It starts with a date. You see her approaching, she’s in a pink, racy minidress that exposes most of her smooth, young skin and accentuates her best assets. You paint an imaginary bull’s-eye somewhere on her hips as she sashays to your table. Her hips, hmm… uhhhhmm. Where do I start? They rise and dip like a waterfall creating a vision so picturesque it is worthy of a postcard. You get up and give her a hug and you feel her round firm breasts squeezing your bones of a chest, you also feel her hand slowly rubbing you just beneath your shoulder. Daddy issues? With that dipping cleavage and lips that look like they were soaked in butter she can have all the issues in the world and you will take them in stride.
You look at her as she sits down, still dizzy from her glorious scent. She has a nose as cute as a button, spaced out brown eyes and an oval face that makes her look more like that pop star Shakira.
She chirrups in a soft soothing voice after tacking in one of her long braids behind her ear while searching to see what kind of a guy you are and her body language begging you to break the ice together with the sexual tension.
“Are you ready to order?” The waiter interrupts.
“Bring me two bottles of Tusker Malt and bring her porridge—what do they call it, the fermented kind, wagokiyo, that one—it’s her favorite.”
She laughs, a small laugh that makes her face light up like a fluorescent tube, but more importantly she realizes you’re a guy with a sense of humor. The waiter smiles as well because you’re in a restaurant which is more of a bar than an eatery and the closest thing you can get to porridge is sparkling water.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine and a slice of red velvet,” she goes on in that soothing voice of hers that ought to be packaged and sold in massage parlors as a relaxing product.
“You have a beautiful smile.”
You exclaim after the waiter leaves and she smiles again and this time you see a dimple on her left cheek.
Seriously that voice should be my ring back tone, you think to yourself.
“Where did you buy it? My EX could use a smile like that.”
This time she laughs out loud and hits your arm playfully. She then realizes what she’s just done and moves her marvelous hips from side to side before straightening her racy dress. The waiter drops by and places your orders on the table and leaves.
“So you’re single?”
She says after biting a slice of red velvet, her manner now more comfortable with your presence and her eyes moist in excitement.
“Depends on who’s asking,” you say with a mischievous smile as you take a second sip from your T-Malt.
“Well, this girl is asking.” Cream gets smudged on her buttered lower lip and she licks it and you already know what your answer will be.
You talk; about everything and nothing. She tells you of her high school days, of that time she was in this profane group that called itself BLB (Brains, Looks and Booty) You laugh and ask her how big the booty had to be and who took the measurements; and is the group functional because you know someone who has a PHD in that field then you smile, a wry smile and you know that she got it and you feel amazing; locked away in your own little world that only the two of you understand.
“I have a bladder like that of a child,” She says after polishing off her wine and excuses herself to go to the lady’s and as she leaves you understand why she was in a group called Brains, Looks and Booty.
She gets back looking prettier than she left, and you stand up to pull up her chair. You’re not sure if its chivalry or you just want to have another glance of that perfect bottom, which looks rounder than a Luo’s and firm enough to bounce a coin on.
“That was some good wine,” she blurts out after straightening her dress and sitting down. And you realize that this is your chance to close.
“So you like wine, eh? I have a bottle of red wine from New Zealand that is just sitting in my fridge (never mind you can’t locate New Zealand on a map and you’re not even sure if human beings inhabit it) It is as smooth as silk and I think it has stayed long enough in the fridge that if I were to open it today, you would probably be able to taste the New Zealand sun in the grapes. Your words are now hanging in the air, like the Ebola virus, you pause. She takes her time responding and you search her face; for any resistance but there is none, she is wearing a poker face. She does have brains after all, you think to yourself as the house of carnal pleasure cards you were building in your mind starts crumbling down.
“I wouldn’t mind another sip of a good bottle of red wine.” She says while looking you straight in the eye as if you’re the good bottle of red wine and because opportunity rarely knocks on the door twice you go in for the kill.
“Your wish is my command, BLB let me call an Uber quickly before that New Zealand sunshine escapes from our wine.” You chirrup and she laughs and you both get up and head for the exit.
She is seated on your couch and her pink, racy minidress has climbed up her thighs and it’s only just covering her knickers. She is holding a glass of wine on her left hand—as it turns out the wine was actually from Denmark and not New Zealand but nobody really cares because you have your head on her lap and she’s slowly stroking your ear with her right hand. You’re watching some comedy show on TV that you’re not really following because the heat in the room is rising at an alarming rate, another degree Celsius and the house will burst into flames.
She strokes your ear again and this time you can’t take it, you lift your head and look at her in the eye and she immediately puts her glass of Denmark red wine on the table and the carnal pleasure game begins. Fifteen minutes into the game and you tell her you need to get something. You get up and go into your small drawer in the bedroom where you put your condoms but there is none, you look further and you find a box but it’s emptier than a Kenyan politicians promises. You go back to the living room where she is waiting for you; her pink racy minidress a puddle on the floor, her legs slightly parted (so immodest yet so incredibly sexy) and her dark nipples hardening in the whirring cold.
You look at her and look around your house and the closest thing you have to rubber is a pair of converse shoes. You look at her again then wonder if she’ll still be in the mood by the time you rush to the shops and get back. She notices the chicken and egg struggle you’re going through and when you look at her again she bites her lower lip which is now your Achilles heel and calls you to her with her index finger and you say, ‘valar morghulis’ all men must die.
Three months later you’re in the hospital for your routine checkup trying to convince yourself that she was too smart and too pretty to have been a carrier of anything. You’re sweating, you’re telling God, ‘save me just this once and I will wait till marriage, I’ll even go to church every Sunday and do your good works like mom wants me too.’ The doctor comes in with the results and your heart drops plop to your stomach.
“What’s up doc, is everything ok doc?”
You say confidently like that Bugs Bunny character in Looney Tunes, as a wave of panic overtakes you like a hurricane.
“Everything seems to be ok, just a cold and that will clear in a few days.”
“Really,”—you say unbelieving—”nothing at all?”
“Yes,”—he flips open his file and gives it a second glance—”all the tests say that you’re a healthy young man.”
You smile, shake the doctor’s hand and remove your smartphone as you get out of the hospital, you scroll through your contacts till you come to the letter “B” you scroll further to “BLB” and you text her,
PS: Thank you to theveon for stepping in during the penning of this piece and helping me drop dead weight and tighten loose sentences.
Love this article? You will love my book even more, find it here. We don’t (yet) have the budget to buy space on prime time TV or full page ads in the Daily Nation, so your shares are what help us get discovered. Feel free to whisper us to a friend and leave a comment.
I like to think of myself as a reader who writes, a Pan-African who thinks with the tips of his fingers, but when I'm not molesting the keyboard I'm usually destroying yogurt (not Frusion) or staring into the vastness of space.