Contact

Can I just…touch you?

I think that if we made contact,

My skin would stop making goosebumps

Just to be a millimeter closer to you.

It’s like my body will do anything

Just to…touch you.

Maybe you’re the cure to my illness.

Maybe you will bring calm to my storm.

Maybe you are the answer to my question.

Maybe you are the satisfaction to my craving.

Maybe you are just what I need in my time of need.

Maybe you are just you.

Maybe I just need to…touch you.

I’m in a hypnotic trance,

Headed towards you with arms outstretched,

Like a zombie hearing that inaudible call

If I could just…touch you…
Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Can You See Me Now?

She said, “Look ma no hands…”

And her mother turned a blind eye downwards

So as not to see the shameful shimmy

Her daughter did down a pole and

Onto the floor of the club for attention.

While everyone in attendance drooled over

And some even seemed to slither towards

The gyrating, vibrating booty bounces

Causing slapping sounds against the linoleum,

The silent sobbing fell on deaf ears.

She called for her Ma to look,

But it was her mother’s mother’s mom

Who took offense and opened her eyes wide

In horror at the misuse of her descendant’s flesh

As it was ogled and grabbed and squeezed by strangers.

Her mother’s mother’s mom remembered the day

When she too was ogled, grabbed and squeezed by strangers

As she stood upon a pedestal in a crowded market.

Her adornments were not gold plated and shiny to distract

From what she would be offering her newest owner.

Her pedestal wasn’t the chosen place and she didn’t want to be watched.

The pedestal assigned to her had been experienced by many before.

It was degrading and she felt ashamed to be put on display

While scantily clothed and forced to show her …“assets” to the crowd.

She couldn’t even remember how to smile while on stage anymore.

And in her grave, she tearfully looked down at her wrists.

They were scarred and marred by the heavy shackles that once bound her.

On one side, what was left could barely be called a hand;

The fingers tangled together and bent at awkward angles.

So called healing from punishment for stealing a biscuit from the dog’s bowl.

The other hand was burned and had become discolored and shiny.

Trying to cook for your master and fish out anything for yourself

At the same time was cruel and unnecessary…unless you wanted to survive.

When she said, “Look Ma, no hands,” she had to be consoled and calmed,

Because it wasn’t seen as an accomplishment back then, but a lament.

Look Ma, no hands.

They’ve been shackled and I cannot use them.

Look Ma, no hands

Allows me to perform like a side show in the circus.

Look Ma, no hands.

Copyright ©2011 Natasha Guy

Guest Blog by Owl on Interracial "Relations"

To find more on this guest blogger, click HERE

Fuck Who You Will:  Owl's Thoughts On The Interracial Discussion

In a lot of ways I am eternally grateful that while I was sticking my roaming penis in various shades of female pudding like a new customer at an ice cream stand, I never felt the urge to justify it. My justification was I wanted to ejaculate or I wanted companionship of the not so obligatory type. And sure, on more than one occasion I would not have been peeved about a committed situation. Of all the regrets that I might wrestle with during my bouts with insomnia, starting a campaign to persuade Black men to sleep, sex, suck, suckle, or other words starting with 's'  to fulfill my need to be accepted for where I place my private limb is not one of them. I suppose the term 'where' is misleading--it is not a 'where,' but a 'whom,' correct?

And let us not make this post another means to eradicate the self-loathing that stems from those unable to be firm in their decisions due to social critique. There is a serious, fundamental political reason why the disdain exists. This is not quite one of those topics where the social contempt is completely superficial. This I understood even when I was entertaining and entering my erectile projectile into women of the European persuasion. My reasoning? I wasn't blatantly searching to mount, or have my Self mounted by, white women. Sure, at a point it was exclusive (well, I think 'extended' is actually a more precise word). However, I have also been with (I love that euphemism, 'been with'...laughter) Latino women, Chinese women, and...Well, that's enough of my sexual resume for one blog post. My point here is that I didn't need to conjure up some long winded treatise about human loving or 'color-blind' bullshit to feel comfortable about feeling comfort. I felt not one drop of cognitive dissonance pressuring me to bash Black women for my choices. I didn't at any moment feel any pangs pushing me to pen a piece about my exploits as a Black man boning 'Becky's'...or 'Linda's', or 'Lu's', or 'Maria's', or...I just didn't sense the necessity of expounding at length about something I was doing for the sheer pleasure of my penis without an exact rhyme or reason outside of the exploit it Self. And for the most part, it was never something I planned. It just sort of happened as a consequence of time and place.

Now, yes, I don't subscribe to the narrow view of politics as most. Never have. I understand that every act is a political one. Anything one does can be rendered as a use of power, for or against one's Self. Cool. Duly noted. Many arguments can be raised for my behavior. Yet, none can in my opinion be more convincing than I was just fucking. If any statement about my actions should be made with regard to social or political concerns it should be about my insatiable sexual appetite at that time ('at that time'...more laughter). I wasn't making some grand statement to the world about my humanistic views; I was just fucking who wanted to fuck me within certain proximity. I was not saying to the global community that I loved everyone. Far from it. I was being very specific. I love vagina. Still do.

True indeed, my disposition presently affords me the ability to consider the needs of Black people to see Black people engaged in lustful frolicking if not embracing each other in a more stable romantic being. The image of the Black woman has been forged in the United States in such a way that they are considered 'undesirable.' The culture stemming from the demeaning of the Black woman in the United States has help to create a buffer group. This buffer group was able to be manipulated into furthering the economic stratification based on skin color that we still notice now. There may not be a plausible 'solution' to the internecine 'color wars,' nor would I want to provide reactionaries an excuse to act puerile towards those that do choose to be interracially bonded, but I do desire to at least be of that number who can provide an image of Black men doting Black women to the highest degree within my ability. That's my offering. Yet, even that is my decision, a personal one based on political consideration, but one I will not justify with anything more than I want to be with a Black woman.

Now, in closing, this piece was sparked by a statement by a purportedly Caucasian male that was spread to further audiences by a Black woman who is expressing her insecurities about ‘dating’ (BIG EUPHEMISM there!) white men. As a writer in the age of social media, I fully understand the urge to express every notion and whim that enters our mind. Albeit, that expression does come with a price: your thoughts can be read; that is figurative, and literal. Fuck who you want. It doesn't have to become an attack on my brotherhood. Fuck who you want. It doesn't have to become this organizing of Black women to encourage more of the same belittling and demeaning of a group of men that where created during the worst atrocity known in the human's story. Fuck who you want. If I have sex with a homeless woman, somebody will say something about it. If I have sex with a woman that is three feet tall, somebody will say something about it. If I have sex with the most desirable woman on earth, somebody will say something about it. I promise you this; I will not write a scientific study on why my choice in women should be something that all men opt for to promote our evolutionary existence. Not going to happen. Fuck who want to. I am.  

I Believed

You're the tin man with no heart; you watch with glossy eyes in fascination while my heart flops around like a fish out of water on the tile floor between us. My heart is not hardened against this cruel world and the elements swoop in, mocking it, as if they were vultures toying with a half-dead, almost lifeless carcass.

.

The tears streaming down my face threaten to cry you a river that will rust you solid while you choke and sputter on the salty moisture that you forced out of me without priming the pump. And all this time you stand frozen, not with sympathy or empathy, but with morbid curiosity at the sommersaulting organ at your feet that was once kept safely within my chest.

.

And as my tears mix with my blood to create a rain of terror, I fix my eyes on the funhouse mirror that told me you were just a man who needed love and the only word that bubbles to the surface is... "Liar."

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy

Deceptive Strength


And I cry out in sorrow at your sweet kisses,

Because they steal my heartbeats every time our lips meet.

And your hands, as they glide over my frame,

They suck out my marrow, leaving my bones weakened as if

Osteoporosis had eaten through each and every one of them.

Weak for you. And your breath eases through the holes

Like blood through blocked capillaries and moray eels through coral,

Pretending to fill the crevices and give strength to the structure.

But it's all just a smoke screen, an elaborate illusion, to disguise

The weak creature who you make me out to be.



Copyright © 2011 Natasha Guy