Love the One You're With (21 page)

“Hi, mister.”

“Hey, Mitch.”

He came down off the ladder (which he didn't really need; he clocks in at six feet five inches). We embraced and kissed.

“How are you?” he queried.

“I'm jood. Can't complain. How about you?”

“Same. How's Raheim?” He climbed back up on the second step.

“Fine. It's been a tense week for him, this being his first film and all, but he'll get through it.”

“Ah. And how are you dealing with it?”

“I'm … okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Well … the separation … I miss him terribly.”

“I'm sure.”

“I don't know. It's only been a week and two days yet it feels like a year.”

“You may have to get used to it. He'll probably be spending a lot more time on that coast.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Have the sharks started surrounding you yet?”

“The sharks?”

“Yeah. They always know when your partner isn't around, when you're wadin' in the water without your paddle. I've been there. I know.”

“You mean, you've …”

“No, I haven't. But”—he remembered those times with a mischievous grin—“boy, did they try!”

“So, how did you handle it?”

“I just enjoyed it.”

“You did?”

“Of course. The attention was nice—and telling. It was so funny watching all those folks who wouldn't acknowledge I was alive when I was single suddenly decide I'm now worth their time and doing everything they could to get next to me. And their interest made me appreciate what I have more.”

“How?”

“They were seeing the man I had become
with
B.D.—and I wouldn't be the man they wanted if I weren't with him. One
does
become more attractive, more desirable, when they're married.” He smiled. “And you are no exception.”

I blushed.

He hopped down. “Besides, if I were to commit adultery, it would be with another married man.”

“Why?”

“The question you should be asking isn't
why
but with
who
.” He winked.

My cheeks burned—
both
sets.

“But B.D. wouldn't be upset that it happened; he'd be upset that it happened without
him
!”

We laughed.

I nodded. “And considering that Pooquie wouldn't mind taking a dive inside B.D., and you've had dreams about Pooquie …”

He replayed that dream. “Now,
that
would be something else: a Black gay version of
Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice
.”

B.D. popped in. “Yoo-hoo, lovelies. The first guest has arrived.”

That first guest was (and always is) Horace Cleveland. He's known as Sleeveless Cleve or the Sleeveless Wonder because he loves to show off his immaculate arms and chest, which are deltoid deep and pectoral perfect. It doesn't matter the season: it can be below freezing (as it was this particular evening) and he'll peel off a coat, a sweater, and a thermal undershirt to reveal one of his many silk sleeveless blouses (or, as he has on other nights, muscle Ts). He always comes at the designated start time and leaves at the quoted finish. He doesn't like to miss anything—or take a chance that his delts and pecs will be missed
by
anyone.

Like Horace, all of Gene's oldest friends are in their late thirties to midforties (I'm the baby at twenty-eight; B.D. and Babyface are both thirty-one) and are very youthful (they probably partake in the same kind of rigorous beauty rituals Gene does). And each one, like Horace, has a special title bestowed upon him by the other members of the Looney Toons (as they dub themselves). Gene is known as M.D.—Mack Diva (no explanation needed). The other unusual usual suspects in no particular order:

A bus driver by day and aspiring actor by night (and after seeing him perform, you know why he is
still
aspiring), Jesse MacDougal is Holy Mackerel, since he has holes in his ears, tongue, nipples, bottom lip, right eyebrow, and left nostril. And he fills those holes up with nothing but silver. He was inspired to get pierced when he and Gene planned on attending LaBelle's “Something Silver” concert at the Metropolitan Opera House on October 6, 1974. Everyone was asked to wear that color, but he didn't feel his galactic see-through jumpsuit and platform boots were enough. I still can't believe he did it: being poked with needles in ten different places on your body couldn't have been fun (this was years before that zip gun was invented) and this is a man who still faints when he nicks himself shaving. But no sacrifice was or is too great for Miss Patti, whom, like Gene, he worships. They each have several framed pics with her taken over the years (including one on that silver night) and they share a copy of a gold record for “Lady Marmalade” (the first six months of every year, it can always be found above Gene's dresser).

Jackson Graves, a VP in charge of business loans at a Queens branch of Citibank, is Jumpin' Jack Flash—and not because he loves to do jumping jacks. He loves for the boys to jump (i.e., sit) on his jack; unfortunately, the excitement makes him come in a flash. He's only had sex in that position his whole life and the others have argued that if he'd branch out maybe he'd be able to sustain an erection longer than thirty seconds.

The owner of a hair salon called Weaves-R-Us in Harlem, Edmond Zimmer is the Walking Conflagration. B.D. might be a flame but Edmond is a
blowtorch
. He scorches a path as he walks by—and his tongue is just as fiery. That blazing autumn sunshine 'do is also a telltale sign that if you play with him you will get burned.

Jerry Perry is Dr. Do Little because he is in fact a doctor (a veterinarian) and has to do little to make the boyz bow down to him except unzip that fly and allow that thirteen-and-a-half-inch tube steak (which Gene swears he ties in a knot to fit into a pair of underwear, including boxers) to do the talkin'.

And then there's Alan Simpson, the Grand Canyon. He's a thick man who wears his weight well (very chunky, not chubby) and is, as he will tell you, “a hundred and one percent bottom.” Well, to the crew, he's more like a bottom
less
pit. He can apparently take it without a squint (he and Jerry had a tryst some years ago and that was the one and only time Jerry claims he broke a sweat). Alan had defensive-end dreams, but instead of playing for the team he promotes it: he's an assistant marketing manager for the New Jersey Caravans. They may not be the most popular platoon in the league, but their logo and merchandise still pull in a jood amount of green each year—and Alan's paid nicely because of it.

There's a sexual tension between Gene and Alan that hangs over them like a storm cloud. Everybody sees it—except Gene. Or maybe he doesn't want to; as the designated hit-and-run member of the group, he probably senses that he wouldn't be able to just hit Alan and run. For over twenty years they've been fucking each other—with words, that is—and they never stray far from the script.

“Alan, I dis
tinctly
remember crossing you off my guest list, so
what
are you doing here?” Gene frowned in his very best Margo Channing twang, sizing Alan up as he stood at the front door.

“Come on, G.R. You know I couldn't miss the opportunity to help you celebrate your twenty-first birthday … for the forty-fourth time. You should be receiving your first social security check any day now, right?” Alan is the only person in Gene's circle who can shut him down.

And whenever he's been trumped by him, Gene resorts to stock comebacks. “
Fuck
you,” he blurted, stomping off.

And, as he always does, Alan went after him, chortling: “Ha, I want ya to, but you won't!”

Alan is always the last to arrive—and the first to get drunk (it doesn't take much; one swig of vodka and cranberry juice and he's floating in the air like a puff of smoke). And he always comes solo.

But not tonight.

“So … we meet again,” he said.

“Yes, we do.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me.”

“Stalking you?”

“Yeah. First you show up at my dance spot—”

“
Your
dance spot? I didn't know it was copyrighted under your name.”

“—then you just
happen
to be in the
exact
same building at the
exact
same time I'm making my runs—”

“Believe me, that was a coincidence.”

“—and now here you are.”

“Yes, at
my
best friend's birthday party.”

“Right,
not
yours. My grandma always said, ‘There ain't no such thing as a coincidence.' Things don't just happen. But don't get me wrong: I don't mind being pursued. It feels kinda good.”

I just shook my head. “May I have your jacket?”

He took it off. “Is there anything else you'd like to have?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

Okay … I'll toy with him. “Why, yes, there is …”

“Well, all you gotta do is ask for it … and it's
yours
.”

“All right …” I moved in closer; we were almost nose to nose. “Your hat, please.”

“Say what?”

I tapped the flap of his brown leather cap with my forehead. “Your hat.”

He took it off without taking his eyes off of me.

“Thank you.”

“You're most welcome.”

“The food and drink are in the kitchen. After I hang this up, I'll fix you something.”

“Oh, you will?”

“Well, you are a first-timer. I know how to treat a guest.”

He snickered. “Uh, does that mean I get first dibs, too?”

“You don't get first
or
last dibs.”

“Okay, seconds will do. That way you're already broken in but still a little ripe.”

I stepped back and out of his way. “I'll be there in a moment. It's the first arch to your right.”

“I'll be waiting.” He walked backward in that direction, keeping his eyes on me.

After I made him that drink (“
Sex
on the Beach”), he went to mingle—and as soon as he stepped into the living room,
the men all paused
. Montee wasn't the only new meat, uh, man at the party (everyone except Alan came with two friends/acquaintances/colleagues/new or hopeful boyfriends–fuck buddies–pieces, and there were a dozen other freshman in the group, a third of the entire party), but he was the only one eyed by just about everyone, including Babyface (“Now there's a boat
I'd
love to row!”) and B.D. (“He may as well change his name to SAM—Sexy Ass Motherfucker”). And why wouldn't they be all in his mix: he was just as phyne as he wanted to be in a cream-colored knit long-sleeved shirt, tan pleated corduroy pants, and mahogany-brown unlaced leather British Knights. (I was wearing a similar ensemble, except my shirt, corduroy pants, and BK boots were all dark gray.) His 'fro had grown an inch since last week but wasn't sprouting up but around his head, a very compact and attractive style. And the gold choker with a crucifix that sat below his Adam's apple told you he was a God-fearing man but not a man you'd have to fear.

But, as a few remarked during the evening, Montee only had eyes for me. He never said anything; he just watched me from afar. Whenever I felt his eyes on me, I'd turn and there he—well,
they
were. But I figured I was home free when, after Dr. Do Little, the Sleeveless Wonder, and the Walking Conflagration struck out, one of the other newbies—a hunky, handsome fella from Haiti with mocha skin, green eyes, and shoulder-length locks named Garrick—made his move. After a half hour of intimate chat (as each minute passed, Garrick moved in closer and closer), they became
the
couple on the dance floor, claiming it as their own for over an hour (at one point everyone else stopped and surrounded them as Montee shook that ass like he did at Body & Soul).

Sometime later I was putting ice trays in the freezer when he appeared.

“Could I bother you a moment?”

“Yes?”

“Garrick wants a screwdriver and I don't know how to make it.”

“Okay.”

I retrieved two new plastic cups and filled them up with ice. He stood directly beside me, his left shoulder leaning into my right. I looked at him.

“I just want to see how you make it so next time I'll know,” he reasoned.

Sure he did. “Would you like another Sex on the Beach?”

“I'd really like to have sex on the beach with
you
.” A slight grin formed across his face.

I made them. I faced him. He reached for the drinks … in slow motion. He grasped my hands instead of the cups.

We stood in silence, our eyes locked.

“A-hem.”

We turned. It was B.D.

He released me and finally took them. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

He eased past B.D.

B.D. walked toward me. His disapproving expression turned to a smile.
“Slut.”

“Nothing happened between us.”

“If I hadn't entered when I did,
something
would have.”

“There's nothing between us, B.D.”

“The fact that you feel it's necessary to explain tells me there
is
.”

“I … I …”

The buzzer rang. Saved by the bell.

“I'll get it.” I sighed with relief.

“No,
I'll
get it. It should be my surprise for the Ice Princess. I'll be right in. Everyone's waiting to sing ‘Happy Birthday.'”

“Uh, okay.”

When I entered the room, just about everyone was paired up (including Carl, who came with Ivan; I guess he passed Gene's inspection). And Garrick, who was a little taller than Montee, was leaning on his left shoulder.

B.D. carried in the cake. He placed it on a card table in front of Gene. He snapped his finger. “Oh, we need a candle.”