I Say a Little Prayer - Hardcover
Chauncey Greer, the bisexual owner of a thriving card company in Atlanta, is inspired to pursue his old dream of a musical career, a career that had ended in scandal thanks to a teenage love affair with his fellow bandmate in a popular boy band.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
E. LYNN HARRIS is the author of the memoir What Becomes of the Brokenhearted and of eight novels, including A Love of My Own, Just as I Am, and Any Way the Wind Blows, all of which were named Novel of the Year by the Blackboard African American Bestsellers, and If This World Were Mine, winner of the James Baldwin Award for Literary Excellence. Harris divides his time between Atlanta, Georgia, and Fayetteville, Arkansas.
CHAPTER ONE
Oh, hell naw were the only three words that came to mind, and I found myself saying them out loud.
“Oh, hell naw,” I said.
“Hold up,” Jayshawn whispered as he held his finger to his lips.
“Oh, hell naw,” I repeated.
He got up from the bed with his cell phone glued to his ear and walked into my bathroom. I could hear him saying, “I’m sorry, babygirl, I don’t like it when you get upset like this. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”
I sat up in my king-size sleigh bed and wondered how I got myself into situations like this. I had just enjoyed a quiet evening with great Chinese takeout from my favorite restaurant, P. F. Chang’s, a bottle of Merlot, a blunt, and ended the evening with head-banging sex. I’d fallen asleep wrapped up with a handsome redbone PTB (pretty tall brother) and was having sweet dreams until they were interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.
I ignored the first call, and didn’t mind when Jayshawn jumped out of bed and took the call in the adjacent bathroom. But then it happened again, and again. Every time I tried to go back to sleep, that fucking cell phone, playing rap music like we were in a club, woke me up. I’d had enough of this shit. I was even willing to give up the promised wake-up sex session with Jayshawn. It served me right for dealing with another so-called DL brother like Jayshawn. That nigga just wasn’t in the closet, he was the closet–all three walls and the double-lock door, too. But what choice did I have, since I didn’t date sissies or men who defined themselves strictly by their sexuality.
“I’m sorry, Chaunce,” Jayshawn said as he walked back into the bedroom, completely nude with a semi-erect penis swinging from side to side.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. It was going to take more than a fat dick to calm me down.
“My girl, you know she be bugging,” he said.
“About what?”
“Thinks I am up here cheating with another girl,” he said as he sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward me as if he was trying to gauge my anger.
“I thought you told her you were working.”
“I did, but you know bitches–they always think they know something. Trying to catch a nigga in some shit,” he said. “I think I need to catch the first flight out. I think there’s one at seven A.M.”
I looked at the digital clock on my DVD player and the time flashed 4:12 A.M. I turned back to Jayshawn and was getting ready to tell him that he needed to catch a taxi because I was not about to get out of my bed at this hour and take his tired ass to the airport, when the damn cell phone rang again!
“Don’t answer that,” I demanded, this time not trying to keep the anger out of my voice.
“I got to, Chauncey,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs trying to get her to chill.”
“Listen, Jayshawn, you need to leave. I don’t care where you go, but you need to get your ass up outta here. I’m going to church in a few hours, and I need some sleep.” I tossed the covers to the floor and got up to take a leak, shaking my head in disgust.
While I was in the bathroom, I thought about all the conversations and e-mails that had led to this evening. Several years ago, I met Jayshawn as I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C. I was there on a business trip and Jayshawn was having a drink in the bar. We gave each other the look, and before you could say, “Brothers gonna work it out,” we had exchanged business cards. A couple of days later, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn with a nude picture attached. From that moment, it was on. We agreed to drive and meet each other halfway, which meant I had to drive from Atlanta to Raleigh, North Carolina.
I liked Jayshawn Ward because he was handsome, smart, and like me he wasn’t a card-carrying member of the gay community. He was honest, telling me that he was the father of a six-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. Jayshawn told me he was no longer involved with his baby’s mama but had lady friends he dated occasionally. Neither one of us was looking for a relationship, or as I call it, a relation-shit; we both just wanted some regular hookup sex with another cool brother.
Everything was fine for about two years. We would get together every two months, and the sex was off the chain. Jayshawn knew how to use every part of his six-foot-five-inch frame–he was a former college basketball player who still knew how to dunk.
Last year Jayshawn called me and told me he’d met a special young lady, and he wanted to pursue a relationship with her. He told me we had to end our sessions. I don’t know why, even though it was just sex, I was a little hurt. But then I thought about it and realized that my sex was so good, he’d be back. It might be a couple of months or even a year or two, but they always come back.
I was right.
Right after Memorial Day, after months of noncommunication, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn supposedly just checking on me. I started not to respond to his simple “Sup” message, but I did. His next e-mail said, “I been missin’ my nigga and I got a few new things I need to show you.”
I started to make him wait, but since I hadn’t found a replacement for him, my plans to make him beg went out the window just like dirty dishwater. Now, only three weeks later, he and his loud-ass cell phone had to go.
I stomped back into my bedroom and saw Jayshawn in baggy jeans, a black wife-beater T-shirt, and a white do-rag on his head, stuffing a pair of boxers into the small black bag he’d brought. He grabbed his blue shirt the color of jeans, put it on, and began to button it.
“I’m real sorry ’bout this, fam, but I need to get on. I can’t believe this bitch is trippin’ like this. But she’s asking me all kinds of questions, like what kind of work I’m doing and what hotel I’m staying at. Why she can’t call me at the hotel and shit.”
I didn’t respond because I didn’t want to curse his ass out, but this girl was smarter than the average sister who dealt with down-low bisexual brothers. And if he was so in love with her, why did he keep referring to her as a bitch? Didn’t she have a name? But I knew this was just Jayshawn’s way of hanging on to the street-boy credibility that he so cherished. Every time we’d finish banging, he always had that guilty I’m not gonna do this no more look.
“Are you gonna run me to the airport?” he asked.
“No,” I said without looking in his direction or missing a beat. I picked up the covers from the floor and climbed back into bed.
“How am I going to get there?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“You can take MARTA–the station is a couple blocks away–or you can use your loud-ass cell phone and call a cab. I’m done. See ya.” I pulled the covers over my head, welcomed the darkness, and wished someone would create a “no more dumb mofo” vaccine. And quickly, before someone got hurt.
A few minutes later, I heard my front door slam shut.
***
If someone asked me who Chauncey Greer was, and I wanted to be really honest, what would I say? I’d start by telling them that due to a previous, painful experience my personal theme song is “Love Don’t Love Nobody. Believe That Shit!” So I’m not with the hardhead dude love/rela-tionship program.
I would tell them that I’m a reformed heartbreaker trying to do the right thing when it comes to dealing with other people. There was a time in my twenties when I broke a lot of hearts and didn’t give a damn about how the person felt when I told them to hit the road or when I stopped returning their phone calls. This one dude, Greg, claimed he was so in love with me that he was going to kill himself if I left him. At that time in my life I was so cold-blooded, I slammed the door in his face and silently waited for a gunshot or broken window. I ignored him when I saw him a year later with another guy I’d slept with. I started to warn the other brotha that he was dealing with a psycho but felt they deserved one another–at that point in my life I would just go along to get along.
I’m a good-looking brotha (not bragging, just a simple fact) and I’ve had more than my share of equally good-looking brothers and maybe a half-dozen great-looking women. I have my weaknesses like any other man. I guess you could say I’m a LSC (light skin chaser). I prefer my men (and women) to be on the yellow side. Not the light bright and damn near white yellow, but that real nice golden brown. Good hair and light eyes doesn’t hurt. I’m not prejudiced or anything–I have mad respect for my darker-skinned brothers and sisters, since I’m chocolate myself–but my tastes tend to lighter.
I’m not confused about my sexuality. I’m basically bi with a gay leaning. You could say that my sexual tastes are similar to my love for gumbo. You feel what I’m saying? Sometimes I like a little sausage, other times a bit of shrimp. And every now and then, I get a taste for fish. But today, with so many people talking about down-low this and down-low that, it’s too much of a hassle dating women, because they ask too many damn questions. I still find myself attracted to women, but I don’t like to lie. I can save that sin for something else–like cussing out Jayshawn. The only thing brothas are interested in is your HIV s...
Oh, hell naw were the only three words that came to mind, and I found myself saying them out loud.
“Oh, hell naw,” I said.
“Hold up,” Jayshawn whispered as he held his finger to his lips.
“Oh, hell naw,” I repeated.
He got up from the bed with his cell phone glued to his ear and walked into my bathroom. I could hear him saying, “I’m sorry, babygirl, I don’t like it when you get upset like this. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”
I sat up in my king-size sleigh bed and wondered how I got myself into situations like this. I had just enjoyed a quiet evening with great Chinese takeout from my favorite restaurant, P. F. Chang’s, a bottle of Merlot, a blunt, and ended the evening with head-banging sex. I’d fallen asleep wrapped up with a handsome redbone PTB (pretty tall brother) and was having sweet dreams until they were interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.
I ignored the first call, and didn’t mind when Jayshawn jumped out of bed and took the call in the adjacent bathroom. But then it happened again, and again. Every time I tried to go back to sleep, that fucking cell phone, playing rap music like we were in a club, woke me up. I’d had enough of this shit. I was even willing to give up the promised wake-up sex session with Jayshawn. It served me right for dealing with another so-called DL brother like Jayshawn. That nigga just wasn’t in the closet, he was the closet–all three walls and the double-lock door, too. But what choice did I have, since I didn’t date sissies or men who defined themselves strictly by their sexuality.
“I’m sorry, Chaunce,” Jayshawn said as he walked back into the bedroom, completely nude with a semi-erect penis swinging from side to side.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. It was going to take more than a fat dick to calm me down.
“My girl, you know she be bugging,” he said.
“About what?”
“Thinks I am up here cheating with another girl,” he said as he sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward me as if he was trying to gauge my anger.
“I thought you told her you were working.”
“I did, but you know bitches–they always think they know something. Trying to catch a nigga in some shit,” he said. “I think I need to catch the first flight out. I think there’s one at seven A.M.”
I looked at the digital clock on my DVD player and the time flashed 4:12 A.M. I turned back to Jayshawn and was getting ready to tell him that he needed to catch a taxi because I was not about to get out of my bed at this hour and take his tired ass to the airport, when the damn cell phone rang again!
“Don’t answer that,” I demanded, this time not trying to keep the anger out of my voice.
“I got to, Chauncey,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs trying to get her to chill.”
“Listen, Jayshawn, you need to leave. I don’t care where you go, but you need to get your ass up outta here. I’m going to church in a few hours, and I need some sleep.” I tossed the covers to the floor and got up to take a leak, shaking my head in disgust.
While I was in the bathroom, I thought about all the conversations and e-mails that had led to this evening. Several years ago, I met Jayshawn as I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C. I was there on a business trip and Jayshawn was having a drink in the bar. We gave each other the look, and before you could say, “Brothers gonna work it out,” we had exchanged business cards. A couple of days later, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn with a nude picture attached. From that moment, it was on. We agreed to drive and meet each other halfway, which meant I had to drive from Atlanta to Raleigh, North Carolina.
I liked Jayshawn Ward because he was handsome, smart, and like me he wasn’t a card-carrying member of the gay community. He was honest, telling me that he was the father of a six-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. Jayshawn told me he was no longer involved with his baby’s mama but had lady friends he dated occasionally. Neither one of us was looking for a relationship, or as I call it, a relation-shit; we both just wanted some regular hookup sex with another cool brother.
Everything was fine for about two years. We would get together every two months, and the sex was off the chain. Jayshawn knew how to use every part of his six-foot-five-inch frame–he was a former college basketball player who still knew how to dunk.
Last year Jayshawn called me and told me he’d met a special young lady, and he wanted to pursue a relationship with her. He told me we had to end our sessions. I don’t know why, even though it was just sex, I was a little hurt. But then I thought about it and realized that my sex was so good, he’d be back. It might be a couple of months or even a year or two, but they always come back.
I was right.
Right after Memorial Day, after months of noncommunication, I got an e-mail from Jayshawn supposedly just checking on me. I started not to respond to his simple “Sup” message, but I did. His next e-mail said, “I been missin’ my nigga and I got a few new things I need to show you.”
I started to make him wait, but since I hadn’t found a replacement for him, my plans to make him beg went out the window just like dirty dishwater. Now, only three weeks later, he and his loud-ass cell phone had to go.
I stomped back into my bedroom and saw Jayshawn in baggy jeans, a black wife-beater T-shirt, and a white do-rag on his head, stuffing a pair of boxers into the small black bag he’d brought. He grabbed his blue shirt the color of jeans, put it on, and began to button it.
“I’m real sorry ’bout this, fam, but I need to get on. I can’t believe this bitch is trippin’ like this. But she’s asking me all kinds of questions, like what kind of work I’m doing and what hotel I’m staying at. Why she can’t call me at the hotel and shit.”
I didn’t respond because I didn’t want to curse his ass out, but this girl was smarter than the average sister who dealt with down-low bisexual brothers. And if he was so in love with her, why did he keep referring to her as a bitch? Didn’t she have a name? But I knew this was just Jayshawn’s way of hanging on to the street-boy credibility that he so cherished. Every time we’d finish banging, he always had that guilty I’m not gonna do this no more look.
“Are you gonna run me to the airport?” he asked.
“No,” I said without looking in his direction or missing a beat. I picked up the covers from the floor and climbed back into bed.
“How am I going to get there?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“You can take MARTA–the station is a couple blocks away–or you can use your loud-ass cell phone and call a cab. I’m done. See ya.” I pulled the covers over my head, welcomed the darkness, and wished someone would create a “no more dumb mofo” vaccine. And quickly, before someone got hurt.
A few minutes later, I heard my front door slam shut.
***
If someone asked me who Chauncey Greer was, and I wanted to be really honest, what would I say? I’d start by telling them that due to a previous, painful experience my personal theme song is “Love Don’t Love Nobody. Believe That Shit!” So I’m not with the hardhead dude love/rela-tionship program.
I would tell them that I’m a reformed heartbreaker trying to do the right thing when it comes to dealing with other people. There was a time in my twenties when I broke a lot of hearts and didn’t give a damn about how the person felt when I told them to hit the road or when I stopped returning their phone calls. This one dude, Greg, claimed he was so in love with me that he was going to kill himself if I left him. At that time in my life I was so cold-blooded, I slammed the door in his face and silently waited for a gunshot or broken window. I ignored him when I saw him a year later with another guy I’d slept with. I started to warn the other brotha that he was dealing with a psycho but felt they deserved one another–at that point in my life I would just go along to get along.
I’m a good-looking brotha (not bragging, just a simple fact) and I’ve had more than my share of equally good-looking brothers and maybe a half-dozen great-looking women. I have my weaknesses like any other man. I guess you could say I’m a LSC (light skin chaser). I prefer my men (and women) to be on the yellow side. Not the light bright and damn near white yellow, but that real nice golden brown. Good hair and light eyes doesn’t hurt. I’m not prejudiced or anything–I have mad respect for my darker-skinned brothers and sisters, since I’m chocolate myself–but my tastes tend to lighter.
I’m not confused about my sexuality. I’m basically bi with a gay leaning. You could say that my sexual tastes are similar to my love for gumbo. You feel what I’m saying? Sometimes I like a little sausage, other times a bit of shrimp. And every now and then, I get a taste for fish. But today, with so many people talking about down-low this and down-low that, it’s too much of a hassle dating women, because they ask too many damn questions. I still find myself attracted to women, but I don’t like to lie. I can save that sin for something else–like cussing out Jayshawn. The only thing brothas are interested in is your HIV s...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherThorndike Pr
- Publication date2006
- ISBN 10 0786289384
- ISBN 13 9780786289387
- BindingHardcover
- Number of pages373
- Rating
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