Love the One You're With (26 page)

“Sure.”

“You listen ta my music?”

I wanted so bad to say,
You call what you make
music? but restrained myself. “Yes, I do.”

He assumed the homie stance: upper body bent back and slightly to the right, right leg forward, left hand under his right arm, and his right hand under his chin. “Got a fav'rite cut?”

You
know
I didn't have one, but just to make him happy (and not get fired from this gig) … “You're Gonna Love What I Got.” I would've said “Ass Bonanza,” Pooquie's fave (he loves to be plowed as it's played), but knew
that
could lead to a place we didn't need to travel to …

“Ah … that's tha dopest cut on that CD. I wanted them ta release it, but you know how da Man is: it's his way or tha fuckin' highway.”

He then started croaking and cracking it—which made me
cringe
. It's one thing to hear him on CD—it's quite another to hear him in person. He sounds worse in the flesh. (At least he has the sense to know he cannot sing in public—his only “live” musical performance has been on Showtime at the Apollo, and he talked through both songs. But given the buildup he's about to receive, he'll have to take some voice lessons
fast
.)

After the first verse, he warbled to the chorus: “I'm gonna swing it, tha way
you
want it, I'm gonna bring it, tha way
you
want it, don't worry, bay-bay,
you're
gonna love what I got.” Hmm … in the song, he doesn't emphasize
you
or
you're
and actually says, “
Girl
, you're gonna love what I got.” Was the man trying to serenade me?

If so, it wasn't working. But it was working for
him
: the bulge I didn't think could get any larger or longer did.

Thank God
both Mack and Bryant returned. Kevron's great eye candy and the idea of being hit on by a celebrity like him was flattering, but I wouldn't have been able to stand one more bad note.

As Mack handed me a bottle of Evian, Bryant clapped his hands. “Well, gents, it's time to get buzy.”

We made our way through a maze of a hallway, zigzagging so much I just knew we were lost, until we arrived at the control room.

As Mack stood guard outside and Kevron stared me down, Bryant briefed me on the song. It was called “All the Man You Need.” Immediately I thought it would be a variation on Whitney's hit (which Luther had just recorded), but it wasn't. A smoky ballad, it contains an interpolation of Bobby Brown's “Rock with You,” so I'm sure all those hip-hopsters will warm up to it. But considering some of the other songs Kevron's done, this one was tame when it came to sexually suggestive lyrics.

The chorus:

                      Come on girl

                      I'll take the lead

                      Let me show you

                      that I'm all the man you need

                      Come on girl

                      Your hunger I'll feed

                      just let Kev be

                      all the man you need

And the bridge:

                      I promise

                      it'll be an unbelievable night

                      I promise

                      you'll want it over and over again

                      for the rest of your life

Tantalizing yet tasteful, it was very similar to Boyz II Men's “I'll Make Love to You” in tone and flavor. But, once again, it has to be all about Kev: I'd bet my session check that the songwriter didn't pen it
for
him.

Because it wasn't as sexually explicit as his other tunes, Bryant believed “All the Man You Need” needed, as he put it, “a softer anchor.” He had already recorded it with two of his regular female session singers but felt they were a bit too soft. So he called up Jimmy Newland, the brother who “discovered” me when I performed Stevie's “You & I” at Babyface and B.D.'s wedding last year. Jimmy raved about my range and said he could get me some session work; as far as Pooquie was concerned, Jimmy really wanted to
do
some session work on me, and not the singin' kind. But he's never made a move on me and has come through with those moonlighting jobs with folks like Will Downing, Pebbles, Regina Belle, Faith Evans, and Phyllis Hyman (it would be one of the last songs she recorded before committing suicide). Both Bryant and Jimmy graduated from Howard in '88 with degrees in music management, and Bryant knew that Jimmy would be able to locate a singer whose voice would be recognized as male but had “a little feminine flair to it”—and who would come quick and cheap (figuratively speaking, of course). And after years of screaming along with Aretha, Chaka, and Patti, I fit the bill.

After listening to the track twice (as usual, Kevron croaks and cracks up a storm), doing an a cappella run-through and an instrumental-track sing-along, Bryant taped me. I suggested that instead of repeating the entire chorus at the end, I could riff off of “All the man you need,” particularly since Kev was
bad
-libbing “I'll take the lead” and “Your hunger I'll feed.” They appreciated the change.

I got comfortable in the studio, sitting on a stool. I put on the headphones. I took a very deep breath. “I'm ready.”

Bryant did a countdown. “Five, four, three, two, one …” He pointed to me.

When the red light went on and the “Recording” sign flashed, I closed my eyes. I always think of Pooquie while singing. And, more than any other song I had been asked to sing on, this one fit us like a G. I could see us getting very freaky-deaky off of this. And I guess that visual helped bring out what they wanted.

For, five minutes and eleven seconds later …

“That's a take,” Bryant bellowed. “We're gonna play it back.”

We listened to it.

Kevron was thrilled with the result. “Yo, Money, them vocals was
tight
.”

Bryant agreed. “Yeah, Mitchell, this is
exactly
what we need. Jimmy was right—you were the best choice to help us out on this track.”

“Thanks. Does this mean I'm finished?”

“Yeah. I still have some mixing to do, but you're done. Just make sure you sign the register so you get credited.”

I took off the headphones and I stepped out of the studio. Kevron and Bryant were no longer in the control room.

Montee was. What the hell is he doing here?

He grinned, slowly spinning left to right in one of the black leather swivel chairs. “Thanks for making my song sound so good.”

His presence truly worked me; all I could muster was a very weak … “Your song?”

“Yeah, my song. I wrote it.”

“
You
wrote that song?”

“Yeah,
I
wrote that song.”

Silence.

“Well … it's a great song,” I congratulated.

“Thanks. You made it
sound
great.”

“Thanks,” I gushed.

“Welcome. You make
him
sound good—and
that
ain't an easy thing to do. That brother thinks pitch is only something Dwight Gooden does.”

“Indeed.”

“It's obvious you don't. Alan was right: You got a voice on you. I wasn't gonna come down tonight, but
some
thin' told me to. I'm glad I did.”

Silence.

“So … who were you thinking about?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“While singin', who was on your mind?”

“What makes you think I was thinking of someone while singing?”

“Singin' that song the way you was? Don't even try to front. I know.
I
been there.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I was … maybe I wasn't.”

He grinned. “Was it me?”

I frowned. “No, it wasn't.”

He studied me. “You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“ 'Cause if it was … I was just gonna say that … the feelin' is mutual.” He rose and stood in front of me, our faces just an inch apart. “With me writin' 'em and you singin' 'em … we could really make some
beautiful
music together.”

We gazed.

I stepped back. “I … I'd better go.”

He followed me out of the control room. “Mitchell, wait …”

I stopped.

“I'll be singing at a club called Oasis this Friday night. I play there once a month. I'd love for you to be my special guest.”

“I … I don't know.”

“Just think about it, okay? After sharing your gift with us, with me … I just want to return the favor. And I'd really love to know what you think of me, of my act.”

“I … I … I'll think about it.”

That was jood enough for him. “Great.” He took out a business card; he wrote on the back of it. “This is the address. If you need directions, you can call that number.”

I took it. “Good night,” I mustered, breezing up the hall. When I knew I was out of sight, I stopped to catch my breath. I felt flushed. They say it only takes a minute to fall in love, but it only takes a second to
fall
—and I almost did just that.

I needed some water. I had left my bottle in the studio, but wasn't about to go back in that direction. I dipped into a nearby bathroom, failing to notice the “Out of Order” sign. It turns out it wasn't out of order. It was placed there for a different reason.

As I was standing in the vestibule, the first thing I remember was the smell. Kevron's smell.

And then the slapping. Something was being slapped. Slapped repeatedly. Slapped
very
hard.

And a yelp followed each slap.

I carefully pushed open the door leading to the stalls.

Whack!

“Mph, Big Poppa, spank dat azz!”

Whack, whack!

“Oooh!”

Whack, whack, whack!

“Oooh oooh!”

I was frozen. What do I do? Part of me wanted to see,
really
see, whether or not the rumors (from Gene and Pooquie) I heard were true. And if he was
really
trying to serenade me.

I crept to the final stall, stopping a head's peek away.

“I'm gonna get one mo' lick befo' I stick ya …”

Slurpslurpslurp.

“Ssss,
yeah
, eat dat
azz
, eat it all up,
yeah
!”

I peeked. I
geeked
.

Holding on to the top of the stall, Kevron was kneeling on the handicapped handlebar attached to its wall, his big azz stuck out and being eaten out by Bryant. Both were naked, although Kevron had on his sneakers, do-rag, and (of course) the jewelry.

I thought Bryant was jerkin' off as he feasted, but he was actually rolling a condom down his dick. Now that's what you call
skill
.

After arming himself for battle, Bryant stuck one, then two, then three, then all four fingers up Kevron's hole, preppin' it for the real thing.

“Ooh
, come
on
, Big Poppa,
yeah
, give it ta me, come
on
,” Kevron begged as that booty shivered.

The position was perfect; Bryant didn't have to rise on his toes, stoop down, or maneuver Kevron's ass (Hmm … I got the feeling they'd been there before). He just aimed for and slid that very long and very thick dick all the way inside. No red or yellow lights, no yield or stop signs.

Kevron took it all—with a big ol' smile. “Oh
yeeeeaaaah
, Big Poppa …”

“Ha, ya like dat dick, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Kevron liked it so much that he started twirlin' and twistin'.

“Uh-huh, yeah, work dat dick,” Bryant demanded.

Relaxin' for the ride, Bryant crossed his arms behind his back and started bumpin' 'n humpin'.

“Uh-
huh
, Big Poppa,
mph
, take
all
dat pussy,
yeah
!”

“Ha, don't worry, this pussy gonna be
all
mine …”

Bryant slid in and out, teasing Kevron.

“Nah, nah,
nah
, Big Poppa, don't fuck wit' me like that, now,
she-it
!”

“Ha, I'll
fuck
witcha any way I want … now take
that
!”

He plowed inside.

“Ooh
yeah
, Big Poppa, you da man,
yeah
!”

“Yeah, I'm
all
the man
you
need, right,?”

“Uh-huh!
BP, bang it like ya
knooooow
!”

He did.

Bryant began violently banging Kevron (or, rather, his head and shoulders) into the stall wall, never missing a funky fucking beat.

“Ya better act like ya know! I … better … not … EVER … hear … you … singin' … a … song … fuh … some … OTHER … nigga … like … that … A-GAIN!”

And all through that, the brother's glasses never moved, even though they were hangin' right on the tip of his nose.

Every word was accented with a
THRUST
that I know had to be so painful it couldn't be nothin' but pleasurable.

And Kevron showed just how pleasurable it was: he started
sangin'
.

That's right,
sangin'
.

I mean, this boyee was
wailin'
, okay? Starting off in the low basement bass register and going so soprano high, my ears popped. The harder Bryant bootay-slammed him, the louder and higher that voice soared.

With Bryant pumpin' up that jam (
“I'm gonna FUCK that song right OUTA yo' AZZ!”
) and Kevron sweepin' the scales (
“I'm singin it fuh you, bay, I'm singin' fuh YOU, bay, ya know I'm singin' it JUST fuh YOU, bay, so keep on DOIN' it 'n DOIN' it 'n DOIN' it RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
), I almost busted out laughing. I had to get out of there before I did.