As a black woman, the very act of existing is stressful. I feel the stress of being a black woman in my bones. My brain buzzes on alert with everyday frustrations and painful past memories even when I sleep. The sweet mental and emotional release of an orgasm is the only thing that seems to help on days when the state of the world leaves me feeling tangled up in knots of anxiety. Seriously, orgasms , whether solo or coupled, have often saved me. Resolving to have better sex as a form of self-care, however, felt a little bit like a joke at first. Like many black women, my relationship with sex is complicated.
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Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required. To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number. Ordained minister Newman With Heart and Hand chose a riveting topic for her second book: her premise is that African-American women often have confused ideas about sex, in large part because the church gives them confusing messages. Unfortunately, the book does not live up to its initial promise. Newman's message is less about ethics she is curiously opaque, for example, about the propriety of sex outside of marriage than self-image. Above all, she wants her readers to feel good about themselves, urging women to take up "Project Me," which involves spending time alone and tending to their own needs. This is hardly new advice. One wonders how Newman's suggestions that women take a karate class, learn to embroider or buy themselves flowers will help her audience think more clearly about sex.
My friend Miranda has accompanied me here for moral support. We scale a no-frills metal staircase at the end of an alleyway behind the high street, where a weary blond woman is ruling a domain of coats, cash and lists. She has a defeated manner, like the only sober person at a party when everyone is drunk. I have no idea why I decided to make myself look so dowdy. Miranda is doing much better; she has obediently put on a basque, along with a skirt much shorter than mine, and boots that elongate her long legs. It was the easiest way of manipulating our actual names without revealing the fact that we are both black. His presence is comforting; he seems like an island of sanity in a sea of grotesque chaos. The first thing I see, once Eddie has led us past the dancefloor and the bar, is a shaven-headed black man on his knees on a large bed, with a white woman on all fours, doggy-style. He is wearing an unbuttoned shirt, and nothing else; she is in a basque, suspenders and boots. Another man is kneeling next to him, waiting his turn.