Books
How could my husband be GAY?
WINNER: 1st place in the 2011 Readers Favorite Awards in the Non Fiction-Relationships category.
WINNER: Books-And-Authors.net 2011 Book of the Year/Autobiographical Alternative
How could my husband be GAY? is an autobiographical look into the life of Ondrea L. Davis.On the outside, Ondrea’s life is nothing short of a fairy tale. She has a dream home, the perfect husband and three beautiful children. Ondrea soon discovers that her husband, Marceous King, is not the man she thought she married.
Exhausting all efforts to salvage her marriage, Ondrea finds herself in the fight of her life. In the process, she uncovers a highly sophisticated web of deception and shocking secrets. Marceous will stop at nothing to keep Ondrea from exposing the truth and derailing his plan – even if it means destroying her in the process. In this battle of good versus evil, who will be the ultimate victor?
Available now at Foresight Publishing.
Just Tryin' To Be Loved
It has taken almost two years for Mark to put the pieces of his shattered life back together following a devastating breakup with his first love, Tony. Determined to never allow anyone to hurt him again, Mark becomes a recluse and throws himself into his career.
Confronted with the demons of his past and a yearning to be loved, Mark soon finds his life spiraling out of control.
Charismatic real estate executive, Jared Muse, knows that Mark is still healing and is resigned to give him all the time and space he needs; that is, until Tony re-enters Mark's life with hopes of reconciling.
After a while of dating both gentlemen, Mark makes his decision. Unfortunately, this is where his nightmare begins. Hell hath no fury like a MAN scorned…
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EXCERPT:
The trains were especially crowded during Monday morning’s rush hour. One always learns to adapt to make the trip more bearable. I think I had almost mastered my plan of action for my commute in to work. I knew exactly what area of the platform to board the train to guarantee the same seat each day. I was such a creature of habit. To accomplish this, I rode the train one stop up in the opposite direction. This stop was the last stop on the line (the first stop for the change in direction). I was always one of the first people to board. I nestled into the very last seat on the car. Just like with airplanes, I had a preference for the window seat. As I looked out of the window, I noticed for the first time that it was an usually hazy morning – almost daunting. Despite the haze, I could still see the orange and purple brilliance of the horizon.
I entered the combination to unlock my briefcase and took out Passion by up and coming writer, Victor Hayes. I met Hayes the past weekend at a book signing at Karibu Books. Karibu was my favorite bookstore because, as the name signified, I always felt welcome. I had never heard of Hayes, and just happened to be in the bookstore that day looking for something new and exciting to read. I noticed a poster prominently displayed in the window behind the cash registers announcing his appearance. He had an interesting enough face, so I picked up his book and skimmed the synopsis on the back and was immediately intrigued - a novel about a man grappling with his past who happens to have the dream lover who turns out to be the lover from hell. I stood in line to get his autograph for what seemed like hours, but I guess it was actually only like forty five minutes. He was very cordial and from the brief conversation I had with him, he seemed to really have his act together. I found him to be even more intriguing when I found out that he was a southern boy like me.
I got lost in the book and hardly noticed that I had already gone the ten stops before my transfer. I put my book away and headed upstairs to board the Red Line. One more stop and I was at my destination. I exited the metro station and walked down the steps towards 12th Street. I have always had this awful habit of walking with my head down. When I was a little boy, my gramma’ would always say, “Look up boy, yo’ feets is still dere!”
As I rounded the corner of the building there he was. He motioned “What’s up?” with his head as he smiled. I did the same, and simultaneously said, “Good morning.” He had a freshly shaved head, was about 6’2”, very dark skinned (“blue black” some call it), bow-legged, with full lips. He had a shadow beard and moustache. He wore a navy blue pin-striped suit which by no means camouflaged his lean body. I wanted to look back as he passed me, but I didn’t want to appear desperate and I certainly didn’t want anyone else on the street to see me checking him out. But fuck that! I had to get a second look. And guess what? He was checking me out too – cheezin’ real hard with the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. He raised both hands slightly in the air with an inquisitive look on his face. I knew this sign language all too well. I turned around and walked back up the steps to talk to him.
“Hey man, I’m Jared,” he said as he extended his right hand.
“Mark,” I said blushing.
“Nice meeting you Mark. You work around here?”
“Yeah, right around the corner actually.”
There was an awkward silence. I dropped my head and smiled.
“This is always so awkward.”
“I agree. Do you have time for coffee?” he asked. “There’s a Starbucks up on the corner.”
I wasn’t really a coffee drinker, but he was a hot, black coffee that I’d sip on any day. I decided to tag along with him to the Starbucks as I had a few minutes to spare before my monthly project meeting. Everyone must have had a coffee fix that morning, because the coffee shop was packed like a can of sardines. There was one table in the corner and I told Jared I would grab it for us if he’d order me a grande mocha frap, no whip. Those words felt good rolling off my tongue as I was often impressed by the direct tone each of the Caucasian patrons used in placing their orders. I reached in my pocket to grab some money, but Jared said, “I got chu.” I smiled and went to hold the table. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but during the five or so minutes it took him to get our order, I got lost in daydreams of being with him. While I knew I wasn’t ready for a relationship, it felt good to entertain the thought again.
I broke up with Satan himself about a year and a half ago and haven't dated since. I'm not sure why I dropped my wall with Jared and looked back, but there was something very intriguing about him. All I could think about was being in his massive arms and exhaling like Whitney Houston did in "Waiting To Exhale." I stared out the window overlooking Freedom Plaza and began to smile to myself. I know I must have looked odd. I was so deep in thought that I didn't even notice that Jared had walked up.
"What you smiling about?” he asked.
"Oh nothing," I lied as I quickly changed the subject. "You work in this area?"
"I'll tell you that over dinner tonight," he said with confidence.
"Okay, you name the place and the time and I'll be there," I said.
Damn, did that sound desperate? What was I doing? Jared was totally messing up my constitution. No dating! No men! Okay, it's not really a date. Just two guys having a little dinner. We have to eat, right? Jared gave me his office number. He also gave me back a little of my power by telling me to pick the place and the time. He asked me to call him at exactly one o’clock and let him know where to meet me. We left Starbucks. I headed across the street to my meeting and he walked back in the direction of the metro. I arrived at my meeting and greeted my assistant with a big smile.
"Are you okay Mr. Harris?” she asked with a puzzled look on her face.
"Why do you ask, Nicole?” I inquired knowing full well what she meant.
"You just seem....different....happier, that's all."
"Well, I guess optimism radiates from within," I philosophized.
She looked at me as if I had two heads, but that was okay. She had her morning coffee and I had mine.
I called Jared at one on the dot. I pride myself on punctuality.
"Jared Muse," he answered.
He sounded even sexier over the phone. His voice was deep and dreamy.
"Hey Jared, it's Mark."
"Well, well...I thought I asked you to call me at exactly one o’clock. It's two past one," he joked.
"My bad. I apologize. I'll do better next time," I teased.
"Oh, you think there'll be a next time? Confidence...I like that," he said. I chuckled nervously like a little school girl. Why was he having this affect on me? Okay, calm down Mark. He's a man just like you. He puts his pants on one leg at a time just like you do. Now there was a vision - Jared putting on his pants. Man, get out of my head!
"Mark, you there?" There I was in la la land again.
"Yeah, I'm here. Sorry my assistant walked in. I'm back," I lied yet again.
"No problem. You are at work," he said. "So, where am I meeting you this evening?"
"I was thinking this little Moroccan place called Marrakesh. Ever been there?"
"Never been there, but I've heard of it. I just mentioned to one of my friends that I wanted to try it out. That's the place with the belly dancers, right?” Jared asked.
"That would be the place," I quipped.
I was glad that he was interested in trying Merrakesh. I had wanted to go there for some time, but couldn't find anyone brave enough to go with me.
"A man who knows my thoughts," Jared teased.
"Wanna meet at seven?” I asked.
"Perfect, that will give me time to run home and slip into something a little more comfortable. I hate this corporate shit I have to wear everyday."
We both laughed.
"Okay, meet me at 617 New York Avenue at seven," I said. "You know where that is, right?"
"Yup, can't wait...see you at seven handsome," Jared said. Despite my busy day – my 401 (k) rollout meeting at two and my three-thirty exit
interview with one of the Managers – I managed to leave the office early so that I, too, could slip into something a little more comfortable. Choices, choices, choices. What
cologne? What outfit was I going to wear? What shoes should I put on? Trying on my clothes made me realize one thing. I definitely needed to get back on schedule with my trainer at the gym. I had missed four straight sessions with Harrison due to the demanding nature of my job. As much as my friends think I'm crazy, your body can change in two weeks when you don't exercise and watch what you eat.
Frustrated, I decided to take a shower. The brisk stream of water beat down on my tired back and relaxed me. I felt rejuvenated. I dried off and once again, stepped into my walk-in closet to find the perfect outfit. I finally found something that I was comfortable in - a pin stripe French cuff shirt, a pair of Sean John jeans, and my Cognac leather Kenneth Cole slip-ons. I got dressed and checked myself in the mirror. I looked good if I may say so myself.
I arrived at the restaurant and pulled up for valet parking. I entered the restaurant and there was Jared flashing that Colgate smile. He was wearing a pair of linen pants that looked as comfortable as pajamas. With it, he wore a shirt that clung to his every curve and left nothing to the imagination. His shoes were spit shined! Gramma’ always said you could tell a lot about a man by looking at his shoes. I wonder what she would say about Jared.
We shook hands and the hostess smiled and said, "Gentlemen, follow me." She led us to a large closet and asked us to remove our shoes. As we entered the seating area, rich tapestries surrounded us and Moroccan music filled the air. The room was dimly lit, but it was hard to miss the intricately painted ceilings. The smell of incense filled the room. She led us to the rear of the restaurant and motioned for us to be seated. We made ourselves comfortable on the pillows at the low table.
"Your server will be right with you. Enjoy your meal," she said as she left us alone.
Our server brought over a pitcher and dish. We held our hands over the dish. This was a little strange at first, but I saw that others were doing the same thing. I later learned that this was a ritual hand washing. After the ritual, he then placed a large towel over our laps. I looked over at Jared who looked like an African king seated under the tent-like draperies.
"You look very handsome this evening," I said.
"Thank you, so do you," Jared retorted.
Our meal began with a delicious homemade, honey-wheat bread, and Sharba, a vegetarian, lentil-based soup. The small bowls were perfect for sipping. The other seven courses were equally delicious. I enjoyed watching Jared eating with his fingers. I was entertained simply watching him as he provocatively licked his fingers with those full lips. Jared and I had great conversation during the meal. The conversation flowed as if we were old friends. There were no awkward silences. Jared, at age thirty seven, was the Managing Director for Kare Enterprise Real Estate Group, a major commercial real estate company in Washington, DC. He was responsible for the profit and loss division and managed more than one hundred and fifty employees in his office. Jared was from New Jersey and was the only child. After telling me his background he winked and said, "I'm used to getting what I want." His parents were still together and his father had just retired. Jared helped them sell his childhood home in New Jersey and purchase a retirement home in South Carolina. I could tell he was very close to his family.
Our conversation was interrupted by an abrupt change in music. The show was beginning. One after another, belly dancers of all ages and shapes took to the floor. They were very entertaining. To our surprise, there was even a male belly dancer who went by the name of Amir. He must have been a regular because everyone called him by name as they clapped and cheered. All that hip movement made me want to get up and grind my hips for Jared. On second thought, Merrakesh wasn’t ready for all this jelly!
We finished our meal and Jared insisted that I allow him to pay. I reluctantly conceded. We retrieved our shoes and proceeded to the valet to get our cars. I had already decided that I was not going to let the atmosphere, Jared's sexy face, body or lips, or even my very own hormones cause me to act "irrationally" on our first date. That's right. I was going to be a perfect gentleman (and make sure Jared was one as well) by going straight home after dinner - my own home. That way I wouldn't get in trouble or move too fast. Besides, I had to be at work at seven in the morning. So while we waited for the cars, I told Jared what a wonderful time I had and hoped that we could see each other again. I was relieved when he said that he wanted to see me again as well. We hugged and lingered there for a minute. As we were letting go, he kissed me softly on the neck.
"Hey, do you have plans on Saturday?” he asked.
"None that I can recall. What’s up?"
"I want you to go with me somewhere," Jared said secretively.
"Somewhere," I teased, knowing full well it really didn't matter.
"Yup, somewhere. You'll find out on Saturday when we get there. I'll pick you up."
My mind started racing. Where was he taking me and why the big secret? I must have been so deep in my own thoughts that I only heard the end of his sentence.
"…got home okay…” is all I heard.
"Huh?” I asked.
"I said, give me your home number so that I can call you to make sure you got home okay," Jared repeated.
I gave Jared my number. By this time, the valet attendants had arrived with our cars.
"Damn, now I see who makes all the money!" I exclaimed as the attendant handed Jared the keys to the silver Jaguar.
We laughed, tipped the attendants and got into our cars and departed the restaurant. I made it home in record time because I had to call my friend Cher, to give her the details of the day. I met Cher a few years back when I solicited the help of the law offices of Hollis & McKnight to deal with a serious employee issue. Cher was the paralegal assigned to the case and we hit it off immediately. Cher is so UN-politically correct, especially when it comes to describing homosexuals. As much as she loves me, she says the crassest things. I’ve heard her use the words “sugar britches,” “frou frous,” “fruit loops,” “peanut butter packers” and “pillow biters” – just to name a few. She even refers to women as “broads.” I swear she is the female version of Archie Bunker.
I remember the fifth or sixth interview I had with Cher. By this point, we were really comfortable with each other, but for the most part, we kept it professional. While she looked the part, I could tell that she was ghetto fabulous. She was articulate when it came down to business, but the real Cher finally reared its ugly head. Apparently she had peeped that I was gay. Let me tell you - the girl has a gift!
“Why you be singing all the time boo?” she asked with a serious look on her face.
“What do you mean singing? I didn’t sing anything!” I said in an offended manner because I knew where she was going with this comment.
“Pleeeeez, you started singing the first day you walked up in here! I was like damn, did The Four Tops walk up in this mickey flick? You were harmonizing like shit! You were like Cherrrrrrrrrrrrrr, heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyy! How you doooooooooooinnnnnnnnnnnnnnng?” she said stretching the words out in this stereotypical gay manner.
That was definitely not me, but the visual was all too familiar. We both laughed so hard that a few people came into the conference room to make sure everything was okay. Just as quick as she turned it on, she turned it right back off.
“Oh we’re fine. I’ve discovered that Mr. Harris is quite the comedian,” she said in her best Caucasian voice while simultaneously batting her eyes. She added this corny laugh for affect.
Cher (short for Cheryl) Longs, a beautiful brown-skinned sistah, is the product of a middle class family. Her mother is a psychologist and her father a retired police sergeant. Despite the classiness of her look and her privileged upbringing, Cher was a rebel. But, to her advantage, she typically knew when to turn that shit on and off. Her nails were always done and in some bright color. And she was always dressed to the nine's - never camouflaging her shapely body.
Cher was always my date at company functions and my Caucasian colleagues loved her. They would often tell me what a lucky young man I was to have her. At my company functions, she would put on a show on the dance floor and every woman would "grit" on her because their man would be looking. Whenever I’d leave – say, for a drink or to go to the restroom - the men would take advantage of the opportunity and ask her for a dance. I’d return and they’d be twirling her on the dance floor. She enjoyed every minute of the attention as evidenced by her girlish laugh which bordered on ghetto as well.
When Maya Angelou wrote, “Still I Rise”, I swear she was talking about Cher. That girl walked like she had oil wells pumping in her living room, kitchen and bathroom! You couldn’t tell her she didn’t have it going on. When Cher was trying to be sexy she’d put on this walk that I coined the “nasty walk.” While she had a graceful gait (from years of dance training), she would make her hips do this thing that drove men crazy! There would be times when she would do the walk on cue. I’d say, “Do the nasty walk,” and she would go for it. We both would bust out laughing!
I remember one time Cher and I went out to Ozio Restaurant and Lounge. She had on this tight little pink skirt, a midriff top and matching pink stilettos. As we walked along M Street, this guy was driving alongside us staring. I said “Do the nasty walk.” The driver was so enthralled with her walk that he rear-ended the car directly in front of him. Luckily for him, he slowed down so that he could get a good look at Cher and avoided a high speed impact. We laughed for days off of that.
You never saw Cher without her hair in place. Her “wig was always beat” as she would joke. I always made her wear it down when we were together. Her hair fell midway down her back and to me, it was such a waste to put it up. Let it hang! Throw it like the white girls! And she would throw it, too. She loved the drama of it all as much as I did. I think that's why we got along so well.
Obviously looking at her caller ID, she answered the phone in her usual friendly manner, "What's up Mark boo?"
"Ain't nothing up girl. Where’s that no good man of yours?”
“Mark, be nice. He’s at work.”
“Uh huh,” I said with an air of sarcasm. “I'm just calling to give you the low down on the date I had with this tenderoni tonight."
"Oh my goodness," she exclaimed like Sheneneh on Martin. We both started laughing.
"I know, girl. Your boy had to get back in the game at some point."
"So, what's his name? What he do? Where he from? What he drive?"
"Damn, Cher. Can I answer the first question first?” I chimed in.
"I'm sorry boo boo," she said sucking her teeth. "I'm just so excited for you. You never talk about a man and stuff."
After filling Cher in on all the details she said, "Ooh, Mark that was so romantical. He's a keeper honey!" Why did she always insist on making up words?
Out of the blue, I heard Cher's son screaming. She yelled, "Joshua don't you see mommy on the phone? Don't you make me go to the ugly place!"
Joshua was only two and a half years old, but you would think he was older if you talked to him. Cher worshipped the ground that child walked on. Every night she read to him and went over the letters of the alphabet. Quite precocious, he could even get on the computer and click on internet explorer! I didn’t believe it until I saw it with my own two eyes. One day I was over at Cher’s house and he turned on the computer. She logged in once it got to the sign-in screen. He clicked on internet explorer and asked her to log onto Play House Disney. He did the rest. My mouth fell open. This other time, I asked him to read to me. I knew he couldn’t read, but he sat there and read all the letters to me. All I could do was throw my hands up in the air!
"Girl, what is his ass doing up this late? And what the hell is the “ugly place?” I asked laughing.
"Shut up Mark! This boy is bad as S-H-I-T and won't go to sleep," she said spelling out the expletive in an irritated voice.
I thought Cher had learned her lesson about spelling out words. One time we were riding in the car after having gone out to dinner. Joshua said he wanted some juice. Cher kindly reminded him that it was after eight and he could not have any juice, but he could have some W-A-T-E-R (once again spelling it out). He replied, “I want some A-B-C juice.” We both fell out laughing.
"Aiight girl, you go and handle that. We'll talk later in the week. I have another date on Saturday."
"Alright boo, you call me on Saturday - if you come home. If not, call me on Sunday."
"Chile boo! He ain't getting none of the goodies that fast!” I said in my best gay voice.
"Eww, no thanks," she said. "You a mess. I'll talk to you later. Love you boo."
"Love you more, baby. Talk to you lata." Almost the instant I hung up with Cher, the phone rang. It was Jared.
"So you made it home safe and sound I see," he said.
"Yes, sir, I did. Thanks for checking in to make sure."
"You know I could get use to that 'sir' shit," he teased.
"I bet you could. I had a really good time Jared. I can't wait to see what you have planned for Saturday."
"Well, you will have to wait. I'll call you on Friday to get directions to your crib and tell you what time I'm picking you up. So don't make any plans."
"Okay, I won't make any plans, but you better make it worth my time," I teased.
“Trust me on this one. I'm going to make you remember your spirit. Have a good night sexy."
"G’nite," I said confused, but too tired to inquire.
Remember my spirit? What did that mean? This question toyed with me as I drifted off to sleep. I woke up the next morning wet and sticky. Damn, another wet dream! I thought I was too old for this, but I guess not. This happened a lot when I went without sex for an extended period of time - and a year and a half was certainly a long time for any man in his prime!