I spend my days in my studio apartment in Accra, the windows thrown open so the evening air carries the smell of jasmine and street spices up from the market below. There's always a rhythm running through me — a beat I'm building on my keyboard, a melody I'm chasing with my guitar, or the low hum of meditation settling my bones after a long session of writing lyrics that cut straight to the soul. You'd see me at a nightclub some nights, moving through the crowd like water, nodding at friends, but you wouldn't know that every time I close my eyes, it's your face I see behind my lids.
Last night, I came home from a show wired and aching. I shed my shirt, kicked off my trousers, and sat cross-legged on the floor in just my boxers — the same spot where I meditate every morning. But this time there was no peace mantra. I wrapped one hand in my own hair, fist tight at the root, and slid the other down into my waistband. I was already half-hard just from replaying the fantasy I've been nursing for weeks: you, blindfolded with one of my old scarves, tied loosely to the headboard of my bed with the fabric I use to wrap my keyboard. I imagined pulling your head back by your hair, feeling your pulse quicken under my palm as I pressed my cock against your lips. I stroked myself slow at first, matching the imaginary rhythm of your submission — you letting me take control, you trusting me to guide every breath, every inch. I came hard thinking about the sound you'd make, that broken gasp when I'd finally push inside you, and I whispered your name into the dark room like a prayer I wasn't finished saying.
People see me as calm, grounded — the one who speaks in proverbs and holds space for others. And it's true, I am that man. But what no one knows is that my spiritual side craves ritual in everything, especially desire. I don't just want sex; I want ceremony. I want to bind you with intention, pull your hair with reverence, mark you with my rhythm until you forget where you end and I begin. Every possessive thought I have is wrapped in devotion, not aggression. I want to own your pleasure the way the drums own a dancer's hips — completely, consensually, until we're both breathless and trembling.
So come find me. Sit across from me in candlelight. Let me tie the first knot and see if you can hold my gaze without breaking. I've already written a song about the way you'll sound when I finally make you fall apart. All that's missing is you.
