This is how you meet your sugar daddy. You are sitting at a table inside the Street View Bar of Carlton Gate Exclusive hotel. The new one just opposite the hospital. It is your first time there and it is not a social call. You are on a work assignment to review the Jazz event that is about to happen.
You had only just finished talking briefly to the convener, the saxophonist. You are making notes from the conversation in your phone when you hear sugar daddy’s voice say, “Are you waiting for me?”
You look up at him. He is looking at you, head tilted to the side, shoulder’s hung high, like his arms were too long and he needed them to stay put on his body, but still slightly slouched, like a mantis; a preying mantis, yes “prey” not “pray”, but you will only find this out much later, not now.
Now, you will smile at him politely because his middle-aged appearance, dusting of grey hair, and piercing, demanding eyes, will make you feel like he has seen you somewhere before. You will instantly wonder if he is perhaps a friend of your father, especially as he looked to be something around the age.
So you wait for him to say something like, “se kin se omo so-and-so niyin?” and prepare a response consisting of an abashed smile and a quick nod. But although his next statement is indeed a question, it is not the kind you are expecting.
So when he asks you if the seat beside you is taken, you take a minute before you tell him it isn’t, and fail to hide your surprise when he takes it. You wipe the abashed smile from your face. He didn’t know you from anywhere, he was no friend of your father, and though you couldn’t say for sure, you were no novice either; this middle-aged, mantis of a man was about to make a move on you.
Over the course of the night, he goes on to ask questions about you. What was your name? What was your nickname? What did your friends call you? What were you doing there? Did you want to order a drink?
He is charming, and forward, immediately hinting at wanting to take you back to his place barely five minutes after he had met you. You chuckle at his forwardness. It amuses you. The entire conversation amuses you. You are a writer, you are writing, you are looking for any opportunity that can serve as material, so you take it. You take this forward, charming, middle-aged man that is asking you to “come over to his place to see some of his ‘art’ because he thinks you are a ‘lover of art’”.
You allow his words and the three-quarter and some glass of a long island cocktail you have been sipping swirl you into accepting. You follow him to his car, clamber in and let him drive you to his house in a part of the city you have only passed by but never been.
He sweeps you from door to parlor to bedroom, pointing out traditional paintings, wooden sculptures, figurines and carvings, and drops words like “expensive”, “taste” and “class” so you know he takes great pride in saying he spent a lot of money on the art works in his home even though he was barely involved in the curation of it.
Somewhere in between the art tour and an alcoholic nightcap, you find that he is slipping a hand into your jean trouser and trying to take off your shirt. You are buzzed or what is a step higher than buzzed, but not entirely wasted. You think of your boyfriend and you know you will not allow this end up as something that will jeopardize your relationship.
You tell him you want to do the number one and bolt to the downstairs toilet. When you return, you try as much as possible to stay off the bed but it is no surprise that you somehow keep ending up there. You take another bathroom break and try to stay there a bit longer this time, but he comes down and you have no choice but to come out.
He tries again. Finger slipping into jeans, hand slipping under shirt, tongue slipping into mouth. He is begging and pleading now. Please baby please. Just touch me. Just hold me. Please baby, just hold me. Pleeeease. You stifle a giggle. He sounds so pathetically desperate, you almost feel sorry for him. This man, this old man that could very well father you and in some rare and disturbing cases, even father the person that fathers you. Yet, here he was, begging for you to at least give him a hand-job, or at the very least, “cuddle”.
I have to go. You tell him over and over and over again. You wonder how it is that despite your severely inebriated state, one which should have made you an easy lay, you are still largely in control of your senses. You are resisting. You are choosing to not pull down your jeans and sleep with this strange man. You give yourself a lot of kudos, alcohol ain’t got nothing on you.
A few minutes later, and he gives up, but not after finger fucking you and commenting at how wet you are. Oh baby, why are you so wet, he gasps. It’s the vagina, she’s always wet, you say. You touch her long enough and she gets that way. It don’t mean nothing. It didn’t, and you didn’t want him mistaking your wetness for consent.
He reluctantly drives you home. You barely remember the ride, but you do remember the guard at the gate exclaim, ah e no get plate number o, wetin I go write? And you remember thinking to yourself, Babe, wetin you go enter? Car with no plate number? No be 419 be dat?
After you clamber out of the car, you manage to peer at the bumper as the car slowly drives further away from your view, and you can make out car plates that indeed had no numbers except the alphabets that made up the initials of his name.
As you walk into your room, you promise yourself to never do anything that risky while also inebriated again. It is sincere and you believe yourself when you make it. So you wonder why a week to the exact day later, when he calls you out of the blue, you answer and agree to meet up with him once again.