sex

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.”.
vikings_season2_episode1_history_1-E
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.

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.

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.

white bottom

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.

Top 5 Reasons to Add Janet Jackson’s New Single “No Sleeep” to Your Sex Playlist

If you’ve followed my musings or know anything about me personally then you’ll know Dawn Richard, from Diddy Dirty Money to her solo efforts, is why I am still in love with music. However, Janet Damita Jo the Oscar nominated songwriter is the reason why I fell in love with music in the first place.

With the debut of new single “No Sleeep” Janet, a twelve time Soul Train Music Awards winner, has me falling in love, yet again . . . and wanting to make love too.

So here are my TOP 5 reasons every Single Black Queer Male should add “No Sleeep” to their bump ‘n’ grind playlist.

5) Making Love vs. Getting Fucked.

I’ll be the first to raise my hand for a good pounding over something slow and sensual, but sometimes you do need to shift the gears. Even if you aren’t in love — making love or getting lost in the fantasy of making love can be a temporary, but worthwhile release.

4) You’re Guaranteed To Get At Least 5 Orgasms

Ms. Jackson (cause I’m nasty) has a built in goal for the lovers to reach on this song “48 hours of love/it’s gonna be a weekend marathon.” For those that are competitive and for those that have trouble setting their own marks, Janet has set a two day lovemaking session objective that will no doubt result in multiple orgasm and I’m sure some leg cramps.

3) Jump on the Bandwagon

Since Control’s “Funny How Time Flies (When You’re Having Fun)” Janet has been lending her vocals to the soundtrack to our bedrooms. I have multiple sex playlist on my Iphone and a Janet track (slow, mid, or up tempo) is always included.

2) The Rain

The plush production by Grammy Award winning duo Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis begins with the sound of rainfall a la “Any Time Any Place”. Who doesn’t love to have sex in the rain or at least when it is raining. The smell of rain is like natural poppers it makes bottoms looser and tops harder (and the vers pick a damn position.) Even if it’s faux rain the production is a great reason to make love.

1) Easy to Stroke to

Anyone who knows a Janet track knows there is honestly three artist on the track: Janet, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. The final reason to add Janet’s new adult contemporary single “No Sleeep” to your sex playlist is also the production. With its midtempo beat and funk groove keyboard slipped in the background,  it is easy for tops or those topping to find their stroke and catch it and it is easy on this track for bottoms or those bottoming to throw it back. Too many times the stroke-challenged have been fucking to a club banger and they just haven’t been able to keep up with the beat resulting in them derailing. If we are to meet Janet’s challenge of 48 hours of lovemaking it is very important that the stroke be correct, steady, and faithful.

Honoary Mention for the Masturborty Inclined

**

If you are a lovelorn individual pining over a certain someone, this is the perfect song to take care of business by yourself until the two of your are together.

Instagram: @pattonthequeercurator

Before the HIV: A Lie Pt 2 (And My First Time Raw)

There was six people that had to be 30 and older, maybe two in their 40s. They looked clean cut, well put together, as if they would be in pinstripes, polka dot red and white bow ties, suspenders and slacks if this this were 9 a.m. instead of 9 p.m. Instead I was greeting men at least 15 years my senior, all brown to dark skin, fit: ranging from bulging muscles to cut physiques, the least amazing of the bunch still had bodies that were tapered with definition in their “Wifey, I’m going to play spades with the boys” sweat pants, slides, t-shirts, and kicks. They all hovered around the height 5’10’’-6’1’’. The most distinctive feature about these men were their hair styles — no two had the same. There were ceasars, bald fades, twist, salt and pepper, receding, and dreads.

 

I met the host a youth pastor, at a place of worship. Before this foray into group sex, my first might I add, we had sex twice. He stayed in these nice apartments by Stonecrest Mall in the suburban Atlanta area. I don’t remember the sex, but I remember him. Comparing him to the gentleman in the group session, I remember he was the thickest, but he still had a nice body, a tattoo on his upper right arm — some tribal band, a beard, and he had a peculiar smell. It wasn’t a bad scent, just one I could never put my nose on and I haven’t smelled it since.

 

His invitation to the group session wasn’t smooth– he wanted to feel me out. He asked a 101 questions about what I would and wouldn’t be willing to do. Watching him flap his gums was like watching Tom trying to catch Jerry — strategic, but a mess and like a Tom and Jerry cartoon I couldn’t hear him say a word, not really, not until he mentioned “sex party”. 

wasn’t the first to enter the stylish apartment. Little did I know it was the standard Atlanta gay decor: a Marilyn Monroe portrait, brown and orange color scheme, and too many living room accessories — jars of marbles, vases with sticks, and more throw pillows than my four aunts have. On the couch was the man with dreads, a toilet flushed and one with salt and pepper walked out of the guest bathroom, and two more guys were sitting on the bed fully clothed. The host made me some vodka concoction. I felt awkward, but horny as hell. I had to think of graveyards in order to keep my dick from getting stiff. I didn’t want them to know I was some young punk overly excited and precumming on my black boxer briefs. As I sat on the couch, the man with the dreads was the first to speak to me and the first to touch my body. I went from thinking of graveyards to thinking of dead bodies, then the dead bodies turned into zombies, then the zombies had nice bodies and then one zombie with a banging body only half decayed started kissing on another zombie with a fat ass; one digitally penetrated the other and his ring finger broke off in his ass. Zombies — go figure. There was no way, I couldn’t stay soft to save my life; so, I scouted off the couch trying to hid my erections. I quickly walked into the bathroom to pee and adjust myself.

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After two more drinks, everyone crowded into the guest bedroom. There were candles lit, two pillows, and less than 200 thread count bed sheet. We stripped off our clothes. Brothers were kissing, slurping, sucking, tonguing holes. One guy with a frat tattoo on his arm began trying to find my sphincter with his tongue. With his tongue in my ass, he pushed my hips towards the bed and with the pressure of one hand on my back he used his strong bicep to force me down in doggy style as he continued to eat me. While it felt good, I was also preoccupied with the thoughts of what everyone else was doing. He couldn’t have got me into a position where I could be ate and have full view of the room? As I got up, fully intending to sit on his face so I could see everyone, he moved on to the brother with dreads. He dropped to his knees and used the tip of his tongue to flick his balls sack like he was flicking the light switch off and on. Mr. Salt and Pepper was already getting the business end of the only guy who looked like he was barely in his 30s. He was grinding and creating a circle with his hips as he penetrated the younger guy with black du-rag and hazel eyes. It seemed for a minute everyone was watching them, even the ones sucking dick had their eyes on them with a dick in their mouth.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I had only involved myself in oral sex with the taste of pre-cum on my lips to prove it. The two guys that were in the bedroom earlier, when I just entered the apartment, were on the floor. The yellow bone with slightly reddish brown hair was pounding away at his dark skin counterpart. Later I learned they were a couple. The dark skin one on the bottom, had to have the best body there, but he moaned like a female with his legs wrapped around the back of his lover. He squirmed and bucked so much I swear he got a carpet burn.

And in an instant, there was me: face pressed against the luke warm off-white wall. The youth pastor holding me against it with his right forearm as he took his left hand around my body to play with my nipples. The guy with dreads lubed my ass and put a condom on the youth pastor. He fucked me against the wall with his stout dick as I practiced lamaze breathing techniques. He got off of me after a while. Then I felt these things on my shoulder, they tickled and smelled of mango. The handsome brother: brown skin, pink lips, piercing half crescent eyes, slipped himself inside of me as if it were his turn to try a pair of new jeans on in the fitting room of H&M. After making me feel like a real bitch against that wall entering and exiting my body with his warm lips kissing my neck he pulled out and I just had to see his face. I turned around to see his strong cheekbones and his raw dick glistening with my juices and lube on it.

 

A week after Tin Lizzies on a cool night, where you can’t see the stars because the Atlanta skyline is so bright, I carefully stopped bouncing on my toes, stopping myself from riding Hank’s dick. I could feel his cum seeping out of me and his dick glistened like the dred head from 9 years ago.

 

That night, as I got hope I looked at my phone. There was a text message from Hank.

 

Hank: Are you negative?

 

Me: Yes.

 

Hank: Good. I am too.


That night I went to bed a lair.