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

shook our bodies all the way down to the ground on the Jacksons’ “Shake Your Body Down (to the Ground).” We got funky on Peter Brown’s “Do You Wanna Get Funky with Me?” and funked up with Sylvester’s “Do You Wanna Funk?” We rocked! and freaked! off of GQ’s “Disco Nights.” We took our time on the S.O.S. Band’s “Take Your Time” and fixed it with Ashford & Simpson’s “Found a Cure,” on which he seemed to catch the Holy Ghost: head extended up to the heavens, eyes closed, right hand bent in the air at a forty-five-degree angle, body bobbing on his toes, and mumbling some very unintelligible yet sexy words. We really got our Praise on with Tramaine Hawkins’s “Fall Down,” Vanessa Bell Armstrong’s “Pressing On,” and the Clark Sisters’ “You Brought the Sunshine.” We boogied on Heatwave’s “Boogie Nights” and boogie-oogied on A Taste of Honey’s “Boogie Oogie Oogie.” We had a better-than-good time on Chic’s “Good Times.”
    And the Gap Band summed up the entire experience: “Outstanding.”
    Believe it or not, with all this bumpin’, shakin’, funkin’, rockin’, freakin’, and boogie-in’ goin’ on, I kept my distance—emotionally speaking. I let him initiate everything that happened—and he had no problem performing that role.
    I didn’t place my arms around his waist— he placed them there.
    I didn’t pull off his shirt— he had me do it (he didn’t wait for an invitation, though, to unbutton and remove my black Polo).
    I didn’t plant my hands on and massage his chest, teasing those pointy nipples as I bumped him from behind— he planted them there (he returned the favor, nipplin’ and nubbin’ me).
    And I didn’t grab ahold of his ass … okay, I did do that on my own, but only because he had ahold of mine (and I could tell by that gleam in his eyes that that’s what he wanted).
    The only sounds that came out of his mouth were gruff Ah s, Oh s, and Mph s (I released some myself). But that changed as McFadden & Whitehead’s “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” faded out and MFSB’s “Love Is the Message” began. We were in what had become our favorite position—his arms stretched out on my shoulders, his meaty thighs squeezing mine, my left hand palming the small of his back, and my right hand glued to his left butt cheek—when he leaned in and brought his lips close to my ear. He inhaled. He was about to say his first words—but they weren’t what I expected.
    â€œCan you Tango Hustle?” he cautiously asked in a creamy baritone voice.
    We had done every dance you could think of—the Snake, the Wop, the Electric Slide, the Bus Stop, the Tootsie Roll, the Running Man, the Wave, the Drop, the Smurf, the Cabbage Patch, the Funky Chicken, even very old-school moves like the Shake, the Mashed Potato, the Jerk, and the Twist. And we did them without discussion or negotiation—we naturally fell into each groove, reading the other’s mind and knowing which foot (and what other body parts) to put forward (or backward). That he’d query me about this one signaled he’d probably come across few (if any) who knew how.
    I wasn’t one of those people. “I sure can.”
    He was happy to hear that.
    Once again I let him take the lead. We glided throughout the crowd, never missing a turn, spin, or dip (we each got dropped).
    After a dozen other “love” tracks—Stephanie Mills’s “What Cha Gonna Do with My Lovin’?,” Phyllis Hyman’s “You Know How to Love Me,” the Jones Girls’ “You Gonna Make Me Love Somebody Else,” René & Ángela’s “I Love You More,” Inner Life’s “I’m Caught Up (in a One Night Love Affair),”