“So you’re calling me for what?” I said. I mean, I knew she needed to vent. Who wouldn’t, after catching their nineteen-year-old son getting a blow job from a neighbor.
“I’m tired of his Black ass…YOU HEAR ME, BLAKE, TIRED OF YOUR BLACK ASS…I SHOULD HAVE PUT HIM OUT A LONG TIME AGO,” Marlena yelled to me, and I assume, to Blake, who’d probably slammed his bedroom door and wasn’t paying attention to his mother. Why Marlena hadn’t followed though on our family’s “eighteen and out” rule was a mystery to me. We’d all known, including Marlena with her new baby back in the day, that it was expected we’d be out of the house after high school senior year, preferably at a college, but for sure working and in our own place.
“Hold on, Marlena,” I said. “Let’s talk about this.”
It was my standard line to use with people who were having a dramatic moment. I knew hearing themselves out would help calm them down.
“Ain’t nothing to talk about, Malcolm,” Marlena said. “I can’t put up with his trifling ass no more. I’m sending him out to California for the summer to stay with you, since he wants to be a rapper…AIN’T NO SUCH THING AS A GAY RAPPER, BLAKE.”
“You’re what?” I asked. I was sure I hadn’t heard Marlena correctly. The “gay rapper” thing threw me off a bit.
“I said I’m sending him out to California for the summer,” Marlena said. “What? You can’t hear now, Malcolm? Trying to play LIKE YOU DON’T HEAR ME LIKE BLAKE DOES?”
“Calm down,” I said. “Are you for real? Things that bad?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “You got a problem with it?”
Sunday evening, on a busy patio at The Abbey, wasn’t the time to go through the list of reasons why having my nephew stay with me was a bad idea. So I started with just a few.
“Hel-LO,” I said. “I’m working, busy all the time, running LADS, never home. And my place is so small. And what makes you think he’d want to spend his summer with his thirty-five-year-old uncle?”
And why would I want to spend my summer with a nineteen-year-old, when I see them every day at work? was what I really wanted to ask Marlena the dramatic.
“You work with the gays,” she said. “Maybe you can straighten him out. I mean, not straighten him out like that, but help him get his life on track. If anybody can show him the way, I know you can. I’m done. I’M DONE!”
“Why can’t he stay with Mama?” I asked.
“Mama’s old,” she said. “He’ll get over on her quicker than me, and she’ll just let her first grandbaby do whatever.”
“Marlena,” I said and sighed. “I’m far from perfect.”
“Please?” Marlena said. “I’m tired. I’m sending him out there.”
Compton walked out the patio door and toward me. With my sister putting me on the spot, and Compton looking kinda good in that black V-neck as he walked my way, I was ready to give Compton a one-night-only after The Abbey, or at minimum, a WeHo Hello in the parking structure around the corner. Sometimes, one-nighters aren’t just about the sex. Sometimes they’re a momentary denial to help get through life’s realities.
“Whaddup, man? You coming back or what?”
“Okay,” I said. And realized I’d answered both Marlena’s and Compton’s requests.
“Thanks, then we’ll talk tomorrow,” Marlena said, just as Compton replied, “Cool, see you inside.”
“Wait,” I said and realized I’d committed to both a summer with my nephew Blake and a continued conversation with Compton. Neither was of my own volition, but I knew it wouldn’t hurt to give Blake or Compton a bit of my time.
I met Compton in the spot where I’d left him a few minutes earlier, in front of the fireplace. He’d finished the first drink his friend had given him and was well into the second. All in a matter of ten minutes or less. Mess.
“Anyway, Compton, I’m heading back to my buddies,” I said. “Good meeting you. Have a good one.”
“Wait,” Compton said and wrapped his free arm around my waist while his hand drifted lower to my butt. “I wanna show you something, man. Look.”
I removed his hand and moved a step away. “I know what you want to show me,” I said. “Not interested.”
He put the iPhone screen in my face, his arm around my shoulder. Squeezed. If I were planning to sleep with him, it would have felt…sexy. His touch was strong.
I saw the homepage of an amateur X-rated site uploading, and then two seconds later, I was doing something pornographic with my mouth to…
“Oh my God,” I said. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s on GayClick,” Compton said and whispered / slurred in my ear, “You gone work my shit like that? I could use some bomb head.”
“Hell no, I’m not working your sh…” I said. “What site is this? How did you get this video?”
“Hold on a sec,” he said. “This is how I recognized yo ass across the room.”
Two seconds later, I was onscreen doing something pornographic squatting up and down over…
“What the hell?” I said. “I’ve seen enough.”
“Me too, but there’s about six or seven more,” he said and grinned. Slid a hand down to my butt and groped again. “You gone twerk that ass for me like you did in the video? Thas whassup, man.”
“Are you crazy,” I said and pulled away from Compton’s grasp. “You don’t even know me. That’s not me.” I knew it was me. But how…that was another question.
“You gone let me hit that, right?” Compton said. “Playin’ all Carlton and shit, but fuck like a porn star.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“I like it when you’re hood like that,” he said as I walked back to Kyle and Bernard. Watched Compton and his friends looking at the screen and getting a kick out of those videos with me in them. Videos I never EVER made.
“I gotta get out of here,” I said. Felt like I was about to faint or vomit, but kept it together.
“Why? What’s up?” Kyle said.
“What did that kid do to you?” Bernard asked. “I’ll go fuck him up.”
And I knew he would. Kyle too. But that wasn’t what I wanted. Well, I did, but I also wanted to be able to return to The Abbey for future Sundays…years from now, after guys with iPhones with videos of me were no longer in the picture.
“I can’t show my face in here again,” I said. “I’m out.”
I walked through the crowd, past Compton and his friends who jeered and whistled as I whisked by, and out the front entrance of The Abbey. I’m sure they all thought I was some kind of porn star or sexual acrobat. Maybe back in the day, pre-2000s, like before camera phones, sex tapes, paparazzi, and things that lived forever on computers, that kind of reputation might have been cool because it was all just based on word of mouth and not based on technology that could create a permanent marker of your reputation.
Not today. As a man in my thirties. With responsibilities. Role modeling. Clients. And a nineteen-year-old nephew coming to L.A. to spend the summer with me.
I looked for “him” in the long line of men waiting to get in the club. Not my nephew. But the one who sold me out online. Sometimes he would make an Abbey appearance on Sunday evenings, when he knew I’d probably be gone home and he wouldn’t have to face me. He wasn’t in line. No sign.
Meant one thing. He was at his place with the one he left me for.
And that was where I knew I’d be heading before I went home to my place.
Chapter 2
On the way to his house, my mind raced with a million messages I’d given to the young men at LADS.
At the Thursday night LADSrap group, three days earlier, I’d facilitated a talk I titled “Click This, Hit That: 2009,” specifically on the issues and concerns that can come with an online presence and life, personal safety, and how the young men should exercise caution online if they ever aspired to do something beyond whatever they currently did to make ends meet.
“After all,” I said and looked around the room at young
Black men of all shades and sexual orientations, “Barack Obama never thought in a million years he’d be president. And he most certainly wouldn’t have reached that goal if he’d ever sent or posted dirty pics of himself during his younger days on a computer or a cell phone.”
Some of the guys snickered and laughed. A sign of guilt, I’m sure, that they’d already sent or seen plenty of inappropriate pictures on their technology and gadgets. Reality check. That was just what young people did.
“But he smoked out, didn’t he? So your point is what, Mr. Malcolm? They didn’t even have cell phones or computers back in those days.” Question from the back of the circle from Sergio, a newcomer to LADS and LADSrap meetings. “Because in case you didn’t recognize, you’re talking to us born in the late eighties to mid-nineties, and online is where it’s at for our generation.”
I loved and hated the pointed questions I got from the men who attended the groups. LADSrap was a new discussion group created by my front desk assistant, and personal pet project, DeMarco Jennings. It was designed as a way to engage young men in current events in a not-so-preachy way. DeMarco was great at the engagement part. I wasn’t so great at the not-so-preachy part, but found ways to hold my tongue and make the weekly discussions a success.
“Sergio, keep it cute or put it on mute,” DeMarco yelled from the side of the room, with a bit of a neck roll punctuating the end of his statement. I loved how he said the things I was thinking. “Let Malcolm finish. Go on, Malcolm.”
“I keep it cute all the time,” Sergio said and stood up. He pointed to his T-shirt, one of the many he designed and then sold on the streets after the various gay clubs in L.A., with one of his Sergio-isms, No, I’m Not A Missed Connection…I Just Don’t Like You. “Thank you very much, DeMarco. I’m sorry, Mr. Malcolm.”
Because Sergio was new to LADS and the Thursday night LADSrap, I reminded him and the group that we came together to become smart and sexually empowered in our discussions and interactions. I reminded him and the group of our community agreements, specifically number eight, respect is important—sometimes we’re the only supporters we have, before returning to the conversation about videos, future goals, and how current decisions they made could impact all of it.
DeMarco, just to make a point to the group’s newcomer, recited the LADS community agreements, or steps to becoming a smart, culturally empowered, and sexually empowered young man:
LADS will learn to make smart and sexually empowered decisions for their lives and health.
LADS have the right to say no. No one is entitled to sex or a hook-up, no matter what they gave to or bought for you.
LADS respect that “No Means No” and never force, coerce, pressure someone into sex against their will.
LADS have a right to ask and know his sexual health status, the right to insist on condoms at all times, and the responsibility to know and disclose your health status. (That doesn’t mean you’re dirty if you request or disclose this.)
Just because he’s a top (and you are), or just because he’s a bottom (and you are) doesn’t mean you two can’t have a meaningful and long-term sexual or romantic relationship.
LADS don’t have to give him your online passwords, account numbers, or a rundown of your schedule when you’re not with him. Possession does not equal love—it might equal crazy.
Being smart, culturally empowered, and sexually empowered LADS means knowing who you are, but refusing to be confined by that knowledge.
LADS respect each other—sometimes we’re the only supporters we have.
LADS support the brotherhood and aren’t complicit in in tearing down the brotherhood by sleeping with, or getting involved with, men who are involved with someone else.
Love yourself. Remember your Black, LGBT, and Black LGBT history and elders by building upon their legacy of struggle and excellence.
After DeMarco’s reiteration of our rules, I continued with the discussion of videos and the future.
“Anyway, my point is that anything you make public about your life—emails or texts you’ve sent with pics, status updates, or any videos you’ve posted with your secret sexual talents can come back to haunt you,” I said and looked around the room at the participants. “And did you know any job or school you apply for can read your online sites to see if you’re someone they want?”
A couple of the guys wrote down notes (or were they texting?) during my talk, as DeMarco chimed in from across the room.
“Guys, I once made the mistake of answering one of those Fredslist ads back in my young and wild days of nineteen…not that I’m not young now,” he said and laughed. “And next thing I know, my picture ends up being used by all sorts of old men trying to attract young, cute men to their houses. It wasn’t cute.”
“I bet it wasn’t,” I said. “So I’m sure some of you know someone who has been burned by something they put online…Anyone got a story?”
“Do you have one, Mr. Malcolm?” Sergio said and smiled. “I’d love to hear about Mr. Malcolm’s online sexcapades.”
Some of the young men chuckled and perked up in their seats while waiting for my response. It was like this every week, no matter the topic, for conversation to lead eventually back to me. I knew it was a sign they cared and were learning something. However, looking back on the meeting three days earlier, my response now came to haunt me.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” I’d said and smiled. “But I would never do anything online that would harm or hurt my career or reputation. I’ve worked too hard for that. And I would hope you’d do the same with all the hard work you’re doing for your future goals.”
What a hypocrite three days can make.
As I pulled in front of his apartment complex, I said a little prayer. I’m not a super-religious person, but I knew calling in the wisdom and positive energy of a higher power was the only thing that would save him and keep me from being the top story on the eleven o’clock news.
Chapter 3
It wasn’t that Deacon and I had a particularly bad breakup. Deacon is “him,” by the way.
He and I could have remained friends, maybe even remained together, if not for the one he left me for. I don’t even like mentioning his name—the one Deacon left me for, or Deacon, for that matter. So I generally don’t mention his name unless there’s no other choice. Still, I couldn’t imagine why he would put our sex life on the Internet.
Deacon and I had two strong years together before things ended. We met when he was hired as a security guard at the bank where I worked before jumping into the world of social services and LADS. One of those community organizations that give young men in trouble second chances referred him to the bank’s minority outreach program, which I chaired.
Seeing that I was on the hiring committee, and chaired the minority outreach program that selected Deacon, I never should have crossed that line—and Kyle advised me from a legal perspective it was bad news—personally or professionally. But that security guard uniform, combined with the mystery of his blue collar life, brought out the Mother Teresa in me. I had to know more, thought we were doing the right thing by giving him a job and a chance in life, and soon found myself looking forward to the days he was scheduled to work in the bank.
Deacon told captivating stories and kept the professional staff all smiles during the day, which definitely kept our minds off the fact that he’d come to the bank through one of those organizations that gave troubled twenty-somethings a second chance in life. So I ignored family and friend advice about people never really leaving trouble behind, and took a chance during a work-related Friday happy hour. I put it out there in one of those truth-or-dare games young professionals play at happy hour that if I had to do another guy on staff at the bank, it would be Deacon the security guard. Two martinis will loosen you up and make you say anything. A late night sext / text message from Deacon the security guard will loosen you up, make you throw professionalism to the wind and your legs up in the air.
A year into
our relationship, which we kept quiet to the people at the bank, my father died. That threw my world into disarray for a few months. I went back to Indiana to help with all the family decisions, and while there, decided to make some career changes in my life. None of these changes, I thought, necessarily affected Deacon, but nonetheless, he blamed them for our demise as a couple.
I decided to start LADS after reading what seemed like the millionth news story dooming the men of my community to a life of unemployment, incarceration, disease, illiteracy, or any other social malady. I jumped right in and decided to do something. No social work degree, just a business undergrad degree from Northwestern University and a liberal, kind heart and mind. No experience running a social services agency. But I knew something needed to be done, and done quickly, to address the issues facing my community. And since I had the means to do so, I acted on my compulsion. Maybe a little bit too quickly.
I quit my job at the bank going after delinquent customers and accounts and decided to use my life in a different way. Figured it was time to live up to my namesakes, Malcolm and Martin. Took the vacation, retirement, and severance money the bank job offered, combined it with the insurance my father left me and the grant money I’d applied for from the city and state, and started my own community organization. I named it LADS, in honor of the name my dad affectionately called me up until the time he died. I found a decent-sized space on Crenshaw Boulevard, south of the 10 freeway, in the heart of Black L.A., where I felt a group like this was needed. I just wanted to do something good and give back.
The plan was for LADS to offer personal, group, and career counseling, GED training, AIDS / HIV / health education, food vouchers, and a non-judgmental space for dealing with sex and sexuality issues. It was an organization for young men coming of age, and coming out of the closet. Yeah, that closet. Young, gay Black men.
Everyone thought I was crazy when I opened LADS, including my best friend Kyle and my family. Kyle couldn’t understand giving up a stable nine-to-five for a job with unpredictable hours that required some nights and weekends. My mother thought the young men I wanted to save weren’t savable and I was wasting the money our father left behind. My sister Marlena liked the idea, but worried for both my and the young men’s safety, since being young, gay, and from the inner city was a concept “we just don’t talk about,” including her son Blake.
Play It Forward Page 2
