Unmasking the Masked Crusader, the Super Sistah Revealed
I’m feeling bare, stripped, curiously naked and exposed. I’m addicted to privacy and have been from my youth; but there is a time for the dark and there is a time to let the light in. Besides the Superhero aspect of my pseudonym and all its inherent fabulousness, the mask of the Super Sistah appealed to the Clark Kent inside of me. I could be the studious, academic, introvert that is me but I could also switch to my gregarious, irreverent and theatrical side when the inclination arose. Existing behind a mask gave me a certain kind of freedom; I could say what I wanted and do what I wanted without risking censure or criticism. After all, anything that was said against me was not said to my true self, the one I saw every day, but to my counterfeit and copy whose ego was not as easily bruised. But what happens when looking out through the world from behind a mask doesn’t suit? What happens when you have something critical and life changing to say? Can you send your representative to preach the message on your behalf? The Super inside of me said no and the real me agreed.
For a woman who likes privacy letting the world see my true self, without my protective layer, was scary. I had anxiety about how I would be perceived. I came across Michelle Obama at her conservative best if random strangers are to be believed, but inside I was all Halle Berry as Cat Woman— feral and fabulously decked out in leather spandex. In the end I had to choose; the safety of my masked crusader secret identity or to realize a lifelong dream. The dream of reaching women of color on a larger platform. I chose the dream and that dream has grown beyond the need for anonymity and the confines of my blog. My blog readers have encouraged me and inspired me. Their issues and anxieties and their struggles with life and relationships have led to a book, a belief and a movement. The relationship, dating and self-help guide: Don’t Let the White Girl Win comes out in October 2012. Between the pages, the message is irreverent, funny and infuriating but offers real guidance and counsel for rebuilding black women and their relationships. Despite the title, it’s not about the other girl, it’s about us. It’s a boot camp, tough-love guide for how, as women of color, we can help and heal each other and succeed. So I’m going naked, nude and as bare as the day I was born to introduce my fans to the real me. The me without the mask. Hello everyone, Stephanie here.
Are you hiding behind a mask? Have you ever made the fear of exposing your true self get in the way of your destiny?
Tags: Black Love, Black Non-Fiction, black women, Confidence, Don't Let the White Girl Win, Fighting Fear, Girl Power, Identity, Interracial Dating, Self-Help Books, Success, Super-Heroes, unmasking
Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?
Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young. I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me. To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:
- I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
- I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
- I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
- I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
- I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
- I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
- I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.
I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks. The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.
Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?
Tags: Aging, Birthday, black women, Confidence, Diet & Exercise, Girl Power, Self-Confidence, Super-Heroes
New You Resolutions
In the past as the 1st of January loomed I would get frantic. I’d dissect my year’s accomplishments one-by-one. What had I accomplished? What goal had I reached? What problem had I solved? Every impossible goal one could devise I had it on my to-do list. To me, the end of the year was like a final exam where all the questions of the universe had to be solved single-handedly. Needless to say I was ambitious. For many years I assessed my accomplishments for the twelve months based on the strictest criteria. If in the year I failed to reach a goal I set for myself then I considered that entire year a bust. Even before the last fireworks went off on the new month I’d have myself on the success hamster wheel with a new set of priorities, plans and pursuits.
Tags: 2012, Bad Habits, black women, Girl Power, God, New Year's Resolutions, Success, Super-Heroes
Show me the bling, show me the ring or else! Whoa there. I know good men are scarce, rent aint cheap and bad ass kids are hard to raise by our lonesome. As women we want a man in the home so when we yell out, honey I’m home, someone besides the wall will hear. We watch Say Yes to the Dress, the Wedding Channel and read Bride with desire in our hearts and hope in our breasts. We want, no, need a man that we don’t have to share. We’ve had enough of the cheaters, schemers, womanizers and playboy extraordinaires. We want a man that we can lock down and throw away the key? Our need to throw up the deuces sign to the dating scene has made some of us teeter on the edge of despair. We’ve paid our dues and we feel entitled to our diamond bling. The desire to quit the single scene has made a man no longer an option for happily ever after but a must. We think that to make this happen we have to get aggressive. Lord you better send me someone before I have to come up there. After we’ve sent up heavenly death threats in the form of prayers we attack the marriage thing like a 5th grade science project. It’s at this point that things shift. Now, instead of dating for fun or companionship, we date potential mates with intent. Each man that comes into our lives must wear a bulletproof vest and protective gear. He doesn’t know it but he’s a target. Within seconds of meeting him we make assessments and out comes our list. Does he have a job? Check. No kids, one kid, takes care of his kids? Check. Is he packing? Check. Check. Check. Is he wack, weak, trifling or mean? Double X. Is he short, stupid, stubborn or dyslexic? X and X. Can he stroke, poke and whine his waist like a Chippendale? Check. Most importantly will his last name sing together beautifully with ours and mesh? Check and happy girl cartwheel.
Forget that we don’t like him. Disregard the fact that he may be perfect but not for us? We want that diamond and we want it now. The Super is not saying we should wait until Larenz Tate in Love Jones and Billy Dee in Lady Sings the Blues and every other black knight we’ve ever watched on television appears, but as any married or divorced woman will tell you, getting the ring is easier than waking up beside your hubby everyday with a smile on your face. Don’t give into your S & M instincts by straddling love, binding its wrist, stepping on its chest with your heels on and cracking the whip. You can’t dominate the diamond and show it who’s boss. Proposals don’t submit to force. Deny the diamondatrix within who wants to inflict pain on their relationships by pushing marriage onto every man that exists. Don’t make the men in our lives have to chose between marriage or the whip.
Are you a diamondatrix trying to get love and a ring through force?
Tags: Black Love, black women, Dating, Dominatrix, feminism, Girl Power, Love, Marriage, Men, Relationships, S & M, Sex, Strength, Super-Heroes
Do you have T&A (tits and ass for those who don’t text)? If you do you might as well mark a red X on your back because you’re going down? Some women don’t like other women, so much so that without provocation they’re always in the process of plotting a sister’s downfall and demise. Most folks work in places where there is an abundance of muchachas. You can’t escape them because they overflow the cubicles and are everywhere. In places where women congregate in great numbers I’d like to tell you that it’s all India Arie and group hugs, but that would be a bald faced lie. Truth is, as it most cases where there is an excess of estrogen, many women spend their time locked in battle and missions meant to search and destroy. Sometimes we don’t know why we’re doing it. We see a woman who seems to have it going on and we claim that she thinks she’s all that. We tell ourselves that she is the enemy because she acts like her shit don’t stink. We claim that we don’t like her spirit because she thinks she’s better than somebody. All excuses for being trifling and mean. To survive and prosper, as women we have to stop fighting amongst ourselves. There’s nothing uglier than ladies locked in combat. It could be argued that we’re not taught to love each other. Instead, we are taught to compete, demean, chop down and scorn. These actions stem from envy and insecurity. As we struggle for equality we must understand that we can’t fight the world and win while fighting each other. It’s a losing strategy. How can we advance if we do it singularly, one by one and without the support of our sisters? The strategy is plagued with pitfalls. We have to band together and uplift each other or we will fail. Sometimes it’s difficult. Some women are straight back stabbing bitches. Yeah, I used the B word, run and go get the PC Police while I make my point here. Seen too many times to discount, one woman tries to help another but only one lady got the memo to stop the bullshit. As a gender if we want to rise and overcome then we need our sidekicks. We have to be on the lookout for the Robin to our Batman and our island full of Amazon warrior princesses. We all need a cheering squad, mentors and number one fans. To succeed at anything we have to resist the temptation to talk badly about any woman trying to do better for herself. We must refrain from thinking she ain’t shit because she has more shit going on than us. We must battle the temptation to hate on her because she’s more beautiful or talented than we are. We should hope instead that she’s willing to share some of her shine with us so we can shine independently. We must pray, that like some of us, she hasn’t been so disillusioned by bad experiences that she is reluctant to be a friend. As black women we must abandon our fear and embrace each other. We must realize that women are not our enemies. Resist the urge to use your verbal venom to shoot and kill. Instead, aim your smile and acceptance their way and pull the trigger.
Are you a female assassin licensed to Lady Kill?
Tags: black women, feminism, Friendship, Girl Power, lady killer, Sisterhood, Super-Heroes
Fight for Your Life
If you’re like most women then there have been times when you’ve woken up in a cold sweat wondering in a daze why your life wasn’t going as you’d planned? If you are anywhere north of twenty then this has happened more than once. In those times you’ve questioned why everyone else had the luxury of ups with their downs while you had the misfortune of having only valleys with no hills in sight. In these times your ass hit asphalt so often that pebbles in your butt crack seemed customary. In your quest for relief, prayer became begging and begging turned into negotiations with the big G. You didn’t want much from him just moments of uninterrupted peace. What’s up, Lord? Can you cut me some goddamn slack! Now you’d done it. In frustration you’d used the Lord’s name in vain and now you’d earned yourself a set of Biblical roundhouse kicks. But enough was enough. You felt battered like you and Laila Ali had done a couple rounds in the ring. It was quitting time. It was over. You’d fallen way too far down to ever get back up. But as the saying goes, It’s at the precise moment that you think you can’t go on that you get your second wind. Like all the best boxers I would like to think that we can’t be beat. As women, no one can defeat us unless we choose to defeat ourselves. No man, no job, no disappointment is enough reason to throw ourselves down in the middle of a chalk outline. As long as we breathe, we can turn things around. Persistence pays off. Determination wins in a fist fight. Personal power starts from the inside. Refuse to live your life on your back looking up at the world while it looks down. Spread-eagle and unconscious doesn’t look sexy anywhere outside of a triple X movie DVD. Despite the porn reference, being on your knees isn’t a bad thing. It’s the space we exist in right before we get back on our feet.
So get up and put up your dukes. It’s time to fight! Dodge and weave your despair. Bare knuckle box your bitterness. Counter punch any obstacle that life throws your way. When you fight despair always fight to win. It’s just when you feel like giving up that you should kick box your courage into high gear.
In the ring of life does disappointment have you against the ropes? Let the fight card show that you fought for your life and won.
Tags: black women, boxing, feminism, Fighting Fear, Girl Power, Laila Ali, Personal Power, Strength, Super-Heroes
Super Save a Hoe
Some women are hoes. Capital H.O.E. ‘How you gonna write about empowerment and call women derogatory names?’ I can hear the criticism ringing in my ears. My response is that we can’t pretend that some women aren’t a little bit too free. I said it and mi nah tek back no talk which in patois means that I’m sticking to my guns. Now before the feminist black blogs come running to attack (you know who you are), pump your breaks a minute while I explain.
For those of you who remember cameo hair cuts, there was an old rap song by E40 called
Save a Hoe. I hope the rapper won’t mind that I spray-painted Super over the title Captain for the purpose of this post. The essence of the song was the futility of trying to rescue people that didn’t want to be saved. To those of us addicted to saving people from the bumps in their lives, there are some critical lessons to be learned. I’m using examples from my own history as a teaching aid. As an educator, I instinctively want to coach and lead those I love down a safe and steady path. Most times they resist. I think I can see their mistakes before they happen and try to get them to make a detour. While this trait might be endearing in a guidance counselor it’s downright aggravating in anyone else. Despite this realization, give me the slightest indication that trouble is brewing for someone I love and off I’d go in an instant, leaping, jumping and flying into danger zones. No one would invite me into the fray but before anyone could even dial my number, I was in the thick. Upon arriving into the heart of the emotional storm, at some point, I’d realize that I’d made a mistake. Usually this was after I’d been cussed out for being critical or I’d offered truth without being asked. You’d think that being repeatedly shut down by the recipients of my help would be enough to teach me some restraint. Nope. Fast forward to another crisis and I’d discard every lesson learned and up, up and away I’d go on my way to another interpersonal crash.
Stop. Rewind. Repeat. The women I was trying to save were starting to look worse for wear, overused and done. Too many encounters had knocked them down and they lay on their backs with their legs spread wide. Friend or foe, I recognized a hoe when I saw one. I use the word hoe but don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean women with the tendency to whore and fling puss from left to right. My label is for those women whose propensity for high risk situations leave them susceptible to getting rigorously f%cked or screwed. In my personal life I thought it was my duty to help my friends and family avoid emotional battery trains. What I learned is that advice is overrated and that people want to make mistakes on their own terms, no matter the cost. If saving is a must, I should spend my time looking inward. So with this in mind, I’m embracing the hoes in everybody, even in myself. So go ahead and be slack and slightly slutty if you want; the Super won’t say a word.
Are you repeatedly trying to save a hoe from emotional promiscuity?
Tags: black women, feminism, Friendship, Girl Power, Sex, Sisterhood, Super-Heroes, Trust
I am NOT my Ass!
A reader once accused me of being vain and beauty obsessed. I argued that she was an idiot and should spend more time reading my blog before hurling knucklehead remarks. Now in retrospect I think she might have had a point. Skimming through some of my more inspirational and uplifting posts, I noticed that there was also another trend. With shame and chagrin I realized that I had written more than one post about my posterior. Did I have a fixation? Was I body dysmorphic with an unhealthy focus on the state of my behind? Forgive me readers for I have sinned. Besides being black, which in itself comes with its own beauty baggage, there are reasons for my unhealthy obsession. Follow me if you will while I endeavor to explain where my booty psychosis began.
I have what you call adequate ass. It’s an ass that has potential that’s never fully realized. I have the sway in my back that promises a fatty of Janet Jackson proportions, but instead of exploding outward in an abundance of bounce, my ass runs straight into my leg and disappears. As much as I bemoan my dimensions, I realize that it could have been a lot worse. My family tree on my father’s side boasts some unfortunate shapes. The multicultural bloodlines has blessed my female kin with overly large breasts, thick waists and bums that lay flat without a hint of curve. I escaped the horror of this silhouette through my maternal grandmother’s straight out of Africa roots. Her DNA softened the trauma that could have been my body type by downgrading the possible triple F bra size to an acceptable porn star D. It cinched in my waist moderately and gave me a bum, while not excessive, was more than adequate on anyone not black. All said, my bum had its perks. Naked, it is a mini Picasso wrapped in J brand jeans. It doesn’t dent, hang low or flop around (that will come with age). Born any place North of the mother land and I would have had a mini masterpiece on my hands.
Having said that, I would like to admit that the men in my past haven’t helped me with my pathology. Many of them expressed concern the first time they saw me from behind. Most accepted my booty on a consignment basis. They still longed for the bouncy but they made do with my lack, because as they put it, ‘I was a nice girl.’ Yeah, I had booty baggage, but just like India Arie released her insecurities when she declared I am not my hair, I am NOT my ass. Today I will declare that I have come to accept, if not adore, my booty and my body. We are cordial acquaintances working on being more. We are respectful of one another’s limitations and provide one another polite, if not excessive, praise. I no longer envy the chicks with booties big enough to write its own name in the sand. My curves and I have made peace. Readers, I can’t promise that this will be the last of my posts on the topic of my posterior but I will try to keep the madness under control. The Super still uplifts, preaches and prods women to accept themselves and be more. I’ll endeavor to spread the word and not my cheeks.
Has a hated body part made you into an obsessive freak?
Tags: Bad Habits, black women, body image, Confidence, Girl Power, Weight
Who Runs the World? Girls!
Who runs the world? Girls! Black women are exceptional. I know a lot of women who I admire, look up to and try to emulate. They have shown me how to be the best woman I can be. What their encouragement has done is that it has powered my ambition and fueled my self-esteem. I know without being told that I’m worthy of love and all of life’s rewards. Every woman has a gift and something special about them that separates them from everyone else. On my end, from the moment I knew myself I knew I was gifted. I knew that I was extraordinary, different and unique. I couldn’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, I couldn’t dodge a bullet and I couldn’t see the future — no x-ray vision. I had a cape but it was hidden. It didn’t matter. As far as action heroes went I was in the Justice League. I was a super hero and I had a name. My special power was to educate, motivate and to teach. Living inside me where all the action heroes of old. I was Wonder Woman and Super Woman wrapped up into one. I had super powers. I could recover from a broken heart and will the organ to regenerate and heal. Men could hurt me and leave me for dead but I could defy death and live again. I could give birth to Gods, balance the temperaments of the vicious and I could mold the minds and thoughts of others. I could heal hearts with a kiss and I could balance the world on my shoulders without losing my breath. Loved ones could turn against me and I could still find the power to rise as if I was impervious to harm or pain. I was the black Jamie Summers and like her I was bionic. In the twenty first century I conditioned myself to be better, stronger and smarter. I’m not unique. All women possess super human strength. We’re women of steel and it takes an army of combatants to harm us. Our weakness is our human heart which leads us to succumb to heartache time and time again. To overcome, all women of color have to claim our gifts and powers and announce them to the world. We must release our inner avatar and give our super selves a new fear-fighting moniker. We must release the super heroine living inside of us and let the extraordinary woman out. She should no longer be contained. I’m Super Sistah. I said it therefore I am. No one had to tell me. Own yourself and own the world. Beyoncé didn’t have to sing a song about it for me to know that girls run the world. As women we have to learn to live out loud. Let’s start today.
Do you run the world? What makes you Super and extraordinary? Tell me.
Excerpt taken from the upcoming book entitled – Don’t Let the White Girl Win.
Tags: beyonce, black women, Girl Power, Personal Power, run the world (girls), Self-Confidence, Sisterhood, Super-Heroes
My Booty as Bait
These days eligible men are scarce and the fight to land and lock down a good man has some women going to extremes. In their pursuit of Mr. Marry Me some ladies pull out the big guns and use their booty as bait. I’m not knocking the next girl’s tactics but there is a right way to do things and then there’s just plain wrong. If you’re built like a thoroughbred with a body banging enough to inspire instant lust, I’m not saying you have to keep your best assets under wraps. Get your Serena on if you must but remember the best part of the gift is the unwrapping. If you expose all your wonders to the world what is there left to see? My young female readers are rolling their eyes as I speak. They’re envisioning me at my computer writing with a half-grown-in mustache, chin hair and a long-sleeved sweater despite the balmy seventy degrees. No, not me. The Super is all for the sexy. If our exteriors are the canvas then we should paint ourselves with beautiful strokes. That said, men are visual and upon meeting us they conduct mental mathematics about our availability based on what they see.
“Pants tight enough to restrict breathing – one date, maybe two.”
“Dress short enough to see my future – dinner consisting of some hot water and then back to my place.”
These impromptu assessments about women are usually wrong but men could care less. The judgment has already been made and they will treat us accordingly. In my teens I once wore a hip-high semi-see through shorts set. I paired my attire with knee-high boots and a black bra and panties that showed more than a few hints of skin. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: straight Ho bag who needs a citation from the fashion police. I beg your forgiveness for my fashion faux pas, but hell, it was the nineties and I was a teen. I got the attention I was seeking but it wasn’t the good kind. Instead of attracting the interest of the honest, humble and educated men I was seeking, instead every freak, sneak and player set his x-ray vision on me. Back then I thought the body was made for revealing but the attention I got was the type I didn’t need. As I walked the streets that day strange men attempted to pinch and prod me making me wonder what made them think that they had the right. Just because I was dressed like a stripper didn’t mean I was one. Hell, I had the grades to go to University. I was smart! That didn’t stop me from also being stupid beyond imagining. Wearing the shorts which the Jamaicans call Batty Riders, the Americans call Daisy Dukes or Pussy Printers for those that live anywhere past Jersey, didn’t guarantee me the man of my dreams. Instead, it attracted the dudes that were only interested in the place in my shorts that formed a V. These men admired the shape of my ass instead of the shape of my smile. They were attracted to the exterior with little to no interest in the real me. No one wants to be loved for their body parts and no one should be. I’m not opposed to the split in the dress, a low neckline or the dress that hugs the figure just right. Accentuate the positives but allow men to see beyond the V.
Finding a good man is hard. Is it now necessary to use our bodies as bait?
Tags: black women, Confidence, Girl Power, Men, Relationships, Sex, Style
Bitch Slap Brides
A backhand across the mouth is the best way to silence a woman. A punch to the left tit is one way to get her to close her trap. Is she being a little lippy? Threaten to knock her teeth out and see if she utters another damn word. A little beat down never hurt anybody. Say what now? The world is full of bullies. I don’t want to single out a young, high yellow brother with an album ready to drop but if the title fits then let’s point some fingers and throw some chairs.
Some people think violence is the only way to shut some women up. If you’re acquainted with such people I say prepare them for an ass kicking, a beat down and a sucker punch to the left testicle. I can hear cheers from my End-Domestic-Violence advocates; another weak ass man hits the tarmac and its lights out. I know many women who think that a little slap, shake or shove is forgivable. He didn’t mean it. He was just angry. I shouldn’t have made him mad. These are the excuses that these women throw around to defend unforgivable behavior. If you’re one of those sisters, I’m tempted to slap you myself so you can see sense. I‘ll refrain because you’ve been hit enough already. The violence and physical abuse against you ends now. It ends with me telling you that you’re enough. That you won’t die if the man you’re with is no longer a part of your life. It ends with me telling you that you’re not alone. I want you to know that although the man you think you love has trapped you in a web of silence, fear and hurt that there is still a way out. The door to freedom begins by refusing to become a Bitch Slap Bride and knowing your value and your worth.
A man is not worthy of your time or affection if he:
- Communicates with punches and backhands
- If name calling, belittling and humiliation is a part of your daily routine
- If feeling less, inadequate or unlovable is standard when he’s in the vicinity
- If memories of the last time you were happy are vague
- If the physical pain inflicted is just the surface of your wounds
- If you tell more lies to yourself than anybody else
Remember that the more we let people destroy our spirits, steal our dreams and rewrite our histories the more we are abandoning pieces of ourselves to heartbreak. Don’t let any man use your face for a punching bag. Summon the strength within for which all women are renowned and get out! Love shouldn’t hurt.
Can you love someone who shows affection with a five finger fist?
Tags: Betrayal, Bitch slap Brides, black women, Break-ups, domestic violence, Girl Power, Love, Personal Power, Tough Love
Sex with Myself
For some, having sex with themselves is almost as much fun as having sex with men. My take? I rather have the real thing. Pleasuring myself is like cooking a four course meal, spreading the table, lighting the candles, popping the cork off the best champagne and then sitting down to eat alone. Not my thing. For those who veer in the opposite direction, they argue, who better than themselves to know where on the body to touch? They know how to use their hands, fingers and an assortment of toys and personal tricks to get the job done. It requires skill to know how to massage gently in some areas, add pressure and friction in the next, when to be quick with the movements and when to move really, really slow. For those who are unfortunate enough not to know the joy of having regular orgasms, (Super! Put your damn hands down people are watching), the state is usually found by knowing the pleasure points on the body intimately.
I say, that while the body is an adequate receptacle for all this loving, you have to make love to the mind just as diligently. Having mind sex involves tasting the tang of the sweet things you say to yourself on your lips. It requires pushing past the tight, painful barriers erected in the sub conscious that stops you from giving yourself praise. It means gently rubbing away the painful sting of self-criticism. But most importantly, it requires knowing the mind intimately so that you can give it everything it desires to perform at its best. Not to be crass but the term mind f*%k has a whole new meaning. Sometimes making love to your mind is all you need for a successful release.
Are you having sex with yourself?
Tags: black women, Girl Power, Love, Sex