* * *
As always, there's no one to greet me as I come the
front door of my apartment. I feel the way I do most
Thursday nights - my body as rumpled as a slept-in
blouse, weary down to the bone, spent up and spat
out. It's the occupational hazard of a sixty -hour
work week as the office manager of a midtown medical
office. The money and benefits are decent - as if
that's supposed to make up for the mind-numbing clerical
work, churlish doctors and a bitching staff. It doesn't.
I drop my pocketbook and keys there on the small
table and drag my tired ass to the sanctuary of my
living room. Usually take-out and TV are enough to
fill the empty corners in here but not tonight. Tonight
the room feels downright cavernous. A dozen lovers
wouldn't be able to take up the slack, know what I
mean? A sad sounding sigh escapes me. It's been months
- oh Christ, a year? - since I last had someone up
here. What was his name again? Oh yeah, Kemar, who
left me a message on my answering machine to say,
sorry babe, wouldn't work out, mama probably wouldn't
have liked you. Since then I've lived by the dating
maxim of never wasting time on a guy who hides his
heart behind his mama's apron. Check.
There could have been others - Dr. Elliot at work
(who keeps promising me a Caribbean vacation whenever
the family spends two weeks at the Florida time-share),
that TV producer my younger brother tried to set me
up, even that cute guy with the tight butt and Denzel
smile who lives up on the sixth floor of the building
across the street I bump into every now and then at
the coffee shop - but ohmygod! it's hard to keep your
jones alive when it's all you can do just to keep
your damn eyes open after work.
I'm ready to wave the white flag at reality and take
the remote as my consolation prize when I'm stopped
cold by the rich voice of Marvin asking me What's
going on? What's going on? My mouth stretches into
a smile. For the fourth time this month I've come
home to hear soul floating in from outside and let
it slip into my bloodstream until I'm swaying there
in the middle of the room, thinking Mmm, mmm, mmm.
Soul has always had that kinda effect on me. Oh, rock's
okay for the occasional party vibe and hip-hop's always
best for getting in the face of the whole world but
when I just want to shrug off the shit of the day
and grind a little just turn me on some EW & F, Shalamar,
or my girl Chaka Khan. In the stormy sea of reality
there's no better life preserver to drift away on.
I let Marvin's smooth voice wrap its arms around
me and lead me to the space by the window where I
like to dance. No sooner do I get there, the whole
city my audience, than Macy Grey comes on, sealing
my fate. Now you either love or hate Macy and I definitely
fall into the former category. In a world where hip-hop
and rap rule like thin thug princes Macy's phat funk
sweeps the throne clear and tells it like it is.
"I am your sex-o-matic Venus freak when I wit' youÉ"
My girl! I dance right there in the middle of my
living room, not caring who can see in through my
windows. That's the great thing about soul - it sweeps
the dust from your joints and cobwebs from your eyes,
gets you up on your feet, reminds you your alive.
Like right now. I'm sway-stepping this way and that,
fingering open my blouse so I can let it all hang
out. (You can't dance to this song and not expect
to sweat.) Somewhere someone's yelling to turn the
volume down but my unseen D.J.'s not having it, god
bless him! Hey, either dance or crawl back into the
cubbyhole, babe!
The driving funk of Sade's "Paradise" picks up where
Macy lets off. I shrug out of the silk like a snake
shedding old skin. I'm no longer some cynical urban-slick
twentysomething chick. Now I'm sexy out on the floor,
the temple whore strutting her stuff for no one but
she and the goddess, making even the shadows get hard.
At some point, I'm not sure where, I even tug down
my panties and kick them aside. I don't want any restraints,
not even the thin cotton skin of my Jockeys-For-Her.
Heeding some unconscious call perhaps only the lonely
really know, I let my fingers stray back to the scene
of the would-be crime, imagining some charming Friday-night
playa offering me his glossy kisses there. I'm not
surprised to already find myself getting wet. I hear
soft wet pink gasps float in the air and take a moment
or two to realize, mmm, that's me! A smile stretches
across my parched lips; it's been so long I'm practically
a stranger to myself. But that's ok - soul forgives
like God on a Sunday morning.
My invisible D.J.'s shifts it from fourth to overdrive
now, spinning me some Isaac and I writhe against one
of the walls, slide to the floor in a heap of shudders
and sticky thoughts. My legs fall open, knees drawn
up and I let his voice inside my pussy, fill it full.
I'm like the snake surrendering to the charmer's rhythm
and if you think that's an involuntary submission
I've got something to confess, Isaac leaves me squirming
every time, tits aching for a pair of beautiful lips
to suck-soft, my pussy pulsing, Jesus save me!
My free hand's balled up and pounding against the
floor, Mrs. Diametris downstairs be damned. How long
I sit there noisily jiving on the floor with my nipples
spiking through the satin and my skirt hiked up above
my waist I do not know. I don't want to open my eyes
and leave this cozy place but realize at some point
the music's stopped. City noise has filtered back
in - the white-noise soundtrack of a life less ordinary.
My D.J. has vanished, no explanations, no apologies,
no forwarding address, like a playa who's split with
a three am taxi. Fuck, man!
Then a hand raps at the door and all I can think
is shit, it's Mrs. Diametris after all, come to rag
me out about all the noise, what the hell, was I running
a brothel up here? I scramble to my feet and remember
to flatten my skirt and fumble with my blouse's buttons.
I look out the peephole and for a second or two I'm
too stunned to speak - instead of that hairy old hag
there's a beautiful black man on the other side of
my door. He's wearing slacks, polished shoes, yet
his shirt is open and he's wearing a knowing grin.
Oh my god, it's the guy from across the street. For
a couple of heartbeats I can only stand there thinking
numbly, Had he heard me from all the way over there?
Then I spot the record album tucked under his arm
- Hot Buttered Soul - and have to glance back over
my shoulder out the living room window with its drapes
parted wide open.
Now it's my turn to smile. I open the door on my
new favorite D.J. and grab a handful of his shirt.
Get your ass in here, man!
