Erotic Beginnings

I am challenging myself to write more. I say that I want to, but rarely do I actually it down and take the time to do it. Usually I give myself about 30 minutes of concentrated time, and whatever comes out during that time period is all there is. No edits, no revisiting, nothing. So I figured I should commit to one style of writing for a week and see what happens. So for the past few days I have been writing erotic stories and poems, just to get my juices flowing, pun intended. It happened to actually be the beginning of something really nice, in my opinion, so I thought I would share. It is truly a work in progress and may or may not be extended, cut, or turned into a performance piece at a later date. Enjoy!

Cargo Shorts and Boxerbriefs

Her “get it girl” thunder striking pavement like matches, she’s breathtaking.  I have never seen a twitch of hips so elegantly downplayed by vegan boots, she’s stunning. Her Aura cascading around her, and interrupting my breath.

Catching it only to loose it again as I sputter some nonsense about the weather, I mean her eyes, I meant to say, hi.

Her uncomfortable laugh somehow untying my tongue, and we find common language amongst awkward beginnings. Somehow this was endearing. Somehow, her “get it girl” and my “sorry I spilled my drink on your shirt” were moving off the pavement.

Her thunder molds soil into promises then washes away her tracks before I notice we have taken another step. In sync, I think. She’s staring at me, through me actually, but not past me, definitely through me, to me.


Way past greetings, but I feel I have been reunited with my _________ from another life. I believe we may have been different parts of the same leg, I believe, I ‘m talking to myself when “get it girl” thunder is gracing me with her presence.



I was heading to a coffee shop to send off some emails, but none of that seems nearly as important as the pressing deadlines would have you believe. I am pressed nonetheless. Thunder is usually a sign that it is time to stay still for a moment and let the storm past. Thunder is the sound of hunger in my belly when presented with a delectable offering, so I’m staying put. I’m famished.

Off the pavement, the grass is sparse, but effective. We ground effortlessly, mindfully, intentionally, deeply, we ground deeply. She talks in a heavy whisper that I have to lean in to hear. Her breath of beets and celery, salty and sweet…deep. I inhale deeply, and she moves in with  my breath.  I start to fidget with the pockets on my cargo shorts, seeking a distraction, she’s to close. She’s to close, and she doesn’t know, and she will be disappointed, and I can’t keep up this charade. Her thumb on my third eye brings me back into this grounding on sparse grass.

She smooths the frown lines from my forehead and closes her eyes. I watch her take her time to connect. I watch her see me. She sees me. Now understanding, she takes my hand and puts it on her heart. It is on fire, my hands turn red from the intensity, and it sends a buzzing sensation up my arm. When I try to remove my hand she arches back so that it floats down her sternum. The silence before the storm is beautifully maddening. My fingers rest on the belt loops of her baggy jeans, and I give a playful tug. It’s clear neither of us have ever been on this side of the fence.

I quickly release my grasp of her reality and search my pockets for distractions again. As I finger through loose change I dip into a softness I am embarrassed to recognize and even more embarrassed to retreat from. She senses my shift of consciousness and leans over to investigate. Before I can readjust the source of her intrigue, she slips her hand in my pocket and smiles. I look away shyly as her hand vacates my pocket. When I turn to face her again I am greeted with melted dark chocolate dipped fingertips to my lips, and without thinking I lick them. When she does not pull them away immediately, I return to lick them again, more intentionally, more leading. She traces my lips leaving behind chocolate covered possibilities. Before her fingers depart I gently take them into my mouth and hold them lightly between my teeth. Licking between each finger, around her nail beds, and suckling away residue of reason, of our venture into where the grass is sparse.

More like my reflection than my partner, I am not sure the two can coexist. She assures me they can, and should, and are about to, with a knowing glance. We both bring thunder back to the pavement and walk with purpose to the abandoned building around the corner. The vandalized walls and deteriorating doorway give a preeminent danger warning. We climb through a boarded up window that clearly spoke to other explorers before us. Inside, the day peeks through the holes in the roof and sends lattice shadows across her face. She looks at me through the solar display and licks her lips. We are no longer what we are perceived to be. Her broad shoulders soften and her gait sways as she walks towards me. I lean against an old refrigerator and she traps me there with hands on either side of my head. As she leans in, two primal beings reveal themselves.

I grab her locs and pull her head back forcefully as I take her neck between my teeth, my lips, then teeth again. She growls and I pacify her with a kiss.

She is not use to being taken.

I lift her by her thighs so that she straddles my waist, and we kiss our way to the rickety table in the corner. She pushes me away forcefully. I went to far, comfort does not conform readily. The silent space between her shoving me away and her quick spin to turn and lay her chest on the table with her arms sprawled out in front of her seemed like a lifetime. Maybe it has been a while.

I part her locs with prayer hands and wrap each handful around each hand for leverage. Pelvises mirroring white water rapids, I’m glad I thought ahead, “leverage.” Her arched back strong , thick with muscle, and flexed expertly like an aimed bow and arrow. She shoots, and hits her target again and again, she is cruel and relentless, and I like it. A trickle of sweat begins to collect right above her boxer briefs, and the weight of her hips bounce the droplets down around her waist.

Synchronized. I know longer need reins to navigate through her terrain, I release her locs, and she melts back onto the table. She turns around and pushes me again. This time harder, this time repeatedly, this time I push her back. Shoving becomes grabbing, becomes wrestling. she pins me to the floor with her knee at my throat and each of my legs gripped between each of her her biceps and forearms. I resist,  but I don’t want to escape.

…for the art of it



Prince, my first lover.

He didn’t mind being she, so there was we.

And we were magical.

We caught hate between our teeth and sang it into love.

When we laughed, we, he,me,

were toe to toe, clit,head, shaft, lips.

Her was strong and he was soft, perhaps both they.

They were in love, were in awe of each other’s

more, less, yes, no, magic, science,bio, metro, ooh’s and ahh’s.

Sitting pretty in the middle of the kinsey scale,

so let’s call it a pass or fail and commit to not knowing.

Never knowing.

My he, his she, us, we.

This  energy.

Rest in Peace.


…for the art of it.



This slideshow requires JavaScript.


Byrd Cage


My chest is too tight

so leave me to my own unraveling.

Your single thread hold has nothing on my decades of  undoing

of self, from the outside in.

Charmed into your vortex

disguised as maturity, mistaken for care,

reminded of all of the __________ before you.

My chest is too tight and my breath is short.

I don’t need your help dying

I know how deep to cut, I’ve done this before

Your dull blade is cruel.

You insist.

My chest is too tight, my breath is short, and you are heavy.

I hold this weight in my throat,

careful not to swallow, not to regurgitate.

Choking on the tight, short, heavy.

Cutting the string with the dull blade.


Byrd Cage

Photo Credit: Byrd waters



…for the art of it.

Namii Returns to Seattle

It has been almost two years since I last stepped foot in Seattle, and I am too excited about my return. I must give most of the credit for my return to Sinner Saint Burlesque. They sought me out after hearing about my one womyn show, “Swing,” that debuted in 2014. They had been following my work and invited me to perform for their Forces of Nature show!!!!


Since I am going to be in Seattle I figured it would be a great opportunity to work with two collaborators that I absolutely adore. Imani Sims and Briq House! Imani is so awesome she even offered part of the proceeds of her Afrofuturism show to go towards helping out Earth Pearl Collective.

Tuesday TeaseWait, wait, wait, that’s not all! I am super excited about another show that I will be doing while I am in the area, Tuesday Tease. This show will give me the opportunity to perform with a live band. Whaaaaaaaaaat?!?! Since I have the advantage of live music I have to bring you some Broadway to the stage.




Now I could not come all the way across the country and not stay for a few extra projects, so I am also booking several photoshoots and figure drawing classes in the area. I do have a few slots left, so if you or someone you know is looking to do something new, please hit me up!


…for the art of it.

What is “A Taste of the Tease?”

It starts with intention.Who are you and what d726235_808f6e28ab514fba9a488a29df01f373o you want?

Sex is different from sexy, and I am selling neither.

Your arousal, not my goal, yet still my reward.

This ownership of your will, an acknowledgement of your flesh, an exploration of light as energy, as attraction, as love, lust, and lonliness.

We need  this moment to become primal, to inhale the secret of wanting.

Realize it is our own desire that tempts our epidermis thick, and stretches our pupils wide enough to capture glimpses of the forbidden.

Take away the danger of falling down the rabbit hole, and instead explore what this tunnel of possibilities has to offer.

Slippery when wet, so dig your heels in, don’t just skim the surface. Peel back a layer and see what’s just below your knowing.

This is where we will begin.



ReCreative Spaces Logo

On Friday December 11th, 2015 at 7:30pm I will be teaching A Taste of the Tease in partnership with Recreative Spaces at  3501 Perry Street, Mt. Rainer, MD.

Don’t worry I will not be asking anyone to be the nudist that I am, but I will be tempting you to do so. This workshop is a step before anything ever comes off. It is the acknowledgement that we are so incredible that you should not be bound to the fabric of our lives…ie, clothes. So do not fear showing all of your unmentionables, but do come and explore what it feels like to unfasten the first button, or peel off a winter scarf with confidence. Get your tickets for the class online at the following link : A Taste of the Tease Workshop


…for the art of it



Have you ever felt used?


Photo by Ivan Oelrich

This revolving door has opened to you without question, and allowed you to play freely. Swinging on the handles you gleefully laugh, and I admire your childlike discoveries, and provide safety for your play. I kept you close when you were dizzy with joy and could not discern if you were entering or exiting. This revolving door did as you expected and continued to revolve, continued to evolve to your needs, for your needs, rotating with each breath of change, rolling with the punches. Punched, kicked, slapped, face planted into me, you slide down my fingerprint streaked glass leaving your fingerprints for passing strangers to know you were there. You are out and in and out again, before I can replace the shattered pieces of mirror implanted into your face. You return with new scars and this revolving door excepts them back into rotation. Disease returns when the system is weakened. Steel bones, don’t make the flesh impenetrable and your penetration is deep. Steel bones may not be broken, but you are hot and they can melt. Steel bones have nothing to do with broken glass, but can keep the door rotating and push the shards of broken to the side so that you can step back in without injury. You deserve a 1,000th chance. There are unlimited turns through this revolving door, so you return to this revolving door. The yellow caution tape and “closed for repairs” sign is not a deterrence, is a welcome mat for you to wipe your feet on before entering again. Maybe one day you will step into the lobby and check in with security, sign your name in the guestbook, and take a tour of the building. Did you know it is still heated by a wood burning furnace? Will you ever venture into the greenhouse in the back that is fragrant with sage and roses? Is the 360 degree penthouse view ostentatious? There is no elevator, but the climb is worth the exertion, worth the increased heart rate, worth the feeling of accomplishment on each and every floor. This revolving door does not lock at midnight, come in at 12:01 sex smeared and glowing, tired and crying, selfish and needy, spiritual and enlightened, broken and hurtful, damaged and neglected, this is your safe space. Between in and out your decision is not your destination here. This revolving door, a passing thought, it doesn’t matter where it leads.

-Namii 2015

…for the art of it

Beyond Words


If I could write you, you would not be a poem you would be a novel, full of fields of flowers that we would roll around in, moist with dew and lost in time.

Sandy beaches would absorb us in its rip tide, we would return to the source and be birthed into ecstasy.

A mystery never to be solved and the greatest love story never told.


If I could write you, I would use led on cotton instead of pen on paper so that the words would slowly fade over time and I could rewrite us compulsively, impulsively adding new comprehension to torn edges and weakened fibers.


If I could write you I would need to be perched on a mountain side to absorb the full breadth of your existence and the magnitude of your unwavering love that only a birds eye view could contain.


If I could write you I would not need you the way that I do, and that thought alone is enough for me to never write a…


All photos by Jim of NatLight Studios in Palo Alto, California

…for the art of it