THE FIFTH ANNUAL TOP TEN BEAUTIFUL MEN LIST

(c) Breeze Vincinz It's that time of year again. The time when every state in the union does it's best Los Angeles impression; the sun is shining, the sky sparkles magnificent hues of blues, the grass beams with an almost fluorescent of green, so bright that no one notices the dog poop… Most major cities are spurred by such natural beauty to host LGBT pride celebrations in which Lesbians, Gay, Bisexuals, Transgenders and their heterosexual counterparts take to the streets in glorious abandon to celebrate the lives, achievements and rock hard abs of our brethren (… and sisteren). Here at the Monthly Breeze we give our own accolades with our very own Beautiful Man List in which we give props to the beautiful men who rarely make it on the Beautiful People lists published by main stream publications (e.g. People, US Weekly). Maybe it has something to do with their lack of fame, or maybe it has something to do with their abundance of melanin and/or cellulite. In either case, we salute each one of you Beautiful Men… whether you are Gay, Straight or the "Tyler Perry" grey in between...

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

(c) Breeze Vincinz

As a man of size, and a certain amount of body hair, after the initial shock of divulging my homosexual tendencies, the usual follow-up query is whether I'm a Top or a Bottom. I have skirted the answer for so long that many people just assume I'm a Bottom because no self respecting Top would ever shy away from the title. The truth lies somewhere in between. 

As forward thinking as I try to be, I was brought up in the ghetto of 1980's Chicago. The most famous gay men in my generation were RuPaul and Jeffery Dahmer. If the 70's were about "free" love, the 80's were about it's "resale"; either by putting it on glittery display for profit, or feeding it to guilt ridden notions for psychotic satisfaction. In either case, fame was at the end of either fork of that road and I for one did not want to be anywhere near it at the time. In my teenage mind with my Housing Project home life and my Catholic school rearing I was under the strict belief that as far as sex is concerned that anyone who gets penetrated is the submissive one and anyone who penetrates is the dominate one. So in my mind as far as "gay" sex was concerned, I envisioned Jeffery Dahmer fucking RuPaul… and eating him afterwards.

"JUST WRIGHT" TRIES TO GET IT RIGHT

(c) Steven G Fullwood

"A female physical therapist is drafted by an all-star basketball player to help him recover from a career-threatening injury. The two soon fall in love in what is a modern-day Cinderella story."
- Yahoo.com film blurb. 

I went with my bud "R" to see it even as I made fun of it after getting a waft of the stinking trailer. Corn-nee romantic comedy starring black people. Still I see enough bad (white) mainstream films (unintentionally) and apparently have shitloads of disposable income (in my mind) so I parked my yellowed ass at Harlem's Magic Johnson Theater, which has the amenities a self-satisfied critic like myself sometimes needs and desires: black movies and black people. Of the black movies, there are only maybe two per century, primarily written (hahaha!) and directed (bwahahah!) by Tyler fucking Perry. Of the black people, I want to be with my people as they talk their asses all the way through the film, laughing at the funny parts, booing and hissing, and saying things like "Oh no she didn't!" as if they were sitting at home alone in their draws.

BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

(c) Dale Guy Madison

Would a man’s sexual preference in being strictly a bottom or strictly a top be the ‘deal breaker’ in considering a long term relationship with him?

Back in the day, let’s say the late 1970’s, I received a copy of my GAY 101 TEXTBOOK and I flipped to the chapter called: “Pancake Queens.” Old school fags used to call them “Confused Sissies” or “Flip Flop Queens.” It seems there was this unspoken rule that states:

Some of us strictly take dick (BOTTOMS), Some of us strictly throw dick (TOPS) and then some of us are confused who do both (VERSATILE).

There is a delicate balance that cannot be disturbed between Tops & Bottoms. I upset that balance because I refused to be strictly anything.

I was one of the lucky fags. About 10 of my high school buddies all came out of the closet with me in 1976. We were a wonderful support to each other. We had each other to guide us through this magical world of GAY-O-RAMA. What we did not know was that our generation of disco, platform shoes and glitter dust ushered in a revolution that upset the balance of gay nature. We loved giving and receiving. We dressed asexual. We weren’t extremely masculine nor were we AB FAB! You could say we were like Marlo Thomas, “Free to Be… You and ME”:

Every boy in this land grows to be
his own man

In this land, every girl grows to be
her own woman

Take my hand, come with me
where the children are free

Come with me, take my hand
and we'll run

to a land where the river runs free
to a land through the green country
to a land to a shining sea
to a land where the horses run free
to a land where the children are free

and you and me are free to be
and you and me are free to be...
...you and me

I came out the closet in 1976 and although I was young and full of cum, I was not dumb. I quickly purchased a copy of The Joy of Gay Sex. I rationalized that this gay life was the ultimate “best of both worlds”. Where else could you go and have as much sex as you want to and not get anyone pregnant? My Dad had 13 illegitimate kids; the last thing I wanted was to get some girl pregnant. I loved sex, this was the perfect solution! How dare you tell me I can’t use both organs God gave me? I loved dick as much as I loved ass.

The generation before me seemed to think that gay life had to be some reflective version of a heterosexual life. Gay relationships had roles. There was a masculine (TOP) role and a feminine (BOTTOM) role. To me, that did not seem very GAY. I did not want to be locked into a role. You see the TOP role inferred better and BOTTOM role suggested less.

I did not think of myself as less of a man because I choose to give up my manhole. I did not think of myself as better because I was enjoying a tight juicy ass. The multiple options of gay sex made me feel that two men enjoying each other in every versatile way possible was the best sex.

Larry was the first man I was involved with who was an exclusive top. He took that role seriously. Emotionally and sexually, he had to be the one in control. He was older, made more money, liked to take care of me and shower me with gifts. That’s where we had problems. He wanted me to be a quiet, passive lover who stayed in the background. But my personality was too “out there” to settle for being quiet. I loved the gifts and the trips and the Sunday ritual of massaging his scalp with Sulfur 8 ointment. He used to let me go through his closets and select a tie for each of his suits; I would pre-tie each in a Windsor knot so they were ready to pull over his head. He was romantic and sweet and kind to me, as long as I stayed in place. I did those chores for him because I loved him, not because I wanted to be placed in a symbolic role of a “woman serving her man.”

The problem was I could not just stay still in one place and fill that one role. I enjoyed playing the dominant role sexually as well. It was one of the things I relished about gay life. You could be a top one night and flip the script and be a bottom the next. There was no such flipping with Larry. He said I was “confused.” It was our deal breaker.

Don’t call me confused.

I know exactly what I want.

I want your ass, I want your dick.

Your ass…

Your dick…

Your ass…

Your dick...

Your ass round my dick…

Your dick inside my ass…

Don’t you see,

it takes a real man to say:

Drop the masks

and drop ya drawers

Total bottoms bore me

Total tops annoy me

Give me a FLIP FUK

any day

I do u

U do me and as we

fuk we do each other

Fuk U/ Fuk me

Then flip it

Signed,

A 50 something Old School Brotha.

Actor/Author Dale Guy Madison is the author of “Dreamboy: My Life A QVC Host & Other Hits” and is currently publishing the adult fairytale, “Sissy Sammy in the Land Of West Hollywood 90069.”

THE NAKED TRUTH

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Once upon a time ago in a galaxy called Hollywood, your favorite upwardly immobile African American homosexual in an unbridled show of affection and horniness for his boyfriend allowed himself to be photographed in the buff. And we're not talking Playboy "Art" shots with soft lighting or a furry kitten gently resting upon dramatically lit supple skin. We're talking full boogie post coital open orifice money shots with vodka bottles, audio cassette cases and that old "Isobel" poster of Björk kissing herself in the background. And as is the nature of everything regrettable done in life, at the time… it was great, it was nasty, it was fun. Years later after sobering/growing up I now consider it to be stupid, stupid, stupid. I recently came upon these pictures not too long ago while perusing some old backup files I have kept over the years. I have always considered these pictures to be the bane of my existence and the anchor to an otherwise aerial life. I imagined my eventual happiness to have the obligatory Halle Berry/Sandra Bullock Oscar suffix whereas the greatest thing in the world happens only to be followed by the worst thing in the world to happen. There I am, Toni Morrison giving me a hug after I accept my Nobel Peace Prize, then the next morning, there I am on the front cover the LA Times, all of the 400 pounds that I was at the time, with parts of my body showing that typically only my proctologist, my ex-boyfriends or a few lucky gentlemen down in Atlanta during 2009 pride have seen with the headline, "BREEZE IN THE BUFF" or "BIG BREEZE TINY DICK" or "NOBEL REVOKES PRIZE STATING, 'THAT AIN'T NOWHERE NEAR PEACEFUL!'"

But looking at those pictures in the present day, observing my rotund body, my unruly hair (facial and chest), that look of complete and utter contentment on my face in a moment where I felt utterly safe, protected and loved I realized… I don't look that bad.

After having a conversation with a friend who said that writers tend to overexpose themselves on social networking sites, blogs, websites and such, I began to think about my own compulsion to… make my privates go public.

For the most part it's been a fairly productive endeavor. However as of late it has provided some amazingly uncomfortable moments, personally and professionally. Personally I have stifled some people just as quickly as I have befriended them as my overexposure has caused some sobering misconceptions and judgment calls. The same is also true professionally whereas chunks of my personal life have been slopped down into the laps of several members of the administration at my place of employment, these newsletters notwithstanding.

Option A would be to censor my provocative, incendiary and off color leanings and become conciliatory both in tone and content. Option B would be to say "fuck you" to all the "hataz" and post those naked pictures of myself everywhere as a roadmap to the different places of my ass that they can kiss. I've settled on Option C whereas I remain cheeky but to also hold certain cards a little closer to my chest.

One thing I've been preaching to friends and family alike for quite some time now is the idea that you can't change people, you only change yourself. In this case, if I write something provocative or make out with a dozen guys in a drunken stupor in a bar or some rogue blogger somehow finds those pictures of me au natural and posts them in "Elephant Fancy" magazine, I can't control what people think about them or the subsequent judgments following. All I can do is control my actions and stand by what I've said and what I've done. In that, Plan C is basically to say and do things with just a little more integrity, a little more resonance but in essence still do what the fuck I want to do. Which in this economy is quite the bold statement to make when there is a chance that members of Administration of your place of employment will find out that there are post coital open orifice money shot pictures of yourself that show body parts that typically only your proctologist, your ex-boyfriends or a few lucky gentlemen down in Atlanta during 2009 pride have seen (Big ups to ATL by the way!)

Another tenet I have been preaching is that when someone pisses you off, it's because you're seeing a part of yourself in them that you don't want to deal with. In that, I have definitely been seeing myself in the friends and administration that have been pissing me off… none of us want to give me credit for the good things. The naked truth of the matter is, I'm an African American homosexual male. This newsletter has been out for almost six years now and I have been kissing strangers in bars for far longer than that. I love my friends. I love my family. I am, in truth, an awesome employee. A grocery list can be made of all the shit I've done wrong over the years but a comparable list could be made on all the things that I got right. I have this tendency to look at the face value of the more comical and seedy parts of my life and downgrade it just a bit. Well, just like those naked pictures of my portly self, I have taken a good long look at my life, all of it, the good, the bad, the dudes, the dildos, the mothers, the motherfuckers, the accolades, the insults, the awards, the disappointments, and I just have to say for anybody who still has a compulsion to stand in judgment that despite it all… I don't look that bad.

FACEBOOK FIERCENESS

(c) Breeze Vincinz

For those not in the know, I stopped watching television awhile ago. There are a few shows, however, that I have kept up on via their respective websites. One of which is RuPaul’s Drag Race which has turned out to be one of my favorite television shows. As many times as I have heard the phrase, I never thought “Bitch, your pussy on fire” could be said with the dignity and class that RuPaul gave to it. While I originally questioned the final result of Tyra Sanchez taking the title of Drag Queen of the year, it was great to see (s)him with a touch more humility and grace during the reunion show. 

Inspired by the fantastical mind fuck the show put me through, I was inspired one evening to jot down on my Facebook page several drag queens name for myself in the off chance that one glorious day I would ever don a dress. Here are the finest suggestions given that night:

• Chamomile Tampon
• Patchouli Snatch
• Amber Areola Summer Tit
• Julie Crisco Rectum
• Princess Lemon Sphincter
• Amanda Sucken Blo
• Chlamydia Pepper
• Dew Shand Spray
• Lucy Felcher

AN OPEN LETTER TO RICKY MARTIN

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Dear Ricky,

I recently I had a talk with my brother about sexuality in youth. His belief is that children are asexual. I don't particularly believe that, not when so many of us have play-boyfriends and play-girlfriends starting in kindergarten. It's not the perverse sexuality of us heathen adults but I remember getting a special little knot in my stomach sitting next to Leah Richardson in grammar school. I remember how flush I would get when my fifth grade teacher Mr. Dickens would walk anywhere near me. And I remember you from way back in the day when they used to show Menudo videos in between my Saturday Morning cartoons. It wasn't gratuitous or graphic or even remotely explicit notions. I was just this little boy who got a pit in his stomach whenever he saw another little boy on television… who just happened to be wearing gym shorts, a cut off shirt and a headband at the time.

So fast forward through our lives, our loves, the first time we kissed a boy, the first time we kissed a man, the first time we made love and well… the first time we just flat out fucked a man. Though I have definitely screamed from the mountaintops about the differences that exist within the gay community, there are certain aspects of the gay experience that remain consistent for all of us. We may all use different seasonings... but the meat is still the same. And while I don't know your story, I don't know your timetable, I don't know when you first had that special pit in your stomach and whether it was for a boy or a girl or which teacher made you blush or who you watched on Saturday mornings that got your motor running… but I'm willing to bet that you had all those experiences and a ton more.

And because of those experiences, I felt that when you finally acknowledged your homosexuality last March, that you weren't admitting it to yourself, because I think you already knew… a long time ago. I imagine that it was really for the media and for the sarcastic bitches on the rag who waited with baited breath for the next attractive celebrity to out themselves so they can pull out their kazoo and proclaim to the world in a screechy high tone voice, "I knew it!"

And I also guess that, being a father now and wanting to live an honest life, you just wanted the question to be done and over with so you can live and give an authentic life to your little boys. What I'm trying to say is, because I don't think anybody has actually said this yet, it's been more of a collective "Well, DUH!" from everybody in the states… but thank you. Thank you for having the balls to be true to who you are despite the shitload of derision, sarcasm and late night talk show host jokes that you knew were going to be thrown at you. Thank you for inspiring those other little boys out there still looking at you that not all homosexuals are tragic victims of an out of control libido… but can be financially stable fathers… with buns of steel. And lastly… welcome to the community dude. And in the immortal words of Ms. Rupaul… don't fuck it up.

Love always,