Wrong Number

Drake or Jake

Drake is a renowned water polo athlete, in his community though in his mind it is nationwide. Normally a celebrated athlete is always awarded with a Knighthood, and does not involve self-marketing.

As seven years caught on, so many things happened: LinkedIn. WhatsApp. Telegram. Tinder. Bumble. The League. And all those social media, that's too much to follow through.

His LinkedIn is on, his university education remains unimpressive. Though experiences are rather immense for words, and for someone who had gone to a university just next door that isn't those in the top league.

It was almost about his "international" athletic life that he kept banging on about. This thing didn't change since 2011.

As I read on his LinkedIn, I just really want to say sorry and move on. Simple.

Sadly he replied.

'Who's this? Tell me more about yourself?'

His message caught me off-guard.

'We met seven years ago back in London, but I'm overseas based already. I just thought I'd message you, that's about it. And you didn't deserve that I turned you down before for being bald, and not much to look at. It's just I thought it was shallow of me, and I'm sorry.'

That evening I just wanted to get about my night, watch a bit of Netflix then go to bed. The boredom however is catching on, the lack of family and true friends here on a host country was getting in me.

'I don't remember you. Tell me more.'

I really didn't know what else to say, after all I just said what needed be said.

'Cheska, I was a law student when we met. Naive and immature then, but I suppose many things happened in seven years. Career change. Overseas based. Things like that change me, made me lesser entitled seeing the poverty of other nations. I was once a spoiled daddy's girl, but I really found my way in life solo. I am a writer now, with a day time job at a bank as communications manager. I'm going back to London in several months.'

What else could I say, I just was bored. Alone. Lonely. But not fractured.

Until his next reply happened:

'What are you looking for then? Are you looking for a place to stay?'

I thought that he's ever such preemptive statements. He sounded rather unwelcoming but welcoming at the same time - calculated is the word.

'Tell me more about you, and no I am not looking for a free lodging in London. I have my own flat. Thanks for the offer.' I replied, and I found his words very assuming.

'I'm lovely,' he replied and a follow up, 'tell me more about that seven years.'

I already told him what needed to be said.

'Ask if you want.'

At that point I  was just rather being polite, and have started to lose my interest.

'Anything what do you want? Do you have cock preference? What are you looking for?'

'Not really looking for anything in particular. No cock preference.'

'🤪'

'?'

'Women love cocks. You sure you don't have cock preference? Big or small.'

At that point I felt triggered, annoyed and pestered. But the feeling of boredom in a foreign country is just so strong that this someone as annoying as Drake can be tolerable. Some may find his words abrasive, but I am mentally stimulated. It's new. It's fresh.

'Small, or whatever.'

I wasn't at all interested at his penis, but in my experience men who ask such question often have the right to feel insecure about their package.

'Mine's big, so not your type.'

I find it hard to convince him what is it I wanted to say, that this is enough. I didn't have the courage to set my boundaries at that time, young enough to enjoy the moment yet old enough to have developed the thick skin and not let anything easily offend me.

'It doesn't really matter. But should this conversation is only about your cock or cocks, then I'm off to bed. It is after all roughly four in the morning as to where I am. Speak whenever.'

I typed and send, as my heart was raising and the unexpected messaging of such sort was truly a first for me.

'May I ask how old are you again?'

'29, you?'

'46.'

All my hopes and dreams of forming a perhaps meaningful relationship with Drake has gone to the drain. My fantasies shuttered. My bubbles bursted.

However this new found revelation that he's between sixteen and seventeen years older than me, made me think, this is probably why he takes no bullshit. He perhaps can smell my bullshit - I was not telling him the fact despite his many, many, many "tell me more" messages that evening that my break up with Darrell had led me to venture to the unknown. Perhaps I have not seen it all, and I know I will never see it all but seen enough to have be serious.

'Honestly, I have just gone out of a two-ish year relationship and I'm not ready to talk about it. Perhaps some time soon, we can talk about it. For now, it's a good night for me at 4ish AM.'

'Ah I see. Not ready to talk about it, eh? You must have fell hard. Good night.'

I never thought of him to be that old, my last recollection of 2011 is that he was only ten years older than me. Not sixteen.

Sure, baldness regardless of a man's a age, can make any man look older whilst a man with hair regardless of age will look younger than his age.

At this point I was eager to walk away, but then at the other sides of my brain it says otherwise. As such, I was reminded that I've wronged this man during my immature days, however I think this has gotten a step too far. A part of me felt intrigued, and willing to stand in order to atone.

Perhaps he offers new found insights, and refreshing honesty.