Terry Tha Rapman, one of my favorite rappers once said in an interview; when he was asked what piece of clothing he hated most: “Socks! Very annoying things! You only wear them twice – and then one foot disappears and you keep seeing one foot – and you can never tell whether the one you’re seeing is the one you lost or not!”
Some of us have exs like that. You know; that ex that has almost become your rebound person? Any and every time a relationship doesn’t work out you park yourself right back to them – and they always seem to be available?
She was that to me. Her. She.
Interestingly, she likes Hershey’s. Just saying.
Anyways – she called me that afternoon to say she had just landed at MM2 after a long and dusty flight from Abuja, she had a meeting with some new business owners her oga was courting – and that she would be free and mine for the evening.
Maybe; not in those words. Maybe she didn’t say it like that.
But that was what I heard. Convenient, shey?
Sha – that evening I arranged myself quite carefully and looked at myself in the mirror – a small perk I allow myself only twice a year; once before the first date of the year and after the first breakup of the year – and headed out. My destination was E-Centre Yaba, and the goal was to see a movie, grab a couple of drinks and see her to her hotel.
And go home immediately after. I swear, that was the plan.
But when I saw Kemi all my plans went out of the window, along with my common sense and eighteen-month-old celibacy oath. She looked like sex would look if it got up and walked out of the dictionary one lazy night and literally put on a woman’s form.
I was finished.
I tried o! Before you judge me, I swear I tried! The only thing I didn’t do was to take a cold shower – and if we had been at Ikeja CIty Mall instead of E-Center I would have run into Shoprite, bought a pack of Eva Water and a bucket, run into the rest room and doused myself – clothes and all.
Oh devil, why did you make me suggest Yaba?!
God – help me!
Kemi – Ms. Suicidal Tendencies herself sat down and ate pizza, looking at me from over her fish-eye glasses and smiling at my discomfort. “Are you okay?” she would ask at five-minute intervals, little finger of her right hand somehow always picking something from in between her teeth.
I sat there and stared, a drowning man.
“Can we go and watch the movie now?” I asked, hating the way my voice shook. She looked at the inside of her wrist, and then at me.
“Which movie is that?” she asked.
She yawned and covered her mouth. “Babe – I’m tired. Let’s go return those tickets.”
I was going to tell her how impossible that was – but I shut up and hurried so I could walk beside her instead of behind her – for obvious reasons.
Somehow she got the guy behind the desk to give me my money back, and then, leaning on my arm she led me out of the building and into a cab. “Lekki – Maple Cottage,” she told the driver.
I was barely settled in my seat when this wildcat grabbed me and started to eat my face – the exact same way she had been devouring pizza some minutes ago. Somehow her glasses were over her head and out of the way. I started to tremble – I started to vibrate like I had that Nokia 3310 in my pocket and it was ringing. I grabbed onto her arms and held on for dear life – and somewhere in the distance I could hear a sound – something that sounded like the wind howling at the top of a very high building.
Suddenly she pushed me away – and I became aware of two things; slobber all over my chin and chest; mine, I was sure – and the fact that we were standing still.
The cab wasn’t moving.
“Driver, what’s wrong?” she asked brusquely, impatiently pushing her glasses back on her nose. I looked around, afraid we were about to be victims of the kind of stuff we only heard about on the news and Twitter before now – but we were at a police checkpoint.
That reassured me slightly.
“Oga wetin happen?” I asked, my voice sounding like Super Mario was hiding somewhere in my throat. I cleared it away but the driver had heard me. Quietly, he opened his door and went out of the cab. “Na you I wan talk to,” he said to me.
“What’s the matter?” Kemi asked again. I untangled myself from her, arranged myself and got out of the cab. The driver was waiting some distance off.
“Wetin happen na?” I asked as I drew near him – suddenly afraid.
“Oga, I no dey disturb you o. Anything wey you like, you fit do inside my taxi; you dey hear me so? I jus’ wan say make you kiaful; shebi na hotel una dey go? Ehen na, wait make we reach di hotel – den you fit fire aunti anyhow!”
I was wondering whether to tell him to mind his business or to say thanks – when a gleam in his hand suddenly darted towards me. I sprang back – and then what he was holding became visible.
Automatically I reached for it, and as my hand closed around it he said, “And you dey fall my hand with that noise wey you dey make! Oga, you never kils woman before?! If na kilsing make you dey shout like dat – wetin you wan do if na d koko?”
I stood there, holding the condom in my hand, feeling like the only guy at the show who didn’t get the Basketmouth joke, driver’s loud uncultured laughter sticking taunting fingers in my ears and wagging saliva-dripping tongues in my face.
Oh wretched fool that I am…
Previously published on Fabolosity Reads.
Ike always recommended that his friends put their conscience in one pocket and their privates in another entirely different one. Morals and pleasures don’t mix in his opinion – best case scenario, a guy ends up with blue balls and a bad case of should have. He believed in living now; nothing was permanent to him.
Therefore, it was funny to see Ike in a moral quandary. It was amusing to watch this guy who did not have scruples where the fairer sex was concerned, struggle with trying to do what was right for the first time in his life.
It was pathetic. It was almost like listening to DMX talk about killing, raping and looting on one track and then praying to God on the next one. It was the groaning of a man who had been pushed within an inch of his endurance. His tolerance. In fact, there was a point where Ike began sweating, perspiring from his mental exertions.
A clearer picture might be necessary.
Ike was standing beside a window looking outside. He looked like a prisoner who was trying to get a glimpse of something beyond the prison walls. Something – anything to give him an indication of hope, a sign that there is life outside. But of course he cannot see far; he cannot see past the high walls of the prison; his home for God knows how long. The same could be said of Ike; except that his prison walls were made of water and something intangible. Water because the rain outside was pounding slate roofs and the wind was tearing at the trees and other movable objects. A few minutes ago he had watched a roof sail past so slowly on the river outside, and so indistinctly it was surreal.
He might as well face it. He was trapped.
But that; in itself would not have been a bad idea. But there was a lot more.
Take the sofa behind him for instance.
I wonder here exactly what image the mention of sofa put in your head…but that’s just a by-the-way. The sofa; typically a three-sitter was in the far corner of the room, partly shrouded in the PHCN/weather- induced darkness. It was a dark-green, army-regulation type green. It had brown napkins on both arms and back.
Just as you are wondering what significance the sofa has to this story…
“Ike, I’m cold.”
The speaker was a woman.
Her name was Isioma and she was seated on one side of the sofa.
It was hard to see what Isioma looked like, seated in the darkness like she was and wrapped in a blanket from neck down – like she was. But if her voice was anything to go by, she was muscular, tall and bearded.
She talked like a man.
Now why would Ike be having a crisis of conscience? After all, they were both grownups and the fact that she knew his name indicated some measure of familiarity, right?
Yes, they were not strangers. They knew each other well; had known each other for a while. But Ike had not counted on being alone with her. In fact, several minutes before this story began; the house looked like the host to a mini party. There were four other occupants and Ike had not had any worries like the ones he was having now. But slowly and yet suddenly, six had become five and then three – before the last guy; Dayo their host suddenly remembered he had to go pick up something for his fiancé on the mainland. He had driven off in Ike’s car; a full thirteen minutes before the rain started.
Now, Ike considered seriously the option of running into the rain. He looking again through the rain-streaked window; particularly at the river where the road used to be. He watched in disbelief as a goat; loud bleating drowned in the louder pounding of the rain, was swept away.
Walking into that was suicide. He was trapped by a wall of rain.
Dropping his head resignedly, he headed to the sofa and stood looking at Isi from his height. His hands were shaking – but what they were shaking from I leave to your imagination. He stood there feeling his stomach clench and unclench in nervousness.
“Isn’t that blanket warm enough for you?” he asked through a throat was clogged with nervousness, already knowing her answer.
She did not reply. Instead she threw open the blanket and shifted slightly, indicating silently that he join her. Ike had a last moment argument with his head. But blood was rapidly filling into another part of his anatomy, leaving his oxygen-starved brain with two options – continue the argument and die, or find another alternative.
The choice was obvious.
Anyways he sat beside her, inhaling her heady perfume and reclining in the crook of her embrace. She drew her open arm closed, effectively wrapping him in two layers of warmth. She placed her head on his chest and closed her eyes. The momentary storm within Ike began calming…
Suddenly and unfortunately, PHCN restored power, startling the two stars of this story awake and throwing everything into sharp relief.
Let me tell you what I saw in that moment.
Isioma’s voice was actually NOTHING to go by. The girl looked exactly like Moet; that ONTV presenter with the frustrating behind. Frustrating in that it’s on display for the entire world to see, but only a few will ever actually see it; and only an even fewer few will ever get to touch it properly like it ought to be touched.
Sorry. I was talking about Isi.
She looked like Toolz looked in that gown that started tongues and fingers wagging in offices and on twitter respectively. She looked like a nylon bag would look if filled with raw pap and then carefully molded. To say she was well-built would be an understatement.
Her lips looked like they were trying to get free of their anchor – like a pair of ripe agbalumos; local cherries if you will, begging to be plucked. Her skin had this light but obvious coat of hair on it, and while I found that to be a slight disadvantage, it absolutely worked for Ike.
They suddenly found themselves face to face in close proximity and at this time Ike had lost the battle with his head. He kissed her.
Isi responded eagerly, finally about to find out if everything she had heard about this guy was true. Their lips danced; expertly anticipating each other. For a moment I felt as though I was watching a P-Square show and the twins were just the ones on stage doing their thing. These were two people who knew how to give and take pleasure.
Ike’s hands eagerly fumbled at the gates of Isi’s blouse; gates that kept him away from confirming how much of her protuberances were real and how much of it was the work of a bra. He tried to keep kissing her and trying to open the blouse at the same time, but unless you have eyes around your chest area, opening a blouse like Isi’s while you were kissing said Isi is a herculean task.
Isi pushed him away and took off her blouse hurriedly yet carefully. She would be hard put to explain a torn blouse. But the next moment she was kissing Ike again, pushing the now-unfettered twin loaves of Shoprite Bread against his chest. Ike died and went someplace totally…
He nuzzled her neck, gently nipping the skin as he kissed his way to her neck and collarbone, Isi’s gasping sighs and loud moans silent pats on his back. Slowly he nosed his way down her chest, smiling as he felt her breath hitching in her chest, licking the tops of the loaves as his thumbs found engagement with some other parts of said loaves that felt as hard as local cherry seeds. He suddenly dipped his head and grazed the right one with his teeth, and then rapidly licking over it with his tongue…
In other words, they had sex.
And Ike, lying on his back some twenty-something minutes later, inhaled and exhaled loudly while wondering which of his over-a-hundred similar conquest felt like what he’d just experienced. He came up blank.
Whoa, he thought, imagine Dayo having this for the rest of his life.
And just like that, all thoughts of sex and related topics were driven from his mind with the force of a really terrible BRT accident, replacing it with realization, shame and self-loathing.
Still don’t get it? Allow me break it down for you.
Ike just had sex with his best friend Dayo’s fiancé Isioma, exactly five days to their wedding.
That something; the something that always pops up where you’re about to make a really stupid mistake popped up at the same time Tiwa’s caramel breasts jumped out of the azure bra and into his face.
The something said you’re going to regret this.
The other something in between his legs answered; regret is so overrated.
Segun hesitated. His right hand didn’t, reaching and grasping a left appendage that was both firm and soft at the same time.
There’s no clearer way to illustrate contradictions than with a woman’s body; he thought.
And with that, the busybody something shut up.
It hadn’t been easy; turning Tiwa down routinely. No one agreed with his decision; everyone seemed to think he was mad and so on because Tiwa was…Tiwa wasn’t the kind of girl a regular guy turned down. To quote Jide the office jester; my guy, you wan leave Vitafoam go dey sleep ontop mat?! You dey mad?
And Segun wouldn’t argue. So as far as appearances, he was indeed mad.
He also was the only one who understood how his skin came alive whenever she was near; came alive with unsavory sensations. How it seemed as though it was trying to get away from his skeleton – run away and keep running. He couldn’t explain it.
He almost got in trouble too. Trouble with the boss who thought part of his responsibilities was opening branches between the thighs of new female recruits – ugly or otherwise; and resented anyone who argued. He had called Segun into his office one day and told him without mincing words; Segun, if you like your job here you’ll leave that girl alone. You hear?
Segun nodded and slammed the man’s office door on his way out. What the hell?
Everybody knew he was not interested in Tiwa. Something told him constantly to stay away from her and he listened. Besides, there was that knowledge that at least two guys had had their way with her at work.
At least two. The MD and one other person.
He did not like leavings. So he stayed away from Tiwa as much as he could. Which wasn’t much; considering he had to walk past her desk every day to get to his cubicle, but he was thankful that he got to close his door and shut out her leering visage.
He really didn’t like her.
So he pretty much ignored Tiwa and minded his business. And then came that afternoon that changed everything. Everything has far as he and Tiwa were concerned. But it was interesting to note that neither he nor Tiwa had anything to do with what happened that day.
At least, not at first.
Apart from her out-and-about sexuality, Tiwa was quite brilliant. She was efficient in her department and she was well-liked by the customers. Many-a-time people turned back because Tiwa wasn’t available.
So it only followed that when the head office asked for two people to train, the MD sent Tiwa and Segun to Abuja. Tiwa because she earned it, and Segun because he was the head of his department.
And so they went.
And Segun began to see Tiwa in another light – watching her presentation after presentation and her obvious genius came through. He still wasn’t interested in sleeping with her – but he grudgingly began to respect her. Even though he asked himself if she’s this brilliant why does she sleep around?
There was no answer.
Their fourth day in Abuja classes ended early – and so they were back at the hotel a bit after four. Segun was bored, and even Watsapp with his best friend Hauwa didn’t help. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen much of Abuja.
Hauwa said Why don’t you be nice and take Tiwa out?
He was going to argue – but then he paused and thought about it. Why not?
So he made arrangements for a car via the hotel and called Tiwa via intercom. She was pretty excited about it and told him she’d be ready in thirty minutes.
At exactly thirty minutes his intercom rang, and he went to her room to get her – and the sight of her shocked his jaw away from his mouth.
She wasn’t showing any unnecessary skin, she just looked really beautiful – the kind of beauty bankers take for granted because all they see each other in is suits. She looked like the last spoon of a favorite meal. Good.
He said as much as she gave him her hand. She smiled, lowered her eyes coquettishly and whispered thank you.
Their driver was an old man and a tour guide as he took them around – showing them Aso Rock from a distance – and then Zuma Rock which was the centre of a debate between the FCT and Niger State – as to whose borders it fell behind. And then Churchgate, the tallest building and its under-construction competition – the new Towers.
Somewhere along their journey it became the most natural thing for Tiwa to cuddle up with Segun, and he hadn’t fought her. In fact, he found it quite pleasant. They talked about this and that – him talking to the top of her head and she responding to his midriff. At some point however, she missed a remark he made and looked up, asking him to repeat himself. He looked down and found her lips tantalizingly close…
The cliche happened.
He would remember later…much much later, thinking at that moment where his feelings of revulsion and disgust went to. But in that moment, even though it occurred to him, it came as a by the way kind of thing, something out of the deep well of his subconscious mind. So he paid as much attention to it as a lion pays grass.
Calmly, Tiwa took her lips away from his and asked the man take them back to the hotel. And then, his thighs took the weight of her legs and they resumed kissing.
Imagine the receptionist’s surprise when the couple they had been speculating about, gossiping and even praising came in tangled with each other like hair on a hairbrush. She watched as they maneuvered their way cleaning past her desk and into the corridor – and quickly picked up the intercom to announce the event.
Before they came up for air, they were on Tiwa’s bed and both of them were wondering the same thing from different angles. Tiwa giggled cutely, pushing Segun away. Let me dress more appropriately; she intoned.
He had another moment, another calm period as he looked around the room and wondered if he was doing the right thing. And then Tiwa reappeared and rationale thought vanished like these words when you close your eyes.
His heartbeat steadied as he kissed her, arms wrapped around her body like they belonged there. Gently he lay her down and divested her of what little covering she had left. And then he lay with her, two bodies working together for a common goal.
Or so it seemed.
Segun was having the time of his life, floating on a soft, rhythmic bed feeling like he was being massaged from the inside. There was a bright spot somewhere in the distance, a bright spot that got progressively bigger as Tiwa’s noises got louder. He lowered his head, silencing her with his lips till the feelings got to him too and the muscles in his lower back and thighs slowly tightened and he was suddenly swept in a wave towards the white-hot spot that had grown so big it was the only thing he could see…
That was the last thing he remembered for seven years.
They tell women to take advantage of the fact that when blood flows into little head, big head does not think anymore – in spite of that being big head’s primary function.
The problem is – big head still does think. Men just choose to ignore what big head is saying.
And more often than not, they wish they had. Just listened.
We were but strangers across a board
You sat and stared, I did not sit at all
And might have gone on but for a moment we shared
Saw something funny; laughed and didn’t care
Got to talking, you were waiting for your man
I was there for the lunch
Didn’t seem to notice that we drew stares,
I was just making a new friend, a trend so rare
Time passes; like trash in waste cans,
I was there when you went for that test – and
I was there, through those lonely nights
When you would call me, not him – cause y’all just had another fight
We were like brother and sister; Ne-Yo and Rihanna
When I heard he punched I snapped and nearly threw him under
A moving car; such was my anger
Now calm down.
Yeah, y’all made up; you made it through the worst
Funny, I did not even feel like I was hurt
I was so happy, because you were so happy is all
But that still did not stop the late-night calls
Suddenly; the dam burst forth; like the leeves broke,
We let our guards down; and it was murder she wrote
And Jaheim I quote
It was innocent enough; I mean everyone talks about sex
From the lecturers to the pastors; hell they do it best
So what was the big deal? We were just friends sharing
A little too much; all in the name of caring
Then we began to talk about this sex in excess
Sentences like ‘Is he doing you right?’ and ‘He goes on for too long’
Whoever gave me the right to make his wrong right?
And as this sad song I write,
I remember, your lips writhing, hips twisting
Pleading, for me to quench the flames my fingers had awakened
Me thinking; I just want to do a little kissing,
A little touching, a little necking
A little pleasing; that started a lot of drenching
In sweat and sweet love’s gum
In mouth and tongue moisture and nature’s _______
I wish we had not started, now I cannot stop
And the worst part? We no longer talk
Except in the sensual language of sweating bodies,
Panting breaths and groaning bedposts
Me and you together, misting up the predawn air,
Tapping it from the front, hitting it from the rear
We never ever get done, we always want more
Now I wish I could exchange that for something long gone
It’s funny how now all I feel is loss
Loss; and an incredible boulder of guilt.
PART II: ALL THAT FUCKING
Sex. Such a powerful three-letter word. A simple, basic solution to the world’s worst problems.
You’re in a killing mood? Look for firm breasts and well-rounded thighs. Headaches? Go for a good humping! You tired of life and can’t seem to get your shit together…bros; get fucked!
Your relationships are dying out? And I don’t mean same-sex-relations…you perverts! I’m talking about healthy male-female relationships – even between friends. Just apply some good-old sexual healing…and voila. Instant smiles all round.
In fact, if for every time the world went to war; all the soldiers did was shag and get laid and …not only will they be too blissfully tired to lift a gun not to talk about cocking and firing it…we would all be related! Would you fire a gun at your step-cousin’s niece?
Beyond a doubt, sex is good. It is fulfilling; asides from the fact that it has lots of colorful names, and though it used to make the more demure of us blush whenever it was mentioned in a room, nowadays we want to talk about it! Pornography is such an ‘innovative mind-opener’…
Okay. I did not type that.
In Dan Brown’s controversial (and-so-full-of-bullshit; I need to say that) novel, he states that the Priory Of Sion (a secret society charged with the responsibility of protecting Jesus and Mary Madgalene’s bloodline) believes that for man to experience God in person, all he needs to do is open all his senses at the moment of orgasm and he will actually ‘see’ God.
Hm. Wow. How powerful sex is.
One thing that really bothers me is the use of the term ‘Casual Sex’; which is defined as ‘one-off sexual encounters with strangers or agreements that can stretch over a longer period of time between two people who have sex together’. The reason I deplore the term is because I strongly believe sex is too powerful an act to be labelled ‘casual’.
Of course, we want to rationalize that ‘sex’ and ‘making love’ are two different things because one is a ‘physical act’ while the other involves your emotions, exaggerated sensations, blah. Be that as it may, it is basically the same fucking thing; pun intended. When you ‘make love’, you simply have sex with someone you like! Finish!
So…why all the oyinbo??
And damn, not only does the bible; God’s everlastingly timeless word state clearly that marriage is the only relationship in which sex is agreeable; that ‘marriage is holy, and the bed undefiled’, it also says that ‘a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave (I prefer ‘clinch’…hehehehehe) to his wife…and the two shall become ONE FLESH.’
Do you have any idea how many people I have slept with? From barmaids to strippers to prostitutes to house-girls to bankers to married women to cougars to…man, I have to admit; I’m one randy guy. And as a wise man once told me; ‘we’re not human beings who have spiritual experiences, we’re spiritual beings who have human experiences!’
I believe sex is more than just the ‘exchange of fluids’ and the panting of bated breath, sweaty bodies and shaking limbs; we actually share something of ourselves with whoever it is we have sex with. Two spirits who; for a moment in time, share a world of purple skies and red clouds and white sands…an explosion of energy.
Now imagine how much of me I have shared with all the women I have slept with. Imagine how much of them I have in me. Imagine how many people I’m bringing along to the marriage bed. Incredible.
Pastor Sam Adeyemi said, “People expect the sex to validate the relationship, when it’s actually the relationship that validates the sex!” C’mon people. Do we have to take our clothes off to have fun? Em…okay; I saw that coming – we can fuck with clothes on. But must there be sex involved to enjoy being with each other? Must we behave as if these hormones control us, and not the other way around?
Nowadays no one in his right mind would claim to be celibate; they’d probably recommend some MFM deliverance for you – after they’re done laughing, that is. It’s as if we’re trying to catch up on all the chastity belts and rings our parents (mostly our mothers) wore back then. My guy, slow down na. Who dey pursue you?
It’s so bad, guys who choose to exercise control over this part of their relationships usually get dumped not because the ladies do not like you or are even nuts about you for that matter; but they usually are expressive beings. It’s not enough to tell her you love her, you show it.
And because she’s that way about you, she wants to hold you, kiss you, inhale you; because you’re like wine to her senses, she reels when she’s with you; you make her lose control…
Okay. I’m sure you get the point.
But, my men…have you ever made love to a woman and she was so caught up in it…in you; she cries?
But this is my point: sex is now so ‘casual’, we can have sex with someone without knowing or caring about their name, who they are, where they’re from…and it’s scary. Like a friend of mine said…‘we all must contribute our quota to global warming’.
And the way we go at this sex thing, we just need to shag some more and we have our global community! I mean, we’ve all pretty much shagged each other; because I used to sleep with her, now she’s with him, and I’m with her friend, who used to be with my neighbor…and he used to be with…damn.
I’m sure somewhere along the line, all the guys would become gay; because…we’re pretty much ‘sleeping’ with each other!
I’m not knocking your hustle or your shagging; neither is this an attempt at glorifying celibacy. Shag all you want, my pessin! It’s a free world.
What I am doing here is trying to illustrate a dim portion of a brightly-lit picture, to present another perspective to this thing called sex. Do what you like, but be conscious of why you do it, how you do it and who you do it with.
Bottom line: Watch Who You Fuck With. Literally.
This is just my 50kobo – I’d really like to hear yours!