(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.
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.
(c)
Breeze Vincinz
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!"