47.2 - Spring 2018

Page 151

When we weren’t having these impromptu parties, we were having official ones. We were famous for the parties we hosted, all dressed in black clothes and stilettos. Tanya, who was tiny up top, was Padded and Black. Stephanie with her amazing back muscles was Backless and Black. I was Black and Mini because of my Tina Turner legs, as folks called them. And G was Black Halter and Black Jeans, because that was G—she loved her some jeans. Jeans we’d have to help her get into with a wire clothes hanger: she’d lie flat on the floor and I’d place my foot on her belly button to flatten it; she’d (squeeeeze) try to pull both sides of the zipper together, to meet in a kiss. Once she had, Stephanie would slip the curl of the clothes hanger through the square in the zipper, and yank till the zipper came all the way up. Then, G could finally fasten and stand. She wasn’t plus-size; she was phat. At the University of Michigan, football was a religion. And every one of those sexy, big-body ball players broke curfew to party with me and my crew. I’m thinking now of one in particular; his name was RJ Staples. His shoulders were so oh-my-gawd that he could’ve carried that pigskin and all four of us Fun Girls into the end zone at the same time—us beauties balanced on those beauties, a tower of short-skirted cheerers, RJ with the ball tucked in the crook of his left elbow, with his right hand extended out, Heisman-style. RJ, Bobby Junior, was kind, too. He always took out the trash after our parties, and always fixed whatever his rowdy teammates broke. If there was a fight—and there was always a fight—it was RJ who stepped in to remind the drunken fools that “Y’all brothas fools!” and brothers had no business fighting brothers. Lots of times, the cops got called for our guests using the front lawn as a vomitorium, and for us having the music so loud we set off not only car alarms, SPRING 2018

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