The days of empowered women are long gone. There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn't a dirty word and meant more than "angry lesbian." Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There's been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.
Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren't good enough in bed, you aren't beautiful enough, you don't live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard.
For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It's easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it's all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don't fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn't flow in the wind, for women that don't look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It's a burden Black women don't talk about because it's shameful to admit that you don't compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you're fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that's beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you'll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it's an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.
For years, Wanda harbored feelings of dejection and low self-esteem. She didn't know where the feelings came from; she couldn't identify the source of her own pain. All she knew was she was suffering from having her ex husband leave her for a white woman, a wound that she would never let heal because it served to remind her that she wasn't woman enough. She concentrated on her career; she raised her children alone, wearing the badge of strong black woman proudly and moving through life in silence, never giving voice to her pain.
One day, things changed. Wanda picked up the book, The Real Lives of Strong Black Women, and it transformed her life. She'd seen it in Essence magazine and she thought it was going to be a book to validate her belief in her role as a strong, Black woman. Little did she know that it would be the turning point she needed to grow. The book was the source of healing for a tremendous amount of her pain and allowed her to begin moving past her hurts and disappointments and toward to a life of empowerment and redefining herself. She started looking in the mirror and seeing true beauty. She started getting up in the morning with a renewed vigor, seeing colors more vividly, able to let go of past hurts and see herself in an entirely different light. She began defining herself and her life from the inside out and letting go of the beliefs that kept her feeling like she was never good enough. Within the pages of the book, she found freedom, strength, and a deep and abiding love for herself.
The benefits of Wanda's emotional rebirth spilled over into every area of her life. Freeing herself from mental chains from her childhood, from past lovers that had hurt her, from the demons in her head, allowed her to truly take charge of her life. It was her sex life that reaped the greatest rewards. No longer inhibited, no longer afraid to ask for what she wanted, Wanda became liberated sexually. Rather than feeling like she needed men to validate her, she was inspired to explore her sensual side with men that honored her new vision for herself.
George had been a supporter and lover of her even before her transformation. He's always been there, in the background, quietly prodding and pushing her to see herself the way he saw her, as nothing less than a beautiful Nubian queen. He reaped the rewards of Wanda's sexual awakening and loved every second of it. The woman who had been hesitant to ask for what she wanted was now confident to demand pleasure and feel no regrets. She hadn't become a dominating bitch, she was a self-assured woman who owned her sensual feelings and had no problems expressing her desires. Wanda called George on Friday night and asked him if he was interested in getting together. Anxious to see her, he asked her to dinner and suggested that he would get a nice hotel room for them for the evening if she wanted.
"The kids are going to be spending the night at friend's houses and I'm in no mood to come home to an empty house." Wanda was sounding particularly seductive and George was more than turned on. "I've got a little something special for you that I think you'll like too," she said, creating an air of mystery and leaving George throbbing, wondering what was in store. Having experienced Wanda's erotic liberation, he knew that whatever was going to happen, it was going to be smoking hot.
Wanda had arranged to meet him at Houston's for a bite to eat before they headed off to the Park Plaza Hotel for the evening. George got there early and put their names on the list. Wanda arrived a few minutes late but it was well worth the wait. She was radiant as she walked in and she oozed sexuality from every pore in her body. Her red dress fit every curve and she was swaying her hips with confidence. George stuck his chest out a little bit more, proud that he was the object of envy for all the guys that were lingering on from the after-work happy hour, scoping out all the single ladies who walked in.
