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4 BLACK INK October, 1973 Sneer for the Virgin Queen Virginity is not accepted Ciwen P. Harvey Feature Editor Jesus Christ! To be chaste and eighteen living in James dormitory! Sneer, sneer for the Virgin King and Queen. Gnash the pubic hair. Shred the sanitarv napkins. Yes. you’re the freak. Bring out the embossed scarlet letter for the person who ain't puttingout. Who told you the “new morality" gave you the freedom to say “no"? We fancy ourselves delightful children of free love-totally liberated from Victorian prudery and reluctance. Sex is good. Good sex means orgasms. And wow, anybody can! Sex has become not a pleasure but a duty. And if you don’t have intercourse, the new sexual ideology just says that you’re crazy hung-up. Virginity is not accepted Virginity is not accepted as a reasonable (though perhaps temporary) way of life in a society where sex seems to be on the tip of every good person’s tongue. What this cruel dictation does is to mess up a lot of people's minds. People who just don’t consider themselves ready to engage in something they presume serious with feigned frivoloty or expertise. People who go through a lot of self- hate because they do everything Dr. Reuben says but still feel as if they’re making love to a sock. People who sleep around wantonly or helplessly juggle birth control pills and diaphragms, and can’t stand themselves for having to be so cool while all the time they’re doubling over with ignorance and impotence. Falling prey to sexual “group think" and peer group pressures is no roll in the hay. And all the while Madison Avenue is bellowing out to us that the best way is always the sexiest way. We got to choose the right toothpaste, the right type of bedroom sheets, even the right type of wall cleaner. We troop to the movies to see the newest positions from Des Moines, read “Elephants and Butterflies” religiously, and like to come away from these great sexual commercials feeling liberated and very much aware. Nobody pauses long enough to feel that autocratic push towards a sexuality which ain't so smacking good at all. The resolute advocation of one .sexual life style over another is abhorred. Folks should just do what they feel like doing, whatever is comfortable tor them. And to snicker at the dude who has never owned a condom or the woman who always sleeps in p.j.'s alone to howl at the self-styled John Shafts and Redpants glorifying that big and hollow bed in the back room. What follows are two briel sketches and a poem: flashes in the Is It Real Is her feeling for me Real and pure l ike a rural winter bree/e Is it strong and true Can she share my deleats and frustrations As well as the triumphs and joys Does she understand when in my moods Only solitude will ease the spell Can she share m\ leeliniis lives of young women who sense that things do fall apart. Love as all sex and no laughs. The “Hy" woman singular and sex-less. And when you feel as if you don’t have a sexual favor to spare. ELIZABETH S MAN Elizabeth got out of bed, fed the cat. and decided that Harold wasn’t such a good lay after all. Harold was The Lover—her partner in the loose and scurrilous existence. Her main man in a community of hallowed se.xual humdrum. As the sun's rays filtered through the non-color of the apartment's curtains Elizabeth lay on the carpet with body stretched and taut. Methodically she began practicing her deep breathing exercises. Inhale. 1 ... 2 ... 3 .. . Exhale. I ... 2 ... 3 .. . Each body twitch punctuating the matter with Harold in her mind. Drawing it in and letting it go. The bathroom shower began its feeble sputter before bursting into an avalanche of liny water drops. Elizabeth sprang to her feet and headed towards the noise. She entered the bathroom just in t\Tie to see a smooth dark flank vanish behind the mermaids on the plastic curtain. “Harold," she began slowly then rushed forward resolute in her need, “I’m moving out." “Yes.” she said louder, competing with shower’s roar, yet pleased with poignancy of her own works. “I’m moving back into my dormitory.” And then. “Today, Harold." The shower nozzle raged on. A soapy head darted out of a brief opening. “Lisabeth, do we have to go through this every Wednesday?" Harold breathed a wave of Crest toothpaste into her face. Then as quickly as he had emerged the Black serpent retreated to his wet darkness. Silence. Then she managed a cutesy retort. “You're using all the shampoo." “Forget you, nigger.” A casual reply. With one swift movement Elizabeth jerked the shower curtains apart and defiantly faced her sea monster. Angry. She fired the words at him. Hard. Fast. Bitter. “Fart mouth. Ass hole. Pervert. You haven’t made me come since last fall.” There. Her chest heaved dramatically. She was getting soaked though. The spray of water plastered the thin nightgown to her trembling frame. Harold, halted in the process of scrubbing the soles of his feet balanced precariously on one foot, regarding her with befuddlement. Embarrassed by the unintended sensuality Elizabeth's arms swung up to protect the elegant chest. Then like a kitten emerging from a When at the sound of beautiful music Or the reading of poetic verse I sometimes cry real tears Does she Knowing that I love deeply Hurt easily and anger quickK Still respect me L'nderstand me Claim me as a warm sensitis e Black Brother Her Man'.’ Otis Williams surprise dunk in the old water well she groped stiffly for the way out. She paused by the edge of the sink and a great pool of water began to warm her bare toes. The shower curtains rustled as the body within returned to life. “Lisabeth, you’re gonna have to go to the laundramat. We ain’t got a clean towel to our name." WONDER GIRL Ah. It was great for her. Delicious. That lavendar shadow gloss created a moist halo around the almond shaped eyes. The wonder girl, Li Nichols, stepped back to inspect the divine creature who fluttered alluringly in the three way mirror. The Afro picked till it formed a soft dark cloud. The nineteen-year- old body lithe and supple. A mannequin sheathed in a bright red raglan sleeved sweater, a straight and tight black skirt, black stockings, and ivory-colored dancing slippers on the feet. A paisley scarf tied ala '50’s corH around the neck. — But the face was the masterpiece. Exquisite. Precise red dots on the cheek bones and eyebrows plucked to miniature flecks. The red mouth drawn into an O and mimicking a demure smile. Li was ready to begin another day as the devastating wonder girl. Daily she paraded her gaudiness down the streets of the village. Li thrived on the turning of heads and the wagging of tongues when her flashy silhouette came into view. No, they could never quite figure this woman out. This strange and comic body screaming contrived decadence and disappointing sensuality. She was too cosmic for a people unable to grasp a single element to argue for the validity of her freakness. So Li remained the girl with the slender back burned by countless stares, with body numb, and thighs rigid from starved nights. Li mesmerized men in a crude manner. Her super chicness left Life Distilled continued from page 1 on motherhood, and a 1945 selection on abortion, entitled The Mother. A sonnet was read from Annie Allen, the ballad that won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1950. It came from The Children of the Poor, and began, “what shall I give my children? who arc poor." One of the evening's lavorites was the Ballad ofDear Mae l^e. read with penetrating power and accusation to an errant lover, who was trapped by the temptation ol “pink and white honey” but “you paid the bill, out of your hide and with my heart" Frequent interruptions from the audience's applause brought smiles to her cheeks. Her voice was alive. It reached out. encircled, and lifted. It rhythmically lurched through H^'e Real Cool, which was about pool playing drop-outs. It was sympathetic to whites in They gel to Benhenuti’s. There are Booths, and mocking because “the colored people would not 'clown'. ''It was sympathetically condescending to the white John Cabot in Riot. Patience and hope swept across her face, a dusky rose. It contained beauty equal to the bouquet presented to her bv Algenon Marbly on behalf ol the BSM. Her beauty was not in bright Hair, but in inner strength. She understood the black struggle. She was the black struggle, long suffering, vet going on. them bewildered. She turned them off by being too glamorous to fit into a reality. The wonder girl did not shuck the masquerade when the disrobing was over and earthy passion was desired. The girl did not care. “They're only dud es,” she reasoned aloud. They only fuzz the hair and ruin the lipstick with grubby paws. The People were the most important. The Audience to whirl and spin for. She did not need the petty intimacies. Li got off on the sensations aroused in the obscure and nameless folks who turned their heads to see her swish by. Li winked at her mirrored person and slinging the Parisian leather satchel across her shoulder loped towards the door, turned the knob, and walked out into the startling bright sunshine. OPEN END Should 1 hate young blonde things who wear faded levis, muslin tops And speak the brash, smile with lower teeth And tread on open-headed Black worthies with their Swedish clogs And live arrogantly in the disgrace and the toned spaciness To reap frenetic plenty in my liberal wasteland? Depressa Margaret Brewington Staff Writer Depressa sat nonchalantly with her legs crossed peering through the branches in the trees. Six o'clock. Her back rested on a huge rock amidst a green plantation of grass. Annoyingly she tugged at a blade of grass until it snapped yielding to her strength. Placing the blade in her mouth she chewed absent-mindedly — her thoughts were of him. She shifted her position extending her legs. With a heavy sigh she lingered her eyes on a broken branch - it was like their relationship. Clad only in jeans and a tee shirt the morning mist penetrated her pants giving her a queasy feeling. She had him labeled in the beginning, hippie and free. His manner was smooth, his smile wide, his eagerness sincere. She loved him. He could have dressed, he could've ragged everyday. But jeans were his thing, too. He was beautiful. He'd often tilt her head to face him when she was sad. He'd race her to the dorm when it was cold. He was gone. Life had taken him away. She turned sideways to gently clasp her little boy’s hand, who stooped peering wide-eyed but not understanding. She tilted her head toward the sk\. It was so smooth so wide so beautiful. Nature was he and she loved nature.
Black Ink (Black Student Movement, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)
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Oct. 1, 1973, edition 1
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