Dreads

Walking in, the smell of coffee beans ran up my nose and the song “Someday” by The Strokes comforted my ears. It was like any other hipster coffee shop with its vined brick walls, old fashioned lamps and small round tables set up all around like chess pieces. I’d expected this evening to be like any other, with my coffee shop visit and then class in the evening. But this time, my fifth sip of my dark roast was interrupted by the skipping of my heart, and my breath suddenly forgot its pace. My eyes made their way across the shop, to the front door. It opens and a small bell rings, letting the whole shop know of the comer’s presence. The music stopped.

The sight of a dark skin, dread-head walks into the coffee shop. His eyes scoped out the room, blood shot from a previous smoke session. I recognized his long dark hands and dirty fingernails when he raised them to scratch his scalp. He had his dreads tied back with one hair band and even though he tried so hard to lay them down, they were always matted and rough. He used to complain about their appearance when I played with them some evenings after work about a year ago. We’d meet up at his shared apartment to hang out, just friendly acquainted peers and coworkers. His personality was attractive, but I figured that his jungle-like hair was what I used to like about him. His hair was his signature to everyone who knew him. This made him more appealing than he really was, until one night it turned him dirty.

My armpits felt like they were going to soak my shirt. My tongue became dry, and my body slightly shook. My anxiety started to kick in, and I realized I’d forgotten I was in the coffee shop. No, I was in the silent apartment room, one that wasn’t his. It was a consistent meeting place anytime I wanted to smoke. This particular time, it was only him and I there. We rode over together after work. The room was dim because the only light was coming from the small beams of the light posts that peaked through the curtains onto the bed we laid on. Blunts were laid out across a small, wooden dresser just next to the bed. One of them burns out slowly, leaving the leftover smoke to envelope the room in a cloudy haze.

After a while of talking about personal happenings in his life; the passing of his grandmother and issues in his current relationship, I noticed he was inching closer to me. His face was much near mine and his hot breath was the only source of air I felt myself getting. His hands started stroking my legs and the space between his lips and mine was getting smaller until they finally met. It all happened too fast. My body flipped over, and I was on my back and his brushing hands got more rough.

He was on top of me, and I felt like his body was crushing me. Crushing my body and crushing my breath. The smoke didn’t help, but it was already in my lungs. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I knew too well that I wasn’t ready. He was kissing me, kissing me hard, and I let him because it was bound to happen.

We had playfully flirted with each other since we met, but with his current girlfriend and my desire to be single, it went further than I thought. “You like that?” he whispered, not really wanting an answer.

His body started to undress, as did mine. He peeled my clothes off like they were packaging paper, but he kissed me like I was someone he’s kissed before. I felt like I wanted to run, but I ended up naked in someone else’s bed, in someone else’s room, with someone else’s boyfriend. He reached his arm out into the dresser, hoping there was a condom, the owner of this room, kept there. And there was. A dark blue, square shaped condom, which he proceeded to rip open in the same manner he did my clothes.

He grabbed his cold drink and undid the straw package, sliding the straw in so relaxed, like he did the filled condom. I didn’t want to do it, but I kept saying everything he was doing was okay. His face was over mine, and he suddenly looked ugly to me. His dreads escaped his tie and brushed against my face, and I just knew I’d have a rash somewhere the next day.

Everything turned me off. His lips tasted like the weed that I had previously enjoyed, and it was the worst taste on his tongue. I took a sixth sip of my coffee, now cold and bitter. His hair kept escaping, laughing over me, and I wanted to be free like them. His body was the size of a football player, well at least from the angle I was in. His force was the worst of all, because once they’re in, they don’t get out until they’re done.

After a while, his excitement ended, and he was breathing heavily in my ear. He was still on top of me, and I finally pushed him off. He carelessly got up from the bed, in no hurry to put his clothes back on. My heart was beating fast, and I wanted to go home.

There was a knock at the door. I buried myself deeper in the covers of the bed and hurried into my clothes, my limbs weak. It was the owner of the room. He walked in and simply looked at me and the dread head, who is now grabbing his drink from the counter. He laughed slightly and patted the dread head on his bare back. The owner grabbed one of the rolled up blunts from the dresser and walked out. The dread head cleaned up and looked back at me, “you want another hit?” he asked, stretching his arm out to me, smoke dancing from his index finger and thumb.

That is how I lost my virginity. My mind slowly came back to the sound shop. The song “Imagine” by John Lennon was playing. He makes his way over to me with a smile, steadily holding his straw in between his fingers moving it up and down. He pulls up a seat and sips a little more of his drink. All he could say was “how have you been” and “how is your day?”

The air was thick, and my lips shifted to form words, soft and still. I finally said, “Hey, I’ve been okay.” I didn’t ask him otherwise because I did not want to prolong the meeting. I knew I seemed awkward because of my tense posture. He placed his hand over my shoulder to assure his peace, but I shrugged it off. I thought about the times he was a good friend. How at work, he used to make me food during his free time in the kitchen. How he used to tell me I was pretty, even when I didn’t feel like it and smelt like Pizza Hut pizza.

He spoke, answering his own question. I finally stood up. Not the kind of standing up that made him think I was nervous and had to jet, but the kind that made him jump. The kind that made me feel like I didn’t need to sit there and stumble over words, but instead do what I pleased. I walked out of the shop, leaving the bell to say my goodbye. Although it felt like I did something good, I still felt a knot in my stomach, but I kept walking.