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I've realized after getting off four times should be enough for a 33 year old man. Sexual addiction is often just chronic masterbation.

kinky porn

i saw this really kinky straight porn today. i think it took me off of straight porns. i like when girls get fucked up the ass. especially when two guys take turns. but that porn was like two girls and a cup. two guys fucked her up in the ass, both nutted, she then sat down on the red carpet, spit out the nutt which came with shit, licked it up, both guys came to it like two dogs trying to sip up urine, and i was just grossed out.

i have said, there is nothing i haven't seen. shit and cum is where i draw the line. but maybe when i'm forty, seven years from now, that may be hot?

Lust changes

When I was younger, my dick would get hard if they wind blew. I remember when hormones kicked in. It was embarrassing. I’d have to get up and go to the board and solve a math problem with a hard dick. The erection would just appear out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason. I hated it.

I learned to jack it around seventh grade. I finally found what I was supposed to do with it for the rest of my life. Erections were also easy in my early twenties. I could fuck anything. All I had to do was close my eyes. I didn’t special stimulation of very kinky porn. I just needed a warm body.

Now, in my very early thirties, the evolution of my sexuality has changed. I guess part of it was being a stable relationship for years. Also, I’ve become pickier. I can’t just get off with anybody. I have to actually be turned on. My dick has become a bitch. It wants what it wants and refuses what it doesn’t want. I would like to think I’m attracted to other people personalities, but that’s a lie. I know many are not attracted to my personality. My dick wants what my dick wants. Funny, people think, because their dick wants you, it’s a settled deal. It’s not so simple. My ass wants what my ass wants. I’ve run out of coupons for pity sex. I rather just jack off.

Jacking off: Episode 4 (People who fuck in glass houses).

Jack off: 15,202

Damn that was loud. When I cum, I’m usually not vocal. I blame my childhood. I grew up in a house full of first cousins, male, like forty of them. My cousin because I was one of the youngest and most naïve about sex used to always set me up for cruel jokes. They would get me to ask my grandmother inappropriate questions like what’s a golden shower. For some stupid reason, I thought it was a fairy tale like the golden goose. My grandmother of course, being a devout Baptist, hit the roof. She chased me around the house with her remote control and when she couldn’t catch me she threw it at my head leaving a permanent mark. Insane form of parenting before child protective services cared, my grandmother was always throwing her remote control at me when I asked questions she refused to answer like if Adam was fucking Eve wouldn’t that be incest. It was a sturdy remote cuz it never broke.

In out of systems and foster care and shady relatives, privacy had always been an issue in my youth. It seemed as if I was never alone. So when I did start jacking, I learned to be as quiet as possible. I call it possum jacking off. It was my secret and I wasn’t about to let any of my hyena cousins know what I was doing because they would just mock me. They were always mocking me. So even to this day, when I climax I’m really silent. My ex, when he reached climaxed would look like he was about to have a heart attack or he forgot to breath. I used to watch in awe just in case I might have to call 911. I could imagine the call. “Operator can you please send help, my lover just got off and I think he may have killed himself.”

The phone rang. Died lust clung to my fingers when I answered. It was Jonathan.

I had been avoiding him since he told me he was a re-born Christian. I never knew he was a Christian to begin. I thought he was proud of his first class ticket to hell. I’m finding, and I include myself, nobody I know takes getting older well especially when you hit your thirties. When I turned thirty a month later I was in a mental hospital. Most of my friends are in their third failure of rehab. Nobody is happy. My stripper friend decided she was wife material and moved to the suburbs. A ho can be turn into a housewife if you never remind her of the past. It’s like the glass houses people used to fuck in, they suddenly put up curtains.

Jonathan was still pissed from the last time we saw each other. The bitch slapped me. Nothing dramatic like Dynasty but more of a girly slap, like a mother putting her hand over her child mouth to quiet shame. It was a firm clash of palm and face, enough to raise my blood pressure ten points. My violent knee jerk reaction would’ve been to slap that bitch back. Yet, I knew I deserved it. I had called him out. With bible in his hand, he started acting holy than thou like he never done a wrong in his life. He did more than wrong. He was why they created the word sin. I liked him better when he drank and did ecstasy. I liked the Jonathan doing cocaine off some dollar stripper dick.

They say what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas. In college, where I grew up in Texas, we had a saying that what happened in New Orleans should stay in New Orleans.

1999, it was Mardi Gras, my friend Jonathan had gone missing. We searched the streets for him everywhere. It wasn’t abnormal for anyone of us to migrate from the herd into the chaotic sex, liquor filled street of New Orleans. We usually ran into each other again on somebody’s dance floor. Yet, Jon had been missing for hours. I wasn’t worried. I knew he find his way back to the hotel. I decided to disappear myself into a dark corner bar called Rawhide. It was basically a sex bar. The front part everybody got their one minimum drink requirement especially enforced with the black clientele. The back part, there was a pool table where people basically fucked on. I was young, 22 years old and curious. The denominator was pure lust. I had every planned to hook up as many times as possible.

I bought my stagnant rum and coke and walked into the darkness immediately my eyes failed me, shocked by lack of light. I could smell and the frustration of cheap sex permeating the air, cigarette smoked lingered and tickled my nostrils. I could hear belts scrapping the floor of men with their pants down to ankles, moans and groans. So many men were stacked against each other that I suddenly became just an anonymous part that made the whole of a drunken orgy. Men searching and touching, dicks out without shame, some guy fell against me and nutted on my jacket. I wouldn’t know that until I saw the lights of the streets again. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my good clothes on the dirty streets of New Orleans. Finally my eyes could see, but it was still so damn dark. I could make out bodies but faces weren’t clear, more blurs of figures like shadows. The place wasn’t that big, somebody’s basement, but at least a hundred men filled it. I knew it was a firetrap, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get off.

Wherever the sea of men went, I was being dragged along like a lost helpless fag. It pushed and I pushed back, circled the pool table, we all did, like musical chairs, waiting for someone to reach out and touch; a dick big enough to stop and pay attention; a mouth hungry enough to accept a stranger horny dilemma. I stopped caring about faces, just felt for body, grabbing shoulders, sliding my hand down somebody’s back, grabbing for dick print and getting my dick grabbed. I stumbled on a figure getting bent over getting fucked. He wore a baseball cap pulled far down on his head and nothing else. He was naked as birth. I wonder what had happened to his clothes. Men surrounded him in an orgy glee. I tried to walk by but he grabbed my hand. Somebody started kissing the back of my neck and firmly squeezing my nipples like he knew that was my spot. I closed my eyes, maybe to hid from what I knew I was about to do. The naked figure in the dark grabbed for my dick. He unzipped my pants. I let him have it. His mouth was wet and tight, firm sloppy kisses, overflow with warm spit that flooded my dark shaft and clanged to the end of my balls. I surrendered to the thrust of men falling on each other in flesh waves of lust. It was all so intense, new, what I always dreamt gay sex would be like, dogs fucking. The heat, the firm sloppy mouth, the guy behind me twisting my nipples, the sex thundering like clouds forming for a storm, so I let it rain. I exploded. I cried out into the darkness. My pure release only blended in the symphony of aching noise. It was music if you listened. A seductive son. The guy behind me held me firm as to make sure my knees didn’t buckle. It was back to reality. I would have to open my eyes and make my way back to the sex, liquor filled streets of New Orleans, get me a cab and go back to the hotel. I reached for my pants that had fallen to my airforce basketball shoes, pulled them up, zipped. It was when I looked down at the naked figure still getting fucked, as to thank him for reliving my horny dilemma when a speck of dim light caught the bottom half of his face. “Jon, is that you?” He immediately swallowed. We looked at each other with different eyes. I didn’t know what to say. I just left.

I was quickly back on the crowded party crazed streets of Mardi Gras and ran into the rest of the crew. They asked me if I had seen Jon. I laughed. I honestly didn’t know what to say.

Four years later, after we graduated college, we all got together for a birthday party. We were drunk, laughing, reminiscing, when I didn’t think and told the story. I had told it several times. It wasn’t like it was anything new. The years to come, I would see Jon do a lot worse. Before I got out the last line, “Jon, is that you?” I saw his face reddened and he tapped me across the face. I had managed to embarrass him. I thought I should’ve been the one embarrassed.

But things had changed. Some don’t like to be reminded of past lives.

It wasn’t judgment. I wasn’t telling the story to embarrass him. I thought it was funny. I was just as guilty. I, too, went in that seedy bar looking for sex. I wasn’t throwing a stone in a glass house where I fucked.

Sometimes the gay life can be like an all girl middle school: insidious nagging, giggling and juvenile gossip. We all like to point fingers, say what we saw him doing in that place, acting like we bake apple pies on the weekends and dance the Holy Ghost on Sunday. It’s a peculiar sociological dysfunction. The bathhouse, bookstores, parks, dark corners, the places where men go to have sex and don’t care about names is for that reason only, sex.

If you saw him, that means you were there, but of course we are all so damn innocent.

But I had broken the rule. I only did it as to remind or to make myself feel better that another gay friend had decided to leave me. I can’t go the way re-born Christians because I would find it to contradictory. I can’t lie to myself what I’ve done. My life is still a glass house. After I got off the phone with my old friend Jonathan, I sat in my bed naked. He started reading my bible verses and I pretended to listen. I felt I would ride out his latest insanity. Yet, in my bed naked, I couldn’t help but think back to New Orleans. I remember sticking a dick in his mouth shut him up. I grabbed the lube again. I went back to that dark place, firm sloppy kisses. Just for old time sakes, I made him jack off 15,203.

Jacking off: Episode 2 (Pride)

“I figured if I lived to be 50 years old, I would’ve jacked off twenty five thousand times. I started at age 11. It blew my mind. I think I did it five times that day and then at least three or four times after that. I’m a chronic masturbator. When I was twenty, I jacked off ten times in a twenty four hour period. I couldn’t pee for a day. I thought I was going to have to go to the hospital. So by the time I was thirty, I did the math, I jacked off probably at least 20,000 times. I mean I had sex in-between, but jacking off is a personal act. It’s me getting back in touch with myself. I don’t do it often as much when I was young, maybe once or twice a day, I’m a in a relationship, so that changes jacking off. I don’t like when my lover wants to watch me jack off. He ruins it. I like jacking off because only I know what I think about, all the dirty shit that cums to my head that I must take to my grave. Deprived. Well this is episode number 2.”


I woke up with my dick sore. I passed out tugging at it. I was determined to make it spill but the ecstasy and liquor was making it damn near impossible. So when I woke up, on the side of my bed, cuz I guess I didn’t make it to bed, I was still horny. The morning sun can make jacking off so much easier when the drugs finally eased and I can feel my flesh again. When I finally exploded, I couldn’t help but think back to Pride 2001. That’s the last time my dick felt so sore.

You can’t make a person feel pride. I think it’s illegal. Pride for me is not starving myself, mentally, emotionally or physically. I thought it was my best idea ever. For my 2001 New Year’s resolution I decided that I would do all the major black gay prides. I lived in Chicago and was a healthy 195 pounds at six feet. The winters were brutal and some fat was necessary and I did love my JJ’s catfish, Ms. Field oatmeal raisin cookies, Cheesecake factory, Hudson’s Bar-b-que, Popeye’s chicken and many boxes of cheap wine. I had a gym membership at Bally’s but I only used it if I was stuck downtown and needed to use a bathroom. I figured I probably should lose some weight thinking of all the sex I was going to have.

My first pride would be Philadelphia. My friend who lived in Boston said he would rent a car and drive down. I was so excited. I got to Phili and after I checked into my room and decided to go down to the lobby for a cocktail. There were so many good looking black men. I felt insecure. I was also lonely and sober. I went to the hotel bar and ordered a vodka and cranberry. Hotel drinks sucked. It was too late to go to a liquor store. I ended up spending like fifty bucks on cranberry juice with splashes of vodka. As I got drunk, I noticed everyone was so much skinnier than me. I felt like Oprah interviewing an anorexic. I kept comparing my thighs. The first bullshit. My good friend got into a car accident on the way to the hotel. He wrecked the rental car. I only heard that I didn’t have a ride to the club. I decided to take a cab. The thing about black clubs, taxi cabs were an urban myth. The club cost like twenty five dollars to get in. I also needed to find a ride home. The trick was to find Bob: the lonely, older, unattractive guy who looked like he had a car and a job. The problem was that every young, slender, really good looking queen kept coming up to me and flirting trying to get me to buy them a drink. That made me nervous. I didn’t want to be Bob. I was looking for a Bob. After the club, I found myself standing in the parking lot looking like a damn drunk fool. I had no idea where I was. Finally, a slightly overweight guy hit on me. He asked me if I knew where the good weed was. I was desperate and he was my only hope. I lied to him. I told him I had a bag at my hotel room. The ride back to the hotel he kept touching my inner thigh and licking his lips. I kept looking for something familiar so that I could jump out the car and run. Finally I saw the sign of the hotel. I checked my pocket to make sure I had my wallet and hotel key. When he slowed down to turn into the parking space, I opened the door and ran. I ran like a prostitute who just got a knife pulled on her. I was so scared he'd run after me like a pissed off werewolf. I didn’t even take the elevator. I took the stairs, seven flights. I got to my room and slammed my door. I kept looking at my door thinking the fat bastard was not too far behind. I felt like an idiot. I told myself when I got back home I was going to lose some weight. I spent rest of the trip in my hotel room ordering room service. My hotel bill came to like five hundred dollars.

The next pride was Splash in Houston, Texas. I was from Texas. I needed to lose twenty pounds in eight days. When I got to Houston I was starving from over-exercising and a liquid diet but I finally got the attention I was craving. I squeezed at size 33 into a size 30 bathing suit. My legs looked like squeezed dough. Sunday after the events I was invited to a hotel room sex party. I was young and horny. I figured I had nothing to lose. I got to the room and it was packed full of naked black men. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Somebody gave me some pills. It was two Viagra and ecstasy. I took them all. An hour later I was feeling so good with a really hard dick. I had a really great time. The following morning I caught the red-eye back to Chicago. I was still high and my dick was still hard. I made the mistake of not taking off that Monday. I had to go straight to work with a hard dick and high. When I got to Chicago it hadn’t gone down. I decided to put on an extra pair of underwear to hide it. After lunch, I made some excuse to take the rest of the day off. I got to my apartment and figured I needed to do something about my dick. I got out my best porno. I fixed myself a cocktail. And I went to work. I kept jacking it. But it wouldn’t go down. I got off like five times and when it started to hurt I decided to stop. I was so young and stupid. I decided to go to sleep. I woke up the next day and my dick was still hard. I wanted to cry. It was like a nightmare. I could barely pee. I decided to tape it to my leg and went to work. The problem with a hard dick I could feel the pull on my heart. I was at my desk with tears in my eyes because I couldn’t believe I was going to die at twenty four years old from taking a Viagra pill. Finally at lunch time, when I went to use the bathroom it had gone down slightly. It wasn’t limp but it also wasn’t rock hard. It stayed that way for the next two days. I refused to go to the hospital. I was just going to die.

DC pride was three weeks after Houston. I was tired. I didn’t feel like it. My great idea had quickly become irritating. I had already bought my ticket and reserved my room. I got to DC Thursday afternoon. I wanted to relax and take my time. I wanted to see the city. It wasn’t just going to be about clubs, drinking and men. I didn’t want any stress. After I checked into the hotel and decided to go cruise the lobby, it already seemed like it was going to be a great trip. A couple of friends from Chicago had also decided to come up. I was happy to see them and didn’t feel so alone. We decided to go to Georgetown for dinner and shopping. I was having the best time. For the next couple of days it was all fun. I visited the national cemetery, saw the monument, went to Jamestown, VA, danced and laugh. I bought a couple of new black gay books. Yet, I hadn’t gotten laid. I could feel the time counting down. By Sunday, I started to feel a little desperate.
On Sunday, I met a really cute guy at the bar called Fireplace. He bought me a drink. We talked and flirted. He seemed perfect for my “black gay pride” out of town fling. I invited him back to my hotel. We started kissing on the elevator. My pants were already unbuttoned before I got my hotel room door. He was so damn sexy. And we did it every where. In the shower. Against the hotel window. On the floor. On the desk. We went through like four condoms but he wouldn’t nutt. I had gotten off like three times so I was satisfied. Finally after we rested in bed but he was still rock hard and I was trying to be considerate. He asked me if he could jack off on my face. I only agreed to get him off and to get him out of my room so I could go to sleep. He got on top of me, his dick leaning towards my face. And for a second it was sexy. I closed my eyes and mouth. I figured it was just drip down on my cheek like a gentle rain and I wipe it off with a nice white towel. It didn’t take him long to reach climax. I heard his orgasmic moan and readied myself and then it happened. He busted. It was like I thought it would happened, a couple of drops on my cheek but it wouldn’t stop. The light gentle rain had become a rainstorm. And he kept coming. I mean it wouldn’t stop. It was like a fire hose had gone off in my face. It wasn’t speckles of lust anymore but a flood and I was drowning in it. I had my eyes closed and I was just waiting. I didn’t want to yell because it would’ve gotten all in my mouth. Finally, he fell to the bed. I was so traumatized. I grabbed the comforter and wiped the thick layer from my face. I felt like I had just been on some kinky Nickelodeon show and was just slimed. And then it also had a strange smell to it like he eaten bowls of asparagus. It started to burn a little. I ran to the bathroom and immediately washed my face. When I came out he was gone. I scrubbed my face until it was sore. And that is the reason why I do not let people jack off on my face anymore. I was traumatized.

The next morning, as I packed to leave I noticed I didn’t have my wallet. I immediately started to panic. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I didn’t think I lost it. I immediately thought of that guy but he didn’t seem like the type to steal. I had an extra identification. I always carry an extra identification because I needed to get on the plane to get home. The only problem, I didn’t have a dime to my name. I checked my pants pockets and I only found like seventy five cents. I had no money for a taxi. It was also a Monday, the holiday, which meant all the banks were closed. I was fucked. I called home like a little child, almost crying because I was so far away and didn’t know anybody. I also tried calling my friends from Chicago room but they had already checked out. I made a new rule to never leave my pants unwatched with new tricks. I told myself I was just going to go to the Metro Station. When I got to the station, a family walked up to me and gave me a metro card. They all bought a day pass and didn’t need it anymore. It was a godsend. The next issue was the bus. I had to take the train to Vienna and then a bus to Dulles airport. I told myself I was just going to get on the bus and look sad. Just my luck again, the bus was free. The change machine wasn’t working so he was just letting people on. I never felt so lucky. I got home but a very narrow string.

I was back up north a week later for a friend’s college graduation from NYU. It also just happened to be New York Pride. I guess the normal pride or white pride. I didn’t feel any pressure. I went to the gym but I didn’t over do it. I ate normally. It was going to be my least expensive trip because I was staying at my friend’s apartment. After my friend’s graduation we went to the gay Pride parade. It was like a carnival. The bigger difference was that white pride was a lot more visible. It was on television. It was in all the major newspaper. It took to the streets. The feeling I got standing on the side of the street watching the parade that celebrated my gayness was like coming home. It actually felt like pride. I was proud.
Chicago black pride wasn’t really that big of deal since I lived in Chicago. I did have the option to attend the pride in L.A. which happened on the same weekend, but I didn’t feel like over-excising and starving myself again.

The last pride, the big bang was pride in Atlanta. By the end of the summer, I had gone from 195 pounds to 163 pounds. I had gone from a size 34 to a size 31.
In Atlanta, I had plans to be a straight up unapologetic slut. And Sex came easy in Atlanta. It was ever where I turned. I was so damn skinny. I wore the scantiest clothes. At the beginning of the year, my clothes were button up shirts, slacks and khakis for casual Friday. When I packed for Atlanta my clothes were tight tank tops, see-through shirts, the tightest pants I could find and I stopped wearing underwear. I didn’t even pack underwear. I packed liquor, condoms, lube, sex toys, and chewing gum. And sex was everywhere. I slept with a guy I met on the plane. I slept with the bellhop. The hotel lobby might as well been a bathhouse. I jerked a guy off in a bathroom at the club. I then left with another guy for a threesome. Every time I got on the elevator to go to my room, there was sex.

The only problem, I wasn’t eating. I had gotten so afraid to eat maybe because all my clothes were so damn tight. I had to basically lube up to get in my jeans. I had been surviving that entire four day weekend on fruit and vodka and various men spit from kissing. I went to the park that Monday and the smell of bar-b-que almost made me kill somebody I was so hungry. I couldn’t wait to get back to my hotel and to get out those tight clothes. I couldn’t wait for pride to be over so that I could eat again. I didn’t care about sex anymore. I just wanted to eat.

I was at IHOP that evening after Pride. I was so damn hungry. I remember there were tears in my eyes because the damn waitress was taking so long to bring me my pancakes. My stomach felt like it was trying to cut itself free from my body and find a new home and body that like to feed it. My dick was tired and didn’t want to be touched anymore. My brain was telling me that I probably should pay a visit to a free clinic when I got back home to Chicago. But it was my stomach that was making the most noise. It growled. It screamed. My friend tried to hold a conversation with me and I resisted the urge to jab the butter knife into his forehead instead I decided to sample all the different varieties of syrup. I drank it straight from the bottle. Finally my pancakes. The waitress said something smart like “I didn’t think skinny boys like you ate.” I started to cry. I mean crocodile tears. Maybe it was all that liquor in my system. I yelled at her, “I’m not skinny Bitch. I’m hungry” I then grabbed a fist of pancakes and shoved them in my mouth. I didn’t stop eating until I gained all my weight back.

In the end, I learned nothing. Men will do anything for sex. I spent ten thousand dollars that year. I don’t think I felt proud once. Isn’t that pride. LOL. Happy Pride. Be Safe. I don’t think after that bullshit, I didn’t have sex for a couple of months. My dick was too sore.

Jacking off: Episode 1 (No Money back gurantee)

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.”