While I was sitting with another man, a beautiful dark African guy came up to me and asked if I would take him for a dance. I told him that I was booked but would come and find him afterward.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Chocolate.’ His voice was sexy and low, rumbling back at me with a thick, deep African accent. The corners of his mouth unfurled, and his lips parted ever so slightly to reveal a slinky smile.
‘OH MY GOD!!!! That’s my DOG’S name!’ I exclaimed. Loudly. With far more excitement that it was worth. Double dropping dexamphetamines has consequences.
‘That’s my dog’s name!’ I repeated. Only slightly decreasing the force of my statement. Again, consequences. Tsk tsk.
He was not impressed. He mumbled something under his breath about ‘Chocolate….mmmumna mmumna….dog.Ugh! Mmumna…blah blah.’
It became clear all of a sudden that several things had been lost on me during the course of this extremely brief interaction. The imaginable sexual prowess of such a man with that dark Chocolate flavouring had failed to be imagined by me. The disco fantasy of a hot black man rolling by the name of Chocolaaaaaate… like a loud whisper between songs on a dance floor that lights up with coloured checkers from below, had been lost on me. The legendary proportions of his African easter bunny and how it might spill forth into my own small Asian fusion treasure box of special secret XOXO sauce dumprings, had been lost on me.
My heart rate had not increased, all a flutter, due to the prince before me, but rather due to the duo of white pills before him. Any chance of a hand in hand digression onto a dance floor, followed by sweet salty chocolate disco dumpring dirty time shriveled up and died in that moment. The impact had fizzled. The Chocolate sex soldier had partially melted in his foil wrapper and now stood less than at attention. Downtrodden. Chest no longer puffed. Chin no longer skyward. Left in the box. Staring at his half melted cunt conquest combat boots.
‘Just call me Choc.’ He said.
Then he turned and walked away. Hands in pockets, shuffling his chocolates about through his jeans. Just to make sure they were still positioned where they were meant to be.