Chapter Five
Larenz
B.D. King.
New guy in my summer orientation group today.
Tall.
Honey-colored bronze skin.
Curly black hair.
Cute.
Masculine vibes.
A basketball player.
Foster kid.
St. Louis.
A little rough around the edges.
A little bit country, in terms of sophistication, but every Black person I know is a generation or two, or a college degree or two, away from being considered country.
A good conversationalist.
Definitely hetero.
Checks a lot of boxes.
We’re opposites.
Friendly, but not friends.
Once again.
Save it for a character in a story for later.
I wasn’t that guy, the gay equivalent of hetero college seniors who attempted to flatter and bed new ingenues on campus.
Dipping into the pool of summer orientation attendees was not my thing.
Friendly, but not friends. The mantra that kept me in my leadership roles on campus, paid my school bills, and kept me with free room and board.
Black guys like B.D. didn’t typically talk to Black guys like me on campus.
Nerds. Popular and safe with the white critical mass on campus.
Guys with a little sugar in their tanks, like my mom and aunts used to say to get me to masc up a bit before they finally accepted that I was the talented, smart, and gifted gay nephew.
Often, the B.D. types on campus, guys a little hard and rough around the edges, teased or stayed away for fear of gay guilt by association.
I wasn’t thinking about B.D., but I was thinking about B.D.
Most new students were hesitant to talk as long as we did after the full day of orientation. I was usually hesitant about loaning out my books to strangers.
I closed my journal. Saw it was close to midnight. I needed to be up before six to make sure the students staying on my floor were awake, packed, and linens stripped from their beds and placed in the hallway before breakfast and selecting their classes before departing.
Fifteen minutes later, just before I was about to call it a night, B.D. tapped lightly on my open door.
“Yes?” I asked, careful to use my inside and nighttime voice so I wouldn’t wake anyone on my floor.
We stared, until he whispered, hesitantly, “I don’t know. I’m on my way to the bathroom. Again.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know.” After a beat, he said, softly, “Just wanted to say thanks for the conversation. And the books. Good night.”
“Good night.”