Smoking as ash dusts over its surface.
Lacking a human touch.
Too afraid to breathe.
Too afraid to run.
The only words in the apartment as they rut like animals.
Grunting, screaming, moaning.
The wet needing openness of lust,
fills with every loving thrust.
Another kisses her mouth,
He grabs her hair and lifts.
From her to his lips.
From her to her to him.
The lonely three in a concrete city,
Finding solace in each other as
fingers find soft and yearning sacred grounds and,
Tantalizing brown and white and red flesh,
She counts the bruises on her neck.
He counts the scars on her shoulders.
She simply screams beneath them both.
Their love is not some ephemeral thing.
Not some weird toy.
Not some sinful thing.
It is simply one thing in a maze of concrete,
And empty houses next to empty homes.
Crickets could be heard in every bell tower, every open field, and on every tree…however not a human voice found its way into the air; not a human voice was left to speak.
My name is Tiffany Martínez. As a McNair Fellow and student scholar, I’ve presented at national conferences in San Francisco, San Diego, and Miami. I have crafted a critical reflection piece that w…
Source: Academia, Love Me Back
This is what it is like when you look a certain way in academia. As a black woman I’ve been lucky not to experience much of this in this manner, but I’ve experienced the change of behavior, suspicion, and condescension that comes with people seeing your intellect. When they do believe you’re capable you become “one of the good ones” or “uppity” and arrogant. It is painful. It is hurtful. It is so natural to people that they never even question it. You don’t have to be a bad person to do this, to take part in this behavior, or simply ignore it. But it is real and it happens all the time.
It’s impossible to read the thoughts in a crowd Interfering wavelengths permeate to jeopardize consciousness Seeking an individual identity through perception of others Dichotomy creates an alternate reality, mirrored images Unseen hands can manipulate with the angles to distort an image Yearning to connect for validation of repeated thoughts A single identity is separated to create […]
I connected with this profoundly. Maybe you will too.
“‘This wasn’t planned’. That wasn’t true. It was planned but Lita never imagined it could go this far.”
Offered a chance to explore her deepest and darkest fantasies with her most trusted friend, the confident and handsome if somewhat unpredictable Jon, Lita finds herself submitting to things she could never imagine. However a world of self-consciousness has held her back for so long that going through with it may be harder than she ever imagined. This only gets harder when she realizes Jon’s love is as intense as his dominant side. Love and lust can be frightening things, but anyone worth their salt knows one is far easier than the other. Will she succumb to her fears of the unknown, or surrender to the wiles of love, passion, and the depths of submission?
A Lita Loves Tale. In fact this is the first of this realistic and sensual series!
The Lita Loves Tales are an erotic fiction series for a mature audience. White Hot Room features rough intimate scenes of bondage, spanking, flogging, curvaceous women, male domination and female submission. The Lita Loves Tales proudly proclaims to be a series with interracial romance and intercourse without any odd racializing found in other stories. Sensual, hot, and tinged with Miss Ruthers desire to capture the complexities of sex and intimacy White Hot Room promises to bring something new to e-readers everywhere.
White Hot Room
One thing was certain about Lita and that was nothing was 100% certain with her. Her father used to tell people that the “2.99% of uncertainty will get you if you aren’t careful”. Though she liked her comfortable life and usual routine, something in her always managed to surprise people…even herself. Still every single inch of her was no better than a pile of nerves in that hallway despite the fact that deep down she yearned for Jon to take her to another level; another level that lined up with odd thoughts that always lurked in her dirty mind and made her feel not just good, but like living fire and also the calmest ocean. Tonight came as one of those little astonishing circumstances, one of those little moments that fell under the 2.99%. Lita hoped things would go smoothly, but they hadn’t even started and fear glued her in place. So much remained unknown and could only be known by exploration. That gave way to anticipation which meant nerves and hesitation. With every ounce of trepidation that resounded inside her as she looked at Jon there was this grand sort of rush building in her stomach. Nerves. Part of her liked the nerves even as another part of her felt like fleeing. This moment would never come around again. These nerves. These sensations. These thoughts. All of it made for a powerful part of the game they were going to play, and she had to play it. She said she would and she knew if she didn’t she’d regret it for the rest of her life.
Something told her she had to savor everything rolling around inside her, and that meant, in their mutual silence, reminding herself that sex didn’t get them there.
This game always seemed to be about sex, but it was so much more intimate if it was done right. He told her that “I don’t just play with anyone…I can, but it’s not the same, but I’d like to try with you,” but he didn’t seem to believe she’d say yes that night. There in the hall the joyous look in his eyes remained tempered by the sort of nervousness she’d only seen him have when their friends kept hinting at getting him an ‘epic’ birthday present despite their funds. He didn’t want to get his hopes up and yet…hope was there lurking around in his eyes. Still he remained composed, watching her, meeting her gaze with his own.
“I worried you would choose…not this.” He motioned to himself and then from his back pocket pulled something out. A split second later Jon held up a dangling patent red collar. The glimmer of light reflecting off the shinnying faux leather made her heart skip. “Or this.”
I saw the Poets for Peace hashtag and figured it was the very least I can do not to contribute to this collection of community poetry on the increasing violence of our world. We can all be better. Do better. Dream bigger. We can come together regardless of who we are to swallow our pride and make a better tomorrow for us, for our loved ones, and for the world. We are always stronger than hate.
“I dreamnt out loud last night”,
That is what the eagle wrote,
Of peace and life, and joy.
But then she awoke with her father’s arms
The eagle flew. Her wings tucked beneath his.
The sky cracked black and read.
The stink of the black waters filled the air.
Birds who claimed to be eagles fought other,
Other birds, yet both still bleed.
She dreamnt one night…
She cracked the sky and fire drummed out.
Not god or fury or vengeance.
Just fire. Just rage. Just rightous anger.
And it stormed and stormed until the rivers
And the blood washed out the sky.
And the other birds and eagles and creatures.
Were washed out and away too.
She dreamed when she next saw them…
she dreamed they had better things to do.
When she awakes the sky is still black.
She is flying.
Her father’s wings are wrapped around her.
Salty air fills her nose.
Rotten sweat covers them all.
She is flying.
She knows not where she goes.
But one day she will fly through the storm,
And she will become the storm.