I had a girl say at a que party "don't say shit to me I gotta bf" I dropped her off at her bf house the next day. College ain't the place for relationships unless y'all locked in. Shawty was NOT locked in. [MF]

The air in a Que party always tastes the same.

It's a cocktail of cheap liquor--probably Seagram's gin--a fog of Black & Mild smoke and chicken on the grill, and the heavy, sweet perfume of a hundred girls trying to sweat their press-outs out. The bass from the speakers isn't just music; it's a physical presence, a second heartbeat that thumps in your chest and rattles your teeth. Purple and gold lights strobe across the room, catching the glint of ice in plastic cups and the sheen on foreheads. It's a whole ass vibe. A beautiful, chaotic, Black-as-hell mess. And I live for it.

I was posted up against a wall, just taking it all in. I'm a big dude--six-foot-something with locs I usually keep tied back--so I tend to observe more than I participate at first. I was watching the floor, a swirling sea of grinding bodies and thrown-up hands, when I saw her.

Shawty wasn't just pretty. Pretty is a dime a dozen at an HBCU party. This girl was a masterpiece. She had these long, intricate knotless braids that cascaded down her back, and her skin was the color of rich, dark honey. But it was her thighs that made you wanna testify in church. Thick, powerful, wrapped in a pair of shorts that were fighting for their goddamn life. She was dancing with her homegirls, a slow, hypnotic roll of her hips that was both a promise and a threat. She smelled like cinnamon and something else--maybe cocoa butter, maybe trouble.

I watched her for a solid ten minutes, building up the nerve. Finally, I pushed off the wall and made my way through the crowd. I didn't come at her with some corny line. I just got close enough for her to feel my body heat and asked, "You need a drink? You been dancing hard."

She turned, and her eyes raked over me from my boots to my bun. They had a fire that would make a lesser nigga stumble. Me? How im built, I relished it. A little smirk played on her lips, and for a second, I thought I was in there. Then the smirk vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated dismissal.

"Don't say shit to me," she said, her voice cutting through the bass like a razor. "I gotta boyfriend."

The words hung in the air between us, loud enough for her friends to hear. They shot me a mix of pity and "told-you-so" looks. I could feel my ears get hot, but I wasn't about to let her see me sweat. I just gave a slow nod, a little chuckle rumbling in my chest.

"Aight, bet," I said, my voice low and even. "My bad, queen. Enjoy your night."

And I turned and walked away, feeling her eyes burning a hole in my back. I went back to my wall, grabbed my own cup of whatever jungle juice they were serving, and went back to watching. But now, my night had a mission--not to get her, but to see how this played out. Because a woman who has to announce she's "locked in" that loud and that proud at a Que party is usually the one with the loosest padlock.

An hour or two crawls by. The party is hitting that sloppy stage where the drunks are getting sentimental and the couples are arguing in corners. I see her girls getting ready to dip, pulling on their jackets and gathering their purses. They call out to her, but she waves them off, pointing at her phone like she's waiting on a text. They shrug and leave.

Ten minutes later, she's still there. Her face is a little panicked now. I see her check her phone again, a frown creasing her brow. That's my cue.

I walk over, keeping a respectable distance. "You good?" I ask, my voice neutral. "Looks like your ride left you."

She looks up at me, and this time there's no armor. Just frustration. "My boyfriend was supposed to be here. He's not answering his phone."

"Damn, that's cold," I say, and I mean it. "You got a way home?"

She shakes her head, chewing on her bottom lip. "I was gonna get an Uber, but my phone's about to die. Plus I live off campus, uber would be a grip"

I held out my hand. "Give it here." She looked at me, suspicious. "I got a portable charger in my car, man. I'm not gonna run off with your phone."

She hesitated for a beat, then dropped her iPhone into my palm. It was warm. I led her out of the house, away from the pulsing music and into the cool night air. We got to my car, and I plugged her phone in. We sat there in silence for a minute, the only sound the quiet hum of my engine.

"So," I start, breaking the quiet. "What's your major?"

And just like that, we started talking. For real this time. Turns out she was a pre-law student, smart as a whip, funny as hell. She had this laugh that was deep and throaty, the kind that makes you want to do whatever it takes to hear it again. We talked about everything--class, music, how trash the cafe food was on Wednesdays. She told me she was a low-key nerd, loved anime. I told her I could probably rap the entire script of the dbz broly movie from memory. She laughed so hard she snorted, then covered her mouth, blushing.

"I can't believe I was so rude to you earlier," she said, looking down at her hands.

"Nah, you were just protecting your territory," I said with a shrug. "I get it. But your man left you hanging. That's foul."

She sighed. "He does this sometimes."

The air in the car shifted. The space between us, which had been filled with friendly chatter, was now crackling with something else. I could smell her perfume, that cinnamon scent, mixing with the leather of my car seats. I watched a single braid fall across her cheek, and I had the strongest urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

I didn't.

Instead, I said, "Look, it's late. You wanna just crash at my spot? I got a couch. It's better than waiting out here for a dude who might not even show." Like having actual charger it saw a flimsy excuse, but if she's going she's doing. The excuse don't matter fr.

She looked at me, her dark eyes searching mine. I held her gaze, letting her see that I was serious. There was no trick, no hidden agenda. Just an offer.

"Okay," she whispered.

My apartment wasn't far. The whole ride, the tension was so thick you could've cut it with a knife. When we got inside, I kept my promise. I pointed to the couch. "Make yourself at home. I got blankets."

I went to my room to give her space. I came back out a few minutes later, and she was standing in the middle of my living room, looking small and lost. She had taken off her shoes, and her shorts looked even shorter in the dim light of my lamp.

"I'm hungry," she announced, breaking the silence.

I grinned. "Good thing you're in the presence of a master chef."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you call yourself?"

"Among other things," I shot back. It helped by master chief from halo poster was hanging in the background Of him wearing an apron. Master chef indeed.

We ended up in the kitchen, me cooking pasta at two in the morning while she sat on the counter, watching me. The conversation flowed easy again, but this time it was laced with heat. Every time I leaned past her to grab something, my arm would brush her thigh, and I'd feel a jolt go through both of us.

After we ate, I was washing the dishes when I felt her behind me. She didn't say anything. She just placed her hands on my waist. I froze, the water running over my hands. I turned around slowly. Her face was inches from mine. Her eyes were dark, hungry.

"What about your boyfriend?" I murmured, my voice hoarse.

"What about him?" she breathed, and then her mouth was on mine.

That first kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision. It was all the tension of the night--the rejection, the conversation, the waiting--exploding at once. Her tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of wine and alfredo sauce and something that was just her. My hands went to her waist, pulling her flush against me. I could feel the hardness of my cock pressing against her stomach, and she moaned into my mouth, grinding against me.

I lifted her up, and she wrapped those incredible legs around my waist without breaking the kiss. I carried her out of the kitchen and into my bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us. Thank god i cleaned my room 12 hours earlier it was a depression pit filled with old pizzaboxes and sadness. Now it was spotless. Shame makes you clean. 🤷🏿♂️

I laid her on my bed, and for a moment, I just looked at her. Her braids were fanned out on my pillow, her chest was heaving, and her eyes were glazed with a desire that matched my own.

"You sure about this?" I asked, one last time.

She answered by reaching up, grabbing a fistful of my locs, and pulling my face down to hers. "Shut up," she growled, "and fuck me."

And I did. I tore those shorts off her, my fingers fumbling with the button. Her panties were already soaked, a testament to how long she'd been wanting this, despite her protests. I buried my face between her thighs, my tongue finding her clit immediately. She tasted like heaven and sin. The cinnamon was there, but now it was mixed with the salty, musky taste of her arousal. She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tangling deeper in my hair.

I didn't let her come. Not yet. I teased her, licking and sucking until she was begging, her words slurring together. "Please--oh god, please--"

I moved up her body, kissing every inch of her honey-dark skin. She ripped my shirt off, her nails leaving faint scratches on my back. We were a tangle of limbs and sweat and desperate moans. I found a condom in my nightstand, tore it open with my teeth, and rolled it on. I felt as badass as the time I got a bra off of my ex left handed in one motion. As the kids I teach today might say I had "aura" or I was "aura farming". In that moment I felt like that nigga. Felt good. And I knew I would feel even better soon.

She spread her legs for me, an invitation and a demand. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her wet folds. She was so slick, so ready.

"Look at me," I commanded. Her eyes fluttered open. "I want you to watch me slide into you."(this line has never failed me. Feel free to use it.)

I pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch. Her pussy was so tight, so warm, it felt like sinking into a velvet inferno. She gasped, a tear rolling down her temple. I wasn't sure if it was from pleasure or pain or both. I waited until I was buried balls-deep inside her, our bodies fused together. We were both breathing hard, staring at each other.

Then I started to move.

It wasn't just fucking. It was a conversation. Every thrust was a question, and every moan she gave was an answer. It was slow and deep at first, letting her get used to the feel of me filling her up. Then it got faster, harder, our bodies slapping together in a frantic rhythm that matched the pounding in my ears. The headboard started banging against the wall--a steady, driving beat.

"Who's fucking you?" I grunted, my voice raw.

"You," she sobbed, her head thrashing on the pillow. "You are."

"Say my name."

She screamed my name as she came, her inner walls clenching around my cock in a series of violent, exquisite spasms. That was all it took. Her orgasm triggered mine, and I exploded inside the condom, a guttural roar tearing from my throat as I poured my release into her.

I collapsed on top of her, my body slick with sweat, my mind blissfully blank. We lay there for a long time, our heartbeats slowing down in unison.

The next morning, the sun streamed through my blinds. I woke up to her tracing patterns on my chest. It was quiet, a little awkward. The heat of the night had cooled into the stark reality of the day.

"I should go," she said softly.

"Yeah," I agreed.

There was no talk of getting her number, no promise of seeing each other again. We both knew what this was. I threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. She found her clothes, a little wrinkled now, on my floor. The ride to her place was quiet. She navigated me through a neighborhood of neat little duplexes and manicured lawns.

"It's this one on the right," she said, pointing to a brick house with a well-kept garden.

I pulled up to the curb. I saw a guy come out onto the porch. He was wearing basketball shorts and a university hoodie, holding a cup of coffee. He smiled when he saw her.

Her boyfriend.

She leaned over and gave me a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for the ride," she whispered, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

"Anytime," I said, my voice flat.

I watched her get out of my car, smooth down her shorts, and walk up the driveway to him. He wrapped an arm around her, kissing the top of her head. She leaned into him, smiling up at him like she hadn't spent the night screaming my name into a pillow.

I just shook my head, a slow, humorless laugh escaping my lips. I put the car in drive and pulled away, not looking back.

College ain't the place for relationships unless y'all are truly, one-hundred-percent locked in. And that night, I learned a valuable lesson.

Shawty was not locked in. Not even a little bit.

No judgements from me.

It was a fun memory.