All of Los Angeles was buzzing with the news of the councilman’s death; he had been found in a smoldering Malibu ranch house, incinerated in the arms of his eighteen-year-old paramour.
It was the day after his funeral. Sunday. Preachers in churches all throughout the city spoke with a tear and a twinkle in their eye of his good deeds, great service, and how much he would be missed.
They also spoke of moral lessons to be learned from the dearly departed’s illicit behavior. But they spoke carefully, so as not to self-incriminate. The snickered jokes were already overfilled with torrid truths applicable to them all.
Scandalous as it was, however, it was not scandalous enough to diminish the outpouring of love and affection the city unleashed in honor of the man. His popularity was legendary. He was right up there with other L.A.-bred political beloveds: Maxine Waters, Tom Bradley, the first Jimmy Hahn.
And for those not in the know, which would be anyone who was not at the invitation-only farewell, Selma Fant’s drunken state (on the arm of her newest best girlfriend, Dee) was not a state of mourning, though she indeed mourned. Her drunken state was her general state. She relied on her liquor as she relied on her videos.
Miss Zara, clinging tightly to Eli, had come to the Saturday-afternoon service late and sat in the back of the crowded church where she had sung long ago as the young Earl-Anthony. She later trailed the procession to the cemetery, and left immediately after the interment. She did not want her mother to see her. Sorrow and guilt and the booze Selma guzzled in between sobs and fallouts would have been too close to a lethal combination, and as estranged as Miss Zara was from her mother, she did not wish her ill, especially now. Brando watched Miss Zara make her clean getaway. In fact, they saw each other. She gave him the look that comes from a longtime friend who understands. And he did.
There was no planned gathering at the widow’s house after the burial. Tradition or not, many agreed that it was something Selma Fant would not be able to handle. The decision created great consternation among the orthodox and the press.
Selma did, however, invite Dee over for post-funeral cocktails.
Brando was glad Selma and Dee hit it off. He also recognized a ladies-only summit as it was being planned and resisted the urge to invite himself.
For him, there would be no hanging out in Hancock Park with his folks either. They had left immediately after the funeral for their Palm Springs time share. And now that Omar and Shane had gotten closer, more committed, Brando was beginning to miss his weekday happy hour hangouts with Omar. And there had been no hitting the club the Saturday night of the funeral, no him and Omar gleefully dancing their fortysomething-year-old asses off, the oldest couple on the dance floor. Omar had spent Saturday, day and night, with Shane on Catalina Island. But Omar had assured Brando he would be back in time for brunch at Lucy Florence. Certain things love and lust cannot get in the way of.
Things were changing for Omar. Brando was happy for him, although that tinge of jealousy he felt threw him for a tiny loop.
Brando spent the night alone, ordered in from Pizza Hut, dined with pay-per-view, soaked in a warm tub, and slept soundly.
The next morning, Sunday, he woke up at his usual 6:30 AM. What confused and surprised him was the dream he immediately remembered. It was a very sweet dream about Collier. Or was it Omar?
Chapter Twenty-six
Shane is a whole new experience for me,” Omar confessed to Brando as one of the twins served coffee and sweet potato pie. “This making love thing. I haven’t made love since the nineties. Just sex. But making love? Wow. You know the first thing I want to do when I see him?”
“What?”
“Kiss him.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“No, I mean really kiss him. That gentle shit.”
“Good for you, Omar.”
“Yeah,” Omar agreed, perplexed. “I’m having a good time with him. He’s really a pretty decent brotha. Did you know he doesn’t drink or do drugs at all?”
“A lot of people don’t.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“Okay.”
“The least little thing can set him off. Out at Catalina I ordered sparkling cider for him but I had to have my usual.”
“Who’s the alcoholic?”
“He was watching me drink and he was freaking out.”
“But, Omar, that’s serious for them.”
“I know it is. He’s been sober three years. When I know I’m going to see him I usually put the shit away. But bottom line? I like having my cocktail and getting high every once in a while, and I have no intention of giving it up.”
And then he thought about it. “I guess I really should adjust when he’s around, huh?” he asked softly.
“You like him, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Naw, you really like him.”
“He aiight.”
“I mean, I’m listening to you and I’m convinced. You can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Omar considered what Brando said, and felt a certain guilt about the circumstance he was now in. Shane was more than a new trick, yet Omar still felt like the same old dog.
“Last night out at Catalina,” he began out of nowhere, “we had this room that was tucked up in the hills, overlooking the ocean, full moon and everything, the whole nine yards, and he mentions—what’s the word?”
“Love?”
“No, fool. Monogamy. Now I don’t like that word any more than I like the L-word, but he brought it up. And when he said it, I started squirming like crazy. I felt the sweat coming on. But somehow I squirmed out of it. See, I don’t think I’m ready for that, and I resent the fact that he made the offer. I’ve only been seeing him for like five weeks. How dare he rush me like that?”
“Omar, Omar. Why are you resentful?”
“I don’t want to be put in that position.”
“Okay, that’s fine. But he’s an individual. He wants what he wants and you want what you want. If you two don’t want the same thing, it’s not a matter of resentment. He hasn’t done anything wrong by expressing his feelings. Instead of resenting him for expressing his feelings, why not just tell him, ‘Hey, I respect your feelings but I’m not into that’?”
“Yeah, but if I say that, he might move on.”
“He hasn’t moved on yet and you haven’t given him anything.”
“I think I have.”
“You’ve given him no commitment.”
“I’m just not ready. I keep saying to myself that maybe when I get older, but if I get much older I’ll be dead.”
“Please.”
“I know I’m going to get older, but somehow I don’t think I’m going to get any more mature.”
“Omar, let me tell you something. You got yourself a nice guy in Shane. You should be happy. Kick back and enjoy. Enjoy it for what it is. You sit back talking about ‘Damn, I spent all those years worrying about the shit, when I could have spent all those years enjoying it.’ You obviously like the guy. I’ve never heard you talk about anybody like you talk about Shane.”
“You think so?”
“I think so.”
“I wonder if I deserve him.”
“Why not? Other than being a total ho’, you ain’t so bad.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The moment of silence that followed should have been uncomfortable. It was not. They were even able to look into each other’s eyes with something beyond friendship and feel no immediate shame. It was not until the moment that followed that they were shaken from this hypnotic state. The distant sound of the Sunday ritual drums a block away in Leimert Park had begun right on time, and the low muffled sounds that seemed so far away made their own silence conspicuous and their shared stare obvious and self-conscious.
“You know, I did something really bad when we were out at Catalina,” Oma
r confessed slowly.
“What?”
“I called him out of his name.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“What did you call him?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Eyeing Brando from across the room, Vanessa Ellerbee could not tell what was being said to him, but his listening eyes said much. His attentiveness, his empathy, was so blessedly apparent. And now, as she sat there alone—William did not come home last night—she was thoroughly convinced. She would have to make her move.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Selma and Councilman Felton G. Fant had grown apart years ago. Appearances were meticulously maintained, although Selma’s obvious alcoholism caused some to speculate long before the councilman was found dead in the arms of something young, blond, and beautiful. And Selma knew that the abandonment of both her men—her husband and her son—were brought on by her own actions. Whether the councilman ever knew about Selma’s tryst with her son’s boyfriend, she could not tell. But soon after the incident, Councilman Fant could not stand to touch his wife, but was always savvy enough to never let his disgust show. Councilman Fant was the consummate politician. His game face was as unreadable as his heart, although it had not always been that way.
He must have known.
Shortly after the incident, after Earl-Anthony moved out, the marriage took on a cold ceremonial status. Intimacy was replaced by friendly indifference.
He knew. He must have.
Though they lived under the same roof, they had gone their separate ways, she to her videos, he to his Barbies. Selma’s private media room was off-limits to the councilman and she never questioned his late-night meetings and overnights away from home.
And she missed him, missed him for all of the joy they once had before hell froze over. She missed him for that once-upon-a-time joy that he brought her; the laughs and the love and the child. And so she drank to him, to them both, ambivalently, all morning, noon, and night, almost each and every day.
Dee Bohannon was a cautious drinking buddy. She had spent all day Saturday after the funeral holding Selma’s hand and drinking with her. And now here she was back on Sunday. She was not used to this. Her near-pristine liver had little time to dry out.
“Girl, I gotta drive down out these hills,” she begged off with the hand when Selma tried to get her to have one more for the road. In one week of acquaintance they had become girlfriend enough for both of them to let their hair down to each other. Dee reminisced about the good husband she once had and Selma invited Dee into her private media room and shared her collection of homoerotica. The sight of men fucking men surprisingly turned Dee on. Watching men inside of men made her realize how much she missed Kevin inside her.
“You know when it really gets good?” Selma slurred, her eyes glued to the screen.
“When?”
“When they’re doing each other and they don’t think that anyone’s watching.”
“What?” Dee frowned incredulously.
“Oh now, don’t get me wrong. This is all hot and wonderful and delicious, but when you’re looking and they don’t know you’re looking, that’s a tape worth cherishing.”
“What in the hell are you rambling about, Selma?”
“Fantasies fulfilled,” she answered with a strange, distant smile.
“I guess,” Dee responded, not getting it; not sure if she wanted to.
It was getting late. The darkness of Selma’s media room made Dee sensitive to the harsh sunshine pouring through the glass wall of Selma’s foyer. She squinted furiously. Selma handed Dee a set of keys to her house as she walked her to the door.
“What’s this?”
“Just in case. Anything might happen to me up in here, and Brando might not be around. He’s got a set, too.”
“Really?”
“And I’ve had a set of keys to his house since he moved in. When I first sold him the place. Good neighbor policy,” she said with a strange slyness.
As Selma and Dee stepped out, Brando drove up into his driveway next door and beeped his horn. The two women waved at him and smiled as his garage door lifted.
“Since you’re hangin’ with the diva Fant, I hardly see you anymore,” Brando called out to Dee playfully.
“Come on over for a drink,” Selma flirted.
“Thanks, Selma. Got too much work.”
“It’s Sunday and it’s beautiful.” She pouted.
“Selma, I gotta go,” Dee reminded her. “I’ll call you later, Brando.”
“See ya,” he called back as he disappeared into his garage.
“That is one fine-ass piece of man,” Selma drooled. “Too bad he’s gay.”
“Too bad for who?” Dee said as she got in her car and drove off with a wave.
Selma watched Dee’s car disappear down the hill and thought to herself, with a strange doleful smile, Too bad for me.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Brando did some of his best work at home. He allotted this time to himself, before Senior Father Lacey Cannon’s winter supper, to work, regroup, and chill out. This time alone with his thoughts was as much a part of his Sunday ritual as was his early-morning rise, the paper, the minimal workout, church, and brunch with Omar.
He studied the wording of the eighteen-page contract. The screen rights deal he’d negotiated for Clymenthia with New Line Cinema was straightforward and favorable to the novelist. But it had always been Brando’s usual style to go over the simplest detail with a fine-tooth comb.
After three meticulous hours he signed off on the document and made a note to have his secretary overnight a copy to Clymenthia at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. He then rewarded himself with a refreshing skinny-dip in the pool. After several leisurely laps, he walked his dripping body over to the chaise and table, picked up his chilled glass of freshly pressed carrot juice, and rubbed it soothingly against his sparkling chest. He lowered the chaise to its flattened position and stretched out on his stomach. The feel of the sun on his wet torso, backside, and legs made him sigh like a beach bum. Church services earlier, brunch with Omar, and now this all made for the perfect Sabbath.
There are many black gay men who had not been abused as children, whether physically, sexually, or emotionally. And that sometimes somehow made them feel isolated in a world of the physically, sexually, and emotionally abused who spoke loudest.
There are many black gay men whose adolescent fears and anxieties were typical and developmental, in a world of fear and anxiety-induced atrophy.
There are many black gay men who are the grieving well, who suffer for those who suffer and give little time to suffering for themselves.
There are many black gay men who have attended “those meetings” of many of the black gay men’s groups, only to find, more often than not, that so many of “those meetings” were vent sessions masquerading as support groups—the company misery sought, where unscarred men were looked upon with suspicion or, worse, pity for bearing little evidence of the everyday battle of living life as a black gay man.
Healing is the elixir sold by the charismatic snake doctors who write six-hundred-page books deifying pain, canonizing fear, and lecturing to the well and unwell, indiscriminately declaring all are sick, knowingly or unknowingly. And since all are sick, according to these self-fulfillers, all need healing. Those who profess wellness are either in deep denial or intellectually oblivious, naysayers say.
There are many black gay men who consider themselves neither sick nor perfect. What they know is that they are God’s perfect imperfect child, a good thing, whether their perfect imperfect brothers understand it or not. And perhaps that is why so many of these black gay men stay on the sidelines, passive and sublime, in the face of a community that sometimes prides itself on its ailments.
Brando was one of those many, knowingly or unknowingly, healthy black gay men on the sidelines. Suffering was not his m.o. His breakup with Collier was not painful. He loved Coll
ier and he missed him, but not in a painful sort of way. Their relationship was complacent, too comfortable, even for him. Their parting of the ways was a good and gentlemanly thing, and he could not fathom pain in good and gentlemanly.
He did not suffer the pain of not being in love. Only the anxiety. Cautious anxiety. He accepted the fact that being in love was not a right. It was luck, a privilege, a gift, and the absence of being in love was not a curse; far from it. Love is special. Not plain wrap.
He appreciated the fact that he was a man perhaps back-handedly blessed merely by virtue of what he had in family and friends: physical health, heart, and temperament.
Still.
The painless void, the numbing lack of…something.
To, for once, not be impervious to the agony of the lovelorn heart. To, for once, cry over someone, cry for someone, cry for himself. To know what that would be like.
How he admired Omar, who cried at movies, during Oprah, at weddings, even when describing a memorable sexual encounter. Omar would cry when he got rid of a man or got dumped by a man. The drama of life was Omar’s treasure. And this made Brando just a little jealous; jealous enough to recognize the feeling.
A feeling.
Chapter Twenty-nine
His solo performances were masturbatory works of art. Naked on the bed, his beautiful penis lay half alert and ready in its soft pubic nest. The way he stared at it, studied it way down there creeping and puttering up his stomach, past his navel, toward his nipple, was so innocent and clean and sexy. Watching the hand that found the propped-up knee and caressed it and worked itself gently down the thick calf and firm thigh was like watching a good dancer move to slow jazz. While the other hand, lathered with lube, stroked the bald-headed penis with a delicateness that made him whimper and purr.
How he carefully and caringly played with himself as the strokes took on a rhythm that picked up speed intensely.
Grabbing a handful of biceps, and then wetting a finger through soft shivering lips and caressing a nipple with moisture, he teased the slit of his tight-squeezing ass with that busy and slippery finger.
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