Rent Parties

“Harlem Rent Party” by Mabel Dwight
My buddy “David” sends me a text message.

“I’m having a sex party. You’re invited.”
You may remember David from an earlier post. I call him my sexy geek because he is an IT professional, real estate professor, has a big dick that looks a ripe banana, and can suck a mean dick. But I have never known him to have a sex party.
“Hey man, times are tight. I need the money.”
“Okay, I’ll try to make it.”
He is not the only one I know having sex parties not because they like sex but because they like money. There is this young guy I know who throws a sex party at least once a week to raise the funds to cover his apartment rent and other expenses. They are pretty perfunctory affairs — come in, give him $10, put your clothes in a plastic garbage bag, and sit around in your underwear in the dark eyeing the other guys there and waiting for the action to start.
I have never seen the host participate, although he is a hot guy with a friendly personality. He just sits at the door taking money and busy on his laptop trolling gay sex hookup sites so he can invite more fresh meat through the door.
Hey the dark clouds of the Bush Administration are still hanging over us. David is right — these are hard times and the unemployment rate for Blacks is above 15 percent. So I don’t blame these guys for what they do. A brother has to hustle.

Support Group

Okay, I’m trying to do gay stuff that don’t involve sex. Immerse myself in the culture. Try out my wings.

So last week I went to a gay support group for men over 40. I get all excited about going. Finally a chance to open up with brothers, ask good questions, find out the real shit about gay life from mature men who have been in it awhile.
Matter of fact, a buddy of mine who suggested I go to the group said one of the men it is 75 years old and just coming out of the closet. His wife had died and he felt the time to come out was now or never. 
The support building has a lot of metal doors but few windows. It’s like Fort Knox. I think, “Shit, do these gay motherfuckers think they are about to get attacked!”
I ring the buzzer. They let me in. And my hopes of having some heartfelt dialogue go right out the window because…they are HAVING A CHRISTMAS PARTY!!
“Come in Immanuel, get a plate man. Make yourself at home.”
There are about eight guys there that run the gamut of gay. They look like your brothers, uncles, your high school English teacher. One is very effeminate with arched eyebrows but most just look average.
We do talk about some issues — gay marriage and gay bookstores and cross dressing. But this meeting is all about digging into fried chicken, potato salad and banana pudding and sharing the Christmas spirit. 
After about an hour I’m ready to go. The host walks me to the door. I noticed he is limping. Being my usual nosey self I ask why.
“It’s a side effect of my HIV treatment,” he explains. “It’s alright. I’ll be okay. Are you HIV positive?”
“No,” I answer. “I just took the test a few weeks ago. I want to stay negative. I always wear a condom. Always.”
“Cool. Well if you need any health services you can get them here. And come back to another group meeting. We’ll be back to our normal schedule soon.”
“Cool, I will.” And I mean that.