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“We’ll see about that.” I roll my eyes and refocus on the woman’s performance as it comes to a close.
She exits the stage to a round of applause and hands the mic off to the next participant. A scrawny guy with glasses and a choppy haircut enters the spotlight, confidence spewing from him. Our voices grow quiet as we anticipate what he’ll be singing tonight. Sir-Mix-a-Lot’s Baby Got Back comes through the amplifier, sending the crowd into a supportive uproar.
To much surprise, he delivers every line with just as much enthusiasm as the rapper himself. Even throws in a few fake ass slaps to the imaginary woman grinding on him. When his set is over, he exits left, confidently accepting and basking in the flow of fist pumps and praises from the audience. I stand, joining in on the parade, banging my fist against the air and screaming into a makeshift megaphone. Simmering down, I take my seat and cross my legs. Jackson watches me in awe, laughing and seemingly surprised by my actions.
“What?” I ask, tilting my head slightly and reaching for my drink. “He did good!” I continue.
“Nothing,” he says slyly while raising an eyebrow in my direction.
A few more acts go up, some solo, some couples, and even a few groups. All singing a range of nineties hits from the Backstreet Boys to Destiny’s Child, TLC, NYSNC, Dru Hill, and many songs from artists like Mick Jagger, Justin Timberlake, Usher, Lil Jon, Biggie, and more. The latest act, an African-American couple, finish a duet of Avant and KeKe Wyatt’s My First Love. The MC takes the stage, escorting them out and clearing the floor for the next person.
Jackson stands at the mention of his name. With his back to the crowd, he walks while grinning and pointing at me. People watch our interaction, and I chuckle while resting my elbow on the table and using my fingers to hide my face. He playfully spins so that he faces the far wall of the stage, giving all the women a shot of his obviously firm glutes. He pauses for dramatic effect, adjusts his shorts, then points, signaling the DJ to drop the track.
The beat from Ginuwine’s Pony plays, and he twirls, snatching the mic and slow grinding while singing the lyrics. Cat calls and loud claps come from several ladies, and I fight myself not to join in. This seems to be the boost he needs to increase his energy. I let out a hearty laugh, in shock at his song choice and his advanced seductive dance skills. My mind trails to my attraction to him, leaving me no choice but to be honest with myself. My skin is sticky with sweat, and I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or Jackson and the vibe he’s throwing my way right now. Whichever it is, I’m open to exploring. The hook hits, and Jackson ups his efforts, singing and entertaining the room.
I mouth along to the lyrics with the rest of tonight’s patrons, dancing in my seat, my motions almost identical to his. The song ends, and I stand to express my appreciation of his performance. The instrumentals come to a complete close, but he doesn’t exit the stage. Instead, he fixes his shirt, wipes sweat from his brow, and shakes his limbs. Soon the music switches gears, and a new beat flows. Instantly picking up on its cadence, I roar with laughter, covering my face with my palms. He moves his shoulders stiffly to the rhythm of JB’s Boyfriend. He points, and everyone stares in my directions as he raps the words.
“If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go. I can take you places you’ve never been before. Baby, take a chance or you’ll never ever know.”
The chord comes in, and soon I’m grooving, rapping to the bass of the hook. The crowd chimes in with the chorus, drowning out Jackson’s vocals. This doesn’t stop his hustle, though. He continues until it’s over, all the while never taking his eyes off me. Seeing this side of him, goofy and free, lights me up.
Jackson calls me to the stage, but I refuse to move, shaking my head, insisting that he leave me be.
“Oh, come on,” he speaks into the mic. “Don’t y’all want her to get up here with me?”
They all gang up on me, chanting for my cooperation, their voices vibrating through my ears, making it hard for me to continue to resist. It becomes clear to me that they aren’t going to let it go, not until I am up on that platform, embarrassing myself.
“Fuck it!” I say, downing the remainder of my drink for added courage. I’m nowhere near as drunk as I need to be, but this will have to do. I slam the empty glass on the table, stand, and easy my way to the front.
Ecstatic claps surround me, and I shake my head at the peer pressure I’ve just given in to. At least it’s this and not snorting coke or some other highly addictive substance.
Jackson holds out a hand, helping me to the stage with a Kool-Aid smile plastered to his mug. Rolling my eyes, I snatch the mic from his hand and continue until I reach the center.
“Ow,” he adds, shaking his hand, flicking away the imaginary flame.
The MC hands him a second mic, and he joins me in the middle. The room quiets down as they and I wait for the song Jackson picked for this duet to play. The instrumentals for You’re the One That I Want from the Grease soundtrack plays, and I erupt into laughter.
John Travolta’s verse begins, and Jackson goes all in while I am steadfast in my position, covering my face in embarrassment. This doesn’t last long, for I am quick to get into character for Olivia Newton’s line. Mic gripped firmly in place, I sing the lyrics.
“You better shape up…because I need a man.”
The crowd cheers, and Jackson’s face lights up when I walk towards him sashaying my hips just as Sandy does in the movie. He joins me in a half-assed reenactment of the famous choreography. By the end of the song, I’m both out of breath and full of adrenaline. I return the mic to its stand and accept his aid off the platform. We make our way back to our seats, still laughing and interacting with people congratulating us on a job well done.
“I can’t believe I got up there,” I yell over my shoulder to him.
“You did great,” he says.
As we draw closer to our table, I pause when I spot Aliza and D'Andre sitting in the other two chairs. I contemplate on whether I want to sit with them or try to convince Jackson to head out for the evening. He must notice them, too, because he squeezes my shoulders and whispers reassuring words in my ear, then guides me forward. He pulls a chair out, and I sit.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t know these were your seats,” Aliza says.
“Don’t worry about it. There’s plenty of room,” Jackson adds, taking the seat to my left.
D'Andre isn’t saying anything. He only looks at the two of us through the bottom of his glass. I worm in my seat, my pressure rising in this uncomfortable situation.
Jackson notices and leans into me. “Hey, are you okay?” he whispers.
“Yeah, I’m going to grab us another round.”
