“Yeah, sure, you’re right. I’ve been to Chicago a few times,” he said.
“Really? On business?”
“You could call it business,” he said slyly.
“What type of business? Or am I dipping?” I was praying, please, Lord, don’t let this man be a drug dealer or professional gangster.
“Don’t you know what I do for a living?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Why, are you somebody famous?”
“Most people know me as Basil Henderson. Does that ring any bells?” I was thinking what kind of name was Basil and where did the John come in.
“I’m sorry, but no. No bells.”
“Guess you’re not much into sports, huh?”
“Well, I like to work out, and I’ve been watching the Olympics. I’ve been to a football and basketball game before. What are you, some sort of sports star.”
“You could say that. I’ve been playing for the New Jersey Warriors for over nine years. You know, the NFL? The Chicago Bears? The Cougars? You’ve got two NFL teams right there in Chicago.”
“I know the Chicago Bulls, but I don’t really follow them until the championships. So, you’re a famous football player, that’s good. I thought when you answered the phone in the middle of a weekday, you must be unemployed.” I couldn’t believe I was being so honest with this man.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve just retired from football. I’m sorta in transition. I’m looking at sports broadcasting. That’s why I might be interested in your professional services, you know, and whatever else you might have to offer.”
I acted as though I didn’t hear the last part. And how did he know what I did? He must have done some homework. “So, John, whatsup with this name thing? You told me your name was John. Where does Basil come from? Is that just part of your game, like acting like we knew each other?” I said.
“My full name is John Basil Henderson. Most people call me Basil, but you can call me what you like. And—we do know each other,” he said playfully.
“Whatever. I think I like John. It sounds powerful, spiritual.”
“Fine. Just so you call me something,” he laughed. “Besides, since I’m starting a new phase in my life, I’ve started to introduce myself as John more often. So, Miss Lady, when am I going to see you again? Do I need to make an appointment? Let me show you New York.”
“I’ve already seen New York. The good, the bad, and the ugly. But I will be in the city this weekend or early next week. Maybe we can get together for a drink.”
“Sounds like a plan. Where will you be staying?”
“Hold on. First I’ve got a couple of questions for you—if you don’t mind?” Who was interviewing who? I wondered.
“I’m listening. Shoot.”
“Are you married?”
“No, I’m divorced,” he said firmly.
“How long were you married, and how long have you been divorced?”
“I was married a couple of years, and I’ve been divorced for almost a year. Now, that’s three questions. You said you had a couple, and where I come from, a couple means two.”
“Just a few more, pretty please?”
“All right.”
“Are you involved with anyone, living with someone, seeing anybody? And have you ever been in a relationship with a man?” I guess this was one football star who knew how to handle a reporter.
“No, no, definitely not and I don’t roll like that. I’ve got a few questions for you too. But I’ll wait till I see you face-to-face. Will you call when you get to New York and we can set something up?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Yolanda?”
“Yes, John?”
“Thanks for calling me back.”
“Good-bye, John. Have a blessed day.”
I knew she’d call. They always do. Believe that. In fact, I’d be willing to bet money that Yolanda Williams will be in my bed before midnight the first night she’s back in New York.
My boys are always quizzing me on how I get women to drop the draws so quick. Besides the obvious that they don’t look like me, most men just don’t know how to get a woman. Some of my teammates complain about how their women won’t suck dick. Especially Black women. All women will suck dick. It’s all in the approach. You can’t just say “suck my dick.” You’ve got to invest in a little gentle foreplay. Start with a soft kiss. Kiss the neck, ease down to the breasts, the nipples. Then get them to follow suit. Sometimes you have to direct them ever so gently. Tell them your navel is sensitive and how much you’d like to feel their tongue inside it. Once a woman has her face that close to your manhood, the lips will naturally find the dick.
Of course, it’s not always that easy. I remember this one gal I went out with for almost a month. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get her lips nowhere near the dick. She loved me inside her, but she wouldn’t even touch my stuff. One morning, I woke up and my stuff was harder than a roll of quarters. Make that two rolls of quarters. I straddled her and slowly lowered myself until it was laying on her face. When she woke up to the weight of my manhood so close to her lips, well, hey! It was over. I finally had to pull her off the johnson. She acted like that was her first time. I did have to tell her to watch her teeth. But I said it gently. I know one thing, it sure wasn’t her last, and ole girl got pretty good at it.
Yolanda might be different. I get this funny feeling about her. Sounds like she figured out she didn’t know me when I walked up and kissed her. But she called me anyway. Maybe she’s trying to play me. She made it perfectly clear that she didn’t know who I was or what I did. But that’s okay because that’s not who I am anymore. Still, I’ve got to be on my guard. If a player ain’t careful, he can be played. Not that that ever happened to me.
I can tell from our conversation, I’m probably gonna have to do the theater/dinner thing before I make the first move. I’ll charm her with my quick wit, my intellect, and dress in my good shit, from my silk tailor-made slacks to my form-fitting boxers that leave nuthin’, and I mean nuthin’, to the imagination. But if that’s what it takes to dip my stick in this fine-ass female, then a player’s gotta do what a player’s gotta do.
If my basic night-on-the-town doesn’t work, I’ll go straight to Plan B—the super deluxe way to win a woman. This plan calls for all the above, plus a gift of some kind. Sometimes a first-class flight to a secret location is required. Of course, one hotel room only. Women are so impressed with Plan B, they start singing that old Marvin Gaye song, “Got to Give It Up.” Believe that!
Chapter 6
My work week began with something that rarely happens in my life: a disagreement with my Uncle Doc. He called me early this morning to see if I had made plans for our annual family reunion in New Orleans. When I informed him I wasn’t attending, he asked why.
“You know I’m still not talking to my mama,” I said.
“Now, love,” he said gently. “You got to get over yourself. The good Lord didn’t give you but one mama and you have to allow her to be. A mama is the only one who would leave heaven to come and see about one of her children.”
“She’s the one that’s not talking to me,” I said.
“It don’t matter. You need to make her talk to you.”
I ended the conversation abruptly by telling Uncle Doc that I had more important things to do than worrying with some old woman who wasn’t ever going to change and admit that she was wrong. He said, “She don’t have to. She’s a mama.”
I love my mother, and for most of my life we’ve enjoyed a warm and loving relationship. And although I know she would have been happier if I were born heterosexual like my older brother, Dennis, she never seemed to have a major problem with my sexual orientation. I mean, Uncle Doc paved the road of acceptance in our family by never lying about who he was. He remains one of the most popular family members at funerals and reunions.
The dilemma with my mother started about two years ago, when she called me on a day when I was really f
eeling depressed. It was the fifth anniversary of my partner Donald’s death. When I told my mother why I was so down, she acted as though I hadn’t said a word. When I said I didn’t know if I would ever find another husband like Donald, she started telling me Donald wasn’t my husband. And that by referring to him as my husband I was disrespecting her marriage to my father and all other couples, including my brother, Dennis, and his wife. Her voice kept getting louder and higher, as if she were trying not to explode. When I asked her what I should call him, she said, “Your friend, your bed buddy. I don’t know, but he was not your husband.” This was the last conversation I had with my mother. That was two years and two reunions ago.
I sometimes think back on that last dialogue with my mother and wonder if I’m being fair. Husband is not a term I used to describe my relationship with Donald. The years we were a team I referred to him as my partner or lover. I think maybe I used the term “husband” in this particular instance because my depression had caused me to feel lonely and weak, and I felt I needed the strength Donald provided me, the strength I had observed between my mother and father on countless occasions. My mother’s reaction made me feel like my relationship wasn’t a real one. She was not showing me the respect I had always given her. I had often told family members who questioned my sexuality that they were not required to accept my homosexuality, but they must respect me as I respected them. It was something I wouldn’t give up, even for my mother.
When Riley turned on her computer Monday afternoon and logged on to America Online, the mechanical voice announced, “You’ve got mail.”
For Riley this usually meant a message from her mother or father or some subscription service, but today her message made her smile.
Dear Dreamseekr: Read your poetry on the Poet Power Bulletin. You are obviously very talented and a woman with a sweet and tender heart. Does the man in your life know how lucky he is? If you’re interested in sharing some poetry on a private basis, e-mail me back. Thanks for the wonderful poetry you shared and for making a lonely man smile. Keep writing, from a lucky admirer. Lonelyboy.
Riley let out a delighted “Yes!” She read the message again and hit the reply button on her computer screen and typed:
Dear Lonelyboy: Thank you for the wonderful message and words of encouragement. You’ve made my day, my week, my year! Sure, I would love to exchange some poems with a man who appreciates the joy good poetry can bring. E-mail me some of your work. I look forward to reading it. And you keep writing and reading. Yours in the words, Dreamseekr.
When she clicked the send box with her message, Riley felt a surge of adventure and her mind was full of questions. She daydreamed her own answers. Maybe this man could love her like he did her poetry. They could spend their days and nights writing poetry together and reading them over wine or coffee at a sidewalk cafe. Perhaps this stranger could bring some much-needed excitement in her life. Maybe he would listen to her the way Selwyn used to. She hadn’t thought of getting a response when she posted her poem of lost love some weeks before. Riley located the poem in the loose-leaf notebook she used for her poetry and read the poem out loud, breaking the silence in her office.
“With love, I am reborn
I sing with the birds
Float on the clouds
Feel as soft as a baby
Nothing is as radiant as I
When I am in love.”
She paused and took a sip of her cold coffee and then continued.
“But, when you take it away
I cannot sing
Too heavy to float
All feeling is gone
When you take love away
I cease to exist.”
Riley placed the poem next to her computer and smiled to herself. She had discovered the poetry workshop section one day while surfing on the computer Selwyn bought her three Christmases before. He had hoped she would use it to start a business of her own. Riley mainly used the computer for word processing when she transferred her poetry, songs, and selected journal entries to the computer. She also used it for her household budgets and for keeping up with her schedule of charity commitments and events. It was her son, Reggie, who had introduced her to America Online, and she found it kept her company on the many nights when Selwyn was working late at the office, out of town, or just too tired to care.
Monday’s tension had left Dwight after a strenuous two-hour workout. He was walking briskly and minding his own business, when he heard a high-pitched voice.
“Please don’t hit me! I promise not to talk to him anymore,” a frightened female voice screamed. Dwight looked toward an alleyway as he walked from the Bally’s spa located near his apartment. He saw a tall and lean man pounding his fists on the shoulders and face of a young lady who was trying to use her gym bag to shield his fist while she screamed for help.
“Man, what the fuck are you doing?” Dwight shouted as he ran toward the couple.
“Mind your own fucking business,” the man said as he stopped hitting the young lady and looked toward Dwight with a cruel grin.
“You want to hit somebody? Then bring your ass on over here,” Dwight said as he lifted his fists in a defensive posture. He was standing a few feet from the man, who was still holding on to the frightened lady.
“You want some of this?” the man yelled as he released her and pounded his chest with a balled fist.
“Sir, please leave us alone. He doesn’t mean any harm,” she cried.
“Shut the fuck up, Chanel,” the man said.
Dwight couldn’t believe his ears. Did she say he didn’t mean any harm? As he stared at the young lady whose face was badly swollen, he felt something crash against his left eye, like someone had hit him with a sock filled with marbles. “Mind your own business, mutherfucker,” he heard the man say.
“Maurice … stop it. Stop it,” the lady screamed. For a moment Dwight was stunned, but he quickly regained his composure and started pumping his attacker’s face with his fists. The man seemed amazed, like he hadn’t been hit before. He started to back away from Dwight’s punches and tripped over himself. There he was, laid out on his back as Dwight plopped down on top of him. He grabbed the bully by the collar of his sweatshirt and pulled him close to himself with his fist pulled back. “You want some mo’ of this?” Dwight said.
“Naw, man, naw, I quit,” he said, sounding like a little boy who had suddenly grown tired of a childhood prank. By then a crowd was beginning to form at the entrance of the alleyway, and several onlookers started clapping as Dwight got up and dusted himself off.
“Do you want me to call the police?” an elderly lady asked Dwight.
“I think you should ask her,” Dwight said as he pointed toward the victim.
“Naw, I don’t need no police,” she said. Dwight looked at her and shook his head and turned north toward his apartment. He had walked past the record store where he bought his music and rented videos, when he heard a female voice call out, “Hey, Mister … you … in the black warmups.”
Dwight turned, and the young lady walked up to him and placed a piece of paper in his hands. “Thank you. Why don’t you call me so I can show you how much I ’preciate what you did for me,” she said as her smile broadened, and she winked at him.
Dwight didn’t respond, he simply slipped the piece of paper in his warmups and headed home. For a Monday, it had been longer than even he could stand.
Tuesday is a slow day for me, only three patients. It’s one of the only days when I have time to deal with my own problems. After a carryout dinner from Miss Thing’s, I decided to write in my journal.
I’m having second thoughts about this family reunion. I guess I can thank Uncle Doc for that. I do miss my family, and I can almost taste my mother’s gumbo. But I’m worried that Mama wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. Too bad we both share a streak of being stubborn. Daddy always said I was just like her.
For the last two years, the group and Uncle Doc have been my family. Maybe this new g
uy is gonna take a lot of Yolanda’s time and attention. I don’t recall her being that excited about a man in a long time. Dwight and I have never really been that close, and long talks with Riley would surely include a poem or a song about the way I’m feeling. I can hear it now, some type of tribute to the power of family.
I know it’s strange, but when my patients talk to me about family problems, I always seem to have the answers. Rarely do I tell them what to do; most times I get the patient to realize how they ought to approach a situation. Most times it’s a solution all parties can live with, so that no one has given up everything. Now I’ve got to take my own medicine to find a solution for my family drama.
If I don’t go to the reunion, I can avoid the questions of why I’m not married. All my relatives ask me this even though they know I’ve been gay since kitty was a cat. But they will ask anyway. And this includes my male cousin (now married with children) who loved to bump and grind with me when we were all little boys. Tarki, the best-looking of my cousins, used to put towels and pillowcases on his head and play like he had long hair. Today he’s bald with three girls, all with long hair, weaves no less, but long hair.
Maybe I’ll go on the last day, fly in during the morning, plead medical emergency, and fly out that evening. I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me. I guess it’s kinda like when I pretend my life hasn’t changed since the eighties, when life for me was really one big party. But the party is over now simply because there isn’t anyone left to attend.
Yolanda, Riley, and Dwight talk about missing the seventies and Hampton, and I do too. But for me, the mid-eighties is the time I miss most. The life and the kids were at full tilt. On weekends when I didn’t have to study I would hop a train to New York City and party the entire weekend. I would get a room at the Howard Johnson’s on Eighth Avenue just to change clothes. I’d meet friends at the Nickel Bar on 72nd, between Broadway and Columbus, and party until the wee hours. Saturdays would mean Better Days and Ninety-six West. Sunday morning brunch in the Village. How I miss those times and those people. I can still hear Chaka, Melba, and, of course, Miss Ross ringing in my ear.
If This World Were Mine Page 7