![cute gay men faces cute gay men faces](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2020-03/6/14/asset/9f45b152b6b5/sub-buzz-344-1583503797-8.jpg)
This is probably why I have not dated or hooked up with a white person in 10 years and am only with men of color. I know what it’s like not to have a body even though I exist in one. This fat body, these tits and chichos, where the white boys in the locker room all throughout high school pinched and prodded me, cornering me against hard, cold tile, calling me a fat spic, a fat faggot. Squat on them I think of myself as a weighted mass, something smothering, something indomitable. I prefer this position with a guy I have hooked up with several times or know well. This position he has me in is fine depending on the guy. We queers know these horror stories, coded, as they are, into our DNA. In such a fit of rage, he can quite possibly even end your life. No longer the benign man eating you out but instead the man who is punching and kicking you, angry at you because you are you, unapologetically. When they are told no, when they are met with our limits, they can change. Knowing what straight men who have sex with men can do and have done to others. He’s a big man, a strong man, and I’m a big boy, no doubt, but I’m scared of what he could do to me. Am I liking this? He doesn’t give me a chance to think on it because he’s flipping me over, onto my belly, ass up. His tongue is a squishy forcefulness that doesn’t let me sink into pleasure, into that rapture. Here I am despite it all, sitting on this man’s face, worshipped by him and worshipping him. Who do I identify with, then? Is it this straight man who is a single father who works as a security guard at night on 42nd Street, this man whose tongue is in my body? Or am I to identify with the out and proud white gay men living downtown in Chelsea or the Village, sequestered away on the topmost floor of their million-dollar apartments, with their two adopted children and live-in nanny from Mexico or the Philippines or Barbados? Gay culture doesn’t desire bodies like mine and these are supposedly my people. He has no desire to fall in love with a man. He has no plans on going to the queer bar on Friday night for a drink with friends. He has no intention of shouting out on social media the mind-blowing sexual encounter with a man he had last night. He just doesn’t identify with gay, bi, or queer because in his day-to-day world, his social reality, he doesn’t live that life. He admits he is a man who has sex with men. Straight, yes, because he identifies with that lifestyle, with chasing women and talking about women to his boys and getting married to women. This straight-identified man who no one knows is here in this room with me - this man who people say is filled with self-hatred for not coming out as gay, bi, or queer, for living a life they deem a lie - desires me.
#CUTE GAY MEN FACES FULL#
Stretch marks and full tits and sagging belly - who wants that? Straight and gay cultures alike tell us we should want six-pack bellies, chiseled chests, hard asses to fondle. Tongue swish and tongue lick telling me he wants me, all this mass, all this ass.
![cute gay men faces cute gay men faces](https://assets.weforum.org/article/image/large_mTWgD3fVzLMQV5XA4GyYNZwNrmHE_NfW8w3qqT5o4_g.jpg)
The throat rumblings and mmmmms in abundance.
![cute gay men faces cute gay men faces](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/59/68/67/596867604dda56402b2967b72806d480.jpg)
There are no words from me, no words from him, no need for words when I am sitting on his face. Trans men and people who don’t identify as men. Men with bellies and men with ribs poking through skin. Men who sag their pants and men who wear high heels. I like masculinity in men I like femininity in men. I do not idealize their straight masculinity like I am told to do in queer culture. Men all masculine, all macho macho, feast on me in averted glances.
![cute gay men faces cute gay men faces](https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/live-experience/cps/1248/cpsprodpb/vivo/live/images/2017/2/8/a217e46e-360d-4bb4-82b8-add1528bb05a.jpg)
On the subway in my tight pants and shirt, when going down the street in my short shorts, giving them thickboy MexiRican struts and strides, men like him stare at me. Still, I remain nothing more than a fantasy for men like him, a fantasy at night they think over when alone, or with their boys, or with their girl.Ī fantasy they get to live out when I let them. I give no fucks and that’s what they like. This femme and fat body our society tells us is not meant to be desired, that these men are not meant to want - to them, I am freedom. To see it, to hear it, to feel it on their tongue. I throw my head back sometimes, roll it around my neck, giving a bit of theatrics for him because that’s what men like him like, men on the DL or men who live straight lives but have sex with men. My hands gently gripping, gently steering him in. Rapture, a deep moaning, the clenching of his forearms. Then, it happens: The soft tissue meets soft tissue. To give him a sign that I want it and that I want him to want it. All I know is the velocity of his excitement. In my phone, his name is “The Bronx” ‘cause that’s where he lives. His face proximate, his hands on my thighs or my hips or my cheeks. The arch of the back letting the ass be emphasized, idealized, idolized. It’s an art form, really, though your prude mom would challenge you on that.