The next time you’re drawing an internal blank, stand in front of a bevy of notebooks.

Ka’lyn is your grandmother’s favorite. She’s the cousin that, when she chooses to come to the function, makes the function worthwhile. She’s the professor that got you through that last semester by not coddling you, but by lighting a fire both under your ass and bright enough to give you a peek down the road. I got to chop it up with her recently. Keep reading to learn more about the Dr.

Today, while still in recovery from my normalization of disordered eating and fucked-up relationships, I felt something I didn’t expect: pride.

Connecting with someone online can be hit or miss; the persona doesn’t always match the person. Jade, however, is her truest self on and off these digital streets. With every inch of her humanity, she schools, edifies and teaches.

Dick is abundant and of low value.
I deserve peen attached to someone worthy of my time and energy AND who holds my time as valuable because it is. And I don't have to explain why.
Sis (I’m sis) has been traumatized by aint-shit individuals and constantly relearning how to trust herself.

Robin Thicke wrote a whole album named Paula. Not this Paula - another Paula. A Paula that is not this Paula. Because this Paula doesn’t require other people to write sonnets and ill-fated love ballads to her; she writes her own things. And not in a creepy, self-aggrandizing way. I sit down with Paula - again, not that Paula. That’s the other Paula. This is Paula Paula. Anyway, I sit down with her to ask a few non-Thicke questions.

Imma give it to you straight: Ashley Cobb don’t play about shit. That shit being: outdated mindsets towards and about sex, gender roles, sexual expectations, wack sex and pity moans. Fall into the gravity of her Facebook page and community and you’ll find spirited conversations with folk from all walks of life. Ashley is never with the negativity bullshit and I’m happy I got to chat with her about it.

Some people enter your life via IP Addresses. A slide down a timeline can change the course of both of your lives.

But I figured what could it hurt? We petition our folk for money, influence, support, so why not gut-beating. They see the whole picture now and watching their deprived descendants fake-moan and meander through subpar lays gotta make a throat dry with tears.

As the smoke clears on all 2019 wrought, we see just how far we've come, and I ask that we take the time to acknowledge, really acknowledge all that we've made it through. Because we out here. And dammit we made it.

My work is speaking. My work is writing. My work is empowerment. My work is advocacy. I am as board and specific as I need to be. I sit in hotel lobbies with the room paid for by those who requested my presence. I walk and talk my worth and my vulnerability. I change lives by simply being who I am.

In my office needing to release but holding back tears, I am exposed. My nerves are exposed. My triggers, exposed. And the tears don’t shock her.

That’s it. That’s the blog.

There’s something about wearing headphones in the sex shop that informs how you navigate the space. Pasty-white mannequins with bad wigs and flat asses dot the storefront that houses shit that’ll remind you single life ain’t that bad.

My particular brand of natural hair has always been a battleground for me long before I was aware. Within my strands laid power and animosity, strength and fragility, gainful employment and reprimands. In losing so much, I’ve gained an understanding of myself as defined as my multitextured curls. I am loose and tight, bound and strong, moisturized and never dry.

Grab your pussy and tell her thank you for the lessons. Apologize for the neglect. Speak to and acknowledge the trauma. She’s ready to spill tea, open you up to deep pleasure and be the beacon to lead you to your greatness.

Last night I broke in my writing teacher shoes. Kristen excitedly told me that I “am officially a teaching artist!”. Imagine your soul hitting the book-lined roof. Imagine looking back at the months of throwing away pages, rage qutting and starting over again. Imagine the culmination feeling like this.

There is no “sorry” in your self-redemption. You take up space and so do your tears.

Give it up for the queens with Qs in their names. We can never seem to hear our names right, and when I first met NaQuetta, I made a point to pronounce her name properly and let her know, “sis, same.”

I, a former indoctrinated prude, by definition of wayward ash-hats and the ever-changing scope of Twitter politics, would now fall under the jurisdiction of hoe. And by the power invested in me by the charge of my vibrator, I now pronounce me heaux for life.