“I think that’s one of the reasons why I don’t have many gay friends.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. All that bitch this and girl that and Miss Thing …”
“All gay men don’t talk like that or address each other that way.”
“All of y’all don’t, but a lot of y’all do.”
“What is a lot? Many? Most? The majority?”
“The majority of the ones I’ve been around.”
“Uh, I know you like to think of yourself as a worldly man, Mr. Simms, but you certainly haven’t met or known enough of us to make that judgment. In fact, you never could.”
He nodded. “Okay. Point taken.”
“You said that’s one of the reasons why you don’t have many gay friends. What are the others?”
“No others. Just one. I’ve found too many gay men to be biphobic.”
“Biphobic?”
“Yeah.”
I snickered. “Like there is such a thing …?”
“Yeah, there is. I don’t know if I’d say gay men hate bisexual men, but quite a few sure don’t like us.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because, according to many of the ones I’ve come in contact with, I am a confused brother who can’t make up his mind. Or, a confused brother who is just denying his true feelings.”
“Those feelings being …?”
“That I’m actually gay and in denial about it.”
“Ah …”
“I’m sure there are folks out here who are gay calling themselves bi because they know that identifying as that will make them …”
“Seem less threatening?”
“Yeah. All of us aren’t like that. But you let some of these gay folks tell it, we’re all just perpetratin’. Gay folks complain all the time how straight folks won’t respect who they are, yet turn around and treat us the same way straight folks treat them. I mean, we’re always an afterthought—if we’re thought of at all.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about a line from a movie.”
“What movie?”
“California Suite. Maggie Smith plays this Oscar loser whose husband, Michael Caine, is bisexual. But in her eyes, he’s more homosexual than bisexual, since he’s not sleeping with her but is fooling around with men.”
“That’s funny?”
“What’s funny is what she says to him when they’re discussing his sexuality: ‘If there’s anything I hate it’s a bisexual homosexual—’”
“‘Or is it the other way around?’” he asked, finishing the joke.
“You’ve seen the film?”
“No. But it’s been said to me by gay men before. Now I know where it comes from. I guess the reverse was true for some of the gay brothers I’ve tried talkin’ to: they wanted me to pledge that I wouldn’t be attracted to women when I’m with them. I mean, how am I supposed to turn off that button?”
“Not that I’m taking their side …”
“Of course not …” He winked.
“But maybe they wanted some assurance that you wouldn’t cheat on them.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t they ask me to turn off the button that also attracts me to men?”
Jood point.
“If my steppin’ out was the real issue,” he continued, “that woulda been the issue across the board. But they only felt threatened by my attraction to women.”
“Well, maybe that was because when they found themselves involved with a bisexual man, he always cheated on them with a woman.”
“But what if he cheated on them with a man? Wouldn’t that be just as bad?”
“For some it wouldn’t be. I guess the reasoning goes: ‘Why would he step out on me with another man when he’s already got one?’ He’s more likely to pluck the fruit he doesn’t have at home.”
“Not necessarily. Some men are just straight-up dawgs. Whoever they can get it from and however they can get it, they do.”
“Speaking of: Do you know what Gene says about your kind?”
“Hmmph, what, in his infinite wisdom, does he say?”
“Bisexuals are afraid to be by themselves, that’s why they play in both arenas.”
“See, there’s the other myth: We want to have our cakes and eat them, too.”
“Well, don’t y’all?”
“Certain kinds of cakes, yeah.” He eyed my rump. “I can’t speak for all, but I don’t see why I can’t be involved with both sexes at the same time.”
“Like now?”
“Yeah.”
I recalled our exchange in the elevator. “What do you mean by ‘involved with’?”
“I am currently dating two people, a man and a woman. They, too, are bisexual.”
“And what does dating constitute?”
“I am seeing them socially—and sexually.”
I decided to go there. “Is one of them Noble?”
“No.”
“Have you two dated?”
“Why you wanna know, so you can write some exposé on the sexcapades of the stars?”
“No. Watching you two, it just seemed like …”
He hesitated. “We’ve been … he’s … you could say I’m his East Coast Hookup.”
That wasn’t hard to figure out. “When he’s on the East Coast, you two hook up.”
“Yup.”
“Did you two hook up last night?”
“He wanted us to.”
“And you didn’t want to?”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“ ’Cause … Noble is a Player with a capital P. He ain’t the kind of brother you get all wrapped up in emotionally ’cause he don’t feature that. But the more we …”
“Hook up?”
“Yeah. The more hooked I get on him. And the more hooked up I want us to be.”
“And he don’t wanna be?”
“No. He wants to see me, but he don’t wanna see me like that.”
“He just wants to see you between the sheets.”
“It don’t matter where. We done it everywhere except between the sheets.”
Hmm … I wonder if they, like Kevron and Bryant, have also utilized that out-of-the-way, “out of order” bathroom at the Hit Factory … “Are you hooked on the other two people?”
“Mmm … not really. I like them both a lot and we have lots of fun. But … the sister doesn’t want a relationship, which is fine with me. She goin’ through lots of drama with her ex, the father of her son, and I ain’t lookin’ to be nobody’s stepdaddy—at least not right now. And the brother … well, he’s a little married.”
“A little married?”
“Separated from his wife, seeking a divorce.”
“Does that mean he is actively seeking the divorce?”
“He is. But not because of me. We met a year after they agreed to the separation and he moved out.”
“Do these two people know about each other?”
“Yup.”
“And they’re okay with that?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they be? We’re all adults. And we’re not exclusively seeing each other.” He held up his left hand. “Ain’t no ring on this finger.”
“Do you want to marry one day?”
“Yup.”
“When you do, how will you handle not being able to have intimate relationships with other men?”
“Who says I want to marry a woman?”
OK … “So you would settle down with a man?”
“Of course.”
“How would you handle not being able to have intimate relationships with a woman?”
“The same way any heterosexual or homosexual person would who is committed to their mate. I’ve been able to handle it before, whether I was with a man or a woman. It’s not that hard. But sometimes I didn’t have to put those feelings on hold.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there is such a thing as an open relationship.”
An open relationship. This is one concept I’ve never understood. But since he brought it up … “What’s the sense of being committed to one person if you both plan on stepping out of the relationship?”
I guess he’d been down this road before; his tone was a little snippy. “In the kind of open relationship I’m talkin’ about, we wouldn’t be stepping out of the relationship. It would be a part of the relationship.”
“You mean … you two would share this person?”
“Share isn’t the right word.” He thought about it. “Experience together. That’s the best way to describe it.”
“A ménage à trois …?”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “Don’t look so disgusted.”
“I look disgusted?”
“Yes, you do. I take it you’ve never been in one before?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t knock it till you rock it. Just like an open relationship.”
“Uh … how long did this open relationship last?”
“Three years. It was the longest relationship I ever had—and the best one I ever had.”
“You were with Lance longer …”
“That’s right, I was with Lance; we weren’t in a relationship.”
Mmm … “And, this open relationship … was it with a man?”
“Yes.”
“A bisexual man?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why did you two break up?”
“He decided he wanted to pursue something with a woman, in the hopes of getting married.”
“And the only men you two slept with were each other?”
“As far as I know.”
“And when you both wanted a woman, you found one who would … be with the both of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it hard to find a woman who would agree to something like that?”
“Not at all. Women can be just as if not more freaky than men; they’re just socialized not to express it. Hell, a couple of the sisters we hooked up with got off watchin’ us fuck each other!”
I’m far from being a prude and I didn’t want to be judgmental, but … “I … I don’t know. It … it still seems like cheating.”
“How can it be cheating when you both accept it as a part of the relationship and engage in it as a couple? Winston and I just acknowledged up front that it’s impossible for one person to give you everything you want or need. I mean, isn’t that why you’re here?”
I drew back. “I’m sorry?”
“You see things in me, want things from me, that you don’t see or get from your man.”
I became flustered. “You’re being mighty presumptuous, not to mention arrogant.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think I’m wrong.”
He wasn’t.
“Many people would come down on you—and I’m sure your man would be one of those people—but I don’t think folks should be judged so harshly for indiscretions. I think most people want to do the right thing, but … life is not a fairy tale. We don’t live happily ever after. I learned that from my father.”
“Then do you think it’s a waste of time for any of us to commit ourselves to one person?”
“No, I don’t. But it is a waste of time romanticizing that commitment. Shit just doesn’t happen, people make shit happen—and it’s always gonna make a stink. But we always seem to be so surprised when it happens, as if we’re too special for it to happen to. I think it’s better to recognize the limitations of love and our limitations to love. Not that I’m endorsing infidelity, but … sometimes people meet and … something happens. Ignoring it isn’t always the easiest thing to do.” He glanced at me. “Is it?”
No … it isn’t. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it. Besides, he already knew the answer.
So I moved away from that subject. “Would you still be with, uh, Winston if he didn’t want to walk down the aisle?”
“I would.” He smirked, knowing he could’ve nailed me. “We were such a good match.”
“Would you consider having such a relationship with a man who isn’t bisexual?”
“Uh … I would. But it could get real complicated.”
“Complicated?”
“Yeah. I mean, just because I want to kick it with some chick …”
I glared at him.
“… uh, female …”
I nodded my approval.
“… doesn’t mean they can automatically go out and kick it with another man. It could turn into a game, and it ain’t and can’t be about keeping score, evening up the score, or getting even. So he’d have to be very secure.”
“And would you want that kind of relationship with every person you decide to settle down with?”
He nudged me. “Are you asking this just to know, or for future reference?”
“Just to know.”
“No. But I generally navigate toward folks who would be open to it or, at the very least, aren’t repulsed by the idea—and I’ve found straight sisters and gay brothers to be the least likely candidates to fall into those categories.”
“Can you blame them?”
“Yeah, I can. They say they want you to be straight up about who you are, but when you are, they still trip. Bisexuals do have good reasons for … well, to borrow a phrase, staying in the closet. But I refuse to be one of those brothers living a double life or an invisible life just to appease or please others. I don’t be carryin’ other people’s luggage.”
“Are the people you’re involved with now open to it?”
“We haven’t had that discussion. We aren’t serious enough yet.”
“And … where does Garrick fit into all of this, if he fits in at all?”
He shrugged. “I’m still gettin’ to know the brother. It’s only been a week.”
“Have you two been out since the party?”
“You know that’s not what you wanna ask.”
“It’s not.”
“No, it ain’t. You wanna know if we got buzy.”
“No, I don’t. I’m just trying to understand … how you operate, relationship-wise.”
He wasn’t convinced. “We had dinner Wednesday night, drinks afterward. We were supposed to get together tonight.”
Oh, really? “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I decided I’d rather spend the evening with someone I long for than someone I lust for.”
Okay …
Silence.
“By the way: How many gay friends do you have?”
“Three.”
“One of them being Alan.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I could be number four. Or better yet, your first Same Gender Loving friend.” I had schooled him on the term earlier in the evening (his reaction: “Hmm … I guess that would make me an Any Gender Loving man, huh?”).
He chuckled. “Yeah, you could be. But … I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if I could just be your friend. I could try it, but … it would be torture.”
Silence.
He smiled. “I think it’s time for my after-dinner mint.”
He hopped off the futon and opened one of the floor-level drawers attached to its base. He rummaged through it and came up with a folded Ziploc bag.
Is that what I think it is?
He fiddled with the bag. “I bet you don’t smoke weed, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“How adventurous are you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I just shrugged.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. And if you try it and hate it, I can finish it all myself. That won’t be a problem.” He took a cigarette lighter and the only joint out of the bag; it was the shape and length of a cigar.
“I … I … I guess I didn’t think a brother like you would … do that.”
“A brother like me?”
“Yea
h. I mean … it’s not cocaine or heroin, but it’s still an illegal substance. And it can still have an adverse effect on you. It could even affect your voice.” I replayed what I’d just said—I sounded like his father.
And given that amused expression, he must’ve heard this lecture before, probably from his father. “Thanks for the concern, but I ain’t a chain-smoker; I only do it once or twice a month. And I don’t do it to get high.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I do it to lubricate, not medicate, my mood. At times like these … it’s the cherry on top.” He was about to light up; I guess I didn’t look too pleased. “If you don’t want me to do it, I won’t.”
“Hey, this is your house. You can do whatever you want.”
“Uh-huh.” He sat, yoga-style, on the futon. “So … I’m a bisexual who loves threesomes and smokes pot. Three things you hate.”
“I wouldn’t say I hate those things.”
“You certainly don’t hold them in high favor.”
“I … I’ve always looked upon each with … dread.”
“Ah. So I’m dreadful.”
“You aren’t dreadful. If you were … I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“That’s good to hear.” He fired it up. He puffed. “Mmm …” He handed it to me. “You wanna join me?”
Rewind: my ninth-grade health-education class. There’s Miss Flannigan, wearing a tacky flowered dress and orthopedic shoes, her straight white hair tied in a very tight bun and her hand planted firmly on her left hip, tapping the blackboard with a ruler and exclaiming in a deadpan tone: “Drugs can ke-ill you, so just say no.”
Back to the present moment: Yes, they can kill you. I’ve never seen them kill people, but I’ve read the stories. And I’ve said no to them all my life. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette. But just because I do this one drug this one time does not mean I’m destined to try others, right? If I blow one blunt with Montee, does that mean I’ll get hooked, lose my job, my friends and family, and flush my life down the toilet?
I bet that’s what most people ask themselves before they take the plunge—and I bet most, like me, also convince themselves those things won’t happen to them.
Since this was a day of many, many firsts, why stop now? Besides, I’ll probably hate it—if I can’t stand the smell (and I never could) I certainly won’t be able to stomach the taste.
So, unlike President Clinton, I inhaled.
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