Love Walter:  Instant Relationships with Island Men

Love Walter

Dear Walter, 

Would you date someone long-distance from Jamaica? Or marry him so they could get a green card?

—Jamaican Me Crazy

Dear Jamaican Me Crazy, 

I’ve received an influx of gay Jamaicans hitting me up on Facebook for sex, relationships, and even marriage.  “I’m looking for a relationship,” he said.

“With me?”

“Yes, I think we can be good together.”

Just what I wanted to hear two minutes in our conversation.

Another Jamaican insisted we jerk off together on cam. He whipped his big dick out and stroked it. I watched and played with my nipples.

When did FaceBook become the new Grindr?

“Oh, I never been to DC before,” he said. “I visited Baltimore last Christmas for 2 days. I love it there.”

And his ass is still not coming. I’m not going to start an instant relationship with a stranger off Facebook. But, thank you for showing me your dick. “I want to get married,” he said.

Damn, I guess people are still fucking for green cards and marriage certificates. Could life in Jamaica be that bad?


Courting with Poverty

I used to talk to a guy in Brooklyn, who recently migrated from Jamaica for a fresh start. I guess it wasn’t going so well.

“I not in a position to take care of myself,” he said. “I’m looking for someone to take care of me.”

Wait, was that just uttered by a 28-year-old male in the financial Capitol of the world? We were day two in our courtship. This was the first time someone tried to court me with poverty. He mentioned that he didn’t know how his rent would be paid. I had no answers for his plight. I had my own rent to pay, and that was something I planned to handle alone. Yet, he reached out to me, regarding his finances. Did he think I could pay his rent?

I met him a few weeks ago at the Jamaican restaurant in my neighborhood. I had no idea he was interested in me. I didn’t know he was gay. But, I ordered my food and continued my day. Until his co-worker suggested him. “He’s one of you, you know?” She said. “He’s happy, just like you.”

I was flabbergasted. The next day he asked me for my number.

We talked for hours, about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness on American soil. The first 30 minutes were lost in translation. His Jamaican accent muffled his words and his syntax was sinful. After the preliminary stage, I was able to understand better. He sounded like he had a good heart. But most men do before asking for money.

His financial constraints consumed the conversation on the second hour. I wasn’t looking for a deep relationship. I craved casual sex to keep me warm through winter. There was no need to be sleepless in Seattle when I lived in the city that never sleeps.

The next day I contacted him to meet. Since he had no money to go out, I mentioned that we could hang at my place. “Show up in the same old thing,” he said.

I’m like your personal Jesus come as you are.

Watching him struggle turned me off. The last time I called him, some girl answered. “Who diz?” she said.

“No, who is this answering his phone.”

“I’m hiz wife.”

If you’re too broke to eat, then you’re too broke to get married.

Obviously we can’t let a few bad Jamaican’s tarnish the whole country.



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