Sex, sex, sex! Oh and Lil' Wayne! What a wonderful combination!

THE MAKING OF "DROP THE WORLD" LIL WAYNE FT EMINEM from DERICK G on Vimeo.

Gotta luv sex! Ssshh! Be quiet! (part 3-finale)

“That’s beautiful,” she heard herself say.

He turned around; his brown eyes alert, open, as though realizing for the first time that he had an audience. He stood over her admiring her butterscotch skin. His strong painted hands outlined the contour of her face. Trish felt the wet paint smear on her skin. She leaned her body forward so he could reach her better. She allowed him to guide her face in both of his hands up until she was on her knees; the whole time both were maintaining eye contact. Her hands accidentally went into a puddle of blood red and brown paint. The cool liquid extinguished some of the hotness radiating off of her body but not all of the way. She wrapped her hands around his waist lifting up his wife-beater. The smell of musk and paint filled her nose as she pressed her face into his six-pack. A low growl slipped out of his mouth when Trish washed his stomach with her tongue. Her lips were so soft to him. She managed to untie the strings to his pants with her teeth. They fell right down to his ankles. Trish was pleased with what she saw in front of her. Inside of his boxer briefs his manhood snaked down the side of his leg. Her mouth began to water.

Before she could open her gift, he took a hold of her shoulder length hair and tugged her head backwards. Her bottom lip poked itself out slightly and mischief clouded her eyes. “Not yet,” he demanded. He liked to be in control. This time he got on his knees right along with her and kissed her exposed shoulder. His hand slipped under her silk shirt and gently pinched her rock hard mounds. She dug her face into his dreads to cover her moaning. He felt her whole body vibrate. The flimsy material of her top slipped off easily. Now it was his turn to smile at the work of art before him. “You are absolutely beautiful,” he whispered before taking one of her breasts into his mouth. Trish did not have time to control herself; a loud unfamiliar sound came from her mouth. The thickness of his dreads could no longer hold her screams. Back and forth he gave her breasts attention until he about burst in his briefs.

He peeled her skinny jeans off of her. Her juices blended in with the paints that she was swimming in. He continued to taste test her whole body, not leaving one part untouched by his tongue; all the while kneading his fingers into her skin giving her the massage her body needed. He tenderly kissed her inner thighs sending her legs shaking even before he kissed her sweet jewels.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. Trish looked down toward him; his handprints were literally all over her body. In between a few strands of dreads she could see him eyeing every move she made. She begged him to stop; she was afraid to let go; afraid of what her body would do. Within seconds a powerful wave of pleasure shook her whole body into convulsions. The whole room spun; all of the different shades of colors blended in with each other. She felt as if she was having an out of body experience. This continued for what felt like an eternity. When she regained her strength, she managed to push him onto the floor and straddled him.

“Your turn.” Trish stripped his briefs off in one quick swift move. His chocolate manhood stood at attention, ready for her to explore. She said a little prayer before sliding down the thick pole; never has she had anything this massive before. But she happily accepted the challenge. Her walls wrapped tightly around him like a glove. She spread his chest with paint as she slowly rode him. His face showed pleasure.

“Look at me,” he demanded. “I want you to see me cum.” Everything in the room disappeared. She was not embarrassed anymore nor was she afraid. She had never had this kind of a connection with a man in her life; she made it her mission to please him. She craved it. Both of their bodies intertwined with each other creating a beautiful art sculpture like an original Mona Lisa painting. He grabbed a hold of her thick thighs and the rode into pure ecstasy together.

Trish lay on his chest, both trying to catch their breaths. Reality struck her. She didn’t even know this man, who was he and what was he doing in the library after closing hours? As if reading her mind he wrapped his muscular arms around her petite waist and kissed her forehead. She laid there listening to his heart beat until hers became one with his. Who gave a damn, she told herself.




Three weeks later…

Trish had not been to the library ever since her little secret rendezvous, but today she decided to come back with a group of her girlfriends to check out the art exhibit that they were hosting. The theme, depictions of black women. As she walked through the exhibit, paintings of all sorts of African-American women in different poses embraced the canvases. She took her time eyeing each piece. She could not help but look at the eyes of the women. They seemed very familiar, but she kept on looking like everyone else. The longer she walked around the more she notice strangers eyeing her. At first she brushed it off but eventually found out the reason for the stares. At the opposite end of where she stood was the largest canvas of all. She gasped as she stared up at her reflection. Every detail of her body from her face, the curve of her thick thighs and the ample roundness of her behind were looking back at her. Her eyes on the painting popped out exposing a part of her that she had been trying to hide for years as a result of all of the bad relationships she has experienced, but the way it was depicted in this painting made her rethink to reconnect with that side of her that needed to be unleashed. The memory of that day came up front and center and she smiled. Fifteen minutes later she walked out of that exhibit with the same smile concealing a secret that no one else can know about.

I write naked!

I thought I was the only person who does this! Now I don't want people coming to my window at night thinkin' they are about to get a peek cause it's not goin' to happen. You get a A for effort. No but seriously there is something about writing butt azz naked, plus I'm not too fond of clothes anyway. But next time you have to write something try it. Hell you and your boo could try it tonite. Spice up some thangs.

New name, new look, got to keep it fresh!

And I'm not talking about my cookies either, although I will say that, that is as fresh, and squeaky clean as, well you know. But I had to change the name of the blog because I'm a Gemini and personally, YB&W was a tad bit boring. Maybe Diamondz will attract some people.

Sssh! Be Quiet! (Part 2)

Her legs were paralyzed. Through her thin shirt she felt her nipples come at attention pointing at want they wanted. Her breathing rose and fell in quick gasps.

            “Are you goin’ to come in or you just goin’ to stand there in the hallway?” a deep voice sang.

            Trish jerked back, swinging her head back and forth trying to find where the source of the voice came from. When she turned her attention back to the doorway, the beautiful chocolate sculpture stood in front of her. Suddenly her lungs decided to forget how to breathe.

            “May I help you?”

            Trish felt his body heat radiating off of his skin, wrapping itself around her like a blanket. His chocolate eyes undressed every emotion that she tried to hide.

            “I uh, how did…”

            “Saw you on camera,” he answered for her.

            Trish bit her bottom lip. Her mission of getting out went out the door with everything else. His large artist hand slid into her and guided her further into the nearly empty room. All around were canvases of all sizes. Trish detached herself from him. Beautiful depictions of ethnic women of all shades were drawn on most of them but none of them were finished. The intensity in the women’s eyes was eerily real. A mixture of sadness, compassion, and many other emotions that women carry but never express outwardly were shown and felt. Their stories vibrated off the pages. She felt his eyes piercing into her back as she walked around. In the corner of her eyes she noticed how he leaned up against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest. She smiled to herself. That wife-beater did not do him justice. All of his muscles screamed out for her. She finally worked her way back over to him.  

            “You’re good. How come you haven’t finished any of them?”

            At first he did not answer; he scrunched up his face as if contemplating the right answer. “I haven’t found what I wanted to draw.” His juicy lips looked like tootsie rolls. They parted exposing snow white teeth. Trish’s legs turned into boiled spaghetti.

            “Can I watch you paint?”

            The mysterious man did not answer. Instead he strolled over to the canvas that he was working on and continued painting. Trish sat down behind him on the floor among the paints to watch his body move. She watched the transformation of him becoming his art; no longer could she tell where the canvas filled with different browns and yellows began and his dark chocolate body ended. It was all too beautiful, breath-taking. He effortlessly flicked his wrist with each stroke. Each was met with passion. She felt instant moistness in between her legs dampening her black lace boy shorts. She craved for him to touch her body with the same precision.

Ssshh! Be quiet! (Part 1)

Sunday, 4:55pm.

Raheem DeVaughn’s ‘Bedroom’ serenaded loudly through Trish’s pink headphones that were attached to her laptop. She sat in a secluded area in the Business and Technology department of the main Allen County Library. Her slender fingers furiously attacked the keys as she finished her paper on African Psychology that was due the following day. Her apple bottom had long ago gone numb from sitting on the hard floor and her neck screamed for her to at least stretch it out. However she was determined to keep her 4.0 grade point average.

On the intercom a librarian announced that the library was now closing and all patriots had to leave. Unfortunately that announcement did not reach Trish’s ears. Fifteen minutes til six, Trish had finally typed in the last reference to her essay. She saved it and stretched her thick limbs before packing up her things still oblivious to the library being closed. Trish emerged out from between the rolls of bookcases, red Louboutin heels clicking with each step.

Something made Trish look up from scrolling through her Blackberry. The lights in the Business and Technology department had been dimmed. No occupants resided on the computers, no familiar frantic click, clicking of keys being typed or music blaring out of someone’s headphones. Also no nerdy librarian stood at the department’s desk with their noses stuck in some book. She headed out of the department and looked down at the first floor below her. Normally a screaming baby or inappropriately dressed teenagers would be wondering back and forth but not a soul was present down there either. Her heart sunk to the bottom of her stomach. Trish flew down onto the first floor as swiftly as she could in stilettos. Every door she tried would not open. She ran down to the opposite end and got the same result.

“This is not hap…” Her complaining was interrupted by a clanking sound. She could not tell where it came from or if she actually heard something at all. Standing by the main entrance’s doors like a mannequin Trish stretched her ears to hear another sound. “Gurl, you are trippin’ right now.” She scrolled through her phone to see who she could call to get the hell up out of there.

Crash!

Trish’s head snapped up. The sound was louder; this time she was not tripping. Her legs started walking toward the dark hallway. She felt like those nosy white girls in the scary flicks that always had to go investigate every eerie sound. However this was no horror movie, no one to say CUT when her ass became someone’s victim.

At the opposite end of the narrow hallway was bright light seeping out of an open doorway. Shadows bounced off of the floor. She never prayed so hard in her life walking toward that open door, she hoped it was a janitor. Her heart beat overpowered the tiny clicking of her heels.

Once she was outside the door, her head slowly poked around the threshold of the door. Paint bottles were on the floor. Some were toppled over with the tops open letting vibrant colors of paint to intermingle with each other. Paintbrushes were along side of the paint bottles. She averted her eyes deeper into the room but jumped back as soon as she saw Timbaland boots in the middle of all of the colorful mess. When she collected her breath and was sure that she had not been noticed, she peaked back around. Her green eyes started at the black and gold Timbaland boots with navy blue khaki pants spilling over the tops of the boots haphazardly. She slowly worked her eyes upward stopping at a tight butt that no amount of baggy pants could hide. Trish watched its muscular form move in the khaki’s. Farther up a white wife-beater hugged a wide back. Taunt muscles flexed and released as his upper body flowed smoothly, like a perfect orchestra being conducted. Sweat started to form as she admired his long, black dreads swinging halfway down his back. She could not see his face, but what she did see was exquisite. Her body responded. It had been months since she has had any kind of loving, not counting with herself. Now the man that she created in her imagination in the comfort of her own bed was standing mere feet away.

Yeah I know, but the rest will come tomorrow. Now go take a cold shower!

Freaky Ish

Ok so I came to realize that when people ask me what do I do and I tell them I write, 30 seconds later they come at me askin' if there are a lot of sex scenes, do I write erotica, etc. etc. You know what? There are some freaky people in the Fort! Ain't nothin' wrong with it! Hell long as my people pick up a book and read cause you know some of yall just graduated from Hooked On Phonics and thangs. LOL. But seriously though, I got you my freaky friends. Watch out for something special tomorrow.

commercial

something to say on writing

I ran into a friend I went to high school yesterday and he was talking about how he enjoyed doing his journalism class and how he likes that fact that with journalism it forces him to step out of his box of opinions and write about something maybe he would not have written about before or how it makes him get into that mentality of writing everyday. I agree on that particular part. I'm not sure I would be ok with writing about what someone else tells me to write about because I don't think I would have the same passion I would have if it's my own work, you know? I'm a pretty open minded person so I don't know. But I will say this, I push myself to write every single day. When I made that commitment I was able to take my writing seriously and plus I just enjoy writing period. I could write for free and be content. Oh wait I do! LOL. Anyway I will continue to pull out lovely novels as long as my biggest fan (Mercedes) still enjoys bragging to her teachers and class mates that her mama is going to be a writer.

Seriously, where are all of the african american literary agents????!!!!!!

Thought I should post this little article. I'm glad someone feels the same way. I'm going to have to change this:

by Elaine Watkins
Urban Book Source
January 2006

With major publishers finally turning their heads toward Urban fiction, African American authors are slowly being recognized for their creativity. Every time you flip through Publisher’s Weekly a new author is being signed to St. Martin’s Press or Simon and Schuster among many publishers. But who are the agents behind these major deals? One may assume that because many of the stories are considered “urban” or “street” it would have to be a Black Agent shopping them around, right? Wrong!

The sad truth is that there aren’t many African American literary agents out there. You may wonder why this is so, but I ask you to step back and look at the situation at hand. Most literary agents are between the ages of 40 and 60. If you calculate the time it takes to finish college, land a good editing gig, make a name for yourself in the publishing industry (creating a reliable network to shop future works) and build up the capital it takes to venture out and start your own business as a literary agent; you will see why the average age of literary agents is 50.

Now let’s take a further step back. A person who is 50 years of age would have had to been born in the fifties—right before the civil rights movement—when education for Blacks was still a struggle many were trying to overcome. In the early fifties many schools were still being integrated as a result of Brown vs. the Board of Education, when the Supreme Court ruled that “separate educational facilities are inherently unequal,” which means that any minority born at that time were still enduring the growing pains of the integration of the American school system. Unfortunately this means their formidable years of education were undoubtedly disproportionate to their White counterparts. By the time anyone born in the fifties would be old enough to go to college we would be in the early seventies, which at that time it was still very much a financial, and social feat for a Black person to not only go to college but graduate and land a successful job in the industry of their choice (It still is today!).

Over the past three decades the number of African American students enrolled in a higher education institution has steadily risen in part due to affirmative action (which oddly enough can be attributed to shutting some Blacks out…but that’s another article,) and the overall realization that the only way to maneuver your way out of poverty is with more education. In 1980 there were 935,140 1 students awarded a bachelor degree; Blacks and Hispanics accounted for only 8% of that total. Fast forward a couple of decades. In 2002 there were 1,291,900 2 bachelor degree candidates of whom 15% were Black or Hispanic. Although our numbers have increased, we still have a ways to go before the corporate playground is leveled.

There are many factors that play a role in the low enrollment of minorities in colleges and universities. The majority of minority college students face struggles their White peers usually don’t have. Most minorities have to work more than part-time to finance their education, or take care of other responsibilities. A lot of Blacks and Hispanics are still first generation college students, meaning that they have grown up in a home with parents who don’t have the same financial freedom as the parents of white college students, who are more likely than not to have been college graduates themselves. In this instance the old saying of it takes money to make money is undeniably true; higher levels of education results in more income, which increases the access to higher education. With Black students often working close to full time to pay their way through college, their studies are often times neglected and in many cases they are forced to attend half-time or completely delay their education until it is financially possible. But the financial breakthrough that many are waiting for will never come without a higher degree.

With this said it is no wonder why there aren’t many black literary agents. I can only hope the authors and editors of today will step up to the plate and grab this publishing game by the horns and take control. But I ask you to help your brothers and sisters up when you reach the top, if we don’t help each other we will never see a change.