Day -9

I'm counting back now. I'm no longer calling it "writer in exile" but it's more like "soul in exile"

i found a really great psychtrist this week. I think he's going to work out. i don't believe in taking prescription medicince. i tried that. it made me feel weak and tired all the time and when i stop taking it made me feel suicuidal. i want behavorial therapy. i need to talk it out. i need to write it out. that makes me feel stronger.

it's a good day because i'm finally understand and facing me without the smoke and mirrors. Some people think me writing this candid blogs is about me putting my business out there. So not true. I'm not giving specifics, i'm revealing insecurities. I'm hoping in a way not to only save myself one day but use these revelations to help others. I get so tired of reading somethign where a person killed themselves because they didn't reach out. It's hard to reach out when you get older because it's so much more you have to hide. Nobody wants to be weak. Nobody wants to be disappointed. It's like after 23 we all pretend that we're so busy and important. Yet too many of us are suffering in the darkness.

life is hard. it's so fucking hard. it's like you keep thinking you get to a point where it's figured out but you realize the floor keeps slipping away. i don't know shit. i'm a student everyday.

so what is it that i want to say on day 9. hmmmmmm. i want to forgive. i want to get healthy. i want more to be stable than successful. i don't care about being such a great writer. i don't care about being rich. I don't care about having the perfect relatinoshiop or life. if i can just wake up and like me, that's good enough.

i'm getting there. i am so getting there.

Day 8

I put together the pieces this morning. i tried to figure out why the train derailed, what happened to make day 3 and 4 be so tragic until i went back to day 1. it was the money. it was when i got the money and of course i became concern. i could now afford the demons.

now i reazlie it's not the money or me working, it's the convenience. those demons are real. the only problem is trying to figure am i the demon or am i the victom of the demon. i tried to figure that question out my entire life. did i become what it made me or am i still being harassed by the past. which begs the fucking question, who the fuck am i?

i like day 8, finally i'm asking the right question without outside interference, that's what has frustrated me the most. i get tired or people and thier opinions on my life, telling me to get over it, that i like being the victim, tell me all kind of crap i don't care for. i need to figure this out. nobody can help. they never could.

Writer in Exile, day 7

i actually thought of suicide this morning. i think it's the pills i'm on. i'm having this urge to take a butcher knife and carve in my chest, "i hate me" i hope that though passes.

why am i so damn depressed. i'm on the medication. is it the medication that's making me crazy. or is it the drinking, smoking and all the other shit i've been doing. i'm panicking. i'm need to stop. i just ruined another job pontential. i didn't even seen that the person called because i was high the last day and a half.

i need to stop. i was reading up on Amy Winehouse today. i actaully felt sorry for her and then i thought of myself. i feel sorry for me. i feel sorry that i have such low self worth. that i think so low of myself. that i think i'm weak. that i feel so damn alone all the god damn time.

but i'm not alone. i have friends. they care about me, i should stop pushing them away. i have fans. today, i have decided to end this rants with something i like about me.

today i like my hands and feet. i think i have really pretty hands and feet. i'm saving myself for my hands and feet. my hands are typing these words so that the universe hears me. my feet allowing my body to stand and run when i need to. i feel better. i feel better.

Writer in exile, day 6

This is what I didn’t want to happen. This anger, I din’t want it. I tried to bury it at 18 but it’s back. They are not going to like me angry. I don’t give a fuck anymore, maybe this is the change I need. Maybe this what this loneliness is really about. I’m so tired of disrespect. I’m so fucking tired. It’s done. I’m no longer nice.

Writer in Exile, day 5

i woke up this morning and realized i'm liking this self-imposed exile. I have reduced my communication to fifty percent. I guess by next week it will be a hundred percent.

i'm realizing why i'm in exile, i think it's for the transition. i need time for me to be alone.

funny, i also realized this morning that it will take twelve thousand dollars to change my life's direction in regard to where i live and getting out of debt. but will the money really change my life or have i learned why i made the mistakes in the first place.

i was reading up on happiness the other day, there's something called "destination addiction" which is how people basically feel as if their chasing happiness or it's a destination. As if they get the promotion they will be happy or in my case i finally got my book deal i would be happy, but if i stoped all the distractiosn and noise i would realize i'm already happy.

hmmm, i wouldn't say i'm happy, i'm concerned, i'm distracted, shit i'm going through a break up. i'm trying to get toxic people out of my life and stop unproductive behavior.

i look at my energy, i used to go out to the clubs four times a week, which meant five days out of the week i was getting fucked up or recovery. That's more than seventy percent of my energy that's wasteful. it was fun but wasteful.

i'm tired of complaining and i really wouldn't be that concerned if life hadn't taken the "thirty year old" twist in the road. It's like all my friends have changed. We are no longer college kids and it's not just keeping up with the jones but disrepect. i'm feeling so much disrepect like everybody is treating me like the kid or something. I called my friend Sha the other day about some emergency i was having, and she blew me off, thought i was overreacting or drunk or high.

that's so fucked up. it was a monday morning so why would she just assume something like that, and it's not just her, it's like everybody and they think i don't see it.

these days everybody is busy and they go on and on how fucking busy and important thier lives are, so i've decided to become busy and important too. i'm unavaliable. adult friendships are so weird and i thought high school was over.

i'm learning as an adult male i can't be vulnerable anymore, it's all about reputation and respect. it sucks but it's true. you can't no longer just kid around, funny i was at a dinner party and everybody seemed so concerned with how others were perceiving them. when i ordered a cocktail, first there was a hush, like nobody wanted drink around each other or show thier true colors.

life is so changing.

Writer in Exile, day 4

this weekend taught me that i'm not as stupid as i think i am. i mean i have money but i'm suddenly thinking about the bigger picture. normally, i would've got me some hotel, bought like a hundred dollars of weed and a half of Tina, a liter of rum, and fucked until monday morning then drag myself home against the burning sun.

but i didn't do that. i put that money aside, paid off some credit cards, and started plotting my future. i want to be happy, that' s what i beginning to realize. i want the house, the yard, cool as dinner parties, i want that shit.

and i''m not going to feel guilty. funny a drug friend called me this weekend, actually he harassed me this weekend, and i almost gave in to it. but i started think, why did i attract that person in my life. why is that i have so many around me who don't want a life for me. we just use and we use and be used. i'm so tired of that. i'm so tired of those people who don't think i want a life, or want the best for me. i see it now. i can't pretend that i dont' see it. steven told me getting healthy isn't a easy thing. it's hard. it's hard. some days, i just want to go back to the abuse, i know the abuse, but i'm tired of hurting. this weekend, it was beautiful. i feel proud of myself. i said no.

Writer is exile, day 3

I’m beginning to realize I can’t keep people here, in my hell. They want out. I can’t bully their existence, it’s so funny, how I help but yet how I make it all about me. I’m beginning to realize, I never loved anybody, I just wanted it, I just wanted the fantasy, and I clawed and cursed, and pissed off and went to jail and tried to murder because I want those to stick to the script I have in my head. But this is life. I can’t control other souls. And no matter how I manipulate, I can’t control the wind.

Thomas wants to leave. I should let him leave. Charles wanted to leave. I punished him. It’s like I grew up to be the abandoned child with issues. Let them go. I need to let them go. They were weak to begin with. I’m going to let him go.

writer in exile, day 2

i think about all the ideas i have in my head. When do they become real. I'm beginning to realize dream and reality are two different hells. the dream nobody will every know. Teh reality everbody gets to have their fucking opinion. what is that i want. I asked myself yesterday, seriously, do i want to be happy.

and so people would think that's an easy question. i never wanted to be happy. I never wanted to be happy. i wanted to suffer like Jesus, i thought it would make me a matyr. but as i get older it only makes me more alone. it makes others stop speaking to me. i get so tired of it. after twenty five, we hide our intentions.

and then i think of jesus, how lonely it was at the ending. why is it they appreciate you after the fact. what if jesus never died on the cross. what if they believed to begin with. why do we have to go through such extremes. and maybe that's why i never believed in relegion. such fucking extremes. why can't we believe we're already happy. why do we need the ultimatums.

writer in exile, day 2, and nothing much has changed. i talked to that albino yesterday. i think it's funny how he wants everybody to pay attention to him, so sneaky but he pay attention to no one and he thinks no one notices. maybe he doesn't have the time. maybe he is one of those people who are so busy, and they always telling you how busy there are like it means shit. i laugh because i figure out the riddle the first day, and now i'm just letting him make it true.

he wonders why i call him the albino, he aint got no shadow

but anyways, back to me

The End: the last of the Shirtless Writer

Five things I learned while preparing for a marathon.

1. Can’t do tequila shots before the run. I thought it would make the run more entertaining but it only made me spew exorcist vomit.


2. Can’t smoke weed before the run. It seems like a no brainer but I had to do something to get me motivated.


3. Can’t have sex. It just makes you lazy. I know every time I get off, I just want to go to sleep or to Taco Bell not run twenty six miles.


4. Can’t cheat.


5. Can’t quit.
   

When I was twenty-five years old getting drunk with a couple of friends at a bar we all decided that we were going to run a marathon. When I woke up the next day the idea seemed fucking ridiculous and diarrhea silly. The most running I had done in my life was probably as a fat kid chasing an ice cream truck.

The next day, hung-over, of course my friends backed out before we even started to train. I decided to keep my word. I wanted the challenge. I just wanted to do something healthy. When I told my friends I was keeping my promise, they laughed. They considered me too lazy. They joked that I was always the first to the liquor cabinet and the last to leave a bathhouse. I knew I wasn’t the most discipline person in the world. I liked bad decisions. I liked dancing on table tops until seven in the morning. I decided to run the marathon because I figured I needed the discipline. I had something to prove to myself. I wanted the bragging rights.

I also figured if Oprah fat ass could do it, I knew I could do it. I started slow, a mile four times a week. In the beginning, I felt Forrest Gump stupid. Run, Forrest, Run. I was actually waiting for me to quit. It seemed so unnecessary to get up at dawn and run five miles. In the beginning I was angry. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care if my friends laughed at me or were placing bets to see how long it would take for me to give up. I hated that others thought I was so weak and basically a crack head. I knew I had nothing to prove. In the beginning I felt like the white rat in the maze trying to avoid the cliche of cheese. I knew that was the experiment. After three months, I learned I was going to have to do it sober. That really pissed me off. I couldn’t do the ten miles after a night partying. I needed all of my energy. After three months I was running thirteen-16 miles. My body no longer accepted toxics. But something beautiful happened after five months of training. I got to the twenty mile mark. It was like an outer body experience. I completely separated from my body. I could feel myself running but it was like I was standing still. I could feel myself breathing but it was like water. It was such peace and serenity. I felt gentle calmness. I would even dare to say I felt God. And I never had been so healthy in my life. My eyes went from that yellowish alcoholic glare to brilliant white like a Colgate commercial. My brain didn’t feel like something holding my body down during a hung-over but energetic and suddenly I was good at jeopardy.

In 2001, I ran the San Antonio marathon. It was the proudest day of my life. The next week I was back at the bar. Funny, because i had gone missing for half a year, everybody thought I had gone to jail or was in the hospital. That’s gay life, can’t get old, sick or sober without conspiracy theories.

The only part I hated about the marathon was the ending. It seemed so anticlimactic after twenty six miles. I wanted to keep running until my body gave up. I wanted the ending to be brilliant but I just crossed a line with forty other people, given my time and another bottle of water. I guess that’s the same with every sitcom I ever loved. I hated the ending of Seinfeld, Sex and the City and Sopranos. I guess because I didn’t want it to end. Most people don’t’ get endings. We just disappear.

And then it’s that nagging question, what was it all for? It’s usually that feeling I get after a drunken one night stand. Was I lonely? Was I bored? Am I a slut with no conscious? Probably the latter. What was it all for? I once stood in line for a day and half for Star Wars movie tickets. The movie sucked. I once masturbated thirteen times in a twenty four hour period when I was twenty one years old. I had to go to the emergency room and get a tube stuck down my dick so that I could pee. Yet, that’s not my most embarrassing moment. I once entered a hot dog contest and won second place, dipping hot dogs in water and forcing the pig slop down my throat without gagging. I threw up so violently afterwards. Till this day I can’t look at a hot dog without getting sick. Shit, why did I go to college? I had the nagging question that it has to make sense or mean something like Christmas and Valentines Day. Do Hallmark sell cards like, "Why the fuck did i do that?"

Some think running twenty six miles like a seven foot black drag queen in red pumps without getting chased by the KKK is unnecessary. But why do we do anything. In college I could blame peer pressure like doing 13 tequila shots in a row. I wanted to be cool. As a grown man, I don’t have to do shit I don’t’ want to, sober. So what’s the difference between romantic and crazy? My grandfather would say crazy is when you get caught with your pants down and the other person laughs at you-- but if that person pulls his or her pants down too, it’s romantic, but if you both get arrested its pathetic.

Yet, I know romantic often turns into crazy or creepy. I knew this guy in high school who set an entire street on fire to spell out “I love you Tamika Shanice Walker.” It was romantic until the fire spread and burned down like three houses. Tamika immediately broke up with him and got a restraining order. She said he was crazy. And let’s not forget Lisa Nowak who cemented her status as the only astronaut we’ll remember because she fell in love with another astronaut, then drove 900 miles to confront/kidnap her love’s girlfriend wearing a diaper. 900 hundred miles is like twelve hours in a car, at one point did she ever tell herself that she might’ve gone insane.

But back to my point. This is the worse part of a writer’s life, the ending. It’s the last chapter in the book. I want to commit suicide at this part. It means “what the fuck was it all for?” Why did I spend the last two years of my life writing these damn comics? Am I crazy? Did I need attention? Was I lonely? Am I going to get paid? Am I going to win an award? Why did I quit my job? Why did I try to make it all make sense? Is anybody going to care? Has anybody seen my damn dog, he ran away like a month ago when I stop feeding him? So many questions and not enough answers. Why do we do anything?

This is the worse part of my writer’s life. This is when I feel like a loser. I’m still nobody. I can’t brag. Nobody cares unless you get rich or famous. I owe too many money. I laugh because I know there’s no money in writing. It’s depressing. It’s the reason why probably so many writers become drunks. I need a drink. I laugh because being a writer is like being homeless. It looks romantic and everybody thinks you’re scheming or got cash stash somewhere. I’m afraid of seeing my landlord because how many jokes can I make why the rent is late this month. He doesn’t think I’m funny anymore. Nobody thinks I’m funny anymore.


Damn, am I somebody yet? But happiness can be so fleeting. It’s like the marathon; you get to the end and want to keep running. You want to keep trying to make life or death make sense. It's only worth it when i pull down my pants and show them my dick, they don't laugh. I guess that's what i've been doing these past two years, i became a flasher. It's worth it when they give me the dollar and the next they say i made them laugh. I suddenly don't feel so pathetic anymore. It inspires me to keep looking for the gentle calmness. Maybe it’s god. It’s over. This is the last comic. I got to go back to reality now. I got to get a new dog. I got to get a real job. Thank you for being so kind to me these last two years. You made my life romantic. The end.

Writer in exile, day 1

Sometimes I hate having money because too many unproductive options began taunting my demons. It’s better when I’m broke because I sorta forced to remain productive, make my life make some sense. I sometimes like to think of myself as weak and then I get nervous and start calling friends hoping they would be some sorta of distraction so I wouldn’t do what I already know that I’m going to do and that is buy drugs, get drunk and have sex all day. Why do I feel so weak? I don’t have to do those things. I can keep working on my novel. Actually this post has made me feel better. I went into exile because I wanted to focus on my bigger picture. I need to learn sacrifice and restriction. It doesn’t always have to be so extreme.

I think when I wake up in the morning I have to remind myself that I’m not starving. I often forget so when I get any joy I usually overdose. I need to think of the bigger picture. I don’t have to call my friends. I don’t have to be a baby. I’m a thirty year old man who needs to get a job. I am not going to spend my entire day getting drunk, high and looking for sex. That’s so stupid.

Whatever crossed my mind

Five o’clock in the morning and sober, I started surfing the net in between going back and forth on a4a and manhunt. I wanted to see if there was a list out there of black gay writers. I remember I put one together about four years ago that was when I was with my ex, the bastard’s name will not be mentioned. I put together such an extensive list of the published and unpublished, I called it the library. I’m so pissed that I deleted all my files off his computer and website. I can get really angry sometimes. I need to work on that. I guess I can put the list back together which will take so much fucking time that if I’m not drinking seems ridiculous because I mean who cares. I care. I fucking care. And I like to think that there is some black punk out there who wants to know his history. I always forget the lesbians. I really need to read more lesbians books. I mean women are great writers and story telling by nature. I wonder why men get more credit than women writers. HMMMMM.

Anyways, I woke up this morning thinking about what it meant to be a black gay writer. What it meant to be a writer of color and gay. I stand on the heels of people like Countee Cullen, Hughes, Baldwin, Hempphill. Lourde, so I should take my writing more serious. I think what it means to be a black gay writer is for me to tell my story. The story I know and connect it to the world. It’s for me to love my life and what a fucking life it has been. To be a writer is so many things, first I’m human, then I’m black, then I’m a male and then I’m gay. Lastly, I’m also fucking broke and curse a lot. But the stories I tell are just now beginning to make sense to me. I’m part of it. That feels to be part of something. I mean I ain’t getting no fucking check, but at least I’m part of it. I want to be part of it. I need to be part of it. I should put that list together and put my names in BOLD to remember my family.

part one: The End

I don't expect my love affairs to last for longNever fool myself that my dreams will come trueBeing used to trouble I anticipate itBut all the same I hate it, wouldn't you?
So what happens now?Another suitcase in another hallSo what happens now?Take your picture off another wallWhere am I going to?You'll get by, you always have beforeWhere am I going to?Time and time again I've said that I don't careThat I'm immune to gloom, that I'm hard through and throughBut every time it matters all my words desert meSo anyone can hurt me, and they doCall in three months time and I'll be fine, I knowWell maybe not that fine, but I'll survive anyhowI won't recall the names and places of each sad occasionBut that's no consolation here and now.Don't ask anymore.

No espero que mis romances durar para de largoNunca engañarte que vendrán mis sueños verdadSiendo utilizado para preocupar me lo anticipo¿Pero todos los iguales lo odio, no?¿Qué ahora sucede tan?Otra maleta en otro pasillo¿Qué ahora sucede tan?Tomar tu cuadro de otra pared¿A dónde estoy el ir?Pasarás, tú tienes siempre antes¿A dónde estoy el ir?He dicho repetidamente que no cuidoQue soy inmune al abatimiento, de que yo son duro por y por pero importa cada vez todas mis palabras me abandonaTan cualquier persona puede lastimarme, y hacenLa llamada en tres meses mide el tiempo y seré fino, sé bien quizá no eso muy bien, pero sobreviviré de todos modosNo recordaré los nombres y los lugares de cada ocasión triste pero ésa aquí y ahora no es ninguna consolación.No pedir más.

My dick

First impressions do not count: In the case of Growers vs. show-ers.

Disclaimer, I’m going to say dick so many time in this article. Small Dick. Fat dick. Skinny Dick. Dick. It seems my adult gay life has been about my dick. ”Show me your dick” was an actual scientific study. Sexologist John Money wanted to prove that the quintessential characteristic of a man. With government money, he conducted an observational study of the dick in a many major American cities-- hiring sociologists to stand on the corner asking men on the street if they possessed a penis. When I read about the study in a medical journal I thought it was a joke and damn bold. I can barely get my boyfriend of nine years to show me his dick in bed. Maybe I should tell him it’s an observation study.
What does it mean to be a man? I’m still trying to figure it out which is why I’m a grower. What does it mean to be a grower? It means that I’m willing to learn new things. It means I’m constantly trying to figure out my sexuality in despite the fact I don’t give really great first impression. I’m not boring in bed. What does it mean to be a showoff?. It means there are those only about their ego. It means there were decided by a system not their souls. It means they constantly think others are looking for them. I’m a grower, not an entertainer, in every definition of the word. I only exist to those who are willing to nuture me or pity me or give me thirty seven seconds.
In my opinion, to be a man or not to be a man, first impressions do not count. It takes so long to like me. It’s like solving the Rubik cube, if you don’t try to cheat. I can often be ghetto crack head awkward. For the record, I don’t do drugs like Nancy Reagan unless Rick James is buying. I don’t like my first impressions. I have a tendency to sweat and twist like a 50s dance because I always feel inferior which makes my neck itch and right my ear stutter like SOS. I get shy and very nervous around too many people. I don’t know why maybe because I think other people know I’m broke. I aint got no money. I don’t like first impressions because they seem unfair to the socially challenged with bad credit and bad teeth. And it’s so subjective, what someone would consider corky another considers psycho. You never know what people are looking for, so fuck first impressions. I made mistakes with first impressions. I once showed up to an interview high on weed and terribly hung-over, so I decided have another drink during it in a Starbucks cup to balance the equation. What happened was that I got too happy and confrontational like each ever time alcohol is in my system. But was worse I made the very bad decision to wear all black, I sweated like a fat drunk Marlon Brando cat burglar the entire interview. Another fucked up first impression was when I once got on a crowded bus with my dick out. I say that again. I got on a crowed bus with my dick out. It was an accident. I was running for the bus and my zipper came undone and I wasn’t wearing underwear. I went to pay my fare, and the bus driver asked me “Are you going to put that away.” I looked down at my crotch and the cold chill I was feeling suddenly made sense. I looked up at the crowded bus and almost passed out. I was going to have to stand next to those people for the next thirty minutes until I got home. I have so many awkward moments in my life, so fuck first impressions. I ain’t got a big dick. I’m a grower.
But it got me to thinking what really makes a man a man. I’ve shown my dick to so many strangers but never really felt like a man. I guess it first began with gym, having to be naked in front of other guys and feeling smaller in comparisons. And suddenly in high school there was the pressure of sex. Losing my virginity to a girl was supposed to make me a man. I lost my virginity at fourteen years old to Keisha in her bedroom. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t even have an orgasm. I just stuck it in, pounded a couple of times until I got bored. The only exciting part was bragging about it to my male cousins who touched their dicks when I described her body and how it supposedly felt. That turned me on. I lost my virginity to a guy at sixteen years. That didn’t make me feel like a man but more confused. I had to deal with the fact I was gay. I had to deal with that bastard never called me back like I never called Keisha back.

Like my dick, my masculinity or manhood has never been exuberant or much of a show-er or showoff. I don’t know how to fix a car. I can’t watch sports without getting bored. I rather watch Martha Stewart. I don’t drink beer. I don’t gamble. I’m no John Wayne with the deep basing Barry White voice or that ridiculous walk. And I don’t have the biggest dick in the room. Maybe my dick is bigger than a midget but it’s not the typical black dick. My family came over from Britain in the 1900s, need I say more. I must admit I’ve always wondered if I had a bigger dick how my life would be different. In middle school would I won the Spelling Bee? Would I have made the basketball team in high school? Would I have gone to Harvard and became a hustler for the preppy rich kids. My obsession with my dick probably started the day I watched porn. The guys seemed so huge. I couldn’t imagine that was the normal. And I was a black male, I thought getting the big dick sort of made up for the years of oppression and racism and getting pulled over by the cops. And then I wonder is it because I only have an average eight inch dick, did that turn me in to a writer?--instead of getting a real job like a street walker or stripper. My intention since I was fourteen years old has been to distract those from my dick, tell a joke, wear a shiny necklace, don’t make them look directly at it or pull out a ruler, shave my pubic hair to make it look bigger, put a pretty cock ring around it, anything to get it touched before the person changes their mind like getting drunk and sleeping with a ugly person and regretted it.

But I’ve always be a grower never a shower-er. When I was a boy, I never gave much thought to about the man I wanted to grow up to be. I think I was just trying to survive. I often wondered what would happened to me. I worried if I would be okay. Will I be happy? Will I ever find someone to love me? Would I ever feel good enough? Will I ever have a family? In the beginning, I didn’t have any male role models in my life. My father got himself killed when I as five years old. Before that, he was never around. I only had three memories of him and none of them were pleasant.

But back to gym, now it’s no longer High School but Bally’s. I have no fear of walking around naked in the shower. I know I don’t have the biggest dick. It’s just average. It’s a grower. I’m not competing. I’m a grower not a show-er. It’s not like I got extra dick under my bed or in the refrigerator to pull out just in case of an orgy breaks out. But it works, Should that just matter that my dick works. And when I’m fucking I only need thirty seven seconds to get off. The rest of the act is just fluff in my version of foreplay. You get what you get. It ain’t bad. I’m a grower because it’s taken a long time for me to get comfortable with my body. I’m not that masculine. I’m not rich. And when I’m a top, I know the bottom is probably thinking about his last fuck, but then again I only need thirty seven seconds. It’s taken a long time for me to accept that my dick is as good as it gets and that’s beautiful. My dick is beautiful. Let me say it again, my dick is beautiful in its starving eight inches glory. I’ve had showoff dicks. They think you just supposed to service them. And when I think about it, I don’t want a really big dick. Having a smaller dick made me want to explore the rest of my body and I found I had nipples that liked to be twisted, an asshole that liked to be licked, toes that like be sucked, balls that like to be spanked, eyes that like to be blind folded. Not having a big dick made me a freak and it’s the better life. When I was a young boy I wonder what type of man I would grow up to be because I didn’t have many positive role models. I guess my father had a big dick, probably that’s what got him killed I didn’t realize I just had to look to my dick. I have a “relationship” dick. It’s a grower. It grows like planting a tree, be patient. Every day I’m learning how to become a better man. It’s how I’m growing. It’s not how I’m showing off. That’s my dick. And that’s why I don’t believe in first impressions. I only need thirty seven seconds to get off.

Me Making funny Faces

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QMujKFoCNg

My song

go back and correct those wounds
not have mama abandon
not get raped
deal with the pain instead of run
speak its name
stop feeding it soul
save
talk to somebody
stopped trying to kill
self


close them eyes
stop
the belt forcing itself it down
stop
rape
forcing itself down
stop trying to make it normal
love it
love
love words
truth
hold
claim
save
me

my shit