“How long have you worked at the bookshop?” She’s sitting back evaluating me while she sips her wine while her firm, round breasts push against the cotton material of her blouse. She crosses her legs and her skirt rides half way up her thigh, exposing more of her smooth skin. I force myself to look…
“Nice to meet you,” I respond, shaking her hand.
“I’m Lenny.” I linger holding her hand, enjoying the touch of her smooth skin.
“Since your friends call you Amaka, I suppose you’ll want me to call you Miss Eze?” I say chuckling, as she pulls her hand back.
“Mrs. Eze. But no, call me Amaka,” she says, taking a drink.
“How long have you worked at the bookshop?” She’s sitting back evaluating me while she sips her wine while her firm, round breasts push against the cotton material of her blouse. She crosses her legs and her skirt rides half way up her thigh, exposing more of her smooth skin. I force myself to look in her eyes rather than stare at her beautiful legs.
“About two years. It’s a perfect job while I’m in school and I get a great discount on my textbooks. What do you do, Amaka.” I love the sound of her name.
“I’m work as a human resources consultant. I work for a firm headquartered here in Lagos. I work out of my house so I can live anywhere and this is where my husband’s job brought us.”
“And what does your husband do?” Her face captivates me. With only light makeup complementing her already gorgeous skin tone, she looks more like a glamour model than a consultant.
“He’s a pastor. We go where the church sends us,” she says, looking intently for a reaction from me. I don’t disappoint her.
“That explains a lot,” I say, immediately regretting it when I see her eyes flare up.
“It explains nothing!” she yells, and then quickly lowers her voice.
“You don’t know anything about me or my husband,” she fumes, through clenched teeth.
“You university children think you know everything! You don’t know shit!” She stands up, getting ready to leave.
“Wait! I’m really sorry,” I stammer, remorsefully.
“That was a stupid thing to say. It wasn’t really a statement about your husband, Amaka. It’s more reflective of my own bias against organized religion and all the hypocrisy that goes with it,” I say, trying to explain. “I said it without thinking, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Please,” I plead, gesturing towards her chair.
“Please, sit back down.” She does and slowly her face relaxes but my eyes are drawn to her chest, still heaving from her anger. Her breasts swelling and pushing against the blouse create small gaps between the buttons with each breath she takes.
“I’m sorry I got so upset,” she says, finally.
“You just seem to think you know all about my problems and you don’t. My husband is a good man. He’s a wonderful father and a powerful pastor.” I notice she doesn’t say a great lover. I wonder if he even notices her juicy breasts.
“I’m sure he is,” I answer. We’re silent for a minute.
“So, how old are you anyway, Mr. Know-It-All University boy?” Amaka asks, smiling curiously.
“Twenty-three,” I answer unapologetically. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four. Happily married with three children and a successful career, thank you,” she declares proudly. “So where do you learn to solve my sexual problems? You’re too young to have enough experience to give you any credibility.” She’s back on the attack and I react again before I think.
“Funny. I was thinking you’re old enough to have already experienced some things you’re obviously only reading about.”
“You don’t know what I’m experiencing and what I’m not!” She’s angry again and talking through her teeth.
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. You’re the one looking through orgasm books. I’m just trying to help,” I retort.
“Yeah by hitting on me!” she rants. “Is that what you do at that bookshop, watch for women to come in looking for sexual self-help books and then offer your services?” She’s really angry now. “You think I don’t get better offers than you all the time. I’m a beautiful woman working in a professional capacity in a mostly men dominated company. I get hit on more than any lady around. Everyone including the owner of the company is trying to live out his fantasy. I’ve seen it all before. No thank you!”
“When did I hit on you?” I challenge.
“When?” I repeat. “I thought we had a cool discussion going and that you would be a fun person to get to know so that’s what I’m trying to do. I didn’t force you to come back in the store tonight when you knew I would be working and I didn’t tie you up and drag you to this bar. So if you don’t want to be here, leave! No one is stopping you.”
She walks out but instead of gazing at her luscious ass, I’m gazing into my wine, mistakenly believing that I’ll never see her again.
I relive that conversation all the way home, kicking myself for the way I handled it. I ignored every principle I know from my psychology classes about using active listening to defuse anger. If I had only listened, asked questions and encouraged her to talk maybe…oh fuck it! I’ve only seen her twice, so what if she’s the most enticing woman I’ve ever met.
That night I lie in bed replaying the two encounters I’ve had with Amaka and marvel at how quickly and explosively she flips from teasing to anger. I don’t know if this woman is bipolar or just frustrated from her sexual frustration and feeling guilty about it.
I would love to relieve her tension and see what happens. I think about how stunning she looks and my dick hardens as I visualize her skin, her flat stomach and the sensuous curves of her breasts and ass.
