Not a Day Goes By

by E. Lynn Harris

There was a time in my life when I had a lot of anger toward women. I put them in two categories: whores and sluts. The only difference is, a whore gives up the sex because she wants something material, whereas a slut just loves the sex. I have been with both, but I didn’t like the power pussy had over me. Maybe my anger toward women happened because I grew up without a mother, or because I simply hadn’t met the right woman. Now, thanks to Yancey and Campbell, I no longer view them as a resting place for my manhood but a place where I can rest my heart. Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t whipped and I’m not ready for the choir robe and halo. I still got my tough-guy swagger (when needed). The only difference between two years ago and today is I realize that a tough-guy swagger looks just as dumb as a robe and halo.

  YANCEY Harrington Braxton was as complicated as she was beautiful. A woman from Jackson, Tennessee, who never felt she belonged in a small town, Yancey came to New York when she was twenty-two years old. In less than two years, she had made a name for herself with her triple threat skills of being able to act, sing, and dance with the best of Broadway’s veteran divas. But Yancey wasn’t satisfied with leading roles in several Broadway shows. She perfected her skills by taking private lessons in acting, dance, and voice from the best New York had to offer. When Yancey wasn’t in class, she was in the gym making sure her body remained flawless. It was only a matter of time, Yancey thought, before she would take these talents and body to Hollywood and exceed even her wildest childhood dreams.

  A statuesque five feet eight, 115 pounds, with a twenty-two-inch waist, Yancey walked with the grace of a haughty runway model. Actually she didn’t just walk into a room, she sauntered. Shoulders back, chest out, Miss America smile. And always, as if preparing to take a bow, she would carefully pan a room, sizing up her audience’s impression of her.

  Yancey imagined herself a beige princess, but through the eyes of others, she was a brilliant bronze. A century ago, she would have been considered just brown enough for the big house, but much too brown to pass. You could tell she was black. No cream in the coffee going on there.

  Yancey was one of those women who still believed women with long tresses had an advantage, so she kept her hair long and had extensions added. Her lush, chemically treated and colored hair was a dusky auburn that fell just below her shoulders. She loved the versatility of her hair—ponytails (which she loved), french rolls (when she wanted to look regal), upsweeps, and ringlets. Yancey loved to experiment with the styles in fashion magazines. One of her most striking features was her thick eyebrows, which were always seductively and precisely arched.

  In high school, she was the kind of person who wrote long, elaborate passages in the yearbooks of her classmates, but wouldn’t remember their names a week later when she would bump into them in the mall or class. Instead of attending her ten-year class reunion, Yancey had sent press packets with her full-color head shots and “Best wishes” scribbled under her signature, a well-studied signature she had practiced since the moment she learned to write her name at age six.

  Yancey lived on the Upper East Side in an exclusive 2700-square-foot townhouse, which included a studio/library and servant’s quarters. She had bought the plush home with funds inherited from her grandmother’s life insurance policy and from the sale of her Jackson, Tennessee, home and some land her grandmother owned in Mississippi. There were times between jobs when Yancey had a tough time paying the mortgage, yet somehow she always managed. Just when things were getting tight with the pocketbook, Yancey would land a national commercial or get a gig singing backup for major pop acts. She liked the recording jobs, since she was not only making a little extra cash but also picking up tips for the day someone would be singing backup for her.

  Even though her financial situation sometimes became very dire, Yancey was a diva’s diva and refused to waitress or do temp work like many of her Broadway peers. And above all, she could not bring herself to file for unemployment when a show or job ended.

  In the close-knit world of New York entertainment, Yancey was known as the replacement queen. She had stepped into many leading roles on Broadway when established actresses took vacation or suddenly fell ill. Yancey had performed in The Lion King, Rent, Chicago, Smokey Joe’s Café, and was currently appearing in Fosse.

  These shows added not only to her bank account but also to her reputation as a talented performer who could play the virginal beauty and belt out a soul-stirring gospel tune as well. Still, Yancey was not satisfied. She hated the fact that the only time a call came was to replace an actress of color, and she was pressing not only her agent but producers as well to consider her for roles with nontraditional casting. If it happened for Vanessa L. Williams and Audra MacDonald, then it could happen for her.

  Often she would scour the pages of Backstage and Variety looking for roles that didn’t match any of her characteristics. Burdened with the fear of being labeled racist, flustered directors and producers had no choice but to allow the talented beauty to at least audition for the roles. Once, when she had the chance to replace a Hispanic actress on a soap opera in a recurring role, Yancey quit before she signed a contract because she thought the work was not only beneath her but too little for too much in terms of compensation. The only thing Yancey day-dreamed of constantly was a starring role either on Broadway or in a film, or a recording contract that she could put her mark on, and if a Tony, Grammy, Emmy, or Oscar followed, well, that would be just the way things were supposed to be.

  And now Yancey figured she had hit the jackpot in the man department. When she met Basil, she thought at the very least he would be a good roll in the sheets, especially when she caught a glimpse of him bending over to help his nephew at the Rockefeller Center skating rink. Basil was a wall of muscle: a strong-shouldered man, with a barrel chest, a six-pack stomach, all spread like Italian silk over a six-foot-four frame. When he turned around and smiled in her direction, Yancey thought he was so achingly handsome with his catlike gray eyes, she couldn’t help but think of him completely naked with his huge arms wrapped around her. His was a body she wanted to see up close and personal. Yet she made him wait almost six months for that pleasure when she discovered there was more to Basil than an amazing body. Yancey found him to be a brother with expensive taste and a wallet to back up her desire for the finer things in life.

  She found Basil a sensitive man who had survived a dysfunctional childhood somewhat similar to her own. Yancey had been raised by her grandmother, while her mother, Ava, traveled the world in search of a career as an entertainer. She had never laid eyes on her father. Yancey had followed in her mother’s footsteps and, after her grandmother died, mother and daughter had forged a tentative friendship that was more like a difficult sibling relationship than a mother-daughter bond. Ava had never been there for Yancey when she really needed her for emotional support, and it seemed that whenever Yancey had a little problem she needed to talk over with her mother, Ava had a bigger one. So Yancey had come to accept that all she could really expect from her mother was lively and entertaining conversation and occasional monetary support in the form of a check sent via overnight mail whenever Yancey was between jobs. When Basil asked Yancey if that bothered her, she replied, with a hint of Southern lushness in a voice that she had tried to rid herself of, “It’s all I’ve ever known.” She always felt the toughness developed in her childhood served her well in her show business aspirations, as well as her outlook on love and life. When it came to show business, Yancey often told herself she was looking for awards, not friends.

  Years ago, after her first adult relationship with Derrick, her college sweetheart, had ended badly, she promised herself to never fall in love too deeply. So Yancey loved Basil in her own way. Whenever they kissed, she told Basil how much she loved him, but there was always a little voice whispering inside her head that it’s okay to love, but never too hard, or too much.

  1

  SO WHERE you headed this weekend?” I asked as I dried my hair with a plush white towel.
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  “I’m going to Gainesville for the Florida-Tennessee game. What about yourself?” Nico Benson asked as he wiped his tall and broad-shouldered body. As business partners, we often checked in with each other on who had the crazier schedule.

  “I’m doing Arkansas-Alabama. Should be a great game,” I said. I reached into my gym locker and pulled out the new pair of black underwear I had bought on Fifth Avenue the day before.

  “What players are you looking at?” Nico asked, putting on some light-blue cotton boxers.

  “Lucus from Arkansas and Alexander from ’Bama,” I said.

  It was the third Wednesday in September. Once a month, my partners and I would take the entire office for a free day to release the tensions in the competitive world of sports management. This month we had decided on a day at the Chelsea Piers Sports Center. We had started the morning with breakfast, played basketball, and then had individual spa treatments like facials and massages. Our senior partner and president, Brison Tucker, had already showered and headed to the office for work. There was no way for Brison, a chronic workaholic, to fully understand the meaning of what a free day meant. After lunch, Nico and I had played a couple of games of racquetball.

  Nico, a peanut-brown brother who talked more smack than a gum-chewing truck stop waitress, was drying his body from his shower as I put on my sexy see-through underwear. Nico had played basketball at Duke and for a couple of years in the NBA in Vancouver and Houston. He was only twenty-seven and was a great asset to our firm because he was smart and could still relate on a personal basis to the young athletes we were pursuing. In a lot of ways Nico reminded me of my former self.

  I was pulling my slacks out of my locker when suddenly Nico’s dark brown eyes swept sideways. “Dude,” he whispered, “do you know that guy? He’s sweatin’ you big time.”

  I turned in the direction of Nico’s eyes and ended up looking dead in the face of a squash-yellow, overweight dude with his tongue hanging out, his eyes bulging in disbelief. This was no big shock to me. I was used to people staring at me longer than what was socially acceptable. Especially when I was naked. My ass was perfect and my jimmie was both long and thick. It had been known to make both women and grown men weep. I’m not arrogant, just honest. Even when I was only semi-hard, my jimmie hung perfectly still. Sometimes I enjoyed the attention, but not in locker rooms and not when I was with a Mister Macho-Macho like Nico. So with a stern face I looked at the dumpy-looking brother and asked, “Do I know you?”

  A blank expression covered his face before he mumbled, “No.” He looked like he was frozen with fear.

  “Then why in the fuck are you all in my grill, or should I say in my draws?” I demanded. I felt my anger rising. Why couldn’t these gay mofos leave me alone? Didn’t they know I wasn’t playing on their team anymore?

  After a few uncomfortable seconds he asked awkwardly, “I was wondering where you got that underwear from.” I looked down at the tight-fitting black silk underwear that felt like a breath caressing my ass and then at my admirer. “Don’t worry about it. They don’t make them in your size, you faggot mutherfucker.” I turned around and looked at Nico, who smiled, and we gave each other a tap with our hands balled.

  “Man, a straight brother ain’t safe nowhere with all these faggots around,” Nico said.

  “True . . . true. But I let ’em know right up front I’m the wrong one to fuck with,” I said as I grabbed my gym bag and shut my locker.

  LATER that evening, I was killing time reviewing tapes of some of the players I was hoping to sign with the firm. I was going to meet Yancey at a restaurant in the theater district after her show. This was the last week for Yancey in Fosse and I felt she needed me there for moral support. But after about ten times I was Fosseed out, so meeting her right after her performance was the next best thing.

  I went to the kitchen to get a beer when the incident at the gym popped into my head. I try not to act uptight around gay guys, but they seemed to be getting more forward than I can ever remember. Now some of them will just come up and ask for the beef. With Yancey being in the theater, where she is surrounded by gay men, I always have my guard up.

  One time I came close to getting busted about my past. The producers of Fosse threw a party for Yancey when she joined the cast. Yancey and I were front and center enjoying the attention, when who walks in but this dude I used to pump, Monty Johnson. He was a has-been R&B singer who was now doing background vocals and trying to break into Broadway. We made eye contact and while Yancey was accepting praise from her new castmates, I went over to shake Monty’s hand and say whassup to ole boy. I knew I needed to get to him before he bounced over to speak to me in front of Yancey. I didn’t need any how do you know him questions from Yancey. She wasn’t like a lot of sistahs who never thought of dudes kickin’ it with each other. She knew threats could come in both the male and female form.

  After saying hello, I realized Monty was acting real cool, too cool, like I was just somebody he spoke to at the gym or walking down the street. I guess he had forgotten how good the dick used to be. He quickly introduced me to his buddy, a tall and lean guy sporting a pierced tongue and his hair styled in jailhouse cornrows. They were giggling with each other like two teenage girls at the stage door of their favorite boy group. When ole boy left to get Monty a drink, Monty told me he was in love and was sorry about any misunderstanding our last visit had caused me. When I told him I was in love, and who the lucky lady was, he smiled and whispered, “You always did like the ladies more. But from what I’ve heard about Miss Diva Deluxe Yancey, you might have met your match.” Before I could ask him what he meant, I caught a glimpse of Yancey looking in my direction, so I hauled ass over toward her.

  Monty was the culprit who had ended my last serious relationship with a woman. I was dating a sister named Yolanda, who walked in on us while I had Monty ass up across my sofa. After that fiasco and a few other missteps, I came up with my own little list of rules to keep me from courting temptation.

  I call them “Basil’s Rules to Keep the Knuckleheads Away from the Family Jewels.” Some of the do’s and don’ts are obvious, like not going to gay bars, cruising parks, or smiling at male flight attendants, but those don’t apply to me since I never did any of those things. The rules are: Avoid men who try to make eye contact with you or men who can’t because they’re looking at your crotch. Don’t go to the gym during rush hour, which could mean early morning or right after work. This is hard to follow since gay men are at the gym when the door opens and when it closes. I don’t know where they come from. Sometimes it seems as though they are dropping from the ceiling butt-ass naked, shaving, pissing, and trying to strike up a conversation. Don’t let anybody spot you while lifting weights unless you’re paying them. Keep away from men who have complete sets of designer luggage. Avoid mofos with colored contacts, especially yellow boys with green contacts and dark guys with sky-blue contacts. Stay out of churches with large choirs. Avoid dudes who wear shirts that look more like maternity dresses or men with extended music (usually Diana Ross or Patti LaBelle) on their answering machines; mofos who wear their sweaters or jackets around the waist; men who, in their conversations, use the word “lover” when discussing their significant other; men with cats or small dogs, especially any type of fluffy Asian dog; men who frown at the suggestion of two hunnies making love and letting you watch; and finally, any woman, no matter how beautiful, who has hands bigger than yours.

  2

  FOR YANCEY, the prestige of things took precedence over her own preference. The address of her Upper East Side brownstone was really false advertising that she was an entertainer well paid for her talents. The furnishings and appointments she chose for her “diva domain” (as she liked to call her spacious living quarters) were more than a step above the budget of a Broadway actress. They were a kangaroo leap.

  The first things visitors would notice were the foyer’s marble floor, the glittering chandelier hanging above, and the antique coffee
table with a tarnished silver top accented with an expensive-looking Chinese vase. But on guided tours, Yancey would first take her guests to the dance studio, her absolute favorite place to show. The studio and her bedroom were the only two rooms where she banished her decorator and let her soul dictate the design rather than her desire to impress.

  In the studio, the overhead track lighting bounced off two mirrored walls, making the room appear much larger than it was. The shining maple wood floors and ballet barre enhanced a room that Yancey had always dreamed of since she took her first dance class back in Jackson. Hours seemed like minutes when she was in the room singing and dancing to music generated by her state-of-the-art sound system. It is simply magical, Yancey thought.

  The room had been a library for the previous owner. When the contractor came to make a bid for the renovation, he convinced Yancey to keep at least one of the walls’ splendidly built bookshelves. She agreed only after considering that one day there would be books written about her to fill the shelves. Until then, her collection of coffee table books on music and the theater filled the shelves. Yancey added a little texture to the shelves with memorabilia like dried flowers from her opening nights, and scented candles. In the corner of the room was a StairMaster and a pair of ten-pound free weights for those rainy days when Yancey didn’t leave the house, not even for her gym time.

  The living room was beautifully decorated with matching plum sofas and a coffee table covered with Harper’s Bazaar, Essence, and her favorite, Vanity Fair. She had limited the amount of furniture in the room in order to create a warm and inviting space.

  As far as Yancey was concerned, her bedroom was off limits to everyone but Basil. She was proud of its elegance and reveled in seeing the faces of the rare visitors she allowed to partake of its beauty. Once she had invited some young girls she had met at the Broadway Dance Center over for tea. Besides asking for her autograph and photos, they had impressed Yancey by telling her they had seen every show she had appeared in. One of the young ladies, a talented ballet dancer from the Bronx, had broken into tears when she wandered into Yancey’s bedroom. She placed her hand over her mouth and whispered to Yancey, “This is the bedroom I see in my dreams.” The rich cherrywood antiques may have been too formal for some, but for Yancey it was an opportunity to live out one of her I am a princess fantasies.