FINAL POST

Fortunately, this is the end of Sex and the Second City as we have known it.

It is time for bigger and better things.

So I must tell you all that today is the last day that I will be writing anymore posts...on blogger!

Yes, the Sex is new and improved and is moving! So update your web addresses and come visit me at my NEW location:

www.sexandthe2ndcity.com
or
www.SexandtheSecondCity.com
or
SexandtheSecondCity.com

See you at my new home!

PLEASE NOTE: Everyone who has been so kind to link me on their web or blog sites--would you please update your link to reflect my new address? I appreciate it much.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre?

While I have been getting text messaged left and right from CHRIS (who's who), Valentine's Day 2005 was all about COMMON. On Valentine's Day Eve, I went over his crib to check out the Grammy's and I asked him what he was doing on the Day of Love--and he mentioned that he was boo-less and didn't have a Valentine. As he said it he looked at me with his big dark eyes, and I just wanted to grab his face and kiss him.

I told him that if he wanted to chill, I would be his valentine. The boy grinned from ear to ear. We made plans to start V-Day early--like around 3PM. Maybe relax and watch a movie. I recently downloaded Million Dollar Baby and was going to burn it and bring it over to his house and watch the awesome Morgan Freeman do his thing.

He had the day off. I had the day off (but I him I was getting off early). I woke up late. And when 3pm rolled around I gave him a call.

voice mail

I hung up without leaving a message and I called his cell.

voice mail

I hung up from the cell and called his home again and left a message.

Two hours later he called me saying, "Hey. how you doing? I just got your message. I was out shopping. You should have called my cell." He offered no apology, there was no "I should have called you, I know we were supposed to meet at 3pm."

I didn't get salty. But I told him I was busy at work and I would call him when I was leaving. After we hung up, I had the mind not to call him back. But I did and rolled over his crib at about 7pm, to find him wrapped in a blanket in sweats and watching a foreign film.

Note: this surprised me pleasantly as I thought he was just into Alicia Keys, NAS, and basketball.

I had recently been bringing little things over to house. One night cake, another brownies, and last night white chocolate truffles. But I didn't do that today. I wasn't trying to make him think we were boo-ed up for V-Day.

We sat and watched his foreign film--but I was STARVING. I hadn't ate all day. And then he looked at me and said, Let me get dressed so we can go out on the town and get something to eat.

I told him that he didn't need to get dressed, we could just get something small. I told him that I had a taste for junk food (it was my "eat whatever you want" day on my new eating regimen diet). My dream V-Day evening was to get some food nearby, eat, and come back to his place and chill. My nightmare was to get in his car and start traveling Chicago only to find that restaurant after restaurant was crowded because of the holiday.

But it's Valentine's Day, he reminded me, and I want to do something cool. We live in this big city. Let's go out and do something new and spontaneous. Something romantic.

I was turned off immediately. When you've known someone for little more than a week--don't try and force romance. Don't go for the elaborate dinner setting, etc. It comes off as contrived. Focus on the true romance--the fact that two strangers are even spending Valentine's Day together. Somehow that sentiment was lost on him. I was becoming agitated.

But then he came into the living room with a bouqet of flowers.

daisies, carnations, roses, alstromeria, pink statice, baby's breath

I was taken back. Was COMMON, uncommon? A man hasn't bought me flowers in about five years. And yes, it still feels good to get them. It's the fag in me. I love flowers. And this was a nice assortment. I started to soften up.

I agreed (though reluctantly) to get in his car and leave the neighborhood. He still didn't see to understand that I was starving and wanted to eat at the Chinese place two minutes away that can make my Sesame Chicken in five minutes for under $5.

We headed to Chicago's north side, but he can't find the place that he wants to go to. It's 8:30pm and I am PISSED because I am about to pass out from hunger. So I tell him a place to go to. He ignores me and insists on going to this chilled, relaxed place that will serve the junk food that I said I wanted. We finally get to the place. Byron's Burger Shack (southeast corner of Grand and Noble).

But I don't care. It's a new place, its low key--they serve burgers and gyros, and I am starving, so I am game. We get to the front door and the door is locked. The burger shack was closed.

I was so heated, you could have fried an egg on my head (and I would have ate it as hungry as I was). I was ready to rip his fucking head out. But I look up, and low and behold, across the street is a cute little trattoria that's not too crowded. A big smile popped on my face because I LOVE ITALIAN food (and he's mentioned his affinity for it). I suggest we go and check out the menu and if its not too pricey--EAT.

The price was moderate. But COMMON didn't look too happy, he says I want to go somewhere else. It's kinda expensive here and the ambience isn't that nice. It felt like someone was dragging their nails on a blackboard right next to my ear. Then he tells me, Look, I tried to find a place, and it didn't work, so now you have to find a place.

I got angry but stayed calm. Since we were in the west loop i thought about Scoozi (on Huron and Orleans) We jetted over there. No parking.

I couldn't wait any longer. I told him, TAKE ME TO WILSON AVENUE.

We went to Zephyr Cafe (1777 W. Wilson) where the food is quick, the desserts are big, and the parking is free. When we get inside, it is clear that he is not happy. First, there was something in his water. Then there wasn't enough EQUAL for his pink lemonade. I told him that the Zephyr has great ice cream and desserts. He replied, I don't really like dessert that much. I looked at his 210+ pound frame and his 36"+ waist and thought he must like to eat something. He wasn't rude to make constant comparisons, but he did mention that he liked going to some other cookie cutter (what I call hood rich chain) restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory and Maggiano's--an Italian themed restaurant owned by a Chicago chain called Lettuce Entertain You).

When his chicken came out, he frowned and pouted--and picked over his meal the rest of the evning. But I didn't care. My food was good. And that's all I focused on for the time being. My blood sugar was slowly returning to its normal levels.

When we finished eating, the waiter brought the bill. And COMMON asked, Do you need any money for the bill?

Excuse me? I don't remember saying that I was paying for dinner. I guess he figured that because he bought be flowers, he drove, and he bought gas that I should pay for dinner. On any other day, he might have been right. But he INSISTED on going out. Remember, I was content with staying at home buying $5 chinese food. My $5 Chinese dinner turned into a $30 evening. I didn't get ugly. I just wanted to get out of there.

While leaving the Zephyr, I got a call from HAZELNUT (who who?). He wanted to hook up. I told him I would try my best that evening, but I wasn't sure. I asked him for his address, and to my surprise I learned that he lived right around the corner from COMMON...

My Valentine's was starting too look like a disaster. So I decided to end the date with a disaster. I told him to drive to 2122 N. Clark to surprise him. He did. We got out the car, and there was just a store front. He didn't know why we were standing in front of a store at 10:30pm on V-Day. I told him that this was the site of the 1929 St. Valentine's Day Massacre (where Al Capone's goons supposedly shot up a bunch of gangsters). I also told him that the area was supposed to be haunted--and there were reports that people heard strange noises and often experienced unusual events.

COMMON seemed a little weirded out by my site-seeing choice. But he smiled. And he looked good. And we starred at each other. And right before we got back in the car, we kissed each other right on Clark Street. From that point on the evening got a lot better. Maybe its because my blood sugar levels were back to normal. Or maybe the St. V-Day's Massacre ghosts worked a little mojo and played a joke and lifted our energy. But we talked the whole way back to his place and even held hands in the car.

We got back to his place and I got in bed with him for a sec and we laid and held each other for a while--hard dicks pressed against one another. Yes I was horny. But it was late and I needed to get home. And he needed to get some sleep. I put my clothes on, grabbed my flowers, thanked him and started walking home.

Now would it have been tacky for me to call and finally meet HAZELNUT who was just around the corner...

Give Love, Receive Love

Happy Valentine's Day!!!

Ever since February 14, 1929--on 2122 N. Clark--when six gangsters were machine-guned to death, Chicago has had a notorious relationship with Valentine's Day. And while the story of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre has lived on in infamy, luckily it's negative energy hasn't creeped on down to my humble place of residence on the southside.

As an adult, Valentine's Day is one of my two all time favorite American holidays. Red, white, and pink are everywhere, flower stores are crowded, and love is in the air. LOVE. You can't get enough of that.

For many people, V-Day is not a lot of fun. As witnessed by phrases like CRYDAY THE 13th (to describe the dateless before Valentine's Day). But fortunately, I haven't had too many V-Day depression spells.

Why?

Because when I was 19, and a sophomore in college, I applied a phrase often associated with Christmas to V-Day:

It is better to give than to receive.

What better sentiment to apply on the day of LOVE? V-Day isn't about being boo-ed up. It is about LOVE, and sharing that love. So on my 19th (and first enlightened V-Day) I went to the bakery and got a parcel of 15 shortbread raspberry heart cookies. Then I went and bought a V-Day Whitman's Chocolate Sampler. Finally I stopped by the flower shop and bought my self the biggest bouqet of non-cliché, non-rose flowers--and I walked my big ass around campus and let people know that someone loved Bernard Bradshaw (or someone was about to get some love from him). People would stop and ask:

Did someone give you those flowers? or Who are you taking flowers to?

Then I would go to my close friends and associates and hand out the chocolates and cookies. It was great seeing the smiles on people's faces. And it felt so good. Because of instead of feeling depressed, sitting up in my room WAITING for someone to give me Valentine's, I was too busy feeling happy GIVING things to other people. It's a tradition I've kept up since.

Now that's not to say that I have been Boo-less my entire life. I have been fortunate to spend a few V-Days with a couple of romantic dates. And my all time best one was with FRIEND (who's who) on Valentine's 2003.

FRIEND took off from work and I told him to meet me for dinner downtown on Chicago's Magnificent Mile. I decided to surprise him. I rented a room at the fabulous Hotel Intercontinental (505 N. Michicagn Ave) and placed rose petals on the floor, the bed and in the bathtub. I placed tea candles everywhere, set the computer to play a bunch of R&B classics, sprinkled rose petals on the bed, and in the tub, stocked bottles of Martinelli's in the minibar, and burned champa incense to infuse the air with romance.

I went downstairs and met FRIEND on the corner of Michigan and Ohio and told him that we were going to dinner at a restaurant in the Intercontinental. We got on the elevator and I pressed the button for the restaurant, and "accidentally" pressed the floor of the room. When the elevator doors opened I told him to step off. He grinned and I led him to the hotel room.

When we got in, he surveyed the lavish room and smiled. We made candlelit love to that music for hours before we came up for air. We ate dinner across the street at Heaven on Seven (111 N. Wabash), before coming back to the room and getting back to business. Somewhere around 2AM we passed out in the scarlet and maroon velvet comforters with rose petals stuck to our backs.

Where's Tank?

Dear Readers of Sex and the Second City,

I really hope that the last few months of SATSC have brought you some entertainment, and have got you to do a little thinking. The time has come, however, that I am going to request your assistance.

Can you help me find TANK? I have posted two pictures of him today (they are below). Does anyone know whether he has a website, e-mail, or other contact information? Or does anyone have more pictures of him they can forward or direct me to? Please direct all information to: sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com. I really appreciate your help.

The big surprise is coming in 12 days!


Tank in BlackInches (May 2004)

Tank on a car.

What's Your Sign?

What's your sign?
Do you know?
Let me guess,
you're a Scorpio.
What's your rising?
Where's your moon?
Scorpios, are pretty cool.
--Des'ree
"What's your sign?" from the album SUPERNATURAL

Things have been pretty crazy in the Second City lately. COMMON and I have been having cute non-sexual banter on the telephone. HAZELNUT and I keep playing telephone tag, and FRIEND keeps coming over to my apartment for dinner. All in all, I'd say I'm cool. But Bernard is not having "the sex". And I am pretty horny.

I got on the telephone chat line to arrange a meeting and started having this conversation with a brother. His stats were average and he seemed a little ashamed about what he liked to get into sexually. Like so many brothers he gave the vague, "I'm a freak, I get into everything," answer--yet when pressed, he made it clear that he wasn't that into anal sex. "I am not so sure I am into getting penetrated," he told me.

This situation is not new to me. I don't get frustrated anymore. I've come to expect vagueness and inconsistency. So I got direct with him, and asked him to tell me EXACTLY what it is he liked to get into, and he said,

Man, you are one direct brother. Not that it matters or anything, but what's your zodiac sign?

sigh

Oh my goodness, I met another one. For the life of me, it seems like I can't have a conversation with a brother today without him asking me about my zodiac sign. What is up with that? And you see it everywhere. Everytime I open the newspaper I see horoscopes, on the Internet I read profiles where guys express their signs, and even bloggers who discuss the importance of the zodiac in their life (see LoveHater's caveat, "Beware: Cancers can make you talk").

Do kats have to consult their astrological chart before deciding whether it is a good idea to get busy? Or is sex between a Cancer and a Pisces lethal. Or if he is a Libra, will kissing a Taurus keep his scales from rising in Virgo? It forces me to ask the question: Are we looking for the wrong signs?

Maybe we look for zodiac signs because we don't know what other signs to look for in a guy. We don't know what questions to ask (or things to look for) to gauge a man's intellect, compassion, sexual energy, or passion. So instead, we rely on pre-made cookie cutter categories created in Ancient Greece during the Hellenistic period. Who would have known that in the 21st century black people would be using Greek signs and determining mate compatibility based on what day they were born on. At best, it seems so high school.

I used to just get upset when guys asked me my sign. I'd scream at them, "What do you need to know that for?" I am an information junkie--and I know how to get information about people by looking at their clothes, birthstones, and asking seemingly innocuous questions. If you ask a guy's zodiac sign, (and you know his age), you have narrowed his birthdate down to a thirty day window. Call me a privacy paranoid--but it's me. But I soon learned that some brothas really take that shit seriously--and if I wanted to meet a guy for the hook up I had to come up with a less agressive posture.

So then I tried making a joke out of it. I'd say stuff, like "My sign is peach", or "sabertooth". But after a while brothas would press me, and I came off as evasive.

So now I just lie. Since Cancers are sensitive, Leos are leaders, and Gemini's are two-faced--I decided to just start telling people I am a Scorpio--because for some reason they are labelled the sex crazed zodiac. After the three-way heard round the world, ENRIQUE (the soldier), FRIEND and I were drinking, and ENRIQUE asked me my sign. When I told him Scorpio, he said, "I knew it. I knew from the way you dug me out that you had to be. I am too. Scorpios are them straight up freaks." I raised my can of cola and smiled, and as he looked away I rolled my eyes.

The One

It means know thy self. I wanna tell you a little secret, being the one is just like being in love. No one needs to tell you you are in love, you just know it, through and through.
--The Oracle (played by Gloria Foster)
The Matrix

Today is request Thursday. I'm answering questions from the JADEDBLKMAN and RYAN CANTY. I promise to answer everyone else's questions in the future! Today's first question come from JADED:

Do you think that Common could be the one? Could it be that you both have an energy that's above sex and thta this could be come that you could really grow to love and have him love you? The laws of relationships states: you'll never know when you'll meet your next lover/soul mate...they will have the habit of popping up when you leaset expect it. Will you be ready?
Could COMMON (who is he?) be the One? I have to say I agree with the above quote by the Oracle. I think more people need to read that quote and take it to heart. Too often we go through life putting the cart before the horse. First, see if the horse can hold your weight. Then see if he can pull the cart. Life is about stages. I guess I just believe in taking my time.

COMMON could be the One. But then so could Rocka, Rod, or Shemar Moore. No one needs to tell you whether someone is the One. You know it through and through. Balls to bones. So instead of worrying whether COMMON is the One, I think I am going to focus on developing a friendship and a vibe with him. If he’s the One, the rest will fall into place.


RYAN CANTY got greedy and wanted to ask a thousand questions:
1. What happened to Hazelnut? Did you meet him or did you just drop him like a musty pair of 3 year old draws when Common called?
HAZELNUT. (who is he?) You are going to have to stay tuned to learn about him. I am not sure—but I think he is related to one of the many stories going on in my life. But I am not sure yet…

2. Fantasy Fucking: Who are the guys you fuck in your wet dreams? Why?
I don’t do a lot of fantasizing. I usually think about guys I have already been with. And the perfect sex we experienced. Some of the phrases they’ve said I repeat in my head over and over. But as far as guys I haven’t been with? There are these two prostitutes (male escorts I think about a lot). One I don’t want to name. The other’s name is TANK, or MR. TANK. He was a BLACK INCHES cover model in 2004 (April I think). If anyone knows about his website—or how to get in touch with him—please shoot me an email at sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com.

3. What is it about Common that keeps you so interested in him knowing that he does things that you dont like (smoking weed, etc.)? Is it the potential for mind blowing sex (or the teasing of that potential)?
What I like about COMMON? The prospect of good consistent around the corner sex with someone who can hold a decent conversation. The fact that he is affectionate as hell, good looking, clean, has big brown eyes, and a smile that just makes me get on brick is all bonus. And there's something about his nature that is sharing. I just get a good vibe from him.

4. What is one thing you regret about any of your past relationships? Do you have regrets about them at all?
I promise to answer this question later. This is just way too involved. But yes, THE SEX has had previous relationships. And yes, I have regrets.

5. What happened to the other men in your life (Marcus, James and Chris)? Still see them or not?
Great question.

MARCUS: (who is he?) I am still working on him. I see him in the hallway from time to time. I am going to get him. Just give me some time.

CHRIS: Did you read RETURN OF THE VAMP? I am still toying with him. But I still haven’t fucked him since the first time. So all you guys who said I said I was being an asshole with him—RELAX!

JAMES: Oh my goodness, BBBD JAMES. He and I still haven’t had sex. But there is a story behind it that I have been hesitant to tell the readers of THE SEX. Let’s just say that JAMES and I have seen each other about four times. And we will be seeing each other some more in the future. If he can get his act together...

Rule of Mutual Attraction

In yesterday's post on COMMON I made a mistake--that post is taking place THIS YEAR--in 2005, as we speak. My posts on COMMON are not flashbacks.

As I wrote yesterday, I think I figured out one of the secrets of the Universe. Present experiences seem to re-affirm my new realization. When I last wrote, I was walking home after this insane make-out session with COMMON. I had—for the first time in ages—intentionally avoided having sex with a man who I was highly sexually attracted to and was clearly ready to do the damn thing. But as I left his apartment in the drizzle, I wasn’t feeling too confident that he was going to call me.

I went home and called FRIEND, and told him about the encounter. He didn’t seem upset or phased by it at all. But that’s FRIEND—cool and collected. I got off the phone with him and settled into my comfortable bed, and had a short little dream replaying my kissing frenzy with COMMON.

Monday was hard. I thought about COMMON all day long. John Legend’s Ordinary People kept playing in my head, and every time I heard him say “take it slow,” I flashed back to Sunday night. During a job meeting, I had problems staying focused because my mind kept making me remember the smell of his shirt and the taste of his lips. That anxious feeling of anticipation was swimming in my stomach. I hadn’t felt like this in years.

But Monday night came. And COMMON never called. I was in what Anne Shirley would’ve called, “the depths of despair.” (yes, Anne Shirley, yeah I know that was a bit gay, but fuck it, that’s me). And I started re-evaluating everything that I thought I had learned in life.

I had made a conscious decision not to have sex with him. Maybe I thought he would like me or respect me for if I “held out.” Was I starting to play that heterosexist game of “holding out” in order to get what I want? I was getting angry with myself. I hate it when gay men play hard to get—or as I like to call it, “act like ladies” because they think that sex will scare a guy off or give them a wrong impression. I feel that relations between two men should be different and devoid of that shit. But here I was—playing the hold out game better than anyone.

Not getting a call from COMMON confirmed my recent thoughts regarding one of the relationship secrets of the universe. The RULE OF MUTUAL ATTRACTION states:

• You never like the people who really are into you.

• The people that you like a lot rarely share your level of interest.

• While there are exceptions, the above two situations are the norm in life. Suck it up and deal.
  

I looked back on my entire adult dating life—and with few exceptions—the level of mutual interest was rarely equal with anyone I had ever encountered over the past ten years. Someone always liked the other person a lot more. I’d meet a guy who I thought was the perfect kat, and he didn’t want to get into a relationship. Or some guy would meet me on the first date and ask, “Why are you single?” as I would think to myself, “Do we really need to talk about relationships, I just want to fuck you.”

I had to deal with the fact that COMMON wasn’t that into me. While I was down and disappointed, I knew that the next day would be a little brighter. I knew that tomorrow I would think a little bit less about COMMON and get back to feeling like my old non-cheesy romantic self.

******************************************

The next day, Tuesday, was hectic. Busy as a bee at work. I got home around 6PM and checked e-mail and I was exhausted. There was an e-note from HAZELNUT--a guy wanting to hook up and meet me—a dark skinned brother with hazel eyes—kinda scary, but he was in decent shape and wrote a witty e-mail, so I thought since the brother had brains, I would call him and see what he was about. We chatted. And would you believe, like COMMON, he too was another boy next door. Where was my luck coming from? To meet two guys, in as many days, who are within walking distance of my front door? I must have been good recently.

HAZELNUT and I didn’t talk too long. But arranged to meet the next day and check each other out. It seemed that my brief infatuation with COMMON was already over. I was back to my old self.

That is, until COMMON called me.

Hey man, how are you doing? Sorry I didn’t call you yesterday, but I was tired as hell. I drank too much Sunday night and it kicked my ass all day Monday.

I must admit, I was happy to get the call. We chatted and I got the greenlight to come over to his place. I was there within the hour.

He was still cute. But this time when I walked into the apartment I could smell freshly smoked marijuana. He was in his pajamas again, sipping on some fruity alcoholic beverage. The VH1 show “The Fabulous Life of…” was on—and it was getting on my nerves. Things seemed different somehow. He was low energy and kinda into the television. There was very little conversation. I wanted to go back home. But he sensed this and invited me to sit next to him. And then we went at it.

It was like a Sunday night repeat. But this time my shirt was coming off. We kissed and licked and moved upstairs to the bedroom (he has a two floor apartment). We were both rock hard. I bit all over his neck and talked so much shit to him I had him cooing and oooing and awing. He was in ecstasy. But he looked troubled.

I asked him what was wrong. He went on to tell me how great everything felt. But he wondered what was going to happen after we had sex. He told me,

I mean what if I like it, and want to keep doing it again. Or just hang with you. I’m not saying BE MY BOYFRIEND. But, I’m just thinking about the weirdness that sometimes comes after sex…that’s just what’s on my mind.

Funny. The same things that were on my mind. I wasn’t sure what I wanted with this guy, but I know I just didn’t want to fuck and forget. I wanted to have a good time—something filled with passion and intimacy—and some good sex to go with it. But what more? Who could know.

There were already a few things I wasn’t feeling about him—the marijuana and the alcohol. But I am just here to vibe with him right? Not judge him.

We made out and rubbed and bumped and grinded on each other for the next few hours--but both agreed not to have sex, though at times it got close. We talked about all sorts of things, sexual and non-sexual. We talked about restaurants we liked, the wild things we would do in public, the importance of affection, and the desire to share--bodies, beds, and life. It was a great evening laying up with him, and amazingly, his bed was almost as comfortable as mine. He wanted me to sleep over, and while I wanted to, I decided against it—I had work to do at home.

I finally went home. A lot more confident that COMMON would be calling me in the future, but a little more apprehensive about what I wanted to do with him in the future. Maybe adding more evidence that the rule of mutual attraction was true…

Thursday Requests and Surprise Countdown

Please don't forget that tomorrow is Thursday request. Send in your questions or comments about what you want me to blog on. Post a comment or send an email to sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com.

Also remember! Its just 16 days before the great Sex and the Second City surprise!

The Boy Next Door

I think I finally figured out the secret of the universe. I’ve known it for quite some time, but now I am finally realizing how profound it is. How it will truly pervade the rest of my life. As I’ve mentioned before, every once in a while you meet someone in life who changes—at least for a moment—how you think about your relations with men. In 2001 it was my meeting with BLACKMAN. On Superbowl Sunday 2005, it was COMMON (not to be confused with the Chicago rapper).

COMMON is a 30 something light skinned brother, who’s about 6’1” and about 220 lbs. I was really feeling his picture on the net, but I had a feeling that he was a little on the heavy side. He and I met on the Internet months ago, but our communications were always in conversation staccato. They were usually half-finished, half-hearted attempts to meet one another. He gave me his number last week, and after I called a few times we finally spoke on the telephone—a few hours before the Super Bowl.

The conversation went well. We didn’t talk about too much, because he was running around getting ready for a Brotha 2 Brotha Super Bowl party he was hosting. I learned that COMMON is almost the boy next door—because he lives about 2 blocks from my apartment. The thought of a good looking sexy brotha within walking distance got me to thinking.

The conversation felt pretty natural, even though, for some reason, I was nervous. He had to let me go to get ready, but not before he invited me over his place for his party. I declined, and told him that I’d rather meet him just in a one-on-one situation. Secretly, I was afraid I would run into someone from the Internet that I knew—or wish I didn’t know. I almost instantly regretted that I didn't tell him, “Sure I’ll come over, you mind if I come by a little earlier.” But I guess that’s what happens when your nerves get in the way of your smoothness skills.

So I watched Carnivàle instead of the Super Bowl, but waited till it got late when I knew the party would be finishing up, and asked him if he wouldn’t mind a little late night company. He told me to come on over.

I was really nervous. I had started the Bernard Prep Routine. Sauve Conditioner in the hair to make it shiny (yeah I know you’re not supposed to leave it in), shave the moustache (but leave the hair on the chin), make sure the lips are smoothed out and not cracked, and a few sprays of my best cologne…hmmm, DKNY for Men. No, your BEST cologne…Bulgari. Definitely Bulgari. I put on a vintage Marithé & Françous Girbaud hooded top and some fitted Calvin Klein jeans (shows both the ass and the package) , and I topped it off with my soft black leather jacket. I was feeling good.

I showed up at his apartment and when he opened the door in his Harvard University pajamas his big gorgeous dark brown eyes got huge. He liked what he saw. He shook my hand with his rough hands and guided me into his clean, and tastefully Ikea decorated apartment. I sat down on the sofa, he sat in a very small two-seater. The radio was playing, and we just sat there and looked at each other.

He was adorable—big eyes, nice goatee, friendly smile, and raspy voice. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other.

Nigga, where have you been?

I kinda thought I was going to melt when he asked me that. Then I heard a little voice: Get it together, get it together Bernard. You’re just here for a little fake intimacy. This is not real. I joked with him,

I’ve been around the corner.

We laughed.

I asked him what he was thinking about. And he said he was thinking about putting his hands all over my body. But that he didn’t want to do that because he didn’t want to be disrespectful. I moved over to the small couch he was sitting in. The space was tight. I could see his erection in his pajama shorts. We kept smiling at each other until I grabbed his face with both hands at his jaw, and pulled him close to me and kissed him. I could taste a little alcohol on his breath, and the softness of his lips. They all tasted good. And the kiss just kept going and our hands were rubbing and caressing each other’s faces and intermittently slipping over each other’s thighs, chests, and shoulders. John Legend was already on the radio, and reminded me to Take It Slow. So I kept his hands from going in my pants—even though I wanted him too.

He kept telling me how he wanted my ass. And then I got him to sit on my lap and he started mock riding me while I grabbed his waist. We took a break and discussed each others sexual preference, and he said that he loved to be versatile. I started getting even more excited. I could tell he was versatile. Because of the way he threw his ass when he was sitting on me—and the way he grapped my ass through the jeans.

We did everything possible that two people could do with their clothes on. I got on top of him and juiced him on the sofa. We stood up and kissed. He pushed me against the wall and thrust his body against mine. All the while we would take breaks and stare at each other.

Damn you feel so good.

We would say intermittently.

Once in a while he would kiss my forehead. I would kiss his eyes.

I hadn’t been this turned on in a long while. Yet I was so ambivalent about having sex. And I know he wanted to. We had a brief conversation about it. And I told him that I usually believed that if two brothas wanted to fuck—they should fuck. He seemed to be on the same page. Then he asked, “Yeah but after we do it, what happened? What if I like it, and want some more after we fuck?” “I guess we deal with that when it happens, but how you do you know you’re going to like it?” I replied. He said, “What if I don’t like it, but I still want to see you again?” Damn. He was really starting to pull my strings. He continued, “So when can I see you again, you know, since you live around the corner. So we can get together and hang, chill, touch, watch a movie, get busy, kiss, and get busy all over again.” I asked, “When you want?” He quickly shot back, “Later today.”

There was a part of me that knew he was faking. I gave him a curious look. We laughed. “Yeah, I might be too tired when I get home. I’ll give you a call and let you know.” I didn’t like that. Ups and downs. I was starring in my very own cheesy teenage romance flick.

I wanted to lay down with him, but I learned that—like me—he has a “no clothes in the bed” policy. So getting in the bed meant getting naked. Why didn’t I just take my clothes off and fuck him? How many times have I gotten naked and had sex with a guy that I just met? Why was I so hesitant to bed this brotha?

As sexy and intimate as I felt with COMMON—I also felt a little weak for playing the Janet Jackson “Let’s wait a while” game. He told me I could sleep over if I wanted—and there would be no pressure for sex. I declined. I knew he was going to fall asleep. And I was too excited to sleep. I would have been wide awake in a stranger’s apartment at 3AM.

It was getting late and I knew I had to go. He had to get up for work. I had work to finish at home. We must have said goodbye a good twenty times when I got to the door. Lauren Hill was singing telling us that what we were experiencing, right there, in that moment, was the “sweetest thing.” I walked out the door and saw his face blowing me a kiss as I closed it behind me. I really didn’t want to leave.

I walked home in the drizzle, hoping he would call me Monday evening so we could continue where we left off. But for some reason, I wasn't feeling too confident...

Pussy Talking Kryptonite

There hasn’t been too much sex in the Second City for me lately. On Friday—after having one of my busiest weeks in the New Year (lots of projects at work, blogging, family & friend issues, and starting a new work-out regimen)—I was pooped out and horny as hell.

I made a few telephone calls to help relieve the situation and I couldn’t get in touch with anyone. FRIEND (see who's who) was working Friday—he and I were together earlier in the week, but I preferred his hands massaging my sore upper back and shoulders to having sex—so he couldn’t come over. JAMES was acting distant (see side bar or this post). And I wasn’t ready to baby sit CHRIS (see side bar or this post).

So I got my desperate ass on the telephone chat line and tried to find a hook up there. Things seemed promising. I was late afternoon, 3:30PM, which meant I wouldn’t have to deal with the late night knuckleheads who get on the line and play. And people (including myself) were more likely to travel since it wasn’t too late. What seemed so promising turned out to be utter failure.

Tonight turned out to be the night of the senior citizen. I only spoke to two guys who seriously tried to connect with me that evening—and they were both over 50 years old.

GASP

Yeah I said over 50. Old guys: the gay man’s kryptonite. The first guy’s name was TRADE. He’s a 50 year old black guy, with a bald head, and he says he has an extremely muscular body. He hit me up telling me how much he liked my message, but warned me that while he had a body that was out of this world, he was a 50 year old man. I understood his warning. All too often you hear guys on the Internet and the chat lines screaming stuff like, “No fats, no fems, no old people.” Or, “Nobody over 35.” Or “You old ass niggas don’t hit me up.” I can appreciate if you are not into having sex with older men—but the level of disrespect that I see for guys in their 40s and up is amazing. It’s almost a hatred that gay folks have for older gentlemen (who really aren’t that old). It kinda depresses me.

But what those guys throw away, I scoop up. I will fuck an older brotha in a minute—and actually have had some great sex with guys in their 40s and 50s who not only looked better and were in better shape than many twenty or thirtysomething guys I had met—but whose sex was better and more fulfilling.

I never found out about TRADE’s sex. He was too busy talking. We started conversing around 4PM and didn’t stop talking to about 6PM. I was worn out. At first the conversation was very sexual—but the more he talked to me, the more he started talking about work, and life, and blah, bo peep, bah, bookie, black sheep, and I had to tune him out because he was getting on my fucking nerves. Have you ever met someone who is obsessed with hearing his voice? TRADE, a self proclaimed philosopher and intellectual, is one of those guys—but with attention deficit disorder. For example, I asked him what he was getting into this weekend (trying to hint that we should get together).

I am not getting into much, just relaxing. I have been off for the past two days, so I have two more days of rest before I go back to HELL. Yeah man, my job is HELL—it is so stressful. But I worked myself up. At first I managed security at my firm, but then I went to school and uplifted myself, and learned about computers and then I became head of technology at my firm. And let me tell you, I’ve stood next to some important people, I never thought I would be standing next to Gorbachev, or that asshole George W. Bush. Can you believe they re-elected him? I fault the American public for putting that man back in office for four more years. And all because of what? The war in Iraq. What do you think?

I was annoyed. I replied,

Yeah I think it is a problem that he got re-elected.

I said a few more lines about Bush, and then transitioned back to my original question, So what are you doing this weekend?

Yeah you did ask me that. Oh not much. You know you and I should get together. So you should call me sometime. I am probably going to stay in the house this weekend, but next weekend I am going to go to the Auto Show. Do you like the Auto Show? I love the Auto Show. I go every year I love the cars. But when I go, I go in nd I get out quickly. That’s why I like to go alone. Because when I go, I go and I get my brochures and handouts, then I check out the particular models I want, and I might talk to a few of the representatives. I don’t stand in line trying to sit in the cars and stuff. I hate going with other people because they want to go and spend like three hours, not me. But I’ve also been to the Detroit Auto Show. Its nice as well, but not as crowded as Chicago’s, but unfortunately, you’re in Detroit. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Detroit, but Detroit is a terrible city. No development, lots of violence, it’s dirty. Just awful,

I had to interrupt.

Yeah TRADE I have been to Detroit before actually, and...

But he felt the need to interrupt me and he went on to talk about his friends who owned a condo in the Detroit, and how he could never own a condo in Chicago because.

I finally had to say enough. I told him that my head was hurting and that I had to go. He gave me his number and told me to call him. I took it and told him that I would. Why would I call him after such an awful conversation? See my post on the treasure troll theory. Before he hung up he said, “I have to say one thing, you are a great listener.” I rolled my eyes.


When I got out of chat conference with TRADE, another 50 year old guy, named P.T. hit me up. He told me that he worked out 3 to 4 days a week, “but I am 50 years old”. I was thinking to myself, where were all of these buffed out 50 year olds coming from? I hit him up and he sounded really nice and extremely horny. He said that he loved to kiss and that he was up for anything safe. I told him that I was up for anything, but I wasn’t sure if I would be into the kissing thing. So he decided to come right over. He said that he was about 5’10 and 180 pounds. I was pretty excited to meet him.

He came over and I met P.T. at the door. He looked alright—like a middle aged man. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but he wasn’t ugly either. He had on the whitest kicks I’ve seen on a brotha and an athletic suit—very sporty and clean. I brought him in the apartment and we chatted for a second and relaxed each other. I got him to take his shirt off, and I realized why he wore the layered gym suit. He was fat. I looked desperately around his body for signs that he went to the gym 3-4 times a week. I found nothing.

Disappointment set in. And I decided immediately that I wasn’t going to have sex with him. He told me that he loved having his nipples played with—so I focused on them the entire evening. But he kept grabbing my ass, and trying to kiss me in the mouth.

He kept trying until finally I felt his tongue on my lips. I tried not to be rude and resisted the urge to whip my face away—instead I just moved slowly. But then he tried again. And I had to stop and tell him, “I told you I am not into kissing, so you need to stop trying to plant kisses on my face.” He responded, “I’m sorry, its just that your lips are so nice, just the kind of lips I like, and I want to feel my lips against them.” I told him, “I understand that, but don’t try to kiss me again.”

He didn’t try. That. But he tried for my ass. He kept grabbing my ass and squeezing it. Even though I had no intentions on letting him in, I thought it was hot that he kept touching it. I just kept playing with his nipples while he had one hand on his dick and another on my ass. And then he looked at me and said, “When are you going to let me get some of this pussy?”

Pussy. I got a little agitated hearing this. I said,

Pussy? I don’t have a pussy.

He responded,

Oh I’m sorry. When are you going to give me some of that boy pussy?

As if somehow that made it better. I told him,

I don’t have that either. I have an ass. Men don’t have pussies.

I was ready for him to leave. He shortly blew his load after I started talking really nasty to him. But I still couldn’t get the whole PUSSY TALK out of my mind. P.T. wasn’t the first guy to have called my ass a pussy before. I have stopped sex before because a guy either called his or my ass a pussy. The pussy centered names that guys give the ass really turn me off: PUSSY, BOY PUSSY, MANGINA, BOOGINA. Why do some guys call it that? Think about it—if you are having sex with a man, you obviously—at least at that moment—don’t want pussy, because otherwise you’d be with a girl. Yet, these guys want to attribute this female body part (that they don’t want at the time) to the man that they are with.

I understand, different strokes for different folks—but when you get with me, leave the pussy talk at the door.

Surprise Countdown

Gay Chicago Bloggers Bash

Today I opened my electronic mailbox and had this nifty invitation inviting me to the Gay Chicago Bloggers Bash, hosted by Kris and Aaron. Even though I am a teetotaler, I was very excited to receive my invite. But unfortunately, I won't be able to attend.

Why? Because I have a prior engagement that involves a great surprise for the readers of SEX AND THE SECOND CITY. What surprise? I can't tell yet--but it should make for more great stories. All I can say is that it should be a lot of fun. So I am not going to the Gay Chicago Bloggers Bash because I am making a sacrifice for the devoted reader of this weblog. Make sure you stay tuned!!!

18 days and counting!

Electronic Mumblers and Cyber Stranglings

Why is it that no matter how lazy, exhausted or tired you get, you can always have energy for sex? Lately, between work, this blog, and my new exercise plan--yes, THE SEX finally broke down and decided to work out regularly--I have been extremely exhausted. But I still want to have sex.

So last night I logged on to Adam4Adam. I was sifting through the pictures of the guys that I have met before, the kats I would like to meet, and the brothas who I wish would never hit me up (sometimes I pre-emptively block them, that's cold).

While I am browsing, this brotha hits me up: 23 years old, notbad looking, 6' 155lbs. Everything seemed decent. Except for his lazy ass note:

What's up man.

I usually get annoyed when a guy just sends me a "sup" or "whassup" message. I think it's pretty lame. My feeling is, you're not walking past someone on the street--you're trying to engage them (right?). Why not supplement that "what's up" with a question or comment? Do something, as the initiator to get the party started. But he didn't. So I did what I always do when I get lame intros. I sent that lame shit back to him.

Not much, you tell me.

But this brotha was really lazy,

Not shit, just chillin'

Why the hell did this guy ever approach me in the first place? He's not saying anything. Or is he so boring he thinks that he is having a conversation? It's after 10 PM, and he is holding Internet small talk. But I was feeling "that way", so I decided to sum up a little patience, and pitch in a little extra work to get the conversation going.

That's cool. So tell me man, what are you looking for?

His first detailed answer revealed,

I am just into getting my dick sucked and fuckin.

So I asked him,

When are you looking to do this?

And he immediately went back to being vague,

This morning cause I work.

I was frustrated now. I decided to give this guy ONE LAST CHANCE.

WHEN IN THE MORNING?

And then he put the icing on the cake of annoyance.

I mean it's whenever.

I had to step away from my computer because I was about to cyberstrangle this bitch. Why is it that guys hit you up on the Internet and start electronically mumbling? (Aside: Not to be confused with the Digital Staller, who hits you up saying how tight your pictures are, and then after you respond--NEVER hits you up again.) That's basically what this guy was doing--responding with frustrating, somewhat non-comprehensible, vague, one to two word answers. I sent him one more message saying when he got it together to hit me up.

I have a new rule. If a guy's second response is "chillin", "I'm cool", "not much" or anything other than an attempt to converse--I won't be wasting my time.

Chicago Eats (pt. 2): Tossin' Salad

Continuing this week's Thursday Requests culinary theme. Mike (aka Prime) asked a question in the wake of my revelation that I no longer perform casual oral sex.

Now that we know you don’t suck dick anymore (at least not without protection), what about tossin’ salad?

Girl I'm ready to toss yo salad!

--R. Kelly, "Sex in the Kitchen"

What’s the big deal with tossin’ salad? I don’t know what it is about brothas, but tossin’ salad has become the new BREATHING. It has been my experience that the single act that guys want to do with me the most is to eat my ass. It doesn’t matter if the guy is passive or aggressive, cute or ugly, bottom or top—men want to munch! When did licking someone’s crack become so fashionable?

I won’t flatter myself into thinking it’s because I have a beautiful brown round bubbling butt—I am sure that helps. But this is something that I think a lot of brothas simply crave. When I am on the Internet or on the telephone chat lines I hear guys talking about how much they love eating a good ass. I think to myself: Have you forgotten what the primary function of the ass is? Don’t you know what comes out of it?

I met a guy named KEENAN back in 2004, and he would go into a trance everytime he saw my ass. He was a top with a real fat piece. He wasn’t too cute, but he was a nice clean guy in good shape. He would insist on eating my ass before we started engaging in intercourse—and that boy would eat, eat, and eat. And he had bad table manners. He would eat so long that he would drool and leave big wet saliva spots on my sheets. I felt like a trough of lettuce at a smorgasbord at Old Country Buffet—just laid out for his enjoyment. We only hooked up like three times, but once he tossed my salad so long I fell asleep while he was doing it. I guess he relaxed me too much.

What’s so crazy to me is getting my salad tossed doesn’t really do anything for me. Granted, its relaxing and somewhat soothing, but that’s it. It’s not like if someone were sucking my dick. But I guess we all have different spots. I was talking to a friend recently who floored me. He told me that he could have an orgasm from someone tossin’ his salad. I was amazed.

“How?” I asked. “You know. Lick, poke, prod, lick…stuff like that,” he responded. I asked, “And all the while you are masturbating, no?” He told me, “Sometimes. It depends on how good they are. If they’re very good. I don’t have to touch myself. If they’re horrible, then I’m masturbating to speed it up.”

I understand different strokes are for different folks. I love my nipples to be played with because I have sensitive nipples. Other folks have dead nipples, you can’t suck them all day and nothing will happen. Maybe I have a dead asshole when it comes to the tossing of the salad.

But to answer Mike (aka Prime’s) question—I am more careful about whose salad I toss than who’s dick I suck. I will eventually suck your dick once I am positive that you have no communicable diseases. It takes a lot more for me to eat someone’s ass. I’ll say this—EVERY ass that I have eaten in my life, was attached to a person I loved.

Chicago Eats (pt. 1): Dining Out

Today is REQUEST THURSDAY. Today's requests are all about FOOD. Mike (aka Prime) asked:

What is your favorite restaurant in Chicago?

Is that possible? In a city filled with so many great restaurants you can’t possibly have ONE favorite. I have lots of favorite little spots that I love to go to throughout Chicago. For some of the best Thai food in Chicago you should go to the southside’s The Snail (1649 East 55th Street) owned by two wonderful women Marisa and Chom. When I get the chance to go to The Snail I just tell them to surprise me. They always know exactly what appetizers to match to particular dishes. They even make this vegetarian dish called Taste Good Noodles—and yes, those damn noodles really taste good.

If you love Chinese food, step into China Town and go to the Emperor’s Choice (2238 S. Wentworth Ave). There are few places in Chicago that make great General Tso’s chicken, and this is one of them.

Chicago is a great city for Italian food—and I can name a dozen. Actually I have named a few places throughout the blog already. But I think you cannot beat the high quality and low price of Francesca’s on Taylor (1400 W. Taylor Street). Great food. Great prices. I always call in advance and have them fax me a menu—since the chef makes a new one daily. They usually make some mean risottos—and their dishes are always pretty awesome. If you like rich Italian food—or something a little more lean, this is your spot.

I could go on for days, but I will end with a cute little dessert shop that my very good female friend SUCRÉ (see who's who) loves—called Sweet Mandy B’s (1208 W. Webster Ave). SUCRÉ loves their cupcakes—I love their banana pudding and vanilla layer cake.

I have a host of others. But when you live in a city as great as Chicago--thankfully you musn't have a favorite place to eat--'cause there's so much goodness to choose from.

No-Strings Lesbians

We have all been there. You go out on a date, meet someone for the first time, or have sex with a “hook-up” and you realize—instantly—that you want him. No I don’t mean a physical thing—I mean YOU WANT HIM. You want to get to know him and spend some time with him. He is DA BOI, Definitely A Brotha Of Interest. He has the look, the demeanor—that suave masculinity that makes you want to spend more time with him.

This brotha makes you wonder what you have been doing with your romantic life the past few years. He reminds you that it wouldn’t be so bad to be in a relationship, and that it would really be nice to have someone (particularly him) to wake up to in the morning. And for those of us who have a lot of sex, DA BOI leaves you feeling a little empty after you’ve got your groove on, because you really don’t want to see him go home. Oftentimes, he can make you rethink your sex life.

Such is the case with my fellow blogger (and blog name cousin), RUSTY, of Sex and the Country. Who has stuck to his new year resolution to not have anymore one night stands with guys because he is looking for something more. And no, that something more is not a relationship (at least not necessarily). But it’s the lesbian shit.

RUSTY is not just looking for good hard fuck, but the lesbian shit—the kissing, passionate affection, and cuddling that comes before, during, and after sex. I have heard this a lot lately.

RUSTY is not alone. Tons of gay men are looking to engage in the lesbian shit. But amazingly are not interested in a relationship. I recently started talking to a potential (and very attractive) date on AOL who told me:

I am not looking to jump into a relationship with someone. But it would be nice to meet a guy and we could have more than great sex. There could also be intimacy. You know kissing and hugging and gettingwrapped up with a guy. But when you do that with a dude they start catching feelings for you. And I’m not trying to have someone fall for me.

He's not the first guy I talked to who wanted to get kissy-kissy passionate with a guy, and not want any deeper feelings to develop. First, gay men pushed the envelope by having tons of sex “with no strings.” Now it’s intimacy. It begs me to ask the question: Are gay men trying to become no-strings lesbians?

Some guys act like lesbians when they meet DA BOI, and move WAY TOO FAST. Maybe you have heard the following jokes:

Question: What do gay men do on a second date?
Answer: What second date?

Question: What do lesbians do for a second date?
Answer: Hire movers.

Yes, lesbians have a notorious reputation for jumping into relationships and moving in with each other after a week. Everyone should be careful not to move this fast--especially when you meet DA BOI. A friend of mine recently told me that he met a guy at a bar and afterwards went home and had great sex. The guy not only looked awesome, but had an amazing personality. My friend called the guy two days later and asked if he was interested in going on a real date and getting to know each other. The guy gave my friend a flat out--NO.

sigh

There is a lesson to be learned from this story. After you have great sex with DA BOI, don’t call and hire movers.

I told my friend, You’re a gay man, not a lesbian. You are dealing with dudes, you have to move a l-o-t s-l-o-w-e-r.

He asked, But then what do I do?

I told him, Don’t talk about “dates”. Don’t ever use that word. Hook up with him again for sex, and then hang out with him afterwards and see if there’s chemistry.



I have a theory. Most of the world has sex in the following progression:

MODEL 1 (heterosexual norm)
Meet. DATE 1:Movie. DATE 2: Dining Out. DATE 3: Rent a video. DATE 4: Fuck.

It is a progression that starts outdoors (public) and gradually moves indoors (to the private) where the two of you have sex. But often gay guys have following progression:

MODEL 2 (sexually liberal norm)
Meet. DATE 1: Fuck.

After this great first date sex guys want to hurry up and go out on a date with a guy. They want to go from indoors (private intimate) to outdoors--in one step. That’s a pretty harsh transition to go from naked to being fully clothed with someone in public. Think about it. The hetero norm is to start with your clothes on, and then progress into the bedroom. Maybe it makes sense to do the same thing in reverse, if you start off naked in the bedroom.

What I suggest is introduce some intervening steps. Don’t jump from DATE 1: Fuck to DATE 2: Dining Out. Start to “date” the guy in the place where everything popped off—the private bedroom. Begin with simply hanging out with the guy. Determine whether you enjoy resting and relaxing after sex. Watch television post-coitus. See if it progresses to a sleepover.

I know there is some person out there fuming as he or she reads this post. They’re probably asking:

Why play all the games? You can’t just go out with a guy on a date?

My answer is: Yes, you most certainly can. But your chance to go out on a date with someone is BEFORE you jump into the sack. Because once you jump into the sack (unfortunately) things change and people start getting weird.

I had sex with a guy once, and I knew if I asked him to go on a date he would have said no. But one day after a long sex session I complained that I was starving. So the two of us jumped in his car at 1AM and found a late night diner to get something to eat. If I had asked the guy, “Hey, let’s go on a date.” It would have been jarring. But when I told him I was hungry after sex—its was a natural progression from the place where we started. And guess what? We eventually started going to dinner without sex.

The point is—go with the flow. Take it slow. If you take it slow, you are more likely to see whether his actual persona is the same as your first impression of him.

Request Thursday

Post your questions (in the comments section) for me or email them to: sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com. I am taking requests for my Thursday post, so anything you want me to write about, or answer--no matter how bizarre--about me or about anything. Hit me up.

Get More Sex

Every two weeks, I have decided to introduce a Great Link post--a website or blog that captivates "the sex" that I so desperately love.

What I currently consider to be one of the best black sex blogs out there is Not Another Xtreme Movie. I swear everytime I read it I get H to O to the T T T.

And last, but certainly not least is the talented ROD who is doing the damn thing over at Brotha2Brotha. ROD has a way with words that will have you rolling on the floor crying--and he keeps his finger on the pulse of the entertainment biz. You must check him out.

Return of The Vamp

Just when you thought I let dead dogs lay, I contacted VAMP aka CHRIS (see side bar: Current Men or previous posts A & B). When I last wrote about him, VAMP was the focus of a not-so-elaborate revenge scheme to teach a young punk a lesson. I thought I was done. But I guess I am like a cat. I want to torment this mouse some more. And plus, as annoying as he his—he’s a sexy mouse.

I must be a sadist. Why else would I take pleasure in stringing him on? Is it because I want to take him down a notch and let him know he's not as superfine as he thinks?

After I sexed VAMP really well, he would not stop calling me or text messaging me. But I never returned his messages. I wanted him to sit and stew. Think about what he was missing. The following are some of his text messages:

Dec 25. 1:45 PM
Merry Christmas

Dec. 26. 4:36 AM
So when are you going to fuck me?

And then he sent a disturbing message:

Dec 29. 10:56 AM
You can fuck me and come inside me.

Is he thinking I am going to have unprotected sex with him? I hope not.

Dec 30. 1:54 AM
Will you call me? I’m sorry if I did something.

Jan 1. 1:55 AM
So when are you going to fuck me?

Jan 2. 2:01 AM
So are you going to fuck me?

Jan 4. 1:34 AM
The sex was good and I need you inside me so can we hook up? And I do like u too.

Then he called me and left me the following voice message:

Jan 4. 5: 03 pm
Hey man, whassup this is Chris giving you a call just uh thinking about you seeing how you were doing. I was around your house, I drove to your…I mean, I didn’t drive to your house, but I had to come to a store near you to get something I ordered a week ago and I was seeing if I could see you for a minute. But, I guess you don’t want to talk to me. [he let out a small chuckle]. Guess Ill holla at you. Later.

And then VAMP stopped calling and text messaging me. Now I would be lying to you if I told you that getting all those messages didn’t stroke my ego. VAMP is a good looking guy and if he wasn’t such a self-obsessed, looks-centered girl, I would like to become friends with him and have regular sex. But unfortunately, he is a girl. But in my twisted mind I get a kick out of knocking him down a peg.

I decided to let some time past. I would contact him again. I wanted to hook up with him again and drive him crazy with sex. And then, while laying it down, make him admit in the waves of passion that he’s not really all that. Make him submit to me.

Aside: This is crazy, dominant/submissive sex play has NEVER interested me. Why the sudden appeal?

But I wanted to call when he least expected it. So a few days ago—after about three weeks— I hit him up with a text asking him when he wanted to hook up again.

Jan 29. 7:58PM
What’s up man, so when do u want to?

Jan 29. 8:00 PM
So when do u have time?

He had started shooting text messages at me like a machine gun. I told him that we could meet either that weekend or sometime during the week.

Jan 30. 1:12 AM
So can we do something tomorrow?

I was asleep when he sent this message and didn’t check my phone until he sent me the following message:

Jan 30. 6:25PM
What’s up with that? Out of the blue u text me but when I call u, u don’t pick up your phone so we can talk. I not have time for your games. I look too good for u. So stop testing me.

I was shocked. He looks too good for me? That mutha…VAMP had finally grown some balls under his panties. I was worried at first.

Did I string him along too much to the point that he got too
impatient? Then I relaxed and remembered. He’s 19 years old.
He’s a black man with green eyes. He’s used to guys falling over him. He’s
frustrated because I am not giving him the time of day.

I played it cool. I sent him a message saying that if he was too good looking for me then I would leave him alone, and he should stop sending me text messages. I left it short and simple—almost cold. It was a gamble. But I knew it would pay off.

Jan 30. 6:36pm
I’m sorry. What’s up man, so when do u want to? So what are u doing tonight? Is it cool for me to come over?

I knew he would come around. He texted me like a thousand more times that day. I told him that we would hook up during the week. So on Monday, the messages continued. Again, he mentioned some disturbing acts:

Jan. 31. 2:03pm
So what’s up can we do this today?

Jan. 31. 7:46pm
I want u to come in my ass.

My phone was off all day. So I never responded to his messages. I guess in an attempt to make some sense of why I wasn’t calling him back (because I am sure everyone else falls all over him), he sent the following text:

Jan. 31. 7:49pm
Hello. I’m talking to u. Do u have a boyfriend?

I decided it was time to finally give him a call. "Of course not,” I told him. “Now get your ass over here.”

***

Don't forget REQUEST THURSDAYS! I will post about anything you want. Ask "the sex" anything you want about me, previous posts, or even advice (do you want advice from me?). You can email questions to: sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com or post them in the comments section.

I Don't Suck

When I posted last Friday, I had no intention to go in depth into the story of BLACKMAN. But I got a lot of responses wanting to know how the Cheesy Romance turned out, so I decided to tell a little more of the story.

When I last left you, I had just met BLACKMAN and had experienced the best first date of my life. Before the end of our first date, he insisted that he take me out Saturday night—in order to repay me for treating him to dinner (he lost his wallet, remember?).

I was excited. And who wouldn’t be? I had just met an attractive in-shape black man, who was employed (he often called me from his job), a good kisser with fresh breath, wasn’t a bad dancer, and who he looked at me like a fat woman stares at a Krispy Kreme donut she knows she shouldn’t have; with a certain longing rawness and craving desire.

After countless dates with uglies, smellies, assholes, fakes, and attitudes I was finally meeting someone I vibed with. I was beginning to think to myself, “Hey, I am an attractive intelligent brother who has some good stuff to offer. Maybe I am a catch after all. I am not an awful person after all. I don’t suck.” “That’s right,” I repeated in my head, “I DON’T SUCK!” I had no clue that BLACKMAN would soon help me realize the true meaning of those three words.

Between that first Wednesday date to our next Saturday date, BLACKMAN and I must have called each other a thousand times—chatting and leaving messages for one another. But most of the time when I called him, he wasn’t at home. I would often leave a message with his VICTOR, his effeminate voiced Puerto Rican roommate, who didn’t like me calling. He never gave my messages to BLACKMAN.

Our second date was fun. We met and went to CIRCUIT—the Chicago club where white men go to pick up on the Latino boys. In 2001, CIRCUIT was the closest thing that Chicago had to a place where go-go boys hung out. It was a crowded Saturday night. The boys packed the space like sardines, which gave me and BLACKMAN an excuse to squeeze up against one another on the dance floor. It’s like we couldn’t keep our hands or lips off of one another. He had even removed his tongue ring. And we both seemed to have PERPETUAL ERECTIONS from the moment we met on the street and hugged. Erections I was all too aware off as we pressed our bodies against one another on the floor.

BLACKMAN told me he needed to get a drink and asked if I wanted anything. I told him I was cool, but that I needed to go to the bathroom. We agreed to meet at the video bar at the front of the club where it was a lot quieter and where we could sit down. While I was in the bathroom I was thinking:

Man I cannot believe my luck. This shit feels so good.

During our time together, he and I never really talked about sex—though there was a lot of sexual banter. I wasn’t preoccupied with getting him to take his clothes off and having sex with him. I was really enjoying his company, the talk, the groping, the laughs, the grinding. It was just intense.

I went to meet him at the front of the club at the video bar and we sat down next to each other in some chairs. He leaned in to kiss me and as he sucked on my bottom lip my senses started to react. My stomach was turning. My brain was saying, “YUCK”.

I pulled away from him.

“Have you been smoking?” I asked.
“Yeah. Is that a problem?” he said.
I replied, “Yeah, not to be an asshole, but I don’t really like the taste.”

It put a damper on the mood. He insisted that he only smoked once in a while, and usually only when he was in a club or some other social setting. It didn’t bother me that much, but I knew I couldn’t kiss someone and taste cigarettes. It was my first warning sign. But it wouldn’t be the last one. Other than the fact that he was Smokey the Bear, the evening went off without a hitch.

The next day I told one of my close friends ANGEL (see who’s who) about my dates with BLACKMAN. I discussed everything from his cute mustache to his bitchy roommate VICTOR. “Did you say he has a roommate named VICTOR? Is your friend’s name BLACKMAN?” ANGEL asked. Don’t let anyone tell you that the gay world isn’t small. You can’t swing a dick without hitting someone you know, or someone your friend knows. ANGEL (who was an associate of VICTOR) went on to tell me that VICTOR and BLACKMAN were lovers. I brought this up to BLACKMAN, and hesitantly, he admitted it was true. He said that they were no longer together, but they were stuck in a lease together. This didn’t sit too well with me. That meant I was never going over BLACK’s house to hang with him.

Our next few dates went well. They were sex light (clothes never came off), heavy on the intimacy, and filled with fun conversation. I started to feel like we were dating. We returned to JOY’S NOODLE & RICE SHOP for dinner one night, and the sexual banter got charged. It had been about 3 weeks, and neither of us had engaged in any sexual activity. My testicles weresore from the build-up.

Why hadn’t we had sex?

He said that he didn’t want to do sex right away because he was “really feeling me”. I voiced my agreement. I told him that I thought it was time for us to stop talking about sex and to at least get naked with one another. He agreed.

“Why don’t we do it now?” he said.
“But you have to go to work tomorrow, and I live over an hour away, and we can’t go to your place.” I answered.
We sat silent for a minute until he suggested, “Let’s go to the bathhouse.”

It seemed an odd suggestion. Not the place I thought he and I would have our first sexual encounter. But it was different, and I was horny. So the game was afoot.

We walked over to the nearby STEAMWORKS (3246 N. Halsted). We checked in and took our clothes off and wrapped our towels around our bodies. We had to be two of the only three black people at the establishment, and BLACKMAN stuck to be like brown on brown rice.

“That guy over there is looking at you.” I teased.
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I came here with you. I don’t want any of these guy in here even touching me.” And with those sappy words of romance so began my PERPETUAL ERECTION.

He and I walked around with our towels sticking out in front of us. I told him to go to one of the glory holes and to put his dick through it and I would go on the other side and go to work. It had always been a fantasy of mine to do that. But I could never bring myself to suck some stranger’s dick hanging out of a hole (and you should be careful, see this post by Cement Brunette). I was excited because I rarely engaged in performing oral sex on a guy, and this was finally my opportunity to do it safely.

When I got to the other side, there was this huge massively long rock hard brown dick sticking out. I got on my knees and smiled. This shit was kicking me in the ass. The site, the size of his dick, the fact that I knew he liked me—was making me feel hot as hell. I opened my mouth as wide as possible, and went to town.

That entire evening we were like animals in heat. There was no penetration, but lots of kissing, sucking, bumping & grinding and dirty talk. He kept telling me, “I cannot wait to fuck you.” And we kept getting closer and closer, and then that’s when we had the manna from the sky—

THE SIMULTANEOUS ORGASM

When we exploded, it was nothing nice. It was like a yogurt bomb went off. Three weeks of mutually pent up frustration found its way on foreheads, nipples, cheeks, arms, sheets, and shoulders. Cum was everywhere. We had soaked each other. I couldn’t stop thinking that this was some of the hottest sex I had experienced and we hadn’t even got to the fucking.

We made plans to get together later in the week— to have dinner at my house and to spend the night. The day of the date I had to cancel. I wasn’t feeling well. I had a terrible headache, my neck was killing me, and my throat was hurting. I felt really uncomfortable. I went to my doctor who tested me for rapid strep (negative), and then ran all of these other tests and eventually took a throat culture. She told me to rest and relax and that I had nothing to worry about.

I was feeling much better the next day. And BLACKMAN agreed to come over that evening for our sleepover. The dinner menu was set. The food shopping was done. My house was clean and straightened up. All I had to do was prepare the food. That’s when I got a telephone call from my doctor:

"Hi Bernard! This is Carol, how you doing?”
“Actually doc, I am feeling well." I answered, "Thanks for checking up on me.”
She sounded pleased. “I am happy to hear that you are feeling better. We got the results from your throat culture back, and I you tested positive for gonorrhea.” She said it real matter-of-factly.
“Gonorrhea? Are you fucking serious?” I said.

To say that I was embarrassed would be an understatement. Not only did I have an STD, but I had it in my mouth.

She responded, “Yeah kiddo, I am afraid so. You mentioned that you had just started dating someone, so I went ahead and ran STD tests on that throat culture. You need to have a talk with your guy, because it’s likely he has it too. The good news is that this is 100% curable. I put in a prescription for you at your local pharmacy, so you just have to go and pick it up. It’s one pill of a strong antibiotic. You need to come back in next week and give us another throat culture to make sure that it’s all gone.”

I felt demoralized and a little angry. I had never had a sexually transmitted infection before. What pissed me off the most was that I got gonorrhea from someone that I hadn’t fucked on the first date—but from someone that I was “going out with” and getting to know better.

I told BLACKMAN what happened, and he went into a rage,
“Thanks a lot BERNARD!”
“For what?”, I asked.
“For exposing me to an STD! I have never had an one before, and now you probably gave me gonorrhea.” he yelled.
I was upset. I told him, “Are you crazy? I haven’t sucked anyone in 8 months. I suck your dick and three days later my throat hurts. And you think I gave you gonorrhea? Get real.”

This was turning ugly. I decided to stop before someone’s feelings got hurt.

I lowered my tone, "Look, I am not blaming you. I am not even trying to be angry about this. The point is this. Now, I have gonorrhea. You need to go get yourself checked out, because if you have it for a long time it can lead to some serious complications.”

BLACKMAN shot back, “Yeah well I haven’t had it for a long time. I didn’t give you gonorrhea, because I know I didn’t have it.”

It was like he was pouting. I could see that he was stuck on blaming me—and obviously in denial. So I told him to forget about dinner since he couldn’t be an adult about the matter.

Thanks to BLACKMAN, I will never think of the phrase, "I don't suck." as my motivational mantra. It kinda has a new signifance, since now, I really don’t suck--at least not anymore. Today, if I meet a guy, sex only occurs with some barrier--a condom—and, yes, that includes oral sex. Otherwise, it don't happen.

Oral sex is usually thought of as safe—but there are some reports (though partially problematic) that provide evidence that HIV may be transmitted orally. Plus, there’s a lot of stuff out there other than HIV--like gonorrhea, syphilis, and herpes. None of which is cute. It's not just ho's and promiscuous people that catch STDs.

So fellas and ladies, be careful what you put in your mouth.