For D'Angelo, a man I've often joked about but always respected; a man whose music has not always been fully appreciated, but whose silky smooth falsetto love-whisper has proven and reinforced a legendary legacy of body-rocking, mind-blowing, sweat-pouring, butt-shaking, wang-dangling, toe-licking, old-faithful-producing coitus.
So tonight, as you make love to your partner, turn off the Coldplay or the Charlie Parker or the Mannheim Steamroller. Root through your pile of dust-covered jewel boxes and pull out that sweet, sweet Brown Sugar. Smoke a jay and light some candles and - my friends, you do not want to forget this step - set your CD player to "repeat". Hide the clocks and forget who you are. Let D'Angelo take you away; ride your pony through that August meadow, the sun slipping through the sky and pulling the blue with it, an orgy of colors on the endless horizon as your pony bucks and gallops and sends you reeling through a field of lillies and roses. Be one with the D'Ange. Be him while you can.
D'Angelo, above, is pictured right before, right after, or during the physical act of love, a practice he indulges in, on average, every 52 minutes.