The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

Today, I beat the gong of sweet itching and an all-consuming desire.
Listen.

 
 

…you…

 
 

This is the beginning of our love story.
I am watching you watch me with a smirk on your face
Because you can see me cringe whenever
My boyfriend puts his arm around my shoulders
Or presses his hand into the small of my back.
And although the hairs I decided against shaving
All bristle in indignation;
I am not able to unlock my gaze from your face.
This is the beginning of our love story.
You follow me to the tray of spring rolls
And stop my hand from selecting
That golden-brown one with some stuffing sticking out.
You brush your fingers over my hand;
As if testing for my response.
One which isn’t long in coming
Because those traitorous bastard hairs on the back of my palm,
All rise to your touch- like they’ve been waiting forever.
And this is the beginning of our love story.
The escape to the back room- and you follow.
You follow and shut the door behind you.
You lock the door behind you then stop
When I can see the tips of your shiny shoes
Opposite my black-covered toenails.
And I move forward till we are touching.
My toes against your shoes.
Your shoes against my toes
that stick too far out of my sandals.
This is the beginning of our love story.
Heavy breathing, tongue clashing;
Head rolling, back. Hands seeking, forward.
My back against the wall. Cold fingers kissing my spine.
Heart palpitations. Throat constrictions.
No words. No thoughts.
Feeling; then some more.
Lust. Wanting. Pining. Yearning.
Phone vibrating.
This is the end of our love story.
My phone vibrates and my eyes snap clear.
Clear of the riotuous emotions
That only just threatened to drown me.
This is the end of our love story- I think.
I straighten my dress and walk away from you.
You, my first love.
Because though you remain clueless,
You are the first man,
Who has made me feel.

 
 
 
 

George April 3, 2012

Lazy this, lazy that.
AfroSays exactly what?

GEORGE

 

 

Quite recently, George has been unable to write stories.

 

He would sit at the four-seater dining table in his small apartment on most days and under sixty watts of bright yellow, he would stare into the white Microsoft Word canvas on his Dell machine. He used to stare into Layo’s eyes exactly the same way after he’d found out that she was cheating on him. He’d never said a word about it to her – he would just look deeply into her eyes after sex until she felt uncomfortable and turned away.

 

He’d written a book about her instead. It had been sensational.

 

George doesn’t have Layo anymore and he hasn’t had her for five years but he’s written another two bestsellers.

 

In one of the books, he wrote about a young man who writes a scandalous book that makes puts him under international spotlight with fancier clothes on his back. This book is a bestseller because the young man’s good fortune leads him into wilder circles. He starts a passionate relationship with the pretty daughter of an old statesman and she leads him into all sorts of forbidden pleasures. The book ends in tears, betrayal, and a suspicious suicide. It is a very gripping tale.

 

The next book, equally as gripping, is the tale of a young man battling old demons and new enemies. In this young man’s fight for survival, he must overcome dangerous habits that have taken him prisoner so that he can fight an even more dangerous battle that threatens to end his life for good – a dirty duel with a powerful government official. The story takes the reader through a twisting path of drug dealers, prostitutes, assassins, expensive celebrity lawyers, corrupt police men, jail time, all mixed into a massive effort to perpetuate a bitter vendetta. When the story ends, the young man’s life has been effectively paralysed and the antagonist is killed by natural causes.

 

George is yet to recover from the hell he’s been through.