Grabbing my arm and pulling me close, we embraced. As I felt the growing stiffness on my thigh, it was obvious he was very happy to see me. And he definitely wanted me to know; pulling me closer, hugging me tighter, making an even stronger statement and an even firmer imprint that had now grown from my thigh up past my waist. Oh yeah, he was definitely happy to see me.

Damon was an overnight bag with duffel bag tendencies. A frequent-flying layover with a history of non-stop flights that were almost guaranteed to make multiple connections. A coach class carry-on with first class aspirations. When we met, I was in between relationships and he was a welcome distraction. You know the kind: When you start thinking about how much your current man’s hurting you, you call Damon. When you start thinking about how much time, money, and emotion you’ve invested and ultimately wasted, you call Damon. Not that you have that much in common. On paper you really aren’t that compatible. But in bed, you fit like hand in glove, like yin and yang, like Ashford and Simpson. Damon’s lovin’ was solid…solid as a rock. That’s why you call Damon. All of a sudden, before you even realize it, you’re calling Damon just because you want to call Damon. You’re addicted, destined for the rehab.

Finally we released each other. “Girl, you look good. You shoulda emailed a brother a head shot or built you a website. Something! We coulda hooked up a lot sooner.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Damon. You still making music?”

“Making music, making moves, making money, and making time for you if you’re not busy when we get to the city.” Full of game, and full of lines, Damon could sell water to a river. Standing there watching him licking his lips, I was relieved. Gail’s plan had worked and Sam’s look was a hit. Damon had bit. Bit hard.

The plane landed, and the games began. He quickly wrapped his arm tight around my waist as we walked through the airport. That was his way of staking his claim. Men say women are territorial, but it’s funny because they’re the same way. Damon was making sure all the young players knew that I was with him.

A few minutes later, we were in his tricked-out Hummer, heading over the Triboro Bridge into Manhattan. His Hummer had buttery soft leather seats, rims dipped in chrome, and the sweet smell of honey-scented incense filling the air. The sounds were pumping. It was Biggie, Tupac, Method Man…somebody rapping. Admittedly, I’m past the hip-hop age, so to me they all sounded alike. But whoever it was and whatever they were saying sounded good.