Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows

Sen. Larry Craig (R-Idaho) was arrested in 2007 for soliciting sex in a public bathroom. He said he would resign but later decided to finish out his term. He did not run for reelection in 2008.

A few years ago I answered an ad on Craigslist from this professional, black bottom who was used to running things but wanted to give up control to a dominant top with a big dick.

“Use my ass like pussy,” the advertisement read. “Make me get on my knees and serve that dick and become your little bitch.”

He showed a picture of his chest and torso. He was a little toward the heavy side but still appealing.

“Ummm,” I thought. This might be interesting.

So I answered the advertisement and was pleasantly surprised that he answered me promptly via email and agreed to meet up the next day at lunchtime for a meet-and-greet.

We met in front of his office building. As I got closer he looked familiar. I smiled. Yep, it was him.

The submissive bottom, the guy that wanted his asshole beat up by a big dick until he couldn’t sit the next day, worked for a well-known Republican bigwheel. We had met a few times at political events. Shit, even exchanged business cards and gone out for coffee to talk shop once or twice.

Ain’t it strange how hookups can go sometimes?

“Immanuel, it’s you,” “Johnny” said, looking obviously embarrassed but trying to keep an air of coolness.

“Funny that we meet like this,” I said, chuckling. “Wow, this is funny.”

Rep. Mark Foley (R-Florida) resigned in 2006 after it was found he was sending sexually suggestive messages to male Congressional pages, including one asking the teenager to measure his penis for him.

It was clear Johnny didn’t want me in his business so after some brief chit chat he sent me on my way. We didn’t have lunch, let alone coffee.

I said goodbye, walked around the corner, sat at a bar, and had a great bowl of chicken noodle soup and a diet coke. Every once in awhile I broke out in a smile, thinking about the irony of it.

“You must be having a good day,” the waitress said.

“Yep, it’s alright,” I answered.

Why am I bringing this story up now? The Republican official this guy worked for is one of that group of GOP Bozos running for president. In recent weeks this candidate has said things that are anti-black and anti-gay.

Which gets me no end because you would be surprised how many gay folks are in the Republican Party, working hard to keep afloat a party that has rabid elements that would be happy to burn gay people at the stake and make black children become school janitors to earn their keep.

The level of hypocrisy is so high it is astounding when you think about.

Science Duck recently did a study that found that in the last decade Republicans were involved in 60 percent of sex scandals involving politicians. Republican politicians were also involved in a whopping 78 percent of gay sex scandals and 66 percent of underage scandals.

Republican Florida House Rep. Bob Allen resigned in 2007 after he was arrested for paying an undercover cop $20 to perform fellatio on the officer.

Remember Republican Sen. Larry Craig playing footsie under the stall in an airport bathroom? Or Mark Foley, the Republican Congressman who sent sexually explicit messages to male teenagers in the Congressional Page program?

Or what about Florida House member Bob Allen, who offered an undercover cop $20 to let him suck his dick. Allen’s excuse? He was afraid that burly, black undercover cop was a thug who was going to beat him up so he offered to slob that dick to save his wallet and probably his life.

What a bunch of bullshit.

So as you can expect this year I’m getting a big kick out of watching the Republican primaries. Because I know first-hand what a bunch of fucking hypocrites they and the people who work for them can be.

The Cellphone Stalker Revealed

Hey stalker. You can come out of hiding now.

This morning while we were making up the bed my partner “Morgan” asked me what I was blogging about lately.

“Well, I didn’t want to tell you but this guy has been stalking me on my cellphone, sending messages every few weeks asking to hook up.”

“Yeah, that is happening to me too,” Morgan said. “There is this crazy guy still texting me for dick.”

“Wow, you too?,” I say. “Well this is some number that begins 202-688.”

“Wait, that sounds familiar,” Morgan said. So he walks away and grabs his IPhone and checks his contact list.

“Give me the last four numbers, Immanuel.”

I get my cellphone, call up the last text and give him the last four digits.

“Oh, I know that person.” Morgan said. “That is Carlos.”

Remember when I wrote before that Morgan and I were both mainly tops with big dicks so we sometimes run into people in Washington, D.C. who we have both fucked. Well Carlos is one of them. We had figured that out months ago in casual conversation.

Carlos is a brownskinned bottom in his late ’20s. He is originally from the Dominican Republic, so can switch from unaccented American English to Spanish in a heartbeat. He is an athlete who continues to run track, so trains every morning to stay in shape.

He is beautiful on the outside — muscular legs and high little bubble butt that curves out from his narrow waist

But on the inside Carlos is fucked up. Like a chocolate nougat with a shit center. Bitter. Insecure. Catty. Negative. And a very bossy bottom who is no fun at all in the sexual act.

“Fuck me harder. No fuck slower. Don’t lift my legs so high. You’re not doing it right. Let me ride you for awhile.”

It seems Morgan and I were fucking Carlos at the same time last year before we got to know each other. Funny how that happens.

Morgan was turned off by Carlos’ negativity and so was I. So we both dropped him as a fuck buddy within weeks of each other.

In fact, Morgan suspected Carlos was trying to move in with him — whenever he came by to get banged Carlos would lug around three or four big duffel bags that seemed to have all his possessions in it. And he kept  pressing Morgan to let him spend the night.

“But he is driving a Lexus,” I would say. “Obviously, he must have a good job.”

“Or somebody is taking care of him and is tired of him and about to throw him out– you never know,”  Morgan said.

It’s funny, Carlos has been texting Morgan too over the last few months but playing nice, sometimes asking about his new relationship. I tell Morgan there can be no way Carlos knows we are in a relationship because Morgan has never told him anything about me, not even my name.

“But are you sure Immanuel?,” Morgan asked. “We hang out a lot together and he may have seen us. And has he ever seen your car? It’s always parked in back of my house now.”

“No, I don’t think he knows my car.”

Morgan gets quiet a moment. And then he speaks.

“You know Immanuel there are some gay guys that are jealous of people who are happy.”

I don’t think I answered Morgan back on that. What more is there to say? Lesson learned.

P.S. Thanks Rex for giving me the Droid ap to block unwanted phone calls and texts. I plan to use it. Rex is an old friend and never steers me wrong. To read more about him click here.

The Cellphone Stalker

For the past five months I have been stalked by the “Mystery Texter,” apparently some guy I fucked before I met my partner Morgan almost a year ago.

I have changed cellphones in the past year and lost some of my contacts. So when his number 202-688-XXXX pops up on my Droid no name is associated with it.

“How r u,” Mystery Texter texted me last August.

“Fine, who is this?” I text back.

“May I suck your dick and u fuck me.”

“If you tell me who you are.”

“A fan of that big dark dick.”

On and off over the next day or so he texts me back, asking to set up a time to hook up. But he never gives a name. So I quit texting back and ignore him and he goes away.

But a few weeks later he is back.

“Let me suck it and u hit it from the back,” he texts me out of the blue on a clear September day.

“In your area fuck me Immanuel.”

“Stop texting me,” I shoot back.

“LOL, ok.”

I’m so aggravated I find a private corner in my office building and dial the number. It goes straight to voice mail but it is a generic message. A feminine, robotic voice says the caller is not available and please leave a message. No name is given. So I hang up and don’t leave one.

I thought that was that but on Martin Luther King’s Holiday Mystery Stalker returned.

“Happy MLK Day”

This time I try to set a trap. I tell him Morgan and I want to have a threesome and fuck his bottom ass silly. As I guessed, being a dick-hungry bottom he took the bait hook, line and sinker. 


But I ignore him which just got him hotter because over the next day he texted, “Address?” “Wassup?”

That’s when I came back at him again. “Who is this?” And again he refused to divulge his identity.

“Faggots Games. Faggot Games. Faggot Games,” I texted back. “Go play with another dude. this dick aint for you.”

“No problem. Plus already had it b4 a few times.”

“Cool so you got your memories,” I texted. “Obviously it wasn’t memorable enuf for me to remember you.”

Now this is where things started getting real nasty.

“No actually I cut it off bc u talk too much and I didn’t say anything bad about u.”

“LOL…dude you aint’ even man enuf to say who you are. Typical bitter jaded Washington DC queen. Get the fuck off my phone and go wash your hair or something. Or buy some new pointed toed shoes.

He went for the jungular.

“LOL so funny not even me. U the one so messy that’s y u lost ur marriage fucking men behind her back and got caught. Enjoy another one of ur 5 min fake relationships.”

Damn, negro was not only dissing my ex-wife but my current partner Morgan too. I had to admit he had balls. But I wasn’t going to back off.

Hell, nobody was going to punk me on my own cellphone. Plus, ask Morgan or anybody who knows me. They will tell you I love to argue. Grandma always said with my motor mouth I should have been a lawyer or at least a preacher.

“Hey dude. I’m happy well adjusted good job good man. what about you. you don’t sound happy. And wow you sure are into what I do? That dick must have been good.”

“I’m very happy dick was average U hit me up. I didn’t hit you up.”

Oh no that motherfucker didn’t say my dick was average! I lit him up.

“Stop smoking crack. You messaged me first way back on Aug. 19 In five months you still haven’t said who the fuck you area. I bet your ass is getting wet right now. You like to play games I see.”

Okay, forgive me readers what I texted next. I was mad.

“Stick your fingers up your ass for me and lick them. Tell me how that shit tastes. Oh, it tastes like shit! Right!

“LOL,” he answered.

But you want to know something. The stalker stopped texting me. At least for now.

Readers the text conversations you just read are real, copied verbatim from Immanuel’s cellphone. Names have been changed to protect the innocent…okay, just kidding with that one.

Blast from the Past: Immanuel’s Guide to Down-low Brothers

This post was originally written in January 2011:

Okay, i’ve been around awhile so I know down-low brothers. Shit, i’m one myself. They come in all shapes sizes and colors –fat, short, tall, skinny and developmentally disabled.

But there are certain characteristics some share. So today I will offer you “Immanuel’s Guide to Down-low Brothers.” Enjoy and feel free to comment and add your own categories:

The Sunday Down-low Brother: These are black men that can only get away to freak with other men on Sundays when their wives are at church serving the Lord or they are out of the house watching football with the boys. Unknown to the wives this football game party at the buddy’s place can involve a little dick licking and sticking. I know a married Jamaican dude who claims this is how he got introduced to down-low sex. He went to the home of a former pro athlete for a Sunday game with the dude and and a few of his male friends. According to the Jamaican guy, he took a break to go to the bathroom and when he came back the guys were sucking each other off. So he pulls out his dick and gets his slobbered down too. And from then on he was hooked on getting oral sex from men. Personally, the tale doesn’t ring true. Why would a former professional athlete invite you to his house and freak with his boys in front of you unless he already knew you were down? I think Jamaican boy knew the deal.

The Church Down-Brother: You may be surprised that brother sitting next to you in the pew is the biggest freak on the planet. I won’t tell you how many times I have been hit up on by married men in church. This was going on years before I started sexing men. There was this married brother who used to go out of his way to sit next to me at church functions. Then he would lean over on me and rub his leg against mine. I would always get up and move but he would find a way to rub up against me again. When he extended the right hand of fellowship he would hug too long and too close. Even his wife would say, “Could you stop hugging on men like that!” Later he became a minister in the Midwest and would travel back to the area with his wife. They always brought another couple with them and the husband looked suspiciously effeminate. I knew preacher man was fucking him, it was just a gut instinct. Oh, and before I forget, preacher boy man went to Morehouse in Atlanta, the training ground for many a down-low brother. Need I say more?

The Paranoid Down-low Brother: These are the dudes so afraid their wives will catch them they will call you from a blocked-number, meet you in some anonymous fast-food parking lot, and park blocks aways so no one will see their car tag. When you fuck them they sometimes wear disguises like baseball caps and sun glasses – like glasses or a cap will hide who the fuck they are! Some of these brothers have high level jobs and some don’t, so what’s all the fuss about?Avoid them…sex with them is usually stale because they are too uptight to let loose.

“I’m really not gay” Down-low Brothers: Dig it, if you let a guy suck your dick or fuck a dude or let a dude fuck you, you are gay! But there is a class of down-low brothers who split hairs. They will only perform frottage (bump and grind) with you or let YOU suck them off. That way they can say they are not really gay because they haven’t gone all the way. That’s bullshit. They are gayer than hell but just haven’t acknowledged it yet. Like paranoid brothers (see entry above) you should lave this group alone. B-o-r-i-n-g spells boring because they have poor sex skills. Plus they are confused as shit.

The Business Trip Down-low Brothers: These are the kind that only freak when in another city, mainly because they don’t want to be caught by wifey or get identified with the local gay scene. So they freak with dudes when out of town. Many of these guys take jobs specifically so they can travel a lot. Many are long-distance truckers, salesmen bus drivers and railway workers (trust me, I’ve met all these types!).

Masculine Obsessed Down-low Brothers: These are the ones who will not mess with effeminate dudes. They are a lot like the “I’m not really gay down-low brothers.” By swinging with masculine dudes they can say “I’m not really a sissy!”

“I’m looking for a relationship” Down-low Brothers: These are the ones who don’t like doing serial sex and want one regular they can go to. It’s like they are looking for a male wife on the side. I know a Barbadian brother who advises me, “Immanuel go find one dude who will spoil and pamper you.” Barbados guy had a long-term lover. He would go there and get fed and fussed over plus get a good fuck. He even took lover on a mini-vacation. The problem with this scenario is that the bliss didn’t last. When Barbados boy took his boy with him to Vegas his lover told him he was tired of being a married man’s boy toy and broke up with him. They still hung out by Barbados guy was crushed. You see, his boy took the opportunity of going to Vegas to go fuck somebody else, leaving Barbados alone in the room.

The Superfreak Down-low Brother: I guess this is me. I’m the down-low brother who just likes sex and finds sex with some men can be good. I like one-on-ones, threesomes, groups — it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a relationship, just some camaraderie. If the sex is tired or we don’t click, hasta la vista baby! But if its good and we can talk let be buddies. Fuck buddies of course!


Photo courtesy of zazzle.com.

It’s a good thing I had just left church Sunday morning when I looked at my Facebook page and saw what my son wrote on my timeline.


I sat in my car, looking down at my Droid, staring at the hateful word typed on my page. Just numb.

It’s funny how God gives you what you need just when you need it. Less than an hour before the minister had preached a sermon based on the feuding twin brothers Jacob and Esau from the Old Testament.

The sermon was about how you can’t change other people. You can only change yourself. How you react. What you say. I inhaled and breathed.

My son is going through some serious problems. In the space of year he has been arrested for marijuana possession during a graduation trip to the beach, got failing grades in his first semester in college, dropped out of college, and lost his job at a fast food restaurant.

If he doesn’t pass the next series of drug tests in weeks ahead he could face a few months in county jail for violating probation. It astounds me how my family could go from “A Different World” to “Oz” in one generation.

My ex-wife coddles him, lies to me about what is going on at home, and refuses to listen to me, or family or friends who say our son is disrespectful and needs tough love or things could get much worse. Instead, she blames my leaving the marriage almost three years ago and my new gay sexuality for my son’s issues.

And he eats it up because he can use “My Dad is a faggot” as a trump card to get out of being responsible and win sympathy.

And nevermind that I have been completely open with him about why I left the marriage and my sexuality and kept the lines of communication open. I also continue to pay the bills to keep him with a roof over his head, a Mac book to do schoolwork, cable television, high definition flat screens, WiFi, food in his belly, not to mention heat and water.

Funny, he wasn’t calling me faggot just weeks ago when I was taking him out to dinner at restaurants on U Street, floating him a $100 bill to buy some clothes, and picking up the monthly tab for his Metro commute.

“You are a good father,” my mother says later that afternoon when I tell her. “You support your kids are always there. Live your life and don’t let that nasty ass grandson of mine make you feel guilty. He is out of line.”

My friend the “Mentor,” who is also a gay father, has gone through this with one of his kids. In fact, his son called him faggot in front of friends a few years ago but they are much closer now.

“Stand your ground,” he advises. “You are the father. Believe me they will come around.”

After I saw “FAGGOT” on my Facebook wall I sat in my car for a few minutes and just thought. I ain’t going to lie, the Devil was talking over my left shoulder.

“Drive over to his house right now, grab him and beat the shit out of him,” Satan whispered in my ear. “Fuck that lanky motherfucker up. Shit, he is calling you faggot but that is some punk ass shit to post on your wall. If he was a real man he would have said it to your face but he knows you can beat him up.”

But I thought about Jesus. I thought about visiting the Martin Luther King Memorial on the Tidal Basin and reading his words that hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.

So I wrote to my son on Facebook: “I know you going through a lot. I will always love you and will be here to support you as you work through your issues. Dad.”

And I went to the gym, worked out like a fiend, ran some errands, went home and had dinner with my partner Morgan, and watched the football playoffs.

I looked at at my Facebook timeline today. My son’s comment to me was erased along with my response. I didn’t do it so he must have removed it.

I hope he got the message. There is still hope.

White Privilege

Gay porn sends the subtle racist message that black men serve the needs and fantasies of whites. Photo courtesy of aebn.net.

When Morgan and I were on the Christmas cruise we attended a meeting of “Friends of Dorothy,” a reception given on cruises so LGBT people can meet and greet.

There were about a dozen people gathered around the bar, mostly male couples. One really nice guy was on the cruise with his parents, sister and brother-in-law and their kids and wanted to briefly escape from the straight relatives and let his hair down among gay folks.

We stood around with drinks and chatted, exchanging tips about what shore excursions to go on and what were the best gay-friendly cruises and vacation packages to book.

Morgan and I were the only African American couple there.

One of the white guys who was part of a couple started flirting with me a bit. And then just out of the blue he said with a glint in his eye, “You know when I have a few drinks I will do just about anything.” And he eyed my crotch .

It was kind of embarassing. The man was very nice and could carry on a good conversation but was not my type. He was an aging twink — at one time he was probably really cute but he dressed too young and acted to coquettishly for his age.

I glanced over at Morgan. He did not look amused either. The white guy and his partner got the message — we weren’t interested in a foursome — and there was an awkward silence.

“I guess we will catch up you guys later on the cruise,” I finally said. “We are going to go try to catch a comedy show now.”

And Morgan and I headed off for the comedy club at the stern of the boat. For the rest of the cruise I saw this couple and even worked out in the gym next to them but they didn’t acknowledge me or even say hello.

Morgan and I talked about it later. About how white gay guys sometimes take it for granted that because they are white they automatically have the right to have sex with us. And get mad and bitchy when we don’t respond.

 Don’t get me wrong. There are many nice white guys and Morgan and I know know interracial couples who are in healthy relationships. But I remember the days when I was trolling Adam4Adam and white guys would hit me up. No matter how out of shape or unattractive they were they assumed my dick was there to fuck their asses silly. Oftentimes they wouldn’t even say hello or ask my name.

Castro (left) and a buddy get ready to nail a white guy. Photo courtesy of itsgonnahurt.com.

“I want some of that black cock.”

“I’m free this afternoon after work. Come over and give me some of that python.”

“I love black dick. When can you come over?”

And check out Craigslist sometimes. There are black guys who prefer white men and advertise for that. But they are outnumbered five-to-one by white men seeking “big black cocks” to come over and use their holes like pussies. Oh, and bring all your black buddies along with you to hit some of this white ass if they want.

This subtle racism, this objectification of black gay men’s bodies, is reflected in porn. How many movies are there where some white twink is gangbanged by black “thugs” or some old white man gets served by a big black dick? Shoot, the horse-hung black porn star Castro, who is also known by the name Supreme, now seems to do no movies other than fucking mostly average looking white dudes on porn Websites such as “It’s Gonna Hurt.”

Meanwhile the rest of black porn is dominated by “thug” movies. Is that all the larger gay society thinks black men are — “thugs” and “Mandingos” put on this earth to fit their narrow definition of what they think a black gay man is?


I was at work when my cellphone buzzed. It was my divorce attorney, Pauline.

“Where are you?,” she asked. “Your divorce hearing starts in a half hour.”

Shit. Going on the cruise and having the New Year’s holiday fall on Monday had thrown off my week. It was Thursday, the day I was scheduled to divorce my wife, but I thought it was Wednesday.

“Pauline, I’m sorry, I thought it was Wednesday. The holiday messed up my week.”

“Don’t worry honey,” said Pauline, a no-nonsense, petite, middle aged blonde with shapely legs that still looked good in a miniskirt. “We will wait for you. But hurry up and get down here as fast you can.”

“Okay, I will try to get there within the hour.”

I took a cab home and hopped in my car and drove out to Maryland to the courthouse. I was only an hour late and Pauline, who was well known among the clerks down at the courthouse, was able to push the hearing time back by one hour.

My ex-wife was there along with her parents, who stared down at their feet and didn’t look me in the eyes. My wife has gained a little weight but still looks good. I wish she would move on and perhaps find a man that would better fit her.

The divorce was easy. We had already divided up the bills and the child support is set. I only want two things out of the house — a dresser and my favorite oil painting. After being married almost 20 years it was all so cut and dry and emotionless.

“Do you think there is any chance this couple could be reconciled?,” the judge asked my ex- father-in-law, who acted as my wife’s witness.

“No absolutely not,” he said grimly.

I looked down at the table, struck by the irony of it all. My father-in-law had cheated openly on his wife for years, given her venereal diseases several times, and had a mistress down South he visited several times a year. But here he was passing judgement on the state of marriage of his daughter who had married a down-low gay man who decided to be honest with himself, move out, and live a more authentic life.

Didn’t Jesus say let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

I almost laughed out loud when I thought about it but I gritted my teeth and stayed emotionless.

So finally the judge said a divorce would be granted and would go into effect in a few days after he signed the papers and filed them.  My wife — I mean ex-wife — walked across the hearing room  and we shook hands.

“I hope we can be friends,” I said.

She smiled a sad smile. “I hope we can be too.”

And so it is over. I feel weird, pensive — any relationship that dies is not something to celebrate. But at the same time I feel a chain is broken and I am a little freer. Who would have thought when I started this blog I would end up here?