Bell Hooks' Erotic Ebonics 

Written by Michele Delphine

bell hooks was walking home after a long day of delivering lectures at The New School. "I feel like I really reached those white kids," she thought, and she smiled at the idea of some white girl with dreads burning her copy of Beyonce's latest album. "Destroying the west-I mean, destroying the white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy won't be easy, but we have to start somewhere."

However pleased with herself (as she often was), bell felt a little unsafe walking home this afternoon. She had to stay in late grading papers and it was already dark out. It was also raining, and her nappy head was already getting frizzy.

What really irked her, though, was that the street seemed completely empty; no cars, no people, no sounds. Unusual, but not too disconcerting as it was probably very late. In an effort to comfort herself, she tried to think about sexual liberation. Her bliss was suddenly interrupted, however, by some ominous sound some few yards behind her.

"What could that be?" she wondered. A few minutes later, that sound became something more discernible, like some group discussion. She thought that maybe they were a few students returning from The New School as well, but it was unlikely, as she had observed in her time lecturing there that only staff and faculty were present after a certain time, and it was, to her surprise, very late.

Again she tried to ease her anxiety. She tried to think of new, catchy titles for her upcoming essay about race, queers and pornography. "'Black Holes, White Tools?' Hmm, or maybe 'Queering the Afro-Intersex.' Oh bell, you're a genius," she thought to herself, chuckling and rubbing her hands together maniacally.

Again, her genius was interrupted by that damned problematic sound, now much louder. She could clearly hear laughing, but before she even had time to think she heard someone scream "NIGGER!"

She froze, triggered, her PTSD firing up, that word transported her to her school days and the vicious taunting she was subjected to by those prissy white girls: "Why is your hair so nappy, nigga girl?" they would ask her. "It's my NATURAL hair," she would answer. "You really should brush it, it's such an eyesore. Is your nigga mammy too poor to buy you a brush?" the girls would tease. And how her white teachers would capitalize her name and surname, even though she insisted it be underscore. "Names are capitalized, you dumb nigress."

bell was just as enraged now as she was then, and she intended to give those crackers a lecture on discourse and problematic language. But before bell could even turn around and begin her rant, she was suddenly struck on the back of the head.

When she awoke, she could see some blurred masses above her. Her wrists and cankles were bound. Her clothes were removed. She could feel dirt underneath her, nothing like the concrete sidewalk she had been walking previous.

Once her vision steadied, she saw a group of five white cismales and cisfemales. Three of the cismales carried knives, and the two cisfemales had some rope.

"Go find a tree sturdy enough to support this landwhale's weight you dumb sluts," the biggest and strongest of the cismales ordered the cisfemales. They nodded and left.

bell was terror stricken. She knew what this was: this was a lynching, like back when she was a child in Kentucky. She recalled hearing stories of black women caught fornicating with white men being lynched by white mobs, her fear betrayed by her craving for white cock.

"Well good morning, you dumb nigger slut," the white cismale to her right jeered, grabbing his crotch. bell began to cry.

"Oh, hush now. I thought you wanted 'Penis Power.' What's with the change of heart?"

bell grunted and whimpered but could not vocalize. Only then did she realize that there was duct tape over her mouth. She wouldn't even be able to scream or cry for help. She reproached herself for being so sex positive. Gloria warned her about what might come, but bell would ignore her, writing her off as an outdated white feminist.

Quickly and without hesitation, the biggest and strongest of the white cismales approached her and tore off her granny panties. "We know how to tame insolent nigresses," he whispered in her ear at her as he unzipped his pants. Being menopausal, bell's vagina no longer self-lubricated, so her rapist spat in his hand. For what seemed like forever each took their turn penetrating her vaginally, anally, and last but not least, orally. Her body once again betraying her mind, she reached orgasm multiple times, milky female ejaculate pouring out of her. What turned bell on the most, though, was when the big, muscular white cismale thrust his big girthy cock down her throat. She could taste his semen and even her own ejaculate and feces as he held his knife to her neck, grunting to her that at any point he could slit it from ear to ear. She then experienced the most intense orgasm of her life, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and, to everyone's surprise, her own pearly fluids spewed all over the body of her rapist.

Bell had finally been tamed by white cock.

But before it had ended, each cismale masturbated in a circle around her head, finally expelling their seminal fluids into her nappy hair. As much as Bell hated to admit it, this was the fulfillment and final culmination of her most extravagant and long-suppressed fantasies -- all at the tender age of sixty-two.

Not long after the vicious gang-rape had ended, the two cis-girls had come back, not at all shocked by her disheveled state. They chuckled, and gestured to a big oak not too far away.

"You white sluts are early. The party hasn't even begun."

With that the muscular white man whom Bell was fond of unsheathed a 9-inch blade secured on his belt.

"Female Genital Mutilation is an 'African right,' isn't it, Bell? We'll be appropriating your custom and giving it a western spin. Are you prepared for your phalloplasty, Mr. Hooks?"

Bell gulped. Somehow, this kinky white man knew her deepest, darkest fantasies. She had reached such a state of erotic bliss unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She recalled the crippling penis envy of her youth, the gender dysphoria of her teen years, her seething hatred of TERFs in her adult years.

Bell had always wanted to be a man. A black man, with a big-powerful-passionate penis. The power of the jungle beast, she envisioned her 12-inch-cock swinging from side to side as she raced through the vast plains of Africa.

Bell wanted it, NEEDED it. Desperately, emphatically, irrevocably: that negro dick would be hers.

The muscular white man removed the tape from Bell's mouth. "Any closing remarks, Mr. Hooks?"

"Yes," Bell began. "I fully consent to this procedure. No white feminists will deny me my right to bodily agency, my natural right to Afro-masculine gender performativi-"

He smacked her in the head: "stop posturing and admit your love for white cock."

Bell quietly reproached herself before looking her rapist in the eyes. She whispered: "I am a dumb nigger slut."

"Louder!" He barked.

"I AM A DUMB NIGGER SLUT!" Bell cried. "My saggy negro tits are only good for collecting caucasoid cum! I like Aryan semen in my eyes, in my hair, in my ears, down my throat! I like its runny consistency, much easier to swallow than my typical thick load from Tyrone."

He smiled. "And what about your life's work, Mr. Hooks?"

Bell's eyes widened. After a few moments of contemplative silence, she finally answered: "I'm not some "deep thinker." All I've ever done is parrot perverted French academics and pass it off as literature, the only thing a dumb nigger slut such as I could do. Look between the lines, look past the jargon, the word-salad. You can see my true intentions attempting to seep out of each and every page of wasted paper. I've been crying out for a long time, crying out for a bio-power all my own. If I could write one more book, I would call it this: 'Black Phallus, White Malice.'"

"Even in your last moments you are pedantic; narcissistic and pretentious," a familiar voice echoed through the fields, smacking her lips together between syllables. Bell could identify a mole in the darkness, and then a crooked nose, shaped like a '6.'

"Ju-Judith?" Bell stuttered, the most shocking betrayal.

"And who more pompous than I to have imparted those qualities unto you," Judith continued. It was true that Judith was perhaps Bell's greatest contemporary influence, and as Bell's eyes drifted, reminiscing of her days teaching at Berkley, the indecipherable jargon they had published side-by-side on a daily basis, the intersectional safe-spaces..

Entranced by the euphoric nostalgia this surprise visit had prompted, Bell's gaze suddenly caught site of Judith's crotch.

In an instant Bell froze up, shaking with fear and exhilaration. Was it true? Was that snake-like object tightly compressed in Judith's left pant leg really what Bell perceived it to be?

Sensing Bell's curiosity, Judith grasped it with her right hand, stroking it vigorously. Within seconds it became bigger, larger, more powerful and engorged.

"I want this for you, Bell," Judith pleaded. "For centuries, "'F'GM" and lynchings have been utilized as a locomotive for gender-based oppression. But we of the third wave have seen the truth. In reclaiming something, we may subvert its meaning, and henceforth render a space for bodily agency. You will be lynched tonight, Bell, but you will be lynched in your own Proscenium stage. This is YOUR lynching. This is YOUR phallus."

Bell smiled as tears of happiness began to flow down her cheeks. Then, without warning, the blade was thrust inside her, Bell screaming silently, breathlessly. Her labia minora and vaginal lips severed and violently ripped from out of her, her aroused and engorged clitoris, soon-to-be penis head, put aside for later crafting. Bell passed out from the pain.

When he regained consciousness, he felt no pain -- only bliss. He could hardly stand.

'Perhaps morphine was earlier administered, it is uncertain. The Coroner's report will soon tell.'

Bell stood on a stool, strung up by a noose around his neck. He could see crowds of white men and women in white hoods, carrying torches and pitchforks.

'Beer, burnt crosses and a mole cream were discovered near the crime scene. They've been submitted for DNA testing.'

Bell was aroused at the sight of it. But nothing could prepare him for what he saw beneath his fat waist. Poking out of his dress was something long, thick, and stiff. When he pulled the ends of the dress up to reveal what it was, he encountered that half of the skin on his thigh was missing.

'Skin grafts were taken from the victims right leg in order to facilitate the make-shift sex-change.'

When Bell pulled down his granny panties, the biggest nigger cock he had ever seen was fully erect, staring him in the face. Without hesitation, Bell stroked, and stroked. He stroked that nigger cock, the crowd jeering and shouting: "This is Klan country you ugly nigger bitch! Die you ugly nigger bitch!"

'Blood and female ejaculate were apparently expelled from Hooks' phalloplasty. But how?'

Finally, Bell had reached intense orgasm, blood and milky ejaculate spewing out onto the crowd, the soil, the stool on which he stood.

'It truly is a medical mystery.'

Bell subsequently slipped mid-orgasm. His neck broke and he died instantaneously.

Authorities found Bell's bloated body hanging from that very tree three days after the lynching, his throat slit (apparently post-mortem) and a smile on his face. Bell Hooks had also shit his pants, the back of his dress stained brown.

According to the coroner's report, Bell had experienced orgasm a total of fifteen times that night. Authorities questioned whether it was an act of suicide. Perhaps this was a final act of shock by a washed up American postmodernist academic -- lynched out of pleasure, and not out of torment: a reverse lynching.

The purported perpetrators of the crime were never discovered and are presumed at large. Bell Hooks' Wikipedia page was promptly vandalized with photos of his engorged penis and feces-stained panties. To this day, Bell Hooks is referred to by masculine pronouns.

Fingers were later pointed at Janet Mock, who, days previous, had written tweets like: "If you don't like Beyoncé you should get lynched," and, "@bellhooks If it wasn't for Beyoncé your career would be hanging from a tree #DestinysGrandma."