On OKCupid, there are questions used to compute your compatibility with potential mates for a relationship, as friends, or as enemies. Whenever I encounter a high enemy rating, I’m always assured that woman is a Christian with extra-marital children, and they hate homosexuals. I’m that heterosexual black male who endures flak for drawing a civil rights analogy from the homosexual movement for marital equality. America has statistically disproven the efficacy of marriage, denying the right to be federally observed as a matrimonial union is a senseless affront to the Bill of Rights. The internet, our final modicum of democracy, has logically argued, “Oh, you don’t like gay marriage? Then don’t get gay married.” And that makes sense.

I would love more gay male friends, their typically impeccable style complements me, and they have a knack for attracting attractive women. Gay females on the other hand, have shared far fewer benefits in my favor, especially being menage opposed; sorry ladies, I’m sure you’re wonderful people nonetheless. If I must confess distaste for anyone, it’s for obscenely flamboyant people; gay or straight, I'm an introvert, that much attention is nauseating. For some helpful insight from my inexplicably accurate gaydar, ladies meet kegels; because once a man mentions anal sex, then he’s obviously bored of your most feminine feature.

Two people have ever asked me if I were gay, one privately gossiped as much, another thought he could insult me with a public insinuation, and multiple gay men have hit on me; I was flattered every time. Because, even as a heterosexual black man of West Indian descent, the second most homophobic region of the world outside of the Middle East, I don’t associate homosexuality with bad or wrong. At the same time, there’s another internet meme that asked, “What if homosexuality is nature’s way of preventing over population.” And I can find the humor in that, the same way I can be entertained by Django Unchained, Dave Chappelle skits, and rap music. It’s easy to digress over the suitable nature of potentially offensive humor, butt fuck it; everyone deserves a fair chance.

This story is being retold at the behest of the original storyteller. All names, places, and dates have been omitted at my discretion. This story, this exercise in taking and editing dictation, is true, no matter how ridiculous it seems. This may become a series if I continue to receive enough submissions through jorenerene.com.

My wife invited her childhood friend over for dinner. She was adamant about preparing shrimp scampi, because shrimp was allegedly our guest’s favorite dish. On cue, our guest arrives and begins to boast about the seafood restaurants she allegedly frequents with her boyfriend. I repeat allegedly because our guest was an outright liar trying to save face before gnashing her gums on crustaceans. She would literally bite into the shelled shrimp, chew, then reach into her mouth and collect as many shell bits as possible before swallowing. It was the most bizarre thing, like watching a feral human being’s first attempt at civility. Before I could pardon myself to wretch in private, the conversation lead to her personal love life for dessert.

She fell in love with her first boyfriend; they lived together for quite a while, and she accepted his eventual proposal. One night, with her fiancé away on business, she decided to attend a party with some of her friends. There she met a suave man, who measured a tad taller and more muscular than she was accustomed to. She claims his aggressive nature, in direct contrast to her fiancé’s passiveness, drew her interest. That night she slept with the man. Her infidelity would have been the exclamation point to the story if not for her confession: having only been with her fiancé by that time, she was convinced that all men had small penises. She went on to describe how her fiancé’s penis would dully tickle her libido; against all appropriate suggestions, she continued to describe how her singular climaxes would take lots of time and effort on his part to achieve. Luck would have it that the man at the party was blessed with girth and experience. She broke off her engagement the next day, and never ate shrimp until the opportunity arose to embarrass herself and a man who could possibly love her.

Please excuse the title; it’s my crude cry for attention in the blogosphere. I have no idea why bicycle seat noses exist. You would think it's a bicycle's “seat belt” of sorts, to prevent you from jutting forward under strenuous pedaling or braking. I ordered a bicycle seat from Amazon to alleviate the effects of what I call Bike Dick. Bike Dick should be defined as an aching dick felt after, and directly attributed to, long rides. A 40 minute ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back is typical for me. Now I don’t know why all bicycles don’t come standard with nose-less bicycle seats.

Bike dick is a real thing, researchers have found that prolonged bicycle seat exposure can have adverse effects on your libido, and I can’t have that! I don't need a nose rubbing against my genitals, unless it's a soft warm female nose.

I attached the seat earlier in the day, then abruptly decided to ride my bicycle at one in the morning. Took this bad boy out, and rode up and down an immaculately desolate Utica Avenue. I enjoyed myself, smiling the whole time thinking, "this is great! I'm not going to have bike dick anymore!" The new seating arrangement does take some getting used to. It does sort of feel like you’re missing a brace, especially when holding a phone with one hand, and desperately trying to brake on a downward slope with the other hand.

I haven't been writing lately, which I attribute to extreme productivity elsewhere; still figuring out how to make up for my absence, whether I will be writing multiple posts, soliciting readers for suggestions, or a combination of the two. If anybody wants to ride in Brooklyn or Manhattan, contact me through any channel on jorenerene.com and I'll try to let you know if I can make it!