I've met many women in the Black American community. I enjoy the energies of Black women who, despite the considerable angst their choices cost them, and the men they marry, they came to influence my life in ways previously unimaginable. When I was younger I didn't have the insights into marriage and Life I needed to not make the mistakes I made once freed from childhood. As a jerk kneed reaction to being freed, to a degree, in my 20's I chose to plunge into the realms of women I'd read about in Black literature that dominated the Blues of the South, and the Chicago Blues I loved so much, but couldn't play because I had not lived the life of those songs. Women confined to lives in the hard streets of ghettos were sexy and impenetrable mysteries to me!
I wanted to '
fuck' a lot in my 20's and thirties. I say it like that because that was how intense the need was, and the only word that captured and conveyed the desire was the word I was forbidden to say growing up, and compelled to do after twenty some years of celibacy. Church had its mores. The value in the Church I picked up around the subject of sex was invaluable because it placed limits and some guidelines. The guidelines I adhered to were the one's laid by my parents, and those given to me in sacred ceremony, at 14, by my Aunt Mary, and the one afternoon, at 15, my father tutored me on the deeper aspects of manhood and sex. These were the elements, or rather the events that allowed celibacy to live so long within my body, and somehow in the making intensified the eventual release and subsequent adventures.
I was unable to pursue casual sexual liaisons because my father offered me a choice: learn how to be a Playboy, or a man. My choice illuminated, not only my life, but others I discovered as the whole mystery teachings around sex and sexual powers unveiled itself to me. It was the mysteries of my 'bodies' unfolding that revealed what was previously unknown knowledge. It was in my mind fantasies played against the resilience of the teachings, and the yearnings of my body to fuck continually, and who caught my fantasy at play with the spiritual elements I could see and engage daily, and nightly when it was the hardest to commit to the chosen path. Mystery, I learned, has its own rules, its own way of revealing and being. The only control I had was in the design of my will, and the practice established in my intent.
Meanwhile, Black women swarmed around me. The numbers interested in me were overwhelming, but the maintenance of soul seemed to work independent of me, and the constant urge to take up someone's offer and slip into her bed between her sepia legs, or to cascade down the slopes of full ebony breasts with round nipples never let up. I was constantly enthralled with the potency of what they offered. How do you not take it? How do you turn pussy down without creating fury? Whose do you take? Can a marriage sustain the influence of outside pussy? These questions had to be answered on an individual basis. After all dignity and respect run far longer than the sexual release we all craved and wanted. A good name is better than a good fuck.
© Gregory E. Woods
Keeper of Stories 1.26.13
Black Planet photos
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| Black lovers making love |
