My partner “Van” and I go to a Black gay men’s retreat in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina every Martin Luther King Holiday Weekend. It’s a private affair and you got to know someone to be invited.
It’s always fun and we get to interact with professional — and working class — gay Black men from all over these United States. One them, “Milo,” told me this story of being forced out of the closet:
Milo, who works for Amtrak in Los Angeles, lived with his girlfriend. A real beauty. Feminine. And good in bed.
But he also had a male lover on the side. A real handsome guy. Masculine. And a beast in bed.
For months, maybe years, Milo had his cake and ate it, too. Pussy and titties on Friday night. Ass and dick on Saturdays. And never did the two meet.
Until that day he came home from work on a Friday afternoon and found his girl dressed all sexy in black lingerie. They had been together for a while and settled into a routine. Was she trying to light a fire back under things?
“Hey baby, I really want to have a romantic Friday night with you. But first, I left you a little letter on the refrigerator. Go read it,” she purred.
“Oh shit,” Milo thought. “She wrote down something sexy she wants me to do. Like some freaky recipe.”
He grinned and trotted over to the refrigerator in their tiny kitchen and started to read it. And his smile vanished and the blood drained from his face, turning his pecan brown complexion three shades lighter.
His male lover had mailed his girlfriend a confessional and she had posted it for Milo to read.
“I just want you to know I’m in love with your man and he is fucking me too,” it read in part. “And for your information you met me. I’m his homeboy Darren. The one he works out with on Saturday. But I’m more than just his buddy. And he is working me out in more than just the gym.”
Seconds passed that felt like hours. It felt deathly quiet in their downtown apartment, despite all that Los Angeles traffic whooshing just two floors below.
“Milo, I want you to explain this to me,” she said.
“Look baby, I got to make a run,” he said. “I will explain when I get back.”
I forgot to explain this. Milo is fun guy from Oklahoma. The life of the party. All smiles and jokes. He still has that high, whiny, Country and Western twang and sounds corny.
But he is crazy as shit,too.
“Immanuel,” he explained. “I went to a gas station and brought some gasoline and I went to that motherfucker’s house. He wasn’t home but I set that shit on fire and burned it down. That’s what that bitch ass got for doing that bullshit.”
“But didn’t you get caught,” I asked.
“Nah, I know how to do shit like that without getting caught,” he said. “And after what I did that motherfucker wasn’t going to talk to the police because he was afraid of what else I might do.”
Milo is handsome but has a face that looks almost like a cartoon character. Like his head is large and slightly bulbous, like Tweety Bird from the old Warner Brothers cartoons.
But something in his eyes — a steely hardness — made me believe he would commit arson and smile so sweetly in your face with that awww shucks manner that you would never believe he would.
Milo went home and sat down with his girl.
“Look baby, I messed up. Dude kept trying to seduce me and I tried it out. Let him suck this dick. That’s all. He just wants me and will do anything to mess up what we have. You know how them faggots are. They just want to be women, anyway.”
She looked at him with liquid, doe-like eyes. She loved him. Believed him. Forgave him.
“Look baby. Let’s get married next week and put this all behind us. Just something small down at the courthouse and a quick honeymoon down to Baja.”
“Yes Milo. I will marry you,” she said. And that night he fucked her till her pussy was sore and a week or two later they married.
But Milo kept fucking with dudes.
And she found out because despite letting the first one slide she was far more watchful.
And two months later they separated.
And eventually divorced.