Page 2 of Date with A D*ck

POPPING OUT

Keke

It’s been a couple of weeks, and I’ve had enough of wallowing. Tonight is Valentine’s Day and I plan on indulging in some serious self-care, then heading to that hyped-up new restaurant I made reservation months ago for me and Henrique. I’m not going to miss going simply because my husband left me. I’m going to savor every moment—and if I’m lucky, maybe find someone who knows exactly how to scratch my itch. I am not used to going this long without some dick and I am in serious withdrawal. They say that when you get older your self-drive decreases, when you get married it decreases, when you have a demanding job it decreases, over time it decreases, but not for me and Henrique; as a matter of fact, it’s been quite the opposite, we fuck like proverbial bunnies. I love that man, not only does he blow my back out every single time, he’s an amazing provider, and generous in more ways than one. Not just with money, but with his heart, his time, his emotions, and his patience. I never imagined he’d be the one to walk away after everything we’ve built together.

After my shower, I slip into undergarments, leggings, and a T-shirt, then slide my feet into sandals. Purse and keys in hand, I head out. First stop: waxing. The only hair I want on this body is on my lashes, brows, and head. Smooth as a surfboard now, I move on to get my nails and toes done—they looked like I’d been walking the green mile. With each treatment, I feel more human again. I indulge in a facial, a massage, and finally, a hair appointment. My hair, grown down to the top of my backside, proves the lie in the notion that Black girls can’t have long hair. I’ve worked hard for this length, and it shows. Hours later, I return home feeling like a new woman.

The house still feels empty and strangely quiet. I’m used to Henrique blasting music or yelling at the TV, calling someoneestúpido. Now, it’s silent. I remind myself that it’s time to get ready for my reservation—I’m starving, and I’m hopeful the food will be worth it. I pick out my “fuck ’em up” black dress, gold high-heeled sandals, and a matching clutch. Makeup, jewelry, and a final glance in the mirror confirm I look damn good.

I settle into the driver’s seat and press the ignition. The engine roars to life like a lion, and I back out of the garage, heading toward the new restaurant. It looks more like a nightclub when I arrive—there’s a line out the door, and everyone is dressed to the nines. The valet opens my door, I accept his hand, stand tall, and slip the valet ticket into my clutch before gliding inside.

At the hostess stand, I give my name. I’m immediately shown to my table, positioned in a cozy corner near a wall of windows overlooking a stunning garden maze with private, tucked-away nooks. It’s tempting to move outside, but I decided to stay put.

The server presents a wine list, and soon a sommelier pours samples into elegant goblets, describing each varietal. After tasting, I choose my favorite and order an appetizer. Holding theglass by the stem—no need to warm the wine—I take a sip and survey my surroundings.

The designer has truly outdone themselves. Each table subtly references a different era or location—perhaps a nod to Paris or New York, or the elegance of the 1930s—woven seamlessly into the restaurant’s black, gold, and red velvet palette.

My appetizer arrives, beautifully plated and delicious. When I finish, I order my entrée: a twelve-ounce ribeye cap, cilantro-lime bone marrow, honey-lime baby carrots, and herb risotto, paired with a ginger honey limeade. Just watching other diners’ plates float by sets my mouth watering.

I thought I might feel awkward dining alone, but I’m far from the only one. There are plenty of solo diners, and more than a few handsome men. I notice the chef making his rounds from table to table. He’s too far away to see clearly, but there’s no hiding that confident stride, those bow legs, his commanding height, and the broad span of his shoulders. Mmm, mmm, mmm.

My pussy clenches with a need to be filled and filled well.Pipe down you tramp! I'm trying to get us some tonight!

Before I can start arguing with myself, the server appears with my entrée, and I surreptitiously check to make sure I haven’t actually drooled. I thank Daniel, my waiter, and dig in. The steak is perfectly cooked—juicy, tender, and literally melting in my mouth—with equally delightful accompaniments. The chef truly outdid himself, and I savor every bite.

“Whew,” I exclaim, leaning back against the velvet booth after finishing my plate, feeling neither embarrassed nor regretful. It was delicious, and I enjoyed it immensely. Daniel returns almost instantly to clear my dishes.

“Dessert?” he asks.

“Yes, please. I’ll have the Golden Opulence Dessert,” I say. I knew the moment I saw it on the menu that I’d order it,no matter how full I was. It’s not every day you can indulge in a thousand-dollar sundae, and it’s only available on opening weekend.

The Golden Opulence Sundae is outrageous. It begins with three scoops of ultra-premium Tahitian vanilla bean ice cream infused with Madagascar vanilla, all enveloped in 23k edible gold leaf—pure gold, rolled into impossibly thin sheets. They drizzle it with melted Amedei Porcelana chocolate, one of the world’s most expensive, and sprinkle it with rare Chuao chocolate sourced from Venezuelan cocoa beans grown by the Caribbean Sea. They don’t stop there: exotic candied fruits from Paris, gold-covered almonds, chocolate truffles, and marzipan cherries follow.

To top it off, there’s a tiny glass bowl of Grand Passion Caviar, a special dessert caviar made from salt-free American Golden caviar, with a radiant golden hue, sweetened by fresh passion fruit, orange, and Armagnac. A gilded sugar flower and additional edible gold flakes complete the masterpiece, served in a $350 Baccarat Harcourt crystal goblet that I get to keep.

It’s the most over-the-top dessert ever, and I’m definitely getting it!

APPETITE

KeKe

“Golden Opulence Sundae?” I look up, drool, swallow my tongue, and choke all at the same damn time. My gawd today! The man is fine as fuck! Even in his chef garb. The face matches, the swag, the bow legs, the shoulders and the height. It should be a crime for a man to be so damn fine.

“Um yes, that’s mine,” I reply instead of thecan I ride your facethat I am thinking.

“How was your dinner tonight ma’am?”

“It was delicious. My compliments to the chef,” I tell him, and I mean it. Everything was superb.

“Thank you. I am Chef Tomás, I take pride in ensuring everything I do is done to perfection and you are left satisfied,”

I am not so sure we are still talking about food anymore—well actually I’d forgot about the food, and the wetness between my legs is proof. “And I bet you do a damn fine job,” I tell him, pulling the spoon from the ice cream, bringing it to my mouth, and licking the cream off of it like I would like to do to him, never breaking eye contact. I smirk a little when I notice him shift from foot to foot. “Hmm delicious,” I proclaim, pulling the spoon from my mouth.

Clearing his throat, he spoke. “I am pleased, but if you’ll excuse me, I have other tables to check on. Enjoy your night but please do not hesitate to let me know if I can do anything else to enhance your satisfaction tonight…” He pauses, giving me the opportunity to provide him with my name.

“Keke.”

“Keke,” he repeats. With that, he gives a little bow before heading to another table.I’m fucking him tonight!I think with glee, practically kicking my feet under the table. I've been in need since my husband left me and tonight, I am going to get my needs met come hell or high water. Having made that up in my mind, I enjoy this over-the-top desert because it truly is magnificent.

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