An Excerpt From

Part One of

When I was a kid, the guy my mother was going with barged into my room while I was doing something. What I was doing was something I started doing with G.I. Joe when I was four years old. Yeah, every day, G.I. Joe and I would engage in military combat until bedtime, and then we engaged in something pulsating and furious that always put my butt right to sleep. When my mother's boyfriend caught me, I was engaging in that something by myself. I was snaking my body and stroking my thing, flipping it up and down with my hand. I was feeling so sexy, moaning and biting my lip and pushing my hair back whenever it dropped over my eyes. I was getting ready to throw my shirt off over my head when he grabbed me. My pajama pants were down around my ankles. A couple of punches, and they were lying in a scattered heap with my underwear. My mother woke up and came in my room right after he finished beating me. I was sitting on my bed, bleeding and sobbing, and he told his whore that he beat my fat ass because he caught me fucking myself.

"That’s why I have to beat your ass all the time!" Joeseph screamed. "For doing shit you ain’t supposed to be doing!"

"Angelic Sean Samuel Addison," my mother said. "You know better than that."

I wiped the blood from under my nose with the back of my hand. I wiped my tears, and the blood got smeared under my eyes.

"Why'd you do it, Angel?" my mother asked.

My lips were fattening up. I opened my mouth as wide as I could.

"To make . . . "

To make myself feel good, Moma, I wanted to say. Because when I do that, Moma, my body looks and feels so good, so beautiful. When I do that, Moma, I 'm not fat and ugly anymore.

*

 I had been taking a shower with the lights off since I was thirteen, and I always kept my eyes and my hands away from my thing when I took a whiz. I hated my body. I hated that certain parts of it tingled when my brain was invaded by a certain kind of thought. For this reason I always kept the locks on my brain cells. But somehow, in some way or another, one of those thoughts occasionally made its way inside of my brain anyhow. Like when I'd flip the channel past that Black television station, just to catch a glimpse of a Black girl bouncing her rear end around like it was made of inflated plastic.

When I was older, about sixteen, I tried it in the shower. Because I had over-heard my moma tell one of her slut friends that "a good way to get a man to go hard is by hitting him with a hot spray of water from the shower".

So I waited until Joeseph went to work, went in the bathroom and turned the light off and locked the door, then got in the shower and steamed my penis until it was as raw as a thawed piece of pork.

And still nothing happened.

*

One slow, tired Friday, after ten hours of work and twenty-two pizza deliveries, I slugged up onto my front porch and unlocked the door, wanting more than anything to get in the bed and sleep for the next eight hours or so. But I knew that was going to be impossible with nearly a dozen kids skipping and prancing and dashing along behind me, each one trying desperately to win all of my attention.

"Hi, Angel!" squealed Sariah, flinging the door open. "I saw you from the window!"

"Hi, sweetie," I said.

Ariyel was tugging at my pants leg, trying to get my attention.

"Hi, sweetie," Sariah squeaked, smiling.

I laughed.

Like most of my brothers and sisters, Sariah was Mixed, and her father was a bum who refused to have anything to do with his child. I didn't understand why he was like that. I mean I knew he was lazy and sorry or whatever, but Sariah was so beautiful and so sweet, whenever I looked at her, or just thought about her, I was willing to do whatever I could to keep her happy, even if I didn't feel like doing it.

"My hair is ugly today, Angel," she said, frowning, her hands on her hips.

It stood all wild around her head, a lush entanglement of kinks and curls.

"Your hair is beautiful," I told her. "You just need to let Mommy comb it."

"But it hurts," Sariah whined.

"It hurts because you never let Mommy comb it," I said.

"An-gelllll," whined my baby brother as he pulled harder on my pants leg.

"Hey, what's up, Ari," I said. I scooped him up onto my arm. He put his head on my shoulder and his arms around my neck. I carried him into the den with Sariah skipping along behind me.

Sasha came running out of a nearby doorway, pulling his pants up over his drawers.

"Angel!" he cried, happily. He threw his arms around my waist and squeezed, his pants falling down again.

"Hey, Sasha," I said, smoothing his tightly-curled hair.

Little Ari was blond and blue-eyed. His father didn't even know about him. Besides me, he was the only White boy in the bunch, and unlike me, he was the product of a one night stand. Sasha had tight, red, afro-like curls, freckles, and a sun-singed coloring to his skin. His daddy was Black, too.

Austin, Joel and Skylar were lined up on the den sofa, playing a video game.

"Hey what's up, Angel," said Austin as he and his brothers hurried over to me.

"Hey, Angel," said Joel.

"We figured out how to get past that part on the game," said Skylar. "You want to play?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute, okay," I said.

"Cool," said Sky.

Austin and Sky were both dark-haired and blue-eyed, like their "bi-racial" father, who didn't have anything to do with either one of them. He had been happily married for nine years and had two little boys with his wife, and that was all he needed, according to him. Like Sariah, Joel was half-and-half. His dad was okay. He let Joel come over and stay whenever he wanted, but he didn't pay child support. I didn’t understand it. I was willing to do anything for my brothers and sisters, just because I loved them so much. I didn’t understand why their daddies didn’t feel the same way I did.

Still carrying Ari, who held onto me possessively, I made my way to the kitchen, where Moma stood over the stove, stirring something around in a pot. Sariah and Sasha followed close behind.

"Hey, how you doing, sweetness," I said as I made my over to her.

"Hi, Angel," she said, turning around to give me a tired smile.

I kissed her on the cheek.

"What you cooking?" I asked.

"I don't know," she muttered. "I just threw something together. I guess you can call it goulash."

"Where's Raderick? Asleep?"

"Yep, he's been out for about an hour now. He should be waking up in a little bit."

Ari tightened his arms around my neck. It was as if he understood.

"Harry been by?" I asked my mother.

"No, he hasn't," she said, shortly.

"So it's been what? Two days now?"

"Angel, please."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm not trying to get you upset . . ."

"I know," Moma said. She gave me a smile over her shoulder. "There's a letter from Meg. On the kitchen table."

I grabbed the letter on my way out the kitchen, with Sariah and Sasha tripping over my heels.

"You gone play now, Angel?" asked Joel.

"Yeah, in a minute, just let me go to my room for a little bit."

I set Ari down when I got to my room, and he and his brother and sister clambered onto my bed while I took the letter from the envelope.

Dear Everybody:

I'm having a lot of fun up here in California. I haven't even been here that long, and I'm starting to get a tan already. And the guys here are SO CUTE! A lot of the girls at my school are jealous of me, though. Or as Senthia would say, "They're hating on me". Even though I'm having a lot of fun, I miss you guys like crazy. Dad is really sweet and he's doing everything to make sure I'm happy, but It's hard being away from you guys. I guess I should go before I start crying. I love you.

Love,

Meg

"Mommy read that letter to us, Angel," Sariah squeaked. "It's from Megan!"

"Yeah, it's from Megan," I said as I re-folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, which was decorated with colorful drawings and stickers, so typical of Meg.

"When she coming back?" asked Sariah.

"In about a year," I said. I smiled. "You'll be five years old, sweet thing, can you believe that?"

"And I'll be . . ." Sasha looked confused for a few seconds. And then he smiled. "Four, Angel?"

"Yep, you'll be four. And little Ari'll be three."

"And you'll be . . . how old Angel?" asked Sasha.

"Twenty-five!" Sariah announced.

"Nah, sweetie pie, not that old," I said, chuckling.

Austin stuck his head in the doorway.

"Come on, y'all," he said. "Moma said it's time to eat."

"Okay!" Sariah shouted. She grabbed my arm and pulled. "Come on, Angel!"

"Nah, sweetie, I got to take a nap, okay? Y'all go ahead. Austin can you see about them getting to the kitchen, please?"

"Sure, man. Come on y'all."

When Austin had led the kids from the room, I laid down and sighed, gruffly. I was so tired, it hurt to close my eyes. I grabbed my pillow and held it over my face. The phone begin to ring. I didn't bother to pick it up.

"Angel, it's Grandma Julie!" Austin yelled a few seconds after the ringing had stopped.

He and his brothers snickered.

"I got it!" I called back as I reached over and grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

"Angel, sweetie . . . "

"Hey, Julie, how's it going."

"I thought you might like to come over tonight," she said. "I made one of your favorites."

"Spaghetti?" I said.

"Lasagna," she said, giggling. "I'm making spaghetti tomorrow night, though."

"Oh. Well. I don't know. It's real sweet of you to ask but . . . I think the kids are really looking forward to me staying home tonight."

"Oh. Okay. Well, maybe tomorrow night then."

"Sure."

"I'll let you get off the phone so you can get your rest."

"Okay."

"I love you," Julie said.

As always when she spoke those words to me, I didn't say anything.

" 'Bye, Angel."

" 'Bye."

I hung up the phone.

When I awoke, it was nine o'clock. Sariah had managed to program my radio so that it turned itself on every night at eight forty-two, and The MIXX was playing. I had slept for two hours. I was still tired, but too hungry to go back to sleep. I went downstairs to fix a bowl of that goulash. Joel and Sky were still playing the game, and Austin was sitting at the kitchen table coloring with Sariah, Sasha, and Ari.

"Hey, Angel," said Sariah. "I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn't."

"Me, too," said Sasha.

"I want to show you my pretty drawing when I get done," said Sariah.

"Me, too," said Sasha.

"I don't want to play anymore, man," Austin said. "It's not fun without you."

"We're going to play man, I promise," I said as I got a bowl from the cabinet. "Me and you against each other."

Austin's face lit up. "For real," he said.

"Yeah, you know I never lie," I said. "Matter of fact, if you want, we can get in a game before I go back to bed. Say about . . . an hour's worth of playing time."

"Cool," said Austin.

"No more crackers," I muttered.

"Nope," he said. "Just bread."

I grabbed three slices of bread and dunked them into my bowl. On the way back to my room, I passed by Lori, standing in a shadow in the hallway.

I pretended I didn't see her.

It was ten thirty-five, and I was finishing my second helping of goulash, wiping the bowl clean with a seventh slice of bread. I had looked at each of the children's drawings, and had praised them all for their work. And, for a whole hour, Austin and I had played the game while Joel and Sky had watched, enviously.

"Don't worry, I'll play against y'all, too, I promise," I said. "If you can stay up long enough."

"What's up, this is Lorenzo Love," crooned the DJ’s voice from within the radio. "Who's calling?"

Lorenzo Love had the kind of game that most White boys can't get down, even with a college degree. I don't think Meg had ever missed an hour of his show.

"My name's Bevolyn," said a black, sexy, feminine voice.

"What a beautiful name," said Lorenzo. "I bet you're a beautiful lady, too. What can I do for you, Bevolyn?"

"I want to make a love connection," the girl said.

"Word? You got anybody in mind?"

"I want a White boy Lorenzo," she said. "A White boy with sexy dreds, a big body, and a booty that I grab onto."

I almost choked on the last piece of bread I swallowed. It went down the right pipe, only it got stuck halfway down my esophagus. I dropped the bowl and started beating myself on the chest.

"I want someone who can make me laugh," the girl said as I bounced across my bed and turned the radio up. "And someone who'll touch me. And hold me. And kiss me. All the time."

"And you want Lorenzo Love to help you find that somebody?"

"Yeah."

"This a Sister, right?"

"Yeah."

"So how long you been into White boys, Sister?"

"Uuh . . . not long, I just . . . this is just what I want."

"Oh, my damn," I muttered.

"So let me get this straight. Your name is Bevolyn. Bevolyn from the ATL. Right?"

"Yes."

"And you want a White boy with dredlocks. And a ass that you can grab onto."

"Yeah." Bevolyn giggled. "My girl Tanika said that White boys don't have those but . . . I want this guy to be a one-of-a-kind anyway."

"Anything else you want this dredlock-wearing White boy to have?"

"Well, I'm twenty-one years old. So I want him to be at least twenty. No older than twenty-five. Straight and single, with no kids. Preferably a virgin, I don’t know why, that just sounds good. And he has to have a taste for hot chocolate."

"Far out," I moaned.

"I hear that, " Lorenzo said. "Just like the White girls who hit me up all the time."

"And there's one more thing."

"What's that, Sexy Bev?"

"I'm not into that three-or-more thing, so he can't be, either," she said. "I want somebody who'll treasure me. Keep me all to himself. Like I want to do him"

"That's beautiful," Lorenzo said. "So listen up. If you're a White dude between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, and you fit the description of the kind of man that this young lady wants to be with, then call me, Lorenzo Love, at 555-MIXX, and I'll hook it up."

Lorenzo put a song on, and I just sat there on the edge of my bed, breathing like I was getting it on, the muscle in between my legs stiffening. That muscle had been inactive for a long time, so it hurt in a way that I can't describe.

And it was good.

I tore off my pizza uniform, then stood in front of my mirror, butt-naked, looking over every part of my body. There were tiny curls on my chest, and under my navel. I caressed them. The hair on my crotch was thick and tangled, and my penis, a desperate, vigorous heap of muscle, seemed to be struggling to get out of it. I touched it, and it made a delicious feeling, as if telling me to touch it again. I turned my ass to the mirror, and grabbed it in both of my hands and squeezed it, my penis getting harder and longer.

I put my hand over my mouth so that my scream wouldn't be heard. Tears spilled from my eyes and down my face.

My fire had come alive again.