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

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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?

Go and Come

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“I got a new car…” he mentioned after we had sex, which was unnecessary information, since we already had sex.

That’s information you share with someone to convince them to have sex with you.

And we already had sex.
So now you’re just bragging.
And nobody likes a bragger.
Frankly, I hardly like a you.

and yet, here you are,
but now I’ve come

To my senses.

Please leave.

I do not actually care about how your mother is doing. You will not remember which classes i’m taking this semester. Our astrological signs will tell you nothing about us that I cannot tell you myself.

And while I don’t see our future,
I see mine, and I think that’s indication enough that whatever this is has finished,

and now you can go wherever it is you come from and come with anyone else who is impressed with your new car, because I am not.

and I got a new car simply means I don’t have to call you an Uber.

You Can’t Just Stick it Anywhere You Can Put It

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I don’t know much about science, but I know this:

Any part of my body capable of receiving pleasure ain’t that deep or far or hidden away in my body.

A determined tongue or a curious finger will get the job done perfectly. Take my word, i’m learning me quite well.

What does all of that mean?

That means after a few inches in, we’re doing something other than having sex. We have moved beyond the place of pleasure and are disqualified from calling what we’re doing “making love”

After a certain point, we ain’t doing this just because it feels good.
You’ve got a vendetta. You’ve got something to prove.

You’re mad at someone, or something and you think you’re about to take it out here, and on me.

You will do no such thing.

You’re upset that your pappy went to the grocery store and ain’t ever come back.
And that’s a shame,
But my openings are not the place where you will solve your problems.

I know you hated that time you caught your mother and your pastor doing things both of em’ told you not to do.
May your soul find itself a healing,
but you won’t be causing me that kind of pain.

I don’t know who told you the answers to your problems were buried damn near 10 inches into my asshole or somewhere in my esophagus, but that is not true.

The answer is somewhere in you.
And you ain’t even tried looking for it.
Not a lick of experience looking within your damn self,

and you think you’re about to find something here?
In me?

No sir.

And not to yuck any of your yum. There ain’t nothing wrong with a little soul-searching with willing vessel. I use to like it myself from time-to-time.

There’s someone who is gonna let you look for whatever you want
however you need
and wherever you’d like.

But that person isn’t me.

Find someone who wants to hurt like you you’ve been hurt.

You can find someone who will call all your pain their pleasure and ache in places you ain’t ready to hurt in, yet.

Make sense of yourself all up inside someone else.
Make em’ walk crooked and call it whatever you’d like but don’t call it love.

Love don’t do that.

And right now you’re disrespecting the love I like to make.

 

Smile, even.

Listen to me: You have to make the open relationship sound like his idea.

Let him watch joggers run up and down the warm road in the middle of the summer. Say nothing. Smile, even.

Indulge the way he politely makes conversation with people whose names neither of your will remember. Watch these people light up when they feel seen.

Say nothing. Smile, even.

Never be offended when he rants too long about a celebrity he will never meet.
Say nothing. Smile, even.

Meanwhile, live.

Lock eyes with the man on the bus reading his book about something he grabbed just to look impressive, but say nothing. Smile even.

Let the young man bagging your groceries make a joke just to have what seems like the basic part of a conversation.

Say nothing. Smile, even.

Pay too close attention to the man who takes his dog on a walk near your apartment every morning as you head out. The earth still quiet and the day ahead might be rough, and still the way he says good morning warms you.

Say nothing. Smile, even.

When the one you love comes in with a suggestion – an addition to what he believes is an already perfect relationship – gasp, widen your eyes like the thought has never crossed your mind,
cross your legs,
cross your heart, and claim you have never even considered.

Smile, even.

Let him suggest the terms.

You veto things and make adjustments.
You veto things and make adjustments.
You veto things and make adjustments.

Now is not the time to say nothing,
be clear.

Let him tell you how he loves the way your mind is so open. Let him tell you how you are nothing like the men he’s loved before – all of which were clingy, fearful, and perhaps boring.

Say nothing. Smile, even.

Save the conversation for the man on the bus; glancing and turning the pages of his book about something he grabbed just to look impressive. Make a conversation.

Keep the talk small, let him feel impressive,
let him talk about his life – the details all excessive.
Agree to meet him later – somewhere suggestive.
Walk between the line of being coy and too aggressive.

Save your wit and quip for the young man bagging groceries. His one-liners punchy and begging for return and reciprocation beyond humor. Deliver. Laugh. Claim he is good company and that drinks, at his convenience, are on you.

Save your best Good morning for the man who takes his dog on a walk near your apartment.

…..Greet the dog first.

Let him tickle the spots between your fingers with his tongue, stroke his disheveled hair, tousle his ears.

The morning is still quiet and willing to keep some of our best secrets.

When the one you love asks you “how was your day?” tell him about work, talk about what you read in the news, how the rain might have caught you off guard – things people who love out of habit discuss.

Watch him scan your face for irregularities:
A wider smile,
Life in your eyes again,

Watch him study you for differences,
Newness,
A lighter step than usual,
Unprovoked laughter.

Watch him say nothing.
Watch him smile, even.

N*gger C*ck

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“You know, before last year I didn’t even find black men attractive,” a pale coworker said hoping to earn gold stars, which I keep forgetting to carry with me.

If I did, she could have one. I’d put it right on her forehead. I move the disheveled hair she thinks looks like free-forming dreadlocks (but they’re not, because bone straight hair can’t lock up. Ever. Under any circumstance. Your hair is unwashed. It is held together by its own oils and greases and not in the sensual Mediterranean way, but in the “your suburban parents are paying your rent every month” way).

I won’t even find the energy to tell you about the yoga class she teaches weekly at a place I have no intention of visiting on purpose.

For the rest of this piece, we can call her Sherry, which isn’t her name, but it’s close.

“I keep wanting to call you Markus for some reason,” she says right before she asks me to grab something in her arms reach.

That reason, Sherry, is racism. Absolute and blatant racism. Let’s move along.

Sherry is currently seeing a black guy.

She’s told me his name, but I rightfully question the accuracy of that information.

Also, I’m using the word ‘seeing‘ because it’s the shortest variation of what they’re doing that wouldn’t require me to lie.

They aren’t lovers; they don’t love each other

They aren’t dating; They don’t go anywhere to date.

I’d call them fuckers, but that could get lost in interpretation, so “seeing” works on the most practical level possible.

They are physically seeing one another with their eyes, and maybe not that either, but for now, seeing works.

Sherry (who without cultures of brown people, would have no idea how to style her hair or what to teach weekly to other white women in their 20’s who care little of mindfulness) was seeing this man. How often? I don’t know. How serious? ehh..

“It’s the best sex I’ve ever had.” She confessed and while I love the openness of sexuality, I’m also a lover of time and place. That time should be not on the clock  that place should be not during my modest job at the bookstore.

Sherry doesn’t seem to care. Why should she? She’s having a moral dilemma and why should this world operate in perfect order despite her complication?

It isn’t okay, Sherry. Keep telling me about the parts of your life I never asked to hear.

Sherry convinces me she’s not racist by repeating “I’m not racist or anything, but…” before a smooth 40% of every statement she makes.

As a Negro, I translate that to “I’m racist AND…”

Try it yourself. The sentences work together and transition seamlessly:

  • I’m racist AND black people get an attitude when I touch their hair.
  • I’m racist AND I feel uncomfortable when Black people converse with each other and I feel excluded.
  • I’m racist AND my family is.

See? Easy.
Sherry goes on describing the sex, not in extreme detail, but in enough details to need to lower the tone of her conversation. She uses that tone we use to share personal information with one another that could easily incite judgement. I’d argue this tone works best with consenting sharers and listeners, but here we are.

 

The rhythm of the sex befuddles her.

The pace was a new discovery.

She had never been touched like that.

The positions, there were many,

and the rolling of her eyes during that night and even now as she recalls the details.

 

I’m not a doctor, but I can diagnose this one:

 

You’ve got a case of Nigger Cock, sweetheart.

 

The bad news is it’s deadly.

The Good news is, not for you.

Keep enjoying it.

Demand it.

You deserve it just for being yourself. It’s your birthright.

Simply fuck black men in the privacy of your own home, but pretend you’re deathly disgusted by them in the broad daylight.

 

You might have to feed and clothe your nigger occasionally, but that’s really it. You’re not going to have to do much else. You don’t have to take any interest in what that man does outside of your bedroom. Worry not your poorly dreadlocked head little Caucasoid queen, you can have him as long as you need him. Maybe even tell your friends about him. Treat him like your best kept secret. Suggest your friends find some Nigger cock of their own.

 

Nigger Cock is contagious.

 

And should you ever want to put an end to the meetings,

should it ever become too complicated,

should you ever feel unsafe,

or bored,

or should the dreaded controversy arise,

 

simply cry rape.

They’ve Fucked Before.

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Their legs are too close together under the table.
One guy hangs on the other man’s word as if it’s gospel.

They both notice too hard when I walk to my table.

They’ve fucked before.
I don’t know if they’re open about it, but they’re fucking.

Are you sure they’re… 

Bitch. yes. Trust me. They are fucking each other. I’m going to go so far as to say they sex is pretty good. Not good enough to start introducing anyone to parents, but definitely good enough to spend a Saturday evening together in the coffee shop.

They’re both handsome.

Not unrealistically handsome, either. I hate that shit. When two perfectly attractive men are clearly involved with one another. I’m open tot he idea that I’m a hater, but something about attractive gay couples is so boring to me.

Accidentally handsome? I like that. Building your physique to match the image of beauty given to you by the ‘muscle hunk’ section of pornhub? Boring.

These two men are handsome.

They’re brown and almost completely unaware that life around them is occurring – that’s sexy and tough to do at the same time.

While one types behind his laptop, the other pretends to work, occasionally peering over while he caresses his own neck.

That’s the giveaway.

They’ve fucked before.

Maybe he’s just scratching his neck…

Maybe you should shut the fuck up. If I had a mutant ability it would be this. I read body language and eye contact. I can tell you anything you need to know about a person if I can observe these two things. This skill would not help me fight crime. At all. I’d be a terrible asset to the X-men.

This skill always makes for great writing material.

One man casually leans into the other. The other man sports a sly smile on his face. His body relaxed into his chair and his legs opened lazily.

Without close inspection, it’s tough to tell whose legs belong to whom- They’re sitting that close. They smile like children getting away with something they might have to answer for later. They do not care.

Their intimacy is unique and strange, and an absolute pleasure to witness. I do not care who fucks who and how.

I just know they’ve fucked before.

Take my word for it.

It’s not Delivery; it’s Discouragement

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“Oh no, honey, I can’t do single life!” said my pizza delivery guy.

You might be wondering why my pizza delivery guy was talking to me about relationships.

I might be wondering why my pizza delivery guy was talking to me about relationships.

No part of this is in his job description. His duty is simple. Bring me my pizza and leave. That’s it. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world is doing a phenomenal job attempting to indoctrinate me on what love is and isn’t, and congress seems to be revising that definition usually to fit a much larger plan, but the last person I need to join in on this is the man who delivers a large pizza to the apartment where I am usually at alone.

Some background:

I get an insane discount from this nearby pizza place. It’s cheaper to order a pizza than it is to cook, so that is exactly what I do. Yes, my body feels like death afterwards, but I knew what I was getting into when I ordered, and I still ordered.

This pizza guy is gay and thinks we have some sort of kinship that goes beyond me ordering pizza. We have no such thing. I like to think I’m making this clear via my body language and usually not tipping, but he seems to be pretty bad at hints.

“So, you go to any clubs around here?” he asked me, out of the blue.

Gay men talking about clubs is the equivalent to straight people saying, “read any good books lately?” or “lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” You’re looking for an excuse to have a conversation. I didn’t disclose my sexuality when ordering my pizza over the phone, so the conversation was unwarranted.

“I don’t. I pretty much stay in my apartment, go to work, and go to class. I’m not really into clubs.” I explained signing off for my pizza.

We then had a lengthy conversation about his favorite club, which he likes, despite the clubs reputation for drugs and police-raids.

He could just give me my pizza and leave – this is definitely typical delivery protocol.

But I’m fake as shit, so I pretend to be interested, then when there’s a break in the conversation, I repeat myself, verbatim and explain, I’m really not into clubs.

One visit, I learned the pizza gig was his second job. His first job was at a furniture store.

He learned, somedays, I prefer Alfredo and baby spinach to my usual bacon pizza. It’s hard to write after eating an entire bacon pizza, alone, and the switch makes it easier for me to indulge while still managing to get some writing done.

Another visit I learned he was stressed out from apartment hunting. I live in a pretty small college town. I’m accustomed to bigger city life where usually, you’d welcome the idea of cohabitating with an axe murderer so long as a train could comfortably get you into and out of Manhattan at a reasonable time. I informed him I had little sympathy for his predicament, and took my pizza.

I admit, I could do a lot better in the friend department of my life. Fickle associates, I have something close to three dozen, and tragically, they all think we’re friends, and never question why I’ve never seen them outside of work, or classes, or whatever place obligates our association. I recognize there is a potential friendship that could bud between me and pizza guy, should I desire that.

But I don’t desire that. Please just give me my pizza.

Today was the day he overdid it.

The vigorous and excited knock on my door. The feigned surprise as if I didn’t call in my order almost a half hour earlier, and he doesn’t see me upwards of three times a week.

“I’ve got a date this weekend!” he shared as he handed me my usual bacon pizza. I’ve been in a slight writing slump and I might as well hit rock bottom with some force.

I laughed, not in a, wow that was funny, thank you for sharing, sort of way, but more of a, good fucking luck type of laugh. I signed off for my pizza and grabbed the warm box from his pudgy pale hands.

“sounds great, for you.” I said emphasis on for you, as in, keep that shit over there.

“What? You don’t date?!” He exclaimed.

Sir. You might not know me, but you know enough to know I eat pizza too often and too alone to be actively dating right now.

“Nope, not my thing.” I explained in no further terms.

“Oh no honey, I can’t do single-life,” He shared, “Everyone needs someone,”

That last bit hit me. I don’t know if I felt offended, or if I was just taken aback by how wrong and dumb that sounded. Does everyone need someone? I have a very serious pet peeve about misusing and misdiagnosing the ideas of love.

People are social creatures. Yes. I need to occasionally be out in the world living instead of behind my computer writing and eating discounted pizza, I’ll give you that pizza guy. But do I need a someone to fill that entire void?

Fuck No.

You know what I need right now? My pizza, and perhaps the number to your corporate office, because the person I need right now, and not forever, is your district manager, because I’ve really had enough of you coming to my place of residence and talking to me as if we are friends.

We are not.

I eat pizza.

You deliver pizza.

Those are the dynamics of our relationship.

Anything further is uncalled for and burdensome.