Infections Of Love #4

Read previous episodes of Mo Priye’s Infections of Love

DO NOT CONFUSE ME FOR LOVE

 

It’s not rocket science to know if a girl likes you. When she likes you, more than often she’d tend to show you, sometimes purposefully, other times she wouldn’t even know she’s professing her love for you by the things she does to you, for you, around you and even in your absence. However, there’s no defined pattern to determine the manner of her likeness. It varies with many, comes in different forms; subtle, aggressive, hideous. For some girls it’s through consistent calls — the ever buzzing of your phone line, telling you about their secrets, family problems, how they peeled a trailer load of yam, how their dog love beans, their village ancestral history etc. Some initiate chats and I have to admit by default or not, women don’t necessarily be the first to text guys out of the blue. 

 

For her, this girl I’m to tell you of, who is a little bit closer to the earth with boobs the size of a full moon, it was in the ways she looked at me — searching, daring, suggestive, always with a smile or a mischievous movement of her brows. That kind of look which says ’come share quality time with me’ — yeah, sort of. I was game. C’mon I was due for a conjugal visit. No big deal for you huh? Well, I’m not you. I’m not going to lie, the prospect of having her on my bed got me excited. I wasn’t really seeing anyone at the time and was in practice more Catholic than the Pope, getting laid would jolt me out of my forced celibacy. Love and relationship wasn’t on the cards for me because of old scars, so I was clear to make that fact known before commencement of sexual commerce. I was in for the knacks, she somewhat agreed to be in for the knacks too. That’s the beauty of two consenting adults in the 21st century.

 

Because someone likes you doesn’t mean you’ll go from ‘what’s your name’ into hopping in and out of bed with them. Aside transactional sex and a few spur of the moment, things naturally tend to gather a little steam. We didn’t have dates per se, more like fun moments with amazing ‘getting to know the other’ conversations. Boundaries were respected. Though, through the cruise of time I began to question the essence of the game I intended on playing.

 

One funny thing about people who like you is that they often pretend not to show it and when they do, it’s in spurts. They feel they have a certain hold over you by letting you know in bits they like you, not knowing or acknowledging the fact that it’s you who have the ace card over them and could press their mumu button at will. Deola (not real name) employed that tact, but two can play the game. I withheld in showing interest in her despite my show of care. In the end, after many days, unable to keep herself to herself she forced herself to kiss me. Days after the shared stolen kisses she apologized and told me it shouldn’t happen again as she was vested in a relationship, one she wouldn’t want to bring to ruin. It was hard to know if she was being sincere or adopting a satirical tone but the quaver in her voice and the look in her eyes told a different story. I’m not a kid, I can separate insincerity from truth as water separates itself from kerosene. 

 

It’s not a lie she had got a boyfriend. I saw the boyfriend, shook hands with him even, and knew he won’t pose much a problem. He seems a hard man with a velvety touch, looks shadowy and wears an expression not too dissimilar to a bearded smirk faced emoji. But he was green without experience. As green as a soldier leaving the Biafran school of infantry after two weeks and thrown into the war fronts; too virgin looking to be someone’s boyfriend in this crazy world. He was such an odd bird. You know those good, loving guys in stories that gets their heart broken over some girl? That’s him. Many women don’t want good guys, they wan’t good guys but not that good guy good guy, if you understand what I mean. You don’t, let me explain further. Many women want adventure, they drift towards someone who could introduce them to new lifestyles, possibly with a hint of the forbidden. They want traits of a guy in the movies, in books and love memes. In a word — fun! This boyfriend of hers didn’t look that part, he was too simple to exhibit excitement. He was me in my Anita days, more dim even. Great guy but lacking the benefits of experience. Time, a couple of dates, and, or a couple of heartbreaks will sort that. Excuse my condescending. 

 

By now you might be thinking if I did take Deola to mat, and I’ll say you’re not far from being right, but there’s a big infringement to that thought of yours. I will slowly come to telling you that if you keep on hearkening your ears and inclining your heart to the words that escape my lips. You see, Deola isn’t a girl you’d tag a loose cannon, despite being free spirited and knowing everyone, including Santa. She wanted to get laid with me. Why me? I didn’t know. The first time I had a “moment” with her, she was at home feeling bored, so I invited her over to come Netflix and Chill. She initially refused my summons; I was surprised upon opening the door to find her standing before me. After the usual dose of welcoming, we went to cluster ourselves like grilled kebab on the bed and took to watching a horror movie, The Nun, but that didn’t last long. 20 minutes in, we were lying on our sides when my hands took to disturbing her equilibrium, beneath the layer of her dress. Her bones trembled, her breath labored, after a brief moment I saw her stop breathing and lose consciousness; dead to the world. That was the end of the film watch as we instead chose to making our own film, shedding the clothes off our skin amongst other indescribable things.

 

When the clothes peeled off her skin; oh goodness me! The revealing sight of Deola’s breasts reduced me to gaping silence; they were überbig — a jugular’s delight —  quite obtrusive and inviting, tender looking like moi-moi. We took to unfiltered touchings of ourselves as lovers would; groping and drinking the scent of our skin offerings until we were at the verge of indulging in sexual commerce when she whispered into my ears that she has never had sex all her life. Those words deflated my enthusiasm, though it didn’t halt proceedings. I think she really wanted her innocence ruined but I wasn’t willing to be the one that begins the ritual that ends the circle of a virgin; my toxic masculinity wasn’t that high. To have sex with someone who had never had sex was a trouble I always exempt myself from. But Deola, though shy like teenage boys attempting to ask girls out to a date, did show an unusual eagerness that boosted my confidence level.  

 

Her hormones were clearly in a state of constant excitation. Getting laid, for her, was like a body part itching for a scratch. It probably was the biggest thing for her at that moment in her life and I had to give in to that despite the questionable expediency of the act. To be honest, the whole episode was a touch embarrassing and far more distressing as she lay on the bed with measured length, greeting my every touch like a dog being stroked. Colour came to her cheeks as I complemented the rich swell of her boobs, groping them leisurely. At the entrance through her vaginal walls, her breath took to pacing like an expectant father, rising and falling without coordination. Unable to bear the impact she let out a shrill cry and shoved me off. She was frightened but that was to be expected. Patience bro! I cautioned myself as I recalled the tales of those who had once beaten this usually difficult path to success. 

 

Deola was a willing participant; a little foreplay and we were ready to probe again despite the bolt of fear that spread through her. I probed and probed and probed and probed until I lost my erection and the morale to continue probing. My morale was lower than a snakes belly. After agreeing to come back another day for a retry she left my crib hurriedly, when the sun had dipped beyond the houses in the distance; happy and reworking her awry hair into an appreciable fit. I escorted her wearing a fake grin, feeling sullen, with a bulging crotch and a deflated ego. True to her words she did come and we had another series of failed trials and she came another day for another retry and another retry and another retry until I lost count of retries and measly looked forward to just having kisses, gropings, mind fucks and other things not including vaginal penetration. Her vaginal walls were impenetrable and could only grant a limited access before she screamed stop and roll me off. 

 

I no go lie you, frustration began to set in on me, but Deola took this to be a game. Perhaps, she took it to be a game of love; no doubt she was encroaching beyond the set boundaries into my breathing space and we were fast becoming closer than we initially bargained.  Often, “baby,” “I’m missing you,” “I love you” escape her lips. Out of necessity I begrudgingly replied a handful of them. I began surfing the net for the most appropriate lubes to get for Deola’s case when I stumbled on a word I knew I have seen or heard before but couldn’t place where I read it or from whom. Probably from someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone’s gardener that had the issue with some girl of his. I researched further and had a read about “Vaginismus,”(you should too). The scales fell off my eyes, and I knew that was more than likely the reason Deola and I weren’t able to have vaginal sex. 

 

By the time I got this revelation Deola had fallen knee deep in love with me. And that wasn’t the only problem; her parents were going through the motions of divorce and she was having a relational train wreck. Her dreams were having a starvation diet; her online TV took a backseat because no money. She also had an axe to grind with her flatmates, things were falling apart for her and I did think the information wouldn’t have been welcoming at that point. But I couldn’t continue anymore with the games, I needed an escape from the nightmare scenario, so I did what Priye always do — I withdrew myself from her slowly, calculatingly. I stopped inviting her over to indulge in a sexual act that was harder than trying to refloat the Titanic. ‘I miss you’ messages became almost nonexistent. I became physically and emotionally absent. The few times we stumbled on ourselves I quickly used the blame card to justify my position; she didn’t mind and still warmed up to me in oodles of vigour and exuberance, such a colourful character, her.

 

When her mood improved from being sombre like the closing chapter of a tragic story I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her. Months later, after much struggling to find the words to say, I told her about it and advised she seek medical advice. How that went I don’t know, I never asked if she followed my prompts — I’m an ass, I know. Many moons passed and Deola became just a contact on my phone book. We don’t talk much anymore, all that’s left between us are the nostalgia and the debris of ‘heys and hellos,’ the ‘wassups and how’re the goings on.’ We grew apart; each to their own apartment, separated by a shared wall like tenants in a flat. 

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