Redefining Addiction

I believe we are hardwired when we’re kids, before adolescents, and before the teenage years when we begin questioning. It was that programming, nurture, that began the crack of our innocence, that brought the earthquake and landslide that brought us down, made us grow up. As adults we’re constantly trying to balance that hardwiring, what we felt we didn’t get as children. It’s usually one or two strong emotions. It’s usually one or two defining events. We spend our entire lives trying to balance or heal. It becomes our addiction. It becomes the compulsive behavior we will go to the ends of the earth searching for answers or a remedy, regardless of the consequences. Believe it or not, it’s our purpose. Addiction is our purpose. We need to put away the judgment, because there is good addiction and bad addiction. There are two types of addiction: behavioral and chemical. Some people get addicted to attention, some love, some drugs, and some alcohol. Some sex, but it’s all the same. Halle Berry admits she is addicted to fame, but it was Eric Benet that we focused on, because his addiction was a little more scandalous and not as socially accepted. He was addicted to sex --but both were addicted to attention, just different forms. Halle Berry can’t pass up a red carpet, an award show, commercials, films, magazine covers, which means she always has to work--she always need attention. She has yet to slow down and focus on her personal life. She probably constantly worries about getting older and not having that high anymore. But her addiction for attention will never change. It’s hardwired. She would just probably have to find another way to get that high, if she doesn't want to end up alone. We aren't meant to be alone.

I believe that there are four types of people in the world. The ones trying to change the world for the better or destroy it; and the ones trying to save the world from itself or damn it. Because our compulsive behavior is hardwired as children, we usually become four types of addicts:

There is a good and bad "moralist" type of addict who wholeheartly believes in their right and wrong. For whatever reason, or whatever happened in their childhoods, a moralist cannot be wrong. They’ve already made their mind up about the world, and being wrong would unravel their universe as they know it. They tend to be politcians or very religious people. They’re always trying to convert.

There is a good and bad "spotlighter" type of addict that needs to affect the world or prove their existence. Remember what Roxie said in Chicago, “I love them for loving me, and they love me for loving them, and that’s because neither one of us got enough love in our childhood.” A spotlighters tend to be artist, writers, entertainers, talk show hosts, singers, anything that gives them a voice and stage or soapbox to express their wounded pride.

There is the good and bad "martyr" type of addict willing to die for the cause. Willing to give anything for the cause. They don’t care about fame or money, just the cause. For some reason, they just have to believe. They can’t give up hope. Martyr usually tend to be teachers, monks, nuns, people who pray for the world, behind the scenes people or even terrorists.

There is a good and bad "chosen one" type of addict who feels as if they’ve been handed a burden that is there’s alone to carry. The chosen one never got to decide, their burden was handed down, but mostly forced on them. Think of Tiger Woods, Michael Jackson, any child actor trying tore always tryingto gbecausething back becasue imagine having to be the same person as an adult you were at five years old.

It is the hardwiring that will decide the addiction. Addiction is not the same for everyone. Addiction has to serve a purpose. It has to be the answer to balancing of the equation of that emotion or event the soul is trying to remedy. The American Psychological Association defines addiction: compulsion to repeat a behavior regardless of its consequences. Despite my non-existent PhD, I believe I have a better defintion. First, we have to remove the judgement. All human beings are addicts. Actually, we need addiction. It is thought that person only needs food, shelter and water to live, but we also need our soul, the will to live. If we lose our soul, our will to live, no amount of food, shelter and water matters. Rich white girls starve themselves to death. Supposedly Wealthy or normal men and women kill themselves all the time. It’s the soul. They’ve bankrupt their soul. Addiction is the motivation of the soul. Therefore, addiction can be good or bad. I believe addiction is a sense of bliss and completion, how the individual soul normalizes their world in which he or she is winning. Have you ever noticed that crack addicts don’t kill themselves, instead they overdose. They will chase the high to the end of the universe. They are very focus addicts. A person who needs attention will chase fame to the end of the universe regardless of the consequence. Take today’s actresses, who are starving themselves to bones because they believe that’s the require meant of Hollywood. If Hollywood wanted obesity, those same celebrities would go the opposite direction. Renee Zellweger loses weight and then dramatically gains weight just for a film.

As early as eight years old, my grandmother would send me in to the house to light her cigarettes on the kitchen stove. I always took a puff but never got addicted. I have never craved cigarettes. I find cigarettes disgusting unless I have a cocktail in my hand. I took my first hit of weed in high school and spent most of my sophomore year in college high, but I never craved weed. I don’t go out looking for it. I’ve tried a lot of drugs once or twice, from paintranquilizerine, speed, tranquilizers, acid, harsh, ecstasy and even the most recent popular drug Tina. I never got addicted. Some drugs like the mice I’ve done once and never touched it again. It just didn’t do anything for me.

Yet, the first time I drank alcohol, I knew I had met my best friend. It was instant, the chemical change. It was like waking up from a deep sleep, and suddenly the world, but more specially the night came alive. The street lights shined brighter, the wind whispered in a funky beat, the night sky glistened like a deep blue ocean, and I could feel the moon pulling the tide to shore. It was pure bliss. I had found something I didn’t even know I was looking for. I was twenty years when I took my first real drink. I’m not talking about a wine cooler or even that crap MD 20/20. I’m talking about hard liquor: vodka, rum, and whiskey. I didn’t know happiness could exist in liquid form. I took my first sip of a cranberry and vodka at a college party, and a star was born. Shit, I became Bette Davis: “Fasten your seat belts darling; it’s going to be a bumpy ride!”

We are all addicts. We all need something to make life meaningful. Addiction is our behavior. To know your addiction is to simply ask yourself, what emotion(s) you need to make life meaningful. And when I say emotion, I mean a feeling like love, validation, hope or even anger.In my case, the emotion was validation, in otherwords, attention and confidence. The emotion materialized the addiction. I needed validation, to feel like I existed because I was the son of a prostitute who abadoned me when I was eight years old, and that made me feel unwanted so I craved attention and emotional existence. I became a spotlighter. I needed a way to prove I existed and was wanted. I needed a stage to tell my story.

Addition reinforces the personality type. People who always need to be right, moralist, usually get addicted to leadership positions or playing with the system like petty stealing. With addiction there is a high and low. There is no middle. When I say that addiction is good and bad, I mean if it still feels good during the low, it's good.

Addiction only works if there’s the feeling of intense bliss and normalization. I would say I only felt normal when I was in the club with cocktail in my hand. I only feel normal with a cocktail in my hand.So what is bad addiction. I believe we are either adding or subtracting from our life. Addiction will affect everythign a person’s life good or bad. With good addiction, a person is adding to their life. With good addiction, its more behavorial, a person is addicted to their work or helping people, they get a high from speeches or teaching. With good addiction, they use their compulsive behavior to not be alone. A teacher who gets up to believe in her students everyday, is not alone.

Bad addiction is solitary confiement. Bad addiction is the spiral to complete loneliness and alienation. The soul just wants to be left alone to die. I know bad addiction. I started having a problem with alchohol around age twenty five years old. I started cutting myself. I started getting into more fights at the club. I started calling relatives to cuss them out. I cursed friends out constantly.With bad addiction a person is punishing themselves. Insteand of trying to heal that emotion or event of their childhood, they punish themselves. Insead of wanting to exist, it’s the opposite. Addiction can be the motivation of the soul to live or to die. With bad addiction a person wants to die alone. They would do everythign in their power to be alone. They don’t want to be loved. They would used their addiction to drive everyone away. It’s just their soul expressing itself. It isn’t the addiction, it’s the soul that has give up. It isn’t the chemcial, it’s the soul that is acting out. The soul is using the chemical. It has to be a particular chemical. The soul can’t act out on weed or aspirin. If a person who is a spotlight, who wants attention, would use the chemical alcohol or Meth to act out. Addiction has to serve a purpose for the soul. That’s why some people get addicted to crack and others cigerettes. It has to serve a purpose. And with bad addiction, even if its behavorial, the person is trying to punish themselves. They hate themselves. They try to hide it at first, but it will come out. Hate will destroy everything.

Now, my addiction is good, I get my good high from writing. I love publishing. I love feedback. I love hearing that I was heard. It makes me feel alive and wanted. It makes me feel as if I could make it another day.Addiction is life. It is said that when babies are born, if they don’t receive touch they die. Human beings aren’t mean to be alone. We can’t go at life alone, because it would be empty, miserable and meaningless. Human beings need meaning and purpose. I liked how one of my good friends once explain his relegion, that it may be a lie, but it’s the lie he’s chosen to believe in. I realized how I was going about my addiction to alchohol and sex was taking me from my life. I was becoming alone, confined, stripped of real human touch and interaction. My soul was dying. I felt it. I didn’t want to die. I knew if my addiction for attention and confidence brought me love, adding to my life, I would be okay. I didn’t want my addiction for attention and confidence to keep subtracting from my life because I was broke. I didn’t have anything else to give it but death.

That’s the test of life. How you feel when you awake and open your eyes. If you feel like your drowning, maybe something in your life needs to change. If you feel like you’re losing, that you’re become more alone and check your soul. I want to feel like I’ve built a beach house by the sea where the sun rises. Right now, I’m just learning to swim, but one day.

How to make new friends

No one can go at life alone-- it isn’t wise or living life to the fullest. Life is about new experiences, challanges and the sharing of lives. Friendships are an important part of life. As a black gay man, I know first hand that it’s very difficult to find, make or keep good friends. I relocated from Texas to Washington D.C. over two years ago, and because of my walls and lack of trust; I made few real connections. I was an adult, graduated college, worked a 9-5, and pretty much declared that “Friends” was a show I'd rather watch in reruns on television than actually live. For the last two years, I spent two Christmas and a New Years Eve alone, been to few house parties or cards games, and haven’t really got to experience D.C. I’ve been to clubs, bars, bookstores and bathhouses, but no real connections. I would meet the person; we talk and make empty promises, but no real connections. I was beginning to feel lonely. All my friends were in different cities. I clung to my college memories. Yes, I still loved my friends but they were in a different city. I couldn’t go to the movies with any of them on a Friday night. I couldn’t hang out at their house. I couldn’t go to their birthday parties without a two week notice so that I could get a good price on an airline ticket. The friends I made in high school and college were now just phone calls about missing each other and promising to visit. I needed friends in my own city, neighborhood. I was cheating myself by clinging to the past. I wasn’t claiming or living my life to its fullest. I was stuck.

It’s hard to make friends as an adult, let alone if you add black and gay to the challenge. It was so much easier when I was in school. It was easier to trust because there was a defined common denominator. We were in college. We had dreams and aspirations. Under normal circumstances, adults make new friends through their job. I was gay and hated my job. I worked in corporate America, and the people just wanted to do their jobs and go home. I also didn’t want people at work to see me as a person, but my job title. Work was a job, not my social life.

So what is it that a black gay man who is new to a city or looking to expand their life with new experiences to do to make new friends? I knew I was going to have to step out of my comfort zone. I was going to have to put myself out there. It’s like dating.

First, it begins with a decision. I had to decide if I really wanted to make new friends and I did.
Second, I had to understand my motivation of why I wanted to make new friends. I knew it was risky, because opening up to a stranger as a grown black man isn’t easy. I was independent and self sufficient with nothing to prove and had a very low tolerance for bullshit. I knew I could be easily turned off or discouraged. I had become shy and reserved. I wonder what I had to offer.
Truth: You can make more friends in a shorter time by becoming interested in other people rather than trying to get other people interested in you. Get to know people that you would find interesting. I like writing, fashion, old movies, art, sex, and just interesting things. I seek out interesting people. If I see a guy at the club who is dressed uniquely, I approach him, give him a compliment, and try to start a conversation.

All relationships begin with a conversation. Why should people be interested in you, unless you are first interested in them?

Know who you are:
Its different making friends as an adult. First, there’s nothing to prove. Second, we all have our own agendas. I remember my grandmother used to say when I was young, “that there is no such thing as friends, just your family.” I think that’s the key. You want to choose your family. A friend should be someone that’s reliable, considerate, reciprocal, will call and give you a card on your birthday, say congratulations when needed, a friendly ear, a good support system and trustworthy. As an adult we have different levels of interaction. We have associates, co-workers, and people we just know. Don’t confuse those people with a friend. Good friends are your chosen family. Making a new friend is a lot like dating and falling in love. It’s not romantic or sexual love, but spiritual. Your friends should make you feel good about your self not bad.

So where does a gay man start?
The problem with gay men is sex. We often let sex complicate and limit our lives. Not everyone has to be a conquest. Not everyone has to be your boyfriend. Some people aren’t looking for a relationship. Some men are already in a relationship. It doesn’t mean a friendship can’t exist. Be honest and upfront what you are looking for. Be honest with yourself and don’t lie. If you are attracted to the person, deal with it. Sex doesn’t have to be the murderer of a potential friendship. Personally, I think good friendships should be non-sexual. Keep it simple. And you can make a friend anywhere. It all starts with a compliment like “I think you’re interesting, cool, I love your book or poetry, I like your hair, style; you are really attractive, so tell me about yourself.” It’s getting to know a person you find interesting. Then you have to ask yourself, is this worth getting to know deeper.

People find it difficult to make friends. Perhaps they are shy, or feel they lack the social skills to start a conversation. Suggestions include:
Join groups that share your common interests. Talking about one of your passions, such as fashion or writing short stories, for example, can help give you confidence to talk about other things with potential new friends.
The internet, specifically web logs are a good place to find and meet new people in your city. Friends should be people you can actually hang out with and not just chat with on the internet.
Watch and learn from gregarious people who make friends easily.
Practice looking people in the eye when you talk to them.
Listen to what others are saying, rather than focusing on your own self-consciousness.
Smile. Alwasy smile. Be Friendly and considerate.
Look for anyone else in the room that seems socially awkward, and approach them for conversation.
When you talk to someone new, ask them questions about themselves or what they like to do; it's a good way to get started.
Social skills can be learned with practice. You have to put yourself out there.
If you find a person interesting, and give him your number or email, use it immediately. That’s the worse thing about gay life. We don’t follow through. And don’t just call to ramble, but have a specific topic or reason in mind. Making new friends is lot like dating. You only get a few chances to make a good impression. Be interested in the person and not yourself.

My favorite is after meeting a cool person and exchaning numbers, then having a phone conversation, set up a friend date. It's basically getting together to hang out. It could be to go to a movie or something really creative. It’s all about building experiences.Under no circumstances other than a real emergency or death, do not stand the person up. Rejection is hard to get over. Don't be finicky. Don't be an asshole. You have to follow through.

Keeping friendships is also important. Suggestions include:
Appreciate your friends - don't take your friends for granted. Take the time to thank your friends for enhancing your life, in whichever way suits best - for example, inviting them over for dinner for no other reason than to have fun together.
Offer time and attention - friendships need to be nurtured. If you are consistently too busy to give time to your friends, they will one day move on without you. Ensure you make friendship an important priority. Actively listen to your friends, and show your interest and enthusiasm in their lives.
Be compassionate - people make mistakes. Sometimes, a friend may do something of which you don't approve. Put yourself in their shoes - would you want condemnation or forgiveness from those who are supposed to love and care for you?
Don't abuse trust - for example, if a friend tells you a secret, keep it to yourself. You might think you're building relationships with others by sharing gossip, but you're actually ensuring that others won't trust you enough to tell you anything. And if your friend finds out you abused their trust, your relationship with them is as good as over.
Control jealousy - you may want your best friend to be 'faithful' to you, which means you experience jealousy if they have other close relationships. Learn to appreciate that love for friends - like love for one's children - can be limitless.
Remember Birthdays. Always remember its maintenance. You have to nurture the friendship. Friend dates and surprises are always good. Listen and confirm you heard them.

Remember that not everyone is going to be your best friend, but it is possible to meet a lot of cool people. Don't expect instant results - good friends aren't made overnight. Sharing your deepest secrets in one night won't necessarily create a close friendship. It may even drive the other person away. Take it slowly. Divulge '"safe" secrets first, and allow the relationship to hold some weight before you share the meatier issues in your life.

Don’t be too needy in the beginning. Don’t go into your personal issues or the drama of your current relationship. Don’t’ take anything for granted. Don’t call them at five o’clock in the morning. Be an adult. Don’t be a problem child that needs too much attention. It’s about getting to know cool people not excising your insecurities and hangouts. Don’t be argumentative. Be opened minded. The most important, don’t compromise yourself - each one of us have standards of morality and behavior. Don't allow yourself to compromise yourself for the sake of 'fitting in' with a group. If you don't do drugs, don't. Be honest. If you like sex, don't join a bible group. If you like clubs, don't pretend otherwise.

Always remember we can’t go at life alone. Friendships need love, time, reliability, attention and trust if they are to survive. Don’t be afraid to trust and see the good in people.

The down low undertone of the MTV Music Awards

First, Mr. Diddy who changes his name more times than Diana Ross changes outfits at a concert, gives out a $100,000 dollars for the best dressed. How "Queer as Folk" and "Fabulous Five" is that. He might as well have given a make over. Then Puffy shakes his ass at Omarion during their dance off but they play it off with inviting eight hood rats on stage. We all know what’s going to go on later. I rather imagine Omar ion with Usher. Of course, the most famous black metrosexuals made Diddy’s best dressed list: Kayne West and Usher. Kayne West recently attacked the homophobia in Hip Hop. Some gay folks think he should've gone farther, at least he said something.

And what was going on with Missy Elliot and Ciara? She never let go of her hand when they won the award for best dance video. Is Missy finally coming out the closet? Who’s next Queen Latifah or John Legend? I heard Maxwell is out.

R. Kelly revealed his sixth chapter of the ghetto opera “The closet.” It’s so gay. I was sad to find that Rufus and Chuck don’t get together in the end. Yeah right. Then Mariah Carey who tries so hard to be a diva, gave us fashion courtesy of her new stylist the infamous Vogue editor André Leon Talley. He is trying to make her a lady. Good luck.

Overall, the MTV music awards were extravagant, over the top, much like I’ve always imagined a Diddy party to be. I would know becasue my invitatin is lost in the mail every year. My second to last comment, isn’t Little Kim the most recent poster child how plastic surgery can go wrong? She is begging to look like that socialite cat woman freak(see photo above). Also, did anyone else notice that every time they mentioned Destiny’s Child, they only showed a close up shot of Beyonce? I love that bitch.

Are sex parties illegal?

It was three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. I just finished reading my bible and decided to check my email when I noticed something suspicious. One of my email subjects read “fuck party.” I immediately clicked the link. The sex party was for later that night, the host promised big dicks and tight asses, even provided pictures of a promised good time. I picked up the phone. I called my local Sheriff’s office.

“Hello, my name is not important, but I need to report a black gay sex party in my neighborhood.” The operator, at first startled, asked me to repeat myself, if I was with some religious group, and what was the real emergency of my call. I just laughed.

If you haven’t heard, the sex police want you to report the unlawful sexual exploitation of black men who have sex with other men throughout the United States. Their ad is really hot, a blue and red shroud pic of another black man sucking another black man’s dick. I got hard just thinking about the exploitation of black gay men.

I never made that phone call to the sheriff’s office, but I imagined that’s how it would happen. Fuck the police.

I once threw a hotel sex party. Actually, I’ve thrown several: two really successful ones and four complete failures. What a fucking headache. Nobody paid to get in, because I was more concerned with the fantasy of toned beautiful bodies coming together in consensual adult sex than making money. I did all the preparations. I got the lube and plenty of condoms from the free clinic. I got scented candles and nasty seventies porn. I made several mixed c.d.s to play on the five disc boom box. I bought liquor, weed, pretzels, and poppers. I spent like $300 dollars of my own money.

I posted the sex party on several internet sites. I also sent out personal invitations to sexy pics I thought were worthy of my fantasy. I got back like 51 people who said there were interested. I knew only about half of them were serious. I figured since the party was free, I didn’t have to compete with bathhouse or bookstore.

Like I said, I had two really successful sex parties, where the people who said there were coming and came, every pun intended. The problem with sex parties is that nobody ever shows up at the designated time. So many people think of a sex party like a bathhouse, that they can go out to the club, get drunk, and show up at the hotel room 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning. Or if you specifically mention that the sex party will start at midnight, you still get niggas showing up at 1 or 2, thinking if they get their late, the party would be in full swing and they either get to watch or jump in. Another headache about sex parties, men lie and are finicky. It doesn’t matter if they confirmed their participation, they usually keep cruising the net and if they find something better, they don’t show up. Also, with a sex party the ratio of bottoms and tops is usually off. Sometimes you get too many bottoms, other times, you get too many tops or DL brothers who just want to stand around and watch. Sex parties are a fucking headache. There are no guarantees. And if the sex party is a complete failure, you get piss off niggas looking at you crazy for wasting their time. I also hate the first person to arrive to the sex party. He is usually anxious, keep asking when the others will arrive, you have to try to convince him to stay, that others will show. Some people in those world expect too damn much.

I can’t imagine what it’s like for those trying to make money off of sex parties. Recently, during my perusal of the many black gay web logs I came across the ridiculous “Sex police.” After some research, I found that it’s a website out of Atlanta and basically is asking for black gay men to report any solicited sex parties to their local sheriff’s office. Their argument is sex parties are illegal, dangerous and the cause of many HIV and other STD infections. I’ve gone to several sex parties, some very bad ones and some good ones. I never got anything. I got STDs from bathhouses or a drunken one night stand after the club. Sex parties usually are safe sex parties. Unlike the bathhouse or bookstore, the condoms are right in your face instead of in a bowl at the front desk. Also, because sex parties are more about groups, there’s the pressure of judgment. Sex parties are not dark or in a corner like a bathhouse or bookstore. My experience, unless it’s a raw sex party, the men are always safe. Ironically, sex parties are the safest form of gay sex because you have witnesses. You have other people watching, sometimes commenting. Sex parties are not wild irresponsible orgies, but really the opposite. In these times of bullying public service announcements, more men should have sex in groups, it’s only when you’re alone, that you fuck up.

I never thought of sex parties as illegal, but technically, if one pays to get into a “Sex party,” it is a basic form of prostitution, because it’s the exchange of money for sex. And the person hosting the sex party would be considered the pimp who is overseeing the exchange of money for sex. The patron, ironically, is the prostitute and the john. It’s really a legal loophole. If the host advertises his party as sex, that is if you give him money, he is supposedly promising sex. I’ve paid at least nine times throughout the years to get into a sex party, and to think I was prostituting myself is ridiculous. But if the sex party was raided, I would’ve gone to jail for an awful time in somebody’s basement. Most of the times, I didn’t even have sex. Sex parties aren’t sexy, their often fat and ugly regardless of what the host promises; and I hate checking my clothes to a stranger. Most of the people just stand around and wait for someone to get something started. I’m not saying I haven’t been to some very salacious sex parties, but more than often, I’ve been to more failures than successes.

So I had to ask, what’s the difference between a sex party and the bathhouse or bookstore? First, the bathhouse isn’t technically for sex, it’s a health facility that’s why they have a steam room and gym equipment nobody ever uses. The bookstore is exactly what it says it is, because the dirty magazines, the individual booths that specify “only one occupant” are all legal facades. We all know what goes on in a bathhouse or bookstore. I’ve had friend get arrested at a bookstore when it was raided. Yes, bookstores do get raided. Supposedly the key sign is, if they turn the lights on, get off your knees or pull your damn pants up. If you’re caught in a booth with someone with any type of exposure, it’s considered indecent exposure, a misdemeanor.

My advice, those who try to get paid by hosting sex parties need to learn the law and the legal loopholes. It doesn’t have to be called a sex party. Imply sex, but don’t promise. Make it a book reading party or a social group. Charge a membership fee and not a cover.

What I know for sure, Black gay men can no longer live the life of the down low anymore. The sex police are just another attack. We are not so invisible anymore. We are vulnerable. The supposedly sex police are not targeting gay men; they are targeting black gay men. We don’t have a voice. We don’t have a community. We barely have an identity. We are in danger, not just of HIV anymore, but going to jail and losing our living hoods. Don’t let them drag you out in handcuffs. Know your rights. Join a political organization. Don’t support the down low. Come out of the closet. Our secret isn’t our secret anymore.

maybe i can be happy

When I was in middle school, I won the UIL playwriting contest: city, state, and national. I remember my middle school principle pulling me out of class and telling me that the kids in my drama class had to drive to Austin with my Drama teacher so that we could compete on the national level. My play was about what if Rosa Park had slipped on a banana and broke her leg, and missed that damn historical bus, how life would be different. I’ve always been a smartass. Anyways, my principle told me he called my grandmother and told her that I was going to Austin, but he lied. He never called my grandmother; he just wanted the trophy for our middle school case. Anyways, we won. We got the damn trophy.


When my middle school teacher dropped me off at my house, I didn’t know that I was in trouble. When my cousin opened the door, he had that look on his face that kids have when they know other kids are in trouble. I don’t remember getting a foot in the door before my grandmother hit me across the chest with the belt. And then she dragged my twelve year old body into the kitchen, because my beatings always had to have an audience, and the belt swung and hit flesh and bruises rose like pain always do trying to escape the body, and I really didn’t know why I was being beaten, or what happen to my trophy, but I would learn that it got broken when I was snatched--the proud person head fell off like a ripped off Barbie head. My grandmother, rest her soul, did speak to my principle but told him I couldn’t go to Austin, and he didn’t listen because he wanted the trophy in our middle school case, and my grandmother was more concerned with me coming home to sweep the patio, and dust the living room furniture, wash off the sidewalk, crush the cans, than with me winning some useless “Rosa Park” play. And I remember that beating, the crash of my trophy and how I held it crying in my bed without its head, but it wasn’t the last beating, it would be the same beating when I wanted to play soccer in high school and did it anyway, and after every game I game home to the belt, then board, and later switches. Or was it the switches first.

And I remember how I just wanted to be normal, how I was hated because I didn’t want to get a gold tooth, another beating, how my family didn’t understand me, because I would be the only male out 36 cousins and 7 uncles not to go to prison, and how they thought of me as the black sheep, uppity. And I remember the beatings, getting my books thrown up in trees, but I didn’t become some Oprah survivor story, instead, I succumbed. I was just tired of fighting. They were my family. My mother overdosed on crack and father got himself killed, so I was an orphaned and lucky that my grandmother was willing to take my 1300 check a month to take care of me. They were my only family, I just wanted to be liked, loved, and accepted. But I could never stop the beatings. I could never stop writing, winning shit, being singled out, having teachers come to the house to tell relatives how special I was, but they would leave and I was just have the beatings, the scolding of why was I trying to be different and then I thought, and hated myself for being smart, started learning to dumb myself down, started to learn not to stick out, make myself unattractive, because who likes the person who have all the answers, the overachiever.

So I became a nobody, learn to blend in the background at the best of my ability. And I thought, if I didn’t want anything, I would be loved, and I thought if wasn’t so smart, I would be loved, and then I thought if I hid my specialness, i wouldn't be punished, a freak. I wouldn't be the child of the prostitute crackhead. I woudn't be teased. Mostly, wouldn't be beated down.

So i learned not to be loved. And when you don't want to be loved, you will not be loved. And when you want to not be special, you will not be special. the world doesn't discover people who don't want to be discovered.

I fight myself everyday. I fight being abandoned by a mother who couldn’t say no to drugs. I fight a father who had to be killed, left my sorry ass in this world with no directions, and fed me to the wolves. But I survived wolves, ran away when I was fifteen years old, never looked back. Never went back.

Ran away when I was fifteen years old, but never got free. It isn’t so easy to get free.


Honestly for too damn long, I felt like this person trying not to drown, and then I realized I could swim, and I got to the shore, but yet I’m afraid of the tide. I keep thinking of tsunamis, that it’s going to rise up and take me back. But right now, I’m doing my sit-ups, running by the shore, happy that I’m not flapping my arms around in the water anymore, but yet I’m still so afraid. When you’ve been drowning your entire life, and you meet the land people, you think they won’t like you, that they will think of you’re as a freak. Everyday I feel like I’m a child, because the first time in my life, my life is my life, and I’m free. I’m a child, like any child, I just want to play. I just want to prove that I’m capable. But I’m not a child, I’m adult, who fought so hard to get to this point in my life. Fought the depression and so many attempts of suicide. I fought myself, so that I can be loved. I want to be loved.

I want to be loved, and when you want to be loved, I know I will be loved. I feel so happy, because despite the struggle, I know I’m somebody. I learn that on my own because I listened to god, not the world. i listen to that voice speaking to my soul. Willing to love honestly. No more pain. No more pain. No more pain.

So much for my happy ending: Back to the beginning

In April of 2005 I self-published “Who is Sean: a collection” despite its many grammatical flaws, but mostly because I wanted existence, existence as a writer on my own terms before the corporate machine that’s inevitable. I self-published, because sometimes you just have to believe in yourself, and at first I thought it was pathetic to be another self published black gay author, but I decided to push through shame, become serious about my life decision to be a writer, not author, but an artist who is tormented by his work, not for love or adulation but purpose. It’s what I am meant to do like breathe, and it doesn’t matter if all my breaths add of to a wasted or admired life, I was here, and I was a writer.

Funny, a month after I self-published and started sending out my Press Release to certain gay publications and magazines, someone whose name will not be mentioned contacted me. He said he has been a fan of my writing for years, despite its vulnerabilities and unpolished demeanor, he liked that I was raw, a bruise knee before medication. I liked that he liked me, and since I was still on my three day alcoholic binge, I was so nonchalant and agreed to let him help me get my name out there. Soon, he would call back, and started wanting to make changes. He wanted to republish the book under his publishing company, then he wanted to change the cover and title, then he wanted me to do a book tour and it all sounded so exciting. Of course I took that attention and re-directed it negatively towards all those bitches who thought I would never amount to shit. I sent them the link to my website that this person seemed to upload over night. He sent me the new cover, and it was of some hot boy and I liked it. I liked the attention. It wasn’t until I started noticing that I was doing all the work and hadn’t been promised a damn thing that I became concerned. He used my press release, he used the interview I did with myself about my book, and he even used my quotes as his own. I decided to email this person, to inquire about compensation or a book agreement, and got no response for two weeks. Instead of calling me, he sent me a quick reply that the “project” had been put on hold until further notice. I really didn’t care. I knew it was all bullshit to begin; I just wanted to follow the rabbit down its hole. I wanted to be taught a lesson, to test my seriousness about my work and writing career.

In the end, I’m happy I didn’t bend to desperation. My life sucks, that ain’t a lie. I don’t have a job I like, no book contract, no body in the literary world even knows my name, I’m at least another five months from completing my novel, then there’s the synopsis, and query letter and arduous task of finding an agent, but I am happy I didn’t bend to desperation. A lot of writers, artists bend to desperation. They just want to be loved, get some attention, stand in front of a crowd and appear important. If I would have gone through the motions of letting homeboy re-publish my book without any compensation it would’ve been complete bullshit and made me a fraud and even more pathetic than self-publishing. At least with self-publishing, I am compensated. Every book I sell, I get 20%. It’s something. I say, so much for my happy ending, because I really prefer reality. I had no delusions that my journey to becoming a respected writer will be easy. Shit, I still can’t spell most days and am the king of run-on sentences. But, I say fuck it. I guess I will add copy editors to my list of addictions and wasted money. I try. I really do. I study my grammar and learn new more adult words so that I won’t swear so fucking much, but cool beans. I’m back at the beginning. I got 30 copies of "Who is Sean" to unload on kind strangers. I have flyers to pass out. But more importantly, I have a life to claim by any means necessary. It’s art, heart, and soul, but mostly it’s a business.

Goethe's couplet: "Whatever you can do, or dream, you can, begin it. / Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."

Was I gay bashed?: How to get kicked out of a black straight club on black gay night.

One of the major problems in my life, besides that I drank too much, I also have a smart ass mouth and don’t know how to back down. It’s doesn’t help that when I don’t wear my eyeglasses or not in a button up shirt and tie, I look like my father, a once ruthless drug dealer who was murdered when I was five years old. If I’m wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt and baggy jeans, I got that channel five news look, inherited the face that is misinterpreted as militant if I’m not smiling, and at night white women clench their purses when I pass them on an empty street -- I’m a young black male in America which often is mistaken as dangerous or a problem.

Despite the police, salesclerks at major department stores, black night clubs are the worse. It’s just not the strip search to get in the club, it’s also the people working the door, how black people with minimal jobs make you feel like it’s your fault just because you decided to show up and spend your money. They take your $20 dollars at the door and still treat you niggardly. What is worse, I’m gay, and the black gay clubs door people are so fucking rude. They are usually straight, most black gay clubs are only gay on a certain night, and the promoters can’t or don’t hire a different staff to administer the bar and front door, so you get the regulars, and they always seem so disgusted to have to participate what I’m sure they consider a freak show. They snicker with their boys about the drag queens or flaming girly boys. They take your money and act like they’ve done you a favor for letting you spend half of your paycheck to get in the bitch and drink their water down overpriced cocktails.

Well this past weekend, I had the misfortune of attending a gay night at a straight club called “Trade Sundays” or “Club Five.” I’ve been there a couple of times, no problems, just the usual rude door people, the bouncers in the club who act like if you make one disagreement they have to kick you out. And they really don’t have any patience for black fags. I became a problem when I walked off the dance floor and decided to refresh my water-downed cocktail. I approached the bar, and this guy sitting with some girls tells me, “Nigga you better back you punk ass up a couple of feet.” It didn’t matter that I was no where near the guy, was just trying to order a cocktail, but Trade Sundays for some reason mixes it straight crowd with the gay crowd, and the straight guys who know it’s gay on Sunday night always have an attitude. They are either friends of the club owners who come to drink for cheap on Sundays or picked the wrong night but they are so uncouth. I, being a little intoxicated, was insulted because I was no where near him and didn’t understand why he had to call me names. His girlfriends quickly told me to walk away and not pay him any mine, but I wasn’t going to move because I still needed to order my drink and why should I have to go to the other side of the bar to avoid some heterosexual belligerent troglodyte. So I stood my ground. I told him I wasn’t moving and didn’t appreciate his attitude. I even tried to throw in a joke. That my name was only “Punk ass” on Tuesday but he could call me “Sean.” His girlfriends laughed, yet, before I knew it, the bouncers of the club had grabbed me, asked me what was my problem, and before I could even answer, the bastards twisted my arm around my back, dragged my face against wall as they dragged me downstairs and then kicked me out the door on my ass liked they watched too many Clint Eastwood movies growing up. I was so in shock. They really hurt my arm, but most importantly, they even try to get my side of the story. I was just another black fag in what they considered the freak show. They already hated me, and got pleasure from abusing their power.


As I began my walk home, feeling abused and insignificant, but mostly voiceless, I realized how black gay men in general are so dispensable. Here it was, I spent my $10 dollars to get in the club, and another $15 on drinks, and it didn’t mean shit. I was just another black fag. I could’ve just gone across the street to the Lizard Lounge and would’ve gotten treated better and more respect.

As I walked home, I thought about a high school friend who I just found out was murdered by his lover. The high school friend picture didn’t make the news, but his murderer picture was ever where, and the news made it out to be that the high school friend was on the trendy down low and met some hustler who shot him seven times in his bathroom. As a black gay man, I wondered when we’re murdered, abused, gay bashed who do we turn. We just accept it, like we accept everything in our invisible lives. I knew my arm would heal faster than my pride. I’ve been kicked out of clubs but not so violent.

I know one thing I will not go back to that club. Funny, I know on some level I was gay bashed, attacked and thrown out for just being gay because they didn’t even touch that other guy. It’s not like we were in each other’s face or about to fight, I just brought attention to myself and I was gay. I never thought I would be gay based by a club I paid $10-20 dollars to get into every Sunday.

When it comes to sex, every pun intended, my mind shuts down. As of lately, my masturbation sessions have become way to elaborate and time consuming. I remember when I was sixteen years old and used to lock myself in the bathroom; I could jack-off in thirty seconds. Nowadays, I got toys, creams, nipple clamps, a collection of porn, scented candles, cocktails and poppers. I have to set the mood, find the right porn scene to shoot my load, find the right toy and its stopped being so simple. Whatever happened to just a bottle of lotion and some Kleenex? When did the simple things in life become so complicated?

101 in a 1001

For the next three years I can’t even dare to say that I’m bored or have nothing to do with my life. I was up late last night, basically surfing the web and reading weblogs, which have mutated and spread faster than nuclear cockroaches. Anyways, I ran across this website by this kid who’s doing a 101 things in 1001 days. I read through his lists and other webloggers lists, and felt inspired. I was beginning to feel like my life had come to a dramatic halt, that I was in a rut, going out four or five times a week, which meant four five times a week hangovers. I was beginning to feel like that life had gotten boring, that I didn’t want or felt moved by anything until I put my 101 things in a 1001 days list together. On paper, I was reminded that I still had dreams, that there were so many things I still wanted to do, that there was a life out there for me waiting to be re-discovered. I guess suicide will have to be put off another 3 years. I’m going to complete everything on my list. It’s like I’m going on a scavenger hunt for my life.

Spirituality/Health:
attend a gay church
learn more about Buddhism
don’t speak for two days
volunteer
get a physical: liver, heart, kidneys, blood work
stay sober and sexless for 28 days
get dental and health insurance

Sentimental:
look up five old friends in which I’ve lost touch (Terrance Hood, Abraham Graham, Elmira, Niti, or ?)
write fifty poems about love and give to fifty people I love or at least like
own every black gay book published and write a review
make a week long video diary and send it to someone I love
look up an old school teacher and say thank you
buy rounds for everyone at a bar (I hope I’m rich)
write a thank you letter to twenty people I admire

Trips:
go to Las Vegas
visit Italy
visit Paris
visit London
visit Madrid
visit Rome
visit san Antonio
go to Hawaii
visit L.A. and san Francisco visit Miami
see Niagara falls
see the grand canyon
go on a romantic getaway
visit Mexico
visit Chicago
visit New York again
take a cruise


Fantasy:
learn to tap dance
get on a game show
attend a nudist colony
meet Beyonce Knowles
attend an Oprah show
go to a fashion show
attend an award show


Books:
read the bible
read Gabriel García Márquez memoir and a hundred years of solitude in Spanish
read all national book award winners
read all Nobel prize winners

Movies:
To have seen all IMDB top 250 movies
To have seen all AFI top 100 movies
attend a film festival
watch all films that won best picture Oscars
to have seen all IMDB documentary and independent films

Educational:
take the GRE
learn how to kick box
learn sign language
learn enough French to carry a conversation with a five year old
take an official IQ test

Practical:
organize 101 into categories
organize 101 list in dateline
visit a zoo
learn to make a cheesecake
plant a tree
get a tattoo
get camera out of pawn shop
pay Uh their money
buy a laptop
sell the remainder copies of Who is Sean
buy a nice suit
get a picture of my father
get a picture of me as a child
get a pet
go to therapy
go to an AA meeting
get a new cell phone
get a post office box
keep a journal of my 101 in 1001
get business cards
learn to play golf
learn how to play poker again
learn to play chess again
get a massage
whiten my teeth
start a sci-fi movie collection
start a gay themed movie DVD collection
make a will
take professional nude photos of myself
paint my self-portrait
attend a poetry reading and read
throw a dinner party
get a six-pack and take pictures of it
join writers guild
start a birthday tradition
do stand-up
take an acting class
get headshots
re-do ghetto mystery screenplay
start 101 notebook


Work in progress:
apply to graduate school
run a marathon
keep a job for a year
transfer my good c.ds. to my mp3 player
get my bartender’s certificate

Writers block:
finish Gorilla
finish Secretary
finish Temp Insanity
get an literary agent
get a website
start a writers group
attend a writers conference

Misc. :
watch a sunrise
have a erotic party
give a full body erotic massage
ride a horse

“My manhood is very important to me. I had masculinity beaten into me, then fucked into me, not even gay men want a faggot, so I learn to pretend, look and act the part, hardened up on queue, blend in, hide my freak for survival, for protection. Sometimes I got to wear my anger on my sleeves to keep motherfuckers from disrespecting me. I was born in the ghetto, so I had to learn to survive niggas killing niggas because they appear weak. It ain't easy. And then I was born gay, destined to be a black man who would lay with other black men, which meant a life of invisibility. And most niggas can't deal with my truth. If they knew, they'd try to test me. It's about survival. Can't go home with it or to the church because they would say I was living wrong. The church, where I grew up, was the first to betray me, the word, made me feel hopeless and damned. When my uncle died of AIDS, the preacher said he was going to hell at his funeral. When my mama found out she cried like I died. Don't won't nobody shedding tears for me. When my father found out he stopped speaking to me, said I wasn’t a man. Don't won't nobody thinking that I'm weak. So my manhood is very important to me. Most days it's all I got being a black man that’s gay. It ain't easy. Trust me, it ain't easy.”

I’ve always been afraid, afraid of my freak, afraid of what it was doing to me, especially after that first time I kissed a boy, let his teenage lips touch my teenage lips in what I thought was an act of betrayal against my belief system, because I grew up in the church, but I knew what I was, what my body and heart craved and I thought life was so fucking unfair that God could be so cruel, to set me up for failure, so I felt like a freak, my soul deformed, something disgusted, so I told myself that I could never tell anyone. I got older, bolder, over fear. But each time the feeling has been the same, hesitation, just like the first time I sucked dick, got sucked, had sex, had unprotected sex, went to a bookstore or bathhouse, a sex party, did drugs and had a threesome or orgy. Each time I had to face me in the mirror with fear, questioning if I was still a good kid, and not a freak because I liked it, getting my dick sucked in the dark by that old man, liked that threesome at Atlanta Pride, liked the sticky floor underneath my knees at the Glory hole bookstore in D.C., liked getting my body used at Man’s Country in Chicago. Each time, I had to face the sun, the walk home when I felt empty, that I had betrayed all the sitcoms I grew up watching, because I liked it, wearing my jeans tight, drinking too much, the high but never the crash, that I liked kissing boys, partying until the early morning, but hated the hangovers. Each time, I had to readjust how I saw myself, get depressed then accept it, feel like a failure because I kept getting fired from jobs I hated, feel scared and desperate because it never felt like I was going to get happiness right. Freaks never want to be freaks. I would’ve never asked to be born to a crack addicted prostitute who eventually abandoned her seeds, because I wanted what all children want, to be like their friends, to not stand out, to feel protected, loved, and accepted. I probably would’ve never asked to be gay, because the alternative appeared so much easier, simpler, and linear: graduate high school, college, marriage, suburbs, republican. I probably even would’ve never asked to be black because the alternative appeared so much more convenient and lighter. With these words I let go, break free, because I no longer fear judgment, freak, no more.


It would be E. Lynn Harris’s “Invisible Life,” a book smuggled to me by a friend who I told in high school that I might be gay was how I first found what I knew was in my soul, passion. The friend gave me the battered and torn book and I stole what felt like forbidden words of fire of a life that I couldn’t had imagined existed, that there were men out there, black men just like me with the same desires for other men. I read hope in bathroom stales, the last ten minutes before bed or the first twenty minutes before anyone in my house awoke. I stashed it in the back of my closet in an old boot, under my mattress, under the bathroom sink, anywhere hidden or I thought no one would find my secret. In my high school, that book had been passed around by other young black boys who thought they might be gay and it had gotten so used, broken, sweaty, and dangerous. I would’ve died at sixteen years old if my grandmother or one of my nosey cousins would have found it. For two months, that book belonged to me, made my dick hard, allowed me to escape from my high school girlfriend. It was probably one of the most exciting times of my life, rebelling against everything I was told my life was going to be: get a good job, marry a good Christian girl and raise kids to fear god. Instead, I knew the first chance I got, I’d run the opposite direction. I prayed for satisfaction. I was going to follow my heart, soul, and body.

I got older, got away from home, went to college where my kind was welcomed to roam free. I didn’t find the characters in an E. Lynn Harris book. I was from the ghetto, not on the down low, only knew the club. Funny, the same book that once gave me freedom, begin to make me feel like a freak. I didn’t know football players or successful lawyers. I knew check writers, homo thug boys, drag queens, and too many niggas not trying to change their lives for the better.

“Living the life" is what it's called when you're a nigga and a fag. It's the underground's underground. It's the invisible invisible. It is simply the unseen. It comes out a night, to prey, to kick, to howl, to fuck, to fight, to kee kee, to serve, to punish, to hate, to drop it like it's hot, to find love, to be a star, to live, to escape, to be and simply to breathe. It's the sub-culture's sub culture, hidden in the dark. It's where boys who are in to boys look for illusions of the streets. It has titles like "trade", "daddy-girls", "butch queen walk in pumps", "top", "bottom", "versatile", "versatile top", "versatile bottom", "aggressive bottom", "passive", "submissive" and "I just don't know." It's where boys can be girls; and girls can be boys. It's about sex. It's about tops for boi-pussy and bottoms for big dicks. It's concrete sexual assignments. It's about the queens throwing shade and giving attitude in their tight fitted Prada, Gucci and Dolce & Gabanna. It's where we fight with the dance, words, and eyes that cut like knives instead of fists. But sometimes, if a bitch gets too cute, you might have to pop her, to show her you’re still a man. It's where the self-diluted and delusional sport stolen designer rags, working the crowd. It's where the young and beautiful are adored. It's about body and face. It's where men dance dangerously close to other men in the hip hop room; where baseball caps turned to the back cling to sweaty wife beaters and caress yellow timberlands and gold teeth tongue-kiss chiseled waistlines. It's where the aroma of weed and alcohol blend poetically together with designer cologne and cheap perfume. It's where we come together in the night, behind close walls of brick across the United States for limited hours, dancing to the latest gansta who hate fags, so that in the morning we can creep back into our masked houses and blend into the rush of traffic. It's your brother, husband, lover or father. It's our secret that's clothed in FUBU, Prada, Gucci, Target, corporate suits -- carefully hidden behind boy drag and masculine voices. But we see each other, those who belong to the life, those who come looking for it: sexual release, social acceptance, and to be somebody. And only we know what we do in the dark. And only we know that no one must ever know, so we remain invisible.”

I’ve been black my entire life. My mother and father were black. I grew up in a black neighborhood. I went to a predominately black elementary, middle and high school. I grew up singing gospel at a black southern Baptist church with regular and scheduled Holy Ghost fits. I grew up eating my grandmother’s collard greens, black eye peas, yams, cornbread, and smothered chicken. I grew up listening to soul music and not just Marvin Gay but Donny Hathaway and the blues like “After the rain” by Betty White which used to always make my aunt cry because she was married to a no good cheating man. I had cousins with names like “Poo Bear” and “Ray Ray’ and Tweety.” I came into age when hip-hop was still young and raw and Tupac spoke to my soul and Mary J Blige “What’s the 411” taught me ghetto-fabulousness. I will always remember when James died on Good times or that episode when Janet Jackson got caught stealing or burned with the iron by her mama.. My favorite movie of all time will always probably be the Color Purple. So my blackness has always been more than polymorphisms or genetic revelations. My blackness is soul, heart, where roots travel deep.

When I came out, I thought that was the end of it. I was gay, told my family and friends, and figured enough said. I was already a minority and coming out made me a double minority. I couldn’t possible understand what that meant. After all I’d been shaped by five hundreds years of oppression and slavery, personally dealt with racism, been followed in department stores and police profiled, all before I even kissed my first boy. Gay life was so new and exciting that I rushed out into the middle of traffic. It didn’t take long for me find out that it was also political and the black thing wasn’t going to go away. I was still was going to have to deal with racism. I was still a black man living in a white man’s world.


And when I was twenty one years old, I thought being gay would be so much easier, that the grass was greener on the other side, the white side. The white gay kids seemed to have it together. They had their own neighborhoods, better clubs and bars. Prettier. Lighter. All I had to do I thought, was leave my black part behind. To ignore history. To ignore polite racism. Sell my soul.

“Snow Queen” is what they used to call me. It’s suppose to be an insult to a black gay man who acts white and only dates white gay men. They figured me wrong. The only reason I started with the white gay clubs because they were easier to find.

In the beginning, I started with white gay men. I guess because they were easier to find. I figured black gay men were too close to home. I figured I would run into someone I knew and then my business would get back home.

In college, dating white gay men became a status symbol. I guess I thought the grass was greener on the other side. I was wrong. And I used to say stupid shit like “I wasn’t attracted to other black men.” I guess because I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror. I didn’t like my nappy hair, thick lips, sometimes dark and ashy skin. In the beginning I didn’t know how to be black and gay, just gay. I thought just being gay would exempt me from being black. It didn’t. It only highlighted it.

My first white boyfriend had sandy blond hair and sparkling baby blue eyes. I didn’t like how my dark skinned crashed against his. I felt too dark with him. I started wearing hazel contacts and dying my hair light brown with my first white boyfriend. He didn’t’ want me to change. He liked my dark skin and nappy hair. He used to tell me it was beautiful. I didn’t like that he noticed my dark skin and nappy hair. I hoped he didn’t see skin color when I was black as night. I hoped I could belong to the white gay world without friction. That if I just spoke white enough, listened to the same music, pretended that I was a friend of Dorothy, liked Barbara Streisand and all that bullshit. I broke up with my blond blue eyed white lover. I didn’t like how black he made me feel.

My second white boyfriend used to like to remind me every chance he got that I was black. I could never figure if he was doing it intentionally or subconsciously. I hated how he changed his speech when I was present. He was originally from the Midwestern suburbs but when he was around me, suddenly he was giving “shout-outs” from Harlem. He was a Negrophile. Anything black he loved. He was a bottom. He thought with me he was going to get the big black Mandingo dick. It annoyed me. It didn’t make feel as if I was special. He didn’t give me the goose bumps of romantic love story. I felt like a hustler with him. I didn’t want to be with him just because I was black. I wanted him to see my soul not skin. I guess I got confused.”
When you’re black and gay, you quickly find out that the white gay culture only values itself or at least it feels that way. And the ones that do want you, only date black anyway, or only want you for your dick, or the myth of the big black dick, or they want you to fulfill a sexual fantasy, or to prove a political point, or to be your white massa for a black slave, or to worship, or to make inhumane, and it’s never just normal, you can never be just normal, you have to be exotic, or you have to be a sex toy.

When you’re black and gay, even if you are beautiful, you quickly learn that you’re still black and that you’re never really equal at the white gay clubs, can’t win contest there even if your dick is bigger and your body is better, can’t do nothing at the white clubs but be a token or an extra in the background, can’t be a star unless you’re a drag queen.

Black and gay isn’t in any of the white gay movies or television sitcoms unless we’re the “queenly anchi mama” best friend or some nameless “big dick” sex interest who’s always the top. And we aren’t hardly in most of their glossy cover magazines or advertisements for their clubs no more than once a year because lord forbids anyone thinks of their establishments as a black club. Black and gay don’t really get respected at the white clubs. Can’t really breath at the white clubs, have to worry about some white queen’s prejudice attitude, or some white guy saying something stupid, or wondering why the bartender is taking so long to notice us, or why he make our drink extra virgin, or why the doorman takes extra long looking at our I.D., or why they be raising their prices just because too many niggas begin to frequent. Yet we still go. We still give our money over even if we aren’t in the advertisements or their glossy magazines. We still buy them. We still support their movies even if we aren’t in them. We still tune into their television sitcoms even if we never see ourselves. We still go to their clubs and bars because sometimes the drinks are cheaper and the places are prettier, but we mostly stay to ourselves. We always find a spot to huddle, most of the times located in the back of the club on a certain night. I guess we go because it’s there, and easy to find in any city, and we observe, and we try to be like, or we think we have to be like because when you’re the minority’s minority, it can seem difficult to dream without compromise in a world that teaches to value everything but yourself --so what does happiness look like for me, a black gay man.

“Black or White, I decided that I will not give away my power as a human being to any man. That it’s my life and I will not let anyone tell me who or what I am. Just because I’m black and masculine doesn’t mean I have to be a top. Just because I’m cute and sexy doesn’t mean I have to be a hustler. I love that line in Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory about money being common, that it’s made and printed everyday, but you only get to one life, chance, to be special, to be chosen -- you would be a dummy to buy into the idea of normal or safe. Life is about feeling alive. I’ve decided that I am everything I think I am when I’m drunk, extraordinary. I’m a fucking rock star. “

The last conversation I had with my sister, she yelled at me that she hoped I didn’t end up in the hospital dying of some disease or found dead in the gutter somewhere. If she didn’t slam down the phone in my ear, I would’ve asked how she would have preferred I die. What’s so bad about AIDS, some very famous people in the eighties succumb to its will or is it that Cancer or Heart Attack sounds better on the obituary or when telling family and friends. Dead is Dead and I’m sure the maggots don’t care. I’m sure my sister would prefer that some young punk on my way to the grocery store put a bullet in my head on Tuesday evening because it would get her more sympathy, because my death is really about how it would make her feel since she will have to tell the story after my demise. Or would she prefer that I die on a terrorist high jacked plane crashing into a building, or the war in Iraq so that I appear a Hero and her love wouldn’t appear wasted on the faggot who either drank himself to death or got some sexual transmitted disease he couldn’t get ride of with a shot penicillin.

I started thinking about death since it’s inevitable. I started thinking of the top five ways I could possibly die. I could possibly die of liver disease because I binge drink, heart attack because heart disease runs in my family, gun shot because I live in bad neighborhood and somebody is always getting killed on the news, AIDS because the statistics are against me being a promiscuous black gay man, or Suicide because I do have some very depress days where I ready to damn it all to hell with a .45. But I really don’t care about how I die, only if I lived. Only if I’m remembered.

When we’re young we just want to be loved, and we try to balance what mama and daddy refused to give us, but we eventually grow tired because there’s no such thing as replacing a childhood, you can’t go back and fix not getting that damn pony for your sixth birthday. If you’re smart and not delusional, you accept what you got, learn to live with it. Then life changes, goes the opposite direction and becomes about how we will be remembered or who will remember our real name. If I was to die after these words, I know my life would’ve had been about me desperately trying to figure out how I was going to trick, hustle or con happiness. How I was going to sell my soul, because we all have to do it, work for a living, make money, love. If I was to die after these words, my potential interrupted, I’d be okay with it, because I wrote these words, I kept my soul alive. So sister, if you’re listening, I don’t care if I die in the hospital of some disease or found dead in the gutter. I was here. I fucking lived. I lived hardcore, honest, and never gave up despite my many shortcomings. If I had a choice, I hope I die by the ocean with the bass of music pumping in the background, a cocktail in my right hand and a pretty young dick in my mouth or ass, because that’s only when I feel normal. Freak no more damnit!

When you're a nigga and fag, you have to learn to value yourself, because no one else will.

When you're brotha and a homosexual, you have to learn to fight, stand up and respect yourself, because no one else will.

When you're black and gay, you have to learn to tell your own stories, communicate your own experiences, because no one else will.

Silence is death. Speaking the truth is power.

What it feels like to dream

it all feels like “pretend,” nothing real, all in my head. I get up every day and write but it doesn’t feel real, like it will never manifest, just words on a computer screen or a short story I discuss with a friend and the rest of the world doesn’t care. it doesn’t feel real like it will never put money in my bank, or food in my mouth or keep a roof over my head, that it’s just a hobby, that I’m going to die a dreamer. and I know I have to believe, believe like I breathe, because that’s how we make the impossible, possible. I have to see it.

Not "Down for Whatever"

I wanted to like this book, I really did, so that I could be supportive and tell all my friends and when I met the author, I could feel proud that he was representing me, another black gay author. After I read the book and analyzed some of the reviews, it seemed that anyone who wrote anything had something personally invested, like they didn’t read the book just the book jacket and decided in good faith to write something positive about this up and coming new black gay author. Yet, I couldn’t’ be so kind and had to ask myself, why is this writer who gradated for a state college main character hail from Ivory League? I'm so tired of the lie, the black gay fairytales, where we can't be real people but the black versions of Tori Spelling sitcoms or successful white women cable shows.

I probably would have enjoyed this book if I just graduated high school when I didn't know much about the world and one-dimensional characters could be entertaining. It's the same formulaic story of any quartet group that's used with women where you have the irresponsible one (aka “the slut”), the one keeping it real, the one questioning everything and the seriously ambitious or driven but still wholesome but sometimes dumb character. The only difference, Down for Whatever, is not nearly as clever, sexy or interesting. It was very dull, preditable, unclimatic like I didn’t know that Rafeal would eventually sleep with Keith’s Ceaser or have a HIV scare, afterall he was the titled the “slut.”

If you ever watched a Sex and the City episode, Golden Girls or even Girlfriends, you already read the boring Down for Whatever. Rafael is the irresponsible aka "the slut" or Lynn on Girlfriends, or Samantha on Sex and the City or Blanche on Golden Girls. Keith the responsible one aka “the one asking all the questions” which is Joan on Girlfriends, Carrie on Sex and the City and Dorothy on Goldengirls. Tommie is the one keeping it real which is Maya on Girlfriends, Miranda on Sex and the City and Sophie on Goldengirls. Last Marc Anthony is the ambitious and driven Toni on Girlfriends, Charlotte on Sex and the City and the wholesome but dumb Rose on Goldengirls.
None of the characters are new, just now black or Latino and gay and living in L.A. It only got interesting when Rafael betrayed his so called friend Keith, and then got with Tommie. I never understood why these people were friends, they had no real connection. No real bond. Then it got all Quaker moral on me, when the slut (Rafael) had to get what was coming to him, a HIV scare from the DL boy, so trendy. Gay men aren't straight women. Why does anybody have to learn a lesson, especially a forced lesson by the author? The book raises no new issues but capitalizes on stereotypes. And why is it with black books, now black gay books, the characters have to be so extravagant. The former R&B singer getting with a young NBA player, come on. I'm not saying it doesn’t happen or couldn't happen, but come on. It's that really the average black gay or Latino story. Why can't the FedEx guy get with the UPS guy, now that's hot! I wanted to be supportive of Mr. Smith since he is not self-published like many of us and is in many major bookstores. I picked up his book at the Union Station Barnes and Noble in D.C. I thought that was impressive.

I didn’t like Down for Whatever. Personally, I thought it insulted my intelligence and was a bunch of bullshit. Yet, I want it to do well. There are a lot of bad books out there on the New York Times bestseller list, why can’t a bad black gay book be one of them. Like Tinkerbelle in Peter Pan, if we believe as loud as we can, maybe Down for Whatever will become a bad sitcom on gay T.V. and then a terrible movie. It’s all we got, right, as black gay men?

masculine bottom

Masculine Bottom

He wore his jeans baggy and low on his waist, brown timberland boots, a Wizards basketball jersey and a red baseball cap cocked to the side. He was six feet tall, slim built, deep voice, very masculine and a bottom. I met him at a gay bookstore, he was standing outside a booth, we briefly cruised each other, and I was wearing my jeans baggy, a tight fitted wife beater, and a baseball cap pulled down on my eyes. I signaled for him to follow me in a booth, and once inside, he was the first to grab for the dick. I remember my freshman year in college; I read in this book about gays in late 1800s and early 1900s that the first person to grab for the dick was usually the bitch. I knew immediately we were looking for the same thing and read each other wrong. We were both disappointed. We both thought we saw something that wasn’t there. I saw a masculine black man who was tall and good looking, who grabbed at his crotched, no sign of being effeminate and inside my head I already started the naughty fantasy before I even approached; maybe he saw the same thing with me. After disappointment and because the bookstore was empty, we started a conversation. He told me he was a bottom, and because the way he acted and dressed, he always got hit on by other “bottoms,” and “tops” usually ignored him thinking that he was one of them. I felt sorry for him and could understand the confusion. I, myself, constantly was hit on by other bottoms and white men searching for the big black dick --the problem, so was I...

In the life, we were called masculine bottoms. We were “straight-acting” black gay men who liked to take dick. We lived in a world of no “fems and no fats.” It was most likely because we grew up in the ghetto and learned to cling to our masculinity that caused a lot of confusion in our sexual lives. Yet, in a sense we were a contradiction. We knew how deepened the bass in our voice and flex our muscles when we walked. We knew the dress code: the baggy pants, wife beater, baseball cap, and timberlands. We knew how to hang with the boys, play basketball, shoot craps, play spades, smoke the weed, and talk about cars and sports. Yet, we liked penetration, allowing a hard dick to enter our masculine universes, a lifestyle my father would have considered effiminate.

The first argument: Masculinity and what is it based on?

Masculinity and femininity are essentially heterosexual words, how men and women from birth are characterized-- like boys must wear blue, play with toy soldiers and sports; and girls must wear pink, wear their hair in pigtails and play with dolls. Masculinity and femininity are how heterosexuals sexualize their gender identity -- based on the idea that men are hunters and women are gatherers; that men start wars and women wait for the wounded to come home; that men go out and kill the pig for bacon and women cook it. Masculinity is heterosexually based, how men have historically defined each other; socialize each other, drawing the line in the sand what makes them different from women, the opposite, inferior or conquered sex. When I came into this world and the nurse checked between my legs and wrote on my birth certificate that I was boy, that meant not only would have to get acquainted and like the color blue but I would be socialized into this world by my father, uncles, male cousins, and male friends who would try to teach me how to be a man. The socialization was as old as cave times, how men took their sons on their first hunting adventures, letting them know they would have to learn to hide their emotions, hardened up for the family, and be a leader. I grew up in a house full of boys and men, who liked to watch sports, fix cars, kill shit, and talk about tities and ass. I grew up playing ball in the streets or the local recreational center, play fighting, real fighting, with men who instinctly ganged together for survival and domination. Men like to filter out the weak like high school girls deciding someone isn’t pretty enough to be part of the group. I grew up with the constant test to see if I was hard enough, worth acceptance, and because I wanted to be my father’s son, I learned to not cry when I scraped my knee, or got hit too hard in football practice. I learned to keep my emotions inside, how to not show fear in a fight, become a soldier. Destiny’s child say they want a soldier, but they are women, they just want a sexual play thing, not how men become soldiers.

Masculinity is a sociological term, and part of the reason why I was so afraid to come out or why so many black gay men stay on the down low is the betrayal of the masculine socialization which means betraying our father, uncles, male cousins and male friends who took us in and thought we were one of them because the equipment was the same, but they didn’t know the heart was different. As a gay growing up "straight," I knew the Heterosexual machine would have a difficult time processig my soul and desires. I knew the heterosexual machine that discipline masculinity would consider me effeminate, that is different because I was a man, and I didn’t want to be different because that would mean I was weaker, part of the weaker sex, which meant I needed protection from the more aggressive sex. Men form gangs for survival and domination, and I thouight if I was found out, I would be thrown out the gang and become vulnerable.

Black gay men conveniently ignore the socialization of masculinity and pay more attention to the sexualized masculinity. It’s masculinity as illusion, the clothes, the way they’ve been taught a man should talk, walk, and act. It’s not masculinity as a man who takes care of his family, work his 9-5 to keep the roof over his family head and food in their mouth. It the sexual masculinity, such as sports, aggression, hardness, and insecurity. It’s not masculinity as purpose but masculinity as attraction. It’s the illusion, the drag; how we all learn the act. My masculnity was beated into me: “I’m going to make you a man, beat that sugar out your work, if it kills you.”


The second argument: What makes a bottom? I guess part of me always felt less than a man. I grew up in a house full of boys, but I always knew I was different, identified more with my female cousins. I didn’t want to play with dolls but I did like double dutch and playing hopscotch or jacks (the game with the red balls and silver star things). I remember very early that I wasn’t good at basketball or football, but I kicked ass at baseball and soccer. I loved sports, the ones I excelled. I guess I always felt less than a man, because I was somewhat naturally effeminate growing up, my voice didn’t deepen until my senior year in high school. I studied masculinity in high school because I thought I wanted girls to like me and didn’t want to appear abnormal, gay.

I think of my own masculinity, that I grew up fighting boy cousins, knew how to keep a job at thirteen years old cutting neighbor yards, but I never identified with other boys. I crave other boys touch and I probably internalized that as effeminate. Maybe that’s why I identified with other girls, because I knew sexually, we liked the same things. Maybe growing up knowing that I liked boys, I thought I would have to be more girl-like, submissive, because girls learn to be submissive early in life, learn how to lose to a boy so that the boy would like them, so they can be penetrated, lose their virginity, and want to have babies. I probably internalized because I never felt masculine, that on the inside I was effeminate, so I thought I would have to be submissive to get what I wanted sexually, that was attention from another boy. I made that submissiveness my fantasy, wanted to be the girl in the porno that we boys stole from out older male relatives, because that was only how I could see myself in a heterosexual world since the masculine man did the penetrating. I had no idea how men had sex with each other, so because I was raised in a heterosexual world, I could only see myself as the girl, on the inside. And when I started having sex with men, I thought because I didn’t know any better, that was the role I was going to have to play, the girl’s role.

The first time I hated the girl’s role. It hurt like a motherfucker. I vowed to never do it again. I was unaccustomed to pain. I couldn’t understand why anyone would put themselves through so much torture. It didn’t feel good. The first time was a nightmare.


I quickly became a top and I’m sure if women had the option, a lot of them would probably do the same. I was young, eighteen years old and only slept with two men for the next four years. It wasn’t until I graduated college and start sleeping around that I became insecure about my dick. I probably first noticed a difference when I started watching gay pornography. I thought it was a camera trick how they made the men's dick looked so big. And then I was black and gay, so I started feeling the pressure of the Mandingo myth. I wasn’t porno star big, just average and I started feeling insecure. I felt like I couldn’t compete. I would hear my friends talk about the guys they slept with and if the guy was small, they would say mean things like they could’ve had a V8. And then that song came out, “Don’t want no short dick man.” It only added to my insecurity. I didn’t want to be a joke. I was average but for a black gay man, that meant small. If my dick didn’t hang to the floor, I was insignificant. I re-considered being a bottom. I also didn’t like that I was afraid of it. I was told by a friend that it took at least five times to get use to it. I learned to be a bottom, that is acquired the experience of or ability to push passed the initial pain of insertion and ride the friction, because I didn’t have a big dick. I guess before, my dick’s erection was a sign of my aggression, masculinity, like so many men I attached my ego and sense of power to it. Yes, it was just flesh, but sexual flesh, the keyword sex --how we all began. My dick couldn’t run a fortune five hundred company, cure cancer or rescue drowning kittens but yet its size matter. How chauvinistic.

I never understood the term masculine bottom. A person could look the part, but to allow another man to enter their masculinity, they would have to be in touch with their effeminate side. There’s nothing worse than a bottom that can’t relax, learn to take the dick. A bottom can’t truly enjoy the dick unless they allow themselves to give over, become completely submissive, and learn to ride the friction. With men, especially gay men, sex is so much about control and power. We have titles like “top and bottom” so that somebody can be in control. Gay men not only control what is done in the bedroom but how it looks outside the bedroom. Men are visual, so masculinity needs to be visual. We are attracted to men. It’s about control, and the hardest thing about being a bottom, is the feeling of giving up power. After all in prison, how does a bottom rape a man? If a straight man rapes a man, he is doing the fucking, which means he gets to keep his masculinity. The act of being penetrating in any heterosexual would be considered ultra-effeminate.

It took me a long time to admit that I was a bottom. When I was approach at clubs by obvious bottoms, I wouldn’t admit it. I kept it to myself like it was a dirty secret because I didn’t look the part, wore my jeans baggy, wife beater and the timberlands. I spoke with bass in my voice, and willing to fight at a drop of a cocktail. I grew up in a house full of boys, my masculinity was beaten into me, shamed into me, and so I learn to play a role. If that’s makes me a masculine bottom, so be it.

It took me a long time to admit that I was a bottom because I felt it contradicting my masculinity, now I know the fact I’m gay, contradicts socialized masculinity. On so many levels, I’m still coming out. On so many levels, I’m still afraid of being gay. I guess that’s why the effeminate boys are so flamboyant because they can’t be nothing but different. They are the masculine ones. They are the real men, which is part of one of the most important lesson I learned growing up how to be a “real” man, that is to never let another man take away my power to be who or what I wanted to be. Men start wars because they feel like another man is trying to take away their power. It’s about respect.

In conclusion and what I know for sure. Being a gay top doesn’t make a man more masculine than being a bottom. The fact that we are gay to the heterosexual machine makes us different. As gay men, we are attracted to the sexualized masculinity. It’s biological. I don’t see myself as masculine or effeminate, heterosexual constraints, I see myself as a human-being trying to figure himself out in this cruel world.

insanity

Boy, when I sober up I’m gong to be ever so pissed.


I just quit another temp job, well not quit, just refused to show up, and I know the agency will call me around 10, wondering where I’m at, and I’m home, still drunk and partying, looking for sex on the internet. I swear when I come down from this high, I’m going to be ever so pissed. I am irresponsible, that means I can’t keep a job, would rather have a cocktail than pay any of my bills, probably going to end up homeless. I study homeless people these days, though it is very unglamorous begging for money to drink elixir from a paper bag, I know one day that will not be me. What my problem is, I think I’m special. A disease I’ve struggle with since I was eight years old, and I can’t work some stupid job just for money, have to find my own way in the world, I will. I hope. I must.

sex addict

One of the major problems in my life is boredom. Growing up, I was one of those kids that had to be watched, because the minute a relative turned their back, I was playing with matches, knives, or anything dangerous. I burned down my grandmother’s house when I was six years old. I shorted out the electricity in my aunt’s house because I took apart my toy remote control car and plugged the wires into an outlet. When I was seven, I went through an uncle’s house and poured water in all of his televisions. I was a bad child. Teachers didn’t know what to do with me, because I barked like a dog during class, then they figured out I had a high IQ, was just bored and I was skipped a couple of grades so that my mind could tire itself.

As an adult, I really don’t feel like I've changed much. I still get bored, always searching for something to do, and being gay, it became sex. I was cute, nice body, phat ass and adequate dick, so sex became an outlet for my boredom. Like a high school slut with low self esteem, I’ve done it all. I’ve done the bathhouses, bookstores, threesomes, orgies, double penetration, toys, and anything a freak can think of, I did it. It became a sport. I once had sex with eleven people in one day, and when I looked at the trashcan, with all the cum filled rubbers (because I think nut in a condom is hot) I still didn’t fell satisfied. I once jacked off ten times in one day. I had sex with this really hot guy, 7 times in one day, that’s 14 nuts together. I tried to get into S&M type of sex, until this prison looking guy slapped me while pulling on my nipple so hard that he made them bleed, that I realized that S&M wasn’t for me.

That is so fucked about being a sex addict, no satisfaction. It’s endless. It’s jacking off and feeling disappointed. It’s having a threesome but not feeling exhausted.

I’m trying to remember times where I had great sex. I remember this one time with this guy when I was twenty-five, we got a hotel, smoke some weed, he massaged my body, catered to my body from my head to my toes and it was great. After we finished fucking, I felt rejuvenating. That’s the opposite of being a sex addict, where sex is trying to empty you not filling yourself.

Now that I’m on this self-imposed hiatus from gay life, I need sex to be about rejuvenation. I like a man to pay attention to my gym obsessed body. I like for a man to tell me how beautiful I am. I like touch, from the back of my neck to the bottom of my feet. I like for a man to fuck me like he means it, like he’s trying to give me his soul. I know being "single and not looking" that that can only happen ever blue moon, that most men just want to dump their nut in you like a trashcan, but sometimes, I know when I go back to the gay life, I will demand attention. I need to be seen, not used, in this used or be used world.

one last time

I know that there is no such thing as one last time. If one is to quit something, he or she must do it immediately, like ripping off a Band-Aid off to minimize the pain. One of my close friends told me we always ask for one last time because sometimes gay men don’t like for things to be over, especially our youth. I’m preparing myself for a life change, like Maya Angelou whose mother turned to her one day and told her that she was going to be somebody, and Maya knew that if that was true, she would have to change, stop her life as she knew it and prepare. I’m trying to be a little more serious about my life or at least more sober. I feel like I spent the last five or six years, since I graduated college in some club fog with the flashing neon lights, pumping music, too many cocktails and pretty big dick boys. And when you’re having that much fun for six years, five or six times a week, you can become desensitized. I don’t know what feels good anymore. I used to be this good guy when I started college, so much trivial pursuit or word scrabble fun, outgoing, intelligent, museum fanatic, art house movie junkie, at every concert and traveling hostel king. I got caught up. I see the same people every week, have the same conversation with this drag queen, get drunk, end up in somebody’s bed, and so forth for five or six days a week. With a life full of debaucheries, of course I got fired from a lot of jobs from calling in two or three times a week. I don’t care about losing the jobs, the bad credit and bill collectors, fuck them, what I care about is now I have focus, understand what is that I’m suppose to be doing with my life, if I’m serious about becoming a novelist. I want out of the fog. So the next month, I’m going cold turkey. 28 days I tell myself, mostly because of the Sandra Bullock movie, but it’s also the fertile cycle, the chance for life to begin. I am more than my cute smile, tight jeans, flat stomach, phat ass and tempting dick. What if I am extra-ordinary, truly talented, and special? I know I am, or at least willing to test the theory.

But I keep asking for one last time. I’ve been asking for one last time for the last year, because the fucking, sucking, drinking, bed hopping can be so much motherfucking fun, but I am more. I’m not trying to become Nancy Regan, right wing or a soccer mom who’s the president of MAAD. I just want a whole life that includes theater, intelligent conversations, and whatever.

No more one last time, it starts now. I just don’t trust myself, because I’ve tried it so many times before, but I see my life and there’s a fork in the road, and one direction I know where everything remains the same and the other road means growth, it’s scary as hell because I’m so insecure, but what if I am extra-ordinary, I keep telling myself, like a kid who starts his first day of school, I have to believe they will like me, accept me, the sober people. I can change.

write, black boy, write

What makes a successful writer, let alone, a successful black gay writer?

I always wrote, that is, whether it was a poem or tragic short story where everyone always died, my imagination has always been a part of me, consuming then trying to escape me. I’ve always read --even if it seemed somewhat illegal to do, growing up a precocious black child in an oppressive ghetto where if cousins caught me reading they would take my books and throw them in trees or on the tops of ghetto shacks (their only argument that I was trying to be white whatever the hell that meant); but I still stole the adventures of Willa Wonka, Animal Farm, Lord of the Rings and To kill a mockingbird which was all required reading in my middle school’s gifted and talented program. When I got to high school I started venturing away from the required reading of Faulkner, Hemmingway and Shakespeare. I started reading more forbidden novels like Iceberg Slim, Maya Angelou and James Baldwin. Baldwin was the first author I read that had a gay theme.

When I finally gave in to the horrifying fact that I was a writer, storyteller, not a want to be author looking for love, fame or money, but that writing for me was soul-work which would mean a lifetime of big highs and big lows, I wanted to cry.

I could’ve gone to law school or gotten my MBA and worked at some consulting firm, bought a house in the hills with a European imported car in the driveway. Instead, my life was quitting jobs because I feel inspired, bill collectors, family members thinking I’m conning them with my so call writing career because I haven’t published a successful novel or shown any proof of my worth as a human being. It’s a myth that some people become writers because they don’t want to work, live in their heads. It’s true, I never fancied a job. I hate jobs. I hate the idea of pretending to like something that has nothing to do with my overall life just so that I can eat or have money for the strippers and liquor. Anyways, I digress.

Truth, writing is a difficult career, if you’re lucky to get work. I met so many people who say i like to write a book, and i'm like, you probably have better luck at completing a 26.6 mile marathon. Like any type of art, only a few people actually get to make a living that is pay their rent, eat, and have enough money for health insurance and maybe a nice exotic vacation. Writing is not a glamorous job, not like in the movies where the good looking guy sits at the typewriter with a cigarette in his right hand and cocktail in his left, ready to tell the world about his soul and pain. Writing is very, very lonely, almost schizophrenic because some of us become obsessed with the voices in our heads. And there is no guarantee of publication, success, that you can quit that job you hate, that your old lover will come back and make amends, that daddy or mommy will apologize for not giving you enough love as a child. When I decided that I will be a writer, that it was closet form of happiness I could consume in this lifetime that didn’t come in pill form, liquor or sex, I knew it wouldn’t be easy but also didn’t think it would be so fucking hard. One of my three degrees from my state college happened to be in English, but I only took one creative writing class. I only knew one writer, who published a short story or two back in the eighties but ten years of his book being rejected he gave up on the craft all together. I had no support system and to make happiness more challenging, I was irresponsibly black and tragically gay. In my case, if I really wrote what I knew, I go broke and starve to death.

I was going to have to redefine success. I was going to have to come up with a plan. I only knew two successful fiction writers that were black and gay: E. Lynn Harris and James Earl Hardy. Of course, because they were successful, many books stealing the same formula would follow. I had no desire to mimic; besides I didn’t know any successful people who just happened to be black and gay. I had no material. So I’m left to ponder, what will happiness look like for me?