Daddy Issues

My best friend Terrence back in high school used to always say, “Here comes Michael with another one of his sobb stories. Let us all get the damn Kleenex.”

I knew he meant no harm, besides his life seemed more dramatic with the abusive alcoholic father. I was still jealous because at least he had a father and a mother. I lost my parents at a very early age. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to be a kid. Even before the abandonment, my mother had her drug issues. She was never responsible. I took care of myself. At eight years old I had a job sweeping the parking lot at the local liquor store. I used to constantly worry if I was going to eat. It didn’t get better when I got into the foster care system and was passed from one negligent relative to the next. I ended the insanity when I ran away at 15. I had my first apartment at 16. I forged a fake I.D. that made me 19 and they didn’t check credit. My senior year in high school I had three jobs because I needed to pay rent, for prom, my car, the senior trip and all my club dues. It was overwhelming. My loneliest day was when I moved myself into my college dorm. I packed my car and drove the three hours. I carried my stuff up to my room. I saw all the parents. It hit me like a brick. I was alone. I so wanted to be rescued.

Ten years later…

When we first met the sex was great. He was so attentive and nurturing. He made me feel safe. He went and ruined it when he asked me out on a date. I hesitated but accepted. I knew he was older but I didn’t really think about it. On the first date I found out he was twelve years older. The first date he paid for everything. When he took me home he told me he had bought me a new wallet. He didn’t like my old wallet because it was falling apart. I tried not be suspicious and thanked him for the considerate gift. I did need a new wallet. The next day as I placed my IDs and credit cards in the new wallet I noticed it had a hundred dollars in it. I felt sick. I knew I might have to break up with him. The next date he said that he was cleaning out his closet and saw a couple of shirts he thought I enjoy. The shirts still had the tags on them. I felt myself getting weak. The sex wasn’t so great anymore. I started to notice his age. I suddenly didn’t like his middle age body. The forth date I decided to break up with him when he decided to find me a better job and set up the interview. I stopped taking his phone calls. He didn’t understand. I tried to explain to him my past. I had major “daddy issues.” It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his kindness but I got weak with nurturing men. I needed to break up with him before it was too late and I got dependent. He wasn’t the first.

The term "daddy issues" is an informal slang expression from popular psychology that refers to any of a number of difficulties stemming from an unsatisfactory parental relationship. It’s applied to those who experience difficulty as an adult in romantic or sexual relationships as a supposed result of a poor upbringing. According to typical usage, a person with daddy issues may be promiscuous or seek excessive or inappropriate attention with significantly older partners in an attempt to rectify childhood parental trauma.
In the beginning, I didn’t think I had a problem. I knew I had an attraction to older men but I thought it was because they were stable and the sex was better. It wasn’t so rushed. I felt men my own age were too immature, had sex with their egos, didn’t listen and just wanted to party.

First, there was Charles. He was twenty years older than me. Sub-consciously I was looking for someone to ease the pressure, loneliness. I didn’t know I was setting myself up for failure. We started off as friends. It was more of mentor relationship. Soon came the sex. He said I made the first move. I don’t remember. I remember I felt conflicted. I didn’t see him as a lover, therefore our relationship felt like molestation. It was weird. He treated me like a child with all the damn lectures and allowances but then he get naked and fondle me. It was so damn confusing.

As our relationship progressed, I became more dependent. Charles was like “daddy issues” quicksand. The more I struggled to escape, the deeper I sunk. I ended up living with him. I didn’t work. He was my only source of income. I figured it was okay because I was still in college. Nothing changed when I graduated. I couldn’t seem to find the right job. I wasn’t really looking. I knew I had a problem when I found myself lying on the kitchen floor crying to my best friend in Chicago that Charles wouldn’t give me the keys to his car. I kicked and screamed, and promised to run away. My friend Sha just laughed on the phone and told me to grow. She said it didn’t make any sense for a man to act like two year old child. It dawned on me that it was his house. It was his car. It was his money. I had no security but completely dependent. I owned nothing. I knew when the relationship ended all I would have were the clothes on my back. I couldn’t understand how I gotten myself into such a precarious situation. I was a smart kid. Yet, my daddy issues were pathological. I loved the dependence. It was all I ever really wanted. I was living my dream that in reality was a nightmare. My friends didn’t understand it. And Charles could get abusive. He always had some awful comment or a way of making me feel stupid. But I stayed. Even when he came home that day and went off about me not loading the dishwasher correctly and started throwing dishes, I stayed. I was stubborn. When he touched me, I would go cold but I stayed. He would finally have to rid himself of me. Charles found a new lover. He was younger and also had “daddy issues.” I went to live with a friend. We never spoke again.

I vowed it would never happen again. Yet, I had a pattern in my relationships. I attracted “caregivers.” There always seemed to be somebody trying to rescue me. I wasn’t so willing to pay the price anymore. I knew being taken care of wasn’t romantic. It was Stephen King’s book “Misery.”

I wasn’t willing to give up my identity again. When I met Tom, I was convinced he was different. I was living on my own. I had my own money. I was completely independent. I met him in a club and he wanted to buy me a drink. I turned the tables and bought him a drink. We started dating. I wouldn’t let him pay for dinner. I knew Tom was fifteen years old, I was 23 and he was 38. But he was different. He wasn’t like most of the older men I dated. He liked going out. He wasn’t materialistic. His apartment was as simple as my apartment. I felt as if I could build a life with him. I felt as if I could contribute. After we moved in together, he lost his job. I made enough money to take care of us both. We seemed happy in the beginning. He found another job. I thought I was over my “daddy issues.”

The age difference started to get to me. I felt he owed me more than what I was getting. I stopped paying rent. I always thought it was a volunteer thing anyway because it was his name was on the lease. It was my post adolescent vanity. I thought he should worship my youth. I thought he should be the caretaker since he was older. I still needed my father figure. And it started to happen again. Tom took care of all the bills. I didn’t ask any questions. He cooked and cleaned. He even washed my clothes. He did my taxes. He fixed things. I ended up quitting my job. I acted like a child because I knew I had my safety net. Our sexual relationship changed. Tom was a very good looking man and had a great body. I was sexually attracted to him but my need for a father figure conflicted our relationship. The more dependent I became on him, the less sex we had. Soon, we had no sex. I told myself it was because he was boring in bed. I told myself it was because he had no passion. It was me. I took a good red-blooded man and made him my Daddy. I didn’t want to have sex with my daddy. That was not my childhood fantasy. When I was kid, I dreamed of someone coming to rescue me. They were going to take me to their mansion and I’d get to play and not worry. No where in that fantasy did I think I would be having sex with that rescuer.

After too many hard earned lessons, I knew for my sanity, I needed to stay away from certain type of men. I had dreams and I wasn’t willing to give that up again. I wanted my identity. I wanted my independence. It wasn’t that those men were bad men or that I was opportunistic lazy black man. I loved them all but I couldn’t be a whole person with them. I couldn’t be a man. I liked sex. I didn’t want to have to cheat. I needed to feel as if I could make it in the world by myself. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I needed to let that childhood fantasy go.

I remember I used to say to Charles, if I got a job, I wouldn’t need him. It didn’t make any sense for another man to take care of another grown man. I didn’t understand I wasn’t supposed to need him. I will always miss the things I didn’t get because my father died when I was five. He never taught me how to ride a bike. He didn’t teach me how to fix a car. He didn’t get to teach me how to dress for an interview. But mostly, he didn’t get to teach me how to be a man. My “daddy issues” were just a crutch. I didn’t learn anything but how to stay a child. I was still alone. The only difference, I was now a man and could take care of myself.

My secret celebrity crush

I am a big fan of the show "Heroes." I think its some of the most interesting television right now given the crushing of Reality Tv. I also like that it doesn't take itself too serious. But mostly, they have a very diverse cast which is always great to see. My newest celebrity crush is MOHINDER SURESH played by Sendhil Ramamurthy . He kinda of reminds me of Michael Jackson and the Thriller album. That slightly moistened curly hair and curious anglo nose. He is damn sexy, sorta playboy with a intellect casualness. He is the Indian boy next door, so damn hot. I went to school in Texas which has a really big Indian/Asian population and I've seen some really hot Indian boys in my day. I've actually dated a couple, but he is hot!!!

Sendhil Ramamurthy (born May 17, 1974) is an American actor, born in Chicago, Illinois. He plays the Indian geneticist Mohinder Suresh in the NBC drama Heroes.
He was born in the US to Indian parents, both of whom are physicians. His parents are from Bangalore, India. He has one sister, who is a physician, doing a residency in a combined internal medicine and psychiatry residency program. He and his sister were raised in San Antonio. In San Antonio, he went to Keystone School and graduated from there in 1991. He is married to actress Olga Sosnovska; they have one daughter. [1]

Sendhil Ramamurthy, imagine saying that in bed. LOL.

Naked Thursday: How I feel about my body this week

I had been meaning to get back to the gym. Its winter and I know it’s hard because most of us want to be inside. I really don’t stress over it. I like my body. I want to make it stronger that’s the only problem. As we get older, we start losing muscle, which for a man is a big issue. For a woman, when she loses muscle it’s usually replaced by fat. When I started losing muscle, it didn’t get replaced by anything which is the reason my body looks thinner. I’ve played sports since I was five years old, soccer for twenty years and when you just stop, that muscle becomes relax. I don’t feel as strong as I did when I was in my early twenties.

I def need to start lifting weights again. I also need to eat better. I have the worse diet. Next week, I’m will introduce greens and vegetable into my diet, even if I can’t stand vegetables. Maybe I will start drinking V8 and actually taking my vitamins.

I know I have the illusion of health, a nice body, but I don't feel strong. I don't just want to look the part, I want feel the part. I know too many skinny people who are very unhealthy and can't walk up a flight a stairs without breathing hard. I often feel as if I'm failing my body.

Racial Roleplaying

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Too gay to get laid?

Am I masculine enough to be gay? At first glance, it seemed like a ridiculous question to ask. To be more direct, am I masculine enough to have gay sex, get laid; get the boy I see in the magazines. Am I masculine enough for him? I don’t carry a purse. I’ve never worn lip-gloss or eyeliner.

I ask myself what is the real fear and I know as a child I never liked to get into fist fights. It wasn’t that I was scared of getting hit. I just thought it was beneath me like wearing white after Labor Day. I couldn’t understand why little boys always needed to punch on each other. As a male it felt as if I was constantly being tested by other males. The stronger men always sniffed out the weakest link. I guess I was afraid of being the weakest link which meant a lifetime of protecting myself from random harassment. It was the life of men. I thought that would change when I came out the closet. I wasn’t wearing a dress. I had on normal clothes.

I remember when I was a child, it was as if they could smell on me that I was different, wasn’t like the other boys, and they tried to beat it out of me. My father was the first person to call me a faggot. He said I walked like one. I didn’t understand what he meant. I walked like me. He used to say no son of his was going to grow up be a sissy as long he lived. Lucky for me he died when I was five years old. The comments wouldn’t stop. I tried to change. I straightened my walk. I deepened my voice. In high school I looked the part but I still wasn’t like other boys. I didn’t swoon at every girl that walked by. The hardest part was trying to convince my best friend. He liked going to the mall on weekends and find girls. I followed but wasn’t as interested. But I learned to fake it. I got more girls than him. It was because girls weren’t threatened by me. It was my sensitivity. In my yearbook, he wrote, in the beginning I thought you were gay, but you proved to be a straight up pimp. I never told him I was gay. Even when I overcompensated my masculinity there was something effeminate about me. It was how I held my hands. It was how I broke out in spontaneous song and dance. It was in my eyes. I could never hide it in my eyes. I thought when I came out that would be the end of pretending that I liked sports or drank beer. I thought it would be the end of being afraid that it smelled on me, that I was clockable, and I could finally be accepted. It wasn’t until I tried to get laid that I realized I wasn’t so free to be me.

Sometimes I forget I have a choice.

After chatting back and forth on the sex sites, we decided to exchange numbers. I waited anxiously by the phone. I fixed myself another cocktail. The phone rung. His voice was deep when he asked for me. I felt intimidated. The bass tingled against my ear like he was kissing my neck. I lowered and deepened my voice like coming out of my underwear. It felt a little awkward trying to be something I wasn’t like talking dirty. I was a choir boy. I knew neither one of us spoke that way. But it was late morning, and I was horny, and I didn’t want to scare him away. I remember back in my college days of the phone line. I remember how I would sit in my dorm room and record my message to seduce other men to think I was some street thug. I record the message over and over again until I felt satisfied-- that I conveyed some social stereotype of a young black male: dangerous, delinquent, uneducated and hung. I was none of those things.

When I was thirteen years old, my older cousin busted my lip because he said I sounded like a girl. I questioned if he hated women? Why else would he attack me? What was so wrong about sounding like a girl because my voice hadn’t yet changed? I knew he treated all his women like trash. He wanted to be the pimp. I asked myself were black men overcompensating their masculinity because too many of us grew up without fathers. The gangsta rappers boast about slapping bitches and pimping hos, but they’re down for their niggas. Wasn’t that gay?

Under normal circumstances I stay away from those men who with too many rules. If they say they want uber-mascilinity in their profile, I usually assume they weren’t speaking to me. On the scale of black male masculinity from Rupaul to Busta Rhymes, I considered myself more Al Roker or Wayne Brady.

“You let that queen on top of you” a friend shouted at me one afternoon as we cruised the popular black gay sex sites. I didn’t understand the question. I remembered the guy being a nice guy. I had a good time with him. He was assertive and sensitive at the same time. I guess my friend didn’t know him as the masculine idea. He said that he was more effeminate than some drag queens. I just remember he had a really hard dick and what did his masculinity have to do with his true sexuality. He was a great lover in bed. I felt bullied by my friend’s comment. It made me insecure if I was masculine enough. Gay men have said they wanted a "boy" in the streets and a "bitch" in bed. They never understood how much it took to be a bitch in the bed and a boy in the streets. A person could get confused trying to play so many roles. I sometimes forgot and was a bitch in the streets and a boy with a clenched up booty hole in the bedroom.

And I’ve had those so called “homothugs” or DL bruthas. They slap you on your ass like taming a street hooker. They fuck like they’re raping you. When I was young, I used to think that was sexy “getting my back banged out.” But it was how I felt afterwards, that he didn’t respect me. That he thought of me as weak. He’d make me feel conflicted about my masculinity. It was as if he was proving those who tried to beat it out of me, right. He was proving that I wasn’t a man, that I deserved the harassment, the name calling, the gay bashing because some men hated women and I reminded them of that hate. I was the worse type of black man, a man who didn’t hate women. I felt that hate in the “homothugs” geting my back pushed down and banged like fists. It felt violent.

I never considered myself masculine. I played golf, soccer and tennis in high school. I was on the chess club and decathlon team. I was president of Student Council, Toastmasters and Honor Society. I always considered myself nerdish. I liked show tunes and science fiction. I preferred board games to dominoes or spades. I never liked beer. I couldn’t play basketball or football.

I never considered myself masculine because I didn’t hate women. I didn’t disrespect them. I was sensitive to their feelings. I understood women. I was always closer to the girls. I didn’t have that caveman syndrome of knocking my female prize over the head and dragging her back to my cave. I guess because I didn’t see women as the hunt. It wasn’t sexual with women which meant there was no power play.


Sometimes I forget I have a choice. When asked how masculine I am, I usually tell the guy I’ve had it beaten out of me.

I have to remember the rage I felt when someone called me a faggot in high school. I have to remember all that agony living in fear afraid someone was going to fight me. I have to remember how many times I cried because I failed at playing the role. I hated being so damn conscience of my every move. I hated living in fear.

I’m not masculine. But I will fight you.

Diesel

It’s the self torture. I’m always looking to see how far I will go for release. Damn, I’m bored.

A drop of diesel fuel begets the internal combustion. It just takes one sip to get the intransigent desitute purring. Its how the heat builds and burns fast-- taking over responsible thoughts. This exothermic reaction is the result of a fool with a trapped life. The boredom creates gases of high temperatures and pressures, which expand, acting directly to cause movement that molest pistons, lick rotors, until the entire engine itself is alive and racing. I feel as if I’m always hiding like a dusty sports car in a barnyard. Some days I am as egotistical as a Ferrari. Some days I am as seductive as a Jaguar. Some days I am as coy as a Mustang or as kinky like a bloody red Corvette. But all it takes is one drop. And then I’m not coming down until I’m empty.

Friday, on the train after work I hated my sobriety. I reached into my book bag and pulled out a Sprit bottle filled with vodka. I sipped cautiously. I worried that the others could smell the stench. After the fifth sip, the worry eased and I could feel the engine wanting to start. It cranked and coughed. I pressed the pedal releasing more fuel into the engine. I stop sipping from the Sprite bottle and began gulfing. The engine started. Friday night, I found myself at some leather bar. It was dark and intimidating. His name was Master G. I thought he could be something I wanted. He was aggressive and unnecessarily mean. He slapped a black collar with metal spikes around my neck. The collar was attached to a rope that was attached to his cockring. He wanted me to lick his boots. I smiled. I first needed to finish my cocktail. I got down on all fours and tasted the dirt on the tip of his black boots. He felt satisfied and commanded me to follow him to the bathroom. He made me lower myself to the position of the toilets. He took out his dick. He pissed in my face. The warm yellow stream shocked me. I felt myself pulling away and he grabbed me back by yanking the rope. He said he wanted to humiliate me-- that I had too much going on in my eyes. He said somebody needed to calm my ass down. I told him I couldn’t be humiliated. My name was Diesel not “boy.” The game was over. I ripped off his collar. He had messed up my shirt. I left the bar pissed.

Saturday night, they called last call, and he broke my fifteen minute rule. I knew he wasn’t fucking. Men tell you in the first fifteen minutes if it’s going to be the bathroom, their car, behind a dark building, my house, or his. But he was a liar. And I liked that about him, because he was so fucking easy to please for attention. .Men only lie because they have something to hide. I wanted to know his secrets. He, too damn sexy, tall and dark with eyes like a rat. He was young, younger than me, probably just got his voters registration card. I was high and drunk and feeling like I feel when I had too many drinks. I wanted something new. I wanted to be used and use. I wanted him to want me, maybe even love me, but then again, I didn’t give a fuck. All I could imagine was his sex, lust, sticky wetness and violence. I didn’t want a man but an animal. I was kissing him on his neck, massaging my fingers on his nipples, trying to get him to come with me. I was trying to get him to go to the bathroom, maybe behind some dark building. I just wanted to be on my knees. I just wanted to steal his soul. I just wanted to spread my legs. But he wasn’t listening. He just was a tease. He just wanted somebody to say he existed. Men let you know the first fifteen seconds if there is going to be fucking. I guess I wanted to play the game. I left the club alone. I passed out while the engine was still running.

Sunday morning, I awoke frustrated. My dick was still hard. The diesel fuel was blocking up my veins. I felt the gorge pulsating. I needed another drink. The season was summer but I hadn't seen the sun in days. The city was DC. But I wasn't looking for love. Anything but love. Boys like me were to have, not to hold. Boys like me only existed for the night.

Have I mention it was a full moon?
I thought I try again. Sunday night around midnight, I found myself once again at a somebody's bar sipping on my forth whisky and coke, feeling pretty and sexy in my green contacts, tight fitted camouflage G.I. Joe t-shirt and skin tight (size 30) Gap jeans. My yellow timberlands served as my masculinity. I had sex in my eyes. Maybe that's what lured him to me like cold hands to fire. Soulfully, he whispered in my ear "Are you man enough to spread your legs and let another man stick his warm tongue in that gorgeous ass of yours." I smiled coyly trying to appear shy as I slowly turned my head towards his burning words and found myself being penetrated by his eyes. In an effort to calm or prevent me from walking away, he touched my stomach as I looked him over and pondered his offer. He was playful, his look, dripping wet with Puerto Rican machismo and charisma. He was a Boriqua: a descent from the miscegenation of colonial Spaniards and African slaves. He was more sexy than cute, but not overly stated, but just enough presence to command attention. His creamy lemon ala bisque skin and almond eyes were his best selling points. I knew I could get lost in his eyes. His only flaw was that he was shorter than me. He was probably 5'9. I was six feet tall. I did like that he grabbed my cocktail free hand and audaciously shoved it down his baggy pants so that I could feel his hard, pulsating, thick and uncut Latino pride. I played shocked and smiled duplicitously as to say "you had me at eating my ass." When he licked his lips to give me a preview of his hunger for my musk, suddenly the room went quiet as the concupiscent blood quickly rushed from my head making me dizzy with anticipation. Needlessly to say, an hour later, he was making good on his indecent proposal.
At the beginning of Monday, just a little after one in the morning, I found my eager body at his apartment and we started slow. I felt my engine running low, but I was still Diesel. Another hit of weed and I pushed the pedal to the floor. I like for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I like to be fully clothed and have him stand there naked, his hard frustration penetrating the air, dripping with slimy tears, begging to be touched. I liked to see how much he wanted me. I liked to see how far he would go to get me. There was also something very virginal yet corrupt when one was fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was a hopeless romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head and temporary arrested me in darkness while the smell of my own musk and citrus cologne served as a quick aphrodisiac. I could feel my dick rise.

I was now shirtless, so he placed his warm hand on my neck and politely kissed my lips, then neck, before sliding down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He pinched at my nipples like tweezers trying to get a splinter out of a sore finger. He pulled and tugged. And then he licked to ease the pain and pulled and tugged and tongued some more. I felt the electricity run down to my feet. I let myself relax to the bed. I slowly was becoming submissive. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slid the zipper down. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those warm masculine hands on my waist. He slid my jeans off. I loved it when a man finally stripped me of everything. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. He kissed my lips again. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and searched for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body laid twisting and moaning on his satin sheets as he devoured my sensitive manhole with his aggressive tongue. He spread the cheeks all the way open. I could feel my sphincter purring, pushing in and out against his prickly gin soaked tongue. The intense friction of him stroking my weak spot had me begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He yanked my body to position himself to tower over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy whiskey and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit as I sucked him. I pushed him all the way to the back of my throat. I liked how it made a man weak --feeling his dick all the way back to the tonsils. It’s how I knew I had him. It was like having his masculinity in my hands. He told me to tug on his balls firmly without any regard if I was hurting him or not. I spat his dick out. I then slapped his attentive dick hard that dripped with my spit to let him know who was in control. I slapped it again to make sure I had his attention. I tugged his nut sack. I tried to pull it to the floor. I then spanked his nuts. I watch his body twitch. He needed more pain. So I put his nuts in my mouth and begin to grind them softly with my teeth. I could feel him want to give in. I stroked his dick and bit down on his nuts. His knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. Just a couple of more seconds.

I thought I saw something, movement in the dark. I ignored it. I had his dick back in my mouth when the cops burst into the room with their supercilious flashlights, slicing through the darkness like swordsmen. I was so drunk and high that it hardly seemed real. Palsied and eyes widened like a gay deer trapped in the headlights, I still hadn't spit his dick out of my mouth despite how the white spotlights screamed in the darkness for recognition. For seconds during the initial silence, because at first the cops just watched and said nothing. I pondered deviously that they were maybe there to join in like some kinky black and blue party. When I reached out to touch the light was when they started yelling for us to get dress but keep our hands in the air. My engine had been thrown into a rude stop. My dick was no longer hard. My head went light and I fell gently like feathers to the bed. The cops asked for him by name. He had barely put on his underwear when they dragged him out of the bedroom into the living room. The door quickly shut behind them and I was left naked and alone. I didn't know what to do. I was too drunk and relaxed from the joint we smoke earlier to even care or pay attention to reality. So I just laid there. I didn't even put on my clothes. I wasn't even scared. After all, it wasn't my apartment. Finally, after thirty minutes, his roommate crept into the room like a sneaky house pet. Apparently, someone called the cops because of the music being too loud. My trick also had warrants so the cops took him to jail. The roommate touched my thigh after telling me the news, smiling and pleading that I could still stay a little longer if I didn't have anywhere to go. I felt conflicted. The roommate wasn't nearly as cute or masculine. He was actually the opposite, fat and effeminate. Out of courtesy, I asked to see his dick. Again, he was the opposite. I decided to leave. I figured the night and I were still young and hot, and I also had a fifteen block walk home, so anything better could happen.

I began the search from my clothes. Did I mention it was a full moon?

Early Monday morning around four, I found myself staggering home. After my ordeal with my trick getting arrested and having to almost settle for tacky leftovers, the fifteen block walk home was once again insufferable. It didn't help that I was still high. The fucked up part was I still hadn't nutted. I still hadn’t gotten my release. The boredom hadn’t silenced. I knew I didn't have enough money for the bathhouse. I figured I could surprise a fuck buddy of mine who lived in the neighborhood, but figured he was probably fucking someone else. The thought of a threesome got my blood pumping again. But before I could think over the decision rationally, I saw something again in the dark. It was like a flickering of a headlight. A dark figure across the street flicked a mirror toward the streetlight and was waving at me. It was four o’clock in the morning and usually I would ignore such a thing, but like I said, I was still horny, drunk and high and suddenly wanted to know what the dark figured wanted with me. I cautiously crossed the street looking both ways. As I got closer, the dark figured motion for me to follow him and I did. I followed him behind the National Church of Christ and away from the traffic of the street. Once we were behind the church, the dark figure pulled down his pants and started shaking his dick at me. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or run. Suddenly I felt outer-body. I felt as if I was watching myself from a distance, like a movie, just waiting to see what was going to happen next. In the light, the dark figure wasn’t so opaque anymore. The church lights painted his face kind and attractive. Or maybe it was the liquor and weed. He seemed out of place. Maybe it was the glasses that gave him an honest and sincere face or was it his Best Buy work uniform so neatly pressed and immaculate. He just didn’t look like the type of person to lure strangers behind churches to shake his dick at them. As I looked him over, I concluded that he had to be in his mid to late thirties at least. I imagined him with a wife and a kid somewhere. I couldn’t help but think to myself why he had flagged me down. I wondered if I looked like that type of person who'd follow him. Was it my tight jeans? Was it my intoxicated staggering walk? Was it that because I looked easy? I didn’t care. I was bored

I didn’t run. It turned out that I was the type of person to follow strangers behind dark buildings at four o’clock in the morning. I stood there frozen watching him shake his dick at me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to admit to myself that it did look tempting. I liked what I saw. He was big. Really big. At least ten and half inches and thick. And the night and I were still young. I was also drunk and high. The moon was still full and no one had to know but the wind and me. I moved closer. I touched the shaking dick. I liked how the weight of it felt in my hands. I took deep breaths and tried to forget everything. I tried to erase my mind of the possibility of regret. As I argued with myself to determine if I wanted to stay or run, I felt his dick get hard in my hands. The engine started again. Once again, I could feel the salacious blood rush from my head and it left me dizzy. It was the pull of relentless lust and it bullied to get what it wanted. I felt out of control. I couldn’t say no. I pulled his dick one more time, to make sure nothing was leaking before I decided to fall to my knees and worship. I felt satisfied and so it began. I had his dick in my mouth when he lit up his crack pipe. The glass cylinder became ablaze with a howling and condemning blazing white smoke. He inhaled. It was bad enough that I allowed my pretty self to be lured by the big bad wolf behind somebody’s church for some sodomite fun, but the crack smoking just made it kinky. I felt my boredom stand attention, it wanted some. It wanted to feel his high. But I refused. I had enough problems. I stopped sucking his dick. I reached into my pocket for a half of joint I had left. I lit up. We were just two horny addicts who bumped into each other in the late night. Maybe he felt just out control as I did? Behind the church I allowed him to pull my tight jeans completely off and bend me over to eat my ass. He lit his pipe again and instructed me to play with my ass. He told me he wanted to fuck me. He said he had condoms. Who would've figured it, a crack addict who carried condoms? He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those packets from “Us helping us.” He opened the small tube of lube proceeding to fill up my hot tight hole. He reached for his crack pipe again and took another long hit. The stench was like burning cotton candy. The air became still, lights brighter and I could feel my heartbeat race in my veins. I had reached my intoxicated Mecca. Pressed against the brick wall, he inserted himself inside of me. Finally, my release.

There’s nothing like a nut to put reality back into perspective. With my fresh spilled sin on the church ground and sun rising too quickly, I felt shaken by the Holy Ghost and had to get the hell out of Babylon. I couldn’t find my clothes fast enough and run.

Speeding back to earth, my walk home was a mixture of shame, panic and exhilaration. It was almost six o’clock in the morning and I had to be at work at eight. I figured I would take some Tylenol, drink a gallon of water and eat a peanut butter sandwich before bed. I only needed an hour of sleep. Speeding back to earth, I started hating my life again. The fuel had run out. I was no longer Diesel. I was going to be just another bored face on the nine o’clock metro heading to work like a zombie. I was just a sports car out of gas, pushed back to his prison. I was back under the dusty cover waiting for another uninhibited soul to discover me as I anxiously waited for my next drop of fuel. It only took one drop to get the madness started again.

Freaks, Hos and Regulars

Tina hit a three in the morning

he says gay men are all the same
we need the addictions
that we all drink or do drugs
I was thinking he was just talking about people like us
the others lie
try to pretend they don’t go to bathhouses, weren’t getting fucked on camera at Blatino
aint picking up the trade boys
too many saying keep my secret that I’m a HIV counselor but don’t wear a condom
I got to his house and he had porno on all the televisions
the fuck music bassing in the background
I was just trying to get high
ran out of liquor decided I needed drugs
he says gay men are all the same
just dogs
I was just thinking how he was gong to get my dick hard

*****************

the freaks, the whores, the regulars

I was nineteen but saw him for five years
dark skin so drowning
ass a full moon
laying like a dead body on stains sheets at the bathhouse
he always had his door opened
inviting the wicked to his flame
the only guy I could fuck because I never saw his eyes
he was my niagra fall
I didn’t want to be real like feeling alive
he was like my rape when I was five years old
loved how he just took and never told
loved how he arched his back
wanted to be him
because he was nobody like the used condoms on the floor
loved how he made me feel normal
when I I fucked him, I always
gave him my babies
one night he showed me his face
his eyes like knives, lips like sandpaper
old like not too many years to celebrate bithdays
so I kissed him
wanted his death to take me to the grave
I knew I would grow up to be just like him
I never fucked him again

******************

looks how it shines for you


when I’m in love
I’m in love, so tragically
write you love poems, bring you roses everyday
but when I hate, everything must end
kick you out of my bed, tear up all your pictures

when I’m in love, we have romantic dinners
I try to be god, love like jesus did
but when I’m rejected
i’m the last circle of hell
the devil who just wants your soul to burn
call your mother to tell you have premature ejacutions
send naked pictures to your co-workers

when I’m in love, I hold you close, play with your toes
cook you pancakes for breakfast
but when I think you leaving me I call the landlord
take you off my lease, close all the accounts, want you to starve to death

when I’m in love I give you my wallet
try to buy you the world
but when I hate you
I want to destroy everything you were
get you fired from your job
thinking about killing you in your sleep

when I’m in love I think about our kids
us as old folks feeding the birds
but when I hate you
I’m not myself anymore
gave you too much

when I love you, I pray for sanity
don’t want to be your past mistakes
don’t want our happiness to be a lie
so when I love
I’m scared
because I need to survive you

Confessions of a Bottom

Bottoming.


At sixteen, I was a “virgin bottom” basically uncharted territory. I had sex with virgin girls before, so I knew it would be somewhat painful, but it was fucking painful. It didn’t help that I was drunk and we were in the back of my 1990 Chrysler Laser outside my Sister’s apartment. I wasn’t prepared for what it would do to me emotionally. I had allowed another being into my body physically and it was as intrusive as a knife. I hadn’t given much thought how I would have gay sex for the first time. It happened so fast. I met him at a club, I had a rum and coke, my hormones were so enraged, I was looking for the attention. I was clueless but I wanted it. He never called me again. It traumatized me for years. I didn’t trust men for years.

After my first experience I became what I call “a bottom phobic.” I ain’t going to lie, my first time was painful and I thought I’d never do it again and I didn’t for six years. I was afraid. And it was more than just the pain, I was afraid of being vulnerable again, or being tricked again. The guy who was my first was just in it for the booty. I was young and I liked him, and I thought we might hang out. I thought he’d try to get to know me. He only knew my first name. He didn’t even know I was still in high school and he was twenty two years old. I only knew that he was cute, had a great body, was in the military and I was just another horny teenager. Nobody warned me. We didn’t have lube. We used spit. He was more than well endowed. I had no bottom secrets like remembering too breathe and push out when he pushed in. So I became a “bottom phobic.” I didn’t want to be the girl. I didn’t want my masculinity compromised. There were so many fears like if I enjoyed it I might become a drag queen or transsexual. I also feared my friends finding out and thinking that I was weak. I didn’t want the stigma of being a bottom. I didn’t want to be the girl.


I wasn’t going to let some guy hurt me. I wasn’t going to let some guy used me. I had so many fears, most of them just in my head, but I guess I was just waiting for the right guy I was so afraid of being a bottom again that I needed to face my fear. I didn’t want to be afraid of anything.

I found a person I would try it with again and that was my first “real” boyfriend. I was twenty two years old. We dated for like three months before we had sex. It was the beginning of my sexuality because of my willingness to experiment. We read about it. We bought a very small dildo. He had an average size penis so I wasn’t so afraid. We started really slowly. He had to gently insert his penis. I remember if he shoved himself in, I feel that pop, and I’d scream out in pain. In a sense we were both still virgin bottoms. I needed to stretch the muscle. I was still an “ouch, stop” type of bottom. My hole hadn’t yet learned to accept a dick. It mistrusted. It took me a good time before I became comfortable with being fucked. It was mental exercise along with a physical exercise.

After we broke up, I found myself having to deal with ignorant tops. They would rush. They didn’t care about hurting me. They would shove their dicks in me not caring that brought me intense pain. I had to curse out too many tops. I had to ask other bottoms what to do. As a bottom, I learned it just couldn’t be my secret. I had to find other bottom friends. That’s how I learned to be a good bottom, from another bottom.

It took about a year or two before I became a “comfortable bottom.” I knew how to prepare myself. I need how to let my body submit. I thought I truly started liking to be penetrated when I was a true vers. I guess I liked the even playing field. It was more attractive to me to share what I considered the power in sex. I felt more at ease if I gave up ass and I also got to fuck the guy. The only problem, as a bottom, I was still thinking with my dick. I had yet to explore my hole. I saw a porn flick and the guy getting fucked was stoking his dick. I decided to do it. The orgasms were great. I found it frustrated a lot of tops because with me stroking my dick while getting fucked was like competing with their dicks. It was like we were racing. As a vers, I never really truly surrendered to being just a bottom. I’d flip flop, but there was always an issue how sex ended. We usually ended up jacking off together.

There came a time about my third relationship, the guy was a complete top, I was in love, he was older and more financially and emotionally secure. It was a time in my life I wanted to be rescued. I had been in the life for almost ten years, and I started to become insecure about my dick, masculinity and sexual position. I guess I got caught up in the “Down Low” bullshit and thought because I wasn’t some thug, unclockable, have a girlfriend, that I wasn’t good enough as a top. And I used to hear gay men gossip about each other and say things like “I’d never let that queen climb on top of me.” It confused me. Gay life was so heterosexual. I identified more with straight women than with straight men so I thought that made me an “emotional bottom.” It came natural when I was in third relationship because he was so masculine, so unclockable and so aggressive. I became an “emotional/submissive bottom.” It stopped being about my dick. I got release for being fucked. I started calling my ass a pussy. When I was younger I hated when gay men called their booty-holes a pussy. But suddenly I understood the emotion. I became obcessed with my hole. I worried about being cleaned. I worried about being wet and tight. And when the guy was inside me, I wasn’t hard. I was soft because all the sensation was coming from just being penetrated. And my lover at the time was great at hitting my spot, and if I allowed myself to just enjoy the ride and release I would have an anal orgasm. It’s not the same as an ejaculation. It’s more emotional like a buildup that gets release. I sometimes peed a little or shot clear ejaculation but it was just as powerful, sometimes even more powerful. I like giving my top his orgasm. I liked being submissive because I trusted him. Yet, it didn’t take long for me to feel unsatisfied. I started to feel like a woman. I still didn’t want to be the girl.

I was a submissive/emotional bottom for a couple of years. I broke up with that guy. I wasn’t always satisfied as a bottom. I started just being one of those “bottoms” that took one for the team. I kept gambling with tops and trusted they could give me what I wanted. If I didn’t’ get what I needed I just thought the top didn’t know what he was doing.

And then something weird happened around 27 years old. I said the hell with tops. I was going to just play the game. I was just going to get fucked and use tops. I only cared about getting mine. I became a “power bottom.” It was really by accident and being single. I no longer feared dick and didn’t need a man. It was my sexual liberation. I didn’t care what anyone thought about me. I laughed when tops wore themselves out trying to hurt me. And I was proud of my experience as a bottom. I had a deep tight hole. I finally controlled my body. I could be fucked for hours (if I was high and tripping).Sex was fun. I could do sex parties or be double penetrated. I still had mental issues to get over like being afraid of classified as a whore. But I was a male. I wasn’t the girl.

Being a power bottom was more for my ego, but I still felt enormously sometimes unfulfilled. I didn’t want to be a trashcan.

Out of frustration with so many detached men, I became an “Alpha bottom.” I became more aggressive. I didn’t get fucked, I fuck the top. I knew what got me off. I knew what I needed. I wasn’t waiting for some man to figure me out. I had the cheat notes and wasn’t afraid to say it. A lot of tops like weak bottoms, something they can dominate. I wasn’t for that. I was a man who liked it up the ass, not some prison raped bitch.

I remember this guy, we were fucking, and I was enjoying his thrust and I guess I got a little too aggressive and he said in the most adorable voice, “Remember I’m the top.” I told him to shut the fuck up.

I got into toy play out of anger. Even as an “Alpha bottom” most tops got on my nerves when I had no desire to black weak, defenseless or the bitch. I swear the things some bttms go through for a top and I didn’t want to be in the game anymore. I also started to feel as if some tops didn’t appreciate the “ass.” I was getting tired of being treated or feeling like a trashcan. I was tired of the promicious sex. I just didn’t want to be fucked anymore, so I bought me a toy. It was my private rebellion. I had given up gay men.

I started with a modest a nine inch dildo. I started to learn so much about my body. I started to learn what the dick was doing when it was inside of my body. I found out I had rings. I remember that there was always some sharp pain when I was getting fucked and I realized that was a curve, that the dick had got stuck at the cure or was hitting my 2nd ring wall. I didn’t know that wall could be pushed through and it felt fantastic. I was immediately intrigued so I bought a bigger dildo, 12 inches. I soon conquered that so I went up to 18 inches. I kept buying wider and bigger toys. I started doing researched. I decided that I wanted to get into fisting. I had fisted as a top but never tried it as a bottom. It was phenomenal. It was the first time I felt really masculine as a bottom. Of course again, I had to get over some issues. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be virgin tight anymore. I was afraid other tops wouldn’t want me or talked about me behind my back, in other words, give me bad recommendations.

And then I remember the pain when I first become a bottom. I remember desperately wanting to accept the dick, get comfortable with being pentrated, let it be a pleasant experience. I did all the work, so why could I not finally enjoy my hole. It was my ass!!! If I chose to stretch it out, fuck any bitch who don’t like it. I’m not a sex slave. I’m not some trashcan. I am not a fuck slave.

I remember this one top telling this other top that some guy he fucked was as opened as a hallway. I wanted to be that open. It must’ve been fun to get there.

I became a “freak bottom.” I liked it and wasn’t afraid to celebrate it. I felt I deserved my body and was proud what it could do. I wanted to be sexually fulfilled. So if I found something that did it for me and it was my prerogative. I fell in love with fisting and large sex toys. I was so interested in how far I could go or stretch. Yet, finding the right partner was still an issue. Some guys wanted to fist just to say they’ve done it. I wasn’t a freak show, I was a freak. Other guys, had no clue. They thought fisting was just an extention of their dick. Some guys critizied if they fisted me that made their dick useless like their dick was my savior. I would respond, why did I ever need your dick. It’s not like I could get pregnant. It was a challenge to get some gay men to think outside the heterosexual box. Some guys just wasn’t into, haven’t gotten to that freakiness.

I had to accept I had evolved as a bottom. I couldn’t be 20 years old forever. I used to be afraid of getting older knowing that I was mostly a bottom. I was afraid not being tight. I no longer cared. I loved being opened because that was what it was about in the first place. It was being opened enough to accept the dick and enjoy it. I was being opened enough to experiment. I was finally enjoying my sexuality and I wasn’t going to let anyone take that from me.

I was called a “bitchy bottom,” that is someone who doesn’t lay there and shut up. It was like bottoms should be fucked not heard. I didn’t consider myself a bitchy bottom. I just wasn’t going to take anymore bullshit. If that made me a bitch, so be it.

Overall, my experience as a bottom started off as a bumpy role full of fear and rejection. I had to learn to face my fears. I had to learn to enjoy pleasure. I had to learn to let go of all my heterosexual constraints and psychology. I wasn’t a girl. I was a man who had sex with other men. I had to get comfortable with my body and demand respect. I also had to converse with other bottoms and not see them as enemies. OTHER BOTTMS ARE NOT THE ENEMY. IT ISN’T A LOW RESOURCE OF DICK. IT’S JUST SEX.

I was most secure when sex was emotional, when I was emotionally fulfilled. I’m still evolving but it doesn’t mean that sometimes I don’t take a few steps backwards. Sometimes I’m a power bottom, I just looking to give up some ass, sometimes I’m an emotional bottom, I’m looking to connect, sometimes I’m an alpha/freak bottom, I’m looking to get my ass played with, and sometimes I’m a bitchy bottom if I have to clown a stupid top, but I’m always a human being.

Yet enjoying being a bottom led me to re-awaken my feelings about my dick. It was time for me to come full circle again, no pun intended.

My Fantasy Toy Bag

It’s no secret that I like sex toys. I think I like the experimentation. As a child, I was never a big toy person. I had my Tonka truck and some action figures, but they quickly bored me. As an adult, toy play can be just as imaginative as child play. I like inviting friend over and experimenting with newest sexual creation. I finally put together my fantasy toy list. I have almost most of it but still need to spend at least another two thousand dollars completing sex bag. I know a lot of people would think it’s ridiculous to spend so much money on sex toys. People waste money every day. I calculated since I’ve been out in the gay life I’ve spent over three hundred thousands dollars. Going to the clubs, buy liquor and tipping bartenders, strippers, buying the outfits, flying to various cities for gay events, it adds up. Grown men spend up to six hundred dollars on a video game. I once bought an X-box and only played that thing for about a month. At least with my sex toys, I know they will go to good use.

Travel Kit
Black Travel Size Toy Bag
Sling

S&M Kit
candles
nipple clamps

CBT/Vibrations Kit
sounds
penis whip
cockring
Penis Pump
Power Anal-T (butt plog)
Power Bullet
Power Cockring
Spanking Kit
Paddle
Horesewhip
Flog
Belt

AssPlay Kit
small/medium.large butt plug
inflatable butt plug
manhandler
6 inch realistic
9 inch Kong Realistic
12 inch bam
18 inch rambone
Realistic Fist
Large double dildo
Falcon Probe Black
Giga Dong
Playsheets

Intimacy Kit
candles
incents
cologne
BDSM/Restraints Kit
Handcuffs
Blindfold
Rope
Shoestrings

Lubrication Kit
Crisco
Jlube
Vasoline
Wet
Misc.
Condoms
Gum/Altoids
Tic Tacs
Poppers

Preparation Kit
Fingernail clippers
Travel Enema bottle
Listerine
Travel shurshot
Travel Wrench

Cleanup Kit
Small bottle of 409

Comic
Listerine
toothbrush
soap
washcloth
Febreeze

Assessories Kit
Armband
Bandana
Boots
Jockstrap
Collar
Vest

Lonely Nights

"My friends and I have this game about online hooking up. We like to get together and look at various profiles and try to figure what the guy is really trying to say. It isn't judgemental but just reading between the lines."



****************
{Insert subliminal *fuck me* message here}

30, 6'1, (1.85m), 170lb (77kg), 33w, Average Build, Blond Hair, Buzzed Body, White, Looking for Friendship, 1-on-1 Sex, 3some/ Group Sex

Just an average guy here, no agenda... lookin' for whatever. Please don't message me if you have hangups about skin color or can't appreciate the aesthetic value of color contrast.

"I only date black men"

"Please be hung."

"No racist drama."

"Black men usually insult me."

"I see black men as a fetish."

"Why is it so hard to get fucked by a black man that's hung and no drama without begging."

"White bttms need love too."


**********************
Doin me as always, you jus wish u could.

22, 5'9, (1.75m), 150lb (68kg), 30w, Swimmer's Build, Black Hair, Smooth, Latino, Looking for Friendship

See? Gym time does pay off, LOL. Just here for fun. If you tryina Fuck, check anotha brotha; besides, versatile doesn't translate into Bottom, my Top game is vicious, LOL. Still, no sex, kids, just cruisin.

"I'm a young conceited asshole"

"Vers means I will be a bottom if no one is looking."

"I say I want friends because I care what others think about me."

"No sex, nigga please!"


*************************
What's your sex menu?

29, 6'0, (1.83m), 163lb (74kg), 30w, Swimmer's Build, Black Hair, Smooth, Black, Looking for Misc Fetishes

Gay sex can be like auditioning--the egotistical directors & sneaky producers, just soulless. I’m an actor, looking for that part I was born to freak, I get offers but I’m an artist so the role has to get my dick hard, can’t pretend everything. You must trade like a freak, not buy, I’m not a toy. If I’m your fantasy, are you mine? (420,T, G, X, party) for freaking, don’t care too much for sober sex. I’m rich on personality not funds. i accept favors. Looking to freak, sub

"Probably Paris hilton playing jokes, I'm high."

"Probably never sober, got issues."

"Tina whore."

"I've had too much sex and I'm bored."

"I like drugs."

"He only accepts favors, not give them"

"Promicious Boy."

"Probably got a STD."

"I think he might be fun."

"He's older than 29."

*******************************
Looking 4 Masculine Oral-Bottoms, Unclockable!

25, 6'0, (1.83m), 170lb (77kg), 32w, Muscular Build, Black Hair, Smooth, Black, Looking for Friendship, Relationship, 1-on-1 Sex

SON---I'M EVERY MAN & WOMANS FANTASY---I'M TALL, MASCULINE, MUSCULAR, UNCLOCKABLE AND KNOW HOW TO PUNISH A GOOD PIECE OF AZZ---I'M LOOKING FOR VERY MASCULINE ORAL-BOTTOM DUDES WHO CAN PASS FOR STREET BOYS---IF YOU GO TO GAY CLUBS, TRAVEL FOR GAY HOLIDAYS OR USE GAY LANGUAGE, THEN CHANCES ARE WE WON'T CLICK---DUDES WITH CARS AND JOBS STEP TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE----PLEASE HAVE FACE PIC TO SEND.

"Why do men say that, unclockable bttm he might as well believe leupracans exist."

"Hustler"

"Arrogant, closted, draq queen"

"Arrogant with little self-esteem and probably not what he says he is with a little dick."

"He got a no job. Everything little."

Bitchy Gay Men

Mama would say, if you don’t have anything good to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. Yet, it’s amazing the amount of bitchiness gay men can get away with. A gay man can insult complete strangers' hair, skin, car, house or taste in music and be thanked. I was once at a very posh gay club and this straight girl came up to me and asked me what I thought about her shirt. Just to be funny, I told her she should wear as a hat. She immediately took it off and wrapped it around her head. She looked ridiculous but I told her she looked fabulous. I next gave her advice on shoes and lipstick. I was drunk and had no idea what I was talking about. But as long as I was a bitch about it, she thought I was fabulous.

I feel as if I have a problem with being misunderstood. I was out with friends at the local bar when I met this young adorable guy. I had seen him several times before and thought I finally speak. He was a sweetheart, new to the city and just looking for friends. We started talking and we were getting along. The drinks kept coming and my friends were getting bitchier by the cocktail. They liked insulting people. I had one friend when we walked down the street he had a catty comment for anyone who didn’t get his dark hard. I hated to know what he thought about me when I wasn’t around. I never considered myself one of those bitchy queens but after a couple of cocktails, I had my slips of the tongue. I was talking to my new friend and I noticed that he was kind of a lush. He had like five drinks in a thirty minute period. I wasn’t so convinced of his innocence anymore. Accidentally, I made the snide comment, “Awww, that’s adorable, a teddy bear who likes the liquor. You should be on all the toy store shelves” I thought it was harmless. My new friend immediately became upset. He thought I was calling him fat. It was true he needed to lose about fifteen or twenty pounds but that’s not what I meant. I was being bitchy without knowing I was being bitchy. I profusely apologized, assured him I meant no hard but he wasn’t convinced. He removed himself to the other side of the bar. My friends asked me what I did, and I told them, they laughed and started calling him “Lush the alcoholic teddy bear.” They even made up a song. I felt bad. I really didn’t mean any harm. I wasn’t that type of person. Or was I?

Every year Mr. Blackwell has a list of his top worse dressed celebrities. Who the hell is Mr. Blackwell and why should anyone care? I’ve gone to the Perez Hilton website and most of the times I’m disgusted with his immaturity but also entertained. He’s an overweight bleach blonde parasite who’s made a living at just being bitchy. I mean the things people can say about him. I’ve watched Kojo give his fashion critics and thought to myself, has he ever looked in a mirror. Even Miss Jay on America’s Next Top model always have something bitchy to say and just look like a run over dog mess.
I question if any of them are happy. I question if they have feelings. I question their sanity. I question what makes them an expert besides being gay and never having anything nice to say.

All the older gay men I knew when I first came out were what I called “bitchy gay men.” They were usually unattractive, drunks, fat, clinging to youth in trade boys and prostitutes, bitter and exploitive. I vowed I wouldn’t grow up and be nothing like them. I told myself I would never pay for sex. I got picked on growing up. I never had the right cloths. I guess I’m very sensitive to other people’s feelings. I didn’t see myself as better.

I fell in love with a bitchy gay man. It was like trying to make love to a cactus. His thorns were always razor sharp, his exterior impenetrable and his words unforgivable. His name was Charles. He was the worse. He complained about everything and gossiped about everyone behind their back. I never once saw him happy unless he was on his knees, but that wasn’t happiness, it was lustful greed. I met him at a writer’s seminar. I thought he was accomplished having won several writing awards and published various books. A friend introduced us. I told him I wanted to be a writer. He smiled and invited me to dinner. Charles was almost fifty years old and I was only nineteen, a sophomore in college. In the beginning he seemed nice. He was witty, cultured and very well groomed. I thought we could be friends. I thought he could be my mentor. I wanted him to critic my writing. I figured I could use him to become a better writer. So I flirted. I don’t know why. I wasn’t attracted to him. I did like his power. I wanted what he had. I wanted to somehow steal it. I wasn’t a fool. He kept telling me how beautiful a boy I was all night. He constantly touched my hand. I was still in college. I had no family. I was alone. I wanted to be successful. Charles looked like he could teach me.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out he wasn’t happy. I naively thought because he was successful, had money, a nice car and apartment, an office with a secretary that he found the secret to a good life. I was sure he was happy. It didn’t take long for me to figure he was lonely. It was an incurable loneliness. He often paid for prostitutes. I was just another concubine. I thought I could be his protégé. I was just a fantasy. And it was so tempting if I just played the role, ignored that he wasn’t reading in my writings, that I was just arm candy at all the events. I felt insecure when they snickered in front of my face that I wasn’t pretty as the last one. I wondered if the one after me would be prettier, would he also want to be a writer, would he be more successful at keeping his identity.

Charles didn’t like any of his friends. He talked about all of them behind their backs, called them old and miserable. He hated his reflection. He would scream and once slammed his first into the mirror. He would warm me that the beauty would fade. Every time he weighed himself he’d cry. He got a gym membership at the university but it was only so he could cruise the young eye candy. It was only so he could insult anyone that reminded him of himself.

It didn’t take long before he turned the rage on me. I couldn’t do anything good enough. He didn’t like how I washed the dishes. He didn’t like how I folded the towels. He would call me lazy and trifling. His words were so hurtful. He would say that I was gaining weight. He would complain that I drank too much and it made me look old. I was just a fantasy to him. The world was just a fantasy to him. I used to think when he made bitchy gay comments about other people he was just being funny. I never thought he would say those things about me.

Seeking his approval, I stopped writing. I stopped reading and struggling as an artist. I went to the gym five times a week. I wore eye cream on my eyes at twenty five years old. I worried about getting older. I started hating anyone younger than me. I became so insecure.

Charles had published another book. He sent me a copy and I never opened the package. I went to the book singing as his date. I looked perfection. After the book party driving home Charles asked me what I thought of the party. I drank too much. I hated being in the shadows. I looked in the vanity mirror and reminded myself I was still young unlike him. Charles asked me what I thought of his book. I told him I didn’t open the package but I was sure I hated it. I hated him. He laughed. I looked at him and it was like I was driving with the Devil. I thought he was everything I wanted to be. I thought he would teach me. He would father me. My father died when I was five years old. He didn’t enjoy his fancy things or his fancy friends. He was just a miserable old bastard. It was heartbreaking. Most gay men are miserable. I didn’t want to be anything like him. I ended our relationship. I didn’t need his approval anymore.

Now when I watch the after show for any of the award shows and a bitchy drag queen like Joan Rivers criticizes various actresses, I think to myself, why would anyone care what a face lifted prune would think. Why is anyone seeking her approval? But she’s a bitch, but is she happy?

I saw my friend again at the bar. I again apologized to him. It was important to him that he understood I wasn’t trying to be bitchy. It didn’t take long for me to accidentally insult him again. He said he was waiting for friends. We stayed drinking at the bar for over two hours and every five minutes he kept checking the door. He kept calling their cell phone and it was obvious they weren’t going to show. He seemed really upset almost fidgety. I tried to comfort him. I made a joke that it wasn’t that bad and he was acting like they were his drug connection and he desperately needed to hit the pipe. It was a joke. I thought he would laugh. I knew he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t find my comfort funny. He vowed to never speak to me again. I wasn’t so upset. I decided he was the bitchy one.

Am I happy? I need a new gay contract.

“Are you Happy” I asked him. It was after we had sex and the high still lingered. He had been my fuck buddy for a couple of weeks. He didn’t know I had a boyfriend and didn’t live alone. I asked him did it matter. He asked if I liked what we did together. I liked the high, because he had the best drugs. He was convinced that he was such a great lover. I’d had better. He asked did I like that thing he did with his hand and spit. The truth, it made me nauseous. I told him the truth. He looked like a child that just been told Santa Claus was dead. I knew my relation and drug connection was over.

Athletes and sitcom stars do it all the time, renegotiate their contracts especially if a sports team or television show is doing really great. They usually want more money and power. The “Friends” on NBC got like a million dollars each per episode as oppose to the hundreds of thousands of dollars they were already making per episode. Is it greed or common sense? The big executives were going to profit no matter what.

“Are you happy” he was one of my closet gay friends. He was so young and innocent. He responded that he was in love. I asked him if would be happy if he knew that his boyfriend was cheating on him. He said he trusted his boyfriend, but I knew something he didn’t know yet I could never break his heart.

I was in renegotiation with my life and didn’t know it. When I was seventeen years old, at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning my sister woke me up from a gorgeous sleep screaming like the end of that Spike Lee movie “Wake up!” She said it was urgent. She grabbed me by my limp wrist and dragged me from the futon. She sat me down in front of the family television and pressed play on the VCR. It was gay porn. I choked on my bad morning breath. I looked at her confused. She pointed to the television and demanded if I was sure I wanted what the two well built men were doing to each other. I pondered the question because I didn’t know the plotline. The two men looked like they were sword fighting with their dicks. I guess it was my fault. The night before I made the mistake of telling her I might be homosexual. I was just reading the literature and only seventeen years. I considered it a phase like Mormonism or High School. My sister grabbed my crotch in which my now erect penis was poking out of my gym shorts. She told me I was defiantly gay. I had failed her heterosexuality test. I understood what my sister was trying to do. She wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting myself into. For her, it was just about sex. It was what I would do in the bedroom. I knew I was gay when I kissed Miguel. I was sixteen years old. Actually he kissed me. He told me that I shouldn’t be gay and then he kissed me. I had touched lips with a girl but it was just that, the touching of lips, cold as ice, more like a chore. When I kissed Miguel it felt as if my entire body was on fire. It wasn’t about sex just the opposite. It wasn’t about my dick, that curious flesh hanging between my legs and what I would spend a lift time doing with it. It wasn’t about my dick. It was about my heart. It was about my soul.

“Are you Happy”? We were getting high and looking for boys on the internet. He was what I called a freak, ho and a regular. I saw him at all the sex spots. He was in his late thirties, secure, only thought about the next conquest. He responded that he wasn’t happy, that he almost died the year before and no one came to visit him.

Of course, I didn’t have any idea what I was getting myself into. I was gay and had no instructions. I thought it would be so damn easy. I only knew of the gay people on television marching down the streets, the bumping music, the chiseled bodies, everybody laughing and hugging on each other. It looked like a fun party and I was sure I looked good in a Speedo. I was young, fun and full of cum, so I thought I had gay success written on my dick print.

Almost thirteen years later I woke up with a police officer pointed his flashlight in my eyes demanding, “Who did this to you? Did you get their names?” I tried to answer him but my mouth was full of blood. I spit out a tooth onto my pink polo shirt. I tried to remember what happened. I remember I arrived to the bar drunk and angry. I’d gotten into a fight with my boyfriend before I left the house. I remember being disgusted when I got to the bar. My life had become some cruel joke. I was tired of seeing the same people every week. I was tired of the same madness of internet sex, drugs and all the other addictions. I felt like my life, career, love was going nowhere. And I was getting older and suddenly the bartenders were treating me like I was trespassing. I remember that I got into an argument with some queen in the bathroom. We had once been friends but he no longer liked me because I wouldn’t sleep with one of his friends. I told him he wasn’t my pimp. I don’t remember what happened. I do remember picking the fight. I didn’t know there was more than one. I do remember getting hit when I opened the door to leave the bar. I do remember getting kicked to the ground. The rest I was too drunk and passed out. I just balled myself in the fetal position and covered my head as they kicked me like they were tenderizing meat. I thought gay people were supposed to be nice. I was so damn angry. The gay life I knew was over. I was no longer the invincible parti0boi. I was no longer in the spotlight. The gay life I knew started disrespecting me. It became violent and rude. It was the best thing that happened to me. I was bored and stuck. I needed that ass whooping. I answered the officer, “I did it to myself.” I stumbled home.


“Are you happy” I asked my best friend since college. He was on the phone with me as I waited in the emergency room and reading me bible quotes. His newest reincarnation was a re-born Christian. He told god was the only true happiness. I laughed. He used to say that ecstasy wasn’t the only true happiness.

My sister called me the next day. I told her the story, she laughed. I was sure she imagined a bunch of RuPauls and hairdressers scratching and hitting each other with flowers and pillows. I told it was more like a “Boyz in the Hood” beating. They were gangsta, straight up homothugs. I liked it rough, but not that damn rough. I was left with a concussion, scraped up face, two cracked ribs and a missing tooth with no dental insurance. I understood the lesson. My life had gotten completely out of control. It was as if I was banging my head up against the brick walk trying to get it to change or soften and finally my bruises were beginning to show. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t so gay.

What was my intention? When I decided that I was gay, my intention was that I didn’t want to live a lie of marrying some woman and feeling trapped and frustrating my entire life seeking my family’s approval. I wanted my soul to be free. I couldn’t understand what the hell happened to my plan in those thirteen years since I came out. I needed to renegotiate my gay contact because I was no longer happy. The fantasy was over.

“Are you happy” I asked my soon to be ex boyfriend of eight years. We were lying in bed together watching the night news. He ignored me. Before I got some sense knocked in my head, there was the fight with my boyfriend. “Why are you still here” he screamed at me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard it before. He was my live in boyfriend of eight years. Our relationship had gotten stale because we no longer got each other’s dick hard but still co-dependent. It was my birthday, my 30th birthday. He hadn’t spoken to me all that day. I guess he was trying to punish me. We had had a fight several days earlier about money. I got a new job that paid me well and I was working a lot of overtime hours. We were finally at a point that money wasn’t an issue. We got the new television. We were getting ourselves out of debt with so many overdue bills. I thought he’d be happy that I was finally contributing. It’s not so easy to erase the past. I’d had problems. We’d been together for almost eight years. I was just twenty-two years old when we got together, just a kid, I didn’t know what I wanted, my intention was safety. I chose him because he was safe. I’d come from a family of abuse, instability, abandonment, so when I went looking for love I naturally chose what was safe. It was nobody’s fault.

I came out of the closet because I didn’t want to be trapped in a loveless marriage. I became gay and still got trapped in a loveless marriage.

I knew it was our last argument on my 30th birthday. I was screaming at him that he acted like whatever I did wasn’t enough, that I was finally trying and he should be happy. Yes, I had been a liability, untrustworthy and I’d cheated. It was the growing pains, but we stayed together. And yes, he had been somewhat of an enabler, and he was passionless and he could be stubborn. But we stayed together. We were co-dependent that way.

He said, “Why now!” and it didn’t’ matter because he didn’t care anymore. It seemed so unfair, everything I had been fighting for, the struggle, and how hard I’d been trying even when I was lazy and seemed hopeless to be what I thought he wanted me to be. And I had thought I finally did it, that I could be that person, but he was yelling at me it was too late. It seemed so unfair. I realized I couldn’t win. I was making myself unhappy to make him happy because I had convinced myself he knew happiness. I thought he had the fucking secret.

I knew that was our last argument because I suddenly stopped seeking approval. I knew I was enough. I knew there was nothing wrong with me. I didn’t have to argue because I had nothing to prove. When I turned 30 years old it was like a part of my brain that had been dormant suddenly activated. I realize I was in re-negotiations for my life.

Happiness for me at twenty was not the same at thirty. I used to want the fairytale, the romance, the picture but now I just want the sanity. I wasn’t so impressed anymore. The gay life seemed like a lot of bullshit to me. I no longer cared about the pretty boys with big sticks, having pretty friends, dressing a certain way, or constantly stressing about the gym. I had bought into the illusion and like anorexic I couldn’t see I’d had been starving myself for thirteen years. I was empty. I needed a better life.

I’d had many gay friends along the way who had re-negotiated; who decided they no longer wanted to be gay because they felt gay life was just a “use and be used” soulless business. They decided they’d reformed and attempt straightness again because they figured gay men were nothing but sex and debauchery. It was the worse lie. They didn’t realize they were the contributors. They were full of bullshit. They were afraid to face their sexuality. I was going to have to look my dick in its eye and asked him what it really wanted because the fantasy was over. I was finally going to have to deal with my happiness because just being gay wasn’t enough.

“Are you happy” I was staring in the mirror. I knew that I wanted better friends. I wanted more money. I wanted my writing career to be further along. I wanted better sex that was reliable without the stress of a relationship. I knew I was a work in progress, but the key word was “work.” I’d made a lot of bad decisions. I was just going to try to do better now that I knew better.

Am I the evil twin?

When I was a kid, I would stare in the mirror until I scared the hell out of myself. I was convinced that someone was staring back at me. I would go into a transfixed trance for an hour until the transparent wall became invisible. And then there he was, smiling, the other me. I swear one time he moved. But when I got too afraid, I’d turn away from the mirror and looked back and he was gone. The wall would appear again. I questioned which was the real me? I always felt there something underneath my flesh that needed release. Was I trapped behind that wall--a casually unexamined reflection that secured vanity or that lazy zombie brushing his teeth, washing his face, fixing his hair, or was there something more?

For Curtis Jackson it's 50 cents. For Beyonce it’s Sasha. For Madonna it’s Madge. For Cordozar Broadus it’s Snoop Doggy Dog. It’s the alter-ego. In Latin it’s defined as "the other I." The alter-ego was created in the early 1800's when people first discovered schizophrenia.

Sunday morning before church, I was bored so I decided to check my messages on some of the sex sites I cruised. The first message read, “Tryna fuck u on yo back in that red thong yo.” I looked at my picture in my profile, the first pic, I’m naked, a dogtag engraved “Porno Star” hung from neck, my legs were opened seductively and my red thong caught in my teeth. I laughed. I looked at my second picture and it was an ass shot with milk pouring down my back. The second message read, “You giving up ass!” Sober and in florescent lighting, the messages seemed so direct and disrespectful. It was a Sunday, God’s day, I felt conflicted because the Devil was calling. I worked a full time job. I had college degrees. I gave to charity. I was more than some ass and a quick nutt. I was a little offended. I was also turned on. I quickly remembered when I took those pictures my intentions was advertising for fast lust. I looked at the rest of my pictures and it didn’t even register it was me bent over a kitchen chair with my finger in my ass and a naughty grin. It wasn't me in those pictures, that was Sean.

The most famous case for duality is The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde a book written by the Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson in late 1800s. It was based on the premise that every man has two aspects within him – good and evil – which constantly wage war upon him. Dr. Jekyll acting on the theory that it was possible to polarize and separate those two aspects created a potion that could change a man into an embodiment of his evil side, Mr. Hyde -- thereby also making pure his good side leaving his evil to indulge in all the forbidden pleasures that he would never commit otherwise. In the end, the alter-ego wanted its own life. It couldn’t be controlled. It overdosed on the portion and committed murder. Dr. Jekyll lost his internal war having to deal with consequences of Mr. Hyde because good and evil shared the same body which meant their fates were the same. Dr. Jekyll committed suicide to escape punishment.

Why the separation? We live in a culture of extreme polarization. Our politicians must be clean-cut but yet politics is a very dirty game. Men say they want a "ho" in the bedroom but a wife in the streets. Which is the real truth? Can a mother of three behind close doors also like for her husband to piss in her face and call her a dirty bitch? Does that not make her a good mother? It’s the pressure of extreme purity that causes the good to seek impurity. It’s human nature. We’re shocked when the President was caught cheating with an intern and then lies about it like a typical man. Rev. Ted Haggard after being caught with a male prostitute goes to rehab and suddenly claims he is completely heterosexual. Miss America apparently likes to drunk and a drug abuser like most twenty year olds. Why does she have to apologize? We lie to our kids. Role models are just a fictitious as Santa Clause and the Tooth fairy. All heroes eventually fail us. It’s how we deal with out internal war of perfection vs. destruction that determines our humanity.

When I first came out I didn’t fit in. I didn’t drink. I only had sex with one man. My first big gay event was at a beach. I wore overalls, sandals, a t-shirt and long button up shirt with a baseball cap and sunglasses. I didn’t get any attention. I so desperately wanted to fit in. I wanted to look like the poster gay boys and magazine covers. They always looked like they were having fun with their chiseled bodies. Five years later when I return as Sean I wore a Speedo and sandals.


I grew up the good kid. I hated it. I got teased a lot. I brought the shiny apple to school. I never complained about chores and homework. I aimed to please. Yet, being so damn good became too much pressure. If I cursed, people looked shocked. If they saw me at a party with a cup in my hand they immediately wanted to know what I was drinking. It seemed to be there were always those trying to corrupt me, get me to smoke the marijuana and when I declined, called me a loser. And then there were those invested in my purity, if they saw me smoking a cigarette would shake their heads in disgust and tell me I was a good kid like I owed them money. I didn’t always want to be a damn example. I wanted to be bad. I wanted to have fun. I got over approval in college.

After church and Sunday dinner and a couple of cocktails, I found myself alone again at my computer. I had a message from a guy who claimed that he liked to get high and fuck like alley dogs. He said he had a friend and they wanted to come over and do what boys do. I asked him for a face picture because it’s routine. He sent several pics of his dick and ass and one pic of his face. He was “fuckable” cute. I sent him several pics of my dick and ass and one pic of my face. He said that I was cute. He told me his name was Derrick. I gave him my phone number and address. I told him my name was Sean. I immediately took off my Sunday church clothes and looked for my red thong.

Who is Sean? First, it’s not my real name. He’s my alter-ego. I came up with him when I decided to come out at fifteen years. It was the name on my fake identification. I didn’t want anyone knowing my real name just in case what I did on the weekends got back to my family. I wasn’t out yet. I kept the alias in college. I kept the i.d. until I was 21. I never went back to my real name.

Why the separation? I guess like Dr. Jekyll I wanted to keep my good pure. If I was on my knees at the bathhouse I didn’t want the guy calling me by my birth name. My mother used that name. My lover used that name. My friends used that name. It wasn’t sexy.

Sean became my alter-ego. He did everything I was afraid to do. He drank. He smoked. He cursed. He got into bar fights. He had a very kinky side. He dressed up in leather. He went to sex parties. Like Dr. Jekyll it took chemistry to get to my Mr. Hyde. I couldn’t be Sean, sober. After many years of abuse, I found that I didn’t need the potion to become Sean. I would go to bed and still wake up Sean. After many years of abuse of my alter-ego, he wasn’t so easy to turn on and turn off. He started to mentally materialize. I couldn’t separate the duality. I started to feel as if I was losing my birth identity. Sean started having his own mind. He didn’t want to be controlled. I started having two distinctive personalities. It scared me because Sean only knew destruction and we shared the same body. I paid for all his bad decisions and consequences. When I tried to be Sean sober it didn’t work. I couldn’t do the things he did. I wasn’t so free.

I decided to get sober. I was going to give up Sean and not drink the potion. It wasn’t so easy. I was addicted. It turned out that I didn’t like my real self, that’s why I created Sean. I needed him.

The two guys arrived at my apartment that Sunday night. We got high and had very kinky sex. Afterwards, I realized it was almost two in the morning and I had to be a work at eight. Sean didn’t want to go to sleep. He wanted more sex. He wanted more liquor. We argued in my head. Sean knew if he continued drinking he’d drown me out. I decide to pour the last bottle of rum out. Sean screamed in my head. He slapped me. I slapped him back. I found myself in the mirror slapping myself. I won that battle.

I had to get control of Sean. He was taking over my life. My alter-ego was just a child. It wanted what it wanted, no matter the consequences. I couldn’t destroy him as easily as I created him. I had made him real. Others knew him. They thought they knew me but that was Sean. We just shared the same body. He was like my evil twin.

I also didn’t want my fate to end up the same as Dr. Jekyll committing suicide. I’d thought about it. I couldn’t just seem to control the monster I created. I knew he was going to land me in jail, murdered or even worse, accidentally murdering someone.

It’s said everyman’s internal war is his salvation or damnation. I created Sean out of the hatred of myself. I needed a way to escape. I fantasized him. I gave him so much power. I gave him my life. I don’t want to die Sean. I wanted to die my birth name.

It sounded crazy I knew, but I was going to have to find a way to outlive Sean. He was also plotting against me.