confessions of a Black queer with light skin…
- a white boy once asked if i was mixed. we were in a dark crowded club and he seemed like one of those “don’t fucks with Blacks” type. the usual. my hair was short at the time, so i suppose i could get away with it. i said yes. no, i’m not self-hating, just needed the D that night. the thirst is real.
• 20 November 2013 • 6 notes
a collection of notes from the brain of negrosunshine
do niggas still read on tumblr?
does negrosunshine even still write on tumblr?
i’m going try my best to dabble in knowledge, Black-queerly, in some one liners:
- why is everyone (and their white best-friend) working on Black-sexuality? i need a new project.
- i don’t fuck with these middle-classed respectable (also read white) notions of gay marriage, but a house in Bucktown, two adopted Black babies, and a wifey with a nice frying style is sounding real nice.
- does hip-hop scholarship/theory exist in a bubble where the work can’t move past 2005? I’ve been reading and seeing some very late projects recently.
• 20 November 2013 • 16 notes
i went over to his place. he mixed me a drink with citrus and tequila. frank ocean was playing. i’m not stupid, i knew what was up. it’s an easy game to figure out. and he was playing real nice. standing in the kitchen tossing smiles and jokes, keeping my cup always filled, never weak, just right. we danced a game of words and gestures that wouldn’t reveal too much. it was one of those spaces where vulnerability is unsavory; keeping cool and collected is everything to hold on to—and i was holding all mine. staying calm despite raging hormones and close proximity to his bedroom. we sat at the counter collecting stories amidst riffs of channel orange, mixed with scents of cologne and the freshly cut limes on the kitchen counter. the peaches and the mangoes.
we talked until the drinks had us right. well enough to venture out. together. it was new and exciting. potentially delicious, like the drinks he mixed or the balm he put on his lips. i imagined what that tasted like. the peaches and the mangoes. we dressed for the cold night, slipping on shoes, jackets, and scarves. layering, or building obstacles to overcome later. my mind raced as we started for the door, would i be back, later? on kitchen counters, beneath sheets, hallway floors, and, or, behind bathroom doors? a bit presumptuous of me, i paused and found calm, cool, and collected as we walked down the steps and hailed a cab. no smell lingered in the backseat except the scent of him—his hair, his lips, his breath. sweet. rewinding on my mind next to the limes and fresh mint he garnished over our drinks. i glanced out the window to avoid vulnerable eye contact. lights and shapes rolled back and forth between glimpses of his reflection. he was staring at me. i was staring at him. or his delicate reflection in the window.
we stood in the crowded club as hundreds of people passed. i was lost. somewhere in his boisterous whispers pressed against my ear. he leaned in to tell me about europe and his plans to see rome and barcelona, paris and london. the music pulsated through his body and was felt in mine at every reach for my arm or touch to the small of my back. we walked the floor, to the bar and back. shots and drinks. smiles and nods to the others in the room. moving in and out of packed spaces it was easy for me to lose sight. lost between the smiles or side eyes, fragrances and chatter, i followed his scent. the peaches and the mangoes. we eventually found the dance floor. we swayed and reached for each other, lingering at appropriate distances for a first date, but never too far, never out of touch. in step. real tight and nice, until my bottom found its way to his belt-line, as we began to grind in unison. hands held as fingers interlaced and we got lost in the music. in each other. spinning around i found his eyes, staring into mine, as his hands learned the grooves and shapes of my body. i tasted his lips, and the room fell silent or empty. cool, calm, and collected we stood in our space, just me and him. kissing and licking. grinding the way we would do on kitchen counters, beneath sheets, hallway floors, and, or, behind bathroom doors.
we grabbed our coats and stepped into the night. hailing cabs, his south, mine north. my fantasies, which became his fantasies signaled by wandering hands, of going back to his place stopped as we hugged and said goodnight. so good, no wasted night for an awkward morning and rushes to hasty acts. his scent lingered in my ride home. the peaches and mangoes. i could taste on my lips and feel on my neck.
would he call?
• 19 November 2013 • 16 notes
“the thing about being a Black-queer, there’s always one or two more of us in the room than anyone realizes. and that comforts me.”
• 15 October 2013 • 53 notes
“In theory, blackness, in all of its aesthetic might, has the power to mark, to make injury (to itself, to others), but it does not have the power to sustain, to create, or to participate in the world-making possibility that is love itself.”
— Sharon P. Holland, “(Black) (Queer) Love,” Callaloo, Vol. 36, No. 3, Summer 2013.
• 25 September 2013 • 123 notes
“there is a certain light in reading together unexplored in our interpersonal relationships.”
• 25 September 2013 • 6 notes
has everyone already made this connection?
"In 1983 I lost my job—or left it. One, the other, or both." -Toni Morrison, from the forward to Beloved.
"I used to work at Foot Locker, they fired me and fronted
Or I quitted, now I spit it - however do you want it?” -Lauryn Hill, “Superstar”
• 25 September 2013 • 174 notes
“It wrapped around my heart and pulled me awake in the middle of the night. And I realized it’s time to read Beloved, again.”
• 19 September 2013 • 6 notes
Correction to my last post:
The study links racism and adult onset asthma in Black women specifically. When I write “Blacks,” I always already include (for lack of a better word) Black “women” in my analysis and reference, but I’ve come to realize many will read “Blacks” as male centered/focused. So I’m forced to break it down. Much the same way I’m forced to break it down for the queer minded folks who seem not able to read for or decipher the Black-queer body in analysis that addresses “Blacks” or the “Black body.” …please don’t let me be misunderstood.
• 26 August 2013 • 5 notes
||you hear about that new study that links adult onset asthma to Blacks who are hyper aware of racism?
||damn, the conscious girls out here can't breathe.
|*on the same note:
||I have a doctors appt tomorrow for a cough that won't go away.
• 26 August 2013 • 7 notes
“The Black bougieness level in Chicago is out of control. I find myself in a constant eye roll.”
• 23 August 2013 • 8 notes