Honestly, Dark boy would prolly love anyone who loved him back right. In every good and bad way possible, he had no preference.
He liked pretty boys who didn’t really talk about nothing.
He liked boys who were a little rough around their edges and mama’s ain’t know who they were really kissing when they stayed out so long.
He liked boys who ain’t liked boys before.
He liked boys who ain’t liked themselves before.
Dark boy liked a little bit of everybody, and a little bit of everybody liked or made some type of love to Dark Boy, because while Dark Boy might have been a whole lotta problems, he was beautiful in the way young boys like; Big curious eyes, bushy-browed, a face something like your daddy might have had back in the day, skin glowing a warm yellow-brown, high yellow like we call em’ in the south, but in the city, the call him lightskinned, and all the young boys lightskinned.
But wait. If he’s yellow, why do they call him Dark Boy?
You might be asking, to which I’d say you’d have to look a little deeper.
Dark boy was dark somewhere else, like maybe in his soul instead of his skin, and men didn’t mind at first. They even called it mysterious, until they eventually called him crazy, and then never called him at all, leaving Dark Boy even more mopey, more cynical, and somehow, even more disappointed than before. Dark Boy got in the habit of never telling his friends how long he was seeing so-and-so, but instead telling them how long until so-and-so stops seeing him.
Dark Boy wore his disappointment something like an itchy pair of drawers he just wouldn’t change, doing things with boys hoping they’d stay. Wondering where the hell they went when they left, and how long they’d be gone. He’d wonder who those men loved before they found him, and most disturbingly, he’d fantasize about they way these men would eventually leave him too.
Don’t get me wrong, Dark Boy did whatever the hell he could to keep men around – Working two jobs and paying a broke nigga’s phone bill. Cooking and feeding men who waited for their job interview to call back, letting em’ taste all his secret places, even on the first night.
One man spent four nights in a row calling Dark Boy all the things Dark Boy wanted to hear. He whispered all of the hot and right things to him. Pushed himself deep into Dark Boy night after night right in front of the only window in the apartment; let most of 23rd street watch Dark Boy flail in bursts of pain and sometimes even pleasure over the lively street.
On the fifth night this lover asked Dark Boy if he could invite a friend in on their arrangement and without giving a firm yes or no, but giving a relentless willingness to please, Dark Boy found himself between two men who he figured probably loved each other more than either would ever love him.
Nobody called on the sixth night,
and by the seventh, the lover and his friend were all just an embarrassing memory Dark Boy wouldn’t mention again.
Instead, Dark Boy would carry the moment in his back pocket, let the disappointment weigh on his soul like the disappointments always did.
He’d show up on yet another date, drink with another man who would find his misery mysterious and call him all the things he wanted to hear; whisper all the hot and right things to him.
Make him forget, even for a few days, how much disappointment weighs.