My father turns 69 this Monday. He’s been celebrating the entire weekend—parties, barbeques, cocktails at the Lounge. You would think aging would slow him up; weaken his knees a little, soften his flame. He’s just as liquid as a twenty-year old staying out until the wee hours of day. Sure. Kudos to being 69!
I haven’t seen my WomiE worth anything all week. I spent last Sunday with him, we woke up, I dropped him off at work, we smooched goodbye and here it is Sunday morning a week later. No happenings. Wednesday has normally been our night to catch up with each other, after the weekend and before the next. I would spend the night at his place bringing by the subway sandwiches for dinner and we’d, innocently enough, spoon ourselves to sleep. We didn’t get to have Wednesday this week. Wednesday, instead of making it a WomiE night, I opted to go home after work (in Pilsen with Aaron) and prepare myself for Taebo at the Y(MCA), where my roommate works, Thursday morning. Aaron and I didn’t even wake up early enough to make it to class and alas the night with my WomiE was forsaken in vain.
I made it to the gym Friday morning. I went to the Bally’s downtown on Washington. I was in the middle of training my baby-biceps when WomiE makes his morning call.
Morning.
Morning!
Is everything okay?—he says.
What do you mean?—I say.
I mean I didn’t get the chance to see you all week, are we alright?
Yeah. Of course we’re okay, Mister Baby. What makes you think otherwise?
Wednesday was sacred.
So I felt bad. Really bad. Jerome sent me a text message a little over a week ago(mind you this is a separate occasion) and I, again, was in the gym, this time on Howard pushing at some machine to make it seem as if I knew what I was doing, but the message read *Just a Reminder, I Love You* and I almost cried. I’ve notice I gotten too concerned with trying to become a more productive person, a more active being, that I’ve misplaced my responsibilities as a confidant to my WomiE. I didn’t get to touch my Mister Baby all week and the effect is taking its toll.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Being Magnanimous DC Pride; Dear Tim double M
I flew in on Saturday to chillax with a buddy of mine, William, who’ve I’ve known in some detail for the last four years. This was my second trip to DC. My first time, last year, was absolutely spontaneous. It was one of those Laverne and Shirley moments, I drove down with Kindrick, a friend of mine, who had conned me into going on a road trip, suggesting we steal away to a water park for the weekend yet haphazardly found ourselves perusing the local gay wires of DC electricity. But I met William when I was late 18, early 19. Found him online, on yahoo, or to the contrary, he found me online, on yahoo. One of us said hi and the rest has been nostalgia, this sweet gospel of an undertone drumming to the tune of kinship, brotherhood, brethren, whispering: William and Ken friends ever since. Needless to say he was the first person I ever met online, my first socially gay encounter with a male that didn’t have a “teen” tagged to the end of his age and wasn’t out to kill or peel me outta my skivvies. Not that anyone’s ever tried killing me prior to William either. William kinda dispelled for me the notion that I was the only black male queer locked in
But I saw you twice during my time down in DC Memorial Day weekend, and with all that burns in me I wanted to stop you and say Hello. Hi, Tim’m West, I’m Ken. Actually I’ve rehearsed it (because I’ve always imagined that one day I’d inevitably meet you, we share several mutual acquaintances) we would be walking towards each other, you would be unaware, occupied with the company with whom you were walking with, and I would pretend to not notice you or your company until you an I “obliviously” thump, smacking hard into each other…(this is part of the plan). You would look at me mean, maybe dust at the wrinkles I just imposed on your shirt, dimpled from the collision, and you’ll wait to hear an apology or an excuse me, anything to prove that I had, somewhere along my journey of living, been given manners, and you’ll look up towards me after too long a spell of silence, pragmatically suggesting for me to speak, issue you your apologetic dues, and with both my eyes, dizzy but unbowed, will return a look of displeasure commingled in curiosity, and as if the epiphany had lit the bulb over my head I stare at you, clutching my pearls, as if to finally recognized you and then lust your hand into a shake (but we don’t shake hands yet, we “hold them” as if we’re about to shake); firm, clasped, gripped, stiffened wrists, veiny forearms, eyes locked, I would notice your breathing.
In rehearsals (because, again, this is rehearsed) after I coach our hands to hold, I say something to the effect of: Tim’m?—as if you were this best friend I had found after years of missed birthdays and unanswered emails, in disbelief. And you would agree “yes”, not speaking, but nod, prophetically lowering your head into a bow like a king nodding his soldiers off to fight. And then I’d say something to the effect of: Well (eye contact), I do apologize for running into you like that. (Pause) Hi (I’d smile. We would then shake hands), I’m Ken (and I’d smile again).
And yet that’s as far as my imagination has figured, Mister West. I’ve been pretty occupied with this idea of being magnanimous—doing what needs to be done, accomplishing what needs to be finished, staying bright above all the stars. I first saw you at the convention center, Tim, and your face, I have keep so vivid in my head, having danced with this idea of greeting that face for so long, to be magnanimous was to have braved the opportunity to meet you, implement the smile-shake-introduce-and-smile technique, lit a conversation, tickled you out of your number and became your instant bosom buddy. They would taunt us, Tim, we’d be so fierce! Who’s that walking up the street, they’d say. Oh its Ken and Tim. Ken and Tim? Yes, Bitch, Ken and Tim! It sounds so perfect. We have everything in common! You being blessed to be you and I, in essence, striving to become you. But the moment I saw you I wasn’t magnanimous for a reason. The demographics, between us, Tim, have somewhat changed. And I told myself when I saw you, as my heart kicked up in speed, and my stomach knotted, and my nerves jittered, and my ankles weakened, that there goes a man that can appreciate why I love who we share in common. And had I not been so swift to I collect back my belongings, though my personal beliefs disallow for the idea of a man being capable of rightfully owning another human being, even in marriage, Jerome Harper belongs to me—and I might’ve lost him to possibly anybody, possibly you. And the idea of losing him, when I saw you, scared me, Tim, because you have to understand I’m aimless without him. So, there’s something new we share, Mister West—outside of the writings and the poetry and your presence in the community and my desire to be a positive influence to the community, we share a man in common and I feel so absolutely inconsolable that I couldn’t forget that when time had given us permission to meet. Tim, I got dizzy.
Being magnanimous would’ve carried my feet over to your booth in spite of— strangled any an all inhibitions, killed any an every fear, torched the great wall of insecurity I might’ve had about I being who I am in regards to you and whom we share in common. Consider me a victim to that type of love that makes you bleached happy about living in it, singing old Whitney Houston lyrics during a staff meeting to commemorate it, the kind of love that ails you to write a hundred and fifty four some-odd sonnets to figure the shit out and die centuries before ever fully discovering loves meaning. Consider me a victim to his ever-so brown, ever so beautiful everything. I got dizzy knowing you got too close. And whereas I thought I was better than being shaken aback by something so out of my control—I guess I am human.
The second time I saw you we were at the picnic, you were a few gay-guys behind me. I took your picture. You were oblivious. Not nearly the step I wanted to take or as close to you as I imagined our first encounter to be but I’m learning that being magnanimous requires a process with acquired steps. Hi, Mister Tim’m, I’m Ken.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
I'm StiLL Mad!!
FuCK the new year! There isn’t a God-DanG-ThanG new about the year—its just another difficult day on a different calendar. Jerome left me by my lonesome this weekend and I feel so scatter-brained. No one's been able to entertain me, either they’re unavailable or inadequate and maybe I just can’t get over the dramatics of being abandoned the ENTIRE New Years Weekend but its like having an upset stomach—a nausea seeping dark into my tummy thinking about how alone I feel this new years. VomiT!!!! I’m so disappointed in today.
I think this has been the second most shittiest consecutive New Years I’ve had in all my 23+ years of breathing. Last year I upset my family by not coming home and this year I ruined I and my husbands relationship and so he flees the country for the ENTIRE weekend. I’m actually sitting in his apartment right now supposedly getting dressed, supposedly packing my trinkets—I’m suppose to be out of Jerome’s place before he returns tomorrow night, but I haven’t been focused enough to box my shit. I. Am. Mad! Like a growling dog, I am so mad.
I wanted to have sex last night. And as I was looking at the list of prospects I found it easier to stroke my own troubles away, towel dry the remains, and rinse away the residue… and still I’m mad. I didn’t get in the house until about 4 this morning, I had a couple of drinks at a bar with this guy who I met randomly on the street. Of course he thought I was gorgeous—of course he just really wanted to get in my pants. But I appeased him for a few cocktails, sat at the bar to bat my eyes and guzzle free glass after free glass of something frilly and sweet. And I looked at him, this guy, this practically random guy, and I listened to him “marveling” at me and felt him perusing my midsection with his thick palms pressed against me, excusing himself because, as he said, the bar was so crowded, he was being forced against me.
You don’t mind?—he whispered, lips in my ear.
Of course not, I said, shaking my head, ridding my ear of his lips.
Why should I mind? You have no other choice but to run your scaly pudgy black fingers across my FlaT, WashBoard, Usher-brand abs because the bar is too crowded. Why wouldn't I understand SUCH logic!?!? Balderdash!! I should’ve puked all over him and danced the Irish Tango on his forehead stabbing the points of my shoes into his eye! Bullshitter!!
But I kept on sipping free drink after free drink. I had already made it in my mind that it wouldn’t go any further than him offering me drinks and I accepting them with a smile.Though secretly I actually became fond of sitting at the bar being offered up the sauce and fawned over like an Asian dish garnished with Geisha. I’d make a perfect blonde woman; legs crossed at the barstool, no panties, red lipstick, stilettos and a smoke. But I’m still mad.
My father went partying tonight, its actually my parents 26th anniversary and this year they decided not to do anything special. So he hit the streets. This morning, I spent the rest of my morning, after the bar, asleep at my parents in the basement. We, my parents, sisters and Kiwi, my niece, toasted to the occasion. I was already half drunk and drowsy from having just gone to sleep maybe two hours prior, but we all raised our little glasses, Kiwi with her sparkling white grape juice and the rest of us with wine, and cheered for 26 years well done. Kudos, Mom and Dad!
Aaron and I are suppose to be moving in together come this February. We found a place in Pilsen. Kimora suggested it to us, and the place is beautiful, and I am excited but I do have reservations now…. Not about moving in with Aaron but about the apartment. Utilities aren’t included and what I hear/what I fear is that gas is gonna bite us right in the ass. I hear gas could be and extra 300 bucks a month and in the art of trying to rationalize everything and trying to put everything in some sort of financial perspective, because I really do like the place but, I have to worry about the other necessities...i.e. furniture, DSL, American Express, the love card, and the all around economics of being able to maintain the place. I don’t wanna just live in a shell. This move is to help cure both of our issues with completing school . We thought that maybe if we were in the presence of someone with the same mindset; homework, finals, and studying—we could get shit done. But I'm begining to think I’mma need some rent assistance. I'm begining to think I need a second job…
FUCK the New Year!!!...I'm still mad!!
I think this has been the second most shittiest consecutive New Years I’ve had in all my 23+ years of breathing. Last year I upset my family by not coming home and this year I ruined I and my husbands relationship and so he flees the country for the ENTIRE weekend. I’m actually sitting in his apartment right now supposedly getting dressed, supposedly packing my trinkets—I’m suppose to be out of Jerome’s place before he returns tomorrow night, but I haven’t been focused enough to box my shit. I. Am. Mad! Like a growling dog, I am so mad.
I wanted to have sex last night. And as I was looking at the list of prospects I found it easier to stroke my own troubles away, towel dry the remains, and rinse away the residue… and still I’m mad. I didn’t get in the house until about 4 this morning, I had a couple of drinks at a bar with this guy who I met randomly on the street. Of course he thought I was gorgeous—of course he just really wanted to get in my pants. But I appeased him for a few cocktails, sat at the bar to bat my eyes and guzzle free glass after free glass of something frilly and sweet. And I looked at him, this guy, this practically random guy, and I listened to him “marveling” at me and felt him perusing my midsection with his thick palms pressed against me, excusing himself because, as he said, the bar was so crowded, he was being forced against me.
You don’t mind?—he whispered, lips in my ear.
Of course not, I said, shaking my head, ridding my ear of his lips.
Why should I mind? You have no other choice but to run your scaly pudgy black fingers across my FlaT, WashBoard, Usher-brand abs because the bar is too crowded. Why wouldn't I understand SUCH logic!?!? Balderdash!! I should’ve puked all over him and danced the Irish Tango on his forehead stabbing the points of my shoes into his eye! Bullshitter!!
But I kept on sipping free drink after free drink. I had already made it in my mind that it wouldn’t go any further than him offering me drinks and I accepting them with a smile.Though secretly I actually became fond of sitting at the bar being offered up the sauce and fawned over like an Asian dish garnished with Geisha. I’d make a perfect blonde woman; legs crossed at the barstool, no panties, red lipstick, stilettos and a smoke. But I’m still mad.
My father went partying tonight, its actually my parents 26th anniversary and this year they decided not to do anything special. So he hit the streets. This morning, I spent the rest of my morning, after the bar, asleep at my parents in the basement. We, my parents, sisters and Kiwi, my niece, toasted to the occasion. I was already half drunk and drowsy from having just gone to sleep maybe two hours prior, but we all raised our little glasses, Kiwi with her sparkling white grape juice and the rest of us with wine, and cheered for 26 years well done. Kudos, Mom and Dad!
Aaron and I are suppose to be moving in together come this February. We found a place in Pilsen. Kimora suggested it to us, and the place is beautiful, and I am excited but I do have reservations now…. Not about moving in with Aaron but about the apartment. Utilities aren’t included and what I hear/what I fear is that gas is gonna bite us right in the ass. I hear gas could be and extra 300 bucks a month and in the art of trying to rationalize everything and trying to put everything in some sort of financial perspective, because I really do like the place but, I have to worry about the other necessities...i.e. furniture, DSL, American Express, the love card, and the all around economics of being able to maintain the place. I don’t wanna just live in a shell. This move is to help cure both of our issues with completing school . We thought that maybe if we were in the presence of someone with the same mindset; homework, finals, and studying—we could get shit done. But I'm begining to think I’mma need some rent assistance. I'm begining to think I need a second job…
FUCK the New Year!!!...I'm still mad!!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Off on ThurdaY
The Christmas tree in the lobby of Jerome’s building?—looks like somebody new takes a gab at throwing up on it every night. It seems like every night I’ve come in late from work does the layer of tinsel get thicker and the ornaments get more obscure. Chords are everywhere, there’s this thick black electrical wire lagging from the ceiling to the tip of tree, I assume to keep it lit. The tree looks like it was decorated at gunpoint. Pitiful. And of course I still know about this eyesore of a tree because of course I’m still here ( I haven't been kicked out yet).
Mister WomiE-Baby and I are off today, and whereas we decided to spend this time together we didn’t anticipate on WomiE getting sick. I dubbed him the name Mister Baby because of how grouchy he gets when he's sick. There was gonna be sex last night. Today. Tomorrow. Plenty of sex. Sex, in an over abundance of. But now, because he's sick, HE’S gonna spend time on his side of the room as I’m gonna spend time on mine and the only time will we come together is when I decide to “cream” him so that he may drift off to sleep. He complained all last night on how all he wanted to do this morning was sleep, we bought NyQuil, we bought Theraflu, but what better a sleeping pill is there than being masturbated absolutely empty. So we dried each other out…
Not my idea of the type of night I wanted to have, But it was better than drinking the entire bottle of NyQuil. RomiE was out like a light.
Work last night was rather funky. We got two new temps last week, both women. The latest is four foot, eleven, wears her hair in an up-do, Stephanie Mills look-alike. Well, during her first couple of days, whereas I thought I didn’t like her, primarily because I thought she was too loud and too ghetto and she seemed perturbed by my very homo-electric personality at work—I spoke with her yesterday and though she’s still a little too urban she does have a sense of humor, so I can appreciate her a little more. The other lady feels like she’s been there forever; talks to everybody, laughs with everybody—just like family. But little miss Stephanie is slowly working her way up the ladder.
Work was funky because Yolanda is on vacation for the next two weeks. Yolanda is the lady I ride home with every night after work, either she drives or when her car isn’t available RomiE picks us up in my fathers truck and takes us both home. But she’s gone for two whole weeks, two entire weeks!!— and I’m already beginning to miss my ride-home buddy. Alas… Me, Yolanda, and Tinesha, one of the leads at work, were suppose to have dinner tonight at Cracker Barrel, in commemoration of us all being off, but then someone decided to move the Holiday Party to Thursday/tonight and so Tinesha decided to ditch us and switched out her day off to Friday! PunK! So Cracker Barrel is cancelled unless Yolanda wants to go without her.
Did I mention I hung out with my D-man yesterday and he drove me downtown where I walked and shopped more than my shoes and wallet cared toexercise??? Well I’ll get into that another time. WomiE’s up now, dragging his little sick self around the house. Maybe I could go put my mouth on ‘em.. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep…
Mister WomiE-Baby and I are off today, and whereas we decided to spend this time together we didn’t anticipate on WomiE getting sick. I dubbed him the name Mister Baby because of how grouchy he gets when he's sick. There was gonna be sex last night. Today. Tomorrow. Plenty of sex. Sex, in an over abundance of. But now, because he's sick, HE’S gonna spend time on his side of the room as I’m gonna spend time on mine and the only time will we come together is when I decide to “cream” him so that he may drift off to sleep. He complained all last night on how all he wanted to do this morning was sleep, we bought NyQuil, we bought Theraflu, but what better a sleeping pill is there than being masturbated absolutely empty. So we dried each other out…
Not my idea of the type of night I wanted to have, But it was better than drinking the entire bottle of NyQuil. RomiE was out like a light.
Work last night was rather funky. We got two new temps last week, both women. The latest is four foot, eleven, wears her hair in an up-do, Stephanie Mills look-alike. Well, during her first couple of days, whereas I thought I didn’t like her, primarily because I thought she was too loud and too ghetto and she seemed perturbed by my very homo-electric personality at work—I spoke with her yesterday and though she’s still a little too urban she does have a sense of humor, so I can appreciate her a little more. The other lady feels like she’s been there forever; talks to everybody, laughs with everybody—just like family. But little miss Stephanie is slowly working her way up the ladder.
Work was funky because Yolanda is on vacation for the next two weeks. Yolanda is the lady I ride home with every night after work, either she drives or when her car isn’t available RomiE picks us up in my fathers truck and takes us both home. But she’s gone for two whole weeks, two entire weeks!!— and I’m already beginning to miss my ride-home buddy. Alas… Me, Yolanda, and Tinesha, one of the leads at work, were suppose to have dinner tonight at Cracker Barrel, in commemoration of us all being off, but then someone decided to move the Holiday Party to Thursday/tonight and so Tinesha decided to ditch us and switched out her day off to Friday! PunK! So Cracker Barrel is cancelled unless Yolanda wants to go without her.
Did I mention I hung out with my D-man yesterday and he drove me downtown where I walked and shopped more than my shoes and wallet cared toexercise??? Well I’ll get into that another time. WomiE’s up now, dragging his little sick self around the house. Maybe I could go put my mouth on ‘em.. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep…
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