Just As I Am

by E. Lynn Harris

  Standing there drying off I felt my sex begin to take on a magical weight encouraged by nude pictures of both Jared and Basil in my mind. Instead of rubbing the creamy, sweet-smelling lotion over my body as I normally did, I put it in the palm of my hand and then placed my hand on my sex, gently moving it up and down with the picture of Basil’s butt and Jared’s face in my mind.

  Moments later with a great deal of tension released, I couldn’t tell the difference between the lotion and my own body fluids. I took the towel and wiped my sex muscle, ignored the white jockey underwear I had laid out, and crawled between the white cotton sheets of my bed. I’d reached up to turn off the lamp near my bed when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Ray, whatcha doing?” Kyle asked.

  “Kyle, just got through jerking off. You know, safe sex,” I laughed.

  “You got that right. Need I ask who you were thinking about? Jared right?” Kyle said.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Oh.”

  I realized that I hadn’t told Kyle about running into Basil and that I was defending him in a case.

  “You’ll never guess who I’m representing.”

  “Who, somebody famous and fine?”

  “Well, you could say that. Basil Henderson.”

  “No shit. What did that fool do?”

  “Beat up some guy for making a pass at him.”

  “That flaming asshole. He is such a fucking jerk. I hope you’re not going to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Defend him,” Kyle said.

  “Well, Kyle, I sorta have to. I mean Gilliam assigned the case to me. I do handle all the football players,” I defended.

  “But, Ray, do you think that’s right?”

  “What?”

  “Now don’t be so stupid. Do you realize how many of the children are beat up daily by assholes like Basil? If anything you should be helping the guy he beat up.”

  There was a period of silence while I contemplated what Kyle was saying. To be honest I never thought about the true implications of Basil’s actions.

  “But if I refused to represent him I would have to explain why to Gilliam. I don’t think I’m ready for her to know why I shouldn’t represent Basil.”

  “Well, you should really think about it. What if Basil had beaten me up? Would you still defend him?”

  “Of course not!” I shouted.

  “Well, it’s the same thing. You know how I like to flirt with confused boys. It could have just as easily been me that Basil beat up. You really should check yourself, Ray. I’m not saying you have to be out at work. But you’re actually promoting gay bashing when you defend people like Basil,” Kyle stated.

  “I really hadn’t thought about it, Kyle, but it might be too late. Tomorrow I meet with the guy and his attorney. It’s really too late to pull out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I don’t know. It just never came up.”

  “Yeah, right,” Kyle mumbled.

  “I’m serious, Kyle.”

  “Well, maybe you should get Basil to confess to being gay. Make a public statement. Go on the ‘Oprah Winfrey Show.’ When people realize that people like him are living a life in the closet it might stop some of the hate.”

  “He would never do that. He’s still in denial.”

  “Like somebody else I know,” Kyle snapped.

  “Who me?”

  “I didn’t say it. You did, mister.”

  “Oh, come on, Kyle, let’s not start fighting over this shit. It’s not worth it.”

  “Well, it might not be worth it to you, but it’s definitely worth it to all those kids being beaten and killed every day by people just like your client.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I murmured.

  “You know I’m right.”

  “So let’s change the subject. When you called you sounded like you had some news,” I said.

  “I forgot. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you later in the week but think about what I said.”

  “I will. Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  “Kyle.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you still love me if I go ahead and defend Basil?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Good night, Ray. Go back to jerking your dick.”

  “Good night, Kyle.”

  When I hung up the phone I sat up in my bed, folded my arms around my knees, and lowered my chin to them. Kyle’s arguments lingered in my thoughts like the darkness that covered my silent bedroom.

  Basil sat in a chair at the end of the long walnut conference table and doodled absently on the yellow legal pad as we waited for Marshall and his attorney. Basil appeared nervous but was trying desperately not to let on.

  “How long do you think this is going to take?” Basil asked.

  “What? The meeting or us getting this mess cleared up?” I asked.

  “The meeting,” Basil replied.

  “Oh, probably about two hours.”

  “Aw,” Basil said softly.

  “Basil, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure!”

  “Do you feel any remorse for what you did?”

  “Yeah, sure I do,” Basil said, lifting himself from his slumped position in the chair.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “You know,” Basil said.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?” I suggested.

  Just as Basil was about to respond, Melanie walked in with Marshall and his attorney, who was a slightly overweight young black woman, not the man I’d expected. Basil’s intense gray eyes got bigger and there was a spooked softness to them.

  “I’m Sherrod Jones,” the young woman said as she extended her hand toward me. “I’ve taken over Mr. Marshall’s case.”

  “Raymond Tyler, Jr.,” I said. “And you must be Mr. Marshall.”

  “Yes, I am, but you can call me Charles,” the tall, thin gentleman said.

  “Ms. Jones, this is my client, John B. Henderson,” I said, motioning my hand toward Basil.

  Basil got up from his chair and shook Ms. Jones’s hand but ignored Charles, who was attired in a horrible-looking burnt-orange suit. His large head of hair didn’t know if it wanted to be a Jheri Curl or natural and was combed back into a short ponytail. He looked as if he were a client of Reverend Al Sharpton’s House of Hair. Marshall’s elfin features didn’t look nearly as bad as the pictures and I thought I could see signs of makeup. If it hadn’t been for his hair, I guess you could have called him nice-looking.

  Charles took the seat closest to me and his scent clashed with whatever Ms. Jones was wearing. He crossed his legs and arms so tightly that he looked like a human pretzel. I took note of his long fingernails, which were covered with gloss polish.

  Our clients posed quite a contrast—Basil dressed like a corporate executive rather than a jock, and Marshall looking as though he were on his way to a tent revival meeting.

  Ms. Jones started the meeting by stating that they’d received our new offer but that it was not nearly enough considering her client’s pain and suffering, not to mention his embarrassment. She expressed her interest in not having to go through a lengthy trial but let it be known that she and Mr. Marshall ultimately had no problem with that possibility.

  I asked Ms. Jones if I could question her client and she nodded her head in agreement and said, “If Mr. Marshall doesn’t have any objections.”

  My first questions were regarding Marshall’s place of residence, his age, and other information that was a matter of public record. He bristled slightly when I questioned his employment record and his brief period of incarceration.

  When I asked him if Basil’s understanding of his question had been correct, Ms. Jones interrupted and told him he didn’t have to answer that. Marshall didn’t answer my question but volunteered, “I was
just trying to be nice to the asshole.”

  I asked Marshall if the bar in question was the type of establishment that he normally frequented and if not, what other places he went to in Atlanta.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Ms. Jones said as she jumped from her seat. Her client ignored her, looked me directly in the eyes, and said, “I go all over. I’m that type of person. Versatile,” he added.

  All during my questioning Basil remained silent, looking around the conference room, doodling, and occasionally raising his eyebrows at some of Charles Marshall’s responses. When I realized that I wasn’t going to get Marshall to admit what I already knew, I took a piece of paper, wrote $150,000 on it, and pushed it in front of Ms. Jones and Charles Marshall.

  “Is this your final offer?” Ms. Jones asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied, looking at Basil out of the corner of my eye.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see you in court, Mr. Tyler. Nice meeting you,” Ms. Jones said as she grabbed her briefcase and purse and motioned for her client to get up.

  Just as they were preparing to leave the room, Marshall turned around and faced Basil. “Hey you,” he called out in a whisper.

  “Me?” Basil said with a confounded look on his face.

  “Yes, you. You picked the wrong one to fuck with, Mr. Man. I know your T and when I’m finished everyone in the world is going to know,” he said as he snapped his fingers in the air and turned with the dramatic flair of a runway model and followed Ms. Jones out of the room. Basil’s face appeared to turn scarlet as he struggled to remain seated at the opposite end of the table and to keep his volatile temper under control.

  After the meeting I calmed Basil down and told him my reservations about handling his case. I explained that the only way I would stay on the case was if we could settle it out of court. I also informed him thathis actions could be classified as a hate crime, which was a federal offense. I realized after my conversation with Kyle that defending Basil would mean attacking Charles Marshall and that would be just as low as Basil’s beating. And even though I was a little put off by Marshall’s demeanor and his threat to out Basil, I did realize that no one deserved to be beaten up just because of who he was.

  Fourteen

  “Do you think you’re ready, Nicole?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Well …” Dr. Huntley said as she removed her glasses.

  “I think if I’m going to marry Pierce I should have sex with him beforehand.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t think I should?”

  “Nicole, that’s not my decision. So you’ve decided to marry Pierce?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think. What about your reservations?”

  “The part about me accepting because I didn’t want to embarrass him in the restaurant?”

  “That’s a start.”

  “Well, since I haven’t broke off the engagement it must mean that I do love him and should marry him.”

  “Really? Do you think it’s fair to Pierce? What about your religious beliefs?”

  “My religious beliefs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes I think I use religion as a crutch.”

  “That’s a pretty powerful statement. Why do you feel that way?”

  “I use my religion to keep from making decisions. I miss sex. My religious teaching says no sex without marriage, but I’m not so sure. Of course, I’ll have safe sex, but I have to admit to myself that I long to be held and … you know …”

  “You know?”

  “Yes, real sex.”

  “Real sex? I don’t quite understand what you’re saying, Nicole.”

  “Having a man make love to my entire body.”

  “Okay. That’s clear.”

  “Is my time up, Dr. Huntley?”

  “Yes, Nicole. It’s up.”

  Dr. Huntley made some good points. I was trying to justify in my mind why I should go ahead and sleep with Pierce, despite the fact that it went against my religious teaching, although that hadn’t, unfortunately, stopped me with Raymond. I didn’t feel bad after the fact either. But Pierce wasn’t Raymond Tyler. I mean sex with Raymond was wonderful and I felt like a complete woman afterward and my religion didn’t enter my mind. I only felt regret when I found out Raymond was bisexual.

  A part of me thought that if I had sex with Pierce it would damage our friendship; having a strong friendship with my future mate was still at the top of my list of husband requirements. As much as I treasured the friendship we had, though, I also wanted to be kissed, held, and touched in places that I now allowed only my own hands to touch.

  When I talked with Sheila about my lustful thinking she, of course, advised me to pray for strength. That was easy for her to say; she was married to a handsome man and talked freely about how wonderful their sex life was. When she reminded me that sex was blessed only in marriage I wanted to inform her that if you went strictly by the word, then sex was really only for procreation. Delaney, on the other hand, agreed with Kyle that I should sleep with Pierce before marrying him. That way, they suggested, I could still back out if the sex wasn’t right. Once we were married, bad sex would then become an issue for a marriage counselor. I knew that at times my Ms. Polly Purebred routine was wearing thin on Pierce. To be honest it was getting on my nerves.

  The starting date for rehearsals for To Tell the Truth had been put off until late July while the producers finished casting the chorus and understudies. I was really interested in whom they would choose to understudy me—I wondered if they would choose someone with my skin tone—and anxious to be in the company of Timothy. Timothy Britton really aroused my interest. I saw him a couple of times after our first rehearsal and he stopped me once when I almost stepped I front of a taxi while we walked down Eighth Avenue. When he touched me I felt excited over my entire body. But Timothy wasn’t really an option for me. I still didn’t know what his sexual preference was and love affairs with cast members in shows I’d been in always spelled disaster.

  Kyle had done some checking and hadn’t found a thing, but upon meeting Timothy said, “Anybody that pretty was bound to have a key.” (Kyle and I had this little game we played when we were out in mixed company and Delaney and I wanted to know if a certain guy was gay. If the guy in question was gay or bisexual, Kyle would ask one of us for his keys. “It’s time to open the door so I need my keys,” he would say.) When I chastised him for thinking everyone was gay he assured me that wasn’t the case. “It takes two heterosexual people to create one of us,” Kyle said. “Why on earth would we want everyone to be gay?” he questioned.

  Kyle remained my only constant support in regard to my upcoming wedding. He brought over sketches of gowns he wanted to make for me. Every time I tried to put it off, he said, “If you don’t marry Pierce you’re going to eventually marry someone and this way you won’t have to worry in case I’m not available. You know I’m going to be really major one day.” I didn’t know if he was really anxious for me to marry Pierce or just wanted to brush up on his wedding dress sewing skills.

  Wednesday afternoon between shows I went up to Kyle’s apartment on Ninety-sixth and Broadway to look at some fabrics he was really excited about. This would be the first time I had been to his apartment since I’d dated Raymond. Dr. Huntley would definitely consider this a major breakthrough.

  Kyle was very understanding about my not coming to visit him, but he assured me I would feel nothing. When I arrived at the building lobby I started to feel a wee bit strange. That was probably because the same elderly black guy who was the doorman when Ray lived there was still on duty. He gave me a knowing smile and told me that Kyle and Delaney were expecting me and to go on up. Once I arrived on the floor I expected to see Tyler on the door but instead there was Kyle’s business card and a black metal plate with Picture This on the heavy steel door. When I walked into the apartment I realized that I had nothing to worry about. Kyle had turned the entire li
ving and dining room into an office showroom. There were sewing dummies everywhere and a large black desk that faced the picture window overlooking Broadway. It was a lot more crowded and messier than the way Raymond had kept it.

  “I don’t believe it,” Kyle said.

  “Believe what?” I asked.

  “You finally made it. Now, you’re not going to pass out, are you?” Kyle joked.

  “Oh, pleeze,” I said as I gave Delaney a hug.

  “Hey, girl,” Delaney said in a depressed tone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “Please don’t ask her!” Kyle suggested.

  “My life is a mess,” Delaney said.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Girl, you wouldn’t understand,” Delaney sighed.

  “What do you mean, I don’t understand? Aw, come here and let me give you another hug,” I offered.

  “That’s my problem. I spend too much time with you two,” Delaney said.

  “Well, excuse me, Miss Thing. I know what you need,” Kyle said.

  “Please, Kyle, don’t say a stiff dick. That’s the last thing I need.”

  “Now see, there you go jumping to the wrong conclusions. I was going to suggest a nice glass of wine. Maybe you need a woman,” Kyle joked.

  “Do you have some wine?” Delaney asked as she rolled her eyes at Kyle.

  Before Kyle responded he looked over at me. I knew that Kyle was a recovering alcoholic and my face had that what are you doing with alcohol in your apartment look.

  “And before you ask what I’m doing with wine, Ms. Raymonette, no, I’m not drinking,” Kyle said as he looked me directly in the face.

  “What are you talking about?” I defended.

  “So do you want a glass too?” Kyle asked.

  “Now you know I have to go back to the theater,” I said.

  “So what. Like Miss Thing is going to let you go on,” Kyle laughed.

  While Kyle was in the small kitchen, Delaney walked very slowly over to the window and then back over to Kyle’s sound system. I had never seen her look so sad. She grabbed a stack of Kyle’s CD’s and looked swiftly through them, then grabbed his cassettes and did the same. Just as I was going to go over and ask Delaney what the problem was, Kyle returned with a glass of wine in one hand and a glass of water in the other.