The Khalil Amani Reader

Hip-hop/Spirituality/Freethinking. Speaking for all underdogs!

Revisiting Mama's Secret Place.

By Khalil Amani

They say, “Sex sells.” Sex is the one thing that most of us are curious about. The adult sex industry is a multi-billion dollar money-making machine. Dare I say that pornography is one of the most underrated “art-forms,” yet one of the most indulged in art-forms? Like really! Who doesn’t like a good porn video? Porn can spice up a relationship, spark the creative juices to try something new in the bedroom—and for many men—aid them with erectile dysfunction. The only people who don’t like porn are the super-religious and the super-pro-black—but even they once watched porn before their religiosity and pro-blackness suppressed their natural passions for the beauty of nude bodies doing beautiful things, which resulted in rapturous and climatic episodes.

Today’s porn sites have a plethora of sexual genres to indulge in—Straight, Gay, Trans, Interracial, Big Dick, MILF, Asian, Bukkake, Cuckold, Anal, Massage, Vintage, Blow Job, Big Tits, Young & Old, Threesome, Mom, Lesbian, Golden Shower, BBW, Bondage, Animal, etc., etc., etc. Whatever floats your boat! Whatever makes your juices flow. There’s even Black Market porn like “Lolita”—a porn genre that caters to pedophiles—child porn—and Snuff porn—where real people are supposedly killed in the act of having sex. There are some real sickos out here, but then again, sex has a vast array of freakishness and who’s to say what’s “normative?” Child porn, Snuff porn and bestiality aside—I think we can safely say that everything else is normative in the realm of sexual activity.

Having said that, Youtube is becoming fixated with a chapter in Khalil’s YouTube book, entitled “Stolen Innocence: Memories of Molestation, Sex & Him,”—particularly, Chapter 2, Mr. Robert’s Big Black Phallus. Khalil wrote about his childhood and coming-of-age story about sex and his own molestations. First discovered by YouTuber, Michael Edwards and used as a criticism and dissing of Khalil’s character back when these two were in a YouTube war of words—and then given to YouTuber, Hassan Campbell to further violate Khalil’s character and paint him as an incestuous child who wanted have sex with his mother—and most recent, used by YouTuber, “Kosmos Konnected”—but not in a demeaning way like Michael Edwards and Hassan Campbell, but to show how Hassan makes fun of children’s sexual “shit-uations”—in this case, a 10-year old Khalil—and then cries foul when people poke fun of his Bambaataa “molestation.”

Every time Hassan “Poppy” Campbell wants to insult Khalil Amani he regurgitates three things—#1. Khalil brought down the murderous Yahweh cult—#2. Khalil was a government informant—and the supposed death blow—#3. Khalil wanted to have sex with his mother when he was 10-years old.

In a recent YouTube video Hassan said, “What you [Khalil] talkin’ about, I ain’t gonna say it ‘cause my little girl sittin’ up under me, but y’all know what he was talkin’ about doing who with what, and it involved incest! It involved him watchin’ some pornography with his moms and his mom’s boyfriend…”

Hmmmmm?

Hassan has been fixated with Khalil’s 10-year old boy peen—penis, dick, johnson, schlong, pecker, pee-pee, lizard and Boa Constrictor, so let’s investigate Hassan’s claim’s that Khalil and his mama and his mama’s boyfriend were doing some incestuous shit while watching pornography, shall we? Hassan has made this claim on several occasions, while continuing to be fixated on violating Khalil as a 10-year old boy who stumbled upon a sexual “shit-uation” involving his mother and a man who was not Khalil’s father. I’ll be reading the entire chapter at the end of this blog to give my story the proper CONTEXT, so that you, the reader can fully understand what took place—and side-eye Hassan the next time he tries to rehash my story.

The story is about a 10-year old boy Khalil, who walks in on his mother having sex. Can you imagine what that felt like to this young boy? A couple of heart-breaking and mind-fucking things take place; Seeing sex for the first time—and seeing his mother having sex—and seeing his mother having sex with a man who was not Khalil’s father! This was his introduction to sex. This is the “shit-uation” that Hassan, a supposed victim of Afrika Bambaataa’s pederasty makes fun of! Not only does Hassan want to beat up another victim of Bambaataa’s molestation—Ronald Savage—by “splitting his head to the white meat!” Not only did Hassan want to kill the young Spanish man who had stabbed Bambaataa, here he is poking fun at another victim of dealing with sex as a minor—Khalil Amani!

Now let’s “analyze” Hassan’s claims. The year was 1970. Khalil was 10-years old. So we were all sitting around watching porn, Hassan? Tell us what type of apparatus we were watching porn on? The DVD player hadn’t yet been invented in 1970! The DVD player came out in 1995! Was it the VCR/VHS movie player Hassan? Nope! The VHS came out in 1977! Maybe it was the short-lived Betamax? Wrong again! The Betamax arrived on the American shores in November of 1975—five years after we “allegedly” watched porn together. Maybe we used a child's toy--a View Master? So what were we watching porn on in 1970 Hassan? Inquiring minds wanna know. Ain’t that some shit you like to say?

Yes! In 1970, people had Super8 and 8mm movie cameras, but no family in my neighborhood had one and even if we had a movie camera, where would you buy reel to reel footage of pornography? A movie projector in 1970 was a middle to upperclass white folk luxury item! Hell! The kids on my block didn’t own Schwinn bikes or PF Flyers! (The first real sneaker a kid had to have, before Nikes were invented!) We made bicycles from scraped parts and mama bought our sneakers from the grocery store, the same aisle as the dog food and dish detergent! So you know we ain’t had no movie projector to watch porn on! Fuck is Hassan lying for? According to Wikipedia, “Such [porn] films continued to be produced but could only be distributed by underground channels. Because the viewing of such films carried a social stigma, they were viewed at brothels, adult movie theaters, stag parties, at home, in private clubs and also at night cinemas. Only in the 1970s, during the Golden Age of Porn, were pornographic films semi-legitimized; and by the 1980s, pornography on home video achieved wider distribution.”

You got it? People didn't really get porn at home until the 1980’s—when the Betamax and VCR/VHS became commonplace in homes all over America—and with that, came Blockbuster Stores everywhere! (circa 1985)

So when Hassan says, “… and it involved incest! It involved him [Khalil] watchin’ some pornography with his moms and his mom’s boyfriend…”—you now know that Hassan’s a lyin’ rat-bastard! Hassan wants you to imagine that this story of Khalil seeing his mother having sex happened last year! LOL! Hassan wants you to think that Khalil’s "aberrant thoughts" about his mother were from the mind of a grown-ass man! Hassan counts on your ignorance and laziness to not go and investigate the story!

Now! If you’ve gotten this far, you might as well sit back and listen to the entire chapter—and then, you too can side-eye the fuck out of Hassan the next time you hear him rehashing Khalil’s story. Listen and be goddamned entertained!

Chapter 2
Mr. Robert’s Big Black Phallus

The Air Force moved our family to Miami in 1967. For a while, we lived in the Brownsville section of Miami with my aunt and her two kids. Brownsville was the “hood”—the ghetto. Having lived in Germany and California, Brownsville was the first time I had been around so many black people, even though I was black. My brothers and I went to an all-black school, Floral Heights Elementary, where we appeared to be an anomaly. We were teased by the black kids. They said we “talked white.” We didn’t understand what they meant. We spoke well and that’s all I knew and when the Spelling Bee came around, I won the 4th grade, my other brother won the 5th grade and my oldest brother won the 6th grade Spelling Bee. Yes! We had attended predominately white schools and now we looked like Rhodes Scholars at our all-black school, but I assure you, we were average students at best. 


We finally moved to Carol City, a neighborhood in northern Miami that was more white than black. We moved into a three bedroom, one-bathroom house—all seven of us, but it didn’t seem like it was too small. Mama and daddy in one room, my two older brothers had their room and me and my kid brother shared a room with baby sister with mama and daddy. Being the middle child is almost an inconvenience. As far back as I can remember I was aware of my middle-child status. Do I hang out with my two older brothers or do I play with my two younger siblings? 


A few years after we got settled in our new home the Air Force stationed my dad in Thailand. He would be gone for a year. It was 1970. My dad, being the brutish man that he was would finally be gone and I felt a sigh of relief. I really didn’t like my father. He scared me. We had no bond. He was simply the man who gave us food, clothing and shelter, but he was emotionally unavailable.

Now my daddy has gone bye-bye. I really wish he would never come back! Dare I say I wish he gets killed in the war over there? (There was no war in Thailand, but Vietnam, Thailand—it’s all the same to a ten-year-old.) Yes. I think I hate daddy and you wanna know why? Because he beat my mama up bad one night in Germany. He beat her under the kitchen table when I was four. A day after Halloween 1964 I suppose it was. I remember because we had lots of candy. Me and my two older brothers woke up to pounding and hollering noises—my mama’s noises! We went out to see what was going on and there was daddy, straddled atop mama, beating the living shit out of her! I still very vividly remember mama screaming my daddy’s name. “Lee Roy! Lee Roy! Lee Roy!” she would scream at deaf ears. Daddy would turn around and look at the crying eyes of his children and holler at us to go back to bed. All night long this went on. In the morning, mama, with blackened eye and swollen jaw would tell us not to say anything to the neighbors—if asked.


Daddy beat mama and daddy beat us. Another time in Germany, me and my two brothers were throwing paper helicopters out of our third story window. A neighbor came over and told my daddy and he beat us until we were welted and bruised! He picked me up by one leg upside down and beat me with his military belt until I peed myself. I don’t know what I did wrong at four years old. I guess, littered the lawn.


Now the tyrant is stationed in Thailand. No more walking on eggshells. No more hearing daddy argue with mama and no more beatings. I could tell that mama was happy that daddy was away. Mama and her sisters used to party it up something fierce! They would drink alcohol and go clubbing. We would stay with our older cousins while mama did her thing on the weekend. We would nestle under covers and watch The Birds—the scariest movie ever! Hitchcock was scary!


When things needed fixing around the house, mama’s friend, who we called Mr. Robert would come fix it. Mr. Robert was not like my daddy. He liked us. He smiled at us and gave us money for ice cream. Mama’s friend was cool! Mama had another friend too! A Jamaican man with lots of muscles! I don’t recall his name though. He was a bodybuilder. He once took off his shirt at our house and showed us all his huge muscles and then he picked my mama up over his head. He was really strong! I liked him too.


But Mr. Robert was always at our house. One day, mama had taken us over to some friend’s house for the day. Later that evening, we four children were dropped off at home. (My baby sister stayed at the friend’s home.) My brothers stayed outside and played, but I needed to see mama. I don’t remember why I needed to see mama, but I made a beeline inside. Running inside, I saw Mr. Robert’s van parked in the driveway. Nothing unusual, ‘cause Mr. Robert was always at our house. 


No mama and no Mr. Robert in the living room, so my ten-year-old self went to mama’s bedroom completely oblivious to anything. Maybe they were in there and Mr. Robert was putting up some paneling on the walls. He was always fixing stuff around the house. A real handyman. 


Mama’s door was shut—but not all the way. They must be in there. I open the door and walk in. My eyes see a naked woman on the bed, going up and down with legs between her thighs. They are man legs. I freeze in my tracks to allow my mind to catch up to what my eyes are witnessing. I can’t see this woman’s face because her back is facing me, but I think its mama. I think those are Mr. Robert’s legs and feet between this lady’s legs. Who else would be in my mama’s bedroom? 


It was mama—going up and down on Mr. Robert! Mama’s big booty—rising and falling on Mr. Robert’s big black pee-pee. It was so big, but mama would make it disappear and reappear with each up and down motion. Mama would moan each time Mr. Robert pushed his pee-pee up into her. Mr. Robert was thrusting his pee-pee hard into my mama and hurting her. There is no way that mama is enjoying that big thing going up in her. Mr. Robert is holding mama’s hips and forcing her to take his big thing. 


Mr. Robert’s pee-pee was very dark and very long compared to my pee-pee. He had a man’s pee-pee and he was doing the nasty to mama. I knew what they were doing. I don’t remember when I learned about what grown people do in the bed, but I knew! They were fucking! Mama was on top of Mr. Robert’s big ding-a-ling and she was fucking the shit out of him. She took every inch of his massive tool—fully engulfing his meat between the crack of her ass. Looking back, I suppose her moaning and borderline screaming were pleasurable, but to the eyes and ears of a ten-year-old, she was being physically abused.


I watched mama do the nasty until Mr. Robert happened to see me between mama’s big titties bouncing in his face. He calmly said to mama, “Look.” Mama was so full of Mr. Robert’s pee-pee that she continued humping until Mr. Robert flung her aside and grabbed for the covers. Through her heavy breathing mama whips around and looks me dead in my eyes and screams, “Get outta here!” 


Black boy, who has just watched his mama fucking turns around and runs out of her room. I ran straight to my bed and dove on it like I was Superman taking flight! By the time I landed on my bed I was balling hysterically. I cried a river of tears. I don’t know why. Maybe because mama hollered at me. No, I don’t think so. Maybe because I was afraid that mama was gonna whip me later. No. Definitely not. I was just confused. Did daddy have big pee-pee like Mr. Robert? Does daddy do the nasty with mama like Mr. Robert? Babies come from mama, so daddy must fuck mama, but son has never heard mama and daddy fucking—ever! Daddy liked to beat mama. He would beat her for sure if he saw Mr. Robert fucking mama. Why did I have to see mama fucking? 


I think I cried because I should have known what they would be doing in mama’s bedroom with the door partially closed. I was mad at myself for not knowing, but I was never mad at mama. I saw real sex in real time! I saw what Becky wanted to do to me in Oxnard three years earlier. Becky was mama. Becky took charge of my pee-pee in that dimly lit rec room and mama took charge of Mr. Robert’s ding-a-ling in the same bed where my mean daddy used to sleep. 


Later, mama came to check on her son. She was compassionate, but stern, telling me, “Don’t ever open my bedroom door when it’s closed.” We never spoke about it again and I never tattle-taled to my brothers about what mama had done.  


A year later, when daddy came back from Thailand he sat all of us boys on the couch and demanded to know if mama had any men in our house. He had suspected mama’s infidelity but needed a confession from one of his children. Daddy threatened to whip us if we lied. We all stood fast. Mama, looking at me the most, searched me for a sign that I would give up our secret, but daddy was not gonna get our secret. I hated him and I loved my mama and by the time he came home from Thailand, I think I sorta-kinda understood what mama was dealing with and the needs of a woman—sorta-kinda. 


I lost my ocular virginity and innocence that day in 1970—at ten-years-old. Seeing Mr. Robert’s huge dick stayed with me—throughout my adolescence and teen years. Mr. Robert’s big penis gave me nightmares—even Incubus nightmares, which caused me to have deep sleep night terrors where I couldn’t be woken up. I’d scream uncontrollably, so much so that mama would have to pack all her kids up at midnight and have my older brothers carry me to the car and drive me some 60 miles to Homestead Air Force Base to the hospital. They said I wiggled and writhed around in the back seat of our Vista Cruiser station wagon like that girl in the Exorcist. I do remember screaming in the corner of my darkened bedroom and waking mama and my brothers up at two in the morning. I remember screaming in our car. I remember doctor sedating me. I do remember Mr. Robert’s humongous pee-pee chasing me and I can never seem to run fast enough in my nightmares. Yes! I remember that these night terrors started happening after I saw mama riding Mr. Robert’s big black pee-pee. In the eyes of the little ten-year-old boy, Mr. Robert’s penis was a monstrosity—a gargantuan phallus that made mama make hurting noises, which frightened the little Colored boy.


After seeing the big pee-pee in mama, I remember my pee-pee getting hard more often. I remember putting soap on my pee-pee in the tub and thinking about mama and Mr. Robert fucking and my ding-a-ling getting hard. (Was mama’s hairy spot slippery like soap? I imagined it was.) I began to masturbate at ten-years-old and mama and Mr. Robert and Becky were the sources of my arousal. I thought about what it would feel like to be inside my mama like Mr. Robert. I think I began to experience some form of Freud’s Oedipus Complex mixed up with a little Penis Envy for a big penis like Mr. Robert’s. They really fucked up a ten-year old’s mind that day. END.

The part of the story that singes Hassan’s ears is when I wrote, “I thought about what it would feel like to be inside my mama like Mr. Robert.” Taken out of context—taken alone—allowed to stand on a literary island—this sentence sounds quite perverted, disturbing and incestuous, but what was the little 10-year old Colored boy trying to convey? It’s not that he literally wanted to have sex with his mother! Nay! The 10-year old Colored boy (that’s what they called us in 1970!) was trying to make sense of a sexual situation that appeared to be pleasureful as well as painful—the little Colored boy was trying to understand why adults have sex—the little Colored boy knew that one day, his penis would be big and go up inside a woman. What would that feel like?

Alas! It doesn’t matter the context in which anyone cares to view Khalil’s childhood foray into sex! A child can never be blamed for thinking, feeling, pondering and expressing sexual feelings and urges! There was nothing crazy, aberrant or wrong with any feelings Khalil had as a 10-year old child catching his mother—fucking! The fuck is a child supposed to feel and think—the first time he witnesses sex in real time? Criticizing this wonderful work without going back and reading and/or listening to the audio is what Hassan banks on when tries to diss Khalil.

Yes! I wrote my memoir (book) where I talked about seeing my mother having sex at 10 years old with a man who was not my father. Yes! I explored the idea of sex to a 10 year old boy and what sex feels like. Yes! I wrote about being fixated with sex and thinking about sex incessantly at ten years old. Yes! I talked about that man’s ginormous penis and what it must’ve felt like as he buried it into my mother’s vagina. Yes! I revealed to the reader that I started masturbating at 10 years old and thinking about the teenage girl who had fondled me when I was seven—and my mother and her lover having sex. And lastly, I talked about the Incubus nightmares that followed after seeing my mother fucking and having to be rushed to the hospital because I could not be awoken from "said" nightmares. That would be the proper context in which Hassan tries to paint me as an incestuous child who wanted to fuck his mother. Shame on this so-called victim of Afrika Bambaataa for making fun of a 10 year old kid who walked in on a sexual situation and the mind-fuck that came from that experience! Indeed, this is a brilliant piece of writing, reminiscent of Maya Angelou's, "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings," but when niggas don't read the entire work, in proper context, they become as little children, who, like the first time they say a curse word and giggle at their naughtiness, such is the case of the Hassanian mind.

What kind of relationship did I have with my mother? I'll tell ya. Even after this epic ordeal, there was never a gulf that came betwixt us! We were mother and son and the few short years that she had on this earth were beautifully lived! She loved all of her five children and we loved her as only children can. She was my mother until the end! R.I.P. Furgaria Belzoria Clark!


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