Let’s take a trip down memory lane. Remember my tiny studio apartment? Cobalt blue walls with hand painted vines reaching toward the ceiling. You laid me flat out on the firmness of my cheaply made Walmart futon and covered my eyes with the Blackness of my silk scarf. Remember running ice over my bare skin? Then syrup? Then your warm pink tongue? How did it feel to taste the very best of heaven on your virgin taste buds?

Now let’s make a left on Nostalgia Avenue. All my love. My peace and happiness. I want to give it to….. You. You sang in the shower and I hummed along. Waiting for you to step out and reveal the greatness that dwelled within you. Body glistening. Branded chocolate skin. You were glowing even though the room was nearly dark. You made love to me on that cold bathroom floor. I dug my fingers deep into that sun-kissed skin. Licked those Greek Letters on your chiseled chest. Tasted the stories that you would forever keep from me. Stories that turned into dark secrets. Secrets that ripped us apart. But I can still taste the majesty of that burn. Still hearing you pledging that allegiance in my small shower.

Make a right on Reminiscent Road. A long hallway. Blue stars and men playing football. Plush couches and countless pictures of children that weren’t yours. I danced for you as you sat in that brown chair. In my purple dress. And my orange heels that you loved. We didn’t make love. You pleasured my body so well no words I put on this page could do you justice. I ain’t never felt nothing like that before. And I still haven’t to this very day.

Memories. Take me back to the places I want to visit repeatedly but can no longer go. Carry me through the recesses of the deepest parts of my mind and let me live there. Let me travel through those alleyways and side streets to the destinations that are forbidden to me outside of my psyche.  

I’m running out of gas.

Recollection Boulevard. And I’ve hit a dead end. Nowhere to go from here. No longer able to remember the small details and the little touches that once tied me to the things I desperately want to remember. Forced to turn around and make my way back through the mish mosh of happenings and occurrences. For some reason I cannot find my way through. I’m stuck on Memory Lane. And left with all the things that live there. Pain. Anger. Regret. Hurt. Love. Hope. Fear. Love. You. It’s all so foreign. But so pleasantly familiar. I can make a home on Memory Lane. Live here forever.

But I won’t. This place, filled with all of the stickiness and filth of emotions, is a place you visit. Not a place of permanence. It’s a place I must come to when I need a vacation. But right now. In this perfect piece of space and time, with this combination of this new you and this old I, I think I have to leave Memory Lane and find a new place to call home.

Just close your eyes. There is nothing to see here. Only feel. Your jagged nails against my bare scalp as I bury my head between your velvet thighs. You’re so soft against my callused hands. So smooth against my roughness. Your hips rise and fall as my tongue flickers against the tiny piece of skin that holds the key to every single ounce of pleasure in your body.

You pull my hair.

You grab my shoulders.

You let me know that you’re feeling it. All with your eyes closed.

And when I finish, and your wetness threatens to drown me, I’ll rise and kiss your pink lips, covered with Sephora lip stain. You’ll pull me into you and I’ll let you. Pull me in baby. Tell me your dirtiest fantasies. Your most secret desires.

As you slip your tongue into my mouth, I’ll run my hands over your erect nipples, down your stomach, and back into your ocean. I’ll find my way over the waves and into the deep. Two fingers in and out of the rising tide. You moan your satisfaction to me. Telling me you’re feeling it. All with your eyes closed.

It’s a rhythm. Up and down. Your kisses. My sighs. Your moans. My grunts. Your hips. My hands. It’s me and you gorgeous. Me doing my very best to pleasure you. And by the way your body clenches and releases me every time I enter and exit your sacred places, I know I am doing one hell of a job.

You never told me with your soft lips that you loved it, but the way you gripped the sheets told me everything I needed to know. So many describe themselves as flawless, but you, here underneath me, with your back arched and your mouth open, you were the epitome of the word. Your rapid breathing and the way you parted your legs, allowing me to really explore your wetlands, let me know that you were feeling it.

So keep your eyes closed. Feel my lips all over your bare skin. Feel the affection in my hands. Feel the passion in my heart. Envision heaven in the darkness of your imagination. There was nothing to see in the blackness of our bedroom. So lover, keep those beautiful eyes closed.

We, as females, constantly ridicule the loose woman. We judge the street walker. We look down on the exotic dancers and escorts. The shameless women of the night. But we are the foolish ones. Doing for free what they get paid for. We take pride in our expensive vehicles and flashy diamond rings on fingers that continue to plump with age. She enjoys freedom, liberty, and the high of life flowing through her veins. The addiction to fast money, fast cars, handsome men, and jealous stares.

We hate her for sleeping with our men. But yet it is her that we emulate when we want to bring our man’s attention back home. It is her we think about when we envision our partner’s escape from us. We fault her for wearing heels that are too high and tops that are too low. But we seek to be like her when we want to be sexy. We wear her uniform of stilettos, tight dresses, and teased hair. We look for her independence. We look for her carelessness. We envy her candor.

We whisper to our friends that she squanders her money while we work hard every day for our 401K. We mumble that she’s had too many pleasures with too many men. So many ships have sailed through her wetness. Her ocean must surely be polluted. But we want to be like her. We dance naked in front of the mirror, sucking in our stomachs to be perfect. Just like her. All the time.

But the truth is, we are her. The woman who wears the heels and disappears with strange men into the darkness of the night. Why are we so different from her? Because our privates are not public fodder? Because less hands have rubbed against our bare skin? No. You hold the same power as her. It is infinite. You burn with the same fury. You feel the same passions. Do not fault her for doing what you are simply too conservative, too ashamed, or too afraid to do. How we use the roar within us is what eventually separates the lioness from the house cat. Which one are you?

I surely would be in jail had anyone seen me. Peeking cautiously through a gap in our brown wooden fence. 
But here I was peeking. 
And there they were in their backyard. Engulfed in fresh flowers and unhindered lust. She wore an over sized white t-shirt. Her firm nipples peaking through the thin metal material. He wore black basketball shorts. His pudgy belly covering his elastic waist band and braided string. 
She kissed him repeatedly, as if to make sure that he was ready. And to absolutely guarantee that she was too. 
His hands were all over her. Up and down her legs. Over her shoulders. Through her hair. And especially on her bare behind. I was supposed to be watering my herb garden. A new thing I had started ever since my husband decided he was tired of the processed taste of supermarket food. What a hippie. 
But instead, here I was, watching this man slowly slip this white cotton tee over this woman's head and reveal her vulnerabilities to the world. No panties to cover her feminine parts. No top to cover the young perkiness that he was so eager to enjoy. He remain clothed, only pulling what he needed up over the top of his baggy shorts. Her naked and free. Him only giving and revealing what he wanted her to have. The part of him that would give him the most pleasure. What proved he was a man. 
More kisses shared and I realized that my sage was over-watered and my oregano was dry as a bone. But I didn't care. He has begun positioning his body under hers. Ready for lift off. Preparing to enter outer space and shoot straight for the moon and stars. 
He was so rough. But she was so obliging. And commanding. She wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her hips, and sat down on his pleasure stick. And so she began rocking them to heaven. Slowly. Surely. Confidently. 
I was hypnotized. I just couldn't make myself look away. Not even when I heard my husband come through the front door. They were moving with the rhythm of their own desires. Rocking to their own gratification. Her arms casually draped around his neck. His arms falling lower. His hands gripping her hips, squeezing her behind, causing the cheeks to turn red. 
My husband called my name and I felt the heat rising in my body. This gap in the fence  was consuming all of my thoughts. I was watching the body movements. Watching him rise to her buck. Watching her toes curl. Watching his fingers tremble. Watching her back arch. His chest rise and fall. Faster each time. She bites her lip. He pulls her closer. They dig deeper. Fly higher. Push harder. 
She finally verbalized her gratification. A low, throaty moan. I felt it deep down in the forbidden parts of my own womanhood. And in walked my husband. Not a moment too soon. Perfect. Passionate. Sexy. Edible. 
I gave him the eyes. 
didn't even say hello. He grabbed me. We dropped to the floor. Crushing all of the greenery beneath our weight. I was no longer concerned with the gap in the fence. I had my own zealous cries to make. Our love sounds and passion cries competed with those next to us. 
And quite frankly, there is no competition. 
Perhaps next week they will be peaking at us through that same gap in the fence. Staring. Gazing. Observing. Learning. Taking us all in. And they surely would see a few new things. My husband and I are great teachers. 
But for now, our chords and theirs would come together and create a beautiful symphony of love, affection, and sex. For now, we would prove that Black Love is alive and well. No competition. Just enjoyment. And we had just one for our naughty neighbors. Touché.

Before you get all squeemish and judgmental, remember this. In all of my posts I attempt to be fair and non-judgmental to everyone, unless your behaviors dictate that I should think otherwise. On sensitive subjects like this, I do my best to be judgment free. And you should be too. So take off your religious and social hats for the duration of this post and just read as a human being. Thank you.
I've gotten a few requests for this topic in the past but I wasn't sure that I wanted to address it. I was going to leave it alone until I saw this article in the August edition of Cosmopolitan (if you don't know by now, that's my favorite magazine!) stating that bisexuals have more health risks than those who identify as gay or straight. It claims that because of the stigma placed on bisexuals they are more prone to depression, violence, and sexually transmitted diseases. After reading this I decided to just take a stab at it. I started looking online at different articles and videos to help me gather my thoughts and figure out how I really felt about the matter. So here it goes.
Bisexuality is a tricky topic because many people think it simply doesn't exist. Bisexual people are either straight people that want to have sex with everyone or gay people that refuse to come out of the closet. This is what I see and hear whenever the topic is discussed. People use words like confused, promiscuous, experimenting, and loose. Some people use even harsher words than that. And truthfully, bisexuals are really not accepted by either community. It's like being mixed race. You don't really belong to either side. So how do you tackle a topic that most of society already feels so strongly about? Like this.
First, as always, let's define what I mean by bisexual. A bisexual person is one who is attracted physically or emotionally to members of both sexes. And no, that one time in college or that one time in band camp does not count. I mean a genuine, ongoing attraction. And I didn't get that from anywhere. I made that up all on my own. For a more thorough definition and a personal story dealing with bisexuality, head on over here. Bisexual people are neither gay nor straight, they just are. So we see where the complication comes in. In a world that forces us to put labels on everything and define every aspect or ourselves, it's really hard for a bi-sexual person to explain who they really are. I mean, they can't possibly be attracted to both sexes in the same way. They must prefer one over the other. But that's just it. They don't. Just like straight people have different preferences when it comes to what they look for in a partner, it's the same for a bi-sexual person. They are simply attracted to different people for different reasons. Nothing wrong with that. 
For me, bisexuality is more about being attracted to traits and genders than it is to the physical sex itself. Let me explain. We as women are mostly attracted to men because they display male traits such as dominance and strength. We often say we want a provider and a man that is independent and takes care of his own. Same thing for men. They are usually attracted to feminine traits such as beauty. Men want a woman that is nurturing, caring, emotional, and soft. Now I know these are very stereotypical traits. Please forgive me. Just follow along for the sake of argument. 
Bisexual women may be attracted to a man because they display predominantly male traits and attracted to a woman because she displays these traits as well. Same thing for a man. He may be attracted to women because he likes the nurturing, feminine side but he may also find these traits attractive in a man. Or you know what, bisexuals may like both traits because they themselves are a mixture of masculine and feminine qualities. Like every straight or gay person, every bisexual person is different and they choose to identity as bisexual for different reasons. The point is, I believe that it's less about the sex when it comes to sexual orientation and more about the attraction.
Now the issue becomes even more complex when you think about bisexual men vs. bisexual women. Bisexual women are often thought of as fast. They just want to sleep with everyone without discretion. And I often hear that their boyfriends automatically think it means they are going to have a threesome. It's sexy and sometimes even desirable. But not when it comes to men. Bisexual men are often thought of as a "closet" gay who are trying to cover it up by dating women. As this New York Times article put is, they are either straight, gay, or lying. There was even an experiment done that measured how bisexual men responded to gay and straight erotica by measuring genital response, also detailed in the New York Times article (link above). 
But honestly, measuring genital response means nothing. Bisexuality is so much more than how our private parts respond to sexual stimulation. It's about attraction. I mean, think about this. When you are in a relationship with someone, especially for a long period of time, eventually the physical part of the relationship starts to fade (omg!! say it ain't so!) and the emotional attraction you feel toward each other is what keeps it all together. It's why wise people tell you that you should date your best friend or why you often hear that you should be with someone your compatible with. Trey Songz said it in terms that some of you understand better. Sex ain't better than love. Because sex fades. It's your love and your emotional attachment to your partner that keeps everything alive. So can you really measure how someone feels about something based on their sexual response? I think not.
Okay, let's wrap this bad boy up. Bisexuality does exist. But it is much more complex than we think it is. Just because someone chooses to settle down with a man (or a woman) does not negate their attraction to both sexes. It's just who they chose. Alan Cumming best sums it up when he says that he still identifies as bisexual even though he has decided to marry his male partner. And for those of you out there who are bisexual and questioning your sexuality, here are some words for you: watch this video. You are not alone. The world will eventually come around. 
And if you are a bisexual looking for some guidance or somewhere to turn to without judgment, you should go here. Trust me, I know it's hard living in a world that doesn't understand you and constantly makes assumptions about your choices and the way that you live. Just keep doing you. The biggest insult to anyone who says anything negative is to prove them wrong.
And for those of you who are friends with a bisexual or another member of the LGBT community, Cosmo offers some great tips on what to say and what not to say to a bisexual friend in the article mentioned above. They also have an awesome online article on what not to say to a bisexual friend. And some of us need that because we're good at putting our foot in your mouths. So check it out. Let's all work together at judging less and understanding more. We're all different. And that's okay. If you don't agree with it, fine. But keep your negativity to yourself. We'd all appreciate it. Thanks.

Don’t make it too easy for me baby. I like a challenge. I enjoy working up a sweat. I have no problem working for my rewards.

Don’t make it too easy for me to melt when you touch me. I practically fall into your arms. No assistance needed. No resistance given.

 Don’t slip my shirt off my shoulder with your middle finger and nibble on my bottom lip.

Your kisses make me stupid. It’s not fair that you use them against me. Making my heart pound faster now. 

Making my desire stronger now.

You’re making this shit too easy.

You knock down my defenses when you lift me up and push my back against our auburn wall. Gripping my behind. Cracking me wide open. Warming up all the engines.

Don’t put your lips here. 

Don’t put your tongue there.

Don’t.

Don’t do that.

You’re making it too easy to say yes.

My chest rises and falls in sync with your own.

How I love you. How you make me drown in you doing the things you do.

You make it too easy with your soft skin. Black ink in all the right places.

No fight from me because of your bedroom eyes and your working hands.

And tonight you’re working on me.

On this wall. On that chair.

On my table. In our bed. In your shower.

Your earned your payment today Papa. You make it too damn easy to be in love with you.

Every day.

No challenges over here. No tests. None of the complications.

You’re just so damn easy.

To Love.

First off, let me start by saying that this an adult post. 18+ Please. If you are not 18+, please get your little booty out of here. Go do something else. Thank you.

I got this request from one of my coworkers because she swears up and down that a guy's penis size matters. Her argument is that the size of a man's junk determines the amount of pleasure he can give you. She always says that she doesn't want a "pinky toe". Which is understandable. I mean, most women say the same thing. They want a man that is packing down below. Beyonce says she only wants a man that "carries big things if you know what I mean" in the Destiny's Child song, Soldier. And mostly all women are guilty of staring at a man's hands, feet, or crotch area to determine whether or not he's got it going on down there. Guilty.

There are plenty of articles, videos, blog posts, etc. online about this topic. I started digging through trying to see the consensus out there and get a feel for what people really think about the subject. According to this video, most girls think, HELLLLL YESSS!!!!! Most women think they want a six inch pecker and above. Sorry to disappoint ladies, but the average penis size is 5.6 inches. (I have no idea how I know that. Random piece of knowledge I carry around in my head) So most of the women in the world are already looking for a man that's above average. As with most things, we are looking for the fantasy and ignoring what's really there.

But let's keep is real. Do you even know what six inches looks like? Like for real? Okay. Here's a test. If you have a ruler at home, go ahead and measure out six inches. Don't worry. I'll wait. Google it or something. Hold your hands six inches apart and really LOOK AT IT. Do you really want six inches of something creeping up inside of you? Maybe you do. Maybe that's your thing. And in that case, rock on girl! But most of us really don't even know what six inches looks and feels like. We've never taken a moment and thought about what six inches of length means, not even taking into consideration the width and thickness of the man's privates. Makes you reflect doesn't it?

Now let's also keep in my that Black Men have a slightly larger average penis size than that of their Caucasian counterparts. So let's just add an inch or so on there for safety. Let's just say for argument the average Black Penis is 6.6 inches. So wait. If you can't handle that six inch piece of work that you were just imagining, how would you make out with almost seven inches? Is that even feasible to you? And think about the width and thickness of the Black Man's penis when he is ready to saddle up and ride. Some of you are hot just thinking about it. Go get some water. I'll wait. But to me, it's scary. Legit scary. I want no parts of that. Thank you.

Okay, think about this also. You have a vagina, yes? Have you ever considered the depth of the average vagina? No? Okay. The depth of the average vagina for a woman that has never given birth is 4.25-4.75 inches when aroused. There is a slight, almost insignificant, increase in the size of the vaginal opening when a woman bears a child. Now this information is kinda old, from about 1960, but I don't think vaginas have changed much since then. So, for those of us women who say they want a seven or eight inch penis, where is all that penis going? I understand that for some women that may be pleasurable. Again, do your thing girl. No judgment here. But for those of us who are just repeating what we hear, really think about what you are saying. Do you really want a man with a seven inch lover boy? Or would you prefer something smaller that will make you feel a lot better?

Honestly, I don't care about penis size. Most guys with huge equipment have no idea what to do with it. They think that just because their lower member is large and in charge, it automatically makes them great in bed. And you know what, that's not their fault. Look back at everything we just talked about. We, as women, make them think that. We're so obsessed with a man's size that an above average man thinks that he's already won the race. No brother. You are sadly mistaken. There are plenty of men out there that are confident with what they are carrying around because they know how to use what they've been given. Confidence is sexy. And knowing how to work your body and find your way around a woman's body is even sexier. If you don't know, you better ask somebody.

Contrary to popular belief, pleasing a woman takes skill. If you have all the gizmos and gadgets in the world, they mean nothing if you don't know how to use them. You must know what turns your woman on, how to touch her, what buttons to press and which to leave alone. And this doesn't take a big stick. It all starts in our minds. If we are attracted to a man, it doesn't matter what his penis size is. And Ladies if you think if you don't agree, you're shallow.

Now hold on before you get an attitude and flip your weave because I just called you shallow. I say this because it's possible to have a man that isn't the biggest or the baddest wolf, but he will definitely blow the house down. It's about the motion in the ocean. Knowing how to use what you have to gain the maximum amount of smiles and satisfaction for you both. Size shouldn't be a major factor when deciding whether to give your body to a man. I don't even think it should be a major factor when making any decision regarding a man. To me, size doesn't matter. It's all about how you use what you have.

This one I'm throwing out to you guys. Comment below or tell me what you think in an e-mail, sankofah8@gmail.com. I'm curious to see how many of you think that size actually does matter, and how many of you think otherwise. Speak with you all soon!! =)

Okay, here we go with the societal rules and expectations again. Why is this even still a topic of discussion? Why in a generation where Rihanna can bare it all, literally, are we still judging people for having sex on the first date? Sex on the first date is just that: sex. If you decide that you want to sleep with someone on the first date, third date, seventh date, a year later, who really cares?