Darrell's Blog

The E.T. Journal (Part 2 of 4)

Saturday. I awake in the clouds. From where I lay all that is visible from the windows that span the width of the wall is haint sky and cottony clouds. The world is tranquil and peaceful. Even the birds are still asleep. Before I turn around to see if Tom or Saar is awake, I lay still and enjoy the silence for as long as it lasts and dream that today will be right, different and considerably better than yesterday. I love this man, I think to God.

This was supposed to be the weekend that we got our derailed relationship back on track, talk about all those major plans of how and where we would set up house, solidify our relationship, and maybe, how we would parent Saar when he was in our custody. Time and again we’d labored over these issues (and others) in our correspondence and sometimes during the (long distance) conversations we had had. This was the reason Tom had planned for the two of us to be alone, before we drove down to Macon for his homecoming with his parents and extended family: so that we could talk, plan…and be ourselves in a way that two Black gay men could only be themselves when cocooned in a safe space. Friday and Saturday would be ours only; Sunday, Monday and Tuesday would be the family’s and ours.

I am still lost in the horizon when I hear Saar call “Daddy.” I turn around. Tom shields his face with his hand to block Saar from slapping his palm against his face. He sits up and I say “Good morning.” “Good morning,” he responds. Our greetings are routine, more polite than personal. I’m thinking: I want to fuck him. Thrust myself into him, then explode—like we would normally do in the early morning hours. But the timing seems off for uninhibited lovemaking. Maybe later when Saar is napping. Or when he is asleep. This blissful thought brings a smile to my face as I watch Daddy and Baby play with each other. It also masks another thought, a less loving one: I am disturbed, still, by Tom not giving me advance notice of Robert’s visit to our hotel room last night. How fucking rude?!…And how do I say something about it without blowing it out of proportion, without it casting a fog over the remainder of the weekend? (This is one of the most difficult challenges in any relationship: standing up for your own feelings while not inciting the other person’s defensiveness or anger, thus getting trapped in a cycle of “?”)

Tom takes Saar to the bathroom for his bath. He returns shortly, dresses Saar and sits him in the middle of the bed and clicks on the Disney Channel again. Then he goes back to the restroom, shuts the door completely and takes his shower. (I could almost swear I hear the bathroom door lock click! but I cannot be sure.) Meanwhile, I am watching Saar watch television…I wash up last and the three of us leave for breakfast.

We ate at The Flying Biscuit, a café in Midtown famous for its pillow-y biscuits, and its healthy, yet flavorful breakfast and lunch items. (They offer no dinner menu.) I had a turkey burger with a field greens salad—and a biscuit, of course, smeared with apple butter.

We waited nearly an hour to be seated. A charity Walk for breast cancer had just taken place and women adorned with pink ribbons crowded the restaurant and filled the nearby sidewalks.

Robert had also joined us for breakfast, though he arrived late. (Tom had informed me the day before that Robert would be there, which was cool with me. I welcomed the idea, in fact. As I’ve said, Robert is a colorful character.)

It couldn’t have been more than minute after Robert sat and ordered that Tom said matter-of-factly: “Robert, Darrell said I’ve should’ve woke him up and told him you were coming to the room.” You motherfucker, you! I thought. I’ll be goddamned. I can’t believe he is playing me like this. Not only did he disrespect me last night, but he’s doing it again. And this time he’s rubbing his shit in my face! Quickly I shifted and managed to look confused, unfazed, as if Tom had just told a joke and I was too unsophisticated or naïve to catch the punch line. It was the best I could do. (I do not like creating a “scene” in public—especially a white public. And they surrounded us on all sides.) Yet, beneath my aloof smile was confusion and pain. Robert, for his part, attempted to turn Tom’s tackiness into humor by responding “that’s why you should always dress for company, even when you’re alone…” But I sensed he must have felt (in some way) my discomfort.

After breakfast, the three of us and the baby went to The Boy Next Door, one of those clothing boutiques that caters to primarily “fit” gay men, selling mostly skimpy underwear, T-shirts with lascivious writing, and lots of Spandex and "accessories." I wanted to buy a swimsuit, a pair of white Speedos, to be precise…I ended up with a pair of baby blue Speedo-like, low-cut swim briefs that fitted me just lovely. (I had called for Tom (via Robert) to come to the dressing room so he could view up close my worked-out body and my “jewels” in my hot swimsuit. I wanted to tease him as much as I wanted his approval. But what I got was a blank, “I-see” look before he casually walked off.)

Back at the hotel, we rested. (Robert had gone his own way after we left The Boy Next Door.)

I worked out at the hotel gym. It was all I could do to try and feel better and not go off. (Yes, I could’ve have confronted him—as I have done in the past—but I had promised myself going into this “reunion” weekend that I would not allow myself to fall into my historical pattern of being the “initiator” or “conciliator” when it comes to conflict resolution with my man. I was not going to be a “strong Black woman” to my stoic, emotionally distant “husband.” I’ve had enough of that shit! Always being the first or only one to say: “What’s wrong, baby?” “Let’s talk about this, you’re important to me.” Or something like that. Communicating for both of us until I’m hoarse and exhausted.)

I feel much better after my workout.

I enter the room to find Tom lying across his bed and Saar asleep. He is watching television, the volume turned low. My mood is easy, relaxed—sensual even. “Heyyy,” I say softy. “Hey baby,” he replies. This moment feels good, familiar. Maybe this is the time; maybe he’s ready. I relax facedown across my bed and flip through a magazine. Tom gets up and walks about the room searching through his luggage, then through a stack of magazines I had brought to Atlanta for him. He chooses one and lies next to me on the bed, the side of his body just barely touching mine. Goosebumps. Yesss! I’m hoping. Yesss. Let this be the moment when he pulls me to him and our bodies join…in a minute we’ll be…I am still flipping magazine pages, even though I am blind to what’s on the page before me, at-the-ready for his cue. He needs only to pull my body to his and I will take it from there. Do it. Give it. Throw it. Take it. …“Hey baby,” he says again as he rubs my arm, shoulder to elbow and leans over to peer at what I am reading. This is what my body has been longing for, I think to myself. “Hm?” I mutter softly, my eyes inviting him to help himself to me… We’re almost there…5...4...3...2…and then he gets up from the bed. I am heart-sick.

…Some kind of way, I managed to take a nap.

For dinner we walk across the street to Lenox Mall. We go into the Apple Store, Banana Republic, Pottery Barn Kids and Gap Kids, where Tom buys Saar a pair of sandals. We eat at Mick’s. Except for either of us asking, “How’s the food?” we say almost nothing to each other during dinner. My attempt at dialogue is met with two-word responses or aloofness. I eat, and make crazy faces at Saar. He responds in kind. Tom eats, feeds Saar and looks everywhere but my direction. I wonder: God, what is going on with him? Have I done something to Tom?
We walked back to the hotel in near silence. As we approached the portico of the hotel’s entrance, Tom asked if I would get him a flavored coffee and something sweet from Joe Muggs, the coffee shop across the street. He also asks for a stainless steel coffee mug for the car. (“I always wanted one of those,” he said) He will meet me upstairs in the room… I trot across the street half-excited that he’s asked me to do something for him, that he’s spoken a few sentences in succession. I know this man has to love me. Why else would he have invited me here like this? (Later I will wonder if he sent me to the coffee shop to get rid of me for several minutes, to make a phone call to someone, perhaps?)

I return to the room with a Danish and coffee for Tom and the Sunday edition of the New York Times for myself. (There were no stainless steel mugs available.) Tom nibbles and sips at his desserts. And I read the paper.

As we prepare for bed, I feel a motley of emotion: disappointment and hope; confusion and clarity; love and lust. Strangely, I do not feel as angry as I had felt just minutes before. I just feel “done.”

I say goodnight and crawl into my bed. I pull the covers to my chin and give myself a big hug. I find my sleeping position and roll a pillow snugly under my neck. Under the covers, I have discreetly taken off my underwear—just in case…

(Part 3 of 4 will be posted by June 29th.)

Posted by Darrell at June 22, 2004 04:52 PM | TrackBack