The DJ drops Sade.
The bartender hands me a drink I didn’t order, but it’s exactly what I want.
The oysters arrive with lemon wedges cut too perfectly to be random.
The women shimmer.
They flirt.
They flick their hair.
They angle their shoulders toward him like dancers who forgot the stage.
One of them touches his forearm.
Another leans close, hand on hip, smile loaded.
I don’t interrupt.
Because I feel his body; under his shirt, behind his smile: tighten.
His cock is swelling.
His breath gets shallow.
And I let it happen.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m scared to lose him.
But because I already placed him.
I don’t need to pull him back.
He never leaves my orbit.
He might laugh.
He might flirt.
He might let his thigh press a little too long.
I let the heat build.
Because he comes home to me.
He knows where he lands.
He knows whose hand he finishes in.
And every glance, every graze, every throb;
feeds my fire.
I don’t stop the charge.
I route it.
I don’t block the current.
I claim it.
I don’t ask who he’s looking at.
Because he’s hard inside my field.
When we leave JNcQUOI,
he’ll be aching.
He’ll be swollen.
He’ll be ready.
And he’ll wait.
Until I say:
Now.
There.
For me.
Flirtation isn’t threat.
It’s tension I command.
Their beauty?
My fuel.
His erection?
My property.
This bar?
My throne room.
And every woman here,
whether she knows it or not,
just worked for me.
They think they’re touching him.
But they’re stoking my system.
Because his fire doesn’t leak.
It loops.
Every blush, every flirt, every stroke of heat,
charges what’s already mine.
They didn’t seduce.
They supplied.
He holds the tension.
I hold the throne.
And every pulse of power returns to me.
After a night out, I don’t need to perform.
I don’t need to undress.
I don’t need to flirt back.
I don’t need to match his arousal.
I can just say:
“Come here.
Come on me now: here.”
Then I step into the shower.
No performance.
No lingering.
No drama.
Just direction.
Because I don’t entertain heat.
I route it.
I don’t withhold.
I place.
And I don’t need to protect.
Because he doesn’t come for me.
He comes on me.
Because he’s not left hard, guessing, performing and aching.
And I don’t have to provide to clear him.
Because he doesn’t ejaculate in private.
He ejaculates by my say; when and where I choose.
The charge completes; because I say where.
His erection isn’t betrayal.
It’s biology.
It’s current.
It’s what a man’s body does when the world burns bright.
The heat is right.
Denying it is the illusion.
I don’t fight the current.
I route it.
Because his charge isn’t wrong,
It just needs a home.
If I want him inside me, I say so.
If I don’t, I still command the release.
That’s the difference.
I’m not withholding.
I’m not avoiding.
I’m choosing.
Because sex is mine to give,
and his charge is mine to clear.
That’s not negotiation.
That’s governance.
And who knows;
maybe I lit something in another man.
Maybe I added fire to another woman’s domain.
That doesn’t diminish me.
It honors her.
It honors me.
It means I still burn bright enough to arouse.
And I don’t need to chase that ripple.
Because I know where my fire returns.
Home.