Don’t Get Crowned Royal.
That was the text message that brought my good girlfriend and myself down to the bar dressed thin and friendly — we made despair look as whorish as it is.
Gossip and Crown Royal took turns wetting my lips. The spirits wrapped their arms around me. I danced. Friend danced. We laughed and hoped a man with a bright future would take notice and become curious.
After several songs our enthusiasm atrophied. We sat. I took a shot of Crown then looked up, and there he was, the man I’d been curious about for far too long walked in my direction. I had seen him around the bar scene for a year or two but we had never spoken.
This time he saw me and introduced himself. He shook my hand as if it was his first time completing the gesture. And that was the same way he stroked me from behind — like it was his first time completing the gesture. The rhythm was aimless. The touches were loose, passionless. We moaned to give each other hope.
Earlier that night when he first spoke to me he was in awe, he talked to me like I would be the first Black woman president, told me how much he had anticipated this very moment. I geeked that we shared the same sentiment. He questioned everything I had given even a moment of my mind to. He had never seen something with such range, a girl so cool yet concerned. Our conversation was littered with flattery and inquisition, he recycled no compliment; every word was fresh and gratifying to me.
But now dry gasps, empty calls of, “daddy,” and furrowed brows was our exchange. He pumped and choked, his hands begged me to be the girl he thought I was. He stared down at despair unclothed before him, oh how that could make the best of interest fleeting. Obligation was now the authority of his hands, he dug them into me as deep as he could. He pulled out all of my makings until nothing was left. He then quickly dressed himself— hungry and eager to be impressed again.
I dressed myself and called my good girlfriend, “hey, drinks tonight?”