The Spider and The Fly

I swear to God, it was not my fault. I never stood a chance—the whole thing was decided before I sat down.

First, of all he’s fucking sexy. My type of sexy: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. But not too dark, just dark enough to let the world know he’s not White but not dark enough to give any clues as to where he’s from. Even when I learned where he was from, I still had difficulty distinguishing his racial and ethnic origins. He was a mystery—which was sexy.

Besides his general darkness there was a wave to his hair and said hair fell into his eyes. This brought out a spark, a sort of intelligence that could not be concealed by his silence or ostensible modesty. His hair fell past his shoulders and framed his face. Black hair only made his black stubble more pronounced on his dark brown skin.

He didn’t smile often but I managed to coax one out of him, the night we met. I noticed he had dimples in both cheeks and showed unruly, obviously-evident-of-a-childhood-spent-outside-of-the-United-States, teeth. Not smiling was a part of his aesthetic, and his aesthetic was hip hop.

I’ve been in love with hip hop since I was ten years old; I know the authentic aesthetic when I see it. My first love was r&b but hip hop will forever hold a place in my heart. When we walked to the VIP room, no other song but Hotline Bling played as he paid the manager and handed over his credit card information. Hotline Bling is a new age-y mix of hip hop and r&b told from the perspective of a love scorned man, upset that one of his lovers has changed after their relationship has ended. He uses the song to mourn and remember the times she used to call him late at night to receive his “love”. I should have known then; lovers come and go, but hip hop remains.

He wore Timberland boots and an oversized grey sweater. His blue jeans had rips in the right places. He smelled nice. I straddled him once we (finally) got to the VIP room and realized not only did he smell nice but he was pudgy in the middle. He had a Dad body. But he also smelled like mild soap and expensive cologne and he didn’t remind me of my dad, so I didn’t mind that he was out of shape. I was (very) surprised when he said he was thirty-five. He didn’t look older than twenty-eight.

I had turned twenty-three six weeks prior to our meeting. I had moved to NYC nine days before we met. I should have ran. I should have taken my heart and ran. Instead, I said,

     “Hi, what’s your name?”

     And I was very proud of myself because I sounded like a normal human being.

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