Love the One You're With (37 page)

“I wouldn't say I
hate
those things.”

“You certainly don't hold them in high favor.”

“I … I've always looked upon each with … dread.”

“Ah. So I'm
dread
ful.”

“You aren't dreadful. If you were … I wouldn't be here right now.”

“That's good to hear.” He fired it up. He puffed.
“Mmm …”
He handed it to me. “You wanna join me?”

Rewind: my ninth-grade health-education class. There's Miss Flannigan, wearing a tacky flowered dress and orthopedic shoes, her straight white hair tied in a very tight bun and her hand planted firmly on her left hip, tapping the blackboard with a ruler and exclaiming in a deadpan tone: “Drugs can ke-ill you, so just say no.”

Back to the present moment: Yes, they can kill you. I've never
seen
them kill people, but I've read the stories. And I've said no to them all my life. I've never even smoked a cigarette. But just because I do this one drug this one time does not mean I'm destined to try others, right? If I blow one blunt with Montee, does that mean I'll get hooked, lose my job, my friends and family, and flush my life down the toilet?

I bet that's what most people ask themselves before they take the plunge—and I bet most, like me, also convince themselves those things won't happen to them.

Since this was a day of many,
many
firsts, why stop now? Besides, I'll probably hate it—if I can't stand the smell (and I never could) I certainly won't be able to stomach the taste.

So, unlike President Clinton, I inhaled.

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
Oh
s and
Ooh
s 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
cum
ming into my life.”

We giggled.

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

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 futon. 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.