The New Stephon

Stephon shuffles now when he walks, an old man at 43.

His eyes sometimes go vacant in the middle of a conversation, like someone has turned off the lights. He used to dress so snazzy but now his clothes sag sadly. And he is forgetful, sometimes sending the same text message over and over.

“Do you like porn?” he texts to me.

“Yeah, sometimes,” I answer.

And hour later.

“Do you like porn?”

“Stephon, you texted me the same question like 45 minutes ago.”

“I’m so sorry man, I forget things sometimes now.”

Stephon used to be the shit.  A slender, clean-cut country boy with an 11-inch dick he was a valued commodity in the gay world. He was not very handsome or even muscular but white boys ate him up. As long as that black anaconda stayed hard.

We met online about four years ago, banged a bottom together but soon became friends. He had been an enlisted man in the Army and then worked dead-end civilian jobs like reception desks and retail but he managed to drive a spanking new Acura, had a boat docked on the Chesapeake Bay, and lived in a home with expensive furniture.

I was relatively new in the gay world then. But now I have figured it out. Stephon was a kept boy.

And then he disappeared for two years. No phone calls. No Facebook posts. Nada.

Until one day my cellphone chirped and it was Stephon. But it wasn’t Stephon. It was this new guy who walks slowly, zones out in the middle of a convo, and wears baggy clothes that look like hand-me-downs.

Here’ the story. Stephon caught syphilis and got antibiotics. But a year later he started fainting at work. He didn’t have medical insurance and no one would treat him for what he thought was some neurological ailment.

“You were in the Army. Can’t you go to the VA?,” his sister asked.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Stephon said.

So he goes to the VA and they find out no the syphilis is not cured and it has spread to the brain, dug in and carved lesions, which is the reason Stephon is fainting and having short-term memory loss.

So now he is cured but not really cured because his brain is still addled. He can’t work. Has no car. Has no place. The well-to-do white men who used to look after him are gone. Things got so bad for a time he had to live with his brother, who hates that Stephon is gay because they were raised in a very conservative, Pentecostal family where homosexuality was considered an abomination.

“Those nasty white boys gave me syphilis,” a bitter Stephon now says.

But I have to call him up on that. In further conversations I discover he hated wearing condoms because they fit poorly over his big dick. So he mostly had raw sex.

“So Stephon you can’t blame anybody else man. You have to take responsibility for your own health.”

“And by the way, if you were having unprotected sex did you get an HIV test?”

Stephon looks at me long and deeply and says nothing. He doesn’t even have to respond because I know the answer.

“Stephon, are you taking medications for HIV? You can stay healthy if you do.”

“Immanuel, I’m so forgetful now I can’t remember to take my pills on time right after I eat.”

“Stephon, do you have a social worker or something to help you out? Man, you have to look out for yourself.”

“Yeah, I got a social worker but she doesn’t help me with keeping pills organized.”

“Mama, Mia!,” I think to myself. I want to reach out and slap him. But what can I do? Negro is grown.

So when Stephon visits from out of town I try to spend time with him and talk with him and encourage him.

My partner Morgan and I hosted Thanksgiving Dinner for a few friends  yesterday. Stephon was in town and we invited him. He was the last to arrive at 9:30 p.m. because he was visiting friends in the hospital.

I pick him up from the subway station. The turkey and trimmings are cold but I heat them up in the microwave. Stephon sits alone at the dining room table because everyone else has eaten and had seconds and thirds hours before.

I offer to make him a bed for the night but this new Stephon is like a child, restless with a short attention span.

“I have keys to my buddy’s house and I’m going to spend the night there,” he says. “I can take the Metro.”

He is grown and I have to let him go. I drive Stephon back to the Metro station. And he shuffles off into the night.

Rules of a Threesome

Morgan and I woke up this chilly morning feeling lazy. Thanksgiving is just two days away so traffic is a bit lighter and offices are already half empty. So why rush in to the work when you have a fine man laying in bed with you?

So I rolled over and kissed his neck while intertwining my legs with his. And then I lay on top of him with my head nuzzled against his shoulder. I could feel the warmth of his penis rubbing against mine,  the hair on his thighs tickling my thighs. My dick started to grow hard.

We talked about what we had to to do today, the errands we had to run, and how our relationship was going. How we were both predominately tops and now that we were together we had learned to give each other ass. Which led  Morgan to ask this question:

“What do you miss being in a relationship with me?”

I didn’t hesitate to answer. “Threesomes.”

“Yeah, it would be nice to get a bottom and just abuse them,” Morgan said, smiling slightly.

“I would like to see you bang out a bottom and I know you would get excited seeing me,” I said. “Remember, that’s how we met.”

Morgan remembered and chuckled. “Look, we are going on a cruise next month. Let’s do a threesome,” he said.

“Okay I will let you pick who it is,” I answered. “You are more picky than I am.”

“But look, I want to set a rule — no kissing,” I said.

“And I don’t want you eating out anybody else’s ass and kissing me later,” Morgan said.

“Cool, I can live with that.”

A San Francisco State University survey of 566 gay male couples that was released this year found about half have sex outside of the relationship and the other partner knows about it (to learn more about the study click here to read a San Francisco Chronicle article.) Some articles about the study said heterosexual couples are learning a secret many gay couples have known for decades — having a threesome or allowing playing on the side can actually invigorate a relationship and help build trust.

However there are risks. Some couples who are in a dying or bad relationship turn to outside sex and threesomes to revive a corpse that is long past resuscitation. Or they could end up forming a too-close attachment to the person bought in to spice up sex.

In fact California social worker Ken Howard, who offers gay marriage therapy, advises clients to have a deep discussion about why they want other partners before they actually sit down and lay down the rules. Is one partner trying to exert his power or will over another by demanding another sex partner? Is the request for a threesome masking some deeper relationship issue that needs to be addressed?

Morgan is seven years older than me and has always lived a gay lifestyle. He explained he would rather have a threesome while we take vacations because Washington, D.C. where we live has a large gay population where everybody knows everyone and everybody gossips. Why let messy people get into our relationship just to bust a nutt?

I agree with him on that. We will see how the vacation threesome goes.

The Honeymoon is Over

We bicker now. Over stupid shit, like how to scramble a perfect egg or load the dishwasher.

“Put the top of the plates facing inward so the dishwasher can clean them better,” “Morgan” says to me.

“Negro, who is cleaning this dirty ass kitchen tonight? Me or you?,” I answer, my voice testy but amused. “If you want the dishwasher loaded a certain way well goddammit you should have started cleaning it first.”

Morgan used to whip me up gourmet flans for dessert. Now he runs across the street to the Korean market for ice cream sandwiches for dessert — you can get the cheap ones two for $2.

We used wander museums on the weekend, admiring the work of the masters. Now most weekends we lay on the sofa in the TV room in our underwear, watching DVDs. I fart in the comforter and laugh when Morgan wrinkles up his nose.

Yep, you can say the honeymoon is over. I’ve been dating Morgan now for 10 months, the longest I have dated any man since I went from the straight world to the gay world.  A few days after we met I started spending the night and just never went home. So I gave up my lease in July and moved to his rowhouse. He has met my mother and my daughter has come over weekends to hang out, sometimes bringing a friend.

You can say this gay relationship has settled into the comfort zone. It’s not perfect but it’s a lot better than I expected.

I’m Back

Five years ago I was a married African American man who acted on a fantasy, tasted the forbidden fruit, and made a leap over the rainbow to the gay side.

Today I’m on my way to divorce, in a relationship with a man, and living an increasingly open gay life. I chronicled my moving, sad, hilarious, and very sexually titillating journey in the now-defunct Blogspot blog, Confessions of a Down Low Brother.

I plan to write about new relationships and life and offer you the best of the old blog, Confessions of a Down Low Brother.

My fans have been clamoring for me to return. I think I’m ready now. So let’s go