Love the One You're With (31 page)

He went around to each table, thanking folks for coming out. Handshakes and shoulder rubs to most of the men, hugs and kisses to most of the women, including that very enthusiastic sister, who also squeezed him on the ass and slobbered him with a kiss (he didn't seem to mind). She was very attractive (she's the first woman I've ever seen with an hourglass figure), but the weave was a wove (very Art Garfunkel-ish) and the brown leather halter top was cut
so
low those two torpedoes attached to her chest were about to blast out. He tried to ease from her grip, but she wouldn't release him. He whispered something in her ear; she gave me a twice-over and nodded. She pecked him on the nose, groped the butt one last time, and let him go.

The sideburns were gone, but the mustache was thicker and so was the 'fro. He had on a dark gray pin-striped suit with a black shirt, and wing-tipped black shoes. He worked up a serious sweat: some ten minutes after the performance, he was still dabbing his forehead, and drops of perspiration continued to slowly make their way down his chest (his shirt was unbuttoned, midchest up). I would've loved to have done the dabbin' for him …

He sat down. He placed his stretched-out elbows on the table and clasped his hands under his chin. “So … what did you think?”

I leaned in. I smiled. “You were jood.”

“Huh?” he inquired, rather puzzled.

“Jood. Better than good.”

He nodded. “Ah. Okay. I gotta remember that one. Any song in particular you enjoy the most?”

“I can't say I enjoyed any one song more than the rest. But I enjoyed the way you interpreted each one. You have a brilliant voice.”

“Thanks.”

“And that moan of yours …” And what a
moan
it was … “That's gonna be the thing that hooks people, that folks listen for. They'll know it's you immediately. It'll rival Ronald Isley's ‘La-da-da-da-da-da.'”

“I don't know about that,” he gushed.

“It's already setting hearts afire. Take your groupie over there. She cried out every time you did it.”

He acknowledged her. “Reena … she's a special friend.”

Hmm
…
how “special” a friend
is
she?
I wanted to ask, but it was really none of my business. So … “And I see you love Ashford & Simpson.”

“How could you tell?” He smirked, dabbing the chest. “Yeah. They're one of the greatest—and
underrated
—songwriting teams.”

“I agree. It's interesting that you chose songs they composed for others. Any reason why?”

“You can't sing any song they recorded together solo. And I don't think Stan or Cal would be willing to sing soprano.”

I chuckled. “And you put a hurtin' on that Steinway.”

“Thanks.”

“How long have you been playing the piano?”

“Since I was eleven.”

“You taught yourself, didn't you?”

“How you know?”

“I just got that feeling. You play it like it's … a natural thing. Like it
came
naturally. I always wanted to play.”

“Maybe I can teach you.” He reached out and took my right hand. “You've got the fingers for it. Long …” He caressed each one. “… soft …” He peered into my eyes. “… and sexy.”

Janine interruped this intimate moment. “Oh … I hope I'm not disturbing anything.”

Montee released my hand. We both blushed.

She placed drinks in front of us. “Y'all enjoy.”

“Thanks, J, we will,” he replied.

I leaned in. “She seems a little out of place …”

“Janine? Ha, I guess she does. But she's real cool. Besides, when your nephew is the owner …” He pointed to a white man who resembled Ray Liotta, standing near the bar.

I sighed. “I really couldn't drink another one of these.”

“Why—you feelin' a little buzz?”

“Yes, I am. And I don't need to feel a
lot
of buzz.”

“Don't worry. I'll make sure you get home okay.” He grinned.

I bet you will—to
your
home.

He held up his glass; I followed suit.

“To a sweet man. I appreciate you coming out. You made my night.”

I nodded. We clinked. We drank.

“So, tell me, is this a gay nightclub?” I inquired.

“No.”

I surveyed the room—the smooching was still going on. “Ha, you wouldn't know it.”

“As they say, birds of a feather. Some of these folks are my regular peoples, others heard about me through the grapevine.”

“Does the owner mind?”

“So long as folks are spending money on drinks and his famous hot wings, Joe don't care
what
way you swingin' it.”

As if she knew that was her cue, Janine popped up again—with a batch of those famous hot wings.

“Thanks, J.”

“You more than welcome.” She palmed by back. “Enjoy, hon.”

“I will, thanks.”

He immediately scooped up five and dropped them on a plate while tearing into a sixth. “I am one hongry Black man. I haven't eaten since lunch.”

“Why?”

“Butterflies. I always get nervy before a concert. My stomach be doin' the cha-cha.”

I noticed some sauce about to drip onto his jacket and caught it just in time with my napkin.

He was pleased with my deed. “Thank you, sir. You saved me from looking like a slob the rest of the night.”

I nodded a
you're welcome
.

“Ain't you gonna join me?”

“Uh, no. I ate not too long ago.”

“Hmm … it's all right. I don't mind if you enjoy watching me eat.” He winked.

What is he, psychic?

“Back to your audience,” I continued. “Is that why you switched up the identifications in some of the songs, but not in others?” On “Cry Together,”
Me and my woman
became
Me and my baby
, but he didn't change
boy
in “Where My Lips Have Been” or “The Answer Is You.”

“Yup. You not only have to play
for
your audience, you gotta play
to
them.”

“After you make it big, I guess you won't be playing for gay audiences anymore …”

“
Hell
yeah.”

“You will?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know of any Black male singers who do.”

He shrugged. “Guess I'll be the first.”

“Do you think your manager and record company will approve?”

“As long as I'm puttin' money in their pockets, why should they care
where
it's comin' from?”

Hmm … “So, are you going to be an openly gay singer?”

“No. I'll be an openly
bisexual
one.”

That he's bisexual didn't surprise me; that he planned to be open about it in the industry did. “You think the world is ready for that?” I was being facetious.

“I don't know what the world is ready for, and I ain't much concerned. I do know what
I'm
ready for. If MeShell Ndegéocello can do it, so can I.”

“Well, she
is
a woman. It's easier for some folks to digest her as bisexual.”

“True. But I wouldn't be trying to reach them. I ain't trying to change folks' opinions. I just wanna make good music, and whoever wants to go along for the ride can.”

“Will you record songs that are gender specific?”

“It will depend on the song. And it'll also depend on how I feel it. Like, some songs you just can't switch up. Take James Ingram's ‘You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Man.'
That
was a mistake.”

Indeed. And of
all
the Aretha tunes he could have covered …

“I can even do both versions and release them. Nothing says I can't. That way I've got both bases covered. I can play the big houses, packin' in the straight sisters, and do the gay circuit and Black Pride events.”

“Mmm … sounds like you've got it all planned out.”

“If you don't have a plan in this business, you ain't gettin' very far.”

He chomped; I sipped.

“You're a brave man,” I observed. “It will take a lot of courage and will to go up against that machine.”

“Hey, I gotta do what's right in my soul. Besides, even if I don't get a major label to sign me, I can do my thang on an indie. Or the royalties from my songs can bank my own start-up. However it will happen, I don't know. But I do know that it will happen.”

I not only believed him, I believed
in
him. And I was also proud of him: he could easily play the role or he could just pass and, after a few successful albums, test the waters and see how the public would accept him “coming out.” But he refuses to participate in that charade. That's the mark of a man with integrity.

And, yeah, it was turning me the
fuck
on.

Just then, a man—a
burly, brawny
man—crept up behind him, swatting him on his neck. Montee spun around, irritated. But that changed once he got a jood look at who it was.

And
I
got a jood look at him. Is
that
who I
think
it is?

While Montee rose to greet him, the brother literally snatched him out of the chair and into his thick left arm.

“Yo, whazzup, Son?” the man asked.

“Same ol', same ol'. How 'bout you?”

“Just chillin'. Nigga, where yo' azz been? You been off tha fuckin' radar fuh weeks.”

“Man,
you
the one been off the radar. And you always know where to find me.”

“Ha, that I do.”

“What you doin' in town?”

“I'm visitin' my peoples up in money-earnin' Mount Vernon. It was a last-minute thang. You know I don't be rollin' up in da Big Apple wit'out givin'
you
a holla.”

Montee was
so
engrossed that he forgot I was there. When the brother motioned my way with his head, Montee caught himself and did the introductions. “Oh, I'm sorry. Mitchell, this is Noble. Noble, Mitchell.”

It
was
him.

Noble (aka Frederick Mannings) is a twenty-five-year-old rap artist from (of all places) Des Moines, Iowa (I didn't know Black people
lived
there). Instead of braggin' about bein' a player and a pimp, he waxes poetic about his favorite pastime: partying. His gold hits—“Get on the Floor (1-2-3-4)” and a remake of Chaka Khan's “It's My Party”—are ear-friendly, PG-rated dance jams that pop radio warmed up to. The debut they were culled from,
Where Da Party At?
(which was one of only nine rap CDs released last year
without
a “parental advisory” sticker), earned him a double platinum certification, a Grammy nomination, and a Soul Train Music Award. He's got rapid-fire verbal skills (the hip-hop community has tagged him one of its fastest ever) and the “right” rap résumé (son of a single mother, high-school dropout, former drug dealer, several run-ins with the law, and three kids out of wedlock by three women), but it's that rugged, ranch-hand stature—a V-shaped torso; muscle-pumped, vein-bulging arms and legs; and a robust, armorlike chest—that has gotten him the most attention. Last year he was picked by
Ebony
as one of its Most Eligible Bachelors, and last month became the first rap artist to grace the cover of
Playgirl
(there were
many
ass shots—and the brother do got some
serious
back—but he decided against frontal nudity because “When white folks look at me, they see a big black dick anyway”).

I'd never heard any “stories” from the Children about him (à la “
Of course
he's gay … on such and such night/day, in such and such city, at such and such locale, we/my friend and him/my
friend's
friend and him did such and such …”), but the way he greeted Montee told the
whole
story. That wasn't a booty pat he gave Montee, the one brothers sometimes lay on each other when they embrace—it was a booty
pluck
. That huge left hand covered—and
clenched
—Montee's entire right bun.

He leaned in sideways and shook my hand, with the other hand
still
attached to Montee's butt cheek. “Whazzup?”

“Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand; that copper skin was so soft and sheen.

“Mitchell sang background on the song that Kev just cut,” Montee said, making it clear to Noble how we
didn't
know each other.

Noble finally ungripped Montee's ass and both hands found their way to (where else?) his crotch. “Ah. A'ight. What Seymour song didja sing on?”

My eyes darted over to Montee. “Seymour?”

“Uh, yeah, that's my middle name,” a somewhat embarrassed Montee admitted. He frowned at Noble. “Yo, man, I done told you not to be tellin' folks that.”

“Yo, sorry, brotha.” Noble shrugged, not much concerned.

“It was ‘All the Man You Need,'” I offered, trying to direct the convo back to the music.

“And Mitchell gave it just what it needed,” Montee added. “He really is a good singer.”

“Yo,
some
body gotta make that nigga sound good. Tha way he be hackin'? He could wake tha
dead
'n' shit. Me 'n Malice was just talkin' 'bout his no-sangin' azz.”

“That ain't stop either one of y'all from workin' on his new album.”

“Man,
this
nigga ain't stoopid,” he trumped, bumpin' up his chest. “If there's green ta clock, I'm ready ta rock.”

“So, how long you in town?”

“Just tha weekend. I head back out Monday in tha
A.M
. I missed ya first set, but I'm gonna stick around fuh tha next one. And maybe we can, uh, nibble on a little sumthin', sumthin' afterward.” He quickly darted that very
long
tongue out of his mouth.