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.”
No comments:
Post a Comment