What I learned by talking to f*ck boys about discussing butt sex with my mom

By Rumi

“It’s not natural,” she said.

“Your father would be mortified,” she said.

If asked, very few niggas would probably say that talking to their moms about anal sex constitutes the “good life,” but it’s one of those things you don’t know you’re missing until you have it (this applies to both having anal sex and talking with your mom about anal sex).

It’s sort of like ordering tap water as you peruse the brunch menu, only to be interrupted by your Tribeca-adjacent judy who shames you for not copping the S. Pellegrino.

Niggas just don’t be knowing until it happens.

Quite recently – because I’m a broke-ass-bitch with needs – I took a five-hour MegaBus road trip for what promised to be Daddy Dick to have both my ass ate (thoroughly), and my spine realigned. To feel what Maria felt in The Sound of Music when ole girl twirled like a queen through a field of dandelions, lip-syncing for her life with full orchestral accompaniment, all ‘cause Baron Von Trapp(ed) that ass.

But, honey, Black gender-fuckers are not white women. And don’t you ever forget that!

I’ll never forget, because I left un-ate and tight. Instead of white woman twirling in a field of dandelions, I got my happy Black ass on a MegaBus next to somebody uncle with sleep apnea (hand still in the Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos).

My mom called not too long afterwards, and could hear in my voice that something wasn’t right.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“You don’t wanna know, child,” I replied.

“First and foremost, who you callin’ ‘child’?! And second I’m gon’ find out anyway, so you might as well tell me now!” she said.

“Girl… go get the Prosecco, and sit down,” I suggested.

Two glasses of Prosecco in I asked my mom, “Mom… have you ever had anal sex?” “What?” she responded. “No!” So I asked her, “Can I tell you the wonders of anal sex? ‘Cause that’s what’s wrong with me.” “Are you at the hospital? What happened? Thank God you ain’t on my insurance no more!” she replied.

*Side note: Y’all, my momma thought I had been unrecoverably butt-fucked, and all she could do was thank imaginary Jesus that she wasn’t gon’ get billed for it. Girl, bye! Lmfao

But, what followed was one for the ages: my mother sat through a two-hour conversation, all ears to a complex conversation on gender, sexuality and, yes, butt sex. I learned that she was not clear (read: did not know) that gender is not “natural” – a biological, scientific proof – but assigned at birth, and forcibly coerced and assumed throughout a person’s life.

I learned that she was not clear that anal sex can be pleasurable for both women and men, and that it – unlike gender – is a perfectly natural, anatomically possible and safe  form of sexual intimacy.

Though she persisted on the point that “it is natural for a mother to be disappointed upon finding out that their child is gay,” I learned that my rigid (though helpful) academic insistence on syntactical and linguistic precision heard “natural” in a way that she never intended to use the term. She did not intend to say, for example, that God – as the author of nature, because this is what she believes, bless her heart – created women to be mothers and created mothers to necessarily envision their children as heterosexual.

She was arguing, simply, that based on my historical account of gender construction, assignment, and socialization, mothers can easily presume, and even dream for, what is not necessarily true; and, in dreaming, lose sight of other gendered or non-gendered possibilities.

Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, in compulsory, daily text threads with my cadre of fuck boy sex partners, I shared this beautiful moment I had with my mom. I even shared with some of them my un-sexed road trip experience.

They all, without fail and on no uncertain terms, were certain that such a conversation would never be possible with either of their parents. Most of them were clear that their parents, though aware of their sexuality, never discuss love and relationships, let alone sex.

I began to wonder about said fuck boys. I term them “fuck boys” precisely because they lack the sort of candor and emotional availability that make for whole, mature relationships, but put it down well enough to keep a nigga coming back.

I began to wonder if they were fuck boys because they can’t talk to their moms about butt sex – if they were fuck boys because they never learned how to, nor were invited to, offer their messy, beautiful, wondering intimacies over to those whom they have come to love and respect the most.

I wondered if, by chance, there may be a correlation between a learned behavior to conceal, silence, and avoid, and the inability to love another man (not just me… I have seen them work the scene, sis) with regard for his emotional, psychic, and spiritual sanity.

Over the course of seventy-two hours, I learned that the Daddy Dick road trip was a fail because Daddy Dick was holding a great deal of guilt. You see, I texted him to ask about the deep awkwardness I felt; if those feelings were my own insecurities, or something he too felt. I learned, from him, despite two weeks of careful planning, mapping out fantasies, and trying new things – even the day before the trip – that he was reticent because he had also been talking to another guy (someone who lives closer).

As I remembered the encounter, I became both deeply impressed by his gracious hospitality and his capacity to restrain himself. However, I was also disappointed that a bitch spent coin on a bus ticket and food, and with growing expectations that were never addressed in a constructive way.

This is not just his problem. Nor is it just my problem (I’m a fuck boy par excellence, if I’m gon’ be real wit you). Queer Black men know this fuck boy shit well. And as often as we say in the privacy of our friend circles, “girl I’m tryna settle down, but niggas ain’t shit” – acknowledging that niggas’-ain’t-shitness is a prolific epidemic – we still perpetuate it.

Though we dream for something more, so many of us struggle to hold the center of relational intimacy; we struggle to imagine it, to nurture it, to fight for it. It is easier, it seems, to conceal our questions, or our disappointments, or our festering needs. It is easier, it seems, to move on to the next one, in the seemingly private threads of our personal phones – a world set aside from the messiness of confrontation.

And it could very well be because of our parents’ refusal to talk to us about butt sex. To care to hear – as people whose respect some of us hold dear – our questions, our falling in love, our heartbreak.

To the best of my ability, the next nigga I fuck will get not just the cakes, but the relational wisdom and the vulnerability that my momma taught me to brave through.

If asked, few niggas would probably say that talking to their moms about anal sex constitutes the “good life.”

My suggestion? Go call your parental figure wit a worried voice, sis! It’s not necessarily about how they respond that makes this moment, but that you’re practicing what matters to build intimacy in your life.

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