Love the One You're With Page 6

  But that wasn’t even an appetizer considering what lay ahead: He showed me “He’s the Greatest Dancer” as we got “Lost in Music.” We bumped to Grace Jones’s “Pull Up to the Bumper.” We shook it up on Cheryl Lynn’s “Shake It Up Tonight” and shook our bodies all the way down to the ground on the Jacksons’ “Shake Your Body Down (to the Ground).” We got funky on Peter Brown’s “Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me?” and funked up with Sylvester’s “Do You Wanna Funk?” We rocked! and freaked! off of GQ’s “Disco Nights.” We took our time on the S.O.S. Band’s “Take Your Time” and fixed it with Ashford & Simpson’s “Found a Cure,” on which he seemed to catch the Holy Ghost: head extended up to the heavens, eyes closed, right hand bent in the air at a forty-five-degree angle, body bobbing on his toes, and mumbling some very unintelligible yet sexy words. We really got our Praise on with Tramaine Hawkins’s “Fall Down,” Vanessa Bell Armstrong’s “Pressing On,” and the Clark Sisters’ “You Brought the Sunshine.” We boogied on Heatwave’s “Boogie Nights” and boogie-oogied on A Taste of Honey’s “Boogie Oogie Oogie.” We had a better-than-good time on Chic’s “Good Times.”

  And the Gap Band summed up the entire experience: “Outstanding.”

  Believe it or not, with all this bumpin’, shakin’, funkin’, rockin’, freakin’, and boogie-in’ goin’ on, I kept my distance—emotionally speaking. I let him initiate everything that happened—and he had no problem performing that role.

  I didn’t place my arms around his waist—he placed them there.

  I didn’t pull off his shirt—he had me do it (he didn’t wait for an invitation, though, to unbutton and remove my black Polo).

  I didn’t plant my hands on and massage his chest, teasing those pointy nipples as I bumped him from behind—he planted them there (he returned the favor, nipplin’ and nubbin’ me).

  And I didn’t grab ahold of his ass … okay, I did do that on my own, but only because he had ahold of mine (and I could tell by that gleam in his eyes that that’s what he wanted).

  The only sounds that came out of his mouth were gruff Ahs, Ohs, and Mphs (I released some myself). But that changed as McFadden & Whitehead’s “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” faded out and MFSB’s “Love Is the Message” began. We were in what had become our favorite position—his arms stretched out on my shoulders, his meaty thighs squeezing mine, my left hand palming the small of his back, and my right hand glued to his left butt cheek—when he leaned in and brought his lips close to my ear. He inhaled. He was about to say his first words—but they weren’t what I expected.

  “Can you Tango Hustle?” he cautiously asked in a creamy baritone voice.

  We had done every dance you could think of—the Snake, the Wop, the Electric Slide, the Bus Stop, the Tootsie Roll, the Running Man, the Wave, the Drop, the Smurf, the Cabbage Patch, the Funky Chicken, even very old-school moves like the Shake, the Mashed Potato, the Jerk, and the Twist. And we did them without discussion or negotiation—we naturally fell into each groove, reading the other’s mind and knowing which foot (and what other body parts) to put forward (or backward). That he’d query me about this one signaled he’d probably come across few (if any) who knew how.

  I wasn’t one of those people. “I sure can.”

  He was happy to hear that.

  Once again I let him take the lead. We glided throughout the crowd, never missing a turn, spin, or dip (we each got dropped).

  After a dozen other “love” tracks—Stephanie Mills’s “What Cha Gonna Do with My Lovin’?,” Phyllis Hyman’s “You Know How to Love Me,” the Jones Girls’ “You Gonna Make Me Love Somebody Else,” René & Ángela’s “I Love You More,” Inner Life’s “I’m Caught Up (in a One Night Love Affair),” Third World’s “Now That We Found Love” (on which we salsa’d it up), Evelyn minus-the-“Champagne” King’s “Love Come Down,” Slave’s “Just a Touch of Love,” and double takes from Change (“The Glow of Love” and “A Lover’s Holiday”) and First Choice (“Love Thang” and “Dr. Love”)—he gently clutched my arm as First Choice, on their third go-round, exclaimed “It’s-not-oh-ver!” for the fiftieth time on “Let No Man Put Asunder,” and asked …

  “Would you like to get a drink?”

  I was beyond parched, and like him, the sweat was pouring off of me. “Sure.”

  We headed for the bar, walking arm to arm. He took the liberty of getting us both bottled water. I presented him with the two dollars mine cost, but he refused it. “I won’t take your money, but I will take your hand.” He held out his. “My name’s Montgomery. Montee for short.”

  His hand was sweaty and strong, and the shake seismic—my whole body quaked. “Hi. I’m Mitchell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I’m gonna make sure it is.” He winked. I smiled. He paused before letting go of my hand. He tapped my water bottle with his.

  I took a couple of gulps; he literally poured the H2O down his throat.

  “I was thirsty,” he explained.

  “So I see …”

  He ordered two more, dunking one of them (with his head back, he held the bottle over his mouth, the water falling out as if he were drinking from a faucet).

  “Ah …” he breathed. “I would ask you to shower me with the other one, but it wouldn’t be right to get their floor all wet.”

  I grinned.

  He put the other bottle down on the counter. “You’re a great dancer.”

  “Thanks. So are you.”

  “Thanks. Where did you learn how to Tango Hustle?”

  “I’m ashamed to admit this, but …”

  “Saturday Night Fever, right?”

  We laughed.

  “You, too?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t that bad a movie. I couldn’t help thinkin’ throughout it that if a brother was cast, they wouldn’t have had to teach him how to dance. It might be a stereotype, but we just got it in our blood. Everything he did, I could do ten times better—including Tango Hustle. Up until then, I didn’t know there was such a dance.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Brothers look at you like you crazy when you ask ’em if they can do it. This must be my lucky night.” He eyed me. “I haven’t seen you here before. Is this your first time?”

  “No. I just haven’t been in a while.”

  “Ah. I come one Sunday every month, usually a holiday weekend. Just dance the night away and prepare for the battles I know lie ahead of me …”

  “Is that why you’re dressed like that?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. When I’m on the dance floor I take no prisoners.”

  “I know.”

  We smiled.

  He gently clutched my right arm. “Pardon me. I have to use the rest room. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  As he walked off, the T-shirt draped over his left shoulder, I noticed he was bowlegged. That wobbly stride made his ass jiggle like Jell-O.

  Lawdy.

  A few minutes had passed when Gene reappeared. “Chile, you ready?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “No?”

  “That guy I was dancing with, Montee. He said he’d be coming right back.”

  “For what?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Uh-huh. Does Montee know that you’re somebody else’s guy?” Jocelyn Brown just happened to be gettin’ off her high horse at that moment …

  “I didn’t have the chance to tell him.”

  “You didn’t have the chance to tell him … you’ve been dancing with him all night!”

  “Exactly. We were too busy dancing.”

  “So, is that what you’re going to tell him when he returns? Given how he’s dressed, I wouldn’t be surprised if he declared war on your ass. Y’all just weren’t shakin’ booty, y’all were bakin’ it.”

  “We were just having a good time.”

  “I know. I saw the whole sordid, seedy, sinful mess.”

  “I just don’t want to leave. That would
be rude.”

  “What would you rather be: dissed in absentia or dissed to your face? At least with the former he can save face; the latter he can’t. And if he’s that heartbroken that you left—and I doubt he will be—he’s in the right place to have it mended. There are many Children here who’ll be glad to show the sergeant a good time.”

  “Well …”

  “Believe me, it’s better this way. Besides, Carl is giving us a lift back to Chelsea.”

  That was jood news; we wouldn’t have to wait on a train or hail a cab. “And will you be giving him a lift when we get to your place?”

  “No, dearest, I won’t be. We are just friends now.”

  “Ha, y’all weren’t actin’ like it out on that floor.”

  “We were just having a good time,” he mocked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, he’ll also be dropping off Ivan, the boy he met here tonight.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh, won’t that be kind of … awkward?”

  “What’s so awkward about it?”

  “I mean … him having the new and the—”

  “Old? Who you callin’ old?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “They aren’t dating or fucking—yet. But they are sweet on each other. I think Carl wants to know what I think of him, wants me to check him out.”

  “You mean interrogate him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well … I’ll just wait here until you get our coats. In case he comes back.”

  “Of course. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Five more minutes went by and still no Montee. I thought of venturing toward the bathrooms, but didn’t. It made no sense to search for him when I wasn’t searching for someone. Now, if I had been single, I probably would’ve hunted him down, ditched Gene (although ditched is the wrong word; he would’ve insisted I rope him and, just to be safe, take one of his “safer than sorry” condom/lube packs), and danced that last hour with him. Afterward, we could’ve gotten some dessert at the twenty-four-hour diner across the street from the Y and, who knows …

  Montee’s not coming right back made me feel less guilty about leaving. After all, how long was I supposed to wait? I’m sure the line for the bathroom wasn’t that long. Did he run into someone he knew—or someone else he wanted to know? I finished my water and took the one he left on the counter.

  The Whispers’ “And the Beat Goes On” began to play as we all climbed into Carl’s midnight-blue Lexus. I wondered: Would Montee hook up with someone else and forget about me? But as Carl shot across the Manhattan Bridge and Gene gave Ivan the fourth degree, I had to shake myself (not to mention quit stroking that bottle of Deer Park): I was doing a lot of daydreaming about Montgomery aka Montee aka Military Man aka this stranger. You’d think we had swapped digits and he made a promise to call on a certain day at a certain time so we could set a date. I may as well forget about him. I had a jood time—in fact, a better than jood time—but that’s all it was and that’s all it could be. Maybe we’ll bump into each other on another dance floor someday, but chances are that I’ll never see him again.

  Or so I thought.

  5

  SOUL ON ICE

  He was late—again.

  I was sitting at a table in Rory’s, an upscale yet crassly decorated espresso shop on the Upper East Side (the fake Victorian chairs and sofas clash with the walls, which are a nauseating pea green, reminding you of the soup Linda Blair threw up in The Exorcist). It’s been a hangout for the post-yuppie crowd since the eighties ended, a spot for them to lick their wounds after the financial boom went bust and regroup while making those connections to rebuild their empires. If one wanted to be in the know (or be the one to know), this would be the place to show your face. And given the social-climbing, status-hungry personality of my ex, Peter Armstrong, I’m not the least bit surprised he wanted to meet here. He’d chosen the same spot for our first meeting, nearly four years ago …

  IT WAS THE FALL OF 1991 AND I, LIKE SO many other Americans, was glued to my television, watching the Clarence Thomas confirmation hearings—or, as Babyface dubbed it, “Uncle Thom’s Cabin(et) Show.” And what a show: it was eerie seeing white folks who normally don’t give a damn about Negroes (Republicans/conservatives) go to war over one of us against those who profess to be our allies but do little as possible to help advance our cause because then we wouldn’t be dependent on them (Democrats/liberals). (As I’ve often said: We know we’re gonna get screwed by both Democrooks and Republiklans, but at least the Dems will wear a condom.)

  And then there was the parade of Black Republicans testifying before the committee and giving their own thoughts on Thomas, Anita Hill, and the state of Black politics on the various news-analysis programs. Given the alarmist reactions of many white folks, you’d think aliens had landed, à la The War of The Worlds. Up until then, it was rare to see any self-appointed or white media-annointed Black leader deviating from the usual post-civil-rights song-and-dance Negroes were expected, even encouraged, to perform. White America was shocked when they finally realized we all don’t think alike (although, considering the views many of these Kneegrows hold, I’d rather they believe we were a monolithic group). Problem was, what these Black Republicans had to say wasn’t practical—too often, they were (and still are) parroting a party platform that dismisses or ignores Black folks. And that platform is a classic study in hypocrisy: Republicans claim to be “pro-life,” yet are gung-ho about the death penalty (shouldn’t one be pro-life for all life, no matter how wretched or despicable it may be?); they’re against affirmative action, yet don’t have a problem when it benefits one of their own ilk—especially if he/she is highly unqualified (i.e., Uncle Clarence); and they’re the champions of “less government” but don’t see a contradiction in restricting what folks can and cannot do in the privacy of their own bedrooms (hence those sodomy laws, which are rarely, if ever, enforced against heterosexuals). They talk a good game plan, but it’s like a block of Swiss cheese: full of holes. Many have fallen for the piffy, feel-good platitudes, but I’m interested in sound policy, not sound bites.

  Because much of what I heard and read leading up to and after Uncle Clarence’s confirmation did little to illuminate who Black Republicans were or why they thought the way they did, I decided to profile one but from an angle I’d yet to see any­one tackle, let alone mention: what it was like being a Black gay (or lesbian) Republican. Publicly acknowledging that that particular brand also walked amongst us, I knew, would really send folks over the ledge and get me a byline that would stand out from the rest on the subject.

  But I had to find one first. There were several Republican groups that catered to Blacks and a few for queers, but none for both. And the response I received from both entities (as well as those that were white and heterosexually identified) about the particular stripe I was searching for was the same: “You want to talk to someone who is what?”

  Luckily, Gene had a friend at work who knew such a man. I had him pass my info along so he could contact me and we could hook something up. We played phone tag for a week until I told him to pick a day, time, and place for us to meet. Rory’s was that place. The day was a Monday.

  He said six o’clock; I got there at 5:55. At 6:30, I started packing up my notebook and recorder when …

  “Are you Mitchell Crawford?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Hi. I’m Peter Armstrong.”

  I was flabbergasted. He didn’t “look” like a Black Republican. I’d never seen one who wasn’t on the not-so-shy side of ugly. Not just nerdy but turdy, possessing a face that, yes, only a mother could love.

  But I guess there is a first time for everything, huh?

  The man in front of me was phyne. Almond Joy skin, curly short-cropped black hair, dimples in both pinched cheeks, pretty purplish lips, a lean, mean swimmer’s build, and a soccer-ball booty.

  As Carol Burnett purr
ed about Albert Finney in Annie: “For a Republican, you’re sinfully handsome.”

  “You’re Peter Armstrong?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I … I didn’t expect …”

  “Well, I know you didn’t expect me to be white,” he joked.

  “No, no. I didn’t expect you”—Think fast—“to show up now. It’s going on seven and you did say you had another appointment at seven-thirty.”

  “That’s why I’m late. I was able to handle that project before I left the office, but it took me a little longer that I expected. Do forgive me.”

  “Sure.”

  After he purchased us both a hot chocolate (his with whipped cream, mine without) and the bio was revealed (born in Seattle, oldest of three boys, Harvard grad, architect with Goodman Designs), we got down to his political philosophy—and if I was blindfolded, I’d swear I was listening to a very white white man. He rattled on about limited government, less taxes, and individual responsibility. How could someone who was so appealing a view spout such unappealing views?

  He was reading straight from the Republican talking-head script—and I planned to rip it up. “Have or do you feel any conflict as a Black gay man being a member of the Republican Party?”

  “Conflict?”

  “Yes. The party isn’t exactly welcoming or accepting of those who are not white, not male, not heterosexual, and not, at the very least, middle-class.”

  “It may not appear that way, but it is.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “The party doesn’t believe in individuals thinking or behaving like they are a part of a group.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you have to not just assimilate but erase who you are in order to join the club?”

  “No. They just don’t want any part of this identity politics, whereoppression is used as a calling card.”

  “Could you explain that?”

  “That’s how the Democrats deal with minorities: Trade in on your victim status as a disenfranchised group and we’ll be your friend. Ha, a lot of good that has gotten minorities over the past several decades with them, especially ­African-Americans.”