Heaux Friend: Bitch!!!

Me: Oh bitch, you fucked him, didn’t you?

Heaux Friend: And did. That nigga fucked me so good I think I might be pregnant.

Me: Hold up, let me pour a glass of wine chile. And I need the whole story. Start from the beginning.

Wait, did you all think you were getting that full story? That heaux story isn’t mine to tell. But if you subscribe to “Keeping it Jee,” it’s like having me as your own personal heaux friend.

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Now back to why I thank God for my heaux friends, and why you should too…

We all know the call and the greeting—Bitch!

It can communicate a few different possibilities, but when it’s a call from your heaux friend, you know it’s some heaux shit that will make you gag. (Or not!)

And I live for it every single time because I, too, am a heaux friend.

There’s something sacred about those special moments with a friend when you can share the most intimate parts of your life and know you won’t be judged because they are also freely sharing theirs.

The heaux friend creates that safety through their own vulnerability.

It could be over the phone, dinner and drinks, or during your lunch break at work.

In each scenario, the space shared between you is one of the safest places on earth.

And for those special moments where I can share the fullness of myself, I am eternally grateful.

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With full transparency, these last few weeks have felt quite like “Cranes in the Sky” by Solange.

There’s been a deep sense of melancholy that has hovered over me, and although I’ve been on my sad shit, I get by with a little help from our heaux friends.

Receiving a call with the classic greeting, “Bitch” instantly lifted my spirit.

I knew the storytelling would be superb—filled with sensory details, metaphors, and analogies that arouse both my inner whore and creativity.

Writer Hack: A good heaux story from a friend is the perfect cure for writer’s block.

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Everybody deserves a heaux friend. A sexually liberated person who recounts their experiences with detailed specificity, encouraging you to be a freer, sluttier, more adventurous version of yourself.

Think about Samantha Jones of Sex and the City. She was a loving and caring friend who would do anything for the other women in her friend group.

She was open and honest and always created a safe space.

Unfortunately, the safe space she provided to her friends wasn’t always afforded to her, and I think we should all be better to our heaux friends.

When I say I thank God for my heaux friends, I’m not referring to associates—people who are only good for a good time.

I’m talking about real friends. The ones who can detail how many times they came during sex but also come to be by your side if you need them to.

There’s complexity and nuance to the heaux friend.

Yes, listen to their erotic stories and be entertained by their sexual liberation, but also be a shoulder when they need one to cry on.

Be their biggest cheerleader through their wins, both big and small.

The heaux friend for me isn’t a one-dimensional trope.

Friendship is special, and each night when I write down what I am most grateful for, I list my friends. Tonight’s gratitude is specifically for my heaux friends.

Thank you for the love and safety you provide. And because I know you support me in all that I do, I know you’re reading this right now. I want to say I love you, and if you’re wondering if you’re the heaux friend I’m referring to, of course you are.

Also… I’m calling you soon because BITCH!!! I have a story to tell.

• If I see you out in public and you don’t give me the Black person nod—That’s So Raven.

• If I catch you having a “I’m Black, and I wasn’t offended” moment—That’s So Raven.

• If you compare reading books by Black authors to driving through the hood—That’s So Raven.

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It disturbs me to have to turn such a cherished childhood memory into a facetious callout of anti-blackness, but it’s only fitting, because Raven-Symoné has struck again.

Over the years, the award-winning actor, singer, producer, and television host has gone viral for various displays of anti-blackness, reminding the community that loves her dearly that the love is unrequited.

As a Black millennial, there will always be a part of me that looks at Symoné and sees Nebula, Charisse, Galleria, Raven Baxter, and even little Olivia thanks to Nick at Nite.

There’s another part of me that sees someone who has consistently communicated her desire to separate herself from the audience that fell in love with her through these iconic Black girl roles.

And as ancestor Maya Angelou has said, “When a person shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

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We are well beyond the first time having Raven-Symoné give us her green ass to kiss. (If you don’t get it now, you will soon. Keep reading!)

In a resurfaced clip from an episode of Raven and her wife Miranda’s podcast featuring Kalen Allen, Symoné challenged Allen’s statement that That’s So Raven was a Black show, and Raven Baxter was a Black character.

Symoné responded to Allen with, “Was she Black?” To that, he replied, “She felt Black as hell to me.”

In Allen’s explanation, he shared that it was his first time seeing a Black family on a Disney show.

The former Disney star challenged his sentiment by saying, “So you saw color. Take away the color. Make them green and hear the words. What color are they?”

Symoné’s wife chimed in on the conversation as if the topic of Raven Baxter’s Blackness is a recurring topic for the two.

Yes, the same wife who once admitted to not watching That’s So Raven while on Keke Palmer’s podcast.

What stood out to me in the interview with Allen was when Symoné said, “That’s why that show and good shows matter: they’re universal.”

If I were in conversation with Symoné, I would want to challenge her understanding of universality.

There are universal themes such as self-discovery and identity, peer pressure, family, and friendships that are addressed across shows featuring teenage girls.

Our Blackness doesn’t void us of these universal experiences.

Shows like Moesha, One on One, and The Proud Family, though all very Black, explored universal themes of girlhood and discovery through the perspectives of teenage Black girls.

There were also Black cultural elements that made these shows uniquely Black and loved by the community.

At the same time, any teenage girl should have been able to watch these shows and see parts of themselves. As Black people, we do it all the time.

Although That’s So Raven may not have been created with a Black character or family in mind, when Raven Symoné was cast as Raven Baxter and a Black family was built around her, Black cultural elements and experiences were also introduced.

Raven’s bold style, sense of humor, and family dynamics were all very Black.

And we all know Baxter’s run-in with workplace discrimination was because she was Black, not green. It was explicitly stated on the show.

It should make Symoné proud that she was able to bring herself and her Blackness to Disney audiences and that although there were universal themes everyone could relate to, there were moments that felt special to us as Black people.

But I don’t know if it makes her proud. Instead, it appears that she holds resentment for the show’s association with Blackness, and sadly, “That’s So Raven!”

Much of Symoné’s viral statements come off as a deep longing to experience the world and her own success through a non-Black lens.

When she speaks, it can be inferred that she perceives whiteness as the default for humanity and Blackness as limiting, too restricting, and overly niche.

It is as if she is crying out to be seen by people who look like her wife, who had no idea she was the first Black female lead on a Disney sitcom or that she won multiple awards from it, including five NAACP Image Awards.

[Does Miranda even know what an NAACP Image Award is?]

I would love to pretend this was a one-off statement, but there has been a pattern of Symoné dissociating herself from Blackness over the years, so we should not analyze this moment in isolation.

Symoné’s pattern of anti-blackness…

• In a 2014 interview with Oprah Winfrey while discussing identity, Raven stated, “I’m not an African-American, I’m an American…I’m an American, and that’s a colorless person because we are all people. I have lots of things running through my veins. I don’t label myself.” When Oprah asked what she meant by that, she said, “I mean that I’m an American. That’s what I really mean. I have darker skin; I have a nice, interesting grade of hair. I connect with Caucasian. I connect with Asian; I connect with Black. I connect with Indian.”

  • Note: Symoné did clarify this statement ten years later, in 2024. She shared that she didn’t mean she wasn’t Black but that she was rejecting the hyphenated label of being African-American. “When I say that African American does not align with me, that label, it doesn’t mean that I’m negating my Blackness or I’m not Black.” It took her ten years to clarify her statements.

• During her stint as a co-host on The View from 2015-2016, Raven made multiple statements expressing anti-blackness.

  • In response to a study suggesting employers make racist hiring decisions based on names, Symoné said, “ I’m not about to hire you if your name is Watermelondrea... It’s not gonna happen.” Sadly, this was SO RAVEN!

  • When Rodner Figueroa’s made a reference to Michelle Obama resembling “something from the cast of Planet of the Apes,” Symoné said, “Michelle don’t fire me right now, but some people look like animals. Is that rude?”

    

Symoné has repeatedly shown us who she is, even before her 2020 marriage to Miranda, so we should believe her.

For me, it’s not about canceling her, but about a lack of interest in anything she has going on now and in the future.

She’ll likely apologize for these statements in about ten years and be on to her next viral anti-Black moment shortly after, with Miranda by her side, because That’s So Raven!

I place her on a dusty shelf in the back of my mind alongside Stacey Dash, Kanye West, Stephen A. Smith, and a host of others.

The only grace I am willing to give is that she is a Black woman who is also queer. That allows me to keep the door cracked a little—and I mean a very tiny crack.

But as for you green Black people out there who like to distance yourselves from the community, a new phrase has hit the streets— “That’s So Raven!”

And for the Black people who love being Black and embrace our rich cultures, please remember, we don’t need outside validation. We are more than enough.

“Always remember, my friend, the world will change again.

And you may have to come back through everywhere you’ve been”

While scrolling social media, I came across vacation photos of an old, distant friend. In the photos, his skin glistened with the kiss of a life well lived.

Both the sky above and water below were as clear as my memory of a time I wouldn’t have had to wonder how he was or make inferences from photos; I would’ve known.

I smiled at his smile and hoped it was genuine because I remembered a time when it had been fabricated.

I remembered when his truest self was revealed to me, in tears. There were no filters or facades in those times, only vulnerability.

He was at his lowest point possible, and I was there through it all.

“When your life was low, you had nowhere to go.

People turned their backs on you. And everybody said that you were through.”

Have you ever supported someone through their lowest moment, for them to abandon you when they got back on their feet?

Well, that’s what happened between this distant friend and me.

As he struggled through years of depression, I was a listening and supportive ear. I gave of my time because that is how I was taught to love.

I listened when I wanted to speak, because I knew he needed an ear. I swallowed my own problems, my own depression, my own worries, to be present for his.

And now I wonder if he remembers I exist?

“I took you in. I made you strong again.

Put you back together out of all the dreams you left along the way.”

Joe Samples and Lalah Hathaway have a song called “When Your Life Was Low” that describes everything I feel about this distant friend.

The lyrics you see throughout this post in bold are from that song.

In it, Lalah sings of a time when someone she loves loved her back, when their life was at its lowest. When they needed her, the love was there.

When they felt they no longer needed her, it vanished.

She sings a cautionary reminder that the world will change again, and you never know when you might need the person you abandoned after getting back on your feet.

“Although I never hear from you, still it’s nice to know.

You used to love me so when your life was low.”

It’s difficult for me to process the possibility of having been used for the wealth of my grace and compassion.

But it’s been over four years since I’ve heard from my old friend.

Not a call, text, or Happy Birthday.

When I stopped being the one to reach out, I stopped hearing from him completely.

It almost made me reconsider how I show up in friendships, but I don’t want to shape my experiences with people using resentment that lingers from my past.

I was down for some time, questioning how all I gave could be forgotten.

It felt heavier than heartbreak because friends aren’t supposed to leave you broken. But after much reflection, I’m now covered in understanding.

All I can control is how I show up for others. I can control the portions of grace I give and establish boundaries that protect my energy and spirit.

All givers need to draw boundaries and take note of when you are constantly pouring from your cup but never being poured into.

People will use you for everything you have and then run into the sun, bragging about the gifts you gave them, claiming them as their own.

But I will not be hardened by these experiences. Even if I never hear from that friend again, I know I was part of all the goodness he is now experiencing. And I continue to wish him well.

“But always remember, my friend. The world will change again.

And you may have to come back. Through everywhere you’ve been.”

From hit records such as “Jolene”, “9 to 5”, and the original “I Will Always Love You” to her larger-than-life style, towering platinum-blonde wigs, and philanthropic legacy, Parton is the kind of star people across generations, cultures, and racial lines admire and adore.

And if you haven’t noticed, yes, Black people love Dolly Parton.

I am not entitled to speak for the entire Black community, but I can represent myself and share why many other Black people have spoken on Parton with love and endearment in the wake of her death.

As a kid, I recall my mom expressing her love for Parton.

She shared a time when she went to see “9 to 5” on a movie date with her mom, and how, even after a traumatic event that ended the night, her fondness for her time with her mother and enjoyment of Parton in the film endured.

On a Friday in December of 1980, my grandmother took my mother, who was ten years old at the time, on a date to see “9 to 5” at the historic Maplewood Theater in Maplewood, NJ.

They traveled from Newark, a city with a majority-Black population, to Maplewood, a suburban town with a majority-white population, to watch the film.

Although the theater was one of the largest in New Jersey, the day felt intimate with my mom and grandma sharing laughs and popcorn while enjoying Dolly Parton on the big screen.

In the film, three working women (played by Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, and Dolly Parton) get revenge on their overbearing, egotistical, and sexist boss by eventually kidnapping him and running the business themselves.

My mom has the dearest memories of that movie date, the time shared with her mother and their shared love of Dolly Parton.

What followed their movie date brought them both back to an unfortunate reality.

While waiting at the bus stop to return home, a car of three white men pulled up, and the men began shouting the n-word at my mother and grandmother.

It was my mother’s first time coming face to face with the horrors of racism, and after a day that felt so special, she suddenly felt small.

Although the darkness of racism eventually fell on the day, my mom remembered the light that was the time she shared with her mother and their shared love of Dolly Parton.

When my mom shared with me how much she loved that movie and Parton, it naturally made me love her too. I didn’t need to know much more than that my mother loved her.

And that even in a racist world, she was “one of the good ones”.

Over time, the more I saw and learned about Parton, the more I fell in love with her. And the more I understood why many Black people loved her, too.

Black Lives Matter

In 2020, in an interview with Billboard, Parton expressed her support of the “Black Lives Matter Movement.”

She said, “And of course Black lives matter. Do we think our little white asses are the only ones that matter? No!”

While Parton hadn’t taken an active role in rallying alongside protestors, it was endearing to hear a white woman of her status embrace their humanity and see the same humanity in others.

When Parton’s Dixie Stampede theater show received criticism following the 2017 Charlottesville white supremacist rally, she changed the name to “Dolly Parton’s Stampede.”

In response to the criticism she shared, she said, “When they said ‘Dixie’ was an offensive word, I thought, ‘Well, I don’t want to offend anybody. This is a business. We’ll just call it The Stampede.”

She continued, “As soon as you realize that something is a problem, you should fix it. Don’t be a dumbass. That’s where my heart is.”

Parton’s response cued my own reflection on how many problems could be easily resolved if people listened to those who have experienced harm and made changes.

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I Will Always Love You

When Whitney Houston covered Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” for the Bodyguard Soundtrack, it won two Grammys and spent fourteen weeks at number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

Parton wrote the original song as a farewell to her mentor and longtime business partner Porter Wagoner in 1973.

“I Will Always Love You” went on to become Houston’s best-selling hit.

Parton expressed public praise and support for Whitney’s cover of the song and shared that Houston’s vocal performance blew her away.

After Houston’s untimely death in 2012, Parton continued to speak highly of the pop and R&B icon and found thoughtful ways to honor her legacy.

Parton received 10 million dollars in royalties from Houston’s cover of “I Will Always Love You,” according to Forbes, and took some of that money and invested it in a commercial strip mall and office complex in a Black neighborhood in Nashville, Tennessee.

In an interview on Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen, Parton spoke about buying the office complex in a Black neighborhood and said, “I just thought, ‘This was great. I’m going to be down here with her people, who are my people as well.”

She affectionately referred to the property as the house that Whitney built.

Love of Literacy

In addition to her status as a country music icon, Parton was a literacy advocate.

In 1995, Parton launched “Imagination Library” to foster a love of reading among children in her home county in East Tennessee.

Parton shared that the Imagination Library was a tribute to her daddy, whom she described as the smartest man she knew but whose inability to read probably kept him from fulfilling all his dreams.

The book gifting program mails free, high-quality books to children from birth to age 5, regardless of their family’s income.

Parton has stated, “Everywhere I go, the kids call me “the book lady,” and it is a title she wore with pride. “

In 2023, the American Library Assn. awarded Parton a lifetime membership to recognize her impact on literacy and inspiring a love of reading in children.

Parton’s advocacy for literacy and encouragement of the love of reading has a positive impact on children across racial lines. Her original mission to serve the county where she was raised expanded to reach millions.

We Will Always Love You, Dolly Parton

Anyone who uses their resources to inspire a love of literacy in all children is someone I respect and admire. It is one of many reasons I love Dolly Parton and will miss her light.

Parton wasn’t a political activist or revolutionary. She was simply human, and by honoring her own humanity, she was able to see the honor in others’ humanity.

Her belief in the goodness of people expanded beyond race, sexual orientation, and gender. She was loved by numerous communities that she was not directly a part of.

And in honor of her legacy, we are reminded to listen and fix the problem, to show love to all humanity, and to “find out who you are and do it on purpose.”

We will always love you, Dolly Parton.

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If I have to know this information, so do you.

Anyway, thank you, Luther Vandross.

I grew up watching R&B singers cry in the rain, pleading for the love of their lives to return. There were musical ballads with the “big note” that reminded me of all the ways love could pour out of the human mouth into the hearts and ears of listeners.

Even the rappers rapped about love and featured sultry R&B singers to drive their romantic message. “I’m So Into You” is one that immediately comes to mind.

And yes, of course, the Tamia version.

There were also songs about puppy love from boy bands like B2K and teen rappers like Lil Romeo. Love was everywhere, and I wanted to experience it.

But then I grew up.

In recent years I’ve been unpacking my resistance to love and working to figure out where it went wrong. Where did the hearts in my eyes go?

It’s a long story. I actually wrote about it here.

While there have been some bumps in the road when it comes to my desire to experience romantic love, my love of music has persisted.

I’ve always loved music. I can’t step out of my bed if I don’t have the perfect song playing. But recently I’ve been thinking, “Where are the songs that make me want to fall in love?”

I’m currently writing a contemporary romance novel, and I would love a contemporary soundtrack as I write.

Of course, people are still singing about love, but it’s so rare that I take on the feeling from the music, as I once had. Is it the music, or is it me?

Don’t answer that question.

Instead, I forced myself to compile a list of seven songs released in the last year that begin to activate the butterflies that were once alive in my belly. And even if they don’t inspire me to find love, hopefully they’ll inspire me to keep writing.

I think I feel something. Let me know if you do, too.

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My favorite love songs of the last year.

1. Syd “My Love”

   Syd’s voice is a love song in itself. It calms my nervous system and opens my heart to fully taking in her lyrics. “My Love” is a song on her new album “Beard.” What fascinates me about the song is the juxtaposition of Syd’s smooth tone alongside the braggadocious nature of the lyrics. “Holster on my waist so I can keep ’em off you. You know I’m gonna shoot.” She is flexing her muscle and declaring protection over her lover. Yet and still, the bravado is balanced by the lyric, “I know I don’t own you, baby.”

   Though she wants to protect, she has no desire to possess. This understanding of love not being about possession is something that is often misunderstood in the heteronormative world. In the outro, Syd repeats, “ La-da-da-da,” and what better way to summarize the feeling of love?

2. Kehlani “Unlearn”

   “Unlearn” is my favorite song on Kehlani’s self-titled album. In it, she pleads for her lover to stay as she heals and unlearns some toxic traits. As someone who is doing the active work of healing past trauma, I believe we are still deserving of love, so her plea deeply resonates. She sings, “I know it's not easy to love someone still healing.” I appreciate her acknowledgment of the complexity of loving someone as they heal while also recognizing she is deserving of love. In the song, she pleads, “I got a lot to unlearn about me, but I'll do the work if you still believe.”

   Doing the work is essential here. Yes, we deserve love, but it takes work to allow yourself to be loved properly and to give that love in return. If it’s real, you’ll commit to the work. This song is for the yearners—those willing to be changed by love, willing to submit to its power. And the more I listen, the more I’m thinking, “Kehlani, is this fucking play about me?”

   

3. Brent Faiyaz - “World Is Yours”

   I love the moment when a toxic king decides to choose love. In “World Is Yours” from the Icon album, Brent Faiyaz proclaims, “Whatever you want babe, whatever your heart desires.” Is it possible he’s singing sweet nothings in his lover’s ears? Yes, of course. But for some reason, I believe him this time. He even sings, “You can believe in me, girl, that's called trust.” And I do, I do believe in him. It might simply be the melody; the song is vibey and smooth.

   I appreciate love songs that make promises bigger than life itself. Not that those promises can be met, but because they capture a feeling. A feeling so grand it can’t be described by normalcies.

   This song gives me 90s nostalgia. It makes me feel like Angel and Papi from the television series Pose, young and in love. The falsetto Faiyaz uses offers a light, feathery feeling, the way you want love to feel.

   

4. Alex Isley - “Hands”

   This is a song for the people who crave physical touch. When it comes to love, touch me, all over, all the time. It is absolutely one of my many love languages. Outside of love, keep your filthy hands away from me. In this song, Alex Isley captures yearning for her lover’s touch so beautifully with the lyrics “I’ve been meditating on the places your caress can take me.” It reminds me of the moment in the movie “Sinners” when Annie says, “Your body ain’t forget about me.”

   

   You can only hope that after time apart, be it for work or life, your person’s hands remember you and that they’ve longed for you as you’ve longed for them. Alex Isley’s vocals on this song, as always, are a chef’s kiss—smooth and sultry as she celebrates the power of touch. There’s deep yearning present, and we love a yearnalist. I enjoyed the whole “When The City Sleeps” album.

5. Steve Lacy “The Feeling”
   Steve Lacey has a way of capturing my most delusional thoughts. But I don’t mind being delusional when it comes to love. This is another one for the yearners. Lacey sings, “The heart takes what it wants. I’m not scared to bleed, you know our history.” He’s acknowledging a connection with deep history, but some lack of clarity about what it is and where it is headed. I know everyone wants the perfect love story these days, but in reality, love can be a bit messy. When Lacey sings “I often wonder where your head is,” it reveals the uncertainty about how the lover or friend feels about him. But he isn’t afraid of the possibility of rejection. The feeling is that strong. So it must be love, right?

   Although it is possible the love he is singing about isn’t being reciprocated, I admire his ability to stand boldly on what his heart desires. When Lacey sings, “I could let it go, but I'm not a quitter; I can’t let you go; I'm in love with you,” it almost breaks my heart, because I know the feeling. It reminds me of when James Baldwin said, “All I know about human life is if I love you, I love you, and if I love you and duck it, I die.” What is one to do with all the love they have for another person? Do they fight, or throw it away? In “The Feeling,” the decision is made to fight, and I stand by that decision.

6. Destin Conrad “BED STUY”

   The smooth contemporary jazz sound makes me think of this one guy who lives in Bed Stuy. I wouldn’t say I loved him, but he did have traits I loved. The only way I can describe this song is that it’s dreamy. It reminds me of sunsets and Brooklyn nights. It romanticizes Bed Stuy, Brooklyn, in a way that represents the Black queer residents and all the beauty of Brooklyn, New York so beautifully.

   I get chills when Conrad sings, “Am I in New York or Mumbai, Saint Tropez or Dubai? Mm, bye, mm, bye, mm, bye, mm, bye. Can't believe I'm in Bed-Stuy, can't believe my eyes.” Love has that kind of power; it can make you feel like you’re anywhere in the world. It’s the simple joy of being with your person.

7. anaiis “My World (Beyond).”

   This song isn’t about romantic love, but I absolutely had to add it to my list. I’ll admit, I initially listened to this song as a song for a lover. The lyrics and melody make me feel all giddy inside. After listening more closely to the lyrics, I realized the song is about motherhood. I don’t have children, and so I don’t know that kind of love, but I know it’s unconditional. Give me some grace here; there’s a shortage of music about love, so let me keep this on my songs about love list.

These are just a few of my favorite songs about love from the last year that make me daydream. Tell me which of these songs you love, and what are some of your favorite love songs released in the last year? Share in the comments.

Also, let me know if you would like a playlist.

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Before I begin writing, I want to express how difficult it is for me to write about colorism. I find it far easier to discuss my gender identity, but I’ve hesitated to hold space for both conversations. “Keeping it Jee” is all about radical honesty. So I’m committed to facilitating these necessary conversations with myself and sharing reflections from those intimate moments that will hopefully spark meaningful conversations for others.

There’s healing in the discomfort I feel, so here we go.

It was a peaceful place, rummaging through my mother’s skincare products, yearning for a touch of femininity. I wanted to feel it and smell it on my skin, as if there wasn’t enough in my early adolescent soul. I wanted it all over me, like how it marked my grandmother’s elegance or my mother’s womanly glow.

As I sifted through different skincare products, I hoped to know what made a woman.

A glimpse of optimism flashed across my eyes as I fixated on one product. It was a detour from my original inquiry about femininity, so I thought, and an arrival at a possible resolution to challenges I’d been facing with skin tone politics.

It was a dark spot clearing serum meant to reduce hyperpigmentation. But that’s not quite how I understood it. I viewed it as an elixir, in a magical sense, that could take some of the weight off my day-to-day and make me lighter, quite literally.

I thought carefully before I applied a small amount of the serum to my face and whispered a prayer into the sky.

Dear God, only a few shades lighter.

Reflections on Colorism

As a child, I loved my rich dark skin. It was a variation of my mother’s skin. It came from her parents, who made me feel like the most perfect little human.

I loved the softness of my skin and how it glowed in the sunlight. I saw it as something precious that couldn’t be washed away by the Middle Passage. It survived plantations and Jim Crow to stand at the center of riots and walk out unscathed.

I loved everything about my skin, but I had one hope: to make things easier.by the

I wanted it to be a few shades lighter like the kids who had skin only slightly lighter than mine, still very dark, but not the darkest in the room. They were the kids who tormented me most.

I didn’t want to be the darkest, maybe the second or third, but no longer the kid at the bottom of the social hierarchy when it was time to rank ourselves within the color caste system.

I had no desire to have light skin, but I did want my skin to be somewhat lighter. Like the Black Hollywood stars I’d seen over the years whose appearances also seemed to be lightened in comparison to their arrival on the scene.

So, I rubbed the serum on my skin and said a prayer.

Dear God, only a few shades lighter.

Not Michael Jackson light, just a tiny bit lighter.

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My family taught me to love my skin, and I did, but I hated how the world saw it. The way cameras never captured its radiance. The way it became a conversation in rooms before I could say hello. It spoke before me. It even responded.

“Why you so Black?” It’s a question kids would ask, Black kids. It flowed from their lips as if they were asking my name. No matter how much I was taught to love my skin, that question revealed that, for others, it didn’t belong.

Each time the question was asked, I felt a piece of myself disappear, and the dissonance grew.

I wanted to know what it would feel like to enter a room of Black children and hear someone ask my name, before giving me one. I didn’t want to be Blacky, or Hershey bar, or “The black ass one?”

I wanted to be me, Na’Jee.

The morning after I rubbed the serum across my skin, I slowly walked to the mirror, and when I saw my reflection, I smiled. My skin was unchanged—rich, dark, and beautiful as it had always been without spot or blemish.

I realized that I never wanted my skin tone to change; I wanted my experience to change.

I cried long and hard as I thought to myself about how I would learn to change my reality while keeping my skin.

Reflections on Gender

The questions about my complexion weren’t the only ones about my identity that erased parts of myself, leaving a dark spot on my sense of belonging. The other kids often inquired about my social interests and how I responded to conflict.

“Why you so sensitive?”

“Why you act like a girl?”

“Why you talk like that?”

Unlike questions about my skin color, commentary on my potential queerness was equally as frequent coming from family.

“Don’t let him play with those Barbie dolls”

“Stop switching when you walk”

“Why don’t you have any male friends?”

While navigating the weight of colorism throughout my childhood, I was also processing my own gender identity and expression, and there was no harmless space for me to process out loud.

I didn’t feel like a child meant to stand on either the boys’ or the girls’ line; either way, I fell in where I was placed—the boys’ line.

When it came to gender, I was told who I was before I was allowed to ask myself. The rules of being a boy were strictly enforced, and to make life less complicated, I tried my best to follow them.

I didn’t begin to process how much falling in line with the gender binary was also related to my experience of colorism until my early twenties.

Overlapping Identities: Reflections on Colorism and Gender

I exist at a point between clashing worlds, like oceans of different names that meet. I’m Black with dark skin, genderqueer, and highly sensitive to the intersectionality between race, skin complexion, sexuality, and gender.

I stand at the crossroads of varying identities, and as a result, I see what others may not or are afraid to acknowledge.

As I navigated my twenties and learned of two-spirited people in the Americas and the pre-colonial sexual and gender fluidity that existed in many African cultures, I started to understand myself as a genderqueer person—someone who doesn’t follow gender binary norms.

With that discovery came more finely tuned observations of how colorism clashes with gender identity and expression.

Although by now I’ve long embraced being a gender non-conforming person, and I’ve always had a quirky sense of personal style, it is still my safe choice to lean toward a more masculine-presenting aesthetic, especially in “professional” settings.

I don’t publicly express myself in a way that aligns with how I truly see myself, or that captures the scope of my personality, style, and way of being. It is mostly my perception of femininity that gets silenced in my outward expression.

When I reflect on why, I go back to that queer child navigating colorism and gender identity. The child searching through my mother’s skin care products to explore a more feminine expression, but sidetracked by the opportunity to address my own complexion first.

When I woke up that next morning and pondered how I would change my reality while keeping my skin, I arrived at staying away from exploring feminine expressions of gender.

I couldn’t have two identities causing chaos, so I chose the one that felt less visible to silence.

Reflections on Colorism, Gender, and Desirability:

Although the scope of the social hierarchy established by colorism is far more expansive than desirability, I understand why it continues to be a hot topic.

We all want to feel loved and wanted. We deserve that.

In a narrative that has been constructed by racism, colorism, and patriarchy, darker-skinned men are deemed desirable for their masculinity, though often in a fetishized manner. In contrast, darker-skinned women are deemed undesirable for the same association.

These racialized ideas of masculinity and femininity extend themselves to queer communities of color as well, especially to those with heteronormative understandings of how the two social roles are expressed.

Being socialized as a Black boy who grew up with dark-skin, I was encouraged to perform a brand of hypermasculinity that I didn’t have in me. However, I did learn to ultimately accept socially traditional masculine expressions in my outward aesthetic and behavior. (Butch Queen would be the most accurate description.)

Despite how hard I tried, I’ve always been a flower, soft and delicate with access to both my feminine and masculine energy. Yet, the masculine energy dominates my outward expression because it’s what makes me safest—most desirable.

It reveals to me that I am still wrestling with these racialized ideas about gender and how it is expressed.

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In a Eurocentric worldview, dark skin and femininity don’t coexist, as white womanhood, I would even argue white girlhood, distastefully so, is viewed as the standard of femininity.

I recall my dark skin being both masculinized and fetishized at an early age. It was common for adult men and women to speak on how I would attract women and be a “player” or “the man” when I grew up.

I was called “sexual chocolate” before I understood sex.

For heterosexual boys, this early commentary feeds their egos and establishes their position as objects of sexual desire. It is the source of their false confidence, and used to orchestrate a patriarchal conquest of women’s bodies—especially women they were historically denied access to.

The falsification of confidence covering a lifetime of deeply internalized anti-Blackness and self-loathing often exposes itself in dating preferences and misogynoir aimed at darker-skinned women.

The same experience is often true for Black queer folx who have embraced traditionally masculinized roles in society.

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As a queer child coming of age, comments fetishizing my skin didn’t feed my ego. They made me uncomfortable.

Some would say that I was being given compliments, but I think there are more appropriate ways to compliment Black child’s rich skin.

If I had fully accepted this fetishization of my skin and a more hypermasculine role in society, my experience of colorism would have likely been different, still present, but different.

I feel grateful for the experience of building my confidence from a much more authentic place, although there is still work to be done.

My commitment is to continuing to bring this level of candor to my writing and representing the complexity of my experience with care and curiosity.

I am not one thing, but many, and I want to express all of me.

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As I relax outdoors near the pool and take in this dream world I’ve built, I can’t help but think of how grateful my party guests must have felt to share my world; a world I built, in my six-inch-heels: no blood, no sweat, not even a tear.

Some people can only dream of living this life. But I’m the kind of person to bring dreams to reality. I don’t sit and wait for something good to happen to me; I make good things happen for me because that is what I deserve, darling.

I deserve it all, because despite the abundance I have now, there was a time when I was left with nothing.

As a little boy, I had only ever received one gift from my mother. It was a brown doll baby with button eyes she’d hand-woven and given to me, sealed with a kiss on my forehead.

“Love you, Phaggy baby, and maybe one day you’ll understand. But please keep this doll baby to remember me.”

I never knew my father, just the story of how he gave me my name. My mother was the parent I thought loved me enough to stay. But on that day, my eighth birthday, she left.

I was never given a reason, but I’d always felt I was the reason.

She left me, her only baby, in the hands of my oldest sister, Bitchtavia, who was 19, and our aunt, Ti Ti Shade-ricka, who used to be our uncle, Shade-rack.

Ti Ti Shade-ricka and big sister Bitchtavia did what was required for me to survive, and nothing more.

“Phaggtavious, act like a boy. Stop switching your hips like a lady....”- Bitchtavia.

“I see why my sister left you, you crying sissy”- Ti Ti Shade-ricka

With all the chaos I experienced living with my sister and aunt who was barely ever home, I held my brown doll baby, who I named Hope, like it was all I had in this world.

And in the fire that took over our home on my fourteenth birthday, that hope was burned. I had nothing left.

I went to the streets searching for a mother, a family, and a home. I eventually found it in the ballroom scene.

I maneuvered from house to house, family to family, taking up as much time as I could before my mouth got me into trouble, in more ways than one. It was there when I started to walk the face category.

My parents may not have left me with much, but they gave me this face. And honey, this face is everything.

“Yess Phaggtavuous honey give face. You are mugged down, honey, jaw chiseled by the Gods.”

It was always tens across the board for this face. My hazel eyes made me feel like Tyra; I was a pretty pretty girl, darling, and they couldn’t handle me.

I studied all the greats, the girls and the gays who came before me and those who lived amongst me. I learned to talk like my idols, walk like them, and embody their spirits in my very essence. I was their most fabulous dream.

Ballroom made me feel like I was somebody, like I could be a star. It gave me confidence I never thought I could have after being denied by my biological parents, aunt, and sister.

I don’t think I would have survived without my ballroom community.

But I made it, darling. I’m here.

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And after all I’ve accomplished in life, after all I’ve done for my community, the people thought they could successfully cancel me? Ha, they failed.

Just as I expected, the internet gossip has quieted down as the public gushes over photos from my 50th Birthday Extravaganza.

Even that scandalous TikTok account, @TeaonCharlieSilverstein, has been canceled.

Of course I’ve kept that freak of nature, Charlie, close over the years. I too plan to reach billionaire status someday. And he is the perfect mentor. I don’t overanalyze his little fetish; if the boys were smart, they’d get their reparations as well.

He’s very rich, but not that bright.

But of course, I can only speak for Phaggtavious Sylvester Trent. I’m coming for everything I deserve in this life and I know that will require me to step on some toes.

Certainly, I don’t mind.

Envy has an odd way of making people online disguise themselves as freedom fighters, when in reality, they’d sell their own mothers if it guaranteed them access to this life.

I don’t have a desire to be perceived as moral and upright. I am who I am. I don’t mind being the villain in someone’s story, as long as I look fab.

I saw that look in Andy’s eyes. The look of judgment, although he tried to mask it in professionalism. I had to humble him and remind him we all have flaws. Some of us own them and keep our heads high, while others cower in the shadows of the internet.

Me, I’ve fought too hard to be here to hide. The world will see all of me.

Am I problematic? Well, yes, as problematic as I am human. But how can you see me pump out of the fire that literally burned my Hope and not raise a glass for me?

This is why I never hesitate to raise a glass for myself.

Cheers to fifty more years of being on top.

No group of jealous bitches formed against me shall prosper.

It’s Phaggy bitch, Muah.

I love Black men. I love the size of their hands and the width of their noses. I love the structure of their teeth and the warmth of their smell. I love their masculinity, their femininity, and everything in between. I love them in all shades and sizes.

It doesn’t matter if they’re from California, Chicago, New Orleans, Baltimore, Brazil or Nigeria—I love Black men.

And my attraction is pure.

I think.

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Beautiful Black men were everywhere, dressed in all white as diamonds danced on their various shades of brown skin. Trent’s 50th Birthday extravaganza was bustling with Black men from all parts of the industry—actors, athletes, models, politicians, and unknowns who were attractive enough to be amongst the chosen few.

A-List stars were everywhere, and Trent was kind enough to introduce me as “Andy, the talented writer who is collaborating with me on my memoir, darling.”

Memoir? I knew I was writing a profile feature, but we hadn’t discussed a memoir. But I’d already learned that whatever Trent says goes, so a memoir it would be.

The one word that would best describe Trent’s 50th Birthday Extravaganza was opulence. Guests wore all-white attire, with diamonds as the required jewelry.

“Andy, darling. You didn’t know? Black people love an all-white moment.” Trent explained earlier in the day when I inquired about the choice.

Security strictly enforced the dress code upon entry. One up-and-coming country music star was turned away for wearing off-white.

“I see this is your first rodeo in the Hamptons. Here, we play by my rules. Now giddy up, cowboy. Return when you’ve learned your colors,” said Trent while shooing the country music star away from his front door.

A top rapper was also turned away for wearing moissanite.

“Darling, I said diamonds. How dare you offend my guests this way, coming to my front door wearing a Baddies chain. Dreadful!” Trent shouted at the rapper and his entourage.

As always, Trent looked like royalty. He wore a custom white suit by Louis Vuitton that featured flared pants, a waistcoat, and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Don’t I look like Zendaya?” Trent said while twirling through the crowd. Everyone laughed and cheered, including image architect Law Roach, who had styled Zendaya’s look for the 2025 Met Gala.

“I’m feeling like Bianca Jagger, darling. I may end up married by the end of the night.” Guests raised their glasses and cheered as Trent took over the outdoor dance floor located near the pool.

I noticed he gave the handsome man with long, flowing locs to his left a glance. It was famed artist Etienne Saint Jean, who also starred in “Our Kind of City” with Trent. He was the only one from the cast whom I’d seen.

I also recalled the portrait of Trent, painted by Saint Jean, and wondered more about their friendship. But I learned my lesson on asking Trent too many questions in one sitting.

Singer Victoria Money performed a live version of “On My Mama,” and guests danced and celebrated as Trent owned the dancefloor. He was so full of life and loved by everyone at the party. The hate that existed online couldn’t be felt or heard throughout the party.

I couldn’t help but keep glancing over at the bartender with chestnut skin, full lips, and a lean athletic build who was also looking at me.

Well, that description fit all the male bartenders, who looked like the offspring of Tyson Beckford and Naomi Campbell, but this one in particular stood out.

As I took in the extravagant party and all the beautiful stars celebrating Trent, I struggled to let my guard down completely.

How did Trent know about my love and admiration for Black men? How did he know my secret? What does he think of me?

I have a partner who is plastered all over my social media, so of course Trent knows I’m in a relationship. His name is Adam, and I love him, mostly for the friendship he provides me. He’s my person. He happens to be white.

Although I’ve been attracted to Black men since seeing Darryl Stephens as Noah on Noah’s Arc, I have never had the opportunity to date one. I have had sex with two, and both experiences were unforgettable, but I wasn’t able to experience more.

It’s not that I wouldn’t date a Black man; it’s simply never happened. Adam and I met at our predominantly white college, and we’ve committed to a mostly monogamous relationship.

I don’t think that my attraction to Black men is a fetish; I think it’s only a matter of circumstance that my partner is white.

But how do I explain my secret X account? If people knew I was associated with that account, would it erase my nearly ten years of allyship to Black queer people?

When I made my secret X account, it started as a safe way to release some of my pent-up sexual desires while staying committed to my relationship.

The algorithm fed me content from well-endowed Black men because that’s who I was there to see. When I stumbled upon some race play content, it made me incredibly uncomfortable, but aroused me all the same.

I wasn’t watching anything too extreme. Use of the n-word was where I drew a line. But I did enjoy the videos that played into the Big Black Buck trope. It pains me to admit it.

I didn’t think any harm could be done by my enjoying the content and never acting on it. It didn’t change me from being a good person.

Right?

I gulped down a glass of champagne to calm my nerves and tried to stay in the moment. I wasn’t nervous to see so many beautiful Black men; I was nervous about who all knew my secret.

I was also worried about whether I would act on my secret that night. With each sip of champagne, my desire grew louder, into something more real, something tangible.

How do I know the root of my love and admiration? How do I know that it’s pure, or where it was birthed, and if that place is as unsullied as I’d like to believe my intentions are?

“Oh, Andy darling, I see you staring. You should go say hello” Trent said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Donte darling, come over. Meet my dear friend Andy.” Trent called the bartender whom I’d been eyeing over to meet me.

Once Donte came over, Trent twirled away, leaving me in the presence of one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen.

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“Hey, I’m Donte. I saw you staring. You weren’t going to say hello?”

Donte licked his plush lips and held steady eye contact with me. I turned bright red and stared at his mouth.

“You cool?” Donte asked.

“I’m so sorry. Hi, I’m Peter Woodward, and I’m here writing a story on Trent.”

“Peter? Didn’t Father Phaggtaviois call you, Andy?”

“Yeah, he can’t quite get my name right.. He says I look like an Andy.”

“If Father Phaggtavious wants you to be called Andy, that’s what I’m going to call you. Now, Andy. Come dance with me.”

Donte took me by the hand and walked me out by the pool, where everyone was dancing as the DJ played a Bad Bunny set. I’d always had two left feet and was nervous about embarrassing myself in front of the fine specimen of a man Trent sent my way.

“Just follow me. Do what I do,” Donte said as he led and guided my movement. He was there as a bartender, but it was also obvious he was an expert dancer. His body moved like it was possessed; he oozed sin and sensuality.

I knew I would want to partake in anything he was offering.

We danced through three songs straight, and when I began to find my rhythm, Donte stopped us both and whispered in my ear.

“Let’s go back to your room, Andy”

Without question, I led Donte to the guest room where I was staying that night. I didn’t think about Adam, my fears, or who might have seen us walking up the stairs.

When we arrived in my room, Donte wasted no time. He told me he wanted to role-play.

“Andy, I hear you like to role-play. Let me choose the scenario. I’ll be a police officer, and I’m pulling you over for a traffic violation. Are you ready?”

“Go for it,” I replied. Hesitant, but my morals felt overpowered by my desire for Donte at that moment.

“Sir, please exit the vehicle, turn around, and spread your legs.”

I pretended to step out of the car by standing up from the bed and turning around.

“Sir, I said spread your legs. But I actually need you to arch your back. Do that for me slowly.” Donte said, using an authoritative tone that sent chills throughout my body.

I bent over and arched my back. I felt the heat between us as Donte placed his hands around my waist and moved in closer to my left ear.

“I need you to do as I say. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” I said hurriedly, wanting more action and less talk.

“Yes, Officer Donte. Respect a Strong Black King when you see one.”

“Yes, Officer Donte. Yes, my king.”

“Turn around and get on your knees. Move slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

When I turned to face him, Donte stood with his thickness fighting to be released. It hung to the left of his white pants, surpassing his briefs.

“Now, Andy, before we go any further, are you sure this is what you want?”

Before I could say yes, there was a knock on the door that made me jump back to the bed, where I grabbed my briefs.

“Who is it?” Donte called.

“Andy, it’s Raymundo. I came to check on you. Are you okay?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I thought. Had he seen me go to the room? Is the moment ruined? Should the moment have ever happened? Does Raymundo know too?

Conflicting thoughts raced through my head as Donte went to open the door. Raymundo looked inside. He immediately furrowed his eyebrows and wrinkled his nose.

“Ew, Donte, I can’t believe you. With him of all people?”

“Raymundo. Chill out, you’re next.” Donte said, before slapping Raymundo on his shoulder and closing the door on his face.

What did he mean by next? Was there a line? And what was the look of sadness on Raymundo’s face?

“Donte, this was fun. But you know, technically I’m here for work. I might be having a bit too much fun.” I said while staring at Donte’s hands to avoid eye contact.

“That’s cool. I didn’t want to touch you anyway. Father Phaggtavious told me to make sure you were happy, and that’s what I was here to do. You aren’t the only one working, Andy.”

My cheeks grew warm. I felt rejected, but I was also interested in learning more.

“Donte, what do you do?”

“I’m a bartender, duh.”

“But you were willing to serve more than drinks.”

“And you were willing to hold more than a pen. We’re the same, white boy. Don’t question me.” Donte rolled his eyes, buttoned his pants, and left the room.

The room was dark and felt colder than I’d noticed before. Donte left, and I sat there with questions left unanswered.

Did Trent set this moment up for me? Was Donte paid for it? Well, I think he confirmed that. If Trent set Donte up with me, who has he set up with Silverstein? Is it possible that some of the allegations are true?

While lost in my thoughts, the door slowly opened. It was Trent.

“Andy darling. We are all still outside having a ball. Raymundo told me that you were having a ball of your own. So I wanted to check on you to make sure everything was okay. I’d hate to see a TikTok video posted of your time at my 50th Birthday Extravaganza without hearing about it from you first. How has your time been, Andy?”

Trent stood across from me with his arms folded, waiting for my response.

“Mr. Trent, sir.”

Trent cleared his throat.

“I mean, Father Phaggtavious. I’m having an amazing time. This might be one of the best nights of my life. How is your night, sir?”

“Well, Andy. I’m glad. Tonight is but a dream. When I was a little boy, I had fantasies. I’ve been able to bring most of them to life. We all have fantasies, but most people never get to live them out. Some spend their lives envious of those of us who do. Everything you see tonight is me living my fantasy. I’ve worked for it all. Some of us are bold enough to live in our truth and stand in the fullness of ourselves. Others hide behind the safety of a facade or the internet, where they can be whoever they want to be. But welcome to the party, Andy. Tonight, you joined those of us who make our fantasies come true.”

Trent patted me on my back, as if I’d done a good job following his plan tonight, and walked slowly to the door before stopping to turn back in my direction.

“Oh, Andy. Please come back to the party, darling. We’re just getting started. And tomorrow, we’ll get started on my memoir.”

This or that

Now or later

Work or life

Brandy or Monica

Boy or Girl

As a kid, I never felt the need to choose a place on the gender binary. I simply left my classroom one day for a restroom break and saw there were only two lines. The choice was made for me, like many choices before and after.

Now that I can make the choice, I fully embrace my identity as a person whose gender cannot be defined within the margins of the gender binary. And what that looks like for me might be different from how it looks for you. But it’s mine. The choice is mine. I step fully into my pre-colonial power as I embrace more than one spirit that dances within me.

Happy Non-Binary People’s Day. We exist now; we always have and always will.

“Please, muthafuckas ain’t stopping me” - Beyoncé

Have I told you all about the time when Beyoncé inspired me to quit my job? Okay, so boom…

By the time Beyoncé released her single “Break My Soul,” I’d already witnessed the moment on HBO’s Insecure where Issa quit her job at a non-profit called “We Got Y’all” to eventually become an independent creative and event producer.

As a writer and creative myself, I loved the idea for Issa. For me, it just wasn’t about to happen. I come from humble beginnings, and I love the safety of consistent coin.

But again, I loved the idea.

When “Break My Soul” was released, its message resonated, but I knew poverty would break my soul too. So I didn’t give the idea of quitting my job much thought.

I did, however, think about the weight of capitalism, the toll of a stressful work environment, and how little time I had to pour into my gift as a writer.

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I was working so hard that I couldn’t hear myself. It affected my imagination and ability to see stories. The stentorian roar of capitalism made it difficult to sharpen a voice I couldn’t hear.

In the Summer of 2022, when Beyoncé released the Renaissance album, it encouraged me to pivot and consider for the first time in my adult life the possibility of choosing myself.

When Renaissance was released days ahead of my birthday, that first listen felt like an out-of-body experience. As my consciousness elevated, I gazed down at my physical form in admiration of all we could accomplish together.

I liken the experience of listening to Renaissance to a Black queer baptism. Both my gayest and blackest selves were awakened, forming a holy union.

And in that very moment, I knew muthafuckas couldn’t stop me.

I danced, felt the music, and let it all go—the tension in my jaw, neck, and shoulders. It was slowly releasing.

The album carried me for a full year; it helped to keep my soul unbroken, but it wasn’t free.

When the opportunity came to experience the Renaissance World Tour in Europe during the summer of 2023, I jumped at it.

I traveled to Germany with my best friend and his partner to experience the legendary Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter and underwent my own renaissance—a revival of my spirit and rebirth of my truest self.

We started our experience in Berlin, where we partied for two days straight before seeing the Queen in Hamburg. Beyoncé, of course.

Have y’all ever partied in Berlin? What an experience, and I highly recommend it. (I’ll write more of those stories in detail one day. It could be a whole book.)

Berlin was the perfect pre-game for seeing Beyoncé.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so free, both partying in Berlin and witnessing Beyoncé perform the Renaissance album. It was a second queer baptism.

Hearing “Break My Soul” live was the first time I fully considered quitting my job. I know it’s ironic that a billionaire could have me out here ready to risk it all. But the message was messaging. And I felt it in my bones.

While at the concert and throughout my European Summer of 2023, the thought occurred to me more than ever before. I wanted to quit my job and continue traveling and experiencing all that the world had to offer me.

With each day of my two-week vacation, I felt freer.

After Germany, we visited Amsterdam, where I spent a full day searching for Frank Ocean, and concluded our summer vacation in Paris. It was my first time in Paris, and it was during Pride.

I fell in love with the city so much that I extended my stay for a few days while my friends headed back home. It was my first taste of solo travel.

I admired being able to take my time while dining and being fully present in the moment. My time in Paris had me further side-eyeing the hustle and bustle of my life back home.

While at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Montmartre, I took in panoramas of Paris below and wondered what it would be like to leave my strenuous work life behind and embrace a slower pace of living that freed up my imagination.

The slower pace sped up my creativity, and the stories that were brewing inside of me poured out. I knew that in order to prioritize writing, I would need a change.

I always envied people who came from privilege and had the opportunity to take a gap year to “figure things out” while traveling the world.

I never had that privilege, but I craved it.

There’s something about traveling that makes me forget the worries of life back home and pushes me to explore the furthest boundaries of myself. I celebrated Pride in Paris, hooked up with hot men from around the world, fell in love for one night only, and basked in the slowness of life.

I felt freer than I’ve ever felt before.

When I arrived home, reality slipped in, and I realized I needed to return to work. I did, with tears in my eyes. No, literally. What I had come to know as “Being on Holiday” was over!

For the next two years, I would have conversations with my closest friends and family about wanting to leave my job, travel the world, and write. I saved, planned, and pondered all that a new future could hold for me.

In the Summer of 2025, I decided to go for it and set off into my “gap year.”

To celebrate that decision, I booked a solo trip back to Europe, where my Renaissance began. (Ok, ancestors, curse me out. It’s fine.)

I started in Paris, traveled to the South of France, and then to London for UK Black Pride.

I love Paris because the city challenges me. It’s a proud city, in ways like New York City, with a unique and specific culture.

It’s not the most welcoming or inviting city, but my soul craved that kind of discomfort. For most of my life, I’ve been a straight-line-walking perfectionist. During my first Renaissance in Europe, I felt those walls breaking down. By the time I took my full solo trip to launch my gap year, those walls had completely collapsed.

I had to learn what it meant to ask questions, seek help, and be ok with disappointment. I tried new foods, skipped lines at clubs, and did what I wanted. It was the perfect way to kickstart my gap year.

Throughout this year, I’ve been able to pour into myself in ways unimagined under the oppressive smog of capitalism. I had to free my soul.

Now, at the conclusion of my gap year, the question is exactly what I do with all this freedom. Where do I take it, or better yet, where will it take me?

As you all know, I’ve been prioritizing writing. There are two different books I’ve been working on while also scripting a television series. I have so many stories in me, and I just want to share them all.

To be quite frank, I’m terrified. But I have no desire to return to a traditional work setting. I’m trusting myself and betting on me.

I believe in my vision and in my ability to create a life I deserve. One that I feel fulfilled by and one where I am free enough to create and live fully. One where I can hear my own voice.

I know this journey won’t be easy, so “You can be my sugar daddy if you want to!”

If you would like more of my journey, please subscribe. If you’re on a similar journey, definitely let me know. I’m eager to build community as I embrace the newness of my life and all that it has to offer.

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I haven’t seen or heard from Coco in over fifteen years. But it’s only convenient for her to speak out now. The sight of her name is directly connected to Andy’s question of why I wrote the Gay Agenda. The timing couldn’t be more precise.

“Andy, you asked why I decided to write the Gay Agenda. Well, let’s discuss.”

When I published “The Gay Agenda,” it immediately took the world by storm. In the last ten years, I’ve seen the fruit of my labor. No, literally. The athletes, rappers, politicians, and general population of men are all growing gayer and gayer by the day. The girls are, too, and it’s all thanks to me.

I made our world a gayer place!

When I set out to write the gay agenda, I was dreaming of a more colorful world, like when Dorothy left her sepia-toned farmhouse in Kansas for the more vibrant and technicolor World of Oz.

We were living in dull and hetero times, and I wanted to be the change I was seeking. I guess you can call me Phaggtavious Ghandhi, or better yet, Phaggtavious Tubman. I’ve dedicated my life to being a conductor on a train that transitions passengers to the happy side of the rainbow.

My initial thought was that if I made the world a gayer place, it would inherently make the world a happier place, resulting in less violence, crime, and oppression. I had the purest intentions.

I know you saw the recent statement from Coco Barnes. I can’t tell this story without mentioning her. So, Andy, let me take you back to our days of filming “Not Another Reality Show Star.”

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“I’ll sue the bitch” is all I remember yelling as Coco No Chanel ran off set, wig leaning to the side, just like her heels.

The story was eventually put out that Coco and I got into a heated exchange over an improvised line that came off as offensive. But she and I know the truth of why we were arguing that day on set.

Kyle Barnes, standing at 6’8, was the star player for the NBA’s Los Angeles Sharks, and I had all six feet and eight inches of him bent over, screaming, “Father Phaggtavious,” when she walked in on us for the first time.

“Oh, yes, Phaggtavious! Oh, yes! Phuck!!!!!” Kyle screamed as I worked his straight man booty like it was a sales associate at the mall during Christmas.

“Call me Father Phaggtavious, you low-down two-time NBA Finals-losing child left behind who picked up a basketball because the words in a book were too heavy. Say it”

“Father Phaggtavious. Yes, Father Phaggtavious,” he screamed.

Our playtime was brought to an abrupt halt when Kyle’s bedroom door opened, and a tall, thin, brown-skinned beauty with a wig and a handgun stood, beads of sweat and tears falling from her eyes.

“Baby, baby, woah! Relax. Please let me explain.” Kyle said in a calm, gentle tone, still on all fours like the dog he is.

“Well, get to explaining then. Tell me, why are you down there?”

I didn’t mean to laugh, but the Whitney Houston reference had me almost in tears. Her man, star athlete Kyle Barnes, was, in fact, down on all fours for me. And Coco No Chanel had to take it all in.

“Coco, miss darling. You know exactly what’s going on. You see it happening before your eyes. So this can go one or two ways. Either you let me walk out of here peacefully, or my best friend, who knows exactly where I am and what I’m doing, will spill it all. Now come on, doll, I know you want to keep your perfect image, your perfect little life, and the only man who wants a car with more mileage on it than a 98 Prius that’s been passed down through siblings… So tell me, darling, what do you want to do? It’s your call.”

“Phaggtavious Trent, get the phuck out of my house before I shoot you both dead. You have thirty seconds.”

I quickly gathered my belongings, slapped Kyle on his firm NBA booty and winked, then darted towards the entrance.

The memory made me chuckle. That encounter is what inspired me to write and publish the gay agenda. I thought about all the havoc being wreaked by closeted men who needed just a little push to live in their own fullness.

I pitied closeted men like Kyle Barnes who wanted to be able to explore their femininity but were unable. I wrote the gay agenda for men like him. It gave permission for all men to embrace proper hygiene and fashion. It was a step-by-step guide to making the world a gayer place.

One powerful man took a special liking to my gay agenda. Days after its release, I received a call from a billionaire tech mogul, Charlie Silverstein, who wanted to meet with me.

The first time I met Charlie, I was flown out on his private jet to Silverstein Island, off the coast of Costa Rica. When I arrived at his Spanish-style villa, I was in awe.

“Phaggtavious, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now,” said Silverstein.

“Darling, the whole world has its eyes on me. It’s understandable.”

Silverstein chuckled; it was obvious he wasn’t used to someone approaching him with the same confidence he gave off.

“There goes that sharp tongue everyone has spoken of. Welcome.”

Silverstein walked me into his Villa and personally gave me a tour. I could tell almost instantly by his excessive touch that this was more than a business trip. Silverstein wasn’t quite my type, but his net worth met my criteria. Exceeded it even, so I was willing to be whatever he needed.

“Now that you’ve seen the villa and your accommodations, you get to decide where you’ll sleep tonight. We have dinner and fun this evening at 6 pm. I’ll see you then.” Silverstein rubbed my shoulder and winked before leaving me in what was obviously his primary bedroom. It happened so fast that I was unsure how to process how smooth he was.

He tried to offer me chemicals, but I had a hard boundary. Champagne only.

Did this man leave me in his bedroom?

Later that evening, we had dinner and drinks, and then a live band played. We danced, Silverstein, a few of his friends, and I. I only drank champagne, nervous to try any of the other refreshments.

That night, I fucked Mr. Silverstein like he was my bitch. I gave him exactly what I was brought to give. I knew the assignment and did what was needed. I always do.

“Call me Father Phaggtavious, you worthless coward of a man,” I said before slapping Charlie boy, as I called him, across his pathetic face. “What are you, number eight on the Forbes Real Time Billionaires list? You aren’t even in the top five,” I said before cackling and slapping Charlie boy again.

I found joy in making rich white men feel small. They loved it. I think they secretly knew the treatment they deserved and welcomed the kink.

In the morning, we sat over coffee. We discussed my gay agenda and parted ways. Over the years, I’d been invited to his birthday parties and events. I’d always have a great time. He’s even sponsored some of my businesses.

And that, Andy, is the extent of what I know. I know who he’s attracted to because he’s always been attracted to me. But contrary to what these raggedy heathens are alluding to on Beyoncé’s internet, I have never introduced anyone from my community to Charlie.

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Andy “Peter Woodward”

I don’t know if I can believe him. I want to, but I know details are missing. He started so candidly, and even the admission of a sexual relationship was newsworthy, but I have questions.

“Trent, what are your thoughts on Silverstein’s accusers”

“I think they are money-hungry peasants who spread their legs to receive exactly what they’re worth. Nothing.”

“Does it concern you that Mr. Silverstein seems to have a fetish for Black and Brown fem boys?”

“What makes it any different than your fetish, Andy. Don’t think I haven’t done my research. It’s me you’re talking to,” Trent said as his mouth formed a half smile.

My heart sank, and I wondered how he would have known.

“We all have fetishes and desires. Most people are too poor to explore them. And so some build secret accounts on social media dedicated to their BBC infatuation. I, too, have done my journalism, Andy. Now, where would you like to continue?”

“Thank you for your honesty, Father Phaggtavious. If you don’t mind, I think we’re done for today.”

“No, Andy, darling. We’re just getting started. Stay for the party. We have exactly what you love on the menu,” Trent patted my back and excused himself to address his event-planning team.

The way Trent flipped our conversation sat heavily on my mind, and all of a sudden, I was reminded of my place. I don’t know how he knew one of my deepest darkest secrets, but he was right. I am here to tell the story, but it would be a dangerous move to step on Trent’s toes any more than I already have.

I quickly learned why Father Phaggtavious is the wrong person to phuck with.

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“Raymundo darling, I hope you’re keeping those big brown eyes and ears to the streets. If anyone on tonight’s guest list is caught saying or liking negative posts about me, they’ll be denied entry. And I’ll be sure to have the blogs post the look of embarrassment on their treasonous faces when it happens.” Trent shouted while gracefully walking down the glass spiral staircase of his East Hampton mansion.

“Be careful who you trust, Raymundo. These industry bitches will blow kisses in your face and then blow your man behind your back. If anyone knows, it’s me.”

“Yes, Father Phaggtavious. I’m watching, and you know @daughterofthephag on X and Threads, and the rest of The Phaggies are on duty across all social media platforms. They’ll let me know who will have to hate from outside the grandest party of the century.”

I’ve seen how Trent’s fanbase has relentlessly taken down anyone who has spoken ill of him. They’ve ended the careers of musicians, actors, journalists, and even everyday people. With the growing online criticism, I wondered whether they’d be able to save him this time.

“Oh my little Raymundo, you know you must thank your Ti Ti Adrial for begging me to give you a chance. I’ve always loved her, since our days back on “Our Kind of City.” Trent paused to smile, as if reflecting on his fondest memories.

“I’ve seen what the streets can do to pretty little boys like you.” Trent leaned in closer to Raymundo and held bold eye contact. “But if, for any reason, I ever find that I can’t trust you, it will be off with your head as well. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, of course, Father Phaggtavious. You…you can trust me. Forever and always.”

“And always remember, my little Raymundo, watch the company you keep.” Trent turned from Raymundo and held his glare at me for what felt like a lifetime before returning his attention to Raymundo.

“Now, where the fuck is the caterer. You said they’d be here in 10 minutes, and that was 50 minutes ago.”

“I…I’ll check again now and give you an update, Father.”

I sensed the fright in Raymundo’s eyes. He so desperately wanted to please Trent. Everyone around the star shared that same desire, or fear.

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As I sat in the den of Trent’s East Hampton mansion, I took in the atmosphere.

The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of the pool that I’d seen in various photos from Trent’s infamous parties. It overlooked the bay and acres of a manicured lawn.

Pearly white finishes marked the interior of the home, as the open floor plan made everything feel close because it was visible, yet so far apart.

Etienne Saint Jean’s art decorated the walls, including a portrait of Trent. In it, his eyes held power and command, just as in real life. His left eyebrow lifted slightly as it does when he’s in contemplation, and slight tension was visible in his jaw. Etienne had to have known him well to capture his essence so beautifully.

The mansion was the perfect party location for the A-List stars on Trent’s RSVP list.

Over the last decade, he’d earned a reputation for exceptional party planning. I’d gotten a glance at the list, and all the who’s who of the industry were present for his 50th birthday extravaganza. I saw names like Zendaya, Law Roach, Cher, Eton John, Victoria Monet, Kim Kardashian, Lewis Hamilton, Queen Latifah, Teyana Taylor, Nene Leakes, Patti LaBelle, Playboi Carti, Jacob Elordi, Sabrina Carpenter, Tyler Perry, Jason Lee, Rihanna, Savannah James, Tina Knowles, and so much more.

While the demand for cancellation grew more pressing on social media, it didn’t tarnish Trent’s reputation in the industry. Social media and reality are already two different worlds, but especially for the stars. They see what people think of them; it affects them, but as long as they’re being talked about and can still earn a profit, life goes on.

As I sat inside the den overlooking the backyard and pool area, I heard Trent’s voice rise while on the phone.

“Tell the fool to clear my name. You and I both know I have nothing to do with his infinity towards the fatherless Black and Brown femboys who roam the town looking for love and opportunity. Tell him to clear it up, right fucking now!”

Although we haven’t spoken about it directly, I knew he was referring to billionaire tech-mogul Charlie Silverstein. After all, it was his initials on the private jet we took from LA to the Hamptons.

A recent TikTok post compiled photos of Trent and Silverstein from events over the years. They’ve always appeared to be friendly. The problem was, across social media, multiple young Black gay men ages nineteen to twenty-two were alleging sexual encounters with the married father of three, along with some questionable sexual fetishes and kinks that have placed him on the internet’s radar.

In a pattern shared across stories, it was alleged that Silverstein would send recruiters into neighborhoods and events where Black and Brown LGBTQ+ people were present and have them bring these young gay men to Silverstein for his pleasure.

All of his accusers were of age, though significantly younger than the sixty-year-old billionaire, mostly low-income, Black or Brown, and feminine-presenting.

People have been sharing stories on social media, mostly speculation, and the topic “Silverstein’s Black Femboy Fetish” trended.

Don’t let his hot young Colombian wife fool you; the NYC femboys know Silverstein’s real type and where he likes to play.

I had a friend who went to his private island once and never returned.

I heard he has a race play island that you might not come back from if you visit.

He has a photographer who follows all the Black femboys on social media, offers them a free photoshoot, and eventually sets them up to see Silverstein.

It’s like an urban legend; we’ve heard stories, but I don’t know if anyone has proof.

Within the last hour, a TikTok account compiling allegations against Silverstein posted a video in which an accuser detailed his encounter with the billionaire.

TikTok users in the video’s comments were alleging that the client was Trent. But that wasn’t confirmed by the young man with the chestnut skin, bright blush, and long eyelashes.

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I’d wondered how Trent himself met Silverstein and why they appeared to be so close throughout the years. If it were true that Silverstein had an affinity for younger, Black or Brown femboys, it would have made sense that this is how his relationship with Trent began. Although Trent would have been thirty-plus when they met, he’s always had a youthful charm and skin that appeared years younger than he actually was.

None of Silverstein’s accusers has mentioned Trent directly. Still, social media users are drawing a line between his past behavior and association with the mogul and making claims that Trent is supporting Silverstein’s urges.

“Andy darling, I am just so sorry to leave you waiting when I am sure you’d love to continue our interview. This event must be perfect, and I can’t trust anyone to do it to my liking but me. I know you’re here for a story, and so I’ll give it while I work. What do you want to know now?”

“Mr. Trent, Sir…” he cut a sharp eye in my direction. “My apologies, Father Phaggtavious. If you don’t mind, I would like to know more about your life after “Our Kind of City,” and ultimately what inspired you to write the gay agenda. I’d also like to know your thoughts on Charlie Silverstein.

“I figured you’d like to know. The catering company has just arrived. Let’s go greet them, and I will answer all of your inquiries.”

As we walked back toward the kitchen to greet the caterer, a new notification came in. “Coco Speaks Out.” There was a photo of former supermodel Coco Barnes and an irate Trent in what appeared to be a heated argument. When I looked up at Trent, I could see he had just seen the same notification, but appeared to keep his composure.

Trent took a moment to breathe, looked up into the sky, and then in my direction before saying, “Come, darling. I’ll tell you all about it,” then sealed it with a wink.

We’d survived the Y2K threat and were transformed into a country where Von Dutch and Reality Television ruled. Somewhere between The Simple Life, Flavor of Love, and Keeping Up With The Kardashians, there I was, reality television’s breakout star—the shiny new toy in entertainment whose presence transcended race, gender, and sexuality.

I rose to fame while on a reality show called “Our Kind of City,” which featured a cast of individuals whom the writers of Sex & the City had forgotten lived in New York City.

Cast of “Our Kind of City”:

• Adriel & Liam: A Dominican couple from Washington Heights.

• Camila Colon: An aspiring journalist of Puerto Rican descent from the Bronx.

• Tony Ann & Winston: A Jamaican-American brother and sister duo from Brooklyn.

• Etienne Saint Jean: An emerging artist of Haitian and Cuban descent from Staten Island.

• Phaggtavious Trent: The African-American, gay bartender and model from Harlem, New York.

• TS Melanie: African American trans-woman from Harlem, New York, who joined the cast in season three.

Phaggtavious Show Intro:

“My name is Phaggtavious Sylvester Trent, and I’m twenty-nine years young from Harlem, New York. I’m a supermodel by day, a bartender by night, and a fab bitch twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five days of the year. Some people had to travel to the city; others were born and bred here, so we’re built different. Especially if you’re from Harlem. I’m a New Yorker through and through. My mother was born here, her mother was born here, and her mother too. It’s time to show viewers the real New York City. Welcome, it’s Phaggy, bitch! Muah.”

No one knew how successful the show would be, and they can thank me for its success. When “Our Kind of City” aired, I was the immediate star. The show launched me into a life of red carpets, exclusive industry events, and unlimited opportunities.

People were mesmerized by my one-liners, wit, and unapologetic honesty. I was being myself, and the world loved it. It helped that I was drop-dead gorgeous, still am.

This is a face that can’t be fucked with, darling. The people saw these plush lips and high cheekbones. They say this chiseled jawline. And this artwork has never been touched by a surgeon. Well, at least not for surgery. The world’s favorite celebrities can’t exactly say the same, darling. This face was made in Harlem, USA.

Scene from Episode 1 “Our Kind of City”

“Darling, pick up your self-esteem. It’s on the floor, and Liam is walking all over it,” I said to Adriel over drinks at Lenox Lounge.

“Phaggtavious, you don’t understand. We’ve been through everything together. But it’s like he wants me to be his mom. His sister. His nurse. His maid. His barber and a warm fucking hole for whenever he’s ready to fill it. And I’ve been that. I’ve been all of that and more, and he still goes out and cheats. And with that bitch, Camila, she isn’t even as pretty as me.” Tears started to fall from Adriel’s hopeless brown eyes.

“Oh, sweet thing. Pretty never mattered to a lustful man. As long as it’s a hole that is wet and warm, he’ll make a home of it.”

“Really Phaggtavious? After six years together, a wet and warm hole is all it takes?”

“Darling, just be thankful it wasn’t my wet, warm hole. Because you and I both know if I didn’t love you so much, Liam’s fine ass and I would be dancing bachata in the bedroom you both share.”

Adriel laughed through her tears, sending me into laughter as well.

“Cheers to still being pretty through it all, and being able to smile with all thirty-two.” Our glasses clinked, and we both took sips of our Appletinis.

That was just episode one, and it catapulted me into reality television stardom. I was the homosexual darling boy who was there for my girls, but also took center stage. I wasn’t Stanford Blatch, darling; I didn’t play the background. I carried the show.

All the magazines were quoting me, and people loved what they saw.

Celebrities like Angelina Jolie, Paris Hilton, and Queen Beyoncé Gizelle Knowles were all captured referencing my famous one-liners. Even Britney Spears made a Phaggtavious reference in her hit song Gimme More.

Scene from Episode 2 "Our Kind of City”

“Tell my Haitian prince Etienne I want a nude portrait of myself in his next gallery,” I said to Winston, who, if you had any stereotypes about Jamaican men being homophobic, quickly erased them with his calm and empathetic nature.

“Tavious, you gotta chill, bro.” He said as we both walked into Etienne’s art exhibition. He was so non-homophobic that he couldn’t even say the first part of my name. Even though it’s the name my parents gave me.

When my father saw me twirling out of my mother’s vagina, he looked at me and said, “That phag can’t have my name. We can’t call him Octavious Jr., call him Phaggtavious. And you’re on your own raising this one.” I never saw him again.

As Winston and I walked into the art exhibition, there he was, Etienne. His cinnamon skin, defined jaw, and shoulders were radiant against the gloom of the exhibit. I believe it was intentional. Only Etienne and his art glowed as we maneuvered like silhouettes through his latest collection.

“Phaggtavious, glad you could make it.” He said while exposing his only imperfection—the slight overcrowding of his bottom row of teeth. It would usually be an immediate turn-off, but my Haitian Prince was so fine and talented, it didn’t matter much.

I wanted that moment to be for us, for a quick second, I thought about Etienne taking me to the nearest restroom and making a canvas of my face. But of course, we were filming, and the drama needed to ensue. But not that kind of drama. Audiences in the early 2000s weren’t ready to see how effortlessly I could make a self-proclaimed straight man bend over for me.

It was another dramatic scene that the producers set up. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I was always ready.

“There he goes. Mr. Throw rocks and hides his hands. I heard you had a lot to say about me to Adriel.” Camilla came barging in, like the banjee girl from the Bronx she’d always been.

Yes, she attended NYU, but that degree couldn’t hide the stench of gutter hoodrat hiding up under her armpits.

“Darling, not the time or place, honey. Be a lady. Show some class.”

“That’s the difference between you and me. I’m already a lady because I was born one. You could never be me.”

“And trust, I wouldn’t want to, beloved. Your mother never loved you, and I can see why. Your father never loved your mother because she’s just like you. And you, darling, you roam the streets like a pigeon looking for crumbs of another woman’s man because you don’t even love yourself. So yes, I could never be you.”

When the world saw that scene, they loved it. Camila was portrayed as the slutty Latina who was out to get everyone’s man, although we later learned how producers orchestrated that storyline of a romance with Liam.

We were clowns in their circus, even me, the breakout star. Bradley, the global organization that owned our television show, didn’t care about us as people or the impact we’d have on viewers. They only cared about the money. That made us the same, because if a bitch did nothing else, she was going to get her coin, darling.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I shall not be eaten.

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Our Kind of City changed my life forever. It went on to have two more highly successful seasons before I decided to part ways.

The narrative I shared with the public was that I stepped away to pursue acting. What people don’t know is that the truth is uglier. I had been incentivized to play the villain and to attack the other women, and eventually the one other queer person to join the cast. The further I went, the greater I was rewarded, but it chipped away at my soul.

Viewers didn’t hate me then because I always made it funny, and the language that best described my behavior wasn’t publicly accessible.

But as I see these headlines and people across social media pull up my old clips and hyper-analyze my transphobia, misogyny, and anti-blackness, I question if it was all worth it.

Some of the very awful things I said about a trans woman who was brought on to the show in season three were resurfacing.

Producers loved our heated arguments, and they encouraged me to attack Melanie every chance I got. No one seemed to care about what I said back then.

I didn’t mind either. In the real world, Mel and I went back and forth in that way. I’d known her most of my life, and she’s never been a victim. In real-time, we would go back and forth, reading one another for filth. But the final edit always seemed to show only my reads. It was the consequence of being the star of the show.

No one expressed outrage because it was the early 2000s. I was praised for my insults, and my ego was fed. But in the wake of resurfaced clips, I’ve found myself choking on the very words that once made me famous. I can be a bitch, a cold-hearted bitch, but that’s not what I want to be to my trans sisters.

That’s why I left the show.

As I shared with Andy about my start in the entertainment industry, I hadn’t noticed time passing so quickly. We’d arrived at my house in the Hamptons, and it was time to finalize last-minute details for my 50th Birthday Extravaganza.

“Raymundo, the extravaganza begins in three hours. Where the fuck is the caterer? They were supposed to be here by 1 pm.”

“Father Phaggtavious, they just confirmed that they are 10 minutes out. They’ll be right in.”

“They better be, Raymundo. You know I hate waiting. And Andy, please forgive me. I promised to let you in, so be prepared to see it all. The good, the bad, and… Ha! Darling, I know you didn’t think I would say ugly. That concept doesn’t exist in my world. Be prepared to see the good, bad, and beautiful. Welcome to my life.”

Episode 3!

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“A Case For Why We Should Cancel Phaggtavious”

“Yes, He’s Gay, but He’s Still A Man”

“Are the Viral Moments Worth Holding On To?”

“Why do Gay Men Hate Us?”

“From a Ponk to a Pimp”

There he sat, draped in a custom rose pink caftan by Ralph Rucci. His hazel eyes pierced into the clouds as his right foot tapped in a slow, methodical rhythm. Even while lost in reflection, his posture remained upright, and the energy that surrounded the star felt bigger than life itself.

After a period of silence, a tirade of frustration tore through the space, thrusting me into an upward position. I was sitting at attention with all of my focus on the man, the moment, the icon.

“Have these fools forgotten who the fuck I am? They want off with my head, but darling, I am the Queen Hearts—the most fab bitch to ever walk this God-forsaken planet. Ha! They’d better try Ozempic, not the legendary Phaggtavious Sylvester Trent. I’ll have the bottoms of my Christian Louboutin heels painted in their blood.”

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Headlines were pouring in, and online discourse continued to grow louder and more demanding. People from diverse backgrounds were displeased with some of Trent’s recent interviews, which have sparked questions and criticism of his behavior throughout the last twenty years.

Initially, I was called in to conduct an in-depth interview for a profile feature on one of entertainment’s brightest stars, but I began to wonder whether I was, in fact, documenting his gravitational collapse.

As Trent continued his rant, his assistant, Raymundo, with his soft brown eyes and gentle demeanor, listened and affirmed. I sat there, almost forgotten. It was my first time on a private jet, so I took it all in—the cashmere finishes, leather seats, soft cream interior, and the initials CS on both the plush white carpets and the slippers we were required to wear.

I can’t believe we’re flying in billionaire Charlie Silverstein’s private jet, I thought to myself.

Champagne, caviar, and gourmet snacks were at our beck and call as we traveled from Los Angeles to The Hamptons for Trent’s 50th Birthday Extravaganza. I couldn’t believe I had been welcomed into his personal space, but Trent assured me he wanted the full picture of his grandeur captured so that the world would be reminded of his majesty.

Over the last twenty years, Trent has built a multi-million dollar empire. He has had success as an actor, winning two Emmys for his role in the mockumentary series “Not Another Reality Show Star.” He won a Grammy Award for his hit song “Eat the Boys,” is the best-selling author of “The Gay Agenda,” and has annual revenue exceeding $200 million from his lifestyle brand “Simply Fab.”

Trent is by far the most successful openly gay Black man in the world, with humble beginnings in Harlem, New York. I was eager to highlight his achievements and to capture how he has navigated his Blackness and queerness in a world that is oftentimes anti-both. But as I take in the online conversation surrounding Trent, I realize it would be irresponsible to capture his story without acknowledging the critique.

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While some criticism of Trent has swum gently beneath the surface over the years, it’s never been as visible as it is now.

Over the last twenty years, Trent has developed a cult-like following of “stans” who refer to themselves as “Phaggies”. They’ve been known for their vicious take-down of anyone who has questioned the star, but for the first time in twenty years, their power was being challenged, and the critique was taking up space.

“His queerness does not absolve him of misogynoir, and it is time we address Phaggtavious Trent and hold him accountable,” - @thefuckboykilla.

“We know he’s fab and fly, but why are we letting his blatant misogyny fly above our heads?” - @wakeitup

The conversation started when Trent insulted Kennedy Jones, a Black woman running for Governor of California.

When asked his thoughts on the gubernatorial candidate while at a charity event, Trent responded, “Darling, she doesn’t take care of her edges. How can I expect her to care for our beloved California?” before rolling his eyes and abruptly walking away.

The other top-spot candidate was Republican Bill Rich, who has popularized the slogan “Keep California Rich.” Trent’s negative comments on Jones stood out as an endorsement of Rich, who has had a history of supporting anti-Black and anti-LGBTQ policies. This sent the internet into a frenzy.

Throughout most of his career, Trent has made disparaging comments during interviews, and they’ve typically been hailed as legendary “reads,” laughed at, and turned into GIFs and memes on social media.

It never dawned on me, with my White middle-class upbringing, to further examine Trent and how he has used his platform. I’d only ever admired him for becoming so successful as a Black gay man. But was it time to look beyond the surface? Was I even allowed to do that, from my place of privilege?

We were living in a different time from the one that made Trent famous in the early 2000s. In recent years, political tensions were high, and people were finding fewer reasons to laugh—especially Black women and queer people whose human rights were consistently being threatened.

What Trent said about Kennedy Jones was a tipping point for many, unwilling to allow his antics to continue to go unaddressed.

As Trent continued what appeared to be a conversation with himself, I scrolled through my social media accounts. Although the criticism was growing, Trent’s most loyal phaggies were still putting up a fight.

The heaux has no edges, did father lie? - @themostfabphaggie

Notice everybody who has something to say about the King is ugly and broke- @itsphaggybaby

I’m not voting for no bitch who can’t protect her edges either. That’s a character flaw- @daughterofthephag

Give it up, Kennedy, you look like a man. -@thefabphag

“These petulant peasants are foaming at the mouth over my dragging of Kennedy and her homemade bob. They just don’t know her like I do. As a prosecutor, she sent more Black men to prison than Clinton in the 90s, all while going home to her fat white husband, who hires BBC porn stars so they can live out their plantation fantasy. She’s no Harriet Tubman. She’s no Sojourner Truth. She’s a fraud who puts sugar in her grits, and just like the bob on her head, I remain unmoved.”

“They’ll pay for their sins and be forced to remember that you are Father Phaggtavious. A trendsetter, a trailblazer, the top and the bottom. You are King of Kings and Queen of Queens,” Raymundo said. It’s almost like he was paid to simply affirm the star.

“Darling, I am far too fab to even be discussing the opinions of the broke and desolate. And if my phaggies don’t drag every single merciless soul who thought it safe to go against the king, they’ll suffer too. You will all suffer for your treason.”

“Yes, Father, I’ll activate the phaggies now. Don’t worry. They’ll handle it.” Raymundo said, as if he were preparing to deploy the troops.

“I’m used to criticism, you know,” Trent looked at me, his hazel eyes piercing through the shell of confidence I’d designed to sit in his presence. His tone was calmer than before, and he slowed down his rate of speech.

“It’s just that I’m more familiar with the criticism coming from the neanderthal world, your world, not my own. These children don’t want me canceled; they want me off my throne, and they will never live to see the day.”

Trent carried on while I continued taking notes. Did he just call me a neanderthal?

He looked like royalty in his caftan, on this private jet that hovered above a world he’s conquered.

He is the most fascinating person, I must say, strangely particular in how he holds full conversations with himself, and even replies as himself. I’d always thought his speech was a character he’d put on, but it stayed consistent. It was a mixture of a regional Harlem accent, synchronized with a 1940s mid-Atlantic accent, and a splash of a posh British accent.

The contrast between his hazel eyes and medium brown skin, paired with the fluidity of his gender expression, felt like art in motion. He’s in tune with his presence in ways unfamiliar to the average person. He also calls on your attention without words. It’s an energy you feel. I only hoped to capture his full essence.

“Since you’re here to cover my story, I’m going to tell it. And if there is even a thought misrepresented or a line I don’t like, you’ll deal with the consequences, dear. Now, are you ready for more Anderson?” Trent said before taking a sip of his champagne.

“It’s Peter, sir. Peter Woodward. And yes, I’m ready.”

“You look like an Anderson. I’ll call you, Andy. And you, you call me Father. Father Phaggtavious, darling.”

Be sure to read Episode 2: A Star Is Born

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They have no natural predators, hunt in packs, and sit at the top of the ocean’s food chain. With the ability to grow up to 32 feet long, they are far from the largest creatures of the sea, but this doesn’t stop them from dominating.

Recently, I read an article that covered a white woman exposing other white women to how to “bag a baller”, the big sharks of the sea. The rules shared read as a hoax, but are riddled with ugly truths.

I love the game of UNO, and so in this message, I’m throwing out a reverse and showing my sisters how to catch the true dominator of the patriarchal sea, not the shark, but the orca. Not the baller, but the league’s owner.

I want to preface this by saying, we all make choices in this life. Our consciousness, ethics, and values help us navigate those choices. They aren’t always perfect, but they are ours. Use your personal ethics and values as you navigate the advice I am about to give.

I know you’ll judge me, but if you do, this message was never for you. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to jump in the ocean and swim with dolphins.

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Here are my rules on how to lock down a wealthy white man:

Rule #1: “Get you an ugly wig”

• Wear the ugliest wig you can find. I mean one that sits three inches off your head. It needs to look like you snatched it off a mannequin at a beauty supply store and slapped it right on. Walk into an upscale hotel bar or country club with your head high, wig even higher, and I promise you’ll grab his attention.

Rule #2: “Be assertive, but also submissive”

• Wealthy white men understand their position at the top of the patriarchal food chain, but they know that their confidence is completely fabricated. They admire a Black woman’s natural confidence, and so you must remember to stand in it without apology. While they appreciate a Black woman’s confidence, you’re still swimming in the ocean of patriarchy, so knowing the act of submission will get you what you want. Although in bed, he wants to be dominated.

Rule #3: “Feed his ego”

• Wealthy white men are like children. Tell them how smart they are and that you believe in them. They want to feel like they’ve earned everything they have. You and I know that’s a lie, but if you want him, make him believe you believe in him. Demonstrate your cultural awareness, but don’t oversell your intelligence. He knows how easily you could dominate the sea. Don’t reveal your hand too quickly.

Rule #4: “Never mention Jamal”

• White men secretly hate white women, but their disdain for Black men is known. It’s not about penis size. You’d be surprised. It’s more so the fact that they know the potential that Black men have. They know what Jamal could become if they weren’t standing on his neck. Never mention Jamal. Don’t look at Jamal when you’re out in public, and be sure never to make Jamal feel like a threat to your relationship. A wealthy white man’s ego is fragile, and you don’t want to shatter it. This may all sound harsh, but Jamal doesn’t even think about you when he’s accumulated a certain level of wealth.

Rule #5: “Remember, you are the prize”

• Wealthy white men know that Black women are the prize. Carry yourself as such. Your presence is a siren song. It is really you who dominates the sea. Never lose that awareness.

If you follow these five rules, I guarantee you’ll lock down a wealthy white man. You can see it as reparations. You’ll be judged, but does the hate really matter if you’re flying above it on a private jet to Monaco?

I’m not here to teach you how to be the perfect feminist. There are brilliant writers and intellectuals who are doing that work exceptionally well.

I am here because I saw your frustration with “How to lock down an athlete,” and I wanted you to know that you, too, have options.

The power to capture the apex predator of the patriarchal sea, place it in your world, and build a floating cage around it lies in your hands.

I won’t share my name, out of fear of the judgment I know will follow. But you can call me, Jezebel.

And by the way, UNO out!

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Your performance of patriarchal white masculinity is killing us all.

When I wrote part one of “Are you N****S Cool?” I was contending with the boundless love I feel for Black people alongside the disappointment I felt in observing reactions to the deaths of Ashly Robinson, whose death Zanzibar police have ruled a suicide, and Dr. Cerina Fairfax, who was killed by her husband, former Virginia Lieutenant Governor Justin Fairfax.

Since writing part one on April 18, 2026, I have taken time to read more stories of Black women who have experienced violence from intimate partners in April, in most cases leading to their deaths, and I have carefully said their names out loud.

• On April 1, 2026, Coral Springs’ Vice Mayor, Nancy Metayer Bowen, was found dead in her home with three gunshots fired into her body. Her husband has been charged with premeditated murder.

• On April 5, 2026, Davonta Curtis, a Black transgender woman from Chicago, was beaten to death in her apartment. Her alleged killer, Deandre Bell, who, according to court documents, was Curtis’ on-again, off-again boyfriend, has been charged with first-degree murder.

• On April 6, 2026, Tammy McCollum, a minister at The Well Worship Center in Statesville, North Carolina, was fatally shot inside her home. Her husband, Eddie McCollum, has been charged with her murder.

• On April 21, 2026, in Shreveport, Louisiana, a Black man shot and killed eight children, including seven of his own, and critically injured two women, including his wife. Family members have said that the gunman was struggling with mental health problems and stressed about his relationship with his wife.

• In an article written by Geneva S. Thomas, published on Ebony, I learned of three additional Black women who were shot and killed by men they loved— Qualeshia “Saditty” Barnes, Victoria Alexander, and Barbara Deer.

Black women are being murdered by the Black men they love at higher rates than any other racial group, and their murders are being met with a lack of compassion and empathy.

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Taking the time to research the data on Black femicide, which I outlined in part one, allows me to view the outrage that is often expressed by Black women via social media platforms as urgent and necessary. It also inspires me to join them.

Understanding the current landscape helps me understand why there can be so many detailed reactions to what some may view as a simple celebrity breakup. On April 25, 2026, rapper Megan Thee Stallion announced her breakup with NBA player Klay Thompson.

In a statement posted to her story on Instagram, Meg alleged Thompson was cheating on her and grew “cold feet” around committing to a monogamous relationship. She also referenced being supportive of Thompson while enduring his “horrible mood swings and treatment” during basketball season.

After Meg’s post, the internet was set ablaze with a range of reactions, reflecting stark differences in perspective among men, women, and gender-expansive folks.

In what I perceive as an attempt to minimize the complexities of these conversations while silencing women’s valid concerns, some have suggested that people are “too invested in celebrity relationships.” I see that as a lazy take because people are thoughtfully unpacking the very complicated relationship dynamic between Black women and men with both nuance and clarity, and the conversation is necessary.

Centering these conversations around public figures gives people on a large scale access to hearing the very real concerns women have, and when you keep in mind the data that Black women are being killed by intimate partners at higher rates than any other racial group, it fully contextualizes their outrage.

Comments such as, “Y’all really invested, aint you?” are dismissive of the need to closely analyze the relationship dynamics between Black women and men, the conditions that are leading to violence against Black women, and the very few voices who are brave enough to speak out in advocacy of Black women and their right to live and experience healthy love.

While Meg didn’t explicitly state abuse was present in her relationship, the phrase “mood-swings” and the insinuation of emotional and psychological manipulation involved in “playing house,” but then cheating and growing “cold feet” around commitment to monogamy are all red flags.

For me, the conversation surrounding Meg and Thompson’s breakup is bigger than celebrity gossip or conversations around cheating; it is an opportunity to closely analyze red flags in relationships between Black women and men, and hopefully give as many women as possible the strength to do what Meg did and walk away, although as we’ve seen in the case of Dr. Cerina Fairfax, sometimes even walking away can be deadly.

Megan Thee Stallion, who has had a highly publicized experience of intimate partner violence, is often the source of outrage from men and male-centered women.

In 2022, rapper Tory Lanez was sentenced to 10 years in prison for assaulting Meg in 2020. Lanez, with whom Meg later admitted to having been intimate, was found guilty of assault with a firearm, illegal possession of a firearm, and negligent discharge of a gun.

There are people who vehemently believe Meg lied about being shot, but I won’t argue those details. The charges are public record.

Under posts commenting on Meg’s recent breakup, you can find “Tory Lanez defenders” commenting and proclaiming their support through statements such as, “Free Tory.”

It is my belief that the men committed to saying, “Free Tory,” are capable of killing you, and that the women making this statement would help them bury the evidence.

I say this because the outpouring of support for Lanez, in my perspective, feels more rooted in hatred of Black women than in belief in his innocence. Just as some are using this celebrity breakup to closely examine unhealthy relationship dynamics between Black men and women, others are using it as an excuse to openly convey their deeply internalized misogynoir.

Oftentimes, I ask myself, How is it possible that so many Black women are being harmed by Black men they know, and we aren’t discussing it? I never hear this topic discussed in the barbershop or on podcasts where unqualified men hold microphones and babble nonsense into the universe.

When I see the dismissive statements made by men online, or the reduction of Black women’s advocacy to “gender wars,” I am reminded of how it is possible.

In many ways, the dismissive tactics used by Black men in response to Black women’s advocacy and pain remind me of tactics used by white male bigots who work to silence the voices of Black liberation.

And that ain’t cool! So it brings me back to my original statement, and I say it with both love and urgency.

Dear Black men, your performance of patriarchal white masculinity is killing us all, including you.

When I ask, “Are You N****s Cool?” I am asking us to evaluate our behavior through a non-patriarchal, pro-Black lens to consider whether those actions are contributing to our collective healing or harm.

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“You got a fast car

I want a ticket to anywhere

Maybe we can make a deal

Maybe together we can get somewhere.”

-Tracy Chapman, Fast Car

Deep, methodical ticks of the clock hastened my heart’s beat as I moved like shadows through the dark and desolate hallway. The percussion of snoring that came from Pa’s bedroom urged my feet and eyes into a dance of moving forward while looking back.

I’ll never forgive myself if I stay.

It took one thought to bring my body to a lull, as I mustered up enough gumption to place a hand on Pa’s bedroom door and whisper goodbye. I knew he loved me, but even that didn’t replace the loneliness I felt within those four walls and the space outside of them.

The land back in Elias, Arkansas, was fertile—giver of life, but holder of grief that stretched for acres—a world with no new beginnings, just a cyclical end. Some nights, you could hear the souls who were enslaved here, and their descendants who were massacred right in the town’s church; their solemn hymns filled the atmosphere with gloom, and when their sorrow turned to rage, you could witness the sky ablaze. That was their reminder that, in Elias, all things eventually burned.

The elders warned that if you didn’t make it out by your 21st birthday, you were trapped on that land, just like those souls, wailing in the night. Although the soil was rich, the incessant poverty that ran between the Mississippi and White rivers either ejected or confined you. Over time, more people left than those who stayed, and I wanted to be among the folks who walked away.

All I’ve ever known was Elias, and the single-family home covered in brick veneer, built by my paw paw’s own hands in the 1930s—though I always felt it was made to house everyone but me. I didn’t fit there, in the place we called home, as my dreams of Hollywood stardom towered above its ceiling.

“Boy, if you don’t get yo’ head out them stars and tend to this land, we all gon’ starve,” my paw paw would say. He knew there was no hope for Pa, his first and only son. Pa spent most of his time tending to the bottle, so Paw Paw pushed really hard on me to work the land. I was his only hope.

When he wasn’t farming, my paw paw played the blues. In fact, blue was the first color I was introduced to, but my soul craved the rainbow. It didn’t have to come with a pot of gold at the end, just a promise that God would love me still.

When Paw Paw died, a rainbow sat in the sky as we buried him. It felt like it was there to remind me of all the colors I deserved to experience. The blues never quite did fit in my palette.

Leaving my pa, knowing his condition, was the most difficult thing I ever thought of doing, but if I stayed, the longing would devour me. He had Aunt Jean and Uncle Joe to hopefully make sure he didn’t drink himself dead, but I couldn’t allow him to keep me there. Pa never seemed to care about my dreams. I couldn’t expect him to, since he drank all his dreams away.

No longer conflicted by whether I should stay or go, I gently motioned down the stairs. I had only a prayer on my tongue and two hundred fifty dollars in my pocket, but my 21st birthday was in exactly three days, so I had to leave.

When I stepped outside, the night felt different, placid and still–safe enough to get lost in. I looked up the street, and there he was. Johnny King, the man whose big brown eyes made my heart race, but never too fast for him to catch. He was sitting in his carmine-red Chevrolet Chevette, which he called ‘Big Red.’

I’ve known Johnny all my life, but the first time we ever spoke in full was after I saw that rainbow the day we buried my paw paw. Everyone in town came to pay their respects, including Johnny, who embraced me and told me everything would be fine.

Johnny’s grandfather and mine played the blues together, but we were of two different worlds–me the nerdy theater kid with the drunken pa, and Johnny, the tall, dark, and handsome son of a pastor. Johnny was the boy all the girls wanted, and all the boys wanted to be.

We were both seventeen then, and it must’ve been the magic of that rainbow that led him to spend the rest of that evening with me. And right near the river, in the dead of night, our love was awakened. We shared dreams, stories, fears, and our very first kiss.

I looked back at the house my paw paw built just one last time before hopping in the passenger seat of Johnny’s car.

“We’re finally doing it, Johnny,” I gushed before kissing those plump, soft lips that always seemed to ease the tension in my jaw.

Johnny looked into my eyes and smiled as he placed his arm around my shoulder. The heat of our bodies felt tangible, like something we could wrap up and carry with us on our journey in case the night grew cold.

“We’re really doing this, Dream—just you and me. And once we pull off, ain’t no looking back. So I need you to tell me, are you sure?” He held eye contact, waiting for my response, but the smile that persisted on his face told me he knew what I would say.

“I’m sure, Johnny! Yes, I’m so sure. Let’s do this.”

I kissed his soft lips again and rubbed my hands across his knuckles to show him how sure I was. The taste of Johnny’s tongue on mine always felt like freedom.

I remember how it felt to wonder if I’d ever kiss Johnny again.

Almost a year ago, he joined the military, leaving me behind with nothing but these acres of farmland and heartbreak. He had no choice; it’s what his pa expected him to do, and when your pa is a hard-working, respectable man of God, you do as he says, careful not to bring shame to your family.

In the time he was away, the thought of losing my Johnny to that senseless Iran-Iraq war haunted me. I wrote love letters twice a week and prayed he’d receive them all the way in Basra, but I never heard back. I waited, hoping he would return to me and we would build a life together. Somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, or maybe a place like View Park or Baldwin Hills, where the Black stars I looked up to as a boy resided.

After so much waiting with no updates, I started to lose hope and made a plan to leave. Without the man I shared my first kiss with, nothing was keeping me in Elias.

Not even my pa was enough to keep me there. His drinking ways drove my ma mad when I was just a boy. They say she couldn’t take it anymore and decided to fly away, right in her sleep. I was nine years old when she flew away, and I’ve been taking care of him ever since.

I loved my pa, but I never loved anyone like I loved Johnny King. He made the air around these parts easier to breathe. The suffocating heat of the summer sun always seemed to relax in the presence of his smile. His straight white teeth, in contrast to his rich dark skin, always found a way to me, no matter what obstacles separated us.

With him gone, I had no reason to stay. But when I got close enough to leaving, something pulled me back. Maybe my soul knew Johnny was returning.

While stationed overseas, he was discharged after being outed. He told me he confided in someone who positioned himself as a friend, but eventually exposed his secret. It’s how his family found out, and their response made him feel twice as rejected.

They left him with a little money, let him keep Big Red, but told him he had to leave their home.

It was easy to believe the story that it was “just a friend” who outed him, because Johnny and I never lied; we knew each other too well.

The story of why Johnny was back became the talk of the town when he returned, and for the first time, he understood the loneliness I felt.

On Fridays, he’d come to see me on my shift working at the local theater, where he had the same request– popcorn, extra butter, and a promise that I’d join him for the next movie when my shift was done. I always did.

There was nothing more romantic than watching films like ‘Two Moon Junction’, ‘The Vanishing’, and ‘Twins’ together.

Johnny would hold my hand and say, “My dream, this is gonna be you who we’re both watching one day, you know that? The whole world is gonna watch!”

And as soon as we got back to his car and away from the crowd, he’d kiss me, soft and slow–the kind of kiss that brought affirmations to life and made wishes come true.

I beamed whenever Johnny affirmed me. He knew how much I wanted it to be me on that big screen. My only dream was to become a Hollywood actor. He said his only dream was me, so that’s what he called me.

He was my Johnny; I was his dream.

Like me, Johnny grew up around the blues. He was taught how to play the guitar, piano, and harmonica, and loved playing his instruments, but said it was only a hobby and that the love I had for acting was something different, a feeling he only felt in my company.

“Johnny, this time, there’s no separating us. No war or expectations, just you and me, and this fast car of yours,” I said as Johnny drove off into the night. We had the windows down as we howled. We were finally free!

In California, our love could be lived out loud while our dream came true. That’s what we both believed, with every particle of hope inside of us. And that was a dream we were both holding on to.

“Dream, you know that song you won’t stop singing? I figured I can’t take my guitar out and play it for you while I drive, but I did pick up the tape.” He pushed the tape in, and Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car began to play. It was our favorite song released that year, though it made us both cry.

“It’s gonna be a long drive. Sing to me, Dream!”

We both sang the lyrics over and over before playing other tapes to carry us on our journey to Los Angeles, where I would become a star.

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Our first few weeks in Los Angeles felt like sunshine. It didn’t matter that Johnny and I were living out of his car and refreshing ourselves in gas station bathrooms and motels. We had the sun, the beach, each other, and the promise of the California sky.

We both quickly picked up work, waiting tables, and eventually found a small apartment to call home. On weekends, Johnny took on musical gigs. He played live music at weddings, in jazz bars, and even in churches. Still, he found time to drive me to auditions, act as my scene partner when I rehearsed scripts, and cut my hair so I could feel like somebody.

Johnny meant it when he said I was his dream, and so even my dream became his. Whenever we had free time, we would drive all around town, taking in all it had to offer. I wished that we could hold on to those moments for a lifetime.

It didn’t take long for the California sun to dull and for the Hollywood sign to no longer bring childlike wonder and awe. In more ways than one, LA was like Elias– filled with disappointment, but dressed in palm trees and hills we could climb but never afford to live in.

Over time, Johnny’s gigs started to keep him away from home. I supported his gigs and wanted to show up for Johnny as he’d always shown up for me, but he was quick to remind me that music was only a job. For me, acting was a dream. I craved being able to bring words in a script to life. I felt like somebody when I was on stage, and I longed for what it would feel like to be seen on the big screen. I’d been dreaming of it all my life.

I knew the road wouldn’t be easy, but nothing in Elias could have prepared me for the level of rejection I felt in Hollywood. Most doors felt closed to me. I wasn’t only auditioning to play different characters; there was a real-life expectation that I would play a different version of myself–a straighter, less country, more confident version.

Whenever I was alone, I let myself cry as I carried the disappointment of having failed us both. We came to this city for me and my dream, and that dream was starting to feel further away than before.

I could tell Johnny had been drinking more. He was spending whole nights away from me, too afraid of how I’d react to him coming home inebriated. After seeing what it did to my pa, I avoided alcohol like some avoided another substance that seemed to be popular in this industry.

It was everywhere, shoved in my face far more than any real opportunity. There were times Johnny chose to indulge; the alcohol always made it easier for him to say yes.

I didn’t want to see us ruined by the same poison that drove Ma and me away from my pa, and I hated the distance growing between us.

One night, I sat for almost an hour alone as I waited for Johnny to come home and eat dinner. It was a feast of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and okra I’d prepared to remind us of home. When he arrived, I could tell he’d had a few drinks, not too many, but enough for me to notice. I couldn’t smell it on him, but I knew that twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dream. I got caught up at the nightclub talking about music. I even met an agent you might be interested in meeting.”

I pointed to where Johnny could get his dinner, and continued eating mine. We both ate in silence. There were no words for me to offer, only dismay.

“Dream, what’s racing through your mind? You can’t even look at me,’’ Johnny said while finishing the last of his mashed potatoes.

I looked up and into his eyes, where I held my gaze. I could see it in his eyes; he knew this was the last straw. I slowly parted my lips to speak.

“I can’t look at you because I don’t even know who you are. Who is this person that I’m looking at? It’s not my Johnny. The reliable man. The only man in this town I could trust. It can’t be him, and if I can’t have him, I won’t settle for whoever the hell is standing in front of me. So where is he? Tell me? Where is Johnny?”

At that point, I was holding his face with both hands and staring directly into his eyes, once bright with hope, now dimmed by reality.

“I know, Dream, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just, I love how it feels not to feel. You know? Don’t you ever want not to feel? The pain or disappointment? The rejection? The past calling you back as you try to look ahead? I just got so sick and tired of feeling it all,” he confessed, as he massaged my shoulders and held eye contact, one tear roaming down his remorseful face.

We all had vices to numb the pain. For me, it was the relentless pursuit of my acting career. Although I loved it, I knew part of my obsession was how it made me feel important, how it made me feel seen, like I never did away from the stage or Johnny’s touch.

For Johnny, the vice was alcohol and partying. Who was I to judge him, or my pa, for taking the pain away, best they could?

My ma flew away to stop feeling the pain. You could say I did the same. We both left Pa behind, but my heart wouldn’t let me do Johnny the same.

“Johnny, we all need to feel something. Even when it hurts, we’ve got to feel it. To know we’re alive and capable of bruising. It’s meant for us to feel; that’s why it’s there. You don’t have to feel the hurt alone; that’s why you have me. But I was hoping you could stay away from that bottle, Johnny. You know how I feel; you know what it did to my family. And as much as I love you, I’m not scared of leaving. I’ve proven that already.”

Johnny placed his hands on my head, his warm body against mine; it felt just like the night we left Elias. His heart raced as wetness poured from his face to mine.

“I just didn’t know it would feel like this, Dream. And how is it that you’re holding it all together in an industry that refuses to see your talent the way I do? How can they not see you shine? As if you aren’t the brightest star in this Hollywood sky. How can they not see what I see?”

The wetness continued to fall, from both his face and mine. I’d dreamt of stages, and Hollywood sets where I could show my love for the craft. I’ve dreamt of red carpets and magazine covers. I’ve dreamt of film festivals and the red steps at Cannes, fast cars driving through Malibu, and my own star on Hollywood Boulevard. I’ve dreamt of being in so many places, but at that moment, I knew I was in the safest place I could be. There, in Johnny’s arm.

He had a touch that felt like hydration to my skin. When he kissed me, it quenched my longing. Tonight was special. He didn’t toss me on the bed or take the frustration of the day out on me, although I loved it when he did. Tonight, he kissed me. Softly. Slowly. Like nothing else mattered. He rubbed his hands and tongue across the whole of my skin, slowly stopping at my neck before whispering in my ear, “You’re my dream, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to go back to being your Johnny.”

It was the night of the premiere for the film “Nobody’s Blues,” about a young man from the Deep South whose life was forever changed upon his return home from the Vietnam War. The film was highly anticipated, and after over a decade in LA, I was making my big-screen debut as the lead actor.

“Jamie King, you are about to be the biggest star in Hollywood. And I’m so glad we found just the perfect lady to walk by your side,” my manager, Joey Higgins, said while admiring how well my custom tuxedo fit my frame.

“Yes, Joey! They are all gonna be in awe watching the magic between my love and me on that red carpet. I can’t wait to see you there,” I said before walking to my limousine to meet my date.

We arrived at the red carpet, and faces dropped upon seeing me kiss my lover in front of the cameras, and for the world to see. It wasn’t Nellie Monroe, the hot young model taking the fashion world by storm, but instead, my Johnny. Johnny King, the man who saw that moment for me before I could see it for myself and stood by my side to see it through.

It had to be him accompanying me on that red carpet.

I didn’t care what the tabloids would say or how the public would react. If I never got another call in Hollywood, I didn’t mind. I had my Johnny at my side.

When the film wrapped, the audience roared with applause. They were all there, cheering for me, Hollywood’s newest star. The love brought tears to my eyes and joy deep down in my soul.

“My sweet boy Jamie, I can’t believe you did it,” my pa said as he pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead.

“I did, Pa, and I’m just so thankful you’re here to see it with me.” We embraced for a few more moments before exiting the premiere.

After the premiere, Johnny and I both wanted to dodge the industry parties and fake pleasantries. We knew we were the talk of the town, so we decided to let the people talk.

“Hey, Dream, I mean, Jamie King, let’s go for a drive—just you, me, and big red. We can show this town that it’s you and me, Dream. And that ain’t changing.”

“Sounds good to me, Johnny King.”

We had our driver drop us off at our new home in Baldwin Hills. We said goodnight to Pa, then Johnny and I both hopped into Big Red, the same car that had driven us from the flat farmland of Elias to the California Hills.

We drove through every part of the city, with windows down and ‘Fast Car’ playing at the highest volume. We ended our night in Malibu, where we reminded the stars we had arrived.

They say the whole town of Elias had a celebration the day I won an Oscar for my role in Nobody’s Blues. The celebration was so big that it freed those trapped souls, lifting the weight of their grief off the town. Johnny and I have been going back at least twice a year now. We bring Jared and Jordan, our eight-year-old twins, to remind them of where we’ve been and what’s possible when you follow a dream.

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Author’s Note: Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’ is one of my favorite songs of all time. It’s one of those songs I fell in love with as a child because of the melody, but as I grew, so did my understanding of its message. It brought me great heartbreak to think about the cyclical nature of poverty and the deep longing to escape. I sought to reimagine that story in a way that captured queer love and had a happy ending. That’s the beauty in writing: we get to choose how it ends, giving us hope that maybe in life, we’ll be able to do the same.

No, seriously. What’s not clocking? All across social media, I am witnessing Black women having to explain Black femicide and misogynoir to Black men as if they are talking to five-year-olds.

The disinclination to listen, while boldly sympathizing with abusers, has me deeply concerned. So here I am using the last of my patience to expose the hypocrisy in much of the online discourse, while encouraging Black men to do some deep reflection around what it really means to protect Black women.

When the mysterious death of influencer Ashly Robinson, also known as Ashlee Jenae, was announced last week, a narrative from some Black men on the internet quickly formed, warning Black women against interracial dating.

Actor and Comedian Bill Bellamy issued the warning:

While Bellamy’s comment can be masked as genuine concern, it avoids addressing the most immediate and direct threat to Black women in America–Black men.

The murder of Black women in the United States is a public health crisis.

According to Shatema Threadcraft, Associate Professor of Gender and Sexuality Studies at Vanderbilt University:

Black femicide is defined as the misogynistic killing of Black women because they are Black women, or the misogynistic killing of Black women because they are women, facilitated by structural racism as it intersects with a variety of other oppressive conditions.

Femicide is a global crisis. Across the world, women and girls are being killed by men.

The data shows us that Black women in the U.S. are killed by their intimate partners at higher rates than any other racial group and that over 90 percent of Black women are murdered by someone they know.

54.2 percent of Black female victims were wives, common-law wives, ex-wives, or girlfriends of their offenders.

The majority of homicides of Black women are intra-racial, as Black women are the least likely demographic to date or marry outside of their race. This means Black men are killing Black women at a higher rate than any other racial group.

For Black people who love and care about Black people, the data on Black femicide is alarming. For Black people who only love and care about Black men, this data is insignificant.

Is it possible to have Bill Bellamy read these statistics and refilm his warning to Black women? If we are going to show concern, let’s keep it real and present the facts.

• Is there a denial of this information out of fear that you too might one day contribute to the statistic?

• Is it possible you aren’t exposed to the information? I mean, literacy rates are quite low, and misinformation is high.

• Or is it that you don’t care about the data because the victims we are discussing are Black women and girls?

An analysis of racial disparities in U.S. homicide rates by researchers at Columbia University Irving Medical Center and Columbia Mailman School of Public Health found that Black women are more likely than white women to be killed by guns.

Dr. Cerina Fairfax was recently shot and killed by her husband, Virginia’s ex-Lt. Gov. Justin Fairfax, who then killed himself in their home. Police were alerted after receiving a call from one of their teenage children.

Dr. Fairfax was a mother and an accomplished dentist who ran her own family dental practice, Dr. Fairfax & Associates Family Dentistry. She was said to have deeply loved her work and to have taken pride in serving the community of Fairfax, Virginia.

She filed for divorce in 2025 and was recently granted primary physical custody of their two children, with Justin being ordered to move out of their family home by 30 April. She was leaving a marriage that no longer served her and was ready to embrace the future, but her killer took that opportunity.

I’m not seeing the same reactions from Black men to Dr. Fairfax’s death as we saw in response to Ashly Robinson’s death. There is no mystery around Dr. Fairfax’s death. We know her Black male husband murdered her. So why aren’t we having this conversation?

Instead of prioritizing the necessary conversation around Black femicide, some men on the internet have found ways to sympathize with Justin Fairfax. I have seen posts in which men have shared fond memories of Justin while minimizing Dr. Fairfax, a victim of a public health concern that receives too little attention.

In a now-deleted Instagram post, media personality Roland S. Martin shared his condolences. His post immediately received backlash as the perception was that it sympathized with the abuser in this scenario. He did not welcome the criticism and pushed back in his comments. He has insisted that the post was deleted only because of his fraternity’s social media policy.

In the post, Martin shared his reaction to news of the murder-suicide:

He then went on to say:

Martin is a trained journalist, author, and commentator who chose to use his social media to advocate for the mental health of Cerina’s killer. Other men also shared their memories of Justin Fairfax while speaking with honor of his name.

Black men’s mental health is incredibly important, but this isn’t the time. This also isn’t the time for brotherhood if that brotherhood doesn’t require you to show up for Black women.

When met with criticism on his post, Martin was only able to pull out the use of the n-word, saying, “I despise the n-word from anyone.”

That is the very post that prompted me to ask the question, “Are you n****s cool?” The petty part of me decided to name this post after that question because I am genuinely concerned.

Knowledge of the statistics around Black femicide tells us we must center these conversations around the Black women who are being killed.

Black women have been speaking up for Black women; they also consistently show up for Black men, but Black men, where yall at?

If you love Black people, that must include all of us. Your allegiance to patriarchy can’t be stronger than your love of Black people— including Black women, femmes, and gender expansive people.

And if it is, my n****, you ain’t cool.

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The video prompted me to explore more content from Miami-based lifestyle influencer Ashley Jenae. I couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty. I always cheer loudly for the chocolate girls living lives that bring them joy.

I didn’t take specific notice of her fiancé, beyond the obvious. He was a white man. While I am an advocate for Black love, my desire to see Black women loved surpasses that expectation. I didn’t have proof that what I was seeing was love, but in full transparency, I wasn’t there for the couple. I was there for Ashlee.

Two nights ago, while scrolling social media, I saw a post from Savannah Britt, a public relations specialist and CEO at The Brittprint Agency & The Fragrance Affair. My heart sank.

Britt posted on her X account:

“We need justice for my friend Ashlee Jenae, who was found dead in her hotel in Tanzania, and her fiancé Joe McCann claims she hung herself. Anyone who knows Ash knows she would NEVER commit suicide. We need answers now!”

This wasn’t the update I expected to see about the pretty Black woman with chocolate brown skin I recently came across on Instagram. Britt’s post quickly garnered attention as the suspicion and devastation settled in my gut.

Why would a woman who just celebrated her birthday, who was just proposed to, kill herself?

People across social media, including those who knew Ashlee, were grappling with this information in ways similar to mine.

Here are a few comments that were reposted by Britt:

• I worked with Ashlee and she would never. Justice for Ashlee.

• Spoke to this angel recently…This is genuinely heartbreaking. This doesn’t make sense. We need answers.

• Ain‘t no way she hung herself. That white man is definitely on BS.

• She was murdered.

I was particularly struck by Britt’s claim that McCann, Ashlee’s fiancé, said she hung herself. The layers of racial trauma that I tried to suppress when looking at Ashlee’s initial proposal video were being hurled from my gut as my stomach ached for Ashlee, her friends, and her family.

According to The Sunday Guardian, Joe McCann has an estimated net worth of $45 million dollars. He is a hedge fund manager and the founder, CEO, CIO, and solo managing GP of Asymmetric Financial.

He is rich and white, and Ashlee’s story is partially in his hands. That terrifies me.

In a statement that has now been released by Ashlee’s family, they expressed suspicion and a need for clarity around her death. In the letter, the 31-year-old lifestyle influencer is referenced by her real name, Ashly Robinson.

The letter states Robinson was found unconscious in her villa and rushed to a local hospital, and that her death was confirmed hours later. The family said they are devastated but are placing their trust in officials in Zanzibar and working closely with them during an active investigation.

Details surrounding Robinson’s death are unconfirmed, and the family asks that we treat information that hasn’t been provided by them as unverified.

What truly resonated with me was how the family described Ashly as being vibrant and full of life. That’s how I saw her when I came across her page two weeks ago. Now that life is gone, we need answers.

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There has not yet been an official statement from McCann, who Robinson first posted on her Instagram on November 3, 2025, saying “365 down. Here’s to forever.”

Officials from the United States and Tanzania have also not released any statements.

Across social media platforms, people are demanding justice for Robinson. I felt compelled to write about her unfortunate death to amplify her story. While an active investigation is said to be underway, I believe it is important to make enough noise to show we care and that the lives of Black women matter.

While there are many posts online that express deep concern for Robinson, others express resentment, displeasure, and, I’d argue, misogynoir in how they discuss the matter.

There have been previous comments allegedly made by Robinson that have resurfaced and are being used to rationalize why there would be a lack of empathy for her death. Some have even expressed that she thought her situation was better because she was with a white man, and they are using suspicions around Robinson’s death as a cautionary tale about choosing white men over Black men.

When I posted on Threads that there are many reasons to advocate for Black love, but this isn’t necessarily one of them, because Black women aren’t safe around men, not even Black men, I was met with vitriol.

Reactions to my post calling out the intra-racial homicide of Black women included:

• Y’all love the colonizers more than black men, and it’s sad

• Stop bending over for the white man.

• You’re bringing black men up for what reason?

• Black women were all over IG glamorizing their relationship with this white man like he was some savior. Like he had a one-up on black men. Turns out he’s actually the devil in disguise.

If it is true that Robinson felt safer or more important with a white man, then I think we are all losers here. While harm caused to Black bodies at the hands of white men can never be dismissed, it is also damaging to minimize or overlook the harm caused by Black men.

If you are considering this story a cautionary tale, who exactly should Black women be warned about?

Research shows Black women are disproportionately murdered by Black men in intimate partner violence-related homicide, and this is why I brought Black femicide to the conversation. It is not to disparage Black men, but to present the facts and hold us accountable.

According to the Violence Policy Center:

• In 2020, Black females were murdered at a rate nearly three times as high as white females. 91% of the homicides of Black females were intra-racial.

• African American women are disproportionately impacted by intimate partner violence (IPV)- related homicide. They reflect the second-highest prevalence rates and experience the highest rates of murder resulting from IPV victimization. (Violence Policy Center, 2020)

• African American women are more likely than women of other racial and ethnic groups in the United States to be murdered by their intimate partner. (Violence Policy Center, 2020)

So, who exactly are Black women safe around? A common rebuttal to my statement was that most women are murdered intra-racially. I want to reiterate that there is a heightened risk of intimate partner homicide for Black women, who are being murdered by their Black male partners.

This is the quiet part we don’t want to say out loud. The dirty laundry we don’t want to expose. But I think it’s necessary. Just as Mamie Till’s decision to hold an open casket viewing outraged thousands and sparked a call to action that reignited the Civil Rights Movement, we must do the same by revealing a public health crisis that is largely affecting Black women.

This is not to be divisive or shift the suspicion from the conversation about white men and the harm they cause, but to put a spotlight on patriarchy and the ways women are harmed by all men.

While these critical conversations are happening, I want to reiterate that we do not yet have confirmation on the cause of death and that right now the discourse is based on speculation.

What we do have are memories Robinson left behind and a duty to honor her life and show that it mattered.

I am thinking of Ashly, her family, and friends, and thankful for the details they are sharing in honor of her life.

Six-time Grammy award-winning songwriter, producer, and artist, Derrick Milano, a friend of Robinson, shared the following:

I’ve met a lot of people in my life, but not so many with a genuine spirit as yours. All of your family and friends love you, and we’re all gonna fight for you and keep your name alive and share with the world the Ashlee we all know and love because we all know that’s what you would do for us.

I am keeping a close eye on this case and demanding clarity and justice. Rest peacefully, Ashly.

Disclaimer: The information in this article is based on available public sources. I do not claim anything.

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It only took those words to expose the poor infrastructure of levees I’d built from trauma, avoidance, disappointment, and melancholy. It’s been almost a decade since the breach, and I’m still rebuilding.

I imagine the first man in any person’s life to love them should be their father, but I have never known that kind of love. It has never shown up to teach me valuable life lessons, protect me, or show that I’m worth loving. It just left me in the world with a last name I can spell, but not understand.

That kind of absence from someone who created me makes it easier to believe in God.

After your father, I imagine the next man in a person’s life who should love them is someone from their village. Someone close enough to be trusted with your presence. But I don’t know that kind of love either. That person in my village, who was trusted to protect me, abused me instead.

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It’s been almost a decade since I stood in a hospital lobby waiting to learn the fate of a loved one. It was then that a family member, frustrated with my decision not to speak to or acknowledge my abuser, said those words to me.

“I know what your problem is. You’ve never been loved by a man.”

I thought it was a dig at my sexuality, but it was stated with sincerity. An admission, pouring over like the Mississippi River. It was an acknowledgment that all the men in my life failed me, and the pain left me numb.

As I processed those words, I started to feel again. It was the first moment of openly accepting that I was hurt by all the men placed in my life to protect me, and that any love I had given was unreciprocated.

Those words encouraged me to reflect on how my family dynamic was showing up in my love life, or lack thereof.

The first man I ever felt a romantic love for saw me as an object. I was soft then. Delicate and open to experiencing a different form of love from a man. I wrote the story of that love and shared it without fear, but the book I wrote was one he did not finish. And that shattered me.

I found myself falling into a series of unrequited love affairs because the absence of love was most familiar. Eventually, I grew cold.

When it comes to love, I’ve been a believer, a nonbeliever, and everything in between. I’ve even accepted that maybe romantic love isn’t for me and that my truest love is writing.

I’ve lived with that thought for some time now, but the book I am writing is slowly changing the plot of my own life. It didn’t start this way, but I am officially writing a romance novel.

This was never my plan, but the characters are in control. As I fall in love with my characters and build a world around them that affirms their love, I am beginning to see the possibilities for myself as well.

The process of writing has been cathartic. I am more open and vulnerable than I’ve ever been. The more I let down my walls, the easier it is for the writing to flow.

Dare I say it, that my characters have inspired me to love? They’re softening me, reminding me of who I used to be when there was a glimpse of hope that all the love I poured out would pour back into me.

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Author’s Note: Being vulnerable is difficult for me. Even after therapy. Even as I heal. But what I thought was writer’s block was only unaddressed trauma waiting to be released. So now I’m letting it all flow. And I’m fucking terrified.

With love,

Na’Jee