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. 


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

What being Fingered and Watching ‘Scandal’ has Cemented for Me

I’ll make this brief, as I am at work.

He walked over from his building to my door; I left it unlocked for him. He’s my neighbor, Haitian and African-American from Athens, 6’1’’, slim frame, no ass, and gorgeous dick. All we were ever supposed to be were fuck buddies. It was very convenient considering our proximity; I felt like I was back at Hampton University having the DL boys sneak into room 437 at Harkness Hall.


He entered my room wet from the rain on this Thursday. It was about 6pm. — Sometimes fuck buddies transition into chill buddies and that’s cool, too. — I raced to get him in bed so we could start watching previous episodes of Scandal. He was unfamiliar with the show. His excuse: he didn’t want to get caught up in the hype. –Bullshit–

As we watched Olivia and Fitz do their warn out waltz of a relationship, I laid on his chest. Ugh, I’m such a bottom at times. During some arbitrary scene where they kissed and fussed about the jungle fever love triangle, which includes Jake Ballard, he, I’ll call him Alex, took his middle digit and ran it along the crack of my ass. After he rubbed around the hole, he took his hand out my shorts, stuck that digit in his mouth so that it dripped with saliva, he then slipped back down my basketball shorts and tried to slip his finger into me.

I thought it erotic, pleasurable, that is until he said “I have to check to make sure you haven’t been fuckin any other niggas, “then Olivia spouted, “I am not a prize, I’m not something you win” and I thought or ‘buy or possess’

He had to leave; nobody exploits me, but me.  As far as sexual economics are concerned bottoms in the LGBT community are (in a blanket statement) the equivalent to women: chattel. I have no desire to be placed on a pedestal or auction block; to be fingered, poked and prodded by a Top, whom wants to make sure he has invested in good, undamaged property.

Dramatic? I don’t think so.

Patriarchal societies have often commodified the body as property. Marriages were bartering systems: a daughter traded from two pigs and hen.  When Olivia Pope shouts “you don’t get to win me,” she is proclaiming Fitz is not in competition with other me. Whether or not he does something more ostentatious than his (so called) competitors, she by default does become his. When Alex had no more than his fingernail in my wet asshole, he was trying to see if someone else was getting his prize. Something he thought he had one, something I never informed or led him to believe was up for possession, but it seems innately that men (another blanket statement) see property and persons as exchangeable.


Essentially, I was being fingered into monogamy. Perhaps Alex thought if he shamed me, I would be more inclined to becoming his and only his house hoe. If fingered my hole, as if he were my mom shaming me for not washing behind my ears, so the next time I showered I would make sure I cleaned them. To his credit, the fingering didn’t hurt and he did it pleasantly with a smile showing casing his under-bite. I learned a while ago, people not only fear what they don’t understand, but degrade and label those they cannot control. One of many purposes of labeling one a whore, slut, or promiscuous is to dehumanize and shame into societal norms. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 high acclaimed opus  The Scarlet Letter is a fictionalized description  of what women or those scene as the submissive one in a sexual situation go through in real life. Hester Prynne was made to wear the scarlet A (for adultery )to shame her into never acting out her desires again in her colonial community.

When I decide to let only one man enter me, it’ll be because I decided. Not because I was won or bought as property. Or because you want to shame me into being monogamous.

And his finger did not get far —I’ve got good snatch back.