Chapter 9
Neal stood in the center of his tiny studio, imagining his worst nightmare of Harlem. Heavy-set black women in polka dot dresses and wide Sunday hats preaching religion; ebony thugs with jeans hanging past their knees, itching to slice Neal’s lily-white faggot throat. He’d vowed never to travel past 42nd Street but tonight, to have dinner with gold-toothed Dewalt, he was venturing to 145th.
He thought Dewalt would back out, change his mind. Dinner with a bathhouse hook-up was far-fetched, and besides, Neal had never dated a black man, or an Asian man or a Puerto Rican or…anyone other than a white man. The truth was, he’d barely ‘dated’ anyone. He often had dinner and s*x, a movie and s*x, or, just s*x. Second dates were rare. Tonight would be a change. His rehab counselor Mann
