How Arthur Got a New Pair of Sneakers

Arthur started messing with his high school gym teacher. His story revealed a side of down-low gay life in the South in the early 1960s. Photo courtesy of

Arthur started messing with his high school gym teacher. His story put a spotlight on a hidden down-low black gay culture in the South in the early 1960s. Photo courtesy of

“Arthur” is a 65-year-old gay man from North Carolina who is a friend of some friends of mine. He was visiting Baltimore recently and I asked him what it was like growing up black and gay in a small southern city in the early 1960s. And this is the story he told me:

Arthur didn’t grow up with a father in his house. His teenage mother got pregnant by a member of a Negro League baseball team that came traveling through town.

But one thing he inherited from his father was a big dick, which was already man-sized by the time he was 13 years old. Soon it would get him more attention than he ever imagined.

Arthur lived with his mother and grandmother in a shotgun apartment with no indoor bathroom. They had to share a backyard outhouse with other tenants and wash in a tin tub filled with water heated by a wood-burning stove in the front room.

Arthur took gym class last period and worked out a deal with his gym teacher. In exchange for helping pick up the athletic equipment and cleaning  the locker room he would get a few dollars a week and could take hot showers.

For a growing boy used to taking lukewarm baths in a cramped tin tub, the shower room at the high school was a luxury.

His gym teacher, Mr. Scott, had just graduated college and was brown skinned, muscled and handsome. He was married to the business teacher, an attractive slender woman who wore pencil skirts and stiletto heels and taught typing and shorthand.

Arthur was taking a shower one afternoon when Mr. Scott walked into the large tiled room, which had shower heads around the walls.

“Hey Arthur I have to go to a meeting. I’m dirty from ripping and running all day. I’ll just take a quick shower too don’t mind me.”

Mr. Scott took a shower on the other side of the room. After a while Arthur turned and looked at his broad, brown back. His ass was high and muscled and smooth. His legs were hairy.

Arthur’s thick dick could already get nine inches long when hard. And he had known he was gay for as long as he could remember, although nobody suspected because he was masculine and athletic.

Looking at Mr. Scott Arthur’s dick got stiff as a board, he just couldn’t help it. He tried to hide it by turning around. He pushed it down between his legs. But it wouldn’t get soft again.

Mr. Scott turned and noticed. His eyes widened but he did his best to stay collected.

“Hey son, getting a hard-on is normal at your age. Don’t worry about. Just try to control when and where you have them.”

Arthur was so embarrassed he couldn’t say anything. But his dick did shrink back down.

Then Mr. Scott turned off the shower head, grabbed a towel and dried himself off and dressed. “See you tomorrow Arthur. Be sure to put the basketballs back in the rack after gym class tomorrow and dry mop the basketball court.”

Despite the awkward incident Mr. Scott kept showering with Arthur. And Arthur noticed Mr. Scott’s dick would get hard too. One day Mr. Scott crossed the shower room, knelt down and took Arthur’s dick in his mouth.

It soon got hard again. The combination of the steamy water and Mr. Scott’s hot mouth were too much. Arthur busted a thick nutt in minutes, right into Mr. Scott’s mouth.

From then on Mr. Scott looked out for Arthur. For some reason Mr. Scott would never let Arthur reciprocate by letting him suck his dick. “Hey, I’ll just do you Arthur,” he said.

Occasionally Mr. Scott would ask him over to his house weekends to do errands like cutting the grass and trimming the hedges. Then Arthur would come in and eat a hot dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Scott at a real dining room table with china and crystal.

He saved his money from working for Mr. Scott and bought new high top Converse All Stars sneakers and candy from the corner store. These were things his mother and grandmother couldn’t afford to give him on the regular.

But Mr. Scott was not his only patron.

Mr. Johnson lived a few blocks away from Arthur’s family and Arthur would do odd jobs for him too. One of those odd jobs was letting Mr. Johnson suck his dick.

“You got a real nice big piece for a 14-year-old,” said Mr. Johnson, who was much older than Mr. Scott and would take out his false teeth to slurp and slobber Arthur’s dick. “Don’t hurt nobody with that young man.”

Mr. Johnson’s was an upstanding member of the community and a deacon at Southern Rock Baptist Church on 2nd Street. But all the down-low black men in the community would gather at his house.

He would rent his bedrooms for a few dollars and hour so married men could have trysts with their male lovers. All the neighbors probably thought the men were just coming over for card games or community improvement meetings.

“I was surprised by the men who came in his house,” Arthur said. “There were lawyers, and doctors, ministers and insurance salesman — damn even the principal of the high school from the next town over. And most of them were married.”

Sometimes the men would have orgies upstairs in Mr. Johnson’s bedroom and Arthur would try to sneak up. Mr. Johnson would block him at the top of the stairs.

“This is grown folks business. You are too young yet and have your whole life to get freaky. Go home to your mother.”

That is why Arthur said he was not surprised by the Bishop Eddie Long scandal, where the pastor of an Atlanta-area mega church was accused of grooming and molesting young men in his church and allegedly paid them in out-of-court settlements.

“Those young men know what they are getting into. Eddie Long was paying for their tuition and cars and shit. He probably said no to something they asked for and they went public,” Arthur said.

“People now would say Mr. Scott and Mr. Johnson were molesting me but hey I enjoyed them, they helped a poor kid out. Mr. Scott and his wife taught me table manners and loaned me books and Mr. Johnson introduced me to jazz and classical music and showed me the ropes of the gay world.”

I don’t know whether I agree with Arthur on that. But I’m glad he shared his story.


A father appears in court in Florida with a son charged with school bus beating. I can relate. My son is going to be in court a few times this year. Photo courtesy of

A father appears in court in Florida with a son charged with school bus beating. I can relate. My son is going to be in court a few times this year. Photo courtesy of

I’ve come a long way in the five years since I launched this blog.

From married and on the down-low to divorced and navigating a new life. I have  cool but hectic job, a little rowhouse with a front porch and garden in Baltimore, an active social life, and I thoroughly feel good about myself.

But my son’s life is not going so well. He keeps getting arrested for weed possession, and had a court date last week.  Last Labor Day weekend, when I dropped off my daughter after a weekend road trip, he came out and assaulted me.

Rather than whip his ass, which I could have done, I called the police and filed charges. I want to teach him you can’t put his hands on me or anyone. That trial is in April.

I have already told the state attorney prosecuting the case my family situation. We will use the assault trial to get my son into mandatory anger management and drug treatment classes.

My ex-wife blames my son’s issues — dropping out of college, heavy weed use, shiftessness — on my leaving the marriage and being gay. She has gained 20 pounds and friends tell me she blames her depression and weight gain on me, too.

Constant guilt trip from her. Shit when we were married I tried to get her into a gym routine with me but she was too lazy.

Fortunately I have good family and friends who constantly tell me I am a good father and my son is fucking up because he likes to get high and has a mother who will let him scapegoat me instead of working with her ex-husband to help her son.

My daughter is mad cool, is accepting of my new lifestyle, hangs out with me, and regularly makes a 3.5-grade point average. I know her life at home with her brother and mother is not good — my daughter has said when my son doesn’t get high he is a holy terror, punching holes in the wall and constantly bickering.

That my son controls my wife, who threatens to throw him out but always yields and lets him stay and keep fucking up.

So I have filed to get partial or full custody of  baby girl, because I have to get her out of that. The guy I date “Van”and my mother are very supportive of this move.

A friend of mine joked, “You won’t be able to get as much sex if your daughter lives with you.”

“Man, are you kidding,” I answered. “My children are worth a thousand times more than sex.”

Readers please send positive thoughts and prayers and advice my way as I work through this.

The Perfect Threesome

This morning “Julian” sent a text.

“What are you and Van doing?”

“Just hanging around. What’s up with you?”

“I’m bored and don’t have to do anything until 5 p.m. Can I come down.”

I was tired. It was a bear of a week at work and Van and I had fucked the night before and woke up and did it again this morning. I busted a big nutt and didn’t think I could brew up another one. But when Julian wants to come to town Van and I reach deep down inside and pull that extra freak out.

“Sure, come on down.”

Julian is a 29-year-old very handsome, slender, light skinned top with a dick a little longer than mine but not as thick. He moved to Delaware from the Midwest to accept a government job but think it’s dull there.  He will hop in the car and drive 80 miles to Baltimore like it’s just around the block.

Last fall, I met him on Adam4Adam and invited him over without asking Van. Van and I  were in the middle of having sex when he knocked on the door.

“Van, I have a surprise for you,” I sang.

“Oh, you do?,” he answered.

Porn actors Race Sometimes a threesome can be particularly intense when all three men click. Photo of porn actors Race Cooper, J.P.  Richards and Kiern Duecan courtesy of

Sometimes a threesome can be particularly intense when all three men click. Photo of porn actors Race Cooper, J.P. Richards and Kiern Duecan courtesy of

I trotted downstairs and opened the door butt naked, with a hard, condom-covered dick. My body was slick with a film of sweat from my exertions.  I opened the door and Julian walked in. He tried to look cool but I could tell the sight excited him.

The minute he walked in the room there was an electricity between the three of us that I have never matched in another threesome.

On that first day we met last fall we fucked Van seven ways from Sunday, tag teaming him all that morning. Doggy style, missionary style, spoon style, you name it. I loved seeing Van enjoy Julian and take that dick and Julian loved seeing with me pound Van.

“Beat that ass up Immanuel,” Julian would say, coming up behind and caressing and pushing my ass with his hand so I would fuck Julian harder. And I would fuck Van faster until his moans filled the room.

And then Van, Julian and I took a break to kiss and caress each other. And napped in each other’s arms. Then we woke up and played some more.

“I always liked older guys,” Julian said. “My ex-lover was 20 years older than me. And you two are so hot and seem like you got something going for yourselves.”

Every few months we threesome. For instance, the day after Thanksgiving we were all off from work and Julian drove down and we fucked, napped, watched “World War Z” on DVD, ate leftover turkey, dressing and cranberry sauce, and fucked some more.

When we threesome I swear sometimes I don’t know where Van’s body begins and Julian’s ends and mine begins. While I fuck Van he will hold on to me and run his hands over my body and I do the same to him. It’s like we become one body. The sex gets so intense we take it to a new high.

Van has commented that I seem to get more aggressive when Julian comes around but hey, my almost 50-year-old ass is trying to keep up with Julian’s almost 30-year-old ass. It turns into an endurance contest — we three test each other to see how long and hard we can go before cumming.

Today, after we had freaked awhile I looked down at Van and Julian lying in each others’ arms and thought I was the luckiest man in the world to be in bed with two such hot men.

“Awww, look at my two babies,” I said “My steady baby Van and my hookup baby Julian who comes around from time to time.”

They burst out laughing . In a little while Julian has to get up and go. He has to walk his dog before he pisses up the house and pick up his roommate from work.

We hug, go out on the front porch and talk and laugh awhile in the afternoon sun, and off  Julian goes until we threesome again.

The Story of the Thug Up the Block

Image courtesy of the film "Say My Name."

Image courtesy of the film “Say My Name.”

Remember “Ray,” my down-low thug neighbor who lives up the block?

Well, one day I got a chance to talk with him privately and I asked Ray when he had his first dude. And Ray told me this story about the first man he kicked it with and how they fell in love. I changed names and some details to protect their identity:

Ray was 19 years old and living in the Bronx in the mid 1980s. And he befriended this neighborhood drug dealer called “Dax.”

Dax was the terror of the street. He made mad money selling weed, cocaine and the new drug of choice — crack. But nobody messed with Dax, a muscled, brown-skinned black man of Puerto Rican and African American descent. That is because people who fucked with Dax soon disappeared.

Dax was five years older than Ray and took a liking to him. “Hey man, come over to my place and hang sometimes and play this Ninja game with me on my Sega.”

“Yeah, I may do that sometime,” said a wary Ray, who was afraid Dax was trying to pull him into the drug game.

But one day Ray got into a bad fight with his girl Wanda, who kicked him out of her pad in the projects. So he had nowhere to go and ended up knocking on Ray’s brownstone door.

“Damn man, it’s late as fuck,” Dax grumbled. But he let Ray crash in his guest room in the big iron poster bed.

Ray was tired. He and Wanda’s relationship was winding down…he just wasn’t feeling her anymore. And he knew he had to find a place to stay and get back on his feet. So he just went to bed and was soon snoring softly.

That is until he felt something wet and warm tugging and pulling at his dick in the middle of the night. And he looked down and there was Dax, sucking his dick in the dark, his head bobbing up and down.

Ray froze and pretended he was asleep. He was scared out of his wits. “If I wake up and say something this nigga might shoot me. He has killed dudes before.”

Dax’s skillful sucking had Ray’s dick hard as rock but he still pretended to sleep. After awhile Dax got up and went back to his room.

The next morning nothing was said. Ray went to his department store job and Dax went about pushing drugs. But that night the same thing happened.

Ray had girlfriends but had always wondered what it was like to be with a guy. He would rent straight porn on VHS tapes. But instead of jacking off to the women he would jack off looking at the guys’ nipples and asses. He would not dare try gay sex because all the gay men in his neighborhood acted so feminine and femininity in men turned him off.

But Dax was different. He was masculine, toned and had a deep voice. He ran the drug trade. He had two babies’ mamas. Everybody was afraid of him. He had a collection of guns and knew how to use them. How could he be gay?

But after a week of nightly dick sucking Dax finally just put it on the table. “Nigga, what the fuck is up?”

“Huh, what do you mean,” Ray asked.

“Don’t play stupid, I know you ain’t sleeping. You like when I suck your dick. Shit, you shot nutt over my shoulder last night. So stop playing.”

Ray got quiet. Then he breathed deeply and said, “Yeah, I liked that shit man.”

And that was that. Ray moved in with Dax permanently and they became lovers but everybody thought they were just homeboys and roommates. But they were anything but.

When they got behind closed doors Ray would ride Dax’s tight, light-brown ass like a jockey on a racehorse. That dude loved Ray’s curved dick, which hit his prostate just right. No one suspected they were more than friends.

But Dax was jealous as a motherfucker. One time he caught Ray looking admiringly at a hottie walking down the block. Dax walked over. “You like that bitch,” he asked.

“Man, shit that’s my home girl Tracy…,” Ray started to say. Before he could finish Dax hauled off and knocked him down in the street. Ray had to keep up his street cred. He got up and the two got in a knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of the street.

Photo courtesy of ESPN.

Photo courtesy of ESPN.

“Shit, why are Ray and Dax beefing,” Tracy asked her girlfriend while they stood on the sidelines watching the two bloody each other as a crowd gathered. “I thought they were like brothers.”

Nobody knew they were having a lovers’ spat.

Dax’s jealousy eventually drove Ray away. Plus he was nervous about associating with Dax or even driving with him. The drug wars were heating up and people were getting killed left and right over nothing.

So Ray moved to Baltimore to stay with an aunt who had raised him and get a fresh start. But Dax soon followed. He knocked on Ray’s aunt’s door and asked Ray to come out and talk to him. Ray’s aunt thought nothing of it — they had been friends for years.

When they got around the corner Dax pulled out a shiny steel pistol. “You are never going to leave me. I will kill you now and then I will take care of myself.”

Ray felt like his stomach had sunk to his ankles. He literally saw his life pass before his eyes. He knew Dax was serious.

But Ray could also think fast on his feet. He pretended to break down, boohooing and crying in the middle of the street loud enough so there would be witnesses. “Man, you know I love you but you drove me away with your jealousy. What was I supposed to do? You know you don’t want to kill me.”

Ray’s Oscar-winning performance worked. Dax tucked the gun back in his waistband under his baggy Cross Colours shirt.

“Okay, man. I have been kinda on edge. But you know I act like this because I love you, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

But the weirdness continued — Dax kept doing underhanded things to bring Ray back to New York City. One day Ray came home to find his aunt distraught on the phone. She was very religious.

“Dax is on the phone. He just told me that you two are doing the ‘f-word.’ The nasty! That you are lovers. Now Ray you know that lifestyle is against God and you are going to hell and Dax right along with you. After your mother died I tried to raise you right. I didn’t raise you to live like this. Oh, Lord Jesus, what is my sister thinking in Heaven. I have failed.”

Ray was so angry he hopped on a bus to New York City that night. He wasn’t ready to come out to his family, especially his Auntie. How could Dax do that? He was supposed to love him?

Ray arrived at Dax’s door. He had a key but knocked instead. Dax opened the door. Before Dax could pull out a gun he always had on him Ray punched the shit out of him, square on the chin. Then he kept hitting and hitting him until Dax fell unconscious on the brownstone steps.

People gathered on the street. “Damn, I thought them two were friends but they forever fighting,” one neighbor said. “What the fuck is going on now?”

Nobody knew Ray and Dax were having their final lovers’ spat.

Ray went back to Baltimore early the next morning. Surprisingly the two kept in touch although the passion cooled down to a friendship that has lasted now almost 30 years. Dax got out of the drug game and is living a respectable life — he was one of the few dealers who actually saved his windfall.

Sometimes when Ray goes home to New York City he will call up Dax and they will got out and have drinks and laugh about how crazy their love life used to be back in the day. It’s funny how time can heal things.

Ray and Dax were obviously in an abusive relationship, both physically and psychologically. Domestic abuse exists in LGBT relationships just as in straight ones. Eleven percent of lesbians reported violence by their female partner and 15 percent of gay men who live with their partners reported being victimized by their male partner, according to the American Bar Association. I was so surprised by all the tales of domestic violence I heard from gay men I wrote this blog entry, “Scars,” back in 2009.

The Problem with the Man I Date

Photo courtesy of Mused Magazine.

Photo courtesy of Mused Magazine.

The man I date is so attentive all I have to do is mention I ran out of laundry detergent and he will run out the door to Costco and get me the super-sized bottle of Arm and Hammer.

The man I date is so caring that when I came down with a nasty case of strep throat in February he visited every night after work, made me a hot cup of cold and flu medicine, and cuddled next to me in bed despite the fact I could have been contagious.

The man I date is so freaky that I can go on Adam4Adam, get a third guy to come over, and surprise him by having the hookup walk in the bedroom stark naked. The man I date won’t miss a beat. A hot threesome immediately jumps off.

“The thing I love about you Immanuel is that you are so adventuresome,” he will say.

So what’s the problem? Well, “Van” is a little on the feminine side.

It’s in the way he talks with his hands sometimes. The way his voice can get a little too high and soft.

Really, he can’t help it. He was raised mostly in the Pacific Northwest around white people and although he has solid black roots he still kinda talks like a teenage white boy. He just doesn’t have that East Coast edge. That swagger.

When we go out in public folks know we are a gay couple. You can’t finesse it with him. Van tells me all the time about “straight” men who approach him on the Metro, on the street, in the grocery store. That rarely happens to me, probably because I don’t have a rainbow-hued gay aura floating around me like Van does.

I know I have written in blog posts in the past (read the Masculine Mystique from 2010) that black gay men need to accept of our more feminine brothers. We need to drop all this preoccupation with masculinity, which is really just another way to be down-low.

Because really Van is very confident and comfortable with himself.He is successful, owns his own home, and has a business on the side.

Its ME that has the problem. This is something I need to work on.

One day I screwed up my courage and talked to Van about it. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings but I had to let him know that some of his actions in public made me flinch.

“You know ‘Van’ you are a really nice man,” I said. “But you are softer than I usually prefer.”

“Yeah, I know I’m kinda soft,” he answered.

I paused and really thought before I spoke, something I rarely do. “Hey Van, just keep being yourself. I can’t change you. You have to be yourself.”

And honestly, no man you date will ever live up to all your unrealistic expectations. I’m far from perfect myself. So I guess Van will be hanging around for awhile while we continue to discover each other.