Not a story of a Manolo Blahnik obsessed autosycophant and her 3 friends going to different nightly Manhattan spots. I am a thirtysomething black man on Chicago's southside who rarely has more than $50 in the bank after bills, shops at H&M, and realizes that in order to have great sex and fun encounters, you don't have to be rich, athletic, or even that cute--just be available.
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I've known it for a while. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I knew something had changed. Maybe it had just gotten old. Or maybe grown tired. The daily work of trying to make something work was taking a toll for some time.
My passion has almost entirely evaporated. So why do I feel so awful announcing the end?
Last week I went to the bathhouse and ran into this cute, svelt, sun-kissed brazillian. He had a funny accent. And there was no conversation--which is often the case in bathhouses. He didn't talk to me at all. He just looked at me weird with big brown eyes.
Without talking I knew what he wanted. I pulled out a condom, wrapped up my dick and had him on his knees in 20 seconds.
A minute later, I was inside of him. Fucking him. Banging him. Trying to stab his prostate.
I've been worried for some time. A few night sweats. An unexplained cough. A sore throat once in a while. Mix that with my hypochondria and active sex life, and I was a little concerned about my next HIV test. It was unlike me to have waited this long. It had been over a year.
Was this finally the time when all of my sex would catch up with me? Did I think I was Superman? Impervious to disease and knuckleheads on the Internet?
It was time to know the truth. So I headed to the one place where I knew I could get an inexpensive (and quick) HIV test...
I haven't quite gotten my shit together after Memorial Day. I am sitting at work right now listening to the Mary Jane Girls, All Night Long. And I think I have come across one of the secrets of the universe.
I know why it hurts so much when we break up with someone.
It was 12:30 am, and I was sitting in a well decorated apartment watching VH1 Soul music videos. Preceeding this was the thirty minute ending of the Morgan Freeman, Along Came A Spider. I was sitting in a stranger's apartment. A small framed chocolate brother who had invited me over his place for a late night freak session.
Life is getting better with every moment that we are blessed to live. A lot of this has to do with advances in technology. Ten years ago, most people didn't use e-mail. Now, most people don't send letters via US Mail. I am happy because my telephone company, which uses VOIP technology (that's Voice Over IP), which means I need a high speed Internet connection in order to make a phone call.
What's so great about my phone company is that I get to call anyone, anytime, unlimited for 25 bucks a month. I just learned to my surprise, that included in my unlimited calling are international calls to the United Kingdom, France, Ireland, and Spain. This is wonderful because a reader of this blog, DYLAN, lives in London and I get to call and listen to his sexy voice whenever I fancy (his British sensibilities are already wearing off on me).
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