The death of my daddy, though sudden, was not quite a surprise. He was seventy-seven years old and had spent his twilight years defying his doctor by not taking his high blood pressure medication. But the loss of my college sorority sister and closest confidante was devastating. Candance, the first person I had met at Spelman College, was not only beautiful and brilliant, but was just months away from her dream of becoming a physician. Her sudden illness hit like a ton of bricks. Candance, who told me hours after our initial meeting that she was going to become a doctor, marry, and have two children. She lived to see only one of those dreams come true, marrying Kelvin on her deathbed. Kelvin Ellis, the suspected culprit of Candance’s demise. Kelvin, the same man who introduced me to Raymond who I fell quickly and deeply in love with, the love I thought my heart had led me to. I never found out if Kelvin was in fact the man in Raymond’s secret life. I was too distraught to even think about it.
After the breakup with Raymond, I began to doubt my own sexuality. Had I not been enough woman to satisfy him, or had I been too much? I spent night after night crying myself to sleep, praying that my daddy and Candance would send down some advice, since I could no longer count on my heart.
I questioned how Candance and I could have fallen in love with men who were so incapable of loving us completely. Men who would never give the one thing they could give for free. Honesty.
My relationship with Raymond did slap me into reality. I realized that things were not always what they seemed. I now questioned any man I was interested in dating, asking if he was gay or bisexual or if he planned either in the future. Though I couldn’t always detect the truth, I got a lot of interesting responses, including one guy who threw wine in my face and then stormed out of the restaurant we were in. The wine tasted like a “yes” to me. There was also the guy who when I posed the question to him, politely excused himself from the dinner table, went into his bedroom, and returned minutes later, standing before me butterball, butt-naked with a certain part of his anatomy at attention. “Does this answer your question?” he smiled. I wanted to respond with a song I loved, “Is That All There Is?” But I know how men are about their … well, you know.
These dates from hell led me to my current beau, Dr. Pierce Gessler. In a decade where everybody was looking for safe sex, I was searching for safe love. With Pierce, I was able to maintain my self-imposed celibacy vow and still have a suitable escort when needed. Oh yes, Pierce is white and Jewish. So much for my dreams of marrying a BMW (Black Man Working) or a BMS (Black Man Straight). But Pierce was wonderful, supportive, and loving, without a lot of luggage. He helped me out in the lean times when I was getting more calls from temp agencies than my agent. An agent whom I later fired when I heard him tell a casting person at a soap opera that I was a dark-skinned Robin Givens.
Pierce was always telling me how beautiful I was. It made me feel good. No man besides my daddy had ever constantly told me I was beautiful. Raymond told me a couple of times but his honesty was in question. And even though I had won several beauty pageants and was third runner-up to Miss America, I never considered myself beautiful. When I looked in the mirror I saw a face enhanced by Fashion Fair makeup, and hair, even though it was my own, permed with the help of a colorful box of chemicals.
In addition to Pierce, I was also blessed with two wonderful friends, Delaney and Kyle. I first met Delaney at an audition and again later when she was doing hair and makeup for a show I was appearing in. My big Broadway starring role that closed after thirty-one performances. Delaney was very beautiful, a talented dancer and a just a little bit crazy. She made me smile and take a look at life from a more upbeat view. Kyle, Raymond’s best friend, had become a friend through default and, in a selfish way, our friendship allowed me to keep in contact with Raymond without really being in contact. Kyle was handsome in a cute little boy sorta way. Cornbread brown skin, deep-set brown eyes, thin black curly hair that was starting to recede, and a smile that could dilute darkness. Kyle was openly gay and didn’t pull any punches. You knew where he stood. I could deal with that. He was my first openly gay friend, and he kept me in stitches with his quick wit.
My career in New York, similar to my love life, had been one of highs and lows. Moments when I didn’t feel very successful, times when I would have given anything to be sitting on the porch back home watching my dad eating sardines and crackers while I munched on strawberry Now ’n’ Laters. After signing with another agent, I was constantly being told that I was talented but they were looking for a different type. But I wasn’t going to complain because I was back on Broadway, waiting in the wings, again, as the understudy for the female lead in Jelly’s Last Jam. I have been in the show for six months but I’ve never gone on. Renee Kelly, the lady I’m understudying, once commented in her Chatty Cathy doll-fashion, “I think it’s so unprofessional to miss a performance at any time. I mean these poor people pay their hard-earned money to see me.” I took this to mean, don’t even think about going on, Miss Thang, not now, not ever.
So in this life that offered more rainstorms than rainbows, I relied on my faith, my trio of friends, and a great therapist. I was learning to count and enjoy my blessings. I realized that luck ran out, but blessings never did. I was constantly employed on stage or in a steno pool, I had my name on a lease in a rent-controlled building and a little money in the bank. And even though Pierce was not the man I’d dreamed of as a little girl, he treated me like royalty. The choice I had to make was whether or not I wanted to wear this crown. For now my response was similar to that note from the first suitor of my youth; like then, I think I’ll circle maybe.
Part One
Lust
Lust the
One You’re With
One
The ringing phone seemed to shake the darkened hotel room. I quickly reached for the phone, knocking over a glass and sending my watch to the floor.
“Good morning, Mr. Tyler. This is your 8:30 A.M. wake-up call. Thank you for staying at the Capitol Hill Hyatt Regency. Have a great day,” the computerized voice said.
I noticed a shaft of light coming through the thick curtains as I pulled myself up from the bed and headed toward the bathroom. I picked up the green folder that included the charges for our three-day stay. Reading material for the plane, I thought.
I relieved myself and stumbled back into the still dim room.
“Kyle,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” Kyle mumbled.
“You up?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I’ll take my shower first. What time does your train leave?”
“Ten-thirty. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
I returned to the small bathroom, started the shower, and turned on the hot water in the sink. I rummaged through my shaving bag to locate my razor and toothbrush. The large mirror forced a glimpse of my red eyes and the haggard look on my face. Boy, what a weekend! I couldn’t believe it was over. When I got back to Atlanta the first thing I was going to do was sleep—for days.
Kyle and I were in Washington, D.C., for the annual Memorial Day weekend, when thousands upon thousands of black gay men convened in the nation’s capital in sort of a silent fraternity convention. The parties had been nonstop meetin’ and greetin’. During the day there were brunches and in the evening barbecues and numerous house parties. The Sunday preceding Memorial Day, the attendees had waited hours just to get inside a packed bar called Rails, a massive warehouse located near the Navy yard that could not accommodate the men who had simply taken over the city. Kyle went to Rails and said it took him three hours to get in but it was worth the wait. I opted for a more elegant affair given by a group called The Men. I’d told Kyle, “I am going to a party where the men may be a little older, but the majority of them are homeowners and not simply owners of Metro cards.”
Since I didn’t go to gay bars in Atlanta, this weekend played an important part in my social life. It was exciting seeing so many good-loo
king black men in one place. The only sad part was that the three-day holiday was so short and since I was not engaging in sex, I could only look and lust. Still, I met some interesting men—one in particular, an attractive sports lawyer from Philadelphia named Errol, who when I repeated his name replied, “Yes, Errol, like in Flynn.”
Errol was interesting but we both faced the you’re-too-nice-for-me syndrome—a common syndrome in the black gay community, where nice, good-looking, educated, black gay or bisexual men didn’t mind being friendly, but would never date each other. The funny thing was most men would say they didn’t like the syndrome but no one did anything about it. Some traditions were hard to break, thus making it difficult to establish long-lasting relationships that weren’t based on sex and penis size. And black women thought they had it tough finding a suitable mate.
I quickly showered and threw my clothes into my leather garment bag. I had taken great pains packing for the trip and now all of my clothes were wrinkled and stained, and smelled of my various colognes.
My flight to Atlanta was due to leave at nine forty-five so I was cutting things close.
“Well, buddy, I’m outta here. I’ll call you later tonight when I get home,” I said.
“Have a safe flight, baby. It’s been fun. Real fun,” Kyle said as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, it has been fun. I don’t know why we do this to each other.”
“Yeah, me either. You get on outta here before I get emotional. I’ll see you the next time you’re in the city. Now seriously think about meeting me in L.A. for the Fourth of July weekend.”
“I will. Hey, you know I love you. Have a safe trip home. Tell Nicole I send my best and to get rid of that white boy,” I joked as I gave Kyle a hug.
“I’ll make sure I tell her just that,” he responded.
As I headed out the door I heard Kyle call my name again.
“Ray.”
“Yeah, Kyle?”
“Tell Jared.”
I nodded in wordless agreement and then moved quickly down the hotel hallway to the elevator and rushed through the lobby. The doorman, whose face I had grown accustomed to during the weekend, gave me a broad smile and signaled a taxi as I came through the automatic door. “Have a safe trip and come back and see us again,” he instructed.
“Thanks. I will,” I replied and firmly placed two crumpled dollar bills into his large hands.
As he slammed the door to the taxi, he leaned through the front window and told the driver, “National Airport.”
As the taxi sped away from the hotel and down Fourteenth Street I enjoyed one last glimpse of the nation’s capital. It had been a great weekend, but I was excited about my return home. I hoped Jared would be waiting at the gate when my flight arrived. Knowing him, I was sure he’d be right there.
We arrived at the busy National Airport, and after paying the taxi driver, I stopped briefly to enjoy the honey-sweet morning air. It was a clear day, the sky was a cloudless, piercing blue, and I perceived that spring was making its retreat as summer approached.
At the gate I detected trouble; the line was nearly a mile long—at least it looked like a mile. I checked the monitors and saw that my flight was now leaving almost an hour behind schedule. I overheard people in line talking about weather problems in Cincinnati. I thought about Jared and hoped he’d call the airline before heading out. While I pondered my next move, my eyes began to travel around to the various news and food stands, but I decided to get my shoes shined instead. There were a lot of familiar faces roaming around the airport from the weekend. The place had the look of a large meeting of African-American men, but the majority of these men were members of the silent frat.
There were three chairs at the shoeshine stand. Two elderly black men were shining the shoes of customers as though it was their last shine and one young, attractive black female was just finishing up a client. She looked my way and gently tapped her empty chair. I quickly jumped into the well-worn chair and she began rolling up the legs of my black linen pants with one hand and offering me a copy of the Washington Post with the other.
“Where you going?” she inquired.
“Atlanta.”
“Atlanta. That’s where you from?”
“Yes. That’s where I’m living for the time being.”
“How do you like it?” she questioned.
“Oh, I love Atlanta. A great city,” I said with pride.
“I heard there are a lot of jobs down there with the Olympics and all,” she commented.
“Well, it’s a little bit better than the rest of the country, but the jobs are still pretty scarce.”
“I heard there are a lot of good-looking men down there. I mean with all the colleges and stuff.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” I lied, suppressing a smile. Of course Atlanta was full of good-looking black men.
“I know this, if you’re an example of how the men look, then I’m getting my ass in that bag of yours,” she joked with a girlish giggle.
“Now stop teasing me,” I laughed.
We were both enjoying the exchange when suddenly her laughter stopped. While busy shining my shoes she spotted an attractive, well-built black man, who from his outward mannerisms led you to believe he was gay. Actually I knew he was gay, since I had seen him at one of the weekend parties. He noticed my gaze and gave me a broad smile, revealing beautiful teeth, and I returned a polite, chilly nod.
“You know that’s a damn shame,” the shine lady muttered.
“What?”
“A motherfuckin’ shame. Here he is all that man and he wants to be a woman. You know I don’t understand why all our brothers got to be sissies. I guess that’s some more shit the white man has laid on our brothers. If they ain’t in jail then they’re punks.”
By now I had turned my eyes back to the newspaper, not looking at her or the guy under attack. I just wanted her to finish so that I could get down and head to my gate.
“What do you think about that?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Excuse me?” I asked with concealed resentment.
“How do you feel about all these black sissies? It seems like a whole army of them have invaded the district this weekend. Just a damn shame. A damn shame,” she repeated.
This lady was burning. Her cheerful face of moments ago was now painted with a sour look. I could envision smoke coming from her ears as she rolled down my pants leg and tapped the toe of my shoes. She gazed around the airport with a laser stare and the expertise of an air traffic controller about to direct the landing of a troubled plane. She didn’t look in my direction until I placed a five-dollar bill in her hand.
“Keep the change,” I suggested dryly.
“Thank you, sir. You have a safe flight now,” she said in a preoccupied tone.
I grabbed my bags and started toward my gate. About five steps into my walk, I turned and for a moment became frozen like a frame in a comic strip. The hatred in her face and voice bothered me deeply. The fact that she was black made my feelings more intense. I released myself from my freeze frame and slowly reapproached the shine stand and the angry young lady.
“Miss,” I called out.
“You back already,” she grinned.
“You know you should really be careful what you say. You never know who you’re talking to,” I said.
She gave me a puzzled look, obviously unaware of what my statement meant. I walked away feeling a little bit better about myself but still saddened by her outburst. I didn’t look back at her nor did she respond verbally as I walked at an accelerated pace toward the gate. Now I was ready to go home.
The large leather plane seat provided a warm sanctuary from which to think and map out a game plan. A friendly ticket agent had upgraded my economy ticket to first class. My smile never failed me. The upgrade was a welcome relief because I could see that coach was packed with what could only be former Greyhound Bus frequent travelers.
; I thought of Kyle’s parting words, that I must tell Jared how I truly felt about him and my sexuality. For the most part I thought Kyle, as usual, was right, but a remote fear kept doubts lingering. What if Jared responded the way the lady in the airport had to black gay men? No, he wouldn’t do that. But what would happen to our now near perfect relationship? If Jared was in fact gay and was simply uncertain about me, then it could be the start of a truly perfect relationship. But if he wasn’t gay and he distanced himself from me? How I would mourn the loss of his friendship. And if what goes around comes around then I was due for payback because of all the pain I brought on Nicole and Quinn. The last time I was truthful with someone I loved about my sexuality the relationship ended abruptly.
I waited for so long because I strongly believed the best romantic relationships were those solidly based on friendship. I didn’t, however, believe that every special friendship would turn romantic. Kyle and I had been friends for over a decade and there had never been a trace of romance. Yes, he was very smart and attractive and one of the most self-assured black men, gay or straight, I had ever met. He was gay, make no bones about it. He relished being gay—the lifestyle—and enjoyed everything it had to offer.
Kyle had overcome alcohol and drug abuse and was now the owner of a small but successful costume design and fashion firm, Picture This. It was great seeing him enjoy the weekend of parties without drinking or doing drugs. I was not certain, however, if he had conquered his addiction for strong, well-built, and of course well-hung black men, but I was still quite proud of him. Kyle was one of the reasons that I missed New York. We still talked almost every day on the phone, but it wasn’t like the old days when he would phone and minutes later we would be on the subway headed toward the Village or catching a taxi to the now closed Nickel Bar.
Kyle felt strongly that honesty was the best policy when it came to Jared. A few years back he hadn’t felt that way when I was dating Nicole and decided to come clean with her. He’d felt that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. I guess that proved that even the gayest of men could still be chauvinistic in their attitudes about females and the truth.
Just As I Am Page 2