Any Way the Wind Blows

by E. Lynn Harris

  “Do you have protection?”

  “No, but I’m clean. I get a checkup every six months.”

  “Sorry, dude, but as much as I want to, I can’t swing without a coat.”

  “Can I just taste it?” I pleaded like I was a little kid wanting to lick the icing from the cake bowl.

  “How bad do you want it?” Basil asked.

  “Bad … real bad,” I said.

  Basil bent over and pulled up his underwear and pants, then reached for his shirt.

  “I think you should put your clothes on. I mean, if you want it … real … real bad,” Basil said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you can get your clothes on as quick as you took them off, then maybe, just maybe you might get to taste something real good.”

  I almost tripped over my own boots as I raced for my clothes while shouting, “You ain’t got to tell me but once.”

  Stop in the Name of Lust

  I imagine it was probably a woman who said men in unexpected situations think with their third dangling leg. And as much as I hate to admit it, she was probably right. I mean, how else could I explain the man, with a banging body, now in my bathroom using one of my spare toothbrushes, pink no less, that I reserve for my female first-timers? Explain to me how I came closer than a condom on my jimmie to smashing this dude in my office without even thinking about how it would look if one of my partners or assistants or the cleaning crew came in unexpected. To make it even worse, I’m pretty sure this Bart is at the very least a white liar, since he told me he had played college football but later he didn’t know the difference between the wishbone and the option formation. I mean, you learn that shit as a kid in Pop Warner football.

  I was in my kitchen sipping some coffee when Bart walked in with just his jeans on. I looked down, not wanting to look at his face or that fabulous fat ass of his. I had broken not only one of my mofo’s rules to live by, but a second one when I allowed him to spend the night. Yeah, he was sexy as fuck (as dudes go) and knew how to please, but after I had gotten off twice, I was ready to say, “Would you like a glass of water before you leave?” When I looked out the window and saw a fast driving snow, I guess I felt sorry for old dude, knowing it would be days before a black man got a taxi on a night like that. But I can’t figure out what made me begin a conversation that make it sound like I was concerned about his life. I even quit doing that shit with females a long time ago. What got into me? I can’t drink anymore on work nights. I’m gonna have to leave those concoctions of cognac and Alizé called Thug Passions alone.

  “So did I get the job?” Bart asked as he walked over toward my kitchen counter.

  “Yeah, you got the job,” I responded, even though I didn’t know what he was talking about. I supposed he meant head jimmie sucker for the next three months or so.

  “I enjoyed talking with you last night. I mean, great-looking and smart, too. I hit the jackpot,” Bart said.

  “You think so?” I mumbled under my breath.

  “When I woke up this morning and I was looking at you, I thought for a moment I knew you from somewhere,” Bart said.

  “I used to do television. Maybe you saw me there.”

  “Maybe. Besides, it’s not a good memory, so I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  “If I was a bad memory, you would have remembered,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “So when can I see you again? I mean, like a real date,” Bart quizzed.

  “Bart, I should tell you something: I don’t date dudes. I might hit it with a hardhead every now and then, but I don’t date,” I said firmly.

  “Cool, then when can we ‘hit it’ again?”

  “Leave me your number and I’ll get back with you,” I said. Bart walked over toward my phone, where I kept a notepad and a pen, and wrote something down. He took a piece of paper and pen and handed it to me, asking, “Can I have your phone number?”

  “I’ll give you a call. You see, my shit is on the down low. I’m dating a female pretty seriously,” I lied.

  “I don’t date bisexual men,” Bart said.

  “Then we’re on the same page,” I said.

  “But sometimes I make exceptions when they look like you,” he said.

  “Hey, let’s just take it slow and see if we gel. But you’ll have your chances,” I said as I walked toward the bedroom. I went to my closet and pulled out a dress shirt and began to put it on. I figured if old dude saw me getting ready for work he would finish dressing himself and hit the road.

  Bart walked into the bedroom and watched me dress for a moment. Then he said softly, “I have my own place, and you can come see me anytime.” This was beginning to feel too deep for me, so I decided to lighten things up.

  “Dude, Bart, I only give the fellows three coupons. You’ve really used up two, but I am willing to count last night as one.” I laughed.

  “Coupons? I don’t understand.”

  “Three times to ride the jimmie, and then I move on.”

  “Is there any way I can earn some bonus coupons?” He grinned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I want to see you more than three times? I think you had a good time last night. That was just the beginning. It gets better,” Bart said.

  “I don’t think so. Every time I break my own rules, trouble follows. So for now I think we better just say you got two coupons remaining. Besides, I mean, a good-looking brotha like yourself can have your pick of the dudes and bitches,” I said.

  “Don’t you remember what I told you last night? I don’t date women,” Bart said.

  “Never?”

  “Never. So what about the job? If you think I’m so good-looking, why don’t you make sure I get the modeling job?” Bart said.

  “I’ll talk with some people,” I said.

  “Judging by the size of your office, it looks like you got the juice,” Bart said.

  “I got the juice.” I started to make it clear that I wasn’t promising him the modeling gig. Damn, if I hired everybody I fucked, we’d be out of business.

  “So I got the job,” Bart said confidently.

  “If you say so. It’s a good thing to think positive.”

  “Make sure you tell your marketing director Sherrie that. I could really use the work,” Bart said.

  “I’ll do that. Hey, I got to get ready to rock and roll,” I said.

  “I’ll get dressed, but before I leave, do you mind if I use your phone to check my messages? I might be missing some calls from someone who knows my sex and love get better day by day.” Bart laughed.

  “Hey, I feel you. Knock yourself out.”

  The Red Carpet

  I was glad to be home in New York, and Windsor had prepared my favorite dish: deviled eggs with a touch of caviar. As I walked into the kitchen, I noticed that she’d also fried some chicken and made cabbage laced with bacon strips, and chicken-flavored Rice-A-Roni. She’d even whipped up some skillet corn bread.

  “Come on and have a seat, and let me fix you a plate,” Windsor said.

  “Windsor, you’re not going to get me fat. I just bought a slammin’ black silk charmeuse dress, and I have to be able to fit into it tonight! I’m going to a benefit at Carnegie Hall that Wyclef Jean is giving for his foundation. I heard a lot of divas will be there—Mary J., Macy Gray and Destiny’s Child. So I got to look my best,” I said as I walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water.

  “Hmm,” Windsor said as she drained the chicken oil into a can.

  “So, Windsor, what are you going to do tonight?”

  “Grade some papers and write in my journal,” Windsor replied, and then noticed that I was looking at her closely and asked me, “What are you thinking?”

  “I just can’t believe you’re getting married and having a baby,” I said in a soft whisper.

  “All I know right now is that I’m having this baby,” Windsor said as she placed our food on the table. While we were e
ating, Windsor told me how Wardell was suddenly having cold feet since he found out she was pregnant and that their conversations were short and strained. He had even asked Windsor to consider an abortion, which she refused to do.

  “So what are you going to do? Raise your child in a broken home?” I asked as I took a bite of the piping-hot fried chicken leg.

  “Yancey, the way I see it, it’s better to be a product of a broken home than to live in one,” Windsor said as she picked up a fork and nibbled on some rice.

  “I hear you, girl. But you’re a better woman than I am. I mean, having kids is hard enough with two people. And these kids today are demons. Shooting up each other. I hope you’re going to send your child to private school and move to the suburbs.”

  “I think that’s the big problem. Perceptions. I won’t have any problem sending my child to an inner-city school. Those kids might get beat up and someone might take their lunch money, but at least their parents see them in the evening,” Windsor said.

  “I hadn’t thought about that, and you make a good point.”

  “So how are you doing? I mean, I know you’re all happy about your music career, but how is your soul?” Windsor asked as I thought about the improbable friendship Windsor and I shared. We were as different as lemons and watermelons. Even though it was relatively new, just about two years old, my friendship with her was something I valued. Before Windsor, I’d never had a close female friend.

  “I don’t know how my soul is doing, but my career, the most important thing to me, is doing just fine,” I said.

  “Have you talked to Basil?”

  “I don’t want to talk to Basil,” I said quickly.

  “Do you still love him?” Windsor asked, ignoring me.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It must have been hard to leave him on your wedding day,” she said. Windsor was so damn polite, she was still sticking to my version of the breakup, even though I was sure she knew better.

  “I loved Basil, I think. He loved me more than I loved him, but it wasn’t a totally lopsided love. Do you love Wardell more than he loves you?”

  “I just love Wardell. I know he loves me, but who loves who more is a difficult question, especially since I only know how I love him,” Windsor said.

  “That’s deep, Windsor. I’ve always focused on making someone love me more,” I said as Windsor placed her hand on top of mine.

  We sat in silence for a moment and then I said, “Windsor, there’s a lot of stuff about Basil you and the public don’t know. That boy has lots of secrets, and my new song might just tip off the world.”

  “What secrets does Basil have that the world needs to know?” Windsor asked.

  I looked at Windsor with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin and said, “If either one of us had a good-looking brother, we would be wise to keep him away from Basil.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Let’s put it this way. If Basil were still in high school, he’d fit right in at that school where you teach.” I laughed.

  “Are you telling me Basil’s gay?”

  “Not really all the way. I guess you could call him gay-lite.”

  “No, that’s called bisexual. Which should surprise me, considering how fine and masculine he is, but teaching at Harvey Milk has taught me a lot about stereotypes. Still, I don’t think that’s something you need to tell the world. Basil has enough trouble, because no matter how gorgeous he is, he’s still a black man. That’s burden enough. Let him keep his secrets if he chooses.”

  “I hear ya talking, but his little secret might help my singing career get off to the right start,” I said defiantly.

  “Yancey! Why would you want to act so ugly? Great things are happening for you. Your voice will sell itself. Release the thought of revenge and you’ll be blessed,” Windsor said.

  It was no wonder Windsor was pregnant—she was always acting like someone’s mama. But I couldn’t be too mad at her, since she did have a point. So I just looked down a moment and said, “I don’t know, Windsor. His secret hurt me a lot, and I learned as a child not to let people mess over me. When they strike, you’ve got to strike back. Catch them unaware, after they’ve forgotten the pain they’ve caused.”

  Windsor took my hand in hers, looked into my eyes and said, “Whoever taught you that, Yancey, was flat-out wrong.”

  • • •

  The traffic surrounding Carnegie Hall was hopelessly congested with limos and taxis, but I didn’t care. I was floating on a magic carpet after witnessing my peers put on a show, each trying to outsing the others: Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, Macy, Beyoncé and her backups, Stevie Wonder, Marc Anthony and Eric Clapton.

  But they were not the main reason I was floating. When I walked down the red carpet to enter the hall with Michel, photographers started screaming out my name, “Yancey B, would you stop for me, please?” “Who designed your dress?” “How does it feel to be the new pop diva?” “Why aren’t you performing tonight?”

  It was wonderful as I turned this way and then the other way, smiling all the time while flashes blinded my view. When Patrick Stinson from the E! channel pulled me off the red carpet for a live interview, I knew I had arrived. When he asked me about my song and if the lyrics were based on a personal experience, I looked at him, smiled and said, “Patrick, that’s a great question, and I will answer it very soon, but right now I’m just here to support Wyclef and his kids.” Who said beauty pageants don’t serve a useful purpose?

  When Wyclef himself invited me to a private after-party at Lotus, I politely declined, telling him I had an interview with Deborah Gregory of Essence the next morning and I wanted to be fresh. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Next time.”

  As I pulled up in front of my town house, a thin dusting of snow was beginning to cover the city.

  “My name is Ruland; here’s my card. It was nice driving you. Call me if you need me,” he said.

  “Thank you, Ruland, and I will,” I said as I put my fur on and headed for my door.

  Inside my house, it was dark as asphalt, and I figured Windsor was asleep. I was tempted to wake her up and tell her about all the stars I’d met, but instead I headed to the kitchen, when I heard the sounds of someone whimpering. I couldn’t tell if it was a human or some type of animal like a cat. I became a bit uneasy, since I had never heard Windsor cry and she knew my rules about pets of any kind. When I turned on the light in the dining room, I was startled to see Windsor sitting in a chair, bent over and holding her stomach.

  “Windsor! What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” I asked as I moved toward her.

  “Yancey, I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go to the hospital,” she said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m spotting, and my stomach is so upset. Look at my hands,” Windsor said as she moved her hands toward me. They were huge, obviously swollen.

  “Do you want me to call your parents?”

  “I need to go to the hospital. We can call them and Wardell from there,” Windsor said. Her eyes in the dim light were shiny with tears.

  “Let me call the driver,” I said as I reached for the phone. I pulled out the card Ruland had given me and dialed his cell phone number. He picked up after a couple of rings.

  “Ruland, this is Miss Braxton. You just dropped me off. I have an emergency. Where are you?”

  “I’m crossing Madison Avenue. I can be back at your place in two minutes.”

  “Hurry,” I said as I heard Windsor let out a huge moan, which sounded like she was in labor. But she couldn’t be in labor if she was only four months pregnant. I hung up the phone and sat next to Windsor. I hugged her tightly and said, “Don’t worry, Windsor, help is on the way.”

  Stray Boyz

  A week had passed and I hadn’t been able to catch up with Wylie, but I was dying to tell him about my date. I had to tell someone about my evening, even though I had promised Basil I wouldn’t say a word. But
didn’t Basil know that the gay boy code of silence meant you wouldn’t tell all of your friends? Just your top two, at the very least.

  Wylie picked up the phone quickly, which meant he was probably on the other line.

  “Who you talking to?” I asked.

  “Well, hello to you, too, darling. I’m talking to LaVonya. Trying to find out the good tea before she publishes it in the paper. What’s shaking?”

  “I got something to tell you. Tell Ms. LaVonya it’s a family emergency,” I ordered. LaVonya Young was Wylie’s resident fag hag and one of the city’s most popular gossip columnists. She had her own radio show, and a syndicated column called “Lines from LaVonya” in which she would drop juicy one-liners without revealing the names. Once a month in her column in Diva magazine she would go into a little more detail but still no names. People would visit her Web site and post their guesses as to who LaVonya was talking about, but she would never confirm or deny. I liked LaVonya well enough, but I wasn’t as close to her as Wylie. I knew better than to have a lot of women around me. Like that old saying, “No need to take sand to the beach.”

  “So what’s the emergency, Bart?”

  “I had the most amazing sexual experience of my life.”

  “I thought you had a couple of auditions today,” Wylie said.

  “I did. And that’s where the story begins and ends.”

  I told Wylie about how I’d seduced the handsome Basil Henderson, blow by blow, as it were. Wylie would occasionally interrupt me by saying, “No, you didn’t,” and “Nurse Bart, you gonna make me throw this phone out the window.”

  “Are you going to see him again?” Wylie asked when I finally took a breath.

  “Are grits groceries?”

  “Last time I checked.” Wylie laughed.