Love the One You're With

by James Earl Hardy

  “If Democrats, as you have indicated, have taken minorities for granted, it appears Republicans have ignored them altogether.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s just that the party sees me as an individual and not a member of any minority group. And I like that.”

  “But, Mr. Armstrong—”

  “Please, call me Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “Yes. Every­one does.”

  “Okay. Pete.” Pete … it sounds so white. “You are a member of a minority group—three to be exact—and some would argue that your unwillingness to demand the party see you for all that you are makes it con­ve­nient for them not to take the concerns of ­so-called minority groups seriously. Treating you like a victim is one thing; ignoring that certain groups do not have the access or opportunity others do is another.”

  “I think the party does take our concerns seriously. Minorities want the same things whites and het­ero­sex­u­als want: ­crime-free neighborhoods, good schools, jobs, homes, a family. The American Dream.”

  “I’m sure. But some of those things are harder to attain because of who one is not—and the party doesn’t make it any easier when ­they continually block efforts that would enable those who don’t have the advantages the ­so-called majority groups have always had.”

  “Well, people cannot expect the government to make things easier. That’s just the nature of a free marketplace. It’s not the government’s job to give a handout or a hand up.”

  Now, how did I know he would go there? I was ready … “It’s not about offering a handout or a hand up, but a handle.”

  That one slapped him across the face—his head actually swung left as if I backhanded him.

  I went on. “The playing field isn’t level, yet the party acts as if it is. And it isn’t going to change so long as the status quo is protected. What are you, as a Black gay man, doing on the inside to change that?”

  His face was blank. “Uh, could you excuse me for a moment? I have to use the rest room.”

  “Sure.” I shut off the tape.

  He returned five minutes later. His face was glistening. I guess he’d doused it with cold water.

  “May we continue?” I asked.

  “Yes, we can.”

  I turned it back on. “When we left off—”

  “I think it’s important to play by the rules if you want to make inroads in any industry or institution, and that’s what I’m doing in the party. My being Black and gay are incidental. They don’t have to be brought to the table.”

  “Are you saying that your being Black and gay just aren’t important—at least to the party—and because of that you won’t bring it to the table?”

  “I’m saying neither one has to be nor should they be made an issue.”

  “If that’s the case, then can one say that you aren’t making any inroads as a Black gay member?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I see myself—and I believe they do also—as a member who happens to be Black and gay.”

  “But you just don’t happen to be who you are. You do, however, happen to be a Republican at this moment. You may not be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year.”

  He considered this point, tapping his cup. “On the outside they may see a Black gay man, but they soon realize I can be just as dedicated to the cause as they are. That speaks volumes.”

  Uh-huh: You’re a sellout.

  “So, then, your being Black and gay do matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want them to see a Black gay man who is just like them—whoever them is.”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “So I go back to my original question: Have or do you feel any conflict as a Black gay man being a member of the Republican Party?”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  “So then it doesn’t bother you that quite a few members of the party are white men who have direct or indirect ties to white supremacist groups?”

  “Uh … one shouldn’t judge a man solely by those he knows but by what he does.”

  “Given how the party has demonized Black people, isn’t it possible that at least some of its more vocal members feel the same way about Black people as their racist friends or acquaintances in hate groups do?”

  “I don’t think the party can be held accountable for what some members say or do.”

  “It can if it does not disassociate itself from such imagery, and it hasn’t. In fact, it has thrived on racist messages, from Ronald Reagan’s welfare queens to George Bush’s Willie Horton to Jesse Helms’s dishonest attacks on affirmative action.”

  “Those are just three examples. I don’t believe they represent what the party is all about.”

  “Then what does the party say to you about Black people?”

  “To me?”

  “Yes, to you.”

  He pondered. “That I have just as much right to the American Dream as anyone else and that my color doesn’t have to be a hindrance.”

  This man was truly in denial.

  I decided to switch the topic. “Does it bother you that the party has been vigorously fighting, along with the Religious Right, gay civil rights laws across the country?”

  “Well, those laws are really unnecessary. All Americans are currently protected under the law from discrimination.”

  “What about those gay and lesbian Americans who are fired from a job, denied a place to live, and harassed at work or school because of who they are? They are not included under the Civil Rights Act of 1965.”

  “I doubt very seriously if that’s happening to many gays and lesbians.”

  Is he for real? “Even if it is happening to just one person, isn’t that reason enough to ensure that the majority does not trample on their rights?”

  He shrugged. “Majority rules. It can’t be about what special-interest groups want, for then government becomes a fractured mess trying to cater to the whims of every subgroup out there.”

  I was waiting for that phrase to come up … “Isn’t everyone, in his or her own way, a special-interest group?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, each person has specific interests that they want met. No one person is a single thing, as you can testify to, nor do they only occupy one station in life.”

  Looks like I pimp-slapped him again. “Uh … uh … I would say … you might be right.”

  “Well, then, how can the party go on and on about the Dems being the home of special interests when they have particular groups, like the Religious Right, in their front pockets, as well as millions of other Americans, like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, each one with a special-interest agenda of their own? And, mind you, the majority of those folks make up one of the biggest and most powerful special-interest groups in the country—white men.”

  He was on the ropes now. “I, uh … I think that there is a … I don’t believe that the two groups … special interests are organized blocks that work for the good of themselves and not the country as a whole.”

  “A while ago you said that the party doesn’t believe in individuals thinking or behaving like they are a part of a group. Yet judging from who has benefited the most from its agenda, one could argue that the party is a special-interest group working for the good of itself—its good white-male self.”

  He was on the mat; the countdown began … “Uh … uh … uh …”

  Click.

  The first side of the tape was finished—and so was he.

  As I started to turn it over, he pushed back from his seat. “You know, I’m sorry. I really have to go. I just remembered that there’s another project I promised to work on weeks ago and haven’t begun yet. I … maybe we can pick this up sometime tomorrow.” He threw on his coat.

  “Okay. Call me, for I would really love to finish.” Ha, I’d really love to finish annihilating your ass.

  “Uh, uh, I will.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I shook it. “Same here.”
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br />   And he literally ran out of the shop.

  I didn’t think I’d hear from him again, but I did. That next day he left a message on my machine:

  “Hello, Mr. Crawford. This is Pete, Pete Armstrong, from yesterday. Uh … I was hoping you’d … well, I don’t want to be featured in the article. Because of my position and the chance that this article could be in a major paper … I don’t think it would be wise for me to … be so public. I hope you understand. If you have any questions, just call me. Thank you.”

  Yeah, I understood: He didn’t want to look like a fool in print.

  Normally, I would’ve ignored such a request (I’d received it a couple of other times from folks who regretted saying certain things, but since they had given consent to the interview—on tape—what could they do?), but decided to let him off the hook. I could make the salient points I needed to without humiliating him. Besides, the next day I interviewed a Black lesbian Republican who made more sense than he did. She understood what kind of group she was a member of (“I have no doubt some of those folks would love to see me swinging from a tree”) but argued that it was important for African-Americans to be represented in both parties so that there was someone in the room who could point out the obvious (“You motherfuckers are racist and you need to check that shit”) when no one else would. She also set a timetable on how long she would stick around (“I’ve been in it for three years and will give it another three; if I don’t see any concrete steps being taken, I’ll be joining the Reform Party.”). Now, that I could respect; while I still didn’t agree with her choice, at least she was clear about who she was and realistic about what kind of group she was dealing with and what her role in it could be.

  Peter, however, was more concerned with impressing his white/hetero cohorts (can you say house nigger?). And he was just as evasive and transparent as many of those Caucasian Republicans I’d had the displeasure of discussing these issues with over the years. But one thing made that forty-five minutes we spent not such a total waste—he was cute. Confused, but cute.

  A few weeks later, after the Village Voice agreed to run the article, I was at home watching L.A. Law when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, hi. Mitchell?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Pete, Pete Armstrong. Remember, the guy you interviewed.”

  How could I forget? “Yes?”

  “I … uh … this may seem a little … I don’t know, out of place. Even weird. But … I was wondering if … if you’d like to maybe, uh … get together sometime for a drink … or dinner … or something.”

  I was stunned. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Uh, well … I guess I am.”

  Silence.

  “When?” I inquired.

  “Uh … I don’t know. Whenever you’d like to. I’m flexible.”

  “How about this Saturday night?” Did I just say that?

  “Oh, okay. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Where will you be taking me?” That’s right, where will he be taking me. After all, he asked me out …

  “Um … where would you like to go?”

  “A movie and dinner would be fine.”

  “Okay. It’s a date.”

  Dinner actually came first, at this quaint but not so little Italian restaurant named Luigi’s. Then we saw Jungle Fever. Then we ventured back to his place. And after we guzzled down a bottle of white zinfandel, I turned him the fuck out.

  To my knowledge, he was the first Black gay Republican I ever got busy with. But he upped me in the “first” department—I was the first Black man he ever slept with.

  I knew it before he officially confessed. The dead giveaways? His comments about the film (“I don’t know why Spike had to come down so hard on black men who date interracially; it’s not always about the stereotypes and the myths”). The men he’d found attractive over the years (Montgomery Clift, Sylvester Stallone, and Tom Cruise). And, what he grunted while I was going down on him (“Oh, yeah, suck that big, black cock!”) and he was going up in me (“Yeah, ya like that big black cock up in ya, huh?”).

  I nicely told him that any more declarations like those would kill, not spoil, the mood, so he’d have to come up with something new—and he did. He replaced the racist rhetoric with lots of golly gees, God dangs, oh shoots, and mother-fredericks.

  But he wasn’t so polite when I feasted on his two big Bon Bons (“Oooh, yeah, lick that ass like a lollipop!”) and banged him in three different positions—doggy, f.d.a.u. (face down, azz up), and propped over the kitchen sink, as his head occasionally banged against the wall (his line during each: “Oooh, yeah, motherfucker, do that nasty all up in me!”). When he said he was flexible, he wasn’t lying—I bent, folded, and stretched that limber, wiry body as if it were a rubber band.

  “I’ve never experienced anything like that before,” he puttered, still trying to catch his breath as his head lay on my chest after his first plugging.

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. I … I always thought that sleeping with another Black man would be like …”

  Oh, boy … here it comes.

  “… like sleeping with my brother, even my father.”

  I’ve heard that bullshit before from way too many other snow queens. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a convenient excuse self-hating Black men use to justify rejecting other Black men. After all, when was the first time you ever heard a white man say he couldn’t be with other white men because it’d be like fucking a family member?

  “It’s not that I never wanted to be with a Black man; it’s just that … it never happened.”

  Uh-huh … ’cause you never wanted it to happen.

  “I really am color-blind; I don’t see color.”

  Uh-huh … you’re so color-blind that you only “see” those who don’t have any.

  As repulsed as I was by the admissions, I wasn’t repulsed by the sex—it was some of the best I ever had. And, subconsciously, I believed I was helping him face and hopefully conquer his inhibitions/fears/demons about being with Black men, and that made me feel … well, superior. I got so arrogant that when I wore that ass out the second and third times that night, I’d boast: “Uh-huh, I bet none of them white boys could work it like this, huh?” But he didn’t mind; it just got him going even more.

  I was still spooked, though, over our getting together. Our verbal exchange made me … well … wet. I don’t know if I was turned on by him or turned on by the debate we had or turned on by the fact I was grinding him into a fine powder and he knew I was, or maybe it was a combination of all three, but I was turned on. And he admitted that that was why he contacted me—being in the hot seat not only made him hot, it made him hot for me.

  And, so, we became fast fuckers, fast friends, and fierce foes, in the figurative sense of the word. It was after we had one of our most heated debates (it almost always had something to do with the two R’s: Reagan, who he feels is the greatest president of the twentieth century; and racism, which he believes is no longer an obstacle for Black folks because those on the receiving end of it today are allegedly white) that we’d heat up the bedroom (or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the living room, or his car). I’d eat that ass with a vengeance, making his ears wiggle like a hummingbird’s wings, and fuck him until he was screeching like a pig caught in a fence. He no longer had a problem telling the difference between me and his former (white) pieces, and his groove got so good that I’d egg him on with “Be real Black for me, Daddy, yeah” (and he had the nine-inch-long, five-and-a-half-inch-thick dick to be real with).

  Gene gasped when he heard we had hit it—and gawked when he learned the blaze had lasted longer than a night. But he warned: “Chile, no matter how good you’re givin’ it to him and no matter how good he’s givin’ it to you, he will eventually leave you to go back to the white House.”

  Well, he did leave m
e—for Wiley House, a major high-tech design and production firm in Beverly Hills that constructs movie sets for the studios. His high-five-figure salary would be doubled, and he’d have the title of a VP after his name (something he’d always wished for). When he asked me to move with him, I didn’t know what to say. Despite his being culturally unconscious, I liked him; he had a gentle, funny side that I cherished (he did a laugh-out-very-loud impersonation of Tim Conway as Mr. Tudball from The Carol Burnett Show). I loved being with him—and I loved being with him. But did I love him? And was I in love with him? My feelings for him, my feelings for us, didn’t run deeper than my feelings for what we did. We were the ultimate fuck buddies: two people with little to nothing in common but who could hang out—and let it all hang out.

  We weren’t “dating”—unless one considers a relationship that’s ninety percent sex and ten percent other activities “dating” (as much boot knockin’ as Pooquie and I did during our first month and a half together, it paled in comparison with the number of carnal conquests Peter and I engaged in in our first few weeks). So as much as I liked the idea of being invited to join him (it’s not every day you receive what is basically a “marriage” proposal), I declined the offer. He seemed somewhat heartbroken that I did. Initially, the distance didn’t put out the flame, it just intensified it. For close to a year, we visited each other, probably trying to find something that would finally convince us that what we had was more than a physical thing. But that something never revealed itself and the fire fizzled out. After two years without any contact, I thought I’d never hear from him again …

  … UNTIL HE CALLED ME UP LAST WEEK. HE SAID HE’D be in town and would like to see me. Pooquie didn’t mind if I went out with him for coffee—“so long as he know you ain’t available.” Pooquie knew he could trust me—we had gone through this when I went to my high-school reunion and faced my first love, former gymnastics coach and current Rikers Island resident Warren Reid (he’s awaiting trial for raping one of his male students). But would Pooquie’s being out of town during this reunion make a difference?

  I figured that after several years, Peter would have changed in some way. But I knew one thing would remain the same: his tardiness. So, I had enough sense not to show up at the time he specified. He said 6:30; I got there at 6:50. And I wasn’t there a minute when he glided through the door.