Les Fabian Brathwaite

Oh hi, I’m on RollingStone.com! 

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Welp, this story originally appeared on Out, but they had to pull it, which, I totally get. If I had the mental and emotional real estate I’d make it into something a bit more palatable to a wider audience. But while I didn’t want to write this, and I hate even talking about it, I just needed to get this out. So here it is:

You know—I wish I could just simply have sex without always having to write a witty, incisive, lit AF essay. That’s time I could spend writing my first novel, or a pilot for some independently Canadian web channel, or at the very least, a pretty funny Instagram post about Living (“Heeeeeeey!”) Single. But here we are.

It’s 2018 and white folks are out here asking me if it's "cool" to call me a “fucking nigger” as, what, some prelude to a porno recreation of 12 Years a Slave? 12 Inches a Top*? Lupita Nyong'o did not get an Oscar-filled urn thrown in her face by Sarah Paulson so I can be disrespected like that.

I kid now because I’ve had a little time to stew in my righteous “fuck all white boys” indignation. That old familiar feeling. It’s like slipping on an evening jacket made of gorgeous, comfortable, complacent American sin. The fabric, literally, of our lives. But what’s the real problem here?

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The shining example of gay white male privilege above was into something called “race play,” which is just what it sounds like: incredibly offensive. He didn’t have a profile pic, because I guess a white hood is even more of a turn-off, but I’ve had other, more brazen white men throw the n-word around like dewy kisses. Or, worse, like it’s a joke. “Knock-knock? Who’s there? Systemic racism! ...Systemic racism who?”

I’ve also had white men actually quote, verbatim, 1950s water fountains with a curt “No blacks” as a response to something as, admittedly, forward as “Hey there.” And then there are the litany of microaggressions that get in the way of me and some casual sodomy. “Mmmm, I love chocolate!” Who doesn’t—it’s fucking delicious, dick.

How about instead you offer something more original, or something that doesn’t make me hate and/or dread interacting with white men online? I’ve read all the books, seen all the TV, watched all the movies, and played like three video games to completion. Strike up a convo about that. You can even talk to me about sports. I’ll immediately steer that conversation to the unrelenting hotness of Colin Kaepernick and what your thoughts are on taking a knee. But still, sports, bro.

But I get it. We all have fetishes and things that get us off. I really dig black athletic socks and a basketball short, preferably worn sans underwear because it’s the closest thing to a public service most of you will accomplish, but my “thing” outside the confines of a hookup app wouldn’t land me in a march carrying tiki torches with other “very fine” people. Speaking of which, our president is super racist and I think we forget that with all the Russian adult film stars being fired everyday.

Of course, the normalization of all this blatant racism (the physical manifestation of which is Jeff Sessions) plays a part in all this sexually-induced insensitivity, but honestly, white boys were trying to call me nigger under Obama, too. So what’s a black boy to do when he’s just trying to score some strange? To pose that proverbial question: Can a bitch live?

I’ve tried quitting apps, I’ve tried to write my pain away, I pulled up A Seat at the Table and tried to drink it away, dance it away, change it with my hair, and put several in the air. The thing is, though, some people just suck. Like, hard. It’s not a reflection of me. It’s a reflection of our society, for sure, and our society needs to take a long hard look in the mirror, fix its face, and generally pull it the fuck together. Because no one deserves to be made to feel less than just because you’re horny that day.

Dating as a black queer man will never be a pleasant experience for me. Over a decade of attempts have proven that, without question. But my experience shouldn’t be anyone else’s. I didn’t get an Oscar-filled urn thrown in my face by Sarah Paulson...anyway, if you’re reading this, and you witness some racist or any other discriminatory bullshit—against Asians, against fats, against fems, defending Shangela’s loss on Drag Race—call it out. The world, as well as a disconcertingly large percentage of people, already suck and I’ve got a great novel and/or a decent Instagram post to write.  

This isn’t the first message of its kind I have received. 

Rather, it’s sadly come to define my experience as a black gay man trying to date in a gay world that is obnoxiously white; one that worships and exalts whiteness; one that fetishizes and rewards whiteness; a world where we, the non-white, regardless of ethnic origin, are often led to believe whiteness is the key to our salvation—the ultimate manifestation of love.

"Is it cool if I call you a fucking nigger” is a more explicit form of sexual racism, but it exists in more subtle ways, that cut almost as deep. Whether its an app profile that seems to speak directly to and about me, yet my message goes ignored or my profile goes unviewed; or it’s the glance when I enter a bar that rescinds in a fit of disappointment or annoyance; or it’s the white boy with a sweet tooth for chocolate who pursues me, genuflects at my body, and then wants nothing to do with me once he’s gotten what he previously lusted after so.

I used to get angry, no, enraged, at this treatment I seemed to attract either willfully or by accident. But that was when I was more insecure and I thought the defect was with me. Now, I know better because I know I deserve better and so I’m merely disappointed. Constantly disappointed. It’s why I don’t believe in dating, it’s why I don’t pursue love, it’s why I’ve sworn off white boys on numerous occasions only for my libido to call out, “Just once more. I need it!”

As much as I try to rise above my base human desires, I always find myself in the same place: disappointment. Usually, I write about it, someone even asked to write an op-ed about this particular charming moment —I’m hardly the first black boy to be called a nigger in some bizarre dance of flirtation — but the thing is, I’ve written that piece, or similar pieces, over and over and over again:

Steve Grand Is Right—We Do Love to Hate Young, Good-Looking, White Gay Men

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F*** White Boys: The Agony of White Assimilation and the Ecstasy of Black Liberation

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Love in Black and White: Perspectives on Sexual Racism

Nothing changes. I feel slightly better having voiced my concerns, I get a few messages from other black boys who feel the same way or have experienced the same thing, and maybe some white boy thinks twice about his actions or the way he comes off in the world. But I’m still here. 

I’m still here dealing with the same garbage from the same garbage people who don’t see my humanity as akin to theirs. But that’s okay. Because I’m not some 20-something kid eager to be loved by the first boy who looks at me with something other than derision. And I’m also tired of framing my black queerness in the context of white queerness. 

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