Michael has said that, initially, after leaving the stage, he was disappointed with his performance. His plan, when he went up on his toes, was to simply stay there, suspended infinitely. Just as well that he didn’t; the house could not have handled it. As it was, they went nuts when he showed up at the after party, held at an indoor shopping mall across the street that Motown shut down and converted into a massive disco.

As his security team wedged him through the crush of excited well-wishers, Tops,  Tempts, Supremes and others pushed their way toward Jackson as if they themselves weren’t legends, as if they hadn’t made music that influenced and inspired this man. Chaos ensued. It was all Jackson’s bodyguards could do to turn him around and push him back out to his limo out front.

Those of us lucky enough to attend the taping had to wait weeks for the show to air. Would Jackson’s performance be all that we’d raved to anyone who’d listen? Yes, even to the Jacksons. Rebbie Jackson told me when the show aired, they, like other viewers across America, taped it off the TV. The next day, friends, entertainers and assorted dignitaries, acknowledging that the universe had indeed tilted, phoned, sent flowers and wired kudos. “People came by Hayvenhurst (the Jackson home in Encino) all day long,” she said. “It was as if someone got married or brought a baby home from the hospital. We played that tape over and over all day until it broke.”

And the day after Motown 25 aired, all retail hell broke loose.  At the height of its phenomenal sales history, the album was nationally selling half a million copies a week. With more than one million copies sold in Los Angeles alone, Thriller demanded its own zip code.

~ STEVEN IVORY

We older brothers had a way of describing how far we got with a girl: from “first base” (the kiss) to “second base” (touching/clothes off) to “third base” (the sex) and, in my hotel room that night, I was an L.A. Dodger running wild; eyes closed, on top of this girl, kissing and touching with a freedom I didn’t think possible. “That feels really good…” she said. I was getting serious, she was groaning. Third base was in sight. I had one hand stroking her face, and the other on the mattress beside her head.

"I love how you stroke my thighs," she continued, "…you’re real gentle…" I’m not stroking your thighs. “…it feels good,” she whispered. I peeked open my eyes and maneuvered my head to take a sly look down the bed, and that’s when I saw it—Michael’s arm, reaching up and over from underneath the bed, his hand circling her thigh.

"MICHAEL!" I jumped up, the poor girl was mortified and Michael, chuckling, was already scrambling for the door. I could have killed him, not only because he was hiding there the whole time, but because he heard me whispering all these sensual, sweet nothings that he would tease me with for weeks after. I refused to speak to him that night. When we turned out the lights and he wished me goodnight, I said nothing. He waited a few minutes in the dark and then brokered the peace.

"She got some real creamy thighs!" he said.

And we both burst out laughing.

~ JERMAINE JACKSON, YOU ARE NOT ALONE