Some Bodies

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I already know what it is,

and he already knows what we’re doing.

If you wanted this to be something sugary and sweet you could have called a lover, but you didn’t. You called me in the middle of the night knowing that I was going to cancel a whole night’s rest, and fuck up my entire tomorrow in advance.

When I get there, we share a cigarette.
He don’t waste much time stripping down from work clothes. Unlatches his shoes, unzips his trousers. He’s anything but shy and parts of him half-hang out of his underclothes, finally relaxed and free after a long ass day where ain’t nobody said thank you, where ain’t nobody asked our black ass opinions. Folks don’t even look you in the eye.

He says he doesn’t care much. He shows up when he’s supposed to, and clocks out when he’s done. He knows how to get by.

I’m mouthy. I’ve been mouthy and I’ll be mouthy until my time here on this earth is about done and that’ll probably be the reason I leave. Too much mouth for the job,

but just enough for him.

He knows better than to listen too carefully when I fake complain about getting his call after midnight. He smiles while I rant and pulls one more cigarette from the pack and lights it with a loose match he retrieves from his trouser pocket. We share this one too.

He only tells me about his day if I ask specifics, and he only answers in two or three words at a time if he has to.

What he will do is let me talk endlessly about whatever the hell I’d like ’cause I’m the one who left my apartment after midnight. and even if he lays around almost dressed, he never rushes me into anything, even though we both work early tomorrow.

I think he’d be alright if I just came by to smoke all of his cigarettes, so long as I looked him in the eye and made him feel like a person while I did it. Let him know I see him there looking good and smelling like work.

Remind him I know his middle name, and that I know he ain’t really moving back to where he came from.

He ain’t going back to dating yellow girls from good families and smiling pretty when they talk about children’s names.

Ain’t nothing back there.

and shit, not much here either.

But at least here, for just a couple hours after we smoke and do grown things men do, but never with each other, he feels like somebody,

and maybe I feel like somebody too.

Existential Head.

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You’d like it, but you don’t really need it.

And he’s cool, but you don’t really like him.
He’s pretty, but he’s not all that pretty

You’ve met him before but don’t really know him.

But still you two get together at his dusty ass apartment. Hardly any furniture. A raggedy ass couch and a television on top of a dresser, that kinda shit.

You roll a blunt, but don’t really smoke much.
He pours something to drink, and you don’t really drink much.
He puts on a movie y’all won’t really watch

’cause y’all settled on watching something neither of y’all care about.

Fake watching,
Fake caring,

Almost out of nowhere,

Without warning, he pulls out what he’s packing beneath his faded boxer briefs.
Long and thick, half-hard;he kinda thought this out, but not really.

But what the fuck are you gonna do? Ask him to put it away? Leave?
You didn’t come here to watch this damn movie, no way.

You pull yours out too.

Play with it a bit.
Get it to stiffen up.

Watch him play with his and he watches you play around with yours.
Soon, he’ll play around with yours and you’ll watch him as you play around with his.

It’s all light stuff, nothing you couldn’t have don’e yourself at home, but there you are , and here he is, and in what seems like a split second, and an assertion instead of permission, he wraps his eager lips over your almost hardened shaft.

And you just go with it.

You didn’t really want it but who the fuck turns down head?
There are other things you could have been doing right now, this isn’t your best use of time. While he’s there salivating on your semi-excited parts, you consider those things.

There’s homework you’re behind on.
There’s a test you wont be prepared for.
You compare this head to the kind you got back when you were with what’s-her-name. She was good, but you weren’t feeling it.

And so you thought you should try it with guys.

Not that you’re gay or anything, fuck that, not that there’s anything wrong with it, you just aren’t.

You’re figuring shit out. We all are.

And you don’t like guys, you just like the sex, and not this sex specifically, but you’re sure you’d find someone, some guy even, to have the sex you’d like.

A year or so before what’s-her-name, it could have happened. You found a guy, didn’t know him well, exchanged messages, and pictures. He was lowkey, but cute – nice smile, good features, you remember him? You two texted everyday for a week and a half. You thought this made sense. you wouldn’t marry him or nothing. The two of you could just stay low and build together. Keep the world out of your business.

By the second week, the texts stop coming in as fast and by the third, you weren’t texting at all.

You texted him when you relationship with what’s-her-name fell through; that shit wasn’t gonna last anyway.

He didn’t respond to your text.
You text again a week later.
Nothing, still.
You text him a month after that.
Not a goddam thing.

You’re confused as hell, making sense of shit as best as you can. What the fuck happened? The two of you hadn’t even fucked yet.

So you try and fuck everything else. You fuck anyone who responds and always plan it before the end of the week.

And so there you are, on someone’s raggedy ass couch. Their head bobbing up and down between your legs.

Your head is anywhere else.

Like Them Thick Boys

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Ain’t nothin’ in the world like them thick boys.

The ones that kinda waddle when they walk, or take a little extra time putting their jeans back on in the morning, right before they go wherever the hell they came from.

Prolly, hell.

Sent here just to tempt me in mine own life. Same way Lucifer told Jesus all the kingdoms could be his if he would just bow unto Satan, These boys – thighs wide and edible – look you right in the eye and tell you, “all of this can be yours if you just bow to me,”

and I do.

I absolutely do.

They ain’t even finish that sentence all the way before I give em’ half of every damn thing I got, hoping for a fraction of what they’re working with; hoping to feel the weight of their world on my shoulders.

Ain’t nothing like a thick boy.

They hug better.

More to hold onto when the world gets cold.

They eat good, and cook good, and can give you a mouthful if you’d just ask em’ nicely..

Thick ones are the freaky ones too, but you ain’t heard it from me. Usually raised good and picked on growing up, but ready to be loved right, and wrong, and fast, and good.

You’ve got to treat thick boys right.

’cause we don’t say it a lot, ’cause folks will look at you funny, but deep down, everyone wants a thick boy.

Thick boys have their options.

Someone will love em’ good.
Someone will feed em’ good.
Someone will fuck em’ good.

And I promise, your thick boy won’t think twice about you; but you ain’t never gonna forget about that one time you had a thick boy.

‘Cause ain’t nothin’ in the world like them thick boys.



The One(s)

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Compatibility and chemistry are nice

and I’m open to the idea that I’m old-fashioned, but I still believe in ‘the one’.

…..I’m also believer in the one after,
And chances are there were a few before him,
And if I’m doing it right, there will be a handful later on.

I met two ones, once – Almost at the same time, and they never found out about the other cause no one wants to hear they’re one of two; people are sensitive.

Maybe I’ll find one 20 years from now and settle down someplace – start living right.

Maybe I met the one five years ago and messed it up, and it won’t hit me until five years from now while I’m eating cold cereal with no milk for dinner.

I met one who taught me something I needed to know to get me where I was going,
and I met another one right after who taught me what I needed to know when I got there.

And when I was done heading wherever I went next, I met another one. He wasn’t a long one, but he was plenty long enough.

There’s one that calls me every couple of years,
Hoping I’ve gown up,
Hoping I’ll slow down,
And I haven’t,
And I might not.

And that doesn’t seem to stop him none.
Like clockwork, he’ll call me again,
Get him a few more ones between then,

and we’ll talk about ’em all when we see each other again,

There was one I wouldn’t talk to twice if it was up to me,

And there was one I wouldn’t have talked to once if I had been a little wiser.

There was one that could have been, but I wasn’t ready,
And there were a few ones that couldn’t have been ready for me.

There was one who stayed and got comfortable when he should have probably kept his shoes on.
And there was one who left a little earlier than expected – Didn’t even give me a warning.

I can’t always make sense of the one(s). I’d run myself crazy even trying.

I know they showed upright when they were supposed to.
They taught me what I needed to know to get me wherever I was going,

and I don’t quite know where that is, but I know I can’t get there carrying a bunch of ones.

No. Actually Let’s Talk About How That Year Ended.


This is me minding my damn business in someone’s mountains. We all heal differently.

I’m not doing a recap on the year. You lived through 2017. You already know what’s up. Let’s move right along.

I did take a chance and submitted my work into a (queer) magazine with hopes of getting things published. Guess who the fuck got his first rejection letter? Yuuup.

I don’t get em’ often, so anytime I do get one the event becomes a national (and mostly personal) travesty.

I’m not gonna be that sour loser who just believes his work is the best. I think “best” is entirely relative. Here’s what I know:

I know I love what I do, and after the first night of receiving the rejection letter I stayed up and plotted new ways to do the work that I know I love doing.

I didn’t “come out” so that I could hold hands with some boy who didn’t love me or himself. Fuck that shit.

I came out and left the world I knew so I could do this work I couldn’t let the thick layer of shame prevail when I wrote about life and sexuality. I’ve been writing about love and life and sex and all those things in between since 2011, and I had been writing for hobby years before that.

I love creating shit that is queer, and brown, and sexual, and thoughtful, and funny, and real, even if it’s absolutely wrongPeople don’t do real shit anymore. Some mornings I’m up before the sun, designing new ways to do the work I love. I’m studying as many masters as I can, ingesting as many books, talks, podcasts and etc. as time allows.

I love the work I get to do with my time alive.

So when failure hit, it shook me all the way the fuck up.

I skipped sleeping. I hardly ate. I’m that kind of crazy.
A friend of mine insisted I come out to visit her in Colorado.

I went to unclog, if you will. See some mountains, breath some rarefied air. Didn’t smoke legalized marijuana. I don’t smoke. Visited book stores. Reminded myself the world is absolutely mesmerizing as it is. I am too. I drank a bunch. I threw up a dozen times on the flight back. It was excellent.

I have returned, and I look forward to putting out even more work and finding even more ways to do work that I thoroughly enjoy.

I appreciate all the folks who keep up with (or accidentally stumble into) the work I produce. I hope everyone manages to find work in this life that they are willing to fail at and still show up to do the next morning.

It might not be glamorous, but it’s real. May you all go do some real shit.





Ole’ Nasty Prison Letters

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On the top shelf.
In a shoe box for a brand of shoes he’s never even heard of, underneath a bunch on clip-on earrings, some even the size of a toddlers fist, organized in no type of way

That’s where Bernard’s mamma kept those letters from some man in someone’s prison claiming that he’s innocent and claiming that he loves her and can’t wait until they see each other.

Bernard usually skips over he first couple lines, sometimes even the first page-or-so;  it’s all sentimental stuff, total bullshit. Kids, and especially the sneaky ones, have a fine-tuned bullshit detector. They lose it with time and enough pat conversations, and later, sterile relationships, or worse, loveless marriages, but sneaky kids can spot some bullshit in no time. To Bernard, most of this prisoners whole first page of his most recent letter was bullshit.

I just want to hold you in my arms, was one reoccurring line.
I want to love you like you’ve never been loved was another unspecific one.
Run my hands in your hair, he included for romantic measure like Bernard’s mama ain’t wear a whole damn wig.

The good parts always started after the intense scribble of three letters written on the yellow office paper so hard, the pen could have gone right through to the other side,

XXX” it read and underneath these three letters was when it all got good and real.

Lines about the way she taste like vanilla between her legs, and how he wanted to spend all night sampling her flavors.

The prisoner had to be hung real nice they way he bragged about his own dick, which was as often as he could. In some lines, he talked about her riding on it, sucking on it, like a lollipop (all his words), having it between her titties so he could stroke himself between her.

If Bernard could infer a damn thing about thing letter it was that prison makes you downright freaky.

All this talk of how this prisoner wanted a wet tongue to play around in his hole, and how he’d only be sure to return the favor (a felon and a gentleman, he claimed). The way he begged Bernard’s mother to drip all of her juices onto him, or spank him, not too hard, but not too soft neither; teach him a lesson that the correction facility couldn’t.

It was a lot for Bernard to envision. His mother, a God-fearing and resilient alto of Bethesda AME church. The same woman who knew any scripture involving obedience by heart, also knew exactly how to make grown men beg.

Bernard didn’t even bother envisioning his mother taking part in the vicious and voracious sexual acts. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the idea that his own mother might be a woman who was wanted. The same woman who wore oversized t-shirts around the apartment, the same woman who claimed God provided for all things, was the same woman a man wanted to undress, explore deep, and be able to taste off his fingertips the next morning.

Bernard’s mother wasn’t just a mother. She was also a woman who ran through a man’s mind and in his fantasies.

Knowing better than to ever speak of it, he folded the pale yellow papers and placed it into the box beneath the pile of earrings. He’d return the following month to see if there might be a new one – advances in this sort of love.

Bernard never returned for the purpose of being aroused. Although the letters helped him work on his dirty vocabulary when he and the other boys talked about sex as best as boys new to puberty could.

He read for evidence that his mother, holy and plain as she was, was still a woman.


Top Of The Morning


I almost religiously start and end every day drawing erotic comics or illustrations.

How good am I? ehhhhh, results vary.
Am I having an excellent time? Oh, absolutely.

There is no pressure to try to turn any of this into anything in particular.
I am a lover of comics and cartoons, and my favorite part of adulthood is being grown enough to sit in my damn apartment that I am paying rent for and drawing some erotic shit.

No matter how difficult the day might attempt to be, I can look life in the face, smile at it and let it know that at about 9:00pm, I will be continuing a series of drawings inspired by fine ass black men and bazooka joe bubble gum cartoons and there’s nothing you can do about that.

Starting here also makes the day more tolerable. It’s an inexpensive habit compared to, say, crack cocaine. I don’t start the day with a drink, I don’t start with a cigarette, I get a cup of coffee, I sit my ass down and I draw some illustrations.

It keeps me sane.
It also keeps me from fucking with the wrong dudes. Ain’t no man prettier than anything I can learn to draw, and with enough practice, I can make these men do damn near whatever I want, and hint: nobody is safe.

Cute guy from astrology class inspired a few drawings.
So did the guy who sat in front of me for a few English classes. So handsome, so brown, perfectly black nose, cute butt. I stare when he tells me about a new tattoo he got, flexing his printed bicep, showing me a new piece on his brown abs.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. I like this. Keep it up.

I will go back to my apartment. Light a candle I paid too much for, but still felt necessary. Sharpen my pencil (not a euphemism, I will literally sharpen a pencil. I will not masturbate). I will relive him however I want. Always erotic, never explicit.

I have exactly what I want in this one wild life.
I don’t actually need him. I don’t want to hear him talk about how he’s finishing his tattoos with with his student loans. I don’t want to watch him chew with his mouth open over a fancy dinner. I’ll take my moment. That’s all I need; one moment.

I’ll handle the rest tonight or tomorrow morning.

L Ohhhhhh L!

NOTE FROM ME: I was raised right, so I like to warn you if the content in the next post might be a little on the mature end for your eyes. In this case it is. Now sex is beautiful and pain is real, and you can do what you want with your one wild life, but if you read it, you’re gonna come across a little bit of both. If I’m doing my job right, you’re gonna be a little better for it. 

Either way, enjoy. This post is mature. Be mature. 

Untitled-3His name is Ellison, but his sisters call him Ellis and his friends call him El, or just “L” if they’re hitting him up over text or he’s using one of those dating apps that help men needing a little bit of fun in their lives.

Age:  The broker part of his 20’s

Weight: Height and Weight proportional (HWP) but that’s being modest, really, the actual answers are tall as hell and big all around the shoulders.

Hobbies: 420 (you can hit him up if you’re trying to match). Video games, just chillin’, laying low

What’s he looking for?: Friends, maybe a smoke bud, wouldn’t mind if things moved into more, but he’s good either way.

Ellis was looking for the pretty ones. He liked the pretty ones and the prettier the better. He didn’t mind the ones who walked hard or talked loud. He didn’t mind the ones who took a long time in the bathroom mirror the next morning on their way out. He liked the ones who took care of their hands and toes, soft-skinned and hairless. L ain’t mind none of that.

His friends, ashy men, who liked women but didn’t love them right, knew L occasionally didn’t mind what they referred to between themselves as sissy niggas, and L liked a “sissy nigga” just as much as he liked a bad woman.

L didn’t care what hung between their legs – A little something extra didn’t matter. A little less was perfectly fine, and nothing at all was cool too. L didn’t worry about that none. He just liked em’ soft and pretty.

He liked thick hips. He liked long hair, he liked wet and full pouting lips either the kind that rested under a nose, or between a set of meaty thighs. L liked what he liked and he didn’t care who liked it. At any time, he could be staring at a bouncing, backside in a filled out sundress, or spying on the switch of a man that liked the way L watched.


And nobody asked L about a damn thing.
Because it wasn’t none of their business.

And maybe L’s friends would whisper to one another, but nothing out loud and never anything that would change him for the better.

And so L went about his business, conducting it with damn near everyone and anyone he pleased, and my God did he please.

One time it was a thick yellow women in his accounting class.
Another time with a brown boy, real wide in the back with glitter on his face.
Another time with it was two girls, new to college, hardly old enough to buy a pack of cigarettes, and wanting to try something new, together and with him, and long story short, they were all happy.

He ran through the boy working drive thru,
and slid into a church girl with neon curl rods in her hair, and questions in her head about who God really is after she and L smoked together.

L never lacked company, and that was on the count of his “gift to the masses”. While his friends lied about how perfectly they could fill out their baggy sweatpants, L knew what he worked with; for L and his lovers, life and death existed in the power of his tongue.

Night after night, sometimes five and six nights a week (and at one point during the summer, damn near every night for almost a month) a willing body found itself pressed face-first deep into a mattress, a counter top, couch cushions, plush carpet, bathroom tiles, or cold garage cement. An ass would be spread open and lifted as close to heaven as it could be while still doing earthly good.

L explored deep and wide as he could, knowing parts and places that made men moan. His wild tongue got friendly in places that made women wet. L would do it like it was his last supper before crucifixion, and his first meal after a long fast.

“L!” every weakened and trembling voice would call out, “Ohhhh L!”

And like picking a lock using only the top of his tongue, L knew just how to unlock delight, pleasure and dare I say freedom, on just about everybody’s body.

L wasn’t a novice to a good stroke either. With his hands on the smallest part of his partners waist, he’d push into them slow and deep as he wanted. Each partner making them self the sacrifice after a perfect anilingus performance from his miraculous and perhaps healing tongue.

Women and men talked about the work of his tongue like it was legendary.

Beauty supply stores and salons were good for hosting a few of his past lovers long enough to swap stories, compare details, and entice curious eavesdroppers and envious busybodies.

Men who didn’t like men knew their women liked L, and even in the unlikely event L’s friends brought their girlfriends to smoke sessions, or to hang out, they watched as their women chatted up, flirted up, and talked up L in hopes to be eaten up.

Everyone wanted what L had to give, and if they didn’t want it, they wanted someone who did.

Eventually, what L wanted didn’t matter much.

When the tall tale got large enough, enough tail shimmied out of denim jeans, sometimes before L could close the door behind him, full brown bottoms displayed and presented before him even before a ‘how are you?’


They knew what they wanted before they showed up,

He knew what it was when they walked in.

Discussion wasn’t necessary.

And objection would be awkward.


So just like that, L went to work doing what he was perhaps created to do – who are we to judge anyone’s ministry?

On his knees and in between unfamiliar legs once again; Their pleasure became his duty. Their orgasm became his mission. Their “legend” became his damnation.

Sometimes while he ate and sucked the nectar out of them, his wandering hand toyed with himself, hoping to rush the moment to completion so that he could send them home and sit with himself and roll a blunt he wouldn’t have to share.

With enough effort and fiddling around in the right spots, eventually,

They’d finish.

He’d finish.

Sometimes afterwards, there was small talk.

and sometimes he would ask a subtle and unconcerned, “so what you doing tomorrow?”

And without listening to the answer, he would tie his hair down for the night, and move to the bathroom to brush their taste out of his mouth.

Sometimes him and his piece for the night didn’t look at each other much after everything was done. They checked their phones and maybe wished they were anywhere but that room. Dismissed by L’s fake yawn, the lovers would leave until they wanted his magic all over again.

And L would have em’ over, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted the company.
Because L wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Someone that held or someone he could hold?

Someone who wanted more than the stories they’d been told?

Maybe something real? Something warm? Someone whole?


Yes, that boy could eat an ass, but that ain’t gonna feed his soul.

Dark Boy


Honestly, Dark boy would prolly love anyone who loved him back right. In every good and bad way possible, he had no preference.

He liked pretty boys who didn’t really talk about nothing.

He liked boys who were a little rough around their edges and mama’s ain’t know who they were really kissing when they stayed out so long.

He liked boys who ain’t liked boys before.

He liked boys who ain’t liked themselves before.

Dark boy liked a little bit of everybody, and a little bit of everybody  liked or made some type of love to Dark Boy, because while Dark Boy might have been a whole lotta problems, he was beautiful in the way young boys like; Big curious eyes, bushy-browed, a face something like your daddy might have had back in the day, skin glowing a warm yellow-brown, high yellow like we call em’ in the south, but in the city, the call him lightskinned, and all the young boys lightskinned.

But wait. If he’s yellow, why do they call him Dark Boy?
You might be asking, to which I’d say you’d have to look a little deeper.

Dark boy was dark somewhere else, like maybe in his soul instead of his skin, and men didn’t mind at first. They even called it mysterious, until they eventually called him crazy, and then never called him at all, leaving Dark Boy even more mopey, more cynical, and somehow, even more disappointed than before. Dark Boy got in the habit of never telling his friends how long he was seeing so-and-so, but instead telling them how long until so-and-so stops seeing him.

Dark Boy wore his disappointment something like an itchy pair of drawers he just wouldn’t change, doing things with boys hoping they’d stay. Wondering where the hell they went when they left, and how long they’d be gone. He’d wonder who those men loved before they found him, and most disturbingly, he’d fantasize about they way these men would eventually leave him too.

Don’t get me wrong, Dark Boy did whatever the hell he could to keep men around – Working two jobs and paying a broke nigga’s phone bill. Cooking and feeding men who waited for their job interview to call back, letting em’ taste all his secret places, even on the first night.

One man spent four nights in a row calling Dark Boy all the things Dark Boy wanted to hear. He whispered all of the hot and right things to him. Pushed himself deep into Dark Boy night after night right in front of the only window in the apartment; let most of 23rd street watch Dark Boy flail in bursts of pain and sometimes even pleasure over the lively street.

On the fifth night this lover asked Dark Boy if he could invite a friend in on their arrangement and without giving a firm yes or no, but giving a relentless willingness to please, Dark Boy found himself between two men who he figured probably loved each other more than either would ever love him.

Nobody called on the sixth night,

and by the seventh, the lover and his friend were all just an embarrassing memory Dark Boy wouldn’t mention again.

Instead, Dark Boy would carry the moment in his back pocket, let the disappointment weigh on his soul like the disappointments always did.

He’d show up on yet another date, drink with another man who would find his misery mysterious and call him all the things he wanted to hear; whisper all the hot and right things to him.

Make him forget, even for a few days,  how much disappointment weighs.



Summa That Good (self) Lovin’

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Y’all don’t use toys? Like, none? At all?

You ain’t played with yourself in the mirror just to see what you’d look like in your favorite outfit and then watched you take it off slowly and just for you?

You ain’t try to make eyes with yourself and let you know that at the end of a long day, you’re still the first thing you want?

You ain’t watch your favorite parts move and jiggle to a rhythm you make for a dance you’re doing with yourself to music only you can hear?

You ain’t seen your unspeakable parts, close up, uncovered, or partly revealed, maybe even winking at you like they’re trying to flirt?

You ain’t listen to yourself beg for more of what only you can give you, and you ain’t deliver every single time?

You ain’t asked you for more?
You ain’t asked for it harder?
You ain’t listened to the way you sound when you crave your own self?

You ain’t explore yourself like uncharted terrain and make note of what you discover for research purposes?

You ain’t been bored in a crowd and make yourself a promise that you’ll show you a good time when you get home?

You ain’t turn your phone off and burn your favorite candles? The ones you only use for special occasions?

You ain’t a special occasion?