My favorite part of any Black (diaspora) party is near its end when my Black friends and peers can finally pry their sweet-speckled, starry bodies from the sidelines, to which they were previously confined by the sheer number of alabaster bodies raving and writhing uncontrollably to Konshens. This is expected by the seasoned Black party…

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My first college hookup took place fall quarter on a balcony of my freshman dorm with an individual I’d only known a few hours. Between onion ring-tinged breathy gasps for air and the ungracious clambering of hands on flesh, my mind vacillated between the confusion and euphoria of this novel experience. As the the tawny…

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