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.

Cheesy Romance

Before you all think I am a cold heartless sex-obsessed bitch, I wanted to let you know that "the sex" does have a softer side. My goal in life is not simply to find men for sex and discard them. Dating and relationships are great, but I believe you should always: ENTER WITH CAUTION.

Honestly, I hate sap. I really don't like guys who, when asked what they like to do, say: "I like to take romantic walks on the beach." or "I like candlelit dinners." For real? What romance novel have you been reading? But for all of you who think that Bernard Bradshaw is the grinch that stole romance, keep reading:

One of the last dates I went on was in the spring of 2001—with BLACKMAN. BLACKMAN is a sexy attractive brotha with a nice deep telephone voice. We met via the Internet on BLACKPLANET, and after seeing one another’s pictures and having a few great phone conversations, we decided to meet for dinner on his next night off—a Wednesday evening.

For the first time in a long time I felt butterflies. The anticipation of meeting someone you have an actual in. In the days leading up to our date he seemed a little indecisive. Instead of getting upset, I chalked it up to nervous energy and took charge and told him where and when to meet me. But then he told me that he wanted to reschedule because he lost his wallet and didn’t have any money. I told him that didn’t matter, and since I chose the restaurant, it would be my treat.

I decided to meet him at a separate location from the restaurant. I wanted an opportunity to say “No thanks” before sitting down for a meal with him—just in case the picture and the man before me were drastically different. I arrived at our rendezvous spot at 9pm—right on time—at the northwest corner of Belmont and Halsted. It is the corner of SPIN (800 W. Belmont), a cute gay bar with a mixed crowd on the southern end of BOYSTOWN.


BLACKMAN was a little late, but when he finally arrived I was pleasantly surprised. He looked much better in person than in his picture. He was 6'3", 210lbs (he lied and said he weighed 190 on the phone). He was a nice big firm cuddly guy, clean shaven, except for a nice moustache. And did I mention he had nice lips?

We extended hands for a handshake, and his large warm hands engulfed mine. He had a huge smile on his face. He liked what he saw. I could tell, cause he immediately turned the handshake into a full hug. And we stood on the street corner and stared at each other for a moment, speechless.

I teased him for being late and we ran off to one of my favorite Thai food restaurants JOY'S NOODLES & RICE (3257 N. Broadway). While it may sound a bit cliché, we had a joyous evening at JOY. We stared at each other during dinner. We shared our dinner: him the coconut curry, me the panang curry with crispy noodles. We chit chatted. We flirted. I acted coy. He touched my hand. We smiled at each other constantly.

We left dinner to go find a more comfortable place to sit. We went to the CARIBOU COFFEE (3300 N. Broadway) shop across the street (also known as the GAYBOU, or CARIBOY COFFEE). It’s a very cruisy warm little shop with nice seats and a fireplace—but tonight it was standing room only. So we stood outside and thought about another place to go to and chill. We were standing really close together. Face to face. He was smiling at me. And I told him, "Come on, let’s do it." He grabbed me by my jacket collar and pulled me closer and kissed me. “Mmmm. That feels good.” I was thinking to myself. But then my thoughts started to change. I stopped kissing him.

‘What was that?” I asked.
“What was what?” He responded.
I told him I felt something hard in my mouth when he was kissing me. He stuck his tongue out and dangling in the middle was a big silver bar. He had a tongue piercing. Gross.

“Man, don’t you think you ought to give a kat some warning?” I said teasingly. The thought of that piece of metal in my mouth bothered me more than I let on. But I moved on.

We ended up at ROSCOES. (3356 N. Halsted), a popular white bar with a dance floor (and a beer garden) and a fireplace with a nice loveseat. Before getting to ROSCOES to you have to walk past COCKTAIL (3359 N. Halsted) a predominately white gay watering hole, which is across the street. COCKTAIL has a huge window—aka a fishbowl—that allows its patrons to sit on stools and gawk and people watch the gay boys that cruise Halsted Street. To my surprise there was a row of black men sitting in the window, and as BLACKMAN and I walked by, all six of their heads turned and followed our movement. I could hear them through the glass oggling, oooing. and ahhhing. I thought to myself, either BLACKMAN is superfine, or we look hot together. And a nice warm feeling flowed through my body.

It was game show Wednesday at ROSCOES, and a bunch of drag queens where playing Win Lose or Draw in front of a large crowd on the dance floor. While everyone was peeping the drag queens, BLACKMAN and I were tucked away in a corner alternating between making out, holding hands, feeling each other up and talking. He made a point of telling me he was well endowed, and he grabbed my hand and put it on his hard crotch. It felt like he put my hand on a long thick tree branch concealed in his pants.

Once the gameshow was over, the dance floor opened up and he and I danced to Janet Jackson's new dance single, All 4 U. Like all black gay men, he is a BIG Janet fan. On the dance floor our lips met often, and we couldn’t keep our hands off one another. We couldn’t stop smiling. Our dance evening ended when the club announced final call. The song was Amber's “Flying Above the Clouds.” The singer in the song says, "We're flying above the clouds...I can see happiness from here." The song capped a delightful evening.

I walked BLACKMAN to his bus stop. When his bus came, he gave me three kisses good bye, and told me to get ready for our Saturday date that we agreed on earlier. When the bus started pulling away, I held my hand up and mouthed “bye.” He pressed his hand against the bus window next to his seat and smiled as the bus pulled away.

10,000

Yesterday, Sex and the Second City received its 10,000th hit. Keep reading and enjoying the blog--and tell your friends about the sex. Also, remember, that I take requests for Thursdays. It doesn't matter how wacky or outlandish the question or comment--so start sending them!!! You can:

e-mail me at: sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com
or
instant message me on YAHOO or AOL, screenname: sexandthe2ndcity.

Can't wait to hear from you.

Freaks and The Treasure Troll Theory

Poor is the man whose pleasures depend on the permission of another.
--Madonna

Yesterday, for what may have been the third or fourth time in my life, I was cruised. I was on the cellie talking to FRIEND and fighting hard to stay on two feet as I skipped over snow mounds, dodged muddy puddles, and slid over ice patches. One guy sitting in a gray pick-up eyeballed me as I walked in the middle of the street (the sidewalk was piled with snow). When I approached his car I gave him the two-second assessment: masculine looking brotha, not bad. I nodded at him and shifted my focus away and kept walking, only looking back when I got about twenty feet away.

That was his cue. I heard the car start and he slowly pulled up next to me in the middle of the street and with a southern drawl he asked me if I needed a ride. I told him I was cool and we made small talk. Now that I was closer and had more time to look at him, he didn’t seem all that attractive. His teeth were kind of bucked and spaced, and his eyes were a little bugged. He was a troll. But he seemed nice enough to converse with.

I have a theory--the Treasure Troll Theory. Depending on what you like and are into, NEVER write off a guy just because he doesn’t seem that cute in the face. With a little patience, that ugly guy might turn out to be a trasure troll—a troll with a pot of gold. A treasure troll is a guy with some trollish defect (horrible face or attitude), but he has some hidden treasure that can compensate for his little problem. He’s someone who’s not so cute, but:

• when he takes off their clothes he reveals a body that just won’t quit
• has an asshole that snaps on your dick and feels like it’s plugged into a socket
• has a pipe that is hung like a porn star
• whose sex skills can take you to a new level of conciosness

Depending on what you like, having a little patience can get you pleasure that a lot of other folks miss out on. But that’s just me.

I quickly got tired of the small talk with the CRUISER. I was upfront with him, “So what you like to get into?” He seemed a little shocked, “You mean sexually?” “Yeah.” I replied. He seemed a little nervous, “We’ll I don’t know. I guess I am a freak. It don’t really matter. As long as it is safe.”

I had heard this one before. Countless guys hiding their sexual desires behind the vaguest of terms: freak.

What’s a freak? The question comes up in Waiting to Exhale when a young daughter asks her mother, Bernadine (played by the superb actress Angela Bassett), for a definition. It’s been 10 years and black folks are still looking for an answer to that question.

Before ENRIQUE came over, told his soldier stories, and got fucked—we had a conversation that exemplifies the frustrating exchanges that I usually have when people use this vague word.

ENRIQUE: Let me know if you like to get into freaky shit.
BERNARD: That depends on what you mean by freaky.
ENRIQUE: I mean freaky.
BERNARD: OK. You haven’t told me anything. What are you saying? What is a freak to you?

Then came his avoidance.

ENRIQUE: I am just getting home from the military.
BERNARD: So?
ENRIQUE: So, I haven’t had sex in a long time and I really want some freaky action.
BERNARD: Then stop talking in circles and tell me what you want.

I was getting really tired of this back and forth volleying. It was obvious that there was a specific act he enjoyed. But he was too ashamed to come out and say it. I decided I would help him out.

BERNARD: What, are you into people pissing and shitting on you?
ENRIQUE: NO! I ain’t talking about that white shit.
BERNARD: Then you need to stop pussyfooting around and TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!

He was quiet.
ENRIQUE: I mean, I was wondering if you and your boy could nut in a nigga’s face or in my mouth?
BERNARD: Sure, we can do that.

I said—thinking to myself that was nasty to do with someone you’re meeting for the first time.

Why are guys so reluctant to say what they are into? Charles Stephens talks about this fear, but even he is afraid to reveal his fetishes. Brothas aren’t afraid to say that they are a freak—but when pressed to define their inner freakdom something gets lost in translation, and we don’t seem to be able to find the words.

I am tired of guys asking me what a freak is as though it has some universal definition. Freaky is in the eye of the beholder. What about sex isn’t freaky? So what qualifies something as freaky? Some things you consider freaky others don’t. For example, I love dirty raunchy talk during sex. For me, that’s par for the course. For other people, that’s freaky.

But let’s break it down further. Truthfully, there are two types of freak. Good freaky and freaky disgusting. Good freaky includes those acts you reserve for special encounters or with that special person. Freaky disgusting is just that nasty ass shit that you will not do under any circumstances whatsoever. For me, shooting cum on my body is Good Freaky. Punching someone in the gut: Freaky Disgusting. Fisting someone is Good Freaky, but defecating on someone’s face, that’s Freaky Disgusting.

So fellas, next time someone asks you what you get into—just be upfront. Because you can’t get what you want, if you don’t ask for it.

Don't Count My Teeth

They brought me here in chains.
They brought you here willing slaves to man.
You, shiploads of women each filled with hope
that she might win with ruby lip and saucy curl
and bright and flashing eye
him to wife who had the largest tender.
Remember?
And they sold you here even as they sold me.
My sisters, there is no room for mockery.
If they counted my teeth
they did appraise your thigh
and sold you to the highest bidder
the same as I.
--Beah Richards
"A Black Woman Speaks"

The following is my response to yesterday's letter from FWG claiming that there was a Chocolate Shortage in Chicago:

Dear Forty-something White Guy,

I want to thank you for taking the time to visit my website and for your compliment. Please allow me to respond to a few of your points.

First, let me make it clear that I have no problem with interracial dating or interracial sexual rendez-vous. Neither do I have a problem with a white man finding black men attractive. Frankly, it's none of my business. While I no longer find white/black interracial dating conducive to my current lifestyle--I respect and celebrate people's right and choice to enter interracial relationships. I truly believe that you don't always "choose" who you fall in love with. I also recognize that I wouldn't exist if it weren't for miscegenation--as the vast majority of the African-American population in the US is not African, but mixed race--a fact often lost in contemporary discussions on race.

In addition, while I don't currently choose to date/have sex with white men, there was a time in my youth when race didn't matter to me in partner selection. I have fucked white men, and even loved a white man. But I know that in my current life, I need to be with someone who understands me in cultural ways that a white man in today's society cannot.

So understand, that just because a white guy has interest (relationship, sexual, etc) in a black guy, doesn't make him an offensive Chocolate Chaser. No, a Chocolate Chaser is on a HUNT. He actively seeks black guys. He is only interested in black guys. And he will break his damn neck tripping over himself to get to a black guy. A Chocolate Chaser is a guy who--after I politely tell him I am not interested--insists that his white ass or white mouth is the best; or ignores me and proceeds with agenda telling me, "I just want to be used by a room full of black guys at your party."

But its not really about sex. Chocolate Chasers aren't offensive because they treat black men like sexual objects. Some of the biggest CCs aren't on a fuck spree--they want relationships. Like you, FWG, they are on a search to put some brutha on lockdown (prison pun not intended). But that's equally offensive. Because while they are not treating us as sex toys (necessarily) they are still exoticizing and objectifying us,. The Chocolate Chaser doesn't see black men as individuals. He sees us as objects.

I hear a lot of guys that they don't exoticize black men, "It's just a preference!" No, that's just an excuse. I think that any man--regardless of race--who chooses to date solely outside of his race has deep psychological issues dealing with a lack of self-love and self-respect. I make this statement without regard to race; it is true for a white man, and holds true for a brotha as well. It is not just a preference if you prefer another race over your own (or don't find your own race attractive/dateable), there's a problem.

Let's assume that every statistic that you mentioned in your letter was correct (despite the fact that population is never evenly distributed by age, or that black men are scattered across residentially race segregated Chicago that white guys that exclusively date/seek black men offends me. In many ways I despise chocolate chasers for the very "demographic" analysis that you sent me. After your analysis, you stated, "If you're a gay white guy living in Chicago looking for a hookup or relationship with a black guy, the numbers say that you should seize every opportunity." While you're at it FWG, why don't you open my mouth and count my teeth? As a black man, I am not some commodity subject to your demographic/supply-side economic analysis as you look for the optimal product guy. Black men have been kept, culled and picked over by white men since slavery. And you are carrying on the tradition, albeit with different repercussions.

I find your analysis offensive--even though I know it didn't come from a mean place. But that's what adds the insult to the injury. You thought that it was perfectly acceptable send me a letter that offered an economic consumer based rationale to interracial dating. But did you ever discuss love? Did you ever discuss interest in a person? No, because you are too obsessed with the forest to focus on the tree.

I question whether you seek the love of a good man, or whether you are just bsessed with the opportunity of being with a black man. Maybe if you loved yourself, you wouldn't feel compelled to enumerate your chances of being with a black man, because you would have more options amongst the people that comprise your own cultural awareness and upbringing.

So I don't really feel sorry for you as you are on your hunt for the black mandingo in the 270 square mile concrete jungle that is Chicago. Because ultimately you're not looking for a singlular black man, who is an individual. You're looking for a thing; a black ass dark and shiny mirror that only reflects the image of some fantasy you've conjured in your mind.

Bernard Bradshaw

Chocolate Shortage

There's not enough chocolate in the city of Chicago. Or at least that's what one commentator would have me believe. After reading my post last week on Chitlin' Circuit ALAN and my earlier post on Chocolate Chasers, it seems that a white 40-something reader of Sex and the Second City was a little annoyed at my honest and accurate negative categorization. He wrote a letter (which I've edited to protect his privacy) to object to some of my views:

Dear Bernard:

I just discovered your site... As a fellow Chicagoan, although a white North Sider, I find your site compelling.

I know there are people out there that are "Chocolate Chasers," and I imagine that you would probably consider me one of them. Because you took a somewhat negative view of the practice in your article, give me a couple of minutes of your time to rebut some of the objections that I sensed from your article.

The Machine Shop episode (see Chitlin' Circuit) is indeed creepy and indefensible, but I couldn't figure out if that was what really bothered you or if white people exclusively (or almost) seeking sex with black men is the issue that offended you-- but I got the feeling it was the latter.

I can only speak to my case. Growing up, I lived on the white side of town but was bussed across town to a mostly black school in an all black neighborhood. When I witnessed the overt racism of the people on the school bus, I began to make friends with the black kids. I was one of the few white kids in a single parent household, so I felt an additional kinship with the black kids-- or perhaps more accurately, a greater sense of alienation from the white kids.

As I grew older, I alternately found myself drifting away and then back toward identifying more closely with black folks. On several trips to Brazil...I saw a different kind of society, one in which blacks, whites, asians, [sic] and others intermingled more freely, both sexually and socially.

When my homosexuality emerged, I at first gravitated toward whites because it was more convenient at that stage of my sexual development. But most of my firends [sic] were still asian, black or Hispanic. As I gained more confidence in my sexuality, I found that the merging of my social and sexual relationships became extra powerful in combination.

You can dismiss people by calling them "Chocolate Chasers" if you'd like, but I also had an 10-year plus co-habitive relationship with a black man, minored African-American Studies in college...and currently work for a school with a large African-American student body.

Next, let's look at reciprocity. Which do you imagine to be more prevalent: gay white men that mostly or exclusively seek the company of black men, or gay black men that only go for white guys? My guess is that a higher percentage of gay black guys look primarily for white guys than vice versa. It's also my experience that within the gay communities of both races, the cross-racial stigma is more pronounced among blacks. Just a guess, based on nothing more than my own experience.

Finally, let's look at the demographic aspect. If you're a gay white guy living in Chicago looking for a hookup or relationship with a black guy, the numbers say that you should seize every opportunity. There are 2.9 million people in Chicago, about 48% of whom are male. So now you're down to 1.392 million. Thirty-five percent are black. So now you're down to 487,000 black men in Chicago. Let's say-- and this is an enormous stretch-- that 5% are gay. Now you're down to 24,360. If you figure that the numbers are spread evenly for every year between ages 21 and 70 (this might lead to some wide discrepancies but at least it seems logical) and you're willing to consider people five years older or five years younger, you're down to 4,971 potential partners.

Now conjecture and guesswork and estimation are really looming large, but let's say that 25% are willing to consider an interracial encounter. We're down to 1242. Maybe a third of those are involved with someone, so now we're down to 820. This means that the entire pool of optimal guys for a gay white man looking for a gay black man in Chicago is 820 people scattered over the 270 square miles of the
city--leaving completely out of the equation factors like politics, musical taste, appearance, education, income, health, common interests, cuddler/non-cuddler, op/bottom, etc. I figure that when those filters are applied, there is one gay black guy left for me in the entire city of Chicago--maybe it's you, maybe not. But you have to give it a try.

Thanks for your time.

Forty-something White Guy (FWG)

Did FWG break that shit down or what? Is he convinced that if he doesn't push up on every black man he sees that he is going to miss out on that "one gay black guy" that is reserved "left" for him? I don't think I have ever heard someone (in contemporary America) give such an economic supply/demand rationale for the exploitation of to date black labor men.

I'll post my response tomorrow.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chitlin' Circuit

chitlin circuit (n.):
A circuit of nightclubs and theaters that feature African-American performers.

As I mentioned in Serving Betty--I love food. One night recently I was hanging out with FRIEND playing video games and we both got the late night munchies for some breakfast food. I thought for a moment and suggested that we eat at one of my favorite former dives--the Gay IHOP (3760 N. Halsted Street, corner of Halsted and Grace) on the northern border of Chicago's Boystown. The Gay IHOP is a lot like an airport--its usually loud and bustling with people, there are cute busboys and servers buzzing around like flight attendants, and queens are arriving and departing on the quarter hour.

While at the restaurant I couldn't help but be reminded of ALAN--a white guy who used to work at the Gay IHOP and who was one of my first experiences with a White Chocolate Chaser.

I met ALAN on AOL during the summer of 1997. He described himself as a 5'11", 165lb ,blond haired, blue eyed, Sting look-a-like--who worked at the Gay IHOP. We talked on the phone and instantly hit it off. I was young, dumb, and looking for love in all the wrong people. In my misguided youth, I thought ALAN had potential.

I immediately called my best friend DEE and told him about my latest AOL date. DEE started asking me all sorts of questions like, "He works at GayHOP?" I told him yes. Then he asked me, "Does he look like Sting a little bit?" I responded, "Yeah, how did you know that?" DEE asked one more question, "Is his name ALAN?" How did he know?

DEE told ALAN was his waiter the previous night. He and some friends went to the GayHOP after a night of clubbing. He told me, "Alan was flirting with all of us. But he took to me particularly hard. He even sat next to me and tried to eat my food. Very flirty."

I wasn't really paying attention to the story. I only wanted to know one thing: Is he good-looking?

DEE answered, "He really does look like Sting. He's in good shape. I mean he's no supermodel, but he's not bad."

The next day I met ALAN in Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood to dine at the overhyped, but nevertheless famous Giordano's Pizzeria (1040 W. Belmont). He wasn't a bad looking white guy, and he did look like a young Sting. But looks didn't matter. I was just so excited to be on a date I didn't know what to do.

Lunch was nice. We joked. Had a few laughs. There was sexual banter. No fireworks, but a few sparks. There was definitely mutual interest. ALAN had to end our lunch date and go to work. Luckil, the GayHOP was nearby. I decided to walk him to work.

As we walked north on Halsted to the GayHOP, the level of sexual banter started to rise in the hotness department. ALAN looked at me and said, "I really would like to do something with you before I go to work. I think you are so attractive." I was at that age when if you paid me a compliment, I turned to putty. I responded, "We can always hook up later. We could never get to our apartments in time for you to get to work." The level of intensity rose on ALAN's face, "I know, I know. But we can go in there."

We had just walked up to a non-descrip little place on Halsted THE MACHINE SHOP. "What's this place?" I asked. "We can go in there and get busy," he replied.

I didn't like the idea of going into a place called "The Machine Shop" to have sex with a guy I had just went on a date with. Why couldn't he wait for a more suitable time, when we wouldn't be rushed? Why not wait for a nice clean apartment--instead of some hot smelly sex shop with stalls?

But I went into that dirty place. And we found a stall and he sucked my dick and for the first time in my life I came in someone's mouth. I was shocked when he started talking to me--because I didn't see him spit my nut. He had swallowed it. I knew then I was dealing with something I had never encountered before.

We left, and he went to work. He said that he was going to call me, but he never did. I felt bad. I was young and I thought I wasn't good enough, or cute enough. But time soon showed that I wasn't the one with the problem...

***

About a year later DEE called me, "Guess what, CRAIG hooked up with GayHOP ALAN!"

CRAIG is a short brother that DEE and I have known for years. He is closer to DEE than me, but he is always a barrel of laughs. Or I should say to laugh at. He is a good looking guy, caramel complected. He takes an hour to get ready before going to the club because he has to apply his make-up. He buys clothes on a weekly basis from Express, the Gap, BananaRepublic--you name it. Like me, he loves cologne, but keeps his fragrances in the refigerator because "it helps them keep their potency longer."

In many ways, CRAIG is deluded. His Internet dating profiles claim that he is black mixed with Cherokee and Irish. Like DEE, he attends church regularly--but thinks that being gay is a sin. So much so that he often discusses his eventual (and I might add serious) plans of getting married to a woman and having children. Though I should remind you that CRAIG is the first brotha to take his shirt off in the gay discotheque to reveal his tattoos and piercings. He's also the guy in the club always complaining, "Why is everybody watching me and all up in my grill?"

You might think by my description that I don't like CRAIG. Don't get annoyance confused with dislike. I tease him constantly, but deep down I care deeply for him--and would come to his defense in a heartbeat. Though I am not sure he would do the same if I were in need.

"CRAIG hooked up with ALAN?" I screamed, "What the fuck?"

DEE went on to tell me that CRAIG met this white guy at Roscoe's who had an uncanny resemblance to Sting. The guy took CRAIG home and sucked him to completion.

DEE: Was his name ALAN?
CRAIG: How did you know?
DEE: Because BERNARD hooked up with him a year ago, and he did the same thing to him.
CRAIG: I am not going to see ALAN again.

Did I mention that CRAIG is a bit of a hater? He thinks that I am an awful person. I was very happy to learn that Mr. CRAIG Perfection got my sloppy seconds. But just like me, CRAIG was impressed by ALAN's oral skills. ALAN was like a vampire and blood--sucking up black nut as though he depended on it to sustain his life force...

***

A year after the CRAIG incident, DEE made a visit to the local gay country club: Steamworks--Chicago's premier gay bathhouse. He was cruising the place, looking for his next trick, when he came face to face with ALAN. It was like a showdown in a hallway. ALAN looked DEE up and down and focused his eyes on DEE's dick. DEE said to him, "Oh I heard about you." ALAN asked, "What did you hear?" DEE fired back, "That you're good." ALAN smiled, "Why don't find out?" And shortly afterwards, ALAN swallowed another serving of chocolate nut.

***

"It's funny how we all had ALAN." DEE told me years later. H e started paraphrasing a scene from The Color Purple (where Danny Glover is speaking to Shug Avery's husband), "You had him your way, CRAIG had him his way, and I had him my way, but we all had him."

I replied, "Yeah, in some way, I can't help but think that he had us. We were nothing but chocolate candy to him. Free sperm donors to take nut from and then discard. Think about it--he turned us into a damn chitlin' circuit--and made his rounds on us and got what he wanted."

"Yeah, well I know I gotta nut. I got what I wanted from him." DEE said.

I laughed, "But unlike you and CRAIG, at least I got a lunch from Giordano's out of him."

To which DEE responded, "You're right. Keeping reaching for the stars Bernard."

The Sleepover Problem

When I left off at yestersday's post, FRIEND and I had just finished a 2 hour plus bang session with the slim, light complected, muscular, half black/half puerto rican (aren't they all today?), lieing wannabe soldier--bka (better known as) ENRIQUE.

He had asked for some food (which I didn't get him) and had pulled the covers over him and got settled in a for a post-coital nap. I was petrified. He had invited himself to sleepover. FRIEND and I looked at each other and didn't know what to do.

***

If you are a single man in the new millenium, and you have guests over for casual sex you will eventually face:

The Sleepover Problem

The Sleepover Problem occurs after you and your casual fling have had sex (usually great sex) and you're both exhausted and basking in the after glow and the other guy curls up next to you and asks (if he's direct), "Can I sleepover?"

Now it's 1 am in the morning and after that orgasm you were looking forward to saying goodbye and stretching out on your queen size bed for a night of good sleep and dreams before waking up in the morning. You're not interested in the fling, and you know if he stays you can kiss that good night of sound sleep bye-bye. After all, he's a stranger in your bed--he might murder you in your sleep (see the smilingDL's murder post)

There are a number of ways to deal with the Sleepover Problem. And they can be summed up as defensive and offensive measures.

Defensive

The first is ANTICIPATION. If you are truly worried about a fuck turning into a sleepover--don't have late night flings. You can't have a guy sleepover if its the middle of the day and it is not sleepy time. During the pre-late night hours, it is safe to walk the streets and public transportation is still running. Therefore, few excuses exist for the person to stay.

The second defensive sleepover measure is called PENCILING HIM IN. You are a man of the millenium no? That mean's you are busy and you have things to do. Let any guy know in advance that you have something to do at 2am in the morning. Yes, you have something to do. And don't make it something lame like, "I have to go to bed so I can get up in the morning." Because after you have sex, your little sleepover monkey will want to follow you between the sheets. No, PENCILING HIM IN means you have to tell him that you are doing something AWAY from your home. What praytell could you be doing at 2am? A number of things. Going to a late night birthday party (at a friends), going to work (he doesn't know you don't work the late shift), or that you have to drive someone to the airport (this last example works for southside Chicago people because the major airport--O'Hare --is so far away it takes an hour to get to even in 3am early morning traffic).

My personal favorite is to tell guys that I am working (at my late night second shift) and that I am hooking up on my 1am lunch break.

Offensive

So you didn't think in advance? Or maybe you were really feeling the guy before sex and let him know that your evening was open, but after the sex you realized that you really wanted him to go home. There are still solutions.

The first is BE DIRECT. Don't play games, be upfront. Say, "I don't think it's a good idea that you sleepover. I don't sleep well with new people, and I have an early morning. It's probably best that you leave." If you like the guy make sure you tell him that you would really like to hook up again. If you don't, then don't worry about it. The direct approach is always the easiest, and least time consuming. But there's something about being human that doesn't let us be direct. And in line with that, here are the more dramatic offensive measures...

Be PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE. Play loud music. Fart. Turn-on the TV. Leave the lights on. Cop an attitude. Turn the heat up high or raise a window when it's cold. I am against this tactic--it takes too long and may only inconvenience you in the long run.

And last, but certainly not least: TELECOMMUNICATIONS DEFENSIVE PRACTICES. Remember, we have a whole world out there to help us be deceitful--the tech world. The more technology you have, the better. The simplest way to get out of a situation is with a telephone and a little acting. Have your home telephone ring (either call yourself from your cell phone when he's not looking, OR excuse yourself and call a friend, and tell him to call you back in ten minutes). When your home telephone rings--start the Oscar performance. "Why are you calling me so late? You need some money?/You were in an accident?/You're in jail/The machine broke?"

When you get off the phone, tell the guy that that was your little sister/friend/cousin/boss and that you need to go because they were stranded/car got totaled/were arrested/had a piece of equipment break at work. Apologize. Pretend you're getting dressed to leave. And have him get the hell out.

Don't forget to think outside the box. Be innovative and make the technology work for you. For example, leave your cell phone in the room where the guy is. Then get on your computer and text message your cell phone (send multiple texts to make it seem like someone is really trying to get in touch with you). Most cell phone plans allow you to visit their web site and send electronic text messages to the phones they service. When you re-enter the room, he will surely tell you that your cell phone was blowing up.

***

Before you go thinking I am some heartless deceitful bastard. I let ENRIQUE spend the night--even though I didn't sleep well. It was cold as hell that night (like 4 degrees), and since he didn't have a car, I couldn't let a dog--let alone a fellow human being--walk around that late trying to catch Chicago's owl service sporadic public transportation. But you better believe his ass was out at sunrise.

A Soldier's Stories

No this post is not an affirmation of Destiny's Child's latest (and I might add awful) hit single "Soldier". So no, if you're a guy, your status does not have to be "hood" if you wanna get with me--and no, I don't need a soldier to stand up with me--and I really don't want a response to the question: "Where they at?"

In a previous post, I mentioned that one night FRIEND and I were searching for a threesome. Unfortunately, everyone we arranged to meet that evening stood us up. But now all of those guys are hitting us up. First, there was Brown Betty TYRELL (see previous post)--and you know how that ended up. But then, two days ago, ENRIQUE called to re-arrange a meeting.

On the phone ENRIQUE sounded kind of cool. He said that he was a very light skinned guy (because he was mixed with black & puerto rican), 28 year old, 5'11" 165 lbs, 31-32" waist. At first, he talked really hard on the phone.

ENRIQUE: I am coming from way out west, this ain't no send-off is it?
BERNARD: No, we don't have time to play games.
ENRIQUE: How can I be sure of that?
BERNARD: What do you mean? Be sure? You can't you're gonna have to take a chance. But you have our phone number, and I gave you the address, so it's on you.
ENRIQUE: I am just saying cause I just got home from the military today--from Iraq and I am really ready to do the damn thing. And I don't have time to be playing with nobody...

Talk, talk, talk, I started tuning him out and was about to hang up on him because I thought he was just wasting time. Until he asked,

ENRIQUE: So you and your boy tight?
BERNARD: Yeah we are.
ENRIQUE: You don't sound so confident.

He was starting to get on my nerves, but instead of blowing up I told him we were good-looking just to get off the phone. He said he didn't have a car and that he was coming over on the bus (or getting a ride if he could). I told him to call before he left the house.

Hours went by and no call. I assumed that ENRIQUE had faked out once again. By midnight, FRIEND and I had dozed off watching television. Until we were awakened by a loud

BUZZ

My apartment buzzer was going off. There was someone downstairs. I was annoyed. I knew it wass ENRIQUE and he hadn't called before he left. A little pet peeve of mine. But I got over it. I was funky as hell, so I jumped into the shower. FRIEND went downstairs to let ENRIQUE in.

FRIEND and I used our covert communication system. He called me on his cell phone while he was wearing his headset and went downstairs to greet ENRIQUE. When he got downstairs I could hear him open the front door over the phone and say:

FRIEND: Enrique?
ENRIQUE: Yeah man, whassup?
FRIEND: Not much man, come on in.
BERNARD over the phone: Is he good looking?
FRIEND: The weather ain't so bad is it?

That was FRIEND telling me that ENRIQUE wasn't bad looking.

ENRIQUE: Man what are you talking about? It is cold outside. But not as bad as yesterday.
BERNARD over the phone: So do you think you really want to fuck this guy?
FRIEND: YES. We need to hurry up and get upstairs, where it's warmer.

Another clue from FRIEND. He seemed somewhat pleased with ENRIQUE. I put some pep in my step and hurried through my shower.

When I came out the shower into the living room ENRIQUE was sitting sipping on a Heineken. He was attractive and described himself perfectly. The three of us talked for a few minutes and while he was good-looking, it was quick to realize that ENRIQUE was a soldier full of a lot of stories.

He talked about how he saw the capture of Sadaam Hussein up close. How he was supposed to remove Hussein's restraints but, "I didn't want to get close to him." He described how his unit found the remains of the first beheaded person in Iraq. He even told stories of the big dicked black soldiers fucking their white counterparts. When asked whether he got any action he said, "I wasn't going to let them put those big dicks in me and rip my shit all open." Then we started asking questions:

FRIEND: So how long has it been since you got fucked?
ENRIQUE: About four years.
BERNARD: And this being your first night home in the US, you want to get tag teamed tonight after not getting fucked for four years?
ENRIQUE: What can I say, I'm a freak.
BERNARD to self: My sentiments exactly.
ENRIQUE: You're going to have to go slow with me at first. My hole is really tight.

FRIEND and I began to realize that ENRIQUE was telling another story--a lie that he had been in Iraq. As light as his skin complexion was, if he had really spent the last two years in Iraq there would have be some sign of of tanning. And then there were a few times when he slipped and talked about hanging at the mall with his friends in the past weeks. This guy was telling lies all over the place. We also started realizing that ENRIQUE wasn't as hard as he sounded on the phone. His kee-kee gene was slowly emerging and the Prada purse was falling out of his mouth.

Regardless of the soldier's stories, I was horny and it was time to get to business. We stripped down and it was clear that there was one thing ENRIQUE hadn't lied about, and that was his body. It was awesome. Great back, nice round ass, pecs and nice nipples. It was INSTANT ERECTION time.

But as I entered him I was reminded of another one of the soldier's stories..."I haven't been fucked in four years." Yes, another story. I slid in him with such ease--it was ridiculous. Clearly this guy had been taking some big dicks. I mean his ass was no loosey goosey, but it definitely didn't have the grip of a 4 year born again virgin ass.

FRIEND and I wore that boy out. I did most of the fucking but we got him on his back, on his knees, standing up, you name it. I talked so much shit to him I am getting aroused sitting here thinking about it. This boy was screaming that he was my bitch, and was yelling that he was in love with me and FRIEND. It was fun. I tried to bang him within an inch of his life.

He eventually wanted to stop and take a break, but he kept begging for nut in his face. And that's when FRIEND (reluctantly) let him have it. FRIEND is a very heavy cummer--and he coated ENRIQUE's face, neck, and mouth--all while I was fucking him. That boy couldn't walk straight when we got finished with him. He just sat there peeking at us from behind cum squinted eyes, looking dumfounded.

I wish we had a video camera, because the sex was better and hotter than any gay porno flick I have ever seen.

Afterwards we got cleaned up. It was about 4am in the morning. We had been fucking since about 1am. I was exhausted. And all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and go to sleep. ENRIQUE came out of the bathroom and laid on the floor next to FRIEND and I and said, "Damn, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. You all don't have to get up early for work in the morning?" We told him no. "Good, maybe if I get some good sleep, when we wake up I can give you some more ass." With that, ENRIQUE threw some cover over him and made himself comfortable.

He had extended his own invitation to sleepover.

TO BE CONTINUED

Eye Got Served?

About a year ago my best friend DEE got me a gift subscription to INSTINCT magazine--you know, one of those gay magazines that rarely has a person of color on the cover (or in the magazine). The last black guy who graced their cover had grey eyes. Surprise, surprise.

Anyway, I was thumbing through the December 2004 issue and came across a feature called the "Male Grooming Awards" where a panel of gay judges test & award male grooming products. They gave awards for best aftershave, shampoo, body wash, and last but not least eye creams and gels. Yes, I although I hate to admit it in my blog, I Bernard Bradshaw suffer from occassional dark circles around the eyes.

INSTINCT gave the award for Best Eye Gel to MaleFace spEYE Rejuvinating Eye Gel. At first I thought--maybe I should go online and order some of this stuff. But the idea that a white gay mag could tell me anything about my face or how to remove my "black man's" dark circles (yeah, I am crazy) kept me from making a purchase.

But I was encouraged again as I read a little closer. One of the guys that reviewed spEYE was Emil Wilbekin--former Editor in Chief of Vibe magazine. Emil wrote, "This under eye-cream made me look like young and rested like an Abercrombie and Fitch model--if they had African-American ones." A brotha's endorsement with a sprinkle of racially conscious criticism? I was sold.

So I got online and ordered me up a serving of spEYE. At $24.50 a pop I almost reconsidered. But I kept thinking, Emil wouldn't lie. And visions of my eyes looking like they did when I was a high school 16 year old as I gave coquettish glances to Anthony, that tall boy I had 7th period study room with, who used to reach under the study desks and grab my...

Sorry. Got carried away.

But you get the point. My desire for the past overcame my love for my present. My present cash. So I ordered it. And last Friday it arrived in the mail. I was giddy as a schoolcliché. I ran upstairs and washed my face, looked in the mirror and said goodbye dark circles. I smoothed on the spEYE and waited. I kept running back and forth to the mirror--sometimes I thought it was working (and sometimes I thought I looked worse). On the phone, FRIEND told me, "Stop looking in the mirror, it probably takes a few applications before it works."

But I knew better. INSTINCT said that they picked the gel because "upon application we wanted to see fine lines disapeer [sic] and dark circles diminish." Upon application? Didn't happen! I was starting to feel like Elgin (played by Marques Houston) in the middle of You Got Served (yeah I watched it) when a competing team cheated and stole his team's dance moves allowing costing him $5000. When Elgin screamed that they cheated one of the white boys said, "You just mad 'cause, You Got Served!"

Did I get served by INSTINCT magazine? I think so. Therefore I give a rousing "Fuck You" to the boys over at IN STINK.

And as for you Mr. Emil Wilbekin. I am gonna give you the benefit of the doubt--but when we meet, you owe me dinner.

I Heart Peter Brady

Yes. For real. Peter Brady could get some.

After years of thinking of Peter Brady as the annoying middle brother of The Brady Bunch, I have a crush on him. Actually, I have a crush on Christopher Knight--the actor who played him. He is now on the latest version of the awe-full television quasi-reality show The Surreal Life. For those unfamiliar TSL is a show where a bunch of has-been entertainment icons (termed pop originals) live together for a few weeks.

If I ever dated a white guy it would be Christopher Knight. This season of TSL opens with a fatherly Knight negotiating peace in the house between former WWE wrestler Chyna Doll and Verne Troyer (little person actor who plays Mini-Me in Austin Powers). Knight carries a drunk Mini-Me to bed before he passes out. But once he is in his own minature bed, Mini-Me feels up Christopher Knight! Does Knight freak out? Not at all. He ignores the groping and makes sure that the drunk dwarf is alright. And at 47 years old, Knight's body is off the chain--easily giving super-male-model (and fellow cast member) Marcus Schenkenberg a run for his money.

Cool, calm, not so bad on the eyes, and patient. Good qualities to possess. Good qualities to look for in a mate.

NEWS ALERT: Gay NBA Players?

I just read this news report--and please let me know if I am wrong--but are the Orlando Magic's Steve Francis and Cuttino Mobley gay lovers? A few days ago, Mobley was traded from the Magic and Francis damn near broke down. Francis said of his backcourt teammate:

I can't put it into words...Playing with a guy, living with a guy, just knowing that every day when I wake up that's something I can count on, that I'm going to be in practice or in a game with Cuttino...Him not being here is going to be tough for me. I don't know what I'm going to wake up for.

Living together? Don't know what else there is to wake up for? Is Francis for real? Or did he just lose his boo to an NBA trade?

Can't Get Fired

The great state of Illinois--home of Chicago--has passed legislation to include sexual orientation in the laws that protect individuals from discrimination in employment, housing, public accomodations (parks, etc), and credit. This bill, passed by the legislature, adds sexual orientation to the list of other protected statuses like race and religion. The governor has already said he will sign the bill.

This makes me VERY HAPPY. One could argue that anti-discrimination laws are more usseful (and affect more people) than a state allowing gay marriage/civil unions. I think that somehow gay movements got sidetracked. Don't get me wrong, same-sex marriages should exist--but do you see the backlash?

Currently, I just think that it's more important that people can't get fired from their jobs because they're gay (and yes, in 35 states you can be fired just for being gay).

What do you think?

Click if you want to read the Illinois legislation news story.

Sword Fighting and Coochie Bumping

Like most cities, Chicago is a city filled with bottoms (a guy that prefers to get fucked; the pentratee; the one who serves ass to the dick). It seems like you can't swing a dick without it hitting five or six of them. I have been reading a few blog posts lately (like the Cement Brunette "New Year's Post", Charles Stephens "Fetishes", and last but not least the lovely LoveHater, "Tops/bottoms are evil") that have mentioned, at least in passing, the tensions--that exist between tops (a guy that prefers to fuck; the penetrator; the one who serves dick to the ass) and bottoms. I have also been having conversations with friends that openly display outright animosity to bottoms--almost like they were the scum of the earth. Surprisingly, these friends were predominately bottoms themselves.

I'll admit, when I get on the phone chat line, or on the Internet--and I am looking for sex--one of the first things that I want to know is what you get into sexually. I ask the age-old question--Are you a top or a bottom? It's amazing the responses I get:

"Why you need to know that?"
"I don't get into roles."
"Uhm, I get into everything...but I just don't like to get fucked."
"Dude, I'm just a freak."

Are guys ashamed of admitting what they like to get into sexually? I am not someone who thinks that men must label themselves. The LoveHater has an interesting post on this--that the top/bottom label is evil. A lot of people seem to agree with him.

But what they call evil, I call efficient. Sometimes I have a specific sex act that I want to perform, and I don't have all day trying to figure out what a kat means when he vaguely terms himself a "freak". That lack of clarity can lead to an awkward situation. Two brothers trying to "sword fight" (2 tops) or "bump coochies" (2 bottoms) really ain't cute. Fellas, just be upfront and say what you feel like getting into!

But I don't really believe guys that say they don't like using categories. If the top/bottom label wasn't that big a deal--why would it matter what labels are used? And why do we see such hateration on the brothers who claim they are a top, but are "asses up in behind closed doors?" I am sick of hearing the TIRED cliché about the guy who claims he's a bad ass top and as soon as he gets behind closed doors and, SNAP CRACKLE POP!--he's turned into a big bottom.

Why do people feel so good telling that tale? They are the people criticizing the labels--but then they make fun of a guy who--at least by action--is not conforming to a label. And then what do we do? Criticize him for NOT being a top! Does his act of switching make him lower, or somehow less of a man?

I don't EVER hear anyone telling the OTHER story. No one ever tells the joke:
I'm sick of those brothas that say they are bottoms one minute, but be whipping their dicks out and fucking a brutha down the next.

Truly this situation must happen, if all of the "tops" are switchiing and putting their feet to the ceiling, no? Why don't we make fun of these "bottoms-turned-to-tops"? Why aren't they (at the risk of a pun) the butt of our jokes?" Think about it. Why don't we joke about it? Why don't we ridicule the bottom who turns into a top? Because it's not funny. Because deep down inside, we think it's funny seeing a man put his ass in the air, or his feet to the ceiling. Why?

Is it because we secretly despise men who enjoy getting fucked? Recently, the blackgayblogger was conversing with a guy on the Internet and told him that he had just saw August Wilson's "Gem of the Ocean" on a recent visit to NY. The guy responded, "Broadway. Spoken like a true bottom." When did being a bottom become the gay scarlett letter? It's no wonder in this picky critical ass lifestyle that everybody says they are a top. We are some muthafuckas!

Is it because we are jealous or angry? Could brothas be jealous because a bottom admits enjoying dick in his ass--and as a result--the bottom experiences pleasure that many guys secretly wish they could experience? Or could the anger directed at those "tops-turned-to-bottoms" be because the supposed "top" got his ass in the air before you did? Think about it. In order for you to know that a top "transformed into bottom" you had to be a bottom who wanted to get dicked by that top. So isn't your hate just sour grapes? You just moved too slow and got beat to the punch, so to speak.

Or is it because we are scared of bottoms? Regularly, I have heard men on the chat lines speakin of "thirsty ass greedy bottom niggas." I think that we are so hard on bottoms because we FEAR them. Just as straight men fear uncontrolled female sexuality (i.e. the nympho who can't get enough and the man who can't keep up), gay men also fear the male bottom. Which may be why we criticize bottoms who can take dick well. I am sure you have heard: "That makes no sense you taking all that dick." Or if a bottom can take a big dick: "He must be a ho."

We fear the bottom, because on some level, I think we know that a true bottom can surround, envelope, and swallow up the traditional notion of the masculine gay man (a top). A bottom is able to be pushed to the limit having a dick all up in his guts, and enjoys himself and is able to have an orgasm at the same time.

Sometimes we can fuck that bottom hard--and he doesn't flinch (which can be a real blow to the "masculine" top ego). And who doesn't look for the flinch? That flinch is the confirmation that the top is "doing-the-damn-thing." When the bottom doesn't flinch, what does that say about the top? Is he fucking hard enough? Is his dick big enough? Is he man enough? But ít seems we've learned the lesson well. If we can't make the bottom flench with our dick, we can hate on him with our tongue.

We fear bottoms because we can look to the bottom and see our own masculinity (or lack of it) reflected. Sometimes we don't like what we see.

5000 and counting...

Yesterday SEX AND THE SECOND CITY received its 5,000th HIT. Hip hip huzzah!

Serving Betty...Crocker

Today's entry is all about serving food...and sex.

Since his return from Berlin, DEE has been working hard studying for the GRE so he can go to graduate school in education. I called him up to shoot the shit and too see how his sex and love life were going ever since he told me about ALBERTO and The Story of the Christmas Goose. Fortunately he apologized. But still expressed some lack of satisfaction. The goose must still be loose (read the story).

He sent me his admission essays and promised that if I proofread them, he would get me two steak sandwiches from our favorite "hole-in-the-wall ghetto fabulous" spot--the Home of the Hoagie (1312 West 111th Street) on Chicago's southside. Bear with me for a minute. If you are black and in Chicago, you are likely familiar with the Chicago Steak Sandwich (some call it a Chicago Steak Hoagie). It is NOTHING like a Philly Steak. Philly steaks are shredded beef and peppers and cheese and onion on a bun. The Chicago steak is ground beef in a barbecue/steak onion sauce sitting in a bed of american cheese with hot OR sweet (I prefer sweet) peppers (more like relish) and thinly sliced tomatoes on top--all in a hoagie bun. You go in and say "I want a steak sweet and some fries with sauce." And that shit is ON!

If you can't tell. Me and DEE love food as much as we love each other (no hyperbole here). And I love to cook good food as well. I make blueberry dumpling cobbler, sour cream cakes, yummy meringues, Cornish hens and cream gravy--I am a black Betty fucking Crocker. And I love to serve up my food and watch people eat and enjoy it.

I am not alone in serving up the food. I see black gay men offering and serving up food all the time. I hear guys looking for ass asking for a brother with "them nice cakes." Duncan Hines no doubt. Other guys wanting to get fucked good want a brother with a dick like a polish "to get up in them and hit these cookies."

Serving up food doesn't stop there. What about skin color? Butter pecan complected, caramel skin, peanut butter complexion, skin the color of fried chicken, chocolate (milk or dark) complexion, and don't forget coffee (plain, mocha, with cream, au lait-if sophisticated, or con leche-if mixed with Puerto Rican). Even black gay authors like E. Lynn Harris serve this shit up in books like Invisible Life (paperback), talking about a Sela's "vanilla wafer brown complexion" and "almond-shaped hazel eyes" (p. 4) and Basil, the DL bisexual professional football player's "honey-colored skin" (p. 166). With all of these servings, I think I am about full.

But some things you don't ever want to be served. Take last Friday night for example. I got a call from TYRELL, a 24 yo dark skinned black guy--5'9", 165-170lbs,34w. Not a cute guy, but a nice thick, but toned body. At that age where his extra weight looks good on him. However, if he doesn't watch out, in two years he'll be fat.

TYRELL has been blowing my cellie up ever since he stood me and FRIEND up for a threesome that we arranged with him on the phone line a few weeks ago. TYRELL has been apologizing and leaving messages, "Yeah I am sorry I didn't get with you and your boy that night. But I was hoping that we could still hook up and get that three-way thang goin'."

I finally decided to talk him when he called Friday night and agreed to set up the three-way with FRIEND. When TYRELL showed up, he was cool and laid back. Very masculine. That is, until me and FRIEND got to work on him. I stuck my dick up in him and that boy caught vapors. And as usual I talked shit, "You been wantin' these dicks inside of you haven't you? Blowin' up my cell phone like you then lost your mind! Take that shit." And I would slam my dick into him all crazy. It's funny looking back on it--but he got into. FRIEND and I were serving up some serious polish.

And then I pulled my dick out of him and realized that TYRELL was serving his own dish--a Betty, and I don't mean Crocker--a BROWN BETTY. There was shit all over the condom, and a smell that matched the disgusting sight. I was immobilized for the moment.

He didn't seem embarrassed at all. And went and cleaned up immediately. Then FRIEND had a a go and then TYRELL gave him a BROWN BETTY. Meanwhile, my apartment living room was starting to get a bit ripe. And I was thinking to myself--didn't this guy know he was about to get fucked? Why didn't he have a bowel movement or take an enema?

A little bit of shit is one thing. I am a compassionate human being. I understand mistakes can happen. Of course I don't want to encounter those mistakes, but I can understand that they occur. I live by the old adage: when you play with a puppy, he'll lick your face--or in this case,, when you play with ass, expect a little shit. But TYRELL didn't have a little problem. He was serving BROWN BETTIES like they were on sale. It was dookie booty EVERYWHERE.

We had to stop.

TYRELL left and FRIEND and I took a very hot shower. Usually after a hook-up we have a little late night post-coital helping of some fresh fruit, cake, or a sip of Martinelli's. But that night, our appetite was lost.