Love the One You're With (34 page)

“Uh … how does he feel about his only son being bisexual?”

“He doesn't mind.”

“He doesn't?”

“Nope. Why should he? Like I said, we are alike in
many
ways.”

“
He's
bisexual, too?”

“Yup.”

“You're kidding!”

“No, I'm not. I take it you never knew of a father and son who were both bisexual, huh?”

I laughed. “Uh, no.”

“Like I said …”

“Yes, another first. How and when did you find out about him? Or he about you?”

Was this a painful story? Sorrow registered on his face. “There was a … family friend. I … we called him Uncle Blue.”

“Uncle Blue?”

“That's the only color he would wear. Even to his wedding and funerals. Including his own.”

“Uh … I'm sorry to hear that.”

He nodded. He sighed. “My father was a wreck when he passed. They knew each other since they were in their cribs; they were closer than brothers. But I didn't know they were
that
close. Well, I did.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“One day I was sent home from school early because I was sick. I had a stomachache because I ate too many Ring Dings at lunchtime.”

“I used to woof those down at lunchtime, too.”

“I was upstairs in my room asleep when I heard voices. I went downstairs and saw them on the living-room sofa. Their backs were to me, but I could see them from their shoulder blades up. They were both shirtless. And they were … I didn't know
what
they were doing, but whatever it was, it was making them moan. So I snuck around into the kitchen, where I knew I could get a side view of the action.”

“And what did you see?”

“They were both naked. And they were both
so
beautiful. Uncle Blue was paper-bag brown, so their tones complemented each other. And my dad was … well … massaging his feet.”

“Massaging his feet?”

“Yeah. Uncle Blue's left leg was crossed over his right and my dad was massaging his left foot. And Uncle Blue was massaging my dad's dick. And I got there at just the right time, because my dad … he erupted. He … it just spurted up and up and
up
, like a gusher. And Uncle Blue kept saying, ‘I love you, my brother. I love you.' And then … he embraced my dad and kissed him square on the lips.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight. I never told anyone that story. Not even my dad.”

“Why not?”

“Because … he's from another time. Folks didn't talk about it, even if they knew about it.”

“To some extent, that's still true.”

“It is. But it's not like it was twenty, thirty years ago. He wanted his other life with Uncle Blue to be his and his only. He didn't talk about him after he died. He still hasn't. He never wanted any of us to know about it.”

“Including your mother?”

“Oh,
she
knew about it.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. In fact, Uncle Blue's wife was
her
girlfriend.”

Say what???
“You have
got
to be pulling my leg.”

“I'd rather pull on a few other things,” he groaned.

“I bet … so, your mother was bisexual, too?”

“She still is.”

“Hmmph … I guess it truly is a family affair.”

“It is. One of my sisters is bi, and another is a lesbian.”

“And when did you all come out of the closet to each other?”

“The bag that finally let that cat out was opened when my dad and I ran into each other at a gay club in Phoenix.”

“No!”

“Yup. He was dancing with this brother, who was my age.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“
That
must've been a sight.”

“It was—especially since I had
my
eye on him!”

We laughed.

“Not only are we alike in many ways, we like the same kind of men.”

“Ah … would
I
be his cup of tea?”

“You wouldn't only be his cup of tea—you'd be the kinda biscuit he'd wanna dip in it.”

I grinned.

“After that discovery, everything else came out. Well, every
one
else did, including the youngest, my fifteen-year-old sister.”

“Wow. Y'all musta had a
big
coming-out party.”

“We did. We invited all of our friends—and our
friends
. It was a blast.”

“And is that when your mother's girlfriend was officially introduced to you
as
your mother's girlfriend?”

“Yeah. My aunt Bette Jean. Unfortunately, I couldn't do the same with her son.”

“You were seeing her son?”

“Yeah. He couldn't face his father's death—or himself. I know … he loved me. He always loved me. We were as tight as our fathers were.”

“How tight is tight?”

“We planted many of our
own
seeds in the fields.”

Okay
…

“And the things we did inside, against, and
on top of
his pickup truck.” He had a flashback that made his entire body tremble. “
Damn
. Ain't
nothin'
in this world like a pickup-truck fuck.” He snapped out of it. “Uh, Little Rock is known the world over as the pickup-truck capital of the world.”

“I see. But I bet the world
doesn't
know that many of those trucks are being used for activities other than drivin.'”

He chuckled. “Mmm-hmm. Just about everybody I went to high school with lost their virginity in a pickup.”

“Including you?”

“Including me.”

“And you lost it to your uncle Blue and aunt Bette Jean's son?”

He sighed very heavily with a smile. “Yeah.”

“What's his name?”

“Lancelot,” he crooned. “And boy oh boy, did he like to do it a
lot
!”

“A lot being …?”

“Every day, sometimes twice a day.”

“That
is
a lot. And how long did you two …”

“We were both fifteen when we became … lovers. It lasted five years.”

“You were high-school sweethearts.”

“Yeah. And he had such a sweet heart—not to mention a sweet dick and a sweet ass.”

“And you two would go buck wild in the truck?”

“
Uh-huh
. Usually after he had football practice. He was a linebacker for Central State, and then with the Razorbacks at UA. I was a cheerleader at both schools. I'd cheer him on on the sports field—then cheer him on in the cornfield.”

“How was it, going to a school like Central?” Embedded in my memory bank: that photo in my high-school history textbook of a bespectacled sister walking through a very hostile crowd of white youths, with one white girl shouting something at her.

He knew what I was inquiring about; he considered it. “Let's just say that the more things change …”

I nodded. “Ah. And why did you two break up?”

He heaved. “He said he saw how hard his father loved mine, and that he didn't want to have that and lose it. But I think he really felt that if we continued, one of us would end up dying like his father.”

“And what did his father die from?”

“AIDS.”

“Oh.”

“My father is negative, and so are my mother and aunt Bette Jean. So, Uncle Blue contracted it from someone else. That's probably another reason why my father was so devastated by his death. The betrayal …”

“Have you spoken to Lance lately?”

“I have. Just last week.”

“Is he still in Little Rock?”

“Yeah. Married to his
other
high-school sweetheart, who doesn't know about him—so they say. He says he's never been with a man since me, but … knowing how much he loved it … I can't believe it. I just tell him … if he is, to be careful.”

“And has your father found love again?”

“He has. A brother just a few years younger than him. They've been together now for three years. They're living in Phoenix.”

“Did he divorce your mom?”

“No.”

“Is she still with your aunt Bette Jean?”

“Yeah. They're living together now.”

“Well, they don't have to be married anymore. I mean, the kids are all grown. And the secret
is
out.”

“True. But they still love each other. Why get divorced?”

“They're not living as man and wife anymore.”

“No, they aren't. But that doesn't mean they don't
feel
like man and wife. All the property they own, the ties they have … it'd be better just to stay married. They took the ‘Till death do us part' vow seriously. That's the only way they plan to be divorced. And if Uncle Blue was still alive, Aunt Bette Jean wouldn't have divorced him.”

“Mmm … to think they all found each other and made this kind of … pact.”

“It goes on more than people think. Especially in small big-city towns like mine.”

“Did you ever find love again like you had with Lance?”

“He was my first; you can never have love quite like that again. But … I think I've come close.” He peered at me. “And with others,
dreamed
that I could.”

That made me tingle.

He checked the lamb chops. He turned them over. “Those should take about fifteen more minutes. What do you say we make some music of our own?”

He refilled our Kool-Aid jars. He shut off the stereo. We ventured over to his music station. He sat down at the keyboard.

I noticed the stack of music sheets on the windowsill. “Did you study music in high school and college?”

“Yeah.” He began to play Beethoven's Ninth. “Did a few recitals. Even played for the mayor once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. At his inauguration. I played for both the school chorus and choir.”

“When did you start writing songs of your own?”

“I was … twenty. Would you like to hear the very first Montee Simms composition?”

“Sure.”

The lyrics were … well, depressing:

                      Sometimes I cry

                      because I feel so all alone

                      And sometimes I weep

                      for I feel that I can't go on

                      And sometimes I wonder

                      will you ever return

                      And then I realize …

                      There'll be no more roses

                      delivered to my door

                      And you won't ring my phone

                      anymore

                      And it's all so unfair

                      Sometimes I wish

                      you were still there

“So, whatcha think?” he asked when he was done.

“You must've had the blues when you wrote that!”

“
Had
the blues? I
was
the blues.”

“Uh … Lance?”

He nodded. “But I got over him. And I vowed to
never
write another song like that again. Once was enough!”

And judging from the other selections he performed, he hadn't. A bubble-gum-pop, up-tempo track, “I'm Not That Kind of Guy” does what very few (if any) songs do: extol the virtue of abstinence for males. I could see a New Kids on the Block clone taking it to number one, sending preteen girls into fits of frenzy.

Then came “It's a Miracle,” an inspirational tune. Its scope and the melismas sprinkled throughout make it a prime Whitney/Mariah or even Tramaine/Yolanda belter (he didn't do a bad job himself).

“This is the one I
really
want you to hear,” he admitted before going into song number three. It had a new jack vibe, very Jodeci-ish. But K-Ci couldn't tear it up the way Montee did. Near the end, he even scatted.

“Is it called 'Where Have You Been All My Life'?” I asked.

He grinned. “That's what it's called.”

“Who were you in love with when you wrote it?”

“What makes you think I was in love when I wrote it?”

“It has that feel.”

“I wasn't in love. I … I wrote it a few days ago.”

He's even written a song
about
me. I was blushing big time—and so was he.

He ended the gushing. “Did you ever watch
Name That Tune
?”

“I never missed it. That was my favorite game show.”

“Me, too. Would you like to play?”

“Sure. Do you have the game, or episodes of it on tape?”

“Nah. All we need are these keys.” He tapped out a melody. “I'll play, you guess.”

“Oh, okay.”

The catch, though, was that I wouldn't receive any verbal clues. I did get to decide how many notes I'd receive. I always chose four—fewer would surely stump me but any more than that wouldn't allow me the chance to really show him how deep my ocean of musical knowledge was.

The first two were simple: “Higher Ground” and “Ain't No Way.”

The next four were a bit more challenging—“Guess Who I Saw Today?,” “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “I Try,” and “Stuff Like That” (of course, he
would
sneak an Ashford & Simpson tune in there)—but I guessed them.

Seven wasn't a lucky number. I got my usual four notes. Nothing.

Then he doubled that number of notes; nothing.

Then he
tripled
them;
still
nothing.

I recognized the music but couldn't place the lyrics. So he played an entire verse.