A typical night in my Charlottesville apartment, summer 2017: I am high in my room, relaxing after a long evening in a GRE prep course. SZA softly plays on repeat from my laptop, bathed in the stark light from a desk lamp. Pink IKEA lights frame a huge tapestry featuring a black woman with long, jet black hair shining down her back and a single raindrop sitting on her red lips, standing chin-raised before a bright green rainforest-like backdrop. I am in shorts and a long-sleeve Morehouse T-shirt, my locs in a hair-tie perched atop my head: a studious pineapple. Or rather not so studious — I am scrolling through Jack’d, searching for the next man to hoe around with.
I find a suitable man. Like a good bottom, I go to the toilet beforehand. He arrives sooner than I expected and I don’t have time to shower. (I was clean. Please do not scrunch your face like this is too much information). I go downstairs to retrieve him; not a human in sight. Mind you, it’s quite late but my schedule is clear until 2pm the next day so what the hell.
I finally see him walking up the street and quickly squint at his face to ensure it matches his photos. In the bright elevator, I finally get a good look at him and am a bit astonished at the specimen I am about to bring into my house: light brown skin. Thick body, full lips. Braided, caramel-dipped locs pulled back, lining the top of his back. Grey T-shirt, aqua blue shorts, flip-flops. A crystal, which he says he feels naked without, dangling from a self-made crocheted necklace. Good god.
In my room, I mention something alluding to prophecy and an ostensibly casual, lustful encounter becomes a deeply spiritual, revelatory night. We exchange birthdates. He’s 33. I whisper a not-so-subtle prayer that he will live beyond his birthday one month away. (He’s 34 now, thank the Lord.) Standing behind me as I sit at my desk, he massages my shoulders and encourages me to complete a Myers-Briggs personality assessment: ENFP-A (which in the following months changed to ENFJ-A and ENTJ). I spin around in my chair and he asks to see my hands.
“There’s so much magic in your hands. You have way more stars than me.”
He tells me that my Nana, who also possesses a prophetic gift, is teaching me a lot without saying anything. I should watch what she does, how she approaches people she does not know and speaks anointing and deliverance into their lives. I was born into a family full of ministers, elders, pastors, prophets, evangelists, and prayer warriors and, like Nana, I can often discern spirits and energy or become “possessed” by God’s voice and tell someone their future.
He then proceeds to take off my clothes and suck and eat me for an hour. And goddamn, what a performance — a man hadn’t devoured my ass like that in three years! He wonders aloud why I protested so much before giving in to his tongue, thinking I am a top who can’t appreciate another man appreciating me, and he doesn’t care when I tell him I just hadn’t showered. “You’re a man, I’m a man. As long as you’re not gross, doesn’t make a difference.”
I beg him to fuck me, and he persistently declines as he does not want to fall for me. I am too young and mobile. But he kisses me passionately, the taste of myself never so delectable, now on his beard. I don’t come — no testament to his abilities as I tend not to with people I really like on the first time.
We cuddle and he tells me of my future: At 34, with short curls or waves, having by then cut my signature locs, I will be “accomplished” and “smooth as hell.” He will run into me in a grocery store and will be out of my league. (I call bullshit.) I will also meet a woman “at a fork in the road,” possibly named Nicole, who looks like his cousin (he shows me a photo on his phone) and who will seem like any other girl but will actually hold many useful connections. He implores me not to focus on her good times, partying, and drugs but on her wide network that would unequivocally change my life. I am visibly worried but he assures me, as I know, that God’s crystal-clear voice will guide me safely and correctly.
Before he leaves, around 3, 4 or 5 am, he warns me to be careful of the company I keep and to master the gift of discernment. The prophet gets into his car and says he hopes to see me again (which he does during my final week in Charlottesville three weeks later). He drives away grinning, hand waving out the window. I return to my room, await his text alerting me of his safe arrival home, and journal this night, thanking the Universe for assuring me that God’s voice, rather a clear conscience than a man in the sky, travels beyond the church and that is indeed okay to be gay.
