Month: September 2014

When Is The Last Time You Bottomed?

I do not bare the shame of online dating; historically there aren’t many places for gay men of color to congregate safely. I am also not one of those men that whine and complain about the type of men that are online; I just talk to the ones that intrigue me and make fun of the ones that do not. Yes, I, too, can be juvenile. I have no qualms regarding the sexual being I am, on the right day, you hit me up and I may oblige you. On the wrong day, well it is just the wrong day. However, regardless of the day, please be creative not clinical. Please be stimulating; do not saunter with your request.

With all that said, it does baffle me why men who prefer to top ask this question: When is the last time you bottomed?

The fuck I look like?

September 8th, 2014, I was asked this question by someone online. Blessings rain down upon that this will be the last time. I scolded him like I was his 7th grade teacher and he gave me some lame excuse that his dog ate his homework: inappropriate.

His reply (verbatim), “Y be ashamed to answer. It’s prob a scale factor to determine frequency and/or elasticity in that area.”

I had to school the young 27 year old. It’s not that I’m ashamed. You could ask me how much money I have in my bank account and I’m not going to answer that either. Some things are not to be shared with strangers, when the last time I had sex is one of them. Asking me my status would be appropriate. Me asking him when is the last time he prematurely ejaculated leaving a lover unsatisfied would fall under that inappropriate category.

Although he gave me an adequate answer, I would be remiss in not expressing that I feel as though the question has something to do with that all inflatable and perilous male ego. When men stick their penis inside of holes they feel some since of conquest; it goes back to Rome, it goes back to the Congo, it goes back to Greece, and it goes back to warfare on the African continent in 2013, yes that recent. Sexual intercourse is often the spoils of war.

Have you ever had a dude get up behind you, while you’re on all fours, ass inclined in the air with a downward arch in your lower back? (If you haven’t try it). If he’s getting it, and I mean getting it good, to where you try to crawl away (just a little bit). If he’s a real nigga in the bed, he’ll say “whose is it?” Why: because, the penetrating male genuinely feels ownership (however fleeting) in his sexual conquest.

And most men, outside of trains and sexual group activity, want to conquer something they feel hasn’t been too recently conquered. That reasoning does harken back to the gentleman’s answer of frequency and elasticity.

However, my biggest problem: it was a turn off. I dropped the mic and walked away. On the other hand, this 6’1’’ brown skin, caesar hair cut wearing mofo, with a bottom pink lip anyone would be jealous of asked me in only his second message, “You want to get nasty with a nigga?”

I creamed.


Queer Web-Slinger on the Dating Scene

I was about to commit some serious web-slinger action.  I must have been Peter Parker to his Mary Jane, because there we were at Joes on Juniper, the Sunday of Black Gay Pride, and he saw through me the way  a kid at Easter see’s through cellophane. At the table next to us were the actual goodies in the basket: lighter, taller (I suppose), larger in frame, I would argue just as handsome, and, according to Mary Jane, masculine.

Flash Thompson sat at his table blatantly flirting with my friend. Now, I could tell the punk (yes punk) was intoxicated, but if he thought I couldn’t tell what he was doing behind his Ray Bans, he was sadly mistaken. Mary Jane has acknowledged that we have an ‘attraction-friendship’; that’s his coined term, not mine; so, I wondered why he would even entertain Flash Thompson –Like shut that shit down, nigga.

I thought about kicking Flash Thompson’s ass; after all, it would be easy with his sloppy drunkin’ ass. I could put on my Spidey outfit: black and blue spandex; my ass would look great in it. Mary Jane wouldn’t be able to look through that thickness. Oh, but yes, I would be in Spidey outfit; imagine me on top of Joes from Juniper shooting a web to the Loew’s hotel parking deck. I’d swing down and my foot would land, POW, right on his jaw.

How dare Flash not think that Mary Jane and I could be together? I’m not unattractive. I have a decent athletic body.  Per previous paragraph, I’ve informed you my ass is thick. Maybe, it’s that Mary Jane and I didn’t exhibit any chemistry, or maybe that punk was just brave.

He had on a hat, a white shirt, those Ray Bans, some dark colored shorts and some ordinary shoes. I remember the fuckin’ drunk actually spit on me during a fit of laughter, as the host was first showing us to our seats. I should have totally KA-POW’D him. I recall Mary Jane, perhaps in some conscious pride, state how “Tops are always trying to talk to him.” Of course I looked at Flash Thompson, now Mary Jane being a novice, I had to school him. I asked him why he thought our table neighbor was a Top. Of course, he went straight to the wardrobe, as if Noah didn’t top Wade. Me, überconsciously, decided to denigrate the nigga by pointing out his obvious femininity; me hoping that would be a deterrent to me being put on the shelf like some Disney puppet. My nose would grow, if I said I was upset with what I did; now, I’m not proud, queer men attacking one another’s masculinity, or lack thereof, is pathetic, but I in all my Peter Parker-ness I was desperate. I would have done anything to halt this kismet occasion. For goodness sake, we weren’t on a double date, but we were on a four something.

Flash Thompson eventually, left, nothing became of their encounter, at least not in my presence. I had thought, now Peter Parker can take stage . . .

Just then, it happened in slow motion, his cell phone came out and a hundred Flash Thompsons in a five mile radius popped up on Jack’d.

Hopes to floor –Splat!