Raheim became a little more animated. “It was a lot of work. But it was also a lot of fun.”
“It was a lot of fun?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I guess I didn’t think it would be…a lot of fun for you.”
Raheim knew what he meant. “It got…deep, sometimes. And it made me go to some deep places. But I didn’t let it get to me; I couldn’t. It was his story, not mine. Besides, I was glad to be workin’, and workin’ on somethin’ important. Not many people know about Glenn, especially Black folks, and they should.”
“My aunt Ruth remembers him. She used to be a Dodgers fan. She always felt there was something different about him. Now she knows what it was.”
“And, this was my first movie in three years and it took me out of the steam heat for six weeks. It felt more like a vacation than a job.”
“That’s what Destiny thought when she got your postcard. It’s tacked to her bulletin board.”
“They should have some stills for us next week. Wait ’til you see me.”
“Don’t tell me they put you in an Afro wig, bell-bottoms, and platform shoes.”
“Three out of three.”
“Oh, no! Did the Afro at least look like the real thing?”
“It did. Nothin’ like the ones they wore in The Jacksons: An American Dream.”
“Even your son could tell those were fake, and he was only six when we watched the miniseries.”
“The same producers are thinking of doing the Larry Levan story. They want me to play him.”
“Wow. That would be juicy. Have you ever spun on the tables before?”
“Yeah. Way back in the day. I rocked a few parties.”
“You’ll have to talk to Gene. He knew him.”
“He did?”
“Yup. He could probably tell you things the producers don’t know. The Paradise Garage was like a second home to him.”
“Damn, Gene is older than dirt.”
“No, he’s older than light.”
They chuckled.
“You better not let him hear you say that.”
“Hmph, he’s said that. I tell ya: first Glenn Burke; Larry Levan may be next. You’re gonna have the market cornered on Negro homo bios. Who else is on the list? Bayard Rustin? James Baldwin? Sylvester?”
“Funny.”
“Actually, I don’t think you as Sylvester would be funny. Look at Ving Rhames in Holiday Heart. I bet he never thought he’d play a role like it. You never know.”
“You know that ain’t never happenin’.”
“Well, you never thought you’d play a closeted pro-baseball player.”
Jood point.
“You may have the lead on a few other Negro homo roles. I put in a jood word for you with E. Lynn.”
“Harris?”
“Yup.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. I interviewed him.”
“Cool. Which book is comin’ to the screen?”
“They’re still working out those details. He recognized you.”
“From where?”
“From the picture. In my wallet.”
Mitchell didn’t mean to disclose that bit of information; he was a little embarrassed. But he shouldn’t have been, since Raheim started carrying around a picture of him after Raheim and his ex, Simon, broke up last December. Besides, Raheim didn’t need that kind of confirmation to know Mitchell had been carrying him around—the man had been literally raising his son the past four years.
But Raheim could tell it was awkward for him, so he steered them in another direction, again. “It’s just about dark. We should light the other candles so we’re not bumpin’ into walls.”
Mitchell appreciated the save. “Jood idea.”
11:25 P.M.
Even with the setting of the sun, the house was still humid. So they camped out in the basement, bringing most of the joodies and the boom box with them. Raheim strategically positioned the three battery operated night lights (one propped up behind the futon, the other two on tv tables) so that they formed a triangle.
“You have a jood eye,” Mitchell complimented. “If this acting thing doesn’t work out, you could be a lighting designer or stage manager.”
Raheim chuckled. “I guess I picked up more than a paycheck bein’ on location all these years.”
Game Two was close for a while—they were both ahead by a few points several times—but Mitchell pulled it out: 239–222. Again, Raheim didn’t mind. Mitchell was glowing—he never thought he’d see that shine on his face, in his eyes, in his smile again. You’d think they were guzzling champagne all night, seeing how bubbly he was.
With their sandals off and only one of the lights on, they faced each other, bent knees touching. Raheim’s left arm extended across the futon just inches above Mitchell’s back. Mitchell waved a church fan with his right, providing them with a little breeze and giving them yet another reason to sit close.
So Raheim knew it was the perfect time to ask…
“Can I hear some Jill Scott?”
“Sure.” Mitchell prepared to stand.
Raheim’s hand dropped down and caught his left shoulder. “No. We don’t need the CD.”
“How else are we going to listen to her?”
“Easy. I know Jilly from Philly can’t sing ‘A Long Walk’ like you.”
It was Raheim’s favorite Jill Scott song. He often fantasized about Mitchell serenading him with it.
Mitchell blushed. He, too, also fantasized about performing it for Raheim.
The song truly captured this moment; Raheim was here, Mitchell was pleased and he really did dig his company. So much so that, when Mitchell was suggesting they take that long walk a third time, folding his hands into Raheim’s seemed like the natural thing to do.
Third base, accomplished.
That final “Come on” was Raheim’s cue. He leaned in. Mitchell did too.
They dived in—and landed.
When they kissed…it was the Fourth of July, the Macy’s Fireworks Spectacular. Like the first time.
Was it Raheim’s imagination running away from him, or did Mitchell’s lips still taste like honey?
It wasn’t.
Was it Mitchell’s imagination running away with him, or did Raheim’s lips still taste like Hershey’s chocolate Kisses?
Again, it wasn’t.
Raheim grasped Mitchell by the waist and pulled him into his arms. Mitchell clutched Raheim’s bald head.
They settled back, settled down, and settled into each other, never once breaking their lip lock.
They kissed. And kissed. And kissed.
When their lips finally parted, they were, like that first time, out of breath.
Mitchell almost recommended they pull out the futon but quickly nixed that since this would (1) disturb their mood and (2) ruin the cramped yet comfy closeness they were sharing.
So his right cheek claimed its rightful place on Raheim’s left pec, taking in his scent. And Raheim breathed in the aroma of strawberries, emanating from Mitchell’s locs.
They exhaled. Raheim hit a home run. And he was home.
August 15, 2003, 7:55 A.M.
They didn’t have a jood night’s sleep—it was a jood night’s slumber.
Mitchell woke to his locs being caressed. He lifted his head and smiled. “Jood morning.”
“That it is.”
Smack. Smack Smack. Smack Smack Smack.
Mitchell reached to turn on the radio. “Let’s see if the world is still on pause.”
“Well, it looks like many New Yorkers will not be returning to work today, as power has only been restored to pockets of Manhattan and Long Island. The only borough no longer in the dark is Staten Island. Con Edison projected that the entire city and surrounding areas would have electricity by one A.M. this morning; now that time has been moved to one P.M. this afternoon.”
Mitchell sucked his teeth as he turned down the volume. “And pretty soo
n they’ll be adding another twelve hours to the delay.”
“They ain’t called Con Ed for nothin’.”
“Indeed. So, you wanna have some breakfast?” He could hear and feel Raheim’s stomach grumbling.
“Like you gotta ask?”
After they brushed their teeth and splashed cold water on their faces, Raheim sat on the floor, his back against the base of the futon; Mitchell was parked between his legs. As Jilly from Philly testified about, among other things, the jood lovin’ she was getting from her Raheim (a reference that had them both grinning), they shared a package of Entenmann’s white powdered mini-doughnuts (Mitchell fed Raheim the last few). They washed them down with orange juice.
They returned to their cramped yet comfortable quarters. Raheim ran his fingers through Mitchell’s locs, something he’d longed to do for years. It relaxed Mitchell—so much so that he was drifting back to sleep, when…
“I wish we could go back.”
Raheim’s outburst startled Mitchell. “Go back? Go back where?”
“Just…go back. Remember when we first met?”
“How could I forget?”
“I was down there, yesterday.”
“At Harry’s?”
“What’s left of it. They shut their doors.”
“Did they? When?”
“Like a couple of months ago.”
“Oh, no. Wait ’til Gene hears that. He’ll be in mourning for weeks, if not months. That bar was his other second home. I wonder why it closed.”
“Why else? Gentrification.”
“They must’ve raised their rent threefold. I bet that area really is another world now. I haven’t walked that runway down to the pier in years.”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t recognize it.”
“What brought you to the Village?”
“I…just went to see.”
“Went to see what?”
“To see…us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah.”
“And…did you?”
“I did. There was this couple. Hangin’ out near the Path station, on Christopher.”
Mitchell giggled. “Pooquie and Little Bit, the sequel?”
Raheim hadn’t heard his nickname come out of Mitchell’s mouth since…well, the twentieth century. Mitchell wasn’t calling him Pooquie, but it still gave him the chills. “Yup. Except this Pooquie had a head full of twists and this Little Bit was bald.”
“Did your namesake have on your favorite b-boy outfit?”
“Yeah. A wife-beater, black Sean John jeans, and, of course, Timbs.”
“And mine?”
“He musta just come from the office, ’cause he still had on his corporate gear: navy blue slacks, white shirt, powder blue striped tie, black shoes.”
“Opposites still attract.”
“When they looked at each other. Held hands. Held each other. And kissed…it was like summer of ninety-three all over again.”
“How long did you watch them?”
“For, like, a half hour. I wanted to go up to ’em.”
“What would you have said?”
“To…really hold on to what they got. To…let him love you.”
Smack. Smack Smack. Smack Smack Smack.
With that door opened, Raheim decided to walk through it. “Uh…are you still angry with me?”
Mitchell didn’t miss a beat. “I haven’t been angry with you since the twentieth century.”
“That long?”
“Yes. Why, you want me to be angry with you?”
“Nah. I guess…I just couldn’t blame you if you still were.”
Mitchell sighed heavily. “I don’t know if I should say this…”
“If you don’t know, that means you should. It’s probably somethin’ I need to hear.”
“It…it wasn’t a nice thing to think. It wouldn’t be a nice thing to say out loud.”
“You can tell me.”
“Well…I wished you were dead.”
Raheim wasn’t expecting to hear that. “Whoa.”
“Told you it wasn’t nice.”
“Guess I don’t have to ask why.”
“Maybe you do. Not because of what you did.”
“No?”
“No. I…I guess I felt it would be easier for me to go on without you if you were no longer around. You…you were dead to me, in a way. But I think it might’ve been easier for me to accept your…being gone if you were really gone. At least then I could grieve, and move on. But knowing you were out there, with…someone…I couldn’t just grieve and move on. There was…I guess…a chance. Hope. And hoping was so painful.”
“I know that feeling.”
Silence.
Raheim squeezed him. “I’m sorry, Baby.”
Baby. No one has ever called him that the way Raheim has. It was so jood to hear it; it gave him the chills. And while he knew Raheim was sorry, seeing him say it with his eyes was the assurance he needed. “I know.”
Raheim squeezed him. “You won’t be feelin’ that again.”
Smack.
11:15 A.M.
It was all about the quiet. A sound they hadn’t heard in years, a sound they could only hear together. Listening to their heart-beats bounce off each other, breathing in unison. They lay there, still as a statue, as if someone were capturing them on a canvas.
Then something disturbed the quiet. It wasn’t their cell phones vibrating; neither one had a charge left.
Raheim turned his head in the noise’s direction. “You hear that?”
Mitchell strained to make it out. “I do. What is it?”
“The dishwasher.”
They smiled. It was time to get out of their sweaty, sticky clothes so they could get sweaty and sticky.
Mitchell led Raheim by the hand upstairs, to the master bath. Raheim turned on both nozzles, adjusting the temperature and choosing “jet stream” on the shower head. He watched Mitchell pin his hair back and cover it with a shower cap, then undress standing in front of the mirror. Mitchell watched Raheim do the same.
Mitchell wasn’t surprised Raheim was still tight and defined—after all, jood Black don’t crack—but Raheim was surprised how much tighter and defined Mitchell was. Errol mentioned he was working out more; Raheim liked the results.
Raheim eased behind him. Mitchell titled his head up, and to the right.
Smack. Smack Smack. Smack Smack Smack.
Raheim ushered Mitchell in. Mitchell allowed the water to cascade down his neck, chest, and thighs. Raheim hunched down, wrapping his right arm around Mitchell’s waist and lathering him up with his left. Raheim spent the most time pulling on and polishing his dick, causing Mitchell to grind back on Raheim’s dick, which grew longer and thicker between Mitchell’s cheeks.
Then Mitchell turned so Raheim could do his back; of course, his azz got the most attention. The tip of Raheim’s middle finger wiggled its way inside him.
Mitchell grabbed Raheim’s shoulders. “Sssss, oh.”
Raheim gently but forcefully pushed his way in. Deeper…
“Ooh,” Mitchell shrieked.
…and deeper…
“Ooh.”
…and deeper…
“Mmmm,” both Mitchell and Raheim growled.
When it was Raheim’s turn to get lathered up, Mitchell dropped the soap. “Oops.”
As Raheim bent over to pick it up, Mitchell smacked him on his right azz cheek so hard that Raheim jumped a foot forward. Mitchell laughed.
“A’ight, a’ight. Turnabutt is fair play,” Raheim promised.
He didn’t lay one smack on Mitchell’s ass; he whacked him a dozen times, six on each bun. No, Mitchell didn’t complain—he just got even.
While spreading lots of icing on Raheim’s cakes, he also let his finger do the wiggling up inside Raheim—and his tongue do the licking on Raheim’s left nipple. Raheim huffed and puffed in ecstasy.
As the water washed away the remaining foam and funk, Raheim leaned a
gainst the shower wall with Mitchell in his arms, their tongues slow dancing.
12:15 P.M.
After getting nice and clean, they got down and dirty.
They collapsed on the bed—jostling and jerking. They twisted into a 69, feasting on the other’s meat, sucking and swallowing and sopping each other up.
Then Raheim assumed the position: on his knees, palms planted on the bed, azz tooted up and out. This could only mean one thing: It was time for Mitchell to bury his face all up in Pooquie’s place.
Raheim’s azz has a distinct geometric pattern, and before he got to tonguin’, Mitchell had to inspect the joods. It appeared that his basketball booty was phatter and plumper—and, no doubt, juicier. Mitchell pinched it, poked it, prodded it. Naturally, that wasn’t enough for Raheim.
“C’mon, Little Bit, don’t tease me,” he pleaded.
The fluttering, the flittering, the flickeration around and on the hole was…indescribable. Raheim squealed and squirmed with delight, yet Mitchell had to hold him down so he wouldn’t escape.
“You begged me for it, so keep your azz still!” Mitchell barked.
Raheim obeyed.
The tongue pushed its way in, almost as solid as a finger. Then it folded inward, like a closing book. Then it opened up and twisted around and around and around.
With Mitchell getting all tongue-tied up in him, Raheim got all tongue-tied and imploded; his dick sprung a serious leak. He was definitely ready for his rump to be rammed—and Mitchell was just the man, the only man, to do it.
There happened to be two condoms and two packs of lube on the night table, which Mitchell was planning to take to Atlanta. Raheim grabbed one of each and threw them over his left shoulder. The condom landed on the left cheek, the lube on the right. Mitchell dabbed just a few drops of the lube on Raheim’s chocolate-covered berry (Raheim had one of those self-lubricating azzez) and suited up.
“I’m about to take the Pooquie Plunge,” Mitchell announced to himself. He’d dreamed this day would come again—it had been exactly four years, three months, two weeks, five days, seven hours, and (give or take) thirty-five minutes since he last took that plunge. He had to say it out loud to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Raheim humped up against the dick head. “Whatcha waitin’ for? Come on.”
“You’re so impatient, Pooquie. Don’t you know jood things come to those who wait?” He slapped his dick against the azz.
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