It took forever that time, choking the neck, my mind was too scattered. The weed helped. Afterwards, looked at it on my belly and sliding off my hand, the milky insanity to constantly appease my flesh and hormones. I thought about an ex lover. My first thought afterwards, why does sex have to be so dramatic? Jacking off always bring everything back to perspective.
It was a simple as just because I shook your hand, didn’t mean I’m having sex. There’s the gay eye contact. There’s the gay licking of the lips. There’s the gay head nod. There’s the gay section of a train or bus. There’s the gay section of a public library. In gay life, there are too many sexual innuendo landmines, and if an unsuspecting innocent isn’t careful, he can find himself trying to get out of a bad seventies porn situation. I can’t count the times where I paid for a soft drink and had the cashier who I suspected was gay give me my change and then touch my hand too affectionately, or riding on a train and a simple smile at a stranger invites his lust and him getting off at my stop and trying to invite me home, or a head nod and eye contact on a Saturday night meant a “well dressed” guy grabbing his crotch and then pulling on his dick to show it to me. I had to think to myself, straight women don’t have to go through this shit. As a gay man, I have to be very careful with my body, not just safe sex, but safe body language because a head nod for a regular stranger is just a greeting but to a gay man however innocent it can mean “I like to give you fellactio at the nearest public urinal.”
Just my luck my religious fanatic Grandma who refuses to acknowledge that I’m gay, decided to scooter herself into the twenty-first century by getting a computer. I couldn’t help but remember the horror of her last technological achievement when she got a cordless phone with call waiting. It took me a year of explaining before she finally got that when the phone beeped it didn’t mean that she had to keep returning it to the store because she thought it was defective. The beep meant someone else was calling. My grandma was the type who VCR still blinked “12:00” o’clock, but the second she got a computer, she sent me the most disturbing email. The church decided to get their own website and their first agenda was “Protecting ignorant god fearing Christians from sick homosexual predators” aka “Exposing the homosexual agenda.” In her email, Grandma explained that because I lived in the big city and was a good southern boy, I needed to know that there were sinners out there, recruiters, who preyed on unsuspecting virgins trying to turn them from the light and into their kinky beds. What grandma failed to realize, I was not only one of those homosexual recruiters with a kinky
bed, shit, I taught the class and wrote the books.
What was most amazing about the website, it gave specific instructions on the “homosexual” handshake and its meaning. It explained, on casual introduction, the prospective recruit (palm facing) would be extended that homosexual hand, and upon touch, the homosexual using his gay wit will insert the “the three finger” lure. I thought that sounded hot. The homosexual then will extend his middle finger toward the tender area of the victim palm. I loved the use of the word “tender” and middle finger which basically meant “fuck.” It is then explained that if the homosexual didn’t sense resistance, he would begin to tickle the inside of his victim palm. Lastly, during the final downward motion of the handshake, the homosexual will either insert or receive the index finger, which meant he has decided who will be the “girl” when they meet later in a public toilet for sex. I guess the homosexual didn’t have an apartment or a couple of dollars for a bathhouse room or motel. I immediately emailed my Grandma back and told her thanks for the information and I will used it to my advantage to protect myself from the lurching homosexuals.
A couple of sticking hours later, I found myself Clinging to my pussy in the dark, my dirty snow chinchilla squirmed in my arms as I struggled to keep her mouth closed. The cat and I had become Anne Frank in our own home, as the Nazi banged angrily at the door. I was a coward, didn’t feel like dealing with the confrontation, so I hid under the kitchen table in my red jockstrap. The cat confused and annoyed tried to use her filed down claws to escape me, but she tickled instead, which angered her more, until finally I decided she would be no comfort to me and let her go. She sprinted from my arms, then stopped, and gave me that look cats give with they are pissed off. She cursed a storm in cat gibberish then calmly went to her empty feeding bowl, curse some more, then rested her fat body on the kitchen floor. I decided to stay under the table, hoping the banging at the door would tire and silence. I couldn’t understand why it was taking the Nazi so long to get the message, I wasn’t home!
What had happened was, after reading the email from my Grandma, I got horny and decided to get on the sex sites. I was bored. IT was late at night. I had been drinking again.
The thing is, too many men on the internet treat sex like it’s a money back guarantee, like they are owed something as if they paid in advance with “sup.”
I’m beginning to understand that I’m not a dog. Just because I’m gay man don’t make me a dog with no mind of his own. Yes, I’ve humped a couple of legs but I don’t drink from the toilet. I’m more like a male cat. I’m temperamental. I’m shady. I only do what I feel like doing. And my mood can change so quickly. On the internet they call that fake ass “naggers”. They call it playing games. They complain like logging on means sex is always guaranteed just because their dicks get hard. I ain’t not tease. I also aint no Ho, well at least not Monday through Friday. I sometimes like the bullshit of romance. I sometimes like to believe it’s more than a one night stand.
The nightmare began around ten o’clock in the evening on a re-run Sunday night. My soon to be nightmare, hit me up on one of the many internet hook-up sites that I frequent. I know I have an addiction, can be online for hours, sometimes days, looking for sex. His screen name was playful, “big-dick-bored,” and it caught my attention, so I decided to check his profile. He was 6’3 and 220 lbs with a 9.5 dick. I did my “fat math” check in my head. According to the BMI, the average male is 5’11 and should weigh 165 pounds. I’ve always added ten pounds for black men, because of our booty, thighs and dick. We also have more muscular bodies, which was the reason why we made such great candidates for slavery. So my ideal average male would be 5’11 at 175 pounds. With every inch, I add five pounds. So a person, who is 6’3, should weigh 195 pounds. According to my fat math check he was twenty five pounds over my limit. It was only because of the big dick, that he was packing 9.5 that I took off ten pounds, which meant he was still fifteen pounds overweight, but that night the internet was slow, and I was grading on a curve.
We started chatting. He said he looked like a thicker and taller Tate Diggs and I wouldn’t be disappointed. I gave him my number to call me because I don’t like going back and forth on the slow internet sex sites. I also wanted to see if he was serious and to check his voice for masculinity. The phone rang. I answered in my deepest, sexist, but intelligent Sidney Poitier voice. I knew he would also be checking my voice for masculinity. I figured I should hold a beer or something, maybe put on the game in the background. I was actually watching Golden Girls and sipping a glass of wine. We talked for a minute. I told him I like for a man to be aggressive, attentive, and a little rough. I liked for my nipples to be played with, ass ate until it’s sore and than banged out with long deep strokes. I told him I wasn’t a virgin, so he didn’t have to worry about hurting me. He told me he liked for his men to be masculine and clean. I told him I was always clean. He asked me if I had lube and condoms. I told him I had everything, including sex toys if he was into that type of thing. I told him I also had weed. I hoped that get his attention. He laughed. I gave him my address. He told me it would take him about forty five minutes because he was taking a cab. I said that would be cool.
I didn’t get off the internet. I kept my profile up just in case he didn’t show up. I always give a person an hour grace period. Men on the internet are finicky, including me. It’s a cruel world of no fems, fats and old heads, and everybody got their intransigent preferences and issues. I don’t believe in pictures. I believe in the stats. I know a lot of men lie on the internet. I try to trust until proven wrong.
After I hung up the phone with my potential fantasy fuck, I decided to clean and take a shower. I say fantasy fuck, because men tend to build up the hook-up in their head. I knew he had a fantasy about me. He saw me in the red jock strap and probably gave me a kinky personality. It was not truth. No strings attached sex was not truth. After the hot shower, I did fifty sit-ups so that my stomach looked flat and defined in my red jockstrap. I poured myself another glass of wine. I was going to light up a joint but I decided to wait until my guest arrived. I went out on the balcony with the cordless phone and waited for him to call. On the balcony I could get a good glimpse of how he looked. The phone rang. It was him. He was getting out the cab. I saw the cab from my balcony. He said he would be up shortly. I watched the cab. Something got out, but it wasn’t Tate Diggs. It was Bigfoot. He was huge. He weighed at least over 300 pounds. Even if I was on the third floor of my balcony I could hear him breathing hard, and I just cringed at the thought of him lying on top of me, so sweaty, all that flesh draping down on me, smothering. I didn’t want to see him naked. Why do men have to lie? I don’t consider myself to be one of those people with too many hang-ups. Yes, I lie. I say I’m twenty six years old when I’m almost thirty. I say I’m six feet when I’m barely 5’11. I say I weight 160 pounds when I’m closer to 175. Its small white lies. It’s to get the dick hard and lusting lies, not saying leaving out small facts that I only have one leg or I’m alcoholic midget. I’m not a model so I don’t look for supermodels. I’m an average guy. I go to the gym to keep that fat kid in me skinny. I bath. I try to look presentable. I figure if I can be rejected, I can also reject. He was a “shocking lie.” A visual assault on the eyes. It’s like saying he had a ten inch dick and it’s only two inches, like the person is not going to miss the eight inches. It’s like saying he’s 6’5 and he’s 5’2. It’s like that time I thought that really butch lesbian was a cute slender young gay male until I got her home and had some twisted Crying Game episode. I went down in her pants for a dick and found pussy. That’s SHOCKING.
I remembered my first internet hook up back in the day. It was before the emailing of pictures. Back in the day, it was just text. I was nineteen years old, at my college computer lab at three o’clock in the morning looking for trouble. I had been chatting with this guy for a couple of months. We finally decided to meet. I was a little excited. He was such a nice guy online. I got in my car and drove to his house. When I knocked on the door, and he opened it, I wanted to say I had the wrong apartment, but I didn’t. I regretted it. He turned out to be a flushed red drunk Irish leprechaun. He came to my waist. He was really short, hairy, bloated, smelled of Budweiser and Vicks rubbing cream. It was only because he was a nice guy that I stayed. I was new to the game. I didn’t know how to excuse myself. I didn’t know the excuses back then like “I just came over to feel you out, chat, we’ll hook up later.” That’s a good one because it lets the person down, but still gives hope. I stayed and I let that sweaty drunk leprechaun touch on me, and his kiss felt like the inside of okra smashed against my mouth. I laid there dead as a blow up doll, and I let him undress me, suck on me, finger me, and when it was all over, I felt sticky and violated. I was young, dick got hard from watching Tom and Jerry cartoons, and a hopeless nice guy. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so instead I inflicted the pain on myself.
But when I saw “Andrew the Giant” get out of the cab, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t want to play the nice guy routine. I wanted to be a cold heartless bitch. It wasn’t like I was getting paid, a prostitute. I didn’t want to see him naked. I thought about what I would tell him. I tried to quickly think of excuses. It just felt so stupid. I knew if I opened the door, and gave him some trite excuse, he would see right through it. He would probably try to talk me down. I’ve had men who I just wasn’t feeling tell me stupid shit like, “well just suck me off, I came all this way.” And they get attitudes, like I owed them something, agreed to something, and were breaking a contract. Internet hook-ups don’t mean guaranteed sex. They usually come with a twenty percent failure rate.
I was a coward. I just didn’t feel like dealing with it. I just wanted him to go away. I couldn’t understand why he had to lie because fifteen pounds overweight I could deal with but a hundred and fifteen pounds overweight was insanity. I was a coward. It’s like breaking up with a person. I’ve stayed in relationships for months, that I wanted to get out of the first week. The buzzer sounded and then my phone rung. My heart started pounding fast and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I felt paralyzed and then the buzzer sounded again. I ran to the phone and unplugged it. I decided to ignore him. I just wasn’t going to deal with it. I figured I let the problem take care of itself. It wasn’t polite but an extreme act of spinelessness. I felt bad. I did. I figured he would try a couple of times, then give up, or think he got the wrong address and leave. The buzzer silenced. I felt a sense of peace. I went to the refrigerator and poured me another glass of wine. I decided to light up the joint because I needed it. Then there was a knock at my door. I almost dropped the glass on the floor. I almost pissed on myself and spat diarrhea. The knock continued. I tiptoed to the door still in my red jockstrap. The cat looked at me curious and like I was a fucking idiot hiding in my own home. I peeped out of the door hole. It was him. He looked like he consumed the entire hallway. I slumped down to the floor. He continued to knock, each bang louder than the last. My entire apartment felt like it shook. I pondered calling the cops, but remembered I unplugged the phone. The cat walked towards the thundering, as if she was going to open the door and cease the noise. I grabbed her and crawled to the kitchen and hid under the table. He knocked for what seemed like an hour. He wouldn’t go away. I guess it had gotten personal for him. Then there was silence again, the calm after the storm. I came out from under the table and peeped out the door hole. He was gone. I was happy. I decided to pour me another glass of wine. I was quickly getting drunk. I wondered if I should get back on the internet and look for someone else. I was still horny. I decided to just watch television. An hour passed and then the knocking started again. I couldn’t believe it. He was back. The bastard came back. He was obviously a psycho. I heard a voice, “I know you’re in there.” I remembered a story, about a gay guy found dead in his apartment. I heard the blow of a horn. I ran to the balcony, I saw the taxicab. And there was silence again. I watched him run out of my apartment building towards the cab holding a bag. He didn’t have a bag when I first saw him. I thought to myself the fat psychotic bastard probably went to go get a snack to refuel his harassment energy. I watched him get into the cab and drive away. I felt a huge pleasure of relief. Yet, I worried. He knew where I lived. What if he came back again? I decided to think about it the next day. Then a voice told me to check my door. I went into the bedroom, grab my robe. When I opened the door, I wasn’t surprised. The grocery bag suddenly made sense. Not only was he huge in weight but also immaturity. He smeared ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise all over my door. He also mixed some cans of tuna fish into the mix, I guess for the smell. I laughed. He must have been really pissed or really horny and needed to do something with that frustration.
I went to my refrigerator. It was just my luck that I wanted to have hotdogs that weekend but I was out of mustard and ketchup. I boiled a couple of hotdogs and fried some french-fries. I grabbed the cat dish. After my food was ready, I grabbed the cat for a quick midnight snack. I scraped the tuna fish off the door and into her bowl. She didn’t care that a little ketchup and mustard was in it, she ate it just the same like it was the good cat food and not that generic crap I buy on sale for her. I grabbed a knife and scrap some mustard and ketchup on my hotdogs. I fingered the doorknob with french-fries. I didn’t care how it looked until my next door neighbor, Mrs. Richardson who was an annoying sixty-five years old bitch, came out to check the hall. I’m surprised she didn’t call the cops. She was known for calling the cops if the music in your portable c.d. player was too loud. She just looked at me disgusted as I scraped the door with my French fries and put them in my mouth. The last time we saw each other, I had locked myself out the house naked. I opened the door to let some air in, when the cat ran out into the hallway and without thinking and because I was high, I chased her. The door locked behind me. Lucky for me, I was throwing a sex party, so I all I had to do was knocked on the door.
Ms. Richardson, before going back in her house, mumbled under her breath, “Damn, sinner.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
I can't have sex if i feel fat
I started working out again for my sex life. I don’t like being on my stomach and seeing a gut. I like my full stomach in my bed on Sundays alone, but for sex, it doesn’t put me in the mood. Call it vanity. I always have some reservation about the gym. Honestly, I have a fear of getting too physically fit. I think there is something psychological when one gets really fit that they can’t keep their clothes on. I also don’t want to be harassed when the body becomes a target for lusting homosexuals. Some people just don’t know boundaries. Also, since I do have a sexual addiction, and feeling too sexy will make me want to have more sex than I already have and I need to keep my job. Sex addicts can’t be prostitutes because it takes the fun out of the hunt or destruction. If I got paid, then sex would become practical. It’s complicated with sex addicts. It’s not about the sex, it’s about the greed. All addictions are rooted in some level of greed.
I got that weight monkey on my back. As a former failed model and actor, my weight has always been torment for me. I couldn’t hang with being a model. I don’t have the natural body frame. I am southern boy, plantation field genes that makes my ass plumped, legs thick, and not some skinny white boy in a Calvin Klein ad. I also like to eat. I remember being 18 years old, and every time I would go to the agency that bitch would weigh me and tell me to lose ten more pounds. I was already 5’11 and a hundred fifty pounds. I already lost like thirty pounds. I was only eating carrots and working out like two hours a day. I have no idea where I got the energy. My resident assistant even did an intervention when he started realizing was I was becoming anorexic. My roommate told on me. Finally I had a breakdown. I wasn’t getting any work because bitches would tell me I was too dark or too urban or something. I got a couple of commercials, but nothing significant. I finally realized it just wasn’t going to happen so that night I gorged ten McDonald burgers. In the next two years I would go from 150 to 220. Yes, I went to the extreme. It wasn’t until I felt my ass and belly jiggle as I walked down the hall that I decided maybe I needed to lose some weight. I was a fat kid, so I think for the rest of my adult life I will always have the weight issue and being gay doesn’t help. I go back and forth with my weight. I still struggle with anorexia, that is mentally. When I developed that drug habit, it was so easy to not eat because I was never hungry. The only problem was the drugs. I don’t have that demon anymore, thank god. That will be another subject for another day.
So I am back at the gym because I feel I’ve struck a good balance and peace with my weight. I’m giving up the twink years, size 28-31. When I’m naked, I let to feel sexy and I’m not talking about mentally sexy, but physical. It’s funny; guys I’m attracted to aren’t usually fit. My ex started off really thin but ended up gaining like eighty pounds. I still liked his belly but I could never let that happen to myself. I don’t care what other people do with their bodies. I sometimes like a heavy guy because they really know how to suck a dick and eat ass like licking the BBQ sauce off some ribs. I don’t like really skinny guys are too muscular. I definitely don’t find body builders sexy. I have no desire to fuck a rock. I honestly like a guy who if I am having sex with I know if we get into a fight afterwards I probably could take him. It must be a good fight, not where I can clearly win or clearly lose, just right. Call me Goldie locks.
I got that weight monkey on my back. As a former failed model and actor, my weight has always been torment for me. I couldn’t hang with being a model. I don’t have the natural body frame. I am southern boy, plantation field genes that makes my ass plumped, legs thick, and not some skinny white boy in a Calvin Klein ad. I also like to eat. I remember being 18 years old, and every time I would go to the agency that bitch would weigh me and tell me to lose ten more pounds. I was already 5’11 and a hundred fifty pounds. I already lost like thirty pounds. I was only eating carrots and working out like two hours a day. I have no idea where I got the energy. My resident assistant even did an intervention when he started realizing was I was becoming anorexic. My roommate told on me. Finally I had a breakdown. I wasn’t getting any work because bitches would tell me I was too dark or too urban or something. I got a couple of commercials, but nothing significant. I finally realized it just wasn’t going to happen so that night I gorged ten McDonald burgers. In the next two years I would go from 150 to 220. Yes, I went to the extreme. It wasn’t until I felt my ass and belly jiggle as I walked down the hall that I decided maybe I needed to lose some weight. I was a fat kid, so I think for the rest of my adult life I will always have the weight issue and being gay doesn’t help. I go back and forth with my weight. I still struggle with anorexia, that is mentally. When I developed that drug habit, it was so easy to not eat because I was never hungry. The only problem was the drugs. I don’t have that demon anymore, thank god. That will be another subject for another day.
So I am back at the gym because I feel I’ve struck a good balance and peace with my weight. I’m giving up the twink years, size 28-31. When I’m naked, I let to feel sexy and I’m not talking about mentally sexy, but physical. It’s funny; guys I’m attracted to aren’t usually fit. My ex started off really thin but ended up gaining like eighty pounds. I still liked his belly but I could never let that happen to myself. I don’t care what other people do with their bodies. I sometimes like a heavy guy because they really know how to suck a dick and eat ass like licking the BBQ sauce off some ribs. I don’t like really skinny guys are too muscular. I definitely don’t find body builders sexy. I have no desire to fuck a rock. I honestly like a guy who if I am having sex with I know if we get into a fight afterwards I probably could take him. It must be a good fight, not where I can clearly win or clearly lose, just right. Call me Goldie locks.
To blog or to jack off, that’s the real question.
Well things are looking up for me. I’m so happy I’ve finally ironed out how this blog and got it running. It’s not my first blog. It’s more like my 12th. I think starting a blog is like picking a major in college. People usually say go with your heart or interests, yet basket weaving don’t get you laid or a job. I guess I wanted a blog that I cared about. Not to say that I didn’t care about the other blogs, they just weren’t focused. A blog is also like getting a pet. If you are not going to be responsible and take care of it, it will die. I’ve let too many of my blogs die because I just didn’t care about them. I need the motivation like jacking my dick. I’ve gotten to the age where I just can’t jack my dick for the hell of it anymore. I either need to let the frustration build up so I can marvel at the all the milky explosion or I need to be really turned on.
My first blogs, I was young and full of so much ego and cum. I usually just wrote whatever I felt, but blogging should be more than just an online journal. Blogs should be a source of information, a revolution of thought, could be life changing if done correctly.
I think this is my underground blog. I live a very interesting life. I’ve experience very interesting things. As a writer, I have so many demons that need exorcisms so I can get to my real work. It’s funny in America; we sometimes feel the need to split our personalities: the whore in the bedroom, the innocent church bitch in the streets. Yet, my problem is that i'm always a dog in heat.
I decided with this blog it will not be censored or redesigned or edited. That’s the thing about being a writer, sometimes by the end of the process, the writers voice is stripped down and it sounds and reads like any other book on the shelf, the same with songs and movies. Art is not even art anymore unless it goes underground where it remains pure. Yet, even the rats must come to the surface to feed or starve. I have no desire to be a starving artist. I would like to be a smart artist. Many writers take on different identities in order to keep their craft alive and pure. This is my humbled attempt at keeping me honest as I whore myself in mainstream America. Who knows, this blog may become something more than I can imagine. I really don’t like to think beyond the end of the week. I start my life and sobriety over every Monday morning. I guess I believe in taking it one week at a time rather than one day at a time. That’s another subject. Be warn, I’m not going to be gentle and there are no safe words.
My first blogs, I was young and full of so much ego and cum. I usually just wrote whatever I felt, but blogging should be more than just an online journal. Blogs should be a source of information, a revolution of thought, could be life changing if done correctly.
I think this is my underground blog. I live a very interesting life. I’ve experience very interesting things. As a writer, I have so many demons that need exorcisms so I can get to my real work. It’s funny in America; we sometimes feel the need to split our personalities: the whore in the bedroom, the innocent church bitch in the streets. Yet, my problem is that i'm always a dog in heat.
I decided with this blog it will not be censored or redesigned or edited. That’s the thing about being a writer, sometimes by the end of the process, the writers voice is stripped down and it sounds and reads like any other book on the shelf, the same with songs and movies. Art is not even art anymore unless it goes underground where it remains pure. Yet, even the rats must come to the surface to feed or starve. I have no desire to be a starving artist. I would like to be a smart artist. Many writers take on different identities in order to keep their craft alive and pure. This is my humbled attempt at keeping me honest as I whore myself in mainstream America. Who knows, this blog may become something more than I can imagine. I really don’t like to think beyond the end of the week. I start my life and sobriety over every Monday morning. I guess I believe in taking it one week at a time rather than one day at a time. That’s another subject. Be warn, I’m not going to be gentle and there are no safe words.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Raw
lost
drowning the forest burning
ass a full moon
he
a dead body on cheap cotton sheets
at the bathhouse
saw him before
never his face
just the used body like old tires
bathhouse door opened
inviting the wicked
raw
the insecurity I could fuck because I never saw his eyes
the fall
to feel but not feel
hurt boy just recycling the rape when I was ten
didn’t want anything to be real
or have consequences
he took and never told
dead body that arched his back and didn’t ask questions
wanted to be him
he was nobody the wasted lube on the floor
uncleaned soul
made me feel normal
when I fucked him
always gave him my abortions
the end of my dick and squeezed
the waste onto his lips and exited
leaving no footprints
********************
Private dancer
indifferent epivany
abysmal hotel room strangling
the boredom
Hosting alone
He came over and said I was too rigid
Wanted me dance the private dance
Elevation spit wet atoms of chemistry that evaporated to smoke
Inhaled
Ghastly injustice like haunted sprits
Somebody call the preacher
I ain’t going to church on Sunday
How can it hurt you when it goes too fast?
the wind pushing back like the bully
conjuring the other eye
The name changes when the lights click off
Seduction in its agenda
don’t love him
Private dancer
Said I was going to quit that bitch
He’s a slut, got everybody thinking he’s the best fuck
Fucking up my mind
Having me dealing with people
I wouldn’t speak on the streets if a car was coming
Private dancer
Like his body, how he dances
And then I forget what I said last week
Collateral damage
Strange poltergeists
knowing the crash
is coming
*********************
Are you feeling me?
cocked out
undressed at the door
Unless I wasn’t answering the lust
Pull
Red jockstrap down
He likes to follow rules
Filthy erection that likes to be slapped around
I say
Pretend this is summer camp
You snuck your intention in my bottom bunk bed
Felt it against my back
I try to pretend to be sleep
I got needs
need my dick free
digging for soul
ass needs stretching
dripping sticky clotted lust like spoiled milk
leave the spider webs on my lips
Adolescent hormonal thrust
Warp speed, get amnesia cause the lost of blood
ur dick throbbing against my firm stomach
what if I awake and realized the pornography
my dick went there
u wanted the sun to settle
Drunk full moons begets anything goes
Blame it on da liquor, weed, pnp or whatever eases da soul
Or the dog, WOOF!
dick free, digging for soul
ass stretched
Cuz I got needs
Like flesh struggles when men want control and power
No apologies
Twisted leeches of Amnesia
Just horny
Talk that dirty sexy talk to me
No apologies
***************************
Comparative darkness
Image
Ground surface
Body intercepting light
The chains
Arrest
Bound by mystery of life
Reflections
Held hostage to the idea of salvation
Some of us turn all the lights on to kill
He asked me
What type of slave are you
Slaves make masters
Funny how that works
The comparative darkness
How beginning was lonely
Until he found the shadow
The sun staring back
So he can pretend he is a man
The homeless woman asked me
How I got my change
I told her I needed all my change
Couldn’t spare losing sense
I’m too close to being
Broken again
Light can be a hustler
Laughing
Arrogant bastard
When the sun is rising
To question shadow
Maybe it’s your past
Maybe it’s your born again agenda
Maybe some secrets you will never tell
But we all plot
Graveyards
The wasteland
***************************
The game
Coach, final jerk, puts his best players first
The sport
Nobody likes to lose abandoned erections
Why you come here if you didn’t want to play
Don’t’ hate the game, hate your parents DNA
I’m sure you forgot when you tipped that stripper
Jacked off to that porn
Didn’t complain when it was your fantasy
Saying he’s playing games cuz you can’t get your way
Stop pretending you’re different
Get pissed cuz you’re benched
Your passive aggression misdirection
Obsessive compulsive vanity
Marginalizing souls at one glimpse of a photo
Moral superiority
So many rules
The game
Why are you here if you didn’t want to play?
Be a man
We fuck, kill or run
lost
drowning the forest burning
ass a full moon
he
a dead body on cheap cotton sheets
at the bathhouse
saw him before
never his face
just the used body like old tires
bathhouse door opened
inviting the wicked
raw
the insecurity I could fuck because I never saw his eyes
the fall
to feel but not feel
hurt boy just recycling the rape when I was ten
didn’t want anything to be real
or have consequences
he took and never told
dead body that arched his back and didn’t ask questions
wanted to be him
he was nobody the wasted lube on the floor
uncleaned soul
made me feel normal
when I fucked him
always gave him my abortions
the end of my dick and squeezed
the waste onto his lips and exited
leaving no footprints
********************
Private dancer
indifferent epivany
abysmal hotel room strangling
the boredom
Hosting alone
He came over and said I was too rigid
Wanted me dance the private dance
Elevation spit wet atoms of chemistry that evaporated to smoke
Inhaled
Ghastly injustice like haunted sprits
Somebody call the preacher
I ain’t going to church on Sunday
How can it hurt you when it goes too fast?
the wind pushing back like the bully
conjuring the other eye
The name changes when the lights click off
Seduction in its agenda
don’t love him
Private dancer
Said I was going to quit that bitch
He’s a slut, got everybody thinking he’s the best fuck
Fucking up my mind
Having me dealing with people
I wouldn’t speak on the streets if a car was coming
Private dancer
Like his body, how he dances
And then I forget what I said last week
Collateral damage
Strange poltergeists
knowing the crash
is coming
*********************
Are you feeling me?
cocked out
undressed at the door
Unless I wasn’t answering the lust
Pull
Red jockstrap down
He likes to follow rules
Filthy erection that likes to be slapped around
I say
Pretend this is summer camp
You snuck your intention in my bottom bunk bed
Felt it against my back
I try to pretend to be sleep
I got needs
need my dick free
digging for soul
ass needs stretching
dripping sticky clotted lust like spoiled milk
leave the spider webs on my lips
Adolescent hormonal thrust
Warp speed, get amnesia cause the lost of blood
ur dick throbbing against my firm stomach
what if I awake and realized the pornography
my dick went there
u wanted the sun to settle
Drunk full moons begets anything goes
Blame it on da liquor, weed, pnp or whatever eases da soul
Or the dog, WOOF!
dick free, digging for soul
ass stretched
Cuz I got needs
Like flesh struggles when men want control and power
No apologies
Twisted leeches of Amnesia
Just horny
Talk that dirty sexy talk to me
No apologies
***************************
Comparative darkness
Image
Ground surface
Body intercepting light
The chains
Arrest
Bound by mystery of life
Reflections
Held hostage to the idea of salvation
Some of us turn all the lights on to kill
He asked me
What type of slave are you
Slaves make masters
Funny how that works
The comparative darkness
How beginning was lonely
Until he found the shadow
The sun staring back
So he can pretend he is a man
The homeless woman asked me
How I got my change
I told her I needed all my change
Couldn’t spare losing sense
I’m too close to being
Broken again
Light can be a hustler
Laughing
Arrogant bastard
When the sun is rising
To question shadow
Maybe it’s your past
Maybe it’s your born again agenda
Maybe some secrets you will never tell
But we all plot
Graveyards
The wasteland
***************************
The game
Coach, final jerk, puts his best players first
The sport
Nobody likes to lose abandoned erections
Why you come here if you didn’t want to play
Don’t’ hate the game, hate your parents DNA
I’m sure you forgot when you tipped that stripper
Jacked off to that porn
Didn’t complain when it was your fantasy
Saying he’s playing games cuz you can’t get your way
Stop pretending you’re different
Get pissed cuz you’re benched
Your passive aggression misdirection
Obsessive compulsive vanity
Marginalizing souls at one glimpse of a photo
Moral superiority
So many rules
The game
Why are you here if you didn’t want to play?
Be a man
We fuck, kill or run
Coming out of my underwear
I discovered my hard dick at twelve years old in the Sunday newspaper, the middle section, between arts and entertainment and the metropolitan, the part that fell out and spilled onto the floor if held incorrectly. It’s the part only important to bored housewives, the consumer section, filled with coupons to get ten cents off green peas or a bucket of chicken free if you buy a cake and large soda. I learned to read when I was four years old, or at least I learned to recognize certain words, so I anticipated the Sunday paper for the cartoons because I liked the funny colorful faces, but it wasn’t until I was nine years old that I started paying attention to the department store advertisements: average looking people wearing average looking clothes that were half off for some dead President’s birthday. Maybe it was just curiosity, maybe I was looking for a new toy when I first opened one of the department store advertisements and flipped passed the pictures of dull jewelry, plain looking women looking bored, little boys and little girls trying to appear happy, towards the back, where at first rugged men posed in khakis and business suits, but as I flipped further, the clothes lessen, first to short shirts and jeans, and then finally, the men’s underwear section.
As I stared at the page, I felt different but I didn’t know what it was, the heat, why my stomach felt uneasy, why my heart quickened and thrust in its cage, why I stopped and studied strange men with defined lumps for a stomach, hard nipples, smooth slender arms, and muscular legs protruding confidence. Their glistening almost naked bodies were curiously appealing but it was the underwear, not so innocence that clung to masculine hips like a tightly gripped fist hiding a secret. It was the same mystery of neighbor’s Ken doll, how I stripped it bare hoping to find something I needed, but there was nothing, just smoothed over lust. Staring at the page, it was different than the Ken’s doll, no longer plastic but flesh and alive and seemly calling me to its rabbit hole. I found myself touching the page with my left hand, and my right hand suddenly with a mind of its own slid itself down my pants, and as I ran my twelve year old hand across glossy teasing hoping to absorb a feeling, find its secrets, I realized that I was different, and the discovery frightened and excited me.
I wasn’t like most growing boys; I wanted underwear for Christmas and my birthday. I loved going shopping with my mother so that I could gently pull my hand from her when she saw a pair of shoes or purse she had to have, and sneak over to the men’s section. It was there that Sunday newspaper came alive, not just men in one type of underwear but men in various type of underwear: bikinis, thongs, briefs, boxer briefs and jocks. I liked the Designer labels because the models were raw with sweaty slippery skin and seductive penetrative glances. I started buying my father underwear for his birthday and Father’s day. My mother thought it was strange for young boy spending two months of his allowance to get his father a Calvin Klein mesh bikini or a leopard thong. I would ask her why it was strange, hoping she would reveal the secret I was so longing to hear, but she’d just smile as if she knew that I didn’t know what I was doing like a baby cursing manically, just repeating what he heard. My father was a military man, hardly spoke and demanded quiet children, so when I handed him his birthday and father’s day presents wrapped in the Sunday cartoons, he’d open it casually, shake his head in disbelief and throw the box in the trash. It was exactly what I wanted him to do. And when everyone was sleep, I would sneak from my bed, rummage through the trash, pluck out the box and dust it off. I would sneak back to my room and with a pair of plastic scissors I cut the picture out and place it at the bottom of my drawer. My allowance increased as I got older, and I had a part time job with the church cutting grass and also delivered the paper in my neighborhood, so soon my father’s presents became cliché, a tie with a frog on it or a coffee cup that said “world greatest dad” and I started buying the underwear just for me. I also bought me a lockbox to keep my hobby protected.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my mother started needlessly interrupting my life. She was bored, my older sister started college and my father had been shipped off to Korea to train soldiers to be sent to the Gulf War, so it was just us and she had no job. I stayed in my room with my door closed and demanded to be left alone. She didn’t. One weekend she decided to invite her sister and her rowdy kids to come visit us. She didn’t even ask or warn me. I just heard the door bell ring, screaming, and suddenly two cousins I hadn’t seen since I was five years old were sleeping in my room. Derrick and Derek were fraternal twins and a couple of months older than me. They barely looked like brothers. Derrick was short, stocky and insecure about both so he overcompensated by being extra belligerent. He was a red-blooded thug. Derek his younger brother by two minutes was the complete opposite. He was tall, slender like a slice of grass and almost as fragile. Derrick voice filled a room but Derek often whispered if he spoke at all. Yet, Derek was Derrick’s sheep. He followed his older brother blindly often to juvenile detention centers or getting kicked out of schools.
I somehow managed to avoid all human contact even at school. I had no friends and felt comfortable living in my head with my science fiction books, underwear hobby and the television. All that changed. My mother felt I needed to hang around other boys my age. She didn’t understand other boys my age didn’t like me. She didn’t understand that she was offering up a seductive rabbit to ravenous wolves that liked to play with their food before they killed and ate it. I somehow had managed to avoid the bullies at my high school and my mother moved two of them into my room. The twins didn’t read books. They brought with them a bb gun, basketball, football, and a stash of porn.
At first I tried to fit in. I tried throwing the ball around with them. I tried staying up all night watching violent movies like Scarface and The Godfather. I tried to seem interested in their dirty magazines. I’d watched the two twins sit up late at night and flip through their stash of busty women in bad lingerie and even worse make-up, how the heat in their underwear would rise but mine stayed cold. I didn’t play sports nor did I care about Hustler and Playboy magazines. It was the first time I was around real boys. I somehow managed to avoid gym. The twins seem so free with their bodies. If I was taking a shower, one of them would just walk in and start using the bathroom. They seem to know no boundaries. I slept in my pajamas, they slept in their underwear. They always seem to be almost naked around me. It confused me. I wondered if all boys were like the twins, so free with their bodies. They figured we all had the same equipment so it was no need to hide it. I encouraged such thinking.
Yet, however hard I tried, the harder I failed. It was clear that we couldn’t be friends. I was just too flimsy for their taste. I didn’t like the unsolicited punches in the arm, twisting of the nipples or sometimes sneaky blows to the nutsack. I complained about everything. The twins decided they didn’t like me and made it very clear they were going to beat the shit out of me the minute we were alone. I hated my mother. I hated her more when she decided to take a spa day with her recently re-discovered sister. I was left alone with Derrick and Derek. Three hours later I had locked myself in the bathroom because Derrick had gotten out his BB gun and shot me in the arm while I was washing dishes and again in the back of the neck. I was scared for my life. If I had gotten access to a phone I would’ve called the police. I decided to stay in the bathroom until my mother returned. I was going to show her my blood and demand their eviction. It was Derek, suddenly the kinder of the twins, who begged for me to come out of the bathroom. He promised that his brother was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. I ignored him. And then I heard a loud scream, Derrick screaming for Derek to come see what he found in my bedroom. I immediately knew the bastard somehow opened my lockbox and found my hobby. I snatched open the bathroom door, not caring for my life anymore but the secret I had promised to take to my grave. And just like I thought, Derrick had found my stash of men, cut out pictures from underwear boxes and Sunday advertisements. It was almost three years worth, the older pics beginning to fade and tear at the edges, the newer pics shimming in their glossiness. “He’s a real faggot,” Derrick laughed. I knew immediately what he meant. I liked men more than just friends. I wasn’t as horrified as I imagined I would be, because finally my heat had a name which meant I had an identity and there were others like me. I raced over to my bed, swung at Derrick and hit him in the face and knocked him off the bed. He stared up at me with intense surprise, his nose started to bleed and when I went to hit him again, Derek caught me, but not to hold me down, but stopping me from killing his brother. Derek helped me put my secret back in its box. Derrick ran out the room.
I thought he was going to tell. I thought as soon as our mothers returned Derrick was going yell at the top of his lungs what he found, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet. Yet, he didn’t say another word to me the rest of their trip, and I didn’t know if it was because I’d hit him so hard or because I was gay. He even stopped sleeping in my room. He slept in the living room on the floor by the big television. At first Derek also slept with him, but one night I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and there was Derek standing there in his underwear and his heat. His underwear was the domestic kind, the ones that came six in a box and the same color. His underwear hung from his narrow waist, a delicate cotton white, almost transparent, with a yellow strip, the elastic band a couple of more washes from retirement. “Do you want to?” I could barely breathe. I knew what he meant. Derek didn’t say much, but when he did, he got straight to the point. It was the first time I realized his face, so young and gentle, his eyes a shimmering hazel, his curly brown hair, he wasn’t drop dead gorgeous but comfortable. In my next breath, as I mouthed the word yes, he was no longer my cousin, tormentor, he was now my lover. He grabbed my waist and kissed me as he pushed me into the room. I closed the door and locked it. We didn’t even speak. I usually slept in a t-shirt, underwear and a pair of old shorts. Derek pulled my arms up and slid my shirt off. And then he unbuckled my shorts and they fell to my ankles. I also found myself falling to Derek’s nipples, then belly button, and finally the tip of his impoverished underwear. His stomach was so small, soft and flat like a deflated balloon, not at all like the pictures of the men on the underwear boxes who stomachs look as if it was chiseled from marble. At the tip of Derek’s underwear, there was a faint sense of must, he was sixteen years old, and his pubic hair seemed new, almost wet. I slid Derek’s underwear down, and it was so natural, had never done anything thing like that in my life, and I found what had been missing in the pictures, his dick. It was no longer just heat, but flesh on a mission. It stood before not defiant or cocky but almost vulnerable and begging for touch. I grabbed it with my right hand and squeezed, like I had squeezed my own, and I felt Derek’s body slightly convulse, and he pushed his pelvic towards my face, I opened my mouth, at first tasting the tip with my tongue as if sticking my foot in a water to see if it’s warm and safe before I plunged into the deep end, and then I slowly slid Derek’s hard dick in my mouth, past the tongue and towards my throat. He wasn’t even in for two minutes before he unloaded; his knees buckling like a fallen horse. He pulled his underwear up and left my room. I swallowed what he left behind in my mouth.
***************************************
The twins and their mother left the next day. I didn’t say goodbye or saw Derek again. I did steal a pair of his dingy underwear from his bag. I also noticed that a couple of pictures from my treasure chest were missing. A decade and half had past and I’d forgotten all about Derek. I wondered what happened to his life. I wondered what type of man him grew up to be. Did he have a mustache? Did he get fat? Had he learned to last more than two minutes in bed? I did hope at least he gotten better underwear.
As I stared at the page, I felt different but I didn’t know what it was, the heat, why my stomach felt uneasy, why my heart quickened and thrust in its cage, why I stopped and studied strange men with defined lumps for a stomach, hard nipples, smooth slender arms, and muscular legs protruding confidence. Their glistening almost naked bodies were curiously appealing but it was the underwear, not so innocence that clung to masculine hips like a tightly gripped fist hiding a secret. It was the same mystery of neighbor’s Ken doll, how I stripped it bare hoping to find something I needed, but there was nothing, just smoothed over lust. Staring at the page, it was different than the Ken’s doll, no longer plastic but flesh and alive and seemly calling me to its rabbit hole. I found myself touching the page with my left hand, and my right hand suddenly with a mind of its own slid itself down my pants, and as I ran my twelve year old hand across glossy teasing hoping to absorb a feeling, find its secrets, I realized that I was different, and the discovery frightened and excited me.
I wasn’t like most growing boys; I wanted underwear for Christmas and my birthday. I loved going shopping with my mother so that I could gently pull my hand from her when she saw a pair of shoes or purse she had to have, and sneak over to the men’s section. It was there that Sunday newspaper came alive, not just men in one type of underwear but men in various type of underwear: bikinis, thongs, briefs, boxer briefs and jocks. I liked the Designer labels because the models were raw with sweaty slippery skin and seductive penetrative glances. I started buying my father underwear for his birthday and Father’s day. My mother thought it was strange for young boy spending two months of his allowance to get his father a Calvin Klein mesh bikini or a leopard thong. I would ask her why it was strange, hoping she would reveal the secret I was so longing to hear, but she’d just smile as if she knew that I didn’t know what I was doing like a baby cursing manically, just repeating what he heard. My father was a military man, hardly spoke and demanded quiet children, so when I handed him his birthday and father’s day presents wrapped in the Sunday cartoons, he’d open it casually, shake his head in disbelief and throw the box in the trash. It was exactly what I wanted him to do. And when everyone was sleep, I would sneak from my bed, rummage through the trash, pluck out the box and dust it off. I would sneak back to my room and with a pair of plastic scissors I cut the picture out and place it at the bottom of my drawer. My allowance increased as I got older, and I had a part time job with the church cutting grass and also delivered the paper in my neighborhood, so soon my father’s presents became cliché, a tie with a frog on it or a coffee cup that said “world greatest dad” and I started buying the underwear just for me. I also bought me a lockbox to keep my hobby protected.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my mother started needlessly interrupting my life. She was bored, my older sister started college and my father had been shipped off to Korea to train soldiers to be sent to the Gulf War, so it was just us and she had no job. I stayed in my room with my door closed and demanded to be left alone. She didn’t. One weekend she decided to invite her sister and her rowdy kids to come visit us. She didn’t even ask or warn me. I just heard the door bell ring, screaming, and suddenly two cousins I hadn’t seen since I was five years old were sleeping in my room. Derrick and Derek were fraternal twins and a couple of months older than me. They barely looked like brothers. Derrick was short, stocky and insecure about both so he overcompensated by being extra belligerent. He was a red-blooded thug. Derek his younger brother by two minutes was the complete opposite. He was tall, slender like a slice of grass and almost as fragile. Derrick voice filled a room but Derek often whispered if he spoke at all. Yet, Derek was Derrick’s sheep. He followed his older brother blindly often to juvenile detention centers or getting kicked out of schools.
I somehow managed to avoid all human contact even at school. I had no friends and felt comfortable living in my head with my science fiction books, underwear hobby and the television. All that changed. My mother felt I needed to hang around other boys my age. She didn’t understand other boys my age didn’t like me. She didn’t understand that she was offering up a seductive rabbit to ravenous wolves that liked to play with their food before they killed and ate it. I somehow had managed to avoid the bullies at my high school and my mother moved two of them into my room. The twins didn’t read books. They brought with them a bb gun, basketball, football, and a stash of porn.
At first I tried to fit in. I tried throwing the ball around with them. I tried staying up all night watching violent movies like Scarface and The Godfather. I tried to seem interested in their dirty magazines. I’d watched the two twins sit up late at night and flip through their stash of busty women in bad lingerie and even worse make-up, how the heat in their underwear would rise but mine stayed cold. I didn’t play sports nor did I care about Hustler and Playboy magazines. It was the first time I was around real boys. I somehow managed to avoid gym. The twins seem so free with their bodies. If I was taking a shower, one of them would just walk in and start using the bathroom. They seem to know no boundaries. I slept in my pajamas, they slept in their underwear. They always seem to be almost naked around me. It confused me. I wondered if all boys were like the twins, so free with their bodies. They figured we all had the same equipment so it was no need to hide it. I encouraged such thinking.
Yet, however hard I tried, the harder I failed. It was clear that we couldn’t be friends. I was just too flimsy for their taste. I didn’t like the unsolicited punches in the arm, twisting of the nipples or sometimes sneaky blows to the nutsack. I complained about everything. The twins decided they didn’t like me and made it very clear they were going to beat the shit out of me the minute we were alone. I hated my mother. I hated her more when she decided to take a spa day with her recently re-discovered sister. I was left alone with Derrick and Derek. Three hours later I had locked myself in the bathroom because Derrick had gotten out his BB gun and shot me in the arm while I was washing dishes and again in the back of the neck. I was scared for my life. If I had gotten access to a phone I would’ve called the police. I decided to stay in the bathroom until my mother returned. I was going to show her my blood and demand their eviction. It was Derek, suddenly the kinder of the twins, who begged for me to come out of the bathroom. He promised that his brother was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. I ignored him. And then I heard a loud scream, Derrick screaming for Derek to come see what he found in my bedroom. I immediately knew the bastard somehow opened my lockbox and found my hobby. I snatched open the bathroom door, not caring for my life anymore but the secret I had promised to take to my grave. And just like I thought, Derrick had found my stash of men, cut out pictures from underwear boxes and Sunday advertisements. It was almost three years worth, the older pics beginning to fade and tear at the edges, the newer pics shimming in their glossiness. “He’s a real faggot,” Derrick laughed. I knew immediately what he meant. I liked men more than just friends. I wasn’t as horrified as I imagined I would be, because finally my heat had a name which meant I had an identity and there were others like me. I raced over to my bed, swung at Derrick and hit him in the face and knocked him off the bed. He stared up at me with intense surprise, his nose started to bleed and when I went to hit him again, Derek caught me, but not to hold me down, but stopping me from killing his brother. Derek helped me put my secret back in its box. Derrick ran out the room.
I thought he was going to tell. I thought as soon as our mothers returned Derrick was going yell at the top of his lungs what he found, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet. Yet, he didn’t say another word to me the rest of their trip, and I didn’t know if it was because I’d hit him so hard or because I was gay. He even stopped sleeping in my room. He slept in the living room on the floor by the big television. At first Derek also slept with him, but one night I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and there was Derek standing there in his underwear and his heat. His underwear was the domestic kind, the ones that came six in a box and the same color. His underwear hung from his narrow waist, a delicate cotton white, almost transparent, with a yellow strip, the elastic band a couple of more washes from retirement. “Do you want to?” I could barely breathe. I knew what he meant. Derek didn’t say much, but when he did, he got straight to the point. It was the first time I realized his face, so young and gentle, his eyes a shimmering hazel, his curly brown hair, he wasn’t drop dead gorgeous but comfortable. In my next breath, as I mouthed the word yes, he was no longer my cousin, tormentor, he was now my lover. He grabbed my waist and kissed me as he pushed me into the room. I closed the door and locked it. We didn’t even speak. I usually slept in a t-shirt, underwear and a pair of old shorts. Derek pulled my arms up and slid my shirt off. And then he unbuckled my shorts and they fell to my ankles. I also found myself falling to Derek’s nipples, then belly button, and finally the tip of his impoverished underwear. His stomach was so small, soft and flat like a deflated balloon, not at all like the pictures of the men on the underwear boxes who stomachs look as if it was chiseled from marble. At the tip of Derek’s underwear, there was a faint sense of must, he was sixteen years old, and his pubic hair seemed new, almost wet. I slid Derek’s underwear down, and it was so natural, had never done anything thing like that in my life, and I found what had been missing in the pictures, his dick. It was no longer just heat, but flesh on a mission. It stood before not defiant or cocky but almost vulnerable and begging for touch. I grabbed it with my right hand and squeezed, like I had squeezed my own, and I felt Derek’s body slightly convulse, and he pushed his pelvic towards my face, I opened my mouth, at first tasting the tip with my tongue as if sticking my foot in a water to see if it’s warm and safe before I plunged into the deep end, and then I slowly slid Derek’s hard dick in my mouth, past the tongue and towards my throat. He wasn’t even in for two minutes before he unloaded; his knees buckling like a fallen horse. He pulled his underwear up and left my room. I swallowed what he left behind in my mouth.
***************************************
The twins and their mother left the next day. I didn’t say goodbye or saw Derek again. I did steal a pair of his dingy underwear from his bag. I also noticed that a couple of pictures from my treasure chest were missing. A decade and half had past and I’d forgotten all about Derek. I wondered what happened to his life. I wondered what type of man him grew up to be. Did he have a mustache? Did he get fat? Had he learned to last more than two minutes in bed? I did hope at least he gotten better underwear.
if I didn’t think with my dick
my life would be sober
don’t want to be a better man
I just want to get high and nutt
I just want to fuck and not know their names
I just want my dick sucked
Mirror, Mirror on the wall
I know he’s my destruction
a whore
less than a dog
but I want to lick his fleas
can’t help it
his dick got too many niggas spit on it
his hole filled with strangers waste
nothing but a trashcan
but why do I go back
and I love to watch him finger his hole
like he can dig for his soul
he gets so high on G
arch his back and don’t care
I smoke my t, tongue kiss with E, and snort K
we are nothing but alphabet
but there is something in his eyes
when I piss in his face
something about the musk of his ass
when I suck on the dildo I just took out like a pacifier
how it lingers on my fingertips and lips
I love the kink and think
he couldn’t love another
if I fucked him so hard that I broke the condom
but no dick is big enough
he can’t get full
that child in his eyes sucking daddy’s dick
makes me want to clean the destruction in his eyes
makes me want to wash his body clean
but I know you can’t love a broken soul
so I smile
put my fist in his ass
let him wrap around the intensity
give him his freedom for now
pretend I don’t want more
he’s sucking my dick
and the snow spit looks good dripping down a dark as death shaft
and I’m getting that feeling in my stomach
that feeling I got when I was 12 years old and discovered Vaseline
that if I kept rubbing like I was trying to make a wish
that I would be
and I’m thinking in my head
what if I stop pretending?
like I’m some nice guy
fuck prince charming
get my dick hard and I’m the devil
that’s why they kicked me out of heaven
so he’s sucking my dick
I’m smoking the blunt some guy eating my ass
and I tell myself just let go
but I’m so conscious of how it would look
don’t want to give in too quick
got to hold it for show
but fuck
it
I need to cum
damn nigga
I need to cum
Get off this fucking ride
so fucking tired of acting like I don’t like
destruction
spit my frustration in his mouth
watch his eyes light up like police sirens
kiss his lips to focus his storm
we worry about we did
tomorrow
my life would be sober
don’t want to be a better man
I just want to get high and nutt
I just want to fuck and not know their names
I just want my dick sucked
Mirror, Mirror on the wall
I know he’s my destruction
a whore
less than a dog
but I want to lick his fleas
can’t help it
his dick got too many niggas spit on it
his hole filled with strangers waste
nothing but a trashcan
but why do I go back
and I love to watch him finger his hole
like he can dig for his soul
he gets so high on G
arch his back and don’t care
I smoke my t, tongue kiss with E, and snort K
we are nothing but alphabet
but there is something in his eyes
when I piss in his face
something about the musk of his ass
when I suck on the dildo I just took out like a pacifier
how it lingers on my fingertips and lips
I love the kink and think
he couldn’t love another
if I fucked him so hard that I broke the condom
but no dick is big enough
he can’t get full
that child in his eyes sucking daddy’s dick
makes me want to clean the destruction in his eyes
makes me want to wash his body clean
but I know you can’t love a broken soul
so I smile
put my fist in his ass
let him wrap around the intensity
give him his freedom for now
pretend I don’t want more
he’s sucking my dick
and the snow spit looks good dripping down a dark as death shaft
and I’m getting that feeling in my stomach
that feeling I got when I was 12 years old and discovered Vaseline
that if I kept rubbing like I was trying to make a wish
that I would be
and I’m thinking in my head
what if I stop pretending?
like I’m some nice guy
fuck prince charming
get my dick hard and I’m the devil
that’s why they kicked me out of heaven
so he’s sucking my dick
I’m smoking the blunt some guy eating my ass
and I tell myself just let go
but I’m so conscious of how it would look
don’t want to give in too quick
got to hold it for show
but fuck
it
I need to cum
damn nigga
I need to cum
Get off this fucking ride
so fucking tired of acting like I don’t like
destruction
spit my frustration in his mouth
watch his eyes light up like police sirens
kiss his lips to focus his storm
we worry about we did
tomorrow
Sleep No More
(I must warn you, this story is very freaking long. I thought about cutting up into three seperate acts,but I think keeping it continious substains the flow.)
There is only one true philosophical problem, and that is suicide. –Albert Camus
Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I shot myself. I shot myself in the heart because love don’t love nobody. At least I was aiming for the heart. At the time, I thought it would be romantic. It wasn’t. It was horrific. It was loud. Gunfire loud. I took a pillow like they do in the movies to muffle the sound but it didn’t silence. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t even feel the bullet enter my body. I just felt wet afterwards. Very wet.
I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was so damn complicated. I decided that I needed a vacation. I wanted to see if I was happy. I wanted to see if god would let me die. I know how its sounds, crazy. We are all just freaks, torn souls, flowers pulled from their roots trying to do the impossible, survive without water. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?
I guess the first question, why did I pack the gun if I didn’t plan to kill myself. I only remember needing a drink. It all seemed so anti-climatic. I went straight to the Crazy Chicken liquor extravaganza. I was craving Vodka. In the parking lot, I mixed the orange juice and Absolut in my car as I scanned my surroundings carefully to see if anyone was watching. I felt nervous. My mind was trying to warn me of something, but I couldn’t hear over the tantrum screaming of my demons wanting to rampage. The first sip was instantaneous. The vodka separated from the orange juice and crashed on my tongue. It was destructively orgasmic. I felt the earthquake throughout my body. The convolution was a jailbreak-- the deranged prisoner free as hotness sprinted down my throat leaving tracks of fire. The second sip wasn’t as dramatic, more supportive, but defiantly not the star. The more I drank, the more I was reminded of that hate. I hate everything. I got old. Too many things change. I didn’t like change. I remember scoring the bag of Tina. I remember getting the hotel. I remember getting high and drinking. I remember pulling out the gun. I remember the trigger. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was just testing God to see if he would let me die. I know how it sounds. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?
Broken hearts break razor-sharp. Unfinished hearts haunt like ghosts who didn’t die peacefully. Even as I lay dying, my heart wouldn’t let him go. Because, the second I jumped off his cliff, I wanted to live. My last thought was of him. I saw him bathing in a river of light. I was there with him. He told me to put my head underneath the light, to let it drown me. I tried to explain to him that if I put my head under the pool of light I would die. He said to trust him. So I did it. I let myself drown. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t die.
******************
The beginning. I wasn’t looking for love, anything but love. Aging parti Boys like me: heartbreakers, living fast to die young, conflicted, self-destructing, soulless --were to have and not to hold. Boys like me were outside the radar. The world had forgotten about boys like me. Boys like me were doomed.
So when I met him in that place, he was supposed to be just a fuck. I wasn’t looking for love. And they say when your life is about to change, it’s nothing special, that day was nothing special. I arrived at the bookstore, paid my five dollars for a fist full of coins for the video booths. I hardly ever used those coins. If I wanted to just watch porn, I would’ve stayed home. I wanted sweaty flesh. Bookstores were all the same. I loved the hunt. I loved the second the bored clerk pushed the button to let me in the back, into the darkness, how I would tighten my baseball cap on my head and pull it down on my eyes. That buzzing sound separated the worlds. On the outside I was somebody’s brother, son, co-worker or even father. But on the inside, I was nothing but a hard dick, a sloppy hole, a steamy mouth or gentle sticky hand. On the outside, I was a uniform but on the inside I was just naked. On the inside, behind those dark walls, I was only my waistline, my youth, masculinity and eagerness to please. The second I was behind the door, on the inside, I became a predator or prey. It was on the inside that I felt the safest, maybe because I didn’t have to be anything but a body. Maybe because I knew the hunt. I didn’t have to be a personality, just flesh. I didn’t have to be happy. I didn’t have to be nothing. On the inside, I’d immediately go the bathroom and do a hit of Tina. I’d then sip from my one liter coke bottle filled with rum and coke. I’d sniff my poppers to remind me of my aching lust. I’d lube up my hole just in case. I’d avoid the mirror.
The hunt was always the same. It was to appear available but not desperate. I hadn’t been on the inside for more than five minutes when I saw him. He was standing against a wall. He had his hood on his head but raised his shirt when I walked by to reveal his flat stomach. I circled him three times before he spoke.
Sup with you.
Nothing.
You trying to get into something?
Basically.
So what's up?
Not much.
You come here often?
Does it matter?
What’s in that coke bottle?
Holy water.
You trying to get fucked up?
I’m already fucked up
It seemed like a stupid question. I didn’t pay attention to his face. I kept my eyes on his stomach, looking for a rise in his red sweatpants. I didn’t like talk. I found that talking in that place confused people.
I want to fuck.
You have to take your clothes off first.
You want to come to my crib?
And why would I do that, when I'm already here?
What is your name?
My name is Sean.
You didn’t ask me my name.
I don’t care. And what if I want to fuck you?
I don't get fucked.
Everybody gets fucked one way or the other. Besides, we're already here.
I don't just be fucking anywhere.
And why did you come here?
I don't know.
You live in DC?
I live in Maryland
Should've guessed.
Where do you live?
Close.
We could go to your crib.
My place is crowded.
I started to walk away. He already had asked one too many questions. He didn’t need to know about my life. Yet, I stayed even when I noticed that I was being cruised by another guy who grabbed his dick so that I could see its print. He was an older guy, a little heavy, not the type I’d immediately give my time, more the desperate type when I couldn’t find anything else, so I decided to entertain my new prey.
What does that mean?
It means I don't live alone.
And?
And you look threatening, with that whole young black male thug channel five news look.
Looks can be deceiving.
I didn’t say I didn’t like it.
You're not afraid of me?
Should I be?
I ain't going to do shit to you.
I was hoping we do something.
I don't usually do this.
Do what?
Get down like this.
He stared to bore me. I hated the down low type that hyper masculinity bathed in pain and secrecy that killed souls.
I'm not going home with you. We fuck here or we don't fuck at all.
I ain’t going to do nothing to you.
Now you begging.
I ain't begging.
You're ruining my buzz.
Why you tripping?
What are you promising?
You won't be disappointed.
Heard it all before.
I'm gonna go.
He seemed nervous. I thought to myself maybe it was his first time, that he was a bookstore virgin. He didn’t understand the rules.
Take a sip of this.
Damn that shit is straight liquor.
It has rum in it. .
And you're drinking like its water.
You smoke weed?
You trying to get me fucked up?
I'm just trying to get you to relax.
You got condoms?
And lube, so relax.
Do you always get this fucked up?
Yeah.
Maybe you should think about slowing down.
No.
We found a booth and locked the door. The rule was only one occupant per booth but no one ever followed that rule. I really didn’t like bookstores because there was no privacy. Strangers had driven holes in the walls and doors to peak and steal glimpses of what they failed to get. I preferred bathhouses. That place was a dump, might as well been fucking in a dumpster. Sober, it was even more depressing that’s why I had to get fucked it. The floors were always sticky with spilled liquor, used condoms, spit and men abortions. The booths were gutted shack houses, barely hanging onto their hinges. But it was dark and I guessed that’s what black men who hid their faces and eyes with baseball caps or hoods wanted. It was also cheap, didn’t cost more than a fast meal. They were other places, better places, but the city was DC, and the other places were white, and for some reason Black men liked the darker and trashier back alleys. Black men, the trendy down low, who left their girlfriends and wives at home to read the latest E. Lynn Harris book. Nothing about that place or life was romantic. Just desperate. In the winter, in that place, they sometimes didn’t even turn on the heat. The owner was of course some white fat fag who didn’t care about niggas. Niggas took over the place sometime in the early nineties, instead of shutting it down, he raised the price. That place took money from mostly black hands or white men looking for the big black dick and treated everyone like shit. The clerks were always rude, never had time, acted like they were better because they were on the outside. Ironically, that place, in their advertisements were the typical chiseled white men in white jockstraps, but in reality that place was filled with black faces, timberlands, chronic, nappy hair and musky funk. That place didn’t respect us, knew that too many of us were just looking to release shame. They treated us like niggas who were fags. But I guess that’s what we wanted, to be invisible, voiceless, not cause any trouble or bring attention to ourselves. That was the life that some black gay men barely owned. That was the life that I barely owned like renting furniture three times its price cuz I had bad credit.
We started slowly. I pulled out a small bottle of lube from my pocket and wet my black hole again. I let him put his cold hands on my stomach. He unzipped and let his frustration breath. I liked for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I liked to see and feel his solid erection rubbing against me unapologetically. I liked to see the physical manifestation of how much he wanted me. And from the size of his raging bull in his red jogging pants, he wanted me like the thirsty dreamed of water. He let his pants fall to his ankles. He was an eager nine inches. High and feeling invincible, I just watched him. There’s something very virginal yet corrupt when I am fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head, temporarily arresting me in darkness. The smell of my own musk and citrus cologne passing my nose served as a quick aphrodisiac. I was now shirtless. He pressed his warm body against mine. He kissed my neck, and then slid down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He played with them like a little kid with his favorite toy. I let myself relax. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slowly slid the zipper down. I felt the vibrations of every ridge. Just like him, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those cold masculine hands on my waist. He let my jeans fall to my knees. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and search for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body twisted and moaned. He directed my body to bend over. His frisky curious tongue devoured my sensitive manhole with intense unapologetic aggression. I found myself digging into the dingy wall with my stumpy nails, feeling the pendulum swing of heat. I was free. I wanted him to fuck me. I was begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He positioned my body so that he towered over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy rum and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit, as I sucked him. He was so hard. I loved it. I let him drive his dick into the back of my throat. Spit overflowed, slippery and wet, my mouth hot and inviting, slow than fast than slow again. I could feel him want to give in, because his knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. But we weren’t finished. He casually pulled himself out of my salivating mouth. I stood up, a little dizzy, feeling salacious with adrenaline and ready to give my body to him to do with as he pleased. I quickly sniffed my poppers letting the fumes thin my blood and relax my muscles. He pressed me against the wall again. He spread my legs. Touch was sensitive. I felt ever inch, fingerprint, hair follicle, breath and thought. He kissed the back of my neck. I felt slippery. He slapped his dick on my ass getting it as hard as it was going to get. I sniffed my poppers again. I closed my eyes. I had been pressed against that wall so many times as if I never left it. He inserted himself. I knew the feeling well how the snake slithers passed the slippery doors and dance. I rode the friction. I softly moaned. I sniffed my poppers. I spread my legs wider. I arched my back. I rode the friction. The high from the poppers made me start hallucinating and I felt as if I was sinking into that wall. I could see my reflection. I could see the ghosts of black boys like myself who’d been fucked in that same booth now gone. I sniffed my poppers. I begged for him to go deeper. I was safe. In that booth, I was safe. I didn’t have to be anybody, do nothing with my life, and just get fucked. Twenty minutes later, “Oh nigga, you gonna make me cum!”
Afterwards, I remember first looking at my watch and then at him. It was the first time I really saw his face. In the dark booth, a blue neon light flashed across his face like a short-circuited hotel sign. He fell back against the other side of the booth and opened his eyes. We were now staring at each other. On the inside, lusting, two men only see flesh - a body to use and be used. After lust, when dicks go soft and words not so easy, we were just two human beings seeing each other in harsh light for the first time. I immediately grabbed the waist of my jeans and pull them to my hips. I was ready for my next prey. I couldn’t help but look at his face. He was cute. His eyes were lucid and clairvoyant, stabbing through me like he gave birth to me. His eyes, two oval universes of complicated hazel and unpretentious. He was beautiful. I didn’t like that he was taller and thinner than me. I didn’t know he was so young. He looked like a baby no more than twenty years old. He looked so innocent. And then he smiled as too comfort me or to say “Hello, again.” I buttoned my jeans. He pulled the condom from his dick and let it land on the floor. I handed him a napkin to wipe his dick. I thought he would get embarrassed and immediately run for the door and I’d never see him again. He grabbed the napkin and wiped his dick and then placed it in his t-shirt pocket. I thought it was funny that he would leave his used condom on the floor but put the napkin in his pocket. He pulled up his jogging pants. I decided to leave.
Are you leaving?
We’re finished.
What’s your name again?
Sean? No, it’s Michael
That was weird. I’d never given anyone my real name in years. I immediately regretted it. I blamed the poppers and my head being a little light. But I was always high so I knew it was more than a slip-up.
I thought you told me Sean
I did. I lied.
So why you telling me the truth now?
I don’t know.
Well my name is Chris.
Is that your real name?
I wouldn’t lie to you.
You should.
I want to see you again?
Why?
I don’t know.
Give me your number and I will call you.
I wasn’t going to call. Bookstores and Bathhouses weren’t the stories you told your kids how I met Daddy. And I wasn’t looking for love. Anything but love. I figured because he was a bookstore virgin he didn’t know the rules. And he looked so cute and innocent, like he’d just got a girl pregnant and wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to upset his ignorance. I figured I would pretend with him. He pulled me close to him, reached into my pocket, grabbed my cell phone and programmed his number. I told myself I would delete it on the walk home.
You’re not going to call; I can see it in your eyes.
You don’t trust me.
You already lied to me.
Well…
It doesn’t matter because I believe in maybe.
What is that suppose to mean?
It means I have faith in you.
What, you’re some religious freak.
No. Damn you’re difficult.
You don’t even know me.
You will call.
How you figure that?
Because you won’t let me get the last sentence.
You’re funny.
He was so damn sure of himself, to be so young. And then again, I was at the point where I’d decided everyone knew the answer but me. He opened the door and left. I swear immediately I felt changed. I missed him. I fell back against the wall and smiled. It was instant. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I knew I wasn’t the same. After all the men, all their lines and lies, he felt new. Usually at a place like that, I liked to come undone. I liked to get fucked and abused until my hole was sloppy and overflowed with stench of cum. I liked turning my back to the wall, with my pants down to my ankles, sniff my poppers and just be used. I liked the concrete on my knees. In that place, I didn’t want to be beautiful. I wanted to be ugly. I liked to get so numb and fell no pain and no sense of identity but be completely hopeless like the spit, spilled liquor and men’s abortion on the floor. In that place, I wasn’t looking for release. Sex for me had always been empty. I never really enjoyed it. I’d fuck ten men in one night and still want more. I would stay on my knees until they bled and still want more. I’d take dick in the ass, mouth, hands, face, between the thighs, threesome, gangbang, S&M and still want more. I could never be satisfied. I just needed to exhaust my body. After he left me, I suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t feel like the hunt. I decided to go home. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Shit, my life was already complicated enough.
*************
I was thirty-one years old and drowning. I had been questioning my existence. It was like a huge gush of wind had pushed me into the deep end of the pool and I couldn’t swim. I was struggling, choking on panic as frantic hands tried to grab the edges but slipping. I didn’t even know if I wanted to live--and that’s fucked up when you’re drowning, not knowing if you want to live or not. I could never stay sober enough time to make the decision. The days began to blend into each other. I was getting older against my will. I didn’t believe in anything. No self-preservation. Just destruction. I had been questioning. I realized my plan to die at twenty five years old like James Dean, young and tragic had failed.
********************
I had to make a choice. I was questioning my existence. I tried to make myself forget about him. I waited an entire week before I decided to call. I just wanted to talk. I hadn’t had a real conversation in years. I thought about him a lot. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And I tried to get clean. I found myself writing his name. Even when I touched myself, his memory only appeared. I tried to think about other fucks, but it always came back to him. I could only get off thinking about him. I wanted to know why, so I decided to call him. I was nervous. I figured he’d forgotten all about me. I figured he wouldn’t answer the phone. I dialed his number one night on my way back from the gym. I prayed that he didn’t answer. I prayed that he pretend like he didn’t know me and hang up the phone in my face. I prayed that he’d be cruel, so that I could awake from fantasizing about him. He answered. I tried to be nonchalant. I told him I was just calling because I accidentally found his number. He laughed. He invited me over to his place. I felt myself go cold. I wanted to say no, but instead I was taking directions. I was changing directions. I just wanted to talk. I didn’t want to see him. It took a subway ride and two buses to get to his house. He didn’t live in the best neighborhood. I was sober. I hadn’t had the chance to stop by the liquor store. I hoped there would be one in his neighborhood. I couldn’t find one. I started to turn back around but I was already at his apartment. I knocked on the door. I hoped he would have liquor. He opened his door. I figured in the unforgiving hallway lights he’d change his mind that I wouldn’t be so appealing outside the bookstore, or even better, he wouldn’t be as cute as I remembered. He opened his door and he was still beautiful. He was even better looking. He had on no shirt, just white gym shorts, no socks or shoes. He’d just got his hair braided by a good friend. He didn’t tell me his friends would be over. I felt paralyzed in the hallway. I had come from the gym. I didn’t even take a shower. I had on a baseball cap, wife beater, jeans and my infamous sandals. I thought he would slam the door in my face. He told me to come in and put my stuff in his room. I walked into his humble apartment, he was obviously young, and most of his furniture looked like it came from a flea market. I walked to his room and laid my bag down on his bed, tried to think of an excuse where I could leave early, and then I felt him behind me, his breath on the back of my neck, and when I turned around he pushed me on the bed, and we started kissing. He tore off my wife beater, promised to buy me another one, but I didn’t care about the shirt. In the next breath he was out of his shorts, and he was so damn hard, but I had to stop him, there were other people in the next room, people I didn’t know. He grabbed a towel, folded his hard dick against his stomach and wrapped a thick baby blue towel around his waist. He hurried outside to his friends and told them they had to go. When they protested, he apologized but told them they had to get out of his house, that he would talk to them later. I heard shuffling, some cursing, but soon it was quiet, and a door shut. I felt like a bitch who just got roses for Valentine’s day that he would put his friends out just for me. He came back to the room, without his towel, his dick still rock hard. I removed my jeans, and we attacked each other like two wolves in the wild. I’d missed him. My body missed him.
At the bus stop going home, I knew I was in trouble. I hadn’t had sex sober with another human-being since I was a teenager. I knew I was in trouble because I knew the feeling. It was the same feeling like the first time I did ecstasy how suddenly everything became lucid. I felt complete. I knew I was in trouble. And I kept going back. Every time I would leave him, I’d tell myself that it was the last time, but I kept going back. I had found a new drug. And Love was instant. Nobody told me it would be that fast. That anyone could fall that fast. I mean I heard of love at first sight, but I was a rational person. I had become a pro at avoiding emotion. I felt as if my life had become a bad sitcom and that corny shit wasn’t supposed to happen to boys like me. Love just infected and asked questions later. Love didn’t care I didn’t love myself. Love didn’t care I wasn’t ready. I remember one Sunday, and I had been seeing him for a couple of months, and I was lying in his arms tormented. I started thinking about shit I never worried about. I still couldn’t keep a job. I didn’t have a bank account. I had bad credit. I still didn’t own my life. I was still a fuck up and drank everyday. Nothing had slowed down or changed, except for the fact I was in love. I knew it. I’d never known the feeling but I knew I was in love. It was all wrong. I needed to wake up fast. I tried the cold showers. I was in his arms that Sunday and my mind was telling me to run because somebody was going to get hurt. I knew it was going to me. I begin to feel like a prisoner. I was lying in his arms that Sunday, watching some god-awful movie about dragons, and he kept giving away all the scenes, and my mind was screaming. I was in his arms, his right hand on my stomach, could feel him smiling and when I tried to get up to leave, run, the farthest I would get was his eyes --then it was back to his lips. His lips were magnetic, refusing to let me go. I could taste blood when I kissed him. My heart was in between his teeth. I couldn’t run, but I was going to try. And the fucked up thing about love was that it’s unforgiving. There I was in the brightest light, naked. Who was I? I didn’t know who I was anymore. Who was I? Who was Sean? First, Sean wasn’t my real name. He was my alter ego. He was someone I created to escape Michael. I kept asking myself if it was Michael or Sean in love with him. Because Sean didn’t fall in love. Sean wanted to run, but Michael wanted to stay. I told him my real name, so I knew it was Michael in love, but I couldn’t have him. There I was, in his arms, on trial. Love takes your soul to court. Can’t hide from love. There I was on the stand, naked, with the bright light illuminating all my flaws and indiscretions. I kept thinking could he possibly love me, if he knew. I didn’t even know my HIV status. I’d done too much. I never thought I would care nor have a reason to care. There were too many questions I wasn’t ready to deal with. I couldn’t imagine that he could love me back? I had accepted that I was just a fuck up. I was suppose to die tragically, that was the plan. Why was the universe fucking up the plan? I had accepted that I might end up on the streets, some crazy homeless man. Boys like me were insignificant. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. I wasn’t worth love. I couldn’t understand my emotions anymore. And there I was in his arms, in love, knowing that it was impossible. Such a fucked up word, love. And I kept wondering how he did it. There were too many others and I never felt a thing. There were others who treated me kind and gave me things but I never felt a thing. I never loved anybody. And I kept wondering how did he do it? Like did he do some voodoo like pee in my lemonade, steal a lock of my hair, or feed me his blood in a stew? I wanted to know how he crept in my soul, so I could find a cure. I needed to take the sharpest knife and remove the feeling. I knew nothing good could come from it. I wasn’t supposed to love. I was supposed hurt for the rest of my life. I knew I needed to find a way out. And then he did what I feared most, started asking me questions.
How many men have you slept with?
Why you want to know?
Just curious.
That’s a boyfriend question.
Then pretend I’m your boyfriend.
I don't know. I stopped counting a long time ago.
How many do you guess?
You really want to know?
Don't get shy now.
Over a 1000, maybe 2000.
Damn.
I felt exposed. I never thought anybody would ask that question. I never thought I fuck one person more than two times. And he said.
I could be happy.
Be it.
I could be happy with you.
Maybe.
Maybe what?
I could be a fool.
A fool in love?
I could be a fool stupid enough to think I could be happy with you.
You could?
Maybe. Maybe not. I have to get home.
Spend the night.
I have things to do tomorrow.
. I knew from the very first moment I saw you. I was going to be your savior.
Don't say stupid shit like that.
Why? You don't want to be rescued?
Just don't. You confuse me.
You're afraid of me. I see it in your eyes. You want to run, but you can't. I got you.
Let's not ruin the moment with all this irrelevant sentiment. Believe what you want to believe. It always ends the same.
***************
At first I thought I wanted freedom from him because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of a relationship. I didn’t want to have to give up anything, be compromised. I knew I wasn’t ready. I was too old to change. He was too young. I had too many issues. It just wasn’t going to work. Yet, the heart wants what it wants. It started to fuck with my mind. I couldn’t cheat. I tried sleeping with other guys but I couldn’t do it. I started thinking about bills. I started thinking about his bills and us getting a better place. And then I would get so pissed. I just couldn’t just the feeling. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I wanted a life with him. I was so afraid. I knew he was just playing with me. I was like the mouse and he was the damn cat. I just wanted him to get it over with. It was all excuses. I had to pick a fight. I had to find some way to get out of it.
How did I get here again?
You keep coming back.
You really need to get some furniture. I've been having sex with you almost a year on this raggedy mattress.
You haven't been complaining so far.
Maybe I'm too sober.
Are you staying the night?
No.
I want you to stay.
Why?
I don't know.
You've gotten comfortable.
What's that suppose to mean?
You broke our agreement.
Which is?
You fell in love with me.
That's bullshit.
Yes, that bullshit.
I think you're in love with me.
That's interesting.
You keep coming back.
You're a good fuck.
And you tell me personal things.
After a couple of cocktails, there isn't anything I probably won't tell you.
You act like my bitch, complaining all the time.
Lately you've been acting like the bitch. You've gotten comfortable.
You just have to fuck things up, don't you?
You're becoming weak.
What's with the suitcase? You moving in here?
And you'd just let me?
Why not?
It wouldn't work.
You mean you don't want to try.
I don't want to talk about it.
Why do you get like this?
What?
All depressed. If you so damn unhappy, why don't you do something about it instead of bitch and complain.
I like bitching and complaining.
You like suffering.
Maybe I do.
All because your mother left you in a hotel when you were nine.
She abandoned me! She walked away and left me alone.
And that's your excuse.
Not good enough for you?
That's all it is, an excuse.
Habits are hard to break.
You are so full of bullshit, you know that? You do what you do because you're lazy. You lack discipline. You don't want to try. You've been lucky that you had people in your life that's allowed your laziness, your excuses. You ain't fooling me.
Is that your version of "Telling me like it is?"
Somebody needs to.
Heard it all before.
You just haven't listened.
You don't know me.
I think you get off on people not knowing you. Is that knowing you? And what if I do feel something for you? You're just going to walk away.
I warned you.
I ain't that motherfucker going around falling in love with every nigga I see.
And look what you fell in love with.
And what is so wrong with you?
You just don't see it, do you?
You're just crazy that's all. We can get passed it.
We? Have you really thought about what you're proposing? "We" is more than me just meeting you here at night to fuck. You're not ready.
No more ready than you are.
This isn't an argument.
So what's with your suitcase?
Don't ask stupid questions.
When?
I came to say goodbye.
Where are you going?
I don't know.
Good plan. And what are you running away from this time?
Good question.
I know this isn't the first time.
But this time is different.
How?
It just is.
And what about me?
You will figure it out.
You can't keep doing this.
Doing what?
You know what you do.
I told you in the beginning not to fall in love with me.
But I am.
That's your problem. You were warned. What did you think, that you would be different?
Yes.
Your mistake.
I don't know what to say to you.
Don’t say anything.
Who do you love?
Nobody. I don't even love myself.
I don't believe you.
I don't give a damn about what you believe. I don't give a damn about you.
I don't believe you.
I have to go.
Where?
Away.
What are you fighting for?
What?
It was a simple question.
Goodbye Chris.
Go to hell Michael.
That's how you're going to say goodbye to me.
What else am I am suppose to say. Thank you for breaking my heart. You are a sorry ass nigga and I never should've fuck with you in the first place. Get the fuck out of my house. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE NIGGA!
I'm sorry.
It had to be that cruel. It had to be that cold. It had to be that confusing. It was the only way I knew he would let me go. I had to wear him down. I had to make him think I wasn’t savable. I wasn’t savable. After I shot myself, I knew death was real.
Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I would change everything.
There is only one true philosophical problem, and that is suicide. –Albert Camus
Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I shot myself. I shot myself in the heart because love don’t love nobody. At least I was aiming for the heart. At the time, I thought it would be romantic. It wasn’t. It was horrific. It was loud. Gunfire loud. I took a pillow like they do in the movies to muffle the sound but it didn’t silence. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t even feel the bullet enter my body. I just felt wet afterwards. Very wet.
I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was so damn complicated. I decided that I needed a vacation. I wanted to see if I was happy. I wanted to see if god would let me die. I know how its sounds, crazy. We are all just freaks, torn souls, flowers pulled from their roots trying to do the impossible, survive without water. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?
I guess the first question, why did I pack the gun if I didn’t plan to kill myself. I only remember needing a drink. It all seemed so anti-climatic. I went straight to the Crazy Chicken liquor extravaganza. I was craving Vodka. In the parking lot, I mixed the orange juice and Absolut in my car as I scanned my surroundings carefully to see if anyone was watching. I felt nervous. My mind was trying to warn me of something, but I couldn’t hear over the tantrum screaming of my demons wanting to rampage. The first sip was instantaneous. The vodka separated from the orange juice and crashed on my tongue. It was destructively orgasmic. I felt the earthquake throughout my body. The convolution was a jailbreak-- the deranged prisoner free as hotness sprinted down my throat leaving tracks of fire. The second sip wasn’t as dramatic, more supportive, but defiantly not the star. The more I drank, the more I was reminded of that hate. I hate everything. I got old. Too many things change. I didn’t like change. I remember scoring the bag of Tina. I remember getting the hotel. I remember getting high and drinking. I remember pulling out the gun. I remember the trigger. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was just testing God to see if he would let me die. I know how it sounds. Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change?
Broken hearts break razor-sharp. Unfinished hearts haunt like ghosts who didn’t die peacefully. Even as I lay dying, my heart wouldn’t let him go. Because, the second I jumped off his cliff, I wanted to live. My last thought was of him. I saw him bathing in a river of light. I was there with him. He told me to put my head underneath the light, to let it drown me. I tried to explain to him that if I put my head under the pool of light I would die. He said to trust him. So I did it. I let myself drown. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t die.
******************
The beginning. I wasn’t looking for love, anything but love. Aging parti Boys like me: heartbreakers, living fast to die young, conflicted, self-destructing, soulless --were to have and not to hold. Boys like me were outside the radar. The world had forgotten about boys like me. Boys like me were doomed.
So when I met him in that place, he was supposed to be just a fuck. I wasn’t looking for love. And they say when your life is about to change, it’s nothing special, that day was nothing special. I arrived at the bookstore, paid my five dollars for a fist full of coins for the video booths. I hardly ever used those coins. If I wanted to just watch porn, I would’ve stayed home. I wanted sweaty flesh. Bookstores were all the same. I loved the hunt. I loved the second the bored clerk pushed the button to let me in the back, into the darkness, how I would tighten my baseball cap on my head and pull it down on my eyes. That buzzing sound separated the worlds. On the outside I was somebody’s brother, son, co-worker or even father. But on the inside, I was nothing but a hard dick, a sloppy hole, a steamy mouth or gentle sticky hand. On the outside, I was a uniform but on the inside I was just naked. On the inside, behind those dark walls, I was only my waistline, my youth, masculinity and eagerness to please. The second I was behind the door, on the inside, I became a predator or prey. It was on the inside that I felt the safest, maybe because I didn’t have to be anything but a body. Maybe because I knew the hunt. I didn’t have to be a personality, just flesh. I didn’t have to be happy. I didn’t have to be nothing. On the inside, I’d immediately go the bathroom and do a hit of Tina. I’d then sip from my one liter coke bottle filled with rum and coke. I’d sniff my poppers to remind me of my aching lust. I’d lube up my hole just in case. I’d avoid the mirror.
The hunt was always the same. It was to appear available but not desperate. I hadn’t been on the inside for more than five minutes when I saw him. He was standing against a wall. He had his hood on his head but raised his shirt when I walked by to reveal his flat stomach. I circled him three times before he spoke.
Sup with you.
Nothing.
You trying to get into something?
Basically.
So what's up?
Not much.
You come here often?
Does it matter?
What’s in that coke bottle?
Holy water.
You trying to get fucked up?
I’m already fucked up
It seemed like a stupid question. I didn’t pay attention to his face. I kept my eyes on his stomach, looking for a rise in his red sweatpants. I didn’t like talk. I found that talking in that place confused people.
I want to fuck.
You have to take your clothes off first.
You want to come to my crib?
And why would I do that, when I'm already here?
What is your name?
My name is Sean.
You didn’t ask me my name.
I don’t care. And what if I want to fuck you?
I don't get fucked.
Everybody gets fucked one way or the other. Besides, we're already here.
I don't just be fucking anywhere.
And why did you come here?
I don't know.
You live in DC?
I live in Maryland
Should've guessed.
Where do you live?
Close.
We could go to your crib.
My place is crowded.
I started to walk away. He already had asked one too many questions. He didn’t need to know about my life. Yet, I stayed even when I noticed that I was being cruised by another guy who grabbed his dick so that I could see its print. He was an older guy, a little heavy, not the type I’d immediately give my time, more the desperate type when I couldn’t find anything else, so I decided to entertain my new prey.
What does that mean?
It means I don't live alone.
And?
And you look threatening, with that whole young black male thug channel five news look.
Looks can be deceiving.
I didn’t say I didn’t like it.
You're not afraid of me?
Should I be?
I ain't going to do shit to you.
I was hoping we do something.
I don't usually do this.
Do what?
Get down like this.
He stared to bore me. I hated the down low type that hyper masculinity bathed in pain and secrecy that killed souls.
I'm not going home with you. We fuck here or we don't fuck at all.
I ain’t going to do nothing to you.
Now you begging.
I ain't begging.
You're ruining my buzz.
Why you tripping?
What are you promising?
You won't be disappointed.
Heard it all before.
I'm gonna go.
He seemed nervous. I thought to myself maybe it was his first time, that he was a bookstore virgin. He didn’t understand the rules.
Take a sip of this.
Damn that shit is straight liquor.
It has rum in it. .
And you're drinking like its water.
You smoke weed?
You trying to get me fucked up?
I'm just trying to get you to relax.
You got condoms?
And lube, so relax.
Do you always get this fucked up?
Yeah.
Maybe you should think about slowing down.
No.
We found a booth and locked the door. The rule was only one occupant per booth but no one ever followed that rule. I really didn’t like bookstores because there was no privacy. Strangers had driven holes in the walls and doors to peak and steal glimpses of what they failed to get. I preferred bathhouses. That place was a dump, might as well been fucking in a dumpster. Sober, it was even more depressing that’s why I had to get fucked it. The floors were always sticky with spilled liquor, used condoms, spit and men abortions. The booths were gutted shack houses, barely hanging onto their hinges. But it was dark and I guessed that’s what black men who hid their faces and eyes with baseball caps or hoods wanted. It was also cheap, didn’t cost more than a fast meal. They were other places, better places, but the city was DC, and the other places were white, and for some reason Black men liked the darker and trashier back alleys. Black men, the trendy down low, who left their girlfriends and wives at home to read the latest E. Lynn Harris book. Nothing about that place or life was romantic. Just desperate. In the winter, in that place, they sometimes didn’t even turn on the heat. The owner was of course some white fat fag who didn’t care about niggas. Niggas took over the place sometime in the early nineties, instead of shutting it down, he raised the price. That place took money from mostly black hands or white men looking for the big black dick and treated everyone like shit. The clerks were always rude, never had time, acted like they were better because they were on the outside. Ironically, that place, in their advertisements were the typical chiseled white men in white jockstraps, but in reality that place was filled with black faces, timberlands, chronic, nappy hair and musky funk. That place didn’t respect us, knew that too many of us were just looking to release shame. They treated us like niggas who were fags. But I guess that’s what we wanted, to be invisible, voiceless, not cause any trouble or bring attention to ourselves. That was the life that some black gay men barely owned. That was the life that I barely owned like renting furniture three times its price cuz I had bad credit.
We started slowly. I pulled out a small bottle of lube from my pocket and wet my black hole again. I let him put his cold hands on my stomach. He unzipped and let his frustration breath. I liked for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I liked to see and feel his solid erection rubbing against me unapologetically. I liked to see the physical manifestation of how much he wanted me. And from the size of his raging bull in his red jogging pants, he wanted me like the thirsty dreamed of water. He let his pants fall to his ankles. He was an eager nine inches. High and feeling invincible, I just watched him. There’s something very virginal yet corrupt when I am fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head, temporarily arresting me in darkness. The smell of my own musk and citrus cologne passing my nose served as a quick aphrodisiac. I was now shirtless. He pressed his warm body against mine. He kissed my neck, and then slid down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He played with them like a little kid with his favorite toy. I let myself relax. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slowly slid the zipper down. I felt the vibrations of every ridge. Just like him, I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those cold masculine hands on my waist. He let my jeans fall to my knees. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and search for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body twisted and moaned. He directed my body to bend over. His frisky curious tongue devoured my sensitive manhole with intense unapologetic aggression. I found myself digging into the dingy wall with my stumpy nails, feeling the pendulum swing of heat. I was free. I wanted him to fuck me. I was begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He positioned my body so that he towered over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy rum and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit, as I sucked him. He was so hard. I loved it. I let him drive his dick into the back of my throat. Spit overflowed, slippery and wet, my mouth hot and inviting, slow than fast than slow again. I could feel him want to give in, because his knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. But we weren’t finished. He casually pulled himself out of my salivating mouth. I stood up, a little dizzy, feeling salacious with adrenaline and ready to give my body to him to do with as he pleased. I quickly sniffed my poppers letting the fumes thin my blood and relax my muscles. He pressed me against the wall again. He spread my legs. Touch was sensitive. I felt ever inch, fingerprint, hair follicle, breath and thought. He kissed the back of my neck. I felt slippery. He slapped his dick on my ass getting it as hard as it was going to get. I sniffed my poppers again. I closed my eyes. I had been pressed against that wall so many times as if I never left it. He inserted himself. I knew the feeling well how the snake slithers passed the slippery doors and dance. I rode the friction. I softly moaned. I sniffed my poppers. I spread my legs wider. I arched my back. I rode the friction. The high from the poppers made me start hallucinating and I felt as if I was sinking into that wall. I could see my reflection. I could see the ghosts of black boys like myself who’d been fucked in that same booth now gone. I sniffed my poppers. I begged for him to go deeper. I was safe. In that booth, I was safe. I didn’t have to be anybody, do nothing with my life, and just get fucked. Twenty minutes later, “Oh nigga, you gonna make me cum!”
Afterwards, I remember first looking at my watch and then at him. It was the first time I really saw his face. In the dark booth, a blue neon light flashed across his face like a short-circuited hotel sign. He fell back against the other side of the booth and opened his eyes. We were now staring at each other. On the inside, lusting, two men only see flesh - a body to use and be used. After lust, when dicks go soft and words not so easy, we were just two human beings seeing each other in harsh light for the first time. I immediately grabbed the waist of my jeans and pull them to my hips. I was ready for my next prey. I couldn’t help but look at his face. He was cute. His eyes were lucid and clairvoyant, stabbing through me like he gave birth to me. His eyes, two oval universes of complicated hazel and unpretentious. He was beautiful. I didn’t like that he was taller and thinner than me. I didn’t know he was so young. He looked like a baby no more than twenty years old. He looked so innocent. And then he smiled as too comfort me or to say “Hello, again.” I buttoned my jeans. He pulled the condom from his dick and let it land on the floor. I handed him a napkin to wipe his dick. I thought he would get embarrassed and immediately run for the door and I’d never see him again. He grabbed the napkin and wiped his dick and then placed it in his t-shirt pocket. I thought it was funny that he would leave his used condom on the floor but put the napkin in his pocket. He pulled up his jogging pants. I decided to leave.
Are you leaving?
We’re finished.
What’s your name again?
Sean? No, it’s Michael
That was weird. I’d never given anyone my real name in years. I immediately regretted it. I blamed the poppers and my head being a little light. But I was always high so I knew it was more than a slip-up.
I thought you told me Sean
I did. I lied.
So why you telling me the truth now?
I don’t know.
Well my name is Chris.
Is that your real name?
I wouldn’t lie to you.
You should.
I want to see you again?
Why?
I don’t know.
Give me your number and I will call you.
I wasn’t going to call. Bookstores and Bathhouses weren’t the stories you told your kids how I met Daddy. And I wasn’t looking for love. Anything but love. I figured because he was a bookstore virgin he didn’t know the rules. And he looked so cute and innocent, like he’d just got a girl pregnant and wanted to do the right thing. I didn’t want to upset his ignorance. I figured I would pretend with him. He pulled me close to him, reached into my pocket, grabbed my cell phone and programmed his number. I told myself I would delete it on the walk home.
You’re not going to call; I can see it in your eyes.
You don’t trust me.
You already lied to me.
Well…
It doesn’t matter because I believe in maybe.
What is that suppose to mean?
It means I have faith in you.
What, you’re some religious freak.
No. Damn you’re difficult.
You don’t even know me.
You will call.
How you figure that?
Because you won’t let me get the last sentence.
You’re funny.
He was so damn sure of himself, to be so young. And then again, I was at the point where I’d decided everyone knew the answer but me. He opened the door and left. I swear immediately I felt changed. I missed him. I fell back against the wall and smiled. It was instant. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I knew I wasn’t the same. After all the men, all their lines and lies, he felt new. Usually at a place like that, I liked to come undone. I liked to get fucked and abused until my hole was sloppy and overflowed with stench of cum. I liked turning my back to the wall, with my pants down to my ankles, sniff my poppers and just be used. I liked the concrete on my knees. In that place, I didn’t want to be beautiful. I wanted to be ugly. I liked to get so numb and fell no pain and no sense of identity but be completely hopeless like the spit, spilled liquor and men’s abortion on the floor. In that place, I wasn’t looking for release. Sex for me had always been empty. I never really enjoyed it. I’d fuck ten men in one night and still want more. I would stay on my knees until they bled and still want more. I’d take dick in the ass, mouth, hands, face, between the thighs, threesome, gangbang, S&M and still want more. I could never be satisfied. I just needed to exhaust my body. After he left me, I suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t feel like the hunt. I decided to go home. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Shit, my life was already complicated enough.
*************
I was thirty-one years old and drowning. I had been questioning my existence. It was like a huge gush of wind had pushed me into the deep end of the pool and I couldn’t swim. I was struggling, choking on panic as frantic hands tried to grab the edges but slipping. I didn’t even know if I wanted to live--and that’s fucked up when you’re drowning, not knowing if you want to live or not. I could never stay sober enough time to make the decision. The days began to blend into each other. I was getting older against my will. I didn’t believe in anything. No self-preservation. Just destruction. I had been questioning. I realized my plan to die at twenty five years old like James Dean, young and tragic had failed.
********************
I had to make a choice. I was questioning my existence. I tried to make myself forget about him. I waited an entire week before I decided to call. I just wanted to talk. I hadn’t had a real conversation in years. I thought about him a lot. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And I tried to get clean. I found myself writing his name. Even when I touched myself, his memory only appeared. I tried to think about other fucks, but it always came back to him. I could only get off thinking about him. I wanted to know why, so I decided to call him. I was nervous. I figured he’d forgotten all about me. I figured he wouldn’t answer the phone. I dialed his number one night on my way back from the gym. I prayed that he didn’t answer. I prayed that he pretend like he didn’t know me and hang up the phone in my face. I prayed that he’d be cruel, so that I could awake from fantasizing about him. He answered. I tried to be nonchalant. I told him I was just calling because I accidentally found his number. He laughed. He invited me over to his place. I felt myself go cold. I wanted to say no, but instead I was taking directions. I was changing directions. I just wanted to talk. I didn’t want to see him. It took a subway ride and two buses to get to his house. He didn’t live in the best neighborhood. I was sober. I hadn’t had the chance to stop by the liquor store. I hoped there would be one in his neighborhood. I couldn’t find one. I started to turn back around but I was already at his apartment. I knocked on the door. I hoped he would have liquor. He opened his door. I figured in the unforgiving hallway lights he’d change his mind that I wouldn’t be so appealing outside the bookstore, or even better, he wouldn’t be as cute as I remembered. He opened his door and he was still beautiful. He was even better looking. He had on no shirt, just white gym shorts, no socks or shoes. He’d just got his hair braided by a good friend. He didn’t tell me his friends would be over. I felt paralyzed in the hallway. I had come from the gym. I didn’t even take a shower. I had on a baseball cap, wife beater, jeans and my infamous sandals. I thought he would slam the door in my face. He told me to come in and put my stuff in his room. I walked into his humble apartment, he was obviously young, and most of his furniture looked like it came from a flea market. I walked to his room and laid my bag down on his bed, tried to think of an excuse where I could leave early, and then I felt him behind me, his breath on the back of my neck, and when I turned around he pushed me on the bed, and we started kissing. He tore off my wife beater, promised to buy me another one, but I didn’t care about the shirt. In the next breath he was out of his shorts, and he was so damn hard, but I had to stop him, there were other people in the next room, people I didn’t know. He grabbed a towel, folded his hard dick against his stomach and wrapped a thick baby blue towel around his waist. He hurried outside to his friends and told them they had to go. When they protested, he apologized but told them they had to get out of his house, that he would talk to them later. I heard shuffling, some cursing, but soon it was quiet, and a door shut. I felt like a bitch who just got roses for Valentine’s day that he would put his friends out just for me. He came back to the room, without his towel, his dick still rock hard. I removed my jeans, and we attacked each other like two wolves in the wild. I’d missed him. My body missed him.
At the bus stop going home, I knew I was in trouble. I hadn’t had sex sober with another human-being since I was a teenager. I knew I was in trouble because I knew the feeling. It was the same feeling like the first time I did ecstasy how suddenly everything became lucid. I felt complete. I knew I was in trouble. And I kept going back. Every time I would leave him, I’d tell myself that it was the last time, but I kept going back. I had found a new drug. And Love was instant. Nobody told me it would be that fast. That anyone could fall that fast. I mean I heard of love at first sight, but I was a rational person. I had become a pro at avoiding emotion. I felt as if my life had become a bad sitcom and that corny shit wasn’t supposed to happen to boys like me. Love just infected and asked questions later. Love didn’t care I didn’t love myself. Love didn’t care I wasn’t ready. I remember one Sunday, and I had been seeing him for a couple of months, and I was lying in his arms tormented. I started thinking about shit I never worried about. I still couldn’t keep a job. I didn’t have a bank account. I had bad credit. I still didn’t own my life. I was still a fuck up and drank everyday. Nothing had slowed down or changed, except for the fact I was in love. I knew it. I’d never known the feeling but I knew I was in love. It was all wrong. I needed to wake up fast. I tried the cold showers. I was in his arms that Sunday and my mind was telling me to run because somebody was going to get hurt. I knew it was going to me. I begin to feel like a prisoner. I was lying in his arms that Sunday, watching some god-awful movie about dragons, and he kept giving away all the scenes, and my mind was screaming. I was in his arms, his right hand on my stomach, could feel him smiling and when I tried to get up to leave, run, the farthest I would get was his eyes --then it was back to his lips. His lips were magnetic, refusing to let me go. I could taste blood when I kissed him. My heart was in between his teeth. I couldn’t run, but I was going to try. And the fucked up thing about love was that it’s unforgiving. There I was in the brightest light, naked. Who was I? I didn’t know who I was anymore. Who was I? Who was Sean? First, Sean wasn’t my real name. He was my alter ego. He was someone I created to escape Michael. I kept asking myself if it was Michael or Sean in love with him. Because Sean didn’t fall in love. Sean wanted to run, but Michael wanted to stay. I told him my real name, so I knew it was Michael in love, but I couldn’t have him. There I was, in his arms, on trial. Love takes your soul to court. Can’t hide from love. There I was on the stand, naked, with the bright light illuminating all my flaws and indiscretions. I kept thinking could he possibly love me, if he knew. I didn’t even know my HIV status. I’d done too much. I never thought I would care nor have a reason to care. There were too many questions I wasn’t ready to deal with. I couldn’t imagine that he could love me back? I had accepted that I was just a fuck up. I was suppose to die tragically, that was the plan. Why was the universe fucking up the plan? I had accepted that I might end up on the streets, some crazy homeless man. Boys like me were insignificant. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. I wasn’t worth love. I couldn’t understand my emotions anymore. And there I was in his arms, in love, knowing that it was impossible. Such a fucked up word, love. And I kept wondering how he did it. There were too many others and I never felt a thing. There were others who treated me kind and gave me things but I never felt a thing. I never loved anybody. And I kept wondering how did he do it? Like did he do some voodoo like pee in my lemonade, steal a lock of my hair, or feed me his blood in a stew? I wanted to know how he crept in my soul, so I could find a cure. I needed to take the sharpest knife and remove the feeling. I knew nothing good could come from it. I wasn’t supposed to love. I was supposed hurt for the rest of my life. I knew I needed to find a way out. And then he did what I feared most, started asking me questions.
How many men have you slept with?
Why you want to know?
Just curious.
That’s a boyfriend question.
Then pretend I’m your boyfriend.
I don't know. I stopped counting a long time ago.
How many do you guess?
You really want to know?
Don't get shy now.
Over a 1000, maybe 2000.
Damn.
I felt exposed. I never thought anybody would ask that question. I never thought I fuck one person more than two times. And he said.
I could be happy.
Be it.
I could be happy with you.
Maybe.
Maybe what?
I could be a fool.
A fool in love?
I could be a fool stupid enough to think I could be happy with you.
You could?
Maybe. Maybe not. I have to get home.
Spend the night.
I have things to do tomorrow.
. I knew from the very first moment I saw you. I was going to be your savior.
Don't say stupid shit like that.
Why? You don't want to be rescued?
Just don't. You confuse me.
You're afraid of me. I see it in your eyes. You want to run, but you can't. I got you.
Let's not ruin the moment with all this irrelevant sentiment. Believe what you want to believe. It always ends the same.
***************
At first I thought I wanted freedom from him because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of a relationship. I didn’t want to have to give up anything, be compromised. I knew I wasn’t ready. I was too old to change. He was too young. I had too many issues. It just wasn’t going to work. Yet, the heart wants what it wants. It started to fuck with my mind. I couldn’t cheat. I tried sleeping with other guys but I couldn’t do it. I started thinking about bills. I started thinking about his bills and us getting a better place. And then I would get so pissed. I just couldn’t just the feeling. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I wanted a life with him. I was so afraid. I knew he was just playing with me. I was like the mouse and he was the damn cat. I just wanted him to get it over with. It was all excuses. I had to pick a fight. I had to find some way to get out of it.
How did I get here again?
You keep coming back.
You really need to get some furniture. I've been having sex with you almost a year on this raggedy mattress.
You haven't been complaining so far.
Maybe I'm too sober.
Are you staying the night?
No.
I want you to stay.
Why?
I don't know.
You've gotten comfortable.
What's that suppose to mean?
You broke our agreement.
Which is?
You fell in love with me.
That's bullshit.
Yes, that bullshit.
I think you're in love with me.
That's interesting.
You keep coming back.
You're a good fuck.
And you tell me personal things.
After a couple of cocktails, there isn't anything I probably won't tell you.
You act like my bitch, complaining all the time.
Lately you've been acting like the bitch. You've gotten comfortable.
You just have to fuck things up, don't you?
You're becoming weak.
What's with the suitcase? You moving in here?
And you'd just let me?
Why not?
It wouldn't work.
You mean you don't want to try.
I don't want to talk about it.
Why do you get like this?
What?
All depressed. If you so damn unhappy, why don't you do something about it instead of bitch and complain.
I like bitching and complaining.
You like suffering.
Maybe I do.
All because your mother left you in a hotel when you were nine.
She abandoned me! She walked away and left me alone.
And that's your excuse.
Not good enough for you?
That's all it is, an excuse.
Habits are hard to break.
You are so full of bullshit, you know that? You do what you do because you're lazy. You lack discipline. You don't want to try. You've been lucky that you had people in your life that's allowed your laziness, your excuses. You ain't fooling me.
Is that your version of "Telling me like it is?"
Somebody needs to.
Heard it all before.
You just haven't listened.
You don't know me.
I think you get off on people not knowing you. Is that knowing you? And what if I do feel something for you? You're just going to walk away.
I warned you.
I ain't that motherfucker going around falling in love with every nigga I see.
And look what you fell in love with.
And what is so wrong with you?
You just don't see it, do you?
You're just crazy that's all. We can get passed it.
We? Have you really thought about what you're proposing? "We" is more than me just meeting you here at night to fuck. You're not ready.
No more ready than you are.
This isn't an argument.
So what's with your suitcase?
Don't ask stupid questions.
When?
I came to say goodbye.
Where are you going?
I don't know.
Good plan. And what are you running away from this time?
Good question.
I know this isn't the first time.
But this time is different.
How?
It just is.
And what about me?
You will figure it out.
You can't keep doing this.
Doing what?
You know what you do.
I told you in the beginning not to fall in love with me.
But I am.
That's your problem. You were warned. What did you think, that you would be different?
Yes.
Your mistake.
I don't know what to say to you.
Don’t say anything.
Who do you love?
Nobody. I don't even love myself.
I don't believe you.
I don't give a damn about what you believe. I don't give a damn about you.
I don't believe you.
I have to go.
Where?
Away.
What are you fighting for?
What?
It was a simple question.
Goodbye Chris.
Go to hell Michael.
That's how you're going to say goodbye to me.
What else am I am suppose to say. Thank you for breaking my heart. You are a sorry ass nigga and I never should've fuck with you in the first place. Get the fuck out of my house. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE NIGGA!
I'm sorry.
It had to be that cruel. It had to be that cold. It had to be that confusing. It was the only way I knew he would let me go. I had to wear him down. I had to make him think I wasn’t savable. I wasn’t savable. After I shot myself, I knew death was real.
Think about your own life. Think about how you’re fucked up. What would you change? I would change everything.
Dirty Water
I asked a whore
what was happiness?
she told me to give her twenty dollars and she gets me closer to it
I asked a crack addict pissing in the street
what was the answer?
he said he only finds it in smoke and mirrors
I asked my reverend
why does love hurt?
he said because homosexuals can't love
I asked the grave digger
does god exist?
he said he dies everyday
I asked the bigot
why does he hate
he said because no one is perfect
I asked my mother
why does she drink dirty water?
she said because daddy doesn't come home and it has no reflection
I asked the mirror why we question
it said because we are afraid to die.
********
Blue
(age 20, 1995)
I thought I'd write you a letter
about blue rain
that bathed me
under a clear blue sky
and how it healed me.
I thought I close my eyes
and just remember the times
of a blurred osculation
the symphony of cacophonies of laughs
and the burning smiles
that aches at me at night
and I want fight them
anymore.
I thought I run
far
away from that reflection
I see everywhere
away from those eyes
that stares
away from this
the remiss
pain, rain and anger
the truth
You
Me
Blue.
I thought I buy a gun
and kill happiness
kill love
because it was the malice of heaven
the reminded me I existed on earth
the patronizing twisting of the knife in my heart
the slap in the face
when I'm alone
the blows to the side
when I think I've grown
and the weakness of the knees
when I try to walk away
I can't
leave
Blue
You.
So I come undone
Three times a week
as I violently shower in bleach
try to scrub you away from me
wash away the immaculate poetry
of how soft love was
is
the innocence
this
You
me
Blue
healing
standing in blue rain
bathing in blue tears
under a clear blue sky
laughing
wanted to feel a song
write you a song
but all I could think is blue
cool, mellow blue
sad, abstruse blue
blue for you
terribly missing you
and I can still feel
the footprints on my soul
you drew
still wanting to hold
blue
will always love
You.
I asked a whore
what was happiness?
she told me to give her twenty dollars and she gets me closer to it
I asked a crack addict pissing in the street
what was the answer?
he said he only finds it in smoke and mirrors
I asked my reverend
why does love hurt?
he said because homosexuals can't love
I asked the grave digger
does god exist?
he said he dies everyday
I asked the bigot
why does he hate
he said because no one is perfect
I asked my mother
why does she drink dirty water?
she said because daddy doesn't come home and it has no reflection
I asked the mirror why we question
it said because we are afraid to die.
********
Blue
(age 20, 1995)
I thought I'd write you a letter
about blue rain
that bathed me
under a clear blue sky
and how it healed me.
I thought I close my eyes
and just remember the times
of a blurred osculation
the symphony of cacophonies of laughs
and the burning smiles
that aches at me at night
and I want fight them
anymore.
I thought I run
far
away from that reflection
I see everywhere
away from those eyes
that stares
away from this
the remiss
pain, rain and anger
the truth
You
Me
Blue.
I thought I buy a gun
and kill happiness
kill love
because it was the malice of heaven
the reminded me I existed on earth
the patronizing twisting of the knife in my heart
the slap in the face
when I'm alone
the blows to the side
when I think I've grown
and the weakness of the knees
when I try to walk away
I can't
leave
Blue
You.
So I come undone
Three times a week
as I violently shower in bleach
try to scrub you away from me
wash away the immaculate poetry
of how soft love was
is
the innocence
this
You
me
Blue
healing
standing in blue rain
bathing in blue tears
under a clear blue sky
laughing
wanted to feel a song
write you a song
but all I could think is blue
cool, mellow blue
sad, abstruse blue
blue for you
terribly missing you
and I can still feel
the footprints on my soul
you drew
still wanting to hold
blue
will always love
You.
Playing with Fire
I can’t say I was surprised. I always knew that kid end of murdered. The newspaper read: “Decomposing and naked as the knife used to slit his throat was how they found him. His head hung on to his neck by a strip of flesh. He was tied to a chair with a brown indoor extension cord – hands snatched behind him with gray duck tape like wild hair forced into an unnatural ponytail. His body was twisted like beaten clay. His black decaying wounds still wept blood. But his face, a frozen human gargoyle screaming last echoes of pain is what his sister who found him will always remember in her nightmares. His murderer showed no mercy. He died horribly.”
I’d known him since middle school. We became friends because I rejected him. I didn’t invite him to my birthday party, but he showed up anyway. He brought the best present. That was Roderick, always wanting what others told him he couldn’t have, always needing to prove that he was good enough. I felt sorry for him. His father was in the military and never home. His mother was an alcoholic. He had an older sister but they weren’t close. Roderick always seemed alone. He was a good looking kid: a slender body even into adulthood, silky black wavy hair, a kind intelligent face, and friendly eyes, but awkward. He was so put together that he looked rehearsed as if nothing he said hadn’t been practiced in front of a mirror. I don’t know why we stayed friends. I could just never lose him. I tried. He always found me. I didn’t really like him. He refused other people’s boundaries. I felt he only cared about himself. I knew I couldn’t trust him. He was using the world. He wasn’t a bad person, just too many demons.
In High School, he became the will of his mind. He told me I was gay and I believed him. He was a budding Lex Luther about to take over the known world. That is until he fell in love with Buck. It was more of an obsession and his first waterfall. Even if he could smell the rotting of broken bone and souls shattered needlessly on the jagged rocks below, he still couldn’t help but fall. The temptation to get closer was stronger, like a moth playing with fire.
Buck was seventeen and Roderick, sixteen. Buck was cliché masculine, a fucking tease, tall and athletic, always licking his lips and grabbing his dick, flirting with the girls, hitting boys in their arms, believing after high school he was going to play professional basketball for the Lakers or the Bulls, but he really wasn't that good. He just looked good in his uniform. Buck and Roderick took advanced Anatomy class together. Buck had this way of looking into Roderick's eyes, shamelessly flirting, and asking personal questions like if Roderick was a virgin, then he’d lick his lips again or if Roderick ever had his dick sucked, of course by a girl he would say after a deep pause and smile. Roderick tried to avoid Buck's questions. He didn’t like how his blood would boil and stir quickly in his veins. He didn’t like keeping his eyes silent. He didn't know if Buck was playing games or not. Buck would say things like, "You're so pretty. Shit, I know if I was girl, I go out with you. I may even give you some," then Buck would smile and lick those lips again and grab his dick. At night, alone and naked, it drove Roderick wild. He became obsessed with Buck. He started going to all of Buck's basketball practices and games. He started following Buck home. He’d do anything, to get closer. For Roderick, it was a game. He joined the photography club so that he could get a camera and take pictures of Buck. He would masturbate to those pictures. Eventually, fantasy wouldn't be enough for Roderick, so he decided to make him and Buck real. Loneliness and terrible longing caught Roderick and Buck alone in the boy’s bathroom. As usual, Buck greeted him "Wha up pretty boy." Roderick liked it when Buck called him pretty. In that boy's bathroom, it was like a fantasy for Roderick. He was wearing his Gap khakis, a pink polo long sleeve button up with a green v-neck sweater over it, looking preppy as usual. Buck was in his basketball uniform: Nike tennis shoes and letterman jacket, licking his lips and grabbing his dick. Roderick couldn't resist the temptation. Buck had been haunting his dreams for too long and he needed a release. He walked over to Buck and whispered almost tearfully in his ear, "Can I suck your dick?" Buck quickly turned to him, and for a moment, there was a look in his eyes, almost a window, but it slammed shut. Buck eyes turned mean and widened, his once relaxed hands became fists and he hit Roderick hard in the stomach. He called Roderick a "Faggot" and spit on him. Buck stormed out of the bathroom. Roderick laid there on the bathroom floor, not crying, but smiling, because he had gotten so close to Buck's lips, almost made contact, when Buck hit him, he came.
After Buck, Roderick would be called names: "sissy" "Faggot" "deep throat." It never seemed to bother him. He didn’t give up. When he saw Buck in our high school hallways or the cafeteria he didn’t divert his eyes but made sure to make contact. He kept going to all Buck’s game. Even when Buck threatened his life, Roderick would just smile and snap a picture with his camera. I tried to get him to stop. Buck’s friends caught him walking home alone and beat the shit out of him. It didn’t stop Roderick from getting Buck’s number from our registration office and calling him late at night. The more Buck resisted him, the more Roderick wanted him. I just knew they were going to find his body stripped naked and hanging from a tree. Yet, his persistence sometimes got him what he craved. It was right after graduation, Buck showed up at Roderick’s house, he reeked of weed, rum and confused tears. He said he was going into the army in a couple of days and just wanted to say goodbye. They fucked in Roderick’s father’s tool shed. Roderick had won. I remember the look in his eyes when he told me the story, how Buck was such a bottom, how he immediately fell to his knees, how he begged Roderick to impregnate him, that he wanted to have his baby, be his bitch. I couldn’t believe it. I saw Buck many years later in the club, he’d become a Tina Turner impersonator.
Not many people knew the real Roderick. He graduated high school and got accepted into a good college. He was a smart kid. He was ambitious. He worked two jobs. He went to church every Sunday. He was well liked. Yet, there was a very dark side to Roderick. In college, he started playing his most dangerous games. He would cruise the boys dormitory community shower until he was attacked. The school newspaper made it out to be a gay bashing. Roderick didn’t care for people’s feelings. It didn’t stop him. His next game, he used his sister’s picture and pretended to be her on the internet. He would lure guys to obscene places like cemeteries or construction sites. He’d sometimes would meet the guy and give some trite story liked his sister was locked up in the house with their religious father and get the guy to hang out with him all night, try to get him drunk and then take advantage. It didn’t always go his way. Bruises for Roderick were just mistakes that needed to be corrected.
I stopped hanging out with him when he started his fantasy of wanting to get raped. He joined bondage clubs. He said he was looking for something destructive. I would ask him about his childhood, if he was abused and he would say that he had the perfect childhood. I didn’t understand it. I figured him to be suicidal. There were times when he could be so sweet. When I lost my job and couldn’t pay my car note, he took care of it for four months. He didn’t even want me to pay him back. It was his unexpected kindness that confused me. Yet, I got tired of picking him up from somebody’s ghetto after he been robbed and left for dead. The last time I saw Roderick he was in the hospital after being stabbed when he refused to pay some trick he picked up on the street. He told his family he had been robbed. I knew the truth. Of course he was very cavalier about the incident, making jokes but I could see sadness in his eyes. I was afraid for him, even if he figured himself invincible.
Roderick had decided he didn’t believe that there was such a thing as a “straight” man. He decided that all men were weak. Yet, he didn’t like gay men. He didn’t consider gay men real men. He was always looking for a real man. A man with the girlfriend, watched sports, drank beer and hung out at strip bars. He liked danger. Addicted. He liked testing himself. Testing the world. He liked seeing how far he could push the bar. It was his black hole. The farther he fell the more his insanity wanted. It was an appetite or thirst that was never to be fulfilled. Maybe we don’t choose. Maybe the call of the fire is too strong, maybe we are all just moths, fluttering out of control, and where the light is just too beautiful so we want to get closer.
The last time I spoke to Roderick he’d found a website for convicted felons, mostly rapists and murders. He said it was just a hobby. He was attracted to the danger in their eyes. He said he met someone. He sounded happy.
The night he died, his mother couldn’t sleep. She said she kept dreaming about blood. She called his sister and asked her to go by his apartment. His sister waited for two days. Roderick had been known to disappear without word for days. She drove straight to his condo. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. She got to his door and knocked, but there was no answer. She knocked harder. Still nothing. Suddenly, she could barely breathe or speak. She felt nervous but didn’t know why. She put the key he had given her for emergencies in the door and pushed slowly against the hidden murder. First there was the smell, then the horror of the sight of twisted violence beaten like clay. Roderick was home but forever silenced. He was there. She had found him.
The police gave little details on his final moments. They just said it wasn’t a force entry. Roderick knew his murderer. Roderick car, wallet and computer had been stolen. The media made it out to be that Roderick met some street thug off a well known “down low” sex website, of course making the story trendy. The case went unsolved. Roderick was just another black fag who got himself murdered. Black Fags go missing often and then found in back of trunks, stuffed in trashcans or in pieces. Jeffrey Dahmer killed a lot black homosexuals and nobody went looking for them.
I can’t help but ask myself did he bring it on himself. I warned him too many times. He couldn’t be saved. When I found out, I told myself I wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. I always knew that kid end up murdered. But yet, I couldn’t help but weep. His lust had no fear. What was he looking for? Maybe Death?
I’d known him since middle school. We became friends because I rejected him. I didn’t invite him to my birthday party, but he showed up anyway. He brought the best present. That was Roderick, always wanting what others told him he couldn’t have, always needing to prove that he was good enough. I felt sorry for him. His father was in the military and never home. His mother was an alcoholic. He had an older sister but they weren’t close. Roderick always seemed alone. He was a good looking kid: a slender body even into adulthood, silky black wavy hair, a kind intelligent face, and friendly eyes, but awkward. He was so put together that he looked rehearsed as if nothing he said hadn’t been practiced in front of a mirror. I don’t know why we stayed friends. I could just never lose him. I tried. He always found me. I didn’t really like him. He refused other people’s boundaries. I felt he only cared about himself. I knew I couldn’t trust him. He was using the world. He wasn’t a bad person, just too many demons.
In High School, he became the will of his mind. He told me I was gay and I believed him. He was a budding Lex Luther about to take over the known world. That is until he fell in love with Buck. It was more of an obsession and his first waterfall. Even if he could smell the rotting of broken bone and souls shattered needlessly on the jagged rocks below, he still couldn’t help but fall. The temptation to get closer was stronger, like a moth playing with fire.
Buck was seventeen and Roderick, sixteen. Buck was cliché masculine, a fucking tease, tall and athletic, always licking his lips and grabbing his dick, flirting with the girls, hitting boys in their arms, believing after high school he was going to play professional basketball for the Lakers or the Bulls, but he really wasn't that good. He just looked good in his uniform. Buck and Roderick took advanced Anatomy class together. Buck had this way of looking into Roderick's eyes, shamelessly flirting, and asking personal questions like if Roderick was a virgin, then he’d lick his lips again or if Roderick ever had his dick sucked, of course by a girl he would say after a deep pause and smile. Roderick tried to avoid Buck's questions. He didn’t like how his blood would boil and stir quickly in his veins. He didn’t like keeping his eyes silent. He didn't know if Buck was playing games or not. Buck would say things like, "You're so pretty. Shit, I know if I was girl, I go out with you. I may even give you some," then Buck would smile and lick those lips again and grab his dick. At night, alone and naked, it drove Roderick wild. He became obsessed with Buck. He started going to all of Buck's basketball practices and games. He started following Buck home. He’d do anything, to get closer. For Roderick, it was a game. He joined the photography club so that he could get a camera and take pictures of Buck. He would masturbate to those pictures. Eventually, fantasy wouldn't be enough for Roderick, so he decided to make him and Buck real. Loneliness and terrible longing caught Roderick and Buck alone in the boy’s bathroom. As usual, Buck greeted him "Wha up pretty boy." Roderick liked it when Buck called him pretty. In that boy's bathroom, it was like a fantasy for Roderick. He was wearing his Gap khakis, a pink polo long sleeve button up with a green v-neck sweater over it, looking preppy as usual. Buck was in his basketball uniform: Nike tennis shoes and letterman jacket, licking his lips and grabbing his dick. Roderick couldn't resist the temptation. Buck had been haunting his dreams for too long and he needed a release. He walked over to Buck and whispered almost tearfully in his ear, "Can I suck your dick?" Buck quickly turned to him, and for a moment, there was a look in his eyes, almost a window, but it slammed shut. Buck eyes turned mean and widened, his once relaxed hands became fists and he hit Roderick hard in the stomach. He called Roderick a "Faggot" and spit on him. Buck stormed out of the bathroom. Roderick laid there on the bathroom floor, not crying, but smiling, because he had gotten so close to Buck's lips, almost made contact, when Buck hit him, he came.
After Buck, Roderick would be called names: "sissy" "Faggot" "deep throat." It never seemed to bother him. He didn’t give up. When he saw Buck in our high school hallways or the cafeteria he didn’t divert his eyes but made sure to make contact. He kept going to all Buck’s game. Even when Buck threatened his life, Roderick would just smile and snap a picture with his camera. I tried to get him to stop. Buck’s friends caught him walking home alone and beat the shit out of him. It didn’t stop Roderick from getting Buck’s number from our registration office and calling him late at night. The more Buck resisted him, the more Roderick wanted him. I just knew they were going to find his body stripped naked and hanging from a tree. Yet, his persistence sometimes got him what he craved. It was right after graduation, Buck showed up at Roderick’s house, he reeked of weed, rum and confused tears. He said he was going into the army in a couple of days and just wanted to say goodbye. They fucked in Roderick’s father’s tool shed. Roderick had won. I remember the look in his eyes when he told me the story, how Buck was such a bottom, how he immediately fell to his knees, how he begged Roderick to impregnate him, that he wanted to have his baby, be his bitch. I couldn’t believe it. I saw Buck many years later in the club, he’d become a Tina Turner impersonator.
Not many people knew the real Roderick. He graduated high school and got accepted into a good college. He was a smart kid. He was ambitious. He worked two jobs. He went to church every Sunday. He was well liked. Yet, there was a very dark side to Roderick. In college, he started playing his most dangerous games. He would cruise the boys dormitory community shower until he was attacked. The school newspaper made it out to be a gay bashing. Roderick didn’t care for people’s feelings. It didn’t stop him. His next game, he used his sister’s picture and pretended to be her on the internet. He would lure guys to obscene places like cemeteries or construction sites. He’d sometimes would meet the guy and give some trite story liked his sister was locked up in the house with their religious father and get the guy to hang out with him all night, try to get him drunk and then take advantage. It didn’t always go his way. Bruises for Roderick were just mistakes that needed to be corrected.
I stopped hanging out with him when he started his fantasy of wanting to get raped. He joined bondage clubs. He said he was looking for something destructive. I would ask him about his childhood, if he was abused and he would say that he had the perfect childhood. I didn’t understand it. I figured him to be suicidal. There were times when he could be so sweet. When I lost my job and couldn’t pay my car note, he took care of it for four months. He didn’t even want me to pay him back. It was his unexpected kindness that confused me. Yet, I got tired of picking him up from somebody’s ghetto after he been robbed and left for dead. The last time I saw Roderick he was in the hospital after being stabbed when he refused to pay some trick he picked up on the street. He told his family he had been robbed. I knew the truth. Of course he was very cavalier about the incident, making jokes but I could see sadness in his eyes. I was afraid for him, even if he figured himself invincible.
Roderick had decided he didn’t believe that there was such a thing as a “straight” man. He decided that all men were weak. Yet, he didn’t like gay men. He didn’t consider gay men real men. He was always looking for a real man. A man with the girlfriend, watched sports, drank beer and hung out at strip bars. He liked danger. Addicted. He liked testing himself. Testing the world. He liked seeing how far he could push the bar. It was his black hole. The farther he fell the more his insanity wanted. It was an appetite or thirst that was never to be fulfilled. Maybe we don’t choose. Maybe the call of the fire is too strong, maybe we are all just moths, fluttering out of control, and where the light is just too beautiful so we want to get closer.
The last time I spoke to Roderick he’d found a website for convicted felons, mostly rapists and murders. He said it was just a hobby. He was attracted to the danger in their eyes. He said he met someone. He sounded happy.
The night he died, his mother couldn’t sleep. She said she kept dreaming about blood. She called his sister and asked her to go by his apartment. His sister waited for two days. Roderick had been known to disappear without word for days. She drove straight to his condo. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. She got to his door and knocked, but there was no answer. She knocked harder. Still nothing. Suddenly, she could barely breathe or speak. She felt nervous but didn’t know why. She put the key he had given her for emergencies in the door and pushed slowly against the hidden murder. First there was the smell, then the horror of the sight of twisted violence beaten like clay. Roderick was home but forever silenced. He was there. She had found him.
The police gave little details on his final moments. They just said it wasn’t a force entry. Roderick knew his murderer. Roderick car, wallet and computer had been stolen. The media made it out to be that Roderick met some street thug off a well known “down low” sex website, of course making the story trendy. The case went unsolved. Roderick was just another black fag who got himself murdered. Black Fags go missing often and then found in back of trunks, stuffed in trashcans or in pieces. Jeffrey Dahmer killed a lot black homosexuals and nobody went looking for them.
I can’t help but ask myself did he bring it on himself. I warned him too many times. He couldn’t be saved. When I found out, I told myself I wasn’t going to feel sorry for him. I always knew that kid end up murdered. But yet, I couldn’t help but weep. His lust had no fear. What was he looking for? Maybe Death?
Bondage
You came here seeing
Let me stop that
You came here for something
Let me make you reach it
You can here breathing
Let me stop that
Don’t be scared
Trust me
If I don’t kill me, I will not kill you
Trust me
Shut the fuck up
Let me light the candle
You will understand it later
Because you will pray to it
Catholic
Make you see the holy ghost
Baptist
I want to shut you up
You talk too much
Let me get my handcuffs
And duck tape
Have you ever been arrested?
And jacked off in front of the officer holding you hostage
Let’s talk about bondage
Boy needs to be punished
This is a mind game
You know you can escape but let’s play poker
Will I let you go, don’t know yet?
Jeffry Dahmer.
Sometimes the cat get killed by the serial killer
Does that make me crazy?
You cum here to learn something
The slow death
And I fucking with you, fucking you, so you can learn something
Don’t go to pornography
Back to reality
Do you I need to slap you bitch?
Back to the bondage
You want the rope. Let me hang you from a tree
Just enough so that you get your dick suck
Before you think you’re about your death
I wouldn’t kill myself, why would I kill you
Trust me
Isn’t that what this exercise about?
Fat girl on the treadmill
Trying to be better
Bondage
So I want you understand me
That’s why I tied you up
To understand the misery
So who the fuck you think you are
You think you can’t die
Won’t die
You really think you are in control
I think you’re crazy
There are no safe words
******
Romeo was looking for Romeo
So we can start a war
So I say Romeo
Let me take you somewhere
No witnesses
The woods where men go to leave their souls behind
Remember my passage
How you said it was made for your dick
It’s so funny how our hard dicks fight each other
Somebody got to be the girl
I will be it tomorrow and if you’re it today
So I say Romeo let’s play Simon says
And I say get naked
You want to watch the game or Bravo
Don’t be afraid, just say what you feel
I’m Romeo, got your ego in my ass pocket
Remember that?
Nobody has to be the girl, no reproduction
The boredom
Imagine
Or whatever porn you’ve jacked off
Trojan horses
Raw
Beauty will always be the demise of men
So I’m saying
The boredom
How you dick got compromised
Maybe it was the equation you can’t figure out, calculus
Caveman
So he is hot
Maybe you be smart
Me fuck or kill or run
Why you think you’re different
I say think about it, and think about it again
*******
Waiting
the white towel hangs low on my hips
the cockring keeps the blood warm
my dickprint teases hungry eyes
in the steam room
I reveal beaded sweat of nakedness
I part my legs on the bench
& wait for those brave enough to touch
I’m looking for touch
that’s why I paid twenty eight dollars
I want that fast love
no exchange of names
the fantasy
but it never works that way
always a compromise
and it always feels like I’m waiting
for flirting eyes
I keep my door opened and lay on my stomach waiting
for creeping souls afraid of light
I stroke my dick
waiting for a firm sloppy mouth
waiting
and waiting
but it never comes
he just cums
I get off like a car that’s run out of gas
waiting
and waiting
maybe next time
and they call my room # and try to decide if I want
to pay
another 28 dollars to wait some more
I beat my dick
slap its stubborn head around until it spills
the frustration of the wait
I think
What the fuck am I waiting for?
You came here seeing
Let me stop that
You came here for something
Let me make you reach it
You can here breathing
Let me stop that
Don’t be scared
Trust me
If I don’t kill me, I will not kill you
Trust me
Shut the fuck up
Let me light the candle
You will understand it later
Because you will pray to it
Catholic
Make you see the holy ghost
Baptist
I want to shut you up
You talk too much
Let me get my handcuffs
And duck tape
Have you ever been arrested?
And jacked off in front of the officer holding you hostage
Let’s talk about bondage
Boy needs to be punished
This is a mind game
You know you can escape but let’s play poker
Will I let you go, don’t know yet?
Jeffry Dahmer.
Sometimes the cat get killed by the serial killer
Does that make me crazy?
You cum here to learn something
The slow death
And I fucking with you, fucking you, so you can learn something
Don’t go to pornography
Back to reality
Do you I need to slap you bitch?
Back to the bondage
You want the rope. Let me hang you from a tree
Just enough so that you get your dick suck
Before you think you’re about your death
I wouldn’t kill myself, why would I kill you
Trust me
Isn’t that what this exercise about?
Fat girl on the treadmill
Trying to be better
Bondage
So I want you understand me
That’s why I tied you up
To understand the misery
So who the fuck you think you are
You think you can’t die
Won’t die
You really think you are in control
I think you’re crazy
There are no safe words
******
Romeo was looking for Romeo
So we can start a war
So I say Romeo
Let me take you somewhere
No witnesses
The woods where men go to leave their souls behind
Remember my passage
How you said it was made for your dick
It’s so funny how our hard dicks fight each other
Somebody got to be the girl
I will be it tomorrow and if you’re it today
So I say Romeo let’s play Simon says
And I say get naked
You want to watch the game or Bravo
Don’t be afraid, just say what you feel
I’m Romeo, got your ego in my ass pocket
Remember that?
Nobody has to be the girl, no reproduction
The boredom
Imagine
Or whatever porn you’ve jacked off
Trojan horses
Raw
Beauty will always be the demise of men
So I’m saying
The boredom
How you dick got compromised
Maybe it was the equation you can’t figure out, calculus
Caveman
So he is hot
Maybe you be smart
Me fuck or kill or run
Why you think you’re different
I say think about it, and think about it again
*******
Waiting
the white towel hangs low on my hips
the cockring keeps the blood warm
my dickprint teases hungry eyes
in the steam room
I reveal beaded sweat of nakedness
I part my legs on the bench
& wait for those brave enough to touch
I’m looking for touch
that’s why I paid twenty eight dollars
I want that fast love
no exchange of names
the fantasy
but it never works that way
always a compromise
and it always feels like I’m waiting
for flirting eyes
I keep my door opened and lay on my stomach waiting
for creeping souls afraid of light
I stroke my dick
waiting for a firm sloppy mouth
waiting
and waiting
but it never comes
he just cums
I get off like a car that’s run out of gas
waiting
and waiting
maybe next time
and they call my room # and try to decide if I want
to pay
another 28 dollars to wait some more
I beat my dick
slap its stubborn head around until it spills
the frustration of the wait
I think
What the fuck am I waiting for?
Gray Matters
The sun, so naked in summer, the shedding of a suffocating winter, it always feel like it could last forever like good sex. In Chicago there’s only winter and summer, only young and old, no in between, no warnings.
I found seven gray hairs in my crotch. I knew it wasn't there yesterday. Tom wanted to have an argument about potatoes chips. I sat on the side of the tub with a flash light and mirror contemplating my virility. It felt just as cold when the cashier from Whole Foods called me sir. I had known her for five years; she never called me sir before. She was old enough to be my grandmother. Tom wouldn’t shut up about the potatoes chips. I frowned as his serious hollow face and rolled my eyes. I think he was just trying to pick a fight. That’s what happened after ten years when you’re no longer tearing each other clothes off and steaming car windows, you pick fights like to crash, to feel some heat, friction. I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t care where Lay’s potatoes chips were manufactured vs. UTZ. I was premature gray. I needed to get rid of the evidence. I was only thirty one years old. I still had a swimmers flat stomach. I didn’t like the gray reminded of the Chicago winters, murderous and unforgiving, where everything looks frozen or suffering. I told my psychiatrist that it wasn’t the cold in Chicago that depressed me, it was the gray, how it hovered, its fog pulling you under the cold Lake Michigan. She prescribed light therapy which felt stupid because I had a lamp at home, didn’t need to buy a brighter one. I told her just give me the drugs and I’d make it through another dead winter. I sat on the side of the bathtub looking at my own private winter frustrating my suffering youth. I wanted to know what it meant. I was afraid to pluck because I didn’t want the cousins coming to the funeral. I told Tom about the gray he just laughed and started going on about how they make Laffy Taffy. He saw it on the Food or History channel. I decided to pluck, silence the inevitability for the moment.
I didn’t have to worry about light therapy anymore because it was summer. I decided not put my clothes back on and went to lie on the balcony and pretend the bumpy gray concrete was green grass. I wanted to go to the Lake; Tom said the water was still too cold, he complained Chicagoans got too excited at the beginning of summer. I just knew I liked the warmth in between my toes and tickling my closed eyes. He said I was a fool lying on outside on the balcony. In that second I hated him, we were still young, he told me to put on clothes before somebody saw me. He was beginning to feel like my father not my lover. Maybe lovers become fathers. He was only two months older than me. I felt like an aging housewife and it sickened me. I decided to go back to the bathrrom and shave my crotch baby bare.
I thought it never happened to me because I was too young, I was too sexy, I wouldn’t fall in love, but I did. I didn’t have a plan. I guess we never have plans. I remember when he didn’t care about anybody seeing us. I remember when he used to get drunk and piss off that balcony, daring he could reach Sheridan street but we were too far away. We would laugh and run through the apartment like two kids, fall to the kitchen floor and I nurse his uncut pride with tender kisses against the refrigerator as he drank a beer or smoked a joint. He used to dance with his shirt off, the sweat vaporizing like steam on his starved stomach. He used to get high, now I hid it from him., did it the bathroom with the water running like I did when I was living at home with my parents.
After I was smooth, I stared in the mirror at my naked body and I was bored. I tried jacking off but couldn’t find the energy or concentration. I remember just being naked used to get my dick hard. I was tired of remembering. I didn’t want to become one of those people complaining about the glory days. Summers now had become broken promises like an unused gym membership.
I told Tom I was heading out to the gay bar. I knew he frowned. He told me not to come home drunk and wake him up. He sat on the living room couch, he looking more beige than it in his gray Northwestern jogging pants, both he and the furniture so damn clean. I wanted to piss on him. I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to jerk my dick in his mouth, in his ass, and eat out. Something nasty. Something unclean. I knew I should be happy. We had a nice apartment and things. He held me in the winters. I knew most people dreamed of staying home on a Saturday night cuddled on the coach with a beautiful man watching old movies. I paused at the door admiring him; he was still beautiful but so damn boring. I didn’t know when he became so damn boring. He actually wanted to argue about potato chips.
*********
I got to the bar. The same assholes. The same dark lighting like vampires robbing graves of skeletons, no life. He was a stripper at the local bar on Wednesday nights when we first met. We flirted often. The local bar wasn’t known for the best looking strippers, more strippers on a budget, most of them were plain looking but friendly, aging, fell on hard times or high school drop outs looking for extra cash. He was in-between, a little older than the high school drop out; too nice to have ever been an escort and his pretty green eyes were too white and alert to have been a hardcore party boy. He wasn’t money hungry for tips but always looked as if he enjoyed being on the stage in his underwear in front of strangers. He was cute, probably in his thirties, very slender, shorter than average but he made up for it with his smile. I liked that he often made eye contact with me, but then again, I didn’t figure myself anything special because he was a stripper, a sexual entertainer, which meant he flirted with anything that looked like it had a job.
I got to the bar not in the best of moods. I had every plan to get drunk and wake Tom up when I got home. It was my weekend entertainment. The bar was nothing special, the same damn people every week. I hoped to see him, the stripper. It was a casual flirtation, nothing serious. I liked that he was young. I liked that he saw me as young. He never took my tips and joke that he knew I was a struggling college student. I laugh and want to tip him more but he never took the money. It was friendly. I never saw him after the club.
Except that night. I was walking when I saw him getting out of a car. Maybe he changed his mind about the person he decided to go home with that night. Or maybe he was an escort and just finished his business, letting the guy suck his dick for a hundred dollar bill and was being dropped off at the nearest corner. I didn’t know or cared. IT felt weird seeing him fully clothes. He looked normal: a button up shirt and jeans. I imagined he only wore jock straps or harnesses.
I kept walking hoping he wouldn’t notice me. We only flirted when he was in a g-string, the cruel night moon would’ve just made our relationship unromantic.
I was walking when I felt someone come behind me. He tried to scare me. I didn’t think it was funny. He said he just wanted to walk with me because we were going the same direction. As we walked he told me he had a crush on me. I laughed. It’s so hard to take strippers serious. I made a joke that I didn’t have any single dollar bills. He hit me in the arm. I hit him back. We kept walking. I asked him how long he’s been stripping. He told me he just got started but was thinking about quitting. He hadn’t planned to stay in DC that long. I was drunk. And when I’m drunk I usually think I’m a psychic, it’s psychotic. So I asked if I could read his palm, get to know him better. He agreed to my insanity, which meant he was a fool and probably looking for answers that were elusive as the July wind blowing through the trees. We stopped, I took his right hand, looked into his eyes, ran my left palm across his palm trying to absorb his energy and then I begin to read his lines. Most hands have an “M” shape and depending on the deepness of the “M,” supposed to be an indicator of that person’s love, life and career. The creases in his hand weren’t that deep and telling by the sadness in his eyes, his life was in trouble. Again I was drunk, and despite the advice of many police offices, I was listening to the voices in my head, so I told him with tears in my eyes that he was going to die soon.
I was just playing with him or projecting. I could only think about the gray hairs I found in my crotch earlier that day. I felt the entire world was dying. I expected him to snatch his hand back or cry, but he just smiled. He believed me. I hadn’t had anyone believe my inebriated visions about their lives before. When I called my sister at three o’clock in the morning and told her she was fat and a bitch and her husband was going to leave her, she never believed in my gift, instead she usually cursed me out and hung up the phone.
We started walking again, but we didn’t let go of each other’s hand. I felt nervous. I was flirting too long. He told me his brother just died, and I told him about the problems I was having with my boyfriend at home, that I was planning on leaving him, so we kept walking, just two souls that at the beginning of the night had decided to hide our sadness in liquor but had found comfort in each other’s loneliness in the early morning. We were in the middle of crossing the street when he just stopped. He kissed me. I kissed him back. There were no cars. It was three o’clock in the morning and we just kissed in the middle of the street like so corny Hollywood movie. I kissed him back. The street was empty like we were the only two people in the world, and we didn’t stopped kissing. We fell to the street and if it was mid-day, traffic on that street would’ve been backed up, but it was early morning and not a single person disturbed or groove, the traffic light turned green, then yellow, then red, then back to green. We fell to the street; he ran his hands across my naked chest. I took off his shirt; he went to unbuttoned my pants while running his hand down my crotch. I unbuttoned his pants, slipped my hand down his back into the crack of his ass, then played with the tip of his hole, but we kept kissing, dicks rock hard and we tugged aggressively at each other’s heat. We didn’t stop, didn’t care about time, if the sun was rushing to awake, if somebody was watching and calling the cops. We didn’t stop kissing and we must’ve been in the middle of that street for almost a hour, grinding in each other’s sweat and saliva, pants pulled down, dicks rock hard, our minds trying to decide how far to take our passion, seconds away from penetration when the tiniest rock I was laying on begin to work itself into my flesh and release blood. The rock was like the pea in the mattress, it brought us back to reality. But we weren’t finished yet. We saw an empty alley, he gave me a look, I knew what he meant, so we pull our pants completely off, leaving them in the middle of the street, stripping ourselves completely naked except for our socks, not caring if anyone saw us, not caring at all. We ran like school kids to the alley, falling against the wall. I grabbed him and we started our lust again, letting our nakedness breath in the early morning breeze. We fucked. Our bodies collided like a wave throwing itself on the beach, each moment more intense than the last, each wave of heat more devouring and crashing on top of each other, our flesh melded into ecstasy, we became one, so sure of ourselves. I thought I might drown in the intensity.
After lust, me pulling the condom off my dick, we picked up our clothes from out of the middle of street. We dressed. Nobody caught us. Nobody got arrested. It seemed like the perfect crime. He walked me home. I saw him get in a taxicab. We kissed goodbye one last time. It was almost sad. I had a boyfriend. I had no plans on leaving him or telling him. He had a brother’s death to deal with. I didn’t wake up Tom when I got home.
I found seven gray hairs in my crotch. I knew it wasn't there yesterday. Tom wanted to have an argument about potatoes chips. I sat on the side of the tub with a flash light and mirror contemplating my virility. It felt just as cold when the cashier from Whole Foods called me sir. I had known her for five years; she never called me sir before. She was old enough to be my grandmother. Tom wouldn’t shut up about the potatoes chips. I frowned as his serious hollow face and rolled my eyes. I think he was just trying to pick a fight. That’s what happened after ten years when you’re no longer tearing each other clothes off and steaming car windows, you pick fights like to crash, to feel some heat, friction. I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t care where Lay’s potatoes chips were manufactured vs. UTZ. I was premature gray. I needed to get rid of the evidence. I was only thirty one years old. I still had a swimmers flat stomach. I didn’t like the gray reminded of the Chicago winters, murderous and unforgiving, where everything looks frozen or suffering. I told my psychiatrist that it wasn’t the cold in Chicago that depressed me, it was the gray, how it hovered, its fog pulling you under the cold Lake Michigan. She prescribed light therapy which felt stupid because I had a lamp at home, didn’t need to buy a brighter one. I told her just give me the drugs and I’d make it through another dead winter. I sat on the side of the bathtub looking at my own private winter frustrating my suffering youth. I wanted to know what it meant. I was afraid to pluck because I didn’t want the cousins coming to the funeral. I told Tom about the gray he just laughed and started going on about how they make Laffy Taffy. He saw it on the Food or History channel. I decided to pluck, silence the inevitability for the moment.
I didn’t have to worry about light therapy anymore because it was summer. I decided not put my clothes back on and went to lie on the balcony and pretend the bumpy gray concrete was green grass. I wanted to go to the Lake; Tom said the water was still too cold, he complained Chicagoans got too excited at the beginning of summer. I just knew I liked the warmth in between my toes and tickling my closed eyes. He said I was a fool lying on outside on the balcony. In that second I hated him, we were still young, he told me to put on clothes before somebody saw me. He was beginning to feel like my father not my lover. Maybe lovers become fathers. He was only two months older than me. I felt like an aging housewife and it sickened me. I decided to go back to the bathrrom and shave my crotch baby bare.
I thought it never happened to me because I was too young, I was too sexy, I wouldn’t fall in love, but I did. I didn’t have a plan. I guess we never have plans. I remember when he didn’t care about anybody seeing us. I remember when he used to get drunk and piss off that balcony, daring he could reach Sheridan street but we were too far away. We would laugh and run through the apartment like two kids, fall to the kitchen floor and I nurse his uncut pride with tender kisses against the refrigerator as he drank a beer or smoked a joint. He used to dance with his shirt off, the sweat vaporizing like steam on his starved stomach. He used to get high, now I hid it from him., did it the bathroom with the water running like I did when I was living at home with my parents.
After I was smooth, I stared in the mirror at my naked body and I was bored. I tried jacking off but couldn’t find the energy or concentration. I remember just being naked used to get my dick hard. I was tired of remembering. I didn’t want to become one of those people complaining about the glory days. Summers now had become broken promises like an unused gym membership.
I told Tom I was heading out to the gay bar. I knew he frowned. He told me not to come home drunk and wake him up. He sat on the living room couch, he looking more beige than it in his gray Northwestern jogging pants, both he and the furniture so damn clean. I wanted to piss on him. I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to jerk my dick in his mouth, in his ass, and eat out. Something nasty. Something unclean. I knew I should be happy. We had a nice apartment and things. He held me in the winters. I knew most people dreamed of staying home on a Saturday night cuddled on the coach with a beautiful man watching old movies. I paused at the door admiring him; he was still beautiful but so damn boring. I didn’t know when he became so damn boring. He actually wanted to argue about potato chips.
*********
I got to the bar. The same assholes. The same dark lighting like vampires robbing graves of skeletons, no life. He was a stripper at the local bar on Wednesday nights when we first met. We flirted often. The local bar wasn’t known for the best looking strippers, more strippers on a budget, most of them were plain looking but friendly, aging, fell on hard times or high school drop outs looking for extra cash. He was in-between, a little older than the high school drop out; too nice to have ever been an escort and his pretty green eyes were too white and alert to have been a hardcore party boy. He wasn’t money hungry for tips but always looked as if he enjoyed being on the stage in his underwear in front of strangers. He was cute, probably in his thirties, very slender, shorter than average but he made up for it with his smile. I liked that he often made eye contact with me, but then again, I didn’t figure myself anything special because he was a stripper, a sexual entertainer, which meant he flirted with anything that looked like it had a job.
I got to the bar not in the best of moods. I had every plan to get drunk and wake Tom up when I got home. It was my weekend entertainment. The bar was nothing special, the same damn people every week. I hoped to see him, the stripper. It was a casual flirtation, nothing serious. I liked that he was young. I liked that he saw me as young. He never took my tips and joke that he knew I was a struggling college student. I laugh and want to tip him more but he never took the money. It was friendly. I never saw him after the club.
Except that night. I was walking when I saw him getting out of a car. Maybe he changed his mind about the person he decided to go home with that night. Or maybe he was an escort and just finished his business, letting the guy suck his dick for a hundred dollar bill and was being dropped off at the nearest corner. I didn’t know or cared. IT felt weird seeing him fully clothes. He looked normal: a button up shirt and jeans. I imagined he only wore jock straps or harnesses.
I kept walking hoping he wouldn’t notice me. We only flirted when he was in a g-string, the cruel night moon would’ve just made our relationship unromantic.
I was walking when I felt someone come behind me. He tried to scare me. I didn’t think it was funny. He said he just wanted to walk with me because we were going the same direction. As we walked he told me he had a crush on me. I laughed. It’s so hard to take strippers serious. I made a joke that I didn’t have any single dollar bills. He hit me in the arm. I hit him back. We kept walking. I asked him how long he’s been stripping. He told me he just got started but was thinking about quitting. He hadn’t planned to stay in DC that long. I was drunk. And when I’m drunk I usually think I’m a psychic, it’s psychotic. So I asked if I could read his palm, get to know him better. He agreed to my insanity, which meant he was a fool and probably looking for answers that were elusive as the July wind blowing through the trees. We stopped, I took his right hand, looked into his eyes, ran my left palm across his palm trying to absorb his energy and then I begin to read his lines. Most hands have an “M” shape and depending on the deepness of the “M,” supposed to be an indicator of that person’s love, life and career. The creases in his hand weren’t that deep and telling by the sadness in his eyes, his life was in trouble. Again I was drunk, and despite the advice of many police offices, I was listening to the voices in my head, so I told him with tears in my eyes that he was going to die soon.
I was just playing with him or projecting. I could only think about the gray hairs I found in my crotch earlier that day. I felt the entire world was dying. I expected him to snatch his hand back or cry, but he just smiled. He believed me. I hadn’t had anyone believe my inebriated visions about their lives before. When I called my sister at three o’clock in the morning and told her she was fat and a bitch and her husband was going to leave her, she never believed in my gift, instead she usually cursed me out and hung up the phone.
We started walking again, but we didn’t let go of each other’s hand. I felt nervous. I was flirting too long. He told me his brother just died, and I told him about the problems I was having with my boyfriend at home, that I was planning on leaving him, so we kept walking, just two souls that at the beginning of the night had decided to hide our sadness in liquor but had found comfort in each other’s loneliness in the early morning. We were in the middle of crossing the street when he just stopped. He kissed me. I kissed him back. There were no cars. It was three o’clock in the morning and we just kissed in the middle of the street like so corny Hollywood movie. I kissed him back. The street was empty like we were the only two people in the world, and we didn’t stopped kissing. We fell to the street and if it was mid-day, traffic on that street would’ve been backed up, but it was early morning and not a single person disturbed or groove, the traffic light turned green, then yellow, then red, then back to green. We fell to the street; he ran his hands across my naked chest. I took off his shirt; he went to unbuttoned my pants while running his hand down my crotch. I unbuttoned his pants, slipped my hand down his back into the crack of his ass, then played with the tip of his hole, but we kept kissing, dicks rock hard and we tugged aggressively at each other’s heat. We didn’t stop, didn’t care about time, if the sun was rushing to awake, if somebody was watching and calling the cops. We didn’t stop kissing and we must’ve been in the middle of that street for almost a hour, grinding in each other’s sweat and saliva, pants pulled down, dicks rock hard, our minds trying to decide how far to take our passion, seconds away from penetration when the tiniest rock I was laying on begin to work itself into my flesh and release blood. The rock was like the pea in the mattress, it brought us back to reality. But we weren’t finished yet. We saw an empty alley, he gave me a look, I knew what he meant, so we pull our pants completely off, leaving them in the middle of the street, stripping ourselves completely naked except for our socks, not caring if anyone saw us, not caring at all. We ran like school kids to the alley, falling against the wall. I grabbed him and we started our lust again, letting our nakedness breath in the early morning breeze. We fucked. Our bodies collided like a wave throwing itself on the beach, each moment more intense than the last, each wave of heat more devouring and crashing on top of each other, our flesh melded into ecstasy, we became one, so sure of ourselves. I thought I might drown in the intensity.
After lust, me pulling the condom off my dick, we picked up our clothes from out of the middle of street. We dressed. Nobody caught us. Nobody got arrested. It seemed like the perfect crime. He walked me home. I saw him get in a taxicab. We kissed goodbye one last time. It was almost sad. I had a boyfriend. I had no plans on leaving him or telling him. He had a brother’s death to deal with. I didn’t wake up Tom when I got home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)