feeldresearch

[feeldresearch]

Diary of a Pleasure Priestess: Dreams, Doms, and Directorial Debuts

I haven’t been feeling much like writing lately—or exploring my sexual prowess, for that matter. With my roster running on fumes, the fizzled-out foreplay, and no viable prospects in Paris, this little research project of mine has taken a dramatic left turn off the cliff of nothingness.

Poor little kitty is sad. :(

I did have lunch with a friend yesterday who said she could totally see me as a soft pop porn director. I laughed—like, giggled for real. Once I gathered myself, I sighed and asked, “Why would you say that?”

She explained how she’d been searching high and low for Black-centered couple porn where women’s pleasure takes center stage—and came up empty. “Honestly, some of the scenes in your blog could be films,” she added. Cue blushing, gasping, and then—hmm. What if they could?

I mean, I’m not shy when it comes to nudity or watching others perform sexual acts. I see the art, the beauty, the intimacy. And yes, I too prefer a slower burn, a tender buildup, music setting the mood like an invisible lover. Maybe my friend’s onto something. I wouldn’t know where to begin—but lately, I’ve been rolling with the title Pleasure Priestess and baby, it fits. It’s giving sacred sensuality with a side of “don’t touch my altar unless you’re ready to worship.”

Lately, I’ve also been dreaming of having a Dom. Yes, a real one. It’s something I want to call in this summer. I want to be told what to do, explore my edges with pleasure and pain, and get trained in the art of submission.

And let’s be honest—I would absolutely be a bratty sub. I’m sassy. I talk back. I live to poke the bear (especially if he’s sexy). Having a Dom sounds like the perfect playground for all of that. But plot twist! This morning I woke up realizing... I might actually want to be a Domme.

Picture this: I’m just waking up, barely remembering the dream I was in, but I know it was good. I see myself pressing my fingers into the mouth of a bound man, his eyes wild with lust. I tell him to keep his eyes on mine or be punished. He nods. I arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear you.”

He pants, “Yes, Mistress.”

Good boy.

I moan softly as I begin touching myself, watching his eyes flood with hunger. “Do you want to taste my sweet juices from my fingers?” I whisper.

He begs. I smirk.

And then? I say “No.”

His eyes water. Ohhhh, yes—an emotional response. We’re cooking now.

When he breaks my rule and dares to look down at my body instead of my face, I slap him. My wetness leaves a delicate, glistening handprint on his cheek. He smiles like a deviant and reaches out his tongue to lick it.

“What a nasty boy,” I purr.

I push him down, lean in close, and whisper: “You’re gonna pay for disobeying me.” I lick every drop from his cheek, his face, his forehead—until I’m hovering right above his lips.

“Are you going to behave for me, or am I going to have to keep punishing you?”

He tries to answer but instead shoves his tongue into my mouth. Bold move. I allow it. Our kiss is deep, sticky, filthy. Perfect.

Then I break away, breathless. “I’m going to untie your hands now... and ride your face. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please, Mistress. You’re so good to me.”

“Good. Here’s the rule: You don’t touch me—unless you can’t breathe. Got it?”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you. Please use my face as long as you like!”

“I don’t need your permission,” I hiss. “Now roll over.”

And baby, when I say he devours me…? It’s giving lost-in-the-desert-finally-found-water energy. He’s licking and slurping like his life depends on it. I tell him to slow down. He listens. I smother him anyway—just because I can.

I pull away, make him beg again. “Please, Mistress. I want to taste your cum. Please let me drink you.”

I erupt. Screaming. Shaking. A torrent of wetness baptizing his face. “Gooood boy,” I moan, “Look what you made Mistress doooo.”

He doesn’t stop. He wants more. And even though he’s technically broken the rules by grabbing me—I let him. Because honestly? I needed to come again. And again.

Afterward, we collapse. He strokes my body with featherlight touches. I tremble at every graze. “Kiss me,” I whisper, “I want to taste how good I am.”

He drools. I lick it. We kiss. It’s sticky-sweet and soaked in satisfaction.

“May I touch you now, Mistress?” he whispers. “I want my fingers inside you.”

I grab his hand and guide it in. “You’re so wet,” he moans.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “Now tell me what you want to do to me. Don’t leave out a single filthy detail.”

He leans in close and whispers right into my ear...

And then—I WOKE UP.

WTF?!

So yeah… I guess my friend was right. I do need to direct this scene IRL. But the question remains: Can I be the director and the star of this show?

Questions that need answers.

To be continued…

[feeldresearch]

Research Over Romance: Tales from the Feeld

Feeld Notes: Roster Cleared, Boundaries Set, Kinks Loading…

Welp. The Feeld is emptier than my fridge on rent week.

No roster. No rotations. I traded all my players, benched myself, and decided I’m putting all my energy into the “research” part of this pleasure project. It’s giving sabbatical. It's giving... celibate(ish) scholar.

Roster Recap (or: The Boys Who Couldn’t Stay)

Mister Romantic? Last seen on my birthday before hopping on a plane to Australia, where he apparently ghosted me into the outback. Honestly, I'm sad…but also relieved. I actually liked him, which means it probably would’ve ended in me crying into my vibrator while listening to SZA.

O? Dissolved into the ether like a Snap from Thanos. No messages. No closure. Just vibes. Thanks for the memories, ghost king.

Ghanaian Boo? Let me just say: I turned. him. out. It was giving tantric smut novel. The man may be short, but he packed a punch. (And a pipe.) I’ve never been choked and blessed simultaneously like that before. We did 69 but he was on top choking me with his dick while he laid across my naked body and ate me out. I don’t think I’ve been so turned on in a long time. Then, just as I was about to cum, he sat his ass right on my face and I exploded. I’ve never been an ass eater, but I watched him take a shower before we engaged, plus I was wine drunk, so I allowed it. He was ecstatic, gave it to me real good that night. The next day he hit me with a “I miss you already, last night was magical…” text and I knew—I just knew—I had to vanish before his heart ended up on a platter. So I dipped. But not before clenching my thighs in remembrance.

New Feeld Rules (Now with Boundaries & Burner Numbers)

Because I’m not tryna catch feelings or be the star of someone’s heartbreak playlist, I made a few house rules:

3 Strikes & You’re Out: No more than three encounters per person. We’re here for data collection, not situationships.

No House Calls: My home is my sanctuary, not a stop on your pleasure tour.

Instagram? I Don’t Know Her.

Google Voice Only: If you don’t have my real number, you can’t have my real heart. Period.

What Does Success Look Like, Anyway?

✨ Explore & name my kinks (including the new ones I discover) ✨ Be dominated by a Black Dom (three times, minimum—research standards, hello?) ✨ Dominate a man (it’s giving Mistress in Milan) ✨ Be with a couple (again, three times… for science) ✨ Attend a play party and actually do something besides eat the snacks

Also on the syllabus:

Studying Black kink, how we show up in these spaces, and how pleasure becomes liberation

Learning the origin stories of Black Doms (aka, who raised y’all?)

Listening to how Black women are finding freedom through being dominated

Documenting the joyful, juicy sexual liberation of Black women everywhere

Paris Update: I changed my Feeld location to Paris since I’ll be there soon. But so far? It's giving baguette bros and creepy poets. Not hopeful for a Parisian rendezvous, but I’ll report back if I get Eiffel Towered.

Feeld Trip: Baby’s First Play Party

Now onto the main event: I WENT TO MY FIRST PLAY PARTY!!!

It was an all-Black, queer-ish (heavy on the ish) play party held in a private home. The vetting process? Thorough AF. Google forms, orientation videos, and a one-on-one call with a facilitator who looked like she belonged in a Beyoncé video. After my Zoom session, they sent me the invite and all the freaky logistics.

As an event producer, I was lowkey fangirling at how well thought out it all was—consent protocols, safety measures, a whole FAQ on pleasure etiquette. I even learned a new rejection line I’m definitely stealing: “Thank you for taking care of yourself.” Like?! Iconic.

Day Of Vibes:

Outfit: See-through top, jeans (I debated the sheer pants but decided to leave something to the imagination)

Bag: Candy, weed, warm clothes, and a road cocktail (because I’m a classy bitch)

Uber ride: Full of nerves and lip gloss

Then…I ran into two people I knew.

IN. LINE.

People I know professionally. My whole spirit left my body. Like, do I really want to see my coworker getting spanked? Or worse… them seeing me get spanked? I texted my friend for backup. They pulled up with the COVID tests and gave me the courage to step into the unknown.

Inside: People greeted me like I was the prom queen of the pleasure palace. “Zahzah!! OMG!! Hey!!” Y’all… I wasn’t ready. I drowned my panic in my cocktail and tried to look chill while internally spiraling.

Opening circle was sweet—ground rules, Q&A, and some light roleplay. Very wholesome. Then the DJ hit play and the house turned into a regular Black kickback. Good vibes, but not quite the orgy under the stars I was lowkey expecting.

My friend and I did some laps—caught a lil’ oral action downstairs, smoked outside, snacked on fruit like Adam and Eve, and eventually dipped when the energy didn’t hit our frequency.

Rating: 3/10. No climax. Vibe was mid.

But at least I went! I got the sticker! I did the thing! And next time? I’m going somewhere where I don’t know a soul. (Atlanta, I’m looking at you.)

The Real Highlight?

My Uber ride home. We cruised down International Blvd, right through The Blade. Sex workers posted up in lace and leather, defying the cold like it owed them money. It was mesmerizing. Powerful. Sad. Beautiful.

My driver said, “I wonder who made these women feel like this is all they’re worth.”

I replied, “Some women choose this. For some, this is power.”

And then we both fell silent, sitting in the complexity of it all.

I wish I could end this story with a twist—like my Uber driver was a fine-ass ex-Marine and we made love in the back of the minivan—but alas. I just went home. Took another everything shower. Got in bed. Full moon blazing. Still very much… un-fucked.

There’s always next time.

[feeldresearch]

New Season, Same Me (Kinda).

It’s officially a new season, and guess what? I have not been on Feeld at all. Not even a little swipe for sport. And considering how spicy last season got… this feels like a full-on plot twist.

Last week was my birthday (cue confetti and slow-motion entrance music), and as the soft, sensual, please-write-me-poetry-before-you-fuck-me Pisces that I am, I may or may not have expected a tiny bit more from my rotation. I know, I know—it’s irrational to expect thoughtful gestures from glorified sneaky links, but irrationality is part of my charm.

Let’s get into the birthday fumbles, shall we?

Mr. Romantic: A Red Flag Wrapped in Sweet Kisses & Oral Excellence

I woke up on my solar return to a text from Mr. Romantic that read:
“Happy Birthday Queen!”

...And that was it.
No flowers. No gift. Not even a damn emoji.

Sir. I know you're at the airport headed to Australia, but were you unable to squeeze out a full sentence or perhaps a well-placed heart? A plane ride doesn’t excuse emotional negligence.

Anyway, I haven’t heard from him since. Not a peep. And while he was truly an elite munch—like, A+ in oral finesse—I had to check myself. Do I really want to be out here catching feelings for a walking red flag who disappears faster than my lashes after a long night?

Nah. I’m bowing out gracefully. Thank you for your service, king. You may be seated.

Ghana Bae: The Carlos Rossi Connoisseur

So Ghana Bae—who I think I accidentally learned the real name of, but let’s not make things weird—is still hanging around. He didn’t text me on my birthday, but he did hit me up the day after to ask how my party was and offer to take me to a belated birthday dinner.

Which, honestly, is the very least he could do considering the fact that I’ve been serving him A1-grade coochie like it's part of my civic duty.

We made plans, but I forgot I had a date with a real friend that night (a concept!), so I canceled. Rescheduled for next week, but to be real, I feel myself phasing out. There’s something about the third hookup that feels like the finale of a limited series—tight, impactful, and not worth renewing for another season.

I’m thinking of adopting a “three strikes and you’re ghosted” rule. We'll call it The Trifecta Exit Strategy™.

O: Sweet But Soft-Serve Energy

O finally texted me days after my birthday to tell me he was sick over the weekend and meant to come to my party. That’s cute. I hit him with a “feel better” and kept it pushin’.

I wasn’t holding my breath for his presence anyway. The only thing strong about him lately has been the signal on his excuses. No shade, but also, full shade. I feel complete with him too. My soft exit game has gotten strong. We love growth.

Hoe-ment Status: Intermission

If this entire birthday saga has taught me anything, it’s that my attention span is shorter than a squirrel in traffic. I’m not built for halfway energy. I crave obsession, dedication, devotion. If you’re not texting me like “where are you, I need to taste you right now,” then honestly, what are we doing?

It’s funny—I said I wanted to learn how to be casual, but I’m out here emotionally allergic to anything less than full-blown fantasy romance. The second they stop applying pressure, I disappear like a vibrator in the couch cushions. Poof.

Maybe my hoe-ment was more like a hoe-millisecond. Or a hoe-blink. Either way, I’m in a weird little liminal space where I’m not done playing, but I’m also not settling for subpar dick and lackluster vibes.

Feeld Forecast: Foggy with a Chance of Daddies

I’ve logged onto Feeld a few times recently, but no one’s piqued my interest. I’m not looking for a standard “wyd” type of connection. I want someone (or a very giving couple 👀) who sees me as their spoiled baby girl. Someone eager to fund my orgasms and my vacations. A Dom Daddy with a passport and a praise kink. Is that too much to ask?

Until then, I’m keeping myself entertained:

* Asking juicy kink questions on IG

* Doing casual Feeld interviews

* Exploring my own pleasure like it’s my job (because… it kinda is)

We’re manifesting aligned connections only, OK?

Birthday Party Recap: Certified Slutty Success

Let me just say: my birthday party? 10/10, no notes. It was giving Freaky Friday: Extended Director’s Cut. Lap dances, pole dances, titty money showers, and vibes on vibes. My outfit? The perfect balance of slutty, classy, and a little “oops I dropped my morals on the floor.” My friends showed up looking like sex and wealth. It was beautiful.

The only thing missing was someone to take me home and absolutely wreck me. I left the party turned on and turned out, only to climb into bed alone like a sad stripper after a dry night. Very cinematic. Very "this will make a great blog post". So here we are.

Until Next Time…

This season feels mysterious. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I’m keeping my legs open and my standards high.

Until more freaky tales emerge… enjoy these pics.
And remember: Pressure makes diamonds and makes me come.

xo,
Your favorite pleasure researcher 💦

[feeldresearch]

Living in the Hoe-ment

Feeld Notes from the Soft Life Slut Era

I’ve never had a true “hoe phase” in my life. No Hot Girl Summer, no City Girl Autumn, not even a Mildly Promiscuous Spring. I’ve wanted to be that girl with a cute little roster—men in steady rotation like a well-seasoned cast iron—but that’s never really been my ministry. I’ve been a soft-hearted romantic and loyal lover girl since 13. Always locked in on one boy at a time until he either broke my heart or I realized I deserved more. I was raised to be a wife—me and my sister were trained like little Southern belles: cook, clean, smile pretty, and stay pleasing to the male gaze. Cute, but exhausting.

That kind of training will have you out here thinking your whole identity is wrapped around being chosen by someone who barely knows how to hold space. So this current era? This lil research project I’m conducting in centering my own pleasure? It’s been a revelation. A rebrand. A righteous hoe-ment if you will. And let me just say—the rotation has been rotating.

Chapter 1: Red Flags and Oral Fixations a.k.a. Mr. Romantic and the Professional Munch)

We hadn’t seen each other in three whole weeks. A mini lifetime in hoe years. I’ve been playing it cool with him, but the truth is, he went from “we just kiss sometimes” to “damn, I might like this man a lil too much” real quick. Red flags galore though—this man could work for NASCAR the way he waves ’em—but the connection? Whew.

We caught up like old lovers on Saturday. He looked at me with those tired eyes and said, “I’m happy to see you, but I’m having a hard time being present.” And you already know—there’s something about a man naming his feelings that sends my coochie into overdrive. I straddled him, placed his hand on my chest and belly, guided his breath, kissed his face, and whispered, “are you still having trouble being present?”

He smiled. “Absolutely not.”

We made out like we were in a ‘90s R&B music video. He told me I was “a field of beauty.” And I—romantic, poetic ass me—nearly melted into the couch cushions. One minute we’re cuddled, next I’m lowkey slobbering on his chest in my sleep (cute). I asked for water to cool off, but ended up getting a shot of tequila and a kitchen slow dance, ass gripped tightly, legs wrapped around his waist while he rocked me gently like a favorite song.

Then he leads me to his room. We start slow. He asks, “Can I taste you?”

I say yes with my eyes.

He kissed me like he was trying to memorize me. Took his time like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. Then the professional munch came out. Sir was not playing. Had me in a chokehold (figuratively and literally). The sweet build-up gave way to primal hunger and honestly, I respect the range. When he was done, he whispered, “You taste so good,” then kissed me like we were in a fairytale.

I stayed for a bit longer, watched him study music like some brooding jazz angel, then fell asleep on his shoulder. It felt… soft. Intimate. But I know better. This is not my man. He’s got too many emotional carry-ons. So I’ll enjoy these moments for what they are: sweet, sexy snapshots. Nothing belongs to me. I belong to myself.

Chapter 2: Babe With No Name

a.k.a. Ghana Bae & the Period That Didn’t Matter

Ghana Bae. Fine lil babyface with a body. Still don’t know his name. I am too deep in to ask now, so I just call him “babe” like a respectable auntie trying to preserve her pride.

He remembered I liked salad. Had one ready with some chicken he cooked himself. Paired it with a bottle of Carlo Rossi (???) and I was sent straight back to senior year of high school, drinking cheap wine with a heavy heart and light standards. Nostalgic, honestly.

He started slow this time, which I appreciated, because the last time he moved like he was trying to win a timed event. I let him play with me until I remembered, oh yeah, the period has arrived. I told him. He said, “a red light never stopped me.” I said, “Ok PERIOD,” and let the man continue.

He fingered me slow at first. Just enough pressure to make me arch. Then he picked up the pace. One orgasm. Then another. Then another. When I tried to shift away, overstimulated and shaking, he pinned my arm down with his chest and growled in my ear, “You’re not done until I say you are.”

I ascended.

He whispered filth in my ear the whole time—how good I was, how wet I was, how much he loved making me cum. He had me so deep in subspace I forgot where I was. Then he fucked me into oblivion, these young ones got range for real. Old heads could never.

Afterwards, I laid there like a limp rag doll, absolutely wrecked in the best way. Next time, I’ll bring the wine. And ask his name. Maybe. But probably not.

Chapter 3: Tacos, Tongue, & Tangled Limbs

a.k.a. O is for Oh Yes Daddy

Taco Tuesday turned into Tap Out Tuesday real quick.

O and I have a sweet little situationship. We eat, we laugh, we kiss, we fuck, we nap. He feels… cozy. Like sex with him could actually heal a wound or two. We started with tacos and ended up tangled in his sheets.

I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I was still on my period before he dove face-first between my thighs like he was clocking in for a shift. I wear a cup, so everything stays clean—but he didn’t even flinch. He licked and sucked and moaned into me until my legs shook. We took little breaks to kiss, then went right back to work.

We fucked. We fell asleep. We woke up and fucked again. Slow strokes, breathy kisses, gentle choking, sweet praise. The energy? Intimate. Delicious.

He always holds me after. Rubs my back. Caresses my hair. Kisses my forehead like he means it. If I had met him three years ago, I would’ve been naming our kids and checking our moon sign compatibility. But this version of me? I can enjoy the moment without plotting a future.

Final Thoughts from the Hoe-ffice

I’ve never had sex with two men back-to-back, let alone three different men within the same week. This is unprecedented behavior. My inner child, raised on church pews and “save yourself” sermons, would be clutching her pearls. But I’m reparenting her now. Showing her it’s okay to be soft and sensual. That she can be safe and free. That as long as we’re careful and honest with ourselves, we get to enjoy this body, this pleasure, this chapter.

This hoe-ment? It’s not just about sex. It’s about autonomy. Desire. Reclamation.

It’s spring. The flowers are blooming. The coochie is thriving. And it’s my birthday.

I’ve never felt more like me.

[feeldresearch]

Ya Girl is Back and the Feeld is Feeling Delicious!

This week took an unexpectedly delicious turn in the Feeld streets, and I am here to report my findings.

Interrogating a Dom Like It’s My Dissertation

Earlier in the week, I started chatting with a Dom who has been in the scene since the ‘90s. When I tell you I picked this man’s brain, he didn’t even see it coming. I was firing off questions like I was about to submit my PhD thesis on BDSM. He was out here thinking we were just casually chatting, meanwhile, I was taking mental notes like an undercover journalist. I can’t help it—I’m fascinated by the psychology of kink, and I have so many questions.

Sometimes, I feel a little bad that I match with people just to learn about their kinks like I’m conducting a social experiment. But then I remember: men have been using women for years, and payback is a bitch. Anyway, I’m gathering all this data, and when I have enough, y’all are getting a full report. Stay tuned.

O is for Ovulation and Outstanding Sex

On Wednesday, I met up with O. I revisited his profile recently, and he described himself as looking for something “respectfully casual.” And honestly? That’s exactly what we have. We linked up for drinks and wings at a bar, and then naturally, we made our way back to his place to do what we do best.

Now, I was ovulating this week, which meant my hormones were set to feral mode. I rode that man like I was training for an equestrian competition. Meanwhile, he was biting my nipples like they owed him money. The mix of pain and pleasure had me seeing stars—back-to-back-to-back orgasms like a championship team. We even passed out for an hour and a half, woke up, and ran it back.

I swear, this is the first time in my life I’m having a casual affair with no emotional attachments. As a certified Lover Girl™, this is major growth! The next day, every time my shirt brushed against my nipples, I got full-body flashbacks, so you know I spent the whole day grinning like an idiot.

Mr. Romantic: A Simp After My Own Heart

I haven’t seen Mr. Romantic in two weeks because he’s been swamped with work, but he hasn’t let a single day pass without reminding me how much he misses me. And listen—I live for a simp. The other day, he texted, “God, I miss you!!!” and I swear, I could feel the desperation through the screen. I took a moment to properly swoon before replying that he could call me whenever, not just on Tuesdays.

Tell me why this man called me one second after I hit send. I pick up, and he goes, “You don’t have to tell me twice that I can hear your voice.” SIR. The way I melted on the spot! We ended up talking for two hours, and by the end of it, he was whispering all the things he wanted to do to me. Not Mr. Makeout Man transforming into Mr. Make Me Blush and Make Me Cum. Growth! I cannot wait to see him again. Hopefully this week.

Casting a Wider Net: A Global Roster Update

Thursday night, I did some intensive research on the app and—whew—I got myself a solid rotation going. From Indian to Mexican to Caribbean men, the options are looking delightful. But let me tell you, African men seem to have a radar for me.

Case in point: this young Ghanaian tender messaged me saying he upgraded to a paid account just so he could send me a ping. Now, his pictures weren’t exactly screaming “fine,” but confidence goes a long way, so I swiped right. We ended up chatting all Saturday afternoon, and I decided he was worth a meetup. Turns out, he was way cuter in person. We grabbed drinks, got food, took a long romantic walk on the beach—so long that the cops pulled up with their flashlights like, “Alright, lovebirds, wrap it up.”

On the way back to my car, he casually dropped the fact that he took public transportation to see me. Now, I know he’s not broke—he works in finance for a very prominent trading company—but the city life is real, and not everyone owns a car. Since it was late, I offered to drive him home.

From Zero to Hero: A Redemption Arc in the Bedroom

Now, this is where things got interesting. He invited me in, and I should have known better when he warned me his place wasn’t ready for company. Y’all… it was a mess. But I stayed for a glass of wine, because, you know, research.

Then came the sweetest little plot twist. He looked at me with these innocent eyes and asked, “Can I kiss you?” And I—being the queen of pettiness—replied, “Can you?” He took the challenge and started kissing me so softly, barely any tongue, just delicate pecks. At first, I was like, hmm, I don’t know about this. But then, like lightning, things escalated. We went from sweet kisses to fully naked and in bed in under two minutes.

And then… he fumbled. Put on a condom and went straight in—no buildup, no warm-up, nothing. I laid there like, sir, how did we even get here? He immediately noticed my hesitation and stopped. “Are you okay?” he asked. I hit him with the truth: “No, I feel like we skipped way too many steps.”

To my surprise, he was actually receptive. He apologized, saying he got too excited, and asked me what I liked. A rare, teachable moment! So I told him: more kissing, more touching, go down on me, talk to me. He took notes immediately and made a full redemption arc.

He started slow—stroking my breasts, caressing my body, kissing me everywhere. He eased into fingering me (which, FYI, I love), and then, out of nowhere, he grabbed my leg and whispered in my ear:

“Keep your legs open. Don’t fucking close them.”

EXCUSE ME, SIR?!

Where did this energy come from?! Because suddenly, I was in full submission mode, convulsing under his touch. I was obeying every command while he took full control.

Then he asked what else I wanted, and I told him to go down on me. He agreed—but with terms. “Only if you do a really good job,” I teased. Apparently, that pissed him off in the right way, because next thing I knew, he shoved himself into my mouth. Normally, I’m not a first-encounter head-giver, but his dominant energy had me weak.

By the time we got to the main event, he was giving me everything. He was long-lasting, thick, spanking me, slapping my breasts, telling me what to do. He went from zero to hero so fast, my head is still spinning.

Finale: A Sticky Situation & A Sore Back

Lately, I’ve noticed these younger men are lasting way longer than what I’m used to. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by older men, but where is the grand finale?! I needed my reward. So I took matters into my own hands—literally. I made him finish on my tits while I watched, playing with myself. It was art.

We passed out afterward, breathless. I woke up wrecked. My back? Ruined. I limped out of his apartment at dawn, drove home, and immediately took a hot shower, popped some Motrin, and slathered on Tiger Balm.

Not the night I planned, but definitely an exciting new player in the game. For research purposes, of course. Stay tuned, the drought is officially over. Hoe tales, to be continued…

[feeldresearch]

It’s a slow week on Feeld (it was going so well, can’t believe i’m in a dry spell during my szn). Seriously wtf. Here’s a story time instead…

A Dream That Almost Came True

This summer, I was wrapped up in the allure of a man who was fine as hell. The kind that makes you pause mid-sentence just to admire. The kind that ignites something deep inside you—something that had been dormant for a long time.

I liked him. A lot. Maybe too much.

But he gave me the bare minimum, and for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I let myself obsess over him. Maybe it was the drought—my heart, my body, my soul craving a connection that I projected onto him. Or maybe it was because he was the first man in forever to make me feel something.

He never spoke of intentions. Never gave me the clarity I deserved. And so, eventually, I let him go.

Sad story, right?

I still think about him sometimes. But, oh well.

What lingers most isn’t him—but the dream he inspired. A dream so vivid, so visceral, that my body still remembers it.

Let me tell you about it…

I’m submerged in warm water, a bathtub overflowing with rose petals, crystals, and essential oils. Candlelight flickers against the tiles, painting golden ripples across my skin. My headphones are on, playing a soundtrack of slow, sensual R&B. My fingers glide over my body as I hum softly, sinking deeper into the heat.

I don’t hear him come in, but I feel him.

That energy—his presence—so potent, so magnetic.

I open my eyes, and there he is, perched on the edge of the tub, devouring me with his gaze. He smirks. I smirk back.

He leans in, gently removing one side of my headphones, his lips brushing against my ear.

“Just act like I’m not here. I just wanna watch you.”

A delicious chill runs down my spine. I exhale, letting my eyelids flutter shut, and sway to the music. My hips move in slow, hypnotic circles, stirring the water into lazy waves. The bass hums through me, and then—Aaliyah’s Rock the Boat comes on.

I grin.

Hands trail over my body, fingertips grazing my breasts, dipping between my thighs. The rhythm takes over, and I surrender to the pleasure of my own touch.

I don’t need to see him to know he’s still watching. I can feel his eyes, heavy and hungry.

I open mine, and there he is, lips parted, gaze locked on me.

The air is thick with tension.

I move slower. Tease more. Let him feel me without touching.

And then, he does.

A warm palm on my ass, a gentle squeeze, a breath hitching in his throat. My body hums under his attention, but just as his fingers wander lower, I turn to him and whisper—

“Ahh, ahh, ahh… you’re just watching, remember?”

He grins, hands up in surrender, chuckling.

“My bad, beautiful.”

I stretch languidly, legs slipping above the water, one at a time, while my hands continue exploring myself. He never looks away. It’s as if we’re both hypnotized by the moment.

Then, he signals for me to remove my headphones.

“Let me wash you up.”

I hand him the sponge, and he lathers it, his touch impossibly tender as he runs it over my skin—my neck, my shoulders, my arms. There’s something reverent about the way he does it, like he’s memorizing me with every pass. A lump rises in my throat.

He whispers, “Stand up.”

And I do.

Water cascades off my body as he helps me out of the tub. He doesn’t wrap me in a towel. Instead, he takes it and starts at my feet, patting them dry, then pressing a slow, lingering kiss to each one.

My calves.

My thighs.

My hips.

Each touch is patient, deliberate—padding, kissing, padding, kissing.

By the time he reaches my breasts, my breath is shallow, my pulse erratic. Wetness drips down my thigh, my body aching for him.

But he stops.

Towel draped over the sink, he lifts me—like I’m something fragile, something precious—before settling me onto the countertop.

He looks into my eyes, voice thick with longing.

“Open your legs.”

And I do.

No hesitation.

He buries his face between my thighs, inhaling my scent, groaning as if he’s been starving for me.

“Mmm,” he hums before his lips press against me—hot, soft, insistent.

My head falls back against the mirror as he devours me, tongue moving in ways that make me forget where I am, who I am—everything but this.

“That’s right, princess. Just relax. Daddy’s got you.”

His words send me spiraling.

I’m dripping. I feel it—trickling down his beard, pooling beneath me. His tongue moves faster, his hands gripping my thighs, keeping me where he wants me. My moans spill out, breath hitching, body trembling.

“I’m gonna cum, baby—oh my God, it feels so good.”

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, licking and sucking me exactly how I like.

Ecstasy rips through me, violent and unrelenting.

I convulse. I pant.

“Oh my God—oh shit—damn!”

He kisses my inner thighs as I squirm, oversensitive, trying to escape. But he holds me firm.

“Hold still and breathe.”

I do. Barely.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper, still unraveling, still floating.

He licks up every drop, leaving nothing behind but the echoes of my pleasure. Then, he stands, grabs my chin, tilts my face toward his, and kisses me.

Deep. Slow. Consuming.

I feel him—his hardness pressing against me, hot and insistent.

“This what you wanted?”

I nod, breathless.

“Good,” he says, voice low, wicked. “Because I’m gonna give it all to you.”

I smile, pulling him closer, wrapping my legs around him.

He gasps, then chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shit, girl… let me do the work. You just relax.”

He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed, tossing me onto the mattress like I weigh nothing.

I giggle.

He growls.

Crawling over me, he buries his face in my stomach, inhaling deeply before moving upward—over my breasts, my throat, my lips.

We kiss, deep and unhurried, until I feel his fingers between my legs.

“Damn… you’re so wet for me.”

He slides them into my mouth, eyes gleaming.

“You taste so good, don’t you?”

I nod, sucking his fingers as he slides inside me, slow and deliberate.

I moan, my body arching into his.

“That’s right, baby. Good girl.”

He moves, deep and slow, and I’m gone again. Drowning in sensation.

“You feel so good—fuck.”

Pleasure builds, cresting like a wave, and he knows. He feels it.

He shoves his fingers deeper into my mouth as I break apart beneath him.

Exploding. Drenched. Breathless.

I barely register his voice as I come undone—

“That’s twice. Now turn over, so I can do it again.”

I obey.

And then—

I woke up.

Twice in a dream is better than not at all, I guess.

Still… damn.

I wish we could’ve made that dream cum true.

Oh well. His loss.

[feeldresearch]

Feeld Chronicles: A Little Rain After the Drought

Well, well, well. After a long dry spell, it seems like my Feeld drought is finally getting some hydration. Not a full-on flood, but a nice little trickle. A sprinkle, if you will.

Friday: O, My Sneaky Gentleman

I linked up with O for a walk, and honestly, he’s just so easy to talk to. Great smile, great energy. In another timeline, I’d probably date him for real. After our walk, we went back to his place for a little makeout session, but my cycle decided to clock in early, so I promised I’d make it up to him midweek when I was free and clear.

Friday Night: The Tall Drink of Chocolate

Later that night, I met up with another match, and baby… he was fine. Six foot eight, chocolate, and intentional. Before the date, he even asked if I wanted to set a time limit in case we didn’t vibe—honestly, I loved the option to gracefully exit if needed. But instead of one hour, we ended up talking for three. He walked me to my car, we said goodnight, and I left feeling good about it. So of course… I haven’t heard from him since. Classic.

Tuesday: Mr. Romantic and the Catfish Chronicles

Tuesday was supposed to be my regularly scheduled makeout session with Mr. Romantic, but work pulled him away. No biggie—I had a backup plan. I’d set up a hiking date with a super handsome Jamaican man I’d just met on the app. Only… turns out I was catfished. Like, fully. The man in the photos? Not the man who showed up. I was so thrown off I had to recalibrate mid-hike. The hike itself was nice, but the conversation? Not so much. He had a lot to say about what he wanted in a relationship. Sir, I am not on this app for a relationship. I’m trying to be thrown around like a rag doll, and it’s not giving that. On top of that, he kept interrupting me while I was talking. Immediate red flag. Blocked him when I got home—no explanation needed. You didn’t make the cut.

Wednesday: Raincheck Redeemed

O showed up last to my event, which I appreciated because my guests do not need to know who my sneaky link is. I ran into him at a parade over the weekend, and he respectfully kept his distance, which I also appreciated. But of course, I went up and hugged him—just a little “I see you, I respect you, and I also very much enjoy riding you” moment.

After my event, we went back to his place and got straight to it. And let me just say, O is a gentleman. He always starts with his mouth first, which I deeply respect. What followed was passionate, drawn-out, and toe-curling. If we were in a relationship, I’d call it love-making. Something about deep, passionate kissing while he’s inside me just does something to me. But, O struggles to finish. We actually talked about it, and he admitted he gets in his head about it. I respected his openness, but selfishly, I love the moment when a man can’t hold back anymore, so I was a little bummed. Still, we cuddled up, watched a funny show, and talked about past dating experiences. This man is turning into a real FWB, and I’m fully into it.

Just when I thought the night was over, I got dressed to leave at 2 AM. We hugged… and then he kissed me again. Next thing I know, he’s turning me around, jamming himself inside me, and this time? He finished. All over my ass. And I can’t lie… I loved it. The urgency, the intensity, the fact that he needed that release. 10/10 experience.

Mr. Romantic and My Lovergirl Tendencies

This morning, I got a text from Mr. Romantic that made my heart smile. He said he missed me deeply and couldn’t stop thinking about me. Sometimes talking to him feels like talking to myself, and I love that. And as much as I want to keep things casual, it’s weird to admit… I could love this man. Or maybe I already do? Which is insane, considering we’ve only met twice and just made out. But listen—I’m a lover girl. I’m rolling with it. No need to deny myself if something real is unfolding. But I’m still moving cautiously. I’m not on Feeld to fall in love, but if it happens? So be it.

On to the Next

I’ve got a coffee date with an older gentleman from the app. Hoping for good vibes, but honestly? So far, Feeld has only provided me with lover boys, potential friends, and catfish. Still on the hunt for someone who can really match my energy. Let’s see where this one goes.

[feeldresearch]

A Dry Week on Feeld: Reflections, Romances, and Rejects

Well, folks, it’s a dry week on Feeld. The well of debauchery has run a little low, but don’t you worry—there’s still plenty to report.

Let’s start with a bright spot: yesterday’s make-out session with Mr. Romantic was nothing short of chef’s kiss. This man is a dream—handsome, sweet, and, most importantly, an incredible kisser. Our time together feels like a perfectly balanced cocktail: equal parts deep conversation, grinding, and spiritual musings, with a strong splash of dopamine. One minute we’re swapping spit, the next we’re talking therapy, then back to kissing, then suddenly we’re discussing the cosmos. It’s giving collegiate make-out seminar, and honestly? I’m here for it. So much so that we’ve locked in this weekly tryst like it’s a standing therapy appointment—with tongue.

Now, on to O. We’ve got a walk planned for Friday, which, in theory, sounds intimate. I love a good hand-holding, deep-convo stroll, but let’s be real—he gives boyfriend energy, and I, as a recovering undercover over-lover, need to tread lightly. Solution? Instead of catching feelings, I’m just going to catch his dick again. Simple. Efficient. Remember, this man eats ass, and we respect that level of commitment.

Then there’s Dom. Or should I say, was Dom. I had to let him go (read: ghosted him). We FaceTimed last week, and within minutes, it was clear—this man was corny AF. Immediate no on the sexual front, but I was willing to keep him around for research purposes (i.e., learning the ways of a dom). However, Dom fumbled the bag hard. Exhibit A: His text during All-Star Weekend, where he hit me with the insecure “Why mess with the likes of me?” siren song. I tried to be nice, told him I enjoy learning from people, but then he doubled down on the pity party with, “I think the ballers can also teach you something.” Not you throwing up self-esteem bricks during All-Star Weekend. A low-self-esteem dom? No thanks. Unsubscribe.

So, yeah. We’re in a bit of a dry spell. I have two guys in the waiting room, but enthusiasm is low. One is an eager Indian man, but I’m just not feeling it. The other is young, inexperienced, and, thankfully, not from around here. I like that. I don’t need to be out here doing Sexual Anthropology 101 with folks who know everybody. This exploration is my business, and aside from those of you reading this blog, it’s staying that way.

That said, the drought has given me time to reflect. I haven’t even masturbated lately—I’m holding on to my pleasure like it’s a rare commodity. But I have been thinking about what I really want from this whole experience (aside from orgasms and entertaining stories, of course).

Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about a Daddy’s Little Sweet Baby dynamic. A dom who makes me feel like I mentally need him to satisfy all my sexual needs. Ownership kink. Devotion. A man who treats me like a princess and disciplines me when I step out of line—only to make it up to me with cuddles, compliments, gifts, or an impromptu vacation. (See, it’s not all about punishment. There’s a reward system in place!) He would dress me up, show me off, and make sure I’m well-fed, well-pleased, and thoroughly taken care of. In turn, I’d be his prized possession, his good girl (sometimes bratty, but never boring), giving him all the devotion and pleasure he desires.

Questions I’ve Been Pondering…

What am I into physically?

• Passionate make-outs

• Heavy foreplay

• Dirty talk & sexting

• Being came on and in

• Choking when I cum

• Feeling owned

• Baby girl energy & being cared for

• Attention (lots of it)

• Being told what to do

• Being forced into things I’m nervous about (but lowkey want)

• Being asked questions I have to answer

• A well-placed slap when I get out of pocket

• Spankings

• Being talked through it (right in my ear—yes, sir)

What do I need?

• To be tied down and eaten out until I beg him to stop

What am I into emotionally?

• Feeling safe (non-negotiable)

How do I establish my boundaries and limits?

• Ongoing, enthusiastic consent

• Clear, upfront discussions before play

• No coercion, no forcing—only pleasure-driven exploration

So, that’s where we’re at. The well might be dry, but the self-discovery is overflowing. And listen, if a daddy dom with a strong hand and an Amex happens to stumble into my life, I won’t be mad at it.

Until next time, lovers.

[feeldresearch]

Mister Romantic

I’m getting better at asking for what I want on Feeld. If I read someone’s profile and something catches my eye, I actually say something—a revolutionary concept, I know. I’ve never been the “shoot my shot” type, but since my photos aren’t up, the anonymity makes me feel a little bolder.

The other day, I was casually strolling through Feeld’s preverbal aisle (because yes, I do treat this app like a chaotic little Whole Foods), and I came across a 6’6” man with a beautiful smile. Immediately, I thought, No way he’s real. But he had his Instagram linked, so of course, I did my due diligence (read: stalked him extensively), and lo and behold—HE WAS, IN FACT, REAL.

Okay, girl. Time to be bold.

On his profile, he had a line that said he likes to make out for hours. And you know what? So do I! So, I hit him with:

"Make out for hours, you say? That’s a lost art. I feel like you and I should probably practice (wink)."

He responded immediately:

"I agree. When would you have time to practice this lost art with me?"

Now, at this point, my inner monologue was spiraling. Like, Sir, you don’t even know what I look like. You don’t know my name. And you’re already scheduling a make-out session? What if I’m crazy? What if I have gingivitis? What if I wear dentures? What if I wear dentures AND I’m crazy?!

I chuckled to myself and proceeded with my master-level flirting:

"I have free time tomorrow afternoon."
"Perfect, I’m free anytime before 5 PM."

We shifted into a quick getting to know you phase—like a self-checkout station. Turns out, he’s a drummer (so good with his hands, check ✅), a Sagittarius (he even sent me his whole chart—swoon), and he works with elementary school kids (melting). By the end of our chat, he sent me his number and asked me to call him that night to confirm our meet-up.

I told him I would, sent him a picture, and finally shared my name.

His response?

"Oh wow, you're stunning, Zahzah. Please hit me up anytime after 9 PM."

And y’all…I called him. And we were on the phone for hours. Like, losing-sleep-can’t-hang-up type of hours. He was sweet, evolved, introspective—just unexpectedly easy to connect with. I did not see that coming, but I wasn’t mad at it.

Game Day: The Make-Out Mission

The next day, I pulled up to his house, fully aware that I was about to enter a stranger’s home in broad daylight to make out. But hey, I love a good make-out sesh. The best part of intimacy (besides an orgasm, obviously) is the kissing, the touching, the heavy breathing—the grind. It’s the sensual dance of it all.

And listen, it’s Valentine’s week. I deserve some romance in my life.

He opened the door, and all 6’6” of him stood there like a literal chocolate-covered dream. He smiled and said, "Welcome," as he pulled me in for a hug—like we weren’t complete strangers. (Girl, not you walking into a man’s house on a weekday afternoon like this isn’t how Dateline episodes start.)

But then I saw his place—clean, well-kept—which I loved because that’s how I keep mine. He took me in with his eyes, and we just stood there for a second, both probably thinking, Are we really doing this?

Then he points to the coffee table.

"I got you flowers and a candle. You don’t have to accept them, but since it’s Valentine’s week, I thought it’d be a nice little token."

Sir. SIR.

Being the hopeless romantic I am, my heart fell into my shoes. Please don’t make me like you. I’m too fragile for that. I’m just here to kiss you.

I smiled at him, soft eyes fully engaged, and said, "That’s very sweet of you. I love flowers. Thank you."

He led me to the kitchen and asked if I wanted a glass of wine. Normally, I don’t drink midday, but I was nervous as hell, so I happily accepted. We grabbed our glasses and headed to the couch. I sat a cushion away from him—respectfully keeping a playful distance.

We stared at each other for a second before one of us broke the silence with, "So, what did you do today?"

What started as small talk quickly turned into another deep, engaging conversation, just like our phone call the night before. We laughed, we got introspective, we got playful. Two and a half hours flew by.

At one point, he looked at me and said, "I thought we were going to make out, but this was better. I’m so attracted to you."

I smiled. Same.

Then he paused and asked, "Mind if I kiss you a little?"

A little bit can’t hurt.

He leaned in, tilted his head, and gently lifted my chin with his fingers. He started with slow, sweet pecks before gradually deepening the kiss. And, whew.

I moaned softly, completely lost in the moment as our tongues intertwined. His hands explored my body; my hands were tangled in his beard, gripping the back of his head as if to silently beg him not to stop.

What started as just a little turned into the full-blown, passion-filled make-out session we originally planned for—and I was not mad at it.

But I had to go.

As things started heating up, I pulled back. We both collapsed onto the couch, breathless.

He exhaled, "Yeah, I need to see you again."

I smirked. "Same."

Then, to my surprise, he pulled me into his arms, my back resting against his chest. We just lay there, breathing, existing in the moment.

My mind was racing: This is the best afternoon I’ve had in a long time. I kinda don’t want to leave.

But I had to.

I got up, went to the bathroom to collect myself (because at this point, I wanted to do a lot more than just make out), then walked back out.

And there he was, holding the flowers, waiting for me.

I smiled, took them from him, and thanked him again. He kissed me once more and walked me to my car, watching me as I drove away.

So… do we go together now? Because damn. I kinda like you. (Oops, intrusive delusional thought.)

Since that day, Mister Romantic and I have been sending light, flirty texts. We’re definitely seeing each other again.

And honestly? I can’t wait to see how this story unfolds.

Stay tuned…

[feeldresearch]

So, I Met a Dom… and He’s Not What I Expected

Whew, y’all. I met a Dom! And let me tell you, it’s been an educational experience. Now, before we get into it, let me just say that I’ve been very intentional about only engaging with Black people of color when it comes to these kinds of things. Because, respectfully, there’s no way I’m learning about power dynamics, submission, or sensual exploration from a white man. Hard pass.

Now, back to Dom. He’s a little older than me, and I appreciate his old-school ways. When I saw his profile, I led with my usual: “You look like someone I can learn from.” Men eat that up. But this time, I think I actually hit the jackpot—turns out he’s a teacher in his Muggle life. So, not only does he love to educate, but he also knows how to structure a lesson plan. A win?

We exchanged numbers and started texting back and forth at lightning speed. At first, it was the usual getting to know you type of conversation, but then things got real interesting. He started asking me intimate questions—things I’d never even thought to ask myself. And that’s exactly what I wanted: a mental shift. I wanted to rethink sex, intimacy, and kink in ways that stretched my perspective.

Now, let’s be clear. This man is not my type. At all. I don’t find him attractive in the slightest, and, fun fact, he’s uncircumcised (lol). But despite that, I’ve truly enjoyed our conversations. He’s been a Dom for years and was trained in tantra and other sensual activations, so he knows his stuff. And the questions he asked me? Whew.

• When was the last time you had sex?

• Was it kinky?

• Did the experience drive you or stroke you?

• Have you ever been to a sex club or play party?

• What are you curious about?

• Have you thought about your boundaries or limits?

Now, when he asked me when I last had sex, I answered honestly. And something about that activated something in me. His follow-up questions got me even more intrigued.

Him: When was the last time you had sex?

Me: Tuesday. Is that important for you to know?

Him: Yes. Was it kinky? Was your experience pleasurable?

Me: Not kinky at all. Honestly, it was pretty vanilla—the kind of sex I’d have with a boyfriend.

Him: Did the experience drive you or stroke you?

Me: It was satisfying… but it actually made me even hornier lol.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation like this with a man before. It wasn’t just about what I did, but why I did it. And the way he framed his questions had me reflecting in ways I never had.

Then he started asking me about boundaries—had I ever thought about them in depth? What about blood play? Asphyxiation? Other kinks I hadn’t even heard of? He wanted to know not just what I liked, but why I liked it. That last part stuck with me. he even sent me two questionnaires that he sends to his subs, and reading their answers really made me clutch my pearls.

So, I started making a list. A desires list. And as it grew, I added notes about why each thing appealed to me. Initially, when I joined Feeld, I thought I was looking for a pleasure Dom—someone to baby me, adore me, and let my bratty, contrarian side run wild. I envisioned playful punishments, pleasure through discipline. But when I really sat with it, I realized… I want that in a committed relationship. Not from random men on an app.

And that realization made me rethink my whole approach to Feeld. Did I really expect a stranger to give me all that without deep dialogue and emotional investment? Absolutely not.

So, where does that leave Dom and me? While I have zero intention of moving forward sexually, I do plan to keep him around as an educational resource (lol). As a lifelong learner, I know the importance of self-exploration and developing the confidence to communicate my desires. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m excited to keep learning.

And who knows? Maybe the next Dom I meet will be fine and circumcised. Fingers crossed.

[feeldresearch]

I have in my Feeld profile that I’m “heteroflexible.” A label that feels as mysterious as it does ambiguous. I’m still trying to unpack what it really means for me. Am I bisexual? Probably not—I’m not out here imagining a life where I exclusively date women. Queer? Hmm, that doesn’t seem right either, since I don’t have any interest in being with a trans man or exploring the entire spectrum of the LGBTQ+ rainbow. So, here I am, stuck in this liminal space with a label that feels just flexible enough to fit—for now.

Recently, I went on a date with a bisexual man, thinking, “Yeah, I can handle this. I’m progressive. I’m open-minded.” I mean, I don’t enjoy gay porn, but I don’t think it’s very evolved to reject someone simply because they’re attracted to more than one gender. Plus, let’s be real: Black men have been put through the wringer when it comes to their sexuality. The whole “down low” phenomenon is just another byproduct of the oppressive shame society places on Black bisexuality. I don’t want to contribute to that. I want Black people, all Black people, to be free—to explore their curiosities and live their truths. I’m out here trying to live mine.

But then… the date happened. He said—no, declared—in the sassiest tone imaginable, “Miguel is so fine; I just want to fuck him!” And BAM! I got the ick. Instantaneous. My open-minded brain short-circuited. I sat there, smiling, nodding politely, while my internal monologue screamed, Girl, what is your problem?!

I’ve been reflecting on it ever since. I genuinely want bisexual men to be an option for me. Why shouldn’t they be? On paper, they’re a dream: kinder, more emotionally aware, more willing to embrace womanist (because let’s face it, Black women cannot be feminists—go read a book). And to be openly bisexual as a Black man? That’s revolutionary. A whole-ass act of defiance.

Still, I wonder: Can I get over this ick? Is it internalized homophobia? Misogyny disguised as “preference”? Or just the conditioning of living in a heteronormative world that tells us what’s sexy and what isn’t?

Interestingly, I’ve been in two MMF situations before, and in both cases, the men didn’t interact with each other. It was like some sort of sensual turn-taking relay race. I didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed having all that attention focused solely on me. There was something intoxicating about how much they wanted me—so much that they were willing to sidestep their own boundaries to share the moment. Was that a kink? Is being the object of desire my kink?

Years ago, I also found myself in a unicorn situation—dating a couple. I was nervous at first. I’d never kissed a woman, let alone gone down on one. But I was excited to explore. This couple was ideal for a newbie like me—fun, respectful, sexy. And oh, how they both wanted me. We’d go out together, commanding attention like rockstars at a bar or concert. The way they couldn’t keep their hands off me, like I was a prize they were both desperate to win—it gave me life.

One time, we spent the day in Sonoma, lounging poolside at a fancy hotel. We were all tangled up together, turning heads left and right. After too many drinks and a borderline inappropriate amount of public foreplay, we crammed into a tiny cabana bathroom and got… wild. It was one of those “Did that just happen?!” moments. He bent me over and came inside me, and then she sat me on the sink and licked every drop out. Yes, ma’am—manifestation in action! I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

We kept playing for months. Even on and off through the years. (Damn, should I call them? Would that be crazy? Stay focused, girl.)

But here’s the thing: While I loved every second of it, I didn’t really enjoy giving pleasure to her. Don’t get me wrong—I adored her as a person. She was funny, which always makes someone hotter to me, and she was smart, too. But when it came to intimacy, I felt like I was fulfilling an unspoken contract. Like, “You’re sharing your man, so I should at least return the favor.” And though I respected and cared for her, the giver role didn’t spark joy.

Yet I love women—how beautiful, sexy, and ethereal they are. I get turned on watching a woman dance or look fierce, thinking, “Yeah, I’d make out with her. I’d let her go down on me. I’d let her make me cum.” But I never want to reciprocate. Which feels… selfish. I usually love providing pleasure, and women deserve all the orgasms, just not from me.

And that’s where men come in. I like a man being there to handle the reciprocity while I enjoy the show. Everybody wins.

So, what does this mean for my sexual identity? Am I heteroflexible, or do I just have a threesome kink? I’m not sure yet. But that’s why I’m on this journey—to discover, to learn, to grow.

To be continued…

[feeldresearch]

Next Caller…

Okay y’all, let’s get into it. This guy was smooth—let’s call him “O” (trust me, the name will make sense later). His profile was super minimal: “seeking meaningful, casual connections.” He had one of those smiles that could light up your whole damn life—someone I’d date, love even… but probably not wanna smash.

Our convo kicked off like this:

O: How new are you to this space?

Me: Just a few days.

O: Welcome! What inspired you to join Feeld?

Me: I feel like there are things I wanna explore, and if I keep waiting for a serious relationship to do them, I might be waiting forever.

O: I respect that. So, what kinds of things are you looking for?

Me: You read my bio, didn’t you?

O: If you’re so inclined, send me a pic and I’ll tell you exactly what I’d like to do to/with/for you…

Oh! Straight to the point, huh? I sent him a pic. He called me delectable (blush), then hit me with this: “I want to gently grab your necklace, bring your lips to mine… if that’s amendable to you?” Ooo, a gentleman and a smooth talker? I told him it was definitely amendable. I love a man with manners—especially a chocolate one.

He asked if I was free the next night, and I said yes. He told me where to meet him—very classy, very private. I liked his style already.

The next day rolled around, and girl, I was tired. But then he texted to reschedule. Bless his heart! I agreed, and honestly, since we hadn’t talked since our first chat, I half-expected him to cancel again. But he didn’t.

So now it’s the big night. I put on a cute little bodysuit with my vintage Levi’s—the ones that only fit when I’m at my physical peak (so basically once a year, lol). I pull up to the spot, check in with the doorman, and spot Mr. O. He’s there on time (praise punctuality), looking even better in person: tall, chocolate, juicy lips, great smile. He’s dressed business-casual—collared shirt, sweater, dad hat, and pea coat—which somehow fits his vibe perfectly.

He hands me the menu, all smooth, like, “Let me know what you want.” I hand it back and say, “I’ll take an Old Fashioned.” He orders it for me and comes back, and we start vibing. The convo flows—laughs, banter, all the good stuff. It feels so easy. Almost too easy. So I ask:

“What’s your sign?”

“Gemini,” he says.

“Oooh, that’s why I like you! My best friend’s a Gemini—they’re kinda my favorite.”

He smiles. “Oh, so you like me? When’s your birthday?”

I tell him, and he’s like, “No way, that’s my best friend’s birthday!” Wow, small world. We keep chatting—turns out we have a lot in common. At one point, I forget how we even met and feel like I’m on a real date.

We get on the topic of a show we both like. I mention an episode he hasn’t seen and tell him he has to watch it. Then, casually, he says:

“Why don’t we go watch it now?”

And there it is. The invite. I’m two drinks in, freshly shaved, and ovulating. Let’s go, O! He walks me to my car, puts his address in my phone, and off I go—zero nerves. He’s nice, and I trust the vibe.

His place is small, cluttered but organized in a “this works for me” way. I take off my shoes and coat, and he thanks me. I roll my eyes in that Black woman way—like, boy, you know we don’t wear shoes in the house. He already has the show queued up on the TV. I ask to use the bathroom, and while I’m in there, I casually leave my bodysuit unbuttoned… just in case.

When I come out, he’s waiting at the door. I grab his hand, and he leads me to the couch. Before I can even sit down, he’s pulling me in and kissing me. O man, that escalated quickly. Things heat up fast—kissing, touching. I pause to turn on some music, and he has a great vinyl collection. I pick a record based on the cover, and he lights up: “That’s my favorite!”

Next thing I know, clothes are off, and he says, “I want to eat you.” I stare back. “Please do.”

Y’all… O knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t stop until I’m finished. A gentleman and a pleaser? Yes, please. He asks if we can move to his room. Of course, we can! He slides on a condom, and we get to work. The lights are on—thank God—because I like to see everything. It’s sweet, wholesome even. Not exactly what I requested in my profile, but oddly, I’m into it.

We switch positions a few times, take a break, and I notice a funky contraption in the corner. Turns out it’s a speaker-light-show combo—a whole-ass nightclub lamp. I laugh hysterically, and he joins in. We kiss again, and then he randomly blurts out:

“We should 69!”

Sir, excuse me? That’s not my jam. I need to focus on one thing at a time. Instead, I just toot my ass up, and to my surprise, he starts eating it. Ooooo, an ass eater?! Okay!

He lays back, and I climb onto his face. He’s putting in work. I finish again, and he grins, “I like eating you.”

“Good,” I reply. “You can do it as much as you want.”

We get back to it. He’s hitting one of my favorite positions, and I cum twice more. I’m exhausted. I roll over and ask, “Do you even cum?”

“Never on the first time,” he says.

“Is that a rule or a flex?”

“Just how I am,” he shrugs.

Okay… Normally, I’d take that as a challenge, but tonight? I’m done.

He walks me to my car and asks me to text him when I get home (still a gentleman). I do, and he sends a few cute messages the next day. I think I’ll keep him around…

Exactly what he asked for—something meaningful and casual.

[feeldresearch]

Don’t hold it in. Spit out your deepest desires on Feeld—a dating app for the curious. In this space, you can show up as yourself and make meaningful connections with people who get you. Meet via the app, or find your people IRL at our events —a place where spitting your truth is highly encouraged. Download Feeld now to explore yourself through exploring others.

[feeldresearch]

Earlier this week, I updated my Feeld bio:

“Black and POC men to the front. I like what I like.”

I figured this note would weed out the flood of likes and pings I get from weird white men (seriously, some of them look like serial killers). To be clear, I have no issue with white men—I just prefer Black men. Again, I like what I like.

Nothing notable had happened since my last encounter, and I was eager to get back on the horse (pun intended). I had a few conversations going, but things were dry overall. Then, late Monday night, I got a cute ping:

“Hey, I’m not Black or POC, but I think we’d vibe.”

I clicked his profile—a redhead! Oh, man. I’ve had a secret weakness for redheads ever since I fell in love with Jessica Rabbit as a kid (we can unpack that later). His bio read:

•Pleasure Dom (eye roll heard this one before)

•Loves giving oral (okay, now we’re talking)

•Likes control (yesss)

•Looking for casual encounters that could lead to more

•Loves to sext and write sexy stories (put me on the mailing list, please)

I liked what I saw. I pinged him back: “No, you’re not Black or POC, but you are a secret third thing I like… redheads! What made you smile today?”

He responded immediately. “Hi, I’m so glad we matched. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I read your profile. YOU are what made me smile today.”

Cute, sir. Real cute.

We started chatting, and it was smooth, effortless. The conversation flowed—asking questions, sharing stories. We even connected on the astrology tip. He was a Leo, which I had sworn off, but he swayed me by saying we were sexually compatible. He claimed he could control and push my limits, and since I’m a Pisces who loves to explore, I’d allow it. He wasn’t wrong.

For research purposes, of course.

I asked him about his kinks, and he sent a detailed response. It had me wet immediately. I love a man who knows exactly what he wants. One part stood out: he loved when a woman dressed up for him on dates, especially in lingerie, and sometimes liked to pick out her outfits. That piqued my interest. I’ve always wanted a man who appreciated the effort I put into getting dressed—and secretly desired one who’d choose my clothes (hello ownership kink, I see you).

We kept chatting. I shared some of my fantasies, and he asked me out. I told him I was busy the next day but could meet the following evening. He agreed, adding that the next 48 hours would be hard because he couldn’t stop thinking about what he wanted to do to me.

“Oh? Tell me what you’re thinking,” I teased.

He did not disappoint.

He painted a vivid scene: I’d be wearing a short skirt with a black thong underneath. At dinner, he’d slowly stroke my thigh under the table, whispering how badly he wanted me. His hand would creep higher, teasing the edge of my panties. Then, just as the waiter came with the check, he’d slide his fingers inside me and dare me to make a sound. He’d only play with me long enough to see how wet I was before pulling back. We’d leave the restaurant, and outside—up against a wall—he’d fuck me, fully aware that people might see.

Well, hello, exhibitionism kink. I didn’t know I was into you, but here we are.

I told him how turned on I was but mentioned that the word “cock” gave me the ick. He laughed and said, “Good to know. You can call it whatever you want.” Then he asked if I’d like a picture of it. I appreciated that he asked (consent is everything) but declined, saying I’d rather see it in person.

We sexted a bit more before moving on to other topics. I was impressed—an hour had flown by, and I was locked in.

When I asked about his work schedule, he mentioned he worked remotely, which made afternoon dates easy. I perked up at that—afternoon delight is my favorite. I asked what he’d do if I were at his place during a meeting. He wanted a story, so I obliged.

I described myself on his couch, panties and a T-shirt, touching myself while he tried to focus on his call. His eyes would stay glued to me as I teased and moaned quietly. Just before I came, I’d crawl over, unbuckle his pants, and take him in my mouth, making it impossible for him to concentrate. His coworkers would have no idea. I’d grind on him, whispering for him to rub my ass as he struggled to finish the meeting.

He was very into it. “You’re so good at this,” he typed. “I’m so hard right now.”

His praise made me even wetter. We continued the story together, building tension. Eventually, he “punished” me for being a distraction—grabbing my hair, pushing me down, and giving me exactly what I deserved.

By the end, I was exhausted from both the sexting and the mental workout. I told him I needed sleep, and he said he’d stroke himself thinking about my story.

The next morning, I woke to pouring rain—the kind of day you want to stay in bed, have slow sex, and nap between rounds. As I brushed my teeth, I saw a message from him: “Nice day to stay in bed, huh?”

I smiled and replied, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Want me to come see you?” he asked.

My heart raced. Did I really want a stranger at my house? No. This is my safe space. I suggested a cafe instead for a vibe check. He agreed.

I arrived first (punctual, always), but when he walked in, my attraction evaporated. No swag. Flat aura. The idea of him had been exciting, but in person? Hard pass.

We chatted, and then he asked, “Shall we go back to yours?”

I panicked, searching for an excuse, but nothing came. Thankfully, his car was parked far away from mine. As he walked off, I texted, “Hey, this doesn’t feel like a full-body yes for me. It was nice meeting you, though.”

He blocked me.

Fine by me! Because why would I bring a white man back to my queendom. Good riddance sir!

[feeldresearch]

For most of my life, I’ve been a monogamous good girl, keeping my intimate encounters reserved only for partners I was emotionally attached to. You know, the whole Christian, cis-het normativity that’s been drilled into us since the 1900s. But this year, I decided—since I’ve been single for a while and there’s not a single suitor in sight—that I deserve pleasure without a relationship. Why limit myself when I can explore my needs and fantasies both alone and safely with others?

So, a couple of weeks ago, I opened a Feeld account. I threw up a flirty bio detailing exactly what I was looking for in a sexual encounter, sprinkled in some cheeky but tasteful photos, and hit post.

And within minutes, the floodgates opened. We’re talking 100 likes and 12 pings right off the bat—without even posting a full photo of myself! I thought, Damn, if they knew how fine I was IRL, this app might crash! Letting the ego boost wash over me, I swiped through my options like I was at a kinky Costco, shopping for a stranger to fulfill my research needs.

“No, no, hell no, ew—yikes—maybe, no, gross…oh, wait. Hmm…yes.”

Ok, we got one. I read his profile:

- Black and attractive

- Pleasure dom

- BBC (okay, let’s keep that in mind)

- Experienced in kink

- Big on consent

- Provides aftercare (major bonus points)

Perfect. Just perfect.

I shot my shot with a playful, ego-stroking message:

“Hey sexy, you look like a man who can teach me some things…”

He responded immediately.

“Hey, sweet baby girl. I most certainly can.”

I got nervous because I didn’t expect him to respond so quickly, but here we are. We banter, trading sexy innuendos that get me excited. He asks what I’m doing and if I can come over. I pause, nervous but excited. I tell him I’d prefer to meet at a bar first to check the vibe. He agrees.

I take a quick “everything” shower, shaving all the parts that matter, and scrub my skin until it’s baby soft. I slather on body butter, spritz on perfume, and throw on a cute outfit—low-cut floral half top, jeans, and boots. My Uber arrives, and my heart is pounding. What am I doing? Am I really about to fuck a stranger? I take a deep breath and remind myself: I’m in control. I only do what I want—nothing more.

While in the Uber, I text a close friend with my location and a note “bout to go do some hoe shit, if I don’t text you and say I’m home later, call the police!” She responds “ I got you, be free beautiful.” I arrive at the bar before him because I’m painfully punctual and need a drink to calm my nerves. I order an old-fashioned and gulp it down. No time for sipping—liquid courage is necessary. Halfway through my drink, I realize he doesn’t know what I look like or my name. I check my phone and see a message describing what he’s wearing. I glance left and spot him.

He’s reasonably attractive—nothing extraordinary, but good-looking enough. Tall, dark, well-dressed. I walk over and introduce myself. “Hey, I’m Zahzah.” He looks aloof and says, “That’s nice. I’m meeting someone.”

I reply, “Yeah, it’s me.”

Embarrassed, he says, “Oh, damn, you’re way prettier than I expected!” (Pshhh ikr)

I settle on the stool next to him. We make small talk, though I can’t remember anything he says because the alcohol has kicked in. I stare at him, deep in thought, wondering if I’m going to let him touch me tonight. He misreads my stare as interest and abruptly asks, “Should we get out of here?” I snap back to reality, take a deep breath, and decide, For research purposes, fuck it—let’s do it.

On the walk to his place, I recall his profile. He’s a pleasure dom, so I expect to be pleasured. He’s supposed to be a BBC, so I expect a good stretch. He’s rough, so I’m hoping for some tossing around, maybe a little choking, and gentle but commanding dirty talk. This might actually be fun.

His place is clean and minimally decorated with a nice city view. I put my things down and get comfortable. He offers me water. I take a sip, set it down, and he pulls me to my feet, kissing me passionately, hands all over me. Okay, I’m into this. Clothes come off, layer by layer. He excuses himself to the bathroom. I walk to the window, crack it open, and light a joint. Sex is always better when I’m high—I feel more relaxed and present.

He returns to find me ass up in a chair, blowing smoke out the window. I offer him a hit; he declines. He starts rubbing my ass as I take one more drag and put the joint out. I turn to face him, and we kiss again. He picks me up and carries me to his clean, minimal bedroom, tossing me on the bed like a rag doll. We kiss and touch as he caresses my body, his fingers sliding inside me and then teasing my clit. It feels good—I’m moaning, whispering, “Yes.”

Then he tries to enter me without a condom. I pull back. “Whoa, whoa—get a condom, dude. What the fuck are you doing?”

He sighs (first red flag). “Aw, come on.”

“Put it on. Now.”

He obliges, and I watch him glide it on before easing inside me. He’s kissing me, grinding, and groaning, “Damn, this is too good.”

I giggle because, duh, I know. But also because I expected a BBC, and he’s just… regular-sized. Maybe seven inches. Shrug.

It still feels good, though. He knows what he’s doing. But it’s starting to feel too intimate for a random encounter. I turn over. “I want you from the back.”

He smiles. “Absolutely.”

From this angle, he feels bigger but still not BBC big. I start giggling again. He notices and fucks me harder. I tease him. “Aww, you thought I couldn’t take it? Look at you—out of control in this good pussy.” He bites my neck, and I laugh, fully enjoying the mix of pain and pleasure. He’s moaning about how good it feels and saying he doesn’t want anyone else to have me.

I’m into it, though. I guess a kink I realize I have is an ownership kink. I like the way it feels to be possessed by someone—I like being wanted and owned. So his words (albeit a second red flag) made me wetter, and I start bouncing back on him. Our thrusts are loud and hard. We’re breathless and moaning like crazy, wrestling all over the bed. I don’t know if it’s because I was high or what, but I kept laughing, knowing it was provoking him—making him both angry and turned on at once.

High and deep in pleasure, I keep laughing, provoking him. I want him to dominate me—grab my throat, slap me, and tell me to shut up. The thought excites me. Maybe it’s linked to past trauma, but being roughly dominated like that is a huge turn-on.

The more I laughed, the more aggressively he fucked me. The harder he fucked me, the more I talked shit. “Aww, look at you giving me your all! You thought I couldn’t take this dick, didn’t you? Look at me—taking it. Look at you—losing control.” I kept laughing until he grabbed my throat from behind and, panting breathlessly in my ear, whispered, “This pussy is so fuckin’ good, and it’s mine now. Do you hear me?”

I laughed louder, and he pulled out suddenly, busting on my back. He ran to the bathroom to get a towel. When he returned, I asked, “Where did the fucking condom go?” He wiped me down, tossed the towel, and casually shrugged. “My bad. I took it off. I wanted to feel you from the back.”

I became enraged. “What the fuck?! You can’t be serious. You really fuck strangers raw? What is wrong with you? What’s my name?”

He paused.

“Exactly. You don’t fucking know me!”

I stormed out of the room, grabbed the glass of water, and downed it. As I started gathering my clothes, he came over and grabbed my hand. “Hey, that’s my bad. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”

I softened—for reasons I didn’t fully understand. This stranger had just violated me. Maybe I was too high to listen to my own instincts, but I let him talk me back into his bedroom. Before I knew it, I was lying on his bed as he fingered me until I came—once, twice, three times. Utterly spent, I got up to grab more water.

“Just bring the glass in the room,” he yelled out. “You’re gonna need it.”

I returned with the glass, set it down, and crawled up his naked body until I was sitting upright, straddling his mouth. I stared him dead in the eyes and asked, “Are you ready to eat me now?”

He stared back and said, “No, I don’t do that. And I don’t expect you to do it to me either.”

I quickly repeated, “So you don’t eat pussy?”

“NO,” he replied firmly.

“Cool,” I said, hopping off and grabbing my clothes.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” he asked, getting up.

“Yes. I’ve gotten all I need from you,” I said as I ordered an Uber.

“Wait, I can take you home!”

“No way. I already called my car,” I said, slipping on my shoes.

He sighed. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

I kissed his cheek. “I don’t do sleepovers, love.”

We walked to the elevator in silence. He touched my neck and shoulder, grinning. “I left you a little something there,” he said, pointing to the purple hickeys on my skin.

I rolled my eyes, annoyed, and nearly ran off the elevator to get into my Uber. He opened the door and said hopefully, “I’ll see you again soon?”

“Probably not,” I replied, quickly shutting the door.

As the Uber drove off, I opened Feeld and immediately deleted him from my connections. Because seriously—what the fuck am I gonna do with a man who fucks strangers raw and doesn’t eat pussy?

(Note: I got a full-panel STI test after this encounter.)