Why am I not Good Enough to get my Dick Sucked?

you are not good enough

‘Being good enough’ is a common motif in my life as a Gay Black man; I think it’s innate for us all. While I hail from Southern California, my family is southern–religious, some more or less devout. While the Bible has taught us a White man and his family can be forgiven, forge and ark and sail the seven seas for forty days and forty nights, those Sodomites and citizens of Gomorrah (never largely depicted as Anglo-Saxon) aren’t even offered the olive branch of repentance. As Black and, more devastatingly, Gay my need to feel good enough is insensatiable. As a child and through adolescents, I always felt subpar to my older brother. He was normal, athletic, handsome, and popular; I was the runt in appearance, athletic ability, and all this forced me into reclusive practices.

I’m handsome and thick now, have my own set of people I call friends, and have a talent for creative writing that has garnered me my fair share of praise and accolades. Of course, I still have insecurities; they are almost symmetrical to my child. As a Gay Black man I must be muscular or athletically built, handsome, clothes on point, hair cut every five days and above all else be masculine.

I’ve learned that even when we’ve found someone to be with, we still wonder “am I good enough,” and this question doesn’t necessarily emerge because of infidelity; as a friend of mine says, it starts with mama and daddy. But, what does one do when you’ve moved on from parental disillusions and you are now in a relationship that also makes you feel insignificant?

I’m fully verse, but I must admit I do position myself to play the sexual role of bottom by the men I’ve dated. To sound stereotypical, I prefer a masculine man (but I also like it when they let me call them bitch and girl); I like that tug-o-war of sexual prowess in and out the bedroom and I haven’t found that connection and fun with those that identify sexually as bottoms or fully verse. Ideally the love of my life will be a Vers/Top, but nothing is ideal in reality.

I use to self inflict pain on myself. I wasn’t a cutter, but I did inflict mental and emotional pain on myself. I would date men who I knew were clearly tops and be upset when the willingness to be penetrated wasn’t reciprocated. I now know that was me being immature. Someone’s willingness to be penetrated by me, especially when they had declared their sexual role as a top had nothing to do with my worth. Of course, at that time I perceived their willingness to compromise sexually as a marker for my self esteem.

While, I have grown out of my own self-deprecation the scenario has reincarnated itself: Marcus sucks everyone’s dick except for mine.

Marcus is a gentleman I’ve known for a year and we’ve been spending more time together as of late. Because we are both consenting adults, we engage in ménage à trois and ménage mores at times.

Marcus has given me plenty of speeches about how he only sucks dick in our group sessions, because he doesn’t want things to be awkward and he believes everyone just needs to be engaged. It’s bullshit. He enjoys sucking dick. He should just admit it. However, it’s the fact that knowing I’m fully verse and I’m the only one left with a dry dick when there is another top in the room that leaves my feelings hurt. In these moments, I see myself as a kid again in the barbershop writing my mother letters about how I don’t feel good enough and how I feel like she loves my more talented, masculine, archetype eldest brother more. I’ve tried to pacify this for myself, but when someone, as Marcus has said, loves you, it is devastating that they are willing to please someone else in ways they don’t see you worthy of (even if it is subconsciously). I’m handsome, my body is better than 90% of the guys dicks Marcus is sucking, everyone is naked so clothes aren’t the issue, so the only thing that is left is that ever evasive Golden Snitch: masculinity. I’m not masculine enough to get my dick sucked. And all of sudden I feel too small like Alice in Alice in Wonderland after she drinks the mysterious bottle; I, too, like Alice can’t seem to reach the key to unlock that door of being ‘good enough’.


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