I Say a Little Prayer (4 page)

“It did?”

“Indeed. What you making, some sanging cards now?”

“Oh no, but I’ve been busy working on some things and sometimes I hum to myself. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was a little boy,” I said, deciding against telling her I was writing songs again.

“So all you plan to do is fill that belly of yours this evening? Why don’t you come and go to Bible Study with me at my church?” Ms. Gladys asked.

I knew she meant well and I knew Ms. Gladys attended one of Atlanta’s colossal churches where the midweek Bible study was almost as well attended as Sunday service. I wasn’t about to fall back into the trap of going to one of those big megachurches.

“Thanks for asking, Ms. Gladys, but I think I’m going to try and finish up my little project. Has Celia left?”

“Yeah, she and a friend left about an hour ago. I tried to get her to come with me, too, but I could tell by the shirt and high heels she changed into that she wasn’t going to no church,” she said as she raised her eyes in a way my own mother did when she was trying to prevent herself from saying something biting.

“Did she look nice?” I asked. I saw Celia earlier in the day, and she was dressed in a nice pantsuit.

“She changed out of that pantsuit and into something else. It might be some people’s taste but it sho’ ain’t mine. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her something my beloved mother used to tell me.”

“What was that?”

“If the shoes don’t fit, then they ain’t yours,” Ms. Gladys said as she turned and walked out the door.

I shook my head and laughed heartily as I thought what a funny card Ms. Gladys’s mother’s saying would make.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
n
a lot of ways I am a creature of habit. On most given days of the week, there is something that I always do, even if it’s something like having sushi every Tuesday for lunch. Every Sunday night after supper, I call my family back in Greenwood. I start with my parents, Cleotis and Alma Greer, two proud African Americans who people refer to as the Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis of Mississippi due to their forty-plus years of marriage and deep, abiding love for each other. Not to mention Alma’s role as choir mistress and lead soloist at the Bethel Baptist Church. You could say I get my singing genes from my mother and the ability to ignore what I see from my father.

My parents are both retired now and spend most of their time spoiling their grandkids and traveling to places like Canada, Florida, and nearby Biloxi, where my younger brother, Jonathan, lives with his wife, LaKeshia, and his four-year-old son, Canyon. Sometimes I pass on calling Jonathan, not because I don’t enjoy talking to my knucklehead brother, but because almost once a month his cell phone number changes or, shall I say, gets disconnected. Being the baby of the family left Jonathan without the responsibility gene, so I am never surprised to get a call from him asking if he can borrow a couple of dollars until payday. I always lecture him about keeping a budget, but in the end, I always acquiesce. It’s gotten to the point that when I go to the service counter at my neighborhood Kroger, Jolene the manager smiles and just hands me the yellow Western Union form to fill out.

My older sister, Belinda, still lives in Greenwood, where she is married to the first and only man she slept with. She is the mother of twins, Hannah and Hudson, and is the principal of the Hattie McDaniel Middle School.

Belinda got Mama’s singing genes as well, and she has sung for years with the Mississippi Mass Choir. She attended Jackson State and could have been the first black Miss Mississippi if she would have become more comfortable wearing four-inch heels while strutting her stuff in a swimsuit. She was second runner-up when she went to the state pageant in Vicksburg as an eighteen-year-old and everyone encouraged her to run again. But Belinda was not having it and was anxious to give up her virginity and marry Patrick Walker, the too-smart-for-his-own-good valedictorian of Greenwood High. Good thing she’d already run for Miss Mississippi, since she got pregnant after having sex for the first time. She lost that baby, but was doubly blessed years later.

Sometimes it’s a little harder to get in touch with my parents due to their traveling, even in the age of cell phones. I still can’t get over the sight of my father playing golf or fussing with my mother as she tries to get him to use an earpiece on his cell phone. I almost fell out of my chair when I got an e-mail from the “Traveling Grands.” After I realized it was from my parents, they informed me of their travel schedule for the month.

When I picked up the phone tonight, I dialed Belinda’s number instead of my parents’. Every now and then, I try to break out of one of my habits and do something different, even though I know I’ll return to my old ways a week or two later.

After a couple of rings, Belinda picked up the phone and in her usual cheerful voice said, “What it be like, baby brotha?”

“I’m fine—and how are you?” I said as I wondered how people had ever lived without caller ID. No more mystery when the phone rang.

“You know, doing what I do. Picking up after my kids at school and at home. Trying to get my husband to realize that being married don’t mean you can’t still do things outside the box,” Belinda said.

“How are my niece and nephew?”

“Growing like weeds.”

“And Patrick?”

“In love with his newest computer gadget.” Belinda laughed.

“I haven’t called Mama and them. Did you see them at church today?”

“Honey, they are on a cruise in the Bahamas. Didn’t you get the latest e-mail?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said.

My sister was the only one in my family who accepted the fact that I would never add any grandkids to the Greer family brood, but even she had a hard time asking for specific details about my dating life. She just wanted me to be happy, even if it meant spending my life with a man. My parents, especially my father, just didn’t talk about my preference for men.

On the rare occasion when my parents visited me or I took someone home, they were cordial, like the good Christian folks they are, but ignored the elephant in the room—my orientation toward men. But I didn’t let that bother me, because I knew that no matter what, my parents loved me and my siblings dearly.

“Have you met anybody new lately?” Belinda asked.

“I’m too busy with my business. Have you talked to Jonathan?”

“He called me the other day and left me a message asking for a couple of dollars. I haven’t called his begging ass back yet.”

“You can call him. He hit me up the other day, so his money should be all right,” I said.

“You know we got to stop doing that. He’s never going to grow up if we don’t stop bailing him out,” Belinda said.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t want Canyon to suffer or to look up one day and see him on
America’s Dumbest Criminals
trying to steal an ATM out of the Piggly Wiggly.” I laughed.

“I hear you, but if his lazy-ass wife, LaTakia, would get a job he wouldn’t be coming to us for money,” Belinda said.

“It’s LaKeshia, darling, but baby brother needs to break some of his bad habits,” I said. There was a time we were worried that Jonathan was hooked on drugs or something, but I finally got him to admit what his addiction was. Strippers. My baby brother loved putting dollar bills into thongs and buying drinks for skank women, both black and white, at the casinos in Tunica near Memphis. He even took me there once when I was back home, and he assured me that it was just a hobby. He said he would never cheat on LaKeshia. I believed him, because he wasn’t dumb enough to do that. LaKeshia was the kinda ghetto country girl who would kick his ass and any type of mistress she might find. People still talked about the time LaKeshia whipped the captain of the cheerleaders and the most popular girl at Greenwood High during halftime of a football game when she found out the girl had called Jonathan, who was not only good-looking but a star athlete in both football and basketball.

Belinda hated Jonathan’s attraction to strippers, but it didn’t bother me as much, since I’d been known to stick a dollar or two in a jockstrap a few times myself.

“Don’t even get me started talking about those skanks,” Belinda said.

“Don’t worry, Jonathan will grow up one day,” I said.

“He better, because I have warned him that I was going to tell Mama what he’s been up to and he knows she will have his butt in church 24/7 on his knees praying,” Belinda said, laughing.

“I know she will,” I said as I joined in with Belinda’s laughter, imagining Jonathan on his knees praying, not to God but to some Amazon stripper woman instead.

“I love you, Chauncey, but I need to find out what my babies are doing,” Belinda said.

“I love you too, sis. Kiss the kids for me.”

“Will do. Bye.”

“Bye,” I said. I hung up the phone for a few seconds and then picked it up to call and leave a message for the Traveling Grands.

On a beautiful Thursday afternoon I was reminded of why I loved living in Atlanta. I was at Starbucks on Peachtree Road, jotting down lyrics and waiting for Skylar, who was meeting me to show me some of the outfits he’d picked out for Celia.

I was sipping my caramel macchiato when I noticed a man with a traffic-stopping body ordering at the counter. He had a broad chest with a six-pack on display through a sheer black tank top and faded jeans that looked like they were molded only for his ass and thighs. Add to that a perfectly shaped bald head that Michael Jordan would envy and a face that would prompt the question, Boris who?

I was wearing sunglasses but I took them off so I could get a clearer view. He noticed me looking—okay, staring at him—and he smiled as he picked up his order. Damn! How long had it been since I’d kicked Jayshawn out of my bed? I looked away and saw Skylar getting out of his car carrying a couple of garment bags. I was going to go outside and help, but I noticed the stranger walking in my direction. I felt my stomach rumble, and I grabbed my cup, then quickly put it down when I thought that my breath must smell like coffee.

“Excuse me, but do we know each other?” the stranger asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Then I guess your staring at me indicates that you’d like to know me,” he said confidently.

There was something about the arrogant way he spoke that turned me off and reminded me quickly what I hated about Atlanta: good-looking men with attitudes. So I said with equal confidence, “Oh, you must be mistaken. I was looking at the beautiful young lady standing in line behind you.”

“Yeah, right,” he huffed as he walked away. As he was walking out the door I saw him bump into Skylar, and they gave each other a look of recognition but didn’t speak. Skylar came over to the table, laid down the garment bags, and sighed, “Where is a big, strong,
helpful
man when you really need one?”

“Do you know that guy you bumped into at the door?”

“Her? Yeah, I know that queen. I met him at one of those sex clubs a couple of months ago,” Skylar said.

“I thought you told me you’d stopped going to those sex clubs.”

“Actually, it was more like a private party that changed direction after the china was removed from the table,” Skylar said with his patent laugh.

I told him about our brief chat and Skylar told me to be glad I hadn’t wasted more time talking to him.

“First of all, he got a little bitty dick and he likes getting stuffed more than a Thanksgiving turkey,” Skylar said, laughing.

“Everything that looks good ain’t good for you,” I said.

“That should be the motto for the kids in Atlanta,” Skylar said. “Forget you ever met that child and let’s pick out some outfits for our fair lady Celia.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said as I sipped the last of my drink. Who cared if I had coffee breath? It looked like it was going to be a while until I got kissed again.

CHAPTER SIX

S
ometimes
I like to watch.

On a rainy Saturday evening I pulled my SUV into a tight spot against the side of the street and looked in the back seat for an umbrella. I suddenly remembered taking it into my house a couple days ago, and so I picked up the gold baseball cap stuck between the seats. I snapped the crumpled hat into place, put it on my head, got out, and headed toward a mini mansion atop a small hill.

As I walked up the hill toward the house, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. What if I saw somebody I knew, like Skylar, whom I was always criticizing about being such a barfly? It wasn’t like I was going to a gay bar. This was different, I told myself. It was advertised as a private party with only fifty members invited and was offering the finest black men in Atlanta on the DL. It even included the disclaimer of “no queens allowed.” A part of me was flattered when I got an invitation via e-mail after I submitted a picture of myself wearing a snug-fitting pair of white boxer briefs.

I did as the instructions told me. I knocked twice on the door, counted to ten, and then added a single knock. I heard a buzzer, pushed open the door, and found myself standing in a foyer of black-and-white marble that looked like a checkerboard.

“Drop your pants,” a deep male voice commanded.

I looked around to find the source of the voice. When I saw nothing, I let my baggy faded jeans drop and tapped my half-erect penis for effect. A few seconds later, the voice said, “You’re admitted.” I heard another buzzer and walked into a dimly lit area where several well-built and well-hung black men strolled around butt-ass naked holding cocktails and chatting like they were fully dressed.

“Welcome to The Back Door,” a handsome, light-skinned brother with grape-green eyes greeted me. “Fifty dollars, please, and that includes clothes check and one drink. You can check your clothes over there.” He handed me a white plastic garbage bag and motioned toward a room that looked like a huge walk-in closet.

“What’s this for?” I asked as I followed him inside.

“Your clothes.”

“Oh, my bad,” I said, slightly embarrassed, and happy I hadn’t worn my Sunday best.

I took out my wallet and dropped my jeans again, kicked off my Timbs, and unbuttoned my black starched shirt. I took off my socks and balled them together and put them in the bag. I didn’t wear underwear, because the invite specified that no clothing could be worn once you entered the club.

“Do you want to check that bling?” he asked as he pointed to the two-carat diamond studs I was wearing.

“Do I have to?” I asked.

“No, you don’t, but it might attract the wrong element,” he said.

This was supposed to be a classy joint, and you would hope the wrong element couldn’t afford the fifty-dollar cover fee. Besides, I wasn’t going to be punked for the studs I wore only on special occasions.

“Naw, I’m cool.”

“Nice tattoo,” he said, noticing the Chinese symbol I had on my left pec.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Does it mean anything?”

“Love.”

“That works for me. Have a great evening.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot,” I said as I walked out of the closet area into a long hallway with dark carpet specked with red. I walked slowly with my head down, passing men as I moved, wishing I had my hat to prevent eye contact. I was going to need a drink before I could look at these men eye to eye.

I passed a room that looked like a library. I paused at the large window and took in the scene inside. Two men were kissing as they leaned against a bookshelf. Another guy sat in an oxford-colored leather chair, receiving head from a guy on his knees, while another guy stood over him rubbing his bald head with one hand and holding a drink in the other. As I stared, I suddenly felt the weight of my penis increase. I touched the head and precum slid to the tip of my ring finger. The guy holding the drink and resident head rubber made eye contact with me and motioned for me to join them, but I smiled and moved toward the neon lights and music. I passed several rooms, none filled with much furniture. But that didn’t stop the participants. There were threesomes, foursomes, on the floor, on the occasional bed, in the chairs—it didn’t seem to matter.

Finally, I walked into the bar, where I was greeted by a bartender wearing only a white bow tie, which looked sexy against his smooth ebony skin and a white jock.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Tequila shot with a beer back,” I said.

“I got some Patrón. Will that work?”

“No, give me some Jose Cuervo,” I said as I sat my naked ass on a leather bar stool. It felt cold against my skin, and I wondered who had been sitting here before me. I twisted a bit in the seat and suddenly felt like I needed a shower. No, make that a bath.

“What’s good?” a handsome brother with perfect teeth asked. I wondered if they were veneers or if he’d had them whitened. I guess the invitation had been right when it said only the best-looking black men in Atlanta would be admitted.

“What up,” I said as I took a single swig of tequila and then bit into the lime slice to rid myself of the bitter taste.

“Just seeing what I can get into,” he said. “Or who can get into me.”

“That’s wassup,” I replied, trying to be cooler than cool.

“Charles Thompson.” He extended his hand toward me. I was startled briefly, but then I shook his hand. “Chaun…I mean Dion Greer.” I had never shaken a naked man’s hand before.

“Nice meeting you, Dion. Do you come here often?”

“Naw, this is my first time,” I said as I motioned to the bartender for another shot.

“Yeah, mine too, but I can say I’m impressed,” he said as he glanced around the room. Leather stools surrounded the perimeter. Men stood with drinks in their hands as they talked. It appeared the bar was the only sex-free zone.

“How did you hear about The Back Door?” I asked.

“I’m just visiting Atlanta on business, but a friend got me an invite,” Charles said.

“Where are you from?” I asked, wondering for a moment if Charles was his real name. If he was going to tell me the truth about himself, I wondered if I should, too.

“From Colorado.”

“Denver?”

“No, right outside. You’ve heard of Boulder, haven’t you?”

“Sure. The University of Colorado and where that little girl got killed.”

“Yeah, everybody always asks me if I’d ever been by the house where she was killed.”

“Have you?”

“I hate to admit it, but yes,” he said as he took a drink from a beer can.

“It gets cold up there,” I said, shivering a bit just thinking about it.

“Yeah, but it’s great skiing. Do you ski?”

“I went to Vail once and took a couple of lessons.”

“Don’t sound like you were impressed,” Charles said.

“It was aight,” I said.

“So what do you like to do besides hanging out in joints like this?” he asked, leaning closer to me.

I shrugged. “Listening to music and you won’t believe what else,” I said, laughing to myself.

“What?”

“You might think I’m corny.”

“Bowling?” He grinned.

“No. Well, sometimes, but that’s not it.”

“Then what?”

For a moment, I wondered if I should tell a total stranger one of my hidden passions. The liquor got to me and I said, “I love to fish.”

“Did you say fuck or fish?”

“Well, that too.” I laughed as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Is there much fishing around here?”

I shook my head. “Not in Atlanta, but there are a couple places right outside of ATL.”

Charles looked at me, smiled, and said, “Fishing, that’s hot. I bet you’re a big old country boy.”

“No shame in my game.”

“Where you from?”

“Mississippi.”

“That’s wild. The dude I work for is from Mississippi.”

“That’s wild. What do you do? And tell me the truth,” I insisted.

“I’m a political consultant. And why would I lie to a good-looking guy like you?”

“I heard they do that in places like this,” I said.

“So that’s why you come here?”

“This is my first time.”

“Oh yeah, you said that,” Charles said with suspicion.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Dion. So tell me, what do you like besides fishing?”

“I like to cook and make music.”

“A real Renaissance man.” He smiled. “I like that. And what else?”

“Are you talking about sex?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like to put myself in a box. And yourself?”

“I like to be punished,” he said as he smacked his ass and licked his lips. I felt the weight in my penis decrease.

“Very interesting,” I said as I stood up and looked around at two more handsome hunks who had walked into the bar area.

“Those two look tasty,” Charles said when he saw me looking away.

“They aight,” I said.

“Want to see if they’re into a little couples action?”

“When did we become a couple?” I asked as I turned back to face Charles.

“The moment I sat next to you.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m going to pass,” I said as I walked toward the hallway.

“It was cool talking to you. Holla before you leave,” Charles said.

“Aight.”

I moved through the throb of hallway traffic into a large, dimly lit room filled with a carnival of handsome men with perfect bodies. The air was warm and thick with the intoxicating scent of sex. There were tables against the wall covered with candles. Two king-size beds were in the middle of the floor, with a frenzied tangle of bodies pleasuring each other.

I surveyed the room. A man with his back to the wall looked at me and smiled as he stroked his piece, which looked long and fat. As I moved closer to him, I paid more attention to his bean-brown muscular face with the black eyes of a bald eagle. My eyes moved down from his face to the lean muscularity of his abs and the curvature of his thighs.

“What’s good, fam?” he asked. The weight in my own penis had returned, and I found myself so close to him that I felt a whisper of breath passing between us.

“Looks like you,” I said.

“I hear you talking, but I like to let this do the talking.” He took my hand and placed it on his penis. I felt it for a few seconds, then pulled my hand back with the dampness of his sweat covering my palm.

He kissed me, and his lips were soft and warm.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Palmer. And yours?”

“Dion.”

“Would you like to find a private room?” he asked.

“Isn’t that extra?”

“I’m a Platinum member. I get them for free,” Palmer said.

Just as I was getting ready to answer him, I heard what sounded like a primal animal scream and I turned toward the futon on the floor. I saw a light-skinned man who looked almost too pretty to be a man.
What happened to the no-queens rule?
I thought. A roughly handsome, dark-skinned guy was hitting him from the back with a fierce pounding as he held him down with one hand pressed against his shoulder.

It was like watching a live porn movie. I found my own sex getting harder, and suddenly, I felt Palmer’s hand surround it. He started stroking me so slowly, and then his pace quickened. I was going to explode. He took his lips and started sucking on my chest. I removed his hand from my sex and replaced it with my own until I stroked myself to climax. From the sounds of moaning that rained down on the room, I was not the only one who suddenly needed a towel.

There are times (like tonight when I got home from the sex club) when I think if I wasn’t attracted to men I’d be a much better Christian. Almost perfect. It’s not because I’m willing to admit that being gay or the act of sleeping with someone of the same sex could be a sin. I just don’t think it’s any greater sin than being a liar, committing adultery, having lust in your heart, or being a person claiming to be a Christian yet holding a hateful heart.

I remembered the first time I heard a minister preach that God didn’t love me and my kind, and it was earth shattering. I wondered what I’d done to deserve this fate. My passion for life and love suddenly felt choked.