Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
I was floored at how elaborate the backyard and party seemed, compared to the modest appearance of the house from the street, and I thought about how much money Taylor and Dustin must have poured into this Juneteenth Pride party.
This was definitely not your grandma’s backyard cookout, where everyone brought an assigned side dish, while the uncles stood around the grill turning the meat, telling exaggerated stories, sipping Crown Royal on ice, and wearing their short sets, Bluetooths, and Jesus of Nazareth sandals with tube or church socks.
Then I thought, we are the uncles now, though much hipper and fitter, when a shirtless Dustin in black shorts, followed by a shirtless Taylor in green shorts and carrying a tray of drinks, approached and greeted Brent and me.
It was my first time seeing Taylor in person and not on a Zoom call, and I couldn’t help but think how much alike the two of them looked.
Dark skin. Fades and little fros. Beautiful smiles.
Glowing skin. Bodies for days. The major distinguishing feature between them was Dustin’s elaborate ink work on his arms, chest, and abs, which I remembered intimately.
I knew both men were in their mid-forties, but they definitely looked no older than thirty.
The things melanin, money, and a California lifestyle could do, I thought.
“Oh my goodness, my boy Renny,” Dustin said, grabbing me into a hug after setting his drinks tray on a nearby table. “It’s been too long. Welcome to the Bay Area, my man.”
“Thank you. Good to see you, too,” I said, looking the happy couple up and down, admiring the happiness oozing from them. “Are we late? It’s just half past three.”
“Our friends know we start on time,” Dustin said.
“And end on time,” Taylor completed Dustin’s sentence. “Since this is your first time at our place, Renny, we’ll cut you some slack. Glad you both could make it.”
“Much appreciated,” I said. “We brought some wine for you. A gift for the hosts.”
I pulled two gift bags out of my tote bag and handed them to Dustin.
Taylor smiled. “Thanks, Brent, for getting Renny out here in one piece from Detroit. Renny, your place will be together in no time. I apologize for the delay with the facilities team.”
“It’s all good, President—I mean, Taylor. Brent here has been a great host, minus the bird food breakfast he feeds me every morning. I do appreciate him letting me crash at his house. So far, so good.”
“Such a gentleman, and an exemplary member of my leadership team,” Taylor said, looking first at Brent and then at me. “You better watch this one, Renny, and hold on to him as he shows you the ropes of campus and the Bay Area.”
“Are you paying attention, Renny?” Brent asked.
Taylor continued, “Newly single. Newly out. Great job. Even better credit. Holding up in the looks department, too. In fact, I’m sure all eyes will be on you two at this party, looking like fresh meat in this crowd.”
“I don’t mind him watching me,” Brent said. “You know we knew each other rather well back in college.”
I nudged Brent back. Him and his big mouth, and we hadn’t even had a drink yet.
This was not the time to talk about our dating history.
But since the cat was out of the bag and knowing someone in your past life wasn’t a crime, I said, “I was his summer orientation leader and tutored him. Then we lost touch until recently.”
“That’s right,” Taylor said. “I remember vaguely from the awards banquet you both were recognized at. Black Alumni at Missouri, right? I didn’t quite put two and two together that you were closer than just random classmates.”
Brent and I looked at each other, eyes widened, because we hadn’t expected to have to explain anything more about us. At the same time, I hoped my brief time dating and sucking off Dustin in Chicago wouldn’t come up. That would have been awkward.
Dustin intervened. “Is it one of those Black, gay, it’s a small world, complicated stories? One you don’t want to have to elaborate on at a Juneteenth Pride party with your boss?”
At the same time, Brent and I smiled, maybe showed signs of blushing, and we both said, “Kinda.”
“Let’s fix that embarrassment and get you some drinks,” Dustin said, laughing. “We’re all three degrees of separation in this community, especially when you’re Black, queer, educated, and upwardly mobile.”
Except I wasn’t so upwardly mobile, I thought, as Taylor held out the drink tray he was carrying and Dustin picked up his tray.
“Such a small world,” Taylor said. “The dark liquor drinks are in black cups, the light liquor in red, and the no liquor are in the clear. All with a nice red punch. Take your pick.”
Brent and I both grabbed black cups.
“Wise choice,” Dustin said. “Dark liquor is fitting for Juneteenth.”
“Cheers to freedom and liberation! Happy Juneteenth! Happy Pride!” Taylor said as he toasted with us and then looked around the busy backyard as an attentive host would to make sure the guests were good.
“Dustin can show you where you can drop off your bags, and then I want you to eat up, drink, dance, and have a good time. We’ve got a long weekend to recover.
I’ma mix and mingle a bit. But don’t hesitate to find me if you need anything.
And no hard feelings about not remembering your past connection—too many presidential details in this head of mine.
We’ve got plenty of time to learn about each other. ”
A few minutes later, after Dustin finished taking Brent and me on a tour of the house, which was surprisingly larger than what it looked on the outside, Brent wanted to make a beeline to the food buffet in the backyard.
I was hungry, too, but not rude, knowing that we couldn’t walk past all these Black folks at a Juneteenth Pride party without speaking first and introducing ourselves.
As Brent and I made our way from the house through the backyard party, we waved, made eye contact, said hello, Happy Juneteenth, or Happy Pride, and smiled.
A few of the guys leered at us with lust and curiosity like the new faces on the Black gay Bay Area scene that we were.
A few, surprisingly, gave me hesitant and knowing looks, followed up with “you’re that guy who writes the books,” which was always flattering to hear, especially given that books tended to be on the lowest rung of the pop culture ladder in some queer circles.
“Look at you, famous man.” Brent put his hand on my shoulder as he guided me toward the buffet area.
I laughed. “Famous for what, we have to see.”
“Famous for being my guy,” Brent said, squeezing my shoulder. I had to remind myself this was not a date but a party invitation by my new supervisor and his partner, my friend. But I was not going to take the wind out of Brent’s sails during this festive moment.
Because of my high body count and low success rate with relationships, I scanned the space for any men I may have sucked, fucked, dated, almost dated, ghosted, or been ghosted by because I did not want to have an embarrassing moment in front of Brent, Taylor, or Dustin.
After all, being Black, gay, of a certain age, in certain circles, and having been to a lot of places, there was a high probability of running into someone I’d been with at some point in my life.
For all of us. Luckily, I didn’t see anyone I’d need to avoid or have a preemptive conversation with Brent about.
Also luckily, I’d deleted all my phone sex apps in recent months, thanks to therapy and no longer seeking validation or instant gratification for what ached me.
The DJ switched up the two-step music to more group participation and line-dancing type songs.
“Aw, man, these are my songs,” I said. First drinks empty and set aside, I grabbed Brent’s hand. “Let’s dance a bit. Do you mind?”
Brent and I joined others who raced to the dance floor tent.
For almost twenty minutes, we danced to “Before I Let Go,” both the Frankie Beverly & Maze and Beyoncé versions, “Candy” by Cameo, “Wobble” and “Cupid Shuffle,” and then rounded out the set with that Gap Band “Early in the Morning” line dance made famous on TikTok by that Jalen young man out of South Carolina.
Brent and I dabbed sweat beads forming at our hairlines as the music slowed down to line dance songs that required even further complex steps and turns.
“This is where I step off,” Brent said, as he headed to the edge of the dance floor, when Janet Jackson’s “Feels So Right” came on.
“And this is where I step on,” Dustin said, taking Brent’s place to dance with me. “Let’s show these Oakland folks how we used to hustle in Detroit and Chicago.”
“See you in a bit, Brent,” I said, and Dustin and I lined up and matched our moves with the group.
While dancing, Dustin whispered to me, “Bruh. You and Brent got mad chemistry. What’s up with that?”
“Nothing. He’s just been a good host by letting me crash for the past days.” After a brief pause, I said, “And between you and me, we used to kick it back in college, like you and I did in Chicago, if you know what I mean. But that was over twenty years ago.”
“I figured as much. Such a small world. Look at you bagging the divorced, formerly closeted athlete. He’s a good man, Savannah.”
Dustin was too funny referencing the line from Waiting to Exhale that many of us recited to encourage friends or family to risk it all and go for someone who wanted us, or someone we wanted and were hesitant about pursuing.
“Yeah, he is. Speaking of, I told Brent that you and I used to—”
“Thanks for letting me know, but no need to bring it up since you and I are not going there again.”
“Fine with me,” I said, glad I wouldn’t have another coincidence to explain to Taylor or Brent. “Tell me more about how y’all connected with Brent.”