#RelationshipGoals: I Want To Be Chosen

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I’d been running errands all day and I had one more stop to make and that was my friend’s day party that was all about men with beards and the women–like me–who loved them. I had only planned to stay for an hour and when I walked in, I confirmed that choice.

The party was three hours in and so turnt. So very turnt. The first floor and top floors were all trap music and downstairs was R&B. I ran into a couple of friends and followed them down to the R&B room. The crowd was equal parts men and women. And the men weren’t shy, they would grab the woman they wanted to dance with and two step her into their arms.

I smiled as people paired up, dancing to Frankie Beverly & Maze, Chaka Khan and Michael Jackson. Men would come up to me, offering their hand and twirling me to the beat. One of those men who twirled me told me he was obsessed with me. He proceeded to dance with me for three songs, whispering in my ear that I’m so beautiful and he loves thick women like me and I’m the best looking one in there. I tried to pull away from him and a friend danced her way to me to save me from the weirdo. I steer clear of any man who tells me he’s into thick women because he’s usually got a fetish.

We all decided to check out the scene on the top floor because the ground floor was nuts. Since it was my friend’s party, she had her own area where there were plenty of drinks and space…glorious space.

I bounced my way through all the songs that played on the radio and that hour I said I would stay slowly turned into three. And then it happened. I met someone…who stuck.

I turned towards the table to pour myself a drink and stepped on someone’s foot. “So sorry,” I turned around and put my hand on his strapping shoulder.

“Oh, you’re fine,” The stranger said back to me, placing his hand on the small of my back. He smiled at me. “In fact, may I?” He grabbed my hand.

We started dancing. He spun my back to him and put his hands on my waist. A slow wind turned into a fast wind into a twerk and before I knew it, this stranger and I were more than five songs in.

The more we danced, the tighter he held me. He spun me to face him, “What’s your name?”

“Danielle,” I smiled, still dancing with him. “And you are?”

“Rashawn,” he smiled back at me. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he pulled me in closer to him.

We stopped dancing long enough to have a conversation about where we went to school, why we came to the party, what we’re looking for and we decided to exchange numbers.

“You’re the kind of girl I can see myself with. You’re so special,” Rashawn nuzzled my neck. “I want you to be my girl.”

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