“Can I touch you?”
Raised brow, followed by a brief quizzical look.
I guess he thought it was odd I asked, but I was raised to be polite, even to strangers. It was our first date you see, we’d been beating around the Twitter bush for weeks and now the heat in our DMs had been too much to contain, so we figured, why not meet?
The tweet that caught my eye was one he’d over-explained the science behind traffic lights. I’m a sucker for random facts and his thoughts seemed well articulated. So I clicked on his profile and browsed through with amusement. He seemed hungry for information and I found it endearing how he’d pick a topic and ramble on and on or as far as 280 characters allowed. It was no different when he sat across me that first day and peppered our conversation with banter and random shit.
“Would you like to know an interesting fact about Genghis Khan?”
“The conqueror?”
“No, my boss”
I giggled at his quick wit.
“Yes, the conqueror”
As I listened to him getting charged with the details of how we have a 1 in 200 chance of being related, I trailed off…as eager as I was to learn, I was getting carried away by the overwhelming virility he exuded.
I had long shifted my eyes from his and onto other parts of him, it was obvious he kept fit, probably a runner, a 6 min per km pacer. He had on a checked shirt that covered his broadish shoulders, not the gym type though, the type that did 20, maybe 50 push-ups every morning before he ran. His neck, sturdy enough to support his full-bearded head that was so neat I wondered if he had a comb for it in his pocket. I wanted to touch it, I wondered if it would feel like freshly moisturized 4c hair. His Adam’s apple was alluring to watch and when he took his first sip, I watched it move forcefully up and down like it was escorting the whiskey to the right path. I wonder if men can feel their own Apple. I wanted to touch that too.
Earlier on I had, with fascination, witnessed him quiz the bartender, to an inch of her career, about the whiskey collection they had. He was relentless, and she had looked for me to help, this was my local after all so I was responsible for this. But I don’t know shit about this brown liquid other than how chauvinistic it felt to me, what with their names, Jim, Daniel, William, James, John, Jack, Mark, Evans, sigh! So I leaned into defeat and let her defend her paycheck.
I was later punished but that’s a story for another day.
They finally settled on one whose name, though thankfully not male, I couldn’t pronounce and was apparently smokey. So I took a sip of it when he asked and with his expectant eyes, he watched me sniff and swirl to taste? smell? the smoke, but nothing came to me.
“How long have you been on whiskey?”
“Oh, I fell in love with_”
I hadn’t wanted to appear clueless so I deflected and thanked the vanity gods for masking my ignorance. And because I knew he couldn’t help it, he went on to explain the smoke in the whiskey thing, another tidbit, though I was sure I wanted to know, it was not at that moment.
At that moment, I was curious about the intricate tattoos on his forearms, the shape of something or other, large enough that it covered his arm and seemed to move past the elbow point where the folds of his sleeves were. There was what looked like a sentence too. In Chinese? Hmmm…Why not Swahili or English? Does he speak whatever that language is? What does it mean? What was the drawing about? How long has he had it? Does he have more? If I outlined it with my finger, how would it feel?
The curious beast in me was swelling. I wanted to know, touch, feel, ask, not about the damn whiskey, but about him. I wanted to know him and why facts fascinated him, how much of it he knew and if he worried I’ll think him a ‘know it all, if he cared and, most importantly, if black was his favourite colour because that’s all he wore that night. So I couldn’t help but interrupt his monologue with a paramount question.
“Do you mind…” leaning towards him “…if I touch you?”
“Of course not”
I could have started with a myriad of other questions that were bugging me I suppose, but the small hairs on his arms were calling to me and touching him felt like it would fill me with the dopamine rush I so needed to feed the cat.
So before he could change his mind, I reached out for his left arm and gently stroked its skin, feeling the hairs prickle my fingers. I traced the contours of his veins and went on to track the shape of the tattoo. I turned his arm around so I could take it all in. I had leaned in further and I could feel his breath, controlled, clean, anxious, curious. I liked it. I could see his neat beard but before I could get to it, I heard the bartender intentionally clear her throat, near us, I thought I saw a ‘behave or else look…’ but she wanted to know if she could refill our glasses.
“I take it your love language is physical touch”
“…eer… what?”
“Your intimate mode of communication, I’m guessing it’s touching?”
Perplexed, blinking eyes.
“Gary Chapman, 5 Languages of Love?”
“Oh….ahhh….not quite”
“Really? Because in all my 40 years of living, I’ve never quite encountered someone who took to exploring me like you just did”
Nervous laughter, “I’m a curious being!”
“Mm-hmm”
“I wanted to know how the hairs on your skin feel and what the tattoo is and what it symbolizes; what those words mean, what language it’s in, if you speak the language, if you are fluent in others, if you have more, when you got it, if it hurt, if you have a comb for your beard, if you have it now, if you are a runner, and how do you have such delicate looking fingers, if next time could you come dressed in all white?”
“I see..”
“What do you see?”
He took a sip and smiled after he caught me staring at his Adam’s apple.
“Well, I’m not a big believer in the 5 languages of love, they seem unsatisfactory to me. I mean, I have a friend whose language is gifting. She said that receiving made her feel like her love interest cares for her and knew her well enough to think of and get an elaborate gift.
I couldn’t understand it…I’m not averse to receiving gifts but, in most instances, the gifter gets it wrong, and there’s usually the whole awkwardness angle to it.
And acts of services is all wrong for me, I do not mind doing the acts but if you came to my house and started doing my dishes, I’d be so uneasy knowing that you won’t do it like I want it done.
“What have I missed?” I was on a tangent by this point.
“Quality time and words of affirmation”
“Right” I quickly chug the remainder of my gin. “Words of affirmation feels heavy.”
“Heavy?”
“Yes, like the person just wants to hear nice things said. Those guys are usually sensitive to words and most times, especially when I’m nervous or after chugging more gin, I tend to babble and say unfiltered shit and they can catch feelings so now I have to spend more time trying to unsay those things.
Quality time is…well, maybe that one. I don’t mind it and all. But…”
“What?”
“Do we have to be conversing the entire time, that can get, you know, tiring?”
“Well, not necessarily, you can choose to be silent, together”
“…I like that, I really do”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, I do. I mean minds can wander from here to Amsterdam, to Australia, to Mexico and back to the shop in Yaya Center where there’s a really good pair of shoes you saw last week and can’t stop thinking about.
Or you could be contemplating about how crazy 2020 has been and how you’ll to one day need to explain it to the grandkids.
I think it wouldn’t matter where your mind goes as long as you are present, preferably holding me.
I know most men want to up and leave after sex, but I’d want you to stay…you know, be present, hold me, touch me.”
“I’ll hold you” He whispered so softly, I pretended not to have heard.
“I mean, the idea of spending time with a loved one while both lost in the literary world beautiful, in my opinion at least.
That list, however, feels like closing oneself to a box, there should be more”
“If only curiosity was a love language, right?”
“….right”
“Nothing is written on stone, I’m sure others can be added in time”
“…maybe”
“Next time?”
“Excuse me?”
“You asked if I could wear white, next time”
“oh don’t__”
“Yes, I will. Seeing as we’ll be spending more time together, after sex.
I definitely look forward to telling this to our grandkids…”
Samburu Girl 