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I’ve Got To Stop Lying To Myself Like This

When I came out, like most, I ran out.  I moved from Dallas where I grew up to attend college in San Antonio, Texas.  Not necessarily the Blackest enclave, but it was far enough from family that I could explore myself.

I tried a little bit of everything.  I tried substances enough to know they were definitely not for me.  I tried smoking weed and Black & Milds to imbue the trade persona that I thought was me—it was not.  But one proclivity that absolutely stuck was my penchant to entangle.

Over years, I developed a personal and professional knack for sex.  I blogged about it, wrote about it, travelled the globe speaking about it because I believe that sex is an analogy for life.  All of life’s successes and struggles can be understood through a sexual lens.  Sex, I know, is one time where a Black man can be absolutely.  He can take off the burdens of Blackness, manhood, and sexuality, and be present for himself.  For that reason, I have maintained an active sex life for the last 17 years.


Sex is where I found my agency.  It’s where, despite my insecurities, I know I excelled.  My friends have gone so far as to name it “husband dick”.  For a while, I chuckled it away as the musings of petty friends.  But there was more truth behind husband dick than I thought.

My goal, my desire, is to belong.  I want to be held and consoled, seen and acknowledged, deeply.  I want to be myself on the most honest of levels.  Husband dick is me trying to duplicate those desires, albeit momentarily.

The thing that turns me on the most during an entanglement is when a partner surrenders.  Most men, depending on the position, try to either (1) help me or (2) protect themselves.  Help comes up when they prop their own legs back for greater access, for instance.  Or maybe it’s spreading the cheeks open or arching their back.  Or they opt to protect themselves in positions that limit interaction and intimacy, like doggy style or reverse cowgirl.  Even in the most compromising of circumstances men opt to “protect” their authentic selfs.


When a man, with all the burdens that come with being a man (especially a Black man) can throw caution to the wind cleave to me, that is intimacy.  When he can stare into my eyes deeply or wrap his arms around me. When our bodies—that is, our actual selfs—touch so deeply that we blend together in a moment of thrusts and pleasure, that is intimacy.

For so long, I’ve settled for faux intimacy that comes up during an entanglement.  Men that will kiss me now, and give that same energy to others as soon as we recharge.  Partners who will wrap their arms around me, not for me but for themselves. I’ve continued to entangle knowing there was a deeper itch I wished they could scratch even though they could never—insanity.

But now, as I evolve into the better more mature version of myself, I’ve got to wonder why my relationships, most of which started as an entanglement, have not panned out.  I wonder if settling for faux intimacy has blocked my ability to achieve actual intimacy?  Perhaps it’s time to forego settling as I search for what I truly desire?


I think it’s time to commit to myself.  Commit to my actual desires and seek out connections that enhance who I am and align squarely with what I want.  I think I’m going to give up sex.  Not forever, and definitely not with myself, but I’m going to sit with myself, be with myself, and in doing so, hopefully find someone to share that with.

As sex positive as I am, I don’t believe that celib—not having sex is the key for everyone to find relationship.  It’s so weird that I can’t even say nor type that “C” word.  I believe that one can be sexually active and dateable.  Just for me, the avenue of no sex is one never travelled.  So why not try it now?  Wish me luck.

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Chronicling my journey out of...and hopefully back in to...love.

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