Tuesday, December 29, 2009

My Name is NOT Precious

Picture this: Chelsea, a dive bar, a pair of sunglasses an oversalted margarita:a Sunday afternoon! From the other end of the bar I hear a shrill something-too high pitched for a normal human, too high pitched for dog, even. I immediately whip my head over to look for my Ipod to see if I left it on, but it wasn't the sound of music I was hearing it was the sound of a sissy from the corner. I bury my head with shame feeling the effects of Free Hot Dog Night with purchase of a Long Island, when that ping hits me again. I shudder and I think, you must have never seen puberty and I mean not even waved at the bitch as she did drive by to all your friends houses. Where the hell is the bass in your voice? Through my fog I hear, "Precious, I loved you in the movie!" SILENCE. Repeat. "Precious, I loved you in the movie!" Insert wide eyes and dry mouth.
Honey, I gagged. A spit take may have occured. I may have rolled my eyes so intensly my contacts shifted, I may have become instantly sober. As if I didn't hear the insult clearly this queen continued, "Precious, you look thinner than you did in the movie?" Honey this white queen has just made me see blood! As I put my drink back in my hand, stuff my pride neatly in my change purse, I scream a stream of curse words, stuff so vile I can't even write them out. *Sidenote: a senior gay may or may not has pissed himself from laughter and another did too, but I think that's just how he gets off-either way, wierd!*

Now my momma told me a couple of very important things to remember in my life:
1) Keep yo house clean black folks talk about you!
2) Don't get fucked by a white man!
Those principles may not apply right now to this situation but I went in.
Let's just say by the time I got done with that overgrown Michelle Tanner I was banned from the bar, which is fine, they put too much salt on their margaritas anyway! In case you were wondering, my face still ain't scarred! Werk!

The point of this blog is to say: My white queens don't get too comfortable!

Just cause you got one black gay friend don't mean you can come out of your head that way. NOT all black people do runs. NOT all black people like to be called girlfriend or sister. NOT all black people snap their fingers and roll their eyes. NOT all black people are hood. NOT all black people who are overweight are named Precious.

Damn, now I need another drink, that wore me out.

Friday, December 11, 2009


Here's the thing: Bubbleguts are not fun. As a matter of fact, they are rude!

Last night I was on the town, painting it a fierce lavender when I realized I hadn't eaten all day. To conclude my night I stopped by my local chicken shack, at which point I made it my personal goal to snactch up everything greasy and fried, which I did. I may or may not have had two Jamaican beef patties and a Spicy chicken sandwhich and a Mr. Goodbar and a two or three cups of purple soda, in one sitting. Gag, it's okay....I did, afterwords of course! Well this morning when I arose to start my self imposed productive day, I felt a rumble in the tummy and let out the anger of my insides when an instant round two kicked in. Shit i thought. NO literally I thought how much shit is gonna come out of me.
I tried to use all the tricks of the trade: eat some bread, drink some seltzer, pray...nothing worked. Does a rumble in the belly mean that you can't go about your day? As a matter of fact it does not! There I sat positioned at my favorite Starbucks when pot of butt coffee started brewing. With shame and embarassment I entered the resteraunt and began to let go and let God. And now with shame in my heart and the fear of a possible toilet seat induced STD, I write this blog for you. Here is my confession....don't pig out late at night...it's never pretty in the morning!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

To be or not to be...

Somedays I don't feel like being fabulous. Somedays I feel like being utterly human. Today is a day of the latter.
Strength comes from understanding and making wise, beautiful decisions based on those understandings. My life has been a constant struggle to find strength in my utter humaness. To be fabulous and fierce is easy. People only recognize the strength of the personae that you've created. This wall, unpenetrable by typical humans, serves as a secure blanket, a Great Wall of China, a defense mechansm-sometimes glittered and bejeweled, but none the less a defense mechanism. I started building that wall as a child.
I grew up a fat kid. A poor, fat kid. A poor, bad skin, awkward looking fat kid. Comedy was my only escape. I sliced people with my words. I fought with an educated tongue. I mutalated the weak with quick wit. I protected my often exposed underbelly with sarcasm. I was safe in my tower. I was alone in my towere. Somethings never change. Here I sit in a corner of a Starbucks in the biggest city in the world alone. Conversing solely with the only other person I trust whole heartedly,my mind,alone.
I have a psychopassion for the arts, whether it be creating or performing, I can't be left without it. In that passion comes my insanity. I think sometimes a great majority of my problems comes from the fact that I am absolutely attached to my emotions, I just never share with others what I need.
I feel deeply. I cry when joy or passion or anger or fear consume me. The sadness comes when I question why I honor these emotions. When I doubt my beauty, my intelligence, my importance to others, that is when the sadness comes.
My heart chirps melodies all the time. My ears tune into harmonies. My soul vibrates in every cavity with acceptance and peace and thankfulness and humility and importance and want and hardwork, but it's SILENCED when DOUBT appears. I bang my chest and I hear babies giggle. I beat harder and me holding my nephew and niece for the first time and my heart jumpstarts. I rub my heart and my mom smiles at me and calls me her husband. I touch my belly and the legacy of my grandmothers stories stir my soul. I tug my ear and my dad sings with me. I slap my thighs and I dance with the angels who share the names of my bestfriends. I stomp my foot, open my arms, close my eyes and expose my heart and I scream Hallelujah! I dance till it hurts, I sing till I'm hoarse, I laugh till Icramp. I've not lost that which makes me beautifully human, my faults, my falters, my scars, my pain is my humanity. No longer silenced by doubt my soul rejoices,my heart smiles. I embrace my greatness for me and I celebrate the embracing and finding of your greatness. With fingers vibrating and tapping toes I end these thoughts. They are not finish, for they will continue to grow, but they have spoken to me enough for now. And for that I'm grateful. Maybe today 'm not intenesly fabulous, but I am utterly human.

Monday, November 16, 2009


He did it again today….
He called. He called? He called and for a moment I stopped breathing and for a moment I was pissed and for many moments afterword, I was hurt.

Here’s the thing…
A few years ago, at the ripe age of 16 my father caught me and my neighbor/best friend fooling around. We were up in the old tree house in the backyard, apparently he called me to come down, and I didn’t hear him, which was no shock because I had a dick in my mouth. Earlier in the week, for the very first time, I’d discovered porn. Poor Ryan didn’t know that he was going to be my lab rat that afternoon. We were in the middle of the “somewhere over the rainbow” when I heard a loud scream. As I was coming out of my backbend, I see a fist coming towards my face. I felt a cowboy boot kick me in the rib, the warmth of spit crowned my head and the screams of hate and disappointment rang back and forth in my already throbbing head. And the only thing I could think was, if Ryan didn’t like it that much all he had to do was say something, ass. As another fist attacked my already shaken body, the voice rang in my head again, and I realized that hate was spewing out of the mouth of my father. These words, these wound inflicting, heart scarring words, were falling out of the mouth of the same man who said he loved me not even four hours before. I didn’t know what to do.

“You disgust me you faggot! Get the fuck out of my face and out of my house!” I can hear the melody of his hate to this day, every pitch, and every inflection. I can see the spit gathered at the side of his mouth. I remember saying nothing. I remember hearing my heart crack. I remember feeling blood trickle over my lip. I remember my world stopping. The last thing I remember, after gathering my things and what I had left of my pride, was the sting of his hand against the back of head and an “I wish you were never born, I hate you!”
He left the next day. I lost a father. I lost one half of my support team. I lost the man who taught me to play catch and the piano. I lost the man who bragged to everybody how he could hold me in the palm of his hand. I lost the man whose splitting image I became.
I gained a new understanding of me.
He called today for the first time since then. I didn’t answer.
I wonder what happened to Ryan?

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Here’s the thing…

Man + titties= mitties. Hi I’m Brayden and I have mitties! Just your good ole fashion, true to everyday fashion man titties! I can’t. Today I tried on a wife beater, the terms not PC but who gives a fword, and noticed two small mounds protruding from where my caramel pecs once stood. WTF? This weight gain is like herpes it starts at your mouth and moves all over your whole body. I just can’t. What’s next, cankles? Damage, I’ve got those too. I’ve learned through my years of gayness that there are three things you never say to gay men:

1. Your going bald,
2. Your getting old
3. You’ve got man tits!
I don’t know maybe I made up the last one but dang it it’s relevant.

I would like to take some time now to provide some facts backslash observations I’ve notice. Do stay tuned…

Fact 1. Man titties look good on no one. Babies can pass because they’re cute and baby smelly and fat and still vomit on themselves. But once that oh-my-God-you-were- just-born -charm runs out, they’re lives also start to go down the drain.

Fact 2. Man titties are often sported with pride by senior citizens who want to show that they’ve still got some muscle on their 649 year old bodies, granted the muscles have completely fallen victim to gravity and Ben Gay, but nonetheless, a shape of a former beautiful pectoral is still outlined.

Fact 3. Man titties pose a health threat. There are no manuals on proper man titty health. Is there a mammogram that specializes in tit l’ homme, and if so what kind of doctor would perform the test, an outofshapeatologist? Where could a fellow go to perhaps get his moobies sized? Is there a danger in taking a sensible jog with a malter(man halter) or morts bro(male sports bra). All these are uncertain, unfortunate things that come about from this situation.

Friends there has got to be a way. A way for people with man tits and those without to live together in perfect harmony. I have a dream. I have a dream that one day I too could wear a high waist 1922 style pant and not have my moobs dangle o’er my belt. I have a dream. I have a dream that one day black tit and white tit could live together and be judged not by the content or girth of their mitties, but their style of dress, as all good gay men should be judged, I have a dream. I have a dream that with enough working out, a plastic surgeon and check cut straight from my trust fund that I too could be shirtless at 6 Flags.
Enough with all this cra-cra, I’m off to the gym!

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Prince Charming

Today, hunty, today.
I just left a Starbucks, enjoying a sensible, yet non recession proof 1.92 cup of coffee, when I fell in love. I mean maybe not love, but an intense lust with a twinkle of hope in my heart and an extra rise in my groin. Walking down the street clad in a skinny jean, a winter fur lined vest, Canal sunglasses and Uggs-my Thursday brunch in the City look-I walked past this store and there he was. Ohhh just thinking about it makes me giddy. I look at him, he looks back, I look away. He looks, I look, we both look away. I look, he looks, hell...look you get the point. My breath was taking away and I didn't know what I wanted to do. So I test the water. I swing my head, give such a smokey eye that my iris cramps, by the way,awkward, and I lick my lips. He continues to stare blankly, judging, not judging, staring all glassy eyed and I'm thinking what the f-word. I look at my phone, fake a text, all the while glancing over at him. I can feel him staring but now, now I've got to play hard to get. I drop a piece of paper daintily out of my bag and in my best gutter butt Playboy mansion kind of way, pick it up. I can feel him staring, oh and it feels good. I'm not letting him get these Lil Debbie snacks that easily, but I can't take it anymore. I walk back up to the window, wink and go inside. There is a woman between me and him and him and I. I get nervous...is this another one of those damn DL brothers? Shit, i misjudged. I simply can't ignore her like any other woman in my life, so I speak to her very annoyed. "I'm sorry how much for that black dildo in the window?"

Who says the man of your dreams can't be found. I found mine being at the right place at the right time. Excuse me, I have a little date with my Prince Charming.

Friday, October 23, 2009

I get my skinny jeans from Lane Bryant

Here' s the thing...my name is Brayden and I am a plus size twink and I've got a h-word of a lotta of s-word to say. Didn't mean to be so matter of fact, or blunt, but that's how I do. Now listen, I wasn't always a thick boy, i once took great pride in having the smallest waist in my high school, honey, a smedium draped off of these broad shoulders. Everybody hated me and I loved it! I ate it up and that's all i would eat. I was fierce and the kids-those friends, strangers, pioneers, bullfrogs-were gagging. I was the belle of the ball, the talk of the town, the Jasmine to an entire schools Aladdin. One, part one, and don't get that confused with any other points following after, i want you to remember that i was the only brown kid in my school. Some could and would say I looked like a sand colored John Travolta, and i would say , true and thank you. Not only did wavy black hair adorn my head but green eyes greeted everyone who met me. Conceited, a little. So to hit the bullets: thin, attractive, thin, attractive...thin. Until, the track meet of junior year. That f-word track meet of junior year. The year that my favorite two adjectives would never be applied to my life. So here's what happened, gag kids, gag. There I am in my custom running shorts-a snazzy purple sateen short with Liza written in rhinestones across the back and a sensible black t-shirt: some would say ready to run and once again i retort, stretched and plied and for good measure an "eat my dust". After feeling sassy i realize that i have to pee. 2 minutes before the race begins and a tinkle wells up in my groin so i take off in hopes of making back in time. I can feel the breeze in my locks, i round the corner, make it to the bathroom, do what i need to do and head back to the track when 2 steps away from safety i slip on some motherf-word vomit, that some sorry sack of s-word deposited on the lawn from the pickle fall festival the night before, caught air and the ground caught my a-word and there i was two torn ACL's and a rapid equation for obesity. I was taking out! Lying flat on my back all i could think of was how the f-word did i just end my motherf-word career and i could find that sorry son of a b-word who did this i would f-word his a-word all of this h-word(Mormon i don't swear, suck dick, but don't swear) whoever did this is gonna pay with their a-word!
The doctor told me, 6 weeks of being flat on my back and i thought, what's different from my everyday life, get it...i was trying to say that i enjoy male attention and being on my back was how i usually...you get it. In six weeks I gained 30 lbs and get this, my track, dance, freestyle walking career was over. My cute outfits were no more. That all took place 4 years ago and the weight game never stopped. I went from shopping in preteens to husky to big and tall. From baby gap to getting skinny jeans at Lane Bryant. And all because of some Fall Pickle Festival. I can't!