SEDUCTION AND TERRITORIAL LIMITS

Man is a predator and a territorial creature. The hunting season is the best of times for a brotha- any brotha and for me. I have clearly defined my own territory at the bar, as the buzz of the party: the small talks, champagne-inspired laughter, the clinking sound of glasses touching other glasses, the overarching sound of sweet music- Dare Art Alade’s rendition of “Sisi Eko”, flowing about, and meandering among the cheerful guests in the crowded room. I have cornered a delectable chic, Alero she said was her name. Putting on my enigmatic Frank Edoho mien, I asked:

“Are you here alone, Ma’am?”

my gaze was riveting between her tempting-to-touch cleavage and the bright red-lip-sticked kissable mouth. The half-empty flute of bubbling champagne gripped gingerly between the thumb and fore-finger of her right hand; her right arm folded across her breasts, pushing and swelling them up.

“Hmmm!” she grunted in reply, sipping from her half-full glass of frothy at that moment. Her eyes narrowed into mere slits, observing me quizzically from behind long, mascara-ladden lashes. I expected her to have flashed a wedding band, or ring-less fingers in my view, like unescorted socialite ladies are wont to do, but she did no such thing. That put me on track, ‘cos I had rehearsed this scene and prepared a 20-strategic-questions-technique of hooking up. I had the presence of mind to throw in some dash of humour and further quizzed her:

“That question is for ten million Naira. So if you’re going to call a friend now, who will you call?

She flicked her hair, and cocked her head to one side, revealing a masterfully sculptured neck adorned with a shimmering gold necklace. She Batted her long eye lashes at me as she blinked rapidly- I know that sign- She Pouted her red lips and I confirmed that she was for the taking. That sign was the “come on” sign. I thought I got myself the hook up alright. So I played my next hand:

“You only got “50-50”. You can’t ask the audience and you can’t walk away now.

She laughed. The tone of her laughter sounding sweet and sensuous, musy, inviting, encouraging and caressingly nice. I loved it.

“Married? Kids?” I asked
“Just kidding”. I interjected to forestall her reply. This technique encouraged her prolonged laughter. That was to open her wide for the hit that was coming at her. I couldn’t have missed.

But her eyes rolled upward and inward as if she was searching for answers in the twinkling chandeliers. I guessed that time that she was only trying to get her champagne-fuzzied head around my seductive overtures. I was just going to go in for the kill when she unexpectedly said, in a rather probing manner I was hardly prepared for;

“Yes, I am married. Why do you ask?” .
Not to be caught napping in the game of seduction, I dropped the Frank Edoho drill, and shifted gear to Brad Pitt mode.

“Of course, I expected you to be… married. Mouthing the last word as if it had a nasty-pill taste. Without waiting for a reply, I continued in the Brad Pitt mode:

“All the good ones are taken. But what kind of “maaaaaarried” are you? Happily, ‘maaaaaarried’?”

Her eyebrow raised in a sinister way that reminded me of the shape of the Question Mark. But I said further:

“I ask you because I need to know if we are on the same page… You are very beautiful and I am not a holy man, yeah?. But we can be on the same page, yeah?” I switched on my killer-smile that time. I do not possess the world’s most perfect set of teeth. But I have spent hours on end in front of mirrors, at home, in the car at the office, and church, and parties, perfecting a parody of the “Knock ’em Dead” Barak Obama smile. It works all the time, and it was working that time. She opened up in a wan smile. That’s how it works- A smile begat a smile. And there is no light greener than a lady’s smile.

“Gotcha!” I thought to myself, and was just about to nail it when Richard M.D. suddenly materialised at her side; a half-emptied bottle of Moet gripped in his left hand. His right hand took her by the elbow, gently steering her around and away from me. The dude flashed a nice set of fangs and said sweetly to me, if you will excuse me, sir, I like to borrow my wife back”.

“Hey, bros na you? Area, I dey hail o!” I saluted him, and he saluted back, rather waved me off. But not before I got the message in his menacing scowl, and the manner his fist closed around the neck of the wine bottle. The coded word was “piss-off, you fucking lecher, I go burst bottle for your head if I catch you”. I watch the man lead the beautiful woman away. Her waistline wiggling ever so invitingly and mesmerising. My gaze was cross-haired on the receding butty, and I had my hand to my pouted lips waiting to blow her a kiss if she would turn to give me a parting look. But she never did. When I lost my visual of her, I quietly slithered away to hunt for some other preys. The party was just starting. It was the hunting season and the best of times.

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