If Lupita Nyong'o were LIGHT SKIN

The standard of beauty in America, has always been debated, fought against and scrutinized. Magazine covers have featured all races and sizes, but the prevalent recurring images of what is bankable, marketable and beautiful, tends to be a slender, White woman or fair skinned person of color.
Black women in America, have not often been celebrated. When a Black woman such as Lupita Nyong'o is intensely celebrated, for her craft and/or beauty, it is usually because of White and/or light skin guilt.

The Oscars are notorious for this. Throughout the years, Black women have only won and been nominated for Oscars because they have played the roles of victims. Halle Berry was victimized by White people and so was Viola Davis. Do I need to mention the others? Monique, Gabourey Sidibe and yes, Hattie McDaniel. The list continues a couple of names more but it is not long. The list of Black actresses who have been nominated and/or won Oscars is so short, that a pattern is sure to emerge. The pattern is that Black people win and get nominated for Oscars by being stereotypes and victims. Guilty White people celebrate them for being hopelessly Black and often exploit their performances of being victimized.

Lupita Nyong'o in 12 Years a Slave

This brings us to the Academy Awards of 2014.

Before anyone got dressed for the ceremony, buzz surrounded a beautiful, statuesque dark skin Kenyan, who wore elegant bright dresses. 12 Years a Slave was the big contender for the Oscars, having nominations in several categories. She was the depressed star of that film.

I couldn't help but be a little cynical about the whole Lupita craze. It seems that for the last decade, there is always ONE chosen Black woman who is nominated out of the sea of White women who don't need any more statues anyway.

Everyone would oooh and ahhh at how BEAUTIFUL and STUNNING this woman was at the award shows she attended. Don't get me wrong, she is GORGEOUS inside and out, but they praised her for her natural look and her dark skin as if she were something they've never seen before. They acted as if no beauty like hers ever graced the earth, sure, a beauty her color rarely walks the red carpet at the Oscars, but to patronize her with ridiculous glorification is telling. Black people spread her image around social media and treated her as if she were some kind of revolutionary, a new Angela Davis who would soon turn the tables. But what tables is she turning? It's not like she is the first brown skin woman with a natural to appear in a movie. What about Leslie Uggams in Roots, Grace Jones in Boomerang, Sophie Okonedo in Hotel Rwanda, or Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost? Oh, bad example, Whoopi was nominated for an Oscar for that role. But then again, she shucked and jived throughout the entire movie opposite sophisticated White people. And let's be honest, Whoopi is ugly as fuck, and it has nothing to do with her darker skin tone.

Would Lupita Nyong'o be as celebrated, if she were light skin with a natural? If she looked like, Solonge Knowles, would Black people put her as high on a pedestal as they have been doing?

You see Black people feel good about saying how beautiful a dark skin woman is, because after all, it makes them feel good about themselves. It is almost seen as blasphemy to speak highly of someone like the light skin Vanessa Williams (there is a dark skin one) while shrugging your shoulders at Lupita. Black people enjoy being victims, and they enjoy hating on light skin celebrities. They love to attribute the success of a light skin Black woman to her "watered down" Blackness, and most of the theories would be accurate, except for one thing;

Black people helped to create this standard of beauty.

And most of the time, light skin is more marketable, more mainstream, we know this. We understand the Beyonce over the Kelly and who has the same exact name but vastly different levels of success.

It is only when the mainstream, or White America, places a dark skin woman with a natural in the limelight, that Black people take notice. The establishment had to put Lupita in a wheelchair, disguised as a pedestal, dress her up in order for us to agree that she is beautiful. We didn't give this same attention to other dark beautiful people who have been in countless movies and have walked on countless runways.

Supermodel Alek Wek

We exaggerate Lupita's beauty and place her in a position of "revolutionary." After all, Lupita took the role of victim and ran with it. She went on a campaign at award shows and discussed the standard of beauty in Hollywood. She can't just be a talented actress who accepts awards as a talented actress. Behold, a dark skin African woman whose mission is to break down barriers and shut down notions of standards of beauty. Black people devour this because we want her to be a victim like us. She can't just be a beautiful woman. She has to have a purpose, she needs to have a cause. She has to carry the burden of being dark skin and she has to acknowledge it in interviews. Halle Berry, though brown skin, had a similar burden. She had to talk about the nameless Black faces. Berry won because of White guilt, Lupita, because of Black guilt, and there is a slight difference. We must exaggerate her beauty and act as if she is unique. We have to say, LOOK AT HER, shes got nappy hair and the White people are giving her awards for being a slave! We have finally made it. We didn't feel that Halle's award was legit because she was bare chested, half White and rode a White man's penis. But we do think that a dark skin Black woman who tells the slave master that she has picked enough cotton is not only worthy of an Oscar, but even MORE worthy. Even if the exploitative level of Black victimization is equivalent. Her award show tour de force, is more worthy because she is Black as night. She's the face of our ever belabored struggle, even though she probably doesn't have American slaves in her ancestry, but looks like our "BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL" propaganda posters.

12 Years a Slave director, Steve McQueen is Black, so is Cheryl Boone Isaacs, President of The Academy, but their hands only move for White people. We celebrate them as if they have taken off our shackles, meanwhile, Angela Bassett has never shopped for a dress. She played powerful roles without feeling bad about herself, roles that were just as dynamic as Meryl Streeps, but as a Black actress, burning cars isn't as Oscar worthy as picking cotton. I digress, but just a little.

Lupita's dark skin seems to be seen as a handicap. Don't get me wrong, darker skin doesn't have as many mainstream advantages as lighter skin in this country, but the way people have posted her up like Obama's rising sun of change, feels patronizing. Sort of like an amputee from the special olympics who dared to compete in the real olympics. We use her to represent us, even though she is not from the same continent we are from and her life experiences are vastly different than that of our own.

Sophie Okonedo from Hotel Rwanda, too light for sympathy

If she were light skin like Sophie Okonedo with a Nebraska accent, no one would give even a quiet damn. She would be a pretty face that Black people are afraid to take notice of and a talented Black actress that Hollywood couldn't make a statement out of.

She's a beautiful and talented woman. She went to Yale for God sakes, it's not like she's a random nobody who got a meal ticket. It is simply apparent to me that her dark skin, natural hair and birth certificate from an African nation, gives her a boost in visibility. They have attached a cause to her, they have given her a burden and she is capitalizing off of it. She is exploited for being the antithesis of beauty while being celebrated for her beauty.

Angelina and baby Lupita

When she won her Oscar for best supporting actresses, she made it a point to play the victim role again. "No matter where you are from, your dreams are valid." It was a very true statement as millions grow up in seemingly impossible conditions where there seems to be no way out. But that line had a purpose. As if there was a debate that anyone's dreams are not valid, she stood there and made it about being African, just like her award was about being a slave. Angelina Jolie looked up at her from the audience like a sympathetic humanitarian, just waiting to adopt her and give her a better life.

I've never seen White people applaud so vigorously before. The White guilt was pathetic. Where was applause like this for the other winners? I can't help but feel that every time a Black actor/actress gets an Oscar, the applause sounds like missionaries who just saved a Malaria victim.

It was refreshing that in the midst of the pity party disguised as a celebration for her, Lupita drew attention to the real historic figure, Patsey, of whom she played.

Dark skin with a burden of validating her skin tone

Lupita is an intelligent, well spoken, dynamic actress who deserves the best roles in Hollywood. However, they have already made her bed. WE have already made her bed. We have given her burdens and made her the poster girl for I'm unconventional and Black as ever, affirm me. You know, what India Airie was at the Grammy's those many years ago.

All I want to know is, when will a dark skin Black woman with a natural simply be another great actress, instead of a speech about the standards of beauty and 15 minutes of White applause?

When will her beauty be less surprising?
The compliments less patronizing?
The awards more diversified for roles more modernized?

When will she be a woman?

Instead of a campaign.

Are we trying to convince Whites, or ourselves? We should know this

Congrats Lupita! Keep your TALENT in the forefront

CHECK PLEASE! ANNOYING DATE QUESTIONS

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. 

WHY ARE YOU SINGLE?

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.

HOW LONG WAS YOUR LONGEST RELATIONSHIP?

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.

WHAT TYPE OF STUFF DO YOU WRITE ABOUT?

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?"

WHAT ARE YOU MIXED WITH?

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.

ARE YOU THE ONLY CHILD?

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

IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT ME?

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.


DO YOU MEET A LOT OF GUYS FROM ONLINE?

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?

DO YOU LIKE POPPERS?


UMMMM............

UHHHHH............


WOW....................



................................


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.

NENE LEAKES IS A FRAUD!

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.

Mirage: A Poem

MIRAGE

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

Judgment 

Not always from the outside

But often, from within

The so called

Community.

MASCULINE: A GAY MANS STRUGGLE

-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

"DON'T CALL ME HONEY!!!! TO THE PRINCIPALS OFFICE NOW!!!!"

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.

ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE

It's your birthday.

Truth be told, you've blown out too many candles

You aren't excited about getting any older

It feels the same.

Though you appear nonchalant

You actually do care.

You care about other people caring...

About your birthday,

Of which you care nothing about.

You wait for the phone calls. You stare at your Facebook notifications.

You want to see that red square with a high number within it. 

Just like when you were a kid, you like this day, because it makes you feel special.

It makes you feel popular.

You want people to show up. You want to be the center of attention for a change.

You want to be rewarded for simply being alive. 

But as you've gotten older, the rewards decrease. Your friends start to have excuses. They can't find a babysitter. They have a 5 p.m. meeting and can't make it for cocktails. You aren't blowing out any candles, because no one bought you a cake. At work, your coworkers present you with a grocery store cupcake. It has a candle stuck in it. They sing happy birthday. 

You can't help but think...

These people are just trying to be nice. They are just following formalities. They don't even know what city I was born in. They never even call to say hello. They walk away when I approach the water cooler.

This has turned into the loneliest day of your life. You just want to feel special, not patronized.

You want to be reassured, that it's a great thing to enter another year of life. After all, there are people around you who know you exist and who want you to continue to exist.

But you aren't even sure that your so-called friends remember your birthday. 

You glance over your text messages as you sit at the bar alone. You wait for a coworker who was nice enough to do happy hour with you for your birthday. They never show up when you invite them out, but this time, they do. They show up because it's your birthday, and they feel that they have to. They show up ten minutes late with a forced smile. The bartender wishes you a happy birthday after your coworker mentions it. 

The bartender offers you a free chocolate cake for desert. 

For thirty years of life, you are only worth a piece of a chocolate cake? 

I wonder what forty will bring. 

Joyce Vincent, Dead 3 years...

Joyce Vincent, was a thirty-eight year old woman, who was found dead in her United Kingdom apartment in 2006. The only thing strange about it, was that she had been dead for over three years. The television was on, and she was surrounded by Christmas gifts that she planned to wrap. Christmas gifts for friends who never even bothered to check on her, for some three years while she lay dead. 

She was a beautiful Black woman. She had an amazing singing voice, had rubbed elbows with celebrities and was engaged to be married. No matter how beautiful and statuesque she was, she still couldn't convince people that her existence mattered. 

You see, Joyce could be any of us. Rich or poor, average or supermodel, we all get lonely. When we were kids, we assumed that life would be full of lively birthday parties. We thought, if mommy loves me, then surely the world does too. Well, high school arrived. We ate the apple and the fig leaf fluttered to the ground. We soon learned, that the friends we thought we had, moved on to a new identity. We discovered that birthday parties were no longer about us. People came to your party based on who was going to be there. You became an afterthought, sometimes not even a thought at all. 

Did someone really buy me a bottle of wine? Everyone knows I don't drink wine.

I guess everyone doesn't know, huh?

Wait, are they drinking the wine they bought for me as a gift? 

Do I have to force drink this wine?

When you left the comfort of home, where wall markings celebrated every inch grown, the world slowly became darker. People fail to notice your new highlights and no one keeps track of your height. So you parade yourself around, hoping to be seen. You go to house parties but unlike the childhood slumber parties of yesteryear, your friends have replaced you with alcohol and erections. 

No one is there to laugh with you, they are there to get drunk and to get laid. 

Formal dinner parties are just awkward. Everyone talks about their careers and your underwear keep riding up your ass. The conversations seem to be rehearsed and you'd rather be in bed watching Parks and Recreation. Instead, you are here, pretending to like her tilapia and tolerating your neighbors pretentious husband. Yes, to be a popular adult, you need to be fake. You need to tolerate. 

As you get older, your birthday means less to your friends, so it means less to you.

They become more interested in the party, than the person blowing out the candles. 

It seems that every year, the faces change around the cake. People aren't as consistent as they once were. 

You can't remember the last time these idiots sat with you on a couch, yet here they are...

With their smart phones taking photos of you for Facebook. 

It seems that social media has become you. This is where you hang out. Mary never responded to my text but I know where to find her. She's on Instagram in front of a mirror. She's more interested in the comments of strangers than remembering to wish you a happy birthday. 

She says to you on Twitter,

"Sorry, I've been swamped with work, but we are hanging out this weekend! Drinks on me!"

You wonder, why couldn't this bitch just call me? 

Come to think of it, no one ever calls you. When they do, they are lost some where and need directions or they have some hot gossip that they just have to tell you.

You could be bleeding out of your rectum, but they never ask how you are doing. They really need to tell you who they saw in the public bathroom. You don't care about the story. You don't even care about the man or woman lying next to you in your bed.

Why did I invite them over? I wasn't even horny. 

You just wanted to feel a warm body. Your apartment seemed lonely. It was just you and Nancy Grace. You and the cat who only looks at you when it wants to be fed. 

Another meaningless hookup and another phone call from someone who has a lot to say, but says nothing at all. 

You are lonely and you don't realize it. 

When you're in a crowded bar, you are lonely. It doesn't matter how many guys hit on you. 

Or how many women laugh at your corny jokes. You just don't feel that camaraderie anymore. The spark isn't there. The familiarity is gone, replaced with acquaintances with busy schedules and an intoxicated interest in your casual conversation. 

When you go to one of your friends housewarmings, you are lonely.

Everyone is so celebratory about their new home, but you don't give a damn. It's not your home. Your friend seems happy to see you but they only stayed at your birthday dinner for twenty minutes. They brought a date who you knew nothing about and now here you are, at their new home, staring at their fiance. 

There are so many new developments, that haven't been explained before hand.

You used to talk about everything together. Now you're awkwardly introduced as the best friend as you notice the absence of your picture any where in the apartment. His photos, however, are everywhere. At least he has a firm handshake. 

Fuck adulthood. People seem to come and go. When they are around, they don't even seem to be there. It's like you have to put on a show just to get someone to show up for the next act. It seems everyone is competing for each others attention, yet they are unaware of an Alexander Graham Bell invention. They are all comedians, philosophers and rebels on a website that makes them all feel important.

Every morning, you wake up with your pillow and you ask yourself, 

"If I didn't wake up, would anyone care to notice?"

You buy all the nice clothes to be noticed. You buy all the gadgets to feel connected. But all anyone notices is the clothes, not you. All you are connected to is web identities with short attention spans.

What happened to the bar where everyone knows your name? What happened to the coffee shop poets? Now it's just latte linguistics. 

There are no friends at Starbucks. Just lonely people on their laptops and tablets, feigning romance with hot overpriced drinks with fancy names.

We live in a world of make believe. We convince ourselves that we are popular because twelve people liked a status about the Seahawks. Sure people think you are funny because they said "LMAO" after one of your text messages. Would they be reeling in laughter had you said this in person? 

None of it is genuine. 

You go to work alone. So you turn on the radio or pop in your favorite CD. 

Maybe you ride the subway and you're surrounded by tons of people, the same people everyday, but you never talk to any of them. Your Ipod prevents you.

We are lonely by choice. 

Who would approach you while you're preoccupied with your touch screen?

The thing is, we are afraid to admit that we are indeed lonely. We are billions of lonely people, pretending to be popular with billions of other lonely people who are doing the same thing. 

You blow out the candles, everyone is clapping, even your sister who you've never seen eye to eye with. 

For that moment, you feel loved. You can't wait to upload the photos they took. People will see, that you are not lonely. That people showed up for you. 

You stare at the photo while you lay in bed. You read the comments from people who never showed up for your birthday because they were too busy. The people who were at the party, don't call you the next day. They don't hang out with you the next weekend.

The bartender doesn't remember you, but you remember how stale that chocolate cake tasted. 

Your sixty-five year old mother gives you a hug, she whispers to you,

Happy Birthday baby.

A tear falls from your eye as flashbacks of pizza and pointy hats fill your mind. 

When she dies, who will wish you a happy birthday like this?

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from? 

THE GAY THINGS, STRAIGHT MEN DO

FOOTBALL

Not long ago, I chilled with a straight guy named Rob, at his bachelors pad. We played beer pong, watched college football and took turns burping. To be honest, I don't give a fuck about football, but the homo eroticism is better than a wam-bam casual encounter from Craigslist. To sit next to a hot, six foot, muscular jock on a couch, while he talks about fucking women.... Is simply divine! Have you ever noticed that football makes straight guys horny? They usually end up fucking their girlfriends or wives after their favorite team wins. I always enjoy being in the room while these heterosexuals get all juiced up over grown men tackling each other over a big hard ball. Sex never happens, the self torture hurts, but the jack off session later is worth it. Wait, I digressed. Sorry.

The straight mans Broadway

Beer pong is fun and burping without saying "excuse me" can be liberating. There is something intimate about guys getting together to watch football. In all actuality, all we are doing is watching a bunch of guys in skin tight pants tackling each other and showing off their bulges. What's even more interesting, is the fact that guys wear the jerseys of their football idols; They passionately cheer them on in their manly way with their buds. Grown men wearing the numbers of their idols, in a room full of other excited guys, where man hugs are exchanged when touchdowns are made... 

Football is extremely gay, both on the field and around the plasma screen. Sports in general promotes a very intimate male camaraderie, but football takes the cake, with its shirtless super fans and man cave tight end watch parties. As a grown man bends over and throws a big brown ball between his legs, millions of other grown men watch that tight ass in HIGH DEFINITION.
And after those Ravens win or lose that game, they hit the showers
Yes, I WILL RSVP THE SUPER BOWL PARTY! 
HELL. THE. FUCK. YES. 

GANGBANG/BUKKAKE

Quiet as it's kept, I've always enjoyed so-called straight porn more than gay porn. Nothing like Belladona getting gang-banged by a bunch of horny prisoners. The male porn star Brian Pumper loves to gang-bang chicks with other guys, one dick in the pussy and the other one in the ass. How gay is that? Two sets of balls slap against each other while they aggressively fuck a big breasted bimbo. Then there's bukkake, which is a bunch of so-called straight guys, standing in a circle, masturbating on a female. You mean to tell me there is nothing gay about a guy standing in front of other guys, jacking off? I don't care how many vagina's are in the room!

Oh the gay things heterosexual men do. 

Lovin' the Crew

When I was a teenager, I would hangout with a lot of straight black guys. It was as if they could only have sex with a girl, if other guys were around. One time they were adamant about fucking some Ethiopian slut in the backseat of my Toyota Corolla. Does fucking a subservient girl with other guys make them feel more dominant? Or is it an excuse to get their rocks off with other guys? I may be mistaken but it seems like the act of gang bang is more prevalent in the black community. Young black men grow up in a hip hop culture where it is deemed "cool" to fuck a girl in the ass. Cool to get a girl who enjoys "LOVING THE CREW" which basically is the act of getting fucked by a guy and all his homies. My question is, if you are already fucking in the ass and already in a room full of other naked dudes with erections, why not fuck a guy in the ass?
I speak for myself, but as a gay man, I could certainly get my rocks off in a gang-bang on a girl if I were surrounded by hot guys with big hard dicks. (Especially if they cheered me on in the way in which they watch football.)
Don't start feeling too sexy ladies, they may be more into each other than they are into you.

JESUS

As a preachers kid I have always found myself surrounded by a shirtless buff White man on a cross, and I found myself strangely turned on by Jesus's six pack.
A bunch of grown men in robes crying, screaming and doing everything but busting nuts over a sexy White man who enjoyed getting his feet washed by twelve groupies is very gay.
This may come across controversial but people take religion way too seriously anyway.
Take a step back and look at the flaming queen on the pulpit, twirling around in a robe, confessing his love for a White male carpenter.
Straight men seem to love getting excited over another man, Whether it be Ray Lewis or Jesus.
"I've got the baddest bitch in the game, wearing my chain!" That's right, Jesus has all these bad male bitches wearing His chain, even if it is technically a graven image.
Holy Communion is the most gay of all, especially in the Catholic and Episcopal churches.
All the men dressed up in their Sunday's best, line up to get a chance to get on their knees and get a wafer fed to them by a grown man in a robe. I often wonder if those priests go commando. I digress.

Aint this some gay shit...

They take those wafers with their tongues and they sip the wine from the chalice with their eyes closed.
Vatican controversy aside, there is a lot of gayness in a religion that claims being gay is an abomination.
So while the straight men sing, play tambourines and idolize powerful men in a Bible absent of powerful women, I'll be jacking off to Michelangelo's David.

FRATERNITIES 

Do I really need to explain this?

This video will do the talking.

I went to a historically Black college, Clark Atlanta University, and let me tell you, the Que's stepping on the yard sometimes got confused with gay porn. Nothing but big burly shirtless black men jumping up and down with their ass cracks showing.

A fraternity is the gayest thing known to man. Look at it in it's entirety.
Once again, straight men love to idolize other men. In a fraternity, they will get themselves branded by other men in a room full of shirtless screaming men. They will do anything for their "brothers" and they often go on retreats for the rest of their lives to a secret location with their brothers. No women allowed.
The fraternal order is male bonding at it's finest. They dance together, scream together and did I mention, they get naked together?
My father told me that during hazing for his fraternity, they would tie a string around your dick and see how much pain you can take.
The fact that a grown man will do ANYTHING to be apart of an orgy of manhood is very homo erotic.
Have you noticed how fraternities are always doing something SHIRTLESS?
Bare chested young men with a passion for male camaraderie is a common theme in the lives of the heterosexual male.