surprised to see that Quality Time had moved up in the ranks to number two; and the inquiring mind that I am, I wanted to understand why. That desire to know took me back to all the times in my past relationship, where I was technically in my partner’s presence, but I felt totally alone.
When Bruno Mars sang “Lucky for you, that’s what I like” – it made so much sense. How easy would a relationship be if you and your partner had things in common? How easy would it be if your love languages aligned? How easy would it be if your partner was willing and able to love you in the way that you received love? Dag Nabit! If only I knew this sooner, I would’ve saved myself a lot of tears, emotions, and wasted breath. If I was able to lay on the table my love languages (considering the receiving person even knew what love languages really were), we could determine right then and there if we wanted to proceed or not.
In my past relationships, where having any of my needs met was like pulling teeth without Novocain, to cope with the disappointment, I subconsciously minimized their importance. If after many requests and failed attempts I was still without, I pushed the need to the bottom and made others more important. Years later, I recognized this behavior and labeled it the ugly C-word; ‘compromise’. The idea that if you meet If you meet a seemingly perfect person that you loved deeply; but, if they are unwilling do to the things that make you happy, in your core; you should just dismiss that key detail and be happy with what you get; I think is total bull-shit. I may not be able to get all that I want but, my primary love languages should be met.
When I finally had an idea of what my love languages were, I was more than happy to apply them when I started dating again.
For example: If Guy doesn’t believe in buying gifts (for whatever reason). On my side, because receiving gifts is my primary language; even if I’m able to live without gifts for a few weeks during the euphoria of new romance; there will come a time when I will want a gift. As he’s already stated it’s a no-go for him, we’ll eventually arrive at a roadblock in the relationship.
If I’m able to know from the very beginning, that he will never be willing to give me what I want in the end, I’ll know not to go down that road; because, it will never work.
In my last relationship, without knowing it was my love language; towards the end, I would stress to my partner that I just wanted some time together with him. As he never got me anything for the entirety of our relationship, I had convinced myself that if he could come through on this, all would we right within our world. So, when our quality time looked like sitting on the couch as he watched basketball; I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t complain, because I was technically getting what I had requested, just not in the form that I desired. Had I known better I never would’ve allowed for the relationship to go on as long as it did. He wasn’t spending quality time with me; he was just being in my presence.
Over the years I’ve learned that, quality time is something you do for your partner the way they can receive it. Him having me over to watch a game that he would’ve watched regardless; did not count. Just because we were in each other’s company, that doesn’t by default mean, the time was quality; as he was focused on the game and I wished that I was in my room watching Love & Hip Hop.
With Receiving Gifts and Quality Time at the forefront of my love languages, in a society where everything costs a million dollars and people can barely find a moment to shit in peace; I knew my work was cut out for me; but, like Bruno Mars said; “Lucky for you, that’s what I like”. When I re-entered the dating world (with all my additional titles), I made it a point to seek partner’s whose love language matched my own; and to avoid the unnecessary headache, I only entertained those that I felt were willing and able to love me the way I knew I needed to be loved.
Armed with new armor and weapons to win the battle that is love; I found dating and love, this time around to be more satisfactory and love filled than ever before.
So, Friday is Valentine’s Day, and for the first time, in years, I’m actually in a relationship. So, what does that mean for me? If you remember my post from last year, The Significance of Valentine’s Day; I wrote about this miraculous day of gift giving, and relationship confirming, as one that shouldn’t bear so much when compared to the entirety of your relationship. A part of me still agrees with that, while the other part of me, the part that still holds onto traditional values, cares for none of that evolved way of thinking.
It’s important to remember that, when I wrote my post last year; not only was I single, I was still dealing with the emotional ramifications from being scammed, and I was on my own self-discovery-celibacy journey. After some amazing realizations and changes, an entire year later, I have a primary love interest, and two quasi-romantic-sexual partners.
I still don’t seek for my relationship to be validated on a single day; because I know what I have with my Love. But I do know that, if I don’t get flowers and chocolates while I’m at work; IT’S GONNA BE A PROBLEM! And with that I bring into the conversation, The 5 Love Languages.
Acts of Service
Words of Affirmation
I, like many people, took the online quiz; and the above are my love languages in order of importance to me. As you can see, receiving gifts is of high importance to me, but not for the reasons one would think.
When I was younger, colored roses had just started popping up, and the prettiest to me, were blue roses. Many shops spray painted white roses, which looked horrible. However, there were some that did it the proper way; either by stem-dyeing the roses, or dipping the roses in blue dye. One could imagine the process and money it required, for a business to keep blue roses on hand for purchase; so, it only made sense that they were difficult to come by. Everywhere you looked you could find red, pink, white or yellow roses, but to walk the extra few streets to find the place that sold those beautiful blue roses, it made all the difference in the world.
My priority love language is not receiving gifts, just because I like gifts; that would be too simple. It’s my primary love language because my, often very complicated, mind breaks down the steps behind giving said gift. From remembering the conversation where I mentioned my love for blue roses, to the effort required to recall that tiny detail in the ocean of all that I tend to say during any given tangent, and lastly to actually get off your ass and get the seemingly unimportant roses, all just to put a smile on my face. The thought process and effort put behind the gift, is a thousand times more important than the gift alone.
I used to believe that – it was the thought that counts. But as I got older, I believed that less and less. The best gift is not only one that comes from the heart; it is also one that is totally void of the gift-giver. When giving a gift, it should be tailored to the person you’re giving it to. It should be something that they want and/or need. Giving a gift that is more for your personal excitement or enjoyment, is not a genuine gift.
On the other hand, avoiding giving a gift because ‘gift giving’ is not your personal love language, is just as bad; if not worse.
My infamous Ex, (X-Files: 1-5) was the definition of worse. If I’m being honest, the average man doesn’t pay attention to romantic holidays. Which is why marketing and retail commercials are constantly reminding them that it’s approaching. You ever wonder why Christmas music starts to play immediately following Halloween; that’s why. And the same goes for women with Valentine’s Day. Marketing is well aware that all men really care about, between January and February, is watching other men toss around a football. The last thing on most men’s minds is, what to get the lady in their life for Valentine’s Day. This is why those Jared and Kiss commercials start playing on heavy repeat.
They make it virtually impossible for the average thinking man to forget. Every store you enter is littered with hearts, pink and red junk, and flowers, so many flowers. So, it would only make sense that a man, working at one of these stores, would take full advantage of his employee discount and purchase at least one VDay gift for his lady. But that was not the nature of my ex. The simple effort to purchase something he saw every day, on sale- no less, deemed to be too much every single time.
For years, I truly believed that he didn’t care, which may have very well been true. However, years later, I learned that my ex’s love languages were just different from mine. In fact, they were damn near upside down and opposite. Had either one of us read the book, before we met; we still may not have stood a chance; but in the very least, I would’ve been armed with the tools to better express why something that seemed so futile to him, meant so much to me.
In dating, love, and life, it’s important to learn what and why your love languages are what they are. We are all unique individuals, so we process things differently. If we truly care for our partner, it’s important to at least try to love them the way they can best receive it.