He Is Not a Hook Up

Tensions ran high. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the side of my neck as we danced. My body was heating up next to his. Our hips kept the rhythm of the beat with each other, winding and grinding as the music played. Drawing his hands up to my rib cage, he leaned in slightly and whispered in my ear, “Come home with me.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the tingle made its way down my spine. I nodded, and he led me out of the club and into a cab.

I was content to have a night out dancing with my friend. I threw on a tired pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt. Spraying cologne more out of habit than desire, I gingerly left my apartment and moseyed myself downtown. Dancing makes me feel good, but I know better than to go out and expect to meet someone, especially anyone of substance. Most of the night, my friend and I tease each other. “Oh! There goes your man right there,” we joke, clearly pointing out someone immensely undesirable. I felt surprised when a smooth hand slid itself up my side and across my back. Instantly guarded, I tossed the hand away and looked to see who owned it. A layer of stubble, glistening with a light coat of perspiration, covered his brown cheeks. In the dimly lit club, his eyes, meeting mine, pierced the dark. He smiled a toothy Hollywood smile at me, “What’s wrong, papo?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to see who touched me.”

He smirked, “Is it ok if I touch you?” His voice had a rough tone, but his smile softened its sound. I found him smooth, charming, attractive. We exchanged names but then didn’t talk much.

I lost sight of my friend as we danced. He sent me a text after we had been dancing for a while, “He’s hot. I’m at the bar playing with the go-go boys.”

Later, in the cab, the tuning on our conversation dial moved to the intellectual station. He was smart, quick-witted, original. We waxed philosophically on topics that I can’t recall. This type of foreplay—that of the intellectual kind—doesn’t happen with just anyone. It only emerges when I’m with an educated, forward-thinking man of substance. We surprised each other with our cerebral pas de deux, perhaps equally questioning the impending decision to hook up. Although, this could just be me projecting.

The cab rolled up to a Harlem brownstone. “We’re here,” he announced. The sirens in my head sounded; I should turn back now. He’s cute. He’s smart. He’s living in a brownstone. He is not a hook up.