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


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,
A lighter step than usual,
Unprovoked laughter.

Watch him say nothing.
Watch him smile, even.

N*gger C*ck


“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.

Um. No. Don’t Give Me Old Time Religion.

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I am at the place in my life where I’d like to explore spirituality beyond the coercing of my mother, and I refuse to tell her because she’ll think I’m giving my life black to God and let’s be very clear: That’s not what I’m doing.

I’m just trying to recognize that a force beyond myself is at work because I’m only so competent, and I’d like to be able to thank something other than statistics and chance when shit somehow goes right.

My requirements are few and quite simple:

No group that believes they’re exclusively right. If you’re way works for you, congratulations. If my way doesn’t work for you, shut the fuck up. It can all be that simple. If you have found a way that makes your time on earth fulfilling, go practice that way. Bashing anyone else, I imagine, would only take away from the time you could be spending practicing the way you claim makes your life enriching. I’m also deducting your religious group points if you cosign any of the moments your deity told anyone in your squad to kill someone who was minding their business, or take land that people were already happily living on.

No Religious group that thinks I’m finding them out of tragedy. I know the common narrative for a man in his 20’s is I’m supposed to be finding God after being strung out on crack or some other frightening rock-bottom experience. This is not my case. My life is great. I work a job I enjoy. I talk to my parents. Our relationship is good considering we represent two distinctly different groups of black people. I’m healthy. I’m starting to reach the point where I’m recognized for my writing when I run into people I had no idea even read.

My life is going well.

I just know damn well I had almost nothing to do with that.

So I’m trying to develop a practice where I can give God some credit for my life.

No Group that dislikes other people for no explainable reason. I’m not explaining myself beyond that line. If your variation of God doesn’t like people who are gay, poor, immigrants, or have experimental and consensual sex as means of better understanding the human body God gave them, your God can go to hell.

Nothing Ironic. A coffee shop I go to has a day where Atheist get together.  Have no idea what they do. I’m not brave enough for atheism. I’m too black for that shit. Something has to exist, and yes, this contradicts my “don’t tell people how to believe” theory but I’m not telling people how to believe, I’m simply saying mankind RARELY ever gets it right, and yet here we are. That’s pretty amazing, and I don’t think we can take credit for that.

I acknowledge if “God” is way too complex to figure out right this minute, but something has to exist that got me right here, right now, and I don’t have to know all the ins-and-outs to be grateful.

No Religious Group that thinks they know better for my own life than I do. I need you to respect my own journey as unique and ultimately, mine. I think it’s great God told you to get married in your 20’s and have all your kids shortly thereafter. I didn’t get that memo for my life. I’ve felt no inclination to that calling, so no, don’t tell me that’s what God told me to do. I’ll tell you where your God told me you can shove it.

I’m not knocking any religious group or organization, specifically. Although, It’s definitely going to be a polite no thank you to Scientology. I think there’s a lot of overlap between most religions. I’m also aware that there’s room for interpretation in any text that includes words or developed from the spiritual equivalent of hearsay.

I think Jesus had it right with the whole, “God’s plan and my existence are kinda one and the same, but if I try to explain that, y’all bitch asses gon’ try and crucify me

I’m down for Buddha’s Get away from all the fuckery people put on you, find yourself, (spoiler you’ve been you the entire time) and have some sex on the way.

I’m down for Rumi’s, any answer you ever needed has been with you, just shut the fuck up and listen, approach.

And like my interpretation of these great teachers messages, I too need to find a place where I can let my irreverent-self embrace the spiritual experience.

The Intense Stuff


There is nothing romantic about the process behind me fining sexual partners. It’s about as sexy as that last sentence.

It’s calculated, it’s a little cold and to-the-point. I imagine it’s a bit confusing for the perspective candidates who really just sent me some nudes and thought we we’re gonna smash on contact.

But surprise. I have fucking self-restraint.

I’m also very clear about what I want upfront, that’s because at my tender age, I think I’ve experienced too much and I know a little bit of clarity goes a long way when it comes to men, and definitely gay men, but probably men in general.

“I like to bottom.” Explained one guy who I don’t think was being honest about his age.

He didn’t know I already eliminated him as a possibility because if you can’t be honest about your age, I don’t know if you’ll be honest about other important things, like…I don’t know….diseases. I also eliminated him because at his age (and I’m not giving him a day younger than 35, which to me, is fantastic, but you had to go and lie about stupid shit) he should know so much more about his sexual taste than him being a top or bottom. If I wanted to be stuck with that, I’d stay dating 18-year-olds. I swear until you’re about 24 or 25 you identify by how you enjoy your sexual experience. You don’t top or bottom, you ARE a top or bottom. You navigate the world by topness or bottomness. It’s as important as your race and gender. You’re pretty much intersectional.

“Well….I’m a bottom.” You might tell someone when you’ve only really had sex twice and there’s no real way to tell if that’s the team you’ll be joining for the rest of your life. You also won’t tell me how you like to bottom – those are important details. Are you an aggressive bottom? Do you prefer being dominated? Have you had a lot of experience? Are you new to sex in general, and you’re looking to learn something? Details, please, details.

If you can’t give me details, I’ll imagine you aren’t particularly self-aware, if you aren’t self-aware, please don’t have sex with me. Keep having sex with you, and other people living their lives unaware.

“I like big cocks.” You’ll say without knowing that as a black man, the word cock makes me a little uncomfortable. Also I won’t have any idea what you’re talking about for a couple seconds if you talk about “rimming”; we have a whole other word for that where I’m from. And yeah, let’s talk about it, If you use the word cock, and you tell me you like them big, I know that you probably only like black men for their penises.

I won’t dock you any points for this if you can just be honest about that. You work a white-collar job, you’re married to a woman who doesn’t like to have sex with you anymore. All you have in your life is money and you feel empty. You use to be exciting and now your favorite color is beige. I thoroughly believe sex is a beautiful time to confront the ugliest parts of ourselves, so say it. Say you like to have sex with black men because in real life, you pretend to not like us, fear us even, when in actuality, all you want is to be destroyed by the big black cock that you’re mesmerized by.

Yes. I freak men the hell out with my preliminary questions prior to us agreeing to be friends with benefits and in the spirit of honesty, I’m not really looking for any more friends. I have enough, some days, I have too many. I’m just looking for benefits.

I ask the probing questions before I agree to probe anything. If my process is too slow-paced for you, feel free to go anywhere else. I don’t skip the process. That’s where the magic happens. That’s where we admit some of the things we’ve ignored about ourselves during the daylight. It’s where we embrace some of the things we put on hold at our jobs.

The best sex I’ve ever had was with a man who had lost his mother during his teen years and never met his father. I learned this after asking him about a tattoo on his arm. He told me about how difficult it was to navigate the world with nobody. He told me about how difficult it is to live when you’ve been dealt an unfair hand and still have to press forward. That shit is frustrating, it’s wearing. Our sex was phenomenal. I could feel the mix between his intensity, anger, his wanting to be close to someone. Sex lets us bring all that into the room

Pressing himself into me he whispered into my ear, don’t worry, I’ve got you and I believed every word, not even because I’m dumb, but because that come from someplace.

Maybe words he wanted to hear, maybe it was words he missed hearing, I don’t know, but something there felt real. There ain’t a lot of real no more.

He hit me up every day the month after. I ignored the call. He hit me up over the summer. Sometimes from new numbers, hoping to get in contact with me.

I was wrong. I know. I was also young and that connection was too intense. I was not ready for anything that real.

After accidentally answering once, he confessed, “I have never had anything like that with anyone.”

I know I wasn’t anything exceptional. I was way too young to have any sexual expertise, but what we had wasn’t about a technique or who topped or bottomed, that shit was about letting ourselves be honest about who we were and what we wanted. He was some DL guy living on a side of town that would have horrified my parents, and I was freshly from the west coast and going to school in small town North Carolina. We didn’t want to be boyfriends or start a relationship. We just wanted to be ourselves, and there’s something wild that happens when we’re allowed to be.

It’s intense, it’s other-worldly, it’s frightening.

So now I interview potential sexual partners. I ask questions. I don’t give a fuck what you do for a living. I’m not going to listen to you brag about what you drive. Don’t fake your age.

And dear god, do not go on about how you’re a top or a bottom.

I have important questions and the sooner you answer, the sooner we can get to the good stuff.

The intense stuff.


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It started with a waterproof vibrator. It was affordable and looked something like modern art, so I figured it would be a pretty good tool to start with. Personally, I’m not a huge fan of being penetrated. I’ve spent the last couple of months studying the body, and doing my best to understand my own spots of sensation, and I’m using ‘studying’ loosely. I’m sure that sounds academic, but what I really mean is I started reading a bunch of things I found on the internet and putting every question I had into a YouTube search engine.  This proved strangely helpful considering you aren’t supposed to trust things that you find on the internet.

A couple of articles and a little less than 20 bucks later, I’m standing in the shower holding the silver colored vibrating plastic bit. Long enough to properly do the job, but not long enough to alter the way my body should operate afterwards.

After learning a bit about my own body, I’m convinced some guys really just don’t like their anus. Nothing 20 inches in length and 14 inches in girth should be going into your rectum. Yes. That one pornstar in that one video does it. But I am not him, he is not me. Our goals our so entirely different. Our backstories and narratives are far removed from one another. Also, it is his job to entertain you for a living by creating FANTASY.

That is not my ministry. That is not my anointing, nor is it my divine calling.

It is my duty to understand how MY body works so that I can make sure I am as pleased as possible.

To the man who can take a solid 12 inches without so much as a whimper: more power (bottom) to you, sis. Thankfully, you are not my standard.

And on that note I begin to explore. Gently at first. Just an inch or two keeping the vibration on low, partly because I’d hate to be electrocuted here in my own shower and be found with a vibrator sticking out of my rectum.

Maybe an inch or two more. The toy is slim. The tip is narrow and it widens as you move down the shaft, but not by much. It’s gentle, it’s not invasive and obnoxious. I’ve seen those. Silicone sex toys with the size and shape of a forearm and a fist. I’m not here to yuck anybody’s yum, but what in the hell have you experienced in your own life in which that toy is the requirement for your own pleasure?

The toy is in there pretty good. I’m alive. I’m filled. I’m comfortable. I slowly increase the vibration.

The sensation of the toy and the warmth of the water team up together. The rising steam whispered in my ear, this is how it should be done.

Pull it out, push it in. Slow at first. Feel every sensation of the slow rhythm. Understand what’s happening while it’s all happening. Do it kinda like you love yourself, and just want to please you real good. Fuck what you’ve seen. This ain’t about what you’ve seen. It’s about what you feel.

How do you feel?

I moan, just a little. Not that fake ass, keep going daddy bullshit we say to our partners when we want them to feel good about themselves so they don’t have sex with other people, but as an instinctual reaction to something that felt entirely new. This was pleasure.

And with pleasure, you breath deep, you hold, you release. You try your hardest to capture every sensation you can knowing that when you’re done it’s right back to the real, sensationless world.

With a slight turn of the wrist, I began to hit a place in myself that felt literally and figuratively untapped.

May I be dramatic for a second?

Suddenly sex made complete sense. Life in all it’s dullness was made into something remarkable. I picked up the pace, and moved my wrist around vigorously and explored as if I was just a motion away from discovery. I moaned trough the steam of the shower. I cursed myself for never requiring my previous partners to help me feel this way; I didn’t know any better. I repented for not understanding what this place felt like when I made love to other men. I felt everything in absolute order, balance, and perfection. I felt amazing, I felt messy, I felt empowered, my legs felt weak. I felt deeply selfish. I felt deeply grateful. I felt deeply.

And right when everything in this wild world aligned itself into perfection, I released myself. And yes, I’m talking about ejaculation, but for a second I felt as if my soul clocked out and parted with me knowing it had done it’s job for the day.

The water worked its way over me. For a minute I questioned what reality actually was. In the past, after I spent the moment pleasing myself (and now I use pleasing so loosely), I returned to real life only more frustrated, mostly at myself. To have literally engaged motions but not felt many sensations at all.

This time felt new. I let me understand myself. I listened closely to my body, and obeyed it’s every request.

I finished washing me off or maybe I started washing me off.

I felt as if I started to know myself.