After the Dance: My Life With Marvin Gaye by Jan Gaye

now. On this trip to the forbidden planet of illicit sex, I had become his partner. If I had been stronger—more sure of myself, less afraid of losing Marvin—I might have resisted, but I didn’t.
    I approached the working woman who, as Marvin anticipated, eagerly accepted the invitation. When the visitor stepped into the van, Marvin switched on the overhead light that illuminated hisface. Expecting to be recognized, he was geared up to relish the moment.
    The young lady, however, did not recognize him. Marvin was crestfallen. His interest waned. He gave her twenty dollars and sent her on her way.
    On other neon nights there were times when Marvin wanted me to watch another woman service him. Conversely, Marvin began to speak of fantasies in which he watched me with other men. Over the next years, a few of these fantasies were realized.
    I was led into a world that was entirely about him. I was lost in my obsession with making Marvin happy.
    As I approached my eighteenth birthday, I’d been with Marvin for twelve months. More than ever, I felt lucky that he still wanted me around. I realized that a million other women would jump at the chance that I had been given.
    It didn’t matter that he was using me to fulfill his fantasies. I was willing to be led and fed whatever stimulants he offered.
    I felt compelled to give him whatever he needed. If I didn’t, another woman would. Maybe that woman would be his wife Anna.
    I loved him and was willing to let him mold me.
    Our love was growing. Every day we grew closer. As he slept, I watched him breathe. I imagined that, even in his dreams, we were together. When he awoke, he saw me by his side. He held me. He sang me a morning song. He said, “I love you, dear.”
    He was all I needed. He was all that mattered.

“Jan”
    T he weeks leading up to the concert in Oakland were pure chaos. Marvin’s normally mellow manner was undercut by his nervousness about the upcoming performance. He was a wreck.
    “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he told me on our way to rehearsal.
    “But you are doing it,” I said.
    “I was cajoled, I was manipulated, I was talked into going against my own good instincts. My fans will be let down.”
    “Your fans will be thrilled. You’ll be fine.”
    Marvin’s fear of performing—his vulnerability—made me love him more. It made him more human, more endearing.
    “The music isn’t right,” he said. “The arrangements are off.”
    “You’re the boss, dear. You’ll change them and make them right.”
    “The clothes aren’t right. I don’t want to wear some ridiculous stage costume.”
    “Let me worry about the clothes,” I said.
    “Will you? Can you?”
    “I think I can. I think I know what will make you happy.”
    He took my hand and brought it to his lips. “Bless you, dear. Bless you for keeping me sane.”
    My vision came to me quickly: I took the basic outfit Marvin wore in Topanga—the clothes that best suited his relaxed nature—and brought them to a clothier who tricked them out. His favorite super-comfy denim shirt was studded with rhinestones. His red watch cap was adorned with sequins. He wore his own worn-down work boots, but they were studded, painted silver, and customized with high platform heels.
    “It’s rural funk,” said Marvin when I presented him with the clothes. “I love them! I love you!”
    For the moment, his anxieties were chilled. But they returned after he missed the third straight rehearsal. His absence was alarming both the promoters and Motown, who had a great deal at stake. Nearly three years after the triumph of What’s Going On , this was being hailed as Marvin’s second coming. They wanted to know why he was avoiding rehearsals. Why was he cutting it so close? And now, days before the actual concert, he was threatening to once again cancel the whole thing.
    “By now you have to know that he grooves on this,” Frankie told me one night when Marvin was out of earshot.
    “Do you really