Love the One You're With Read Free Page B

me).
    The day after all of this drama unfolded (a Monday), Gene called and left a message on my answering machine at home. I didn’t return it. He did the same thing Tuesday; again, I didn’t respond. Wednesday night he called me at home; I wouldn’t pick up. When those three days turned into a week, B.D. and Babyface stepped in to reunite us, but nothing they said or tried worked. Gene showed up at my job just before Christmas and followed me home (I live just three blocks away from the junior high school I teach at); as he pleaded with me to talk to him, I wouldn’t even acknowledge him, closing my front door in his face. And I brought in the New Year for the first time in six years without him (he called five seconds after 1995 began, wishing me the best).
    â€œYou think you makin’ him suffer when you makin’ yo’self suffer,” Pooquie argued—and he was right. (That was advice he himself had to take to heart: He tried to punish me by holding back on the lovin,’ but that “I ain’t givin’ you none” eventually turned into “Yeah, mutha-fucka, bone it like you own it!” ) Pooquie saw how the separation from Gene was affecting me, and while a part of him may have been pleased that Gene was out of the picture (they’ve always butted heads because they have the same domineering personality and believe they should be number one in my life), he knew that I—and he —would continue to be miserable so long as Gene and I weren’t speaking. So he “tricked” me into talking to him again: he called up Gene, placed him on speakerphone, and after Pooquie got me to admit how much I missed him, Gene entered the discussion with: “I miss you, too.” Gene and I made up that night. I was still a little angry at him, but the bottom line was that I blamed Gene when I was really angry with myself for not thinking such a thing could come back to haunt me (not to mention coming up with that question in the first place; I didn’t want any particular person to choose it, but I certainly didn’t expect to have to answer it myself). Yes, Gene can be a wise-ass, but I hadn’t told him this in confidence; I didn’t swear him to secrecy. So it was fair game in the game we played. And it wasn’t worth losing my best friend, the big brother I never had who served as my mentor “in the life” (i.e., the Black gay world), over.
    Although Gene and I patched things up a few weeks ago (placing Truth or Shade on that list of things we will never partake of again), our schedules didn’t allow us to hook up. But I planned to spend the entire weekend (which included the observance of Dead White Male Presidents’ Day) with him—shopping, clubbing, and doing a whole lot of catching up and kee-keeing.
    It was jood to see him again and he obviously felt the same way: He stood as I approached him and didn’t give me the chance to put my bag down, almost snatching me up in his arms. I had to admit, the bear hug felt very jood; I hadn’t realized just how much I missed him until then. How ironic that Phyllis Hyman’s “Old Friend” happened to be playing at that moment.
    He finally released me. “So … now that the dog’s away, the pussy can come out and play, huh?”
    I frowned. “Not funny.”
    â€œBelieve me, that wasn’t a joke.”
    â€œSo, where’s B.D.?” I asked, peeling off my leather jacket and placing it around the back of the stool.
    â€œIn the ladies’ room.” He sat back down.
    I joined him. “To do more than just wash his hands before dinner, I’m sure.”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œOh, how fag ulous!” B.D. cried as he sashayed toward us. “It’s so wonderful to have our three-for-T circle together again.” He hugged us both by the neck.
    Gene pushed him off. “Yeah, yeah, save it for Sally Messy Raphael, okay? I