Met Him on a Thursday Part II

Part II

Tina and I talked on the phone over the weekend about our night at the club. The typical club de-briefing. Did you see him? Girl, stay away from him, he has three baby’s mommas… she is a skank, did you see what she was wearing? And so on. Tina said she told her friend Kim about the man I met. She swore he looked just like Mase. At the time, I had no idea who Mase was, if he was attractive and if he looked anything like Richard, I needed to see him. After seeing him (and now I listen to a bit of his music), I see it’s one of those things where at certain angles there is a resemblance.

She asked if he had called. We analyzed the ins and outs of when a man calls, how soon, what he would say, how I could tell if he was a player, because sometimes they’re so smooth, you’re already caught up before you realize you’re dealing with a class A player… He hadn’t called. I was 99% sure because I kept the cordless phone at my bedside all weekend and in the bathroom while I showered. You could say I was slightly interested.

It was Tuesday when he called. I had already started to give up hope, so I wasn’t very enthusiastic. He wanted to take me out. He told me he lived in Boston. I told him he would need to come to me. At the time, he didn’t have a car, but he made it.

Richard and I spent the next few months talking about anything and everything. Long walks through city parks talking. Sitting in the car when it rained, talking. Riding in the car, my hand on his neck, his leg or holding the big soft brown hand that caressed my skin without even trying. Phone calls every night at 8:05 pm when we weren’t together. Creating silly bets on stuff I didn’t care about, like baseball. Talking and feeling the vibe.

We discovered much about each other that summer, like the day I saw the red in his skin. The deep, deep red that showed how much of his ancestry was Indian. It was a sunny day. We had just finished feeding the ducks outside the Danvers town library. We sat on a bench, and as we usually did, talked. I looked down at his forearm and saw it. The lovely medium brown with strong red just beneath it.

My hand in his… it looked so very different. I got to ask him all my white girl questions, like why did black skin get ashy? He took no offense, he knew I was very curious and was not in it for the “black experience” or “jungle fever” as some white men like to call it. Richard and I connected on a level that I had never been on before. It was at a soul level. THIS was DEEP. THIS was PROFOUND. But I was still cautious.

We had been dating for a few months when I decided it was time to be intimate. We had already become mentally intimate. We had shared much. I had been holding off as long as I could, because I feared that as soon as I slept with him, he would be gone.

We visited my ex-fiance’s sister who was in the hospital, then got some dinner, then went to the hotel. I had packed everything I needed. It was our first night together. It would be fun, it would be new, and it would be a little scary. But I was ready.

I got in my pj’s and lit some candles around the room. When he came out of the bathroom, he seemed a little startled, as if he was surprised I was sort of kicking things off.

Things got hot and I was a little nervous. It was like a second de-virginization. Most of all, I wanted him to enjoy it and for one of the very few times in my life, my pleasure was secondary.

What happened that night is something that I still cannot talk about without blushing (yes, me), rushing over my words, being at a LOSS for words and really just unable to describe what was going on. To THIS DATE, I consider it to be one of my stranger (in a good way) encounters. The only people who know what I mean when I say “twist” are those who have slept with talented Haitian men. An old co-worker used to date a Haitian man and knew EXACTLY what I was talking about.

So needless to say, the sex needed no help. No awkward “Mic” moments, no “talks”. Everything was on point.

He didn’t dump me. He didn’t stop calling me. He didn’t change. I was relieved. Tina had been wrong. Tina stopped talking to me at this point. Haitians were HERS. I had crossed the line into something that belonged to her. I was supposed to stick with the baseball cap wearing weight lifters. It’s odd that a best friend since junior high would take offense at this with ME, but I guess she had her reasons.