The sight of a butterfly is proof a garden is close. Or not. Well, I thought that line was a strong hook.
Is this me, perhaps, saying this will be a waste of time? Not at all. I’d be insulting myself because what I write is worth reading. I’m worth listening to!.
Now, grab a chair. I seek to stir a rainbow of emotions in you. Let me know when I make you cry. After all, we’re not so different.
There was something about Princess. She fascinated you. Now, that was the problem. You love vanilla. It doesn’t mean you hated chocolate but vanilla had that hold on you. It made your eyes light up. See, growing up and watching white women with long flowing hair on TV will always leave an impression. The closest thing to that is braids on a black woman.
Princess taught you what it meant to sleep with a person. Your bodies had to touch. Sometimes, it began with putting our lips together and exchanging saliva. You were supposed to enjoy that, she made you believe. You were expected not to jump if what you used to pee hardened when she touched you. It’s supposed to do that. There’s no superhero with that power, not even Ironman, so you smiled.
This was the famous long vac and this was becoming an experience. For Princess, sleeping with someone was simple: bodies should touch, exchange saliva when your lips are pressed together. Then, when your “pee-pee” instrument was hardened, you lay side by side with your bodies perfectly aligned and your faces buried into the pillow. This was 2004 and the times had changed. Besides, Port-Harcourt raised children differently.
In 2003, Nkechi taught you that sleeping with someone meant sticking your hands in each other’s pants after looking at a patch of flesh which you can’t explain why it’s covered with hair. You knew not to do this in the presence of anyone because she had once let you go when she heard voices and quickly submerged you in the stream.
Now, you felt something. It was the same thing you felt when you broke the lantern globe, but dirtier. Somehow, you knew. You knew you could tell your dad about the globe but not this.
But it was your thing now. She would invite you to help her pick panties. She was okay with you standing there while she changed. She said it was fine to touch her panties. To trace the rainbow colors on them. She giggled when you got it right. She would kill for you. One time, you had watched her beat to stupor someone in your neighborhood who made you cry. She was strong and that was what older cousins did- protect their younger cousins. This didn’t last long.
Betty didn’t think pressing your lips together and exchanging saliva was enough. Times change and cultures evolve. Michael Jackson had just died and watching people stick themselves in other people was where it was at.
Your teachers got the latest videos from students. In fact, Hussein had attempted to kiss the French teacher. Abuja schools were notorious for such things. Well, he was the scapegoat. The French teacher wouldn’t have it. Betty neither.
She had politely asked that you join her but you were too afraid to do so. Who would have thought the culture was her asking three girls to hold you while she sought to unzip your trousers. “What is here?” she asked. This will be the second time you will cry and beg. You promised to show her the next day if only she would let you go.
She laughed to her fill. She let you go.
In 2007, to sleep with a person was to hold your aunt’s big waist while you slept. She never spoke about it but, you soon realized that her favorite sleeping position involved you strapped to her backside. No more, no less.
As an adult, you now know that many men do not wash the folds around their penises. Maybe this explains why an aunty of yours would spend so much time cleaning your penis while bathing you. She would gently hold it and raise it. And down she went. Sometimes, you’d piss from all that movement. 2005 was different. Tinapa was a place to visit.
Emerald had other ideas. For her, it was asking you to lie on top of her. You didn’t have to do anything. Like your 2005 aunty, she’d hold your pee-pee and rub it against her skin below her waist. This made the area wet. It would then open up. It felt warm. Do as if you want to stand up but don’t completely stand up. Do it again. Be fast but not too fast.
Emerald hated the lip-pressing activity.
But you couldn’t. Your pee-pee was soft. This seemed to make her very angry. She didn’t want to see you anymore. You disgusted her now. You would leave confused. You never spoke again.
Dogs. You quickly realized that men weren’t the only dogs in this world. To sleep with someone was to take the posture of dogs. After many months of bragging in your chats, you were finally alone with Ebimobere. She knew you wanted to sleep with her. It was what she came for.
You held her in your arms. Her body melting into yours. You looked at her and pressed your lips against hers. Saliva might not taste the same but it felt the same. Your heart was racing and your trousers were full. Princess would be proud.
It was done. You had slept with her. But she looked lost. Why did you stop? Didn’t you like her?
So, she got up. Slowly took off her clothes. Now you saw what a bra looked like on a woman. It held things. It was a pair of cups. But not for tea. She took off her panties and the bra and dropped to the bed.
Now, you look lost. You shake your head. You begin to panic. She smiles. Touches you. You push her away. You try to stand up to leave but she sternly warns you about how she’d kill you. You remember Betty. You’re terrified all over again.
So, you lay there. Frozen.
The shock keeps you erect. She sits on you.
You’d meet up with her again and again and again over the next three years. She would teach you the positions of dogs. You became a dog. How could you then call that rape? Women don’t rape men. If it was rape, why did you meet up with her again? You think about it and you hold your peace.
Your wife had complained about the soullessness of your sex. You had no problem lasting long. But. The. Things. You. Did. To. Her. The way you fvcked her made her feel dirty but these molestations couldn’t be blamed. They shouldn’t be blamed. Men can’t make such claims. Men shouldn’t make such claims. Were they not built for hard situations? Were horrible experiences not supposed to make them better?
You exhale.
You reach for your wife’s hand, look your marriage counselor in the eyes, and ask,
“How do I show intimacy when I sleep with her?
