A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

  Mitchell blushed then frowned. “Did you experience a backlash from others in the industry?”

  “Did? I still do. I knew going in that I’d lose a few friends and gain some enemies. But I’m not bothered by the cold shoulder. I am bothered by the hypocrisy of some who don’t wanna be friendly with me in public but try to get friendly with me at the after party . . .”

  “Or, in the hotel lobby . . . ?”

  “Right.”

  “Why don’t you just blow their cover?”

  “They just ain’t in the space to do what I’m doin’, and that’s okay. But if they get stupid and start goin’ off on some homo or biphobic rant, the whole world will know when, where, and how they sucked my dick and spread them cheeks.”

  “Mmm. Since you brought that up: I loved how you spread yours in Playgirl.” When he was still the talk of the industry, Montee posed for the magazine. While there weren’t any frontal nude shots (although his hard-on could be seen through the mesh wrap that draped him), there were plenty of his bare bootay.

  Montee gushed. “Folks still bring it to events for me to sign. I never would’ve thought so many brothers read that magazine.”

  “Ha, they weren’t reading the magazine!”

  They cracked up.

  “Do you think other acts will follow your lead?”

  “Posing in Playgirl?”

  “No, silly. Being out.”

  “I hope so. But folks act like I’m the only one. There are many out artists; they just haven’t gotten the press I have. But the time is ripe for a brother in hip-hop who has proven he’s got skills to just break out. Hell, the world’s most popular rap artist is a white boy and the most popular golfer is a brother. Anything is possible.” Montee pointed to Mitchell. “You could follow my lead.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Have you been singing?”

  “Just for Destiny.”

  “Ah. What do you sing for her?”

  “Number one on her list is ‘Now I Know My ABC’s,’ by Patti LaBelle.”

  “From when she was on Sesame Street?”

  “Yes. Then there are nursery rhymes, Christmas carols, songs from The Wiz and Willy Wonka. They’re her favorite movies.”

  “Mmm. I’m sure she loves to hear her daddy sing.”

  “She does.”

  “I’d love to hear her daddy sing.”

  “Now?”

  “Not now. After we get out of here.”

  Hmm . . . “And just where would this performance take place?”

  Montee thought about it. “How about the Monster? They have a piano.”

  “Uh-huh, which someone is paid to play.”

  “So, I’ll talk to the manager.”

  “He won’t let you play. He probably doesn’t know who you are.”

  “Then it’s time he did. Come on, for old time’s sake. Please?”

  Some things never change: the man knew how to beg—and knew that it worked.

  Montee bypassed the manager and just slipped Dalton, the piano man, fifty dollars to take his stool during his half-hour break. Some of the bar’s patrons were men of color, but Mitchell still had his doubts.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Why not? You got cold feet?”

  “No. I just don’t want to humiliate myself.”

  “And how could you humiliate yourself with me on the keys?”

  “Well, this is the Monster. They like to hear stuff by Barbra and Judy.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Even if they don’t appreciate what we do, we will.” He motioned for Mitchell to sit next to him on his left; Mitchell did. Montee began to play.

  Mitchell (and many of those in the bar) recognized the song immediately. He couldn’t believe Montee had chosen this song. Does he expect me to sing it with him?

  When Montee got to Miss Ross’s part, he nudged Mitchell.

  “‘My first love?’” Mitchell sang as a question but on key. They laughed.

  And those listening laughed—not at them, but with them.

  After they harmonized the chorus for the final time, the crowd’s reaction reminded Mitchell of that scene in Coal Miner’s Daughter when Loretta Lynn (aka Sissy Spacek) performs for the first time at a honky-tonk. Petrified and unsure, she does her thing and the folks love her so much they want her to do another song.

  “Woof woof woof!” hooted a Bla-tino duo sitting just two feet from them.

  “Y’all betta sang!” screamed a fifty something brother, clapping furiously.

  “Encore, encore!” shouted a white drag queen, who favored Gwen Stefani.

  “Thanks so much.” Montee grinned, giving Mitchell an I-told-you-so glance. “I’m Montee, and this is Mitchell.”

  Mitchell acknowledged the audience by slightly bowing his head.

  “Dalton has graciously allowed us to do an intermission set. So we’re gonna do a few more selections and hope that you enjoy them.”

  Those few more selections were also duets from the eighties: Barbra & Barry’s “Guilty,” Roberta & Peabo’s “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love,” Patti & James’s “Baby, Come to Me,” Aretha & George’s “I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me),” and Michael & Paul’s “The Girl Is Mine,” on which the “girl” became a “boy” and they did an ad-lib that brought down the house . . .

  “You know, Montee?”

  “Yeah, Mitch?”

  “You just need to hang it up—and zip it up. The boy belongs to me.”

  “That’s not what he told me last night.”

  “Uh-huh. He must’ve mumbled it after his third or fourth screwdriver.”

  “As a matter of fact, it was after the third or fourth time I screwed him with my driver!”

  “It took you that many tries to get it right? It only took one bangin’ from me and he was sangin’ . . .” And Mitchell hit an octave that caused a glass on a nearby table to shatter—and the entire bar (which now included many of the patrons who had been on the dance floor, which is on the lower level) exploded in hysterical laughter that lasted several minutes.

  The audience begged for one more song, and Mitchell wasn’t the least bit surprised that Montee chose a tune by his favorite songwriters: Ashford & Simpson. Folks shouted the hook to “Solid” so loudly that a police officer warned management about the noise.

  They took their bows to a foot-stomping standing ovation. They received many drinks and indecent proposals, including two propositions to engage in a ménage à trois. And the manager pleaded with them to do an hour show every Friday night. They turned down all these offers, but not the $226 in tips that filled two large beer mugs (this tally, as well as the adulation they received, made Dalton fume). Mitchell collected and counted it; Montee told him to keep it.

  “You are a genius,” Mitchell proclaimed as they exited the bar, arm in arm.

  “I don’t know about that . . .” Montee gushed.

  “You knew just what to play. How were you able to read them so well?”

  “I figured we couldn’t go wrong starting out with ‘Endless Love.’ It might be one of the schmaltziest songs ever recorded, but it’s a song everybody loves—even if they’re reluctant to admit it. We gave it the twist it needed. I’m sure there are many men who have played it, sang it for their boyfriends. But to see two men sing it in public?”

  “Yeah, that clinched it.”

  “The songs were right. But my duet partner made it all right.”

  Mitchell grinned. “You took a big gamble on me. I might not have known the words to any of those songs. Or I could’ve known but froze up.”

  “Wasn’t gonna happen. I had faith in you—and in us. And they’re right: we should record a CD. Hell, we performed half the album tonight. And, as you saw, it would be a hit.”

  “I guess so. And what would we call ourselves?”

  Montee considered it. “M&M, what else?”

  “The Mars company will have a big problem with that.”

  “Ha, let ’em sue a tiny r
ecord label in Georgia. You know how much attention we’ll get—and how many copies we’ll sell then?”

  Mitchell sighed a smile. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For this. I needed it. I haven’t done something impulsive like it in so long. It was frightening but fun.”

  “I’m glad. If you really wanna get wild, we can head over to this karaoke drag bar on Third and Sixteenth.” Montee looked at his watch. “Miss Ross should be hitting the stage in about five minutes.”

  “Uh, I’d love to but I have a very busy day tomorrow.”

  “But it’s only two.”

  “Which means I’ve already missed four hours of the sleep I’m used to getting. I have a house to get in order and food to prepare.”

  “Uh, okay. Let me give you a lift. My car is parked on the next street.”

  “What happened to your motorcycle?”

  “She’s in Atlanta. I drive to most of my events, unless I’m going to Cali.”

  “Ah. What kind of car?”

  “An Acura.”

  “What, no Mercedes?”

  “Hell no.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “An Acura isn’t exactly the type of vehicle one would expect a big-time producer to drive.”

  “Please, I don’t plan on goin’ broke, spending all my green on luxury cars and jewelry. So, how ’bout it?”

  “I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

  “But, like a cabbie, I expect a tip.”

  “Oh? A cabbie usually gets fifty cents.”

  “I’ll take fifty smacks instead.”

  “Ha, where?”

  Montee’s eyebrows rose. “Twenty-five on the lips—and twenty-five below the hips!”

  Chapter 10

  Just like before, it all started with one drink—and just like before, that was one drink too many.

  That first drink loosened Raheim up. He got tired of listening to Malice yak about his kids (their joint eight-figure deal with Sony, their clothing lines, and the mini-mansions built for them on their parents’ property) and started bragging about his own being a genius.

  The second drink, to Malice’s delight, got Raheim loose. Malice always picked the right time to lean forward, lean in, lean on him, lean against him—and Raheim welcomed it (Raheim was still attracted to him; Malice had a little gut, but the rest of the body was still tight and stacked, particularly that azz). Malice asked him to dance, and within a half hour, both were bare-chested and bumpin’ with a vengeance on the floor. After three hours of that, they both knew it was time to take it to the head—literally.

  Raheim was a little drunk (if one can be a little drunk) and Malice was a lotta drunk—but not that drunk that he forgot what hotel and which room he was in. His room door hadn’t closed when he was on his knees unzipping Raheim’s fly and gobblin’ him up.

  “Day-um,” Raheim groaned, trying to keep his balance. After getting steady, Raheim got heady. It felt so jood to have someone’s mouth wrapped around his dick, and what a skillful mouth it was: Malice’s lips weren’t made to just suck dick but inhale it. His lips are legendary: he’s gone down on many in the hip-hop world, including a few record execs. (One of those encounters allegedly happened in a first-class airplane lavatory.) And he could multitask: As he gave Raheim some jood head he pulled down Raheim’s jeans and bikini briefs, and worked off his own white sweatpants and stroked his own dick.

  After a few more minutes of deep-throatin’, Malice knew Raheim was on the verge of a volcanic eruption and pulled back. “Nah, I ain’t about to have you cummin’ yet. I want ya to get jizzy up in this.” He hopped across the room and fell onto his back on the bed, raising his legs up and tossing his bright orange G-string onto the bureau.

  “C’mon, nigga, you know you wanna taste that azz.” He gloated, pointing the bottom of his Timbs to the ceiling and spreading his cheeks.

  Raheim pushed Malice’s knees farther into his chest and pushed his face into Malice’s crack.

  “Yeah, nigga, lick it wicked,” Malice cooed.

  After Raheim licked it wicked for a while, Malice flipped over on all fours, his azz pointed straight at Raheim, and threw a condom between his legs that landed at the edge of the bed. “Come on, nigga, you know you wanna nail that azz.”

  Raheim ripped it open and rolled it down, lubed him up with his middle finger, and drove right on in.

  “Ooh, yeah, crank it up while I yank it up,” Malice demanded.

  On every crank, Malice yanked his own dick. And as Raheim went in deeper, Malice’s grunts got louder and longer and lighter, his voice moving from baritone to falsetto. He was all in it and all into it.

  Raheim was in it—but he wasn’t into it. He was up in it—but he wasn’t up into it. And it was feelin’ real jood; in fact, better than jood. But it’s like his pops told him: “Just ’cause it’s jood to ya don’t mean it’s jood for ya.” He felt like he was taking a step back in Malice’s back. Malice made him weak in the knees, but that didn’t mean he had to become weak and fall for his game again. He couldn’t blame the alcohol; he’d made a conscious decision to allow himself to be seduced. As he learned while in the twelve-step recovery program, there are just some behaviors and people you have to delete from your life, or else you’ll be regressing and not progressing. He had to close the chapter on Malice—and this was not the way to do it. He didn’t belong here and he didn’t belong with Malice, anywhere.

  So, he did something he’s never done before: right smack dab in the middle of bangin’ some bootay, he slid out, slid off the condom, and slid into his underwear.

  The azz still twirlin’ in sync, Malice snapped his head back, looking at Raheim in utter disbelief. “Nigga, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

  “I’m outta here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t wanna no more.”

  Malice was . . . well, insulted and mortified—and he had no problem letting Raheim know it . . .

  “Nigga, what the fuck you mean, ‘I don’t wanna?’ You don’t wanna? What kinda fuckin’ shit is that? How you not gonna want this? You know how many niggas want a piece of this? You know how many niggas want just a little taste of this? You know how many niggas been beggin’ to get all hella up in this? Shit, that list would be bigger than a fuckin’ phone book. And you don’t want it? See, I shoulda known. Your punk azz been runnin’ away from it for years. Always comin’ up with some ty-ad fuckin’ excuse not to. Like, I’m in love. Nigga, who the fuck would love yo’ triflin’ azz? Ya can’t handle it and ya could never handle it. After all these fuckin’ years, and ya still don’t know what the fuck to do. You wish you could fuck like a real nigga, yo. You’d lose your fuckin’ mind up in here, up in here. God-day-um. I can’t believe I wasted all this fuckin’ time sweatin’ yo’ punk azz. And you got all that dick goin’ to waste—and it is goin’ to waste, mutha-fucka, if it ain’t fucked this azz. So go on, get the fuck out. No wonder yo’ sorry azz got caught up gamin’; ya gotta know how to play the game, and you can’t. But, yo, make sure you take one good long look at this ’cause you ain’t never gonna see or have some azz like this again, for the rest of your sorry-azz life. Memorize it, mutha-fucka, ’cuz you ain’t never gonna forget it, you ain’t never gonna get it—and you will regret it.”

  There was a lot Raheim wanted to rattle off, too. But Malice’s bitchin’ out like Grace Jones in Boomerang was just the revenge he needed. He didn’t bust a nut, but you’d think he had given the grin on his face.

  Chapter 11

  Montee pulled into a parking space across the street from Mitchell’s home.

  “Thanks for the lift.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  “It . . . it’s been a good night.”

  “Don’t you mean jood?”

  They laughed.

  “Yes, jood,” Mitchell agreed.

  “It can be an even jooder morning, if that’s a word.”

  “It is the morning.”

  “You know what I m
ean.”

  “Yes, I do. And I’m sure it could be. I’d like to . . .”

  “But?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Let me put it this way: My body might be here with you . . .”

  This was one lyric Montee didn’t have fun finishing with him. “. . . but your mind would be on the other side of town.”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “Well, it ain’t really the body I’m interested in, it’s da booty.”

  Mitchell laughed.

  Montee shrugged. “If it won’t bother me . . .”

  “Yes, it would.”

  He sat back and huffed. “Yeah. It would. I tell you, that brother is always messin’ up my plans. Well . . . instead of gettin’ our freak on, how about we get our friend on? You look like you could use a chest to lay your head on.”

  Mitchell smiled. “That, I’d like.”

  “And I think it’s my turn to fix breakfast.”

  “And I’d really like that.”

  Saturday,

  June 7, 2003

  Chapter 12

  They decided to live together because they had to. Now they live together because they want to.

  His father is the last person Raheim ever thought he’d be splitting the bills with. Actually, splitting the bills is the wrong phrase to describe their living arrangement: his father covers and writes all the checks each month for the two bedroom co-op in Jersey City (the mortgage, electric, gas, phone, and cable are all in his name). When he saw that his son was having an emotional meltdown in the summer of ’99, Mr. Rivers insisted that Raheim come live with him; after being an alcoholic for much of his twenties and thirties, he knew how tough conquering an addiction and getting one’s life back on track could be. Raheim appreciated the offer but was a little suspicious; was this his father’s way of making up for the fact that he stepped out on him when he was a kid? There had been other attempts over the last decade since he resurfaced, starting with the invite he and Li’l Brotha Man received to attend the Million Man March (since they were going anyway, Raheim accepted; it would be, as his father told him later that night, the very best moment of his life, having his son with him to share that special day and finally meeting his grandson). And while Raheim did reach out to him that night in that hotel room because he needed him, he didn’t believe he needed him that much. But he had to reconsider that position after he had a relapse (after his sixth Gamblers Anonymous meeting, he thought he had it beat and knew he could walk into a casino and not be tempted—and nearly had another Flintstone fit when he was). Also, because he was facing a mile-high stack of gambling debts, credit-card bills, and default notices (he had to sell the Jeep, the jewelry, and his overpriced fashions) and had been evicted from his three-bedroom apartment in Harlem (he was late with or had not paid his rent at all for six months), he accepted since his father only expected him to chip in for food and other incidentals.