Old Queen

When I first came out into the scene, became gay, starting going to the club or whatever you want to call it, I remember there were gay men I said I never wanted to be like. My friends and I called them old queens. It was the usually older gay man on the floor trying to drop it like its hot or dressing young or thinking they were still competing with the young crowd. They were considered jokes.

I had no idea what I would be like in my 30s or 40s a gay black man. I still had a lot to learn.

My best friend called me who lives in Los Angeles, the vainest city on the planet complaining that he felt like an old queen. He is only thirty two years old. I laughed. I’m a year younger than him, so I wanted to know what that made me. Funny, it just seemed like yesterday that we were twenty something year gay boys in tight outfits giving attitude, drinking techno colored drinks and dancing on the floor. All that has changed. I wouldn’t step foot in a club to save my life lately. I stopped going to the gym a long time ago when I discovered I could just jog in my neighborhood in the summer. I had no need for attention. When I was younger, it was all about my ego. Looking back, I couldn’t understand why I starved myself, bought clothes I couldn’t afford, and still was insecure.
But I was young, and didn’t know there were other choices. I didn’t have to follow the crowd.

Suddenly, I’m offended by the term “old queen.” I dated an older guy when I was like twenty two years old. He would get on my nerves because he was forty something years old trying act like he was nineteen years old. He would wear baggy clothes and try to talk in slang. I felt it was pathetic. He was obsessed with younger guys and I knew I was just another collectable to him. I didn’t mind because it was free dinner dates and cash when I needed it. He was my sugar daddy. But I liked him as a person. He was very intelligent, we were both writers but his need to not act his age was a major issue in our relationship. It was the main reason we don’t speak anymore. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to not enjoy his life or feel youthful. I just wanted someone to look up to I guess. I wanted him to enjoy his age because I knew I would be there one day. I felt he was insulting me by trying to stay young. We only get to do it once. I felt he should’ve been a better role model for his age being black, gay and older. It really angered and I would yell at him about it. I just didn’t understand.

Suddenly, I’m offended by the term “old queen.” Both words are negative. It’s like saying someone is worthless. I would never consider myself an old queen because I’m not worthless.

I asked my friend what it meant to be an old queen. I mean why the label. Why the judgment. I guess that’s the part of getting older you start realizing it’s all an illusion. To be young is an illusion. It’s not happiness.

Yes, life is not what I though it was going to be when I turn thirty years. When we were young, we were going to be fabulous. I guess sex and the city fabulous. Or some television show fabulous. We used to talk about how we were going to vacation in France, Jamaica, and St. Tropez. We were going to go to the fabulous party and were fabulous clothes. But no said how we were going to do it. What type of work would we do to get to that life? I, of course, was the “writer” so my life was meant to be broke. One of my friends was a “singer.” I’ve had friends who were designers, models, actors, but not all of us make it. Maybe that’s how we turn into old queens. Maybe it’s because we don’t give up the illusion.

I think I’ve given it up. I honestly don’t have anything to prove anymore. I think for my friend who worries he’s too old, he’s now worthless is greatly undervaluing him.

no witnesses

In Alcoholic Anonymous, they call this telling on yourself.


After maintaining 90 days of sobriety, I got bored. I was also feeling lonely and missing old friends I hadn’t seen since I stopped going to the bar. I decided to venture out. I really didn’t have a desire to drink I just wanted company. In AA I don’t consider those people my friends. I mean, AA is like checking in with my parole officer. I’m not going to tell her or him everything. I actually had stopped going to AA for awhile because I wasn’t drinking nor did I feel AA really did anything for me.

So I went to the bar. I decided I was going to drink. It wasn’t that I was going to start drinking again on a daily basis. I figured it was just a drink at the bar with some friends. Of course I got drunk. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I didn’t do anything stupid. After I started drinking, I couldn’t imagine why I had stopped in the first place. It was fun. All my old bar friends hugged and kissed on me. They thought I had gotten arrested or something. It was fun. I missed the lifestyle.

The next day waking up with the hangover, I remember what I hated about drinking. I didn’t stop drinking that night until 4 in the morning. I was still an addict. The good news, I didn’t do any drugs. With me it was usually getting drunk, getting bored and then start looking for drugs. The good news, I didn’t miss work. The bad news, the hangover. I hated feeling sick and tired.

Of course, at first I felt really bad for drinking. I felt as if I let myself down. I hated that I was going to have to start all over with my days of sobriety. I felt I was never going to be one of those people who can say I have a year sober or something. 90 days was hard enough.

I have a friend and he’s in recovery. I think he has like a 120 days or something. At first I wasn’t going to tell him about my night of drinking but it slipped. I don’t know why I wanted to keep it a secret. Well I guess because I like my number. I like having over 90 days with no drink and also I didn’t want to discourage his recovery. It wasn’t like I fell off the wagon. I didn’t have another drink again until a week later.

So I am drinking again not alcoholically or anything, just at the bar. I’ve just admitted it to myself. I hadn’t really thought about and I know I need to be careful. I haven’t really told anyone because I didn’t want lectures or bullshit.

I didn’t want anyone saying but you were doing so well or judgment or pity or thinking I failed. I just wanted a drink. I just wanted something familiar. I was bored.

So yesterday I was walking home. I live alone now which means no witnesses. I can do whatever the hell I want. When I lived with my ex I had a witness. He was always counting my drinks or saying something about me being high. He was always finding my drugs. I hated witnesses.

So yesterday I was walking home and decided to stop by the liquor store. I hadn’t been there in like four months. I used to be there like every day, sometimes twice a day. The owner would see me coming and just get my bottle.

I decided to stop by the liquor store because I knew I had no witnesses at home. I could drink in peace. I knew it was dangerous territory. I thought I was just drinking at bars now I was back doing it alone.

Yet, I struggled. I did. I wrestled with not going but I knew I was going to stop. I made myself promises I knew I wasn’t going to keep. I said I would just have a couple of drink while I cleaned the apartment. I said the drinking would be my reward.

I got to the liquor store and the owner didn’t even recognize me. I guess because I had my work clothes on and eyeglasses. I hadn’t been in that liquor store in some long it no longer looked familiar. It actually looked sad. I got my bottle. I went home.

I am such an alcoholic. It’s funny to me that after not drinking for so long that it was so easy to pick back up where I left off. I got a liter of rum. I did clean the apartment. I ironed my clothes for the week. But when I started drinking, each cup got empty too quick. I said only three drinks, but they went so fast. I said only half of bottle but I didn’t feel drunk enough. I wanted to feel drunk. So I drank almost the entire bottle. I didn’t get to bed until 4 that morning and had to be at work at 9.

Again I had failed with alcohol. I always fail with alcohol. It’s not the same with me. Some people get home from work and have a glass of wine. I need four or five bottles. I don’t even taste liquor anymore. I just want to feel it.

The good news, I made it to work. I was an hour late. I knew it was going to be a rough day. I told myself I was never going to do it again. Lord knows how many times I’ve said that.

I think I’m drinking again. The other week I had what they call a drug dream. I dreamt I was doing crystal meth and it felt so real.

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. I just got bored with being sober. I mean I will remain sane. I have no desire to live the life I lived before. But I have started drinking again. I don’t want to stop.

I wonder if this is normal. I think I will call somebody.

Forgiveness

Wow, forgiveness, that’s a hard one for me because I’m known to hold grudges. I take stuff in and never let it go. I still haven’t forgiven people from elementary.

I don’t consider myself a bad person. I know I’m not a bad person. I’ve done some bad things like lie, steal, and cheat. But my heart is good. When I’m wrong, I admit I’m wrong. I don’t try to get away with anything. I try to be as honest as the situation will allow.

When I was an addict, there was no good or bad, just the addiction. I look back and amazed at some of the stuff I did. I lied to everyone. I stole from everyone. I just wanted my high. I just wanted my next cocktail. I felt I deserved. I didn’t even see it as stealing. I saw it as what I was owed. I always figured I give it back. I was just borrowing. But I never gave nothing back.

My most shameful moment was when I took my ex-boyfriend’s wallet. I knew rent was due that week but I didn’t care. I took his wallet and emptied his bank account. I figured he was a fool for giving me his PIN #. I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I remember just feeling suicidal that week. Actually I had meant to go kill myself. I was going to check myself in a hotel and overdose. Of course that didn’t happen. I went to the hotel, I did a lot of drugs and then changed my mind about killing myself yet I still had to go home. I still had to deal with reality.

I call my boyfriend at the time and told him what I did. He hadn’t even noticed that his bank card was gone. He was furious. He started crying and yelling. I was scared to go home. I did some more drugs and decided to just face the music. I got home and he had put my stuff on the sidewalk. He wanted me gone. I begged for his forgives. He slapped me to the floor. We started fighting. It was crazy. My boyfriend and I had never been violent. I didn’t even know he had a violent bone in his body. It was strange. The struggle only last for like a minute and we just lay on the floor. I regretted not killing myself.

We still had to come up with rent, so I had to pawn my camera and other stuff. We had to go get those payday loans with ridiculous interest rates. I just felt so much shame. I knew at that moment I had some type of problem but didn’t know what. That’s the problem with being an addict, I just wish I would’ve figured it out sooner, I was in so much denial because I didn’t want the stigma. I thought being an addict was a bad thing, I knew I wasn’t a crack head, I figured I was functional. That was the problem, I just wish I would’ve said it out loud earlier, freed myself. My disease had a name which meant I could get help. It wasn’t just about discipline.

My ex forgave me, but he changed his bank account. He started hiding his wallet. I never forgave me even when I paid the money back. I felt I had misused his trust. I felt dirty and like a common hustler or thief. I started to feel like a drug addict. I hated myself. I never did it again.

But why did he forgive me? I used to think because he pitied me. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a bad person. Maybe he remembered how I was when we first met. I remember him telling me when we first met he knew I like to drink, but he couldn’t predict it would become such a BIG problem. I couldn’t predict it would’ve become a problem. My ex was good at forgiving me but each time it changed him. It changed us. It eventually ended the relationship.

When I think of forgiveness and betrayal, I think of my best friend. We had once stopped speaking because I felt he betrayed my trust. It was something simple but big enough for me to not speak to him for a year. I wanted to forgive him but I couldn’t until I figured out why he did what he did. I knew that the apology didn’t mean anything; I needed to know what was going on his mind. I needed to know why. Eventually we talked and he told me the truth. He was jealous. I knew he had a lot of insecurities he constantly struggle with, and envy can sometimes get the best of us. I was able to forgive him because I knew his heart and mind. But it did change our relationship. I could no longer put myself in situations with him that I was in jeopardy. We could be friends but the fairytale was over.

I guess I believe that forgiveness is not a clean slate but more introspective. It’s not forgetting the act but truly understanding why it happened. It’s like if someone cheated on me and I forgave that person, it’s because I understood why it happened and that it’s forever changed the relationship. People are just human. We all make mistakes. We all have problems and issues, but it’s when they are revealed that we need forgiveness.

I need forgiveness. I need to forgive myself. I guess my relationship with myself has changed.

And when I think about it, I have learned to forgive myself. I guess when I decided to get sober and stop punishing myself was my way of forgiving the years of abuse. The main reason I stayed an addict for that last year because I wasn’t finished with punishing myself. The more I spiraled down, the more I hated me, the more I felt I couldn’t forgive what a mess my life had become. But one day I just stopped, I decided that I had enough, I wanted to be friends with myself again. I wanted a normal life.

I knew some things had to change, I was weak, an addict, I had to stay away from temptation but mostly I had see the humanity in myself. I think when we stop seeing the humanity in other people makes it hard to forgive. I don’t forget. I can never forget where I’ve been or done.

I feel better. When I think of that neighbor who sneered me, I smile because I know there will be those who are going to hate me until I die. But I don’t hate myself. I’m no longer punishing myself. I wake up every morning now and forgive myself because I know I don’t want to carry that burden. It’s hard when you don’t forgive.

In Recovery?

I had actually given up blogging about my “Recovery.” Mostly because I’m lazy and I figured no one was reading, but when I look back at my old blogs, I think it’s more important that I re-read and remember. Also, I’m here when the addict will come looking like I did when I was desperate and needed answers and to know I’m not alone. You’re not alone.

Hi, I’m Michael Whitley and I am alcoholic, drug users, compulsive liar, bipolar and schizophrenic, and sex addict. When I think about all the things I am, I could add so much more like the childhood abuse and molestation. It’s funny, when I started to “recover” –Well, I actually consider it “In recovery” I didn’t know where to start.

How does one heal a broken heart?

Well I had to start at alarming problem and that was my drug use and alcoholism which landed me in the Psych ward for like a month. I was mixing my antipsychotics, drugs and alcohol and that was not a good thing. I lost my mind. I never felt so out of control. I couldn’t control my maniac swings, I was all over the place. And then I ended with trying to kill myself. But that’s just the synopsis. That’s the car hitting the wall.

The reason why I started writing “In Recovery” because I finally got me some sober time. I got out of Psych Ward. I finally started getting some help. I started taking the meds properly. I started going to AA meetings. I got me a therapist. I got me a job. I was going to live right whatever the hell that meant. That last for about two weeks before shit started falling apart again. Funny, I got sober and my life got so much harder. It was like I woke up and realized I burned down my house and had no where else to live.

Some more time passed, months, I stayed sane, because I stopped calling it sobriety. I started getting a new perspective on my life. I was sober and sane, but what did that really mean. I was in “recovery” but what did that really mean?

I wanted everything back I had given up. It was like that commercial where the teens are burning their trophies and college applications because they smoke pot, like saying how addiction will take everything if you let it. I mean it’s not instant. I know it doesn’t happen to everyone. A lot of “say no to drugs” campaigns are propaganda. I don’t have anything against drugs because I don’t think it’s just drugs that make addicts. It’s so much more complicated.

I wanted everything back I destroyed. After months of sobriety, I had a new perspective. I felt older and wiser. I felt I could use my own mind.

So now, in recovery has become about putting my life together for real. I’m thirty years old and it feels like I’m just graduating kindergarten. It feels like I’ve been flunking the same grade over and over again for the last ten years. I mean in the beginning, it didn’t look that way. I was just having fun. And I was having fun. I had a lot of fun. But it changed. Somehow it changed for me. It was like I didn’t leave the party. My friends left the party but I stayed behind for just one more dance and drink. My friends moved on, kept their jobs, bought houses, and I was still at that party with new people I didn’t know or trusted but I didn’t want to leave the party. And soon the people got worse, and there was no more music or dancing, just drinking and getting high. And soon there were no more people, just me and the drinking and getting high. I became an addict. Just me. Not any of my old friends, I had to go find other addicts to keep company or get drugs.

Now I’m in recovery. It’s not an easy process. Ironically, it wasn’t giving up the drugs and alcohol that was really the hard part or has been the hard part. After I was thirty days sober, I really stopped craving. The hard part was learning to live again. That’s the real recovery.

So here I am, the last three months I was evicted, hospitalized for a month, lost my job, my ex broke up with me but I’ve been sober.

I started to realize I wasn’t going to easily escape my past. And not many really gave a damn I was “in recovery.” I thought sobriety was going to be like a baptism, I go under the water and everything was going to be clean again. That didn’t happen.
The hard part is forgiveness. I haven’t forgiven myself becoming an addict. When I go home to my shitty small apartment and think all that I squandered, and lay my head down to sleep hating that I’m starting again at 30 when I should be so much further, that’s why I need the forgiveness.

Funny, I saw an old neighbor the other days. She was one of the tenants who banded together to have me evicted. She sneered at me and rolled her eyes. I hadn’t seen her in months, but that look she gave me made me so damn angry. I wanted to spit in her face. I felt she was looking down on me and then I turn that anger on myself. I hated myself in that moment. I felt dirty. I wanted to drink. I wanted to forget. And then I decided to just forgive myself. To smile at the old neighbor and wish her a good day. I struggled with those feelings for days, going back and forth. I still don’t think I've forgiven myself.

My dick is one inch long

My therapist is a prostitute. I pay her two hundred dollars. I strip naked and we talk about my dick. I make her look at it. My dick is so short I don’t even feel it in my hand when I jack off. It’s so short my orgasm feel like popping a pimple. I make the prostitute yell at my dick to grow. I just think it needs discipline. Growing up I was told to never touch it or feed it, so I think it stunted its growth. My dick can be very insecure. It hated gym in middle school. My dick has self esteem problems.

The last Wednesday of every month the Omega Bar has its strip contest worth $50. Intentionally it begins right after the shirtless men drink free from 10-11 p.m. I’d seen it hundreds of times. It’s not like I needed the money. Actually the drag queen begged me to participate. Well, she didn’t beg, just mentioned it in passing. Well she didn’t just mention it to me as she announced it on the microphone but I knew she was talking directing to me. I tried to play coy and shy, but after seeing the hundreds of inebriated rejects who obviously needed attention fail miserably. I convinced myself I could win. I could do a better job. I told myself I had nothing to lose. I told myself it would be great self-esteem for my dick.

In the contest, the person had to strip to their underwear in front a dick hungry crowd. It was a gay bar. They were all old and fat and hadn’t’ been laid since the Civil War. I knew they would stare. I knew they would outline the print, measure the inches by how far their tongues stuck out. I wasn’t trying to embarrass myself. I was making a statement. I was refusing any longer to feel ashamed. I was taking those pills they advertise a four in the morning and send to my email. It was as if everybody knew my dick was on one inch long.

Immediately, there was regret after I gave the DJ my name and picked out a song to take my clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk enough. The shirtless men drink free hour went by too quickly and I needed more liquid courage. I sprinted to the bar. I figured vodka always made me do stupid things, so I ordered vodka and cranberry and then another one, and then another and another one. My heart began to pound. I told myself I should have done those fifty sit-ups. I looked around the bar, at the strangers who would judge me, and they looked ravenous. On my fourth vodka and cranberry in less than 15 minutes, I heard my name. The drag queen had yelled my name like Grandma calling me in from the streets to eat dinner and get ready for bed. I wanted to back out, run the opposite direction. She called my name again. I lowered my head. And just when I decided to avoid a very awkward situation, the drag queen noticed me, pointed the light towards me, and commanded me to come to the stage. I felt trapped. I screamed in my head, “What the fuck did I agree to?”On stage with the lights shining directly in my face, on my body, I froze. I looked out in the crowd for a friendly face, but nothing but disappointing one-night stands, disses and misses, no friends. Nobody cheered me. I felt utterly alone and naked and I hadn’t started stripping. They started the song I handpicked. I closed my eyes. I tried to find a beat. I tugged at my shirt. I tried to remember scenes in movies and television, something I knew I could mimic, grab, hold on for dear life. I remembered “Footloose” where Kevin Bacon taught that idiot how to dance. I quickly realized that I was the idiot and was making a fool of myself. I knew I needed another movie, and thought about “Dirty Dancing” but I couldn’t figure if I wanted to play Patrick Swazee or Jennifer Grey. Next, I remembered Demi Moore in "Striptease" but I wasn’t so ambitious. Lastly, I remembered the tacky “Showgirls” with that “Save by the Bell” hooker Elizabeth Berkeley and knew I found my muse. I just needed to be as tacky and offensive as possible. So I took it off and folded it neatly like I worked at the Gap. I placed my clothes neatly on the side stage like undressing for a one-night stand, making sure to remember everything so I wouldn’t forget nothing when I woke and suddenly knew it was a bad decision. I got to my underwear. I could feel my dick retreat like the coward it was. I slapped my balls, felt the pain shot through my body like burning down the house to make sure my dick was could out to play. I teased the crowd. I figure I show them some ass, make them think of pussy, but I knew they all just wanted dick.

I shook my ass to Tina Turner “Rolling on the River.” Did I mention it was a gay bar? On stage, drowning in the bright light with no lifesaver was beginning to feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I felt my dick smash against my underwear like I just hit the brakes at a 100 mph and it came flying forward. The crowd just looked at me like they were all on painkillers and I was a freak in a cage at an insane asylum throwing himself against the walls. I kept dancing. I was spinning like Tina Turner, throwing my hands out in the air, playing with my nipples, hopping to get some damn attention. I tried to smile, so that the starving crowd figured me friendly and could be petted, tipped. I could tell they were bored and embarrassed for me. I could tell them the drag queen who shook her head thought she was going to have to take off her Judy Garland over the rainbow heels and put me out of my misery. I shook my ass, trying to get at least a smile or sign of life. I felt as panicked as a paramedic pumping on the chest of a geriatric yelling at him to live. LIVE DAMNIT!!

I played with the tip of my underwear. I stuck a finger in my ass. I straightened my socks. I crawled around on the floor like in that movie “Flashdance.” I did anything to live in that bright ass light. I’d watched so many drunks before on Wednesday night die miserly in that bright light and I thought they were just retarded. I thought it would be so easy to take off my clothes in front of strangers; after all, I’d done it so many times before. Two minutes into the song, I just wanted the nightmare to end. When I was just about to quit, storm off stage, I got my first fan. He shoved a dollar down my underwear, maybe out of pity. I could feel my eyes fill with tears. My dick was happy somebody liked him. The winter finally started to thaw but I felt tired going into the second minute of the song, clinging to my breath. I shook my ass. I bent over. I tugged at my underwear. I winked. I licked my nipples. I did a split. I begged in my eyes for the indifferent crowd to love me. To please love me! And all I got was four damn dollars.

The hardest four dollars I ever worked for in my life. Then it was over. The drag queen told the DJ to stop the music. She had had enough. She instructed me to pick up my clothes and exit the stage. I felt used. I felt like I just had sex with an entire group of men and didn’t get off. But yet as I put on my clothes in a dark corner, like I’ve done so many times in my life, I had no regrets. My hands shook as I button up my shirt because gallons of adrenaline were pumping through my veins. I felt exhilarating. Most importantly, I felt I was in a good place in my life. Years ago, I could have never done such a thing because I hadn’t accepted my dick. Now everybody had seen it. They saw the freak. It was only one inch long. It was no longer a secret. I felt free.
A hour later and many more drinks, I was back on stage and I knew I was going to lose, and not to the hot Latino with the “Jennifer Lopez” wide ass in his grandma underwear, but to Edgar, the lovable and lesser intelligent black Forest Gump with one arm. His song of choice, “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. The crowd cheered as the drunk Edgar started unbuttoning his jeans with his one arm, then in a very bold move he revealed that he wasn’t wearing underwear, in which of course the crowd immediately jeered, yelling for Edgar to keep his clothes on rather than take them off. He had already revealed too much, the head of what seem like a very large penis. It had the biggest dick I’d ever seen.

His dick made my dick look like one of his pubic hairs. Edgar, in his toothless grin, crawled around on the floor. They just threw dollars at him. He was like the big headed slow girl with big tits. He was Anna Nicole Smith. I felt so damn flat chest.

They quickly forgot about me and my naughty performance to Tina Turner’s “Rolling on the River.” They had forgotten how I shook my ass and did that Tina Turner dip and spin. I was going to lose.

When I awoke the next morning with the hangover, then memory, I just screamed in embarrassment. I felt something move in my bed, that’s when I turned to my left and it was Edgar. What the fuck! He was in my bed with that toothless grin; both of us naked, his big dick gently cuddle my small dick like it just had a baby. I knew I was going to have a lot to talk about to my prostitute therapist.

The first time I…

The first time I…

Blood, shit and a lot of cum is what I remember about my first time. I was sixteen, a couple of weeks from turning seventeen, and he was twenty-three, in the army and an asshole. Well, I didn’t learn he was an asshole until after we fucked. Anyway, what happened was, I was trying to be grown. It was the beginning of my senior year in high school, and I had already been out for about a year, but I wasn’t doing anything serious. I went to just a couple of parties, had a first kiss, been to the club, so it wasn’t like I was totally naïve but still new.

The night I met him, I was out with my best friend who had just recently graduated from High school that past May, joined the army and was now finished with basic training and about to be shipped to Korea for two years. My best friend at the time was fucking gorgeous, lean and pretty, so you can imagine hanging out with him that night I was getting no attention. I didn’t like that at all. I was still young, hadn’t really fully grown into my looks, so in a way I was use to being his shadow, the one everyone referred to as his “ride”, that is until Vincent (his real name) came into the picture and swept me off to the bar. I was already on my second rum and coke, watching my best friend giggle and caress against every cute guy in the club, but Vincent changed everything. When he whispered in my ear if he could buy me a drink, I automatically thought he was just trying to use me to get to my beautiful best fiend, but me being me, an opportunist, I wasn’t going to turn down a free rum and coke. We walked over to the bar, I confidently ordered my third rum and coke at age sixteen like I’ve been doing it my entire life and he paid for it. When I was about to walk away with it, he grabbed my hand and pulled me back close to him. I was now looking into his eyes and a little confuse. Of course me being the bitch I can sometimes be, and totally insecure, I violently yanked myself away from him, and told him I wasn’t my fucking best friends’ messaging service, so if he had something to say to him, he needed to do it himself, and thanked him for the drink.

When I tried to walk away the second time with my free drink, he grabbed me again and pulled me closer to him, this time he was smiling. I wasn’t. I looked him up and down, and he was cute, especially when he smiled, and he was taller than me, which I liked, and young, but not younger than me. I asked him what he wanted, and he deviously said “you.” Well that changed everything. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the fact that someone was paying attention to me, but suddenly I felt like dancing. I pulled him to the dance floor, and my stomach was feeling hot, and my head kind of light, but the music moved my soul. We danced so close, hip grinding close, and when I could feel him rise, I would pull away because it made me rise, but he kept pulling me back, like a wave in an endless ocean, overflowing and out control and I just knew I was going to drown. We were dancing, dicks hard and sweating, and then he took off his shirt and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I guess it was a romantic gesture or a ploy to hook me, because there we were, him bare-chested, the streaming lights hitting every curve and muscle in his six pack chiseled stomach and I found myself falling, to my knees, well that would happen a couple of hours later. When we were talking, I think I told him I was nineteen years old and a student at the University, and I know he told me he was in the army and just turn twenty-three, so he had no idea when he was licking my belly button later, that he was committing a felony.

I don’t remember how it happened, I think he told me I should come back to his apartment, to talk, and it wasn’t like it was a school night, or that I had a curfew, because I didn’t. I was living with my older sister, after just recently moved out of my grandmother’s house because the bitch was ruining my social life. I don’t remember being nervous, but excited to talk. I thought in a way I had found my soul mate, someone who saw me in spite of my best friend’s beauty, and wanted me, not him, but me!! Vincent was so charming and classy. He kept telling me that I was beautiful, and was laughing at all my jokes. We talked about so many things that I can’t remember, but it all came to a silence when he asked me “ Are you a top or bottom?” I didn’t have an answer and told him I didn’t know. He kissed me. The heat from his lips numbed my body, and I found myself crushed underneath him, kissing him back, wanting him as much as he wanted me, out of control, and knowing from the raging fire brewing at the bottom of my stomach that I wasn’t going to refuse anything he asked of me.

Slippery naked and spread out on his bed, I knew I was way over my head but I couldn’t stop. His hard chiseled naked body was pressed roughly against mine, and I could feel the weight of his hard dick on my back, which poetically blended his sticky tongue in my ear, biting and caressing and abusing my weak spot, and then moving to my neck, like a snake, onto my back and down it’s empty river, stopping at the small of my back and biting gently. I was laying so still, not wanting to disturb the groove, wondering what he was going to next, and that is when he moved into a part of my body that was so intimate, that no one before him had ever visited, especially a man, and Vincent was man, musk, facial hair and everything. What he did next, I didn’t even know men did that to other men.. He placed his warm hands on my ass and spread the cheeks apart, leaving the middle vulnerable and sensitive to the stale breeze in the air, before he buried his face down there and stuck his tongue in. I was so sensitive and could feel everything, his lips, his tongue, his smile, and the hotness of his breathe, the heaviness of my breath, him spreading me wider, and biting gently with his teeth, me purring and try to fight it, try not give in, try to not show pleasure, try not to feel like a bitch, his bitch, but I was losing and my moans were the evidence. He turned me over and started attacking my nipples. My right nipple has always been my favorite but he was on my left, making me want him more, so I moved his head to my right nipple and he smiled because I was now participating. I was touching him back. I pulled myself off the bed and started kissing his neck, rubbing my hands across his stomach, very innocent until he took control back and stuck his dick in my mouth. At first I refused, because he was so big; I mean really big, porno star big. It was thick, long and black, and in my mouth, it filled me up, making my jaws weak. I tried for a couple of minutes but it was too much, so I pulled him out of my mouth, his monster, and it feel heavily still erect and very wet with my spit. He turned me back over on my stomach, this time kissing even harder, touching deeper, and we were moving so fast, like a hurricane, and I found myself spinning. I remember thinking to myself that he was never going to get that monster inside of me, so I must’ve thought about him fucking me, but I wasn’t ready. He was so big, at the least 11 inches and thick. It was going to hurt. I remember thinking when he was down there the second time, him and his tongue penetrating into my black hole, that I knew he was going to try and I was gong to let him, but I had faith it was never going to happened. What was supposed to happen, was that he would give up after a couple tries, tell me that I was too tight and that be the end of it. I wasn’t worried. He pulled out a brown bottle with fluid in it and asked me to sniff it. I saw him do it, so I did it and didn’t ask any questions. My head suddenly went very light, and I felt really hot, like I wanted him inside of me, and before I knew it , and much to my chagrin, this surge of unbelievable pain went soaring through my body and I cried out like a wounded animal, because he was inside of me. He told me to relax, to stop screaming but it was hurting so fucking much and he kept pounding and I tried to be silent, to let it just happened, so I bite my bottom lip and took it like a man. I felt him when he shot. I mean, I really felt him and haven’t felt a man do it the same way since. I felt the pressure, it building up, and then him exploding inside of me like a fireman’s hose. I felt it, all him oozing out, and it was like thunder and then rain, flooding my insides. Yes, I was in pain, but for those seconds, I felt euphoric, a certain sense satisfaction, that my body was capable of creating such a storm and it seemed worth it, that is until he pulled out and I was empty again, except for his waste.

When it was over, I remember laying there thinking so many things. I was happy it was over, I was also happy that I pleased him. I kept thinking that I was officially gay and not a virgin in any sense of the word anymore. I also remember how quickly the room went cold. He was no longer smiling, but stiff and withdrawn as if he just emptied his soul in me. He kept going on about how I couldn’t spend the night and how he had to get up early in the morning and how he doesn’t do relationships. Just moments before he was saying that he was going to worship me, that he was going to call me just to tell me how sexy I was and all of that bullshit I obviously fell for. I remember asking to use his bathroom because suddenly I had to shit all the cum his just shot of my ass. It was painful, the bathroom and when I went to wipe my ass, I saw the blood, shit and cum. It was staring back at me, the fact that I didn’t use a condom. I remember leaving quickly and him telling me that he was going to call me and he did, like two weeks later. I remember driving home, feeling ashamed and used. He didn’t even try to get me off, he didn’t even care. I remember getting into the shower at home and crying. because I was still dealing with so much, still coming to terms with being gay and facing the reality that I might’ve just fucked up my life.

The irony is that after all those years of sex education from the time I was in elementary school, in one brief second of passion, it was all so quickly forgotten. It took me two agonizing years to get tested. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about it. I finally built up the strength to get tested, and I was negative. I never really trusted men after Vincent. I learned quickly the cruelty that comes with “living the life,” that there are too many asshole out there who don’t give a fuck about anyone else, just trying to get their nut and don’t care who they use or what they got or give, and no one can be trusted and the simple fact is: if you aren’t responsible to yourself, you can’t expect anyone else to be!