ebony

skin like molasses,
smooth, curling, drenched
with the whitest teeth and beautiful urban gorg
and hair that kinks outward as if reaching for the unseen

proud, beautiful, strong
own it.
you are the last one
the last beauty to exist

the truth in your skin reveals a million layers:
hurt, beauty, angst, anger
but what is the use
you are excused.

privilege, disregard and a willingness to be
to survive and paint on
to swish your colours around,
make the world see that you are more than you are

you are the one,
the great beauty,
the only thing worthy,
a fool's heart's thievery.
ebony.

the long road.

i'd been waiting to meet him for months. i'd added him while trolling random guys on facebook. creepy, yes, but he had one if those super-watt smiles that makes you want to feel that happiness.

we exchanged a couple of messages but he was never very forthcoming to conversation and i figured he wasn't interested in me. why would he be? he was perfect and i was a stalker who messaged him on facebook about some arbitrary topic to make the awkward opening only slightly less awkward. he had tons of friends, he was active and glowing and i was stuck somewhere between heartbroken and heartstrong. a real catch.

eventually i gave up and stopped messaging him, i deleted him from facebook after adding him aggressively because i had already embarrassed myself enough. my jaded energy rubbed off on everything i was part of. i was low and scared and unsure and markedly unhappy about every romantic piece of shattered glass in my life.

this year we started speaking again. i messaged, of course, but i couldn't help it. i was scrolling through my whatsapp contacts and there he was. smile and all. we would exchange occasional "heys", sometimes i would message and receive no reply which i began to understand was not an attack on me but simply his busy life. cool.

we stopped talking for a bit again. occasionally i would say hi and he would tell me he was horny or masturbating. i didn't really know how to take those messages. as poignant as my sexual past is (that may be an odd adjective but it has been... poignant), sexually aggressive and straightforward messages aren't my forte. i wield my sexual energy through physical interaction - it's stronger and more authentic that way. sending a dick pic really doesn't get my juices bubbling. whenever he would message in this manner, i would laugh it off and nothing more. the conversation would die until the next awkward hello.

once i asked if he would ever be interested in meeting. we both go to the same university so meeting would not be a problem. he informed me that he was busy with school and that if we ever met it would have to be on his terms and i couldn't rush it. those were his words: his terms. i assumed he meant he wanted absolute control of the situation and didn't want to be pressured. every subsequent message about meeting would either go unanswered or ignored completely - why can't i read "the signs"? because my quest for this love-construct i have created in my head outweighs the signs.

this week i messaged him early in the morning. "jocking" was his response when i asked what he was up to. "jocking" is colloquial for masturbating. i replied, "show me." on came a sleuth of photographs of his erection from various angles. suffice to say, i was instantly drawn in. the conversation meandered along, until he asked my sexual position - a question i abhor over a textual conversation. i answered "vers" but with a disclaimer: that sexual chemistry wasn't something to be decided over a whatsapp conversation.

"i'm top," he appropriated. so there it was - no questions, this was who he was. this was a sexual conversation. this was not about how cute my profile picture looked or how well-spoken i was. it wasn't about my intellectual ability or stimulating conversation. it was about my anus.

"would you let me fuck you?"

"yes," i said - unsure of myself. did i enjoy bottoming? certainly not in a random hookup instance. impersonal, in agony and detached is how i feel if ever getting fucked by a complete stranger. it isn't my sexual caviar. but his smile, the 3083498 penis shots he had sent and the fact that i had been trying to meet this boy in the flesh for a long time overrode the facts that i knew within myself. i put aside who i am and what i know of me for him.

he was a horny fucker that morning and thus he said we could meet later that evening. i was excited. very excited. but i was excited because i wanted to meet a beautiful guy who i could connect with; a guy who would want to hold my hand while i put my head in the nook of his neck while we spoke about last night's episode. the purpose of this meeting was thoroughly sex, though, as put forward by him. he even asked that i bring condoms. but this is where my mind plays the trick: i cannot disengage between what i want and the actual reality of what someone is requesting of me. in actuality, i probably fall too easily, love too much and have a massive amount of hope that is truly saddening, threatening and scary.

throughout the day i messaged him and asked if we would still meet. "yeah, most likely." most likely. the two words that kept me going through that tuesday - even in that instance "most likely" was a shining beacon to me, when in reality it was the invalidation of my emotions. it was not a definite answer, it was not a "yes, i want to meet you and can't wait." it was a consolation, it was a maybe i can, maybe i can't - you're just going to have to wait see if i'm still horny enough to be tantalised by the thought of meeting you to stick my penis inside you. i was the crack addict and the prospect of meeting a guy that seemed sexually appealing and also vaguely sweet was rock. and i was ready to inhale.

we met in the darkness an hour after we had planned. he saw me coming and walked over. "james?" he asked although it was obvious i was james. i was nervous and desperate: i oozed it; i smiled at him, i engaged him, i simultaneously wanted to die and rise. we walked for a bit until deciding to sit in a dark park area on campus. we spoke for some time, nice conversation really about many things. were we forging a connection or was this polite preamble? eventually we went off in search of some adventurous space to fuck.

polite preamble, it was.

we found a spot and started to kiss. it was nice. he is slightly taller than me, the perfect height for intimate kissing, where you can lean your bodies together and feel your heartbeats as if they are colliding in the same space. things got heated and then i lied: i said i didn't have a condom. he wanted to fuck anyway.

"that's irresponsible," was my stance. the real irresponsibility was lying about not having a condom, not being honest about why i didn't want to have sex, giving in completely to my physical ethos and sucking his cock the first ever time meeting him. so, there i was: a hypocrite, a liar and completely emotionally dressed up, pretending to be someone i wasn't and acting like i wanted things without being specific about the context in which i needed them.

"you know, when someone sticks their cock in my ass i usually prefer that i be in love with them." why couldn't i say that? why couldn't i be honest? was i that hyper-aware of his feelings? too accommodating to the stranger i met who would fuck me without a condom because he was so involved in his own visceral experience to care about every other conjecture?

yes, it was the first time we had met but did that mean that my wants and needs were any less than it would be if it was the fifteenth time we had met? no.

honesty is like the trap door you so desperately want to peer through but are too nervous or incomplete to be able to fully accept what it could reveal when opened. it's there - present, abrupt, nagging - but it's shunned. don't be too honest upfront, don't lay all your cards on the table, play the game, don't say i love you first, don't let yourself feel more than the other person, don't tell him that or he will freak out.

where did all this advice come from? and who thinks being this repressed about your emotional necessities is healthy to anyone? holding back isn't going to hurt the guy who "most likely" would see me at 7pm which turned into 8. it isn't going to exonerate him, or fulfill him, or make him feel satisfied that he was at least the person he knew he was. it hurts me - the one who knows that the experience i want is not the one being experienced.

i am so far away from the person i think i am. my mind and actions don't work in tandem and i am probably self-destructive to a tee. and so the long road awaits, the one where i walk and "find myself", and get to some place "within me" - some dodgy, corny hogwash. at the core, the reality is i need to start caring as much about myself as i care about the projection of myself.

and i need to be enough.

The Game Changed in Venezuela Last Night – and the International Media Is Asleep At the Switch

Francisco Toro / 8 hours ago

San Cristobal on Tuesday night

Dear International Editor:
Listen and understand. The game changed in Venezuela last night. What had been a slow-motion unravelling that had stretched out over many years went kinetic all of a sudden.
What we have this morning is no longer the Venezuela story you thought you understood.
Throughout last night, panicked people told their stories of state-sponsored paramilitaries on motorcycles roaming middle class neighborhoods, shooting at people and  storming into apartment buildings, shooting at anyone who seemed like he might be protesting. People continue to be arrested merely for protesting, and a long established local Human Rights NGO makes an urgent plea for an investigation into widespread reports of torture of detainees. There are now dozens of serious human right abuses: National Guardsmen shooting tear gas canisters directly into residential buildings. We have videos of soldiers shooting civilians on the street. And that’s just what came out in real time, over Twitter and YouTube, before any real investigation is carried out. Online media is next, a city of 645,000 inhabitants has been taken off the internet amid mounting repression, and this blog itself has been the object of a Facebook “block” campaign.
What we saw were not “street clashes”, what we saw is a state-hatched offensive to suppress and terrorize its opponents.
After the major crackdown on the streets of major (and minor) Venezuelan cities last night, I expected some kind of response in the major international news outlets this morning. I understand that with an even bigger and more photogenic freakout ongoing in an even more strategically important country, we weren’t going to be front-page-above-the-fold, but I’m staggered this morning to wake up, scan the press and find…
Nothing.
As of 11 a.m. this morning, the New York Times World Section has…nothing.

Click here for the full article on caracaschronicles.com

sneaky, bitchy, gravy.

if integrity was a bank, you wouldn't be broke
you'd be cracked, demolished, fucking up in smoke
you'd be sippin' on leaves with a little pinky out
pretending to be classy with so much jizz in your mouth
shizz in your mouth, inked lies in your mouth
"why you lookin so trash?" everybody shout
bleeding your stank-ass shit all about
words from the birds, skyfall with gravity
how could a broke bitch like you tackle me?
nothing you say ever computes
do me a favour: get the remote, press mute
you probably believe every single word you say
you got a fugly-ass soul, personally honed everyday
your hair is so big, it's full of secrets
sad-ass fuck - wish you could beat this
eat this, elite this, street this, be this
i totally love your skirt, tell me where you got it
on second thought - fucking choke on a cockpit
i mean, olive pit... i mean, stop it... i mean, cock, bitch
i got that steady flow, you a wide-set vagina
or better yet, let's keep it gender-neutral because you so blah
got something to say then just spit it in my face
but don't spray it because i'm the real mace
pepper me up, salt-shake me all around
i'll show you the most seasoned thing to go down
be real, get real for once in your fucking life
don't just say some programmed shit you think is right

you might be the sneak but i'm already at the peak
add six more shots cuz your shit is weak
tip-toe everywhere like a muh fucking ballerina
cinch that tutu in cuz i can still see ya

http://instagram.com/p/kkmTxdnRvU/

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.