Love the One You're With Page 8

  “Mitchell,” he crooned, embracing me. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “You, too.”

  After we separated, his eyes darted up and down. “You look fantastic. Have you been working out or something?”

  “A little.” I’m not a gym queen like B.D. (who works out five days a week) and I’m not even a member of a gym, but after watching Pooquie crunch it up every morning, I decided to join him. Those push-ups, sit-ups, and leg lifts have paid off: My body is now as firm as it was when I was a gymnast in high school.

  And he could tell. “It shows.”

  “You’re looking good yourself.” And he was. He shook off his gray tweed coat to reveal an emerald-green, long-sleeved Polo shirt and black Eddie Bauer trousers, tightly wrapped around his frame.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I had a client who wouldn’t stop talking. I hope you weren’t waiting long …”

  I wasn’t but he didn’t have to know it. “As a matter of fact, I was. Some things never change.” I smiled.

  He did, too. “Hopefully, I can make it up to you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He ordered a hot chocolate (with whipped cream, of course). I switched gears and had strawberry mint tea.

  “So, with you looking so good, I’m sure life is treating you the same way.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, we haven’t really talked in almost two years. Tell me what’s been going on …”

  I did. The new job and how I’m suing the old one. My new side gig as a session singer. And, of course, Pooquie and Junior. I proudly presented my wallet-size pic of them.

  “Hmm … they’re a strikingly handsome pair.”

  “I agree.”

  He approvingly shook his head. “This … this looks like the real thing.”

  “It is.” I took it back. “They’re something special to me.”

  “Was I something special to you?”

  Hmm … now where was he coming from with that?

  I decided to go with Archibald Bunker for my reply. “You, Peter, were something else.”

  I don’t think he quite got it; he was blushing.

  I moved the convo before it sank in that it wasn’t a compliment. “So, how is L.A.?”

  “L.A. is okay. I kind of miss the cold, though.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. It just gets boring after a while. And if the temperature drops below sixty and clouds produce the faintest drizzle, people start shrieking and running for cover.”

  I chuckled. “I’ve heard about that.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it. I thought an earthquake was going on but, because I wasn’t familiar with them, didn’t feel the tremors like they did.”

  “I’m sure if there was an earthquake, you most certainly would have felt it.”

  “Ha, I already have: the quake last year.”

  “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “No. But there was some minor damage done to my apartment. It was nothing compared to the rumblings going on in the city right now over that O. J. trial.”

  “Oh? What kind of rumblings?”

  “Oh, you know: If he’s found not guilty, we are going to pay for it.”

  “I’m sorry? We?”

  “Yes, we. You know, Black Americans.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we.”

  “As in you, me, and the rest of us Negroes.”

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  “Well …”

  “What?”

  “That’s the first time I ever heard you refer to Black folks and include yourself in the equation.”

  “See, I have changed.”

  “I suppose. But what would the party think, your viewing yourself as the member of a group and not an individual?”

  He frowned. Guess that was one change he didn’t want his party peers to know about.

  “And, what exactly is it that we are going to pay for?”

  “Come on, Mitch, you know. African-American jury, African-American high-profile defendant, white victims. If he walks, white people will not be pleased and we will feel it at the polls, in government, at work, at school, everywhere.”

  “Contrary to what the media keeps repeating, it is not an African-American jury; there are white folks on it, as well as a Hispanic. And, since when have white folks needed a reason, let alone an excuse, to mistreat colored folk?”

  He giggled. “You know, that’s one thing that I miss: that militant stance of yours.”

  “Not militant. Just conscious.”

  “Uh-huh. I do get a little bit of it from Brad. He’s almost as radical as you. Would you like to see a picture of him?”

  I took the photo knowing I would see a person of the Caucasian persuasion and that he would be a beast, but hoped just this one time I’d be wrong—and, unfortunately, I wasn’t. Just under six feet (Peter is in the pic with him and they’re the same height), Brad has peach-tanned skin, dull dishwater-blond hair, a rectangular shaped face that is dotted with acne, green eyes, a rail-thin frame, and a pierced belly button. Not the least bit cute.

  With all those wannabe International Male models and Baywatch extras out there, he hooks up with this?

  “And what makes him so radical?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s always been a crusader for African-Americans …”

  Uh-huh … he’s a cruise-ader for us, I’m sure.

  “He’s a member of the NAACP. He had us join the National Association of Black and White Men Together. And that picture was taken at At The Beach, the Black gay-pride celebration in L.A. last summer. We go to all the major Black gay functions in the city. Brad thinks it’s important we do.”

  Yeah, Brad thinks it’s important, not you. Maybe Brad goes to show his “support” (when a white man decides he’s in our corner, nothing will stop him from doing just that—even if his “support” isn’t needed or wanted), but I’m sure Peter’s sole goal is to show up the other Black men (“Look at the prize I got! Don’tcha wish you had one, too?”).

  “And, of course, he loves Black men.”

  Of course. He thinks he loves Black men when he really loves black meat.

  “You two make a handsome couple,” I managed with a straight face, handing the photo back to him.

  “Thanks. He’s a bartender.”

  Which means he’s more than likely an actor; L.A. is overpopulated with them. And Peter didn’t mention his education first—which is what he does with everyone—so he more than likely didn’t go to college. His other white lovers—Chad, Josh, Howie, and Bart—were also blue-collar men without degrees. Hmm … is it just a coincidence that when he decided to be with a Black man, he had a master’s degree and a corporate job?

  “How long have you two been a couple?”

  “Just over a year. He’s my apple tart and I’m his cupcake.”

  How fitting: He’s a glazed fruit and you’re a Hostess—chocolate on the outside with cream filling on the inside.

  “He knows we’re meeting tonight.”

  The way he said we’re meeting tonight … “And what does he think about our meeting tonight?”

  “He’s all for it.”

  “He’s all for it?”

  “Yup.”

  “What is it?”

  “You know, for us. Meeting.” He placed his left hand on top of my right.

  He’s got to be kidding. I removed my hand. “We are not meeting.”

  He frowned. “We’re not?”

  “No, we’re not. And I don’t understand why you would think, how you could think we would be.”

  “Don’t you wanna rock me for old time’s sake?” He smiled. “Roll that tongue up in me for old time’s sake?”

  “I have someone else to rock-and-roll, thank you.”

  “But … he doesn’t have to know. It would be our secret. I would have no reason to tell him.”

  “I would.”

  “And Br
ad would understand. He knows there are needs he can’t meet and is okay with me having them met elsewhere.”

  “Brad is okay with you sleeping with other men?”

  “Not other men. Just you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “He is all right with you sleeping with your ex-lover?”

  “Yes. I’ve told him all about you.”

  “Oh, have you?”

  “Yes. He’s not good like you are.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Didn’t sound like one to me.”

  “Well, it was. I have to practically do everything with him. He’s so passive that he doesn’t even initiate sex. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that he’s not … well … packin’ and stackin’ like you. Ha, his behind is so flat you could use it as an ironing board! And the cock?! As he’s said about his kind: ‘When God got to us in that department, he didn’t break the mold; he forgot it!’”

  I don’t know what disturbed me more—his use of the word cock (I guess a zebra can’t change his stripes) or the racist humor.

  “He knows the chances of you two meeting are slim. I think the fact that you’re not in the same city or state makes it easier for him to accept this arrangement.”

  This arrangement. Other Black gay men (most notably, public figures like activists, artists, even porn stars) have such “arrangements.” They are hitched to a Caucasian so they can sip (they could never taste) the power, privilege, and prestige white men have as a birthright, but get their kicks with us—with their white massa, uh, man’s permission. They get to have their trophy and their trick—in some cases at the same time.

  The message: We’re good enough to bed but not to wed.

  “I’ll be in New York once a month starting in April. I’ll be helping them set up the office here, and I’ll need to—”

  “Excuse me, Pete,” I interrupted, “but has it ever occurred to you that maybe what you need to do is drop Brad and find someone you can really show off with and throw down with, like, say, I don’t know … a Black man?”

  Judging by the stupefied expression on his face, it hadn’t.

  “You know what? This time, I’m going to be the one to leave in a rush.” I sprang up. I rummaged through my pocket and tossed a five-dollar bill on the table. I flung my coat over my right arm. “We had fun. We had laughs. But to paraphrase Lalah Hathaway: ‘What we had is better as a memory.’”

  He was geeking; his mouth opened but nothing came out except a sound similar to a baby’s squeaky toy.

  I flounced out without looking behind me.

  “THAT MUTHA-FUCKA,” POOQUIE SNARLED.

  I giggled. I had him on speakerphone. I was sitting up in bed.

  “I can’t believe he thought you would just go fuh some shit like that,” he went on. “He better hope I don’t run inta his Oreo ass when he come back out this way.”

  “Now, Pooquie.”

  “Now, Pooquie nuthin.’”

  “You sound more upset about it than me.”

  “I knew he wanted ta hit it. Why else would he wanna see you after all this time?”

  “Well, he can only dream of hitting it now. And, he could never dream of hitting it—or loving me—the way you do.”

  “Ha, you know it, Baby.”

  “In a way, I am glad I saw him tonight,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because it reminded me just how lucky I am to have you. It’s jood to be with someone who isn’t afraid of the person looking back at him in the mirror.”

  “Yeah. That mutha-fucka prob’ly scared of his own fuckin’ shadow.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So, did you ’n’ Gene go out last nite?”

  He knows we did; he left three messages on Gene’s answering machine. We didn’t get in until after four. He and I played phone tag the rest of the day. “We did. To Body & Soul.”

  He drew back a breath. “Uh … you dance?”

  “Yes. Makes no sense to go to a party like that and not dance.”

  Silence.

  I knew what was going through his mind … “Yes, Pooquie, I danced with someone: me.”

  I could feel that sigh of relief. Pooquie can be a little possessive, so the last thing he would want to hear is that I shook my shimmy with someone else. He also didn’t need to hear something like that right now—being so far away, in a strange city, and given all the stress and pressure he’s under, there’s no sense in making him antsy or uptight. And I wasn’t lying—I did dance with myself (before Montee showed up).

  “And even if I did dance with someone other than myself,” I reasoned, “you know that’s all it would be.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  I’m glad he did ’cause, for the first time, I wasn’t too sure about it myself …

  I recalled the convo with B.D. and Gene at the restaurant. “I know you worry about another man getting close to me. But if anyone should be worried, it’s me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. You’re the big-time model and soon-to-be movie star. And you are in the place where all the beautiful people play.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Little Bit. You know I ain’t even inta any of that.”

  “Yes, I know. Which is why it doesn’t even have to be brought up.”

  I could see him nodding.

  “Oh, Pooquie, let me go. I have to call your brother-in-law before it’s too late. We have to talk about our trip on Sunday.”

  “What trip?”

  “Remember, we’re going to see our father.”

  “Ah, yeah. Tell Adam I said hay.”

  “I will. My mom says to tell you hi. And jood luck.”

  He laughed. “Tell her I said thanks.”

  “Will do. Call me again the same time tomorrow night, okay?”

  “What, you ain’t comin’ home straight from school?”

  Ha, he’s sounding like my father. “I’ll just be dropping off my bag. I’m having an early dinner with Gene, then heading over to the Brotherhood meeting.”

  “Is he goin’ wit’ you?”

  “No.” Gene doesn’t believe in being a card-carrying member of anything except American Express. As he put it, “Being a homo is enough of a political act—why join a group?” Pooquie would probably agree, but for a different reason: He (like all the homiesexuals I’ve ever known) doesn’t identify as gay/bisexual/queer/———(fill in the blank) and rejects the cultural history and political baggage surrounding them as identities. But neither has tried to convince me to quit; they’ve supported me (Babyface and B.D. have also—by joining—but their very busy careers have prevented them from being active in the group). I’ve been a member of the Brotherhood for a year and a half, and it’s made me feel I’m part of a larger community of Black Same Gender Loving men. Sometimes we need to be a part of something that gives us a better sense of self—or a new sense of self—and the Brotherhood has done both for me. After quitting my job as an editor at Your World and suing the magazine for racial discrimination, I craved a space where I could fellowship with others who looked like and loved like me, where all that I am would be recognized and appreciated. Lawd knows I’ve never been a comatose Negro like Peter, or one of those deep-in-the-vault, tryin’-to-play-and-lay-“straight” boyz, but one doesn’t have to fall in either category to seek affirmation from those who really know what it is like being you.

  “A’ight. But just wait fuh me ta call, Baby, please? I just wanna hear yo’ voice. Pleeze?”

  There he goes, beggin’ again. Yeah, I fell for it. “Okay, okay. I’ll be walking in at three-oh-five, so make sure you call me by three-ten.”

  “I will.”

  “All right. I love you, Pooquie.”

  “I love you, too, Little Bit.”

  Smack. Smack. Smack.

  “Jood nite, Baby.”

  “Jood night.”

  6

  SAY IT LOUD, I’M BLACK & I’M P
ROUD!

  The Brotherhood has its weekly meeting on a Tuesday, which still seems odd to me. Most gay social groups in the city meet on the weekend. But when Ras Akhbar, the current executive director, came on board, this was one of the things he sought to change. He reasoned that most are in a party mood on Friday (the original meeting date), and the group would increase its membership if it met during the week. After surviving a manic Monday and a trying Tuesday, Ras knew the brothers would need to be emotionally and spiritually reenergized to get through the rest of the week—and his observation appears to have been correct. Before the switch, membership peaked at three hundred. It has since tripled. On average, one hundred men come out each week, and depending on the guest speaker(s) and/or subject being discussed, it can swell to two hundred.

  Like tonight. I was a bit shocked at this particular standing-room-only crowd: the program wasn’t exactly sensational (the “Whose Got the Power: Tops or Bottoms?” session exposed a very nasty divide between those who get done and those who don’t), controversial (the two brothers who dared to extol the virtues of interracial dating were literally run out of that meeting), or explosive (there were so many tears shed during “Our Love/Hate Relationship with the Black Church” that someone had to go out and buy a couple of boxes of Kleenex). I surmised, though, that many in attendance wanted to hear for themselves the man that Ras had showered with so much praise. No, make that doused. You can’t have a discussion with Ras without his reciting the line “And, according to the honorable Ahmad Khan …” The man isn’t Elijah Muhammad (hell, he’s not even a Muslim), but he certainly is in Ras’s eyes. A former Black Panther who spent fifteen years in jail for the rape and attempted murder of a white woman (a crime he did not commit), Ahmad received a bachelor’s degree in history behind bars and, since his release in 1991, has written three books: The Soul of a Man, his autobiography; The Spooks Who Still Sit by the Door, a critique of the failure of Black political leadership in America; and Let My People Go, sort of an instructional manual for Black folks on how to detect, treat, and eradicate the white supremacy that surrounds and lives within us. Unlike other self-proclaimed uplift-the-race philosophers like Dr. Frances Cress Welsing, Jawanza Kunjufu, and Neely Fuller, Ahmad does not view us—meaning homosexuals—as a group attempting to shirk our responsibility to Black women by “acting” like them, or a threat to the evolution and survival of the Black family. You know, the enemy. Ahmad believes the Black community can’t really be a community (and grow into a nation) if it continues to sacrifice any of its members because of prejudices (most notably, sexism, classism, homophobia/heterosexism) that have their roots in the very evil (white supremacy) all Black people have to overcome.