“Don’t knock it ’til you try it,” Kyle said. “That’s how Bernard and I lost all that weight last summer. It works.”
“No thanks,” I said. The thought of going one hundred percent raw wasn’t appealing at all, though I did admire Kyle and Bernard’s weight loss they’d managed to maintain in the past year. “So no Bernard tonight…I’m bummed.”
“I’m that terrible to hang out with, I know…thanks, Malcolm,” he said, and held up his glass of sangria. “Cheers to good food and fellowship.”
“Cheers,” I said, clinked glasses, and drank. “Mmm, this is good and strong. The way I like my drinks.”
Kyle and I loved a good drink, dating back to our young and innocent days at Northwestern University. At that time, our cocktail repertoire consisted of anything mixed with Kool-Aid. Dorm life, combined with no money and no cultural capital, you improvise. Luckily, since then, we’d graduated and upgraded to much better cocktails. After graduation, Kyle had been offered an overnight producer job in the newsroom at the CBS affiliate in L.A. I hadn’t found a job worthy of my business degree yet, and the idea of living without my best friend was something I didn’t want to do at age twenty-two, so I moved to California with Kyle. We shared a two-bedroom near the TV station for a couple of years, while I got established at the bank and while Kyle worked at the station and finished law school. We both got used to life in L.A. Though living in separate places, and with totally different lives, new jobs, and multiple boyfriends along the way, Kyle and I did our best to hang out a few times a week.
“So tell me about your day…you had Tyrell Kincaid as a speaker, right?”
What Kyle lacked in culinary skills, he made up for in listening skills too. Most of the time.
I shared Tyrell’s major themes in his speech, details about the catering from Watts Coffee House, how happy I was with DeMarco’s coordination work, and finally how I thought DeMarco’s new boyfriend was Compton, the man who brought those videos to my attention at The Abbey the previous night.
“But I’m not so worried if he is or isn’t DeMarco’s new man,” I said. “The videos are gone off GayClick. It’d be my word against Compton’s…not that I’m wanting an ultimatum or confrontation kind of situation with my worker. So let’s change the subject.”
“Like to Tyrell Kincaid…yum,” Kyle said and sucked on his bottom lip. “I’ve only seen him once in person, and that was at a distance on the red carpet at a movie premiere.”
“He’s a looker,” I said and smiled. If I’d had lighter skin, I’m sure I would have been red from thinking about Tyrell. “And I’ve never met anyone that tall…and those fingers.”
“You and your finger fetish…freak,” Kyle said. “No wonder you’re making ho videos all over the Internet.”
We laughed. Then stopped suddenly and stared at each other. It was a way we had with things that were funny, but not really funny, but kinda funny. Another one of our you-had-to-know-us-at-Northwestern moments.
“At least those Internet moments were with my boyfriend, and I wasn’t being paid to do it with strangers.”
“Oh, I’m not knocking it,” Kyle said. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual slut. An academic top. A bookworm bottom. It’s all good to me, girl.”
“I like to call it ‘smart and sexually empowered,’” I said. “At least that’s how I try to teach it to the guys at LADS.”
“Semantics,” Kyle said. “I’m the lawyer.”
“Anyway, Tyrell is a very nice and smart guy, in addition to being good-looking,” I said. “And the guys at LADS loved him.”
“Too bad his boyfriend doesn’t love him.”
“What?”
“Don’t act like you never heard the rumors about Tyrell Kincaid and that singer Tommie Jordan,” Kyle said and finished his glass of sangria. “Best friends, puh-lease.”
“You know I’m not into all that gossip.”
“I work at Fox…I know people, girl,” Kyle said. “Tyrell and Tommie been together for almost five or six unhappy and closeted years.”
That was news to me. I always thought those rumors I heard on gossip shows were just that…rumors. I knew Kyle was well-connected and knew loads more celebrity gossip than he shared with me.
“But why unhappy?” I asked. “They’re rich and beautiful Black men.”
“Well, if Tommie could keep his dick in his pants, Tyrell would be happy,” Kyle said and sipped on his sangria. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“I never would have known from how upbeat Tyrell was earlier this evening.”
“You paid him to be upbeat and motivating to the guys at LADS,” Kyle said matter-of-factly. “But anyway, when we finish dinner, we’re going to see the source of Tyrell’s unhappiness.”
“Go somewhere after eating all this food?” I said. I’d barely started, and Kyle was already pushing an evening of festivities. It was almost nine, and I had work the next morning. “I just wanted to chill here until traffic died down before driving back to Silver Lake…and to spend time with my buddies, of course.”
“Nice save, bitch,” he said. “There’s a music showcase this evening at this little underground club in Hollywood. Chrisette Michele, Dwele, Alice Smith, Elle Varner, and Tommie Jordan. Invitation only, industry folks. So it’ll be cool.”
Of course, the first thing that came to mind was not how fun it would be. After all, I loved Kyle’s invitation-only, industry folks events when they fell on Fridays or Saturdays. I thought about work the next morning, if I’d be able to wake up on time if I went to a show, and my never-ending to-do list. And then…
“I’m still dressed for work, Kyle,” I said. “I can’t be with all your Hollywood friends dressed like a Carlton.”
My khaki pants and white button-down shirt were cute to me for work, but would get me mistaken for the help at a Hollywood listening party.
“You’re still part of the PBC, right,” Kyle said. “I got plenty of clothes for your fat ass.”
I giggled at the nickname we’d given ourselves in college when we discovered how much our various crushes, dates, and boyfriends loved the bedroom skills of the Power Bottom Crew. We were quite nasty nerds at Northwestern University. The “fat ass” part, though, was a sore spot for me. I knew I was nowhere near fat at a 170 pounds, but being in L.A. makes you wonder about yourself because you know most people size you up as overweight at size medium. Kyle was back to the same size he was in college, except for a few new muscles put on by his personal trainer. I was happily jealous, but didn’t let on, about his new body.
“Sick,” I said. “No you didn’t go there with the PBC.”
“Wait, what am I asking…I saw some of those videos. You’re the diamond princess of the PBC.”
“Oh my God, are you serious, Kyle?” I asked. “This morning you said you didn’t watch, liar.”
“You didn’t think Bernard and I would just let it pass by without a peek?” he said. “We looked as soon as we got home from The Abbey.”
I was embarrassed. But I probably would have done the same, gross factor or not, if I’d found out one of my friends had a sex tape online.
“But don’t worry, Malcolm, you done the PBC proud,” he said and giggled. Obviously influenced by one too many glasses of sangria. “And for that, I’m sure there’s a little freakum dress or nice pair of slutty jeans and a T-shirt and blazer in my closet that you can borrow…from my when-I-was-fat stage.”
Chapter 9
Kyle and I were both still hungry when we arrived at the show, even after eating the raw vegetarian feast Bernard left for us. Filling, but unfulfilling.
So the first thing we went for on the massive buffet were the buffalo wings and miniature barbecued ribs.
At the bar, two glasses of wine—white for me, red for Kyle. Didn’t want to mix any other types of liquor with our earlier sangrias. Tired and a hangover were a no-no for me at work.
We’d just missed the performance by Alice Smith, but still
had Chrisette, Dwele, Elle, and Tommie Jordan to go. We found an empty booth / table on the side and rear of the club and raced to sit in it. On our way to the seats, I noticed a few familiar Black singers and actors in the audience, and they were enjoying the fattening appetizers as well as the live DJ spinning old-school R&B in between performers. I was always star-struck whenever I went to one of Kyle’s industry events, but was comforted that they, like me, were regular people who liked to eat. So much for the hype that no one eats in L.A. Black people who move to L.A. from other places eat.
“Did you see…” I asked, or started to anyway. “Nothing, forget it.”
“Chill, Malcolm,” Kyle said. “Yeah, I did.”
“I know, my bad,” I said.
Part of the façade of Kyle’s work world was never to show excitement at being in the company of a celebrity. Somehow, that was seen as a sign of weakness, or that you didn’t belong in the circle. The entertainment industry circle. Wearing Kyle’s overpriced designer jeans and T-shirt, and being on the guest list, were the only things that put me anywhere close to the same league with the crowd. I couldn’t believe I was wearing eight hundred dollars on my back, according to the tags Kyle removed like nothing from the clothes he loaned to me. Although there were a few celebrities in the house, most in attendance were those satellites surrounding the real talent—stylists, producers, talent scouts, publicists, and wannabes.
“So…your nephew,” Kyle said, changing the subject. “What are you gonna do with a nineteen-year-old at your house who you’re not fucking?”
“Blake’s my nephew,” I said. “That’s kinda not funny, Kyle.”
“I know, no disrespect,” he said and laughed. I knew what he meant, so no disrespect taken. “But you know you’re gonna have to find something for him to do all day.”
“I might put Blake to work at LADS,” I said. “I haven’t spent a lot of time with him since I moved to L.A., so I don’t know a lot about his interests other than he’s nineteen, gay, and a bit of a troublemaker.”
“Well, if I were a nineteen-year-old troublemaker, I don’t think I’d be into the charity / LADS thing you do, no offense, unless it’s to meet boys,” he said.
“Yeah, helping people is boring work,” I said. “But somebody’s gotta do it.”
“Awww, don’t get offended, girl. You know what I mean,” he said. “Maybe I can find him an internship at the studio, or I’m sure Bernard could use an assistant with the catering company. He has a lot of summer parties to do and could easily pay him.”
“We’ll see. Blake gets here in a few days.”
Kyle looked up over my head. Said under his smile, “Looks like you have a guest. Stay cool.”
I felt a tight grip on my right shoulder and turned around to see a belt buckle and a slight hint of a bulge dangling left in my face. Yes, I looked. Then looked up, and saw Tyrell Kincaid smiling down on me.
“Whassup, Mr. Malcolm,” he said and gave me a fist bump. “Twice in one day, huh? Never thought you were the type to go out after work.”
“Funny how that works out,” I said. “This is my buddy Kyle. Kyle, Tyrell.”
They shook hands and greeted.
“You look familiar,” Tyrell said to Kyle.
“You do, too,” Kyle said to Tyrell.
Oh God, I thought. Not the “you look familiar” line gay men use to flirt. Not that I was jealous of Kyle, or that he and Tyrell would hit it off. Besides, Kyle had a man, and Tyrell was not available. What was that jealous moment all about?
Tyrell grabbed my shoulder again and squeezed. As if he were reading my mind. Or just needed me as a place / person to rest his hand on. Squeezed again.
“I didn’t think you were into the music thing, man,” Tyrell said. “Should be a good show tonight. Alice Smith was dope. You see her?”
“That’s what I hear, but we missed her performance,” I said. I was star-struck. Tyrell Kincaid, professional basketball player, was having small talk with me. In public. I noticed eyes and heads turning in our direction. I didn’t know what else to say, and I didn’t want a repeat of the foot-in-mouth moment between Tyrell and me at LADS.
Kyle intervened. Being nosy. “So who are you looking forward to seeing tonight?”
“You know, the whole night is supposed to be good,” Tyrell said and turned his attention back to me. “So I’ma get back at you about the lunch or dinner thing, Malcolm. I got paid the big bucks today, Kyle.”
Tyrell winked at Kyle and then turned to me. We both smiled, laughed, at the small honorarium I paid him for his talk at LADS. Our own private joke.
“Enjoy the night, guys,” Tyrell said before strolling off to greet people at other tables in the club.
“He’s a nice guy,” I said as I took a longer-than-normal peek at Tyrell walking away. I’d never met a man so tall and massive. My sexually empowered side made a mental note of his broad shoulders, tiny waist, and all that ass, which gave him that perfectly male V-shape, a thought I wouldn’t share with Kyle.
“Okaaay,” Kyle said and leaned across the table to give me a high five, knocking his red wine across the table with him. Rolled onto my shirt, which was really Kyle’s. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool.”
“Really. Let me help.” Kyle attempted to clean up the spill with a stack of cocktail napkins we’d grabbed to clean our fingers of wings and ribs sauce.
“No problem, it’s your clothes anyway,” I said and smiled. Kyle smiled with me. “I’ma head to the restroom. Back in a few.”
I walked through the crowd until I found a server to direct me to the nearest men’s room. Inside, I took off the T-shirt Kyle had loaned me and ran water over the spot where red wine had spilled on it. Felt a little naked, being dressed in just a tank top, but the attire was similar to some of the guys sitting in the club or playing onstage. Only thing, a thirty-five-year old doesn’t carry a tank top the same way as a man of twenty-five. Gave me better incentive to get out as much of the wine stain as possible.
The men’s room door opened, and a trendy-dressed young man walked through. I heard him whisper a “whassup” as he walked to the urinal a few feet to my left. I continued working on my shirt until it looked presentable enough for public viewing.
“Whassup,” the young man said as he stood behind me in the mirror.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be out of your way. Spilled something on my shirt.”
“It’s cool, man,” he said and grinned. He moved a little closer to me. “Kinda digging the view from right here.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. I wanted to add “young man,” but didn’t. I could see I was older than he, but didn’t feel he deserved a respectful modifier.
“I thought I saw you checking me out in the mirror,” he said. “That’s all.”
I ignored him. Moved out of his way and a little to the right to put my shirt under the blow-dryer.
“I saw your video, yo,” he said and put a hand over his zipper. “Man, you know how to suck a dick.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your videos. I saw a bunch of ’em online, actually,” he said. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw you walk in the club tonight. You’re like the male Superhead.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about. “Wrong guy here.”
“It’s cool if you wanna be discreet and all,” he said and handed me a business card. An independent publicist / producer, no company affiliation. In L.A., that meant you just moved here and didn’t have a real job. “I got a girl who keeps me broke off good, but I like to get down every now and then, if you know what I mean. Like you did in the video.”
“Um, okay.”
I left, not making any more small talk with the young music producer, nor making a deal to get down with him.
When I returned to the table, Kyle was nursing a new glass of red wine. I knew it would be a while before we’d leave. He d
rove a stick and I left my keys at his and Bernard’s house.
“What took you so long?” Kyle asked. “It’s a hundred-dollar throwaway. And you missed Tyrell, who came back looking for you again. Someone’s ’bout to get dicked down by the ball player.”
“Kyle, please, you’re buzzing,” I said. “You’ll never guess what happened in the bathroom.”
“Better than Tyrell Kincaid?”
“Nothing like that,” I said and leaned in toward Kyle to whisper. “Someone else saw those videos. He propositioned me.”
“Are you serious? Is he still here? Do you wanna go?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes. But I know you can’t drive yet,” I said. “I’ll just chill until you’re ready.”
“Was he cute?” Kyle said. “I mean…”
“Now, Kyle,” I said. A little disappointed that his first response would be to inquire about the guy’s looks.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm. That sucks.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” I said. “I could kill Deacon for what he did.”
We stayed silent for a few seconds. I was thinking. I’m sure Kyle was thinking of what to say to console me.
“I mean, if two random strangers saw those videos and then me in public,” I said and continued, “how long before someone I know sees them?”
Chapter 10
I didn’t have to wait too long.
The next morning when I arrived at the center, DeMarco said I’d had five urgent messages from the LADS Board of Directors co-chair, two from the office of the local city council representative, and one from the youth minister of the church a few blocks away, who was one of the more vocal board members. I was already cranky because it was eighty degrees already at eight thirty in the morning. Hot. Late June. Urgent messages. Plus tired from the music showcase last night, which ended at three in the morning. Not a winning combination.
“My God, DeMarco,” I said and sighed. “Did they say what they wanted?”
Play It Forward Page 5
