Shawn never tasted my pie crusts made with lard. He died long before the economy crashed; back when it was not such a big deal to blow five bucks on a can of Crisco shortening. My lover from Compton went nuts the day he first tasted a chicken potpie cooked in a 9 inch ceramic pie plate lined with a pie crust that I mixed up and rolled out right in front of him. That evening was the start of his insatiable lust for my bootie.
He was a fan of my mashed potatoes too. Never had a seen potatoes whipped with an electric mixer and so much butter and milk added.
I made him an apple pie at his apartment in Brooklyn using a beer bottle as a rolling pin. An apple tree grew in the backyard. It had not been pruned for many years and grew like the ones in the Wizard of Oz. The tree was filled with imperfect fruit that October. Although it was sagging at the limbs, and covered with apples with dull, spotty skin, the fruit made for the perfect pie.
We were working as a tag-team on a straight guy who lived upstairs. The Spanish dude spent the entire afternoon in Shawn’s apartment, playing chess, drinking Shawn’s expensive whiskey and smoking some of the pot that Shawn grew in his closet. The dude was impossible to work, despite the skill of both Shawn and I, but he ate the pie like it was a bitch’s titty.
More than a decade has passed since I last saw Shawn in the hospital room in Brooklyn. I don’t know what ever happened to the Spanish guy. I remember so vividly the moment I said that prayer that let Shawn go, and yet I remain so sorry that I chose not to spend the last night by his side.
His spirit has not gone though. He still lingers near. Sometimes I believe his spirit has led me here to this Mexican neighborhood. Shawn once said the only ass he ever had better than mine was that of these two Mexicans– Juan and Jose, whom Shawn sold pot to, who worked him over, just like I did with my pies, Shawn once explained as we were exploring the joy of an “open” gay relationship just after having sex alone for the first time in months.
“I’d marry you just for these pies,” he often said.
“I think marriage, it itself, is an abomination,” I explained in a godly tone. My naked, pale white legs were still wrapped around him, like a soft untrimmed crust hanging over the edge of a ceramic pie plate, in need of fluting.
His long braids smelled of African oils from Carol’s Daughter. They tickled my inner thigh as he rested there, smoking his weed, wanting another piece of apple pie.