The worst flirt in the Western Hemisphere, hands down. Well over six feet tall, good looking, and with a voice like Barry White overdosed on Valium, the Jamaican is the mayor of my local bar. He likes the corner stool, next to the door, so he can ogle the women and size up the men.
The Jamaican’s sex appeal is weapons’ grade; this point cannot be over-emphasized. But, bless him, he doesn’t sit back and let his considerable physical assets do all the work. Did I mention that he’s the worst flirt in the Western Hemisphere? Hold onto that thought and imagine being steamrollered by charm. You’re so steamrollered you cannot think straight; you can’t even remember your own name. Normally I have the resting heart rate of a coma victim. About three feet from the Jamaican it began doing a fairly solid impersonation of a jackhammer.
There didn’t seem to be any doubt that it went both ways. Perhaps it was the fact that he liked to sit so close to me our thighs touched. Or the time he put his hand to the clasp of my bra and said, grinning. “When I was 22 I could have got that off with one hand.” For a few seconds—I was a little slow on the uptake because I was trying to recall my name—I thought he might actually do it.
The dance began. I’m fairly nifty with words and rarely outclassed in the facile banter department, but time and again the Jamaican wiped the floor with me; always with a huge grin and much to the amusement of his almost ever-present entourage of equally good-looking young black guys. I decided, for the first and only time in my life, to go on the offensive. I gave him my phone number, and flirt texting entered my life. Do not try this in combination with alcohol; I am here to say that the degree of difficulty is beyond most mortals, and that you will wake with regrets.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. I didn’t regret anything. I enjoyed the novelty of an intense, purely physical attraction, something that’s been absent from my life for a long time. The Jamaican made me remember what it’s like to be a teenager. In my mind I did terrible, terrible things to him. And I did them a lot. Outwardly we danced. Inwardly I climbed all over him.
It was a very diverting two weeks.
“So I had this threesome,” he said one afternoon when we were sitting on my stoop. He was smoking. I was looking at his arms. He has big arms. He’s a big guy. “You heard me,” he said after I squeaked with surprise. “I just wanted to be honest,” he added helpfully.
Not his first threesome, as it transpired. But, hey, all in the interest of full disclosure. He said the first threesome ended when one of the women fell in love with him. This is against the commandments of threesomes.
My hands were shaking. I told him it was because I’d drunk too much coffee. A lie.
Fast forward to later in the day. So much later, it’s practically the next day. We’re at the bar and it’s a school night. The Jamaican, on his way past, saw me sitting there and came in and sat beside me. He orders a beer. It comes in his own special glass. He’s particular about his beer.
Sensible people, and those who don’t have insomnia, have gone home. My hands are shaking again because he’s less than three feet away from me. I can see my pulse jumping in my wrist. I tell him about the peculiar physical effect he has on me. I tell him he has his own gravitational field. I tell him I lied about the coffee. I invite him to feel my wrist pulse and there it is, pounding away like I just crossed the finish line of race up K2.
It was the first, the best, and indeed the only, come-on speech I’ve ever made. It worked.
He tells me to finish his beer because he’s had enough to drink for the day.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked later, back at my place, where oddly, we had not followed the script I’d written in my head and collapsed immediately into a tangle of lust and sweat, but were sitting on the living room floor having a chat. “Because you know I’m going to be around.”
The Jamaican, although he hides it well, is a decent guy.