#TBT Edition: Here's How You Find Love in the Club
Following my devastating breakup with B, I was in need of the ultimate girls night out. A few weeks later, my friends and I drove to Stone Mountain, Georgia for an epic reggae party that featured a performance from dancehall legend Mr. Vegas. He performed many of his hits including “Heads High,” Hot Wuk,” “Tek Weh Yuh Self,” “Taxi Fare,” and more. Being a first generation American and living in Atlanta it was often hard to find pieces of Jamaican culture, but that night I felt so in my element.
While whining up my waist line and singing every reggae song at the top of my lungs, I felt a guy slid up behind me. I quickly glanced and he smiled. I whined on him the entire night. We were caught cuffing so damn hard in the club we both would’ve had to cough up $20 to Ron Browz. Now that’s unusual for me. I am the bougie Black girl guys loathe. I don’t attend parties to dance with the fellas, but more so to enjoy the music and dance with my girls. More importantly, I am not the girl to get caught handcuffin in the club. However, this time was different. From the quick glance I thought he was fine, but of course with the lights down low a four can look like an eight (don’t you hate that?).
Finally, the party ended and the lights came on. Thankfully, he was finer than expected. Though he was somewhat short, his brown skin was smooth and flawless. His perfect smile exposed not only pearly white teeth, but also dimples to die for. I knew he had to be from the tristate because his dark ceasar revealed the perfect wave game.
He escorted my girls and I to the car and we exchanged numbers. We text the entire ride home. It must have been at least after 2 a.m. when I finally arrived back to my off-campus apartment, when he asked if he could come over. While I was nervous, I said yes. Prior to his arrival, I changed into a pair of sweats (you know the ones that scream you ain't getting none tonight) and my Clark Atlanta hoodie. And of course I stood in front of the mirror to give myself a pep talk. I’m sure it went something like: Girl you better not have sex with this nigga on the first night. You just met him. He may be fine but you got morals girl!
Thankfully that night I had some damn common sense and held on tight to my morals (and my vajeen). We literally talked all night—of course there was a make out session too. I learned he was from Jersey (south Jersey to be exact), was a sophomore at Morehouse college and majored in computer science. He became known as South Jersey to my friends.
Check back Thursday, December 1st to find out what happens next between me and Jersey (because next week is Thanksgiving and let’s be real y’all will be too busy snapping and ‘gramming to read). If you’re not too busy, catch up on past rendezvous here: one, two, three , four, five, six, and seven.