Or, rather, let's talk about how the subject of black sexuality hardly ever surfaces in mainstream media. Of late, major news organizations, including The New York Times and The Boston Globe, have done stories examining the increasing rates of AIDS diagnoses among black American men. Because the US Centers for Disease Control recently issued a report documenting the scary climb in numbers of black men who are being diagnosed with the virus that causes AIDS, the stories all had a government-imposed "hook" on which to hang. And, uniformly, the stories about the CDC's report all ran with the agency's carefully calibrated statements regarding possible causes for the increase. These possible causes are all things we've heard before — many African Americans continue to view AIDS as primarily a "white gay man's disease," many African Americans are unwilling to acknowledge homosexuality in their communities, and many black males, even those who sometimes engage in homosexual sex, are so afraid of the stigma of being gay that they don't take appropriate precautions when having risky sex. Black women, who've also seen a dramatic increase in AIDS diagnoses during the past decade, are often victimized by black men who sleep with them without admitting that they've had gay sex, too. Denial is the running theme, and, however rote these stories may appear to those of us who have covered these issues in the past, they perform a public service. These stories, however cursory and obvious their reporting might be, are helpful because it is clear that the ongoing silence about drug abuse and risky sex continues to play a devastating role in allowing AIDS to continue its march into African America.

Still, I wondered if there weren't more useful ways to come at the subject of blacks and sexuality, beyond the apocalyptic AIDS reports. Isn't there more to be written and read about a subject that affects some 30-plus million blacks who probably won't be directly touched by AIDS?

The answer, of course, is yes. And two black-oriented magazines that one doesn't usually associate with hard-hitting sociological reporting have tackled the subject in recent issues. At VIBE Magazine, the leading urban youth culture publication, the July issue is devoted to sex, complete with an art-raunch photo of diva Mary J. Blige on its cover. Over at XXL, ("Hip Hop on a Higher Level"), the July issue is also devoted to sex, albeit with a somewhat more salacious approach than the one VIBE takes. Both magazines take an unsentimental look at black sexuality, and bring to light the many ways in which the hip hop generation is altering expressions of black sexuality. These stories are not for everyone, and even a not-so-old fogey like me found some of the goings-on alarming (especially Fab 5 Freddy's profile of "New York's underground Black Booty Party scene," found in XXL.) Still, I came away from both issues informed, and wanting to know why more national publications don't attempt to explore the connection between black identity, sex and the all-powerful marketing machines that manage to link these elements. You know something is going on when MTV's spring-break specials highlight dance-offs between bikini clad white girls doing their best to emulate the "hoochie mama," butt-grinding dancing that is found on so many hip hop videos these days.

While the profile of Blige is obviously designed to draw readers into the current issue of VIBE, the most surprising (and useful) story is buried deep in the feature well — a look at the world of "homo-thugs." Written by Malcolm Venable, "A Question of Identity" tackles the subject of black male sexuality from the point of view of some individuals who rarely, if ever, get written about in big glossy magazines. Which is to say that Venable spent time in some of the little-known corners of hip hop nightclub life, clubs like The Warehouse in the South Bronx, where black men in the rawest of hip hop gear turn up to dance, drink and cruise each other. The reporting is remarkable, in that Venable manages to uncover a corner of black American life that is very much on "the down low." The men quoted by Venable (a couple of whom use pseudonyms) often refer to themselves and their behavior as being just that — "DL."

Now, this area is particularly touchy, primarily because much of hip hop music during the past 15 years has featured lyrics that are clearly homophobic in nature. The flap early this year about Eminem's apparently anti-gay outlook was somewhat misguided, in that the white rapper's homophobia was (in my mind at least) clearly a caricature of black homophobia, another case of a white entertainer glomming onto yet one more incendiary aspect of black culture. It always seemed odd to me that the folks who got so worked up about Eminem's "homophobia" (white gay males, primarily, and white music journalists) failed to mention that he was mostly aping what he'd heard on black hip hop releases. "Real niggas ain't gay," Ice Cube rapped on his single, "Horny Lil' Devil," but apparently the LA-based star is either blind or in denial about what really goes on in some corners of the 'hood.

Even though former NWA rapper Eazy E died of AIDS in the mid-90s, raising serious questions about the consequences of the rapper's sexual lifestyle, few entertainment journalists have ventured deep into some of the underlying factors that undoubtedly contributed to the shock caused by Eric Wright's untimely death. In Venable's piece, though, we get an intelligent examination of the self-hatred, cultural stigmas and historical influences that lead some black men to not only deny their homosexual feelings, but to talk openly about how much they hate "faggots." It is a jarring story, one that asks, and answers (however tangentially), many pressing questions surrounding young black male sexual behavior. "This story is rarely heard," Venable writes. "It takes place in New York City, although it's happening all over the country. It's about a culture that is a product of its influences: money, sex, and hip hop. It's a lifestyle led by gay black and Latino men who love themselves, who hate themselves." Now, that is just about as powerful a piece of cultural journalism as I have read anywhere in a very long time.

Consider the experience of a 23-year-old rapper named Jason Herndon. He is featured in a sidebar to Venable's piece, and talks honestly about what it's like to be a "homo-thug."

He goes by the stage name of "Caushun," and his work is just beginning to get limited airplay on some New York radio stations. He is an anomaly, apparently, because he is "out," and still manages to move relatively smoothly through the highly codified world of hip hop in Brooklyn and Manhattan. "I hang around real thugs, and what I get from them is that they like for me to be real with myself," Herndon told VIBE. "I grew up out here, I fought my battles, and I'm keepin' it real — cause real ain't straight if you're gay. And I'm not the first gay rapper anyway. I'm just the first to admit it."

Unfortunately, the "homo-thug" scene also boasts characters like "Malik," a "6-foot, 200 pound, 23-year-old from New Jersey" who "doesn't look very friendly chillin' at the Warehouse's bar." He tells Venable that he "hates" gay men, even though he sleeps with men. He deals drugs and guns, drives a Mercedes Benz, and has been locked up "about ten times," all activities that Malik says he takes part in because he's desperate to "prove I'm a nigga." Most disturbingly, he admits to having "beat down" a gay man in a train station last year because "he asked to suck my dick." He doesn't think of himself as gay, mostly because he believes that the other black men he sleeps with do not think of themselves as gay, either. It is a twisted outlook, but Venable goes to several experts who provide valuable context. (In short, "It's not society, but black people who impose the restrictions," Venable concludes, restrictions tied to centuries-old myths and perceptions of blacks that have become not only socially obsolete, but which may in fact work against the development of a healthy black self-image.) VIBE has managed to unearth an important development on the black American cultural scene. And while the stories fall short of providing realistic solutions to the problem of self-destructive behaviors tricked out in avant garde hip hop garb, they at least give us an intelligent starting point.

The articles in XXL's sex issue are more prurient, but no less enlightening. Leah Rose's interviews with several rappers who describe their first sexual experience is funny, in a scary sort of way. While dozens of rappers lard their songs with macho stories of sexual conquests, Rose's piece reveals that for many, their first sexual explorations are just as mundane and pathetic as your average 13-year-old schoolkids playing spin-the-bottle in their parents' basement. On the other hand, Vanessa Satten's interview with Lil' Cease of Junior MAFIA is just plain scandalous — but ultimately enlightening, at least about the psychology of some rappers who engage in sex with groupies. More to the point, Satten gets Lil' Cease to talk openly about "sharing" girls — the hows, whys and wherefores of male rappers who apparently really do live up to the sexual brags of their songs. As I've said, it isn't pretty, and this particular story is woefully short on the other side of the coin — the women who seem so willing to get "hit" by these rap stars. Still, in the same issue, Samiya Bashir investigates lesbian clubs in New York that cater to hip hop girls — truly a segment of the population that is virtually invisible in the press. All in all, as I've said, both magazines boldly go where few have gone before. And whether we like it or not, they portray aspects of black sexuality that appear to be here to stay.