Atlanta dating black gay men

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

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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.

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?”

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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10 Dating Tips from a Queer Non-Expert

I’m no dating expert; I’m just someone who has fucked up a lot and learned some shit along the way. Of course my cabinet memebers and I call joint sessions to brainstorm on the ideals of dating. So I annoyingly asked some of my most boisterous friends to text me a few dating tips. They were pretty harsh until I explained it was for the blog then their ideas became generalized, but still ouch.  So below are ten dating tips I compiled from the sound advice of the judies.

 

**Advice followed by Instagram handles**

10) Give a compliment. — Me @pattonthequeercurator

Guys, compliments go a long way and not only about appearance but about someone’s ambitions. Sometime ago, I attempted to rekindle romance with an old flame. We talked about what we had both been up to in our time away. I mentioned this here blog. He rolled his eyes. He laughed. Uttered “it must be boring.” Compliments are a good corner stone they are positive reinforcement, they show attentiveness, and it shows support. Now I have no stick up my ass. I can tease and crack jokes with the best of them, but my motto is let the compliment come before the punchline.

9) Once you find you are attracted to a guy, let the body daze simmer down. Find out if he has substance. @geniusthesecond

We are all guilty of dating people we are attracted too (I think it’s a good guilt), but don’t let the lust of the flesh have you thinking you are in love. That doesn’t mean stop dating the guy with a six pack or them thick thighs you like or the pretty feet. Just know he may only be good for dating and that is fine.

8) Treat every person like a new person. @royalprinceja

Look bag lady (looks in mirror) let that shit go. Someone can help you to unpack your bags, but they don’t want to be buried by the filth they helped you out out. This isn’t solely about treating each potential man differently from one another. We tend to think we only carry dating baggage from one relationship to the next. However, we tend to do that with work issues, parental issues, and issues with friends.

I knew I wasn’t ready to date. I told my friends over brunch. I told them it was because I wasn’t settled in life. I wasn’t where I thought I should be at 26. I told them it was about money. I thought it was about money. Turned out I had demons — by the bucket load.

7) Open up and allow yourself to be vulnerable. @alaphunkee

Now, I don’t condone lying your burdens down over your first visit to Dunkin Donuts or pleading your wishes for monogamy and matrmoney during the first dinner date.

Think of it this way — even Kanye opens up.

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6) Give the person your undivided attention. @kelz_dabest

Like many in the tribe of gay, I have a friend that was first a potential. In one of our first encounters after jack’d and then randomly seeing each other in the club was him coming to my place. He stayed on jack’d. I decided we’d be friends then and there.

5) Wear something tight and don’t fuck on the first date. @hostalmalure

It’s cute: that progressive flag, that liberal banner, that mantra of “we can have sex on the first date cause we are grown.” I have had relationships end when I’ve been plucked on the first night and I’ve had them end when I’ve waited. However, the point is men are most interested when you hold out. Where you interested in Christmas 2016 on the 26th or were you interested in New Year’s Eve?

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4) Netflix & Chill isn’t a date. @_justbliquor

FIRST OF ALL actually go on a date. My petpeeve is someone asking me out without saying the word ‘date’ when its been made clear through hundreds of sent and recieved text messages that we are interested in each other as more than friends. Even if it’s not a Netflix & Chill, it wouldn’t kill a man to say “Lets go on a date. How do drinks sound?” Instead of “Lets hang out lets gt a drink.” There is nothing wrong with actually asking or suggesting an actual date. Some may think I am presenting symantics, but word choice is powerful.

3) If you were the person to ask said other person out on the date pay. @mrdblack11

This involves some ciritical thinking skills: don’t ask anyone out on a date when you are broke and don’t ask anyone out that has an objective to suggest somewhere out of your league or maybe out of theirs.

I believe in simple dates to start smoothies and bike ride or walk or indoor rock climbing or a cooking class all things that can be done for less than $30 together. If you can’t afford to lose out on $30 dollars cause you don’t end up liking the person then you have no business dating; you need to be working.

2) If you are dating make it clear to the others they are not the only one you are d-a-t-I-n-g. –My Mama.

Yes, my mama did text it to me just like that. Don’t get your ass beat or break someone’s heart making them feel like they are the only one you are seeing. Dating around is fine. Honesty is a requirement.

Dating can be just that honest, fun, and respectful. Everlasting agape love doesn’t have to develop out of a date sometimes it’s just an experience and let it be a good one.

1) Don’t force it. –Me, again

Chemistry: you got it or you don’t go it.

Before The Hiv: A Lie Pt 3 of 4 (Coming Clean and a Confrontation)

I’m a lazy liar. Couldn’t keep up with the effort of portraying a newly diagnosed HIV person. I lied and tried to make him believe that I just found out I was positive after going for a STD panel screening. He believed me at first, concerned and torn and tears. Ugh — I ain’t shit, but frankly I couldn’t afford to get my ass beat by telling him the truth to his face when he asked. I mean we fucked in the heat of the moment. Why wasn’t he responsible before he crept inside me raw? Shit — why wasn’t I. Usually I am. I have a good track record of disclosure. So much so that I tell people over and over again, because I forget that I’ve told them. I never sit down and have a heart to heart about it. I just tell them. Sort of like —

“Hey, Patton, where would you like to go for lunch?” Me: I have HIV. But let’s go to that place off Piedmont with the mussels that I like.

No lie; but in the moment, I froze, I panicked, I didn’t want my pretty face bludgeoned. But I had to come up with a way to know he was at risk so I came up with that lie.

 

A month then two went by and I kept up the statement of how I got it, but I couldn’t fake a somber deposition that you would assume one would have with a new diagnosis. So I confessed. I told him the truth. Through text — of course. Again, I couldn’t afford to get my ass beat. He asked me to come to his place. I agreed. I told my best friend; he has a gun.

 

I was greeted with a kiss and hug, like I always had been. However, he wasn’t going to catch me with my guard down. Told my best friend if I didn’t send an ‘I’m safe text’ at the fifteen and thirty minute mark to come rescue me. I scanned the room for things I could use as a weapon: a potted plant, a pen on the table, a prayer to God. Positioned myself between him and the door, so I could take off if need be.

 

We sat and talked about a few things like why I lied, about each of our account ability in the matter, the fact that he knew cause I can’t act worth a damn, and where we would go from there.  I text my bestie and said I was okay.

 

Where did we go from there? We went to the bedroom without a condom in sight.

Dog Whistle Compliments and Positive Statuses

Scandal called it “Dog Whistle Politics,” and dark hued beauties hear the whistle loud and clear when suitors spit the line “You’re cute for a dark skin girl.” With a gaze of disappointment at the man offering the line and a raised chin as to assert the next words uttered out from her lips, “I am not pretty for a dark skin girl. I’m simply a beautiful woman,” girls with skin as rich as oil know a slighted compliment when they hear one.

I am not sexy for an HIV Positive person; I am simply a sexy motherfucker. I met him over a year ago and at that time he wanted to beat on my box. However, when I told him I was HIV Positive he backed off. I didn’t really care. I’m ‘unbothered’ by men who do not want to engage me sexually, because of my status. I’ve always felt there is always some reason why someone can reject you; if it’s not my HIV it could have been my small ears, or my calloused heel or my dry scalp. There are a ton of reasons why I’m not ideal so just add my HIV status to the list.

About a year has passed since this man, a self-confessed Atlanta gym rat with boulder sized biceps and bigger thighs complete with a baby face of a sixteen year old although he is 29, lost interest because of my status. I was never angry; I’m sure he’s had sex with positive people who have not disclosed their status or lied, but ignorance is bliss when it comes to HIV and sex at large in Atlanta.

Recently, he’s come back around, but I’m not readily available when he has text me with his mating call and this is the issue. I’ve been subjected to that tired ass tune that niggas give when you are not prepared to fuck upon command, “Why you playing, Bruh?” Girl, go ahead with that bullshit, I’m not sitting around waiting on you to get horny, so I can fulfil your sexual request.

Then this nigga proceeds to say “You told me your status, and I’m still trying to fuck, so why you playing?” Wait, I didn’t know I was supposed to feel grateful as an HIV positive person to have sex with someone that is negative. My self-worth has not diminished, because of my HIV status. I’ve had sex and I’ve had relationships. I’ve had one night stands and I’ve had men tell me they love me. I’ve never, nor will I ever look at a man and think I am lucky because they have accepted my status, because it is not a burden.

My HIV status is not something that people fleeting or long term should treat as a burden. We don’t treat cancer patients and their illness as such or any other disease. However, there is this thought that HIV, because heavily transmitted through sex and drugs, is a dirty disease and those that have contracted it are close to biblical leprosy.

While I’ve had my fair share of self-esteem issues; HIV has never contributed to any of those issues. I won’t lie, I have done things to make sure my body doesn’t physically look like its battling a chronic illness, but a man’s sexual approval was never what I was after.

In hidden or maybe not so much hidden code, this young man was trying to tell me he is a privilege to me because of his status. His words uttered a totem pole essentially placing his negative status on top and my positive status below, and I should be gleeful to be offered dick with someone of his status.

Status once simply meant the socio-economic grade of one holds in society, but for Queer Black Americans (especially in Atlanta) status incorporates the aforementioned and HIV status. Status (as in the medical sense) has created a psychological divide amongst the Black Queer community — literally the Have and Have-Nots. I know a number of positive individuals that are happier to meet other HIV positive men to date. There seems to be an air of disappoint pushed from their lungs when they tell me they’ve met someone and he’s HIV negative and this is even when the negative person has no problem starting a romantic relationship with the positive person.

Many times we like to date those that are equal yoked and serodiscordant relationships (one person HIV positive the other HIV negative) automatically disrupt that contentment in the worst way for some. There is this psychological battle the positive one may have to endure of not being as sexually viable, not being as healthy, not being able to sire offspring as easily. So when a motherfucker tells me, “You told me your status, and I’m still trying to fuck, so why you playing?” I know he looks at me as if he is doing me a favor and I should be grateful. I’m confident that I’m a sexy fucking bunny, not a sexy fucking bunny for an HIV positive person. So thank you, but no thank you on that dick sir.
INSTAGRAM: @pattonthequeercurator