I see him the moment I step inside the semi-crowded dining room section of the Intercontinental Hotel. I see him, and I just know it is him – the man I am here to see.
We never shared any pictures that revealed our faces on NaijaSingles.com. My profile picture is a photo of my bust, the exposure starting from my collarbone, and descending over the swell of my cleavage to stop at my midriff. His is also a chest photo – unclothed, well-toned with a little flab here and there, for a man who lists his age as forty-five. The chest is dark-skinned with a sprinkling of hair, the hirsute sprinkle which I notice, as I approach, on the backs of his dark, sausagey fingers which are nursing the glass of wine in his hand.
He is seated at the table closest to one of the big bay windows, facing the view of the human and vehicular traffic in the hotel premises below us. He has his back to me.
I stop behind him, and I say in a low, almost-embarrassed voice, “Down Low Lover?”
He doesn’t give a start at the intrusion of my voice. He simply turns on his seat, an unhurried movement, sees me standing there, and gets to his feet as well. He is a broad man, a few inches taller than me, with a thick moustache that makes him look rather handsome spread out above his upper lip. His eyes smiles at me as he replies with, “Lonely Housewife?”
“Hi…” I affirm with a smile that quivers on my lips.
“Hi.” His voice is a deep thrum. His smile is more self-assured, which causes me to wonder if he has done this kind of thing before. “Down Low Lover at your service,” he adds, with a small nod.
It is a charming gesture, and a small laugh bursts out of my mouth. “Oh God…” I say as I laugh, lifting my hand to my mouth, as though to stifle my self-consciousness. My face is suffused with heat.
“Would you like to sit?” He waves to the chair on the other side of the table.
I nod, and go around the table to take my seat. A waiter materializes and takes my order for a drink. A few moments of silence pass in the wake of the waiter’s departure, moments plagued by awkwardness as I look around at everywhere in the restaurant, but at him. I notice the lunch crowd, everyone intent on their partners and their meals. I notice the ambience of the restaurant, with its dark word and marble paneling, the silver lamps, and the unobtrusive music. I notice the murmur of conversations around us.
And then I notice his eyes on me. I notice it quite by accident, really. I am moving my gaze from the well-dressed couple on his right to the bar on the left, when our stares clash, and hold. His eyes are intent on me. I feel my face heat up again, and drop my gaze to the table, where my hands are clasped, one atop the other.
The waiter returns with my drink, and moments later, after verifying that we do not need anything more at the moment, leaves us alone again.
I take a sip of my drink. Then, feeling pressured to say something, to fill the silence with the sound of my voice, I mutter something unintelligible, even to my ears.
“What did you say?” he enquires. The deepness of his voice is quite attractive.
“I said, I don’t really know how this is supposed to go down…like…I don’t know…”
“You’ve never done this before?”
“No. No, no…” My denial is swift. “I have never. Have you?”
“Gone out on a date with a woman I’ve been chatting with online? No. I’ve been getting to know a number of women online, but you’re the first I have ever met.”
Something about that assurance fills me with pleasure. He could be lying, my conscience chides in my head. Look at him, he doesn’t even appear nervous. Men and women are not the same, I reason quietly. He must just have a better handle on his anxiety than I do.
Aloud, I say, “I…I just…I mean, is this what we’re…is this okay?”
“Oh, you’re more than okay,” he says emphatically.
“And this isn’t crazy? I mean…I don’t know, maybe this is just too crazy…” I begin to draw back from the table, suddenly feeling panic begin to pulse through me.
“Hey, stop,” he says gently but urgently, leaning forward to catch my hand before it slips off the table. “Look, I don’t want you to think that you have to do anything today. There are no rules to this kind of thing. But you seem really nice.” And his eyes sweeps over me with a look that is slow and lingering, making me feel it along my skin like one long caress. “And you are very beautiful,” he adds huskily.
And after that, there is no more any need for words. The next several moments pass by like a whirlwind, with him paying the waiter for our unfinished drinks, us walking out of the restaurant with stiff legs, and into the elevator, and getting whisked to the floor of the room he has already paid for.
My heart is pounding when we get into the room, which is dim even in the afternoon because the curtains are drawn and the windows are not positioned to receive the full glare of the sun. We undress silently, and I feel another tide of self-consciousness threaten to overtake me as I step out of my clothes. My pregnancies have not being kind to my body, and I feel my breasts hang heavily over a midriff that bulges with extra skin. I clasp my cloth over my bosom as I watch him, naked now and looking really good for forty-five, step toward me.
“I told you,” he murmurs as he gently tugs the cloth from my hand so he can get an eyeful of my front, “you are very beautiful.”
The words fill me with a heady sensation.
And then he kisses me. I moan into his mouth, giving his tongue an opening. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring my mouth. I have never been kissed like this. Even if I have, my mind, overwhelmed with a passion for the man kissing me, does not remember my husband’s exploits. My tongue tentatively strokes his and joins his in a slow erotic dance that’s all about touch and sensation. He brings his hand up to grasp my chin, and he holds me in place. I feel his erection against my belly, and the touch of it unlocks a moistness in my groin.
I moan. “Please…”
“Please what?” he whispers, his voice made harsh with desire. “Tell me what you want!”
“Please, make me feel sexy again!”
And again, there is nothing further to be said. The cool sheets of the bed welcome our bodies as we tumble into it. We writhe and grab at each other as we carry on kissing with reckless abandon. And then, he goes in, filling me as he buries his erection inside me. My fingers dig into the bed as I arch my body upward to receive him, my breath escaping my mouth in a soft hissing sound. My eyes are closed, as I savour the sensation of the entry that is at once familiar and alien.
He slides his arm beneath me, scoops my buttocks into his hand, and tilts me up at the same time that he presses deep. A hungry sound vibrates in my throat, and I begin to breathe rapidly through my nose. He pulls back, almost out, then sinks into me again. I groan. He does it again. His strokes are long, slow and deep, and I respond with corresponding movements that soon have us both calling on deities in mindless gasps.
My hands take on fistfuls of the bed sheet as I begin to feel the onrush of my orgasm. I twist the sheet, then release it and reach for more. My breathing is coming in furious pants now. My throat arches as my head digs into the pillow. My hips lift to meet his thrusts, shallower now, and faster.
Then holding me tightly to him, grinding against me, he comes hard.
And so do I. It descends like an avalanche that has me shrieking a meaningless portmanteau of my children’s names. The orgasmic aftershocks send tremors from my groin up my body, and I find myself shaking against the man who has just finished loving me.
Eventually we become still.
He cups the back of my head in his head and rolls onto his side, carrying me with him. And he holds me like that, one hand securing my head beneath his chin, the other still firmly on my derriere, holding me in place, keeping him inside me.
The sensation of such proximity is incredible. My lethargy is absolute. And a small smile of contentment fleets across my mouth. I feel thoroughly sexy and happy.
Happy…In another man’s arms… My conscience finally finds its voice long enough to ask. And that is when the guilt slams into me with all the grace of a sledgehammer. Self awareness crashes down on me with the suddenness of one waking from a drowning accident. My eyes spring open, and in a flurry of thrashing limbs, I separate the two of us and sit up. “Oh, God.” I bury my face in my hands. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod…”
“You don’t even know my name… I don’t even know your name…” I wail. A hot, prickly feeling of shame spreads from the top of my head all the way down my body.
“I’m Steve, and you –”
“Don’t say anything! Just please don’t…don’t…Oh, God.” I scramble out of the bed and dart across the room to where my clothes are.
“Darling, talk to me…” he says as he rises from the bed.
“Please, don’t come any closer to me…” I hiss, as I wrestle my panties on, before struggling to get into my dress. “And please…just, don’t speak…”
For the next few moments, the room is silent as first he watches me get dressed, and then joins me to get clothed. He is a much quicker dresser, or perhaps he has more control over his anxiety and doesn’t have to fumble at his buttons and zippers with clumsy fingers. Whichever one, we finish getting dressed at the same time.
Then we face each other across the room, and he says in his vibrant baritone, “A good thing happened here today.”
A sigh trembles through my mouth as I reply, “That’s what scares me. That I might have enjoyed it too much from another man, when my husband is the only person supposed to make it happen for me.”
He has no rejoinder for me.
I sigh again and say, “I’d like to go home now.”
I am @Walt_Shakes on twitter