“You must have really loved him,” Yancey said.
“As much as I’m capable of loving. I do think I learned something from this.”
“What’s that?”
“I think I fell for this guy, like most of the men I fall for, because I know deep in my heart they’re unattainable. These men are never going to be involved in a faithful relationship with another man no matter what. Maybe that’s why I love and hate bisexual men with such a passion. They don’t think they deserve love, and I know I don’t,” I said, suddenly wondering if my pineapple juice had some type of truth serum in it.
“Do you think Ba—I mean the guy—loved you?” Yancey asked as she coughed like she had something caught in her throat.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Yancey said as she looked down into her lap and then took a sip of water.
“He loved what I did in bed,” I said.
“You don’t have anyone you can borrow the money from?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. I had decided against asking Wylie for the money because he would ask too many questions. If I told him the truth, not only would he not give me the money, but this would probably be the last straw of our already fragile friendship.
“How much do you need?” Yancey asked.
“About forty-five thousand dollars,” I said. My heart started beating rapidly at the thought of Yancey offering me a loan. I figured I’d better inflate the figure in case she was in a generous mood.
“What about your parents?”
“What parents?” Yancey wanted to talk about parents, and I wanted to discuss a payment plan. Then I realized that unless she was independently wealthy, she probably didn’t have that kind of money. I knew it took most recording stars years to make any money, with all the expenses of promoting an album. Yancey had already spent a lot of money on the two videos. Not on me, of course, but I know she dropped a small bundle on her outfits alone.
“Your parents are dead?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” I said coldly.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Yancey asked.
I was silent for a few moments, and then I figured since I had told her so much, I might as well tell her the story of my miserable life.
“You know, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this stuff. But somehow I feel like I can trust you. Can you explain that to me?” I asked.
“Maybe we have some things in common,” Yancey said quietly.
“Children never forget,” I said, and then I paused for dramatic effect. I leaned back in the wrought-iron patio chair and enjoyed the warmth of sunshine on my face for a few moments. Then I began talking to Yancey like she was my therapist and she could make everything in my life right.
“The last time I saw my parents was when they dropped me off at day care. I think I was four or five. Well, that’s not exactly true. I saw them once again when I was seven. They were on television. In handcuffs, being led out of a courtroom. My birth parents had robbed a bank. Who in the fuck did they think they were? Bonnie and Clyde?” I stopped for a moment. That was usually my punch line, but Yancey wasn’t laughing. Her eyes were full of sympathy, so I continued, spilling out details.
“Anyway, my father ended up killing one of the guards. When I became older, I went back and read some of the newspaper accounts. He was sentenced to life without parole, but my mother was given fifteen years. She’s probably out now, I don’t know. I haven’t tried to find her, and I’m sure she hasn’t been looking for me. I try not to think about them,” I said as tears began to form in the corner of my eyes. I began blinking repeatedly, like someone was flashing a bright unwanted light in my eyes. I couldn’t believe I had finally told someone the true story of my criminal parents. When Wylie had pressed me for details, I had told him an equally sad story, but in the version I told Wylie, my parents were drug addicts and had both died from AIDS.
Yancey had tears in her eyes. When she looked away, she picked up the linen napkin from her breakfast plate and dabbed the corners of her eyes. She then looked at me and said, “Bart, we can’t choose our families.”
“I know. But I couldn’t even catch a break when I was placed in foster care. Every time I came close to getting adopted, something went wrong. Where in the hell was Rosie O’Donnell when you needed her?” I joked, trying to lighten things up.
Yancey smiled and then said, “I hope this doesn’t sound cruel, but you’re not the only one who had a rough childhood. I say that only because I really know where you’re coming from.”
“I know, but that still doesn’t stop me from being angry. I mean, there is another part of the story,” I said.
“I’m listening,”
“I had a baby sister. She was about eight months old. Amanda was her name,” I said softly.
“What happened to her?”
“She was adopted right away. The family didn’t want me. Neither did my grandmother on my father’s side. My mother’s parents disappeared too. So don’t believe that shit about black folks never turning their backs on family.”
“Oh, baby, you’re talking to the choir here. I know that.”
“And the foster homes were just like prison camps. I had to fight all the time to keep the boys off of me. I mean, the ones I didn’t like,” I said.
“Do you think that’s why you’re gay?”
“Oh, hell no. I’m gay through and true. I would have been gay even if Cliff and Clair Huxtable from The Cosby Show had been my parents. I spent so many years praying to God for parents, and when he didn’t answer that prayer, I began pleading that if I’m going to be an orphan and gay …” I paused, because tears the size of grapes were rolling down my face.
“It’s okay, Bart,” Yancey said as she patted my hand.
“… then let someone like me, love me,” I said as I tried to stop crying. I wanted to cut out this pity party, but all I could manage was a weak smile as Yancey held my hand. It was time, once again, to figure out yet another plan for survival.
You Make Me Feel Brand-New
I wonder what people see when they look at me. I studied my face in the mirror after removing the ton of makeup I’d worn for the shoot. It had been a very long day, but if the dailies Desmond and I had just watched were any indication, the second video was going to be a bigger hit than the first!
My eyes looked tired. I wondered what Desmond saw when he looked at me. Tired eyes? Or the face of a cover girl? I guessed it was best that most people saw only what they wanted to see and no more. I was damn glad I didn’t have the kind of face that tells your whole life story. My career would be over!
I peered in closer and ran my finger across the faint scar over my left eyebrow. No one ever noticed it, but I always knew it was there. My grandmother had said it was an accident and that she hadn’t meant to break the skin or draw blood. What she had meant to do was beat the living devil out of me with an extension cord when I was eight years old. Whipping me was a common occurrence when my grandmother thought I’d looked at her the wrong way or, even worse, “been fast” with a neighborhood boy.
On that particular day many years ago when I tried to pull away from her grasp, she let me go and I fell, hitting my head on the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. She’d never hesitated to raise big red welts on my legs and back, but when she saw the blood running down my face, it scared her so badly she put the extension cord away for at least a week.
Sometimes I can’t look at my own face. I’m afraid of what I’ll see there. I can brush my teeth, put on my makeup and fix my hair without ever looking into my own eyes. Most of the time people don’t look any deeper than my pretty face. But I’ve learned that beautiful people don’t always lead beautiful lives.
I thought Desmond had broken the family code earlier today, when he was looking at me so intensely that I wanted to tell him my life story. The true version—not the one I’d carefully crafted for the outside world. It made me nervous. I thought maybe Des
mond could see Ava, my grandmother, or even Basil in my eyes; that he could see the lies I’ve told, the deceptions. Could he see the hurt little girl who lives inside of me? He kept looking at me and searching my face, but I realized suddenly that he was just trying to get the lighting right. I was so relieved that I let out a deep sigh. “You okay?” he asked. “Fine,” I lied, avoiding his stare and giving him one of my best diva smiles.
I surprised myself by being so concerned with what Desmond thought of me. Besides his looks, he’s talented, smart, down-to-earth and totally unimpressed with me as a woman. At least, that’s the way it seems. He’s had plenty of opportunities to make a move. I know he knows how, but so far, nothing. I guess I should be glad that he hasn’t jumped all over me, like most of the men I’ve met. Desmond has a homeboy quality mixed with the air of a southern gentleman that makes him almost irresistible.
• • •
I’d spent so much time working and thinking about Desmond that my stomach had to remind me it needed food to survive the long days. I was tired of the room service thing again, and Bart had already switched hotels. I walked out on the balcony and soaked up the amazing view in Miami: the pool, the beach and the open-air café and bar below. I decided that I needed to get away from Yancey B tonight, so I put on my peach-colored tube top to show off my tan, and a blue- and peach-flowered sarong that showed plenty of leg and thigh when I sat down. Then I slipped on some barely-there sandals.
I dropped my cell phone in my bag and glanced over the balcony to see if the café and bar were too crowded or if I should walk down to the Lincoln Road area again. Suddenly my eyes landed on Desmond. The man even looked good from nine stories up. He was sitting casually at a table and talking with one of the production guys. Just as I began to savor the view, he rose to leave. I watched him for a second to see which direction he was going. When it looked like he was headed for the beach, I quickly raced from my suite and rushed to the bank of elevators. I pushed both the down button and the up button. Moments later I heard a ding!, but the up arrow was lit. I thought about taking the stairs, but I knew I’d be sweating like a pig once I reached the lobby. Seconds that seemed like minutes passed, and finally, the next ding signaled a down elevator. When the door opened, an elderly white man gave me a smile as he moved to the back of the elevator. He stood directly behind me, even though there was no one else in the elevator. I could feel his eyes on my butt, so I moved over so we were standing side by side.
I was getting really agitated when the elevator stopped again and a young black man with blond hair, talking on a cell phone, stuck his foot against the door to hold it open for his slow-moving girlfriend, who was wearing a Wal-Mart special pale pink short set. She was smacking gum, and I looked away so she wouldn’t see me roll my eyes at her and her boyfriend. But then she looked up at me like she knew me, and I began to pray that the elevator would reach the lobby quickly.
“Ain’t you Yancey B?” she asked me in a loud voice. I nodded and smiled.
“Bitch, you’re the bomb with a mushroom cap. I heard yo song. Me and all my girls listen to your CD all the time. Can I get your autograph?” she asked as she started pressing her elbow into her boyfriend’s side. Of course, this wasn’t the first time someone asked me for an autograph, but Broadway fans and hoochie mamas were very different in their approach.
“Sure. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Tuwan, give me a piece of paper and a pen,” she demanded.
“LaTonya, I ain’t got no pen and paper. Who do I look like, yo assistant or sumthin’?”
LaTonya looked at the white man and said, “You got a pen and paper, ole man?”
He smiled and whispered, “No.”
The elevator finally reached the lobby, and LaTonya grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, let’s go to the front desk. They better have some pens and papers up there.”
I wanted to tell LaTonya that we would have to do this later because I had a man to catch, but I also realized that keeping my fans happy was part of being an entertainer. Three autographs later (for LaTonya and her two best friends, Trina and Bedonna), I headed for the hotel café, passed the pool and began to frantically search the long stretch of white sandy beach for Desmond.
The moon was hanging full and glorious over the water, and the sun had dipped below the clouds and bathed the distant cruise ships and small boats in gold. I kept looking all around, in front, behind and then up the beach. I started to run south, when I suddenly spotted Desmond’s tall, lean self as he walked along the water’s edge. He was walking slowly, but his stride was so long, I had to run to catch up to him, quite by accident, of course.
When I got within a few feet, I stopped and caught my breath, brushed some of the sand off my feet, and smiled as I mumbled to myself, “You got him, girl!” I felt a little bit like a stalker, but I enjoyed the excitement of following him. Desmond was wearing cream-colored linen slacks and a matching linen shirt that must have been unbuttoned in front, because it flared out as he walked. During the shoot, his dreads had been tied back away from his face, but now they swayed freely to the left and right as he glided along, beckoning me to follow.
The warm night air was humid, kissed by the softest of breezes. The farther we walked from the hotel, the more quiet and peaceful it became. I could hear my own heart beating rapidly. I wondered if Desmond could hear it too. Perspiration was dripping down my back, collecting just above the waistband of my sarong. I told myself I better make my move before I was completely drenched. But it was Desmond who made the first move.
He turned in toward the water and stopped. He let his shirt fall from his shoulders to the sand, kicked off his sandals, then stepped out of his slacks. His almost naked body cast a fierce silhouette against the moon, which seemed to hang in the sky just inches above the water. For an instant, I thought he was going to throw back and beat his chest like he was Tarzan. And damn if he didn’t look like Tarzan dipped in chocolate and caramel.
I had assumed that Desmond was on the thin side of lean, but now, seeing him with next to nothing on, I realized how his usual oversized clothing masked a fabulous physique. Desmond looked like a sculpted Hershey hunk of muscle, not bulky, mind you, but well defined. Arms, back, thighs, calves, ass—especially ass—smooth flawless skin pulled taut over rock-hard muscle. It was not a Basil look-at-me body; it was more natural, less forced and much, much sexier. I was slightly aroused, but was more overwhelmed by the pure, almost spiritual nature of his looks.
“Desmond,” I wanted to say, but the words got caught in my throat and no sound came from my mouth. I coughed to clear my dry throat, and he heard me. He turned around and tilted his head slightly to the side with a quizzical look on his face. When he recognized me, a broad smile spread across his face. I knew I was caught, but the brilliant contrast of the stark white swimsuit he was wearing against the brown hues of his skin had my full attention. His crotch bulged almost obscenely, or maybe my eyes had suddenly become as big as cookies. “Desmond,” I said again with mock surprise in my voice, “fancy meeting you here.”
“That’s pretty weak, Yancey,” he said, laughing at me with his eyes. “How long have you been standing there? Are you following me?”
“Following you? Of course not. I mean, it is a free beach. You’re not the only one who decided to take an early-evening stroll on the beach. Look around,” I said as I whirled around with my arms spread toward the other people walking along the beach.
“True. True,” he said. “Let’s not get defensive.”
“Defensive. There’s nothing to defend. I was on my way to dinner, but that beautiful moon and sea air called out to me. I wasn’t looking for you,” I said unconvincingly.
He walked over and took my hands in his. He looked deep into my eyes, and I could see my face reflected in his pupils. “You are a very beautiful woman, Yancey Braxton. And a very lucky one as well.”
“Lucky? How so?” I asked as I looked at him with affection and just a little fak
e contempt. I still didn’t want him to think I had chased him down the beach like a brazen schoolgirl.
“Because you are here with me under the alluring spell of the full moon,” he said, pulling me to him.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and I held him around his neck, nestling my head into the space between his head and shoulder. His body was protecting me from the slight night breeze like a shield. We spoke no words, yet we communicated a great deal to one another. I found strength in his raw masculinity, and security in his sensitivity. Within moments, the tiredness and tension that I’d held in my body all day were replaced by calm and peacefulness.
A few moments later, Desmond asked me if I was a swimmer.
“It’s my second-favorite exercise,” I said with a seductive smile.
“Oh, you’re bad, Yancey Braxton.” Desmond laughed as he waved his index finger a few inches from my nose.
“No, I’m very good.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, Desmond looked at me and said, “Let’s go for a swim.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “But I’m not wearing a swimsuit.”
“Your point would be?” He laughed again.
I hesitated a second, then unwrapped my sarong and tossed it in the direction of his clothes piled on the sand. Desmond stood there perfectly still, then slowly looked me up and down like he was checking for places to kiss. After he’d taken me all in, he nodded his approval. I stood there in my tube top and robin’s-egg-blue thong underwear, but felt no awkwardness with this man who seemed to see right through me.
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