So this entity I have to deal with, it' s like a collective consciousness of denial fragments, sort of repository of bad programming that has become self aware, it is called Mindset. We are participating in one of its programming - this reality.

"I once was an Architect of Life. Now, Death may finally have me as its consort," said Michael aloud as he looked at his reflection in the mirror as he held a butcher knife in his hand. His wrist was bleeding. He wasn' t sure how long he had been standing in the bathroom.

"I want to see death on my face," he mumbled. His face was shadowed giving it a half moon appearance as he looked at his reflection weeping. Half a face seemed reptilian; the other side was twisted like a road going down the left side of a mountain.

He felt dizzy and fell to the bathroom floor. Moments later regaining some balance and composure, he scooted over to the tub, leaned against it, and stretched his arm over the tub. The sound of blood dripping in the tub sounded like a thumping sound. Each drop seemed to carry a heartbeat in it.

The voice that came out Michael' s wound spoke, “Why won' t you look at me?"

Was it wind rushing from the deep cut in Michael' s wrist? Or was it the voices of his selves calling for his breath to give them life? Or was it just his blood flowing freely and the hallucinations of a dying man?

Looking at his body propped up against the bathtub in a puddle of blood, Michael realized his former physical body no longer contained his consciousness. He was floating above his body. This reminded him of one of those stories you read about in those newspapers with the sensational headlines that you find at grocery checkout lane about near death experiences.

As Michael' s human consciousness drifted farther and farther from contact with his body, he saw the knife lying in a pool of blood. He was startled that he could hear the butcher knife lamenting, “I am sorry. I was only having fun. I didn' t mean to push you over the edge."

Death had pulled Michael from his body as the first veil of remembrance lifted his body and it started to become a blur to his senses. Michael witnessed no light, no angels singing, no relatives or friends leading him anywhere. There was only the sensation of cold hands pulling him into a downward spiral. He had this image of his mouth bandaged. His body appeared wrapped in linen. He was mummified. The face of a dog-man crossed his vision. He remembered from stories that he read about Egyptian mythology that this was Anubis who would help Souls crossover.

Michael had obtained his death wish. He was about to experience a great mystery.

A voice pulled his attention.

"The Bardo presents Michael, in his continuous One Man-Woman show"Dark Diva."

The sound of roaches applauding is heard as a spotlight comes upon a solitary figure standing in a pool of light. His arms are stretched out as if nailed to a cross. The sound of thunder is heard. Michael looks up to what seems to be an eye hovering above him, then a wound like a slit in the sky and then it fades.

"Even in this life, I am still a whore of the heavens. I' m tired of being a rest stop for the dead! Every man, every demon and want-be-a-god and fallen angels are always asking, “Why won' t you look at me?"

He drops the Messiah pose and begins strutting across the stage like a cat marking its territory. His audience of roaches would comment later,"Chile, this Dark Diva peed for that performance."

"My grandmother use to say,"Every time you think about somebody, they always show up."

Did you hear my thoughts Father? Remember the first time you showed up, my trade had just left, I dozed off with his cum still on my thighs then I felt someone sitting on my bed. My heart stopped. Knew my last John for the night had left. I thought, oh god, I' ve been cast in a horror movie. Every scene I didn' t want to imagine, I imagined. Then I was touched. I knew it was you. You' re dead and still dreaming of me. I don' t like what you did. I was too young. Did you see a sign over my head that said ‘Enter and Sign In Please?' Now, every John that touches me is just another you. In this dream Father, I am standing at the top of the stairs. It is dark. Heavy breathing swims through the darkness. Footsteps approach me. The only light is the light that radiates from my body. "Help me mother. Help me!" Something pulls at me. I am falling down the stairs. You are there. You are naked.

 

The stranger smiled and said,"I will be gentle."

In times when the night life was beyond my reach, I sat in a closet. The closet was like an absent womb where I' ve often sat humming a nursery rhyme.

My mother once found me there. I told her I was a Christed One in a manger. She gave me a hug and sent me to my room.

Some man I didn' t know gave me a quarter, a pat on the head and told me that a Christed One doesn' t cry, sit in dark closets and have empty pockets.

I didn' t want to believe him.

In my room, I drew a circle and called it Father. At night I' d lay there and think about my circle, momma and me without the men with the quarters but my nights were often disturbed when I' d hear momma laying in the next room crying,"be gentle."

I wanted to cry out, I wanted momma to know she had a circle too.

Strangers caressed me, I sighed as expected and strangers whispered,"I will be gentle."

 

Michael felt his consciousness drifting past a hologram of Angel' s name hanging in the mist flashing like a neon sign in a bar. Michael attempted to use Angel' s name as an anchor. He thought if he focused on Angel' s name he would get a sense of being somewhere, being remembered, having a form he could consciously understand. He felt webbed into a fear of being dissipated into nothing since he was still hanging onto his human identity. Where was Anubis to guide him through this? Would he float in this nothingness forever?

"Angel, Angel." His name became a mantra reverberating inside Michael' s consciousness. It was a strange sensation. It was his voice but he had no control over it as it kept reciting Angel' s name over and over again as if it was a word of power.

Pieces of a snapshot of Angel, who started out as a trick, fell like salvia from what Michael imagined as a mouth.

Angel was a white boy visiting black life and was supposed to be only casual bar trade. Eating the snapshot of Angel before he cut his wrist, was a mad intent of keeping Angel inside anyway possible. Somehow he thought he could manufacture Angel within himself. Black bar trade knew him first as Alex, then Angel. His real name was not available. Angel often believed he soared above others. Black trade would always aspire for his heavenly embrace. Michael felt wrapped in Angel' s name as if it were wings wrapped around him. Eating that snapshot was such a futile attempt to keep Angel' s image inside. He still fell from his embrace.

He attempted to force his attention toward the voice but could not. Don' t think of Angel anymore, he thought. "I am dead. So now what? Am I hell bound? Or going to become like one of those lost souls stuck between the living and the dead?"

A remembrance came through of Angel' s fingers tracing kisses on Michael' s face; of Angel' s kisses dripping into his mouth.

Michael heard another victim' s voice from within, it was still him, though he had no conscious control over it,"As he prepared to penetrate me, he called me names binding my spirit to his body. These foul names like bitch, black daddy," placed me in a mindset. I thought I had to act like this to get his attention, to be with him physically. This was his choosing to know me as a sex object. He always said that his main purpose in life was to obtain as much black dick his ass could handle and black ass that would spread for him. I twisted, turned and lamented when his sex entered me. I understand now with him, I had no voice. I was only a dark canvas where he painted his semen pictures.

Michael wanted to shed a tear as he listened to himself speak. He still had no body. He felt himself drifting in a dark space. Sometimes he sensed streaks of light flashing within him like lightning. There was a comfort in thunderstorms he felt as a child. Now he wouldn' t hear the rain, wouldn' t curl up under a blanket, wouldn' t hear the rain on the roof. He drifted. The blackness seemed like a thick mass.

There was another streak of light like lightning flashing.

Flashback.

Why didn' t the sound of the ocean drown out those words"We didn' t mean for it too happen" were the words playing over and over again in Michael' s mind as he sat with Angel at Point Lobos Beach. It was after midnight. They were sitting on a blanket that Angel kept in the trunk of his car. Michael first impression when Angel opened the trunk was that Angel is always prepared for sex. There was a canvas bag that was open, showing condoms, lubricant even an oversized dildo black in color. Several bikini briefs, an obvious change of clothes. Michael knew not to say anything. They never had papers on each other nor pretended it was a monogamous relationship. It was sex except when Roland, his roommate, came into the picture.

Angel recanted his version of the story. "I had smoked a joint. So, when I' m high, I am a horn dog."

Michael wished the stars would pull a blanket over his head so that he wouldn' t have to hear Angel' s confession. Veil me in ignorance again he thought so that his excuses will nullify the pain. But the pain lingered as he simmered in the anticipated embrace. He still wanted the kiss of an aborted reconciliation, the slight touch of body in an attempt to make a bridge to passion. The casual glances didn' t linger because neither wanted to register the hurt and so Michael cursed Angel in his mind while he imagined his mouth chewing memories with a bitter after taste.

Michael wanted to carve their name in the sand with his fingers as if it was their grave marker. He thought let me just bury our love here, make it immortal. Let lovers come here and worship at our grave. At least this moment will be ours forever. As his fingers started writing their names, Angel leaned over and erased the writing with his hand. His excuse was he wanted Michael' s undivided attention.

The moon seemed to orchestrate the stars into a blanket of eyes, prying eyes weeping and holding stories of Michael' s life. He felt he was on view to the universe. They were watching his life like a soap opera drama. He would get an Emmy for tonight' s performance in best dramatic actor in a long running series called"A Dark Diva, A Starseed Awakening."

He wanted to close the eyes of the universe from this moment. He felt the dead watching. Strange he thought he would have such notions at this moment. It had those strange sensations when he felt someone' s issues were shredding his life, his emotional state, and his sexual demands. He wondered if the universe took delight in his demise from another relationship. He once said to trade that each time he had sex, he felt like a part of him had died. He wondered how much sex it would take to be empty and experience the final moment.

Michael turned away from Angel' s words. He would count the stars thinking his number was up there somewhere. The final number, the solution to the equation of life and he would resolve himself of this human drama. He would appear no longer in someone' s life story, someone' s drama. Angel' s hands touched his knee and brought him back to Angel' s explanation.

"I can' t explain why I have this great need to fuck, to be fucked. But it' s like breathing. I need to breathe!"

Michael said to himself this was a soap opera moment but no matter how he attempted to make the words not sounded script, cliché or borrowed, they had a sense, a texture of a scene being played over and over again. Even the setting seemed borrowed from a movie he had watched late at night as a child when the family was asleep and he imagined his lives were those flickering images on the television screen.

Michael found himself interjecting a defense for his stance with his relationship to Angel. He thought for a moment, maybe this is a need, a justification to be center stage somewhere.

"Didn' t you realize that I never made love before with a man? I only had sex with them. It was expected if they asked you out, spent some money, give you that look as you' re walking down the street. I wanted to fit in. No matter how I felt, I didn' t want to stand out as an oddball in the crowd. Since I had sex with men as a child, I never accepted their kisses, nor did I say no to their urgings until I met you."

Angle leaned over and embraced Michael. He wasn' t as strong as his other ‘fuck buddies' or as passionate. This seemed like a moment between friends. They didn' t kiss. Angel felt uncomfortable with the thought as if his lips had been permanently soiled from fucking Roland.

Michael wanted to taste his kiss on his lips, thinking that maybe we can erase something if we can remember the passion. They pulled apart simultaneously. They shared this awkward moment. Angel felt as if he wanted to fold in on himself. He was mad. No, he said to himself. More like angry because he didn' t like expressing himself, apologizing or justifying his actions. He just wanted to fuck, no strings attach or names if possible. And now Michael expected him to cross that threshold into the realm of emotion. He knew he had to pull himself back to his not being committed emotionally to anyone. As Michael looked into his eyes, he detected moonlight being reflected from the tears he was attempting to hold back. Angel wanted to be the devil at this moment.

Angel kissed him. As the effect of Angel' s kisses traveled through Michael' s body, Michael imagined his consciousness branching out caressing an inner sun. His body was no longer something he wanted to hide and had welcomed Angel' s laughing eyes. He was no longer slim, no longer average height, or having common looks. White guys usually said that he wasn' t ethnic enough. Yet, if they had enough to drink, he was still black so a fuck was possible. Also, they had to know the size of his penis, size did matter to most men and if they had a size quota they quickly passed him by. When they were on a ‘dick hunt' , they had issues about conversation being intense, too deep. Fucking in their opinion didn' t require words, only animalistic sounds. Taking pleasures from the flesh in whatever way that brought gratification was the objective.

Anger swept through Michael as he replayed the sound of Angel and Roland, his roommate, having sex. Michael' s consciousness shaped itself into a half human, half reptilian being striking out at Angel with its sharp claws. Teeth were now fangs and his hair turned into snakes. He was a Medusa. No matter how he looked at Angel with piercing eyes, Angel did not turn to stone; but in his imaginations, a part of Angel turned to stone and descended into the mud, into a place so dark, that light could not see what was ahead of it.

Tuning back to the conversation, Michael asked feeling the stickiness of the words in his mouth,"Why did you sleep with Roland?"

"It just happened," Angel said nervously taking a drag off a cigarette. The thin windbreaker wasn' t keeping Angel warm from the ocean breeze. Neither one of them wanted to offer the other any body warmth. Michael gave him one of his grandmother' s go-to-hell-looks.

Angel continued,"You know I' m very sexual and smoking puts me in the mood." Angel looked at the sand; his finger was making a jagged line leading back to him self.

Michael' s eyes followed in hopes that there was a hidden message. "I never wanted to put a leash on your desires."

Michael felt like his words walked through a labyrinth in Angel' s mind seeking a passage to leave but every corridor twisted into each other. There was no thread leading back to the beginning. There was a fear of what laid in the center, the darkness without light and each step possibly the last. His mind wandered when he wanted to avoid the moment. He continued justifying,"I even enjoyed listening to your exploits. I seemed to live through your conquests. I believed I could do things through your stories that I would not consciously venture into but now, you hold Roland' s story, which for me is a nightmare inside you. I' m afraid of his story because I don' t want to compete with him inside you."

Michael turned his head as if the wind had gently pushed his attention away so he gathered his thoughts together more cohesively. Michael swallowed tears.

Angel' s retort echoed in him, “You' re not making any sense."

Angel. "Black men are only good for fucking. Had too many bad experiences with them trying to prove they can get over in the white world by trying to tear up my white ass. Hell, I like big black dick up my tight white ass but I don' t like the anger I' m feeling when their fucking me. It' s like I' m suppose to lie there and be sorry because they are having a bad time in life. I didn' t make them black. Blame that shit on God. Maybe the oven wasn' t working properly, I don' t know, I can' t speak for God but evidently, he wasn' t happy with everything in creation. Hell, I like black boys but don' t blame God' s bad judgment on me. It' s like they expect me to pay for them, be their ticket to a better life. A fuck is good but the afterglow thing doesn' t last that long and you got to go back and get some more.

I don' t make it a point to keep them around too long. Too much black dick out their wanting to sample this white ass so I say"why not," I can be obliging. Had this one tell me he would kill himself if I didn' t love him. I told him to go ahead, how would he know about love. He loved my white ass. He loved the symbol. He loved parading me to his friends, ‘see the white ass I' m fucking. See my white man is better looking than your white man. See my white man has more money, more class, he' s not country or trailer trash like the rest of you Section 8 whores." I' ve heard that sissy shit from them.

Wished sometimes they' d fuck me quietly. I don' t want to think about things. I don' t want images of them swinging from trees being like monkey ornaments in my mind. I just want to smell their mustiness before and after sex. I don' t want to remember police cooling down their anger with fire hoses and police dogs barking at them. I don' t want to see the eyes of other white people when we are walking down the street wondering what I see in black men but envious that I got that King Kong dick up my white ass. I don' t want to hear my white friends tell me ‘fuck the big ones, throw the little ones back because you might as well have a white man if you' re going for the average dick' . If they have that slave buck look and the mentality of the streets, I get approval from my white friends.

Occasionally, I like to flip and fuck me some black ass. They feel favored then like they are getting acceptance. I sometimes think, they think filling up with my semen will somehow transform their black skin. I never seem to be able to fuck them like they fuck me. They groan and moan like I' m doing something but I can see that fake face they put on. They are good at fake faces. They have to wear them for a living. If you ever really knew what one of them was thinking you' d move to another country? No matter how much I give up the ass to a black dick, I keep thinking, he' s going to cut me long and deep when I' m climaxing. I always think this one is going to do that"Searching for Mr. Goodbar" thing with me. They want me to be a white master no matter what position they assume."