Someone Please Go Get Kanye! Now.

The founder of For Harriet, Kimberly Foster, said it best:

“We have been talking about Kanye’s downward spiral for five years. When does a spiral become who a n—- is!”

From that life quote, we have this. Aside from the con artistry that is the church he is running, this is a level of strangeness I couldn’t ignore.

Like, bruh. I cannot with dude.

Stop blaming this nonsense on his mama being dead or his non-therapeutic levels of lithium or his sleep deprivation. Young fresh to deff ‘Ye, has now transformed into an ASN. Wanna know what that acronym means? Here you go.

Kanye is now an Ain’t Sh!t N—a.

This is no longer up for debate. Don’t at me! Don’t email me! I said what I said.

I am far from a prude on my worst day. That being said, like what you like. Flat out. Bedroom behavior ain’t no one else’s business anyway! However, when people make dumbass statements like this?! As a Black woman, I am tired of the men that look like my father saying how less than desirable I am.

Like, DUDE?! Who TF asked you do weigh in on sexual prowess?! Kanye, fam, let me tell you something. You married a girl that was ranthu by Brandy’s little brother! That Reggie Bush smashed! Like?! Don’t come at Black women as it relates to this.

‘Ye! Yo, you the one said that that you had to take all these showers and prepare to be with Kim Kardashian! Like, where did this come from, sir!

I don’t remember since Kanye has been famous him being seen with anyone that wasn’t light-skinned (like Amber Rose) or just White! Sex is a sensual act anyway, but let me tell you a bitter truth that I heard in middle school and through high school. It was relayed and rumored that White dudes would eat you out and White girls would give head. I heard this at 12! So the fact Kanye repeated something he may have heard in public school almost 30 years ago? I’m not surprised at.

I’m not shocked that he said this either! He’s been on this campaign of trying to be the White OJ was before the death of his wife Nicole Brown Simpson! What better way to do that then to praise or possess the closest thing to affluent social capital (aka: A White girl)? What other way to tell the people around you where you have casted your lot than to denigrate those you seen as less than? The quickest punching bag for men like Kanye West is Black women.

This off hand comment reduces us as Black women to parts and their function; the rating of her sexual self (is she a freak or not); the reasons why she is not desirable and should only be used for satisfaction.

I’m done being shocked at what this dude does or says. This is who he is! From his musical gifting and talents, he’s trash. But this is a level of trash that solidifies just why I don’t fool with him anymore!

The killer part? I wonder if the Black girls he was with before would give him a glowing review on his cunnilingus or coitus skills. Or does he just come up short.

A Teacher’s Pet, Part 1

 

I think that I fell in love with him the moment he opened his mouth.

I sat in my Psychology class that I was probably not supposed to be in yet, but I needed something to offset the rigor of my Biology program. I found this class through the genius of my academic advisor. “You’ll like this class,” she said. She had short brunette hair and purple cat-eye glasses. Her crows feet broke through the veneer of her smile. Susan Harrison had been doing advising for lost, academically lusting people of the College of Arts and Sciences for better than twenty years. “It’s Shakespeare, and I think you’ll like it. Dr. Clark is one of our best instructors.”

My mouth had gotten dry, and my ears popped. It was how she said instructor that caused this whole body flush to go through me. I licked my MAC glossed lips and took the schedule she handed to me so I could leave her office. I smoothed my jean jacket and black Maxi dress. “Thank you, Ms. Harrison.” I smiled, adjusting my purse on my right shoulder before leaving.

I left UM-St. Louis’s College of Arts and Sciences and headed to the bookstore to price my book for my Shakespeare class. I walked at a brisk pace, happy for the warm breeze to disperse the heat which was overwhelming me. I just needed to price my book and leave campus.

I made it to the campus bookstore and all but sprinted to the English section. I gathered my box braids to one side and put them in a loose ponytail. I needed every possible avenue for this heat to be gone from me. I thought about Dr. Clark. I had hoped I would have gotten Dr. Gaston for this class. I had a crush on Dr. Clark since I saw him at the Shakespeare festival last Spring. He was standing by the other faculty, all tall and with his fresh haircut.

I remember I bit my lip as I memorized his hair color. Blond, no. Strawberry blond. Beard neatly trimmed and wearing a black Polo shirt. He was laughing with Dr. Schreyer  and Dr. Vega–all of them retired US Navy.  Dr. Schreyer and Dr. Vega looking like everything tall, dark and handsome. My friend Brienna told me they all took turns teaching the 4,700 Shakespeare classes.

All of them handsome as hell.

I had watched them talk, how they were so regular and easy together. His voice sent ripples through me. Brienna, the reason why I was there, and the reason why I wanted to stand behind Dr. Clark and see what cologne he wore, smiled at me.

“Oh, you found the love the my life, Dr. Clark,” her laugh resonate and knowing. I grinned at her, sure my walnut brown face was turning red. She smiled at me, her green eyes in her light brown face flickering. I licked my lips and looked  back over at Dr. Clark laughing again, touching Dr. Schreyer’s shoulder. “Girl.” I looked over at him, and could only think of being pinned to his office door. With his hands everywhere.

I knew that he was a Southern gentleman. Brienna had told me as much, which let me know that he knew how to eat a peach: Knows how sweet they are, when they are ripe…and how best to eat them. I thought how his mouth would taste. “He wears Polo Black too.” I looked back at her, and we laughed. Loud. Maybe a little too hard.

I looked up from my inappropriate giggle to see Dr. Clark looking at us and smiling. I smiled back like the polite girl I am.

From that festival, to registration, to finding these books, I was about to find out why Brienna, Jasmine and Halle nicknamed the accomplished Dr. John Clark ‘Pantysoaker.’

Perfume & Windows

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I can still smell her when she leaves.

There is nothing like her, no one that I would rather call mine. It’s deeper than anything a ring or paperwork could give. I know it’s hard for your to understand. But there is, can’t be anyone like her. Like my Ava.

We call it swimming, the depth we feel for one another. This need to know more, push more, have more of each other. It’s…a need now. I  need her. I have her,  I know. But, I need her. As air. As water. I mean, the way I can feel her when she’s not even in the room? My mother, an old mystic, explained that love like this is possible. And she told me that would have it. “Mijo,” she told me. “I did your cards.” I couldn’t have been more than seventeen, fresh from becoming a man with my high school sweetheart in my black Mazda that I saved 2 summers for.

I remember I walked in the front door, damp from sweat and sex. She was at the table and called my name. “Michael.” I heard the methodic placing of cards on the table, her dark hair up in a bun. “She is not it, mijo.” She didn’t look up at me. No anger in her voice. No rise, no aggravation. I huffed, running my hands through my cut dark hair. I adjusted my jacket, heading towards my room. I wasn’t in the mood for a sermon from the spirits she spoke to while at the kitchen table.

“She isn’t it, Michael.” There was a dark chuckle when she said my name. I turned around to sit across from her, wanted to smell the comfort of her soap and rosewater she used. I made it to the back of her head before she spoke. “No need to sit, Miguelito.” The cards shuffled again. “This girl, you are,” she coughed. “taking, because you aren’t making love to her. You don’t love her.” My throat was dry. “But this one.” The cards flipped, and she hummed. “This one?” She hummed. “You will ache for her, whenever she is not near you. You will know her, by what she wears.”

You will know her by what she wears.

I took a shower when she left, like always. The water, hot and slick over me just like her when she last rode me. I could feel her body, taut and warm as she pulled me deeper inside her. I held on to her hips, spreading her wider. Fuller. I needed more of her. It was deeper than cumming insider her. I was filling her. I was filling all of the pieces of her that I felt cry for me when I wasn’t in the room. I wanted to soothe her. Completely.

I leaned against the shower door, soothed by the strength of the glass. I felt her. I felt her hands over my back. My neck. Her lips on my ears, just like I loved her to do. “Ava.” She always showered with this soap her grandmother taught her to make. It had orchids and jasmine in it. The first time I made love to her, it–it bound me to her.  My mother’s words were in my head were in time with my own heartbeart. You will ache for her.

I stood in the shower, the water running over me. I thought of how she rode me. How I took her from being impaled to sitting on my mouth. I drank from her, licked faster as she screamed. I heard the headboard rattle as her thighs found my cheeks.

Never, ever had I done that for anyone. No other woman.

She was sweet, like raspberries. My tongue swirled around every portion of her that she shifted into my mouth. I needed to know how she tasted. Kisses deeper than I could ever give to the plump lips on her caramel brown face. When she climaxed again, there was a note that she released that was something a siren would have hit. This honey, thick and sweet, flowed into my mouth. I sucked on her clit, this button that gave more her honey.  I needed more of her.

I moaned, opening my eyes again. Smelled her. My cock twitched, throbbed, then. I beyond loved her. I needed her. I had to have her again. “Dammit.” Hot tears leaked from my eyes, and I wiped them away. Frustrated at this affinity we had. My mother was right. I ached for her. I felt her. Even when she was not in the room.

It had been a year since we had been seeing each other. But, I knew she was mine. Could, would never belong to anyone else. I couldn’t stand it. I wrapped the towel around my waist, making sure the faucet was off.  I walked to my bedroom, heart as a war drum in my ears. I walked to the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. I saw her behind me, supple and unclad. She held her breasts, moving over to the bed, laying on her back. Just like the last time I saw her. The last time every inch of me that was male impaled her to my King sized bed. I smiled, and watched that vision fade of her playing herself faded in the mirror. I closed my eyes, biting my lip. My mother was right–she was unlike anyone. Could not be anyone elses. She was mine. All mine. If this was what I suffered without her, I could only hope (and imagine) what felt apart from me.

 

Love & Possession: The Dark Set: (Week 4) BonusWhat Daddy Wanted

The collar on my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How chosen and cherished I am.

How none are as I am to be.

He feels and fills the ripples his

Voice causes once housed

And held in all that he claims

Is, was his.

Does he know that in his taking

Of me, even in thought my mind

Races to please him from wherever

I am?

At his whisper

And then shutting off of

Water I am his warm towel

To drink and dry every drop

Of water graced to flow

Over him…

Until my tastes and senses

Are full of him.

The collar around my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How hard to ride.

How wide to open.

When to clench.

When to just hold

Every inch of him hard and twitching

In my mouth

Or swallow all he contains.

It lets me know, for all my prowess…

I am still beneath him.

As I long to always be.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019

More Than Words Can Say

He said I’m perfect

On my knees,

Quiet and stormy.

When he asks me

How much I love him.

“More than words can ever say…”

With a stroking of my cheek,

the grace of

All masters of kittens,

He grabs my hair and

My eyes close.

My body becomes

A lit match, smoldering

that he touched me

Again.

“Show me.”

I grin, and open my mouth.

The sweetest yes I know.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019

Love & Possession: The Dark Set (Week 2)

“I want the darker part of this love, the parts only known by God.”

He shifted before my very eyes.  What had been once sweet, had been made raw and open. He told me to look at him, touching the skin below the right side of my neck and right ear. The heat from his hand, warming all skin around and below it. I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent freshly showered. The room became too small, and the world quiet. There was a tempest born in me unknown before. He placed another hand around the left side of my neck and kissed me, pulling me into him. 

We had talked about this before, nothing big really. But now, I was ready. I thought I was ready. He wanted more from this–beyond a relationship. He called it ownership, but it didn’t feel that way. There was a rightness to his words. His presence. Even how he fit inside me–how incessant his thrusts were, and how, when he told me to open, I had cum like I never had. Even by my own hand. Even in those times without him, I thought of him. The first time I had called him Dueño was in my own bed alone.

Him owning me, fully, this was right.  This is who I wanted, wanted to be with. It was deeper than a want. Beyond a need. This was kismet in overdrive. This was more than could be given to me by Harlequin or Porn Hub powered imagination.

I melded into him. Fit as my body found its rhythm within his. I felt his hands roam over my ass, my thighs, and how I opened to him. “Let me in, don’t think. Don’t think, Kyla. I’m right here.” I shivered as his lips traced over my shoulder, the skin still hot from where his hands lay. My breath was caught, and my mind swam. Thoughts of hesitation, of fear, of changing my mind halted. Washed away with his head between my thighs as I stood.

No safe words. No safety net. I was in his hands and at his mercy.

Mermaid Tears (Week 2)

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There is no part of me that does not thirst for you.

That does not thrill at the thought that you and I

Will be near once more.

Skin touch and and sweat

fueling the potent nature

With the sounds of our

incessant together.

You are my oasis.

You are my river.

You are my ocean.

I swim in these depths

at and for your pleasure.

I hold my breath until I may drink again.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4. 2019