Montee wasn’t stupid, though; he knew his fourteen minutes of fame would fade quick. He was an aberration, and as soon as the rumormongers and gossip hounds found a new topic to milk, he’d be old news and all but forgotten. So he took advantage of his notoriety by dabbling in a lot of everything: writing, producing, and arranging for other “neosoul” artists, such as D’Angelo, Musiq, Maxwell, and Angie Stone; being a guest vocalist on CDs by Roy Hargrove and Kirk Whalum; showing up as a guest V-jay on VH-1; doing jingles for Crest, JCPenney, Mitsubishi, and Carnival Cruise Lines; performing for four months in a road company called Soul Revue, impersonating his idol, Sam Cooke; portraying a (what else?) bisexual college student on an episode of Moesha; and appearing in a Gap ad like his heroine, Me’shell NdegéOcello.
Most of his public appearances over the past few years as a singer have been split between gay and straight audiences who love his music and don’t hold his being bisexual against him. (His Mother’s Day and “Fellaz Only” Valentine’s Day concerts are always sold out.) And in addition to playing for both groups, he’s played to them: in late 2000, he released two versions of his sophomore CD, On the Menu—one for men, the other for women (a remake of DeBarge’s “Who’s Holding Donna Now?” was a top twenty pop and R&B hit; its B side was “Who’s Holding Donny Now?”). The combined sales brought him another platinum record, and the male version swept the OutMusic Awards. It also didn’t hurt that, around this time, Wendy and her ilk sought out his insight on down-low brothers. (He stopped the show on both BET’s Oh Drama!, when he informed co-hostess Kym Whitley, who couldn’t imagine “big, burly, butch men rolling around with each other,” that “I’m quite sure there are big, burly, butch men who can’t imagine rolling around with you”; and the syndicated America’s Black Forum, where he told conservative commentator Armstrong Williams, “You profess to know a whole lot about gay men; sure you’re not one of them?”)
Instead of just tapping him on the shoulder, Mitchell decided to be a groupie. “Excuse me, Mr. Simms, but could I please have your autograph?” he squealed.
Montee turned around and a very, very wide grin formed across his face. “Mitchell,” he crooned, wrapping Mitchell up in his arms and hugging him so tight Mitchell had to gasp for air. He released Mitchell from the grip but not from his arms; they settled around Mitchell’s waist. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“Damn. I . . . I . . .”
“You never thought you’d see me again.”
“No, I didn’t. What are you doing here?”
“I’m out with the crew.” He looked over to their table.
Montee focused on them. “Oh, your friends. Babyface, B.D., and . . .”
“Ha, you better remember the other’s name. He believes he is unforgettable.”
“Uh . . . Gene?”
“Right.”
“Man, I just can’t believe this. But I have to. I’m holding you.”
And he continued to hold him as they gazed.
Montee took him in, hair to toe. “You look so good.”
“So do you.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Same. Can’t complain. Your hair is fly.”
“Thank you. I’d say the same, but . . .”
They laughed. Montee, who once sported an Afro, was now bald.
“How long have you been growing your locks?”
“About three and a half years. How long have you been skinned?”
“About a year now. I saw that gray hair comin’ in and decided to cut it off at the pass.”
“I’m sure you’d look even sexier with gray hair.”
“Not as sexy as you.”
Mitchell blushed.
Montee shook his head. “Damn . . . it is just so good to see you.”
They gazed some more.
“Well,” Mitchell began, glancing at the brothers Montee had been conversing with before he interrupted them, “I don’t want to keep you.”
“Oh, no, don’t go.” He squeezed him a little tighter and drew him a little closer. “I was about to blow this joint in a minute. Have you eaten?”
“I have.”
“Well, how about watching me eat? I know how much you enjoy to.”
He has a jood memory . . .
“This’ll give us a chance to catch up on the last eight years.”
Actually it’s been eight years, three months, and five days—but who’s counting . . . ?
“Sure, why not,” Mitchell agreed.
“Great. I’ll just wrap this up and meet you at your table in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
Montee wouldn’t let him go.
“Uh, the only way you’re going to meet me over at my table is if I am over there, too.” Mitchell glanced down.
“Oh.” Montee reluctantly released him. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”
Mitchell returned to the table and faced the third degree from both B.D. and Gene.
“See, you go to the restroom and end up in the arms of some man,” Gene chastised.
“Oh, but it’s not just some man, dearest—it’s Montee,” B.D. emphasized.
“He looks jood,” remarked Babyface, leering at Montee (or, rather, at his ass).
“Uh-huh. And we know you are not talking about the cheeks on his face,” quipped B.D.
“Ha, you know I ain’t. That ass defies logic.”
“Oh?” B.D. snapped.
“Yeah.” Babyface pulled him closer, sliding his hands down to his rump. “But yours defies the laws of nature, physics, and gravity.”
“Oh, my Shnookums . . .” B.D. cooed, wrapping his arms around his neck. They tongue-danced.
“Yeesh,” Gene shrieked, disgusted by the smooching. “Why don’t you two take that shit home.”
“That sounds like a very jood idea,” agreed B.D., rubbing his man’s nose with his own. “The youngun will be gone until Sunday night and I intend to take full advantage of that. Like Mz Ann Nesby, ‘This weekend, I’ll be makin’ love to my man’.”
“You know it,” Babyface affirmed, snacking on his neck.
Gene cringed. His eyes then fell on Mitchell. “And it looks like someone else will be going buck wild this weekend—or, at least for one night.”
“Are you still touring with Me’shell?” Mitchell asked Montee as they turned the corner at Greenwich Avenue and walked down Seventh Avenue.
“Yeah. I’m opening for her tomorrow night at B.B. King’s spot at eight. Why don’t you come and check us out? I can getcha a front-row-center seat like before.”
“Just a seat. What if I wanted to bring someone?”
Montee stopped. “Now, you know I ain’t inviting you and some other brother to come hear me sing to you.”
Mitchell giggled. “I’d love to, but I’ll be chaperoning a party.”
“Oh? Is Gene havin’ another one of his famous bashes?”
“No. It’s my godson. He just turned fifteen.”
“Mph. You gonna have your hands full.”
“And you’ve certainly had your hands full, mister big-time producer. I love the songs you did with Carl, Joe, Donell, and Kelly. And I hear you’re working with Alicia, Jagged Edge, Usher, and Jilly from Philly.”
“Uh, yeah. Hmm . . .” Montee rubbed his chin with his right thumb. “You still stalkin’ me, huh?”
They grinned.
“So, how you livin’ these days? You the editor-in-chief of your own magazine yet?”
He remembered. . . . “No. But I may be soon. I got an offer today to helm a new Black magazine. They want to meet with me on Tuesday.”
“That’s great, Mitchell! What’s it called?”
“Nothing yet. They say that’s up to me.”
“Wow. Have you made a decision yet?”
“No. I’m gonna see what they have to say next week.”
“Good luck with that, man.”
“Thanks.”
“You sti
ll in Fort Greene?”
“Yeah. I bought a brownstone six years ago.”
“Ah, we’re both home owners. Your settlement must’ve come through.”
He remembered that, too. . . . “It did.”
“And you live in this big brownstone all by your little brown self?”
“No. With my daughter and—”
“Your who?” This time Montee stopped so cold in his tracks he almost tripped over his feet.
“My daughter.”
“You . . . have a daughter?”
“Yes. Her name is Destiny. She’s five.”
“Hmmph . . . this is a conversation I have to have sitting down.” Montee opened the door to Tiffany’s.
Mitchell entered and couldn’t believe his eyes. The place had received a total makeover. Everything was different: the floors, the wallpaper, the booths, the tables, the chairs, the stools, the bar, the menus, even the silverware and table napkins. For a moment, he thought he was in the wrong restaurant. Time really does fly: he hadn’t been there in close to a decade. One thing hadn’t changed, though: the place was packed with SGL men (and a few women) of various shades of brown, kee-keeing away. He laughed to himself as they settled in a booth.
“What’s funny?” Montee asked.
“Just thinking about my times here when it didn’t look like a Four Seasons knockoff.”
“I take it they were very good times.”
“They were. I first ventured down here fifteen years ago. I didn’t know how I managed to exist without it, and couldn’t imagine not coming down every weekend. But now . . . my nights taking the homo stroll down Christopher Street, then eating here and watching the sun come up are over.”
“But not your days of being a homo?” Montee chuckled.
“Never.”
The waiter took Montee’s order and left. “So,” Montee began, “I know you’ve got a wallet full of pictures of Destiny you can’t wait to show me.”
He did. There were twelve pictures arranged chronologically, beginning with her first day on earth in her hospital bin and ending with her Easter-egg hunting in Central Park two months ago.
Montee couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. “She is a baby doll.”
“She is.”
He studied father and daughter. “She’s got your eyes.”
“Well, she should.”
“Are you telling me you actually . . .”
Mitchell laughed. He revealed how she was conceived.
“Damn,” Montee said, as he chomped down on his cheese-burger and fries. “I thought you fathering her was wild, but that story is even wilder.”
“And why is it so hard to believe that I could have fathered her?”
Montee didn’t miss a beat. “If the phrase strictly dickly was in the dictionary, your picture would be next to it.”
“Yes. But as a wise man once explained to me, ‘Just because someone is oriented toward one sex does not mean they cannot be attracted to or be intimate with the other.’”
It took a few seconds, but it registered: he had said that. “What are you, an FBI agent?”
Mitchell chuckled.
“So, you’re raising a daughter.”
“And my godson, Errol.”
“The fifteen-year-old having the birthday party?”
“Yes.”
“How did he come to be with you?”
Mitchell gave his stock answer. “Since I live two blocks from his high school, his mother and father felt it was best he live with me.”
“And . . . you’re raising them alone?”
“I am.”
“Ah . . . so, that brother you were with when we met . . .”
“We’re . . . no longer together.” I haven’t said that out loud in some time . . . feels like the first time.
“Did you tell him about us?”
“I did. But we didn’t break up because of you.”
“Ah. How long has it been?”
“Close to four years.”
“So, what happened between you two?”
Mitchell gave him a very abbreviated version of the breakup. By the end of that story, they were sharing a slice of strawberry cheesecake.
“Do you two still talk?”
“Like twice a month. Mostly about Errol.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
Mitchell knew he’d get around to asking that. “No. Looking after a teenager and a kindergartner doesn’t leave much time for a social life.”
“Even more reason for you to have one. When’s the last time you had any?”
“Now, that is none of your business.”
“That long, huh?”
Mitchell hesitated. “It’s been a year.”
“Who was he?”
He told him about Vinton Woodson, the contractor who redesigned and rebuilt his brownstone (built in 1792, it had been abandoned for thirty-five years until, through a neighborhood revitalization program, Mitchell purchsed the unit from the city for ten thousand dollars). Mitchell ran into Vinton at Dayo’s in July 2001, and they dated for a year.
“Was that your longest relationship since . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“Why did it end?”
“He wanted something more permanent.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I . . . I just wasn’t sure if I wanted it with him.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what was wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I just realized I was with him because he reminded me of my ex.”
“Mmm. Does ol’ boyee know he’s got you strung out like this?”
“He doesn’t have me strung out.”
“What would you call it?”
Mitchell searched for an answer. “I still have feelings for him.”
“Yeah, strong feelings.”
Mitchell turned the tables. “Are you seeing anyone, socially or sexually?”
That was another Montee-ism being thrown back at him. “You got a good memory. I’m not at the moment, socially or sexually.”
“I heard through the grapevyne you’re seeing Bill-E.” Bill-E is a new singer on the scene, a high-yellow Tyrese from Denver whose debut Montee coproduced. Like Montee, Bill-E is bow-legged and has a booty way out to there. Montee, who is knockin’ on forty, is twice his age.
Montee frowned. “Where you hear that?”
“My sources.”
“Who?”
“They’re my sources; if I told you who they were, then they’d be yours.”
“Well, as the white men in dark blue suits from Enron and WorldCom told America: ‘On the advice of my attorney I invoke my Fifth Amendment privilege to respectfully refuse to answer questions on the grounds that they may incriminate me.’”
Mitchell then went in for the kill. “What about Noble?” Noble is a rap artist Montee was kickin’ it with when they met.
To Mitchell’s surprise, he was willing to talk about him. “We haven’t been . . . together since the beginning of ’96. When I came out swingin’ in that Source interview, he was on that month’s cover. So I’m sure he was glad what we had ended long before then.”
“I’m glad you went there in that interview. And that you shut down Miss Conflama on Oh Drama!”
Montee rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, I’m tryin’ to forget that mess!”
“And that you put Armwrong in his place.”
“Somebody needed to. He’s such a moron. Not to mention biphobic and homophobic.”
“Indeed. You deserved all the attention you got. It’s just too bad you got it for the wrong reasons.”
“Uh . . . do you still respect me?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You know . . . fanning the ‘who is the Gay Rapper?’ flames.”
“You didn’t fan the flames; you tried to blow the smoke in another direction. You were the only voice of reason during the whole episode. Besides,
if anybody should be able to exploit such a phantom concept, why shouldn’t it be a bisexual singer who knows firsthand who is gay in hip-hop?”
“Well, thanks. I knew we could juice it, the right way. Without the publicist’s knowing it, I had an intern add the line ‘Mr. Simms, who has had relationships with both men and women’ to the press release. The very next day, we were getting calls, and they were all related to that.”
“I’m sure the record company wasn’t pleased.”
“Nope. They were ready to pull the single and the CD and cancel the contract, arguing that I had breached the agreement since I signed on as a ‘straight’ artist.”
“No, you didn’t. They just assumed you were.”
“See. They couldn’t go into a court of law and argue that I misrepresented myself, since no one ever asked me the question, and there’s no clause stating that. But they changed their tune when Soul-full Sounds started flying off the shelves.”
“But they still dropped you.”
“Yeah. With the second CD, they wanted me to be quiet about it, as if people would forget—and I would forget. They wanted me to sign a statement saying that I would not talk about it in interviews.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. So we agreed it’d be best to part ways. I went right to work incorporating FoReal, hiring a small staff, and roping a distributor.”
“I know you said you wanted to do that. I was so happy to hear you did.”
“It’s no big deal. Everybody and their aunt has their own record label these days.”
“But they all don’t have the kind of vision or talent you do. And I don’t know of any other out acts who do gay and straight versions of their songs.”
“As you know, flattery gets you everywhere with me.” Montee winked.
A House Is Not a Home Page 8