Play It Forward

by Frederick Smith

  “I was just thinking about you,” I said, not wanting to sound overly excited or eager. I was just being honest. I had a list of questions and explanations I wanted to seek, but since I wasn’t a partner, boyfriend, or even romantic consideration as far as I was concerned, I decided to slow down and let Tyrell say what he came to say.

  “That’s good to hear. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.” He took off his athletic jacket and placed it near the spot he’d taken on my sofa weeks earlier. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Please do,” I said. I was leery if his quiet kindness was authentically Tyrell, as before, or if it was a calm before something stormy. We sat in silence for a few seconds. “So what’s up?”

  If this was to be some type of atonement session, I would leave it up to him to do the atoning. I had done nothing wrong in our delicate friendship, acquaintanceship, dancing around attraction, so I didn’t think I should go first in conversation.

  “I feel like I let you down these past weeks,” Tyrell said. “I heard about your attack. I feel bad about that.”

  I wondered how he heard. That part of the story the gossip bloggers didn’t follow up on. Too much reality, not enough sex or fantasy, I’m sure. Didn’t even make a blurb in the L.A. Times or even the L.A. Sentinel, the Black-owned newspaper in the city.

  “It happened and it was awful,” I said. I shared with him the details I could remember of being kicked and punched; the meeting prior at The Standard. “They left me for dead. Not cute. But I’m here.”

  He reached out his arms. Caressed my face, where I was still tender and healing from the beating. I winced with his touch.

  “Come here, Malcolm,” he said and pulled me to him. “I’m so sorry, Malcolm. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

  I felt comforted in his arms, much, I’m sure, the same way he’d felt when he stretched out across my sofa and lap after Tommie’s initial sex club scandal weeks earlier.

  “There really wasn’t anything you could have done,” I said. “Unless you knew it was Hamilton who invited me to The Standard?”

  “Hamilton? Tommie’s manager? I’m not, and wasn’t, in on anything they’ve worked up.”

  “It’s crazy,” I said and pulled away from Tyrell. Walked across the room. “I thought it was you inviting me over for…I don’t know, a romantic gesture, a date. I don’t know. I was stupid, head in the clouds.”

  I explained how Hamilton asked me to call off the LADS activism or else he’d release the videos Blake had made since arriving in L.A.

  “He said that I was messing up yours, his, and Tommie’s careers with the boycotts,” I said, after explaining our grassroots efforts to bring down Tommie Jordan. I wondered if I was telling him too much or if he already knew all this. “He even said you and Tommie got married in Massachusetts. I don’t know if that part was true or just a lie to try and keep us apart?”

  “We’re not married,” Tyrell said, and rolled his eyes. “Trust me on that. I wouldn’t be that dumb to marry a serial cheater.”

  “Thank God,” I said.

  “Now I feel really bad,” Tyrell said. He walked over to me from the sofa. “Tommie and I are the reason you…”

  “There’s no blame, Tyrell,” I said. “I had X-rated videos all over the Internet. I mean, which came first, the chicken or the egg? It’s a hairflip now.”

  He chuckled. “Still, I feel like I let you down,” he said. “You’re not the kind of guy my dad would want me to let down. You know that’s what made me like you, right?”

  He was rambling and I wasn’t getting it.

  “You’re not making any sense, Tyrell.”

  “I’m nervous,” he said. “It was how you talked about your dad, and how he influenced you, and how you were doing LADS to raise those young boys who didn’t have what we were lucky enough to have…”

  “Father figures,” I said, completing Tyrell’s thought and sentence.

  I knew Tyrell had lost his father in recent years, which connected us. People of any age, whether they are kids or grown adults, who have lost a parent have a special, and unspoken, bond that only they can understand with each other.

  In our initial meeting Tyrell talked about how important his father was, especially when he was first dealing with his sexual orientation in high school in D.C. That supportive, open-door policy with his father was what Tyrell said helped him through his UCLA years, keeping up an image as a college basketball player, and being in an undercover relationship with Tommie—especially during Tommie’s first known affair with some guy named Rafael Dominguez, and even more so during an HIV scare when they all thought they were affected due to Tommie’s flings with Rafael.

  “Right,” Tyrell said. “When I heard you talk about how you were raised and how that influenced you to be the person you are…and now you’re doing the same with young men who are not your own. That was the moment I knew.”

  Tyrell was smiling and our eyes locked on each others. I knew too. I didn’t want to say it first, though, so I waited a beat for him to continue.

  “That was the moment I think I fell in love with you, Malcolm.”

  I didn’t want to deflate the moment with any questions or doubts about myself or the feelings Tyrell said he had for me. So I nodded and smiled back.

  “I take that as a…” he asked.

  I paused for a moment, ready to go where it was easy for me—my head. But my heart felt something else.

  “Yes,” I said. “I agree. I don’t think I love you, but I definitely like you. I like you a lot, Tyrell.”

  Tyrell leaned down toward me. Kissed my forehead. Stared into my eyes.

  “That’s a start and it sounds good to me, Malcolm,” he said. “So where do we go from here?”

  I was willing to relinquish complete direction to Tyrell, wanted him to tell me what he wanted.

  “Where would you like to go?” I said. I imagined myself a nineteen- or twenty-year-old Northwestern University student again, a member of the fictitious PBC—Power Bottom Crew—with Kyle and me as its only members, seducing an innocent or not-so-innocent dorm mate.

  “Don’t ask me a question you don’t want the answer to,” he said and grinned. Pulled me into him. “Because I’ll tell you exactly what I want, Mr. Malcolm.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked,” I said back and looked in his eyes to let him know I meant business, “if I didn’t want to know the answer.”

  Tyrell turned me around, hugged me from behind, kissed me on the back of my neck and ears. He pointed in the direction of my bedroom, which was a lucky guess, considering Tyrell hadn’t made it past the living room in his only other visit to my apartment.

  “You mind?” Tyrell asked and continued kissing me on the ears, neck, back of my head.

  My condom and lube stash were pleasantly stocked due to months of no use—safe sex was a must, even with a supposed famous person. My nephew had been in his room most of the evening, happily occupied with his electronica. I was free, smart, and sexually empowered. I knew that after all he’d been through with Tommie Jordan in the past weeks, their relationship had to be over. I wasn’t up for relationship triangle drama, especially starting something with someone already in a relationship. That would be so un-LADS-like.

  But I was definitely ready to experience what Tyrell had to offer in the more-than-friends department.

  So I answered, without hesitating, “No, I don’t mind.”

  Chapter 39

  An hour after we made love Tyrell and I lay across my bed in a hot, sweaty daze.

  I tried getting all thoughts of Tyrell being a celebrity out of my mind, and seeing him as just Tyrell. But who was I kidding? He was Tyrell Kincaid, a pro baller with all that, and it was better than any magazine or video. His body, a complete dream. Mine, not a complete dream. But who cared? He smacked, flipped, rubbed down so well, and so thoughtfully, that we both managed to finish at the same exact time. Unbelievably in sync.

  We stared at each other, Tyrell on his
back, me stretched across his chest. His legs scrunched so they wouldn’t dangle over the end of my queen-sized mattress. Our hands and fingers tracing the other’s. The candle light flickering and magnifying our shadows against the wall. El DeBarge crooning on the iPod speakers about being loved in a special way. It felt intimate. Felt right.

  Even though we exchanged very few words, it wasn’t because of any post-sex weirdness that often came with the immature relationships of my twenties. I knew Tyrell and I had a very special bond. Words weren’t needed. So we touched. Stared. Smiled. Wondered.

  In the middle of the night, long into Tyrell’s deep sleep and soft snoring, I crept out of my bedroom and into the living room with my cell phone. I wasn’t one to gossip, but I knew my best friend would appreciate knowing that his prediction was coming true.

  That Tyrell and I were well on our way to becoming something more than friends.

  Chapter 40

  Tyrell stayed all night. I was relieved. It was a sign, I hoped, that he didn’t view me as another groupie—as Diana Ross sang about—to be touched in the morning and then just walked away from. After all I’d tried teaching the LADS guys about self-respect and relationships, the last thing I wanted to do was contradict my words.

  In the morning Tyrell was all smiles as he ate the scrambled eggs, cheese grits, turkey sausage, and coffee I’d prepared. Something about making food for a man the morning after makes you feel all official, even if you’re still unsure about the road ahead.

  “If this is what being with an Indiana man is all about,” he said, with a grin and a swallow, “then I know I’m about to be the fattest ex-ball player around.”

  “I don’t cook like this every day,” I said and massaged his shoulders. Felt a little too Destiny’s Child “Cater 2 U,” but that type of catering to a man was definitely warranted after the first night together. And oh, what a night it was. “Only for special occasions like this. And when I watch The Neelys on Food Network.”

  “Come here,” he said and pulled me to sit on his lap. “There better be a second, third, fourth, and thousandth time like last night, Malcolm.”

  “Only if I get to enjoy this some more,” I said and squirmed in his lap until he came to life down there again.

  We kissed. Kept it tasteful and PG-13, in case my nephew walked in ready for breakfast. I felt like a teenager, so full of the feelings that came with a brand-new relationship.

  “Love my Malcolm,” Tyrell said. “Knew it the moment I met you at LADS.”

  “Stop it,” I said. The idea of a professional ball player liking me, or loving me, was unbelievable still. I mean, he was sitting in my tiny kitchen eating breakfast. “Okay. I’m feeling you too.”

  And then, as if he were reading my mind, he said, “You don’t have to worry about Tommie and me. We’re over and there’s no involvement. Well, except for his niece Keesha, but she’s off in boarding school in New England, which I’m paying for. More about that later.”

  I wouldn’t and couldn’t say that I loved him, because I didn’t. Not yet. Not while there was still unfinished business with Hamilton James, Lamont Murphy, and LADS. Not that they had anything to do with my feelings. I just wanted to resolve them, have a clean slate, then worry about what the future held with Tyrell Kincaid.

  “The let’s keep it without a label,” I said. “If that’s okay with you?”

  “So I can’t call you my man?” Tyrell asked. “I’d be proud to show you off.”

  “Thanks,” I said and looked at his fingers. “But don’t you want one of those championship rings one day? There’s no way you’ll have a career as an out, gay, and Black basketball player.”

  “I don’t care about the ring,” he said. “I have a degree. I can do something other than ball. But I might have only one shot with you…and finally having a fulfilling, no-drama life.”

  I didn’t want Tyrell to feel like he had to choose between me or his career in sports, and I told him so.

  “Let’s give you some time to think,” I said and kissed him. “Besides, I have some loose ends to tie up too. No labels and we’ll take it from there. Agreed?”

  “Absolutely,” he said and kissed me again. “Absolutely yes.”

  Chapter 41

  Two days later, Bernard wanted an occasion to cook for a large crowd. So I invited the LADS guys over to my apartment for another dinner party and group meeting. Anytime there was free food, you could bet DeMarco, Sergio, and friends would arrive on time. Early, in fact. If I was going to tie up loose ends with Lamont Murphy and LADS, I would need to know the guys had my back.

  For this feast, Bernard chose a simple soul theme—oven fried chicken, greens seasoned with apple cider vinegar and jalapeño peppers, Jiffy corn muffins, berry-infused seltzer water, and an ice cream sandwich casserole. Simple, by Bernard’s standards. Delicious by everyone else’s.

  “So what’s up with you and Compton,” I heard Blake ask DeMarco from his corner of the living room. “I heard you had a little Rihanna moment.”

  “Oh, Compton,” I heard DeMarco commanding attention in a corner of the living room. “I made him kick rocks after he put his hands on me. Sent his ass to jail for two weeks. Blocked his number.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Blake said. “That’s all the story?”

  “Ain’t no muthafucker gonna play me and then try to make me do porn for coins,” DeMarco continued. “And it’s literally coins, right, Blake?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it,” Blake replied from across the room. He was learning, slowly, not to bite just because someone baited him with controversial conversation. “Eat your dinner.”

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” Sergio said from another corner of the room. “Y’all need to quit signifying.”

  “Signifying?” I said. I hadn’t heard anyone use that word since my parents’ and grandparents’ days, used primarily when someone was teasing another in a loving way. Others called it playing the dozens. I was surprised someone born in the ’90s knew how to use the word. “You sounding old-school, Sergio.”

  “Well, I got a little old-school in me,” Sergio said. “I’m dating an older man of twenty-five. Haaaaay.”

  “Which means we’re ready for the nursing home in our late thirties,” Kyle said and laughed as he peeked into the living room from the kitchen. “But let me tell y’all young girls something…life is much better in your thirties. You got a little cash, a little stability, and a whole lot more confidence.”

  As the joking and getting reacquainted continued, Bernard brought out bowls of his ice cream sandwich casserole and cups of coffee for the LADS. We were stuffed beyond our belts from dinner, a good sign that Bernard’s culinary skills hit the mark again. But no one wanted to pass up dessert. In these times, if it’s free and offered, you eat it.

  I decided to use the post-dinner lull to address the group and to check in. I had questions. I’m sure they did too. Mainly, I wanted to let them know how proud I was of their efforts to stay together during the reign of Lamont Murphy.

  “The blogging and boycotts worked,” I said and made sure I looked each of the guys in the eye. “Your willingness to do something on behalf of LADS and the media representations of Black, gay men is something to be commended. You’re all young activists and you didn’t even know it.”

  Hand claps, whistles, a few high fives and fist bumps circled the room.

  “Well anything for you, Malcolm,” DeMarco said. “Because the sooner we can get Lamont Murphy and his tired, nineteen seventies ass out of LADS…ooooh, don’t get me started.”

  DeMarco punched his fist into his other open hand.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s different. But one day we’ll have another space. I’m fine with my living room being the space for now.”

  “Me too,” Sergio said from his corner of the room. “Y’all my sistas and I love y’all as much as y’all get on my nerves.”

  Blake moved to the center of the circle.

  “I just wanna thank y
ou for supporting my uncle Malcolm,” he said. He started with his head down, but soon looked up and around the circle. “I haven’t been the best nephew. Some of y’all know what I’m talking about.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Sergio whispered and moved his neck. “Some of us seen it too, but no tea, no shade.”

  “Yeah, please shut up, Sergio,” DeMarco said.

  “I admit I got mixed up with that easy money they offered a lot of y’all too,” Blake said. “Thinking that I’d be a star making porn for Deacon, Compton, and Reverend Murphy. I’m sorry, Uncle Malcolm. I’m sorry for embarrassing you and your work.”

  “I still can’t believe that one,” DeMarco said. “Lamont Murphy? The church man? Directing gay porn. Lawwwwd.”

  I could see a conversation digression and needed to focus. I hugged Blake and continued with the group discussion.

  “We’re going to get LADS back,” I said. “You don’t know this, but your blogs worked. People are starting to pay attention. Some of the fans who liked Tommie Jordan are boycotting him. You don’t even hear him on the radio anymore.”

  “Amen,” DeMarco said. “I’ll never download a ToJo song again. Or ones that he sings hooks on again. But that won’t get you LADS back.”

  True, declining record sales wouldn’t do anything for my work at LADS, though I’m sure it put pressure on Tommie and Hamilton…and their checkbooks. I’m sure they were scrambling for Plans B, C, and D. Much like we were.

  “Maybe the thing with Tommie is too big-picture,” Kyle said as he and Bernard emerged from the kitchen. “Let’s focus on Lamont Murphy. Now, other than Blake, who here saw him in his role of video director?”

  No one admitted personal involvement with Lamont, Hamilton, or the videos beyond my nephew.

  “So other than Blake’s word, we’ve got nothing to prove Lamont’s been less than holy?” Sergio asked. “No proof, no case. And that means no LADS, huh?”