Throwing Out The Trash Can.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from Jermaine. “I’m in your neighborhood, come down stairs in 5 minutes and let me up.” It was 2:34 in the morning. Normally, I never wake up for anything at that hour, but something told me to get up…

I met Jermaine in 2005 on a dating site. He was very forward, direct, and the first time we met, we had sex. It was never meant to be anything serious, and while the sex was the best we both had ever had, it was never consistent. We’ve had sex once a year over the last decade, each time more amazing than the last. With that, we’ve (meaning him) talked about, and maybe even entertained the idea of us,  but I always come back to, “Well, we’ve never been on a date. I don’t know his mother’s name. Is he pro-Black? What’s his stance on [insert any social justice issue]?”

I don’t know, and sadly…and honestly……..I don’t care.

He came over, I showered. He showered. And we had sex. This time it was different. It wasn’t about the positions, or the length, or the amount of rounds we went. I couldn’t put my finger on it until about 8 o’clock when woke up for a final round. Jermaine represents a lot of who I used to be: apathetic, emotionless, and selfish. He came at a time in my life when I was young and thought I knew it all. He was always there as a release for me, a sexual and emotional trash can where I can put things and never have to deal with them, and for whatever reason…he always stayed. I don’t want to be that guy anymore.

When he left, I told him good-bye and I hugged him. He said, “This is for good, isn’t it?”



Death is Dumb.

About three weeks ago, a friend of mine passed away. I didn’t really know how to process it, and I still don’t. My friend and coworker’s father passed away. She came to me for words of encouragement, and all I could do was provide a shoulder for her to cry.

I counsel for a living. I get paid, and essentially my life’s work, is based on listening, assessing, providing options, and support. And in order to do those things, you have to have some sort of grasp on what life has the ability to throw at you. I understand heartbreak. I understand drug addiction. I understand family issues, abandonment, trauma, rape, homosexuality, and a whole bunch of other things that I can say, “Okay, I can deal with this.” Yet, I can’t grasp death, especially not now.

My first experience with death was when I was 6. My grandfather passed away from a massive heart attack after a successful surgery that removed a tumor from his brain. I remember being able to see the form of the tumor. It was in his t-zone and I used to ask him why he frowned so much even when he smiled. I have faint memories of my grandfather. I petitioned at 3 years old for us grandkids to get a raise from $3-$5 because it wasn’t enough to get what we wanted from the ice cream man. Grandpa was a stout man. He had big hands but they were always welcoming, and warm. He was our jungle gym and let us play in the creek in the backyard even when G (my granny) said no.

We sat in the hospital for 6 hours for the surgery to be complete. We all saw him, and he was awake. He couldn’t speak because he had a tube down his throat, but he was responsive. He didn’t want us to leave because he hollered out when we turned our backs to leave the poorly lit room. The next day, we went to visit him at the hospital. He had died on our way there. There were a lot of tears, sure. I remember crying mainly because my G and my mother were crying. I remember crying because I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was supposed to do so. There was a whirlwind of family, stories, fights, and everything that goes with a funeral, and not once did anyone explain death to me. I didn’t ask either.

My mother always told me that she knew I was smarter that most and that I was able to navigate things on my own, and she rarely had to explain things to me. Where as I appreciate the compliment, I’m not sure this is one of those things I could’ve…gotten on my own. I’m 29 and I still don’t get it. I’m getting older, but I’m not supposed to be losing friends at this age, right? Isn’t that how life works?

There’s so many ideas and views on what death means, and I suppose I have the right to choose which fits most comfortably for my own good. But, what happens when the ones close to you, your age even, just…die? Is their life cut short? Were they here to fulfill a purpose? Did they fulfill it? Where do they go?

I think about children who die. They’re innocent. What lesson is to be learned? Why?

I think about people who live to be way into their centennial. Why them? Why do they get to live as long? Is it luck? Is their purpose not fulfilled?

I often joke about being pissed about dying early because I’ll miss a new Beyoncé album, or a new season of Love and Hip Hop. Laughter is the only thing that gets me through the unknown. It’s a scary place, and I honestly hate the shit.

What I do know is that I probably won’t figure it out until the end. And that’s…



Companionship Is a Motherfucker.

On Friday, I experienced chest pains at work. I was sitting in my office (fake) working when, all of a sudden, it felt like the physical manifestation of a heatbreak. I lost feeling in my left arm and both of my hands. In true Black male fashion, I said that I was going to shake it off and drink some ginger ale. My director caught wind of me describing my symptoms to a coworker, and she called 9-1-1.

I was rushed to the hospital and I was pissed about it. The whole ride I kept thinking, “Nigga, you can’t die today. Do you know how many ribs you are missing for this bullshit?” Clearly, I have an issue with priorities (no I don’t.)

They did all of these tests and all I could hear was the cash register sound thinking about how much all of this is going to cost, even though I’ve been blessed with pretty decent insurance.

I was seen by a bunch of nurses and doctors. In between I did what any other millennial does while they’re waiting for anything: I took selfies.

A nurse walked in and asked me for my insurance information and medical history and all the standard questions you hate answering.

“Who’s your emergency contact?”

I drew a blank.

I have friends, a family network, that I’ve created for myself since the age of 18. As we’ve gotten older, they have their own families and I…I don’t.

I gave her my play aunt’s information and my eyes began to fill with water. The nurse left and said she was going to check on me in an hour.

At this stage, companionship is more important to me than it ever has been. I’ll admit, growing up as an only child conditioned me to be rather selfish and not “check-in” with others as I should and ought. It’s a difficult thing to break out of, but I’m working on it. In any event, who is the person I turn to for medical emergencies? Who contacts my family when I’m called home?

I often see people who are in their 30s, or even younger, dating people and it seems as though their settling from the outside looking in. And, perhaps I have it wrong. Maybe they aren’t settling, maybe it’s this idea that if you peel back all the bullshit, there’s someone who legitimately gives a fuck about you — companionship.

I got out of the hospital around 3.

I got ribs when I left.


On my way to work this morning, I saw a woman in her cap and gown. She was graduating from NYU, and I only knew this because her gown was purple and her father had an NYU pin on his lapel. Her siggie-o was with her ( boyfriend or whatever) dressed in his gown and extra shiny shoes. I only knew they were an item because they kept kissing and assuring each other that everything was going to be okay. His parents were there, both arguing about catching a cab uptown to where the commencement exercise was happening.  I congratulated the two and headed to my office where I sat my Black ass down and thought about them.

Straight people, arguably, have it easy. Hetero folks essentially have a timeline that they can abide by if they chose, you know? You’re born, there’s grammar school, high school, your first kiss, prom, college, first break up, graduation, dating, marriage, kids, purchasing a home, raising the kids, grandkids, retirement, and then it’s time for you to go on to Glory. I’m sure I’m missing some things, but that’s generally the course of action of straight people. There’s ages and milestones surrounding such that have the ability to gauge your quality of life. There are milestones that dictate if you’re “on the right path.” Of course, not everyone follows this path, but it’s not like people don’t follow that either. But I’m not straight, so what does that leave me?

You know what’s the best and the most fucked up part about being Black, Gay, and almost 30? Making this shit up as you go along — defining myself and making my own standard. It’s so much easier when you have things laid out for you, but when you reject that linear lifestyle and accept one that you’re the most comfortable, it’s frustrating. Sure it’s rewarding to create your own rules and reject societal norms, but life is hard on it’s own outside of you creating a new type of dynamic for yourself.

I don’t have any milestones to measure my life satisfaction or to assist in assessing I’m doing the “right thing,” because being Black and Gay isn’t as cut and dry. Kids (I’m sure I’ll talk about at some point here) are difficult to have because they aren’t something that just happens to us. Marriage is becoming more of a thing for us and that’s great, but it’s difficult when so many Black Gay men who are my age are hurt, refuse to get over past and societal pain, and who are career driven to the point where sex is only on the menu.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t think I’m lost but it’s easy to get lost, if that makes sense. I know what I’m doing to make me happy career wise, sure. I know I’m a good person and I do good business, and I know that should be enough. But at times, I wish there was a guide to tell me what’s what. I wish there was a Black Gay Timeline or archetype I could follow that was positive, uplifting, and attainable. I’m sure we as Black Gays have a long way to go before this is possible but…one can wish.


Hella Sensitive

I’ve been thinking a lot about love. Not necessarily what one would think about love, but what no one thinks about–err wants to think about, anyway: the end.

I haven’t been in a serious, committed, head-over-heels, you make me sick, inconvenient loving relationship since 2007. That’s right. It’s been almost a decade of weeks of dating men I’ve met only for the two of us to just say, “fuck it” and go our separate ways because God wasn’t finished healing us yet. And where I’m not sure I’m in a place to share my space with someone completely at the moment, I can’t help but think about break ups and how selfish they can be.

Break ups are selfish, you know? It’s literally one person deciding that they are done, and want to move on.

“This isn’t working for me. I need to do what’s best for me. I need to leave.”

This is frightening. I was told as you get older that you have less tolerance for bullshit, but no one told me that your heart becomes…hella sensitive. There’s no other smart way to describe it, but as such: hella sensitive.  Where I realize that I’m too old to not be doing things, or surrounding myself with people who don’t make me happy, I can’t help but wonder about the other person. How can one just leave something they’ve built with another person? How can one just…just leave?


More on this later.

And So It Begins

On April 28th, today, I turned 29. For the longest, I would always tell people I was “almost 30,” never to reveal my real age because there’s always stigma behind age. “Oh, you’re too young to be thinking about this.” or “You’ll change your attitude when you get older.” In those moments, I always felt less than — despite the fact that the elder folks that would tell me this were right on the money. I woke up today with an idea, and a new walk, new purpose, and a new grievance. Several people have informed me that I was going to hate 29. “It’s a year of proverbial purgatory,” my mother said. “You’re going to hate it because you always like to get to the root of the matter, only to realize that there’s no root when you get older,” she continued on the phone.

She was right. I hate not knowing the answer to things. I also hate not knowing the answers to questions that I ask myself. And I guess that’s what this is all about.

Black Gay 30 is my walk through the last year of my twenties through the lens of a well adjusted Black gay guy. It’s also about the freedom of my 30s. This is about me working through the questions I ask myself to not get an answer, but a better understanding.

Today, it begins.

Happy Birthday To Me.

WATCH: Husband Accuses Wife Of Sleeping With The Wu-Tang Clan

Shout out to the good people at Divorce Court to provide us this short morsel of fuckery. Watch as this man (who is a little howyewzewah if you ask me) and his whife (white wife) battle it out over allegations that she was involved in some groupie love with the Wu-Tang Clan.




Where Have I Been?: A Discovery of BJ the Chicago Kid’s Music


Recently, I was on an early Sunday morning ride up 75 North coming from a night of music and excess libation. The ride from Cincinnati to Dayton, Ohio wasn’t long at just 45 minutes. I’d driven it countless times and it provided me the will to completely escape mentally the entire way. As my mind was elsewhere,  I offered a buddy of mine the opportunity to control the AUX cable (an honor in many social circles). With pride, he accepted.

What came out of my speakers was a smooth yet raspy, hard yet appropriately soft, foreign yet eerily familiar sound. I asked, “Who is this?”. He replied “Oh, just this guy BJ The Chicago Kid“.  I was intrigued.

GoodLuv’n  was the song that caught my attention in the car and the one I was most eager to give a better listen. A soulfully sung confession of a man’s admiration of his lover, Good Luv’n showcases the raw emotion of classic R&B. It could be a constant on any a hip-hop and R&B station without losing its Rhythm and Blues identity along the way. And his voice? BJ the Chicago Kid is unapologetically soulful but fresh, and his influence by timeless and eternally cool stylings like Ronald Isley (his amazing cover of the Isley Brother’s Classic Don’t Say Goodnight is here), Marvin Gaye and 12 Play era R. Kelly is obvious. Once I got home I clawed through the internet for information on this amazing new artist I had just discovered. In a place and time where the line between R&B and Hip-Hop is so disappointingly blurred and at many times non-existent, where has this gem been? Apparently, right here all along.

A former background singer for gospel group Mary Mary, Brian “BJ The Chicago Kid” James Sledge released his first mixtape A Taste of Chicago in 2009 followed by his first digital album Pineapple Now-Laters in 2012. Recently he was even quietly nominated for a Grammy Award for his vocals on the hit SchoolBoy Q song Studio. Often we call artist underrated, but I can honestly say that this man is fits this mold. I have yet to hear him sing a solitary note not better than much of what’s played daily on the radio.


A few tracks to check out:

  • Good Luv’n – An personal and relatable confession of one’s affection. Complete with lyrical samples from Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On and Let’s Do It Again by The Staple Singers.
  • Lady LadyA slick song with a retro feel and modest shout-out to physical gratification. Full of creative word play and just straight up lovemaking without being excess or overbearing. Side Note: The video is just as dope.


  • One In A MillionIn a genre full of Aaliyah samples (Can we agree to let her rest?) this is the only one I have ever liked let alone loved. A perfect tribute mash-up of Aaliyah’s One In A Million, R. Kelly’s R&B Thug and Jodeci’s Feenin. BJ The Chicago Kid makes them flow effortlessly and seamlessly together to the point that if one didn’t know better they would think it was one song.

The man is talented.

BJ the Chicago Kid is what a perfect blend of hip-hop and soul used to and should be–together yet separate. BJ is truly a gem in this field of hardcore, loveless, mediocre R&B music. Where the hell has he been? Better yet where the hell have I been? Because BJ the Chicago Kid has been here. We just need to make sure he’s here to stay.