My first British lover was the kind of man you only see in movies: handsome, impossibly charming, and dangerous enough to make life interesting.
His name was Guy. We met during Fashion Week, September 2017, at the Soho Grand Hotel—back when I was deep in my avant-garde bag. I was wearing a vintage equestrian helmet, a steampunk corset, a mini skirt, and tall black boots. Man, the things I wore in 2017… honestly, it was like I lived at Beacon’s Closet.
Magz, my model bestie, was pulling me through the crowd like a VIP handler with ADHD. She knew everyone, and she greeted them with a kiss on each cheek. Then, over the noise, I heard:
“I like your hat,” in an English accent.
I turned to a six-foot man with blue eyes you could drown in. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair and was dressed in a black suit, cut so well he looked like an MI6 agent on holiday.
I stared at him a second too long and forgot to thank him because Magz yanked me away before I could compose myself.
At the bar, I scanned the room for him, but he was gone.
The party was jumping—models, designers, and influencers filled the small grand ballroom with couture silhouettes and slurred accents. A few drinks later, Magz and I headed outside to smoke a joint when I spotted the mystery man behind the velvet entry curtains, standing there like he was scoping the scene for his next target.
The target was me.
“Magz, I’ll be right back.”
I walked over to him with the kind of confidence that comes with free champagne.
“I forgot to thank you earlier,” I said, “so thanks.”
“You did thank me, but that was kind of you to walk over here just in case.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to think I was a bitch or anything.”
“That is not what I was thinking,” he replied, eyes dragging over me like he was memorizing every detail.
“Oh? What were you thinking?”
He stepped in close. I could smell him—clean, expensive, something woody that felt like it cost more than my entire outfit.
“That you’re the sexiest girl here,” he murmured.
My face was heating up. I smiled bashfully. What was happening?
I consider myself well-trained in the art of flirting, but this man was my worthiest opponent.
“We should grab another drink,” he said, like he knew I had no more words left in me.
I glanced at the bar. Absolutely not doing that line again.
“Upstairs, in my room,” he added.
I then sent a quick text to Magz:
Me: Hey, so I’m gonna go hook up with this guy lol. Look at me.
I waited for her to read the text and make eye contact from her section. When she did, I discreetly nodded in his direction. She smiled and began texting.
Magz: Bitchhh, he’s sexy af! Have fun and be safe!
Me: Always.
Then off I went.