0 comments/ 1400 views/ 2 favorites You Give Good Love By: DevisPixi She was that girl. I went to a friend's daughter's wedding in Newport. I hardly knew how to find Rhode Island on a map, but my friend Vic Toney was connected to some people who could help my radio career. His daughter, Marie, was nice enough, but not what one would call a beauty, certainly not according to the still sexist standards of the new decade of the '80s. Marie was a chubby sweetheart with dark hair and eyes. Her plump breasts looked like torpedo shells and her fluffy white bridal gown made her look like a girl scout poking her head through the top of a pup tent. Everyone noticed her friend, a teenaged girl with peachy complexion and reddish brown Afro curls. That girl was a model. Someone said they saw her face in Cosmo or was it 17? She had a shy smile and barely spoke, even when addressed directly. It was hard not stare at her. She was so beautiful. That girl was a singer. In church, a Catholic Cathedral, she sang "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," a Protestant gospel lyric written by a nice Jewish boy named Simon. The woman-child took a song sung by no lesser a goddess than Aretha and owned it. She started like a barely bubbling brook: "When you're weary..." She carried the verse and refrain on her full bodied mezzo pipes: "Like a bridge over troubled water..." Then she finished at the top of a stained-glass-window shaking crescendo: "I will ease your mind." My eyelashes blinked away tears and I had an erection so hard I was afraid to move for fear of popping off right there in the pew. The singer was that girl. She was a close pal of the bride and was whisked away with the wedding party after church. I saw her again at the outdoor garden reception, between the prime rib and the cake-cutting. Marie was ready to dance with her father, Vic, to his favorite song: "People." The adolescent goddess sang it. Barbra herself would have cried. Me? I squirted a few drops inside my undershorts. Never in my life have I been so erotically aroused by a singing voice. That girl was Whitney. I steeled my courage and introduced myself. "I'm Rick Norman," I said, extending my hand rather formally. Then, like an asshole, I said, "I work in radio. I'm a disk jockey." I was working at a small-town AM station in Connecticut. Wolfman Jack I'm not. "Hi there, Rick," she said in a barely audible chirp. I even thought she might have been hoarse from singing, she was so soft spoken. "I'm Whitney Elizabeth." I blurted out, "You have the voice of an angel." I felt foolish. Whitney blushed and mouthed thank you, but smiled radiantly. "Would you like to take a walk or something?" I asked nonchalantly. At that moment I realized I had never let go of her hand. I felt electricity throughout my body. Yes, my mid-twenties libido was conspiring to make an embarrassing statement under my unbuttoned suit coat. "Oh, yeah!" she said while heaving a sigh. "It's gettin' a little close in this crowd, if you know what I mean." She crooked her elbow and I took hold of it as we walked arm in arm, like old-fashioned lovers taking a stroll. We walked through the garden to a little wooded area and a clearing by a brook. We sat on the rocks, out of sight from the wedding guests. Whitney hiked her frilly dress above her knees. "Phew!" She took a deep breath and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "It's a nice day. I'm happy for Marie." She playfully drawled, "But it's sho' nuff hot." I noticed a few beads of sweat on her forehead. Perfection and perspiration make a nice combo. I savored the aura of her lilac perfume, herbal shampoo, coca butter body wash, and candy-flavored lip gloss. "You have the most incredible singing voice I've ever heard." I spoke sincerely and she surprised me by simply nodding. Of course, I couldn't have been the first person to tell her so. "My mother told me I can sing in church for free," she said, looking off in the distance, not at me. "I don't have to go the professional route if I don't want to." "It's a tough road." I tried to sound knowing. "I played in bands for ten years, trying to make it, but it never happened." Whitney looked at me point blank. "I'm gonna make it." "I think you will," I shot right back. "With your voice..." I gazed into her shimmering brown eyes. "You made me cry and turned me on at the same time. You raised goose bumps." "You're trying to charm my panties off, aren't you?" Whit raised her head and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. "It's working." It would be wishful thinking to write that I poked a hole in Whitney Elizabeth's virginity that summer day. We kissed and caressed each other chastely at first. Gradually, our body temps rose and I touched her little pancake breasts, caressed her eager nipples with my fingertips, and rested my hand next to her pulsing thicket. Whit lifted off her dress and I unzipped my fly and pressed my cock against her soft belly. I marveled at how thin and frail she looked, knowing the awesome godlike power that resided within her. She wrapped both hands and all ten of her fingers around my phallus. She fluttered her fingers holding it in the same manner as she would when holding a mic on stage. She called it, "your big strong love stick." She gave the tip a fleeting kiss and I quaked. She watched my stream of come puddle in the grass. "We gotta stop," she whispered sweetly. "I'm sorry." I agreed and kissed her on the forehead. The realization that she was only seventeen and I had a good ten years on her not only held my urge to pillage her in check, it also kept me out of jail. We moved in different circles for the rest of the afternoon and evening. When Marie Toney's wedding came to an end, I sought out Whitney and she gave me a stiff, "Nice meeting you." As I turned away, she called, "Rick, call me sometime." Needless to say, I never did. Even if I had, I doubt I could get close to her. Eight years, dozens of hit songs, millions of albums sold, an armful of music industry awards, and the first box-office smash transpired later. That girl was a star. On August 9, 1991, Whitney Houston played Great Woods, an outdoor venue, outside Boston. I was a DJ at WZOU and she was the biggest act to come to suburban Massachusetts, since Hulk Hogan wrestled at Foxboro Stadium. Before the show, I tried to see her, but couldn't get past her bodyguard, her father John, her brother Gary, or her mother Cissy. "This is nuts!" I complained. "I'm supposed to introduce her on stage, but I can't even say hello to her." "Let me see what I can do for you," a voice answered. "I'm Whit's best friend, Karyn. I'll talk to her." Karyn was a buxom, six-foot, 200-pound beauty with a short boyish haircut and broad shoulders. She wore tee-shirt, jeans, boots, and a baseball cap. Half an hour later I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Whitney's happily smiling eyes looking at me. "I remember you, Rick," she said and kissed my cheek. Here we go again! I can't see, hear, or touch this woman without my penis stiffening on contact. "That was ages ago." I couldn't think of anything to say. I just stared at her gold hoop earrings and reminisced in my mind. "It's my birthday, you know." She said, "I'm twenty-eight today." "Well, happy birthday," I started to say. "My entourage is going into Boston after the show tonight to par-tay on Lansdowne street ... wherever in the hell that is." She curled her lip comically. "I don't wanna go. I gotta unwind." Then she shocked and thrilled me by squeezing my arm, hissing in my ear. "I have a room in the Holiday Inn down the road ... Incognito! ... I want you to come visit me after the show." As it turned out, Whitney's two-hour show started out as one of her best performances ever, but ended on a down note. She grew hoarse by the last fifteen minutes of the show, but still did the obligatory encore, "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." Backstage Karyn found me and said Whit needed a ride to the motel in Mansfield. "She needs to sneak on out of here, and fast." The funniest thing was that Whit slipped on a sweater, had a scarf over her head, and was wearing plastic sunglasses—at eleven o'clock at night—and we meandered through the crowd and drove out of the parking lot. Not a soul recognized the superstar in their midst. Whitney completely lost her voice while trying to chat with me in the car. She fretted that she would have to cancel her tour, which had only a couple of weeks left to go. She appeared tired and drawn. I gave her a bottled water. She chugged it down like a jock guzzling a beer and asked me if I had any more. I reached under my seat and pulled out another bottle. She drank it down by the time we swung into the Holiday Inn's parking lot. "Oh, now I gotta pee," she croaked in her broken voice. Status has its privileges. The diva walked through the door and every employee on duty snapped to attention. I was sitting in her suite while she jumped in the shower in less than five minutes. This motel room might be incognito, but it was filled with bouquets of flowers, birthday cards, and bottles of champagne. I saw a card from Lionel Ritchie and roses from Clive Davis. When Whit emerged from the bathroom in a fluffy white robe and turban, she produced a cigarette and lighted up with a gold butane lighter. "That can't be good," I pronounced. Now I wonder how many people—except for maybe her mother—ever dare to criticize the diva. She laughed, "We can do a lot worse shit than tobacco." I wasn't sure whether that meant we could or we would. Her voice was still cracked, but sounded like it was coming back. She started to unwrap one of the champagne bottlenecks and asked me to fetch some glasses from the kitchenette. I found only plastic cups and she said, "Just like home in East Orange." After sipping some of the sparkling wine, I said, "At the Super Bowl last year ..." She thought she knew what I was going to say and I saw a hint of the shy little girl that still thrills me in my fantasies. "The best performance of a patriotic song ... blah, blah, blah!" I put down my glass and clasped her hands in mine. "Not that—in fact, I'll take Ray Charles's version of 'American the Beautiful'—it was the way you walked out on that field wearing a jogging suit and sneakers and nailed that sucker perfectly, a capella ... with fifty million people watching ... You're the voice!" Whitney leaned forward and put her face so close to mine our noses touched. "Still tryin' to get in my panties, aren't you?" She kissed me and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Whit had slipped the robe off her shoulders and wore nothing but the amber radiance of her skin beneath it. "Let's pick up where we stopped that day." Very clumsily, I struggled to take off my shirt, shoes, pants, underwear, and socks. I was a sight and my beautiful diva in the nude laughed at my nervous ineptitude. "Relax, sugar." She stretched out on the carpeted floor, crooked her forefinger, and puckered her lips invitingly. Then Whit patted her shaven Venus. "Taste me." I plunged my tongue into her running stream of honey and licked every nook and cranny of her super-womanhood. She bounced her tight buttocks on the floor and shouted orgasmic pleasures as I nibbled, sucked, and sifted the flesh of her vulva, labia, and clitoris. I floated in a reverie of carnal delight as if I were giving cunnilingus to the fertility goddess Vesta incarnate. I worshipped my divine diva and she showered me with her nectar. With just the slightest of prompting as only lovers in the throes of passion can interpolate, we switched positions. Whitney's sore throat seemed long gone when she said, "Gimme that thang." The doe took the staff of her buck in her precious mouth and drank my milk. My ejaculation emerged from the back of my legs and thighs, burned through my chest and groin, and sent a tremor down my spine. "I think that's enough foreplay, don't you, sugar?" Whitney lifted her head, wiped some spittle and foam from the corners of her delicate mouth, and cast her angelic smile upon me. "I hope you brought some protection. I don't even wanna hear it if you didn't." Perhaps I was delusional. A middle-aged married guy like me doesn't need to leave home with condoms, but for reasons I can't explain there was a three-pack of latex sleeves in my jacket pocket. Whit wanted to wrap me up herself and at this point my good fortune was such that I would jump from the Hancock Tower if my angel diva Whitney asked me to do it. "How are we gonna bring Peter Pecker here back to life?" she quipped playfully while rolling my prick in the latex and I fondled her matured round breasts. "Sing me a song," was my glib response. "Ahem-ahem! In case you haven't notice, I'm a little horsey-hoarse." Her fingers kneaded the flesh of my pubis and testicles, prompting a lengthening and hardening of my cock. "My six-year-old daughter goes around the house singing, 'My name is not Susan. My name is Whitney Houston.'" I was sure she would think that was cute. Instead she flashed anger. "You have a baby girl? You have a lady at home? You're married?" "Well, yeah," I answered nervously. "I should have said something, I guess." I lost my halfway erection. "Does she know where you are?" Funny, Whitney Elizabeth was just as erotic when angry as when she was happy. "Yes," I spoke carefully. "She can't know what we're doing now, but if she did, she might understand." "No way!" Whitney wagged her finger in front of my face. "If you love her, and don't wanna lose her, keep your lip buttoned." The she squatted in front of me and used two fingers to open her hot pink thicket. "Get your cute little white ass over here and fill me up." Whitney and I fucked twice, changing condoms, of course, before she called for a bathroom break. While the greatest female vocalist on the planet peed in the toilet, I called my wife, Joanne, and lied to her. "The show ran late. I went back to town with people from the station. I might sleep at the office." "Okay, sweetie." Joanne's voice was groggy with sleep. "Say hi to Whitney for me." I was taken aback, but realized that was Jo's typical wise crack. When I go to the Celtics, she says say hi to Larry. When I go to the Red Sox, she says say hi to Roger. That's her sort of thing. "Stay the night with me, please." Whitney sounded seventeen rather than twenty-eight the way she asked me. Soon we were snuggled under the silken covers and snogging like adolescent paramours. "Can I ask you something, Whit?" "Sure, what?" "Are you really going to marry Bobby Brown?" Whitney raised her head, rested her chin on her fist, and propped on her elbow. "Uh-huh, why not?" "He's from Boston—Roxbury, that is. People around here know him from the New Edition days." "Yeah, so?" Whitney acted more amused than annoyed. "He's got kids and baby mamas and gets into trouble." I didn't know quite how to put it. "He's not good enough for you, Whit." With a theatrical laugh, Whitney asked, "Who should I marry, then, Kevin Costner?" I chuckled at her comment and simply stated, "I just think Bobby's bad news." Reaching for her cigarette case and opening it, Whitney sighed, "You're not the only one who's warned me. Karyn doesn't like Bobby one bit." She fired up the cigarette and inhaled a double-lungful of smoke. "See, he and me have lots in common. Things like family, church, we come from the same roots." Whitney was waiting to exhale as I said to her, "I just think there must be a lot of nice homeboys out there who would worship the ground you walk on." She climbed on top of me and I felt the heat from her body. "And silly ass white boys, too." She took my rooster in her hand, squeezed it, and waited for me to slide on another rubber safety wrapper before she pulled it inside her teeming vessel. "Just as long as he's got a big, strong love stick like yours, sugar." "You give good love to me." We started the dance. "Never too much." We rocked together. "Baby, you give good love." We dreamt in each other arms.