Before I delve any details, it is important to note that this article, however much it is not a pornography material, will contain some PG16 words. If you are not comfortable, do not continue reading so as not to get offended.
With all the discretion done, I have a confession to, make. I have dated a bitch. Yes, that kind that you know is not good for your life but to keep on hovering around, trying to lick the same bone, scrapped of all the meat and probably the bone marrow too. The kind of bitch you keep licking her ass even when you know it’s an abomination. I am not quite sure that it’s anyone’s business to know how we met, but it doesn’t hurt to say. Let me call her “Mary”. Mary was a sales person, a factor that still beats me if I was the one who had the first move or it was her sleek Queen’s English that got me crawling to her abominable cradle. She was all I have dreamt of my entire life, a partner. It’s only judicious that since we were all hip swaying and teat oriented, one of us would assume the role of a man in the relationship. Being the bossy one, I subconsciously assumed the testosterone roles, glad I neither grew beard or adams apple.
From organizing for a date, calling to know about her day, never asking about how much she made or if I could get an end month treat, I performed my duties meticulously. But Mother Nature could not spare mu culinary prowess as I would still head to the kitchen and perform magic for our meals. I would entertain her friends who by the time they left, I would be cursing under my breath of the impending “mama washwash” duties that waited as she nursed her fragile frame to a siesta. This was love for real. In time of trouble, even when you feel pressed down, still stuck to my grand ma love commandment, “Though shall love the one you give your heart to, even if they are puppets”.
Days turned into years. Anniversaries that were only celebrated in my diary by fantasy citations of how I wished the day would have been. Being fresh from high school, I would have been elated just to have a bamba 50 for my anniversary but I said, it was one of those fantasies. Mary would, on the days she work on the left side of the bed (I hear is a good side to wake up from), spank my ego affectionately by regarding my detached and love deprived eyes and tell my how beautiful I look. She would whip us some delicious lunch or dinner (the only compatibility we had) .She would then hold my hand as we went to the market to get some fruits or maybe esplanade. That was a day I felt holding hands was like that French kiss I so heard William Levy holds world tittle for. I gentle squeeze would amount to a nice spank, that I have always read in novels, though am yet to go past the 1st chapter of Fifty shades of Grey. I would imagine her tender caress of the outline of my chubby cheeks as she took time to kiss me. A fantasy that I harbored for close to half a decade.
Seeing my female friends and relatives sacrifice lots of airtime to call and text their boyfriends made me so envious. Why could Mary not do the same to her boyfriend, eerrr, me her partner. The more I stayed the more my heart became an empty shell. I felt ashamed to see anyone look at my chest with lustful. I hated all adverts that showed love. I hated all the encouraging stories of women who were strong enough to walk away from emotional abuse. I kept dreaming that tomorrow would be better. But ours was a different one . I was the man despite all the curves and an interest in shopping for brazier and all white undies. I was the man even when I still when to the salon to have my hair painfully pulled into pretty twists. I was still the man even when I religiously shopped for blue lady spray to smell nice. I was the man.
Mary, as she claimed, was in love with me. Yes, she told me so every year after I wished her happy birthday 12.00.01 am on her birthday every year without fail although she could not remember mine. I know I have always been straight but shit happens, and to me that was being a lesbian. If you just wondering how check below…..