Love the One You're With Page 3

  But, as the discussion with B.D. (and the ad-libs from Gene) illustrated, what we have is, like any relationship, vulnerable. And the truth is that I have always recognized this—it’s just something I haven’t had to focus on. After all, the world we’ve created together is so … cozy. It’s far from perfect and we each have our own baggage to carry (and sort through), but we’ve found a groove that gives us the room to be ourselves, and with the addition of Junior, Pooquie’s six-year-old son, it’s made us a family. After roughly a year and a half, we’ve settled down. And it just doesn’t feel jood to be with him; it feels … safe.

  But given Pooquie’s new public profile, that safety is slowly being … I guess the word is threatened. He doesn’t “belong” to me anymore; his world has gotten and continues to get much bigger with every new modeling and acting job he gets. With that new world calling on him more and more, I’m seeing less and less of him—and others are trying to step in. He’s gotten “love letters” from fans, not to mention a few pro-sports figures and hip-hop artists. While he has shared all of this with me (not to mention the edible underwear one rapper sent him) and finds it comical, I am fully aware that the more he is drawn into the spotlight, the more attractive this world may become—and the more likely it is that someone he meets in this new world could sweep him off his feet.

  Funny thing, though, is that I never seriously considered that someone could sweep me off my feet. I’ve never met anyone like Pooquie, never loved anyone like him; no one has ever made me feel the way he makes me feel, and in the time we’ve been a couple, I’ve never considered being with someone else, never considered that there could be someone else. But that was all about to change. As B.D. warned, “Temptation knows everybody’s name”—and I was about to find that out in a very big way …

  3

  THAT’S WHAT (GIRL) FRIENDS ARE FOR

  Gene lives many, many, many miles from the Bronx Zoo, but his apartment could still be its souvenir shop.

  The sign pasted below the bell on his door announces: IT’S MY HOUSE … AND I LIVE HERE. But the moment you step inside, there is evidence everywhere that he doesn’t occupy the three-bedroom co-op alone. A bearskin rug welcomes you. Walk a few feet up the hallway and there’s a shark fin dangling from the ceiling. Venture a few more feet, and at the end of the hall, you’ll be greeted by Eloise, his wild boar head that is mounted on a closet door. Turn left, walk two yards, make a sharp right, go down three steps and you’ll be in the sunken living room, where a panther lies in the center of the floor, its mouth wide open. Dancer and Prancer are on opposite walls, facing each other. Over the fireplace are four peacock tails encased in a gold frame, and four elephant tusks have been grafted onto the red brick, forming a horseshoe. On the coffee table is a six-foot-long coiled cobra and on either side of that lie two turtle shells that can be used as ashtrays. And, in his bedroom, directly over his king-size bed, is a lion’s head, which is flanked by baboon masks.

  The only things missing? Bugs, Daffy, Porky, Sylvester, and Tweety.

  “Are you gonna be okay out here?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I just said … it’s been some time since you’ve seen the children. You might wake up in the middle of the night and think you’re having a nightmare.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Chile, I am going to bed. I am exhausted. I’ll see ya in the mornin.’”

  “Okay. Jood night.”

  “Jood night?” He shook his head. “Lawd.” He disappeared into his bedroom.

  There were two pillows and a blanket on the mahogany leather sofa. I pulled off my boots, socks, jeans, and sweater, then headed to the bathroom to splash my face with some water before crashing.

  I opened the pantry to get a washcloth, forgetting this would be the last place I’d find one. Like Imelda, Gene loves shoes—really loves them. His pantry doesn’t have a single hand or bath towel in it, just eight rows of every designer name you can think of. There’s over a hundred pairs in every color of the rainbow except orange, yellow, and pink (“The entire world can tell by looking at me I’m a fag; I don’t need to broadcast it on my feet”). Sometimes, when searching for a particular pair, he discovers he has two of the same. He may not have worn them in a while and, seeing them again in a store, forgets he already has them. I’ve been shopping on three occasions with him when this has happened.

  I closed up his shoe factory and found a washcloth where I should’ve looked: on the top shelf in one of his hall closets. I quickly scrubbed up.

  Tossing and turning for an hour, I couldn’t sleep. So I crept to the kitchen and dialed up Pooquie. I’d memorized the hotel’s toll-free number.

  “Good evening, the Beverly Hilton, how may I help you?”

  “Yes, Room 1215, please.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  She connected me. Pooquie picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Pooquie.”

  “Hay, Baby. I’m so glad it’s you. You musta known I wanted ta hear yo’ voice.”

  “Oh? Then why didn’t you call?”

  “ ’Cuz, I wasn’t gonna have Gene cussin’ me out, callin’ his spot at three A.M.”

  I chuckled. “He wouldn’t mind. After all, you’re the reason why Gene and I are speaking again.”

  “Yeah well …”

  “You sound exhausted. You had a long day?”

  “A long, hard day, Baby. I just got back in like fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Wow. They’re not kidding when they say eighteen-hour days, huh?”

  “Nope. And we didn’t even shoot today. At least I didn’t. They just went over my lines wit’ me, and had me practice some of my moves on tha court.”

  “Like you need practice when it comes to that?”

  “I know, right? But, as that director said: ‘We know you got the right moves; we just want to make sure the moves you got are right for us.’”

  “And were they?”

  “You know it, Baby. He’s havin’ their writers add two scenes so I can show ’em some mo’ of what I got.”

  “Ah. Impressin’ him already and he hasn’t even filmed you yet. I’m so proud of you.”

  That’s right, Pooquie … blush.

  “But does that mean you won’t be home in two weeks and two days?”

  “Nah. They said it’ll probably be like a extra minute of screen time, so hopefully it won’t take longer than that ta film.”

  “Ah. Jood.”

  “So what y’all do tonite?”

  “We had dinner with B.D.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Jood. And we stopped off in Harry’s. Gene met one of his old running buddies there who was in town for the weekend.”

  “You … have a jood time?” By the sound of his voice, he was hoping I didn’t.

  “Not really. It was just the same old faces wearing the same old drag and standing in their same old places. Even the same music was playing.”

  “Not Sylvester!”

  “Yes, Sylvester. It was like I was just there last night, not two years ago. Ha, I was in my same old spot.”

  “By tha jukebox?”

  “Yup.”

  “Anybody try ta talk ta you?”

  “Mmm-hmm, that same old, tired Thompson Williams.”

  “Thom Thom?”

  “I guess that’s his nickname. You were chatting with him the night we met.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds; I guess he was going back in time. “You remember that?”

  “I remember everything about the night we met.”

  I could feel that smile.

  “I guess that’s why I didn’t enjoy myself. It wasn’t the same without you. But it was nice being there and kind of reliving that first time.”

  “What Thom Thom hafta say?”

  “The same old tired lines: When are we going to get together, I need to give him a chance, I know I want him—”


  “And you gonna say yeah one day and he’ll be waiting when ya do, right?”

  We cracked up.

  “That mutha-fucka is just so late. He ran that same shit down on me ev’ry time I fell up in there.”

  “Just imagine how he would feel if he knew we were together!”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  “Little Bit?”

  “Yes?”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, Pooquie. I can’t believe you’re three thousand miles away. You sound so close.”

  “I’m always close ta you, Baby. No matter how far I am.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, it’s goin’ on one here and I gotta be up and out by six.”

  “Oh. Then you better get some z’s. Have a jood night.”

  “You, too, Baby.”

  “Dream about me.”

  “You all I dream about.”

  “I better be.”

  “What you say?”

  “You heard.”

  “Uh-huh, talk that ying-yang all you wanna now. You ain’t gonna be trippin’ wit’ that lip when I get back.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, you’ll feel, when I spank dat azz.”

  “If talkin’ ying-yang will get me a spankin’, you gonna have to keep a scorecard!”

  We giggled.

  “I love you, Little Bit.”

  “I love you, too, Pooquie. Talk with you tomorrow?”

  “You know it. Bye.” Smack.

  Smack. “Bye.”

  My throat was kind of dry, so I went for the handle on the refrigerator, but I knew better than to look inside. I don’t understand why Gene has one—it’s always bare, as are the cupboards. He always eats out or orders up; the tool drawer is filled with menus and flyers from dozens of neighborhood eateries and diners (his cookware consists of a single cast-iron skillet, which he once used as a weapon when a piece got beside himself). And the one food item he always has in stock—whipped cream—isn’t kept in the kitchen. Like Blanche Devereaux, it can be found in his bedroom.

  But, to my complete shock, there were liters of Coke and Canada Dry ginger ale, a quart of Tropicana orange juice, two sixteen-ounce bottles of Snapple raspberry iced tea, and a dozen Entenmann’s mixed doughnuts (plain, white powdered, and chocolate) in a cardboard box on the top shelf. Attached to the box was a big red bow and a note:

  I knew you’d look in here, so I thought I’d make it worth

  your while … for once. Welcome back.

  I grinned.

  I WAS SHAKEN OUT OF SLEEP BY A FAMILIAR SOUND: Patti Labelle, crowing in a very accusatory tone, “If you want somebody to be your slave …”

  Gene starts off every day with his anthem: “Get You Somebody New.” While it’s a killer track (when Patti, Nona, and Sarah screamed “I can’t stand it!” for close to three minutes without so much as a breath between them, you just know that studio’s foundation shook), it is a bit intense for the A.M. hour. But a man with such quirky (some would consider weird) hygiene rituals would have such an off-the-wall morning theme: He opts for baking soda instead of toothpaste (“It don’t matter if it comes flavored or in a gel, the shit is still nasty”); applies Neat to his face instead of shaving cream and a razor (“I don’t plan on having acne under my chin when I’m older”); blow-dries his pubic hair (“I hate being damp in that area”); and uses milk of magnesia as an astringent (“If it’s good enough to clean your insides …”), then waxes and buffs that face as if it were a hardwood floor (he borrowed this regimen from the opening of Mommie Dearest).

  By the time he’s done, the song will have played six times—and I, like LaBelle, am ready to shout, “I can’t stand it!”

  “Mornin’, mister,” he sang, flouncing out of the bathroom.

  “Mornin’. Have we finished beautifying ourselves?”

  “Yes. As Kathleen Battle chirped during her concert with La Norman: ‘I Feel Prit-tee!’”

  “Well, let’s not deprive the world the pleasure of seeing it for themselves—I’ll be ready in a bit.”

  “Good, ’cause we got a little shopping to do today. The sooner we’re out of here, the better …”

  For gay men, there is no such thing as a little shopping, for even when Gene says “a little” he still means a lot. I know I have to wear my walking shoes—we’ll be out at least four hours. (If he said, “We goin’ shoppin’,” I would snap on my hiking boots, for we’d be in the streets a minimum of six.) But when he informed me just how little shopping he would do, I gasped.

  “You’re not buying a thing?” We were chomping down on doughnuts in his living room.

  “Nope.” He took a swig of his morning power drink: a mimosa.

  “No cologne?”

  “Nope.”

  “No jewelry?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even a handkerchief?”

  “Nope.”

  Those were his hallmarks—if he didn’t get anything, he purchased one of if not all three. “Why?”

  “Because, darling, all the things I would buy are going to be given to me next week at the birthday party. Each person has been told what to buy, where to buy it, how much it costs, and whether or not the store will take a pint of their blood instead of currency, credit, or a check as payment.”

  “You didn’t tell me what you wanted me to give you …”

  “Chile, you are the gift I want from you for my birthday.”

  We nodded.

  “So, what are we going shopping for, then?”

  “We’ll be doing something I’ve never done before—window-shop. I want to show you all the things I’ll be getting next week.”

  And so he did. After we got manicures and pedicures at his favorite Korean-owned salon, Finger Tips & Toe Dips, he took me on the sightseeing tour: Willi Wear leather pants, a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater, two Geoffrey Beene dress shirts, a Donna Karan athletic suit, dark brown Bruno Magli loafers, a bottle of Calvin Klein’s Obsession, a twenty-four-karat-gold money clip, a Gucci clutch, and special multiple CD collections by the Maestro of Love, Barry White, and the Queen of Rap ’n Raunch, Millie Jackson. And he “presented” the merchandise as if he were one of those models on The Price Is Right.

  Given that we didn’t have to push or bum-rush our way through the maddening crowds to catch a sale or test our patience waiting in line to pay for anything (I didn’t make any purchases either), the little shopping we did was a whole lot peaceful.

  It was during our two dining experiences of the day, though, that the true melodrama unfolded.

  For lunch we had Kentucky Fried Chicken, and it never fails—every time I go into a KFC, they get my order wrong. I specifically ask for a two-piece meal, original recipe, thigh and wing, and I always get a wing/breast or a thigh/leg combo.

  This time they really screwed it up—I received a leg and a breast, the two pieces I never eat. And the way the cashier was acting out, you’d think I was the one who fucked up, not her.

  “That’s what you ordered, that’s what you got,” she snapped, after I approached her about the order being wrong. Her French curl had blond and cherry highlights, and she sported those grotesque, gargoyle-like claws these B-girls have the nerve to call nails (which made it hard for her to handle money).

  As Gene would say: She wasn’t ghettofied but ghettofried. And he was about to turn up the heat under the frying pan.

  Before I had a chance to respond to her—we had been in this same position several times before, but not with someone as belligerent as her—he jumped in. “Look, Uglymeesha, or whatever constipated name your mama gave you,” he began, ignoring the name tag that said traymeesha and causing her to twirl her head back and suck her teeth while those around us giggled, “the customer—who is always right—asked for a thigh and a wing.”

  “No, he didn’t,” she barked.

  “Oh, no?” Gene presented a microcassette recorder. He pressed the play button.

&nbs
p; “Can I take your order?” her annoying voice repeated on the tape.

  “Yes, I’ll have a two piece meal, original, a thigh and a wing, with mash and potato salad as the sides, and a medium orange drink please.”

  He clicked off the recorder. “You were saying, Miss Thing-a-majig?”

  All eyes on her, she was paralyzed. The employee who fixed the order—a long, lanky, light-skinned Latino gent—stepped in. “Uh, I’ll get that for you right away, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “Do have a good day,” he advised, handing me my tray.

  “I will. You do also.”

  “Oh, and remember,” Gene directed toward her, “you’re supposed to say, ‘Good afternoon, welcome to KFC, may I take your order, please?’—okay?”

  As we sat down, he shook the recorder triumphantly. “I knew this might come in handy. I’ll carry it with me again if we take any future trips into a Krazy Fried Chicken.” He dropped it in his pouch and pulled out what I thought he was reaching for at the counter: his hot sauce. Like Patti, he never leaves home without it. I laughed as he twisted off its cap.

  “What the hell is so funny?” he grumbled.

  “Uh, nothing. It’s … it’s just great to see you again.”

  “Ya know, you are always picking the worst time to get mushy on me. Let’s eat our fried flour so we can get out of here.”

  Gene’s not good at handling tender moments. But this time he softened: He picked up his drink, motioning for me to do the same. We clinked.

  Dinner at Anita’s, a steak house and pub near Lincoln Center, was a mess for a whole nother reason. The meal itself was great (we both had shrimp platters). And the waiter, Ethan, was not only gracious but attentive; we never had to request that our drinks be refreshed, and he was at our table every five minutes to ensure that everything was satisfactory. I hate eating out and having to do the work of the person waiting on you; I shouldn’t have to call on the host to locate the waiter/waitress to take our order, or ask the server for something simple like ketchup (the little things do mean a lot).