Love the One You're With (7 page)

Before we headed to Brooklyn, though, we made a pit stop that was truly the pits. Gene had comps for Dizzy's, which claims to be “the only club in America where disco isn't dead.” I wasn't too thrilled about going; given who was on the flyer (a chiseled white man in white Calvin briefs … how
un
original), I knew we were not going to see the type of folk or hear the type of “disco” we would hear at Body & Soul.

And, when we pulled up in front of Dizzy's, the song that greeted us confirmed my suspicions: the Bee Gees' “Night Fever,” which the deejay introduced just before the first verse with: “And here are the true innovators of disco.”
Huh?
If there is any “white” act that could be called a disco innovator, it'd have to be K.C. & the Sunshine Band (and they were a mixed-race group). White folks finally decided disco was worthy of being respected when
Saturday Night Fever
hit, but the Bee Gees' work was truly cheesy and lacked the grit and soul of
real
disco (listen to the other
Fever
soundtrack contributors—Kool & the Gang, Tavares, and the Trammps—to hear the proof). I've always argued that if disco died,
­they
­were to blame: because of their hokey misappropriation it's no wonder that, ­twenty-five-million-plus albums later, the world overdosed on them and wished the genre itself would go away.

So, I wanted us to, as Soul II Soul once chanted, “Keep on Movin.'”

“Let's just go to Brooklyn, Gene,” I insisted, tugging on his arm as he paid the taxi driv­er.

“Chile, we won't stay long.” He opened the cab door and stepped out. “Besides, it's always good to see how the other half is
not
having fun.”

After checking our coats and passing through a makeshift museum that house­d a gold record of the Bee Gees', the Golden Globe Paul Jabara won for “Last Dance” (the theme from the ­not-as-celebrated disco flick
Thank God It's Friday
), and the velvet ropes used outside Studio 54, we entered the main room—and ­were assaulted by the lights. Strobe beams flickered green, red, and yellow in every­ direction. A giant, ­silver-studded, spinning disco ball hovered above the center of the dance floor, which itself blinked on and off. All the flashing annoyed the hell out of us but didn't seem to bother the rest of the clientele.

“This would be a sniffer's paradise for those who love cocaine,” Gene observed.

“You got that right.” In fact, you could count the Negroes on two hands—and you know I counted them (yes, I included Gene and me). Most of the two-hundred-plus white men seemed out of place in that bland and boring white-short-sleeved-T-and-faded-blue-jean ensemble. There were a few preppies (khakis, varsity sweatshirts, and loafers) and a lone punk sporting purple spiked hair, slashed denims, and black Doc Martens. But some
did
keep in tune with the spirit of the place: several had on platforms and bell-bottoms, there was a Village People incarnation (the Cop, the Construction Worker, the Sailor, and the Indian, who was a
very
pale face), a Donna Summer drag
on
queen (he was a beast), and, of course, a half-dozen John Travolta wannabes, dressed in silk shirts and white polyester suits. Unfortunately, everyone (including the few colored folk) were doing that white-boy shuffle: moving and clapping off beat, some so erratically you'd think they were on drugs (they probably were; the only way some folks can listen to disco is if they
are
fucked up).

We got our complimentary drinks and stood directly below the deejay booth. We were hoping our distaste for the selections would be felt by her and the music would get better. It didn't. The Bee Gees were followed by Leo Sayer (“You Make Me Feel Like Dancin'”), Leif Garrett (“I Was Made for Dancin'”), Rod Stewart (“Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?”), and, the ultimate horror of horrors, Rick Dees (“Disco Duck”). If
this
is the music that people define disco by, it's no wonder there were well-publicized and well-attended events where stacks of disco records were demolished and/or torched (hell, I would've volunteered to drive the bulldozer or start the fire). It was odd that we hadn't heard any Black female artists; Diana's “Love Hangover,” Thelma's “Don't Leave Me This Way,” Gloria's “I Will Survive,” and almost anything by Donna are staples at white gay clubs. Whether these ladies were already played or coming up next, we didn't plan on sticking around to find out: as Cher began pleading “Take Me Home,” we made our exit.

The best things in life aren't always free.

Three dollars is all the folks who put on Body & Soul charge and it's a criminally low sum to pay for the very jood time you know you'll have. Frankie Knuckles, undoubtedly
the
greatest deejay and mix master ever, was on the turntables this eve, so we knew he'd be crankin' out those classics nonstop (jood thing I wore my dancin' shoes: a pair of black Rockports that are also great for walking). We arrived just as the horn-howling intro to
the
“let's get this party started
right
” tune blared: Cheryl Lynn's “Got to Be Real.” Frankie continued on a Disco Diva run: Evelyn “Champagne” King (“Shame”), Aimee Stewart (“Knock on Wood”), Anita Ward (“Ring My Bell”), Miss Ross (“The Boss”), Karen Young (“Hot Shot”), Candi Staton (“When You Wake Up Tomorrow”), and Taana Gardner (“Heartbeat”). And, as it always does, Patti's “Music …” caused Gene to go into a trance, his body jerking as if he were having a seizure. By the end of the song I was rocking him like a baby, as he sobbed. But he did a three-sixty on Loleatta Holloway's “Hit & Run” (unlike Loleatta, Gene believes in stickin' but not stayin').

Then Frankie proved the beat
did
go on when the eighties rolled in, serving us treats like Atlantic Starr's “Circles,” Two Tons O' Fun's “Just Us,” Womack & Womack's “Baby I'm Scared of You,” Denroy Morgan's “I'll Do Anything for You,” Teena Marie's “Square Biz,” Fonda Rae's “Over Like a Fat Rat,” Gwen Guthrie's “Ain't Nothin' Goin' On but the Rent,” Imagination's “Just an Illusion,” Young & Company's “I Like What You're Doing to Me,” Indeep's “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life,” Patrice Rushen's “Forget Me Nots,” D-Train's remake of “Walk On By,” and back-to-back jams from Alicia Myers: “You Get the Best from Me (Say, Say, Say)” and “I Want to Thank You,” which
everyone
sang—including Gene, who is an atheist (that dance floor
can
take you places you wouldn't normally go, but the conviction with which he recites those lyrics makes me wonder if he's a closet Christian). When Alicia repeated the song's verse a second time, Frankie cut the music as we swayed to our own voices and drummed the beat with our feet. 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 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.

“Can 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.