Short Story: Game by Davina Francis

What’s this thought that springs in your mind when you’re few seconds to get laid? It’s the maddest thing, you know? When you think you’re falling down the stairs but still holding on to the rail, how you hear the muscles in your arm expand and contract, how this strength gives you hope to keep it, it urges you to fight on.

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He is a great optimist, he’s one grade higher than you in your department. He cooks mouth watering words everyday in preparation for the description of his crazy love for you. Every morning, he kneels down faced up in his room counting the beads of his chaplet and silently letting words of the creed roll off his tongue.

The last time you visited him you almost let loose. The will kept you, told you to move on, scolded you and yelled at you before you hurriedly wore your pants and bra and tried to cool off. The drive kept you from throwing your legs apart.

Some days you hate yourself for letting him touch you, for sitting like a dummy while he puts his lips on your nipples, no, this is the worst thing you should be thinking now, talk more of replaying the memories in your head.

Today, you’re in his room watching him crawl on and beneath you, you’re floating in ecstasy. It’s a month ago since you met before you bumped into him in school. He says he expects you to apologise for not telling him you were travelling during the holiday season, but your pride won’t let you budge an inch. He tells you how much he’s missed you, how his love bears fruits that drop on dark soil like an udara tree, how thoughts of you elude him. You don’t believe him. You won’t give in because you think all men want is sex. He tries to explain how irresistible you are, but his words are not qualified. Like the pointed clingy legs of a spider in a net, he toes on the suppleness of your skin, you’re responding to stimuli, then his fingers tickle the most sensitive areas. You know you like him, especially his hair, because you unleash the remains of pleasure on it by squeezing hard and writhing almost at the same time. Now, he’s begging to be mild, and slow, and kind, even softly. No. You are stark naked and he off his shorts. Ah! The devil is a liar. In your quivering heart, you doled out dozens of prayers to God, that he should not forcefully break this fragile part of you. He didn’t see the tears because the lights were turned off. All these happen yet you take delight in his moves.

He says he’s afraid to touch you because all is vain, he complains that he goes against his will. You tell him that women differ in their response to sex, that you’re off the list, that he’ll find someone to provide his basic necessities as a lover. You try to cool him off and ease his depression by talking to him. Minutes later, you’re in your clothes asking for a walk to the main road to get a cab.

For you, this is how things should be done. For you, it was a cool game, after all you played safe. Life goes on without boyfriends on the lane.

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