When I was a teenager, there were very few boys who would call their friends out for cheating on a girl. Those who did, or even dry snitched were excommunicated from the brotherhood. Pushed right out of the door; called faggots, bitch niggas and everything else. I remember teenage Bruce, Clarence and I at Hunting Park right across the street from Brandon’s house while he was still alive talking all manner of shit about his hatin’ because he’d given away too many personal details about us to this girl we worked with, Jennifer, who everyone at one point wanted to fuck. This is while I was engaged in some of the nastiest things I remember doing at that age with Brandon’s sister.
We certainly grew to distrust him because of his potential to disrupt the flow of ass. Whenever someone was close to getting new ass and he walked in the room, people would shut down. The conversation got real tame real fast. He never said anything outrageous though, or lied. In fact he was the most honest one of us all by far, not that we could accept it. It was the way he’d say to some girl behind our backs through an online chat, “hey, you know he’s fucking so and so right?” And the girl would be like, “did you see what your friend messaged me?” And then we’d always respond with some kind of, “man, that nigga lying.”
But no, we were. We weren’t even really honest enough to talk to him about it. We assumed that he was just jealous because he wasn’t getting any pussy. So was every dude who would dare disclose information pertaining to a potential conquest, shit they were mostly lies of omission and we could rationalize our way around those right?
This is what I always think of when, as an adult someone inquires about trusting some boy in a relationship. Normal for me, for all of us was the reckless smashing, fucking, screwing, pounding, banging and poking of most girls we could with very little regard for the consequences. Dicks like mine detectors skimming over the broken concrete and potholes of an ever-expanding bootytopia just praying to hit something.
I considered it pivotal to my coming of age when I actually decided not to have sex when I could. Once, Clarence and I were at Pen’s Chinese store in Logan getting some of his skimpy, but delicious portions of chicken with broccoli when this girl, short, dark skin with a fat ass, or what we might have called brimming with T&A, of the perfect gut to butt ratio, etc, came in and asked if she could come home and fuck both, or one of us. Our choice. She was our age, and while not glamorous, she was above our current standards, but that was the first time I ever felt disgusted at an opportunity for sex. We both said no. We reasoned that waking up early for work was more important, and even stranger turned down another opportunity to hang out with a group of girls later that night.
Today, sex is probably the 6th thing down on my list of daily desires, it’s mostly unavailable to begin with and rarely ever worth the cost or time when compared to other needs. Still though, I have spontaneous instances where I flash back into a crushing thirst for sexual intimacy. Sometimes at work or school, and I can’t think about anything else until it passes. None of the dirty shit that happened along the way, while I was sexing the city typically comes to mind in association with this lust. I remember nothing but the good ol days, like the shite dudes supporting Trump; make my sex life great again.
But it wasn’t really that great.
I was just as lonely, maybe more so than I am now and I’d forced plenty of women into feeling the same way under a cloak of false vulnerability and companionship when most of the time I was leading with the hard D. Even now it brings too little shame because of the mental gymnastics I’ve got auto programmed into my brain that de-value the emotional vulnerability of other people when compared to even a shallow utilitarian gain.
I was once having lunch with a writer I admire and we were talking about the characters in Junot Diaz’s short stories, namely the men in Drown and This is How You Lose Her. She’d asked him once, while she was in graduate school a question about writing sociopathic characters like those men, whose lives consisted of perpetual emotional abuse towards women and he’d gotten defensive. I’d always felt completely at home with those books because I knew those guys personally. I still do and I’ve grown apart from some as I’ve become more human. That was the first time though, that an intelligent person had plainly used the word sociopath to describe nearly every man I’ve ever known, except Brandon of course. Even if his reason for keeping it real was jealousy, he still did it.
Sociopath is fitting though. I think I’m gonna start using it more often. So to all my former sociopaths out there currently struggling with the tedious, bewildering, soul-crushing sometimes fruitless task of building relationships with women or other humans in general, cheers.
To all the other niggas who are gonna read this and suck their teeth, well, you ain’t shit, your daddy wasn’t shit, and you ain’t never gonna be shit. So wrap it up B.