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When a black man shows his privates to the world, it’s usually for a reason. We take dick pics for sex sites to show our intended sex partner what they will get if they say yes to our digital advances. We also do it for vanity, to admire when no one else is looking, or to send to someone we want to do admire us.
Maybe that is gay, or maybe it’s just men doing what we have done since the dawn of time, using everything to either compensate for, or showcase, our private parts. But others have their privates presented to the world with no request for consent. It’s the accidental dick slip, or the ‘leaked dick pic’ scenario. If you see a flaccid penis, you giggle like ‘oh, look. It must be cold outside, because that thing is little!’
Then there is me, and my dick is embarrassingly long flaccid, so fully erect, and after having more drinks than I can remember, all I could see on the uncensored version of the video was a means for the international online gay community to fetishize me, and they did as I slept the night I got married and apparently every day since!
Josephine was my escape from that world. Before her, gay men would say they were cool with me being a bottom, but then the second they see me naked, now tops wanna be bottoms. If I ever found a man who was okay with not letting me top him, like Tyler or Alex, I coveted them most of all, because they gave me what I wanted.
But this video wasn’t a sex pic, or consensual nudity, it was a violation of my right to privacy. But the thing is, what right to privacy did I have in a public bathroom in a hookah bar?
We couldn’t get anything from the viral sensation that was my drunken woody because, in America, he who captures the video owns the content. Especially at a wedding reception that was open to the public, thanks to Josephine refusing to have everyone leave the hookah bar.
I understood why she did it, and I supported it as it happened, but come on, even I can admit when my wife set me up for failure.
Josephine was unusually quiet. She tiptoed around me like a church mouse inside our condo, which made me interact with her more. The more I tried to interact, the more she shut down.
It was like every time I looked at my phone, she was looking at me. When I realized that my reaction dictated her counter-reaction, the viral aspect became less embarrassing. But Josephine didn’t believe me when I explained it to her. I guess she thought I was just trying to make her feel better, which I wasn’t doing, but the more she resisted, the more I tried to brighten her day.
One night we were getting ready for bed, then out of nowhere, I started to sing to her. As she laid in the bed with her back facing me, I sang the song that DJ Azod mixed of our video,
“Okay, you can come in now,
Okay, you can come in now,
Okay,
Okay,
Okay, you can come in; we good,
You can come in
Now
Okay, you can come in now...{BABY}
We good.”
In the middle of my dance routine, I could hear Josephine laughing so hard that she couldn’t catch her breath. I started stripping for her, still singing the words but more seductively.
I pulled her out of the bed so she could sit upright, and I gave her a lap dance, singing as erotically and as loudly as I could.
One of my neighbors banged on the wall and yelled, playfully, “I’m sick of hearing that dumb ass song!”
Josephine began singing with me, as loudly and as seductively as she could, and before I knew it, we were making love in our bed, for the first time since our wedding night, and it’s funny, because I was a gay man up until that point who was married to a straight woman who he fell in love with. That was reasonable in my mind, almost the perfect verbal description of how I perceived myself in relation to Josephine. But that night, with no liquor, weed, alleged rape, or ass play, I was just a man trying to make his wife smile.
I married a woman who was full of life and happiness, a literal wild card! I couldn’t stand watching her mope around right after marrying me.
From that moment on, sex became our way to connect as husband and wife, not to be compared to any sex we had before but rather valued because it’s the only sex we wanted going forward. That is when fucking becomes making love, and I made love to my wife twice that night.
The next morning, I took Josephine to breakfast. We took an Uber downtown to one of our favorite diners and as soon as we walked in, all eyes were on us. We didn’t care at first, considering the night we had, and we giggled, whispered sweet nothings in each other’s ear, and waited to be seated in our traditional booth for two. We were seated by the hostess and promised that our waiter would be with us soon, but by the time the waitress brought us our water and never-ending cups of coffee, I noticed that she had a pen and pad in hand, but it wasn’t to take our orders; it was an autograph book.
The bubbly white woman had to be in her early twenties, and she had a look that suggested she was a smartphone-tapping, social-media-scouring millennial. However, it wasn’t until she spoke that I began to consider the other side of the viral video sensation that was our wedding video; the human side.
It goes back to the reason men take dick pics. When the pic is self-determined, the attention that one receives is not only expected, but feedback is encouraged. However, when the pic is known to be distributed without your knowledge, the thing itself, or the dick, for fear of being too vague, is never discussed directly but rather eluded to by civilized folks who can empathize with how mortifying such an ordeal might be but are way too entertained by your embarrassment to miss a chance to at least acknowledge the effect that the thing, or the dick pic, had on their lives.
The waitress walked up to our table, placed two cups of coffee in front of us, then two cups of water.
Josephine immediately reached for the cream and sugar, as this was her first coffee of the day, she wasn’t paying attention to the waitress, but I was.
The young lady smiled as if she was in the presence of a celebrity and looked at me with a hint of fascination in her young and inexperienced eyes. I let her gawk for a moment as I watched my wife take her first sip of coffee and say ‘Umm’ to herself, as she always does whenever she sips a perfect cup of coffee, then Josephine looked at me with a look of pure satisfaction on her face.
We exchanged a loving glance, which would have continued, but I realized that the wide-eyed waitress was still standing there. Silently, yet adoringly, basking in our public displays of affection.
When my sights switched from Josephine to the waitress, Josephine’s eyes followed mine, but whereas I looked at the waitress to say, ‘Okay, young lady, thanks but give us a minute to decide what we want to order.’ Josephine actually said, as sarcastically and as defensive as she could, “Little girl, what are you looking at?”
The young lady giggled. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Josephs, but I am a huge fan! To know that we live in a time where love can flourish despite fears of societal persecution and bigotry makes me think of the time in our country’s history when race relations were akin to sexuality issues today. I am studying Anthropology at Temple, and I am the president of our campus’s Pan Sexual Consortium. We would be honored, no, we would be privileged if you would agree to come and share your story with us.”
Josephine smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, I support young women in leadership positions, but, sweetie, we haven’t even been married a full week yet. This is like our honeymoon, but, honey, you are actually killing our vibe right now. Like, the mood is literally dying right before our eyes.”
While Josephine and I shared a laugh at the young lady’s expense, I noticed that the young lady was in a state of shock. Like she had met her childhood idol but instead of being motivated and encouraged to do great things, she was told to give up her dream. Josephine was unaware of the young lady’s state, so while she continued to sip her coffee and laughed as if the waitress was already gone, I couldn’t let that stand.
I said, “However, if you call me in a month and remind me of this conversation, I promise, I will set up a time for us to come and talk to your class, okay?”
Josephine snapped, playfully, “Damn, her and the rest of the internet already seen you naked; they know too much already!”
Without thinking, I said, “Once we shared our life with the world, we became public figures. I can appreciate that our unorthodox origins may be difficult for some to understand unless they hear us explain why we work as a married couple. I also get how our love story could help to address sexual bigotry in contemporary America. The only problem is timing. The timing of your request couldn’t be more off, young lady, for all of the reasons my lovely wife suggested.”
Josephine was obviously impressed with the way I explained the issue to the young waitress, and she took my hand in hers and gazed into my eyes with a look to suggest that intelligence was also something she found irresistible about me. The young waitress also understood but, because she was so enamored with the “legend of our love story,” which started online when Alex posted the wedding video, she knew there was more to the story, so she could not let her request go.
I admired her determination and respectful approach, so I continued, “Pay for our meal, and take my number. In a month, give me a call and remind me about this conversation and my wife and I would be happy to come and talk to your class, or your student organization, but not both, because we’re not an anthropological exhibit. Cool?”
The young waitress was overjoyed. After we finished our breakfast, I left my phone number and a $100 tip. Josephine was mad, but she understood my reasoning. The last thing we needed was for a white woman to go on the internet and perpetuate the myth about black people not leaving tips.
Josephine and I left the diner stuffed, so we decided to walk Center City for a while, to help our meal digest. Since it was now after 10:30 a.m., all of the morning commuters who were on the street when we arrived were replaced with retail workers opening shops, and customers were starting to fill the streets as they ran errands, shopped, or enjoyed the tourist attractions of our historic city.
Josephine walked with her arm in mine and laid her head on my shoulder for a moment when we stopped at a green traffic light, waiting for it to change to red.
Josephine was glowing, happy, and without a complaint in the world. I was the same way whenever I looked at her, feeling her hand caress mine as her arm pulled me in closer, smelling the scent of her natural odor as I inhaled. Josephine’s pheromones were my latest obsession; her unique odor, which was kissed by Mother Nature herself, made my nature rise, and my heart race, and my palms sweat ever so gently, at a rate that allowed the moisture to evaporate once it hit the air, remaining unnoticed by Josephine.
Maybe her body reacted the same way to my pheromones, and our individual palm secretions canceled one another out. Maybe that is how straight people make love in public as well. Not just with the physical act of penetration, but the chemical and subatomic biological reaction of being around the person whose DNA is coded in a way that complements their own. In that moment, we could have impregnated the world with our subatomic love, if not each other.
To gaze at Josephine was my bliss but to look around at everyone else was me having to witness our metaphorical raping; the unauthorized exchange of physical glances toward my pelvis, then my face, then my wife. Always in that order, always uncomfortable, and always beyond my control.
The only noticeable difference was with the black men who passed by; their gaze at Josephine was more thorough, more comprehensive. All of the black men looked at her face, then her breasts, then her hips, and the brothers who approved of her grabbed their penises, never to look my way again. However, the straight black men who did not approve shook their heads at Josephine as if to say, “That’s a damn shame” or “I wouldn’t fuck her old ass.” Then they looked at me and laughed, or shook their head, or waved their hands at me dismissively. But it was the gay men who killed the love I made with my wife that morning.
The gay black men observed my Josephine as intently and as comprehensively as their straight counterparts, but the look was more like a read. “This old bitch, with her saggy-ass titties, and her old granny hips better stop playing with me” was the impression I received when they turned their gaze from Josephine to me.
They looked at me, looking at them, then they winked! They blew kisses. They put their thumb to their ears, and their pointer fingers to their mouths, and they lipped, “Call me!” as my wife dug her head deeper into my shoulder, unaware that we were being visually violated by everyone, but most offensively, by gay black men.
When I looked around to see approving head nods from straight white men and straight Hispanics who gave me thumbs up and black power fists, I couldn’t ignore the random things they shouted from as far as the opposite side of the street. They yelled, “Big Steve!” or “Hey, Eggplant” playfully, and had it not been for the brothers, I would have probably waved back, or said thank you, or engaged in a lovemaking orgy on that street corner while Josephine and I made public subatomic love amidst a fraction of our supporters and well-wishers.
But America isn’t that forgiving, so neither am I, and I did not appreciate any of the stares. The factions that divided us did so along religious, cultural, and moral lines that were created and placed in our path like obstacles to horde us, or to codify us, or to label us. “Place us with those who promote the national moral imperative, or cast us aside” is the status quo, not our PDA session.
What were the brothers doing if not showing in their actions their support of the status quo? It’s their right as Americans to support the traditionalist faction that cannot imagine a world where Josephine needs me, and I need her, as it was my right to want to flee their judgmental stares.
I guess it’s like when blacks and whites defied the odds to marry and crossbreed way back when. They couldn’t make the public subatomic love that Josephine and I made without being lynched, yet, unnoticed, Josephine and I could make this kind of love publicly both then and now in all parts of the country. But noticed, we stood out more so than the racial mix stood out way back when, because as a sexual mix, we are assumed to be an anomaly. Like A-Dog and a cat shacking up, we were either re-tweeted as a cute unlikely friends post, or a fire and brimstone type warning, and both are acceptable in America.
Maybe I hated the gay brothers’ reaction because it was negative, or maybe I hated it because, before I met Josephine, I was that same gay brother. And if the roles were reversed, I might have been more obsessed over the next man’s dick pic than I was over his mental state after having his private life, and self, exposed to the world without his consent.
When the light changed to green, Josephine tried to walk, but I couldn’t move. Whether we walked across the street or stood in that one spot, we were in the presence of someone who recognized us, and I didn’t know where to go for privacy.
A cab driver stopped at the light, put his On Duty light on, and I guided Josephine to the back door, opened it, put her inside, then followed her. As I closed the door, the last face I saw looking back at us was a gay black man, and he grabbed his crotch.
Josephine, not noticing the man, said, “What happened? You gotta doo-doo or something?”
The short, stocky dark-skinned Haitian cab driver laughed, and joked, in a thick Haitian accent, “He trying to get his beautiful wife all alone! Where would you two lovebirds like to go?”
Josephine laughed. “My husband will decide, but for now, you can just drive. I guess you saw our wedding video?”
The cab driver laughed. “Yes. I love the song ‘Okay, You Can Come in Now, Baby. We good!’”
As Josephine and the cab driver sang, I watched them share a moment, as if their pheromones and subatomic chemicals were in sync in a platonic sense of the word. There was no need for jealousy, or to avoid the public when Josephine was engaged with them, but if she saw what those gay brothers were doing, she would have sparked another viral video that morning, and that scared me more than if the cab driver disapproved of our union.
I told the cab driver to take us home, and there we stayed for the next three weeks. We worked from home, had access to delivery services for everything we needed, and I had the financial and moral authority to call it our Extended Honeymoon.
At the time, I simply said, “I don’t need an excuse to pamper my wife and have her to myself on an Extended Honeymoon.”
I can’t say we fucked like rabbits, but we made love in every sense of the word every second of every day. Aside from that fake news segment about us, it was a perfect honeymoon. Only if those gay black men could have truly understood how love is made in every sense of the word, maybe they too could have been more supportive of me and Josephine’s union. But trapped in our condo, surrounded with love and every creature comfort we required, who gave a fuck what those faggots thought? That’s what I said then, but once a dick pic gets leaked, and an admirer is born, what happens next can only be described as craziness.
All I can say with certainty is that outside I was a rape victim, but inside I was a man in love. Therefore, I planned to keep Josephine inside for as long as I could. Hopefully, that would be enough time for the video to be forgotten. Until then, ‘happy wife happy life’ was my motto, and Josephine’s happiness, pheromones, and desires were all that concerned me.