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. 


For the Bottoms who like to eat a Top’s Booty

Perhaps I should not expect so much; we all sell our bodies. From Serena Williams’s body that sells tickets at the grass courts of Wimbledon to President Obama who had to sell a fresh and promising feral masculinity demonstrated through an agile smile and upright shoulders to secure votes and Eminem, the rapper, who confessed “Shady knew Shady’s dimples would help/ Make ladies swoon baby (ooh baby!) Look at my sales.”

Jack’d Guy: I wanna fuck you.

SingleBlackQueerMale: That’s wassup. I’ll eat you then I’ll ride you.

Jack’d Guy: WTF

SingleBlackQueerMale: What?

Jack’d Guy: That’s backwards. Bottoms don’t eat ass.

I wasn’t upset. A little annoyed by ignorance. You know . . .  less by the ignorance and more by the prudish attitude that labels must limit us to explore other desires. To him, I suppose I sold myself as a bottom. Surely my ass pictures advertised the fact that I don’t mind anal penetration. Maybe that’s why Serena is seen as the Black female brute, her and Venus hyper-sexual in their on court tennis fashions: all power and sexuality. Serena (unwillingly) has sold herself as Black athlete, perhaps that’s why (prejudicially) Maria Sharapova has acquired substantially more assets in the form of endorsements away from the tennis court.


It is difficult for people to recognize you as complex being when they have put us into a box with singular monolithic descriptions.


Newest guilty pleasure: Divorce Court on YouTube.

A lot of the complaints from those that are considering divorce or those that have decided on divorce are the stagnant depiction of the role of wife or husband or sometimes the brand they have put on their spouse as one of the aforementioned.

Sometimes the women, believe they can no longer has exciting and lavish sex because they are a mother and sometimes their husband have put the June Cleaver brand on their backs. Sometimes the husbands become insecure that turns to anger, all because they may be in between jobs and cannot be the protector. At times it’s the woman who has put that brand on the man.

Perhaps I’ve sold myself short. Not only am I not a bottom, but I’m not a sexual object and perhaps if I didn’t present myself as one this man would have known me better to not have thought me eating his ass before I rode his dick perverse.

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.


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.


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.


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.

ass shot 2

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.

ass shot 1

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.

ass shot 3