I desperately need your help. I’m falling for this guy. He is so masculine and handsome and everything I want in a man. But he’s DL, has a girlfriend/baby mother, and he only wants to see me at night. Something tells me this isn’t going anywhere but I can’t help but hold out hope. What shall I do?
Dear Down-low Lover,
Looks like stupid Cupid called again, but he only wanted a quickie. Fast love broke you in and left you wet. He left me the same way.
I first met him in a New York club. I hung out for hours looking for a man, donning a black kilt and white boots. He walked over like a basketball player, towering over me at 6’5. He had a light skin tone, wore baggy jeans, and a black leather Letterman jacket.
“I want to fuck the shit out of you,” he whispered in my ear. He rubbed his facial hair against my smooth skin, caressing my ear lobes in this lips. I wanted him.
We exchanged numbers. I danced like a gypsy in my induced state, swaying my hips offbeat. My heart raced, sweat swept across my brow. I felt the music inside me. This is going to be a night to remember.
Two hours later, he arrived at my place in Brooklyn. It was 5 o’clock in the morning. And I was horny. I’ve been calling all night. We tiptoed down the dark hall to my room, which was next to the bedroom. He took off his jacket and fitted cap and hung it on the door of my closet. His legs were the length of my dresser.
I decorated my room like a lounge, with a black accent wall and matching furniture. We sat on my futon, talked and drank wine. Rap music blared from his phone.
“You know I may be big but I’m real shy,” he said.
“Oh, are you.” I said as I slipped off my white boots.
The loneliness was palpable. Did I want a deeper connection than sex? And why was I so willing to fuck him?
I went to the bathroom between cocktails to freshen up. I returned yawning.
“Oh, you getting tired,” he said.
“No, I thought we were going to have some fun tonight,” I said.
“Sweetheart, I told you I was shy,” he said. “I’m not used to this.”
I sat down while he poured himself another glass. It was already 6:30 am and half the bottle was gone. He guzzled the wine like it was Kool-aid. He stood right in front of me.
I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. His pale penis came out and it melted in my mouth like a warm glazed donut.
“Yeah, baby,” he said. “Suck this dick.”
My ass moistened. I sucked his dick for a few minutes. I reached under the bed and pulled out a box of condoms.
“Which one do you like?” I said. “I have Magnums, Lifestyles, and Trojans oh my.”
“Nah,” he said while my pulling on my kilt.
“I always use one of these,” I said. “They are good for you.”
He sucked his teeth and selected the Magnum.
Who was he fooling? His dick looked about seven inches. I lubed myself up and I pulled my kilt up and laid on my stomach. He struggled to find the spot and needed guidance. I shifted his dick like a stick shift and plopped it in.
It lasted 5 minutes.
“Damn, I’m too drunk,” he said.
I sipped wine and gave him a towel to clean himself.
Our conversation transitioned.
“You know I got a wife, right?” He said it like he was asking for change.
“Um, no. Somehow that didn’t come up.”
He slipped on his jeans and his shoes.
“Yeah, she’s pregnant right now.”
I felt embarrassed. I was so drunk and I liked him. But I had to known he couldn’t be mine — right?
After he left. I started obsessing about him. Talking about him to my friends, fantasizing about him at night. He represented that hood fantasy that wasn’t real. I was delusional and drunk of his smell, his touch, his masculinity.
He was from DC like me. And unlike me, he had aspirations to play professional basketball. But a drug charge long before weed was legal had him caught up in the system that seemed to only trap black men. Was that why he over-drank and cheated on his pregnant wife?
Down Low men are so dangerous. These thugs tug on your heartstrings and then your g-strings. They hide behind their heterosexual identity during the day while engaging in homosexual acts on my futon at night. Some won’t even speak to you on the street. But why the craving? Is it the mere association of seemingly straight men providing another notch on the belt? Why do we covet them?
I went from talking about Wes to stalking him. I hit the clubs sedated with vodka with a friend looking for him. I pretended like I didn’t know him. And I always waited for him to approach me in that same Letterman jacket and dark jeans.
I watched him throw his desperate ass at any trans in the vicinity, clinging to an empty cup. When did I enter the same category of the high-risk t-girls with botched booties and bad wigs?
For some reason, they seemed to get the most masculine men. Twerking to Tyga or dropping it low to Drake had the hood men lined up.
I wore kilts and docs, thigh high socks, leather jackets and slinky tanks. I also had straight hair, often styled in a sweeping bang and a ponytail. Getting fucked and feeling fabulous gave me confidence. Was I broken?
No one talked about the loneliness of living in a big city. Strangers surrounded me. Filling myself with cocktails and cocks left me empty in the Empire City.
When your friends, family, and favorite comedies can’t lift your spirits, Sex and the City, FaceTime, and wine were savory dishes. But wasting your youth on dick, drinks, and drugs will have you ass swinging from a “Chandelier” like Sia.
Let’s not wallow away until we pass like night. I no longer wanted that life. I hardly knew him before I blew him. That’s the life of pinning after shameless men and trying to turn sex into something more.
I never fucked him again. I can’t imagine letting him in raw, that would be like inviting half the city to your bed. There are no awards for free trips to the clinic. I never aspired to the cum dumps splattered on Craigslist.
Don’t let the melancholy and men weigh you down. When your life is the balance, you need a voice. Fast love can be fun and fleeting in the moment. But what happens when that moment passes?
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