Player’s Prayer

She drove a coffee cream 1985 Series 6 BMW with dark hair streaked with grey slicked back into a low ponytail. Eighteen years my senior, she was an unlikely suitor. A CEO and founder of a tech start-up, her words were precise and her demeanor demanded respect and power. We met under unique circumstances beneath the dim lights of the neighborhood nightclub in Harlem. She was drawn to me as I was to her stealing quick glances and longing touches. Her pursuit of me was enticing and I reveled in the secrecy of our encounter.

After our initial meeting she took me to Manhattan for a live concert. Money was nothing for her and green fell like deciduous leaves. The magnetic chemistry between us was undeniable that I kept my legs crossed to console the throbbing between my lips. My lemon drops were never empty and I was intoxicated by more than just the liquor. She was nothing less than a gentleman and when she kissed me I responded with the same passionate intensity. As the night wore on and my heels came off, I considered going home with her. However, when she informed me of a love far away I was taken aback by what role she wanted me to play. I wanted her. There was something about her…Her who wanted to be a He…reminded me of my bitter past I so longed for and a part of me sought the untamed. My mind and body were at odds and there was something about her that I yearned to explore. I opted for the former and when she pulled back so did I.

I struggled for weeks conflicted on my next move, balancing between righteous self-dignity and desire. Her lust for my body was clear but I was unsure of what to make of the situation. I recognized her game: the way she moved, the way her eyes tore my clothes off, and when she requested my presence for lunch of crawfish etouffée and beignets, I couldn’t help but accept with unfortunate excitement. Afterwards, I felt like a real California girl as we sat together high as the evening sky after a long blaze. I watched her as she stared off into the distance in perfect comfort and in that moment I realized that it wasn't I who was playing a part in her life, but rather she was a character in my book. She spoke of years of orgies and threesomes and I wondered if I would allow myself to be just another escapade. She told me of nights with the Queen, U-N-I-T-Y: flocks of women coming in and out of dark rooms, straggly hair swept over their eyes. Her number wasn't too far off: hundreds of women, like me, were wet with curiosity. I agreed with hesitation to see her again, although my real instinct was to kneel and say a player’s prayer.

The hot sun burned my skin as I awaited for her arrival. She was late. Something about this particular day, I saw beyond the façade and was able to finally accept her for who she really was and for what she really was not. The rest of the day I watched the seconds and minutes pass as she tried to control and direct me in every walking step. I was in fact her young conquest, with perky breasts and a tight ass. Her personality was nothing to be admired and the last bit of my attraction for her faded into the haze of yesterday. When she pulled up at my brownstone, I knew this would be the last time I saw her. I contemplated the idea of rum and coke, whiskey on ice to take me back to that original high of her essence, but I knew, as I believe she knew that lust doesn't last and she nor I were no longer interested in playing this game.