….cause that’s all I’m saying. Heed the message, not the messenger.


P.S.—I rock with Cornell West





Blood Loss


(I write a lot. Sometimes about things that have happened. Sometimes about a specific topic. In all of my posts I share parts of me. Sometimes you like it. Sometimes you don’t. Nevertheless it is me. I’m still struggling with how much to show you. Rather, how much you can take–Bond)

Inspiration music:

One Day by UGK
Too Real by UGK ft 3-2
Regrets by Jay-Z
Untitled by Interpol
Happy Feelings by Frankie Beverly and Maze
Ridin’ Dirty Outro by UGK
Death Around the Corner by Tupac
It Ain’t Easy by Tupac
In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Cradle To The Grave by Tupac (Thuglife)
Just One More Day by Otis Redding
T.R.O.Y. by Pete Rock & CL Smooth
The Days of Old by Paris*
He got shot around this time.

My mother was telling me just as I was angrily preparing to go to work at a job where people were building careers on my back. Careers that allowed them to buy houses with wrought iron mail boxes in posh suburban areas with new SUV’s while I struggled to make student loan payments.

I cried.  Which is saying a lot because that only happens maybe once or twice a year. I usually have to invoke it without bad news like the news I received that day. Usually it takes a listen of Otis Redding’s Just One More Day with a bottle of spirits just as vintage. Sometimes I listen to Maze Happy Feelings, Miles Davis’ Blue In Green and a bottle of Johnny Walker or Glenlivet then I’m done for the year.

The way I heard it was that they came over to cop. He struggled with them and he was shot three or four times in the chest and head.  They ransacked the apartment looking for whatever they were looking for and left. We figured he had to know them, because he wouldn’t open the door for strangers in that area at midnight.

Neighbors waited a few minutes to call the police due to fear.

His mother, sister, and brother showed up shortly after the ambulance was called.  His mother had to be given a shot to calm her down. His brother hasn’t been the same since.

He was born 2 days after me. In the same year, we have the same initials. He played basketball. I played baseball.  He was someone everyone liked. I was someone everyone pretended to like.

True homeboy. Back then he wore Hilfiger everyday with a thick herringbone chain. I had one like it. All of us did, it was apart of the uniform. Along with starched jeans and a fresh pair of Air, wave pomade, quick fists, a sharp tongue, and a wet dick.

A cobra .380 if you were slick.

I was in freshman English class when he passed in the front of the door and showed me a knot the size of my head. I wanted in.

They had a pipeline that big cuz set when he was in the army.  Back then, 28 grams was a hundred dollars.  An extra ten if you wanted it weighed.  After all, if you don’t know it, you don’t need it.  That was usually your starter kit. But you could still win with it.

I wished he’d learned that.

But it came effortlessly to him. Everyone liked him. It was only a matter of time before he graduated.  I remember I asked him “why?” He came from a two parent household. Smart. Outgoing. Well liked. I felt like Ace in that infamous scene on Paid in Full when Mitch proclaimed his love for the game. He told me that I didn’t get it.  He used a Lamborghini as an example: If a man was born 6’9 with a certain build he could ride Lambo. If a man was born Caucasian, he could ride Lambo.  But who decides for the rest of us?  We do.  He decided he was taking his. Deal for the Diablo.

When I saw that part the first time, I got choked up. Ironic to say the least…

At first we thought his baby mother had crossed him. She was fucking another dude. They say the dude went to school with us. He even caught them in bed a time or two.  Apparently they had multiple fights in and out of clubs in and around the city. He wanted her or either he just wanted to stay closer to his daughter. Either way she put the squeeze to his self-respect as she put on dresses two sizes smaller. Sometimes with no panties. That’s a problem every night.

When we were young, he used to joke that he wanted a light-skinned girl or a Latina to have his baby. Colorstruck with no apologies. So all the things he went through with her didn’t warrant one.

Or maybe he knew that’s just how the game go. Just like she had to know he was fucking one of her friends. Those broads came to the funeral together. Hood shit. A Hood Bitch. His sister wanted to give her the full clip. Nah, chill out MeMe.

Charge that to the game baby.

Guess that’s what annoys me about squares: If you not built for it, don’t explore it. Shit will get deep.  That’s for everything, from dating and mating, to trapping and scrapping: stay in your lane before the pace exceeds your speed, then you crash.

He would make deliveries in his work vehicle. It was a good cover, because it was a government job.  Problem was, he was trying to cheat the game. You can’t hurt her though, cause she don’t love you.

The streets don’t love you. None of ya. If you think your special, you’re not. It was a man with an ounce before you. A man with a pistol before you. A woman with a plot before you.  The streets buried them. You only resurrected over old soul records when spirits are sipped through bottles and visions are hazy from haze and tears about what happened to you.

They pistol whipped him the first time. That’s from his father’s side though. Guess he thought because they were related, then he would be given leeway. No. Doesn’t work like that.  He even filed a charge they beat him so bad. Came up too short. Disrespectful short.

His family confronted them, they admitted the pistol-whipping, but said they wouldn’t have taken his life. He was family.


He told his mother he was going to be coming into some money. He only told her supposedly. But apparently, others knew.

They knew he had a Deville sitting right. Tight White what we used to call them. See, back home no matter what you get, you got to have a Cadillac something. It’s a right of passage. Let’s everyone know that you’re true to it, not new to it. Like eating grits with only those three ingredients: anything more or less, makes people ask questions about you.

We are a new breed so he had the Suburban also. Kitted and fitted. A little Jewelry. Most of the floss reserved for inside of his house. After all, down south when they see you riding too fly, they started plotting ways to clip your wings. Racism finds a way into the street game–usually that’s when stand up guys fall.

The suspects.

They said it was a dark late-model car that left the scene.

Something like the rabbits we used to roll in on gold Dayton’s with knock-off spinners.  Four 15’s in the trunk. JVC or Pioneer amp beating up the trunk like somebody locked inside. Passing rot gut like Mad Dog and Thunderbird. Looking for niggas to give issues to.  Looking for girls to give dicks to.  Looking for smokers to give hits to.

I went to the spot to put my ear to the street to see what I could hear. Doc may not want to tell me because he knows that’ I’m emotionally invested. He only confirms he was doing his thing, but no known beef.

I decide to ride. Picture me,  ‘the law student’, rolling through there. Bending corners again.

Return of Maestro– Not quite.

I’m riding squeaky clean on purpose, with a purpose. On point like Chris Paul, just in case.

I wasn’t trying to flex, just wanted to see how he was living. To breathe that air again. Back when I had a pager and wore Dickies & Levi’s with a fresh pair of air. Pumping.

So much had happened, I changed so much that I began to forget parts of me that existed. It takes my brother to remind me. It takes my brother to remind other too.

At the service people reminisced about how he talked and the nickname he called everyone. I didn’t even remember any of that.  I felt left out.  Like the time I didn’t make the basketball team, but then coach asked me to join the practice squad.

He made the squad, but the street team dream is always more alluring.

That dark car? My uncle says it was an American joint. Says he saw two people push it toward the back of a house close to my Grandmother’s old house.
My uncle had said enough.

What he didn’t have to say was that one of the guys who put that car there was my other cousin.

My aunt heard him rocking back and forth saying “I’m sorry” at the funeral. Damn______.

I knew you was a snake when you told me you got my girl’s number in 10th grade. And you kept calling her… Grimy nigga you are______, but this is too much.

Bad enough you moved back from Cali cause you had problems. Then you went to the Carolinas and they gave you problems there. I don’t blame you for retiring after that. I wonder if you’re on that shit. You look way smaller. Eyes all red and beady. Reptile like. Hyped.

After the service we go to his mother’s house and drink.  I decide to give in to better judgment and join in.  I listen to theories and probabilities abound, but no one has any facts.

I know that time will only measure a requital of merits or reveal his mistakes. See, if I hear about a body, that tells me it is a requital. Silence reveals his mistakes.

I hear silence. It’s been years and I still hear it. I saw big cuz. He’s been rinsed twice over. Says it was tragic, but he hopes it works out.

Translation: He made a mistake and paid for it. I shouldn’t feel some kind of way then right? After all, he’s your first cousin, your both my 2nd cousins. But close proximity doesn’t have an angle.  I wonder what his is. Hmm.

His modest answer is not how I know. I know because when one of the suspects was caught he lawyered up quick. Quick money that he didn’t have or he wouldn’t be kicking in doors.  They let it ride. Even young cuz could pull up the file and let me know what was going on from the legal in. Hmm.

When I was in I.C.U with a wound vac, he didn’t come through. A lot of them didn’t come through. I remember what it was like though: you don’t like to see people like that. His mother and sister told me he would come through once I recovered.

One minute everyone’s looking down at me in a hospital bed incapacitated with an NG tube in my mouth, catheter in my dick, and IV’s in my veins and then I’m up looking down at him in a casket.

The whole thing only made me want to love more. So I’m trying.

About two years after the fact they found prints from a home invasion turned homicide in an area known for rednecks and meth labs all the way to my cousin.  The suspect was a savage. They say he’s been putting in work for a minute. Down with two brothers with a solid click:  Takeover types. One brother posted bail and starts eliminating witnesses.  Savages indeed.

I want to see his mom more, but every time I see her she cries. Not because of anything I’ve endured or overcome, but because of who I’m not.

Her son.

My presence is a reminder that he’s gone. A reminder that school struggles will triumph street victory most times.

We all lost. Not just you Cuz.

Bond. BlkBond.

*This Paris song epitomizes how I’ve been feeling lately. That Blackbyrds sample is on point too.

I’ve been bangin’ Finally Famous Vol. 2 for over a year. I work out to Supa Dupa on repeat. I repeat the hook to Intro sometimes when we’re out socializing and some cutie is asking inquisitive questions. Vol. 3 is in heavy rotation now.

A lot of people are team J.Cole and they have a right to be, he’s nice.

However, I’m gonna place my bid for Big Sean. Reminds me of me and my friends. Reminds me of 93-99. When I saw this video I laughed, because I remember piling 6 deep in two door Monte Carlos & Delta 88’s driving to the liquor store to cop Special Brew & Boone’s Farm.

I remember girls who were sneaker heads who memorized every line of  Queen Bitch. I remember stumbling into parties blasting The Click’s Mr. Flamboyant as I dapped and hug my way through friends new and old.  I remember sipping Carlos Rossi at Doc’s house playing ‘the drunk game’ until the club let out (we weren’t old enough to get in) when we would be nodding deaf from that JVC knockin’ in the trunk.

I remember drunk freestyle battles among crew outside Fairstreet.  Hotboxing on our way to clubs like: Essos, Kaya, World Bar, Cream, and Ballyhoos.  I remember the Gentleman’s Club when R.Kelly came through.  I remember ‘secret’ house parties.

Big Sean makes me remember that.

Shout out to the new school.

I love trouble.

Poe up…

Bond. BlkBond.

PS—Shout out to the lead in the cable-knit dress, shorty in the indigo dress, and the live one with the short hair. Y’all Bond approved (laughs).




Just Be A Man About it by Toni Braxton

Say Somethin’ by Timbaland feat. Drake

It’s over because I don’t want you.

We barely connect like that.

I have lengthy conversations like that with most people, that is not a gauge for compatibility.

I never asked you to have sex w/ me, but I like sex, so I wasn’t going to decline it because we’re not in love. I figured you are an adult. A woman. Someone who uses her conscious voice to make decisions rather than emotional whims.

I just don’t think you’re that cute. I thought you were cute–but then when you changed your hair, I noticed how big your nose was. Or how big your ears are. I started thinking that if we had a child I didn’t think it would be very cute because of your features. Dating and sex is one thing, Marriage and fidelity is another.

We have nothing in common.

You said you didn’t want children. I do. Whether it was today or 2 years from now I was going to end it. Know that.

Our values, morals, and/or beliefs don’t match. Education and aspirations are not a tell-tale sign of synergy. I respect the fact that you have a (name of degree), however, you are not the type of woman I want to share a lifetime with.

I do love you. It’s the love that grows. My love with her was there as soon as I saw her. And I cannot let that pass me by.

So what we’re both from the same state. Region. Country. Ethnicity.  Still doesn’t make up for the fact that I don’t feel anything when I’m with you. I think you’re nice, but not enough to commit to.

I’m leaving you because she’s better. She looks better. Her personality is more in sync with my own. We have more in common. I don’t have to force myself to be anything but myself. She lets me be me with no expectation. She makes me want to be a better man.

Your looks are not enough to sustain a relationship long-term. You are beautiful, but that only helps us physically. I need more substance and you cannot provide that.

I would rather make money than make love. I love winning more than I love anything alive. I only want to leave a legacy that says I dominated. You are infringing on my ability to dominate.

Your negative. Every living thing has been through something. Your bad experiences constantly define you today, and I want someone who has learned from their past with an eye on their future.

I care about you too, but this life is not easy though. As I live now I am attached to nothing. By attaching myself to you it gives my enemies a point of weakness to exploit me with. I can show no weakness in this lifestyle, so I am eliminating the only one: you.

If I tell you what I want it won’t matter because you are not it. You will only use this information to fool the next man. Who by that time has purchased a ring, a mortgage, one son, a dog, and a daughter on the way before he realizes that you are not who he thought you were. So, no, I’m not telling you what I want.  If you were that, I would not have to say.

I don’t fear commitment. I fear mistakes. I think being with you will be a mistake that I will pay dearly for. That I fear.

Yeah, the sex with her is better. She likes going down on me. I don’t mean that she does it. I mean that she likes it. She blows little bubbles with my semen and spreads it all over her face with her tongue and hand like it’s icing from Baked & Wired.  She likes when I smack her in the face with it. She mentioned bringing a girl in with us. She begs me for it. Sometimes she takes it and I don’t have to ask.  She fucks the shit out of me. She is insatiable for me. She wants me to pull her hair and bite on her shoulder until she bleeds a little. I desire her. I crave her taste. When she crosses her legs, my mouth waters for her.  She doesn’t mind risking it in public: whether that’s a kiss or a quick session in the restroom. In the midst of all that, the emotion can change so fast where we eventually slow down and I feel like I’m not only inside of her physically, but I am inside of her spiritually. Worlds shatter when we have sex, not just headboards and wall plaster. Everything about her sexuality tells me that she is mine and reassures that I only want to be hers. I can’t let you stand in the way of that.  Good is not great; Good enough is not fate.

I am a nasty muthafucka (laughs). But I don’t apologize for that. I embrace my sexuality, and the fact that you aren’t with the things I like should tell you that I am not the one for you.

You are not sexual enough. I’m a damn MAN. I like sex. You want someone to only complain to, go out with, fuss at, who occasionally gets to kiss on you: buy a dog.

Why do you want to fight so hard for something that does not want you? I didn’t choose not to be with you, I just know that I’m not supposed to be with you.

This feels like a job. I should not have to work this hard just to live. It wasn’t this hard before I met you. You are disintegrating my spirit. I must stop you from ending ‘me’ by stopping ‘us’.

You don’t understand who I am. When that song came on the radio you asked me who Larry Hoover was. Knowing wasn’t a criteria to being with me, but it did give me insight to your naivete. You asked me how I learned that handshake. You wonder why I always accept those calls or give those guys money. It took a lot to make the man I am today, and those people, those places, those things have all played a part.  I’m not a square. I’m not a criminal. Just somewhere in between.  And that is a space you don’t fit in.

I’ve got more money, thus more options. I’m opting out of this for something better. Why are you surprised, we did the same things with our neighborhoods. Schools. Friends. It’s only right that one of us would do it with our relationship, it just happens to be me first. You’ll get your cut, just don’t try to stop me or it will get bad for you.

Our interests are too different. You like those plays, and I think that guy is the biggest coon on the planet.  I read BBC online and Christian Science Monitor, and I can’t get you to sit through CNN. I got a GNC card I use like my debit card, I can’t get you to look at a gym. I’m reading Guns, Germs, and Steel, you’re reading Steve Harvey. No.

Because I don’t want you to change who you are, I’m leaving as the person I am.  Neither one of us should have to compromise on integrity, self-respect, and the very essence of who we are just so we can be a plus one.

Because I don’t want to cheat on you. I am a man of integrity, so I’m being upfront.

Because I don’t trust you.

I got at you because I heard you were a whore. Now you don’t want to be a whore for me? I don’t want to inspire you to be better, I only want to make you wetter. That was the whole premise for being with you?! The fact that you don’t want to be what you’ve always been under the guise of self-improvement and a new found self-respect makes me feel inadequate. Ashamed. Of myself.

Because I didn’t know you were a whore. It’s not about your past, it’s about you dishonesty and deceit. You never gave me a chance to make an informed decision on whether or not I wanted to be with you. Selfish muthafucka!

I don’t think your family is one I want to marry into. I think they are good people, just not my kind of people. No matter what you say, their influence on us and possibly our children will have an impact and I don’t want that.

I love you, but as a friend only. Unfortunately that’s not good enough to sustain a relationship where I am expected to be faithful. I don’t have sex with my friends. I have sex with lovers who happen to be my friend(s). There’s a difference.

Because I’m trying to protect you. Your reckless words, actions, and behavior may lead to your harm. From me.

You had the child, I didn’t want you too. You thought that if you had it, my loyalty for my child would become fidelity for you. The contempt that I felt when you took away my choice is not going to subside. It’s better if I go. Trust.

I love your child(ren), but he is a reminder that you loved a man so much that you created another life. A physical manifestation of that love. Now you tell me you don’t know if you want to create another physical manifestation of love. My love. Which I can only surmise to mean that you will never love me like you loved him.

You aborted my child. My flesh. My blood. A part of me. You killed him. You killed me. So I’m killing us.

I was here for the money. You live nice and I like living nice with you. Now you taking that away so I will stray to a woman who can still give me that. American Gigolo flow.

I know that you’re fucking around too. I thought when we got together, you were above the fray. Above the fucking for spite I encountered in the past. Above the games people play now. I know I have issues regarding trust and fidelity, and I thought you could be an anchor in my life that would inspire me to do better. Be better. The problem is…you’re just like me. There can only be one.

I really don’t think I’m good enough for you.

I don’t think you’re really good enough for me.

You’re judgmental. I don’t need that. Being a Black Man is hard enough.

I just met you. I came to talk to all of y’all because I was being personable. I got your number. I got you. But when we went to that party and your friend was there, I realized that I had a better connection with her. I probably won’t be with her, because you will both think I’m running game, but I’m not.  Seeing her only reminds me of what I’m missing out on. That feeling.

I’m not a project. I like who I am and the things I do. If you don’t, you shouldn’t have fucked with me to begin with.

I’m not a pet. I’m a man. I have feelings, though rarely shown. I have wants, though rarely voiced. I have needs that are not being met. I have thoughts that I dare not ignore. It is you, not me.

I’m not a player. Just a lot of man. They fill a void that one you cannot. Until I find the one woman who can.

We were just kicking it. It was cool until I met someone who made me want more by accepting nothing less.

I realized that I love her.

I still love her.



Bond. BlkBond.

Half A Bar…


Inspirational Music: Takeover by Jay-Z

Some People Hate by Jay-Z

Never Change by Jay-Z

I Don’t Need Your Love by The Game

One Night by The Game

My Downfall by Biggie

It Ain’t Easy by Tupac

Mainstream by Outkast

I’ve decided to make the blog public again.  I feel like I owe it to the loyal readers, followers, and to truth in general.

I read a bullshit article about my alma mater (Morehouse) the other day on the web.  Through all the comments, opinions, dialogue, bullshit, flawed logic, etc. a lot of people missed the overwhelming and obvious: money and notoriety.  I read a tweet where one of her friends alluded that her ‘value’ had increased with the controversy she was able to stir with her article.  An article on a story damn near 2 years old.  An article that will probably affect Morehouse enrollment (hetero-normative enrollment), gifts & donations (alumni, donors, etc.), and push the institution further toward the annals of obscurity and further away from the traditions and heritage that delivered the likes of Dr. King.

I’m not going to debate the article with you. There were and are enough blogs on the internet with comment sections filled to the brim of decent arguments for both sides; Of course, these arguments overlook a lot of things, notably, how Black Men are attacked and assassinated–literally and figuratively, and how the only all-male HBCU targeted seems to be brought into the fray every year. Coincidence? I know better…

I thought someone would articulate how since Black People have come to this country, Black Men have been called anything but a man. You only need to speak with an older Black Man/Woman to be reminded that just 40-50 years ago (1 generation), Black Men with jobs, families, business, etc. were still being referred to as ‘boy’. This was not as disrespectful as ‘nigger’ or ‘shine’ or any other epithets that scorn and scorch the soul. It was worse.

Calling a man a boy is to demean and devalue on all levels; whereas an epithet is a racially derived insult that can be applied to anyone, including those who are not even apart of the race. To call him a boy is to take away or ignore the essence of him on all levels–biologically (by inferring he does not have enough testosterone), physiologically (by inferring he is insufficiently lacking physically), mentally (by inferring he is not fully competent), and emotionally (by inferring he is immature).  We no longer have to worry about only White guys doing this, because there are Black Women parading as journalists and bloggers who are assisting as well. All for the money. Sigh.

I get it. It rule everything around you. Like I used to tell niggas in neighborhoods playing basketball by throwing elbows and clothes lines, “Just tell me how we’re playing, so I will know”. Then I proceeded to clothesline, trip, elbow, chop, knee, and kick my way to the basket until it was time to fight or leave.  I understand now.

In the same vein as those defending that journalist/author…I’ve got stories to tell also (smile).

I’ve been reading blogs and tracking these people harassing me, the last few months to know one thing: I’m a dope writer (laughs), whether you like what I write or not. I should put my government out there and just start submitting stuff to magazines and periodicals. Nah, not enough dough though (but..maybe…). What fucks me up, it this would be the same type of woman who argues with you about respecting her hair, yet, she wants to tell other people & institutions how to govern. The same type of woman who will tell you she loves Wu-Tang, but shuns the niggas at the bodega sipping Nemos telling her how fat her ass is—not realizing that the Wu were and are the same type of niggas…just with money! (laughs hysterically) These squares be killing me. The same type of woman who will write an article about how she controls her sexuality will pass judgment on rap groupies. Squares: observe them from the corners that define them, that will tell you enough.

So, without future delay, I’m going to allow everyone to see how dope I am. All the time.  Feel free to link me, forward, etc. Shit, I might even start a facebook group and twitter (laughs). But this fake, hypocritical bullshit needs balance.

Not sure if this will be permanent or not, but it will be this way for now. I thank everyone who submitted emails–if I do post something private, you all will be privy. I apologize, I have just been crazy busy–professionally and personally. I have to tame one of my lives before I can continue with this one.

The title is a nod to Jay-Z’s last line on takeover. That line is for the people harassing me. No threats, I know who you are. Tis’ enough…for me at least (wink).

Shoutout to my faithful: new and old.

Long live the real.

Death to the fake.

Bond. BlkBond.

PS–Special shoutout to Ozwald Boateng (read the stat counter). Your clothes are dope. I hope to be fitted very soon, as I am a fan.

Bond 2.0


(**Originally posted August 6th 2010**Some missed my memo. Maybe one of the miserable people can let the other miserables know.  This didn’t transfer when I changed blog formats. Careful. 😉  –Bond.

At the end of the day
God damnit
I’m KILLIN this shit
Yall know DAMN WELL
y’all feeling this shit…
“—Yeezy, Power

I’m back. Sort of.

I will use this post to speak candidly about the blog, hiatus, these lames who keep harassing me, etc.

First, I want to thank all of you who have sent e-mails and encouragement. I appreciate you.
I have all of the emails, so passwords will go out after the next post. Which brings me to my first order of business:


I started this blog to give an insight into the mind, behavior, attitude, etc. of the dual degree having, attractive, intelligent, sarcastic, funny, confident, etc. Black male. I started this because the traffic at A Belle in Brooklyn started hitting me up asking for it. I decided that it could be something to look into, so I figured, why not.

In 04′ “The homie” first informed me that he was blogging, I dismissed it at the time, I had other things on my mind. After law school, healing, etc. I decided to engage, especially after I read that Rob the Bouncer (clublife) got six-figures for his book deal (this was over 4 years ago). Well, you know me, consummate hustler, I decided to look into it.

I knew I was coming into dough in a few years, so I wanted to position myself to take advantage. I also started digging the writing. I used to write in my spare time, but since I graduated from undergrad, I had not been inspired; however, some of the blog writers were so good, I actually decided to hit the keypad–this time, not with fiction, but with reality and truth.

I honestly didn’t expect it to evolve the way it has, but, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere (Hater #1, you gonna have to find new ways to insult me).

I don’t care about the traffic. I care more about the writing and the audience. With me, it matters more that the quality of people who are reading the blog are ‘up’ (educated, attractive, life experienced, etc.) rather than just anybody. Hater #1 is on twitter EVERY. DAY! Begging people to come see her, read her, etc. I support that. Please go (laughs). So she can get off my dick. Find something else to put in her mouth (laughs)…for real.

All personal posts have passwords. This means that when I write about detailed parts of my life that I intended to share about me that others are using to harm me (personally and professionally) I will only allow a certain group of people to see this (explain below). If you post regularly (Purp Pisces, ES, etc.) or I ‘know’ you (Mimi, Diva, Panama, etc.) I got you. Ms. Smart, send me and email or respond below because I do want you to keep posting, I read your blog and I appreciate the fact you read mine. You seem like a ‘grown ass woman’ so, I rock with you, want you to keep rocking with me. Respect.

Yet, I do not want to penalize the rest of you, I will continue to post ‘general’ blog posts publicly. I’m just controlling the flow of info I provide. If I think it’s a leak, I’m start the passwords over or simply privatize the entire blog. Such is the cost of being me. I was looking for a blog called ‘iloveketa’ and I couldn’t find it. She commented here once and I read her joint. I saw she was getting harassed also, so it doesn’t surprise me. Sad, but the truth is my beliefs, values, and opinions are at the cost of some lame ass girl(s) who think they’re the next Oprah.

Anyone who sent the email as requested, I got you. Most of the people on my ‘followers’ list, I got you. Unfortunately, not all. I won’t help some of you try to sabotage my livelihood to preserver e-friendships with the people who have gone insane crazy, past the point of common decency to get at me.

Special shoutout to Nick@Nite for catching that 3rd Eye Blind reference AND ‘semi-charmed life’ allusion. You are the exact type of reader I am looking for. I appreciate you. Seriously.

Just when I thought I had to ‘dumb it down’, you posted that and I smiled. I’ll hit you with a password, as that was your first time posting (I think).

I will write a few straight forward posts. The reason I usually do not, is because my writing at work is straight forward. I never get to exercise my creativity, so the blog is and has been my outlet for that. I notice that there have been chimes that the length is long, but I will keep it that way or either divide the posts into more parts/series. As I get more familiar with the new site, I will post photos, videos, etc. that are both personal and relative to the posts also. Bare with me Bond faithful…

The WHY?

I had a disagreement (as usual with these lames) online. A few days after, IT at my job shows up in my department, gives us a letter about ‘websites’, online policy, etc. Then the ‘hacking’ started with the e-mail address. Several people were moved at work, so I was buggin and decided to fall back. I was a little pissed, because I didn’t know what was going on or what to expect. Again, mad Black people in the building so, I’m not sure, but I don’t really believe in coincidences.

If you know me (or have been reading this blog) I do not take kindly to this. I chilled also to be the adult of the situation, but clearly this doesn’t work with these people. These hoes crazy (laughs). I need to get on my dudes from Drew Hall (03-06), cause I’m pretty sure if they had received the attention they so desperately clamor for, I wouldn’t have to deal with Blog shit at my job.

WordPress will also allow me a better way to filter traffic until my site goes up. That’s right. I’m going all out: I bought a url, just gotta find a decent site designer and specify what I want (mainly security and maintaining anonymity), then I will be in full effect.

The Promiscuity series will continue (6 parts + conclusion) on the wordpress site. I have not put it up because I haven’t figured out how to keep all my searches (google), traffic, etc. from this blog, but, if you have the password already (I think, 4 or 5 of you do) you can access the old posts.

I wrote the promiscuity series because some women wanted to know, some women were holding sex above a guy’s head to control him, some women didn’t understand the what and why. I thought I would enlighten them by giving a personal account (mine) of experience, rather than theory and bullshit. NEVER did I imagine I would get this bullshit for a series about my personal experiences with sex. I know I’ve made mistakes and done foul shit; I acknowledge that. But what person hasn’t? I was halfway through the recollection and this shit started.

The promiscuity series was necessary because you can’t address various other aspects of dating and relationships without acknowledging the male aspect and experience of sex. Alot of these girls have only had 1 or 2 relationships (a ‘boo’ doesn’t count. Niggas asking you for a date mean nothing), probably haven’t had an orgasm but once or twice, etc. yet, they are on blogs and in comment sections trying to tell WOMEN (females with life experience) about ‘what they expect’ and ‘what isn’t so’ and ‘my daddy told me..’ etc. Fuck. Outtahere. Seriously?

Listen, I was taught that if you don’t know to ask or be quiet so you can learn. Pick one.

It’s easy for your little square ass to talk about what you ‘won’t tolerate’ and ‘expect’ you just lost your virginity a few years ago. Look here kiddo, sex is an intricate part of adult relationships. By not acknowledging this or marginalizing the fact that someone who can do gymnastics in the bedroom makes judgment/behavior unclear is a disservice to both men and women searching for common ground while dating.

It’s one thing to criticize my posts and comments, but another to judge me for past transgressions and behavior. Especially when the series has not even concluded!

Again, immature little girls with ‘funky’ hair styles: STOP. READING. MY. BLOG. If you are not woman enough to handle what I am saying, fast enough to comprehend the end result, or smart enough to disagree in an articulate manner with knowledge or experience, please kick rocks.

The difference between my blog and others is that my blog is a ‘niche’. I only want a certain crowd (you will see when the site goes up), not every lame chick with access to a computer and a library card.

Some bloggers are begging people to comment, and I gotta beg people to stop (laughs), crazy…


I’m still in my love triangle. As some of you know, I didn’t put myself here alone and I realize that I am losing parts of all the good karma I have accumulated over the past few years. Very soon, I’m going to be out of this Bermuda love triangle, but right now it is very stressful, tense, and volatile. It’s a bad situation that will end very badly, so if I take another hiatus, you will know why in advance.

The ‘one’ I was feeling, moved from the area, so I can’t front, I’m a little disappointed. Part of my fallback has been cause that shit is still soaking in. Especially because I’m not easily impressed and for once in 4/5 years I was actually very impressed. In the words on Ms. Badu, “Next Lifetime”. That fact hasn’t mixed so well when I’m sharing a bed with someone I feel ‘blah’ about.

The ever so present, ‘Ms. Right-Now’. I’ve been dating her most of my life, she just won’t go away.

Usually this state of malcontent increases promiscuity, for me at least. I’m trying to be adult about it, get a hobby (laughs), but here….they on ya boy. And the fact that I’m not feeling my situation is an enticing reason to pick up old vices. I just know better, so I’m trying to do better.

(**For legal purposes this part is all in jest and hypothetical**)

Don’t make me do it to you dunny/ cause I’ll over do it…“–Jay

…you know they’re lame/ you feel ashamed/ but you love’em the same…“–Hov

…I once was/cool as the Fonz was/but these bright lights/will turn you to a monster..“–Sean Corey

Hypothetically I have a tracker on my blog. I have Hypothetical access to all IP addresses that pass through. IP addresses are usually dynamic (changing) or static (constant). So, for hypothetical example: Someone was anonymous with their comment at 2:30 on July 6th. This hypothetical person is in Philadelphia (West Chester), Pennsylvania hypothetically. This person is employed at….

Hypothetically I have sent an email to this hypothetical ISProvider of this hypothetical harassment. I will sent more hypothetical letters to this ISProvider until I get answers or until this person ceases and desists. I have looked up the hypothetical laws that hypothetically correspond to cyber harassment in Pennsylvania. In Pennsylvania you only require one instance, which has been provided on July 6th. That’s not hypothetical.

For intelligent reasons I have issued several warnings, this is the last. I will take the next precautionary step and then the next. My blog has been active for over a year. I have been silent for a reason. I have over a year worth of material evidence for some of your conduct. I even took the extra step of adding the ‘filter’ to the comments section, which requires you to type in letters before commenting. By typing the letters and continuing to leave unwanted comments which do not correspond to the topic, blog, or discourse between posters and harass after I have asked you not to, shows intent.

A ‘hypothetical’ jewel to my haters:

For number 1: New York penal code section 240.30. (202)37…..you get the picture. Is that really the Brooklyn way? Of course not, you’re not a native.

For number 2: Thomas Jefferson St. NW Washington DC 20007. Tell Ash I said ‘what up’.

For number 3: Kingsway.


Dom, VEG, & Spitfire (if you are still reading), I want you all to take note to how much of a gentleman I have been throughout this ordeal. I have and am still offering these ladies an opportunity to simply walk away, find other men to harass, etc. without it going any further. Now, conventional wisdom would tell you that they should, but I’m willing to bet their pride gets the best of them…similar to the women in the ‘what you don’t know’ series. So, again, I show you the logic behind my actions. It’s not me ladies, but the hubris of a select few who continually wager on the side or arrogance rather than practical sensibility. Based on what I typed above, conventional wisdom would make you wonder (how? what else? etc.) but, again, I’m willing to wager at least one of these people disregard this.

I don’t patronize any sites that several of them do, but if we happen to post/comment on the same blog or website, I never initiate interaction with them. These are ladies who spend HOURS and DAYS on internet sites and twitter harassing people, disrespecting people, etc.

We get it: your life is pathetic, you need an antagonist, you constantly send subliminal shots, write blogposts, tweets, anonymous comments on mine, etc. Leave me alone. Can I say it any clearer? For God sake, all of you are in large metropolitan areas in the United States. You mean to tell me there is not a man (or woman) to occupy your time? If you despise me so much, why are you ALWAYS commenting on me, something I said, did, wrote etc. Get off my dick.

You don’t even know me…fuck is wrong with you?!

Again, kick rocks in traffic on a nascar track ladies. You ain’t gotta like me, cool, I don’t care for you either, but by attacking my livelihood you have taken it too far. In advance notice, this is only a touch, let’s stop (trust me, let’s stop).

I don’t know what you think you know, but I am not your typical blogger. You would know that if you read the entire blog. Seriously: stop it. How many warnings & opportunities do you need?

Again, ladies…quit while you’re ahead.

Truth is, I feel sorry for you. Hell I feel sorry for your parents. You all are full of misery. Never in my life have I seen so many little girls ‘angry’ for nothing. You don’t even know why you are angry, moreover, why you’re angry with me. I’m no misogynist. I don’t even hate ‘you’ for being an asshole. You should find peace within yourself and stop projecting your negativity onto others, particularly me. Your life would be better if you could do this. Do you EVER have anything positive to say, write, etc.? I pray for me if you force my hand…

Last, If you have a problem with me personally: email me. Let’s be adults. Let’s discuss your issue. I give you my word that I will not reveal our conversation with anyone else. That’s my word. Ask my ‘friends’ (and some of yours) and they will tell you. Seriously…

Be clear: enough money makes a white hat black.
Be clear: my friend at that agency only needs your name.

Sigh. The choice is yours…


Special shout out to Diva, I hope you are doing well, it’s been a minute since you blogged, want you to know I have you in my thoughts and prayers love. Hit me up…

Special shout out to Single in NoVA who is no longer blogging. I want you to know that I read your blog from time to time and I read the last part, which was particularly heartfelt and interesting to say the least. I gained some insight from you in that last part. I did not read your blog regularly, but I want you to know that I did respect your voice and wish you the best. From one Black man to the next.

Special shout out to my readers. Thank you for rocking with me. There are few people typing and writing ‘for the love’ or honestly. I’m glad you all respect my voice, even the dissenters. I just want a certain level of intelligence that just doesn’t exist on other blog sites. Whether that’s 5 or 5,000, I only care about the quality of the readers.

I have named my last post. It may be a minute before you see it, but I have started to piece it together. It will be tied in with an allusion to the ‘silent majority’. During my time off, I saw a picture of a few bloggers (male & female) and it reminded me of a conversation Mimi and I were having, when I basically said, “Yo, I look way better than them niggaz…” and she was like, “but other people don’t know that”. In other words, I’m starting to feel lesser for even engaging some of these people.

I know that sounds condescending, but for real, I don’t have their problems. I can’t relate to some lame chick who can’t get a guy to open a door on a date, when I’m a Southern Guy who has opened doors since he could walk. I can’t relate to some nigga complaining about not getting head, when I have to tell girls ‘stop, I’m going to bed, I gotta work in the am’. It just seems to be a large disconnect, which is part of the reason I think I have so much plex/beef. It’s like a 14 year old girl, complaining that guys don’t ask for her phone number to a 25 year old whose been getting numbers since he was 12; only in these situations the 25 year old is acting like a 14 year old. I don’t need this headache (laughs). Clearly alot of the shit they are even saying doesn’t even apply to me, so…it’s a moot point. Most of the niggaz are leaving me to do the dirty work (i.e. speak the truth, be the bad guy, etc.) without even acknowledging what I’m saying is true or either playing ‘white knight’ to boost their web traffic or e-perception (like that shit matters, lol). Lately, there is a group of women who take what I say, say the exact same thing…and get praised for it (laughs). Yo, for real this shit is insane.

So, to my readers, I really DO appreciate you. New post.  Soon.

Bond. BlkBond.
email: 007blackbond@gmail.com

That post is a while away. So I will be here until then. If you have any topics or suggestions, as always send them to me. Soon Fam’. Soon.

Um, Yeah…


OK. I went out to watch football.  Football turned into drinks. Which turned into conversations. Conversations attract Women. And if you read my blog or know me, then…we know how this goes.  This weekend (Sunday?) I will complete the series so I can post my new joints.  I got too much living out here, seem like everytime I step outside my door, adventures awaits…


Bond. BlkBond.