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Love, Walter by Love, Walter - 4M ago

Dear Walter,

How was your New Year’s?

-To whom it may concern.

Dear To whom it may concern,

It’s so hard to say goodbye like Boyz II Men.

My so-called man left two days before Christmas to visit his family and never returned. It gets better. He strung me along for nearly two weeks before deciding on the day of that he wasn’t coming back. And this happened before I had to clock in into my day job. And the kicker is he texted it to me like a coward. I felt like some shit that he rubbed is feet in on they way to the club.

He was supposed to pay the rent as well.

25 phone calls and too many text messages later, still no response. And just like that my life was turned upside down at the start of a new year. Perhaps, things were supposed to end up this way. Perhaps this separation will be the catalyst for my spiritual, economical, and emotional growth. But he still fucked up my fresh start.

This event was so insidious, I don’t know if I could ever forgive him. I get that you no longer want to be with me (although I can’t really see that but I can pretend to). But you have to give me the fucking respect and dignity I’m entitled too. You don’t get to escape your life when we are clearly building one together. I had a dream of a future filled with financial freedom.

There is a paradigm shift in the world where depressing shit is constantly becoming the norm. Like is this really happening? Trying to survive the shifting headlines and weather alone warranted me switching from wine to Vodka. And now, the billionaire is serving Big Macs on silver platters. It’s really a metaphor for what’s happening in this country. The rich are getting richer while they are serving us shit on a silver platter.

From the state of the union to the state of my misery, the holidays have a fucked up way of highlighting what you really don’t have. I feel like an advice columnist living a lie. I’m no longer in a successful relationship. I’m like a rich bitch that was conned out of all her money. This pretty mess, is all I have left, the relics of relationship’s past, on the bottom of the bathroom floor.

Sometimes love is not enough to keep a relationship or even a life afloat. My relationship was my lifeboat. It was like it was drifting on wood like that bitch from Titanic as my lover dies in front of me. Perhaps, I’m being a little dramatic. But was he trying to save me by moving to New Jersey? Or was he being selfish and seize on the first opportunity to get away from me?

This is certainly not good for the self esteem. But why was he treating me like the enemy when we’re supposed to be on the same side?

These are the times we’re in. We are living life precariously from one paycheck to the next. And with the backdrop of the longest government shut down in history, some can’t even do that. But I have to keep it moving. I have to keep paving a path to progress. So what he left. What am I going to do with my life today?

He doesn’t make me. He was only supposed to love me. I have enough to make up for the both us. Elizabeth Taylor once said, ”Pull yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together.” With life there is hope. As long as I’m still living I still have a chance to make it. I’m turning this pain into gold to reignite the writer within.

Perhaps this relationship nearly overwhelmed my inner artist. Worrying about his needs, coping through shifting moods and bouts of depression consumed me. All that time and energy spent I could have a book out. I’m reclaiming my time darling. I guess there’s some relief. I don’t ever have to worry about him again.

On second thought, maybe it isn’t so hard to say goodbye. Good Riddance.

And say hello to me, still standing, slightly slimmer, and ready to enjoy my motherfucking life responsibly.

Love,

Walter

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Love, Walter by Love, Walter - 4M ago

Dear Walter,

I’m a bottom and my man is a top. But lately he has been hinting that he wants to experiment in the bedroom. He talks about how he’s never bottomed before but he’s super curious. I’m nervous. I’m worried if I don’t give, in he may want to to try this with some one else.

—Bedroom Bottom

Dear Bedroom Bottom,

In my sessions, I dance like a diva on a dime while my legs are intertwined. Maybe I’m just a selfish lover racing to be on the bottom like there is some fucking award. We both know what our roles are. We both know what we signed up for. So why was he surprised when I wasn’t in the mood to penetrate him when he woke me up at 1am. And I had to be at work in the morning.

Last night, he was drunk again. He rejected me sexually because I ignored him, calling me selfish.

“You don’t have to worry about this tonight?”

He sipped my wine and rolled over.

“Don’t drink all my wine.”

That was the best I could muster. Yeah I as petty and unapologetic. 20 minutes later, he rolled over again, and he slid himself in. He bite my neck and burned my ears with his words. “Why are you doing this to me? You know you wanna fuck.”

“My ex only wanted me to let him fuck. He only rode me once. He wanted me to be submissive. Now I’m dealing with the opposite.”

“I just love how pretty your dick is. He likes me. What kind of sex columnist are you?”

Hmm, that was a bit much. As he plowed away, his thoughts were still embedded in my mind. He fucked my mind but not in the good way.

I can be stubborn and so can he. But that doesn’t mean that we are unhappy. I don’t think happiness can be defined in absolute terms. We were some thing a bit more complicated.

That life in bed, behind the scenes like an audience patiently waiting behind the curtain for the show to start, dressed in anxiety, frustration, and passion. Our fate sealed between my thighs. New highs felt like low blows. Was I just a hole? Surely over 30, I must feel whole. Why did that motherfucker have so much power?

Or was it power in disguise? Maybe I was the one in charge? They say the one with least interest has the most power in the relationship. But I’m not so sure about that. I don’t know if relationships can be reduced to politics — to who’s in power or not. And aren’t we are deeper and freer than that?

My sexual moods fluctuated, he knocked on my versatile door at the wrong time. Sometimes, you need to know when to knock. I guess if he never did, we would never know. What if I’m stuck in a caricature of heterosexual relationship dynamic where one is the man, while the other is the woman. Or was there a deeper reason?

I can’t tell you at this moment. I simply don’t know, but I’m willing to explore. How we perform in relationships has to come from somewhere. We cling to the ideals from the successful relationships on the surface, from celebrity’s and tv characters.

I used to want a relationship like Noah and Wade from Noah’s Arc. It was pure fantasy. Masculine and feminine intertwine like they lived in Beyoncé’s belly. This yin to the yang seem to fit like a glove turned inside out. But a glove is still a glove.

The best relationship I have is the one I have now. It’s steep in reality and not reality tv. And sometimes I give in and top for him. And I realize I’m actually not that bad. I actually quite good. Give it a try.

Enjoy your life responsibly.

Love,

Walter

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No-one is 100 percent straight. Ritch C. Savin Williams, professor emeritus of development psychology at Cornell University, suggests this theory in his new book: Mostly Straight: Sexuality Fluidity Among Men.

Before some gays get excited about converting seemingly straight men in the locker room — let’s dive deeper.

Sexuality is on a spectrum. The Kinsey Scale was first developed by Dr. Alfred Kinsey in 1948, measuring human sexuality among men and women. Instead of labeling them gay, straight or bi — Kinsey created a seven-point scale, ranging from 0 to 6, and X. Heterosexuality and homosexuality both anchored the ends of the spectrum while bisexuality fell in the middle. (Noted in the image above.)

Decades later, A new study take this further. It introduces an emerging sexual identity, “mostly straight.” Savin Williams referenced a 2011-2013 US government poll, suggesting 6 percent of 18 – 24-year-old men marked their sexual interest as “mostly opposite sex,” that’s about a million men. Are these guys just bisexual masquerading as mostly straight, to seem well mostly straight?

Apparently, bisexuality is too gay of a term. And it doesn’t exactly encompass their sexual behavior. Thoughts are one thing while actions are another. There’s a huge leap from finding a man attractive to sucking dick on the weekends. I posit that since we live in a homophobic society, filled with pseudo-straight men, who don’t want to come close to being labeled anything less than straight. And thus will often lie. By contrast, women are more fluid with their sexuality. Party due to it being more socially acceptable because men simply find it attractive. Sadly the old adage is true: Suck one dick, and you’re a sissy for life.

In order to advance as a species and become more honest about our sexuality, we the people have to be more tolerant. Men should experiment. How do you know what you like if you don’t try it?

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Love, Walter by Love, Walter - 5M ago

Dear Walter,

I have been going out lately alone, even though I’m in a committed relationship. My boyfriend is a homebody and I’m not. I like to go out, flirt and have a little fun. But sometimes when I get home I feel a little guilty. He starts asking me all these questions getting all paranoid. Then I get defensive and another argument happens. I don’t know what to do. Has this ever happened to you?

—Dancing Diva

Dear Dancing Diva,

So I met this dude in the club. One drunken night at a little place called Cobalt. Well into one year into my current relationship, I danced, and grinned on a stranger after switching from wine to vodka because the liquor’s quicker. Meow to me, because a bitch still gots it. As I write this my stomach is growling, but I can’t keep from smiling.

The infraction continues, then I had to audacity to let him put his number in my phone. And a week later, after finishing a bottle of Processco, high off weight loss, I decided to FaceTime him.

No answer.

So I texted him two minutes later as my one and only boyfriend rests soundly on the couch. A mess. I came to my senses an hour later and realized what I did was wrong. But again, as I write this I received a text with a photo of him, and I can only hope but wonder, is he cute?

Nope. And just like that I snapped out of it. It was fun and fleeting in the moment. Just a harmless flirtation. That’s all.

Hindsight is 20/20. And to be fair I wasn’t in my right state of mind. Reveries on the metro, the event still alive in my mind, now recorded on my iPad. This got me screaming Vangie, Vangie because I’m really feeling Bangie like a Brooklyn bottom with botched butt shots.

Who was I fooling, I would have gotten good work done. Come out like a Kardashian, popping out cute kids with Cartier bracelets. Let these moments wash over me.

I woke up the next day feeling shameless and almost famous. Coming alive only in the night time like Drake will have your ass in the back of an Uber, rushing during rush hour.

This is terrible advice.

Perhaps limit your time going out, or try going to different venues so he doesn’t feel insecure. Or you should try including him in things he likes to do.

If the compromises become too compromising, you can just dance like Lady Gaga until you’re dancing in your own like Robyn.

Love,

Walter

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Love, Walter by Love, Walter - 5M ago

Dear Walter,

I’m in a new relationship and I’m starting to feel the pressure from friends and family, say they want to meet him, I don’t know what to do. I’m starting to feel the pressure.

—Newly In Love

Dear Newly In Love,

I have a new designer drug and it’s my boyfriend. I crave him no matter the cost.

We converted his bedroom into our love nest. I spend 80 percent of my time naked under 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

I enjoy foreplay. He dives under the sheets like a beast in heat. Each suck tickles. He emerges with a smile, takes a sip of his Screwdriver that’s sitting next to him. He kisses me again. I’m not grossed out from tasting my dick on his lips. It’s actually quite hot.

I straddle him. He surrounds us in covers like a safe haven. He licks my nipples, motor boating them like breasts.

I roll on my back in missionary while he’s on top. He fucks me deep. The sounds of farting and moaning punctuate the Mariah Carey music playing in the background. Despite the soft undertones of the “Elusive Chanteuse,” he’s getting more aggressive with me. He pounds me harder and harder until he cums. It oozes out like liquid white hand soap.

I try to cum with him. I wiggled my toes in the air nearly scraping the ceiling. I came all over my stomach. It slides in all directions kind of like a spider’s web. He falls back beside me panting, heart racing and sweat seeping from our bodies.

Whenever we are apart I go through withdraws. Too many days to think about him. I can’t wait to see him, just to kiss him. Drink wine, exchange ideas and have another fuck fest.

I used to crave the kind of romance you see on TV. You know the fantasy candle light dinner scenes on Sex and the City. Shopping together and making out in the fitting rooms in the Banana Republic like on Will and Grace.

Is my relationship drug masquerading as romance? Am I just getting high and feeling low?

We meet at his house, eat dinner, drink wine, watch movies and have sex. When did this clandestine courtship become my new normal?

A friend asked, “when are you planning to introduce your man to your friends?”

I don’t know. I never considered the question. Was there a reason we had to meet?

I don’t know if I’m interested in sharing my man. I don’t want to be exposed to their judgments. But why does it matter? And does having my relationship private make it less real?

I tried the whole promoting my relationship bit. While in New York City, I dated a promoter, who was quite popular on the scene.

We spent our nights drinking at restaurants, bars, and clubs. We were always surrounded by people. I never felt more alone in a relationship.

But it was quite messy. Drink throwing and shit talking were like a sick game of relationship Russian Roulette. I’ve been embarrassed, disrespected and unhappy throughout that experience. It often stemmed from the opinions of his family and friends all the time.

But double dates were fun in tamer circumstances. Although that dinner party from hell which had us nearly in a Brooklyn brawl at an apartment in Coney Island.

I had no passion for going back to that. Tit for tat, flirting with strangers, put our relationship in danger. And I didn’t trust him. He always took numbers from people to “promote his businesses.”

So excuse me if I choose a modicum of privacy. That’s my one and only. My ultimate drug is all mine. But it does raise one concern, why don’t we have more date nights?

Although, going to the movies never moved me but do you go for the movie?

There is no need to watch all movies at home.

Maybe I need to take my relationship in moderation. But relationships need light to thrive kind of like flowers. But you have to water them first before you consider showing them off to others.

Love,

Walter

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Love, Walter by Love, Walter - 5M ago

Love Walter: Erotic City

Dear Walter,

Love your column by the way. I’m a longtime reader. I love the way you write your debaucherous tales with such humor and honesty. I guess my question is more of a request. I would love to hear about one of your wildest experiences, was there a moment that made you reflect?

—Curious Reader

Dear Curious Reader,

Let me enchant you with a tale from my crypt. Once upon a sinful time, I could have danced all night, and if I had $10 more I would have. It was a Tuesday night which felt more like a Friday night because the night was so lit. It started after Cinderella ended hers. She could have spent the night with me, cleaning the gritty streets of the city with our dancing feet. But she couldn’t handle the concrete jungle in such fragile footwear. I knew fairy tales didn’t reflect reality. But, this fairy shook his tail all over Le Soux in the Greenwich Village. It was the kind of place where local gay celebs would frequent.

Bottomless bottle service tested my willpower and gag reflex, which failed me every time. Two drinks and six hits of hookah later, I swiveled like a high-class hooker through a revolving door of a hotel.

I danced with a Canadian brother from another country, who lacked rhythm and flavor, he was more like a Canada Dry. I had no plans on pulling a move from the movie, Pretty Woman, at least I thought.

We drove over to Westway, which was so gay on Tuesday; it’s called Westgay. It was so hot and I mean that literally. It was uncomfortable at first like new shoes I had to break in. The venue featured a live performance by Mykki Blanco, who wore a white skirt with a matching bra and a pair of white clunky heels. The look was quite clinical, except his weave swayed from side to side, sopping with sweat and grease — sort of like a mop tangled in an oil spill. I’ve never heard his songs before, but I danced to them anyway.

After I sweated out my dress and turban, the club closed. I walked from the West End to the West Village to get to the subway. As I crept towards the mouth of the station, Sebastian emerged. He towered over me at 6 feet tall in his late-30s. He was definitely my type. Before I could utter a sentence, he pressed me against the brick wall and kissed me. I can still taste the whiskey. He was drunk and so was I’m so I gave in.

“I miss working with you,” he said while holding my hand. “I meant to call you but I’ve been so busy.”

I was such a fun boss. I used to cut those overnights short and go clubbing with the staff. His reluctance stemmed from him having a boyfriend, who was abroad in India.

“Well, your loss,” I said. “I only wanted to hang out, not have sex with you.”

He laughed and kissed me again. This time he grabbed the small of my back and held it. I felt his stiffness in his pants rising as my heart raced. It was one of those New York moments people always talked about. Just me making out with someone else’s man on Christopher street.

“I still remember that night we hung out at Splash,” he said. “I enjoyed spanking your bare ass.”

I was drunk that night too, post-breakup in a black kilt. I could have gone as far as he wanted. I needed a distraction. Instead, we settled for a lap-dance on the bar.

“I also remember you grabbing me and flipping me over the railing.”

He laughed out loud, grabbing me again for another kiss.

“My boyfriend will be back this weekend,” he said. “So, I’ll have to be good.”

I needed an A train towards Brooklyn, which was several blocks away. I meandered into two strangers in front of CVS, one was tall and sexy and the other was short and stout.

“Where are you going,” said the tall one.

“I’m walking to the station.”

“No, you’re going the wrong way.”

“Oh, perhaps you can show me.”

“You’re drunk. Where are you coming from?”

“Yes, I am. And I’m coming from Westway.”

When did New Yorker’s become so nice. We walked a couple of blocks towards the one train. I figured I was one step closer to my destination.

He left his friend behind like, any friend would, and walked me to the subway. It was dangerous to have a stranger with me this late at night. And yet there was nothing strange about it — an act I learned to repeat years later. I found his hood swag and dark skin tone intriguing. He seduced me in loose-fitting clothing and overt masculinity. Yes, he perpetuated a ghetto hood fantasy that most gays went for. But what lies beneath his hard shell was a boyish charm.

“You should come with me. I live close by.”

Two stops and a mild flirtation later, I was climbing the stairs of his ancient apartment building. The kind of building you would see behind yellow caution tape. Dingy walls and dusty stairs met halls that reeked of urine. I should have known from the outside what the inside would be like.

Everything was in one room except the bathroom. This was an open concept before the open concept was in fashion. We sat at a black card table with four matching chairs with various states of wear and tear. The room reminded me of something a depressed person would like. It was bare, broken, and badly needed repairs.

He laid next to me. His body caressed mine before reaching over to kiss me. I pinched my nipples. He jumped out of his bed to retrieve a NYC condom and lube packet from his shorts. Those were the free condoms from the clinic – the lube too. I laid there in anticipation. Nervousness entered my spine. My body tingled and shimmered. Each kiss felt like raindrops on my smooth skin. He consumed my essence, my scent, my body. I belonged to him. It’s a strange and powerful thing to submit yourself to someone however unworthy even for a moment.

I tend to look after all my trysts with a romantic after glow. But it was fast love, cheap and dirty. He collapsed on my back after while still trapped inside. My body became his own warm embrace. The only thing protecting me from a deeper connection was a thin layer of plastic. It was my lifeboat.

It was at that moment, I felt relief. I can get away clean without getting contaminated, without forcing something more than a whim. The past can just be the past. And my future was not sealed with a tryst.

Love,

Walter

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Dear Walter,

Have you ever felt lonely? Winter is near and it feels like my darkest hour. Have you ever felt like that?

—Party of One

Dear Party of One,

I considered myself a survivor. Instead of being decked out like Destiny’s Child. I was a Beyonce on a budget. Somehow I pulled a Michelle, meandering around Manhattan in a mediocre way.

I arrived one Friday morning, lugging around a black suitcase with a matching black kilt all over Manhattan. I had a photoshoot on Saturday in Times Square. I needed to pull a coterie of clothes the day before to prep. I phoned a friend to secure sleeping arrangements to avoid sleeping around the City That Never Sleeps.

“I’m going to Buffalo for work,” he said.

“What? You work?”

He hasn’t worked since I met him 5 years ago. When bar hopping and bed hopping led to an eviction and six months on my floor. I didn’t have a couch. That African queen was upset when I told him that my bed would not be shared. So he created a pallet of blankets on the linoleum floor of my studio apartment in DC.

“Are you working at Buffalo Exchange?” I rolled my eyes as my heart hammered under my tank top.

“No Buffalo. Upstate New York. I forgot. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We planned this three weeks ago. One night in New York on your couch.”

Perhaps, I was too worried about the logistics of my photo shoot to bother confirming where I was sleeping. I fucked up. This was worst than the week I spent fucking a deranged drug and sex addict in an NYC hotel. How romantic? Against the backdrop of a blizzard, his crystal method made him crazy, but that’s a story for another time.

I was stranded in the city like Michael Jackson’s friend, that kid in Home Alone sans the five-star hotel and daddy’s credit cards. I sunk into a depression so deep, I nearly drowned my sorrows with a pint of Vodka. Each swig sedated me, burning my throat, and obliterating my judgment. I roamed the city like the Walking Dead.

I had two options: Sleeping at Penn Station or making the trek over to New Jersey. I called former friends, ex-boyfriends, and one-night stands.

I felt empty in the Empire City. I escaped to Gym bar in Chelsea and had a few drinks until 11 pm when the designer would be back home.

From homelessness to hopelessness, I traveled to New Jersey to pull more clothes. The idea of adding another outfit in an already overstuffed suit case frustrated me more. I boarded the New Jersey Transit where a 20-minute bus ride awaited.

Two garment bags, and two swigs later, I struggled back to the bus stop. One of the four wheels rolled off into the street like a coin.

I flagged a cab.

“Sir, please take me to Journal Square,” I asked while I wiped my tear stained cheeks.

I arrived at Journal Square at 2 a.m. Will look the same—brown and bald, clad in a dingy white tee shirt and stone wash jeans. It was like a 90’s Gap ad, a black and white photo, coming to life to haunt me from those blissful retail days.

We first met two years ago at a New York bar called the Hanger. The actual bar lined the mirror and gray brick walks along the front of the bar. The chatter competed with house music. I sat in the first empty seat I could find.

I had just moved to the city a couple of months ago, and I was looking to meet someone new. As I sat, I noticed him nursing a water-down cocktail in an oversized denim shirt. He had a handsome smile, with all of his teeth. As I get older, I notice more and more people who don’t have a full set. It’s really one of the great mysteries of our time. The rest of his face was hidden underneath a ball cap.

My drinks lined up like a Starbucks line to the bathroom. And the more I drank the cuter he got. The drinks worked like an aphrodisiac. He was an out of work construction worker due to a back injury. And remained out of work the whole time I’ve known him.

We shared an umbrella on the way to the Path train to New Jersey. I’ve never been but I didn’t let the fear of the unknown get in my way. “Can I kiss you?” I nodded and smiled. Chivalry was resuscitated in the rain. And they say New Yorkers aren’t friendly. He kissed me in the middle of Christopher Street. My lips tingled.

After we emerge from the mouth of the train station, we went to the chicken place just a few blocks away. It was pretty standard fare, compared to Popeyes. We walked along the bricked sidewalks, chewing on chicken and chatting like school children until we arrived at his apartment. The outside was a reddish-brown stoned building that reminded me of a makeshift church. But as you travel through the halls you can see that the individual green doors that separated each apartment.

“Shh, you got to be quiet.”

“Oh,” I thought that was odd, considering we weren’t being that loud.

I followed behind him as he entered the kitchen. A rickety table acted as an island while 70’s style white appliances surrounded the room.

“You want something to drink?”

“Sure, what do you have?”

“I have white and brown liquor in these water bottles. I got rid of the bottle because I don’t like the way they look.”

I sipped some Vodka and headed over to the next room where a couch sat in front of a tv. We slept together without really sleeping together. Instead, we made out until we passed out. We didn’t really connect that much beyond that night. For two years, I received sporadic text messages in the form of Bible scriptures that read like affirmations. How would things be the second time around?

I stored three garment bags and a suitcase in the kitchen. Someone emerged from the main room, which doubled as the living room and bedroom.

“Tell him to get in the shower,” Tony said with a smirk reserved for a homeless man asking for change.

Tony and Will used to date. I showered and slipped into a tank and a kilt. One day, I need to bring pajamas.

“You’re going to be sleeping with Tony.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” I said to Tony.

The room had two fold up beds aligned across from each other, they were sort of like the carts you see in a homeless shelter. I allowed him to disperse the sheets. Another warm body comforted me.

Tony stripped down to a ribbed white tank and powered blue boxer briefs, revealing a svelte, chocolate body.

“You’re sleeping on this side,” said Tony with the authority of a cell mate. I wasn’t quite ready to be his bunk bitch. I climbed into a hard and springy bed with a mixture of dread and delight. He wrapped his arm around me as he brushed his aroused dick against my ass. My body warmed up like I just had a cup of tea. This behavior was a bit forward, considering we just met and there was no mention of drinks.

“My bad, baby.” He chuckled in my ear.

“It’s okay,” I said reluctantly.

Will glanced over.

“Have you seen Norbit before?”

“No.”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah, Will is right. It’s funny ass shit.”

He reached over and kissed me. My heart hammered out of my chest, as he caressed my chest. We bumped and grind under the sheets while Will slept. Straddling a stranger in the middle of the night was stranger than fiction. I wanted to be a good guest, but I didn’t want to pay rent with sex. Yet, I dry humped him anyway, just like that I was 17 again, having fake sex with confused men. I betrayed a friend, letting him play with my crack with his penis.

The next day, I awoke with a mixture of agony and ecstasy. He greeted me with a kiss, scraping me with his crusty lips. My dry mouth and questionable breath overpowered my nostrils like a cheap perfume.

“Put your number in my phone,” whispered Tony. He peered over his shoulder dressed in camouflage pants as I entered my digits. But they used to date. But the guilt weighed me down like quicksand.

I tiptoed to the shower, running into Will.

“You slept well last night?” He asked with an expression on his face that read he knew more than he let on. No, he doesn’t know. We were quiet and technically, we just made out with extras, perfectly acceptable bar behavior.

“Oh yes quite,” I said with a smile that lasted longer than I intended.

“Well, You have a few minutes until the bus comes.” I get someone was ready for my ass to leave.

“Sure, I’ll be quick.”

Tony walked in dressed. He hugged and kissed me on the neck. My phone ranged and it was Justin, the photographer for the shoot.

“Hey, I was in the shower.”

“Where are you? We are here waiting for you.”

“Umm…I’m in New Jersey, I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

I lied. But I had nothing else to say.

I survived the night. Changed. I’m going to miss this city.

Love,

Walter

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I remember how things used to be sucking dick in the bathroom was merely a side effect of too many sliding powders and gliding cocktails. And yet on the night of my friend’s 32nd birthday, we were presented with the same situation?

I knew when he said, “I want you to taste,” he wasn’t talking about Rose. And yet I sashayed behind him into the stall anyway. He pulled out his semi-erect penis with shaved pubes. And just like that, we were 17 again. And with my own man at home, why was I so tempted to see this new dick?

To be fair this new dick ain’t nothing new. We met during my Woodner days. It was the mid 2000s where dreaded nights in dreads lead to some sobering mornings.

But I flirted with him anyway. I first met him at the Fireplace. Let’s call him Chris. He represented a litany of unavailable men I went for. I liked them lean, lanky and lightly attached to women. I know right, I’m cascading in cliches, dripping in diamonds and designers. Oh well, back then I considered that excellent taste.

With Chris, I tried to turn nighttime pleasantries and text messages into something more. It ended way less when I refused to have sex with him after I drunkenly took him one night. The big disease with the little name was a dark cloud on a later night. But spending the better part of decade hiding from something you can’t see is no way to live.

Although life is short, just don’t make it shorter.

A decade later, he’s still cute. But this time he’s on drugs. Drugs and gays go together like fleet and grease. It all leads to shit. That’s not sustainable for a lifetime, it’s more like a lifetime movie.

But it’s fun to dance after midnight, holding drinks and eye contact. I loved feeling on abs, soaking in the sway. Yeah, it’s always fun in the moment. I have some many moments to last many lifetimes. But when the music stops and the floors are swept, and the alarm is set — the loneliness creeps in like a Grindr hookup. It suffocates the soul like shame and regret.

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Dear Walter,

I find the dating scene to be awkward. As a fellow gay man, it seems like the scene is just about random sex. I’m looking for something more but I don’t enough I can continue with the way things are. Have you experienced this? Any advice?

—Over Random Encounters

Dear Over Random Encounters,

Sex was on the menu for a romance intolerant New Yorker, navigating awkward mating rituals on an empty stomach. There was more to life than two legs, flailing in the air, waiting for him to finally connect like he’s logging on to AOL circa 1995.

Last time I checked, dial-up never got me up. I have fallen into a pattern of meeting guys on apps, after perusing photos of great promise. I ended up at their place waiting for it and then it hits you—utter confusion. Not exactly the picture perfect moment I anticipated. They say the camera adds 10 pounds, but what about 10 inches? Was it my fault that he couldn’t measure up and offer the toe-curling experience advertised?

It all started out as an innocent December night, where a nightmare weeks before Christmas, sent me to the North Pole and back. The first fallen snow had me running late with no money or food stamps until next week. I clicked on Jack’d to engage in a mild male flirtation.

Pictures and contacts were exchanged. I dashed down the slushy street, following Siri’s voice to Trey’s apartment. I arrived at a candle-lit room with a setup of a Four Loko, coconut Ciroc, and some weed on his dresser. I took a seat and made myself a drink while he rolled up the blunt.

I took another sip and watched the music videos, playing in a loop on the flatscreen. He laid out fresh towels on the bed.

“You can have a seat,” he said. “I don’t let people get in my bed with their clothes on.”

I plopped my bare ass on the bed and waited. I wasn’t going to make the first move.

Sex with a stranger was awkward. Bent over and crammed in a tight corner, while your head was rammed against the wall, could knock you unconscious. Being in sync without the chemistry was like being N’Sync in 2013, when they reconnected at the MTV awards, looking sluggish and out of shape.

He kissed my neck as I continued watching TV. After realizing that his kisses were only keeping him company, he pulled it out. To be frank his dick couldn’t fill the condom. It was like sucking on a zip-locked bag. If only I brought some ABC condoms, since dick hasn’t graduated adolescence. He was nervous. It was like jamming an air-bag in a key hole.

It was over before he started. He could never get his pin-thin, pre-pubescent penis to work. So, I decided to grab my things and leave. I considered him to be the type of guy, who would cum before I completed my cosmopolitan.

“I’m sorry, this never happens to me,” he said. “I don’t know why.”

“It’s okay, but I have to go,” I said.

While seeking sexual gratification through a chemical scintillation, I realized I needed that Ciroc and a scented candle to take me to higher ground.

It’s true random sex is one way through the door. But it’s often shallow and empty. If you want something more, then try a different approach. Try withholding sex completely and focused on compatibility. And when it’s finally right, part those legs like the Red Sea. Don’t forget to tell me all about it.

Love,

Walter

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Drinking during the nights to pass the day will only leave you hungover. Will it reveal the truth or just more lies?

My world is converging, mentally, physically, emotionally and financially. The struggle is real and the hustle is deep. I go deeper and deeper like Madonna. I hate this feeling. Working 9 to 5, time and time again is supposed to set us up for the win.

Dust settles all over Georgia Ave, due to the construction of a new Mc Donald’s. Those happy meals aren’t making me any happier. I suppose it’s temporary.

Binge watching Netflix, and throwing back copious glasses of wine as time fades, left me dry and groggy.

Another birthday is upon me and I’m no richer. Time is dancing around me and I have no rhythm. I can’t keep myself from questioning what it’s all for? Am I following my purpose? Where is my career going? Is this my future? Or am I just stuck in the past?

I used to cling to advice columns for guidance, anonymous voices on the internet felt comforting by candlelight. Now I write one. I suppose there’s a calmness that vibrates off the computer screen after midnight. I’m not talking about Myvidster.

Communication with friends and family is fractured. And it’s because I have nothing to say. Or do they genuinely annoy me? Fun and fascination are fundamental to my relationships. These mediocre moments, unresolved revelations and familial frustrations weight me down like a bad credit score.

Am I being selfish because I choose to abstain from toxic interactions? I don’t belong to them. I don’t belong to anyone.

Letting go does make things lighter but certainly not popular.

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