Black Sweat

"Black Sweat"

Your skin,

a dusk-drenched canvas of cocoa and cream,

melanin-rich and dripping in moonlight’s dream.

I trace your back 

slick with sweat,

each droplet a star

gliding down the midnight of who you are.

We glisten 

Black bodies in motion, in rhythm, in sync,

not just fuckin’,

but feelin’

like soul-deep links.

You thrust,

and I receive.

I ride,

and you believe.

In this moment, we be

Black art, Black fire,

Black sex with Black desire.

Sweat be baptizin’ us,

skin be choosin’ us,

lips locked in the gospel

of moans and cuss.

Ain’t no shame in this sin,

only freedom in the friction.

We grind like we writin’ history

with hips,

in motion,

in conviction.

Your hands map my thighs

like griots tellin’ truth 

this ain't just lust, baby,

this is proof:

That Black love is lush,

and Black touch is deep,

and we still holy

even when we don’t sleep.

So breathe me in 

thick as incense in a juke joint.

Let the sweat talk.

Let the skin preach.

Let the thrust teach

what the ancestors meant

when they said,

“We survive in the heat.”

Sequel 

"Black Heat"

(for the stage, for the sheets, for the soul)

Your skiiiin…

smooth like midnight melted into molasses.

Mmmm.

You shine in sweat —

like royalty after the revolution.

We don’t make love quiet.

We make it LOUD,

make it proud,

make it Black and bold and sacred and nasty

all at once.

You press into me,

like the bass line in a basement party.

Heavy.

Sweaty.

Necessary.

Thrust.

Gasp.

Pause.

Repeat.

This ain’t porn, baby —

this is prophecy.

Two Black bodies

burnin’ down the bed

just to rise

again

from the ashes

of a thousand years of hunger.

I ride you like freedom.

You grip me like gospel.

Tongues tangled,

backs arched,

flesh to flesh

like we the first to ever do it right.

Black sweat 

sweet salt of survival.

Black moans 

music from the marrow.

Black friction 

the original fire.

We be rhythm.

We be heat.

We be legacy.

We be blessing.

And when I scream your name

into the silence between our breaths,

under stars made of our own steam,

I swear —

God hears us

and blushes.

tha Floetress 

copyright 2025