The Old Man in the Club Read online

  “No, that’s not me, Ma,” Tamara said.

  “So when are you going to see him again?” her mother asked.

  “I wanted to see him tonight. But he said he has to go to a party.”

  “And you left it at?” her mother asked. “If you want to see him, you should let him know. Maybe he would pass on the party. Why let him go out to a party and meet someone else when you’re really interested in him? I’m not pushing you to be aggressive. I’m just saying don’t be too lackadaisical.”

  The advice her mom gave ricocheted in Tamara’s head, leading to her text message: “Do you have to go to that party?”

  Elliott received the message as he was about to start shaving. He put down the razor to respond.

  “Have to go? No. I want to go. But why?” he responded.

  “I was thinking I would come over and hang out with you.”

  Elliott smiled and shook his head upon reading the text. Then he said aloud: “I see. Well, look at this.”

  He wanted to cancel his plans and tell her to come over. But Elliott analyzed women up and down, and he deduced that seeing her on back-to-back nights would convey the wrong message. So he texted her: “That sounds good. But I committed to being there and I don’t want to be a no-show.”

  “U can text ur friend now and let them no something came up,” Tamara shot back. The more he refused to give in to her, the more eager she became to get her way.

  On the other end, Elliott was tired of texting. He knew he had to with the generation of women he desired; it was their way. But after about two in succession, he had enough.

  And instead of texting back, he called her.

  “Hi, Elliott,” she said with excitement in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

  “You want to give me arthritis with all the texting?” he joked. “You just learned something about me. After about three, maybe four texts in a row, I’m done. If it’s going to go beyond that, we need to talk.”

  “Don’t you enjoy the anticipation of what the response is going to be when you receive texts?” Tamara asked. “It’s fun. It’s a real important way in how we communicate now.”

  She paused for a second. “I’m sorry,” Tamara said. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was schooling you. I was trying to make a point.”

  “It’s okay; I’m good,” Elliott said. “And I understand your position. I get to the point sometimes where talking is the best way to go.”

  “I understand,” Tamara said. “In my texts, I was trying to say that you’d have way more fun with me than you would at any party.”

  She sipped on the glass of Sauvignon Blanc that helped her get more daring. “Don’t you agree?”

  Elliott got her drift, but his near obsession with frequenting the Atlanta nightlife overwhelmed him. He wanted to answer her, “I don’t know.” Instead, he said, “Of course. But I can’t cancel on them at this late point. I’m getting dressed. And why do you want to see me anyway?”

  He threw in that last question not only as a way of gathering information, but also to take her mind off of why he didn’t want her to come over.

  “Well, hold on,” she said. Tamara took the remaining half glass of her wine in one gulp. And she even burped after downing it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to finish my wine before I gave you my answer.”

  “Which is…?

  Tamara blushed.

  “My mother told me to,” she started.

  “Your mother?” Elliott said. “You told your mother about me?”

  “Not really, not specifically,” she answered. “I told her that you make me feel mature and she gave a little speech about how wonderful it is that a man could do that. And later she told me to assert myself and to keep you from going out to meet other women.”

  Elliott said, “How do you and your peers put it? ‘It’s not that serious.’ ”

  “But that’s the problem,” Tamara said. “I think it might be that serious. I didn’t give you the full picture on how I felt about us being intimate last night. The truth is, it was wonderful. I wasn’t trying to compare you to men I have slept with, younger men. But I couldn’t help it. It’s impossible not to. And it was made more impossible to notice because it was so different.”

  Ellliott had not received any complaints from the other two twenty-somethings he had slept with, and he was proud of his performance with her.

  “I thought the men I had slept with were doing something,” she said. “I enjoyed it with them, but they were really jumping up and down in me, showing off how long they could go or how big they were—and all of them weren’t that big. And there weren’t that many, either, so don’t get any bad ideas about me.”

  Elliott did not respond. He listened. And even in that he was impressed.

  “See what I’m saying?” Tamara said. “A younger guy would have had a bunch of questions and interrupted me. You are listening. I love it. Thank you. But anyway, what I was getting at is that younger men basically fucked me. Excuse my language, but it’s the truth. They made sure they got theirs. They either were not concerned about pleasing me or didn’t know how.

  “The worst part is that I was okay with that. I didn’t know any better—until last night. In your mind, you probably fucked me, too. But the way it felt on my end was loving and careful but strong and attentive. You caressed me and admired my body with your hands and kissed me delicately on my neck and shoulders and made me feel like a woman, like you cared about how I felt.

  “You enjoyed yourself; I could tell. But it wasn’t only about you being pleased. You wanted to please me. And experiencing that made me wet, made me feel alive and made me want to make sure you were pleased. Through you, I experienced for the first time what making love really means. I would never have expected that. But now I want more.”

  Elliott smiled. “See, how long would it have taken you to text all that?” he joked.

  Tamara laughed. “What can I say? I’d like to believe at some point I would have said, ‘Let’s just talk about it.’ But you beat me to that.”

  “Well, thank you for all those words that will always mean something to me,” Elliott said. “I’m not sure what to say after that except making love to you felt wonderful. Your body is soft and made for caressing. And I want to feel it again.”

  Still, he was not going to miss the party. So he came up with a solution. “How about I leave a key for you downstairs and you meet me here around twelve-thirty, one. That’ll give me some time to show my face, mingle and get back to you.”

  “You have to go to that party, huh?” Tamara asked.

  “I made a promise that I would be there and I’m trying to make a compromise with you,” Elliott said. “I had these plans for about three weeks. I’m willing to cut my night short to accommodate you.”

  Tamara had a moment where her age showed. “Don’t do me any favors,” she snapped.

  “Is that what you really want to say to me?” He had vowed to not get overly reactionary to a woman’s flippant remarks. She’s just being a woman, was his thought process, chauvinistic as it might have sounded.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Tamara said. “I shouldn’t have tried to get you to break up your plans. Thank you for meeting me halfway on this. I will get there around midnight and pick up the key. But I will text you when I’m on my way.”

  She smiled as she said those last words because she had already planned to give Elliott a memorable greeting when he returned home that night.

  And that’s how they left it, which was good for both sides. Elliott knew he had a fun evening ahead of him even if the party was a dud. Tamara was excited about a chance to feel Elliott’s loving again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To Compound Matters. . .

  R&B star Melanie Fiona and hip-hop star Chris Brown were performing at Compound, which was the reason Elliott was so determined to go to the club. He liked Melanie Fiona, but was totally unaware of any Chris Brown song. But he believed that
the entertainment would bring out a bevy of young beauties for him to peruse.

  It would be a much different crowd from Vanquish, though. At Vanquish, while it was mostly a younger group of people, there were much older patrons, too, up into the fifties. At Compound, it would be women mostly in their twenties with some up to their mid-thirties. And because the crowd would be so young, he had to switch up his look.

  At Vanquish, he let the gray on the edges of his sides and other parts of his head show. At Compound, he figured a younger look would prevent him from standing out more than normal. So, he pulled out his Just For Men after he spoke to Tamara and carefully, meticulously colored the edges of his hair, eliminating most of the gray. Doing so took off about ten years in his appearance.

  Then he put on a pair of fashionable Sean John jeans and a pullover shirt that was fitted and showed off his strong arms over a man’s version of Spanks to minimize the small protrusion of his stomach. He also put in a diamond stud earring.

  It took him but ten minutes to get to the club. He handed the valet guy a twenty-dollar bill to keep his car up front. Last thing he wanted to do was have to wait for his car when he was ready to leave.

  Compound was, indeed, a compound, a unique and fabulous venue that spanned several acres. It was like a park or a military base, with lounge areas around lagoons outside and separate buildings that, in essence, housed different parties. It was west of downtown and you could see the Atlanta skyline in the distance. The place could hold more than a thousand people and it looked like it was well on its way to capacity when Elliott arrived right before ten.

  A vodka company sponsored one party in the first building, where a deejay spun old-school hip-hop music. The room was dark with a strobe light making it feel like the building was moving. At least that’s how it felt to Elliott. By how the younger partygoers moved about, the strobe light did not faze them.

  He made his way through the thick crowd to the bar, where, after five minutes in line, he was able to secure the complimentary promotional cocktail. But the music was too loud and the lighting too busy for Elliott to stay there. As much as he desired to be the old man in the club, he was, indeed, old—the noise bothered him as well as the lighting.

  So, with drink in hand, he immediately headed to the exit to escape the thumping music and visit another area of the expansive space. He at times said aloud but to know one in particular, “Damn,” as he marveled over the young ladies’ skimpy outfits that magnified the shape of their bodies.

  Elliott would not want his woman to dress so revealingly, but he sure enjoyed watching women who did.

  “How do you like this drink?” he asked a young lady who was sipping on the same cocktail as Elliott while sitting outside.

  “It’s too sweet, actually,” she said. “I don’t like sweet drinks. They taste like calories. At least give me the illusion of not being fattening.”

  Elliott flashed a broad smile. “That’s funny. My name is Elliott and I’m probably too old for you. But I’d still like to get you a drink that is not too sweet.”

  “How do you know I’m not too old for you?” she said.

  “Oh, I can tell,” Elliott said. “But I see you ain’t scared.”

  “Of what?” she asked. “You? I would get my girls if I needed them, but I think I can take you.”

  “I get it now,” Elliot said. “You’re drunk.”

  “A little, yeah,” she said, smiling. “But I would call it a little tipsy. Still, my uncle used to say, ‘Being a little drunk is like being a little pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.’ What do you think?”

  “I think you are drunk—I mean, tipsy—and I think your uncle is right,” he said.

  “That’s probably true,” she said. “But I’m still a lady. I’m not sloppy or anything. I’m still looking cute. I still have my wits about me. I’m not slurring my speech. And if I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t have known I was tipsy. Right?”

  Elliott smiled. “In this big place, they might have somewhere I can get you some coffee.” He studied the young lady as he spoke to her. She was attractive, with beautiful locs in her hair, wearing a dress that was about four inches above her knees, exposing a shapely pair of legs. She smiled in a sort of devilish way, like Phylicia Rashad would to Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show.

  “Coffee? It’s June, about eighty degrees,” she said. “What will you suggest next? A sweater?”

  “What’s your name?” Elliott asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Only if you want to tell me. If not, I’ll just have to make up a name for you.”

  “Really? And what would that be?”

  “Let’s see,” Elliott said. “Maybe I’ll call you Supernova.”

  “Now why couldn’t you just say, ‘Tina’ or ‘Precious’ or even ‘Pumpkin?’ Super… Super what?”

  “Supernova.”

  “What does that even mean? Or is it a made-up name, like Shaneskaterra?”

  “Supernova means a star that gets so hot that it explodes into this brilliant burst of light. That’s what I see in you—this really special illumination. You project that.”

  The woman looked at Elliott for several seconds, making him feel awkward.

  “What?” he asked.

  “My boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—told me I was a dark cloud,” she said. “He tried to make me believe I was this evil spirit that cast darkness upon him. I knew he was wrong, but you can’t help but remember what someone who used to be important to you says about you. This was about a month ago, but I was talking to my girlfriend about it yesterday.

  “Her hating-ass said, ‘Well, he had his reasons for saying what he said.’ She’s my friend and I love her but I was so pissed that she said that. And then here you come along. We talk for three or four minutes and you say I’m a brilliant burst of light. A supernova. Wow.

  “I really needed that. Thank you? Can I hug you?”

  “If I can hug you back,” Elliott said, and they embraced.

  “My name is Nicole. But you can call me Nikki.”

  They separated. “Nicole, if I’m not mistaken, means victorious people. So, you’re a winner,” Elliott said.

  “Oh, my God,” Nikki said. “Do you know that he also said I was a loser because I wanted to break up with him? He said it more than once. And I never even knew that my name means ‘winner.’ This is a trip.

  “I’m glad I met you…what did you say your name was? I’m sorry.”

  “Elliott.”

  “And what does it mean?” Nikki wanted to know.

  “It means ‘The Lord is my God,’ ” Elliott explained.

  “Interesting,” she said. “So you’ve memorized what people’s names mean?”

  “I learn the meaning of the names of the people close to me,” he said. “Just so happens that my sister’s name is Nicole.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “No, you won’t. At least not over you and my sister having the same name.”

  She smiled at him and he smiled inside. He had her. His strength was getting women to listen to him. He almost surely would have a different, fresh approach that would disarm them, make them forget about his age and inspire them to focus on what he said.

  “Since you said I’m too young for you, why are you talking to me?” Nikki said.

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m probably too old for you,” he answered. “That’s different from you being too young for me.”

  “How young do you think I am?”

  “Too old for R. Kelly,” Elliott said, and they laughed.

  “For right now, I’m not even going to ask why you like young women,” she said. “I’m going to guess you’re at least fifty. Everyone in here is in their twenties and early thirties. Don’t you feel old?”

  “The only time I feel old is when I ride my stationary bike too long,” Elliott said, “and even then, it’s just my butt feeling old. Not my body.”

  “Who are you he
re with?” Nikki asked.

  “You,” Elliott responded without hesitation.

  “Sir, you’re old enough to be my father,” she said. “In fact, you probably would really like my father. He can’t sit still, either. Always chasing. For that reason, I’m glad my mom isn’t around to see him.”

  “You lost your mom?” Elliott asked.

  “Yes,” Nikki said. “Lost her to a rich African.”

  They laughed.

  “She got remarried and moved to Ghana three years ago,” she continued. “I talk to her and we Skype. But I haven’t seen her in person since she left.

  “But that’s beside the point. You’re too old for me. You mess around and get hurt.”

  Elliott said, “Age matters only when you allow it to matter.”

  “Hmmm,” Nikki said. “I like the way you put that.”

  “You’ll like a lot more once you get to know me,” Elliott said.

  “You’re definitely confident,” she said. “Older men have come on to me many times before. But they always tried to offer me money or to pay my bills or buy me stuff. What’s your angle? Why should I get to know a man probably twenty or twenty-five years older than me?”

  “I’m offering you me,” Elliott said.

  “Yeah, but who are you?” Nikki asked.

  “Someone told me a few minutes ago: that’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  Nikki laughed and shook her head. “So what do you suppose I do now?”

  “You certainly shouldn’t leave that up to me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Let’s go have a drink and talk some more and after that, if you don’t want to communicate with me, no problem. But I’m having a drink. You probably should have water.”

  “Look at you, being noble. Most men would have tried to fill me up with drinks.”