black lgbt

Beyonce, Black men Loving Black men is Still a Revolutionary Act

It was the penultimate visual of Lemonade, Beyonce’s 2016 Southern Black girl magic opus.  That image of those two people in a field it reminded me:

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In D.C., we were sitting in his apartment on a winter night. This apartment was once housing for Negro soldiers coming back from the war. I would always wonder when I visited if the creeks from the hardwood floor shook the soldier’s at night conjuring up their PTSD. In that apartment knowing the way I felt about him, romantic in nature, sacrificial in nature, he looked me in my eyes with a sense of joviality and said, “I’m trying to prepare myself mentally to be with a guy of a different race if I ever want to be married.” Though I provided a big contrast– me settled in my black skin. I was a spec in his all cream furnished apartment; he saw through me like cellophane.

The image of the two, one in denim jacket with afro to the sky and the (presumably) White man in white t-shirt playful and affectionate is affixed to a ballad about the optimism ahead after reconciliation is possible between two individuals.

Rod, a Leather Daddy in Atlanta, sat in my apartment as I interviewed him for a documentary (that never came to fruition). I don’t remember much of the hour long conversation, but what did stick to my bones like a pork chop and mashed potatoes was conversation about Black men in California. Rod is originally from San Francisco, but the south holds as special place in his heart for the simple fact that it is a locale where Black men will love on Black men. A hue as dark as any of Toni Morrison’s protagonist through the years, Rod is Black like lacquer. In San Francisco, Rod says his skin is a fetish for those that aren’t black and a deterrent sexually and romantically for those that are a part of the Black diaspora.

After I married myself to Beyonce’s plight of self discovery, her anger, her self condemnation: I fasted with her, grew my hair past my ankles, swallowed a sword and “plugged my menses with pages from the Holy Book,” I was disheartened to have it be illustrated to me that my happiness would be at the hands of interracial matrimony. After all the femme Blackness we maneuvered through in the hour long quasi-confessional, I yearned for the queer moment to be as transcendentally Black as the rest of the film. With so many motifs of Southern Black iconography seeing two Black men loving one another would have been a powerful stamp on an already monumental film. Take into consideration the ability to live openly Black and queer (unlike anywhere else) in mass populations in cities like Atlanta and Houston (Charlotte gets honorable mention). Or even the ability for New Orleans hip-hop and bounce culture to openly embrace queer aspects (to a certain and death defying extent).  In the District of Columbia, (yes, though north of the Mason Dixon line, if it had plantations, I consider it the South) Black professionals are openly gay in government positions, forming organizations and being invited to the White House.

 

I was maybe twenty or twenty one years old on the phone with my mentor. He may have been sitting on a Kansas porch toes muddling in red clay or at D.C.’s Busboys and Poets. We were conversing about a book I was working on (that never saw the light day); it was about identity and love. I remember the words from this forty something year old: the older we get as single Black gay man the more the notion creeps into our minds that we must find monogamy outside of our race or give up on love as a whole.

With face paint and head gear, I was in formation ready for the commands of General Yoncé. Ultimately, I had to go against orders; I had to fight the image of interracial coupling as my only avenue of marital utopianism. Since the turn of the current decade, we’ve seen a handful of Black professional and collegiate athletes come out as openly gay only to have White and non-Black significant others. I want to be Negro and desirable and be taken to an alter.

Ketel One Hosts The VIP Red Carpet Suite At The 25th Annual GLAAD Media Awards In New York

NEW YORK, NY – MAY 03: Actor Gerald McCullouch (L) and Derrick Gordon visit the Ketel One VIP Red Carpet Suite at the 25th Annual GLAAD Media Awards on May 3, 2014 in New York City. (Photo by Brad Barket/Getty Images for Ketel One)

 

My Instagram (@pattonthequeercurator) for sometime now (thankfully, at least once every other month) has been unveiling Black same gender loving men as grooms and husbands. When Marlon Riggs spoke of Black men loving Black men being a revolutionary act the context illustrated by my imagination was always as a rebuttal against gang violence and other male “Black on Black” crime. Never had I fathomed that the revolution was due in part to the psychological belief and practice that gay Black men cannot find romantic life long partnerships with one another.

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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.

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.

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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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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Being Mary Jane and I: A Plea to Stay Single in the Face of Love

I woke up this morning back sore: upper right side in pain. I didn’t do anything to strain myself that I normally wouldn’t do. Normal daily routine: some sort of corporate or personal work, working out, if I’m staying home get very drunk and have sex with multiple people; if I am leaving the house, drink just enough so I can operate a motor vehicle, but make a drink to take and drink on the road. I went to a sex party Sunday to fill holes and voids. Though the poundings to and fro where good, nothing was back breaking.

Before I left the house, I watched BET’s Being Mary Jane marathon. One of the episode’s openings popped up in my head as I felt the sharp and radiating pain in my back. Pacing in her apartment, as they often show, making a Johari Window, Mary Jane was Erykah Badu’s proverbial bag lady trying to unpack all her shit. I don’t do self-deprecating, quite frankly it’s tacky. I do, however, take pride in being self-aware; perhaps this is why part of my Saturday was ruined.

This past Saturday, I finally went white water rafting; it is an activity I’ve said I wanted to do for the past two summers (if not more). There were hiccups of people not being on time causing us to leave late, which in turn makes for a frantic and flustered car ride to the destination. I went with friends and it was an attempt to surprise someone that I care about. Though, I plea to stay single, I do miss sharing special moments with one special person. I had an attitude because of the tardiness; to put it in perspective this was a trip that an instructor takes you on and this was my second time trying to go in as many weeks. The first time, I fucked up and the business was nice enough to work with me and not make me pay again. The tardiness gave us an hour and a half to make a two hour trip; so, reasonably I was upset. My special someone was making jokes at my expense, upon seeing me not crack a smile he proceeds to say “You know you can’t joke with Stefano; he’s bipolar.” It’s a joke he’s repeatedly made over the course of a year knowing me, and it’s a joke I’ve never cracked a smile or laughed about.

There is something wrong with me, and I know it. Whether it’s just emotions I have to work through or it’s a mental illness I’ve yet to be diagnosed with, I know something is not right. I’ve tried to going to therapy/counseling before, but never stuck with it. Tried to talk to people who I think may be the root of an emotional issue, I was dismissed. My only haven and perpetual love has been the sex and drugs.

His comment was the last time I could take it, though I bottled it up for that trip, I exploded that night. I’m not sure what set me off, (no excuse) but one fish bowl, two shots of Patron, four long islands, and a swig or two from a small tequila bottle I had in my car later and in an instant I went from restroom stall sex, tootsie-rolling to TLC’s Creep and, performing my own tone deaf karaoke rendition of Alanis Morsette’s You Oughta Know to storming out the bar (tab pad) and putting my hands on him.

I’ve replayed it over in my mind, what I can remember. What I remember most about that night is that it’s a pattern. I once thought my ex-boyfriends were the problem, but it looks like it is me.

After phone, text, and face to face conversations he’s offered to help me unpack my baggage. I’m a fool; I said know. I don’t feel like anyone should have to deal with my problems; we all have our own. Though, I pause and hold my breath and I my heart hurts, I think that this is what everyone wants: someone that says, “I’ll help you unpack your baggage.” I can’t accept the help; I feel it’s futile.