A House Is Not a Home (10 page)

“And
you
know what
I
mean. Can't have nobody jumpin' outta bushes with a camera catchin' you comin' out of a spot like this.”

“Some things never change. You still a funny mutha-fucka.” His eyes darted up and down. “And you still a
phyne
mutha-fucka. You lookin' damn
jood
.”

Raheim smiled—a little. “You ain't gonna gimme no love, yo?” Malice groused.

“What?”

“You heard. You bein' chilly 'n' shit.”

“No, I ain't.”

“You are, too.” He leaned back on the bar. He shook his head. “Nigga, don't tell me you still stewin' about that night wit' Da Camp.”

“No, I ain't,” Raheim lied.

“Yeah, right. You need to let that shit go, brutha. That shit happened, like,
moons
ago. Whatcha drinkin'?”

“I don't want a drink. I was about to leave when you came up.”

“You can't go yet.” He grabbed Raheim's arm.

Raheim glanced down; he shook his arm free. “Yeah, I can.”

“C'mon, brutha, don't be like that. Just have one drink.
One
drink. So I can just look at your hella-hiya azz for a few more minutes before you break and leave a nigga cold.”

Raheim's head was telling him HELL NO but his . . . well,
other
head was telling him HELL YEAH. And since it had been a jood six months since he had anyone up in his grill, he caved. “
One
drink. And then I'm outta here.”

M
itchell was heading out of the bathroom and back to his seat when he passed two brothers screeching with delight at the bar. Their joy was directed at another brother, who had his back to Mitchell. And when Mitchell looked down at this brother's
back
. . . well, let's just say that he'd know that ass
anywhere
.

It was Montee. Montee Simms. Mitchell hadn't seen or spoken to him since that Sunday morning in 1995 when Montee dropped Mitchell off at the West Third and Sixth Avenue basketball court after their twenty-four-hour rendezvous. They'd met on the dance floor at a weekly party called Body & Soul and, after two weeks of “accidentally” running into each other in other locales, had a very brief but juicy dalliance while Raheim was in Hollywood making his first film. Since then, Montee has managed to have the kind of music career that many artists never get close to—and that's saying a lot, considering the fact that he's an openly bisexual performer.

You'd think that alone would've turned him into a media sensation. But Montee had someone else to thank for his big break . . .

The Gay Rapper.

Profiled anonymously in a fanzine called
One Nut Network
in 1996, this brother sent the hip-hop world into a serious tizzy. Some refused to believe he existed (how could he, when
gay
and
hip-hop
are supposedly opposites in every sense of the word?). Others didn't want to believe he existed but knew that he could (but they would never admit that publicly). And there were those who knew he existed, but wished he'd just go away (this was a side of hip-hop they didn't want the world to know about). Wherever folks fell on the spectrum, everyone wanted to know who he was. So, a year and a half was spent trying to sniff him out—and
snuff
him out (after all, he was tarnishing the genre's image as the domain of only hard-core heteros, and more than a few allegedly straight Negroes boasted they'd eliminate him if they discovered his identity). One of the most vocal “homiesexual” hunters was Wendy Williams, a radio deejay in New York who spent countless hours on the air not only speculating about who the Gay Rapper could be, but who else in the industry might be down. Her riotous, reckless dust-ups caused so much noise that she was allegedly fired for throwing the names of some very popular and powerful acts into the “is he or ain't he?” hat.

But just when it seemed the controversy was puttering out, Montee poured more gas on the fire. When asked by a reporter from
USA Today
doing a short Q&A and review of his first CD if he knew who the Gay Rapper was, he replied without missing a beat: “
The
Gay Rapper? There's more than one and
I
should know—I've slept with a few of them.”

The next thing you knew, he was on Wendy's show dishin' the dirt, and his single, “It Ain't the Same Old Song,” started climbing the charts, eventually peaking at #2 R&B and #11 pop (it stalled in both positions for five weeks). The song eventually went gold and the album it was culled from,
Soul-full Sounds
, which included a cover of The Intruders' “I Wanna Know Your Name,” did one better by going platinum and earned him double Grammy, Soul Train, and Image Award nominations. It was the last citation that caused a little ruckus. After all, what kind of “image” could the NAACP be supporting, argued some conservative members and religious pundits, nominating an openly bisexual performer who was unapologetic about his sinful, sexual exploits with other men? But the Old School (not Old Skool) guard that pushed for his nominations didn't care about who he slept with. As one told
Jet
, “Too many of today's young artists sample the songs of old with little regard for where the tunes and the artists that recorded them were coming from. But he [Simms] is a true musician who understands and appreciates that legacy. He doesn't treat the classics as something to bastardize for a quick hit.” He didn't win any of the awards, but his commercial success and critical recognition was a triumph not only for the industry (more like a sideswipe, not a body blow, against homo/biphobia) but for the various communities—bisexual, Black and SGL, and white and gay—that claimed him (the social group Bi Any Other Name selected him as their person of the year, Gay Men of African Descent in New York honored him at their annual banquet, and he received the Gay and Lesbian American Music Award/GLAMA for best male vocalist and best new artist, even though he is neither gay nor lesbian).

Montee wasn't stupid, though; he knew his fourteen minutes of fame would fade quick. He was an aberration, and as soon as the rumormongers and gossip hounds found a new topic to milk, he'd be old news and all but forgotten. So he took advantage of his notoriety by dabbling in a lot of everything: writing, producing, and arranging for other “neosoul” artists, such as D'Angelo, Musiq, Maxwell, and Angie Stone; being a guest vocalist on CDs by Roy Hargrove and Kirk Whalum; showing up as a guest V-jay on VH-1; doing jingles for Crest, JCPenney, Mitsubishi, and Carnival Cruise Lines; performing for four months in a road company called
Soul Revue
, impersonating his idol, Sam Cooke; portraying a (what else?) bisexual college student on an episode of
Moesha
; and appearing in a Gap ad like his heroine, Me'shell NdegéOcello.

Most of his public appearances over the past few years as a singer have been split between gay and straight audiences who love his music and don't hold his being bisexual against him. (His Mother's Day and “Fellaz Only” Valentine's Day concerts are always sold out.) And in addition to playing for both groups, he's played
to
them: in late 2000, he released two versions of his sophomore CD,
On the Menu
—one for men, the other for women (a remake of DeBarge's “Who's Holding Donna Now?” was a top twenty pop and R&B hit; its B side was “Who's Holding Donny Now?”). The combined sales brought him another platinum record, and the male version swept the OutMusic Awards. It also didn't hurt that, around this time, Wendy and her ilk sought out his insight on down-low brothers. (He stopped the show on both BET's
Oh Drama!
, when he informed co-hostess Kym Whitley, who couldn't imagine “big, burly, butch men rolling around with each other,” that “I'm quite sure there are big, burly, butch men who can't imagine rolling around with
you
”; and the syndicated
America's Black Forum
, where he told conservative commentator Armstrong Williams, “You profess to know a
whole
lot about gay men; sure you're not one of them?”)

Instead of just tapping him on the shoulder, Mitchell decided to be a groupie. “Excuse me, Mr. Simms, but could I
please
have your autograph?” he squealed.

Montee turned around and a very,
very
wide grin formed across his face.
“Mitchell,”
he crooned, wrapping Mitchell up in his arms and hugging him so tight Mitchell had to gasp for air. He released Mitchell from the grip but not from his arms; they settled around Mitchell's waist. “I
can't
believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“
Damn
. I . . . I . . .”

“You never thought you'd see me again.”

“No, I didn't. What are you doing here?”

“I'm out with the crew.” He looked over to their table.

Montee focused on them. “Oh, your friends. Babyface, B.D., and . . .”

“Ha, you
better
remember the other's name. He believes he is
un
forgettable.”

“Uh . . . Gene?”

“Right.”

“Man, I just can't believe this. But I have to. I'm holding you.”

And he continued to hold him as they gazed.

Montee took him in, hair to toe. “You look
so
good.”

“So do you.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine. And you?”

“Same. Can't complain. Your hair is
fly
.”

“Thank you. I'd say the same, but . . .”

They laughed. Montee, who once sported an Afro, was now bald.

“How long have you been growing your locks?”

“About three and a half years. How long have you been skinned?”

“About a year now. I saw that gray hair comin' in and decided to cut it off at the pass.”

“I'm sure you'd look even sexier with gray hair.”

“Not as sexy as you.”

Mitchell blushed.

Montee shook his head. “
Damn
. . . it is just
so
good to see you.”

They gazed some more.

“Well,” Mitchell began, glancing at the brothers Montee had been conversing with before he interrupted them, “I don't want to keep you.”

“Oh, no, don't go.” He squeezed him a little tighter and drew him a little closer. “I was about to blow this joint in a minute. Have you eaten?”

“I have.”

“Well, how about watching
me
eat? I know how much you enjoy to.”

He has a jood memory . . .

“This'll give us a chance to catch up on the last eight years.”

Actually it's been eight years, three months, and five days—but who's counting . . . ?

“Sure, why not,” Mitchell agreed.

“Great. I'll just wrap this up and meet you at your table in five minutes.”

“Okay.”

Montee wouldn't let him go.

“Uh, the only way you're going to meet me over at my table is if I am over there, too.” Mitchell glanced down.

“Oh.”
Montee reluctantly released him. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”

Mitchell returned to the table and faced the third degree from both B.D. and Gene.

“See, you go to the restroom and end up in the arms of some man,” Gene chastised.

“Oh, but it's not just some man, dearest—it's
Montee
,” B.D. emphasized.

“He looks
jood
,” remarked Babyface, leering at Montee (or, rather, at his ass).

“Uh-huh. And we know you are
not
talking about the cheeks on his
face
,” quipped B.D.

“Ha, you know I ain't. That ass defies logic.”

“Oh?”
B.D. snapped.

“Yeah.” Babyface pulled him closer, sliding his hands down to his rump. “But
yours
defies the laws of nature, physics,
and
gravity.”

“Oh, my Shnookums . . .”
B.D. cooed, wrapping his arms around his neck. They tongue-danced.

“Yeesh,”
Gene shrieked, disgusted by the smooching. “Why don't you two take that shit home.”

“That sounds like a
very
jood idea,” agreed B.D., rubbing his man's nose with his own. “The youngun will be gone until Sunday night and
I
intend to take full advantage of that. Like Mz Ann Nesby, ‘This weekend, I'll be makin' love to
my
man'.”

“You know it,” Babyface affirmed, snacking on his neck.

Gene cringed. His eyes then fell on Mitchell. “And it looks like someone else will be going buck wild this weekend—or, at least for one night.”

“Are you still touring with Me'shell?” Mitchell asked Montee as they turned the corner at Greenwich Avenue and walked down Seventh Avenue.

“Yeah. I'm opening for her tomorrow night at B.B. King's spot at eight. Why don't you come and check us out? I can getcha a front-row-center seat like before.”

“Just
a
seat. What if I wanted to bring someone?”

Montee stopped. “Now, you know I ain't inviting you and some other brother to come hear me sing to
you
.”

Mitchell giggled. “I'd love to, but I'll be chaperoning a party.”

“Oh? Is Gene havin' another one of his famous bashes?”

“No. It's my godson. He just turned fifteen.”

“Mph. You gonna have your hands full.”

“And
you've
certainly had
your
hands full, mister big-time producer. I
love
the songs you did with Carl, Joe, Donell, and Kelly. And I hear you're working with Alicia, Jagged Edge, Usher,
and
Jilly from Philly.”

“Uh, yeah. Hmm . . .” Montee rubbed his chin with his right thumb. “You still stalkin' me, huh?”

They grinned.

“So, how
you
livin' these days? You the editor-in-chief of your own magazine yet?”