Sunday, February 23, 2014


I may have been single my entire life, but boy have I gone on a trillion dates. Now in the gay world, that usually doesn't mean dinner and a movie. When "meet me there at eight" does happen, I am bombarded with questions that make me want to yell, "CHECK PLEASE!" 

It seems that gays aren't that skilled at "DATING" and it comes to no surprise to me. I grew up watching Lady and the Tramp and was forced to pin a stupid flower on a pretty girl for Prom. I always saw dating as something the heterosexuals do and something I was expected to do with girls. After being so miserable dealing with females who talked way too much at a dinner table, I was simply ready to get fucked and call somebody daddy. (I'm partially joking here) At least for my eighties-baby generation, us gay guys didn't exactly have a lot of practice with gay dating.

Here are some of the annoying questions that have been directed at me over a few dinner tables, coffee tables and slings, oh I mean, bar tables. 


Really? First of all, that is an extremely open ended question that is liable to unravel an angry filibuster about what I deserve and what I haven't been getting. The question also implies that something is wrong with me because I am not walking the family dog and picking up my adopted children from school. What you need to be doing is displaying something that will make me not want to be single any longer. Instead you are asking a negative question disguised as a compliment. It's almost as if you are thinking to yourself, "He looks too good to be single, something must be wrong with him. Maybe he's crazy." (A guy actually told me this before) Sure, what you mean is, "Oh you are handsome, how could you be single?" But you didn't say that, you asked me, "Why am I single?" and quite frankly, the question has reminded me that I am almost thirty and quite bitter. Now you have me looking around the restaurant at all these happy gay and heterosexual couples, wondering why I decided to meet a short bald guy from OKCUPID who is more than likely not going to ever be my husband. 
Beyonce, wait a minute bitch, you aint single! You don't know about my struggle!

You didn't mean to be rude with the question, but it's just one of those date questions created to fill up space in the conversation gap. I am not here to talk to a therapist about why I am single, I am here to have a Long Island Iced Tea and filet mignon without having to worry if my direct deposit went through or not. I prefer my free meals to be free of self pity. Thanks.


First of all, I've never had a relationship and second of all, shut the fuck up. Does anyone really want to sit there at a date and think about their ex? Why would YOU want them to think about their ex? This is a new situation and you are there to get your mind off of your ex. That was the past, this is now. You need to bring some new silverware to the table instead of asking to see a fork from seven months ago that has dried up cheese on it. Does it matter what my longest relationship was? Or are you really just trying to see if I am capable of long term commitment? I think the latter. What you are doing is not too subliminal and it is downright tacky. It does not prove that anyone is better at commitment because they stayed in a relationship for a long period of time. It simply means they didn't find out he or she cheated until three years after the vows were exchanged. OK, I sound morbid, but really, you can be married to an asshole for seventeen years and be miserable. It doesn't mean you are great at commitment because you stayed around that long, hoping the diarrhea would start to smell like lavender.


Or a boy and a QUEEN....
Not all of you can relate to this, but my fellow writers most certainly can. I guess you readers see what it is that I write about; PEOPLE ASKING ANNOYING QUESTIONS!
Guys always ask me what I do for a living and I always respond, "I'm a writer"
Now writing has never paid one bill, but I usually don't feel like discussing my dead end sales job that I will probably quit in a week or two and the seventeen other side hustles that I do. So writer, will suffice.
But then the question always follows, "What type of STUFF do you write about?"
First of all, "stuff"?! Really? It sounds like you are trivializing the very important and timeless skill of writing which most people in this day and age cannot seem to do.
You see, it's another one of those open ended questions that I can't stand. I don't write about the same "Stuff" every time. I've written about a politician for a newspaper article. I've interviewed performers. I've written about Black gay exploitation on BRAVO in this blog. I have written about being molested, about God being evil and I wrote several plays and screenplays; some comedies, others dark dramas. I also write song lyrics, poetry and short stories, some happy, some sad. For the love of God, do not make me sit here and go over EVERY topic of everything I have ever written! A better question would be, "What inspires you to write?"


Oh you like my eyes? My great grandmother is Korean
My response, "Oh I am mixed with shut the fuck up and nigga please!" As I lightly dab my chin with my white cloth napkin. Assumptive questions really don't deserve a serious response. So because my eyes go slightly up at the end it means I must have Asian in me? They always keep digging that hole. They can't resist noting my "Exotic" features. Really, I am exotic because I am not as dark as Wesley Snipes and my eyebrows take up half of my face? (True story but not his exact words lol) Is that what exotic means to you? The question makes you appear less evolved and it focuses on my physical which is rather dull. After all, everyone is mixed with something, but there aren't enough boxes to check.


Subliminal shade. Not going to work. No you nosey motha-fucka and you should have just told me I am a spoiled, self-entitled asshole who must have never had to fight for the last drumstick at the dinner table! I hate passive aggressive, sarcastic questions. No one just outright asks someone if they are the only child without subliminally saying something negative. It is a stereotype that people who were the only child feel people owe them something and they were spoiled as a kid. Well I don't like stereotypes and I don't like where this date is going. You asked that question after I asked the waiter where my basket of bread was. I guess it is spoiled kids syndrome to wonder where the fuck your damn free bread is. Niggas be trippin! lol


Here's something I'd like to know, Are you human??? 

Obviously not. You see me sitting here quiet as a church mouse giving sex eyes to the waiter. You already told me about your trip to Japan and the mouse that unpleasantly surprised you in your bed sheets. You already elaborated on your love of kickball and all the guys you've gone out with on your team. You did not fail to mention your entire job history, your dysfunctional relationship with your therapist and your allergy to porcupines. I think I have everything. I would like to know how you look underneath that Exit sign.


Yes I do. In fact, can we hurry up this because I have a European underwear model to meet at Ruths Chris after this. I meet so many guys from so many different websites that I can't even keep track of my STD status. Come to think of it, I didn't even get to eat a sandwich during my lunch break today because I was busy meeting Marty from Grindr at the Au Bon Pain. Actually, I had Phil from Craigslist meet me there as well, it's always better to kill two slutty birds with one diseased dick. How about you?






Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom....


Swiftly walks toward the front door, never looking back. I may be able to catch the last ten minutes of Wendy Williams.

Monday, February 10, 2014


Above: My video review of the show

Get NeNe Leakes up off the television please! Her attitude is foul, her self importance is delusional, but more importantly, her self hatred is being glorified. 

Real Housewives of Atlanta is one of my guilty pleasures. I tune in to see the latest drama unfold. I admit, I am feeding into the cash cow that is tom foolery, but after a long day of working a shitty weekend job, I NEED IT!

On a recent episode, there was a fight. As to all the drama surrounding the fight, I will not get into that, but as far as who was most responsible, it was plain as day. 

Why is Kenya Moore the only character on the show who acknowledges the BIG ELEPHANT in the room?

That elephants name, is NeNe Leakes.

Leakes sponsored a boxing match that was disguised as a  "Pillow Talk" party. It was in a hotel room funded by Bravo. Per usual, Bravo USED NeNe to get the nigger behavior started. That's right, I said nigger behavior. I am starting to believe that the Andy Cohen's of the world, love a misbehaving nigger who keeps him in Armani suits. 

Looking high as ever, she strutted in her lingerie, while the pawns waited to be played. She brought up the dirtiest of gossip and started the night off with negativity. From my vantage point, not only was the elephant under the influence, but she seemed to have dark spirits behind vacant eyes. After a few chess pieces were moved, a brawl broke out and the elephant pretended to be surprised by the melee. 

After the incident, NeNe repeatedly voiced her opinion that Kenya and "The Queen in the red gown" was responsible for the fight. The fact that Christopher Williams, a man with a history of domestic violence against multiple women, got up first, seemed to be irrelevant. (So was the fact that he aggressively grabbed Kenya by the arm and shook her) What was notable for me, was that NeNe, a self proclaimed lover of the LGBT community, felt the need to use words that could be construed as gay bashing. Brandon, Kenya's friend who got punched numerous times by Apollo the street thug, all of a sudden was in the wrong because he wore a "red gown" and got out of his seat like Kenya.
NeNe and her props

It seems that NeNe's true colors are finally coming out and they certainly do not compliment the colors of the gay community. She is a fraud. She can wave her hand at a gay pride parade and have gays style her snap-on blonde wig, but when it comes to her opinions of gays, they are simply bullies in red gowns. 

Bravo is owned by gay men, including Andy Cohen. During Watch What Happens Live, Cohen sat silent while Kenya Moore said the same thing I have been saying about NeNe Leakes. That she is a fraud and has no business calling a man names like "Woman" or "Queen" when gay men sign your checks. 

The fact that Andy Cohen sat there on live television all greased up and indifferent speaks volumes. His rich gay 
Jewish ass isn't here for the Black gay man and isn't here for Blacks to be honest. I have his book and he talks about the Black cleaning lady he had growing up as if she was some sort of caricature. The educated Black woman who handles herself with poise, is not marketable on television. This is why Black women are married to medicine while throwing down poolside. This is why NeNe Leakes and the other Black women on The Apprentice had a war of words and this is why Andy Cohen loves his bulldog NeNe. She does all of his dirty work because she gets paid handsomely. Hmmm....similar to a whore. 

Let's get down to the basics. NeNe Leakes is unhappy. People with over-inflated egos usually are. (Kanye West) Why else would she do everything besides bleaching herself to look like a Blonde white woman? Bravo gave her the HATE YOURSELF prescription. She overdosed. She is jealous of almost everyone around her, especially Kandi. NeNe gets paid to sell the Africans to the White man so they can get shipped off into slavery. She is a sell out. Her nose wasn't good enough for Hollywood but then she soon realized that her talent wasn't good enough either.

A lost soul
Now unemployed but being pimped by Bravo, she instigates situations so that Andy Cohen gets his ratings. How pathetic is that? She's unhappy in her love life, unhappy with her life choices and unhappy with the skin she's in. So why does America glorify her? Why did everyone praise her "make-over" as if White washing yourself makes you attractive? As she played stereotypical mad Black woman roles in a European nose, she rose to fame and everyone applauded. But now, the shit show is over. They see what I have always seen. 

A mess in a dress.
S.O.S. Someone rescue NeNe and the thousands of others like her.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Mirage: A Poem


The gay man is invisible
He's a top
He's a bottom
He's masc
He's fem
What are his stats?
That's all they care about
How fat is that ass?
How big is that dick?
A collection of body parts
He forgets his soul
Because no one asks him
What his interests are
As a kid
He was "Different"
They'd put him in a category
Tease him.
He began to believe
The titles they gave him

But isn't he multifaceted?

Isn't he human?

The rainbow was a mirage
Because all he feels
Is isolation
Not always from the outside
But often, from within
The so called

Sunday, February 2, 2014


-M A S C U L I N I T Y-

Imagine being a boy. Imagine liking other boys. Imagine that as far as you can see, there is no one else like you. Imagine all the other boys liking girls. Imagine how you feel as you realize that who you want, you simply cannot have. Then imagine being told that what you want, is wrong. Imagine being told by your teachers and parents that a boy plays sports. Imagine you hate sports. Imagine kicking the soccer ball into the wrong goal. Imagine being teased every day. Imagine trying to fit in by being more of a "boy" and trying to hide your lisp, all through grade school. Imagine talking to your friends with your hands in your pockets to ensure they won't move in a feminine way, as you talk. Imagine an older boy kissing you. Imagine the next day, and how invisible he makes you feel by not acknowledging you in front of his buddies. Imagine this happening over and over again. Imagine being gay.

What a difference a summer made. Courtney & I in the background? LOL
Every gay boy has his first crush, and it's almost always on a boy who is on the path to heterosexuality. I remember mine like it was yesterday. He was the only perk in the Hell that was middle school. It was the first day of sixth grade and there was something noticeably different about most of the boys. Many of them had grown an inch over the summer, while others, proudly showcased dirt above their upper lip. There was one boy in particular, who seemed a lot different. I recall the adrenaline rush as well as my nervousness around him. Damn....His voice, deeper. His eyes, sharper. His chest, harder. However, none of those attributes competed with the wet dream that were his lips. So red, so wet, so full for a white boy.
And when he smiled...
God that smile... 
His name was Ryan Francis. 

I went to an all boys private school. It was a recipe for disaster as I entered middle school and started to enjoy the locker room. (Besides the smell) Everyone started talking about girls around sixth grade, well, almost everyone. There was Courtney, yea, he and I would discuss the latest developments on Dawson's Creek. I didn't know it then, but now I realize why he and I clicked. 

Ryan probably looks like this guy today, at least in my head
I remember, the way I felt around Ryan, especially in phys ed. To watch him on the basketball court, to see his chiseled arms in the locker room. To gaze into his grey eyes in English class, then quickly look away. I noticed the way his straight, dark brown hair, would flirt with his eyebrows. When he laughed, I always dropped my pencil, because my hand would start to shake. It was overkill, how his dimples sat in that olive toned, smooth skin. I loved how he and the other jocks would run around with those lacrosse sticks.
I knew it then, at age eleven and a half, that I liked boys. Not only that, I knew what kind of boys I liked. You see, I wasn't too attracted to Courtney, he was too, well, too much like me. I liked him as a friend. Who else would talk to me about Katie Holmes and that horrid dress she wore on the finale? To those who claim we aren't born this way, let me be a testimony. 

It seems that in the gay world, the desired poster boys are hand delivered from the straight world. You know, it's either the hot White jock or the big bad Black thug. (A lot of White men enjoy the fetishism of the Black man but that's another blog entry.)
Society holds the sweaty super hero with a cape high on a pedestal. Batman and Superman are what we see on TV growing up. Just like heterosexual girls, we are subliminally told that this is what is desirable. This is masculine, this is desirable, therefore this is what you as a gay man will strive to be and what you will desire from others. As far as gay men in my generation, we didn't grow up knowing gay was even normal. We certainly didn't see hot openly gay men on the covers of magazines. We didn't see the Prince kissing another Prince in a Disney movie. We grew up in a heterosexual world, lusting after the boys that the heterosexual world put on pedestals for the heterosexual women.
Programming: The baby-faced alpha male
For me, I unfortunately grew up with boy bands like The Backstreet Boys. They were the symbols of what was hot. So in the gay community, similar images popped up, such as semi-muscled twink types with baby faces. Then there was L.L. Cool J, a hot and tempting bald headed Black man who licked his lips and made panties wet with his almond shaped, bedroom eyes. It was no surprise that for the Black gay community, their symbols of sexy consisted of masculine, thugged out and cocky men who were bad but so smooth with it. (Hand delivered from Black Entertainment Television) There weren't a lot, if any, images close to what my softer, chubby friend Courtney looked like when I was a kid. Nothing against him, it's just that I didn't have any reason to wet dream about anything other than what I was exposed to. You know, the macho models with the chiseled abs on the underwear packets my mom bought for me. I loved when my mom bought me new underwear. #LOVED.

I digressed. Sorry.

It was no surprise that the first males I was attracted to were heterosexual. Sorry Boys Scouts of America, but I was attracted to my troop leaders son, Garrett Wilson. (Call me) Like most gays, I grew up surrounded by a different world. I was a palm tree in a forest of pines. Being the minority and not finding Courtney to my liking, the frustration only mounted. I grew up being told that boys play sports, boys like girls and boys don't use the word "honey" unless they are talking about the stuff bees make. (I called my female teacher "HONEY" and my eleven year old self was sent to the head masters office)
Let's just say that I frequently went home with a letter for my parents to sign. SMH

I grew surrounded by what I thought boys were suppose to be like. My classmates played lacrosse and danced with girls at the mixers. This standard was often reiterated by my father, who was a big scary Methodist preacher. So I tried to be what I thought boys were suppose to be. In the process, I hung around a lot of these, "normal" boys and became attracted to them, because after all, they were what I was exposed to. I didn't have a lot of gays around me in high school, I was outnumbered by all the straights. If there were gays around me, I didn't know, because most of them didn't want anyone to know. Naturally, I began to be attracted to the heterosexual male. Not only that, I followed the social norm of being a "boy" and I wore the FUBU, the Timberlands, the Rockawear, the hoody. My mother always reminded me, "This is what the boys are wearing these days." I never wanted to wear what she bought, but I knew I had to. She was a school teacher so she knew what got kids teased. I lived in fear every day of my life. Fear of who I was.

I practiced my trade walk and mean mug in the mirror at home. It was tiresome, because I never got it right. The "switch" of my hips would reappear no matter how rehearsed I was. Masculinity was of utmost importance in the world I existed in, especially in my urban neighborhood. The boys on the block would tease me. You couldn't switch up and down the street if you wanted to go home safely every day. I couldn't be myself. I started to hate myself and beyond that, I hated the guys who I thought I was attracted to. 

One would assume that my White private school and the Black urban neighborhood I lived in were a paradox. They weren't. They both hated who I was and dictated that I was to become someone else. I felt no safer at school than I was in my front yard. I was harassed by the older kids in the locker room at school, and chased down the street in my neighborhood. Masculinity was a means of survival.

Sorry Dawson, "No Fats, No Fems" Aww don't cry

As I went through college, It became a game of finding the downlow trade. I found myself wooed by what I couldn't have. When dealing with the clubs and gay websites, it seemed that "No Fats, No Fems" was a tagline. I often wondered what a rainbow had to do with the gay community, especially since the masculine male was the only thing that got any praise. I had grown to like the alpha male, the "unclockable" male who seems straight but really isn't. That never worked out well because the hot guy on the promenade didn't wink at me, though I swore he did. He was looking at the female behind me, and I blushed for no reason. Guys like him, even if he DID fuck me, wouldn't acknowledge me if he passed me the next day. I damn for sure wasn't allowed to acknowledge him. It didn't matter how beautifully my locks blew in the Atlanta wind, I wasn't a female so his frat brothers had to believe the lie. The lie that I was a stranger to him, never in his bed. So I put masculine guys on a pedestal while they put me in a closet. Where they do that at? EARTH. Even after the humiliation of being invisible after these "downlow" encounters, the challenge, the chase, captivated me. 
But why? 
Dennis Rodman: "DOWNLOW? Yall still doing that?!"
Why was I so attracted to these so-called masculine men who clearly didn't even love THEMSELVES?

I didn't know it then, but I was attracted to my own self hatred. I was spoon fed expectations and those expectations became qualities that I forced on my partners. 

As I roared through my twenties I SLOWLY opened my eyes and finally realized that the Ryan's of the world are simply unattainable. I put down the act, let the lisp go wild and I traded unavailable lacrosse jocks in for conversations about dramas. Don't get me wrong, a hot jock with a lacrosse stick will always get my corn to pop, but it's not all that I am after. I give the Courtney's of the world a chance now, because after all, a boy needs his pillow talk.

Clarity only comes after a blurry cloud of confusion. I lived many years lost in a society that told me who to be, what to like and what to hide. I know now that manhood is expressed in many ways. One doesn't have to dress up in it, if they already have it between their legs. I know who I am now, and this is my version of manhood. Hate it or love it, I am skipping my way down the yellow brick road to the beat of my own drum. Alongside me, Courtney. Because why strive for the Ryan's of Emerald City, when you can have Courtney who has been riding with you, all along.