Redbone Dancers

 

The Redbone Dance Company was owned by my second husband, Frank West. I met Frank at the decadent and somewhat gaudy gay bar and disco, ‘The Monster’ in New York City’s West Village. His offer to take me off the dance floor was what turned me onto him–

“Do you like to get fucked?” He asked as the Weather Girls pounded at 3 a.m.–

“Excuse me?” I replied, hoping I understood what he just implied.

“You know– do you take it up the ass?”

I was beside myself and replied– “Only by big dicks. You got one?”

The sex that followed later that night in his room in Washington Heights offered no choice for me but to assume the role as First Lady of Redbone Entertainment and marry him.

I fell in love with Frank West, the dancer man with a body toned from head to pointed toe–twelve years of professional study at the Dance Theater of Harlem. Frank referred to his own Cherokee and African American skin tone as “Red Bone”–

“Take that Red Bone dick, take it. You got some good pussy…”

I had no idea what he was talking about at first that night, but later, as we cleaned up, he apologized and explained how the African-American terminology originated.

“American Indian,” he said. “Got it flowing in me. A spiritual world is where I exist. Angel Dust– it fucked me up. Hope you don’t mind. Clean now. What was I saying? Oh yes, a red bone– see that skin– it’s red, not black.”

Frank was right. Even the color of his penis was different, yet he still had nappy hair that I like.

Frank knew all the right words to say to me while making love on me for the first time. I certainly didn’t need romance at the time, coming out of an eight- year relationship with a guy I met in the Army but separated from after he lanced me with scare– an STD. I was thankful it wasn’t AIDS and left that relationship, realizing that if the ‘gift that keeps on giving’ was going to get into my bloodstream regardless, then I might as well, at twenty-eight, become a full-fledged sex addict and enjoy the ride to inevitable destruction. I didn’t have sex for over a year. I was so upset. Frank felt so good after all that time.

Frank was a new adventure and what I really wanted, at that time in my life, was to become more artistic.

Unlike love that I had known until then with Anthony, Frank offered the services of a full-fledged ‘top’; not simply a lover to switch around with night after night, taking turns playing the female role, somehow finding one’s relationship expanding beyond the simple concept of love making and blowing precious hot moments trying to remember whose turn it was to be the violent giver, playing it rough– holding him down, shoving it in, saying silly things that were not so silly to either of us on those cold nights when we fought for the right to submit:–

“You like that white dick, don’t you?” I asked Anthony.

“Yes, Massa,” Anthony would respond.

I told our closest friends of the twisted role-playing that we’d do in our inter-racial, gay relationship. They thought my re-enactments were hysterical and knew, from the sheer cry in my voice that I was telling the truth. Anthony was so upset with me. But finding Frank re-opened my mind to the concept of settling down with another live- in domestic partner. Perhaps, I thought, one didn’t have to be gay just to be gay.

Frank cooked me breakfast the next morning. Redbone Eggs. The grits he whipped-up, along with eggs over-easy and toast heavily buttered caused my heart to swell like inflamed mucus membranes. He took me out later that Sunday, to show me off to his friends. I guess my ass was still good after all that Anthony had done to me when it was his turn to be top. I jumped on the A train with Frank and we headed down to Harlem. He introduced me to his friend, Keith David, the actor from the movie, “Platoon”. Who was this Redbone, I wondered. He really seemed to like me– my persona, as he called it. Quiet, shy, never too much to say and I kept my act simple–– act like a man– that’s what real men who happen to be gay like anyway– otherwise, wouldn’t they just go out with a girl?

Keith and Frank spent the afternoon discussing the theater. Frank choreographed a new work of art and was self-producing an off-Broadway show entitled “Shangra- Las Vegas” and hoped that Keith would do the honor of attending the one-night run of the ballet featuring strippers– male strippers that Frank had recruited from the infamous Stella’s Bar in Times Square and taught them to dance like trained professions. At Stellas, handsome, well-built ‘gays for pay’ could be bought with the slightest promise of fame and coin.

Keith, although not gay, thought Frank’s idea was great and went on to talk about his own desire to produce and star in his own Broadway number. I later learned that Frank knew other celebrities– stars that even Keith David is humbled by– although not having the cash, Frank had the connections, and Hollywood’s living legends all seemed at home with Frank West. Artisans like Geoffrey Holder respected Frank West as one of their own. I met them all, thanks to Frank– Phylicia Rashad, Geoffrey Holder, Lynn Whitfield– the butter of Black theater–and most still remember me, I’m sure, even though my relationship with Mr. West ended as abruptly as the sun rising in the East.

“Wait until you meet my dancers,” Frank explained as we left the famous Hollywood actor’s brownstone in Harlem. “I lose so many good lovers over the people I know. I hope you are different. I hope I can trust you,” he said.

I didn’t respond. I just looked down like a humble man. Frank grabbed my face the moment we jumped into a cab. He kissed me hard on my lips as he shouted “159^th and Riverside Drive”. Frank begged that I stay at his house again that night even though I had work the next day. He offered me his clothes.