My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands | Page 9

my father tried as hard as he could to act like it

didn't bother him but was constantly looking at Tyrone out of the corner of his eye. When we

held hands, my father twitched slightly and looked away. I had fantasies of inviting him to

sleep over, knowing my father wouldn't object in front of Tyrone. If it had been a white boy-

friend, my father would have protested in front of everyone, but in his never-ending plea to ap-

pear color-blind, I knew my dad would not only allow him to sleep over but would probably of-

fer up his own pajamas. The only topics my father was able to discuss with Tyrone were foot-

ball, basketball, and slavery.

Tyrone and I broke up a few months later when he transferred to a more respectable col-

lege somewhere in Michigan. When I told my father about his transfer, he feigned disappoint-

ment. “That's too bad, love. He was a nice guy. Not too dark, could almost pass for a Colom-

bian.”

“Why would he want to pass for a Colombian, Dad?” I asked.

“Listen, don't start with the racial stuff, okay? I think the sbvartzers have a lot of courage; I

love the blacks. Dogs don't seem to like them, but I don't have a problem. Look at Oprah!”

“That's real nice, Dad. You have a real way with words. You should think about running for

public office.”

“Yeah, well I'll tell ya, it wouldn't be the worst thing. You're not the first person to tell me

that, love. And you probably won't be the last.”

Tyrone had been the first black man I had had sex with, and I felt very strongly about ven-

turing farther into that arena. So during the two months I had to kill before Ivory and I were off

to California, I started chatting online with Jerome, whom I met on ChocolateSingles.com.

Since he also lived with his parents, I had to wait until mine were out of town before we could

set up our first rendezvous. My brothers and sisters had all moved out and I was the only

child left at home. Jerome and I had exchanged photos of ourselves, and as long as he

looked somewhat similar to his picture, I knew we would be having sex.

We agreed on dinner and a movie, which I suggested mostly because I didn't want to be

obvious about my overwhelming desire to have sex with another black man.

We planned to meet at six o'clock at a steakhouse not far from my parents' house. Unfor-

tunately, earlier that day I had done quite a number on my hair. I had been inspired to cut my

own bangs—the result of which was not at all positive. In short, I looked as if I had lost a fight

with a pair of craft scissors. I managed to get my bangs under control by placing a barrette

directly above my forehead where it met my hairline. It wasn't a good look for anyone, but on

the bright side, the severity with which my bangs were pulled back made me look much more

alert than usual.

Jerome was already seated when I arrived. He was six-two and gorgeous, with a body ab-

solutely to die for. He was twenty-five, had a short buzz cut, light brown eyes, and a big happy

smile. He was ten times better looking than his picture. “Jerome?” I asked innocently, as if he

weren't the only black person in the entire place.

“Hello,” he said, standing up to give me a kiss on the cheek. His skin was the softest I had

ever felt, and it was the exact color of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I couldn't believe how

beautiful he was. If this guy hadn't lived with his parents, he would've been out of my league.

He glanced at my barrette a couple of times and I felt my face getting hotter. He was obvi-

ously wondering why I'd placed a barrette so close to my forehead.

I was furious about giving myself a home haircut. How could I have been so stupid?

Clearly, I had to say something to allay his fears. “I had a little accident today,” I told him.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“It was nothing serious. I was actually volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club of America

and a little boy set my hair on fire by accident. He has ADD and it's a pretty sad story.”

“Oh, my God, were you hurt?” Jerome asked.

“No, no, no,” I said, relieved that the lie seemed to be working. “I felt pretty stupid when I

looked in the mirror, but I was more concerned about Linus.”

“How old is the boy?” asked a horrified Jerome.

I scrambled to think of an appropriate age for a child who would set someone else on fire.

“He's seven,” I told him, “but challenged.” I didn't know where these lies were coming from,

but I couldn't stop myself. I was so intimidated by him I just jumped into a story I was sure

would