Hanging

Part I

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED WEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 2006

It was funny.

Well, it wasn’t funny in the moment.

It actually became funny many moments later.After some four hundred plus years on the North American continent, I was naïve to think that the world might be partially ready for a book that takes an in-depth look into the Black man and the myth of his ever large penis.

Even with giving the world that much credit, I couldn’t even get the book without much ado controversy.

Because of my love for the library system and already having three bookshelves packed with books (85% of them I have read by the way), do I rarely even consider purchasing another book unless I know for certain that it is limited in publication, or that my library doesn’t have the intention of carrying it.

A book by a black man entitled Hung wasn’t something I could pass up on.

So, my initial intent, anyway, was to purchase the book. Not only did I want it around as a conversation piece, but my perverted alter ego wanted to see the reaction on the clerk’s face when he or she saw a Black man buying a book called Hung accompanied with the picture of a toned black man and a ruler starting at six inches and trailing onto the infamous foot.

As I try to stay away from conglomerates like Barnes & Noble and Boarders nowadays, as a small protest to capitalism and globalization, I start my search for the title at some of my favorite black bookstores throughout the city. Sorry to say, and like the story usually goes, if they hadn’t received the order for the book they either ran out of copies. The ladies behind the counter coyly smiles and state my name followed by the title of the book as they put me on their waiting list.

My next stop is the gay bookstore. For me, going to a gay bookstore already implies that I’m going to pay full price instead of getting a discount that I probably would receive at a franchise or even at my neighborhood bookstore. The reason being is that every dollar spent is going into gay pockets; so I have been told. I’m like Tupac, I ain’t mad at them, and secretly wish that the Black community would attempt to do that even more to the same beat. What gets me annoyed, though, is being the lonely black man in a sea of gay white faces. When there are some other black men they spend most of their time perusing the magazine rack for erotic exploits or to see what’s good on the racks (and snow queens, another article). And if that wasn’t enough, I get the Love It or Fear It mentality from most of these white patrons as well as white gay men in general. They love that I’m black and possibly can fulfill their Mandingo fantasy while others feel that they can’t measure up to the black man, or whatever idiosyncrasies they might have about not liking me.

Some times, it is one and the same with a very rare medium.

Thankfully, when various staff members of these institutions see me come through there doors, they know me as being an avid reader looking for my next good book. It has gotten to the place now where I can have a five to ten minute conversation about my latest read or the new arrivals or books that have interest the staff and might just interest me, if I hadn’t had the opportunity to read it.

Keep these factors in mind.

So, when I enter a local gay bookstore on my quest for the book, I should not have been surprise that Hung by Scott Poulson-Bryant greeted me. I was in the sense that there weren’t a boatload of black patrons that frequented the gay establishment to have such a large display in the middle of the floor. Other than being Hung the book also states being a ‘mediation on the measurement of Black men in America’. But then, again, were talking about gay men, many like myself that couldn’t pass on the open display of the title and the front cover.

Before I could get my first snicker out, there was a silence that cast the room and the eyes of white men, young and old, were on me and my crotch. Most were of smirks while a couple looked in utter disgust. It was very surreal moment. And if it hadn’t been for my white friend Shane to confirm it, I would have just passed it off as a figment of my imagination.“No, boo,” Shane states frankly. “These Little Red Ridding Hoods want to see what a big black dick you and Mr. Pulsing-Giant have.”

If I was a braver man I would have confronted the entire place, in essence confronting the white race while I had their attention. Who in the hell they thought I was suppose to be?

Sledgehammer or Brian Pumper?

Lexington Steele or Mr. Marcus?

Sean Michaels or Jake Sneed?

Let’s go back a little bit further or gayer, Gene Lamar or Bobby Blake?

Andre Bolla or Ace Johnson?

Mike Tyson?

LL Cool J?

Big Daddy Kane?

Denzel?

Mandingo?

Who?

Am I the black guy that had his kid sister so wide open that she learned how to sing like a black girl? Was I the one he saw stalk naked in the high school locker room not at all bashful about my endowment? Or, am I the one he had to suck off to join the fraternity? Hell, I could be the black escort that blew out his best friend’s back?

If I was a bolder man, I probably would have given them the Full Monty of what they all really wanted to know. Then, of course, I would’ve given them just about every stereotype of a black man for the price of one. But I am not a bolder man, I am my own man. A black man. A man nonetheless that wanted to hide in the mist of white faces that wanted me to be that sexualized beast amongst them.

Unfortunately, because of the response toward the display and being the only black man in the place, I did not purchase the book and avoided it like plague.I was however bombarded with a few stalking stares, particularly those aware of the book in the shop. After I made my point of not being afraid and trying to go about my business, Shane suggested we leave. It was in part because of me and my new founded attention. The rest had to do with him being the little white guy stripped of any shred of masculinity next to the big black guy.

Things escalated even more once we left.

First, a couple of professional white guys, after learning that Shane and I weren’t a couple, brazenly propositioned me for sex. Insulted, Shane and I moved over to a coffee shop where some of the guys from the bookstore followed me and began to shamelessly hit on me. When I refused all offers, a couple of bad apples began to make racial and lewd sexual comments once we made it back outside.

For the first time in my life, being a product of the inner city of a city that once was predominant black, I felt my hands were tied. I was a black man in a prominent white area of the city, and if I acted a fool I would have been a product of our judicial system. I had experience many forms of racism before, but this was the first time it blatantly revolved around my penis.

Ironically, this well-built white guy passing by took care of the problem for me since Shane was too small to really fight this battle. I thanked the guy, of course, with some embarrassment that I couldn’t logically defend myself without getting into some kind trouble. He was modest, told me to think nothing of it as I offered to buy him a cup of coffee.

After much convincing, he agreed. He said he was used to seeing white guys making plays for black guys, and vice versa, but he didn’t understand what was going on to spew such animosity. Comfortably, knowing that they guy was either gay or gay-friendly or even bi like me, I explained to him about the Hung book display, what the book was about, and being the only black guy in the bookstore and all the harassment that followed.

George, is what I’ll call him, had this concern look to overcome him. When I asked what was wrong, George was silent. He eventually admitted that he was biracial, a product of a love affair between a white father and a black mother. And that being mixed, he really didn’t know where he fitted in on the whole penile issue, something that had been an issue he has struggled with most of his life along with race in general.

Even though, he fitted in more under the European umbrella than the typical white American umbrella, he always wondered if the myth was true and if it in some way applied to him. When George was younger, he used to secretly measure himself against his black and white cousins. He was never quiet sure whether or not he was measuring them right. In the sense, he was already taught from a very young age that black was bigger than white. So, he always wondered if he saw his black cousins bigger than his white cousins because he was taught that they were suppose to be bigger.

George really became interested in the myth of black men being hung when he was about fifteen years old. The experience that led to this fascination happened when he caught a glimpse of one of his older black schoolmates in the locker room. Apparently, his schoolmate lived up to the myth without an erection as it made its presence known with the girls and the guys. If that wasn’t enough for Poor George, when he got home he caught his maternal grandfather pulling his black schlong out of one of his younger girlfriends. The excitement that George explain seeing his grandfather’s ‘monstrosity’ reminds me of a passage in Don Spear’s In Search of Goodpussy, where the author’s uncle’s friend is describe of having a member thick as a painter’s wrist (which is pretty thick) and as long like a forearm. Whether or not the reference is an exaggeration, it puts a lot of pressure for black men across the board to live up to that larger-than-life image.

George, who never felt like he lived up to his grandfather’s standards, felt pretty comfortable with his size. This only boasted his ego after many of his conquest (many of whom weren’t aware that he was part-black) thought he was big for a white guy. When it came to others that actually got a chance to know him and his ethnicities, he got an average. One time, he was dismissed from a piece’s bedroom for not being black enough, which translated to him not being big enough.

Listening to this story made me want to go back over to the gay bookstore and endure the scandal to purchase the book. Think about it: If I could get this complete stranger to share intimate details about his life revolving this age old myth of measurements and Black men in America just by giving a synopsis of the book, then I think the Poulson-Bryant could be onto something. Maybe it was definitely something worth building a forum around. (A few weeks ago, Joyce Litel from V-103 did on her Sunday night Love & Relationship series). I mean a gathering of black men to talk about the perks and curses of this myth and how it infiltrates into our communities. And it does, for George it was the myth and how he measured. For me it was the power the myth holds. Not to go into too much detail since I’ve decided to this blog in parts, one of the powers of the myths that somewhat holds true for me is the access you have to women or the perceived access you suppose to have for being a black man automatically attached to the myth. And with the cries of DL going on, other men that are not perceived as gay are also in the fold.

As I mentioned earlier, I am not a brave man, so I let the book stay at the store and went home.

Days later, after I hadn’t heard anything from the black bookstores, I found Hung on the African-American table at the Atlanta-Fulton County Library. I had tried putting the book on hold a month earlier, but quickly found out that they only had it as a reference book at nearby Auburn Avenue Research Library. So, I was pleasantly surprise to find the book unattended and available for check out.

When I got in the checkout line with Hung and another book revolving around being your own literary agent, I was amazed by the attention I got for just holding the book. An old black security guard gave me a nod, as if to say that I was a part of some secret brotherhood. A white man, who I suspected to be a gay professional, felt compelled to start a conversation with me while glancing down a the book and my breadbasket. And just when I thought I hadn’t seen it (or felt it) all then, a white woman in front of me kept on “accidentally” brushing her hand against my crotch. When she knew she could get away with it, she gave Mr. Hutchinson a squeeze before smoothly slipping her name and number between my hand and the book.

Finally, when I got to the librarian, a brotha, and watch him do his scanning thing, I noticed two things: He handed me the literary agent book. He tossed me Hung. Any other time, I would have responded. I would have gotten the librarian’s name and contacted his boss. But, I let it go. I decided that his attitude wasn’t that deep with me. I was too exhausted from this whole entire experience with this one particular book to even care anymore. The librarian’s issue may have lied with the book or its topic and not me. Hell, he may have had issues with the author, who knows. Now that I fought hell come high water to get this book in front of me, I guess I should start reading it

.…Of course, I’m going to do so in the privacy of my own home.