Sex and the Second City

FINAL POST

2005-03-05T02:38:00.000-06:00

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?

2005-02-15T08:22:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-14T12:22:00.000-06:00

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?

2005-02-13T14:45:00.000-06:00

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)

2005-02-13T14:43:00.000-06:00

Tank on a car.

What's Your Sign?

2005-02-11T14:01:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-10T11:25:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-09T13:58:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-09T09:35:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-08T11:29:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-07T13:12:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-07T06:06:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-04T11:43:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-03T13:05:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-03T11:23:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-02T10:07:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-02T09:47:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-02T09:31:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-01T09:57:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-31T09:55:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-28T09:50:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-28T01:55:00.000-06:00

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.

The Lunch Fuck

2005-01-27T13:03:00.000-06:00

I've decided to devote Thursdays to open requests. Any questions, comments you want me to address just e-mail them to me: sexandthe2ndcity@aol.com, or put in the comments section.

To get the party started, I pumped Karsh for a starter question. To my surprise he asked:

How do you find time to have all this sex?

Honestly, I didn't think I was having that much sex. It's not like I talk about getting laid every other day--and actually, the blog often discusses a lot of past sexual experiences.

But Karsh brings up an excellent point. Lately, I've been wondering why I haven't been having more sex. And it all centers around time. Time is such an essential element to sex. Because, if you're single there is so much build up to the sex act. First off, there is the time consuming search for the partner. I can't count the number of complaints I have read in the blogosphere about the "demon Internet sights" like Adam4Adam and Men4Now. While you're at it, throw in the gay telephone chat lines. Depending on what you look like, how you sound, what types of pictures you have up (on the Internet), how your voice sounds (on the gay chat lines), what type of sex act you're looking for, and whether your reported dick size is large enough--you can spend hours in search for a piece of ass or dick.

I can speak of a few evenings that I have devoted hours searching for sex that lasted half as long. Don't even mention the fake guy that never shows up, or is a "send off" and gives you a fake address.

Then there's the sex prep time. You guys that get fucked SHOULD know what I am referring to. If not, then I don't want to fuck with you BROWN BETTIES. Here's a hint for bottom guys: eat a lot of fiber EVERYDAY, all day (i.e., fruits, oatmeal, prunes, leafy green vegetables). If you do this, you won't spend hours douching your hole. You'll save a lot of time, AND cut down on unsightly (and smelly) incidents.

But more people--not just bottoms--should spend time getting ready for sex. Just because you don't get fucked doesn't mean you shouldn't take the time and wash your ass. It still stinks. Shower and smell good. Scrub that crotch down.

Since I've established that sex is time-intensive, let me get back to the original question. I have time to have frequent sex, because I MAKE time to have sex. Sex is a priority to me. I have been fortunate to have a means of living that gives me a flexible schedule, so I can have sex during the day or late at night and it not inconvenience my lifestyle too terribly.

But if you truly like sex, you will find time for it--no matter how busy you are. I remember years ago when I worked and lived in downtown Chicago, I used to arrange to have sex during my lunch hour at my apartment. I had a hectic schedule, so I would time it just right. Hop in a cab, meet the guy, have sex, shower, and be back in my office in an hour and fifteen minutes. Those lunch time fucks were some of the most intense encounters I have ever had in my life. They were great because there was no time for small talk. And I usually got to see guys in their business attire--which added a certain sex appeal to the experience.

My best friend DEE, who had a downtown office with a locked door, would actually have sex AT WORK. Now I don't recommend this--you don't want to get fired. But talk about a new level of hotness. The point being this. If you want to have great sex--YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE TIME to have great sex. Be innovative. Look for open (time) windows, and jump through them. Because, in my experience, sex rarely just falls in your lap.

Freaks and The Treasure Troll Theory

2005-01-26T14:57:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-25T10:49:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-24T10:44:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-21T15:23:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-20T11:45:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-19T13:22:00.000-06:00

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?

2005-01-17T08:51:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-15T14:32:00.000-06:00

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?

2005-01-13T13:57:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-13T02:11:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-12T13:34:00.000-06:00

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...

2005-01-11T00:01:00.000-06:00

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

Serving Betty...Crocker

2005-01-10T10:46:00.000-06:00

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.

Project Afro-Asiatic Connection

2005-01-09T19:38:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I was checking my mail and clumsy me dropped it all in my apartment lobby. Luckily it happened just as one of my neighbors entered to help me pick things up.

It was him. My tall, thin, effeminate (am I developing a thing for feminine men?) Asian-american neighbor who prances up and down my halls whenever I am about to do laundry. He must be friends with one of my other neighbors because I always see him run from his apartment to hers in his flip-flops.

"Man it is cold outside." I told him as I punched the elevator button.
"Yeah, it is." he said in his high pitched voice.
The elevator door opened. I cleared my throat and deepened my voice an octave and said, "I've seen you a lot in the building, but I've never had the time to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Bernard."

I guess because he's kinda fem, I half expected to give me a Princess Grace flicker of the wrist, but he extended his hand and gave me a really firm handshake before we stepped on the elevator. His hands felt huge and warm. "I'm Marcus," he squeaked, "nice to meet you. I stay in Apt. 606, where are you?"

The elevator ride was brief but I made a point to keep my eyes on his. "I'm three doors down from you." I answered. He smiled.

There is something in his character, in his nature, that I just want to fuck. Maybe its because I think he would be really vocal and I imagine getting him in my apartment and having him bite down on a pillow while I violate his hole. I don't know what it is.

I walked him to his door and asked him a few more questions about his work. I told him if he ever needed anything not to hesitate to knock on my door.

I will start devising a plan on how to get inside of him. I just hope I am not shitting too close to the town water supply.

Project Runway Marathon

2005-01-08T17:41:00.000-06:00

I just got an email from Pip over at Uptempo Orpheus--who, after reading my previous post, LOVES Project Runway.

But he is upset that he didn't get to see the show from the beginning. So for all of you who want to check out Project Runway--and want to catch it from the start YOU ARE IN LUCK!!!

There is a marathon on SUNDAY starting at 8pm Central--on BRAVO.

Television Check

2005-01-07T18:29:00.000-06:00

I really hate when people write about their favorite music, books, tv, and stuff in blog postings. But OCCASIONALLY, I will BRIEFLY pass on some MUST WATCHES.

I am a reality tv junkie. I can't get enough of it. There are three shows that are underwatched that people need to check out:

1. The Amazing Race: some of the best television on TV. 12 teams (of two people each) in a race around the world. Mix personal relationships with the hell of traveling, you get REAL drama.
CBS at 8pm central.

2. Project Runway: On the heels of America's Next Top Model. See fashion designers claw their way to the top. BRAVO Channel at 8pm central.

3. Wickedly Perfect: Anything with the word wicked in it deserves a look over. First episode was catty--but not wicked enough. But check it out for nothing other than the fact that the winner made this awesome candied apple party invitation (all with white chocolate and graham crackers). Its amazing what these people did with apples. Martha Stewart and B. Smith might have some competition! CBS at 7pm central.

Nintendo (flashback)

2005-01-06T20:40:00.000-06:00

I have a secret for everyone reading my blog. I have found a web site that is more fun to browse than gay.com, and unlike Adam4Adam REQUIRES and INSURES that all of its registrants have accurate and up-to-date pictures. You don't have to worry about any more misleading statistics, because they verify height, weight, and even age! Are you excited? Don't get your panties in a bunch. Even if you find a hot brotha on the site you probably will think twice before you bring him home--the website is the Chicago sex offender registry (click for link).

Ok, I admit that I have a problem. I regularly view Chicago's online sex offender registry and cruise men. I look all over the city--but I pay special attention to the three police beats that make up my neighborbood. Yeah, it's sick. I know. Most of the guys look creepy--either they are overweight, balding, toothless, wide eyed, sport a Care Free Curl, wear coke bottle glasses, or look greasy. But occasionally I run across that guy who is fine--who is over six feet, and close to 200 pounds, and I fantasize that prison has molded his shape into a buffed-out "doing-it" machine.

And I look at their faces. Few of which "look" like they belong to a criminal. And I wonder what particular sex crime they committed. The registry indicates whether their victim was under 18. Did he have sex with a 16 or 17 year old who lied to him? Or did he get caught pulling an R.Kelly? And if they committed the crime, I wonder if they feel sorry. Whether they want to commit more sex crimes. Whether other people are looking at the registry. And I wonder whether we are safer being able to click and see the neighborhood ex-con.

Anyway--couple of years ago I met a guy--NINTENDO--on the telephone party line who lived in a high rise over on 47th and Lake Park. He described himself as being very attractive and that he was looking to fuck immediately. It took me a minute, but I rushed over to his place and was let in by the doorman. When I got to the door and he opened it, my mouth fell open. NINTENDO was about 5'10, 220lbs, 34w of light-skinned, tatooed muscle. Not only was his body nice, but his face was amazing--nice full lips that pouted and looked like they were etched in his face. He looked awesome.

I was nervous as hell. I always get nervous when I am around men that I think are fine. He invited me in and told me to sit down. He was masculine, kinda thuggish, and spoke with a lot of slang--but at the same time he was chilled and laid back. We made small talk and for some reason he told me that he was Jamaican and Puerto Rican. I didn't care. I am never amazed by the vast amount of supposedly mix ancestry black folks.

I took off my jacket and I was wearing a shirt that had a lot of Spanish on it. And he asked me if I spoke it. I told him that I knew a little. I asked him if he understood my shirt and he told me, "No, my dad never taught me Spanish." In what seemed like an attempt to impress me, he continued, "But I speak Arabic," and then immediately broke into a chant of some of the most affected Arabic I have ever heard--"La ilaha ill-Allah, Muhammad-ur rasul-ullah."

I nodded and smiled, but didn't comment. When he wasn't looking I rolled my eyes. I never told him that I also knew arabic--and that he mispronounced much of the phrase that, in English, meant, "There is no god but God (Allah) and Muhammad is his messenger." But I wasn't there to correct his Arabic pronunciation. I was there to speak in other, more unintelligible tongues.

NINTENDO walked over to the wall and, with his feet, pushed over a black plastic box/console that was sitting next to the television. It looked a lot like a Nintendo or an X-BOX video game console (which is why I named this guy NINTENDO). It was plugged into both the wall and telephone. I thought it was a little odd that his video game system was plugged into the phone, but I had just read an article about this new technology that allowed video game systems to download games over DSL and telephone lines. As a lover of tech gadgets and gizmos, I thought to myself:
Damn, this guy is hot AND he is technologically savvy. If the sex is good maybe we can hang out and chill from time to time.

We got naked quickly. He took off his socks and I noticed a sporty nylon black band around his ankle with a plastic buckle. It looked like a pedometer (step meter) to measure how far he walked when he exercises. NINTENDO seemed to take fitness seriously.

His sexual script changed from what we talked about on the phone line. He said that he had just masturbated and that he didn't feel like fucking--but after seeing my dick he said, "I wouldn't mind sucking on that dick though."

I'll be honest. Oral sex really isn't that big on my to-do list. I have always thought it was a poor substitute for fucking. And most guys don't know how to suck dick. Lots of teeth, or they suck it like it's a straw and their last meal is on the other side.

NINTENDO changed all of that. To this day, no one has ever sucked my dick like he did. It was as though he was nursing a bottle. His mouth was soft, his lips were soft, even his saliva was soft. I had to pull away frequently from him to keep from coming too quickly. Only two people had ever brought me to orgasm from oral--and none as quickly or as pleasurably as NINTENDO. I kept having him stop and start again. It was like he was in outerspace and my dick was his oxygen mask. At that moment I knew true happiness.

But then I heard a loud buzzing noise. It was ringing like a telephone. It was coming from the X-BOX/Nintendo video console. What was going on? NINTENDO got off his knees and ran over to the X-BOX, pulled a wire chord from the back of the console and stuck it into the plastic pedometer on his ankle. The buzzing and ringing stopped.

As he walked back towards me he said, "Sorry about that man. It's a bitch being on house arrest and all."

A wave went through my body and I started thinking:
The black plastic pedometer...an ankle bracelet?
The X-BOX...a house arrest monitoring device?

He got back on his knees and went back to his work. But this time I experience the joys of the dick suck through new eyes. I started thinking to myself:
So that's why he had this worked-prison tattoo body...
suck suck suck
Ahh, that's where his hard edge comes from...
more sucking and slobering
And no wonder he sucks dick so well...Oh, Oh, Oh shit.

I came.

Overall the sex act was spectacular (yeah he left a little puddle on the floor). When we finished I thanked him and hurried the fuck out of his apartment. A year later I was cruising the sex offender site and saw a picture of him. He looked as hot on the Internet as in person. It was almost easy not to notice that his sex offense victim was over 18. Almost.

One Night Lie (flashback)

2005-01-05T09:00:00.000-06:00

This a flashback entry about an event that happened to me in November of 2001:

Why do guys feel the need to lie after a one night stand and feign interest in getting to know you?

I just had sex with a 25 year old who had a built up body and an amazing dick. He seemed so into me...AT FIRST. I wasnt so much into him...his face wasn't that cute. and he seemed a little slow. But as soon as I saw his body, I knew that I was physically attracted to him.

Dark brown skin, 5'8 and 160 pounds with a great body comprised of protruding nipples on a huge chest that tappered down to a tight little waist that flaired out to a lengthy wickedly fat pipe. He claimined to be Dominican, no not spanish, from that little tiny island called Dominica (yeah right). He was mouth watering. I met him on the telephone line for the purpose of a late night fuck.

We sat around and watched music videos on Vh1 Soul (sometimes a good choice channel to get people in the mood at 1am--or to give you some crazy flashbacks). I teased him a lot. When he asked to go to the bathroom, I told him he couldn't--because he had been bad. But that naughty flirting shit wasn't working. It was going totally over his head.

So I was just direct. "Do you find me attractive?" I asked.

He replied, "I like your face and your ass."

Gee thanks. I guess the other 99% of my body is shit. On that note, I felt empty and not up to par. He said that he wasnt into having sex with me because I seemed like someone he could "chill with" and get to know. But that get-to-know line wasn't adding up. Number One, he wasn't affectionate. Number Two, he wasn't very talkative. I smelled something foul in the city of Chicago.

The tension started to mount. He told me, "I think you want to have sex." I could see that he was starting to play a game. I was the thirsty sex starved dick hungry bottom. He was the controlled, polite, refined top. But I was familiar with this game. I knew that he wanted to have sex. He was trying to play it cool. Jedi trick me. Which really wasn't necssary, since I was a sure thing.

"Of course I do," I told him. So I pulled him over towards me and the first thing he touched was my ass. I knew he wasn't interested in anything more

He started telling me that he liked my voice and laid back demeanor. I ignored him, I was tired of his tired conversation. I got on the floor and followed me. i finally lied down, and he followed. I took off his shirt. Damn it looked good. He touched me so smoothly, and it felt great. I kissed his body..which felt wonderful. i thought of my body...and compared myself to him...and I thought of beaches...beached whales to be exact.

I finally made it up in my mind to have sex with him. I assumed that I wouldnt have second chance to have sex with him at a later date, even though he kept saying we could wait till later, and that he would call me tomorrow. I didn't believe himm. Maybe it was because his conversation was shallow. Or maybe it was because he made four fone calls on his cell while sitting in my apartment--one of which lasted fifteen minutes. (Which by the way, is real fucking rude). With that, I decided that this guy wasn't good for shit but an orgasm.

He was, however, nothing short of awesome. The sex was the best I had had in a while. It's amazing what the combination of a big hard dick and a muscular body can do to make you feel like a king. He got on top of me and entered me slowly and found my prostate immediately. The entire encounter was him going slow and deep in my body and me clamping down and massaging his John Thomas (ok, that was whack but I had to throw something light in there).

I didn't look at his face much. He was no looker. But I wrapped my lips on those nipples and saw his abdomen contract and relax as he pumped. It felt great. But he didn't talk too much. So I took it to the next level. I told him to go as hard as wanted. He asked me if I was sure. Of course I was. Could I handle it? Like a tic-tac.

He picked up the pace and pounded as deep as he could, and I thought I was going to erupt before he came. But just then he started slurring his speech. He was coming. Uncontrollably. And then he got splattered. Sweat was everywhere. I just wanted him out.

afterwards, he washed up, and asked me a peculiar question.

Why did you and your ex break up?
It's one of those annoying questions. Why ask? I told him that he cheated on me, and the dark boy said, "thats terrible, because youre a good guy...youre concerned about the other person in bed...which is how it should be."

I smiled, taking it as a compliment, but wondering what his ass knew about sex and relationships. Shortly afterward, he told me,

"I have your number. I'll ll be calling you"

I told him that i knew he had it, "but that sometimes these things are best left to a thanks and a so long." Instead of having me waiting for his call, I prefered closure. Right then and there. Acknowledge that it was a one night stand. I cannot stand it when guys lie after a one night standIt was clear that he wasnt interested in much. There were no kisses. And with the exception of mutual nipple sucking, there was very little physcial affection.

He replied. "Either way, I have nothing but love between us." As I stood in my doorway, watching him walk down my hall stairs, I wondered, "Do all men say stupid shit that doesnt make anysense when they are at a loss for words?" Sometimes men just need to shut the fuck up. Instead of getting angry, I reflected on the good orgasm. I smiled and wished him a good night.

While i wish I could fuck him everynight, I know that my life lies along another path. The path of the pathetic unattractive small dicked men that fall in love with me. The sexy sophisticated doggish men that I fall for but who mistreat me. And the countless meaningless one night stands peppered and sprinkled in between. Things could be worse.

epilogue
He never called back and we never had sex again. In 2004, I saw him a year later in a store parking lot near my house. He was kee-kee-ing with his gay friends talking about "hey girl this" and "hey girl that" in high voices. He looked like he gained a little weight.

Obsession for Men

2005-01-04T09:15:00.000-06:00

It's after Christmas and New Year's. Time for discount shopping. I have been making a lot of cologne purchases to add to my already extensive collection. It seems like I might have an a bit of an obsession:

Roma by Laura Biagotti (this is elixir)
Happy by Clinique (it makes me happy)
Chemistry by Clinique (clean scent)
Casual Friday by Escada (great scent, but never spray it directly on your clothes)
Masculine by D&G (this one stands out, only because it is so expensive)
Pleasures by Estee Lauder (almost classic and new at the same time, a good buy)
Curve by Claiborne (easy to remember, stands out, highly recognizable)
CK One by CK (I can't believe this shit smells so good on me)
Bulgari (this is exquisite and elegant, almost reserved and subtle)
Bulgari Blv (think Bulgari--but butch)
Wings by Giorgio (3 bottles-clean and romantic)
T by Hilfiger (3 bottles--this is a weak cologne, no power, no lower notes)
Azzaro (this is a '70s scent--and truly played out)
Salvatore Ferragamo (this is aweful)
Echo by Davidoff (one of the best and a great bottle too)
Paul Sebastian (another old fragrance, a little played, use only to switch it up now and again)
Latitude Longitude by Nautica (good, but forgettable)
DKNY Men (bad fashion, but DK makes a good casual fragrance)
Lagerfeld Photo (this is when colognes started getting sexy)
Cuba Red (cheap, but great bottle concept)
Santa Fe (cheap, but unique--a must have for me)
Adrenaline by Addidas (much better than it sounds)
Moves by Addidas (you might not have to make any moves with this magnet)
And let's not get into the 15 oils (its a black thing) that I have that replicate other colognes.

Recently, FRIEND and I went to the fabulous North Michigan Avenue, also known as Chicago's Magnificent Mile. For those of you who don't know, there is no more fabulous place in the world to shop--and I do mean the world. There is the biggest concentration of posh store that would make Rodeo Drive and Saks Fifth Avenue look like a warm-up exercise. You name it, it's here. And all in a one-mile power walk.

We came to the Mag Mile to do a little shopping--and I had promised to treat FRIEND to lunch at the exquisite Becco D'Oro. (Aside: No I am not rich. I purchased a deeply discounted $50 gift certificate ($17.50) from Restaurant.com via ebay). I had barely finished my risotto when we ran out of the "Golden Palate" and hit the Water Tower Place--the urban shopper's delight--home of stores like Lord & Taylor and Vidal Sassoon. The WTP is named after the nearby Old Water Tower--one of the few structures to survive after the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

We went to WTP to go to Marshall Field's. I love to go here and see if i can fit their couture fashions. The clothes are "off the hook", but often made for millionaires who must be emaciated midgets. Even when you find the fabulous Dolce & Gabana lambskin leather Matrix-esque jacket that fits--Can you afford the $1,280 pricetag? For real.

We walked past Men's Fragrances I was like a straight penis in a pussy shop. There is something about a good smelling man that makes me want to give up the sex. Walking past a man on the street that smells good--or working next to a guy with a good scent is all I need to make me give a double take--and take notice of something that I probably would have ignored.

I must have smelled over 30 scents that afternoon. Everything from Declarations by Cartier to a delicious Sander by Jil Sanders (black men, get on this one). I had got to the Calvin Klien section when one of the assistants told me to try Obsession. "It's classic. A staple. You can't go wrong with it." I didn't want to try anything with the words "obsession" and "man" on the box. Especially since lately I was dealing with my own obsessed person--CHRIS (see side panel under "current men" or this post).

CHRIS and I have spoken only once after we had sex. Since then, he has been blowing my cell phone up--phone calls, text messages, voice mail:

So when are you going to fuck me again?
Merry Christmas.
Will you call me. I'm sorry if I did something.
You can fuck me and come inside me.
So are you going to fuck me?
The sex was good and I need you inside me so can we hook up and I do like you too.

I started getting a little nervous when he wrote that I could come inside him. Did he mean what I think he means? Maybe getting revenge on a young punk wasn't such a good (or healthy) idea. Was it time to give him a call? or another good fuck? The sex was good--but his goofiness and effeminate behavior was a little bit more than I could stand. Maybe I could have bad sex with him and his obsession would dissipate? Had my plot for karmic retribution backfired? Had I put a dent in my own sexual karma?

A salesman sprayed a card with Echo by Davidoff. It was just what I was looking for. I bought the gift box and as I left, my tantric questions about CHRIS echoed in my head.

BeTh Syndrome

2005-01-02T19:33:00.000-06:00

What happened on New Year's Eve? Why didn't people show up for my sex party? In thinking over these questions, it took me a little time to realize the answer: I had invited a bunch of guys who were suffering from BeTh Syndrome.

There is something inherent in a lot of men, gay AND straight, that has them suffering from this condition. Let me explain. For those of you have gone to a bathhouse you are familiar with BeTh Syndrome. You see a guy come into the bathhouse that you are attracted to. He is obviously checking you out and is interested in you as well. You make a move. But he tells you--"I just got here and I want to check things out first."

It's not that you aren't hot. He just wants to make the rounds and see if he can find BeTh--the Best Thing. Not that BeTh would even be interested in him mind you. But so many guys want to survey the landscape first. Unable to make an absolute decision on the merits of what is before him, the BeTh searcher will scan the entire bathhouse to make a relative decision of comparison--and potentially lose the first guy he met (who has either left or refused to hook up with the BeTh chaser who initially passed him over).

That's what happened to me. The fourteen guys who lied and RSVP'ed to my party were BeTh chasers. It's New Year's Eve, and there are a lot of options: clubs, house fiestas, family get togethers, dinners, and black/latino sex parties. Somehow my party got lost in the mix.

I am not going to pass judgment on BeTh chasers. It is good to look for the best thing in life--and no one should ever settle. But whatever happened to simply making a decision? Either have sex with the guy or not. Attend the party or not. Sometimes the search for BeTh in the long run wastes time--or worse, you lose out entirely.

I should have advertised my NYE bash as the "After Hours Sex Party" and had it start much later, like at 3am. That would have made it a destination for people looking for some action after their NYE festivities.

But you live and learn. I still have all that beer for another sex party...

Potential Hater Alert

2005-01-01T22:48:00.000-06:00

We have a potential HATER on the blog lately. Someone who is making what I think are borderline impertinent ANONYMOUS remarks/comments on this post. But it's usually the haters that remain anonymous.

Now I won't go so far as to call this person a hater, just that he is treading close to the line. So here's my brief statement to anonymous:

I know you're an AOL user, and I know that you like my website because you keep visiting it. And by the way buddy, an ellipsis has three dots, not four. Stop the hateration, brotha...

Sex Party Exposé: Secret Identity Revealed!

2005-01-01T20:00:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year 2005!
I am still recovering from all the fun and drink I had at the BLATINO NEW YEAR'S EVE SEX PARTY BANG.

Yeah right. My party was a flop. But I learned two UNEXPECTED truths for the evening.

When I last blogged, it was 45 minutes before 2005, and one person had showed up to my party. Mind you, the invite stated that the party started at 10pm and that everyone should make a point of showing up no later than 12:30am. I had a total of 15 people who RSVP'd and said they were coming.

14 people lied. FRIEND and I decorated my apartment, had a refigerator full of beer (Heineken and Corona), and Subway sandwiches, candy (yeah the good shit, like Snickers), pop (ok, I'm from Chicago--soda or Coke, depending on your regional origin) and chips and popcorn. Candles lined up the place to create a sensuous mood, and FRIEND even had a laser show on one of my empty walls that looked something like a moving picture without a frame. Simply put--the place looked off the chain.

So no one really showed up after all of that effort. I have to say that I was surprised as much work as I had put into it. It was unexpected. It was the first of my two revelations for the evening. Guys will do or say anything in order to get on a guest list and get the address to a party that they really have no intentions on attending. Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised by this. But I am. It was annoying.

Question: What is worse than NO ONE coming to your New Year's Eve Orgy?
Answer: Having ONLY ONE person come to your orgy. And you aren't sexually attracted to him.

Yes, it makes for a long evening. At 10:30pm the doorbell rang, and I went downstairs to answer it. It was a 25 yo guy named SHEMAR. Now this guy is very atractive in the face. His skin is like a coffee gelato-brown and smooth (Aside: Don't get used to me describing guys this way. I really despise the E. Lynn Harris skin color/food similes). And his hair was in short twists. He is massive. But not in an altogether good, or completely adequate fashion. He is 6 foot 6 (sexy), but probably weighs 250 easy (not so sexy). He has a firm thick dick that gets hard (sexy), but its short and stubby (not sexy). He has man-titties, and his body was in rounded segments, kinda like a snowman. But instead of the three rounds of a snowman (head, middle, bottom), he had like 4.5: head, titties (0.5), stomach, hips and bottom. Did I mention his tits had nipple rings? Not sexy.

Ok, so I am sounding cruel. Actually SHEMAR is a great guy, very nice and sociable. The weird thing is that I met SHEMAR about 4 years ago when he tried real hard to get in my pants. It just wasn't happening. He was 21 (and not as massive) and insisted on fucking me. I couldn't get into it for a number of reasons, not the least of which is I don't do backdoor stub love. (Ok, that was mean.)

I would have rather just spent the evening toasting it up with FRIEND (who wasn't that into SHEMAR either). I snuck FRIEND into my bedroom at midnight and we had a one-minute toast of Martinelli's--this shit is the B-O-M-B. My taste buds were blowing up.

SHEMAR was patient, but finally leftat about 2:30am. And then FRIEND and I started eating and drinking and passed out on the floor.

At 4:30am my buzzer rang. I was in disbelief. Someone was actually strolling by my apartment at this hour to come to the sex party--when I told guys not to try to get in after a certain time. I hesitantly spoke into my intercom,

"Who is it?"
The guy downstairs said, "This is Alex"
"What's your e-mail address?" I asked.
He said, "AlexanderFine"

Instant erection.
My mouth got wet. My heart started beating fast. "Be right down." I said after a pause.

FRIEND asked, "Who is that?"

I told him that AlexanderFine was a guy that I had seen online for years but who never ever gave me anyplay. And from his stats and pictures, he looked and sounded like a rock hard dick-you-down-all-night porn star. This is how he describes himself:

30, 6'2, (1.88m), 198lb (90kg), 34w, Average Build, Black Hair, Smooth, Black Guy
AM ONE OF THE MOST READY BROTHA YOU WILL EVER GET TO KNOW !!YEA, I DO ALL THAT SHIT PLAY BALL, RIDE MOTORCYCLES, FUCK THOSE LADIES AND EAT THAT OH PUSSY, BUT DAWG THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A TIGHT ASS OF A NIGGA , THAT SHIT THE ONE WHEN I GOT A FLY ASS BROTHA JOCKEYING MY DICK !! PUTTING ALL 10.5 OF THIS ROCK HARD
MEAT DOWN THERE THROAT .. THEN TURNING THAT ASS SWEET AROUND SO I CAN TASTE IT !!! I CAN EAT THE HELL OUT OF A CLEAN ASS DAWG.

Through the years I had sent him a few e-mails expressing interest in meeting him, but he never responded. Since I have pride, I've never persisted. But when he sent the invitation request to my "sex party"email account (not my personal one) I thought I would finally have a chance to meet him (or at least see him in action).

And now, there he was. On my intercom system. Downstairs in my lobby. Waiting for me to let him in. I got nervous. What was I going to tell him? My fantasy was downstairs waiting to come up to a sex party that never kicked off.

When I got downstairs to my lobby, I experienced the night's second revelation. There were two guys (the invite clearly stated not to bring friends unless you told me in advance). Neither of them looked like the picture in AlexanderFine's profile. One guy, who was in front, was about 6 feet, with a hideous face and dark ashy skin and thin lips. He kinda looked like Skeletor. The other guy was tall as well, and wasn't hard on the eyes. They smelled of alcohol and had obviously been getting their party on.

I said to SKELETOR, "So you're AlexanderFine?"
"Yeah, is the party still going on?" he asked.
"Yep." I told him.
His friend jumped in, "So we can't come up?"
"No. I madeir clear in the invitation that the doors locked at 12:30am"

Like SHEMAR, I had met SKELETOR once before. We didn't have sex but I had occasion to see his dick. And if he had 10.5 inches of dick, then he needs to take off the cloak of invisibility that's concealing the last 6 inches.

When I told them they couldn't come up, SKELETOR looked like he was ready to kick my ass. He mumbled and turned around and left. Gingerly, I said "Happy New Year." And hopped back on the elevator and went to tell FRIEND what happened.

It wasn't such a bad night afterall. It brought further evidence to my theory that guys that blow themselves up on the Internet and try to sound like the bomb are usually just duds. I found out that AlexanderFine was a fake and I was there to see him rebuffed.

Yeah it's petty. But it brought a smile to my face.

Where's the party? (New Year's pt. 5)

2004-12-31T23:16:00.000-06:00

it is 11:16PM and only ONE person has shown up. And he and I semi-fucked 4.5 years ago. I want to cry.

Coming Together (New Year's pt. 4)

2004-12-31T20:20:00.000-06:00

I got the party up to about 11 people who have confirmed that they are coming. That, including me and FRIEND, is about as much as this little apartment can handle. I am sure all of them aren't coming. I just hope I got a good mix of tops (guys who like to fuck), bottoms (guys who like to get fucked) and versatiles (aka, bottoms in the dark). Ok that was mean.

Me and FRIEND got into a few arguments, but he fixed the apt up very nicely. Even if he threw away a few of my things.

I still have a lot to do. No condoms yet. Also, havent finished washing dishes.
and i still have to shave. Why am I blogging right now?

Pimping My Party (New Year's pt.3)

2004-12-31T16:23:00.000-06:00

Planning a New Year's Eve party is stressful as hell. Especially a party with a bunch of strangers who are about to meet the first time and have sex.

My biggest stress right now is that I only have 4 people showing up. Add me and FRIEND and that's about 6 people. I was hoping for like about 10 to 15 people. I am still on the Internet, pimping my party. Hopefully I can get more people. Its 5pm. 5 hours to go...

White Chocolate Chasers (New Year's pt. 2)

2004-12-31T13:20:00.000-06:00

I am not a big fan of chocolate. Although, for some reason I have a real thing for the buttery smoothness of white chocolate. But as much as I like it--I cannot stand white chocolate chasers. I'm learning that when you're planning a sex party, you run into all sorts of crazy people and craziness. I have even run into crazy white guys--the persistent crazy ones who are on a chocolate hunt. Here's a typical conversation:

WHITE GUY: White masculine bottom guy 37 yrs clean cut good looking safe guy 42c 32w 8 1/2c would like to come to the party and have a good time taking dik from some TOP guys.

ME: Sorry. Black and Latino men only.

WHITE GUY: OK. Too bad. But you and your buddies definitely wouldn't be disappointed. I have a sweet white tight ass and I would love to get passed around until everyone was satisfied. If you change your mind, contact me.

I had to ignore that last message before I went into a rage. We wouldn't be disappointed? If we change our mind? This may come off as racist, and I TRULY don't mean it to be, but as annoying as some white chocolate chasers are, you have to give to them for their persistence.

But the craziness doesn't stop there. Below is an Internet conversation I had with a guy (let's call him ASSCRAZY) about the sex party:

ASSCRAZY: where is the sex party, can we bareback at it?

ME: No, there is NO BAREBACK.

ASSCRAZY: why? that feel so good yo, if everybody is clean then whats tha big deal?

ME: why? because you're not paying and those are the rules. PERIOD.

ASSCRAZY: i'll pay my nigga, u aint talkin to any nigga in chitown, jus becuz nigga fuk round dont think i aint callin shots, i got chips yo....i pay, heck i sponsor yo shit, what u need ? hustler here calling it over here in my hood on tha west side, i got tha ends, let me know what u need.

ME: Man then why don't you sponsor your own sex party if you got all of those chips? Cause you're not calling the shots here papi.

ASSCRAZY: nigga dont tell me waht i will & wont do, u dont know me like that, i'll show up at that bitc & u wont even know if i was htere or not, theyre are ways of coming & u not knowing i dont care how smart u think u are & u think i wont find out if u dont give me tha info, i could still come & will come, u not goign to be watching every dick go in every as sso i was being nice askin you but since u wanna be a bitc & give me ahrad time, i'm disregarding what youve requested & coming with my own agenda in mind!

ME: LOL, im not worried, we'll have security for people like you. take care. (And no, I wasn't lieing).

ASSCRAZY: thats tha point u aint gonna know its me cuz i'm not gonna be carrying on like i am on here, i'm going to be low key & once i get in , i'm going to do what i said i'm gonna do.....& i plan on changing my page & pic so i'll get invited under a different name & u wont have a clue smartass.

Again, I had to stop the banter. I was beginning to argue with a crazy. All that effort and for what? His crazy ass still wasn't coming. I really hate to sound sanctimonious, and God knows I am not perfect. I understand that sometimes we aren't rational when it comes to sex and people slip up and have unprotected sex. But to go into a situation thinking you are going to bareback with people you don't know? That just...oh well. enough. I gotta sex party to get ready for.

Happy New Year of the Sex (part 1)

2004-12-31T03:17:00.000-06:00

It's New Year's Eve. What an exciting moment of the year. Now a lot of blogs are looking back on the year--and telling you their opinion of what they think are the best movies, music etc. But who really cares? No one cares that I thought Kill Bill Vol.2, (ok get ready to gasp) The Village, and Saw (Danny Glover's in it) were three of the best movies of the year. But what about Hero or the The House of Flying Daggers?

THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS THAN TOP TEN LISTS.
Like-What the fuck to do on New Year's Eve. DEE and ALBERTO (see who's who) are in fucking Germany. And I am here in Chicago.

"Hey," I thought to myself, "I am in Chicago. What the fuck am I thinking, what is there to do? What isn't there to do?"

So I started thinking. I had heard recently that most people are alone and at home on New Year's Eve-not out partying. I was watching Fox News (of all channels) and they were talking about how to deal with New Year's Eve. They suggested:

Don't Panic
Don't compare your New Year's Eve to others
Do your own thing
Create a new tradition

Then I remembered someone saying that you should start the New Year how you would like to end it. I started thinking to myself: "Hmm. Do my own thing. Create a new tradition. Start the year how I want to finish it. How do I want to end (and remember) 2005?" It only took me a second to realize it. I wanted to remember 2005 as the Year of the Sex. So how to start the year? Have a party of course. A sex party.

So earlier this week, I enlisted the help of FRIEND and started sending out notices on the Internet (chat rooms, web sites, etc) to have a sex party.

No, I am not trying to make any money (though I need it). I decided to have a FREE sex party--a BLATINO (black and latino) NEW YEAR'S EVE BANG. What's so crazy is how demanding people are when you are organizing FREE shit for them. I ask them to send a pic, they get attitude "What do I need to send a pic for?" Then they want to ask you 50 questions, "Are the guys going to be tight? I don't want to come to a party where the kats are lame" or "How many people are coming to the party?" Just a lot of lame shit. So a lot of people didn't get invitations. Afterall its free. If you have attitude or can't follow simple fucking instructions--then you don't need to be there.

I even had a guy get an attitude with me because I wasn't allowing unsafe sex at the party. I'll post that mess later today.

So check in a few times today. I will be updating throughout the day as I get ready for the party. I'll take you step by step through the process up until the party starts.

This should be exciting.

Early Morning Ass

2004-12-30T06:14:00.000-06:00

I am not one of those people who is Mr. Sunshine in the ante meridian. Not only does breath smell like ass in the morning, but I feel like ass. That must be why DJ decided to call me at 4am in the morning wanting my ass.

DJ is this guy who I had sex with over the summer. We've only spoken a few times, so I am not sure why he thought it was acceptable to call me at such a crazy hour. He swears he is bisexual and on the DL. But if he really does have a girlfriend, I cannot understand why she wouldn't suspect that he fucks around--because you can tell (at least I can) that he fucks around with guys based on his mannerisms. Not effeminate--but a soft voice. He's not bad looking. He's short, brown skin, good shape, and has a nice straight long pipe. Not too big, not too small. And definitely not the 9 inches that he thinks he has. Or should I say that every black man thinks he has. That's another post.

Anyway this joker called me up saying, "What are you doing up?"

What kind of stupid ass question is that? I resisted dissecting the ignorance of his question. He told me that he was horny, but that I lived too far for him to travel.

Ok, then why the fuck are you calling me?

Just for reference, DJ lives about a ten minute drive from me.

We chatted. The idea of getting a late night/early morning phone call always gets me horny (even if I wasn't horny already). Couple that with the fact that I haven't come in like a week (not since I vamped CHRIS) and I was ready to go.

But DJ was andaruh-ing (and, uh, ra, uh)

You know that sound you make when someone asks you a question like: "So are you coming over?" And you respond, "And uh ra, uh I uh don't know, and uh I'm not sure" When you know you're not bringing your ass out of the house.

So I could tell he was not serious. After waking up my early morning ass, he was quickly turning into an early morning asshole. So right before I wrapped up the conversation so I could get some sleep, he starts talking about how much he fantasizes about three-ways and how he would like to get involved one. He goes on to tell me that if I can arrange a three-way he would come over ASAP. So I pop on the phone with FRIEND (see who's who) and he was ready to come over immediately.

But after going through all of that--a lightbulb went off in my head. I thought to myself, this guy woke me up, and now I am doing work for him? What ever happened to the late night booty call when a kat called you up with minimal conversation he was on his way over to fuck? Instead, I was letting this guy get me sexually frustrated and then jump through hoops in order to make his sexual fantasy come true--at 4 o'clock in the morning!!! When did dick and ass become so complicated? so labor intensive?

When I thought about it from this perspective, I thought "Oh hell no." I told him that the three-way would have to wait for a more respectable hour when it fit my schedule.

Tsu Na Mi

2004-12-29T21:36:00.000-06:00

I learned my second favorite Japanese word, tsunami, in my 3rd or 4th grade general science class. I have always loved it because there's something cool and sexy about the flow of its three syllables as it hisses from your tongue (tsu), to the roof of your mouth (na), and off your lips...(mi) Who ever suspected that a wall of water from the ocean would lead to such a flood of tears? But most things that sound sexy are very dangerous.

Please consider giving during this global catastrophe to the International Red Cross/Red Crescent, or to some other worthwile charity.

Lighter Shade in the Winter (pt. 2 To Vamp a Bitch)

2004-12-29T01:00:00.000-06:00

For Part One click here.
Vamp (verb): to practice seductive wiles on.

CHRIS called me the next morning. And we arranged to meet at 1pm at the nearby Dunkin' Donuts. When he got to the donut shop he called me, and I told him to meet me outside. It was cold as hell, but I didn't want a thousand strangers in our conversation. And I wanted to be able to say some explicit shit to him to fuck with his mind and get him kind of hot.

The more we talked on the phone, the more I started realizing that this guy was somewhat effeminate. I was trying to reconcile that with a guy who claimed to be a top with a 10" pipe. But I have seen that before.

Like I said it was cold as hell outside, and I told him that I was wearing a baby blue hat. He started clowin', "Baby blue? You not no queen are you?" I got a little agitated--my skull cap actually looked pretty cool. I supressed my anger and told him, "If you think I am a fag you can leave."

Seconds later we were face to face.

When we shook hands he held his hand like a lady extending a bent wrist to be kissed. I would have been totally turned off, but he wasn't a bad looking guy. He was ok. And to a lot of slave mentalitly brothers, he would have been off the chain HOT. CHRIS hadn't lied. He had the hazel green eyes, the pink lips, and the light skin (though not so clear). For some guys, that's all you need. But not for me.

He stood in front of me in the cold with his hand covering his mouth. From behind his fingers he said, "Oh my, I didn't expect you to be this good looking." I was really upfront with him. With anyone else, I would have been more sheepish ("Thanks a lot man, you're not so bad yourself"), but I was on an agenda: to exact my revenge. I told him that I was in a rush and that I had to pick something up from my nearby apartment (half a block away) and that he was welcome to join me. He agreed.

All the way up to my apartment, mister super attractive kept telling me how nervous he was. Once inside we listened to some music, and for the first 20 minutes he kept looking down at the sofa and wouldn't look me in my eyes. When I told him to look at me, he would cover his face. When I would pull hands down he would start giggling and say, "No, I don't want you to look at me."

Note to self: I am dealing with a fucking kid.

He went on to tell me a horde of random stories. First (#1) was the retired professional football player that he met at the ESPN Zone who had all of this body, but who didn't know how to fuck him good. He told me, "No, he couldn't fuck me good, he didn't really have any dick. But my friends told me that I should have kept him. Can't you think of all the things he could have hooked me up with?"

Note to self: I think I might have a girl on my hands.

I put on Janet Jackson's latest Damita Jo album. Why is it that you can't put on a JJ album without a black gay man queening out? Now I like JJ more than most people--but is she the fucking black gay spokeswoman? The second story (#2) was his recollection of how he loved JJ's Slolove song (which is pretty good). He said he loved to drive down lake shore drive blasting it. He told me, "One day I was on my way past Boystown on Lake Shore Drive--I think it was gay pride--and this white girl, I mean guy pulled up next to me and screamed, 'YOU PLAY IT SISTER!'" And as he mimicked the white guy, he raised his left arm and circled it as he sent his torso through snake swerving undulations. I don't know why, but he felt the need to mimick the white guy three times. He had started on his fourth rendition when I interrupted him, asking had he met other guys off of the phone line.

Note to self: I DEFINITELY have a feminine guy on my hand

His third story (#3) was about all of the guys that he had met. He told me that his ex-lover used to fuck him all the time, but that he didn't enjoy it that much. He said that now he was predominately a top. I found that hard to believe. Who would let this guy climb on their back? He told me that he had been messing around with kats since he was 14 years old. Woah. He told me, "You know I have met about 50 guys off of that phone line, bisexuals, DL's, everything." He paused and added, "But none of them hold a candle to you."

Note to self: I got that bitch.

During all of this conversation he had laid his head on my lap and was looking up at me. If he hadn't been so goofy, silly, and girly--he wouldn't have been a bad looking guy. But it was time to get focused. It was time for me to lock in and exact my revenge. I knew he liked me, so now it was time to take it to the next level.

I bent over him and did that upside down Spiderman/Mary Jane kiss. That shit sent him into little quivers. Looking back, I couldn't tell if I was really doing all that shit to him or if he was faking the reaction cause he was so over the top dramatic with it.

I told him to come to the bedroom and lay down with me. I stayed fully clothed. He took off his pants. He was wearing boxers. We laid there and I wrapped him up in my arms and kissed his forehead. He held on to me really tight and started cooing. I got on top of him and started pressing my body on his (still fully clothed). He was rock hard. I could feel him. Then I reached into his boxers, and pulled out this MASSIVE PIPE. While he exaggerated on it being 10x6--it came pretty damn close. It was pretty big. Now I knew why guys let him fuck them. He really had a big dick.

"I feel like we're moving too fast." he chimed.

"Fine." I told him, and gently put his dick back in his boxers. I rolled off of him and laid next to him.

He looked puzzled--like he expected me to push him to have sex. But I wasn't. I was going to chase this tiger till he caught me. Everytime he protested that we moved too fast. I would stop. And then he would push himself on me. Until the moment came when he said,

"I want you to fuck me!"

"Really?" I said calmly.

He let out a big giggle, "Yes, but I am not sure. You're probably going to get it and never call me again."

This whole event was becoming a cliché.

I didn't say anything else. My dick was rock hard. I reached and got a condom, grabbed the lube, and popped his ass on a pillow. As I was putting lube on my dick, I looked at him. I have to admit his thick ass looked good with that big dick on his stomach. I kept thinking about the end result. Me banging the shit out of him and taking all of that attitude out of him that he gave me over the phone. But just then he ruined it.

"Come on and fuck this P U S S Y."

My dick remained a rock. It just went from a 10 (diamond) on Mohs Mineral Hardness Scale to a 1 (talc powder). I lost it.

Why do guys have to call ass, pussy? It's not pussy! I don't want you to call me ass pussy if I fuck you, and I don't want you to call yours pussy. Gross.

This guy was really fucking it up for me. A few minutes went by and I started to regain my erection. But then he did something unbelievable. He swung that big dick around like a helicopter propeller, bent over and sucked the head of his own dick! He let out a big suck noise and said, "oh that tastes so good". He didn't have it all. It kinda turned me on and disgusted me at the same time, but I went with it, spread his legs, and mounted that goofy motherfucker.

I had no problems going in his ass. It wasn't very tight. But it wasn't loose. He pretended like he wanted me to take it slow. As though he was having problems with me as I entered his ass. I knew he was lieing. I slid right in.

But all of that silliness stoped when I got that pinga inside of him. I started off slow, but then I picked up that pace. After a few moments I was waxing that ass. As soon as I stepped it up he said, "Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?"

A few more strokes. And then I started banging deeper.

"OH SHIT, YOU'RE ON MY WALL!" he screamed.

He kept telling me how he couldn't believe I was finally inside of him. I had his hole open. Open like when a singer opens her mouth for a long note at the end of an opera. He screamed and yelled and I had my way with him until I got a good nut.

And there I was. I got my revenge. Now, all I had to do was to tell him I was the guy he was rude with on the phone, and tell him, "Get the fuck out." But I thought that would be a little bit too dramatic. I knew what I had done. And it was enough to keep it to myself. As soon as I finished I jumped up and started cleaning up and told him I had to go back to work. I didn't. His entire demeanor changed. I could tell he had expected to lay up with me for a minute. He looked a little sad.

Now, Ill be honest. I have done what I criticize a lot of tops of doing. Fucking guys to feed their egos. But I didn't go into this to prove my sexual energy--just to get back at a rude kid on the phone line and teach him a lesson. Honestly, I didn't even go into this trying to dick this boy silly. It worked out that way.

Looking back on it, what I did was kinda cold. The way he looked at me afterwards I knew he enjoyed it. He's even called me a few times since.

But that's usually what a guy does after he's been vamped.

The Story of the Christmas Goose

2004-12-25T15:26:00.000-06:00

Christmas this year has been pretty low key. No stuffing, no cranberry sauce, no turkey, and no duck. But while I didn't get any food, my best friend, DEE (who is currently visiting Germany) did have Christmas goose, but I'll get to that in a minute.

As for me, I exchanged gifts with my close close intimate guy, who I'll call FRIEND. I haven't spoken much about him, but he's a special person in my life, and as I reveal more about FRIEND, it will shake the hinges off of everything you've come to know in SEX AND THE SECOND CITY. But that's for a later post. All you have to know is that FRIEND is a very attractive guy here in Chicago, who is a very special person in my life.

My best friend, DEE, called me this afternoon from Germany. He and his german boyfriend (ALBERTO) are spending the holidays with ALBERTO's family (parents and siblings) and friends. The family is like an über-Brady Bunch. On Christmas Eve, one of the brothers got on the piano and everyone started singing German Christmas carols. One of the other brothers started reading Christmas stories to the children. All of this culminated in the entire german family, and my chocolate best friend gathering around the Christmas tree and opening presents for the next hour. DEE's Christmas present was a side trip to the awesome city of Berlin. He didn't seem too excited about it, even though I tried to get him excited. Berlin is HOT.

While I love DEE, I have to say that he one of the cheapest people that I know. He and ALBERTO went to a gay club with some german friends. In Germany, unlike in the US there are no service people running around the club picking up used beer bottles and drink glasses after people have discarded them. Instead, when you buy a drink, you are charged a 50 cent (in Euros) deposit. If you return the bottle or glass, you get your deposit back. DEE hates clubs, because--like me--he doesn't drink or smoke. So to pass the time (and to make some money), he went around the club collecting bottles and glasses in order to collect the deposits. All in all he made about 12 euros. One of ALBERTO's friends looked at DEE and told him in broken english, "I don't speak lot of English, but I know enough to say, 'I am not with you.'" And with that he walked away.

DEE and ALBERTO have been having a few problems lately. Part of it comes from DEE wondering whether AL is "the one". As with most relationships, problems usually manifest in the bedroom. DEE has started to prefer masturbating to fucking AL. On Christmas morning DEE woke up and started fucking AL for about 30 minutes before DEE started masturbating.

Pissed off, AL complained, "You've only fucked me for 10 minutes and you're already masturbating?"
DEE came back, "No, I've fucked you for a half hour, but maybe you only felt me in your ass for 10 minutes."
"What's that supposed to mean?" AL responded.
DEE touched AL's ass and said, "Loosey Goosey."
AL walked out.

I couldn't believe DEE told me that he called his boyfriend's ass a loose Christmas Goose. "So I guess he's right not to be speaking to me now?" he asked me. I told him that if anyone who ever said he cared about me told me something like that in such a mean fashion, I probably wouldn't be with him anymore. It's just a sign of respect.

I have heard a lot of top (a top is usually the penetrator in anal same-sex encounters) guys say, "I fucked that guy and he didn't have any walls." Meaning, he fucked a guy and no matter how hard he banged, that bottom took that dick without flinching. Some tops need to own up to the fact that their dicks aren't as big (or as hard) as they would like to think they are. Others need to realize that there are just some bottoms out there that have had some big dicks in their asses. But I realize that some tops really get off on saying that a bottom is "loose" or "open" when they can't make a guy flinch when they fuck him. So much of it is tied to ego. And the thought of a bottom surrounding a top and taking it like a pro I bet intimidates a lot of tops. I know deep down it intimidates me. I think more guys that fuck should be a little more upfront about how they feel before they go and call a guy a "loose ass".

I mean, I understand EVERY guy wants to fuck an ass that has a little grip. Lord knows I enjoy one. But "loosey goosey"? Damn , that was cold.

St. Clement's Christmas Eve

2004-12-24T16:14:00.001-06:00

With the exception of autumn, there truly is no time of the year that I live more for than the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's. Its such an intense season of emotion and feeling--whether that feeling is joy and happiness or sadness and loneliness.

I think if anyone makes it to an advanced stage of adulthood they will experience this spectrum of emotions during this time of year. Some years you'll be away from family during Christmas and you might be a little down, or you finally get lucky and get to steal a New Year's Eve kiss from someone special.

I unfortunately had the chance to experience all of these emotions on Christmas Eve 1997. At the time I was living around the corner from Oprah (yes, she often said "hello" in her morning runs in our nearby park with her personal trainer) in my posh, yet tiny North Lake Shore Drive address in Chicago's Gold Coast neighborhood. I was young, felt important, and loved my location--but I was single and on a mission to find true love. My Best Friend's Wedding had recently been released on video, and I was up late calling the telephone line. Bored. Horny. Restless. Alone.

I finally ran across a white guy on the phone line who sounded nice enough. Sounded very masculine. And described himself and told me how in-shape he was. He was from Atlanta and recently moved to Chicago. And kept stressing how much he wanted to get with someone that night, that he was also bored.

We had a lengthy conversation. I told him that, while I wasn't a Christian, I had this thing for Midnight Mass. How peaceful it is, and how nice everyone is. I love it how they great you when you enter as though you are part of a fellowship, just like muslims do: peace be unto you my brother/sister. He said that he really enjoyed Christmas Eve mass as well, and weirdly, we agreed to meet at a Catholic church right around the corner from his house. Afterwards, we planned to go back to his place and watch my video of My Best Friend's Wedding.

In those days I was partial to the GAP, so I put on some olive green courduroy pants and a lime flannel shirt that I still own to this day. I took a cab to Chicago's Lincoln Park to Saint Clement Church and met the white guy. From what I remember, he wasn't bad looking. He looked slim and trim. I definitely wanted to converse with him, go back to his place and watch the movie with him.

As an aside, there was a point in my life when I didn't discriminate against white guys on the sex/love tip. A lot has changed since then.

The church was packed. People sang Christmas songs. And the white guy was pleasant. But of course we sat there and we really couldn't talk much. I learned a lesson that day. Don't go on weird dates. You don't meet someone at church if you have plans on going home and fucking them. It just doesn't really work.

Also, don't go on dates where you can't talk. That doesn't work. I can't tell you how many guys have wanted to go to a movie on a first date. NO NO NO! Doesn't work. Because you don't get a feeling for the guy because you can't talk, and you have to pay attention to a flick.

The same thing happened to me and the white boy at Midnight Mass. We had a few chuckles during the mass, when one of the parishoners or something walked around with this smoking urn attached to a swinging chain, and our entire area started coughing uncontrollably.

When mass was over, we walked out of the church and the white boy told me that he was really tired and that we should hook up another time. I was young and didn't pick up on signals then. So I called him a few times after that thinking he really wanted to hook up. He eventually fessed up and told me that I was too fat for him.

Looking back I felt a little like the patron saint of the church where the Midnight Mass was held--Saint Clement, thrown out to sea with an anchor around my neck to drown. But instead of becoming a martyr--I was just pissed. I told him that he could have been upfront that evening. But he said he didn't want to hurt my feelings. What a great job.

I could go on about white guys and black guys and respect, or gay guys in general and their fear of being honest with people they aren't attracted to. I have my theories, but they are for later posts.

The good (bad?) news is that a week later later (New Year's Eve) I met another white guy--JOHN--who would turn into my partner for 2 and 1/2 years.

JOHN's brother got married at St. Clement's that summer.

Lighter Shade in the Winter (pt. 1 The Revenge)

2004-12-21T06:33:00.000-06:00

A few nights ago, I was horny as hell. My friend, JAMES (big pipe, bad breath), has been out of town for a minute. So, I called a local telephone chat line to help me take care of business. On this phone chat line, you record a message, then go browsing through the messages of other people who are also currently on the phone line or "on line". The line, except for a few sprinkles of salt y sazon, is filled with black men that are cruising, looking for phone sex, relationships, conversation, physical connections, or are playing games. Everyone on the line is a "dime piece," is "masculine", is "tight" and has a "flat stomach." Everyone tells you what they are not looking for: "No fats, no fems, no heavyweights, no drag queens, no thick niggas, no sissies." But few people tell you what they ARE looking for.

I left the most straightforward message imaginable:
"This message goes to the men that are looking for sex NOW. If you are looking for an inshape brother who is SERIOUS about an immediate hook-up. This is B, discrete, low key, high sex drive. Get at me."

So I started cruising a few messages, and I get a response to my message:
"Hey man, this is CHRIS, I am 6 feet, 180 lbs, I am light-skinned and I have green eyes. I am a real nice guy, laid back, and by the way, my dick is 10 x 6."

I immediately hit him up for a live one-on-one connection. His stats sounded great, and I won't lie, I was intrigued about this huge piece he supposedly had. Though I was a little cautious, because he sounded, from the manner in which he spoke his description, like he thought he was real cute (stuck up). But I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

So a few seconds later, we were talking. I found out that we lived in the same neighborhood. And I started asking him about what he was into. He said that he liked a lot of body contact, and when it came to anal sex, he was mostly a top, but that he didn't really do that too often, because his dick was so large. I got turned on hearing that. But I usually have eyes that are bigger than my stomach, or should I say asshole--so I wasn't salivating. Overall, he sounded cool, until he told me: "You know, I want to be honest with you. You sound great, but I am not really looking to have sex tonight."

I thought to myself, why did this guy hit me up and waste my time? Especially after my voice message EXPLICITLY said that I was looking to have sex tonight--NOW.

Surprisingly, I didn't get upset. As horny as I was. I remained chilled.
"So why did you hit me up man?" I asked calmly. He replied, "I don't know. It was something about your voice, that I really liked. It was like I was supposed to hit you up or something. I really hope that we can talk."

I was really frustrated at this point, but I didn't indicate it in my voice. I told him that it was cool, and that we could talk a little more if he wanted. I have learned not to get pissy with guys who might later become good acquantances--or potential fuck buddies.

But like I said, I was horny, and I was asking some really graphic questions: What kind of guys do you like? How often do you get down? Do you enjoy a dick in your ass? How do you like to fuck? Do guys take that big dick?

I guess my questions offended him (even though he answered all of them). One moment he was mentioning how we need to get together, and that he thought I was cool, and the next second I heard a BEEP. He had clicked me off and moved on to another connection.

Words cannot describe the level of pissed off that I was. That motherfucker clicked me off after I was trying to be cool with him! After he had deliberately ignored my message that I was looking for sex and tried to pull the friendship call? What a bitch ass punk.

Centuries ago, when William Congreve originated the phrase "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" he must not have known very many gay men. I say this because I count myself among those that when crossed (or done wrong) I will take that shit to the streets. I don't know what it was, but I was determined to get this motherfucker back. Now don't misunderstand me, I don't feel like this chump "wronged me." It's not like that at all. I have been hung up on before on the phone line. I have had plenty of people click me and move on (and I have clicked lots of guys myself). But it was something about his palpable duplicitous cockiness that roared to be put in check. It was like a challenge. And I was feeling like it was my duty to take it on.

So I changed my outgoing message, disguised my voice--found his message again, and hit him up again--pretending to be a new person. The sucker fell for it. And we chatted for like an hour. I soon realized that he was telling the same tired story--how he was an extremely attractive guy, who modeled occasionally, and was going to school. I played him real cool. I knew everything I needed to know about him, so I didn't act that interested. This time CHRIS gave me his phone number. And he insisted that we try to get together soon.

Over the next few days, he kept calling me telling me how busy he was, and how he wanted to get together. I don't understand why some people want to feel so important. Why not just call when you're ready to meet.

Anyway he called me tonight. And we had a stupid conversation. He kept complaining about how cold it was outside--and I told him that I liked the winter. He said, "Yeah, well the only reason I like winter is because my skin gets lighter." I asked him whether that was a good thing. And he told me that he likes his skin to be light. I was done. I really cannot stand black self-hatred, especially when it comes to skin color.

Then this guy started to sing some high pitched gospel tune into the phone. I was silent. He started laughing, "Oh I'm sorry. I just felt like putting out." If I didn't know it before, I finally had my confirmation that this guy was a G I R L.

He went on to tell me more useless details about himself, like the fact that he needs to save some money so that he can go into "the studio" to record some demo tapes, take pictures of himself, and travel to different record companies so he could "drop some tracks." When I pushed him to name the companies he planned on visiting, he paused, mentioned Capitol Records, and then said, "Anyone that will take me. I mean, I know I don't have the greatest voice, but I can hold a tune. And I am not that bad. But that's why I want to take the pictures, because basically I am going to use my looks to get me into the door."

Did he really just say that? I absolutely have to meet this guy. I have to see what he looks like. I almost feel compelled to play this chump who thinks so highly of himself--and who hung up on me the other night. Maybe I'll sex him real good, and tell him to get the fuck out. Ok maybe that's taking it to the extreme.

Regardless, we are planning to meet today at lunch. Hopefully his flakey ass will follow through. Stay tuned.

Chicago's Next Top Model

2004-12-20T10:29:00.000-06:00

Ok, Ok. I know my blog is called Sex and the Second City. And I haven't really been talking about any sex lately. Its not my fault. For some reason, I cannot get laid. Even though its only been about two weeks, this is one of the longest droughts I've experienced. I hope to change this pretty soon, and start showcasing some of the sex in this city.

Instead of sex, I have been passing my time watching reality television. And last week was a big week for the reality tv genre. First, Donald Trump announced his new Apprentice in a three-hour snooze-a-palooza. And (un?)fortunately, Eva the Diva was crowned America's Next Top Model over my girl Yaya. America's Next Top Model is one of those reality shows that really delivers on the drama. We got to see:
(1) the first all black reality tv finale (Eva and Yaya)
(2) Amanda, the blind woman trying to be a supermodel, &
(3) a whole bunch of women obsessing about their weight, and occasionally throwing up.

But men are also obsessed with their weight (as seen on Bravo's awful male version of ANTM, called Manhunt--hosted by the inflatable Carmen Electra). Today we see that men are working out, exercising, eating healthy--hell, men are doing the damn thing! Why? Because women (and gay men) want men that look good.

I saw evidence of this recently when I met a guy named OneHourSpa in an AOL Chat room. His profile offered a free one-hour escape of delectable massage as you visualize your perfect vacation get-a-way. His "offer" was only open to men who were capable of completing the following mathematical equation:

(1) Multiply your weight (in pounds) by 703.
(2) Divide the product of #1 above by the square of your height in inches.

If the answer was less than 27, then you could get his free spa treatment. I thought his mathematical ritual was a bit odd, so I decided to Google it, and when I found out what it was I was shocked. It was an equation to calculate Body Mass Index (your percentage of body fat).

What is going on? Are we really requiring people to calculate their Body Mass Index before we even entertain the idea of fucking them? What ever happened to the usual ridiculous stats requirements? Height: over 6 feet. Weight: between 150-175. Waist size: 32". Dick length/thickness: 10x6. Now, in addition to all that, we need a calculator or a body caliper to measure our fat. Maybe its because we are watching all of this Reality TV. Could shows like ANTM, Manhunt, and the upcoming Sport's Illustrated Swimsuit Model Search be making people think that the only bodies worth dating are supermodels?

We are even starting to see top models on local television. I was up late one night watching a local weekly television show called Chicagoing. This week the show had a crew of models wearing cocktail and party fashions for the holiday season. One black male model in particular made me get close to the tv set. He wore these maroon velvet pants, a fitted turtle neck, and a dark suede/velvet blazer. He was H to the O to the T T T. I learned that his name was Brandon, and with a lot of detective work (cyber stalking) I found out his full name and that he was a Ford model. And I found some pictures of him. He looked a lot more charming on television.

What surprised me watching Brandon on television was that he looked amazingly awkward, as though he had never stood before a camera. I thought yo myself, fuck, if a professional looks that timid on television--then maybe I can be a model. I have the height, an interesting enuff look, but there's one problem--I don't meet that lean/thin requirement. After looking through scores of Ford model pics and stats, I've learned that most of these guys are some svelte bitches (32" waist, but usually lower). I have a 33-34 waist.

In the female fashion world, there is a such thing as the "plus sized female model"., But what about the men? There are no plus sized male models! That's kinda fucked. So I have decided that I am going to be America's First Top Plus Sized Male Model. Maybe if I become a model (albeit a plus sized one), I'll have a better chance getting some action.

Quote of the Day

2004-12-17T05:11:00.000-06:00

Recently, after eating at CHI-TUNG--our favorite Chinese lunch buffet located in Evergreen Park (a southwest suburb of Chicago)--my best friend Dee said, "Its about time people get off the The Beatles' nuts and start giving The Bee-Gees the props they deserve."

I agree.

Oil and Water

2004-12-16T13:42:00.000-06:00

There is nothing I can't stand more than a dry fuck. When it comes to anal sex, my motto is: USE AS MUCH LUBE AS POSSIBLE. Regardless of whether I am hitting or pitching, I know that men are not women. Or in other words, guys' asses don't get wet from foreplay. I don't care what you've been told. You won't believe how many guys have told me, "My ass gets wet when I get hot." No, your ass is not wet--that's loose fecal matter. And I think I'll take a pass.

So I always use a hefty amount of lubrication when it comes to back door action. I have every kind of lube you can think of: Elbow grease, Forplay, Astroglide, ID Millenium (a silicone based lube). But as we should all know in this era of HIV transmission, that not all lubricants should be used with latex condoms--so sayonara to Vaseline, petroleum jelly, Crisco, Elbow Grease, or mineral oil.

I remember I hooked up with a guy once for sex, and after I put the condom my dick he reached for a bottle of mineral oil and started lubing up his hole. I screamed at him, "What are you doing? You can't use that." I went on to tell him that oil based lubricants should NEVER be used with latex condoms, and that usually people use water based lubricants. With a straight face he told me, "Oh well then this is ok, because this is water based mineral oil." I put my clothes on and left immediately.

So like I said, my motto is to use a lot of lube to make entry as smooth as possible. But people who buy lube, know that all lube is not the same. My lube of choice, as is that of my best friend Dee, is ID GLIDE. Dee and I have to travel all the way to the Gay Walgreens (a national chain drugstore) in Boystown. This Walgreens has a better assortment of lube than ANY sex shop I've been too.

ID GLIDE is a thick, viscous, water based lube that I wasintroduced to when I was about 23. It is amazing. A lot of people complain that it becomes too sticky after you have "worked the middle" for a minute, but I usually just add more.

Anyway, ID GLIDE comes in a bunch of different sizes. Most sane people probably buy ID in the 10 ounze size which costs about $10. But me and Dee always buy a big bottle of lube--the 35 oz bottle, that costs about $23. I can't tell you how many people have come into my bedroom and did a double take on that bottle. But you would think that's the biggest bottle of lube available right?

No. Sitting right next to the 35 oz bottle pump on the Walgreen's shelf, is the Holy Grail of lub: a plastic cube containing 70.5 oz of lube (with an accompanying travel size bottle). That is more than HALF A GALLON. So a few days ago I bought a half gallon of lube. The Walgreen's check-out guy's eyes got wide. "That's kind of a lot huh? What are you going to do with all that?" I gave him the black man's blush, and gave him some explanation that I don't remember. He added,"And look it comes with its own little travel bottle, so you can take some with you anywhere, and with that he reached inside my coat and touched my chest, pretending he was putting an imaginary bottle into my t-shirt pocket. Dee later said, "He was flirting with you. And who could blame him? If I saw someone buying a half a gallon of lube, I would want to fuck them on general principle. Buying that much stuff, you know they have to have some kind of skill."

Gay Games? in Chicago?

2004-12-16T03:00:00.000-06:00

I just found out that the Gay Games VII are coming to Chicago in 2006. I don't know much about the Gay Games--and other than the Olympics, some NBA basketball (the Bulls), and Michelle Kwan in figure skating--I am not a big sports fan.

The last Gay Games were held in Sydney. They have a lot of different sports surprisingly. The usual Olympic sports like figure skating, volleyball, track & field, wrestling to things like flag football, pool (billiards), darts, and of all things DanceSport (couples dancing). And of course, the events are for same gender loving peoples.

Honestly, it sounds a bit over the top, but at the same time, I am kind of fascinated by this international event converging on my city. The Sydney Gay Games had over 11,000 athletes. Woah!!! At least half of them will be men, so can you imagine almost 6,000 athletically inclined gay men added to the Chicago surplus for a week? Hmmm. I think I should sign up for bowling...

Edging Out Destiny's Child

2004-12-15T03:39:00.000-06:00

I was jogging through the profiles of members in an AOL chatroom the other day and ran across something peculiar. In the profile of a guy I shall call Edgemaster, were listed some of the sexual acts that he likes to get into. They included: "bondage, spanking, blindfolds, jockstraps, home invasion, edging, abdominal muscles, and voyeurism."

Two things caught my eye as unusual (with respect to being listed on a profile). I had heard of guys getting into "home invasion"--sitting in your unlocked house blindfolded while you arrange for some guy to come over and "break in" and have his way with you.

But the other activity, EDGING, I had never heard of before. So I quickly contacted (instant messaged) the Edgemaster and asked him, "What is edging?" He replied that it is "taking someone to the point of cumming but not letting them go over the edge -- resting and repeating over and over. You get really sensitive, and then when you finally let it fly. It REALLY flies."

I paused and sat looking at the computer screen for a moment, with my mouth in the shape of an "O". I had just said "oh." I started thinking about whether I engage in edging when I have intercourse.

I thought really long and hard, and realized that I couldn't remember the last time when I had delayed gratification during sex. I could think of countless times when I was younger (like 23 or 24). How I would be having sex and have to slow down because I would get too close. And how I would have to do this over and over and over again. I was like a machine with a button. Everyready and evercharged.

But today, just like a broken refigerator can't hold ice water, I can't hold on to an orgasm if i get close. What's happened to me? I thought the older you got the more seasoned and experienced you were supposed to get. Now that I am older its like my skills are waning. Or maybe they're not waning--maybe its just that I cared what sex partners thought about me in my early 20s--and now that I am older, I don't. If they get theirs it's cool. But if not. Oh well.

Have I become sexually selfish? A selfish lover can't be good--regardless of the status of the sex partner (i.e., one-night stand, casual encounter, fuck-buddy, or potential lover). Surely, not caring about someone else's orgasm was bad bed karma.

So I set up a sex clinic for myself to get some good karma flowing through me (and my bed). As someone who is not that into masturbation--unlike when I was 23. I have decided to start masturbating more--but not for release, but for the sole purpose of edging. Getting close and relaxing. I have to build my tolerance. I have to start going the distance. Maybe Destiny's Child asked the right question in the title of one of their newest songs: "Can you keep up?"

Aside: For those who don't know about Destiny's Child, or who despise them like me, the song is about a girl singing to a guy, "Can you keep up? Baby boy make me lose my breath, hit it hard, make me lose my breath." Of course as with most music today, you don't have to use your imagination to figure out that they are talking about fucking.)

So in my quest to "keep up" I am going to work on edging, and crack open that new "Kama Sutra for Dummies" book that I just bought, and figure out if a gay man can have a lingam AND a yoni.

Vanilla Peppermint Snow Martinis

2004-12-13T13:11:00.000-06:00

Last Friday night I was hoping to find some intelligent dick. For the first time in a century, I went out on a Friday night. I was invited to a small party at the fabulous Hyde Park condominium of my friend Corey Lovejoy, a cute 20-something history graduate student, and her husband, a big Chicago law firm associate. The best way to describe Corey is to say that she is a young B. Smith (Who is B. Smith?) dressed in yellow and pink pastels. For those who don't know B. Smith, most ignorantly call her the black Martha Stewart.

The food was great. Corey had prepared a tasty apple butternut squash soup, crab cakes, a waldorf salad, various skewered meats. During the evening, I asked her for a fork when all had been taken from the serving tray, and she said, "We don't have any more that are clean. Is a plastic one okay? That isn't too tacky is it?" Being one of those guests that's elated to be eating something more haute than trail mix I saw no need for her concern. To give you an idea of how elaborate Corey got, she served me vanilla ice cream topped with peppermint snow--in a martini glass. Until then, I was a martini virgin.

But back to the hunt for intelligent dick. Corey and I don't speak that often, so I was kinda surprised when I got her invitation. In the back of my mind I was thinking--Did she invite me because she has some other gay friends she wants to invite? Or maybe this was just a wish. Besides, between a lawyer/history PhD grad student I knew that most of the people at the party would have a little book learning. Thus, I thought it could be an opportunity to meet some smart kat--and hopefully he would share his body with me.

Wishful thinking. Instead, while in a conversation with about 7 people on gay marriage (of all topics) I got hit on by Fasheezie. She is a beeautiful personal trainer who couldn't figure out why people were so against gay marriage. She told us that most straight guys are oblivious to gay men, and can never figure out who's gay or not. When she found out that I was gay, she said, "I guess I am oblivious too, I was about to ask you what you were doing for the evening."

Shortly afterwards, the lights in the living room went out, and I heard Corey begin singing "Happy Birthday" to her husband and a bright candle blazing birthday cake in her hands. Everyone joined in chorus. She kissed him and gave him a hug and then came into the kitchen to look for a knife to cut the cake. It wasn't intentional, but at this point in the evening, all the white people were in the living room, and the handful of black folks (and a Canadian Asian woman) were chatting in the kitchen.

As soon as the "Happy Birthday" song ended all the white people started singing a second song--singing lyrics that we couldn't make out at first. All of the people of color were looking at each other, asking: "What's going on? What are they saying?" Fasheezie asked, "Are they telling him to strip ?" By the time they got to the third stanza, Corey's husband had started skipping around the room with his drink in hand. His action answered our questions. They were saying:

Skip, skip,
skip around the room.
Skip, skip,
skip around the room.
Skip, skip,
skip around the room.
Skip around the room (insert name of birthday boy).

None of us had never heard this song or had seen this ritual before. I said to a girl standing next to me, "Just when you think you've gone to elite colleges and learned everything about white people, they show you that they still have little secrets."

We all looked over to Corey--surely since she was married to a white guy she had seen it before. Corey's voice is unique. She uses standard english, and has a very middle class voice (if such a thing exists). This is a suburban sister if you ever heard one. Which made it all the funnier when she told us: "I don't know where they got that from. I mean, the only variation I ever heard on the Happy Birthday Song is, 'May the Good Lord Bless You'" All the black folks nodded in agreement.

While I had a great evening--I didn't get any man on man sex.

Wooden Shoes

2004-12-10T16:30:00.000-06:00

Today I was reminded of a song that I learned when I was a little boy,

Oh wooden shoes,
wooden shoes
walking down the avenue
like the little children do,
do in Amsterdam.

I just learned that SEX AND THE SECOND CITY was mentioned in Watson's Big Adventure. Its a new blog by a young twink (what's a twink?) whippersnapper currently living in Amsterdam who is on the road to discovering his sexuality in the backdrop of, "Bright Lights, Big City"--albeit Netherlands style.

Sex in European cities has never really been "all that" to me. On my way to eastern Africa, I had the opportunity to visit London--and the guys had a sense of style, fashion, and flair that made Chicagoans look like farmboys. But fortunately, Chicago sits on the edge of a great (actually, more like HUGE) body of freshwater called Lake Michigan, which is the region's freshwater source (where I drink from everyday). So why, you might ask, do I say we're fortunate that we live on Lake Michigan? Because as the water from Lake Michigan is purified and cleansed, so that it meets the lowest of minimal drinking standards, a little known element from the periodic chart is added--Flouride.

Yes Amsterdam, yeah London, you might outdress the Chicago boys, but we have better teeth. What's the point of looking cute if I can't kiss you?

Back to Chicago and James in the next posting!

Young Boy, Big City!

2004-12-09T06:18:00.000-06:00

I have recently met a young 19 year old guy, his name is James. He's about 5'7 160lbs. He has a young face, and huge soup cooler lips. He has a nice brown complexion (not dark, not light)--and surprisingly very little attitude. What's endearing about him is that he is one of those rare guys that you meet who calls when he says he is going to call. James and I met on a telephone dating line. My fake name was Joaquin and I told him that I was looking for sex. So was he.

We met like a week ago, and we haven't had sex. A little bump and grind, a little getting naked, but no wanakiki in the cocoriki. Now what is a college educated 28 year old doing with a 19 year old you ask? Ok ok, you're right. That's gross. I feel like a chicken hawk. Trust me, i don't usually have a thing for the young ones. Actually, I usually only mess with kats that are my age or older.

But age really shouldn't matter that much. I mean look at this great city--in many ways it is a very young city, only about 160 years old--but it has a much longer history, when Chicago was just a small trading post founded by a black Haitian (DuSable) in the late 18th century. New on its face, but backed up with a rich history. A young city with a big past.

Anyway, back to James, he's not just a young boy in a big city--but a big boy. Young James dropped a bomb on me when he came through my door. More like his zipper dropped a bomb. To be so young, and so short, James has to have one of the biggest dicks I have ever seen. The boy is H to the U to the GE. I mean its so huge, I am getting turned on just writing about it. One of those pipes that gets so hard and is so massive just looking at it and masturbating is probably enough--which might explain why we haven't done anything.

Ok it doesn't really. I am one of those guys that, yeah, I look at that big thing and think of it as a challenge and wonder--Can I really take all of that? And I reach right down to the bottom to the bottom of my soul (insert Morales singing "Nothing" from A Chorus Line here), and I know the answer (wink).

So yeah the guy is a little young, but he's good looking, he calls when he says he will, he has a bangin' body, and is interesting in having sex--all the things that one wants in the search for Mr. Goodbar, or the perfect Fuck Buddy, no? Well almost, yeah. But there's one little problem that I haven't mentioned: he has breath that sometimes is a little too tart to kiss (ok it was the first time we met, but hey, first impressions are the ones that stick). We've only met twice.

Intro: Do you have the sex?

2004-12-01T18:10:00.000-06:00

I desperately hope I have the sex. Or else why write a blog on it?

I am a 28 year old black brotha who has had a lot of sex in my young life--but I want to have more. This blog is my attempt to document that quest, and all of the silly shit that goes along with it. But the quest is not just for sex, and its not just my quest. It is the search for love, happiness, and satisfaction by my friends and people that I encounter in Chicago.

Even though my tales are largely (though not entirely) about sex with men, this blog is for everyone--heterosexual, bisexual, gay, DL, lesbian. It's for anyone that's sexual. Because sex is one of those human things that binds all of us. And a lot of the shit that happens to me is sure to happen (or has happened to many of you). So sit back, get a chuckle, and you might learn something to help you in life.

And if not, you can always stand to learn more about the greatest city in the world, Chicago.

Bernard

Who's Who: Who's got the Sex?

2004-12-01T17:47:00.000-06:00

Its really hard to keep people straight on a web blog. So I have compiled a little list to help readers keep clear on who's doing what (whom?) in the Second City.

VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE

Bernard Bradshaw: That would be me. I am a 28 year old ethnographer living in what I think is the greatest city in the world. I love sex, but don't get enough of it. I'm a fit, attractive guy who has a thing for hairy chested brothers with nice chests.

Darnell or Dee: He is my best friend, and I have known him forever. There isn't much I wouldn't do for him. He's a svelte attractive chocolate brother who is extremely charming. I am jealous of him because he has always gotten more sex than me and is always traveling with his job.

Alberto: This is Dee's boyfriend of about a year. Cute Italian anglo with a thick accent. He always attracts attention.

Angel (aka Little Viscious): My mid twenty-something Cuban friend who we often joke as being "Gemini's Twin" separated at birth. Sweet as pie with the sharpest tongue north of the equator. He is in a long term relationship with a wonderful man.

Friend: The mysterious thirty-something man in my life. I am not quite sure what to say about him. Just that he is someone very important to me. Most women and men think that he is EXTREMELY attractive. He is a Chicago civil servant and on the DL. He has a very unique role in these tales of Sex and the Second City--but you're going to have to stay tuned to learn what.

Sucré: One of the few female friends in my life. She lives in the NYC--and will have some of her own romantic tales to add.

IMPORTANT PEOPLE

Common: 30-something attractive thick brotha that I met on the Internet, but he lives near me. Great kisser, seems to have his shit together. Not sure what we are doing--but I know I want to get to know him better. See: The Boy Next Door.

THE TRICKS

James: 19, retail sales & club dancer. Great shape, huge dick, but bad breath. Haven't had sex yet. See: Young Boy, Big City!

Chris: 19, student. Effeminate light skinned, hazel eyes, huge dick, & can perform autofellatio. Won't stop calling me since I banged his box. See: Lighter Shade in Winter Part 1 & Part 2.

Marcus: 22-25 yo, student. Tall, thin, effeminate Asian kat. My neighbor. No sex yet. See: Project Afro-Asiatic Connection.

DJ: late thirty-something, light-skinned not so attractive above-average dicked guy. Had sex once. See: Early Morning Ass.

HAZELNUT: Dark Skinned in shape brotha who lives nearby. Has given me the run around and doesn't return calls well. But seems masculine. See: The One and Rule of Mutual Attraction.