They Like It Slow

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Like an H-Town song. I’m talkin’ about a slow burn romance.

 

See, some people think they want love fast, like a quick fix, but the real playas? They want something they have to work for, something that takes time. They like it slow. They’re here for that grind. That intense build-up, that tension, that pulse that quickens over time. You know, you gotta let it simmer.

A slow burn romance isn’t about handouts, it’s about makin’ you feel every damn second, draggin’ you through every stolen glance, every word left unsaid, every moment that drips with an unspoken promise.

You ever read somethin’ that makes you lean in, that makes you want it before the characters even know they do? Like damn, yea, that’s that shit right there. Don’t move. Take it. Nah, don’t run. Stay like that, like a good girl…

Shit, my bad. I almost lost myself.

That’s the magic. It’s that pull, that chemistry that lingers just out of reach. A slow burn’s about patience and it’s impact. That almost perfect o..

Down. Down.

The best authors? They knew that a love story that keeps you waitin’, workin’, hangin’ on every page? That’s the story that stays with you.

 

POWER AND PATIENCE

Slow burn ain’t for the weak. It ain’t some easy, open-and-shut deal. It’s a power play, pure and simple. You think it’s frustrating to wait? Good. It’s supposed to be. A slow burn is like being put through your paces. A slow, seductive tease, that doesn’t too much, without giving it all away. And when it finally hits? It’s like a victory you had to claw your way to.

That’s what separates a slow burn from a fast, no-strings love story. Slow burn romances make the payoff matter. It’s about timing, buildin’ tension so tight that by the time it snaps, it leaves a mark. Preferably on her neck and ass cheeks.  These ain’t stories you walk away from. They’re ones you feel like you earned, every chapter a test of patience and willpower.

 

BUILD UP TO SOMETHIN’ REAL

In a world that’s all about shortcuts, the slow burn stands out because it’s got the audacity to make you wait, to make you feel the build. This ain’t about “love at first sight,” it’s about fightin’ against the pull, about chemistry that can’t be ignored, about resisting until there’s no resistance left.  A slow burn romance makes every word, every silence, and every touch mean something. It takes the connection and turns it into somethin’ powerful because it didn’t come easy.

It’s for those who know that real connections aren’t instant, who understand that love, the kind that hits deep, is worth every ounce of patience.

 

THAT CLIMAX

Make no mistake, a slow burn isn’t about dragging you along for the fun of it. It’s about building to somethin’ real, somethin’ raw, somethin’ primal. It’s the thrill of knowing that when it happens, when they finally fall, it’s just. DAMN.  You’ve walked that line between “almost” and “finally” so many times that the payoff isn’t just sweet; it’s fierce, a release of all that pent-up tension.

They like it slow because slow makes you crave it, makes you appreciate every second. Slow turns every look, every touch, into something that hits harder, feels stronger. Slow’s not for everyone, it’s for the ones who know that anything worth having is worth waiting for.

 

2024 Justin Anderson

The Black Velvet Room I

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The club was a place where time stood still, or at least felt like it. It smelled like incense and the velvet on the walls drank in the sweat of dancing bodies. The lights were low, throwing hues across the room in pules. On the piano Tariq, moved his hands over the keys, playing music that didn’t just move people, it seduced.

He wasn’t just performing, he was hunting. His eyes glinting with a dark desire, his gaze moved over the crowd. Until he missed a note.

She walked in like a dream almost unreal.

Ebony.

A beautiful masterpiece. Tall, confident, with legs that stretched to the heavens, lips that could take souls,  wrapped in a gold dress like a piece of the finest chocolate. Her dress shimmered with each step. Her fro’ crowned her hair like a halo and her presence could even part the Red Sea.

People stood aside as if the universe parted for her, but she didn’t notice. Ebony was too busy looking around the club, her mind far from the sultry looks tossed her way.

“Lemme buy you a drink’ came a raspy voice from beside her.

“I’m good, thanks.” she replied to the stranger.

Tariq saw her and his pulse skipped.

He couldn’t hear her thought but could feel her intent. She wasn’t here for a good. No, she had a purpose. He could sense it.

She slid onto a wood barstool, her back to the state. Just as she sat down, the bartender handed her a drink she didn’t order.

“I’m sorry, this can’t be mine. I didn’t order anything.”

“From the smooth brother on the piano.” the bartender said, nodding toward Tariq.

Ebony glanced over her shoulder, her eyes locking onto Tariq’s dark, smoldering gaze. For a second, the club seemed to fall silent, the music fading beneath the weight of that single moment.

Tariq didn’t smile. He never had to. His eyes held hers with an intensity that both threatened and intrigued. He gave a slow nod, acknowledging the spark between them. She raised the glass, not in gratitude, but more like a challenge.

“You know, flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Ebony said, half to herself, but loud enough for the bartender to hear.

“Oh no, no, no. It’s just southern hospitality, sweetheart. We always buy the finest thang in the room a drink” came a voice from behind her. Smooth. Low. Seductive.

Ebony tensed, then turned to find Tariq standing at her side, leaning against the bar like he’d been there the whole time. His presence was magnetic. His cologne, a hint of sandalwood and ylang ylang, hit her senses before the sound of his voice did.

“Well, what about her?” she quipped, taking small sips and looking at an attractive woman to her right. Her lips curved into a small smirk. “Or her?” she looked to her left.

Tariq chuckled softly, a sound as intoxicating as his scent. “They’re stunning.” He stepped closer, the warmth of his presence brushing against her skin. “But maybe I saw you walk in and forgot they existed for a second.”

Ebony arched a brow, surprised at the ease with which he admitted it. “Careful. You might make a girl blush.”

“Red’s my favorite color.”

He tilted his head, his eyes drinking her in with an intensity that bordered on deep desire. “I doubt anything rattles you, cherie.”

Her smirk widened, but inside something shifted. As well as her legs. Tariq was smooth, too smooth. Yet, he had some danger to him. And something in his eyes that felt primal, ancient, lustful. There was something about Tariq that made her want to lean in just to find out of the attraction between them was real or something else.

“So, you always seduce your audience from the stage?” Ebony asked, putting the glass down and turning to face him fully.

“Only when they’re worth it,” Tariq replied, his voice low, sending shivers down her spine. “And you, Ebony, you’ve been worth it from the moment you walked in.”

She blinked. “How do you know my name?”

His lips quirked at the corner, almost like a dare. “I make it my business to know, my uh, next source of inspiration.”

Ebony’s eyes narrowed, the cocktail of attraction and suspicion swirling in her mind. She leaned in, just close enough to whisper. “And what else do you know?”

Tariq’s gaze darkened, his breath teasing her cheek as he whispered back, “That you’ve been looking for someone. Someone like me.”

Her pulse quickened not from fear, but something else. Before she could respond, Tariq straightened, his smoldering gaze never leaving hers.

He gave a nod toward the stage.

“Stay a little longer. I promise you’ll hear something you’ll never forget.”

And just like that, he was gone. Back at the piano, fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys once more. But this time, the music had changed. It wasn’t just for the crowd anymore.

It was for her.

A black man defiantly gives others the middle finger.

Ok, Bitch

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I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, but at some point I started eating punches. Metaphorically, of course. I wouldn’t have stood there to take a physical one without fighting back. But I know someone out there feels me. Metaphorical punches are like someone trying to bruise my ego. Bitch shit, basically. I just remember that last week, some woman swung on me, because I didn’t fall in line with her expectations or some shit.

Picture this. It’s a cool fall day in Atlanta. The leaves changing. People are still outside vibing. You know, normal shit. The area I was in was busy. I mean on go. And, I had somewhere I had to be ASAP. This random chick was recording and I was in a rush. All of a sudden I hear..

“You got in my shot, fat motherfucker.”

“My bad, bitch.” I said. I went on about my business.

“You got in my TikTok. Now I gotta record that shit over again.” She yelled.

“Ok, bitch.” I replied.

“What you say?”

“It’s a public sidewalk. Have a good day.”

I took maybe a good ten steps then SPLAT. I felt something wet hit the back of my brand new shirt. I stopped for a second to woosah it out. When I was composed, I kept walking.

“Yo broke ass gotta buy a new drink” I retorted.

It was like she wanted me to grovel for forgiveness. I kept walking until some more bullshit happened.

“You pussass nigga.” Some weird ass simp in a faux-leather members-only jacket got in my face.

I exhaled, still calm.

“Can I help you fuck ass nigga?” I asked. His words assaulted me since his breath smelled like a bag full of dirty diapers.

“You out her tongue boxin’ skunk asses, bruh?” I covered my nose. Goddamn, it was disgusting. “Fuck outta face.” I continued.

“You gone respect these bitches, nigga?” He stepped forward. I took half a step back and reached in my pocket for a mask.

“You gone have to talk in another direction.” I said.

Then it hit me.

“You tryin’ to fuck ol’ girl and think pullin my card gone get you some pussy?” I smirked. “Man, move.”

“Can’t let you do that. On God.”

“Look here. Look here. Look here. If I help you get that, I’mma fuck her first. On some real shirt, I’mma fuck the absolute dog shit out of her. In front of you.”


His face scrunched up at the thought.

“How you gone feel seeing a fat ass nigga like me hittin’ that before you? Unless you a cuck..” I continued.

“What’s a cuck? A cock? That’s some gay ass shit.”

“It’s three pm Friday, seventy-five degrees, someone dressed just like the Village People, damn sure ain’t me.”

“Glorilla lyrics? Feminine as hell, my nigga.”

“Nah, I’m a fan of the camel toe.”

“It’s moose knuckle..”
“Moose knuckles are what men..have..” I shrugged. “You know what? I ain’t even finna assume your orientation, even here in Atlanta. Bruh, you weird as all fuck. Move.”

“Pussass nigga.”

That was the only thing he could come up with.

“Ok, bitch. We done? Cool.”

I headed to the crosswalk to get to the car. When I got in, I reflected on what happened. One, I was fat but that didn’t faze me at all. Two, some simps create entitled ass women by boosting them for pussy. A real woman don’t come with bullshit and theatrics. Three, never pull up on a stranger with ill intent. He got lucky it was me and I hate violence. Had it been a different nigga on a different type of time, shit could’ve went way wrong. Last, but not least, sometimes you gotta tell some folks, “Ok bitch,” and let them punches roll off you.