FFF #13

Sweating profusely, Allan groped around for something to steady himself. His hand grasped her dressing table but his wet palms skidded, sending bottles of perfume, an extra large Johnson and Johnson baby powder container and a black jar of Let’s Jam hair gel flying.
She steupsed, watching her prized Bulgari perfume hit the floor, cap and bottle parting ways on impact.
“Wha is your scene dred?” she asked, glaring at him as she jumped up to retrieve her possessions.
“I thought you is a playa playa, is not you who say your middle name is able and how you will rock my world? Why you acting like you having a panic attack?”
She was on all fours now, right hand groping under the bed for the perfume cap.
He looked at her, watched her unfettered breasts swing with every movement of her arm, dark nipples brushing the floor as her body dipped and rose.
He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Finally, after months of flirting and “gun talk”, as the old people liked to say, he scored a chance to bed the hottest girl at Muscle Flexx gym.
He gulped, willing his head to stop spinning and groaning silently as his belly made a gurgling sound.
“I will fucking kill Tyrone,” he thought angrily. Tyrone was his personal trainer of two years and close friend. He worked at Muscle Flexx for six years and was considered the go-to man in the gym. People went to him for everything: steroids, weight-loss pills, condoms, fete tickets and, in the ladies’ case, “special massages”. Tyrone gave about two to three “special massages” a day, in the room with the door marked supplies. Where he got the energy from, Allan didn’t know, but Tyrone always boasted that he left the girls wanting more.
Tyrone had given his massages to almost every woman in the gym, except her. She of the dark chocolate complexion, the kind that was just smooth, even and unblemished. She of the tiny waist and the bottom that defied logic, the kind that made men stop dead in the middle of the road staring at it before shaking their heads and trying to remember what they were about.
Not that Tyrone hadn’t tried to get with her. From the first day she walked in, almost six months ago, he had done everything to get her on his massage table. But she never took him on. Instead, she traded smiles with Allan, made fun of his grunting sounds when he did his tricep curls, and wondered aloud if the faces he made while doing free weights were the same as his sex faces.
Soon enough, they had swapped cell numbers and began texting or as the young people say today, sexting.
When they finally decided to stop playing games and seal the deal, Allan couldn’t wait to see the look on Tyrone’s face when he broke the news.
“You lie,” he guffawed. “Boy, you could handle that? You see she bumper? You could ride dat riddim as Bunji say?”
Allan laughed but he knew Tyrone was jealous. He was almost regretting telling Tyrone his business until Tyrone made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Look, you is my boy so I will hook you up. I can’t let you go down like no punk, that girl look like a real tiger.”
Tyrone went to his locker and returned with a small brown bottle. “Here, take this. Drink it two hours before you go by she, you will be alright,” he said, handing it to Allan.
“Just make sure and eat first eh.”
“So this is your secret?” Allan asked, holding the bottle up to the incandescent light.
“Shush boy, just relax and go represent for your boy,” he said.
Allan growled, doubling over as yet another spasm shook his abdomen.
“Represent my ass, it look like I have to represent on the toilet,” he fumed to himself.
Looking up, Allan realised she had left the room; the pink see-through top she had taken off earlier was no longer on the bed.
“Here, drink this. Don’t feel bad, we could take a raincheck,” she said, walking through the door with what looked like antacid fizzling in a glass.
Allan gulped it down and reached for his pants. He didn’t even get to take off his boxers and show her what he was working with.
“You feeling better?” she asked as he limped into her living room.
“Yeah, I better go now. I will call you,” he said quietly, anxious to make quick his exit from this embarrassing situation.
In his car, he pulled out his cell and dialed Tyrone.
“Man, what the ass you give me? I do what you say but that thing have my belly real hurting. I start to cold sweat, feeling like I ready to pass out. You set me up you jealous bastard,” he shouted.
“What? Set you up,” asked Tyrone incredulously. Then there was silence. “Wait, hold on,” he said.
“Yeah, what bottle I give you? It have a pink bunny on it?”
“Pink bunny? What shit you asking me Tyrone, the bottle eh have no bun…” Allan paused, as he took the bottle out of the glove compartment and examined it. Sure enough, near the cap there was a very small picture of a pink bunny.
“Yeah boy, it have a bunny.”
“Oh Gooood Allan boy, I give you the wrong bottle. That is the laxative for my dog. Ooops, my bad.”