Sex-starved
I don’t care if my son,
whom the President of this republic wants to give condoms instead of the
laptops he promised, will stumble on this diary. All I think about is telling
my story, and if chronicling my trysts would make me feel better then offspring’s
knowing what kind of a raunchy father I was is the least of my worries.
I don’t know whether it’s
being plain stupid, for fun, memoirs to carry down memory lane in old age, or
just being like the prostitutes who keep a list of the men they sleep with. All
I know is that one day I will be sorry, and I will sit my son down and give him
words of wisdom on how to live this life.
My wife and I grew apart
long before we were married, around the same time I gave up trying to make it
work for us. Over the years, the Valley has become Rift. Though, we share the
bed, the matrimonial one. I don’t know her as much as I know the beautiful one
I always dream of being with who is not yet born.
My marriage is every
woman’s dream – happily ever after, but on the outside. This woman whom I
supposedly donated my ribs to for her rib transplant in the beginning of time
has been by my side for thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen, enhe?
Men lose interest in their
wives after they give birth. It’s the other way for me. She lost interest in
me, as though I was the one who was flabby and overweight after the birth of
our child. Postnatal PTSD had nothing to do with this. It’s as if she was angry
at me for getting her pregnant, for putting her through a name calling ordeal
and embarrassment while giving birth.
Dry spells akin to
Turkana signature drought left me wondering when the rain started beating us. Even
nuns and priests don’t malnourish themselves sexually if Vatican sex scandals
and holy congress stories that abound are anything to go by. That’s when I
contacted the admin of the Lavington Cougar Lounge Facebook fan page, a Rubenesque
blonde wannabe who promised to pay me if I offered sex to equally sexually starved
women, married and single, at a fee. Has there ever being a lucrative
proposition? Talk of killing two birds with a single stone. I tried to explain
to her that I was not getting into it for the money. She stopped me and
clarified, these women paid for the services, and they wanted to get quality
for their money.
I momentarily lost sight
of what I wanted. The thought of money made it even more enticing. Isn’t money
why we are all alive? I assured her that I would deliver. She laughed,
sarcastically. I wondered what was funny. But she went on to clarify. Her
clients had had their fair share of men. They were virgins at menopausal and
postmenopausal stages of their sexually boring lives. Many man-boys had said
so, how did she know I was not going to be a disappointment. It was simple, she
didn’t know.
Take a chance on me,
Abba says, I told her. She gave me a number. Her name was not relevant. After
all discretion and anonymity mattered to these women. Fine with me. I did not
want to be known either. That night, I fell asleep somewhat calm. Maybe this was
the answer to my problems.
Good news was I was going
to get laid for the first time in ten years, and get paid for it. Bad news was,
I was going to cheat on my wife, whom I still love more than anything in this
world, for the first time in our thirteen years of marriage. Did I feel bad?
Hell, yes. Did I care? Heck no!
I signed a
confidentiality agreement before I went to meet my date. Exclusive rendezvous.
Affluent ‘hood. I found her on a couch in
the living room of the house. Her black sheer negligée hugging her curvy,
flaccid body; pantless. She had in hand a glass goblet with some drink I
guessed was alcohol but did not want to know. She slowly put it on the glass
table at the centre of the room and smiled at me as I closed the door behind
me. My heart raced, and pounded. This was the client? No wonder discretion and
anonymity was of essence. She got up and made her way to me. This was it.
Then it happened, fast.
In the living room. On the stairs. In the bathroom. And upstairs in the
bedroom. Words to describe it lack. Or perhaps I just don’t want to go into the
details of the spectacular shenanigans in a diary that my son my stumble upon
and teach him tabia mbaya. It was one
hell of a ride. Definitely more than I wanted to give and more than her money’s
worth. Perhaps I should have cautioned I was sex-starved for a decade. She lay crumbled
on the bed, battle beaten, and the bed like a warzone. I left, whistling. I was
thirty thousand richer. Double what was offered.
Then reality hit me just
outside the house. I had cheated. And I had prostituted myself. When I go out
to look for what my wife refuses to give me it’s different. Things just turned from
good to better with the money. I left the affluent house with my head in the
air. If anything, I was going to be happily married thereafter.
Just as I left the front
gate of the palatial house of pleasure, my phone vibrated. It was a new
message. It was from her. ‘Same time,
same place. Tomorrow. Can’t get enough of you.’
That was good for
business, right? But it did not feel so. For some reason my hands were shaking
and sweaty. I couldn’t force it into my mind that she was just another sexually
starved human being who just wanted a good time, like me. This was just giving
our bodies what was denied to them. It did not sink into my head.
What I felt instead was I
was treading dangerous grounds. I didn’t like the feeling. It felt much as
daring death. Or isn’t it when you are screwing the wife of a powerful
government official, rumoured to be a drug baron?
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