Author: singleblackqueermale

Learning Lesson from Black Gay Couples

Theory: In order to win in this game of love you must study it.

Practice: Befriending and hanging out with more couples.

A good friend of mine invited me on a Sunday morning to visit the National Museum of African-American History & Culture with a group of friends and himself. After the cultural partaking we, a group of five Black queer male professionals,went to Boqueria on M Street in the District. Over an assortment of bacon, pan fried potatoes, with Black hands quickly scooping up mini pancakes, and lush lips sipping unlimited mimosas the usual chatter persisted; we spoke of traveling, those of us not familiar with each other gave the usual banter informing the others about our careers, how we ended up in the District of Columbia and where we grew up. Boys and men came up; anyone that’s in his late 20s and early 30s living in a metropolitan area of a big city with a heavy concentration of Black and other colored Gay/Bisexual men knows the difference must be noted. Two of the men at the table were in committed relationships. One in a commuters relationship (I’ve trademarked it).

Being one that travels for a living, I’ve rephrased the term Long Distant relationship, because it seems to have a negative connotation to it already planting the seeds of difficulty in the couples or the couple-to-be heads.

They laughed when they talked about their significant other, the smiled, they mad awkward faces; they cursed and lauded heir love all in one humorous quip.

After brunch, we road to MGM Casino in Maryland. We were there to celebrate a friend of theirs who had just made partner at his law firm. Friends and family were in a private room with champagne and finger foods.

There was a child, a Black boy who was happy to see recognizable faces and giving them hugs with the kind of happiness only a child can. I’m an introvert unless I’m intoxicated and I didn’t have enough mimosas at our previous location so I sat back, watched and admired. Ear hustling I started to recognize peoples relationships with one another. It quickly came to my attention that the honoree was there with his long term partner and the gleeful child was theirs.

My eyes stayed on them as a collective. I wanted to watch how they interacted; I needed questions answered: where they truly happy? Were the smiles and physical touches of affection authentic? Did they seem to pay attention to one other in a room full of loved ones? Could that be me one day?

Many of my friends have had relationships– some successful some a match made in hell. But I’ve never been consistently exposed to Black gay couples.

You want to be a writer you find a circle of peers who are talented writers. You want to own a Fortune 500 company you network with successful business owners.

I just think to become successful at queer relationships one may want to study first hand and enjoy being around Black gay couples.

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Six Tips on How to Suck an Uncut Penis

1. Make him erect.
2. Put it in your mouth.

3. Y’all nigga be trippin complaining about uncircumcised dick. I enjoy penis in its natural state. With Black woman on a national Instagram campaign to wear their hair natural, Niggas need to be encouraged to rock the “cock sock”.

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Yes, niggas with uncut meat have stinky dicks. But so do niggas with cut dick. I have yet to come across a nigga who ain’t been at work all day or running around town who ain’t have a little twang to the smell of his dick when he tried to put it in my face.

I’ve dated several men with that had the privilege of not having their parents disfigure them from birth. Dramatic — maybe. True — definitely. Infants are not circumcised for health benefits, but rather as a cultural norm. Some of the men I dated were very self conscious about having a normal penis (the kind with the foreskin). I always made sure that they knew I was unbothered by it. 4.: With one gentleman, George, I would always make sure I took his thick sable uncut dick and place it directly on the center of my tongue, tighten my lips around it like a monkey wrench on a lug nut, and go down further than humanely possible.

Besides smell, the girls site looks as another reason why uncircumcised dicks can’t enjoy their fellatio. My personal belief is that only 1 out of every 1000 dicks (cut or otherwise) is actually a pretty dick. I have a dick, it’s not that pretty — it’s just a dick.

–Intermission– Things I enjoyed doing with my boyfriend’s naturally foreskin-laden penis:

* Sing into like it was a microphone and I was Tina Turner

* Pull the skin back and forth while we watched Netflix original Emmy winning series House of Cards

* Put it in my motherfuckin mouth — because uncircumcised penis is not some monstrosity.

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I do believe if I make the mistake of having children one day (please be a boy) I will forgo the mutilation of his private appendage. Sure a few little whore-ish 7th grader girls won’t suck his dick (during the kids sexual experimental stage), but who needs a closed minded unfreaky hoe for your first fellatio encounter. I hope my son mouth fucks some adventurous non-pretentious coed, from my lips to God’s ears.

1888: 15% of the U.S. male population circumcised
“A remedy [for masturbation] which is almost always successful in small boys is circumcision. The operation should be performed by a surgeon without administering an anesthetic, as the pain attending the operation will have a salutary effect upon the mind, especially if it be connected with the idea of punishment.” John Harvey Kellogg [the breakfast cereal tycoon], Treatment for Self-Abuse and Its Effects, Plain Facts for Old and Young, Burlington, Iowa: P. Segner & Co. 1888, p. 295.

5. Don’t ignore the fact his cock has a sock. Let that nigga know you appreciate him and his foreskin. Yes, frankly, I don’t enjoy sucking dick unless I’m just really really into a motherfucker or in heat like a cat, but, until I’m married, I’m not gonna let a nigga know suckin dick on the regular is like a chore for me. Especially if it is uncut, I believe in making him and his little man feel extra special.

6. In the words of Serena Williams’s athletic apparel sponsor ‘Just Do It’.

 

* http://www.whale.to/a/circumcision1.html

Dating Men with only G.E.D.s

Wednesday

 

We sat in the car and a friend — an educator said, “its called ‘standardized test'”. He emphasized standardized the way passionate people do. He punctuated  it with his hands the way homosexuals do.


Thursday
Unexpectedly, we were in the presence of modern Vikings. The Dutch military on a plane trounced us in their 6’3″ and above-ness, their statues physiques and politeness. They produced conversation just among us Americans (huddled in a corner, gawking) about what we like; I was called picky. To get a rise out of the tall girl, skin the color of a perfect moccasin, I jokingly said “he must have a high school diploma or a G.E.D.”.
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Months Ago
I once had a crush on a boy who smoked. He smoked. He smoked. He smoked. He smoked. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him boy. There was a young man I had a crush on and he smoked and he smoked.
——–
Black children on average since 1970 have had lower standardized test scores than their White counterparts. Studies have shown this happens before kindergarten with the gap widening well into adulthood.
This man with his Black&Milds has a diploma, but dropped out of community college. I have a mother and father with no more formal education that a high school diploma. My generation is the first on both sides of my family to go to university. I was encouraged not to take the SAT, because that standardized test does not adequately measure the aptitude and intellect of African Americans; rather, I was encouraged to take the ACT. I did perform better on the latter rather than the former. I am the first person and only person in my immediate family to graduate with a secondary education degree, but I don’t believe I am the smartest of four boys.  I have given brain to plenty of men without secondary degrees. Men that still read more than I ever had. Men that still researched more than I ever had. Men that hypothesized and critically thought better than I ever had.
 
So when some White man on a plane full of Dutch Gods tells me people with G.E.D.s are lazy or that a diploma is not good enough for his attraction to a partner I reeks of privilege and standardization. Then the moment comes when you try to explain “I know plenty of men that have read more than me, researched more than me, think critically better than me with their G.E.D.s” and he refutes it with all his might and tries to segregate those people as anomalies. You sigh only to see a person of color to confirm with them and then you bring the conversation back to where is began (more lighthearted) about desires you would want in someone climbing your back and all I can think of is:
Black&Mild
I don’t date men who are Black and mild–
settling in between thin pink lips
white hands handling them.
He must be of something else–
Black and of earth
and of earth and Black.
It’s becoming like a little black dress
on any plus size woman.
I don’t date men who are Black and mild
he must be rooted and lit
as fuck.

“It’s the holidays, where is your man?”


During this winter season I had “to get upon my knees and ask god to see me” to let me know I’m worthy to be loved by those that I love. I asked the universe to show me affection the way I’ve tried to hand out favor to others. Not only is the winter plagued with holidays like Thanksgiving and Kwanzaa, but right after the New Years celebration is my birthday. “I put a brave face on,” during this time of year, because it is difficult to get through. The holiday season and my birthday “are killing me”. It’s a lonely time. I’ve always been a bit of a loaner. At this point, I can’t really tell if I’m a self imposed renegade or if I’m just not the type that melds well with others (I can be defensive); I do think it’s the latter. 

And now I travel for a living and now I’m almost 28. And now more than ever connection is important — romantic or platonic. I’ve most definitely hit that age where seeing brothers with babies, cousins engaged, friends with “new home signs”, and hearing mothers ask when are you gonna settle down fucks with your psyche. I know everyone’s path is different and I know not to rush into anything with anyone for the sake of having something, but I can hear the voices of these animals in my head poking and prodding at me like “Nigga, when you gonna get this shit together.” 


I haven’t tried to fuck the Birthday Blues away; I’m pleased by that. 

I remember (well I think it was) 2011 when I was at OutWrite Book store in Atlanta, Ga off Piedmont and 10th (which is not defunct and has been replaced by a restaurant by name of that same intersection) with a close friend for the book signing and discussion of When Love Takes Over, Darian Aaron‘s first book. I stood up all of 22 years old with a moderate fashion sense and asked something of the sort:

I’m getting up in age. It seems after 27 black gay men aren’t finding love. Should I just settle down with a boy I’m gonna meet now? I’m almost expired. 

The older gentleman in the crowd, well above 27, laughed at the notion of my ridiculous claim. 

But your late 20s feel like quick sand. And just when you’ve mediated and you think you’ve found peace and understanding. You slip a little more and your faith in yourself and your future and your abilities are tested (mostly internally). Maybe I’m still too young to understand myself. I need to find the space where I can see myself in a positive light without achieving the labels of “cuffed” for the holidays or the “successful” son who can host Thanksgiving dinner, because when I do this I think I my life will naturally expand to include the things that I’ve worked for and are meant for me. Happiness is not always the next destination nor holiday or birthday. 

**some quotes and paraphrases are lyrics courtesy of Redemption by Dawn 

A Date on World AIDS Day

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The last time we went on a date was 2008 maybe 9. Maybe I have an affinity for the past. I write period pieces about slavery and the civil rights era. On average, I think I keep in touch with more exes than most people. Here we are 2016: he has asked me on a date. Those were his exact words: date not chill.

I remember I met him when I was at Hampton University somewhere between a freshmen and a sophomore. He was a little dark, a little chubby, a little navy seaman. Now he’s retired and I’m bachelor degreed. He’s gotten more muscular and I’ve gotten a little thicker skin clearer. But there was always a certain symmetry in his face that I’ve been drawn too. With the baby weight off it’s a little more pronounced.

We’ve fucked in the interim. There was passion and lust and unbeknownst to him (probably) a little trepidation before, in the midst of, and after he act. But there’s a certain symmetry in his actions. I let my feelings be known he takes action. I said you haven’t taken me out on a date and day’s later he asked me if I wanted to go out on a date. I enjoy a man like that. I reveal in a man like that. I could honor a man like that.
The date: December 1st World AIDS Day. I don’t remember when I told him I was HIV positive, but I do recall telling him several times (because I kept forgetting I told him) and he told me to shut up, because he already knows.

A date; I can’t think of a better way to honor myself, others that are diagnosed with HIV, and those whose mortality has succumbed to the disease.

In The Desperate Hour

Oblivious. That’s what I was the first time I let him climb my back. I wasn’t aware of his commitment to another man. Why would I? I didn’t know his name. I was in a hotel in a big city  belly empty backside on fire for something Black and tall. He was number four of six that night.

A few months later over Thai in a dimly lit restaurant he says “I thought you were stupid but attractive. I thought you were a hoe and I’d never see you again.” I think it baffled him that he had a crush on a harlot. By this time he had mentioned his live in boyfriend it was massaged on me that they were at the end of their relationship. Their commitment was only in name because they shared a lease. What-the-fuck-ever: I could not care less; I had already fucked him. As I ate my green curry, he talked about casually dating me after they ended. Maybe after he gave himself some time to self evaluate and heal.

I enjoyed my free meal.

By all means he is a nice guy. Said he only stepped out on his old man after they stopped having sex. Rejection is a hard thing to take from someone you share a home with especially when there are others that are willing to do what your partner won’t. We did a couple cool things platonic friends would do together: worked out at La Fitness, watched the VMAs together, and a midnight diner run or two.

At some point while they were still leaving together, but may or may have not been a couple, he invited me over. I know it was to fuck so I drunk some darks hoping I could be tipsy while it went down. I was was extremely uncomfortable in his place. I’m always sorta awkward it’s just in my nature, however; I felt I shouldn’t have really been in their space. Although they were no longer a couple, I think, or maybe just not happy, they were co-habitating.

I stood. He told me I could take a seat on the living room couch. I was like some new born child not knowing where to go or where exactly where to sit or how to do gracefully. I plopped next to the arm of the couch holding on to it like some security blanket. He tried to make me feel comfortable but I had to go to my car because I left my charger. Really? I had to go take a shot of a mini I had in the glove compartment. I thought I’d take one, but I took two.

When I came back in I told myself I’d be this aggressive power bottom and take control. I made sure he knew what I came for by throwing my ass in his face. First he ate my ass on the couch then he took me to a their spare bedroom.  I recall him saying he wouldn’t be that trifling as to take me into their actual marital like bed.

In the spare bedroom as we were having sex he says, “tell me you love me.” I obliged. And while he said afterward it made the sex better; I thought to myself: how desperate can one person be.

But I remember a similar situation when I said it during sex only months early with someone in an attempt to make a connection — to make the sex better. In that moment as well, I said to myself “how desperate can I be?”

Before The HIV: Part 4 of 4 (Origin Story)

I wonder if he’s shouting Black Lives Matter now. I wonder if he’s protesting the senseless murders of Black men (and Black women). I know I rarely say it. I haven’t bought into it. I haven’t surmised how much I truly believe the statement when I’ve placed my own mortality on the line several times. Still, I wonder if Black lives matter to him now. I wonder if the statement only pertains to Black men slain by enforcement officers — if it does that’s fine by me, no animosity at all. Causes should be specific, plights are. I wonder how politically and socially conscious he is.

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It’s not that Black lives didn’t matter back in 2010 when we helped one another contract the disease, but obviously we cared a little less for our lives than we’d like to admit.

Things change rapidly. Though we weren’t in the midst of the 1980s rapid discovery and explosion of HIV/AIDS, 2005s mentality of the virus was nothing like it is in 2016. I remember back then if you met someone online there was very little exchange about HIV/AIDS status. Of course websites like A4A had a drop down menu that let you include your HIV status: positive, negative, unknown or it could be left blank. But rarely beyond that tidbit of information did men flat out ask one another. Fast-forward to 2016 (and in a testament to mattering more) plenty of men (if I haven’t gotten to it first) will ask me my status (and I love  it).

 The act of mattering to one self is a very internal feeling that is shaped by external forces whether they be government, media, faith, or family. On the surface my act of unprotected sex was the naivety of adolescents — I’m a young Black invincible gay motherfucker (imagine it in a Samuel L. Jackson cadence and tone).Under the surface I was condition to not matter to myself. I can’t speak for him.

I met him online the summer before my Hampton freshmen year. I fell quick and hard, hormones raging for this 6’3″ brown skin older boy with the legs of a soccer player and dick like the trunk of Snuffleupagus. We dated all freshmen year. We broke up all freshmen year. We reconciled all freshmen year. We fucked all freshmen year in my lone freshmen room (my roommate found out I sucked big black dicks and in some misguided notion thought I’d regress back to baby dicks requested to move out). We fucked raw all freshmen year. I fucked others all freshmen year. I fucked others raw, at times, and I fucked others protected, at times, all freshmen year.

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The most annoying question I repeatedly get since having HIV is “how did you get it?” I can’t recall anyone ever asking me “are you okay?”, or “are you mentally and emotionally healthy regarding it?”. Do I matter? Do Black lives still matter? I’m not sure how I contracted it. Well, the real question that they want to know and some do ask “do you know who gave it to you?” It never mattered to me, so why does it matter to so many other people. Nosey no empathy having motherfuckers — I say. It seems once you’ve contracted the disease you become an alien and according to what people have said to me once they know, I now know extraterrestrial lives matter but not my black one.

I understood the Emmy nominated production that is Beyonce’s Lemonade right away. I don’t matter to the world, but why am I also being betrayed and disregarded by the man (or men) I love? After freshmen year, I didn’t think I was coming back to Hampton so we ended it. I don’t recall the reason why I didn’t want to go back or didn’t think I’d be able to. We knew long distance was not logistical for us. However, we kept in touch through penis pictures and videos. About 6 months before the semester was to start I found out I was indeed returning to HU (the real one) and I proceeded to tell him. He said we would pick up where we left off.

He didn’t mean the monogamy or the relationship, but instead the back and forth. I wish I could say I remember it like yesterday, but I don’t. Somehow he told me; it could have been by phone call, email, plane or train. A week before I was to trek back to HU (the real one) he had confessed he was in a new relationship.

I still carried on with him my whole sophomore year off and on. Sex. Unprotected fornication. He was mine first. The first boy I swore I ever loved. Sex. Unprotected fornication in their home. He was mine first and he said I’d be his last. Swore he’d break it off. Some first year psych major may say I didn’t hold myself to a high standard, because I didn’t value my own self worth. I didn’t value myself enough to demand to be the only one in his life or have protected sex; if he was fucking me raw they must have been fucking raw and seven years later I think to myself who wasn’t he fucking raw. I guess Black lives didn’t matter.

I can admit: I haven’t cared for living for some time now. I didn’t care before the HIV and haven’t shifted my self-worth post diagnosis. I admit I’m a 27 year old insecure and suicidal Black gay male. I go off and on meds, even though I know that could create complications and lead to death. Hell, recently I almost overdosed on prescription drugs and alcohol, full disclosure: it was not my intent, but when I woke up in my car on the side of the road at 5am vomiting I couldn’t help, but think why I couldn’t have just died instead. I hypothesized (and I’m probably not the only one) that until Black gay men really internalize the feeling of worth, value, of mattering HIV/AIDS will never be a thing of the past for the Black community.

It was (guesstimating) maybe 5-7 months after we stopped having sex that I was diagnosed. It was (guesstimating) 3 years later that we both confided in our statuses to one another with no anomosity. No questions of how it was contracted just two Black men now making sure we were both okay, making sure we knew we mattered with honesty.

Men Have Always Shared Me.

Men have always shared me. They’ve never put their size 10-12 shoes down and said “no we won’t bring someone else into the bedroom.”

Men have always thought it was fun to watch me spread my body in a room full of 3-4 niggas. They’ve never threatened to leave.

Recently, I went on a date. No, not after a sexual encounter, but before it ever happened. Living in different states, I specifically came to his city to go on a date. The date was fun: dinner, a boxing match, bar hopping and teasing. The earth didn’t tilt and the stars didn’t shine brighter, but I was content. This is what he meant when he said, he was glad when he heard I wasn’t from his area that way he could get to know me before fucking me.

I had only planned on seeing him Friday. Saturday passed and I didn’t see him. I stayed in the city. Saturday I met a man or two. A man wanted a date or two wanted sex. I am booked up on Saturday. I had friends (platonic) to meet up with. I scheduled the man or two for Sunday.

Danny. We’ll call the date from Friday, Danny. On Sunday, he says he wants to see me before I left. I had a lovely time with him on Friday, but it didn’t stop me from riding dick on Sunday. And as me and the stranger from this place rinsed ourselves off, Danny said he had just parked. I’m not one to cause a scene. I didn’t rush my visitor out. I let him take his time. Then there was knocks on the door as Stranger 1 was in the bathroom.  As he enter the room and he exited the bathroom they spoke cordially. Danny says I could have just told him to wait.

Me: we all grown.

Danny took me to dinner. I ain’t pretty. I had bone in hot wings. I don’t eat to be pretty; I eat to sustain. And for fun. We went back to my hotel room after dinner. I brushed my teeth. I lost my floss.

I have always shared my body with men. If my boyfriend put his foot down I’ve always lifted it.

Lately, it’s been a joyous occasion to share sexual chemistry in a multiple body situation (I.e. threesum). As we sat there with Orange is The New Black season 4, a stranger, Stranger 2 knocked on the door. Danny, put on his close. He wanted no parts of a multiple person fuck-fest. Danny left. We text. I apologized. We had talked about these situations before and how we enjoyed them. He said he just wasn’t in the mood for it. He said we were good. We still text to this day. He wants another date.

I guess he really did mean it. He was glad I didn’t live in the area so he could get to know me first. But there is nothing special about me. He’ll be disappointed, he’ll regret not staying. I’d rather  have had the threesum than for him to get to know the real me. 

Beyonce, Black men Loving Black men is Still a Revolutionary Act

It was the penultimate visual of Lemonade, Beyonce’s 2016 Southern Black girl magic opus.  That image of those two people in a field it reminded me:

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In D.C., we were sitting in his apartment on a winter night. This apartment was once housing for Negro soldiers coming back from the war. I would always wonder when I visited if the creeks from the hardwood floor shook the soldier’s at night conjuring up their PTSD. In that apartment knowing the way I felt about him, romantic in nature, sacrificial in nature, he looked me in my eyes with a sense of joviality and said, “I’m trying to prepare myself mentally to be with a guy of a different race if I ever want to be married.” Though I provided a big contrast– me settled in my black skin. I was a spec in his all cream furnished apartment; he saw through me like cellophane.

The image of the two, one in denim jacket with afro to the sky and the (presumably) White man in white t-shirt playful and affectionate is affixed to a ballad about the optimism ahead after reconciliation is possible between two individuals.

Rod, a Leather Daddy in Atlanta, sat in my apartment as I interviewed him for a documentary (that never came to fruition). I don’t remember much of the hour long conversation, but what did stick to my bones like a pork chop and mashed potatoes was conversation about Black men in California. Rod is originally from San Francisco, but the south holds as special place in his heart for the simple fact that it is a locale where Black men will love on Black men. A hue as dark as any of Toni Morrison’s protagonist through the years, Rod is Black like lacquer. In San Francisco, Rod says his skin is a fetish for those that aren’t black and a deterrent sexually and romantically for those that are a part of the Black diaspora.

After I married myself to Beyonce’s plight of self discovery, her anger, her self condemnation: I fasted with her, grew my hair past my ankles, swallowed a sword and “plugged my menses with pages from the Holy Book,” I was disheartened to have it be illustrated to me that my happiness would be at the hands of interracial matrimony. After all the femme Blackness we maneuvered through in the hour long quasi-confessional, I yearned for the queer moment to be as transcendentally Black as the rest of the film. With so many motifs of Southern Black iconography seeing two Black men loving one another would have been a powerful stamp on an already monumental film. Take into consideration the ability to live openly Black and queer (unlike anywhere else) in mass populations in cities like Atlanta and Houston (Charlotte gets honorable mention). Or even the ability for New Orleans hip-hop and bounce culture to openly embrace queer aspects (to a certain and death defying extent).  In the District of Columbia, (yes, though north of the Mason Dixon line, if it had plantations, I consider it the South) Black professionals are openly gay in government positions, forming organizations and being invited to the White House.

 

I was maybe twenty or twenty one years old on the phone with my mentor. He may have been sitting on a Kansas porch toes muddling in red clay or at D.C.’s Busboys and Poets. We were conversing about a book I was working on (that never saw the light day); it was about identity and love. I remember the words from this forty something year old: the older we get as single Black gay man the more the notion creeps into our minds that we must find monogamy outside of our race or give up on love as a whole.

With face paint and head gear, I was in formation ready for the commands of General Yoncé. Ultimately, I had to go against orders; I had to fight the image of interracial coupling as my only avenue of marital utopianism. Since the turn of the current decade, we’ve seen a handful of Black professional and collegiate athletes come out as openly gay only to have White and non-Black significant others. I want to be Negro and desirable and be taken to an alter.

Ketel One Hosts The VIP Red Carpet Suite At The 25th Annual GLAAD Media Awards In New York

NEW YORK, NY – MAY 03: Actor Gerald McCullouch (L) and Derrick Gordon visit the Ketel One VIP Red Carpet Suite at the 25th Annual GLAAD Media Awards on May 3, 2014 in New York City. (Photo by Brad Barket/Getty Images for Ketel One)

 

My Instagram (@pattonthequeercurator) for sometime now (thankfully, at least once every other month) has been unveiling Black same gender loving men as grooms and husbands. When Marlon Riggs spoke of Black men loving Black men being a revolutionary act the context illustrated by my imagination was always as a rebuttal against gang violence and other male “Black on Black” crime. Never had I fathomed that the revolution was due in part to the psychological belief and practice that gay Black men cannot find romantic life long partnerships with one another.

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Lawd, I should have fucked his friends.

Lord, I should have fucked his friends. I really should have. I was trying to be an adult, but now every time I think of the situation I’m mad cause I didn’t fuck his friends. I could have at least pulled a classic Bernadette, no not cut off all my hair, and fucked up all his shit. I’m petty and I have a violent streak, though I know that’s not healthy.

A certain ex of mine and myself were rekindling a  romantic relationship. By no means was I trying to cuff him, it’s summer for goodness’ sakes, I just thought we could spend sometime together and fuck. I thought we’d have a mutual respect for one another, that’s all I asked for; that and his dark skin and big dick and he shoots like a fuckin streamer. But respect, that’s the foundation.

So on a Monday, I spoke with Joseph about coming to visit him the following Friday or Saturday; I told him I would let him know Friday early afternoon for sure. Done deal. We spoke sporadically throughout the week: jokes, sexual innuendos, barbs. Friday came and I confirm with him early afternoon like I said I would be taking one of two flights Friday evening. As the time came closer, 7pm,  I informed him I would take the 9:15pm flight to Virginia. I asked him if he has plans for tonight. He quickly replied no. An hour later, he started asking suspicious questions and my antenna went up “Joseph do you want me to come another day? Sounds like you have plans.” His rebuttal: why don’t you ask me rather than assuming?

Nigga, you got plans?
No.

Okay I’m getting on the 9:15 flight; I land at 10:30.
K.

Is there a need for me to keep typing? You already know what happened. You already know what this coon did. Fuckin’ Bojangle ass nigga. But I’ll spell it out for you.

I landed. After getting a rental car — cause this nigga don’t drive due to continuous DUIs.

Oh if you’re wondering, yes, I still am salty.

I landed. And after I get the rental car, I text him to tell him I’m here and on the way. At this time it is 10:44 and 23 seconds. He replies that he left a towel and wash cloth for me. I in turn teased him about being a lazy sleepy head. Nope he wasn’t lazy at all; he tells me went to the club, but he wouldn’t be long. I played it cool — Samuel L. Jackson type cool.

As I pulled up to his apartment, I text him to see where I could park. All the other times I had come to visit him, I paid for Uber. He tells me to park anywhere. Then he ask if I rented a car. I tel him “yes sir”. You’d think maybe at this point he’d invite me out. But nope. Nah. Ain’t happen.

So there I sat in his house, alone, for 6 hours until he walked through the door at 4:15am. Now although I didn’t fuck his friends, we did exchange words and they were nasty. I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t fuck his friends or at least tear up some shit in his place while he was gone or was asleep. If I could do it all again, I’d be petty as fuck. I’ll regret til my dying day that I acted like an adult.

What you have to understand is that I assumed we respected each others time and money. I asked did he have plans and he lied cause he said he wanted to go out, but he felt as though I wouldn’t come back to see him for months if he had been honest, when the truth is I would have just come the following day. Or at the very least I would have been informed and could have mad the decision all on my own. So now instead of him waiting a day or a week to see me, he’ll have to wait until next life time. Or at least until he seems my pussy pop severally across his Instagram feed.