STREET WRITER

Enjoy!

these are janet's words by me

i'm making 30 look brillant

and what i've learned-- is not the age --it's your intentions

your happiness or unhappiness will catch up with you no matter the age

and i've learned we don't age

we either get really happy or we get really unhappy

i'm not trying to do what those do

i enjoy

living every day like its my last

don't want to be stuck in the past

people act like they should

because they are afraid to live their dreams

i just enjoy

until my heart is content

my poem: you can't hurt me anymore

This is 30 years old

You don’t have to like me anymore

You ain’t going to get this

I got self esteem now

I love my loneliness now

When I was young

I tried to be liked by everyone

I tried to so hard to be funny and nice

But it didn’t work

It got old quickly

I tried to be thin and cute

I tried to be materialistic and open minded

But I knew my intentions

And when I got a little older I realized we all got our intentions

We all got our happily ever after

Do we match?

I never asked myself that before with low self esteem

Do I fit into

ur

dreams?

Can you be my nightmare?

Never asked myself before I liked my loneliness

So you got money

I got misery and comfortable with it

So you got a great body

I got my overdue gym membership

So you got cool friends

I got niggas who love and hold me down

I’m not trying to b liked

That means I’m not willing to compromise

You don’t have to like me

But you will love or hate me

There is no in-between with me

Say I’m dramatic which means that you can get your way

Say I don’t listen because you can’t persuade me

I’m the hustler in this story

I’m what the movie is about

You’re just sideline

If you love me, maybe you can be the hero

But if you like me, you’re the villain

You don’t have to like me, but you will love or hate me

I’m going to challenge consistently

I’m never going to be what you wanted

I hope you be you

So

I’m brave enough to say I don’t believe in fairy tales

Or happy endings

I’m brave enough to say I believe funerals and births

I’m brave enough to say I believe in responsibility and loyalty

I'm brave enought to say i believe in bills and making sure my family is okay

I’m brave enough to say I believe in my body and my happiness

You don’t have to like me anymore

I got self esteem now

I like my loneliness now

I like me now

I’m brave enough now

To say I believe that god doesn’t make mistakes

Welcome to ur thirties baby

most people won't get this

they see nakedness and not see intellect behind it

i'm 30

they going say stupid shit like i'm nasty

but i'm free

and my body belongs to me, even if mama sees

so if ur celebrating me i welcome

if you hating me i welcome

i'm challenging, you need an opinion with me

but welcome to 30 baby boi

 

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Starting Ova

I’m not bitter
This is my last poem for you
You see I fell in love with him
I wanted him
I thought I was the fuck up
I considered his yesterdays were the fools
But he told me about him
He told me how much he was in love
But I thought I could do better than him

But little did I know
He never forgot him
My birthday presents were bought by him
He was only happy with him
He never got over him
And when we would have sex I would complain
I would tell him he was not giving me everything
Like his nutt
He tried to act like I was crazy
And when we argued that I was feeling denied
That he wouldn’t give over
So I tested it
I went out with other men
I slept with other me
I let other men fall in love with me
To see if he was hiding something from me
to see if I was defected
but I didn’t know he was lying to me
and every time I got back in his bed I felt that denial
that denial that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough
that his family didn’t know me, but my family knew him
I thought I was too dramatic
but they knew David
he could’ve told me
he wasn’t happy
that he was still in love that crackhead whore
the love that denied him and broke his heart
he could’ve told me
but he did
and ten years later I finally listened
the sad part I even tried to be David
thinking if I could be that fuck up he would love me
he lied
he lied
he lied
every time he held me, he lied
but I’m glad I know now
I refuse to be second place
how could he lie like that
I was never going to win
we were never going to be happy
did he not think I was going to find out
yea I slept with other niggas
but you never gave me your heart
I knew I wasn’t crazy
I was second place
you played with my head
and when I said that something wasn’t right
that you couldn’t give me ur body
that when we had sex I didn’t feel like you wanted me
you would tell me that I was crazy
now I know
now I know
I wasn’t crazy
I’m not the fuck up
I’m not the one who was undeserving
thank you
you could’ve told me
I’m not bitter
I’m just happy I’m not crazy
I’m not the villan in the story
it was never my story
because I’m never second place
how did you not know I would figure it out
didn’t I always questioned
couldn’t figure out how they loved me and you didn’t
couldn’t understand how they worshipped me and you didn’t
it’s cool
I’m not bitter
I just happy I know now
and I’m not crazy

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning, that’s when my life comes into focus, that’s after the weekend, that’s when I calculate my energy, try to figure if I’m going the right direction in my life.

So what’s different about this Sunday morning, first, this upcoming Thursday is my 30th birthday. I’m excited about that. I feel as if I’m ready to grow up. I see aging differently now. I just see me getting better. At first I feared aging because I didn’t trust god, didn’t trust my purpose, and I thought my life was all about approval. But now I know I’m in it for the lesson. I’m in to serve the proliferation. I’m in it to be the sun that I am, to shine so damn bright and then become a super nova. Because I know when I die, the world would have known I was here. That’s the point I figured out for myself.

I have this saying that I don’t want them to bury me a fraud because I lie so much, I hide so much, I’m so damn insecure, I’m so damn afraid of the world, I’m so damn angry.
But I have this saying in my heart that I don’t want them to bury me a fraud, that I struggle to be the real me, that I struggle to be the “me” that I know I can be, the me that I’m so afraid no one will accept, that I will die alone, that I won’t have sex, but I don’t care about that anymore. I don’t want the approval anymore. I don’t want to be liked. I wanted to be love or worshipped but never liked. I rather you hate me than like me. If you can love me, then hate me. I don’t accept compromises anymore. I don’t want to be buried a fraud.

So I struggle, so I keep putting myself in position where I can be rejected, so that I can figure myself out, and I’m learning that I love me and when they reject me, I realize how much I love me and I don’t care dying alone and they thinking I’m arrogant or a fool or weird because what the fuck do they know. What the fuck do they want me to be, not me?

and if I’m allowed to ramble, that’s what I’ve been trying to figure out my entire life or lie. What the FCUK do they want? what is it that I have to do to get them to like me. to accept me, to want me. But then I realized I don’t’ want to be liked, I don’t want the fucking compromise, love me or leave me, hate me or worshipped me, I’m not here to be polite, I’m to serve god, to serve the proliferation, no one said I couldn’t have a good time, but I have a job to do, so love me.

They want to control me, we all have our intentions, and some of us are really sneaky about them, some of us try to be coy, try to be slick, but I see those people, they give compliment but they are silently plotting, they are silently trying to control, but that’s cool, I got a dream for me, and trust me, your dream is not my dream.

So I struggle, and yes I’m afraid, and yes I’m constantly afraid of being rejected, but reject me, I only get better at least don’t reject my desperate insecurity when I fake it, that hurts when I fake it and still rejected. That hurts when I try to say all the right things, when I go to the gym, when I smile and I’m still rejected. I still can’t get approval, that hurts. So if I have to be rejected, at least I know I didn’t fake it. You hate me, that’s cool, at least you disliked me not the me that was looking for approval.

So what did I learn this weekend, I’m learning to be stronger, but I’m still apologizing. I need to stop apologizing. That’s what I learned this weekend. I need to stop APOLOGIZING.

DIESEL

THE IRONY IS THIS STORY IS SO FUCKING TRUE, I MEAN EVERY SINGLE WORD FROM EVERY SINGLE ACT AND THEY ALWAYS TELLING ME TO MAKE IT STRUCTURED, BUT THAT ISN'T LIFE, THIS IS LIFE, HOW WE ARE SO NOT BOOKENDINGS, WE DON'T KNOW HOW WE ARE GOIGN TO END UP. SO IF YOU FEEL IT'S OUT OF CONTROL, THAT'S THE POINT

What is this story about?
i Don’t know.

A drop of diesel fuel begets the internal combustion. It just takes one sip to get the intransigent purring started. Its how the heat builds and burns fast-- taking over responsible thoughts. This exothermic reaction is the result of a fool with a trapped life. The boredom creates gases of high temperatures and pressures, which expands, acting directly to cause movement that molest pistons, lick rotors, until the entire engine itself is alive and racing. I feel as if I’m always hiding like a dusty sports car in a barnyard. Some days I am as egotistical as a Ferrari. Some days I am as seductive as a Jaguar. Some days I am as coy as a Mustang or as kinky like a bloody red Corvette. But all it takes is one drop. And then I’m not coming down until I’m empty. Until I’m exhausted. It aint for you to understand.
I probably fell in love with the idea of hell when I was eight years old. It was all those naked starved bodies sweating and desperate and piled on top of each other in lustful agony molesting rotting flesh. They looked so beautiful to my Baptist boy eyes. Maybe it was the stench of failure. You couldn’t sink any lower. I wanted to go. But it’s not my dick. It’s delaying the gratification. It’s the self torture. I’m always looking to see how far I will go for release. I’m always looking to see how much I’m looking for approval. I’m always looking to see how much I hate my mother. Damn, I’m bored.
Friday after work in my gap khakis, on the train, I hated my sobriety. Most people can’t see my eyes because I don’t connect, just manipulate, so I hate my sobriety, cause I hate hiding. I reached into my book bag and pulled out a Sprit bottle filled with vodka. I sipped cautiously. I worried that the others could smell the stench. After the fifth sip, the worry eased and I could feel the engine wanting to start. It cranked and coughed. I pressed the pedal releasing more fuel into the engine. I stopped sipping from the Sprite bottle and began gulfing. The engine started. Friday night from Sunday night was me trying to be what I thought my desperation for attention needed to be. I can be a such a fool for attention.

You want to hear a dirty story.
So I found myself at some leather bar. It was dark and intimidating. His name was Master G. I thought he could be something I wanted because I’m constantly searching for my death. He was aggressive and unnecessarily mean. He slapped a black collar with metal spikes around my neck. The collar was attached to a rope that was attached to his cockring. He wanted me to lick his boots. I smiled. I first needed to finish my cocktail. I got down on all fours and tasted the dirt on the tip of his black boots. He felt satisfied and commanded me to follow him to the bathroom. He made me lower myself to the position of the toilets. He took out his dick. He pissed in my face. The warm yellow stream shocked me. I felt myself pulling away and he grabbed me back by yanking the rope. He said he wanted to humiliate me-- that I had too much going on in my eyes. He said somebody needed to calm my ass down. “Why is it that everybody always trying to save me” I don’t want to be SAVED! I told him I couldn’t be humiliated. My name was Diesel not “boy.” The game was over. I ripped off his collar. He had messed up my shirt. I left the bar pissed. He didn’t understand the game. I wanted to come to life. I can’t explain it. It’s so sporadic. They always trying to define my insanity. But they never listen. They never listen.
Saturday night, they called last call, and he broke my fifteen minute rule. I knew he wasn’t fucking. Men tell you in the first fifteen minutes if it’s going to be the bathroom, their car, behind a dark building, my house, or his. But he was a liar. And I liked that about him, because he was so fucking easy to please for attention. .Men only lie because they have something to hide. I wanted to know his secrets. He, too damn sexy, tall and dark with eyes like a rat. He was young, younger than me, probably just got his voters registration card. I was high and drunk and feeling like I feel when I had too many drinks. I wanted something new. I wanted to be used and use. I wanted him to want me, maybe even love me, but then again, I didn’t give a fuck. All I could imagine was his sex, lust, sticky wetness and violence. I didn’t want a man but an animal. I was kissing him on his neck, massaging my fingers on his nipples, trying to get him to come with me. I was trying to get him to go to the bathroom, maybe behind some dark building. I just wanted to be on my knees. I just wanted to steal his soul. I just wanted to spread my legs. But he wasn’t listening. He just was a tease. He just wanted somebody to say he existed. Men let you know the first fifteen seconds if there is going to be fucking. I guess I wanted to play the game. I left the club alone. I passed out while the engine was still running.
Sunday morning, I awoke frustrated. My dick was still hard. The diesel fuel was blocking up my veins. I felt the gorge pulsating. I needed another drink. The season was summer but I hadn't seen the sun in days. The city was DC. But I wasn't looking for love. Anything but love. Boys like me were to have, not to hold. Boys like me only existed for the night.
Have I mention it was a full moon?
I thought I try again. Sunday night around midnight, I found myself once again at a somebody's bar sipping on my forth whisky and coke, feeling pretty and sexy in my green contacts, tight fitted camouflage G.I. Joe t-shirt and skin tight (size 30) Gap jeans. My yellow timberlands served as my masculinity. I had sex in my eyes. Maybe that's what lured him to me like cold hands to fire. Soulfully, he whispered in my ear "Are you man enough to spread your legs and let another man stick his warm tongue in that gorgeous ass of yours." I smiled coyly trying to appear shy as I slowly turned my head towards his burning words and found myself being penetrated by his eyes. In an effort to calm or prevent me from walking away, he touched my stomach as I looked him over and pondered his offer. He was playful, his look, dripping wet with Puerto Rican machismo and charisma. He was a Boriqua: a descent from the miscegenation of colonial Spaniards and African slaves. He was more sexy than cute, but not overly stated, but just enough presence to command attention. His creamy lemon ala bisque skin and almond eyes were his best selling points. I knew I could get lost in his eyes. His only flaw was that he was shorter than me. He was probably 5'9. I was six feet tall. I did like that he grabbed my cocktail free hand and audaciously shoved it down his baggy pants so that I could feel his hard, pulsating, thick and uncut Latino pride. I played shocked and smiled duplicitously as to say "you had me at eating my ass." When he licked his lips to give me a preview of his hunger for my musk, suddenly the room went quiet as the concupiscent blood quickly rushed from my head making me dizzy with anticipation. Needlessly to say, an hour later, he was making good on his indecent proposal.
At the beginning of Monday, just a little after one in the morning, I found my eager body at his apartment and we started slow. I felt my engine running low, but I was still Diesel. Another hit of weed and I pushed the pedal to the floor. I like for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I like to be fully clothed and have him stand there naked, his hard frustration penetrating the air, dripping with slimy tears, begging to be touched. I liked to see how much he wanted me. I liked to see how far he would go to get me. There was also something very virginal yet corrupt when one was fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was a hopeless romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head and temporary arrested me in darkness while the smell of my own musk and citrus cologne served as a quick aphrodisiac. I could feel my dick rise.
I was now shirtless, so he placed his warm hand on my neck and politely kissed my lips, then neck, before sliding down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He pinched at my nipples like tweezers trying to get a splinter out of a sore finger. He pulled and tugged. And then he licked to ease the pain and pulled and tugged and tongued some more. I felt the electricity run down to my feet. I let myself relax to the bed. I slowly was becoming submissive. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slid the zipper down. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those warm masculine hands on my waist. He slid my jeans off. I loved it when a man finally stripped me of everything. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. He kissed my lips again. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and searched for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body laid twisting and moaning on his satin sheets as he devoured my sensitive manhole with his aggressive tongue. He spread the cheeks all the way open. I could feel my sphincter purring, pushing in and out against his prickly gin soaked tongue. The intense friction of him stroking my weak spot had me begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He yanked my body to position himself to tower over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy whiskey and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit as I sucked him. I pushed him all the way to the back of my throat. I liked how it made a man weak --feeling his dick all the way back to the tonsils. It’s how I knew I had him. It was like having his masculinity in my hands. He told me to tug on his balls firmly without any regard if I was hurting him or not. I spat his dick out. I then slapped his attentive dick hard that dripped with my spit to let him know who was in control. I slapped it again to make sure I had his attention. I tugged his nut sack. I tried to pull it to the floor. I then spanked his nuts. I watch his body twitch. He needed more pain. So I put his nuts in my mouth and begin to grind them softly with my teeth. I could feel him want to give in. I stroked his dick and bit down on his nuts. His knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. Just a couple of more seconds.
I thought I saw something, movement in the dark. I ignored it. I had his dick back in my mouth when the cops burst into the room with their supercilious flashlights, slicing through the darkness like swordsmen. I was so drunk and high that it hardly seemed real. Palsied and eyes widened like a gay deer trapped in the headlights, I still hadn't spit his dick out of my mouth despite how the white spotlights screamed in the darkness for recognition. For seconds during the initial silence, because at first the cops just watched and said nothing. I pondered deviously that they were maybe there to join in like some kinky black and blue party. When I reached out to touch the light was when they started yelling for us to get dress but keep our hands in the air. My engine had been thrown into a rude stop. My dick was no longer hard. My head went light and I fell gently like feathers to the bed. The cops asked for him by name. He had barely put on his underwear when they dragged him out of the bedroom into the living room. The door quickly shut behind them and I was left naked and alone. I didn't know what to do. I was too drunk and relaxed from the joint we smoke earlier to even care or pay attention to reality. So I just laid there. I didn't even put on my clothes. I wasn't even scared. After all, it wasn't my apartment. Finally, after thirty minutes, his roommate crept into the room like a sneaky house pet. Apparently, someone called the cops because of the music being too loud. My trick also had warrants so the cops took him to jail. The roommate touched my thigh after telling me the news, smiling and pleading that I could still stay a little longer if I didn't have anywhere to go. I felt conflicted. The roommate wasn't nearly as cute or masculine. He was actually the opposite, fat and effeminate. Out of courtesy, I asked to see his dick. Again, he was the opposite. I decided to leave. I figured the night and I were still young and hot, and I also had a fifteen block walk home, so anything better could happen.
I began the search from my clothes. Did I mention it was a full moon?
Early Monday morning around four, I found myself staggering home. After my ordeal with my trick getting arrested and having to almost settle for tacky leftovers, the fifteen block walk home was once again insufferable. It didn't help that I was still high. The fucked up part was I still hadn't nutted. I still hadn’t gotten my release. The boredom hadn’t silenced. I knew I didn't have enough money for the bathhouse. I figured I could surprise a fuck buddy of mine who lived in the neighborhood, but figured he was probably fucking someone else. The thought of a threesome got my blood pumping again. But before I could think over the decision rationally, I saw something again in the dark. It was like a flickering of a headlight. A dark figure across the street flicked a mirror toward the streetlight and was waving at me. It was four o’clock in the morning and usually I would ignore such a thing, but like I said, I was still horny, drunk and high and suddenly wanted to know what the dark figured wanted with me. I cautiously crossed the street looking both ways. As I got closer, the dark figured motion for me to follow him and I did. I followed him behind the National Church of Christ and away from the traffic of the street. Once we were behind the church, the dark figure pulled down his pants and started shaking his dick at me. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or run. Suddenly I felt outer-body. I felt as if I was watching myself from a distance, like a movie, just waiting to see what was going to happen next. In the light, the dark figure wasn’t so opaque anymore. The church lights painted his face kind and attractive. Or maybe it was the liquor and weed. He seemed out of place. Maybe it was the glasses that gave him an honest and sincere face or was it his Best Buy work uniform so neatly pressed and immaculate. He just didn’t look like the type of person to lure strangers behind churches to shake his dick at them. As I looked him over, I concluded that he had to be in his mid to late thirties at least. I imagined him with a wife and a kid somewhere. I couldn’t help but think to myself why he had flagged me down. I wondered if I looked like that type of person who'd follow him. Was it my tight jeans? Was it my intoxicated staggering walk? Was it that because I looked easy? I didn’t care. I was bored
I didn’t run. It turned out that I was the type of person to follow strangers behind dark buildings at four o’clock in the morning. I stood there frozen watching him shake his dick at me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to admit to myself that it did look tempting. I liked what I saw. He was big. Really big. At least ten and half inches and thick. And the night and I were still young. I was also drunk and high. The moon was still full and no one had to know but the wind and me. I moved closer. I touched the shaking dick. I liked how the weight of it felt in my hands. I took deep breaths and tried to forget everything. I tried to erase my mind of the possibility of regret. As I argued with myself to determine if I wanted to stay or run, I felt his dick get hard in my hands. The engine started again. Once again, I could feel the salacious blood rush from my head and it left me dizzy. It was the pull of relentless lust and it bullied to get what it wanted. I felt out of control. I couldn’t say no. I pulled his dick one more time, to make sure nothing was leaking before I decided to fall to my knees and worship. I felt satisfied and so it began. I had his dick in my mouth when he lit up his crack pipe. The glass cylinder became ablaze with a howling and condemning blazing white smoke. He inhaled. It was bad enough that I allowed my pretty self to be lured by the big bad wolf behind somebody’s church for some sodomite fun, but the crack smoking just made it kinky. I felt my boredom stand attention, it wanted some. It wanted to feel his high. But I refused. I had enough problems. I stopped sucking his dick. I reached into my pocket for a half of joint I had left. I lit up. We were just two horny addicts who bumped into each other in the late night. Maybe he felt just out control as I did? Behind the church I allowed him to pull my tight jeans completely off and bend me over to eat my ass. He lit his pipe again and instructed me to play with my ass. He told me he wanted to fuck me. He said he had condoms. Who would've figured it, a crack addict who carried condoms? He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those packets from “Us helping us.” He opened the small tube of lube proceeding to fill up my hot tight hole. He reached for his crack pipe again and took another long hit. The stench was like burning cotton candy. The air became still, lights brighter and I could feel my heartbeat race in my veins. I had reached my intoxicated Mecca. Pressed against the brick wall, he inserted himself inside of me. Finally, my release.
There’s nothing like a nut to put reality back into perspective. With my fresh spilled sin on the church ground and sun rising too quickly, I felt shaken by the Holy Ghost and had to get the hell out of Babylon. I couldn’t find my clothes fast enough and run.
Speeding back to earth, my walk home was a mixture of shame, panic and exhilaration. It was almost six o’clock in the morning and I had to be at work at eight. I figured I would take some Tylenol, drink a gallon of water and eat a peanut butter sandwich before bed. I only needed an hour of sleep. Speeding back to earth, I started hating my life again. The fuel had run out. I was no longer Diesel. I was going to be just another bored face on the nine o’clock metro heading to work like a zombie. I was just a sports car out of gas, pushed back to his prison. I was back under the dusty cover waiting for another uninhibited soul to discover me as I anxiously waited for my next drop of fuel. It only took one drop to get the madness started again. The thing i always try to be so normal. I''ve always tried to be so undetected which is what i hate most. And every sunrise i dream of nights. i so hate my mother. i so hate that my intentions aren't true. I hate this world. How will I surve being such a freak who only people see his alter ego. Can you see me? That's the story.

why can't we be friends

i'll be 30 years old in two weeks. a year went by so fast and so slow. it was fast in the since i haven't really changed much. it was slow because i haven't really changed much.

I'm beginning to find that the tug of the happily ever after is so damn seductive. I call it last chance for happiness or last chance to be normal.

i'm beginning to feel it now myself. It's that i should be doing somethng with my life guilt trip. it's why i am not married. why am i not in a stable relationship. why do i still go out three or four times a week. Why do i still rent an apartment and not own a house. why don't i go to church. why don’t i have kids. i don't want kids, but why am i not more responsible.

i can't cook. I still dress like i'm in college. my funiture isn't grown up furniture. my dishes are mismatched. i have plastic utensils from take out resturants. i don't own a suit. i don't have life or dental insurance. i have shitty medical insurance. my credit is bad. i still owe student loans.

what is that tug. what is that voice in the back of my head screaming "get it together" GET WHAT Together!

i never used to care that i didn't own a pair of dress socks or dress shoes. why is it important now? i never used to care that i don't have proper bedding attire. I have the same bed-set i bought after i graduated college. I needed better sheets. I need towels that I didn’t steal from hotels.

most days i feel like an aging second grader. like i should know more like how the stock market works. like i should vote or know someone in politics. like i should be more active in my neighborhood. like i should be more active in my community.

the happily ever after is so seductive. the need to be normal, not judged, feel safe is so seductive. i used to think i didn't give a damn what people thought about me until i started losing friends. i mean people i had been friends with since high school. they started pulling away. they started having babies and buying houses. They got thier Masters and Phds and moved to gated neighborhoods. and now we can't be friends because i still rent and eat my dinner from the pot.

that's what has been most shocking about the growing up process. I never thought so many of my close friends would change. i didn't see it coming. i guess we do change. Why haven’t I changed?

the guy i used to get drunk with on fridays nights in my dorm room now only want to quote me the bible. he doesn't speak to me anymore because i haven't given my life over to jesus. one of my good friends got his girlfriend pregnant and two years lata the only thing he talks about is that damn baby. we don't speak anymore.

another friend of mine hates beyonce and i love beyonce. but we can't have a conversation without hostility over a bitch who makes more money than us. i mean is it really that serious? When did pop culture end friendships. When did it get that serious. i have a friend recovery from drugs, and now i can't speak to him about anythign addictive. he's so damn high and mighty now. he has that i recovered from something and that makes me better than you smugness. i find myself getting lonelier and lonelier. I’m beginning to like the loneliness.

the tug of the happily ever after is so damn seductive. lately i've been thinking about what i'm entitled. what type of house i should live in. lately i've been putting in more hours at work so that i could feel important. it's  happening to me. when did it stop being fun and started getting really serious and scary?

why can't we be friends: myron, charles, curtis, sha,

tyler

. saprine, lisa, niti

i promise you, i'm growing up. i'm catching up. Was our friendshiop only close proximity? I thought we would be friends for life, little did I know I would have so many lives.

Porn isn't Sexy

I have decided to denounce the widely accepted myth that “men are just visual” because it’s insulting. It assumes that men are one-dimensional and can’t decipher real from fake. It insults that men can be easily manipulated. That men don’t have sex they just get off. And that is true. The advent of pornography has hustled more men than

las vegas

prostitutes.

I thought it was a joke, as I watched Kirk Franklin on my television reveal to Oprah that he was addicted to pornography. I just laughed and said to myself that all men liked porn. It seemed harmless so I couldn’t understand how one could abuse images on a TV screen or in a magazine. It wasn’t like it was drugs or alcohol or sex. But anything can be abused if it allows you to disconnect from reality. If it allows you to disconnect from people. It’s the escapism. I didn’t realize how damaging porn could be until it started ruining my sex life.

I had a friend, and every time we had sex he needed pornography in the background. At first I didn’t think too much of it, just thought it was part of his kink and then I realized that I was competing with the pornography while we were having sex. He had a fresh live body willing to do whatever he wanted right there in his presence and all he could do was fantasize about what two strangers were doing on a TV screen. He couldn’t connect. But it just wasn’t him. I was also disconnected. I was moaning like the guys in the porno thinking that’s how I was suppose to sound. I allowed my body to be twisted in uncomfortable position thinking that I looked like the fantasy. I wanted more to be the fantasy I had scene in porn or dirty magazines than actually have good sex. I didn’t know how to be real because I had watched so much damn porn.

Having sex with a person obsessed with pornography is like having sex with a person on drugs, they are not there mentally. You get the body and not the mind.

As I get older, pornography is becoming an annoyance in my life. I love sex. I make no apologies. It is my life goal to have had the best sex life ever. I mean good sex. Uninhibited sex. Soul searching sex. It’s because I believe sex is emotional. I believe who you are in bed, is who you are in life. I like to be fearless in bed. I like to lay my soul on the sheets. But it took me a long time to get free of fantasy and smut and start learning real touch. I wanted to hear my voice in bed. I wanted my emotions. And in the beginning I found that to be a problem because I had porn in my head.

What is the purpose of porn?

Every mannish boy ends up breaking into his father or uncle porn stash around age twelve. We huddle with our other sneaky horny friends and look at the forbidden in the dark with a flashlight. It’s the curiosity of the body. I probably saw my first porn around age 11. I was having a sleep over at my cousin’s house and his father left his porn in the downstairs den. It was surreal. And it was 70s porn, which will always be the freakiest porn ever. I remember we pressed play and the porn was something about these freaky women on a farm riding horses bareback. I had so many questions.

I didn’t see my first gay porn until the summer I was out of high school. It was at a friend’s house. He just had it on in the background like it was music. I remembered being shocked. I had already had my first gay experience but seeing two naked male bodies grinding on each other made me feel like a virgin again. I figured I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea about gay sex. And I wanted to learn.

In the beginning I thought the purpose of pornography was to teach me. It was to answer all questions I was too afraid to ask. It was to give me tricks and inspiration. In the beginning I thought I watched porn to become a better lover. I wanted to learn. But porn couldn’t talk back to me. It couldn’t tell me its secrets. It was setting me up for failure.

I guess I started collecting porn sometime after college. I figured it a hobby. I was increasing my jack-off material. But what was all that porn watching doing to me. What was I thinking when I was watching it? Why did I rewind certain scenes over and over again? It was the fantasy. I often imagined myself as one of the people in the porn. I wanted to re-create the fantasy. I wanted to have someone else’s sexual experience.

But porn isn’t real. It’s scripted. It’s edited. It’s directed. It’s cheated. I’ve seen many porn movies where they make it seem as if the two guys are fucking but what they are really doing is cheating. The guys limp dick is pressed against the bottom but it isn’t in him. So if I aimed to create what I saw in a porno, wouldn’t I just be faking sex?

And it’s a vicious cycle. For the longest time I couldn’t understand what it was I was suppose to say in the bedroom. I would watch porn and think that I was supposed to do all that moaning and panting. I was supposed to do all that bitch screaming. It was annoying. It felt stupid. It felt fake. I was with this guy and he kept talking dirty. He wanted to know if he was the best I ever had. I mean he was good, but others have been brilliant. His constant questioning made me feel like I was taking a survey. It wasn’t sexy.

Porn is not an instructional video. Those people don’t really care about sex. They care about money. They care about instant gratification. They care about cheating the potential buyer with a hot scene and the rest of it is fluff. It’s a business. And if I mimic the fraud, that would make me a prostitute for the business. I wouldn’t be having good sex, I would just be entertaining. The porn industry would like for us to think we’re having good sex by mimicking what they do in porn, but honestly committing the fraud just keeps us disconnected and junkies to buying more porn. It’s because we’re never going to be satisfied.

I look at porn like low budget action films. When I go to a Die Hard film, afterwards I don’t’ go jumping off buildings and speeding down highways. I know that it was a movie. I know that a lot of it was fake. When I watch porn, I know that the camera stops and starts again. I know that it isn’t one long gang bang session. I know that the models are often high or on some type of drug or alcohol. I know that a lot of them are pros at what they do.

The problem with the male fantasy is that it’s unrealistic. It’s arrogant. It’s inconsiderate and disconnecting. It sets you up for disappointment if you try to make it real. I know a lot of gay men who are size queens think they like a big dick. They’ve seen big dicks in porn. They like the image. But when it comes to the reality, their body can’t really take a big dick. They don’t know how to open up. It’s more than just mental, it’s also physical. A lot of us don’t know our bodies. We are so busy watching other people’s bodies on the flat screen and don’t know a damn thing about out own body. The guy taking the big dick in the porn knows his body. He knows he has to be clean for the camera.

The problem with the male fantasy is that it’s one-dimensional. The people in the porn don’t get to have souls, lives or dream or aspirations. The guy with his dick out in the magazine doesn’t get to be funny, clever or intelligent. Instead he hustles you. The porno hustles us. It gives us what we want at that second for a price. It isn’t free. It doesn’t care if we’re satisfied or happy. It’s business.

I haven’t stopped watching porn. I just watch it differently. I don’t consider it real. I know it’s a show. I don’t try to re-create it. I want my sex. I want my life.

I don’t consider porn, sex. I may jack off to it every once in awhile, but it isn’t sex for me. It’s a distraction. It’s a fantasy. The thing about fantasies is that they aren’t real. It’s the shit you dream up in your head while you jacking off but would never work in real life unless you hire some actors, write a script and hire a director. It’s not natural.

I used to like to perform in the bedroom because I wanted to be the fantasy. I wanted to be what the guy saw in porn. I thought that made me sexy. I thought that made me desirable. I didn’t know I was cheating myself. What really made me sexy was what made me sexual. It was how I liked to touch and be touched. It was natural and no porn could teach me my body and heart. Being sexy was what made me feel good.

Lately I have been somewhat sexually frustrated. Every time I go to have sex the person wanted to talk about or relive a past sexual experience or what they’ve seen in a porno. It’s almost insulting. I believe Good sex is a recycling of all the best sex you’ve had in your life but it isn’t reactment. When you have good sex it’s suppose to teach you exactly what it is that you really like not give you bragging rights. You are supposed to recycle the touch. At least that’s what I think.

So I have made it a rule of mind that when I’m having sex to not have porn in the background. I don’t want to compete with a business whose main objective is instant gratification. I’m a real person not a blow up doll. I also made it a rule that I don’t want to speak of past sexual relationships. It’s pointless. It either makes me feel inadequate or competitive. It doesn’t make me feel sexy. Porn doesn’t make me feel sexy.

So do men just get off, is that what I’m supposed to believe? I’ve been jacking off since I was a teenager, using anything for motivation, going inside my head, creating ridiculous scenes but that was just sex with myself. I feel as if too many of us, even if we have someone to hold us and touch us are still having sex with ourselves because we don’t know how to connect.

Working Artist

I know I haven’t written in my type pad in about a week. I haven’t been that busy just lazy. The other day as I struggle to awake and drag myself to my current “temp” job, I had an epiphany. The main problem with my life in the last three years is my ability to keep a job. I have no problem getting jobs, the problem is showing up and not quitting a day or two later.

Now every morning when I don’t want to awake I’m giving new meaning to the term “suffering for my art.” Everything costs money. My weblog and website cost money. To buy ink for my printer and the paper cost money. As a professional writer, I’m not really bringing in that much money yet, so I have to work. I have to suffer for the art.

I always thought of a job as a place that people went to die like an old folks home. I consider jobs a place where people gave up their souls and identity for a check. So of course I never wanted a job. I wanted freedom. I wanted to wake when I woke up and do what I wanted every day. I didn’t want to answer to anyone. I didn’t want the corporate politeness.

The only problem with my dream was that you can’t pay bills with idealism.

And I was also selfish. I didn’t want to push anyone else’s agenda but my own. I wasn’t a team player. I only cared about my issues. So my “irresponsible” state of mind made me a terrible employee, therefore, constantly broke.

The other morning, barely tearing myself from the bed, not wanting to go to work I had an epiphany.

I guess you can say my entire adult life I wanted to be an artist because I considered it a carefree and rewarding life. I didn’t want a life worrying about money. I wanted a life where I formed my own shape, did as I please and was praised and rewarded for such free spiritedness. It was a child’s dream. The real world doesn’t work like that and since I was from the ghetto, grew up poor, if I wanted to eat; I was going to have to work one way or the other.

But the idea of a job contradicted my artist delusions. I didn’t want to be a 9-5 zombie. I was afraid that I might get stuck. I was afraid that I might get comfortable with the steady paycheck and forget about my novels and short stories.

Yet, no matter how much I tried to avoid reality, bartenders hate poor people. It’s my philosophy, the time when I feel the most pathetic is when I can’t tip at the bar because I’m broke therefore they always make my drinks weak. So the other morning when it was another struggle to get and go to work, I told myself that I’m now a “working artist.” I don’t know why I never considered being a “working” artist before. I guess I never planned for my failure.

I guess I didn’t want to be a practical artist. I didn’t want to care about money. I wanted fame and respect. I wanted to just concentrate on the art. But then again, I’m a poor black kid from the ghetto that is almost thirty years old. My “finding myself” time limit visa had expired a long time ago.

The truth, I didn’t want to get serious. I really wasn’t taking my writing serious. I never honestly considered making a living from being a writer. It seemed too far fetched. I hadn’t honestly considered making a living. Becoming a “working artist” means that I’m serious about my life for once. I’m serious about my art. I figured I had all the time in the world. But I’m living in the world now.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist didn’t care about money.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist didn’t have ambition.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist wasn’t disciplined.

I lied to myself when I thought I didn’t care about money.

It always comes back to money. It’s a sad reality, but true. What is my worth? As a real artist that’s my task to figure out.

Growing up is hard to do. It’s the loneliness that’s hard. But that loneliness pushes us to secure our lives.

I like the idea of being a “working artist.” I’m not there yet, but it implies that I’m finally working. So every morning that I get up now and go to a job I only tolerate for my art, it isn’t so bad. It’s not going to happen for me if I just lie in the bed and dream about becoming an artist. I have to do the work. It takes money to make money. I’m not into starving. I like eating.

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