Archive for the 'gay' Category


because you’re never too old to be permanently scarred…..

so….this week, twitter was all awash with this accent challenge….i didn’t do one…butttttttttttt, it *did* give me the idea to record me reading an entry….why? because i’m a narcissist. if my voice annoys you too much, the published entry is below……..but…i *do* do voices…

ps..y’all know i’m not web-wise….there’s this annoying whistle in the background….but, i couldn’t record it over again….apparently, my entries are long as FUCK. who knew?

agnes final sound ii

I am fairly well-versed in the language of me.

That is to say—I get me. I get how I work; how I “do.”

I spend a great deal of time keeping to my own counsel.

You aren’t going to enlighten me on too much shit concerning the body of work that is me.

That said, a rather large part of being an adult—a well-socialized adult—is one’s ability to be receptive of criticism; particularly criticism coming from those that wish you well.


So my mama thinks I’m stuck up.

I’m not going to elaborate on this, as it’s ridiculous, but, that’s what my mother says—I’m stuck up.

Now, as the only child of a Southern Black woman, I, of course, trained myself, at an early age, to distinguish between sage wisdom and unfounded-potentially-hurtful shit.

But I lend considerable weight to anything my mother tells me.

Some of her advice gets thrown out with the wash, but never ever before I’ve turned it over in my mind and examined all the angles.

I had been at my parents’ house an entire thirty-six hours before my mother accosted me with her most recent allegation of sadditty-ness.

I was certain the arguments my mother used in support of her assertion were fundamentally flawed, but, her accusations loomed dark and foreboding; eagerly awaiting any concession, or breakdown of my resolve—prepared to play vulture to my carrion.

Sunday morning came, however, with little to no incident.

And the day had started out pleasant, enough. My father, recuperating from surgery, had suggested that we skip church in favor of a restful morning at home. My mother, eager to tend to her flowerbed, had whole-heartedly co-signed.

And it was quite nice, actually. My father had ultimately found sleep in our den. My mother, sun-weary, napped in the chaise longue beside her bed. And finally convinced that our three dogs were no longer trying to murder each other, I, myself, was nearing slumber.

The dogs heard her first.

All three had been tucked away with me on the third floor, but they’d heard her. One after another they went barreling down each set of staircases, barking in righteous indignation at the audacity of someone entering our home, uninvited.

But that was how Cousin Agnes always entered our home.

Just walked the fuck in.

What you should know about Cousin Agnes is that she is my father’s cousin. Like, fifth or sixth. I don’t really know as I prefer not to dwell on any genetic predeterminates that legitimately bind us. Cousin Agnes isn’t so much a relative, as she is a threat you wield over the heads of misbehaving children (e.g. “Keep it up…I’ma sit you over at that table with Cousin Agnes and ‘em.”)

While Cousin Agnes isn’t necessarily an unattractive woman (as I’m sure her five previous husbands will attest to), a cursory overview of her will let you know, straightaway, her elemental truth; a truth that will be confirmed the second she opens her mouth—

Cousin Agnes is hood.

Real hood.

Malt-liquor drankin’, misquoted-Bible-verse-interspersed-with-her-profanity spoutin’, hootie-hoo my dude we-fittin-to-go-to-the-grocery-store-and-cash-this-good-check-so-we-can-buy-us-some-stretchy-clothes-


And she’s like, sixty.

Matter of fact, in my sheltered childhood, Cousin Agnes was my first indication that old people could actually be hood. I think I thought that hoodness was some shit that you eventually grew out of. Cousin Agnes destroyed that illusion for me.

Now, the most important thing you need to know about my Cousin Agnes is that she’s a whole lot of woman.

She’s tall—about 5’10, and stocky. Not obese or any other descriptor of gratuitously fat—just stocky.

But check this—

She seems bigger….on account of her voice.

Like, think Jim Carey’s “Vera” on In Living Color.

Cousin Agnes likes to call it “husky.”

But, on everything, I swear that shit sounds like she waits til low tide to emerge from the Deep, and feed upon the small children of aboriginal island-dwellers; like, twenty years ago, unbeknownst to the world, Cousin Agnes managed to get her hands on some deceased Andre The Giant DNA, and through the miracle of modern medicine cultivated some Andre The Giant stem cell in a petri dish until her clone Andre The Giant baby reached the age of maturation, when she promptly murdered him and used his dissected testosterone sacs to line the walls of her larynx—

Like….no bullshit.

‘Shit’s that deep.


Cousin Agnes was standing in our kitchen, nearly beside herself with fright at the onslaught of our raging dogs. I greeted her, warmly, and calmed the animals, offering her a drink and a seat. She refused.

“Uh uh. Where yo’ favvvva at? I wanna see yo’ daddy? Where yo mama? Where yo mama?”

I tried to explain to her that they were both asleep, but she was having none of that, and insisted I take her to my dad.

Begrudgingly, I led her up the back stairs, and nudged him awake.

As my father begin to engage her, I started to walk away when Cousin Agnes called after me: “Go get yo’ mama too! Wake huh up! I wanna see yo’ mama too!”

I bit my tongue, and walked in the direction of my parents’ bedroom. I reluctantly woke my mother, and let her know that we had company…and that that company was Cousin Agnes. I then beckoned the dogs to me, informing my mother that I would be upstairs.

That’s when I caught it.

My mother’s look.

She hadn’t uttered a syllable, but the narrowing of her brow said it all. Stuck up.

I met her gaze in silence, the unspoken language of her challenge clear. Turning stiffly back to the direction from whence I’d come, I returned to the den, three dogs in tow, my mother not far behind me.

Everything was going fine—well, typical of any Cousin Agnes visit—

I offered up commentary when I managed to manipulate my way through the veritable sea of her verbal ratchetry—

Through a series of well-applied pinches to my forearm, I trained myself not to laugh-outright, or visibly cringe at the cascade of horrors flowing from her mouth.

And things were going smoothly—and I was proving my mother wrong….when it happened.

Somehow my mother and Cousin Agnes had stumbled upon some salacious piece of gossip concerning a man they both knew who had left his wife for another woman.

My mother received the information with no real problem, but Cousin Agnes could not seem to get over the injustice of the man’s lover not being up to her apparently exacting physical standards.

Over and over she slapped the tops of her thighs with her heavy, open palms, protesting, “She ain’t even cute, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!! Look, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!!”

My mother, in her gentle voice, and I thought, rather patiently, tried to explain to Cousin Agnes—who now sat comfortably amongst our couch cushions like some retard giantess—that sometimes, appearances counted little in matters of the heart.

And even as my father and I nodded in tacit agreement, Cousin Agnes remained undaunted. “She ain’t even cute, doe!!!”

My mother was shaking her head in casual resignation, when Cousin Agnes perked up. I could nearly see the light-bulb go on in her thicket of unkempt, ratty braids, and my gut warned that I should fear it.

“But you know what doe,” she began, “Dat guhl is younga dan him doe…She is younga dan him.”

No one commented, and she continued. “And you know how dem young guhls like to do…they know what men like and they be givin’ it to ‘um…Dey be givin’ it to ‘um.”

In the next moment, my whole world would come crumbling down at my feet.

Cousin Agnes looked first to me, saying: “You know how dey do…” then looked to my father, saying, “Excuse me Jay-rome,” then half-cupped her left hand, covering the left side of her mouth, but absconding nothing from view. Her gaze returned to me as she made her open mouth into an oval, and proceeded to bob her head backward and forward.

I whipped my head away, pretending that I had not seen, what my racing mind was telling me I had. “Cousin Agnes!” I cried out, in pleading—

She didn’t give the FIRST FUCK…

Cause she did it again….

Simulated oral sex in the den of my parents’ home—the home my parents had lovingly built from carefully-spun dreams——on the Sabbath…A day the Lord God Himself had admonished us to honor; to keep holy. She simulated oral sex in front of BOTH of my parents…my mother AND my father…..

And she had done so, whilst looking directly at ME…looking directly into my thirty year old eyes for confirmation, for acknowledgment.

My father sat so quiet, and so still, but my mother wore a look of confusion on her face. I like to pretend that she was in a sort of fugue state—like her body had gone into shock to protect it from the trauma her whole being had just experienced.
But Cousin Agnes wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, cause she took their quiet as indication for her need to clarify.

AGAIN, looking to me, she called out my name, and said, “Fooler knows….BLOWJOBS…”

I’d liked————————to have knocked———————alla the shit in that room——books on shelves, trophies in cabinets, crystal in curios, chess pieces on chessboards———-I’ddddddddddd liked to have knocked allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllla that shit down………………..


WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY in the MOOOOOOOOOOOOOTHERFUCK are you looking into MMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY eyes, saying words like “blowjob” to my parents??????



And I was concerned, like, on a multitude of levels.

I didn’t know if she looked at me and saw like, some kind of neon halo of dick residue all up and around my person; I didn’t know if I’d been traversing this land, all these years, with the faint echoes of blowjobs-past nipping at my dick-sucking heels—-Why had she chosen me?

And what had she wanted from me?

Was there some expectation of high fives; of chest bumps? Were my parents gonna stand on either side of us as we formed a soul train line and did the give-head dance around my mother’s art collection?

I didn’t linger long in my mental landscape of uncertainty.

At THAT moment, I realized I didn’t give a damn what my mother thought of my temperament if it meant enduring one millisecond more of the indignity that aged broad had brought to my home.

I picked up as many of my dogs as I could carry, and ZackGalifianakisWalked my sweet ass the FUCK out.

Cousin Agnes bellowed after me in her hobo-baritone, but I did not look back.

I did not look back.


because sometimes, you do it to a girl…

I have spent 5 months of my life dating a girl.


A girl.

She is so pretty that it makes your heart break.

She is thoughtful, and understanding, and compassionate, and

In essence, she is everything that I am not.

Anatomically, we have all the same shit.

Boobies, check.

Girlbox, check.

I like fancy clothes. She likes fancy clothes. Different,
fancy, but fancy, nevertheless.

I like eyeliner and mascara. She likes eyeliner and mascara. Different brands, but eyeliner and mascara, nevertheless.

Mind you-

I’ve never really been attracted to women.

I can’t remember there ever being a time when I have looked at a woman and thought, “My land, she could get it.” Ever.

Conversely, the thought occurs to me regarding men 12-14 times a day.

And those are the days when I stay indoors.

But there she was—so pretty, so thoughtful, so well-intended…

Who was I to say “No?”

Who was I to accept, unthinkingly, this compulsory societally-imposed manufactured standard of human sexuality?

Sexuality was fluid, was it not?

Kinsey Scale and all of that bullshit.

And maybe this was different than everything else.

Because, in all of her compassion, in all of her thoughtfulness, in all of her well-intendedness, she was more than happy to fall back when I took to my moods.

She didn’t complain when I fell silent, or cut short her questions; when I corrected her on grammar or points of order when I felt her wrong.

She didn’t utter a hint of complaint when everything had to be my way, when I said “No” where she would have said “Yes.”

She was nothing, if not accommodating, and accepting.

And, in the beginning, I didn’t mind us being around each other constantly, because she so easily molded herself into my stark world. If an unbreakable silence was the order of the day, she was still. If it was my manic and incessant chatter that colored an empty afternoon, she was attentive and engaging.

She didn’t read the books I read or watch the cable news I preferred, but she was sweet.

She was more an appreciator of jokes than an author of them, but I was at home with my shtick and her rejoining laughter.

And sexually—sexually I was all in. I’m a far cry from prudish, and have certainly engaged in the more unseemly elements of heteronormative sex, so nothing freaked me out. I was down for whatever. And it was good.

And for a while—a quiet, contented while—I was satisfied to let the earth, and indeed, my life, fall away, if, but for one blissful moment, and enjoy the novelty of her. “…and possibly… the thrill / of under me you/quite so new…” as cummings would say.

Here’s the thing—

Failed heterosexual or no–

The fact remains—

My basic, sad, elemental truth is—

That I am a monster.

A devourer of men (and apparently the occasional woman).

I’m all about confronting truths, you see.

I’m not built for sustaining ever-lasting unions with people.

I’m selfish.

And perhaps—even a little bit cruel. Not because of words or sheer abuse of action, mind you.

But because I’m not unhappy.

Neither with my present state or circumstance.

And monsters should be unhappy right?—

Cast out from all good society, grumbling irascibly under their breath, skulking about, ever-present grimace on their goblin-y faces.

We’re not.

We walk among the decent, and the upright.

We laugh gaily (pun intended), and make you comfortable, and you trust us when you shouldn’t.

In the ten years that have comprised my active romantic life, I have never not divulged the truth of my makeup to anyone I’ve been involved with.

And no one’s ever believed me—
Until it was too late.






let’s call a spade a spade and a post a post, or, “a deluge of f-bombs & (non)sex talk….”

“Do you have a jumpoff?” I asked Kate over bbm.

I was doing that thing straight girls do when they’re trying to play it cool with gay girls they think are kinda cute.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but…I just thought I’d ask,” I anxiously typed in an attempt to preserve my awesome.
Kate gave me what I was beginning to recognize as her standard, initial “WTF…lol…” response, but followed it up with “No, I don’t have a jumpoff. I do have a cuddle buddy, though.”
So, here’s the thing.
I have this sort of disability where I ask a quick succession of questions, that, to a casual observer, might make me appear rude, or insensitive, or abrasive. I’ve been trying to work on it, and decided, immediately, that I would seize upon this opportunity to be diplomatic in my information-gathering. I would be respectful, and endeavor not to overburden Kate with queries that might make her feel uncomfortable, or stupid, or regretful that she’d shared.
“The fuck you mean you have a ‘cuddle buddy’? What the fuck is a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
(These techniques take time.)
Another “LOL” from Kate.
She began again. “You know, a friend who comes through every now and then to kick it. Nothing really happens. We mainly just chill and, you know, cuddle.”
Me, again. “Look. I’m doing the best I can not to throw up, here. Just walk me slowly through this. Am I to understand that this is a no-fucking arrangement?”
“Nope. No fucking,” answered Kate.
“Just *chokes back vomit* cuddling?” I asked
“Occasional kissing, but, yeah…generally…just cuddling.”
“But why?” I pressed. “Why would you do this?”
“It’s more for her, really,” Kate replied. “Her girl’s away, and she just needs a warm body. I like to think of myself as just being a good friend.”
“Riiighhht….even though you stand to benefit nothing from this arrangement?”
“Yep,” came her matter-of-fact reply.
“Have you never done this before?” she asked. “Never had a cuddle buddy?”
I didn’t even have to deliberate.
“No. I pay a mortgage in my house so that I can fuck here. You’re talking nonsense.”
My mind was reeling.
I could feel sweat beading at my temples.
My heart was practically skipping out of my chest, and these hot rushes of blood kept surging to my cheeks.
“What about this is so crazy to you?” asked Kate.
I ignored her question, momentarily, and made two frenzied phone calls, both confirming Kate’s dreadful account, and my worst fears.
This can’t be…This.just.can’
…. I thought to myself.
I feverishly looked at my bbm, and saw Kate’s emboldened name staring back at me.
I consulted my contacts, and made one, final go at it.
I sighed with brutal resignation. This was going to be painful.
My thumbs flew across the qwerty keyboard.
Me: “Elodie, you’re soft. Lemme ask you a question. You ever heard of a ‘cuddle buddy’?”
Elodie: “Yes! Of course! It’s SO fun!”
*insert gnashing of teeth on my end*
Elodie: “It’s so much affection by definition. Essentially, it’s someone you spend quality time with. Holding and touching. Doesn’t involve sex. Maybe kissing. A lot of close proximity and time together.”
Me: “Oh. My.God.”
Elodie: “I love it. I personally enjoy the cuddle buddy who knows how to run his nose ever so lightly across my skin…”
(Look. I know y’all think I’m making this up, right now, but I swear, I’m not. This is all verbatim. This is so real.)
Elodie: “…massage my earlobes…”
Me: “Are you joking? Are you shitting me, right now?”
Elodie: “…intertwine my fingers with his….”
Me: “This is serious, Elodie.”
Elodie: “No,  I’m dead serious. Serious as a heart attack. It’s very special QT. It’s nice and really makes you feel special.”
Me: “I’ve heard enough.”
Elodie: “Oh! Don’t forget spooning. Are you about to get one?”
The fuck?
Me: “Have you ever met me? Like, ever? Ever talked to me at all? Had a conversation with me?”

Elodie: “I mean. You asked.”
I had. I had, indeed.
I returned my attentions to Kate.
“Sorry. This is so much. It’s just that…no man on eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrpppppphhh would EVER agree to such a
thing…unless he was like….the loneliest, ugliest man ever,” said I.
There was a brief pause before I saw that she was typing, once more.
“I’m not a man, hon.”
No. No, she was not.
And she sure the shit wasn’t ugly.


Women of America—
In the
Is the matter with you?
I wanna know.
Is the matter with you?
I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW y’all are behind this shit.
I got two lesbians, one linesister, and one powerfully JuliaRoberts/CameronDiaz/JenniferAniston/AshtonKutcher straight bitch confirming the existence of what HAS to be THE most HERETOFORE INCREDULOUS nonromantic romantic institution known to man.
Overly-sentimental though she may be, my friend, Elodie, is the best. Really. She’s tops.
And I’m sure whatever lucky broad Kate idly passes time bunning up with is worth more than her weight in giggles and tickles.
But, notwithstanding these two…
And not to sound like some two-pence slut, but…
Who in the SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
That’s a serious question.
I mean it.
Who in THE SHIT do y’all think y’all are?
I’m gonna say something controversial.
Wait for it.
I get sooooooooooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiired of hearing about the fact that there are no good black men in this world.
Sooooooooooooo tired.
I don’t hear a lot of lesbians saying “Black bitches ain’t shit,” but….I’m certain, if black women, in any way, are able to corner the market and have the franchise on lesbianism, we’ll be sure to complain about a lack of appropriate girl on girlers as well.
Somebody, somewhere
has sold y’all broads a bill of goods.
Some lying, deceiving, misguided, trying/to/get/the/ass/quick/soul has convinced you all that your drawes are gilded in gold and your elbows can’t be ashy.
Every day, I see motherfuckers on Facebook giving themselves these empowered middle names; regarding themselves as the lost imperial Nubian queens of the Motherland, and can’t fry a damned fish.
Whoooooooooo are y’all?
AND nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow…..
To marry INSULT with INJURY in the UNHOLIEST of matrimony, I hear tell of women taking showers, doing their hair, and rolling up in cribs smelling good, titties riding high, jeans cut tight, to snnnnnnuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggle up in a dude’s arms  (or chick’s….whatever your pleasure)………………………..
And cuddle.
I don’t have the time or space to address the simpin’ ass mentality that permits such an EGREGIOUS violation of interpersonal relations.
So, let me just say my piece/peace, and be on about my own way….because this is a blog about me.
(friends, family, spouses of friends and family, colleagues, spouses of colleagues—please disregard)
With annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny expectations of preserving your chastity, your moral strongholds, your righteous high-ground………hell…..your fucking dignity……
If you come in THIS house….smelling good, showered, finely adorned under the cover of night, or at the occasional noonday hour, I’MA ASSUME……I’MA take it as GOSPEL TRUTH….
That you’re ready to rock.
Ain’t noooooooooooooooooooo cuddling going on in this house.
This shit right here…
Does everyone understand that.
I pay real bills.
I want real sex.
This shit right here….
This “cuddle buddy” shit right here…
This is why we can’t have nothin’.


buy groceries. when you don’t buy groceries people you don’t want to do it to you try to do it to you….

“You have a really strong aura,” the woman seated in the booth called out to me from her darkened corner of the room.

“Um,” I said, furrowing my brow, “Thank you, I guess.” I tipped my Old Fashioned in her direction and swiveled on my bar stool so that my back was, again, to her.

“Doesn’t she have a strong aura?” she asked of her seatmate in a volume loud enough for me to hear her.

Her company mumbled something in concession to her assessment, and the woman clapped her hands wildly.

I couldn’t tell you what had possessed me to eat in the bar. I never ate in the bar. In four years time I had never eaten in the bar.

This shit shack had the best fries in town, and was open later than anywhere else in town, and served food and booze until 2 am during the week.

But I’d always taken my food home.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’d ordered an Old Fashioned and the veggie sub and fries I’d had yesterday, and taken a seat at the bar.

It quickly proved a momentous decision.

“My husband and I would love it if you’d join us,” said the woman, who was, all at once, behind me. She was in her early forties with fiery red hair and sharp features, and intent on looking directly into my eyes.

I was caught entirely off guard. “Oh—um…no. No. I couldn’t.”

“Please, please, please, please!!!?!?” she continued to clap her hands emphasizing each word. “You’re all alone, and we’d love the company!  We’re here visiting and don’t know anybody.  Besides, I want to give you a reading!! Your aura is incredible. Please??!”

I looked to the corner where her husband was still seated, watching us, closely.

“Come on! We won’t bite. Let us buy you another drink. It looks like you’re out.”


“Well, all right. But just for a moment,” I said, making a show of reluctantly picking up my plate in the face of getting a free drink.

Now, I know what y’all are thinking.

You’re thinking, “These people are going to try to fuck her. This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck her.”

And you know what?

Fuck it.

I’ma spoil the shit out of my own story because it is just that unbelievable.

This is a story about how these two White people tried to fuck me just now.

Now, when we return to the tale, our heroine (me) is just sitting down to dine with the two merrymakers.

“Mark” and “Caroline” were in town on business. Mark did something in marketing and Caroline had joined him for the week, employing a team of sitters and relatives to watch their three children while away.

“Are you married, Fooler?” asked Mark, looking at me in that You-wanna-do-sex-to-my-dead-body-Bob? kinda way.

“Um, no. No, I’m not.”

“Lovely woman like you? Dimple like that? You can’t tell me no one’s tried to make an honest woman out of you,” he said, slowly sipping his drink.

I’m generally unresponsive in the face of extreme awkwardness, so I simply offered a nervous shrug.

“I want to give you a reading!” exclaimed Caroline. “Sweetheart, tell her I’m a mystic.”

I looked to Mark who was eyeing me, saying nothing.

“Is that what a person who gives readings is called?” I asked her. “A mystic?”

“I love that you’re drinking bourbon,” said Mark, seemingly out of nowhere.

I looked at him plainly. “What?”

“Sweetheart!!! Tell her I’m a mystic!” Caroline exclaimed, clapping her hands, again.

Mark’s eyes didn’t waver from mine. “She’s a mystic,” he said. I knew I hadn’t imagined the sardonic tenor of his words.

“Please, Fooler?!” Caroline began, “Please, please, pl—“

I held up my hand.

“You can give me a reading, Caroline.”

“Yay!” she clapped. Everything was an exclamation with this broad.

“You’ll have to let me hold your hands. I want to prepare you because I can already sense that you have some trust issues.”

I looked at her and was confronted with the most earnest facial expression I have ever seen on a woman.  “I’ll need to finish my drink for this, I think,” I said.

“Oh, do!! Do!” she commanded.  “Mark,” she barked out at her husband, to whom she’d been paying little attention, “Go get Fooler another drink.”

Now, trust me, I think it is the height of impropriety to let strangers buy you an endless succession of drinks, but I had the distinct impression that I was working for my supper. So, when Mark looked at me for confirmation and asked, “Another Old Fashioned?” I merely nodded in agreement.

I swigged the remainder of my drink, and placed my hands in Caroline’s. Her thumbs encircled the tops of my fingers. She inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes.

In a heavy, breathy voice, she began.

“You are going through a great transition in your life, right now. There are some major changes on the horizon for you.”

I sat still, neither confirming nor denying.

“You are scared. You’re really scared, but you’re trying not to show it. Oh God, don’t be afraid, Fooler!”

I shifted in my seat, a bit, in reaction to her passionate outcry.

“You feel trapped. You’re always trapped and unsettled. You always keep one foot outside of the door. You always want to walk away. You never involve yourself in a situation you can’t walk away from.”

I looked at her closed eyelids. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I thought.

Mark returned, and pushed the drink in front of me. “Did I miss anything good?” he asked.

“You have problems with men,” Caroline answered.

“They have problems with me,” I countered.

“Ahh, ‘The lady doth protest,’” sang Mark.

“One in particular. No, no. More than one. Maybe two or three. You have a few unresolved—“ She opened one eye and looked at me accusingly, “You’ve been busy.”

I shrugged and attempted to keep my face impassive.

“You’ve got such an adventurous spirit. You just don’t know how or what to do with it. You’re lost. You’re so, so lost.”

“Caroline?” I interrupted.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t mean to be rude. You both have been very nice, but—“ I withdrew my hands from hers as her eyes shot open, “You gotta get the fuck outta here with this shit.”

Caroline’s brow furrowed. “But, Fooler! Am I off? I’m right, aren’t I?! I’m right. I’m right and I’m too close and that frightens you. Don’t be frightened. Quick, give me your hands!”

Caroline reached out for my hands and placed them square in the middle of her chest.

“Can you feel my heart?” she asked, looking at me with pleading moss-colored eyes.

I looked around and was met by the curious gazes of the other wasted bar patrons, no doubt wondering why I had my ebony hands on this white woman’s titties.

“Steady, right?” she asked.


“My heart,” she answered in that breathy talk. “Can you feel how steady it beats under your hands?”

This shit right here is the second gayest shit I’ve ever done in my life.

“Open yourself to it, Fooler. I’m giving you good energy.” She was looking at me expectantly. I wouldn’t even give her the benefit of a head nod. I tried to recollect how I’d gotten to this place.

“Look, it’s getting lat—“ I began.

Caroline closed her eyes and slowly shook her head from side to side. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

She was doing that whisper that I use when I’m trying to irritate my linesister; that date rape whisper.

“It’s early,” she continued.

I looked over to Mark who’d been unusually silent. A glazed expression covered his face. I suspiciously eyed the drink he’d pushed toward me. I hadn’t taken a sip.

“Fooler,” Caroline whispered sternly, taking my hands and placing them on either side of her face.

I can’t believe this shit is really happening.

“Fooler. FoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFoolerFooler. Fooler. I think you should come back to the hotel with me and Mark.”

Oh hell no.

I sat upright, maneuvering my hands from her face. “You know what? No. I have work in the morning—“

“We’ll see you home in time,” said Mark.

Oh, now you wanna chime in, motherfucker?

“My dogs need to be walked. I can’t just—You know what? No.” I stood up.

“Fooler, come onnnnnnnnn!” Caroline whined.

I rumbled through my bag, and grabbed my keys .  “It was very nice meeting you both. I hope your business goes well, Mark. Caroline—“

I searched in my bag some more, trying to think of what the fuck to say to this crazy sexually ambiguous bitch. “Caroline, thanks for the reading. Really. I wish you all the best.”

I found a twenty at the bottom of my purse, and placed it on the table.

“Y’all have a great night,” I said, turning to walk away. I took two steps forward, before turning around again and walking back.

I grabbed the twenty from the corner of the table.

“Forgot. Drinks were on you.”


there comes a time in every woman’s life when you have to take stock of yourself and your friends, and determine: “we ain’t shit.”

My weekend in four parts—my adventures with the new housekeeper, the part where I almost unceremoniously murdered six children at the movie theater, my hairdresser’s engagement, and my wildly controversial and bad language-infused dinner with an old law school friend notwithstanding.

(sat) “Clara’s” and “Jenny’s” crib: Me and Michael arrive at Clara’s house.  Clara and Jenny have never been to Lux, and Michael (who hates Lux) is reluctantly accompanying us.  Clara pours herself another glass of wine and asks if we mind her playing Lenny Kravitz to set the mood before we leave. Michael and I laugh at her for two and a half minutes. This bitch wants to set the pre-Lux mood with Lenny Kravitz. She hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve ever said.

(sat) New York Avenue: Me, Michael, Clara, and Jenny are walking to the club. Me, Clara, and Jenny are in various states of undress. A man in a “big body Benz” rolls his window down and attempts to holler at one or all of us. He inquires as to our destination. Clara (for reasons which will continue to elude me) tells him “Lux.” Our suitor then desires to know why we’re “going to that raggely[sic] ass ghetto ass hot ass ignant[sic] ass club.” He was clearly a cut above the traditional Lux-goer; as evidenced by his common ass hood-holla that called to mind Sir Lancelot, and the many romantic variants of the Chivalric Code.

(sat) Lux: My beer choices are Heineken and Miller. I opt for the Heineken. I consider that the beverage’s secret ingredient might be warm Nazi piss compote.

(sat) Lux: A man who looks like Rick Ross tries to effectuate the waist-grab-pull-close maneuver. I spurn his advances. The only man who looks like Rick Ross that is allowed to touch me is Rick Ross.

(sat) Lux:  My linesister and I venture to the 3rd floor. My linesister motions to the VIP section which, in an unexpected twist, has a disproportionate amount of white women within. I consider first, that the women are birds; second, that there must be an NFL player hosting a party inside. I determine to refer to the women as pelicans. You know. On account of them being white birds.

(sat) Lux: My linesister and I are both dancing, one goon, a piece, when suddenly, she cries out, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I keep dancing with my goon. It’s not like I don’t hear her. I’m just, you know, dancing. She cries out, again, the same refrain, “OhmyGod!!! He’s hard!” I continue dancing with aforementioned goonificence. She then effectuates the super-secret Delta distress signal. Soror down! Soror down!!!! I immediately shove off the hobgoblin trying to impregnate me through my dress, rescue my linesister, forcefully separate her from wildanegrobeast, and push her through the crush of people to freedom. All of my love, peace, and happiness, girl. All of my love, peace and happiness.

(sat) Lux: Michael and I try to determine the thought process that inclined a fellow patron to don a large, wide, floppy brimmed white hat to the club. I suggest that the headpiece once belonged to Shug Avery. Michael disagrees, as the “suicide doors” of the hat’s brim are clearly an indicator of a more modern era.

(sat) somewhere on 6th St:  Me, Jenny, and a very drunk Clara are looking for my car. Clara, who has a beautiful voice, keeps singing, “I’m more than just a numberrrrrr, hey hey heyyyyy.” That’s it. Like, no more of the song at all. Just, “I’m more than just a numberrrrr, hey hey heyyyy.” Jenny and I don’t ask where the remainder of Drake’s song went. Four blocks later, Clara mercifully switches up—to some Marvin Sapp song. Which she sings—in its entirety. Clara then looks at me and says, happily, “God is good!” I wordlessly continue to walk arm in arm with her. She looks at me, meaningfully. “Fooler, I said, ‘God is good!’”  “I’m not going to do this with you,” I say. She stops walking. “Come onnnn, you know the rest. God is good!” I try to inch her forward. “I refuse to do this with you,” I say. Clara is unrelenting. “Fooler—come onnnnnn. God is good!” I sigh, dejectedly. My voice drops two whole disgusted octaves. “All the time.” My participation gives her life. “And all the time?!?!” I sigh, once more, and look out into the street. “God is good.” Clara walk/jigs/church steps the next half of a block. “Hallelujah!” she exclaims. I’d be wrong if I kick this broad in her knees right now.

(sun) Northeast: I tell Michael that I think that I want to have a baby. Michael looks out of his passenger window. We continue ten of the twelve minute ride in complete silence. This silence is interrupted when I inadvertently drive my car into oncoming traffic.

(sun) church, Northeast: The church is really hot. Michael doesn’t want to take off his jacket because he is wearing a short sleeved button down that he’d accidentally purchased thinking it was a long sleeved button down. When it gets too hot for Michael to bear, he whispers to me “If I take my jacket off do you think I’ll look crazy?” I look around at our fellow congregants. The woman directly in front of me has a courtesy-of-my-auntie’s-basement tattoo covering the whole of her chubby forearm. She has brought with her a “purse” that can best be described as a white, pleather piece of carry-on luggage. Three rows in front of us, I watch as the bald head of another parishioner catches a stream of light from a stained glass window. Her entire head is bald. Save her natural, Ed Grimley-style bang… that is blonde. Directly beside Michael is the most beautiful transsexual I have ever seen. She also has the biggest, loud-clapping man hands I’ve ever seen. I wonder why Michael deems it appropriate to disrupt my salvation with his ridiculous questions.

(sun) church, Northeast: The pastor talks to us about taking Christianity into worldly places. He tries to identify with the “young people” and inform us that it is all right to go into Busboys and Poems[sic] if it is for the purposes of evangelism. He tells us that it doesn’t matter if people are in Busboys and Poems[sic] drinking alcohol and looking cute and picking up people, because we shouldn’t be afraid to go into the streets to spread The Word. I spend much of this portion of his sermon considering that I’ve apparently been away from Busboys and Poets too long. My friends go there to eat mac ‘n cheese, attend Alice Walker book signings, and hear spoken word poetry. I woulda been in there way more if I’da known it was the Devil’s hideout for drankin and ho-in’. This absence is easily remedied. Good lookin’ out, Rev.

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: On more than one occasion, I’ve forbidden our friend, “Monty,” to tell stories, as they are always ludicrous, and, as far as I’m concerned, complete fiction. As Monty’s stories tend to fold into other outrageous fables, I admonish fellow listeners not to make direct eye contact with him, so as not to encourage him, or enable his tomfuckery. Despite my warnings, my linesister disregards my instructions. Monty proceeds: “Did I tell y’all about the lady who went to go get a mammogram and then went missing? She did. My daddy called and asked me, ‘Did you hear about Ms. Mable? She went to go get a mammogram and then up and went missing.’ I think doctors should do better than that. If they can find you when they want you to pay your bills, they can find you when you got cancer. She been missing 6 weeks.” He then folds this story into: “Did I tell you about the woman who never loved her daughter? She never loved her. My mama told me once to take her a plate but to be careful of the chain when walking up the front porch cause she had a whole chain that wrapped around her house. But she never loved her daughter. She stayed in bed all day, never wearing anything but a robe and some baby powder. Yes she did. She never loved her daughter. Never loved her.  And she had cancer, too.  She died.  But not because of the cancer. Because she never left the bed. She sat there  all day eating Tostitos. That’s what killed her.”

(sun) Michael’s b-day dinner, Dupont: My linesister and our friend “Anna” get into a heated debate about Anna’s boss, who is up for re-election. I watch as Anna and my linesister give meaningful arguments, but note that Anna obviously isn’t aware that my linesister is just baiting her. I shake my head, as at the height of their dispute, my linesister, having exhausted all of her educated responses, concludes: “I don’t care. I hate him. I hope he doesn’t win,” like the child that she is. Anna is temporarily stunned. I want to laugh, but I can’t, cause what she said is fucked up. Man, it’s funny, though.

(sun) 14th and K: Me and Michael go to meet up with my friend, “Maya” and her visiting best friend, “Kara.” Maya and Kara are wearing the same dress. On purpose. Maya is fairer skinned and has curly baby hair. Kara is darker than Maya, but has similarly curly baby hair. Having made fast friends with the patrons, they are the toast of the all-white bar where they are seated. Maya tells me that people have asked them if they are twins all night. You know, cause they’re black with curly hair, and are dressed alike. Not that they’re two grown assed women acting like asses. Maya informs me that they’ve told all of the patrons at the bar that they are “fraternal cousins.” All of the patrons at the bar have accepted this explanation. I immediately cast-aside any previously-held reservations about home-schooling one’s children.

(sun) 14th and K: Maya introduces me to Jamie, whose wife has left him for a woman, and Cristina, a haggard looking drunk woman who looks exactly how Sheryl Crow will look when she’s 80…and strung out on heroin. Cristina says to me, “Tell Jamie about how it’s better that his wife left him for a woman, cause it’s not like he’s competing with a man.” I look at a visibly intoxicated Jamie, and begin, “Well, actually, I read last week that it’s actually worse when your spouse leaves you for a woman. Because it’s like she’s completely emasculating you. Like, there’s nothing you can do .” Cristina signals violently to me, and starts mouthing that I’m going in the opposite direction of what she’d hoped. I hurry to fix the situation. “Actually, Jamie, what it means is, that your dick was probably too big for her. She took one look at your huge dick and just couldn’t do it anymore. You ruined her for all men. “ Jamie, happier with my newer answer, lazily smiles, and appears placated.  I briefly consider giving him a little piece on account of his troubles. I quickly reconsider, given his scruffy demeanor and overall drunkyness. I still congratulate myself for contemplating letting him bury his sorrows in my little mocha mons. I’m constantly thinking about how I can be of service to others. I’m a giver like that.


because i’m the kinda girl who takes a straight white man to meet a bunch of black gays…

I took my very heterosexual, very white friend, Rob, to an all-black, all gay barbecue last weekend.

Now, before you conclude that I hung Rob out to dry, please be advised that I did consult one of the two hosts about the okay-ness of him accompanying me. It went like this:

Me: “Mark, will it be okay if I bring my friend, Rob?”

Mark: “Sure. Is he gay?”

Me: “Nope. And he’s white.”

Mark: “Mmm. I think he’ll be okay. I mean, we’ve got a keg. Straight white boys like kegs, don’t they?”

Me: “Every one I’ve ever known.”

So, it was with an excited heart, and a nervous Rob that I trotted out to Loudoun County for the barbecue.  

Now, while I, of course, described the party’s potential happenings in painstaking detail, and absolutely alerted Rob to the overall uber-gayness of the event, I may have neglected to mention that the party would be all black.



“Don’t act funny.”

When we arrived I introduced Rob to everyone that I recognized, and mapped out the lay of the land. Just as I suspected, nothing but immaculately attired, fresh tapered good looking man-loving men everywhere I turned.

Upon entry, Rob’s face definitely bore that look one gets when he’s unaccustomed to being the only minority in a space (Remember that feeling, black people? Remember ages ago when we used to feel self-conscious about being the only black person in a room—you know, before we realized that it was going to happen on and on ad infinitum for the rest of our natural black lives?).

Now, Rob is something of a beer aficionado, and given the generally high alcohol volume of the fancy beer he traditionally drinks, he’s kind of a two beer per night kinda guy.  But, recognizing the expression he wore, I asked, mockingly, “So—what are you thinking? Two-beer kinda night?”

Laughing  softly, he looked around and said, “Um…. I’m pretty much going to drink as much beer as I can handle.”

So, I inquired as to the whereabouts of the keg, and Mark directed us to the patio where Rob’s salvation awaited him.

As he was filling his cup, I noticed a quartet of cute boys assembled around a table, smoking, and talking amongst themselves. I introduced myself and Rob (I should point out, that while I’m generally quite social when I have a mind to be, I was especially social on this particular occasion. Standing around and skulking in a corner is a luxury the bringer-of-the-white-man can ill afford) and we relaxed for a bit, taking in the gay scenery.

“I thought you were hungry,” said I. “You should eat. Looks like there’s plenty of food.”

“Yeah,  I am pretty hungry. I’ll get something,” he responded.

“Well, let’s go in and get a plate.”

Rob tensed a bit. “Maybe I’ll hold off for a sec. I don’t really have to eat.”

From the corner of the patio, the tall man with fantastic eyebrows, who’d introduced himself as Matt, called out, “I thought you said you were hungry.”

Rob, confused and surprised, stuttered a bit, “Well, I mean, I’m not really…I mean, I am, but—“

Matt was not in a state of mind to brook any refusal. “You just said you were hungry. And she said you were hungry. You think there’s something wrong with that food?”

Rob tried to put his words right, “No, I just—“

“Then go get you some food then. What are you trying to say? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that food. You better go get you some food. Don’t act funny, now. Don’t act funny.”

I looked at Rob, and tried my best not to laugh. He just exhaled, dejectedly.  “Yeah. I can go get a plate. I’ll go get a plate. Let me just get another beer, first.”

It wasn’t until a few hours later that we learned that Matt had catered the event.


“Fooler, I think….I think these might be—greens?”

Back inside, Rob and I talked to fellow party goers. I could see that the beer was loosening him a bit, and I felt less compelled to glue myself to his every movement.  Rob surveyed the generous spread of food lining the countertops, and began to compile a plate. I made the rounds and also relaxed. Bringing him had been a good move. He was an easy, go-with-the-flow kinda guy; even when said flow was black and overwhelmingly gay.

A few minutes later, I found him, full plate in hand,  biting into what looked to be an eggroll.

“How is everything?” I asked.

“Really, really good,” said he. “Hey, I think I found something you can eat. These eggrolls are really good, and they don’t have any meat in them.”

“Oh, yeah?”  I said, inching closer. “What’s in them?”

Rob extended a half eaten eggroll, when my heart stopped dead in my chest. A confused furrow adorned his brow. “I’m not really sure. It’s either spinach or…I mean…”

I could hear my heart, again, only now it was thumping loudly between my ears.  I deliberated about whether it was best to tell the truth or remain mum.  Fuck it. The motherfucker’s here. Welcome to my world, White man.

“Rob, I think, that they are definitely not filled with spin—“

“Fooler, I think….wait…I think these might be….greens?” Rob stood there, examining the half-eaten article, slowly coming to the realization that Matt had masterminded perhaps the most unbelievable—and apparently delicious—fusion of Southern (black) cuisine and Asian cuisine mankind has ever known.

“Yeah, homie. Those are definitely greens,” I said, shaking my head.

“These are really, really good,” he repeated, before downing what remained of the eggroll, and helping himself to another.

Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. Everything anyone has ever said about black people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.

I watched Rob slowly and almost systematically eat and love every single thing on his Dixie plate.

Everything anyone has ever said about white people anywhere in the world, at any time, ever, is true.


“ ‘I try hard to fight it/no way can I deny it…’ “

Everyone who attends parties or frequents bars or clubs knows that, as the night begins to wind down, the motivation behind music selection shifts. While the beginning of the night is spent trying to get people hyped up, and the middle, focused on maintaining the momentum, the end is generally something of a free for all. The end of the night is where shit gets really good. The dj is under less pressure, and he can be a little more experimental with his choices. He can whip out the classics, the oldies but goodies, and be confident in his belief that the audience will appreciate his moxie, his defiance of the mainstream.

And you know what happens when the dj plays that magic song? Thaaaat’s right. Everyone closes their eyes, extends their arms above their heads, and sings at the top of their drunken lungs. And that’s the sweet spot at a party. The drunken group belt-out.

Now, in my humble experience, a good shut-it-down song at a predominately white venue is some 80s rock gem, like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Don’t Stop Believin’” a la Journey.

And for the traditional predominately black venue—I think we can all agree that a solid dose of Maze featuring Frankie Beverly  “Before I Let Go” gets the job done.


Hearken back to the part where you recall that I was at an all black, all gay barbecue.

Now, shame on me for letting my guard down.  Prior to this point in the night, I’d drunkenly reflected–as I often do when at all-gay events—what a shame it was that people were so bigoted; that if everyone would stop prosthelytizing or agendizing, or fucking hating for one second in time and just open their eyes, they’d see that who you choose to fuck has nothing to do with who you are as a human being; that this barbecue was like every barbecue I’d ever attended in life (only in a fancier space, with no girls, and men whose freshness-of-edge-up defied all heretofore known bounds of logic). People are people, I’d naively concluded. Gay, straight, in between—it makes little difference in the end. We all do the same shit.

But eight melodic words pouring in over the speakers brought me back from my ideological reverie. Eight little words put black gay smear all over my beautifully sentimental rose-colored lenses.

“Can’t explain why your lovin’ makes me weak…”


Before I knew what was happening, Coco, Taj, and Lee Lee, the most regular-looking trio of broads to ever top the R&B charts, who’d tauntingly provided the soundtrack to my romantically-tortured adolescence, washed over me.

I began to panic. This isn’t party music! This isn’t shut it down music! This is a ballad! This is an early 90s ballad! We’re at a party! This won’t stand!

I looked accusingly at my friend, Michael, who’d been drunkenly manning the ipod-of-steel all night, and who I’d earlier narrowly saved from pushing “play” on a particularly gospel-ly Kim Burrell selection.

But his hands were remote control free. Everyone’s hands were remote control free. I saw this clearly because everyone’s hands were extended—-above their heads.

Everyone’s eyes were closed.

The keyboard lulled into a delicate pianissimo and gave way to Coco’s exasperated, emotionally-tormented alto.

But I only had to endure her arguably not-so-hot voice momentarily.

Because just then,  the clouds parted, the heavens opened, and a lo, a chorus of gays sang along right with her, rhythmically swaying as if their black gay lives depended on it.

I can’t.

Surely someone will turn this off, thought I.


Didn’t happen.

No one even made a move to change that shit.

And then it hit me. Oh, fuck! Rob!

I’d left him on the patio.

I hurriedly opened the glass door, and there he stood, tall, straight, white, unmoving—

Amidst a backdrop of arms raised, eyes closed, gently swaying, sangin’ ass, gay ass blacks.

I approached. “Hey. Ummmmm. Errr. Uh. Yeah, I don’t really have an explanation for this.”

Is there an explanation for this?”

“Right,” said I. “Um. No. I mean, this usually happens, yes. But, uh. The SWV is new to me.”

“They’re singing all of the words,” said he.

“Yeah. Yeah they are.”

“And there are a lot of words.”

“Yes. Yes there are.”

I looked around us, then. I looked at our patio counterparts. I listened to the whole party stop everything everyone was doing just to slow bop and sing to this one monkey-ass song, that had, at some point, endeared itself to all of us during our youth.

Smiling, I looked at Rob before downing the remainder of what proved to be a bottomless cup of red wine, and said, “God, I love black people.”


July 2019
« Apr    

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 534 other followers

a history of my meanderings….