I am now convinced, after having spent the better part of the past three days listening to Beyoncé, that there will be no liberation of the Southern black woman until we can all freely talk about oral sex with nothing but love and admiration and an absence of shame.
I know now that we can serve up all the reproductive justice talk and spar about women in positions of power all we want, but our freedom won’t come until we can loosen the invisible chastity belts fastened by religion and culture and respectability that too, too often inhibit the freedom—sexual and otherwise—of black women who prefer their tea sweetened.
If you haven’t heard it, let me sum up Beyoncé’s fifth album, “Beyoncé,” with a series of unrelated words and phrases: sex, I love having sex with my man; family; I’m the best at life and I’m OK telling you; I’m an awesome sex partner who doesn’t mind a little jizz on a designer gown.
Yeah, it’s like that. And I thoroughly loved it. I got chills listening to Chimananda Ngozi Adichi’s words on “Flawless,” a celebration of bad bitchdom. I had to keep myself from giggling while listening to “Blow,” an unapologetic ode to the joys of cunnilingus. I almost cried when I listened to “Pretty Hurts.” Then again when I thought about “Flawless.” And yet again at the sheer beauty of “Superpower.” I got out of my bed at 2 a.m. to booty pop to “Partition.”