Read Online Love the One You're With by James Earl Hardy - Free Book Online Page A

And the Amen Corner—the Children who come straight from afternoon church service in their Sunday best—provided us with the hand clappin’ and tambourine slappin’ on this and every other song.
    It was on “Funky Sensation,” when Gwen McCrae breaks it down (“move your left leg … throw your right hand in the air … lean left, lean right, lean front, lean back, c’mon …”), that he appeared. Gene would later tell me that he saw him checkin’ me out from afar, dancing just close enough to peep me. He joined Gene and me as we and dozens of others heeded Gwen’s instructions.
    As Gwen gave way to Carl Carlton’s “She’s a Bad Mama Jama (She’s Built, She’s Stacked),” he stepped in my purview but off to my left side. Mmm … Shiny, rich, dark caramel skin. A U-shaped head, topped by a neatly styled short afro. Very thin eyebrows that sat above his very big brown eyes. A large, broad nose, the nostrils flared. Lips that weren’t full and plump but fat and pouty, not to mention glossy. Cheeks that seemed to be invisible, they hid so well in the plumpness of his face. His facial hair consisted of a thick mustache, stubble on his chin, and sideburns that stopped at his earlobe. And the ears: almost Mr. Spock–ish. He was a little taller (a couple of inches) and a little stockier (not bulky or muscle-bound, just slightly toned and smooth) than me.
    An extraordinarily ordinary-looking man.
    He wore a uniform that made him stick out in the crowd: military fatigues. (Was he in the armed forces? On leave for the weekend?) But it was the azz—that’s right, the azz —that really made him stick out in the crowd. Now, I thought I had a big booty for a guy my size, but his was nearly twice the size of mine. It sat so far from and off his waist it had to have its own zip code. It seemed so firm you could probably bounce a roll of quarters on it. And those fatigues were having a hard time containing it—the trousers sat a jood two inches below his waist, exposing the ribbed top of his boxers. Talk about a low-slung booty!
    Uh-huh, he was a Bad Papa Jama—built and stacked. Just as PHYNE as he could be.
    Our eyes met; I smiled. He turned away, but I could make out the outline of a grin.
    We repeated this scene twice more; was he going to do something? Say something? Since I’m attached, it would be wrong for me to. I wouldn’t want to lead him on.
    The sign he was waiting on came when Gene spotted his ex, Carl, and proceeded to do da butt on his butt.
    If Military Man thought Gene and I were together, he didn’t anymore. He wasted not another second.
    He didn’t say a word—he let his hips do the talkin’.
    When making that contact, some will dance up to you; some will dance up on you; and some will dance around you, hoping you’ll grab them and stop them from going in circles.
    Military Man did none of these things. He took two steps to the right, groovin’ directly in front of me. Then he danced himself—or rather, that azz—up into me.
    What a military maneuver that was!
    He didn’t put a booty rush on me; he did it gradually. Baby-steppin’ his way back, pokin’ it to the left, pokin’ it to the right, pokin’ it out a little, and a little more, and a little more, and a little more until he was doin’ a little rub-a-dub-dub on my nub.
    I did what any red-blooded American man in this position would do: I let my nub follow his rub.
    And Frankie knew just what to play at this moment: Rufus & Chaka’s “Do You Love What You Feel?”
    I sho’ ’nuff did.
    But that wasn’t even an appetizer considering what lay ahead: He showed me “He’s the Greatest Dancer” as we got “Lost in Music.” We bumped to Grace Jones’s “Pull Up to the Bumper.” We shook it up on Cheryl Lynn’s “Shake It Up Tonight” and