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Friday, September 28, 2012

'New and Number Ones' - Kristine W.'s New CD Delivers Some Goods!

‘New and Number Ones’, Kristine W.’s new CD, finds the dance floor darling at an enviable point in her career; with 16 #1 Billboard Dance Club Play Hits (and one #2) under her belt.  Only Madonna (43), Janet Jackson (19), Beyoncé (18), and Rihanna (18) have more.  And considering Kristine has never enjoyed the mainstream success of those artists, it’s a pretty amazing accomplishment.  I think it’s a testament to her incredible voice, great work ethic, professionalism, and instincts as a performer, as well as her outer and inner beauty.  If you have ever had the privilege of seeing her perform live, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  She’s a diva in terms of talent only.  In-person there is something so natural and down-to-earth about her that she remains instantly relatable and highly likable. 
The make-up of her latest release mimics an archetype that’s become commonplace in the industry during the CD era – where an established artist remakes a few of their most famous songs while filling the rest of the disc up with new material.  It doesn’t make for the most progressive listen in terms of the growth of an artist, but it does serve as a stop gap measure, providing product for fans to buy while the artist considers their next move.  So if you were hoping for another ‘Fly Again’ or ‘Land of the Living’, you will walk away disappointed.  There is no unifying whole holding this one together – other than Kristine’s incredible pipes, which have never sounded more powerful.   She is fast approaching Martha Wash bombast.
The usual grab bag of producers/remixers are on hand; Bimbo Jones, DJ Howard D, Subgroover,  Soul Seekerz, Bitrocka, etc.   And despite the number of different techniques, almost every track is crammed with vintage synth sounds – including a plethora of laser zaps.  Used sparingly, this approach helps buoy up a few of the less-than-unique cuts, but elsewhere the technique constantly threatens to overwhelm Kristine’s inspired vocals.  Sometimes busy is good, and sometimes it simply distracts from what is already high quality. 
The lead track, ‘Love Come Home’ (Subgroover Radio Edit), will be familiar to anyone who knows Kristine W.’s musical history.  It was one of the first tracks she ever appeared on that gained significant attention in the dance clubs.  It originally appeared under the bill of Our Tribe featuring Frankie Pharaoh and Kristine W.  While a remix by Bitrocka utilizing Frankie Pharaoh’s vocals (along with Kristine’s) appears near the end of CD, the first version features Kristine solo.  It’s packed with synth fills, but Kristine remains front and center.  The verses pulse along nicely, while the chorus takes off like a rocket ship.   I’m sure that this, along with the second track will be released as singles before the end of 2013 – and I’m pretty sure they both stand a good chance at increasing the lady’s number of #1’s. 

‘I Get Up’ (DJ Howard D Radio Edit) follows and features the best vocals on the album, straddling the line between gospel holler and dance floor burner.  A theme of independence runs through the first three tracks, with this being the most powerful.   It reminds me of Natalie Cole’s ‘Livin’ for Love’, as it shares a similar chorus structure, and, considering how much I like that song, that is high praise.
Already on the dance charts (#18 as of this writing) is the (possibly) autobiographical, ‘Everything That I Got’; a song released about a month ago.  I downloaded it as soon as I knew it existed and its mixes (all good to terrific) were the only thing pouring out of my car’s speakers until ‘New and Number Ones’ was released.  ‘Everything’ is a great song, leaving her last three #1 dance club play singles (Be Alright, The Power of Music and Fade) in the dust.   If it fails to reach #1, I will be surprised, though she does face some pretty stiff competition with Beyoncé looking to peak the same week (Aside: typically, Kristine’s singles move to #1 in 7-8 weeks).  I love this song.  It’s got a great melody and catchy lyrics.  I think it’s a shame that something this uplifting and fun doesn’t get picked up by mainstream radio.
The first of her previous #1’s , ‘Land of the Living’ is up next.  The last time she revisited this number it appeared as a hidden track on a Patti Labelle greatest hits package.  That pairing left me lukewarm, but that says a lot about the beauty and power of Kristine’s original take.  Here, the song is given a ton of energy courtesy of Subgroover’s never-ending flank of synth gimmicks.  It works fairly well, as do the other two #1’s from the same time period – the mournful ‘One More Time’ and  epic ‘Feel What You Want‘; although ‘Feel’ is robbed of much of its mystery and drama in the hands of Bimbo Jones (Note: ‘Feel’ also appears in a very different version on her jazz album ‘Straight Up With a Twist’).  Of the remakes, only ‘Lovin’ You’ seems superfluous; a slight song overpowered in this instance by some heavy-handed production work. 
The remaining originals range from cheesy with a shelf date (Busted – think Melissa Manchester’s ‘Pretty Girls’ or Donna Summer’s ‘Eyes’, same territory), slight and overproduced (So Close to Me), underwhelming while being overwhelmed by ill-fitting production (Room At the Top), and unsubstantial (The Glow).  Of the four, ‘The Glow’ is the most fun and is the best produced.  Though, ‘Room at the Top’ features a great sax part and a stellar rap section that reminds me of Missy Elliot and given a proper remix, it could work as a possible single.
She fairs a bit better with the cover material.  ‘Sometimes a Butterfly’ is an old Bruce Roberts/Donna Summer collaboration that appeared as the B-side of Summer’s 'Love is In Control (Finger on the Trigger)' single back in 1982.  It’s a classically-contructed disco tune (and creaks just the tiniest bit), but given Kristine’s tendency to remain rooted in a kind of classic diva-of-dance mode, it is a good fit.  Which makes me think that now that Donna Sumer is gone (R.I.P. - she is so missed), Bruce Roberts could use a new diva to write with – why not Kristine?  Kristine appeared as a featured vocalist on Bruce’s dance epic ‘When the Money’s Gone’ (which also featured Elton John), so they are definitely aware of each other.  Seems like a win-win to me.
As for her cover of Chaka Kahn’s MOR classic, ‘Through the Fire’, a worthy song, for sure, I have yet to hear a mix that totally works.  I don’t know what mix she used in Duluth, MN, where she recently appeared as part of their 2012 pride celebration, but I liked it in that setting much more than either of the versions offered on ‘NANO’.  If the album version via Bitrocka sounds like one of those cheesy dance remakes of a popular Top 40 ballad featuring a faceless female vocalist with a click track, then rest assured:  that it is as good as it gets.  For, in the hands of Chus & Ceballos Iberican, the song  practically becomes unlistenable.  It is during this mix that one really notices the difference between Donna Summer and Kristine.  Donna had this wonderful warmth that colored the underside of her vocals, not so Kristine.  On the Chus & Ceballow Iberican version of ‘Fire’ we hear just how strained and thin Kristine’s voice can come off if not handled well in the production booth.   That this will be released as a single is pretty much a given.  Whether it enjoys the same success as her cover of Diana Ross’ ‘The Boss’?   That remains to be seen.   It’s not that Kristine’s vocals are bad on the extended remix or that the song isn’t great, it is just that something more needs to be done with this one before turning it out to the clubs.
There are also two additional extended mixes of ‘Feel’ at the end of the CD; the Sanchez mix is a slow builder in traditional 1998 club mode, while the Dave Saronsan mix retains a little of the intrigue and tension of the original by giving the verses an industrial grunge touch, but then loses it in the chorus by adding superfluous synth bleeps.
I can see three definite future #1’s: ‘I Get Up’, the remake of ‘Love Come Home’, and the already released ‘Everything That I Got’.  If ‘Room at the Top’ gets a proper remix, I could also see it climbing the charts.  What I hope doesn’t happen?  That they decide to try to get ‘Feel’ to the top of the charts again.  Not sure the clubs would go for that and I would hate to for her to spoil her string of #1s (though, with repeated listenings, the new versions of this song are growing on me, and may be an excellent way to introduce the song to a new generation). 
As Kristine W. CD’s go, this one is a lot like her last dance release ‘The Power of Music’, in that it feels cobbled together.  In the case of NONA, given its mix of new and old material, that’s understandable.  It does contain a number of standout cuts, in particular ‘I Get Up’ – every time I hear that song I get excited – and those are what make this worthwhile to own.  It also avoids the pitfalls – poor songwriting, indifferent production - that left ‘Power’ losing steam.  Kristine shows no desire to embrace new technology or borrow from the likes of Kesha  or even Beyoncé.  So, unlike Madonna, she’s comfortable with herself as an artist and isn’t desperately jumping on the latest trend to chase a hit or remain ‘young’.  And that is one of the hallmarks of a mature, fully-formed artist – one who is comfortable in her own skin.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Acquired Tastes, XIX: Black Men


I’ve wanted to write this particular Acquired Taste entry for a long time.  If you’ve spent any time reading my posts, you will find that I have an appetite for a wind range of different types of men – and that includes black men.  I could use the term ‘African-American’, but it feels to formal for this context, so I am just going to assume that you have no trouble with the term ‘black’ as an indicator of race.  I only bring this up because I want you to know that I have done a considerable amount of research (under the covers) and spent a lot of time considering this particular post.  Why?  Because racism exists and in considering writing a piece like this, I had to consider if doing so was racist on my part.

I do believe that everybody… and I mean everybody – no matter what color their skin is – is at least a little bit racist.  We all have these horrible lies, pre-conceived notions, and misconceptions about people based on their skin color that have soaked into our consciousness via the media, our educational system, our environment, and our family.  ‘Them that’s raised us’ have the most influence over our early belief systems.  Unless you happened to grow up in a real progressive community with an extremely evolved educational system, it is very difficult to distinguish the truth about a different race.  It’s only as young adults, once we break free of the confines of our childhood that we are able to come in contact with people of other races so we might form our own opinions and truths.  As a Minnesota boy, I was pretty clueless.  My relative’s casual racism always struck me as wrong and a tad scary.  While I was aware of color, I never really had any exposure to any other culture.  If I did come in contact with someone of another race, it was in a situation where my culture remained the dominant one, with them as visitors, so I only got a sense of who they were as filtered through my established environ. 

It was only when I moved to Minneapolis that my mind was truly exposed to other racial cultures.  I guess it was my work with the local crisis nursery (a short-term shelter for children in dangerous situations) that served as my first exposure to certain racial cultures in terms of poverty and the cost of being disenfranchised.  During those years I saw firsthand the effects of social neglect: lack of access to education, joblessness, social isolation, alcoholism and drug abuse, sexual and physical abuse, etc. had on the Native American, African American, and Hmong cultures.  It was as horrifying as it was fascinating.  The families I dealt with then were not the Cosby kids.  Nor were they ‘Good Times’.  In a way, it served as a great education.   Did I come away with any hard-set conclusions?  No.  In fact, just the opposite.

Because people – no matter the color of their skin – are individuals and individuals make choices.  To my way of thinking, we’re all like snowflakes – truly unique, none the same.  And that’s true no matter what culture we grow up in or eventually embrace.  Just as there may be some similarities in a given culture, there are also always exceptions to the rule. 

So how can I contemplate writing a piece that sexually objectifies a specific race and gender?  Is such an article racist?  And is it racist to have a preference for a certain kind of sexual partner based on race?

Before attempting this Acquired Taste post, I talked to a couple of people.  A good female friend of mine, who grew up in North Minneapolis and claims not to see color told me that it was not racist.  This is the same friend that, when I offered up my opinion that everybody is at least a little bit racist, got very upset.  For three days we talked about it.  She still, pretty much, disagrees with me on that point.  On the other hand, I spoke with a gay male friend from the south and asked him if he thought such an article would be racist and he told me ‘hell yeah’ and cautioned me about writing it.  His main objection: it’s wrong to objectify anyone.  So, I know that there are going to be very strong opinions about this.  My only saving grace is that this is a tiny blog and not many people will read it.  That said, if you do read this, please feel free to comment – I will post your opinion, provided you present it in a non-inflammatory manner and are respectful of others and the opinions of others.

Wow.  That‘s a lot of introduction.  I guess that makes me something of an apologist (A person who offers an argument in defense of something controversial).  Or not.  Maybe this isn’t all that controversial. 

When I look at the world of porn the term ‘black man’ is definitely in use and is considered a genre.  With that in mind, let’s dive face-first right into one of my personal favorite titillating topics and allow me to explain why it is I idolize….

Black Men

Scope of Activity:

The fetishism or preference for black men as sexual partners

The Official Line:

There is none.  Seriously, there is no term for this fetish (that I could find), which surprised me.  Okinawan women who date primarily black men are referred to as kokujo, but that is the closest I could come to anything official. I think in gay culture – a man who prefers the company of black man – is known as ‘a white ho’.  But don’t quote me on that.

My Experience:

Oh, I thought you’d never ask.

So, keep in mind that I grew up very sheltered and in an extremely white world.  Looking back, I find it kind of embarrassing just how isolated we were from the real world.  This was true of all my early education, right up to my first two years in college!  Rural Minnesota, man.  It sucked.

So my exposure to other cultures, and in particular, to black men, came in the form of what I saw on television or read about in Time magazine or Rolling Stone.  Music-wise, at an early age, I had a hunger for R&B and funk.  I found disco to be exotic and erotic.  The likes of Journey, Boston and Foreigner pretty much left me cold.  I thought Roberta Flack was an angel.  Chaka Khan a goddess.  And Marvin Gaye?  A naughty, dangerous man.  Given that, my initial sexual associations with black men came as filtered through the media.

The television mini-series ‘Roots’ was a huge cultural phenomenon.  Also groundbreaking: sitcoms like ‘Good Times’, ‘Gimme A Break’, ‘Sanford and Son’, ‘The Jefferson’s’, ‘That’s My Momma’, and ‘What’s Happening’.  All these shows, to some degree, carried within it a wonderful 1970’s funky vibe – the kind of energy captured in the Ernie Barnes painting. ‘Sugar Shack’ which adorned the closing credits for ‘Good Times’.  By the 1980’s, that vibe would be whitewashed away by the networks (The Cosby Show, Benson, Different Strokes, etc.), along with my enthusiasm for sitcoms in general, but in the ‘70’s – oh, we had it good.

The first black man I ever had a huge thing for?  John Amos, the daddy on ‘Good Times’.  He was in ‘Roots’ as well.  What a SMF!  I see a picture of him to this day and I just want to bend over and have him either spank me, humiliate me, and/or fuck me. He got an extra dose of whatever it is that makes black men so sexy.  I think there must have been an episode of ‘Good Times’ where he was threatening to take off his belt and spank someone, because that is what I associate him with.  I’d play Boy to his Daddy any time.

Ironically, he did not have the same effect on me when he was playing Gordy Howard, the weatherman, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Maybe I was way too young.  Or maybe Gordy wasn’t as intimidating as James Evans, Sr. 

Other iconic images from that time: Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, and LeVar Burton as Kunta Kinte. 

As for actual physical proximity leading to intimacy?  You gotta fast forward a number of years for that.  I was so far in the closet for so long – that coupled with my limited exposure to black men in the flesh – meant that I was never afforded the opportunity until 1990!  Oh, I had crushes, for sure.  I remember James, this very beautiful boy I worked with at Woolworth’s in 1984.  I wanted to kiss him so bad. He had the prettiest mouth, Michael Jackson eyes (pre-surgery), and the nicest shaped head.  I even wrote a song for him called ‘Pretty Boy Cool”.  And Prince!  ‘Dirty Mind’, indeed!  He had me working my dick overtime.  But I never acted out on my impulses until 1990.  It also coincided with my first foray into the worlds of anonymous, public sex and bottoming!

In 1990, I owned a used-a-bit shop in South Minneapolis.  The shop was divided into two halves – the main store - where there was a person seated at the register – and then the side I was usually on; where all the furniture was displayed.  A section of this part of the store was cordoned off by a couple of big industrial shelves, behind which I would tinker away; cleaning up items, pricing them, and making them ready for sale. 

Lots of black folk shopped in my shop and I even had a black gay male cashier.  So, I didn’t think anything of it, when a black dude, mid-thirties, came into the furniture section one day to wander around.  I was busy pricing things and putting them out on this holding shelf where they would sit until I took them to their department.  I had on a pair of old jeans, nothing special, and I must have bent over to place something on one of the lower shelves before returning behind the shelf unit.  I know that I had greeted the customer, because that was just something I always did, but I didn’t think anything of it.  He was about 5’10”, good shape, wearing a dark blue nylon jacket and a pair of dark rim glasses.  Nothing flashy about him, save the tiny mustache which lined his upper lip. 

I walked back to my workshop, and pretty soon, he wandered back there, too.  I was standing at the sink, he, by the back door.  I asked him if I could help him.  He told me he was just looking around and then told me he really liked my jeans.  I thought: what a weird comment.  I thanked him and turned back to the sink.  He then came up behind me and again told me he really liked my jeans.  By this point, my heart was racing and I was, to say the least, confused.  He then leaned into me, pressing part of his left thigh into my rear and whispered into my ear, “You got a great fucking ass.”  I was flustered, to say the least, and kind of paralyzed.  Then he took my right hand and brought it back behind me and placed it on his rock hard dick which was sticking out of the fly of his pants!  I turned around, looked at his dick and said, “Oh, my, that’s… that’s very nice”, before excusing myself and running into the basement.  I waited awhile, hoping that he had the sense to leave, before coming back up and returning to work. 

That incident worked my mind for days.  Three days later, he walked back into my workshop area.  By this point, I was kind of turned on by the idea of fooling around in my place of business and took a more aggressive stance.  I walked up to him, grabbed his crotch and said, “Follow me”.  I led him down to the basement, where I did as he asked: let my jeans fall to the floor, bent over and showed him my ass.  He walked up behind me and felt the globes of my ass, talking really sexy and secretively, telling me how nice it felt.  Then he took his dick and began to rub it on the crack of my ass.  I’d bottomed with a long-term boyfriend of mine back in like 1987 and then again in like 1990, but really, those were my only two experiences.  Neither had ever taught me about douching and the like, and the internet was not that advanced yet, where such info was easily accessible.  So I had no clue what I was doing.  Instead of allowing him to enter me, I turned around and started sucking his dick, something that, at this time, I was also not very good at, if I remember correctly.  Sucking cock is something I wouldn’t get the hang of until the year 1998!  So, I did what I could and he in turn took his dick out of my mouth and asked me to turn around and show him my ass again.  I complied and he proceeded to jerk his dick off and shoot his load all over the rounds of my ass before using his dick like a butter knife and spreading his jizz all over my rump.  I was jerking my dick, too, but he didn’t bother waiting around until I came, and, in fact, was back upstairs, heading out of the store when I finally did.  I guess this would set the tone for my future – I kind of like it when the other dude cums and runs, leaving me to take care of myself on my own. 

We’d play one more time, pretty much repeating the same scenario, only this time, I came when he came and that meant that there was time for Q&A afterwards.   Only, there were no answers forthcoming from him and I was the only one asking questions.  Apparently, that broke some cardinal rule of his – talking – and I never saw him again.  Which was fine.  To be honest, he was kind of a lame introduction to black men. 

In L.A., I never got to meet any black men.  They did not haunt the mens rooms in the parks I frequented.  And I don’t remember any in Iowa, Arizona, Florida, Hawaii, Washington, or any of the other places I lived.  I mean, yes, I am sure they were there, but I was not very sexual until L.A., and then I guess I was so busy with everything else, it never occurred to me to seek them out.

When I moved back to Minneapolis in the late, late 90’s, and started working downtown, that’s when my exposure to black men would grow into a true passion and appreciation.  My love for tearoom sex bloomed while in L.A., but I really didn’t master it (or bottoming or sucking dick) until I dove into the heady culture that was alive and kicking downtown.  Keep in mind - I didn’t know that people had sex in gay bars. Or other places.  But I did know about mens rooms – learned that during my time in Iowa.  So, by the time I got to downtown Minneapolis, I kind of knew the score.  It was at this time that I met the short white dude with the 10.5” dick who coached me on how to suck cock.  I took those lessons to heart and never looked back.  It was also here and in my work environment that I came in contact with young professionals near my own age, who were also gay.  And some of them were black.  We had a ball in the various store rooms I had access to, in addition to the tea rooms. 

I remember the first time a black dude fucked me in public while others watched.  He was at least 6’6”, built like a football player – not fat, just big.  He was peeking at me through a crack in the stall door in mens room in Gaviidae, so I opened the door a crack.  He told me to turn around and show him my ass.  I did and he started playing with it, fingering my hole.  He told me to turn around and then he guided me to my knees.  From the front of his sweat pants, he pulled a pretty impressive dick, which was already hard.  I slobbered all over that baby, doing the best that I could.  A group of about six other dudes crowded around to watch.  They served as a kind of shield in the event that someone walked in.  The black dude then pulled me to my feet and then he stepped around me, so his body was in the door frame of the stall.  The spectators parted enough in front of me, so that I had a clear view of myself, bent over in front of this powerful figure. 

The black dude lubed up my ass and went to pound town with those watching egging him on.  It was one of those weird, exhilarating, humiliating moments.  Given the circumstances, I decided not to be very verbal.  I do remember arching up at one point, turning my head to see if he would kiss me.  My efforts were met with a decisive hard push on my upper back, as in, ‘bitch, know your place’.  After about five more minutes of fucking, he pulled out and ordered me to my knees.  Pumping his dick by hand, he unloaded on my face; big, hot gobs of white spunk covering my upraised features.  At that moment, someone entered.  The black dude stepped back, slammed the stall door and locked it, the crowd moved swiftly away with many exiting, leaving me on my knees, my pants around my ankles.  Wordlessly, I stood and pulled up my pants as the new arrival gawked.  Both stalls were in use and someone was standing at the urinal, so he had to wait, and as he did, he watched me as I moved to the sink to wash my face.  Once finished, I moved past him without catching his eye.  I was totally embarrassed, and super turned on. 

Since then, I have enjoyed every type of black man there is… all the different skin shades; dusky, red, yellow, etc.  All the different styles; urban professional, gangsta, nerd, etc.  And all the different body types; tall and skinny, short and stocky, footballer, runner, weight lifter, plush, etc.  I love the smell of their balls.  That musk is like no other.  I really like it when they have low hangers, and a nice, long fat one is always a welcome sight.  They have the nicest asses, especially the young pony boys with the sweet curve to their lower back; plenty to grab hold of and fun to eat. 

Based on my limited experience, I have to say that as far as dick size goes, black men really run the same gamut as Caucasians.  So, so much for that cliché. 

The dude that fucked me this spring at a park I frequent was back this past Wednesday.  I hadn’t seen him since the last time we fucked, which was pretty much right out in the open; as detailed in my 3/23/12 post entitled ‘After the Hangover, Comes a Spring Awakening’.  His second visit also served as an even more appropriate example of a perfectly completed seasonal cycle than those shared in my 8/12/12 post, ‘Book Ends: The Summer Knows….’

He pulled into the lot and backed into the parking space next to mine.  He’s wearing dark wrap-around glasses and dress clothes, complete with a suede-looking sports coat.  The man is fly.  Last time I saw him, he was presenting rather gangsta; low hanging baggy jeans that exposed his underwear and a wife beater.  This time, it’s as if he got a Wesley Snipes upgrade.  He gets out of the car and makes a big show of taking of his jacket and folding it neatly on the passenger seat.  Is he looking at me?  Does he know it’s me?  Our eyes never really meet (because he’s wearing dark glasses) and I never get a sense that he’s acknowledging me.  But then why would he park next to me and then back into the space so our driver’s windows match up?  My heart is beating fast.  Yep, I need it bad.

The lot was very fairly empty when he arrived.  There was a red pick-up belonging to this dude that hits on me every time I’m there, but I’m not into.  He’s kind of a stalker; overweight, older, grey beard, trucker hat, paunch – the kind of thing I routinely turn down these days.  The only other vehicle belonged to a pair of straights grabbing each other’s asses in the picnic pavilion.  So I’m thinking I’ve got a good chance at snagging Mr. Snipes.  Of course, my relatively open window begins to close as soon as Mr. Snipes gets out of his car - it’s like all the other spiders on the web got alerted that something fresh had touched ground; three other cars pulled in at once. 

Mr. Snipes walked to behind the restrooms (that are never open) and I have stepped out of my car as well.  I’m thinking that we should hook up in the wooded area behind the pavilion, where we did the deed in March, so I start creeping slowly in that direction.  I know he sees me and he starts to move in the same direction when out of the woods comes Mr. Red Pickup.  He’s hot on Mr. Snipes scent.  Then two other trolls scramble out of their vehicles and I start cursing my luck.    The scene is further complicated by two dog walkers and another straight couple appearing out of nowhere.   I begin to think that the universe does not want Mr. Snipes using my ass.  

After about ten minutes of maneuvering in an effort to dodge trolls and fat dudes in trucker hats, Mr. Snipe sits on the picnic table at the bottom of the hill – the same hill where I caught my rays this summer.  I do my best to escape troll detection, and make a bee line for a path down to the river that Mr. Snipes is currently facing.  I make it.  Standing on the rise, right across the path from Mr. Snipes, I decide to risk rejection (or worse) and put on a little show for him.  I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  The shorts drop to the ground and I bend over, sticking my ass in the air.  Because of the hill behind him, I know no one, but Mr. Snipes, can see me.  I only run risk of discovery by unwanted eyes if someone should happen down the path – which is exactly what a certain bicyclist does!  Fortunately, Mr. Snipes, whom I was not sure was even paying attention to me (he has been coolly smoking a Tiparillo, while striking a pose of casual indifference), gives me a heads up in the nick of time with a sharp hand signal and disaster is averted.

The biker gone, and with renewed confidence (now that I know I have Mr. Snipes attention), I go all out, dropping trou, bending over, spreading my ass cheeks, and fingering my hole.  I keep checking to see if my actions are getting any kind of rise out of Mr. Snipes, and, it would seem, they do, for he discards the Tiparillo and begins to casually pace back and forth on the path between us.  His aloofness makes me feel extra dirty.  He does a quick check to make sure no one sees him before making a move toward me.  I quickly move down the path toward the river.  At one point I turn around and find him standing on a rock above me.  He’s at the perfect height, and through the front tails of his sharp dress shirt I see that he has lowered his dress pants enough to allow his dick free range.  It’s semi-soft when I first wrap my lips around it.  He allows me to work my magic for a bit before suggesting that we move down even further.  I comply and find myself on my knees before him, tucked in a tiny space, buffeted by a fallen tree and some stones. 
Taking his dick in my mouth again, in no time, I have him hard as a rock.  I’m struck by one thing – he’s a lot thicker than I remember.  In fact, there is something almost flat about the top side of his dick.  He’s definitely every inch the man I remember (at least ten).  As I’m expertly deepthroating his knob, he tells me doesn’t have a condom.  No worries, I tell him, I got you covered.  He then starts pulling his dick all the way out of my mouth before plunging it back down my throat.  Keep in mind, I have done no poppers, yet, I am having no trouble making room for his monster dick.  While this is going on, I take note of his pants.  Where does this man shop?  The shirt is an oversized black shirt with white pinstripes.  His pants – they are this wonderful flat, orange-brown.  What is most amazing, to me is how baggy they are – even the crotch area seems to be way more expansive than needed, as if extra material was placed to make that area seem wide and flat.  That’s why they slip off his slim hips so easily. I find the look truly sexy.

After about ten minutes of tonsil hockey, he tells me, “Lemme fuck that ass.”  I whip out a super-sized condom (yep, there is one that is larger than a magnum and I just happen to have it in my pocket) and he rolls it expertly over his hard thick bad boy.  I rip open a packet of ID Glide, finger fuck my hole with some before smearing the remainder on his wrapped cock.  And let me tell you, the sight of that black beauty wrapped in that perfectly-fitting oversized ribbed rubber?  Woah!  I have a whole new appreciation for condoms.  Yep, this man looks good in everything he puts on!

I practically beg him to ‘go slow’ and he complies, nicely teasing my aching cunt with the head of his dick.  In and out it goes, pressing further in with each thrust.  At a certain point, a bit of pain is inescapable, especially when dealing with such a huge fucker, but I keep breathing and once he’s all the way in, something in me releases and I instinctively start to fuck back on his dick.  That’s all the encouragement he needs.  In an instant we go from tentative fuck to all-out motherfucking pound town.  I am definitely getting what I need and let him know how much I’m enjoying it.  He tells me I ‘got a nice ass’ and my heart just soars.  Yeah, I know there is no way in hell this stud is ever going to be seeking out my favors on a regular basis, but just hearing those words come out of his masculine, dom mouth has me tripping big time. 

After going to town on my ass for a bit, he slows down before doing the most amazing thing… he pulls all the way out and then slides it all the way back in – over and over.  I don’t think my hole has enough sense to close, so I can only imagine the open-mouthed beauty he must be sliding his pole back into.  He has me by the hips and is so strong; I know he has complete control of me and I like it.  Gradually, very gradually, the tempo picks up and soon I find myself once again fucking back on his dick, meeting him thrust for thrust.  Then, without a word, he stops cold while holding me on the tip of his dick.  A few beats pass and then he lets out this quiet, deep, guttural sound – it scares me just a little, but soon I realize that he’s shooting his load.  He just holds me there – it’s like suspended animation.  The instant I feel his elbow relax, I push my ass onto his dick and fuck back with all my might.  I want every drop of that load deposited in the tip of that condom, man.  Once I sense that he’s totally spent, I ease off his dick, drop on my knees in front of him, roll off the condom and slide his still hard dick down my throat.  If there is an juice left in that fucker, I want it.  I clean up his dick real well, take a moment to catch one more whiff of his man sack, and then we’re both busy putting ourselves right.  I snatch up the condom wrapper, the lube package and the used condom – I’m keeping that wrapper as a souvenir.

As we turn to move up the hill and back to the path, Mr. Snipes stops short.  “We had an audience”, he says.  I look up.  There’s the fat fuck in the trucker cap – the asshole followed us.  I hate stalkers.  We head up the hill.  Mr. Snipe takes the paved path back to the lot; I make a bee line for my car, walking across the grass.  Neither of us gives the trucker fucker as much as a glance.  Back at my car, I pop my trunk to retrieve my bag with my cleanup equipment – Listerine, wet wipes, a nice white cotton towel – and as I’m doing so, Mr. Snipes reaches his vehicle.  I’m walking to my passenger door; he comes up behind me and buzzes my ear with, “I sure like fucking your ass.”  I tell him, “Any time”.  We get in our respective cars and as I slide in I throw out a “Thank you.”  To him.  To the universe. Because I am grateful.

A good fuck makes one really appreciate being alive.          

My Conclusion:

 I really appreciate black men.  They have brought me so much joy.  Sure, there have been a few duds in the bunch – the hot kinky leather dude who was doing crack, the soft baby one that just laid there and did nothing, the non-commutative one who acted like he had better things to do - but I’ve had their white counterparts as well, proving that race is no guarantee of a good time. 

Yet there is something about a dominant, stiff-lipped, masculine black male – the kind that, yes, makes the panties drop.  It’s a personal preference; a personal appreciation.

Is it racist?

I went to the Acme Comedy Club last night and there was a black female comedian from North Minneapolis named Brandy who talked extensively on the subject of race.  She addressed the fact that so many people are incredibly uncomfortable talking about race and racism.  It’s like the elephant in the room that nobody wants to address. 

Objectifying black males?  How can that be racist?  I’ve come to praise Ceasar – not to bury him.  Here there shall be no burying…

…unless some fine brother’s burying his monster dick up my white ass!

Can I get an ‘Amen’?

Friday, September 14, 2012

Waiting for Convenience: Oxymoron or Just Smart Sex?

What becomes of us once sex in no longer our prime objective?  I have to ask, because, for so long now, sex has been just that for me – an all-consuming pursuit.  There was a time when there was not a suburb I would not travel to, a restroom I would not check out, a park I would not cruise, an hour I would not sneak away from work, a piece of strange that I would not want to experience… but lately, and I guess this would be since March of this year, I am less likely to go out of my way for a little something-something.  Instead of 24/7 horny, I am currently experiencing more like every-four-days horny.  And it’s not for lack of opportunity.  The opportunities and means of acquiring sex are all still in play.  I actually think I’m getting hit on more now that I am not actively seeking it 24/7. 
One of the reasons I am getting it on so much recently is – and yep, tooting my own horn here - my body is stellar.  I am so pleased, and a bit amazed that I – given my history and age - am in such great shape.  People comment on it all the time, so obviously I’m doing something right.  Yeah, the face is a lost cause.  I do what I can to minimize the horror, but hey, if a dude can’t put up with a little ugly, then they’re not the guy for me.  So opportunity continues to knock.   I am just less likely to answer. 
Lazy, I guess.  I can’t be bothered.  Lately, if I have to put too much of an effort into getting it, or if it is not convenient, then I am probably going to end up finding an excuse to say ‘no’.  No; what a strange word.  There was a time when that word, in relation to sexual activity, was never uttered by yours truly.  I was GGG for just about anything.  I remember travelling for hours to meet someone for the first time – sometimes without so much as a single photo.  I remember countless times before I got GPS when I would find myself totally lost, running late, and losing my mind.  I remember when I could overlook the fact that the dude didn’t match his picture or stats.  I remember that if I could squeeze a little fun in, I would go to any length to make it happen.  But now ‘no’ is not only an option, it sort of become the standard response. 
Is it because of my dogs?  I have three special-needs animals now.  I adore them, but they take a lot of work and make hosting anywhere but my garage impossible.  No one wants to hear a 12 year old deaf Boston Terrier scream while trying to get down and dirty.  Still, I can have sex elsewhere… and given the summer we just had, I did spend a great deal of time outdoors sunning in cruisy areas.
Is it my work load?  No.  I’ve had a great year at work, so far, and everything they hand me – while it may throw me off my game at first – I am eventually able to handle without much effort.
Is it the testosterone thing?  You see, as you age, your testosterone levels decrease slightly after the age of 40.  But I’ve had mine checked, and my Doc says I’m fine.
Is it that I’m getting older?  Well, as I mentioned, my bod is in the best condition it has ever been.  So I am healthy.  And relatively happy.  I don’t allow my past to rule my present.  I discard resentments as soon as possible.  And also, while it is something of a cliché’, to me, age is just a number… and I don’t feel the number I’m currently assigned. 
Then what is it?
I just don’t wanna.
I’d rather stay home.  I’d rather not spend all the time it takes to get ready to have sex or deal with the anxieties that arise when dealing with the many logistics involved in having some no-strings-attached fun.  I’d rather not deal with the potential disappointment of meeting someone who turns out not to be who or what they said they are.  I don’t want to deal with all the potential fall-out: dudes who don’t seem to understand that ‘no strings’ means that I may not want a dozen text messages from them in the following 24 hours peppered with requests to hook-up again, or experiences that fail to clear the bar and lead me to think I’ve wasted my time – regret is a huge bummer. 
I am very envious of those who lead lives that are not complicated.  They are so free.  They have tricks drop over whenever they want.  They never have a friend or family member making demands on their time.  And their living situation allows them to have sex whenever the hell they feel like it.  I think if my life was less complicated, and I have considered ducking any and all responsibility many a time, I would have ads on Craigslist inviting dudes over at 2:00 am.  I would host incredible, anonymous sex parties, where tops were invited to walk-in and find me on all fours with my ass in the air.  Or I just might have a series of established fuck buddies who have been assigned a day of the week. 
But that’s not my reality.  My life really comes down to a series of obligations and responsibilities.  Yes, I chose it all – or most of it, anyway.  So sex has always been something I kind of fit in where I can.  And the no-strings clause has been part of that mostly because 1/ I don’t want to complicate my life even more and 2/ I would hate to complicate someone else’s life with the choices I’ve made. 
So, sex remains a matter of convenience and my definition of convenience has become somewhat more narrow over the years.  Fortunately, on occasion, something really wonderful will happen – like last night, that more than strengthens my belief that waiting until it’s convenient is something that makes sense, for me.
I hadn’t gotten off in four days and was kind of jonesing, so, I’m trying my usual outlets – A4A, Manhunt, BBRTS, Grindr, and Scruff.  Plus I’m looking at some pretty hot free porn on one of my favorite blogs.  My attention is so split, that I don’t feel like I’m doing justice to any of it and, after considering putting an ad on Craigslist and then nixing the idea due to the fact that it seems like just too much fucking work, I shut it all down, get in my car and decide to check out one of my old cruising haunts.
I pull in.  It’s dark.  There are two guys in the lot.  Both of them are lot trolls – dudes that are always there working that parking lot or section of the woods.  And I mean, they have been there, probably every night, for the past six years that I have been cruising there.  Neither is what I am looking for, so I head over to another part of the park. 
Things are hopping here.  But it’s dark.  And the pickings aren’t exactly up to my new standards (YES – I have developed standards which I evoke whenever something looks like it might not be worth the effort).  So after a half hour of getting hit on and walking the other way, I go sit in my car.  Lo and behold, turns out I didn’t turn off Grindr or Scruff.  There are like six dudes with messages.  Most of them I recognize immediately as ‘this is going to go nowhere’ kind of inquiries.   But there is one really promising dude.  He’s from Texas, and staying at a nearby hotel.  His profile pic indicates that he is cute and muscular – in other words – out of my league. He’s very direct, which appeals to me quite a bit – I hate time wasters.
 I send him my pics and he keeps saying ‘hot’ – even my face pic!  He sends me his pics – and that is definitely a word that applies – HOT.  Amazingly, he’s a top who enjoys oral and kissing.  We’re a match.  Then he sends me his location.  It’s that Grindr map  – and I take one look at it and assume that trying to get to him is going to be too much trouble.  I’m about to tell him I can’t make it, but decide, just for the hell of it, to enter the name of his hotel in my GPS Navigator. 
Thank you, GPS!  What a life saver.  Amazingly enough, he’s only 2.7 miles away.  I am still thinking, oh, no – there’s gotta be a catch.  But there isn’t.  GPS takes me on back roads, rather than making me get on any of the major freeways, and I am there in a matter of a few minutes.  No sweat.
He tells me to meet him at the elevators.  I’m wearing a cap, a white-T, and a pair of work out pants.  So, I sort of stand out in the lobby, as everyone else is wearing business suits and the like.  I go stand by the elevators, realizing there is a very real  chance that he will come down, take one look at me, and say, “no dice”.  He comes down.  He’s in a white-T, dress pants and dress shoes.  His pics do him justice and his smile is killer.  Much to my surprise, he whisks me up to his room, making small talk the whole way.  We talk Minnesota, the weather, travel, blah, blah.
In the room, I ask to use the bathroom.  When I come out he’s still fully dressed.  We approach one another and meet at the foot of the bed.  He’s just under a foot shorter than me, but the first kiss hits the mark.  We strip and he climbs onto the bed, which he has actually opened up – so we’re not fucking on the comforter, but on the actual sheets – in other words, this Texan is a gentleman. 
And a hot gentleman.  Did I mention that he’s muscular?  Did I mention that he’s handsome?  His pecs are a work of art.  His waist, perfection.  His ass, sweet.  I can’t keep my hands off his biceps.  In situations like this I always feel a little bit like Barbara Streisand – the ugly duckling who manages to land a swan.  Well, this particular swan has me swooning.  How lucky can I get?
 He’s perfectly tan.  Around my age, too, so I can let go of that whole mindfuck.  I can tell that he must shave/trim everything everywhere, because he’s a tiny bit prickly, but then I didn’t do my due diligence that morning, and I’m a tiny bit prickly, too.  His dick is really, really pretty – like a delicious-looking, fat worm.  He’s only about 7” but he’s nicely thick, so that makes up for it.  It makes for some interesting frottage.  By this point, our kissing styles have meshed.  I was a little worried that he was going to turn out to be one of those kissers who kind of just open and close their mouths on yours, like a fish gasping for air – but after I take his bottom lip between my lips and hold it for a bit, he comes around and changes up his game.  I suck on his dick for a bit.  He’s not hard and the Chicken Little in my head starts running around screaming ‘he’s not that into you’.  I, of course, am fucking rock hard, which he appreciates and shows said appreciation by expertly deepthroating  my dick.  I must say, it looks damn good in his mouth.
Now, it is late – for me – I arrived at 9:45 pm – and we both have to work in the morning, so I think that has a lot to do with why we get straight to the fucking.  First, I’m on top.  I’m teasing the bare head of his dick with my hole, making him want it.  I’m pretty content with that, because my dick is rock hard and it looks good brushing up against his abs and pecs.  But then, in a surprising move, he makes me sit on it – bare.  I end up taking the whole thing at once and it hurts, but I keep breathing, telling myself it will pass. It does.  Next, I get my feet under me, planting them on either side of his head and just go to town bouncing on his cock.  He reaches over and gets more lube and a condom.  I slide off his dick, he puts the condom on, and I slide right back on it.  He’s lubed up my dick and is pumping it with his left hand, but I ask him to stop because between his palm and the pressure his dick is placing in my hole, I’m about to cum. 
Then we switch it up with me on my back, my legs pushed back, riding on his shoulders.  He’s an animal and keeps changing it up just enough to keep it hot.  Lately, I am really into dudes going achingly slow, allowing me to feel every inch going in and out of my hole.  He alternates between that and pounding the fuck out of me.  I feel totally at his mercy.  Throughout, he leans down for kisses.  He mentions that he’s getting close and I tell him to go for it.  He seems surprised at this, but then, it is late and he has an early flight and I have an early day.  He grabs a bottle of poppers and takes a hit, offers me one (which I accept) and then takes another.  I squeeze and release my hole as he pounds me.  It produces the correct response.  Loading that condom with jizz, he cums very quietly, which also surprises me – he’d been so vocal up until that moment, I was expecting a wave of drama. 
Being the gentleman Texan he is, he stays in me, and encourages me to get off; talking sweetly to me and giving me deep kisses.  I cum, shooting a nice puddle of creamy white all over my abs.  Clean-up is easy.  Before I know it, I’m dressed and headed down to the lobby alone.  On the way, I send him a message via Grindr, thanking him.  I leave with no regrets, amazed at the economy of time and activity I just experienced.
When it’s right – it’s really right.
When it’s right it all works – the timing, the logistics, the activity; which is why waiting for such moments is really the way to go, for me.  The scattershot approach – having as much sex as possible to ensure that on occasion I get a choice piece – doesn’t work for me anymore.  Such a strategy depletes my energy supply, works my nerves, and is a real drain on my free time.  I guess I should trust the universe more often and stop forcing this particular issue. 
Instead of being easy, I should wait until it is easy – and feels right. 
Does that mean I’m losing my edge?  No.  It means I’m getting smarter about my sex.  Quality, not quantity, does the trick (so to speak), every time.
See… I’m not getting older – I’m getting smarter.