Love the One You're With Read online

  “Ah. The dick that got away couldn’t be hers to begin with,” I added.

  “You go it,” B.D. agreed.

  “My, my, my: The power of the pussy fails again!” announced Gene.

  As we cackled and Pooquie groaned “Uh-huh,” Babyface correctly surmised it was time to move on. He stuck his hand in Pooquie’s X cap, and chose: “Have you ever dreamed about having sex with someone in this room other than your significant other?”

  We would later find out that B.D. jotted this one down—and that Babyface was his intended target.

  “Well …” Babyface began, looking at the floor, “I’ve had this dream … a few times …”

  Given that we had gotten busy on the very couch he was lounging across, I knew he was going to say me (as part of their “one more fling before we exchange rings” deal, B.D. and Babyface each slept with someone else—and I was Babyface’s pick). But when he looked up, his eyes trailed past me …

  … and fell on Pooquie, who was just as surprised as Gene and I. “Man, you fuh real?”

  “Yup.”

  Being the not-so-modest person he is, Pooquie naturally wanted to know … “What you dream about?”

  Babyface wore a slight grin. “Well … we’re going over your contract, and after we’re done, you say: ‘Well, it’s time for me to pay up.’ Then you stand up, rip off your shirt, unzip and drop your pants, knock the contract on the floor, climb atop the table on all fours, and say: ‘A’ight, Counselor: It’s time to chow down and throw down!’”

  Everyone fell out, except Gene. “Well, it’s clear how you wish to be paid for your legal services.” He rose and went into the kitchen.

  B.D. waved at me. “Can ya believe it? Our husbands having an affair!”

  I pointed to Pooquie and Babyface. “I think we may have to keep an eye on you two.” They blushed.

  Hmm … knowing firsthand how well Babyface works that tongue and dick, I glanced in the kitchen and could clearly see Pooquie planted on the countertop with his chocolate pound cakes spread and Babyface chowing down before throwing down. It didn’t rub me the wrong way, it rubbed me the right way—my dick got hard.

  I was next.

  “Tell someone something about them that bothers you the most.”

  That was easy. I turned to Pooquie. “I wish you were at a place where you could tell your family about yourself—and us.” He and I had talked about this a lot. The nod he gave me affirmed he’s slowly starting to realize that, after integrating me into his life the way he has, there’s no way that his mother or his son’s mother doesn’t suspect we could be more than just friends.

  I handed the hat to Gene, who had just returned with a cup of coffee—but he wouldn’t take it. He was throwing me shade.

  And, yes, I was gagging. “What?”

  “Now, you know that ain’t what you told me a few weeks ago.”

  I wasn’t looking in his direction, but I could feel Pooquie tense up.

  “Uh-oh, a challenge!” exclaimed B.D.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You told me that the thing that bothers you the most about Pooquie is his being a drama queen.”

  I could see Pooquie out of the corner of my right eye freeze: he clutched the armrests of the easy chair and his head was titled down on a ninety-degree angle, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

  “I didn’t say that,” I laughed, trying to inject some humor into the haze of doubt filling the room.

  Gene sucked his teeth. “Oh, no? Then what did you say?”

  I struggled. “Well … if I remember correctly, I said that … that Pooquie sometimes has the bad habit of … of being a little too dramatic about some things, that he sometimes acts like a drama queen.”

  “That’s not what I remember,” declared Gene, crossing his arms and his legs. “Now, you did say that he has the bad habit of being a little too dramatic, that he sometimes overreacts to things—throwing a tantrum, storming off, running away. But you also said it bothers you a lot, and the last words out of your mouth were: ‘I wish he wasn’t such a drama queen.’”

  I was playing it over in my mind and, yes, that was what I said. But I certainly didn’t want to own up to it now. “Gene, you misunderstood me.”

  “I didn’t misunderstand a thang. I know what I heard.”

  “Well, even if I did say that—”

  “Which you did,” he insisted.

  “—I certainly didn’t mean that he is a drama queen, as you originally stated.”

  “Ah, a stickler for details. The journalist in you is coming out. How convenient.”

  I was more than testy now. “Well, if you’re going to quote me, quote me verbatim. As we see, one or two words can make the difference.”

  He huffed. “He is a drama queen, he acts like a drama queen … a distinction without a difference if you ask me. No matter how you try to break it down or rework it, it basically means the same thing.”

  Pooquie agreed. He, along with Gene, voted that I wasn’t telling the truth. (B.D. sided with Babyface, who believed that the context was important, and since it was unclear based on our different accounts, they couldn’t vote either way.) Pooquie simmered, but he did a jood job of keeping his top. But after they left (which wasn’t long after the argument; it threw a wrench into and ended the game, and put a damper on the rest of the day), he blew up. He was more hurt and embarrassed than angry, and I could understand why: I would’ve felt the same way if I discovered in front of others (even if they were extended family like B.D., Babyface, and Gene) that my mate viewed me in such a way. But, in classic Pooquie fashion, he carried on about it (yeah, like a drama queen), accusing me of “insulting” his manhood and wondering out loud how he could fall in love with someone who thought of him that way. And, as is often the case when he is put out or off by me, he chose to sleep on the couch for the next six days (absolutely the longest he can go without being touched by or lying next to me).

  The day after all of this drama unfolded (a Monday), Gene called and left a message on my answering machine at home. I didn’t return it. He did the same thing Tuesday; again, I didn’t respond. Wednesday night he called me at home; I wouldn’t pick up. When those three days turned into a week, B.D. and Babyface stepped in to reunite us, but nothing they said or tried worked. Gene showed up at my job just before Christmas and followed me home (I live just three blocks away from the junior high school I teach at); as he pleaded with me to talk to him, I wouldn’t even acknowledge him, closing my front door in his face. And I brought in the New Year for the first time in six years without him (he called five seconds after 1995 began, wishing me the best).

  “You think you makin’ him suffer when you makin’ yo’self suffer,” Pooquie argued—and he was right. (That was advice he himself had to take to heart: He tried to punish me by holding back on the lovin,’ but that “I ain’t givin’ you none” eventually turned into “Yeah, mutha-fucka, bone it like you own it!”) Pooquie saw how the separation from Gene was affecting me, and while a part of him may have been pleased that Gene was out of the picture (they’ve always butted heads because they have the same domineering personality and believe they should be number one in my life), he knew that I—and he—would continue to be miserable so long as Gene and I weren’t speaking. So he “tricked” me into talking to him again: he called up Gene, placed him on speakerphone, and after Pooquie got me to admit how much I missed him, Gene entered the discussion with: “I miss you, too.” Gene and I made up that night. I was still a little angry at him, but the bottom line was that I blamed Gene when I was really angry with myself for not thinking such a thing could come back to haunt me (not to mention coming up with that question in the first place; I didn’t want any particular person to choose it, but I certainly didn’t expect to have to answer it myself). Yes, Gene can be a wise-ass, but I hadn’t told him this in confidence; I didn’t swear him to secrecy. So it was fair game in the game we played. And it wasn’t worth losing my best frie
nd, the big brother I never had who served as my mentor “in the life” (i.e., the Black gay world), over.

  Although Gene and I patched things up a few weeks ago (placing Truth or Shade on that list of things we will never partake of again), our schedules didn’t allow us to hook up. But I planned to spend the entire weekend (which included the observance of Dead White Male Presidents’ Day) with him—shopping, clubbing, and doing a whole lot of catching up and kee-keeing.

  It was jood to see him again and he obviously felt the same way: He stood as I approached him and didn’t give me the chance to put my bag down, almost snatching me up in his arms. I had to admit, the bear hug felt very jood; I hadn’t realized just how much I missed him until then. How ironic that Phyllis Hyman’s “Old Friend” happened to be playing at that moment.

  He finally released me. “So … now that the dog’s away, the pussy can come out and play, huh?”

  I frowned. “Not funny.”

  “Believe me, that wasn’t a joke.”

  “So, where’s B.D.?” I asked, peeling off my leather jacket and placing it around the back of the stool.

  “In the ladies’ room.” He sat back down.

  I joined him. “To do more than just wash his hands before dinner, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Oh, how fagulous!” B.D. cried as he sashayed toward us. “It’s so wonderful to have our three-for-T circle together again.” He hugged us both by the neck.

  Gene pushed him off. “Yeah, yeah, save it for Sally Messy Raphael, okay? I need another drink.” He signaled for the bartender. “You want something, Mitch?”

  “No. I’ll wait till we eat. I’m starving.”

  Just then, a brother who was the embodiment of “tall, dark, and handsome”—probably six-six and three-hundred-plus pumped-up pounds, sporting a diamond stud in his right ear and a black fedora on his bald head, and wearing a bloodred turtleneck and scandalously tight black leather pants—scooted by us, winking at B.D.

  B.D. licked his lips. “So am I.”

  I, too, was drooling. “Is he who you were busy with in the bathroom?”

  “Uh-huh.” He sighed.

  About to sip his gin and tonic, Gene stopped. “And just how busy were y’all?”

  “Ha, not that busy. But we were very busy years ago.” He had a flashback. His whole body trembled. “Lawdamercy. If I weren’t a married woman …” He turned to me. “And speaking of being a married woman: What kind of mischief do you plan on getting into now that the hubby will be out of town for a spell?”

  “I’m not getting into any mischief.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? I mean, a little bit of flirtin’ and flashin’ never hurt anybody.”

  Gene lifted his glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to that!”

  “But why would I do that? Pooquie and I, we’re committed to each other.”

  “No, you two should be committed,” Gene corrected.

  “I’m committed to Babyface but, as you see, haven’t retired from enjoying and engaging in the sights,” testified B.D.

  “Well, that might work for you, even Babyface. But that’s not how it is for Pooquie and me.”

  B.D. folded his arms against his chest. “Oh? How do you know?”

  “Because I know him. And he knows me. And we have that understanding.”

  B.D. gave me a quizzical look. “Uh, is this something you two have discussed?”

  “Uh … well … no.”

  They grinned at each other. “Uh-huh.”

  I went on the defensive. “But it doesn’t have to be discussed. It just is.”

  B.D. balked. “You are assuming that he feels the same way and wouldn’t participate in any extracurricular activities, is that it?”

  I was at a loss. “Well … well …”

  “Chile, you can’t assume, you gotta know.” B.D. leaned on the bar. “You don’t think Pooquie might, uh, stray while he is away?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He looked at Gene. “And I thought I was the dense one in this family.” He turned back to me. “Mitch, hon, you know I like Pooquie very much. But we’re talking about a man who is three thousand miles away making his first film in a town where almost every person he meets or sees will be just as P-H-Y-N-E as him. You don’t think he might be just a little bit tempted to taste a little bit of someone else?”

  “No, ’cause this Little Bit gives him every little bit of what he needs,” I confidently stated.

  “I’m sure you do, dahling. But there’s just one problem: You are here and he is there. And you know what they say: ‘If you can’t be with the one you love … ’”

  Gene, the reigning president of the “Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” Club, spit out his drink. B.D. giggled.

  “What we have is strong enough to keep us for two weeks,” I argued.

  B.D. pointed to Gene. “Well, I hate to sound like the jaded queen that we all know and sometimes love who is seated at this very bar—”

  “Shut up, bitch,” snarled Gene, who was wiping his mouth with a tissue.

  “—but, when you can lust the one you’re with, what’s L got to do with it?”

  I accepted the challenge. “Well, I hate to sound like the helpless romantic that we all know and love who is seated at this very bar—”

  Gene nudged B.D. “Hmmph, more like a hopeless romantic!”

  “—but L’s got everything to do with it!”

  B.D. shrugged. “Maybe so. But temptation knows everybody’s name, hon. You don’t stop being human ’cause you in love.” He giggled as Gene visibly cringed. “Besides, you two are due.”

  “We’re due?”

  “Yes. There comes a time in every relationship where you get that … itch.”

  “You mean …” Marilyn Monroe came to mind …

  … and being sort of a dumb blonde himself, he must’ve sensed it. “Yup, the seven year itch. But, in fag years, it’s seventeen months.”

  “Seventeen months?” I repeated.

  “Yes. If a couple makes it there, they are what you could call serious candidates. The not-so-serious last no more than seventeen weeks.” He looked at Gene. “And the unserious?”

  Gene gladly took that one. “Seventeen days.”

  B.D. nodded. “See. Too many of us fall in the latter category, so you know it’s a surprise when ya reach the second plateau.”

  “Ha, and a miracle when you reach the third,” Gene snickered.

  “After all, how many gay couples do you know who have been together seventeen months or longer?” B.D. asked.

  Hmm … I could only think of one.

  B.D. grinned. He cut his eyes at Gene. “And some said we wouldn’t last seventeen hours.”

  “Ha, it ain’t over till the fat-ass lady sings,” shot back Gene.

  B.D. drew his claws. “But it is over for some of us, isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t believe he went there. Gene broke up with Carl, the guy he had been seeing for over a year, last October. Gene still won’t tell us why; B.D. and I figure Gene said or did something to fuck it up. But whatever happened, it wrecked Gene, even though he tried hard not to show it.

  Gene glared at B.D. “Anyway …”

  “Uh-huh. An-ty-way … if my calculations are correct, you two have officially been together as a couple for seventeen months. And while y’all have been through a hell of a lot together, the real test—infidelity—hasn’t reared its head”—he suspiciously eyed me—“as far as we know. So, if neither one of you has creeped yet, it could happen very soon.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said in a very dismissive tone.

  B.D. grasped and shook my arm. “Chile, you better snap out of that dreamworld, thinking it can’t happen to you. Every man is capable of it.”

  “Every man?”

  “Yes, every man.”

  “Even Babyface?”<
br />
  “Well, he’s a man. And, as quiet as it’s kept, I happen to be one, too.” Gene was about to jump in when B.D. cut him off: “Don’t even go there.”

  “Uh … you’ve cheated on Babyface?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, haven’t been tempted—or haven’t come close to it.”

  Gene and I moved in closer to him. “Really?” we both sang in unison.

  “Yes, really.”

  “With who?” we echoed.

  “If you two must know, Gerrold Garrett.”

  Gene wasn’t impressed. “You mean the one with no neck?”

  “Yes. And what he does not have between his head and shoulders he more than makes up for in other areas.”

  I grinned, picturing “Jiggly Gerrold” (as he’s been affectionately dubbed), a member of Gene’s dance troupe, in nothing but his tights and a thong. “Ha, he sho’ nuff do!”

  “I don’t know if Babyface has,” B.D. confessed, “but I’d be more than naive to think he hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t been tempted, or hasn’t come close to it, also. Hell, he’s dreamed of doing it with another man, as I am sure you’re aware.”

  I nodded.

  “And, if he did do it—and chances are that he has—I wouldn’t want to know about it.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “So long as he is treating me right, treating us right, why should it matter if he was, is, or will be with some­one ­else? What we have isn’t a moment in time, but what he would have with them would be.

  “And, besides,” he began, glancing at Gene, who declared right along with him, “He’s a man.”

  “Just like Pooquie,” enunciated Gene.

  “Uh-huh. Just like you,” added B.D.

  YEAH … JUST LIKE ME.

  We all like to think that what we have with our significant other has never existed before, that it’s special, different—and I would have to say that my relationship with Pooquie is all of those things. It’s not conventional. It’s not typical. It’s not average. It’s not ordinary. Some (like Gene) would say that it’s a miracle; after all, we’re diametrically opposed opposites—he, the homie from Harlem; me, the buppie from Brooklyn. Yet that may be why we’re so jood together: despite (or in spite of) the differences, we’ve grown to appreciate the other for who he is and not what we wish he would be (as the card he sent that I found in my mailbox just before I went to meet Gene and B.D. sang: “I Love You Just the Way You Are”).