What it feels like...

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

Not the girl.

As a male, my dick has been the center of my fascination for as long as I can remember. When I was four years old, I used to love to get naked and rub it against the refrigerator or couch or bedpost. I think I liked the sensation. When I became a teenager, I learned that if I jerked it long enough, something fantastic happened. I never stopped jerking. When I accepted that I was gay, I never knew what that would mean for my dick. I was more afraid of losing power. I was more afraid of being seen weak by other men because I liked men.  I guess because I thought they would see me as “pussy.” I guess I was afraid of losing my symbolic dick.

It took me a long time to admit I was a “bttm.” I’d been gay for a long time, but that was my last secret. I would say that I was versatile, but I knew every time I ended up in a sexual situation, I was on the bottom. I was mostly attractive to what I considered masculine or dominate guys. But I didn’t want to admit that I was a bottom. I didn’t want to admit that I liked taking it up the ass.

Why did I hate being a bttm. First, I was a black male. That didn’t help. I was a black male who grew up in a family of boys, so I was masculine. That didn’t help. White men assumed I was a top because I was black and I liked the attention. Black men assumed I was a top because I was black and not overtly effeminate and I liked the attention. I secretly wanted to be a “top.” I wanted the power. I wanted the power of my dick. But I really didn’t like my dick. I didn’t think it was big enough. I was insecure

To tell the truth, I didn’t want to be a bttm because I didn’t want to be the “girl.” I remember the first time I gave it up. I was sixteen years old and he was twenty two years old. It was the back of my car. I met him at some gay club. He told me a lot of sweet nothings that night. I remember us being in the back of my car, he asked me what I liked to do, if I was a top or bottom, and I told him I didn’t know. I really didn’t. He decided to fuck me. It hurt like hell. He nutted. I didn’t. He didn’t even ask me if I wanted to nut. He didn’t care, he got his. I took him home. He didn’t call me for another month and that was for another booty call. I felt like a girl. I felt tricked and stupid. I had played those games. I gave up the ass without any insurance.

I was so confused after my first time. I didn’t want to be a girl. Shit, I was a boy. Boys were supposed to like sex. I didn’t want to be all uptight about my body. I wanted to soar my wild oaks. I wasn’t interested in marriage. I didn’t care about a reputation. I just wanted to fuck. I had been taught all the lines. I had talked girls out of their panties. I never thought someone would try to talk me out of my underwear. I didn’t see myself as sexual prey. I didn’t see myself as a girl. Girls were vulnerable. Girls needed to be protected. Girls could get pregnant. I was a boy. I was supposed to soar my wild oaks. I was supposed to not care.

After my first time, I wonder why he chose me to be the bttm. I figured because his dick was bigger. I figured he saw something in me that was weak and could be preyed upon. Maybe it was my youth. Maybe it was my insecurity.

I didn’t have sex for five years after the first time. At least I wasn’t a bttm again. After the first time, I told myself I would never bttm again. I didn’t like how it made me feel weak. I didn’t like the pain. I wanted to be the boy again. It wasn’t until I started becoming insecure about my dick that I felt I was stuck being a bttm. So many guys wanted to fuck me and I liked the attention.

It took me a long time for me to realize I wasn’t one of the boys. That my status had changed. And it was more than me being gay. It was about sex. It was what I did or didn’t do with my dick. I guess the first clue was gay porn. I started to notice that the bottom hardly ever got off. The bottom was there to just get fucked. Of course the bottom got paid less.

Honestly, it didn’t feel all that great in the beginning. Sometimes, I just took one for the team. And I think that’s how I started losing control of my body. I wanted to feel good. And then sex became emotional. My entire life since I discovered my dick, sex was only pleasurable. I’d jerk my dick for a reason. Sex since I was twelve years old always ended with me getting off. It was how I knew I was finished. But when I became a bttm, it wasn’t so black and white. Sex suddenly became emotional. I didn’t always get off. I would say 70% of the time I didn’t always get off with the top. I would get off later. I would get off by myself and that started to become frustrating.

I started to notice the more of a bttm I became, the more I started to feel devalued. Guys would tell me stupid shit like “keep it tight.” I started to become paranoid. The more of a bttm I became, I started to lose my identity. I became more silent. I just started going with the flow. I didn’t want to appear bitchy. I didn’t want to appear anything female-like. I was so damn conscious of not becoming the girl or what I perceived girls to be. I just wanted to be one of the boys. But because I was the bttm, I wasn’t always treated like one of the boys. Being the bttms was like demotion. I didn’t want to ask a thousand questions like a girl. I didn’t want to be clingy like a girl. I told myself I was just in it for the dick. I wasn’t the nurturing type.  I didn’t cook or clean. So I was in it just for the dick. But the more I became a bttm, the less I felt like one of the boys.

I remember I went to a sex party, and it was mostly tops, and I remember feeling somewhat uncomfortable. I remember they were talking about other bottoms like they were just bitches, saying some guys hole was toxic or the other guy’s was too loose. I remember there was another bottom there, but he didn’t’ like me, he wanted to be the only bottom. All the tops got along but me and the other bottom had issues with each other like we were two girls. I didn’t like how that made me feel. The tops laughed and said bottoms never got along with other bottoms. And I was like, we were all guys. I thought I was just one of the boys. I thought we were just having sex. But it was more political. I remember this one guy wanting to fight me because he said that I was spreading rumors about him being a bttm at some sex parties. I thought that was interesting that he would think I was some 12 year old girl who went around telling other girls he was a slut. I didn’t tell his business. I didn’t care. But he cared about the reputation. If he was a “top” he wouldn’t had cared. It was political. It was stupid.

When I’m on the bttm, it’s a lot of work. It’s mental.  I have to let go of my ego and enjoy the ride. It’s preparation. I had to go to extraneous measures to make sure I’m clean. I have to feel sexy. It’s more than just letting some guy stick his dick in me. I had to learn to arch my back. I had to learn to guide the dick in my ass, because if he hits a curve, it’s not comfortable. I had to learn to control my ass muscles. I had to learn to make the dick good for me. It was a lot of fucking work. It was a lot of mistakes. I had to take dicks for years for me to understand it. Nobody taught me how to be a bttm. I had to learn on my own. There wasn’t a top who guided me or taught me pleasure. I had to learn that on my own.

It’s not easy being a bttm. When I was on top, it was so easy. I just needed to get my stroke down and I was cool. I just needed a good solid three minutes of friction and I was done. But as a bttm, if I going to start the car, I’m going for a ride. I don’t want to start the car and never get out of the driveway.

The more I became a bttm, the more frustrated I became. I started to feel as if a good bttm wasn’t appreciated. I started to feel I wasn’t appreciated. I was devalued. I was just another fag. I didn’t want to be the girl. But was wrong with being a girl?  Did I hate women? Did I think of women as weak? Because how I felt about women, was exactly how I felt about my sexual position. What was wrong with being the girl?

I kept thinking being the girl meant I was going to have to wear a dress, that I was going to have to learn to cook and clean and be submissive. I wasn’t the nurturing type. I was a boy. I was just in it for the dick.

What was freeing for me was accepting that I was sometimes the girl. Homosexuality was very heterosexual. That was truth. It didn’t matter how masculine or independent I was, every time I took on the bttm role, I became the girl. I needed to understand what that meant. I knew it meant I wasn’t going to allowed myself to be disrespected. I wasn’t going to give my power away. I wasn’t going to allow my body just to be used. If that meant I was a bitch or cunt, then fine! I wasn’t going to be men’s toilet. I wasn’t a trashcan where men came and dump their loads. I was more than just a hole. I was going to stop fucking with niggas who thought they could just get some ass and not please me. A lot of the bullshit was going to change. But that was so hard for me to do, because that meant less sex. If I was the type of bttm that gave away my ass to anyone, being a slut was easy. But nobody tells you that also being a slut is empty. Nobody cares about the slut. I used to think I was sexually liberated. I was a fool. I was a fool who liked attention.

I knew being the girl, I was going to have to understand my body. I was going to have to understand how it worked. I was going to have to stop being so obsessed with my dick. I was going to have to learn to please myself. I remember when I bought my first sex toy, I learned so much about my body and pleasure. It wasn’t that I didn’t need a man, it was more that I didn’t needed to be control by a man. I remember this one guy told me that I needed to learn to give my ass over, that I tried fucking with my ass instead of getting fucked. I was like, I need dick to assist me to pleasure, not control my pleasure.

So what is the point of this story? I woke up this morning thinking, I wonder if I had a bigger dick, if it was three inches longer and two inches thick, if I had the fantasy dick, a porn star dick, if I would be a bttm. It was an interesting question, because I know I would’ve probably attached my ego to my dick. When heterosexuals it’s so black and white, that men have dicks and women have vaginas, but with the gays, we have more of an option. The position is more emotional than physical.

I admit, I still have issues with being a bttm, nowadays I try to be more vers, but I really like being a bttm. I believe being a bttm has become emotional for me. I’ve trained my hole well. I more obsessed with my hole than my dick. I also don’t mind other bttms. I don’t see gay sex as so concrete. I can play with other bttms, also known as dyking. I probably could be in a relationship with another bttm because I know it’s emotional. I know now that being a bttm, having that identity is not about a role, but where I feel most comfortable. It’s emotional. If that makes me a girl, then I’m a feminist.