There’s something that just gets me about the streaks of sweat on her back.
It reminds me of a chilled bottle of Coke on a table, on a hot sunny afternoon. Imagine this: the bottle is fresh from the refrigerator so there are still tendrils of mist around it. In moments, the sweltering heat makes the very chilled bottle of coke start to sweat. The first drop of cold perspiration slides over the curves of the glass and down to the table.
If the heat doesn’t make you parched, staring at the bottle surely has, by now. There is more sweat all over the coke now, ripe all over it like mango trees in November. As you stare at it, you shift uneasily and your leg hits the table so that you upset the balance of the drops. The cold sweat already craving to fall, slides slowly down to make bigger drops, and then these drops slide down to a puddle around the coke bottle. The table is wet.
And so was she.
I think it’s because I had my hand balled into a gentle fist in her hair. I hadn’t done that to her before, which is a surprise with how adventurous we are. I’m glad she kept her hair virgin, or I’d have been telling another story. Her moans were becoming even, so I pounded her hard at an angle. The drops of sweat on her body were jolted, but because she was bent over, only the drops at her sides, slid down to the bed.
No puddle. Ok I lied, there was a big wet spot at the center of the bed. She raised her head, with her mouth open like “Ah!” but without the sound. No, she didn’t call out my name. I actually find it very pretentious, especially as we’re not in a cheap porno. The soundless “Ah!” Is better. It’s easier, more convenient and believable.
This time, it’s her sweat moustache that’s jolted as she tries to comb her hair in front of the mirror. I look on intently. I don’t know what’s sexier, watching a woman take off her clothes or watching her put them back on. There’s something about the way those panties slide reluctantly over her thighs till they come to rest at home on her bum; or the magician act of clipping the bra hooks and then adjusting her breasts to fill the cups (depending on how amply bosomed she is). Watching the jeans come on can be a bit amusing. But some women, like Bisola, are a bit touchy about it.
I want more
It’s a short distance to her. The nape of her neck is exposed, the epitome of Japanese sensuality. I build up, kisses become nibbles on the path from her left shoulder to the top of her spine. I start to trail little bites to my goal – just where the hair starts “Goddd, Tolu, you’re insatiable!”
“I don’t get enough of you joo”
“Shut up there! Fucking slut. That’s what you tell all those girls abi? I’m supposed to be your friend, you shouldn’t pull those cards on me. Shame on you” Slips on her jacket with a huff and turns around to face me.
“What cards? I really do want you…” and then I add reluctantly, “…to be mine”
“Tolu…” She says with a hand on my chest, pushing me back a bit. I hold her hand, trying to find her eyes, but she is looking away. She turns back to the mirror and reaches for her lip gloss from her open little make up bag.
“I’m serious… I want more than all this… sneaking around-”
She cuts in as she piles on one layer of lip gloss. “Surely, you’re well versed at sneaking around, ehn?”
“Mehn, fuck that. If my friend judges me based on my past then what is to become of me?”
“Oh please, you have a history a mile long, that’s a bit hard to forget”
“That’s not the issue here. I’ve wanted to make this real for-”
She cuts in with a smile, “Tat mah fucking name on you boy so I know it’s-”
“Shut the hell up and let me talk jare…” I hold her hips, and she stops to look at me. It could be something about the way my hands mould her flesh through her jeans. But she knows I’m serious.
“See, you’ve told me to chill, and wait till you figure things out. I did. I was a good friend. I won’t bring up the number of times I cradled you to sleep or how many times you passed out on my couch from trying to drink the pain away. Or when I nursed you back to health when HE whooped your ass. If that doesn’t say something, then I don’t know what will.”
She says nothing. The silence is palpable. She can’t match the look in my eyes, she looks at the flint on her ballerina shoes. Finally, she reaches for her bracelet that is spread out on the dresser. It’s the final piece, and then I know she’ll be gone. The ritual dance of the awkward goodbyes will commence soon.
With her bracelet on, it seems her dressing up is complete, then she withdraws the true final piece in her ensemble.
Her engagement ring.
She slips it on with a finality. With that singular action, I know she has made her decision.
“Are you coming for the wedding?” She says as she reaches for her bag.
“I have no choice, he’s my brother and I’m his best man” I said, like she had somehow forgotten. What did she care about my welfare right? I shrug as I reach for the pack of Benson and Hedges and pad out to the balcony. She knows her way out.
I’m Jiibola L. Read my tapestry of thoughts HERE
Okay people, so last weekend, and into the beginning of the week, I talked about people catching feelings when P goes wrong. Started out with a man’s perspective when the woman wants more than he can give (read about that here), and then Moyin helped me out with a woman’s perspective when she’s been kept on tenterhooks (read that here). Today, Jibola was kind enough to put out this piece on what happens when the dude catches feelings he’s not supposed to. The end was just such a shocker, I had to put this up for y’all.
So, what y’all think bout this situation? Leave your comments in the discussion box below. 🙂
P.S. I’m off to NYSC camp in Niger. Fear not, I’ll be back in three weeks. Y’all that love me, pray for me. I need a lot of things to work out. But I won’t leave completely. Posts from Remy’s Fourth Day will still be coming up, & Moyin will be putting some of her stuff up from time to time. I hope the silence that comes with no internet and other forms of entertainment will help me write. I’m carrying notebooks and stuff to keep a journal and for creative writing. My birthday’s on the 28th, so if y’all like, don’t find ways to call me.
Peace, love, and Ijebu Garri.