Dead Wrong


Luther only visited Damon’s bed on Friday nights and left before Sunday. Photo courtesy of Hollywood Reporter.

My friend “Damon” knew when he started dating “Luther” the odds were against the relationship working.

Damon is an out and proud gay black man. A professional with a well appointed townhouse in a gated community and good government job. Meanwhile Luther, a tall, dark Jamaican with a big dick and sex game Damon found irresistible, was so deep in the closet you couldn’t find him with a flashlight.

Damon lives in Maryland and Luther in northern New Jersey so they only got to see each other weekends. No matter how much Luther enjoyed Damon’s company, he always insisted on leaving by Saturday evening.

“It was strange,” said Damon, who met Luther online while visiting his sister in New York City. “I never met his friends. He never introduced me to his family. He never invited me up to his home. He always came down to mine.”

Two months went by. Spring  slipped away. Then four months. And six months and then eight. And it was the dead of winter and snowing and Luther still made the weekend trips to lay in the bed with Damon on a Friday night and Saturday morning.

“Why do you always have to leave on Saturday afternoons?,” Damon said as he spooned Luther one morning. “Can’t you stay on Sunday and come to brunch with me?”

Luther got quiet a moment but finally spoke.

“Well, I have to admit something. I’m a Catholic priest and I have to be back to perform Mass on Sunday mornings.”

Damon listened and tried to be understanding. He knew that considering Luther’s Jamaican culture it would be difficult to have a real relationship with him. But he had always held out hope.

But now this priest thing complicated matters. Weren’t priests supposed to be straight and celibate?

So he decided to back off. But a month went by and then two months and Luther didn’t call or text so Damon decided to reach out again. The dick really was that good. So he texted Luther’s phone number.

A day later a text came back. The texter explained that she was Luther’s sister. Luther was very sick and hospitalized and she had taken his phone and was texting and calling back people who contacted her brother to let them know.

“Who are you?” she inquired.

“Oh, just a business associate of his in Washington, D.C.,” said Damon, who was reluctant to inadvertently push Luther out of the closet to his family.

Weeks went by and no word so Damon texted Luther’s number again.

“How is Luther doing?”

The message from the sister was short and blunt. “He is dead.”

Damon was upset but not devastated. The relationship had cooled by the time Luther disappeared and Damon had started to date others.

But he  thought it odd the sister didn’t text more about the cause of death or the funeral arrangements. She just went silent again. Maybe she was too distraught to relive those sad events, Damon reasoned.

A few months went by and it was summer again.

And Damon was looking at his LinkedIn page on his laptop and a suggested contact came up. A man whose picture looked like Luther, down to the shaved head and neatly trimmed goatee. “No, this can’t be. He is dead. Unless he has a twin,” Damon thought.

Damon read the man’s profile. Instead of “Luther Davies” his name was “Lawrence Davies.” And although not a Catholic priest the man had attended a Protestant divinity school and had started at a new position as a minister at an African Methodist Episcopalian Church at roughly the time Luther had “died.”


Damon’s tale reminds me of this 1991 film starring Goldie Hawn as a woman who marries a psychopath who faked his own death for financial gain.

His curiosity got the best of him. Damon called the church in New Jersey and left a message with the secretary asking Rev. Davies to call him. A  day later Damon’s phone rang. It was Rev. Davies.

“Sorry to bother you but your photo came up on my LinkedIn page and you look remarkably like a friend of mine named Luther Davies who  died,” Damon said. “Could you be him or related to him.”

Rev. Davies mumbled something about his not knowing a Luther Davies. He then gave Damon his sympathies, some rushed, generic advice about handling grief and quickly got off the phone.

Damon was shocked. The reverend sounded just like his Luther. It had to be Luther. But why deny it?

Damon picked up the phone the next morning and called back. Surprisingly Rev. Davies accepted the call. This time Damon cut right to the chase.

“I know you are Luther,” he said. “Why the fuck would you lie about some shit like that? That was sick and cruel. Do you know how it felt for me to think you had died. We weren’t dating then but it was still a loss.”

Luther “Rev. Lawrence” Davies sounded a bit contrite but didn’t really apologize or explain why he did what he did.

Damon later theorized that his paramour had finally gotten his dream job as a minister at a large congregation andwanted to start fresh without the suspicion of his being  gay hanging over him.

So like a surgeon excising a tumor he cut all contacts with the secret gay side of his life. Including Damon.

He probably didn’t even have a sister. It was likely him sending the texts all along.


“Damon, that sounds like some crazy movie plot,” I said. “I just watched this old movie where Goldie Hawn plays this woman whose husband is a psychopath who fakes his own death. But this is better than that movie.”

“Yeah, who would believe this shit,” Damon answered.

“Yep, It’s crazy what some down-low men will do to stay in the closet,” I said.



How to Get Banned from a Sex Party

It’s hard to get banned from a sex party but Emmett managed.

“Emmett” prides himself on being one of the most down-low gay black men in Baltimore.

He never lets a hook-up come to his house because he doesn’t want the neighbors to suspect his sexuality. 

And once he had two birthday parties on two consecutive nights — one with his church members and the next night with his gay buddies — to keep his straight lifestyle from intersecting with his gay one.

But although you will never catch him in a gay bar or the Pride Parade there is one thing Emmett does with frequency — sex parties. Every weekend you will find him haunting one in D.C. or Baltimore.

However, he called me a few weeks ago to say he had gotten banned from a popular one that a man from Africa runs once or twice weekly in Baltimore or the Maryland suburbs of D.C.

“I don’t know why it happened but I’m cool with it — I’m not going to worry about it,” an oblivious Emmett said.

I didn’t feel like hurting his feelings so I didn’t speak up. But I know why he was asked not to come to the African’s sex party. 

Remember, my partner and I have sex parties too and Emmett always come and we know how he swings. And we know people complain about him.

I have tried to advise him to change this irritating habits but he won’t listen. So readers, I will offer this advice to you so you never get banned from a sex party like Emmett:

— Don’t touch or initiate sexual contact with a person unless they invite you with a word, gesture or look. Emmett is known for being pushy.

— Pay attention to the sexual needs of your partner. Emmett is selfish. It’s all about him getting a nutt. His partner is just a tool.

— When two people are having sex with each other don’t try to butt in unless they invite you by word or gesture to join. Emmett is known for jumping in between people.

— Improve your sexual skills. Emmett’s sex game is so lame folks ask him to kick rocks! In fact, he is really into giving massages which is not what most people at sex parties are looking to do. That’s why I have advised Emmett to at least get a boyfriend to be affectionate with although getting a boyfriend is hard for a man who will not invite someone to his home because he is afraid of what some stupid neighbor thinks.

— Be genuine with folks and part of the community. Most people know Emmett is DL and just wants to come to sex parties to get his rocks off and leave. If he sees you in public the next day he likely wont’ even acknowledge you unless you are masculine enough to “pass.” Who wants to invest time in a person like that?



Haulover Hustler

The Haulover Hustler

My partner “Van” and I are living back and forth between Florida. Yesterday we were down and decided to hit the famous Haulover nude beach with friends.

The weather was perfect, the water warm, and camaraderie with other bathers amazing.

But one person stood out…a dark skinned, thick brother with a thick uncut dick. 

What made him stand out in a sea of naked folks? He was wearing black dress socks as he strode across the sand.

“That’s odd,” I said to Van. “Wassup with that? It is kinda kinky.”

Later when Van was in the water black socks walked up to me.

“How you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I answered. “How you?”

“Oh I’m just out advertising,” he said, turning to the side and glancing down at his dick as if he wanted me to appreciate it in profile.

I’m really dense. It took a moment.

“Advertising? What kind of job do you have?”

Then it hit me. He was selling sex on the beach. Not the mixed drink. The real thing.

“Nah man I’m not looking for that.”

But we kept talking and I learned he had mostly older white male customers who would slip him $40 and disappear with him to a private space he carved out of the brush near the beach so he could “blow their backs out” with his “10 inches of black dick.”

In fact some of his clients would call him ahead of time to set up trysts.

For some reason the whole thing didn’t sound sexy to me.

Later I got in the water and he approached Van.

Van must look more well-to-do than I because he tried to charge him $50 instead of $40.