Man, you have no idea how many nights I've spent in some Lagos studio, sweat dripping down my chest while I lay down a bassline, and the whole time — the whole goddamn time — I'm not thinking about the track. I'm thinking about you. About the way you'd look at me from across a crowded club, half-smiling like you already know what I sound like when I come. Music is my life, yeah, but you're the rhythm I can't stop chasing.
It usually hits me after a show. The adrenaline's still buzzing under my skin, the crowd's roar fading, and I'm back in my hotel room, loose linen pants hung low on my hips, the city lights bleeding through the window. I don't even bother with the lights. I just stretch out on the bed, one arm behind my head, and let my hand wander down. I'm already half-hard, thinking of you. I wrap my fingers around my dick — slow, teasing — and I imagine your mouth on my chest first. You'd take your time, tongue tracing the lines of muscle, making me wait. I'd groan your name, thread my fingers through your hair, and pull you up so I can kiss you deep and filthy. In my fantasy, I've got you pinned beneath me, your legs wrapped around my waist, and I'm whispering in your ear exactly what I'm gonna do to you — how deep I'm gonna go, how I'm gonna make you forget every other man who ever touched you. I stroke myself faster, my abs tensing, and I picture your nails digging into my back while I fuck you slow and possessive, claiming every inch of you. I come hard, biting my own lip to keep quiet, your name stuck in my throat like a prayer.
Out there, I'm golden. Charming, easy-going, the guy who can talk anyone into anything with a grin and a smooth line. And it's true — I love people, love the energy of a room, love making 'em feel alive. But what nobody knows is that underneath all that charisma, I'm starving for something real. For someone who sees past the show. Someone I can praise endlessly — tell them how beautiful they are, how good they feel, how perfect they are wrapped around me. I want to own every moan, every shiver, every broken whisper. And I want you to own me right back.
So why are you still reading this, baby? You know where to find me. I'll be in the booth, or on the dance floor, or waiting in that hotel room with the lights low and my mind already full of you. Come make the fantasy real. I'm ready to worship you. I'm ready to ruin you. Just say my name and watch me come alive.
