Night. Smoke. Johns.

The following is a short prose I am developing for my collection of poetry and short stories entitled “The Third Sermon”. It’s still very rough so feedback would be appreciated.

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Smoke can be a wondrous thing . . . Clouds formed into ships above me head . . . On board were my dreams . . . Forever on board sea ships are men’s dreams . . . I took the last pull off of a run down swisha as he undressed . . . His lean, Black torso absorbing the moon light . . . I called him beauty . . . I inhaled his scent, that mix of cologne and musk that all men smell of from time to time . . . He said nothing, just undressed . . . His skin carried the pride of generations of Africans unwilling to be raped out of existence . . . His head, was his crown . . . His lips were full . . . And his hands. . .his hands looked as though they could break earth . . . I wanted them around me. I wanted them to grabbed me, force me into submission . . .He was everything that this wicked world hated. Blackness that absorbed all light, defying anything to challenge his right to be. He walked towards me, inhaling smoke along the way . . . Lay his hands on my waist . . . I stood, in what felt like a forever stance, allowing him to undress me . . . Soon we were both nude . . . Two punks at the foot of Golgotha . . . Trembling before the Christ . . . In the circles of disciples we were no doubt damned . . . The boys on the boulevard would often chase down the faggots and beat them . . . One night a young man lost his life . . . Hands raised, trying to block the blows, crying for relief . . . That’s why we must love in the dark . . . He moved first . . . Swiftly to collarbone as I caressed his shoulders . . . Broad magnificent shoulders . . . He pushed me on the bed . . . I sat up, coming face to face with his manhood . . . I had trouble breathing as I took it in . . . still in the air was that smoke. . . Wondrous ships floating as far as the eyes could stretch . . . truly smoke was like imagination . . . I saw an image of myself standing alone . . . I was smiling and holding a vase . . . I saw my father on the chain gang . . . I saw my mother . . . back bent . . . crying over the kitchen table, counting money . . . In the present, I was now on my back . . . spread across the bed for him . . . His tongue tracing my endings . . . He came up to stare me in the eyes . . . I saw in him the hope of many Black boys lost on the boulevard . . . For him I could provide no more than the comfort of the here and now . . . Tomorrow we would both have to be out in the world were there be dragons . . . I saw the terror . . . I took him in . . . His hardened flesh tearing as entered . . . Pain . . . I wanted it . . . Welcomed it . . . No more in life than this moment, have I ever felt alive . . . connected . . . needed . . . He smiled . . . Thrust . . . smile . . . sweat . . . pant . . . horror . . . ascension . . .  Reverse . . . pressure . . . gripping . . . gasping . . . anticipation . . .  climax . . . inhale . . . exhale . . . silence . . . sleep . . . Ships at sea harbor men’s dreams . . . I once dreamt of being wanted . . . needed by someone . . . I kept that longing close to me . . . In my younger years I worked hard to create my heterosexual disguise . . .  Keeping all desire hidden . . .  One morning my mother came home to me masturbating . . . She slapped me and demanded that I attend church every Sunday . . .  In school I  found solace in the fact that I could acquire a girlfriend . . .  She saved me from the daily torment faced by other faggots . . . One night we laid down together . . .  I was filled with a terror . . . She called me to her . . .  And as I laid in her I felt a nervous tension . . . continuously asking her if I was moving too fast . . . I remember her giggle . . . embarrassed . . .  I was never able to satisfy her in the way that women like to be . . I was never truly satisfied either . . . Salt on sheets only gives you so much earthly pleasure . . . True pleasure never came until I found nirvana in Isaiah, who was in the church choir . . . He came to me . . .  cried with me . . . In secret was our love affair . . . I remember being in his car watching some of the younger, more bold, boys on the boulevard . . . That night he made me promise that I would never be like them . . . never be a faggot . . . I agreed . . . because he loved me . . . and needed me in the same way that I needed him . . .  for survival . . . My mind races trying to imagine his life now . . . Is he happy now? . . . Does he have a wife and kids? . . . When I left town was he sad? . . . Did he even care about my departure? . . . daylight . . . My roommate returned the next day as beauty was leaving . . .  Smoke still lingered . . . My roommate asked . . . “who’s that?” . . . I replied . . . “Oh him?” . . . pause . . . “That’s the John who took my last 30 bucks.“

6 thoughts on “Night. Smoke. Johns.

  1. Co-sign with Antonio and Krista. Just an outstanding piece of writing!

    Greetings,

    I’m a new visitor (actually discovered your site this morning) and I’ve enjoyed all that I’ve read thus far. IOW: I will be coming back 🙂

    BTW: I’m a gay Black female.

    1. Aw, thank you for your kind words of encouragement. I’m happy more people are coming to this space, esp queer people of color and womyn.

      thank you so much for your words again. It means so much.

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