Love the One You're With (3 page)

Although Gene and I patched things up a few weeks ago (placing Truth or Shade on that list of things we will never partake of again), our schedules didn't allow us to hook up. But I planned to spend the entire weekend (which included the observance of Dead White Male Presidents' Day) with him—shopping, clubbing, and doing a whole lot of catching up and kee-keeing.

It was jood to see him again and he obviously felt the same way: He stood as I approached him and didn't give me the chance to put my bag down, almost snatching me up in his arms. I had to admit, the bear hug felt very jood; I hadn't realized just how much I missed him until then. How ironic that Phyllis Hyman's “Old Friend” happened to be playing at that moment.

He finally released me. “So … now that the dog's away, the pussy can come out and play, huh?”

I frowned. “Not funny.”

“Believe me, that
wasn't
a joke.”

“So, where's B.D.?” I asked, peeling off my leather jacket and placing it around the back of the stool.

“In the ladies' room.” He sat back down.

I joined him. “To do more than just wash his hands before dinner, I'm sure.”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, how
fag
ulous!” B.D. cried as he sashayed toward us. “It's so wonderful to have our three-for-T circle together again.” He hugged us both by the neck.

Gene pushed him off. “Yeah, yeah, save it for Sally Messy Raphael, okay? I need another drink.” He signaled for the bartender. “You want something, Mitch?”

“No. I'll wait till we eat. I'm starving.”

Just then, a brother who was the embodiment of “tall, dark, and handsome”—probably six-six and three-hundred-plus pumped-up pounds, sporting a diamond stud in his right ear and a black fedora on his bald head, and wearing a bloodred turtleneck and scandalously tight black leather pants—scooted by us, winking at B.D.

B.D. licked his lips. “So am I.”

I, too, was drooling. “Is
he
who you were busy with in the bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.” He sighed.

About to sip his gin and tonic, Gene stopped. “And just how busy were y'all?”

“Ha, not
that
busy. But we were
very
busy years ago.” He had a flashback. His whole body trembled. “Lawdamercy. If I weren't a married woman …” He turned to me. “And speaking of being a married woman: What kind of mischief do
you
plan on getting into now that the hubby will be out of town for a spell?”

“I'm not getting into any mischief.”

“You're not?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“Why
wouldn't
you? I mean, a little bit of flirtin' and flashin' never hurt anybody.”

Gene lifted his glass in a toast. “I'll drink to that!”

“But why would I do that? Pooquie and I, we're committed to each other.”

“No, you two should
be
committed,” Gene corrected.

“I'm committed to Babyface but, as you see, haven't retired from enjoying and engaging in the sights,” testified B.D.

“Well, that might work for you, even Babyface. But that's not how it is for Pooquie and me.”

B.D. folded his arms against his chest. “Oh? How do you know?”

“Because I know him. And he knows me. And we have that understanding.”

B.D. gave me a quizzical look. “Uh, is this something you two have discussed?”

“Uh … well … no.”

They grinned at each other. “Uh-huh.”

I went on the defensive. “But it doesn't
have
to be discussed. It just is.”

B.D. balked. “You are assuming that he feels the same way and wouldn't participate in any extracurricular activities, is that it?”

I was at a loss. “Well … well …”

“Chile, you can't assume, you gotta
know
.” B.D. leaned on the bar. “You don't think Pooquie might, uh, stray while he is away?”

“No, I don't.”

He looked at Gene. “And I thought
I
was the dense one in this family.” He turned back to me. “Mitch, hon, you know I like Pooquie very much. But we're talking about a man who is three thousand miles away making his first film in a town where almost every person he meets or sees will be just as P-H-Y-N-E as him. You don't think he might be just a
little bit
tempted to taste a
little bit
of someone else?”

“No, 'cause
this
Little Bit gives him every
little bit
of what he needs,” I confidently stated.

“I'm sure you do, dahling. But there's just one problem: You are
here
and he is
there
. And you know what they say: ‘If you can't be with the one you
love
… '”

Gene, the reigning president of the “Love Don't Live Here Anymore” Club, spit out his drink. B.D. giggled.

“What we have is strong enough to keep us for two weeks,” I argued.

B.D. pointed to Gene. “Well, I hate to sound like the jaded queen that we all know and
sometimes
love who is seated at this very bar—”

“Shut up, bitch,” snarled Gene, who was wiping his mouth with a tissue.

“—but, when you can lust the one you're with, what's
L
got to do with it?”

I accepted the challenge. “Well,
I
hate to sound like the helpless romantic that we all know and love who is seated at this very bar—”

Gene nudged B.D. “Hmmph, more like a
hopeless
romantic!”

“—but
L
's got
everything
to do with it!”

B.D. shrugged. “Maybe so. But temptation knows everybody's name, hon. You don't stop being human 'cause you in
love
.” He giggled as Gene visibly cringed. “Besides, you two are due.”

“We're due?”

“Yes. There comes a time in every relationship where you get that …
itch
.”

“You mean …” Marilyn Monroe came to mind …

… and being sort of a dumb blonde himself, he must've sensed it. “Yup, the seven year itch. But, in fag years, it's seventeen months.”

“Seventeen months?” I repeated.

“Yes. If a couple makes it there, they are what you could call serious candidates. The not-so-serious last no more than seventeen weeks.” He looked at Gene. “And the
un
serious?”

Gene gladly took that one. “Seventeen
days
.”

B.D. nodded. “See. Too many of us fall in the latter category, so you know it's a surprise when ya reach the second plateau.”

“Ha, and a
miracle
when you reach the third,” Gene snickered.

“After all, how many gay couples do
you
know who have been together seventeen months or longer?” B.D. asked.

Hmm … I could only think of one.

B.D. grinned. He cut his eyes at Gene. “And
some
said we wouldn't last seventeen
hours
.”

“Ha, it ain't over till the fat-
ass
lady sings,” shot back Gene.

B.D. drew his claws. “But it
is
over for some of us, isn't it?”

I couldn't believe he went there. Gene broke up with Carl, the guy he had been seeing for over a year, last October. Gene still won't tell us why; B.D. and I figure Gene said or did something to fuck it up. But whatever happened, it wrecked Gene, even though he tried hard not to show it.

Gene glared at B.D. “
Any
way …”

“Uh-huh. An-ty-way … if my calculations are correct, you two have officially been together as a couple for seventeen months. And while y'all have been through a hell of a lot together, the real test—infidelity—hasn't reared its head”—he suspiciously eyed me—“as far as we know. So, if neither one of you has creeped yet, it could happen very soon.”

“I don't think so,” I said in a very dismissive tone.

B.D. grasped and shook my arm. “Chile, you better snap out of that dreamworld, thinking it can't happen to you.
Every
man is capable of it.”

“Every man?”

“Yes, every man.”

“Even Babyface?”

“Well, he's a man. And, as quiet as it's kept,
I
happen to be one, too.” Gene was about to jump in when B.D. cut him off: “Don't
even
go there.”

“Uh … you've cheated on Babyface?” I asked.

“No, I haven't. But that doesn't mean I haven't thought about it, haven't been tempted—or haven't come close to it.”

Gene and I moved in closer to him. “Really?” we both sang in unison.

“Yes, really.”

“With who?” we echoed.

“If you two must know, Gerrold Garrett.”

Gene wasn't impressed. “You mean the one with no neck?”

“Yes. And what he does not have between his head and shoulders he more than makes up for in other areas.”

I grinned, picturing “Jiggly Gerrold” (as he's been affectionately dubbed), a member of Gene's dance troupe, in nothing but his tights and a thong. “Ha, he sho' nuff do!”

“I don't know if Babyface has,” B.D. confessed, “but I'd be more than naive to think he hasn't thought about it, hasn't been tempted, or hasn't come close to it, also. Hell, he's
dreamed
of doing it with another man, as I am sure you're aware.”

I nodded.

“And, if he
did
do it—and chances are that he has—I wouldn't want to know about it.”

“You wouldn't?”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“So long as he is treating me right, treating
us
right, why should it matter if he was, is, or will be with some­one ­else? What we have isn't a moment in time, but what he would have with them
would
be.

“And, besides,” he began, glancing at Gene, who declared right along with him, “He's a man.”

“Just like
Pooquie
,” enunciated Gene.

“Uh-huh. Just like you,” added B.D.

YEAH … JUST LIKE ME
.

We all like to think that what we have with our significant other has never existed before, that it's special, different—and I would have to say that my relationship with Pooquie
is
all of those things. It's not conventional. It's not typical. It's not average. It's not ordinary. Some (like Gene) would say that it's a
miracle;
after all, we're diametrically opposed opposites—he, the homie from Harlem; me, the buppie from Brooklyn. Yet that may be why we're so jood together: despite (or in spite of) the differences, we've grown to appreciate the other for who he is and not what we wish he would be (as the card he sent that I found in my mailbox just before I went to meet Gene and B.D. sang: “I Love You Just the Way You Are”).

But, as the discussion with B.D. (and the ad-libs from Gene) illustrated, what we have is, like any relationship, vulnerable. And the truth is that I have always recognized this—it's just something I haven't had to focus on. After all, the world we've created together is so … cozy. It's far from perfect and we each have our own baggage to carry (and sort through), but we've found a groove that gives us the room to be ourselves, and with the addition of Junior, Pooquie's six-year-old son, it's made us a family. After roughly a year and a half, we've settled down. And it just doesn't feel jood to be with him; it feels …
safe
.

But given Pooquie's new public profile, that safety is slowly being … I guess the word is
threatened
. He doesn't “belong” to me anymore; his world has gotten and continues to get much bigger with every new modeling and acting job he gets. With that new world calling on him more and more, I'm seeing less and less of him—and others are trying to step in. He's gotten “love letters” from fans, not to mention a few pro-sports figures and hip-hop artists. While he has shared all of this with me (not to mention the edible underwear one rapper sent him) and finds it comical, I am fully aware that the more he is drawn into the spotlight, the more attractive this world may become—and the more likely it is that someone he meets in this new world could sweep him off his feet.

Funny thing, though, is that I never seriously considered that someone could sweep me off
my
feet. I've never met anyone like Pooquie, never
loved
anyone like him; no one has ever made me feel the way he makes me feel, and in the time we've been a couple, I've never considered being with someone else, never considered that there could
be
someone else. But
that
was all about to change. As B.D. warned, “Temptation knows everybody's name”—and I was about to find that out in a very big way …

Gene lives many, many,
many
miles from the Bronx Zoo, but his apartment could still be its souvenir shop.

The sign pasted below the bell on his door announces:
IT
'
S
MY
HOUSE … AND
I
LIVE HERE
. But the moment you step inside, there is evidence everywhere that he doesn't occupy the three-bedroom co-op alone. A bearskin rug welcomes you. Walk a few feet up the hallway and there's a shark fin dangling from the ceiling. Venture a few more feet, and at the end of the hall, you'll be greeted by Eloise, his wild boar head that is mounted on a closet door. Turn left, walk two yards, make a sharp right, go down three steps and you'll be in the sunken living room, where a panther lies in the center of the floor, its mouth wide open. Dancer and Prancer are on opposite walls, facing each other. Over the fireplace are four peacock tails encased in a gold frame, and four elephant tusks have been grafted onto the red brick, forming a horseshoe. On the coffee table is a six-foot-long coiled cobra and on either side of that lie two turtle shells that can be used as ashtrays. And, in his bedroom, directly over his king-size bed, is a lion's head, which is flanked by baboon masks.