2014, un.

Levitating water bottle.

Brown Eyes

They smolder at me

Blazing

Beautiful

Brown

With arches of hair above

Perfectly curled like sand dunes on a beach

Curving down to meet the frothy sea

And lashes so long, they curl upward as if searching for sunlight

Each lip perfect in and of itself,

One arcing upward, with a small dent in the middle, as the line in the small of your back

And the other sitting silently: thick, dewy and soft

I love when you kiss me and keep those brown beacons open

Looking into me, searching, prowling, grabbing, owning

They become smaller as our lips conform

Smaller but still larger

And every emotion seems to pass

Small hands, like mine

Soft, like mine

I want nothing more than to be touched by them

Please:

Run your fingertips along my inner thigh

Press down on my back

Grab my hair and pull

Squeeze my neck in passion as we kiss

Gnarl your palms around my ass and put your fingers in

Hold me from inside in your small hands

And hair on your chin that pricks, the way a pear’s grains gently graze the tongue

It covers some of your neck, growing over the rocky Adam’s apple like blades of grass growing on a lonely moor

I love kissing the apple; pointy, hard, large

It jumps when you swallow

Moving upward and sinking in simultaneously

Then reappearing as if nothing happened

The browns roll away into the back of your head

Leaving behind white – only white

Seen through a small slit between eye and eyelid;

They flutter as you let out a heavy breath

And your body shudders for a moment beneath mine

I kiss the blades on your neck

More shuddering

Then they reappear;

Staring into me from below

Beckoning me in, lulling, cooing, seducing

And I follow without hesitation

There is no need to defy those brown eyes

Costco.

A friend I had dated briefly lent me his Costco card. There’s a branch in East Harlem and I planned an entire day of renting a Zipcar and driving there, using my friend’s card and buying a bunch of shit in bulk which I could now store in the downstairs basement storage unit that came with my apartment (or in all the extra storage space I had installed in the apartment itself).

I felt like a pornstar seeing themselves onscreen for the first time: vibrant, energetic and full of self-esteem that wasn’t necessarily merited. I had found a beautiful apartment in a neighbourhood that was sure to be the next big shit as soon as The New Yorker got a whiff of it and I was about to go grocery shopping for wholesale items like toilet paper and dishwashing liquid.

I had officially succeeded in creating a life of my own.

The day would be long: I had to rent the car, I had to drive to Costco, I had to shop, I had to drive back to West Harlem, find a parking spot, unload all my groceries, hop back into the Zip and return it to a designated spot.

As excited as I was at the thought of saving .89c on each roll of toilet paper, let’s just say, the thought alone of hauling my booty (the groceries, not my ass) up four floors at the end of it all didn’t make my nipples hard.

As I entered the Costco parking lot, I witnessed a woman pushing two shopping carts expertly to her car. A kid was in each shopping cart seat. She motioned to me and I stopped alongside her. “Come take my parking spot,” she said. I nodded and followed her in the car. There was a parking spot right next to her car so I pulled into it and got out.

“Hey,” I said with a big smile when I had walked up to her. She was unloading the contents of her shopping carts into the trunk of her car. Her two kids were looking at me with wide eyes from their posts, strapped into the shopping carts. One was biting on its balled fist and the other had just dribbled the nastiest looking bit of spit from its mouth onto the handle bar of the shopping cart. I prayed to never have the misfortune of using that shopping cart in my life.

“Yo baby,” she said to me smoothly. She had smooth, dark skin and her wavy hair was light brown and reached her waist. She was also tall – taller than me – with a large, round backside and round, jaunty breasts in an all-black get-up. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your stance), while I’m not straight, it doesn’t stop me from noticing these things about women. Not in a perverted way, necessarily, but in admiration.

“I say, you wasn’t gonna get no parking up there. Full of cars – Christmastime in Harlem, y’know.”

I smiled at her and she returned it. She had small teeth set into dark gums; a beautiful smile that also flowed through her eyes. “Can I help you with your groceries?” I offered.

“That’s aite,” she said coolly, “but you can help me put one of these babies into the car.”

I didn’t think much of this, considering I’m from the Caribbean and babies are like oral sex; you love it even if you can’t admit it to yourself at this point in your life. However, when I relayed this story to one of my American friends they thought it was highly “weird” that a woman from East Harlem felt comfortable letting a male put one of her kids into their car seats.

I immediately claimed the kid who hadn’t dribbled. “That’s Allistair,” she said to me. “This,” she raised the dribble-kid out of the shopping cart, “is Frederico.”

I nodded in amusement and put Allistair in his car seat which he didn’t seem to like because he kicked me, punched me and screwed up his face like mushed up dog shit while he cried.

She hurried over to soothe him and buckle him in.

“Have a good day,” I said to her as I started to walk away.

“Have a great day!” she smiled to me and we waved to each other.

I smiled while recounting the incident on my way to the entrance. I had to say, nothing phased me much anymore here. I hadn’t been in New York for a full year of my life yet but already this was my life. The randomness of life seemed so much less random here, and occurrences that might seem oddly placed and even spiritual to others, to me seemed justified in this beautiful City with endless possibilities, realities and reactions.

As I approached the entrance I quickly fumbled in my wallet for my friend’s Costco card. I imagined that if I simply flashed the card nonchalantly, the guard at the door wouldn’t even notice that my picture on my Costco card was of a blonde white dude with blue-grey eyes.

Luckily, at the door the guard was standing a ways off speaking to a suited gentleman. Shoppers were filing in without showing a thing and I just followed the throng while pushing my shopping cart jauntily. I was in; I felt like I was in The Incredibles.

Incredible, James Incredible.

I got my list out and started perusing the aisles. It was like Candyland. Or what I assume Candyland must be like, whatever Candyland is. Seeing all the possible shit I could consume had an overwhelmingly joyous reaction on me. I could buy a bag of fifty Twix bars if I wanted, or get a 20lb can of cranberry jelly if the mood suited me.

All in all, I stuck to my list and added a few indulgences to my cart (like a pack of twelve jars of Alfredo sauce and almost-expired Snickers ice cream bars that were 75% off).

About two hours later I joined a cue to cash out. My cashier was a buxom Latina girl with winged eye make-up and sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She was laughing with the last customer and I smiled at her. One thing I’ve learned is that Caribbean charm works wonders in the service industry. Once, a Rite-Aid attendant gave me a $50 refund on a non-refundable phone card after seeing my Trini ID card, which in Rite-Aid code is the equivalent of God donating you his lung.

She smiled at me and put out her hand for my Costco card. I gave it to her and she took a swift look at it and then back at me. “Where’s the cardholder?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s just still looking around inside. But you can just cash me out,” I said coolly. I had practiced this line a million times while I was waiting to be cashed out.

She looked at me pointedly and said, “We’ll have to wait for him.”

I sighed heavily as she motioned to the guy behind me to bring his stuff up.

“Ok,” I said slowly and softly, leaning closer to her over the conveyor belt with my 40%-extra container of cream cheese melting between us, “I didn’t really come with him. I’m new to the city and my friend lent me his card.” I gauged the situation. She was looking at me and listening so I continued, “Can we please let it slide this time? I won’t do it again. I’ll even just go buy the membership right now. Please?” I smiled sweetly at her, my heart hammering away.

“Alright,” she said slowly, swiping the card quickly and cashing me out. “We’re not supposed to do this but at the end of the day, you’re buying the stuff. There’s still the economic exchange.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and looked around with a relaxed grin. My eyes caught the guy’s who was behind me in the line and I doubled back. He grinned at me and I turned back to the cashier immediately.

“I’m James,” I told her and she introduced herself.

“You from Trinidad?” she asked me and I nodded my yes.

“You know some Trinis?”

“Lots of my friends from school.” We spoke a bit more, I paid my bill, thanked her for being so nice and pushed my goods away, glancing back at the guy.

I pulled over at the cafeteria area and hid behind a wall, sneaking another look back at the guy. His back was to me as he cashed out and his butt looked fantastic.

I knew him. We had bumped into each other one night at Industry in the dark entrance hallway more than a month prior. I was going outside for a cigarette and he was leaving. I saw him and said hi and he smiled before one of his friends yelled for him to come with them, they were fucking leaving like, NOW! As in: “Adam! Come on, we’re fucking leaving like, NOW!”

He passed by with his shopping cart heading for the exit and I emerged from my stealthy spot among the Costco eaters and followed him. As he rolled his shopping cart outside I summoned my courage and said, “Hey! Adam!”

Instantly, I regretted it and my lips clenched shut as he turned around. “Hey,” he said with a look of recognition. “Way to work the cashier inside,” he added as he walked over to where I stood.

I smiled and said, “Never underestimate the power of being nice.” He grinned and nodded and looked at me expectantly. “We met at Industry a while ago. Your friend yelled your name, that’s how I know it,” I explained.

He nodded, “Oh, right.”

I realised he didn’t recognise me in the least but I ignored it. “Well, it was nice to see you…” he began.

“That’s it?” I asked recklessly. Something comes over me during these encounters. Firstly, there’s abandon where I engage the situation without giving a fuck. Secondly, there’s panic because I have no idea what I’ve just engaged in. Then, from nowhere, comes absolute arrogance because I’m thinking if I’m going down, I’m going down like a Charlie Sheen hoe – nothin’ less than hundreds.

He stopped and looked at me. “I really have to meet a friend. I just ran here to buy the cake and I’m really, really late.”

I nodded in recognition and started to pull my shopping cart away. “Okay. Have a great day!” I called to him. I figured I had tried, and fuck him if he didn’t think I was cute. Or maybe he had a boyfriend? Or maybe he didn’t like younger guys? Or skinny guys? Or guys who weren’t white and blonde? Or short guys?

“James,” he called after me. I turned around immediately because I didn’t think he knew my name. “Can I get your number?”

I looked into his eyes for a moment, feeling like I was stuck on the pendulum of the cuckoo clock of doom, swinging back and forth between “will he/won’t he?” I then looked at his lips. There was brown stubble around them and I noticed that his bottom lip looked a little like an incredibly skinny baby carrot. It was sexy, his eyes were stunning, his hair defied fucking gravity for cum’s sake…

“Don’t ask for it if you don’t plan to use it,” I retorted.

“I’ll use it,” he assured me. I gave it to him skeptically. “I’m going to use it,” he promised, smiling widely at me.

I shrugged and walked away, wondering how much kismet I could take for one day.

crash

helmet x shades

Born

Born of hate
Bred in rage
Never believing in a state of grace
Fed with guts
Used for glory
Just useless words to a heartbreaking story
Honed with lies
Sharpened by cruelty
Always made to feel stupid and guilty

But you are a man
A man with a beating heart
And you have hands
Hands in which, I beg you, please accept my heart
And an open will with a life less than pure
But together, facing rapture, we have found something worth living for

Guilty, oh!
For everyone's responsibilities
Guilty, oh!
Of your own fluidity
Guilty, oh!
For being hot as City summer heat
Guilty, oh!
Shall I read you Socrates?

We're in bed. We're naked. You're wearing glasses and all I want to do is fuck you.

Guilty, you are not
Born of hate, bred in rage
How could you ever attain a state of grace?
Fed with guts, being used for glory
Feed your heart to me, for I adore thee
Honed with lies, fucked by cruelty
But you were never proven guilty

No, you were never proven guilty
No, you are still worthy
No, you are a master
A fucking disaster
An asshole drinker
A mister maybe never
A fucker emotionless
I'm not fucking impressed
But you were never guilty and that is why I adore thee.

What happens when drugs meet me.

it's always hard to look at someone in the eye and hear that we're not they want - even when we feel that they were put into our lives for the divine purpose of love. knowing that no matter what we do or say, nothing can change who they are and what they want - it makes us powerless and insignificant. it's hard to think of them living their lives free of us; joyous, purposeful and beautiful while we're left holding on to the hurt that comes with the letting go of something that feels like an organ made for our sole intention. we are in agony and feel complete rejection... but perhaps this is the true understanding: our ingrained feelings are not the only emotions in play; the person we love isn't rejecting us - they are simply accepting themselves.

Do the Beyonce. Arnaldo James Photography, 2011

"somalia, bosnia, cuba, colombia, ecuador, mexico, butanne, morocco, botswana, ghana, india, serbia, syria, lebanon, zambia, namibia, bali, mali, chile, malawi, bequia, st. vincent, trinidad and norway, china, canada, USA and UK, nepal, nigeria, ethiopia, north k, myanmar, panama, philippines, nicaragua, palestine and greece, peru and france; it's so simple, do the dance."

a very random thought i had: i will actually never have the feeling of having sex with the woman who is pregnant with my child. if you think really deeply about this, it's a little sad.

i'm not particularly attracted to pregnant women in any way - sexual or general interest-wise - but imagine being in love with a person, deciding you want to have a baby together and then make love to that person knowing that inside, they are carrying the fruits of your immeasurable love. that's some hot emotional sex.

and hot emotional sex is the best sex. you know it.

For the love of Gay, part une (because everyone knows French is the language of the lovers. Lovers are gay).

For the time being, I live in Trinidad which is a small island in the Caribbean with a big cultural heritage and very big conservative minds, voices, thoughts and lots and lots and loooots of priests.

So it's no surprise that online dating sites - or rather hook up sites - are big business for gay men here. Much of the country's homosexual population is still lurking in the closet like it's 1975, while the ones who are out and living their lives face the stigmitisation that they are not "living on the down low" - a very in-demand trait considering how many men abhorrently administer their very serious intent on only hooking up with masculine, discreet, closeted, married, girlfriended men through a barrage of insulting words on their dating site profiles.

Yes, I'm gay and I don't live the idealised life of Bambi and his thumpy rabbit friend. I don't live in a perfect world where my tastes are as varied as a Frenchman's wine palette - give me scruff, a gravelly voice and a man who doesn't use words like "fabulous" or "ostentatious" and I will probably blush like a virgin whose first pubic hair has just become visible. However, how can there still be gay men living in this year of the Vagina, Twenty-fucking-Thirteen, who believe that someone who lives their life openly and freely (the term "out" grates my nuts. Gay is in, ask HBO) is less than a man? How can there be men who still think that hooking up with people in your twenties, all the way into your forties, without ever knowing the freedom of true love, is "normal"?

I think of myself right now, as I am: a 23-year-old male, living in the Caribbean, pursuing life, figuring out the important things in life (black jeans or blue jeans today?) and gay, gay, gay, gay, gaaaaay. I can't run from it. It's not "who I am". (I know there are so many schools of thought on this one. Is it who we are? Is it not who we are? Is it our dog? Wait... hang on... our dog is really the one who is gay! This has been a matter of gross gay projection! You're saved! Jesus and her 12 girl scouts welcome you into Heaven! Yey, now shut the fuck up and let me finish this post, thanks). But you know what: it's a very large part of who I am. The way I think, the way I dress, the way I comb my hair, the way I speak, what I speak of, who I want to be around, what I watch on television, what I don't watch on television, what I get tattooed on my body - all or slightly in part or maybe probably a very minuscule derivative are affected by the fact that I love cock. The thought of having a job, earning my own money, living in my own house, driving my own car, buying mixed vodka drinks with all the earning I've been doing... the thought of all this while NOT being able to also enjoy the insatiable fact that I am gay makes my knees tremble and I'm sitting down for Christ's cocksake!

Being gay is one of the most delicious experiences I have ever had. I appreciate a woman's ass and tits, albeit in a slightly different way than a heterosexual man (ha, like that exists) may appreciate it (I mostly appreciate how delicately her tits hang in the balance, while admiring the silhouette of that chiffon blouse... oh, wait, is it chiffon or silk?) I can't explain the rush of emotions I get when my palm wraps around a particularly beautiful cock that belongs to a beautiful man, neither can I imagine what it must be like to not care about chapped lips or not moisturising one's face. Ok, I'm kinda kidding about some of these (the kinda kidding that is true and makes you laugh awkwardly because what else are you fucking to do? Just act like you're watching an episode of the Kardashians).

Being gay is fun. And dating a man who is comfortable in that, who owns it, steps up to the plate and can take it. A man whose family members support and love him, whose co-workers say all kinds of fucked up shit like, "Mike can come fishing. The homos like fishing, yeah?" because they KNOW he's a homo, whose 9-year-old niece still asks about his ex from three years ago because she loves his leopard print eye-glasses case - this is the man I would like to date. A man whose life isn't immersed in homosexuality, but whose homosexuality is immersed in his life. And whose only experience being "downlow" is during fucking.