Love the One You're With (2 page)

But B.D. got the query, and since everyone assumed he would answer no and respond to the
Why not?
with a
Why would I?
, we were all ready to move on. In fact, Babyface (yeah, he's got the cutest little …) had already shifted on the sofa where he and B.D. were entangled (legs and arms looped) so that he could draw his question next, when B.D. matter-of-factly declared …

“Yes.”

As I've often heard Gene say during shocking moments like that one: It was so quiet you could hear a rat piss on cotton.

Pooquie ended the silence. “
You
been wit' a female?” Even though Pooquie didn't know B.D. that well, what little he did know (B.D. is the epitome of a muscle queen) made this revelation unbelievable even to him.

Gene was floored. “I cannot believe you've actually used what's between your legs for something other than relieving yourself—and sometimes I can't believe you do
that
.”

“Surprise, surprise. Contrary to
un
popular belief, it hasn't just been hanging there all my life like mistletoe.”

“You never told me about that, Baby,” piped in Babyface, who knows better than anyone that B.D. has “decorative dick”—meaning he never
touches
it during sex. (But at least he will let Babyface touch it; Gene and I have swapped stories about boyz who became completely undone when we attempted to blow, crank or, God forbid, ride their stick—and in every case, we're talking about a
stick
, dick down to the knee. Yeah, a waste.) “When did this happen?”

“When I was seventeen. I've blocked it out of mind.”

“Uh-huh. The kind of thing you try to forget, right?” Gene smirked.

“Well, not really. I mean, it wasn't a bad experience.”

“So, you enjoyed it?” Pooquie asked.

“Mmm … not exactly. I don't regret doing it. The girl … her name was Autumn.”

“Don't tell me she has a sister named
Summer
!” Gene chuckled.

“No. But she does have a brother named August.”

“August? What were their parents named: Mother Nature and Father Time?” joked Gene.

“August was the one I was after. He was my age; Autumn was a year younger than us. She had a big crush on me; she would've done anything I wanted.”

“Apparently,” I interjected.

He shook his head. “Nope. Doing it was her idea.”

“Really?” groaned Gene. “Ain't that somethin': Autumn wanted to take a Fall!” Even Pooquie giggled at that one.

“I felt it was important that I finally come clean with her.”

“You mean, you told her you were after her brother?” I asked.

“Yes. I had to. She had followed me around like a lost puppy for three years, wishin', hopin', prayin' that I'd ask her to marry me. But I wanted to marry her brother!”

“So, what she say when you told her?” Pooquie queried.

“First she thought I was joking. Then she thought I was just being mean, that I was using that as an excuse not to admit I wasn't interested.”

Gene frowned. “You kept the girl at bay for three years—
that
should've been her hint that you weren't interested.”

B.D. nodded. “Then she realized I was telling the truth but came up with a solution: ‘You just
think
you're gay. Sleep with me and you'll see you're not.'”

Gene, Babyface, and I nodded at B.D. and each other. We had all been there before: Every gay man has (or will have) at least one hetero woman say to him that all it will take is one night (or, in some cases, one hour) with her and he'll see
and
feel the light. How ironic that Babyface, the “masculine” one in their relationship, has never slept with a woman, but B.D., the “feminine” one, has.

B.D. continued. “She got it hard. She put the condom on. She guided it in. And she did the bumpin' and humpin.'”

“Why am I not surprised
she
did all the work,” Gene giggled.

Pooquie's eyes narrowed. “You enjoy it?”

“I
enjoyed
the way she would slap my ass as she bumped and humped. All I could picture was her brother doing that to me. And it didn't help that she looked just like her brother, so when I looked in her eyes …”

“So you didn't cum?” asked Pooquie.

“Yes, I did. But not because of how being inside her made me feel.”

I could tell by the look on Pooquie's face that he didn't buy that. He's from the school where, if you can get it up and off with a woman, that means you can't be gay. But a man can get hard if the wind blows the right way against his dick—and it doesn't matter what way he swings. And, given all the gay men who function as straight and their wives or girlfriends don't know it—and, when they do find out, can't believe it, since he performed in a way that never gave them cause to pause—such a masquerade isn't hard to pull off.

“Did she think her experiment was successful?” Gene questioned, even though he already knew the answer.

“She did. But she also saw her spell didn't last long. She came home a week later and found her brother and me fuckin.'”

“No!” I squealed. “How did
that
happen?”

“Well, she made the mistake of telling her brother about us. And he confronted me about it.”

I was on the edge of my seat for this one. “And what did he say?”

B.D. smiled. “‘If you wanted it, all you had to do was ask!'”

We all cracked up.

“Now,
that
must have truly been traumatic for her,” I managed to get out between chuckles.

B.D. shrugged. “I guess seeing it with her own eyes was. But in the end, she accepted her brother being gay and us being a couple. The way she saw it, it was better she lose a man to her brother than another woman!”

“Ah. The dick that got away couldn't be hers to begin with,” I added.

“You go it,” B.D. agreed.

“My, my, my: The power of the pussy fails again!” announced Gene.

As we cackled and Pooquie groaned “Uh-huh,” Babyface correctly surmised it was time to move on. He stuck his hand in Pooquie's X cap, and chose: “Have you ever dreamed about having sex with someone in this room other than your significant other?”

We would later find out that B.D. jotted this one down—and that Babyface was his intended target.

“Well …” Babyface began, looking at the floor, “I've had this dream … a few times …”

Given that we had gotten busy on the very couch he was lounging across, I knew he was going to say me (as part of their “one more fling before we exchange rings” deal, B.D. and Babyface each slept with someone else—and I was Babyface's pick). But when he looked up, his eyes trailed past me …

… and fell on Pooquie, who was just as surprised as Gene and I. “Man, you fuh real?”

“Yup.”

Being the not-so-modest person he is, Pooquie naturally wanted to know … “What you dream about?”

Babyface wore a slight grin. “Well … we're going over your contract, and after we're done, you say: ‘Well, it's time for me to pay up.' Then you stand up, rip off your shirt, unzip and drop your pants, knock the contract on the floor, climb atop the table on all fours, and say: ‘A'ight, Counselor: It's time to chow down and throw down!'”

Everyone fell out, except Gene. “Well, it's clear how you wish to be paid for
your
legal services.” He rose and went into the kitchen.

B.D. waved at me. “Can ya believe it? Our husbands having an affair!”

I pointed to Pooquie and Babyface. “I think we may have to keep an eye on you two.” They blushed.

Hmm … knowing firsthand how well Babyface works that tongue and dick, I glanced in the kitchen and could clearly see Pooquie planted on the countertop with his chocolate pound cakes spread and Babyface chowing down before throwing down. It didn't rub me the wrong way, it rubbed me the
right
way—my dick got hard.

I was next.

“Tell someone something about them that bothers you the most.”

That was easy. I turned to Pooquie. “I wish you were at a place where you could tell your family about yourself—and us.” He and I had talked about this a lot. The nod he gave me affirmed he's slowly starting to realize that, after integrating me into his life the way he has, there's no way that his mother or his son's mother doesn't suspect we could be more than just friends.

I handed the hat to Gene, who had just returned with a cup of coffee—but he wouldn't take it. He was throwing me shade.

And, yes, I was gagging. “What?”

“Now, you know that ain't what you told me a few weeks ago.”

I wasn't looking in his direction, but I could
feel
Pooquie tense up.

“Uh-oh, a challenge!” exclaimed B.D.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You told me that the thing that bothers you the most about Pooquie is his being a drama queen.”

I could see Pooquie out of the corner of my right eye freeze: he clutched the armrests of the easy chair and his head was titled down on a ninety-degree angle, avoiding everyone's gaze.

“I didn't say that,” I laughed, trying to inject some humor into the haze of doubt filling the room.

Gene sucked his teeth. “Oh, no? Then what
did
you say?”

I struggled. “Well … if I remember correctly, I said that … that Pooquie sometimes has the bad habit of … of being a little too dramatic about some things, that he sometimes acts
like
a drama queen.”

“That's not what
I
remember,” declared Gene, crossing his arms and his legs. “Now, you did say that he has the bad habit of being a little too dramatic, that he sometimes overreacts to things—throwing a tantrum, storming off, running away. But you also said it bothers you a lot, and the last words out of your mouth were: ‘I wish he wasn't such a drama queen.'”

I was playing it over in my mind and, yes, that was what I said. But I certainly didn't want to own up to it now. “Gene, you misunderstood me.”

“I didn't misunderstand a thang. I know what I heard.”

“Well, even if I did say that—”

“
Which
you did,” he insisted.

“—I certainly didn't mean that he
is
a drama queen, as you originally stated.”

“Ah, a stickler for details. The journalist in you is coming out. How con
ven
ient.”

I was more than testy now. “Well, if you're going to quote me, quote me verbatim. As we see, one or two words can make the difference.”

He huffed. “He
is
a drama queen, he acts
like
a drama queen … a distinction without a difference if you ask me. No matter how you try to break it down or rework it, it basically means the same thing.”

Pooquie agreed. He, along with Gene, voted that I wasn't telling the truth. (B.D. sided with Babyface, who believed that the context was important, and since it was unclear based on our different accounts, they couldn't vote either way.) Pooquie simmered, but he did a jood job of keeping his top. But after they left (which wasn't long after the argument; it threw a wrench into and ended the game, and put a damper on the rest of the day), he blew up. He was more hurt and embarrassed than angry, and I could understand why: I would've felt the same way if I discovered in front of others (even if they were extended family like B.D., Babyface, and Gene) that my mate viewed me in such a way. But, in classic Pooquie fashion, he carried on about it (yeah, like a drama queen), accusing me of “insulting” his manhood and wondering out loud how he could fall in love with someone who thought of him that way. And, as is often the case when he is put out or off by me, he chose to sleep on the couch for the next six days (absolutely the longest he can go without being touched by or lying next to me).

The day after all of this drama unfolded (a Monday), Gene called and left a message on my answering machine at home. I didn't return it. He did the same thing Tuesday; again, I didn't respond. Wednesday night he called me at home; I wouldn't pick up. When those three days turned into a week, B.D. and Babyface stepped in to reunite us, but nothing they said or tried worked. Gene showed up at my job just before Christmas and followed me home (I live just three blocks away from the junior high school I teach at); as he pleaded with me to talk to him, I wouldn't even acknowledge him, closing my front door in his face. And I brought in the New Year for the first time in six years without him (he called five seconds after 1995 began, wishing me the best).

“You think you makin' him suffer when you makin' yo'self suffer,” Pooquie argued—and he was right. (That was advice he himself had to take to heart: He tried to punish me by holding back on the lovin,' but that “I ain't givin' you none” eventually turned into
“Yeah, mutha-fucka, bone it like you own it!”
) Pooquie saw how the separation from Gene was affecting me, and while a part of him may have been pleased that Gene was out of the picture (they've always butted heads because they have the same domineering personality and believe they should be number one in my life), he knew that I—and
he
—would continue to be miserable so long as Gene and I weren't speaking. So he “tricked” me into talking to him again: he called up Gene, placed him on speakerphone, and after Pooquie got me to admit how much I missed him, Gene entered the discussion with: “I miss you, too.” Gene and I made up that night. I was still a little angry at him, but the bottom line was that I blamed Gene when I was really angry with myself for not thinking such a thing could come back to haunt me (not to mention coming up with that question in the first place; I didn't want any particular person to choose it, but I certainly didn't expect to have to answer it myself). Yes, Gene can be a wise-ass, but I hadn't told him this in confidence; I didn't swear him to secrecy. So it was fair game in the game we played. And it wasn't worth losing my best friend, the big brother I never had who served as my mentor “in the life” (i.e., the Black gay world), over.