Asphyxiation

Headless, oiled torsos. Mushroom heads. White sticky jizz juice dotting mouths agape. Extra tight shots of rather loose holes staring at you, unblinking and unending. And wanton disregard for proper grammar. To traverse the world of casual gay sex is an exercise in gag control. In more ways than one. It is often easy to forget and best to neglect the fact that these are real people behind such appealing headlines as “DAD I want to be inside you,” “i wanna rip a hole in your ass,” “SNIFF MY HOT, HAIRY HOLE” and “Insatiable Piss Pig .” Gays the world over, all ages and races are united in the pursuit of one thing: satisfying their ravenous sexual appetites. But in this pursuit, romance has surely died a violent, erotic death. Sex is disposable and subsequently, people are disposable. I mourn its passing. As a reluctant romantic, I feel it necessary to at least know my sexual partners. I am not so foolish as to think of love as a prerequisite for sex. If I did, surely I’d still be a virgin—though after eight months of unsolicited celibacy, I feel I can humorlessly reclaim my V-card. And furthermore, love does not exist for gay men. It is only a façade we use to disguise how sad and pathetic our lives are. Not that gay men cannot experience love, far be it. Love is the truest of human emotion. It is that gay men cannot tend to love as it needs to be tended to. Love needs patience to grow, whereas gay men are men after all, thus lack that patience. I would want nothing more to be in love, but I refuse to hold my breath should I die from asphyxiation.

I have been using the word “faggot” with as much vigor and malice as possible recently. I love the way its venom burns my tongue. The act of saying it relieves my frustration at having all of my advances spurned or ignored. Whether online or in the real gay world, a fabrication if there ever was one, each time I am rejected I take it as a personal affront. One must understand that being on the fringes of a group already on the fringes of society makes one particularly sensitive. Are you turning me down because I’m black? Does being black make me somehow less worthy of your affections? Whenever considering approaching a guy, regardless of race, I must always stop and wonder if my own race will be a hindrance or an asset. This insecurity is only compounded by the proliferation of ads specifying racial identity among the qualifications for having access to the wonders of someone’s dick/ass/mouth/whatever have you. Faggots. Why should race even matter in this day and age? Make no mistake, though, it does. America has a rich tradition of intolerance and it is virtually impossible to deny one’s roots. Then there’s the blatant shallowness of hooking up itself. Survival of the fittest. Or the biggest. Or the deep throatiest. I’m as shallow as the next gay, but what is all this competition worth? What is this game worth? No matter how much sex you have—or in my case, don’t have—the same loneliness will remain like a tumor beneath your skin. Only growing and spreading, infecting every aspect of your life. Yes, I do think that gay life is extremely pathetic and hollow. I’d love to get laid soon, if only to ease the burden of this loneliness. It is crucial to feel wanted and attractive. Everyone deserves those sensations. Does everyone also deserve to be needed and loved? I hope so, for the life of me. Youth, inexperience and an insatiable lust for life can be the worst of fates when faced with no one with which to share them.