Month: November 2014

What being Fingered and Watching ‘Scandal’ has Cemented for Me

I’ll make this brief, as I am at work.

He walked over from his building to my door; I left it unlocked for him. He’s my neighbor, Haitian and African-American from Athens, 6’1’’, slim frame, no ass, and gorgeous dick. All we were ever supposed to be were fuck buddies. It was very convenient considering our proximity; I felt like I was back at Hampton University having the DL boys sneak into room 437 at Harkness Hall.

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He entered my room wet from the rain on this Thursday. It was about 6pm. — Sometimes fuck buddies transition into chill buddies and that’s cool, too. — I raced to get him in bed so we could start watching previous episodes of Scandal. He was unfamiliar with the show. His excuse: he didn’t want to get caught up in the hype. –Bullshit–

As we watched Olivia and Fitz do their warn out waltz of a relationship, I laid on his chest. Ugh, I’m such a bottom at times. During some arbitrary scene where they kissed and fussed about the jungle fever love triangle, which includes Jake Ballard, he, I’ll call him Alex, took his middle digit and ran it along the crack of my ass. After he rubbed around the hole, he took his hand out my shorts, stuck that digit in his mouth so that it dripped with saliva, he then slipped back down my basketball shorts and tried to slip his finger into me.

I thought it erotic, pleasurable, that is until he said “I have to check to make sure you haven’t been fuckin any other niggas, “then Olivia spouted, “I am not a prize, I’m not something you win” and I thought or ‘buy or possess’

He had to leave; nobody exploits me, but me.  As far as sexual economics are concerned bottoms in the LGBT community are (in a blanket statement) the equivalent to women: chattel. I have no desire to be placed on a pedestal or auction block; to be fingered, poked and prodded by a Top, whom wants to make sure he has invested in good, undamaged property.

Dramatic? I don’t think so.

Patriarchal societies have often commodified the body as property. Marriages were bartering systems: a daughter traded from two pigs and hen.  When Olivia Pope shouts “you don’t get to win me,” she is proclaiming Fitz is not in competition with other me. Whether or not he does something more ostentatious than his (so called) competitors, she by default does become his. When Alex had no more than his fingernail in my wet asshole, he was trying to see if someone else was getting his prize. Something he thought he had one, something I never informed or led him to believe was up for possession, but it seems innately that men (another blanket statement) see property and persons as exchangeable.

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Essentially, I was being fingered into monogamy. Perhaps Alex thought if he shamed me, I would be more inclined to becoming his and only his house hoe. If fingered my hole, as if he were my mom shaming me for not washing behind my ears, so the next time I showered I would make sure I cleaned them. To his credit, the fingering didn’t hurt and he did it pleasantly with a smile showing casing his under-bite. I learned a while ago, people not only fear what they don’t understand, but degrade and label those they cannot control. One of many purposes of labeling one a whore, slut, or promiscuous is to dehumanize and shame into societal norms. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 high acclaimed opus  The Scarlet Letter is a fictionalized description  of what women or those scene as the submissive one in a sexual situation go through in real life. Hester Prynne was made to wear the scarlet A (for adultery )to shame her into never acting out her desires again in her colonial community.

When I decide to let only one man enter me, it’ll be because I decided. Not because I was won or bought as property. Or because you want to shame me into being monogamous.

And his finger did not get far —I’ve got good snatch back.

 

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The Ass my Mom Gave

My mother and I have a running joke –I call her a perv. Ever since I was little, she’s always slapped me on the butt and grabbed my thighs.  See, perv.  Just as her palm, full throttle, would land on my 8 year old butt she’d say, “You’ve got your mama’s butt.” That’s when I learned how to give a mean side-eye. I never rejected my asset, especially at that age, I didn’t care. Actually, I adored my mother so any bit of her she recognized in me I would internally gush over.

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Obtaining my driver license at the age of 16 coincided with the arrival of me – on BGClive and Adam4adam. I was hot and fast; I met plenty of men, and I do mean men. I remember one guy was 12 years my senior with a child 4 years my junior. During our first of two meetings, I remember arriving in my 1988 Mercedes hand-me-down at the dead of night, probably an hour from midnight. He was tall, at least 6’2”, wore black rim glasses on his elongated face, and had a swimmer’s physique. Of course, in all my Bambi like innocence, I sat in fear and anxiousness, practically holding onto the arm of the chair closest to the exit, as if it were a force-field that would protect me if he was a serial killer.

Those grown hands, brown and strong placed themselves on my thighs and squeezed. I don’t know if he thought he’d get lemonade or orange juice if he squeezed hard enough, but it was the repetitious action of the night. He uttered that he liked my thighs, and asked me to stand up to examine my butt.

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He squeezed that too. He liked that too.

 

After being horrible at basketball, especially compared to my more basketball inclined older brother, my mother placed me in soccer, only because she said I was eating everything in the house. –Side Note: I love food. – At that moment, when I was being treated like a piece of meat or being admired, depending on your vantage point, I knew years of soccer, wrestling, football and track combined with great genes had complimented one another to create a great lower half and I would forever be indebted to my appetite (the reason why I had to play sports) and my mother.

When I was still living with my mother or just visiting from university, in my earlier twenties, I would openly go on dates. My mother was the barometer telling me if I looked tacky, slutty, or very handsome. A lot of times I was called a slut. My ass was powerful; since my days at Hampton University it had garnered its own name: Twyla. Everything I wore had to accentuate her; it was a must.  As I worked out more and it got larger, my bestie and I graduated her from Twyla to Katherine the Magnificent. We saw the name on a poster when we went and got an HIV test together.

Although, it continues to grow and has caused me contemplations about Plato’s Closet presently, I still adore my ass. If I could squat 24/7, I would still need another hour and a day.

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When the Atheist and Christian Met on a Date

While pessimism tells me things would be easier, experience tells me this is doomed.

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All of three minutes into our conversation about atheism and religion,  three minutes of which I made sure I was pleasant , he says “I’m sure you’ll get over your atheism.” Against my better judgment, I didn’t make him walk home. I, in a most staid tone, expressed to him how ignorant his statement was.  How dare his Florida-swamp-ass tell me my beliefs, no matter how far removed from American idealism, are erroneous; I can’t believe he had the unmitigated gall. If I was Jewish or Muslim would he have said the same? Did he view me as some Neanderthal, because he deems I don’t have the conscious space to digest religion? I could have gone Nat Turner on his ass; I should have gone Nat Turner on his ass.


Men are always wary of me when I tell them I am atheist, as if I just sprouted eight eyes and six legs. There are three types of men when it comes to this matter: those that will only seek to spread my legs, those they will spread their arms and those that think they can spread my mind. The latter is the worse. Their brain in sync with their mouths begin to twist and torque with rhetoric and questions trying to dissuade their uncomfortableness by asking belittling questions and making belittling comments, all the while making my dick limp and my eyelids heavy. I do not mind speaking of religion on dates, just make sure you give me the tact a dog is due.

The problem that I have with dating Christians is not the religion, that’s a different bone on a totally different elephant. I have a fear of falling in love with someone then being forced to prove I love them more than I love myself and my convictions, through some arbitrary ritual of gathering in a building to praise a mythical being and with the use of overly exerted egos place hierarchies in our society based on skin color, gender, and sexual practices to name a few; not to mention every first Sunday, we must pretend grape juice is blood and a wafer is flesh, sort of like that fake McDonald’s kitchen with the fictional microwave that heated up the plastic meat and buns —  although, I thought “when I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.” 1 Corinthians 13:11

Okay, maybe it’s on the same elephant.