To [Not] Have a Decent Face.

by Maurice Tracy

“The love for you was different because we weren’t really together. It was the fact of the chase, the thrills and the times we would spend together. The passion and the conversation, the passion and the action of what we had done to each other. To be honest, I was in love with you. If anybody were to ask was I in love with Mauriceyes, I was in love with Maurice. I fell in love with you. The moment I realized that I was in love with you I wanted to deny it because I didn’t think I could love, I didn’t think I was capable of love. I didn’t think I could love someone like you. Most people I’ve been with have been in a fucked up world. The moment I realized it was about a year ago, and we had a really big argument and I thought about it, and I was like, I am in love with this fucker, this fat fucker. How did that happen? That is when I analyzed the concept of beauty. The interactions that we had really made me analyze some stuff. And grow up. Because if I want to be in a functional relationship, it is not about how I want you to look or how I want you to be, it is about the connection. I want to know that someone will always be in my corner regardless, If I fuck up or succeed or if I mess up. To know you are going to love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person. I have a lot of good qualities of who I am. You’re not ugly. You’re beautiful. You don’t have a decent face; you have a hot face.”

A foot is in your mouth cuz he likes his toes licked but you don’t like feet. Your ass is in a jockstrap because you thought ahead and now he wants to see it but you’re scared so you turn off the lights. He rubs your flesh and your dick is getting hard and he wants to see it but you’re shy. You lay face down and he slaps your ass. He never asked if he could and you never say no.

And he hits you harder and bites your sweet, tender brown and it hurts but you want him in you so keep playing. You’re going soft but you want him in you so you keep playing. You want him in you so you keep playing. You tell him you want him in you and he says you need to make him nut in 15, he has to get his sister from Jack in the Box, and even though you know this means you’ll never get to cum, you say, “ok.”

You remind him that you’re tight but he shoves it in. Anyway. Your body tenses in pain but you breathe. He never asks: “How does it feel? Do you like it? How are you?” You remind yourself, you wanted this. Maybe not this way but you’ve wanted it and you think, foolishly, that finally you two are close. He finishes next to you and though you hate the taste, you drag your tongue up and down and collect loose hairs, sweat, and every already separating drop and swallow.

He lays in your bed, out of breath, and you curl next to him. He smiles, you laugh, and you ask, “Was it good?” “Yes,” he says. “You were so wet,” and you ask, “Is that good?” And he smiles and you smile, and you kiss, hard, and slip tongues in searching for the end that is never there. “This may get weird,” he says. “It doesn’t have to,” you say. And, he doesn’t want to go but he has to get his sister, and he goes to the bathroom sink to wash the lube off and you say, “Your birthday is coming up, we should do something,” and he comes back and smiles, and you hand him his shoes and you kiss before he leaves. And you think this can be the start of something new.

“The love for you was different… It was the fact of the chase, the thrills and the times we would spend together, the passion and the conversation… what we had done to each other. To be honest, I was in love with you. If anybody were to ask was I in love with Mauriceyes, I was in love with Maurice. I fell in love with you… but I wanted to deny it because…I didn’t think I could love someone like you. Most people I’ve been with have been in a fucked up world. The moment I realized it was about a year ago, and we had a really big argument and I thought about it, and I was like, I am in love with… this fat fucker… I want to know that someone will always be in my corner regardless, if I fuck up or succeed or if I mess up. To know you are going to love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You’re not ugly. You’re beautiful. You don’t have a decent face….”

The days come and go with message after message, and you are happy because he replies. Occasionally. This is progress. His five words for your twenty is progress. {I am so proud of you and I think we should celebrate your new job as well as your birthday.} [lol, thank you.] {I am so stressed and I can’t talk to anyone about it because everyone just says everything works out for me but what if this doesn’t? I don’t have anyone. I’m all alone here.} [I know. I feel the same way.] {yeah, but you know you always have me. I am here if you need me, always} [and you have me. I will always be here for you].

This is progress. You think, he has changed. But, you don’t talk to no one bout him and the way you feel or the smile he draws on your face alone in the dark because they all think he is the devil and they can’t fuck with a friend who’s a Satanist. When you try to frame the discussion in your head you cringe at how much you sound like every Becky you ever knew: “He’s just a friend. His daddy died—was killed in a drug exchange gone wrong.”

But, you got to have something to cling to. And the day comes, the one Carl spoke of, the one when you rush home and shower and change and pull on clothes, all black to hide more of the fat that bothers him, and you wait for him to show. Sip tea and think *this time, maybe this time*—and you wait. You wait. You wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. wait…. wait……wai…………………….t. and, you pour a drink and sing, *It’s the second time around for you and….* you stop because it’s really the sixth time. And you can’t tell no one but that gawd you don’t believe in.

“The love for you was … the fact of the chase… what we had done to each other… If anybody were to ask was I in love with Maurice…I didn’t think I could love someone like you…The moment I realized it was about a year ago, and we had a really big argument and I thought about it, and I was like… this fat fucker… I want to know that someone will always be in my corner… To know you are going to love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You don’t have a decent face….”

He fucked you on the 29th.

On the 4th he told you that he would always be there for you;

you said you would be there for him.

He stood you up on the 8th.

Last words he gave you, came as a text:

“I have lifted 26 pallets.”

“The love for you was… what we had done to each other…I didn’t think I could love someone like you… this fat fucker… I want to know that someone will always be in my corner… To know you are going to love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You don’t have a decent face….”

You try to talk to your friend but he can’t deal, he can’t deal with, with you, you and your, your petty, petty drama. “Stop centering guys who ain’t shit.” You swallow that brown and let the burn numb your tongue. You wanna scream, “Don’t you think I know that? I need arms right now, around me, a hug, a squeeze, a scalp scratching, can’t you just offer to scratch my head and twist my hair while these tears fall? I need a friend.”

Instead, you apologize: “Sorry, I wish I wasn’t such a mess,” but he doesn’t think you mean it. You hang up and swig some more. You’ve drank yourself to sleep each night. And you like how the brown slides down your throat and burns your insides; you feel so warm, if you close your eyes you’d swear someone was hugging you.

Now you have run out of that brown and can’t buy any more so you hope this new bottle of baby blues and pearly whites will do. The bottle says take one but you pop two. And your face is full of lakes and rivers. And your face is full of lakes and rivers. And your face is full of lakes and rivers. And your face is full. And you imagine that your mom is hugging you and saying, “shhh baby, don’t you cry, you’ll be alright; it will be alright.” Mothers know how to sell lies that help you survive.

“What we had done to each other… I didn’t think I could love someone like you… I want to know that someone will always be in my corner… To know you are going to love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You don’t have a decent face….”

On the 25th you noticed a sore, in your ass, he may have left you a present.

“I didn’t think I could love someone like you… I want to know that someone will always… love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You don’t have a decent face….”

Today is the 26th and it is the first day since the 8th that you stopped trying to call him. All your calls go straight to voicemail anyway and any time he hears your voice he hangs up.

“I didn’t think I could love someone like you… love me regardless of what I do. I need that. I’m a good person…You don’t have a decent face….”

The 28th you try one last time; you leave a message: “this is about health.” You call at 3 he responds at 6: [what is the question?] {I really don’t want to text this, I’ll call.} He never answers. 6 calls and no answer [I am at work] {when are you off? I don’t want to interfere with your job.} He never replies. {Robin, if I ever meant anything to you, you will answer the phone.} You call at 9:45, Aldi is closed so he is off. He never answers. He calls you back “What is your question?”

You try to ask what went wrong but he doesn’t want to talk about that so you surrender and ask, “When were you last tested?” “September.” “For what?” “Everything major.” You remember a conversation you had and don’t remember September ever being mentioned. “So everything was fine then?” “This is why you wanted to talk to me?” You try to explain that you had a sore and were concerned, that he was the last person you had sex with, the only one without latex keeping you apart but he just hangs up.

“I didn’t think I could love someone like you… regardless of what I do…I’m a good person…


Maurice Tracy is a Black queer thinker in St. Louis, Missouri. He has written for the Huffington Post, MUSED Magazine, and The Tenth zine. Currently he is obsessed with the intersection of concepts of beauty, the body, race, and gender performance. He can be reached at @Blaqueer on Twitter or through the Facebook page, Blaqueer.

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  1. I really love the narrative P.O.V. the author proscribe into the story, it made it feel very authentic.

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