B-Boy Blues: A Seriously Sexy, Fiercely Funny, Black-On-Black Love Story by James Earl Hardy

Author:James Earl Hardy [Hardy, James Earl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gay & Lesbian, Literature & Fiction, Fiction, Gay, United States, African American, Urban, Genre Fiction
Amazon: B00PCFX08W
Publisher: IAJ - It's All Jood, Inc.
Published: 2014-11-06T05:00:00+00:00

20 “Yo, man, wha'tha fuck you call that?”

There was my Pooquie: sweat dripping from the top of his shiny bald head, falling down his face and bare chest. His hands were on his hips, but in no way were they holding up his gray sweat shorts, which hung loose and low on his waist. The expression on his face told me that he was not to be played with: the game would not continue until his beef was addressed. How I wished I could've walked onto the court with a towel (which I happened to have been holding), washed him down, and pulled up the trousers.

As he shot me a quick glance, though, I'm sure that that wouldn't have been the best thing to do – especially since he was surrounded by eight other guys, and I was watching this scene with at least a hundred other people. We were at the infamous West Third basketball-handball spot on Sixth Ave. in the West Village, where, every Saturday and Sunday during the summer, pick-up games can make you, a Jordan wannabe, an MVP for the day. While I've yet to see someone graduate from this arena to the NBA, the brothers are nonetheless outstanding players with boomin' brown bodies. You got your new jacks like Raheim, “tweens” (twenty-somethings trapped in the teenage zone), and “dunkin' daddies,” men thirty-five and up who hold their own against the young guns.

Raheim was in the center of the court, the center of attention, raising hell about, from what I could gather, a foul that the referee – who was close to seven feet tall and sported a nasty Jheri curl – had the nerve not to call. While fellas in the game and folks watching immediately took sides, I was completely lost – as usual. Even though I grew up in a house where both my stepfather and my brother lived for sports, I still, to this day, know hardly anything about basketball – or any other sport for that matter.

Let's just say that I was turned off by sports as a kid. Because I was fully aware of my sexual orientation by the time I was eight, the thought of being that close to another boy made me scared. (Now that's strange, hunh?) I just figured someone would detect I was gay. But most came to that conclusion anyway when they discovered I couldn't throw, catch, dunk, dribble, dodge, or hit any type of ball correctly.

So, after a few humiliating experiences (including one where, after I didn't catch a fly ball during a game of stickball, I was called a faggot in front of half the neighborhood), I avoided playing any type of sport by not volunteering for and not allowing myself to be volunteered for anything. In both elementary and junior high school, I tried everything from faking illness to cutting class so that I wouldn't have to participate in gym, which for me was boring. Just picture it: a bunch of nappy-headed,

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