The Spoken Word Seduction
"She's been hosting poetry night at the Black-owned coffee shop for a decade. When a young poet joins the rotation with verses written just for her, the words lead somewhere physical."
The Grounded Beanery has been my sanctuary for ten years.
I'm Essence—not my birth name, but the one I chose when I started performing. Every Thursday night, I host poetry open mic. Regulars, newcomers, anyone brave enough to bare their soul in three minutes.
I'm forty-eight. I've seen poets come and go.
I've never seen anyone like Malik.
He shows up in November.
Young—twenty-nine, maybe thirty. Locs tied back, notebook clutched like a bible, nervous energy vibrating off him.
"Is this where I sign up?" he asks.
"Name?"
"Malik. First time."
"Brave man." I add him to the list. "What's your poem about?"
"Her." His eyes hold mine. "The woman who inspired it."
He goes fourth in the lineup.
Steps to the mic, opens his notebook, then sets it aside. Speaks from memory.
"Brown skin and wisdom, curves that cartography couldn't map, she stands before us every Thursday and I swear the sun takes notes on how to shine..."
The room is silent.
He's talking about me.
The poem is three minutes of praise.
My laugh. My walk. The way I command a room. Specific details that tell me he's been watching for weeks before he finally signed up.
"...and I'm just trying to learn the language of how to make a goddess notice a mortal."
He finishes. The room erupts. His eyes never leave mine.
"That was bold," I say after.
He's waiting by the counter, nursing coffee gone cold.
"That was honest. Different things."
"You've been coming here."
"Six weeks. Trying to work up the nerve."
"For what?"
"To tell you that your voice is the first thing I think about every morning." He sets down his cup. "Is that too much?"
It is too much.
It's also the most romantic thing anyone's said to me in years.
"I'm forty-eight," I tell him.
"I know."
"You're what, thirty?"
"Twenty-nine."
"So almost twenty years—"
"Age is just a number, Essence. But if you want me to go, I'll go. I just had to tell you."
I should let him go.
He's young enough to be... well, not my son, but close. The gossip would be ridiculous. The judgment certain.
But when I look at him—nervous, earnest, speaking my language—I don't want to let him go.
"Stay for closing," I say. "Help me stack chairs."
We stack chairs.
Then we drink wine in the back office, talking poetry and politics and everything in between. He's smart—smarter than most men twice his age.
"Why me?" I finally ask.
"Why not you?" He leans closer. "You're brilliant, beautiful, and you make words feel like weapons and shields. I've never met anyone like you."
"Sweet boy—"
"I'm not a boy." His voice drops. "And if you let me, I can prove it."
He kisses me.
Right there in the back office, surrounded by coffee beans and poetry flyers. His hands cup my face like I'm precious, and his mouth moves against mine with unexpected confidence.
"This is crazy," I breathe.
"Poetry is crazy. Love is crazy. Why should this be different?"
"Is this love?"
"I don't know yet." He pulls back, meets my eyes. "But I'd like to find out."
We end up at my apartment.
He follows me up three flights, waits while I fumble with keys, then pins me against my own front door.
"Been thinking about this since the first time I saw you," he murmurs against my neck.
"You've been thinking about it six weeks. I've been alone six years."
"Then let me make up for lost time."
He undresses me like I'm a poem he's memorizing.
Each layer removed with reverence, his hands pausing to appreciate every curve.
"Stanza by stanza," he whispers, kissing my shoulder. "Line by line."
"Malik..."
"Let me worship you, Essence. Let me make you feel every word I wrote."
He lays me on my bed and takes his time.
Kisses my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. His mouth traces lower—belly, hips, the thick of my thighs.
"Beautiful," he keeps saying. "So beautiful."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He settles between my legs. "Every poet dreams of inspiration like this."
His mouth finds me and I gasp.
Young doesn't mean inexperienced. His tongue works me with the same rhythm he uses in performance—building, cresting, breaking through.
"Malik—oh God—"
"Let go. Let me hear your voice."
I come crying words that aren't English.
"Your turn," I manage.
He strips quickly—lean, muscled, beautifully made. When I take him in hand, he groans.
"Essence..."
"Let me learn you too."
I kiss down his body, take him in my mouth, learn the rhythms that make him shake.
"Wait—" He pulls me up. "Inside you. Need to be inside you."
He slides inside me and we both still.
"Perfect," he breathes.
"Don't move yet." I cup his face. "Let me feel this."
"Feel what?"
"Being seen. For the first time in years."
When he moves, it's poetry.
Slow, deep, rhythmic. Building like a spoken word piece toward an inevitable conclusion. His eyes stay on mine the whole time.
"So good," he groans. "Better than any words—"
"More—please—"
"Anything. Everything."
We come together, entwined, his voice and mine mixing in something like harmony.
Afterward, he holds me close and speaks poetry into my hair.
"Brown skin and wisdom, curves I get to map now, she lets me in every Thursday and every night in between..."
"You're improvising."
"Inspired." He kisses my forehead. "Always inspired."
Malik becomes a regular at the open mic.
Then a regular at my apartment.
The poetry community whispers—but mostly, they celebrate. A love story told in stanzas.
"Write me a new poem," I say on our one-year anniversary.
He smiles, pulls out his notebook.
"Already did."
He reads me words about age being a number, about souls that recognize each other, about the best verses being the ones lived rather than written.
When he finishes, I'm crying.
"I love you," he says simply.
"I love you too." I pull him close. "Now show me what you said."
The poetry continues.
In words and in flesh.
Every Thursday night and every night in between.