25 Things About Myself That I Probably Shouldn’t Share.

This was passed to me by some friends and I figured it’s a nice easy way to introduce myself to you.

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So You’ve Been Told You’re Racist…

I’m told I am a scary person to be around because people (read: whites) are terrified of saying something offensive to me. That’s understandable. I don’t like being offensive to people I like. I don’t understand why people who supposedly want to hang out with me are so terrified of being in my presence. I have never lashed out physically at anyone because they said something offensive. In fact, the majority of the time I’ll simply disagree with the statement. My usual response is, “Wow, that’s offensive.” followed by a brief explaination. Continue reading »

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

I know there are so people who are reading this blog and wanting another update on Ebony and Daniel.  Well, I started my morning with an interview with CNN.  Someone gave them the story so I’ll be sure to let everyone know when it airs.  If you have a specific question about what happened, you can email esampson84 at comcast dot net.  Now that the goal was reached, I’m letting Ebony handle it from here.  I’m completely grateful and swamped by everything.

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My vagina is not appropriate for children.

Shawn and I decided we aren’t having kids.  More than a few reasons but it honestly boils down to selfishness.  I want to have the least amount of responsibility possible.  I don’t want to change my body that way.  I want to have lots and lots of sex without a consequence or a curfew.  I want to be able to spend my money on myself and the people I choose.  I don’t want a child as a legacy.  I want to be my own legacy.  Also, kids come out of your coochie and that will never stop sounding disgusting to me.  I mention this because we were at his Grandmother’s 80th birthday party last weekend.  We’re all drinking a little and I’m telling some embarrassing story about Shawn to his siblings.  Shawn, now beet-ass-red, tried to explain himself and his brother starts one of those slow sarcastic claps.  The kind that say, “Way to go, fuckhead!”  Shawn’s laughing and glaring at me so he puts me in a headlock.  Around this time, the second half of the table, who hadn’t heard the joke looks down at us.

“Why is everyone clapping?”

“They’re having a baby!”

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I’m furious and without answers.

It started as a normal party, or I should say, what constitutes “normal” at a BDSM club. There was good music. Everyone was friendly. There was lots of PVC fetish wear. The sights are half the reason I go. I’ve always been a voyeur but it’s not even the naked people hitting and clawing at each other. I go for the atmosphere. I saw some familiar faces and I made my rounds. I usually start the night in fairly vanilla clothing but it doesn’t take long to get into the mood if the crowd is right. I had my cock with me. I’m always pretty popular when I bring it along. Nothing starts a conversation quite like a big black cock. I don’t even play much at the parties. I like to people watch because there are so many different types of people in one room. It’s fascinating, really. I feel comfortable being in public with people who don’t find my fetish weird. It’s just nice not to be the odd one because it’s like someone collected all the odd ones and put them in one place. Even when we don’t like the same things, there is this wonderful camaraderie, this sense of community. It’s palpable. It’s always worth it to me.

Around 1 am, the police showed up. Continue reading »

And the more you think about it, the more it hurts your brain..

I was offered an interview for a position as an high school English teacher.  I interview extremely well.  I’ve never interviewed for a job without getting an offer.  I could see myself getting into this job a lot.  Working with teenagers, grading papers, even discipline isn’t something that I would be a problem for me.  I dared to get excited about the possibility until I was reminded, “Um, don’t you have naked pictures on the internet?”

Damnit.

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Don’t Gimmie that Blacktalk, Young Lady!

Here is the scene:

I’m at work.  My two coworkers were heading out for lunch.  A customer was walking up to speak to me but he hadn’t reached me yet.  I turn to my coworker and say something to the effect of, “Where ya’ll headed at?”  It’s important to note that everyone in this situation is a Black person.  The customer reaches my window and promptly proceeds to let me have it.

“‘Where ya’ll headed at?’” he fusses, “I know your mother taught you better than that!  That nigger shit is why people don’t take Black people seriously!”  With that, he begins a mini tirade that includes the ways in which speaking in slang is making Martin Luther King want to spin in a circle and Malcolm X just bitchslapped an angel.  Continue reading »

“$3.99 a pair? That’s GAS prices!”

Feminism starts small. You don’t wake up one morning in your grandmother’s living room with a mohawk introducing your life partner. You aren’t on the bus and words like “patriarchy” and “fascism” start falling out of your mouth. At first, there might not be a large difference to the people around you but when you are a feminist, there is a change in you that is just as real and valid as plastering stickers on the bumper of your Subaru. There is no universal battle that defines the female experience for every woman. There are personal conflicts that are personally tailored to each woman’s situation. For me, it was those damn stockings.

I hate stockings. They are the most useless article of clothing ever created. It is fabric so sheer that it offers no elemental protection. They are expensive and no matter how many you buy, you always need another pair because they are completely destructible. They force you to change the way you interact with everything around you. The world is full of sharp corners and chairs with snags. For me, stockings are the cruelest form of mental bondage–they tie you to a seat and inhibit your movement until you transform into a mannequin. A run in your stockings is a chink in your armor and it lets everyone see the real flesh beneath it, the flesh that has scars and stubble. Be ashamed of it. Hide it away. Cover yourself. As a grown-up (or what passes for one), I have no hatred of stockings. I find them sexy at times and I have enjoyed wearing them when the mood fits. As a young girl, I found them confining because of what they symbolized. Stockings were what ladies wore.

Now, I’ve worn stockings on numerous occasions and I’ve done several unladylike things while wearing them. My first sexual experience was in the basement of a church. The young man I was with grew impatient with me and ripped the crotch out of an expensive pair of pantyhose. I remember protesting but he slid his hand through and under the material until he reached behind me. It was the ultimate act of subversion for me to be dressed so primly while being taken on a dusty floor. Wearing those ripped pantyhose during the rest of service was a silent thrill.

That’s when it began.

That’s when I started to realize the hypocrisy of it all. I could look like a lady with smooth sheer legs while hiding so much underneath, like a very ruined support top. A lady has to be more than stockings. For that matter, who gets to decide what is a lady and if so, who wants to be one of those lady thingies anyway? The next Sunday, I didn’t wear any at all.

My mom was livid. There is a proper way things are done and ladies don’t walk around barelegged. Ladies don’t flaunt themselves. All the reasons she gave me for wearing them only strengthened my resolve.

“You mean, I can’t be a lady without stockings? What about women in the Bible?”

“If my stockings snag on accident, am I not a lady anymore?”

“If I can’t afford stockings, can I still be a lady?”

“If my legs are enticing men, then doesn’t that mean they need to be gentlemanly?”

There were several Sundays when I’d leave the house wearing them only for them to “accidentally” rip. There was a struggle for a while. My mother started to carry a back up pair and on several occasions I was told to walk down to the nearest store to buy a pair. I don’t remember the final conversation but at some point, I stopped discussing it. She’d complain about my bare legs and I’d ignore it. She’d lecture me on proper dress etiquette and I’d nod along. Things progress to the point where I realized that I don’t have to justify my life and my choices to anyone besides myself.

Stockings are thin destructible pointless rules that made me feel like my nakedness is too hairy and pockmarked to be beautiful. Fuck stockings. We should burn then in a compost heap filled high with your bras, her veils, someone’s makeup and whatever else binds us to the sexism of a society that will never be satisfied. Now I know that what I am is dictated by more than what covers (or does not cover) my body. I play the lady role when it suits me. I have the dresses and the accessories. I love a cute pair of peep-toe pumps like the girliest of them. It’s almost perverse the pleasure I get from slipping some pumps on and walking out into the world with my brown bare legs.

The toy for me

I’ve always been a fan of the toys. Once I became a fan of sex, sex toys weren’t too large a leap of logic. I graduated from silent bullets with clock batteries to back massagers with extension cords that sounds like car engines. But I’ve always harbored a love of strap-ons. Maybe it’s the part of me that’s queer. Maybe it’s the kinky part. Maybe because it’s subverting the female stereotypes but I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t dream about finding the perfect cock to call my own.

There is something extremely powerful about owning a cock. I say this as a woman who wasn’t born with one. No, I had to earn my cock. I worked long hard hours dealing with various un-sexy customers in extremely non-erotic settings. It’s enough to make a girl’s happy place turn frowny. But I struggled on and I dreamed about finding the cock; My cock. My cock would salute the ladies and lean left in a high breeze. My cock would drive a Ford. My cock would throw itself around your shoulder and pull you in for a warm hug. My cock would smirk knowingly. I had a empty hole in my harness that needed to be filled. The search began.

The search continued. The search was long. It would seem that my prize was unattainable because the more I searched the more I began to notice a disturbing trend. The world was determined to give me a white cock. I could be thick and stout. I could have Ron Jeremy’s cock. I could have a cock that’s as big as a desk lamp. I couldn’t find a cock to call my own for one reason; I wanted a Black one. Not permanent sharpie black but Black like me. People talk about choices.

You see, someone decided that there was a a perfect color for everyone. This color is a pale pinkish peach tone that is labeled “flesh”. Funny thing is, not everyone’ flesh is “flesh”. Mine is closer to a Hershey bar. Like all those “flesh”-toned people, I wanted a cock that matched my skin. This is where the real search began. I could live with the bandages that never matched my elbows. I could pass over the nude stockings that made my legs look ashy. I expect my makeup to be costly and harder to find. It doesn’t make me pause any longer when tan is described as dark. But I refuse to have a white cock. The standard brown option wouldn’t be enough. I don’t want rainbow stripes or sparkles. My cock is not a joke.

All the friendly sex shoppes had one brown cock on display that stood under a lamp like some beacon of diversity but for me it was either that was too dark or too light. I’d ask the shopkeep if there were other colors. They’d have pink and green cocks all over the walls but would look confused when I asked for another shade of brown. More than one brown? There was only one brown one, one brown cock for all the many shades of us. This company doesn’t make any more. The message was clear: Take it or leave it.

How often should I comprise what I want? How often do I live with the lack of choice? Why do I have to take the one alloted African American option? In a country that prides itself on freedom, a woman should be able to find the cock of her dreams. Stop making me choose white cock, America.

I asked other women of color and I was lead down the rabbit hole into an underground multicolored world of cocks. Cocks that came in a variety of colors and shapes to match a wider range of skin tones. It felt like a secret. It felt like home. Then I found her. The cock. My cock. My cock looks like me. My cock is warm to the touch. My cock has a presence. My cock is patient. Me and my cock are as tight as cloth and Velcro. I shouldn’t have to scrounge to find hidden options. I should be able to expect variety in every store, every website, every vendor. If there is a option for the “flesh”-toned then there should be others right along side, lilting under the weight of their brilliance. There is only so much a person can comprise. We shouldn’t have to comprise the things closest to us.