Maggie

image credit: Mutua Matheka
image credit: Mutua Matheka

Life sometimes astonishes you, chaps are usually the ones calling girls in the wee hours of the night looking to get inside their knickers. It feels adhoc when it’s the other way round, something akin to a fish out of water. It unnerves you and leaves you with more questions than answers.

Take Maggie (not her real name) for example, I had been trying to get under her skirt for some time to no avail. I threw in the towel and gave up on the wild goose chase till she texted me out of the blue. I suspect she had broken up with her boyfriend/girlfriend and I was just another toy, a good time, a distraction on her path. I don’t know if I felt used, happy or angry, maybe you guys can tell me how I should have felt.

Guys meet Maggie

“Let’s just forget it happened.”

The whatsapp message that I have been eagerly awaiting finally knocks on my door. I put my fingers on my eyes and peek through them as if what is on that notification bar will make or break me—and it breaks me, it shutters my heart into a million pieces and leaves my manhood squirming in pain. I look at my text message then look at hers.

“What did you think of us the other day?”

“Let’s just forget it happened.”

My heart freezes, it buzzes and I realize I need a stiff drink but I can’t hold the glass because my hand is trembling like a leaf in the wind. I hold on to the kitchen counter and try to catch my breath.

[Let me set the scene]

She is Maggie. Warm and inviting. Succulent and yummy. If she were food she would be an exotic Italian cuisine, a master piece of sorts, something they serve you at Kempinski or Sankara. She is Maggie. She is brown eyes and full lips. She is a good sense of humor and a beautiful sense of fashion. She is Maggie she melts my heart.

We met at a social event and exchanged numbers. I tried chatting her up but she wasn’t feeling my vibe. She would take hours which felt like years to respond and I would feel cut. Exposed. Weak. Vulnerable.

I deleted her number. I couldn’t take it anymore because I would rather be hungry in the desert than be hungry in a garden full of edibles that I can’t eat. I tried to lead a normal life. I read books like the Tao Te Ching to keep my mind off Maggie. Nothing like a little philosophy to keep a man’s head above ground.

But like a bad nightmare she kept visiting me. Tormenting me. Haunting me.

It’s a lazy Thursday at work. I’m looking at my Indian boss through the corner of my eye. He is swiveling on his expensive chair. That same chair that probably cost three of my pay checks. Time is not moving fast enough. Everything is slow and labored like a tortoise with a rock on its leg… till a notification comes in.

“Have I seen you around Westland’s or I’m I dreaming?”

It is brown eyes. It is fair dimples. It is smooth skin. It is Maggie. My raging member throbs under my briefs. It rages like a fiery furnace. I want to have her. I need her. I miss her. I crave her. She is elusive. She is Maggie.

“I’m not in Westie, but I’m free this weekend, how does a movie and a home cooked meal sound?”

“Sawa.” She texts back and I squirm in my seat.

The week crawls but the weekend gets here all the same. She said she would be here by noon but its approaching 5pm and there are no signs of her. I have spent the whole day cleaning and cooking. I feel like Martha Stewart without the money. I have exposed myself yet again to her. Maggie who doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about me? I feel like texting her and asking if she’s still coming but I think against it. That’s what she wants. She wants to have all the power. Don’t give her all the power. I won’t give her all the power. I don’t give her all the power.

I throw in the towel and go to bed. I try to read a few pages of Gone Girl, she’s a lot like Amy. Vindictive, controlling and sadistic. I’m dozing off when a text comes in.

“I’m here, I’ll need to take a shower, I have been loitering all day and I feel sweaty.”

“JACKPOT!” My now throbbing member screams with ululation.

There’s a soft knock on the door, I open it sweaty and nervous. She smells like strawberries even though she claims she needs a shower. “Will you shower or eat first?” I starter, confused and shaken that this woman who has been playing games with me all this time is standing before me asking to take a shower in my house.

“I will shower first.” She chirrups and I lead her to the bathroom and show her where the soap and the towel are, I sit on the sofa and flip through channels, looking but not really looking. I feel like I’m in another man’s house, another man’s skin, another man who women like Maggie fall for.

She’s done taking a shower and she struts pompously towards my bedroom wrapped in my towel to get dressed. Her walk alone can win her the miss world pageant, her curves have somehow lifted the status of my towel from low born to nobility. I’m glued on the sofa watching her move, my heart racing and my hands sweaty. I need a shower myself.

“I can’t find the lotion,” she screams from the bedroom.

I enter my bedroom and I have to lift my jaw from the floor. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts which is doing a bad job covering her up. My member starts screaming bloody murder. I hand her the lotion and stand there vexed.

“Don’t just stand there help me with this.”

She hands back the lotion and I start applying it on her legs. I’m applying lotion on her legs. I’m applying lotion on her thighs. My T-shirt is in a puddle on the floor. I’m applying lotion on her back. I’m 7 inches deep inside her. The bed rattles like a Nakumatt trolley and I vibrate like a jackhammer.

“Did you just cum inside me!”

She touches herself, as if unsure.

“That isn’t me!”

I seat there dumbfounded and watch her run to the bathroom: get back, dress up, pick her handbag and bang the door. I’m still hunched on the bed trying to process what is happening before realizing she has left. I get up, wear my clothes quickly and rush after her but she’s gone.


Also who came up with the word “akin” it sounds like a word someone would use to try and win a twitter fight. It disturbed me throughout the penning of this piece, but then again it was either akin or askance and that’s like having to choose between a VITZ and a Fun Cargo (un-fun cargo): they’re both horrible but a man has got to make a choice.

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