THE GRIND

I’ve been sick since last Wednesday, I’m at the point where ripping my nose off so I can breathe is a viable option.

My life has slowed down since I last wrote here. I was the best man at my friend’s wedding and was reunited with someone I thought I might never see again, ever. The week following the wedding was a rollercoaster ride, leading up to Easter weekend, when my mom stayed at my place and cooked 90% of the food on Sunday.

Now things are quiet.

Too quiet.

My life is returning to normal, the humdrum everyday back and forth that drives people into the grave. I realize I haven’t actually written anything in a long time, and I have no idea what I should write about, even here. But I have to write something, so here I am, typing away for no reason.

Everyday I’m forced to work, the more I realize how much I hate my job. And that’s strange because I truly saw myself enjoying what I do now, but I don’t. Part of it is the people. I can’t stand pimps and whores to “the grind”. The people who do what they do and that’s all they’ll ever do. You can tell who they are, they’re the people who you know didn’t go to college to become a secretary or a clinical researcher. No, they needed money, got the gig, and never moved beyond it. They’re the ones who cling to their desk and fight for position to prove themselves the better employee. Never realizing that no one gives a shit how much work they do, not even their bosses, and if they died tomorrow, the janitor could replace them and the world will continue spinning.

I dread becoming one of those people and have come pretty damn close, but I haven’t been brainwashed yet and I don’t plan on being any time soon. Still, I’m forced to work and listen to them five days a week, and when you’re sick, it’s particularly annoying. Especially when they play the favoritism game, God I hate that shit. Okay, I’m sick and my coworkers know it. But today another coworker shows up sick. Now, I’m a big boy, don’t need someone crying over me, just leave me the fuck alone, right. But this chick (it’s always a woman), every time I sniff, she sniffs. And I had to listen to everyone around her talk about how sick she was, and get this, she even gave me some subtle digs because I came to work and “exposed” everyone, so she went home early so she didn’t “spread her germs” – fucking bitch.

This same woman talks shit behind several coworker’s backs, and I know she’s doing it to me too, making my working environment a pain in the ass because every time I leave the office, I have to wonder if she’s talking about me and how I came in late, stink, or whatever. And back and forth it goes, from Monday to Friday, her and another coworker talking for hours about policy and procedure like the secret of life is hidden in our manuals.

This other coworker, he’s a trip. He sits and comments, but does nothing and THAT drives me crazy. The opinions he offers are just to instigate for his own personal experiment on how people think or react. He’s forever giving his views on how our office should be run, but does nothing to assume responsibility and power to see that things are finally done right. This hesitancy negates any view he has and makes listening to him a big waste of time. But what can I do, he’s senior man and I can either listen to him, or cut him off, walk away, and that would lead to yet another discussion that could go somewhere it shouldn’t.

And I hate that – I hate office politics. I hate pretending that everything is cool when it’s not. I hate faking interest in a nowhere conversation, or having to spend valuable time coming up with a good excuse why I don’t want to participate in the staff luncheon or someone’s birthday, when I should be able to simply say “NO”.

I guess I became disenfranchised with my work once I realized it means nothing. When I accepted the position, I was stoked that I was part of a system that would cure cancer someday. We were “working towards a better tomorrow”…but I learned different after a few team meetings. It wasn’t clear, nothing obvious, no one outwardly said that they didn’t give a shit, but you could smell it in the air. You could hear it in the tones of their voices and the doctors’ behavior. They didn’t give a damn about the studies because they were futile. No one is trying to cure cancer. Control it maybe, but not cure it, and my interest went down from there. What’s the fucking point after that? Every job should have a point, even if you’re just a file clerk, the point is getting patient’s chart. But if you work on cancer studies, therapeutic protocols, what’s the point of your professional existence, if it’s not finding a cure?

So what do I do?

Pretty much record and document reactions to different drugs we know won’t cure cancer for the betterment of the patients, so they can live with their disease, not without it. One study spawns another, over and over again. This study analyzes the results of another study, back and forth. It’s fucking boring as hell and has no point. At least, none I can see. I know there’s a system to it all, but I have no interest in it. Frankly, I’d rather be a garbage man. I think picking up people’s trash would be more exciting than what I’m doing now.

Going back to what I mentioned before, work would be bearable if I were surrounded by people who were like me in some small way. But they’re not, not at all. Oh, two of them do have tats, but they’re forty-something (at least) and got them to be “cool for a day” and swore not to get another because “they hurt too much”. Two small ass ankle tats, trying to relive their fucking youth. That’s like a punker going to mass for bread and wine because he’s hungry – makes me fucking mad. These same two women go on and on about the men at my job, scoping out who’s available and it drives me nuts.

Hey, I check out chicks at my job, but I don’t broadcast it, and that’s what’s annoying about it. That’s what’s annoying about my job period, most of the women here are single and looking for men like it’s a bar or something. Sometimes it’s cool, I see some scandalous outfits when I walk through the halls, but when I’m not “pussy blind” the desperation is sickening, even for me. When I was at my worst, and I mean pretty fucking low, I never scammed at work. Never even tried.

I don’t know, I guess if I worked at Tower Records I’d feel different. But here, in a hospital, it just feels wrong. The whole place feels wrong. Like we’re lying to the public, people come here thinking one thing, but it’s totally different. The people are different, the place is different, everything is different…I’m different.

I’ve just been here too long, more than five years now, and I need a change. No one should work at a hospital unless it's a doctor, and even they are getting away from them. Most of the docs I see have private offices far away from the hospital they’re associated with, and I can understand why.

I need a new job…but what? And how long will I keep bouncing around until my dream is a reality?

I don’t know…just file this under “Dark Times” and I’ll see you when I’m feeling a little less miserable.

Peace.

JPG.

INTO THE DANGER ZONE

One of the continuing challenges in my life is my fascination with the dark side. The bad things that decent people aren’t supposed to do, mostly when it comes to sex.

Most of my last entries have been about sex, and by now you’re probably wondering what’s my malfunction, am I a “perv”, or some guy who’s locked in prison and everything here is just a ruse allowing me to facilitate some fantasy of freedom.

No. I may be a pervert, but I’m not a con, or some sex starved crazy…well, maybe I’m THAT, but not in a bad way. I admit I think about sex way too much, and I’ve tried to control it. I was doing pretty good until a few weeks ago, when I tried to get a job writing porn reviews (still waiting for the editor to call) and now my personal “Hyde” is loose once again. But age, and this blog, has made him a little tamer and easier to manage than before.

The last time Hyde was free, he ran amok for the first five years of my marriage. He went to strip bars, bought porn movies, nudie mags, masturbated constantly, and tried to turn my wife into a sex toy. It took a while for me to get him under control and he almost destroyed my life and my marriage. Actually, I don’t know how I got rid of him before. He just went away. I guess that’s why he’s back now, but I’m a lot stronger than I was, and I can keep him in line…I think.

I can’t remember when I first met Hyde, or I should call him “Clyde”, because nothing I’ve spawned could ever be worthy of such an infamous literary reference. My mother would say we were born at the same time. When I was a baby, I demanded breast feedings. When a woman would pick me up, I’d shove my hand in her shirt and feel her up almost immediately. I think the women would get-off on it because they were never offended. As I got older, I would touch myself constantly. My mother is fond of telling stories about how I would wake-up and the first thing I’d do was grab myself and walk around the house like nothing was wrong, asking what’s for breakfast. But I didn’t actually discover masturbation until I was fourteen. I was up late one night, looking at my old black & white television, trying to manipulate the vertical and horizontal controls so I could watch cable – back when there was only one cable network and provider. The picture was a black & white negative, but I could make out enough, and I started touching myself, manipulating the corpus (shaft) with my fingers. I’d always imagined that when I climaxed for the first time, it would feel incredible. But I didn’t even know I had until I felt something wet, and I thought it was blood. I freaked out, too afraid to pull my hands out of my shorts because I didn’t want to see the blood. How would I tell my mother what had happened? When I finally man-up’d and looked, I freaked out more because I’d never seen semen before, so I thought I’d really fucked myself up, I’d punctured some vital organ and was leaking some clear gunk. I’m ashamed to admit it took a while for me to put two and two together. But after that, I was insatiable about it and I think that's why I've never had a "wet dream". But it was painful because I was doing it wrong. I was using the tips of my fingers, the nails would dig into the skin and after a while I’d have these cuts that would bleed. But I still did it, every night, even though it hurt. I think that’s when Clyde was born.

Clyde has always been with me, no matter how nice I appear on the outside, he manipulated a lot my actions as a kid and young adult. In the eighties, he ran my mother’s phone bill into the hundreds making 976 calls two or three times a day. In the early nineties, when I was in high school, he would call prostitutes to hear their voices and see if he could get a freebie. That he didn’t have a car or a license never occurred to him. One time, he left a voice message ad on a sex line and had freaks calling my house at all hours looking for a hook-up. One of them he actually went to meet. A forty-year-old bank manager and his swinging wife who wanted a black guy to join in. But I got there in time enough to make him late for their rendezvous (he still hates me for that). When I had my first car, he would drive to Hollywood to look at the hookers on the stroll. Thank god I never had any money, or who knows what he would have done.

The worst thing about Clyde is how he’ll embarrass me. He’s gotten me in some situations that I’ve spent years trying to live down. Like when he hit on my father’s waitresses, especially one in particular. She was black with an okay face, large knockers, and no ass (again – what’s up with that?). She was like Flo from Alice (an old 70’s/80’s CBS sitcom spin-off from the feature film “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”) if it was filmed in Inglewood. She wore low cut tops and when she served your meal, she’d bend down real low to give you a good shot of her cleavage. I knew she’d never be interested in me because she was in her twenties, a college student. I was still in high school, but Clyde didn’t care, he went for it anyway. He hounded that poor woman every day, but what’s more surprising was she responded to him. Sometimes Clyde can be petty damn smooth. The lengths he went to chasing this woman embarrassed me, but when it was over, he’d gotten a her phone number, a kiss, and a date. He ended things when he realized he would never “close the deal”.

Digression - What is it about women and their need to entice men? They’ll stay on the phone for hours, saying all kinds of sexy stuff, telling you about all the nasty things they’ve done, and then they’ll tell you how they found Jesus and would never do those things again. If a guy tells a woman about his sexual appetite or promiscuity, or lack thereof, he’s advertising himself. His either pumping himself up, or trying to sneak in under the radar. But women just spend hours giving you all this detail with no hope or desire of acting on them, even when they know what their doing to the men who’re listening to them. Sure, they’ll do the same when they like a guy, but what’s the point of playing with someone they have no interest? Who cares if a desperate man wants their sex? He’ll take anything.

To continue - I don’t know why, but Clyde likes to come out at night. At three in the morning he’s wide awake and it takes a lot for me to keep him inside the house, because he knows nothing good happens in LA at 3am and he wants to be a part of it, whatever it is. But I know what keeps him going, what drives him, and it’s not what you might think. It’s not pleasure or anything like that. It’s the contradictions in my life that give him power.

See, I’m well aware that how I see the world isn’t necessarily real. Especially when it comes to myself. There’s how I see me, and the way you see me. And they’re very different. In my eyes, I’m an ugly duck who’ll never become a swan. Hey, I’m not bitching, I’ve come to understand and accept it. Besides, I have pretty high standards about beauty. I’d have to with “heroes” like Tom Cruise, Brandon Lee, and Michael J. Fox. So I know a good-looking person when I see them, male or female, and it’s not me. I’ve grown accustomed to living by those rules too. There’s only certain clothes I can wear, certain things I can do, certain places I can go. It’s when I try to go beyond that, to live outside those boundaries that I get slapped down. But the way I see myself is different from how I’m told others see me. Since I can remember, I’ve always been told I’m attractive, funny, smart, wise, etc. But the reason why I see these compliments as bullshit, is because they don’t live up to snuff. If I’m attractive, then why do I get rejected and never approached? If I’m funny, why do I bomb nine out of ten times? If I’m smart, then why do I understand the simplest things only years after everyone else and still get debunked by someone with a Ph.D.? And if I’m wise, then why am divulging all this personal information on some blogsite for the entire world to read so they can laugh at me? I have enough people doing that already, I don’t need it from strangers.

These constant positives and negatives form contradictions in my life that I’m obsessed with. I need to know the truth, who’s right and who’s wrong. Are people telling me the truth and I have a poor perception of myself? Or are they blowing smoke up my ass? And Clyde comes out whenever I try to act on the positive, in hopes of disproving the negative. Me? I live off the negative. I see the positive, I hope that it’s true, but I don’t dare act on it because I’m afraid of rejection.

In some ways, Clyde is a good guy and he believes that I’m capable of more than I’m willing to admit. He wants me to have strength and confidence in myself. But he wants me to use that strength, that confidence, to do bad things. Things I can’t allow him to do. Things that would hurt my wife, destroy my family, and ultimately end my life.

Clyde – he’s me, but cooler. And as much as I want to let him out, I can’t because he has no control. He has no conscience, and he’ll destroy everything I’ve built for myself. But I can’t get rid of him because he’s with me until I die. He whispers into my ears and looks through my eyes. In an office full of women and possibilities, he sees things… Every look. Every smile. Every “Hello” is an ocean of possibilities he wants to explore.

And the only thing keeping him in check is my low self-esteem.

Sometimes, feeling lower than shit is a good thing.

JPG.

IN THE AFTERMATH

My birthday is over.

The weekend is over.

And all things considered, I'd rather my "special day" came and went without anyone lifting a finger.

Thursday night was nice. My wife and mother joined forces for a small party. I finally tasted Woody's barbecue for the first time thanks to my mother. And my wife bought a Coldstone's cheesecake that was tasty. I watched the Star Wars trailer for episode three, and it was worth sitting through sixty minutes of the OC.

Life was good…THAT night.

Friday was uneventful, but I'm not complaining. I was able to spend a whole day with my family.

Saturday was more of the same, plus I redecorated my living room (I’m gay that way).

But Sunday...I should never have even gotten out of bed. Isn't it amazing how one bad day can turn the previous four into a big pile of shit?

My mother had been "teasing" me with a shopping trip for a month, so when she mentioned it again I tried to talk her out of it, but really was looking forward to buying some new clothes. My wife and I got the kids ready and trekked to the white people’s mall where the shops are good and the people have manners. My wife was in a hurry to separate from my mother and I so she could shop for a dress. My first stop was a new pocket watch I wanted. I asked my mother what my spending limit was and she replied, "fifty-five dollars."

I blew it off because I didn't want to seem greedy. But in my head, I was floored.

Fifty-five dollars?

What the fuck can you buy for fifty-five dollars? THIS was the big shopping trip I'd been looking forward too? I went to two stores looking for something, one thing, to get and then I quit. My brain just didn't see the point of going from shop to shop looking for the one thing out of a hundred that I could get. It's like I wrote before, anything my friends and family can get for me, I can get for myself. And what I can't, they can't afford either, so what's the point?

Fifty-five dollars in today’s economy is just enough money to see what you CAN'T buy and have it rubbed in your face. I knew my mother didn't have a lot of money, but if someone were taking you to buy clothes, you'd think they'd have at least $200 on them. I walked aimlessly until my wife bought her dress and we could go home. I separated from my mother for a few minutes, but when I returned, she was gone. I was alone in a mall, walking by myself, window-shopping. And it doesn't get more depressing than that.

Whether it's true or not, when you go to a fancy mall, but can't buy anything, you feel like an outcast. It feels like everyone is looking down at you. The sales people can see you don't have any money and don't even greet you at the entrance. At one point, I went in to Victoria Secrets looking for my wife and realized I was the only man in the store and a female wasn’t accompanying me. Every time my eyes met someone else's I felt the need to explain what I was doing there. I would mouth the words "I'm looking for my wife." As if they gave a rat's ass what I was doing there, and feeling like a pervert only made me react like one, so I left pretty quick.

I tried the sitting in one place technique, hoping if my family were looking for me, they would pass by eventually, but that got old after thirty minutes. I'd set-up a meeting spot where my wife and I would check in and it was almost time, so I headed to the spot thinking we would look for my mother together. She never showed and I was off again. After looking on every floor and all the stores, I figured my wife and mother had to be in one of the major department stores. And sure enough, when I entered, they exited.

I was pissed about the fifty-five bucks. About my wife not meeting me when she was supposed to, about spending almost an hour walking around a mall like a vagrant. So I kept my mouth shut when my wife spoke to me and insisted that we leave for home immediately. But my wife wouldn't let it go, she insisted to know why we were leaving and why I was upset. As we stood by the elevator, things came to a boil...

There are times when having an interracial marriage is difficult. Especially when you're from two different social standings. My wife is Korean and I'm black. So she's never really been judged before, not like a black person. At most, more is expected from her, but that’s from other Koreans who expect her to be the best at everything. Like every Korean is a fucking Superman or Wonder Woman and being normal brings the whole race down. But for me, the worst is expected and I'm constantly fighting against that prejudgment every time I go somewhere. I remember being in high school and going out of my way to apologize to my white English teacher for a black girl's rudeness in challenging his authority. He asked me why black people, especially females, act so badly, and I shrugged my shoulders because I honestly didn't know. More recently, a friend and I were at Denny's when a group of black kids came in, ordered a load of food, ate some, and ditched. Leaving the waiter, a white guy, to deal with his boss who blamed him for not keeping a closer eye on the rabble. If I had the money, I would have paid for their food, and it was a lot. But all my friend and I could do was watch and feel ashamed, as if we had committed the crime ourselves.

Walter Mosley in his book ALWAYS OUTNUMBER, ALWAYS OUTGUNNED wrote, via his character, Socrates Fortlow, that the older black generation is always paying for the mistakes of the younger generation. Every year it looks like the behavior of black children, teenagers, and young adults is declining. And I admittedly stay away from black malls, not because I'm ashamed, but I don't want to be lumped in with black people who propagate the beliefs that continue to socially cripple African Americans in this country.

I know this may read harshly, like I hate my own race, but when my people have a chance to prove "mighty whitey" ideas wrong, they fail. I’ll go to a black theater in a black part of town and sure enough there's a black person (or people) talking to the goddamn screen. African Americans have let comedians define our character so no one takes us seriously and we don’t see the damage we’re doing to ourselves. We're not a people anymore. We're a marketing tool, a gimmick, a walking sitcom, or a racist punch line. We’re the bastard creation of every Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy joke ever written, but it’s getting old, and we’re not as funny.

My wife has no idea what this feels like and has a freedom I lack, to act on her emotions in public without the social repercussions. So when she tried to speak to me and I didn't answer, she went off. I tried to compose myself and calm her down. I asked her not to speak if she couldn’t control her anger, but that only made it worse, she raised her voice, and she lost it in a short, quick verbal double tap to my head. When the elevator doors opened, the damage was done. Maybe no one was listening. Maybe if they were, they couldn't give a rat’s ass what was said. But what if they were and in their eyes I fulfilled some prejudgment that all black people were ghetto? That my wife had married some Neanderthal who knocked her up with two kids and now she's stuck with me, the nigger, in a nigger marriage, trapped in a nigger world.

I was mad.

I was irate, but I maintained control in front of my mother. I chanted. I entertained visions of bashing my wife's head into a window. I chanted some more and stayed quiet.

Two of my friends called and tried to squeeze me for info once they heard my voice and knew something was wrong, but I blew it off. I'm not the type of guy to really talk about my problems. And when I do, I treat them more like jokes, proof that I am the black Charlie Brown. I waited for my wife to show some sign that she was sorry, but none came. I made the first move by telling her what happened with my mother. She followed by giving me insight to what she was thinking when I wanted to go home. I told her how I felt when she lost her composure, and she revealed she knew she'd fucked up, she knew I was really pissed, and thought keeping quiet for the rest of the day was the best course of action.

My wife has seen me get mad before, really mad. I'd never lay a hand on her or my kids. I'm not just saying that, I'm literally incapable of striking a woman and have way too many bad memories of getting spanked. When I was about ten, there were two girls who'd make fun of me, called me names and tried to start a fight. I always backed down because boys aren't supposed to fight girls...I didn't want to get my ass kicked (I fear pain). It was my mother who saw that, called me upstairs, and chewed me out for letting two girls push me around. When I went back downstairs, I stood my ground, put up my fists, and they backed down. They never bothered me again. But I didn't overcome my fear because from age 10 to 14, my biggest female adversary was my mother. I remember the last time she "spanked" me, she was using a belt (I think) and I was blocking with my arms. I think seeing my hands up pushed her too far, she dropped whatever she had and threw up her fists, daring me to fight her. I backed down because my mother honestly scares the shit out of me. Thirty-three and I'd rather fight some brute in the streets than go head to head with my mother. So after that, I was sixteen and living with my father when his psycho girlfriend, who I didn't like, grabbed me by the neck and choked me, jerking me right and left, for eating her can of Hormel chili. I never put a hand on her in revenge or defense. I'm physically incapable of hurting a woman and I'm not happy about it. But my wife doesn't need to know that. I've told her before, but she forgot. And who am I to disprove a fallacy that keeps her in-check. A man should NEVER hit or physically assault his wife or any woman in any way (and no, you can't shake her). But if she THINKS you'll do something to her...well, there's no law against that.

So I explained my viewpoints to her about her "explosion". She's always known how I feel about our behavior in public, but we all slip on occasion and that's what happened. She apologized and though it took another 24hrs to heal, I forgave her that night. Things are still a little "testy", but that's how marriages work. Some things just linger and it takes time for it to fully go away. But when shit like that happens, that's when the love has to kick in to keep you confident in your relationship. I think only 25% of a good marriage is about love, but that small quarter will make or break it faster than shit (the remaining 75% is divided between SEX and MONEY - and guess which counts more).

So Sunday passed and Monday came and went, but not without two more slaps in my face. I was offered two gigs, one writing, the other was as an extra in a poker movie. But I had to turn them both down so I can attend the wedding of a dear friend. The blog entires I'd made last week that I took down are back up at the request of my "fans" who appreciate what I do here. And last night I got porn in the mail. After getting beat over the head with ads for Hush DVD on the Stern show, I finally gave in a made a purchase. My selections were Janine in her first boy/girl movie, MANEATER. And Jenna in a remake of Hyapatia Lee's classic, THE MASSEUSE (that included a copy of the original).

And today is going like any other day in my life, full of temptation, angst, and regret.

JPG.

MOTHER MAY I

Today started off pretty good.

It’s my birthday and I wasn’t expecting much, but my coworkers were real cool and threw me a small party. One of them, the coolest in my book, even bought me a small chocolate cake.

And I wrote the second of two blogs that were very personal and satisfying. But it only took my mother to turn the mood from good to bad.

In my last two blogs, I mention my wife heavily, but play it fairly light and general. She had no problem with the first, but the second did make her cringe a little. Still, she was cool. But as I spoke with her on the phone, I could hear my mother in the background going on a tirade about putting personal information on the internet and how it could attract some crazy person. That, in combination with another coworker preaching the dangers of literary honesty, exemplified with Salman Rushdie and his book, Satanic Verses, and I found myself bombarded with images of some psycho killer targeting my family.

I don’t even think this thing gets around that much, but you never know.

Now I feel bad because I deleted the two entries. I was afraid and chose to play it safe. You know what "playing it safe" has gotten me? Nothing. No pussy. No money. No fame.

I hate censorship and I promised myself whatever I wrote here would be truthful. I like my blog, it’s very therapeutic and I feel good about what I do here. You think I'm horny and perverse? Fine. I am. And I have the balls to say it, which puts me with Howard Stern, Tom Lykis, and Hunter S. Thompson, and I love the company. All my life I’ve hid so much until it became a series of dark secrets I didn’t want anyone to know. No one really knew me, because everything I spoke was a lie I used to keep them away from the truth about my thoughts and opinions or what’s happened to me in the last thirty-three years. But now I feel free, or I did.

I’m sick of hiding who I am and what I’ve done. I’m not proud of my past, but I’m happy that I no longer live in fear of it. I’m ugly, fat, and have been rejected more times than I can count. I have a small penis, masturbate excessively, and if not for a strong moral center, I would’ve been convicted of date rape by the age of 18. I’m the biggest bottom-feeder you can imagine, and you know what…I’m happy and becoming proud of it.

There’s a strength and confidence that comes from admitting the worst things about you to people, when you empty your closet of skeletons and just lay it all on the table. If I can write my most embarrassing moments and still have a chick tell me I’m cool… Well, that means something doesn’t it? Maybe I am cool. Maybe I’m not as pathetic as I always thought. Maybe I’m just like everyone else, and there’s no need to get nervous and burst into sweat when someone looks in my direction. Maybe not everyone is talking about me, and if they are, then I might as well give them something good and become the life of the fucking party.

The problem is, there’s always those people from the bygone era who believe hiding is the only way to live. They think everyone is your fucking enemy. Death lurks behind every fucking corner, and neighbors shouldn’t know your last name. But what has that gotten us so far? We don’t know our neighbors, and have no idea who lives next to us. The guy who lives down my block could be a fucking child molester. The two towers fall and we freak out because anyone with brown skin could be a fucking terrorist, when if you took a fucking moment and get to know them, you’d find they’re probably more American than you are, and you should really be afraid of the white boy who was spanked by his momma too much, because now that crazy fucker likes to dice up females and bury them in his yard with his mom and dad who he killed for the insurance.

My mother lives her life in secrecy and I don’t even know how fucking old she is. What son doesn’t know how old their mother is, where she was born or her birth name?

My wife had no idea who she married because I’d portrayed myself as someone completely different. I was afraid if she knew the real me I’d lose her. It took five years of marriage for her to learn and love who I really am. And I’m not blaming my mother, but I’m pissed that people of an older generation are always trying to stifle the younger one. They still live by rules that no longer apply to how we should live today.

Anyone can find anyone, that’s what the information age is really about. No one is immune to crime or inhumanity. The internet has put everyone within arms reach of a psychopath waiting to pounce on them when the moon is full. Hiding who you are only makes you a target. It only makes you more interesting to the wrong people, and makes them want to know everything about you. Just look at the celebrities who run from the paparazzi vs. those that don’t. Maybe Princess Diana would still be here if she’d just stopped and paid her dues? You have to pay the price for fame, and it’s your privacy. You want to be in the limelight? Then smile big and take the hit, because you’re life is up for examination and dissection by the average folks you squeeze for time and cash.

And I’m not famous, but damn if I don’t want to be, and the last thing I need is for some snooping reporter to find some tidbit about me to ruin everything.

I’m thirty-three, but I feel ten years old again, worrying over every little thing I say for fear of mommy getting mad that I spilled too much info. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be me. I want to let it all out, all the crap that’s plagued me for years. I don’t care what they say about me, I want to be rid of the crap that’s made me a social cripple and kept me in my room, looking at movies and television, when I should have been living and loving in the real world.

I’m not ashamed of who I am, or what I’ve done.

I just want to be free and move on.

JPG.

HAPPY B-DAY

Today is my birthday and I’m not doing anything special.

There comes a time when birthdays stop being special. They’re just another day in a series of mundane, everyday occurrences. You still go to work. You’re boss still yells at you (if not more). And there’s nothing anyone can get you that you haven’t or couldn’t buy for yourself on any other day. And the stuff you can’t afford, they can’t either.

I was afraid this day would follow the same pattern from the past two years, when I said I didn’t want anything, but changed my mind at the last minute and sulked when people actually listened to me. Another result of my fatherless childhood, I find myself acting like a female sometimes. But today, I’m pleasantly surprised that I meant what I said, today is just an ordinary day, and I’m happy with that.

If I’m lucky my wife will blow me.

The only woman who ever made me climax from one, and I make her work for it. She’s perfected a style over the years. At first, it was pretty standard, all mouth, no variety, but she learned pretty fast that wouldn’t work on me. And I wasn’t shaving my crotch in those days, so she’d pause often to pick my groin naps from her teeth. But after eleven and a half years, oral sex has become delicacy I look forward to with excitement. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last too long, it only takes a few minutes before she gets tired and has to stop.

My wife has a small mouth. And at first, I thought she was just making up a story to get out of doing me, but a day at the dentist confirmed it. The dentist commented on her having an unusually small mouth for a woman her size, and she couldn’t wait to tell me. Of course, this did nothing to make me feel better. It only proved that I am the black “Charlie Brown”. I’m a black man with just enough white blood in my veins to keep my skin a nice coco butter brown and stunt my dick growth. A black man with a white man’s penis, and that’s still too big to get blown on a consistent basis. Meanwhile, there’s brothas sporting 8+ inches and getting their tool swallowed by women who fear their vagina couldn’t handle the strain.

I once had a girlfriend who loved sucking dick. She was black, only been with two other guys, the first being a boyfriend, John (and coworker of mine), who knocked her up, and the second was my friend, Lewis. They had a dramatic love triangle that could only exist in Niggaworld (I’m black, so I can use that term). She was eight months pregnant when I met her, but we hooked up shortly after she’d given birth. I was one of the few people who visited her in the hospital and the “father” was non-existent, so she clung to me, started calling me from the hospital, then everyday from home, and next I knew she was announcing me as her boyfriend. I had no other prospects so I ran with it, and I’d already seen her skill when I watched her and John have sex (they invited me for a three-way, but I declined). I remember the first night we were together and things got pretty hot, I was all ready to get sucked on when I realized I had no erection.

Now, John was pack'n, seriously pack'n. And when I went to unzip my fly and she was drooling to use my penis as a lollypop, I got this image in my head of John’s tool in comparison with my own. I got nervous, lost my erection, and had to think of some excuse why a healthy heterosexual man wouldn’t want a blowjob from a woman who obviously liked doing it. I was a romantic in those days, or claimed to be, so the first thing that came to mind was telling her I didn’t want to do it until we were in love. Stupid, but she bought it and I ate her pussy instead. The same thing happened when it was time to consummate our “relationship”, I went flaccid and used the love excuse. After that, things went bad pretty damn fast and she cheated on me with John, Lewis got wind of it and we broke-up.

I didn’t love her, but it hurt when she left. Not because I felt I’d failed as a man, but because I missed the opportunity to get blown real well. I tried to make up for it after that, but every girl I’d been with either didn’t do it or the relationship didn’t last that long and we never became that intimate. Until I met my wife…

I think my wife likes big penises.

She says she doesn’t and it’s a myth that women do. But everywhere I turn, I hear or see women expressing the opposite opinion. I remember the most disheartening experience I had watching pornography. I’d ordered The Best Of Tiffany Million on video, a series of her best scenes, chosen by her, and in-between were segments from an interview. In one, she mentioned dick size - “Sorry guys, but big dicks feel better…the wider a women’s pussy is opened by a dick, the better it feels.”

I stopped the tape and haven’t watched it since.

Whenever I become insecure about my penis size, my wife is quick to mention a boyfriend she had in high school who was nine inches. She was this little 5’4”, barley a hundred pounds, and this little Korean girl was scared silly of this monstrous thing. But when I listen to her story, I feel more for the lighter-shade of brown brotha who saw her reaction and was embarrassed. He told her that a lot of girls are afraid of it and he was sorry. So my wife uses that story to comfort and assure me that I’m the perfect size for her. But that was before I lost weight.

I discovered three years ago that the size of a man’s penis and how it looks visually is related to his overall physique. You get a guy who’s short and skinny with an average size penis and he could look like John Holmes. But, you get a fat guy with a good eight inches, and though he’s hanging, if he’s too fat, it looks like a baby’s wanker. That’s what happened to me when I ballooned to two hundred and thirty-eight pounds. But when I lost the weight and dropped to 137…well, lets just say I was real happy with the results. And so was my wife. Oh, she may deny it. I mean, what woman, love or not, wants a 238 pound man dropping on her? So when I lost the weight, we had great sex. But what I really noticed, was her… “fascination” with my new penis. She’d comment on how big it looked, always reaching for it, seeing it would drive her into a frenzy. One morning before work, I’d just come out of the shower, she was half-asleep, and she just reached for it and got busy until my daughter woke-up and ruined it. And I began to wonder if that story about the nine-inch guy was totally true.

One of these days I’ll put it to the test. I’ll come home with some insane size dildo and see how she reacts. Worse case scenario, I’ll need a dick implant, or one of those pumps to gain some weight. Best case…is there a best case scenario? Isn’t the worst that could happen actually the best?

I mean, if my wife is into big dicks, that would make her a more sexual being than I originally thought. And then the question is, “What wouldn’t she do?” If she likes big, I could get big by losing weight or surgical enhancement. And that goes back to my “I’m Every Woman” spiel from a couple months back. People change, regardless of age, no one stays the same. But women traverse a multitude of personas over their lifetime, where men pretty much stay the same. Our changes are minute, like going from Vitamin D milk to soy.

But women become totally different people. A woman can be an ugly duckling in elementary, a nerd girl in high school, and then explode into a hottie in college and become a playmate, get prudish in her mid to late twenties after doing all kinds of crazy shit, get married and have kids becoming “mommy dearest”, and then hit her forties and want to swing, post nude pictures on the net, or star in a MILF porn video. And all men have to do is be patient enough to wait and time will make our wildest fantasies come true.

So today I’m thirty-three and my life is pretty normal. But who knows, ten years from now, you could be jerking off to me while I’m fucking my wife in high-definition.

Time will tell.

JPG.

LITERARY MASTURBATION

I feel like writing today, but have no idea what I should write about…

I’m in a nasty mood.

I’m horny.

Twice my wife and I have attempted sex, and my three-month-old son screaming for milk interrupted my nut busting. So I’ve been holding a load for the last fourteen days that has my crown the size of a mushroom.

This is a dangerous time for me. The men in my family are notorious for making bad decisions based on sexual desires. My father has six illegitimate kids (including me) because of it. My brother makes several trips to the Asian islands to quench it. And I’ve found myself in bed with some pretty horrible “things” because my brain just cuts off all intelligent thought and I become some sex driven beast whose only concern is sticking my dick somewhere. My wife understands this and treats my sex drive like a forest fire, dousing it before growing exponentially. But when you have two kids, some times you just have to hope it burns itself out.

A lot of men, or people in general, have a line they just won’t cross when it comes to sex. Some things they just won’t do no matter how aroused or desperate they become. Not me. I have no such barriers. The hornier I get, the more perverse my desires become, and they’re only controlled by what’s legal and illegal. So no, I don’t crave children or animals. I’m not that fucking disgusting. But anything a man and woman can do together repeats itself in my brain, making it difficult to hold a normal conversation with anyone of the opposite sex. I stop seeing women’s faces, and only look at body parts. When I open the door for them, they think I’m being polite when I’m actually checking out their ass.

You notice things on a woman when you're horny that you'd normally overlook. Like panty lines (don't believe those anti-panty line commercials, men like them, it gives us a better idea of what your ass looks like), or the folds that appear and disappear in a women's pants when their ass swings left to right. You have x-ray vision and can look right through their clothes, see their bra, and visualize what their breasts look like. Every word they speak has a sensuous tone, everything they do becomes a flirtation and mentioning your name is an invitaiton. You notice their hair, good or bad, and highlights have the same affect as Victoria Secret. You notice how it moves with a steady bounce and it becomes synonymous with the up and down flip-flops when you're going at it doggy style, or when she's on top and going for broke, concerned only with her primal need to hit that place and you're trying not to bust before she gets there. And if you can't fuck, you eat like crazy. Last night I treated a Carl's Jr. pastrami burger like a sopping wet, moist, quivering...

Whoa.

Hey, I’m not the only one who does it. Ever see a guy hold the door open for a group of women, one of them is fat, and as soon as a fat chick comes up, he cuts her off and goes through first? Now you know why.

But I've gotten better over the years. It’s not like it was in high school, where I'd sit in classes watching the girls like some animal. I’d try to be nonchalant about it, but failed miserably since most of my class considered me a rapist in the making. Even my wife often recalls our first date, when I opened the door and my “sexual energy”, as she calls it, hit her full force. She remembers the weird feeling she got as we sat in a theater and I asked if I could put my hand on her knee. Then I started rubbing it like a breast or something, she was pretty freaked out. That was back in my wannabe vampire days, so our first kiss was more me biting on her neck, giving her a nasty hicky she had to cover up or get her ass kicked by her mother.

My wife is an incredible woman, although she would consider herself a “dead lay”, I’ve been with women like that, and she isn’t even close. The only time I ever felt like a man was with her. All the times before, even in my early twenties, I always felt like a kid playing doctor. But with her, there was this connection, for the first time I instinctively knew what I was doing and how to do it. Normally, during sex, my mind is pretty analytical. I’m reading the woman’s reactions, seeing what works and what doesn’t, by caressing, I would search for a “sweet spot” to exploit. My choices of positions were thought out in advance, including the duration of time between changeovers. Oh yeah, I was that anal when it came to sex. But my wife changed that. I never knew what I was doing with her because it felt too good. Everything I’d “learned” went out the window and I just reacted to every sensation I was having. It was the most natural sex I ever had.

I remember the first time…

It was a Saturday, and she asked if she could come over. I wasn’t stupid, so I let her and she did. She was obviously depressed, but that was normal because we were both pretty dark and brooding in those days. We were in my living room, talking, and somehow that erupted in a tickle fest where we ended up on the floor. I was on top, tickling her, and for some reason we just stopped and looked at each other. Next thing, we were kissing, and not softly. I remember going into my non-door-having bedroom (my father hacked it off with a hatchet) and making-out before we disrobed. I wore condoms in those days, Rough Riders, so our first sexual experience lasted over an hour. I remember the sounds she made…

The girls I had prior to that were African American, and black women don’t sound nice during sex. They’re rough as all hell. You’d think they would lighten up when they’re intimate, but they don’t. They’re bossy as all hell, rough, with deep voices that growl commands like a drill sergeant. Even when they try to be soft, they’re rough as all hell and they curse like they’re gonna punch you in the face.

But my wife, she sounded like…how can I describe it? Soft, harmonic, rhythmic, smooth, gentle, like the ocean at 3am, far away from the city, everything else is dead, and you can hear the water crashing, then sliding up the shore. It was soothing, like a mother singing a quiet lullaby to her child as he drifts to sleep. I could have listened to her for hours (and I’ve often thought of taping our love making so I could do just that).

Anyway, it was the greatest sexual moment in my life, and though I’d already lost my virginity, I consider that to be the actual moment.

It was during our third sexual encounter that she asked me to take the condom off, in a low seducing voice that she has no idea she can make. And I haven’t been able to wear one since (I’ve also have found it difficult to last more than 20mins without considerable effort). The first time I felt a vagina was probably the equivalent of being born. Everything went bright, my body went rigid, and I screamed, “Oh, FUCK!” And shot a load that took all moisture from my body.

I was twenty-two, and born again.

And unlike drugs, it feels that good every time. But I’m smarter now, after insertion, my brain begins computing math problems so I can hold my load. I’m lucky that my wife has always been very orgasmic, so it’s not like black women, pounding away until you hit gold. No, it’s natural, slow, calm, smooth, and rhythmic, like dancing.

God…

But hey, my wife is great, but I’m no slouch either. I have this “trick” - I can make a chick cum just by licking her nipples. Pretty cool.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, horny and talking excessively about sex...

I’ve recently discovered that I am not the only man who doesn’t climax from blowjobs (A great pick-up line by the way, guaranteed to get you sucked on if the chick is wild enough). Well, “doesn’t” may be a strong word. I have climaxed with my wife, but not from any previous encounter. And it’s not that it doesn’t feel good, I think it’s a mental thing. Guys like me, we understand oral sex is the appetizer and we want the main course. According to women, a lot of men spew pretty damn fast from oral. I’ve always wondered how I would do going up against a pro, like Nina Hartley. I’d call it “The Dick Challenge – Man vs. Mouth – Who Will Win?” Treat it like a porno version of Fear Factor, the challenge would either be guys who’d try and hold their load the longest against the best dick suckers in the biz. Or chicks that have to get a guy who normally doesn’t cum from oral, to blow his load.

Whew, I’m all sex talked out. And you know what, I don’t think I’m horny anymore. I wrote my horniness away.

YEAH!

Wait…wait a minute…(sigh) no, still horny.

JPG.