fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
[Dedicated to Barry. RIP.] Hollywood, some time in 1976 I left the theater alone. He never showed up. It was a shitty movie and I almost left early. I didn’t because I kept hoping that maybe he would show up. Also, too, he cowed me into waiting. The last time he was late, and I…
[Originally published in August 2012] For a 12 year old, Clayton Simmons maintained the most peculiar habits. By a calculus all his own, he computed the precise number of movements and amount of time necessary to complete his morning rituals so that he ended up looking fabulous for the day. Teeth brushing required one minute,…
[Originally published on the gar spot in January 2011.] The fantasy started that night, in the shades of black he wore and the shades of tan that made up our skin as we stood together in the wings overlooking the orchestra. I stood behind him and allowed my hand to brush against his, allowed my breath…
[Ed.’s Note: This piece was first published in August, 2012. It is loosely inspired by real events.] Mrs. Cobb stood in the classroom doorway during recess watching her flock. Two of her colleagues stood by an adjacent classroom talking, their voices deliberately hushed. Mrs. Cobb paid no attention to them, nor did she take their…
Shirley and Patty were invited to attend a local revival to give a presentation on the intersection of African-Americans, gays, and the black church. They asked me to come, too, and I said yes, though I had my reservations. Unlike Shirley or Patty, or their friend Grace who they also asked to come, I was…
Two big time apologies concerning gay issues came out this past week, almost back to back. Both were in response to stupid, homophobic or at least homophobic-tinged statements made by the speaker. And in both cases, they were genuine apologies, not those silly, half-assed “I’m sorry if you’re offended” type apologies. First we had Howard…
25 years ago, either this week or next, I wrote a letter to my family entitled “What James Baldwin, Bayard Rustin, and Gregory A. Russell Have In Common.” Sadly I don’t think I have a copy of it anymore, though I don’t think the essay itself was as good as the title I gave it….
Bernard’s mood lightened suddenly and he began shushing Pauline, before lowering his voice and leaning his head over the table. “What you heard is true,” he told her with a mock-serious tone of voice. Then he confided that there really was a secret cabal of gay priests. The more she laughed, the more he furrowed…
Bernard kept a cutout newspaper article folded and stuffed in his wallet. The article’s story went like this: A middle-aged man with mottled skin and ratty clothes pushed his way through the throngs entering and exiting St. Peter’s Square until he stood in a fairly obscure spot between a street vendor and traffic sign just…
The man stood. He did some stretches, side-to-side, back and forth. He clasped his fingers and stretched his hands in front of him. He turned around and looked out the window. “Not much of a view,” he said. Mr. Little said nothing. The man turned around to face him again. “You said something about living…
