being single

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.

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.

Take your White Eyes off my Black Dick

If I was a comic book character in a gay Stan Lee universe, I’d be Captain Big Black Marvel Dick. Every villain would be a White Bottom who only did mischievous things so that I would have to come save the day. And what’s my super power? Fucking of course. Beastly, hour long fucking with my enormous oil slick cock that makes white men squirm and ejaculate upon penetration.

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I don’t let White men touch my penis, let alone my body, because in the hands of white men historically Black bodies have always been objects — objects to propel King Cotton, for the NFL,  circuses (i.e. Sara Bartman), sexual exploitation (i.e. see last i.e.) and last but historically not least an object for experimentation from breeding certain negro chattel together to Tuskegee.

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For as long as a Europeans were blessed to see the bodies of Africa that have been enamored by it and baffled by it and evil to it. So in this age of online chatting, dating, and sex White men have easier access to introducing themselves to the Black body, which lets their language of approach be no different than that of master to property.

 

TOP 5 Messages from White Men on Dating Apps (within the first 3 messages).

 

No. 5: Top?

 

No. 4: Let’s fuck.

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No. 3: Big Dick?

 

No. 2: Show me your dick.

 

No. 1: A picture of the entrance to their anal cavity

 

I will be honest and say (which is odd considering how slavery started)  European whites are a tad classier. They compliment me on my skin tone, say I’m gorgeous first, or ask me my sexual desires before saying they want the Black dick.

 

This language is no different than what I’ve actually experienced with Black guys in Atlanta, the District, Miami, the Bronx. What does make it different is the lens of the aggressor. Simply put: A White man has tried to fuck me, but has never tried to date me.

Being Mary Jane and I: A Plea to Stay Single in the Face of Love

I woke up this morning back sore: upper right side in pain. I didn’t do anything to strain myself that I normally wouldn’t do. Normal daily routine: some sort of corporate or personal work, working out, if I’m staying home get very drunk and have sex with multiple people; if I am leaving the house, drink just enough so I can operate a motor vehicle, but make a drink to take and drink on the road. I went to a sex party Sunday to fill holes and voids. Though the poundings to and fro where good, nothing was back breaking.

Before I left the house, I watched BET’s Being Mary Jane marathon. One of the episode’s openings popped up in my head as I felt the sharp and radiating pain in my back. Pacing in her apartment, as they often show, making a Johari Window, Mary Jane was Erykah Badu’s proverbial bag lady trying to unpack all her shit. I don’t do self-deprecating, quite frankly it’s tacky. I do, however, take pride in being self-aware; perhaps this is why part of my Saturday was ruined.

This past Saturday, I finally went white water rafting; it is an activity I’ve said I wanted to do for the past two summers (if not more). There were hiccups of people not being on time causing us to leave late, which in turn makes for a frantic and flustered car ride to the destination. I went with friends and it was an attempt to surprise someone that I care about. Though, I plea to stay single, I do miss sharing special moments with one special person. I had an attitude because of the tardiness; to put it in perspective this was a trip that an instructor takes you on and this was my second time trying to go in as many weeks. The first time, I fucked up and the business was nice enough to work with me and not make me pay again. The tardiness gave us an hour and a half to make a two hour trip; so, reasonably I was upset. My special someone was making jokes at my expense, upon seeing me not crack a smile he proceeds to say “You know you can’t joke with Stefano; he’s bipolar.” It’s a joke he’s repeatedly made over the course of a year knowing me, and it’s a joke I’ve never cracked a smile or laughed about.

There is something wrong with me, and I know it. Whether it’s just emotions I have to work through or it’s a mental illness I’ve yet to be diagnosed with, I know something is not right. I’ve tried to going to therapy/counseling before, but never stuck with it. Tried to talk to people who I think may be the root of an emotional issue, I was dismissed. My only haven and perpetual love has been the sex and drugs.

His comment was the last time I could take it, though I bottled it up for that trip, I exploded that night. I’m not sure what set me off, (no excuse) but one fish bowl, two shots of Patron, four long islands, and a swig or two from a small tequila bottle I had in my car later and in an instant I went from restroom stall sex, tootsie-rolling to TLC’s Creep and, performing my own tone deaf karaoke rendition of Alanis Morsette’s You Oughta Know to storming out the bar (tab pad) and putting my hands on him.

I’ve replayed it over in my mind, what I can remember. What I remember most about that night is that it’s a pattern. I once thought my ex-boyfriends were the problem, but it looks like it is me.

After phone, text, and face to face conversations he’s offered to help me unpack my baggage. I’m a fool; I said know. I don’t feel like anyone should have to deal with my problems; we all have our own. Though, I pause and hold my breath and I my heart hurts, I think that this is what everyone wants: someone that says, “I’ll help you unpack your baggage.” I can’t accept the help; I feel it’s futile.