There was a period of about 5 years when I worked for several non-profits that were sexuality focused—-with the words Gay Men in them. I throw this in because I then got my first snazzy and then my second bigger and snazzier apartment in Manhattan, Washington Heights. I got raises and purloined from one agency to another. In the midst of this I was doing workshops to about 150–250 men and young men/teens a week.
I was interviewed on the local news and came to the attention of a business owner, Brian who owned a restaurant a few blocks from the agency I was teaching at in Harlem. Turns out his sommelier was a regular at my meeting sand raved about me. He then offered to send over perfectly good/remainder food for the men, as I tried to have a repast after the 2 hour meeting and asked for the guys to potluck bring something.
Brian then says that he’s opening a night club about 6 blocks from my snazzy new apartment in Washington Heights and he gives me a huge package of free drink tickets, would I talk about his spot and give them to my men’s groups? Sure! I’ll do you one better: I was often trying to designing good, useful, engaging programming for the young men and I thought Night Club 101 for those over 21—-I’ll take them and we’ll go over some social rules, chat rules, drink limit rules—-all on the free ticket’s dime and I’ve got my programming done. Bam! It’s a rousing synergistic success.
Brian says that he wants to keep the place open 7 days a week and use the non-weekend nights for non-profits and events. It had a wild party vibe on the weekends but like the pic below (no, it wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton but it was very nice) a nice classy, jazzy lounge bar feel Mon-Thursday. Would I come thru? Would I tell people? Drinks would be 2 for 1. I could walk there! I go once a week on loungey nights. I know the staff, the go-go dancers and lots of the regulars. I sit at the bar and I hand wrote 3 of my first 3 non-fiction books there. I liked it there. I went regularly for about 2 years. It felt almost like Cheers, a home where everyone knows your name. It was a good, safe, relaxing space for me on lounge nights.
One night a regular, let’s call him Ronnie, reasonably attractive, polite chats me up and then as I leave to go home, offers to walk with me. This wasn’t unusual as I lived a block off of Broadway and the club was in between train stations. Good security for regulars to walk each other, right?
Ronnie goes on and on about his girlfriend and their problems (a lot of my workshops were on relationships and communication so I was sort of Dear Abby for those years throughout the agencies, the community, the night club, etc.) and I wasn’t shocked or anything—-Latino young men at the club weren’t always gay or bi, it was a hopping club for young people, lots of women there who weren’t lesbians and several of the strippers/go-go dancers were straight men or female.
We get to my cross block and Ronnie asks could he ask me a favor?
Sure.
Could he use my bathroom? He had a lot of beer.
Sure. No problem.
We go upstairs. My bathroom was next to the front door. He goes inside.
I go into the kitchen/living room—-it’s all open concept so it’s one big room with the front door/bathroom and then two closed door bedrooms.
FIve minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes.
I knock on the door.
“Ronnie, are you okay?”
He hadn’t closed it fully so the door knob cylinder didn’t catch, it parts open.
He’s preparing his works on the bathroom sink.
What the hell?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????
“Get out! Get out!” he yells at me.
No, no, no. Rewind. He YELLS at ME in MY house.
Oh, helllllllllllllllllllllllllllll to the no.
What?!!!!
What?!!!!
Now this apartment I was subletting from a nice old lady (okay,she turned out to be a criminal running a scam against the City of New York…but I didn’t know that at the time) so the building was only 16 brand new apartments, mainly full of senior citizens. So I was getting a 2bdr apartment all to myself for a sweet price, under $1000 (it was a 5th floor walk up (it’s NYC, you make sacrifices).
AND I’m a teacher, with a variety of State licensing certifications AND registrations with the City and State,including fingerprinting to permit me to teach in lots of areas, schools, projects, etc..
This cannot be in my home.
I sweep the drugs, matches and tin foil off of the sink into the toilet and flush. Ronnie snatches up the spoon and needle and…wait for it…………
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Kyle????!”
I storm back out of the bathroom, he follows, I’m unlocking the door, sputtering get out and he jumps into my face trying to back me up into the living room. He’d gone all hardcore threatening at me now.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Kyle?!! What did you do that for??! What the fuck is wrong with you???!”
I looked behind me.
Nope no one there.
At the bedroom door that I used as an office studio.
Nope no one in there.
Then I looked at the bedroom that I slept in.
Nope no one in there.
I was trying to figure out who the fuck he was talking to.
Oh. I get it.
I punched him dead ass in the face.
I then kneed him in the groin.
I punched him in the top of his head.
I then turned him around, slammed him face first into the wall next to the front door as I opened it. He tried to turn around. I yanked the door hard so it would slam into his shoulder, face, legs. When he turned, I shoved him out into the hallway. (It was a small landing, three apartments.) He turned around and tried to force his way back in so when I closed the door he was half in, half out. I leaned my… less than 260, but more than 225lbs …mass against the door and vised, I began to punch his captive face again and again, until he stopped trying to push the door.
I opened the door.
“Get the fuck out of the building.”
He did.
My mother, when I was 7, started teaching me how to box so that she could pit me against my uncle’s son, my cousin, as her and my uncle had beef from previous years. For years she would routinely, at 5′2, spontaneously punch me in the arms and chest and tell me to get ready, keep my dukes up, stay frosty. At 19, she kept up this light to medium punching with the point that I had to learn to not cower and two, that I had to learn to even come for her if she—-.
I punched my mother in the face.
She backed off….out of respect.
When I told her the above story, without missing a beat, she said: “You beat that ass, right?”
He never had a chance. I think Ronnie had some sort of heterosexual masculinity manshit thought that he could push up on me, a grown ass, handsome man in MY house.
I will and can, joyously kick some ass, to protect myself and back up this Death Star, I call a mouth.
We can’t even go into the stuff my father taught me.
Queen Nzinga who fought for her people
