Love the One You're With (10 page)

I nicely told him that any more declarations like those would
kill
, not spoil, the mood, so he'd have to come up with something new—and he did. He replaced the racist rhetoric with lots of
golly gees, God dangs, oh shoots
, and
mother-fredericks
.

But he wasn't so polite when I feasted on his two big Bon Bons (“Oooh, yeah, lick that ass like a lollipop!”) and banged him in three different positions—doggy, f.d.a.u. (face down, azz up), and propped over the kitchen sink, as his head occasionally banged against the wall (his line during each: “Oooh, yeah, motherfucker, do that nasty all up in me!”). When he said he was flexible, he wasn't lying—I bent, folded, and stretched that limber, wiry body as if it were a rubber band.

“I've never experienced
anything
like that before,” he puttered, still trying to catch his breath as his head lay on my chest after his first plugging.

“Oh really?”

“Yes. I … I always thought that sleeping with another Black man would be like …”

Oh, boy … here it comes.

“… like sleeping with my brother, even my father.”

I've heard
that
bullshit before from way too many other snow queens. As far as I'm concerned, it's a convenient excuse self-hating Black men use to justify rejecting other Black men. After all, when was the
first
time you ever heard a white man say he couldn't be with other white men because it'd be like fucking a family member?

“It's not that I never wanted to
be
with a Black man; it's just that … it never happened.”

Uh-huh … 'cause you never
wanted
it to happen.

“I really am color-blind; I don't see color.”

Uh-huh … you're so color-blind that you only “see” those who don't have any.

As repulsed as I was by the admissions, I wasn't repulsed by the sex—it was some of the best I ever had. And, subconsciously, I believed I was helping him face and hopefully conquer his inhibitions/fears/demons about being with Black men, and that made me feel … well, superior. I got so arrogant that when I wore that ass out the second and third times that night, I'd boast: “Uh-huh, I bet none of them white boys could work it like this, huh?” But he didn't mind; it just got him going even more.

I was still spooked, though, over our getting together. Our verbal exchange made me … well …
wet
. I don't know if I was turned on by him or turned on by the debate we had or turned on by the fact I was grinding him into a fine powder
and he knew I was
, or maybe it was a combination of all three, but I was turned on. And he admitted that that was why he contacted me—being in the hot seat not only made
him
hot, it made him hot for
me
.

And, so, we became fast fuckers, fast friends, and fierce foes, in the figurative sense of the word. It was after we had one of our most heated debates (it almost always had something to do with the two R's: Reagan, who he feels is the greatest president of the twentieth century; and racism, which he believes is no longer an obstacle for Black folks because those on the receiving end of it today are allegedly
white
) that we'd heat up the bedroom (or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the living room, or his car). I'd eat that ass with a vengeance, making his ears wiggle like a hummingbird's wings, and fuck him until he was screeching like a pig caught in a fence. He no longer had a problem telling the difference between me and his former (white) pieces, and his groove got so good that I'd egg him on with “Be
real
Black for me, Daddy,
yeah
” (and he had the nine-inch-long, five-and-a-half-inch-thick dick to be real
with
).

Gene gasped when he heard we had hit it—and
gawked
when he learned the blaze had lasted longer than a night. But he warned: “Chile, no matter how good you're givin' it to him and no matter how good he's givin' it to you, he will eventually leave you to go back to the
white
House.”

Well, he did leave me—for Wiley House, a major high-tech design and production firm in Beverly Hills that constructs movie sets for the studios. His high-five-figure salary would be doubled, and he'd have the title of a VP after his name (something he'd always wished for). When he asked me to move with him, I didn't know what to say. Despite his being culturally unconscious, I liked him; he had a gentle, funny side that I cherished (he did a laugh-out-very-loud impersonation of Tim Conway as Mr. Tudball from
The Carol Burnett Show
). I loved being with him—and I loved being
with
him. But did I love
him
? And was I in love with
him
? My feelings for him, my feelings for us, didn't run deeper than my feelings for what we
did
. We were the ultimate fuck buddies: two people with little to nothing in common but who could hang out—and let it
all
hang out.

We weren't “dating”—unless one considers a relationship that's ninety percent sex and ten percent other activities “dating” (as much boot knockin' as Pooquie and I did during our first month and a half together, it paled in comparison with the number of carnal conquests Peter and I engaged in in our first few weeks). So as much as I liked the idea of being invited to join him (it's not every day you receive what is basically a “marriage” proposal), I declined the offer. He seemed somewhat heartbroken that I did. Initially, the distance didn't put out the flame, it just intensified it. For close to a year, we visited each other, probably trying to find
something
that would finally convince us that what we had was more than a physical thing. But that something never revealed itself and the fire fizzled out. After two years without any contact, I thought I'd never hear from him again …

…
UNTIL HE CALLED ME UP LAST WEEK. HE SAID HE'D
be in town and would like to see me. Pooquie didn't mind if I went out with him for coffee—“so long as he know you ain't available.” Pooquie knew he could trust me—we had gone through this when I went to my high-school reunion and faced my first love, former gymnastics coach and current Rikers Island resident Warren Reid (he's awaiting trial for raping one of his male students). But would Pooquie's being out of town during this reunion make a difference?

I figured that after several years, Peter would have changed in some way. But I knew one thing would remain the same: his tardiness. So, I had enough sense not to show up at the time he specified. He said 6:30; I got there at 6:50. And I wasn't there a minute when he glided through the door.

“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
mis
treat 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?”