Bald Ambitions

Bald Ambition is a potpourri of ideas, essays, writing styles and assorted madness representing a unique voice of black gayness regurgitated
from the ghetto bowels of Detroit.

BRENT RELOADED
GAY IS THE NEW BLACK!
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

  I saw a beautiful young lesbian at DC Black Gay Pride wearing a T-shirt bearing a simple, yet stunning, five-word message. “Gay is the new Black!” Gasp! As
Janet Jackson says on her current album, “It is, isn’t it!” What a wondrously wondrous concept! Let’s ponder this breathtaking notion, shall we?
  First of all, it is generally accepted in many circles that being black is totally cool. Ask any ten-year old suburban white kid who is driving his parents insane by
wearing out Snoop Dogg and P-Diddy on the CD player, sports a Kobe Bryant Lakers’ jersey and gym shoes, and hangs posters of the Rock and Halle Berry on his
bedroom wall. Let’s face it, there’s some cool ass black motherfuckers walking around.
  And now this lesbian’s T-shirt. Never has there been a time like our present when it was this cool, this fashionable, this pleasingly aesthetic to be gay. And
damned if we don’t know it! As homosexuals fight this epic struggle for our God-given rights, achieving such stunning political victories as the 2003 Supreme Court
decision and the open revolt by the Gavin Newsoms of the world, many of us can stand up proudly and say, “I did my part to bring about the Gay Revolution by
being out and fabulous.” Soon horrified suburban moms will have to reconcile their ten-year olds insisting on hanging up posters of their beloved gay icons.
  So what about us girls who are blessedly both black and gay? Does this not make us doubly cool? We are now the arbiters of two profound civil rights struggles. I
note the new South African constitution, the most progressive on planet Earth as regards protections inclusive of sexual orientation. Nelson Mandela, one of the most
magnificent black men in human history, and his ANC partners, wrote that. Wow. What grace, what style. Why is it that a once recently vilified African nation now
boasts a better record on gay rights than this here United States that is attempting to put its jackboot upon our collective jugular?
  Which brings me back to DC Black Gay Pride, where two wonderful things delineated themselves in my consciousness. Since we were on the subject on Africa, I’ll
talk about the Kenyan journalist I met first. Abdul was a heterosexual who was in town to cover a story completely unrelated to Black Gay Pride, and was surprised
to discover that he was sharing his hotel with that event. He had never seen anything remotely like it. During the course of his inquiries, he asked me if I was willing
to be photographed and quoted on a story he was inspired to write about the Gay Pride Movement, and particularly, the place of black LGBTs within it. As a
journalist myself, naturally I agreed as a professional courtesy. Plus the guy was really cute. For two-and-a-half hours we talked about everything gay I could think
of, including the gay figures of the Harlem Renaissance, the Stonewall Riots, Massachusetts and same-sex marriage, the Black Pride Movement here and in South
Africa, the HIV crisis and the Reagan Administration’s culpability in its rampant spread, gay activism in the Bush era, and even my beloved partner Mark.
Flabbergasted comes close to describing his reaction.
  He tells me this will be the biggest story he’s ever written. Moreover, the conglomerate that owns his newspaper in Kenya possesses others in Tanzania and
Uganda. Imagine this: the story runs and slowly over a period of time, and thousands of oppressed African lesbians and gays in those countries awaken to our
overseas realities and start a revolution of their own. How cool to be able to say that I played a small but pivotal role in something like that?
  The second wonderful thing was the reception I received as a novelist. There exists a phalanx of entertaining folks whom I see on a regular basis during the summer
Pride circuit that constitutes my annual book tour. Many of them have read and enjoyed my first two books and are pleased to hear that my new novel project will
be serialized in the returning SBC Magazine beginning this summer. As my minute fame blossoms and grows, I realize these beautiful black gay people are my
hardcore fan base. Moreover, there are my many brothers from last summer’s glorious Adodi Retreat whom I honored with the tale of how a homophobic radio
personality read my article about the retreat on the air, sparking the pissing contest between us that directly led to the creation of the groundbreaking Homophobia
Town Halls.
  At the Memorial Day Adodi Brunch during DC Pride, I was reminded of the definition of the Yoruba word “Adodi.” To refresh you, Adodi, plural for Ado, means
a man who loves another man. More than just a description of partners, in Africa, the Adodi of the tribe were thought to embody both male and female ways of being
and were revered as shaman, sages and leaders. This leads me to contemplate how our greater black community perceives us in present day. We black gay men and
black lesbian women are very nearly regarded as sexual witches and warlocks, are we not? Endowed with mysterious, magic powers beyond the reckoning of those
who are not, simultaneous objects of wonderment and scorn.
  As I revel in the notion of Gay being the new Black, and exult in the lovely fortune of being black and gay, I ponder my journalism career and bright literary future,
both of which I have dedicated to the enlightenment and celebration of these dual truisms. I stand poised upon the precipice of fame, seeking to announce to the
world through my multitudinous literary endeavors this deafening reality. As I strive to reach those cloudless altitudes occupied by the likes of Langston and
Baldwin, Lorraine and Zora, perhaps one day it shall be my book cover posters hanging on the walls of young kids, black and white, straight and gay, and more than a
few of their elder counterparts.
  The slogan for this year’s upcoming LA Black Gay Pride is “A gathering of Gods and Goddesses!” Yes, indeed, gay is the new black, and to those of you who are
we, revel in our times! Celebrate! I feel my Pride deep inside!

BRENT’S FAGENDA
SOMETIMES “SUPERMAN” IS JUST A KID
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

  Part of the dedication of my first novel reads, “To my father, Spencer Carpenter, my own personal Superman, whom I still believe can walk between the
raindrops.” This fanciful mythos has its origins in a long-ago rainy day in my early childhood. My dad, dressed in suit and tie, was preparing to leave home for work
in a spring downpour and my mother handed him an umbrella. Mr. Carpenter, the coolest of the cool, ever mindful of his image, wouldn’t be caught dead with such a
contraption, and so refused it. “How will you get to your car without getting wet?” Mother asked him. “I will walk between the raindrops.”
  My father has always been a towering, larger-than-life figure for me, and because he said it, I believed he could do it. It was the kind of thing that Supermen do.
Interesting thing about heroes, though—as I have gotten older, I have come to realize they come in many shapes and sizes. And orientations.
  The intersection of Grand River and West Grand Boulevard in Detroit. I call your attention to this “grand” nexus because it was there a grand adventure began.
Last month, on a bus stop across the street from Northwestern High School, a bright young 16-year old kid named Michael Thomas found himself the target of
homophobic hatred inflicted by Neanderthalic classmates. He was assaulted, threatened and demeaned—all because some uncontrollable genetic happenstance
dictates that he has an affinity for men.
  Many young people, I might even suggest most, bowing to fear or the even more debilitating and insidious scourge of peer pressure, would have crumbled under
such withering circumstances. At that age, I know I would have. I cannot imagine my entire school knowing I was gay back in 1981. Michael is not most kids. He
possesses that rare and most admirable quality of the human spirit—courage.
  Teaming with allies at the Triangle Foundation and the Ruth Ellis Center, Michael has taken the extraordinary step of facing down homophobic, negligent or
cowardly adversaries, some of them found on the school administration level, and is pushing to form the first gay/straight student alliance in the Detroit Public
Schools System. Is this not the same stuff that Rosa, Martin, Malcolm and Mandela were made of? The mind boggles. Even as I grimace in anger at having to cover
this, my third such gay bashing story this year, I positively tingle with exhilaration at the notion of young Mr. Thomas’ fortitude.
  Equally as extraordinary is his father, James Thomas, a proud blue collar African American man who has risen above the all-too-often despicable cultural norm of
fear, contempt and hatred of gays to publicly, loudly, lovingly embrace his son and say, “I love you.” Mindful of the dangers posed to his offspring, not just from
the assaults, but also from a potential spiral into drug abuse, depression and suicide, this admirable gentleman has vowed that such tragedy will not occur on his
watch. It is an enormously positive image we simply never see. Imagine the stereotypes that would be forever shattered if we could get these two on primetime
television for just five minutes!
  When I think of gay heroes, what comes to mind most often are pioneers like my literary forefathers James Baldwin and Samuel Delaney, penning groundbreaking
gay literature during an era when it was already a crime to merely be black. Or United Airlines Flight 93 passenger Mark Bingham, sacrificing his life to stop terrorists
from destroying our way of life; or his earthbound counterpart Father Mychal Judge, perishing under a hail of collapsing Trade Center debris while rushing to save
others.
  Sometimes heroes are not crafted solely from brave adults risking life and limb in the face of unthinkable global events. I submit that sometimes Superman is just a
gutsy kid standing up against a microcosm of tyranny and evil and saying, “No more.”
  I have received numerous calls congratulating me for a well-written story. I do not deserve credit for this. I am a journalist. I was doing my job. Any and all
accolades should rightly be showered upon that beautiful boy and his remarkable father. I make no secret that I am a fan of film score composer John Williams. One
of his most breathtaking works is the heraldic theme from Superman the Movie. It is a fanfare that instantly evokes the ideal of heroism and greatness. I suspect that
henceforth, whenever I play that music, I will think of a boy—a young man—who has the guts to accomplish at 16 what it took me over three-and-a-half decades to
find the courage to do.
  I salute you, Michael Thomas. The gay community stands with you in your epic struggle. Stand tall and fly high, Superman. We’ve got your back!

HISTORICALLY BLACK, HISTORICALLY GAY
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

BARBARA JORDAN—The First African American Woman Everything

  Barbara Charline Jordan was born February 21, 1936, in Houston, Texas, and lived with her parents and two older sisters in an impoverished part of town. She
belonged to the honor society at Phyllis Wheatley High School. Jordan graduated magna cum laude from Texas Southern University in 1956, and earned her law
degree as the first black student at Boston University Law School in 1959.
  She served as the only woman and the only African American in the Texas State Senate from 1966 to 1972 and was consulted by President Lyndon Johnson on civil
rights legislation. In 1972, she was elected president pro-tempore of the Texas Senate, the first African American elected to preside over a legislative body anywhere
in the country. Noted for her eloquent speaking style, the Democrat was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from 1973 to 1979, the first African American
woman to represent a previously Confederate state in Congress.
  As a member of the House Judiciary Committee, Jordan was in the national spotlight during the Watergate hearings that eventually led to the resignation of
President Richard Nixon. Her oratory and clarity of vision on the issues made her potential as a presidential candidate a topic of conversation among liberals. In
1976, Barbara Jordan became the first black woman to deliver a keynote address at a political convention, saying, “There is something different about tonight. There
is something special about tonight. What is different? What is special? I, Barbara Jordan, am a keynote speaker.”
  Jordan met Nancy Earl on a camping trip in the 1960s and lived together for two decades. The couple built a house in Austin in 1976. There is no record of Jordan
ever being asked about her sexual orientation, but early in her career she was warned by campaign managers to avoid being photographed with her female companion.
Earl tended to Jordan’s daily needs through her battles with multiple sclerosis and leukemia for the remainder of her life.
  In 1994 she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian honor. Jordan died of pneumonia on January 17, 1996. President Bill
Clinton and former Texas Governor Anne Richards eulogized her, and both extended specific condolences to Earl. She was the first African-American woman buried
at the Texas State Cemetery, an honor reserved for Texas heroes.

HISTORICALLY BLACK, HISTORICALLY GAY
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

Bayard Rustin—African American Socrates of Civil Rights

  Bayard Taylor Rustin was born in West Chester Pennsylvania on March 17, 1912.
He excelled as a student, athlete and musician. While he never received his B.A., Rustin attended Wilberforce University, Cheney State College, and the City College
of New York. Raised as a Quaker and pacifist, he was never one to waiver in his beliefs when faced with adversity, and actively fought for the rights of minority and
disenfranchised people.
  Beginning in the 1940s, Rustin served as a key strategist of non-violent protest movements. At City College, he became a youth organizer for the Young
Communist League, which hired him to work on the problem of racial segregation and to advocate an anti-war position. Rustin remained a democratic socialist
throughout his life, but became staunchly anti-Communist after his disillusionment with the party.
  In 1942, he was dispatched to California by the Fellowship of Reconciliation and the American Friends Service Committee to help protect the property of Japanese
Americans imprisoned in internment camps. As a committed pacifist, Rustin refused to register for the draft, and also declined to perform alternative service in one of
the Civilian Public Service camps set up for Quakers and other religious pacifists. He served three years in federal penitentiary, beginning in 1943, as a way of
protesting the war.
  By 1947, he organized the first freedom rides in North Carolina to protest segregation on buses. In the late 1940s, Rustin was instrumental in securing President
Truman’s order eliminating segregation in the armed forces. During the 1950s, he was involved in the civil rights movement, working closely with Dr. Martin Luther
King Jr. and A. Phillip Randolph, president of The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the premier black trade union. Arrested in 1953 on a “morals charge,” he lost
his job at the FOR. His sexual exploits are generally regarded as “notorious.”
  Rustin was a brilliant organizer, and although he organized the historic March on Washington in 1963, as a gay man, relatively open for his time, he experienced anti-
gay prejudice in addition to racial discrimination. Because of his sexual orientation as well as his controversial political positions, he was often relegated to a behind-
the-scenes role in various campaigns.
  Thereafter, Rustin began to speak openly about being a gay man, lending his stature to the fight for lesbian and gay rights. In 1986, he exclaimed, “The barometer of
where one is on human rights questions is no longer the black community, it’s the gay community. Because it is the community which is most easily mistreated.”
Rustin’s relationship with his life partner, Walter Naegle, was described as a marriage and stabilizing influence. Bayard Rustin died of cardiac arrest on August 24,
1987 in New York City.

VERSE PREVERSE
INVISIBLE
By Brent Dorian Carpenter

  I am invisible. You cannot see me. You do not know that I am watching you. I see you when you leave out of your house and again when you come home. You have
no idea how long I have desired you. You cannot fathom how badly I want to be with you, to transcend the differences that lay between us. I cannot deny the truth of
my situation a moment longer. I truly, deeply love you.
  You are not just a beautiful black man. You are everything I have ever wanted. You are tall and handsome. You have a beautiful body, an intelligent mind and a
wonderful spirit. You are a hard worker and you love to laugh. Your smile outshines the sun and stops time. How I long to know that when you smile, you are
smiling at me.
  I see you at that bank where you work. Sometimes I come in and stand in line, letting others go ahead of me so that I can be the one who comes to your window. I
move my money back and forth from one account to the other, not because I have any reason to, other than I want to spend a few minutes standing there in front of
you. You are always so kind and polite, and have a look in your eyes like, maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep inside, you like me. I float away on a cloud, eagerly
anticipating the next time I return to bask in your glory, albeit just for a little while.
  I study you as you step from your car at the end of a long day. Your shoulders are slumped from all the ruinous madness the world has dumped upon you that day. I
see you breathe a sigh of relief as you enter your sanctuary, a momentary respite until the following morn. If only you knew the pleasure I could bring you with the tips
of my fingers. A simple massage to soothe your pain, ease your troubled mind and restore a tiny fragment of your sanity.
  Sometimes I lay awake at night aching to be there with you in your house across the street and a little ways down from mine. I want to hear your thoughts, and share
your day, and whisper in your ear all my secrets, all my hopes and dreams, all my deepest desires to make love to you all night long. I want to make you holler my
name as you make me holler yours. I want to feel you explode inside me, and look deep into your sexy, sad eyes and know that I have taken away a little bit more of
your pain. I so desperately need to know that every day you love me a little bit more, until that time comes when our hearts become as one.
  I know that this is impossible. You are in your world and I am in mine, and our worlds tell us that we cannot be together. My love for you is forbidden. It would
destroy us both and drive you away from me. Why must it be this way? Why can’t I just love you and you love me for love’s sake? Just because you are straight and I
am gay.
  And so, I search my mind for an answer. How can I make this impossible thing be? How can I find a way for us to be together that let’s you be you? That let’s me
be me? That let’s we be we? The answer, as are most things of this nature, is simple. I shall will myself to become invisible. If you cannot see me, I can be whatever
you want and need me to be. I can love you and you can love me.
  I am invisible. I can now get close to you. Very close. And you don’t even know I am there. Not yet. I know everything about you. I know how that woman you
loved with all your heart left you unexpectedly in the middle of the night and never came back. I know how she broke your heart. I know why you sit in your house all
day dying slowly inside, longing for her to come back. But she won’t, will she? Not today, not tomorrow, not forever. And so you are left broken and alone. But I am
going to change all that. She was a fool, and for that, she has my deepest gratitude. Now I am invisible. And I am going to make you mine.
  It has taken me weeks to work up my courage. Weeks of watching, weeks of waiting, weeks of gaining confidence that you will receive me. Weeks of lurking in your
yard, peering through your windows, unseen, undetected, unsuspected. Tonight is my night. I am coming for you, you fine motherfucker, and nothing in Heaven or on
this Earth is going to stop me from getting what I want.
  It’s just a few minutes before midnight, the time you always go to bed. You step out of the back door of your house, light up that big fat blunt you smoke every night to
help you relax, and whistle for your cat to come home. This is the moment I have waited for all day. While your back is turned, I slip inside your domicile unnoticed.
My heart is slamming inside my chest. I am inside your house!
  I take it all in. Your scent is omnipresent, mingled with the whiff of jasmine emanating from the candles you have lit. The sweet, sultry sensuousness of Erykah Badu
tickles the air, putting me in a mood that could hardly be more perfect. You reenter, cat tucked safely beneath your arm. We are in your house together. I think my
heart is going to explode.
  I watch you as you go upstairs and begin to loosen your clothes. You enter the bathroom and turn on the shower nozzle. I can smell the intoxicating sweat of your
labor as, one by one, the articles of clothing are stripped away. Your body is even more beautiful than I dared imagine. I want to spring at you like that goddamned
cat—but not yet. I must wait until you are good and relaxed. Until the water has softened you up for my delight. My dick is rock hard while I watch you soap yourself
up and scrub yourself clean. I reach into the ashtray and take several long, deep puffs so I may join you in the zone. I pull off my clothes, and the excitement of being
naked with you is almost more than I can bear.
  You look so tired, so relieved, as you step from beneath the soothing waters, all sexy and dripping wet. I am so turned on watching you dry yourself off, I feel as if I
could scream. I am dancing on air, exulting in the exquisite wonderment of being so close to your naked flesh. Again, I follow closely behind you as you make the final
journey toward your lonely bedroom. A gentle fire roars in the fireplace not far from the foot of your bed. The mood is right, the scenario is perfect. You fall back
across the plush mattress and let out a long sigh.
  Just when I think you are at that place between awake and asleep, I make my move. I creep up to the side of the bed and gently blow into your ear. You think it is a
summer breeze coming into your window, and a smile spreads across your handsome face. My next breath tickles you on one of your brown nipples. You let a slight
moan escape from your thick brown lips. Now it is my turn to smile. When I make my way to the other side and blow on the other, you reach up with your hand and
begin to rub it sensuously. Oh, my.
  Quietly, I take in a deep breath and let a zephyr escape from my mouth that caresses your torso, moves down across your sexy belly button, and displaces your pubic
hairs as it washes across your dick and balls. Another deeper moan hisses from your mouth as the organs of your manhood twitch and shift. They begin to become
erect. You are so lost in that zone and that music that you welcome the sensation. The pace of your breathing quickens, letting me know that you are turned on. The
time has come for me to go for broke.
  Balancing myself precariously at your side, I stick out my wet tongue and allow the tip of it to brush lightly up against the hair on your balls. Your dick jumps at the
sensation and your eyes snap wide open. You cannot see me. I am just a ghost of your imagination, lingering somewhere between those clouds of smoke. You reach
down and begin to massage that lovely shaft. And I am here to help you get off.
  You reach over and take another puff. Good. Blame it on the weed. When next you feel my tongue, it is first on your left nipple, and then the right. A gentle tickle at
first, and then gyrating licks. Now you are certain there is someone, something there with you, but you don’t seem to care. It feels good, and in the end, that is all that
truly matters. Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
  In the barest whisper, I say in your ear, “Do you like how I make you feel? Don’t fight. I won’t hurt you. Accept my pleasure. Allow me to make you feel like a
man.” Now you are really smiling, and that big dick of yours is throbbing as if it has electricity surging through it. If so, it must be channeling through my hot ass. A
tiny dot of cum has appeared on the slit. With a flick of my tongue, I lick it off, making you almost jump out of your skin. Before you know it, that hot, wet sensation is
probing the entire length and breadth of that magnificent shaft.
  I know what you want. You want me to suck it, don’t you? Oh, I will, baby. All in good time. First, I want to taste every single inch of your luscious brown skin. I
am going to lick you all over like I am licking a bowl of chocolate pudding. Firmly, I take you by the wrists and place your arms at your sides so that nothing is in my
way.
  What is it that turns you on the most? Where is the spot that is going to make you scream? I know you liked when I licked those hard nipples, but what about that
spot on your neck? Or the lobe of your ears? You really seemed to gasp when you felt my hot breath and wet tongue in the sexy nappy hair of your armpits. Slowly, I
sucked each finger on both of your hands, giving you a tantalizing preview of what was yet to come.
  I pause long enough to take another puff of that lovely shit, and hold it over your lips for you to take another hit. I give you a moment to let it sink in and ponder
where I will strike next. You really weren’t expecting me to suck those pretty toes, were you? Now you are squirming all over the bed. The bottom of your feet is pretty
sensitive, too. I can tell by the look on your face that she never did this for you, did she? Lay back and enjoy it, black man. This night belongs to you alone.
  I’m ready to come after that big black thing between your legs. But first I want to tease you just a little bit. First, my tongue is going to dance all around the
periphery. I start by licking your hips and your thighs. Ooo, I found another spot, haven’t I? The anticipation is eating you alive, isn’t it? Not like I’m about to.
When that tongue goes down into your navel and your stomach begins to convulse with pleasure and your mouth flies open with short gasping breaths, that’s when I
know I have you right where I want you.
  Your twitching dick bumps against my chin as my tongue twirls around that black shock of pubic hairs that I so enjoy licking and munching, leaving them wet with
my passionate kisses. And the next time I am on those dangling balls, it is not a tease of the hairs. That sac is inside my hot mouth, and the nuts are gently rolling
around like billiard balls. I make my way up the shaft of the dick with long licks from base to head, tasting the juice that is now freely flowing from the precious head.
I swirl it around and let out a soft moan of my own so that you know how delicious your cum tastes to me. When I finally at long last begin to suck it, I take it deep into
the back of my mouth so that my lips slide all the way down to the base and the hairs are pressed against my lips. I see that you are pleased. I have waited so long for
this moment, tried so hard to imagine what it would be like, that now that I am here, I feel like I am poised at the gates of Heaven. The longer I suck it, the harder it
becomes in my mouth.
  “I want to give you more,” I whisper. Quietly, you nod in agreement. I realize now that you have been so lonely in here all by yourself, it no longer matters who I
am. You just want somebody to love you and make love to you. And I am here when you need me. And I do love you. I love you so much that I don’t even have the
words to adequately convey how I feel. But then, I don’t need words, do I? I have my body, and the sweet, sizzling language of love.
  While that all-powerful dick still glistens with my spit, I climb on top of you and poise my hole right above the slick head. A final puff for each of us sends us over the
top, and as we exhale together, I slide down onto you in a slow, exhilarating motion. I let out a gasp of pleasure-pain as I feel you plunging inside me. As I land,
perched on your lap, we become one being, one entity, one creature of flesh and love. A tear forms in my eye, for at long last, I am yours and you are mine. I sit there
completely still for the space of several heartbeats, trying to make myself believe that I am really here in this most sacred place in my imagination.
  As you reach up to touch me, I take your hands and lock my fingers between yours, still fearful of your reaction if your probing digits should discover my secret, the
secret I have hidden from you by becoming invisible. I rock my pelvis, and in turn, you rock my very world. I have never felt anything so glorious in all my life. I
curse myself for waiting so long to come to you. The way you make love to me, it’s as if you have been waiting for me all along. Although you cannot see me, you are
looking me straight in the eyes, as if to convey to me the very same thoughts and feelings and emotions that I so desperately seek to convey to you. I see the love
reflected back in your eyes. I see your tears, too.
  All my fears melt away. All your pain melts away. The world melts away. We are flying through space and time. I am in ecstasy, and I move my body in such a way
that I want to take you down ecstasy’s path, too. When you let go of my hands and begin to caress my unseen face, I feel myself explode all over your chest. You have
touched something deep inside of me, deeper than even the reach of your splendid dick. You have touched my heart. You have fondled my mind. You have stroked my
soul.
  Then your hands are all over me, exploring. I place mine flat against your chest, and feel the racing beat of your wonderful heart. We are both covered with the
fluids of love-making. The sweat and spit and semen and tears of unbridled joy. If I could, I would freeze us still in place, so that we might be trapped in this moment
of sweet rapture forevermore. Before I know it, I can contain myself no longer. As you crash through that spot somewhere in my innermost sanctum, I burst with an
orgasm of rampant desire, and the words “I love you” explode with even greater force from my mouth. You erupt at precisely the same moment, and those words are
reciprocated, reverberating throughout that flamelit room.
  My legs are trembling, my head is ringing, and my soul has been fulfilled. With you still inside me, I allow myself the selfish opportunity to lay across your sticky
chest and baste in the juices of our forbidden passion. I have lived my most secret fantasy, and my heart has drowned in a joy I cannot fathom, much less describe. I
have conquered my fears, and I thank God that He has allowed me this brief time with you.
  As you drift away into a peaceful slumber, I quietly rise and place myself back in my invisible clothes. I pause long enough to place a kiss upon your sensual mouth,
and steal away into the night, to return to that place from which I came. Perhaps I will be back sometime soon. Perhaps that next time, I will not be invisible. Perhaps
next time, I will let you see me for me, and see the love that exists for you alone. Goodbye, my sweet love. When you dream, dream of me.
  I do not see you. As you leave, you evaporate like a ghost. A ghost created in my imagination. How I have longed to have a moment like that with you. I see you
watching me from your house across the street, a little ways down from mine. How I long to speak to you when you come to my job at the bank. You are so
beautiful, so funny and kind. One day, I will work up the courage to speak. I so desperately need to know that every day you love me a little bit more, until that
time comes when our hearts become as one.
  I know that this is impossible. You are in your world and I am in mine, and our worlds tell us that we cannot be together. My love for you is forbidden. It would
destroy us both and drive you away from me. Why must it be this way? Why can’t I just love you and you love me for love’s sake? Just because I am straight and
you are gay.