Thursday, June 17, 2010

Slice #4 Mr. Smith and the Search Warrant

Mr. Smith never once crossed the (very thin) line while I was taking refuge in his home unless I asked him to ;). And yes, it was a home, not a house. The only thing warmer than the embrace he gave was the heat from those damn spicy dishes he cooked for dinner! There was something…sensual about how his kitchen would satisfy my five senses; the warm mood of the fall colors would always calm my nerves. The citrus smell that would wake me up and surge my energy (I never found out where the HELL it came from though). The sound of some Italian dish bubbling under some pot would lull me to sleep; the feeling that if the kitchen is the heart of the home, and if food is the way to a man’s stomach—then I didn’t know which one I loved more. If not for mere satisfaction, I couldn’t help but lick my fingers after dinner—whether we ate finger-food or not. “You’re doing that on purpose! Turning me on like that!” He’d always tease through those damn pearly whites that made me melt.

My grandmother always told me that I’d never know romance until it was too late, but what Mr. Smith lacked on teaching me in the classroom, he made up for in displaying what an honest man does for his lover. His approach was always so tender; I’d sometimes stare at him and wonder like “does this man ponder every single movement?” He was a man whose every decision seemed so thought out and precise; whether picking a tie out in the morning (which I’d do anyway), or preparing his lesson plan for the following day.

One morning in particular, we were laid down at the foot of his bed grading papers and enjoying some Maxwell whispering just how “Fortunate” we were to have each other. And just when it seemed my 4 week stay there had finally secured me a stable place, and a place in his heart—his phone rang. It was the secretary from the school, warning him that the police were on their way over to his home with a warrant to search the premises for me. Evidently, my father had issued an Amber Alert for me, and a neighbor must’ve seen me pulling a trashcan to the front yard or perhaps a waiter at a restaurant matched me to the newspaper. Either way, I remember thinking “this man is determined to make my life a living hell”. Somehow, someone tipped off the police of my location (only my best friend and my two cousins knew where I was, but only after they swore their confidence did I reveal my whereabouts).

“I’m so sorry for all of this” I pleaded to Mr. Smith. “Well, as of last week, you’re officially 18, so unless you have a pound of dope on you, or a warrant for your arrest, then the only place you’re sleeping tonight, is in my guest room”. He always knew just what to say. Luckily, there was no “big scene” of flashing blue lights and nosey neighbors, just one squad car and a pleasantly polite officer of the law. After explaining to him my situation, the officer beckoned me to contact my father and let him know that I’m safe; because of state law, the officer was obligated to give my dad the address to where I was”.

But, what could I say to the man that disowned me? What words could my 18 year old “me against the world” attitude come up with? It had been a little over a month since I spoke to my dad; we would relay messages back and forth between family members: an aunt would tell me “this”, a cousin would tell him “that”. As much as I hated to admit it, as much as it pained me to face reality, the truth was that I missed my father and it hurt not to have his approval. Once Mr. Smith convinced me to call him, my father answered on the first ring and before he could say “hello”, we both started crying at the same time.

“Daddy, my biggest fear in this world wasn’t coming out to you; my biggest fear was disappointing you—and now that I’ve faced that, I think the world isn’t as tough as it used to be”. The words choked up from my throat.
“I love you, son. But that Gay shit—I just can’t do it. I haven’t eaten since you left, I haven’t slept since you walked out that door—and it’s killing me. I…need you” it was one of the first times I ever heard my father cry.
Why did it take all of this to get us, these two men who lived off of the strength and manhood we felt entitled to, to finally become weak enough to be each other’s strength?

It was agreed that it’d be best if my dad didn’t press charges against Mr. Smith (I was still 17 when he let me move in). The man was kind enough to open his doors when my father’s slammed in my face, so a court order would have been one big FUCK YOU to his hospitality. I would stay there until my father and I worked things out… which seemed impossible at the time. We were like toothpaste—couldn’t put it back in the tube…

(and where was my ex BF while all of this happened, you ask? Stay tuned!)

(Stay tuned folks, slice #5 coming up soon!).

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Nature V. Nurture

I thank Jesus that I was never molested or sexually assaulted at all. I'm blessed to say that my attraction to the same sex is totally instinctual and not based on any perversions. My heart goes out to the victims of such heinous crimes; children are innocent--anyone who has ill thoughts toward them have wicked hearts.

My earliest memory of (being conscious of) my first attraction to a boy occurred in 5th grade. He was sitting across from me in Music class and I accidental ran my foot up his leg (mistaking it for the leg of the table). We argued a bit about it, but afterwards, I realized "hey, I kinda liked that". From there, the rest is history.

Not to start the whole "Nature V. Nurture" argument, but I totally vote for Nature as the cause of homosexuality; not on Nurture. However, my closest and dearest friend was molested at a young age and has since then been experiencing mixed emotions on her sexual identity. So, I think that Nature is the primary cause, and Nurture may just be a catalyst, depending on the person and situation.


(BTW, Enjoy the pics!)

Monday, June 14, 2010

Slice #3 His open arms and front door...

… from Slice #2, you can see why I was “pushed” out of the closet; I never had a fighting chance to come out. However, every cloud has a silver lining…

My Advanced Finite Math teacher, Mr. Smith (of course I’m keeping his identity safe) and I would always run into each other at local gay bars or whatever. Mr. Smith was a black man, average height of about 5’9”, full lips, sparkly eyes, toned face, toned body (he encouraged us to utilize the workout station in the gymnasium, go figure). He kinda looked like Mechad Brookes (google him).
Mind you, I was only 17/18 at the time, but remember when I told you my bf was a DJ? That’s how I always got into any club in town free; he was my “cousin” if anyone ever asked. Anyway, Mr. Smith came up to the DJ booth one night and requested a song; before he could open his mouth to bid the DJ, our eyes met and he scurried off into the crowd in shame.
“Play Dance All Night by J.Jackson!” I told my bf. “Be right back bay! Ima go get my dance on!”.
I chased Mr. Smith down and grabbed him by the hand and led him to the dance floor—he must’ve known then that everything was all good because we were eventually grinding like gears in a clock. Not only that, dude’s dick was harder than the math homework he gave us! (I had to yell that in his ear over the music, he DIED laughing!).

This all happened in between Winter break and New Years 2007-2008. So, Mr. Smith and I had this unspoken rule when we were forced to be in contact with each other in school: DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL.
Remember: while I was under sedation (in Slice #2), my dad called and threatened my bf and we broke up, right? So, while I was Boyfriendless (yep, it’s a word in my book), on the verge of being homeless and penniless, I came to school the Monday following my release from the hospital.

I’ll never forget it; I came to Mr. Smith to turn in my Finite Math book and he had this look in his eyes like he could see straight through me. We met up afterschool because he gave me “detention” and we caught up on things. Not only did I completely let him in on what had happened in my life thus far, but he let me in to his personal life. When I finally told him that I was homeless, he said the words to me that shattered my heart and mended it back together in the same breath:
“You’re not homeless, you just have one less home to go to” and he handed me the keys to his front door…
I cried like a baby!
(Stay tuned! Slice #4 is going to be even better!)

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Sidenote: I'm SO...

Have you ever been so horny that you literally crave sex? STORY OF MY WEEK! I was so horny today; food didn’t even have a taste to it. It’s been about a good week since I’ve had the chance to bust a satisfactory nut. You know that nut you get after you do some edging for a while until you can’t STAND it anymore? Yep, it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to. See, I’m on “vacation” right now in Kentucky; I’m staying with my favorite aunt and her daughter. The last time I was here, it was just my aunt and I—I was sleeping in the guest room—alone. All the nuts I wanted to bust in the world… but I can’t now because there’s always someone knocking on the damn door or wanting to “see what I’m doing” or something of the sort. So, since I can’t bust a good nut, I’ve been trying my best to put a cap on my hormones, but it feels like I’m a bottle of pop that has been shaken up—ready to explode any minute.

Well, my aunt convinced me to drive in this hot 90 degree Kentucky weather to the grocery store to get some ingredients for tonight’s dinner (which was off the damn HIZZY!). I’m in the pasta aisle, comparing sauces, when the store manager saw my indecisiveness and decided to help out. Now, let me say that it caught me off guard when he tapped me on my shoulder because, number one, it felt good—since my entire body has been one huge nerve, turned on by damn near anything, and two—he was so damn fine, it almost blinded me. “Sir, I’d go with the Ragu, its name brand, and it has better quality meat in it” he said through perfect pearl-white teeth that complimented the deep black skin of his face. “DAMN!” was the only word that my sex-conscious mind would allow. He made me so horny, it hurt. I just HAD to get some kind of a number or something from the guy. I don’t know if you’ve ever encountered a true-blood, thoroughbred, down south, Kentucky black man, but for those that have—they know what I’m saying.

I’m not promiscuous, but I’m a man nonetheless. After some light conversation, I found that he too was a poet and he invited me to an Open-Mic joint that he co-hosts on Saturdays. We exchanged contact info and we’ve been texting each other all day. As I’m writing this post, he just texted me and says “so, what does a guy have to do to get a guy like you?” So, you all know where it’s going from there, right? O yes, pics WILL be posted! Stay tuned!

Enjoy the pics, they’re metaphors of what I’m HOPING for by the end of this thing…

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Slice #2 (PUSHED out of the closet)

I had my first real boyfriend when I was 17. He was 22; a DJ at a strip club downtown in my hometown. We met online and hit it off really well so we decided to see what happens. Turns out, we took each other’s V-Card (we both hadn’t ever had sex with another guy). After realizing the sex was amazing, we decided to make things a bit more solid between us so we decided to be an official “couple”. We dated for nearly all of my senior year. Until this happened…

IDK Y, but my asthmatic self thought it’d be cool to pick up a habit of smoking Black and Mild’s. It landed me in the hospital on a respirator. While I was on the respirator, my dad got wind that I was “hanging with fags at school” (which was a LIE!). So, while I’m under full anesthesia and had no idea what I was saying, my dad asks me “son, are you gay?” and not only did I tell him yes, I gave him painfully vivid details of every relationship/sexual encounter. (mind you, I don’t remember any of this, this is what everyone tells me I said while I was still “under”).

I remember waking up in ICU, and none of my family was there. No balloons, no Get-Well-Soon cards; nothing. It hurt me so much because I had no idea what went wrong until my dad called me on the phone and says to me: “you have two days to get your shit out of my house”. I’m crying and coughing and whatnot; a friend of mine came to see me and I couldn’t tell her what just went down because then she’d know that I was gay and I didn’t want her to know, so she left and said I was being cold towards her (we worked it out though). Not only that, but my dad went through my phone and called my bf and threatened to kill him. It was a huge mess.

So there I am, 17 years young—nowhere to go. Funny thing, I always thought my family wouldn’t care too much about me coming out—and they didn’t. But they never opened their doors up to me because they were too afraid of my dad coming through and causing a scene and possibly killing me. (btw, my dad is an ex GD from Chicago, so he’s like a mega-thug). I had no food, no money, no shelter, no bf anymore—I had to drop out of my senior year of highs cool because I couldn’t even go to school without my dad finding me there and stirring up trouble. I was on the principal’s list, graduating early and with honors, and well on my way to becoming a Technology Major on a full scholarship. I HAD TO DROP IT ALL BECAUSE OF THE DRAMA MY DAD AND I WENT THROUGH.

But every cloud has a silver lining…
(Stay tuned for more folks!)

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Random Cuties!

Hopefully these pictures will last! I can't say why, but I won't be able to post anything until this time next week. So, make it do what it do! I will be posting some texts though, so stay tuned for Slice #2 of my life~ Love ya~ --Cogito

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Tony C (here's your chance)

Tony C, you've been selected to request 5 pics of (almost) any theme! Comment on this post. What 5 pics would you like to see? Ass, dick, jock, cum, facials, etc. Let me know! Be as vague or specific as you want!

Here's a few pics...