black gay

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.

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.

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.

Coerced Confessions

I drank more, perhaps too much. As I laid on my side, spooning and then tossed on my stomach, I started to feel dick up in me. Marcus was fucking me. Perhaps it felt good or perhaps I’m used to being taking advantage of even after I’ve said no or perhaps we can blame it on the liquor. Four hours into the new year and I had been deflowered already. If I would have conducted the research for this article before attempting abstinence, I would have known “In the Middle Ages, the Decretum Gratiani stated that: ‘neither a wife may make a vow of abstinence without the consent of her husband, not the husband without the consent of his wife.”

coreced

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