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.

kanye-son-feel-purpose__oPt

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?

waiting.jpg

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.

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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.

gay super hero.jpg

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.

hottentot venus

 

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.

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

For the Bottoms who like to eat a Top’s Booty

Perhaps I should not expect so much; we all sell our bodies. From Serena Williams’s body that sells tickets at the grass courts of Wimbledon to President Obama who had to sell a fresh and promising feral masculinity demonstrated through an agile smile and upright shoulders to secure votes and Eminem, the rapper, who confessed “Shady knew Shady’s dimples would help/ Make ladies swoon baby (ooh baby!) Look at my sales.”

Jack’d Guy: I wanna fuck you.

SingleBlackQueerMale: That’s wassup. I’ll eat you then I’ll ride you.

Jack’d Guy: WTF

SingleBlackQueerMale: What?

Jack’d Guy: That’s backwards. Bottoms don’t eat ass.

I wasn’t upset. A little annoyed by ignorance. You know . . .  less by the ignorance and more by the prudish attitude that labels must limit us to explore other desires. To him, I suppose I sold myself as a bottom. Surely my ass pictures advertised the fact that I don’t mind anal penetration. Maybe that’s why Serena is seen as the Black female brute, her and Venus hyper-sexual in their on court tennis fashions: all power and sexuality. Serena (unwillingly) has sold herself as Black athlete, perhaps that’s why (prejudicially) Maria Sharapova has acquired substantially more assets in the form of endorsements away from the tennis court.

 

It is difficult for people to recognize you as complex being when they have put us into a box with singular monolithic descriptions.

 

Newest guilty pleasure: Divorce Court on YouTube.

A lot of the complaints from those that are considering divorce or those that have decided on divorce are the stagnant depiction of the role of wife or husband or sometimes the brand they have put on their spouse as one of the aforementioned.

Sometimes the women, believe they can no longer has exciting and lavish sex because they are a mother and sometimes their husband have put the June Cleaver brand on their backs. Sometimes the husbands become insecure that turns to anger, all because they may be in between jobs and cannot be the protector. At times it’s the woman who has put that brand on the man.

Perhaps I’ve sold myself short. Not only am I not a bottom, but I’m not a sexual object and perhaps if I didn’t present myself as one this man would have known me better to not have thought me eating his ass before I rode his dick perverse.

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.

navy-suit-black-model

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.

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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Hating the Freddie Grays

I remember being a little faggot; at least that’s what they called me. I was a faggot; color didn’t matter, dashing down the street, hurdling over 6-inch curbs. Though we all looked alike to outsiders, to me, they looked like dark demons: red eyed, with needles for teeth. To them, I looked like, well I’m not sure. You’d have to ask them. With feet that have always been too big for my frame, I began to trip over myself. I was near the front door of 744 Gravel Cork Rd., and just as I made it onto my front lawn, *WHACK*. I fell to the grass and covered myself up so at least if they stomped me, maybe they wouldn’t get my face. They didn’t stomp me. As all the other kids in the neighborhood arrived, the Jamaican boy and his sister, both seven years my senior, grabbed me (one by the feet, one by the wrist). They swung me like a jump rope counting down from ten. When they said one, I went hurtling into the air and landed in a puddle of water on my mother’s cement driveway. I remember the eldest brother watching and not having much to say.

I’ve always felt uncomfortable around heterosexual Black men. I’ve always hated heterosexual Black men.

There’s a lot of killing right now. A lot at the hands of systemic racism and the police force in America is just the vessel. Though my skin and genitals say Black Male, my spirit does not. I’ve long separated myself identity from being a Black Male. I call myself a Black Queermale, which for me holds a very separate distinction. I am not like them, therefore I have not shed a tear, much less blinked when Trayvon Martin was killed by a vigilante, or Michael Brown was left in the street like an opossum hit by a 18-wheeler. Most recently, I thought it was sad when I heard about Freddie Gray. I was also disgusted by the way the police (allegedly) broke his neck — killing him in their custody; I was disgusted as an outsider for those people. Not those people of Baltimore, but for Blacks, because I am not one of them. Though, at times, I think I should be.

Now I know hypothetically, if the Ku Klux Klan were to run through my neighborhood lynching niggas, they wouldn’t say, well he’s a Black Queermale, not a Black. However, I’ve never been habitually abused physically or emotionally by the KKK, so I don’t see them as much a threat. However, to me, Black men in my overwhelming experience have been like a pack of wild hyenas. I had a thought when all this epidemic of Black slayings was happening, and the thought is not kosher: If they want act like a pack of wild dogs, then perhaps they should be put down like them. Then I looked at the Black man in my life, specifically last night (April 28, 2015), and I thought, “I’m falling in love with a Black man.”

I look at him as a Black man, and not the queer adjective I’ve designated as a noun for myself, not because he’s masculine in mannerism and physical in appearance, but because of the fellowship he has with heterosexual Black men (one that has eluded me). The friendships he has forged, the comradery, the philanthropy towards Black men; these things have eluded me moving me continents away from my kin. When I look at him, I see a Black man and I see love. I’ve expressed my ideology to him and my hate; his eyes say he’s sad for the demons I keep as company. To think that I would be disgusted by him or wouldn’t be moved by his untimely death if I didn’t know he was a same gender loving man actually does hurt me to my core. I am hoping for change.

Freddie_Gray

We once had a conversation on his antique couch; he asked if I believe people were put into our lives for a reason. I lied. I said no. Though, I do believe it’s true. I believe he is my gateway into loving Black men again.

Gays are Choosing Lust over Love

My fetishes for certain attributes and things have definitely ruined some romantic relationships. I’m not sure when I became one of those Jack’d boys, but I did. Now I am hardly ever negative, For instance, I’d rather list my wants rather than my dislikes. However, I’ve had several instances when I have passed up some really great guys because they let their body slip while we were dating. I would stay to entertain them with my company, but as their bellies started to bulge and their biceps started to diminish, my disdain for sex with them grew. There are times when my sex drive was high and because someone (again a serious someone) did not have on exactly what I wanted I refused to have sex. The worst instance has to be the height requirement. While 6’2’’ is an excessive demand, I really do prefer 5’11’’ at least. There was a time in a relationship admittedly and embarrassingly stopped respecting my significant other because he was 5’9.” Of course there were other factors involved as well.

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