#RelationshipGoals: I Want To Be Chosen
I’d been running errands all day and I had one more stop to make and that was my friend’s day party that was all about men with beards and the women–like me–who loved them. I had only planned to stay for an hour and when I walked in, I confirmed that choice.
The party was three hours in and so turnt. So very turnt. The first floor and top floors were all trap music and downstairs was R&B. I ran into a couple of friends and followed them down to the R&B room. The crowd was equal parts men and women. And the men weren’t shy, they would grab the woman they wanted to dance with and two step her into their arms.
I smiled as people paired up, dancing to Frankie Beverly & Maze, Chaka Khan and Michael Jackson. Men would come up to me, offering their hand and twirling me to the beat. One of those men who twirled me told me he was obsessed with me. He proceeded to dance with me for three songs, whispering in my ear that I’m so beautiful and he loves thick women like me and I’m the best looking one in there. I tried to pull away from him and a friend danced her way to me to save me from the weirdo. I steer clear of any man who tells me he’s into thick women because he’s usually got a fetish.
We all decided to check out the scene on the top floor because the ground floor was nuts. Since it was my friend’s party, she had her own area where there were plenty of drinks and space…glorious space.
I bounced my way through all the songs that played on the radio and that hour I said I would stay slowly turned into three. And then it happened. I met someone…who stuck.
I turned towards the table to pour myself a drink and stepped on someone’s foot. “So sorry,” I turned around and put my hand on his strapping shoulder.
“Oh, you’re fine,” The stranger said back to me, placing his hand on the small of my back. He smiled at me. “In fact, may I?” He grabbed my hand.
We started dancing. He spun my back to him and put his hands on my waist. A slow wind turned into a fast wind into a twerk and before I knew it, this stranger and I were more than five songs in.
The more we danced, the tighter he held me. He spun me to face him, “What’s your name?”
“Danielle,” I smiled, still dancing with him. “And you are?”
“Rashawn,” he smiled back at me. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he pulled me in closer to him.
We stopped dancing long enough to have a conversation about where we went to school, why we came to the party, what we’re looking for and we decided to exchange numbers.
“You’re the kind of girl I can see myself with. You’re so special,” Rashawn nuzzled my neck. “I want you to be my girl.”
I have this familiarity quality about me that is often a gift and a curse when it comes to dating. Twice, I’ve had men tell me they love me on the first date and they actually thought they meant it. It’s nice to always make people feel comfortable around you; however, that type of rushed comfort has never worked out for me in my relationships. I could tell that Rashawn was about to cross over that line and the saddest part is, I didn’t stop him. Why? Because he was choosing me. And I want to be chosen.
We were face to face when he asked me on a date, “Let’s get some food after this,” his lips grazed mine.
I felt like I could float away, “OK,” I said, grazing his lips right back.
Rashawn leaned in, closing the tense space left between our lips. His lips felt like tiny pillows.
We closed down the party, slow dancing and kissing to something by Future. Once we snapped out of our own enchantment with one another, we left. I’d come solo because I knew I’d link up with friends and he said his friends had already left.
At the restaurant, Rashawn and I held hands, already involved in a whirlwind romance–something that I’ve constantly found myself in, in New York City. Falling in love for the night wasn’t strange territory, although it was annoying at best.
Rashawn played with my fingers, “You’re so beautiful. I really like you, Danielle.”
I smiled at Rashawn, “You don’t know me yet.”
“True. But I like what I know so far,” he kissed my palm.
We flirted throughout the meal and finally decided it was time to part ways, but not before a makeout session that could have won one of those silly MTV Movie Awards for Best Kiss. It lingered, it breathed on its own–if nothing else, our lips were soul mates.
“I want to see you tomorrow. Can I take you out?” Rashawn asked, rubbing his hands across my butt.
I didn’t want to seem to eager, but I was, “Sure.”
“Want to get brunch? I know women love brunch,” he laughed.
“We do,” I laughed with him. We kissed, confirmed our plans and by 1 pm the next day, we were back to violating each other’s personal space.
We put our names on the list of a restaurant and decided to walk a couple of blocks away to get coffee. We held hands, we laughed. We got back to the restaurant and were seated. We asked each other questions and then one of those questions led to the decline of our date.
I asked Rashawn, “Why didn’t it work with your ex?”
He told me he was devoted to her for a year before they had to be long distance. They were fine for another year and then she distanced herself from him. In reaction, he cheated. He broke her heart and she cut him off completely. As Rashawn told the story, he became increasingly sad.
Then he said, “I shouldn’t have said a lot of the things I said to you.”
Confused, I asked, “Like what?”
Rashawn hesitated, “I’m hung up on her. And I was caught up in missing her, I wanted to forget. I shouldn’t have…”
I cut him off, “No you shouldn’t have said things to me that you didn’t mean. Not cool,” I looked down. I was hurt. Not because all of a sudden he wanted to change his mind on everything he said to me, but mostly because he wasn’t choosing me. And I want to be chosen.