feature story

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.

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. 

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.”

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