Roleplay.

There was barely a soul in the theatre come the end of Thursday. It was always a quiet day here and i liked that. I wanted to be with myself- away from the thousands of eyes that found me in the day light. I came here to sit undisturbed and touch myself. My day had been spent in public smiling and looking at visiting white folk. I worked the door downtown at one of the largest hotels in the city. I saw them come from all around to vacation somewhere out of the way of the bigger cities- a place that was not quite big but held some kind of adventure. And they stayed downtown cause that was a place that was not as close to Black folk as others. They felt safe. I would watch them, person by person, come into the hotel. Each one of them past me with a new disgust. Some stiffened in my presence- became like boards and moved by. Even in the light of day, and with me in servant drag, They were scared. There was a strange energy in the air. It is a curious thing to observe them- walking both in fear and superiority. I was after all in servitude to them, just as my ancestors had been, and there was part of them that sat in that moment with jubilee. At the same time, they were scared, in complete terror. Most days I wanted to abandon any questioning and reach out, grab them by the throat, and kill them. . .

 

That day, a young man jumped back when I approached him. I stood with my hand outstretched, ready to take his bags from him. Our eyes found each other. He looked back with a kind of need I wasn’t used to seeing in their eyes in the hotel- it had been other places. I saw that need in the baths and arcades- in movies and theatres. It was longing and a terror more than what I found in the eyes of White folk who were not sexually moved by me. I ignored what sensation was there and grabbed his bags. There was a thought, about how ridiculous they were, dancing about in my mind.

 

I reached for my sex in the theatre and thought about robbing them blind- being every bit the savage they feared and salivated over. No more smiles- only teeth for biting. My smile had been made numb long ago anyway. On the screen, the regular mix of porn played. There were some men here. They’d hidden themselves so as to avoid being seen or talked to. I never spoke, never gave them eye contact, never invited company. There was nothing in them that I needed. We were there in a collective of silence and wanting. The only sounds were those from the screen. The action mounted. Three men took turns penetrating a fourth. If there was anything happening at that moment, it was rendered irrelevant by the screams, sounds of flesh slapping, and moans on the screen.

 

I spit in my hand- inhaling the scents- found my dick and began to stroke it. There was violence. The bottom on the screen barely seemed to enjoy himself. He sounded in pain. It seemed to be all that he could do to stay on the bed- each top pounding more intensely than the former. Something moved in me and I came to arousal- growing more solid with each movement. In the dim lighting I could see others caught in the same moment I was- somewhere lusting and loathing the thought of being a player on the screen. And why was that? What brought us to this point of wanting to pour our misery into another man in this way? Many of us had partners- woman, man and otherwise? Were they fucked like this? Were they here too, enjoying the show as we were? If Brandon was here, i’d hoped he never find me, there was no love here. There was no softness. There was just thrust- just sex.

In school, there was a boy that I would fuck like the one in the movie. We’d take turns pounding away almost crying- pushing all hurt deep. Afterwards we’d barely speak. I’d throw a joke or two, he’d laugh and talk about some girl he thought looked nice and we’d leave it there. Always, we reminded one another to be cool- to keep our thing between us. The world couldn’t know of what we did. There was nothing in the universe or in us that could bare the hatred that would bring. So, we kept it in us. Nothing in our relations lent itself to any kind of friendship beyond these sessions. Nothing developed beyond what was had there.

 

In the dark, a white boy moved closer to me. I felt him before I saw him- his energy. My hand began stroking faster. I held myself still, moment by moment, attempting to ignore him. At the very last second I turned to see him. It was the boy from before. The same boy who thought I was coming for his bag. This time his eyes were all hunger. I looked at him- his own hand reaching to grab his sex through his jeans. “I oughta rob you for real, this time.” I thought.

 

Eyes danced. A moment and then a discovery. A chill and then. . .

 

“Suck my dick.” i commanded as effortlessly as pouring water.

 

Heat and hunger. The corners of his mouth widened into a kind of crazed smile and he sank to his knees. “You want this huh, boy? You want some of this big black dick?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

I knew he did before there was speech. They all did. As scared as they were, they were also curious. In here they could get lost- roleplay. They could become submissive in ways that daylight would never condone and become what the society guarded against most- a white man in service. He gave me a slight glance. My dick waved in front of him- measuring his face in the small light.

 

“Go on boy.”

 

He began. I grew in his mouth. There was wetness streaming, pulling, gagging, and choking. He threw looks my way. Part of me wanted to see him moving up and down on me. Part of me wanted to see what his eyes held now. Was it still hunger? Was he scared? Did he care what happened to him here at the mercy of the nigger doorman? Did he want some kind of intimacy? That curiosity never won out. My eyes averted his everytime and found dissonance in the screen. He felt nice. I dug deeper with each breath- began to push his head down on me. Seeing someone requires heart. That sight requires movement and understanding- requires the emotions that bring folks to conclusions involving marriage and moving in and such. You ain’t seeing anyone in this dark. Here, there was only moisture, moans and half thoughts. Men came here to release- use and be used.

 

Again Brandon came to my mind. For a moment the White boy became him and we locked sight. He cried, bit down and let out the same sigh I heard when his favorite Aunt passed. No longer smiling, no longer wanting me. He cursed me- for using this boy, for white men, for our ancestors, and for my dishonesty. He cursed me.

 

The boy at my crotch was loosening up. He may have been losing steam. I grabbed his head again, more forcefully. He had to know that he wasn’t done yet. Seas moved in me. There’d be waves crashing soon. He choked- letting up for some air. My sex was covered in spit and lust. His sight travelled from it to my face- lusting for an expression that would tell him where this journey was going next. I could never use Brandon like this. It wouldn’t even look right, His body felt too pure to me. It didn’t trigger the same rage nor did it beg to be degraded. We were both Black men, stepped on daily. His voice just as quiet as mine- just as smothered by poverty. We knew the same notes. There was no justice for our hard work- nothing more than what we celebrated in one another. Our labor was produced jubilee for others who sat in privilege. Others, who ruled over our material lives and looked at us like beast in a zoo.

 

I grabbed the man, before me, and forced him down on my dick. I was close to exploding and only wanted to hear the sounds coming off of the porn. My eyes closed and I began the final round of thrusts. Tension mounted. The boy could barely hold on. Images of his expression, when I reached for the bag, came back more vivid. I became harder. I saw him scared- saw every pale face, every milk toned look of terror. He braced himself on the arm rests. I opened my eyes as I came. He couldn’t avoid any of it. We both were wet.

 

My core shook. The boy removed his mouth. My sex jumped in the cool air.

 

“shit!” I exclaimed.

 

I sank into my seat. He looked at me. Somewhere in him wanted to speak. I got up before he could. I wiped as I walked and placed myself back in my pants. I left before he could speak. There was nothing to say. When I got home, Brandon hugged me- probably ignoring the smell coming off of me. When he asked me how my day had been I responded with a sigh and a small mumble that was meant to sound beat but not defeated. I came into the bedroom with him after showering and we laid together- him spooning me.

 

“I love you, Eugene.” he whispered.

 

“I love you too, pa.”

 

“You off tomorrow? What do you want to do?”

 

“Lay here. Be with you. I think that I’m tired of being outside. Maybe we can go for a walk.”

 

He squeezed me and laid his head on my shoulder, giving me a small kiss.

 

“I love you.” another squeeze. Sometime later I pretended to fall asleep. I listened to Brandon float off to sleep. I let out a few tears, then turned to see him. I searched his face- leaned in kissed him and watched him sleep. There were no sounds other than his light breathing.

 

sometime after bein’ found

ah woulda screamed if the seas wasn’t so deep

if mah throat was held  

if ah mahself had thought to treat ah better.

 

an’ da many white hands shoulda signaled somethin’

shoulda told me what darkness dere was 

 

but often we don’t see things as clearly as we should till they have passed.

we don’t declare danger until the hydra has been summoned and all an all emcompassing fear has taken hold. 

 

ah wanna be close to somethin

under sheets

in blue and yellows

royal purples too

an dat desire has led me ta dungeons

 

an here ah lie

raped

dry

cold and scared

– rescued by witches but still lost in sickness. 

 

in daylight

i throw up

the infintie sorrow that has led me here

the pills, vapor, saddness, anger, neglect, an’ so on

an’ watch it dissappear into itself- swirling down.

an’ ah speak promises of no return- cast spells bigger than mah ability an’ hold to the hope dat one day seekin’ open beds won’t be tramatic. 

an’ hold to the hope dat ah can more comfortable
navigate the sea

move past bad magic an’ be on mah own dreamt up shore. 

White Privilege and Private Property: hateful hoes are trying to privatize succulents

White folks are forever trying to call the police. Girl I’m just liberating this succulant from your Berkeley hell. Over it. She just mad the summer coming and she ain’t got any melenin. this hateful hoe talking about how she bout to call the police to come check this out- what the hell we need to check out?! A brother getting a succulent?!
 
good day hefer, especially since i spent about 5 minutes trying to tell her that her homegirl (the white womyn accross the street who planted these shits) told me i could stop and take one whenever because they’re community plants.  
 
thats why i took the damn plant and rode off shouting “STOP trying to privatize plants!”
 
she got some nerve! See, thats the whiteness: she doesn’t even know what it means to have the police called on you as a Black person- she doesn’t know they could roll up shoot me and keep it moving- they could roll up arrest me and keep moving- they could roll up and beat me and keep moving.
 
Why?
 
Because this is a racist ass fascist ass state that gives privilege to fucks like her, who have the luxury of days off from work and quaint houses in Berkeley. Raids, arrests, terrorism, police murders etc… are not a reality for her so of course she will just call the police for no damn reason without even trying to communicate properly with me. Part of her privilege is that blindness, the other part is the entitlement and the socialization that tells her she’s in charge of the universe and can come out of a house to order me to stop my bliss when im not even in her yard. 
 
i have no time for the whiteness.