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A major plus is none of my students are here tonight. I’m an adjunct professor at Clark University, and I avoid places where my students frequent. At twenty-eight-years-old, I’m the youngest professor on campus, so I make an effort to not blur the professor-student line. The press release said this is a place for the grown and sophisticated. No tennis shoes, t-shirts, or slumming is allowed at Elite, which is precisely my kind of vibe.
As if the DJ has been reading my mind, “Blurred Lines” starts playing. I take a moment to admire the beautifully dressed women up in here tonight. None of them pull me to them like the mystery woman I met last week, but they look good enough to make this night interesting.
I don’t sleep with a lot of women. Despite popular opinion, I teach, come home, and trade stocks most days. Since I got my doctorate, I have been wanting to settle down without settling for less. That’s the catch. While women say men are the ones who want them to settle for less, I’ve been getting the same thing from women. I haven’t come across one prospect who interests me longer than a month. They either are insecure, detached, or self-centered. Rosae, my last girlfriend, was self-centered. She thinks the sun rises and shines on her only. I don’t have a problem with a woman being self-centered, but she has to be willing to open up and be one with me for me to take her serious.
I’m a classic man, so I treat ladies to classic experiences. I take them to the best restaurants; daily excursions of horseback riding, horse-drawn carriage rides, and short adventures are my speed. I do those things with the full armor of chivalry: door opening—she better not touch the handle, chair pulled out, meal covered, walk to the door, or to my bed if we have chemistry. The point is to see how she responds to queen treatment. Not every woman is mentally ready to be treated right, and some downright reject good treatment.
However, the chemistry was on point with the mystery woman I met at Keith’s reception. Her reddened eyes, flushed cheeks, and pouting lips continue to haunt me. The desire to plant a permanent smile on her face drives me crazy. I want to stare into her eyes once again. It’s foreign for me to feel this way about anyone, so to say I don’t understand it, is saying the least.
My vibrating phone brings my attention to the here and now.
Be there in 45. Running a little late, my boy. About to hit the shower, shave and get on the road.
Shower? I shake my head. I rushed here to make sure I was here on time, but my homeboy, Santerían, who called me after work today talking shit about not being late, is about to hit the shower? I look at my watch, and the sparkle from the diamonds surrounding my Cartier watch almost blind me. It was 11:06 p.m. I text back.
Really? We were supposed to meet up at 10.
Stop talking shit. I’m on the way.
Get your ass here in 30, or I’m leaving. I got shit to do.
I toss back the rest of my beer and glance at the dance floor. It’s packed with people rocking, swaying their hips, arms and shoulders to “Classic Man. You can be mean when you look this clean… Classic Man. Oh, yeah. I’m a classic man…”
The song embodies me—a very confident man. People who play small so others can feel big end up playing themselves. Okay, scratch confident. Fuck that. I’m arrogant, and I don’t apologize for it. Everyone in the world should have a little arrogance. If they did, we’d be in a much better place with less senseless crime, murder, kidnapping, and all of the other shit that insecure people do. People stoop to lows and hurt others when they hate themselves. There should be more people loving themselves to a fault. Shit, it’s good for the soul.
I teach each of my students the importance of self-confidence. They come to my class to learn about mechanical engineering, but before they leave, I make sure each one of them knows they are put on this earth to stand out. To me, confidence begins with the way a person carries themselves. “Take pride in the way you look,” is written on a sign on my classroom door in bold letters. At the bottom in smaller letters is, “Then step your game up even more and swag out.” Of course, there’s a picture of me on the poster, wearing one of my signature suits with a scarf and Cartier shades to drill the message home.
I can’t help it. I look good. I dress good. Heck, I even smell good. Right now, I’m standing at the bar, wearing a tan blazer, crisp white button-up shirt, and perfectly creased tan slacks. Shining Prada loafers cover my feet that are sheathed in tan and white argyle socks. A bust-down Cartier watch with custom diamonds cloaks my wrist. With my presentation alone, I’m releasing souls from bondage, bringing over other young brothers to the swag life, one by one. I’m so serious about this life I could cut someone with how sharp I am. Before anyone thinks I brag too much, it should we noted that I was raised to believe in myself. Omega Sr. and Joyce Ann Johnson taught me to live good, dress good, and to be the best. I don’t know any other way to be.
Since I’ll be sitting here waiting for Santerían for at least another hour, I take this time to peruse the crowd, looking for a prospect. I’ve been doing this long enough to know how to spot a clingy chick. I don’t want that right now. I want someone who’s on the level and is only looking for a happy ending to the night. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Hey, is this seat taken?” a sexy brown skin appears behind the chair beside me and asks as if she has been reading my mind.
“No, it’s not.” I tell her. “It’s yours.”
She’s on the thick side, and when she gets up into the chair her ass hangs off the side of it. Oh, she’s nice-nice. I bite down on my bottom lip as I look her ass over. There was no way to tell she was carrying all of that when I saw her from the front. I decide to strike up a conversation as my eyes move to admire her straight hair that touches her shoulders; its auburn tinted streaks blend with her maple syrup-colored skin.
“You come here often?” I ask.
“It’s my second time. I came on the first night they opened, and now I’m back for the official grand opening night. I was out there dancing, but I had to find me a seat because Alise will be coming to the stage at 11:30,” she said, squealing when she mentioned the performer.
“Alise?”
r /> “You know the singer… A Dangerous Way to Love.”
“She’s really performing here tonight?”
“Yeah, the DJ announced it a minute ago.”
“I must have been busy texting my friend who was supposed to meet me here.”
“Oh, you got a girlfriend coming to meet you? I don’t want her to come in here and think we’re together. I don’t have time for no Atlanta beef.”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s my homeboy that’s meeting me.”
“Homeboy, huh?” She gives me a full once over and rolls her eyes. “You look like you waiting on a homeboy. Damn, all the good ones out here on some other shit.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
