On D. Wade, Gabby Union, And Making Sense Of Non-Break “Breaks” And Condomlessness


(Today, Maya Francis makes her VSB debut with a piece that talks about exactly what the title says it would)

I’m going to keep it real with you all and say that there is a very, very small handful of celebrities whose happiness and success I’m actively rooting for. Among them, Janet Jackson and her gotdamnit-he’s-fine-billionaire-husband, Kerry Washington (and Nnamdi by association), Mariah and Nick, Idris and his bowtie.

I really don’t care anything about Dwyane Wade, his divorce troubles, or Gabby Union. I have opinions, and my opinions have skeletons, but I am not that invested.

But, when every single person in the whole entire world spent a week writing status after email after tweet after blog after thinkpiece deconstructing their relationship and our reactions to their relationship from every conceivable angle, I had two choices. Continue not really caring, or trick myself into believing that they’re not celebrities, and offer my opinion then.

I chose the latter.

And since I chose the latter, and chose to re-imagine new identities for Dwyane Wade (Carpenter. Yes, like Jesus.) and Gabrielle Union (Some chick working at Verizon), I have no qualms about saying two things:

1. There’s no such thing as a “break”

There is together. And not together. There is, “I’m need a couple days to avoid possibly murdering you,” and letting all calls go to voicemail forever. Sure, you might need some days to air yourselves out and regroup, but no part of that should include the next man/chick. When your “break” from me includes the addition of someone else, we’re using fuzzy math.

But, I’m aware some of you slept through math. And slept with your math teachers. So, for the Valtrex-sniffing portion of the population who do use sex with other people to get closer to their partners, there’s something else in this that doesn’t fit quite right.

2. Where the f*ck were the condoms?

I know this is a rhetorical question. At this point at least. Still, the whole condomless break sex thing reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend of mine some time ago. Apparently, men don’t just randomly stop using condoms. There’s no man out there who is a serial condom user and decides on one special night not to use one. Men who don’t use condoms, he says, always choose not to use them. Since those last three sentences scared the f*ck out of me, I won’t even attempt to address them. Just wanted to put them there so they’d scare you too.

Anyway, condoms are $12 a box. You get one condom per dollar. That’s less than an Egg McMuffin. Hell, you could get them free from a multitude of places. I mean, they’ll be Durex or Avirex or whatever other off-brand condoms they give out at free clinics, but still. That’s better than nothing. So what never seems to curl all the way over for me in these situations is the conception of #BreakBabies who are living proof of the lack of foresight, or consideration, held for the health of one’s partner whilst sexing someone else… to get closer…to the partner.

One of my personal rules in life is “never make a mistake you can’t fix.” This is why I’m not a Delta. The problem with irresponsible sex – and I’m calling it “irresponsible” in this case because any way this is spun, I think we can agree that it was not the intention to make another baby – is that it’s a shared mistake that can have detrimental, unfixable consequences for individuals who haven’t made any personal decisions for themselves. Wade, and others like him, is lucky that the conversation is just about a baby. And whether you agree with Gabby’s choice or not, let’s just be glad she still had an opportunity to make one.

You can follow Maya @MF_Greatest. And, if you don’t do that, she will follow you. Like, in real life. She will literally follow you to your house. 

So…I’m Engaged Now. Here’s Why


This wasn’t supposed to happen.

At least, this is not how I envisioned things happening. I’m not supposed to be engaged now. I’m not supposed to be in love. I’m not supposed to be planning a life with someone. I’m not supposed to not be able to envision a future without her in it. But I am engaged. I am in love. I am planning a life with someone. And I am uninterested in envisioning a future without her in it.

None of this was supposed to happen because I’m supposed to be single now. At least, that is what I told myself two years ago. Newly single, I planned on remaining single. I didn’t have a set amount of time to stay single—doing that would have felt too arbitrary and inauthentic—but I knew I did not want to be in a serious relationship again any time soon.

Why? Well, the best and most attractive part about being single is the most obvious. You’re single. Which means you’re free. Often, the activity that can be a product of this freedom is touted as the best part about being single. I disagree. The freedom itself is the best part. The ability to do whatever, whenever, however. And with whoever. Or not. Freedom isn’t dating multiple women. Or eating cereal for dinner. Or staying out until four every weekend. Freedom is just the freedom to do these things if you choose to.

This freedom is intoxicating without any of the side effects associated with intoxicants. There is absolutely no downside to it. None. People often blame bad decisions on freedom. Which is silly. Freedom doesn’t make you do anything. If it did, it wouldn’t be freedom. Freedom doesn’t cause anything. It just is. Blaming freedom for bad decisions is like blaming oxygen for asphyxiation.

This freedom is why I get why some people choose to stay single longer than society would like to dictate. It’s also why, for many of us, the common narratives about why people in our generation (men and women) are choosing to stay single longer than our parents and grandparents did seem all wrong. It’s not about a fear of commitment. Or narcissism. Or selfishness. Or even a lack of love. It’s just that, for many of us, a “free” life equals a better one. The benefits of love and companionship are known, valued, and appreciated. The benefit of being free are just valued and appreciated more.

Anyway, I dated a few women during this free period. I even grew to like one of them very much. Very, very much. So much that when I learned I wasn’t prepared to give up that freedom for her, I started to think it would never happen. I was fine with that. As I said, I planned on remaining single and staying free. But I also planned on not liking anyone that much, and when I did and still felt the urge to be free, I figured this commitment to freedom was for real.

And it was.

Until she happened.

And when she happened, I no longer felt that urge to be free. There was no ambivalence. No second thoughts. No pulling away. No anything else but her.

We were friends. Great friends. Best friends, actually. And then, we were no longer just friends. I know that sounds too simple. And I debated adding details to give the story more meat. To make it more realistic. But that would just obscure the suddenness and the violence of how it happened. One day I was alive. And then the next day the rest of my life began.

I was free before her. But now my life is better. This isn’t a knock on freedom. I was happy. Very happy. Freedom is unbelievable. Freedom is fucking great. It’s just that she’s just so much better than it.

I proposed November 30th. We’ve been together for a year now, which is how long we’ve both known how much we both wanted each other. The ring is just a way to let everyone else know.

None of this was supposed to happen. I thought I knew what I wanted. But it is happening. And I thank God I was wrong.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

Used To It, Schmeused To It: Sex Is, Always Has Been, And Always Will Be F*cking Great!

black-couple (1)

I’ve been waiting for it. Thinking about it. Fearing it. Dreading it. Hoping against it. Running from it. Losing sleep over it. (Well, not really. More metaphorical sleep lost.)

But it still hasn’t happened. At least not yet. But there are no signs that it ever will. No clues. No cues. No indicators. No inklings. Nothing.

Perhaps I’m still too young. Maybe it’ll start happening next year. In two years. In 10 years. Maybe it’ll happen next month. Maybe it’ll happen tonight.

Maybe it’s my experience and not my age. Maybe I just haven’t reached the critical mass. Or the climax. Or the summit. Or the tipping point. Or the plateau. Or the point of no return. Or whatever the fuck else. Maybe I’m still climbing. Still reaching. Still finding.

And maybe it’s just not going to happen. Ever. Which is great. But it does make things rather anti-climatic. What happens when the other shoe never drops? Shit, what happens when the other shoe doesn’t even exist?

Since I can remember, various sources—cousins, parents, barbers, neighbors, inappropriate neighbors, Michael J. Fox, magazines, textbooks, teachers, nuns, bus drivers, women named Shirley, Radiohead, uncles of women I dated while unemployed for a month in 2002, God, paper Deltas, etc—have either implied or just outright told me that sex would lose its luster as you got older. Basically, you get so used to it and the feelings associated with it that it becomes just another one of the many mundane tasks associated with being a normal human. You even start to get…tired of it. In this sense, sex is no different than brushing your teeth or taking out the trash or trolling Lakers fans by making Kobe 19th on your list of the 20 best basketball players ever.

But—and we’re getting into TMI territory here, but we’re all family so I’m cool with it if you’re cool with it—I had my first recorded orgasm at 14. My first one with another actual living human being came a couple years after that. My last orgasm was, at the time of writing, 20 hours ago. That’s 20 years of sex. Which comes out to roughly 7000 different orgasms (give or take a thousand).

And nothing has changed. Nothing. They each still feel fucking amazing. Like eating bacon for the first time. While skydiving. On Mars. The first one was great! The second one was great! The 22nd one was great! The 6,122nd one was great! The 10,002nd—if I make it there—will be great!

In fact, there is nothing on Earth more predictable than the fact that when you have an orgasm, you’re going to feel great. Not death. Not taxes. Not Scandal. Nothing. Maybe the circumstances surrounding your orgasm will make you feel shitty (“Well, I didn’t know his name, but at least I got some fries“), but that shittiness will be preceded by awesomeness.

I will concede that they were right about one thing. The willingness to go above and beyond to get sex dissipates. Sex is no longer the end all, be all of my universe. I am no longer willing to move mountains, or a mile, or even (sometimes) “over” to get some. “Getting some” is a journey now instead of the destination or some other Zen-sounding bullshit.

But while the willingness to make certain efforts wanes, the results are never not awesome. Never not great. Never not the best thing ever. Never not the great thing that you compare other almost, but not quite as great things to. Never not proof that God exists. (And is in a surprisingly good mood.) Never not a bacon-wrapped slab of bacon in your mouth. While hang gliding. On the moon. While having sex.

So they were all wrong. At least I’m hoping they were. Or maybe they just told me this cause someone told them this too. Which I prefer to believe. Bacon is great. Especially bacon wrapped slabs of it. But it is not sex. Nothing is. And absolutely nothing ever will be. Because absolutely nothing can be.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”) 

How To Be Gay As F*ck

All gay

Many faces. All gay.

As is the case with most popular news items that have absolutely no impact on our actual lives, the reactions to the NFL bullying story have become more interesting than the story itself. We’re not even two weeks in, and it has already spawned numerous national sub-conversations about masculinity, sports culture, football, hazing, and half-niggers.

Oh, and faggotry. You can’t forget about gotdamn faggotry.

One of the more popular theories bandied around social media about this story is that Jonathan Martin is gay, and this incident was either the result of a lover’s quarrel gone bad (which would make Richie Incognito gay as well) or Martin’s Dolphins’ teammates having a problem with his sexual orientation.

This may very well be true. Thing is, there is absolutely nothing in this story that would suggest that. Nothing.

But, because Martin’s demeanor and background (introverted, from an upper-middle class background, Stanford-educated, etc) don’t fit our expectations of what a Black male professional athlete should be like—and because he chose to solve his problems in a way we don’t expect Black men to—he must be gay. At least according to some people.

Anyway, although I was taught in a 4th grade biology class that there was only one way to be a homosexual man—be attracted to and/or sleep with men—life has taught me there are hundreds of thousands of things a man can do to definitely let everyone know he really, really, really, really must want to have sex with men. Here’s a few.

Not want to fight

Always want to fight

Smile too much

Be too happy




Sing in church

Go to church

Join the church choir

Live in Atlanta

Move to Atlanta

Visit Atlanta

Be soft-spoken

Use umbrellas

Be single past a certain age

Don’t have children

Use straws

Sleep with a lot of women

Don’t sleep with enough women

Go to the gym too much

Shower with other men in the locker room

Feel a certain way about showering with other men in the locker room

Love sports too much

Don’t love sports

Take pictures with a transgender model

Be a model

Be an actor

Be a dancer

Be HIV positive

Eat pussy

Enjoy a woman’s touch or tongue on certain parts of your body

Befriend gay people

Hate gay people

Wear skinny jeans

Be skinny

Sag your jeans and sweats

Wear jeans and sweats that actually fit

Use body wash

Take a woman’s side during a disagreement or argument

Be friends with women

Like women

Have female friends

Have no female friends

Be Chris Bosh

Own a loofa

Apply chapstick

Eat a banana, or any other phallic-shaped food, in public

Be an adult virgin

Cry (especially if it’s about some gay shit)


Drive certain cars

Have manners

Use emoticons

Take a lot of pictures of yourself

Walk funny

Talk funny

Get molested as a kid (Or sexually assaulted as an adult)

Order certain types of drinks

Order colorful drinks

Order drinks in certain types of glasses

Hold your drink a certain way

Don’t drink

Dance too well

Be Drake

Listen to Drake

Not agree that Drake is gay

Be Kanye West

Be post-808′s Kanye West, especially

Be Kanye West today, especially especially

Enjoy anal sex

Not be sexually attracted to a certain woman

Be sexually attracted to thin women

Make too much eye contact

Don’t make any eye contact

Compliment a man’s looks

Have a man compliment your looks

Be too good-looking

Write something titled “How To Be Gay As F*ck”

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)

On Derrick Rose, Chris Brown, And Black Men’s “Non-Existent” Pain

"Walk it off, little bitch."

“Walk it off, little bitch.”

As last season’s NBA playoffs intensified, I found myself rooting for Derrick Rose harder than I’ve ever rooted for any professional athlete. Defending him, even. Sometimes, I’d even feel my temperature rise when hearing or reading a criticism lobbed his way.

This by itself is nothing really worth mentioning. Rose is very popular and plays with an aesthetically pleasing recklessness and audacity that is completely unique to him. Of course I—an NBA diehard—would be a big fan of his game.

Except, well…

Derrick Rose is not one of my favorite NBA players. In fact, if I had to list the 20 or players I enjoy watching the most, Rose probably wouldn’t crack the list. I actually think he’s somewhat overrated.

Also, he did not play a minute of NBA basketball last season.

So, um, why was I rooting for him?

Well, in April of 2012, Rose tore the anterior cruciate ligament in his left knee. For an athlete, this is one of the scariest and most devastating injuries you can receive. For someone like Rose, a man whose livelihood is predicated on his ability to twist, torque, and explode off that knee, it would be especially harrowing.

Between surgery and rehab, it usually takes a year before you “fully” recover. And, “fully” is in quotes because, as long as I’ve been watching NBA basketball, I’ve never seen anyone recover completely from a torn ACL. Sure, players have returned and have had very productive careers, but no one has come back as quick and explosive as they were before.

So, Rose sat out the entire 2012-2013 NBA season. But, as the Bulls advanced into the playoffs—and as reports leaked that his knee was healthy enough to play—he became a national source of ridicule for his decision to not suit up.

“Man, that dude has no heart!!!” men screamed while sitting on their couches in their Dad’s old pajamas, smearing Cheetos stains on the universal remote.

“Derrick Rose is a quitter” others typed on message boards, moments before going back to XHamster.com and searching for Asian DPs.

“F*ck you, p*ssy!” some even screamed at him during games, shouting so vigorously that the rolls on their backs did the Wobble.

None of this surprised me. The sports world is a strange place, and strange things—like people questioning the heart of a kid who scratched and crawled his way out of the Southside of Chicago to become one of the best athletes on Earth—happen in strange places.

It did, however, reinforce the idea that athletes in general—and young Black athletes in particular—aren’t supposed to own their bodies. It didn’t matter that Rose repeatedly said he wasn’t physically or mentally ready yet. A doctor whose salary is paid by the Chicago Bulls said he was ready, so that nigga better play! F*ck how you feel, and f*ck your future. Get on the court, and help us fill up that arena!

You know, I thought about Rose yesterday when reading a piece at Jezebel about Chris Brown’s recent admission that he lost his virginity to a teenager when he was eight. (Eight!!!)

Titled Chris Brown Brags About Losing His Virginity When He Was Eight, it mocks Brown as the author wonders how he was able to turn “…a personal confession into yet another opportunity to showcase how unpleasant he seems.” If you think the author’s tone completely and intentionally glosses over the fact that if Brown was truly eight years old (Eight!!!) when this happened, he was raped, you’d be right.

Although Brown’s admission obviously is in a completely different ballpark than an ACL tear, the flippant reactions to both Brown’s story and Rose’s injury seem to come from the same place: Black men aren’t supposed to feel any physical, mental, or emotional pain.

You blew out the knee your career is dependent on? Who gives a damn? We’re playing the Clippers. You need to guard Chris Paul. You admit you had sex with a person twice your age when you were still at an age where some kids still think Santa Claus exists? You’re a Black male, and you’re inherently hyper-sexual. I’m sure you loved every minute of it, and I’m also sure that experience had absolutely no effect on your self-esteem, your self-worth, or your feelings about women. Go take another nude selfie.

The NBA season is a couple weeks away. The Bulls open up against the Heat. Lebron James is one of my favorite players, and I want the Heat to win. I do not want everyone who questioned Rose’s heart last spring to tear their ACLs while jumping off their futons to celebrate a vicious Rose dunk. But, you have to admit, that would be kinda poetic.

—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)