Punkafunkamoraphobia: With Application Pending

Ninety seconds elapsed since I divulged my diagnosis to Jerome as we walked along La Seine. He hasn’t stopped laughing. He was safety. My gay 'boon-coon-man-friend'. My Alabama-confidante who left for Paris at 16 yrs. never looking back.

“Keisha, you…can’t be…fah…reeeeal!” Gasps between breaths, still mid-convulsion. “Chile, puh-leez—”

“—Please what?” Agitation filled my tone. “I had months of psychotherapy treatment for chrissake! Application for recognition was submitted to DSM-V.”

“Punkdafunkda-whahahahaaaaaaa!”

We stagger pell-mell along Port de Javel Bas toward le métro (subway), giggle-tears streaming his cheeks.

I felt a familiar tiny dark seed take root. “J, you useless!”

Cooling autumn air carried potential to guarantee me one thing.

Vindication.

Diverting to Café Brioche would deliver it.

“Let’s grab drinks and hors d’oeuvres, chicken-head.” We’d pass the park on Haute de Seine.

Jerome manages to string sentences as we reach the tennis courts, placing an arm around me, the genesis of an apology.

Putting green. Track...Ahh! Basketball courts! Les garçons like clockwork.

“Hey Maurice,” I holler, prepping my sexiest catwalk sashay. “You good?”

“Bon sang, je le suis maintenant (Damn it, I am now!)” he replies.

I feel Jerome’s arm slip away.

Motionless and edging toward sidewalk catatonia, since leaning on the chain-link while fellas sink hoops is pure deliciousness begging consumption.

But my phobia been cured.

I double-time it to Jerome with 'pretend-sad face' whispering, “Couldn’t possibly be punkafunkamoraphobia?”

And I laugh like the devil.