The Boy Next Door

I think I finally figured out the secret of the universe. I’ve known it for quite some time, but now I am finally realizing how profound it is. How it will truly pervade the rest of my life. As I’ve mentioned before, every once in a while you meet someone in life who changes—at least for a moment—how you think about your relations with men. In 2001 it was my meeting with BLACKMAN. On Superbowl Sunday 2005, it was COMMON (not to be confused with the Chicago rapper).

COMMON is a 30 something light skinned brother, who’s about 6’1” and about 220 lbs. I was really feeling his picture on the net, but I had a feeling that he was a little on the heavy side. He and I met on the Internet months ago, but our communications were always in conversation staccato. They were usually half-finished, half-hearted attempts to meet one another. He gave me his number last week, and after I called a few times we finally spoke on the telephone—a few hours before the Super Bowl.

The conversation went well. We didn’t talk about too much, because he was running around getting ready for a Brotha 2 Brotha Super Bowl party he was hosting. I learned that COMMON is almost the boy next door—because he lives about 2 blocks from my apartment. The thought of a good looking sexy brotha within walking distance got me to thinking.

The conversation felt pretty natural, even though, for some reason, I was nervous. He had to let me go to get ready, but not before he invited me over his place for his party. I declined, and told him that I’d rather meet him just in a one-on-one situation. Secretly, I was afraid I would run into someone from the Internet that I knew—or wish I didn’t know. I almost instantly regretted that I didn't tell him, “Sure I’ll come over, you mind if I come by a little earlier.” But I guess that’s what happens when your nerves get in the way of your smoothness skills.

So I watched Carnivàle instead of the Super Bowl, but waited till it got late when I knew the party would be finishing up, and asked him if he wouldn’t mind a little late night company. He told me to come on over.

I was really nervous. I had started the Bernard Prep Routine. Sauve Conditioner in the hair to make it shiny (yeah I know you’re not supposed to leave it in), shave the moustache (but leave the hair on the chin), make sure the lips are smoothed out and not cracked, and a few sprays of my best cologne…hmmm, DKNY for Men. No, your BEST cologne…Bulgari. Definitely Bulgari. I put on a vintage Marithé & Françous Girbaud hooded top and some fitted Calvin Klein jeans (shows both the ass and the package) , and I topped it off with my soft black leather jacket. I was feeling good.

I showed up at his apartment and when he opened the door in his Harvard University pajamas his big gorgeous dark brown eyes got huge. He liked what he saw. He shook my hand with his rough hands and guided me into his clean, and tastefully Ikea decorated apartment. I sat down on the sofa, he sat in a very small two-seater. The radio was playing, and we just sat there and looked at each other.

He was adorable—big eyes, nice goatee, friendly smile, and raspy voice. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other.

Nigga, where have you been?

I kinda thought I was going to melt when he asked me that. Then I heard a little voice: Get it together, get it together Bernard. You’re just here for a little fake intimacy. This is not real. I joked with him,

I’ve been around the corner.

We laughed.

I asked him what he was thinking about. And he said he was thinking about putting his hands all over my body. But that he didn’t want to do that because he didn’t want to be disrespectful. I moved over to the small couch he was sitting in. The space was tight. I could see his erection in his pajama shorts. We kept smiling at each other until I grabbed his face with both hands at his jaw, and pulled him close to me and kissed him. I could taste a little alcohol on his breath, and the softness of his lips. They all tasted good. And the kiss just kept going and our hands were rubbing and caressing each other’s faces and intermittently slipping over each other’s thighs, chests, and shoulders. John Legend was already on the radio, and reminded me to Take It Slow. So I kept his hands from going in my pants—even though I wanted him too.

He kept telling me how he wanted my ass. And then I got him to sit on my lap and he started mock riding me while I grabbed his waist. We took a break and discussed each others sexual preference, and he said that he loved to be versatile. I started getting even more excited. I could tell he was versatile. Because of the way he threw his ass when he was sitting on me—and the way he grapped my ass through the jeans.

We did everything possible that two people could do with their clothes on. I got on top of him and juiced him on the sofa. We stood up and kissed. He pushed me against the wall and thrust his body against mine. All the while we would take breaks and stare at each other.

Damn you feel so good.

We would say intermittently.

Once in a while he would kiss my forehead. I would kiss his eyes.

I hadn’t been this turned on in a long while. Yet I was so ambivalent about having sex. And I know he wanted to. We had a brief conversation about it. And I told him that I usually believed that if two brothas wanted to fuck—they should fuck. He seemed to be on the same page. Then he asked, “Yeah but after we do it, what happened? What if I like it, and want some more after we fuck?” “I guess we deal with that when it happens, but how you do you know you’re going to like it?” I replied. He said, “What if I don’t like it, but I still want to see you again?” Damn. He was really starting to pull my strings. He continued, “So when can I see you again, you know, since you live around the corner. So we can get together and hang, chill, touch, watch a movie, get busy, kiss, and get busy all over again.” I asked, “When you want?” He quickly shot back, “Later today.”

There was a part of me that knew he was faking. I gave him a curious look. We laughed. “Yeah, I might be too tired when I get home. I’ll give you a call and let you know.” I didn’t like that. Ups and downs. I was starring in my very own cheesy teenage romance flick.

I wanted to lay down with him, but I learned that—like me—he has a “no clothes in the bed” policy. So getting in the bed meant getting naked. Why didn’t I just take my clothes off and fuck him? How many times have I gotten naked and had sex with a guy that I just met? Why was I so hesitant to bed this brotha?

As sexy and intimate as I felt with COMMON—I also felt a little weak for playing the Janet Jackson “Let’s wait a while” game. He told me I could sleep over if I wanted—and there would be no pressure for sex. I declined. I knew he was going to fall asleep. And I was too excited to sleep. I would have been wide awake in a stranger’s apartment at 3AM.

It was getting late and I knew I had to go. He had to get up for work. I had work to finish at home. We must have said goodbye a good twenty times when I got to the door. Lauren Hill was singing telling us that what we were experiencing, right there, in that moment, was the “sweetest thing.” I walked out the door and saw his face blowing me a kiss as I closed it behind me. I really didn’t want to leave.

I walked home in the drizzle, hoping he would call me Monday evening so we could continue where we left off. But for some reason, I wasn't feeling too confident...