Love, Sex & Revolution

Nov 21, 2018 at 9:23 am
White Women

As the stress from day in, day out activism piled up, the endless videos of #BBQ Beckys, mounted on top of police body cam footage released on social media showing the death of yet another black victim, I wondered, “How can I deal with the stress that is creeping up the back of my thighs, settling in the base of my spine, snaking its way up my back and settling into my head with a dull rhythm that only oppression knows?”

It is the daily assault of waking up each morning, girding your black humanity just to exist in white spaces, facing microaggressions and stupid questions like, “Can I touch your hair,” as if you are a part of a petting zoo, that slowly wears at you like an incessant drop of water on a rock. Day in. Day out. Day in and day out, as if you are doing time at Shawshank, and, sadly, there is no clever Andy Dufresne with an escape route or Morgan Freeman to narrate the mundane bullshit.

And, believe me, the bullshit is never-ending. When you are in it, you are in it, and it is often at the expense of you and your life. While I have always had a passion for black people and our struggles, something clicked for me hard when Trayvon Martin was murdered. I could not just write a few poems about black people and go on about my business. I felt intricately connected to what happened to Trayvon and, from that moment on, my life was consumed with justice for black people. Everything that I thought was important to me went to the wayside. Any relationship made its way to the back-burner in my life. I found myself too busy focused on fighting injustice than worrying about having sex. I didn’t have the time to cultivate a serious relationship let alone a hookup. People were dying and my needs as a woman didn’t seem as important. It wasn’t that I took the time to sit and think about it, it was just that I was so busy that I Didn’t think about it at all. Until those late nights when I could feel the weight of days and months and years without any physical intimacy. In fact, the other day I was so physically stressed that I wondered why don’t people just rage fuck to deal with all of this drama? No commitment. No stress. No worries. Just have sex for the sake of having sex and relieving stress and having a great time?

I’ve not had sex with someone in a long time where there were no thoughts of revolution between us. Just Googling black men and women, the images that popped up were telling. It seemed Google dedicated most of its images of black men and women to us fighting or black men with white women.

Clearly, that is the stereotype. Black men and women always seem to have an undercurrent of life pulsating beneath us that is determined to keep us perpetually apart and on the edge.

Even writing this, I wonder is it possible for black men and women, in whichever way that shakes out, to just enjoy one another sexually? Is it possible for us to set aside all the worries in the world and just exist together for a moment or moments upon moments? Can we just be? Can we exist in each others’ arms, can we lay together legs entangled, can his beard brush in between my thighs, as my fingertips run along the top of his head as I moan for him to lick me harder, faster, urging his tongue to go deeper just before he enters me? Making love or making peace with each other because we just need a moment in this world to breathe and show one another that it is OK to love, to feel, to be.

Siggghhhh, a girl can dream...

Those moments just don’t seem to exist. And I wish they did!

I wondered why they didn’t exist for me, so I asked my friend, Steven, about love and sex and revolution, and he said, “Many men make the assumption that women like you have yourself together already and don’t want anyone. You seem happy alone, and, if not, you can have anyone you want instantly.”

Goodness. Was my strength making me appear unapproachable? He told me, “Women must learn to speak up and demand what they want.”

Fair enough. I believe that women can and should speak up and ask for what they want. The days of playing coy seem to be long over. But that still didn’t address being a black woman who is an activist who just wants to find love and sex, all while fighting toward the revolution. A black woman can be on the front lines. A black woman can be a fighter. A black woman can be strong and powerful and demanding. And we can still desire love and intimacy, hot and raw and sticky, hair pulling, fuck me from the back sex, then cuddle with me and run your fingers along my thighs and kiss the part of my neck that makes me moan and let me feel that just for a moment it is going to be OK. Let me just breathe into you, and you into me, let us just enjoy each other, with no thoughts of revolution between us.