Poor People Ain’t Got No Time For Life

It has dawned on me as I have gotten older and been on this adulting journey how much of my life is taken up by whatever I need to do to get by. Whether it was a job or jobs or scrimping or even being on welfare, the acts of sacrifice one makes to live. It’s heartbreaking when you do the math sometimes of what comes out of your daily grind and what you end up to show for it. I hear in my head now the voices of those who will wax prophetically, “life is what you make it”, “pursue a career you love and you won’t feel like you’re working”. Or that really slap you in the face response of “if you hate your job just quit”. But the reality is that when you’re poor you don’t have the privilege of cutting off your nose to spite your face. You will have to subject yourself to so much extraction of you just to keep your head above water.

I have a friend who busts his ass working in the service industry. He is a proud, diligent and serious young man who would never ask for a handout. He would never concede to the idea of being exhausted and over it. He knows like I just how much is at stake for people like us. Young Black people from Harlem who didn’t follow those tried true formulas of going to college and ” pretending to make it” or finding our hustle routes in the street. In addition to his service job ,he has another job that also takes up the remainder of his time. I often want to hang out with him but I understand that his schedule doesn’t allow for play play. He is not an anomaly but rather the rule. I mean, let’s get real as a society we’re overworked. The standard of two weekend days is an insult to people who give their jobs over 50 hours a week. We won’t even begin to count in the demands of commutes, the residuals of home life and trying to establish and maintain relationships. Somehow through all of this ,we’re supposed to nurture “the Dream”, were supposed to believe we too can have that nice picket fence life in the suburbs and if we get to be a ripe old age we can sit back reaping the benefits of hard work and sacrifice with a big ass kool-aid smile on our faces.

The pandemic opened my eyes up more if I’m being honest. The idea that people weren’t necessarily unable to do their job from home allows for so much more of a more just labor system in many respects. The ritual of the rat race had ceased and I bet for many working from home allowed many people to finally know what it feels like to sleep 8 hours on a Tuesday. It allowed for people to not be swallowed up by agencies and organizations that prioritize profits first and people last. These same agencies and organizations that have now switched policies with glee now that they’ve somehow found a vaccine that will absolve the chaos of the last year and a half. The usual bullshit shall return. And as I write this ,I reflect on those who didn’t have the privilege to work from home. I reflect on those cashiers, those waiters, those stock clerks and all those other roles so vitally necessary to society but who are amongst the lowest paid and the least protected.

I wonder as a society , as a country where we could be if we weren’t so overworked. If the myriad of ways that labor impacts everyone wasn’t so costly. If we as a society weren’t so brainwashed to believe that working yourself to death was an act of virtue. If parents had enough time to spend with their kids. If spouses had enough time to love spouses. If friends were able to see each other more frequently. I often reflect on how much easier friendship was as a child and I realize it’s because we spent time with our friends at schools and playgrounds. As an adult you’re locked into roles and made to be a robot. LOL. I laugh at this shit to be honest. I laugh because when it’s all so crazy and very little makes sense, there has to be an underlying element of humor in it. Recently I heard about the unveiling of these super human like robots that will be put in a sort of service role. And its funny cause it makes me think , well what’s next for humans if they will replace us with robots? Cause in a capitalist society money is king and labor is the most expensive cost. What’s to stop all these factions from making humans obsolete? If only altruism figured as highly in the American industrial psyche as greed and profit.

There has to be a better way. Very few of us “make it”. And often what I see from those who do, is higher risk of heart attack and stroke, shitty relationships and the emptiness from pouring everything into “the Dream”. Shit is real out here and I see very little changing in policies and culture that supports quality of life. It ain’t a prize to have to work two or more jobs to pay rent. It shouldn’t be the default form single adults in NYC to need roommates. It’s insulting for doctors to prescribe ad nauseam the 8 hrs of sleep per night when people’s schedules are as long and hectic as they are. Who the fuck is really getting 8hrs of sleep while working a full time job that they commute to? And when you get high blood pressure and diabetes and have heart attacks and strokes , they say you didn’t take care of yourself enough. LOL somebody make it make sense.

Trans at the Spa

Recently there is a case out of LA where female patrons were upset about someone who identified as trans being in I’m assuming a sauna like area of a spa and whose genitals were exposed. I saw the video weeks ago where some lady is complaining about this person being exposed. The other day I read that the person who is assumed to be trans has a sex offender rap sheet. So many things come up when I hear about cases like this because yes as a transwoman, I should support trans visibility and trans people tranning wherever we may be. But I am no fool to think for one second my body and my presence will not be regarded as a threat and invite conflict in many spaces particularly single -sex spaces. Most people are just not evolved enough to accept gender being between our ears and not our legs. We just aren’t there yet as a society and I’m such a realist I doubt we ever will be. In a better world transwomen or women with penises would not be as big a deal as it is. I’ve spoken before of how much I hate women’s restrooms and all the anxiety i feel when I have to use them. The law can be what it is but there are laws that function de facto socially . And those often have much more of a greater pull than what people in government say.

This person if what I hear is true has done a harm against our community. And I keep saying person and not transwoman because I feel like a real transwoman would be mindful of all the pain she and her sisters could experience for being exposed and erect in a women’s space. I venture to say most of us would not be comfortable having our bodies out like that in those types of spaces because we know the consequences. I believe that there are people who masquerade as trans, who get off on stirring shit up enough to make us as a collective look bad or like predators. This causes real harm to real transwomen who are saturated with immense stigma and discrimination with our identities. It sort of says ” Look you see they’re really men” and ” this is why we have bathroom bills”. In a better world ,people who belong to marginalized identities would not be judged on the actions of one or a few. But alas, we do not live in that world and we have to be conscious of the real life effects of bias and discrimination. I always say ,you as a transwoman wanna know if a cis woman in your life is really an ally, go with her into a public bathroom and see how she acts.

Leslie

Leslie by Omar Tyree is one of my favorite books. It combines so many elements; drama, murder, action and a heaping dose of commentary on Black social conditions in America. It reads as almost like a movie ,it’s that visually descriptive. I can smell, see and taste the characters and the settings. Set in one of my favorite cities, New Orleans, Leslie is the tale of what can happen when a strong Black girl has had enough. She plays no games effortlessly conveying strength, sight and wisdom that belies her young age. I think it’s easy to read Leslie as a gore-fest but you also have to be mindful of all the social commentary Tyree provides. Things such as hip hop, sex, colorism, class issues and all on a college campus. I loved the parts where Leslie speaks French and the esoteric struggle faced by she and her siblings as the daughter of a Haitian immigrant in New Orleans. It’s easy to cast Leslie off as a villain but like my girl Sula , Leslie is just a Black girl playing the hands she is dealt and challenging the systems that require her subjugation. You add in the bits on Voodou and black spirituality and Leslie is a full New Orleans gumbo. I only wish Mr. Tyree releases a sequel to this book. I always finish wanting more from Miss Leslie.

Reflections

I have been living my truth daily for 9 years now. For 9 years, I have woken up and known myself to be a woman. Everyday even on my worst ,I have tried to honor that truth as best I can while simultaneously questioning standards and rules and laws and all the outside noise that pervades one’s sense of self. I don’t know how common an experience this is but I did not and still don’t have a vision of myself for who I want to be. But I did know the day that I left my mother’s home that I could never turn back. That I couldn’t go back and that for the rest of my life I would have to grow into myself. Transitioning never stops. There is no end goal and I venture to say even the most acculturated, passable transwomen still contend with feelings of inadequacy and a burning sense that you have to be as “woman” as you can always. We don’t have the privilege especially us Black girls to play with gender the way others can. You’re either man or woman and to have somewhat of an easier time you go as hard as you can with your identity.

The buildup for when I decided that I was going to live my life as a woman set the stage so to speak for how I present myself in the world, how I express myself in the world, the euphoria I experience when I look in the mirror. And I love what I see and I love how I am. And the physical should be a myopic part of one’s identity but let’s face it what you look like translates directly into how the world treats you. I inherited the baggage, trauma, pride and beauty of being a large bodied dark skin woman. I learned that the brand of ” sexy” I espoused in my cross dress phase translated very different on a day to day basis. I learned that on the pecking order women who look like me whether cis or trans, were the most mimicked, denigrated but also the strongest. How they hate us and we often hate ourselves and grudgingly we resist through love too. It’s being unable to block out the lighter , smaller images that saturate norms of beauty and womanhood but still honing your larger, sexy darker self as just as good in spite of lack of endorsement. The only privilege I have been able to ascertain about being trans instead of cis is perhaps the lack of time that I have endured misogyny . Whereas the latter has experienced this in so many forms from birth, I have had to first time experience this as an adult. I’ve known countless women and girls who have sung about how better it is to be a man. And younger me would think to myself how these girls and women didn’t know that “man-ness” and “masculinity” is hard too. And how to boot males don’t have the privilege to be weak or cry whereas in women softness is often encouraged and required. And before the gender police get at me, I find softness to be a strength and not a weakness.

Being trans gives you that interesting perspective. You’re able to see and understand both sides of the binary better than gender normative people. I don’t know if it goes against a “trans grain” if I say this but I don’t and haven’t given up all the traits I had when I was male. I think one that I hold onto is this idea of needing to be strong and tough. And I’ll admit it’s often a facade but it gets me through those rough days on rough streets when I’m my sweetest self. I know that I’m not the woman who will ever be seen as the damsel in distress. I know that I’m not high on most men’s idea of beauty or women’s as well. I know that when I go through the world I have to take myself seriously but also find joy in pissing people off mad that a trans girl is “tranning”. Tranning= the act of being so in love with your trans self and aware of possibly being spooked but not giving two fucks cause you know you’re that bitch.

God willing I’ll see 9 or maybe 49 more years . You never know. If I would say anything to my younger self and to other young transwomen is to ” listen to and trust yourself”. You’ll be amazed at the things you survive and live thru even on your own. They make for delicious memories and unwavering lessons. As transwomen ,we aren’t given a guide or blueprint. You may be the only one you know and that you see in the world but that doesn’t make you irrelevant or crazy or wrong. Just means you’ve been given a special deck to play with.

If Fear is All You Have To Give

Talking nowadays can be so challenging. I think that the world is in such a constant ,omnipresent state of chaos and confusion. Everybody is playing guesswork and we’re reaping the benefits of a society that says one thing, means another and pushes enough discord to encourage polarization. It makes for some very loaded conversations and unsurprisingly Covid tops the list. One aspect of these conversations that always exhausts me is contending with people who are filled with such anxiety and so much fear that it starts rubbing off. There’s people who take Fauci’s word as gospel and follow every single piece of detritus that is put out there. These people do not even allow for the possibility of differing opinions. And it comes down to my beliefs are more “right” than yours. Who can ever win in a conversation such as this? What becomes the purpose of our back and forth if you operate from a position of moral and spiritual superiority? So I posit this, if all you have to give is fear and anxiety and to encourage it with an overzealous set of virtue signaling, please don’t talk to me.

I think that on some levels to be in a state of fear and anxiety requires privilege. I think that and not to minimize pain and suffering ,its a helluva lot different in these so called first world countries with our fear and our anxiety vs people from more disadvantaged countries. And of course as should be common knowledge Black people experience fear and anxiety different from the mainstream. And us trans Black women, our lives are an everyday battle ground of battling forces that wanna keep us down and dead. And we catch that from everybody. I can be reaching and I never mean to speak for all of us or even a fraction but I know just spiritually with all the things we deal with that we use fear and anxiety differently. It can feel like your back is against the wall and when you in this world and people constantly mis-gender you, when you can’t get a job or housing or family funny and friends non existent and you tryna become that woman you know yourself to be and they trying everything to shit on your shine and making it means going to dark, ugly ,scary places then yea I know for a fact that us transwomen can have fear but our responses to it can be very different than others.

I walk through the world conscious that if my shit ain’t a certain level of correct then I may be mis-gendered, I may have slurs thrown at me. Depending on the level of savage you deal with ,it may be some violence involved. I know that people laugh at the violence and scorn thrown towards women like me. I know that to be a Black transwoman ,I don’t have the privilege of thinking any of my fears will be assuaged or that I may even have the right type of comrades with enough range to hear me out and understand. Ours is an esoteric experience. And I bet all of us Black transwomen have had to spiritually grab balls so to speak and navigate the roughest climates ,often alone and knowing that if shit get real nobody have ya back. It breeds a bravado and maybe it’s presumptuous of me to make any assumptions. But I know what I know . And if fear is all you have to give me, Don’t talk to me.

But I’m not a bad ass. I have fears. I cry. There are times when I don’t know what to believe or what to trust. But I do know to question. And I do know that there is power in trusting your gut and relying on your intuition. When I haven’t had places for answers or needed to feel something or someone out, I’ve relied on my gut. And as I write I think of how contrary , how almost of a betrayal it is to my young Black boy growing up in Harlem self, to give in to the idea of being in fear. To acknowledging it more. To recognizing when, what and why it comes up.

The Porsche

Tasha sighed aloud to herself watching the dull but jubilant nightlife of Roosevelt Square. Every time she came out here to work which was going on 6 days a week at 8 months in counting, she thought of how much she stuck out in the heavily Indian and South American neighborhood. It made her position as a lady of the night that much obvious cause Black folks did not live or frequent the area. Being noticed definitely wasn’t her forte but to get them coins she had to be seen and she’d walk up and down Roosevelt Avenue from the sleepiness of Woodside down to the margins of Corona, wherever a buck could be found. A honk from a passing Black Porsche roused her out her thoughts. The window rolled down and revealed the grinning face of a sexy young Black man with medium dreds. To top it off , he dripped with jewels that she could see at least 15 feet from his ride. ” Ayy yo”, he hollered,” cum’ere”. Tasha approached the car as seductively as she could ruminating on how slow of a Tuesday it had been , not even her usual date with Mr. Handjob. “Hey baby”, she leaned in slipping into her hungry hooker mode. “Ride with me “he commanded ,”c’mon its hella hot round here he said referring to the ubiquitous police presence in the area. She got in the car that reeked so well of Armani code cologne and freshly cleaned new car smell. A Dipset song was playing and the two drove down 73rd towards Queens Blvd. “You a tranny or woman”, Mr. Sexy asked. Tasha sighed slightly before answering” I’m trans”, hoping that hadn’t squashed her bag per usual. He still wore the grin that illuminated his chocolate face and said ” Cool, yall give better head anyway”. Tasha eased her tension then and looked forward to giving this obviously paid sexy nigga his money worth. See it’s often posited that whores just do it for the money. But some like Tasha actually enjoyed the random sex with strangers sometimes. She was surprised at the variety of men she found at times willing to dick her down or get head from her. When they looked good or had some money it made the whole thing less sleazy to her. Mr. Sexy found a parking spot on one of those desterted overpass streets that littered Queens. He looked around as Cam’ron stopped degrading women through the speakers and said “aiight ,let’s get in the back”. “Hold up”, Tasha interrupted, “money first”. “How much” , he asked. Ballers like him were good for a hundred for sex fifty for head. A far cry from her usual 20 for sloppy toppy and 40 for some ass. Sexy pulled out a fifty and said ” I’ll stop by the ATM when we finish. “Tasha put the 50 in her purse which didn’t have the usual reek of cash after a prosperous night. Tasha climbed over the cream surface to the back condom and lube in her hand. Sexy got out and entered the car. He pulled out a pretty brown penis with an awesomely thick head. Tasha immediately put that candy in her mouth, intent on doing a good job. She always set out to do good when she could, theorizing a happy customer would return again and again. It definitely didn’t always pan out but when it did ,let’s just say there was no one more loyal than a faithful john. Sexy moaned his eyes closed, his hand reaching under the short plaid skirt and fingering her asshole through her thong. ” Fuck”, he breathed. I want summa this ass.” Tasha kept sucking finding herself hard and aroused and happy he wanted to fuck. He opened his car door and said bend over the seat. Tasha lay her head on the warmed leather car seat and handed Sexy the condom while she bit the little packet of lube and smeared it over her waiting hole. Sexy entered her briskly the kind of entrance that made the hole seize up and made her catch her breath. Taking some big dick was not for pussies, she always mused when she accommodated large meats. Sexy fucked her as the night air hit her ass cheeks. He pounded as if they were in a hotel room or in a deserted forest somewhere utterly oblivious to two black bodies in motion on the quiet street. He pounded for about 3 more minutes cumming and ejecting in one swift motion from Tasha’s wet ass. Tasha was bent over feeling so good and hoping that this signified a turn in luck for what had been a slow night. Sexy got in the SUV and said” come around the car.” Tasha slammed the rear door and in an instant realized she’d fucked up . The grin on Sexy’s face returned and he turned on his gas about to peel off. Tasha caught the car door handle as the car sped down the block dragging her. Her upper thigh and buttock scraped against the road and she was unable to hold on to the vehicle. She screamed wildly as the Black Porsche sped into the night with her jacket and her purse which contained all her essentials including her id, her keys and her phone. Almost immediately she thought of her burgeoning relationship with Hakeem and what he would think if he couldn’t reach her. She thought of being short this week on rent with Kevin and hoping he was home to let her in the apartment. She ignored the burning, scraped flesh on her side and walked back to Roosevelt Avenue

Mama

Terry McMillan is one of my favorite authors. I’m not one for favorites, usually liking a variety of anything. But Ms. McMillan stands out for honing a very distinctive Black woman sound to her words. Her characters are usually strong, impressive Black women who stick to their guns; good, bad or indifferent. The heroine of aptly named Mama, Ms. Mildred is a whole firecracker and then some. I find myself rooting for her at her lowest points and understanding where she comes from even if it’s self serving. I love this book for it’s immense dialogue on America and Black America as both backdrop and scene setter. I can visualize the different eras and seeing rural Michigan in the 50’s as well as the sun drenched California scenery of the 60’s as well. Mama is an ode to Black womanhood and motherhood as well as the importance of your own unique journey. I think what comes up a lot with all of the characters is how their paths are often set years before they grow up and to see the root of behaviors and end destinations. Mama Mildred is at once unapologetic but also fiercely protective and loving to a fault. She’s proud and bold and she pays homage to the legions of Black women before her and after her who found a way without having no way at all. I recommend this book always and forever.

Passionfruit

Passion fruit

I can feel pretty sometimes

Beautiful even. And then it can dissolve terribly

And I confess I feel like an ugly bitch

And I realize at times I’ve been ignorant to my worth

To be trans at times you feel defective.. They can make you feel so less than,so inferior

And all you supposed to not hate nobody.

And you supposed to look pleasant and act Ike it too

To people who call you man and treat you as the monster.

Not knowing my worth taps in on the loneliest nights and I’ll

Proposition a drunk coke heard all the while aware he can’t perform and I ain’t gone get none.But it feels good anyway in all the ways it’s wrong

I’ve never had that storybook shit being in possession of a dick

Where some jock swoops down and makes me his bitch

 And we produce Kodak flicks,create memories,bond,build and kick the shit.

I know I look good that’s all that seems to matter till it don’t 

And I can’t bear you kids and ya momma n nem won’t smile and welcome me to the fold

I am your liability ,your secret,your fix ,your stashed game for when you want tricks

I could be half insane to think you ‘d ever change. HOW I CONTINUE TO PLAY THE CRYING GAME

I don’t want no new niggas to fuck me naw. I think total vulnerability unbefitting a proud whore

I hope my sex flame never dies. I hope it heats ,boils,sizzles but doesn’t scorch. I hope it fills me with the coolest cool and the warmest warmth

I hope I find my passion fruit

Excerpt of ‘Fat Girl’

FAT GIRL 

“ So you’re really leaving me?”, I asked confused looking into the eyes of my girl Shai. We were in my room sitting on the edge of my King size bed. The lights were dimmed and the candles were lit . I’d been planning to have tonight be special. Our year anniversary, wild crazy sex no holds barred. “Ashley”, Shai started, “listen for a while I ain’t been feeling you ma. Ima fly nigga. My bitch gotta be equally up to par, you dig?” I was crying inside couldn’t stand to look at Shai’s pretty chestnut colored eyes and beautiful full lips. It was those eyes that had made me fall so deep for Shai. She was my first. “ Bye sweetie” she murmured rising from the bed wearing the Antik button down shirt and true religion jeans I bought her. Now she was out. I cried rivers of tears that cascaded down my cheeks and past my double chin, into my flabby breasts and coating my big belly. The pink silk negligee I’d bought from Ashley Stewart couldn’t hide or slim my two rolls rippling like waves undulating in the sea. The door slammed and so did my eyes. I lay back on the bed, looked to my right at the sleeping pills on my dresser. I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I thought. Suicide was one of the surest ways to hell.  

 I remembered that sermon like it was yesterday. “Ooh lawd, yes all glory to God. Lawd, lawd bless the sinners. They need you”, my mother Valerie screamed as she got to the meat of her sermon. 2nd Avenue Baptist church was unusually crowded and hot. I sat uncomfortably in the third pew from the altar. Wearing my Sunday’s best pink flowered dress with the hat to match and my scuffed two-inch white pumps I was a sight. Add in my Jheri curls that were dripping with brown activator and the sweat I was 18 looking 48. And as mama went on about the Lord and his goodness, the punishments coming to sinners, sodomites and atheists. And how life would be so much better once you accepted Jesus, I lost it. “UGGHHHHHHHHH—-AWWWWWWW,”I wailed  standing  and beginning my show. Mama’s eyes flashed evilly . Her little eyes radiated fire in her fat,black face. Her fire red lipstick did her no justice in hiding her black devilishness. “ Yes chile,” an old woman said edging me on thinking I’d caught the holy ghost. I shook my head and threw off my hat. I really got into it wailing awwwwww, damn, awww save me, save me. “ A few of the older sisters got up to try to console me. A skinny high yella sista with a wide brimmed orange hat smiled at me with a toothless smile. “ Awww get away from me cunt. Go!,” I barked turning on my feet , screaming and running on my way out the stunned church. I caught in my daze the whispers of” That’s deaconess’ daughter” and “Gahlee look at that gal run.”                                                                                        My daze continued as I hit the street, August heat blasting my ass in the face. I hobbled down 3rd Ave to our apartment after one of my heels split. I found some Africans selling flip flops that alleviated my pain and embarrassment. My mind was blank. Nothing was there. I reached 116th and 3rd avenue, the epicenter of Spanish Harlem. Peering at a clothing shop mirror, I looked repulsively at my image. 6 foot even, 300 pounds, black as night with Jheri curls, a big flat nose, fat lips and Valerie’s small beady eyes. I hated my large frame and dark skin the most. Childhood taunts of ashy Ashley, wide load Jones and fat ass continued to swirl in my head so many years after they’d ceased. I won’t even begin to mention my stuttering problem and my large overbite. At 18 years old, I’d never been kissed, hugged, received a compliment or had a single friend. Alone and so hideously ugly was my theme. I made it to our cluttered apartment, almost having a heart attack cause as usual in the projects, the fucking elevator was broke. My fat ass had to climb 10 flights of stairs all the while cursing Housing and myself for my fat. I stomped down the hallway to my room that I used to share with my twin brother Eddie. Like me , he’d been fat as fuck and had a heart attack in our 6th grade gym class. The sheets on my bed stank of piss from the times I’d been too lazy to get up and go to the bathroom. I found a place that looked least soiled and dozed off in the hot ass house lit by a few 99 cent candles. As usual our Con Ed bill wasn’t paid.  I awoke to drawers being slammed and various voices, the loudest being my mother’s. “Ma”, I called, ma.” I went in the dark living room where various boxes sat filled with odds and ends. Two crackheads from down the block were picking up  shit and scratching themselves. “Ma”, I found her talking on the phone laughing . She still had on her deacon robe. “ What Ashley?” What the fuck you want? Hold on Yolanda, Ima call you back “ Well”, she stared at me ,” you real proud of yourself ain’t you embarrassing me at church. Folks talking bout you crazy.  You got issues sista and I cant take it no more. I’m leaving here. You grown as you ever gon get .” She turned her black mask of hate away from me and called to the crackheads “Ty, Pooh bring the rest of them boxes to the car”. They followed behind her slamming the door and me in darkness.  

Straightest place on earth

Written sometime in 2011

Straightest place on earth 

A hot,dark dewy night, the air smells of potential, fears and delights. 

So many places one can escape to unviewed, untroubled to relieve the burden 

 Of rock hard dicks, slow tight, grip-able assholes. And yet here is no one there. 

No stares, Wherever them dl boys at they aint here. Whats a bitch gotta do 

To get some pipe in this beautiful, sexy night ,hormones twirling, loins aching, 

Ready to get that back broken I even cleaned out especially for the nameless you. 

Boo where the fuck you at? 

The few fools I do see question, lust try to get at me then say “ I didn’t know you were a man 

They act like they doing me a favor if I suck their dick. I hate this shit. 

From butch queen to Shanay all have walked Stamford’s straight ass wack ass streets desperate for 

 A little bit of that NYC nightlife 

 Where are them boys who like them boys with soft voices and fat asses, 

Pretty mascara eyes and bags. Where are them boys who can make a horny fag bitch 

Satisfied on them dark dangerous nights. 

I ain’t looking to tell or even for sale. 

I just want a night free from the hell of  

Unintentional celibacy. Damn time will tell just want that dick on demand. 

Ain’t nothing wrong with a lil bump and grind is there?