What it feels like...

This week funny story: The things you aren't suppose to say at a porno shoot

Thing things you aren’t suppose to say at a porno shoot:

#1: I’m bored

#2: Does his dick get bigger?

#3: Am I getting paid?

What is politeness. It’s just an illusion. It’s the white lie. Some days I think I am free, but I’m just a runway slave looking for Harriet Tubman at a strip club. But as Chris Rock would say, “there aint no sex in the champagne room.”  In other words, prostitutes are never in college. Currently, I’m in love with how Martha Stewart has made going to jail “a good thing.” Like it was an exotic resort. In her very rehearsed for hours in the mirror demeanor, she tries to slip us a date rape drug with how you can make your prison bitch your friend by making her a Mexican poncho or a nice desert which just an apple, butter, cinnamon and a light bulb. But it’s the politeness. She so understands the bullshit. She so understands the white lie. She just didn’t go to jail, but “she learned something.” And if the bored housewives in the "Bible Belt" believe her, she can sell more 500 threaded sheets at K-mart. We quickly forget that she was greedy and got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She never had to hide her bad decisions, she just needed to dress it up in a cute outfit like people do their ugly pets. It’s the best white lie, almost Clorox. It’s like, let’s not worry about the stain, just bleach it and they would be transfixed by shine. Martha Stewart cleverly convinces us redemption with a chocolate cake, but for those of us who have been to jail, we know it’s not about rehabilitation, you just learn how not to get caught next time. You learn how to be polite.

I’ve come to the conclusion that people don’t appreciate my insults. So, it’s no surprise that I’m unemployed. I need a job. But honestly, I hate the grind, alarm clocks, the fake smiles and ties and button up shirts and hiding my flat stomach. I hate wearing underwear or deodorant. I’m not interested in trying to fix myself for society. I got lucky. Somebody was interested in interviewing me. Somebody was interested in possibly giving me a steady paycheck. But I should’ve known I couldn’t act right. I should’ve known I wasn’t going to get the job when my roommate said “Good luck” and I gave him the finger. So, the clocks in my house are all off by at least ten minutes. I think the power went off like months ago, but I never reset the clocks. I’m always late. I thought I was early to the interview. I knew it was a bad sign when I didn’t like the security guy who sat at the desk thinking he probably shouldn’t had dropped out of high school. Of course, he had attitude but I tried to be polite. But it was obvious from his eyes and breathing that he was hung-over-- so I had to ask him if he had hepatitis. I mean someone with eyes that yellow has to have Hep C. I mean Pamela Anderson made it cool. I was thinking I was just trying to save his health. I mean if he was hung-over, that means he was still abusing his liver and we all know how black people don’t like to go to the doctor. He sneered, called me a black ass nigga, which I was sure, was a triple negative.  But I didn’t feel like correcting him. I’m either black, an ass or niggardly. Pick one.

When I got up stairs to the interview, the first thing the guy said to me, you’re late. And then he stuck the knife further in my back with the comment, “some people get to interviews 15 minutes early.” I immediately knew that he was a bastard and I wasn’t going to get my steady paycheck. But we live in polite society, and we have to go through the formalities. I mean, I couldn’t just left. I could’ve told him to suck my dick. But, I thought I could save myself. I thought that if I was just a little perkier, and a little more intelligent, I could fool him into thinking that I was a responsible and a sane person. It’s like the joke, “you know when you’re crazy,” it’s when you’re in a mirror covered in some fat woman’s skin trying to convince yourself you’re not crazy. I had to make a decision and for a second I decided to be polite. But I couldn’t understand why. It began with the question, “what did you do before you got here.” Of course he was just asking about my last job, but I thought he was asking that I had a cocktail before the interview. I thought he smelled the scent of rum and coke and somebody’s sweaty dick on my breath.

Funny, a true story, the night before I was at a porno shoot. It wasn’t intentional. I met the guy online and he said he just wanted to see me naked and take some pictures. I like attention. When he picked me up outside my apartment, he was in the car with a couple of other guys. I knew he said something about bringing his “boy,” but he said nothing about a posse. So on the ride to his house, we had to pick up a few more people. I was beginning to feel as if I was on a school bus. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I thought I be polite and just go with the flow. Finally we got to his house and he started to explain his hustle. He said that he was entrepreneur which is French for “pimp.” He said he was into exotic choreography which is Spanish for “pornography.” I felt bamboozled, hoodwinked, and tricked. But then again, the only reason I agreed to the naked pics was because he promised me some good drugs. And then I realized how innocents end up in porn-- it’s only because they are bored with their lives and looking for the good drugs. Honestly, I just thought he was kinky but I do have my dumb blonde moments. It’s like when I let the crack head used my cell phone. I should’ve known he was going to run off with it.

So, unintentionally, I was at a porno shoot and immediately disappointed. At first, all the boys were so shy. They look even younger and confused in person. I immediately loathed that I was ruining my jack off sessions. So the two boys started to kiss each other. And it was the part in the porn that most men fast forward. It’s that part where the acting is not only bad, the masturbation material is flaccid. It wasn’t like they weren’t attractive kids, they were just boring. I mean really boring. It was like trying to get off to paint trying on a very boring wall. I mean I watch a lot of porn. I watched enough porn to get me into hell no matter how hard I pray to Jesus. And I just thought as an expert of porn I knew I could direct the video better. And then I was high from the good drugs and liquor so I got belligerent. It wasn’t me being a control freak. It was me thinking to myself that in a couple of months, I was going to see that porn at somebody’s store, and of course, they were going to have some hot boy on the cover, and of course, I was going to be a sucker and buy it. With every porn, it’s like an album, there really is only one really great song on it. I wanted the boring boys to be great! I mean, if you are going to ruin your life by appearing in a porn, why not go down in glory. The two boys were very cute but they had no passion. It was as if somebody drugged them. Well he did promise good drugs. I just thought I could help out. I got over politeness. I took the camera from the camera guy and started instructing. I told one of the guys that nobody likes a queen. I hate queens in gay porn. He kept flipping his dreadlocks like he was a blonde German prostitute. I just wanted him to know with all that bitchy moaning and screaming, most men just mute the sound. IT was necessary for me to insult him. It was necessary for me to tell him he was a bad actress. But do you think he appreciated it? I mean, why the hell would he think anyone would like such annoyance. I told the other guy who was obviously the “bttm” he needed to convince me he liked it more. As far as porn, the person getting penetrated either really needs to look like he’s enjoying it or in pain. Either one gets me off. I don’t like a “bttm” just laying there and making me think that I need to iron clothes. When I watch porn, it’s for one purpose only--it’s too get me off. So of course, I suddenly became the “bad” guy. I couldn’t be polite. I couldn’t bullshit. I didn’t give my pimp his money. So of course, they called me a cab. So of course, another boring black gay porn is now out there somewhere in the universe.

Which brings me back to the interview. When I sat down, I knew I was supposed to just answer the asinine questions. I was supposed to give my scripted responses. It didn’t have to sound convincing just familiar. But I couldn’t. I already knew I wasn’t going to get the job. So I decided for once in my life, I was going to be honest. It was like at the porno shoot, I could’ve just sit there and act like I wasn’t bored. I needed to get off and I knew they weren’t doing it for me. So I decided to not be polite. I wasn’t going to be Martha Stewart and fake my politeness with an apple pie. I wasn’t going to be afraid to offend white people. Fuck being nice. So, I sat down and immediately became an asshole. Of course they asked the standard questions like “why did you leave your last job..” Normally I would’ve lied. But I said, because the bitches didn’t appreciate me. And I meant it. I quit because I felt my boss was a retarded chicken with her head cut off. And when they asked me “where did I see myself five years from now,” normally I would’ve lied. But I said. probably hung-over or high for the “new drug” and calling into work sick. And then I laughed like an evil villain. But what amazed me was no matter how unscripted I became, they still stayed to the script. I think it’s called professionalism. It further pissed me off. And when they asked me “did I want to know anything about the company,” I had to explain that it was a deflective and stupid question because it was like asking a maid did she care anything about the history of the toilets she cleaned. SHE was the fucking “help” and she only cared if her check cashed. I just wanted a steady paycheck. I didn’t get the job. I got kicked out of the porno shoot. The truth, most people just want to be bullshitted, that’s why Martha Stewart is still alive.

Photo essay: Promiscuous Boy

i love that nelly furtado song, not just because she is Hot, but i love her as an artist. I love that she has titled her album "Loose." That is a woman. That is someone who got balls.

this is dedicated to who is sean, if you haven’t bought that book, you’re not as cool as you think you are!!!!

I wanted to do this photoshoot for a long time. I know I’ve been serious for a second, but I’m still a freak. I’m still great in bed. I can be an intellectual and sexual, thank you Tyler. So this is my photoshoot dedicated to the party boi in me. I decided to make a t-shirt and chair sexy. LOL.

Not the girl, part 2

this is so unedited, but i felt i needed to say it before i forgot.

After I wrote the blog “Not the girl” I got some really cool responses. I like it better when people leave messages in my comment box, but mostly everyone hit me up on yahoo messenger and wanted to discuss my latest rambling. I have a friend, he is mostly I guess what you call a dominate top. He’s been a relationship for a couple of years now, I guess he is happy. So this friend hit me up this past weekend and wanted to know after reading my blog, how does a top really please a bottom.

I know a lot of gay man don’t like titles. The fear is being trapped in boxes, that homosexuality shouldn’t be heterosexual, when it is, and it don’t matter your position, whether it’s top or bottom or versatile, somebody is getting penetrated. But that is the overall feeling of penetration, and person who is getting penetrated, what is his role?

Before I can begin, let’s go back to “Not the girl” let’s go back to virginity. For anyone, boy or girl, the person getting penetrated the first time it’s always a very awkward and unsatisfying time. Why is that? Even for the “good” girls who wait, it’s never what they expected. a man can’t please a woman, a woman has to learn to please herself. If you are the one being penetrated, it’s as if the minute you open your legs, you have to start searching what the hell is sex all about. Because the truth, girls aren’t suppose to like sex. Girls aren’t suppose to know their bodies. The average boy start masturbating around age 12. The idea of a 12 year old girl masturbating most people would find horrifying. And why do “good” girls wait? And why do women want a man whose soared his wild oaks?

If the question is how does a top please a bttm, one would have to ask, what is the bttm’s role. I have a friend, I want mention his name, he doesn’t get into penetration. For the last decade, his role has been an oral bttm. He gets online, find young boys or men who are willing to let him come over and suck their dick, but they hardly ever reciprocate. He used to say he didn’t need to cum. I found that to be a lie. He was sexually frustrated because he convinced himself that as a bttm, his entire role was to make a top have an orgasm. His entire role in life was to milk dick. he was entire role in life was to be a sexual slave. and where did he learn that?

So the real question for the top asking the question how to please a bttm, it was how to stop a bttm for performing and pretending. in the movie “when Harry met sally” we all now that famous scene “Faking it.” and why do women fake it. why do women don’t get to know their bodies like men have been doing since he was a kid.

Sex is selfish. Men learn that before middle school. The truth, if girls weren’t programmed to be the sexual slaves of men, then bttms wouldn’t had inherited the psychology of the role. Men only learn sex through pornography. men only know their sexuality from

Victoria

secret, the porn they stole from an uncle or father, the lingerie section in the Sunday newspaper. it’s all fantasy. and I know this because I watch bttms perform in gay films and I’m like, why is he moaning like a girl. Why is he swinging his neck like he has blond hair. why is he not asking questions. why is he so damn submissive. it’s because he is a slave. it’s not that he doesn’t’ know his dick. he knows his dick, but he aint using it. so if you don’t use your dick, you become a sexual slave. it’s like the whip. you either whipping or getting whipped.

The idea of sexual satisfaction is selfish. But it’s a circle. In order for me to start appreciating and having sexual satisfaction with my body, I first had to ask myself why did I become a bttm? most women can’t ask that question. I wonder if a woman got to choose, what would she choose. and if most straight men weren’t the pentrators, wouldn’t most of them be a bttm.

being a bttm is emotional. if daddy didn’t love you, you are the best bttm. if you like attention, it’s nice to be sought. being a slave, means no thinking, you are owned, somebody owns your body so you do what you are told. you do what you think a slave should do. it’s like that famous line, teach a slave his doggy door and when its not there, he or she will build one.

Why do some gay men become bttms? There is no class that teaches gay men how to become gay men. Nobody handed me a pamphlet or guide. I was a gay man growing up in a heterosexual role. I know for me, because I was gay, and not the macho type of guy, that I didn’t play sports, that I liked art and culture, that most of my interests were perceived as effeminate. That maybe I started seeing myself as effeminate and when it came for me to take on a sexual role, me being gay, I probably more identified with the effeminate role which was a woman. it ain’t brain surgery. or maybe it was my dick. it my dick was huge, maybe I would’ve felt to use it more. but it was all about my dick. what was the motivation of my dick. how I was going to tame the world with my dick. but I didn’t believe in my dick. so I became a bttm. it wasn’t brain surgery.

So if I internalized such messages, as a bttm I assumed that I was suppose to be a sexual slave to men.

I kept wondering why I was so damn frustrated. I remember this one guy, he was a great fuck buddy, he’d come over and his body was perfect, and he was young and beautiful and his dick was fantastic. He would pound the hell out of me all night. All night I take his nut, the condoms would pile up on the floor. But always in the morning, he left me with my dick rock hard. He didn’t touch it. He refuse to believe I was sexual. I was just a play thing. I was just a slave. I was a fucking Slave, literally.

When I would start jacking off, he would leave the room and go to the bathroom. And I continued that one sided relationship for three months. I thought I was happy but secretly I hated him. I didn’t’ know how to get off. I didn’t know how to get off.

so when a self prescribed top asked me how does one please a bttm, I would first have to ask where is the btmm’s head. you don’t please me. your dick is to assist me. like my hole is to assist your dick. that’s where it starts. it has to be mutual. I’m not there just to assist dick. I’m not a sexual slave anymore. I’m not a sexual slave. and I know most men watch porn and they think real life is like that. but it isn’t. that is a fantasy. that is a male fantasy that women have no minds, just pussy. and women don’t have a mind, just a pussy, if I’m a bttm, and homosexuality is heterosexual, than I don’t have a mind, I just have a hole. I just have some good ass. but it don’t work that way. dick is to assist me, it’s not to control me. dick is a good time, not my master. so when the top asked me how to please a bttm, I simply had to say, how does the bttm please himself. do you think your dick is to be worshipped or do you actually participate in sex. that makes a difference. when you disrespect a bttm, you don’t please him. when you disrespect women, you don’t please a bttm. if a bttm disrespects women, he will never be pleased. sex has always been about power, and it always will be.

I get so lonely: my last day of innocence

if you are going to read this, put on Janet's "I get so lonely" Thank you Tyler.

I wrote this for you, you who will come looking when the illusion unravels and you are used up, that you didn’t play the cards right, lost the gamble. Failure is only the beginning.

It’s funny how we think we are waiting for our lives to begin. I remember that anxious feeling of wanting to graduate college so that my “life” could begin. When did it stop? I guess I was waiting for approval. I guess I was waiting for that feeling that death was imminent. Before, I had all the time in the world for my life to begin. It took me five suicide attempts to realize that I was living, and the only beginning was my birth and the next stop was death. I guess I was looking for the fantasy, something I had seen on television, something that would tell me I arrived. I guess the mirror wasn’t enough.

Three years ago I questioned if I would make it. I wanted to know if I could turn petrified shit into seductive roses again. I wanted to know if I could turn my fucked up life around. But that’s not what I really wanted. I wanted the illusion of sobriety. I didn’t want to heal. I just wanted to learn to hide the pain better so that I could get back my friends who I’d driven away. I wanted to get back family members who I tried my entire life to prove that I was enough and when they found out my lie, that I was struggling, they turn their backs on me. But it was the only love I knew, no matter how toxic, and I desperately wanted it back. I wanted to be able to keep a job I didn’t want in the first place and swallow the thickness of resentment. I wanted to be faithful to a relationship with a man I knew in my heart I didn’t love. But I had been rebelling. And I couldn’t hide the drinking anymore. I couldn’t hide the anger. I couldn’t hide the cheating. I started to rebel and was sick and tired of being polite. I was sick and tired of pretending. It didn’t matter that I was wearing a suit and tie, it didn’t matter that I had a nice apartment, it didn’t matter that I had a cool job title, I was dying inside and everyone was just watching it. I hated my life. I hated my life since I was born. And every time I thought happiness was impossible I tried to kill myself. I just couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. Shit, I looked like the fucking poster for happiness, so why the fuck wasn’t I happy!!!!!

I never thought I could dream. I was never that arrogant or selfish. I never thought I could dream because I was always surving. I grew up struggling. I grew up starving. I grew up drowing. I just thought I needed to get to a safe spot on land and just be happy. But dreaming and the struggle is the same. They are both desperate, and they are both fightin for existence.

I asked god for a second chance, and said let their be light. And then I wrote a book. I self published that book. “Who is Sean: a collection.” It was stories I had written since I was 14 years old. Some were published. It was my secret. And when the book came out, I knew it was just for me. I wasn’t interested in telling the world. I just wanted something of my own. And I guess because I knew what it felt like to be the kicked dog, to be ridiculed every single day of your childhood, to have never been enough, to had never won first place, I was so damn insecure. Shit, I basically grew up the abused child who ran away, so I knew rejection. I just didn’t want to fight anymore. I just didn’t want to have to prove anymore. I just wanted a pocket of life where I could be still and die. But I always kept something inside, hidden, because it was my own. I knew I was special. I had been writing since I was five years old. I had been escaping since I was five years old. It was my thing. And when I published my book, I didn’t want anyone to take that thing away from me. Cruelty had already taken everything else. I was afraid of losing my soul. Writing was my soul.

Life was easy when I was silent. When I stayed in the back of the class and blended in with the shadows. I learned to not speak up. It was so much easier when I didn’t care. I could just fake the smile, agree with anybody and don’t cause trouble. But I was so damn unhappy. Yet, that’s the thing about love. When you’re in love you want to tell the world. I wrote a book. I couldn’t be silent. I decided to print up some flyers and pass them out at a major event. But when I got to the event, I froze.

Change is so hard. I didn’t feel like a writer. I felt like a fraud. I felt like I rushed into something and was way over my head. I was supposed to convince people that I mattered. That was the biggest joke. So I went to the bar and decided to order some drinks to build my courage. It never came but I got drunk. And then I did what I knew best, I flirted with the cutest guy I could find, I became the life of the party, we went to his place and had sex and I was back to ground zero. I got up on Monday and went to work. Nothing had changed.

One morning I just refused to wake up. when the alarm clock went off, I just unplugged it. I didn’t call into work. I didn’t turn on the television. I just laid in the bed for three days. I got up for bathroom breaks and food and water but then I just went back to sleep. And every time I closed my eyes I prayed I wouldn’t wake back up. After the three days, I went to my job and packed up my stuff. I really didn’t give a good reason. The next two months, I just drank and had sex. And when I decided that I was going to kill myself for the fifth time, I deiced to do it at a bathhouse. I thought since I was such a drunk and sex addict, it would be perfect.

So I took a bunch of sleeping pills and bought two gallons of rum. I disappeared from the world for a week. I took my ex-lover’s credit card to foot the bill. On the last day at the bathhouse, I remember passing out and then waking up crying and this old guy was fucking me, I must’ve left my door open, but I was lying on my stomach and this guy was fucking me and I was crying, and he just kept pumping harder, maybe he thought I was just moaning, maybe he didn’t even notice or care. And it all just felt so damn surreal and sadistic. I remember telling him to get off of me, and he acted like I had ruined his fun, and I just told him to get the hell out of my room, that I wasn’t in mood. I decided to fix myself another rum and coke, but I was tired of the bathhouse, so I packed up my stuff and decided to die at the bus stop. I was going to take the pills at the bus stop. When I got to the bus stop, it turned out it was only a little after midnight, and the buses were still running, and there was this young girl with her mother. The young girl was listening to her walkman, dancing, her mother every once in awhile would look over to her and stroke her hair or just smile. It was the most intimate affection of love I ever witnessed. I remember taking out my notebook and writing about the incident. I wrote:
“ a cold winter night, fat daughter feeds on popular culture, her skinny mother shivers in the breeze, but there’s so much love there. It seems to stench the air. I’m going to commit suicide. And they don’t even know it. And even if it’s not my love, I want that love. Why can’t somebody look at me like that. They are saving me, and they don’t even know it. So simple, love. So damn, simple. Even if its not your own, seeing it, witnessing the miracle, I know I can’t die.”

So I didn’t die. I went back home. my ex-lover tried to beat the shit out of me because I took and spent too much money on his credit card and it was rent time. I didn’t care. I didn’t’ care about the bruises. I was alive. He just thought I was up to my old drama again. But I had changed. I had really changed.

SO I had to ask myself would even be worth it, to love, to want that love that’s so simple yet can save nations, did I want to put myself out there. What if no one loved me, again?  Because sometimes kicked dogs become cowards, they get tired of fighting, they get tired of the bruises, or kicked dogs become raging lunatics, they run the streets looking for a fight. I was tired of fighting. So I had to ask myself was it worth it, to live, to breath, to get back in the ring and take some more deadly bruises. I had to ask myself was it worth to give up the one thing I knew I had left, and that was my soul. I had given my heart. I given my body. I given my time. I even given my hope. But never my soul. My soul I kept locked in the secrets of poetry and short stories. And then I realized that’s why I probably was unhappy. When you’re a kicked dog, you think they are kicking your soul, they are rejecting your soul, your existence. That’s why I hid it. But I was tired of hiding. I wanted to live. I wanted love.

Failure was just the beginning.

I used to believe that I wouldn’t be enough

that I was the kicked dog, that vagabond always begging to be notice

I used to think that I was wind

that I could only be loved if someone decided my direction

but the real fear was that you weren’t enough

mama

because I only believed in fairytales

I only believed in the television I so tried to escape in

I used to believe that I wasn’t enough

but I was more afraid you weren’t

because I know love

and if I gave up on loving you, you weren’t loving

and I didn’t want to be that person who gave up on you

until I realized that you gave up on yourself

can’t save a flower that wants to die

can’t save a soul that doesn’t understand its body is connected to this space

can’t start a life on a fractured illusion

those who are whole love whole

but my begging was so rotten and nothing was going to grow

people say they know love

but they don’t need love like a child’s desperation to explain its existence

and everything I have to do

to love myself

is give up on love

and I can hear it now,

how they going to want to say it doesn’t have to be that way

but they don’t know love, maybe they know entitlement

maybe their mothers wanted them

I fell in love with sitcoms growing up because it was so scripted

so controlled

when all around there was chaos

everybody wants the fairytale

nobody tried to understand the nightmare

and I’m not angry anymore, but this is a poem everyone has to read

my entire life I’ve been dishonest

I tried to pretend to be normal but now that I’m dying I don’t want to see me

I still want to be dishonest

and I watch me fading everyday in the mirror

and everyday I keep thinking someone is going to save me

but I know the truth --I have to give up on love,

and I know what they are going to say,

because they are so damn programmed

but they don’t know they are killing me,

and I don’t need to be their survival story

I see the road ahead and it isn’t pretty

and I don’t need to be their fucking Oprah story

everybody wants other people to be a happy ever after

because I know love

and it takes a fool to know love don’t love nobody

I know how it feels to wait

and I know what they are going to say

because they never let me have my life, and that is what is killing me

I can’t save myself, save that person without saying

love isn’t happiness

and anger isn’t self-hate or something to pitied

but life means wanting your existence even if god didn’t want you

you are still entitled to you existence

even if you were cheated

I always wanted to die

I never felt like I belonged here

been trying to kill myself since I was eight years old

and I know what they are going to say,

that I shouldn’t think that way,

that I’m a victim

but I believed in love and now I’m not turning back fuck it, fuck everybody

and I know what they are going to say,

keep believing,

I used to think it was about how much I was to sacrifice for the illusion

how much I was suppose to prove for me to get into heaven

knowing that I never believed

I will never give my soul again

This week funny story: Money Talks

“If money talks,” standing in line eager to cash my pathetic paycheck, my money was telling me to rob the guy in front of me. He wore what looked like an expensive business suit, and without blinking an eye, he instructed the teller to give him five thousand dollars and he wanted it all in hundred dollar bills. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with all those hundred dollar bills in the middle of the day. I imagined maybe that his daughter or wife was being held in somebody’s basement. Or maybe he planned one of hell of a Las Vegas weekend full of giggling blond strippers, drugs and liquor. Maybe it was just his weekly allowance. But it seemed it would be an annoyance to always have to break hundred dollar bills. I still felt jealous. If I could’ve walked up to the teller, a black man in baggy jeans, baseball cap to the back, headphones in my ears and asked for five thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, the person behind me would've thought I was a drug deal or even worse, a rap star. Money just didn’t talk, it also carried a reputation. Two days before, I was heading home from a one night stand. It was about six o’clock in the morning. On the walk home, there’s a McDonalds close to my house, I decided to stop and get me a McMuffin but I wasn’t for sure if I would have enough change. At the street corner, I searched through my pockets and book bag. I stood there counting the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, hoping they add up to at least two dollars. But before I counted the last nickel, a couple stepped out of their BMW, walked passed me, and placed two dollars in my hand. I was shocked. I knew because I was counting change, they figured me homeless. It seemed odd. But I took the money.

It is a cliché, but you really don’t know the value of a dollar unless you’re poor. And when you quit your job to become a famous writer, poor becomes "po" because you no longer can afford the entire word. I’m not just broke anymore, but learning to start to learn the value of a penny. If my money could talk it would say that it was lonely and starving to death. If my money could talk if would tell me to get a real job.

At the local CVS on a Thursday night, what appeared to be a normal transaction turned into pity --when I handed the cashier my money. She looked at me like I stole something because I wanted to pay for a pack of starbursts with a ten dollar row of quarters. I knew what she was thinking --why didn’t I just take three quarters out of the pack, but I wanted crispy dollar bills back. I had originally gotten the row of quarters from the bank earlier that week to wash clothes. But it was a Thursday night, which meant dollar drinks at the local bar, so I figured the clothes could wait. I got paid that Friday. Actually the quarters was the only money I had left, and when my friend called me and told me the gang was getting together, I made an executive decision. Yes, I needed clean underwear, but I knew I could always turn them inside out and spray them down with cologne. I figured, amongst my friends, it would be more aesthetically pleasing to pay for my drinks with dollar bills instead of quarters. I wanted to hide my poverty. But what I found amazing was how much of a snob the cashier who probably made minimum wage turned out to be. I was already nervous and didn’t know why. Maybe I was embarrassed.

If my money could talk it would say that I was too damn self conscious. I was nervous because I was afraid the cashier would think that I was a street person and not trust me. I thought she would try to embarrass me further by making me take the row of quarters apart and count them.

If my money could talk it would turn me in for being an irresponsible bastard. The cashier handed me back the crispy dollar bills I so desired with a devious smirk on her greasy face. I took the bills in my hands and suddenly felt safe. I felt lighter because the quarters weighed down in my pocket. I was ready for the night to begin.

As I walked to the club, I started thinking about money. I always thought that money was supposed to be money, universal, but it wasn’t. Different types of money spoke different types of languages. Money itself carried a reputation and people discriminated. Money was just as arrogant at the English language. Americans just expected others to speak it, and if you didn’t they expected you to learn or get a translator. And if different types of money spoke different languages, pennies definitely spoke "Broke."

Everybody hates pennies. Pennies are like cockroaches, people feel ashamed if they have too many. One very “broke” week at the grocery store, I had to debate if I wanted to use the CoinStar machine to save face. It was just another bureaucratic device that made you pay to translate your jar of abandoned change into a proper and more attractive language like dollar bills. After scavenging my entire apartment, I only had about three dollars in pennies and I needed to eat for the next four days which meant a ten pack of Ramen noodles, a loaf of bread and a pack of generic hotdogs. The CoinStar machine charged one cent for ever nine cents it changed into a dollar and I knew if I used it, I would lose 30 cents which meant I would lose 3 bags of Ramen noodles, which meant I would stave for a day. So I had to make a decision, and I decided to make the cashier earn her minimum wage. I splattered the pennies on the counter and they scattered like a gang of roaches in a dark apartment when the lights are turned on. It didn’t help my humiliation that it was a long line, and I could fell the collective angry sigh and shifting of the bodies. I was afraid they were going to attack me. I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to starve so that strangers could buy their groceries quicker. The cashier of course gave me that look like she didn’t have the time. She just asked me how many pennies I had like I was on welfare. I told her three dollars worth, she just scooped them up in her fat well manicured hands. She didn’t even count them.

If my money could talk and had legs, it would probably leave me for someone with more dignity. I come to find that nickels, dimes and quarters are like pop quizzes. It’s the more accepted change, but don’t have too much of it. People seem to get confused because they can’t count on their fingers and toes but have to resort to memory. It’s like watching a third grader learn its multiplication all over again. They stare at the shiny pieces, stack them in their categories and pray they don’t fail. A pocket full of nickels, dimes, and quarters can make the average human being feel real stupid, real quick. They always count at least five times to make sure its right, and they still aren’t sure.

Half dollars and the dollar coins are like the retarded cousins of the change group. It makes everyone stare twice at their large heads. It’s as if they are freaks, people at first don’t know what to think because they don’t see the country cousins of change that often. They usually resort to primitive apes just gawking at the big heads, biting on the coin, smelling the coin, flipping the coin over to read its value. I once gave a cashier a hand full of dollar coins, she had to call her supervisor because she didn’t know if the money was real. The supervisor came over and had to call the bank. It was as if they never seen a dollar coin in their lives. I was amazed and disturbed. I couldn’t help but feel sixty years old and shake my head and yell, “What are they teaching you dumb kids in school these days.”

When it comes to paper money, ones, fives and tens are the normal. They are like middle class white people, nobody is really ever suspicious, because people just assume they belong. I have yet to see anyone check the validity of a dollar bill. Some may choose to check a five or ten every once in awhile, but never a dollar bill. I also like to think of ones, fives and tens as stripper and hustler money. At the end of the night, strippers all over the world are usually pulling such bills out of the cracks of their g-string. One, fives and tens are the universal language of money. It can get you a lap dance or a smoothie with no problem.

The black sheep of money is easy the twenty dollar bill. It is the most widely circulated "big bill" and the most counterfeited. It doesn’t come with the best reputation. Maybe the twenty dollar bills are the black people of money, because everyone is always suspicious like a sales-clerk in an expensive department store who watches any black person like a hawk when the white suburban bored house mom with a kleptomania addiction is stealing all her shit.

But I’ve always been afraid of large bills. I don’t like when the bank gives me large bills. It makes me feel like a drug dealer. And nobody ever has change. I don’t have the type of lifestyle that requires large bills. If my money could talk and I had a pocket full of large bills, it would laugh hysterically. It would be like, who the fuck are you kidding. I don’t like large bills, because if I lost a hundred dollar bill, I would throw up and then cry like I got kicked in the nuts. I’m nervous with large bills because I don’t like my money consolidated. I liked my money broken down like a pretty boy in prison. I like it weak and vulnerable and needy. Large bills are too damn arrogant. And as I stood behind the man at the bank wanting to rob him, I knew money just didn’t have a reputation but it also defined the people who carried it. I could never pull off five thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. I would have to carry a gun because in my neighborhood the crack head would smell it on me. I would have to kill somebody. If my money could talk, it would tell me to stay broke, it’s safer.

I was almost a Cocoboy

This was inspired Taylor Situwe http://sglcafe.com from SGL.

After reading Taylor’s blog on the Cocodorm drama, I was reminded that I almost became a Cocodorm boy. It was about four years ago, and I was staying in Chicago. I was on Gay.com and this guy hit me up and told me I had cute face and nice body. He asked me my age and stats and after becoming very impressed, he explained to me that he owned a website, said that it was very discreet, otherwise on the “downlow. He sounded nice. He said that if I wanted, with a face like mine, I could make a lot of money. He said I could make a thousand dollars just by doing one photo shoot. It was just my luck that during one of the few times in my life I had a job. But the invitation didn’t go away. I gave the guy my email address. We chatted but he also was hitting up my friend in Kansas. My friend was a fashion designer who had to go back home because he ran out of money for Design  School. He was in desperate need to get back to Chicago and that’s where Cocoboys was located. So my friend called me one day and we talked it about over the phone. My friend was 21 years old at the time and I was 23. My friend was the cocoboy dorm type, his face was attractive, but he had a really huge dick like 13 inches. I was just going to be the pretty boy, because I didn’t have a huge dick, I was average. I guess I was going to be the Cocoboy dorm bttm. So my friend and I were both given the Cocoboy dorm passwords to its webcam and pics, so that we could check it out and see how we felt. My friend even went so far as to look for plane tickets to be flown to Chicago.

I had no issues with doing Cocoboys. The way I saw it, I was never going to run for a political office. I already had a criminal record, so porn was just another thing i was going to have to explain. And it was quick money, so I thought. And all I had to do was live in a dorm with other hot guys. Shit, I felt I should have been paying him. It was my sexual fantasy. But I also like the attention. I liked that he hit me up, it was as if I was discovered. So, why didn’t I do it.

I really don’t know why. I guess I forgot. And my friend, he ended up deciding to stay in Kansas. We never spoke of it again. It just fell through. But over the years I thought about it. Shit, Cocoboys wasn’t the only porn site or porn company that didn’t try to recruit me. I was the perfect profile. I didn’t have any parents. I wasn't close to my family. I was a lost child in the streets trying to act grown. I had no real direction in my life. I like to drink and smoke. I had a free spirit personality. I never worried about consequences. I was a good time. So I was the perfect model. I had everything to prove with so little. But lucky for me, I wasn't very unreliable. I was also a houseboy for many years. I had older men already taken care of me, so I really didn’t need the extra money. But after I saw the comments on Taylor’s website, I became really disturbed. But then again, I knew that was gay life. It was a use and be used world. But I also remembered how easy it was to get caught up. Is there light at the end of the tunnel? It’s only if you want there to be light. Otherwise, there’s just more darkness.

I say to those boys, keep your heads up, failure is just the beginning.

I'm living my life like its golden

To all those over Black Gay Pride who contributed to my comic, I thank you. I used to think that I couldn’t dream because I’m always surviving, but this past weekend, I learned they are one in the same. The intensity of the desperation is just the same, it’s highs and lows.

I thank you. Keep coming back.

Sincerly, the shirtless writer

Michael Whitley

Come on and get Happy!

It isn’t the threat of rain or the smell of humidity that tells me that summer is bullying spring and it’s the end of May, but the thousands of church folks that stampede my normally quiet neighborhood. I live two blocks from probably one of the biggest black churches in DC. It’s a beautiful building on the corner of 7^th and M street in northwest DC. It’s usually mild mannered, almost invisible. I pass it every day to get to the liquor store. Coming back from my evening run, sweating like a thief, I was disturbed by the sweet fragrant of expensive perfume. It was a group of church ladies getting out of their Cadillac cars and ready for the night sermon. They were all dressed in their best furs but it was at least eighty degrees outside, and humid, so I hoped the church had air-conditioning. They all wore black, their diamonds shined in their ears, and their polished pearls clung to their fat necks. But they were sexy, that is if I was forty years older and a straight black man. I couldn’t help but snap my fingers at their tight fitted Neiman Marcus dresses that clung to their hips. They wore sexy high heel shoes you only see on young girls or hookers but somehow they diluted the vileness of the shoes intentions. The seduction of their perfume, and confidence in their stride, I knew back in the day they were all probably fast heffas before they got pregnant and had to settle for learning to perfect their potato salad. But the years made their hips grow wider and they traded in the chasing of men, short skirts and the club for front row seats at the church. If they only knew what was happening just a couple of blocks away. The gay boys were coming. Their grandsons, sons, nephews and probably husbands. They snuck away in the middle of the night, didn’t tell nobody where they were heading.

Memorial Day weekend brings all kind of people into the capital city. The veterans come to pay homage to fallen soldier. The biker gangs come to harass the DC streets with their loud and rude Harleys. And then there are the black church folks and black gay men and women. With the church folks, the buses arrive with hundreds of them, and the gospel music blankets the air, the tents go up, and they raise money with fried catfish, ribs and spice apple cake. But just down the street, the gay kids are also arriving. They come wearing their tight shirts showing off their flat stomachs and hard abs from hitting the gym since January. They wear designer sunshades and carry Gucci bags.  They give attitude and try not to look bored. They hope their weekend won’t be a failure like spending too much money or not getting laid. The church folks they are dressed in their Sunday best, little girls wear white doll dresses, all the boys wear suits and ties, and the men keep on their suit jackets and women wear uncomfortable stockings. It seems like its too very different worlds but it isn’t. It’s the same neighborhood. It’s the same language. They know each other but don’t speak. Sometimes they even stay at the same hotel. For years, the Wyndham booked the black church convention with the black gay pride. I remember after a night of drinking and one night stands, I would stumble into the hotel and on the elevator would be all the church folks. I would have on the tightest shirt you can only find in the baby section of Target and they would be dressed like they were going to an interview or an exorcism. I would try not to feel as if I was going to hell because I reeked of alcohol, weed and bad decisions. But I never understood why the church folks and black gay people had to be so damn far apart. They stayed at the same hotel. I never understood why the church people and the black gay kids didn’t speak or make eye contact. I always hoped for that scene in The Color Purple, when Shug Avery bursts into her Daddy’s church singing “God is trying to tell you something.” Except I imagined it to be a black drag queen. I always imagined it would be Tommie Ross. Is she still alive? Maybe for the Hollywood movie it would be Rupaul. But I’ve always imagined it to be overwhelming and dramatic like a Tyler Perry play. I imagined for once that my black gay brothas and sistas would raid the church, and in perfect harmony we would sing, “God is trying to tell you something.” We would cry and shout and hug. We would take back all those years the church made us feel bad about ourselves. We would feel that we’re part of the family again. But I guess that would never happen. I think god is trying to say something that black gay pride and the black church conventions take place in the same weekend. 

What is black gay pride?

I don’t know his name, but I know him. And Every time he sees me, the excitement in his eyes diminishes and his face frowns like someone just farted. He always gives me that annoyed stare like “there’s that nigga again.”  I try not to get offended. I find it amazing that queens think new gay men are being manufactured everyday to cruise the clubs for their boredom. If you a club queen, and you start seeing the same people it’s only because you are a regular. It’s too obvious that we aren’t friends, but a good heated argument from being enemies.  But every Wednesday because it’s shirtless men drink free at the bar, he is there with his shirt off trying not to look desperate for attention. He told me his name once, but that was a year ago and I was drunk and flirting with any man who would make eye contact. So I don’t know his name, and I dare not ask it again since he already thinks I’m shady. Standing next to each other, he asked me what I was going to do for the weekend which at first I thought was odd because I knew he really didn’t care what I did with my life. I told him I wasn’t doing anything special for the weekend and wanted to know why he asked the question. He seemed surprise that I didn’t know it was a Holiday weekend. He didn’t know I didn’t have a real job so everyday for me was like a weekend.      

My friend, and I love calling him that because I know it pisses him off because we aren’t friends, we barely speak to each other and that’s only out of boredom. My friend reminded me that it was Memorial Day weekend which meant for the city of DC that it was Black gay pride.  I’m older now and not a young queen with a hard dick and a tight ass looking for trouble, so black gay pride doesn’t mean that much to me anymore. I remember when I used to save up all my coins, hit the gym everyday, starve my body just so that I could fit in the tightest shirt and jeans. Black gay pride used to mean three days of hangovers, sex and probably a STD. I didn’t know that black gay pride had film festivals and self esteem seminars because I only saw the hotel and the club and maybe a bathhouse. I figured, like a friend one told me,  I’d been “aged out.” The prides were for the young kids now because I was older, and I no longer needed the attention that always came from all the wrong places.  And that use to be black gay pride for me, that need for attention. That need for someone to tell me that I existed, that I was cute, that I meant something --even if that meaning was just flesh. It was that need for competition. It was that need to hate anything that was similar to me. And because I was young, and nobody told me better or wasn’t listening, black gay pride was how far I would go for jaded love.

So my friend, he is a very attractive guy and looking at his face I suddenly realized that we were black gay pride. It sounded corny and when I told him, he just thought I was drunk. I knew he was annoyed with me, annoyed with having to deal with the same bar every Wednesday, annoyed looking at the same people, probably annoyed with his life. But wasn’t that black gay pride, the sickening familiarity? It was the annoyance. It was that nothing felt like it was changing so you just have to stomach what was and make the best of it. It was the fact that we weren’t young anymore. It was why we needed pride. The young kids had it all wrong. The pride would come later.                                     

My friend took another sip from his cocktail and said that he wasn’t doing anything for the weekend. He said that he was going to try his best to avoid all the black fags and their attitude. I asked him if he was also going to avoid all mirrors since he was the black fag he so hated. My friend, he just smiled at me and then he said the most brilliant thing. He said, “Maybe next year I won’t be gay.” I thought about the possibility. Every year my friends say they aren’t doing the black gay pride events. Every year they complain because they are getting older and jaded; and say that the crowd is getting younger because they are not young anymore; and they say that it’s not as fun as it used to be because it’s not new anymore; and they say that the clubs overcharge and they do but they always have. And every year at the close of the weekend, they say next year they’re going to stay home, save their money, maybe pick up a hobby. I’m finding getting older is a challenge of not becoming a broken record. I looked into my friend’s face, and I knew he meant his words, that maybe next year he won’t be gay. That maybe next year he would find a cure for his boredom. That maybe next year he would like himself. And I knew that was black gay pride, it was the struggle to like oneself. Every black gay pride I attended, I never left it feeling particular proud. I always went back home feeling conflicted.  But wasn’t that black gay pride, that struggle of sex and trying to live right.

So I bid my friend farewell. I knew he just probably circle the bar a couple of more times, get bored or get picked up by someone even more bored and depressing. I knew he would go on and try to solve the equation of his stagnated life. I hoped he find the answer. And wasn’t that black gay pride? The search. The questioning. I didn’t need a parade. I was black gay pride everyday.

I’ve come to the conclusion that Black gay pride is like throwing a party and being surprise that every year people show up. I’m always amazed at the number of people. But some people don’t make the party ever again. I lost two gay friends this past year. One got shot by his lover and the other killed himself. And as I thought about the statement, “maybe next year I won’t be gay” I considered death. I decided instead to bask in life. I thought about the old church ladies and their fierceness. I knew one day, like them, I’d trade in the chasing of cocktails, cock and tail for learning to perfect my own potato salad. We all got to change someday. And wasn’t that black gay pride? The promise of change? I looked around the bar at the same people I see every week, and I just thought, Live, today. And wasn’t that black gay pride?

                   

Strangers with Candy

When I was a kid, there was the terror of the “white van.” I was told by countless police officers, teachers, relatives and various cartoon animals that under no circumstance was I to approach the “white van” or I would be kidnapped by a ruthless villain who did unspeakable things to children. I imagined it was Gargamel from the Smurfs. When I was ten years old, a guy in a white van did approach me. I ran like hell. It turned out it was an ice cream truck. I’ve never looked at ice cream trucks the same. Growing up, I was constantly told not to speak to strangers. Even at Halloween, when trick or treating, I was just supposed to grab the candy and run. I wasn’t supposed to stop and go into depth about how I chose my costume or be lured inside their house. When we got home, an adult usually checked our already half eaten bag of candy to make sure there were no razor blades, rocks or broken bottle glass. I couldn’t understand why grown people would want to hurt children.

It’s a cliché but it’s true, when you live in a large city, most people don’t speak to you unless it’s life or death. Occasionally I get, “Can you move,” in a crowded metro car from a busy lady who tries to smile but her eyes scream at me to move faster. Other than the occasional homeless person begging for change, the millions of people in the city ignore each other.  It’s a science, strangers protecting their personal space. If I’m on a crowded elevator, I make sure my eyes are on the floor or the ceiling. If I’m in a crowded restaurant, I keep my focus on my date or I study the menu too intensely and I try not to listen to the couple next to me or care what the table across from me is eating. And especially in the men’s bathroom, there’s never a good time to start a conversation. I’ve seen sitcoms where women talk in the public bathrooms like it’s their living rooms.  They even pass each other toilet paper and tampons. But men, god forbid, if you have to take a shit in a men’s public bathroom, if there’s no toilet paper, he’d rather wipe it with his hand or whatever is in his pocket, even the lent before he sticks his head underneath the stale and ask another man to pass the toilet paper. I lived in a brownstone duplex for three years and it took me two years to finally speak to my neighbor. I’d seen him in the hall, we would quickly glance into each other eyes and then look away. We had the awkward head nods and polite greetings, but never a real conversation other than “is your water on?” It took me two years to figure out that we had the same first name. I just knew he had a lot of girlfriends but they all looked alike but varied in weight. It was as if he was collecting the same girl in different brands. He knew I liked to drink a lot from all the empty liquor bottles on trash day. When I would hear him arguing with his current girlfriend, I would ignore it. When he would hear me drunk and cursing at somebody at five o’clock in the morning he ignored it. Yet, I was a little upset when he didn’t invite me to his birthday party since I was next door and I was going to hear the music and the laughing and the dancing. It just seemed odd, a lack of courtesy. Of course, I wouldn’t have gone. So I had a party of my own two months later, to show him how it felt. He called the cops on me.

In my grocery store, I’m usually trying to get in and get out without much fuss. It was a Saturday night. I first walked to the ATM to get money. And then I walked to the Chinese liquor store that always seemed to have the gallon of Bacardi on sale, seven dollars less than any other liquor store in the area. I don’t know what it is about Asian stores, but they always seemed to have some sort of hook-up. I could get 25 chicken wings and a blue cheese bucket for 5.95, that’s a steal. Even the Chinese bus, a roundtrip ticket was like only twenty bucks to New York from DC. But as always, there’s a downside, on the ride back, you might have to sit on somebody’s lap. And those chicken wings may have something to do with all those pictures of missing pets in the area. And I swear, the Bacardi was watered down, but it did the job, so I never complained. My last stop was the grocery store. I had spent most of my money on the liquor and had planned to go out that night, so the only thing I could afford to eat was generic hotdogs and Raman noodles. I am also obsessed with the Food Network channel and was eager to see after a couple of cocktails what I could do with a quart of possibly spoiled milk, mustard, roman noodles, barbeque sauce, generic hotdogs and some cheese. I was also well known at the hospital emergency room.

So I’m standing in line with my groceries, and it was a long line, I only had four items, but the less than 15 line was longer. The wait got worse when I noticed my MP3 player was dead. And I didn’t bring my cell phone to call a friend to chat about something useless. And I was too far away from the magazine rack to flip through the latest pages of “O” magazine or Vogue and not look too gay. I was stuck somewhere in the middle of the beauty products and boxes of Tide on sale. I started to feel nervous. I had nothing to distract me from all the people in the grocery store. I could make the impending mistake of making eye contact. And then it happened. I heard a voice. I knew it wasn’t from the health freak nerd in front of me. He was making me feel bad about my groceries with his low fat milk, his wheat tortillas, his fat free yogurt, bananas and vitamin pills. He was basically screaming at me that he was going to live longer than me. I wanted to kick him in the back of his head and pour some processed cheese down his throat. The voice was coming from the back of me. I started not to turn around. I figured the voice would give up. But she didn’t. She spoke to me again. I quickly turned around. She looked like a hippie. She was an older white woman in baggy clothes and had some odd Bob Marley scarf wrapped around her head. Her dirty blond hair fell through the cracks. I tried to smile, as if to say leave-me-the-fuck alone, but she persisted. She wanted to know if it was going to rain. I immediately felt violated, like she was a stranger and touching all my private parts. My eyes searched frantically around to the store to see if anyone was witnessing this hippie old woman molest me. I caught the eyes of a bored young man. He just shook his head and went back to reading the ingredients from a box of cereal. I quickly became upset and a little offended. What made the hippie woman think that she could speak to me? Did I look like one of those people who wanted to have a friendly conversation? And if I did, that meant I also looked like one of those people that constantly got robbed. I didn’t know what to do. I felt panicked. So to get back in control of the situation, I told the old hippie, that I personally checked the weather before I left home and it wasn’t going to rain. I hoped because I was a black male she would believe me, since all weathermen are black. I think it’s in the black gene. We can dance, play basketball and predict the weather. The old hippie quieted for a moment, and then she started up again. She just wanted to talk about the damn weather. I didn’t say another word to her, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone. But I did smile. I shouldn’t have smiled. I should’ve just rolled my eyes or said something lewd or acted like I didn’t speak English. But she kept talking and I was at least another five minutes from the magazine rack. I was stuck at grandma’s house without a ride.

But I couldn’t understand why it was so bad. I mean, why did I feel uncomfortable? She was a harmless older woman. I didn’t think she was going to rob me. I didn’t think all my friends would find out that I was kind to a stranger and laugh at me. So I decided not to be such a bastard. The grocery store line was moving slower than numbers on the cashier’s paycheck, so she was in no hurry. I relaxed. I took my earphone out of my ear, to suggest to the old hippie she had all my attention. At first the conversation was just polite talk. I asked what type of flowers she was planting in her garden. I suggested to her that she probably not put her winter coat back up because the weather could drop really low again. It wasn’t so bad, polite conversation.

When we got to the magazine rack the conversation changed. On the cover of Newsweek was a picture of some man I’ve never seen before, and the title read: Big Brother knows whom you call. Is that legal, and will it help catch the bad guys?

The old hippie recognized the picture immediately. She became irate like he owed her money. I was focusing on the latest issue of Marie Claire. The older hippie yanked the magazine off the rack. She wanted to know how I felt. I immediately felt stupid. I knew a little about the government bugging the phone, but I had no worries because I’ve only threatened the President among close friends and not on the phone. The old hippie woman wanted to know what I felt about the situation. Honestly, I had no opinion. I barely voted in the last election. And then she started on George Bush and suddenly I felt tricked. I felt like the kid who decided to trust the damn “White van.” I fell for the candy. She said she hated George Bush and that she never called him ‘president” but “douchebag” or “that idiot.” I had no desire to debate politics. I really didn’t care. Also, it was a dangerous territory. People are often crazy about their values and religion. Yes, I had my opinions on Bush, it would surprise most, but I didn’t feel like arguing. I remember back in college during the O.J. Simpson trail. I worked at the local Wal-Mart and I would get every other white customer come up to me and ask me what I felt about the trial. I really didn’t have an opinion. I didn’t care if he did it or not. But I couldn’t say that out loud.

I knew I needed to plot my escape from the old hippie. I suddenly remembered why people were strangers, because I didn’t feel like sharing my life story and values with every crazy lunatic. The old hippie was really pushing me to form an opinion on my government. I couldn’t imagine why she would think I would agree with her. All I wanted to do was get home and drink my gallon of watered-down Chinese store rum. Finally, I admitted to her that I voted for George Bush. I was young and angry and acting out. I didn’t know better but I didn’t think he should be impeached. The look on her face was like a child molester finding out that kid he’d just kidnapped suffered from leprosy. She threw me back to the street. She no longer wanted to be polite. I was suddenly a stranger to her. She couldn’t trust me.

On my walk home, I made sure not to make eye contact with passing strangers. I didn’t speak to my neighbor. I got inside my home and locked my four locks. I felt safe again. I vowed to never speak to strangers again. It was a landmine.

photo essay: my man's face

I remember when I was young and cops used to let me hold their gun

in elementary

that was before I started to look like my father

and then I remember how the nappy hair got too kinky when I got older

i knew exactly when the wind changed

i was fourteen years old and asked an older white woman for the time

she ran to her car and locked the doors

i just thought she was  just weird

i didn't understand

a baby panther is cute, a full grown male panther has to be caged

why does the fear start?

I remember when I was pretty, because I was 18 and masculine

I remember when I thought I was special because somebody said I was attractive

but youth was credit and I still got bills

and I thought because my stomach was flat I would be saved

learning to swim is not about body weight

my face is getting older

my soul is getting clearer

my father was a murderer

and I’m a pacifist, cant stand violence

he beat my mother often and I hated to hear her scream

I wanted to rescue her but I couldn’t understand why she would love hate

my father had lots of enemies, the most notorious drug dealer

they shot him in the back of his head and dragged his body through

Mexico

I remember his eyes

he would tell me that I would grow up to look just like him

everybody told me I was his spitting image

I hated my father

he died when I was five years old

but I knew I hated him

he would hit me in the back of my head and tell me I was a faggot

that I wasn’t man enough

and then he could be so kind, like holding me when I fell asleep and putting me in bed

he would tell me that I needed to be strong

I got my father’s face

I thought I always looked like my mother

maybe I wanted to look like my mother

she was a crack whore, so I don’t know why that would be better

but I guess I didn’t want to look like my father

I was afraid of being a black male

I was afraid of that dark skinned African face

I was afraid that white

America

would distrust me

so I wear my glasses at interviews to appear my Cosby show

I’m afraid when I walk down the street the cops watch me

I couldn’t get in a club once because the guy said I had attitude on my face

but that’s white

America

I must be the enemy

how they said the slaves didn’t have souls

but maybe I’m afraid that people will think I don’t have a soul

that I’m just the channel five news

my father was a murderer

he beat my mother often and I hated to hear her scream

and I got his eyes

I got the eyes of the ghetto

people don’t realized how black men are preyed upon in this country

we are suppose to be the villains

when in reality we are the victims

this is my man’s face

this is my father’s face

I don’t mean to scare you

I’m just protecting myself

but it’s a beautiful face

and I hope one day my son don’t hate his face

it’s a beautiful face