I Say a Little Prayer Read Free

didn’t respond because I didn’t want to curse his ass out, but this girl was smarter than the average sister who dealt with down-low bisexual brothers. And if he was so in love with her, why did he keep referring to her as a bitch? Didn’t she have a name? But I knew this was just Jayshawn’s way of hanging on to the street-boy credibility that he so cherished. Every time we’d finish banging, he always had that guilty
I’m not gonna do this no more
look.
    “Are you gonna run me to the airport?” he asked.
    “No,” I said without looking in his direction or missing a beat. I picked up the covers from the floor and climbed back into bed.
    “How am I going to get there?” he asked, dumbfounded.
    “You can take MARTA—the station is a couple blocks away—or you can use your loud-ass cell phone and call a cab. I’m done. See ya.” I pulled the covers over my head, welcomed the darkness, and wished someone would create a “no more dumb mofo” vaccine. And quickly, before someone got hurt.
    A few minutes later, I heard my front door slam shut.

    If someone asked me who Chauncey Greer was, and I wanted to be really honest, what would I say? I’d start by telling them that due to a previous, painful experience my personal theme song is “Love Don’t Love Nobody. Believe That Shit!” So I’m not with the hardhead dude love/relationship program.
    I would tell them that I’m a reformed heartbreaker trying to do the right thing when it comes to dealing with other people. There was a time in my twenties when I broke a lot of hearts and didn’t give a damn about how the person felt when I told them to hit the road or when I stopped returning their phone calls. This one dude, Greg, claimed he was so in love with me that he was going to kill himself if I left him. At that time in my life I was so cold-blooded, I slammed the door in his face and silently waited for a gunshot or broken window. I ignored him when I saw him a year later with another guy I’d slept with. I started to warn the other brotha that he was dealing with a psycho but felt they deserved one another—at that point in my life I would just go along to get along.
    I’m a good-looking brotha (not bragging, just a simple fact) and I’ve had more than my share of equally good-looking brothers and maybe a half-dozen great-looking women. I have my weaknesses like any other man. I guess you could say I’m a LSC (light skin chaser). I prefer my men (and women) to be on the yellow side. Not the light bright and damn near white yellow, but that real nice golden brown. Good hair and light eyes doesn’t hurt. I’m not prejudiced or anything—I have mad respect for my darker-skinned brothers and sisters, since I’m chocolate myself—but my tastes tend to lighter.
    I’m not confused about my sexuality. I’m basically bi with a gay leaning. You could say that my sexual tastes are similar to my love for gumbo. You feel what I’m saying? Sometimes I like a little sausage, other times a bit of shrimp. And every now and then, I get a taste for fish. But today, with so many people talking about
down-low this
and
down-low that
, it’s too much of a hassle dating women, because they ask too many damn questions. I still find myself attracted to women, but I don’t like to lie. I can save that sin for something else—like cussing out Jayshawn. The only thing brothas are interested in is your HIV status (like a brother gonna tell the truth) and how much you’re packing. Which also adds to my reputation when word got out that my stuff could extend a couple zip codes. And sisters, even though they don’t want to admit it, like that shit, too. Size does matter—to both sexes.
    Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about my own mortality, and since I already got a point against me for the sleeping-with-dudes thing, I’ve been trying very hard to be nicer and not lead on women and fat ugly brothas unless they’re exceptional. If statistics are right about