I Say a Little Prayer

by E. Lynn Harris

  This was supposed to be a classy joint, and you would hope the wrong element couldn’t afford the fifty-dollar cover fee. Besides, I wasn’t going to be punked for the studs I wore only on special occasions.

  “Naw, I’m cool.”

  “Nice tattoo,” he said, noticing the Chinese symbol I had on my left pec.

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “Love.”

  “That works for me. Have a great evening.”

  “I’m going to give it my best shot,” I said as I walked out of the closet area into a long hallway with dark carpet specked with red. I walked slowly with my head down, passing men as I moved, wishing I had my hat to prevent eye contact. I was going to need a drink before I could look at these men eye to eye.

  I passed a room that looked like a library. I paused at the large window and took in the scene inside. Two men were kissing as they leaned against a bookshelf. Another guy sat in an oxford-colored leather chair, receiving head from a guy on his knees, while another guy stood over him rubbing his bald head with one hand and holding a drink in the other. As I stared, I suddenly felt the weight of my penis increase. I touched the head and precum slid to the tip of my ring finger. The guy holding the drink and resident head rubber made eye contact with me and motioned for me to join them, but I smiled and moved toward the neon lights and music. I passed several rooms, none filled with much furniture. But that didn’t stop the participants. There were threesomes, foursomes, on the floor, on the occasional bed, in the chairs—it didn’t seem to matter.

  Finally, I walked into the bar, where I was greeted by a bartender wearing only a white bow tie, which looked sexy against his smooth ebony skin and a white jock.

  “What can I get for you?” he asked.

  “Tequila shot with a beer back,” I said.

  “I got some Patrón. Will that work?”

  “No, give me some Jose Cuervo,” I said as I sat my naked ass on a leather bar stool. It felt cold against my skin, and I wondered who had been sitting here before me. I twisted a bit in the seat and suddenly felt like I needed a shower. No, make that a bath.

  “What’s good?” a handsome brother with perfect teeth asked. I wondered if they were veneers or if he’d had them whitened. I guess the invitation had been right when it said only the best-looking black men in Atlanta would be admitted.

  “What up,” I said as I took a single swig of tequila and then bit into the lime slice to rid myself of the bitter taste.

  “Just seeing what I can get into,” he said. “Or who can get into me.”

  “That’s wassup,” I replied, trying to be cooler than cool.

  “Charles Thompson.” He extended his hand toward me. I was startled briefly, but then I shook his hand. “Chaun…I mean Dion Greer.” I had never shaken a naked man’s hand before.

  “Nice meeting you, Dion. Do you come here often?”

  “Naw, this is my first time,” I said as I motioned to the bartender for another shot.

  “Yeah, mine too, but I can say I’m impressed,” he said as he glanced around the room. Leather stools surrounded the perimeter. Men stood with drinks in their hands as they talked. It appeared the bar was the only sex-free zone.

  “How did you hear about The Back Door?” I asked.

  “I’m just visiting Atlanta on business, but a friend got me an invite,” Charles said.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, wondering for a moment if Charles was his real name. If he was going to tell me the truth about himself, I wondered if I should, too.

  “From Colorado.”

  “Denver?”

  “No, right outside. You’ve heard of Boulder, haven’t you?”

  “Sure. The University of Colorado and where that little girl got killed.”

  “Yeah, everybody always asks me if I’d ever been by the house where she was killed.”

  “Have you?”

  “I hate to admit it, but yes,” he said as he took a drink from a beer can.

  “It gets cold up there,” I said, shivering a bit just thinking about it.

  “Yeah, but it’s great skiing. Do you ski?”

  “I went to Vail once and took a couple of lessons.”

  “Don’t sound like you were impressed,” Charles said.

  “It was aight,” I said.

  “So what do you like to do besides hanging out in joints like this?” he asked, leaning closer to me.

  I shrugged. “Listening to music and you won’t believe what else,” I said, laughing to myself.

  “What?”

  “You might think I’m corny.”

  “Bowling?” He grinned.

  “No. Well, sometimes, but that’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  For a moment, I wondered if I should tell a total stranger one of my hidden passions. The liquor got to me and I said, “I love to fish.”

  “Did you say fuck or fish?”

  “Well, that too.” I laughed as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Is there much fishing around here?”

  I shook my head. “Not in Atlanta, but there are a couple places right outside of ATL.”

  Charles looked at me, smiled, and said, “Fishing, that’s hot. I bet you’re a big old country boy.”

  “No shame in my game.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Mississippi.”

  “That’s wild. The dude I work for is from Mississippi.”

  “That’s wild. What do you do? And tell me the truth,” I insisted.

  “I’m a political consultant. And why would I lie to a good-looking guy like you?”

  “I heard they do that in places like this,” I said.

  “So that’s why you come here?”

  “This is my first time.”

  “Oh yeah, you said that,” Charles said with suspicion.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you, Dion. So tell me, what do you like besides fishing?”

  “I like to cook and make music.”

  “A real Renaissance man.” He smiled. “I like that. And what else?”

  “Are you talking about sex?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t like to put myself in a box. And yourself?”

  “I like to be punished,” he said as he smacked his ass and licked his lips. I felt the weight in my penis decrease.

  “Very interesting,” I said as I stood up and looked around at two more handsome hunks who had walked into the bar area.

  “Those two look tasty,” Charles said when he saw me looking away.

  “They aight,” I said.

  “Want to see if they’re into a little couples action?”

  “When did we become a couple?” I asked as I turned back to face Charles.

  “The moment I sat next to you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m going to pass,” I said as I walked toward the hallway.

  “It was cool talking to you. Holla before you leave,” Charles said.

  “Aight.”

  I moved through the throb of hallway traffic into a large, dimly lit room filled with a carnival of handsome men with perfect bodies. The air was warm and thick with the intoxicating scent of sex. There were tables against the wall covered with candles. Two king-size beds were in the middle of the floor, with a frenzied tangle of bodies pleasuring each other.

  I surveyed the room. A man with his back to the wall looked at me and smiled as he stroked his piece, which looked long and fat. As I moved closer to him, I paid more attention to his bean-brown muscular face with the black eyes of a bald eagle. My eyes moved down from his face to the lean muscularity of his abs and the curvature of his thighs.

  “What’s good, fam?” he asked. The weight in my own penis had returned, and I found myself so close to him that I felt a whisper of breath passing between us.

  “Looks like you,” I said.

  “I hear you talking, but I like to let this d
o the talking.” He took my hand and placed it on his penis. I felt it for a few seconds, then pulled my hand back with the dampness of his sweat covering my palm.

  He kissed me, and his lips were soft and warm.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Palmer. And yours?”

  “Dion.”

  “Would you like to find a private room?” he asked.

  “Isn’t that extra?”

  “I’m a Platinum member. I get them for free,” Palmer said.

  Just as I was getting ready to answer him, I heard what sounded like a primal animal scream and I turned toward the futon on the floor. I saw a light-skinned man who looked almost too pretty to be a man. What happened to the no-queens rule? I thought. A roughly handsome, dark-skinned guy was hitting him from the back with a fierce pounding as he held him down with one hand pressed against his shoulder.

  It was like watching a live porn movie. I found my own sex getting harder, and suddenly, I felt Palmer’s hand surround it. He started stroking me so slowly, and then his pace quickened. I was going to explode. He took his lips and started sucking on my chest. I removed his hand from my sex and replaced it with my own until I stroked myself to climax. From the sounds of moaning that rained down on the room, I was not the only one who suddenly needed a towel.

  There are times (like tonight when I got home from the sex club) when I think if I wasn’t attracted to men I’d be a much better Christian. Almost perfect. It’s not because I’m willing to admit that being gay or the act of sleeping with someone of the same sex could be a sin. I just don’t think it’s any greater sin than being a liar, committing adultery, having lust in your heart, or being a person claiming to be a Christian yet holding a hateful heart.

  I remembered the first time I heard a minister preach that God didn’t love me and my kind, and it was earth shattering. I wondered what I’d done to deserve this fate. My passion for life and love suddenly felt choked.

  But I still believed in God.

  God is fair, and I hope that I will be measured by the love I have in my heart and not by the lust I have in my head. Was my experience tonight any worse than a straight man who goes to the local strip club and succumbs to a lap dance? If he asks for forgiveness and expects it, then why can’t I expect the same?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sometimes God be trippin’! I walked into church and was met by a cyclone of joyful noise. The choir had the congregation rocking to “When We All Get to Heaven,” one of my mother’s favorite songs. As I took a seat in one of the back pews, I remembered the times I played it for her on the family piano and sometimes at church. I picked up a hymnal, joined in the song, and looked toward the pulpit.

  A few minutes later, I noticed Pastor Kenneth walking from his office with a man who looked familiar. They were coming from the back, down the side aisle, when I realized who the man was. It was that guy Charles from the sex party. Even though there were hundreds of parishioners standing, his glance met mine and a faint smile came to his lips. He cast his eyes at me for a few seconds, then quickly looked away.

  As the two of them moved toward the pulpit, I was unsure of where I could safely rest my eyes. I suddenly experienced a pang of shame and felt emotionally numb. I felt like Abundant Joy was the last place I wanted to be. I put the hymnal back in its rack. As the rest of the congregation was singing and swaying, I stood still for a moment, like I was about to give a public confession, but a few seconds later I found myself walking out of the sanctuary toward the vestibule.

  I hated it when God made me feel guilty.

  D came to visit my house after school several times, but he never asked me to play the piano. We would talk about sports and singing. I felt extremely comfortable around him. I liked the fact that he was so sure of himself. And I hoped that one day I could be that confident. My parents liked him too, and suggested that I invite him to spend the night. I did, and he quickly agreed.

  The first time D spent the night at my house, I slept through the night without a dream. I awoke on a sunny crisp September morning and looked directly into his wide-open eyes. He smiled at me, and I felt my stomach flutter like it did the first time I saw him.

  We slept on the screened back porch of my home in the pullout queen-size sofa bed. I was so happy my mother didn’t insist that we sleep in the room I shared with my little brother. No matter how scared Jonathan said he was, he’d be sleeping in the room by himself. Mama allowed him to sleep with the lamp glowing on the table that divided our twin beds. Besides, I was too old to be sharing a room.

  The night before, Sweet D and I had stayed up way past midnight as we ate popcorn and drank red soda from the same bottle. We talked about girls until we fell sound asleep. D fell asleep first, and I spent about ten minutes just staring at his face, wanting to touch him but afraid to. He was so stunning that I imagined at some point in his life his looks would become a problem. No young man should look so perfect. Beautiful yet handsome. Soft-looking but masculine disposition. It took everything in me to stop my fingers from tracing the flawless lines across his face. I knew touching him in that way would be wrong.

  “What’s up, Chauncey?” he said. His voice was gentle and morning deep as he opened his eyes wider and rubbed them.

  “Good morning. How’d you sleep?” I asked.

  “Like a baby still in his mama’s womb,” he said.

  “I guess that’s good.”

  “It is.”

  D sat up and pushed his naked back against the coolness of the fake-leather sofa bed. The top sheet and quilt covered the lower half of his body, and I suspected he was wearing just his boxers.

  His face was covered with a look of thoughtfulness when he turned toward me and said, “You know, we should start a singing group.”

  “You mean you and me?”

  “I think it should be four, like the O’Jays.”

  “Who else would we get?”

  “We could ask the twins. I’ve heard them blow, and they can carry a tune better than most,” D said.

  “You mean Barron and Darron?”

  “Yeah, those two.”

  “Think they’d do it?”

  “Yep. Especially when we tell them how famous we’re gonna be and how it can get all of us out of this country-ass town,” D said.

  “You think we could be famous?”

  “I know we’ll both be famous,” he said with more confidence than I had ever heard from a sixteen-year-old. When he spoke he sounded very mature, but he was only eighteen months older than I was. Maybe he sounded that way because he said he’d been the man of the house ever since his father left when D was in the fifth grade.

  “If you say so.”

  “There’s another thing,” D said.

  “What?”

  “We need to get girlfriends,” he said calmly.

  I frowned. “We do?”

  “Yeah, we’re in high school and so we need girlfriends.”

  “Who?” I asked. I really wanted to ask him why, but he spoke as if I should already know that answer.

  “I’ll make the moves on Taylor, and you go after her running buddy, Rochelle Mack.”

  “Rochelle is pretty,” I said as the face of the light-skinned girl with the big legs and long dark hair came to mind.

  “Yeah, both her and Taylor will be cool for us,” D said.

  “When should we do this?”

  “I’ll ask Taylor to go with me tomorrow. You wait a week on Rochelle. She’ll be lonely, since Taylor will be spending her time with me,” he said with a smile.

  “You think of everything, D.”

  “Just stick with me, boy, and I’ll introduce you to some things you don’t even know exist.”

  I smiled and didn’t say anything, although my heart pounded at the thought of all that Sweet D could teach me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Something told me my day had been going too well.

  Celia walked into the office with a look that spelled trouble.<
br />
  “What’s wrong?” I asked as she plopped down in one of the chairs in front of my desk and her body slumped.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What, Celia?” I said slowly, already feeling that I didn’t want to hear this news.

  “You know the new supplier I convinced you to use?”

  “Which one?”

  “Mercury Printing Press.”

  I thought for a moment and remembered the aggressive young black man in the navy-blue suit with off-white tailored shirt and sky-blue tie. It was not something I would have worn, but the brother looked good and confident. He’d walked into my office, smelling very hetero with a smile and firm handshake, and, twenty minutes later, walked out with a contract for over $50,000 to print a new line of cards and the new female calendar we were introducing.

  “Oh yeah, Phillip. That brother has his stuff together,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, but he just called me with some bad news,” Celia said.

  “What kind of bad news?” I frowned.

  “He can’t get us the calendars and cards on time, and we have orders to fill.”

  “How late will he be?”

  “At least three weeks, maybe longer,” Celia said calmly.

  I jumped up from my chair. “What the fuck? Doesn’t that asshole know we have customers waiting for our new line?”

  “I told him.”

  “Did he say why he was going to be late?”

  “Something about a white guy who was actually doing the printing screwed him around. Said something about he got a bigger job and he put Phillip’s job on backlog.”

  “So it’s the white man’s fault. I get so sick and tired of niggas and their bullshit. Why doesn’t he take responsibility and say he fucked up? He should have found another printer, and why in the fuck does he wait until a week before we’re expecting our stuff to tell us this shit? Got dammit. This pisses me the fuck off. You see, that’s why I don’t want to do business with the brothas,” I said as I banged my balled fist against my desk. My eyes were bugging, my body warming, and the veins in my head expanding. I had gone against my better judgment. I should have stayed with the known commodity, the printer I normally used. Instead, I was trying to give a small black business a chance, and this is what happened.