Welcome to “Winter WonderLove Tales”. I’ve been wanting to post this new series ever since I started blogging in 2019. Here, I’ll share my tales of Like, Lust, Love & Loss (which is actually the title of my collective works of songs and poems) that occurred during my favorite time of year. That’s right, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
The first is a two-part tale of my adventures while hitting the milestone age of 21. Let’s get to it, shall we?
Winter WonderLove Tales: Turning 21 (Pt. 1 of 2) A Bluesy Birthday
If there is one event, I’m sure we all can remember, it’s turning 21. It marks the ending of the dreaded “Limbo Year”. I call Year 20 that because, at that age, you’re not yet an adult and can’t legally do what they do, but you’re no longer a teenager so people tell you to stop acting like one and expect you to grow up.
Me? I turned 21 three days after Christmas, which the late December babies absolutely hate. A lifetime of parties that people couldn’t attend because they were so focused on, and broke or worn out from, Christmas and all of the shopping associated with it.
I had gotten used to that by this point, so it was no longer an issue. The only part that bothered me was not being able to enjoy the good birthday parties. School was out for the holiday break, so there was nothing for me in class like the others. It was cold outside, so people didn’t want to leave their homes unless it was absolutely necessary. Finally, people felt bad because they were so focused on Christmas and had forgotten my birthday altogether.
As I said before, the gifts didn’t matter. I didn’t want that to be an excuse to enjoy a nice party. I just wanted to get together with all of my family and friends. And also like I said before, it was cool at this point. I had gotten used to it.
Chicago, Illinois, December 1988
Being the second youngest in my circle of friends, I was the second from last to turn 21, as it was when I turned 18. That meant a lot of conning to get people to let me into certain parties since I never carried a fake I.D. It was no big deal since I didn’t drink and most parties that we attended were outdoor events or something we threw ourselves.
Now turning 21, this was a different set of circumstances. I was now old enough to do just about anything I wanted. I was home from college and very excited about being of age and hitting some of the wildest places imaginable, with the new year just days away (saving that story for Part 2).
I had a list of places I wanted to go, but my buddies told me to forget about them because they had special plans for me. I was all for it, but a little disappointed because part of my original plans included hitting some jazz and blues clubs, possibly with my older cousin, who gave me my love for both genres.
After enjoying a small celebration at home with my family, four of my cronies showed up, as promised. After enjoying some of the pizza and cake, they asked my parents if it was ok to kidnap me for the evening. My mother and father knew we were going out and since I was legally an adult, that meant I probably wouldn’t be back before, well, like January. That was fine with them, as long as I was back in time for college registration for Spring semester.
Other than asking if we had bail money, my family went back to enjoying television as I put my clothes on, kissed my mother and hugged my sisters on the way out of the door.
First stop was the south side of Chicago at the infamous—
–I swore I was going to forget everything and that his secret was safe with me as we laughed all the way to our second spot. Man, if we only we had smart phones with cameras back in the 80s…
No, I’m not telling you what happened.
Next, we hit a dance club that was bumping a combination of rap, R&B, and Chicago’s famous “House music”. After the D.J. announced my passage to adulthood, I collected numerous “Happy Manhood” hugs AND kisses. Each was quite different than what I was used to in high school.
But I definitely wasn’t complaining.
A few phone numbers and “Call me. Let’s get together before you go back to college” offers, we were off for more fun.
I honestly thought this stuff didn’t happen in real life.
At this point, I didn’t want to go anywhere else because I was ready to die, right there at the club. When they told me they had something special waiting for me at the next spot, I cocked my head in curiosity, wondering how they could outdo the first and second adventures.
And no, it will NEVER be in a blog post.
The name escapes me, but our third and final spot for the evening was, of all places, a jazz club. This was a shock because I was the only member of our group who listened to jazz (and the only person even close to being dressed appropriately). Two of my buddies listened to R&B, Pop and Rock, while the 4th lived for Metal and Hard Rock.
As appreciative as I was, part of me wished we had done the live music scene BEFORE the manhandling mayhem and other mischief. But this was probably the safer way to go about things. Assuming we survived the first.
The moment we walked in my jaw dropped just from hearing the change in volume and richness. The music’s transition from outside to inside was like going from Dorothy’s black and white Kansas to the colorful land of Oz.
The group on stage was at the end of an instrumental jazz and R&B fusion song with a rhythm and bass guitar, keyboard, percussion, and tenor saxophone player. The gorgeous 30-something-old lead singer danced through the mist of cigarette smoke, twirling with a cowbell and alternating between auxiliary percussion instruments, giving the ensemble a sound not unlike contemporary jazz saxophonist Grover Washington, Jr.
My buddy Pete offered me $50 as a dare to jump on the stage, grab the mounted soprano sax, and join in. The size of the man at the entrance was a reminder of why I opted out, deciding to leave the old high school mentality outside.
Besides, I was now considered grown folk!
By the end of the number, I was applauding excitedly with my buddies at the table, minus Peter who had assumedly gone off to “drain the main vein”, as he so often loved to put it.
30 minutes and one set break later the group returned to the stage to what was now a packed house.
The lead singer thanked everyone and asked if there were any couples celebrating an anniversary that night. The question was met with whistling and cheering from one table near the front right side.
She gave them well wishes before the band played a bluesy version of Ray, Goodman & Brown’s “Happy Anniversary”, with her once again singing lead.
It was definitely the sexiest version I had ever heard. Once again, the crowd went wild after its conclusion.
From where we sat near the back, she looked amazing on that stage. I wanted an excuse to walk up there, just to get a closer look, but I couldn’t think of one.
“Are there any BIRTHDAYS out there?” She smoothly whispered into the microphone as the applause died down.
Our table shouted in unison, barking, whistling and cheering in response.
“It’s ‘Kenny’. Have I got that right, honey?”
I froze, having flashbacks of the night my date set me up for a spiritual ambush at her church, one year prior.
My buddies whistled and clapped as I sat there open-jawed and motionless. Apparently, Pete had done more than just go to the bathroom.
“Come on up here, baby!” She ordered…
The next day I told the rest of the gang how cool I was that night, dancing with that voluptuous singer onstage, impressing her with my smooth moves. But my story’s authenticity lasted all of 10 seconds before the eyewitnesses shot it down with laughter.
And since several of them are on the distribution list of my blog, I’m compelled to tell you readers the truth about that moment.
So, here’s what really happened.
“…Come on up here, baby!”
The crowd cheered as my crew pulled me out of my chair, slapping me on the shoulder blades and ushering me to the stage, damn near holding my shoulders those first few steps like a bouncer, dangling a drunk customer on the way out of a strip bar.
Struggling to maintain the strength in my leg muscles, my knees wobbled as I lankily bounced up the 5 or 6 steps to the stage.
“Come here, sugar. You ain’t in trouble.” She joked, reaching out to grab my shaking hand, before pulling me in for a hug and kiss on the cheek.
I could get used to this kinda stuff.
Up close, she looked even more stunning than from our seats in the back: Smooth dark chocolate skin, endless curves that challenged the fabric of her black designer dress, eyes that smiled as much as her full lips with cherry red lipstick and curly black hair, lightly sprinkled with silver glitter, as it was on her mature, gorgeous face. She stood about 5’11” in heels to my 6′.
“How old are you, Kenny-love?” She inquired with interest. I liked that name, trying my best not to shrink and giggle like a schoolgirl at the sound of it.
“TWENTY ONE!!!” My companions roared.
“Ooohhh. You’re a MAN today, hunh?”
“Y-yes ma’am,'” I squeaked to the amusement of the crowd.
“No, you say, ‘Yes, baby’,” she demanded in a sexy resonant tone. “That’s what MY men say.”
“Whooooahhh'” the crowd roared out in unison as she wrapped her arms around my skinny frame.
“You don’t seem so sure about yourself. So if you ain’t, we gon’ MAKE you a man right here, right now…”
The music kicked in as I stood, motionless, wide-eyed, petrified, yet electrified.
I was treated to easily the most sensual, jazziest, rendition of the birthday song I had ever heard. It made Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” song sound like Barney the Dinosaur singing the “I Love You” song.
She sang that song as though it was her last effort before going home to glory, squeezing me tightly the entire time. I swayed with her, mesmerized, forgetting not only my name and age, but why I was even there.
I don’t remember the song ending, just the trance-breaking applause from the audience as she laughed and half-bowed, still latched on to ME, motioning to me as the recipient of the love everyone was giving.
“Come here, Big Daddy,” she teased, pulling me in for a soft, tender kiss, both hands on my cheeks. I took in her intoxicating scent, a sweet combination of mild perspiration, strawberry, butterscotch, and sweet iced tea. I don’t know where the perfume, alcohol, and sweat began or where it ended. I just know the aroma was sophisticated softness. It was Heaven.
“Thank you, momma… m-Ma’am… BABY!” I managed as we hugged and released to extended applause and laughter.
While telling my story to the rest of the crew, I couldn’t even lie about my walk back down the steps and back to our table because my traveling buddies made sure to imitate how I looked.
“So, he lost all of his cool!” Sam laughed, staring at me. “You wimp!”
“Buttermilk Bitch!” Pete fired off, quoting one of my classic phrases.
And he was right. Straight buttermilk that night.
People celebrate turning 21 in many different ways. But I don’t drink, so that didn’t happen. I don’t do drugs, so I didn’t get high. I didn’t even get to spend the night with any of the fantastic women I met.
But I will admit, I did go out with the guys for the most enjoyable birthday ever. And arguably the greatest night of my life.
With New Year’s Eve mere days away…
(To be continued in Pt. 2: “Happy NonStop New Year!” – next post on New Year’s Eve)
Like what you read? How did you celebrate 21? Leave a comment in the section below and be sure to sing up at the bottom to receive email notifications of future posts from Kenny’s Camera, Cooking & Crazy Confessions at ZootsBlogSpot!
Kenny's Camera, Cooking & Crazy Confessions! 
This was an incredible story Kenny! That read was 4D like I was really there in the room. I really need a TV series auto bioptic, like Everybody hates Chris, or Wonder Years…..etc.
The book will be a stellar best seller.
Thank You!
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I’m so glad that you enjoyed it. Yes, these are excerpts from an upcoming book, edited for my blog.
Part 1 posted last night. You’re going to enjoy the second half of the story even more!
Whoever you are, thanks for reading and the kind words!
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