Monday, February 9, 2009

Girl Disappearing

With girl disappearing
what on earth’s occurring?
‘cause she’s right in front of me
a girl disappearing
to some secret prison
behind her eyes she whispers

Alot is new in my life. i have so much to tell you. i
really dont know where to start. im finnally happy again
I've finnaly become true to myself and my
feelings, and I've made some dramatic life
changes. since i was extremy little I sufferd from an
idenity disorder. basicaly when i was little i thought i
was a girl and it took a long time for my family to convince
me other wise. i surpressed it for years. when i got with
you in new york it actually went away because i knew you
wouldnt understand, and i was head over heels in love with
you. after we finnaly seperated i went through it mentaly
i wanted to kill myself all the time. you now
how difficult that seperation was for us. but after alot of
therapy by myself and with my entire family. i realized i
was meant to be a girl. while i was home i became a
girl. my whole family accepts and love it. my mother even
told me it was the best thing i could have done. im
finnaly living my life the way it suppose to be lived. i
hope you dont hate me. you're the last to find out
because of my fear of your hatered and misunderstanding.
hopefully one day you'll undeerstand.

I'll love you always Baby Boy,

Received this email from the first and only true love of my life at 3am in the morning two days ago.

P.S. This letter hit me like a freight train.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Amanda's Boy

Oh why
amanda's boy
what he do to me
why won't
what he do to her
he do to me
you know i need amanda's boy
why can't i leave him alone

I probably have always liked guys. You know how some people say that they were born gay….. well, I am not sure about that. I am sure that many people probably knew that I was gay before I knew I was gay: the kids who taunted me in school, my sister who cut me deep with her nasty remarks, and probably my mother who chose to ignore the issue all together.

I did not accept that I was gay and liked boys until the summer of my ninth grade year. Stefon Potts was a rising Junior and we traded numbers on the last day of school. He was tall, handsome, honey-brown, with an endless trail of curly, wavy hair. He went a whole year, barely speaking to me. We were in my school’s musical right before the end of year term. I, an eighth grader, had landed a lead role. I could not sing. I could barely tap. I really don't know how I got it, but I got it. Stefon was always laughing at how bad my singing was and so when he gave me his number, I was quite shocked.

I could not wait to get home and call him.
When I first called him, we talked for four hours. We talked about everything. Stefon said that he loved talking to me and boy, did I love talking to him. As soon as Stefon's mom left for work the next morning, he called my house. This was great because my mom had just left for work too. We talked all day, from 7:00 am until 7:00 pm (that was when both of our moms came back home from work).

Our conversations would start off innocent, but by the second week they were getting heavy, heavy, heavy. Stefon was telling me about all the sex he was having with his girlfriend at the time, Jennifer, and all the positions they would do it in. Growing up a true, anti-social, sheltered, mama’s boy, I never really knew how sex worked, but Stefon gave me some lengthy lessons. He told me everything. He even told me about jacking off. I promise! He told me that using lotion and a sock was his favorite way to do it and that I should try it too. All I had to do was stroke my penis, and think about something that turned me on. He even suggested that we do it together, on the phone. I was jacking off four times in one day, wishing that I was Jennifer and that Stefon did all that freaky shit to me instead of her.

When my sister's internship ended that summer, she had nothing else to do but stay at home. She would notice my phone habits and sometimes eavesdrop. Instead of telling my mom, she waited until a huge family function, and told my aunt about the whole ordeal. My aunt then called my mom at work, repeating with her own added shit everything that my sister told her. I cried like I had never cried before. I was caught. More than that, I felt like I had shamed my mom.

I lied and told my mom that Stefon and I was working on a project for my accelerated English class that was really hard. I was embarrassed and upset. My sister must have felt bad because after that she allowed me to continue talking to this boy on the phone for twelve hours every day, not saying anything.

On the first day of school, I was so excited. I could hardly sleep the night before. As soon as I saw Stefon, I ran up to him and before I could even spit out a word, he turned away sharply, giving me this look as if I was the scum of the fucking earth.

I was gay and more than that I wanted something that I could not have.

P.S. And then a nasty little pattern began

Friday, January 9, 2009

Losing My Religion

That's me in the corner
that's me in the spotlight
losing my religion

This is it. I must be really going crazy. As I tried to ease into the room, I felt the fourteen pairs of eyes piercing at me. I was the last one to arrive and this was it. This was therapy. Group therapy. A Workshop on how the relationship that black gay men have with their fathers affects the relationships that black gay men have with their partners and friends.

I was not sure how I got myself into this mess. I wanted to turn-around. This force kept holding me down. I will not even tell how I met the therapist or about hour previous one-on-one session the night before that ALMOST went Overboard….(ALMOST!) I promised him that I would give group therapy a try and well I guess from the looks of it…I was trying it.

My first thoughts…I was beating myself up for wearing khaki slacks and a cardigan. I guess that was my way of trying to assert myself… to prove that I was more than a pretty face, a young dummy with nothing to offer, You know…that sort of thing. Channing (the therapist) warned me before that I would probably be the youngest in the group, that most of the men were in their mid 30’s, and probably would consider me a baby. Well I’m far from being a baby and I guess I felt the need to dress the part. Anyway, can you say OVERDRESSED! These men had on jeans, generic t-shirts, sandals (yes in the Winter)… so you can imagine how silly I felt.

They had so much food and I did not understand why. I didn’t eat. I hate eating in front of strangers. So I filled out my name tag (contemplating jotting down a fake name…but decided against it since Channing already knew my real name) and waited for the show…I mean session to began.

Well, the fact that Channing had passed out an article that he xeroxed from Wikipedia did not impress me. I do not know if that was the English Major in me coming out or the Judgmental Major in me coming out…whichever it was…I tossed it aside and deemed that I would not be able to get what God obviously wanted me to get from being there…if I spent my time worrying about fashion, food, and how it irks me when people use Wikipedia as a reputable source.

Can I just say that once I finally focused… I was in for some serious healing. Channing kept emphasizing a point that hit home… “How can you as black men…love another black man when you cannot, will not, or do not love your father?” Channing asked us to write down the recurring negative feelings experienced in our last relationship and then the recurring negative feelings experienced with our father. In my last relationship, I did not feel “good enough”, “handsome enough”, “equal enough”, and “valued enough”. Ironically, this is the same way I feel with my father.

You see, I only saw my father one time in my life (Refer to my I Am My Father’s Son Post) and we do not have a relationship. I feel nothing for him and I did not realize that this nothingness affects the hell out of me. I guess I always felt that if he thought I was special, that he would seek me out…that he doesn’t even lose sleep over me when he closes his eyes at night….that he has a relationship with his other children…but not me.

Until I faced this…took care of this…then it will continue to daunt me…that it will show its evil faces in my relationships and friendships….and it was true. It was too true and I was too done.

The men shared, and of course I sat silently…but on the inside I was saying something…a whole lot of something. I was touched by their tears, their testimonies, them having to tell their fathers about their sexuality…and what it did to them…how it broke them…left them into scattered pieces….similar to the way I felt scattered my whole life… underneath my togetherness.

“Until we are honest about our experiences, our feelings…even those that are painful…until we do the work with our fathers”, Channing said… “We can’t progress.”

When the fifteen minute break was called, I couldn’t move. I was there…but I couldn’t move.

Here ended the first half of the session. “Be sure to come back for the second half…we’ll be discussing something, I’m sure you all will enjoy….SEX”, Channing announced.

P.S. I ran to my car and for fifteen minutes I cried like I never cried before.

Monday, January 5, 2009

Hey Jupiter

No one's picking up the phone
guess it's clear he's gone
and this little masochist
is lifting up her dress
guess i thought
i could never feel the things i feel
hey Jupiter
nothing's been the same
so are you safe
now we're through
thought we both could use a friend to run to

I still love Tori. After all these years, she can still feel the pain of some black boy who grew up with nothing but wanted everything, who fights, day after day, the simple wars, the ones that destroy.

A masochist is one who gains gratification gained from pain, deprivation, and degradation that is inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others. A masochist usually seeks this form of gratification. Jupiter, the little masochist lifts up her dress and she feels. So when Jupiter lifts up her dress, she opens herself up to more pain. She invites the pain in.

What’s wrong with Jupiter? Can she not feel anymore because she has felt too much or has she died a different kind of death…the death of Ivan Ilyich?

Who is this masochist? Who is Jupiter? I think we all have a little Jupiter inside of us.

In many ways I felt that I was Jupiter

I was Jupiter when everyone cried and I sat still, untouched, and locked.

I was Jupiter when he moved away, after very little notice, and then insisted that we play the pretend game.

I was Jupiter when I turned down going out with polite and nice (but average) for cruel and nasty (but beautiful).

I was Jupiter when I stayed in bed to escape the 9-5 routine.

I was Jupiter when I couldn’t relate to his tears because I have known deeper cuts, deeper struggles, deeper battles.

I was Jupiter when I have to deal with that ignorant confederate boss, every single day, smiling, biting my tongue, looking into her blue eyes that reject everything about me…. And I reject her….and every time we play this game of faƧades just to get alone…well it takes me to considerable lengths

I was Jupiter when I made a 99 and everyone thought that I should be happy.

So if I am like the masochist… If we are all like the masochist… Do we keep lifting, running, feeling? I suppose that in retrospect when the boots leave a mess on a heart that’s soaking wet, that in all that breakdown there will be beauty. Jupiter does not know it yet. I don’t either.

P.S She’s keeping the baby. It’s all coming out. Everything. From the Inside.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Boys In The Trees

Do you go to them or do you let them come to you
do you stand in back afraid that you'll intrude
deny yourself and hope someone will see
and live like a flower
while the boys grow in the trees?

I wish I was straight and I envy heterosexual males.

The last time I felt like this is when I made myself come to the conclusion that I was a homosexual. After praying, crying, and trying to understand, I finally did understand. I realized that being a homosexual is just one part of who I am. It did not have to absolutely define me; furthermore, it did not have to affect my behavior, goals, or choices. It simply meant that I preferred to sleep with men, not women….and I probably had to rethink my visions of a wife and three kids. What a tough pill to swallow? I swallowed it though and believe it or not I was starting to love and accept my life as a homosexual male.

Everything was fine until I moved to Atlanta. Atlanta has been a tough, tough city for me with a capital T, and I often find myself feeling like such an outsider to the “Mecca” of black gay men. In Atlanta I can only see a bleak future for myself when I observe the plethora of black homosexual men who are CONSUMED and caught up by the gay life.

Dating in Atlanta has been a non-existent disaster for me.

I just want options!

I have no gay male friends in Atlanta. I only hang out with females. Most men hanging out at the places that my female friends and I hang out: live music lounges, nice (not even expensive) dinning, independent film showings, and things of that sort are all straight...and this causes most of my loneliness.

You see, I had one of the best nights, I have had in a very long time when I went out with my good female friend to this spot called, “Loca Luna’s” about two weeks ago. It felt good just to be out and the men were sending me into some serious overdrive….nice button downs, tailored blazers, stylish loafers, and Creed fragrance. The music was a nice blend of salsa, meringue, and house. The band and the delicious tapas made me feel good to be alive. The only problem was that all the men were straight and they certainly were not checking for me. They were rightfully checking for the beautiful women who had noticeably come with their A game. I am not saying that when I go out, I need to be validated by having someone “check” for me…. But why shouldn’t I? I kill myself in school, at work, and the gym. If I had been a straight man, I would have left with tons of numbers that night. I am completely sure of it.

The scenario would have been much, much different if I would have been in any of the “popular” black gay establishments in Atlanta. The footwear would have been either Timberlands or extremely colorful sneakers. The music would have been undoubtedly ALL hip-hop. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against hip-hop, Timberlands, or things of the sort….but much of this is just not a reflection of my aesthetics. There would be no diversity. I would have to go to either an ALL black gay club or an ALL white gay club. I am not use to this.

The white gay spots are even more awful and depressing in Atlanta (The South) because 90% of the whites only like whites and the other 10% want their idea of a black “thug”...which is borderline offensive (but the blacks want a black “thug” too). What a mess and as you see I have nowhere to go. To make matters even worse, the few black guys in the white gay establishments will not even speak to you because they consider you a threat and think they, themselves are white. At least some of the white gays will speak or can carry on a conversation about something other than Beyonce or sex. At the black gay establishments, many times, I have witnessed guys stand in their circles and send off nasty energy, that always bring down my spirits, talking about every guy that walks by…. I know because many times, I have been that guy.

The more I self build…Stimulating my mind and exercising my body, I feel a distance (there goes that word again) from myself and the other black gay males in Atlanta. It has caused a great deal of recurring pain and detachment.

When I lived in NY and looked outside my window, the mass melting pot of people going and coming gave me an indescribable invigorating feeling. I longed to be exposed to new things and new ideas. In Atlanta, I just feel nothing and my non-existent dating life and companionship sends me into an overdrive of despair.

I just want to know what it would be like to be able to have the kind of choices and availability that straight men have in Atlanta. Isn’t it ironic that they are the ones rocking skinny jeans, button downs, aviator glasses, and turning Lucky’s Food Lounge into a Soho haven!

I do not understand when grown men call themselves kids and child. I have no desire to be in balls (no pun intended) and attend black gay pageants. I feel funny having to pay to get into a club that feels more like jail, with scary lesbian police following you around and yelling. I do not wear excessive urban wear or backward caps. I am allergic to broke-down parties where you have to bring your own bottle and the people only associate with the people who they came with. I often feel sad that I have tons of new shit from Club Monaco in my closet that I just cannot wear because I feel that the only compliments that I would ever get when I wear them are from females....and why bother.

You see, lately, I have been doing some real struggling. Why must I always feel this anxiety, this difference, this remoteness, this coldness, this “it’s been months and months, and he still has no dates.”

It is just not fair. You know. I had to be born this way because I would never choose it and it is too bad I have enough truthfulness to refuse to refute it.

The funny thing is that since I moved to Atlanta, so many people constantly tell me that I expect too much, have unrealistic expectations, and live in a fantasy world. I hear this at least once a week.

P.S those “so many people” have all been black gay men.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Silent All These Years

Years go by will i still be waiting
for somebody else to understand
years go by if i'm stripped of my beauty
and the orange clouds raining in my head
years go by will i choke on my tears
till finally there is nothing left
one more casualty
you know we're to EASY easy easy

She said that she thought she would kill her baby. She said that her insurance would go up and they would take more money out of her check. So close. He almost made it to Christmas.

I just sat there listening.
I just sat there listening.
He was dying.
I just sat there listening.

Do you know how that kills me? How pieces die?

Like that time she told me about her relationship with some boy and I couldn’t share because the thought of some boy would make her stomach turn. How about that time I begged her to come when all he could do was cum?

When she explained to me the details of her sex life, I died 1000 times thinking about how she would vomit disgust when I told her about mine. I have never been in my sex life because I’ve been there…somewhere else…thinking about that same vomit.

He could tell me his whole life story and all I could give is bit and pieces because I knew that only one bit would send everything drizzling downhill.

So I sat down, got dressed up, and played the same notes that I knew would get a standing ovation…hoping one day they would consider standing to some different notes.

Don’t forget the time my grandfather kept asking me over and over again about my girlfriend. Never about my school or my grades that I gave up life to earn. He never asked about the job that took all my time… about the internship that they said was impossible to get…but I got it…With no sleep…I got the impossible. But it has never been about things with any of them… just about the girl.

So yeah, I have tons of girl friends but no girlfriend. Is that all? No that is not all. Did you know she wanted to kill her baby? Not my girl friend…but your little girl. Get off all those invisible girls and get on that visible girl. Most of all she needs some talk and not a listen. I don’t think Jesus is getting through at the moment.

Of course I couldn’t get through. I have made me invisible. I have been on mute, somewhere underneath, in a room, with a computer and some earphones, melting away.

Do you think I’ll always play along?
That I will always listen?
That my feedback, at most will be never from my own experience.
I can’t give my experiences.
I don’t know my experiences.
Do you think that I will ever be in depth?
Do you think that I will get tired of playing in this role… this con…this fake… this contrived fucking bullshit?
Will I ever be able to get me back?

P.S. some things inside just do not come out.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

I Am My Father's Son

So it ends so it begins
I'm my father's son
Plant another seed of hate
in a father's son

I must have been about seven or eight. I was still dressed in my dark, navy blue trousers, white striped Ralph Lauren polo, and some nautical off-brand moccasins. I was looking rather spiffy. Come to think of it, I always looked spiffy growing up as a poor black boy. My mother was a hardworking woman who would wear scrappy dresses and undone shoes, so I could wear Ralph Lauren. I LOVE HER FOR THAT.

Anyways, my mother, grandmother, and I were in some department store; I think Sears. We were looking at pots and pans and out the corner of my eyes, I spotted this crazy-looking man and I just could not take my eyes off of him. He had a dark complexion and terrible skin. His face was bumpy. He was skinny and short. He was with this fat lady who had patted down, nappy hair. When he laughed, I realized that on top of his awful, awful, appearance, he had a nerve to be missing his front tooth. I thought that this man was a wreck, and even at the young age of seven, other people wrecks made me laugh! I had this loud, boisterous, obnoxious, laughter. My mother hated it and still hates it. As soon as I started laughing, my grandmother and mother heads turned instantly, and before they could give me that evil, you better cut your shit short eye, my mother looked like she had just seen the devil himself. I will never forget her stoic, blank face. What was happening? I stoped laughing quickly. Being a true, true Mama's Boy, I sensed that something was wrong and my stomach turned sour. My mother walked me over to that ugly man and the uglier woman standing beside him.

She then uttered words that I will never forget. "Eugene this is your son. Jay this is your dad". I looked around all over. That hideous, drunk man was my father. I had never seen a picture of him and nobody talked about him. I made up these fantasies about who he was and what he looked like, but now I was looking at a man who I thought was really ugly and really drunk. The first thing that ran through my mind was that this meant I was ugly too. He was ugly. I was ugly. I kept replaying that in my mind.

All Eugene said was, "hey son. I'm your dad".

I just looked. He and my mom went back and forth for about thirty seconds. My grandmother was just standing there, squeezing my hand, doing some serious gagging herself. Didn't he know about Doughnuts for Dads? My elementary school had this shit every year and every year I made up some new lie why my daddy could not come. My dad did not even say bye to me. His last words were "Call me sometimes." Where the hell was I going to get his number? I did not cry that day. I bled.

P.S. I still feel ugly.