Beyond all these trials, I envisage a reward, a return to grace and fortune. I hope I have the Biblic Job's luck or I'm done for. Tribulations besiege me but I refuse to bow.
The post below was supposed to be on the other blog. Well small and not so small stumblers keep getting in my way. I cannot presently post there because someone altered my settings to, I think, Chinese or something. Dante, 27th Comrade, Ivan, help? :-)
The post that was not supposed to be here....
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
This is FOR YOU, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE...
"You did what you did to me. Now its history, I see. Things will happen while they can."
Big in Japan.
Was I in love with her? I cannot say I was. I lusted after her. I wanted to have such sex with her that left us panting and sweating in this heat, completely so exhausted that neither of us would be able to reach down from our bed for the bottle of Aqua Sip water at the head of the bed. I wanted to hear her call my name. I wanted to fuck her so hard that she was so wet it was like I was swimming.
I was not in love with her. I never was. But I liked her. I have seen so many beautiful women to be able to look at her and know that to many a man’s eye, she would not in a conventional way have been beautiful. I have intimately been with women enough to know also too that she was the kind of woman I wanted to be in bed having sex with. Yes, that is what it comes down too.I wanted to have sex with her so much that every time I was in her presence, I was uncomfortably aware of a hard on in my black jeans. Her hand swallowed up in my palm made me think instantly of me inside her, under me, her fingers thrusting the edge of my spine into her deeper. I can tell the story of glances and we looked at each other, above the conversation of others, with a lust and longing that I’m certain unsettled her as much as it unsettled me.
My infatuations are brief. My infatuations are secret. I have fucked the girlfriends of my friends and my friends will never know because discretion is key to me. I did not care that she had told, in excitement, her sister, that I, who was reputed so chaste, had come to her door one night urging her to come with me for a night I was certain neither of us would ever forget. Never mind that when I made that proclamation my trousers were socked to my knees in mud, I had a bottle of Richot in my left hand and though I could hear my own slurring declarations, I meant it, the black Rav 4, full head lights on behind me, back from New York Discotheque, she had been on my mind the whole night and for days before. I was more honest that dawn than I could ever hope to be. This infatuation would not go away or let go of me. I could not forget her, drunk or sober. Sober, my obsession frightened me and puzzled me, 4am in the morning, battling not to smoke my Goldmans, wondering if the electricity was still on, playing with the blue light of my Audi lighter. No reason could reason her out of my needs.
When I knew her better, when we were fucking, I begun to comprehend. She did not change my life; she did not change my goals. To this day though I can still smell her Escada perfume, I do not see a woman in a sleeveless multicoloured blouse without thinking of her, but above all I remember how I was more myself with her than I have been with anyone. My ‘bad’ habits were not ‘bad’ to her; my freakiness was no freakiness to her, my insatiability normal appetite, River Nile craving for coughing moonlighting crocodiles shared, the worst of me became best with her. Kampala to Juba to Nairobi to Mogadishu to Addis Ababa, fear was gone, fear, death was but another experience in the endless downtown market carnival of brief life, saddled with two daughters though she was, one from a teenage rape she had rejected. Lust for life and her justified.
These are the things you leave behind when you leave me. A pillow with the smell of your hair I will never let the houseboy wash. A bottle of your globe shaped perfume bottle among my shaving lotion bottles. Your favourite cream cotton panty on my bathroom hanging line. A bottle of Gilbey’s I will never drink again because I drunk so many with you. An uneaten banana. Your handwriting in a brown hard backed notebook I had never let anyone touch from the day I bought it until you were there. An email address. Your digital photo in the memory of my laptop. I was more temporary than she was though she could not believe this then. This is a dead man writing. I have been dead for quite a while. I’m not coming home to die. I’m coming home to say goodbye. I have found the true fatalists.
Labels: 12 Stories for the Year