13 #3
“You get me,” Uzezi had said with obvious relief.
I remembered his voice lowering even more, even though we were alone in our respective bedrooms, and it was past midnight, the rest of the world presumably asleep, “This might sound corny as fuck, but I’ve always dreamed it would go like this: When I eventually feel ready to take that step, I take my partner out—” We’d only come out to each other the previous Christmas, and only each other; considering Nigeria’s conservative climate, we hadn’t trusted anyone else with the information, not even our families—“make them feel loved and wanted—properly seduce them, you know? Then when the night is over, and they’re feeling all warm and loved up, they invite me back to theirs.
Maybe we’re both nervous. We laugh about it.
I’d like us to laugh, and it won’t detract from the moment.
In fact, it’ll add to it. We’ll take it slow.
Be comfortable enough to talk every step of the way, just to make sure we’re both giving each other what we need. ”
I’d been almost panting by the time he’d finished.
I remembered kicking my sheets off, my entire body strangely hot.
When I’d tried to imagine what he was describing, for some odd, strange reason, my mind had immediately pictured us.
Him and me. In my imaginary future bedroom after our imaginary perfect date, laughing as we kissed deeply and caressed each other gently, whispering our desires while we slowly took our clothes off.
For that brief, wild second—for the first time in course of our entire friendship—he wasn’t Uzezi, and I wasn’t me; he was a sexy, romantic guy literally reciting the first time of my dreams to me, making me swoon even though I was lying flat on my mattress.
“It’s like you literally read my mind,” I remembered saying, trying to be flippant, like I wasn’t freaking out about the absolutely batshit fantasy I’d just had.
“Yeah?”
“Described what I want to a T. Like, the slow seduction. That sweet buildup?”
“Yeah.” His voice had been gravelly, encouraging.
My insides had been going haywire. “That’s exactly what I want. Like, we go on a few dates—do things that get us not just falling in love, but falling in trust.”
He’d made a soft noise of agreement. “Trust is seriously underrated.”
“Abi? Just like you said, I want us to be able to laugh if it gets awkward, and that kind of laughter only happens when there’s real love and trust between us already, you get me?
I … I especially want that moment after all the buildup, where we look into each other’s eyes and something just ...
clicks. We’re completely at ease with each other—completely in sync, ready to hand each other our vulnerabilities with the certainty that it will be handled with love, care, and respect. That’s what I want.”
“Damn,” Uzezi said now when I finished relaying the memory.
“Yeah,” I admitted, a little sheepishly. “That was the first time I ever thought of you as an actual sexual being.” Even remembering it now made me feel ... things. “It was just so ... You revealing your inner desires like that made me see you in a different light. Just for a moment.”
“Damn,” he repeated hoarsely. Then, “Wait. That was the first time, you say?”
“Anyway—”
“Nah, run that shit back with immediate alacrity.”
I burst out laughing. I found it endlessly amusing how Nigerians could just drop an ostentatious word like that in the middle of a casual convo—words I’d once upon a time thought were strictly part of the Nigerian lexicon, until I’d started reading more.
“Uzi, if you don’t stop.”
“I’m not joking around, Ofure. Please explain what you mean. And be sure to cite your sources.”
“As I was saying.” He laughed, and I grinned because that sound told me he was letting it go. For now. “God, I don’t know if I should even admit this ...”
“Ah, there’s more?”
“I got turned on,” I admitted with a dramatic groan. “You turned me on. There. Happy? Though afterward, I’d felt disgusted, because, obviously—what the fuck?”
“Completely understandable,” he said with a laugh.
“How do you think I felt on the day of the orange bikini?” He huffed out a slight breath.
“And, fine—” He said it like he’d just finished having a conversation with himself.
“—I guess I can also admit that when you agreed with me back then—on that night, when you told me you wanted practically the same thing, for a brief moment, when I let myself think about it, I pictured you, too.”
Oh. I was suddenly filled with a yearning so ardent it left me fighting for air.
“Do you want to keep going?” he asked abruptly.
“What?”
“We still have so many more “firsts”, so to speak, and—for now, at least—I can’t imagine sharing them with anyone but you.”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I should tell him we needed to actually talk about this. I should tell him we needed to take some time to actually think about this.
But, if my best friend was feeling an ounce of anything that I was, his greed for this—to keep whatever this was between us going for as long as possible—was probably greater than his logic.
And so, despite my fear that our relationship was already changing irreparably, I found myself whispering, “Yes.”