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One

Although I have two degrees, including an MBA from Georgia State University, I haven't worked a nine-to-five since I met Dray. When we first moved to Atlanta, I was kept busy furnishing his new condo and my town house, which were about ten minutes apart. Even though we spent a lot of time together, Dray thought it best that we have separate living quarters. I understood that. I even picked up a few clients for interior design work and then pursued my MBA at night but didn't tell Dray about it, because he made it clear he wanted me to be able to travel at a moment's notice to attend his road games.

Being Dray's love at times was like having a full-time job. I was responsible for purchasing most of his NBA wardrobe, which meant his suits, shirts, underwear, and ties. He bought his own jeans and sneakers. I set up his computer and iPod and made sure he had the latest electronic gadget. Life was easy and good. I had season tickets to the Hawks: I didn't miss one home game and attended as many road games as I could get to. I wouldn't call myself a huge basketball fan, but I loved going to the games to see what the wives, girlfriends, and groupies were wearing. At first I was envious that they got to show their love and support publicly, but later I felt sorry for many of them when Dray reminded me how much their husbands and boyfriends cheated on them when away on road games.

The first three years in Atlanta were like heaven.

Then she came along and everything changed.

The straight club scene in Atlanta bored me and the gay one didn't do much for me either. So I didn't mind when Dray went to the clubs and strip bars with his teammates. To me it was part of his job. But when one of his teammates suggested that I might be more than his interior designer/stylist, Dray went on a tear to find women. And trust me, the ladies were waiting.

At first he dated a couple of ghetto-fabulous sisters and some plain ghetto girls but got tired of them easily. I knew there was something different when he told me he'd met this young lady at a club in Miami after a road game there. He talked about how smart and beautiful she was and how much she knew about sports. Judi Ledbetter gave Dray the appearance of a socialite but sounded to me like a shrewd gold digger who gave good head, for a female, that is. I guess everybody is good at something.

I imagined her being like the ladies I sometimes saw in tony restaurants enjoying liquid lunches, and having flings with their trainers. I had no proof this was the case with Judi, but it was my secret wish.

Before I knew it, she was doing some of the things Dray had depended on me to do for him, like buying his clothes, planning his vacations, and advising him on what products he should endorse. The difference between her advice and mine was that she did it with a feminine flair, whereas I always presented my advice as one of his bois telling him what was cool. I hadn't grown up in the lifestyle Dray and I were now living, but I'd done my homework to keep my head above water. I pored over style magazines like GQ and Esquire. I watched the Fine Living channel daily. I was constantly reading InStyle and Architectural Digest. My design background came in handy when I talked with the builders of Dray's condo about crown molding, marble, and bbuilt-in ookshelves. When he built his first house it was I who suggested the indoor pool and the basketball and tennis courts.

As far as I was concerned, nothing seemed to change between Dray and me after he met Judi. I still saw him four...

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Raymond Jr.

I imagine the world was created beneath a canopy of silence. Perfect silence. While in my own personal silence I would create the world I dreamed of. A world full of love and absent of life's harsh realities. A world where all dreams would come true. A place called Perfect. But I've come to realize that some dreams you have to give up. I live in a world that promises to protect me but will not catch me when I fall. In this life I have fallen many times. From these falls I have learned many lessons. Lessons involving lust, loss, love, and life. Lessons that hit as hard as an unannounced summer thunderstorm, sudden and sometimes destructive.

One of my life's unexpected lessons occurred during my senior year in college. It was on the first Friday in October that my brain released a secret it had struggled to protect throughout my adolescence. I learned on that day that my sexual orientation was not a belief or choice, but a fact of my birth. And just like the color of my skin and eyes, these things could not be changed, at least not permanently.

My name is Raymond Winston Tyler, Jr., and I am a thirty-two-soon-to-be-thirty-three-year-old, second-generation attorney. The son of attorney Raymond Winston Tyler and Marlee Allen Tyler, an elementary school teacher, and big brother to fourteen-year-old Kirby. I had a happy childhood, growing up deeply ensconced in the black middle class. A child of the integrated New South, born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, a city that in the past was known more for church bombing than being the bedrock of college football.

I returned home after law school and several years of successful practice in a large New York firm. About a year ago I moved two hours south to Atlanta, after a two-year stint of running my pops's law firm while he followed his lifelong dream and became a member of the Alabama State Senate.

Atlanta struck me as a vibrant city. A cross between country and cosmopolitan, a city where popular eateries still took personal checks, that is with a valid driver's license. A city consumed with sports and the dream of becoming the Motown of the nineties. Atlanta was a city on the move and even though it didn't have the flash and energy of New York City, it was more conducive to my life than Birmingham. Now don't get me wrong, I love my family and my birthplace, but I knew it was time to move on and continue my search for Perfect.

I was living in a trendy Buckhead condo and working for Battle, Carroll & Myers, a black, female-owned law firm specializing in entertamment and sports law. I had originally moved to Atlanta with the understanding that I would go to work for the city government, but a few days before I was to start, I received word that a hiring freeze had been put into effect. I later found out from a friend of my father that the reason for the freeze was because someone in the mayor's offfice wanted the position promised to me to go to an openly gay, black attorney. Now wasn't that just the shit. My Columbia Law School education and major New York firm experience didn't amount to anything. Just my sexual orientation and then only if I was willing to make it public, which I wasn't. So with the help of my good friend Jared Stovall, I went to work for Battle, Carroll & Myers. My position created an ironic dilemma. I was hired in part because of my love and knowledge of college sports. The firm was actively seeking college athletes about to turn professional and it was my job to convince these young men, mostly black and from black colleges, that the firm would be looking...

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CHAPTER ONE

Oh, hell naw were the only three words that came to mind, and I found myself saying them out loud.

"Oh, hell naw," I said.

"Hold up," Jayshawn whispered as he held his finger to his lips.

"Oh, hell naw," I repeated.

He got up from the bed with his cell phone glued to his ear and walked into my bathroom. I could hear him say­ing, "I'm sorry, babygirl, I don't like it when you get upset like this. Give me five minutes and I'll call you back."

I sat up in my king-size sleigh bed and wondered how I got myself into situations like this. I had just enjoyed a quiet evening with great Chinese takeout from my favorite restaurant, P. F. Chang's, a bottle of Merlot, a blunt, and ended the evening with head-banging sex. I'd fallen asleep wrapped up with a handsome redbone PTB (pretty tall brother) and was having sweet dreams until they were inter­rupted by the sound of his cell phone.

I ignored the first call, and didn't mind when Jayshawn jumped out of bed and took the call in the adjacent bath­room. But then it happened again, and again. Every time I tried to go back to sleep, that fucking cell phone, playing rap music like we were in a club, woke me up. I'd had enough of this shit. I was even willing to give up the promised wake-up sex session with Jayshawn. It served me right for dealing with another so-called DL brother like Jayshawn. That nigga just wasn't in the closet, he was the closet--all three walls and the double-lock door, too. But what choice did I have, since I didn't date sissies or men who defined themselves strictly by their sexuality.

"I'm sorry, Chaunce," Jayshawn said as he walked back into the bedroom, completely nude with a semi-erect penis swinging from side to side.

"What's going on?" I demanded. It was going to take more than a fat dick to calm me down.

"My girl, you know she be bugging," he said.

"About what?"

"Thinks I am up here cheating with another girl," he said as he sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward me as if he was trying to gauge my anger.

"I thought you told her you were working."
"I did, but you know bitches--they always think they know something. Trying to catch a nigga in some shit," he said. "I think I need to catch the first flight out. I think there's one at seven A.M."

I looked at the digital clock on my DVD player and the time flashed 4:12 A.M. I turned back to Jayshawn and was getting ready to tell him that he needed to catch a taxi because I was not about to get out of my bed at this hour and take his tired ass to the airport, when the damn cell phone rang again!

"Don't answer that," I demanded, this time not trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

"I got to, Chauncey," he said. "I'll be downstairs trying to get her to chill."

"Listen, Jayshawn, you need to leave. I don't care where you go, but you need to get your ass up outta here. I'm going to church in a few hours, and I need some sleep." I tossed the covers to the floor and got up to take a leak, shaking my head in disgust.

While I was in the bathroom, I thought about all the conversations and e-mails that had led to this evening. Sev­eral years ago, I met Jayshawn as I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C. I was there on a business trip and Jayshawn was having a drink in the bar. We gave each other...

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From the book

"How did you do that?"

"Sorry?"

"How did you do that?"

The scientist was looking at me with a puzzled expression. We were not in any laboratory, nor was he asking me about any of my memory, linguistic, or numerical skills. We were standing on a lawn outside the research center where I had come earlier in the day for a variety of cognitive tests. Next to him was my mother, who had accompanied me on the trip from London. We were in the process of having our photo taken together, when after a few moments in front of the camera I relaxed and started to step away. How, the scientist wanted to know, had I been able to perceive the photo being taken when, standing right next to me, he had not heard a click or seen any flash. Was my brain really that extraordinary?

Well, yes, but not for the reasons that the scientist imagined. Though the camera had indeed made no noise when the photo was taken, it had produced a pinprick of blurry red light. My autistic mind -- wired in such a way that I am able to spot tiny details that most other people often miss -- had perceived it effortlessly. After I explained this to the scientist, he asked for another photo to be taken. By looking carefully where I told him I had seen the red dot of light appear, he was able to see it, too.

For the record, I will confirm that I have no telepathic relationship with cameras, nor any extrasensory perception for knowing when a photo has or has not been taken. Rather, what I had done that day was simply an extreme form of an everyday act: to see. We rely heavily on our eyes to provide much of the information we obtain about the world around us, and it is for this reason that a significant portion of the human brain is devoted entirely to visual processing.

The scientist who thought I had perceived the photo being taken with the aid of some unknown power had arrived at a wrong but surprisingly common conclusion: that individuals with very different minds must use them in some fundamentally different, almost magical way. As one of the world's few wellknown autistic savants, I have received all manner of strange requests: from being asked to predict the following week's winning lottery numbers, to requests for advice on building a perpetual motion machine. Little wonder then that conditions such as autism and savant syndrome remain poorly understood by most people, including many experts.

It is not only savant minds that are considered somehow supernaturally gifted and therefore set apart from those of most other people: the success of outstanding individuals in numerous fields, from Mozart and Einstein to Garry Kasparov and Bill Gates, has been attributed by many to minds they regard as unearthly and inexplicable. I think this view is not only erroneous but harmful, too, because it separates the achievements of talented individuals from their humanity; an injustice both to them and to everyone else.

Every brain is amazing. Researchers know this after many years of studying the minds of highly gifted people, as well as those of housewives, cab drivers, and many others from all walks of life. As a result, today, we have a far richer, more sophisticated understanding of human ability and potential than ever before. Anyone with the passion and dedication necessary to master a field or subject can succeed in it. Genius, in all its forms, is not due to any mere quirk of the brain; it is the result of far more chaotic, dynamic, and essentially human qualities such as perseverance, imagination, intuition, and even love. Such an understanding of the...

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CHAPTER ONE

Oh, hell naw were the only three words that came to mind, and I found myself saying them out loud.

"Oh, hell naw," I said.

"Hold up," Jayshawn whispered as he held his finger to his lips.

"Oh, hell naw," I repeated.

He got up from the bed with his cell phone glued to his ear and walked into my bathroom. I could hear him say­ing, "I'm sorry, babygirl, I don't like it when you get upset like this. Give me five minutes and I'll call you back."

I sat up in my king-size sleigh bed and wondered how I got myself into situations like this. I had just enjoyed a quiet evening with great Chinese takeout from my favorite restaurant, P. F. Chang's, a bottle of Merlot, a blunt, and ended the evening with head-banging sex. I'd fallen asleep wrapped up with a handsome redbone PTB (pretty tall brother) and was having sweet dreams until they were inter­rupted by the sound of his cell phone.

I ignored the first call, and didn't mind when Jayshawn jumped out of bed and took the call in the adjacent bath­room. But then it happened again, and again. Every time I tried to go back to sleep, that fucking cell phone, playing rap music like we were in a club, woke me up. I'd had enough of this shit. I was even willing to give up the promised wake-up sex session with Jayshawn. It served me right for dealing with another so-called DL brother like Jayshawn. That nigga just wasn't in the closet, he was the closet--all three walls and the double-lock door, too. But what choice did I have, since I didn't date sissies or men who defined themselves strictly by their sexuality.

"I'm sorry, Chaunce," Jayshawn said as he walked back into the bedroom, completely nude with a semi-erect penis swinging from side to side.

"What's going on?" I demanded. It was going to take more than a fat dick to calm me down.

"My girl, you know she be bugging," he said.

"About what?"

"Thinks I am up here cheating with another girl," he said as he sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward me as if he was trying to gauge my anger.

"I thought you told her you were working."
"I did, but you know bitches--they always think they know something. Trying to catch a nigga in some shit," he said. "I think I need to catch the first flight out. I think there's one at seven A.M."

I looked at the digital clock on my DVD player and the time flashed 4:12 A.M. I turned back to Jayshawn and was getting ready to tell him that he needed to catch a taxi because I was not about to get out of my bed at this hour and take his tired ass to the airport, when the damn cell phone rang again!

"Don't answer that," I demanded, this time not trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

"I got to, Chauncey," he said. "I'll be downstairs trying to get her to chill."

"Listen, Jayshawn, you need to leave. I don't care where you go, but you need to get your ass up outta here. I'm going to church in a few hours, and I need some sleep." I tossed the covers to the floor and got up to take a leak, shaking my head in disgust.

While I was in the bathroom, I thought about all the conversations and e-mails that had led to this evening. Sev­eral years ago, I met Jayshawn as I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in Washington, D.C. I was there on a business trip and Jayshawn was having a drink in the bar. We gave each other...

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1

"Cyndi, let's go over the articles I need to assign," I said. I was in my office with my executive assistant, Cyndi Jones. I met her when I gave a speech at the Howard University School of Communications, and I hired her immediately after she graduated because she was ambitious and aggressive. It seemed like every other week I was getting an update on articles Cyndi had written for the Howard University newspaper. She's been with me for more than three years now.

"The Halle Berry and Yancey B. stories have been given to Kirsten Dawson. I'll make sure we have the signed contracts. The only one that hasn't been assigned is 'Divas return to the Great White Way,'" Cyndi said.

"Refresh my memory. Who are we featuring?"

"Vanessa L. Williams and Sheryl Lee Ralph," Cyndi said.

"Are they in the same show?"

"No. Sheryl is in a new musical, Millie sumthin', and Vanessa is in a revival of the musical Into the Woods."

"Now, Cyndi, I know the show isn't called Millie sumthin'--make sure you have the correct title before we talk to writers about a story," I said. "You know I hate stuff like that."

"I'm sorry. I'll be sure to do that. Do you have any writers in mind?"

"Maybe we should go with a guy. See who's available. By the way, how are things coming with the Sexiest Brothaman Alive contest?"

"The contest is coming along great. We've gotten some fantasticsubmissions. I'll investigate and get back with you. Don't forget your breakfast meeting in the morning," Cyndi said as she stood up. She was wearing a black semitransparent silk blouse that truly wasn't appropriate for the office. I started to say something, but the last time I spoke to Cyndi about her wardrobe she got a little sensitive. I realized she was young and she didn't know quite how to dress in a corporate environment. I had even taken her on a couple shopping trips, but she always seemed to be drawn to the tight and the transparent. Every Wednesday, Cyndi would use her lunch break to go to Century 21 and somehow always managed to find the tacky items left from the previous week. I was just praying that Davis didn't come down to the office today, because he wouldn't be able to bite his tongue. He'd tell me to send Cyndi home to change posthaste.

"Cyndi, who am I eating with tomorrow morning?"

"Eunice, the ad manager, and the guy who handles all the national advertising for Wal-Mart," Cyndi said.

"Oh yes. Eunice has been trying to land that account for months. I need to make a mental note to wear my red power suit," I said.

"You look fierce in that suit," Cyndi said as she walked out.

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Thursday, 7th November--

Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts & bamboo, the tracks led me to their maker, a White man, his trowzers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard & an outsized Beaver, shoveling & sifting the cindery sand with a teaspoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed him from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry Goose, surgeon to the London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any eyrie so desolate, or isle so remote, that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, 'tis not down on any map I ever saw.

Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I render assistance? Dr. Goose shook his head, knotted loose his 'kerchief & displayed its contents with clear pride. "Teeth, sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone by this Arcadian strand was a cannibals' banqueting hall, yes, where the strong engorged themselves on the weak. The teeth, they spat out, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars, sir, shall be transmuted to gold & how? An artisan of Piccadilly who fashions denture sets for the nobility pays handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter pound will earn, sir?"

I confessed I did not.

"Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for 'tis a professional secret!" He tapped his nose. "Mr. Ewing, are you acquainted with Marchioness Grace of Mayfair? No? The better for you, for she is a corpse in petticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirched my name, yes, with imputations that resulted in my being blackballed from Society." Dr. Goose looked out to sea. "My peregrinations began in that dark hour."

I expressed sympathy with the doctor's plight.

"I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories"--he shook his 'kerchief--"are my angels of redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The Marchioness wears dental fixtures fashioned by the afore- mentioned doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented She-Donkey is addressing her Ambassadors' Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I shall arise & declare to one & all that our hostess masticates with cannibals' gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me, predictably, 'Furnish your evidence,' that boor shall roar, 'or grant me satisfaction!' I shall declare, 'Evidence, Sir Hubert? Why, I gathered your mother's teeth myself from the spittoon of the South Pacific! Here, sir, here are some of their fellows!' & fling these very teeth into her tortoiseshell soup tureen & that, sir, that will grant me my satisfaction! The twittering wits will scald the icy Marchioness in their news sheets & by next season she shall be fortunate to receive an invitation to a Poorhouse Ball!"

In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a Bedlamite.

Friday, 8th November--

In the rude shipyard beneath my window, work progresses on the jibboom, under Mr. Sykes's directorship. Mr. Walker, Ocean Bay's sole taverner, is also its principal timber merchant & he brags of his years as a master shipbuilder in Liverpool. (I am now versed enough in Antipodese etiquette to let such unlikely truths lie.) Mr. Sykes told me an entire week is needed to render the Prophet- ess "Bristol fashion." Seven days holed up in the Musket seems a grim sentence, yet I recall the fangs of the banshee tempest & the mariners lost o'erboard & my present misfortune feels less acute.

I met...

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The Beginning of The End

Protected by a crisp, cloudless sky, I sipped iced tea on the dusty wooden deck of my parents' home. There was a trace of heat; no humidity. It was a few days after my twenty-ninth birthday and I was pondering the next step in my complicated life. While deep in thought, but savoring the Southern tranquillity, I heard my father come through the sliding glass doors. He quietly placed a large envelope, addressed to Raymond Winston Tyler, Jr., on the wrought-iron table, gave me a half smile and returned through the doors. I immediately recognized the familiar feminine handwriting and the New York City postmark. I quickly ripped open the envelope, ignored the card and began to read the letter on the soft pink stationery.

Dear Raymond,

I decided it was time I responded to your letter. How could this happen? Never before have I received a letter filled with so much pain, yet so much love.

The last six months have been like a wild roller coaster ride, full of extreme highs and lows. I find myself numb over the recent events. Why did it happen to us? . . . Why can't we live in a perfect world? . . .

Before continuing to the next page, I laid the letter down, noticing that the moisture from my iced tea glass had caused the name on the envelope to blur and dissolve into an ugly black mess, bringing to mind my current life. As I studied the envelope, I asked myself, How did it happen?


One

There is something poetic about falling in love. The tingling sensation lingers like the lyrical words of a Langston Hughes poem. There is something romantic about the changing of seasons. A romance reminiscent of an unending summer, or one as fleeting as spring and fall. Whenever I think back on the loves of my life, I am often reminded of the seasons. There are four seasons. I have been in love four times.

It was summer when Sela, my girlfriend, and I drove the five hours back to campus. On this beautiful day, there was no way of knowing that my life, like the season, would soon change. My black Volkswagen was filled to capacity with our clothes, books, albums and items that we couldn't live without during the summer vacation. As we drove down Highway 17, the heavy August sun beat down on us. The Alabama sky was a shimmering summer blue. State troopers were out in numbers trying to catch the fancy cars exceeding the speed limit, giving special attention to cars with THE UNIVERSITY and Greek-letter organization stickers.

Sela and I were both especially excited this year because for me it was my senior year and I would finally be heading to law school, while Sela, now a junior, was moving into her sorority house after a couple of years in the dorm. In the midst of the excitement and happiness, I was feeling a bit melancholy because this was going to be my last year. I was going to miss Sela and my fraternity brothers, who kept my life at this lily white university interesting and fulfilling.

My fraternity, Kappa Alpha Omega, was one of the three black fraternities on campus. While the white fraternities and sororities were going through rush, which we never understood, we were planning a big party to welcome back the black students. We would get a head start on pressing the freshman girls to become our sweethearts and persuading the top black freshman men to pledge Kappa Alpha Omega.

We decided to have the party at the house of one of our advisors, who was also one of the few black faculty members at the university. He...