Black Tops May Not Like #45, but They Sure Can’t Stop Acting Like Him

Saturday, #45 (whose actual name nor title will ever be published here) flexed a muscle that Black gay and bisexual men have been flexing for years.  It’s a well-known practice many of us have been using that #45 has put his own stank on.  But like many of his -isms that he’s coined or “created”–which is code for stolen–he wasn’t the originator but he has taken it’s practice to a level of astronomic proportions.  This practice is what I like to call “Say It, See It”.

This past Saturday, #45 added another notch to his “fake news” tirade as he and Bill O’Reily, of all people, engaged in a short exchange on Twitter.  #45 has made it almost an art form of calling something, saying it, then telling everyone he was right all along when he finds any justification.  It’s kind of like how gay boys–who are obviously versatile, at best–insist they’re tops and wonder why they keep stumbling upon willing bottoms.  The more you say “fake news” the more you see “fake news”.

Can I tell you a story…

Jamel and I tend have a fairly open relationship.  I got into the our connection understanding that I’m not the last only person that will make Jamel’s ass wet, nor is he the only person that will make my dick hard.  We both have eyes for others.  I think the power of our connection is the courage it takes to openly admit that and create a relationship that works for us.

Having taken such courageous liberties in defining our relationship on our terms, we, quite frequently, end up having interesting dialogue about our sexual exploits.  Either together, with a third (or more), or separately, we’re usually good for some sex talk.  This is the story of my last one.

Black gay tops (and #45) are like spaghetti

Jamel was at work and I got horny.  Just like any other horny man, I got on my gay “dating” apps to find someone to “date”.  Usually, in the part of Atlanta where we live, the “dating” pool is far away and too mature for our liking, but today was different.

His was the first profile next time.  I clicked and he was 3458ft away.  Not to old, Black guy with a nice body.  We exchanged gay “dating” app pleasantries before eventually exchanging face pics.  I was stunned at how attractive this guy was.

He told me what he was into.  I told him what I was into and we agreed this would be a oral/jack session.  Jamel would definitely be horny by time he got home, so penetration wasn’t a necessity, but busting this nut definitely was.

I got over there.  Anybody who’s ever hooked up with me knows that I maintain military silence when I’m hooking up.  It’s equal parts keeping-my-whits-about-myself and focus-on-the-task-at-hand.  But this guy kept giving me that nervous talk.

“What’s up?” To which I didn’t respond.

“You live around here?” To which I still didnt’ respond.

As we sat on the sofa where it was supposed to happen he says again, “So what’s up?” to which I finally responded, “We doing this or just talking about it?”

He gave lackluster head.  He had the throat of a dude who knows he likes sucking dick but is too ashamed to learn his craft well.  It was underwhelming but I persisted.  I grazed my hand gently down his back.  He was leaned over with his head in my lap performing.  Across the shoulders then down the back bone, around the ass then back up to the nipple, I was looking for that spot that would take this from a oral/jack session to a nut worth busting.

It was the nipples.  I touched one and his body quivered.  I touched the other and his whole body shook as he let out a deep and powerful moan.  I had struck gold.  I motioned him to get up from his forgettable phallacio.  He leaned back on the sofa, I got to my knees between his legs and sucked his nipple like an infant.

He was somewhere between ecstasy and overwhelm.  His body convulsed, and his legs quivered—the definite signs of a man who bottoms.  I massaged his anus with my fingers gently as my lips did work on his nipples.  He reached around with a petroleum jellied finger to lubricate my work space.  I plunged on finger slowly into his booty as he stroked my dick.  I was erect and he was in bliss.

He placed my dick squarely in the take off-zone and pulled my body close to his.  A part of me knew he didn’t know what he was doing, but an even bigger part of me knew that we were both completely aware of what was happening.

My body slowly sank into his and he accepted.  His nipples firmed and his toes curled.  Just as we both were about to reach our groove, he jerked his torso, expelling me completely as whispered, “I’m a top…”

We continued this dance of him accepting and rejecting me all while I continued on his nipples.  I thought initially how weird this was, a man who wants to bottom but doesn’t.  Then I learned, Black tops (and #45) are like spaghetti.

Have you ever boiled spaghetti.  It’s a process that I haven’t fully mastered.  For some reason, properly preparing spaghetti and rice have escaped me—perhaps an analogy for the illusive nature of a true top, but I digress.

Bring the water to a boil, season with salt and oil, then drop in your firm and stiff spaghetti and watch it tenderize, loosen and bend.  You see, spaghetti only becomes eatable—palatable—after it’s put under a little pressure and bends over.

Black tops are like that spaghetti: straight, tall and true, until you put them under a little pressure.  The right temperature and a rolling boil, and they’ll bend right over.  I only really got this lesson after my last rendezvous with a top.

You see, top is a coveted position in gay culture–as coveted perhaps as President of the United States.  It’s the seat we, the versatile and actual tops of the world, want.  It’s the head of the table; the big piece of chicken.  But few, as #45 demonstrates daily, have the cojones and intestinal fortitude to actually fulfill the obligations of the office.  It’s not enough to want to be top, you have to actually be the top.

The similarity between #45 and so many so called tops like the spaghetti that inspired this piece, have presumed makings of tops: tall, perhaps, masculine, big dick, swag, etc.  It walks like a top, talks like a top, but, under the right amount of pressure, becomes something altogether different.

So they continue to pander to they’re base.  These tops seek out encounter of the non-threatening variety.  They trample recklessly through bottoms, plowing down walls, and beating backs, giving the cultural impression that this is what sex and tops should be like.  But the truth is, they are ruining the pool for everyone else who may be qualified for the role but doesn’t fit the description you’ve created.

What I now know is that every time spaghetti said, “I’m a top”, it was just like every time #45 decries fake news because his detractors aren’t blind or sleep enough to take his bullshit.  And, for clarity, I ended up fucking that spaghetti.


  • Christopher Musicman Thomas

    I can’t get with such stagnant personal expression and such an authentic learned behavior. I wish people could be more open about their sexual desires.

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