Love the One You're With

  It felt as if I were ingesting—don’t laugh—toothpaste mixed with collards (not that I’ve ever mixed the two before). A little tangy and a little pasty and a little … grassy? It was a strange taste and it was giving me a strange feeling. I’ve felt a buzz, a little light-headed, even been slightly drunk. But this was a different kind of … buzz. A different kind of … light-headed. A different kind of … drunk.

  And one whiff was all it took—I was high.

  We couldn’t talk during this—no, I couldn’t. All I could do was laugh. No matter what he said, a giggle or guffaw escaped before I had the chance to even think about a response, and I’d bowl over on the futon.

  Finally, he gave up trying to engage me in conversation. “You could never smoke for real. You’d be one fucked-up mess.”

  Maybe so, but I was smart enough to know that when that joint got down to being a roach, it was every man for himself—and having seen others puff till it poofed out, I knew how to suck it dry.

  And Montee wasn’t happy about that. “Yo, Mitch! What’s up with that?”

  Yeah, I just laughed, tossing the microscopic roach into the ashtray.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  Yeah, I just laughed, rolling myself up off the futon. I staggered a bit to catch my balance. Realizing I was indeed high, I clasped my hands to my face in embarrassment—and laughed even louder.

  “Ha, I’ll give yo’ ass somethin’ to laugh about …”

  He grabbed me with his left arm and began tickling me, his right arm behind my back.

  I might’ve been floating, but my sense of tickle sure wasn’t dead. “No! Stop!” I screamed.

  “Ha, you know you like it. I knew you were the ticklin’ kind.”

  “Stop!”

  “And how did I know that was the spot!”

  “Stop! Stop!” I fought, trying not to laugh.

  “You know you wanna laugh. Come on, come on, laugh …”

  I did. And he did, too. Then he stopped tickling me. But I didn’t stop laughing, and he didn’t either.

  And he didn’t let me go.

  Silence.

  He sighed. “Ya know … I got a confession to make.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I … I was tryin’ to make you jealous at Gene’s party.”

  I had a suspicion … “You were?”

  “Yeah. When I was dancin’ with Garrick, I was hopin’ you would cut in.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But I’m savin’ the special dancin’ for you.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh, yes. I already know how you rock it. Now I wanna know how you knock it.” He squeezed me tighter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to slow-drag with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Even when you high you Mr. Twenty Questions. Because I want to. And because I know you want to.”

  “I—”

  “And don’t say you don’t want to.”

  “No. I was going to say I can’t.”

  “Not wanting to do something and not being able to do something ain’t the same thang.”

  He was right. I breathed a chuckle. “You … you are incorrigible.”

  “That I am. I’m also just your average horny little devil.” His scowl was similar to Jack Nicholson’s in The Witches of Eastwick.

  Horny? Yes. A devil? Indeedy.

  But little? Judging by that snake creepin’ across his pants that is heating up my ass …

  NOT.

  He released me. He went over to the stereo. He slipped a cassette into the tape deck. He pressed play. The elegant piano-string-laden intro of Ashford & Simpson’s “So So Satisfied” filled the room. He roped his left arm around my waist and palmed my back with his right. I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  Forehead to forehead. Eye to Eye. Pelvis to pelvis.

  We swayed … in, out, down, around. In, out, down, around. In, out, down, around. In …

  “So full … so warm,” he brooded like Nick.

  Given that this was a duet and he already stated he couldn’t sing songs Ashford & Simpson recorded together solo …

  “Like being dried out after the storm,” I finished along with Valerie.

  “New birth … runnin’ … runnin’ through my veins,” he and Nick declared.

  Valerie and I followed again. “Looks like that clear day finally came …”

  “Feelin’ high,” we all soared together. “So, so satis-fied.”

  We were.

  The A&S Quiet Storm parade continued with “I’m Determined,” “Ain’t That Good Enough,” “Time” (which, ironically, I had included on Pooquie’s “Missing U” tape and sung to him on the phone Monday night), “I’m Not That Tough,” “Love It Away,” “We Can Make It Work Again,” “Experience (Love Had No Face),” “Send It,” “It Seems to Hang On,” “Is It Still Good to Ya,” “Stay Free,” “Crazy,” “My Kinda Pick Me Up,” “I’ll Take the Whole World On,” “Believe in Me,” and “Happy Endings.” There were a lot of grunts, groans, and grumbles, yet we never missed a cue or a note, singing our hearts out to each other.

  By the time “Somebody Told a Lie” rolled around, Nick & Val were on their own—we were too busy huffin’ and hissin’ to the grindin’ and gropin’, bumpin’ up and pushin’ into the other.

  “Wanna take you there … gonna take you there … in my arms, babe …”

  When Nick & Val sang the chorus for the final time and soared on sky, we both howled in ecstasy, climaxing simultaneously.

  And when Nick & Val “Oh”- and “Ooh”-ed it up, we came down with some Ohs and Oohs of our own.

  As their voices faded out …

  “I see you do duets,” he whispered

  “Not until tonight,” I breathed back.

  “Mmm … yet another first.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Silence.

  He sighed real heavy. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For cumming into my life.”

  We giggled.

  “And speaking of which: Maybe we need to get unsticky.”

  I nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Why don’t you freshen up first.”

  “Okay.”

  We “kissed”—by rubbing noses.

  I grabbed my little sack and went into the bathroom. I took a quick shower—three minutes—brushed my teeth, gargled, and dabbed Midnite, a sensual scent, all over. I slipped on an oversized T-shirt from B.D.’s dance company and some bikini shorts, both green.

  I reentered the room. The futon was pulled out. He was lying on his back, his right leg hanging over the side and foot touching the floor (he still hadn’t removed those socks).

  “The bathroom’s all yours.”

  No answer.

  I crept up to him. He was out. Knocked out. His right hand was on his heart, as if he were about to pledge allegiance to the flag; his left at his side. Besides the socks, he wore ribbed light gray Hanes boxers. He was so … quiet. So … still. He didn’t appear to be breathing at all. The sign he was? His lips parted.

  I was kind of pissed he fell asleep—after all, it isn’t a very hosty thing to do. But he did have a late night and an early morning, took us on a trip through three boroughs in the city, and cooked dinner. He should’ve fallen asleep on me sooner. And given the position he was in, he’d probably only planned to rest his eyes for a minute or so.

  Truth be told, I was glad he zoned out, for it meant we’d avoid the inevitable. Sleep would’ve been the last thing on his mind after he showered up.

  And I wouldn’t have said no.

  So I kissed him on the forehead—no moisture, no pucker, no tongue. I wanted to kiss him—many, many, many times—but knew it would really be over if I did (he’s right; that is the way one can seal it). This was the only way I could without getting way in over my head (and end up giving him head).

  I climbed in on the opposite side of the fu
ton. It was rather toasty, so I didn’t need the blanket that sat between us. I left it there.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  “What does it smell like I’m doing?”

  The honey ham was in a dish in the microwave. I had just put the Cream of Wheat on a low boil. As Junior had done for me a week before, the four slices of bread were waiting to be toasted. And I was cracking four eggs into a bowl.

  He approached me from behind; I think he wanted to hug me, but didn’t. He just moved in very close, that dick brushing up on my ass. He breathed into my left ear. “Good morning.”

  I slanted my head slightly to the right. “Good morning. I don’t have to ask how you slept last night.”

  “Uh, no. You don’t.” He stood in my spot by the fridge, his right shoulder leaning against it. “I have to apologize for falling asleep on you. I should’ve known …”

  “You don’t have to explain. I understand. It was a long day.” I smiled at him. “A long, lovely day.”

  He smiled. He crossed his arms against his chest. He studied me. “You know you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know. How do you like your eggs?”

  “Uh, scrambled with cheese, soft.”

  Now, how did I know that?

  I already had two slices of cheese out of their wraps, ready to be sliced up some more. “Why don’t you wash up. It’ll be ready when you get back.”

  He nodded, grinning. “Okay. I will.” He jogged off, that azz jiggling along with him. Mph …

  He put on The Best of Bill Withers, and what do you know, “Lovely Day” was the first song.

  When he emerged from the bathroom, he was draped in a white towel and white socks. His body still glistened.

  I pulled down the lever on the toaster. “You really don’t want me to see your feet, do you?”

  He paused Bill, who had just finished the first verse of “Lean on Me.” “I don’t want to see my feet.”

  “They can’t be that bad.”

  “Believe me, they are. I’ll tell you what I will let you see …” He started to unfasten the towel.

  “What?”

  “My tattoo.”

  “Ah. This isn’t in a place that will make me lose my appetite, will it?”

  He was thrown. “Say what?”

  “I mean, we are about to eat. Like your feet, there’s a reason why some things should not be seen.” I laughed.

  He didn’t get the joke. He sucked his teeth, putting the knot back in the towel. “Kiss my ass.”

  I thought you’d never ask!

  I was most definitely up to that challenge. “Bend over, spread ’em, and I will.”

  He was putting on deodorant. He stopped. I was serious—and he knew it. And he also knew he couldn’t back down—after all, he opened that back door.

  But he didn’t have to consider it for long; in fact, he didn’t consider it at all. He turned his back on me and backed that azz up just like he did on the dance floor at Body & Soul—except this time he wasn’t takin’ baby steps. I ripped off the towel.

  Damn, damn, damn … what a glorious maximus it was.

  As I marveled at his huge, hammy, hairless hamlet, he spread those legs so far apart I thought he was gonna do a split and bent all the way forward, planting his hands firmly on the ground and sticking his head through his legs, peering up at me with those eager eyes. He waved it at me.

  And I waved right back with my tongue, flickin’ at it, gettin’ closer, and closer, and closer …

  The tunnel to his love pulsed in/out, in/out, in/out as I came closer, and closer, and closer to landing, the pathway clear and the target marked.

  When I finally landed he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. I circled the runway, creating my own bull’s-eye around that spot. He shook with anticipation, yelping like a dog, a very soft and sweet aaay following each tongue tap.

  Then I grabbed those phat azz cheeks (causing him to cry “Yee!”), pulled them farther apart, and kissed that azz the way I wanted to kiss him for two weeks.

  And his lips kept kissin’ me back.

  I can describe how he smelled (the Irish Spring mixed in with his own musky scent). And I can describe how he tasted (chocolate syrup).

  But I can’t describe what he sounded like. I mean, the brother was speakin’ a foreign tongue, not a foreign language, and it wasn’t Holy Ghost hosannas or pig latin (which other boyz have testified with as I tossed ’em). The utterances reminded me of a record being played backward: unintelligible and horrific (had a demon entered his body?). But in this case, they were also so damn mother-fuckin’ sexy.

  And ya know it was all turnin’ me the fuck on and out. “I’m gonna stick my tongue so far up your ass, it’s gonna tickle your tonsils,” I promised.

  And I kept that promise. The harder I stabbed and jabbed, the harder he pushed and mushed back, allowing my tongue to swim deeper inside. And the deeper I went, the more furiously he yanked on that third leg that swung mighty low between the other two.

  He whirled and twirled and swirled and curled that azz like crazy—and then I hurled him onto the table, pushing his thighs out around one of the corners.

  I really feasted then, literally eating him out—gnawing, chewing, and chowing down—and burying my face so far up in it I almost suffocated (uh-huh, suicide booty).

  And those sounds … they got even scarier and louder as he bucked the table the same way he must’ve bucked when fuckin’ in a pickup truck back in the day.

  It appeared the table was about to give when he started yodelin’—on key—and unleashed the gooeyest juice I’d ever seen on the table.

  As he jerked, I scooted up to his head, which was awash in sweat. “Mmm … just what was missing from the breakfast buffet: buttermilk biscuits.” I smacked them.

  He giggled.

  “Now that I’ve eaten you on the breakfast table, how ’bout us actually eating breakfast on the table?”

  He giggled again.

  I actually ate breakfast on his biscuits—the table was unstable after the pounding he gave it, so he lay across the futon as I balanced my plate on his azz.

  And, unfortunately, we had to make do without the Cream of Wheat, because it burned (yet another case of déjà vu).

  He had some of my biscuits after breakfast. I was on my back pulling my knees into my chest and squirming, squealing, and screaming with unpure delight (my words were intelligible and very naughty) as he slurped and slobbered all over and all up inside of me.

  And as he snacked on my toes (a task he performed with schoolboy joy), I shot my load.

  As I came down, he looped his arms around my waist. I locked my legs around his thighs, tapping a beat on his azz. I might’ve gotten high last night, but I was much higher right now.

  “Isn’t this hanky-panky?” I inquired.

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “More like licky-micky.”

  We chuckled.

  I became solemn. I sighed.

  He eyed me. “You’re feelin’ guilty, huh?”

  “Uh … yeah. But … not as guilty as I should.”

  “Mmm … maybe we need to go all the way, and then you will!” He bumped and humped me.

  “That would do it.” I managed a half smile.

  He cupped my chin. “You don’t have to feel guilty.”

  “How could I not?”

  “Hay, I don’t know the brother, probably never met or seen him before …”

  So you think!

  “… but even if I did … the one thing I know how to be is discreet. How else could I carry on with a rap artist the past six months? I know how to keep it on the down low.”

  I nodded. “Hmmph, nobody has to know …”

  “Right.”

  “But—”

  “I know: You know, and no matter how much fun we had, you still feel bad about it. Well, that’s okay. Feel bad about it—just don’t make yourself feel so bad you feel bad about you. Feel guilty, but
remember that that is what it was supposed to be—a guilty pleasure.”

  I ran my fingers through his hair. “You know, many men—be they bi, straight, gay, or otherwise—wouldn’t have opened up and shared like you have, especially to a person they’d view as a one-hour stand.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Damn. That’s how long they’re lastin’ these days?”

  We cracked up.

  He caressed my lips with his thumb. “It was easy to do. You’re a very passionate man—not to mention devoted. He … he’s a very lucky brother, whoever he is. I might’ve caught your eye … but he’s got your heart.”

  We kissed with our noses again, for a jood minute.

  “Oh.” He leaned up on his hands. “And to think all of this happened because I wanted to show you …”

  He knelt by my head. On his right cheek was the tattoo, in Old English style.

  “Why ‘Papa’s Boy’?”

  “ ’Cause that’s what I am,” he trumpeted.

  “Mmm … if he can eat ass like you, I may have to experience my first threesome.”

  He visibly recoiled. “Huh? I’m a freak, but I’m not that kind of freak.”

  “Okay then … I guess you’ll just have to watch us from the kitchen.”

  He stroked his chin. “Hmm … now that kinda freak-y I might be able to work with.”

  AFTER A VERY LONG SHOWER (LOCKED IN AN EMBRACE as A&S played and the water cascaded between and on us) and a very long ride back to West Fourth & Sixth Avenue (it wasn’t that long but it seemed that way) came the very long good-bye. We stood in the exact place and the exact spaces we had twenty-four hours before—but this time we were both vocally challenged.

  A minute or so passed as we watched others walk by before …

  I sighed. “Maybe … we’ll see each other again.”

  “Maybe we’ll sing to each other again. May as well give the world something to really talk about. They’d trip over a bi male singer; they’d trip out over a male singing duo.”

  “They would. Uh … jood luck in your career. I’m sure I’ll be hearing you on the radio soon.”

  “Ha, we’ll also be hearing you on the radio soon, too, if your prediction is correct. Thanks. I hope to be seeing your name at the top of a masthead.”

  “You just might.”

  Silence.

  “Thanks for helping me officially enter my thirties. I had a very jood time,” he enunciated correctly.