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  The deejay screams through the microphone, “Pop that thang! Rock that thang! Awww, shucks now, Brooklyn! Mami is out there doing her thang!”

  Her voluptuous titties are bouncing.

  And bouncing.

  And bouncing.

  With no support.

  A group of young guys with platinum and gold chains swinging on their necks and wrists encircle Ashley and start throwing dollar bills at her.

  And, like the true diva she is, she squats lower and lower. Bounces harder and harder. She scoops up the money with each dip. Stuffing the greenbacks in her shirt.

  My Ashley.

  The beat changes and so does Ashley. She wiggles her way around the young guys and struts toward me smiling from ear to ear.

  I see Quincy jogging across the court toward us. He has changed into his black basketball shorts and white jersey with a red number eight printed large on his chest. He’s laughing and pointing at Ashley.

  “Did you see me?” Ashley boasts, pointing at the crowd. The guys are still cheering and clapping.

  “I saw you out there doing your thang!” Quincy gives her a high five.

  “Please, don’t encourage her,” I say.

  “Boy, please, I am just having fun,” Ashley says.

  “But, you’re too old to be out there popping and dropping it like it’s hot,” I say. “Especially shaking your girls with no bra on.” I point to her breasts. Her nipples are perky and poking through the thin material.

  “You’re just jealous.” Ashley pulls the crumpled bills out of her T-shirt. “Besides, you’re only as old as you think you are.” She licks her fingers and starts counting her money.

  “And let me guess, you’re seventeen?” I say.

  Ashley rolls her eyes. “Boy, I am twenty-five, at the least. That’s my industry age.”

  I give her the side-eye.

  “I made it rain out there.” Ashley continues counting the bills.

  “It was more like a drizzle,” Quincy says. We burst out laughing.

  Ashley gives us the side-eye.

  “Forget y’all. I made two hundred sixty-seven dollars.” She waves the money in our face. “And, I wasn’t even trying hard.”

  I shake my head.

  “The game is getting ready to start,” Quincy says. “I got you guys a spot up front so you can see me in full action.”

  “Well, let’s go. I need to be in the V.I.P. section anyway.” Ashley teases her coif. She then takes out her compact mirror and daps some bright red lipstick on her lips.

  “You are a mess,” Quincy chuckles and leads us through the crowd. We follow him to the seats at center court.

  “I love you,” Ashley squeals and throws her arms around Quincy. “This is perfect.”

  We are smack dab in the center of it all.

  The action.

  The muscular.

  Tall.

  Dark.

  Light.

  Mocha-colored men running back and forth up and down the court in their shorts and jerseys.

  Nothing can get past us.

  Well, nothing can get past Ashley.

  “Oh my, look at number twelve.” Ashley fans herself with her hand. “Damn! Number three is foine! No, wait, look at number fifteen.” She points at the tall, curly-headed Rick Fox look-alike. “Today is my day.” Ashley shifts in her seat.

  “Yes, Ashley, today is your day,” I say.

  The game starts with Quincy’s team, Bed-Stuy’s Finest, paired against the Crown Heights Hustlers.

  They are some rough-looking guys.

  Scars on their bodies.

  I’m not sure if they are gunshot or knife wounds.

  They have tattoos on their necks.

  Hands.

  And arms.

  With their babies’ mamas’ names.

  Numbers.

  Streets.

  Scriptures scribbled on every available piece of skin.

  I’m a little nervous for Quincy and his team. They are some pretty boys.

  Clean cut.

  Smooth skin.

  Manicured.

  I hope they don’t get rough out there.

  The young girls standing behind us scream the player’s names and numbers.

  I hear a few constantly yelling, “Hey, number eight! I want your Thornberry!”

  I start to stand up and put my hand in the air and yell, “He’s mine, bitches! Back the fuck up!”

  But, I reason against it. I don’t think Quincy would appreciate the embarrassment.

  Neither would I.

  The referee blows the whistle and starts the game.

  Quincy is in the starting lineup.

  He looks over at me and winks.

  I smile and do a slight nod.

  I don’t want to give myself away.

  But, it’s obvious Quincy doesn’t mind.

  Two tall guys are in the center of the court waiting for the referee to toss the ball in the air.

  The official gives the go-ahead and the referee releases the ball. It is loose in the air. Quincy’s teammate gets the height on the other guy and he hits the ball far right.

  The two teams scramble for the ball, going back and forth, ripping it from each other.

  The men push and dribble past one another.

  They are dipping, turning, and faking left then right.

  The curly headed Rick Fox look-alike gets the ball and he is sprinting down the court.

  He thrusts the ball hard to Quincy, who is standing under the hoop.

  He catches the ball.

  Leaps in the air.

  He looks like a gazelle.

  Graceful.

  Swift.

  Effortless.

  Soaring high.

  And, with a slight spin he slam dunks it.

  He hangs on to the rim, swinging back and forth.

  He lets go and falls to the ground on his feet.

  The crowd erupts.

  I jump up with my hands in the air and scream, “YEEEEAAAAHHHHH!!!!”

  The announcer on the microphone yells, “Oh, no!!! Thornberry starts the game with a dunk! This is going to be one of those games!”

  And it was one of those games.

  I can’t contain myself watching Quincy run up and down the court slamming the ball in the basket.

  Blocking shots.

  And dribbling like a true champion.

  Yeah, he earned his basketball spot at Stanford.

  The end of the game is a nail biter. The score is Bed-Stuy’s Finest, 58, and the Crown Heights Hustlers, 56.

  It is thirty seconds left in the game.

  The Crown Heights Hustlers have the ball. The giant lanky guy with bad skin sprints up the center and does a pump fake. He rushes the basket with a lay-up.

  He scores two points.

  The game is tied.

  Bed-Stuy’s Finest has the ball.

  Rick Fox’s look-alike is dribbling the ball down the court.

  He is yelling and pointing at his teammates, “Get in position! Get in position!”

  Quincy is being blocked by a big stocky guy who is twice his size. He definitely needs to be playing football. I didn’t know basketball players looked like linebackers.

  Quincy breaks free. He jerks right and then crosses in front of the Rick Fox look-alike.

  He passes the ball to Quincy. He dribbles past the defense.

  The crowd is on their feet.

  Everyone’s screaming.

  My heart is pounding.

  Ashley is gripping my arm.

  Quincy does a finger-roll, releasing the ball in the air toward the basket.

  One of the guys goes up and tries to slap the ball out of Quincy’s hands.

  He misses.

  The ball hits the edge of the rim.

  All of the players are looking up, watching to see if the ball is going to drop in the net.

  Ashley grips my arm harder.

  I can’t look.

  I turn away.

&
nbsp; Then I hear an eruption of cheers. Ashley starts jumping up and down. “He did it! The ball went in!” Ashley screams.

  I turn and see people rushing the court and the players.

  The team is leaping around hugging one another with Quincy in the middle.

  Ashley and I hug.

  All of a sudden I see Quincy breaking through the melee coming toward me. He has a huge smile on his face. He stretches his arms wide and I rush into him.

  We embrace.

  Rocking from side to side.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “I told you I was going to do this,” Quincy says. “This was for you, baby.”

  I want to reach up and kiss him.

  BADLY!!!!

  “I love you, Chase,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I love you, too, Quincy,” I say.

  Reluctantly we let each other go.

  His sweat is on my head, neck, and arms.

  “Come on. I want you to meet my dad,” Quincy says.

  I step back and look at him, shocked. “Your dad is here?”

  “Yeah. He came to the game. He’s right over there.” Quincy points to the other side of the basketball court.

  I’m nervous.

  Shaking.

  Scared.

  I’m not sure if I am ready to meet his parents.

  His dad.

  The man who’s been in and out of Quincy’s life, but he so desperately wants to have a relationship with.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll like you. He’s cool.” Quincy notices my apprehension.

  I take a deep breath.

  I can do this, I say to myself. I have to do this.

  “Let me tell Ashley we’ll be back,” I say.

  Quincy points behind me. I turn and she is all up in one of Quincy’s teammate’s face.

  The Rick Fox look-alike.

  She’s giggling and placing her hand over her chest.

  Trying to act bashful.

  He’s grinning and staring into her cleavage.

  I step next to Ashley and tell her I will be right back.

  “Okay, okay.” She waves her hand at me dismissively. She doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me standing next to her.

  I follow Quincy through the crowd. Guys are patting him on the back and congratulating him on winning the game. Girls are screaming his name, “Hey, Thornberry! We love you!”

  With each step my feet feel heavy.

  My heart is pounding and echoing throughout my entire body.

  The closer we get I feel anxious.

  We are a few feet away.

  Now steps.

  His father’s back is toward us.

  WOW! From behind Quincy’s father looks just like him. They are exactly the same height, build, and color. One would easily mistake them for the same person, or perhaps brothers.

  When we reach his father, he turns, and Quincy excitedly says, “This is my dad, Lenny Givens!”

  We stare into each other’s eyes.

  Shocked.

  I can’t breathe.

  The air has escaped me.

  Everything around me stops.

  I don’t hear the yelling.

  Or screaming.

  My mind rushes back to when I was eighteen years old. Lying in Lenny’s bed.

  The first man I gave myself to.

  The first man I fell in love with.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Lenny.

  Lenny.

  Lenny.

  It has been eighteen years since I last saw Lenny Givens.

  He is dark.

  Sexy.

  And, oh so fine.

  Six-feet four-inches of smooth black skin.

  Has a body like the rocks of the project buildings.

  Sturdy.

  And, as black as Lenny is, he has the prettiest eyes.

  Light brown.

  You couldn’t help but stare at him. They’re mesmerizing. I got lost in them.

  His pearly white teeth gleamed when he smiled.

  His huge massive hands swallowed mine, and he used to have wavy hair all around his head. I swear all he did was brush his hair and wear a doo-rag all the time.

  When Lenny walked it wasn’t like the other men.

  Naw.

  He was cool.

  Too cool.

  He strolled.

  It was like he was gliding on air and his sneakers dared not touch the ground.

  I yearned for him.

  Desperately.

  Lenny was a legend in our area.

  All-star basketball player.

  Recruited to the University of North Carolina.

  Traveled overseas.

  He did things young boys and young girls in the hood only dream about.

  Every day I would watch Lenny as he gallantly strolled the streets, going to the corner bodega.

  The basketball court.

  The Chinese restaurant.

  Everywhere he was, my eyes followed.

  I watched as Lenny seduced the young girls in our hood.

  They loved him.

  He was older.

  Mature.

  Very mature.

  He would take the anxious girls back to his sex nest.

  A queen-sized bed with animal print sheets and matching comforter.

  Dim red lights.

  Slow music playing in the background.

  Wine glasses.

  That is what I imagined it to be like.

  And I discovered I was right.

  When Lenny chose me he knew I had not been touched by another man yet. He said he could smell it. I’d just turned eighteen. I always knew I was gay, but I never been with a man. I came close in college, but I was too scared.

  I didn’t want my first experience to be with a white boy.

  In Nashville, Tennessee.

  I met some black guys.

  But, I kept thinking.

  Wondering.

  Imaging myself being with Lenny.

  When I came home for summer break I bumped into Lenny at the corner bodega.

  “What’s up, college boy?” Lenny’s voice stung my ears.

  I felt my stomach turn.

  My hands shook.

  Light perspiration hit my forehead.

  “What’s up, Lenny,” I said.

  Still trying to register he was really speaking to me.

  “How long you back home?” He stepped closer to me. I smelled his sweet musk and hint of cologne.

  “Just for a few months. I go back in August.” I breathed deeply.

  In.

  Then out.

  Taking Lenny inside my lungs.

  “What are you doing later?” Lenny asked.

  “No plans.”

  “Why don’t you come through?”

  Stunned.

  Lenny’s deep voice was so hard it scared me into his bed. He talked in my ear every time he stroked my innocence with his massive blackness. I had never seen anything like it before. It looked foreign and ugly. It had a lot of veins protruding from it. I knew it wouldn’t fit inside me, but he told me not to worry. He said he would be gentle and take his time. He told me that he was going to help break me in for the other boys that would want to stick their things in me. Unfortunately, none would be like his. Lenny was my first and I would always yearn for it.

  I believed everything he told me because he said I was special. “You’re the only guy I’ve done this with,” Lenny said as we lay in his bed under the leopard print sheets. I believed him. “I’ve been watching you as you watch me. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” Lenny said.

  I had too.

  “We have to keep this as our secret,” Lenny said, stroking my head.

  “I know,” I said. “I won’t say anything.”

  I never said anything.

  I never mentioned our relationship to anyone.

  Lenny taught me how to do things I didn’t know grown men did with one another. Things I dare not speak about,
not even to my own best friend, Ashley.

  How to touch.

  Tease.

  Massage.

  Suck.

  Lick.

  Arch.

  Receive.

  Clinch.

  Hold.

  Release.

  Grind.

  Slow.

  Fast.

  Control.

  For two years I was in bliss. Unspeakable pleasure.

  Happiness.

  When I went home for Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring break, and the summer, I spent my time sneaking in and out of Lenny’s apartment.

  I belonged to Lenny and he was mine.

  So I thought.

  I was twenty years old when I returned home after my junior year of college. I found out Lenny had also been sexing a twenty-two-year-old young woman who moved from our neighborhood. She was eighteen when they started fucking.

  And she had a four-year-old son.

  Lenny was the father.

  I went to his house to confront him, but those eyes and that voice lured me to his bed. I let him take me one last time.

  One last painful time.

  He whispers my name with each stroke.

  Loud.

  Louder.

  And louder.

  “Chase!” Quincy taps me on my back.

  I look around and remember where I am. I gaze at the sea of faces spattered throughout Prospect Park. The crowd is still cheering, “BED-STUY! BED-STUY!”

  I look at Quincy.

  His lips are moving.

  I finally hear him saying, “Chase! This is my dad, Lenny Givens.”

  I turn to his father. Lenny’s light brown eyes are wide. His large dark hand is extended toward me.

  “Nice to meet you, Chase,” his father says.

  Quincy puts his hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He stares into my eyes.

  “Nothing. Why?” I say and shake my head. I reach for Lenny’s hand.

  Quincy points to my mouth. “You’re biting your lip and it’s bleeding.”

  A Tribute

  By James Earl Hardy

  Different sides of the same coin: that’s how many viewed E. and me over the years. To an extent, they were right: We’re both Black Same Gender Loving men; we made our mark on the publishing world around the same time; and we document the under-represented and misunderstood lives of Black gay/bisexual men. But our relationship was much more complex than that simplistic description.

  We met at a reading/signing at A Different Light bookstore in late spring ’94; he was promoting Just As I Am and the reissue of Invisible Life. After getting my copies signed, I asked if he would read my debut novel, B-Boy Blues, and if he liked it, provide a jacket blurb. I came prepared—I had the galley with me. He saw and mouthed the subtitle—“A seriously sexy, fiercely funny, Black-on-Black love story”—and his eyes grew wide. He emphatically said yes. I didn’t expect to hear from him for weeks since he was on his first major tour but I received a phone call a few days later. His initial reaction: “Oh, James Earl! This is sizzling!” Then he added, “I could never write anything like this—but I’m glad you did, because we need it.” He welcomed me into the literary fold with open arms; he knew that we were hungry for work that spoke to us. And he had a generosity of spirit that was unmatched: after B-Boy bowed later that year, I encountered quite a few readers who picked up the novel because E. mentioned it when asked to recommend other authors.