The Black Gay Database

(c) Breeze Vincinz

One of the more hallowed tenets within African American culture is that of oral tradition. From the drum-line to the grapevine, black folks have kept each other abreast of current, family and world affairs since the advent of language. It is not fool proof communiqué, I remember all too fondly when it was reported amongst every black community in the country that the “little black boy” who moonwalked with Michael Jackson in those Pepsi commercials back in the 80’s had done a back flip and broke his neck, but for every false report of an Alfonso-Ribeiro-disco-death, there is an accurate report of, “we don’t know exactly what she’s on but Whitney’s on SOMETHING” or “Uncle Bay-Bay done come into some money” or “Look at them white folks on them boats over there, let’s go tell everybody it’s a cruise and make some money.” 

I myself have been dependent upon this oral network of truth, rumor, suspicion and eavesdropping. Particularly when it has come to getting involved with someone completely outside my realm of friends and family. I’ve run pretty much everyone I have ever dated through this “Black Gay Database” as it were, just to see what I can come up with. Even if it’s rumor, even it’s conjecture, I would want to know and more than likely, even if it is rumor, even if it is conjecture I would confront them on it.

For example, let’s say I just met this great dude that I have never seen or heard of before. I’m not trying to marry the dude or move in but we have had a couple of cool dates, and let’s say we’ve done the whole fucking like rabid monkeys thing a time or two. So I’m digging this dude. I’m asking the important questions, have you been tested, do you have warrants, do you smoke weed, do you share, that type of thing. Somewhere during the course of this I run him through the database; I leisurely ask my friends if they have heard of him and what have they heard of him or as a friend once informed me, you simply ask, “What’s the ‘T’?” The ‘T’ being the word on the street. With one of my ex’s, I was informed that he was a park hound, someone who frequents particular city parks in an effort to have anonymous sex with other park hounds. I was informed that another ex was a fake gangster wannabe. What do the kids call it nowadays… a wanksta? That’s it. All bling-bling and faggy lisps. After our relationship developed into something more significant, I did tell them of my findings and predictably enough found that there was truth marbled in there somewhere in the midst of the accusations. No one ever really took offense to knowing what the word on the street is about them, it was more or less like watching a sitcom about your life with Suzanne Somers playing YOU, all you can really do is just laugh, shake your head and go, “Ok, see, I would never say THAT and I would never wear THOSE shoes.”

Nowadays, having fully discovered my middle-aged disgruntlement a little early, I run people through the database rather early… like, if I just see you at the bar. Last weekend while hanging out with some friends I was running just about every cute dude I saw through the database. One of the more attractive brothers I saw I was informed was HIV+ and was a huge fan of barebacking. Somehow the whole concept of the network began to burn in my mind like a hot web over butter, it began to appear serious and dangerous. Maybe this whole gay black database thing isn’t as frivolous and harmless as I have allowed myself to believe. Here is this insanely attractive guy and here is this accusation above him that not only is he a carrier of the HIV virus, but he willingly and knowingly transmits it. The narcissist in me felt grateful for the inside scoop of the truth.  The skeptic in me felt utter and pure shame that I could have been privy to a horrendous slander about a stranger’s health and mental status.

It made me wonder what would come up about me if someone were to run me through the old database. I do know that I have this reputation for being “over emotional” which I don’t refute nor agree with. (When you live in a city that has NO emotion and you show ANY emotion they call you OVER emotional… whatever.) I do hang out at the bathhouse a lot so that’s one. I’ve been fucked way more than I have fucked so that’s another one. I don’t have a car and I live in a studio. Then there’s the whole physical appearance thing; short, hairy, fat, dresses with the aplomb of a refugee. So I imagine that if someone where to ask their friend, “What’s the T on that Breeze guy?” the response would probably be something like, “He’s a bathhouse bottom girl. Look at him, look how he’s dressed, he’s a scrub, he’s nobody.”

And would it be true? Like I said earlier, the truth would be marbled somewhere in between the conjectures and the jokes. Though oddly enough I am hearing that the word on the street is that I am somewhat of  a narcissistic bully who wants to be white. I guess I’m the new millennium Bryant Gumbel, to wit all I can do is laugh, shake my head and go, “Ok, see, I would never say THAT and I would never wear THOSE shoes.”

Even still, I do agree that friends are the best judges of character. They’re not perfect, but they do get the job done. And those friends are the framework to the greater black gay network. And unless your DL status is of Bin Laden-esque proportions, you are in the black gay network yourself. Someone knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who saw you… fuck a goat, for example. I don’t think you should stop fucking the goat, but just know that, it’s probably going to come up in conversation a little later on. And when you’re dealing with some of the vicious queens that exist in our community, there might even be video… or even a kiosk to purchase postcards. And while I want to say that this is a horrible thing, a childish pursuit, a deplorable concept that needs to be obliterated, I think I would appreciate a little tug on my collar if one of my friends whispers in my ear that the dude I am sharing apple Martini’s with has a proclivity for goat mangina. 

And as with the dude whom I was informed thought condoms were for quitters, I would have gently mentioned my findings from the black gay database, and acted appropriately. 

Let it be known, the internet has nothing on a bunch of queens with some Tea.