Category Archives: Love Anonymously

Some Notes on Love, Anonymously and Writing About Love and Sex Online

by Latoya Peterson

First things first. Quite a few people reached out to me to say that they did not have enough time to get their piece in by the deadline, are in the middle of drafts, or otherwise working hard on what they want to say. Since the blog carnival idea didn’t work so well (we only got submissions to host on Racialicious, most of those anonymously), I’ve decided to make Love, Anonymously a permanent series here on Racialicious. I would still love to get some comics or videos or other ways of expressing a feeling, if anyone wanted to do something to that end.

I also wanted to talk a bit about the intent for this series, since we’re starting to see some very familiar issues in the comments section.

Love, Anonymously is intended to be a space for people to talk about the messier parts of sex. Since there is such a dearth of conversation about sex from people of color, we wanted to create a little bank of content, so for folks shooting around the internet feeling like they really are conflicted about something or want to discuss something, suddenly, it is here.

The problem is, love and sex aren’t clear cut things. And when you add race, sexuality, religion, and other things to the mix, it brings out some fairly strong emotions in people. And while it is fine to disagree with a sentiment, a belief, or other comments someone may make in a piece, what is not okay is to attack them personally for it.

Personal attacks are obnoxious, and from an editor’s standpoint, are counterproductive. Many people are reluctant to talk about sex publicly. We all know there a lot at stake and that the internet runs on cruelty. When I originally came up with this idea, I reached out to 30 solid writers and friends of Racialicious to see if they wanted to contribute. And for most people, the initial answer was no. Digging into the why of it all brought out a list of fears: fear of being judged, for one. Fear of backlash.  Fears around safety.  Fears about creating a false level of intimacy with the reader.

But the biggest was the fear that one’s personal image will be linked with sex.  Continue reading

Suddenly Sapphic: A First Time Story [Love, Anonymously]

By Guest Contributor Katrina Pavela

Bette and Tina L WordOn paper, we shouldn’t fit: a same sex, interracial, transnational couple with nearly a quarter century age-gap.

Added to this neither of us had previously been with a woman, nor desired being with one.

New York City. The juxtaposition Mecca of fame and anonymity. I had taken a four- hour bus ride from DC to NYC. The entire way there I tried to remain calm. I was 20 before I welcomed guest contributors to my sex life. After six years and two men—one of whom I almost married—I met Julie. Within a month of our unintentional online acquaintance, we had arranged to rendezvous in NYC five months later. Sure Julie and I had knocked boots via Skype numerous times, microphone headsets our only strap-ons. With a five-hour time divide between Washington and the UK, Julie left her marital bed nearly every night (or morning) so that we could cuddle virtually. It felt real physically but emotionally it left me empty wondering what I was getting myself into. The fact that she was currently in a marriage lasting more than 30 years, with three adult children, left me wondering when—not if—I would wind up with egg on my face.

Passing through New Jersey Turnpike, I wondered if the sex would be as great as the fictionally wonderful sex Bette and Tina seemed to have on The L Word. Mostly I wondered if she would make me come. Would I feel relaxed enough and unself-conscious enough about being with a woman to let my body and mind enjoy themselves. Would Julie go through with it when my pants were pooling around my ankles? We never called it adultery, but a rose by any other name is still, um, adultery. Continue reading

Fucking While Black [Love, Anonymously]

by Anonymous2

Black woman lookiing in mirrorI can’t even begin to detail how my skin color has affected my self-esteem with dating. I am always aware of it. Just a few years ago, in college, it wasn’t nearly as bad. At that time, I felt I worked through most of my shit and figured, “I’m young, I want to fuck, and I’m going for it.”

But, the results were not what I expected. Everyone rejected me. Everyone. Now, I understand and welcome rejection because it keeps one’s ego in check. Still, it was every single person I showed the slightest interest in, all in a row. Why? I mean, I was (and am) an ideal catch. I’m young, cute, have a great body, super-smart, and engaging personality. That wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t help but analyze myself and asked, “Why all the no’s?” It wasn’t until I saw how two friends of mine began dating monogamously (although my friend repeatedly told me she didn’t want anything serious; neither did I, dumbass) that it hit me like a punch in the face: the other friend is white.

Despite our similarities, my friend edged me out in that all-important category skin color. I was furious. Here I was, the happiest I’ve ever been, and my race literally clit-blocks me. Pretty soon after the insecurities crept back into my psyche. It was heartbreaking. I had worked so hard to build up my self-esteem about my color, and when faced with a swell of rejection, it crumbled. In retrospect, I see how fragile my confidence really was. My conviction was never reinforced; it was all self-supported. To have all that progress destroyed so drastically really worries and frightens me. I don’t know if I can get that girl back. Continue reading

Putting it in my Mouth: Head, Autonomy and the Politics of Giving [Love, Anonymously]

by Anonymous1

The first time I gave head to a young guy, as a teenage girl myself, I loved it. The tastes, the feel, the rhythmic sucking, the skin on skin feel filling my mouth. I didn’t know what I was doing at first, but I learned, under the patient, steady and grateful tutelage I received at seventeen, the first time around. The attention to detail ended up lasting me throughout the rest of my dick-sucking endeavors. And I could suck into an oblivion, with gusto.

In the right angle and positioning, I thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience for minutes on end. I got adept with other techniques, incorporating hand stroking and squeezes simultaneously, using pressure, tongue tricks, reading his body and responses. I could be a self-conscious, timid fuck at times, (rife with beauty and self-esteem issues holding me back) but with giving head, I championed. I was confident and self-actualized and ejaculate was one of my rewards.

I was also a virgin for all of 22 years of my good, black Catholic-girl life and I only had sex for the first time, with that particular person (who knew I hadn’t had intercourse before) because I fell for the infamous “I promise, just the tip” ploy and next thing you know, the length of a penis was in me. Just like that, in the quick stroke successions of the blink of an eye, my v-card was revoked.

I only enjoyed the control of giving head later in life, in the early then toward my mid twenties. But more than that, I am a pleaser and I like pleasing my (a) man and making him feel good. I just enjoyed it, the process, the act. And I need to have free reign ideally, no heavy hand guiding my head and that shit. Just, you relax, let me do my thing — and I would. Somewhere between getting older, I noticed some guys repeatedly began demanding head. Requesting it outright and the autonomy of the act for me (even though I wanted to) seemed to
wane just because he required it. Continue reading

Loving Masculinities [Love, Anonymously]

by Guest Contributor Soyluv, special to Racialicious


My ex boyfriend would stop canoodling with me, as soon as his elder brother came into the room we were in (they were roommates in a house together).

He’d snuck up on me, pressed the length of his body against mine in the kitchen — sweet warmth and closeness radiating between us two — all the while, keeping an ear open, or both, for the tell-tale sounds of his brother’s movements and whereabouts. And I could tell. I could feel the slight edge beneath the love-up. There was no real reason for his brother’s movements to inadvertently police his behavior, other than his own perception of what such behavior would reveal about himself. And anything connected to softness wasn’t good. Even, someone you have been seeing for a while. I got hip to that real quick. Anything remotely in the vicinity of softness just wasn’t good.

Neither one of us lived with parents or elders, we were not engaged in an illicit affair (as far as I know!); it was well known that we were seeing each other, my friends knew him or of him, and his brother (and his few close friends) knew me and was comfortable with talking and hanging out with me when I was over. I could tell there was something bubbling under the surface behind all this and I realized that it wasn’t directly connected to me.

It was him.

Even when I called, I could always tell when the fellas were liming home by him, (even if I hadn’t heard them yet in the background) the threesome: his bro, their other homeboy and sometimes, a couple other or select various young men. I finally told him this once at his “hello”, that I could already tell he was around company but we never fully unpacked that observation. In fact, the entire pitch of his voice would change, harden, but ever so slightly, but enough still, like vivid colors getting sucked out of a portrait. The warmth fervently sealed out of his voice — on purpose, lest it betray him in the proximity of other men. It was so bloody pronounced to me, I wonder why he didn’t hear it himself (I asked, he said he didn’t) and why he didn’t hear the way it made me cringe and shrivel a little on the inside. Continue reading