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Being visible on Bi Visibility Day.

There’s not a lot of space for openly bisexual men on the dating scene, but there’s even less space for bisexual men who don’t live in a heterosexual box most of the time. If you’re a bisexual man who reads gay, women don’t take you seriously and gay men invalidate your sexuality.

I wanted to say that on Bisexual Visibility Day.

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The first time I saw a penis that wasn’t mine or related to me, I was around 6 or 7 years old. If I was out and about with my mom on a weekend day, she would usually drop me off at the library (small town — tell the librarian I’m there, and tell me to stay in her eyesight) while she went to the post office or the hair store. Then she’d pick me up — with my new collection of books to read — and we’d either go to the movies or go bowl a few games, eat at our favorite fish restaurant (order some to-go for Dad or to eat for breakfast with grits the next day) and then head home.

If I was out and about with my dad on a weekend day, we roamed around Home Depot or Lowe’s for approximately 73 hours, give or take. Then we’d go to some kind of cafeteria like K&W or a buffet place like Ryan’s, where I’d steal yeast rolls and put them in my backpack to eat later. Then we would go bowling, and after 3 to 6 games, we’d hit the pro-shop so he could talk to Big Jake about bowling balls and lane conditions for another 73 hours, give or take. He’d work up an appetite, so we’d stop at Waffle House on the way home.

None of that has anything to do with the rest of this post really. I was just thinking about my parents today and how nice my childhood was.

Anyway, my dad had surgery on his thumb when I was 6 or 7, so our weekend trips couldn’t include the bowling alley for awhile. Instead, we would go to the community center because they had a pool and a sauna. The first time I went into the locker room, I remember sitting on a bench while my dad and two of his friends had a conversation about something I don’t remember because I was eye level with approximately 73 dicks of various shapes, sizes, and hues, ya know, give or take.

From that point on, I wanted to see Every Penis.

World Book Encyclopedia – Volume P
National Geographic – remote tribes of wherever
Little League – standing at the trough peeing with your besties

When I was 8, I had my first crush on a boy. He had gotten held back a grade, so he was Older & Dangerous, and I thought about him constantly. I didn’t really understand what a crush was until I was older and saw boys & girls holding hands, and realized I’d wanted to hold hands with him, and I still wanted to hold hands with boys. By then, my schoolmates had already built a colorful repertoire of names to call me from Sissy to Faggot, because I was smart and flamboyant and I wasn’t into “boy stuff” like getting dirty or getting hurt.

When I was 11, I had my first crush on a girl. I met her on AIM in a chatroom and she happened to live just 25 miles away from me, in the largest town close to my tiny rural community of 400 people. It was the town where my parents bowled in a league 3 times a week, and when I told her the nights I would be there, she cooked up a plan to have her parents take her and her friends bowling on one of those nights. When I met her in person, I wanted to hold her hand. I was shy and a little awkward — I still am when I meet new people I have a crush on — but that meant I wasn’t as expressive as I was in school. My voice wasn’t as high. My hands didn’t move as much. She didn’t read me as a Sissy, because I was too uncomfortable to give that much of myself.

She had a cousin who was in my grade at my school, and at some point the two of them connected the dots and she realized the boy she met on AIM was the faggot at her cousin’s school, and I never heard from her again. (I did look her up on Facebook recently and her husband looks awful and gave her a gaggle of ugly kids with huge ears.) That same year, I had a crush on another girl who had quickly become one of my best friends after I officially came out in junior high school. We were in marching band together, and like any gay guy / straight girl Band Best Friend pairing, we always sat together on the bus to and from away games. One away game, she sat with another guy on the way there, a senior she liked. He didn’t pay her enough attention, and she sat with me on the way back. When she put her head in my lap, I cried because I realized there would always be boys she’d like, and none of those boys would be me. I’d just be the gay best friend she could sit with again. She caught me crying and asked me why, but I couldn’t tell her I wasn’t GAY-gay. Just a faggot who also liked girls.

I didn’t let myself like girls after that. I went away to boarding school, painted my nails every Wednesday, wore heels everywhere, and sucked off every guy who would accept my promise to not tell anyone. It would be nice if the community of guys familiar with being called sissies were accepting of a wider variety of mannerisms and gender presentations, but it was much harder for me to find gay men who would talk to me with my nails done than it was for me to find straight ones. So in college, I shaved my head, put on sneakers, started going to the gym, and traded my Delia’s croptops for Abercrombie & Fitch tanks, because I wanted a real GAY boyfriend, not a straight guy who just wanted a blowjob in secret.

I didn’t find one, but I did find another girl I wanted to hold hands with. I worked in the mall, and so did she. She came into my store, and I was smitten. I would talk to her whenever she came in on a break, and then I worked up the nerve to ask her out. She said (and this is a quote that I distinctly remember), “Uh uh. I don’t do that gay bisexual DL bullshit.” She said it with a laugh, like we were both in on a joke, but it wasn’t a joke to me. It was my visible faggotry, even through the Straight Costume of the 00s, once again making me wholly undesirable to women.

Eventually, she did succumb to our common interests, our similar senses of humor, and our attraction to each other, and she went out with me. The first time we hooked up on her kitchen floor, I was elated. She was disappointed in herself for having sex with a gay man. When she took me to a small gathering at her best friend’s house, I stood in the living room with a bunch of people I didn’t know, listening to her best friend yell at her in the bedroom about the dangers of dating a faggot.

“I know you know that nigga is gay, don’t you! Listen to his voice! I’m trying to save you from AIDS and shit!”

She never took me seriously as a partner. When I introduced her to my best friend, who said “oh it’s nice to meet his girlfriend! I’ve heard so much about you!,” my “girlfriend” laughed and said “Obviously we’re just friends.”

I’ve had sex with a lot of girls since then. Not counting the blowjob spree I went on in boarding school, I’ve been intimate with more women than men. Some of them have given me fake numbers, so I can’t call them after. Some of them have told me I was a safe, no-strings-attached fuck since I’m “basically gay so it’s not like feelings will get involved.” The last girl I thought I was dating insisted we use condoms every time, even though we got tested together, even though we had moved in together. She did not insist her very heterosexual, very masculine guy on the side use condoms as well, and when she had a baby by him, we broke up.

I haven’t had the same kinds of issues with gay dating that some bisexual men describe. I’ve never had a gay man tell me he can’t date me because I’m bisexual. Usually, if my sexuality is an issue between me and a gay man, I end it with him because he doesn’t believe me. I’m not the Black DL Bisexual made popular by Oprah and E. Lynn Harris. I don’t hide my attraction to men from women, I’m not muscular, I don’t have kids, my life will not be ruined by exposing my sexuality, and nobody thinks I’m straight when I walk into the room. I wear dresses and call everybody Sis. When I tell a gay man I’m interested in that I’m bisexual, they can’t picture me with a woman, so they never make the audacious and inaccurate leap to “He’s going to leave me for a woman.” He negates my experience or assumes I’m actually gay or makes jokes.

There’s not a lot of space for openly bisexual men on the dating scene, but there’s even less space for bisexual men who don’t live in a heterosexual box most of the time. If you’re a bisexual man who reads gay, women don’t take you seriously and gay men invalidate your sexuality.

I wanted to say that on Bisexual Visibility Day. A couple of years ago, I decided to be more “visible” about being bisexual. Some of your “gay” male friends are attracted to women, but they’ve been socially conditioned to ignore it because their social life is “gay” and their mannerisms are “gay” and we don’t allow “gay” men to expression interest in women any more than we allow “straight” men to express interest in men without being categorized as “gay” forever. Centering the penis as the basis for sexuality is the problem and leads to every incorrect assumption perpetuated by a patriarchal society that can’t see past the dick:

Bisexual women are only into women because it titillates men.
Lesbians are only into women because they haven’t met the right men.
Gay men are into men because they were abused by a penis at some point.
Men who experiment with men are gay — 100% gay fullstop — forever.
Bisexual men are only into women because they can’t accept that they’re gay and they don’t want to be ostracized by their community.

We’re familiar with those bisexuals, and hopefully everyone reading this is smart enough to ignore the stereotypes and misconceptions, but the bisexual (Black) man as fed to us by media and anecdotes is not the bisexual (Black) man I am. We’ll never be visible unless more of us insist on being seen. This is me. Let’s hold hands.

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I love to eat.

Even if you wouldn’t spend $300 on one meal, even if you would rather cook for yourself 100% of the time, you have a frame of reference for it and you can understand why a person who is perfectly capable of feeding themselves would pay someone else a lot of money for a truly memorable experience.

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I cook for myself a lot. If there’s something I want to eat, I can usually find a way to make it. Sometimes I cook with other people who have varying levels of skill, but we can find our way through it and the meal (usually) turns out pretty well. A few days ago I was like, “I really want guacamole and it’s pretty simple to make.” I made plans to hang out with my friend and he brought all the ingredients to my house. It was surprisingly good and then I made dinner after…which wasn’t a RESOUNDING success (because I cooked the chicken a little too high) but it was still edible and enjoyable. All in all, the whole culinary experience was maybe a 7 on a scale of 1 to 10 — not the best meal I’ve ever made, but better than average. Most of the meals I cook, whether by myself or with another person, aren’t the best meal I’ve ever had, but they’re always edible.

Back when I had a good job, I wanted a really good steak and I found a friend who wanted one too. We were willing to shell out some big bucks because we literally wanted the best steak we had ever had. We didn’t want to experiment, mess it up, and possibly disappoint ourselves. We wanted a chef who knew exactly what he was doing to make us the best steak we had ever had. We went to Quality Italian in Midtown and spent over $300 on dinner, which is A LOT of money for someone in my income bracket, but you know what? I still talk about that steak. I think about that steak. I can’t wait until the day I can afford that steak again because I will absolutely pay for that entire meal all over again.

Even if you wouldn’t spend $300 on one meal, even if you would rather cook for yourself 100% of the time, you have a frame of reference for it and you can understand why a person who is perfectly capable of feeding themselves would pay someone else a lot of money for a truly memorable experience.

Apply that logic to sex.

I saw this image on Twitter

…and I’m just annoyed at the idea that we’re still trying to shame people who pay for sex, that there is something inherently wrong with paying someone to do a service they like to provide.

If I get hungry, I can cook for myself, by myself.
If I want to get off, I can pleasure myself, by myself.

If I get hungry and I want to eat with someone, I can find someone to come over and cook with me.
If I want to get off with someone else, I can find someone to have sex with.

If I want the best meal I have ever had from someone who has studied exactly what I want, I can find a chef who specializes in that and pay them a lot of money to give me a memorable experience I could not replicate by myself or with any of the people who would cook with me.

If I want the best sex I have ever had from someone who has studied whatever kink or possesses whatever body type I want, I can find a sex worker who specializes in that or looks like that, and I can pay them a lot of money to give me a memorable experience I could not have through masturbation or through my own ability to find and seduce that.

The most ridiculous thing about this movement to shame prostitution is the fact that the same men behind these ideas masturbate — frequently! — to porn. They are masturbating to imagery of people who were paid to have sex or be sexual. Even if they didn’t pay directly, somebody did because everybody’s not out here jacking off to leaked nudes or free cam footage. If you are making money (working) from sex, you are a sex worker. If you are consuming sex produced for money, you are paying sex workers. If you are shaming people who have sex with clients for money, you’re a dummy jacking off to a screen who could have just paid someone directly to cook you the best meal of your life.

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My back hurts because I thought I was a porn star.

So we’re going on about day 9 of this pain in my lower back because last weekend I decided to go out and feel every oat I do not possess and I am too old for that type of foolishness.

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***Usual disclaimer about gay sex and more info than some of y’all want to know about me.

So we’re going on about day 9 of this pain in my lower back because last weekend I decided to go out and feel every oat I do not possess and I am too old for that type of foolishness.

Sean made banana bread on St. Patrick’s Day, so obviously that Friday started out so calm and so relaxed.  Yes, I was using Jameson to spike my iced coffee (also made by Sean, apparently he’s more domestic than I thought) all day, but I had no plans to turn up.  We ordered in from some Peruvian place in his hood and watched crime documentaries.  Nighttime came and we’re both like, “Hmm…maybe we should go out and have a drink in a bar.”  The closest bar was a hotel bar at the Holiday Inn, so we sat around sipping margaritas and caipirinhas with a 44-year-old straight Black man from Panama who had control of the music for some reason.  (I never knew I needed to hear JJ Fad followed by Pternsky, but cheers to new experiences.)  At some point, Sean and I both were heading toward tipsy and decided to go out out, meaning go to gay bars in Jackson Heights and flirt with boys.  And therein lies the beginning of my ordeal.

Y’all.  I don’t know how to flirt with gay men.  It’s not in my DNA and I’ve only recently accepted that fact as being perfectly OK.  I don’t pick up boys in bars and boys don’t pick me up in bars.  So my plan for the night was to drink cheap whiskey, talk shit with Sean, stuff a dollar or two in a jockstrap, and be home at a reasonable hour.  We got to some bar and I immediately locked eyes with a (dyed) bright blonde Latino getting his life on the dancefloor.  The music was calling me, his hips were definitely speaking to me, so I walked up to him.  I was excited!  Some very cute boy was showing me mad interest, so whatever I had to do, I was going to capitalize on that situation.

The way the bar is set up, you have to walk up 3 steps to get onto the dancefloor.  I walked in his direction with the intention of going up the steps to dance with him, but I never got the opportunity because he jumped down on me like a spider monkey.  Two things were off about our perceptions of each other.

One, I thought he was a twink because he was short and he looked thin in his baggy black clothes.  No.  This was one of those short Latinos who lifts everday so that little man was a fucking brick and heavy as all get out.

Two, he must have thought I was stronger than I am – because why else would you jump on someone you don’t know?  I will admit that though I have a deep aversion to the gym, my fat does generally deposit itself in a way that I can give the resemblance of being in some sort of shape.  That’s smoke and mirrors bitch.  I have the muscle tone of an Olsen twin.  I am not equipped to pick up, catch, carry, or swing anybody around who is larger than a toddler.

Given these two pieces of information, you would think that we immediately crashed to the floor, but not so!  Regardless of his weight and my lack of muscles, I have a deep fear of public humiliation and I refuse to be that drunk bitch falling over on the floor.  Y’all, he jumped on me and I definitely pitched forward because  we were absolutely going to hit the floor, but my spirit just wouldn’t let me do it.  I don’t know where I pulled the strength, but just as the back of my hands brushed against the dance floor – that’s how close we were to falling – I pulled him back up, and by then he had his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, so this bitch is thinking I’m extra strong now after that severe ass dip to the music.  So he is ready to forreal wind it up.  I don’t know how long we went at it, but we were dipping, grinding, he was jumping on me, I was picking him up – it was so much of everything I never wanted and wasn’t prepared for, but the boy was hot and he had a phat ass and I was living my best life.

After awhile, my body finally said “pick that lil boy up one more time and I can’t save you” so I made my exit from the dancefloor but I exchanged numbers with that lil thotcrobat first (that’s a thot who does acrobatics, keep up).  When I went back to the dancefloor he wasn’t there anymore, but I amused myself with this thick Latino cub with beautiful lips who had seen me dancing earlier and decided he wanted a spin.  No, he did not jump on me, thank God.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I was in midtown waiting on my train transfer to take me home to Harlem.  The Thotcrobat text me while I was on the platform.

“Hey don’t you live in Harlem?”
Yes.
“I’m on 137th, wanna meet?”
(Interally, HELL YES ARE YOU KIDDING ME!) Sure.  Should be about 30 minutes.

Keep this in mind y’all – I’m a top, and I can be an aggressive top if it’s the right bottom, but I’m not a dom top.  I don’t smack or spit or pull hair because if somebody does that to me, we fightin.  That little Mexican had it in his mind that I’m a dom top because of the dance routine we had just put together earlier.  Our fuck session quickly went from my comfort zone to “what the hell are you doing right now, Rafi?  Who is you?”  

At one point, I was fucking his (very fat, round, perfect) ass doggy with my hands around the back of his neck because he likes to be choked.  He kept telling me to do it harder and harder and I’m like…are you kidding me?  The energy in my arms is finite, especially after the previous few hours, and I don’t have any more pressure to give this man.  So I made a 30 degree turn to the left, put my foot up on the side of his neck, and basically stepped on his head for awhile and he CAME in that position.  I caught myself in the mirror standing on a thot’s face and started laughing because GIRL WHO AM I RIGHT NOW!  Is this Macho Fucker?  I mean I did have a baseball cap on and everything, but that was to keep the hair out of my eyes, not for any trade fantasies.

We were fucking off and on from 5am to 1130am, mostly on.  When I decided I had no more to give, he put a cockring on me and we went at it some more.  Now, a week and two days later, I still cannot touch my toes.  That Mexican Thotcrobat wore me out harder than any workout of my life and I might never be right again.  The universe is either telling me I am too old for that life or I need to go to the gym.  Either way, she gotta wait until I can stand up and sit down without mimicking a pregnant woman.

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