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.



Gus and the Arab Man

Photo courtesy of thepaperblogcom.

Photo courtesy of thepaperblogcom.

My buddy “Gus” wears a gold bracelet on his wrist, studded with diamonds.

It looks so fabulous you would think it is fake, but it’s not. It costs a cool $10,000.

Gus is an educated, professional, brown-skinned black Washingtonian around 40 years old but I know he is not making enough bank to drop that much on an accessory.

But over drinks Wednesday night Gus explained that it is a gift from his Saudi Arabian friend “Fadi.”

Gus met Fadi in an innocuous way — they started following each other on Instagram. And soon they started chatting and video calling. And it became clear that Fadi, although he is married with three kids, wanted to find an unclockable gay man to share some time.

That is because Saudi Arabia is fiercely homophobic and follows the ultra-conservative Wahhabi Islam faith. Being gay or a person who is transgender is punishable by death.

Fadi invited Gus over to Saudi, explaining that he would pay for the hotel and all expenses. Gus was nervous — was he going into a set-up? But he decided to go anyway, although he told his sister where he was going and why so she would at least know what became of him if things went sour.

Arab society, despite its homophobia, is very homoerotic. It is not uncommon to see men holding hands and even dancing together. Photo courtesy of

Arab society, despite its homophobia, is very homoerotic. It is not uncommon to see men holding hands and even dancing together. Photo courtesy of

Fadi was the consummate gentlemen. He flew Gus over first-class, took him on shopping sprees for designer gear and presented him with a cashier’s check for $10,000 for visiting him. His only requirement was that Gus wear traditional Arab attire and have raw sex with him because he didn’t like condoms.

On the second night Fadi came to Gus’s hotel room to consummate the sexual part of his arrangement.

“The sex was hot,” Gus said. “He ate me out for a long time and his dick was huge.”

Saudi men often greet each other by rubbing noses. Tell me that ain't gay. Photo courtesy of

Saudi men often greet each other by rubbing noses. Tell me that ain’t gay. Photo courtesy of

On other nights they went socializing and Gus discovered Arab society is a lot more homoerotic than you would believe by reading the headlines. Women are second-class citizens and men do not associate with woman they are not related to.

So men mostly hang around each other. Eating together. Dancing together. Holding hands. And gay life is there but deeply underground. Men meet each other for private parties that sometimes turn into sex parties.

“Fadi took me to one of them but it made me uncomfortable,” Gus said. “I thought maybe the men there thought they were going to gangbang me. But when I told Fadi I wanted to leave he was fine with that and we left.”

Three years later they stay in contact and Fadi has even visited the United States to see his African American boo.

“I’m only telling you this because you don’t judge Immanuel,” he said.

Nope, I’m not mad at him. I’ve heard stranger things in life.

Readers here is an article that ran in The Atlantic back in 2007 about gay life in Saudi Arabia. I was still married to my ex-wife and I can remember buying it and reading it clandestinely and throwing it away as soon as I could. It was really informative and reminded me that the DL lifestyle just does not exist among some Americans. They take it to a whole new level in Saudi Arabia.

Muscle Madness

This guy resembles Malcolm. Photo courtesy of Pinterest.

This guy resembles Malcolm. Photo courtesy of Pinterest.

A couple of Friday nights ago “Van” and I were dancing in Ziascoz, a tiny gay bar near Little Italy in Baltimore that has great house music on Friday nights into the wee hours on Saturday.

And we glanced over and saw a friend of ours, “Jamal,” dancing with this handsome, older man with bulging biceps and thighs so bulky they strained against his jeans.

Watching them dance was comical and I will tell you why. The muscle guy kept looking at himself in the mirror on the dance floor instead of looking at Jamal.

It was like he was dancing with himself.

Then he took off his shirt to show off his caramel-colored pecs and kept looking at himself in the mirror.

After awhile I got Jamal off to himself and spoke in his ear so he could hear me above the thumping music.

“Are you dating him? Because he is really into himself.”

“Nah, we are just friends,” Jamal said.

“Whew, I’m glad,” I answered, laughing.

But on Friday Jamal visited us — we sat around and talked and ate tuna fish sandwiches I made and some take-out Liberian food — and Van and I got the full story.

Muscle man, who I will call “Malcolm,” had dated Jamal in the past and recently reconnected with him. He is 49 years old and Jay is 35 so there is an age difference.

They are hanging around with each other a lot and Jamal, who is of slight, average build, said the sex is off the chain because it’s hot to have a man who can pick you up and literally fuck you all over a room.

Plus you can tell he really likes Malcolm and hopes something longer term will develop.

But they are not official lovers because Malcolm gave Jamal an ultimatum.

Malcolm said he is really into big, muscle men like himself and is dating Jamal despite himself. He said he is giving Jamal two years to get bulked up so they can make things permanent.

My mouth dropped open. Jamal is a good catch. Why should he have to change?

Van and I warned him that Malcolm may be a control freak and asking him to alter his appearance to please him is a big, neon red flag.

Jamal is active in local gay life, has a sparkling personality and was one of the first people to befriend me in Baltimore. Of mixed African American and Puerto Rican heritage descent he is cute, with dark brown skin and striking, tawny eyes.

Van and I warned him that Malcolm may be a control freak and asking him to alter his appearance to please him is a big, neon red flag. It could lead to future mental abuse, I warned.

And what if Jamal worked out and lost enough weight to please himself, but still didn’t satisfy Malcolm’s ideal, Van asked.

Plus there were other troubling signs in this fuck buddy relationship. Malcolm at first said he was a total top and if he committed to Jamal he wanted Jamal’s ass to himself.

But when Jamal visited Malcolm’s home he found a shower head enema hanging over the bathtub. After asking Malcolm about it Malcolm admitted he wasn’t a true top but did give up the ass sometimes.

Probably to guys who are bigger and more muscular than himself, I thought to myself. And if Malcolm lied to Jamal about his sexual preference what else would he lie about?

There are so many game players in the gay world, even among middle age men such as Malcolm. I didn’t want Jamal to get hurt by one.

Jamal listened politely to what Van and I said to him but he assured us he can handle Malcolm.

Sometimes folks have to find out for themselves. And maybe things will turn out alright. I hope so.

I have not had great sexual encounters with muscular men. Read my past entries “Bad Sex. Good Sex” and “The Ecstasy and the Agony” to find out why.

Why You Gotta Lie?

A few years ago I used to fuck this down-low dude named Reggie.

Hot, sexy Daddy in his 50s who worked out like a fiend at the gym and had the body to show for it.

“I’m married man. Just slipping out from my wife from time to time for some dick,” he would say.

He would get a hotel room and I would fuck his handsome brains out. Dude could take some dick.

“Yessir, yessir that dick feels good,” he would moan, spreading his legs to let me in deeper.

And after we sexed he would tell me more about himself.

He was a retired airline pilot. He and his wife had brilliant twin sons — one was an engineer and the other a lawyer or something. He and his wife lived in a beautiful, palatial home in the suburbs.

This is “Reggie.” I will be nice and not show his face.

Reggie had everything under control. His wife had no clue and he did his thing on the sly.

Now that I am no longer down-low and living in the gay world I am meeting more men in this life.

And I befriended this guy who lived near Reggie.

“Did you ever meet this married DL dude around here named Reggie,” I asked him. “I think he has a house right up the street from you.”

“Yeah, I know him. But Reggie ain’t married, Immanuel. Shit that nigger is an out gay man.”

And I found out the real deal about Reggie. He had been an airline steward serving soft drinks, peanuts and doing safety drills for Southwest airlines. He didn’t even have an amateur pilot’s license.

He had lived with his lover, who died about two years ago after a long illness. But before Reggie’s partner died Reggie took breaks to go get dick. I was just one of his jumpoffs.

He was never married and never had children. He didn’t live in a McMansion but in a small townhouse that his lover had bought but left Reggie in his will.

The  lies bothered me because I really liked Reggie. Shit, I would have fucked his hot ass anyway. So why the subterfuge?

So I emailed him.

“You know you didn’t have to lie man,” I wrote.

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain.

All he wrote back was, “You are right, it wasn’t necessary.