Visible Lives:

by Stanley Bennett Clay, Terrance Dean, James Earl Hardy

Genres: Anthologies; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

In a tribute to the late author E. Lynn Harris, three authors have written novellas that focus on the romantic lives of gay African-Americans, with each story paired with the author's personal remembrances of Harris, as well as the lasting influence he has had on the genre. Original.

Release date: June 1, 2010

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 352

Sample

Victoria Christopher Murray

When I was first asked to write the foreword to this tribute anthology, I thought it was such an honor and would be an effortless task. After all, I counted E. Lynn among my dear friends and I’d spent quite a bit of time talking to him, working with him, laughing with him. Surely this was going to be one of the easiest pieces I’d ever had to write.

Then, I sat down. And for days, I just couldn’t find the words. How do you sum up the life of a man who did so much for so many? How could I do justice to the man who meant so much to me?

It took hours—days, really—to come up with three words: faith, family, and friends. Simple words, but ones that truly describe the essence of E. Lynn Harris.

I don’t think many knew of E. Lynn’s love for the Lord as he expressed it in the acknowledgments of his last novel. But E. Lynn’s spirituality was at his center—it was his faith that made him such a gentle, caring soul who wanted to live right and live for others. It was his faith that helped him to be steadfast in his beliefs and to accept and love the many who did not accept or love him.

Then, there was E. Lynn—the family man. As quiet as it was kept, E. Lynn really could have been called a mama’s boy who expressed his love for his mother and his aunt openly and honestly. And the love he had for his son, Brandon, and his godson, Sean, who both brought years of joy to E. Lynn’s life. He couldn’t do enough for either of his sons—working hard to give them what he didn’t have growing up: the best of everything. Even as E. Lynn’s celebrity grew, his familial roots remained strong. Nothing was ever going to come before those he loved.

And finally, there were E. Lynn’s friends, although none of us ever felt that we were in the backseat in any part of his life. One of his greatest strengths was his ability to make you feel as if you were the most important person at any particular moment. Not only did his friends feel this way, but so did the thousands of readers who received personal e-mails, Christmas cards, or birthday notes from him. E. Lynn’s desire was always to stay connected—he was determined to let readers know how grateful he was for them, how aware he was that so much of his success was because of them.

It was his faith, his family, and his friends that made E. Lynn give so much of himself. I cannot count the number of authors who have E. Lynn Harris quotes on their novels, or the number of aspiring writers who have an E. Lynn Harris e-mail with a heartening word, or the number of author friends who achieved new levels of publishing success because E. Lynn passed on a good (stern) word of advice.

Just sitting and pondering all that E. Lynn has done lets me know that there are not enough words, not enough accolades that can be given to the man who arguably had the greatest professional and personal impact on the literary world in the last twenty years. He opened the eyes of an entire generation of women (and men) with his page-turning, hard-hitting novels about men on the down-low. He paved the path for many self-published authors. He helped to open publishing houses’ doors to many African American writers who would have never been given a chance before Terry McMillan and E. Lynn Harris.

But with all that I’ve said, there is one thing that I know for sure. If E. Lynn were reading this tribute right now, he would say that none of the above really matters. I can almost hear him….

“The only thing that counts, Vicki, is that people knew that I was a good son, a good father, a good friend. Did I accomplish that?”

And, I would answer him with a resounding “Yes!” E. Lynn was an amazing son, father, and friend, and so I was not surprised when these authors—Terrance Dean, Stanley Bennett Clay, and James Earl Hardy—decided to come together to do their own E. Lynn tribute to honor the man who impacted their lives…to step forward and pay their respect in the manner that E. Lynn loved so much: through the written word, through three captivating stories.

It makes me so sad to think that I will never again hear, in this life, the calming voice of my friend, passing on to me an encouraging word, or a silly story, or even a thought-provoking discussion about the challenges in this industry. But then, in the next moment, my sadness is replaced by happiness when I think of the positive impact that Lynn had on me and countless others. It makes me smile to know that I will one day get the chance to see him again.

What a joy it is to be part of this tribute to a man who cared and loved beyond limits. Rest in peace, my dear friend. You have left a legacy of literature and love that few will ever be able to match.

By Terrance Dean

Originally published in The Advocate magazine, September 2009 issue

In the summer of 1992, I’d just graduated from Fisk University in Nashville and broken up with my girlfriend. I went to Atlanta with some of my down-low friends to hang out and explore the burgeoning gay scene in the rising black metropolis. While at our host’s apartment I saw a tattered book on the coffee table. The title, Invisible Life, immediately leapt to my attention. For the next six hours, as I sat engrossed in this novel, the sounds of talk and laughter all around me receded.

I hung on every word. Page after page, I consumed the intricate life of the protagonist, Raymond. His life was so much like mine. He was confused, angry, sad, forever asking, “Why was I this way?” I couldn’t help but wonder who had taken a peek into my own secret life and put it in a book.

I frequently turned the book over to read the title and author’s name, E. Lynn Harris. How did he understand how it felt to be caught like this, between two worlds, heterosexual and homosexual? Like Raymond, and like thousands of men, I later discovered, I felt like an anomaly. There were so many of us, and we all felt uniquely burdened and isolated. But, that summer, after reading Harris’s breakthrough novel, I felt I was not alone.

Seventeen years later, while driving from Detroit back home to New York City on July 24th, I received a message on my BlackBerry from my publisher stating, “E. Lynn Harris died.” Shocked, I immediately called. My fingers trembled as I pushed the numbers on my cell phone. What was this nonsense about E. Lynn dying? He couldn’t be. I had just heard from him earlier that week. He was in good spirits. My publisher confirmed the message, “Yes, sweetie, E. Lynn is dead.” I burst into tears. I screamed. I couldn’t focus on the road. I pulled off in a rest area and wept. I cried for my friend and mentor.

I met E. Lynn in 1999, when I invited him to be a featured guest at an event I was organizing at the Harlem YMCA. “Of course I will come,” he said at the time. “It would be my honor.” Gracious, humble, accommodating—three attributes I would come to know as integral parts of his character.

I was unprepared for Harris’s fan base. Women lined up, out the door, and around the corner of our small room at the Harlem Y, to meet him. He smiled, shook hands, took pictures, and signed many, many copies of his books without complaint. Black women loved E. Lynn. For the first time he gave them a glance into a hidden world of intricate and compelling love stories between athletes and professionals, gays and men on the down-low. Black men loved E. Lynn, too. His novels told our stories, in our words. He was a trailblazer, a pioneer. And, whether he recognized it or not, he carved out a unique literary niche that made publishers take notice.

He embodied the Harlem Renaissance, the spirit of the social activism of James Baldwin, the cunning and wit of Langston Hughes, the romance of Countee Cullen, and the ingenious storytelling of Zora Neale Hurston. He became the voice of the black gay community, and because of his books we were all talking about the new phenomenon to which he had introduced us. His writing about the down-low sparked a national dialogue.

In August 2003 the New York Times Magazine wrote on the topic and the floodgates opened. Magazines, newspapers, even Oprah, all dove in. E. Lynn had created a sensation but he never took credit. He merely said, “I just want to write books and tell stories that are personal to me.”

His courageousness helped to open the doors to other black gay writers such as Keith Boykin, James Earl Hardy, Stanley Bennett Clay, Fred Smith, J.L. King, Lee Hayes, Rodney Lofton, and me. Harris also influenced female writers—Zane, Karen E. Quinones Miller, and Victoria Christopher Murray—to include gay and down-low characters in their works.

E. Lynn was a movement. Before he died from a heart attack in his hotel room in Los Angeles, he was gearing up for the promotion of his newest book, Mama Dearest, and had just met with a television producer. I’m told he signed over the rights to his books to be developed for TV.

My introduction to E. Lynn, Invisible Life, was the book he had self-published and sold from the trunk of his car to salons and beauty parlors in Atlanta. Since then, ten of his books became New York Times best sellers. The publishing world was once nearly void of contemporary black gay literature. Now it’s filled with over four million copies in print by Harris alone.

Over the years he often encouraged me to not be afraid to share my voice. “Boy, you got a story to tell,” he would often say. “Don’t be afraid to share it. There are many men just like you who would benefit from your words.” Like few others who’ve walked this earth, E. Lynn knew the power that comes from telling our stories. He will be missed more than he could have known.

I miss you dearly!

I really want the noise to stop.

I mean, must the construction workers start so early in the morning?

Sheesh!

New York, love it or hate it, they don’t give a fuck about your space and your sleep. This is the city that never sleeps.

And, they refuse to let me get any while I enjoy getting my dick sucked.

Slurp.

Slurp.

Lick.

Eric’s head is slowly moving up and down the shaft, swallowing every inch of my dick.

There is a steady stream of pounding on the thick hard walls.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Wait a minute.

Those sounds are really close.

Nearby.

As if someone is actually drumming on the door, doing an African tribal war call.

It grows louder.

Louder.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

A brief pause.

Then BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

“I know your ass is in there! Your car is outside. Open up this motherfucking door!” a woman yells.

I push Eric’s moist lips off my dick.

I sit up in shock.

We stare at one another.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

I jump out of the bed naked.

Crust in my eyes.

My semi-erect dick swinging in the air.

I frantically rush around the bed scooping up my shirt and pants.

Shit!

I can’t find my underwear.

I toss the comforter off the bed.

Damn!

Where are my drawers!?!

Fuck it!

I struggle and wrestle putting on my Antik jeans.

Come on.

Come on.

One leg at a time.

I swing my arms into my white linen oxford button-down shirt.

I skip buttons.

No time for perfection.

I drop to the floor and hunt for my underwear under the bed.

I do a quick scan and sweep with my hand.

There they are.

Next to my Nike Air Jordans.

I snatch my Sean John boxer briefs and stuff them into my back pocket.

“Chase! Shush! Be quiet,” Eric says, bug-eyed, with his finger to his mouth. “Just calm down, she doesn’t know I’m really here and she can’t get in.”

“Calm down! Calm down!” I’m jamming my feet into my sneakers. “There is a woman banging on the door and you’re telling me to calm down.” I grab my Apple iPhone off the nightstand.

Eric pushes me and I fall back onto the bed.

“Just stay here in the bedroom. If we keep quiet she will go away,” Eric says. He’s in his blue and gray plaid boxers. His six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound, pure muscle body is standing sheepishly hunched over, peering out the doorway.

His olive brown skin is rich and silky.

His thighs are massive and muscular.

His enormous biceps are like ripe cantaloupes.

Chest broad and solid.

His body has me going.

Okay, focus.

Regroup.

“What!?! Man, you’re bugging.” I push past Eric and storm toward the living room.

“Please, don’t go out there.” Eric rushes after me and tries to grab my arm, but I slip out of his reach.

As soon as I get to the door there is a loud BANG!

It sounds like a gunshot.

Frightened, I dive to the floor.

Eric runs and cowers next to me. “Come on!” He grabs me by the arm.

We both run back to the bedroom with our arms over our heads.

“Yo, get in the closet,” Eric says.

“What?” I look at him like he is crazy. “What the hell I look like, cowering in a closet?”

“Chase, please, get in the closet,” Eric says, his hazel eyes pleading as they always do when he wants to suck my dick.

Eat my ass.

Fuck.

And, I give in.

“Man, this is some fucked-up shit,” I say and hurry into the closet.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You better handle this shit.”

I crouch in the closet and crack the door open.

I see Eric easing out the bedroom on his tiptoes.

“I’m calling the police!” he yells with his phone in his hands.

I see him pushing the buttons.

“I don’t give a fuck! Call the motherfucking police,” the woman screams.

BANG!

BANG!

“Hello! Hello! Yes, this is Eric Sanderfield. I play for the New York Giants. There is a woman trying to break down my door. Please get the cops here fast!”

There is a pause.

“I am at Twenty-seven East Seventy-seventh Street. The penthouse apartment.”

Another pause.

A long pause.

Then BAM!

BAM!

“Please hurry!” he yells.

“I know you got another woman in there. Does she know you got a wife and three kids?”

I know she didn’t say wife and three kids. He told me he was divorced, I say to myself.

I crack the door wider and peek around Eric’s massive bedroom for any signs or pictures of a family.

There is nothing.

No pictures on the maroon-colored walls.

The nightstand.

The long cherry oak wood dresser.

The windowsill of the ten-foot windows.

No pictures anywhere.

The only thing prominently displayed is the team autographed brown pigskin football in the center of the dresser.

Encased.

When I met Eric four months ago he presented himself as a recent divorcé trying to get custody of his three kids from an angry and drug-addicted baby momma.

“It’s been a long battle in the courts. The system doesn’t look out for men. I just want to take care of my children,” Eric told me with sadness in his eyes.

Commendable.

Upstanding.

He had his shit together.

I fell for it.

Why would he lie? He had nothing to prove to me.

Besides, he was a tight end for the New York Giants.

Whatever that is.

I am not a football fan.

I only know the basics about the sport, and if given the choice I’d rather watch the Cartoon Network on Monday nights.

Family Guy.

American Dad.

Hell, even King of the Hill.

But, it was his dazzling smile.

Thick succulent lips.

Beautiful perfect white teeth.

And charming personality that won me over.

We were at the New York Urban League’s annual dinner. He asked one of his down-low friends, Omar, to introduce him to someone.

Someone nice.

Cool.

Easy-going.

Omar called me.

Me and Omar have been friends for a little over three years. I met him when I used to date the reality television star Dexter Holmur. He was a contestant on the show Survivor. He almost won, too, but in the end it came down to him and the beautiful blonde from Oklahoma. America, and the other Survivor contestants, decided to give the bubbly, breast-enhanced blonde the million dollars.

“Okay, Omar. I trust you. I hope this is not some favor you’re doing for a lonely, depressed, and bitter gay man. I can’t do it anymore. I am not at that place in my life.”

“No, trust me, you will like him.”

Omar refused to give me any details about Eric.

I begged.

Pleaded.

“Just show up. I guarantee you’ll thank me,” Omar said.

Yes, oh yes, oh yes.

When Eric walked in.

No, he strolled.

That black man confident walk.

Slight pep in his step with a pimp.

Hands controlled.

Dipping slightly behind his back.

I felt my body shiver.

Every reactive hormonal cell in my body cheered.

Standing ovation.

Eric was everything I’d been praying for in a man ever since I knew I was gay.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

His tailored black Armani suit hugged his body.

Clinging to each of his muscles.

His eyes pierced me from across the room.

Calling my name, “Chase, Chase, Chase.”

Omar had done well.

Very well.

I knew Eric was the one for me.

I could tell.

It’s like you know what you know that you know.

And, I knowed.

Eric made his way over and introduced himself.

“Hello. Eric Sanderfield. Nice to meet you.” His thick burly hands gripped mine.

“Chase Kennedy,” I replied. “It’s nice to meet you as well.” My insides flipped outside.

Oozing with lust.

I smiled cordially. Trying to conceal my sexual thoughts.

Eric smiled with his eyes.

I noticed the glint as he winked.

The entire night we talked.

In his car.

On the way to his penthouse apartment.

In his living room.

In his bed.

In my ear.

His hard rough voice reverberated inside me just as I pumped inside him.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

Easily.

I took my time.

“I just want you to stay in me,” Eric whispered.

And I wanted to.

I was caught up in Eric. So fucking caught up I am now crawling on top of a pile of football cleats and running shoes.

Hiding in a closet hoping this ordeal will be over soon.

I can’t believe this shit! What the fuck am I doing? This has nothing to do with me. He fucked up. She is mad at him, not me.

I then quickly assess the situation over my loud, rapidly beating heart.

Okay, so maybe I’d rather be in the closet than going toe-to-toe with an angry, neglected, dejected and hostile black woman.

With my back against the wall I pull out my Apple iPhone.

Palms sweaty.

Fingers shaking.

I push the speed dial button of the only person I can call in a crisis like this.

My best friend, Ashley Colby.

“Come on, Ashley, pick up, pick up.”

“Hey boy,” Ashley sings in the phone.

“Ashley, you’re not going to believe this. I’m trapped in the closet,” I whisper.

“What!?! What’s going on?”

“I’m at Eric’s and his wife is trying to break down the door to get in.”

“Oh no, Chase. You are R. Kelly right now!” she laughs.

“Ha, ha, very funny. What should I do?”

“Boy, get out of there.”

“I can’t. She is screaming at the top of her lungs and won’t leave. She thinks he’s in here with another woman. I doubt very seriously things are going to go well if she sees me.”

“Wait a minute. Did you say his wife? I thought he was divorced.”

“I know. That’s what he told me.”

“Hold up. Let me turn off The View. This is much better than the drama between these bitches.”

“Shit. I need to come up with something quick.”

“Well, I suggest you get out of the closet, introduce yourself, and tell her the beef she has is not with you, but with him. And then you get the hell out of there.”

“I don’t think she is the reasoning type.”

“Where’s Eric?” Ashley asks.

“I don’t know,” I say and peek my head out of the door. “I can’t see him. I am so sick of this shit.”

“You need to pull yourself together.”

“Why do I keep getting the fucked-up types? Just when I think everything is going well it all goes downhill. What did I do to piss off God?”

“Well, right now is not the time to…”

“Shhh,” I cut Ashley off. “I hear someone coming into the room.” I inch further into the closet.

Cleats in my ass.

Pants and shirts blocking my view.

The door flings open. I scream and drop my phone.

“Chase! Chase! What’s going on?” I hear Ashley yelling.

A black shiny shoe steps inside.

I notice a navy blue pant leg.

I hear some voices coming from a walkie.

I sigh as the policeman reaches out his hand and pulls me to my feet.

I reach down and pick up my Apple iPhone. “Ashley, I’ll call you back. The police are here.”

I spend a grueling hour in Eric’s apartment with the police. They want us to recount the story of what happened. I know this is it. We are about to be exposed.

Revealed.

Our secret splashed across the newspapers.

Newsday.

The Daily News.

The New York Times.

News broadcasts will feature us on the five o’clock news.

I will be the joke of every comedian’s late-night rant.

Conan O’Brien.

Jimmy Fallon.

Jay Leno.

David Letterman.

I keep wringing my hands. Wiping them on my jeans.

I nervously bite my bottom lip.

I am not going down for him, I say to myself.

I glance over at Eric. He is calm.

Cool.

Collected.

“We had a late night with some girls,” Eric tells the police officer. “I am in the middle of a divorce. Me and my boy just wanted to party and have some fun. You know what I mean?” he joked and smiled at the officer.

The tall dark policeman grinned. “Where are the girls?” He asks, staring at me. I look over at Eric. My heart is attempting to leap out of my chest. I can feel the perspiration dripping from under my arm.

“The girls…” I say. I start biting my bottom lip again.

“They left early this morning,” Eric jumps in, stammering. “I put them in a cab for the airport because they had to get back to Atlanta.”

“Yeah, Atlanta,” I mumble. Damn, he is good, I think. The policeman grins at me and winks.

My head drops. I won’t allow myself to look in his eyes. I know he knows the truth.

It’s obvious.

There are no signs of women being here.

It’s just two men.

Alone in an apartment.

And me, hiding in the closet.

Yeah, we had some girls last night.

Bullshit.

I take a few deep breaths and lift my head. For the first time I get a look at Eric’s wife. She is stunning. Her freshly curled hair, manicured nails, and fabulously done make-up does not give the impression of a drug-addicted woman.

The police have her in handcuffs. She’s jumping up and down, stomping her feet, and spewing curses toward everyone, especially Eric. “With your no-good trifling ass. This ain’t over,” she screams repeatedly as the police lead her into the elevator.

“Can I leave now?” I ask the policeman.

“Uhm, yeah. I think we have everything we need.” He smiles wider at me. His dark lips reveal his dark gums. I stand and make my way toward the door, walking past him. He flips through his small black notepad. “If we need anything further we have your contact information.”

I hop into a yellow cab in front of Eric’s building.

“I need to get uptown to One-hundred Thirty-ninth Street and Adam Clayton Powell!” I bark at the cab driver. “And make it fast.” I slam the door as Eric is speaking to me. He is relentless.

Begging for forgiveness.

“Chase, I’m sorry about this. I’ll call you later.”

I can’t believe this big-ass football player is in the middle of the street pleading with me.

The cab squeals off and I sink into the seat. The driver is dodging and weaving through t. . .