A Collection of African-American Erotica
ACCLAIMED LITERARY VOICES
REVEAL THE POWER OF PASSION
-Eric Jerome Dickey -Lolita Files -Kim McClarin - Breena Clarke -Bil Wright -Jacqueline Woodson -Carolyn Ferrell -Camika Spencer -Janet McDonald -Bernice L. McFadden...and many more.
In "Roses, Red Room 416," a sophisticated boho sistah addicted to an outrageously sensual lover gets an unforgettable lesson...
When a newly married woman decides to say "Goodbye" forever to her unfaithful ex-boyfriend, she is swept away by a desperate erotic promise-and faces a reckless choice...
Self-sufficient and savvy, the heroine of "Me Between My Own" searches for satisfaction--only to discover that ultimate sexual fulfillment lies unexpectedly close...
In "Undoings in Amsterdam," a young American lesbian hungry for experience tours a place far off the map, where the rules--and cultural differences-are no match for a transforming desire...
A powerful collection of erotica from today's leading black writers and fresh voices, BLACK SILK explores exciting territory in the realm of the African-American experience. From Eric Jerome Dickey's rueful tale of lust to Lolita Files's scorching account of insatiable adventuring...to Breena Clarke's tribute to the strength of erotic imagination...to Camika Spencer's encounters online and in the flesh...to Carolyn Ferrell's story of intergenerational desire and discovery, this book sings of the power of the forbidden and the transforming--with unforgettable characters who claim their pleasure and seek its ultimate limits. Never before published, never before available, these erotic short stories are a dazzlingly sensual meditation on the very soul of passion...
An Alternate Selection of Quality Paperback Book Club(r) and a Featured Alternate of Black Expressions(tm) and of Venus(tm) Book Club
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
Grand Central Publishing
February 01, 2002
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Black Silk by Retha Powers
The collective rays of the September sun bear into her back and shoulders. It is an intense, deep-heat treatment. Slowly her anger at Jack flows out of her, down her brown arms, into her fingers, and into the deeper brown of the earth. On hands and knees she labors, using the small shovel to turn the dirt. The smell of earth is like fresh-cut, raw potatoes. Subtle and sustaining. It is aromatherapy and the sun is the masseuse.
Small beads of sweat, like delicate pinpricks, spring across her forehead and along her top lip. Short breaths softly escape through her slightly parted lips each time she bends, stretches, and digs. With each release of breath goes another angry thought: Jack's words urging her to sell her grandmother's home; Jack's smug assurance playing along the corners of his mouth when he smiles. He is so sure that she will leave this place and live a life of urban bondage.
She develops a comfortable rhythm--bend, stretch, dig--planting bulbs of narcissus, jonquil, and gladiolus. She continues a rhythm developed by her grandmother, continued by her mother, and passed down to her. True, she and Jack do not live at this house and have slowly allowed the four-hour drive to become more burdensome. But knowing that the place was there provided a foundation for her. And she never misses a September planting her bulbs. She remembers the joy on Grandmother's face as the blooms and fragrance signaled the beginning of spring.
This year she has carefully prepared the soil, just as Grandmother showed her, adding just a touch of vermiculite so that the right amount of moisture would succor the bulbs. So intent on the digging and careful planting, she jumps when she feels a trickle along her side. She laughs as she realizes it is a rivulet of sweat.
Sitting back on her heels, she gently dabs the sweat on her brow by pressing the back of her forearm against her head. This only spreads the sweat, however, since her forearm is also wet. She enjoys the sun massaging her scalp with its filament fingers. She closes her eyes and silently blows out the last bit of tension she is holding. Sweat trickles down her back, slowly, like fingers playing gently along her spine.
A minute turning of the soil draws her eyes toward the damp, cocoa-brown-colored dirt. A pink, questing head lifts from the soil. Eyeless, it waves about before diving into a patch of dirt next to itself. She watches it as her sweat rolls down her back and meanders down her cleavage. Her shirt begins to cling to her as if shrink-wrapped. The worm's body, a rich magenta muscle, smoothly enters the earth. It hardly disturbs the soil, she thinks. She wishes, just for a second, that her efforts at gardening were so graceful.
Bending forward to continue with her planting, she pauses, not wanting to harm the worm or his mates. Funny that she had not considered them before. She sees another pink head rise from the soil, twisting about. She does not know if it is the same worm or a different one. Curious, she gingerly digs with her hands. The grains of dirt scrub her flesh with a gentle roughness. Soon she feels a rolling movement against her palm and freezes. Looking carefully, she lifts the dirt and lets the earth sift through her fingers. Two magenta bodies remain in her palm, coiling and twining together, seeking the soil. Their heads press insistently into her palm. Their bodies turn and stroke her hand.
Fascinated, she watches them contract then expand, moving until they, like the earth, slide through her fingers back into the fresh-turned dirt. What must it feel like, she thinks, to feel the soil all over your body? The worms writhe as if in extended ecstasy. They ride the dirt, rolling and turning endlessly.