Marc and Robert: Our Story

Episode 2: I Need to Go Home
September 8, 1993 - Santa Monica, California, USA
10:47 a.m.

“Would you like more coffee?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.” I move my cup closer to the edge of the table. It’s late morning. I’m still tired.

“There you go,” The waitress smiles down at me. “I’ll be behind the counter if you need anything else.”

“Appreciate it.” She’s cute. “I wait tables at the Red Onion in Marina Del Rey. The grind of this work is no joke.” She chuckles and moves to the customers behind me.

The reflection of Swingers Diner’s neon sign reflects at me from the building's window across the street.

That’s where I met Rebecca earlier this year, at The Red Onion. She came in with the nine-to-fivers who frequent the restaurant and bar’s Marina Del Rey location Monday through Friday for happy hour. It was a Thursday. Rebecca walked up to me after I’d taken another table’s order. She slid her number into my back pocket. Told me I needed to call her after my shift. It was an excuse to feel my ass.

From as early as I can remember, I’ve known I’m attractive to women. Am I cocky about it? Hey, it is what it is.

Three full days is the longest I’ve stayed at Rebecca’s place. Her roommate moved out a week ago. She said she was happy to have me there. Still, I know her. She’ll be glad to have some time back to herself. Especially because her new roommate moves in at the end of the month.

I’m ready to go back home. Plus, it’s not fair to Marc that I kept the car. Taking the bus in L.A. is not the best way to get around. Or the safest a lot of the time. He’s gotta take two of them to get to work in Century City.

Monday was Labor Day, and I left him alone. We didn’t have plans. Even so, it wasn’t cool bailing out on him like that.

A man goes by the diner’s window, guiding his daughter on her bike. She’s cautious but determined. I need to call my cousin in Detroit who just had a baby.

Being back in our apartment, in my room, will be good. Feeling the sheets on my bed. After I leave here, I’ll get our laundry done, before Marc gets home from work. It’s what we do, share the food expenses and switch off on laundry. It's less complicated and saves us money.

I punked out on Marc, leaving like I did on Sunday. Fucking Rebecca while he was in the living room was shitty too. It’s just that when I came out of my room to shower, I heard him in the kitchen. Rebecca was meeting up her friends to see Jurassic Park. I went back to my room and asked if I could join them. Also said it’d be better to get ready at her place. Hearing the sound of the microwave, I quickly shoved us out the front door.

Sex with Rebecca these last few days has been good. We fit well together, as far as that goes. But sometimes I wonder if she does it more for me than for herself.

I know I’m avoiding a larger than large situation. I had sex with Marc. I had sex with another dude! I definitely didn’t plan that when I woke up last Saturday morning.

Had I ever thought about sex with a guy? In a casual sense, sure. Playing sports, guys joke about it more than we probably realize. But the curiosity wasn’t there enough for me to do something like rent a gay porno, buy a magazine, or anything like that.

Do I like Marc? Yeah, I do. He’s chill, easy to talk to. Rebecca notices he bends to my will more than he should sometimes. But it’s not that. I don’t need to front when I’m with Marc.

He’s perceptive and smart. More than he realises. He’s shy too. Needs to be more outgoing. But I don’t think he should all the way lose the shyness. There’s an innocence about it that’s cool.

Marc and I met during my second year at the University of Arizona, when I switched my major to theatre. I’m from Milwaukee and came to the U of A my freshman year on a baseball scholarship as a left-handed pitcher. My dad’s Black and my mom is white. For the most part, my dad told me what to look out for when it comes to racism. But it wasn’t until I got to Tucson and the U of A that I realised the politics of baseball also included it. I didn’t come to Arizona to warm the bench and watch others go ahead of me. My love of the sport at the time wasn’t strong enough for me to deal with that. So I chose theatre, something I had an interest in for a while.

Walking up to Marc on the first day of that fall semester was mostly because he was the only other Black guy in class.

“Hey, what’s up?” I trotted up to him as he was leaving through the glass doors of the building. Arizona’s late morning heat blasted us as we crossed the quad to the shade of some benches next to the theatre department’s admin offices.

“Hi.” Marc adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. He was wearing big round tortoise-shell glasses. And his hair was processed just enough to make his curls looser.

“I’m Robert.” I nudged his shoulder. “Do you have another class to go to right now?

“Not until after lunch.”

I suggested we sit down and chill for a bit. “What’d you think of the class?”

Marc placed his backpack between us and said, “I didn’t know what to expect from costume design. But I liked it. It’s interesting to discover that what we’re wearing today will be a costume for the generations coming after us.”

I laughed. “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” That’s how our friendship kicked off.

Catching the waitress’s eye, I mime that I’m ready to pay my bill. I leave my tip and the table and meet her at the register.

“Have a nice day,” she says as I head toward the exit. If I wasn’t seeing Rebecca, I might ask her for her number.

---

Back home, I pitch my duffel bag onto my bed, return to the living room and plop myself on the couch. A rerun of some old black-and-white sitcom is on TV. I need to just be still. The laundry can wait until tomorrow.

You know, it was the kissing that was weird at first. Other than a peck now and then from my dad when I was little, I’d never kissed a man. It’s different. Soft but firmer than with women. Or maybe it’s just how it is with Marc.

I can’t lie, the sex was good. I was turned on. But was it general horniness combined with being buzzed that made it happen? Or because Marc and I have known each other for a few years?

Like me, Marc was drunk. Although he’s a lightweight, he drank almost as much as I did that night at Joe’s Place. We stumbled back into the apartment around 1:30 a.m., laughing about something I can’t remember.

“Help me out. Take off my belt.” That’s what I said when we stood together in the hallway entrance.

“How drunk are you that you need me to help you with that?” Marc giggled, moving away from me. He was trying to steady himself to kick off his shoes.

He was about to topple over when I grabbed his shirt. He fell forward and wrapped his arm around my waist. I felt his heartbeat against my chest. He leaned back and apologised. That’s when I kissed him. Why did I do that?

I was feeling alright when we left for Joe’s earlier in the evening. Looked forward to meeting up with Franklin. I’m an outgoing person. But L.A.’s a hard place to connect with people. Franklin’s from Chicago, from the midwest like me.

Joe’s Place was pretty chill for a Saturday night. With Monday being a holiday, people were probably saving themselves up for Sunday night. The three of us sat near the back and shared a couple of pitchers of beer. It was cool seeing Marc and Franklin get along.

Most of my friends don’t understand why I hang with Marc. He’s bookish in his way. Some would say he’s soft. He’s just not street-smart. Meeting his parents a couple of years ago in Phoenix helped me to better understand him. His dad’s an elementary school principal and his mother is a librarian at one of the community colleges. I wouldn’t say they’re bougie. You can just tell they don’t go for cussing or being rowdy.

Do I think Marc is gay? He’s never been confident approaching women. Even when I used to give him tips.

Every now and again, I’d flirt with Marc. I guess there’s a part of me that knows this. You know, being playful. Squeezing his nipples if we’d pass each other Sometimes tapping his behind if he stood next to me. Rolling on top of him and pinning him down on those nights when he slept in my room. But that was just having fun. Wasn’t it?

When the sex was over, Marc crawled to my mattress.

“Let me sleep with you.”

Searching in the dark for my underwear, my hand brushed over the used condom on top of my black jeans.

I scooted next to Marc on the mattress, my shorts in my hand. He tried to maneuver the blanket onto his naked body. I helped him tuck it beneath his chin and around his shoulders. Running my hand down his side to smooth the blanket over him. He scratched his nose and rubbed his palm over his deep dimples.

We stayed that way for a couple of minutes, quiet except for the sound of a random car driving by. I looked down at him. I didn’t feel bad. I didn’t feel so hot either.

“You’ve got your own room, Marc.” I leaned back to slide on my underwear.

He turned away. “I’m staying here. With you.”

I tapped his thigh. “You gotta sleep in your own bed.”

His body moved up and down from breathing. He looked like a sea lion on a pier. I was about to tap him again when he pushed the blanket down and rolled onto the carpet. It was when he stood up that I noticed he was still wobbly.

I quickly stood up and wrapped my arm around him. Feeling the coolness of his smooth skin as he leaned on me.

“Why is your door closed?” Marc asked.

We staggered into the hallway, past the bathroom, and into his room. Marc faced me as he descended onto his mattress. Once he’d moved to lie down, I reached for his blanket and threw it over him.

“You good?”

“Sure.” He turned to face the wall.

What do I do? Patting him on the arm didn’t seem right. I don’t want to be cold, but I have a girlfriend. I like women. Has sex with Marc fucked that up?

I stepped back to the doorjamb. He’s hurt.

“Shout out if you need anything.” I returned to my room.

---

A few hours later, the telephone woke me up. My face pressed against the mattress, I grasped the cord and dragged it across the carpet.

“Hello?”

“Are you still in bed?” It was Rebecca.

“What time is it?”

“It’s 9:30. Shouldn’t you be getting yourself ready so you can sit in front of the TV all day to watch football?”

I rolled onto my back. “I was out late with Marc and my friend, Franklin.”

“Marc’s not your friend?” She hadn’t said it, but I knew she didn’t like him.

“What’s up?”

“Can I come over? It’ll be just until I meet Dane, Esther, and Dennis later on.”

“Um, yeah. You wanna have breakfast here?”

“Yes! I’m starving. I can be there in about half an hour.”

“Cool.” She hung up.

Lunging for my cutoff sweats, I spotted my black jeans and v-neck t-shirt piled on top of Marc’s clothes. Knowing Rebecca, she’d get to our place in about 20 minutes. She’s always early. That gave me time to go to the bathroom and then to start pulling out what we needed for breakfast. Scooping up Marc’s stuff, I walked to his room.

He was knocked out, balled up beneath the covers. I flung his clothes next to his closet and closed the door.

After using the bathroom, I walked through the living room to the small dining area. My wallet and keys were on the table. I didn’t remember tossing them there. They’re usually by my alarm clock. I made my way to the kitchen.

---

It’s after 6:00 p.m. Marc should be coming through the door soon. I’ve spent the last few hours trying to figure out what to say.

Does having sex with Marc mean I’m gay? I’m attracted to women. So, I don’t think so.

Did I cheat on Rebecca, having sex with a man? Is sex with a man on the same level as doing it with a woman? Is it considered real sex?

Maybe it was a one-time thing, an itch that needed to scratch. Now that’s it out of the way, we can go on with things. Shit happens, right?

I like Marc. I can’t really talk sports with him. Even though he’s learned a lot since living with me. But he is my closest friend. If I’m honest, he’s my best friend. I think we can get to the other side of what happened. Without it being too awkward.

The sound of his key in the bottom lock brings me back. Then I watch it turn to the deadbolt to its horizontal position. The door swings inward, swooshing across the carpet. Marc steps in with his backpack over his right shoulder.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

He closes the door and leans against it. We stare at each other.

I turn off the TV. “Come sit next to me.”

Marc and Robert: Our Story

September 5, 1993
Los Angeles, California, USA
1:32 a.m.

What the hell? Some sort of scratchy surface is rubbing against the left side of my face, bare shoulder, arm, torso, and leg. My eyes flutter open. My toenails are scraping a door. It’s dark. But the shadowy whiteness of a wall comes into focus in front of me.

I’m super drunk. That familiar fogginess is swirling in my head. I hope this doesn’t lead to me becoming nauseous again.

A forceful rhythmic sensation is trying its damnedest to pierce through me. Oh, my god! What is that? Ouch! Have I fallen onto something?

Then it hits me. I’m naked on the carpet. And that pain from behind is someone trying to fuck me. Where am I?

“Relax, Marc.” That’s Robert’s voice! His hand’s on my shoulder, he’s breathing into the back of my neck. His knee then moves between my legs. He’s pushing himself deeper into me.

“Can’t he feel he’s hurting me? And why am I unable to move?” Thoughts slosh around as his lower hand moves up to my chest. He starts to rub his palm across my nipples. Okay, now that feels good.

Two tears stream down my cheek, followed by rings of light. In sync with the increasing thrusts. How did the night end up like this?

I feel myself falling into a murky state. Taking in his light tan skin, a hint of his parent’s interracial union, I watch Robert grab my waist. The bounces from him bumping into me feel weird but nice at the same time. I hope it doesn’t make me sick.

Am I relaxing into it? Something inside starts to feel good, causing me to twitch now and again.

There’s a line at the bottom of the wall, a crack going up to a black-and-white poster of a nude woman in silhouette. I’ve always liked how she gazed into the camera.

This means we’re in Robert’s room. And we’re having sex. The shock is as mind-blowing as the fact that I’m enjoying it.

My head seems to be clearing up a bit. Yes, I like this. Then the world outside of me dims and goes dark.

---

My eyes click open to the sight of a stucco ceiling. Streaks of sunlight are bursting through the dusty blinds of the window facing me. “Not now,” I say aloud, moving my arm to lessen the brilliance. My room gets the brightness of southern California mornings, nature’s alarm clock. When did I make it back to my room?

Turning my head, I see a pile of clean clothes scrunched on the floor next to the closet door. I should’ve folded those yesterday. My Sade Love Deluxe concert T-shirt lies crumbled on the top. That was a great concert.

The stale, smelly taste of beer coats my tongue. Sitting up, I scoot backward on the mattress to the coolness of the wall. Some of last night’s hazy memories begin to bubble up to the surface.

Was last night a dream? Did Robert and I really have sex? I’m pretty sure I did not hallucinate something like that.

Muffled voices come through the closed door, mingling with chatter from the TV in the living room. I hear her voice. Robert’s girlfriend Rebecca is here.

Yes. Robert has a girlfriend. And I’m his roommate, possibly his best friend. I don’t know. In the four years we’ve known each other, we’ve never discussed the closeness of our connection.

Who am I? I’m a 22-year-old Black man from Phoenix, Arizona. With an umber-brown complexion, I’m three inches shy of Robert’s 6 feet, 2 inches athletic build. Moving to Los Angeles, two months after the L.A. riots, has helped me to discover I’m a unicorn in some people’s eyes. Whenever I share where I’m from, most Black people act surprised. “There’s black people in Arizona?” The eyebrow raises from non-blacks is followed by, “Oh, really?”

What happened several hours ago was on the floor of Robert’s room. This much I can piece together. Which means, at some point, I agreed to sleep with him.

Let me clarify. When we moved into our apartment a year ago, I agreed that, whenever we were aware of being too wasted, I’d drag my mattress from my room to Robert’s.

What part of this sounds suspect? Just about all of it. But I never allowed myself to question it. It was about taking precautions. Right?

Anyway, here I am. Confused, hung over, needing to pee.

Robert and I share a sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment in Westchester, a community near Los Angeles International Airport. He’s convinced that me having “the voice” helped to secure the lease. “My mom’s white,” he said. “But to some people, you sound white. They like that.”

We met at the beginning of my freshman year at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Three years into the theater program, we dropped out of school to try our hand at becoming actors in Hollywood. Eight months ago, I took a job as a word processor at a mid-level investment banking firm. Calling my parents again for money didn’t feel right. I’m not fond of how things have turned out here in L.A.

Back to last night. Robert and I left for Joe’s Place, a bar in neighboring Playa Del Rey, around 10:30 p.m. I remember stooping to open the passenger door of the compact 1985 Chevy Sprint we share. Before pulling the door shut, I noticed Robert had trimmed his mustache and goatee, complimenting his curly, dark hair.

We met up with Franklin, Robert’s new friend from acting class. The three of us were the only Black guys in the place. Franklin wears glasses. I always think he looks more attractive than I do when I wear mine. He’s a tall and muscular dark-skinned man who looks like he walked out of an army advert. I come across as more studious.

“Yo, I gotta bounce,” Franklin announced around 12:15 a.m. “I need to be up early to pick my moms up from the airport. She’s coming in from Chicago for a couple of weeks.” He and Robert stood up from the round wooden table, bumped fists, and gave each other a quick hug. “Y’all take it easy.”

My contact lenses did nothing to ease my blurred vision, as I followed Franklin’s exit from the bar. Robert plopped back down, and motioned for the server. Then he leaned in and said, “Let’s finish another pitcher before we head out.”

---

Am I gay? Hmm… Sure, I am challenged with my sexual fantasies always diverting to men. But apart from a kiss from my college roommate, I’ve never had sex with another man. Well, not until last night.

My dating and sexual histories? I have to admit, they’re as dry as the Arizona desert. There was one date during my senior year of high school, followed by occasional first dates in college. My first and only sexual encounter happened a few months before leaving for L.A. Several years older than me, she was the costume supervisor for a community play I was in. Most of my time in California has been consumed with hanging out with Robert when he’s free. And working.

Did I enjoy sex with the older woman? I performed. But there was no passion. No way to deny this. It’s never fueled any masturbatory fantasies. Or ignited that craving I feel when Robert and others talk about sex. Numbness is the best way to describe it. Leaving me to wonder if I was asexual. I assumed there’d be a feeling of completion, having sex with her. Of being more whole.

My chats with Robert, in his room after our evenings of drunken excess, focus a lot on sex. Or shall I say, I listen to him share about it. Detailing escapades with Rebecca and other women he’s been with since I’ve known him. He talks about sex in a way I don’t know how to.

I enjoy sleeping next to Robert on those nights, warmed by the intimacy and the shadows surrounding us. Lights from passing cars occasionally illuminate our bodies. With my mattress pressed next to his, an inch lower, I get to absorb his body heat. Something he always seems to generate. Even in colder months, he kicks off his blanket to regulate his temperature.

Our nighttime conversations include reminiscing about college. A year older than me, Robert moved to Arizona from Minneapolis, Minnesota on a baseball scholarship. He changed his major from business administration to theater in his second year.

His spirit and tenacity encourage me to dream bigger. To believe I can be successful. Yes, I’m currently stationed in a cubicle formatting and editing documents. Making it difficult to go on auditions. But I haven’t given up.

Sometimes he teases me about having no sex life. I usually grin and wait for him to finish. Thankfully, he’s never been cruel about it. To be honest, I’ve always worried he’d ask the question others have asked. The one I’ve always said no to.

I believe Robert has always sensed the part of me that’s there, somewhat tucked away from my consciousness. I mean, there was that morning earlier this year in March. That was a test he performed to flush me out. Wasn’t it?

Standing in our narrow kitchen, Robert went on about his night with Rebecca ending with a sexual fantasy fullfilled. They experimented with food. One act incorporated chocolate pudding.

“Close your eyes,” he said to me. It was an unusually warm spring day for L.A. I moved back against the tiled counter, wearing a tank top and shorts. Robert stood over me shirtless in white boxer briefs.

“Why?”

“Come on, Marc. Just do it.” I complied. A chill from fridge the hit me, followed by the sound of the door thudding shut.

Robert’s hand landed on my left shoulder. His finger pressed down on my bottom lip. I winced. It was covered with something cool and moist.

“Stay still.” My nostrils absorbed a cocoa sweetness as he coated my mouth. My heartbeat quickened.

“Now open.” I glanced down at an open container of pudding. Then looked up into Robert’s eyes.

“That feels good. Doesn’t it?” He scooped another dollop and added a second coating. “She shuddered when I started sucking it off of her lips.”

I stared at his collarbone. Robert patted my abdomen. My breath froze in my throat. He stepped back and stared at me. I watched his mouth move up into a smile. Licking his finger, he turned around and walked away.

Now I’m here on my mattress, really needing to pee. But I don’t know how to leave my room.

How do you start the day, after having sex with someone who, less than 12 hours ago, was just a friend? The fantasy is no longer a fantasy. And I don’t seem to remember most of it.

The smell of bacon seeps through the door. Our Sundays usually include breakfast, just me and Robert. I lounge on the sofa, while he spends the morning and afternoon flipping between ESPN and other channels for the day’s sports.

But Rebecca’s here. And we had sex. Now what?

I can no longer wait to use the bathroom. Touching down on the carpet, I reach for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and my eyeglasses. Then I quietly open the door and walk out.

In the distance, Rebecca says, “Babe, how do you like your toast?”

The entrance to the living room is to my left. Robert replies, “Dark enough to see. Not too dark to taste.”

I turn right into the bathroom. Relief pours out of me as I stand over the toilet. After holding down the handle to flush, I move to the sink to wash my hands. My mirrored reflection reminds me that my low fade needs a trim. I’ll ask Robert when he’s going to the barber. I hate going alone because I never know how to navigate the macho bravado of Black barbershops.

Patting away the water on my face, I exhale. You can’t stay in here forever. Straightening the towel back on the rack, I move back from the open door, slide my glasses back on, and head out into the hallway. The neighbor’s car is in their driveway, visible through the living room’s side window.

Rebecca stands above Robert, her curly brown hair falling forward as she places a tray on his lap. His breakfast includes eggs and hash browns. She turns just as I take a seat on the second sofa across from them.

“Oh. Hey Marc. You also look like shit. Robert said you both didn’t get back in until after midnight.” I smile as I settle into the cushions of the sofa across from them.

“She made enough for all of us,” he says, chewing and staring at the television.

“Thank you,” I nod to Rebecca. “I might need to wait a bit.”

Something definitely happened last night. He won’t look at me.

They’ve been seeing each other since late January, meeting at the bar of a restaurant where he waits tables. I don’t think she likes me. But I can’t say I care much for her. She’s from San Francisco and has gay friends. She’s one of the ones who’s asked me if I’m gay.

Rebecca cuddles up next to Robert, folding her legs beneath her. He leans back and wraps his arm around her.

“Well, I won’t be staying too long. This afternoon, I’m going to the movies with a couple of friends. You can reheat everything when you’re ready.”

Robert sets his tray on the floor, stands, and reaches for Rebecca’s hand.

“What?” She places her smaller one in his. “You’re not done, are you?”

“I’ll finish later. Let’s go to my room.”

She follows him, placing her palm on his lower back, just above his shorts. They disappear into the hallway. His bedroom door closes. Followed by the sounds of her muted giggles.

Okay, sure. Leave me all of a sudden like that.

The TV’s on. I’m alone. And I don’t know what to do.

The Return of My First Love

Photo by Yanal Tayyem on Unsplash

There have been quite a few starts since my first attempt to write about him. I believe I’ve run out of the fuel needed to keep our story hidden. But I’m afraid to commit to revealing who I was and what we did during those six years of living together. Spread across three decades, our saga began, layered with friendship, passion, and hope. It ended up soaked in codependency, denial, and booze.

I didn’t admit to myself I was in love with ‘Robert’ until I said it to him over the phone, on the evening of December 24, 2018. Ringing him, to back out of being the best man at his upcoming church wedding, to a woman he’d married in a civil ceremony a few years before. The dam broke when my confession spilled out. Despite being an out gay man for 20 years, it was in that moment my romantic feelings for Robert became clear. Since the dawn of our journey together when we met in a theatre class in 1990 in Tucson, Arizona.

It was an awakening that first surfaced on a chilly southern Arizona evening in early February 1991. Robert and I were alone in the YWCA dance studio, rehearsing one of the dance numbers in Barbea Williams Performing Company’s spring production of George C. Wolfe’s The Colored Museum. I’d been struggling during the group rehearsal and Robert volunteered to stay with me afterward to go over it.

“…he casually placed his left hand on the mirror next to my head. The heat from his body warmed me…”

Dark, wavy hair spilt into his eyes when he took off his red baseball cap. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “Who knew all that was hiding under there? Is that why you’re always wearing a hat?” Robert smiled, pushing rewind on the cassette player. The whir of the tape bounced off the walls of the small dance studio.

“Who does your hair?” I went on. “I try to straighten mine to get that wave. But I can never seem to get it to look like yours.”

Robert chuckled. “My mom is white?”

“What?”

“My mom is white.”

“Ah. Okay.” I scanned his face. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Although he was several shades lighter than me, it never crossed my mind one of his parents could be white.

My damp, loose-fitting white t-shirt felt like a suction cup as I pressed my lean frame against the mirrored wall. I was wiped out but still hyped to continue. Robert moved towards me, leaning back to blow sweat from his upper lip. My eyes followed as he casually placed his left hand on the mirror next to my head. The heat from his body warmed me as I listened to him talk about the play.

Suddenly Robert shouted, ‘Look at this!’ as he bounded towards the centre of the room. Pushing up my round tortoise-shell glasses, I watched as he hit play on the stereo. The original cast recording poured out of the speakers. And once more Robert pulled me in, fusing jazz, tap, and hip-hop into an impromptu routine. Besides playing football and baseball, he grew up taking dance lessons. Like his outgoing personality, Robert seemed completely unafraid of allowing his body to surrender to its instinctive rhythms.

“Come here.” Robert motioned me to him. I walked over and he returned to patiently guiding me through the number, encouraging me to follow his movements. Suddenly, a familiar tickling fluttered inside of me, joining us in the evening light of the rehearsal space. Robert’s well-formed arms and shoulders transfixed me as they glistened with sweat. His cut-off t-shirt and light grey sweatpants took me in, as they clung to his toned physique.

Feigning fatigue, I stepped back towards the safety of the mirrored wall. Robert bent down to catch his breath, his hair hiding his face. Then he straightened up and replanted himself in front of me, placing his right hand on his hip. My underarms itched. My nostrils flared. I struggled, sneaking looks at his full lips. Sweat trickled down my forehead from fear he could hear the pounding in my chest. I screamed inside, Stop it! Then I scurried away, my arm grazing Robert’s damp bicep.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I was getting a little cramped from leaning like that.”

“It was a scene that when I read it aloud, released tears of shame, from a darkness that had been stagnant inside of me for a long time.”

Robert and I met at the beginning of the fall 1990 semester at the University of Arizona in Tucson, as first-year theatre majors. We were the only Black male students in the department. A Phoenix native, I was 20 and a transfer student from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where I’d spent three semesters as a journalism major. A year younger than me, Robert arrived at the U of A from the Midwest the previous year on a baseball scholarship.

Our exchanges were cordial during most of that fall semester. But it wasn’t until Barbea cast us in her production that we would know each other. Despite being quiet and reserved, I was drawn to Robert’s vibrant and confident masculinity. Our conversations were varied and interesting.

There’s more to our story, as we moved through the years. In 1992, we dropped out of college in the spring of 1992 to pursue our dreams of becoming actors in Hollywood. Our journey during that time was a hazy one, laced with codependency and suppression. And it’s a history I never intended to share. That is, until it came out during the summer of 2018, through a writing prompt with The Missing Peace, a Los Angeles-based memoir writing group. When a long-forgotten memory of Robert bled out of my blue pen onto white-ruled paper. It was a scene that when I read it aloud, released tears of shame. Coming from a darkness that had been stagnant inside of me for a long time.

Through my admission to this part of my past, the founders of The Missing Peace encouraged me to accept that it’s okay to own my story. They also helped me to return to my first love of writing. My relationship with writing has been there since third grade, when my teacher praised me for using the word ‘aroma’ to describe the smell of the Thanksgiving turkey. From that moment onward, those around me supported a career as a writer. I dreamt about it too. But it would take me many years to come to a place of being completely ready for it.

There’ve been moments over the years when I’ve attempted to pursue writing. But it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve understood that besides dreaming about it, I need to believe in it. Just as importantly, I need to come to a place of seeing that creating narratives has to be influenced by my own experiences and beliefs. Not by the ones I want others to believe I’ve lived. Seeing parts of my life in print helps me to accept and move through feelings and perceptions that no longer serve me. They also encourage me to take pride in my accomplishments and my joys.

Through my passion for reading, I know that my story with Robert isn’t a unique one. However, I realize that if it continues to push up to see the light, then I need to share it. In chronicling my history with him, maybe I can aid someone in releasing shame that may surround parts of their life journey. The same as so many influential writers have done for me.

Being Gay and My Relationship with My Mother

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Many gay men talk about the special bond they have with their mothers. “…being gay might be a factor that makes some mothers and sons even closer (Psychology Today, 2011).” Many of my gay friends have shared with me that their mother is their best friend.

Of my four siblings, I look the most like my mother. Because of this resemblance and her youthful appearance, some assumed we were brother and sister. However, when I think of who I am, my values, and my morals, I don’t think of her. I know she influenced my views of myself and the world around me. But from my perspective, we were never close.

“As her long sigh wafted through the phone, I realized she’d always known.”

My memory of our relationship, from an emotional standpoint, is that there was always a plexiglass shield separating us. I saw her, but I never really knew her. Similar to images I’ve seen of Queen Elizabeth II of England, my mother’s pleasant coolness hinted at little.

I was born in late January in Phoenix, Arizona, three months after my mother’s twenty-second birthday. Single and living with her religious and widowed mother, she shared little with me about this period of her life. For reasons not fully known, she ended her relationship with my father, never telling him she was pregnant. Throughout my youth and young adulthood, she shrouded his existence in mystery.

My mother’s pregnancy was a shock to the family because as my aunt said “she never shared with us she was seeing someone. To my knowledge, her routine consisted of school, work, and home. Of course, I asked, and I wondered. But your mama never told me who he was.”

After my mother’s death in January 2004, I discovered that my father was a 22-year-old New Yorker, an airman at Arizona’s Luke Air Force Base. I later located him, living in a Maryland middle-class suburb with his wife, in the city that they settled in during the 1970s to raise their children. My dad accepted me and we became close.

According to my mother’s closest friends, my dad liked her. However, at the dawn of her life as a young woman during the spring of 1969, it seems she may not have wanted to settle into a marriage with someone she didn’t feel strongly about. Thus, she took on the stigma at the time of being an unwed mother, something that was a source of criticism in her family.

“…it was during this time people started noticing you weren’t like other boys.”

My mother wasn’t a physically demonstrative person. There were no kisses on the cheek. Throughout my childhood, her hugs were sparingly given. My desire to be held often elicited responses like “You’re too sensitive,” and “It’s not good for boys to be smothered by their mothers.”

My mother eventually met someone else, married, and had three more children. I was six when my brother was born. Over time, I saw he could lean against her when sitting on the sofa and wrap his arms around her neck to kiss her cheek. She stopped my attempts with “You’re too old to be doing that,” or “Not now, I’m busy.”

I came out to my mother when I was 30. As her long sigh wafted through the phone, I realized she’d always known. But from then until her passing four years later, she encouraged me to keep the secret between us.

When I came out to my aunt a few years later, she said “I knew when you were four.” When I asked how this was possible, she added that “it was during this time people started noticing you weren’t like other boys. And they whispered you were this way because of not having a father.”

My mother never opened up to me about her revelations of who I was as a child. Based on her attempts to minimize physical contact between us, I suspect she felt responsible for me being gay. “…many mothers initially blame themselves and these close relationships for their sons’ homosexuality (Psychology Today, 2011).” To put it into the context of society’s view at the time, it wasn’t until 1973 that the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality as a mental illness from its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM). This was three years after I was born.

Throughout my 20s, I struggled with accepting that my mother and I weren’t close. I didn’t connect it to being gay, something I didn’t fully acknowledge to myself until I was twenty-eight. It was more that I hoped for an intimacy I sensed when around male friends and their mothers.

With the help of therapy, family, and close friends, I mourned my mother’s death. I also put to rest wishing for something that could never be. And that looking for this sort of love with a romantic partner isn’t good for the relationship or my emotional health.

Today I accept being gay as an integral part of who I am. The LGBTQ+ community is diverse, talented, and culturally influential. And I uplift and celebrate this through Our Black Gay Diaspora Podcast, a global biweekly podcast where Black LGBTQ professionals share about their countries and professions.

Like many who have survived adversity, I’m re-parenting myself. The challenges I faced, including my relationship with my emotionally distant mother, are part of who I am. However, through being open about my experiences, I can slough off the shame. And honor and celebrate what makes me uniquely me.

Dating as a Black Gay American Digital Nomad in Europe

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I’m a Black gay American digital nomad who has spent most of the last four years between Sweden and the United Kingdom. After over 20 years as a graphic designer for a Los Angeles-based investment banking firm, I am a freelance writer and the creator, host, and producer for Our Black Gay Diaspora Podcast, a global biweekly platform where Black LGBTQ citizens share about their countries and professions.

One question I get is, “How is it dating in Europe?” My experience so far, at least with dating apps, is I don’t notice a difference. As an introvert, someone most comfortable “spending time with just one or two people, rather than large groups or crowds (WebMD, 2020),” casual dating isn’t something I’m the most adept at doing.

“Similar to the United States, assumptions about being Black in Europe may influence one’s perceptions and expectations.”

When I left the U.S. in October 2019, my goal was to find work that could help me settle in Sweden. So my first few months back in the country, I was focused on making this a possibility. Despite friends in Stockholm suggesting I get on dating apps. There are attractive men in Sweden. But I wasn’t ready to devote energy to pursuing romantic or sexual exploits.

Regardless of race or sexual orientation, dating can be a minefield of miscommunication and ridiculously absurd scenarios. I have my own stories of “truth is stranger than fiction” experiences. Some that would make you double over in laughter. And others I remember that left me distraught, dazed, and confused.

Several months passed before I began dating in Sweden. Similar to the United States, assumptions about being Black in Europe may influence one’s perceptions and expectations. It can affect how non-blacks interact with us. I don’t disapprove of interracial dating. But I’m cautious. There are Black citizens in most of the European countries I’ve visited. But the populations are smaller than most major U.S. cities. Thus, finding a Black gay man with whom to form a healthy romantic connection may be a challenge. Their numbers on dating apps in cities like Stockholm are negligible.

“I’ve received interest from non-black men who’ve said things like, ‘I love Black men and your beautiful chocolate skin!””

Another concern I have with online dating is it can attract persons interested in the sexual fetishization of Black men. Jason Okundaye’s October 2020 GQ article states, “This is how white people objectify black men as more masculine and sexually potent than our white counterparts.” And also, “The size of our penises are obsessed over and apparently betray our monstrosity.”

Because we start with photos and well-crafted descriptions, my opinion is that fantasy can greatly influence online dating. The story one can project on a person’s profile. For some, racial stereotypes are part of this fantasy. I’ve received interest from non-black men who’ve said things like, “I love Black men and your beautiful chocolate skin!” How does one respond to a declaration like this? Plus, the statement overlooks the hours I spent curating my profile. Hoping my profession, favourite films, and daily life mantras sound as interesting as possible. I would never think to say to a white man, “Oh, my God! I love white men and your beautiful vanilla skin!”

I see colour and other physical characteristics. As an American, I grew up in a Eurocentric society. Through my lived experiences as a Black man, I know how racism influences my perceptions of myself and those around me. This includes racial hierarchy, the “system of stratification that is based on the belief that some racial groups are superior to other racial groups (Wikipedia).” However, I don’t believe the colour of their skin has ever led to my perception of attractive non-black men. Like with Black men, it’s his face, his build, his height, and that special something I see in his eyes.

In my time wading through the sea of men on dating apps in Europe, I’ve only met three in person. Only one moved beyond an initial meeting. Beginning with a swipe right on a popular dating app, I met him at a café in Stockholm’s Södermalm district in late May 2020. His friendly eyes were what first caught my attention as I scanned his face, complimented by a shaved head and reddish-brown moustache and beard.

Our conversation flowed smoothly as we sat outside at one of the café’s small tables. Soaking up the sun’s rays on the crisp spring afternoon, my Swedish acquaintance held my interest with his humour. But I was leaving for England in a couple of months. And he shared about his summer travel plans. I didn’t see things going past what we were enjoying at the moment. And I was okay with it. I enjoyed interacting with someone new.

Arriving in London, England in late July 2020, my Swedish friend remembered and reached out to see how I was settling in. We remained in contact while I was in the UK, video chatting 2–3 days per week. I enjoyed our conversations. How they progressed into us discovering our shared interests. I looked forward to seeing him again upon my return to Stockholm in early November 2020.

I believe my Swedish friend saw beneath the surface of my skin tone, to the person those close know me to be. I continued to open up about my origins in Phoenix, Arizona. I shared about my years in Los Angeles, California. First as a struggling actor and later as a graphic designer.

For the first time in some time, I was open to being vulnerable with another man, becoming more transparent. I experienced a new sexual awakening. Something I knew many tapped into years before, without the aid of a stamped passport. I embraced my sexuality in ways that went beyond the cerebral. I saw how my trust issues, formulated during my formative years, also influenced this part of my life.

So, to answer the question. How is it dating in Europe? Apart from cultural differences, it’s identical to dating in the United States. What’s changed is that I’m more honest about who I am, what I want, and where I would like to be. I no longer minimize the realities of racism and how it filters into my dating life. That being said, I no longer shy away from discussing race. That is as long as I’m in a safe space to do so.

White and Black labels categorize people. But they’re generic monikers. They don’t capture a person’s ethnic or socioeconomic background. I am a Black American. I’m a creative introvert who loves the sound of honest-to-goodness laughter. I am me.

Our Black Gay Creatives of the 1980s

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Despite never being fully celebrated in Black and LGBTQ+ publications like Ebony, Jet, The Advocate or Gay Times, Black gay writers, filmmakers, and other creatives throughout the 1980s used their talents to highlight society’s perceptions of what it means to be Black and gay. Through their works, these men strove for equal rights and inclusivity within both Black and gay communities.

“…promote images and perceptions of Black gay men that wash away the practices of ostracization, vilification, and fetishization.”

Riding the waves of the social and cultural activism that crashed into the 1970s, writer Joseph Beam, filmmakers Sir Isaac Julien CBE RA and Marlon Riggs, and poet Essex Hemphill used their art to showcase the diversity amongst Black gay men, while challenging the public to acknowledge how racism and homophobia adversely impact the lives of Black LGBT+ citizens in the United States and the United Kingdom. Like their non-black contemporaries, Beam, Julien, Riggs, and Hemphill were out during an era when being openly gay could mean career suicide and social ostracization. As stated in a 2017 HuffPost article by Eric Jimenez-Lindmeier, “…in the 80s no one talked about actually being gay.” However, these men pushed to make being Black and gay assets to their characters, not detriments.

Most known for his 1986 anthology titled, In The Life, Joseph Beam (1954–1988) was a Philadelphia-born writer and activist committed to sharing the experiences of Black gay men. His anthology is a collection of works by 26 authors, encompassing social commentary, poetry, fiction, and essays. “We are Black men who are proudly gay. What we offer is our lives, our love, our visions… We are coming home with our heads held up high.” (Beam, 1986) Beam began gathering the materials for In The Life in 1982, hoping to fill the void left vacant by mainstream LGBT media. He desired to promote images and perceptions of Black gay men that wash away the practices of ostracization, vilification, and fetishization.

Beam also attempted to bridge the divide between Black straight and gay men. Growing up in predominantly Black communities, he went to predominantly white and elite institutions like Pennsylvania’s Malvern Preparatory School. “I’ve always been too white, or too black, or too much like a sissy, or too smart…” (Mumford, 131). Unable to find his sense of community in Philadelphia’s Center City gay neighborhood in the early 1980s, Beam believed sharing the plight of being Black men could help gays feel a sense of belonging if they discussed their similarities with straight men. He wanted Black gay men to find their voices by reaching across the gay-straight chasm.

Born to parents who migrated to Great Britain from the Eastern Caribbean island nation of St Lucia, British filmmaker, installation artist, and professor Sir Isaac Julien CBE RA first garnered success with his 1989 film Looking for Langston, which explored the life of American poet, novelist, and playwright Langston Hughes. A September 2012 Time Out review of the film describes it as a “…poetic visual fantasy of the lives of black gay men in ’20s Harlem, shot in beautiful monochrome.”

Made during the AIDS epidemic, a time when thousands of people were dying from the disease, Julien said “I was spending more and more of my time going to funerals, thinking about what it would be like to die in one’s 20s…” (Studio International, June 2017). Colin M. Robinson’s February 1990 Gay Community News review of the film details it as “…a critique of the “erasures” in recorded American history of the Black Gay (male) subject…” (Gay Community News, February 1990).

Julien followed up Looking for Langston with the 1991 film Young Soul Rebels, a British coming-of-age thriller that examines the UK youth cultural movements of the late 1970s. Released in the UK in August 1991, the film’s main storyline centers around a murder investigation involving one of the central characters. It’s also notable for debuting the talents of British actors Sophie Okonedo and Eamonn Walker.

Julien’s other films include Frantz Fanon: Black Skin, White Mask (1996), BaadAsssss Cinema (2002), and Stones Against Diamonds (2015). His installation exhibitions have been displayed at the De Pont Museum of Contemporary Art in the Netherlands, the Bass Museum of Art in Miami, Florida, and the Tate Modern in London, UK. Julien has also been featured in publications like Red Africa: Effective Communities and the Cold War (2016) and The Shadow Never Lies (2016).

Filmmaker, activist, and educator Marlon Riggs (1957–1994) came to the forefront of America’s awareness with his 1989 documentary Tongues Untied. Melding Riggs’ poetry and personal experiences, the film examines the space Black gay men inhabit existing between the homophobia in Black communities and the racism permeating popular gay neighborhoods like San Francisco’s Castro, New York’s Chelsea, and Los Angeles’s West Hollywood. “We can’t escape the reality that within gay and lesbian America, racism continues to pervade this world as it does elsewhere.” (UCLA Film & Television Archive, 1992)

Born in Fort Worth, Texas into a military family, Riggs spent part of his childhood in West Germany. His acceptance of himself as a gay man began as an undergraduate at Harvard University, where he realized the challenges of inhabiting Black and gay spaces. “…moved further still beyond the cluster of ‘Black Tables,’ where I knew deep down, no matter how much I masqueraded, my true self would show and would be shunned; and sat, often alone, eating quickly…” (Encyclopedia.com, 2020).

Controversy swirled around the 1989 release of Riggs’ Tongues Untied, with religious and conservative leaders vilifying it for its candid depiction of Black gay male sexuality. Partly funded by the National Endowment for the Arts, politician Pat Buchanan condemned the film as an example of the government using “our tax dollars in pornographic and blasphemous art.” (Los Angeles Times, 1992) Riggs defended the film, saying, “Black men loving Black men is the revolutionary act.”

Chicago-born Essex Hemphill (1957–1995) used his poetry to expound on race, sexuality, and the family. Raised in Washington, D.C., he used his political edge to talk about matters important to Black gay men. The topics of family and homosexuality were always a part of his poetry, which he began writing at age fourteen. While in college, Hemphill became a part of the D.C. art scene, performing spoken word and publishing his first poetry chapbook, “…a small book containing ballads, poems, tales, or tracts.” (Merriam-Webster)

In 1982, with fellow artists Larry Duckett and Wayson Jones, Hemphill founded the spoken word group, Cinque. Their work featured in Marlon Riggs’ Tongues Untied and his 1995 documentary titled Black is… Black Ain’t (1995). Hemphill’s poetry was also in Isaac Julien’s 1989 film, Looking for Langston.

Hemphill didn’t shy away from topics of racism and social inequality, themes that were part of his 1989 piece, Dear Muthafuckin Dreams. In it, he addressed the myth of the American Dream, “…the idea that every U.S. citizen has an equal opportunity to achieve success through hard work, determination, and initiative.” (Hemispheric Institute)

“…each used his status and influence to contribute to the social and cultural landscapes of Black gay men throughout the world.”

The AIDS epidemic, which extinguished many creative voices in the gay community, also silenced Beam, Riggs, and Hemphill. Beam was working on Brother to Brother, the sequel to In the Life, when he died on December 27, 1988. Hemphill and Beam’s mother completed the project, publishing it in 1991. Hemphill wrote that the anthology “tells a story that laughs and cries and sings and celebrates…it’s a conversation intimate friends share for hours.”

Riggs died on April 5, 1994, eleven months before the release of Black is… Black Ain’t. The documentary debuted on May 5, 1995, winning the Filmmakers’ Trophy at the 1995 Sundance Film Festival. For the 2019 30th anniversary of Tongues Untied, the Brooklyn Academy of Music did a nine-day retrospective of Riggs’ life and work called “Race, Sex & Cinema: The World of Marlon Riggs.”

Hemphill died on November 4, 1995. Gay Men of African Descent (GMAD), one of the oldest Black gay organizations, honored his passing on December 10, 1995, with a National Day of Remembrance for him at New York City’s Lesbian and Gay Community Services Center.

These men didn’t initially gain the same global recognition as American author James Baldwin, someone who didn’t use his celebrity to spotlight Black gay communities. However, Beam, Julien, Riggs, and Hemphill each used his status and influence to contribute to the social and cultural landscapes of Black gay men throughout the world. Beam said in In The Life, “What is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”