My heart starts to race as I spot him across the room. Our eyes lock for a second and I wonder if he feels it too – that jolt of pure electricity. He looks away, his gaze drawn to the woman petulantly tugging at the sleeve of the tux that barely hides the raw masculinity he exudes. As would be expected, there is – besides Miss Needy – a throng of people around him. A man such as he could easily pull a crowd on a desert island, so a Lagos bar on a Friday night would pose little challenge. One of his admirers must have said something funny because he suddenly throws back his head and laughs. The rich, throaty sound carries across the room, above the subdued music from the hidden speakers, and sets my toes tingling in my Gucci’s.
There is something about him. Usually, I would gag at the thought of using such a cliché, but this time it is true. Maybe it’s that tall, lithe body and the way he carries it. Or perhaps it’s his dark chocolate skin and the way it glows under the lights. It could be that face, which had surely been carved by the hands of angels; those full, sensuous lips that hold promises of secret pleasures.
If nothing else, it surely has something to do with the daredevil I sense him to be – that, and his aloofness, that unreachable something that is both maddening and enthralling. I glance at Miss Needy beside him and see – along with the adoration in her eyes – the anxiety that she would never be more to him than an irksome distraction. I am too busy plotting my own strategy to feel much sympathy for her. She is, after all, a rival. From the look of things, though, she would not be one for long.
Sorry, lady. It’s get on or get gone. Ha-ha!
My mind churns as I nurse my drink, trying not to stare too hard. My eyes glaze over as I picture him naked. Ah, yes…. He works out, so those dark chocolate arms are strong, well toned but not too muscular. He has broad, do-lean-on-me shoulders, a smooth, hairless chest, and shiny pecs. He has a glorious six pack, and a trim waist that tapers down to strong, muscled thighs. And nestled between them…
I wake up in time to see the object of my fantasy lean down and brush his lips lightly against the disappointed Miss Needy’s cheek, shake hands with some guys, and head for the door. I quickly signal to the bartender to put the drink on my tab as I hurry after him.
As usual, I am slightly nervous as I approach my quarry, and I wonder – would he find my strong, overt approach off-putting? Would he hate that I am white? Would he mind that I am a man?
N.B: If anyone can think of a better title for this piece, I’d be glad to hear it. Thanks.