Fetish #583

     Squeezing into them, I felt oddly at home.  Tiny.  Delicate red lace.  Pretty, yellow bows adorning the trim.   They fit my ass like a glove.  The hissing coming from My Moon tells me that they look as good as they feel.  I like being sweet to her sight.  I like hiking up my tail, pacing to her delight.
     How absurd?  A 6' 3", 188 lbs black man in a pair of panties made for someone's baby girl.  Bright/cherry red/silk against dark/hairy/thick skin.  Little Jewish woman shouting for me to "bounce it" as I pop my ass up and down for entertainment.  Being swatted and spanked to a raunchy, yet joyous rhythm.  How surreal?

     She loves to capture these moments.  She can't help it.  Technology has made it possible for her to easily make images and share with her friends instantly.  A few swipes... A few clicks... And my exhibitionist appetite is fed.  I feel like a sweet Lolita striving to make daddy proud as I pose.  I feel like a private school student student stripped of her skirted uniform.  Her camera licks me at every angle... lifting my every limb.  Click.

Images by Mim Art

Couvade: The Conjuring

“(This book) was created with the intention that you would use it as a tool to conjure queer realities.”
“The text is alive and brought to life through your reading.”
“Your life, therefore, adds flesh to the word as you take up these spells and use them to conjure.”
- Dr. Herukhuti ‘Conjuring Black Funk’ (pg. vi-vii)

     We open wide and become filled just the same.  We carefully knit a face and body around its daddy’s seed.  Our belly expands to shelter and nurture the idea growing within.  Migraines bang away at our skulls as we stress about making room in our lives.  Our blood pressure rises as we anticipate the destruction of our flesh as we usher this new life onto this plant.

Boys can have babies, too.

     The night of conception sticks sweetly in my mind.  I remember his words whispered slickly in my ear.  My eyes scrolled across the full length of his intimidating truth.  My legs wrapped around his waist, riding his thrusts/thoughts as my mind/womb opened to say “Yes.”  The peculiar curve of his truth fit within me perfectly.  I remember the sensation of his warmth clinging to my insides.  “Yes.”
     Our dreams warp as our bodies become no longer ours.  Night’s are made sleepless by praying that its heart, bones and legs are strong.  A painful kick against our conscience, gives us a wondrous confirmation.  Our feet ache.  Our hands swell.  Our skin break out.  With adoration for the father, our direction, actions and appearances transform.

     “Through your engagement of the world and your reading of these words, you call your visceral, spiritual, emotional and social selves to reform and refashion the embodied knowledge that was a part of the genesis of this work.  In that way, we are conjuring together, intertwining certain aspects of ourselves in acts of Tantric magic and social transformation.  Conjuring together brings to become the change we want to see in the world” - Dr. Herukhuti ‘Conjuring Black Funk’ (pg. vii)


"Conjuring Black Funk"
by Dr. Herukhuti

The Stylish Blog Award

     (1) TICKLEBEAR, how many times have you taken me from the ledge?  You have no idea how sustaining your support has been for me.  I can not thank you enough for the many times you've commented and inquired and shared.  We must do coffee one day!  (And we must work on your memoirs!)
     I try my best to create a cohesive and slick blog.  It has been my intention to create continuity between images, subject matter and other media; I am so appreciative of all who've got it (2) Being misunderstood by a plethora of other bloggers, I can blog another day knowing that there are others out there.  There are other seekers who are tuned to the same frequency.
      Blogging for any other purpose than personal is hard work.  Constantly thinking of new ways to engage your readers, the steady attempt to make your own life more interesting, (3) I've even picked up photography to add a personal touch to the art presented on this site.  As I write this paragraph, I realize that as I work on making "Journals of an Intelsexual" better, I am working on making the author himself better!
     (4) I've been slowly creeping out of the closet because of this blogging experience.  (5) I've been more experimental with my life, yielding profound results because of this blogging experience.  I am overwhelmed with gratefulness for all who've helped and supported me through this process!

       What's next for Forbidden Light?  (6) There are a couple of books I have in the oven, they're almost done.  (7) I am, also, cooking up ways to add performance to my style of erotica.  And, oh yes, there will be more art, photography and self-portraits!  (The above is just a glimpse of what's on my hard drive!)
     Again, I just want to thank everyone who have been visiting my blog and giving me feedback, both encouraging and critical.  For me, writing a journal is no fun without people there sneaking to read it.

Here are my nominees for the Stylish Blogger Award:

- Erotic, serial galleries taken to the next level!

- It is so good to see a broad who thinks like me!

- What a sonic trip!
Witchcraft and Luciferian practices makes sense here...I'm scared.

Fetish #70549

     I've been staring at this door for hours.  Waiting.  Whining.  Wagging.  I can't wait for your to come home.  When you turn that doorknob, I want to be first thing you see.
     Overwhelming Joy!  The door opens!  I can't keep my paws off of you!  I can't lick you enough!  I can't catch my breath...so....excited...damn.
     "You're such a good boy! Yes, you are!" Your voice delivers what I desire most.  "Who's Daddy's good boy?"  Patting my head.  Rubbing behind my ears.  I'm in paradise and your palms stroke my favorite spot.

Now, all I need is a bone to bury...


'Conjuring Black Funk' - My Experience

     As long as I had The Sun to light the pages, I've walked with this book.  After reading each topic, I'd close the book and take note: the world has slightly changed.  After completing Dr. Herukhuti's "Conjuring Black Funk", I've closed the book and took note: I have drastically changed.  I am enthusiastic.  I am discerning.  I feel my passion for erotic evolution re-ignited.

"I was born of passion.
Think about that for a second in relation to how you came into this life.
Many of us are born  in/of/because of passion.
That passion, that Black Funk, courses through blood vessels.
It heats our blood, warms our hearts and stirs our souls."
- An excerpt from "Conjuring Black Funk"
     This book reads as a study of bondage and freedom, passion and apathy...caution and reckless abandon.  Placing items like fear and the indoctrination of western values under a microscope, he begins to tell a story of his own liberation.  Stories mirroring my own, detailing his previous relationships and experiences.  Inspecting the intersection between blackness, sex and spirituality, he recollects his personal process grappling with the meeting of these worlds.
     I must admit, I was getting overly fixated on the "How" and "What" of sex and sexuality, but this book has breathed new life into the eternal question "Why?"  Dr. Herukhuti has resuscitated my interest in divine integration, where sexuality is invited to sacred and intellectual spaces.  I feel that this book nudged at the monster giant truth sleeping deep within.
     Over the next few posts, I will be writing posts inspired by points made in "Conjuring Black Funk".  I am very thankful to have this text as a source of inspiration.  Topics ranging from Body Fascism to Sexual Identity to Alternative Spirituality, I am full of opinions and questions.  'Journals of an Intelsexual' will be returning to its roots!

that you purchase and read

I Used to be Romantic

     I used to be a romantic.  Singing love songs.  Home-cooking meals.  Memorizing anniversaries.  Remembering small details.  I used to love making people feel special.  It was important to me that people felt loved and cared for.  In a cold, unyielding world; I wanted my friends and family to have space for fantasies and fairy tales.  This personal philosophy is past tense.
     I am now very careful about whom I romantic with.  Everyone doesn't get flowers.  Few people get exotic desserts.  Due to the fact that romance can become an opiate.  'Feeling special' is habit forming.  Warm and fuzzy feelings are both fleeting and addictive, hence, being the administrator of said feelings can be an exhausting task.
     Furthermore, I have learned that including and then extracting romance, or anything that could be considered romantic, from a relationship can turn people into monsters.  The love songs become a lullaby to keep the beast asleep.  The meals become distractions to keep the glutton satisfied.  All the information stored in you mind becomes a map, guiding you around the land mines.  Romance can become a marathon performance.
     There are a few people in my life whom I'll allow myself to be romantic.  They are worthy of me belting out the ballads.  They are worthy of four-course meals.  They are worthy because they are very understanding if I forget some times.  Also, they aren't dependent on me to establish their self worth, making my love less urgent.  I need this.
     I think its a shame that I can't bear gifts and express appreciation without getting tangled in the politics of the heart.  I have to be cautious to avoid someone going ape shit.  Dividing.  Rationing.  Diluting.  Forming a strategy for my passion and pleasure give me a fucking headache.  But a necessary headache.

'My Bloody Valentines' by Pawel Denkowicz

The Great Black Hope

     Black. Thick. Beautiful. Heterosexual. I would’ve never guess a woman like her would be into a guy like me. Bisexual. Polyamorous. Black. But she actually read my “Journals of an Intelsexual” and continued to like me. I was floored. In a single sentence, “WOW, Your blog is amazing,” she shattered my every expectation.
     Typically, when I garner the attention of women like her, I tread very lightly. I flirt. I tease. But I know a full relationship would never work. I compliment. I converse. But, I know to keep a large portion of myself out of the fellowship. Due to my personal experiences, I figured a relationship with her would be impossible.
     My heart opened wide to hear the words, “It’s a good read!” from her lips, I was expecting rejection. In the first place, I shared my blog as a means to no longer string her along. I thought my truth would scare her away. I thought the stench of my secrets would turn her stomach. The fact that she was still interested after seeing photos of me dressed in a corset... The fact that she read my erotica featuring fetishism and same-sex dynamics and didn‘t turn away, changed my view of The Straight, Black Woman.
     Deeming me her ‘proto-type‘, she asks, “So are you spoken for?”
     “Well, I’m actually seeing two people right now.”
     “Oh! No wonder you’re so busy! Dividing your time between two women! That has to be stressful.”
     Silence followed my response, “LOL Well, I’m seeing a man and a woman…I have a girlfriend and a boyfriend.” Days went by before I heard from her again. Did she think I was single? Is she suddenly busy? Is Facebook under construction? My mind started to simultaneously push away and grip at the hope escaping my world.
     Days later, I received a message in all-caps, “YOU ARE BISEXUAL???” To my astonishment, she never read my blog beyond the top post. She knew nothing about my bisexuality, my polyamory and fetishes. She even turned a blind eye to the homoerotic advertisements lining the sides of my site. Her message featured a statement of her disappointment and apologies for leading me on. I felt wounded. I felt betrayed. I felt a painful confirmation spreading through my body: acceptance is a fairy tale.
     I haven’t been able to reply since. I wonder if she knows how deeply I’ve been impacted. I’m not angry. I’m not in mourning. However, this exchange have left me even more of a pessimist. I can’t say that I believe that straight, black women and openly bisexual, black men can ever work in a romantic relationship. Of course, this is a gross generalization. I am aware that these unions do exist…somewhere. But, hopefulness, in this context, is severely uncomfortable for me.

'The Naked Dance' by Yang Wang

     We had the studio to ourselves.  Spacious.  Warm.  Our voices lightly echoed as we conversed.  Soon, he found his slender waist wrapped in my arms.  Soon, I found my hair between his fingers.  The clasp to his trousers were relieved.  My shirt slid up my torso and over my head.  Soon, we found each other nude.
     Guided only by the chords of our chemistry, we danced to silence.  Slow.  Sensual.  He felt light as a feather as I lifted him over my head.  I felt weightless as he bolstered my entire frame on his shoulders.  Improvising our movements felt so natural.  Every step was an exercise of faith, a showcase of trustworthy support.  We felt completely in sync.
     The tension in his muscular thighs made me thankful for my eyes.  The ease in which he crawls up my back and around my neck, made me thankful for my height.  The harmony between our hardness made slippery with sweat, made me thankful for this night.  In this moment, we were celebrating our love, our bodies and what happens in between.
     We had the studio to ourselves.  Spacious. Warm.  The silence sang a golden tone.  We danced on the plateau without seeking the peak.  We danced in the deepness of our instincts.  We danced without music, without a beat.  We danced because this opportunity was too sweet to waste.

'The Naked Dance' by Yang Wang



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