I am rolling around naked on a Chinese rug from like the late 1800s. I’m thinking really, really hard about it because I’m on ketamine and can’t telescope back any emotion for the life of me. Every shape of every thought becomes bigger and bigger and then multi-sided—I have to catch my breath when I think of, like, the world and its vastness and blah blah blah, things of that nature. Like, China, OMG! that’s SO. FAR. AWAY. And the late 1800s, also. OMG! SO. FAR. AWAY. Just by rubbing my schlong on this old ass rug I feel like I’m sticking my whole dick in the space-/time continuum without a rubber. This is probably how the characters on Star Trek feel ALL THE TIME.

My Daddy is this older Asian dude, he collects boys and art. He has shit in this house that’s even older than the rug. In fact, everything in his house is like a THRIVING specimen of a different time. Himself included. 

He’s damn near 60 but looks like a 9-year-old in the face. He’s wearing a black see-through lace romper that, for whatever fucking reason, is paired with a big ass button that says “Kiss Me, I’m Irish.” I’m like, “but it’s not St. Patrick’s Day?!”

“No, like, I’m from Vietnam, you get it?!” He is holding a plate of drugs and high as fuck also. He asks this without a hint of humor or irony and this is why I love this man. 

My Daddy is handing drugs to some guys on the couch. He is holding his annual Wednesday orgy. 

Doing copious amounts of drugs with other gay men is so cathartic. Gay drug brotherhoods are powerful. Every time I do hella drugs with other faggots I feel like it erases, in my brain, a time a bully kicked my ass. 

I might really actually be in love with this man but he is upset with me for two reasons. 1. I can’t participate in the orgy cause I have chlamydia in my dick hole (I got the call from the doctor the morning of the orgy) and 2. He told me a month ago that he wanted me to make him a special painting just for his collection, something he could keep from me forever. But it felt like such a call to action that I flaked on it for months. 

The first time he and I fucked I was so stoned I actually said, “Have you ever thought about how the word painting has the word pain in it?”

That’s when he decided I should make him a painting for his personal collection. 

Part of me dreams of slaying box at this orgy, of course.  This is, of course, only a dream. Even though I don’t have chlamydia in my asshole, it’s still a blood-born virus; it doesn’t mean I can’t give it to someone out of my dick. My Daddy is insisting I come to the couch and get fucked anyway, “These sluts don’t give a FUUUUUUCK,” he insists, but out of modesty and self- preservation I stay high and solitary on the carpet.  

Now I need not play the prude here—I know all the nooks and crannies of the city, all the deep dirty dark cuts and cervices, places I can go where the boys don’t care what you have; in fact, you need not talk about anything. I know places where the boys don’t care how much money you make, or what private college you went to. Places where the boys are so horny, they don’t even give a fuck what your dick looks like. Places where a penicillin shot in your butt cheek or a lifetime regimen of pills is merely an occupational hazard. The places where I can go and not mention a single thing about myself. I can be just a walking fuck shadow that’s willing to grant any stranger, who insists upon it, any inch of my body full entry. That is to say, I could do this…but I’m just too fucking comfortable high as fuck on this ancient ass Chinese rug.IM ON DRUGS ON AN ANCIENT CHINESE RUG RIGHT NOW.” I send it in a group text. OMG!  Is this how Grace Jones felt in the ’80s? Is this how Grace Jones feels EVERYDAY? I mean, probably!

As I roll around on this ancient rug, I keep fantasizing about moonlighting as a top. Sometimes I wish I could have been like the boy in Moonlight. That movie, remember? Like the movie where he touches one dick as a teenager and spends like 20 years really really wrestling with his desire around it. I think that’s why that movie won an award—he didn’t become the lavender menace that boys like me become the second a dick enters our life. He let that hand job crescendo him into a specimen of masculine restraint, and honestly, I’m so fucking over the world rewarding piety;  I’m a promiscuous homosexual and no one listens to me. If it had been a movie about a boy like me, it would have suffered from a lack of piety. Like there would be the scene of me touching my first dick and then another and another and then like 900 more, and it would end with a shot of the camera panning down from a group of wind-wisped leaves falling onto a tombstone (mine) that reads, “She touched A LOT of dicks”. The movie about my sexual life would be a bleak romantic comedy with super-awkward and chatty orgy scenes sprinkled all through it. I don’t see it winning any awards. 

I am curled in the fetal position and playing with my penis, it is hard and the head of it is resting on my navel and the skin around it is configured into some asymmetrical circular shape and I am envisioning what it would look like if I were to be circumcised. I can’t really picture it, but I pull back the foreskin and my dick is lacrimating from the view of my Daddy fucking literally everyone on the couch. Like is it even an orgy if there’s just one top? Or is this called “community work”? Someone should REALLY buy my Daddy lunch for, like, getting all the drugs AND topping. (Again, I might actually really be in love with this man.) 

My Daddy has absolutely zero interest in my dick; as the saying goes, that man is such a top that he doesn’t even bother wiping his ass after he takes a shit. Only, like, that’s just a saying. This man not only is a top who owns a bidet, but he still also splashes expensive French toilet water on his asshole and balls as, like, a whole aromatherapy trip for whoever’s sucking his dick. (Again, I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN.)  

I am not by nature an overly choosy person when it comes to lovers but my one rule is that his skin has to be as soft and as beautiful as mine. Just like my Daddy’s. 

I like the feel of another smooth body, so smooth that I can only imagine it being akin to the texture of the skin of a dolphin. Like every time I fuck another hairless man, part of me can’t help but imagine that we are having telepathic, high-pitched, squealy dolphin sex that’s too high-pitched for other humans to hear, and only we can hear it in our heads and every dog within a two-block radius is like dying from how dog-whistle-like our fucked-up human-dolphin sex sounds. We say nothing because dirty talk is for people who watch too much porn. Sex with a top of my caliber demands a telepathic-charged silence. Except for the dolphin imagery, every part of the scenario is turning me on, and I jack off on the carpet alone away for the five others on the couch having sex. I honestly don’t think I’ve noticed any of them once. I spray the entire contents of my balls all over myself and my stomach is covered in chlamydia laced seamen and I am so relieved that I found enough ego within me somewhere to bust a nut and my mind can finally calm itself. I don’t even bother to wipe myself clean. I simply sleep in it.


is an Oakland-based writer, musician, dancer, filmmaker, and performance artist. To them, he’s one of The New York Times’ 32 “Black Male Writers of Our Time,” but to us, he’s a renegade fag who knows no fear nor lack of freedom in his work, no less his body. His new work, 100 Boyfriends, is available to pre-order HERE

is a visual artist whose images matter because of their health benefits—extreme joy, the warming effect of vivid color, the strength of a solid identity, a photographic representation of the love effect. A Philadelphia native and art world “it kid,” since Volume One, he’s continually bent the Black Queer form into startling new shapes for all the world to see. 

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