"Now you know why Caribbean men have so many children!"
He leaned back, clearly proud of himself. The woman had the decency to look like she enjoyed his attempts. After all, he had paid for dinner, for entry into the club, for all of her drinks and for the hotel room. And, as he was so generous with his wallet, she figured it would be nice of her to be generous with her body, an act that turned out to be truly a charitable gesture on her part. He turned out to be one of her least favourite type of men - the ones that think that the size of their boat means that all they have to do is float. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes, and gave the man her most charming smile, the one that deepened her dimples and made her look almost cherubic. The same smile she had used at the start of the night that had gotten her dinner, club tickets and a nice hotel room.
It had the desired effect. If the man ever doubted his ability to please a woman, he was well and truly fooled now. 'Someone really should tell him,' she thought, looking at the man's forehead. He had actually managed to break into a sweat after 3.5minutes of work? 'Not me, though.'
"Yeah man," he continued, grinning lazily. "Genetics don't lie. Us island people are the best in bed. I've never had a bad review myself. I'll bet. Where did you say you were from?"
"St Lucia," she replied, steeling herself for what she knew was coming.
"Oh a small island gyal!" She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "My parents are from Jamaica, but I'm a Hackney boy meself. Did you put your digits in my phone?"
She nodded. It was the number for a charity hotline - maybe he could give someone the happy ending she didn't get. He smiled. He was almost as handsome as his paycheck, which wasn't all that impressive. "I'll ring you then, yeah?" Her cue to leave.
Leaving after a one night stand is always the hardest part. Your clothes are all over the floor, your purse is somewhere in the person's house, and you have to figure out a way to get home without looking like you're leaving someone's house after sex. Generally speaking though, the better the sex the worse the Walk of Shame looks, so she figured she would look like she was leaving a late night bible study session.
Fortunately he hadn't ripped any of her clothing. Men are honestly so inconsiderate when they do that. Are they going to replace it? No. So what gives them the right to tear apart stockings, bite through panties and mess up dresses? They don't even offer to see buttons back on, the douchebags. She pulled up her thong (electric blue that went well with her dark skin, not that he cared) and hooked up her bra over her full bosom (largely ignored during the sham he called lovemaking). She had barely pulled her jade coloured knee length dress over her head (jewel tones complimented her complexion) when she began to be serenaded by the sounds of snoring. What a gentleman.
It didn't take her long to get a taxi, the part of London that she was in was better serviced than her ends, and soon she was speeding westward, away from Hipster Hackney and disappointing lovers and towards northwest London, the part she called home. Pointedly ignoring the cabbie, whose eyes flickered up at her reflection one too many times, she took the time to adjust her hair and think about life, something all girls do at the back of cabs at 1am.
She had timed this little soiree right. The guy had been trying to get into her pants for a few months, ever since he delivered a package (no pun intended) to the office she worked at. He was alright to look at on boring days, but her roster was full and he wasn't cute enough for her to add him to her list... until her lovers started talking about boring things like settling "settling down" and "seeing where things go". Cuts were made and suddenly the FedEx guy with the big package (pun intended) got a promoted from eye candy to potential bedwarmer.
Her and her girls did the requisite research and he came up clean; other than the typical yardie posts with a bottle of Hennessy in one hand and a cigar in the other, there were no angry exes on his social media to dodge, no pickney to call her aunty Ayanna and no drugs that she could see. Not that it meant he didn't use any. It just meant he was smart enough to not flaunt it online. In short he was ok and she was getting desperate. Unfortunately he had turned out to be less than ok. Subpar at best. And Ayanna didn't do well with mediocrity.
The cab pulled up to a block of flats in a quiet area of Willesden, not high-rise but with enough floors to need a lift. Paying the man with the money she had helped herself to from FedEx's wallet, she daintily slid out of the taxi, taking care not to flash the driver. He got enough looks for free, any more and he would have to get her dinner. Letting herself in, she rode the lift to the 5th floor, and opened the door to her cosy little flat and her not-so cosy but still little flatmate.
