We first met late one afternoon, in this same Lagos bar, and I remember as I sipped my wine, waiting for you to arrive. I was sitting at this same table, in the back corner, waiting for a friend, when…
“Hi, is that seat taken? Do you mind if I…”
I look up, my eyes meet yours, and it’s as if my breath has been taken from me. Your eyes widen, and I’m sure mine widen too. An electric shock jolts my body… I don’t know, but it’s as if you’re someone I’ve always been waiting for, and I haven’t said a word. I’m not sure if I can speak. My heartbeat races.
My breath catches, and you’re looking at me. Into my eyes, as if I’m everything to you, and you stopped speaking in mid-sentence.
I don’t giggle. I don’t do anything, not for a long moment, my eyes mesmerised by yours. I could gaze into those eyes forever.
“Please,” I manage to say.
You sit down, place your glass of wine on the table, opposite mine, and still your eyes look into mine, and they seem to read my soul. I can’t believe I’m this attracted to someone I don’t know. A chance encounter, with a stranger in the Lagos bar just down the street from the apartment building I live in, and we haven’t talked.
I don’t know your name. You don’t know mine. Thirty seconds, and I know.
You’re someone I could fall in love with. Seriously. You are.
My friend never shows. You and I, we talk, and the more we talk, the more attracted to you I am. You draw me out, you coax my words from me, and I glow in your interest. You draw me out, and I find myself telling you about me, more than I’ve ever told anyone, ever.
That I’m nineteen, studying here, at the university, away from home, and I tell you about my family, what I’m interested in, and about myself. The real me, not the person everyone sees, but what’s inside me, in my head.
My hopes, my dreams, the things that interest and enthral me, and you, you tell me about you, you’re in marketing, you travel for work, you’re thirty, but it’s your interest in me that holds me.
A drink with my friend, that’s the only reason I was here, but I stay because of you, and you tell me you’re in no hurry. You have nothing else to do, and that you enjoy talking to me.
I remember everything from that evening we met. Every second, every word, every gesture, every touch, as we talked, and we talked for hours. We even danced, because that bar had a small dance floor, and you picked the music. You picked, and we danced. A slow dance, holding me in your arms, and to be held in your arms was a blissful happiness that I never imagined.
That happiness, that interest you had in me, and I in you, led us to stay, longer than either of us had ever intended, on and on, and we talked, we drank, we ate a little, and we danced again.
Four hours after we meet, we leave that bar together, and I find myself inviting you to my little apartment for drinks, not wanting to part from you. Wanting to draw the evening out, and my apartment’s only ten minutes’ walk. It’s not far at all, and you accept. I asked you in all innocence, wanting only to keep talking with you, flattered by our interest. Intrigued by you, the older man, ruggedly handsome, completely unlike any of the guys my own age whom I know.
Mesmerizing.
I was mesmerized by you, by your attention, so unlike the interest guys I met at University, guys my own age or near, had in me. Those guys, they were so unrefined, blatantly interested in me for what they could get, and I knew what they saw. A slender girl, smooth-skinned, a smiling innocent sensuality that then, I had been unaware of.
You weren’t. You were very aware of that, and then, I had been aware of your interest, but you weren’t unrefined. You weren’t blatant. Your interest didn’t scare me or threaten me, because it was me you were interested in. Not my looks, not my body. Me, and I responded to that interest. I asked you to come to my apartment for drinks, and I was so happy when you said yes.
Almost ecstatic, almost skipping down the road that led to my apartment building, turning to talk to you, and it seemed only natural that your hand found mine. It was as if my hand was already yours to hold, and you were still holding my hand when I opened my apartment door, and led you inside, made us both tea, sat on the couch, beside you.
My apartment’s small. The entrance, a galley kitchen to the right, a small den to the left with my desk, and my bookcases. A single room with a small table near the kitchen, and a single couch against one wall, and my bed. It’s that couch that we sat on, together, and as I sat, you drew me close to you, your arm around me, and you nuzzled the back of my neck lightly.
I remember that I giggled, and I shook my head, but I didn’t move away. I moved closer, into your arms, half-knowing what you intended, half-anticipating, half-turning towards you, and then, out of nowhere, we were kissing. Your lips on mine, gentle, but demanding, and I gave up all control in the eternity of that first, wide-eyed parting of my lips, that heart-stopping surrender of my mouth to yours as you turned further, taking me into your arms.
By then, by the time your tongue had slipped so delicately into my mouth, I wanted you to take me in your arms, and I turned towards you, moved with you as you guided me around, and back, until I was lying on my couch and you were lying beside me, close to me. So close, looking down at me, one arm under my neck, your hand on my shoulder, your other hand on my hip, your lips sealed to mine, and by then, your tongue was exploring my mouth, teasing my tongue, dancing with my tongue as I tentatively explored, my tongue following yours, and I could hear myself.
Soft, excited little noises as you kissed me.
There was no sudden attempt to take what you were doing any further. Only your mouth on mine, eyes half closed as you tasted me, sipped at me, explored with your tongue, a delicate dance where your tongue slid into my mouth, danced with my tongue, tasted me, teased me, drew my tongue into your mouth. I had been kissed, but never like this. Never with such exquisite skill, never so gently, and my excitement, my arousal, and my desire, grew slowly as you continued to caress my lips with yours, on and on and on.
Without thought, my body responded as a woman’s body responds, and that response was new to me. It crept up on me, through me, silently, unknowingly, and I didn’t realize what was happening to me. Only that your kisses weren’t enough, that I needed more. More of you, and my eyes looked into yours as you kissed me, my fingers brushed your face as yours brushed mine. Brushed mine, brushed my hair away, and when at least you broke that kiss, my lips blindly sought yours.
“You’re beautiful, Temi,” you breathed, and then your lips met mine once more, and that brief absence left me craving more. Those three words from you, they were sunlight on a flower, and my heart opened to you, as the petals of a flower open to the sun, welcoming
Back then, on that first evening, those first kisses, I had no idea of the pleasure my own body could give me. I truly was innocent, wrinkly my nose at those girls I knew who had crushes, who talked about their boyfriends with such excitement. Such desire. I had no idea that I, too, could experience such desire, and even then, there was no real awareness. Only urging of my body, an urging that I succumbed to without resistance, wanting only your renewed kisses.
Your body against mine and your body was close to mine as we lay together on my couch, you pressed against me as you held me in your arms, not crushing me, but holding me close, and never before had I wanted to be held like this, a man pressing yourself against me so closely, so tightly. In the growing passion of that kiss, I turned a little more towards you, wanting that closeness, wanting you to hold me tight, wanting my breasts crushed against your chest as you held me, wanting your hands on me, so strong and assured.
I was aware of every nuance of your body against mine, of mine against yours. How soft I was, how giving, how I revelled in being held so tightly, how I welcomed that crushing of my body against yours, my breasts now crushed against your chest, and I had never been so aware of my breasts before. How good it felt, how swollen and engorged my nipples were. How they ached, and that aching only grew as my arms vined around your neck, as your mouth sipped at mine, as a bee sips at the nectar of a flower it has taken for its own.
Half-turned towards you, my skirt rode up in that desire to be closer to you, one of my legs lifted to rest on yours, and yours slid between mine, the soft linen of your trousers rough against the skin of my thighs. Your hand, the hand that wasn’t beneath me, ran over my waist, my hips, and my arm, sliding upwards to brush my hair back from my face as we kissed, on and on and on, and whenever your lips lifted from mine, mine sought yours again, blindly following as a flower follows the sun.
“Temi,” you murmured, and your hand eased me away a little, a distancing that I half-resisted until your hand gently cupped one breast through the thin material of my top, resting there, sending a sudden rush of unexpected sensations surging through me. I hadn’t worn a bra that day. I didn’t really need a bra, and today was one of those days where I enjoyed not wearing one.
Now, I found another reason to enjoy not wearing one.
Your hand on my breast, cupping me, gentle and firm, all at one and the same time. A masculine possession of me that was as welcome on my body as his lips were on mine, and your hand on me left me limp, limp and wanting more.
Your lips lifted from mine, and now I watched you. Watching you looking at my breasts, I was breathing hard, wanting more, but not knowing what it was I wanted because I had never felt like this before.
My swollen nipples suddenly and unbelievably seemed to swell even more, almost in an instant becoming painfully large and rubbery hard, the mere cupping of your hand on me no longer enough. Your hand began, very gently, to explore my breast, your fingers running over me, tracing the contours, sending ripples and shivers of pleasure and renewed excitement surging through me.
I could feel my nipples swelling even more, so swollen and rubbery hard the aching sensation was actually painful.
It was a weirdly exciting sensation, to feel my body reacting like that, out of my control, responding to you. I could hear myself involuntarily making quiet little breathy noises as your fingers continued to stroke me there, very gently, very slowly.
Nobody except me had ever touched my breasts, and I lay there focusing on the sensations created by your fingers running across and around my breast and over my nipple, I had no strength, nor the willpower to stop you, even if I wanted to.
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