Can't Get Enough of Your Love by J.J. Murray Page B

roll my eyes. “I listen to it, too.”
    She blinks. “You mean … that this is the music you do it to.”
    â€œSometimes. I also listen to it when they’re not here.”
    â€œInteresting.” She holds up
Power Rock of the ‘70s
. “This
has
to be for the white boy. White boys like that rock ‘n’ roll stuff.”
    Not Roger. “No. Guess again.”
    â€œOh, please don’t tell me Karl. I would lose so much respect for him.”
    â€œIt isn’t Karl.”
    â€œSo it’s the Mexican. But … power rock?”
    I giggle. “Girl, you haven’t lived until you’ve had aMexican playing power air guitar to some Led Zeppelin while jumping up and down on your bed wearing only a smile. It gets him going … and going.”
    She pulls out a CD Karl had a guy make for me. “Hmm. Bessie Smith, John Coltrane, and Muddy Waters. This has to be the white boy trying to get in touch with the black experience.”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œKarl?”
    â€œHe’s older than old school, and trust me, doing it to some stomp music is the bomb.” Muddy Waters’s “Mannish Boy” makes my waters muddy every time.
    She runs her fingers over the rest of my collection. “That means that the white boy likes Keith Sweat, Al B. Sure, and Babyface?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œHmm.”
    â€œHe has good taste, doesn’t he?”
    She shrugs. “These are all right.”
    She’s impressed. She just doesn’t want to show it. “Roger even sings ‘Reasons’ to me.”
    â€œNo.” She sits on the couch again.
    I wince. “It isn’t pretty, though he does know all the words. I make him whisper it to me now, and it is
très
erotic.”
    â€œSo he’s one of those white boys who tries to act black.”
    â€œNo. He’s himself all the damn time. He’s too busy being Roger to be anyone else.”
    â€œUh-huh.” She sits and straightens her skirt. “He’s just like all those wiggers walking around PH.”
    â€œHe isn’t a wigger, Izzie.” Roger dresses like any other white man, I guess, and he doesn’t sling the slang, as most wiggers do.
    â€œUh-huh. He sounds like one.”
    â€œHe isn’t.”
    She sighs and shakes her head. “Whatever. Anyway, I believe that all this revolving lust is going to end badly. I just know it.”
    In addition to being the most perverted church person I know, Izzie thinks she’s psychic. She makes goofy predictions all the time, like the time she predicted a white man would win the presidential election. “Hillary Clinton could have run, right?” she had said. She also thinks she can predict the weather, saying vague things like “We’re going to be having some weather today.” I guess she has nothing better to do … until she gets home to her single-woman’s drawer, that is.
    â€œI see nothing but trouble from all this,” she adds.
    â€œSo far so good,” I say.
    â€œToo
good,” she says. “And you know what they say about good things. All good things must come to an end.”
    She’s so quotable. She must read
Reader’s Digest
. “They also say, whoever ‘they’ are, that you can never have too much of a good thing, and I intend to have as much of a good thing as my booty can stand.”
    She tsk-tsks me. “You’re playing with fire, girl, and you know it.”
    â€œAt least I’m warm.” And sweaty most nights. Unlike Izzie, who, by her own admission, hasn’t had a date since Clinton was in office and hasn’t had sex with a living person since her senior prom.
    She looks off into space, which means she’s probably thinking up a perverted question. “If you had to part with two of them, or if two of them suddenlywised up and dumped you, who would you want to stay with you?”
    That’s a